The Ghost at the Point Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Logo

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Dorrie wonders if Aunt Gertrude’s stories are true. Is there really a ghost boy roaming the cliffs?

  The thought makes her shudder.

  But how else can she explain the shadowy figure she glimpsed moving through the stringybarks? And the other strange happenings around the point?

  Dorrie is determined to discover the truth – even if it means confronting a ghost.

  Chapter 1

  Dorrie Jose only had one pair of shoes – her button-up boots. She only wore them a few times a year, on special occasions, and now they were too tight. Like most children on the island in 1931, she nearly always went barefoot.

  She sat on the edge of her bed, slumping into the saggy mattress, and wriggled her toes up and down. She must have grown since she had turned twelve a few months ago. But there was no getting out of wearing the boots tomorrow at her cousin’s christening. By the end of the day Dorrie’d have blisters galore.

  She sighed and pulled off her boots, dropping them on the floor. Then she hopped off the bed and went to see if she could spot Gah out in the bay. She padded along the verandah and down the path to the point, watching for snakes as always. It was the time of year when they were out a lot, filling up their bellies before their winter hibernation.

  There was a loud meow and Poppy skittered out of a bush. Dorrie bent to stroke her cat, then kept going. Poppy stalked along behind like a miniature grey-and-white lioness.

  The point always reminded her of a witch’s crooked finger. She stepped over some spinifex and walked right out onto the end. It was so narrow that if she’d taken a small jump to the left or the right, she would be over the cliff and into the sea. The waves slapped at the rocks below; the tang of dried fish and shag droppings curled up her nose. Half the point was made up of bird poo, layers and layers of it on the limestone.

  Her arm shielding her screwed-up eyes, Dorrie gazed out across the water. Through the glitter she could just make out the dinghy and the stumpy figure of her grandfather standing in the bow, intent on his line. Gah always stood up when he fished, but Dorrie preferred to sit, her chin resting on her arm along the side of the dinghy, her eyes following the line down into the greeny depths.

  One day a shark would come along and bite her nose off, Gah was fond of saying. But so far the only shark she’d ever seen had kept moving. A huge grey shadow gliding underneath them, longer than the dinghy. She’d sat very still, not breathing.

  Gah had been baiting his hooks at the time, and he simply said, “Come to take a look at us, eh?”

  The dinghy was coming in now, Dorrie saw, so she went down the path and walked along the beach to help.

  The whine of the old outboard rang out across the calm water. As he approached the beach, Gah cut the motor and tilted it forwards, while Dorrie rolled the iron boat rollers down to the water’s edge. Gah passed her the fish basket, cold and heavy with its catch, and then hopped out.

  There was a rippling of water and a blowing of air. Dorrie glanced up at the dolphins gliding past on their evening fishing round. Five or six of them, only a few yards away.

  “Lots of salmon there tonight for ’em,” said Gah.

  Dorrie nodded. Gah unscrewed the outboard and they carried it to its hidey-hole behind a bush in the sandhills. Then they hauled the wooden boat up onto the rollers and dragged it up the beach. This was all done with only a few words between them.

  The same could be said for cleaning the fish.

  “School all right?” Gah’s knife scraped rapidly back and forth over the whiting’s body in a tiny shower of scales.

  “Mmm.” Dorrie hooked her knife into the cavity of her own fish; one expert twist and the guts spilled in a neat little mound onto the cleaning table. She threw them to the waiting pelican and, with a cawing rush of wings and water, it drove its great beak through a crowd of squawking gulls to grab them.

  Then she remembered something and laughed.

  “Ned Brown put a dead snake under Miss Taggart’s chair – she screamed! He nearly got the cane; she was so cross.”

  Gah grunted, but she sensed his smile. “You children’ll find yourselves without a teacher if you keep that kind of caper up.”

  Miss Taggart, who had arrived on the island six months before, had not taken kindly to life as the sole teacher of the thirteen pupils at the Watson’s River School.

  “Be a good thing.” Dorrie grinned. “There’d be no school.”

  But as she scrunched down to the water to wash the headless fish, she wondered whether it actually would be so good without school. Not riding the five miles there and back every day on Sampson, rain or shine. Not giggling with her friend, Sarah, heads in their hands, while spit gobs flicked from the ends of the boys’ rulers went whizzing past their ears. Not playing hopscotch by the water tank at lunchtime, or red rover all over, with everyone joining in.

  School was all right, she thought, most of the time.

  Most evenings Dorrie got supper while her grandfather made his fish-selling round to Jasper’s Cove. Until the Great Depression had hit a couple of years before, Gah had worked as the town’s only solicitor. Now in his declining years, he said he was much happier eking out a simple life as a fisherman. Even though he did worry about the lack of money for things like shoes for Dorrie, despite her reassuring him she couldn’t care less.

  Tonight, they were having cold pie for tea, so Dorrie came along for the ride into Jasper’s Cove. The old truck rattled and bounced its way over the dirt road, barely more than a track half the time. Dorrie could see the stones through the gap in the floor beside the gearstick.

  Sometimes in the warmer weather, there’d be a snake lying in the road, but Gah tried to avoid running over them – they could wrap themselves around the axle and come winding up through the holes like a submarine periscope. It had happened to Elsie Robertson’s parents once. Her mother had screamed so hard her father had run off the road and hit a tree. Fortunately, no one was hurt, including the snake who shot over Mrs Robertson’s lap and out the window, more frightened than anyone.

  Most of the mailboxes were made of old oil drums with one end cut out. Dorrie got out and deposited the newspaper-wrapped parcels of fish into the boxes of each of their regular customers, and then collected the money left out. Being Friday, there were plenty of takers, and they made two deliveries, up the narrow tracks through the bush and paddocks, right to the farmhouse doors. Once to old Mrs Pettigrew, who was eighty-eight and nearly blind, and once to Nobby Duckfeather, a widower who’d had both legs blown off in the Great War.

  Then it was up the steep, winding bends of Cobblers Hill, the truck grinding and juddering, and even stalling a couple of times. When this happened it always felt as though they were going to plunge backwards through the rickety fence at the side of the road and roll into the gully, but they never did. Jaw clenched, Gah would yank on the handbrake and start the motor again, hopefully on the second or third try, not the seventh or eighth.

  At the top of the hill, there was the view down over the golden folds of paddock to Jasper’s Cove. The little town sat on a rise, looking out across the strait to the mainland. Even now, after hundreds of times glimpsing it, the scene still seemed like something from
a picture book. As though you could reach out over the water and touch the line of hills on the other side.

  The strait, however, was actually eight treacherous miles wide. Dorrie had only made the crossing a few times, and on her most recent trip, last year, she’d seen just how rough it could get. They’d been travelling to her great-aunt’s funeral up in the city, and a lot of the passengers had been horribly seasick. Even Dorrie, who had been out in stormy seas since she was tiny, felt a little green.

  At Jasper’s Cove, Gah sold the rest of the catch outside the pub, while Dorrie went into the store to get some more wicks for the lamps.

  There was no electricity at their end of the island – they used candles and kerosene lamps for lighting, and had a kerosene refrigerator. Hot water came from kettles heated on their wood stove. And as for a toilet … the long-drop dunny down the path behind the shed had long ago been christened the thunderbox.

  Now, as she pushed open the shop door with its jingling bell, three faces swung around to her. There was the familiar one of Mr Buntle the grocer, but the other two belonged to a man and a woman Dorrie’d never seen before.

  “Ah,” said Mr Buntle, “here’s Dorrie, his granddaughter.”

  The strangers peered at her for a moment, then glanced at one another.

  “Hello, dear,” said the woman. She had a round face, small sharp eyes and arms that hung like hams on either side of her stout body. “You live at Ned’s Point, do you?”

  Dorrie nodded. They leaned forwards eagerly.

  “And would your … grandfather be about?” asked the man, clasping and reclasping his hands. He was the complete opposite of his companion, all bones and hollows. His belt barely kept his trousers up.

  Dorrie felt her chest tighten with unease. She pointed through the window.

  “He’s over there, outside the pub, selling our fish.”

  “Oh.” They spun around, their heads darting like a couple of strange, unmatched birds. Gah, his hands on his hips, was chatting to two of the locals, Timothy O’Leary and Clarrie Corkbutt.

  “Thank you, dear,” said the man, and in a flash they were out of the shop and heading for the pub, the lady waddling to keep up with her stork-like companion.

  Dorrie made a face. “Who on earth?”

  “Search me.” Mr Buntle frowned and scratched his head. “They were asking all kinds of questions.”

  “I’ll be right back.” And Dorrie took off after them, through the door and across the road.

  “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.