The Ghost at the Point Page 8

  It wasn’t like her to sound so worried, and Dorrie felt guilty. But Alonso’s fearful face was enough to convince her she was doing the right thing, for the time being at least.

  “Love, she’s lived here all her life and nothing’s ever happened to her, so there’s no reason why it should now,” said her husband. “She’s more than capable. And when she gets jack of it,” he added, raising his voice, “then she knows both she and Poppy are welcome to stop at our place, for as long as they like.”

  Dorrie smiled. Thanks, Mr Jennings.

  “Well,” called Sarah, equally loudly, “she’s making a big mistake! We’re having jam roly-poly for tea.”

  Dorrie almost burst out laughing – how well her friend knew her. Puddings were a real treat – she and Gah hardly ever had them – and hot jam roly-poly was her absolute favourite. With lashings of thick cream.

  Dorrie was taking no chances after the Chevrolet drove off a second time. She and Alonso tiptoed around the back and went into the house cautiously. But the search party seemed to have departed – for now. There was no doubt, however, that another one would be back.

  In the meantime, she was determined to find out if her hunch about Alonso was correct.

  “You,” she said, pointing at him and then vaguely in the direction of the sea, “you – come from away … over the ocean?”

  They were standing in the kitchen, where somebody – probably Mrs Jennings – had tidied away the remainder of the lunch things.

  Alonso’s eyes became guarded again; he shrugged. If he understood, he wasn’t letting on.

  “Come,” she said, crooking her finger and leading him by the arm into the sitting room. “Sit.”

  She gently pushed him into an armchair. He stared at her warily, looking as though he was about to bolt again. Dorrie watched him out of the corner of her eye while she scanned the shelves for the book she wanted.

  “Ah, here it is,” she said, her voice overly cheerful. Why was it, she wondered, that you spoke so loudly to people who didn’t understand English? “Ships of the World – A Pictorial History.”

  It had been one of her favourites when she was younger. She brushed the dust off the top and brought it over to him, perching on the arm of the chair.

  She wasn’t prepared for his reaction. One glance at the picture of the steamship on the front cover was enough to make him go pale and shrink back in the chair, eyes averted. It was as though she was showing him a photograph of a gruesome murder scene, not an old steamer.

  “Oh, sorry.” Dorrie lowered the book. She felt like a torturer. His eyes had filled with tears; he wiped at them savagely.

  “I’ll put it back,” she said, and crossed to the bookcase. “See, you don’t have to look at it ever again.”

  When she turned back, he was sitting with his arms folded. Dorrie had never seen an expression of such utter hopelessness and misery. She felt like crying herself. And also giving him a hug, though of course she didn’t dare. He might lash out and hit her, she thought.

  She felt terrible, but at least one thing was sure. Her hunch about his tragic, unplanned arrival on the island was almost certainly correct. She wondered if she’d ever be able to communicate with him about it.

  She also wondered what she could do now to distract him. Go out fishing for something for dinner? But in light of his reaction to the book, she wasn’t going to suggest him going out on the water again in a hurry.

  “I know,” she said, “let’s go and collect the eggs. You know–” she mimed flapping wings “–chook, chook, chook.”

  Alonso didn’t appear enthusiastic, but he tagged along after her. On the way she found a piece of rope in the storeroom for him to hold up Gah’s trousers. Despite this, they still hung on him like comical bloomers, or a saggy nappy. He was very thin.

  The chooks seemed to cheer him up a bit.

  “Thel-ma,” Dorrie said, lifting her up and putting her in his arms.

  “Buur-rkk,” said Thelma. She tilted her head, her eyes beady bright.

  Alonso smiled. “Tel-mah,” he repeated, and stroked her neck, murmuring something to her in his own language. He was clearly used to chickens.

  There were five eggs in the nesting box. At least they wouldn’t starve.

  Watching the chooks wandering in and out of the scrub, made her think of Alonso’s tin shelter, down past the garage. By means of sign language she asked him to show her, so he led the way down through the bush.

  When they reached it, Dorrie realised that he’d got the rusted sheets of galvanised iron from their household rubbish tip, behind the thunderbox. He’d leaned them up against a tree and filled in one end of the shelter with branches and bits of bush. Not much protection in a storm, nor from unwelcome slithering visitors.

  Inside, he’d made it as cosy as he could, using a quilt for his bed. She recognised it as coming from the chest of drawers in one of the bedrooms off the courtyard. The same room she’d seen the light in that night with Gah. He’d probably taken it then. There was also a candle in its holder, matches, a jug of water, a couple of plums and a fig. And a half-eaten packet of bush biscuits. There was no sign of any bag, clothes or other possessions. He only had the clothes he’d arrived in.

  They stood there for a moment, gazing at it all. Then Alonso gave a little shrug and said something she took to mean “Sorry”.

  She patted him on the arm, smiling exaggeratedly. “That’s all right!” She nodded at the shelter. “You stay here how many days?” She pretended to count on her fingers. “How many?”

  He said something, holding up five fingers and then grimaced and changed it to six.

  I suppose you would lose count very quickly, Dorrie thought. She started picking up the objects, but noticing his alarmed expression, stopped.

  “You sleep … up there, in the house,” she told him, pointing and miming sleep.

  Judging by his worried frown, it was as though she’d asked him to sleep on the edge of the cliff.

  What, or rather who, was he so frightened of?

  “Come on.” She smiled reassuringly, passing him the quilt to carry. She wondered if he was going to toss it and be off. But he trudged after her, back to the house. She opened the door to the end bedroom on the verandah, the one nearest to the drive, put everything down and opened the window.

  “You sleep here,” she told him, indicating the bed.

  He glanced around the sunny room as though a bogeyman might come through the wall at any second. Then he went to the window and regarded the driveway worriedly.

  Dorrie went to fetch some sheets and a towel. When she came back he was sitting on the bed, arms folded again, bent forwards as though he had a bad stomach-ache.

  Dorrie felt another wave of pity for him. She vowed not to press him for any more information about himself. For a while, anyway.

  Dorrie lit the stove and they had scrambled eggs on toast for supper, followed by figs from the big tree by the chook house and mugs of tea. They ate in silence in the fading light, Alonso gobbling his food again like someone who hadn’t eaten for a week. Which, apart from lunch, he hadn’t, she reminded herself. Not properly.

  Dorrie used the last of the bread to make the toast – she would have to make damper in the oven from now on. Luckily, they had plenty of flour. But judging by the amount Alonso ate, there’d only be enough bully beef for one more meal, and they’d quickly get sick of eggs. Besides, Poppy didn’t like eggs. Dorrie knew she would have to go out fishing, very soon.

  Afterwards, when they were clearing up, there was a small tapping at the window over the sink.

  “Alonso.” Dorrie smiled, beckoning to him. “Look who’s here.” She snatched up her uneaten crusts, turned the catch on the window and pushed it open. A pink nose framed by black whiskers came twitching around the edge, with button eyes and black-tipped ears. The possum sat up on the windowsill, waiting expectantly.

  From behind her came a little cry, and Alonso was beside her. She passed him a crust
and he offered it to the possum. The possum took it in both paws and chomped into it, nibbling rapidly.

  Dorrie stole a sideways glance. Alonso’s face had brightened again, as though the sun was shining through it. It was like seeing a completely different boy.

  She woke in the night and sat up, her heart racing. There had been a noise, she was sure of it. A loud scraping sound, as though someone had bumped into one of the chairs along the verandah.

  A noise too big for a possum to have made.

  Dorrie stared into the dark. Had the search party come back again to surprise them in the night?

  And then there was another sound. The soft but distinct thump of the sitting room screen door closing.

  It was a still night – it couldn’t have been the wind.

  Don’t be stupid, she told herself. It was probably just Alonso raiding the pantry.

  But Alonso had been so tired last night, before she’d lit the way to his room with the lamp. She’d last seen him through the screen door, standing beside the bed, lighting his candle. She’d been sure he’d sleep like a log.

  She lay back down, but in twenty seconds was up again, sliding out of bed and feeling her way to the door. There was no moon, but she couldn’t risk lighting a candle. Praying that no snakes were lurking on the verandah, she tiptoed along to the sitting room window, and peered around the edge.

  Nothing. No lights – everything was dark and still. Had the intruder heard her coming? Was he crouching somewhere in the shadows?

  She waited a minute or two, then with her heart hammering, slowly opened the screen door, wincing at its small squeak. Once inside, she stood motionless again, her eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom. She could just make out the familiar outlines – the old piano, the bookcase, the lamp on the table.

  It was when she took a step towards the dining room that she kicked the footstool, knocking it into the table leg with a clatter.

  There came a cry from the shadows across the room.

  Dorrie yelled out in terror. She snatched up the stool and held it over her head, ready to hurl it at her attacker.

  And then a match flared and the little circle of light revealed frightened eyes, huge beneath brown curls.

  “Oh, gracias a Dios!” cried Alonso, gasping. He leaned down and lit a candle, and Dorrie saw that he’d been lying on the couch, covered in a blanket brought from his bed. He added something rapid in his own language, indicating the window facing the drive.

  “But why?” she asked, pushing on the hard, lumpy couch. “Why you sleep there? And not,” gesturing in the direction of his room, “in your bed?”

  Alonso hunched his shoulders and scowled, shaking his head.

  And Dorrie got the feeling that even if he could have spoken English, he wouldn’t have told her a thing.

  Chapter 8

  As soon as Dorrie opened her eyes the next morning, the events of the night came rushing back to her. She lay there, thinking about how Alonso had moved to the couch to sleep. Then she remembered his reaction when she’d first showed him the end bedroom – his anxious glance out the window to the drive.

  He seemed to be even more worried by the idea of callers in the night than she was.

  She thought about her grandfather, lying in the hospital, worrying about her. Being Gah, he surely would have found out by now that she was here at the point, supposedly on her own. She felt an unpleasant surge of guilt. The last thing she wanted to do was cause him any more pain.

  Dorrie jumped up, dressed quickly, splashed some water on her face and went to see about breakfast. Poppy hurried after her.

  Alonso was still fast asleep, curled up in a ball, when she tiptoed through. He appeared relaxed for once, his face without its usual haunted expression.

  Meanwhile, Poppy had stalked over to the couch, her tail twitching.

  “Poppy,” hissed Dorrie, “no–”

  Too late. Poppy had leaped on top of Alonso to say good morning.

  His eyes still closed, Alonso yelled and pushed her away. She might as well have been a hungry mountain lion. Then he opened his eyes and sat bolt upright, staring around the room as though he couldn’t quite remember where he was. When he saw Dorrie he looked embarrassed.

  “Lo siento.” He leaned across, obviously apologising to Poppy, who was perched on a chair. She stared back at him crossly. “Gatita hermosa, discúlpame.”

  Dorrie felt another jolt of pity for him.

  She got the fire going and made porridge for breakfast. They topped it with the last of the plums, and honey, and washed it down with tea. Alonso gobbled his again; she was glad she’d made extra.

  Afterwards, during the clearing up, she brought up the subject of fishing. It was a perfect morning for it, with the water through the trees at the back beach sparkling in a light northerly breeze. The whiting, as Gah would say, would be biting.

  She handed Alonso a tea towel and gestured at the draining dishes.

  “Alonso,” she said, “I’m going fishing this morning.” She mimed dangling a hand line over the edge of the dinghy, getting a bite and hauling it up.

  Alonso, dish in one hand and tea towel in the other, stared at her blankly.

  Dorrie had often played charades, but this was for real.

  “You know – fish?” She pretended to eat a fish, which, of course, proved useless – she could’ve been eating anything. So she mimed fishing again, this time with a rod.

  “Ah, sí, vas a pescar.”

  “In a dinghy.” She acted rowing it.

  At once, fear came into his eyes.

  “No, not you …” Dorrie pointed at him and shook her head. Then indicated herself. “Me. You help me pull the boat into the water.”

  That was a little harder to get through to him. In the end she had to take him out the front and show him the dinghy down the beach, acting out him dragging it into the water.

  He came with her, though he was still wary. It was only after they’d managed to haul the dinghy into the water and Dorrie jumped in, put the oars in the rowlocks and waved him goodbye that he relaxed. She wondered whether he’d ever be persuaded to set foot in a boat again.

  She didn’t bother with putting the outboard on, because the fishing spot, the one Gah had christened Nobby Peeping, was not very far out. She located it by lining up the just-visible roof of Nobby Duckfeather’s house with a tall bush in the sandhills. Then she rowed out until she could see a particular rock around the far side of the point. She dropped anchor in the green patch of sandy bottom amongst the darker seaweed, baited her hooks, dropped the line and waited, her hand resting over the edge.

  The sun glittered on the water. She shaded her eyes with her free hand and squinted back at the beach. She should’ve brought her hat, she thought. Despite her light olive complexion and brownish sun-kissed hair, she still got sunburned.

  Alonso had been sitting, watching her, but now she could see him trudging back along the beach to the path. A small dot raced out of the bushes in the sandhills and skittered along in front of him. Dorrie smiled. Poppy – she’d come with them to the beach.

  She wondered what Alonso would do while she was out in the boat. She hoped he wasn’t going to melt back into the bush again like a ghost.

  Then there was a hard tug and she was in business. She hauled in her line, hand over hand, until a big, beautiful whiting thumped and shone in the bottom of the boat. Dorrie expertly removed the hook, dispatched the fish with a swift stab between the eyes and put it in the fish basket. She rebaited, and dropped her line over again.

  No eggs for tea tonight!

  The whiting were biting. She caught two more within the next ten minutes. Enough for Poppy too.

  Dorrie reached in the bag for some more bait cockles, opening them with the knife. She was putting one on her upper hook when something made her raise her head. And what she saw made her draw breath sharply.

  Two figures were standing out the front of the house, near the verandah, on the edge of the cliff.
Tall figures. Men, it seemed, gazing out over the water. One of them appeared to be indicating in her direction.

  Dorrie stared, her hand above her eyes, her heart quickening. Who were they? She wondered whether her aunt and uncle had gone to the police station in Redcliff and reported her absence to Sergeant Tonks. Perhaps it was the sergeant with either Uncle Harold or Mr Jennings.

  They would be able to tell from the fact that the dinghy was missing from the beach that it was her out on the water.

  And where was Alonso? What if they’d sneaked up and taken him by surprise? He might have kicked and struggled – then they would have had to subdue him by force. She imagined him locked up in the back of the paddy wagon, terrified.

  One of the men vanished for a minute, and then returned. Something flashed in the sun – a telescope, or binoculars perhaps. Maybe the pair of binoculars that sat on the shelf in the sitting room. They were getting a really good look at her.

  She felt like sticking her tongue out at them, but instead she tossed her line overboard and pretended to be engrossed in fishing. Her mind was racing. The visitors seemed to be in no hurry to depart. How was she going to come ashore again without them catching her?

  She was trapped.

  She scanned the miles of beach, the thick scrub behind it. If she rowed ashore anywhere near the house, they’d walk along the sand and be there waiting for her. But if she aimed a mile or so further down to the small, rocky point at the other end – the one she and Gah called Little Point – they wouldn’t be able to get there fast enough. She’d have time to hide in the bush.

  When she glanced up again, only one of the men was still standing there. Had the other driven off to Jasper’s Cove perhaps, to get a boat sent out to intercept her?

  And where was Alonso?

  All at once there was no time to lose. She pulled in her line, hauled up the anchor, fitted the oars into the rowlocks and started to row.

  It seemed to take an age to get to Little Point. As soon as she started rowing, the figure up on the cliff vanished, only to reappear on the beach. He plodded along a little way and then stopped, evidently realising that she was going to come ashore too far down. Lucky, she thought, the sand was too soft for him to run any distance.