The Ghost at the Point Read online

  But she had to find out.

  She inhaled deeply and started climbing, up over the top of the rock wall. Her sweaty hands grasped at flimsy bushes around the side; her toes groped for shallow footholds. And then she was at the top, peeping over the other side.

  There he was. Ten feet away, clinging to the trunk of a tea-tree growing sideways out of the cliff. Wide-eyed and frightened, in a distinctly unghost-like fashion.

  And directly below him was that big drop.

  He cried out to her, a single word. A word she didn’t recognise, something obviously from another language. But the meaning was unmistakable: “Help!”

  “Hold on!” she shouted. “Stay right there.”

  There was nothing he could do but stay – he was stuck. He must have taken a wild jump, she thought, to grab onto the tree. His bare toes gripped a tiny ledge in the rock, and some of the roots of the tea-tree were coming away under his weight.

  Dorrie’s stomach lurched. Her fingers gripping rock, she edged closer. Even before she stretched out her arm, she knew she couldn’t reach. Not sideways, nor if she tried from above. And those roots could give way completely at any moment. Any attempt at joining him on his precarious perch would send them both to certain death.

  There was only one thing to do.

  “Hold on!” she cried again, motioning with her free hand. “Wait!”

  The boy stared back at her, a sheen of sweat on his dark skin. He glanced below and gave a little moan.

  “I won’t be a minute.” And then Dorrie was clambering feverishly up the cliff, grabbing bushes and rocks, sending more stones and sand showering down. She reached the top, ran along the verandah and down to the shed. Yanking open the door without any of her usual caution about lurking snakes, she rushed into the gloom and grabbed a long coil of rope from its hook above the bench.

  “I’m coming,” she shouted when she got back. She knotted one end of the rope to one of the thick concrete verandah posts, thankful that the verandah was so close to the edge. The post, like the rest of the house, was crumbling in parts, but compared to the spindly bushes and trees growing out of the cliff face, it seemed her best bet. She looped the other end over her shoulder and started climbing back down.

  She had a sudden fear that he might already have lost his hold and fallen. But when she reached a large jutting rock and looked over, he was still hanging on. His eyes, huge with fear, brightened when they spied the rope.

  “Are you ready?”

  Dorrie steadied herself, gripping a branch, then tossed down the coil of rope. It hit the rock face and slithered down. The boy leaned sideways, grabbing wildly. To Dorrie’s horror, more stones and roots came loose, but all he’d managed to grasp was thin air. The rope hung, swaying gently, a tantalising foot from his outstretched hand.

  “Hang on – I’ll try again.”

  She found a spot further up where she could stand without hanging on and pulled up the rope. She positioned herself until she was directly above him and then tossed down the coiled rope again.

  It bounced off the rock face above him and flew over his head. He gasped and stretched for it, more or less pulling the tree out altogether. Dorrie screamed and shut her eyes, but when she opened them she saw he’d somehow got hold of the rope. For what seemed like a sickening eternity he hung by one hand, his feet scrabbling at the rock. Then he managed to get a grip with his other hand as well. Dorrie breathed heavily as he hauled himself up the face.

  When he had almost reached the top of the rock, he stopped for a moment, an indecisive look on his face. She realised with amazement that he was deciding whether to scramble up the remaining distance to join her, or take off again, into hiding.

  What was he scared of?

  “Come on,” she called, gesturing with her hand. “I won’t hurt you.”

  He paused before starting up the rope again.

  Dorrie stared down at him, all at once conscious of her own fear. His shirt and rolled-up trousers were filthy and tattered, his hair matted. He appeared to have been hiding out in the bush for some time.

  And then he was in front of her. About the same height as her, and probably the same age, she thought. Smelling of earth and dried salt.

  His eyes met hers, then darted away.

  “H-hello …” She started to stretch out her hand, but stopped. He was like a nervous, half-wild animal, poised to run. She tapped her chest. “Dorrie.”

  He seemed to be weighing up whether it was safe to say his own name. Dorrie pointed at him, trying to smile.

  “And … you?”

  When he finally spoke it came out reluctantly, in almost a whisper: “Alonso.”

  “Alonso?” It sounded Spanish, she thought, or Italian. Certainly foreign, anyway.

  The boy nodded, almost sulkily.

  Twigs snapped. They both jumped and Alonso gave a cry of fright. But it was only Poppy, hurtling out of a bush, in one of her mad-cat moods. She bounded over to them with a volley of little meows, and, to Dorrie’s surprise, rubbed herself against the stranger’s legs.

  To Dorrie’s even greater surprise he picked up Poppy, whereupon she purred loudly, rubbing herself against his chin. He bent his face down to her, stroking her and murmuring, “Ah, belleza, mi belleza.”

  Dorrie stared at them. Poppy never went straight to strangers like this – it was clear that they were already friends. She felt a surge of annoyance – almost jealousy – that she hadn’t been in on the secret too.

  “That’s Poppy,” she said loudly.

  Alonso smiled, and she got a shock at the way his whole face lit up. Then he put Poppy down again, and his smile vanished.

  “What …” she started. “Wh-where do you come from?”

  He regarded her warily.

  “You know – where?” She cast her hand out over the sea. “What country?”

  He frowned and shrugged, his face suddenly closed and blank. But she got the feeling that behind those hooded eyes, he understood more than he was letting on.

  “Are you hungry?” Dorrie patted her stomach and mimed putting food in her mouth. “You know – food?”

  He understood that all right. He nodded fiercely. Dorrie led the way to the front door, though she sensed he knew it perfectly well. It all made sense now – the missing food, the open safe, the light in the window. And the sheltering sheet of tin, down the hill in the scrub.

  When they reached the kitchen and she started pulling things out of the fridge and pantry, Alonso turned out to be ravenous. He crammed great hunks of bread and cheese into his mouth, devouring them as though it was a life-and-death race. And when she opened a tin of bully beef, he wolfed down several thick slices of that as well. He would have been getting water, she knew, from the taps on the tanks, but it would have been a lot harder to sneak into the kitchen and take food.

  Even though it was lunchtime, Dorrie barely noticed the few mouthfuls she ate herself. She was too busy wondering what on earth to do with her visitor. He obviously had no one to care for him, but if she took him to the authorities, her own situation would be found out and they’d probably hang on to her too. On the other hand, it was going to be hard enough feeding herself, let alone him as well, with his enormous appetite. There were only a couple of tins of beef left in the pantry. But at least between the two of them they’d be able to drag the dinghy into the water to go fishing.

  She took in his filthy face and hands and feet, his tattered clothes.

  “Would you like a bath?” she asked, when his eating had finally slowed down. “You know – wash?” She mimed scrubbing under her armpits and down her arms.

  Alonso studied his arms and legs, as though he hadn’t realised how dirty he was.

  “¡Sí!” he said, his face brightening.

  The kettle was sitting on the cold stove. To light the fire to heat the water would take too long, and anyway, a warm oven would be a dead giveaway to the next lot of callers.

  There would be more visitors, Dorrie knew. As
soon as her aunt and uncle reached the Jennings’s and found out she wasn’t there and that she hadn’t been at school today, they’d all be back. There was no time to waste.

  She gestured with her hand. “Follow me.”

  She fetched him a towel and then a change of clothes from Gah’s chest of drawers. Gah wasn’t very tall, and he’d shrunk a bit in his old age, but she knew they’d still be enormous on Alonso.

  In the bathroom she dragged the old tin hip bath under the tap and turned on the water. It didn’t feel freezing, but it certainly wasn’t warm.

  “Sorry,” she said, miming shivering, “not hot.”

  Alonso shrugged. She got down some soap and a face washer from the shelf, shut the door and left him to it.

  She was right about the next lot of visitors. In the middle of putting away the lunch things, she heard the sound of a motor approaching again. Her heart leaped. Cursing herself for letting him wash so soon, she tore around to the bathroom and banged furiously on the door.

  “Alonso! Alonso! Quick – they’re coming back – get dressed.”

  “¡Sí! ¡Sí!” He’d obviously heard the car too, because in about five seconds he was out on the verandah, fully dressed.

  Any other time she would have laughed – Gah’s clothes were so big they hung on him like sheets. Wet sheets, as he’d had to pull them on without drying himself. He was holding up the beltless trousers with one hand, and clutching his own clothes with the other.

  There was no time to tip up the bath and let the water drain out the hole in the wall. They moved down the verandah, just as the car drew level with the house.

  “Quick.” Dorrie seized his arm and together they jumped off the end. Crouching low, they scuttled around the back of the tank and squatted, rigid, ears straining, in the space between it and the wall.

  Car doors slammed and voices came to them, faint but distinct.

  “She’s got to be here somewhere.” It was the high, querulous voice of Aunt Janet again.

  “Hiding.” That was Uncle Harold. “She’s a very naughty girl.”

  “Oh, no, Mr Jose, not naughty! Not our Dorrie.”

  Dorrie smiled, in spite of herself. It was the warm, comforting voice of Mrs Jennings.

  “Just a bit … spirited,” came Mr Jennings’s deep tones.

  Then came another voice, young and clear. “Dorrie! Dor-rie.”

  Sarah! Tears sprang into Dorrie’s eyes. She felt like leaping up, running along the verandah and hugging her friend. It had all been too much – Gah’s accident, the drive to and from the hospital, the night on her own. And now this boy.

  “I tell you–” Sarah’s voice was coming closer “–she’s worried about Poppy. What’s going to happen to her if she comes to stay with us? Dorrie,” she shouted again, “Poppy will be fine – she can stay in the shed, away from the dogs.”

  Trust Sarah to read her mind. And all at once everything was fine. There seemed to be no more reason to go on hiding, holed up here at the point, when she and Poppy would be safe with the Jennings. And besides, Alonso needed help.

  But as she started to stand up, opening her mouth to call out, she felt her arm grabbed, so hard it hurt. She whirled around. Alonso was holding a finger to his mouth, his eyes terrified.

  She tried to pull away, smiling reassuringly. But that made him cling all the harder. And she knew that if she did stand up and call out, he’d bolt off into the bush once more. So she stayed still, wondering how she could get through to him that the visitors weren’t going to harm him.

  Unless, she suddenly thought, he was the one who’d caused harm. What if he was on the run from the authorities? For stealing, for example? Or worse?

  A ripple of fear went through her. Alonso had relaxed his hold on her slightly, but he was hardly breathing, every muscle tense.

  He didn’t seem like a criminal. Surely someone her age wouldn’t be, would they?

  By now the Jennings and the Joses had gone inside. Dorrie recalled the telltale signs of the hasty lunch still lying around on the kitchen table.

  This is ridiculous, she thought. I can’t keep hiding here like this, with this strange, wild boy I know nothing about.

  She finally managed to detach herself and stand up. But when she turned to him again, she froze. He was pleading with her, silently but desperately, his hands clasped, tears running down his cheeks. She’d never forget the anguish in his eyes. It was almost as though he was begging for his life.

  Dorrie felt cold with fear. What could have happened to frighten him so, to make him so utterly terrified of people he didn’t even know?

  He obviously wasn’t from the island. Or probably even from Australia.

  And then it came to her in a rush. She was ninety per cent sure – didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it before.

  The shipwreck at Black Cape. He must be a survivor.

  Perhaps the only one.

  There was no chance to find out. The others were coming back again, through the sitting room door. At least, the Joses were – she realised that the Jennings must have gone to check around the back.

  Her uncle and aunt came along the verandah, then stepped off to follow the path down to the end of the point. Dorrie and Alonso shrank back as they passed. And any remaining thoughts Dorrie might have had of revealing herself were quashed by what she heard next.

  “I’m not having any argument from the Jennings,” said Aunt Janet. “She’s coming to stay with us. I promised your father, apart from anything else.”

  “Hmph,” said Uncle Harold. “What about the cat?”

  “The wretched creature can stay here and fend for itself. It can live on birds – catch snakes for all I care. It might sit on the baby. And animal hair makes me sneeze – you know that.”

  Chapter 7

  The Jennings went on searching and calling. Dorrie was afraid that Sarah would come and check behind the tank – it had been one of their favourite hiding places when they were little. At one point she heard her friend coming in their direction, but then Sarah got distracted by her father calling out to her from down near the chook house.

  And of course they searched every room in the house, checking behind the curtains and under the beds.

  Dorrie heard Sarah going into the bathroom. She called out in surprise. “Seems like Dorrie’s just had a bath. She hasn’t emptied it … and there’s still water on the floor. Why would she have a bath at this time of day?”

  Neither of her parents had an answer to that.

  Uncle Harold and Aunt Janet came back from the end of the point and reported that she didn’t seem to be on either of the beaches or out fishing. Mrs Jennings reminded them that Dorrie wouldn’t have been able to haul the dinghy down on her own anyway.

  Dorrie smiled to herself. Little did they know.

  “She’s got enough food in the cupboard to keep her going for a few days,” said Mr Jennings. “And she’s been tucking into it, judging by what we saw in the kitchen. Plus she’s got the eggs, and the vegetables and the fruit.”

  “But it just doesn’t seem right, a child her age being here all on her own like this.”

  “Perhaps we should lock up the house,” suggested Aunt Janet. “She’ll be round to your place pretty quick smart then – with no food or bed.”

  All three Jennings protested.

  “Oh, no,” cried Sarah. “We couldn’t do that!”

  “If I know our Dorrie,” said Mr Jennings, his voice suspiciously loud, “she’ll come when she’s good and ready. She’s more than capable of looking after herself in the meantime.”

  “But–” started Mrs Jennings. Then she stopped. Dorrie strained her ears into the sudden silence. It was as though Mr Jennings was communicating with them in whispers or sign language.

  So when she heard sounds of them getting back into the car, and the motor starting up and bumping off down the drive, Dorrie wasn’t taking any chances. She put a finger to her lips, motioning for Alonso to stay still. Then, after a
couple of minutes she crept out from behind the tank and peeped up over the end of the verandah.

  Sure enough, Mr Jennings was still standing there, arms folded, waiting. Luckily, right at that moment, he was facing the other direction.

  She ducked down again, tiptoed back to their hidey-hole and signalled the situation to Alonso. Then they heard Mr Jennings’s footsteps come along to the end of the verandah.

  At that moment, Poppy suddenly appeared beside them.

  “Meow!” she cried loudly, purring and rubbing herself against them. “Mee-ow!”

  Dorrie put a warning hand on Poppy’s back, furiously putting her fingers to her lips. A fat lot of good that was going to do.

  “Here, puss,” came Mr Jennings’s voice from up on the verandah. He made smooching noises, his voice coming closer. “Puss, puss.”

  Her heart thumping, Dorrie pushed Poppy out from their hiding place, and breathed a sigh of relief when Poppy decided to be sociable and jump up onto the verandah.

  “Hello, girl. Where have you been hiding, eh? Where’s Dorrie, puss?”

  There was a small silence. Dorrie held her breath, silently willing Poppy not to skitter back again. Mr Jennings would almost certainly follow.

  But they were saved by the sound of the Chevrolet, soft at first and then louder, coming back up the track. Mr Jennings’s feet retreated back along the verandah as the car drew up.

  “No luck?” asked Uncle Harold.

  “Nope,” came the reply, “but I’m sure she’s close by somewhere. Cat’s here, so she can’t be far off.”

  “Hello, Poppy!” cried Sarah. The ever-curious feline had obviously followed Mr Jennings. The car door squeaked open. “Where’s Dorrie, hey, Poppy? Show us where Dorrie is.”

  No Poppy, don’t!

  “Well, come on,” said Aunt Janet. “There’s no point in hanging about here. The wretched child’s determined to lead us a merry chase.”

  “Oh, but what if she’s not hiding?” It was Mrs Jennings again. “What if she’s hurt herself – fallen off the cliff, or been bitten by a snake, or …”