by T M Creedy
Malinda Ivy Alice Rosie Kirra Babygirl Peggy
The names are all written in different hands and with different coloured chalks. Malinda’s name is the boldest of all. At the bottom of the board there is one word.
Hello
‘Hello, beautiful girls.’ I whisper to the flat, dead air.
Similarly, the boy’s room next door is also locked, but once inside, the comparison with the neat and tidy girl’s room is marked. Teddies lie in a heap on the floor. Skittle pins are mixed up with marbles and are scattered all over the room. Someone has painstakingly lined up all of the farm animals on the windowsill and the storybooks are flung apart, as if two little boys were fighting over who got to read them first. It’s a mess, but the lingering sense of cheerfulness and fun still hangs over the empty room.
‘Glad you liked them, boys.’
I leave everything just as it is.
Back downstairs I almost burst into tears of relief when I see the familiar, loping figure of Drew heading towards the house from the paddock behind the sheds. Bonnie spots a rabbit or something and goes bounding into the trees, barking wildly. When he is close enough for him to see me, Drew raises a hand in greeting.
‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ I gasp, the temptation of leaning my face against his strong neck is too strong and I cling to him. After a brief pause, his arms circle my back and he’s holding me in his arms, rocking me gently and making soothing noises. He’s so warm and real. I don’t want him to ever let me go.
I pull him over to the table where Dolly’s book sits.
‘Sit down. You HAVE to read this.’ I demand, placing the book in his hands. While he’s turning it over and over, opening it and closing it again, I babble out the story of going to see Essie, and how I came by the diary. ‘They killed them all, Drew! One by one. They drowned them in the bath to cover up the abuse. They buried them all in the GARDEN!’
Drew says nothing as he listens to me tell Dolly’s story. Bonnie, bored of chasing rabbits, skids to a halt on the grass where she lays down with her head on her paws, watching us warily. She knows when something has upset her master. When I stutter to a halt, Drew stands up, putting his battered old hat back on his head.
‘Let me take this with me and have a read. I’ll come back later and we’ll talk about how we’re going to deal with this.’ I can see he’s visibly shaken but he’s such a stoic bloke he’s having trouble showing his feelings in front of me, so it’s for the best if he goes off somewhere and gets his head round all this. I’m so glad he said how ‘we’re’ going to deal with this. I can’t do this on my own. I stay up all night waiting for Drew but he doesn’t return.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wednesday dawns pink and clear. I must have fallen asleep in my chair and maybe Drew did come back after all, because I am snuggled into a cream blanket I don’t remember seeing before. I’m stiff and sore, and there’s a niggle in the back of my mind to do with today. Yawning and stretching I sleepwalk upstairs to my bathroom, standing under the hot spray and not moving until I feel the life returning to my limbs. My mind wanders over Dolly's notebook and the secret it contains within. Until Drew returns the diary I can't take it to Pindari, and without it I have no evidence. Pindari would think me a liar, or worse, insane.
Towelling my wet hair, I pick up phone, hoping to see something from Drew, but then I remember we've never swapped numbers. Actually, I don't even think he has a mobile phone - I've certainly never seen him with one, and he didn't seem to know how to use mine when I showed him the photos. There's no message from Drew but there is a voicemail from Belle. The wheels and cogs in my overloaded brain clunk into place and I belatedly remember why Wednesday stuck in my mind.
'Hiya mate. Look, just to let you know I'll be coming out in my own car before the kids get there on the bus. I had a last minute idea of setting up a treasure hunt for them, so I've been and bought Cole's entire stock of chocolate coins, and found some other bits and pieces, so I thought you and me could hide them around the place this morning? Ms Stockman, the art teacher, will be bringing the kids out along with Mr Hunt, who's driving the bus. I've told them to be here no later than eleven, so we can show the kids house and they can have a run around before lunch. Anyways, see you in a bit! Hoo roo!'
Oh God. I groan into my hands. I've got twenty-odd kids about to descend and invoke chaos on the house and gardens. Belle's idea of a treasure hunt is good though. I want to keep the kids away from the rose garden, despite the front lawn being in such a state. I can't have flesh and blood children running over the graves of those who were never given the opportunity to run and play and take part in treasure hunts. It's disrespectful. Equally, I can't risk the schoolkids digging into the rose beds whilst looking for treasure. The last thing I want is for some over-enthusiastic ten-year-old uncovering human remains. I can tell Belle to hide the prizes for the treasure hunt in and around the outbuildings. There are plenty of nooks and crannies for hiding spaces, and if someone puts their hand on a snake or uncovers my friend the huntsman spider, well, that's their lookout, isn't it?
Pulling on an old pair of jeans and a reasonably clean shirt I patter down the stairs to leave food out for the cats, and warn them that they might want to make themselves scarce for the next few hours. Casting an eye around the lounge, looking for anything that I might not want curious fingers to find, I see the small pile of Gregory's treasures, still laid out reverently on the table. Shit. The toys in the bedroom upstairs. It might look a bit weird if the kids see a load of teddies and things scattered around the supposedly unused dormitories. Besides, those toys belong to my children, the ones who are trapped in this house, and they shouldn't have to share them with their modern day counterparts. The kids coming today probably have all sorts of expensive and complicated toys at home - x-boxes and tablets and fancy bikes, they're not going to be bothered with a few old dolls and books. I scoop up Gregory's pencils and coins, rewrapping them in the same tatty piece of cotton we found them in. Upstairs I fling all the toys and games into a black bin bag.
'I'll bring them back. I promise. It's just for today.'
I can feel their curiosity but the rooms remain silent and still. I store the bin bags in my bedroom, closing the door firmly. This is one room that will not be on our tour itinerary today.
I'm just doing a second walk-round, looking for things which should not be out and which might provoke awkward questions when I hear the toot of a car horn, and Belle's little yellow Honda is valiantly negotiating the deep ruts in the track.
'Gis a hand!' Belle bellows as she pops the boot and starts unloading bags and boxes onto the drive. 'I've brought some extra drinks and sandwiches. We always get the odd one or two who 'forgot' that they were supposed to bring a packed lunch today. Or else, their parents sent them to school today without anything to eat.' Belle has stacks of Coles plastic bags filled with bottles of fruit juice and punnets of ripe strawberries, bananas and healthy option crisps.
'I'll put the juice in the fridge. There's stacks of room - it's massive.' I pick up several of the bags. It's only half past nine so we've got plenty of time to hide the treasure hunt prizes and decide on how we're going to manage the house tour.
'Better to split the kids into two groups, I reckon.' is Belles suggestion. 'The first group can go round the house with you and me, and the second can do drawing with Mrs Stockman, then we'll swap over. After they've all had a look around - They've been working on some questions to ask you by the way, just be warned, some of them might not make much sense but part of their homework last night was to come up with five questions, and then I'm expecting them to write a report on their visit, so it's a bit like they're mini journalists and you’re giving them an interview. After they've all done that they can burn off some energy in the treasure hunt before having their lunch. So, hopefully, we'll be outta your hair by two o'clock.'
I tell Belle that the rose garden is off limits, saying I've just sprayed the bushes for aphids, and she help
s me create a barrier using some old fencing posts we find in the feed shed and some insulation tape. We fashion several 'No Entry!' signs from blank paper and marker pens, and set them fluttering from the tape in even spaces.
'Not that they'll stop some of the older boys!' Belle remarks cheerfully. 'A no entry sign is a red rag to a bull for most of them!' She promises to keep an eye on the worst of the children. 'I'll confiscate their treasure hunt prizes if I catch any of them sneaking in under the tape. They won't want to hand over their chocolate. And they'll be made to write you a letter of apology. Just the threat of having extra work to do might be enough to make them behave.'
We spend a good hour hiding little bags of golden chocolate coins, and Belle has a whole bag of cheap, sparkly bangles and hairclips, which will have the little girls squealing with joy when they stumble on the motherlode. For the boys Belle has another, equal sized bag of bubble-gum’s, mini rugby balls and little decks of playing cards. It's cheap, party-bag stuff but the kids will love it. The special bags we have to hide carefully, and construct a list of simple clues which will lead each of the boys’ and girls’ teams to their treasure chests. I raise the subject of spiders and snakes but Belle merely shrugs.
'They all know what to do if they see one.' It’s the only reassurance she gives. We're just putting the finishing touches onto our treasure maps - which was my idea by the way, with a X marking the spot as tradition demands, when we hear the low slung gearbox of the old Ford school bus struggling with the turning into the driveway. Even from this far away we can hear the excited chatter and a screeching rendition of the Kookaburra song. An older lady, who must be Ms Stockman, sits at the front of the bus with her hands covering her ears and the look of profound relief at reaching their destination. With a few false turns and crunching of gears Mr Hunt manages to park the bus in a reasonably safe place and the doors swing open to discharge the screaming, shouting children. Belle raises a silver whistle, it's hanging around her neck and I hadn't noticed it before, and gives a piercing shriek which is loud enough to deafen all dogs within a five-mile radius. It works though, and the children fall silent, lining up into two neat rows and twisting their faces to get a better look at both me and Crowlands House. They look such a sight, dressed in their mother's imaginative approximations of Victorian clothing. The boys all wear their dads’ white shirts, with the sleeves rolled up to fit, and the tails hanging out over their everyday grey school shorts. Some of them have flat caps on their heads and one boy even has a slightly wonky bowler hat, and sports an eyebrow pencil moustache. The girls fare a little better with long skirts and the mum's kitchen aprons tied over their fronts in an attempt at looking like pinafores. Unfortunately, there are a few novelty style aprons on show and I can see one recipe for apple pie printed on one, and one comedy kangaroo cartoon on another. I stifle my smiles though as the kids all look so happy with their fancy dress costumes. Belle gives another blast on the whistle.
Right! This is Ms.....' She looks at me blankly.
'Sullivan.' I whisper.
'Ms Sullivan! She has kindly agreed to our visit today so you will listen to her at all times. Is that clear?'
The children nod and recite 'Yes, Ms ......'and Belle carries on. 'OK! Line up in one line!' Belle's loud voice was made for herding children and they quickly form an almost straight line, one or two jostling to be next to their best friends. Belle walks down the line, touching each child on the head and announcing 'Left. Right. Left. Right.' and nudging each child into the direction they have just been assigned. Several children cotton on at the last minute and there is another bout of desperate shuffling as friends stagger themselves so they will be allocated to the same group.
'Group A! You will be first to do the house tour. Group B! You will remain out here with Ms Stockman who will set you a drawing task.'' There is a collective groan from Group B, while Group A fist pump the air and hiss 'Yessss!' This is my group. Belle leads them in a crocodile towards the front door while I bring up the rear. The bigger kids hang behind and bundle me in the direction of the house.
'Is this your house Miss?'
'Does anyone else live here Miss?'
'What happened to your lawn Miss?'
'Um. Moles.' I say. 'Big ones.' The children take in the clear tyre prints which reach across the grass and end in a circular pattern beside the steps.
'What’s moles, Miss?'
We gather in a group on the verandah and Belle goes through the ground rules once again.
'Remember. No touching anything. No talking unless you're asking one of your homework questions. Keep up with the group. Do not go into any of the rooms which have a closed door.'
The children jostle and push each other, keen to be the first to get inside.
'Is it true this house is haunted Miss?'
'Yeah, my dad said he saw a ghost in the window once!'
'You're a liar, Kyle!'
'Am not. He said! He was delivering papers and he saw a man with a big hat looking at him out of the window upstairs!'
'Shush you lot!' Belle swings around and faces the slight, freckly-faced boy whose dad saw a ghost. 'Kyle, what did we talk about before we got on the bus? What did I say you were not to ask Ms Sullivan about?'
Kyle turns bright red in front of his peers and mutters 'Ghosts, Miss.'
'That's right. A lot of you seem to think that we're on some kind of ghost hunt today. I can tell you - we are NOT! We are here to see what life was like for the poor children who called this home, more than a hundred years ago. Now, if you can't understand that, Kyle Watkins, you will sit on the bus and wait for the rest of us until we are ready to go back to school. Is that clear?'
'Yes, Miss.' Kyle kicks at the tufted grass at the edge of the fence. As soon as Belle's attention is off him and on some other poor kid I see him mutter 'Don't care. My dad said, so there!'
We enter the front door and Belle motions me to begin the spiel we went through earlier.
'So. Um. Welcome children, to Crowlands House. The house was built as a family residence back in 1874 but was never lived in until the government purchased the house and its land from the owner in 1880. It was used as a children’s home for children who were afflicted with what we would call Down syndrome today, and other children who were considered to have mental or physical challenges. Back then, children who had Down syndrome were called Mongols, which is not how we refer to people with Downs today. It was thought that these children were defective somehow, and very little was understood about the syndrome. As we now know, people with Downs can live long, happy, useful and fulfilled lives and are no less intelligent than you or I.' I pause in my monologue, aware that one little girl has pushed her way to the front of the group and is now hanging onto my hand with an iron grip.
'Hello. I'm Glory.' She says, smiling up at me. 'I have Downs too! Just like the children who lived here.'
She's a pretty little thing, with a mop of unruly curls and wide slanted eyes.
'Hi Glory. I like your mob cap!' Someone has taken the trouble to make her a cap using elastic trim and a white pillowcase. It droops down over her forehead and she pushes it back up onto her head.
'My Nana made it for me!'
'Well, it's very authentic. That means it's exactly like what the girls who lived here in the Victorian times would have worn.' She beams at me and clings onto my hand even harder.
'I like you!' She tells me.
We peep through the open door into the lounge and I tell the group that this was where the dining room and kitchens would have been, but that the people who now own this house have spent a lot of money making improvements and opening the space up. The children are not that interested. They all have lounges and kitchens with cookers and fridges at home. When we ascend to the first floor they pick up a bit, especially when I tell them that the doctor had his private rooms and surgery on this floor.
‘There were also several rooms for entertaining. The doctor liked to invite important people up from
the town to show them his recent breakthroughs in the study of genetic diseases of the mind.'
The children ooh and ahh at the thought of there being an actual medical laboratory in these very rooms. I decide not to tell them of the paedophilic tendencies of the esteemed doctors' guests.
We traverse the stairs to the second floor, where the plastic sheeting has been taken down in anticipation of this visit. The children grow quiet. They stop the boisterous punching and shoving that has been evident during the tour so far, and gather in closer.
'And this is the floor on which the children lived. They slept here, bathed here and in all likelihood were educated here. Apart from eating their meals in complete silence in the dining room they hardly left these rooms at all.' I am ad-libbing, of course, but a healthy dose of the shivers never hurt anyone.
We take in the girl’s room, with the broken beds, and the boy’s room next door, and I point out the stern biblical passage which is the only decorative feature in this sorrowful room and ask the children what it might mean.
‘Please Miss?' A tall, lanky girl with dishwater coloured plaits raises her hand. 'It means if the children were naughty, they would be punished.'
'And how were they punished, do you think?' Belle gives me a 'cut it out NOW' look, but the girl bites down on her lip and says 'I think they were smacked, Miss.'
'Yes. They were smacked. And quite often they were punished by being sent to bed without any dinner.' It's hardly the truth but I don't think my stories of rape, deliberate blinding and murder by drowning would go down too well. The children look suitably scandalised though, at the prospect of missing a meal and being sent to bed while everyone else filled their tummies.