The Dark Water

by Helen Moorhouse

  “This room is beautiful, isn’t it?” said Martha politely.

  Violet gave the room a cursory glance and responded with a shrug, the same as Gabriel’s. “I’ve never liked this room,” she observed. “Christopher built it on about fifteen years ago – he had some notion about turning the place into a wedding venue and this was as far as he got. The castle’s completely unsuitable as is, of course. It needs a complete overhaul but try telling him that. He’s always had his own ideas about this place, has Christopher. Stubborn old thing.”

  “You’ve known him a long time?” prompted Martha, covering her glass with her hand as a waiter bent toward her to refill.

  He stepped back and then bent to Violet who held her glass up to him. She took a generous sip.

  “All my life,” came the response. “We were neighbours as children, went to the same school but not at the same time. I’m a wee bit younger – didn’t stop me stealing his pencil-case and throwing it into a tree on the way home though!” She smiled at the memory and then tutted, shaking her head. “What a horrible cow I was,” she giggled. “I suppose that’s the way first love goes, though, doesn’t it?” she added.

  How candid, thought Martha. The source of yet another of Gabriel’s traits.

  “He was your first love then?” she asked.

  “Absolutely.” Violet nodded. “If you asked me then, or asked anyone on our road, you’d have thought that I was definitely going to be Mrs Calvert, suburban accountant’s wife, seeing him off at the door each morning with a peck on the cheek.”

  “And what happened?” asked Martha.

  The shrug came again. “This place, I suppose.” Violet looked at her surroundings and Martha thought she could detect a hint of contempt in the glance. “Jack . . .”

  The name hung on the air.

  “Jack Ball?” Martha said hesitantly.

  Violet looked at her in surprise. “You’ve heard of him then?” she asked.

  “Just a little bit. He used to own this place, didn’t he?”

  Violet spluttered a little. “In name only, Martha. In name only.”

  “How do you mean?” prompted Martha, curious to hear about him, thirsty to hear tales of Jack Ball from someone who had known him first hand. Of course Violet would have – he had lived with the Calverts, her neighbours, for years.

  “It wasn’t Jack’s money bought this place, but it made perfect sense to keep him up here. Like tying up the guard dog, I suppose,” said Violet, her eyes glazing with the memory.

  Martha straightened a little in the chair.

  “Of course he never actually stayed put up here for too long. There was too much damage to be done down in London but after he served his time in prison he did things differently, kept his nose clean. He wasn’t so thick that he didn’t know he’d been given a great opportunity with this place by his . . . well, we’ll call them bosses . . .”

  Martha knew that she was referring to the Krays. Violet McKenzie had known the Krays. Bloody hell.

  “He was the name behind the so-called ‘business’ that they’d throttled out of the Calvert family fish stall. He could have lugged mullet around indefinitely at Billingsgate but when the opportunity came to make it a bit more, he grabbed it with both hands. Literally by the throat. But his limited intelligence, shall we say, gave him only the insight that he needed someone to do his thinking for him, so who better than his sister’s swotty lad? Clever old Christopher. My Christopher.”

  Martha looked on in surprise as Violet’s gaze travelled across the room to the thin old man holding court still at the top table.

  “I was Christopher’s secretary for a while when I left school – during the transition from fish stall to factory.”

  A thought crossed Martha’s mind. “Violet’s Frozen Foods – Gabriel mentioned it was named after you, am I right?”

  This was met with a dazzling smile. Violet shook her head. “What a lovely thought, but I’m afraid not! It was Jack who thought of the name. He was buttering up the real bosses of course – coincidentally Violet was the name of the main woman in their lives – their dear old mother. Jack thought if he ingratiated himself with them that he could be a big player. He wasn’t fully content with the business they more or less handed him on a plate – he wanted to be like them. Strutting around London forcing people to hide from him. And Christopher could never stand up to Jack. He was a terrible bully, of course. A cuckoo in the nest – a big brawny child thrown in with his cousins who were all little sparrows. The difference made him mean. Especially to poor Christopher. He called him ‘Speccy’ because of his glasses, ‘Birdy’ because he was skinny, ‘Swots’ because he was brainy – wore him down so much that when he suddenly started to build him up again, telling him how he needed him to run his business, that he should forget about the skinny secretary next door – me – and take a real opportunity, Christopher was so grateful for the attention that he packed his bags and left for Dubhglas and never came back. It was the one thing that made me happy about the whole sorry mess. That Christopher inherited this place and that he loved it so much. He turned the business around, somehow managed to make it all legitimate. As for the castle, though – he’s made a complete pig’s ear of it, of course, but it makes him happy – one of his few pleasures in life save for the work he does in the village. And the boys, of course.”

  Martha glanced at Violet’s wineglass, noticed it was half empty and realised that was another reason for her honesty.

  “I met Phillip then, when Christopher had left to come up here, and we fell in love and had our son – it was complete coincidence that I moved to Scotland as well but Phillip was stationed up here. It was nice to be close to Christopher again. It meant I got to keep a bit of an eye on him, keep him as a friend. Jack isolated him up here completely. I felt I couldn’t not ask him to be involved with . . . my sons. It was a connection for him, you see, a connection to other people. People who weren’t Jack with that stinking cigar in his mouth and his camera round his neck and that filthy cat, Tiger.”

  Will swung his head abruptly to look at Violet. “Tiger?” he said, his voice intense.

  Violet nodded. “He used to bring the animal everywhere with him. It slept in his room, had the run of the place – it verged on feral, of course. A vicious thing. A rat got it in the end, I seem to remember. After Jack . . . died . . . there was no one to take care of it so it ran wild around the castle – wild enough to attack anyone who came near it, but too mollycoddled to be able to stand up for itself. No one was sorry to see it gone.”

  An expression of concern flickered across Will’s face as Violet continued.

  “I couldn’t bear being around Jack, of course. Never could. So I used to leave the boys here for their holidays. Phillip approved of that, of course. Cut the apron strings, make men out of them. But look what happened . . .”

  Martha felt uncomfortable. “So Christopher never married?”

  Violet shook her head. “Never. He’d go on after one or two whiskys that I was his one and only. But I think his real love is Dubhglas. The village and the castle. He’s made a real life for himself here. Probably better than I could have offered him – waiting by the door with his dinner made, ready to darn his socks. This way he got to carve out a real place for himself, do some good. And escape.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell across the trio, Violet’s attention straying back to the dance floor to seek out her remaining son.

  Will coughed politely. “Excuse me – I was actually just wondering if I might steal Martha away for a few moments?” he asked.

  “But of course,” said Violet.

  Martha had turned to him in surprise. Surely he wasn’t going to ask her to dance or something awful?

  He saw her concern. “Don’t worry, no dancing where there are accordions,” he said, as if it were something he’d learned by rote. “I just want to show you something . . . nothing of . . .” he glanced at Violet who was staring intently at the dancing crowd, “a
supernatural kind either. Look, just come with me for ten minutes and then I’ll have you back here. I’ll even staple you to your seat so you can’t get up should an urge to break into dance strike you.”

  “All right then,” Martha agreed, with some regret. She was fascinated by what Gabriel’s mother was telling her. “If you don’t mind, Mrs McKenzie?”

  Violet was already distracted. “What’s that? Oh, not at all, Martha. I’ll see you later perhaps – but, if I don’t, make sure that I get to give that wee girl a cuddle tomorrow, won’t you? And enjoy the rest of your night!”

  With a smile, Martha allowed herself to be steered away from the table by Will. Together, they walked out of the main doors of the function room and back along the passage that connected it to the entrance hallway of the castle, the sounds of the function room fading behind them.

  CHAPTER 35

  Summer 1963

  “Can you look after that for me, Drum?” asked Laurence in a rush, retracing his steps from the lawn to the stone bench where she sat against the wall of the kitchen courtyard, dumping something cold and hard into her outstretched hand, and running again without a glance back toward the lake.

  Claire looked at what he handed her and saw there his most prized possession – his swimming medal that he’d won at his local pool for lifesaving and which he wore proudly every day, like a war hero. Why had he taken it off now and given it to her?

  She shook her head in puzzlement and sat back to wait for Martin, enjoying the last rays of the evening sunshine. Her eyes closed as she leant her head back, feeling the sun on her face, the heat sinking into her bones, the bench warm beneath her. She probably shouldn’t be on the side of the wall overlooking the lawns, but it was such a beautiful evening she couldn’t bear to sit indoors, nor in the shady courtyard between the castle and the Turnbulls’ cottage.

  The boy had started to call her Drum, she’d noticed. It was Martin’s name for her. “Little Drum,” he teased her affectionately. “Always banging on about something in that big loud voice of yours. Never shut up, you. Can’t hear myself think with all that talking you do. Gives me a blummin’ headache,” he used to say, and the more she laughed, the more elaborate the effect of her alleged incessant talking had on Martin. “Rabbit-rabbit all day long. Nagging me about this and that. Can’t get a word in edgeways . . .”

  He was slightly late, she knew, but she didn’t mind as it afforded her the chance to sit there and take in the last of the summer heat. Laurence’s parents were coming in the morning to take him home for a new term at school. And then in the coming weeks, the evenings would start to close in and a chill would make the air sharp.

  She glanced down again at the medal in her hand and blushed when she remembered how shy she had been around the boy when Martin had first invited her to spend time with them. “Is he some sort of lord, or royalty or something?” she had whispered to Martin when she was sure he couldn’t hear. Mr Calvert treated him like he was a young king, she had noted, and so she did the same.

  Martin had spluttered with laughter at the question. “God, no!” he had managed to exclaim eventually. “Kid’s dad is in the army! They live in a bloody Semi D!”

  She stretched in the sunlight and yawned, feeling warm and content, like she was on some sort of blissful island.

  “Wotcher, puss,” came a voice behind her and she pulled her arms down sharply from the stretch instinctively lest Martin launch an attack on her exposed armpits with tickles. “What’s that you got in your hand?”

  “Oh, it’s just Laurence’s medal,” she said as he sat down beside her on the step, bumping his hip against hers to get her to move over. She wrapped the red, white and blue ribbon on which it hung around the bronze disc and stuffed it into her cardigan pocket. “He asked me to mind it for him and then went tearing down toward the lake. Does that boy never get tired at all?”

  Martin glanced at his watch. It was going on for half past eight. “Evenings are starting to draw in,” he observed. “Little tyke should be in his bed.”

  “It’ll be quiet tomorrow when he’s gone,” observed Claire.

  Martin nodded in agreement. “Yes, we’ll miss the little fellah when he goes back, but home’s the best place for him.”

  “But you’ll have no one to play with any more,” grinned Claire.

  Martin looked at her for a moment, his expression deadly serious, before suddenly throwing an arm about her and ruffling her hair. Claire squealed.

  “You’re getting cheeky in your old age, ain’t ya?” he laughed, his teeth gritted in mock ferociousness.

  Claire laughed until he released her from the tight grip but kept his arm around her waist. She didn’t move it. It made her feel safe.

  They chatted for a long time, and then sat in silence for a while, watching the evening taking on that particular shade of summer blue. Claire rested her head shyly on Martin’s shoulder and he pulled her closer to him as the sky darkened even further. Claire’s attention was drawn to the first star of the evening twinkling overhead. She contemplated pointing it out to Martin but instead remained silent in his embrace.

  “’Ere, check out that moon,” he remarked suddenly, raising a finger to point at the great glow that was now just visible over the trees down at the lake.

  Claire gasped. It looked close enough to touch, the craters and lakes clearly visible in the milky orb. She stared at it for a long time, overwhelmed, trying to imprint the picture on her mind as she often did with things that were beautiful – taking an internal photograph and saving it for later. It was a lifetime’s habit for her to drink in things of beauty as if they were a dying man’s draught, lest they be taken from her.

  “That’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said and the silence fell between them again as they took in the view. It wasn’t long, however, before Martin turned his attention back to Claire and she raised her face for a kiss in which she lost herself. To them, it felt like moments, but the moon had travelled much higher in the sky by the time that they finally broke apart and Martin glanced at his watch.

  “Blimey!” he exclaimed. “It’s almost ten o’clock already! How did that happen?”

  “Goodness!” said Claire, but she didn’t budge, despite the fact that she knew she really should go to bed herself. She hated when her time with Martin came to an end and found herself trying to devise ways to make it last just those few moments more.

  “I should go and check that Little Lozza is tucked up safely in his bed,” he said,sitting up a little.

  Claire snuggled further into his neck again, tried to make him stay. Five more minutes. “He’s probably still down at the lake,” she murmured.

  “In the dark? On his own? He couldn’t be. We just didn’t notice him coming back up to the house – must have gone round to the front door.”

  “He’s not on his own,” she replied sleepily. “I saw Mr Ball going down there just before he did. I guess they’re fishing or something . . .”

  Claire’s head was jolted upright as Martin sat up fully. “You mean Laurence is down there with Uncle Jack?” he demanded. “On his own with Uncle Jack?”

  Claire nodded, looking at Martin in astonishment. She was tossed to one side as he jumped to his feet and stood, staring firstly at her and then looking down the lawn toward the lake.

  “Whatever’s the matter, Martin?”

  “He’s on his own with Uncle Jack,” Martin muttered, almost under his breath. It wasn’t directed at her. Without warning he broke into a run, calling over his shoulder back at her. “Get Mr Calvert! Mr Turnbull – anyone!”

  “Martin!” Claire called after him, standing herself, brushing her skirt down. “What’s happening? Why do you –”

  “Just get someone!” Martin yelled as he pelted down the lawn in panic.

  Claire watched him, bewildered, for another few seconds. She didn’t know why he wanted her to do it, but she turned in the settling darkness and made her way back inside to fulfil his request.


  CHAPTER 36

  Martha held Will’s hand loosely as they drew further away from the noise and warmth of the function room. It was cooler along the passage and Martha regretted not bringing a wrap. She cocked her head to one side to more clearly hear a noise that sounded to her at first like distant drummers but then realised that it was the rain, lashing against the castle, growing louder at every second. As they emerged into the main hall the sound seemed to fill the space as it battered the roof above and Martha looked upward as if it might cave in any second. A gust of wind screamed all of a sudden and she shivered violently. There was a whine to it that sounded almost human.

  “Where are we going?” she asked Will quietly. Afraid to speak in case someone could hear her. She had never had a stronger feeling of being out of bounds, somewhere that she shouldn’t be.

  He halted and glanced nervously around. “I’m, eh, not sure actually. There’s something . . . oh, shit . . .” He fumbled in his pocket – the left first and then the right, then dropping Martha’s hand to search both at the same time. “I’ve forgotten it,” he mumbled. “Wait there. I’ve left something upstairs Stay right here, okay? I’ll only be a second. Don’t move.” Behind them noise from the function room grew loud for a moment and then faded again. Will and Martha both jumped as a voice came from the darkness behind them.

  “Where are you two off to?” came Sue’s voice. “I couldn’t stay in there a second longer – everyone smells of peat. Or maybe that’s still the toothless guy and I can’t shake the stink.”

  She joined them and Will sighed, annoyed. “I’ve . . . eh, just left something upstairs,” he said, looking directly at Sue.

  Martha glanced from one to the other. The knowing look on Will’s face, the sudden flicker of recognition on Sue’s.

  “Oh shit!” Sue exclaimed suddenly. “Em, that’s where I’m going too. Upstairs. Bursting for the loo actually. Won’t be a second”