Ascending the steep cliff path came a group of older folk,
the woman, eyes glaucous with fear, faces etched with weariness; the men,
possibly fuelled with a heady mixture of Valium and Nat Trust wine, bore grins of
mad schoolboy excitement. I stood aside on the inside of the track, lest one of
them suddenly clutch at me and drag me over the edge.
When they had passed it left me with little choice but to
continue, which I did, meanwhile examining the path carefully for evidence of
it actually developing into a fault line, which could of course lead into a
short paragraph in the obituary columns about subsidence and misadventure
The scene arose before my eyes. The reading of the will.
Somebody: "Did he leave any last words?"
Solicitor, "Er yes," – clearing his throat – "Eaaaagaaaroooooghhhh!"
Meantime my partner had marched on. I finally shambled upon
her waiting for me in a niche in the cliff. "There are some nice
wildflowers here," she said. "We’ll have a photo!"
I was aghast. "But their roots are anchored at least inches,
perhaps feet into the cliff; I, however, am balanced on top of it. In THIS
wind." As though to emphasise this, the neck flap of my anorak gave me a
stinging slap in the ear, then followed with a volley, as I struggled savagely to
clip it in. A desperate move this as I had to temporarily released my white-knuckle
grip on my walking aids, or trekking poles, (all right walking sticks).
Back at Dontyoubuggersdaretouch Towers (Tudor manor house with Victorian ‘improvements’) Edith’s hands fumbled over the controls of her walkie-talkie:
“Billiard Room to Control, do you copy, over?”
Static is followed by Cynthia’s query about visitors fiddling with the cue ball.
“No, dear – Control – we have a situation. At the cliff.”
© Tim Scott
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