The Girl and the Ghost

by Ebony McKenna

  ‘. . . our family home and a heritage building. Demanding its demolition would not only make our family homeless, it would desecrate an important estate from Australia’s history. We’ll take this all the way to the High Court if need be.’

  Morgan wanted to leap out of the car and drag him away, but it would only fan the media flames.

  George leaned in close to Morgan so that Dave wouldn’t hear him. ‘Shall I contribute interference?’

  Morgan mouthed ‘no’, even though she loved the suggestion. Then she turned to Dave. ‘I guess it was too much to expect Gareth to stay quiet.’

  ‘The human camera magnet.’ Dave shook his head and hit the remote to open the garage. Morgan welcomed the dark serenity as the roller door closed behind them.

  Safe behind the castle walls for another night.

  ‘You’re going to say you’re not hungry, but you must to have something for dinner. I’ve made vichyssoise soup.’

  ‘What an amazing range of talents you have,’ George said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Dave said as he climbed out of the car. Then he froze. ‘That was the ghost again, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Morgan said, fighting back a smirk.

  Dave shook his head and held the door open for Morgan. ‘Just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder.’

  The soup aromas were divine, but as she tried a spoonful her stomach clenched in rebellion. It didn’t help that Dave had served her a bowl the size of her head.

  ‘It’s just nerves making you feel full,’ Dave said. ‘You’re actually starving.’

  ‘The man is correct. We can’t have you wasting away,’ George said.

  Dave flinched at the sound of his voice. ‘Can he go away . . . for a bit? I’m not . . . it’s giving me the creeps.’

  ‘So you admit you can hear him then?’ Morgan said.

  ‘I admit nothing. None of this is real. We’re all living in The Matrix. Except the third film which was crap.’

  Poor Dave. If only he could see George instead of only hearing him, he might not be so freaked out.

  ‘I would never wish to be the cause of further upset,’ George made a bow to Morgan and promptly vanished.

  ‘Thanks George.’

  ‘Is he –?’

  ‘It’s alright, he’s gone now. He just said he’ll leave you alone because you’re so sensitive.’ Morgan giggled to herself and forced some more soup down. Ordinarily she’d slurp it down in record time but each mouthful had to get past the blockade of nerves in her throat. Her eyes turned blurry again as fresh tears threatened to plop into the bowl. ‘Where’s Mum?’

  ‘She’s in her room. Eating less than you I might add. If you stop eating entirely I’ll have to look for a new job.’

  ‘And the cooking show?’

  Dave wiped an imaginary spot on the bench top. ‘Officially it’s on hold. But unofficially . . .’ he shrugged.

  ‘What about . . .’ Morgan had to swallow extra hard. Dave was right, the soup was doing her the world of good physically, but her emotions were in a cement mixer. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Your father is staying somewhere else for the time being.’

  Morgan stirred the soup with no real intention of having any more. ‘Antarctica?’

  ‘No such luck. He said something about the town house.’

  ‘Didn’t know we had one.’

  ‘Yeah. I guess there’s a lot we didn’t know about your dad.’

  Weak from emotional fatigue, Morgan pushed her bowl forward in defeat. Her family had hit rock bottom. Maybe she could grab another roof tile to keep George by her side, then they could knock the place down.

  Why not? It wasn’t a home any more, that’s for sure.

  The only silver lining in this hideous cloud was that nothing could get any worse.

  16

  Feeding the Monster

  Of course things got worse. Another glossy magazine – one of the cheerful ones that only ever reported ‘nice’ news – ran a feature on Gareth. It was all about Gareth ‘bravely’ facing the world after years of personal pain. Gareth speaking of how the theatre saved him. Gareth demurring on when he officially ‘came out’ and of course his most recent family crisis.

  ‘Why do people read this crap?’ Morgan asked Dave as she devoured every word on the website instead of her muesli and yoghurt.

  ‘It was so long ago, I can hardly remember.’ The theatre darling says with a shrug. ‘It helped that I had such a supportive family. Having a gay manny as a sounding board was vital for those difficult, teen years.’

  Morgan choked. Good thing she didn’t have any food in her mouth.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Dave stopped pouring the tea and looked up.

  Heat flared across her neck and face. At least her mother wasn’t here to see this. She’d vanished to her wing of the house in a haze of tranquilisers and home visits from Dr Bhavani. That’s got to be a sign you’re in serious trouble, right? When the specialists come to you?

  ‘I’m just, ah, laughing at Gareth. Being a prat.’

  ‘What have I told you about tautologies?’ He smirked and checked his phone. ‘Which mag?’

  ‘Um.’ Uh-oh. He wanted to read it? Then she remembered she had nothing to feel guilty about – this was all Gareth’s doing, not hers. ‘It’s easier to read on this. But you, you won’t like it.’ She handed over her iPad and waited for the bomb to go off.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I like’ Dave said as he started reading. Then his face burned red. ‘Christ on a stick! He’s outing me?’

  Taut silence hung between them. Morgan’s breakfast remained untouched.

  Dave shook his head. ‘The little bastard.’

  ‘Is it really so bad?’

  Dave glared at her.

  Shrugging her shoulders: ‘Nobody really cares if you’re gay, do they?’

  He rubbed his forehead. ‘But I’m not.’

  Wait what? ‘I thought you were!’

  Dave stared at Morgan, aghast.

  ‘Well? Aren’t you? You’re a manny, you love cooking, you wear nice clothes . . . Not that it’s ever mattered one way or the other.’

  Dave boggled at her. ‘I thought I raised you better than that!’

  Morgan flicked stuff from underneath her fingernails. ‘This isn’t going to make the slightest dent in your social life. If women think you’re gay, they’ll only try harder to convert you.’

  ‘But I’m not gay!’

  ‘Well . . .’ Morgan tried to think. ‘Why haven’t I ever seen you with a girlfriend then?’

  ‘Because this is my workplace! And you’re an impressionable child and I keep things separate.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Morgan put her palms up in defeat.

  Dave gave a noisy sigh. ‘It’s not . . . I mean. Personally, I shouldn’t care. It’s just Gareth being Gareth . . . the little swine.’

  ‘See, that’s where people think you’re gay. ‘Swine’ is such a –’

  Dave let rip with a string of profanities that had Morgan reeling in shock.

  ‘Geez, Dave, I’m gonna have to wash my ears out!’

  ‘Like I said, this is a workplace. I usually keep things PG-12.’

  Morgan took her bowl to the compost bin and scraped out the contents. She cast a look out the window to see an even larger media contingent at the gate. Stupid Gareth and his inability to shut his cake-hole. ‘There’s no way I can get through that today,’ she said.

  ‘You’d be driving yourself.’ Dave looked out the window at the cameras clotting their exit. ‘Anyway, it’s Friday. What’s one day off every now and then?’

  ‘I think it’s Thursday.’

  Mum came down to what would have been breakfast. Hair all over the shop like a dolly left in a sandpit overnight. ‘I need to eat something.’ She held on to the kitchen bench, her knuckles turning white.

  Morgan closed her iPad so her mother wouldn’t see the latest media intrusion into their lives.

  Dave’s face lit up. ‘Got
your appetite back then?’

  Rachelle forced out a laugh. ‘Doctor B says I can’t have these tablets on an empty stomach.’

  Dave smiled. ‘Of course not. One Croque-Madame coming up.’

  Mmm, fancy toasted sandwiches. Morgan started feeling a teensy bit hungry. ‘While you’re at it, Dave . . .’

  ‘Excellent. I have something to do at last.’

  Rachelle drank the cloudy apple juice Dave poured for her. ‘I’m not really that hungry.’

  ‘I know. But you look terrible and this will put some colour back in your cheeks.’

  ‘You’re a doctor now?’

  ‘An enthusiastic amateur,’ Dave said with a wink. ‘And seriously, you look like the wreck of the Hesperus. It’s one thing to be upset, quite another to let yourself go. I’m giving you two more days of feeling like crap before you’re coming back to work.’

  ‘See, Dave, there’s another one. ‘Hesperus’, I mean, no wonder people think –’

  ‘Shut up, Morgan,’ he said.

  Rachelle burst into tears.

  Ooops. Morgan and Dave exchanged guilty looks. Morgan wrapped her arms around mum, freeing Dave to make the toasties. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong, Mum. This is all Dad’s fault, pure and simple.’

  ‘And that slapper’s fault too.’ Mum blurted. ‘Why do they do it? She knew he was married! I don’t understand. I simply. Do. Not. Understand.’

  ‘Women always want what they can’t have,’ Dave said with a shrug.

  The topic boggled Morgan. ‘But why do they go after married men if they know they’ll never have them?’

  ‘The answer to that would win a Nobel prize for psychiatry,’ Dave said.

  Morgan wasn’t sure there was a Nobel in that category, but she let it slide for now. Something new and unwelcome wormed into her brain. Women wanted what they couldn’t have . . . and for the first time she began to understand how easy it would be to fall for someone out of reach. ‘Wanting what you can’t have. That’s just like me and George, isn’t it?’

  The poignancy of the moment cracked like a cricket ball through a window as mum wailed, ‘For God’s sake Morgan, not everything is about you!’

  Ohhhhhhkay then! Morgan gulped down a retort and resumed rubbing her distraught mother’s back. ‘It feels bad now, but we know it will all blow over in a few more days. They’ll find someone else to pick on.’

  ‘I don’t want the show any more. I don’t want to do it. Who needs another cooking show anyway?’ Rachelle wailed into Morgan’s shoulder.

  ‘That’s just the grief talking,’ Dave said as he clamped the lid down on the panini maker.

  ‘No, I’m serious. The world doesn’t need another bored housewife making micro salads. If I kept going . . . that out there,’ she pointed towards the window, where they knew the media were waiting for them, ‘would be my life. Every. Single. Day. I can’t handle it. I don’t want it.’

  Dave’s face dropped two shades.

  ‘But Mum, what about Dave. He’s part of the show too.’

  ‘He is the show,’ Rachelle said, dragging her dressing gown sleeve over her face. ‘It’s all his work and I’m trying to cover for the fact I can’t do more than burn water. Speaking of burned . . .’

  ‘Oh!’ Dave rescued the toasted sandwiches. They’d reached a deep golden brown and were on their way to coal-infused. ‘Nice catch.’

  The three of them sat on barstools around the island bench as they talked and pushed their food around. Sitting together, eating barely a bite and feeling full anyway.

  ‘I really do need to pull myself out of this funk. I have completely lost track of time. How bad is that? I didn’t even know it was Saturday,’ Rachelle said.

  ‘It’s Thursday,’ Morgan corrected.

  ‘Then why aren’t you at school? Your father pays a king’s ransom for your education.’

  Morgan conceded, ‘Because I’m in a funk as well, and I’m sick of facing all that out there.’

  ‘Do you want to be home schooled?’

  ‘Nope.’ Being around her mother all day wouldn’t be the best idea. And schooling from home would destroy what little social life she had. ‘I’m taking a self-care day, that’s all.’

  Dave looked out the window and said, ‘Oh God. Kill me now. Your brother’s here.’

  ‘Which one?’

  Dave crossed his arms over his chest. ‘That one.’

  Morgan peeked out the window. Good thing they had netting on the curtains to block prying eyes.

  Rachelle tisked. ‘Typical Gareth. Never met a camera he didn’t like.’

  Morgan and Dave exchanged nervous glances.

  ‘I saw that! What’s going on?’ Rachelle said.

  ‘Nothing –’ Morgan and Dave said together, which only made them look guilty.

  Agony twisted Morgan’s insides as she watched and waited – and waited – for Gareth to finally get through the media mob and – oh please, don’t stand at the door and look back!

  Gareth walked from the mudroom into the kitchen, sunshine all over his face. ‘Good morning famil –’

  Dave smacked a full stop into him.

  ‘Ow my face!’ Gareth staggered back, his hands over his nose. Blood trickled out through his fingers. ‘Owwwwwww!’

  ‘Dave!’ Morgan and Mum screamed together. Morgan added, ‘Don’t be a thug!’

  ‘It was an open hand!’ Dave said.

  ‘That doesn’t make it all right.’ Morgan yelled back.

  Rachelle ran the cold taps and soaked a tea towel.

  ‘Tha’ hur’,’ Gareth protested as Mum pressed the wet towel over his nose and draped his face over the basin. Blood sploshed marbled patterns into the water.

  Morgan stared hard at Dave. ‘Violence doesn’t solve anything.’

  ‘Yeah, but I feel better,’ Dave said.

  ‘Sack ‘im Mum,’ Gareth said.

  ‘And you!’ Morgan turned on her brother, ‘You can apologise to Dave right now.’

  ‘Wha’ for? He hit me!’

  ‘And he was provoked by your stupid interview where you said he was gay!’

  ‘It’s an insult to be gay now, is it?’ Gareth said.

  Rachelle joined in. ‘What do you mean he said Dave was gay?’

  Morgan showed Mum the article on her device. Her lips pressed tightly together as she read, highlighting all the wrinkles around her mouth. When she finished, she shook her head. ‘Oh, Gareth. I’m so disappointed in you.’

  Gareth hid his face in the towel. All things considered it was probably the wisest move he could make.

  ‘Apologise to Dave for outing him like that,’ Rachelle said.

  ‘Sorry Dave,’ came Gareth’s muffled response.

  ‘Not that it matters, but I’m not gay,’ Dave butted in.

  Rachelle’s eyes rolled wide. ‘You’re not? But . . . you’ve seen me in my dressing gown and–’ she gasped at a memory. ‘You’ve seen me breastfeeding Gareth. And Morgan!’

  Dave had the grace to blush. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You dirty beggar!’ She picked up a kitchen sponge and hurled it at him. He dodged, it sailed past and hit the wall with a wet squelch.

  ‘But seriously,’ Rachelle pressed her luck. ‘How are you not? You’re a manny and . . . I’ve never seen you with a girlfriend.’

  ‘Hello? Professional boundaries.’

  ‘But it’s just . . . such an odd career choice, really.’

  ‘Not with the current housing crisis,’ Dave said. ‘What other job would pay me to live in an inner suburb with a great family and half a cooking show?’

  Gareth said, ‘I knew he was trying to muscle in on your show.’

  ‘Shut up Gareth,’ they chorused.

  ‘Wonderful news!’ George suddenly appeared in the room, his face lit up like Christmas. ‘I found my family!’

  As one, everyone gasped.

  Morgan’s head was about to explode.

  ‘It appears I have arrived at an inopportune moment
. But Morgan, I simply had to share this with you. How wonderful, it appears your mother, valet and brother can all hear me at long last. It also seems your brother is in some kind of distress.’

  ‘I’m not a valet, I’m a manny,’ Dave said.

  ‘I stand corrected,’ George gave him a respectful nod.

  Rachelle said nothing as she breathed through her mouth from the shock. Gareth too, whose mouth breathing was brought on through necessity from his blocked and bloody nose.

  Tension thickened the air. Morgan coughed. ‘I’m really happy for you, I am. It’s just that we were um . . .’

  ‘Clearly in the midst of emotional upheaval. I see the outside world is still clamouring for your private pain.’

  ‘Got that right.’ Morgan turned to Gareth. ‘If you’d kept your mouth shut for a few more days it would have all blown over.’

  But Gareth didn’t react to the insult. He was too busy staring at the new addition to the room. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Dave said, ‘Whoa, Gazza, you can see him?’

  ‘You hit me pretty hard,’ he said. ‘I think I’m seeing things.’

  George nodded his head and removed his riding hat. ‘George Sebastian Wallace, at your service my good man.’

  ‘Nothing good about him,’ Morgan said as she sneered at her brother.

  ‘How did you ged in?’ Gareth again.

  Ah, so Gareth thought he was a regular person, and not a ghost. Still, others being able to see him was a huge development.

  ‘He’s always been here, haven’t you George.’ Morgan bounced on her heels. ‘He came with the house, all the way from Portland.’

  Rachelle turned the tap off and looked about for another tea towel. On finding none, she used the edge of Gareth’s cardigan. ‘Morgan darling, is this the er, the gentleman you were talking about?’

  ‘Steady on,’ Gareth pulled away from Rachelle as she dirtied his fine cloth.

  Morgan confirmed it. ‘George is my ghost. And I take it you can all see him like I can?’

  Everyone mutely nodded.

  ‘Phew!’ She let out a long-held-in breath. ‘That is such a relief. For a while there I really thought I was going bonkers.’

  ‘So when you told Doctor Bhavani you were–’