Granny Rags

by Janet Reid

  He turned at the mailbox and bumped down the dusty track towards Granny Rags’ house. As he got closer, he saw something he didn’t expect to see – a silver car, parked out the front of the house.

  Granny Rags had a visitor.

  He coasted off the track and down under a tree, propping his bike against the tumbled-down fence. Even before he could take the books from the handlebars, he heard the shouting.

  ‘You’ll be sorry,’ a man yelled. ‘This is the best offer you’ll ever get. And look at this place – it’s a dump.’

  Tim peered through the shadows and hanging branches of the tree – and froze. Barry Baxter stood pointing to the shed, collapsed in a heap in the grass.

  ‘That will just be the start,’ Barry shouted, just a hint of triumph in his voice, as he waved some papers about furiously. ‘You’ll be begging me to buy this dump soon. And guess what? You won’t be getting an offer as good as this then.’ And he scrunched the papers up in his fist and strode away.

  But where was Granny Rags? Careful to stay within the shadows, Tim leaned forward. There she was, holding a broom and looking angrier than he’d ever seen her. She wore no hat and her silver-grey hair, not pulled back in its usual long plait, fanned out over her shoulders and down her back. At that moment she really did look like a witch.

  ‘Get off this land, Barry Baxter,’ she said in a low and threatening voice. ‘Get off, and don’t ever come back, do you hear?’

  Barry turned abruptly and walked back towards her until he was just inches from her face. ‘You just remember this,’ he sneered. ‘One day you’ll wish you’d signed this contract.’ He looked up at the house. ‘And you know what?’ he added menacingly. ‘I reckon this old … shack … is only fit for a match.’

  He turned away, then spun back, like a snake about to strike, and hissed, ‘And I’ll make you pay for what you did to Hobo all those years ago.’

  He marched back to the car, fumbling for the keys in his pocket. “Chirp” – the lock clicked and the blinkers flashed twice. He yanked at the door and tossed the papers onto the passenger seat. Tim could see his face, red and twisted with anger, as he squeezed himself in behind the steering wheel.

  Dust and pebbles scattered as the car skidded onto the track and headed towards town. Only as it turned the corner did Tim dare come out from under the tree.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Granny Rags jumped and swung the broom out in front of her.

  ‘It’s only me,’ said Tim quickly, holding his hands up in defence. He noticed she was shaking, even as she gripped the broom handle. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked.

  ‘Tim. What on earth are you doing here?’ she said as she lowered her weapon.

  ‘Ah … I just came …’ He remembered the books, still hanging over the handlebars of his bike. ‘Hang on,’ he called, running back for them.

  ‘I brought these for you to read,’ he said when he got back, pulling the three romance novels out of his calico bag and handing them to her.

  ‘Oh,’ said Granny Rags, blinking with surprise. She took the books and turned each one over and read the blurb. Then she smiled. ‘Thank you, Tim Trickett. That’s very thoughtful of you.’ She nodded towards the bag. ‘And what else have you got in there?’

  Tim pulled out the other books. ‘I’ve got a couple about local history here …’ Then he remembered how Mrs Ragdale had said she couldn’t be his older person at school, so he quickly pulled out the other two.

  Mrs Ragdale twisted her head to read the title of the book on top. ‘Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. What’s that one about?’ she asked.

  Tim stared at her with wide eyes. She had to be the only person on the planet who didn’t know who Harry Potter was.

  ‘Ah …’ he said, ‘he’s a really famous wizard.’

  ‘But there are no such things as wizards,’ said Mrs Ragdale as she brought her broom round and leaned on it. Tim thought he saw a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Yes … well … we know that, but Harry Potter books are really famous. Everyone wants to read them and … well … I’ve seen a couple of the movies and now I want to read the books.’

  Granny Rags reached over and took the book from his hand. She opened it at the first page and read for a while, her lips moving silently. Then she smiled and handed it back. ‘Oh, I think I’ve heard of him, after all. Perhaps I should read the book sometime. I might pick up a few hints.’ And she laughed. ‘Come on, come and have some afternoon tea?’ And without waiting for an answer, she headed back to the house.

  Tim thought he probably didn’t have time to stop, but he wanted to ask her about Barry Baxter. He slipped his books back into the calico bag and followed her.

  A minute later, he was sitting at the kitchen table. Was it only yesterday that he had sat here with Lockie? With Granny Rags telling them about when she was young?

  ‘I’m sorry there’re no biscuits left,’ said Granny Rags. ‘Your friend Lockie seemed to enjoy them yesterday. So, you’ve joined the library then. What’s it like these days?’

  ‘It’s good. Lots of stuff. You know, DVDs and CDs, and magazines. Even magazines for kids. I might look at those next time.’

  Granny Rags picked up one of the books Tim had brought for her and opened it at the back cover.

  ‘There’s no pocket,’ she said.

  ‘Pocket?’ What was she talking about?

  ‘You know, to put the card in. The borrowing card.’

  Tim looked blank. ‘I don’t know what a borrowing card is,’ he said eventually.

  ‘It’s the card you write your name on to say you’ve borrowed the book.’

  ‘Ah, I don’t think they have them anymore,’ he said. ‘It’s all done with a computer.’ And he pulled the hard plastic card from his pocket and slid it across the table. ‘See, it’s got a bar code on it. You just scan that and the bar code on the front of the book …’

  Tim reached across the table and turned the book over. He pointed to the bar code stuck on the front cover.

  ‘There’s a scanning machine you use to check your own books out, and the computer records everything,’ he said.

  Granny Rags picked up the card and ran her gnarled fingers over it. ‘Amazing,’ she said. ‘You know, we’d only just got our first computer at the library when I left, but there was no scanning back then.’

  Tim couldn’t imagine a time without computers. ‘What else was different back then?’ he asked.

  Granny Rags laughed. ‘Are you doing research for your school project?’

  Tim reddened. ‘Well … no. But I could probably use any information I can get.’

  Granny fixed her eyes on him, suddenly very serious. ‘Tim, I hope you understood when I said that I couldn’t go with you to your … ah … whatever it is at school. I just …’

  ‘Is it because of the car?’ asked Tim. ‘Maybe—’

  ‘The car?’ Her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘It was my fault.’

  Tim frowned. What was her fault?

  ‘It was all such a long time ago now,’ she said, wiping a tear away. ‘But that Barry Baxter will never let me forget it.’

  Now Tim was really puzzled. Was this something to do with not selling her house?

  ‘I’m sorry, Tim. Perhaps I should explain. But let me put the jug on first. And get you a drink.’

  By the time Granny Rags sat down with her pot of tea in front of her, the tears had dried. Tim clutched his cordial, wondering what he was going to hear.

  ‘It … it was not too long after Bob died,’ Granny Rags started. ‘Maybe six months. I’d … been to a football match, Rowington versus Morganvale—’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Funny the things you remember, but Rowington won, and I remember thinking how Bob would have wanted to be there to see the home team win. But he wasn’t and I felt so terribly sad that he’d never watch another football match.’
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br />   Granny Rags took out a hankie and scrunched it in her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Tim. I’m not making much sense, I know. But I remember thinking I just couldn’t stay there and watch everyone celebrate the win, so I left.’

  ‘Is that when you decided not to go back?’ Tim asked.

  ‘No,’ said Granny Rags, sighing. ‘Well, yes, I guess it was, but it wasn’t because of the football. It was when I was coming home—’

  Another stray tear rolled down her cheek and she caught it with her hankie.

  ‘I did a dreadful thing, Tim. When I was driving home that day. I … I just wanted to get out of there, and I remember I was crying and … well, I think I could have been driving a little too fast as well, and I just didn’t see him—’

  Granny Rags gulped then as if trying to catch her breath, and the tears poured down her face.

  ‘I’m … so sorry,’ she gasped, wiping her cheeks.

  Tim felt his own eyes prickle as he watched helplessly from the other side of the table. Granny Rags had hit someone with her car. But who?

  ‘You … you don’t have to tell me,’ he said. ‘Not if you don’t want to.’

  ‘No,’ said Granny Rags, her voice muffled. ‘No, I want to. It’s just that, well, I’ve … never told anyone before now.’

  How could she hit someone with her car and not tell anyone?

  Granny Rags looked across the table at Tim.

  ‘I hit a dog,’ she said. ‘He just seemed to slip out of nowhere and was in front of the car before I could brake. It was an awful sound …’ Her body shuddered.

  Tim thought of the kangaroo that his father had hit on their drive to Rowington. It had come out of nowhere, too, and Dad hadn’t had a chance to avoid it. They’d pulled up, but when Dad went back to look at it, the kangaroo was dead and there was nothing he could do for it. But his father had been really upset.

  ‘Was it … Did you …’ Tim wasn’t sure how to asked Granny Rags if the dog had been killed.

  Sniffing, she said, ‘That’s just it. I didn’t stop to see. I just kept driving. And when I looked in the rear vision mirror, I could see Barry Baxter running to the dog. I realised then that the dog was his. That I’d seen him with it lots of times around town. A beautiful dog it was. A Rottweiler named Hobo. I’d heard he was going to breed from it. The last I saw was Barry shaking his fist at me as I turned the corner.’

  Her shoulders slumped then, as if telling the story had been a relief after all this time. ‘When I got home, I parked the car in the shed and swore I’d never drive again. And I haven’t.’

  As Tim heard this, he realised that that must have been the moment Granny Rags had decided to lock herself away from the world. The afternoon she had hit Barry Baxter’s dog.

  ‘But … you don’t think he’s still angry about that, do you?’ asked Tim. ‘It must have been years ago now.’

  ‘Oh, I’m quite sure he is still angry about it,’ said Granny Rags. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things he’s done since then. He’s even—’

  She stopped; shook her head. ‘No, you don’t need to know. But I’m sure it’s the main reason he wants to get his hands on this place. Just to pay me back for what I did that day.’

  She looked again across the table at Tim. ‘I’m sorry, Tim. I shouldn’t be telling you all this. You don’t need to know.’

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ said Tim ‘I, ah, just wonder if you should tell someone if he’s, you know, doing things he shouldn’t. Couldn’t you tell the police?’

  ‘What? And tell them it’s all because I hit his dog? When I was driving too fast?’ Granny Rags shook her head. ‘I … I just couldn’t do that.’ And her voice broke into a sob.

  ‘But what if he hurts you?’ said Tim.

  Granny Rags looked up. ‘Hurts me? No, I don’t think he’d do that, Tim. He might not be a very nice person but I don’t think he’d ever actually hurt me.’

  Just then the kitchen grew dark, as if a cloud had covered the sun, and they both looked out the window. Then Tim remembered he was supposed to meet his mother at the shop after going to the library.

  ‘Oh, I’d better get going,’ he said, swallowing the last of his cordial. ‘Mum will be wondering what’s taking me so long.’

  Tim snatched up his calico library bag and headed for the back door. Granny Rags reached over and grabbed his arm.

  ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

  Tim frowned.

  ‘About the dog, I mean,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t tell.’

  She smiled, then asked, ‘When do these books need to be returned?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve got a month. I’ll let you know. They’ll send me an email when they’re due.’

  ‘Email?’ Granny Rags’ eyebrows wrinkled and she shook her head. ‘Don’t even try to tell me what that is,’ she said, laughing.

  Tim turned to leave.

  ‘Have you thought of talking to Mrs McGregor?’ said Granny Rags.

  ‘Mrs McGregor?’ Tim turned back, startled. ‘You mean the grade one teacher?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Granny Rags. ‘She’s lived here for a long time and she’s seen lots of changes. And you can take that look off your face, too, Tim Trickett. I think you’ll find she’s a real softy under that grumpy exterior.’

  ‘Ah … okay,’ he said, feeling himself redden. How did she know what he was thinking? ‘I’ll ask her tomorrow.’

  Granny Rags nodded, satisfied with his answer.

  Tim wasn’t sure how long he’d been out at Granny Rags’, but the shadows were beginning to lengthen as he pedalled back towards town. He passed the old mailbox and the spindly tree, then the rusted gate at the old Russell farm. As he reached the bend in the road, his heart shuddered. There was Barry Baxter’s car.

  And leaning against the car was Barry, talking on his mobile phone.

  For a moment they locked eyes, both startled, then Barry stepped towards him. Like a rabbit caught in headlights, Tim couldn’t move.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ called Barry.

  It was enough to break the spell.

  ‘Just going for a ride,’ said Tim, and he pushed down on the pedals and sped off down the road. When he reached the next corner, he looked back. Barry Baxter was staring after him.

  ‘So, how was the library?’ Dad asked that night as they ate dinner. ‘No trouble getting a card or anything?’

  ‘No,’ said Tim as he stuck a big piece of broccoli in his mouth.

  ‘What books did you get?’

  His new library bag sat on the bench and his mother reached for it. As she pulled out the four books and the pamphlets, a piece of paper fluttered onto the table. She picked it up and squinted at it.

  ‘This is your loan receipt,’ she said, and she looked closer. ‘It says here that you took seven books out.’

  Oops. Tim had forgotten all about the receipt he’d stuffed into the bag with the books. How could he have been so stupid? He shoved a piece of carrot into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully.

  ‘Love on an Island. The New Year Romance. A Christmas Honeymoon. Tim, what is this?’ she demanded.

  Tell them. Tell them about Granny Rags. But like all lies, this lie got bigger and bigger the longer it went on, and he couldn’t seem to climb over it. If he told them he’d taken books out to an old lady who was a recluse, there’d be all sorts of questions. And they’d want to know why he hadn’t said anything up until now. Perhaps the next time he and Lockie went out there he’d tell them.

  Then, as if his mother could read his mind, she said, ‘Tim, is there something you’re not telling us?’

  ‘No … no,’ he said. He reached for the piece of paper. ‘Ah, they were for Lockie’s mother. Lockie asked if I could get a couple of books out for her. That’s what she likes to read—’

  ‘She should really be getting her own books out,’ his mother said. ‘What if she loses one, or it gets damaged? It’s you who’ll have to pay for it.’


  ‘She won’t,’ he said quickly. ‘She’ll be careful with them.’ But he wasn’t thinking about Lockie’s mother; he was thinking of Granny Rags.

  Tim’s parents looked across the table at each other. What if they rang the McKenzies and found out the books weren’t there?

  But Ben just smiled at his son. ‘It’s okay, Tim. It was a nice thing to do,’ he said, ‘but perhaps it would be better if she got her own books out from now on.’

  Tim nodded and forked up a piece of zucchini and shoved it in his mouth so he didn’t have to say anything.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was Thursday before Tim plucked up the courage to go and see Mrs McGregor. He stood at the door of the grade one room wishing he had Lockie with him, but Lockie was playing footy down on the oval.

  ‘Can I help you?’ came a voice from somewhere within. Tim peered into the classroom and eventually spotted Mrs McGregor on the floor at the back. What was she doing?

  ‘Tom, is it?’ she said, hauling herself to her feet.

  ‘Ah, Tim,’ said Tim, wondering if it wasn’t too late to change his mind.

  ‘Well, Tim, what is it?’ she snapped.

  Tim’s shoulder tingled and he swallowed, his mouth dry.

  ‘I just wondered if, ah, I could ask you some questions about the history of Rowington.’ He said it quickly before he changed his mind. ‘It’s for our class project. For Mr Martin.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs McGregor, her hard eyes softening. ‘Yes, of course. What would you like to know?’

  ‘Ah, just anything about when you first came to Rowington.’ How many years ago was that? he wondered.

  Mrs McGregor’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is it your father who’s the new matron up at the hospital?’

  ‘Ah, he’s called the DON,’ said Tim, reddening. ‘Short for Director of Nursing.’

  Then Mrs McGregor laughed. ‘Of course. Sorry. Can’t have him dressed up in a matron’s uniform, can we? Well, how about I tell you about the hospital then? Would that be alright?’

  Tim nodded.

  ‘Do you want to do this now?’ she asked. ‘You can ask your questions while I finish getting the room ready for the day.’ She didn’t wait for an answer, just made her way back to where she’d been sorting books on the floor.