Granny Rags Read online

  ‘No,’ said Tim, wanting to get out of there. For some reason, those two men gave him the creeps. Especially the fat one – Oliver’s uncle.

  ‘I’ll show y’somethin’ else,’ said Lockie and they headed back the way they’d come.

  ‘We’ll have to be quick,’ said Tim. ‘It’ll be getting dark soon.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ said Lockie, looking up at the sky. ‘We’ve got ages yet. Anyway, this won’t take long.’

  They walked back along the road until they reached the old mailbox again.

  ‘Why is there a mailbox here?’ asked Tim, suddenly curious.

  ‘Aha,’ said Lockie. ‘That’s what I wanted t’show ya.’ And he pointed to a narrow track that branched off the road and ran into the bush. Lockie moved closer and dropped his voice, as if he were telling a secret. ‘Someone lives down there.’

  After the stories Lockie had already told him today, Tim wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d said the three bears lived down the track.

  ‘Can y’see it?’ asked Lockie, nodding his head towards the track.

  ‘What?’ asked Tim.

  ‘That …’ said Lockie, ‘… is where Granny Rags lives.’

  ‘Granny Rags?’

  A wide grin spread across Lockie’s face.

  Tim looked again. There, amongst the trees and bushes and long thick grass, he could just make out part of a rusted roof and a brick chimney.

  ‘Who’s Granny Rags?’ he whispered, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

  ‘Granny Rags,’ Lockie whispered back, ‘is a witch. Well, that’s what the kids at school reckon. She’s really old and she wears raggy clothes, and she’s got a long black stick that she hits people with, ‘specially kids. She hates kids. And she snarls, like this.’ Lockie pulled a face, lips drawn and teeth bared. ‘And her teeth are all black—’

  Tim frowned.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Lockie. ‘Oliver at school, he went down there last year with his cousin. He told us she came out snarlin’ and rantin’ and ravin’, and she ‘ad a big stick and she was wavin’ it about, tryin’ to hit ‘em. She nearly did, too, Oliver said. They were lucky to get away.’

  ‘They’re just saying that,’ said Tim. ‘There’s no such thing as witches.’

  ‘Well, why don’t y’go down there and see for y’self?’ said Lockie indignantly. ‘Then y’ll believe me.’

  Tim glanced at the lengthening shadows again, and thought about the fish and chips they were having for tea. ‘Ah, maybe some other time. I’d better get home. We’re having takeaway tonight.’

  Lockie opened his mouth to say something, but just then the sun slipped down behind a tall gum tree and the world seemed to lose its light. He shivered. ‘I guess I’d better get goin’ too,’ he said. ‘M’dad’ll be wonderin’ where I am. It’s my turn to cook tea tonight. Think we’ll have baked beans on toast, if there’s any bread left. Come on, I’ll race ya.’

  And Lockie was gone.

  Chapter Three

  Lockie was sitting on the fence beside the front gate when Tim and his mother arrived at school the next morning.

  ‘Hey,’ he called, jumping down from the fence. ‘Y’want me t’take y’to the classroom, Tim?’

  ‘That’s nice of you, Lockie,’ said Mrs Trickett. ‘I think Tim’s feeling a bit nervous about the first day at his new school.’

  Tim rolled his eyes. Lockie just grinned.

  ‘So, where’s your mother, Lockie?’ she asked.

  ‘M’mum? She’s at work. Out at Dickenson’s piggery—’

  A bell rang.

  ‘That’s first bell,’ said Lockie. ‘We can go into our classrooms now. Come on, I’ll show y’where t’go. S’okay, Mrs Trickett. I’ll look after him if y’wanna get to work.’

  ‘Ahmm, I think I should meet Mr Martin,’ she said.

  Tim’s shoulders sagged. It was bad enough being the new kid without his mother taking him to the classroom.

  ‘But you go with Lockie, Tim,’ she added, quickly. ‘And I’ll just have a quick word with Mr Martin before I go.’

  Tim didn’t hesitate. He rushed off after Lockie before his mother decided to give him a hug.

  ‘See ya, Mrs Trickett,’ Lockie called over his shoulder.

  They made their way up the stairs and Lockie pushed through a group of girls who were all talking at once.

  ‘Hi, Lockie. Who’s your friend?’ called one of them. She was chewing gum.

  ‘This is Tim,’ said Lockie, grinning. ‘He’s new.’

  ‘Well, duh,’ said the girl, rolling her eyes, and all the others laughed.

  Tim felt himself go red, but Lockie just ignored them and pushed on into the classroom.

  ‘Y’don’t wanna worry about them,’ said Lockie. ‘They’re just girls. Chloe’s the worst. She’s always a bit—’

  ‘Lockie. Good to see you. And who’s this?’

  ‘Hello, Mr Martin. This is Tim. He’s new.’

  ‘Hello. It’s Tim Trickett, isn’t it? Your mother or father not with you?’

  ‘Ah … Mum’s coming,’ said Tim, glancing towards the door. ‘She’ll be here in a minute.’

  ‘We’ll just find a seat while y’waitin’ for ‘er, sir,’ said Lockie. ‘Come on, Tim. Let’s sit up here.’ And he dumped his backpack on a desk at the back of the room.

  When Tim had finished unpacking his backpack, his mother was still there talking to the teacher. Every so often they would glance his way, and each time Tim would feel his left shoulder itching under his school shirt. He tried not to rub it.

  ‘Must be nice to have y’mum come t’school with y’sometimes,’ said Lockie, leaning his chair back against the wall, only two legs on the floor.

  ‘Doesn’t your mother come sometimes?’ asked Tim.

  Lockie pulled a face and shook his head. ‘Nah. She doesn’t like schools much.’

  ‘But what about things like, you know, the Christmas concert, or parent reporting?’

  ‘Nah. Says she hated school when she was a kid, but she don’t mind me and m’sister comin’. Says we oughtta get better jobs than she’s got.’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t know what’s wrong with her job. Good pay, she says. But I guess I wouldn’t mind bein’ a truck driver or somethin’ like that. Could see the country that way. Though what m’dad does is pretty cool, workin’ for the council. Drives the grader. Would love t’do that. Whatta you wanna be, Tim?’

  ‘Don’t know, but I don’t want to be a nurse, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Don’t blame ya,’ laughed Lockie. ‘Oh-oh,’ he added, glancing towards the door.

  Tim turned to see what he was looking at. Heading towards them was a kid way too big to be in grade five.

  ‘That’s my seat, McKenzie,’ snarled the boy.

  ‘Oliver. Down here please,’ called Mr Martin.

  The boy glared at Lockie. ‘You’ll keep,’ he snarled before turning away.

  So that was Oliver, thought Tim, glad he wasn’t sitting anywhere near him in class.

  It was a different story at lunchtime. Oliver pushed a little kid off the seat next to Lockie and sat down.

  ‘What you got for lunch, new kid?’ Oliver demanded, elbowing Lockie out of the way and reaching for Tim’s lunch box.

  Oliver zipped it open before Tim could stop him.

  ‘Ew, salad and fruit. That ain’t lunch. That’s rabbit food.’ And he tossed the lunch box back in disgust. ‘What you got, McKenzie?’

  ‘Football biscuits and butter,’ said Lockie. ‘And ya ain’t getting’ them,’ he added, quickly licking each one.

  ‘You’re a pig, McKenzie. I ain’t sittin’ here with you,’ Oliver said, and he lumbered off to find someone else’s lunch to eat.

  ‘Is he always like that?’ asked Tim.

  ‘Oliver? Yeah. But if ya spit on ya lunch or lick it, he’ll leave y’alone,’ said Lockie through a mouthful of biscuit. Tim had never thought of putting butter on arrowroot biscuits. Would his mother even let him? As for sp
itting on his food …

  ‘You gunna come and play footy with us boys at playtime?’ asked Lockie, bits of biscuit spraying out onto the cement in front of them.

  A shadow fell across them. Tim and Lockie both looked up. Oliver was back, and in his hand he had someone’s ham sandwich.

  ‘Yeah, you comin’ down to play with us, new boy?’ Oliver asked with a sneer.

  ‘Ah, I might just watch to start with,’ said Tim.

  Oliver sniffed. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said and lumbered off again. Tim watched as he walked over to a group of the girls from their class, looking over their shoulders at their lunch boxes.

  ‘Get lost, Baxter,’ yelled Chloe, taking a swipe at him.

  Oliver laughed, but backed off all the same. Then a grin spread across his face.

  ‘Hey Chloe …’ he said, looking back to where Tim and Lockie were sitting. He leaned in and said something to Chloe, and Chloe laughed. Her eyes fell on Tim and she said something back. They both nodded, then sauntered towards Tim.

  Something heavy churned in the pit of his stomach.

  The bell rang then and silence fell over the eating area. Everyone wanted to get out into the playground. Chloe ducked back to sit with her group of friends, leaving Oliver standing alone.

  ‘Oliver,’ roared the teacher. ‘First day of school and you’re already breaking the rules.’

  ‘It was—’ Oliver started, but the teacher cut him off.

  ‘My room tomorrow. You can eat your lunch outside my door. Make that Wednesday as well, now find a seat. Everyone’s waiting for you.’

  Scowling, Oliver pushed his way onto the end of the closest seat.

  ‘You’ll keep,’ he snarled across at Tim.

  ‘When you’re ready, Oliver,’ called the teacher, his whistle hovering in front of his mouth.

  So it wasn’t until lunchtime on Thursday that Tim found out what Oliver had been planning. He squashed himself in between Tim and Lockie and as Tim tried to move away, Oliver’s huge hand shot out and grasped his arm.

  ‘Not so fast, Trickett,’ he said. ‘We just want to have a little chat, that’s all.’

  ‘We?’ said Tim. He looked up. Chloe was standing in front of him, arms crossed, smirking, a group of girls behind her.

  Tim bent forward, trying to catch Lockie’s eye, but Lockie was busy stuffing a sandwich into his mouth.

  ‘It’s alright, Trickett. We ain’t going to hurt you or nothing,’ said Oliver. ‘Just want to be sure you get … initiated.’

  ‘Initiated?’ Tim had read stories about kids the size of Oliver initiating others kids. His eyes darted around. Where was the teacher? He couldn’t see one.

  ‘Ohhh, Oliver. You’ve got him scared,’ said Chloe, and she laughed. ‘I don’t think he’s going to be able to do it.’

  ‘He’ll do it,’ said Oliver.

  ‘Do what?’ asked Tim, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. His shoulder ached and his stomach churned.

  ‘Haven’t you told him?’ said Oliver, turning to Lockie.

  But Lockie had his mouth full of bread.

  ‘Told me what?’ asked Tim.

  ‘You going to set it up then?’ Oliver asked Lockie, ignoring Tim.

  Lockie nodded as he shoved even more bread into his overloaded mouth.

  Lockie, you’re supposed to be my friend.

  ‘Ah, I don’t know,’ said Chloe. ‘Look, he’s gone all pale. I reckon he’s too chicken.’

  ‘Course he’s not. Are you, Trickett?’ said Oliver, wrapping his arm around Tim. ‘I reckon you’d jump at the chance to hunt—’

  ‘What’s going on here?’ came a voice.

  Chloe and her friends stepped back. Tim looked up at a teacher old enough to have come in on the ark. The teacher looked back down at Tim over the top of her glasses.

  ‘New boy, hey,’ she grunted. ‘Why aren’t you eating your lunch?’

  ‘I was just telling him that, Mrs McGregor,’ said Oliver, a smirk on his face.

  Tim withered under Mrs McGregor’s glare and unzipped his lunch box. Mrs McGregor looked over at Chloe and the group of girls. ‘Find a seat,’ she snapped at them. ‘And I hope that’s not gum you’re all chewing.’

  Chloe shrugged and walked away, the rest of the girls, and Oliver, following. Mrs McGregor narrowed her eyes as she watched them go before searching for someone else to pounce on.

  ‘Who’s she?’ whispered Tim.

  ‘Mrs McGregor? She’s the grade one teacher,’ Lockie said.

  ‘She’s so … old,’ said Tim.

  ‘Yeah. Dad says she’s been here since the year dot. She taught ‘im when he was in grade one. And m’mum. Grandad reckons she was even here when he went t’school. Says she was Miss something-or-other back then, but.’

  ‘Lockie. Eat,’ barked Mrs McGregor as she walked past them again.

  Tim gave a shiver, glad she hadn’t been his grade one teacher.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Okay, class,’ Mr Martin said on Friday. ‘We’ve got a few minutes before lunch so we’re going to start our social science project for the term.’

  He turned and wrote “Our Local Community” on the whiteboard.

  ‘We’ll start with something simple,’ he said as he wrote. ‘We’re going to look at all the jobs people have in our community. And we’re starting with the jobs your parents have.’

  Tim felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. No. Anything but this. And his shoulder throbbed.

  ‘Oliver, why don’t we start with you?’ said Mr Martin.

  Oliver stood and looked around the class with squinty eyes, as if daring anyone to laugh at what his parents did.

  ‘My mum, she works in the butcher shop, selling meat, and my dad, he works for my Uncle Barry. Uncle Barry’s a real estate agent.’

  ‘So does that mean your father sells property, Oliver?’ asked Mr Martin.

  Oliver hesitated. Then he said, ‘No. He helps in the office. My Uncle Barry says he’s real good at organising stuff, like ads in the paper and … stuff like that.’

  ‘So, I guess you could call him an office manager,’ said Mr Martin, writing the words up on the whiteboard.

  Oliver grinned. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s what he is. An office manager.’

  ‘That’s good, Oliver. Thank you. Okay, next we’ll have …’

  Lockie’s hand shot up as Mr Martin looked around the room. Tim slouched down in his chair, hoping he’d never be picked.

  ‘Tim,’ said Mr Martin, looking right at him. ‘How about your parents? Want to tell us what they do?’

  Tim wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole as all eyes turned his way. Reluctantly he rose from his chair, his tongue feeling like a piece of cotton wool in his mouth.

  ‘Ah …’ he started. ‘My mum, she works at the supermarket—’

  ‘Yeah. She’s a check-out chick,’ said Lockie beside him.

  The class laughed and Tim felt the blood rising to his face. His shoulder ached.

  ‘That’s enough, Lockie,’ said Mr Martin. ‘Let Tim tell his own story.’

  Do I have to?

  But the class grew silent as they waited to hear what his father did. He licked his lips, but still he hesitated.

  ‘And his dad’s a—’ started Lockie.

  ‘Lockie,’ warned Mr Martin. ‘Come on, Tim, we’d all like to know.’

  ‘He’s the DON,’ blurted Tim.

  The class was silent.

  Then Oliver snorted. ‘You mean like a crime boss?’ he said. ‘Hey, everyone. The mafia’s come to town.’

  The class laughed.

  ‘I don’t think Tim means that sort of don,’ said Mr Martin patiently. ‘Tim, you want to elaborate?’

  No. ‘Ah, it means he’s the director of nursing. Up at the hospital.’

  There was not a sound in the room. Then Chloe said, ‘You mean he’s a nurse?’ Everyone started talking at once then, and Tim felt himself turn a peculiar shade of beetroot.
r />   ‘That’s enough,’ said Mr Martin. He was about to say more but the bell rang. It could have rung a minute earlier, thought Tim as he dropped back on his seat. He wondered where he could hide for the lunch hour. Perhaps the library …

  But before he could finish his lunch, Oliver slid onto the bench beside him.

  ‘Now, what were we talking about yesterday?’ Oliver said, helping himself to a grape from Tim’s lunch box. ‘Before Mrs McGregor interrupted us?’

  ‘Still don’t reckon he’ll do it,’ snorted Chloe, who was hovering close by with her pack of friends.

  Tim looked down at his grapes, his appetite gone. He didn’t even know what it was he was supposed to do, but he was sure he wouldn’t want to do it.

  ‘He’ll do it,’ said Lockie, beside him.

  Gee, thanks, Lockie.

  ‘What?’ said Tim. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Well,’ said Oliver, popping another grape into his mouth, ‘it’s all about going to sort out our local witch.’

  As soon as Oliver said the word witch, Tim understood. This was about that old woman who lived down near the creek.

  Granny Rags.

  Oliver grinned. ‘I reckon he knows who we’re talking about. So, Lockie, you’ll sort him out then? Make sure he goes through with it?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Lockie as he pushed another sandwich into his mouth.

  ‘Goes through with what?’ asked Tim.

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Oliver, standing.

  Then he sat down again, a smirk spreading across his face like a tidal wave.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘your dad’s a nurse, hey. What does he wear to work, a nurse’s uniform? A neat little white dress?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Chloe. ‘And does he wear a little cap on top of his head?’

  Tim knew this would happen as soon as the kids found out what his father did. It had happened in his last school, too.

  ‘As a matter of fact, he does have a uniform but he mostly wears scrubs,’ he said, then he pointed a finger at Chloe and his voice rose a notch. ‘And for your information, Chloe, nurses haven’t worn caps for years.’