The Ghost by the Billabong

by Jackie French

  I had better finish as the car will be picking me up to drive me to work soon.

  Love (I’m pretty sure or I wouldn’t have got up at five-thirty in the morning to write you this),

  Jed

  Jed tied on the apron and turned on the jug. Job number one: a good strong cup of tea or coffee for the kitchen staff, well sugared, and a slice of toast or three, thickly spread with marmalade or the apricot jam Mrs Clissold had made last week from a case of slightly bruised fruit. She broke open a new packet of biscuits and took them out to the coffee pots.

  The kitchen wasn’t staffed on weekends unless there was a mission on, as only a few technicians normally worked then, perhaps on new software programs or installing equipment, but there was always coffee and biscuits.

  ‘Goodie, orange cream biscuits.’ It was one of the office girls. ‘I didn’t have time for breakfast.’ She took two, and filled her mug with coffee. ‘It’s good news about the Russian rocket, isn’t it?’

  Jed had no way of hearing news except at the station. ‘It’s taken off successfully?’

  ‘No, it exploded!’

  Jed stared. ‘What went wrong?!’ How could this be ‘good’ news?

  The woman shrugged. ‘Don’t know. The Russians aren’t going to say, are they? It happened about a minute after lift-off. Must have been like every cracker night put together. They say there was debris forty-five kilometres away. Anyway, that’s put paid to the Russians getting to the moon before us.’ She picked up her biscuits and left the canteen.

  Jed filled the teapots slowly. Had anyone been killed? Hurt? Probably the Russians wouldn’t let that information out either. When you were a secret state, like Russia, you could hide the magnitude of your disasters. But even if no one had been injured, she couldn’t rejoice at this. If the journey to the moon was humanity’s most glorious adventure, then it was glorious no matter who got there first.

  She took the tea and coffee pots back to the kitchen, still thinking. The accident emphasised yet again how perilous these missions were. This disaster was not just a Russian problem, for Apollo 1 had exploded too. One small mistake, from anyone, could mean the death of brave men, and braver ambitions.

  ‘Jed, could you do the potatoes?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Clissold.’

  At least nothing she did was vital enough to make a difference. Or was it? Could a cup of coffee and a biscuit or a good meal keep men alert enough to solve a problem in a crisis or stop one happening in the first place?

  She didn’t know. But this was life and death and glory. And she was part of it.

  The ute was waiting for her that Friday evening outside the front gate of the ruined house. The Clissolds always dropped her three doors down, which was where she had told them she lived. Shadows hung across the garden of her squat, but it was still easy enough to see the missing part of the roof.

  The ute was familiar. Nancy.

  She had been afraid someone from Gibber’s Creek might come and find her. She had been even more afraid they wouldn’t.

  She waited till the Clissolds had driven off, then walked slowly up to the ute, debating what to say. ‘What do you want?’ would be ungracious. Perhaps just ‘Hello.’

  Panic bit her suddenly. Was Tommy worse? Or even dead?

  She had been so sure he would do just what he planned: stay alive to see men walk on the moon. He couldn’t have died now!

  Nancy opened the door as she approached. ‘Jed, what’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’

  ‘Tommy?’ she croaked. She hadn’t realised how much the old man meant to her, the real man and the symbol, the only family she might have . . .

  ‘Tommy’s fine. Or rather just the same. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think . . .’ Nancy glanced at the half-house. ‘Are you going to ask me in?’

  What did Nancy want? To reproach her? Ask her to visit Overflow for the weekend? Jed nodded. She led the way up the path, through the front door, as if there wasn’t a great gaping hole at one side. ‘Don’t worry, it’s safe,’ she said as Nancy hesitated. ‘Or this part of the house is, anyway.’

  She stepped across the devastated living room, into the hallway. She had swept here, buying a broom with her first week’s pay, and the study and kitchen too, swept the cobwebs from the walls as well as the floor, and then washed them, using a worn scrubbing brush she’d found under the sink, tank water and perseverance. The study window was cracked, but at least it was clean.

  Candles now rested in old jam jars. Fat pink flowers from the back garden sat on the hearth, where the fire was already laid, needing only a match.

  Jed ushered Nancy to the sofa. ‘Sorry, it’s the only place to sit, except for the floor.’

  She waited for Nancy to exclaim in horror, protest that a decent girl shouldn’t live like this. But the older woman just sat, and looked around.

  ‘You’ve got some new books,’ she remarked, nodding at the tomes above the mantelpiece.

  Jed flushed. They were ‘borrowed’ from the library. Smuggled out of it, because the library wouldn’t let her take books out until she joined, and you couldn’t join the Queanbeyan library without a referee who lived in the area. But she was going to take them back, slide them in the Returns box, so it really was just ‘borrowing’. Reading before she went to sleep was a necessity, not a luxury. She could do without food for days, but not books.

  ‘It’s not much. But it’s clean and there are no rats . . .’ she began, just as a rat as fluffy as a child’s toy scuttled down the hallway, peered in, twitched its whiskers and sped off towards the kitchen.

  Nancy laughed. ‘You have a housemate. Have you given him a name?’

  ‘Ratty?’ Jed watched the rat’s path uncertainly, hoping that the study door would keep the rat and any companions out overnight. She’d loved Wind in the Willows, but a rat on the page was different from a rat in the sofa beneath her. Or scuttling across her face . . .

  ‘Unoriginal. How about Hubert? I used to live with rats,’ Nancy added. ‘Didn’t name them. I ate them.’

  ‘You ate —?’

  ‘I used to catch rats for us to eat in the internment camp in the war — we’d have died without them. Most of us did die, anyway. Sorry, it will always be the war to me. I suppose Vietnam will always be the war for Nicholas.’

  ‘How is he? Is he still at River View?’ She was still trying to take in that the owner of Overflow had caught and eaten rats, trying not to think what they might taste like, tucking away the knowledge that you could eat rats, if you had to . . .

  Nancy shrugged. ‘Yes. Closed in on himself again since you left.’

  ‘I’m sorry. How is Scarlett?’

  ‘Working hard at the physio. Living for your letters. She says you promised her that she’ll be able to use her hands, and will be happy when she grows up, and that you never lie.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. I just don’t always tell the whole truth.’

  ‘Like who you are? Or that you planned to leave us?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I . . . I had to leave though. I need to do this by myself, with no one helping.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ There was respect in the two words. ‘But there’s no reason you can’t come home for a weekend.’

  Home, thought Jed. Your home, not mine. ‘To see Nicholas?’

  ‘Yes. And me and Michael and Scarlett. Tommy wants to see you too.’

  ‘Not Matilda?’

  ‘I should have said that Tommy would love to see you. Matilda wants to see you.’ Nancy looked around. ‘Are you going to offer me a cup of tea?’

  ‘No tea unless you’ve got time for me to light the fire. It takes about half an hour to get the kettle boiling. I can give you a cup of water. And mutton sandwiches or jam roll.’ Mrs Clissold had handed her the sandwiches, made from lunch’s leftovers, and the leftover jam roll too. Jed suddenly wondered if the Clissolds had noticed she never went in the gate they dropped her at but headed up the road instead. The Clissolds were no fools.
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br />   She hauled the sandwiches and slices of jam roll out of her shoulder bag, then flattened it to make a plate. Nancy reached for a sandwich and chewed it. ‘Tommy and Matilda really do want to see you,’ she added.

  ‘Why?’

  Nancy didn’t take offence. ‘Tommy likes you. I suspect he wants to ask you a million questions about the tracking station too.’ She smiled and picked up another sandwich. ‘You couldn’t have found a better way to get closer to his heart than that.’ There didn’t seem to be any accusation behind those words, but Jed’s heart failed her. Did no one trust her? ‘My mother-in-law wants to cross-examine you.’

  ‘I thought she might.’ Jed took a sandwich too, before Nancy ate them all. She’d never known Nancy to eat so much. Had the drive made her hungry?

  ‘They’ve had a report on you,’ added Nancy, too casually.

  Jed froze. ‘From the police?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’ Nancy looked up, over the sandwich. ‘You don’t have a police record, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Was being labelled ‘uncontrollable’ and escaping from the reform home a crime? Probably. But was it severe enough for the police to be looking for her down here in New South Wales?

  ‘Interesting answer.’ Nancy took the last sandwich. ‘No, from a private detective. Do you want to know what he’s found out?’

  Terror clutched her again. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The detective says your mother’s name was Violet, not Rose.’

  Jed frowned. ‘I’m sure it was Rose. Dad and I bought her a rose ring for her last birthday. I used to wear it.’ Till Debbie took it. Sold it, probably, or pawned it.

  ‘Maybe your father couldn’t find a violet one. You were very young,’ said Nancy gently.

  ‘What else did they find out?’

  ‘Nothing that proves you are or aren’t Tommy’s great-granddaughter. But they did find out more about you.’

  Jed felt her breath leave her. ‘What?’ she managed.

  ‘That you lived in Brisbane. Went to Brisbane State High School.’ She paused. ‘He also found out you were pregnant.’ Nancy’s voice was gentle. ‘What happened, Jed? Where is your baby?’

  Horror became fear. Fear became anger. ‘It’s none of your business!’

  ‘It is. I’d like to help.’

  ‘How can you help? You’ve never even had a baby —’ She stopped, seeing the pain on Nancy’s face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘Why? It’s true.’ Nancy stood up, her face carefully blank, her tone just as carefully neutral. She changed the subject. ‘Are you coming back for the weekend?’

  ‘I don’t know. Does Nicholas know?’

  ‘About Tommy and Matilda having you investigated? Yes. About you being pregnant? No. But if you’re going to keep seeing him, you should tell him.’

  ‘If,’ said Jed.

  ‘Well, are you coming? Make up your mind or we won’t get back in time for dinner. And I’m starving.’

  ‘But you never eat.’ Jed looked at the empty shoulder bag. Nancy had eaten five mutton sandwiches and a slice of jam roll.

  ‘Must be the change of life,’ said Nancy lightly. ‘I’ve put on a stone in the last month. I’ll have to buy new moleskins next week.’

  Jed stared at her. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Nancy flushed. ‘I’ve been trying to have a baby for over twenty years.’

  ‘When did you have your last period?’ asked Jed bluntly.

  She half expected the older woman to say, ‘Mind your own business,’ in her turn.

  But Nancy shook her head. ‘Ages ago. They’ve never been regular since the war. And I can’t be pregnant.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m far too old . . .’ Nancy ran her hands lightly down the front of her dress, feeling the shape beneath. ‘Hell’s bells,’ she whispered. It was the first time Jed had ever heard her swear. ‘Do you really think . . .?’

  ‘I think you need to see Dr McAlpine tomorrow.’

  ‘No!’ The word erupted, too fast for the thought behind it.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because . . . because I’m scared.’

  ‘You?’ This woman who had survived the horrors of a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp? Who managed Overflow, her mother-in-law, had helped create River View and faced its children’s tragedies?

  ‘I’m scared I won’t be pregnant! Scared that I am and I’ll lose it! Just plain scared.’ She looked at Jed pleadingly. ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘Me?’ This woman had a district full of friends, a family, a husband.

  ‘Everyone else will want me to have a baby too much,’ said Nancy softly. ‘I can’t bear to raise their hopes. But you’re . . . neutral.’

  ‘Not neutral,’ said Jed gently. ‘I hope you’re pregnant too.’

  Nancy managed a smile. ‘Thank you. But will you come?’

  Jed picked up her shoulder bag and shook off the crumbs. ‘I’ll come.’ She hesitated, then for the first time she could remember, put her arms around another person. Nancy leaned into her, sobs suddenly heaving her body. Jed found that she was crying too.

  Chapter 42

  JED

  They drove straight to Overflow. Either Nancy felt it was too late to call at Drinkwater, or she was too preoccupied with the possibility of her pregnancy to face her in-laws yet.

  It was strange to be back in a bed where she could stretch her legs and not worry about falling out. She kept waking up each time she rolled over, thinking, mustn’t do this, then realising she could.

  She woke at a child’s shriek outside. A happy shriek. She glimpsed a wheelchair whizz past the window, another in pursuit. She stretched luxuriously. There’d been no need to set the alarm, after the luxury of falling asleep full of Mrs Clancy’s roast chicken, potatoes, pumpkin, green beans and plum crumble. Three square meals a day. She’d be getting too fat for her clothes like Nancy, with no pregnancy as an excuse . . .

  She stopped, mid-stretch, her body hot with the memory of a life swelling inside it . . .

  Why had she agreed to go with Nancy this morning?

  She remembered Dr Teegan’s kind face back in Brisbane. ‘Yes, my dear, you’re pregnant. Have you thought what you are going to do now?’

  She’d nodded, helpless. For what was there to do but tell Debbie and hope against hope for understanding, acceptance, even miraculously, sympathy? But instead . . .

  ‘Jed?’ The door opened. Scarlett buzzed her chair in. ‘Look! I can do it myself now! I can go all over the house. I just need to be pushed outside if it’s steep. Jed! Aren’t you EVER going to get up? Nancy said you were here. I read your letters all by myself! Can you take us down to the river? Did you KNOW that the river can rise right up the hill? Michael said it’s going to rain, but Nancy said it won’t be enough for a flood and . . .’

  She felt like crying, like clasping Scarlett’s fragile body to her. She found a smile instead. It had lurked just below the tears, wide as a slice of watermelon, and wasn’t hard to find. Joy seeped through her, like bubbles of lemonade.

  ‘Good morning to you too. I think Nancy wants me to go into town with her.’ Unless she has already told Michael, she thought, and he will go to the doctor with her. Surely she’d have wanted to tell her husband. A baby that was wanted. Desperately, totally, in a house where children were loved.

  ‘This afternoon then?’

  ‘If it doesn’t rain. Scoot, brat, while I get dressed.’

  ‘Did you KNOW I got eighty-seven per cent in my maths test? And Anne Pritchard only got eighty-three per cent.’

  ‘Wonderful. You can tell me at breakfast —’

  ‘I had breakfast HOURS ago. Nicholas stayed at River View this weekend because he said he had to write his book. He’s writing a REAL BOOK! He gave me a book about a family that goes in a rocket. Did you KNOW —?’

  ‘Out,’ said Jed, joy still prickling her skin. She had never had a home. Not a real one. But this f
elt, frighteningly, like she’d imagined one would.

  She hesitated at the wardrobe. She’d brought two dresses back with her, as well as jeans. Seeing as she would maybe see Nicholas today, she should wear the red-and-blue Indian one.

  She flushed. Maybe he’d be too busy with his book to want to see her. Or Nancy could have arranged to see Dr McAlpine at his surgery in town instead of River View. Or Nancy had changed her mind and Michael would go with her. They would drop her off at Drinkwater and she’d never see Nicholas at all.

  She put on the Indian dress, anyway. Left her hair down, not in neat great-granddaughter plaits, then tied on the headband Scarlett had given her. She used her eyebrow pencil to outline her eyes as well as her brows, extending them out, Cleopatra style, added eyeshadow. Green, to match her eyes.

  Scarlett wheeled into the doorway again. ‘Jed? You’re wearing my headband! I helped make you scrambled eggs. I carried the eggs back from the chook shed in my HANDS! I cracked them for Mrs Clancy too. She says I am good at cracking eggs. Jed, did you KNOW that a hen can lay over three hundred eggs a year?’

  Nancy was in the kitchen, pouring apricot nectar into a giant casserole of defrosted chickens. She gave Jed a strained smile. ‘Every time I make this I can feel Gran glaring at me. But the kids love it.’

  ‘Your gran didn’t like apricot chicken?’

  Nancy gave a ghost of her grin. ‘She never tasted it. Nor a fish finger. I made beef stroganoff once, a year before she died. She wanted to know why I’d mucked up good beef. Roasts, grills and fries were good enough for Gran. Meat should taste like meat, she said. Help yourself to breakfast.’

  The scrambled eggs sat on a plate on the table. They looked like they had been sitting there for some time. Jed shoved bread in the toaster. ‘Would you like some toast?’

  ‘Not hungry. I’ve been —’ She glanced at Janine, who was munching dry Coco Pops with her fingers, and changed direction. ‘Maybe a piece of dry toast.’