The Crowlands

by T M Creedy

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I spend most of Sunday sweeping up broken glass from the front steps where Donny and his friends chucked their beer bottles. The damage to the lawns and gardens looks much worse in the daylight. I find some gardening equipment in one of the sheds, including an old fashioned grass roller. It’s heavy, and squeals in protest at being moved, but I manage to push it over the lawn several times, flattening down the worst of the ruts. I might have to get some grass seed to patch up where the trucks tyres ripped up the lawn by the roots. There’s a hose and sprinkler around the back of the house and I give the newly pressed lawn a good watering while I work on the damage to the flowerbeds. If only my Gran could see me now, I think. Pottering around a garden like I was born to it, thinking about a visit to a garden centre for grass seed and bedding plants. It occurs to me that, apart from a hasty ten minutes at the pub on Friday night, I haven’t gambled for ages. In fact, I haven’t even thought about it. Baking and gardening are much more satisfying. Maybe I just gambled because I was bored. The thought is a revelation. My life has purpose and meaning now, having something to do has filled the hole left by playing bingo or the slot machines. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy a game of bingo, if there is such a thing in Ararat. I put it on my mental list of things to do tomorrow – find out if there are any bingo clubs I can join. I might meet some more like-minded people that way. I’m reminded that I promised to call Belle in the morning and arrange that school visit. And I must speak to Pindari about what happened last night, and also take him up on his offer to meet his aunty. My ‘to-do’ is growing and I’m looking forward to the busy day tomorrow.

  Walking inside later for something to eat – all this gardening is giving me an appetite – I catch sight of the forlorn toy rabbit on the table again. I pick it up, studying it carefully. The thread that is the whiskers is starting to unravel and there’s the beginnings of a hole in one of the seams. The wool is very dirty so I decide to give the bunny a make-over. I’ll give it a bath and dry it in the warm sunshine, and if I find a needle and cotton I can fix the damage to the body. I peek into the hole in the rabbit’s side, checking to see what it’s stuffed with, and whether it would withstand a dunking in hot water. It seems to be mostly scraps of odd fabrics, and some raw sheep’s wool, but as I squeeze the woollen shape I can hear a faint rustle inside the rabbit’s tummy. I can’t quite get my finger inside the hole to feel what’s in there, and I don’t want to make the hole any bigger, the wool’s fragile enough as it is, so I use the tip of a biro to prod at the material inside the stomach cavity. Catching sight of a tiny, rolled up tube of paper I manage to manoeuvre it to the edge of the hole, using a pin to catch hold of it and pull it out. It’s a small square of wallpaper, like we pulled off in the girl’s room, and rolled up to fit inside the toy rabbit. Carefully, the paper is old and brittle, I unroll the scrap. In pencil, in the uneven hand of a small child, is written a prayer.

  ‘dear Jesus plees stop the docta from hurt me and my frends, love GREGORY’

  Oh, poor, poor boy. It wrenches at my heart. What did that monster do to you? It makes me resolve to fix Gregory’s bunny even more, make it all better. It may not be much, but it is one small kindness I can show him, and I doubt Gregory was shown much kindness when he lived here. I soak the woollen figure in the kitchen sink with some shampoo and a little bit of sweet-smelling fabric softener. The dirt that comes out of the wool is alarming, and swirls in brown clouds in the foaming water. The wool is not grey, as I originally thought, but white, and already the toy looks much more like a friendly rabbit, even with his lopsided stitched features. I find a small travel sewing kit in one of the kitchen drawers, lifted from a hotel room in the past, and deftly, with a skill I never knew I had, stitch down the black whiskers and mend the tiny triangular nose. I’m pleased with my handiwork; the little bunny smiles back at me with a friendly grin.

  Leaving the rabbit to dry in the sun on the wicker table outside, I set about tidying the kitchen, wiping down the surfaces with disinfectant and humming along to the radio station playing classic eighties’ rock tunes. I’m so absorbed in my task I don’t hear the click of the door handle behind me at first, and it’s only when a chill blast of cold air strokes the back of my neck that I whip round, staring at the door to the laundry room which is wide open again. That room seems to suck up any natural light. No matter how much sunlight streams through the windows that room is always permanently in shade, a dullness casting shadows into the corners.

  ‘Hello?’ My voice comes out timidly. ‘Who’s there? Is that you, Gregory?’ I’m no longer scared of the little ghost boy, one who shared his most prized possessions with us. ‘Gregory? Are you there? Do you want to come out and talk to me?’ I inch towards to open door, searching for a glimpse of that small, pale face peeking out at me. I’m almost at the doorframe when suddenly the door slams shut in my face with such force that I almost fall backwards. Rattling the handle, I try to open the door again but I can feel a force on the other side holding it closed with all their strength. I give up trying to push the door open and instead lay my ear against the wood panel, listening for any movement within the laundry room. I knock softly, hoping to hear a copycat knocking back, but there is nothing. Nothing except for the tense silence on the other side of the door. I can feel someone there, can feel them listening intently to me but they don’t respond to my calling out to them. We stay still, both of us, me and whoever it is who has locked themselves inside the grim, little room. I hold my breath, pressing my ear hard up against the door and gradually, faint at first but becoming louder and louder, the sound of wretched sobbing fills the air. The cries are so pitiful they are painful to listen to, but it doesn’t sound like a child crying. It sounds like a woman, a grown woman, and she’s crying like her heart is breaking.

  It feels wrong to intrude so I leave the crying woman to her misery. It looks like Gregory is not the only unhappy spirit haunting Crowlands House. The pressing need to speak to Pindari’s aunty about her knowledge of the house inspires me look up the number for the police station in Ararat. It’s not manned on a Sunday, I discover, but there is an automated voicemail service which instructs me to leave a message, or, in the event of an emergency, dial 000.

  ‘Hi. Um. This is a message for Pindari, the policeman. It’s Sara. Sara……. Sullivan.’ I had to think of the right surname, the one I used to get into the country and the one Margie and Mac know me by. ‘I was wondering if you could give me a call please. It’s not urgent. Just following up on what we discussed on Friday – about your Aunty. Um, thanks. Oh, you can get me on Margie and Mac’s home number, or try my mobile, um, 0414 7882 789. Thanks.’ It’s a garbled message and I hope it’s picked up by Pindari himself, and not some snotty, gossipy admin lady. The sobbing coming from the laundry room has stopped now and the door swings open easily this time when I turn the handle. Whatever, whoever, it was has gone for now but the room still has a palpable cloud of misery clinging to the walls, and washing over me in a desolate wave of sorrow.

  The Australian sun works it magic and the woollen bunny is dry within an hour. It’s soft to touch and smells of flowers and sunshine, and I hope Gregory gains some comfort from its newly mended state. Carefully, I roll the piece of paper with its heartfelt prayer back up into a curl and poke it into its place inside the rabbit’s body, stitching up the side seam to seal it in, and finishing the toy off with a piece of pale blue ribbon round its neck. I brave the second floor on my own. Despite all the doors to the rooms being open the hallway is still festooned in gloom, as if sunlight isn’t welcome on this floor. Gregory’s room is brighter though, despite the grey-green painted walls, as if a heaviness has been lifted. I place the bunny upright on the floor of the cupboard, on top of the loose floorboard, hoping the little boy will be happy to be reunited with this precious memento from home, from his life before he was incarcerated in this stark, cheerless room. As I back away from the cupboard, a shaft of light penetrates the dimness and lands on
the toy, illuminating it for a split second, and I swear I hear a little whisper coming from the air.

  ‘Billy Bunny!’

  That night I am woken by the sound of running feet on the bare boards above me. The footsteps run from one side of the room to the other and back again, and every now and then there is a burst of excited giggling. I smile, and turn over in bed before going straight back to sleep.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Monday. The word used to inspire dread in me from the moment I woke up but today my list of things to do is so vast that I leap out of bed before the sun is even fully up. Sitting at the table with a cup of tea I scribble down everything I need to do in town.

  • Go to charity shop – get toys

  • Get paper pads and pencils

  • Phone Belle re school kids visit

  • Find garden centre – get grass seed and bedding plants

  • Supermarket shop!

  • Buy sunscreen!

  • Pindari???

  • Bingo nights???

  It’s a long list and I’ll be in town most of the day so I leave extra biscuits and water out for the cats, and scribble a note to leave under a stone on the table outside for Drew, in case he comes looking for me today. I’m in the ute on the way to town and it’s not even eight o’clock yet.

  There is marginally more traffic on the roads as people take kids to school, or are on their way to their own jobs in town. When I park in town I see that the charity shops don’t open until ten o’clock so I go back to the same café I found last week, ordering a large coffee and a bacon sandwich. The sandwich is not what I expected. It comes in crusty French bread instead of sliced white, and has not only multiple rashers of crispy bacon, but an avocado guacamole-style paste topped with slivers of chilli and mustard greens. It also has a side order of fresh tomato salsa and garlic aioli, just in case I’m lacking any more flavours on my plate. No wonder it costs me fifteen bucks! The coffee is hot and rich and welcome. The same waitress who was civil to me last week is working again today and when she comes to clear my table I take the opportunity to ask where the nearest garden centre would be. She gives me directions for a place on the outskirts of town, in the opposite direction to the farm and I decide to go there first while I’m waiting for the charity shop to open. The road is unfamiliar but by chance I drive past the primary school where Belle works. It’s small, only a couple of classrooms by the look of it, but it’s full of bright colours and green spaces; a million miles away from the depressing concrete and brick playgrounds of the school I went to. The garden centre is easy to find and nicely done, with all sorts of housewares for sale as well as garden stuff. There is an interesting baking section where I dither over baking tins and icing nozzles, choosing a set of animal shaped cookie cutters just for the hell of it. I get some good advice from one of the staff members in the flower section outside about what to plant, and he seems amused by my descriptions of Margie’s flowers as ‘red ones, with some pink ones on the edge’. He lays trays of seedlings in my trolley and helps me choose the right kind of grass seed too. With the ute loaded up I head back into town, getting a space right outside the biggest charity shop which raises money for the local children’s hospice. It’s fitting then, that I choose this particular cause to give my money to, and I head straight for the back of the shop where I can see shelves of stuffed animals and children’s games. The woman on the till has a purple perm straight out of the sixties and droopy, downtrodden face as she glares at me from her stool. I look around for a basket or something, anything I can put my purchases into and the woman’s cat-arsed mouth sinks further into her face when I ask if she has a cardboard box or some large carrier bags. Jesus, what is WRONG with people in this town?

  The woman fannies about in the back stockroom, muttering disapprovingly all the while, but eventually returning with a wire shopping basket with bent handles.

  'I want that back!' She points at the basket and then at me, like I was about to abscond with her wonky wire basket. I go through that shop like the proverbial plague of locusts. Every teddy, every stuffed animal goes into the pile. Every doll which still had arms, legs and hair joined them. I found a bag of marbles, and a set of plastic farm animals which I thought might appeal to young children, and followed those up with some jigsaw puzzles and a set of skittles. I choose simple story books which I remembered from my own childhood; Ladybird books about living on a farm, and going to the seaside. The old fashioned pictures and bright, primary colours might look familiar to children of an earlier time. I hesitate over cheap plastic items like Lego bricks and shape games, preferring instead the wooden alphabet blocks and a sweet little blackboard on an easel. At the last minute I throw in a couple of bouncy balls, despite them being of modern materials - what child could resist the lure of bouncing a ball against the floor and watching it spring back again? The basket was full to overflowing and I still had armfuls of toys to go through the till. The entire amount came to less than fifty dollars. Feeling like I'd got the better side of the bargain I gave the dour shop assistant another fifty as a donation to the charity. She looked at me like I'd wiped that fifty dollar note on my arse and then blew my nose with it, before offering it up to her.

  'You know; you could at least pretend to be grateful. You've just probably had your best day’s takings ever thanks to me.' I was fed up of being treated like dirt by people I'd never even met before. The woman stiffened, then gave an audible 'humph' before deigning to accept my proffered money with pinched fingers.

  'I don't know why you're buying all that rubbish.' She says, snidely. 'The whole town knows where you're living. What good is a load of kiddie's crap to you there eh?'

  'No. That's the thing. You don't know why I'm choosing to buy all this rubbish, as you called it. You don't know anything about me at all. Perhaps I'm making care parcels to send to underprivileged children in poor countries, would that make a difference to your judgement of me?' She raised her eyebrows and gave an almost imperceptible shrug. It didn't matter to her what I intended to do with all these toys, she'd made up her mind about me and that was that. Just like all the other narrow minded, petty people in this shit hole of a town. 'Or, maybe, I'm planning a huge drug fuelled sexual orgy involving children’s party games. You're not invited by the way. Can you tell me where I might be able to buy four hundred condoms and some Ecstasy tablets please?' Leaving her gasping like the old trout she is, I drag my bags out to the ute and heave them into the back, throwing the mildewed tarp over the top. A few doors down there is one of those bargain stores, like a Poundland except it's called $2 World, and it's filled to the brim with tacky plastic flowers in colours never normally seen in nature, party essentials and cheap stationery. I buy a dozen plain paper pads and two big boxes of coloured pencils, as well as crayons and chalk for the blackboard. My mobile trills just as I'm putting the last of my shopping into the ute.

  'Hiya Sara, it's Belle.' Belle's deep voice sounds lighter, daintier and more feminine somehow, now that she's at school and not in the pub. 'How's ya foot?'

  'It's fine, Belle. No pain at all now.' This was true. During the eventful weekend I never gave my poor, bruised foot a thought.

  'So I talked to the school board about your idea.' Belle is beside herself with excitement. 'It's a goer! I knew it would be, they'd be fools not to take you up on the opportunity to see inside that house. Especially now that Donny and Dean are going around telling everybody they saw a ghost up at yours on Saturday night!'

  'Donny and who? Who's Dean?'

  'DEAN! Works up the garage. Bit of a softcock.' This is way too much information about Dean but now I have his weaselly features in my head.

  'What are they saying? You do know they came out to the farm trying to scare me don't you? They ripped up Margie’s garden with their stupid truck and left smashed glass everywhere. Not to mention they all had guns and were firing them in all directions.'

  'Don't know nuthin about guns.' Belle sounds shocked. 'They all said
they was just driving past and the ghost of some old man jumped out at them.'

  'That's stupid.' I'm about to tell her about Drew scaring them away but there's the clanging of a bell in the background.

  'Oops, that's me. Gotta go. Just wanted to let you know we've set the day of the field trip for this Wednesday, gives the parents a day or two to work on the costumes.'

  'Costumes?' I ask dumbly.

  'Yeah, you know. It's part of the Victorian studies we're doing. All the kids need to dress up in Victorian clothing, or near enough. Makes it a bit more authentic for them.'

  'Right. So, Wednesday? That soon?' I suppose it's enough time to get organised, not that I need to do much, just show the kids the upstairs rooms.

  ‘Yeah, well, we like to do this kind of thing before the school holidays start in a couple of weeks.’

  'Did you say something about a risk assessment?'

  'Oh, yeah. We can do that now, over the phone. Do you have any sharp objects on show, or any poisonous plants in the garden? Do you have an unfenced body of water on the property? Do you have, or have you ever had, any convictions against yourself which you may need to inform us of, in the interests of our children? No, no and no? Good. That’s that done. Gotta run, hoo roo.' She's gone before I can even think about Wednesday.

  With a fair few items ticked off my list I only have the supermarket shop left to do, apart from catching up with Pindari, and finding out about Bingo. I haven't heard anything back from the message I left on the police station answering service yet. I'll leave it for today, let him get back to me in his own time I think, and head away from the town centre towards the supermarket.