Last weekend I had to explain to an earnest woman in a kagoule that I was not a would-be suicidal cliff-jumper.
It was possibly the most surreal conversation I’ve ever had.
It happened like this:
Sleepwalker is dragging. The new job and the uncertainty over whether it will be extended, the impending move, Mephistophela’s launch into the ether… all of these things mean that it’s hard to give Sleepwalker the flying tackle it needs to get the new iteration launched.
Desperate (but, as I’d like to reiterate for the record, not too desperate) times call for desperate measures, so I resolved to kickstart my progress by having a weekend away to research the big changes to Part II I’m contemplating.
I’d been drawn to Beachy Head when I visited last year – I wanted to set Hansley near there, but ultimately the strange, wild but sparse beauty of the place didn’t suit my plans then. That said, the setting took instant root in my imagination – it was just too good to not do something with.
Photo: David Iliff, reproduced under Creative Commons license
However, it suits my current plans to turn the heat up under my protagonists – they’ll be hiding in a deserted hotel on the cliffs. Sunday morning was bright and clear and sunny, so I had a lovely walk from Birling Gap up to Belle Tout and back, and then spent the afternoon writing over a very civilised cup of tea in the Grand Hotel in Eastbourne, being waited on hand and foot in old-school style. And crucially, I had time to sit and think – I felt unblocked for the first time in ages.
The journey back loomed around 7pm – I wanted to stop for dinner at the Tiger Inn, as a treat to round off such a productive weekend. It was pitch dark by then, and there was no Moon, so in the freezing night the stars were glorious. I knew I would have to have another look at the cliffs in these conditions, because they’re dramatically perfect.
So into the little car I get and off I go, climbing the steep and winding road that will take me to the cliffs. Ice crystals were forming on the tarmac.
As I drove through the dark (there are no streetlights up there), trying to find the carpark right near the cliff edge, I was aware of a van behind me – it looked like an AA van, and had be-Parka-ed people with woolly hats in the front seat. CHAPLAINCY SERVICE was written along the side. Nothing sinister, at any rate, so I gave it no further thought.
I pulled up on the carpark, the one under Belle Tout which is only about thirty feet from the edge. I was getting my stuff together when I become aware that the van has not only pulled up behind me, but someone is walking over to my car.
At this point, I realise what is happening. I am alone in a car next to a notorious suicide spot in utter darkness and incongenial weather.
These people think I’m going to jump off the edge.
There’s a special moment in a person’s life, which has often been the subject of books, film, TV… the moment where you try to explain that despite all appearances to the contrary, you are not insane and a danger to yourself and others.
“Actually, you see, I’m writing this book… this is why I’m hanging out by the cliffs… in the dark…”
I was gabbling by the end. I ended up telling her things about my plans for the book I haven’t told my agent. Because there is a special kind of horror, too, at the thought that I could walk up to the edge, and pitch myself into the restless freezing sea, and have it break every bone in my body. Obviously I’d thought about what that would be like – I imagine things; it’s kind of my stock in trade – but the thought of someone else imagining it as though it were possible or true was just unbearably chilling.
Anyway, the feeling soon passed, as it didn’t take her long to work out that I wasn’t a “despondent” person (as they describe it in their very diplomatic website), just a feckless one. But I got talking to her, and my admiration increased as she explained what the Beachy Head chaplaincy actually does.
It sounded a very dark job to volunteer for. I couldn’t do it. Apparently there’s been 30 suicides so far this year, if I heard her correctly, and they have to counsel 7 to 15 people a WEEK who have driven out there to malinger sadly near the edge. Most have gone up there to think, but it does hint that the suicide rate itself is just the tip of this huge pyramid of human misery.
They also have to do foot patrols by the cliff edge. At night. She told me that in the dark, the gap between sea and cliff-edge can be hard to see, so she could well have saved my life despite my lack of disposition towards self-murder.
Anyway, I found it all fascinating, and admirable – that’s more lives than I’ll ever save – and would have kept her longer except it seemed mean to make her stand there in the cold.
In any case, my burger at the Tiger Inn tasted that much better after this brush with darkness. Damn, that was a good burger.
If you get the chance, show the Beachy Head Chaplaincy Team the love: http://www.bhct.org.uk/wp/
3 Comments | In: Research, Travel, Weird, Writing | tags: agents, beachy head, eastbourne. | #
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