The Ghost at the Point

by Charlotte Calder

  The girls were silent, realising why she’d changed the subject. Dorrie felt sick.

  “And bodies – on the beach?” asked Sarah. “People who drowned?”

  Her mother glanced at Annie, who had been feeding Charley her sultanas. “Annie,” she cried. “I think I can hear your father coming. You can be the first to say hello to him. Run, quickly!”

  To be the first at anything was irresistible – Annie was off like a shot.

  “Yes,” said her mother quietly, when Annie’d gone. “Poor souls. There were three drowned people. Two men and a woman washed up on the sand.”

  “Oh.” Dorrie and Sarah sat very still, half disbelieving. The stories of the old shipwrecks, many of them on the south coast, were frightening and sad, considering all the lives lost. But the fact that they had mostly happened a long time ago made them seem distant, and a bit unreal. This wreck was now – in 1931.

  “They don’t even know where the boat came from yet,” said Mrs Jennings. “Joe Heggarty said from what they could see it seemed pretty old and rusted. More like a coastal steamer than any ocean-going vessel.” She sighed and shook her head. “A tub like that’d be no match for the south coast, with all those storms we’ve been having lately. It could easily have been there for a while – just luck that the Heggartys happened to come along.”

  Dorrie thought of the storm of a few nights ago. And there had been another one, several days before that.

  “But apparently the poor dead souls all looked foreign,” Mrs Jennings continued. “They had dark hair and complexions. And the name of the boat sounded foreign too. The Santa Rosa, it was called–”

  “Mu-um!” Annie was back, standing accusingly in the doorway. “Dad’s not there!”

  “Oh, well,” said her mother, vaguely. “Finish your rock cake.”

  “The name sounds foreign,” said Sarah. “Italian or Spanish or something.”

  “Or maybe they came from a South American country,” said Dorrie. She shivered as she pictured a tiny, battered ship ploughing thousands of miles through mountainous waves and howling winds. Then she had another thought. “Surely there must’ve been more than three people on board.”

  “Oh, for sure.” Mrs Jennings poured the tea. “A steamer like that would normally have a crew of at least four. Not to mention any passengers.”

  There was another silence, only broken by the clink of cups and saucers as she passed them around.

  Annie had climbed back up onto the chair and was popping sultanas in Charley’s mouth. “Where are they all then?” she asked, adding cheerfully, “Gobbled up by the sharks, most prob’ly.”

  “Annie!” cried Sarah. “Don’t say that!”

  But they all knew it could be true. The reef- and rock-spattered south coast was teeming with fish of all sizes – including, of course, great whites. Dorrie had heard fishermen’s tales of schools of them lurking beyond the breakers.

  “We may never know the final count, God rest their souls,” said Mrs Jennings. “Anyway, apparently the harbourmaster wired the authorities on the mainland about the identity of the boat, but there’s no record of any Santa Rosa expected in these waters.”

  “A mystery ship,” said Dorrie, “from nowhere.”

  Despite the hazy afternoon warmth of the kitchen, she suddenly felt quite cold.

  By the time Dorrie got home, towers of grey clouds had hidden the setting sun and everything seemed later than it was. She let Sampson go in his paddock and watched smiling as he lumbered down onto his knees and had his usual roll. Then she made for the kitchen and dumped her bag, wondering idly whether Gah was still out fishing.

  She went onto the verandah and peered down along the beach. To her surprise she spied the dinghy pulled up on the sand.

  Hadn’t he been fishing today? It took much more than a bit of unsettled weather to deter Gah. And if he had been out and had already come in, he would have left the dinghy anchored in the shallows, for her to help pull it up when she got home.

  “Gah!” she called, squinting around the verandah again. “Ga-ah.”

  Dorrie hurried to his bedroom and flung open the screen door. She breathed in the familiar salt-and-sand tang of Gah, but he wasn’t there. Everything looked normal. There was his neatly made bed, the framed photograph of Gan and the bookmarked novel – a Charles Dickens one as usual – on the bedside table. His brown jumper hung over the back of the chair next to the washstand. Everything sat still and silent.

  Dorrie went outside again, jumped off the verandah and ran down the point. She stood out on the end, gazing over the cliffs on either side.

  “Gah!” she yelled, her voice bouncing slightly on the jumble of boulders and rocks. “GAH!”

  The wind was getting up. It moved in little gusts across the water, lapping loudly in the tiny, secret inlets below. A lonely gull screamed and wheeled off out to sea.

  Could he have gone off somewhere in the truck? She tried to remember if she’d seen it as she passed the garage. But if he had, he would’ve left a note, and she hadn’t seen one on the kitchen table.

  She hurried back around the house and past the vegetable patch, still calling. But she could already see the back of the truck, peeping out from the edge of the garage. She pulled up, her breath raw, wondering whether to go and check inside or whether to head straight down the path to the beach.

  Something made her spin around quickly and glance back at the house. But there was nothing. Just the stone walls and the gaps of darkening sky through the verandah posts.

  The back of her neck prickled and she realised she was holding her breath. She could have sworn she was being watched.

  All at once her heart was beating like a drum in her ears. She ran down to the truck and flung open the driver’s side door.

  The cabin was empty. There was just the usual sight of the springs poking through the cracked leather seats, the ground showing through the gaps in the floor. She went around to the front and felt the bonnet. It was stone cold.

  It was then that she heard it. A faint cry.

  “Dorrie … Dorrie …”

  She gasped, looking up at the rafters. For a moment it had seemed to come from the roof.

  “Dorrie …”

  No, it was coming from somewhere behind the garage. She dashed outside and past the tank.

  And there he was, lying on his back, the ladder fallen beside him. One of his legs stuck out at a strange, sickening angle.

  “Gah!” she cried, and kneeled down beside him. “Gah, what happened?”

  Though, of course, it was obvious. He must have been clearing leaves out of the gutters. She always worried about him climbing ladders when she wasn’t there.

  “Blasted leg,” he murmured, his eyes barely open. He tried to hoist himself up a bit, but fell back again with a small gasp of pain.

  “Don’t move, Gah – stay still.” Tears had filled her eyes; she brushed at them savagely. There was a nasty cut above his temple and a stream of blood, now sticky, had run down the side of his face and into his shirt. She stroked his clammy forehead, wondering with another stab of fear where else he was hurt.

  One thing was for sure – she wasn’t going to be able to move him on her own.

  “I’ll go and get help in the truck, so we can get you to the hospital.” Telephones hadn’t come to this end of the island yet. “All right, Gah? I’ll have to leave you for a bit to get help.”

  He nodded faintly, his breath harsh, his hand feeling for hers. She grasped it, lifting it to her lips. His skin felt papery and frighteningly old.

  “I’ll get you a blanket in the meantime … and a pillow.” Her mind was racing. “And a drink of water.”

  He shook his head slightly. “Someone helped … got me a drink.” His eyes opened, their blueness hazy with pain. “Kind,” he added, closing them again with a little sigh.

  Dorrie stared at him with fresh terror. He was delirious, hallucinating. “Hang on, Gah. I’ll go and get a blanket.”

 
She leaped up and dashed to the house, grabbed the old knitted rug off the sofa, and a cushion. Then she filled a mug of water and rushed back with it all, her breath coming raggedly.

  “Please,” Gah gasped, as she tried to make him comfortable, “be careful, Ducks. Driving that truck.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. You just rest.” She held the cup up to his lips. “Here – aren’t you thirsty?”

  “Told you … someone gave me water.” He sank back into the cushion, his eyes closed, and tried to smile. “Dunno … p’r’aps I imagined it.”

  But Dorrie had seen something. There was a damp patch in the sand, off to one side. In the shape of a slash, as though she’d already tossed the water out.

  Which she hadn’t. Nor spilled any. She put the full cup carefully down and reached over and felt the moist sand. She pinched some between her fingers and held it to her nose.

  It was colourless and odourless. Not blood, or anything else. Simply sand and water.

  Propped up on a cushion and clinging to the wheel like a monkey, Dorrie released the clutch and backed out of the garage. She’d often driven the truck on their track to collect the mail, and occasionally Gah had let her have a go on the road. Nobody took much notice of drivers licensing laws on the island. But she’d never driven on the road on her own before.

  She bumped down the track in the gathering dusk, braking when a wallaby thumped across in front of her, wondering furiously which way to turn when she got to the bottom. Who would be the closest neighbour likely to be at home? And who would be strong enough to help lift Gah? They didn’t need to be able to drive – she could do that.

  She thought of Sarah’s dad and brother. But the Jennings lived down the Watson’s River road and were certainly not the nearest neighbours. And anyway, Mr Jennings and Bill were often away working on the fishing boats.

  She mentally travelled the other way – along the familiar route to Jasper’s Cove: Old Mrs Pettigrew, the wheelchair-bound Nobby Duckfeather, and then there was only scrub and sandhills for miles until the next farm.

  By the time she reached the road, she knew she didn’t have a choice. She’d have to go the other way, towards Redcliff. Head for their nearest neighbours on that side.

  Old Caleb Pearce and his son, Jacky.

  She braked momentarily alongside the mailbox, dread filling the pit of her stomach. Then she thought of Gah, lying there grey-faced with pain, and she let out the clutch. Too quickly – the truck stalled. She cursed, pushed the starter button again and turned into the road.

  The Pearces lived down the other end of the back beach, in a shack in the scrub near the mouth of the lagoon. Dorrie had never been there, but from out on the lagoon you could sometimes see a glint of the tin roof, nestled into the sandhills. And their ancient, yellowing dinghy, pulled up in the mud flats.

  The rare times that the Pearces were seen, Caleb’s hunched back, ragged clothes and glowering, silent glare had earned him the status of ogre in the eyes of the local children. It was also said that Jacky was a halfwit. Ned Brown and a couple of the boys at school maintained it was because Caleb had beaten him when he was a kid.

  Gah, on the other hand, said Caleb and Jacky were harmless.

  Once or twice when Dorrie and Gah were manoeuvring the dinghy through the tricky sandbars at the mouth of the lagoon, Dorrie had seen Jacky standing as still as a rock out on the flats, his hat pulled down over his ears, staring at them. Gah had raised a hand, and Jacky had waved back.

  And now here she was asking for their help.

  She wondered if they ever got any mail; there was no box that she could see.

  The track was overgrown and barely there in places – a couple of times she nearly got stuck in the encroaching sandhills. She clung to the wheel, keeping a steady pressure on the accelerator as the wheels spun and the truck fishtailed about. At last, she rounded the final bend and there was the rusted tin hut, overhung by a gnarled blue gum.

  Before she’d even pulled up, a cattle dog came tearing around from the back, barking ferociously. She shrank back in her seat, barely breathing. The shack windows consisted of hinged tin flaps propped open with sticks and the front door was ajar, but she couldn’t see any lights through the gloom inside. The dog barked and snarled and started flinging itself against the side of the truck, teeth bared. She glanced around for something to clobber it with if it made it through the open window. Surely the Pearces must be able to hear it! Or were they out on the boat?

  She was about to sound the horn when a roar came from around the side of the hut.

  “Brutus! Giddown!”

  It was old Caleb himself, wild-eyed and unshaven. Jacky plodded closely behind, as big and round-faced as his father was bent and gaunt.

  Brutus dropped low to the ground and slunk back to his master, ears and tail down, only to be rewarded with a cuff and a curse. Dorrie sat quite still; the father and son approached.

  “Yair?” Caleb stopped at her window, his eyes boring into her. Jacky’s face floating behind him was like a big, pink moon under his ancient felt hat.

  “My grandpa …” Dorrie’s voice came out as a croak. She started again. “My grandpa – George Jose – he’s fallen off a ladder, and I think he’s broken his leg and he needs to go to hospital.” Then she ran out of breath and swallowed, choking on her words.

  The Pearces stared at her. She felt sure they must be able to hear her heart pounding.

  “And you can’t lift ’im,” said Caleb at last, his words coming short and sharp. He motioned over his shoulder to his son. “Carn, she needs help. Git in the truck.”

  Jacky’s mouth dropped open; he made a kind of “ah” noise. And then without any more to do – even shutting their front door – the father and son stumped around to the passenger side. They climbed in, Jacky first.

  Dorrie was surprised that Caleb hadn’t told her to move over and sit behind the wheel himself. Then she realised he probably couldn’t drive. She remembered seeing them once or twice clopping down the main street of Jasper’s Cove in a trap, pulled by a scrawny pony.

  She tried not to wrinkle her nose as a pong of salt, dried bait and tobacco filled the cabin.

  “Good truck!” cried Jacky, tapping the dashboard. He bounced up and down and the old springs squeaked in protest. “Corker good truck.”

  He was positively beaming at her. She let out the clutch. Then, of course, the truck had to bunny hop – they jerked forwards, narrowly missing stalling.

  “Whee!” shouted Jacky. He thumped the dashboard again. “Go truck, go truck.”

  “Settle down, boy,” came his father’s growl.

  But Jacky had no intention of settling down. “There’s a corker big truck in town,” he told Dorrie. “You see it? Come off the boat.”

  Dorrie shook her head, grimly trying to keep the wheels straight as they hit a patch of thick sand. An overhanging branch hit the windscreen and bashed against the roof.

  “It was a corker big truck,” Jacky continued, adding politely but somewhat condescendingly, “bigger ’n this one!”

  He kept up a flow of chat all the way back to Dorrie’s place. Starting with every truck he’d ever seen, then moving on to cars, and finally steamers. “Corker big steamers out to sea,” he informed her. “Take passengers, ’n everything!”

  Dorrie half-smiled. It was like listening to a cheerful five year old, she thought vaguely, a five year old in a giant’s body.

  His father, meanwhile, sat silent, frowning.

  By the time the headlights picked out the mailbox, it was almost dark and Dorrie was filled with terror again. Were Gah’s injuries more than simply his leg? Would they even find him alive?

  She clenched her teeth, pulled up at the garage with a squawk of brakes and dashed around the side, the Pearces following. She felt weak with relief when she saw his dark shape move slightly.

  “Well done, Ducks,” he rasped.

  She bent down and stroked his cold, clammy forehead. “The Pear
ces are here to help, Gah – to get you to the hospital.”

  “Yer too old ta go climbing ladders, George Jose.” This was from Caleb, squatting down beside him.

  Gah grunted. “Don’t give me cheek, Caleb Pearce. Not exactly a spring chicken yourself.”

  Dorrie felt a bit surprised. They hardly ever saw the Pearces, yet Gah and Caleb obviously went back years. Probably at school together, she thought.

  “My boy ’n me’s gunna git you into the truck,” said Caleb. “Might give you a bit of a twinge but.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Carn boy.”

  But Jacky was standing quite still, staring at something in the shadows close by. He gave a little wave. “Bye-bye,” he said. “See ya later.” He turned to Dorrie. “That your friend?” he asked, pointing into the bushes.

  Dorrie felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She stared at him, then into the dark scrub, remembering the wet stain on the sand and Gah’s talk of someone helping.

  Caleb grunted. “Friendly roo, most like, or possum. “’E’d make friends with a shadow. Carn boy, lifting to be done. Be gentle, orright?”

  Jacky and his father bent down, one on either side of Gah. Gah put his arms around their necks. As they lifted him, he let out a single cry of pain, and everything else was driven out of Dorrie’s mind. Her grandfather was biting his lip, but she knew from his harsh, uneven breathing that he was in agony. Tears started down her cheeks again as she grabbed the blanket and cushion and followed them around into the garage.

  Getting him into the truck was even worse – he couldn’t help but cry out as they hoisted him into the passenger side.

  Caleb shut the door and turned to Dorrie.

  “Off you go, then.”

  With Gah half-sprawled along the seat there was only room for the driver, and that was her.

  She felt herself engulfed in a bear hug. It was Jacky.

  “Go good, girlie.” He let go of her and patted the truck on the bonnet. “Go good, truck.”

  Dorrie brushed at her tears.

  “Thanks, Jacky.” On a sudden impulse she reached up and planted a kiss on his stubbly cheek. He wiped at the spot with the back of his hand, looking pleased.