The good companion

Emily had fond memories of the old house – but why had the atmosphere changed so much?

“Well, this place isn’t how I remembered it.” Emily peered into the dark hallway and felt around for the light switch. “Is this what happens when men live alone?” She wrinkled her nose up against the fusty smell.

“Yes, you shouldn’t leave us to our own devices. We go feral,” Tom said, joking.

Emily’s few memories of Uncle Orwell rose and fell like the dust motes that were floating all around her.

He had always been a bit of an enigma and had never left the family home where he’d been brought up. Whenever Emily had visited her gran, he’d stayed out of the way. But she remembered him as a large, bearded man. He was used to his own ways and spent an inordinate amount of time fixing old watches and machinery for a living.

“Don’t mind Orwell,” her gran would say, and they’d go to make tea and eat scones with homemade raspberry jam. He had seemed standoffish and solitary, content to be tinkering with whatever mechanical device he was fixing. Her gran had died first, a few years ago, and now Orwell was gone too. It was left to Emily to sort out the house and the inheritance.

Tom led the way, opening doors as he went. “It’s kind of creepy, don’t you think?”

She could see why he thought so. The mahogany wood-panelled hallway was dark and gloomy. Emily couldn’t remember noticing the carved gargoyle plinths before. They were contorted into monstrous expressions, as if they were holding up the weight of the ceiling. Demonic and yet comical.

“It didn’t used to be so creepy. When gran was alive, she kept it spotless. Everything looked shiny and buffed up. It was nothing like this.” She wondered how Orwell had allowed the old house to reach this sorry state. Everything looked dusty, neglected and long past its best. It wasn’t as if there were cartons of food or empty beer cans strewn around, but it was clear that Orwell didn’t believe in throwing anything out. Piles of newspapers, discarded mail and old magazines cluttered every surface. The curtains, heavy gold velvet panes, hung like sentinels, watching them as they walked around the living room. A taxidermy stoat glared at them from a bookshelf.

“We might be better getting one of those companies in, the ones that do deep cleaning. What do you think?” Tom suggested.

“Nah, we can do it. It will be better to sort things out as we go. Create separate piles of what needs to be binned and what can go to the charity shop. That thing is going first,” Emily said, pointing to the furry creature with the beady eyes.

“I was afraid you’d say we should do it. I’d better go and get some bin bags and cleaning stuff. Do you want some food?”

“Sure, yeah. Food’s a good idea. I fancy pizza and then we’ll get stuck in properly.”

“Will you be OK here on your own?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Honey, you’re the wuss in this relationship, not me. I’ll be fine.”

When Tom left, the house settled into itself again, the bones of the old place creaking and rattling. Emily kind of liked it. She’d always liked visiting her gran when she was little and had loved all of her old stories. Houses like this one demanded to be filled with children and family. The dust and neglect made it feel sad and forlorn.

Emily amused herself thinking of how she would spruce it up and bring the old place back to life once more. Who knows, maybe they could move in and start a family of their own? The idea wasn’t so ludicrous.

They’d been together for five years now and Tom had certainly made it clear that he wanted to be with Emily for life. She smiled at her musings, imagining the sound of children laughing and a family dog casting hair all over the wooden floors.

Looking around the main living room she noticed an old black typewriter on the mahogany desk. It only caught Emily’s eye because of its condition. Despite being old, it gleamed. While everywhere else looked muted in a covering of dust, the black machine was perfectly clean, its silver circled keys catching the dim light. All around the desk were discarded pages of print. Typed, over and over again with no rhyme nor reason as to the words. Emily traced her fingertips lightly over the silver lettering – Imperial:

The Good Companion.

Maybe she could be a writer. An old house like this felt like it had stories seeping out of the brickwork. She sat down on the captain’s leather chair and felt her fingers drawn to the silver rimmed letters. As if overtaken by force, her fingers flew across the springy keys and she watched as black inky words appeared on the creamy paper, wound around the typewriter carriage. “LEAVE NOW OR ELSE.”

Emily leapt back in the chair. She felt a shiver pass through her body and bolted out of the room. Without a second glance back, she opened the front door and decided to wait on Tom’s return in the front garden.

“Taking a breather?” he asked as he marched up the driveway with the food and cleaning supplies.

“I’ve had second thoughts – I think that deep cleaning company might be a good idea after all. It seems like too big of a job for us.”

The dust and neglect made it feel sad and forlorn