Eustace

by Catherine Jinks

  Not that I minded. Peter’s a nice enough bloke. I just wasn’t used to him, or his deadpan sense of humour. And I’ve always been a bit wary of fanatical science-fiction types.

  ‘I think we’ve fallen into a time warp,’ he remarked, when we were sitting around the Village Camping Area, eating a late lunch. ‘Maybe we should recalibrate our temporal dislocation signatures.’

  ‘What?’ said Michelle.

  ‘I just mean that it all looks very old,’ Peter explained. ‘Don’t you think?’

  I surveyed the Village Camping Area, which was a grassy spot down near the river, enclosed by a post- and-rail fence. Around us stood many shady trees, a handful of green garbage bins, some power sockets for caravans and a scattering of picnic benches. There was also a collection of brick barbecues, and a large building with a tin roof that contained septic toilets and coin-operated hot showers.

  ‘Old?’ I said. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Not here,’ said Peter. ‘Obviously I don’t mean here. I mean the town. The buildings.’

  I thought about the glimpses that we’d caught of Hill End, coasting down the main road towards the river. It certainly wasn’t anything like Sydney. Ringed by scrubby hills, it was all rickety picket fences, overgrown vacant lots and dirt lanes. The houses had rusty tin roofs and crumbling chimneys, and often looked as if they’d been tacked together out of corrugated iron, mud bricks and firewood. On the outskirts of town the sun beat down out of an intensely blue sky onto patches of orange earth scored with deep crevices. Cows wandered about under poplar trees opposite a two-storey shop selling gold pans and camping gear. The Royal Hotel – scene of Jesse’s brother’s famous liquor purchase – loomed massively over everything, a line of cars nudging its front verandah like horses lined up eagerly at a trough.

  ‘It’s different,’ I admitted.

  ‘I wonder what will happen if it rains?’ Michelle said uneasily, glancing at the cloudless sky. ‘Do you think we’ll be able to stay at the hotel?’

  ‘It won’t rain,’ Mum assured her. I was beginning to wonder, with some alarm, if Mum was going to be dogging my steps for the entire weekend. (I mean, it was embarrassing enough that she’d come on the trip at all.) So far she hadn’t seemed particularly interested in finding her own fun – but then again, we hadn’t had a chance to do much, except pitch the tent and break out the sandwiches. Perhaps, I thought, things will change when we start trudging around with our project sheets. Surely Mum wouldn’t want to hang out with us while we investigated wattle and daub construction and damp course lines?

  But then again, since the Eglantine business she had been getting a bit more keen on history. That’s one reason why she’d come to Hill End in the first place.

  ‘So what are you going to do, Mum, while we’re at the museum?’ I asked. ‘I think Tony’s mum is going to do some sunbaking. Is that what you’re going to do?’

  ‘Sunbaking! I can do that any time.’

  ‘There’s some sort of antique shop up there,’ I added cunningly. ‘And an arts and crafts shop next to the general store.’

  ‘No, no. I think I’ll check out the museum. I’m supposed to be supervising, remember.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘I can’t miss the Visitor Centre, anyway,’ she concluded. ‘I want to pick up maps and stuff. Besides, who knows? I might learn something.’

  She was right, as it happened. She did learn something – in fact we both did.

  We learned that there was a resident ghost at the Hill End museum.

  CHAPTER # two

  I forgot to mention that our bus driver, Steve, had been hired for the whole weekend. He’d been paid extra so that he could stay at the Royal Hotel; unlike the rest of us, he wasn’t forced to pitch a tent or unroll a sleeping bag. We never saw him in the evenings, because he would retire to the pub at five o’clock. But during the day he was always available to drive us around in his bus – which he generally parked near the Village Camping Area.

  On Friday afternoon, he drove us up to the Hill End Museum and Visitor Centre. It didn’t take long. With a great hissing of brakes and grinding of gears he hauled us to the top of a hill overlooking the town, where we found a large, single-storey brick building with a wrap-around verandah.

  ‘Okay now, everyone – quiet please!’ Mrs Patel declared, as we gathered at the foot of the building’s front steps. ‘This is the old district hospital, and it dates from1873. Malcolm, if you don’t calm down, I’m going to put you back on the bus. If you look at your project sheet, you’ll see questions about some of the exhibits in here – that’s enough, Tony – so I want you to pay special attention to what you see. I want all those questions answered.’

  ‘Mrs Patel!’

  ‘What is it, Amy?’

  ‘I need to go to the toilet.’

  ‘There’s a toilet inside.’

  Normally Mrs Patel is a very calm sort of person, but I could see that even she was beginning to crumble under the strain. Her nail polish was beginning to chip. Her voice was beginning to crack. The long, black braid that hung down her back was beginning to unravel.

  ‘There are several rooms inside, and I want you to have a careful look at the Village Room, which is room number one, as well as the Hospital Room –’

  ‘Mrs Patel.’

  ‘What? What is it now?’

  ‘Zoe wants to go to the toilet too.’

  ‘Zoe can go when you’re finished, Amy. Only when you’re finished.’

  It’s always the same. Whenever there’s something interesting to look at on a school excursion, the deadheads usually manage to spoil it by giggling and pushing and asking stupid questions about toilets. To tell you the truth, I don’t really notice it any more, though I could see Mum rolling her eyes. Amy’s dad whispered something to Tammy’s mother, who gave a half-hearted smile. Then we all trooped into the museum.

  It was dim and cavernous, with shiny bare floors and thick, heavy doorframes. The rooms opened off a central hall. No sooner had we clattered over the threshold than a blonde woman in a National Parks and Wildlife uniform emerged from the first room on our right, which contained racks of brochures, leaflets and souvenirs. Having introduced herself as Karen Smythe, she consulted Mrs Patel in a low voice about entry fees.

  The rest of us waited. Our rubber soles squeaked on the polished floor and our voices echoed off the high ceiling. Jesse headed straight for the Visitors’ Book. Surreptitiously, he picked up a pen and scribbled something in it. Then he showed his written comment to Malcom, who sniggered.

  It always pained me to see Jesse acting like that. I was sure that, deep inside, he was capable of more mature behaviour.

  ‘You people can just go ahead,’ Mrs Patel suddenly remarked, breaking off her conversation with Karen Smythe. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  ‘And if there’s anything you want to know,’ Karen added, ‘feel free to ask. I’m here to answer any questions you might have.’

  ‘Where are the toilets?’ Tony Karavias piped up, from the back of the group. There was a ripple of laughter. But Karen Smythe remained serene.

  ‘They’re over there,’ she said, pointing.

  ‘One at a time,’ Mrs Patel barked, as a good third of our group surged in the direction indicated. ‘Amy, you first. The rest of you, start in room one. That’s the Village Room.’

  ‘Oh, boy,’ Michelle murmured. ‘Do we have to? Can’t we start at the other end? I want to avoid all the drongos.’

  She glanced at Mrs Patel, who was already moving away. Our teacher apparently had business to transact with Karen Smythe, in the room where Karen’s cash register was nestled among the leaflets and brochures.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t matter,’ Mum suddenly remarked. She was standing right behind me, and sounded fragile. ‘I’m sure it won’t matter if you start in this room over here. Not if I’m with you.’

  She was obviously just as anxious to dodge the rest of the party as Michelle was. I understoo
d how they both felt, though at the same time I was strangely reluctant to let Jesse out of my sight. It was stupid, of course; there wasn’t any chance that he’d actually talk to me, or anything. So I fought against my secret crush, and followed Mum and Michelle into a room that was full of dusty old photographs. Most of them were photographs of past inhabitants of Hill End. Michelle and I carefully scanned our project sheets while Mum peered at the walls.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Michelle doubtfully, her voice hushed. ‘I don’t see any questions about anything in this room, do you?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Who laid the hospital’s foundation stone and what else is he famous for?’ she read aloud. ‘Maybe that’s here somewhere. Can you see?’

  ‘Oh, look!’ Mum exclaimed. ‘Look, Allie, this guy isn’t white or Chinese. James Evans, goldminer, born 1829–31, arrived in Australia 1852. Isn’t that interesting? I didn’t know there were any black people on the goldfields. Apart from the Aborigines, of course.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘And look at this. Somebody called Red Jack Ellis with Bill Peach. Bill Peach must have made a show about him. I wonder why?’

  ‘Who’s Bill Peach?’ I wanted to know, and Mum explained that he’d been a television presenter back in the 70s, when she was young. She couldn’t remember the name of his program, but he’d gone all around Australia looking for interesting people.

  ‘Like Red Jack Ellis, whoever he was,’ she said, and jumped as Karen Smythe spoke behind her. None of us had heard anyone come in.

  ‘Red Jack was a local character,’ Karen announced. ‘He was prospecting here till he died a few years ago. Prospecting for gold.’

  ‘You mean people still do that?’ I queried, and she laughed.

  ‘Do they ever!’

  ‘You mean – like mining?’

  ‘No, not so much like mining,’ Karen admitted. ‘More like fossicking. Panning for gold. You can go on special fossicking tours, down around Tambaroora.’

  ‘I think that’s what we’re doing tomorrow,’ Michelle observed. ‘I think I heard Mrs Patel say something about it.’

  ‘There’s an old bloke you see in the Golden Gully area who spends all his time fossicking,’ Karen went on. ‘Been there donkey’s years – lives out in the bush somewhere. He’s one of the genuine old-timers, like Red Jack. You get the odd feral, around here.’

  ‘And what about this guy?’ Mum interrupted. ‘James Evans? What’s his significance?’

  ‘Oh, now he was an interesting bloke,’ Karen replied, her broad, freckled face becoming more animated. ‘He came out here from America and married one of the hospital matrons – Elizabeth Evans. Granny Evans. Our resident ghost.’

  I must have jumped halfway to the ceiling. Even Mum jerked her head. We’re not like other people any more, you see; we can’t hear the word ‘ghost’ without getting a little shock.

  ‘What ghost?’ I said sharply.

  ‘There’s a ghost here?’ Mum gasped.

  Though Michelle cast me a nervous glance, Karen didn’t seem to notice our reaction. She spoke casually, her eyes fixed on the photo of James Evans, a smile lingering in the corners of her mouth. It was a slightly embarrassed smile.

  ‘There’s supposed to be a ghost,’ she said. ‘Old Granny Evans – she’s still pacing the wards, apparently.’

  ‘Why?’ I demanded. ‘Did she die here?’

  ‘I don’t think so . . .’

  ‘Was she here a very long time?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. There’s a picture of her in the Hospital Room. She had nine children.’ The smile had gone; perhaps our serious expressions had driven it away. ‘People are supposed to have heard ghostly footsteps, though I never have.’

  ‘Has anyone heard anything else?’ I inquired. ‘Or seen anything?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘No writing on the walls?’ Michelle blurted out, and I shot her a warning look. I didn’t want anyone to mention Eglantine. The minute you do that, people start to think you’re a real wacko.

  ‘N-n-o-o . . .’ Karen raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean? What kind of writing?’

  ‘Oh – nothing,’ I said quickly. ‘Come on, Michelle. I don’t think there’s anything else in here that we need.’

  I hustled her out the door and down the hallway. From the noise they were making, I deduced that our classmates were still in the Village Room, so I steered clear of them.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Michelle hissed. ‘Why are you acting so funny?’

  ‘I don’t like people talking about Eglantine.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know.’ I had told her about all the kids teasing me – about Jesse Gerangelos calling me a loony-tune. I couldn’t believe that she was even asking. ‘When you talk about ghosts, Michelle, everyone thinks you’re a nutcase.’

  ‘But that woman was talking about the Granny ghost –’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not the same. Eglantine was real. No one seems to know if this one is real or not.’ I stopped abruptly. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘The Hospital Room. Let’s check it out.’

  ‘Okay. If you want.’

  It was a small room, painted white. There was an old-fashioned hospital bed in the middle of it, and bits of antique medical equipment arranged on shelves and in cupboards: frightening surgical instruments, ominous rubber hoses, poisonous-looking patent medicines. A nineteenth-century chart of the human body hung beside yet more dusty photographs. An oddly shaped enamel basin made me slightly uneasy – I don’t know why.

  ‘Yuk,’ said Michelle, with a grimace. ‘I bet somebody died in here. I bet lots of people died in here.’

  ‘Patients, yes,’ I agreed. ‘So why is the ghost a nurse?’

  ‘Maybe she was an evil nurse. Maybe she killed someone.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Look! Is that her?’

  It was. Elizabeth Evans, died September 1929 – the same year the hospital closed. Matron of the hospital from 1889 until 1895. She had a face like a hatchet.

  At that point, a swelling tide of noise warned us that the Hospital Room was about to be invaded. Sure enough, we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by the people we’d been trying to escape.

  ‘Oh! Gross!’ yelped Zoe Mylchreest, having spotted the surgical instruments.

  ‘When did the hospital close?’ Angus mumbled, reading aloud from his project sheet.

  ‘Hello,’ said Peter Cresciani, nudging me in the ribs. ‘Where did you guys get to?’

  Jesse and his gang, I noticed, were thoroughly preoccupied with a plaster model of the inner ear; I wondered what Jesse was saying that seemed to be so funny. Michelle, however, wasn’t interested. She dragged me into the Village Room, which was now empty except for one poor tourist whose visit had – unfortunately for him – coincided with our school’s. (I noticed that he didn’t hang around for too long.) Michelle and I were therefore able to study the exhibits in peace, answering all Mrs Patel’s questions about mining equipment, local newspapers, domestic life and transport. We then moved on to look at the replica of a mining registrar’s office, the panoramic views of nineteenth century Hill End, the gallery of past notables, and the set of antique beer taps. It was all very interesting, but my thoughts kept straying to the mystery of Elizabeth Evans. Was she really haunting the old hospital? If so, how had she been recognised as Elizabeth Evans? It isn’t easy, identifying ghosts. It takes a lot of research.

  Perhaps, I thought, if there is a ghost, it’s not the ghost of Elizabeth Evans at all. Perhaps it’s actually one of the patients who died here, and people assume that it’s Granny Evans because of the way it paces around. Matrons always pace around.

  ‘Did that National Parks woman say anything else about the ghost?’ I asked my mother in a low voice, as we waited to board the bus.

  ‘No,’ she replied softly. She looked a bit subdued.

  ‘I wonder if there really is one.’

  Mum tucked a strand of fluffy re
d hair behind one ear. Whenever she fiddles with her hair, I know that she’s nervous.

  ‘The bagua alignment in that place is shocking,’ she said obscurely, and I sighed. Feng Shui again. Mum is devoted to Feng Shui. It’s a Chinese philosophy that tells you how to rearrange your house for good luck.

  ‘You mean the Feng Shui’s so bad that there’s bound to be ghosts?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know enough about it.’

  ‘I wonder if Richard Boyer would be interested?’ Richard is our friend from PRISM – which stands for Paranormal Research Investigation Services and Monitoring. When Eglantine was haunting our house, he was one of the people who tried to work out why; he’s fascinated by the paranormal, you see, though he actually works for some sort of computer company. (He only does things for PRISM in his spare time.) It was Richard who got film of Eglantine’s spirit-writing as it slowly appeared on my brother’s bedroom wall – though he never did offer us any kind of theory about why Eglantine couldn’t seem to rest in peace. I was the one who solved that puzzle. And Delora Starburn, the psychic, was the one who gave Eglantine what she wanted, so that she stopped haunting our house.

  As a matter of fact, Richard met Delora at our place, and they started going out together soon after that. Nowadays Delora is an enthusiastic member of PRISM. Mum says that Eglantine played cupid with Richard and Delora; she also says that their love affair ‘can’t possibly last’. But when I ask her why, she just mutters something about how I wouldn’t understand.

  As a matter of fact, I probably would understand. Jesse and I are a bad match, too.

  ‘Mum?’ I said. ‘What do you think? Should we tell Richard?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘I bet Delora would have a great time in there. I bet she’d pick up all kinds of vibes.’

  ‘I don’t need Delora to tell me this place is full of negative energy,’ Mum retorted. ‘Stop talking about ghosts, Allie, would you? It’s too late in the day.’