Ghosts

A short story inspired by some of the old buildings around our region...

Ghosts

Martha McDonald did not believe in ghosts. Ghosts were implausible and impractical, and yet, they seemed to be an occupational hazard. Here she was, listening to a woman roughly her own age, presumably still in possession of all her mental faculties, telling her about the ghost that her grandson saw in the old farmhouse garden. Martha duly made a note on her clipboard. Perhaps she should add a checkbox to the form she was using. Roof intact? Check. Outbuildings still standing? Check. Ghost sighted? Check. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

‘He’d been out playing in the garden when he was just a wee chap. Only four years old. I’d been keeping an eye on him, of course, and he’d been chattering away to himself.’ Geraldine’s doe-like eyes were wide. Martha wondered where she got her hair cut. Perhaps she cut it herself at home with the kitchen shears. ‘When he came in, he told me that he’d been playing with the little girl who lived in the house. There’s no little girl living here. Hasn’t been for decades.’ She paused for dramatic effect. Martha raised her eyebrows in what she hoped was a suitable expression of surprise. Of course, she did not really feel surprised. Four-year-olds were notoriously unreliable sources of information.

Geraldine lowered her voice. ‘Then, one day I found a photo of the family who used to live here. The Mattingleys. My grandson pointed to one of the girls and said that he knew her. A pretty little thing, she was. He said he played with her in the garden all the time.’ Geraldine’s story was obviously reaching a climax. Her voice was low and filled with tension. ‘And you wouldn’t guess what I found out. That little girl died here in this very house, when she was only six years old.’

Martha did her best to respond with the shock and awe that Geraldine clearly felt was warranted. She looked around. The gardens were beautiful, full of all sorts of nooks and crannies among the hakeas and wattles. The perfect place for a child to play make-believe. She noted down a few details. This would make for a nice bit of colour in her report to Council, on her survey of the town’s historic sites and buildings. The Shire Councillors liked that kind of thing. And Martha took great pride in producing detailed, comprehensive reports that would not (she hoped) put a person to sleep from sheer boredom.

She smiled politely at Geraldine and asked if she could see the rest of the house. It was a fine example of the time period. An 1890s limestone cottage, with wooden floorboards and beams made from bush timbers – with some modern additions. Indoor plumbing, most notably. The rooms were clean and dust free, Geraldine’s work, she presumed, and the house smelled faintly of vanilla.

Back at the office, Martha put her clipboard down on her desk, and found Cassie watching her. Now Cassie was the kind of person who would believe in ghosts. She had blue streaks in her hair and a pink crystal on her desk, among the potted plants and photo frames that cluttered up that surface. Martha had no personal items on her desk.

‘What was the Mattingley house like? It’s such a beautiful old building. I adore those old stained-glass windows.’ Cassie leaned back in her chair, putting far too much faith in the cheap office furniture, in Martha’s opinion.

Martha sighed. She had hoped to get right on with typing up her notes, but Cassie so often wanted to engage in chit-chat. ‘It is still in good repair. There is a significant amount of rust in the roof, though. I’m going to recommend that Council allocate some funds to have it replaced in the next year or so. An old limestone building like that would deteriorate very quickly if the roof began to leak.’

‘It’s such a sad story, isn’t it? Their little girl dying so young. She had pneumonia, you know. These days, she wouldn’t have died.’ Cassie looked as though she was about to cry.

Martha snorted. ‘Yes. Geraldine thinks she’s still watching over the old house from beyond the grave. Apparently her grandson’s seen her.’

Cassie’s eyes filled with wonder. ‘Oh, and Geraldine would know, too! She lived in that house when she was a child. Knows it better than anyone.’ And here was the main reason that Martha tolerated Cassie’s constant chatter. She had grown up on a farm out of town, and lived all her life in the region, whereas Martha was an outsider. Cassie was a great source of information. Martha would also admit that she was a fairly sensible girl, despite her strange hair and apparent gullibility when it came to the power of pink rocks. ‘Did you feel anything creepy in the house, Martha? Notice anything strange? Ooo, I’d give anything to see a ghost.’

Martha gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘No. Nothing out of the ordinary. It’s just a 130-year-old house. It’s bound to have a few odd creaks and groans.’

‘Oh, you’re such a doubter! A lot of these old buildings have ghosts that hang around, you know.’ From the look on her face, she believed it, too.

Martha sat down on her chair and logged in to her computer. There was no point in arguing with someone like Cassie. ‘Well, ghost or not, I have a report to write.’

Some of the historic sites were on rural properties. Martha drove to the next one in her red Audi S4, noting down the milage carefully. Her poor car had been over some rough roads since she moved to the country. Martha wondered if she should buy a four wheel drive. Perhaps, if she stayed in this job, she’d put it on her five-year plan.

Banksia Cottage would have been bulldozed long ago, if it was near the city, she thought. It wasn’t particularly pretty or historically significant. But the locals were attached to it. Some of the region’s first pastoralists had lived here, apparently. Cassie told her that a widow and her two children had built the cottage. The son had gone off and gotten married, had a fairly successful sheep station, made a name for himself, all that stuff. But the daughter had cared for her aging mother until her death – such devotion. Martha couldn’t think of anything worse than living out here in the sticks for your whole life.

‘My family used to come out camping all the time,’ the young woman who was showing her around said. Amanda seemed barely older than a teenager, but she was one of the head rangers in the national park. ‘There’s a dam out the back that’s great for swimming.’ She wore her hair in two long braids, which seemed rather childish against her serious khaki uniform. Martha approved of khaki. It was very practical.

She checked the tiny cottage – only two rooms, a tin roof, wooden floor. It was in good condition. No termites. Some of the locals had put some work into stabilising the walls a few years ago. Living here must have been terribly lonely. Two rooms, and only your elderly, widowed mother for company. The nearest neighbours, back in the 1800s, were fifty kilometres away. That’s if you didn’t count the Aboriginal people, which they probably didn’t, back then. The surrounding gum trees and thick stands of banksias held a certain charm, but bitumen roads and running water were preferable, in Martha’s opinion.

Martha checked the boxes and made a few notes on her clipboard. A few weeds and long grass that needed to be cleaned up. She’d recommend that Council allocate some funding for better signage, as the site got regular visitors according to Amanda.

The girl was still chattering as they walked back to their cars. Martha dutifully noted down some of the stories on the clipboard. ‘You can camp inside the old cottage but most people don’t like to. Feels a bit crowded in there, if you know what I mean.’ Amanda laughed. ‘I think the two old ladies are still hanging around.’ Martha noticed that the wind rustling through the banksias was starting to pick up. There were black cockatoos screeching from the gum trees. She’d better get back to town.

Amanda was still talking. ‘Funny story, once when I was a kid, my dad came out here, camping with a few of his mates. A blokes’ weekend, you know, mostly an excuse to sit around and drink beer. They had a camera, you know, a film one back then. Took some photos. When the photos got developed, mum went spare. “You didn’t tell me that you had women camping out there with you as well.” Dad didn’t know what she was talking about, but sure enough, in the background of one of the photos, you could see two women. Dad had no idea who they were. But it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?’ Amanda raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

Martha wasn’t sure how to respond appropriately to that kind of story. She was sure Amanda expected gasps of surprise. What she wanted to say was yes, that happened from time to time with film cameras. Just a camera malfunction. Or maybe your dad really was up to no good. But instead, she murmured ‘interesting.’ Cassie would enjoy hearing this when she got back to the office. She’d get that starry expression in her eyes. Martha found herself rehearsing the story as she drove back into town.

The final building on her list was also the furthest out from town. Another abandoned farm house, built in the 1880s. Martha checked her notes. The old caretaker was called Rufus. Apparently a real character. The house was at the end of a winding gravel road and it was probably the prettiest one that she’d seen so far. There was an old-fashioned climbing rose winding its way up a veranda post, the pink blossoms scattering petals on the ground below. The wide veranda shaded the old wood framed house with big brick chimneys on either end. There was a huge Morton Bay Fig on one side of the building, its giant roots reminding Martha of a fairy-tale dragon, curled up around the tree, asleep. The canopy of leaves was almost as large as the entire house.

Rufus had a long grey beard, and the laconic drawl of someone who was in no hurry. Despite his age, he had ramrod straight posture and bright blue eyes. He was dressed in a faded flannelette shirt and a pair of stubby shorts, his legs wiry and tanned. He showed her the around the house. It was neat and tidy, and smelled of fresh-baked bread.

‘I’ve lived out here for seven years now, since I retired. I’ve spent all that time just doing little jobs to fix the old girl up. A house needs to have people living in it. Otherwise it gets run down real quick. That’s why I’m here. I love this old place.’ He showed her through the building, then out to the back, where there was an old stone shearing shed, now used to house a collection of ancient tractors, horse gear with cracked leather and rusted buckles, and other bits of obsolete farm machinery that she didn’t recognise. A couple of gnarled grape vines and an ancient apricot tree beside the shearing shed marked the spot where the original inhabitants of the house had planted a veggie garden and orchard.

‘Out there past the old fig tree, see that flat area? That was the first paddock they cleared,’ Rufus told her. ‘They planted their first crop by hand, only a couple of shovels to turn over the hard dirt. Must have been tough people.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Not worth going over there, though. There’s nothing worth seeing.’

Martha made notes on her clipboard. Everything was in good order. No recommendations to Council. ‘No ghosts hanging around?’ she asked. Tongue in cheek, but there was something a bit heavy in the atmosphere around the old place. Must be a change in the weather coming.

Rufus looked a bit sheepish. ‘Well, now that you mention it. My brother comes to visit me out here every now and again. Always comes for a few nights, but he won’t sleep in the house. He says there’s something in there that gives him the creeps. He said he’s heard something walking around the house at night. He brings a swag and sleeps out by his ute.’ He laughed a little self-consciously. ‘I’ve never noticed it, though. I always tell him he’s being ridiculous.’

Another ghost. Martha made a note on her clipboard and said goodbye to Rufus. She felt like Santa, bringing another little treat to Cassie in at the office. She really did relish these little stories.

Martha bumped back over the dusty back roads, her Audi now even redder with the coating of gravel dust. She’d head to the car wash after work. First, she had some notes to type up. Back at the office, she took her clipboard out of her briefcase and sat down at her desk. Cassie had a mug of coffee in hand, and she swivelled around with an eager smile. Did she ever get any work done?

But this time, when Martha told her about Rufus’s brother, who wouldn’t sleep in the old building, Cassie got a strange expression on her face. Maybe these stories were starting to scare her. Cassie would be the type to get scared. Martha had to remember that some people were more sensitive than she was. Martha had never been that way. She valued logic and reason. She knew it was just the way old buildings settled at night, maybe possums in the roof, some reasonable explanation. But Cassie was superstitious. She’d have to stop telling her.

‘Who did you say told you that story?’ Cassie frowned.

‘Rufus. The old caretaker. You know, he’s been living out there for seven years or so. He showed me around. You know him, don’t you?’ Cassie was still frowning at her. Surely she knew Rufus? Cassie knew everyone. And he was one of those characters who was hard to forget.

Cassie’s face was pale. ‘Yes, I do. I mean, I did.’ This time, her eyes were not full of wonder. ‘Martha, Rufus died last winter. He’s been dead nearly a year now. He’s buried out there, on the property, just out past the old fig tree.’