Chapter Six

Long grass on either side of the dusty track swayed in the gentle breeze, as if nodding its approval of what Tim was about to do. But when the sun dipped behind a stray cloud, the afternoon seemed suddenly eerie, and Tim wished he was anywhere but heading towards Granny Rags’ house.

He looked back. The mailbox was hidden from view. Could he just pretend to go down to Granny Rags’? Say that she wasn’t at home? But somewhere deep down, he felt curious. Anyway, he thought, how scary could the old lady be?

He walked on and saw that the track didn’t just lead to Granny Rags’ house; it went further, past her place. Could he just keep going? But when he came level with the house, he stopped. It looked empty and derelict with its peeling paint and rusted roof. The front door beyond the sagging verandah was closed but the windows were open, and faded curtains danced in the breeze as though they were beckoning to him.

He stepped forward and pushed the gate. It creaked as he opened it. He stopped; looked about. There was no movement; no sound. Tim walked along the cracked path, with its weeds and grass poking through, and placed a hand tentatively on the railing of the front stairs. He looked up at the closed door, eager now to see what secrets it hid.

‘And what do you think you’re doing?’

Tim jumped, his heart ricocheting about in his chest. There, coming round one side of the house, was the old woman. He couldn’t see how old she really was; she was wearing a big hat that flopped down over her face. She brandished a black stick as she strode towards him, faster than Tim thought possible.

‘What do you want?’ she shouted, waving her stick in his face. Tim stepped back and his foot caught in a wide crack in the path. His hands waved in the air as he tried to right himself, but it was too late. He fell flat on his back beside the path, and the plastic bag holding the fish flew through the air and landed on his face.

‘Ugh,’ he said as he pulled himself backwards in fright, trying to shake the fish off, as if it were a snake. A shadow fell over him and, as he looked up, the old woman loomed above.

‘What have you got there?’ she asked. ‘Answer me, lad.’

‘It’s … ah … I’ve brought you a fish,’ he stammered.

She reached down and snatched up the packet. ‘Oh, it’s cold,’ she said, as if surprised. ‘Is it fresh?’

‘Ah … yes. We just caught it. Down at the creek.’

‘Well, in that case, thank you very much. Now, you’ve had your bit of fun so you can get going.’ And she turned away.

Tim lay there – amongst the weeds and grass – stunned. Was that it? All this hype and that was it? He hadn’t even managed to get a good look at her. He pulled himself up and watched as she strode back to the corner of the house. ‘What are you going to do with it?’ he called.

The woman stopped and turned back to face him. ‘What do you think I’m going to do with it?’ she asked. ‘What do you do with fish?’

‘Well, I eat them—’

‘And that’s exactly what I intend to do,’ she said, turning away again.

‘Wait—’ Tim scrambled to his feet. ‘I could help you?’ Could he?

He took a couple of steps towards her. She tilted her head back. He could see her eyes now, narrowed with suspicion.

‘You? Help me? Have you ever gutted a fish before?’

‘Well … no. But—’

She turned away again. ‘Come on, then. You can help me if you want. The kitchen’s out the back.’

As Tim followed, he saw there was a shed down the back corner of the yard, looking as if it could topple over at any moment. An old rusted car was parked inside it, almost hidden by long grass. Behind the shed was a fence, the wire rusted and broken, and the paddock beyond was overgrown. Anything could be living in there.

The house was just as dilapidated at the back as it was at the front. The stumps were leaning, and Tim wondered how the whole thing was still standing.

‘In here,’ called Granny Rags. ‘I’m in the kitchen.’

Tim looked at the four steps he needed to climb to get inside. They looked alright—

‘Come on,’ Granny Rags shouted. ‘Or I’ll be finished before you get here.’

He tested the first step to be sure it was solid, then bounded to the top in one stride – just to be on the safe side. As he walked into the kitchen, he was surprised at how clean and tidy the room was.

Granny Rags stood at the table holding a sharp knife. Her hat was off now, and she didn’t look nearly as old as Tim had first thought. Her long, grey hair was pulled back in a plait that dropped almost to her waist, and apart from the wrinkles around her eyes, her face was almost smooth. Her pale blue eyes seemed to hold some sort of mischief. Only her worn and faded dress made her seem old.

He watched as she deftly scraped the scales off the sides of the fish, then sliced through its underbelly, letting the guts spill out onto the paper she had beneath it. Tim felt his stomach churn uncomfortably.

‘You might as well sit down,’ she said, nodding towards a chair. ‘I can see you’re going to be no use.’

It’s my first time, Tim wanted to say, but he pulled out a chair and sat watching as she finished. She placed the filleted fish in a shallow bowl, covered it with plastic and put it in the fridge, then wrapped the scraps in the paper and placed them on the bench behind her.

‘I’ll bury those later,’ she said. ‘Now, how about a drink before you get going?’

‘Oh, no. I didn’t mean to—’

‘I’ve got milk. Or cordial if you’d prefer,’ she said as she placed a glass on the table.

‘I should really get going,’ said Tim, standing up. What was he thinking? He shouldn’t be here at all. If his parents knew—

A faint smile played across the old woman’s lips, and Tim wondered if she was laughing at him.

‘I’ll have cordial please,’ he said. He never had cordial at home. Full of sugar, his father said.

Granny Rags’ lips twitched. She turned and pulled a small bottle of cordial from the cupboard, then reached into the fridge for the cold water.

‘Can you make your own?’ she asked.

Tim nodded, though he wasn’t sure how much cordial to use. He waited until Granny Rags turned back to fill the electric jug, and by the time she switched it on and took out a chipped cup and saucer and a small china teapot, he had a glass of orange cordial in front of him.

‘Do you have a name?’ she asked as she spooned tea leaves into the pot.

‘Tim. Tim Trickett,’ he said. ‘I’m new here.’

Granny Rags nodded, as if she already knew that.

‘Hello, Tim Trickett. I’m Marjorie Ragdale. Not Granny Rags, as you’ve probably been told.’

Tim felt his face redden. He gulped at his cordial, trying to hide his embarrassment, then grimaced. It was too strong. When he looked back up, that secret smile was back on her lips.

She sat down and poured her tea.

‘Sorry I can’t offer you anything to eat,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t exactly expecting visitors.’

‘No, that’s alright,’ said Tim, suddenly wondering what he was going to talk about now that he was here. Again he gulped at his cordial.

‘At one time I’d always have something,’ she said. ‘A cake. Or some biscuits.’ She looked over Tim’s shoulder, to a spot that was neither here nor there. Somewhere in the past.

Silence fell over the room. Tim ran his finger around the rim of his glass, wondering what he could say.

‘Do you live here by yourself?’ he blurted out.

Granny Rags frowned.

‘Sorry,’ muttered Tim, and drained his glass.

‘It’s alright, Tim Trickett,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Yes, I do live here by myself. I like it here. It’s peaceful. We … Bob and I … we bought this place when we were first married. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.’

Tim looked down at his empty glass and wondered what had happened to Bob.

‘What about your children?’ he asked before he could stop himself.

Granny Rags sighed. ‘We never had children,’ she said.

Then she frowned. ‘Tell me, Tim. Why did you come down here with a fish?’

The question surprised Tim and he wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘Ah …’ he started. He didn’t want to mention Oliver. ‘Ah, it was my friend … Lockie. Lockie McKenzie. He said you liked fish.’

‘McKenzie?’ Granny Rags was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I remember a Kenny McKenzie. Knew everything, Kenny did. Maybe he’s Lockie’s father.’

‘Yes, that’s him,’ said Tim.

Granny Rags chuckled. ‘Good-looking lad, he was. He played football. All the girls thought he was wonderful. They’d stand on the sidelines and squeal every time Kenny ran past.’

‘You used to go to the football?’ he asked, surprised. Granny Rags was the last person he could imagine going to a football match.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Hardly missed a game. Bob, my late husband, used to coach some of the younger teams. And later he became the president of the football club in Rowington. He was president for years.’

Granny Rags sighed. Her face dropped and she suddenly looked a lot older. ‘After he died, I didn’t go to so many. Just a few now and then until …’

She stopped, as if even talking about it was too sad, then gave her head a shake.

‘Do you play football, Tim Trickett?’ she asked, the moment of sadness past.

‘No. I like swimming. I’m going to join the swimming club.’

Granny Rags clamped her thin lips together and nodded, as if to say that swimming wasn’t as good as football, but it was better than nothing.

‘Lockie plays football, though,’ Tim added quickly.

‘Hmmm. Perhaps you should bring Lockie with you sometime.’

Tim hadn’t thought about coming again. Then he remembered Lockie, waiting down by the mailbox. He stood up. ‘I’d better get going,’ he said as he pushed his chair in. ‘Mum and Dad’ll wonder where I am. Thanks for the drink.’

He was about to walk out the back door when he turned and said, ‘I’ll bring you more fish if I catch them. That’s if you’d like me to.’

‘Yes, Tim Trickett,’ said Granny Rags, smiling. ‘I would like that very much. I’m rather fond of fish.’

Lockie was pacing up and down in front of the mailbox when Tim turned the corner. ‘Where’ve y’been all this time?’ he cried, his face sagging with relief. ‘Did y’see ‘er? Did she hit y’with a stick?’

Tim laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I watched her fillet the fish and then she gave me a glass of cordial.’

‘Really?’ gasped Lockie. ‘Was it poisoned?’

‘Of course not.’ Tim liked Lockie, but sometimes he just wanted to shake him.

Lockie’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t believe ya,’ he said. ‘Y’makin’ this up.’

‘No. Honest, it’s true. Anyway, she knows your father. She used to watch him play football when he was young.’

Lockie opened his mouth, but nothing came out. It was the first time that Tim had seen him speechless.

‘Y’kiddin’ me, right?’ he said eventually.

‘No, I’m not. She said she remembered Kenny McKenzie playing football. She said she used to go to the football every weekend. Her husband was the coach or something.’ Tim reached down to pick up the esky of fish. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Mum and Dad will start to worry if I don’t get home soon.’

They wandered off down the road, Lockie bombarding Tim with questions.

‘Does she have a big black stick?’

‘Yes, but it’s a walking stick.’

‘Did she hit y’with it?’

‘No.’ Though I thought she was going to.

‘Has she got black teeth?’

Tim stopped. ‘Listen, Lockie, she’s just an old lady with grey hair and a walking stick, and she …’

How could he tell Lockie that she seemed lonely?

‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘She just lives by herself, that’s all. And I reckon she hates kids coming round annoying her.’

‘So she was annoyed?’ said Lockie, almost pleased at the idea.

‘No, not at me. Well, she was at first. But I think she’s just sick of kids going there and winding her up. You know, with the fish—’ Tim wasn’t sure where he was going with this. He had the feeling there was more to the fish story than Oliver was letting on.

And what were the kids at school going to say when they heard he’d been invited into her house and had a glass of cordial?

‘Listen, Lockie. Perhaps we’d better make up a bit of a story for the kids at school,’ said Tim. ‘You know, not tell them about me going into the house. Perhaps we should just tell them that she chased me.’

For a moment, he felt like he was betraying a friend. His new friend. Mrs Ragdale.

But Lockie’s eyes lit up. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘We could tell ‘em that she chased y’down the road, and that she nearly caught ya and she was threatin’ to lock ya in her basement …’

Basement?

Tim smiled. Lockie was sure to make it sound good.