In the days leading up to Maggie’s funeral, I had been surrounded by a swarm of friends and family. Now the funeral was over and things were different. People had to go back to their lives and I had to go back to mine. The only problem was that the life I had to go back to was a life I hardly wanted any more. There was a massive Maggie-shaped void bang in the middle of it.
I could hardly eat, I could hardly sleep and I felt more alone than ever. What do I do now? I thought. How could I possibly get over this? There seemed to be no answer. I was horribly alone.
Nevertheless, there was something I had to do and I began to do it obsessively. With Maggie and the woman I’d saved in mind, I began to patrol the cliffs at Beachy Head two or three times a day. I was on a mission to stop what had happened to Maggie (and me) happening to others.
At first I was frightened – paranoid, even – that every person I saw up there was out to kill themselves. I’d approach anyone I saw near the edge and ask them if they were OK. A lot of people looked at me as if I was crazy. After all, Beachy Head is known be favoured by suicides but it’s also an outstanding beauty spot, popular with all manner of people who go up there to enjoy it. It’s a wonder there weren’t any serious complaints about the nutter who kept asking anyone and everyone if they were thinking of jumping!
Luckily, the locals understood the problems up there and were very kind. Most of the time people simply said ‘Keep up the good work’ after I’d explained what I was doing and any confusion had been cleared up. Some people did retreat quite hastily, though. At that point I hadn’t the experience to recognise the body language of those who were contemplating death. Neither had I learned quite how to approach people. It would be a steep learning curve.
I was patrolling one day a few weeks after the funeral. It was a beautiful sunny day in late April and the headland was dotted with people enjoying the fine weather and the gentle breeze that carried the calls of seagulls soaring above.
In the middle of all this, I spotted something strange. There was a man sitting at the cliff edge. Nothing unusual about that, you may think, and you’d be right. But as I got closer I noticed that his legs were dangling over the edge of the cliff. Now, this was unusual – most people would not casually let their legs hang over a drop like that.
He was clutching something to his chest and staring out to sea. I walked over to him, close enough to see the tears that were rolling down his cheeks. I knew the moment had come – I had a major problem on my hands. I didn’t think much about exactly how to deal with it. Instead of getting bogged down with worry I simply walked up to him, sat myself down, put my legs over the edge and joined him in staring out to sea.
It was then that I realised I had this man’s life in my hands. We sat in silence, and neither of us moved a muscle for a few moments. The man seemed oblivious to me – it was as if I wasn’t even there.
I didn’t want to use a ‘You’re not going to jump, are you?’ approach – he was far too close to the edge for that – there was nothing I could do to stop him if he decided to go. Instead, I spoke to him as if I hadn’t even realised he was in trouble.
‘Wow, some view we’ve got here, isn’t it?’ I began, my voice friendly and a little jolly. I didn’t look at him, but just waited.
‘Hmmm,’ he replied, sniffling a little as he tried to stop crying.
‘What a beautiful place,’ I continued. ‘You from around here?’
I looked sideways at him. His eyes were fixed on the horizon. He looked focused, in a world of his own, staring out and clutching what I could now see was a picture frame.
‘What picture have you got there then?’ I asked.
‘It’s my daughters,’ he replied. He looked so very melancholic.
‘Really?’ I answered, enthusiastically. ‘Can I have a look?’
I was desperate not to make him think I suspected him of anything. I wanted him to think I was simply curious about his picture. It was almost farcical, but for the moment it seemed to be working. He hadn’t jumped yet, after all.
He handed me the picture frame, which contained a photo of two lovely-looking young kids of around three and six years old.
‘Wow!’ I exclaimed. ‘What beautiful children you’ve got!’
That’s when he turned to look at me. I’d made contact, I’d broken through, and it was a relief. Tears were still streaming down his face. He said nothing, but just looked at me, helpless and lost.
‘You’re not OK, are you?’ I said softly.
‘No…’
‘With such beautiful children at home, I do hope you’re not thinking of going over the edge,’ I continued carefully. I paused for a few moments and then added, ‘Are you?’
‘Well, yes,’ he said hesitantly, as if he were in a great amount of pain, ‘I am.’
I knew that now I’d made eye contact, now I’d shown him I cared, it was my chance to try and talk him down.
‘I don’t know your circumstances,’ I said to him, careful to maintain eye contact, ‘but all I can tell you is that I lost my wife here and it’s been the most devastating thing in the world. Nobody could have prepared me for this amount of pain. Could you put your wonderful kids through that?’
He was listening, he wasn’t making any moves, so I carried on.
‘Should you die, your eldest will know what’s going on even if your youngest doesn’t. And when they’re older, both of them are going to want the answers to a lot of questions about why they’ve grown up without a dad. Can you really imagine those kids growing up without their father? Can you imagine someone else meeting your wife and bringing your children up? Can you really do this?’
Suddenly he burst into heavy tears. ‘No,’ he cried, ‘You’re right, I can’t. You’re absolutely right.’
It’s hard to describe the sense of relief I felt on hearing those words. I knew he was safe. ‘I don’t think you want to do it at all, do you?’ I said consolingly.
He shook his head, and cried a little more.
‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s get you away from the edge. In fact, let’s go and have a coffee, or even a beer.’
I put my arm around him, got him up and walked him down the hill, and all the while he was clutching the frame that contained his precious daughters. We got to the Beachy Head Pub, sat down for a pint and it was only then that he let it all out.
He’d split with his wife and was having problems gaining access to his kids. He felt like he was losing them. His wife had the house so that she could look after them and he had moved out and was living in digs. He felt his life had gone from pretty normal to a complete mess, and didn’t think he had anything left to live for.
It wasn’t his problems that struck me as the problem, though – it was the fact that he evidently hadn’t had the chance to really talk to anyone about them. Even telling a complete stranger what he was going through seemed to help him begin to put things into perspective. I gave him some advice, urging him to make sure he stayed in touch with his children and to find a good solicitor. I did my best to reassure him that however things turned out between him and his wife, he could still be a great dad and play a vital role in his kids’ upbringing.
By the time we’d finished our pint, I felt as if I was chatting to a different person. The tears had stopped, and we were both talking practically about how he could sort out his situation.
Afterwards, I waited with him until his bus came – I wanted to make sure he got away from the area. As he got on, I told him to keep looking at the picture and that I didn’t want to see him at Beachy Head again.
‘You won’t,’ he said, and smiled.
I could hardly believe that it had happened again. This man was the second person I’d helped in a very short space of time, which meant that two families would not have to live through the hell that Maggie’s death plunged me into. I felt a slight sense of elation as I walked away after I’d said goodbye. Deep down I felt that I’d done something right again, and that my decision to patrol the cliffs was a good one. When I’d spotted the man, I hadn’t applied a method to saving him. Rather, I’d gone with the flow and let my instinct dictate how I tackled the situation. I decided there and then that this would be my modus operandi in future.
* * *
Even though I was patrolling every day, I still didn’t know which spot Maggie had fallen from. To find out, I had to wait for the coroner’s report to be released. It was a long wait, around seven weeks. But sure enough, soon after the report came out, the coroner agreed to show me where my wife had died.
I had made a little wooden cross to mark the spot and I took it with me to meet the coroner.
It was a misty day, so much so that we could hardly see our hands in front of our faces as we climbed Beachy Head. The quietness that comes with fog gave the place an eerie feel and as we climbed I felt slightly frightened.
When the coroner had pulled up at the car park she had been a bit reluctant to go up, but I’d persuaded her and agreed that if the fog got too bad we would come down. After a few minutes of climbing, the mist cleared enough for the coroner to search the area. I followed her nervously, cross in hand.
‘Ah,’ she exclaimed suddenly, ‘it’s just here.’
I went cold. At last I was standing by the spot where Maggie had spent her final moments. I can hardly put into words how much my mind raced. A hundred images flashed through my head at once – each one a different take on how she might have met her end. I pictured her jumping, slipping, grabbing, falling one way and then another, hitting the cliff, bouncing, screaming – the agony of it was that I had no clue which version of events was the right one and I knew I would never find out. I swooned with all those thoughts for some minutes until I felt the cross in my hand and snapped out of it – I wasn’t here to drive myself crazy, I was here to mark Maggie’s spot with the cross I’d made.
The point Maggie fell from isn’t a sheer drop to start with. The cliff edge curves away, gently at first, until it begins to steepen towards the vertical chalk. I had a firm idea where Maggie must have gone over, and resolved to place the cross just there.
Slowly, I inched down towards where the cliff began to fall away. Obviously I wasn’t doing what the coroner had expected I’d be doing, for she started going berserk.
‘For God’s sake, Keith, come back,’ she shouted. ‘If you bloody well go over, my job’s on the line!’
There was no way I was going back, though, and I told her so. I carried on inching down and once I’d gone about 10 feet, I hammered the cross in. It was the right place for it – there was no chance of anyone stumbling on or stealing it unless they were crackers enough to climb down for it. As soon as I’d finished I scrambled back up – much to the relief of the coroner, poor woman!
I turned to look down at the cross and spoke to Maggie. ‘Well, sweetheart,’ I began, ‘I’m not going to say goodbye because I’m going to be here every day now. I’m going to make this place safe, so don’t you worry about that.’