The Girl In the Cave Read online

  THE GIRL

  IN THE CAVE

  ANTHONY EATON has never, to the best of his knowledge, lived in a cave, though he did once spend an afternoon at the beach in a particularly deep hole. After finally digging himself out, he grew up in Perth where, acting against all advice, he became a teacher and writer. His books have been published in one language, and have been sold in almost two different countries.

  Young Adult Fiction

  The Darkness

  A New Kind of Dreaming

  Fireshadow

  Younger Readers

  Nathan Nuttboard Hits the Beach

  Contents

  Cover

  Author Bio

  Also by Anthony Eaton

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One – The Girl in the Cave

  Chapter Two – Earwax and Toenails

  Chapter Three – Butterfly Day

  Chapter Four – A Phone Call

  Chapter Five – A Glimmer in the Rock

  Chapter Six – A Visitor

  Chapter Seven – Another Cupboard

  Chapter Eight – Zerynthia polyxena

  Chapter Nine – The Secret Drawer

  Chapter Ten – Digging

  Chapter Eleven – A Surprise

  Imprint Page

  To Kate Saunders.

  Chapter One

  The Girl in the Cave

  Kate lived in a cave. Now, you or I would find this a little unusual, but for her it was perfectly normal, because for as long as she could remember, she had always lived in the cave. Kate had never spent a night in a house, or a hotel, or even a garden shed. No, she had always lived in a small, dark, damp cave at the bottom of her aunt and uncle’s garden.

  Her Aunt Tina (short for Nastina) and her Uncle Dermott didn’t live in a cave. They lived in a very nice house, two stories high, a fancy sitting room and front parlour, thick carpet on the floors and nice curtains in the windows, and a very expensive television upon which her aunt would watch her awful afternoon television shows, but which Kate was never, ever allowed to watch. It was, all things considered, a lovely country cottage.

  They weren’t really Kate’s aunt and uncle, of course. Kate wasn’t even certain that she had a real aunt and uncle, or any other relatives, for that matter. Tina and Dermott just called themselves her aunt and uncle in case one day someone became suspicious and started asking awkward questions. All they ever told Kate was that, when she was still a tiny baby, she had been found by Aunt Tina at a public swimming pool, in a bag in the change rooms. When no one else wanted her, they said, they decided to adopt her as their own daughter.

  “Mind you,” Aunt Tina would add, “I can understand why nobody wanted you in the first place, girl. You’re a disgrace, look at you: your hair is grubby and tangled, and you’re filthy.”

  This was true, but it was more because they made her sleep in the cave at the bottom of the yard than because she was a dirty person.

  It wasn’t much of a cave—not very wide, not very deep. Now that she was eight, Kate had to bend down just to get inside. There was no bed, just a rocky shelf jutting from one of the walls. There were no taps or running water, though the roof did drip constantly, and Kate caught the water in an old jam tin. There was no power and no lights, and while Aunt Tina gave her a candle to use, she was only allowed three matches every week, so most of the time she lived in darkness.

  The first night after Aunt Tina and Uncle Dermott brought Kate home, Kate had cried, missing her mother.

  “Can’t you shut that damn child up!” Uncle Dermott had yelled from his study. “I’m in the middle of a very complicated classification here, and I can’t hear myself think.”

  “Don’t you shout at me,” replied Aunt Tina. “I’m not its mother. And anyway, it was you who agreed to bring it home here in the first place.”

  “It’ll be useful when it gets older.”

  “And what do we do with it in the meantime?”

  “Put it somewhere where we won’t have to listen to that infernal wailing, will you? I don’t care where.”

  “In one of the spare rooms?”

  “Don’t be silly, woman. You know I need all the spare rooms for my collection.”

  Uncle Dermott collected butterflies. Every extra bit of space in the house was taken up with boxes of butterflies, pinned neatly onto black felt.

  “Well, where then?”

  “I don’t know. Put it in the cave for all I care.”

  Aunt Tina looked thoughtful for a moment, then carried the screaming bundle out the back door and along the narrow, windy path to the cave. The path ran through a thicket of enormous thorn bushes, which crouched at the bottom end of the yard, just beyond the clothesline.

  “Blasted child,” she muttered. “Should have just left you for Miss Pincushion to deal with.”

  Now, babies are particularly sensitive to the people around them. A baby will be happy if held by a person who is happy. If the person is mad or angry the baby will get upset. Kate was no exception to this rule, and the more Aunt Tina muttered and grumbled, the louder she cried. By the time Aunt Tina reached the mouth of the cave, poor Kate was bawling at the top of her lungs.

  “Here we are then.”

  It took a while for Aunt Tina to bend over, but when she finally managed to fold her massive body down low enough, she dropped Kate onto the sandy floor of the dark hole.

  “Feel free to crawl away in the middle of the night, won’t you? I, for one, won’t care a hoot whether or not you’re here in the morning.”

  And with that she left baby Kate alone in the dark.

  Of course, Kate didn’t crawl away, as she was far too young. She cried for a little longer, and then, when it became clear that nobody would come to her aid, she fell asleep.

  And so it continued for the next eight years. During the days, Kate would do the housework for Uncle Dermott and Aunt Tina. Scrubbing floors, cleaning toilets, dusting shelves, and cooking. But these were all pleasant occupations compared with her special jobs, the two that Aunt Tina and Uncle Dermott saved up for the weekends. Those jobs were more than just horrible. They were much worse than just terrible. In fact, it’s hard to find a single word to describe how truly awful those weekend jobs were. They rated on a whole other scale of ghastliness.

  Chapter Two

  Earwax and Toenails

  Kate hated Saturdays. The only thing worse than Saturdays were Sundays, but we’ll get to that in a little while. You probably think it quite strange that anyone could dislike weekends as much as Kate did, but when I tell you what they meant for poor Kate, I’m sure you’ll understand.

  For most people, Saturdays and Sundays are filled with fun: trips to the movies, eating junky food, cartoons on Saturday morning, picnics with the family, playing sport with friends. For Kate, though, Saturday mornings meant only one thing: bath day.

  Not Kate’s bath, of course; she wasn’t allowed to wash.

  “No point wasting good water on something so grotty and grubby,” Aunt Tina would say, and Uncle Dermott would nod his agreement.

  No, Saturdays were Aunt Tina’s bath days, and that spelt bad news for Kate.

  You see, in the eight years since they’d brought Kate to live with them, something had happened to Aunt Tina: she’d become fat. Not just a little bit fat — not just a couple of extra kilograms over the winter — but FAT! Even before they found Kate, Aunt Tina hadn’t been a very healthy person. Her favourite food was bacon and deep-fried Mars Bars. Her idea of exercise was walking down the driveway to get the mail. And so once she had Kate to do all the housework, and the cooking, and, of course, to fetch the mail, Aunt Tina had started to put on weight.

  Just a little bit at fi
rst, but then more and more, faster and faster, until her arms and legs resembled bags of blobby custard, until her fingers looked like stubby, fat German sausages, and until the soft pocket of skin below her chin drooped down almost to her belly button (which had long since disappeared into the enormous, quivering roll of fat that hung around her middle). By the time Kate turned eight, Aunt Tina was so massive that she could barely stand up or walk around. Instead, she spent most of her days lying on the specially reinforced couch (their original one had broken under her weight), watching awful soap operas on television and ordering Kate around.

  “Kate!” she would bellow. “Fetch me a glass of milk.”

  “Yes, Aunty.”

  “And make sure you dissolve a block of chocolate into it.”

  “Yes, Aunty.”

  “And deep-fry me a Mars Bar while you’re at it.”

  Kate would hurry to the kitchen, get a family-size block of chocolate from the fridge, melt it in the microwave, and pour it into the milk. While she was waiting for the chocolate to melt, she would unwrap a Mars Bar, dip it into the tub of special batter kept in the fridge, just in case, and then drop the battered bar into the deep-fryer for a few seconds.

  Once everything was done, Kate would rush back into the parlour with the glass of chocolate milk and the Mars Bar on a plate.

  “It’s about time. What took you so long?”

  “Nothing, Aunt Tina.”

  “In that case you are a stupid, lazy, good-for-nothing little worm. Now go and clean the toilets again.”

  “Yes, Aunty.”

  Poor Kate. All of this might seem pretty terrible, but Aunt Tina’s Saturday baths were even worse.

  It had been several years since Aunt Tina had been small enough to fit into the bathtub, or even through the door of the bathroom. This was a problem, of course, because everyone needs to wash themselves occasionally, even if they only watch television all day long. At first, Aunt Tina hadn’t been too concerned about being unable to bathe, but then she started to get a nasty itch on the lower part of her belly. Naturally, she couldn’t reach down that far to scratch, so she just left it alone, figuring it would go away eventually. But it didn’t. For a week the itch grew worse and worse, until it felt like there were several pairs of tiny feet running around on her skin. Finally, she called Uncle Dermott out of his study.

  “This had better be good,” he snapped. “I’ve just identified a very nice specimen of Papilio aegeus and I’m keen to get it mounted. What is it?”

  “I have the most terrible itch.”

  “Where?”

  “Down here.” She pointed at her belly. “It feels like tiny claws digging into my skin all the time.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t expect me to look at it. I’m not poking around down there.” Uncle Dermott looked disgusted at the very thought.

  “Then call a doctor.”

  “No point wasting money on a medicine man when we’ve got our own personal servant. GIRL! ” he roared.

  Kate came running as fast as she could from the bathroom, where she had been scraping mould off the tiles.

  “Yes, Uncle?”

  “Your aunt has an itch around her belly. Have a close look and see what’s wrong.”

  Holding her breath against the smell, Kate lifted up the huge roll of fat that hung around Aunt Tina’s waist, and there, staring back at her, were four pairs of beady little eyes.

  “Well? What can you see?” Uncle Dermott snapped.

  “Umm, I think they’re rats.”

  “RATS! Oh my! Oh dear!” Aunt Tina was terrified of rats. “Dermott, do something! Quickly!” She was trembling so much that little waves ran down her legs, breaking over her toes.

  “Do what? It’s not my problem.”

  “I don’t know. Call a doctor! Call a veterinarian! Call an exterminator! Anything!”

  “Hold on, Aunty Tina,” Kate interrupted. “I can probably get them out with the broom.”

  “Well, hurry!”

  Kate used the kitchen mop to prop up her aunt’s belly, and then gently swept the family of rats out using the broom. As they scurried towards the back door of the house, the damp little rodents looked slightly relieved to be out of there.

  “Right, Tina,” said Uncle Dermott. “Enough is enough. I won’t have rats in this house; they might start to eat my collection. You’ll have to bathe. Once a week at least.”

  “How?” wailed Aunt Tina. “I can’t even fit through the bathroom door, let alone into the bathtub.”

  “You’ll see. Starting tomorrow, Saturday will be bath day, and you’ll be as clean as a whistle for the rest of the week.”

  The following morning, Uncle Dermott left the house early and returned a little later with a mysterious-looking parcel in the back seat of the car.

  “Girl!” Kate scurried out to him. “Take this out into the backyard, inflate it, and then fill it up with warm water. And make it quick.”

  In the parcel was a large inflatable children’s paddling pool. It took all of Kate’s huff and puff to blow it up, while Uncle Dermott stood by and watched. Then she had to run a hose out from the kitchen taps to fill the pool with warm water.

  “Ready, Uncle Dermott.”

  “Excellent. Ti-na!”

  Kate’s large aunt wobbled her way out from the house.

  “Bath time. In you get.”

  “But Dermott…”

  “Enough, Tina! I won’t have filthy vermin in this house.”

  “But we put up with her.” Aunt Tina pointed at Kate and both she and Uncle Dermott laughed an evil little giggle.

  “Be that as it may, you’re having a bath.”

  Aunt Tina lowered herself into the water, which immediately turned a murky grey colour.

  “Right, girl,” said Dermott. “Start scrubbing.”

  He handed Kate a large block of yellow carbolic soap and a scrubbing brush.

  “Make sure you do a proper job of it,” he ordered before marching back into the house.

  “Down a bit lower… a bit lower… There! Ahhhh.” Despite her earlier protests, it turned out that Aunt Tina quite liked being bathed. “That’s good. Now across a little.”

  And poor Kate scrubbed and rubbed, lifting big flabby slabs of fat and cleaning underneath them, scraping out dirt and dead skin.

  “Right then,” said Aunt Tina, when Kate had finally finished scrubbing. “Let’s go inside.”

  Kate dried her aunt off with a towel the size of a bedsheet, dusted her all over with a pleasant smelling talcum powder, and then followed her into the house, glad that the bath was over. Little did she know that the worst was yet to come.

  “I haven’t felt this good in years. I think we’ll do the whole lot,” said Aunt Tina, handing Kate a small butter knife. “Start with my ears; there must be plenty of dirt and stuff still in there.”

  And Kate scraped the inside of Aunt Tina’s ears with the butter knife, recoiling from the layers of grubby earwax that curled away, dropping onto the carpet.

  “Much better,” sighed Tina with a satisfied grin. “And now my toenails.”

  Aunt Tina’s feet were two big slabs of meat, with toes like big ball bearings hanging off them. Because of her size it had been years since she’d been able to even see her toes, let alone cut her nails, so they were all gnarled and curled and a horrible brown colour. And her feet stank, even after an hour soaking in the bath.

  Kate got to work with the butter knife and scraped piles of mucky, gunky goo out from under her aunt’s toenails. By the time she’d finished, she felt like she was going to vomit. For a couple of moments she even thought she was about to faint.

  “Ahhh. That feels wonderful. ” Aunt Tina stretched out along the couch. “Now clean that mess up and get out of here, girl. It’s almost time for Shameless Passions.”

  The whole process had taken so long that it was almost teatime, and so Kate swept up all the scrapings of earwax and toenails, threw them in the bin, and went to make dinner for he
r aunt and uncle. Every Saturday was the same for Kate. She would start the day by blowing up the paddling pool, and would end it scraping the wax from Aunt Tina’s ears and the gunk from under her toenails.

  Kate hated Saturdays. But she hated Sundays even more.

  Chapter Three

  Butterfly Day

  Uncle Dermott was a lepidopterist. This means he collected butterflies. Not as a job, but as a hobby. During the week he worked for the tax department, but on the weekends he spent all his time improving his butterfly collection.

  His collection was massive. It was probably one of the best in the country, possibly even the world, but it would be impossible to tell, because Uncle Dermott never let anyone else see his butterflies.

  “People might steal them,” he would say, and so Uncle Dermott’s butterfly collection was never seen by any of the professors or scientists who study these things. Instead, it stayed locked up in the spare rooms of the house, where he could gloat over it all by himself.

  And it was a collection worth gloating over. He had the very rare Papilio demoleus, with its beautiful black and white pattern and tiny red dots on the bottom of its wings. He had several rare Eurema herla, which have bright yellow wings, and all manner of common butterflies and moths.

  His pride and joy, though, was his European Zerynthia polyxena, which sat in its own special case on the wall in his study. It was the only thing in the whole house that Kate wasn’t expected to clean.

  “That is the rarest butterfly in all of Australia, girl,” he would lecture while she dusted his study. “I obtained it purely by accident. It doesn’t even belong here: it came from southern Italy.”

  Sometimes Kate would look at the pretty little creature pinned into the display case. Its wings were patterned with delicate black and cream waves, with little red and yellow dots between them.

  “If anyone knew I had one of those, we’d never hear the last of it,” Uncle Dermott would boast. “They’d be banging down our door, all those scientists and collectors, all of them wanting to see my Zerynthia. And do you know what? They’d all be jealous. Hah!” And then he would return to his books on rare butterflies.