She groaned once more and flung her legs out, her feet hitting the cold floor. She threw a shawl around her shoulders, and they stumped off along the verandah, across the driveway and down the path, the wind whipping cold around her legs and ankles. The circle of lamplight, a small haven in the heaving blackness of the bush, picked out the old anchor as they passed. Branches squeaked and creaked against one another and leaves crashed and splashed; a roo or wallaby thumped away unseen into the scrub.
When they emerged onto the beach the waves were already washing up to the high watermark, lifting and swirling the line of dried seaweed and shells. They hurried along the beach past the rocks. The white hull of the dinghy loomed up, almost afloat, its wooden belly grinding alarmingly in the sand.
Dorrie picked up the anchor and ran to drop it in the sandhills, the chain rattling over the bow as Gah hurried to collect the rollers. Then they hauled the boat up, foot by slow foot until it was right out of reach of the sea.
They stood for a moment, panting, then plodded back along the beach. Sand and spray whipped at their faces in the darkness. Once or twice, the scudding clouds parted and, by the light of the moon, they could see the shapes of the trees and bushes thrashing about up on the point.
Then a fat spot of rain hit Dorrie’s cheek, and another.
By the time they reached the top of the path, the spots had become a squall. As they hurried across the drive towards the back of the shadowy house, something caught Dorrie’s eye. Despite the rain, she stopped.
“What’s that?” She stared at the end window, her breath caught in her throat.
Gah turned to her.
“What?”
She shook her head, still standing there. Gah was tugging her elbow and they hurried on again.
“I saw a light in there!” she cried. “In the end bedroom.”
It was the room her dad had slept in as a child.
“Probably the moon,” puffed Gah. “A reflection.”
But the moon had vanished behind a cloud again. And their own lamp was too far away to make a reflection, surely.
It had seemed to be the hazy glow of a candle. Only for a second or two, and then it was gone, as though blown out.
They pushed through the tin gate into the courtyard, and Dorrie realised she was gripping her grandfather’s arm.
Then something hurtled past them in the dark. Dorrie gave a shout of terror.
“Dor-rie!” Gah laughed. “It’s a possum.”
Despite the rattle of the rain on the roof, Dorrie heard the scrabble of its claws down the fence and a thump as it hit the ground and scuttled off.
“Though it was in a bit of a hurry, I must say,” Gah added. “Not one of our ones.”
The possums living around the house were half-tame. Generations of children living in the house had fed them scraps of fruit and bread. A bright-eyed, beseeching face would appear after dark at the kitchen window, or on the verandah. And they often came into the courtyard – the roofed-in area between the kitchen and back bedrooms – sniffing around the flywire-netted meat safe where the fruit and vegetables were kept.
But being caught red-handed didn’t normally bother them. They would simply hop onto a rafter or the top of the fence, their button-black eyes staring down, before waddling off. Sometimes one would grab the cake of soap that sat beside the tank tap, pausing to take a nibble before dropping it in disgust.
Dorrie’s heart was still thumping, but she forced herself to let go of her grandfather.
“Gah … I know this sounds silly, but can we take a look?” She motioned towards the end bedroom door. “Just quickly.”
Gah frowned, cocking his head on one side.
“What’s got into you? I hope you’ve not caught your Aunt Gertrude’s disease – all that jibber-jabber about ghosts.”
She tried to laugh. “No-o, of course not.”
They crossed the courtyard and Gah pulled open the flyscreen door. He stepped into the room, lamp raised aloft.
“There! See – nothing here. Not even a whisper of a ghost – human or possum.”
Dorrie followed him in, moving into the lamplight. Was she imagining the lingering tang of a blown-out candle? She glanced at the candle in its holder on the chest of drawers. Even in the half-light she could see that the wax was cold and hard, and the box of matches beside it closed.
The little room was the same as it always had been, with its narrow bed, chair, chest of drawers and washstand with the bowl and jug. The faded picture of a lighthouse hanging next to the window. And the cupboard space behind the dusty, yellowed curtains along one wall.
She gestured at the curtain, pretending to joke. “Not even behind the curtains?”
“Nope.” With a flourish, Gah pulled back one and then the other, revealing nothing but a few coathangers, a white chamber-pot and a ball of fluff in the corner.
Nobody had slept in this room for ages.
As they went back into the courtyard, Gah patted her on the shoulder. “You must’ve eaten something that didn’t agree with you, Ducks!”
She made a face at him.
“Now, off to bed! A good sleep is what you need.”
But Dorrie didn’t sleep very well. The loose shutter kept on banging and rain pelted the roof like hails of bullets.
And in her dreams, a hand kept lighting a candle, only to have the wind snuff it out again.
By the next morning the storm had blown over and the world was washed clean.
Dorrie stood on the front verandah in her nightdress, her bare toes curling over the edge, staring out over the cliff at the flat grey sea. She breathed in the tang of wet sand and tea-trees.
“Dorrie, come see this.” Gah was standing behind her at the sitting room door. “Darn possums are getting too smart for their own good.”
Dorrie followed her grandfather through the house and out the back door into the courtyard. And there in the far corner stood the meat safe, open. The latch had been turned and most of the apples and carrots had gone. In his or her haste, the thief had obviously dropped an apple; Dorrie bent down to pick it up from where it had rolled underneath.
“S’pose it was only a matter of time till they worked out how to open it,” said Gah, stroking his chin. “Little blighters – I’ll have to work out a more difficult clasp.”
Dorrie tried to picture a possum leaning down from the top of the safe as it twisted the latch with its paw. They were cunning, cheeky little creatures, but were they that cunning?
Gah’s mouth twitched. “Unless, of course, it was the ghost. Gertrude’s poltergeist. A hungry poltergeist, at any rate.”
Dorrie made a face and gave him a little shove, but her mind was racing.
“It was most probably the little devil we disturbed last night,” Gah went on. “We wouldn’t have noticed in the dark.”
It was true. The safe was tucked away in the corner, where the circle of lamplight wouldn’t have reached. Anything could have been lurking there – animal, human, or …
Her mind went again to that fleeting, hazy face in the dusk.
What if she and Gah hadn’t been alone last night? What if someone, or something, had been crouched there in the shadows, only a few feet away, eyes wide in the darkness?
Later that morning Gah and Dorrie went crayfishing. The long, bumpy drive to Beard’s Bay, craypots bouncing about in the back, was hardly worth it because they only managed to bag one crayfish and a few whiting from the deep pools between the rocks. They decided to keep them for themselves for supper. There was no point in going all the way to Jasper’s Cove just to sell one cray.
By the time they got back from their expedition, Dorrie was starving. As they rattled up the drive, her mouth watered at the thought of her first mouthful of fresh crayfish. But when they rounded the last bend there was a strange motor parked beside the verandah. Gah leaned forwards, frowning through the windscreen. “Who the devil?”
There were very few motor vehicles down their end of the isl
and, and this battered Ford roadster wasn’t one they recognised. All vehicles had to be ferried from the mainland on a ketch, then winched off by crane onto the wharf.
They never locked the house, and Dorrie could have sworn she heard the front screen door bang as they drove up. And as they drew level with the other car, who should be standing there on the verandah but the two strangers they’d encountered in Jasper’s Cove, appearing decidedly flustered and furtive.
“Ah, Mr Jose-ss,” said the man. He stepped forwards, extending his hand, and the corners of his mouth went up. “Edmund Crickle – we met a couple of days ago.”
Gah stared at him, ignoring the hand. “Yes, I remember.” Dorrie’s grandfather rarely got very angry, but when he did, he became very still. Which he was now.
“And my wife – Mavis-ss,” Mr Crickle went on, making that whistling sound again.
Mrs Crickle did a kind of bob. Dorrie nearly giggled. What was that old nursery rhyme? Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean. They looked like the most ill-matched couple in the world.
“We’ve only just arrived, haven’t we, Edmund?” Mrs Crickle’s piggy little eyes darted from her husband to Gah and back again.
Like heck you have, thought Dorrie. She was tempted to feel their car’s bonnet; she was certain it would be cold.
“Yairs-ss.” Mr Crickle tilted his head, nodding out over the bay. “We were admiring your beautiful view, Mr Jose-ss. Your sister often described it to us, but we had no idea how delightful …” He trailed off into the icy silence.
“Is that so?” Gah said at last. “Well, you can just as easily admire the view from further around at Smith’s Beach. There’s a public access road there. This is private property, and I’ll thank you both to remove yourselves from it, posthaste!”
“Oh, Mr Jose-ss–”
“It’s for our research,” cried Mrs Crickle, her chins wobbling. “For our book!”
“My fat foot it is.” Gah crossed to the Ford and started peering in behind the seats. Then he went around the back and calmly twisted the handle of the boot.
“Excuse me …” started Mr Crickle, but Gah was already opening it. He checked inside, closed it again.
“Off!” he said. “And don’t you ever set foot on this property again, or Sergeant Tonks will be hearing about it. We don’t take kindly to snoopers on this island.”
Mr Crickle glared at him. “Come along, Mavis-ss,” he said haughtily. Though his scuttle to the roadster, Dorrie noticed, was pretty rapid. Mrs Crickle huffed close behind.
“I can see,” he called, when he was safely inside the motor, “that you are a dark hindrance to the pure light of Academe, Mr Jose-ss.” He turned the key and the engine coughed into life. “Never mind,” he added, raising his voice over the chug. “When our book is published, mention of your lamentable opposition will be there for all to note.”
Gah raised an eyebrow. “Dare say I’ll live with it.”
The roadster backed around and was about to move off when Mrs Crickle, scarlet in the face, leaned across and shrieked, “There was nothing worth taking, anyway!”
“Mavis-ss,” hissed her husband, “be quiet!”
“Don’t you tell me to be quiet,” she cried, thumping him in the chest.
“Ow!” he roared. “Desist, woman!”
But Mrs Crickle did not desist – she thumped him again. The Ford leaped forwards with a jerk, then kangaroo-hopped its way down the hill and out of sight.
Dorrie and Gah turned to one another. “Charming,” they said, as one.
“I hope they didn’t take anything,” said Dorrie, starting towards the door.
“There was nothing in the car.” Gah frowned. He stared after the departed Ford, then at his granddaughter. “But tell me this. What were two so-called historians doing with a pick and shovel in their boot?”
Chapter 4
It was a good three quarters of an hour’s ride from the point to school the next day. Sampson wasn’t getting any younger and Dorrie didn’t like to push him too hard, so she mostly let him clomp along at his own pace, his huge feathered hooves puffing up the dust.
He was so big it felt a bit like riding a camel, or an elephant. A piebald Clydesdale, he had pulled their dray before Gah had got the truck. She must feel like a flea on his back, Dorrie thought, but he never took advantage of his size. He’d been her great friend since she was tiny and was as gentle as a dove. Once at school, the children who rode let their horses and ponies loose in the adjoining paddock.
The changeable island weather was starting to become stormy again, and the horses were spooked and skittish when the children went to catch them after school.
Or, at least, they pretended to be.
“You little horror!” Dorrie’s friend Sarah cried, as her pony, Treacle, snatched the piece of crust Sarah was offering, then wheeled away before the bridle could be put over his head. He trotted across to Sampson and stood behind him, peeking around from behind the big horse’s rump.
“Hang on while I grab Sampson,” said Dorrie, “then he might give in.”
There was a clap of thunder; several of the horses jumped and rushed about. Ned Brown didn’t help matters by sneaking up on his mare, Queenie, grabbing her around the neck with both arms and shouting, “Gotcha!” at the top of his lungs.
Queenie took off straight through the other horses, Ned clinging on like a monkey.
“Ned!” Dorrie and Sarah shouted in unison. “For goodness sake.”
“Telling Miss Taggart on you,” screamed Sarah’s little sister, Annie, who was six.
Ned was forever being told to watch it, or stop it, or behave himself. He couldn’t sit still. Miss Taggart, who always called him by his full name of Edward, said he had ants in his pants.
By now he’d managed to scramble up onto Queenie’s back, where he proceeded to give an impromptu demonstration of rodeo riding. He whooped and hollered, clinging by the mane to his bucking horse.
It took him about five seconds to be tossed off. He scrambled to his feet and bowed to his hooting, cheering audience.
When the girls had finally caught the naughty Treacle, and Dorrie had slipped the bridle on Sampson (he obligingly lowered his great head, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to reach without standing on something), all three girls set off. Annie sat behind Sarah on Treacle. They never bothered with saddles – Sarah and Annie because there wasn’t enough room, and Dorrie because Sampson’s broad back was warm and comfortable without one.
The thunder seemed to have rolled away a bit, but black clouds were massing to the south-west, and the air felt prickly and heavy.
“Annie,” said Sarah after a while, “wake up.”
The rocking motion of Treacle was sending Annie to sleep, her thumb in her mouth. Her head rested on her sister’s long red plait. “Tired,” she mumbled, through her thumb.
“Yes, I know,” said her sister in a soothing tone, “but you’ll fall off in a minute. We’ll be home soon.” She smiled across at Dorrie and murmured, “I used to do the same thing myself when I was little, riding behind Bill.”
Sarah and Annie’s fourteen-year-old brother, Bill, had finished school and was working on fishing boats. There was no high school on the island. Senior school meant attending boarding school on the mainland, something which most islanders, including Sarah’s parents and Gah, couldn’t afford.
By the time they reached Sarah and Annie’s place, Sarah had moved her little sister to the front and clasped her freckled arm around Annie’s small frame. The sisters slid off Treacle at the gate, just as their mother, baby Charley in her plump arms, came out to meet them. Trixie the kelpie came too, barking a welcome.
“Hello, girls. Have a good day?”
“Bah!” shouted Charley, smiling and reaching out for them.
“Was all right,” said Sarah. “What’s to eat, Ma? We’re starving.”
Her mother raised her eyebrows. “How unusual.”
Dorrie tied
up Sampson, Sarah let Treacle go in the paddock, and then they made a beeline for the kitchen.
Today Mrs Jennings had made rock cakes. They sat plump and golden on a plate on the table.
“Scrummy, Mrs J,” said Dorrie, halfway through her first.
“Mmm, good,” said Sarah, dreamily.
“Don’t talk with your mouthful, you two,” said Annie, automatically. She was carefully picking out the sultanas from her rock cake.
Sarah rolled her eyes at Dorrie. “Excuse me, Miss Goody Two Shoes. Mind your own manners. Eat it, instead of picking it to bits.”
Annie had made two piles – one of sultanas and one of crumbled rock cake – before a morsel had even touched her lips.
“Bah!” said Charley from his highchair. He stretched out his arm and dropped his cake on the floor. His mother absent-mindedly picked it up and put it back on his tray.
Something seemed to be preoccupying her.
“Anyway,” she said, crossing to the stove and lifting off the whistling kettle, “’fraid there’s been some bad news.”
“What?” asked Sarah, cake halfway to her mouth. “What’s happened?”
Mrs Jennings paused. “Well, there’s been a wreck,” she said, “on the south coast.”
Dorrie and Sarah stared at her in astonishment.
She sighed, pouring the boiling water into the teapot. “Joe and Dan Heggarty had a fishing expedition yesterday, right out to Hogg’s Holes. They were going to camp out there overnight. When they climbed the headland at the end of the first beach they could see the wreck – a small steamer, or what was left of it – out on the reef off Black Cape.”
Black Cape.
The words jumped out at Dorrie. Wasn’t that where great-great-grandfather Ned was supposed to have been wrecked?
“There was timber and debris all over the beach …” Mrs Jennings trailed off; she shook her head. “And–” She stopped, her face grim. The children waited for her to go on, but she simply put the lid on the teapot and said, “Enough of that. What happened at school today?”
The Ghost at the Point Page 3