The Ghost's Child Hardcover - 2008

Excerpt

One damp silvery afternoon an old lady came home from walking her dog and found a boy sitting in her lounge room on the fl oral settee. The boy hadn’t been invited, so the old lady was surprised to see him. It wasn’t a large boy, and he looked annoyed and bored, as if he had been waiting for her for some time. The lounge room was cold, and the tip of his nose had turned softly pink, which made the old lady feel sorry for him. "Youshould have lit the fire," she said, and pressed a button and twisted a dial, causing flames to jump up like cancan dancers inside the silver chest of the heater. Her guest didn’t answer, but looked more aggrieved: beinga boy of a certain age, he had a taste for suffering manfully, and preferred not to be given advice. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked him. "I’m about to make a pot."

The boy thought for a moment; then said morosely, "Yes please."

The old lady was relieved to hear that he knew about please and thank you. At least he had some manners. She hung up her cardigan and went to the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. The kitchen was cleanand lined with green cupboards; on the speckled bench were rectangular tins for fl our and coffee and rice. On the windowsill was a posy of drooping fuchsias from the garden. Although she couldn’t see him, the oldlady knew that her curious visitor was still sitting on the settee, hands folded in his lap, waiting and watching for her. She tried not to wonder what he intended to do or say. She determined to keep her thoughts veryblank, so she wouldn’t race ahead of him or turn a wrong corner in her mind. She couldn’t help smiling at the thought of him seated so casually in her lounge room. It was odd, and also somehow fl attering, as when a stray cat chooses your house to call home.

While the kettle boiled she busied herself putting biscuits on a plate and pouring milk into a jug; while the tea was brewing she dressed the pot in its cozy for warmth; then carried the pot, the cups, the jug, the sugar bowl and the biscuits into the lounge on a tray.

The boy was sitting on the verge of his seat and looking down at the dog, who sat by the heater staring intently back at him. The dog was small and longlegged, with a rough coat the color of winter and treacle- colored eyes, and a spiky mustache of wet whiskers after rummaging in the grass. "What’s your dog’s name?" the boy asked, without glancing up.

The old lady -- whose name was Matilda -- put the tray on the little glass table that stood between the chairs, and poured the tea into porcelain cups. "His name is Peake," she said. "Do you take sugar?"

"What sort of dog is he?"

The tea flowed fragrantly from the teapot’s spout, the color of conifer sap. "The proper sort, I suppose. He quarrels with cats and chats with strangers and keeps himself clean. He buries bones and keeps tabs on his enemies and sleeps under my bed. That sort of dog."

Rather sharply, as if he detested having to explain himself, the boy said, "I meant what breed is he, what kind?"

"Who knows?" Matilda shook her head. "The scruffy kind, the busybody kind, the kind which likes his dinner on time. He’s something of everything, the way a dog should be. Do you take sugar?" she asked again.

"I don’t know." The boy looked suddenly thin with confusion. "Should I?"

"You would prob ably prefer it."

"Yes please, sugar," he said, as if he’d known all along.

Matilda stirred sugar into both cups. The milk turned the tea a pressed- rose brown. Quiffs of white steam waltzed and vanished. The boy returned to studying Peake. "You should have called him Max," he said. "Max is a good name for a dog."

"A good name for some dogs," Matilda agreed, "but not for Peake."

"Does he bite?"

"Occasionally, I’m afraid. There are certain cats, and certain people, of whom he particularly disapproves."

The boy smiled -- as if he too disapproved of certain things, and was occasionally tempted to bite them. Peake was watching the visitor closely, neither wagging his tail nor growling but simply staring. Hewatched the boy take the cup and saucer that Matilda passed across the table; his ears, angular as envelopes, twitched when the spoon clinked on the cup. The boy looked appreciatively into the tea, but pouted whenMatilda offered him the biscuit plate. "I prefer biscuits with jam," he said.

"So do I," said Matilda. "There were some in the tin, but I ate them. There’s usually only Peake and myself, you see, so we eat all the fancy biscuits and leave the plain ones for last. I’d have bought a cake or sometarts if I’d known we were expecting a visitor today."