The Crowlands

by T M Creedy

  Glory is still clinging onto my hand like a limpet and it's only when we retrace our steps back down the corridor to the open door of the bathroom that she starts to hang back.

  'Don't like it in there Miss.' She hangs off me, deliberately making herself heavy and pulling hard on my hand.

  'It's just the bathroom, Glory. Nothing to be scared of.' Belle gives the little girl a gentle push forward. 'Go on - you only have to peek inside. I'll be expecting everyone to write about it in their reports later.'

  Glory turns her creased-up face to me. She's lost that happy glow and she's giving me a searching look which pricks at my heart.

  'I'll hold your hand the whole time.' I say gently. 'We won't go inside - just stand at the door so we can see.' I bend down and whisper in her ear. 'I'll tell you a secret. I don't like it much in there myself.' Glory nods as if confirming to herself what she already knew as the both of us stand at the back of the group. The boys are pushing forward to point in disbelief at the toilets. One of them, I've noticed he's much more bolshie than the others, shows off by leaping into the bath and lying down, stretching out and showing just how big the tub is by trying to reach both ends at the same time. I have a mental image of the doctor and the matron, working side by side as they hold each of the children under the water until blood swirls from their noses, and I have to hold my breath until the feeling of nausea subsides. The tour is over for this group and we take ten minutes out on the verandah for the children to ask me their questions while they painstakingly write the answers down. They sit cross-legged at my feet in the casual loose-boned way I haven't been able to achieve in fifteen years, thrusting their hands up in the air and bombarding me with the most random set of questions I have ever faced.

  'What did the children here eat Miss?'

  I dredge up an answer based on my sketchy knowledge of boarding schools circa the Enid Blyton era, telling the fascinated children that the home was part of a working farm, so they would have had plenty of fresh milk, eggs and would have been expected to help in the home gardens, growing all kinds of vegetables but would have mainly had porridge for breakfast. The children laugh in disgust.

  'Did they have pizza Miss?'

  'Did they get pocket money Miss, so they could go to the cinema or buy an ice cream from the van?'

  'Did their Mums and Dads get to visit them Miss?'

  'Are you from London Miss?'

  'Do you know Harry and Meghan Miss?'

  'Did you go to their wedding Miss?'

  By the time the questions have dried up and answers scribbled in their notebooks, I am exhausted. Belle blasts her whistle three times and announces its time to swap over. Ms Stockman’s group throw aside their sketchpads with an excited shout and thunder up the concrete stairs where they line up and we go through the whole process again. For the most part the children behave the same way and ask the same questions as the first group, and this time I am slightly better prepared so the tour goes well. It's not long before Belle corrals the class into one big group and we pass out the printed treasure maps, hurriedly photocopied on the printer in Mac's office by me this morning. Once more we reiterate the importance of staying out of the rose garden, and Belle has devised an extra punishment for any boy caught sneaking in there.

  'If I catch you in the rose garden I'll tell everybody back at school it's because you wanted to see the pretty flowers!' The boys nudge each other and mutter homophobic insults, but this is a stroke of genius on Belle's part. There's no way any of the boys would be seen dead in the rose garden now. I wince at my poor choice of words. The kids scatter in all directions. It's boys against girls in the treasure hunt war, and reputations are at stake. The other teachers and I use this relatively peaceful time to set up the lawn for the picnic, spreading tartan rugs under the shade of the gumtree and laying out plastic tumblers for juice, along with the fruit and snacks Belle brought with her this morning. We can hear excited shouts and screams from the children when a piece of treasure is found.

  'Every second they run around means another quiet second for us.' Ms Stockman looks as though today has been a trial for her. She's the kind of teacher you know can't control a rowdy class, and the kids most likely play up whenever she's left in charge. Belle stands on the edge of the verandah, giving a long blast on the whistle, signifying the end of the treasure hunt. The children drift slowly back to the lawn in dribs and drabs and we do a head count, eventually finding them all present and correct. Excitedly counting out their discovered treasures, the children collapse onto the shady blankets and unpack multi-coloured lunchboxes from their school bags, comparing sandwich flavours and negotiating swap deals with all the expertise of seasoned heads of state. I can see Glory sitting with some of the other girls, laughing and joking alongside them and I'm profoundly grateful she lives in this modern world, where she is not isolated or institutionalised for being different, but included and treated the same as any of the other children.

  After all the juice has been drunk and the strawberries devoured Belle lines up the children for a class photo.

  'Come on. We're having our picture taken and Mr Hunt here will use a special filter on his camera so the photo comes out black and white - just like the olden times! Everybody on the steps, tallies at the back, smallies at the front. Ms Sullivan has a special place in the middle.' We pose according to Mr Hunts shouted instructions, the children giggling as he makes us form two lines of boys and girls. I'm conspicuous in my everyday clothes instead of the Victorian fancy dress of the children but gamely sit on the step in front of the group, hands clasped in my lap. Mr Hunt takes a series of shots – one of the children, me and the teachers, and one of the children on their own, smiling and pulling faces at the camera. The visit is coming to an end and there is just the specially prepared thank-you speech, performed by the girl with the plaits, and a rowdy chorus of the school song in my honour. There's final headcount as the kids drag themselves back on the bus and Mr Hunt crunches the gears and bunny-hops down the driveway, amid the amused jeers of the boys. They wave and wave until the bus inches its way around the turning and sluggishly trundles back towards town. Belle packs up her little hatchback and gives me a hug - rather sweetly actually.

  'Cheers ears! It's been a great day. A huge success! We'll have to do this every year. I'll give you a shout when Hunty gets the photos printed out, make sure you've got a copy.' She plonks herself in the car and turns the ignition. 'Might see ya at the pub on Friday? Hoo roo!' and she roars down the track, the little car whining with the strain. It's only when I can no longer hear the scream of the engine that Bendi slinks out from underneath the house, his coat covered in cobwebs and a look of utter disgust on his face.

  'It's alright Bendi. They've gone now.' He sits splay legged on the warm concrete steps and turns his full attention to washing himself.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I’m at a bit of a loss, now that the school visit is over, and I’m twitchy with the need to continue being busy. I potter around the house, lugging the bin bags of toys back up to the children’s rooms and laying them out again, stopping sporadically to scan the horizon for any sigh of Drew and Bonnie. I didn’t expect him to show his face while the school was here but I’m anxious to know what he thinks about the revelations in Dolly’s diary. By the time the sun has disappeared in a ball of orange fire behind the crest of the paddocks I have to concede that he’s not coming back today. Restless I try to watch an Australian soap opera, feeling like an alien who’s been dumped on a totally different planet. I have no idea of the characters or the complicated storylines they are acting out. Checking my phone for the millionth time I see a reminder I set myself on Monday. Tonight is one of the bi-monthly Bingo nights at the RSA club in Ararat. It’s just what I need. A chance to lose myself in the intense concentration of dabbing numbers on a piece of paper. Slinging on a pair of jeans I lock up the house and head for town. I meant to try and find the address of the RSA beforehand but I remember it’s on one of the side
streets which cross through the main shopping area. In the darkness the shop windows are all lit up, and I notice they all now boast Christmas displays of cotton wool snow and tacky tinsel trees, reminding me that it’s December already. I wonder why the shops feel the need to recreate the wintery festive scenes you would normally find in the UK; it’s summer here so why the fake snow and snowmen? Baffled by Australian tradition yet again, I find the right street and get a park right outside the modern building which houses the Ararat branch of the Returned Services Association. This is more like it. Inside is an open plan space divided into areas by use – there is a large screen television showing a cricket match and a small number of elderly men lounge on the easy chairs in front of it, talking quietly. Beyond that, at the rear of the building is a conservatory type dining room where busy waitresses carry plates of fried food, piled high with chips, to the patrons waiting at the tables. This area is quite full and feels like an old-style cafeteria, like the ones you used to get at the old British Home Stores shops. On my right is the gaming room with a small selection of pokie machines and next to that there are long refectory tables set up for the Bingo night. I’m the youngest person in the place by at least thirty years and, apart from a few inquisitive glances, no one takes the slightest bit of notice of me.

  At the bar I ask for a glass of Coke, and I get a can of Pepsi instead with a straw. It costs me a dollar, half of what it would cost anywhere else. The barman is a twinkly-eyed, white haired man in his sixties with a broad Scottish accent. He clocks my own British one and makes it his mission to keep me supplied with drinks, food, information and gossip on almost everyone in the room.

  ‘Are ye wantin some dinner?’ He asks, passing me a laminated sheet with badly drawn pictures of steaming plates. ‘Best in town!’ I scan the menu. I have a choice of Seafood in a Basket, Chicken in a Basket, Gammon Steak and Chips or Lamb Shank – with chips. All meals are less than ten dollars and, from the look of the plates in front of the diners, portions are hot, fresh and plentiful. I take him up on his offer and order Chicken in a Basket, something I’ve not seen on a menu for years. He gives me a ticket number and a knife and fork wrapped in a paper serviette.

  ‘Thanks. Can I eat it here or do I have to sit in the dining area?’

  ‘Naw. Eat where ya like. There’s fine.’ He sweeps his damp cloth over the corner end of the bar.

  ‘So how do I join the bingo tonight?’ I’m feeling very at home here. It’s quiet, even with the amount of people who are milling around, chatting to friends or watching sport. It’s a far cry from the rowdy pub of last week.

  ‘Des will make an announcement when he’s ready to start.’ The bartender motions towards a thin-faced man with salt-n-pepper hair, dressed in a lurid sequinned blazer and a red bow tie. ‘You can buy the ticket books from him directly, and the pens if you need them. Always gets a good turnout, the Bingo nights, so you might want to reserve your space at the table fairly soon. D’ya want some tickets for the raffle tonight too?’ I nod. This is reassuringly reminiscent of the bingo hall I used to go to with Gran, there was always a raffle draw during the break.

  ‘How much are they?

  ‘A dollar each.’

  ‘OK. Give me ten. What’s the prize?’

  ‘Meat. Half a sheep to be exact.’

  I stare at him dumbfounded. He’s got to be pulling my leg.

  ‘You’re kidding. You mean like an actual half a sheep? Like someone just saws a sheep in half and that’s your prize?’ That’s sick, even by Australian farming standards.

  ‘Naw, ya daft wee hen! It’s all cut up for you by the butcher. You get a couple of roasts, some chops and the rest is minced up. Stick it all straight in the freezer and it’ll see you right for a good couple of weeks.’ He chortles with laughter at my naivety, and it’s so good-natured I can’t help but laugh along too.

  ‘Sorry! I just had visions of me trying to carry a dead sheep on my shoulders, wool and all! The way this town is, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was like that.’

  He nods.

  ‘Aye. It’s a strange place sometimes and no mistake. But I find the Australians very welcoming for the most part. Nosy, but welcoming!’ I roll my eyes in agreement. There’s a hiss and an ear-splitting screech of static from the amp in the corner.

  ‘Ah, welcome ladies and gentlemen, to the Ararat RSA Bingo night. I’m almost ready to begin so if you’d like to take your seats and buy your bingo books……’ Des stands too close to the microphone and his voice is a muffled jumble of words but I can see groups of people drifting to the long tables and preparing their spaces for the first game. I choose a seat quite close to the podium where Des has his old-style bingo machine, plastic numbered balls tumbling and rolling in readiness. A waitress brings me the meal I had forgotten I’d ordered, along with another can of Pepsi, compliments of the bar. No one looks askance at me tucking into my food at the bingo table; in fact, several other people have brought their dinner plates over as well. My chicken in a basket is a beige mess of deep-fried crumbs served with a tiny sachet of mayonnaise, resting on top of enough chips to feed a rugby team, but it is surprisingly tasty. My neighbour, an older lady with rigid grey curls, cheekily nicks a chip from my plate and gives me a friendly wink.

  ‘Please! Help yourself. No way I’ll eat all of this.’ I say through a mouthful of scalding hot chicken.

  ‘Thanks love! I’m bloody starving.’ She introduces herself as Rita and talks me through the ticket buying process, even lending me one of her dabbers so I don’t have to buy one from the glittery Des. The tables fill up quickly and the familiar expectant hush falls over the players.

  ‘Right. Eyes down for a line!’

  I relax. I’m so at home.

  Thankfully I’m not the winner of the meat raffle, and don’t have to cart home a load of dead sheep with me back to the house. I get close on a couple of bingo games but don’t win anything. Rita next to me has better luck and she wins two lines and one full house, pocketing fifteen dollars in prize money. It’s not about the money for me though. I’ve had a great night. With Rita’s seal of approval, other people on the table start to include me in their conversations between games. They must all know who I am but there’s none of the invasive personal questions I’ve come to expect from the townspeople of Ararat. During the interval one old gentleman, immaculate in his navy blazer and Royal Australian Air Force pin, squeezes in next to me and begins to tell me about the time he was injured during the war.

  ‘I was invalided out, you know, and sent to one of the recuperation hospitals the government set up for wounded soldiers.’ He studies me intently from behind his handlebar moustache. ‘I was up at Crowlands House for a while.’ I know where he’s going with this. ‘Have you seen them too?’ He doesn’t have to explain what he means by ‘them’.

  ‘Yes. Well, heard them mostly. I take it you saw something when you stayed there?’

  He leans forward.

  ‘I have…. a bit of a gift, when it comes to seeing spirit, my dear. I’ve always been able to see those who have already departed this life. Bit of a curse during the war, I tell you.’ He looks around cautiously but no one is eavesdropping on our conversation, they’re too busy nattering about other things. ‘Oh yes. I’ve seen them alright. The children. The nurse – the one with the gunshot wound to her head. And the despicable doctor himself!’

  ‘I’ve seen the nurse. Well, kind of. I dreamt about her. And I’ve heard her crying in the laundry room, where she shot herself. The children make themselves heard but I haven’t seen them yet, not properly. One of them popped up in a photo once but that’s it. And I never realised the doctor is still haunting the place as well. He hasn’t shown up at all.’

  The man leans in towards me.

  ‘Oh he’s still there alright. The children are trapped in the house because of him. They can’t be free until the spirit of the doctor himself leaves. That’s why the crows stay in that tree. They’re waiting for the doctor to show him
self so they can carry his soul over to the otherworld to face up to his punishment.’

  This makes a macabre kind of sense.

  ‘You know, I could always take a walk through the house, see if I can pick up on anything, I might be able to make contact with the spirits of the children.’ He offers. ‘I’d like to see the old place again. That’s if you don’t mind?’

  ‘No, that’ll be great! I mean, I’m just grateful to have someone else who understands.’ I say, scribbling my mobile number on a dead bingo ticket and handing it to him. ‘Give me a call whenever you like.’

  I want to talk some more but Des is back for the second half of the bingo games, and the old man tips me a wink, pocketing the scrap of paper. He gets up stiffly and goes back to his seat, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

  ‘Was that Old Geoff I saw talking to you?’ Rita turns her attention back to me. ‘Don’t take any notice of him, love. He’s a strange old bugger. Gives me the creeps.’ She shudders theatrically, and I smile and say nothing. Strange old bugger or not, Geoff’s experiences of the ghosts of Crowlands House have made me realise I’m not going crazy. They’re real. As soon as I have Dolly’s diary back from Drew I’m going to take it to Pindari at the police station and ask him to start digging up the rose garden. If we tell their story – if we can release them from their hidden grave – we might have a chance at setting the children free.

  He calls me the very next day.

  ‘Good morning. Geoffrey Woods here.’ I have to think for a second who he is. ‘I’ve just realised. We never introduced ourselves properly last night. I was the creaky old codger with the over-the-top facial hair who bothered you during the interval last night!’ He makes me laugh at his description of himself.

  ‘Hi, Mr Woods. I’m Sara. Sara Sullivan.’

  ‘Now then, none of this Mr Woods business or I’ll be looking around for my father! Call me Geoff!’ His voice is much louder on the phone and I wonder if he is slightly hard of hearing.