[There’s a story behind the feature photo. I caught this one on my way home the other night. The sky was ablaze with golds and reds reflected on the clouds. So I made a beeline down to Brighton Beach and after finding a carpark, snapped several shots on my trusty phone.

Next to me, an excited boy about eight, asked his mum, ‘Is that the Northern Lights?’

I chuckled to myself and proceeded to film the serene sea view. Even caught some dolphins gliding through the water.

Beautiful! So beautiful!

Today, we have rain.

*In this Episode of Under the Bridge,
the proverbial can of worms has unwittingly been opened…]

You Have a Match!

Monday, February 7, 2022, 6pm

Brighton

Eloise

Eloise entered her Brighton home on the Esplanade greeted by the cooling balm of a sea breeze and spicy aroma of stir fry. A balding man in his mid-60’s, wearing a chef’s black apron over his white t-shirt and blue jeans, busied himself preparing dinner.

‘Hey, there, Francis love,’ Eloise hugged him and then scanned the oil-splattered tiles and the bench covered in an assortment of sauce spills. ‘Mmm, smells delicious,’ she said before noticing three places set at the table. ‘Visitors?’

‘Ah, yes, just the usual; my mate Sven,’ Francis replied before using the spatula to push around the fried rice in the wok.

Eloise spied an opened bottle of Clare Valley Shiraz. ‘What’s the special occasion at Chateau Renard?’

Francis grinned. ‘You’ll see.’

Eloise studied the dining room and table for clues. Next to her husband’s usual place at the table rested his Surface Pro laptop. She thinned her lips. ‘I hope you’re not going to watch sport while we…’ She hated the way that even in the slate-black surface of the laptop, she detected in her reflection, the signs of crow’s feet spreading out from her wide blue eyes and a stray grey hair escaping from her honey-blonde ponytail.

 ‘Can’t help yourself.’ Francis laughed. ‘Always snooping.’

‘Old habits die hard. You know how curious I am.’

‘Well, dear, you’ll just have to wait.’

‘I could just read your mind, love.’

‘What? And spoil the surprise?’

A rap at the door.

‘Come in, if you’re decent,’ Eloise yelled.

A tall, bronzed man with bleached hair padded up the hallway to the kitchen-dining area. He placed the bottle of sparkling wine on the table before straightening his pastel green polo shirt over his beige shorts. ‘Hope this is decent enough, Ms Delainey.’ He looked at Eloise, his small Nordic blue eyes crinkled. ‘That is right, isn’t it, now that you have retired?’

Eloise snorted. ‘On leave, but who knows…’

Francis Renard served the steaming plates of stir fry vegetables and wild rice, while Sven filled their wine glasses with the bubbly. Eloise stared at the table display and then looked at the men looking as if their mouths were filled with a canary or two. She resisted the urge to whip out the phone camera and take a photo.

‘So, what’s the occasion?’ Eloise asked.

‘What? You mean you haven’t guessed?’ Francis said.

‘Oh, Eloise, have you lost your superpowers?’ Sven joked.

‘He who must be obeyed said I’d spoil the surprise.’ Eloise said and then took a casual sip of sparkling. ‘Besides, there’ll be a war starting. March.’

‘Oh, it’s prophecy now,’ Sven said.

‘Among other gifts.’ Eloise sniffed. ‘I’m restraining myself from reading your grey matter.’

Renard opened his laptop and the screen lit up. ‘And now I’ll read the news that you’ve all been waiting for.’

Eloise and Sven put down their wine glasses and leaned forward.

Francis Renard cleared his throat. ‘I’m a close contact.’

Eloise and Sven sprang back. Eloise covered her mouth. ‘Oh, no! Then why have you…you’re meant to…you’ll get fined fifty-thousand dollars!’

Sven threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Priceless!’ he said. ‘Your reaction is priceless!’

‘Bad choice of words, but I’ve been waiting all day,’ Renard said and licked his lips. ‘My ancestry results from the DNA test. You know, the one you gave me for my birthday? They arrived in the email this morning. I have a close relative. A very close…’

‘Your dad? Mum? A sibling you didn’t know about?’ Eloise jumped out of her chair to look over her husband’s shoulder.

‘They say here that,’ Francis pointed at the screen showing a bar chart. ‘I’m a father.’

Eloise folded her arms. ‘I guess that’s always been a possibility.’

Her husband wiped an eye. ‘I don’t know how; the doctors always said I couldn’t…I had the mumps in my twenties. My wife back then and I tried, but then…well…’

‘What about before you were twenty?’ Eloise asked.

‘Possible, but you’d think I’d remember getting a girl pregnant back then.’ Francis Renard wiped his forehead. ‘Geez! That makes the kid over forty. I could be a grandpa.’

Sven’s eyes twinkled. ‘Try great grandpa. That’s what I am. If you include grand puppies.’

‘Is there a contact? A name?’ Eloise asked.

‘Well, yes. But it’s just a name and I don’t know how she fits in, who she’s related to—besides me, that is. I mean, for starters, who’s her mother?’ Francis sighed. ‘I’ve been looking through the list of matches. There are heaps of names. I spent all afternoon. It’s a real rabbit hole. And confusing.’

‘You mean, the physics professor can’t navigate the ancestry website?’ Sven said.

‘Here, let me.’ Eloise hooked the side of the laptop and swung it around to face her. ‘My job was mostly tackling computer stuff. What’s your child’s name? Are they a “he” or a “she” or, “they,” as some are these days? Oh, that’s right, you said, “she”.’

‘Come on, Frank, don’t keep us in suspense,’ Sven said. Then, ‘Hey, I’m hungry. Do you mind if I tuck in?’

‘Go right ahead, I’ll join you while the detective does her magic,’ Renard said and loaded up Sven’s plate with his signature Indonesian stir fry.

‘Well?’ Sven urged.

‘Her name is, according to this match, if she’s used her real name, that’s one thing I’ve found…’ said with a mouthful of rice.

‘Spit it out,’ Sven said.

‘Don’t you dare,’ Eloise snapped. Then quietly, ‘Zoe Thomas. Ta-da!’

Francis finished chewing and swallowed. ‘I was getting to that. But I still want to know who is the mother? Can you tell?’

After a few clicks, Eloise peered at the screen. ‘Hooper, how about that, I wonder if they’re related to Dan? Says here they’re a third cousin to you, Francis.’

Sven, his mouth full like a chipmunk, nodded.

Eloise dipped her fork into the rice dish and ate her meal, all the time staring at the screen.

‘But what about Zoe’s mother?’ Francis asked. ‘Any clues?’

‘I can’t tell you that; the results only reveal your DNA. Unless, of course, the mother is related to you somehow.’

‘A possibility in with our cultural and church heritage—everyone’s related,’ Sven said with a chuckle.

‘Not me,’ Francis puffed out his chest and announced, ‘my ancestors are French.’

El fixed her gaze on the computer screen and clicked the mouse. ‘According to your ancestry results, you are eighty percent Western European, ten percent Celtic and five percent Scandinavian.’

‘Okay, okay, there’s a little bit of German and I think my great-grandfather was Scottish, but so what?’ Francis replied.

‘So, back to Zoe Thomas.’ Eloise passed the laptop back to its owner. ‘I’ll let you do the honours of making contact, dear. How exciting! You have a daughter.’

The three raised their glasses and cheered Francis Renard’s success at producing a daughter.

After sipping, Sven placed his glass down. ‘Yes, but, mate. But who is the mother?’

Francis Renard shrugged. ‘Have no idea. Honestly!’

‘Don’t look at me.’ Eloise turned her head and looked behind. ‘My superpowers don’t extend to—what would that be—genealogy?’

Francis and Sven set their focus on her; eyebrows raised.

‘Is there nothing you can’t do?’ Sven said.

‘Or can do to help find out?’ her husband said.

Eloise sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ll see what the queen of gossip, Fifi can tell me.’

‘God no! Not Fifi!’ Sven said.

‘Yes, Sven, your ex and I do art together,’ Eloise replied.

Sven rolled his eyes. ‘One of the joys of living in Adelaide, I guess.’

After dinner, the three sat on the balcony and while enjoying the Shiraz, they watched the sun set over the sea. The discussion centred on what a young female offspring of Renard might look like, what she might do for a profession, where she lived and most frustratingly, who the mother might be.

Social media had drawn a blank. No photos existed of Zoe Thomas. The only information gleaned was from a site used for professionals, “Link In” where a Zoe Thomas was listed as a high-ranking lawyer in Melbourne. She had completed her law degree, though, at the University of Hobart, and had been practising law for over fifteen years, in a well-known and prestigious law firm in Melbourne and rising in esteem to the ranks of barrister.

Then the conversation between Renard and his friend settled on the good old times in the 1980’s before circling back to the identity of Zoe’s mother.

Renard even retrieved his little black book from that time.

‘You’re not going to call all those dames, are you, Frank?’ Sven remarked.

‘Nah, too much water under the bridge.’

‘Not appropriate,’ Eloise added. ‘But, if you give your precious secrets in that little black book to me, perhaps I can check them out on social media.’

‘Nah, not appropriate, Eloise,’ Sven said.

‘I’m not sure about that, either’ Renard said.

‘Yeah, you’re right, most would’ve gotten married and changed their names. And I don’t have access to records. But as I said, I’ll ask around. See what people remember,’ Eloise said, and then added, ‘discretely, of course.’

Francis Renard nodded and gazed at the grey wisps of cloud on the faded pink horizon. Eloise watched him as his eyes seemed to glaze with tears. She knew he’d had so many girls back then.

She gently touched his arm. ‘Are you remembering the days of your youth, love? Your Kombi?’

‘Those were the days.’ Francis sniffed and nodded. ‘I miss my Kombi.’

‘Ah, the good ol’ days.’ Sven sighed. ‘Before we…’

‘Had to grow up,’ El said and softly laughed.

© Tessa Trudinger 2024

*Feature Photo: Not the Aurora Australis, but a brilliant Brighton sunset.

***

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Sometimes real life is just real life.

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