Dreaming of Amelia

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Emily, Lydia and Cassie, sheltered from the wind by the angle of the courtyard. Legs stretched out to the winter sun. Hair catching sunlight.

  We can’t see their faces.

  ‘Does it say why she fell? Because who falls out a window? What, was she leaning out to see a bird? Was she a birdwatcher?’ That’s Lydia’s voice, dry, ironic, impatient all at once. Also sleepy. As if her eyes are closed.

  ‘Maybe she was trying to get away from someone,’ Emily says. ‘Or there could have been a fire. She was trying to run away from a fire, and the school hid the evidence so they wouldn’t be liable.’

  ‘Maybe she was sleepwalking,’ says Cass.

  A slow sigh from Emily.

  Silence. Vague rustle of papers.

  It’s the first week of the Trials. They’re looking over study notes. About to go into an exam.

  We wait. Lean against the railings. Amelia beside me.

  ‘Lyd, do you seriously know all this already?’ Em’s voice.

  ‘She’s reading through her eyelids,’ Cass says.

  ‘There’s only five minutes to go and I’ve still got, oh my god, thirty pages to learn, so, what is that, like, five pages a minute? That’s physically impossible, right?’

  ‘If you shut up and let me sleep,’ says Lyd, ‘it’s not.’

  Low, slow giggles. Laughing just because it feels good to laugh.

  Something shifts beside me. Amelia tensing.

  Then Emily speaks again. ‘Oh, there was this one thing though. In the history book? After she died, they went and carved on this tree. There used to be this tree where people carved, like, SB loves NW or whatever, so, after Sandra Wilkinson fell out of the window they did this ceremony where they wrote WA loves SW on the tree.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The WA stood for we all. Like, we all love Sandra Wilkinson.’

  Another sleepy, sultry giggle from Lydia.

  ‘They decided to stop carving any other names on the tree after that,’ Em continues. ‘So it would be, you know, sacred to Sandra’s memory.’

  Silence, more flipping of pages.

  Emily speaks again: ‘I was thinking. After this exam, do you want to see if we can find the tree? And look at the initials? Just for, you know, fun?’

  A pause.

  ‘Where’s the tree?’

  ‘The book says it’s a Moreton Bay fig. Behind the music rooms. It might still be there.’

  ‘It is,’ says Cassie. ‘I know that tree.’

  The bell rings out. Emily swears. Papers fall. More laughter from below.

  Amelia and I step back. We look into one another’s eyes. I’m thinking that she’s thinking what I’m thinking: the timing could be perfect.

  Then complicated clouds blow across Amelia’s face.

  She doesn’t want to do it. She wants to see her crazy friend. She likes the richgirls too much now — She’s hoping that they’ll ask her to join them in their ghost hunt …

  All of these. Or none.

  But then the clouds clear and Amelia laughs.

  Emily Melissa-Anne Thompson

  Student No: 8233521

  The plot thickens!

  (Which is very gothic of it.)

  It was late afternoon and we’d just had an exam.

  Lyd, Cass and I tramped through the cold, down to the music rooms and around the corner.

  And there it was, plain as day: a big, old tree carved with initials!

  All three of us stopped suddenly.

  Strange, strange! that this tree had been here all along and I had not known! Oh, Ashbury, I thought, you still have some secrets in you, don’t you, old girl?

  (I was going quietly mad, I suppose. The stress of exams.)

  Then, as I approached, the tree seemed to me to be angry!

  It was wrinkled and twisted like an old person, and the old often are cranky — but was this the anger of the forgotten? Once, the tree had been popular, the place young romantics declared their love. Now, a nobody. Who amongst us likes to be famous when young only to become a wrinkled old tree in later years? (Not Lydia’s mother, certainly.)

  We looked closely but initials and hearts swarmed all over that tree. There were too many! A jumble of foolish little letters. Young love itself began to seem foolish to me (sacrilege).

  No wonder the tree is angry! I thought. Carvings all over its bark!

  The sun was sinking fast, and the chill was in my shoulder blades. I began to wonder, with gothic horror, what I was doing here. Why was I studying this tree when I should be studying for tomorrow’s exam?! There could be snakes in this grass! And what would happen to my eyes if I kept peering at tiny, faded letters in this gloomy light?! I would go blind! And what if I put a crick in my neck from leaning forward like this?!

  And so on.

  I was just about to shriek to the others, ‘LET US FLY FROM THIS PLACE! LET US FLY TO THE BLUE DANISH CAFÉ!’ when Lyd and Cass both said: ‘Here.’

  They were looking at separate parts of the tree, Cass crouching down to read near the ground, and Lyd stretching up high. I wondered, briefly, how they could both say, ‘Here,’ at the same time.

  Cass stood up. Lydia pointed to a heart shape. Inside it:

  WA

  SW

  Just as The Illustrated History of Ashbury High had promised.

  ‘We All Heart Sandra Wilkinson,’ I whispered.

  ‘Not so much me,’ Lyd said.

  ‘Me neither,’ Cass agreed.

  But, you know, they were just being funny. I felt at that moment a gust of something warm and I believe all three of us felt it. The tender sadness of the past stood before us — people our own age had lost their friend and had wanted to tell the world they loved her. And here we were, the future, hearing their words. A shiver of goosebumps struck me — the thrill of a message from nowhere. The joy of an impossible connection. A bit like being able to make a mobile phone call in a tunnel.

  The three of us stood in the gathering dark for a few moments. Just staring at the heart shape.

  Then I remembered something. ‘What was it you found, Cass?’ I asked. ‘You said “here” at the same time as Lyd.’

  ‘It was nothing. I saw an SW down there so I thought I’d found it, but it was just SW loves someone. Probably a different SW.’

  We breathed in the cold air. We sighed quietly, and straightened up, ready to go home —

  And then?

  Then something happened.

  It was the plot thickening, I guess.

  Lydia Jaackson-Oberman

  Student No: 8233410

  You want gothic?

  Stand by a gnarled old tree in the deepening dusk. Music rooms hulking on one side. The reserve — or the woods, if you prefer — a rustling darkness on the other.

  Faded initials of a dead girl on the tree.

  And then?

  Music.

  Otherworldly music. First, an impossibly beautiful girl’s voice, sweet and husky both at once. And then, the tremble of a drumbeat — a beat that builds, twists, grows, braids itself with the voice, and thrums to the essence of your soul.

  Unexpected. And totally gothic.

  6.

  The Committee for the Administration of the KL Mason Patterson Trust Fund

  The KL Mason Patterson Scholarship File

  Memo

  (By email)

  To:

  All Members of the KL Mason Patterson Trust Fund Committee

  From:

  Lucy Wexford

  Re:

  Amelia and Riley

  URGENT! URGENT! URGENT!

  Dear Committee Members,

  I hereby demand an urgent meeting of the committee.

  Pronto!

  Or whatever the technical words are.

  Something remarkable has happened!

  Background: in the last couple of weeks I’ve had security cameras installed in the music rooms. Nothing to do with suspicions about Amelia and Riley, of course. No, no. Just, you kno
w, castanets missing one day, cellos the next? Couldn’t afford to lose our string section, could we? No. So, I persuaded the powers that be …

  Anyhow, I looked over the footage last night and you will not believe what I saw …

  Amelia and Riley breaking into the music rooms — after school hours!!!

  They rifled amongst the musical equipment; Amelia began to sing; Riley played the drums; and …

  Their talent is extraordinary.

  Forget swimming, acting, art — all piffle, I say, compared to their sheer musical genius.

  Their performance gave me chills. I am not the crying type but I literally sobbed my heart out as I watched.

  The Ashbury Musical Concert is next week. Obviously, Riley and Amelia must participate. For Ashbury’s sake.

  I propose an ‘arrangement’ be made, similar to the deal we struck with them about the drama. Usefully, they entered the music rooms after hours — clear violation of school rules, and thus a threat to their scholarships. Could this be used to ‘persuade’ them to ‘volunteer’ to ‘participate’ in the concert?

  So — a meeting please. Let me remind you, people, that valuable time has already been lost. If it is already too late, let that be upon your heads.

  Sincerely,

  Lucy Wexford

  7.

  Emily Melissa-Anne Thompson

  Student No: 8233521

  I have an Auntie June.

  Last year she got cancer. We were all so frightened and sad for her. Going through chemotherapy. Turns out, it sucks. It seemed to work, however, phew. But then, not long after, she got kidney stones. Those were even more painful than childbirth, she said, and that kills (I hear). Poor Auntie June! Anyway, then her washing machine malfunctioned and flooded the living room! Poor Auntie June. And then her car got stolen and, oh, for crying out loud, enough already.

  Do you see what I mean?

  I know it sounds harsh but when too many bad things happen to a person, it’s just, like, I have to feel sorry for you again?!! Couldn’t you let someone else have a turn at bad luck for once? Aren’t you being a bit greedy with it? And well, could some of this be your own fault? Are you taking care to avoid things like kidney stones and laundry floods?

  I tell you this cautionary tale, first to discourage you from too many misfortunes, but mainly for the gothic purpose of explaining my own emotions as per the following:

  The night we saw the ghost’s initials on the tree? Just as we were leaving? There was the sound of music from the music rooms.

  At first, I was transfigured. The music was the opposite of kidney stones.

  But then we went in and saw who it was. Amelia and Riley.

  And seriously.

  Wasn’t swimming, art, drama, essay writing enough for them? They had to go and have another talent? It was ridiculous. Plain unrealistic. It was like Auntie June and the stolen car — enough already, you guys. Now you’re just being greedy.

  More importantly, their greed had stolen CASSIE’S TALENT. Singing belongs to Cass, and I had the terrible feeling that Amelia’s singing might be better than Cass’s. All Cass has is singing and running, and she doesn’t have a dad since he’s dead, so, you know, leave Cass’s talents alone, Amelia!

  That was the angry thought that leapt into my head when I saw them.

  (At the same time I had this strange thought: So you two just HAPPENED to be practising here while we were right outside at the tree? I knew this was unfair. They could not have known we were at the tree so it WAS a coincidence. And yet I had this unpleasant suspicion. It felt supernatural.)

  Lyd and Cass did not seem to be sharing my angry/ suspicious thoughts, and were full of praise and queries. Riley and Amelia said they were working on something to play at the Goose and Thistle — they play the dawn shift there sometimes, apparently. It was all — amazing —

  And yet, I just wanted to go home.

  Anyhow, that happened, and then the weeks went by.

  The weather grew warmer and we plummeted towards our final days of school. The music teacher was going wild about R and A’s music, but they just laughed when she asked them to be in the school concert.

  I still watched them sometimes. Looking for the crack, so I could get Lyd together with Riley. She seemed especially mesmerised by his drumming, so that was a step.

  But there was so much else!

  The HSC was lurching towards us like a monstrous antelope. Bindy Mackenzie, yearbook editor, was demanding we write profiles of our friends. We had to plan the formal (which is after the HSC), the Muck-Up Day (banned, but whatever), and the Final Assembly. We had to finalise the drama. We had to wonder who would be dux of the school (not really — it would be Bindy Mackenzie).

  Also, much emotion to experience. Everywhere I turned: a beautiful memory from earlier days at Ashbury. Every moment: a memory slipping out of my grasp. I realised I loved everybody — or most of them — and all my teachers — or some of them. Teachers are so sweet and dedicated sometimes! They look so old when they take off their glasses! And they’re uncannily human when they want to be.

  In those weeks, I couldn’t stop taking photos on my mobile. I even went down to the old tree behind the music rooms and photographed it — I thought that might cheer it up, remind it of its celebrity days.

  And this brings me to the final, busy thing.

  The ghost.

  Oh, it was still there. Don’t worry about that. There were cracking sounds, doors banging, distant sobbing.

  But people either ignored all this, or they joked, ‘There goes the ghost!’

  As with the tree. Once famous. Now just any old ghost.

  I realised that eventually people would forget her altogether.

  Hadn’t that happened before? When my mother was at Ashbury, they had talked about the ghost, and then she had faded out of memory.

  So I made a decision. I’d find out the truth about Sandra Wilkinson — reveal the ghost to the world. My gift to the ghost. My legacy at Ashbury.

  All right, I admit it, my ‘bite me, Mr L,’ to Mr Ludovico.

  But how?

  This I wondered as I stood photographing the old tree. I’d have to find out more about Sandra and why she fell. Was she known for being clumsy around windows? Had she had her heart broken and jumped? Witnessed a crime and been pushed? Maybe there was something in the archives? Student files, police reports, academic rec— and then I stopped.

  Had she had her heart broken?

  Here I was taking photos of a tree covered in hearts. Maybe one of them had Sandra’s name in it?

  And then — of course! One did! Or maybe anyway. Cass had found the initials SW — it could be a different SW, but what if it was our Sandra?

  I crouched down to where Cass had been looking, and found it quickly:

  SW

  KP

  So. Was it our SW? If so, who was KP?

  Was there a KP at the school at the same time as our SW?

  I would look up class records!

  Like an overexcited detective, I ran straight to the Art Rooms and up, up, up the stairs to the archives room. It was empty. The window ledges were dusty, and there were splatters of red paint (which should be cleaned with methylated spirits) on the floor, and the compacting files were overflowing.

  I pulled the files apart, one at a time, whirrrr-THUNK, whirrr-THUNK, until I reached the 1950s. I raced through those files! Like the lawyer I will one day be! Like television!

  I found a thin manila folder labelled Student Roll, 1952! Sandra’s year!

  I went to open it, then noticed — nearby, Student Records, 1952, Vol 1. There were five vols! All bulging! I ran my eyes along the other files — suddenly, it seemed quite likely that there’d be a file labelled: Reason Sandra is Haunting the Art Rooms.

  I was alone in the room. My heart thudded madly in the silence as my eyes raced over the files.

  And then?

  clicketyclacketyclicketyclacketyclicketyclacketyclack.

&nbs
p; A rush of strange, sharp, clicketting sounds from just behind the shelf that I was standing at! Like a tiny machine-gun! A toy train speeding towards me!

  I screamed.

  Spun around, skidded, and flew from that room.

  Files slipped from my arms as I ran!

  I tripped down a flight of steps — and then I stopped. I looked back up at the closed door of the archives room. It seemed to breathe quietly to itself, then glance up and give me a look like, What?

  I was stern with myself.

  ‘Courage, Emily!’ I said, or words to that effect. ‘There is no doubt a perfectly innocent explanation for that noise!’

  There was only one file left in my hands — Student Records, 1952, Vol 3.

  What if the important information was in a different file?

  Besides, it was irresponsible studenting, leaving spilled files all over the floor. Even if there were already paint stains there.

  I breathed in and out for a while. Walked bravely back upstairs, opened the door to the archive room —

  And then, no no! help me, somebody! the shock of it!

  The compacting files had been firmly closed up and all my dropped files were gone.

  I ran again.

  This time I did not stop until I was outside the front door of the building.

  And as I leaned against the brick wall, my heart thundering, I thought again of those red splatters on the floor … were they paint …

  … or bloodstains?

  Nothing — not the sneer on Mr Ludovico’s face; not even a lifetime of Toblerones — would ever get me back into that room.

  Lydia Jaackson-Oberman

  Student No: 8233410

  An empty room, Riley at a window.

  This is the middle of the day. I’m in the Art Rooms, walking a corridor of closed classroom doors, and then —

  An open door, an empty room, Riley at a window.

  Reminds me of the first time I saw them. Amelia looking out, Riley in.

  Now he’s looking out. He hears me, glances back. Smiles his eyes at me to say hello. Turns back to the window and I join him.