‘I already have Web–’ Sadie began.
‘This is the original. You’ll notice a lot of changes.’ Birdie caressed the box with her ancient wrinkled hand, speckled with age spots. ‘The publishers demanded them – they weren’t very happy with the original version of events. It’s rough, so be warned. A few curse words. Totally unedited.’ Another mischievous sly glance, and then the book passed into Sadie’s hands. It was as if the air sighed.
Clutching the manuscript to her heart as she walked home, Sadie marvelled at the moon casting its light over the entire village. It wasn’t quite full but its glow almost made the old-style gas streetlamps unnecessary. The air was spiked with cold and Sadie drew enormous breaths, loving the way her diaphragm expanded with the pure air. She paused to admire High Street. Night fog partly concealed the long row of historic houses leading down the twisting road to the black sea; with its old-fashioned streetlamps and shopfronts it was like a scene from an English village. A friendly cat meowed at her from the front of a large handsome Georgian home.
‘Hello, pussycat,’ said Sadie. ‘You be careful on the road!’
‘Good evening.’
For an insane second, Sadie thought the cat had spoken, and then she turned to see a woman standing behind her. It was the stylish blonde she had spied from her window on her first morning at Poet’s Cottage. As she had been on that earlier occasion, this evening the woman was immaculately presented; she had a violet scarf around her neck and her make-up was perfect. The only incongruous element was the carton of milk in one hand. Sadie was suddenly aware of her own chipped nail polish and scuffed black flats.
‘Hi, I’m Maria. Maria Collins. I live in the Lodge.’ Maria gestured towards the imposing Georgian building. ‘Grand old name, isn’t it? Still, she’s a grand old shabby lady. Welcome to Pencubitt. Or rather, welcome back! You’re a Tatlow and Tatlows always return!’
‘So I keep hearing.’ Sadie shook Maria’s outstretched hand. ‘Thank you for the basket you left on my doorstep. I meant to phone you. Are you from Pencubitt?’
‘No. We’re new blood. We’ve been here about eleven years and we’ll still be regarded as new blood when we’ve been here thirty years, I dare say. I’m from the mainland and my husband, Allister, is English. We live here in the Lodge and own the Pirates Nest B&B by the waterfront.’
‘I’ve seen it. It’s beautiful!’ Sadie said enthusiastically. ‘Is it hard to make your living from a B&B in a town of this size? If that’s not a rude question?’
‘No, ask what you like! It’s steady. We’re not going to leave the kids any debts, but we won’t make them millionaires either. It used to be a helluva lot easier until Gracie began buying up the town.’
‘Gracie?’ asked Sadie.
‘You’ve not heard of Gracie? You need to get out more! I’m surprised one of the old ducks here hasn’t already filled you in. Gracie Johnson Mason – the Queen of Pencubitt, as I call her. She’s originally from Canada and in the last eight years she’s snapped up as many houses as she can in Pencubitt, including Blackness House. I think she has about seven now. She owns a couple in this road, too: she goes for the historic houses. Mind, they make it easy for her here.’ Maria glanced around and lowered her voice, even though there was no-one to be seen. ‘The locals don’t like the old houses. Too damp and cold, they say, too much work needed on them. They prefer to live further out in modern brick houses.’ She made a face which plainly expressed her feelings about that.
‘What does the Queen of Pencubitt plan on doing with all those buildings? B&Bs?’
‘I could handle B&Bs more than the reality. No, she’s an eccentric who buys them, spends a fortune doing them up and then lets them sit empty, storing her furniture from her overseas travels. She tells everyone she’s restoring them for her children to occupy but none of them have ever spent more than ten minutes in Pencubitt. They’re too busy with their lives to worry about this backwater. Poor Gracie. I think she saw it as a way to keep her family together after she lost her son.’
Whispering now, Maria continued, ‘She’s quite mad, you know. Wealthy and mad. She infuriates me! I had my eye on one place but she scooped it up as soon as Ruby died. Old houses deserve to have their souls restored and to be lived in. Not renovated for spiders and dust to gather undisturbed. Bless her; she’s the nicest, most amiable woman you could meet – but totally crazy. I’m surprised she hasn’t been knocking on your door, trying to pick up Poet’s Cottage. Now, I’d love Poet’s for its ghost and history. Nothing draws the punters more than a good ghost in their room. If you ever want to sell, come to me first! It was a blow when we heard you were planning on taking over the house – no offence. Have you seen her yet?’
Sadie, her mind still reeling at the image of mainlanders buying up houses as if it was a Monopoly game, shook her head. ‘My grandmother? No, I’m not sure I believe in ghosts, although the house does seem to retain some of her essence. I do wish I had known her.’ A wave of regret rippled through Sadie for the grandmother she had only known through her mother’s stories, followed by another tide of longing for her mother. How Marguerite would have loved all this local colour and gossip! The only ghost Sadie longed to see was Marguerite, but she couldn’t seem to sense her mother here at all.
‘Families, hey?’ Maria said. ‘Can’t live with them or without them. Your grandmother is quite the celebrity here. She was a looker, wasn’t she? Mind, they always looked so stylish back then.’ Maria studied Sadie, her sharp sea-green eyes reminding Sadie of the ever-present ocean.
The friendly cat reappeared, rubbing against their legs and purring. Maria scooped it up, stroking under its chin as she said, ‘You look a bit like her. It must be wonderful to be related to such a colourful, glamorous woman. There’s a convict in my family tree but that’s about as interesting as it gets! He was sent out here for stealing bread, bless him.
‘We have a few other writers and artists in Pencubitt. There’s Jeremy, who writes poetry and does lovely paintings of moody, abstract seascapes. Not my cup of tea, but mainlanders love them. There’s a demand for Tasmanian artists at the moment; apparently we’re in vogue! Mary Donaldson and all that. Then there’s Birdie. She’s a strange old thing, isn’t she? Amazing for her age. She’s all there still.’ She tapped her forehead. ‘I read Webweaver. Bit of a weirdo, your grandmother, if you don’t mind me saying, but a real character. I would have loved to have met her! She’s like the Norman Lindsay of Tasmania – can you imagine her fornicating on the beach or walking around naked here? The children used to enjoy her books when they were smaller. I’d love to write if I had the time. Not children’s stories like Pearl, but adult fiction. I certainly see enough material at the Pirates Nest to fill a few books. I could be the Jackie Collins of Pencubitt!’ The two women laughed together. ‘Well, I had best get in. Allister will think I’ve run off with one of the fishermen. Perhaps you’d like to come over for a coffee some time?’
‘I’d like that,’ said Sadie, meaning it. In the vivacious, breezy Maria, Sadie sensed she had found a possible friend.
Walking the ten-minute stroll back to Poet’s Cottage, Sadie hoped Betty would soon make some good friends too. She wanted her daughter to enjoy their new life. It never failed to sting her when she remembered the bullying Betty had suffered for so long in silence. She paused, looking up at Poet’s Cottage with the stupendous moon seeming to touch the chimney tops and the fog embracing the garden and house. She shook her head in wonderment that life had drawn her to this house. It was as if the spirit of Poet’s was a living being, reaching out to her, pleading to be restored, and lived in. Longing for poetry, laughter, creativity and life. If there were ghosts that walked in the house, dear God, let them walk lightly, she mused. In this moment, all she felt was love and a longing to be loved.
‘Mummy? Are you there?’ Sadie whispered. The thunder of the waves on the beach was the only reply. She entered the house feeling foolish. To an onlooker from the street, it would hav
e looked as if Poet’s Cottage had swallowed her.
Betty heard her mother coming up the stairs and pushed Webweaver under her pillow. She hoped her mother wouldn’t notice it missing. Since moving here she had felt compelled to uncover as much about her great-grandmother as she could.
People kept commenting on her resemblance to Pearl, but Betty couldn’t see it herself. Pearl was like some old film star with her enormous eyes and petite face. She was thin and elegant; Betty never felt thin or elegant. Her mother wasn’t bad-looking for a woman in her fifties; men still glanced at her in the street and she drew whistles at times. Even Betty’s friends used to comment on how good-looking her mother was. Betty felt as if she herself had missed the boat when it came to beauty. If she could just lose a little weight, perhaps that might improve her features. Her face seemed so round in comparison to the other women in her family, her shoulders too broad, her bust too big, hips and thighs too sturdy. But she knew she had to fight those destructive thoughts. She lay in bed trying to combat the depression and self-loathing sneaking through her like a black fog, using a visualisation that Sarah had taught her in one of their counselling sessions – wielding a large sword, she attacked and disabled the negative thoughts, before focusing on breathing light and beauty into herself.
She had been feeling increasingly stressed since her mother had started to talk about her new school. Betty felt terrified whenever she thought about trying to gain acceptance into circles of friendships that would be years old. Inside Poet’s Cottage, though, she felt protected, safe. At the same time, she missed her father. It still brought tears to her eyes when she thought about how her mother had treated him. With Mum always nagging him, no wonder Dad had left her for another woman.
She listened to her mother across the hallway getting ready for bed. The toilet flushing, the buzz of the electric toothbrush, taps running. Betty’s door opened softly and she could sense her mother standing there, checking on her as she had done since Betty was a child. Then her mother’s footsteps retreated.
Betty lay in the darkness listening to the wind rattle the shutters, the crash of the waves and the creaking noises in the house. She wondered why her great-grandmother, who seemingly had everything – acclaimed beauty, two adorable daughters, a writing career, a devoted husband, and best of all, in Betty’s eyes, a slim body – had ended her days as the victim of a sadistic killer. Who had taken her great-grandmother’s life in the cellar that day? A friend or a stranger? Hearing her mother’s door close, she sat up, put on her bedside lamp and opened her laptop, hoping her mother wouldn’t hear the noise of the computer starting.
She checked her blog and her face fell. No friend requests of interest, and only one comment. And nothing from Brad. Did he miss her at all? It was as if she had disappeared off the face of the earth. She reread her recent blog entry:
It’s totally awesome to be living in a haunted house. The entire town talks about the ghost and you can really feel her presence here. Not in a Stephen King way but as a deep sadness, as if there is something unsettled that needs to be resolved. If you want to see what my grandmother looked like, here’s a link to her fan site: www.pearltatlow.com. Check out the great clothes she’s wearing. Too cool, hey? They’d sell for a fortune on eBay or at Paddington markets. I’m so loving her shoes!
As well as the ghost, I have a really crazy great-aunt who lives at the bottom of the garden like a gnarly old wicked fairy. I think she’s super jealous of my grandmother because Thomasina is really plain. She looks like a potato on two legs wearing a cardigan. She’s a total freak in the way she dresses and she has whiskers! So gross!
Anyway, I’m determined to track down the ghost hopefully before I start school. I’m so not looking forward to school! Mum wanted me to go to school in Launceston and board but I went totally ape when she told me that. I really just want to stay here and be homeschooled, I think that would be cool but Mum says no way. So, I’ve decided I might go to Burnie High, which is mixed and scares the crap out of me!
Apart from that, I’ve been stuffing my face silly – the food is lush. Fish and chips, fresh crayfish and seafood – it’s divine. I even ate mashed potatoes one night. Even parsnips taste good here! I never thought vegetables would taste so awesome! I only ate a few spoonfuls of the mashed potato but it made me feel bad. I didn’t use my fingers – my old trick – and I exercised more to compensate for the lapses. I’ve been worrying desperately I’m going to start putting on weight. There seem to be a lot of fat women in Pencubitt. They are all heavily addicted to carbohydrates. It’s probably because of the weather, which is super cold. It makes Mum happy if I eat and I put her through so much with the anorexia that I’m doing my best to keep everything down.
I haven’t spotted any cute guys yet – the town is so small. There’s heaps of old people here. You hardly ever see old people in Sydney as compared to here. I wonder why? We met an old lady the other day, Birdie Pinkerton. Mum really likes her but I thought she seemed a bit creepy. Her eyes look right into you. Don’t you think older people can sometimes be a bit disturbing?
And how about this for creepy? My great-grandmother was knifed to death in this very house in the cellar. I’m seriously so not kidding here.
Let me know what’s happening in Sydney. If any of you are reading this and haven’t forgotten me already, I miss you guys!
Betty paused, then deleted the last two sentences. Who was she kidding? She didn’t really miss any of her so-called ‘friends’ and probably none of them would read her blog. At St Catherine’s she had been a figure of fun, mocked and ostracised. The girls had most likely forgotten her already. She should scrap the blog . . . but then again, it was a creative outlet she enjoyed and maybe some cute guy in Germany was reading it right now and falling in love with her.
As Betty posted the message on her blog and then shut down her computer, in the adjacent room Sadie was sitting up in bed with the manuscript of Webweaver, enjoying the wild weather outside which had picked up since her return.
There had been something knowing in Birdie’s eyes when she’d given Sadie the manuscript. Did this earlier draft contain the secret of what had happened to Pearl? Sadie fervently hoped to uncover a clue to the mystery of how her grandmother had met such a horrible death in the cellar of Poet’s Cottage. Marvelling at how different the opening paragraphs were from the published version, she began to read.
Webweaver: A Tasmanian tale-spinner by Birdie Pinkerton
Pencubitt, March 1935
I’ll never forget the first time I saw Pearl Tatlow. She was walking down High Street dressed as though she’d just stepped out of one of the department-store fashion catalogues Mother and I pored over, dreaming of different lives for ourselves. Pearl wore a man’s fedora hat, a most bohemian, scandalous choice of head attire for our conservative little town, a fox fur over her shoulder, a skirt that seemed just a little indecently short – nearly at her knees – with fashionable two-tone buckled shoes. Around her neck were what looked to be genuine pearls and her face was made up with powder, rouge and a bright slash of red lipstick. She created a sensation. It wasn’t just her clothes but her manner of walking: she didn’t so much walk as sashay. Hips moving, ample breasts thrust out and a smile on her face as if she knew all the time the effect she was creating. She was the cat’s meow alright. The locals were gathering on the street to get a look, men and women alike risking dislocated necks as they craned to see her. There hadn’t been so much excitement in Pencubitt since the circus came to town a few years before. I was so taken up gawping that I hadn’t noticed Maxwell and the two little girls of around nine and seven walking several paces behind with a couple of shopping bags.
‘Hello, Birdie!’ he called. ‘Pearl, stop!’
The vision put aside her conquest of Pencubitt’s High Street and slowly turned towards me. Her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes took me in. A heavy, almost overwhelming fragrance enveloped my senses. The perfume she always wore, Shalimar. I was shy; my hands we
nt clammy and I felt instantly inadequate in the presence of this goddess. I clutched to my chest the library books I was carrying, wishing I could disappear into them. Escape into the sentences, photography and paintings of the artists I admired.
‘Pearl, this is Birdie Pinkerton who I’ve talked about so often. Remember? She sketches and writes poetry. I showed you her published book, Historical Buildings of Pencubitt.’ Maxwell’s tone was enthusiastic, his youthful face lit with the passion and optimism he always possessed until life scratched it out of him. ‘I’ve known Birdie forever. Her mother used to babysit me when I was a nipper. As far as I’m concerned she’s the best thing about Pencubitt. You told me I’d be back, Birdie – as always, you were right. I know you two will get along like a house on fire.’ Poor Maxwell, he had no idea how off-putting such a statement could be to the female sex! In some ways he was so worldly, in others so innocent. Maxwell had always been highly regarded in Pencubitt, his family being one of the more affluent, original families of the town. His father, Maxwell Lin, manager of Cooper and Tatlow Bros. Timber Company, was a handsome, distinguished, grey-haired man. He loved the children of Pencubitt and was always active in organising charitable functions to assist those less fortunate. Enid, Maxwell’s flamboyant mother, kept local tongues wagging with her stylish clothes and parties. A genuine sense of loss was felt by our community when the Tatlows suddenly moved to Launceston – the reason given being that they wanted to be near their adored only son as he began boarding at a private school. I knew the real reason behind the abrupt move, and so it was a lesser shock to me than many in Pencubitt when news of the death of pretty, vivacious Enid Tatlow was in the papers. It had taken a long time for Maxwell to recover from his mother’s death. Over the years his visits to Pencubitt became less frequent, as I imagine the town reminded him too much of his mother.
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