The Ghost at the Point (11 page)

Dorrie smiled.
Thanks, Mr Jennings
.

“Well,” called Sarah, equally loudly, “she’s making
a big mistake
! We’re having jam roly-poly for tea.”

Dorrie almost burst out laughing – how well her friend knew her. Puddings were a real treat – she and Gah hardly ever had them – and hot jam roly-poly was her absolute favourite. With lashings of thick cream.

Dorrie was taking no chances after the Chevrolet drove off a second time. She and Alonso tiptoed around the back and went into the house cautiously. But the search party seemed to have departed – for now. There was no doubt, however, that another one would be back.

In the meantime, she was determined to find out if her hunch about Alonso was correct.

“You,” she said, pointing at him and then vaguely in the direction of the sea, “you – come from away … over the ocean?”

They were standing in the kitchen, where somebody – probably Mrs Jennings – had tidied away the remainder of the lunch things.

Alonso’s eyes became guarded again; he shrugged. If he understood, he wasn’t letting on.

“Come,” she said, crooking her finger and leading him by the arm into the sitting room. “Sit.”

She gently pushed him into an armchair. He stared at her warily, looking as though he was about to bolt again. Dorrie watched him out of the corner of her eye while she scanned the shelves for the book she wanted.

“Ah, here it is,” she said, her voice overly cheerful. Why was it, she wondered, that you spoke so loudly to people who didn’t understand English? “
Ships of the World – A Pictorial History
.”

It had been one of her favourites when she was younger. She brushed the dust off the top and brought it over to him, perching on the arm of the chair.

She wasn’t prepared for his reaction. One glance at the picture of the steamship on the front cover was enough to make him go pale and shrink back in the chair, eyes averted. It was as though she was showing him a photograph of a gruesome murder scene, not an old steamer.

“Oh, sorry.” Dorrie lowered the book. She felt like a torturer. His eyes had filled with tears; he wiped at them savagely.

“I’ll put it back,” she said, and crossed to the bookcase. “See, you don’t have to look at it ever again.”

When she turned back, he was sitting with his arms folded. Dorrie had never seen an expression of such utter hopelessness and misery. She felt like crying herself. And also giving him a hug, though of course she didn’t dare. He might lash out and hit her, she thought.

She felt terrible, but at least one thing was sure. Her hunch about his tragic, unplanned arrival on the island was almost certainly correct. She wondered if she’d ever be able to communicate with him about it.

She also wondered what she could do now to distract him. Go out fishing for something for dinner? But in light of his reaction to the book, she wasn’t going to suggest him going out on the water again in a hurry.

“I know,” she said, “let’s go and collect the eggs. You know–” she mimed flapping wings “–chook, chook, chook.”

Alonso didn’t appear enthusiastic, but he tagged along after her. On the way she found a piece of rope in the storeroom for him to hold up Gah’s trousers. Despite this, they still hung on him like comical bloomers, or a saggy nappy. He was very thin.

The chooks seemed to cheer him up a bit.

“Thel-ma,” Dorrie said, lifting her up and putting her in his arms.

“Buur-rkk,” said Thelma. She tilted her head, her eyes beady bright.

Alonso smiled. “Tel-mah,” he repeated, and stroked her neck, murmuring something to her in his own language. He was clearly used to chickens.

There were five eggs in the nesting box. At least they wouldn’t starve.

Watching the chooks wandering in and out of the scrub, made her think of Alonso’s tin shelter, down past the garage. By means of sign language she asked him to show her, so he led the way down through the bush.

When they reached it, Dorrie realised that he’d got the rusted sheets of galvanised iron from their household rubbish tip, behind the thunderbox. He’d leaned them up against a tree and filled in one end of the shelter with branches and bits of bush. Not much protection in a storm, nor from unwelcome slithering visitors.

Inside, he’d made it as cosy as he could, using a quilt for his bed. She recognised it as coming from the chest of drawers in one of the bedrooms off the courtyard. The same room she’d seen the light in that night with Gah. He’d probably taken it then. There was also a candle in its holder, matches, a jug of water, a couple of plums and a fig. And a half-eaten packet of bush biscuits. There was no sign of any bag, clothes or other possessions. He only had the clothes he’d arrived in.

They stood there for a moment, gazing at it all. Then Alonso gave a little shrug and said something she took to mean “Sorry”.

She patted him on the arm, smiling exaggeratedly. “That’s all right!” She nodded at the shelter. “You stay here how many days?” She pretended to count on her fingers. “How many?”

He said something, holding up five fingers and then grimaced and changed it to six.

I suppose you would lose count very quickly, Dorrie thought. She started picking up the objects, but noticing his alarmed expression, stopped.

“You sleep … up there, in the house,” she told him, pointing and miming sleep.

Judging by his worried frown, it was as though she’d asked him to sleep on the edge of the cliff.

What, or rather
who
, was he so frightened of?

“Come on.” She smiled reassuringly, passing him the quilt to carry. She wondered if he was going to toss it and be off. But he trudged after her, back to the house. She opened the door to the end bedroom on the verandah, the one nearest to the drive, put everything down and opened the window.

“You sleep here,” she told him, indicating the bed.

He glanced around the sunny room as though a bogeyman might come through the wall at any second. Then he went to the window and regarded the driveway worriedly.

Dorrie went to fetch some sheets and a towel. When she came back he was sitting on the bed, arms folded again, bent forwards as though he had a bad stomach-ache.

Dorrie felt another wave of pity for him. She vowed not to press him for any more information about himself. For a while, anyway.

Dorrie lit the stove and they had scrambled eggs on toast for supper, followed by figs from the big tree by the chook house and mugs of tea. They ate in silence in the fading light, Alonso gobbling his food again like someone who hadn’t eaten for a week. Which, apart from lunch, he hadn’t, she reminded herself. Not properly.

Dorrie used the last of the bread to make the toast – she would have to make damper in the oven from now on. Luckily, they had plenty of flour. But judging by the amount Alonso ate, there’d only be enough bully beef for one more meal, and they’d quickly get sick of eggs. Besides, Poppy didn’t like eggs. Dorrie knew she would have to go out fishing, very soon.

Afterwards, when they were clearing up, there was a small tapping at the window over the sink.

“Alonso.” Dorrie smiled, beckoning to him. “Look who’s here.” She snatched up her uneaten crusts, turned the catch on the window and pushed it open. A pink nose framed by black whiskers came twitching around the edge, with button eyes and black-tipped ears. The possum sat up on the windowsill, waiting expectantly.

From behind her came a little cry, and Alonso was beside her. She passed him a crust and he offered it to the possum. The possum took it in both paws and chomped into it, nibbling rapidly.

Dorrie stole a sideways glance. Alonso’s face had brightened again, as though the sun was shining through it. It was like seeing a completely different boy.

She woke in the night and sat up, her heart racing. There had been a noise, she was sure of it. A loud scraping sound, as though someone had bumped into one of the chairs along the verandah.

A noise too big for a possum to have made.

Dorrie stared into the dark. Had the search party come back again to surprise them in the night?

And then there was another sound. The soft but distinct thump of the sitting room screen door closing.

It was a still night – it couldn’t have been the wind.

Don’t be stupid, she told herself. It was probably just Alonso raiding the pantry.

But Alonso had been so tired last night, before she’d lit the way to his room with the lamp. She’d last seen him through the screen door, standing beside the bed, lighting his candle. She’d been sure he’d sleep like a log.

She lay back down, but in twenty seconds was up again, sliding out of bed and feeling her way to the door. There was no moon, but she couldn’t risk lighting a candle. Praying that no snakes were lurking on the verandah, she tiptoed along to the sitting room window, and peered around the edge.

Nothing. No lights – everything was dark and still. Had the intruder heard her coming? Was he crouching somewhere in the shadows?

She waited a minute or two, then with her heart hammering, slowly opened the screen door, wincing at its small squeak. Once inside, she stood motionless again, her eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom. She could just make out the familiar outlines – the old piano, the bookcase, the lamp on the table.

It was when she took a step towards the dining room that she kicked the footstool, knocking it into the table leg with a clatter.

There came a cry from the shadows across the room.

Dorrie yelled out in terror. She snatched up the stool and held it over her head, ready to hurl it at her attacker.

And then a match flared and the little circle of light revealed frightened eyes, huge beneath brown curls.

“
Oh, gracias a Dios!
” cried Alonso, gasping. He leaned down and lit a candle, and Dorrie saw that he’d been lying on the couch, covered in a blanket brought from his bed. He added something rapid in his own language, indicating the window facing the drive.

“But why?” she asked, pushing on the hard, lumpy couch. “Why you sleep there? And not,” gesturing in the direction of his room, “in your bed?”

Alonso hunched his shoulders and scowled, shaking his head.

And Dorrie got the feeling that even if he could have spoken English, he wouldn’t have told her a thing.

As soon as Dorrie opened her eyes the next morning, the events of the night came rushing back to her. She lay there, thinking about how Alonso had moved to the couch to sleep. Then she remembered his reaction when she’d first showed him the end bedroom – his anxious glance out the window to the drive.

He seemed to be even more worried by the idea of callers in the night than she was.

She thought about her grandfather, lying in the hospital, worrying about her. Being Gah, he surely would have found out by now that she was here at the point, supposedly on her own. She felt an unpleasant surge of guilt. The last thing she wanted to do was cause him any more pain.

Dorrie jumped up, dressed quickly, splashed some water on her face and went to see about breakfast. Poppy hurried after her.

Alonso was still fast asleep, curled up in a ball, when she tiptoed through. He appeared relaxed for once, his face without its usual haunted expression.