Katie was washing the breakfast dishes and Uncle Frank was dozing over his coffee when Joan appeared at the back door.
“My ma says come for dinner with us this noon,” she announced. “She said to tell you we’re havin’ star-gazzy pie.”
“Having what?”
“Star-gazzy pie. It’s Cornish. Ma says you should try it while you’re in Newquay.”
Katie motioned Joan to the table and poured two glasses of milk. She sat down, then jumped up again to fill a plate with the oatmeal cookies her mother had baked yesterday. “Why do they call it star-gazzy pie?” she asked. “That’s a funny name.”
“Funny dish, that’s why,” Uncle Frank muttered, rousing. “’Oo are you then, missy?”
“Joan. Joan Trelawny.”
“Nancy’s girl?” He peered at her.
“Her granddaughter.”
“Well.” He helped himself to a cookie and dunked it in his coffee. “I wouldn’t put it past Nancy Trelawny to serve up star-gazzy pie at that,” he said. “Always kept one foot in Old Country, she ’as.” His face dimmed, as if he were remembering the message Gram had sent him.
“But what is it?” Katie demanded. “Somebody please tell me.” She looked at Uncle Frank.
“These cookies are good,” Joan said innocently. “I could eat ’em all.”
“I’ll tell ye what star-gazzy pie is,” Uncle Frank offered. “My gram and ’er ma before ’er used to make ’em in Old Country when times was ’ard. Which they mostly were. Make a pie crust, you do, and put fish in it, and drop ’nother crust on top. Leave the ’eads and tails stickin’ out, and them little eyes is just gazin’ up—”
“At the stars!” Katie shuddered. “Star-gazzy pie! I’ve just decided I can’t come for lunch. Thanks, anyway.”
Joan giggled, and Uncle Frank actually smiled.
“If we don’t have star-gazzy pie, will you come?” Joan asked. “I think my ma might change her mind. In fact, she’s already making something else.”
“I’ll check.” Katie ran upstairs to ask her mother. Jay’s bedroom door was open, his bed neatly made.
“He’s going to cut the grass around the house,” Mrs. Blaine said. “I found a scythe in the basement yesterday, and there’s a hand-powered mower in fairly good shape. He’s grounded, you know,” she added.
She listened absent-mindedly as Katie asked if she could go to the Trelawnys’ for dinner.
“I guess so, hon. We’ll miss you, but I’m glad you’ve found a nice friend.” She looked again into Jay’s room and sighed. “I just wish …”
Katie hugged her mother and ran back downstairs, unwilling to think anymore about how unhappy Jay was.
Ed Trelawny was as tall as Joan even though he was a year younger. He and Lillian, a small redheaded copy of her big sister, sat at the kitchen table and ate steadily, their eyes seldom leaving Katie’s face. Mr. Trelawny, tall, sunburned, with thick gray brows over eyes as black as Gram’s, watched her, too. She might have been uncomfortable, except that all three of them smiled whenever she looked at them.
“You never had pasties before then, missy,” Mr. Trelawny commented during a pause in the girls’ chatter. He looked down at the golden-brown pastry that nearly filled his plate, trying to imagine what a world without pasties would be like.
“Never,” Katie admitted.
“And now that you’ve had one, do you like it?”
“Oh, yes.” She grinned at him shyly. “Lots better than I’d like star-gazzy pie, I’m sure.”
Mrs. Trelawny chuckled, and Ed and Lillian poked each other and snickered. Apparently the whole family had been in on the joke. Baby Patty, in a highchair between her mother and Gram, laughed out loud and beat the metal tray with her spoon.
“Put catsup on your pasty,” Lillian mumbled and turned red at her own boldness. “That makes it even better.”
“The thing about a pasty,” Mrs. Trelawny said, “is it’s a whole meal in one dish. Meat and taters and all tucked up in a pocket of crust. The miners used to carry them in their lunch buckets when they went underground. That and a cup of tea was a feast, you see.”
“Pasties was better in Old Country,” Gram said suddenly. “These are good enough, but in Old Country—”
“Everything was better there, wasn’t it, Gram?” Mrs. Trelawny’s feelings weren’t hurt at all.
“Most things,” Gram agreed. “Not everythin’. Got refrigerators now—don’t ’ave to worry about piskies turnin’ the milk sour or spoilin’ the puddin’.”
Katie looked at Joan.
“Piskies are like elves, or Irish leprechauns, only they’re Cornish,” Joan explained.
Gram pointed a finger at Katie. “You ’eard the knackers again?” she demanded. “It’s gettin’ on the very date when the accident ’appened down there in the mine. July sixteenth it was, thirty years back. A sad day, a miserable day for Frank Pendarra and all of Newquay.”
Mrs. Trelawny put out a warning hand. “Gram, please, no talk about knackers. You promised. It’s wicked to pretend poor old Frank’s son has become some evil little creature livin’ on down there in the mine.”
“Ain’t pretendin’. I tell ye—”
“Well, don’t.” Mrs. Trelawny spoke with a firmness that cut off further talk. “Let Katie finish her pasty in peace. And guess what. We’re havin’ scalded cream for dessert.”
Gram’s scowl vanished. “With strawberries?”
“All the strawberries you want.”
Scalded cream turned out to be another Cornish delicacy, made by the patient heating and skimming of whole milk. Heaped on top of rich red berries, it was delicious. Katie ate until she couldn’t swallow another bite.
“Some of us poor souls have to work in the hot sun all afternoon,” Mr.Trelawny said, roughing Ed’s curly hair. “And some of us get to do just what they want to do. Which are you, mister?”
“Gonna play softball,” Ed said, ducking out from under the tousling.
“I’m goin’ to town with Ma,” Lillian announced.
“And Joan is goin’ to show Katie the caves,” Mrs. Trelawny said. “That’s something she ought to know about.”
“Caves?” Katie was doubtful. The thought of going underground made her uncomfortable.
“Not real caves,” Joan assured her. “They’re places near the mine where the ground has sunk and made deep pits.”
“It’s something that happens over a long, long time,” Mrs. Trelawny said. “The ground moves, you see, from all the diggin’ and tunnelin’, and after a while it just gives way.” She looked at Katie with her serene smile. “It could still be happenin’, that’s what we think, Mr. Trelawny and I. Even though the minin’ stopped thirty years ago, this hillside is honeycombed with tunnels. It’s natural that there’s still some settlin’ and shiftin’ goin’ on.”
Katie realized that this talk about the caves had a purpose behind it. “You mean that’s what I heard the first night I was in Newquay?”
“Maybe so,” Mrs. Trelawny said. “What I really mean is, our old Newquay ain’t any more haunted than anyplace else.”
“’Tis so,” said Gram. “Wait and see.”
Katie wondered if Joan had told her parents what had happened at the shaft house. Probably she had. And they didn’t believe in the girl with golden hair any more than Joan did.
“Now you be sure to stop back here before you go home, Katie,” Mrs. Trelawny said as the girls got ready for their walk. “I have some extra pasties for you to take to your folks.” She gave Katie a hug and then pushed both girls toward the door. “We’ll make a Cornish Cousin Jinny of you yet,” she called after them.
“You have a terrific family,” Katie said as they trudged along. “And your mom’s a great cook.” At the top of the hill, she threw her arms wide to the wind blowing across the meadow and took a deep breath. She loved the Trelawnys and felt much better for having spent time with them.
The good feeling lasted all afternoon, while they c
limbed around the caves that were really just deep, grassy ravines. It was twilight when Katie headed back to Uncle Frank’s house, carrying a tray of pasties covered with foil.
Her mother was waiting on the front porch, lips pressed tight with anger.
“Jay’s gone,” she said before Katie could say a word. “He left right after you did this morning. And I tell you this,” she added, her voice trembling with a whole day’s worth of bottled-up rage, “if he gets into trouble again, I hope that sheriff arrests him. I’ve had absolutely all I can take!”
Chapter Eleven
“But we didn’t do anything! We just went for a ride.”
“You were grounded. You left when I wasn’t looking. I’d call that doing something!”
Katie crouched on the stairs and listened to the furious voices on the front porch. She’d heard this kind of exchange many times in Milwaukee, but she couldn’t make herself leave and go up to bed. It would be like leaving the scene of an accident that was about to happen. Someday Jay and her mother would go too far, say too much. Her family would be smashed to pieces.
“Well, you are grounded for three more days. And if I find out you got into more trouble today, you can plan to stay at home all summer. Is that clear?”
“There wasn’t any trouble!”
The screen door slammed, and Jay stomped past the staircase on his way to the kitchen.
Katie tiptoed up to her room. After a few minutes she heard Jay and her mother come up, and soon the house was quiet. Still, she couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about the girl in the mirror. Who was she? What did she want? Maybe the sad white face was there in the glass right now.…
Gradually Katie became aware of a peculiar heaviness in the air. She curled into a tight ball and closed her eyes, the way she had long ago when she’d imagined monsters under her bed. She pulled the sheet over her head. And the tension grew. Something was terribly wrong. She stretched her aching muscles and got up, found the flashlight, and went out into the hall.
The mirror held nothing but the circle of the flashlight beam and her own dim reflection above it. Go back to bed, silly. It was what she wanted to do, but she couldn’t. She felt as if someone—or something—were pushing her in the other direction. Like a ghost herself, she tiptoed down the stairs and drifted from room to room with the light dancing around her.
When she reached the kitchen, an overwhelming sense of danger pressed in upon her. Her hands shook, and the beam of light fluttered from one side of the room to the other. The table, the open windows, the refrigerator. The jar of peanut butter on the edge of the sink where Jay had left it. The tall cupboard. Just as her light settled on the cupboard, one of the doors swung open. Dishes rattled faintly, as if an invisible hand had touched them. Katie choked back a scream. Then, without asking herself why she did it, she dropped to her knees and pressed her ear to the worn linoleum.
It was there. First the groan that seemed to travel up through her fingers. Then the tremor. The peanut butter jar danced briefly on the sink and was still. The crickets’ song stopped and began again. Katie rocked back on her heels and waited for her heart to stop its panicky thumping.
When she could move again, she snatched up the flashlight and ran through the house. The staircase loomed, a steep and treacherous hill that tripped her twice before she reached the top. She flew down the hall and threw open her mother’s door.
“Katie! Good grief, you startled me!” Mrs. Blaine reached for the bedside lamp and switched it on as Katie collapsed on the foot of the bed. “You’re white as a sheet—did you have a nightmare?”
Katie shook her head. “I have to tell you something,” she whispered. “You probably won’t believe me but—”
“Try me. I can’t sleep, anyway.”
In a rush of words, Katie poured out the story of the tremor she’d felt in the backyard the first night they’d been in Newquay, and the second tremor tonight. She told about the caves she and Joan had explored on the other side of the meadow, and Mrs. Trelawny’s theory that the whole hill was settling. Instinct warned her not to mention the knackers, but she couldn’t keep panic out of her voice. “Something’s happening to this house, Mom,” she finished. “It’s like it’s being attacked or something.”
Mrs. Blaine listened patiently. “Old houses creak and settle all the time,” she said when Katie stopped for breath. “And Mrs. Trelawny’s probably right about the mine causing changes in the land surface. But surely changes like that take years, Katie. It’s nothing to get so excited about.”
“Yes, it is,” Katie insisted. “We’re in danger in this house, Mom. I can feel it.”
“You what?”
“I have this feeling …” Katie read her mother’s expression and hesitated.
“Now, Katie, don’t!” her mother whispered. “You frighten me when you talk like that. Little children can’t tell the difference between what’s real and what they make up, but a girl your age should know. You’re creating a problem when there’s nothing to worry about.”
Katie sighed. What was the use of explaining? “I’d better go to bed,” she said. “Just forget it.”
Her mother reached out and touched her hand. “You do that,” she said in a gentler tone. “I don’t mean to scold, dear heart, but I can’t cope with make-believe problems when I have more real ones than I can handle. Do you understand?”
“Sure. Good night, Mom.”
“Good night, dear. And Katie—not a word of this nonsense to Uncle Frank, hear?”
“Sure.”
Back in her bedroom, Katie stood for a while at the window. She felt more alone than she’d ever been in her life. More alone than in the days before Tom Blaine, when her mother worked every day and Katie came home to an empty house. More alone than that first week at scout camp when she was the only one without a best friend. More alone than on that barely remembered night long ago when she’d stayed in the hospital to have her tonsils out. This was a different kind of loneliness. No one else would believe that there was danger threatening this house—danger from the shifting and sinking of the old mine, if you listened to Mrs. Trelawny, or from knackers, if you listened to Gram. No one believed except—the realization came suddenly—except the ghost-girl in the mirror. That must be what the girl was trying to say! Katie was certain of it.
The girl wanted to warn the Blaines and Uncle Frank. And no one but Katie was willing to listen.
For the next few nights, Katie forced herself to stay awake for an hour after the others had gone to bed. When all was still, she tiptoed into the hall and looked into the mirror for long, nerve-wracking minutes. But the ghost-girl didn’t return, nor did Katie feel again the threat of danger that had sent her downstairs to explore.
“Where’s your brother these days?” Joan asked one afternoon as they headed down the hill to visit Newquay’s tiny library. “Haven’t seen him at Skip’s house for a while.”
“He’s still grounded,” Katie explained. “He’s been patching screens and fixing a broken step on the back porch. Most of the time he stays in his room.”
“I bet he hates it.”
“He doesn’t talk to us,” Katie admitted. “He just glumps around and glares.”
“Still,” Joan said, “it’s a good thing he’s stayin’ home. The sheriff was at Poldeens’ again yesterday.”
“What for?” Katie felt familiar quivers in the pit of her stomach.
“Ed says somebody broke windows at the high school and splashed paint on the bricks. And there was another break-in at a summer cottage. The neighbors heard a motorcycle, so of course they thought of Skip. There’s plenty of motorcycles around Newquay, but people always think of Skip.” She smiled unexpectedly, a teasing grin. “Gram says it isn’t Skip at all, it’s the knackers. She says they’re finding a way up from the mine—right through the shaft, maybe—and they’re making mischief. She thinks they come up every night.…”
“What do knackers look like?” Katie asked. She didn’t w
ant to think about Skip Poldeen.
“Well, now,” Joan began, imitating her grandmother’s accent, “about three feet ’igh, they are, with big ’eads, squintin’ eyes, a mouth that stretches from one ear to t’other. They can change shape, and if you get too close to ’em, they whisk clean away in a bit of smoke.… Hey, I have an idea!” The accent was forgotten. “Three days from now is the sixteenth—that’s the anniversary of the accident. Let’s go back to the shaft house and see what we can see.”
Katie snorted. “You don’t believe in knackers.”
“But you do.”
“I do not.”
“Let’s go anyway. Before the anniversary. Tomorrow night. I dare you, Katie.”
Katie laughed nervously. “Okay,” she agreed. “But not at night—my mom would have a fit. We’ll go late in the afternoon. Is it okay if I ask Jay to come along?”
“He won’t want to,” Joan said. “Besides, I thought he was grounded.”
“Today’s the last day. I was thinking it would be a good idea if he came with us instead of—”
“Instead of running back to old Skip,” Joan finished. “It’s okay with me.”
But, as Joan had predicted, Jay wasn’t interested in a visit to the shaft house. “I’ve got other plans,” he told her.
“Like what?”
“Nobody else’s business.”
“Joan says the sheriff was at Skip Poldeen’s house again.” Katie tried to say it casually.
“So what? Skip says Hesbruck blames him, whatever goes wrong. He hates motorcycles, that’s all.”
“But Skip’s been in trouble before—”
“Look, Katie,” Jay interrupted, “you mean well, but you’ve got Skip all wrong. He’s not a bad guy—and he’s here. I need a friend in this place—no one seems to understand that!”
Katie’s face burned. For the hundredth time, she resolved to stop caring. Let Jay go his own unhappy way!
For the rest of the day she ignored him and concentrated on dusting the books in the library. It was a lonely time, except for an unexpected visit from Uncle Frank late in the afternoon.
Ghosts Beneath Our Feet Page 6