The House on the Lake

by Nuala Ellwood

  ‘Joe, listen,’ I say, edging closer to him. ‘We’re definitely going to see Daddy soon but first we have to enjoy our lovely holiday.’

  ‘Not holiday,’ he cries, his eyes widening. ‘There’s no sand.’

  I smile as I remember that trip to southern Spain. Joe dipping his toes into the sea for the first time, giggling as the waves came in.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘There’s no sand here but there’s a lovely lake and lots of …’

  I stop myself. Here I am trying to reassure my little boy about this place when all I can think about is Mark standing at the window.

  ‘Joe, do you remember what happened last night?’ I say, trying to keep my voice light. ‘Before we went to sleep.’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘You said you saw Daddy at the window,’ I say, a shiver rippling down my spine as I say those words.

  ‘Daddy?’ he exclaims, his face lighting up. ‘Daddy’s here?’

  ‘No, he’s not here now,’ I say, peering behind me into the dark corridor. ‘But last night you woke up and said that you could see Daddy outside the window. He was making you giggle. Do you remember?’

  ‘No,’ says Joe, wrinkling his nose. ‘Don’t ’member. Will you get my breakfast now?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, getting to my feet and taking him by the hand. ‘Let’s go see what we can find.’

  It was a dream, I tell myself as we head to the kitchen. Joe was talking in his sleep. I used to do that all the time when I was young and it would scare the life out of my parents. My mum told me how she’d once come into my bedroom to say goodnight and found me sitting up in the bed with a demonic look on my face. When she asked if I was all right I asked her, in a very low, frightening voice, if she wouldn’t mind opening the wall with the secret key. Mum said I looked like I’d been possessed but apparently I continued to do this for years right up until my teens. When she looked into it she found that some people suffer from waking nightmares, where they look awake but are still asleep and carrying on the dream as if in real time.

  That must have been what happened with Joe last night, I tell myself as I fill the kettle with the last bit of lake water from the jug. He was dreaming. Mark wasn’t at the window. Of course he wasn’t. Yet the more I tell myself this, the more I think about the footsteps and the car engine, and the less I believe it.

  ‘Now, Mr Joe,’ I say as I light the stove and put the kettle on to boil. ‘How do you fancy a lovely bowl of porridge?’

  I turn round. He’s not at the table.

  ‘Joe,’ I call, running into the hallway. ‘Where are you, Joe?’

  He’s not in the living room. Maybe he’s gone back to bed. I try to stem the fear that is rising up inside me as I walk back down the corridor, past the dark staircase, towards the bedroom.

  ‘Joe,’ I call. ‘Come on, baby, don’t scare Mummy like this. Where are you?’

  The bedroom door is closed. I push it open. The bed is just as I left it, the blankets tossed aside as I ran to stop Joe from hitting his head, my redundant phone lying on the floor. But there is no sign of Joe. I go to the window and look out at the overgrown garden. The door of one of the filthy cages is blowing open and shut in the breeze. And then I see something: a shadow flitting across the garden. Joe.

  I run out of the bedroom and back into the kitchen, throwing open the back door. It’s freezing out here and he’s only in his pyjamas.

  ‘Joe,’ I cry, stepping out of the door, my bare feet prickling with cold. ‘Joe, where are you? Come on, baby, it’s time for breakfast.’

  I run through the long grass, past the cages and down towards the drystone wall that divides the garden from the hills.

  ‘Joe!’ I’m shouting at the top of my voice now. ‘Please come back. Please.’

  And then a chill courses through my body.

  The lake.

  I run round the side of the house, the sharp stones cutting into my feet. It starts to rain as I reach the lake and it bounces off the surface like bullets as I stagger with bleeding feet towards the edge.

  ‘Joe!’

  My voice is carried back to me. I look at the water, at the old broken boat bobbing listlessly from side to side. He can’t be in there. He can’t be. I only turned my back for a few seconds. I hear Mark’s voice in my head. ‘That’s all it takes, Lisa, a couple of seconds. You fucking idiot. You stupid fucking idiot.’

  The water blurs in front of my eyes as I stand frozen to the spot, tears clouding my vision.

  What have I done?

  Then I hear something. A scream. I turn on my heels but I can’t see anything. Then I hear it again. It’s coming from the side of the house.

  ‘Joe,’ I shout, running towards the sound, my shoulders lightening with relief as I realize he isn’t in the lake. ‘It’s okay. Mummy’s coming.’

  There’s no sign of him as I reach the side of the house but he must be here somewhere. I can hear his footsteps. When I get to the garden I call his name again, frantically now.

  ‘Joe, this isn’t funny. Come out now and stop playing.’

  Up ahead, the kitchen door is still open. I hobble towards it, wincing with pain from my bleeding feet. When I get inside I smell burning. I rush into the kitchen and grab the kettle from the hob. The water has almost boiled dry. Then I hear something rustling behind me. I turn to see Joe sitting at the table, just as he had been when I’d filled the kettle.

  ‘Oh, Joe,’ I cry, running to him. ‘Where were you? I was so worried. You mustn’t run off like that again. Do you hear me?’

  Joe looks at me with a bewildered expression.

  ‘Didn’t,’ he says, his eyes filling with tears. ‘Was here.’

  ‘Come on now, don’t tell fibs,’ I say. ‘I’m not cross with you. I was just worried. You must never run away. Not here.’

  ‘Didn’t run ’way,’ he shouts, the tears running down his face now. ‘You said Mummy making porridge. Didn’t run ’way. You did.’

  18

  Soldier Number 1

  Rowan Isle House, 20 September 2004

  I’m shaking as I write this because I have no idea what is going to happen to me. Sarge has lost it completely and it’s all my fault.

  The day started like a dream, a good dream that you never want to end. I got up at seven and, as always, I went over to the window to see if the world had changed while I’d been asleep. Sarge says that life can turn on a heartbeat, that you can be alive one minute, dead the next, and this makes me nervous. That’s why, ever since I was a kid, I make sure to look out the window and check that nothing bad’s happened overnight. Then I can get on with my day.

  All was as it should be when I looked out this morning. The sun was shining on the lake and for a minute I thought I saw the little figures dancing on the surface, the ones I used to see when I was a kid. I’ve never known whether they are real or whether I see them because I want to. I’ve never told Sarge about them though. Like the vixen and the image of the dead mother in the desert that I keep in my head, those figures are my secret, something to hold in my heart and treasure. Because that’s the thing with Sarge. He likes to get inside your head, control what’s going on. And I’ve let him do that all my life. But the heart is different. ‘Never say you know the last word about any human heart.’ Henry James said that in his book, Louisa Pallant. I borrowed that and The Turn of the Screw from the mobile library and though I found the story a bit complicated, and not as interesting as The Turn of the Screw, I loved that line so much that I just read it again and again until I’d memorized it. There was something about the sentence that felt like Henry James was talking directly to me and only me. I understand what he was trying to say because it’s true, no one knows what goes on in my heart and they never will. I make sure of that.

  Sarge likes to think he knows me better than I know myself but that’s rubbish. He doesn’t know the last word about my heart, he doesn’t even know the first, which is probably why he did what he did today.


  Where was I? I’m getting so muddled because I’m scared of what’s to come and that makes it harder to think straight. Oh yeah, the figures. Well, I was standing by the window looking at them dancing and twisting when I heard someone whistle. I blinked because the sun had made white dots appear in front of my eyes, and then I saw her standing by the gate. Isobel.

  She was wearing a white T-shirt, a blue pleated skirt and white sandals. Her hair was tied back so I could see her face properly. It’s a lovely face. Her skin is so clear and light. Unlike mine. Mine’s dark and oily and I’ve been getting horrible spots on my forehead recently. I can’t imagine Isobel ever having spots or tangled hair or anything like that.

  Anyway, I’m talking round things again. It’s my nerves. I can hear Sarge banging about in the room next door. He’s hammering something into the wall. If I just keep scribbling and thinking about Isobel then maybe I can block it out.

  I stayed standing by the window watching her for a few moments. Then she waved her hand at me like she was beckoning me to come outside. I was a bit embarrassed because I wasn’t dressed yet. I had a pair of Sarge’s old army fatigues on and a grubby T-shirt that hadn’t been washed for days. I didn’t want Isobel to see me like this but I didn’t want her to go away either. So I pulled my fingers through my hair and straightened my clothes as best I could then tiptoed past Sarge’s room – he’d been out in the woods all night so would be asleep for another few hours – and went out to see Isobel.

  She smiled so brightly when she saw me. I’ve never had anyone smile at me like that. It warmed me right through, like the sun on my face when I stand at the top of Harrowby Crag. Then she hugged me and that felt really weird. Nice weird but weird all the same. She asked me if I’d had another period and at first I had no idea what she was on about but then she said, ‘You know, the bleeding.’ The truth was I’d forgotten all about it but then I remembered her saying it happens every month and I realized that it was almost that time again.

  She asked if I’d been to the village to get supplies and I told her I hadn’t had a chance. That was true. Sarge has had me working hard in the house these last few weeks. She said that she thought that would be the case so she’d brought me some. Then she opened the bag she was holding and pulled out a blue box. ‘You can have these,’ she said. ‘I’ve got loads of them.’ She handed me the box and I read the word ‘tampons’ then ‘light to medium flow’.

  I had no idea what that meant. As far as I’m concerned flow is something a river does. I didn’t show Isobel my confusion though. Instead I shook the box and held it to my ear. It sounded pretty hollow. Isobel looked at me funny when I did that so I stopped and tucked the box under my arm like it was the most normal thing in the world.

  Then she asked me if I knew how to use them and I said I’d probably just do what I did with the newspaper and she said it wasn’t quite that simple. I asked her what she meant and she smiled. Then she pulled me close to her and whispered something in my ear. I couldn’t believe what she was telling me. I had to stick whatever it was in that box up my privates. I must have pulled a face then because she started to giggle and she looked so funny that I started giggling too and any worry I was feeling about the bleeding or Sarge’s moods or whatever just disappeared into the air.

  Even now the thought of Isobel laughing is helping me block him out. He’s still hammering. What the hell can he be doing in there? I can’t let myself think about it. I’ll think about Isobel instead.

  Well, after a minute or so she stopped laughing and she put her head to the side and looked out on to the lake. ‘Do you ever go swimming in there?’ she asked. The truth was I hadn’t been able to bring myself to even look at the water after what Sarge did to me that day with the boat. I’ve been having nightmares, horrible vivid ones where I’m being held under the water and it’s all black and I wake up gasping for breath. But I didn’t tell Isobel this because she’d think I was a weirdo so I just said that I wasn’t a very good swimmer. She smiled then and said that it was such a shame to have a beautiful lake right on the doorstep and not be able to use it, so how about we just have a little bathe. My heart sank when she said this because the last thing I wanted to do was get into that water, but she looked so happy and she’d been so kind bringing me the thingamabobs that I didn’t want to let her down so I said, yes, I’d love to.

  Isobel clapped her hands then and made a little whooping noise which I think meant that she was pleased. Then she started undressing. I stood there like a spare part trying not to look but I couldn’t help noticing that she was wearing matching underwear: a pretty white lace bra and pants. And she had round breasts that filled her bra, not like mine that just sat there on my chest doing nothing. When she was ready she stood with her hands on her hips and told me to come on. What she meant was ‘take your clothes off too’ but I was mortified. My manky T-shirt and Sarge’s old combats were bad enough but my underwear – if you can even call it that – was even worse. I tried not to catch Isobel’s eye as I slowly pulled down my combats and yanked off my T-shirt to reveal a pair of baggy shorts and a vest.

  I expected her to say something, ask me why, at my age, I wasn’t wearing a bra, but she just smiled again, held out her hand and led me down to the lake.

  When we got to the edge Isobel bounded straight in. She reminded me of the golden Labrador that got loose from its lead a few years back and jumped into the water. I remember Sarge and I looked out and saw a pair of red-socked ramblers running past our window, calling for the dog to stop. I’d run out too to see if I could help but when I saw the dog I stopped because it just looked like it was having fun. It didn’t want to be on a lead following the usual path, it wanted to be free. That’s what Isobel wanted too by the looks of her. I watched as she lay on her back with her eyes closed and let the water lap at her face. It was all so peaceful and so different to what had happened to me last time I went in that lake.

  That’s all I could think of when I stood at the edge of the water, those terrible few moments when Sarge held me under. I could taste the silt in my mouth, feel the panic and thudding in my chest, making my heart seem like it would burst. The water had been my punishment – now here was Isobel telling me that I should come and join her like it was a treat. None of it made any sense. In the end I think she realized that I was going to need a little more persuading and she came wading towards me, all heavy with water, and put out her hands.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s so lovely in here. Hold on to me. I won’t let go. I promise you.’

  And, unlike Sarge, she kept her promise. For ten minutes or so I held her hand as we floated across the surface of the water and I realized that I had become one of the figures, those magical beings that had visited me since I was a kid, who had put on little shows for me, dancing and twisting across the water. Those creatures weren’t in my head but nor were they real – they were me. They had always been me. But not the me that traipses up the crag with Sarge or the me that stands peeling veg for hours on end, but the other me, the me that could maybe exist in the future or in some parallel world. The happy me.

  It was the happy me that let the water cover my face and not get scared, that allowed Isobel to lead me to the deepest part of the lake and lie on our backs and float. And the happiness came about because I was with someone I trusted, someone I knew would never let me go under.

  And then. I find the next bit hard to write so I’ll do it quickly. Isobel and I were having so much fun that at first we didn’t hear the shouting. I was lying on my back looking up at the perfect blue sky when I felt Isobel’s body jerk upwards. I lifted my head and saw that she was looking across to the edge of the lake. I followed her gaze and that’s when I saw him. He was standing by the old boat, his hands on his hips, and he was shouting my name so furiously I knew I had no choice but to swim back towards him.

  I heard Isobel whisper something behind me, something like, ‘It’s okay. We were just swimming. It’s not a crime.’ But I knew when I
saw him that I’d done something really bad. He looked terrible. His hair was all over the place and his eyes were red and puffy. He was still wearing his big army coat and his boots. But it wasn’t his appearance that made me feel like I was about to face my judgement. It was the fact that he was holding his gun. And it wasn’t his shotgun, it was his pistol, the one he told me he kept for protection, the one he only brought out when matters were deadly serious.

  ‘What the hell are you doing in there?’ he said, ignoring me and pointing the gun at Isobel, who was staggering out of the water behind me.

  She was so scared she couldn’t speak so I said that she was just cooling down, that it was such a hot day. But before I could finish my sentence he bent down and started picking Isobel’s clothes off the ground.

  ‘I don’t want people like you corrupting my daughter, you hear me?’ he said, glaring at Isobel.

  Isobel had gone so pale I thought she was going to faint so I took her arm to steady her. When I did this Sarge went mental and threw the clothes at Isobel’s head. Then he told her to cover herself up and get the hell off his land. She was shaking as she bent to pick them up and it was terrible to see. She’d been so kind to me. I wanted to tell her I was sorry, that I didn’t mean for it to happen, that the few minutes I’d spent with her in the lake were the happiest I’d ever known, but Sarge was watching me and I knew if I said anything he’d start again with his raving and yelling. So instead I just stood there and looked at the ground while she pulled on her clothes.