The Golden Child Read online

  SOPHIE

  SHE’S BEEN AT HUNTER LADIES’ COLLEGE – OR HLC AS IT’S known locally – for more than three years now, yet somehow Sophie still feels like a new girl. She’s never quite lost that sense of disorientation – of never really being certain that she’s in the right place with the right people, doing the right thing.

  But she’s not even close to being the newest girl in the class. Since Sophie’s arrival, eight girls have left and nine have taken their place. Two of the girls who left – Tess and Maya – represented the sum total of her friends at HLC, and Sophie is finding it hard, maybe impossible, to replace them. Their friendship began tentatively enough: the other two were very close, had known each other since preschool, went to gymnastics together, played violin in the same string group; their parents were old friends who spent weekends away up the coast. But early in year five they took her in, and the three of them formed their own tight little group. By year six they were inseparable, spent all their lunchtimes together, as well as their spare time – there were sleepovers, play-dates, visits to the movies and even a few parent-free trips to the mall.

  The three of them were initially bound by their weirdness. While they weren’t exactly the least popular girls, they were regarded by most of the others as mildly irritating. None of them were pretty or sporty, and all three of them were talented in ways that most of the other girls considered lame. But their friendship kept them safe. Without each other they might have been picked on; together they were left in peace. Their friendship was real enough, though; they knew everything there was to know about one another – favourite colours, TV shows, books; their opinions of classmates, parents, teachers; the boys they knew outside school; even the occupations of their future husbands, the names of their future children . . .

  So Sophie was devastated when both girls announced they were leaving midway through year six – Maya heading to Melbourne and Tess to boarding school in Sydney – and though there were promises made to keep in touch, cards with many hearts and crosses exchanged, a flurry of hugs and even a few random tears, they haven’t met up once since their departure. To begin with there was a bit of virtual interaction: text messages and emails, but these gradually dried up. Sophie has remained a little hurt, but she understands that it was inevitable. After all, she barely talks to Ruby, her BFF from Scone, at all these days. They’ve both moved on. It’s the way things work.

  She couldn’t care less about the other girls who left at the end of last year. None of them were her friends – even Jemima Hobcroft, who once told her (in the quietest whisper, so that no one else would hear) that she thought she played the piano awesomely. The remainder of the class are pretty much bitches – at least when it comes to Sophie. Those who aren’t actively nasty are nasty by omission: they simply don’t notice her, don’t include her, don’t care. One or two aren’t so bad: Mimi Leroux, whose mum has just had a baby, too, occasionally compares notes on the relative cuteness of their new brothers, and Matty Matherson sometimes talks to her in choir, but this friendliness never extends into lunchtimes or invitations to play. Even the new girls who came to the orientation days at the end of year six quickly worked out that Sophie is on some sort of class blacklist. That she is one of half a dozen girls who – for whatever dumb reason – are to be avoided.

  Anticipating the painfulness of sitting alone at lunchtimes – or worse, being forced to sit with the other class lepers, who form an unhappy clique of their own – and maintaining the pretence that it is done by choice, Sophie has had her mum arrange all her additional music tutoring during lunch breaks. With music and theory lessons, and then ensemble and choir, free time should be a rarity. On those days when empty lunchtimes loom, now she’s in year seven she can join Miss Foley’s reading club, which is a haven for the more bookish freaks and misfits. And if there are times when there’s really nowhere to go, like this first week back, when there are no lunchtime activities, there’s always the reading nook in the library.

  When Charlotte Mahony arrives during the period three maths class – she’s spent the morning doing the placement test the rest of them sat last year – Mrs Taylor chooses Indiana Olsen-Goring (or Indiana Oh-so-Boring, as Tessa nicknamed her back in year five) to look after her, even though the headmistress, Dr Holding, has already asked Sophie, calling her into the office to arrange the pairing when Sophie delivered the roll after pastoral. All the other new girls were paired with a buddy during last year’s orientation, but Charlotte has only just arrived in Newcastle (she’s come all the way from America!) and needs someone to show her the ropes.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry, dear,’ Mrs Taylor says when Sophie explains that it was meant to be her job. ‘I’m afraid it’s too late now. And I thought Indiana was the perfect buddy for our new classmate, seeing that she’s just come from America.’ Mrs Taylor gives a loud and slightly mucosal snort of laughter, and the class joins in, not laughing at her pathetic joke, of course, but at the woman herself, who has the reputation of being the ugliest teacher in the school, with her fat cheeks and her googly blue eyes and her huge nose that hooks right under like a parrot beak. Even Sophie, who knows that looks aren’t important, and is always predisposed to see the best in people, has to admit that Mrs Taylor is odd looking. She’s a very good teacher – she ran the maths enrichment program back in primary – and is usually kind to Sophie, so she’s willing to forgive her this oversight. After all, a new girl isn’t really such a big deal.

  Big deal or not, Sophie has to swallow her disappointment when the new girl arrives halfway through the lesson, accompanied by a smug-looking Indiana. Charlotte Mahony is amazingly pretty – her hair, in two neat plaits with navy ribbons tied in bows at the end, is the colour of sunshine; her eyes are the brightest shade of blue, wide and clear; she has a cute little gap between her two front teeth; and there are even dimples in her cheeks when she smiles, which she seems to do constantly. She has a sprinkling of freckles across her nose – not the horrid fat splodges that Sophie has been cursed with (or, as her mother likes to put it, kissed with) all over her face and legs and arms, so that sometimes, if she squints hard at herself in the mirror, she could be a very brown person, instead of a very pale person with spots. If you discount the not-red hair, Charlotte Mahony is much closer to Sophie’s idea of Anne Shirley than the actress in the TV version of Anne of Green Gables. Her accent might be American and not Canadian – but who can tell?

  Oh, she likes everything about the new girl – especially the fact that she’s new, and doesn’t know that Sophie is currently (because who knows when this will change?) a social outcast. Every new girl provides an opportunity for friendship, for new beginnings, and Sophie gazes at Charlotte longingly as she follows Indiana across the classroom. Their desks are in line with hers and Sophie gives Charlotte a shy smile as the girl pulls out her chair. Charlotte beams back and mouths Hello, before turning back to her desk, unpacking her bag.

  Sophie’s heart gives a little pitter-pat. A smile, a greeting – oh, miracles! – a possible new friend.

  DizzyLizzy.com

  The Haunting of Hill House

  ‘Did you two hear the ghost last night?’

  ‘What ghost?’ I suspect my daughters’ in-unison shrieks can be heard right across the valley.

  ‘There’s a ghost, apparently. The real estate agent warned us when we moved in. Any house this old is bound to have a ghost or two.’

  I glare at D and shake my head, but he’s having too much fun to notice.

  ‘What sort of a ghost is it?’ asks the ever practical C.

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘You know. Is it a kid or a grown-up?’

  ‘And how did they die? Were they murdered? Or did they just die of old age?’

  It’s obvious that D hasn’t thought this through. ‘I’ve no idea. I’m sure it wasn’t anything serious like murder, though.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, the real estate people would have told us, wouldn’t they?’

>   ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they have to.’

  ‘Oh. So what does this ghost do?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ D waves his arms about, ‘ghosty things.’

  ‘Dad. Seriously. Like, does it just make noises? Does it move things? What?’

  He has to think for a moment. ‘It’s just footsteps, apparently. Up and down the stairs all night.’

  ‘Up and down all night?’ I can’t resist. ‘That sounds like your mother and her bladder.’ Now D glares at me.

  ‘Actually,’ L’s eyes are wide, ‘I did hear something weird last night. It wasn’t on the stairs, though.’

  It’s time for me to intervene. ‘I’m sure you didn’t really. Dad’s only kidding.’

  ‘I did. It sounded like a baby crying.’

  ‘Oh, that. I heard it too, darling. It’s just some strange bird. Maybe an owl?’

  ‘Are you sure? It was pretty loud. And it went on and on.’

  ‘Actually,’ C is looking worried now, ‘I’ve heard that too. Heaps of times. It’s really freaky.’

  ‘Hey, it’s okay. There’s no ghost. Really. I was only joking.’ D’s attempt to reassure them comes too late – they’re not even listening.

  ‘Well, I’m not sleeping in my room tonight.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘I HATE my room. It’s totally freaky.’

  ‘All those paintings of dead animals – and that wallpaper. It gives me the creeps.’

  Then, what I’ve been waiting for ever since D mentioned the G-word:

  ‘Muuuuum,’ the two girls shriek. ‘Can we sleep with you?’

  44

  EXPATTERINGS:

  @GirlFromIpanema says:

  Could it be the ghost of grandma’s bladder?

  @OzMumInTokyo says:

  But there isn’t really a ghost, is there? I’d be sleeping with you too ☺

  @SunLover says:

  So the house is old, is it, Lizzy? Bet it’s cold! We lived in a really big old place in Sydney once and it was unbearable in winter! Nothing we could do to get warm. Spent half of winter wrapped in a blanket.

  @DizzyLizzy replied:

  Tbh, I’m freezing my tits off, @SunLover. It’s a shock, after central heating L

  @AnchoreDownInAlaska replied:

  No sympathy from me, Lizzy ☺ I’m sure your winter temps are way higher than our summer!

  @BlueSue says:

  Old houses can be so romantic – and so hard to live in. We’re still renovating the Federation cottage we bought when we first moved back. Somehow it never seems to end – you fix one thing and another needs doing. Looking back, we should have bought a nice new brick home, with a fitted kitchen and ensuite bathroom and a manageable garden. So much easier to maintain and keep warm – though we thought they were terribly boring back then. Ah well, you live and learn!

  @TheExorcist says:

  If you’re experiencing a haunting or have a resident spirit that needs resettling, contact [email protected] for a free consultation.

  BETH

  THERE MAY NOT BE AN ACTUAL GHOST, BUT THEIR FIRST weeks in the new house are still somewhat horrifying. They were in holiday mode when they first moved in. Up until then everything had been easy; even their stay at Margie’s had been surprisingly pleasant, without incident. And the weeks in the apartment had been an idyll in retrospect: they spent hours wandering the inner city and the foreshore, went surfing almost every day (the beach was only a block away!), ate out every second night – Newcastle being a gourmet’s paradise, apparently. Dan’s workload was only light thus far, and he was constantly cheerful. Even the first few weeks of the school term felt oddly free of the usual pressures: there was little homework, no ongoing issues with friends and teachers – everything was new and exciting. But the move into the house signals a return to reality.

  Despite its charming appearance, living in the old place is anything but. Not only are the rooms cold and dark – even in late summer – they’re dingy. Nothing seems to work properly. Their (solitary) toilet flushes only on occasion, and then halfheartedly; hot water runs out after a single shower; the ancient dishwasher covers all the dishes with a fine layer of silt; the reverse-cycle heating barely takes the edge off the cold. The kitchen cupboard doors don’t close properly, and once night falls, all horizontal surfaces (and some vertical ones) teem with tiny brown cockroaches. The furniture, which had seemed in reasonable condition when Dan viewed the house, is beyond salvaging – springs have sprung in every mattress, chairs have missing legs, the lounge suite cushions don’t fit the lounge. And everything smells faintly of cat piss.

  There’s nothing that’s unfamiliar to Beth – the house is no more dilapidated than those she’d rented when she was a student – but the girls have never lived in a house that’s so ramshackle. Their West Bloomfield house was built in the middle of the nineteenth century – so it was old by Australian standards, and older than this – but it had been completely refurbished: kitchens and bathrooms had been renovated, the rooms painted and re-carpeted, the windows restored and double glazed. Inside, it was like a new house. But the mansion on The Hill is showing all the wear and tear of its one hundred and thirty years. It’ll be fine once the renovations are done, but there’s so much to do. Beth has made a start on the painting, but the roof needs repairing, they need new carpet, built-ins, the kitchen and bathroom have to be replaced and a second toilet and shower installed in the enormous laundry. It takes so much time. She still hasn’t managed to arrange all the quotes, let alone finalise installation dates.

  Both girls find reasons to complain, but Charlie makes her disgust clear at every opportunity. ‘It’s just revolting, Mum. It’s so dirty. It’s like there’s a thousand years of grime on everything you touch. Look.’ The four of them are squeezed into the kitchen nook – a little nineteen fifties built-in table and bench that seemed cute until they actually had to sit at it eating breakfast. Charlie runs her finger along the wall, and it comes away coated in a thin film of grease. ‘And the furniture. It’s foul. It stinks like . . . dirty socks.’

  ‘You could always stop breathing.’

  Dan’s joke falls flat.

  ‘That’s actually not funny, Dad.’ Charlie’s voice is icy. ‘You know, even if I had any friends, which I don’t, I couldn’t invite them back here. It’s embarrassing. Why did you have to buy such an old house? Aren’t there any new houses around here? And when are we getting new furniture? You said it wouldn’t be long. Why couldn’t we just stay in the apartment until all the renovations are done? I can’t sleep on that bed any more – it’s lumpy, and the smell is making me sick. And there are spider webs on everything. This is like living in the slums.’

  ‘Slums? Oh, come on, Charlie. Get real.’ Dan tousles his daughter’s hair, but she pulls away. ‘It’s not that bad, you know. It’s not like we’re in some mud hut in Africa.’

  She rolls her eyes at this. ‘That’s a stupid comparison, Dad.’ Charlie is clearly ready to work herself up into a self-righteous rage, but Dan interrupts, his voice suddenly stern.

  ‘You girls are very, very lucky. You know that this is temporary, that we’ll be doing renovations, getting new furniture, as soon as we can. In the meantime, the house is perfectly comfortable. It’s nothing like living in a slum. Perhaps you need to be sent somewhere where there are real slums, where people don’t have fresh running water or hot meals or comfortable beds to sleep in.’

  He sounds so much like his mother when he starts on these lectures, and his effect on the girls is similar to Margie’s – Lucy looks dejected and slightly guilty, Charlie immediately defensive. Beth intervenes, changes the subject before the conversation gets any more heated. ‘Speaking of friends, Charlie, I’ve arranged a sort of a play-date for you.’

  ‘A play-date? What do you mean? I’m too old for you to arrange play-dates.’

  ‘Well, it’s not really a play-date. It’s all of us . . .’ a smile here at Dan, ‘. . . us girls,
anyway. You know that woman I met in the playground last week? The one I told you about. Her daughter Sophie’s in your class. She’s invited us over for afternoon tea. I thought it might be fun.’

  ‘Sophie? She’s that girl who plays the piano, isn’t she? The fat one?’

  ‘Charlie!’ Her sister looks shocked.

  ‘Well, she is.’ Charlie looks amused all of a sudden. ‘I wasn’t being mean, Lucy. Just calling a – what does Grandma Francie call it? – just calling a spade a spade.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’ Dan looks at his daughter, aghast. ‘Please don’t start quoting Francine at us.’

  ‘But Sophie is fat, isn’t she?’ Charlie challenges her older sister. Lucy looks uncomfortable.

  ‘Well, maybe she’s not skinny.’ Lucy looks at her mother. ‘But she’s awesome at the piano, Mum. I’ve never heard anything so amazing. She’s just about finished all the music grades, the music teacher said, and she’s won all these huge prizes. She’s like a child genius.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’ Beth is desperate to regain control of the conversation. ‘Anyway, her mum, Andi, seems really nice, and she asked if we’d like to come for afternoon tea, so I said yes. We’re going over on Thursday. Charlie, you and Sophie can walk back to her place after school, and then Lucy and I will come after her dance class. This will be our first Newcastle visit! Won’t it be lovely?’

  Lucy gives her mother an uncertain smile. ‘Sounds like fun.’

  Charlie looks down at her toast, drags a finger through the thick peanut butter.

  ‘Charlie?’

  She shrugs. ‘Yeah. Whatever. But Mum. And Dad. And you too, Lucy.’ She puts a buttery finger in her mouth, looks around the table with an expression that Beth can’t quite read.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you all. It’s important.’

  ‘What is it, Charlie?’

  ‘It’s that I want to be Charlotte from now on. Not Charlie, Charlotte.’