by Janet Reid
Twenty minutes later, when the first bell rang, Tim had heaps of information about the Rowington hospital and everything that had happened to it over the last fifty years. And he realised Mrs McGregor wasn’t nearly as scary as he had thought. Actually, she reminded him a bit of Granny Rags.
‘Thanks, Mrs McGregor. Ah, there was something else,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think you’ll be able to help me.’
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘Well, Mr Martin wants us to invite the person we got information from to come in for a special afternoon, but you’ll be teaching, won’t you?’ he said.
Mrs McGregor raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘Leave it with me, Tim. I’ll talk to Mr Martin about it. Now, talking of Mr Martin, you’d better get going.’
‘Thanks, Mrs McGregor,’ said Tim as he pushed his way past a line of grade one kids.
‘Oh, and Tim …’ called Mrs McGregor.
Tim turned back.
‘Who was it suggested you come and talk to me?’
Tim hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Ah, it was Mrs Ragdale,’ and wondered what reaction he’d get.
Mrs McGregor’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Marjorie Ragdale?’ she said. ‘Have you been talking to her lately?’
Tim nodded.
‘How is she?’ Mrs McGregor asked.
Tim wanted to say that he was worried because Mrs Ragdale was being harassed by Barry Baxter and that Barry was trying to get her to sell her house. But then the second bell rang so he just said, ‘Yeah, she’s alright.’ And he ran off in the direction of his classroom.
The next afternoon, Mr Martin reorganised the classroom so that everyone was sitting in a big circle.
‘Now, I’d like each of you to briefly tell the class some of the things you’ve found out about our local area so far. Just a couple of facts will do. Chloe, let’s start with you.’
Chloe rolled her eyes and turned to her friends and giggled.
‘Well,’ she said, standing, ‘I asked Mum where she used to get her hair cut when she was little and she said there used to be a hairdresser down in Murphy Street back then, but my pop said when he was little his mother used to cut his hair with a pair of clippers. Like, his mum used to almost shave off most of his hair so he wouldn’t get nits. And if he did get nits, she’d shave the lot off.’
The girls giggled again, and some of the boys started scratching their heads.
‘Well, thank you for that, Chloe,’ said Mr Martin. ‘And I hope that’s not gum you’re chewing. Now let’s see. Who will we have next …’
One by one, the kids in the class shared their information. Then it was Oliver’s turn.
‘Well, sir,’ he said as he lumbered to his feet, ‘I found out something that’s happening now. There’s going to be a new industrial estate built just outside town. My Uncle Barry says that it’s going—’
Oliver turned and looked straight at Tim.
‘—right down to the creek and that there’s just one more farm to buy, but Uncle Barry reckons that the person who owns it will be selling it soon. Probably by next week. Uncle Barry says that this is going to be the best thing that’s happened to Rowington in a long time.’
Oliver crossed his arms and smirked at Tim.
‘Who do y’reckon ‘e means?’ whispered Lockie, digging Tim with his elbow. ‘Not Granny—’
‘Yes, I’m sure he means Granny Rags,’ said Tim through gritted teeth. ‘But Granny Rags won’t sell, I’m sure of that.’
‘Right, thanks Oliver,’ said Mr Martin. ‘You can let us know what happens then. Now let’s see, how about you, Tim? Have you managed to find out anything?’
Tim stood and told the class what Mrs McGregor had told him yesterday about the hospital.
When he was finished, Lockie said, ‘Tell ‘em about the high school and the library and that. You know, what—’
Tim cut him off with a look that would sizzle sausages.
‘What was that about the library?’ asked Mr Martin.
‘Ah, nothing, sir,’ said Tim.
‘Come on, tell us,’ Mr Martin urged. ‘We’d love to hear more about the library in Rowington. Who told you about it?’
Tim didn’t want to say. His hand automatically reached for his shoulder, and he glanced around the class.
Oliver was tipping back on his chair, arms folded across his chest. ‘I reckon I know who it was, sir.’
‘Oh?’ said Mr Martin, frowning at Oliver.
‘I reckon it might be that old lady that lives down near the creek. She used to be a librarian once, sir. That’s what my Uncle Barry says anyway.’
Chloe and her friends started giggling again, and whispering amongst themselves.
‘That’s enough, girls,’ said Mr Martin. ‘Now, who’s this lady, Oliver?’
‘Her name’s Granny Rags, sir,’ said Oliver.
The class fell silent.
‘Tim’s been goin’ down to see her, sir,’ said Oliver. ‘I reckon it was her who told him about the library.’
How would Oliver know he’d been going down there, apart from that first time? Then Tim thought of Barry Baxter, parked on the side of the road last Monday afternoon. Had he guessed that Tim had been down to see Granny Rags?
‘I’m sure she’s got a real name, Oliver,’ said Mr Martin.
‘Her name’s Mrs Ragdale,’ Tim blurted out before Oliver could say any more.
The class fell silent once again, and Tim could see a malicious grin spreading across Oliver’s face before he turned to Chloe and whispered something. Chloe and her friends snorted with laughter.
‘I said enough, girls,’ Mr Martin snapped at them. He turned back to Tim. ‘Are you going to bring this Mrs Ragdale to our afternoon?’
‘Ah, no,’ said Tim. ‘She … ah … she doesn’t drive, sir.’
‘Just as well, too,’ muttered Oliver, just loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘Otherwise we’d have no dogs left in town.’
At that moment, Tim remembered the comment Oliver had made weeks ago about owning a dog. Now he realised what he’d been getting at.
And he realised Oliver knew about Mrs Ragdale hitting Barry Baxter’s dog all those years ago.
‘She wouldn’t have hit it if your uncle had kept it on a leash,’ shouted Tim. Too late, he remembered he’d promised Granny Rags he wouldn’t say anything about the dog she’d hit.
Oliver’s lip curled up smugly. ‘Is that what she told you?’ he said. ‘Can’t wait to tell Uncle Barry that when I see him. And just so you know, Hobo was a purebred Rottweiler and he was worth a lot of money.’
‘Boys, what’s this all about?’ demanded Mr Martin. ‘And what does it have to do with our local history?’
‘Tim’s telling the story,’ said Oliver, not taking his eyes off Tim’s.
‘Tim?’ Mr Martin raised an eyebrow.
Tim opened his mouth to say something but then paused. He’d already said too much.
‘Ah, it’s nothing really, sir,’ he said. ‘Just something I heard about. Nothing to do with the local history.’
Mr Martin looked at him for a long moment, then said, ‘Well, let’s stick to the topic, will we? Now, who’s next?’ And Mrs Ragdale and the story of the dog were forgotten.
But as the class was leaving that afternoon, Oliver leaned towards Tim and whispered, ‘It’s payback time, I reckon.’ He smirked at Tim before pushing his way out the door.
Tim felt a shiver run from his head to his toes. What did Oliver mean by that?
Chapter Seventeen
‘Can you see Lockie anywhere?’ asked Ben when they arrived for “friend’s day” at the football club the next morning. They stood on top of a grassy bank looking down at the sea of people. Already the smell of sizzling sausages wafted through the air, and someone was making an announcement over the loudspeaker. Tim wondered how he would find anyone in this crowd.
But then Lockie appeared in front of them.
‘Y’here,’ he shout
ed. ‘G’day Mrs Trickett. Mr Trickett. Come and I’ll show y’where to go.’ Lockie grabbed hold of Tim’s arm and dragged him off through the crowd, Ben and Mandy trailing after them.
‘This is m’mum an’ dad, Jill ‘n Kenny,’ said Lockie proudly. Lockie’s parents were nothing like Tim had imagined. For a start, Kenny was short, only coming up to his wife’s shoulder. And while she was skinny, he was rounded, a navy singlet pulling tightly across his big belly. Had all the girls really chased after him when he was young?
Lockie’s father grabbed Ben’s hand and pumped it.
‘You must be the nurse,’ he said. ‘Never met a bloke who’s a nurse before. We’ve been hearin’ a lot about y’from our Lockie, haven’t we, Jill?’
Jill stepped forward. ‘Sure ‘ave,’ she said. ‘Nothin’ but “Mr Trickett said this” and “Mrs Trickett cooks that”. I’m Jill, by the way. We’re so glad Lockie’s got someone t’go fishin’ with at last. It’s great, ain’t it, Kenny?’
‘Oh,’ said Mandy. ‘And it’s great that Tim’s made a friend here so quickly. We were a bit worried about the move.’
Tim groaned inwardly.
Jill laughed and swept her long hair back with her fingers, revealing the studs that extended up both ears and a small tattoo on her neck. ‘Yeah, that’s our Lockie,’ she said. ‘Always pickin’ up stray waifs and tuckin’ ‘em under his arm. Friendly kid that way, just like his dad.’ And she playfully punched Kenny’s hairy arm.
‘Come and I’ll introduce y’to some of the other blokes,’ said Kenny, dragging Ben away and leaving the two mothers to talk to each other.
‘So,’ said Mandy, breaking the silence, ‘Tim tells me you like to read romance books.’
Tim froze.
But Jill just turned to Lockie and said, ‘You been talkin’ about me then?’
‘I just said …’ stammered Lockie.
‘Go on, get outta here. Go and show Tim round.’ And she laughed.
As they walked away, Tim looked back over his shoulder and heard Jill say, ‘Well, it’s been a while …’ and he saw his mother frown slightly.
‘So, y’reckon y’might have a go at footy then?’ asked Lockie the next day as they made their way out of town. He had two fishing rods over his shoulder and carried his esky.
‘Don’t know,’ muttered Tim. He thought of his skinned knee and bruised elbow, all thanks to Oliver.
‘Well, y’got two weeks t’make up y’mind,’ Lockie said. ‘We could do with some new blood in the team.’
Blood. That’s about all you’d get from me.
Tim was about to say as much when a ute drove past them, showering them with grit and dust from the dirt road.
‘Hey,’ yelled Lockie. ‘Watch it. Y’nearly ran us over.’
The ute went another couple of hundred metres down the road, then pulled up suddenly. Next thing, it roared back towards them – in reverse.
‘Ah, do you think we should—’ But before Tim could suggest they head back home, the ute pulled level with them.
‘G’day, boys,’ said a man, leaning out the window. He wore a broad-brimmed hat and shiny sunglasses, so Tim couldn’t get a good look at him. ‘Am I on the right track to the creek?’ he asked.
Tim took a step back, but Lockie bowled over to the ute.
‘Yeah. It’s not far. You gunna do some fishin’?’ asked Lockie.
The man laughed and drummed the side of the ute with his hand.
‘Nah. Got other things t’do,’ he said. ‘Can I give you boys a lift?’
Tim stepped up beside his friend and said, ‘No, we’re right. Aren’t we, Lockie?’ Tim waited for Lockie to argue, but he didn’t.
‘Suit yourself,’ said the man, shrugging, and he was gone in a cloud of dust.
‘Wonder if he’s a croc hunter and he’s come to catch that croc Grandad told me about,’ said Lockie.
Tim thought back to the day when he’d first met Lockie and had been taken along the creek to see where the crocodile was supposed to live. It seemed an age ago now.
‘And d’ya see that cool ring he was wearing?’ said Lockie. ‘It was, like, this lion’s head an’ it ‘ad its mouth open and was roarin’.’
How had Lockie had time to see that? The man was only there for a minute.
By the time they reached the creek, there was no sign of the man or his ute, and they had the place to themselves.
‘He’s been ‘ere, but,’ said Lockie, looking down at the ground. ‘See, there’s his tyre tracks. Yeah, I reckon ‘e’s probably gone down to see where that croc lives.’
‘But there’s no track,’ said Tim. ‘How will he get down there?’
Lockie wrinkled his face. ‘Don’t y’know?’ he said. ‘He was drivin’ a four-wheel drive. They can go anywhere. Kenny reckons ‘e’d love t’have one of them four-wheel drives, though I don’t reckon ‘e’d want a blue one like that. He’d probably want a black one. With flames up the side.’
He took some bait out of the esky and threaded it onto his hook, then baited Tim’s hook as well.
‘When are y’gunna be able to do this for y’self?’ Lockie asked. But he didn’t wait for an answer – just slung his line into the water and sat back under the shady tree at the edge of the waterhole.
The two boys fell silent then as they sat waiting for a nibble. It was as if the world was too hot to make any noise.
As the sun climbed, the day grew hotter. Since the rain a few weeks ago, there had been nothing but hot dry days, and the small green shoots of grass had soon disappeared. Today was the hottest yet, and Tim wished he’d been able to talk Lockie into going to the pool for a swim, but Lockie had refused.
‘Get too sunburnt,’ he’d said. ‘Better to be down at the creek in the shade. There’ll be a breeze blowin’ off the water.’
But there wasn’t.
Lockie squirmed about, trying to get more comfortable, then sat up and pulled off his shirt.
‘That’s better,’ he said, tossing it aside. ‘Why don’t you take yours off too?’
And show you my shoulder? No way. ‘I’ll be right,’ muttered Tim, looking straight ahead. ‘Anyway, won’t you get sunburnt?’
‘Not in the shade,’ said Lockie as he leaned back once more.
‘You know, we could cool off if we went for a swim,’ said Tim.
‘No way,’ said Lockie.
‘Why not?’
‘Just cos,’ said Lockie.
‘Cos of what?’ Tim persisted.
‘Cos of—’ Lockie stopped himself.
‘Cos of?’ Tim pushed for an answer.
‘Cos of what m’grandad did,’ said Lockie. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Your grandad?’
‘Yeah. He threw me in the deep end of the pool and I almost drowned,’ said Lockie, waving his hands around. ‘He thought it was funny till I didn’t come back up. M’dad had to jump in an’ save me.’
‘Your grandad threw you into the pool?’ said Tim. ‘Why did he do that?’
‘He said it was cos he’d seen somethin’ on telly about that being a good way to get kids to swim. You know, chuck ‘em in and they have t’swim, but I ain’t been swimmin’ since, so I reckon he got that all wrong.’
‘But, if you learned now you might be alright,’ suggested Tim.
‘Nah. Ain’t goin’ anywhere near water again. Reckon that’s the safest way.’
‘But—’
‘Will y’just shut up or we’ll scare all the fish away.’
They both fell silent then, waiting for the fish to bite. But they didn’t.
‘I reckon we may as well give up,’ said Tim.
‘Yeah,’ said Lockie, reeling in his line. ‘Let’s go up and see Granny Rags instead.’
‘Really?’ said Tim. A week ago, Lockie hadn’t wanted anything to do with Granny Rags.
‘Yeah. She’s bound t’give us a cold drink. And maybe some biscuits. What d’ya reckon?’
Tim wasn’t going to wait for Lockie to change h
is mind.
The wind – a dry northerly – was picking up, making the day hotter. As they walked back along the track, Lockie talked about football and Tim let his mind wander to Granny Rags, and the books he’d taken her last Monday. He wondered if she was enjoying them. He’d expected his mother to mention the books again after talking to Lockie’s mother yesterday, but she hadn’t. Perhaps she’d forgotten about them, though he doubted it.
Just then a sudden gust of wind whipped through the dead grass beside the track, and Tim’s arm began to tingle as a memory from long ago hit him like a bus smashing into him from a side road. Something wasn’t right.
He looked about, then gasped. ‘Lockie,’ he said, pointing over in the distance. ‘Is that smoke?’
Lockie stopped. ‘Heck yeah,’ he said. ‘It looks like it’s comin’ from down near the creek. Over behind Granny Rags’ place.’
Dread slithered through Tim like a deadly snake. Granny Rags! And his arm ached. He reached up and felt the lumpy scars through his t-shirt. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the memory of that fire back into the past.
‘Come on, Lockie,’ he shouted, as he started to run. ‘We’d better make sure she’s okay.’
As they turned the corner and ran towards the old mailbox, Tim saw something flash in the distance. Something blue.
Then it was gone.
Dust hung in the air as if someone had driven this way. And not long ago, thought Tim.
As the boys reached the track that led down to Granny Rags’ house, they saw that the smoke was getting thicker, rising into the sky and blowing towards them, carried by the hot wind. Bits of charred grass floated past them.
‘Can y’hear that?’ said Lockie, grabbing Tim’s arm. ‘It’s a fire crackling.’ He pointed over Tim’s head. ‘Look!’
There, somewhere down beyond Granny Rags’ house, Tim saw a flame leap into the air.
And he wanted to run – as far away as he could. Black dots darted in front of his eyes, and he felt suddenly dizzy. He sucked in a gulp of air, then began to splutter. The smell of smoke, acrid and pungent, was beginning to fill his nostrils. Another flame licked the sky. Tim’s left arm became a dead weight. He couldn’t feel it; couldn’t move it.
