by T M Creedy
Pindari has one last piece of news for me. He leans forward, elbows on knees.
'We've got the go ahead to start digging up the garden.'
I stare at him in shock. No one believed me when I said there were the remains of children hidden under the ground there. They thought I was suffering some kind of hallucinogenic episode, that everything I'd been through was the product of some kind of psychosis brought on by the self-induced exile of living in such an isolated place. My psychiatrist had even suggested that these visions, as he put it, were the result of my forced abstinence from gambling, that my brain was substituting the excitement of the casino by replacing it with fantasies of dead children and demon doctors. When I insisted they were real he smirked at me patronisingly.
'I'm sure they FELT very real, but the fact is, they were just in your mind.' Sanctimonious twat.
Now Pindari is telling me that, at last, someone is taking me seriously.
'Forensics did a test pit, to see if anything came to light. They didn’t find anything at first, actually they were about to pull the plug, but one of the investigators left her test pit open overnight intending to cover it back up the next day, but in the morning she found something had been at the hole in the night. Looked like a dog had been digging at it, she said. Anyway, the hole had been enlarged enough for her to see the outlines of some bones. Leg bones, she thinks, but it'll be some time before the experts can be sure. We've got a team of archaeologists ready to go in this afternoon. I'm not supposed to tell you but, well, I know how much it means to you.’
I take his hand and give it a squeeze.
'Thank you. For fighting my corner. Your Great-Great Aunty Darana would be proud of you.' He meets my eyes and smiles. He believes me, I know he does.
After Pindari has gone I have another visitor. He stands awkwardly at the door to the ward looking completely out of his depth. In rough shorts and solid boots, he looks like he's much more at home out in the open fields than a busy hospital, but he takes his hat off and walks hesitantly to my bedside.
'G'day. You Sara?' I nod, and he clears his throat bashfully, perching carefully on the edge of the chair. 'Er, g'day. I'm Ian. I'm the stockman for the McLeans.' He's in his early seventies with the brown, weatherworn skin of a man who's spent most of his life outdoors in the unforgiving Australian sun. 'Mac was telling me a bit about your…. um, troubles like. Not that he was complaining mind.' He rushes on, eyes wide as if he's willing me not to be offended. When I remain silent he looks down at the floor, before taking a deep breath and continuing. 'Well, Mac was saying you got friendly with someone called Drew, only they don't know who he is. I didn't say anything to Mac at the time, only, the thing is.......I do.'
I sit up, wrenching my bruised shoulder painfully but too keyed up to take much notice.
'You know Drew? So you know I didn't make him up! Oh my God, can you tell the doctors here, and Margie and Mac, and the police as well......' I babble on excitedly until Ian holds out his hands in surrender.
'Whoa there. Hold on just a minute. I need to tell you the rest of it.'
And he does. Drew is Ian's brother. Or was. It's true Drew was a stockman on the farm but he hasn't been seen for over fifty years.
'One day, back in 1966, Drew took his dog, her name was Bonnie just as you said, out to check on the yearlings in one of the far paddocks. We never saw them again. We had the whole town out searching for them but never found hide nor hair of either of them. Some people think he must have been got by a snake and ran off somewhere in his delirium and got lost. Others think they must have got swallowed up by one of the sinkholes out by the old riverbed. The thing is, whatever happened, Drew's been dead for a long, long time.' He falls silent and lets me take this in. Blinking back tears of frustration, I shake my head vehemently.
'No. It's not true. He's a real man.' I insist.' I baked him a cake, we drank tea together, I saw him bleed when he scratched his hand on a nail. And Bonnie! Bonnie's alive too! She was a real-life, living and breathing dog. She used to put her head on my knee. And Drew! Drew helped me fix the door of the ute. You can't tell me all of those things were done by a.....'
Ghost.
The word hangs unsaid in the air. Ian shrugs and puts his hat back on his head.
'I don't know much about things like that. All I can tell you is that sounds like Drew alright. He always did like to fix things, and he would have jumped at the chance to help a pretty girl.' Ian stands up, he's out of his comfort zone here. 'He was my big brother and not a day goes by when I don’t miss him. But it's some comfort to me to think he's still out there, looking after his cattle and helping those who need help. I'm glad of that, at least. You take care of yourself Sara.' He walks out of the ward, his relief at leaving the alien surroundings palpable.
I sit and cry, really cry for the longest time. I refuse to believe that Drew was just another Crowlands ghost. When my doctor, who has clearly been brought up to speed by someone - Mac or Margie or Ian himself - tries to get me to admit to Drew being another product of my overactive imagination I stubbornly refuse to play ball. Not even when he tells me that, until I admit none of it was real, he can't sanction my release from the psych ward, and he will be forced to section me and place me in the care of a long term facility. For the definition of long term facility see mental asylum. No matter how much they plead, or what threats they make I will not give in. I know Drew and Bonnie are real, and that they're out there somewhere. Not even when, between the doctors overseeing my care and Margie and Mac, they organise a daytrip for me to the site of Drew's caravan will I admit I was wrong.
We leave the hospital, me and Doctor Hay, Margie, Mac and another nurse, male and chunky like a nightclub bouncer. I presume this is in case I cause trouble or try to run away. We trundle out to the farm in a special hospital taxi, and trek across the fields, retracing the path I took the day I found the caravan. It's still there, of course it is, only.... only it's not how I remember it. There's not much left of it to be honest. It still has that basic curved caravan shape but most of the windows are gone, and there's a tree growing through the roof for fuck's sake. My entourage remain silent, allowing me to make my own way up to the branch-strewn clearing. The logs where we sat to eat cake and drink tea are still there but they've toppled over and lie covered in moss, scattered by decades of winds and rain. I pick my way carefully between the rusted pieces of unidentifiable metal, touching the frame of the caravan with light fingers, as if to reassure myself that it is truly there. There is one remaining window intact although it's frosted with dirt and blooms of lichen. Ignoring the filth, I wipe my hand across the pitted surface, creating a clear space in the grime. Pressing my nose up to the glass I can just make out the shapes of Drew's table, and bench in the murky green gloom. The cupboards doors have all rotted and fallen off their hinges, and curious vines have forced their way into holes and crevices, thriving within the greenhouse-like environment. When my eyes adjust to the gloom the shapes on the broken table become clearer.
A chipped and dirty plate, with a pattern of running dogs racing around the border sits on the surface, all remnants of chocolate cake long gone.
The other object is a slim book, a diary or journal - water-stained and crumbling to dust. It sits opened up and face down as if whoever was reading it got interrupted, and put it down, intending to finish the rest at a later time.
'Oh Drew.' I whisper sadly. Then I turn to the rest of my sceptical companions and straighten my spine. 'I'm ready to go back now.'
They move me to a different place. It's nicer than the hospital. It has a garden for one thing. They're calling it place of convalescence but it still has the same locked windows, buzzer-controlled doors, and mental health staff of a secure psychiatric unit. I'm still not living up to Dr Hay's diagnosis. I refuse to accept that none of it actually happened. He's losing patience with me I think. I don't suppose he's ever failed before.
The nurses let me sit out in the garden in the afternoon when
the sun has lost some of its intensity.
They come to visit me sometimes, but I'm careful not to let the nurses hear me talking to them. They're a bit overly fond of the mind-numbing drugs in here as it is, I'm not signing up for any more. I sit out in my special place, in a chair under a gum tree. Bonnie sits with her head on my knee, panting and smiling her doggy smile while Drew sits quietly by, rolling endless cigarettes and talking to me of the land, telling me the Aboriginal stories of creation. Sometimes Babygirl will climb up on my lap and cling to me, while Gregory leans against me, thumb in his mouth and Billy bunny swinging from his other hand. Occasionally I'll catch a glimpse of Malinda, and Kirra, peeking out at me shyly from behind a corner. They wave back when I wave to them and giggle bashfully. The white wimple of Nurse McKay's headdress sometimes catches my eye as she moves purposefully around the hospital's hallways. In the freshness of the evening air, I am content just to sit with them - my children and my man. Who knows what will happen, what the authorities will decide what to do with me, but for now, I have everything I need.
EPILOGUE
From the Melbourne and Victoria Newspaper - The Herald Sun.
'Specialist teams investigating bones found in the garden of a property in the Crowlands area of Victoria have confirmed that they have uncovered the remains of more than thirty children and infants. The house, which dates from the late 1800's, was used as a children's home for children with mental conditions, namely Down syndrome in the early twentieth century, when it was closed down amongst rumours of sexual and physical abuse. Authorities, including local police officers and forensic teams from across Australia, are treating the area as a mass grave, and a local spokesperson for the town has endorsed requests for archived police and parliamentary reports to be re-opened, and for a new investigation to be launched. 'We need to know why so many young children and babies ended up buried in the rose garden of a private residence without anybody in power noticing. Why didn't the families of these victims ever come looking for them? How did a government run children’s home ever get away with the deaths of so many children in their care without being properly investigated?' The police enquiries continue.
Forensic archaeologists working on the case have also discovered the remains of a local man who went missing more than fifty years ago. Andrew Stewart, known as Drew, disappeared with his sheepdog while working on farmland attached to Crowlands House. The skeletons of an adult male in his thirties and a large dog were uncovered when a large section of old river bed gave way, exposing a rocky overhang under the soil. Initial investigations on the bodies indicate that Mr Stewart suffered a broken leg in a fall, and that his dog refused to leave him, both of them subsequently dying from dehydration and exposure. The coroner is expected to release the remains to Mr Ian Stewart, brother of the deceased man, for a proper burial in due course. The two discoveries are thought to be unrelated to the finds at the former children’s home.'
As the sun's fading light gives way to the cobalt blue dark, the large gumtree standing sentry in front of the old brick house rustles with gentle movement. The last two crows, patiently waiting all this time for their precious cargo, spread their wings wide and soar up into the twilight. Each carries their charges carefully, the souls of one man and his faithful dog, and they fly, up and up into the starlit night until they vanish in a flash of bright light, like a distant firework.
The birds' final task is done.
THE END
Dear Reader
Thank you for reading The Crowlands! I would love to know what you thought of it so, if you have a spare minute, please post a review on any of the following sites:
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Reviews help us budding authors tremendously. Not only do they help us find out where we could improve in our writing, but they highlight our work to other readers looking for their next great read.
Best wishes
T M Creedy
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Huge thanks to everybody who believed in me, encouraged me, critiqued me and praised me. Special thanks to Janet, Alison, Angela and Debbie at Jersey Heritage for being my ‘guinea pig’ readers – especially Janet for my first ever review “OMG I bloody loved it!”. Ladies – your honest opinions of this book meant I never gave up hope.