‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Butter. If the town had not celebrated with fireworks they would still have their dad. ‘Was . . . was your mother all right?’
‘It was hard after that,’ said Olive baldly. ‘The people at the camp were wonderful. They helped us bury Dad up on the headland . . .’
The body, thought Butter. Not a gangster’s enemy. Not murdered by poison or a dagger. Just a poor man who could not leave the War behind. And then disturbed by the landslide.
And he wasn’t even lying among the grass and the sand now, but in a cold morgue. Did Olive and Tish and Gil know that even their father’s body was gone? And what about the other body? Whose was it? He felt slightly sick as he realised the probable answer.
‘Mum couldn’t get the susso rations after Dad died,’ Olive was continuing. ‘Women aren’t allowed susso rations even if they’re widows with kids. And finally, all of Dad’s paintings were sold except this one.’
‘But . . . but what did you eat?’
‘We fished, like before, and gathered oysters, but that was when it began to get dry too. There was only enough water for us to drink and for the hens, so we couldn’t grow vegetables any more. Mum used to make chowder when we had vegetables,’ said Olive wistfully. ‘Potatoes and fish and onions and carrots and a bit of sea water for the salt and thyme to give it flavour. The thyme is still growing. I put some inside the fish sometimes, when we grill them on the fire, and think of Mum.
‘People at the camp gave us what they could, especially Uncle Harry. Uncle Harry said Dad had carried him to an aid post when he’d been shot in the leg and saved his life. Uncle Harry gave us all the meat from his rations and most of the bread and the tea and sugar. He hardly kept anything for himself — he said he did all right on fish. Other people gave what they could too, like vegetables from the gardens, but they all have their own families to feed and they only really have enough for them, and not quite enough a lot of the time.
‘But Mum kept getting thinner and weaker, even though we gave her as much food as we could. We even killed the hens, hoping that more meat would make her stronger.
‘Then Mrs Masters sold her wedding ring so Uncle Harry could take Mum to a doctor.’
‘But . . . but you could have come to our house,’ said Butter. ‘Dad would have treated her for free.’
Olive and Tish stared at him. ‘Mrs Masters said your dad gets big fees at Macquarie Street.’
‘But he’d have helped your mum!’ Surely he would have, thought Butter, just as he would never have asked their Uncle Harry for money either, if he’d been able to help him before he died.
‘Would he?’ Olive shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway, because the doctor Uncle Harry took her to said Mum had leukaemia and there’s no cure for leukaemia. And so Mum died, eight months ago,’ she said flatly. ‘And we buried her up on the headland next to Dad. But we couldn’t put a headstone there because it’s not a real graveyard, and so no one except our friends at the camp could know people are buried there.’
And now the police have dug them up, thought Butter in horror. All because of that storm. He hoped desperately that Olive and Tish and Gil never found out. Could Dad get the bodies put back? But that would mean telling Dad about Olive and Tish and Gil, and he’d promised not to.
And he still didn’t know why no one could be told.
‘I’m . . . I’m sorry. My mum died too,’ said Butter. ‘But that was from polio.’
Olive almost smiled at him. ‘Then you know what it’s like, as though your mum’s always here and yet she’s not.’ She shrugged again. ‘After that I think Uncle Harry gave us all his rations. He said he had enough to eat, that it was just the gas injuries that made him thin. But your father said he probably died from a heart attack . . .’ She looked pleadingly at Butter.
She wants to know that Harry didn’t starve to death for them, thought Butter. And yet he did. He might have lived for years if he’d had proper food. But all he could say was the truth — part of the truth. ‘Yes. Dad said he died from a heart attack.’
Olive bit her lip in relief. ‘But now we don’t even have his rations, and even then the rations weren’t quite enough for one man and there were three of us and him as well. So now we live on fish and oysters and what Gil makes selling fish from our traps, up on the highway. When he goes to pick up his rations every week, Mr Masters buys us flour and potatoes with the fish money because they’re the cheapest things to eat. But there’s never enough.’ She put her chin up. ‘And that’s why we play cricket every morning, before anyone can see us.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Butter. Why did being hungry — he couldn’t bear to think of them being hungry — mean they had to play cricket?
‘We have to play cricket. Because that’s how one day we’ll have a proper home and all the bread and cheese we can eat. Gil has to practise on a big beach with plenty of room. Because Gil isn’t just a good cricket player. He’s a great one. Like Don Bradman!’
‘So he’s going to make lots of money,’ said Tish.
‘But . . . but you don’t get paid for playing cricket,’ said Butter.
‘No. But if you’re a famous cricket player someone gives you a good job in a bank or sports store and time off to play,’ said Olive. ‘It doesn’t even have to be lots of money: just enough for me and Tish to go to school. Then one day we can get jobs too.’
She gestured at a shelf of books Butter hadn’t noticed. He even recognised some of the textbooks. ‘They were books Dad had when he was young, and before he went to the War. At least his parents sent his belongings to the Post Office. I’m going to be a doctor! The kind who finds cures to make people like Dad and Mum and your mum better!’
‘I’m going to fly planes like Amelia Earhart,’ said Tish. ‘And be a cook and write for newspapers.’
‘Mr Masters brings home newspapers from the rubbish bins when he gets their rations,’ explained Olive. ‘But we have to be careful and not play cricket at the camp, or go there too often, in case we’re seen. We can’t let anyone see us for three years, till Gil’s sixteen.’
‘I don’t understand. What’s his age got to do with it? WHY can’t anyone see you?’ demanded Butter. He was sure Dad and the Aunts would help if they knew Olive and Tish and Gil were here. They’d help a lot!
‘Because they can’t,’ said Olive evenly. She glared at him. ‘You promised to help us and not ask questions if I told you what happened to Mum and Dad.’
‘I promised to help you and not tell anyone unless you said I could,’ argued Butter. ‘I NEVER promised not to ask questions.’
Olive sighed slightly in relief. ‘That’s all right then. I don’t mind you asking questions, as long as you keep the secret. Don’t tell anyone about this beach or our home or about us either.’
‘But WHY?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘But you said I could ask questions.’
Olive almost smiled. ‘But I didn’t say I’d answer them.’
‘Olive? Tish? Who’s there?’ The door opened. Gil stood there, a loaf of bread under each arm and a small, bulging brown paper bag in one hand. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded, glaring at Butter.
CHAPTER 15
‘I investigated,’ said Butter simply. ‘And I found you.’
‘How?’ Gil sounded furious. And protective.
‘I looked all around the cliff till I found the entrance,’ said Butter. Which was true. He didn’t add that he’d seen Tish vanish over the lip of the cave in the moonlight last night.
‘He’s promised he won’t tell anyone about us,’ said Olive hurriedly.
‘And he’s going to bring us sandwiches and bananas!’ put in Tish eagerly.
Gil gazed at Butter suspiciously. ‘How do we know you won’t tell?’
‘Word of honour,’ said Butter. ‘I wish I knew WHY I can’t tell,’ he added. ‘But I gave my word. And I’ll keep it.’
Gil relaxed a little. ‘You didn’t t
ell him?’ he asked Olive.
Olive shook her head.
‘Tell me WHAT?’ demanded Butter.
‘I’ll tell you everything in three years’ time when I’m sixteen. Deal?’ Gil held out his hand, hard and brown and calloused with small scars from gathering oysters.
‘Deal,’ said Butter reluctantly, shaking Gil’s hand, suddenly ashamed of how soft his own hand was.
He glanced out the door. The gold light of sea and sky was being swallowed by grey. It would be dark soon. The Aunts would be worried. He wasn’t sure he could find his way down the cliff in the dark either, not till he knew the footholds and handholds better.
‘I’d better go,’ he said reluctantly. He pulled the last of the sandwiches out of the rucksack, then put back the empty Thermos and lemon barley water bottle. Gil looked curiously at the bulge in the bottom of the rucksack. ‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing’ said Butter, embarrassed.
‘It’s a heavy-looking nothing,’ Gil pointed out.
Butter felt his face grow red. ‘It’s a camera.’
Olive stared at him. ‘You’ve taken photos of us? Or our home? But no one can see us! You promised!’
‘I haven’t taken any photos. I thought you might have been captured by gangsters and that was why you wouldn’t let yourselves be seen. I was going to take their photos so the police could identify them and save you.’
Gil grinned. ‘Gangsters! Yeah — and a flock of koalas just flew over. Gangsters, here?’
‘I think you were brave,’ said Tish stoutly. ‘Coming to save us from gangsters.’
Olive smiled and nodded.
‘Come on,’ said Gil shortly. ‘I’ll give you a foot up into the tunnel.’
Butter followed him out. They crossed the sand together, then walked through the wider cave to the narrow tunnel. Gil stopped at the tunnel entrance. It looked much more obvious from this side. Butter was pretty sure he could climb up with no help.
He turned to Gil just as the older boy said, ‘If you tell anyone about us I’ll have your guts for garters. Understand?’
‘I understand,’ said Butter quietly. ‘But you can trust me. You can always trust me.’
‘And don’t you keep coming through the tunnel. Someone might see you.’ Gil hesitated, obviously reluctant to ask for help but obviously needing it too. ‘If you really are going to leave us stuff, put it behind that big rock by the pool. I can climb down at night and bring it up then.’
‘Or I could slip out early and play cricket with you.’
Gil said nothing. At last he nodded. ‘All right. But not for a week, till we know you aren’t going to blab on us. If no one’s come looking for us by then, you can play cricket with us.’
Which would leave only one more week of school holidays. But Gil had probably never been to school. He wouldn’t know about school holidays. And somehow Butter would manage to get food to them even after school began.
‘You’re on,’ said Butter.
CHAPTER 16
It was just on midnight when Butter crept down the stairs. They were stone, but covered with carpet and warm on his feet. He tiptoed down the hall and slipped out the front door, then placed the note on the front fence post. Dear Baker: Please leave an extra high-top wholemeal loaf from now on.
Aunt Peculiar said wholemeal had more vitamins than white bread. Butter hoped that when the bakers sent the bill at the end of the month Cookie would think Auntie Cake had ordered the extra loaf, and Auntie would think it was Cookie. He sneaked back into his bedroom and set the alarm for six am.
Six hours was not enough sleep. He was yawning on his run downstairs as the bread-cart stopped at their gate. He watched from the front door as the breadcarter read the note, then piled the bread in the big white-painted box nailed to the fence for deliveries: four high-top white loaves, two high-top wholemeal loaves and a dozen currant buns for the servants’ morning tea.
I should ask for more currant buns as well, thought Butter, as he watched the baker’s tired horse plodding back along the road, for this was the last place on the bread run. He wished he could ask the butcher to bring more meat on his twice-weekly stop at the Castle, but the butcher’s boy delivered to the back door, so there’d be no chance to get extra meat, and the grocer’s boy brought the boxes into the kitchen too, so Cookie could reward him with seedy cake and melting moments and a glass of cold raspberry soda.
He walked back into the Very Small Castle, quickly hid one of the loaves behind the umbrella stand in the hall then took the others down to the kitchen. Gwen was just putting the kettle on for the early morning tea trays to be taken up to Dad and the Aunts.
‘You’re up early, Master Butter,’ she said, as he put the other loaves of bread and the buns on the table.
‘Just felt like a walk,’ said Butter. A daily walk will be a good excuse to run down to the beach to play cricket next week too, he thought. For a moment he considered running down now and seeing if they’d let him join the game. But no. He’d promised. And he still had food to collect for them.
It was fun to see how much food he could hide, as well as other things Olive, Tish and Gil might like. At breakfast he managed to roll his second sausage down onto his napkin on his lap and then push it discreetly into his shorts pocket, and two pieces of toast too. Woofer would love a cold sausage and probably even the toast.
He grabbed two gingernuts every time he passed the biscuit jar in the kitchen. Cookie just smiled every time she saw him take them, a compliment to her cooking.
He took a banana, two apples and three oranges from the fruit bowl in the breakfast room — anyone might have taken those, so no one would wonder why Butter was suddenly eating so much fruit.
He hesitated about taking a jar of strawberry jam from the cupboard under the sideboard, but the Very Small Castle always had enough jam to fill Sydney Harbour. No one would notice.
Aunt Elephant played golf on Monday mornings and Aunt Peculiar had morning tea up in her studio so, with Dad at work, only Butter and Auntie Cake had morning tea in the drawing room, the big silver tray laden with teapot, sugar basin, a milk jug, a glass of iced cocoa for Butter, a sponge cake oozing cream and strawberry jam, raspberry jam coconut slices and, of course, sliced bread and cut-glass dishes of cherry and apricot jam.
Butter looked wistfully at the sponge cake. Tish would love sponge cake. But it would be squashed in his rucksack and the jam and cream would soak into everything too. He settled on shoving three raspberry jam coconut slices into his pockets.
Auntie Cake blinked at the suddenly empty plate. ‘Goodness gracious, you must like those raspberry slices.’ She flashed a smile at him. ‘They’re a new recipe.’
‘They looked delicious,’ said Butter, which wasn’t a lie because they did look delicious, even if he hadn’t tasted one. He took a big slice of sponge cake instead.
Auntie Cake’s smile grew wider. ‘All the fresh air you’ve been taking is giving you an appetite, Butter.’
Butter nodded, his mouth full of sponge cake. ‘May I take a picnic lunch down to the beach again, Auntie Cake?’
‘Of course.’ She beamed. She bit her lip and added, ‘It’s wonderful to see you so happy again, Butter. The holidays have been good for you.’
Butter stared at her, surprised. He hadn’t realised the Aunts had noticed he’d been unhappy. He hadn’t noticed he somehow felt happy now either.
He’d always known that the gangsters or kidnappers he’d been watching for were (probably) never going to arrive. But this was REAL. He was helping Olive, Tish and Gil. He had felt helpless for so long, not able to save Mum and so obviously not the kind of son Dad wanted either. All he’d been able to do was give away pennies to the men on the street. But this was SOMETHING.
He climbed up to the attics just below the Castle battlements after morning tea. There he stared at chests of winter clothes and blankets and quilts, packed with lavender to keep away the moths; some of his baby clothes; a chest of drawers of
yellowed sheets that no one had bothered soaking, blueing and darning the edges of yet.
His old stuffed giraffe stared back at him accusingly, as if it had been bored for ten years — ever since he grew too old to play with it — and there were Leopard and Horse too. He’d loved those toys. But Tish had no soft giraffe to cuddle.
Butter picked up Giraffe. ‘I still love you,’ he told the slightly faded animal. ‘But Tish is going to love you too. She’ll play with you as well. All of you.’
He wouldn’t try to fit Leopard and Horse in his rucksack today. Leopard could go tomorrow and Horse the day after. And there was an old rucksack too! Perfect.
He climbed down the stairs. Gwen met him halfway up, carrying the new vacuum cleaner that had terrified her at first with its noise and sucking, but which she loved now as it saved her all the work of carrying out the rugs and hanging them up and beating all the dust out of them. ‘What are you doing with that, Master Butter?’ she asked.
‘Just saying goodbye,’ said Butter. ‘I’m too old for toys now.’
He carefully laid Giraffe in his rucksack when he reached his room, then laid the old rucksack on it, then rummaged in his drawers. No one would notice if a pair of socks vanished — he was ALWAYS losing socks. And a singlet too. He wished he had a dress to give Olive — she’d look pretty in a dress that fitted her. But all he could find was a jumper with darned elbows that he kept for reading in bed in winter. He shoved that into the rucksack too.
Auntie Cake was waiting for him with his picnic lunch. ‘Chicken and salad sandwiches. And some neenish tarts, an apple, an orange and a banana, some dates and iced cocoa and lemon barley water.’
‘Thank you, Auntie Cake.’ Butter waited till she had left for the kitchen again, then quickly stuffed the loaf of bread he’d hidden into his rucksack. It bulged ridiculously, but no one would see him if he was quick.
He ran out the gate and over the headland, then across the dunes and looked down.
The Ghost of Howlers Beach Page 8