The Ghost at the Point Read online

  “We’ll hop on the back,” said his father. “You can drop us off at our track.”

  And so began the long, extremely slow and agonising trip into Redcliff.

  Chapter 5

  Even though it was late, Dr Phillips, the island’s only doctor, happened to be at the hospital when they arrived.

  He and the nurse on duty, Sister Kennedy, lifted the sweating, white-faced Gah onto a trolley and wheeled him into the treatment room. Dorrie, fighting back tears, waited on a bench outside while they examined him. Now that she’d finally got him here, she felt all weak and shaky.

  Hands clenched in her lap, she strained her ears to hear the murmured sounds through the half-open door.

  “Does it hurt here?”

  “Is it tender there?”

  She winced when she heard Gah’s sharp intakes of breath or little grunts of pain, biting her lip to stop herself from crying out in sympathy.

  What if his injuries were much more than just a broken leg? What if …?

  All at once she could barely breathe. Ever since she could remember, Gah had been at the centre of her world – solid, loving, always there. Life without him was unthinkable. Apart from anything else, where would she live? And what would happen to the old house on the point?

  She pressed her face into her hands and willed herself to calm down.

  Finally, Doc Phillips came out, and she jumped up. He patted her on the shoulder reassuringly.

  “Well, Dorrie, you’ve certainly got a tough old grandad. It’d help if they’d send us one of those new-fangled X-ray machines, but we’ve examined him and it seems to be only his leg that’s the problem.”

  Dorrie felt herself go floppy with relief.

  “But it’s a nasty break,” he went on, “in a couple of places, it seems. He’ll have to stay here in hospital for a few weeks.” He gestured to the door. “D’you want to come in and say hello to him? We’ve given him an injection of morphine for the pain, so he’ll be a bit groggy.”

  Gah was a bit groggy, but he managed to open his eyes and grasp Dorrie’s hand.

  “Just my leg,” he murmured. “Right as rain otherwise.” He sighed. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to stay with your aunt and uncle for a while, in town.”

  She stared back at him, trying to keep the dismay from her face as she pictured herself sitting in Aunt Janet’s parlour with Esme, doing needlework, or tackling the dreaded deportment.

  “No need, Gah,” she said cheerily. “I’ll be perfectly all right at home.”

  “No, you won’t.” He frowned and his grip on her hand tightened. “Not out there on your own, all that time.”

  “Of course I will …” She broke off, not wanting to upset him.

  Sister Kennedy laid a soothing hand on Gah’s arm. “Why don’t I telephone your Aunt Janet, Dorrie, and tell her you’ll be coming? For the night, at least.”

  Sister, who had delivered Dorrie, and Esme for that matter, knew almost everyone in town. Practically everyone on the island, in fact.

  “No, I’ve got a better idea.” Dorrie knew that if she stayed even one night with her aunt and uncle, she’d never escape. “Why don’t I stay at Sarah’s place? I’ll take Sampson over there, and Poppy, and I’ll be able to ride back and feed the chooks every couple of days, and still go to school.”

  Gah closed his eyes. “The Jennings have got enough mouths to feed.” But Dorrie could see that the morphine was taking over; he was getting drowsier.

  Sister Kennedy seemed worried. “You can’t drive back all that way in the dark tonight, Dorrie.”

  “Yes, I can,” cried Dorrie.

  Though underneath it all she didn’t feel quite so sure. What if she got a puncture out there, alone in the dark? Would she be strong enough to even lift the flat tyre off the axle? Nobody would be along until morning to help.

  Then she imagined the alternative – weeks with her aunt and uncle. And probably having to go to school in Redcliff, with her cousins.

  “I’ve driven along that road masses of times.” She tossed her head and stood up as straight as possible. She must have grown, she thought vaguely; she was almost as tall as Sister.

  Sister Kennedy sighed. “I really can’t believe I’m allowing this, Miss Stubborn,” she said finally. “But … well, if you promise me you’ll go straight to the Jennings’s tonight. I’ll go and telephone them to let them know–”

  “You can’t,” said Dorrie, struggling to keep the note of triumph out of her voice. “No telephone there, remember?”

  “Oh.” Sister’s brow furrowed. “Well then, I don’t–”

  Dorrie jumped in quickly. “Must be off. Don’t want to leave it too late to get to the Jennings’s place.”

  She bent over and planted a kiss on her dozing grandfather’s forehead. “Bye, Gah,” she murmured. “Look after yourself – I’ll be back soon.” Then she straightened up, bid Sister a quick goodbye and made for the door.

  “Wait, Dorrie,” came the cry behind her. “I really don’t think–”

  “I’ll be fine,” she called, with a little wave. “Thanks, Sister!”

  She walked quickly to the truck and jumped behind the wheel. Thankfully, the motor started first try. As she drove away, she saw the silhouette of Sister Kennedy standing in the lighted doorway, her hand raised doubtfully to her mouth.

  Dorrie felt another little surge of victory. It wasn’t only the fact of having kept her freedom. She’d also managed to avoid making any actual promises about going to the Jennings’s. Much as she loved Sarah’s family, she didn’t want to be tied down to staying with them. If she turned up there tonight, she’d be forced to stay put. Since there were no foxes on the island, the chooks would be all right foraging around in the bush as usual. She could go over and give them some extra feed every couple of days. But she’d have to take Poppy with her to the Jennings’s.

  The only time they’d ever left Poppy alone at the point – those few nights when they’d gone to the mainland for Aunt Gertrude’s funeral – had been a disaster. Despite Sarah riding over to feed her, the little cat went missing, not coming back until several days after Dorrie and Gah’s return. Just when the despairing Dorrie had given her up for good, she arrived at the back door, bedraggled and hungry – and very glad to see them. They never found out what had happened to her, but one thing was clear – they could never leave her on her own again.

  But taking her to the Jennings’s was a problem too. Dorrie was afraid that Trixie and the other dogs would chase Poppy and she might run away into the bush, never to be seen again.

  Anyway, Gah’s remark about the Jennings having enough mouths to feed was true. Like many islanders, they battled to make ends meet. She knew that Gah would try to give them money for her board, but she was equally certain that they would refuse to take a penny. And the last thing Dorrie wanted was to be a burden.

  As she left the outskirts of Redcliff and turned off onto the dark road to the east, she suddenly wasn’t so sure. She thought about the house sitting there on the point, unlit and silent.

  And then before she could stop it, her mind started filling with the images she’d tried to block out during the long trip into town. Jacky waving to someone (or something?) in the bush. That wet patch of sand.

  Before that, the guttering candle through the window.

  That shivery feeling of being watched.

  And most of all, the face vanishing behind the tree.

  Dorrie gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead, trying to think about comforting things. Herself snuggled up in bed, for example, with Poppy purring, warm at her feet. Her door firmly locked from the inside.

  But locks didn’t stop ghosts, did they?

  She thought again about Aunt Gertrude’s ghost – the boy who always seemed to be searching. He’d appeared to her in what was now Dorrie’s room.

  The palms of her hands were getting damp; she wiped them on her shorts. Don’t be so stupid, she told herself, it’s only the dear old hou
se – the one you’ve always lived in. There’s nothing to be frightened of.

  But that face, hazy in the dusk, just wouldn’t go away.

  Dorrie drove past the black hole of the garage and drew up next to the verandah.

  Everything was as she’d imagined it. Still and silent – the moonlight on the sea, and the front of the wide verandah silvery, the shadows at the back very dark.

  She sat there, willing herself to be calm, but her stomach felt as though it was pushing up into her throat. Get out of the car, she told herself, and walk to your room.

  And so she did. But halfway along, something moved in the shadows. She screamed and jumped.

  “Meow!” Poppy leaped down from the old wooden seat under the windowsill and twined herself around Dorrie’s legs. “Mee-oow!”

  “Poppy!” Dorrie scooped her up, rubbing the furry, purring cheek against her own. Her heart was thudding, her mouth dry. “You scared me.”

  Poppy’s answering mew was more businesslike, accompanied by a swishing tail. There was no mistaking her meaning.

  “I’m sorry, Pops.” The sleek little cat felt so warm and comforting. “I know, you’re starving – it couldn’t be helped. Gah’s broken his leg. It’s just going to be you, me, Sampson and the chooks for a while.”

  A surge of loneliness went through her, like the chill from an open door. And now, instead of going straight to bed, she was going to have to feed Poppy. Go through the dark house to the kitchen.

  “Come on, girl.” Still carrying her, Dorrie turned and headed for the front door.

  Except for the bright shafts of moonlight through the windows, the sitting room was dark. She stood there for a moment, adjusting her eyes, then groped her way towards the table in the middle where the lamp stood.

  However, the matches were nowhere to be found, even when she put Poppy down and felt about with both hands. She couldn’t believe it – a box was always left next to the lamp. Cursing softly, she went through into the dining room, Poppy padding along ahead of her. There she found a candle and some matches on the side table. She lit the candle.

  That was when she heard a noise, down in the courtyard.

  Dorrie froze. It sounded like one of the washing baskets falling off the steps to the kitchen. Being knocked off by a possum, or …

  Poppy’s ears pricked. She jumped onto the table and ran along to the other end.

  “Poppy … what?”

  Poppy had bounded onto the windowsill and was peering through the window down into the courtyard.

  Something banged; Dorrie cried out.

  Either the possum was making a loud exit over the tin fence, or the gate in the fence had swung shut.

  She blew out the candle and crept along to the window.

  Nothing was moving in the courtyard, though sure enough, in the shadowy moonlight she could see the big washing basket lying on its side. If the intruder was a possum, why was Poppy so interested? Possums were an everyday fact of life for Poppy. She found them a bit irritating, but she more or less ignored them.

  Dorrie had an enormous urge to hop in the truck and take off for the Jennings’s. But Poppy had gone into the kitchen and started mewing for food, so Dorrie relit the candle and followed her.

  She lit the kerosene lamp hanging over the table. It felt better once the corners of the kitchen were no longer dark. Then she remembered the fish fillets left over from last night’s dinner of whiting and cray, and went to the refrigerator. She’d give most of them to Poppy and have a couple of mouthfuls herself. Even though she hadn’t eaten anything since the rock cakes, she wasn’t really hungry.

  However, there was no sign of the fillets, or the dish they’d been sitting on. Perhaps Gah had eaten them for lunch. Though he usually only had bread and cheese, or a hunk of bully beef.

  It was when she went to get a tin of beef that she noticed the plate sitting on the dresser shelf beside the pantry cupboard. The tin one she’d put the fish on. She could tell because of the smear of yellow cooking fat on it. Dorrie stared at it. If Gah had eaten the fish for lunch, it was most unlike him to leave it lying there and not in the sink. Had he been feeling odd all day – was it some kind of turn that had caused him to fall off the ladder?

  Forcing herself not to think about it, she got down a tin of beef and opened it. She cut off a couple of slices – one for Poppy and one for herself. She ate absentmindedly, leaning against the table, taking comfort from the guzzling and purring sounds coming from below. She decided on a bush biscuit to finish off, but when she opened the tin there was nothing inside.

  Dorrie stared at the empty tin. She could have sworn there was a half-finished packet in there. She shrugged and ate a slice of bread and jam instead.

  Time for bed. She picked up the knife and the board to take to the sink, and then reached for the tin plate. But when she picked it up it seemed cold, as though it had recently come out of the refrigerator.

  Surely not? Dorrie held it to her cheek. She felt a distinct chill.

  That was when she scooped up the protesting Poppy and, lamp in her other hand, half-ran, half-stumbled to her room.

  Once inside, she banged the door shut hard behind her. She knew there was a box of keys somewhere in the house, but she didn’t know where. They never locked any of the doors. Now Dorrie longed for a big iron key labelled “Middle Bedroom, Verandah”.

  When Dorrie opened her eyes the next morning she wondered whether she’d been to sleep at all. She lay there, Poppy at her feet, strange, wild dreams of the night still hanging like a fog in her brain.

  There had been a sailing ship, a really old one, with a big-bellied hull and square sails, heading for a reef. Somehow she knew it was from the Spanish Armada. Its timbers creaked and groaned under the crashing breakers and spray as it bobbed steadily towards the looming rocks, as jagged as sharks’ teeth. And then the mist swirling around the top of the masts was sucked into a kind of funnel, or waterspout, which hovered and darted about with a life of its own.

  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.