The House on the Lake

by Nuala Ellwood

  A sharp noise interrupts my thoughts. Joe is pressing the car horn again. I try to shake off the memory but, as I open the car door, the twisted feeling in my stomach, the one I always get when I think about Mark, remains.

  ‘Hello, beautiful boy,’ I say to Joe, who is resting his head on the steering wheel. ‘Shall we go inside and get a nice hot drink?’

  He turns to look at me and his face darkens.

  ‘You go away,’ he yells, pressing his fist on the car horn.

  ‘Joe, stop being naughty,’ I say, leaning in to prise his fist from the horn. ‘That’s not a nice way to talk to Mummy.’

  ‘You’re not Mummy,’ he says, his face turning pink. ‘You’re bad person.’

  At these words something inside me snaps. Almost four years’ worth of pain and sadness, anger and grief come spilling forth and I grab him by both arms and haul him out of the car. He screams and yells, kicking his legs into my stomach and headbutting my chest. It takes every bit of strength to keep him in my arms as I stagger towards the house.

  ‘Is everything all right? What’s happened?’

  I look up and see Isobel coming out of the door, her face stricken.

  ‘Let go me … horble person,’ screams Joe.

  He launches one mighty kick that catches me in the abdomen. I lose my grip on him and we both tumble to the ground.

  ‘My God,’ shrieks Isobel.

  I’m completely winded and a sharp pain slices into my leg where I hit the tarmac. I stumble to my feet. Joe, apparently unscathed, has run to Isobel and is cuddling into her.

  ‘Are you all right, Lisa?’ she says. ‘That was a nasty fall.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, brushing myself down.

  Joe stares at me as I approach and as I look into his eyes I remember why I’d been so intent on getting to the pool that day. I imagine myself floating in deep water, all the pain in my body drifting away, and I know what I need to do.

  ‘Can I ask a favour?’ I say as Isobel stands looking at me, Joe’s hand in hers.

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘But I think you should come inside and clean up that knee. It’s likely grazed.’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly,’ I say, trying not to wince as the pain in my knee intensifies. ‘Listen, Isobel, would you mind looking after Joe for half an hour? I’ve got a bit of a headache and … a walk might clear it.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ says Isobel, her eyes narrowing. ‘I’ve got some painkillers in my bag if you want some.’

  ‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘The fresh air should help.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says, looking at me warily. ‘Now, Joe. Shall we go and see if we can find some biscuits?’

  Joe nods his head excitedly and I watch as they make their way back into the house, my shoulders lightening. Then I turn and start to walk.

  24

  Rowan Isle House, 27 September 2004

  I have passed the test, that’s what he just told me. I’ve passed the bloody test. And he thinks that matters. He thinks the fact I’m still here in body means I’ve come out of it okay but he’s wrong. He’s so wrong it’s scary.

  Because the truth is, something broke inside me while I was in that room, some vital part that can never be brought back and never be mended. My fingernails are still bleeding from where I scraped them on the rope, desperately trying to untie my wrists. My eyes are red and sore from lack of sleep. There was no chance of sleep in there because every time I closed my eyes I saw his face, not the face I’d grown up knowing, but the other one, the new one. It was a stranger’s face. An evil face.

  But I don’t want to talk about that now. I never want to think about it again.

  Before he let me out he put a blindfold on me and lifted me into his arms. I was so tired I fell asleep and when I woke up I was back in my own room, tucked up in my doss bag.

  I say ‘he’ because that is what I’m going to call him from now on. That’s what he is to me: a thing, a being; not a person and certainly not a sergeant. A sergeant has to earn the respect of his soldiers and I lost any respect for him when he put me in that room. I screamed and cried and begged to be let out but he just left me there like a rotten animal. So he will never be Sarge to me again. He is nothing to me. In fact, he may as well be dead.

  Tonight, he came to my room and told me to come down to the kitchen as he had a surprise for me. I didn’t want to go to the kitchen but I didn’t want to risk another punishment so I got out of bed and went with him. When I stepped into the kitchen I saw he’d laid the table with proper plates and knives and forks and brought out a rib of beef from a cow he’d shot, presumably while I’d been in that room. I sat down and watched as he lifted it out of the oven and put it down on the table, the blood oozing out of it as he stuck the knife in, and I felt sick.

  ‘You must be starving,’ he said, piling up my plate with bleeding meat. ‘Go on, get stuck in.’

  And he smiled. He smiled like this was all normal. Like I hadn’t just been imprisoned for days, like we were some kind of ordinary family like the people in the village, sitting down to have Sunday lunch and talking about the weather.

  I tried to eat the beef but it stuck in my throat. I started to cough and he passed me a cup of water. I went to drink it then hesitated. I looked at him looking at me and for the first time in my life I felt afraid. What if the food and the water were poisoned? What if the meal was a trick and he was planning on putting me back in that room?

  After that I told him I was tired and came in here to hide inside my doss bag and write in this book. I can hear him out back. He’s fixing up the chicken coop. Seems like he’s back to normal. All the crazy behaviour, talking to himself and staying up all night, that’s all stopped now. And the scary thing is that it’s stopped since he trapped me in that room. It’s like whatever demons were drilling into his head have been destroyed and I was the sacrifice. For days he transferred those demons to me, planted monsters in my head, made me believe I was going mad, that the world outside had ceased to be, had been destroyed by evil forces, and that only the two of us remained.

  But he was lying. The world hasn’t been destroyed, it has carried on as normal. This morning, after breakfast, I went and stood by the lake and looked out towards the village. There must have been a dozen cars went past, a few lorries and a couple of delivery trucks. Life was still going on. Beautiful, ordinary life. The trees and the hills weren’t battle-scarred and scorched like he told me, they were just as green and lush as they’d always been. In fact, they were more lush, more lovely than I have ever seen them. Because once you’ve been denied light and air and basic human needs, like I was in that room, you start to switch off, bit by bit. In that room there was no colour, no sunshine, no laughter, no animals, no weather, no smells. But most importantly there was no warmth, no comfort, no love.

  That is what I craved more than anything while I was in there. Love. The feeling that someone cares. A kind word, a cup of tea set next to your doss bag, kind eyes, a gentle voice asking how was your day. And I realize that in these last few months there’s been one person who made me feel loved, one person who, according to him, needs to be destroyed. Well, I won’t let him. Isobel is the only friend I’ve got, the only kind person in this dark world, and I intend to fight for her with every breath in my body.

  For so many years, he tried to tell me that I wasn’t a person or a girl, that I was a soldier, a number. But he did that to stop me asking questions, to keep me under his control, to stop me being me. I know that now. So, today I become myself again and it starts by bringing back the name my mother gave me, a name that means decency.

  I like the way it sounds when I say it aloud, the way it echoes softly like a whisper. From now on, dear friend, or whoever is reading this old journal of mine, you are in the company of a girl, an ordinary thirteen-year-old girl who likes reading and cooking and talking to her friend, Isobel. So, without further
ado, I would like to introduce you to Grace.

  25

  Lisa

  I stand at the edge of the lake looking out over the water. It’s freezing but I’m thankful to be away, from the house and its ghosts, from Mark’s voice that has lodged itself inside my head these last few days and, though I hate to admit it, from Joe and his constant tantrums.

  As I stand watching the water ripple in the breeze I see my father’s face, just above the surface of the lake, his hands outstretched.

  ‘Come on, Lisa,’ he cries. ‘You’re almost there.’

  I recall the Saturday mornings we would spend together at Hampstead Lido, my dad and me. Mum had always been terrified of water, due to a near-drowning incident in the Thames at Windsor when she was six, but my dad had been determined that her fear would not be passed on to me so he took it upon himself to teach me how to swim. ‘You never know when you’ll need to save yourself, Lisa,’ he used to say to me as we strolled through Hampstead village to the Lido. ‘And, besides, swimming is good for the soul. That’s what I’ve always thought.’ I see his soft brown eyes twinkling. I close mine and let myself be calmed by the memory of him.

  He was so patient, even when I got frustrated and jumped out of the pool. Dad never lost his cool, he just gently coaxed me back, told me that once I could swim a length the sense of pride would be immeasurable. And because he had faith in me, I didn’t want to let him down. I wanted to be proud but I also wanted him to be proud of me too when I swam that length, so I stuck at it and within a few weeks I had achieved the goal. I remember Dad took me to the park cafe to celebrate with a slice of apple pie and a cup of steaming hot chocolate. I hear his lilting north London accent in my head now as I open my eyes and look out at the soothing water again. ‘You did it, Lisa. I always knew you could. Now, whatever are you going to do next?’

  That was the wonderful thing about my dad. No matter what I did, he never gave up on me, never stopped cheering me on and believing that I could become the best I could be. He believed in me right up to the end, with never a moment’s doubt. Why the hell couldn’t I have lived up to that? Why did I have to mess up so spectacularly?

  The pale sun is beginning to dip in the sky now and I feel my spirits fade along with the light. Anxiety nips at my chest as I think of Joe alone in that house with a woman I’ve only just met. I can imagine what Mark would say about that. ‘There you go again, Lisa, shirking your responsibilities.’

  The thought of Mark makes me want to jump into the lake and spend a blissful few moments swimming away my anxiety, though I know I would freeze in this weather. Mark hated me going swimming. He said it made me go strange for hours afterwards. ‘Like you’ve left a crucial part of your brain behind at the pool.’ He was being spiteful but in a way he was right, I did feel altered after swimming. I felt balanced and calm but also protected somehow, like the water had formed a barrier between me and the world, a kind of armour. Dad had been right, learning to swim had saved me, though just not in the way he imagined.

  The light is fading faster now, turning the water a murky grey. It’s time I went back to the house.

  ‘Lisa? Are you all right?’

  I look up. Isobel is standing at the door, her face almost translucent in the fading winter light.

  ‘Yes, I’m feeling much better,’ I say as I reach the house. ‘Just needed some air, that’s all.’

  ‘I understand,’ she says, smiling. ‘Though you must be freezing.’

  She puts her hand on my arm and guides me back into the house which, in my absence, has been transformed. Warm, woody air envelops me as I step inside and my skin tingles. The fire has been lit in the living-room grate and Joe is lying on his belly in front of it, playing with the toy animals I hurriedly packed into my bag when we left London. I stand in the doorway, still shivering but unable to take my eyes off my little boy. He looks so contented and settled. Isobel has combed his hair and his face is pink and scrubbed clean. As I stand there listening to him making lion roars, lost in his play, the dark feeling returns, the sense that I have let my child down in the worst possible way; that being a mother, no matter how much I want it, will always be beyond me, just out of reach.

  ‘I should have combed your hair,’ I whisper.

  At this, Joe looks up and sees me standing there. He gathers his animals into his arms, as though worried I’m going to take them away, then he scowls and turns his back on me. A tear escapes from my eye but I swiftly wipe it away. Joe mustn’t see me crying.

  ‘I found these in the kitchen.’

  I turn to see Isobel standing behind me. She’s holding a pile of clothes.

  ‘Old jumpers,’ she says briskly. ‘They don’t look that stylish but they’re warm at least. Why don’t you get changed and I’ll keep an eye on Joe.’

  I take the jumpers, like an obedient schoolgirl, and make my way down the passageway to the bedroom. Isobel has been busy making the bed and folding Joe’s clothes into neat piles. As I peel off my thin cotton top, deep sadness permeates my bones. Why can’t I be a good mother? Why am I always messing up?

  When I get back to the living room I find Isobel sitting on the rug with Joe. He’s waving a toy lion at her and she screams in mock terror. ‘Save me, save me, Joe! Don’t let him eat me.’

  Joe giggles and does it again. His laughter is so natural, so innocent, it physically hurts to hear. Standing in the doorway, I clear my throat and they look up at me.

  ‘Here’s Mummy,’ says Isobel, getting to her feet. ‘Hey, I bet that feels warmer. Tell you what, if you give me your other clothes I’ll take them back and give them a wash in my machine.’

  ‘You’ve done more than enough, Isobel,’ I say. ‘Looking after Joe all this time. I can sort out the clothes. It’s fine, really.’

  She regards me for a moment, her expression a mixture of confusion and pity.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, taking her coat from the back of the armchair. ‘I have a tendency to over-fuss, I know. It’s just I’ve never had kids and – well … I always thought I’d have a brood of them by now.’

  She’s a young woman yet she acts so much older than her years. It’s curious. The sadness in her eyes makes me think that she’s been hurt in the past.

  ‘You’re very good with Joe,’ I say as we walk to the door. ‘It seems to come so naturally to you, unlike me.’

  ‘Children make me happy,’ she says, her eyes suddenly glistening with tears. ‘Though I’ve reconciled myself to not being a mum now. My father says it’s God’s will but it’s still quite tough to take.’

  ‘Oh, Isobel, I didn’t realize,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t have –’

  ‘No, please,’ she says, wiping her face briskly. ‘I’m fine. I’ve had a long time to get used to it.’

  She smiles and I see something of myself in her expression, a fragility I hadn’t noticed before.

  ‘Anyway, it was a pleasure,’ she says as I open the door. ‘You’ve got a lovely boy there. A right little sweetheart.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, though I suddenly feel anxious at the thought of Isobel leaving. Joe is calm when she’s here. If only he could be like that with me.

  She smiles then pats my shoulder reassuringly as if reading my mind.

  ‘It will get better,’ she says. ‘I promise you.’

  I nod my head briskly, trying to keep the tears that are gathering at bay.

  ‘Oh, and if you’re peckish later,’ she says, stepping out into the dark December evening, ‘I’ve popped a couple of jacket potatoes in the oven. They’ll be perfect with a can of beans warmed up on top. Give them another forty-five minutes and they’ll be nice and crispy.’

  ‘Isobel, you shouldn’t have,’ I say. ‘You’ve done so much for us already.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she says, wrapping her scarf round her shoulders. ‘Just a couple of spuds I had going spare. Poor Dad’s got no appetite these days and I’m trying to avoid carbs. Better that you and Joe enjoy them than they go to waste. Oh, and
I also left you a newspaper. One of the parishioners left it behind after the service this morning. I’m not much of a newspaper person but I thought you might like a read.’

  ‘Thanks, Isobel,’ I say. ‘For everything. I really do appreciate it.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ she says. ‘And, listen, if you need anything, anything at all, you’ve got my number. Okay?’

  I nod my head.

  ‘You get inside,’ she calls. ‘It’s freezing out here and I think you’ve had enough fresh air for one day.’

  ‘A girl can never have enough fresh air,’ I say, remembering her words. ‘That’s what she always used to say.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, no one,’ I say, checking myself. ‘It doesn’t matter. Listen, thanks again, Isobel. You’ve been such a help. I’d better go and check on Joe now.’

  I say goodbye and head back into the house. As I close the door I hear Isobel’s boots crunching on the gravel then the sound of the car engine starting up. In the living room I find Joe still playing with the animals, his head on the floor, eye level with the lions, tigers and elephants. I go over and sit down next to him.

  ‘Can I play too?’ I say, picking up a lion and attempting a feeble roar.

  He shakes his head then grabs the lion from my hands.

  ‘Okay,’ I sigh. ‘Well, how about I make us some dinner. Isobel’s left us some lovely baked potatoes. You like them, don’t you?’

  He ignores me and returns to his game. I sit for a few moments longer looking at the back of his head before eventually admitting defeat and heading into the kitchen.

  The potatoes will take another forty minutes, according to Isobel, and with Joe playing happily next door I sit down at the table and pick up the bulky copy of the Sunday Times. Ripping off the cellophane cover, I skim over the latest Brexit developments, but as I turn the page I come face to face with a headline that makes my blood turn to ice.