by T M Creedy
‘I wouldn’t touch you with someone else’s, ya ugly cunt!’
‘Ha Donny! Rejected, mate!’ Someone cheers from the darkened room.
‘Yeah, Donny! She’s got your measure already.’ Jeers someone else.
‘She’s going nowhere near my ‘measure’, fuckin slag!’ Donny shouts back. ‘Wouldn’t touch her with someone else’s!’
‘Yeah, you said that already.’ I’m bored with this fat pig now. ‘Get some original material, eh?’ Donny takes a step towards me and raises his hand as if to slap me across my face. ‘Oh charming! Hitting women as well, no wonder they’re all falling over themselves to get with you. Look at them all.’ I indicate the empty space beside me. ‘You’re disgusting!’ I’m almost enjoying this now, I doubt any woman in this town has ever said no to the charismatic Donny before.
‘Donny!’ A new voice joins in the melee. ‘Outside. Now!’ I catch a glimpse of a pretty, dark haired girl wearing a too tight sparkly dress, far more suited to a Vegas strip club than a backwater pub. She has a face on her like a smacked arse and she gives me a death glare before beckoning Donny with one finger. The equally likable Cheryl, I’m sure. Donny pulls himself up and lumbers after her, but not before shoving a fat, sausage finger in my face and hissing. ‘I’ll get you, fucking bitch.’
Do you know what? That’s it. Even the lure of playing the slot machines isn’t worth putting up with this bunch of nutters. I sling my bag over my shoulder and make to leave the room, but a mass of dirty pink velour steps in front of me. Belle. Oh man, that’s all I need. But to my surprise she’s looking at me with new respect.
‘Good on ya, mate! Never seen anyone stand up to that bastard before.’ She claps me on the back in a friendly manner and almost sends me flying again. ‘Thinks he’s God’s gift, that one. And I should know, I went out with him for long enough!’ She gives a deep, rumbling laugh that’s surprising pleasant to listen to, although I can’t believe she was ever his girlfriend – she looks twenty years older than him.
'Hey, sorry about before, you know, stepping on you and that. It was a genuine accident but ...sometimes me mouth runs way ahead of me brain. Anyway, I shouldn't have pushed you and I apologise.' Belle voice is firm, her repentance obvious.
'Apology accepted.' I hold out my hand for her to shake and Belle takes it in a grip worthy of a professional wrestler. 'I guess you could say we got off on the wrong foot?' I joke, and Belle doubles over with laughter.
'Ah you!' She wipes tears of mirth from her eyes. 'You're a dag, ain't ya? I always thought you English were too stuck up to crack jokes!' She belts me hard on the arm again, but it's delivered with affection, and I know if Belle and I do become friends I'll be black and blue with her good-natured punches.
'Hey, I've got an idea!' Belle's face lights up and I can see she's actually quite nice looking when you get past the drunken scowl. 'You should come and give a talk to my class!'
'Your class?' I wonder.
'Yeah. I teach years five and six over at Ararat Primary, and we're studying the Victorians at the moment; Industrial Revolution, prison reform, child labour, all that. The kids will love it if you came to school and gave a talk about real life London.'
'Oh, I don't know.' It's the last thing I feel like doing. 'I really don't know much about history.'
'Nah, it'll be great. A real English accent, can you Cockney it up a bit? They'll just ask you all sorts of daft questions about London, you don't have to know much but mention Jack the Ripper - they'll love that, gruesome little buggers!'
'Well....' I stall. 'Um, I'll think about it.' Before I can give it a second thought the words just pop out of my mouth. 'Do you ever take the class on field trips? You should bring them up to Crowlands House, there's a whole top floor that's never been touched. It's still looks exactly how it was back when it was a children’s home at the end of the eighteen hundreds. Might be good for your kids to see how those poor children lived then, bit of a comparison to how fortunate their lives are now.'
Belle's eyes grow wide.
'That's a GREAT idea! That house is part of the local history curriculum, and all the kids think it's haunted, so a trip to the real thing will have them in fits! Lemme know when we can set it up. There'll have to be a risk assessment first and the school board will have to give the OK, but I can't see a problem with that. We can bring packed lunches and have a picnic on the lawn, make a day of it. I'll get Annie, the art teacher, to help with the herding and she can get them to draw the house as part of her art lesson.' Belle's mind is whirring with all the possibilities and she insists on giving me her number, making me promise to phone her at school on Monday after she's floated the idea at the weekly staff meeting.
I escape the pub and its unsavoury patrons through a side door at the end of the pokies room. It leads out into a small low-maintenance courtyard where people go to smoke, but there's a narrow alley which brings me out onto the main street and I walk briskly back towards the ute, only stopping to pick up some hot fish and chips from the takeaway in front of it. It's been a very strange day and it's catching up with me and I drive tiredly back to Crowlands House. The bright headlights pick out the occasional scurrying creature at the side of the road, and I squint with the effort of keeping the truck within the unmarked lane. I didn't think to leave a light on when I left the house and it rises up, dark and sullen in the muted moonlight. The paper-wrapped parcel of rapidly cooling fried fish smells of soggy newsprint when I finally pull up near the feed shed, and I wish I had had the foresight to leave a torch in the ute. I pop open the flap of the glovebox and feel around blindly, hoping to feel the reassuring shape of a torch but all I can feel is old scraps of material and some loose papers. The pockets on the driver’s door prove empty but I come up trumps when there's a small Maglite fixed to the space between the two seats. I go around the front of the house, preferring to open one of the verandah doors and enter the house directly into the lounge, rather than face the dark sweep of that silent staircase from the main front door. Switching on all the lights in the lounge, even the side lamps, I turn the television to a light-hearted romcom that's just starting, filling the room with its cheerful banality. Bendi follows me into the house from some secret hiding place under the boards, drawn by the smell of cooked fish, and even Bali is tempted into sitting quietly by the open door waiting for a share of the spoils. I end up dividing the lukewarm white flesh equally between the two cats, saving the batter for myself and filling up on dry chips. I put cat food down for them both as well, but they both turn up their noses and wander out onto the steps to wash and preen. I don't even bother going upstairs to change. I lock up, checking all the doors and throwing a glance at the laundry door but it remains closed, how I left it this morning. I use the downstairs bathroom and rub my teeth with toothpaste in the absence of my toothbrush. I can't bring myself to even climb the stairs to the first floor, too scared to run the length of the corridor to my room and fetch it. There's a faded tartan blanket resting on the back of one of the chairs in the lounge and I use this as a cover, stretching out as best I can on the two-seater couch.
The TV and the lights stay on all night. From my makeshift bed I can only hear the false frivolity of the channels' infomercials lulling me to sleep, and drowning out the desperate scratches and thumps coming from the second floor.
I wake to find Bendi curled up into a small ball on my stomach. My neck has a bad crick from where I slept leaning against the arm of the couch. The telly is blaring out a mind-numbing children’s cartoon and the electric lights look yellow against the purity of the sunlight streaming in the windows. The events of yesterday stream through my mind; from the mysterious boy in the photo to meeting Pindari and Belle, and making enemies of Donny and the weasel-faced man at the garage. The house seems benevolent in the daytime, a benign presence rather than a frightening one, and I have no problem going upstairs to my bedroom for a hot shower and a change of clothes. I slept in my jeans last night and have deep marks on my s
kin where the seams dug into me overnight. Remembering the chocolate cake I promised Drew I throw eggs, sugar, flour and cocoa powder into Margie’s professional mixer and soon the appetizing aroma of baking cake fills the kitchen. Both the cats join me for breakfast and they help me finish the buttered toast I make, while I brew a second cup of tea. When the cake is cooked, and sits on the counter cooling down enough for me to ice, I flick through Reverend Taylor’s book, looking at the photos until I get to the part about the house. There is a whole chapter dedicated to Crowlands House, and the Reverend certainly did his homework.
‘…Between the years of 1898 and 1905, Crowlands House was home to ‘The Crowlands Institute of Scientific Research into Incurable Mental Diseases in Children’ and up to twenty unfortunates from all over the state were housed there at any given time. The benefactor behind the home was Doctor Silas Baldwin, a well-respected Edinburgh trained scholar of medicine, with a special interest in genetic disorders in children, particularly Mongolism, and those of below average intelligence, a result of inbreeding within the lower classes and races.’
Accompanying the text is a black and white photo of a group of children on the lawn in front of the steps to the main entrance. Two rows of small faces look blankly at the camera, the girls dressed in plain white pinafores and the boys in grey shorts and buttoned up shirts. Flanking each row grim-faced adults stand to attention, some in the black uniforms typical of Victorian housekeepers, some in the white wimpled headdresses of nurses. In the centre of the children, seated regally on the only chair in the photo is Dr Silas Baldwin, top hatted and heavily bearded. He stares at the lens with the arrogant tilt of the head of the British upper classes, his black eyes challenging the viewer, as if daring him to question these respected doctors’ right to play God to these children. I scan the faces in the grainy picture carefully, looking for similarities to the little boy in my photo but I can’t pick him out from the other boys, they all have similar haircuts and clothing. The girls however, despite their identical aprons, are easier to distinguish. Several have the dark hair and broad features of the Australian Aboriginal people, and I can see two which have the undeniable facial characteristics and shorter stature of Down syndrome children. I study the faces of the nurses intently, positive that the one on the left is the nurse from my dream, the one missing the back of her head.
There is a second photo on the next page showing the inside of one of the bedrooms on the upper floor. Six small boys stand to attention at the end of their iron bedsteads, the bare floorboards and drab painted walls identical to how that same room looks today. I can just make out the white painted door of the cupboard and I know this is the last room on the right, the one where I captured the image of the little boy in the doorway. There are no comforts in this room; the photo shows each boy had a blanket – no pillow – and a rectangular locker at the side of each bed. There are no toys, no personal possessions on show and the walls are bare apart from one framed bible verse ‘Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline will drive it far away. Proverbs 22.15’. The whole effect is chilling, there is not a shred of warmth or love in any of the adult faces, and the boys, even the tiny ones, all have the vacant stares of the incurably institutionalised. In his conclusion of the chapter on Crowlands House the Reverend writes of the scandal which led to the forcible closure of the home in 1903.
‘… Rumours of widespread abuse dogged the children’s home for many years before the newly reformed Government Department of Social Welfare stepped in and removed the remaining children, with the home finally closing its doors for good in April 1903. Whispers of medical experimentation on its residents, physical and sexual abuse, suicide and even murder plagued the region long after the home fell into disrepair. Dr Baldwin’s reputation could not recover from the accusations of mistreatment of the vulnerable children in his care and, several days after his research project was shut down, he was found hanging from the boughs of the Ghost Gum which still stands guard over the house to this day.’
Oh God, how creepy! The mad doctor hung himself from the gumtree outside, no wonder the place has such an eerie atmosphere. Medical experimentation, sexual abuse – it’s easy to understand why the house reverberates with unhappy vibes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I ice the cake with double chocolate frosting, licking the spoon when I have finished. I find a plate in the pantry which has pictures of running dogs circling the border and one of them reminds me of Bonnie, so the whole cake is transferred onto it and covered with cling film. I’m keen to find Drew, to give him the cake and talk over what I’ve found out about the history of the house; and to see what he makes of the ghostly boy in the photo on my phone. I carry my offering down the track and head left, in the direction Drew vaguely waved at when describing his caravan. It takes a while to find, and my neck is slippery with sweat and is a magnet for horseflies which I can’t swat away due to my arms being full. The only reason I spot the caravan is because of the sun glinting on one of its windows, flashing in my eyes, and I can make out the small humped shape of the roof almost hidden from view under a copse of shady trees. Bonnie hears me before I get there and comes running up to me, bounding and barking, and jumping up to try and see what it is I’ve got that smells so good. Drew is sitting on an upturned log outside the caravan door and raises his hand in greeting as I crest a small hill before stumbling down the mild slope to his campsite. He gets up and takes the plate from me, eyeing the cake appreciatively, and swinging a metal bucket onto the open fire.
‘Looks great! Ever had billy tea?’ He swirls some dried leaves into the water in the bucket.
‘No. Never heard of it.’ The water heats and I can smell the familiar liquorice aroma of eucalyptus leaves, along with other herby smells I don’t recognise.
‘Bush tea. Can’t beat it. Good for whatever ails ya!’ Drew smiles. ‘I’ll see if I can find some clean plates for this delicious looking cake.’ He crashes around the inside of the caravan for a couple of minutes before appearing with two chipped, but clean, saucers and a wicked looking knife. ‘Do you want to do the honours?’ He says, handing me the knife handle first. I cut two big wedges of cake for each of us, and a small piece for Bonnie with Drew’s blessing. Drew pours the boiling contents of the bucket into enamel mugs, and the fragrant tea is heavenly, spicy and savoury with a hint of medicinal eucalyptus. Drew wolfs down two more slices of cake, declaring it the best he’s ever had.
‘So, I need to show you the photos I took on the upper floor yesterday.’ I hand him my phone and he fumbles with it as if unfamiliar with the technology. I have to show him how to scroll between the pictures and how to zoom in. He flips through the ones of the bedrooms and bathroom, looking closely at the one of the cupboard in the boy’s dormitory.
‘That board’s loose.’ He states, frowning. ‘I didn’t notice that when we were up there.’
‘I know, I didn’t either, but it really sticks out in the photo.’
‘I have to go up and check it out. It could be where the noises are coming from, could be mice under the floorboards.’ He reaches the last photo and freezes. ‘Holy Smokes! That’s a kid!’
I smile, relieved he sees it too.
‘Yes! That’s what I wanted you to see. It’s definitely a little boy isn’t it?’
‘Looks like it.’ Drew frowns and zooms the picture in as far as it will go. ‘Something wrong with his eyes though. No mistaking it. You’ve caught a ghost on camera.’ He hands me back the phone. ‘The question is, now what? What do we do about it?’
I like that he’s said ‘we’ like he’s in this with me, and I’m glad of his unconditional friendship.
‘I really don’t know. Do you think we should get a priest or someone in to bless the place?’
Drew snorts as if unamused.
‘Only priests I ever knew did more harm than good. We’d be better off finding a local tribal elder, someone who can give us advice on what to do about the spirits in the hou
se.’
‘You think there’s more than one?’ I ask. I hadn’t really thought about there being more than just the ghost of the little boy. ‘Are they dangerous, do you think? Am I safe staying there?’
Drew is quiet for a long time, looking speculatively into the dying embers of the fire. Finally, he seems to come to a conclusion.
‘Put it this way. It’s pretty clear you have a spirit in the house who’s trying to communicate with you. Now, to my way of thinking, they’re just children, so I don’t know why you’d need to be afraid of them.’
I mull this over for a while and realise he’s right. I feel sorry for them, little kids torn from their families and dumped out here to be misused.
‘Maybe I should try and communicate with them back? See if they’ll talk to me, tell me what they want.’ Drew is nodding.
‘Yeah, reckon it’s worth a try. We could put some toys up in their rooms, maybe some paper and pencils too. See if any of them leave us any messages.’
‘That’s easily done. I’ll go to the charity shop in town on Monday and buy a few stuffed animals and games. Do you want to come back up to the house today and take a look at that floorboard?’ I bustle about, clearing up the plates and mugs but Drew puts a hand on my arm and stills me.
‘Leave that. I’ll do it later. Just put the dishes in the bucket to soak – another good thing about bush tea, it cleans up dirty plates like magic!’ He grins and takes out a battered old leather tobacco pouch and starts rolling a cigarette. ‘Me and Bonnie need to check on some of the calves first, we’ll be up later if that’s alright? Might not be until sunset though.’
‘No, that’s OK. I could do some dinner if you like.’ I’ll be glad of the company come nightfall to be honest.
‘Nah, you’re alright. Couldn’t ask you to do that after you went through all that trouble making us the cake. We don’t need feeding, but I’ll come upstairs with you and take a look over it again, if you want.’