The Ghost at the Point (2 page)

“We were neighbours and good
friends
of your late sister, Miss
Gertrude
Jose,” Dorrie heard the man telling Gah as she drew near.

Something in Gah’s expression changed. He stared at the newcomer, his eyes hardening. “Oh, yes.”

“Miss Gertrude was most
interested
in the history of the island,” he went on. “It positively captured the imagination of my wife” – he nodded at the woman – “and myself. So we’ve decided to write a book on the subject.”

“Plenty o’ history around these parts,” said Timothy O’Leary.

The newcomer smiled thinly. “Yairs-ss.” He made a whistling sound on the “s”. He turned back to Gah. “We’re particularly interested in an ancestor of yours, Mr Jose. One Ned Jose-ss. He was one of the earliest settlers on the island, I believe?”

Gah folded his arms. “Might’ve been.”

“He was an American sealer and–”

“He found
treasure
,” butted in the woman, her eyes glittering, “on a wreck, didn’t he?”

Her husband whipped around and glared at her before turning to smile at Gah again. At least, the corners of his mouth went up, Dorrie noticed. His eyes stayed cold, like dead fish.

“What we
are
interested in,” he said, “is your historic residence–”

“Historic residence!” This was from Clarrie Corkbutt. “First time I’ve ever heard the old joint called
that
before.”

“As part of our …
research
. I understand the earliest section of it was constructed by Ned and the rest added by subsequent generations of the Jose family?”

Gah raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“So we really would be
most interested
to come and view your home. Since it
is
one of the oldest dwellings on the island.”

“Not possible, I’m afraid. Sorry I can’t be of assistance.” Her grandfather touched Dorrie’s shoulder. “Come on, Ducks. It’s getting late.”

The stranger’s jaw dropped open. He closed it with a snap of his too-white false teeth.

“Oh, but I must
implore
–”

“But we’re from … the … the
historical
society!” cried the woman. Tiny beads of sweat had broken out on her forehead.

“That may be, madam,” said Gah, inclining his head slightly. “But I’m afraid my answer is still no.” He took Dorrie’s elbow. “Come along, Ducks.”

And with small waves of farewell to Clarrie and Timothy, they headed back across the road.

“I didn’t like them either,” Dorrie shouted over the chug of the truck, as they drove out of town. “But why were you so definite – about them not coming to the point?”

Her grandfather stared ahead, his jaw set.

“‘Writing a book’, my fat foot! Just plain nosy, that’s what they were. Nosy
and
greedy.” He changed gears. “I remember Gertrude mentioning those two. She actually couldn’t stand them – always poking their noses in where they didn’t belong.”

Dorrie eyed him questioningly.

“At some stage she must’ve told ’em the yarn about Ned’s treasure,” Gah went on. “Anyway, one day she happened to mention to ’em that she was going to give a talk to the local historical society about the early days of the island.” He snorted. “Apparently, it was the first and only time the two of ’em ever attended an historical society meeting. They never left Gertrude alone – always getting round to the subject of that blessed treasure. She said she wouldn’t trust ’em as far as she could throw ’em!”

Dorrie remembered the woman’s sharp-set eyes, and her husband’s oily tone. “Mmm, there was
definitely
something creepy about them.”

“And if they were such ‘good friends’,” Gah added, “why weren’t they at her funeral?”

Dorrie frowned. “Perhaps there really
is
something in that story – about old Ned finding treasure.”

Gah scoffed. “Gertrude was convinced that he’d hidden some somewhere about the place, but, as you know, she had a vivid imagination, to say the least.” He shook his head, smiling faintly. “Certainly your great-great-great-grandfather seems to have landed here on the island when his ship was wrecked. Well, there’s the anchor.”

Dorrie thought about the big, rusted anchor lying where it always had, at the top of the path leading down to the beach at the point. She’d heard the story ever since she was tiny, well what there was of the story. It was not even known if there had been any other survivors of the wreck, back in the early 1800s, off Black Cape on the wild, deserted south coast.

At any rate, old Ned had been of the very earliest settlers on the island. His descendants had been here ever since.

The only picture they had of him was a faded sketch, which hung above the bookcase in the sitting room. The portrait was as familiar to Dorrie as the frayed armchairs and the ancient, out-of-tune piano. Even though he was quite old when it was drawn, he appeared almost scary. He was dark, with an aquiline nose and fierce, brooding eyes.

“As for some far-fetched tale of him salvaging treasure,” her grandfather continued, “it’s probably all poppycock!
Treasure
, indeed.”

Then, with a rueful smile, he said, “Though I must say, we could do with a bit of it, couldn’t we!”

Dusk had fallen by the time they reached the home stretch. Gah switched on the headlamps, but they made little impact against the dappled haze of the bush.

“Roo ahead,” said Dorrie, peering through the dusty windscreen.

Kangaroos and wallabies were a real hazard at this time of the evening, out to graze after the warmth of the day. There was nothing she hated more than the thump of the truck hitting one.

Gah braked slightly. “Where?”

“There! Something’s moving … by that tree.”

“Well, it’s gone now,” said Gah, barely glancing at the forked stringybark. Their mailbox was looming up on the other side, so he slowed down.

“Hey,” Dorrie had twisted right around and was staring through the little rear window, but they were already heading up their track.

“What’s the matter, Ducks?”

“It looked like …”

“What? A bunyip?”

“No.” She stared hard until the stringybark was out of sight, then slowly turned back again, frowning.

If she told him, he’d probably tease her about
her
overactive imagination. But
had
she seen it, or, considering the fading light, only thought she had?

She did have a good imagination – she’d be the first to admit it. During howling winter storms she could almost hear the grinding of old sailing ships’ timbers on the rocks, and see the survivors staggering thirst-crazed through the sandhills. Or on night visits down the path to the thunderbox, the thump of a wallaby tail in the dark could persuade her that an escaped criminal was about to emerge from the bush. Even the flickerings of the candle across her bedroom ceiling could conjure up strange imaginings.

They pulled up outside the house, the limestone walls glowing creamy in the dusk. Dorrie climbed out and went inside to start getting tea. All the while she kept remembering that flash of movement in the scrub.

Human movement. She’d been positive.

If Gah noticed that she was quieter than usual during the meal, he didn’t say anything. One thing was for sure, she thought, absently chewing. Half-light or not, roos didn’t wear pants and a shirt, and have big eyes staring out from under a tangled mass of dark curls.

It was a boy she’d seen vanishing around that stringybark. A boy about her own age.

But if the boy
was
real, who could he be? Dorrie knew everyone from this end of the island, and she’d certainly never seen him before. And what was he doing moving behind the tree like that, as though he was hiding, right at the bottom of their track? It was at least a mile up or down the road to their nearest neighbours, none of whom had any visitors that she knew about. And on the other side of the road, opposite their mailbox, there was nothing but thick bush and scrub stretching all the way to the wild, lonely beaches of the south coast.

Where had he come from?

All at once, she could no longer ignore the thought she’d been trying to put out of her mind. She froze, her fork halfway to her mouth.

What if he came from nowhere?

What if he was a ghost?

The
ghost – the ghost that Aunt Gertrude had always talked about.

A few years ago Aunt Gertrude had come from the mainland to live with them. Aunt Gertrude was Gah’s sister and Dorrie’s great-aunt, and she had decided that her brother and great-niece were in desperate need of some “civilising”.

Dorrie had been barely three when her parents had been swept off the rocks while fishing on the south coast, never to be seen again. She’d gone on living at the point, with Gah and her much-loved grandmother, Gan. Then when she was eight, Gan had died of pneumonia. It was a day neither Dorrie nor Gah wanted to remember, but somehow they’d picked themselves up and carried on without her.

After a while, in fact, they were managing pretty well, but that’s not what Aunt Gertrude thought. She was quite sure, as she put it, that they must be living “like savages”, camping out in the old house and living on scraps.

The last straw was when Dorrie had foolishly happened to mention in a letter about going to school barefoot. Her great-aunt had booked herself on the very next steamer across to the island.

When she’d first swept into the house, hat feathers bobbing, she’d taken a deep breath and announced: “I see the
ghost
hasn’t left!”

Gah, trailing behind with her suitcase, had snorted. “Rot, Gert! There’s never
been
any ghost.”

Aunt Gertrude had arched an eyebrow. “Protest all you like, George.” She took off her hat and, having brushed at some specks of dust on the sitting room table, set it down carefully. “But I know differently. Ever since I can remember, there’s been a ghost living here.”

Another snort from Gah. “How can you tell?” He lifted a faded cushion and pretended to look underneath. “Is it hiding somewhere?” Then, sniffing the air: “Does it have a particular
smell
?”

Dorrie stifled a giggle. Faced with his bossy elder sister, her wise grandfather was becoming the teasing little brother.

Aunt Gertrude tossed her head and marched on through into the dining room. Dorrie hurried after her.

“What ghost, Aunt Gertrude?”

Her great-aunt stalked into the kitchen, deposited her handbag on a chair and removed her jacket.

“The boy.” She reached for the kettle. “My mother – your great-grandmother – saw him at
least
twice.”

Gah winked at Dorrie. “Well, I certainly never encountered him – and neither did Father, for that matter.” He grinned. “Strange how this boy only seems to appear to the fair sex. He must’ve been very handsome.”

“Ga-ah!” Dorrie frowned and turned back to Aunt Gertrude, who was calmly filling the kettle. “Go on Aunt Gertrude. Did
you
ever see him?”

“Only once that I clearly recall.” Her great-aunt deposited the kettle on the wood stove. Water slopped from the spout and sizzled on the hotplate. “It was when I was about your age, Dorrie. Mildred and I were sharing the room you’re in now.”

Mildred was Gah and Aunt Gertrude’s sister, who had died of scarlet fever in her teens.

“I remember waking up in the middle of the night to hear someone crying out. It was soft but terribly …
heartfelt
. An
unearthly
sound – gave me the fright of my life!”

Dorrie stared at her. There was a silence, filled only by the ticking clock on the mantlepiece.

“It was pitch-black,” her great-aunt went on. “I couldn’t see a thing, but I thought it must be Mildred crying. I fumbled around for the matches and lit the candle, and there he was, the boy, standing at the foot of my bed.”

Prickles ran up Dorrie’s spine. She pictured the ghost boy, haloed in the dim candlelight, his shadow wavering on the wall of her little room.

Did ghosts
have
shadows?

“Sure you were awake?” Her grandfather had crossed to the dresser to get the teapot. Dorrie knew he was trying not to laugh.

“I was
wide
awake, not dreaming!” cried Aunt Gertrude. “Unlike Mildred, who was fast asleep. She slept right through the whole thing.”