Cicada Summer (2 page)

Something flickered at the top of the stairs.

The back of Eloise’s neck went cold. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t move. She heard a voice call,
I’m coming!
, and a girl in a pale dress and a big sunhat came running down the stairs, her fingertips slipping down the curve of the slim iron railing.

Eloise couldn’t breathe, her mouth was dry. She couldn’t even run away.

But at the bottom of the steps, the girl in the pale dress faltered and stopped. For a fraction of a second she stood motionless, as if she were listening, then all at once she turned and stared straight at Eloise.

Their eyes met. Eloise tried to swallow; she backed away, one step, then another. And suddenly the foyer was empty. The ghostly girl was gone.

All the sounds came rushing back to full volume: the sighs and whispers of the garden, the shrill of cicadas, creaks and slams from the kitchen, Dad’s brisk boots stomping up behind her. ‘There you are, Elephant! What’s up? Did a mouse run over your foot?’

Eloise managed to shake her head.

‘So what do you reckon? Bit dark and stinky, isn’t it. Paradise for the mice! Can you believe we’ve been here for an hour? Time ran away on me. We’d better head off; we’re late for Mo. Better not make her cranky. You know this was her place, don’t you? She hasn’t lived here for years though – obviously. All mine now.’ Dad grinned. ‘Very generous of her to sign it over, so make sure you look grateful,

El’s Bells. Of course, it’s way too big for her to manage, and it would have been mine sooner or later anyway. Family property. And we’re the only family, you and me, so—’

Dad kept talking all the way back to the car, but Eloise hardly heard him. She felt dizzy. She buckled her seatbelt as Dad spun the car around with a spray of gravel. Her head was turned toward the window but all she could see was the figure of the ghostly girl. Like a video replaying in her mind, she saw the girl run down the stairs, stop and turn to stare at Eloise. Run, stop, turn – over and over. Eloise shivered. She wished she could sit somewhere with her pencils and paper and draw what she’d seen. Already the picture in her mind had begun to waver and blur. Drawing it would fix it, pin it down. She shut her eyes and tried to print the memory on the inside of her eyelids.

‘Great location, heaps of potential.’ Dad was still talking. ‘Don’t know if it’s worth trying to keep any of the garden in this drought. It looks half-dead already. But we’ll see. Just you wait, Electric Chair. It’s going to be magnificent.’

Eloise nodded, but Dad wasn’t looking. A shiver ran through her and she hugged herself. She twisted her head to catch one last glimpse of the pale shape of the house, gradually swallowed up by the trees; like a ship slowly sinking beneath the waves.

2

H
ere we are.’ Dad pulled into Mo’s driveway. He parked in front of the garage and switched off the engine, but then he just sat there; he didn’t get out of the car.

The small house where Mo lived couldn’t have been more different from the big white dilapidated mansion they’d just left behind. It was dark and low-roofed, hunched close to the ground. Faded striped awnings were lowered over the windows. The house seemed to scowl at the ground. Instead of neat beds of roses and azaleas, like most of the neighbours, Mo’s yard was crammed with prickly native bushes. The neighbours’ squares of lawn were all dead from the drought, but these prickly bushes struggled on.

The front door slowly opened. Eloise could just see a dark shape behind the screen door. A voice called out sharply from inside the house, ‘You took your time! I was expecting you at one; it’s nearly half-past two.’

‘That’s a fine greeting for the prodigal son.’ Dad slammed the car door and glared toward the invisible figure. ‘Come on, Elf Ears, she won’t bite.’

Eloise slipped out of the car and followed Dad inside. Mo stepped back just far enough to let them in and then shut the door. She stood in the middle of the hallway with her fists on her hips. There was nothing ghostly about Mo. Her grey, wiry hair stood out in tufts like steel wool, and her eyes glittered suspiciously in her gaunt, bony face. One pair of glasses dangled round her neck, and another was shoved up on top of her wild tangle of hair. She wore a striped apron with a mud-coloured shirt and trousers underneath. Eloise’s eyes went wide. Mo was clutching a knife, and her hands dripped with blood.

‘Don’t
flinch
. What are you, a kitten? It’s only beetroot. Am I going to get a kiss from my only grandchild? Come on, get it over with. Save us, you’re not some kind of shrinking violet, are you?’

Mo rammed on her glasses and peered sharply at Eloise.

‘She’s a bit shy, that’s all. She’s fine once she warms up, aren’t you, Elevator Music?’ Dad put his arm round Eloise’s shoulders; he sounded so easy and confident that for a second Eloise almost believed it too.

Mo sniffed, testing the tip of the knife on her finger. ‘She’s a shrimp of a thing, isn’t she? Looks more like ten than— How old are you now? Twelve, thirteen? Inherited the McCredie hair, poor kid. Got her mother’s eyes though.’ There was a pause, then Mo said, ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral.’

Dad’s arm tightened around Eloise. He didn’t like talking about Mum. ‘That’s all water under the bridge now. What’s done is done. Time to move on.’ There was another pause. ‘Sorry we’re late. Stopped to have a look at the property.’

Mo sniffed again. ‘Hope it lived up to expectations.’

‘It’s a fantastic piece of real estate. Pity the house is such an eyesore.’

Mo bristled for a second, then she looked away. ‘Not my problem any more,’ she said brusquely.

‘All yours. Best thing I’ve ever done, get rid of that old place. And all its ghosts.’

Eloise jumped.

‘Speaking metaphorically, of course.’ Mo turned to her. ‘Hungry? Like beetroot?’

After a second Eloise nodded. Her heart thudded, then slowed. Mo couldn’t know what she’d seen at the house, could she?

‘Cat got your tongue? She can speak, can’t she, Stephen?’

‘Of course she can. Could we move out of the doorway, do you think? Or would you prefer we got back in the car?’

‘No need to get your knickers in a knot,’ snapped Mo, and moved down the hallway. Bright purple-red spots had dripped all over the floor. Mo pointed down the corridor with a gory hand. ‘Dining room. That is, if you still want the lunch I lovingly prepared for you three hours ago. I’ve had
mine
. Got tired of waiting.’

Inside, Mo’s house was dark and musty, the awnings drawn down to shut out the glaring summer sun. Eloise sidled along the narrow hallway after Dad, trying not to knock anything over. Books tottered in piles on the floor, spilled from shelves, slid from heaps on chairs and tables.

‘What’s for lunch? Hope we haven’t come all this way for one of your famous baked-bean jaffles!’ called Dad. He winked at Eloise. ‘Don’t be scared of Mo,’ he whispered. ‘She loves a good fight. You have to stand up to her.’

Dad and Eloise squeezed themselves into chairs and Mo banged bowls onto the dining table. ‘It’s soup.’

Eloise spooned it up and let it trickle back into the bowl. Unidentifiable lumps floated in a steaming pinkish-brown liquid.

‘Got the recipe from the next-door neighbours,’ said Mo. ‘Beetroots were on special this week, apparently. I was just making up another batch.’

‘Thought beetroots were a winter thing.’ Dad slurped warily. ‘Mm. That’s not bad, actually.’ He flashed Mo his most charming grin.

Eloise lifted her spoon cautiously to her lips. There was a flavour she couldn’t quite identify. Mo was watching her across the table. Eloise’s heart began to thump again. She chased a thread of yoghurt with her spoon and it dissolved into nothing.

‘Magnificent. I’m impressed.’ Dad laid down his spoon and cleared his throat. ‘Actually, Mo, there was a small favour I wanted to ask.’

Mo folded her arms. ‘Spit it out.’

‘Accommodation,’ said Dad. ‘For Eloise. Just for a few weeks, while I’m running around. I’ve got to go back to the city for a while, finalise the investors, talk to architects, put the plans together, that kind of thing.’

‘Why couldn’t she stay where she was?’

‘That was . . . only temporary. Not suitable.’ Dad didn’t say anything about Bree.

Eloise had never liked Bree much. Bree always called her Ellie. Bree thought Eloise was weird.

‘She can’t stay here,’ said Mo flatly. ‘There’s nowhere to put her.’

‘What about my old room?’

‘Excuse me; you haven’t lived here for seventeen years. Things change. That’s my study now.’

‘You’re not still writing that book, are you? The same one? The boat thing?’

‘
A Brief History of Sea Voyages
, yes.’

‘Brief ? You’ve only been writing it for twenty years! Lucky it’s not a
long
history!’

‘Hilarious,’ said Mo coldly.

‘Not to mention the fact that you’ve never even
seen
the sea—’ ‘Haven’t you heard of the internet, Stephen?’

They glared at each other. Then Dad said, more cajolingly, ‘How about that old flop-out in the sunroom, is that still there? She won’t mind roughing it for a while, she’s used to it. Aren’t you, Elder Statesman? As long as she’s got her pencils and paper, she’s happy.’

Eloise stared at the tablecloth. Her stomach was turning corkscrews.

‘She doesn’t look happy to me,’ said Mo. ‘Maybe you should have discussed this plan with her before. Maybe you should have discussed it with
me
.’

‘She’s your granddaughter; you haven’t seen her since she was four. I thought you’d love to spend some time with her!’

‘No, you didn’t. You only thought about what was convenient for
you
.’

‘Come on, Mo. It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do—’ ‘Just the small matter of my
work
.’

‘Oh please. You call that work?’

‘You think you’ve done better, do you? Dragging that poor kid around since Anna died. What kind of life is that for a child? Look at her! She hasn’t spoken a word since she arrived! What’s wrong with her?’

There was a terrible silence.

‘There’s nothing wrong with Eloise,’ said Dad.

‘When did she stop speaking? Or didn’t you notice?’

‘She’s just quiet. She lives in her own world. She always has, even when Anna was—’

There was a rapping at the back door. Dad folded his arms, and for a moment he and Mo glared at each other, chins jutting, like mirror images. Then Mo said grimly, ‘I am not going to take responsibility for your damaged child. That’s your job, not mine. Is that clear?’

She pushed back her chair and marched out of the room.

Dad glanced at Eloise. ‘All right, Electron Microscope?’

A tear ran down the side of Eloise’s nose. She shook her head.

‘Oh Lord,’ muttered Dad. ‘Not
now
. . .’

There were voices in the hall. Then Mo reappeared in the doorway, propelling before her a dark-haired boy a year or two older than Eloise. He held a cardboard box full of groceries.

‘Tommy Durrani,’ announced Mo. ‘From next door. He does all my errands. Worth his weight in gold, this boy. Be lost without him.’

Tommy mumbled something and ducked his head. His grey eyes were fringed with long lashes.

Dad jumped up and thrust out his hand. ‘Pleasure to meet you, young man. Tommy, was it? Glad to hear you’re taking such good care of my old mum.’

Tommy shook the tips of Dad’s fingers, hampered by the box in his arms.

‘My son, Stephen. My granddaughter, Eloise,’ said Mo.

Tommy looked at Eloise. ‘You coming to stay?’

Eloise stared at her soup bowl. Another tear stung at her eye but didn’t fall.

‘Eloise
might
be staying here for a little while,’ Mo said grudgingly at last.

‘Wonderful!’ Dad shouted. ‘That’s marvellous. Thanks, Mo. Thanks, err . . . Tommy.’ He fumbled for his wallet and tried to press a fifty-dollar note into Tommy’s hand. But Tommy stepped sharply backward.

‘I don’t help Mrs Mo for money.’ He scowled, and turned to Mo. ‘I’ll put this in the kitchen.’ He vanished, and a minute later they heard the back door click shut.

Pink-faced, Dad shoved the fifty dollars back into his wallet.

‘Not everybody lives for the almighty dollar, believe it or not,’ said Mo. ‘A thoroughly nice boy, that Tommy. His family’s been in Turner nearly two years now. Sydney before that. The mother’s our local doctor. The father used to be a professor in Afghanistan. Hasn’t got a job here yet.’

‘Professor of what?’ Dad was grumpy now.

‘Psychology.’

‘Huh,’ said Dad.

‘Don’t say it,’ warned Mo.

Dad spread his hands. ‘Say what?’

Eloise didn’t know what either, but then Mo spun around and fixed her with a ferocious stare. ‘As for you, young lady, you need a rest. Think I can’t recognise an over-tired child when I see one? Go and lie down on my bed.’

Eloise froze, but Dad nudged her. ‘Go on. Mo’s right. We’ve had a long day, and a late one last night.’

Mo swept Eloise into her bedroom. Numbly, Eloise removed her shoes and scrambled onto the high white bed. Mo grunted and closed the door.

Eloise lay flat on her back and gazed up at the blotchy ceiling. It was a relief to be alone. People tired her out, especially new people. A murmur of voices came from the living room. Probably Dad and Mo were talking about her. She rolled onto her side and pulled a pillow over her ear.

Even with the awning down, Mo’s bedroom was like an oven; the sun had baked the roof all afternoon. The world was getting hotter and hotter, Eloise knew that. But there were lots of things she didn’t know. Bree had told Dad she was
unbelievably naïve
. That was one of the things Eloise wasn’t supposed to hear. But she was pretty sure that Bree had never seen a ghost . . .

A shiver ran across Eloise’s skin. She sat up and looked around for a pen or a piece of paper, but there was nothing to draw with. She lay back down and imagined the ceiling was a sheet of paper. She raised one hand and traced the shape of the girl in the air: the grey shadows behind her, the pale outline of her dress, the dark cloud of the girl’s hair beneath her hat. Eloise moved her hand this way and that, tilting the invisible pencil, slowly filling in the blankness with lines, with smudges and shadings of grey. A mist of sadness spread through her as she realised something she hadn’t really noticed at the time: the ghostly girl was so
happy
. Eloise hadn’t been happy like that since . . . not for a long time . . .