The Ghost by the Billabong

by Jackie French

  The world changed around him. He’d seen TV for the first time in a pub almost ten years earlier; saw more and more flickers through the windows now as he wandered down streets. Amazing, having a picture theatre in almost every house, but he missed the piano and singsongs you heard before TV took over evenings. He’d heard helicopters for the first time on a television, from the war in that place called Vietnam.

  Dunnies had almost vanished except further outback; supermarkets replaced corner stores. Bonzer places to grab a bit of tucker, those supermarkets: easy to chuck a packet of sausages down his trousers — and that had changed too, food in fridges and packages. Kids all wore shoes to school these days. Blokes had long hair and beards, and cars were as long as a house and shiny as a two-bob bit, except it was dollars and cents now, like the Yanks. They’d been good blokes in the war, the Yanks . . .

  Time to go. He washed the sausage grease off his hands with a bit of sand and river water, and began to slip between the trees, just far enough away from the road not to be seen. Because even a ghost could love. And while he’d liked Jed Kelly, she was a stranger and a drifter who must have learned some hard tricks to survive. When someone was hurt too often sometimes they lashed out at others too.

  Fred might be a ghost, but he could still keep an eye out, to protect those who he loved.

  Chapter 4

  JED

  A car passed when she’d been walking almost an hour, but she didn’t bother sticking out her thumb. She was nearly there, and yesterday’s air had been washed clean of dust and pollen and was as sweet as cherry cordial. Sheep and rocks steamed gently as the sun slid higher up the sky. The river gleamed, silent and magnificent, then vanished as the land sloped up into more paddocks, neat fences, more sheep and a scattering of brown-and-white cattle, standing calm and clean as if they had been carefully placed to be ornamental.

  She turned a corner and saw the house. Or not a house, but trees, the wrong green for gum trees, and a scattering of smaller houses like satellites beyond the garden. It was only as she drew closer that she could see the high roof of the main house in the green. Two storeys then. A winding drive, lined with more of the not-gum-tree trees, a big turning circle and a wide veranda; a big corrugated shed to one side, the faint bark of dogs behind the house.

  No sign on the gate. This place was so in charge of its surroundings it didn’t need to announce its name. But it was Drinkwater — had to be, for surely there was no other house this size nearby. One of the few facts she knew about the people she was about to meet was that they were rich, richer than rich. Rich people lived in big houses.

  She didn’t like big houses. Big houses got turned into cheap flats for people who drank their rent away, or into places called the Princess Charlotte Reform Home for Girls, with nothing princessy or girlish about them, and nothing homelike either, unless your home was the sulphur pits of hell.

  But this big house was . . . okay. A swing made from two ropes and a slab of wood hung under the largest of the trees. No neat institutional garden beds, but roses in a dozen clashing shades and a climber shedding blue flowers over a comfortable veranda. Not neat. She liked that in a house and garden.

  She trod across the gravel then up the steps. White wicker chairs on the veranda, cushions, a table with a book, open and face down, and horses on the cover. In her experience horse books focused too much on horses and not enough on people. Good. Hopefully whoever was reading it was a better judge of horses than of people, would smile and accept every single thing she had prepared to say. A doorknocker, which she had better use, or she would run back up the drive and the best chance of her life would be lost.

  She could do this. She could.

  She lifted the knocker. Polished. She wished it weren’t. People whose doorknockers were polished were too aware of every single thing they owned and that it might all be threatened, by someone like her . . .

  Knocked.

  The house swallowed the noise. She knocked again, loudly. Waited.

  Footsteps. The door opened.

  ‘If you are selling a religion or bunion cream, we already have our own.’ A woman, carefully taking in Jed, the dress, the bag. ‘And if it’s Avon calling, I buy my make-up direct from Paris.’

  ‘Do I look like I sell make-up?’

  ‘No.’ The woman was old, though it had taken Jed some seconds to realise it. Old people stooped, wore clothes that dragged. This woman was straight as a broomstick. Her white dress was fashionably above her knees, though not short enough to be a mini skirt, and must take two bluing bags to keep so glaringly, whitely perfect; her stockings had a sheen that cheap pantyhose could never compete with; and her white shoes had a low but stylish heel.

  The woman waited. Not a woman: a small bright dragon, protecting her cave.

  Damn.

  She had to act. Fast. Don’t show weakness. People take you at your own evaluation, or at least the value that you appear to show. She had to pretend she belonged there, and make these people believe it too.

  ‘It’s customary to say hello,’ said Jed.

  The dragon inspected her. She did not appear impressed by what she saw. ‘I say hello to friends. Friends knock, open the door and call, “Anyone at home?” But I will say good morning, if you like.’

  ‘It’s a lovely morning,’ agreed Jed. ‘I am here to see my great-grandfather, Mr Thomas Thompson. May I come in?’

  The figure in front of her grew straighter, if that were possible. ‘You are mistaken. Mr Thompson has no great-grandchildren.’ The Dragon raised a well-plucked eyebrow. ‘Mr Thompson’s grandchildren are mine too, and our oldest is younger than you. I am quite sure none of them have children yet.’

  ‘I’m the granddaughter of Mr Thompson’s daughter from his first marriage. Her name was Anna. My mother’s name was Rose. My name is Jed. Jed Kelly. It is good to meet you at last, Mrs Thompson.’ Jed held out a hand.

  The Dragon took it automatically. A strong hand, for so small a woman.

  Got you, thought Jed, as she took advantage of the handshake to step past the small figure into the hall. Mrs Thompson hesitated, then opened the door.

  It was a lounge room, not the bedroom of the dying man. But she hadn’t expected it to be that easy.

  She glanced around the room, hoping for clues that might help her conquer the enemy. Two lounges and armchairs that weren’t a ‘suite’ yet looked right together, carpets a tapestry of colours on a polished wooden floor. One window looked onto paddocks and sheep, the other onto more garden beyond a stone terrace. Photos on a piano: children, weddings, people with a horse and a winner’s cup; a black-and-white photo of a sheep.

  You didn’t put a photo of a sheep on the piano unless you liked sheep. Jed filed that away for future use.

  The Dragon sat and gestured to a chair. Jed sat on its edge, hands in lap. Tried to look young, helpless. Scared. The last wasn’t difficult. Nor the first.

  ‘What should I call you?’ She mentally crossed her fingers, gave her most innocent smile and ventured a tentative, ‘Great-Grandma?’

  Instead the woman crossed her elegant legs. Stockings, even in her own home, way out here. ‘You may call me Mrs Thompson. I suspect you know perfectly well that Anna never had a granddaughter.’

  This dragon was no pushover. She might, indeed, be the least likely pushee that Jed had ever met.

  Double damn.

  Jed kept her voice soft, polite. ‘Anna must have had a granddaughter, because I’m here.’

  ‘Have you any proof?’

  Jed shook her head, carefully bewildered. ‘I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t think I would need any.’

  ‘You arrive unannounced, claiming to be the unknown great-granddaughter of one of the wealthiest men in the country, and don’t need proof?’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’ Jed let her voice sound small and shaken. ‘I . . . I thought he’d be glad to meet me.’ Not a lie. Jed Kelly conned, but never lied. Saying to a kind-looking stranger on the street, ‘Please,
could you spare twenty cents? I want to phone home,’ wasn’t a lie, because she did, desperately, want to be able to call home, even if she didn’t have one.

  Nor was this a lie. She had thought an old man who had lost his daughter would be glad to meet that daughter’s granddaughter, so glad he and his wife might not even ask for proof, or not so fast.

  ‘Why hasn’t your mother ever contacted us? Written a letter? A Christmas card?’

  ‘She — she died. A long time ago. I . . . I didn’t even know my great-grandfather was still alive. My parents and grandparents are all dead. I assumed my great-grandfather must be too. Then I saw an article in the newspaper a week ago —’

  ‘The one that said my husband was dying. My very wealthy husband. So you thought you’d come and try to nab an inheritance. A million dollars? Two million?’

  Anger fizzed. Jed could feel her cheeks turning red. Yes, Jed Kelly stole, but only what she desperately needed, and only from those who could afford it. This woman obviously cared more about keeping her precious money safe than reuniting a dying man with his — possible — great-granddaughter. ‘Inheritance? I don’t give a flying f—’

  ‘You will not use that language in my house.’

  The Dragon was right. She shouldn’t have. Not because the language was ‘bad’. People were bad. Words were just words, except when they hurt. But she shouldn’t have antagonised this woman. Play meek, she thought, even as her mouth said, ‘It is my great-grandfather’s house.’

  ‘In point of fact, it isn’t. Even if my husband is related to you, this was my house long before he and I were married. My house, my land, my rules.’

  ‘And your husband. But he doesn’t just belong to you.’ If meekness wasn’t possible, then she hoped this woman might appreciate courage instead. Jed met the Dragon’s eyes. ‘You have no right to stop me seeing my great-grandfather.’ She raised her voice as the other objected. ‘And you don’t have any right to stop him seeing me either.’

  That gave even the Dragon pause. The brown eyes regarded her, bright under the white hair. The Dragon stood, neatly, with none of the hesitation or creaking of old age. ‘Very well. I will ask my husband if he wishes to see you.’

  She hesitated, then asked, with obvious reluctance, ‘I may be some time if he is dozing. Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?’

  ‘I’d like breakfast,’ said Jed.

  ‘Breakfast?’ The tone of a woman who had breakfasted hours before.

  ‘Or lunch. Morning tea. Food. I’m easy.’

  The wrinkled lips gave what was almost a smile. ‘Food, then. I’ll ask Anita to show you to the dining room.’

  ‘May I use the bathroom first?’

  Politeness won again. ‘Of course. The passage opposite the stairs, second door along.’

  Score four for me, thought Jed. Inside the house, a bathroom, food, and — probably — a chance to meet the sick old man, who would be easier to charm with a sweet girlish smile than the Dragon.

  ‘Excuse me.’ The Dragon left. A wisp of flower scent stayed, as though keeping claim on the house till her return.

  Chapter 5

  JED

  The food was an omelette, which Jed supposed could be either breakfast or lunch, with cheese, chopped tomato and green flecks she hoped were herbs spilling out from between the folds of egg, followed by fresh scones, butter and apricot jam, distinctly morning tea-ish, served by a dark-haired woman with a foreign accent and a floral housecoat over her dress.

  The woman looked at her doubtfully. And even more doubtfully brought in a brown china teapot, instead of what Jed presumed was the dining room’s more usual silver affair. A kitchen-use teapot.

  Did they think she would make off with the family silver? Jed considered it, briefly. Not the teapot, even if it had been silver, but the ornate teaspoon in the sugar bowl, which an antique shop might give her a couple of dollars for — less than it was worth, but all it would deserve, being obviously stolen property.

  But she had not come here to steal. While these people could afford it, they would notice, which would be inconvenient. The Dragon might even call the police, which would be a disaster. But mostly, so far, because they had not deserved it, which made them safe from Jed Kelly’s depredations.

  Unless she were desperate. Desperation was a different plate of scones entirely.

  She ate the omelette and all six scones, as well as the entire pot of jam, not from hunger, after sausages for dinner and a packet of biscuits at dawn, but because she had learned to eat food when she could, not knowing when she might see it again.

  And waited.

  Sheep complained in the distance. A small grey bird tapped at the window and shrieked, ‘Sugareeeee!’ a thousand times. One thousand and two, one thousand and three . . .

  At, roughly, the three thousandth call, the dark-haired woman came back. ‘Please come now.’

  Did that mean that Mr Thompson was ready to see her? Or would she be shown the door?

  She followed.

  Not to the front door. Up stairs, softly, richly carpeted, the tread fastened by some magic she had never seen before so the carpet didn’t buckle. Her breath caught in her throat.

  By tonight she might have a family. Her own bedroom with a proper bed. Meals that arrived at regular intervals, not food grasped where she could find it. The education that would give her true security. All the luxuries the girls at school took for granted. Hers, if she played this right.

  Along a corridor, looking down into the hall below. Paintings of hills, people, but mostly horses in gilt frames, each aristocratic and knowing they were worthy of the paint. Brocade cushioned chairs and polished wood. A door, which the dark-haired woman opened.

  A bed.

  It was a small bed, at odds with the rest of the house, the furniture, its inhabitants, though not with its occupant. A hospital bed, narrow, metal rails, on wheels, positioned so the occupant could see both the door and out the window, to the river. A man lay in the bed, motionless, tiny, face pale as the sheets except for brown sunspots that darkened his hands too, hands that were almost as thin as the sheets. An oxygen mask hissed gently over his nose and mouth.

  Tommy Thompson.

  The Dragon sat in a small armchair by the bed, her hand resting on one of the man’s. Tommy Thompson didn’t look at Jed till she sat on a wooden chair by the bed, obviously put there for her to sit on, as if his energy must be conserved for even such a small task as moving his head . . .

  A hand like crumpled cardboard lifted the mask. Had she expected a smile of welcome, even a hug? The man’s eyes stared at her, giving away as little as his wife’s.

  ‘You say you are Anna’s granddaughter?’ His voice had the same hiss as the oxygen, and was only slightly louder.

  ‘I’m your great-granddaughter. Yes.’

  ‘Not . . . possible . . .’ His eyes drifted shut, dismissing her.

  She tried to keep her voice steady, as if she were so sure there was no reason to be afraid. ‘It must be, because I am.’

  ‘How?’ The old man’s eyes stayed closed.

  ‘Mummies and daddies have babies. So did mine, so here I am.’ The words came out before she’d checked them. Stupid! Play sweet, she warned herself.

  But this old man wasn’t sweet. Nor was the Dragon. And the Dragon had responded better to Jed’s own voice than the fake meek one. Rich people, she realised, were probably good at spotting liars. Keep to the truth then. The truth, and nothing but the truth.

  Just not the whole truth.

  She was very good at that.

  The old man’s eyes were open now, suddenly intent. The Dragon had half risen in anger. This time it was the old man’s hand that covered hers. ‘Anna had . . . only one . . . child,’ he whispered.

  ‘My mother, Rose.’

  ‘Rose’s husband . . . wasn’t . . . called Kelly.’

  ‘My mother was married twice, the second time to my father. Except I don’t think she can have married Dad, becau
se the newspaper article said Rose just vanished, so she can’t have got divorced. That was in America, where she’d gone with her first husband after World War II. I never knew my mother’s first husband’s name, but the newspaper said it was Zambriski.’

  ‘Very thorough, that journalist,’ said the Dragon. ‘Your father’s name is Kelly?’

  ‘No.’

  The Dragon waited. So did the man in the bed.

  ‘I took a new name.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s not your business,’ said Jed evenly. Not knowing her real name, and Dad’s, would slow their investigations down, would give her time to fix herself in their lives . . .

  ‘It is very much our business,’ said the Dragon. ‘If you expect to be able to prove you are who you say you are.’

  Jed forced herself to take a long calm breath. ‘Now you know that Rose Zambriski had a child in America sixteen years ago, you can find the records. Those records will lead you to me.’

  ‘It would be easier,’ the Dragon said dryly, ‘to follow your life back to see if it leads to Rose Zambriski.’

  ‘Easier for you. Not for me.’ The man on the bed still said nothing, but his disconcertingly clear eyes watched her. She took another breath. ‘There are things I don’t want you to know until you agree I am related to you.’ And that, she thought, was very much the truth.

  ‘Will you tell us your father’s name, at least? You don’t have an American accent,’ Mrs Thompson added.

  ‘If you have Dad’s name, you’ll have what mine used to be. But you should be able to find out his name when you find the records of Rose Zambriski having a daughter. We came back to Australia after Mum died. Dad was Australian too.’

  The Dragon had taken charge of the questioning. ‘Was?’

  ‘He died in a car accident when I was ten years old.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Blue Mountains. But we never lived there. I’ve never even been there. He was there for work.’

  ‘What was his work?’

  Jed shrugged.

  ‘How did your mother die?’

  Have you ever thought of becoming a Nazi interrogator? thought Jed. You’d be good at it. ‘Don’t you know?’