Miss Pink at the Edge of the World Read online

  MISS PINK AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

  Gwen Moffat

  © Gwen Moffat 1975

  Gwen Moffat has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1975 by Victor Gollancz.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Death as an Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  I’ve travelled the world twice over,

  Met the famous: saints and sinners,

  Poets and artists, kings and queens,

  Old stars and hopeful beginners,

  I’ve been where no-one’s been before,

  Learned secrets from writers and cooks

  All with one library ticket

  To the wonderful world of books.

  © JANICE JAMES.

  Death as an Introduction

  “I don’t like it,” Pincher said. “Look at them fins!”

  Stark was looking but he didn’t say anything.

  “If I come off,” Pincher went on, “I wouldn’t stand a chance, not with them waiting.” His voice rose slightly. “That’s what they’re doing: waiting.”

  “You been smoking?” Stark asked coldly.

  “You mean, because I’m nervous? Aren’t you?”

  “You can swim.”

  “Hell, they’d have you before you surfaced. Whales? They’re bloody sharks, man!”

  “Dolphins — that’s what they are. Just playful fish. They won’t attack unless they mistake you for a seal, remember? Just shout you’re a man as you go down. They might believe you. Try introducing yourself.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Too right. I’m getting cramp. We’re climbing a stack right? We’re going to make a film.” Stark looked at his companion bleakly. “I brought you,” he said carefully, “because you were the only one available. It’s the last time.”

  Pincher was trembling.

  “Some place to say it: halfway up a stack on the edge of nothing. Some place to say it!” There was a film of sweat on his forehead.

  “Would a good cry help?” Stark asked. “I should have brought Rita. She’ll do what she’s told. By me,” he added pointedly.

  Pincher winced. “I’d like to kill you.”

  Stark sighed. “If you don’t want to go on, how are you going to get down?” he asked curiously.

  Pincher looked at the sea a hundred feet below, not quite below because it wasn’t high tide and the Old Man of Scamadale was set on a plinth of rock, so directly underneath was this sloping terrace, here about four feet wide, then the water, very deep and a metallic grey with a couple of yellow lobster floats bobbing in the waves. There was a scatter of foam round the rock and between this and the floats the tall fins of the killer whales moved idly above the surface. They did look as if they were waiting.

  “Why don’t you lead the next pitch yourself?” Pincher asked.

  “Oh, you want it spelled out? I hadn’t realised.” The tone was thin and venomous. “Because your old man’s saving himself, sonny. There’s some proper climbing after the slab, see — the kind of thing only an expert can do, you know? So I just thought you might lead the easy pitch so I’d get an idea of the standard of the lowest common denominator. If you can manage to get up this, I’ll take the proper climbing. Do I make myself clear?”

  Pincher grimaced. He knew the other was right. Stark was the hard man, the leader. He had no imagination and no fear. He couldn’t swim and yet the whales didn’t bother him. But then Stark wouldn’t come off. Pincher thought: I’ve lost my nerve; I wouldn’t mind falling in the sea, but not with them down there.

  “I’ve lost my nerve,” he said. “Let’s call it a day.”

  Stark looked away from him.

  “You lead it,” Pincher pleaded.

  Their eyes locked. Stark jerked his head sideways. “I’ve had enough,” he said. “Get on with it.”

  Pincher was defeated. He turned and looked at the rock. After a long moment he started to climb, neatly and competently.

  Stark felt the tension leave him. He grinned and looked down at his hands. He’d forgotten to put his gloves on; he’d been about to do so when the altercation started. You couldn’t hold a free fall without gloves — still, Pinch wouldn’t come off. He wasn’t a bad climber; he just didn’t like killer whales.

  The rope ran out. Pinch would be actually liking it now he was rubbing his nose on the rock. He’d revert when he stopped, of course: after the swing, when he reached the ledge on the corner and turned round and looked back. Because then he’d see the fins. Stark thought that the whales would attack. After all, a man was something like a seal: same size roughly; they’d certainly come in to investigate — and if a falling climber hit the plinth, then he’d land in the water unconscious, and there’d be blood. Sharks always came after blood. They said these were worse than sharks.

  The rope stopped moving. Pincher had reached the place where there were no more holds: where the rock was smooth. A slab they called it, but it wasn’t really; it was a short section of wall. You approached from below right, and up beyond the top left-hand corner of the slab was a ledge which would hold two men. The sandstone was beautifully layered under the ledge so that once you were across the slab, it was kids’ stuff to muscle up to the stance. There was only this hiatus: six feet without holds. Now the hiatus was bridged for, dangling down the slab, were the slings he’d fixed yesterday and they were the key to the climb, or rather, to the making of the film. The upper half of the stack bristled with overhangs: not hard, but photogenic. Those slings had been a brilliant idea; they meant the whole climb would be in the view of the cameraman on the cliff, and that pendulum would look sensational on film.

  The slings were clipped together to form one length. Pincher reached out for the lowest and put the slightest pressure on it — gingerly. He looked down. Stark said nothing, deliberately. It was the moment when most men would have been encouraging, but Stark wasn’t most men. Pincher looked as if he would ask a question; his face was very white, or even, Stark thought, green, as if he wanted to be sick. Fear got them that way sometimes.

  Pincher took a tight hold on the sling, sidled to the right a bit to get impetus, then launched himself left-wards: running across the slab, all his weight coming on the slings now, his feet merely pushing as he pendulumed across the sandstone. Then he was in the air . . . but he shouldn’t be! He should be across, reaching out for the holds on the corner, leaving the slings to dangle . . .

  He came backwards, his spine curved and showing his naked back where the shirt had come up, his feet and arms in, one hand still clutching the slings which trailed behind, above him, like a long red ribbon. He turned, splaying out: a horrible slow-motion vision of arms and legs like a starfish. Stark remembered that he wasn’t wearing gloves and he thought about pain. The rope ran out.

  The thud of Pincher on the plinth was shocking, and then he rolled into the sea. The whales scattered. Stark stood still, not thinking, but accepting that for a moment there, humanity got in the way and he tried to check the rope. Now his hands hurt. The sea went on moving; the fins remained at a distance. Everything went on being, just as before, except Pincher.

  *

&nb
sp; He’d become familiar with those first pitches of the stack and he knew where the holds were so he didn’t mind retreating on his own. There wasn’t much difference between that and coming last anyway. Pincher had gone down first yesterday.

  When he reached the plinth he saw that the rope was snagged above among the overhangs and he couldn’t reach it to pull the body in. It had drifted out a bit and was floating face down, the red helmet bobbing like the lobster floats. He turned away and walked round the bottom of the stack to the channel between it and the land.

  The tide had come in fast — or perhaps they’d been longer on the climb than he’d thought. He looked at his watch. It was four o’clock and low water wasn’t till some time around midnight. It wasn’t high yet but when it was the plinth would be awash. The channel was now about fifteen feet wide at its narrowest point; could he, he wondered, throw himself across: take a leap, land more than halfway, then thrash a few strokes to the other side? He stared at the water, then turned to find out where the whales were — and here was the big fin, the biggest, the one belonging to the bull. It approached implacably, parting the surface in a ghastly silence — and then it lifted.

  A great bulk showed, pied as a piebald horse. Water poured off the back, and the head: monstrous, with eyes, seemed to rest for a moment on some submarine shelf. The eyes looked at him.

  The bull slid sideways with the sea, the fin, tall as a man, moved through the channel. The others followed slowly. A couple turned at an angle and nosed along the rocks like dogs.

  Stark had drawn back and now he looked all round him: out to sea where there were no boats, at the tower above, at the red cliffs on the other side of the channel with the fixed ropes showing here and there: mute observers, totally devoid of comfort. He was on his own and even the elements were against him. He’d always been terrified of water.

  He retreated. Waves were washing the plinth. Forty feet up the inland side of the stack was a niche like a sentry box which could be reached by way of a broken crack. You couldn’t progress above the niche (which was why they hadn’t attempted the stack on this side) but you didn’t need to. Forty feet was well above high water.

  He climbed to this haven, disturbing the roosting fulmars. They made no attempt to attack but floated away, probably to the cliffs. He settled down to wait, something he’d done many times in the Alps. He had a lot to occupy his mind. Towards the end of his vigil he had the feeling that he was being watched.

  *

  By ten the water was draining out of the channel. He descended in the moonlight and crossed to the mainland by weed-covered rocks. The cliffs were in shadow but the fixed ropes showed up well. He’d done exercises on the plinth, ready for the return. He started to climb carefully, remembering Pincher.

  At the top of the second rope he traversed sideways, along the big ledge and into the bottomless gully. He came out above the drop and looked over at the sea. The body was still floating under the stack — which was odd because the whales were there too. They’d been there all the time; he’d heard them blowing at intervals and had assumed that, having dealt with Pincher, they were hanging around for a second body. Now, it seemed, Pincher was still whole. Pondering this as he moved up the gully, he missed his footing and stumbled. A big boulder broke away to cartwheel down the scree and disappear. After a long moment he heard it smash on the beach. His lips tightened.

  He came to the last fixed rope and the top of the cliff was only ninety feet above him. He refused to entertain the thought of relaxing; he didn’t think of lights and warmth and people, least of all did he think of sympathy. If he thought at all it was of the time spent waiting for low water: the time when he’d speculated on why Pincher fell. But this wasn’t the moment for speculation. He reached out for the rope.

  About twenty feet from the top the cliff was vertical. He looked up and saw the boulders on the edge. They resembled big heads peering down at his progress: three heads. His breath came rasping and his hands were agony. He drew himself up again. Three heads? There were two boulders on the top, like a kind of portal. The rope ran between them. He looked up again. There were only two heads — delete that — boulders. He was near the end of his reserves.

  The rope was rigid, taking the strain of his twelve stone. Like the slings on the stack, he’d secured it himself. He hadn’t trusted Pincher. He didn’t trust anyone, only himself and his equipment, like this rope.

  Suddenly the rope was no longer rigid. The world, Stark’s world, went limp, airy, floating. He was a starfish in the void.

  Chapter One

  “This line is very bad,” Miss Pink said, raising her voice: “Scamadale!”

  “Spell it, dear.” Her London agent sounded exasperated.

  She did so.

  “Where is it?”

  “Ultima Thule.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Never mind; it’s in the north of Scotland.”

  “That’s splendid. Write something about it, will you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I need a holiday and that excludes even taking notes. Also it’s unspoiled, which is the reason I’m going there. I’m not going to exploit it.”

  “It will command a good price. Vogue perhaps, or Harper’s.”

  Miss Pink sighed. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Have you taken on more work?” Chrissie Clarke asked suspiciously as her employer replaced the receiver.

  “No, Chrissie, just put Mr Jenks off. He’ll forget about it. He’s an opportunist. He rang about my new serial and when I told him I’d be away for a fortnight, seized his chance to get a travel article. He guessed I’d be going to an interesting part of the country.”

  “Is it interesting?” Chrissie asked, standing back and surveying the table set for supper.

  “Not really,” Miss Pink said, seating herself and taking her napkin from its silver ring. “I mean, not for the readers of Vogue and Harper’s. It’s a dead-end, on a peninsula with some little hills and a great deal of sea. There are about six houses and that’s it.”

  “Who lives in the houses, apart from your friend — or don’t you know? It’s your first visit, it?”

  “My first, but Miss West told me something about it when we met in Italy, and her letters are informative. There’s the landowner: an old climber, Clive Perry, all alone in Scamadale House, and apart from the crofters and Miss West, that’s all, I believe. It may prove somewhat pedestrian — but there’s a wealth of wildlife and that’s the main attraction.”

  “It’ll be a nice rest for you. You’ve been doing too much.”

  Miss Pink smiled. “A lovely rest,” she agreed. “So far as chance callers are concerned, you don’t know my whereabouts, and I don’t expect you to ring me unless it’s a matter of urgency. I am going on holiday.”

  Chrissie moved to the door.

  “Just so long as you remember,” she said darkly. “You look drawn.”

  *

  The comment kept recurring, as these things do, particularly when the recipient is over sixty. Lying awake in her sleeping berth, Miss Pink told herself she’d been foolish to take on so much during the past winter. Many people would think that a nice house in Cornwall and money to employ a housekeeper and a gardener (albeit a pensioner, part-time), was one kind of dolce vita, but then most people didn’t look beyond appearances: the well-kept garden, the solid house with its comforts and security, an excellent cook who wasn’t above cleaning. What they didn’t realise was less the cost of keeping it up (her romantic serials were in constant demand by editors of women’s journals) than the other activities obligatory to a certain kind of maiden lady with local standing and many interests: in this instance from natural history to delinquency. President of the Women’s Institute, on the committees of the Gardening Club and the regional field society, Melinda Pink J.P. felt, on the eve of her Scottish holiday, that she fully deserved the break. Such a feeling itself underlined her fatigue because she wasn’t give
n to introspection, least of all to self-pity. It was that remark about being ‘drawn’. “Perhaps,” she said aloud, “marriage is the answer: a shared burden,” and her thoughts became speculative.

  Her train was Motorail, but she and her modest family Austin could be transported no farther than Perth in what amounted to the winter season — although Easter had come and gone. She did some shopping required by her hostess, adding numerous thoughtful luxuries of her own choice, and the day was well advanced by the time she was clear of the last town and heading north through country growing increasingly wild and uninhabited, and where there would be nothing more than the occasional village for ninety miles.

  Now ninety miles in the north of Scotland can’t be done in three hours in the dark — and it was starting to rain. Cloud was coming down on the mountains and there were too many sheep on the road. She drove carefully, edging round the sheep and wondering how near she was to shelter. She stopped and looked at her road atlas. There was an isolated speck marked beside a loch and identified as an hotel. She continued hopefully; water gleamed through trees and the rain increased.

  She found the inn with ease for, apart from the odd cottage, it was the only place within miles and it proclaimed itself by several lights in the early evening gloom and a number of cars on the forecourt. She had forgotten that it was Saturday, but trusted that trade would be confined to the bar and that there would be a room free for her.

  She wasn’t disappointed for even at the end of April the tourist season hadn’t started. They’d had a few overnight visitors at Easter, a young girl told her as they went upstairs, but now they were quiet.

  “I thought you might be busy when I saw the cars,” Miss Pink remarked, making conversation. “They must belong to local people.”

  “Yes, they’re farmers, and the keeper’s here — and some English climbers.”

  “Rock climbers?”

  The girl nodded and smiled as if at some private amusement. She was a pretty child with sparkling eyes, a little on the plump side, but wholesome: a Highland girl.