The good red sandstone of the Gob is sound and strong, and I grew very attached to it over the following days. I didn’t rush at that cliff, you know – I had that much sense – or rather, had been too well-trained by my Apa. Instead, I worked at it as though it were an exercise. Trying different routes, climbing further each day, finding a good deep crack here, a nice secure niche there. Think – test – move – stop. Think – test – move – stop. And discovering in the process that whichever route I used, half-way up the cliff I always arrived at the same point: a shelf about a foot wide and ten feet long which had to be traversed if I were to go any higher.
But the problem with this shelf was that although it was wide enough for me to walk along, I couldn’t risk it – because for almost the entire length of the ledge the cliff bulged out at about the level of my waist, and that bulge would throw me off balance. So think, Eve – think.
The rock face beneath the shelf was bare of footholds, as was the cliff above me – so that shelf simply had to be crossed if I was going to climb the Gob. And I was going to climb the Gob – I’d made up my mind on that one. So, keep thinking, Eve – keep thinking.
Eventually I spotted the answer – one of those blindingly simple answers that are so obvious you don’t see them for ages. I sat down on the shelf, turned to face the sea and let my feet dangle below me as I shuffled along on my backside until I reached the break at the end of the shelf. Turning into the cliff again I found one foothold and then by thrusting my fist deep into a narrow crack above was able to reach a second. I was on my way again.
But not all the way up, not yet. I took my time over that cliff, learning it as though my life depended on it. As it did. Not just my physical life but my confidence, and my self-respect. So it took me several days of hard work to reach the point where I felt ready to tackle the last fifty feet to the top.
But when I did tackle that I was pleasantly surprised, because a steady, staightforward climb soon took me another thirty feet or so higher, up to a wide, sound ledge which ran directly below the crest itself. And as I hauled myself up on to it I decided smugly that Seamus Gunn hadn’t been as clever as all that – then I saw the catch.
No, it wasn’t a bulge this time – I could stand upright, no problem – but above me the rockface was sheer. For the whole length of rock running directly below the crest itself, and beyond, there wasn’t one single handhold within my reach. Not just not within my reach, but not within the reach of a tall adult, either. And yet the crest was still at least twenty feet above me – so how on earth had Seamus Gunn managed to climb down over it?
Then I spotted what just had to be the answer, a beautiful hand hold. True, it was several feet too high – but that hold was what Apa used to call a jug handle, a hold so good that you could dangle comfortably from it and then drop on to the ledge below – that ledge on which I was now standing.
That was it. That was why Seamus Gunn was famed for climbing down over the crest – because that was the only way you could climb it – down, but not up! However, I failed to see the significance of his other claim to fame – that he was only sixteen when he did it. That drop from the jug handle was a move an adult would question – was the ledge below really wide enough? Suppose one overbalanced… But sixteen year old boys don’t think like that – and nor do almost-fourteen year old girls who are mountain-born.
All I was interested in now was the route down from the crest to that oh-so-convenient jug handle. I already had an idea about that, but I’d have to reconnoitre again from above. There was no problem about reaching the top of the cliff from where I was – a sidle leftwards along my ledge and an easy scramble over slabby rock took me up and over on to the grass, at a point ten or so feet below the crest – which I was soon lying on the edge of, peering over. Yes, there it was – a fissure I’d already noticed before – a deep, smooth crack that I could use to slide safely down from the crest, and arrive at a narrow but sound-looking shelf from which I would be able to reach down and grab the jug handle below. Well, probably reach it.
The next question, obviously, was that if I couldn’t reach the jug handle from that shelf – did I have sufficient strength to get back up that extremely smooth crack…?
But, I told myself firmly, Seamus Gunn must have reached it – and there was no reason to assume his arms were longer than mine – was there?
I decided not to dwell on this one – besides, it must be half-past tin time by now, so I ran back to the croft and ate the remainder of the opened tin of corned beef that Aunt Ethel had left out for me, followed by two oranges from the crate she kept in the scullery. Then I was off back to my cliff.
That afternoon I climbed all the way up again to that nice, wide ledge under the crest, where I stood craning my neck up and telling myself firmly that even allowing for the foreshortening effect, of course I would be able to reach the jug handle from the shelf below the top fissure. Then I sidled along until I could scramble up to the grass again. Tomorrow, over the crest. After all, tomorrow was my birthday.
I’ve changed my mind about that earlier comment of mine – looking back I have to admit that my decision to go ahead regardless was pretty stupid. There, I’ve saved you the trouble of saying it, haven’t I?
When I arrived back from the harbour with the loaf next morning, I saw that Aunt Ethel had obviously been hovering by her door, waiting for my return. ‘Eve, may I just have a word with you.’ For a moment I thought she’d remembered my birthday, but no—’When the postman came this morning, he told me you’d been seen climbing on the Gob.’ She sounded almost as if she were worried.
‘Yes, I have – not just on it, I’ve climbed up it – all the way.’
Her wrinkled brow furrowed further. ‘It is rather high, Eve.’
My reply was studiedly nonchalant. ‘It’s nowhere near as high as the mountains at home,’ I corrected myself hastily, ‘I mean, in India.’
‘No, but – you are rather young…’
I retorted, ‘I’m a grown-up, Aunt Ethel – I wouldn’t be allowed to stay here otherwise, would I?’
That floored her. But she rallied. ‘Few adults care to climb the Gob.’
‘Grandmother Fanny did – with Apa, when he was younger than me. And Apa told me about Seamus Gunn climbing down it, over the crest itself.’
Now I’d really made her jump. ‘Eve, you surely aren’t thinking of—’
I cut her short. ‘I’ve decided to climb down over the crest – today. ‘Bye, Aunt Ethel.’
She called after me, ‘Eve – be careful!’ My only reply was a wave.
So now I had to do it.
Half an hour later I was standing on the very edge of the crest. My plaits were tucked up out of the way under my cap, and my divided skirt was buttoned up into breeches. And I was frightened. Not of the sheer drop beneath me – I was mountain-born, after all. No, I was frightened of making that crucial first move. After the first twenty feet or so I would be back on familiar territory – but, before that – everything depended on being able to reach that jug handle – suppose I couldn’t? And then suppose I couldn’t get back up again, either? I’d be stuck, perched and stranded on that narrow shelf, unable to get either up or down – with no Apa to come to my rescue.
And then I saw the yacht.
At first I merely seized on it as an excuse to delay my start. I’d been at Helspie long enough now to know that it was no ordinary vessel. With its sleek lines and slender column of pale grey smoke drifting from the discreetly painted funnel that steam yacht exuded wealth and leisure. So I decided to stand and watch it head out to sea.
But instead it changed course, and began coming closer in. Not close, but near enough for me to see several small figures standing at the rail, looking up at the Gob. And then one of them, the largest one, put a kind of funnel to his lips – handed to him by a uniformed sailor – and shouted up to me.
Faint but clear came his message: ‘Get back from the edge!’ Cheek – who did he think he was, giving me orders?
‘Get back, Child!’
Child! And I was fourteen today! I’d show him. That settled it, I would climb down, now. But my decision was not just bravado. Because now I was sure that if I did get stuck, there was someone out there who’d do something about it. A man who orders a steam yacht that size to change course so he can shout commands through a megaphone is not the type to sail away and leave a person glued like a fly on flypaper to the surface of a cliff. Not that I was going to get stuck. All at once I felt totally confident.
Turning my back on the gesticulating figure I carefully lowered myself over the crest and down into the fissure. Let go – slide – a moment of panic, then my questing feet found the narrow shelf. Pause. I reached down – and grasped the jug handle! Test, Eve – test. It was firm and strong. I let myself down until I was dangling over the ledge – and dropped down on to it.
Pause, rest, relief.
Then off again on my steady routine. Stop – think – test – move; stop – think – test – move. Although I was back on my familiar route I was so engrossed in my climb that when I reached the mid-way shelf and turned myself round to shuffle along it I was surprised for a moment to see the yacht still there. Several ladies had now joined the men at the rails. They carried pretty, fluttering parasols and one waved to me – the big man’s arm swept up, peremptorily, restraining her. Quite right too; I could do without distraction at the moment.
Reaching the end of the shelf I carefully turned myself to face the cliff again. Think – test – move – stop; repeated again and again until at last I reached the big, sloping slabs at the base of the cliff. I almost scampered down them to slide my body over the edge of the last one, let go, and drop lightly onto the sandy stretch of shore. Then I stepped back a couple of paces, craning my head as far back as it would go to look up at the Gob above me.
I’d done it – I’d done it! And I waited for that beloved voice to tell me:
‘Well done, Eve!’ – but only the waves replied.
Then I heard the clapping.
I swung round. The yacht was nearer still now, and the rails were lined with people – clapping, all clapping me. And the big man who’d tried to stop me climbing down was clapping too. Then he picked up his megaphone again and I heard his bellow of: ‘Well done, youngster – well done!’ And I swelled with pride. Until the next bellow of, ‘You’ve got pluck, boy.’ Boy – the cheek! Fancy thinking I was a boy!
Bending down I tugged at the buttons to set my skirts swirling loose, and then I swept off my cap and tossed my head so my plaits swung free before running forward to the very edge of the waves. And there I dropped my curtsey – just as I had at the end of ‘The Gondoliers’.
For a moment my audience were silenced by surprise, then the voice bellowed: ‘Three cheers for a very brave little lady! Hip, hip,’ there was a roar of hoorays. By the the end of the third one they were all waving – ladies their parasols, gentlemen and sailors their caps.
I waved my own cap back, then remembering Naini Tal I thrust it into my skirt pocket, raised my hands above my head, and went cartwheeling off across the sands. Exit stage left – and don’t look back.
I did sneak a look back eventually. The yacht was already heading out to sea – it had come in as close as they dared already. I knew there was a shelf in the sea beyond the Gob, Apa had told me. I must tell him about – No, I would tell Aunt Ethel instead. I began to run.