The Ghost at the Point (8 page)

Like a ghost.

Dorrie gave a little gasp and sat bolt upright, ignoring Poppy’s stretch and yawn. The night before came rushing back to her – the noise in the courtyard, Poppy’s reaction. And that chilled plate. Or had it simply been a combination of a cool night and her overheated imagination?

All at once she felt the need to assure herself that everything was normal. She dressed quickly and went to the kitchen.

There were no new discoveries – everything was as it had been last night. She put the smeared plate into the sink, then, realising she was starving, cut a couple of thick slices of bread and made herself a jam sandwich. Wolfing it down, she picked up the chook bucket and headed down the steps to the courtyard.

The washing basket was still lying there on its side. Then she spied a couple of possum droppings on the concrete nearby. How ridiculously she’d reacted the night before! She, Dorrie, who had experienced the mischief of possums nearly every night of her life.

She put the basket back on the wash troughs and headed out to the chooks.

When she banged the bucket and called out they all came running as usual, their cries and clucks like the greetings of old friends.

She squatted down and stroked her favourite – glossy black Thelma. Thelma’s bright button eyes tilted up at Dorrie seemed to say, “See how very silly you’ve been?”

Next was Sampson, whickering hello at the fence, blowing on the jammy crust Dorrie produced before taking it delicately in his soft lips. Poppy, who always haughtily ignored the chooks, rushed up and jumped onto the corner post, rubbing herself against his face. They’d always been friends – the giant horse and the game little cat, ever since Poppy was a kitten.

Dorrie stroked them both, their hair warm in the sun. Thinking hard. What she really felt like doing was driving back into Redcliff to visit Gah. But word there would travel fast, she knew. By the end of the day Aunt Janet and Uncle Harold would be certain to have heard about his accident. They’d visit Gah and it would be agreed that Dorrie would come and stay with them, no arguments. Uncle Harold would be dispatched to the Jennings’s to fetch her.

Dorrie imagined the Jennings’s faces when he arrived and asked to see her.

No. As much as she wanted to visit her grandfather, she didn’t want to get caught. The best thing was to stay put here at the point. Make herself scarce when someone came calling for her.

Dorrie would check the nesting boxes for eggs in the afternoon. She hoped the hens weren’t going to stop laying. Apart from the vegetables, when the tinned beef ran out, she’d be depending on the eggs. She wasn’t going to be able to drag the dinghy down the beach on her own to go fishing, though she supposed she might be able to drop a line off the end of the point.

Her spirits were starting to sink. What was she going to do here all by herself, with no one for company but the animals? Worse, what about being alone at night, with all the strange noises and happenings that had been going on lately? For the tenth time she thought about packing up and heading for the Jennings’s, after all.

Then she imagined the unthinkable – losing Poppy.

To cheer herself up, she went and sat on the end of the point. Poppy followed her down the path, making angry little chattering noises at a couple of gulls hovering just out of reach. Dorrie perched on a warm rock. The tide was low; the kelp on the rocks exposed. A stingray wafted through the clear shallows, its tail like the string of a kite.

The sound of stones falling made her lift her head. She sat very still, ears straining. It had come from further around the point. And she hadn’t imagined it – Poppy had obviously heard it too.

Her skin prickling, Dorrie stood up. Then crouched low, she picked her way through the spinifex and bushes around the top of the cliff. When she reached the far side, she got right down on all fours.

She heard another sound. A footfall – like someone jumping from rock to rock.

Dorrie stifled a gasp. Slowly, very slowly, she peered over the edge.

A stout figure was picking its way around the reef, floppy hat bobbing, ancient sandshoes sloshing through the rock pools.

“Jacky!” she called out. “Is that you?”

The round face tilted up, caught sight of her and broke into a huge smile. He nodded and tapped his chest. “That’s me!”

Dorrie laughed with relief. “What are you doing here?”

Jacky puffed up importantly. “Dad says are you all right? And grandpa – he all right?”

“Yes, thanks – my grandpa’s broken his leg. Got to stay in hospital for a while.”

Dorrie wondered how the Pearces knew she’d come home. Then she realised that it would never occur to them that she wouldn’t come home, or that she might not be able to cope on her own. In Caleb Pearce’s eyes, twelve would be practically grown-up.

“Got some fish.” Jacky gestured back over his shoulder. “For you – in the dinghy.”

“Oh!” Out of the blue, Dorrie felt tears pricking in her eyes. “Thank you.” Then another thought struck her. “Did you row all the way down the beach – on your own?”

Jacky beamed again. “Corker big row!”

“Haven’t you got an outboard?”

“Nup – Dad says we got no money to get one.”

Having to row to their fishing spots must take up a lot of time, she thought, even though they probably did most of their fishing on the lagoon.

The two of them headed around to the back beach, Dorrie along the top of the cliff, Jacky around the rocks below. He called up to her about things he discovered along the way – a big starfish, a scuttling crab, a slippery rock.

The yellow dinghy was pulled up a little way into a bank of seaweed, a soggy, newspaper-wrapped parcel sitting on the seat. Dorrie had a quick peek inside.

“Whiting fillets. Thanks, Jacky.”

“Big fish.” Jacky jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Caught ’em meself!”

“Better get them in the fridge, I s’pose.” She touched his arm. “Would you like to come up and have a drink of water, or a cuppa?”

Jacky shook his head. “Nup. Dad said to come straight back and not to make a nuisance of meself.”

“You’re not a nuisance.” At that moment Dorrie was very glad of his cheerful company. “Aren’t you thirsty after that big row?”

But Jacky was starting to push the dinghy back into the water. Then he remembered something. “Hey,” he said, “saw your friend.”

Dorrie’s breath caught. “What … friend?”

“That boy.” Jacky pointed to somewhere behind her. “Up there, in the bushes.”

Dorrie swung around, staring at the hillside, the tin roof of the thunderbox barely visible above the scrub. And further up, bits of the house, peeping through the tea-trees.

She swung back to Jacky. “W-what boy?
Where
, exactly?”

Jacky shrugged, indicating vaguely in the general direction of the path that led up from the beach. “He was playing hide-and-seek. He saw me, then he ducked down behind the bush.” Jacky bobbed up and down. “Like that. Ow,” he added, “you’re hurting me.”

Dorrie, realising she’d grabbed his arm, hard, let go.

“What did he look like? Did he have brown hair?”

“Yair – darker than yours. And a brown face.” Jacky was clearly becoming a little impatient with this line of questioning. “You know – the
boy
! When we lifted up your grandpa.” He smiled again. “He was playing hide-and-seek then too.”

Dorrie was speechless. She recalled Jacky yesterday evening, waving at something or someone in the scrub.
That your friend
?

The “friend” she’d seen at the front gate. And Caleb’s remark:
He’d make friends with a shadow
. Did ghosts only appear to some people? To her and Jacky, for example?

And Gah. She’d been deliberately blocking it from her mind, but now she was forced to think about the “kind” person who’d given him a drink. And then tossed the rest of it out, onto the ground.

She remembered Aunt Gertrude talking about poltergeists. Ghosts who did mischief – moving or knocking over objects, even taking things. Maybe like left over fish. But was there such a thing as a good, helpful poltergeist?

One thing was for sure. This boy had appeared to both her and Jacky, and probably to Gah. So there could only be two explanations. Either he was a ghost, or …

Jacky was tugging at the dinghy again. Dorrie grabbed hold of it, her heart racing.

“Wait, Jacky,” she cried. “Stop!”

He looked at her in surprise.

“Before you go …” She stopped and took a breath, willing herself to calm down. “Before you go, could you just spend a little while helping me find him?”

Jacky’s eyes widened.

“Our friend – the boy – playing hide-and-seek. Let’s see if we can catch him.”

Even as they started searching, she knew it was a crazy idea. Ghost or not, this boy was not going to let himself be found by two idiots crashing about in the scrub.

On Dorrie’s instructions they fanned out, taking different routes up to the house. Jacky got right into the spirit of it.

“Here, boy!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Where are you, boy?”

In spite of herself, Dorrie got the giggles. Any self-respecting ghost would be scared off forever by that racket.

When they finally met on the front verandah, Jacky pushed back his hat and scratched his head.

“Reckon he’s scared of us, that boy.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Hey, boy! Don’t be scared of us – we’re good people.”

They both laughed.

“Dorrie and Jacky – corker good people,” he added. Then, as Poppy twined herself purring around his legs: “Cat good too!”

They went to the kitchen and Dorrie put the fish in the fridge. She hadn’t lit the stove that morning so they couldn’t boil the kettle for tea, but they had drinks of water and some bread and jam. Jacky ate a couple of slices, which set Dorrie wondering what she’d do when the loaf and other food supplies were finished. Even though she knew Mr Buntle at the store would give her credit (there were only a few coins in the money jar), she didn’t want to draw attention to herself by arriving there in the truck, all alone.

“Well,” announced Jacky finally, pushing out his chair and standing up, “I’m going home now.”

Dorrie felt a little rush of panic. “But we haven’t searched the house yet. Hey, Jacky – what say we check all the rooms?”

Jacky’s face brightened. “Righto.”

And so they did, starting with the two bedrooms off the courtyard, and then back through the house and into the bathroom and the bedrooms on the verandah. They looked behind the doors and the curtained hanging spaces and under the beds, but all they found were dust balls, a shrivelled-up mouse and several spiders, dead and alive.

“That boy’s not here,” pronounced Jacky solemnly, after they’d finished searching the last room – Gah’s. “He’ll be back, I reckon.”

Dorrie bit her lip, her insides tightening again.

“I’m goin’ now. Dad’ll get cranky.”

“Oh, all right.” She swallowed. “I’ll come and say goodbye.”

She followed him down the narrow path back to the beach, Poppy trailing behind her. Jacky, as usual, kept up a stream of chatter.

They pushed the dinghy into the water and he hopped in, fitting the oars into their rowlocks. He lifted his hat, smiling. “Ta-ta, Dorrie. I’ll come and visit you again.”

“Yes, please, Jacky – come again soon.” Dorrie picked up Poppy and held her tight. She felt like jumping in the boat and going back with him, shack or no shack at the other end.

Jacky rowed out to the dark blue line of seaweed, oars squeaking, then swung the bow towards home. He waved again.

“Bye, Dorrie! Bye, Cat!”

Dorrie laughed and waved Poppy’s paw.

“Bye, Jacky.”

Still holding Poppy, she stood there until he was just a small figure down the water. Really, she thought, it would almost have been quicker for him to have walked.

She put Poppy down and trudged back across the sand, a feeling of dread settling over her again. Poppy, suddenly frisky, shot past her and up the path.

Dorrie followed, wondering what to do for the rest of the day. Going into Gah’s room had made her realise that he’d probably be needing some of his things in hospital – pyjamas and toothbrush, for example, and some of his beloved books. She wondered whether she could risk driving in with them. She was dying to give him a hug, see how he was. But Aunt Janet and Uncle Harold might have chosen that very time to visit him too.

She was so preoccupied with these thoughts that she didn’t hear the low growling until she rounded a bend and almost walked right into them. Poppy, crouched, was eyeballing an enormous tiger snake, which was half-reared, poised to strike at her.

Dorrie went rigid. Any sudden movement would, she knew, make it lash out.

“Poppy,” she warned, her voice urgent. “
No
, Poppy, stay still.”

Fat lot of good that did. Poppy’s eyes smouldered; her growling rose to a crescendo. The snake’s head lifted a fraction; its eyes glittered. Any second, unless Poppy was faster, and it would all be over.

Then everything happened in a flash. There was a loud thump and the black-scaled body whipped away. Poppy sprang, but was simply left scrabbling at a mark in the sand.