The Ghost at the Point

by Charlotte Calder

  Where had he come from?

  All at once, she could no longer ignore the thought she’d been trying to put out of her mind. She froze, her fork halfway to her mouth.

  What if he came from nowhere?

  What if he was a ghost?

  The ghost – the ghost that Aunt Gertrude had always talked about.

  Chapter 2

  A few years ago Aunt Gertrude had come from the mainland to live with them. Aunt Gertrude was Gah’s sister and Dorrie’s great-aunt, and she had decided that her brother and great-niece were in desperate need of some “civilising”.

  Dorrie had been barely three when her parents had been swept off the rocks while fishing on the south coast, never to be seen again. She’d gone on living at the point, with Gah and her much-loved grandmother, Gan. Then when she was eight, Gan had died of pneumonia. It was a day neither Dorrie nor Gah wanted to remember, but somehow they’d picked themselves up and carried on without her.

  After a while, in fact, they were managing pretty well, but that’s not what Aunt Gertrude thought. She was quite sure, as she put it, that they must be living “like savages”, camping out in the old house and living on scraps.

  The last straw was when Dorrie had foolishly happened to mention in a letter about going to school barefoot. Her great-aunt had booked herself on the very next steamer across to the island.

  When she’d first swept into the house, hat feathers bobbing, she’d taken a deep breath and announced: “I see the ghost hasn’t left!”

  Gah, trailing behind with her suitcase, had snorted. “Rot, Gert! There’s never been any ghost.”

  Aunt Gertrude had arched an eyebrow. “Protest all you like, George.” She took off her hat and, having brushed at some specks of dust on the sitting room table, set it down carefully. “But I know differently. Ever since I can remember, there’s been a ghost living here.”

  Another snort from Gah. “How can you tell?” He lifted a faded cushion and pretended to look underneath. “Is it hiding somewhere?” Then, sniffing the air: “Does it have a particular smell?”

  Dorrie stifled a giggle. Faced with his bossy elder sister, her wise grandfather was becoming the teasing little brother.

  Aunt Gertrude tossed her head and marched on through into the dining room. Dorrie hurried after her.

  “What ghost, Aunt Gertrude?”

  Her great-aunt stalked into the kitchen, deposited her handbag on a chair and removed her jacket.

  “The boy.” She reached for the kettle. “My mother – your great-grandmother – saw him at least twice.”

  Gah winked at Dorrie. “Well, I certainly never encountered him – and neither did Father, for that matter.” He grinned. “Strange how this boy only seems to appear to the fair sex. He must’ve been very handsome.”

  “Ga-ah!” Dorrie frowned and turned back to Aunt Gertrude, who was calmly filling the kettle. “Go on Aunt Gertrude. Did you ever see him?”

  “Only once that I clearly recall.” Her great-aunt deposited the kettle on the wood stove. Water slopped from the spout and sizzled on the hotplate. “It was when I was about your age, Dorrie. Mildred and I were sharing the room you’re in now.”

  Mildred was Gah and Aunt Gertrude’s sister, who had died of scarlet fever in her teens.

  “I remember waking up in the middle of the night to hear someone crying out. It was soft but terribly … heartfelt. An unearthly sound – gave me the fright of my life!”

  Dorrie stared at her. There was a silence, filled only by the ticking clock on the mantlepiece.

  “It was pitch-black,” her great-aunt went on. “I couldn’t see a thing, but I thought it must be Mildred crying. I fumbled around for the matches and lit the candle, and there he was, the boy, standing at the foot of my bed.”

  Prickles ran up Dorrie’s spine. She pictured the ghost boy, haloed in the dim candlelight, his shadow wavering on the wall of her little room.

  Did ghosts have shadows?

  “Sure you were awake?” Her grandfather had crossed to the dresser to get the teapot. Dorrie knew he was trying not to laugh.

  “I was wide awake, not dreaming!” cried Aunt Gertrude. “Unlike Mildred, who was fast asleep. She slept right through the whole thing.”

  A splutter from Gah. “How convenient.”

  Ignoring him, Dorrie gripped the edge of the table. “But … what …?”

  “He was searching for something – or rather, someone,” continued Aunt Gertrude, with a frown. “He seemed utterly lost. And right there and then I knew he wasn’t mortal.”

  Dorrie’s mouth had dropped open. “How?”

  The old lady sighed. “Because he looked straight through us. It was as though the beds were empty.”

  For a moment even Gah was silent. Burning wood popped in the stove.

  “You must have been very frightened,” said Dorrie at last.

  Aunt Gertrude was still, her eyes unseeing. “No. And this was odd too. I wasn’t frightened because somehow … somehow I felt as though I’d already seen him, several times before.” She reached for the tea caddy, adding matter-of-factly, “A handsome child. Olive-complexioned, with dark hair and eyes.”

  “Even though he was foreign-looking, he seemed almost … familiar.”

  Gah picked up the teapot, clearing his throat. “It’s called a recurring nightmare, Gert.”

  “Really, George,” cried his sister. “Must you be so infuriating?”

  “But how did you know he was still here – when you came in the house this time?” asked Dorrie.

  Her great-aunt spread her hands dramatically. “Don’t ask me to explain,” she said. “I just know.”

  Gah’s reaction to that had been predictable.

  As were Aunt Gertrude’s efforts to “civilise” her brother and great-niece. She’d only lasted a few weeks before departing, back to the comforts of the city.

  Standards, she’d said, had dropped appallingly. For example, she insisted that the table be set with table napkins, ironed with old flat irons that were heated on the stove. But Gah and Dorrie had never even used table napkins. In fact, they’d never ironed anything. Aunt Gertrude had been horrified to find the irons being used as doorstops.

  And it was Aunt Gertrude who insisted on buying Dorrie the dreaded button-up boots. Though she could not for the life of her get Dorrie to wear them. Nor could she enlist a skerrick of support from Gah in such matters. He and Dorrie seemed stubbornly united against any domestic improvements, big or small. They really were quite happy with their ragtag existence.

  The last straw came when Aunt Gertrude went to the thunderbox in the middle of the night and thought she heard a rustle down the drop. She couldn’t get out fast enough. From then on, until her departure the next day, she only used the chamber-pot in her room.

  The afternoon they returned from farewelling Aunt Gertrude at the Jasper’s Cove wharf, Gah and Dorrie sat down for a cuppa.

  “Poor old Gert.” Gah smiled faintly as he poured the tea from the chipped teapot that his sister had tried so hard to throw out. “She used to be such a sensible girl.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid the city’s turned her into a terrible fusspot.”

  “Mmm.” Dorrie patted his hand. “It was nice to see her, but it’s good to have just the two of us again.”

  Aunt Gertrude had taken with her the rusting trunk that had always sat in the storeroom next to the kitchen. It had been full of old family documents, which she’d said she was going to sort out. Whether or not Aunt Gertrude had got around to this task was unknown, because the day after she died, her house was robbed. The old trunk had been one of a number of items taken.

  “It goes to show how lazy the thieves were,” Gah had said at the time. “They couldn’t be bothered to open it up and see what was inside.” He’d shaken his head sadly. “Just a whole lot of old documents of no interest to anyone but the family.”

  Dorrie kept a sharp watch as they drove down the track the next morning and onto the road, but th
ere was no sign of the boy. The forked stringybark and the surrounding trees and scrub stood silent and still in the sunlight. That hazy image of the evening before seemed more like a dream than anything else. But unlike most dreams, the memory didn’t fade as they bumped along. Those brown eyes staring at her, the hand vanishing around the tree.

  Aunt Gertrude’s words kept coming back to her. A poor, sad ghost … searching …

  Dorrie wracked her brains, trying to remember if her great-aunt had given any more details of the child ghost. Ghost or not, judging by the speed this boy had slipped around the tree, he certainly didn’t want to be seen.

  She still didn’t want to say anything to Gah about this fleeting vision. Not yet, at any rate. She knew what his reaction would be.

  It was an hour-and-a-half drive into Redcliff for the christening of Dorrie’s cousin, William. Two other babies were being christened at the special Saturday service. Luckily, William wasn’t first. As it was, Dorrie and Gah didn’t arrive until halfway through William’s part of the ceremony, at the very moment the minister was putting the water on his forehead. And then he screamed so hard that nobody noticed them creeping in at the back.

  Afterwards, everyone went back to Aunt Janet and Uncle Harold’s place for lunch. That was the only good thing about visiting her cousins, thought Dorrie – the food. Aunt Janet and cousin Esme might not be the easiest relatives to get on with, but they were very good cooks.

  Dorrie’s mouth watered as she gazed at the spread on the dining room table. There was cold roast beef and ham, and a selection of hotpots, pies, and fresh rolls from the bakery. Plus, Dorrie knew there would be an array of delicious puddings to follow. For a girl whose staple diet consisted of fish, eggs, bully beef, porridge, bread or damper and homegrown fruit and vegetables, it was a feast.

  The children – her cousins Esme, Lily and Fred, and several other young visitors – had to wait for the adults to go first before they helped themselves. Then they carried their plates out to the backyard to the benches under the fig tree.

  As soon as they’d sat down, Dorrie placed her plate on the bench and hauled off her tight boots and socks.

  “Whew!” Esme waved a slender hand under her nose at the imaginary smell. “Must you?”

  “Yep,” said Dorrie calmly, poking her socks into the shoes, “I must.” She’d long since learned that it was best not to rise to the bait with the disdainful Esme, but for a moment she felt like shoving her socks into her cousin’s face.

  “You can talk, Esme,” said her little brother, Fred. “What about when you fart?”

  There was raucous laughter from the other boys, Will Pennefather and Geordie Blunt, plus a muffled giggle from ten-year-old Lily. Dorrie bit her lip and tried not to catch Lily’s eye.

  “Fred!” Esme whirled around, seized her brother by the shoulders and gave him a shake. “How dare you? I’ll tell Mother you used that word. I do not pass wind!” Her face had gone distinctly pink.

  “Oh, yes, she does,” shouted Fred, wriggling out of her clutches. “Real SBDs – you should smell ’em!”

  “SBDs – Silent But Deadlies!” chortled Geordie.

  The boys guffawed even harder, and Dorrie was obliged to put her hands to her face and pretend to scratch her forehead.

  “And anyway,” added Fred, unstoppable now, “of course you pass wind, Esme. Everyone does – we have to, or we’d explode and die. You can see for yourself – it’s in Doctor Green’s Medical Encyclopedia.”

  At that, Esme leaped up and grabbed the nearest weapon – a rake leaning against the tree. She jabbed it furiously at her delighted tormentors until they retreated around the side of the house.

  Then she resumed her attack on Dorrie.

  “Gosh,” Esme said, eyeing her cousin’s still-full plate, “you’ll pop with all that. I don’t know how you manage to stuff it all in.”

  Dorrie, chewing a large mouthful of lamb pie, smiled and shrugged. “Just watch me, Esme.”

  “She’s not at all fat,” said Lily. “It’s all the exercise she gets, fishing and pulling up boats and riding. Isn’t it, Dorrie?”

  Dorrie smiled gratefully at her younger cousin. She often wondered how Esme and Lily could be sisters; they were so unlike. Lily reminded her of a small, red apple with her burnished complexion and happy smile. Whereas Esme was more like a spindly, unripe carrot.

  “We get exercise,” said Esme. “Helping Mother, and at dancing class.” She looked at Dorrie, down her nose, as usual. “It’s a pity you can’t go to dancing classes, Dorrie,” she added, glancing pointedly at her cousin’s brown, calloused feet.

  “Don’t think I’d want to, Esme.” Dorrie tilted her head on one side and smiled sweetly. “In fact, I can’t think of anything worse.”

  Dancing classes was one of the things Aunt Janet nagged Gah about. How good it was for growing girls’ poise and posture; how much it would benefit Dorrie. Plus a number of other unwelcome topics – learning to sew, keep house, etiquette, and deportment, whatever that was. All the necessary components of a young lady’s education that Aunt Janet positively despaired of in Dorrie’s ramshackle upbringing. Dorrie’s mother would be turning in her grave at the little savage her daughter was becoming! Aunt Janet sounded just like Aunt Gertrude.

  Dorrie’s memories of her parents were so vague and dreamlike, she sometimes wondered if she’d simply imagined them. But she had a few faded photos – one which she kept in a frame on her chest of drawers.

  Her mother was sitting in the dinghy while her dark-haired father held onto it, looking as though he was about to hop in too. He had his trouser legs rolled up past his knees, though the bottoms of them were soaking wet anyway. They were both laughing their heads off. Nell and Jim, Dec 1917, somebody had pencilled on the back. It was before they had her – he would have just returned from the Great War.

  All over the island there were terrible, yawning gaps in families where fathers and sons and brothers hadn’t come back from the trenches of the war. A few years ago, there had been five children at school – all a bit older than Dorrie – who no longer had fathers. And here was her dad, so young and so grateful to have survived. Thinking he had all his life ahead of him with Nell and their future family. Neither of them having any idea of what was rolling towards them, only a few years away.

  A single rogue wave.

  Dorrie was sure of one thing. The laughing, curly-haired young woman in the dinghy would not be turning in her watery grave at her daughter’s upbringing. She’d probably thoroughly approve.

  Often, when Dorrie tilted her head a certain way, or told a funny story, or dug her heels in over something she didn’t want to do, Gah would say something like: “Golly you remind me of your mother.” Or: “Just like your father – as stubborn as a mule.”

  Most children she knew disliked being compared to their parents, but Dorrie loved it. It gave her the chance to ask questions such as: “Why? Was Mum funny/a keen reader/good at rowing?” Or: “Did Dad have freckles/love riding/have lots of determination?”

  And Gah loved to supply the answers. So over the years Dorrie stored away all the little snippets and stories about her parents, hoarding them like treasure, until Nell and Jim had become complete, living characters in her mind. She often lay in bed at night and silently talked to them. It somehow felt as though they were always around.

  Now Aunt Janet poked her head out the back door. “You children may come and help yourselves to some pudding.”

  The boys, who had come out of hiding, didn’t need any second bidding; there was a small stampede.

  Meanwhile, Aunt Janet caught sight of Dorrie’s bare feet. “Doris, where are your shoes?”

  “Sorry.” Dorrie inwardly winced at the sound of her hated proper name. Her aunt was the only one who called her that. She gestured at her boots, back under the tree. She didn’t want to say anything about them being too small – it would only give her aunt more ammunition for her “civilise Doris” campaign.

 
; “Well, put them on again, please. This is a luncheon party, not a picnic!”

  Stifling a sigh, Dorrie went to fetch them. She ignored Esme’s smirk.

  One thing, she thought, as she wriggled her left foot and then her right into the hated boots, whatever happened, she was never, ever coming to live here in Redcliff with her aunt and uncle.

  Chapter 3

  Later on, when Dorrie and Gah were getting into the truck to go home, Gah’s eyes moved across the sky.

  “Have a gander at those clouds. Wind coming – another storm brewing tomorrow. We’ve certainly been having our fair share of them lately.”

  “Mmm.” Dorrie glanced at the long streaks, like painted milk across the sky. There was barely a day when Gah didn’t make some kind of pronouncement on the weather.

  And as usual he was right, except the wind got up sooner than he’d expected. Dorrie woke in the night to hear a shutter banging somewhere along the verandah and the waves crashing down hard on the beach. She snuggled down deeper into the warm sag of her bed, bedclothes up to her nose. She listened to the scraping of a branch against the tank and the rattle of the wind across the roof, and drifted off again, hoping against hope not to hear what was coming next.

  “Dorrie!” Sure enough, Gah was knocking at her door. “Come on, Ducks – wake up! Storm’s come up quicker than I thought. Got to pull that dinghy up further.”

  Dorrie groaned and bunched up tighter against the warm weight of Poppy curled up in the crook of her knees. Oh, to be a cat, she thought drowsily, and not have to get up.

  “Dorrie!” The door opened and Gah stood haloed in the light of his lamp. “If you don’t shake a leg soon, we won’t have a dinghy. Come on.”