The Ghost at the Point Page 9

  It was a warm day and Dorrie had never rowed so hard. Her arms ached, and sweat ran down her face and dripped off her nose. When she checked again, the man had turned around and was going back up to the house. She hoped he wasn’t a local who would know where best to strike into the scrub from the road to intercept her.

  And where had his companion gone?

  She finally landed on the beach on the other side of Little Point, dragged the boat up as far as she could and threw out the anchor. For a couple of wonderful seconds she flopped into the sea to cool off. Then she grabbed the sack from the bottom of the boat, tipped the fish into it, wet the cloth in the sea and ran with it over her shoulder for the shelter of the bush.

  Nobody, local or not, would have had time to make it from the road through the half mile or so of thick scrub. Nonetheless, she moved cautiously, still dripping, eyes and ears straining, trying to slow her rasping breath.

  Once she had put a couple of bush-covered dunes between her and the beach, she changed course towards home. She moved along the little gullies, pushing her way through spiky, prickly bushes and low-growing branches, ever mindful of where she was putting her bare feet.

  Every now and again she’d stop and listen. But all that came back to her was the breeze in the treetops, the twittering of tiny birds and the odd mournful cry of a crow. Once she got a fright when a large goanna pounded away, almost from under her feet.

  After about half an hour of bush-bashing, the fishy sack heavy on her back, things started to seem familiar. Then she spied the orange roof of the shed up the hill to her right. She made for it, put the sack down in its shade and peeped cautiously around the side, across to the wide expanse of the empty drive to the house.

  She couldn’t see any vehicles. Was this a good sign, or not?

  Nothing stirred. Dorrie crept around through the scrub to the front, praying that Poppy wouldn’t suddenly emerge and run wildly towards her, meowing.

  She wasn’t fooled into thinking there’d be nobody waiting inside. She doubled back down around the rear, keeping hidden in the bushes. While she was passing Sampson’s paddock, she trod on a stick which snapped loudly, causing him to look up, ears pricked.

  Dorrie stopped, her heart sinking. He must have sniffed her on the breeze because the next thing, he gave a little whinny and ambled over to say hello.

  She crouched there, willing him to go away. But of course he wouldn’t. He stood there, snorting in puzzlement, wondering why his friend was being so stand-offish.

  She glanced towards the house, but there was still no movement.

  And now she was in a quandary. She could creep around in the bush all she liked, but the only way to find out whether there was anyone in the house was to go inside herself.

  Keeping to the bushes, she tiptoed around the far side, giving the chooks a wide berth. The last thing she wanted was six clucking hens running towards her. For once in her life she cursed the friendliness of her furred and feathered friends.

  When she reached the tank where she and Alonso had hidden the day before, she crouched down, ears tuned to the slightest sound, debating with herself. And still nothing stirred. Only a family of finches, hopping and chirping around a log.

  Dorrie was convinced that she was alone – and that they’d taken Alonso. She felt an overwhelming sense of sadness, mixed with loneliness. She remembered his terror at the idea of being found. Surely, the authorities would treat him kindly, take care of him, find someone who spoke his language? Would they send him back to his homeland?

  She pictured him in an orphanage, sitting miserably alone in a big dining room full of rowdy boys.

  Wherever he was, she had to help him – somehow.

  She stood up and crept along the verandah, ducking down beneath the windowsills, just in case. The sitting room door gave its usual squeak as she opened it. She paused, ready to run, but everything was quiet.

  And then Poppy came running in from the dining room, tail up in the air, mewing loudly. Dorrie picked her up and held her close, unable to shush her noisy purr.

  She waited a moment, then tiptoed through the dining room and into the kitchen. Nothing.

  The door into the storeroom squeaked and started moving. Dorrie screamed and Poppy jumped out of her arms in fright.

  Around the door peeped a mop of hair and there was Alonso.

  “Ahh!” She gripped the table, wobbly at the knees. “I thought you’d gone.” She pointed. “Gone, with … those men.”

  “¡Sí!” For once he seemed to understand her. He proceeded to describe what had happened by miming, mixed with words of his language. He held up two fingers for the men, showing them searching through the house, and himself hiding behind the door.

  “Gone,” he repeated in English, waving his hand in the direction of the road, miming steering a car.

  “Who … who were the men – policeman?” She patted her head and body to indicate a uniform, then saluted.

  “Sí, uno de ellos.” Alonso nodded and held up one finger.

  Just as she thought. It was Sergeant Tonks, almost certainly accompanied by either Uncle Harold or Mr Jennings.

  Dorrie frowned. Whoever they were, one thing was for certain.

  They’d be back.

  She kept an even closer ear in the direction of the drive after that, and she could tell Alonso did too. The slightest sound – an unlatched window banging in the breeze, or a branch creaking against the shed – made him jump.

  But no one else arrived that day, either by car or boat. Only the possums after sunset, tapping at the window again.

  And they seemed particularly noisy that night, thundering across the roof, their claws like scatterings of hailstones. Several times Dorrie woke and sat up, only to sink back again when she heard the small throaty roar of a quarrelsome possum.

  Judging by the way Alonso was rubbing his eyes when he appeared the next morning, he hadn’t slept very well either. Even though, on her signed suggestion, he’d happily moved into Gah’s room – the one furthest from the drive.

  Everything was still today, the horizon an invisible pearly haze of sea and sky. It wasn’t hot, but the air felt close and muggy. Dorrie knew what was on the way.

  “Storm coming,” she told Alonso. “Maybe tonight.”

  Alonso searched out over the bay. She knew that he’d understood her. And that his memories of storms were the opposite of happy.

  Bad weather made her think of the dinghy, sitting on the beach past Little Point. So after breakfast, when she’d made Alonso understand, she set off along the beach to fetch it. She left him on the verandah playing with Poppy.

  It was a long walk up the beach to Little Point, but with all the thoughts running around in Dorrie’s head, it didn’t seem as far as it normally would have. She plodded along, her feet sinking in the soft sand, wondering how long she and Alonso were going to be able to hole up at the point without being caught. Dr Phillips had said Gah would be in hospital for a couple of weeks. How were they going to hide out, escape their would-be captors for that long? She wondered what Sarah had told everyone at school, about why Dorrie had been missing.

  An image came into her mind of a giant net being cast over the house and the point, with her and Alonso struggling like helpless beetles inside.

  Despite these unwelcome thoughts, she still kept her usual eye out for shells. The wavering, untrodden tidelines always contained some treasures, and today’s were no exception. By the time she reached Little Point, she’d picked up a cowry, a frilly cockle and a small but perfect green sea egg. She wondered if Alonso might like them. Then again, he didn’t seem too keen on anything to do with the sea.

  The tide was higher than yesterday, and the dinghy was riding at anchor in a foot of water. She picked up the anchor, waded out and pushed the boat a bit further, before climbing in.

  The lack of swell made the row back fast and easy, but Dorrie would have almost preferred a bit of breeze. The stillness and glassy calm filled her with
a sense of foreboding.

  Then, as she drew closer to home, two people appeared on the beach from the path. Her heart jumped; she stopped rowing and stared, oars raised and dripping.

  One small and slim, one big and stout, came towards her.

  Then the taller one raised a hand, waved and shouted, “Hullo, Dorrie!”

  The voice was faint but unmistakable, and she sagged with relief. It was Jacky, with Alonso.

  “Hullo!” she yelled back, and started rowing again, grinning from ear to ear.

  As she rowed into the beach, Jacky waded out to meet her, his baggy shorts getting wet. To her amusement he gave her a clap.

  “Good row, Dorrie, good row!”

  “Thanks, Jacky.” She shipped her oars and hopped out, and Jacky towed the dinghy to the sand. With him helping, they didn’t need the rollers; the boat was dragged up the beach in a flash.

  They walked back up the beach, Jacky chattering away as usual. Dorrie stole a glance at Alonso and was pleased to see a big smile on his face. Even though he probably didn’t understand a word, it was clear that he and Jacky had already made friends. Of course, she thought, Alonso would have secretly observed her and Jacky searching for him on Jacky’s last visit, and understood that he was on their side.

  When they got up to the house, Dorrie realised she was starving. She turned to their visitor. “You’ll stay for lunch, won’t you, Jacky?”

  Jacky brightened. “Orright. I brought you some whitebait,” he added. “Alonso put it in the refrigerator.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Dorrie clapped her hands, all at once in a party mood. “We’ll have it for lunch.”

  There was plenty of it. Jacky and his father had caught it when they went garfishing in the dinghy last night with lanterns and hand nets.

  She rolled the tiny fish in flour and fried them on the stove. They were crunchy and delicious, eaten with pepper and salt and a dash of vinegar.

  During lunch, Jacky chattered away, mostly about every motor vehicle and boat he’d ever come across. Dorrie half-listened, but then he said something that made her really take notice. “Saw your cousins yesterday – on the road. Car radiator boiled.”

  “Cousins – what cousins?”

  “Yer grandpa’s cousins.” Jacky appeared a little impatient with such unimportant details. “Puttin’ water in the radiator. We stopped to see if they wanted help, but they seemed to be orright.” Jacky laughed. “Reckon their motor had a gutful. Corker little vehicle–”

  “But …” Dorrie’s mind was racing. “Gah doesn’t have any cousins, that I know of.”

  “Yair – they come to pay you a visit. He’s a book writer or something,” Jacky went on. “Wanted to know about the early days.”

  “Oh – them.” Dorrie felt a rush of anger at being claimed as a “relative” by the ghastly Crickles. Followed by an even bigger rush of uneasiness. Why were they so interested? Their persistence was positively creepy.

  “They’re not–”

  “I said your grandpa was in the hospital,” added Jacky, “with a broken leg.”

  Dorrie thought of Mr and Mrs Crickle’s uninvited visit and felt even more uneasy.

  “Did you tell them I was here?”

  “Yep. Said you was takin’ care of things. With yer friend,” Jacky added, nodding at Alonso. Then he remembered something and smiled. “Dad said ‘What friend? Stop makin’ things up, boy,’ but I said ‘Yair – she’s got a friend there!’”

  He laughed and Dorrie joined in, but only half-heartedly. She was remembering the furtive expressions of the Crickles that day on the verandah. She sincerely hoped they weren’t going to pay another visit.

  The clouds and humidity had been building up all afternoon, so it was almost a relief when Dorrie heard thunder that evening, rolling in across the bay. The first rattle of rain on the roof came during supper, and by bedtime it was coming down in long hard squalls. When she and Alonso opened the front door, a gust of wind blew their candles out and they were forced to run along the verandah to their rooms in the dark.

  Dorrie was thankful they’d pulled the dinghy right up high. She snuggled down into her bed, and listened to the rain. The wind howled around the house and made strange booming noises in the crevices of the cliff. As she drifted off, she hoped Alonso wasn’t too frightened of the storm.

  Some time in the night she sat up, eyes wide, staring into the darkness. The rain had stopped and the wind had dropped a bit, though down on the beach the waves were crashing hard. She sat very still, alert, wondering why she’d woken up.

  And then she heard a noise – yet again. Faint in the wind, but definitely there. A small bang.

  Every muscle in her body went rigid. It had sounded like the courtyard door. Or was it only the wind blowing it open and shut? Or another skylarking possum?

  Dorrie climbed over the sleeping Poppy to the window. Grey streaks of cloud scudded across the half-moon; the branches of the trees waved like arms in the darkness.

  And then she heard what sounded like a voice, a few words carried on the wind.

  It seemed to have come from around the back. She crouched there, gazing in that direction, her hand clutching the curtain.

  Then she saw a glow, as though from a lamp – and she could make out the plum tree, by the back wall.

  Dorrie gasped and dived off the bed and ran out the door. She scurried along the verandah to Gah’s room, pulled open the door and hissed into the darkness.

  “Alonso! Alonso – get up.”

  “Ugh?” She heard him fumble around. A match flared, illuminating his dark eyes and his mouth open in fear.

  “No!” Dorrie rushed over and blew it out. “Look.”

  In a second they were both at his window, peeping out.

  A lamp had come around the back of the house. Followed by a person holding it aloft. Short and fat, her round cheeks lit up. A shadowy, skinny figure skulked along beside her, carrying a pick and a shovel.

  Dorrie gasped. It was the delightful Mr and Mrs Crickle again, all set to do some digging.

  Chapter 9

  The snatches of words were getting louder.

  “Hold it higher.”

  “Sh!”

  “Don’t tell me to shush.”

  Then they jumped; there was a clink of metal as Mr Crickle dropped the pick and shovel. They peered over their shoulders.

  “What was that?”

  A possum most probably, thought Dorrie, almost smiling. A big, bad, terrifying possum.

  Mr Crickle picked up the tools; Dorrie heard him give a kind of harrumph.

  “It was nothing. Pull yourself together.”

  “You pull yourself together.”

  “¿Quién sera?” breathed Alonso, staring at them. He turned to Dorrie. She made a face and shook her head. Alonso frowned. These visitors were quite a different kettle of fish to the ones they’d had before.

  The back of Dorrie’s neck was prickling with fear – and anger.

  Mrs Crickle had a piece of paper in her hand. She and her husband bent over it, their eyes glittering in the lamplight. She jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

  “… cliff that way …”

  It was some kind of map.

  “Wrong way up!” Her husband snatched it from her. “Let me see.”

  They were like figures from a newspaper cartoon, Dorrie thought.

  There was a sudden gust of wind and a smattering of rain, and the paper was torn from his grasp. They scuttled back around the corner after it.

  Now Dorrie knew who they really reminded her of! She could have laughed. The villainous characters from The Magic Pudding, her favourite book when she was little. Mrs Crickle was the wombat, and her husband a long, thin version of the possum.

  Except she wouldn’t want to insult her possum friends by comparing them to Mr Crickle. Who was certain to be after something a lot more valuable than a pudding, magic or not!

  She knew where the map had come from. And the identities of Aunt Gertrude
’s thieves – the ones who had made off with the trunk of papers.

  Here they came again, the robbers, back around the corner. The piece of paper was held in Mr Crickle’s bony claw. Mrs Crickle lugged the tools and the lamp, which she was once more hissed at to “Hold up!” while he studied the map.

  He stared this way and that into the darkness, then glanced quickly up at the house, as if checking for signs of life. Dorrie and Alonso shrank back behind the curtains.

  “Come on,” they heard him say. And the Crickles stumped off in the direction of the back beach.

  Dorrie watched the bobbing light, feeling furious. Treasure or no treasure, this ghastly pair had to be stopped. She gestured to Alonso.

  “Come on,” she whispered, putting her finger to her lips.

  Alonso didn’t hesitate. He seemed to have become more confident, she thought, since he’d been here. They crept out the door and off the end of the verandah, keeping low behind the bushes as they headed towards the light. Dorrie prayed that it was too chilly for snakes to be out in the dark.

  The now-familiar voices were becoming clearer.

  “It must be around here – see, here’s that tree.”

  “But this map would be more than a hundred years old. The trees would’ve changed since then.”

  “Twaddle, Edmund – they don’t change that much.”

  “Keep your voice down, for heaven’s sake.” This was said in a kind of hissing roar. “It’s enough to wake the dead.”

  There was a pause filled by a rustling of paper, and then they heard Mrs Crickle say breathlessly, “Speaking of the dead – this place gives me the creeps! You … you don’t think that business Miss Jose mentioned – about ghosts – could be true, do you?”

  Aunt Gertrude was probably trying to scare them off from ever coming here, thought Dorrie. Then something occurred to her.

  Perhaps the ghost could become real! Just for one night.

  “Pull yourself together, woman,” Mr Crickle spluttered. “Ghosts indeed! Never heard such nonsense. Gertrude Jose was simply a batty old fool, who spouted a whole lot of rubbish.”