‘You weren’t a coward, George. You were trying to help the rest of your family.’
‘A coward flees where a gentleman would take a stand for honour and family.’
Conflicting emotions flickered over his ghostly face. Morgan leaned forward and kissed him. It was meant to be a gesture of comfort and solace. She hadn’t been sure whether she’d touch anything solid or fall right through him. Her lips met his and felt resistance as he kissed her back. The kiss should have been light and brief, but instead of pulling back, she kissed him again.
Something blossomed inside. The kiss lingered, deepened, tingled at the edges and curled the corners of her mind. She sensed rather than felt George’s palms either side of her face, anchoring her to the kiss and to him.
It felt so perfect and right. The way his lips melded exactly with hers. It must be her mind playing tricks but there was warmth in his lips. If she opened her eyes would it break the spell? She kept them shut and gave herself over to the sensory rush. Delicious somethings pinged inside her. She parted her lips on a sigh. As if reading her thoughts, George responded, subtly changing the angle of the kiss. A pressure so slight she could have imagined it.
They kissed on, Morgan unable to remember why she’d started kissing him in the first place. Not that she had any intention of stopping. The most delectable hum buzzed over her skin. George was pulling her closer, pulling her in. A gentle tug and her lips opened further to his. The most tender pressure. It was the kind of kiss she’d dreamed of. Maybe she was dreaming now?
The only course of action from here had to be more kissing. Feeling bolder, Morgan cupped the back of his neck and played with the curls there. It felt so absolutely real she had to open her eyes and see him.
It broke the spell. His eyes shot open, his face half vanished into nothingness and she could see right through him again.
‘May I congratulate you on your most excellent distraction. For a moment, I truly forgot my former troubles.’
The tingle on her lips felt stronger than ever. She found her croaky voice. ‘Glad to help.’
George made a rueful grin. ‘I’m not really sure why you are making such overtures. We both know I have nothing to offer you.’
Morgan’s turn to blush. ‘That wasn’t why I kissed you.’
‘No?’
‘No, I was. . . feeling bad for you and –’
‘– A pity kiss? Spare me your sympathies.’
‘It was not a pity kiss.’
George stood up to leave.
Confusion mixed with frustration in Morgan’s washing-machine of a brain. It had not been a pity kiss. Only that all this closeness and getting-to-know-you-ness had been leading to a moment like this. Hadn’t it?
‘Wait a minute.’ Morgan followed, surprised to see her hand make contact with his arm to bring him round again. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I touched you and didn’t fall through.’
‘It was more than a touch.’
‘I’ll say.’ Heat spread over her face with embarrassment. ‘It wasn’t a pity kiss, not by a long shot.’
‘For the purposes of research.’ George cleared his throat. ‘What . . . might . . . a pity kiss feel like?’
Morgan tried very hard not to smile and failed. ‘A bit like this.’ She leaned forward and kissed his forehead chastely, then pulled back and patted him on his ghostly head. ‘There, there,’ she added, virtually squeezing lemon juice into the wound.
‘You are correct. It was nothing like that. It was more like this.’ George wrapped his arms around her and pressed his lips to hers again.
Morgan could almost fly. Could have sworn her feet weren’t even touching the ground. She eventually pulled back and said, ‘This is a little bit wonderful.’
‘Less talking, more kissing,’ George said with a smile, revealing those creamy yet misshapen teeth.
A dreamy while later, Morgan lost her breath. Not George of course, he wasn’t the slightest bit puffed. ‘Have I dreamt you up?’ She breathed.
‘I had begun to wonder the very same.’ George gave her another smile that made her heart flip. ‘I feel like I’m made of sunshine when you hold me.’
‘Oh wow,’ was all Morgan could say.
‘This is utterly remarkable,’ George said after another kiss. ‘And it is also far beyond the realms of propriety. I should apologise for taking advantage.’
‘Don’t you dare.’
George gave a rueful grin. ‘I said I should, I didn’t say I would.’ He kissed her again.
How easily she could lose herself in the kisses. Only when a drop of rain sploshed on her head did she pull away. Heavy clouds had rolled in while they were otherwise occupied.
‘If we stay out here we’ll get soaked.’
George put his palm out. ‘Rain on my skin. How wonderful.’
Morgan grabbed her things and wiped rain drops off the screen with her sleeve. All too soon the reason why they’d been out here came flooding back. Her history assignment about his family tragedy.
‘You must complete it.’ George read her mind.
‘But, it’s only going to cause you more pain. If I’d known from the start . . .’
‘We’ve opened Pandora’s Box, we may as learn the secrets within. It would be reassuring to discover if my mother and sister made it safely to another colony.’
They ran to the house and scarpered in as rain fell. The kitchen table beckoned. Morgan sat down before she noticed others were in here.
Her mother’s voice rang out confidently, ‘Toss a knob of butter into the vegetables to englossen the dish.’
‘We have company,’ George remained standing.
Morgan looked up to see her mother and Dave in the kitchen, along with the camera lady and sound guy and producer. All turned to Morgan.
‘Did you get that? There’s a weird shapey sort of thing next to Morgan. Tell me you got that?’ The producer said.
‘Think so,’ the woman behind the camera said, her lens turned on Morgan.
Eyes wide like golf balls, Rachelle started to say, ‘Morgan, there’s a ghuurr . . .’
The producer said, ‘Something has followed you . . . in here.’
Now it was Morgan’s turn to freak out. Not about having George with her but about other people being able to see George. Or seeing something at any rate. But the freakiest thing was the camera lens pointing her way. ‘Turn it off.’
‘I swear I saw something,’ the producer said.
‘No, you didn’t,’ Morgan said.
George’s voice boomed through the kitchen. ‘She said turn it off.’ The lights flickered.
Rachelle and Dave both jumped.
‘What the hel-icopter?’ Dave corrected himself just in time.
Directing her anger to her mother, Morgan said, ‘You promised you’d be finished ages ago.’
‘We’ve had . . . technical difficulties,’ Mum said.
‘Soufflés wouldn’t rise,’ Dave said.
The producer said, ‘There was something here in the room. I swear I saw it.’
‘Group hysteria and misperception,’ Dave said as he cleared his throat.
Morgan boggled at him.
Dave shrugged.
The sound bloke scratched the back of his neck. ‘Dodgy wiring maybe? You know what these old places are like.’
Morgan grabbed her things and bolted for the stairs.
Her mother began again, ‘These mini quiches are perfect for when unexpected guests drop in.’
‘You’ve got to hand it to my mother to keep going,’ Morgan said to George as they climbed the stairs.
‘Her composure is admirable,’ George said.
Morgan looked behind her to see the camera lens trained up the stairs, to catch another glimpse of her. Rachelle’s voice carried through the halls, ‘We had a deal that you leave Morgan alone.’
Thank you, Mum. As the camera withdrew, she and George stood on the landing, ears stretched to breaking point.
‘Did y
ou get it?’ The producer asked the camera operator.
‘I’ll play it back. There’s something, but it’s not that clear. Got the lights going haywire but . . .’
The producer’s voice took on a pleading tone. ‘You’ve got to let us get it on camera?’
Rachelle this time; ‘You promised to leave my daughter alone.’
‘And I’ll happily stick to that. But you’ve got to give us a chance to film a real live ghost.’
‘Any danger of getting back to the cooking?’ Dave asked.
Thank you, Dave, Morgan thought.
‘Sure, straight after I call my EP.’
On one hand, Morgan could lock herself in her room and leave them to squabble. On the other, she knew how important the cooking show was to her mother.
And her mother knew how much Morgan valued her privacy.
She walked back into the kitchen, rolling cameras be damned. ‘I’m really sorry mum.’ The camera spun around to capture her. With a few more steps and a hammering heartbeat, she reached her mother’s side and gave her a hug. ‘I didn’t mean to barge in, I wasn’t thinking.’
The producer was on the phone talking about seeing a ghost and how awesome it would be to make a show about it.
‘Do you want a taste?’ Dave held out a plate of yummy nibbles. Mushrooms, herbs and feta in little pastry triangles. Delish.
‘Hello everyone! I didn’t know you were filming in here.’ Gareth’s excitable voice cried out as he walked in. Morgan couldn’t help rolling her eyes at her brother’s timing. ‘Hello Mother,’ Gareth gently nudged Morgan out of the way and gave Rachelle a kiss on the cheek.
Behind them, Dave slammed the oven door shut.
‘Can you see the ghost then?’ The producer asked Gareth.
‘Ghost?’ Gareth looked around the room. ‘Are you setting me up for a prank? Nice one Morgan.’ He gave his little sister a kiss on the cheek. ‘How are you Poglette? How is your imaginary friend?’
Urgh, did he have to call her that?
‘Should we call it a day?’ The camera guy asked, but the producer waved her hand and ignored him for the moment.
‘I’m really sorry for ruining your take, Mum. I didn’t think anyone would still be here. Otherwise I would have stayed out. I’ll leave you to get a good take, OK?’
Mum wiped her forehead and checked her watch, her hand shaking. She looked exhausted. One of the ovens went ‘ding’ and she grabbed an oven mitt. ‘Ready to roll camera on the off-chance this lot have worked?’
The producer said, ‘Flat batteries.’
Rachelle opened the oven and groaned as heavy smoke filled the room.
10
Heart Breaker
Back in her room, Morgan delved into George’s past. She tagged birth and death certificates and newspaper reports from the time. The Loch Ard disaster rated a few more mentions in newspaper reports. Had the rest of his family met a similar fate?
George paced the floor. ‘There must be something you’ve overlooked.’
‘I’m doing my best. I’m hardly the history expert.’
‘You have an abundant source of information at your fingertips. Keep looking.’
‘Is it possible that um . . . you could look for them? You know, in the afterlife? Because, they’d be long gone now.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘dead’, because George had become so real to her.
George ran his hand through his hair. ‘I do not think they were in the same predicament as I. Otherwise we would all be together, in some fashion?’
‘I guess so.’
‘They must not have returned from the musicale. Truth be told, I would often go days without seeing any of them. I kept different hours to the ladies. They spent a good deal of time visiting and hosting at-homes.’
‘You hardly saw them?’ Morgan asked.
‘Naturally. In the same way that I have met your mother, butler, one brother and various strange people, but I am yet to meet your father. Does he keep a house in town instead?’
‘What? No!’
‘It’s a perfectly logical extension of our conversation. I am not appraised of the daily schedules of my family members. It appears that you are in a similar situation.’
Surely she’d seen her dad only a few days ago? ‘Well, there you go, we have workaholic dads in common.’
Checking the shipping lists continued. ‘Your mum might have already sailed by the time your dad . . . you know . . . all this happened? Maybe we need to look for earlier dates.’ Or a different name. She’d checked all the Wallaces and Sebastians against the ship lists – another primary source her history teacher would adore. Whole lists of everyone who sailed on a ship, right down to the lads shovelling coals into the burners. ‘What if your mum altered her name to Waller or White or plain old Smith?’
‘The Smithy!’ George sprang up, his eyes darting left and down as he remembered something. ‘By Jove I’ve got it! I saddled the horse myself, and then attempted to leave. Except the blacksmith was there with his apprentice, and they were asking for money. They too claimed they hadn’t been paid. There was a scuffle . . . one of them grabbed the horse’s reins. Another clutched at my hand and stole the signet ring.’ He looked at his empty left hand where the ring would have been. ‘For a time, I thought of reporting the event, but that would necessitate the unravelling of my family’s situation. What a terrific mess!’
‘If they hadn’t taken the ring, they would have known who you were, you know, when they found you, later.’ Morgan said.
‘Yes, yes you’re right. As the rest of my family had either died or fled, there was no one to claim me . . . or pay for a burial. That must explain how I came to rest in such ignominy.’
A new resolve took hold. ‘I’m going to find out what happened to your family.’
A not-quite-there hand rested on her shoulder, ‘The mystery of my remaining family must be why I am unable to rest.’
‘You need closure,’ Morgan said as she kept searching the ship lists and the sail dates. George being unable to rest? Would finding his family let him do that? And if she solved the mystery, would he leave, for good?
She’d become used to having him around. OK, she liked it. A lot. And the kissing. The kissing was a very good reason for George to stick around. Also, she could keep George to herself, because nobody else could see him.
Her friends knew a little about him, but they couldn’t see him either, or talk to him. Even better, he couldn’t talk to them. (Aside from the wailing noises they claimed to hear). George was the ultimate boyfriend – she had his complete attention, he kissed like an angel, and he couldn’t brag about anything to his mates.
Another bonus; he was so old-fashioned she probably knew more about sex than he did. He wouldn’t want anything more than kissing because the act of locking lips was outrageous enough.
The perfect boyfriend.
Something new turned up in her online search. She found a mother and her children with the surname of Walls on a listing. Their first names matched. So did their ages. Hope bubbled. ‘George, I think I’ve got it!’
‘This report is from a sailing from Williamstown. They were at a recital in Hamilton.’
A cloud moved over Morgan’s heart. Poor George, still in denial. ‘Are you sure they were in Hamilton? Maybe you only thought they were. Or maybe that’s what your dad told you so that you wouldn’t suspect anything?’
George turned pale. A neat trick for a ghost. Had his father orchestrated this – to leave his son alone in the world? It was a horrible thought to think. Morgan might go a few days between seeing her dad, but he’d never leave her exposed like this.
‘I really think this could be them. The ages match, and there’s a mother, three girls and one infant.’ She scrolled some more and realised she’d been looking at the staff list, not the passenger list. ‘Oh dear. I think they were working their way to America. How about that, ships set sail to America from Williamstown. Oooh, this is interesting. The Confederate
ship Shenandoah docked in 1865 and ‘a little-known chapter of history that saw Australian guns fire the final shots in the American Civil War.’ I had no idea!’
‘If we may stay the course, my dear?’
‘Yeah, sorry about that.’
George covered his face. ‘I feared they may have been travelling steerage, but not this. The only consolation is that my father was not alive to see us come so low.’
‘Yes, but it was your father’s fault they had to.’
George looked so despondent. Something ached behind Morgan’s ribs. She did the only thing she could do – she wrapped her arms around him and felt the soft edges of his shoulders hold their form under the pressure of her arms. It felt so nice. So real.
Satisfied with her history assignment, Morgan handed this one to Mrs Edgars personally.
When the teacher handed the assignment back in class a few days later, Morgan’s spine turned cold. ‘B minus? But . . .’
‘It is,’ Mrs Edgars said. ‘Because you didn’t acknowledge who helped you.’
What kind of impossible rule was that? ‘Everyone gets help. You’re not marking them down.’
‘You’re a smart girl, but until now you haven’t shown much interest in History. Suddenly you’re talking about a ghost in your room and giving me an essay that could win a national competition. What’s going on?’
Her mind snagged. ‘You think this could win a prize?’
‘I do. But it has to be the student’s own work. Can you guarantee you did this yourself, with no outside help?’
‘I um . . . does joining an ancestry website count?’
‘You and Olivia have been working together, maybe Olivia over-helped?’
‘Oh! You think someone else wrote it for me?’
Mrs Edgars nodded. Relief crashed through Morgan. ‘No, I really did do it all myself, with help from websites, obviously. And, I guess because it was about a ghost who was born in my room, I had a personal connection to it.’
Mrs Edgars smiled. ‘Aside from the ghost silliness, I’m impressed. If this is all your own work, you should enter it into the Ford Prize. You’d be representing the school on a national level.’
The Girl and the Ghost Page 10