‘You’re right!’ Kitty breathed. She gazed at the porch, seeing visions of ladies in long dresses, dripping with jewels, and men in hats and white silk scarves, sweeping up the drive in big old-fashioned cars. Maybe if she turned around she would see immaculate gardens, lawns rolling down towards the park, peacocks trailing their splendid tails.
‘Wanna go inside?’ Rosa whispered in her ear.
‘I can’t. I’ll be toast if I don’t get home.’
‘I’ll show you a shortcut,’ offered Rosa, plunging off through the undergrowth again to the right. Kitty groaned, but followed her anyway.
There was just a crumbling stone wall between the house and the former factory next door. They crossed an expanse of concrete strewn with broken glass and rusted bits of machinery, some squat steel buildings with saw-toothed roofs, and a lot of weeds. Not so long ago, Kitty remembered, this factory had still been working, its low hum audible from her bedroom at night.
‘This way.’ Rosa was already up some steps at the far side of the factory. At the top there was a locked gate and a cyclone-wire fence with plenty of gaps. Kitty climbed through and looked back.
Between the gate and the first factory building there was a notice on a post, flapping in the breeze. It showed a faded plan of the site, divided up into tiny numbered rectangles. Kitty looked at the plan, trying to make sense of it. Something about it niggled at her brain.
‘Thought you were in a hurry?’ Rosa was pulling the broken bits of wire together to make the gap look less obvious.
Kitty said goodbye to Rosa at the corner, then ran most of the way home. When she was nearly there she spied Martin dawdling ahead of her.
‘Guess what! Guess what!’ she called. ‘The Haunted House has got a name.’
‘Yeah, Tarcoola. So?’
Kitty was deflated. ‘You knew that?’
‘Course. It’s written right above the door.’
‘I hate you, Martin.’
They walked in silence for a while.
‘Anyway, that’s not all,’ Kitty resumed. ‘I met someone who used to live there.’
‘Yeah?’ Martin slowed down. ‘Who?’
‘This old lady at the Sunset Home. I interviewed her. I’ve made notes . . . ’ Kitty groped in her bag.
‘Did you ask her about the tunnels?’
‘No, I didn’t realise . . . But I’m going to see her again. She’s a really sweet old lady, and she calls me “dear”. She thinks Kitty’s a lovely name.’
‘Well, find out what she knows about those tunnels. But don’t let on that we’ve been in there.’
‘Oh, right. So I say, we don’t know there are tunnels under your house, but why are they there and where do they go?’
‘You’ll think of something. Be subtle.’
As they arrived, their mother pulled up in the car, and Kitty helped her to carry in the groceries and put them away. Martin vanished into his room, pleading homework.
‘How was your excursion?’ asked their mother.
‘Amazing! The place smelled a bit off, but my old lady was really nice.’
‘Was she a local?’
‘Sure was! She was born in Christina Street, near Andrea’s place.’
‘That’s great. So I suppose she told you a lot about local history.’
‘A bit, but we had to go. I want to talk to her some more. I reckon I can do the best interview in the class. Can I go and see her again, Mum?’
‘Seems like a good idea, love.’
‘Only the trouble is . . . ’ Kitty put on her saddest face. ‘I’m grounded.’
‘Oh. Hmmm. Well, maybe we could make an exception, if it’s schoolwork.’
Kitty threw her arms around her mother. ‘Oh Mum, I knew you’d say that!’ She got out the fresh bread and started making herself a sandwich.
‘Mum, you know the Haunted House?’
‘Yes, love.’
‘Well, this lady I interviewed used to live there. She was the mistress of Tarcoola.’
‘Really? She must have some stories to tell.’
‘And before that she was in service. What does that mean?’
‘Well, it means she was a servant. A housemaid. But I don’t know how she’d go from that to being in charge of a big house like Tarcoola. Unless she means she was the housekeeper there.’
‘I don’t know. She talked about her husband as if he was the owner.’ Kitty munched thoughtfully on her sandwich. ‘Mum, why doesn’t anyone live at Tarcoola? Is it because it’s haunted?’
‘Of course it’s not haunted, Kitty. Kids just say that because it’s empty, and a bit spooky. It’s been empty for as long as I can remember, and it’s so dilapidated now, I suppose it would cost too much to fix it up. Maybe Cec knows something about it.’
‘Oh yes! Cec knows everything. Can I go and see him? It’s for school,’ Kitty added hastily. ‘So I can get more facts for my interview.’
‘You can stay right here,’ said her mother firmly. ‘I’m sure you’ve got homework to do. Cec will probably come along the back lane soon, walking Sweetheart. I’ll be keeping a lookout. I’ve been collecting up some old magazines for him.’
‘Oh . . . okay.’ Kitty gathered up her schoolbooks. ‘Anyway, that house is haunted. I know lots of people who’ve seen the ghost.’
Kitty went into Martin’s room.
‘Go away,’ he said, without turning around. ‘I’m doing my Chinese homework.’
Kitty watched over his shoulder as he struggled with the mysterious characters.
‘It must be funny learning to read if you’re Chinese,’ she observed.
‘Funny? There are thousands of these things. I should’ve picked French.’
Kitty sorted out her notes, then took her project book to the dining table and opened the double doors. She sat drawing up her title page and listening. Bees buzzed lazily in the garden and her mother snip-snipped with the secateurs.
A faint wheezing sound could be heard, getting louder. A wattle-bird flew up from the banksia tree with a raucous cry of protest.
‘I think that’s them,’ said her mother. Kitty ran down the path and opened the back gate.
‘Hello, Cec!’ she called.
Sweetheart wheezed louder at the sight of Kitty and waddled towards her, dragging Cec on the other end of the leash. It was hard to guess what breed she was supposed to be when all you could see was a balloon from which four little legs stuck out. She looked like the drowned dog Kitty and Martin had once seen floating in the harbour. Cec, by contrast, was wiry and spry. He wore a straw hat, a threadbare white shirt and trousers held up by a piece of rope. He raised his hat at the sight of Kitty.
‘Hello, little lady!’ He suffered himself to be dragged through the gate as Sweetheart snuffled happily over Kitty’s foot.
‘Nice day, missus!’ Cec raised his hat to Kitty’s mother too.
‘Hold on a minute, Cec,’ she said. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ She disappeared inside the house.
‘Cec,’ said Kitty casually, ‘did you know the people who lived in the Haunted House?’
‘Well, now. That place’s been empty for as long as I can remember.’
‘Are you sure?’ Kitty tried to hide her disappointment.
‘Yep. We’ve been in our house since just after the war, and there’s never been anyone in that old place, to my knowledge. Unsafe, I’d say. Saw a snake in the garden once.’
‘Yes, I know. Have you ever seen the ghost?’
‘There’s no ghost there.’ He chuckled and reached down stiffly to pat the dog. ‘Sweetheart’d know if there was ghosts.’
‘Really?’
‘Course. Dogs can sense ghosts, all right. But she’s always trying to get in there. There’s wild cats in that yard, and she’s mad keen to chase them.’
The thought of Sweetheart attempting to chase anything made Kitty giggle. Fortunately her mother reappeared at that moment with an armful of magazines.
‘Here you are, Cec. There
’s this month’s Gardening Australia and a few copies of Better Homes and Gardens. And how’s Win? Keeping well?’
‘Her leg’s bad, missus, but she’s good in herself, like. Well, thanks for these. I’d better be off. Sweetheart wants her tea. Got some nice rump for her tonight.’
‘That dog eats too much! Put her on a diet, Cec.’
‘Well, she’s not getting any sweets!’ And Cec allowed Sweetheart to drag him away down the lane as if she could already smell home and supper. Kitty stood at the gate, watching them. Just before they turned the corner a thought struck Cec.
‘I did hear the chap committed suicide,’ he called.
‘What?’
‘In that house. During the war?’
‘Suicide? Cec! Was his name Mr Wolf?’
But Cec had gone. Sweetheart, on the home stretch and almost within scent of her rump steak, was unstoppable.
ANDREA squatted at the clifftop, looking down at some boys climbing over the Stepping Stones. When the rocks hid them from view Andrea threw a stone into the Doughnut. She heard a soft splash.
She had waited for David, but just to tell him that the others couldn’t come. As she’d expected, he had nodded and hurried off home.
‘It’s okay,’ she thought. ‘I know he doesn’t like me.’
Her mind wandered back to the confrontation with her History teacher that afternoon.
‘I can’t see that there’s any excuse for it,’ Miss Tenniel had said. ‘This is the third assignment in a row you haven’t handed in. You were doing such good work at the beginning of the year. Is there something wrong at home?’
‘No!’ Andrea was jolted out of her sullen silence.
‘Well, I’m going to give you one more chance, but this is the last time. I’ve spoken to your Year Adviser, and he feels that if there’s no improvement we’ll have to contact your parents.’
‘You mean my mother.’
‘No, Andrea. The school has your father’s contact details too. We feel that both your parents are entitled to know what’s going on. It’s not just History, is it? You’re falling down in all your subjects.’
Andrea’s cheeks were burning.
‘Please don’t tell my father. It won’t do any good.’
‘We may have to, Andrea. As you know, we’ve written to your mother before, and there was no response. But if you complete this assignment and show some improvement in the rest of your work we’ll wait and see. I’m giving you until Friday of next week.’
‘I’ve lost the sheet.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ Miss Tenniel said resignedly, handing her another one. Andrea remembered, a little guiltily, how she had screwed hers up the day they were handed out and thrown it into the bin from the second-back row. Miss Tenniel was writing on the board at the time, and hadn’t appeared to notice this feat, or the silent applause that accompanied it from the boys at the back.
Now, sitting back on her heels at the clifftop, Andrea dragged out the sheet and looked at it in despair. ‘A Historical Biography,’ she read. ‘A family member, neighbour or friend. Include historical information. Up to one thousand words.’ Who could she possibly do? Her mother? Not really old enough, and anyway, her mother’s life was none of the school’s business. Her grandparents? She didn’t know anything about them, especially on her father’s side.
Some people were lucky. David’s funny-looking grandfather used to always pick him up from school. He had come into the class once, when they were in Year Five, and talked about what the area was like in the old days, when he was growing up. ‘Call me Moshe,’ he had said to the children, sitting on the floor and waving his hands as he talked, his black eyes bright as a goblin’s.
But there was no way she could go to David’s house and ask his grandfather questions. She could just imagine what he would think of her.
Maybe Celeste could help? Andrea dismissed the thought almost as soon as it entered her brain. Her big sister was always on the verge of being suspended from school, and anyway she was hardly ever at home these days.
If only she could go and live with her father in the bush, make a fresh start. Last time he had come to visit, over a year ago now, she had suggested it – casually, not making a big deal of it.
‘Not a bad idea, hon,’ he had said. ‘It’s a bit rustic right now, but I’m gonna get some solar panels organised, fix things up a bit. I’ll let you know, yeah?’
‘Don’t hold your breath, love,’ her mother advised after he had gone.
She put the assignment sheet back into her schoolbag and left the park, dragging her feet. She was in no hurry to go home. Her mother would probably be at the pub. She’d be greeted by an empty house and a pile of dirty dishes left over from last night.
She crossed the road and stood at the end of the lane that led to the Haunted House, thinking about the tunnels. How far did they go? she wondered. Maybe you could hide down there and never be found. Maybe there were other entrances inside the house, behind fireplaces or in secret rooms.
There was no one in sight. Andrea walked quickly up the lane and slipped through a gap in the fence. The house loomed large and forbidding in the late-afternoon light. She ran around to the side where they had found the unbarred cellar window and climbed in, dropping to the floor in a cloud of dust that made her sneeze.
It was gloomy in the cellar. The holes that led to other sections were smaller than she remembered, and swathed in cobwebs. Andrea tried to remember which one led to the place with the trapdoor. Gritting her teeth, she crawled through the nearest opening and jumped up, brushing imaginary spiders from her hair.
Andrea waited for a moment until her eyes got used to the darkness. This was definitely not the place. She was in a large windowless area. In one corner she could make out a wooden staircase leading steeply upwards, with a door at the top.
The banister was rickety, and the stairs creaked loudly as Andrea climbed up. She reached the top, heart pounding, and pushed tentatively at the door. It moved a little, then met resistance. Andrea pushed harder. There was a tearing sound, then the door swung stiffly open and she stepped through.
She was in a central hallway. Some distance along the hall she could see the front door, flanked by softly glowing panels of coloured glass. Dim light came through the doorway of the room across the passage. She could see double glass doors leading outside and through them the green haze of a garden. The room contained a pile of rubble and a gaping hole where presumably a fireplace had once been. There was a key in one of the glass doors. When she tried it, it turned easily in the lock. She considered slipping out and going home through the shadowy garden, but there was more to explore.
To the right of the front door, a magnificent staircase curved upwards. Andrea pressed herself against the wall, listening. There was a faint sighing, which might have been a ghost. But there are no ghosts, she reminded herself. Her heart was thumping.
She put a foot on the staircase and listened again. No change. Cautiously she climbed the stairs, all her senses on high alert.
At the top of the stairs there were several rooms. Andrea crept along, wincing when a floorboard creaked under her. Outside one room the sighing, moaning sound seemed to be louder. She peeped around the doorway, ready to run. The window in the room was cracked, and the sound came from several scraps of paper rustling on the broken linoleum. Andrea picked up one of the scraps. It was a yellowed old newspaper, brittle in her hand. She found a date: 1937.
Andrea relaxed a little. The house felt empty and deserted now, as if no one had been there since 1937. She peeped into the room opposite. It had a bay window, most of its panes broken, overlooking the tangled garden. She could see the big trees in the park, palms and Moreton Bay figs, and the water beyond. The remains of a huge old iron bed were still there, its knobs speckled with age. A broken dressing table stood beside it. Andrea opened the one remaining drawer, but there was nothing in it but scrunched-up newspaper.
As she was closing the drawer someth
ing caught her eye. She reached into the back of the drawer and pulled out a yellowed photograph, tattered at the edges as if something had been nibbling it.
Andrea squinted at the photograph, trying to make it out in the fading light. Somewhere in the house a door slammed.
She ran to the top of the stairs and peeped over the balustrade. Shadows were moving down below, and she thought she heard a voice. She edged back along the passage. At the end she found another narrow staircase. She half-ran, half slid down it, trying not to make a sound. At the foot, she could see the cellar door, still half open the way she had left it. She flitted across and groped her way down the lower staircase.
It was very dark at the bottom, and she could barely make out the openings that led to the other sections. Her sense of direction had deserted her, and she couldn’t remember which one led to the broken window and her escape. She found an opening and climbed through. It wasn’t right. She was halfway back through the opening when she heard a creak.
Andrea froze. She could just see the cellar stairs. Then she heard another faint creak, and a shadow moved. There was someone standing there, standing still, watching and listening.
Suddenly a powerful torch beam flashed around the cellar. Andrea shut her eyes as it swept past her. She backed away, her heart hammering, and dived through another opening. Cobwebs clung to her face. She rolled and tumbled through another opening, and another, not caring now how much noise she made, desperate to get out. She could hear scrabbling behind her, and a muffled curse.
Now she could see the broken window. She scrambled onto the broken chairs and flung herself through the gap, falling heavily onto her hands and knees on the ground outside. She picked up her bag and started to limp away through the undergrowth.
‘They’re outside!’
It was a man’s voice, coming from inside the house. She glanced back instinctively and saw a figure standing at a darkened upstairs window.
Andrea turned and ran for the gate. She scrambled through and tore down the lane and into the street.
The Tunnels of Tarcoola Page 3
