The Dark Water

by Helen Moorhouse

  Dear Gabriel,

  I do hope that this letter finds you in good health and looking forward to the annual Christmas party here at the Castle. It is, of course, quite some time since we have seen you at Dubhglas but Mr Calvert understands that you are busy with your television career.

  I am writing to you personally on this occasion, not on behalf of your godfather. The staff and I at the Castle have spoken and we hope that this year you plan to join us for certain at the party. There is a problem here, with which you might be able to help, we feel. I am not entirely sure how to put this, but it is a delicate issue of a supernatural nature and we are unsure where else to turn. We hope that your knowledge of and love for the Castle will encourage you to attend on December 1st. I don’t wish to go into the matter any further at present, but we can talk in more detail – and privately – then.

  Yours sincerely,

  Donald Gifford

  Martha lowered the letter and looked at Gabriel who held out his hand for it to be returned.

  “What is this all about?” she asked as she handed it back to him.

  Gabriel took a deep breath. “I’ve told you about Dubhglas, right?”

  Martha nodded. He’d spoken about it in that casual way of his – a castle where he’d spent his summers as a child. The story had prompted Will to remind her that Gabriel was a gift that just kept on giving.

  “Your grandfather –”

  “Godfather,” Gabriel corrected, indicating the letter in his hand where a reference had been made.

  Martha saw a familiar flash of impatience cross his features at her mistake.

  “My godfather lives there. I used to spend my summers there as a kid – lots of history. Anyway, he throws this annual shindig before Christmas every year and I normally try to get out of it but then I get this letter stuffed into this year’s invitation, from Gifford –”

  It was Martha’s turn to interrupt as Gabriel’s explanation gathered speed and threatened to run away with itself before she was in full possession of the facts.

  “Who’s Gifford?” she said, resisting again the urge to glance at her watch as the evening grew late. “In the olden days he’d have been a valet, maybe,” mused Gabriel, “or a butler – buttling about the place, I suppose. Nowadays he’s sort of an estate manager, I guess. Mainly the house – sort of a housekeeper, except there’s also an actual housekeeper but her role is to cook and order food and –”

  “I get it,” said Martha, suppressing another grin as Gabriel’s face contorted with the effort of trying to figure out this man Gifford’s job description.

  Gabriel took another deep breath. “He’s the head servant, I suppose,” he said in a low voice, as if somehow he could be heard and didn’t want to insult the staff.

  “And this . . .” he pointed a finger to the letter which he had refolded in his hand, “this is very unusual.” He stared at Martha, almost as if he felt she should understand that.

  “In what way?” she asked tentatively, nervous in case she should somehow prod Gabriel’s already tried patience any further.

  “Very unusual,” he repeated, “for Gifford to contact me directly. He’s a lovely man – super-efficient – but I’d swear that he learned his modern-day worldview from Upstairs Downstairs. He’s incredibly subservient – in a nice way, you know. He doesn’t bow and scrape but he sort of knows his place, do you understand?”

  Martha wasn’t sure she did but she nodded regardless.

  “To approach me directly about this must have taken him out of his comfort zone,” he continued. “I’m completely mystified about what he could want but if he’s taken the trouble to contact me, then, whatever it is, he really needs my help.”

  “He said it’s of a supernatural nature, didn’t he?”

  Gabriel looked slightly aghast. “I know,” he replied. “That’s the weirdest thing of all. My gift has never been acknowledged at Dubhglas. It’s pretty much a spook-free zone. Godfather doesn’t believe it – he’s aware of it but he pretends it doesn’t exist. I’m sure the staff have all had a wee gossip about it – but for Gifford to ask for my help in something like this? That’s downright freaky in itself.”

  Martha thought for a moment. “Are you going to go? And help?”

  Gabriel leaned in close to her face. “And how can I propose to do that nowadays – in ‘The Great Supernatural Silence’, I suppose you’d call it?”

  Martha nodded. “I see. So that’s something else that you want me to talk to Will about?”

  Gabriel sat back, sighed, and laced his fingers together, nodding as he did so. “I don’t know where else to turn,” he said helplessly. “First of all there’s all this . . .” He waved his hand to indicate the space around him, his own supernatural problem. “And now this . . .”

  This time, the hand pointed to the letter. “And me of no use to anyone . . . and no one to turn to . . .”

  “Except Will,” finished Martha.

  Gabriel nodded again, and shrugged. “Who you gonna call?” he wisecracked lamely.

  Martha studied his face again in the light from the wall-lamps and felt again the comfort from him, the security she felt in being back in his company.

  “I’ll talk to him,” she responded, seeing relief flood his face. She stood up to leave, adding, “I can’t guarantee anything, mind.”

  Gabriel nodded, standing to join her, towering over her small frame. “I know. But I’d really appreciate it, Martha, really I would.”

  Martha nodded in agreement and made her way toward the door. “I’ll call you, okay?” she said, carrying on out to the hallway.

  Gabriel didn’t follow. “I’ll wait by the phone, honey,” he piped cheerily but as she pulled the heavy front door open to leave, Martha knew that the faux cheeriness in his voice was born of relief and that Gabriel was a man in desperate need of assistance.

  CHAPTER 10

  1963

  Claire jumped slightly as a shape shifted in the shadows before her but relaxed against the wall of the corridor.

  “Well, ’ow did it go?” he demanded in a hushed voice while pushing himself upright using the foot that he had been tapping on the wall behind him.

  “Ooh, Martin, you startled me,” said Claire in her habitual hushed tones.

  She had the quietest speaking voice that Martin had ever heard, used as he was to the sounds of London markets and nightclubs. He often laughed that they were like two people speaking different languages – he with his loud cockney accent that Claire still found difficult to understand and she with her hushed whisper and the thick tones of the island to the north from where she came.

  He fell into step beside her as she scurried along, back toward the kitchens, trying his best to peer into her face, but the passageway was dark and he couldn’t make out her expression.

  “Well?” demanded Martin again.

  Claire glanced at him. “He says I can stay as long as Mrs Turnbull is happy with me,” she replied. Martin detected a hint of pleasure in her voice that he hadn’t really heard before.

  “That’s bloody fantastic!” he roared in response, his words bouncing off the high ceilings.

  “Shhh, Martin!” giggled Claire. “I don’t want him to hear me telling you – he’d probably tell me to leave again.”

  “Nonsense!” he replied as they reached the door which led to the stairs down to the kitchen.

  He held the door open and Claire looked at him awkwardly, as if unsure what to do, and nodded in gratitude as she took timid steps toward the thick stone stairs.

  “Does Mrs T know?” he asked.

  Claire shook her head.

  “Then we’d better tell her, and get the kettle on fast. This calls for a celebration cuppa.”

  “Martin!”

  A voice boomed down the corridor behind them. Claire recognised it immediately, as did Martin. As low as her own heart sank on hearing the gravelly tones, she could sense that Martin’s had sunk further.

  “Martin!”
came the roar again. Impatient. Vicious. Cruel.

  “Oops!” grinned Martin, a little too jovially, pausing and taking a step backward up the stairs. “Maybe keep that cuppa warm for me. I’ve a feeling I’ve some errands to run.”

  He turned and scampered back up the few steps down which he had come and disappeared back into the passageway above. Claire watched him go, unable to stop the feeling of concern that grew every time that man called any of them, particularly Martin. He had it in for poor Martin, it seemed. Turning and blocking the summons from her mind, she continued her descent to the kitchens, a skip growing in every step as she went back to work. To her job. Her very first one. I have a job, she said quietly but aloud, and hugged herself with glee.

  It had been a full month since the day she had met Martin and Mrs Turnbull in the coffee shop. Since she had returned with them in the car to Dubhglas Castle.

  They had been so kind that day, Mrs Turnbull and Martin. And there had been others coming and going, saying hello as they passed. She had jumped every time someone new appeared, but they seemed to almost take her as part of things, greeting her and carrying on about their business. No one remarked on her face – her eye or the bruise. She didn’t think she’d been anywhere so strange in her life.

  And then the bath that Mrs Turnbull had run with real bubbles. And the loan of the brushed cotton nightie. Mrs Turnbull had apologised because it was old, but Claire had never worn anything so warm or so clean in her life. And the sleep. In a bed with clean sheets, in a room at the top of the castle which was little more than a cell but to Claire, had she ever heard of the Ritz, she would have felt that this was better.

  It was noon the following day when she woke, confused, afraid and embarrassed. Woken with a cup of tea brought to her by Mrs Turnbull in her bed. It turned out that Mr Turnbull couldn’t go to Glasgow that day after all, she’d told Claire, but if she cared to wait a couple of days then he’d definitely be making a run to the city and he’d take Claire with him.

  But of course that had never happened. And here she was, a month later, giving Mrs Turnbull a hand in the kitchens, still waiting for the lift to Glasgow which she knew deep down was never going to come. At first, it had made her feel terrified. Were they keeping her here, some sort of prisoner, until her father and brothers arrived to take her home? But as the days went on, and the kindness grew, so did Claire’s inner strength and she began to feel that these people had no motive other than to be generous and kind and she was happy to clean the floor in return and blacken the stove and make cups of tea for the gardeners when they came indoors for a break, sweating in the summer sunshine.

  And then today she had been granted a formal interview with Mr Calvert for a proper job. It had been Martin’s idea, she knew. They’d dressed her in more of Mrs Turnbull’s cast-offs that morning and clipped her hair up and she’d taken a rare foray into the main body of the castle with its fancy furniture and stags’ heads and heavy fabrics. Into the library full of books and the small fire lit, even in summer. She’d been surprised at how young he was at first.

  He’d looked at her eye of course. She’d expected that. Any prospective employer might. She’d thought that would be it then. That he’d know from her eye that she was slow and stupid and tell her to leave straight away and maybe that was for the best. Get back on the road. Keep running, keep moving. But would she ever be truly safe? Any safer than here anyhow? Behind these thick castle walls, with passages and doorways through which to run and hide?

  Instead, he was kind, like the others. He didn’t ask her much about herself but asked if she was hardworking – she’d never known anything but hard work in her life – and if she was punctual, which she was, of course. Being late would mean a beating with the belt so she had learned at a young age to be early for everything. He’d looked her up and down then, asked if she liked to read and if she liked the library and then told her that he was happy to put her on the payroll as long as Mrs Turnbull was satisfied. And then he’d dismissed her. No cruel words, no warnings of punishment. And payment? For this? To be warm and sheltered, and given clothes and food and kindness? A part of Claire felt that it had to be too good to be true. But another part wanted to knuckle down, to start work and stay working as long and as hard as Mr Calvert wanted so that she might never have to leave. For this reason, she was eager to get back to the kitchen to see what task Mrs Turnbull might give her next.

  There was always such a buzz about the castle. She had been taken on a tour by Mr Turnbull when Mr Calvert was away once, shortly after she had arrived. It had been purchased some years before by a Mr Ball of London but Mr Calvert, his nephew, lived there permanently and was in charge of the day-to-day running and the restoration of the castle.

  As it had been unoccupied for years, the last of the original owners having died out a decade before, there was much to be done. So far, the kitchen, the library, the entrance hall and the servants’ rooms, along with a bedroom for Mr Calvert had all been finished, she knew. But he was in the process of modernising the whole place – guest rooms were being repaired and redecorated, new bathrooms were being installed next to every room. Claire was at first overwhelmed by the great hubbub of so many builders and workmen. She was mainly confined to downstairs of course, but she knew from her visits above that there were scaffolds erected throughout the house, sheets covering surfaces as ceilings were painted and restored, floors repaired in many of the rooms. It was so exciting, she thought.

  And it wasn’t just the house that Mr Calvert was turning on its head. Mr Turnbull explained how much all of this was of benefit to the small village of Dubhglas. How Mr Calvert was creating jobs – staff, workmen, people to work in Mr Calvert’s business. “He’s a very good man,” Mr Turnbull had stressed. “We’re very lucky he’s the one in charge.”

  Claire listened carefully to what he had to say about her new boss and the respect he commanded. She was even more stunned to find out that Christopher Calvert was doing all of this in his early thirties. Not all that much older than she was, when you thought about it, and all this to show.

  When the sun shone the surroundings of the castle could be glorious but the area was susceptible to thick mists sometimes which made the days grey and dull. Claire didn’t care about the weather. In her experience bad things could happen on nice days as much as on wet and cold ones, so every day was the same to her. She had only ever known life as a hard drudge, with fear at every corner, not knowing where the next punishment would come from.

  When she was smaller, she had thought the beatings were the worst. A belt here, a blunt instrument there. Her father had used the head of a garden rake once which had left her with gashes all over her body. It had taken months for that to heal up. But it hadn’t stopped him.

  It was when she grew older that she realised, however, that there was so much worse out there than being hit. To get by, get through it, as it grew more frequent, she learned to leave herself. To lift herself out of her body, despite the pain and the shame.

  She knew that her mother knew, of course. And sometimes she saw the scars on her mother’s arms and legs too and knew that she had been through the same things as Claire. But she never did anything to stop it. Until the day that she had insisted that Claire go to the mainland alone . . .

  Claire tried not to think about all that too much. She didn’t trust anyone of course. After all, everyone got beaten. Or did they? As she looked around the faces of the staff at Dubhglas Castle – Martin, Mrs Turnbull, the ghillies, the gardeners, the maids Sheila, Esther and Dots – they didn’t seem to ever expect a beating in punishment. And they were all very kind to her. Claire knew that she had done things wrong since she had got here – Mrs Turnbull had told her as much – but there was never a hand raised to strike her. She had heard the ghillies fighting once as well, voices raised so high that they echoed up the stone staircase, and Mr Turnbull had rushed in to intervene. The noise had made her want to run and hide, and she had cowered in a corner of th
e kitchen while they banged the long wooden table with their fists and pointed at each other in rage, their faces red, spittle flying from their mouths. But they hadn’t raised a hand to each other, and soon they shook hands and gave each other a grudging apology. Claire had watched in fascination. Had it been her brothers then one of them would have been lying on the floor bleeding before long. And the kitchen would have been left in complete disarray with pots overturned and furniture broken. And it some way it would have warranted another punishment for her, she knew.

  And another thing – no one made her stay on her knees on the stone floor for hours praying for repentance. Instead, Mr Turnbull gathered all of the staff who lived in at the kitchen table each night and they bowed their heads for a few moments while he read to them the briefest of passages from the Bible. There was church on Sunday but only if you wanted to go.

  “I ain’t never gone to church since I was a little ’un,” Martin observed cockily. “Me old ma used to bring me when I was a nipper but I ain’t got time for that now.”

  Claire eyed him in shy wonder as he lounged at the kitchen table, swinging back on the rear two legs of the chair where he sat, a cold cup of tea before him.

  It was a Friday morning, a fortnight after Claire had become a member of staff, and she was engaged in her weekly task of blackening the top of the stove. She had paused long enough to turn and watch Martin as he lazily examined his fingernails, his shirtsleeves rolled up, slightly too long for him as always. As Claire wore Mrs Turnbull’s cast-offs, Martin wore her husband’s. Claire thought again of asking Martin where he had come from, with his strange accent and wardrobe of hand-me-downs. Her hand slowed in the application of the black polish with the special brush and she stared at him for a moment, jumping back to the task suddenly as the far door creaked and Mrs Turnbull bustled in from the cottage where she and Mr. Turnbull lived, across a cobbled courtyard to the rear of the castle. Claire began to apply the polish vigorously. She couldn’t help but grin as she heard a smacking sound and an exclamation from Martin, along with the legs of the chair landing back on the floor with a bang.