The Ghost at the Point (12 page)

Meanwhile, Poppy had stalked over to the couch, her tail twitching.

“Poppy,” hissed Dorrie, “no–”

Too late. Poppy had leaped on top of Alonso to say good morning.

His eyes still closed, Alonso yelled and pushed her away. She might as well have been a hungry mountain lion. Then he opened his eyes and sat bolt upright, staring around the room as though he couldn’t quite remember where he was. When he saw Dorrie he looked embarrassed.

“
Lo siento
.” He leaned across, obviously apologising to Poppy, who was perched on a chair. She stared back at him crossly. “
Gatita hermosa, discúlpame
.”

Dorrie felt another jolt of pity for him.

She got the fire going and made porridge for breakfast. They topped it with the last of the plums, and honey, and washed it down with tea. Alonso gobbled his again; she was glad she’d made extra.

Afterwards, during the clearing up, she brought up the subject of fishing. It was a perfect morning for it, with the water through the trees at the back beach sparkling in a light northerly breeze. The whiting, as Gah would say, would be biting.

She handed Alonso a tea towel and gestured at the draining dishes.

“Alonso,” she said, “I’m going fishing this morning.” She mimed dangling a hand line over the edge of the dinghy, getting a bite and hauling it up.

Alonso, dish in one hand and tea towel in the other, stared at her blankly.

Dorrie had often played charades, but this was for real.

“You know – fish?” She pretended to eat a fish, which, of course, proved useless – she could’ve been eating anything. So she mimed fishing again, this time with a rod.

“
Ah, sí, vas a pescar
.”

“In a dinghy.” She acted rowing it.

At once, fear came into his eyes.

“No, not
you
…” Dorrie pointed at him and shook her head. Then indicated herself. “Me. You help me pull the boat into the water.”

That was a little harder to get through to him. In the end she had to take him out the front and show him the dinghy down the beach, acting out him dragging it into the water.

He came with her, though he was still wary. It was only after they’d managed to haul the dinghy into the water and Dorrie jumped in, put the oars in the rowlocks and waved him goodbye that he relaxed. She wondered whether he’d ever be persuaded to set foot in a boat again.

She didn’t bother with putting the outboard on, because the fishing spot, the one Gah had christened Nobby Peeping, was not very far out. She located it by lining up the just-visible roof of Nobby Duckfeather’s house with a tall bush in the sandhills. Then she rowed out until she could see a particular rock around the far side of the point. She dropped anchor in the green patch of sandy bottom amongst the darker seaweed, baited her hooks, dropped the line and waited, her hand resting over the edge.

The sun glittered on the water. She shaded her eyes with her free hand and squinted back at the beach. She should’ve brought her hat, she thought. Despite her light olive complexion and brownish sun-kissed hair, she still got sunburned.

Alonso had been sitting, watching her, but now she could see him trudging back along the beach to the path. A small dot raced out of the bushes in the sandhills and skittered along in front of him. Dorrie smiled. Poppy – she’d come with them to the beach.

She wondered what Alonso would do while she was out in the boat. She hoped he wasn’t going to melt back into the bush again like a ghost.

Then there was a hard tug and she was in business. She hauled in her line, hand over hand, until a big, beautiful whiting thumped and shone in the bottom of the boat. Dorrie expertly removed the hook, dispatched the fish with a swift stab between the eyes and put it in the fish basket. She rebaited, and dropped her line over again.

No eggs for tea tonight!

The whiting
were
biting. She caught two more within the next ten minutes. Enough for Poppy too.

Dorrie reached in the bag for some more bait cockles, opening them with the knife. She was putting one on her upper hook when something made her raise her head. And what she saw made her draw breath sharply.

Two figures were standing out the front of the house, near the verandah, on the edge of the cliff. Tall figures. Men, it seemed, gazing out over the water. One of them appeared to be indicating in her direction.

Dorrie stared, her hand above her eyes, her heart quickening. Who were they? She wondered whether her aunt and uncle had gone to the police station in Redcliff and reported her absence to Sergeant Tonks. Perhaps it was the sergeant with either Uncle Harold or Mr Jennings.

They would be able to tell from the fact that the dinghy was missing from the beach that it was her out on the water.

And where was Alonso? What if they’d sneaked up and taken him by surprise? He might have kicked and struggled – then they would have had to subdue him by force. She imagined him locked up in the back of the paddy wagon, terrified.

One of the men vanished for a minute, and then returned. Something flashed in the sun – a telescope, or binoculars perhaps. Maybe the pair of binoculars that sat on the shelf in the sitting room. They were getting a really good look at her.

She felt like sticking her tongue out at them, but instead she tossed her line overboard and pretended to be engrossed in fishing. Her mind was racing. The visitors seemed to be in no hurry to depart. How was she going to come ashore again without them catching her?

She was trapped.

She scanned the miles of beach, the thick scrub behind it. If she rowed ashore anywhere near the house, they’d walk along the sand and be there waiting for her. But if she aimed a mile or so further down to the small, rocky point at the other end – the one she and Gah called Little Point – they wouldn’t be able to get there fast enough. She’d have time to hide in the bush.

When she glanced up again, only one of the men was still standing there. Had the other driven off to Jasper’s Cove perhaps, to get a boat sent out to intercept her?

And
where
was Alonso?

All at once there was no time to lose. She pulled in her line, hauled up the anchor, fitted the oars into the rowlocks and started to row.

It seemed to take an age to get to Little Point. As soon as she started rowing, the figure up on the cliff vanished, only to reappear on the beach. He plodded along a little way and then stopped, evidently realising that she was going to come ashore too far down. Lucky, she thought, the sand was too soft for him to run any distance.

It was a warm day and Dorrie had never rowed so hard. Her arms ached, and sweat ran down her face and dripped off her nose. When she checked again, the man had turned around and was going back up to the house. She hoped he wasn’t a local who would know where best to strike into the scrub from the road to intercept her.

And where had his companion gone?

She finally landed on the beach on the other side of Little Point, dragged the boat up as far as she could and threw out the anchor. For a couple of wonderful seconds she flopped into the sea to cool off. Then she grabbed the sack from the bottom of the boat, tipped the fish into it, wet the cloth in the sea and ran with it over her shoulder for the shelter of the bush.

Nobody, local or not, would have had time to make it from the road through the half mile or so of thick scrub. Nonetheless, she moved cautiously, still dripping, eyes and ears straining, trying to slow her rasping breath.

Once she had put a couple of bush-covered dunes between her and the beach, she changed course towards home. She moved along the little gullies, pushing her way through spiky, prickly bushes and low-growing branches, ever mindful of where she was putting her bare feet.

Every now and again she’d stop and listen. But all that came back to her was the breeze in the treetops, the twittering of tiny birds and the odd mournful cry of a crow. Once she got a fright when a large goanna pounded away, almost from under her feet.

After about half an hour of bush-bashing, the fishy sack heavy on her back, things started to seem familiar. Then she spied the orange roof of the shed up the hill to her right. She made for it, put the sack down in its shade and peeped cautiously around the side, across to the wide expanse of the empty drive to the house.

She couldn’t see any vehicles. Was this a good sign, or not?

Nothing stirred. Dorrie crept around through the scrub to the front, praying that Poppy wouldn’t suddenly emerge and run wildly towards her, meowing.

She wasn’t fooled into thinking there’d be nobody waiting inside. She doubled back down around the rear, keeping hidden in the bushes. While she was passing Sampson’s paddock, she trod on a stick which snapped loudly, causing him to look up, ears pricked.

Dorrie stopped, her heart sinking. He must have sniffed her on the breeze because the next thing, he gave a little whinny and ambled over to say hello.

She crouched there, willing him to go away. But of course he wouldn’t. He stood there, snorting in puzzlement, wondering why his friend was being so stand-offish.

She glanced towards the house, but there was still no movement.

And now she was in a quandary. She could creep around in the bush all she liked, but the only way to find out whether there was anyone in the house was to go inside herself.

Keeping to the bushes, she tiptoed around the far side, giving the chooks a wide berth. The last thing she wanted was six clucking hens running towards her. For once in her life she cursed the friendliness of her furred and feathered friends.

When she reached the tank where she and Alonso had hidden the day before, she crouched down, ears tuned to the slightest sound, debating with herself. And still nothing stirred. Only a family of finches, hopping and chirping around a log.

Dorrie was convinced that she was alone – and that they’d taken Alonso. She felt an overwhelming sense of sadness, mixed with loneliness. She remembered his terror at the idea of being found. Surely, the authorities would treat him kindly, take care of him, find someone who spoke his language? Would they send him back to his homeland?

She pictured him in an orphanage, sitting miserably alone in a big dining room full of rowdy boys.

Wherever he was, she had to help him – somehow.

She stood up and crept along the verandah, ducking down beneath the windowsills, just in case. The sitting room door gave its usual squeak as she opened it. She paused, ready to run, but everything was quiet.

And then Poppy came running in from the dining room, tail up in the air, mewing loudly. Dorrie picked her up and held her close, unable to shush her noisy purr.

She waited a moment, then tiptoed through the dining room and into the kitchen. Nothing.

The door into the storeroom squeaked and started moving. Dorrie screamed and Poppy jumped out of her arms in fright.

Around the door peeped a mop of hair and there was Alonso.

“Ahh!” She gripped the table, wobbly at the knees. “I thought you’d gone.” She pointed. “
Gone
, with … those men.”

“
¡Sí!
” For once he seemed to understand her. He proceeded to describe what had happened by miming, mixed with words of his language. He held up two fingers for the men, showing them searching through the house, and himself hiding behind the door.

“Gone,” he repeated in English, waving his hand in the direction of the road, miming steering a car.

“Who … who were the men –
policeman
?” She patted her head and body to indicate a uniform, then saluted.

“
Sí, uno de ellos
.” Alonso nodded and held up one finger.

Just as she thought. It was Sergeant Tonks, almost certainly accompanied by either Uncle Harold or Mr Jennings.

Dorrie frowned. Whoever they were, one thing was for certain.

They’d be back.

She kept an even closer ear in the direction of the drive after that, and she could tell Alonso did too. The slightest sound – an unlatched window banging in the breeze, or a branch creaking against the shed – made him jump.

But no one else arrived that day, either by car or boat. Only the possums after sunset, tapping at the window again.