by Janet Reid
A faint smile played across the old woman’s lips, and Tim wondered if she was laughing at him.
‘I’ll have cordial please,’ he said. He never had cordial at home. Full of sugar, his father said.
Granny Rags’ lips twitched. She turned and pulled a small bottle of cordial from the cupboard, then reached into the fridge for the cold water.
‘Can you make your own?’ she asked.
Tim nodded, though he wasn’t sure how much cordial to use. He waited until Granny Rags turned back to fill the electric jug, and by the time she switched it on and took out a chipped cup and saucer and a small china teapot, he had a glass of orange cordial in front of him.
‘Do you have a name?’ she asked as she spooned tea leaves into the pot.
‘Tim. Tim Trickett,’ he said. ‘I’m new here.’
Granny Rags nodded, as if she already knew that.
‘Hello, Tim Trickett. I’m Marjorie Ragdale. Not Granny Rags, as you’ve probably been told.’
Tim felt his face redden. He gulped at his cordial, trying to hide his embarrassment, then grimaced. It was too strong. When he looked back up, that secret smile was back on her lips.
She sat down and poured her tea.
‘Sorry I can’t offer you anything to eat,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t exactly expecting visitors.’
‘No, that’s alright,’ said Tim, suddenly wondering what he was going to talk about now that he was here. Again he gulped at his cordial.
‘At one time I’d always have something,’ she said. ‘A cake. Or some biscuits.’ She looked over Tim’s shoulder, to a spot that was neither here nor there. Somewhere in the past.
Silence fell over the room. Tim ran his finger around the rim of his glass, wondering what he could say.
‘Do you live here by yourself?’ he blurted out.
Granny Rags frowned.
‘Sorry,’ muttered Tim, and drained his glass.
‘It’s alright, Tim Trickett,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Yes, I do live here by myself. I like it here. It’s peaceful. We … Bob and I … we bought this place when we were first married. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.’
Tim looked down at his empty glass and wondered what had happened to Bob.
‘What about your children?’ he asked before he could stop himself.
Granny Rags sighed. ‘We never had children,’ she said.
Then she frowned. ‘Tell me, Tim. Why did you come down here with a fish?’
The question surprised Tim and he wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘Ah …’ he started. He didn’t want to mention Oliver. ‘Ah, it was my friend … Lockie. Lockie McKenzie. He said you liked fish.’
‘McKenzie?’ Granny Rags was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I remember a Kenny McKenzie. Knew everything, Kenny did. Maybe he’s Lockie’s father.’
‘Yes, that’s him,’ said Tim.
Granny Rags chuckled. ‘Good-looking lad, he was. He played football. All the girls thought he was wonderful. They’d stand on the sidelines and squeal every time Kenny ran past.’
‘You used to go to the football?’ he asked, surprised. Granny Rags was the last person he could imagine going to a football match.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Hardly missed a game. Bob, my late husband, used to coach some of the younger teams. And later he became the president of the football club in Rowington. He was president for years.’
Granny Rags sighed. Her face dropped and she suddenly looked a lot older. ‘After he died, I didn’t go to so many. Just a few now and then until …’
She stopped, as if even talking about it was too sad, then gave her head a shake.
‘Do you play football, Tim Trickett?’ she asked, the moment of sadness past.
‘No. I like swimming. I’m going to join the swimming club.’
Granny Rags clamped her thin lips together and nodded, as if to say that swimming wasn’t as good as football, but it was better than nothing.
‘Lockie plays football, though,’ Tim added quickly.
‘Hmmm. Perhaps you should bring Lockie with you sometime.’
Tim hadn’t thought about coming again. Then he remembered Lockie, waiting down by the mailbox. He stood up. ‘I’d better get going,’ he said as he pushed his chair in. ‘Mum and Dad’ll wonder where I am. Thanks for the drink.’
He was about to walk out the back door when he turned and said, ‘I’ll bring you more fish if I catch them. That’s if you’d like me to.’
‘Yes, Tim Trickett,’ said Granny Rags, smiling. ‘I would like that very much. I’m rather fond of fish.’
Lockie was pacing up and down in front of the mailbox when Tim turned the corner. ‘Where’ve y’been all this time?’ he cried, his face sagging with relief. ‘Did y’see ‘er? Did she hit y’with a stick?’
Tim laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I watched her fillet the fish and then she gave me a glass of cordial.’
‘Really?’ gasped Lockie. ‘Was it poisoned?’
‘Of course not.’ Tim liked Lockie, but sometimes he just wanted to shake him.
Lockie’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t believe ya,’ he said. ‘Y’makin’ this up.’
‘No. Honest, it’s true. Anyway, she knows your father. She used to watch him play football when he was young.’
Lockie opened his mouth, but nothing came out. It was the first time that Tim had seen him speechless.
‘Y’kiddin’ me, right?’ he said eventually.
‘No, I’m not. She said she remembered Kenny McKenzie playing football. She said she used to go to the football every weekend. Her husband was the coach or something.’ Tim reached down to pick up the esky of fish. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Mum and Dad will start to worry if I don’t get home soon.’
They wandered off down the road, Lockie bombarding Tim with questions.
‘Does she have a big black stick?’
‘Yes, but it’s a walking stick.’
‘Did she hit y’with it?’
‘No.’ Though I thought she was going to.
‘Has she got black teeth?’
Tim stopped. ‘Listen, Lockie, she’s just an old lady with grey hair and a walking stick, and she …’
How could he tell Lockie that she seemed lonely?
‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘She just lives by herself, that’s all. And I reckon she hates kids coming round annoying her.’
‘So she was annoyed?’ said Lockie, almost pleased at the idea.
‘No, not at me. Well, she was at first. But I think she’s just sick of kids going there and winding her up. You know, with the fish—’ Tim wasn’t sure where he was going with this. He had the feeling there was more to the fish story than Oliver was letting on.
And what were the kids at school going to say when they heard he’d been invited into her house and had a glass of cordial?
‘Listen, Lockie. Perhaps we’d better make up a bit of a story for the kids at school,’ said Tim. ‘You know, not tell them about me going into the house. Perhaps we should just tell them that she chased me.’
For a moment, he felt like he was betraying a friend. His new friend. Mrs Ragdale.
But Lockie’s eyes lit up. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘We could tell ‘em that she chased y’down the road, and that she nearly caught ya and she was threatin’ to lock ya in her basement …’
Basement?
Tim smiled. Lockie was sure to make it sound good.
Chapter Seven
‘Well done,’ said Oliver the next day, slapping Tim on the back. ‘Have to admit, I didn’t think you had it in you. You’re one of the boys now.’
One of the boys? Tim didn’t think so.
‘So, what did she say when you gave her the fish?’ Oliver asked.
‘Ah …’ Tim had to think. He couldn’t say he went in to watch her clean it. ‘Ah, she just told me to leave.’
‘Just like that?’ Oliver raised an eyebrow.
‘Well, ‘e wasn’t gunna hang round to get beaten, was ‘e?’ s
aid Lockie. ‘Y’shoulda seen ‘im. He came racin’ outta there quicker than a goanna up a tree. Reckon ‘e might do well on sports day.’
Oliver looked from one to the other, his eyes narrowed. Then he wrapped his arm around Tim’s shoulder and pulled him to one side. ‘Bet you never thought to take her two fish, did you?’ he said.
‘No.’ What was he getting at?
Oliver snorted. ‘Didn’t think so. No imagination. Now, when I went out there,’ he said, pulling Tim even closer, ‘I took two fish. And one of them I slipped through a window into the house. Bet it stunk the place out after a few days.’
Oliver dropped his arm and started to wander off, then stopped and looked Tim right in the eye.
‘You know, I might tell my Uncle Barry what you did. He’ll be real impressed, I reckon.’ And he nodded with satisfaction as he walked away.
By Tuesday, the story of Tim going to see Granny Rags was all but forgotten. Oliver chose to leave him alone, and even Chloe and her friends seemed to have lost interest. Tim didn’t hear anyone mention Granny Rags.
Until Thursday night.
They were eating dinner when his mother said, ‘I had to get this order ready today for a lady who never comes into town. She rings it through every week and the supermarket delivers it.’ Mum picked up the grinder and ground some more pepper over her meal. ‘Apparently they’ve been doing it for years,’ she went on. ‘Jacob – he’s one of the guys at work – he says this lady’s a recluse. He does the delivery sometimes, and he just leaves the order at the back door. Says he’s only ever talked to her a couple of times.’
‘What’s a recluse?’ asked Tim as he tried to stab a pea with his fork.
‘A recluse? It’s someone who doesn’t go out,’ his father told him. ‘They just prefer to stay at home by themselves.’ He turned back to Mandy. ‘It’s sad, isn’t it? I wonder what happened to make her want to stay hidden away like that. Who is she?’
‘Oh, a Mrs Raggett or something like that. Jacob says that most people just call her Granny Rags—’
Tim’s fork clattered against his plate then bounced onto the floor.
‘Better get a clean one,’ said his father. No five-second rule for Dad.
Tim dropped the fork in the sink and opened the drawer to get a clean one.
‘Why do they call her that?’ he heard his father ask.
‘Jacob says it’s something to do with her clothes. He said the kids at school used to say she was a witch and that they used to go out there and tease her.’
She popped some carrot into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully, then said, ‘He said he thought it was funny at the time, but now he just thinks it’s sad.’
‘But why doesn’t she go out?’ asked Tim, intrigued. He hadn’t realised that the story went back so far.
‘Well, often these people have had something happen in their lives,’ said his father. ‘Something sad. Or traumatic. Maybe someone close to them has died. Or there’s been an accident that has scared them and they just find it too difficult to go out and face people.’
Tim thought about how Granny Rags had said that her husband had died. He wondered if that was why she had become a recluse.
‘Do they still do that, Tim?’
Tim blinked. ‘Sorry?’ he said, looking at his mother.
‘Tim, you were miles away then. I asked if the kids at school still talk about this old lady they call Granny Rags.’
‘Ah … I think I heard Lockie say something about her one day,’ he said, remembering he hadn’t told his parents about his visit out to Granny Rags. He’d meant to, but just as he was about to tell them, the phone had rung and his father had had to go to the hospital. Somehow, the chance to say something had never came up again. If he told them now, they’d wonder why he’d waited so long. As it was, he knew they’d be upset that he’d gone to visit a complete stranger on his own. ‘Who’s taking me to swimming club tonight?’ He wanted to change the subject – and quickly.
‘We’re both going tonight,’ said Mum. ‘Dad’s going to put his name down as a timekeeper and I might see if there’s anything I can do to help out too. Now come on and finish those vegies so we can get going.’
Tim looked down at his plate. He didn’t mind the peas and carrots, but the broccoli ...
‘I joined the swimming club last night,’ Tim told Lockie the next morning as they walked through the school gate. ‘They’re having a “bring a friend” night next week,’ he said. ‘You want to come?’
‘To swimming club?’
‘It won’t cost you anything,’ said Tim quickly, ‘and Dad can pick you up and take you home.’ If Lockie said no, he had no one else he could ask.
There was a long silence.
‘I haven’t got any togs,’ said Lockie at last.
‘Wear boardies,’ suggested Tim. ‘No one’ll mind.’
Last night he’d been the only one there who had worn a rash vest. His mother said it was alright not to wear it; his father said he’d have to take it off when the swimming meets started. Maybe then. But not yet. The kids would only stare. And ask questions.
‘Would I have to swim?’ asked Lockie.
‘Well, that’s the idea,’ said Tim, puzzled. It was hot. Why wouldn’t he want to swim? Then he saw the look on Lockie’s face. ‘But only if you want to,’ he added quickly.
Still Lockie hesitated.
‘There’s a free barbeque.’ Tim tried not to sound desperate. ‘And dessert.’
‘Okay,’ said Lockie. ‘But I’m not gunna swim.’
‘That’s alright,’ said Tim, relieved.
The bell rang and they turned towards the classroom.
‘We have one of those too,’ Lockie said as they made their way slowly up the path.
‘One what?’
‘A “bring a friend” day. At footy. You wanna come?’
‘Sure,’ said Tim, not really sure at all, but since Lockie had said he’d go to swimming, he could hardly say no.
Chapter Eight
Rain drummed on the roof as Lockie shook the cup. He tipped it and out rolled the dice. ‘Yes,’ he cried, punching the air with his fist.
Tim looked down at the two sixes. Was Lockie always this lucky in Monopoly?
‘M’dad reckons they’re a mob of wimps down at the footy club,’ said Lockie, moving his top hat forward twelve spaces. ‘Just cos of a bit of rain, they cancel today’s games. Not that they were important. Just a bitta fun. Still …’ He gathered the dice and threw them again. ‘Dad reckons we gotta get used to playin’ in the rain sometime. He says we’re not a bunch of sugar cubes.’
‘Sugar cubes?’
‘Yeah, you know, dissolve in water.’
A gust of wind bent the trees outside and rain lashed at the windows. Lockie passed GO and collected two hundred dollars. ‘Your turn,’ he said, handing the cup to Tim, who was still puzzling over the sugar cubes.
‘I’ve never played this game before,’ said Lockie, sorting his pile of money.
Tim grunted. Beginner’s luck, he thought, as he sold houses and properties just to stay in the game. And when he only had Old Kent Road and Euston Road and thirty-one dollars left, his mother walked into the room carrying a plate of nachos.
‘You boys ready for something to eat?’ she said.
Lockie’s eyes nearly popped out. Bending over the plate, he sniffed. ‘Ah … smells yum. What is it?’
Tim laughed. ‘Nachos. Haven’t you ever had them before?’
Lockie shook his head and reached to take a corn chip. Melted cheese stretched as he pulled it away.
‘Scrape up some of the beans then dip it into the sour cream,’ Tim told him. ‘Like this.’ Tim opened his mouth and threw in a laden corn chip and started crunching. Lockie did the same, moaning with delight.
Within minutes, both boys were slouched on the lounge holding their stomachs, the Monopoly game forgotten.
‘Do y’reckon that el nemo thing is over?’ said Lockie as they liste
ned to the rain.
‘El Nino?’ said Tim, trying not to laugh. ‘Nah. Don’t think so. Our teacher last year said that just because it rains sometimes, doesn’t mean it’s over.’
‘Yeah. That’s what m’dad says too. Says ‘e hates it cos he’s a firey and they’re always gettin’ calls to put out bushfires.’
‘A firey? Like a firefighter? I thought you said he worked for the council. Driving the grader.’
‘Yeah. He does. But ‘e’s in the Bush Fire Brigade too. Like they only call ‘im when they need ‘im. Lotsa blokes are in it. Even a coupla women. Dad says they’re as tough as old boots. Mr Martin’s in it. Don’t know what happens if there’s a fire in school time, but.’
‘Maybe we’d have the day off school,’ suggested Tim.
‘Or we’d all go down the oval and play footy,’ said Lockie. ‘That’d be even better.’
‘Or go fishing,’ laughed Tim. Then he thought of Granny Rags. ‘Will we be able to go tomorrow? Fishing, I mean,’ he said.
Lockie shrugged. ‘Dunno. Depends on the rain I guess.’
The next day the rain was gone. Even the wind had dropped and the day was already hot and muggy. Tim waited on the verandah, his eyes searching for his friend. But when at last Lockie turned up, he had no fishing rods.
‘Kenny reckons it’s no good fishin’ today. Too muddy, ‘e says. Anyway, it’d be too wet to sit anywhere. So, what d’ya reckon we should do instead?’
Disappointed, Tim shrugged. Anything but Monopoly.
‘I know,’ said Lockie. ‘Let’s go exploring. There’s an old farm just outside town. Loads of old sheds and things. No one lives there anymore. Oliver’s always talkin’ about it. Says he went there once with his uncle – you know, that guy we saw down at the creek that day. He says his uncle knows the bloke who bought the place. Wanna go check it out?’
Tim shivered at the thought of Oliver’s uncle. There’d been something creepy about him. Maybe his wheezy laugh …
‘Earth to Tim.’ Lockie’s voice filtered through Tim’s thoughts.
‘Oh. Sure,’ said Tim. ‘Pity you haven’t got a bike, Lockie. Then we could ride, instead of walking.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Lockie. ‘I keep askin’ Dad if I can get one, but ‘e says there’s nothin’ wrong with m’legs so I gotta use ‘em. We should take some food with us. I didn’t bring nothin’, but.’
