by T M Creedy
I'm still tickled by some of the products in Coles and end up coming out with far more than I need again, but I do remember to get a high factor sunscreen. The tops of my arms are red and white striped where the sun caught me on in the garden on Saturday and still sting a bit in the shower. On the way out of the supermarket a community notice boards holds flyers on mother and baby groups, silver surfer classes and kittens for sale. Nestled deep underneath Pauls Lawn Mowing Services is a poster for the RSA club. It's a club for the Returned Services Association but is basically like a private pub. Anyone who's got money to spend is welcome and they do basic pub meals, have a pokie room and hold Bingo nights twice a month. Well. Bingo! I picture an older age group from the Friday crowd at the pub. Grandparenty. People who play bowls and belong to the W.I. Happy memories of Bingo with Gran when I was little encourage me to make a note of the dates of the next Bingo night, and the address of the club. I recognise the street name as somewhere close to the main street. Job done I head for home, the flat bed of the ute full with plants, toys and groceries.
Minutes after I pull into the ute’s parking place another vehicle turns into our track. It’s a dust coloured Land Cruiser, with a stripe of blue and white checked squares running down the side, and a strip of blue and red emergency lights mounted on top of the cab. Pindari pulls up next to the ute.
‘Official visit?’ I grin up at him.
‘Nah, got your message. Thought it might be better if I came out here to see you, less talk in town.’ He grabs some of the shopping from the back of the ute and follows me up to the house. ‘Been shopping?’ I laugh at his stating of the obvious.
‘Can’t get anything past you. No wonder you’re a copper!’ We leave the bedding plants next to the churned up flower beds, that’s my chore for this afternoon, and I can see him eyeing up the tyre tracks, and the big ruts in the lawn. His face turns serious.
‘You OK?’
‘Fine, now. I won’t lie, they scared the shit out of me. It wasn’t what they did or said, it was the fact that they were all shooting off their guns like it was a game.’
‘Donny’s a fucking prick!’ Pindari spits on the ground. ‘He’s got a rep for being heavy-handed with women. Trouble is, none of his victims are brave enough to speak out against him. They’re all local girls, and him and his mates get to them before the girls even think about speaking to the police. I’ve seen so many black eyes and broken ribs, not to mention rape injuries, from that piece of shit but I’ve never been lucky enough to slap the cuffs on him, give him a taste of his own medicine.’
I feel light-headed with relief at how lightly I got off on Saturday night.
‘I was lucky. I had some help, so I wasn’t alone. I guess they weren’t man enough to fight two of us. Three, if you count Bonnie.’
Pindari looks at me with a strange expression on his face, but doesn’t ask about Drew, or Bonnie. He clears his throat.
‘Where do ya want this lot?’ He holds up one of the bags of toys.
‘Oh. Just put them in the hallway for now, thanks. I’ll sort them out later. Drink?’ I don’t want to start explaining why I’m buying toys for dead children.
‘Just water, thanks.’ Pindari takes off his police cap and places it on the table, next to Gregory’s pile of treasures. ‘What’s all this?’
‘Oh. We found it under a floorboard in one of the rooms upstairs. I think it belonged to one of the kids who lived here.’
He picks up the cardboard label, reading the copperplate script.
‘Sad.’
‘Yeah.’ I agree.
We take our drinks outside to the verandah, sitting in the cool shade away from the early afternoon sun.
‘I spoke to my Aunty Essie.’ Pindari volunteers. ‘She really wants to meet you. Says she’s got lots to talk to you about.’
‘That’s good. I was hoping she would agree to talk with me. Did she say when?’
‘Anytime. Just let me know and I’ll run you up there. Bit hard to find if you don’t know it.’
‘OK. Well, what about tomorrow? I’ve got Belle’s class coming up on Wednesday for a school visit….’ Pindari raises his eyebrows in a comedic expression of surprise. ‘Yeah. I know!’ I laugh. ‘She apologised to me later on Friday night and we really got on quite well. I’ve invited her and her class out here to have a look at the top floor, as part of their Victorian studies. They’re all coming out for the day on Wednesday in costume, and having a picnic on the lawn.’ We both turn to look at the mounds and furrows caused by the extra wide tyres on Donny’s truck. It looks like a particularly angry giant mole has run riot. ‘Hm. Maybe they’d be better off having lunch in the rose garden.’
‘OK. Tomorrow. I’ll give Essie a ring. I’m warning you though – she’s a feeder. Don’t have anything to eat before you see her. She’ll be in full-on hospitality mode when I tell her you’re coming round. Expect sandwiches, and cake. Lots of cake.’
‘She sounds amazing. How old did you say she was? In her nineties, wasn’t it?’
‘Ninety-two. Although you wouldn’t know it. She still lives on her own, manages quite well without anybody’s help.’
‘Well, I’m looking forward to it. Should I bring her something? I’m not sure of what’s considered polite in this country yet, I haven’t exactly met many polite people. But at home, if we were invited for tea we would bring a bottle of something or some flowers.’
‘Ah, I don’t know about that. But I suppose you could bring her a little gift. Not food though. If you bring food when you’ve been invited to a meal, it’s considered very bad manners – like you’re insinuating the hosts haven’t put on a proper spread. But she likes plants. Nothing too flash, eh’
We sit on the verandah chatting easily about the local area. Pindari is a wealth of information on the lie of the land, and he tells me all about the mining history, how the town became the site of a gold rush in the 1850’s before becoming known for its various mental asylums and prisons for the criminally insane. Nowadays it’s home to a thriving wine industry, and the gateway to the Grampians National Park. There’s a tourist trail close to here, taking in some of the boutique wineries and various cottage industries and crafts which have sprung up in recent times. It’s sounds like something I’d enjoy so he draws me a basic map on a piece of paper, marking the points of interest with big ‘X’’s.
Bendi and Bali appear from around the side of the house, both covered in cobwebs and bits of dead leaves, and both looking very pleased with themselves. They run up to Pindari, tails up and eyes creased in greeting, and rub against his legs. He gives them a stroke and they push their faces into his strong hands and purr with pleasure.
‘Wow, you’ve got the magic touch! Bali wouldn’t even deign to look at me when I first got here, and Bendi was all cupboard love.’
‘Yeah, animals seem to like me for some reason. I used to go to school in the mornings and have half a dozen pets follow me, cats, chooks, neighbours’ dogs, stray sheep, you name it and they followed me round like I was the Pied Piper.’ He’s not the least bit embarrassed.
‘I’d take that as a compliment.’ I say. ‘There can’t be many people who can claim to have such an affinity with animals.’
By the time Pindari has placed his cap back on his head and climbed into his Toyota, the sun is already beginning its descent in the sky. With some effort I dig over the flowerbeds, stomping down the worst of the ugly gouges, and loosening the soil ready for the new plants. I move the plastic trays of seedlings into the safety of the verandah, giving them a good soaking with water and promising them a nice new bed in the morning. The bags and boxes of toys are piled at the bottom of the staircase and I hoist them up to the second floor, making three trips and puffing like a train by the time I’ve got everything up there. Dividing the toys into rough piles, considering which things would appeal to girls or boys, I place some of the teddies and stuffed animals in a row along the floor of the boy’s room, and the rest of the teddies and t
he dolls in the girl’s. The farm set and the skittles go in the boy’s room, while the blackboard and its chalks I set up near the window in the girls. Each room has a pile of storybooks, and several blank pads with pencils and crayons stacked tidily beside them. Already there is a change of atmosphere in the bedrooms. The toys add a touch of playfulness to the otherwise barren rooms, and there is a charge, almost like a spark, to the air. I can feel the interest of the children who are still bound here and I can almost believe they will come creeping out from their hiding places and start playing, the moment I have left.
‘Have fun.’ I whisper. ‘They’re yours to play with.’
I’m slipping back through the plastic at the top of the stairs when I hear the sound of the skittles ball, gently knocking over some of the pins, and rolling along the bare wood floors.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I stay up quite late, watching a film about people trafficking in Sydney. The laundry room door has opened, and closed, of its own accord a couple of times but I’m steadfastly ignoring it. I can feel them watching me, but it doesn’t have the same frightening effect it used to. I must be getting accustomed to it. When I do eventually make it upstairs to bed I pause at the bottom of the second staircase, one ear cocked for any sounds of movement. There’s nothing. Not even a muffled footstep or soft thump. I won’t go and look yet. I’ll give them some time to get used to the new toys and then go and see if they have left me any messages. I fall into bed, exhausted by my busy day, and my last waking thought is that I forgot to ask Pindari about the RSA bingo.
I wake late the next morning, jarred out of a deep sleep by my phone jangling in my ear. It’s Pindari, letting me know that Essie is expecting me a twelve o’clock sharp, for lunch. This, he warns me, does not only mean the sandwiches and cake he mentioned yesterday, but also scones, salads and plates of cold meats, with one of her famous pavlova’s to finish. I’m the first person outside of immediate family that’s been to Essie’s house in a long time and she’ll want to pull out all the stops, he says. I feel full just thinking about it but I faithfully promise to do the meal justice, as best I can. We make arrangements for him to collect me from the house at half past eleven, so I have time to make a quick trip back into the garden centre and look for something suitable to give as a present to Essie. On the way out of the house I pass the wilting plants in their plastic cubes on the verandah. I really must find the time to plant them today, or they’ll all be dead before they get in the ground. Thinking about how busy my life is now I wonder how I ever fit a full time job in, back in London. I’m not working now but I have no time to waste, there’s too much to be done. At the garden centre I choose a mini pink hibiscus plant in a bright blue pot, and buy a cheerful happy-looking ceramic Kookaburra to stick in the pot next to the plant. It’s cute, but not over-the-top, and I hope it’s suitable for a ninety-two-year-old lady. Pindari picks me up right on time and he speeds down the country roads, taking a myriad of turns until I’m so confused I couldn’t begin to even find my way back on my own.
‘Told ya it was hard to find!’ He laughs at my bewildered face.
Eventually we come to a small rough track, fenced with wire and scrap pieces of wood. Chickens scratch around lazily and there’s an old horse standing in the paddock, looking curiously at our car. Essie’s house is a standalone shack, ramshackle and tumbledown, with the customary red-rust and silver corrugated iron roof. Smoke dances merrily from the metal chimney.
‘Oh yeah. That’s another thing I forgot to tell you.’ Pindari rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. ‘Essie always has the fire going, no matter how hot the day is. She needs it for her hot water but she feels the cold as well.’
We walk up to the sloping porch and Pindari calls out a greeting. A tiny lady with masses of dark curly hair stands in the doorway, drying her hands on a ragged tea towel. I can feel the blistering heat coming from inside the shack from here.
‘G’day!’ Despite her small size, Essie’s voice is strong and she moves only slightly stiffly down the two steps to grab my hand. I’m clutching the Hibiscus with its comedy bird, cradling it on my hip like a baby. I hold it out to her.
‘Hi, I’m Sara. It’s lovely to meet you. Thank you so much for inviting me.’
‘Eh, don’t she talk posh? Hello luv. Welcome, welcome.’ She takes the plant and pinches its leaves between her thumb and forefinger, rubbing the scent under her nose. ‘Ah, Kurrajong. Lovely. Good for tea. And the Kookaburra. He’s good luck. Thanks luv, that’s beaut.’ She’s thrilled with my offering and takes my arm, leading me up the steps and into the house.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Pindari jumps back into his police car. ‘Pick you up in a coupla hours!’
‘He’s a good boy.’ Essie motions me to sit down at the heavily laden table, a cover of fine net material protects the food from the blowflies that have settled on every available surface. We sit opposite and take a moment to get the measure of each other. Essie puts me in mind of a tiny hedgehog – all twinkling black eyes and quizzical nature.
‘So. You up at the big house, aren’t ya?’ It’s not really a question, but I nod.
‘Yes. Looking after it for the MacLeans while they’re abroad.’ I hesitate before continuing. ‘Has Pindari told you? About me seeing the ghosts up there?’
‘Yup. Not that I needed telling. That’s house is home to many a poor trapped soul. You only have to watch the crows in the big tree to see that. They’re waiting, eh. Their job is to see the dead safely over to the sky-world. They know there’s souls in that place who need to be carried but for some reason the dead aren’t able to leave the house. The birds will stay in that tree until they can finish their job. I worked there, ya know? Back when it was a home for injured soldiers. The men used to see all sorts of things. See children all the time, and see nurses where there weren’t no nurses. Everyone thought it was the effects of the war on their minds, that they were seeing things in the house because of the horrors they saw on the battlefields but I always knew what they were seeing in that house was real.’
‘I caught the ghost of a little boy in a photo I took.’ I lean over the table to show her my phone. Essie takes a pair of thick spectacles from a case on the side table and peers myopically at the screen.
‘Oh yeah. I see him. Poor thing. He’s been blinded.’ She takes the glasses off, wiping them absently on the edge of the net cover. ‘My own aunty used to work up there too, see? She was my mother’s eldest sister. More than twenty years older than my mother she was, with her being the eldest and my mother the youngest. Dolly, she was called. Well, called that by them up at the house though it wasn’t her real name. She wasn’t allowed to use her proper name when she was there. The housekeeper told her it was too much like a black name and wasn’t to be used.’ I’m a bit shocked at Essie’s blatant use of the word ‘black’ in this context, but it’s not said bitterly, just factually. ‘There was a nurse up there, same time as Dolly, and she taught Dolly her letters. Wasn’t really the done thing in them days, they didn’t like the help getting above their station, but this nurse took a shine to Dolly, and Dolly was a quick leaner. Anyway, the upshot of it all was that Dolly kept a diary when she worked there. She knew there was something going on at that place. She used to come home on her day off and cry and cry and cry for those poor kids up there. And I found it, just the other day, in a box of old bits and pieces.’
‘You found her diary?’
‘Yep. Just after Pindari told me ‘bout you. Must have been Dolly herself made me hunt it out. I think she wants you to read it.’ Essie heaves herself up from her seat and waddles over to a cluttered shelf. She picks up a slim book and brings it over to me. It has a dark mottled red cover, a shiny veneer glued onto the cheap cardboard surface. I take it from Essie and carefully open it up to the first page. The smell of damp and old paper leaps out at me and I can see rows and rows of cramped, spidery writing, done in blunt pencil.
“January 21st, 1903.
T
his morning Matron tell me to…………”
I snap the book closed. I know that, once I start reading, I won’t be able to stop and I don’t want to be rude in Essie’s company.
‘Thanks, Essie. That’s marvellous. I’m just beginning to understand who the ghosts are, and why they’re still there, so this will be a great help.’ Essie waves me away.
‘Ah, no worries. Glad to help. Dolly would want everyone to know what really happened up there anyways. She was lucky to get out of there alive herself, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, that nurse I told ya about, the one who taught Dolly to read and write? She killed herself. Locked herself in the scullery one day and shot herself in the head. Couldn’t live with the shame, I reckon. Either that or she found out what the doctor was really doing to those kiddies, and couldn’t live with the guilt of not stopping it.’
‘The scullery? Is that still part of the house?’
‘It’s the room off the kitchens. The one where they kept all the washing tubs, and the soap and stuff.’
‘The laundry? She shot herself in the laundry?’ I think of the heart-rending sobbing that I heard coming from that room the other day, and the way the door opens and closes by itself, the way it feels like someone is holding it closed from the other side. I remember the way the back of the nurse’s head looked in my dream, the way it just wasn’t there, like a big hole had been blown in her skull. I must have lost colour because Essie heaves herself up again, grabs a bottle of amber liquid from the kitchen counter and slams it on the table in front of me.
‘Looks like you need a whiskey!’
By the time Pindari has bumped the Land Cruiser back up the track to Essie’s house to collect me, we are both a little tipsy. Essie gives me a hug and stands at her door, waving and waving until we are out of sight. My stomach is uncomfortably stuffed with Essie’s homemade feast, and I have three Tupperware containers full of leftovers balanced awkwardly on my knee. Dolly’s journal is safely in my bag. I can’t wait to start reading it; I just know that it is the key to everything going on in that house. Back at the house the bedding plants look abandoned and bereft, still in their plastic containers on the verandah, and my conscience won’t let me settle down to read the diary until that chore has been done. With a thick, greasy layer of sunscreen covering my exposed arms and neck I set about digging holes and separating root systems. It’s hot, sticky work and the late afternoon sun draws in all kinds of biting flies and insects. Eventually, slapping away another whining mosquito, I call it quits. The garden now has nice, new neat rows of flower plants which I hope Margie will never notice that they’re different from what was there before. The effect of Essie’s whiskey has worn off and I have a dull, thumping headache in its place, and the cats have been weaving in and out of my legs all afternoon, leaving a layer of dust and loose hairs sticking to my shins. I feel a mess. I sluice down in the utilitarian shower room downstairs, enjoying the cool water running down my skin and washing away the heat and dirt from the day, before changing into a fresh cotton t-shirt and wrapping one of Sara’s sarongs around my waist like a skirt. Feeling much better I pour a large glass of iced tea from the bottle in the fridge, add ice and take it out to the wicker chairs on the verandah, curling up with my bare feet tucked under me. Dolly’s diary sits mute on the glass-topped table next to me, silent until I open the pages to set Dolly’s voice free. Taking a deep breath, knowing that what I’m about to do will change everything irrevocably, I open the delicate notebook to the first page. The writing is difficult to read, hard to decipher in places but the more I look at it, the clearer it becomes.