The Dark Lake

Amy was expecting a comfortable stay in a grand house when she accepted a job as a writer's live-in companion. To her shock she found an isolated ruin, a woman who denied all knowledge of the offer and a mysterious little girl...
The child stood beside one of the gateposts. The huge granite pillar with its lichen-covered lion was much taller than she was. Amy wound down the window of her Fiat and smiled at her.

Is this the entrance to Myrtle Court?

The child stared back at Amy with pale eyes that were the same shade of blue as the coat she was wearing. She didn't speak.

My satnav doesn't seem to work in these country lanes, Amy continued, despite the child's silence. In the village someone said Myrtle Court is just off this road. Is it through here? Amy pointed at the tall wrought-iron gates that looked like they had been standing open for a long time, serpentine brambles twisting through the ornate bars.

The child still said nothing.

Amy scanned the gateposts for a name but they were covered in so much ivy it was impossible to see any kind of inscription on the pillars. When she turned back to the child, she had gone.

There was a bungalow ahead, the light from a window casting a warm glow in the late afternoon gloom. Amy imagined the little girl already inside, breathlessly telling her mother about the lady with pink hair and a ring in her nose who had tried to talk to her. Her mother would be praising her for not talking to a stranger.

Amy thought of knocking on the bungalow door but decided against it. She was pretty sure the rusty gates were the entrance to Myrtle Court. The woman in the village pub had described it as the old place by the lake, and through the gates Amy could see a strip of something dark and glistening that could only be water.

A ragged-feathered crow flew in front of her as she turned the car through the gateposts, as though to guide her down the twisting drive. Tall trees grew on each side, spindly branches intertwining to make a patchwork tunnel of autumnal leaves.

Amy had to navigate deep potholes and places where the drive had turned almost totally to grass. Ahead of her the lake rippled as a breeze picked up, and above her the tree branches shivered. Falling leaves blew against the windscreen and Amy had to put the wipers on to clear them away.

The drive appeared to be getting narrower. Amy began to think she might have been mistaken - surely Myrtle Court couldn't be at the end of such a rundown track - but she turned a sharp corner and suddenly the house appeared ahead of her.

Amy let a gasp at the size of the imposing half-timbered building, which was much bigger than she had imagined. She could tell that it must once have been magnificent, but now the stone tiles of the gabled roof line sagged alarmingly and many of the narrow mullioned windows were cracked or missing their hexagonal panes of glass.

Long red fingers of Virginia creeper spread up the walls, and plants and bushes were growing out of the tall brick chimneys that twisted like barley sugar canes at each end of the building.

Amy stopped the car beside a set of crumbling steps that led up to a porch and the wide oak front door. Above the porch a coat of arms was too weathered to make out the carvings that adorned it, but the name Myrtle Court was scrawled in thick marker pen on a piece of cardboard nailed on the door, above another sign that read: Leave deliveries here. Visitors not welcome. Amy picked up her phone.

Bloody hell, she muttered, realising there was no signal. She wanted to call her mother to ask her what on earth she had got her into by suggesting she answer that advertisement in a magazine. Live-in ladies' companion wanted for lively 96-year-old author. Luxury accommodation provided in a quiet location it had read.

It's just what you need, her mother had said as she handed Amy the magazine, where she had circled the advertisement several times. A bit of time somewhere else, a bit of time to get over... Her voice trailed off, leaving Amy to finish her sentence.

A bit of time to get over Ben the Bastard running off to Thailand with the girl from the sandwich shop?

Amy tried not to think of the Instagram pictures she had seen the night before Full Moon Party on Koh Phangan Beach.

She got out of the car. A fine drizzle had begun to fall, and the air was much colder than it had been when she had set off from London that morning. Shivering in her thin denim jacket, Amy looked up at the house.

She found it hard to imagine there was any luxury accommodation inside, and there was no sign of a lively lady author, but it was certainly quiet. The only noise came from the rustling of the leaves in the trees and a rhythmic lapping sound that Amy presumed must be coming from the shores of the lake.

She walked up the steps and rapped on the door with the huge iron knocker. The sound echoed loudly but no one came. Amy knocked again and then she checked the messages on her phone, scrolling through the texts she had been sent the night before.

The arrangements had been made with the nephew of the lady author after a brief interview on Zoom. Millicent is a little hard of hearing. You may need to go around to the kitchen door to get a response on arrival, he had told her.

Amy walked back down the steps and followed an overgrown path.

After pushing her way through overhanging bushes and squeezing past a Volvo that looked as though it had seen better days, Amy came out into a cobbled courtyard. The little girl with blue eyes stood beside a door, her hand on the latch.

Oh, hello again, said Amy.

The child jumped back from the door, looking startled and wide-eyed.

Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, said Amy as gently as she could. I've come to see Millicent. Is she through here? She pointed to the door.

The little girl stared at her in the same way she had done at the gates. Amy noticed how pretty she was, long blonde ringlets tied up with a ribbon that matched her blue coat. It was the sort of coat that you saw children from the royal family wearing: double-breasted with a darker blue velvet collar and matching cuffs.

Do you live here too? Amy asked, surprised that the nephew hadn't mentioned a child.

Who's there? A voice came from inside.

The door swung open, revealing a tall but stooped figure in layers of black. She wore a bright red woollen scarf around her neck and her silver hair was cut in a short and sensible style. Amy took a step back as she realised the old woman had a poker in one hand, which she was waving it unsteadily in front of her.

Miss Barnard? Amy cried out. Millicent? I've come about the job.

The old woman lowered the poker and peered at her.

Who are you? she asked, her voice haughty though a little breathless. You look like a punk rocker!

I'm Amy. I'm here as your companion. Your nephew said he'd told you I was coming.

The old woman was peering beyond Amy, trying to see into the gloomy courtyard.

Are you on your own?

Amy looked behind her for the little girl, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Sometime later Amy was prodding at a reluctant fire with the same poker, squatting back on her heels beside the fireplace of a large room that was filled with piles of papers and books.

The logs were too damp. Amy had found them in a pile in one of the outhouses and had ferried them inside in a dilapidated wheelbarrow, getting wet from the drizzle and covered in old spiders' webs as she did so. It wasn't what she had imagined the job of a lady's companion would entail.

The nephew had said there was a 'daily woman' from the village who cleaned the house. Amy thought of the teetering tower of plates by the side of the large sink in the kitchen and the dust that covered every surface - what exactly did the daily woman do? Would her own duties include washing up? Should she find out if there was anything they could eat in the almost prehistoric looking fridge?

Millicent sat at a desk, tapping furiously on an old-fashioned typewriter.

I told my nephew I don't need a companion, she said for what seemed like the hundredth time. I haven't needed to live with anyone for nearly eighty years, so I definitely don't need to now.

Amy poked the feeble fire and to her surprise it suddenly sputtered into life.

And I can't be making chit-chat with you all day, Millicent continued. I have a book to finish.

Amy glanced at the rows of brightly coloured paperbacks that lined a wall of shelves. She had hadn't realised that Millicent Barnard was the Millicent Barnard, one of the most prolific children's authors in the country. As a child Amy had loved her stories, with their feisty heroine Leonora Loveday, a fearless and unconventional little girl who was always having adventures. Leonora and the Pirate Queen had been Amy's favourite.

Maybe I could tidy up a bit? Amy suggested, looking at the chaos around her. Help you sort out your papers?

No! Millicent's voice was a bark. I won't tolerate tidying, or any kind of meddling in my life. I wish you would just go back to wherever you came from and leave me in peace.

Amy shrugged.

I think your nephew will be disappointed if I left so soon, I've been employed on a month's trial.

Well, you just keep out of my way and I'll keep out of yours.

Amy sighed. She had already sublet her flat in London and didn't want to move back in with her mother. It looked like sticking it out at Myrtle Court was her only option.

The next morning Amy woke early. The night before she had found a bedroom without a leaking ceiling and had made up the big brass bed with antique linen and blankets she had found in a cupboard. The bed wasn't comfortable, and Amy had been kept awake by strange bangs and creaks. At one point she heard whispers that she very much hoped were just the wind.

She yawned as she looked out of the window, which was made of tiny panes of leaded glass. From her room she had a perfect view of the lake, which was long and narrow, with a fringe of brown rushes lining the shore. A blanket of mist, glowing pink in the dawn light, hovered just above the inky surface.

For a moment Amy thought she saw a boat emerging from the haze, but when she looked again it was a large log that had somehow ended up in the water, its gnarled branches reaching upwards like hands grasping at the air.

Amy turned away to find her phone, forgetting there was no point checking it as there was no internet connection at Myrtle Court, let alone mobile reception.

There's a telephone in the hall, Millicent had said when Amy had asked about a wi-fi password the previous evening. I find that it adequately suffices for communicating with those with whom I wish to communicate.

Amy put her phone back down on the bed. At least she wouldn't be able to check Ben's latest Instagram posts - surely it would be healthier for her not to know what was going on in Thailand?

She blew into her hands. The room was icy cold, even though it was only the middle of October. Throwing a jumper over her pyjamas Amy put her hand on the door to go and use the ancient bathroom. She turned the china handle but the door refused to open. She pushed and then pulled, her heart beginning to thud as she realised it was locked. She turned back to the room in dismay and suddenly saw there were two doors. She had been so tired the night before that she hadn't noticed.

The other door opened easily into a corridor lined with threadbare Persian rugs and family portraits. Haughty-looking men and women eyed Amy disdainfully from the walls as she made her way to the bathroom. Many of them had Millicent's long nose and downturned mouth.

As Amy returned she stopped to look at one of the pictures outside her bedroom, an oil painting of a family group. A young man in army uniform stood beside a girl in a gauzy white dress, while a younger girl sat on in front of them both on a chair holding a doll.

The older girl and the young man were undoubtedly related, with the same noses and mouths as the other family portraits on the walls. They both had hair that was almost black and hooded chocolate-coloured eyes. But the younger girl was blonde with big blue eyes - she looked more like the doll she was clutching to her chest than her two companions.

Amy stared at the painting. The younger girl looked familiar. Amy suddenly remembered: the child beside the gateposts, the little girl with her hand on the back door. Amy frowned. She couldn't be the same girl because the picture had obviously been painted long ago.

She found the artists signature in one corner and above it the smudgy numbers of the date: 1944. Amy rubbed her eyes, thinking she must be mistaken. The child she had seen the day before only looked like the one in the painting because she was blonde and of a similar age.

She walked back into the chilly bedroom and saw that the locked door was now open. Amy rubbed her eyes again. She was certain it had been closed when she went to the bathroom, and not just closed, but firmly locked. Now it stood ajar.

Amy walked across the carpet and pushed the door open to reveal a large room with two windows, a low wrought-iron bed in one corner and a rocking horse in the other. A table was scattered with the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and a set of crayons was strewn across a sheet of paper. A single word was written on the paper in large red capitals: 'NORA'.

Amy felt a gust of wind blow through the room, and heard the rocking horse creaking as it moved back and forth.

She saw that one of the windows was open. Its long lace curtains blew towards her as she went to shut it. A porcelain doll sat in an armchair beside the window. Amy realised it was the same doll that the little girl in the painting was holding. Its glassy blue eyes stared up at Amy. She noticed its rouged cheeks, painted pink lips and little pearly teeth.

Amy saw someone was walking by the lake. It was a man with a confident stride, who turned as a child came running - a little girl with long blonde hair and a pale blue coat. Loved this story? Don't miss our November issue, featuring the next part of Kate Granville's captivating short story series!
Pictures: Adobe Stock