Chapter 7

A sea mist had settled in overnight. The early morning battled its way through, turning the mist a pale silver, making it whirl and rise. I went and stoked the embers in the wood stove and fed Sam some of Frankie’s deer offal. While Sam snuffled about in her bowl and I waited for the kettle to boil for a brew, I returned to the window and looked out through the mist at the shack across the road with its drawn curtains, and the car out front, an old blue sedan. Nothing moved. The kettle sang and I made my cuppa, taking it with me to my post at the window. Still nothing. I stood there, nursing my mouth ulcer, sipping my tea until the cup was drained. Reluctantly, I peeled myself away and had a wash in the bathroom out the back. When I looked again the car outside the shack was gone. I rushed outside. He must have just left, and at speed, judging by the scream of the engine fading out in the distance. I hadn’t been inside old Fred’s for months. The last time I cleaned the place up for him after some visitors, I swore to myself I’d never do it again; they’d left the shack in a right filthy state. The places they’d managed to smear tomato sauce beggared belief. Heaven only knew what they’d been doing with it. I scrubbed and scrubbed for hours and charged Fred an extra tenner for my trouble, after having to make a trip into town for more Gumption and a packet of scourers. Still, working for Fred put much needed cash in my pocket, so I wasn’t complaining. I didn’t hang about. Curiosity had the better of me, and I was across that road as fast as a stalking cat going in for the kill, and on past the native grasses flattened by that man’s car. I tried the front door, but it was locked as I’d anticipated. I paused, listening, wondering if I should risk it. Assuming he was planning to return, then he’d be heading into town to the shops for provisions, and if that was true, it would take him well over an hour. He didn’t know the road so it would take him even longer, despite the tearing hurry he seemed to be in. Those kiddies would slow him down too. Then again, he’d no doubt leave them in the car. Whatever the case, I figured I had at least a good half an hour for a prowl. I went around the back and over to the septic tank. There, I up ended the old flower pot where Fred hid the spare key. He reckoned no one would ever find the key in that mould encrusted pot which had the look of something left out and never moved for decades. I was in the house a second later, the fly screen creaking shut behind me. The interior was dim, the curtains closed, and the place smelled of stale tobacco and rat’s piss. Fred’s always smelled of rats. Fred was right not to allow kids. His place was only fit for fishermen. There was nothing to see in the kitchen. The benches were clear and the table in the centre of the room devoid of contents save for a vase of plastic flowers on a lace doily in the centre. I’d found that vase and the flowers at the junk stall at the Sunday market one time and bought it for fifty cents hoping to titivate the place. The floorboards groaned beneath my tread. A wide hall ended at the front door, with the living room off to the side. A narrower hall off to my left led to the bedrooms. I went left. The first bedroom at the front of the house contained a dishevelled mess of men’s clothing spewing out a large holdall. The double bed had been slept in, the covers down, pillows askew. A similar scene confronted me in the second bedroom, the bed slept in, a suitcase opened on the floor. The end room hadn’t been used. The window faced the back yard. Suspecting this had been the point of entry I went and checked. Sure enough, he’d forced open the window. That banging must have been him hammering a screwdriver to prise the latch. I went back to the second bedroom, eyed the little pink dresses, the undies and vests scattered about. Girls. And they would be coming back. I went on down the hall. They’d made full use of the living room. Takeaway hamburger wrappers and bottles of soft drink cluttered the coffee table. A blanket, taken from one of the bedrooms, lay crumpled at the end of the couch. A bottle of whisky, proudly half empty, occupied the shelf above the fireplace. I noticed an empty tumbler on the sideboard. I went to the window, parted the curtains and looked over at my place, with my beat-up old Holden parked in the carport at the side. Did he know I was there? I’d have to make his acquaintance and soon. Better not make it here though. I went to the kitchen, where I poked about in the cupboards. All looked as I’d left it. Satisfied I’d done enough snooping, I went outside. I was about to return the key to the flower pot, then decided to hold onto it for safe keeping. Fred wouldn’t be coming down for at least a couple of months—the winter was his time at Peachtree, when the wildlife had settled down a bit—and a key would be handy in an emergency. I heard his car in the distance when I was enjoying a second cuppa back on my front deck. I hurried inside and told Sam to hush. A ruse was needed for my introductory visit and stoking the wood stove I came up with the idea. Cookies. What child can resist a homemade cookie? Especially chocolate and just out the oven. I never considered myself a brilliant cook, but I was a dab hand at making biscuits. It was all in the dough and having an oven at the right temperature. I had the ingredients lined up on the bench by the time his car pulled up. I eyed him through the net curtains, confident I couldn’t be seen. Even so, when he looked around, I took a step back into the room. He disappeared down the side of Fred’s and before long he opened the front door and those kiddies were scampering inside. He came out and loaded up his arms with bags of groceries. Sam bristled on the slam of the car boot. I cautioned her with a hiss. Not yet. I wanted my appearance on his doorstep to come as a shock. Besides, it was too early for cookies. Those girls needed to settle for a bit, play, then get bored and play up. Elevenses could be counted on to be the time when kiddies played up. I set to work on the cookie dough, an ear c****d just like Sam’s, alert. It was my grandmother’s recipe: flour, butter, sugar, cocoa, vanilla, salt and a pinch of cinnamon to round out the flavours. Grandma was my mother’s mother. Alison was her name, and what she knew about herbs could have filled a book. I was the only one in the family to take an interest in her cooking, so she showed me a thing or two, glad of the company. Every Saturday afternoon, when the others were out doing their sports, I would go around to her cottage, situated down a lane not far from the farm. She even left me her recipe books when she passed. They were battered and stained, and I wasn’t to look at another recipe book my whole life. I lost myself in the kneading, the rolling, the cutting, the baking, but when the cookies were at last cooling on a wire tray, I took up my sentry by the kitchen window. No movement. No sound. I didn’t expect there to be, although the mist was long gone, the day now sunny and warm. With all the curtains still drawn at Fred’s there was no telling what was going on over there. Those closed curtains made me suspicious. No one up and about keeps their curtains closed on the day unless they have something to hide. It couldn’t be that he was pretending no one was there, what with his car parked out front. No. He was hiding something. He didn’t want anyone looking in and seeing what he was up to. What was that, exactly? Those poor little kiddies. The wretches had looked furtive, scared even, when they’d hurried to the front door. I was sure of it. I moved away and stroked Sam, dozing on her rug by the stove. With the ulcer still throbbing at the back of my tongue, I wasn’t game to sample my baking. I loaded one of my best small plates with all cookies and covered them with a pretty lace doily. Walking across with my offering, I felt furtive more than frightened. I was at Fred’s front door as fast as my plate of biscuits would allow. Before I knocked, I waited, ears pricked. I expected light footsteps running, a giggle, a squeal, but there was nothing. When I did bang my knuckles on the door, the footsteps were heavy, the voice a low growl, and the door opened only a c***k. There he leaned, what I could see of him, as most of him was still hidden by the door. ‘Sorry to trouble you,’ I said, all breezy as you may, ‘but I saw you arrive, so I baked some cookies for the girls.’ I paused. He made no movement to open the door wider. I raised my voice. ‘They do like chocolate cookies, surely they do. Yummy chocolate.’ I made a show of trying to glance behind him. He didn’t speak. I wasn’t about to be put off, so there we both stood wary eyed, each waiting for the other to make a move. ‘Cookies!’ I called. Then one of the girls emitted a loud screech and came bounding to the door. Defeated, the man turned to attend to the child. I stepped forward, pushed open the door and walked in, following them to the kitchen. The child stood behind the man, and the other girl came in and hovered shyly by the door. They had to be his. They had the same hair and features. He had a compact face, the eyes, nose and mouth bunched together in the middle. His hair was dark, voluminous and scruffy, with a fringe that hung down his forehead. He had on casual city attire, not hardy enough for the bush. No one could have looked more out of place at Fred’s. ‘What brings you all the way out here?’ I asked, setting the plate down on the table. ‘The fishing,’ he said quickly. ‘Is that right? I said, infusing my voice with doubt. He was no fisherman. He shrugged. ‘As good a place as any,’ he said, avoiding eye contact. It was hardly the statement of a fisherman. ‘I would have thought the campsite up the road better suited to the kiddies. More space to run around.’ He didn’t answer. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the cookie plate. I made my face exude a warmth I did not feel. ‘Girls, my name’s Pearl. I live across the road and I have grandchildren just like you. So, I couldn’t resist making you some cookies. How about that!’ The girls went all coy, each where she stood, one in the doorway, the other by the man. ‘That your place, then?’ he said. I gave him a steely look. ‘I do fish.’ ‘Must be good fishing.’ ‘How’s Fred?’ That threw him. ‘Fred?’ ‘Fred Terkowski. This is his shack. He knows you’re here, I take it.’ ‘Tacker, you mean,’ he said, using Fred’s nickname. ‘Of course, he knows we’re here.’ I was suspicious. Only the locals used that name. In the city, Fred was known only as Mr Terkowski. ‘And you are?’ ‘Brent.’ I didn’t believe that either. ‘Well, I’m Pearl, as I said.’ I received no invitation to sit down. I was offered no tea. I stood there with my hands resting on the back of a chair. ‘Well, I better be off,’ I said eventually. ‘If, you need anything, just yell.’ I left the cookies on the table. I knew I’d be back to collect the plate.