• ‘Behold! Here you all sit,’ — her arms swept the room — ‘in the grandeur of your own incompetence!’
• Startled murmurs; some smiles; an amused, rather patronising eyerolling from Bill.
• ‘Imagine!’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Imagine taking a scholarship away from a beautiful, innocent waif who has only just clawed her way back from the jaws of death!’ (Guilty, defensive looks around the table.) ‘And from a handsome, charming young man who has just been in trouble with the police!’ (Confused murmurs of, ‘Well, but, um …’)
• ‘But let us set aside the extensiveness of your immortality!’ (I think she meant immorality but I was glad to be immortal.) ‘I set before you your seven grounds for termination!’ At this, she took seven brightly coloured, uninflated balloons from her pocket and placed them on the table before her.
• ‘Ground 1!’ Emily blew up a balloon, her eyes large and round, her cheeks swelling out, her face turning pale pink. ‘That Amelia did not go to her HSC exam and she didn’t have an excuse!’ This, a little breathless, pointing to the now inflated balloon.
• ‘Didn’t have an excuse!? Why, I have read the transcript! She had an excellent excuse! She had to go to see a friend in a mental institution who was going to take her own life! Oh, I know what you’re going to say! That there is no mental institution in Castle Hill! Well, but I’ve spoken to Toby, and he tells me that there was one. In another century! It was a lunatic asylum! Is there a better excuse than that? Having to visit the past because a ghost was going to take her own life?! NO! There is not! Who amongst you has ever had to save the life of a ghost?’
• And she took a pen from Lucy Wexford’s hand and popped the balloon.
• ‘Ground 2!’ She blew up another balloon. ‘That Riley has been charged with assault. This one’s easy. No, he hasn’t. The charge is gone. All that is left is a fight. Boys are always fighting. They are children.’ And she popped that balloon.
• ‘Ground 3!’ A third balloon. ‘They didn’t tell you the exact wickedness of their criminal records. My dear people, they would not have got the scholarships if they had! So, of course they didn’t tell you.’
• Here, she went to pop the balloon, but there was a clearing of throats around the table — ‘You are not convinced! Well, convince this! Juvenile records are sealed for a reason! Young people are allowed to make mistakes — yes, even serious mistakes — and then leave those mistakes behind and recreate themselves! It’s the foundation of the law! Who amongst you dares to shake the foundations of the law?’
• And she popped the balloon. Now she was getting really breathless. She picked up a fourth balloon, handed it to Jacob Mazzerati and said, ‘Can you blow this up?’
• While Jacob blew up this balloon, Emily’s voice changed completely. It took on a conversational tone. ‘Oh, this one. They broke into the music rooms after hours. Are you guys serious? Do you know how often Lyd, Cass and I broke into various aspects of this school after hours? And within hours. What, are you going to retrospectively expel all three of us?’ And, just as casually, she reached over with her pen and popped the fourth balloon (which was still, at this point, being blown up by Jacob. He blinked, disconcerted, but then, goodnaturedly, picked up another balloon and began to inflate it.).
• ‘Five!’ cried Emily, back in dramatic stride, ‘that Riley may have destroyed the artwork of Seb Mantegna! Need I go on? Did you hear that word ‘ may’? Are you people quite mad? Let’s choose a few more random crimes and say that Riley may have done them! Evidence, my friends! Have you any evidence? Red paint splatters on Riley’s clothes?’ Here, Emily paused suddenly — a little frown crumpled her brow. Then she continued, ‘Anybody see him at the scene of the crime? Any witnesses? What have you got, guys? Come on? Give it to me.’
• ‘She’s right about that,’ Patricia Aganovic said. ‘I meant to say something myself.’ And Patricia leaned over and popped the balloon for Emily. ‘You’re doing great, Em,’ she added. ‘But maybe don’t share Cass’s former crimes with the room?’
• ‘Thank you,’ said Emily, while Jacob obligingly blew up the next balloon. Now Em’s voice became contemptuous, ‘A set of castanets! Well, I would repeat my previous arguments about proving people guilty, and I would add that the castanets were returned so it’s technically not stealing, just a loan, and they were probably just misplaced not stolen at all, but I can’t be bothered. Who even cares about castanets? I mean, what even are they?’
• Here, Lucy Wexford interrupted in a small, irritable voice to say, ‘Yes, well, flamenco dancers … Oh, forget it, Emily, I don’t really think they stole them anyway. Let’s kill this ground, shall we?’ We waited for Lucy to pop the balloon but I think that was below her dignity, so Emily did.
• ‘One more ground!’ Emily cried. Jacob had the balloon ready to hand over. ‘They pretended to like us even though they didn’t! I have so many things to say to that! Of course they liked us! Are you mad? What’s not to like? Oh, yes, yes, I know, I heard that Riley wrote a ghost story in which he said he didn’t like us. Well, hello? It was a ghost story. Yes, yes, I know it was supposed to be true, but Lydia asked me to point out here that her own “true” ghost story had an actual ghost in it, and she wants to know if Mr Botherit really believed that a ghost lives inside her computer?’
• Here Mr Botherit interrupted thoughtfully: ‘I remember Lydia’s story. I did wonder whether that whole thing was an invention or whether — no, no, not that there was a ghost, but that somebody might have hacked into her computer somehow and pretended to be a ghost?’
• ‘No,’ said Emily apologetically. ‘It was a fictional framing device for her nonfiction ghost story. Those are Lydia’s words. She told me to tell you. But you’ve interfered with my train of thought. Let me get back on the wagon. Yes! Friendship! Okay, so, Riley’s story said he didn’t like us but if there’s one thing I’ve learned this year it’s that you can’t believe a word of things in writing! Everything has shades of dark and light! Even history! It’s all slanted and biased and exaggerated! Do you think my ghost story about Term 2 was completely true? I mean it was based on truth but did I include all the illegal, sordid, sex, drug, drinking details about the parties in Term 2? Of course not! That was private. And did I mention, in my story, that the reason Seb joined the drama was because I’d forged a letter to him in Mr Garcia’s name? No! I pretended that I was surprised by the letter! Because I didn’t want to get expelled! And Toby has been telling me that nothing ever happened between him and Amelia, even though he had a serious crush on her, but do you think he mentioned that crush in his ghost story about Term 2?! No! And those are just the deliberate twists of the truth. Don’t get me started about self-delusion! I mean, seriously, who can believe a ghost story?!’
• ‘Whatever is this girl talking about?’ sniffed Constance. ‘And what’s going on with the balloons?’
• ‘I’m so glad to know who wrote that letter,’ murmured Roberto Garcia.
• ‘And even if Amelia and Riley didn’t like us,’ Emily continued, ignoring Constance and Roberto, ‘well, they were right not to! Lydia kissed Riley, which was not exactly being a good friend to Amelia. But I was a terrible friend! I tried to break them up! I made a mistake and told Riley that Amelia was cheating! And you think they were the bad friends? —’ Pause again — and she popped the last balloon.
• Before anybody had a chance to respond, Constance cried, ‘This girl talks a lot of nonsense! Blow those balloons up again! All seven of them, Jacob!’ Jacob smiled at Constance politely, but did not blow up any balloons. ‘Ah, never mind the balloons! Why are we listening to this loop-de-loop. She thinks Amelia went to see a ghost on the day of her exam!’
• Emily seemed to grow taller. ‘Why should Amelia not have visited a ghost? Everybody knows there are ghosts in this very building! I can sense their presence right this moment! I can smell the lilac talcum powder they wear!’
• ‘Just w
atch your credibility there, Em,’ murmured Patricia Aganovic.
• But Constance was flashing back at Em: ‘If there is a ghost here,’ she cried, ‘it is surely the ghost of Kendall Mason Patterson, angry at the way his money is being spent on the likes of such young demons as Amelia and Riley!’
• Here, Emily paused a moment, another slight frown, then her face cleared and she cried, ‘Just because they have made mistakes before does not make them demons! People are often violent just once and then never again!’
• Here Mr Botherit could not help interjecting, hesitantly, ‘I feel like you once said the opposite, Em?’ but Emily was in her stride: ‘That’s why there’s a law against similar fact evidence! It’s more prejudicial than probative! I would never say anything like that, Mr B, and if I did, it was a mistake, and I am very open to change in my own opinions, just not in other people’s —’
• She was interrupted by Constance who quavered, ‘You mark my words, girl, if they are not demons, I’m a monkey’s uncle. Oh, they are wicked young miscreants! I do not doubt that they engage in all manner of wild, youthful ways — alcoholic beverages and drugs; looking at pictures of nude young women; vandalism; the works! When they laugh, it’s demonic! And they gaze with such unnerving intensity! Do not tell me that they have changed! A leopard cannot change its spots! Do not …’
• Constance’s clichés accumulated, as various people tried to interrupt, but the frown was deepening on Emily’s brow. She grew quiet. She looked at the door of the conference room, and at the window. She looked up at the ceiling. She scratched her ear.
• Then, suddenly — unexpectedly — she ran from the room.
• There was a long silence. Bill Ludovico was frowning deeply. People watched the open door, listened to the sound of Emily’s footsteps — a pitter patter along the corridor, then, unexpectedly, a pitter patter running up, up, up steps. The pitter patter faded. We raised our eyebrows at each other. Another long pause … then …
• BANG!
• It came from the ceiling. We all looked up. Quite distinctly, we heard Em’s voice calling, ‘HEY, YOU! DOWN THERE!’ It seemed to be coming from the air vent in the corner of the ceiling.
• We looked at each other, bewildered. Silence. Then from the distance, pitter patter pitter, and along a corridor, getting louder, pitter patter pitter PATTER PITTER — and there was Em, breathless at the door.
• ‘Come with me,’ she ordered.
• Mystified, we followed her. Along the corridor. Up the stairs. Into the archives room. Past the compacting shelves to the far wall where there was an inconspicuous, low grey door. She opened it, stood back — and waved her hands so we could look in.
• It was a small room — a large closet, really — with sloping ceilings, various mechanical units along the walls … and crowded onto the floor in there: a mattress piled with bedding, a floral nightdress, a portable stove, a basin holding a sponge and soap, a pile of books, a box of dominoes, a basket of fruit, a small radio, a tin of paint …
• ‘Somebody lives in there?’ wondered Jacob Mazzerati.
• ‘She does,’ said Emily, triumphant, and pointed at Constance Milligan. ‘ She’s the Ashbury ghost! And she attacked Seb Mantegna’s painting!’
• And then, to everyone’s surprise, Constance Milligan fainted.
• ‘Maybe we should postpone this meeting,’ murmured Chris Botherit, to himself — and —
Meeting Closed: 9.00 pm
8.
www.myglasshouse.com/emthompson
FRIDAY 19 DECEMBER
My Journey Home
My Dear and Wonderful Readers of this Blog.
I have a surprise.
It is me!
I am back.
Even though I said that this blog was complete, and therefore you have already grieved for me … well, you never know when someone might return … (eg ghosts!)
Do not be too excited, though, as it is a once-only encore performance.
My dear friends, I cannot blog! It is the time of summer and freedom, the HSC is done, I am no longer a student compelled to write blogs about My Journey Home,I am a citizen of reality! Soon to be a student of the law!
(Yes, I modestly say that my HSC marks were somewhat great to me, and I think I have enough to get into Arts-Law at Sydney, in accordance with my lifelong dream. Also, please note that Lydia, Amelia and Riley, amongst others in my year, were top ranked in the state in certain subjects. Therefore, life is on track.)
However, I am not here to talk about life! I am here to tell you something astonishing.
I have spoken to the Ashbury Ghost.
She is alive and well and living in a closet in the archives.
(At least, she has been living there — the school will expel her now — ha ha.)
Her name is Constance Milligan.
Well, I can guess what you are all saying: What? I thought the ghosts’ names were Sandra and Kendall!
Or maybe you are saying: Huh. Interesting, but we need more information?
Very well. I will tell the story.
Earlier tonight I went to a meeting that was in a conference room in the Arts Rooms of Ashbury. Constance Milligan, former Ashbury student and profoundly old person, was at the meeting. Many things were said, including by me — but I will only tell you the relevant ones. Here! Come with me to the key moments that night …
… As I arrived, I overheard somebody saying that Constance had never met or spoken with Amelia and Riley.
… I was talking about the attack on Seb’s artwork, and I mentioned splatters of red paint. As I said those words, a memory splashed into my mind. Red paint. Where had I seen it before?
… Constance said that wicked young people look at nude pictures of young women. Another thought splashed into my mind: Seb’s artwork had a nude picture in it. Hmmm.
… Constance said that Amelia and Riley were always laughing, and had a penetrating gaze — nobody else seemed to notice this, but it smacked me in the face: If she had never met Amelia and Riley, how did she know this?
My mind raced. Could Constance have spied on the interviews somehow? Climbed the side of the building and looked through the window? (Unlikely.) Somehow seen them from above? What was above this room anyway? I looked up.
The archives room.
And that’s where I’d seen red splatters of paint!
So I ran up the stairs — and there, at the end of the archives room, behind the compacting files, was a door.
I opened the door, and found … a large closet.
Inside that large closet?
Evidence that someone had been hiding in it! an old person! there was a floral nightgown! a pile of bedding! a stack of books! a bowl of water! an electric cooker! a little rose jug holding a toothbrush and toothpaste! a box of dominoes! and an air vent that looked down on the conference room!!!
Dear Readers, I hope you are keeping up with me!
It was an astonishing night.
I made them all come upstairs with me, threw open the door to the closet, and Constance fainted.
But she woke up when we called her name.
‘I am undone,’ she cried, trembling with excitement, flinging her hands in the air.
So everyone gathered around her there in the archives room, and she sat on a crocheted cushion (someone got it out of her closet-room for her) and confessed.
She said that she first hid in there the night before the progress interview with Amelia and Riley. They must never lay eyes on her, she said, but it was essential that she see them.
‘To find out just how they cast their evil spells of enchantment on you,’ she explained matter-of-factly, looking around at the members of the committee. ‘It was for your own protection.’
She had such fun, she said, staying overnight and watching the conference room, that she decided she might come back now and then.
And that’s what happened. Over the year, she spent more and more time in the building. Sh
e wandered the corridors by night, and hid in the closet during the day, watching the classes below.
‘I belong here,’ she said, blushing. ‘I’m an Ashbury girl through and through.’
She was truly a ghost! A spirit from the past returned to haunt the place she had once cherished!
And also, truly, she was the ghost.
I admit, I do not think she was responsible for all our ghostly encounters — some of those are just day-to-day life — I am older and wiser now and have realised, for example, that pens do roll across desks sometimes, just of their own accord, and that mandarin peels may simply be left behind by cleaners, and that feathers can float long distances, and that distant sounds of traffic might resemble the sound of someone sobbing, and perhaps a person might imagine the smell of sausages frying just because the person is hungry, so I wisely admit that these things were probably not the ghost, but listen …
The book that once belonged to Sandra Wilkinson, The Complete History of Politics in Australia— Constance had brought in a pile of her old schoolbooks to help her feel like a schoolgirl. She had accidentally dropped that one in a corridor! She admitted it when I asked her! (Turns out Constance got Sandra’s old textbooks after Sandra died.)
The handkerchief? Her schoolgirl handkerchief! (She had a pile of them in the closet!)
The lilac talcum powder? Constance wears it! (I had smelled it on her in the meeting, actually.)
The faint music — Constance listening to the radio!
The dripping in the ceiling of the bathroom? Constance admitted she had been bathing in a bucket and now and then the water spilled. It had leaked through to the bathroom next door to the conference room!
Even the attack on Seb’s painting!!! IT WAS CONSTANCE!
She had to admit this — there was paint in her closetroom, and splatters on the floor of the archives room. But she had no remorse: she had saved the world from wicked pornography, she said. (She is quite mad.)
And, do you know what I have realised? The clattering sound I once heard when I was in the archives room, that terrified me so much? Well, that must have been her! She must have been there in the closet at that time! (I wonder what she was doing.)
Dreaming of Amelia Page 36
