The House on the Lake

by Nuala Ellwood

  ‘Oy,’ he shouted, his face all red and sweaty. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  The vicar pulled his hand away and walked back round to the front of the table. He said, ‘Hello, sir’, which seems like it should be friendly but it sounded nasty. Sarge stood right in front of him and asked him again what the hell he was doing. The vicar told Sarge that he was shocked to hear that I wasn’t enrolled in school and then he repeated his offer to have me come to church so that I could find out the truth about Jesus.

  When he said this Sarge’s eyes bulged out of his face and I thought he was going to explode. He grabbed the vicar by the shoulders and marched him to his car, yelling for him to ‘get the hell off my land’. Then he called him a word I’ve never heard of. Pervert. The vicar looked all flustered when Sarge said this and his eyes darted from side to side as if he was checking to see if anyone had heard. But there was no one about. The road was empty of cars. It was just us three and the birds. When the vicar got to his car, he pushed Sarge off and kind of squared up to him. I came out from behind the table so I could hear what he was saying. He said, in this really quiet voice, that this may be Sarge’s land but the woods were not, ‘And there are prison sentences for poachers.’ He nodded his head towards the dead rabbits that were still hanging from Sarge’s shoulders. Then he got in his car, slammed the door and drove away.

  ‘He forgot his eggs,’ I said. But Sarge didn’t hear me. He stormed into the house, dropped the rabbits on to the kitchen table and told me to go get my gun. At first I was scared he was going to follow the vicar and do something stupid but when I came back out with my gun he told me that it was time. I was finally going hunting again.

  But it was all wrong. The way we stormed towards those woods. That wasn’t how you approach a kill. There was no planning, no preparation. That’s what I told myself afterwards anyway, when Sarge marched me back to the house in disgrace.

  This is what happened. We hadn’t even reached the centre of the woods when Sarge ordered me to get down. There were a couple of scrawny old rabbits nibbling the grass up ahead. They weren’t fit for the pot and their fur was all matted so wouldn’t be of use to us. I told Sarge we were wasting our time, that he’d done the hunt for the day, that we should shelve this and head back. But he just glared at me and pointed at the gun.

  I did as I was told, picked up the gun, got down on the ground and aimed at the rabbits. They carried on nibbling their grass, oblivious to the danger they were in. I cocked the gun and pulled back the trigger. But then something strange happened. As I lay there on the ground I felt myself rise out of my body. It was the weirdest feeling. I tried to pull myself down, tried to keep my eye on the rabbits, but it was impossible. The world began to wobble. There’s no other way of describing it. The trees swayed in front of my eyes even though there was no breeze and as I tried to focus I saw what looked like a huge elephant weaving in and out of the trees. I heard Sarge mutter something behind me and I blinked. The elephant disappeared. The trees stopped swaying. The rabbits were still there but the moment was lost. I couldn’t do it. I threw the gun to the ground, startling the rabbits who went scurrying off into the bushes.

  Sarge grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and hauled me to my feet. Picking up my gun, he thrust it into my arms and marched me back to the house, ranting and raving all the way about my lack of commitment, my laziness, how I’d just ‘buggered up’ any chance of progressing to the next level. ‘You’d rather listen to Jesus freaks than your own father,’ he yelled as we emerged from the woods. ‘That’s what happened. That nutter filled your head with his nonsense and you lost your focus.’

  He went on and on but I wasn’t really listening because up ahead, standing next to the trestle table, was a girl. She was about my age, maybe a little older, and she had long hair, as white as snow, tied up in a ponytail. As we got closer I saw that she was wearing a school uniform, like the ones the girls wear in Malory Towers. Hers was green with a yellow tie.

  When she saw us coming she stepped forward. Sarge stopped ranting and folded his arms across his chest, his usual defensive pose when faced with strangers.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, and her voice was all light and breathy, like Ratty or Darrell Rivers. ‘My name’s Isobel. My father sent me to collect his eggs. He forgot them earlier.’

  I went to speak but before I could get the words out Sarge put his hand on my shoulder and told me to get inside. ‘Straight to your room,’ he hissed. ‘After what you just did in the woods it’s a grounding for two days. Got it?’

  I didn’t want to go inside, and I certainly didn’t want to be grounded for two days. I wanted to stay out here and look at this girl with her pale skin and white hair and eyes the colour of the summer sky. But I knew there was no point arguing with Sarge. Once he makes his mind up, that’s it. So I nodded and made my way into the house. As I passed her, the girl smiled and I caught her smell. It was sweet, like the violets that grow in the woods in springtime. The smell stayed in my nostrils for the rest of the day and even now as I sit in my room writing these words I can still smell it. It’s like nothing I’ve ever smelt before, certainly not in this place that only ever smells of animals and boiled cabbage and carbolic soap. No, Isobel’s scent is new and clean. It’s how I imagine heaven smells, though I won’t ever let Sarge hear me say that. ‘Religious nonsense,’ that’s what he’d think. I’m getting to the end of the page now so I’m going to finish here then make up my bed on the floor. Being grounded used to be the thing I dreaded the most but tonight I’m almost thankful for being alone. It means I can think about her. About Isobel.

  13

  Lisa

  ‘Who … who are you?’ says the woman at the door, looking just as scared as I feel. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She’s about my age, perhaps a little older, and is wearing a long black coat with a fur collar. Her hair is long and white blonde, her face thin and deathly pale.

  ‘I’m just staying here for a few days,’ I say, my hands still trembling from the shock.

  She looks at me for a moment with her head to one side. Her mouth is a slash of blood-red lipstick. I reach for Joe’s hand and pull him to my side.

  ‘Staying here?’ she says, frowning. ‘Just the two of you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say tentatively. ‘Just the two of us.’

  ‘No one else?’ she says, putting her hand to her chest. ‘You’re sure there’s no one else?’

  ‘I’m positive.’

  She nods her head.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, exhaling. ‘I’m … I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

  We stand awkwardly for a few moments. My heart is still pounding wildly because for just a second, when I’d walked into the kitchen and seen the dark shape, I’d thought it was Mark standing there. I’d thought he’d found me.

  ‘I should go,’ she says, turning to leave. ‘I’m terribly sorry for disturbing you. I saw the car earlier … but there was no answer when I knocked on the door … I thought you were … It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I just got a bit of a shock.’

  The more I look at her the more normal she seems and I realize just how jittery and on edge I am.

  ‘Have you brought Daddy?’

  I look down. Joe is standing next to me, pointing at the woman.

  She smiles then and her face softens.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  I lift Joe up and place him on the table next to the box of toy animals I brought with us from the house. He picks up a plastic tiger and waves it at the woman.

  ‘How old is he?’ she says, turning to me.

  ‘He’s three,’ I reply. ‘Four in April.’

  ‘He’s lovely,’ she says, smiling at him. ‘You’re very lucky. Anyway, I really must go. Again, I’m very sorry for disturbing you.’

  ‘Want picnic?’

  I turn round. Joe is waving a plastic spoon at the woman.

&n
bsp; ‘You have picnic with me?’

  She laughs and shakes her head.

  ‘That sounds lovely,’ she says. ‘But I really must be going.’

  ‘No, stay for picnic,’ cries Joe, banging the spoon on the table.

  ‘Joe,’ I say, taking the spoon. ‘Don’t be naughty.’

  But I can sense that he’s getting restless and I can’t face another tantrum.

  ‘Look, would you like a cup of tea?’ I say, reckoning that if this woman stays for what Joe thinks is a picnic I might just be able to avoid him having another meltdown. ‘I think Joe would like that.’

  She looks like she wants to get out of here fast.

  ‘Yes. Stay for picnic,’ says Joe.

  This seems to melt her. She smiles again then closes the door.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, coming over to the table. ‘If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.’

  It’s then, as I watch her sit down next to Joe, who is sitting on the table with his legs dangling over the edge, that I remember we have no running water or electricity. How the hell can I make her a cup of tea?

  ‘So, you’re here on holiday?’ she says, looking up at me as I stand impotently by the stove.

  ‘Er, yes, of a sort,’ I say. ‘More like a … a retreat.’

  She nods her head, though she looks unconvinced. She’s obviously wondering why any mother in their right mind would bring their child to this ramshackle house in the middle of winter for a break.

  ‘You have picnic,’ says Joe, holding the spoon to her mouth. ‘Nice soup.’

  ‘Oh, yummy,’ she says, pretending to have a taste. ‘Tomato. My favourite.’

  ‘Not tomato. Chicken,’ says Joe, pointing the spoon at her again. ‘Have more.’

  I watch as she takes another pretend spoonful then decide to come clean.

  ‘Look, I’m ever so sorry but I can’t actually make you a cup of tea,’ I say awkwardly. ‘There’s no water or electricity here. The, um, letting company didn’t say.’

  ‘I thought so,’ she says, looking around the kitchen. ‘To be honest, I can’t imagine anyone letting this place out to holidaymakers in this state, let alone a young mother and child.’

  ‘It is rather … basic,’ I say, watching as Joe chews on the toy spoon.

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I’ve lived in the village all my life and the previous owners were – how can I put this politely – a little eccentric.’

  ‘It’s been pretty scary, actually,’ I say, glad to be able to admit it to someone at last. ‘The lack of … well, anything really.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ she says, her eyes widening. ‘I don’t know what this holiday firm is thinking, letting you stay here with a young child.’

  She gives a little shiver as she says it and the relief I was feeling at her presence turns into unease.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘Is there something I should know about this place?’

  ‘No,’ she says, smiling at Joe, who is holding the spoon out for her again. ‘Nothing like that. It’s just, well, it’s not exactly kitted out for modern living, is it?’

  ‘It’s not,’ I say, feeling tired suddenly.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ she says, looking down at the stone floor. There’s a dark stain that I’ve convinced myself is some kind of animal’s blood.

  ‘Only a couple of days.’

  She looks up at me as I answer and her expression changes. It feels like she can see right through me.

  ‘That’s a long time to be without heat or water,’ she says, her eyes still fixed on me. ‘And with a little one too. It’s a disgrace.’

  I give a little shrug and avert my eyes from her gaze, feeling guilty. There is no holiday lettings organization, just a crudely drawn map and a person with good intentions. Though I’m becoming more unsure of those intentions with each passing minute.

  ‘Look, let me help get the stove working at least,’ she says. ‘You can’t be without hot food and water in this weather.’

  ‘Oh, that would be great,’ I say, my shoulders lifting. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

  I have never felt more grateful to another human being as I do right now. The loneliness of the last few days has felt like a cancer eating into my flesh, my bones, right down to my core. If Joe hadn’t been here with me, to battle me and smack me and demand I take him back to Daddy, I would have doubted I even existed.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she says, getting up from the table. ‘You’ve got a child. It’s the least I can do.’

  She smiles and walks across to the stove.

  ‘Now do we have matches in this place?’ she says, looking around.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘But I’ve got a lighter. Will that do?’

  ‘It should be okay,’ she says, opening the door of the stove.

  I grab the lighter from my bag and hand it to her.

  She takes it then quietly sets to work. I stand by the table and watch, reassured not just by her company but because there is something about her brisk, no-nonsense manner that reminds me of my dad. When I was a child I would follow him as he fixed things around the house – broken shelves, spent light bulbs, cracked pipes – safe in the knowledge that nothing bad could happen when I had my dad to look after me. I haven’t allowed myself to think about him much over the years, it was too painful, yet these past few days he is everywhere. I recall Mark’s words when I came out of the doctor’s three weeks after Joe was born: ‘If you’re not careful you’ll end up like your father.’ He said it in such a throwaway manner that I couldn’t work out whether it was a statement or a threat.

  ‘There we are.’

  She stands back from the stove as a warm glow spreads through the kitchen. The woody smell reminds me of my parents’ kitchen in Highgate. A cosy, enveloping scent that always made me feel warm and safe. The memories of family suddenly become too much and I feel my eyes begin to water. Blinking the tears away, I smile at the woman, who is standing next to the stove, her arms resting on the kitchen counter.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, bending to scoop Joe into my arms. ‘You don’t know how grateful I am, really.’

  ‘It’s not a bother,’ she says with a shrug. ‘Like I said, I couldn’t let that little boy stay here with no warmth. I’m so sorry, I haven’t even asked your name.’

  ‘It’s Lisa,’ I say. ‘And this is Joe.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to meet you,’ she says. ‘My name’s Isobel. Isobel Carter.’

  14

  Soldier Number 1

  Rowan Isle House, August 2004

  Sarge hasn’t been the same since that day with the vicar. I try to ask him what’s the matter but he just shakes his head and marches off into the woods, night after night, and doesn’t come back until morning. I don’t know what he’s doing out there because he’s not bringing home any rabbits or pheasants, and sometimes he even goes there without his gun. He’s off his food too which is very unlike him. Ever since I was a tiny kid he’s drilled it into me how an army marches on its stomach and about the evils of wasting food. Now, he just pushes whatever I put in front of him round the plate. It’s like he’s given up but I have no idea why.

  The voices are back too or at least it seems that way. Last night I found him kneeling in the hallway with his hands clasped over his ears. He was making the most horrible squealing noise, like the chickens when we wring their necks. I stood in the kitchen doorway watching him, wondering if I should say something, though I know full well that you don’t get in his way while he’s like that. Once when I was about five I heard him screaming his head off in the garden one night and I ran out to see what was going on. I remember I came up behind him and shouted ‘Daddy’, and it must have been the shock because he would never harm a hair on my head, but he swung round and hit me, knocking me clean off my feet. The next day he had no memory of it, or at least I think he hadn’t as he never said a word about it and I knew not to bring it up. But last night it w
as different. He sounded like he was in agony and he was crying out, ‘Leave me, leave me. You’ve tortured me enough.’ It was hell to see him like that but I knew as I closed the kitchen door and tiptoed down to my room that it was best to leave it alone. The voices always go away when the morning comes anyway.

  At breakfast this morning he seemed more in control. He walked into the kitchen with a basket of eggs and set them down on the table. While I was cooking them he asked me a bit more about what the vicar had said to me and I told him that he just wanted me to go and join in a church service. When I said this Sarge clenched his fists so hard his knuckles went white. He said that I was to keep focused, that the vicar and his kind are the enemy – ‘You see, religion is like a worm that gets inside your head and feeds off you.’ He jabbed his fingers at his temples and then his voice got louder and louder. He said religion saps your consciousness until you become nothing more than a zombie. And that’s how they want you. They want you ‘malleable and submissive’ so they can mould you into ‘an android with no free will, no independent thought’. His mouth was frothing as he spoke. It was like he couldn’t get the words out fast enough. I nodded my head while I dished up the eggs, tried to reassure him that I wasn’t going to go to any church. Then he grabbed my wrist and said, ‘I might not have been able to give you much, but I saved you from that lot. You do know that, don’t you?’

  His hand started shaking then and he let go of my wrist. I told him that I did know and that I was grateful. This seemed to calm him. He ate his breakfast while I went outside and sat on the wall. I wanted to get away from him and his words. I wanted to hear my own thoughts. He talks about the vicar wanting to control me but Sarge can be just as bad. As I sat there I thought about Isobel, her pale face and her smile, such a kind smile it was and she’d directed it at me. No one’s ever looked at me that way before. I made a little wish then to the dead mother in the desert that Isobel would come here again, that Sarge hadn’t scared her off with his ranting at her father. Then I jumped down off the wall and went inside to find Sarge standing at the front door with a hammer and a bag of nails.