by T M Creedy
I get to my feet. Bonnie lies in a patch of sunlight, lazily wagging her tail.
‘OK. Well, see you both later then.’ I brush the dust from my shorts and start back towards the house.
‘Righto.’ Drew leans back against the side of a caravan, watching me go.
I do a bit of tidying and dusting, making good on my promise to Margie to keep up the place. It’s a lovely day outside, too nice to be wasted indoors, so I try my hand at a bit of weeding, pulling up the weeds which have sprung up between the gnarled, woody trunks of the rose bushes. It is satisfying but hot work and I have to stop several times to go indoors for a hat, and refill the bottle of water I took from the fridge. The cats play happily in the garden, stalking beetles and occasionally nosing over to me, as if to pass comment on my hard work. After a couple of hours my back is aching with the strain of being bent over and my arms are glowing bright pink against the yellow of my t-shirt. In my shopping mania in town the one thing I forgot was to get a decent sunscreen, and my pale English skin is already showing signs of burning. There might be some in one of the bathroom cupboards, if I’m lucky, which I could use until I get back into town again.
Thinking of the local characters I met last night, I’m reluctant to show my face there for a while. Apart from Pindari and Belle, the townspeople of Ararat are definitely not friendly. It occurs to me that I could go further afield, get the train back to Ballarat, which is much larger, and I doubt anyone there would care who I am or where I’m living, and I make a note to look up the train times. I can leave the ute in the station carpark for the day, I’m sure. Thinking of Pindari reminds me of what he told me about his Great-Aunty, that she worked here for a time, and I think I’ll take him up on his offer to introduce us. I’m interested to see what she remembers about the place, and whether there were ghosts here then. Any scrap of information is another piece of the puzzle.
I trail back inside, my eyes taking a moment to adjust after being in the bright glare for so long. There’s nothing in the bathroom downstairs except for spare toilet roll and an old piece of soap, and my bathroom fares no better – there’s no sunscreen to be found. I really don’t want to have to drive all the way into the supermarket just for that, so I resign myself to spending the rest of the day indoors, or at least in the shade of the verandah. I’m getting used to having my days free and I can hardly remember what it was like to work full time. This must be like being retired, I think, only without scrimping by on a state pension. Last night’s broken sleep and today’s exercise take their toll and I fall into a gentle doze, waking a couple of hours later to a setting sun and two hungry cats loudly voicing their meal preferences. Drew did say he would be up sometime around sunset. There is a bit of leftover chicken in the fridge and I stir it into a pasta sauce and layer it over some lasagne sheets I found in the pantry, before setting the whole thing to bake in the oven. If Drew doesn’t want any there’ll be plenty of leftovers for me tomorrow.
Night falls quickly again and there’s barely a pale blue glow left in the sky, and a brilliant new moon casts its silver light over the landscape. As has become my habit the television is on for company, and I’m so engrossed in a story about wildlife being caught up in bushfires near Sydney I almost miss the sound of an engine revving loudly at the end of the track. The glare of headlights flashing through the glass makes me look up and there’s a strange truck speeding up the lawn and screeching into a handbrake turn on Mac’s pristine lawn. I can hear Guns’n’Roses Paradise City blaring from the truck stereo, along with hooting male laughter and the unmistakeable sound of gunshots blast into the sky above the house.
‘HEY POMMY BITCH!’ It’s Donny, from the pub last night. I can’t see clearly into the cab of the truck but I think there are two other people with him, and then the nasally whine of the dickhead from the garage calls out to me.
‘HEY! Stuck-up CUNT! Come out here. We wanna talk to you.’ There is the smash of glass as a beer bottle lands on the concrete steps. I know they can see me, silhouetted in the light from the living room but I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of stepping outside to confront them. I could call Pindari, but I have no idea of the emergency number for the Police, and anyway, by the time he gets all the way out here who knows what damage these idiots can do.
‘Oi! CUNT! Get out here and cheek us now, bitch!’ Another smash, another gunshot. The truck wheel spins, digging an even deeper rut into the lawn, before spinning around and driving directly towards me. It churns up Margie’s flowerbeds and bounces to a halt at the bottom of the steps, gunning its engine threateningly.
‘Come on sweetheart! We won’t hurt you. Much!’ Drunken, hysterical laughter fills the night and I’m seriously scared now. There are three of them and only one of me, and there’s nothing to stop them smashing their way into the house and doing God knows what. I settle for turning off all the lights, creeping in the hidden shadows to lock the doors before running upstairs into my bedroom, which at least has a key in the door, and lock myself in. I listen as the truck continues its destruction of the front gardens, the sound of rock music interspersed with shouts and deafening gunshots. The fact that they have guns is enough to make my stomach cramp with fear; surely what they’re doing to me will see them facing long prison sentences. I sit against the wall under the window, listening out for any sound, either indoors or outside. I can still hear Guns’n’Roses but the truck seems to be still at the moment and I hope to God they’re not walking about the place, trying to get in. One of the guns goes off again and I think of the poor cats, hoping they’ve got the sense to stay out of sight and range. All goes quiet but for the rumbling of the engine, they’ve stopped shouting and shooting, and I hope they’ve got bored with this game and will leave me alone. I don’t hear anything for another couple of minutes so I crawl across my floor and unlock my bedroom door. The hallway is silent and still. Stealthily I tiptoe to one of the guest rooms across the hall, where the windows look down onto the front garden. Dropping down out of sight, I slowly peek around the window frame and take in the scene below. The truck is still there. The headlights are still trained on the front door of the house but there is no music, and no shouting coming from the cab now.
The truck idles smoothly, unmoving.
Illuminated in the glare of the lights is a tall male figure. He stands directly in front of the truck, holding one hand out as if to stop it moving any further. The motionless figure of a dog stands by his side, poised, waiting for the slightest signal from the man to spring forward and attack. It’s Drew! Drew and Bonnie are here! Drew shows no sign of fear even though he must have heard the gunshots. He simply stands in the beam of light and shakes his head, the fun is over for tonight. He points in the direction of the road without speaking and I watch in disbelief as the truck suddenly reverses at speed and swings around so sharply it nearly rolls, before zooming down the driveway and out onto the main road, wobbling wildly as the driver tries to get the vehicle under control. The red tail lights blink and finally disappear. Drew waits until the truck has completely gone from sight before turning his attention to the ripped up gardens. I sprint downstairs and out the front door.
‘Drew! Oh, thank God! I was so scared.’ Bonnie jumps up at me to lick my face, concerned by the panic in my voice and the tears I don’t realise are streaming down my cheeks. I reach Drew and throw myself into his arms. He smells of old leather, horses and tobacco and it’s the sweetest, safest smell in the world. ‘I really thought they’d break in and hurt me.’ I sob into his chest and he smooths warm hands over my shaking back.
‘Do you know who they were?’
‘Just some idiots from town. I don’t think I was suitably grateful for their attentions last night, if you know what I mean.’ Drew grimaces and lets me go.
‘Look. Maybe it’s not such a good idea you living in this house on your own. It’s lucky I was on my way up when I saw those bastards tearing a strip up the road. Garden’s a bit worse for wear too.’ Together
we inspect the wheel shaped troughs which scar the lawns surface, and the tyre tracks which run across Margie’s flowering shrubs. ‘It’s not too bad. Might have to patch up some of the grass, dig over the beds, but it should sort itself out after a while.’
‘Maybe I should get a dog too.’ I sniff into Bonnie’s fur.
‘One dog is going to be no help when you’re faced with idiots with guns.’
‘You’re right. I’ll speak to Pindari about it. Maybe I can get some kind of temporary panic button installed in the house.’
The smell of burnt cheese drifts out from the kitchen and I belatedly remember the lasagne in the oven. In all the drama I completely forgot it was in there and now I’ve burnt it beyond saving. Scraping the blackened mess into the bin I offer Drew some toast, and to my surprise he accepts. Bonnie still won’t enter the house but is happy to slump down on the still warm boards of the verandah, still alert and watching for danger. I take her some cold chicken scraps as a reward which she gulps down in hungry mouthfuls, tail thumping her thanks on the floor. Drew and I sit companionably side by side at the kitchen table, eating toast with fresh honey from a local farmer, and making small talk about our families. We’re interrupted by the shrill ring of the house phone and we both pause, staring at it. It’s the first time it’s rung since I got here almost a week ago. Hesitantly I pick up the handset.
‘Hello? MacLean residence.’ I say in my most professional voice. A faint crackle comes down the line, and there’s a blast of static but no voice. ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ I try again. Buzzing and fizzing comes down the line but no one speaks. I hang up. Almost immediately, the phone rings again. Drew motions that he will pick it up this time but I shake my head, and answer the call.
‘Hello?’
‘Sara?’ A woman whispers my name. ‘Sara, that you darl?’
‘Margie!’ I exclaim, relieved and very pleased to hear Margie’s voice.
‘It’s not a very good line, love. Listen, I’ve only got a few minutes but I just wanted to check you were alright.’
‘Yes, I’m fine Margie. Everything’s fine.’
Drew raises his eyebrows and point to upstairs, miming that he’s going up to have a look. I nod, and mouth ‘be up in a sec’, going back to Margie on the phone.
‘Good, that’s good. We’ve been worried about you….’ Margie’s motherly concern wraps around me like a warm blanket.
‘No need, Margie. I’m finding my way around just fine. Met a few of the locals, been to a pub.’ I don’t tell her that several of those locals have just half frightened me to death, and ruined her gardens.
‘Are the cats behaving?’
‘Yes, they’re great. Bendi and I have become great friends, and Bali’s beginning to trust me, so long as it’s on her terms.’ I hear Margie’s throaty chuckle.
‘That sounds about right!’
‘And how are things going over there, Margie, for you and Mac?’
‘Oh, you know, hot. Mac’s out most of the time but the people we’re staying with have been wonderful. There’s some marvellous markets here. I’m thinking about asking if the cook will teach me a few local recipes – not much for me to do in the day. I don’t think the locals quite know what to make of me yet! But I am a bit homesick, darl, and that’s the truth.’ Margie sounds close to tears, but rallies quickly. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go darl. You take care love, and email me if there’s any problems.’
‘I will.’ I say, but the line is dead. Margie has gone.
I skip up the stairs to the second staircase.
‘Drew?’
There is a weak, sickly light shining through the plastic sheeting, which has a large man-sized gap through which Drew has gone into the hallway. The light is coming from two bare bulbs, hanging from the hall ceiling and it is barely enough for me to see to the end of the corridor. The two bulbs are the only electric lights up on this floor. Such luxuries were not for wasting on throwaway children, they would have had to make do with candles to light their way.
‘Drew?’ I call again.
‘Here.’ I hear him reply. I think he’s in the far room, the boy’s room. I have to run the gauntlet of the corridor, past all those gaping open doors which have nothing but darkness on the other side. I will not look, I tell myself. Eyes front, focus on the window at the end of the hall and just run. My heart is hammering in my chest when I reach the doorway. Drew is crouched in front of the open cupboard, inspecting the floorboards. He looks at me like I’m barking mad as I skid into the room, wide-eyed and shaking.
‘Think I’ve found why the board looks different to the others.’ He uses an old nail he’s found to lever up the raised board. It comes up easily, making a familiar scritch, scratch noise, and he drops it down again. Thump.
‘That’s the exact noise I’ve been hearing at night. It must be the board moving.’
‘It’s been done on purpose.’ Drew levers the boards up again. ‘I think it’s a hiding place. I can see something down there, between the joists.’ He lowers his hand into the gap between the boards.
‘Be careful.’ I plead, thinking of all the poisonous spiders and venomous snakes who love just such a hidey-hole. I have no idea what to do if Drew gets bitten by something. My education on the treatment of snake bites is a little sketchy. Drew reaches even further under the floorboards, concentration on his face, and pulls out a dusty parcel wrapped in faded cotton material. It’s a forlorn, lumpen, misshapen thing and there’s something unbearably sad about it. I go to touch it but Drew pulls my hand away.
‘Don’t touch it!’ He says sharply. ‘I need to check it for red-backs first.’ Red-backs are the notoriously dangerous spider that seem to populate all of Australia’s dark and quiet places. Drew brushes the dust off the material before carefully unrolling the parcel, exposing the contents. Inside there is a motley collection of things which no doubt held special importance for one of the children who lived in the home. A button, several pencil stubs, worn almost down to nothing. A small coin, a cardboard label, and a child’s soft toy. The toy is homemade, hand knitted from grey wool with black thread marking the eyes, nose and whiskers. From the long ears I suppose it’s meant to be a rabbit, but the toy has been so well-loved it is battered and worn almost beyond recognition. The coin is a penny, dull and greenish now, but I rub it a little bit with my thumb, making out a date of 1900. We place the treasures side by side on the floor. It’s a pitiful assortment, but it meant everything to the child who created the hiding place under the floorboards. The cardboard label is much like the ones people used to put on luggage and when we turn it over, the slanting copperplate writing tells us that ‘This belongs to: Gregory Stone, aged 7’.
A heavy sadness hangs over us as we silently contemplate Gregory’s meagre personal possessions.
‘Poor little mites.’ Drew picks up the little rabbit and strokes its drooping ears. ‘To think that they needed to hide the things they loved, instead of being able to keep them with them.’
‘What should we do with it now? I mean, I think we were meant to find this. We have a name now, Gregory. Maybe that’s all he wanted – someone to know his name.’ I have no way of knowing but I’m positive the boy in the photo is Gregory, and the banging in the wall at night was his way of telling me he’s still here.
‘Is there anything else in the hole?’ I ask, and Drew lies sideways on the floor, his arm almost up to his shoulder and he feels for any more hidden secrets.
‘Nothing.’ He pulls his arm out, catching his skin on an exposed nail and tearing the skin. Blood oozes into the cut and Drew puts his mouth over the wound and sucks, before pressing down hard with his other hand.
‘Do you need a plaster?’ It’s another thing I’ve forgotten to look for since I’ve been here – a first aid kit.
‘Nah, I’m right.’ Drew sits up. ‘Let’s take this downstairs. It feels wrong to just put it back under the floor.’
We carry the precious parcel down into the lounge, spreading the con
tents on the dining room table and picking each item up in turn.
‘I wonder why he was hiding pencils.’ The stubs are so short there is barely any lead left.
‘Maybe he was trying to write home.’ Drew says. ‘That could be why he hid the penny as well, for the stamp.’
It makes me want to cry, thinking of a small boy writing to his family in secret, maybe begging to be allowed back home.
‘I’m going to do what you suggested.’ I tell Drew. ‘I’m going to leave some toys, and some paper and pencils in each of the rooms. Even if they don’t want to communicate with us, at least they’ll have some small comforts. I’ll get everything in town on Monday.’
Drew nods.
‘I think that’s a nice idea.’ He whistles for Bonnie and I hear the clack of her claws on the verandah.
‘Thank you, again. For scaring away those guys. Hopefully, now that they know you’re looking out for me they won’t dare to come back.’ I make to hug Drew again but he steps back, out of reach.
‘No worries. Glad I was around.’ He looks and sounds embarrassed. Maybe I’ve come on a bit strong. He’s not used to being around people often so hugging probably feels alien to him. I lower my arms, crossing them over my chest. Shame, I could have done with another hug from Drew. We say goodnight and I watch as both man and dog jump the fence into the paddock, black figures against the moonlight. With them gone I’m conscious of being alone again and the feeling someone is watching me returns with a vengeance. The feeling is strongest in this part of the house, it’s like there are eyes everywhere, watching me from the empty doorways, and through the darkened windows. Even when I close all the doors and draw the curtains the feeling doesn’t go away. I feel better when I go up to my bedroom, especially as Bendi has already made himself welcome, and is stretched out on my pillow fast asleep. My uncomfortable night on the couch downstairs has caught up with me, and even the fear of Donny and his dickhead mates coming back for a second time can’t stop me from sinking into a deep, dreamless sleep. I wake only once in the night, one ear listening out for the scratching noises from above. But there is nothing but silence.