The Ghost of Howlers Beach Page 3

  ‘But won’t you stay for afternoon tea first?’ crooned Auntie Cake, a little desperately. ‘There’s lamingtons and ginger cake . . .’

  ‘Lamingtons!’ said Tish longingly. She glanced at Gil. ‘Woofer’s never had a lamington. But I saw a picture in a magazine that Mrs Masters found. Lamingtons look . . . interesting.’ She made an effort to sound grown up. ‘I think Mrs Masters would say it would be . . . educational . . . to have a lamington.’

  ‘We’re not staying,’ said Gil firmly.

  ‘I . . . I think we should,’ said Olive softly. She looked meaningfully at Gil, and then at Tish.

  They’re hungry, thought Butter. Olive knows her little sister needs food, maybe even more than she and Gil do because she’s so small. People in the camp lived on susso rations, didn’t they? He bet there weren’t any lamingtons in the susso rations or even the ingredients to make them.

  And this wasn’t just missing a meal. All three had arms and legs like beanpoles and all their eyes were too big in their thin faces, not just Tish’s.

  ‘All right. Thank you, Miss O’Bryan,’ said Gil stiffly, trying not to sound too eager at the possibility of food.

  Aunt Elephant rang the bell for Jenkins.

  Cookie seemed to know what kids and a dog from a susso camp would like. Bread and apricot jam, raspberry jam, strawberry jam, plum jam, fig jam and cherry jam — it was a tradition to have at least six kinds of jam at any meal at the Castle — there were lamb and pickle sandwiches as well as the lamingtons, ginger cake, cheese and lettuce sandwiches, date scones still hot from the oven, the butter melting into them, and glasses of milk. Tish started on the lamingtons before Olive gave her a look and put sandwiches on her plate. Tish finished the sandwiches and had eaten five lamingtons by the time Gil began on the scones.

  The Aunts each crumbled a scone on their plates to look as if they were eating too. Butter sat next to them, wondering how they were going to tell the kids their uncle had just dropped dead outside. At last Aunt Peculiar squeaked, ‘It will be dark soon. Our brother will be back with the car shortly. He can drive you home and explain things to your parents.’

  ‘Explain what things?’ asked Tish, giving Woofer the last scone.

  ‘What kind of car?’ demanded Gil.

  ‘A Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost,’ said Butter. They were the first words he’d spoken since they sat down. ‘Grandpa bought it before the War,’ he added. He didn’t want Gil to think the family would buy a luxury car now, even if they did live in a castle.

  Olive gave Gil a look. ‘We have to go before it gets dark,’ she said, standing up quickly.

  ‘But where will we find your parents? Your father especially,’ trumpeted Aunt Elephant a little desperately. ‘Fathers are best in this kind of situation.’

  ‘What kind of situation?’ demanded Gil.

  ‘Why do you want to talk to him?’ added Olive.

  ‘Why did you want us to stay?’ Gil shook his head. ‘You didn’t just want to be polite or feed us lamingtons.’

  The Aunts exchanged worried looks.

  ‘Because your Uncle Harry is dead,’ said Butter quietly. ‘We . . . we didn’t know how to tell you. Dad said he probably had a heart attack. I’m sorry,’ he added. Suddenly he couldn’t think of anything more to say.

  CHAPTER 5

  The room filled with silence, as if any word would slip between the seconds, never to be heard.

  Butter had expected the three on the sofa to cry or collapse into sobs. But little Tish just buried her face in Woofer’s fur. He licked her chin. Gil and Olive glanced at each other, their expressions impossible to read.

  Olive put her arm around Tish. ‘How?’ she whispered.

  ‘He . . . he collapsed at the back door,’ said Butter. ‘I was there. He was coughing a lot . . .’

  ‘Gassed at Ypres,’ said Gil. ‘You’re sure he’s dead?’ he added desperately. ‘He didn’t just faint? He . . . he faints sometimes when he can’t breathe.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Butter. ‘Dad’s a doctor. He . . . he wouldn’t make a mistake.’ He didn’t add that he had never known someone to look so alive, and then, suddenly, not alive at all. ‘Do . . . do you think anyone wanted to hurt him?’ He was pretty sure no one had murdered Uncle Harry. His death could have nothing to do with the clean white skull, but he knew he ought to ask.

  ‘Did Uncle Harry look like someone had hurt him?’ asked Gil.

  ‘No,’ said Butter. ‘Just thin, and coughing.’

  Gil stood up. ‘People die when they are thin and cough a lot. When they don’t have enough to eat and no medicine.’

  He met Butter’s eyes. ‘You want to know who killed Uncle Harry? The people who started the War. The people who kept it going. The people who didn’t care for the men when they came home and who don’t care that people starve now. People like you lot. People who vote for governments who don’t care either.’

  Gil paused. He looked at the Aunts then back at Butter and added, ‘We’d better go and tell Dad and Mum, hadn’t we, Olive?’

  Olive stood too, pressing Tish close to her. ‘Yes. We must tell Dad and Mum.’

  ‘Our brother will be able to tell your parents more. How he died, why he died,’ said Aunt Elephant in a gentle tremble she so seldom used. ‘If . . . if anything could have been done to help your uncle he would have done it.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ said Olive distantly.

  ‘This Depression . . . it’s all just too much for people to change,’ Auntie Cake looked almost as if she might cry. ‘We donate every Sunday for the unemployed. It’s just like the War. That was too big to change too. We sent fruitcakes and comforts for soldiers and knitted socks and made biscuits for the Red Cross to sell in the War. We wanted to do more but . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

  Aunt Elephant patted her hand. ‘That’s enough, Cake my dear. Perhaps you would like to stay here tonight,’ she suggested to Olive, Gil and Tish. ‘Jenkins could fetch your parents.’

  ‘No,’ said Gil quickly, then added, ‘Thank you.’ He took Olive’s hand and led her and Tish out of the room. The Aunts followed in a flurry of headshaking and questions.

  ‘But what was your uncle’s surname?’

  ‘Where can the police find you?’

  ‘The funeral . . .’

  ‘What are your parents’ names?’ boomed Aunt Elephant in a voice too strong to be ignored.

  For a moment Butter thought neither Gil nor Olive would answer. Then Olive said clearly, ‘Mum and Dad are Mr and Mrs Painter. That was Uncle Harry’s name too. Harry Painter. Ask anyone down at the camp. They all know who we are.’

  She is lying, thought Butter. But why?

  ‘My dear, wait!’ Auntie Cake put a hand on Olive’s shoulder. Olive shrank back. For a moment Butter thought she was going to run away. Why was she so scared? Surely there was no way Auntie Cake would never hurt her. ‘Can we give you something to take home tonight for dinner?’ asked Auntie Cake gently. ‘And some scraps for the little dog too?’

  ‘Shloop,’ said Woofer approvingly.

  Olive hesitated, then nodded. The sun had sunk in the faint haze behind the mountains to the west. Night’s shadows gently fingering the windblown trees and salt-stung bushes.

  Butter waited with Gil and Olive and Tish in the gathering dimness by the front gate till the Aunts hurried back. Auntie Cake held a bulging string bag that certainly contained more than some meat scraps and a bone for a dog. She handed it to Olive.

  ‘We’re so very sorry,’ boomed Aunt Elephant. Butter felt she was saying ‘sorry’ for much more than their uncle’s death. She slipped a shining shilling into each of the young people’s hands. Butter thought Gil would object to the charity, but he accepted it, his face stiff.

  He’s scared, thought Butter, and doesn’t want to show it. He could understand the kids being upset about their uncle’s death. But though they seemed sad, they weren’t as desolate as he’d expected. And why were they SCARED?

  ‘I�
��m sure my brother will be able to answer any questions you have tomorrow,’ squeaked Aunt Peculiar kindly. She handed little Tish a blanket she’d crocheted with a pattern of blue teacup handles on a yellow background. ‘Better wrap yourself in this. It’s turned cold tonight.’

  ‘Are you sure you won’t stay till our brother can drive you back to the—’ began Auntie Cake.

  But the three kids, and their dog, had vanished in the shadowy dusk. All Butter could hear was the whisper of the wind, and the waves down on the beach crashing on the sand and then retreating in a gritty slither to the vast unknown lands of the sea.

  CHAPTER 6

  The wind howled on the beach that night. Butter had never heard it moan quite as much as before. It was almost enough to make him believe in ghosts — at least at midnight, when the grandfather clock in the hallway boomed out twelve gongs. Could the three kids be ghosts? Was that how they had vanished? That would be why they didn’t need a ride home too.

  But ghosts didn’t eat lamingtons, and lamb and pickle sandwiches.

  Dad was already eating toast and plum jam when Butter came down late to the Breakfast Room next morning. He must have come home late in the night, for he had still not been back when Butter had gone back to sleep.

  It was the second Saturday of the month, which meant that Jenkins would already be driving the Aunts to Cousin Dawn’s place with a basket of Aunt Elephant’s calf’s-foot jelly, Auntie Cake’s fruit slice and Aunt Peculiar’s crystal bowl of Jellied Green Salad with Baby Prawns, an American recipe she’d seen photographed in The Home: the Australian Journal of Quality and had attempted to make, as well as the usual pots of jam.

  Cousin Dawn’s husband, Cousin Merv, had been blown up pretty badly in the War. Butter didn’t know the details — no one would tell him no matter how many times he asked. But he knew that since his Blighty, the former Major Tompkin didn’t talk and never left the house. The Aunts were some of the few people he would be with, so every second Saturday or Wednesday they went over to look after him so Cousin Dawn could have her hair done or visit the dressmaker or meet friends or even just walk in silence on the beach near their house.

  ‘Good morning, Butter.’ Dr O’Bryan reached for a different jam to spread on his second slice of toast. There was the first of the year’s cherry jam today, as well as the usual five other kinds.

  ‘Good morning,’ echoed Butter. A year back Dad would have made a joke, a silly one like, ‘Help! We’ve been invaded by Martians. Oh, no, it’s our son!’ or even ‘You going to sleep for Australia at the Olympic Games, boy?’ then swept him into a hug. But Dad didn’t seem to like hugs any more.

  Butter sat opposite him as Esmé put down his bowl of porridge. He added milk and sugar, then realised his father wasn’t going to say anything till he asked him.

  ‘Dad, the man who died yesterday — you took him to be examined, didn’t you? Why did he die?’ Maybe the man had been stabbed. But there’d been no sign of blood. War and starvation he thought, and remembered Gil’s words: ‘People like you lot.’

  What were Olive and Tish and Gil having for breakfast at the susso camp? Was there enough food for Woofer? At least today they had the parcel the Aunts had given them.

  His father hesitated. ‘I asked if they could do an autopsy straight away, as he died at our house. He died of a heart attack, just as I thought, brought on by scarred lungs from mustard gas, exertion and starvation.’

  ‘Starvation!’ People don’t die of starvation, thought Butter. Not in Australia. Then he remembered the man’s sunken face, the thinness of the kids yesterday. ‘People who are thin and cough a lot die,’ Gil had said. Something like that anyway.

  ‘The poor man was emaciated,’ said his father slowly. ‘Sometimes men who’ve survived gas attacks have scarred throats and can only eat soft foods. That was where the blood on his mouth came from. But I think the chap yesterday simply hadn’t had enough to eat. His stomach only contained a few oysters and some green vegetable. Nothing more.’

  ‘But the people at the camp get rations, don’t they?’ Butter knew the susso rations weren’t much, but surely they were enough so someone didn’t starve to death. If you couldn’t survive on the susso rations then people would be dying everywhere. But Olive and Tish and Gil had looked so thin too . . .

  He thought of the skull. Had that person died of starvation too, not murder? Maybe . . . maybe here in his house with its well-stocked kitchen and at his private boys’ school with his friends, he just hadn’t seen what was happening.

  Dad was still looking at him. ‘I think the rations are enough to survive on, especially if you have a vegetable garden, or gather food like oysters, like that poor man seems to have been doing, or fish or trap rabbits or earn a few pennies somehow. But some people don’t get rations.’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Butter.

  ‘The government has decided what it can afford, I suppose. Women don’t get rations: they’re supposed to rely on husbands and fathers. Sometimes the police or council workers won’t give rations out to strangers. I’ll know more when the police speak to Mr Painter’s brother. They want me to be there to explain how he died. The police want to ask about the skull too, though I doubt there is any connection to Mr Painter’s death.’ Dr O’Bryan looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to go to the camp with them in about half an hour.’

  ‘Can I come with you?’

  ‘No,’ said his father shortly.

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘Because the camps are filled with all kinds of diseases. Because it will be . . . unpleasant.’

  ‘Kids get diseases at school too,’ argued Butter, finishing his porridge. School had closed down three times last year alone, once for polio, once for scarlet fever and once for a measles epidemic, though as Butter GOT the measles (mildly, Dad reckoned), he didn’t get to enjoy the holiday, except for a fresh supply of books and all the ice cream he wanted to eat. ‘And . . .’ Butter hesitated. ‘The kids yesterday didn’t seem too keen on anyone talking to their parents. Maybe their dad is wanted by the police or something. But I know what they look like. You and the police might not even know which kids they are if I’m not with you.’

  Esmé replaced Butter’s porridge bowl with a mound of scrambled eggs, mushrooms, a fat sausage and a grilled tomato. Butter began to eat, carefully pushing the food around his plate so it would look like he’d swallowed more than he had. He looked back at his father. ‘Please, Dad. If I get sick from the germs at the camp, you can make me better,’ he added, trying to make it a joke.

  ‘I didn’t do a very good job saving your mother,’ said his father shortly. He put his napkin on the table and stood up. ‘All right, Butter. You can come too. But only if you promise to do what you’re told.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Butter.

  ‘Without asking questions,’ added Dr O’Bryan. He looked at Butter and gave a rare half grin. ‘Forget that, son. You’ll always ask questions.’

  He even sounded sort of proud, thought Butter. The warmth helped him finish his plate of eggs.

  CHAPTER 7

  Grandpa’s shining Rolls-Royce followed the police car over the headland. The place where the dog had been digging was roped off with poles and tarpaulins, hiding whoever was presumably looking for more of the skeleton. No one looked out from behind the tarp as the cars bumped down the rough track to the flat area above the next beach.

  Butter had never been into the camp, but he’d seen it often from the headland above: three meandering ‘streets’ of perhaps fifty dwellings that ranged from huts made from hammered-out kerosene tins or old wooden fruit boxes, to tents of driftwood poles covered with ragged tarpaulins or even old hessian sacks daubed with clay to try to make them waterproof. You could smell the camp from above too: the faint stench of waste from the long-drop dunnies dug on the downhill side of the camp, as well as the salt-smoky scent of burning driftwood and the hot tang of sunlight on corrugated iron.

  Most of the shanties had fireplace
s out the front, but some of the larger huts had chimneys made of second- or third-hand corrugated iron and even flower gardens. Tomatoes glowed red in well-established vegetable plots, and melon and pumpkin vines meandered down the sandhills. Here and there walls were half covered in choko vines or passionfruit, showing the residents’ determination to grow food despite the salt wind and the need to carry buckets of water from the trickle of a stream. There were even a few goats tethered on the tussocks near the creek that wandered through the sand dunes then down to the sea.

  And there were people. So many people. Butter supposed that when you had only a shanty to live in, you spent most of your time outside. Men clad in short pants made from trousers that had worn through at the knees tended vegetables or fished down on the beach or from the rocks. Women shoved at clothes in a big tub of water or hung their washing on what seemed to be a long communal clothesline held up by driftwood props.

  A mob of grubby-footed boys played cricket just beyond the camp, but Gil wasn’t among them. Other boys crouched in the shade and played marbles, while a dozen girls lined up to take their turn skipping over a rope. Their cries rose up above the sound of the wind and sea as they turned the rope faster and faster — ‘Salt . . . mustard . . . vinegar . . . pepper! Out!’ — as the barefoot girl whose turn it was finally stumbled. She laughed and gave up her place to another just as someone gave a yell, ‘Cops on the hill!’

  The skipping girls froze. The fishermen reeled in their lines. The women vanished into the huts followed by the children, leaving the men slowly congregating in the main ‘street’ between the shanties. They stood, arms folded, about sixty of them, young, old and not moving. The police car stopped, unable to go any further. Dr O’Bryan stopped his car too. Butter followed him out as the four policemen walked slowly to the waiting men.

  ‘Good morning.’ The man who spoke was a police sergeant, grey haired, his voice carefully pleasant. ‘We’re looking for a Mr Painter.’