The Ghost of Howlers Beach

by Jackie French

  The beach was empty. Of course it was empty. The cricket players would be long gone, back to the safety of their hidden cove. He trudged over the sand to the cliff, feeling suddenly lonely and left out, then crouched down to unload the rucksack. He’d need to drink the cocoa and lemon barley water, as the Aunts would notice if he didn’t take back the bottle and the Thermos. But he could leave everything else in the old rucksack. Olive and Gil would understand the need to bring it back the next morning, so he could fill it again.

  He was just about to stow the old rucksack by the boulder when he saw it: a note, scribbled on what looked like the edge of a newspaper. He picked it up.

  Thank you, he read. And that was all, except for three initials, T, O and G.

  Butter smiled. That was enough.

  CHAPTER 17

  ‘Could I have a word with you?’ asked Dad quietly as Butter came down to breakfast. Butter had been leaving food by the boulder for three days now, as well as the toys for Tish, an old scrubbing brush from the bin that still had plenty of bristles on it and would be useful, a cake of soap and the blue ribbons from some of his old baby clothes that matched Olive’s eyes that she could tie up her plaits with.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Butter. He followed Dad into his study. Dad shut the door.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said.

  Butter sat.

  ‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ said Dad. ‘You’ve been taking food, haven’t you? And not to eat yourself.’ He gave the half smile that was the only kind he seemed to have these days. ‘Your aunts give you more than enough at meal times. But I saw you slip a chop into your pocket this morning. And Jenkins says you’ve been bringing in the bread. I looked out when the breadcarter came this morning and there seemed to be a much bigger order than usual.’

  An extra loaf of bread and half-a-dozen extra buns, thought Butter. He was silent.

  ‘Well?’ asked Dad quietly. Somehow that quietness was even more compelling than if he had yelled.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Butter. ‘I’ve been taking food.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Dad.

  ‘I can’t say, sir,’ said Butter desperately. ‘I promised.’

  ‘Ah.’ Dr O’Bryan gazed at his son. ‘Let me guess. You’ve met some susso children even though you were told never to go down to their camp, and you’re taking them food?’

  ‘I’m not going to the susso camp,’ said Butter truthfully.

  ‘But the rest?’

  Butter was silent again.

  Dr O’Bryan sighed. ‘I’m glad you’ve made friends. They are friends, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Butter, suddenly realising that they were or at least might become friends.

  ‘It must be lonely for you here in the holidays. But don’t let your aunts find out. They’d worry about you catching diseases or nits or fleas from the camp.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Butter, relieved. He stood to go.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Dr O’Bryan more sternly.

  Butter sat down again.

  ‘Why did you borrow my camera? You know you can’t take expensive things like that without permission. What have you photographed anyway? I’ll find out when the photos are developed,’ he pointed out. Dr O’Bryan raised an eyebrow at Butter’s expression of shock. ‘You didn’t put it back in the same position and no one is allowed at my desk.’

  ‘I . . . I thought there might be gangsters on the beach, sir,’ said Butter miserably. ‘I was going to photograph them so the police could identify them.’

  ‘What?’ His father stared at him. ‘Gangsters? Here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But there weren’t.’ At least I don’t think Olive, Gil and Tish’s mystery involves gangsters, thought Butter.

  Dr O’Bryan gave his almost smile again. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘I promise I won’t take it again, sir,’ said Butter earnestly.

  ‘If we are ever threatened by gangsters you have my complete permission to take the camera again to help identify them. But Butter?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘It might be an idea to wait till I teach you how to use it. And how to defend yourself against gangsters. I hope you’re not worrying about the bodies. The police will find out how they got there. I’m sure gangsters had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Butter.

  He wished he could tell his father the truth.

  CHAPTER 18

  He’d left five parcels by the rock now and found an empty rucksack on his return there each day. He left coloured pencils and half-used notebooks too — the Aunts always bought him new pens and pencils for each school year. He’d also added books: all his old textbooks, and his Just William and Dr Dolittle books, Peter Pan, The Wind in the Willows and Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories and Kim, but Kim was so good he wrote, Do you mind sending this back when you have read it? on a note he slipped inside the cover.

  Two days later the book was back in the old rucksack by the boulder, with the usual note, Thank you, as well as a drawing that must be by Tish: two big and one small stick figures by a square house on a beach.

  But this time there was another note, just five words: Cricket, the day after tomorrow?

  Butter grinned. He could hardly wait!

  He took special care collecting the food the next day. The loaf of bread and currant buns were hidden behind the umbrella stand. He also snuck down to the cellar and fetched a bottle of rose-hip syrup from the shelves of preserves kept cool down there. Rose-hip syrup was supposed to help prevent colds and it must be chilly in winter down in the cove.

  Breakfast was scrambled eggs. Butter looked at it in dismay. He couldn’t shovel scrambled eggs into his pocket! ‘Excuse me, Auntie Cake, but could I have a sausage too? I’m really hungry today.’

  ‘Of course,’ sang Auntie Cake. She pulled the bell for Jenkins. ‘Jenkins, would you mind asking Cookie for a sausage for Master Butter, please?’

  ‘Maybe two sausages?’ asked Butter.

  ‘Two sausages, please,’ said Auntie Cake.

  ‘And some lamb’s fry as well?’ asked Butter without thinking. He looked cautiously at the Aunts. Had he asked for too much? He’d always insisted he hated lamb’s fry. But Aunt Peculiar was concentrating on piling grapefruit marmalade onto her toast and Aunt Elephant was slowly making her way through the mountain of breakfast she consumed each morning and Auntie Cake was simply smiling.

  He’d got away with it! He tucked into the scrambled eggs happily. He really was hungry sometimes now that he was giving away as much of his food as he could. And it was delicious scrambled eggs, all buttery and with flecks of chopped parsley . . .

  ‘Your sausages and lamb’s fry, Master Butter,’ said Jenkins, handing them to him.

  ‘Thank you, Jenkins,’ said Butter. ‘Please tell Cookie thank you from me too.’

  ‘Yes, Master Butter,’ said Jenkins.

  Butter wished his family had breakfast the way English people did in books, with all the food in silver dishes lined up on the sideboard, with spirit burners under them to keep them warm. It would have been so easy to help himself to all he could fit into a rucksack.

  But at least Woofer would have sausages today and lamb’s fry too. If Gil, Olive and Tish hated lamb’s fry like Butter they wouldn’t have to eat it now they weren’t so hungry.

  Aunt Peculiar left the table first. ‘I want to paint a single sunbeam on the sea,’ she explained. Which probably meant a pure white canvas with a tiny streak of yellow on it, thought Butter. Or maybe a blue one with a gleam of silver. Aunt Elephant followed to change into her tennis clothes. Only Auntie Cake lingered as Butter finished his eggs and carefully tucked the sausages and lamb’s fry into his pockets. He kept his pockets lined with oil-cloth now, so the food didn’t leave stains on his shorts.

  ‘Butter?’ began Auntie Cake carefully.

  ‘Yes, Auntie Cake?’

  ‘You’ve been taking a lot of food, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’ve
been hungry,’ evaded Butter. And he had been hungrier than usual, running back and forth to the beach.

  ‘But has all the food been for you?’

  Butter said nothing.

  ‘Is it for the people in the susso camp?’ asked Auntie Cake gently.

  ‘I . . . I promised I wouldn’t say,’ mumbled Butter. How was he going to get food for them now? He had money in the bank, and in his piggy bank too, but it was miles to the nearest shop . . .

  ‘I think it is lovely of you to help,’ said Auntie Cake. ‘But you know how your Aunt Peculiar feels about germs. And your father worries about diseases down in the camp too. The camp doesn’t have any power, drainage or baths or . . . or . . . conveniences . . .’

  Auntie Cake meant toilets. Ladies didn’t use words like that. Or not if they didn’t have to.

  ‘I don’t go into the camp,’ said Butter truthfully. ‘Just to the beach.’

  ‘Good,’ said Auntie Cake, relieved. She looked as if she were hunting for words. ‘I . . . I’d like to help the people at the camp too. But Peculiar and Elephant and your father would worry about another polio or measles epidemic. I’m sure it’s all right if you just meet friends on the beach in the fresh air. I’ll make a good rich fruitcake for you to take them every day. How about that? And meat pies. No one ever counts how many pies come out of the oven.’ She grinned. ‘Big Bob takes a big meat pie home to his family almost every night — his brother and his family live with them now since he lost his job on the docks. Big Bob won’t take charity, but when I say, “That pie will just have to go to the chooks,” or the dripping or the extra eggs when the hens are laying well, he agrees to take them. I’ll slip the food into your room when I go to bed each night.’

  Butter hugged her. She felt warm and soft and smelled of scones. ‘I think you’re wonderful, Auntie Cake,’ he said.

  Auntie Cake hugged him back. ‘You are the joy of our house,’ she told him softly. ‘Never forget that, Butter. I don’t think we could bear it if anything happened to you.’

  Butter had just hoisted the rucksack onto his back and was reaching for the buns and bread behind the umbrella stand when Aunt Peculiar came down the stairs. ‘Butter!’ she squeaked.

  ‘Yes, Aunt Peculiar?’

  Aunt Peculiar wore a long black dress with tiny bright painted eyes peering out of it today. She checked no one was watching, then bent down to whisper, ‘You’re taking food to the susso camp, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not to the camp,’ said Butter. ‘I promised I wouldn’t go there.’

  ‘But to people who live there?’

  Butter said nothing.

  ‘I wish we could help them,’ said Aunt Peculiar, ‘but anything we do would just be a drop in a bucket, with so many out of work.’ She reached into her paint-splattered smock and pulled out four big bars of fruit and nut chocolate. ‘Here,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll have more for you to take every day. But don’t let the others know. Your father worries so much about contagious diseases.’

  ‘I won’t,’ promised Butter. He shoved the chocolate into his pockets, smiling as he thought of how much Gil and Olive and Tish would love it.

  Had they even eaten chocolate, born into a world of poverty? Had they ever had an ice cream or boiled lollies? Their home was beautiful now, but what was it like when the waves crashed against the rocks in winter storms? Were they afraid a higher tide, a freak wave, might carry them away?

  But it hadn’t, he said to himself as he walked outside. The cove had been a refuge ever since their father was sent home during the War. Surely they would stay safe now . . .

  ‘Ah, Butter.’ Aunt Elephant stood by the front gate, staring at him. Her white tennis dress was so massive that he could almost feel its glare. ‘I’m just waiting for Jenkins to drive me to the Tennis Club.’

  ‘I hope you have a good game, Aunt Elephant,’ said Butter politely.

  ‘I always do,’ boomed Aunt Elephant. She bent down, then down even more, till she spoke close to his ear. ‘I want a word with you, young man.’

  This was it, thought Butter desperately. Aunt Elephant knew too!

  ‘Those children who play cricket on the beach every day. Oh yes, I’ve seen them. I used to do my physical jerks down on the sand before breakfast, but I stopped because they obviously didn’t want to be seen. Why is that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Butter honestly.

  ‘Are they from the camp?’

  ‘Not . . . not exactly.’

  Aunt Elephant gazed down at him. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I can’t tell you any more. I promised.’

  ‘A promise must be kept,’ pronounced Aunt Elephant. ‘But give that boy, Gil, a message from me. He’s a good batsman. Might even become a brilliant one. Tell him to hold his bat more loosely. A tightly held bat takes longer to manoeuvre and you don’t have much time when the cricket ball is coming at you. Tell him he’ll instinctively grip harder when he’s about to hit it, so to keep his hands and elbows soft, relaxed. Can you remember that?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll tell him.’ Tomorrow, thought Butter, joy suddenly singing all around him. Tomorrow when he went down to play cricket with them, when he could hand over the rucksack and anything else he could find and carry that they might need.

  ‘Good,’ boomed Aunt Elephant. She rummaged in her tennis bag and brought out a bundle of white. ‘Three of my old tennis jumpers. You should at least wear something white when you play cricket. And give them this too.’ Aunt Elephant handed Butter a ten-shilling note.

  ‘Thank you — thank you so much, Aunt Elephant.’

  ‘Tell them there’ll be another ten shillings every week. Just don’t let the others know. They worry,’ boomed Aunt Elephant.

  She ruffled his hair. Butter allowed it. ‘You’re a good boy, Butter. We’re proud of you. We mightn’t tell you often, but we are. Ah, Jenkins!’ Aunt Elephant marched off, tennis bag in hand, as the Rolls-Royce drew up to the front gate.

  CHAPTER 19

  One more night to go. Butter looked at the rucksack on his bed fondly. As soon as the first glints of sun speared up above the horizon he’d be down at the beach, playing cricket with his friends. Because they WOULD be friends now, he thought, Olive with her long dark plaits, Tish with her big brown eyes and Gil who wanted to play cricket for Australia.

  He’d take down his own cricket bat, he decided. Gil needed to practise with a real one. And he had half-a-dozen cricket balls in his sports bag, so it didn’t matter if one got lost in the waves.

  Surely Olive would let him tell Dad and the Aunts now. He was sure his family would keep the secret too, whatever it was. Maybe Dad might even come down one Saturday morning — he could give Gil tips on how to play. Or Aunt Elephant, who seemed to know a lot about cricket too, though she must only ever have played in ladies’ games which didn’t really count . . .

  There’d be the fruitcake in the rucksack tomorrow, and fruit and the meat pie and peach pies too — Auntie Cake had made so many for pudding that Cookie had protested, but Auntie Cake had just winked at her and then at Butter and smiled. Pies were the easiest puddings of all to take down to the beach. He suspected Big Bob’s family would get some too.

  He grabbed his PJs and walked down the corridor to the bathroom. Grandpa O’Bryan had put three bathrooms in the Castle, which was regarded as very radical. There was one on the floor where the family slept, wallpapered in all the kinds of fruit the Wallaby Jams were made from, with a vast mahogany ‘convenience’ that you had to step up to, like a throne, and the room even had a bell pull in case you wanted to summon a servant while you were in the giant marble bath. The second bathroom was on the floor for guests, only one flight up in case anyone needed the ‘convenience’ while in the living room. The last bathroom was up on the servants’ floor.

  The servants also had a dunny out the back — Grandpa O’Bryan was not so eccentric that he’d have a bathroom built down by the kitchen scullery, housekeeper’s room and butler’s pant
ry.

  Butter began to unbutton his shirt when something pounded down below. It was so loud Butter thought it was thunder at first, then he realised it was fists on the massive, iron-studded Castle door. ‘Please, help me! Please!’

  That was Olive’s voice!

  Butter raced out of the bathroom and down the stairs, just beating Jenkins to the front door. Butter flung it open. ‘Olive! What’s wrong?’ Had one of them fallen down a cliff? Or had the mysterious danger finally overtaken them?

  Olive leaned against the porch rail, gasping, her bare feet sandy, her hair wild and tangled, spilling out of her plaits. ‘Gil’s sick! Please, we need help. You said your dad would help even if we didn’t have any money.’

  ‘I think so . . .’ said Butter, hoping desperately that Dad WOULD help. Then suddenly Dad was there, putting his reading glasses in his shirt pocket.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Dad, this is Olive. She’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘It’s my brother,’ said Olive breathlessly. ‘He’s been feeling a bit funny the last few days. We thought it was just too much sun — he’s been fishing for hours every day, then out on the highway selling his catch. But tonight . . .’

  ‘What are the symptoms?’ asked Dr O’Bryan.

  ‘Then you’ll help us? We only have ten shillings.’ Olive held out the note Aunt Elephant had given Butter to put in this morning’s package.

  Suddenly the Aunts were behind Dad in the hallway and Jenkins too, and the servants were peering around the green baize door that led to the kitchen and scullery.

  ‘Put the money away,’ said Dr O’Bryan impatiently. ‘I don’t need paying for this. What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘It started like a really bad headache, but he seems to be burning up. That’s why we thought it was too much sun. Then tonight he . . . he couldn’t stand up. He keeps muttering things too . . .’

  ‘Polio,’ said Aunt Peculiar softly. ‘Polio can be fast. Butter, dear, step back please. The girl might be infectious . . .’