Author: lmkling

T-Team Series–Taxed (2)

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Tuesday, September 8, 1981

[Extract from Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981]

Car hunt all sorted with a Toyota Corolla named Levin, the T-K Team Next Gen turn their attention to sorting out the annual tax return. So, keeping the theme of the attack of the tacks which the T-Team endured on the unsealed highway back to Adelaide almost 40 years ago to the day…]

Once more we all dismounted from the Rover and once more Richard shook his head at the pathetic sight of an airless tyre, this time, the Rover’s, squashed flat on the corrugated sand. Once more we stood guard while Richard jacked up the Rover, removed the flattened lump of rubber, soaked it in a bowl of water, found the leak and commenced the ritual of repairs. And once more he swore as he ripped off the first, then the second, then the third patch in the set that wouldn’t take. Finally, he hurled the remaining patches and glue into the spinifex.

*[Photo 1: Spinifex, can’t live with it, can’t live without it in the desert. Some enterprising Indigenous use the spinifex bush in times of the inevitable flat tyre. But not the T-Team. © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

Dad gazed to the horizon and the sun fast sinking toward it. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘They’re a bunch of duds.’ Richard hunted through the tool kit for another packet of tyre patches. ‘How long did you have that set?’

‘Oh, er, um,’ Dad rubbed his moustache, and mumbled, ‘only a few years.’

‘Well, the glue was cactus.’ Richard pulled out a patch from a newer looking box, and then lighting a match, exposed the patch to the flame. After roughening the tube at the damage site, he sealed the patch over the puncture. He stuffed the tube back in the tyre. ‘Now, let’s see what we can do about the pump.’

After returning to the toolbox for some more tools, he fiddled with an electric pump, and then attached it to the Rover’s battery.

We all cheered as the pump chugged into action and filled the tyre with its much-needed air. Mission accomplished, we once again climbed back in the Rover and then raced towards Oodnadatta.

*[Photo 2: A road most tack-filled near the NT-SA border © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

***

Weariness from the constant stopping and starting, and tyre-changing meant that not much conversation happened between younger cousin (C2) and me. The current corrugations that filled the cabin with a sound like heavy machinery didn’t help. I knew Dad wanted to drive through the night to reach Adelaide. No stopping now. We’d suffered enough delays, and Dad intimated he just wanted to get home, or if not home, at least to the comforts of a creek bed filled with soft sand, like Algebuckina.

*[Photo 3: Dreams of soft sand and luxury in a creek bed near Ernabella © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

However, Dad’s dream of sleeping in cushioned comfort stalled. Ninety kilometres north of Oodnadatta, another trailer tyre blow-out brought us to a complete halt. By this time night had fallen and the diagnosis was grim. We had run out of spares for the trailer.

The men stood at the scene of the tyre carnage. Richard combed the area and shining light from a torch he gathered up shreds of evidence. Dad and his nephews stared with mouths downturned at the remains of the victim, the rim with a few bits of rubber hanging off it.

‘It made quite a few sparks,’ I said. ‘Better than fireworks.’

*[Photo 4: New Year’s Eve sparklers on the beach © L.M. Kling 2007]

‘This is not the time to be funny.’ Dad gazed at the gravel road languishing in darkness. ‘We’re in a lot of trouble and I’d appreciate if you could take this seriously.’ He clasped his hands and cleared his throat. I was sure he’d burst into prayer at any moment.

‘Sorry.’

Richard shone the torch in the direction of the Rover. I turned to look. The Rover listed to one side. Surely that can’t be the dip at the edge of the road.

‘Richard,’ I said walking over to the back-passenger side of the Rover. ‘What’s going on with the Rover?’

The torchlight landed on me. ‘Look, we’re—’ Dad began. The light fell on the tyre, a very flat-to-the-rim tyre. ‘Oh.’

I pointed at the tyre imitating a pancake. ‘See, I told you.’ I put my hands on my hips and sighed. ‘Just not our day. Four flat tyres in half a day. How can that be?’

*[Photo 5: Kings Canyon cliffs Reminding me of pancakes in happier times © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

Richard stood staring at the latest casualty. ‘Someone must’ve put tacks on the road.’

‘Does that mean we’re going to camp here tonight?’ my older cousin (C1) asked.

‘Looks like we’ll have to,’ Dad said. ‘And it won’t be very comfortable, it’s all stony.’

*[Photo 6: Our campground for the night © L.M. Kling 2013]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2017; updated 2021

*Feature Photo: It could be worse… © S.O. Gross circa 1942

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

For the price of a cup of coffee (takeaway, these days),

Click on the link and download your kindle copy of my travel memoir,

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari. (Australia)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (United States)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (UK)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (Germany]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [France]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (India)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Canada]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Mexico]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Italy]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Brazil]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Spain]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Japan]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Netherlands]

Out of Time (9.1)

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Plenty of Cakes, Plenty of Time

Part 1

[The continuation of the Survivor Short Story “project” in the War On Boris the Bytrode series. This time, back in time, 1967, following the adventures of middle-aged mum, Letitia… In this episode (9.1) In Melbourne, Letitia looks up her sister, Doris …]

Letitia had intended to stay only one day in Melbourne, but somehow, that one day stretched into eleven days. The time warp of good intentions began with her well-intentioned plans to look up her sister Doris in the white pages. Two thick wads of telephone directory, now that was a novelty. She hadn’t used one of those since Boris exiled her to Mirror World in 1962. Her eyes found the teeny-weeny letters most challenging. Finally, she located Fahrer which was the family name. But out of all the Fahrers there were none beginning with the letter “D”; or perhaps it was that her weary eyes had trouble deciphering any letters “D” or otherwise. She realized that there were disadvantages to having short-sightedness corrected after the unfortunate encounter with the blast that propelled her into Mirror World. Now that she was in her late forties, she had become long-sighted. The thought of wearing spectacles, did not enthuse her. Here she was, in the dimly lit St Kilda Post Office, and she could not even take the bulky book out into the strong sunlight, even for a second. The staff kept glancing and narrowing their eyes at her.

She decided to abandon the pursuit of her sister and stroll casually up Acland Street. She was hungry. One piece of vegemite toast and a small orange juice simply did not cut it to stave off the hunger pains much past lunchtime. She knew that she should save the money for the bus fare, but she was ravenous. She had never seen so many cake shops in one street in all her life. Even in Mirror. Every second shop front threw before her sweets, pastries, and lashings of cream on display. They all looked so inviting, so delicious, so wanting her to eat them.

She stopped by the narrow shop with the towers of mille-feuille which were labelled in this world’s café as “vanilla slices”. She hadn’t eaten an Australian “vanilla slice” in decades. For all she knew, vanilla slices with their crunchy biscuit base, smooth sweet lemon custard cream and rich hard coconut icing, had not existed for decades; not in Mirror, they hadn’t. In Mirror, the mille-feuille were slightly different, more pastry and whipped cream. She wasn’t keen on cream. Cream tended to make her nose all stuffy and cause her to sneeze.

The Australian variation, she recalled used a biscuit base and custard as the filling. Ah, memories of high school lunches of meat pies with slathers of sauce, milk chocolate and the final satisfying touch of vanilla slices came flooding back to her. She sighed and followed the glass-case parade of sweet slices of vanilla into the tiny cake shop. There was barely room for the two sets of tables and chairs that were squeezed against the baby-blue wall. Black and white checked tiles cowered under a streaky film of dirt caught under a careless attempt at mopping. Or perhaps it was her sunglasses that made the floor, as well as the general atmosphere of the shop darker and dingier than it would have been otherwise.

Letitia ordered the vanilla slice and a hot chocolate to accompany it. The shop did not serve pies, only cakes. A complimentary newspaper served as entertainment for one. She sipped her coffee, ate delicate savouring portions of cake, and picked at the paper’s headlines to read. All the while she remained under the watchful eye of the bored shop assistant and the blaring of talk radio from the back room. The vanilla slice was a disappointment, but she thanked the dark-haired lady, saying that she enjoyed her meal (Ha! What meal?), and politely left the establishment. The overload of sugary sweetness made her dizzy and propelled her back to the seashore.

Letitia dabbled her feet in the cool kelp laden salt water and lay on the damp gravely sand to recover. She intended having a little sunbake, a little closing of the eyes, a brief nap, before making her way to the city to book the bus to Adelaide. She had plenty of time. The bus wouldn’t leave before nine or ten o’clock that evening. That’s what someone had said. She was sure. Plenty of time. Plenty of time. Plenty…Plenty…

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

Feature Photo: Melbourne skyline from Spirit of Tasmania, 2001 © L.M. Kling 2001

***

Want more?

More than before?

Read the mischief and mayhem Boris the over-sized alien cockroach gets up to…

Click on the link to my new novel, The Lost World of the Wends

Or discover how it all began in The Hitch-Hiker

And how it continues with Mission of the Unwilling

T-Team Series–Outback Road Hazards

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TAXED

Tuesday, September 8, 1981

[Extract from Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981]

As our personal car hunt takes a positive turn, Mum’s car, the one we are borrowing, suffers a devastating blow to its tyre—staked by a bolt. And so, I am reminded of the attack of the tacks as the T-Team drove the unsealed highway back to Adelaide almost 40 years ago…]

So for the first time in the entire two months of the Safari, Dad permitted my older cousin (C1) to drive. After reaching the South Australian border and the degradation of the road to dirt, he drove at a steady fifty-five kilometres per hour. Bull dust billowed on each side of the vehicle, and we kept the windows sealed.

[Photo 1: Red Centre from the sky © L.M. Kling 2021]

Richard sat in the middle and I sat on the passenger side nearest the window. My feet ached. Feeling faint with the heat magnified in the confined unventilated area, I peeled off my shoes and socks.

‘Pooh!’ Rich fanned his nose. ‘Do you have to?’

‘But it’s hot.’ I massaged my foot. ‘I can’t smell any foot odour.’

A smile grew between C1’s beard and moustache, then the cabin filled with fumes of sulphur dioxide.

‘Ugh!’ I exclaimed and then reached for the handle to wind down the window.

‘You can talk.’ C1 put a handkerchief to his nose. ‘When was the last time you washed your socks?’

‘Point taken,’ I gasped, and then picked up a book fanning the air to the back of the Rover causing my younger cousin (C2) to protest and Dad to cough.

[Photo 2: The Unsealed Road © M.E. Trudinger (nee Gross) circa 1956]

Ker-chunk! Ker-chunk! C1 eased the Rover to a shuddering stop.

I looked at the odometer. We’d travelled 180km from Alice Springs. ‘Oh, no! And we’ve only just left.’ I opened the door and dropped from the Rover.

Richard edged his way out and then paced around the vehicle. He bent down to inspect a back tyre. ‘We have a puncture.’

Dad and cousins piled out. Richard commenced his jacking up the Rover, and removing the tyre. He lifted the spare off the rear door of the Rover. He bounced it towards the axle, and then stopped.

He frowned and said, ‘The spare’s flat.’

While my brother repaired the puncture, we lingered by the roadside. Dad kicked the mound of graded dirt. C1 pulled out another book from his satchel and read. C2 stared at the long stretch of road, counting the cars that passed. I sat in a ditch and picked my nails. An hour passed. Richard continued working. He’d already used up two dud patches on the tube. The repairs seemed to be taking forever.

[Photo 3: The timeless hazards of outback roads © M.E. Trudinger (nee Gross) 1956]

‘Why don’t we have lunch?’ I said.

Dad, his hands in his pockets, shuffled over to Richard. ‘How long do you think you’ll be?’

Richard peeled off the third patch that didn’t take. ‘Oh, another half an hour.”

Half an hour times three. In real-time, one-and-a-half-hours.

Dad stroked his beard. ‘Yes, I think we’ll have lunch then.’

We gathered a few sticks together for a fire to boil the billy. With my cup of tea and cake, I deserted the group to sit under a shady mulga tree. Another half-hour dragged in the heat.

[Photo 4: Man’s solution to outback breakdown when there is no auto Assistance anywhere in sight © S.O. Gross circa 1942]

I returned to the men. They stood like statues in a semi-circle around Richard who now battled with a pump. No matter how hard or long he pumped, the tyre didn’t seem to be doing much.

Richard wiped drops of sweat from his temple and grunted. ‘Come on, you idiot, work!’ He resumed pushing the lever up and down, faster and faster. He stopped and checked the gauge. ‘Damn thing hasn’t moved.’ He kicked the pump. ‘Work!’

‘I don’t think that’ll help,’ Dad said.

‘The pump’s broken. The gauge hasn’t moved off twenty k-p-a.’

Dad kicked the tyre. ‘Is that enough?’

‘I s’pose it’ll have to do.’

Richard shook his head. He placed the half-inflated tyre on the Rover’s back axle, and then tightened the nuts.

[Photo 5: A more reliable mode of transport??? © S.O. Gross circa 1942]

C1 resumed his driver’s position with Richard and C2 in the front. I put up with Dad and the dust in the back cabin. My father decided to manicure his nails with his teeth. Drove me insane! Every few seconds, he puffed out a bitten nail onto the floor, the luggage, and the dirty laundry pile. I looked away as his nibbled his nail stumps, but the spitting sound grated on my senses setting my teeth on edge. I placed a pillow over my ears and rested my head on a soft bag. I began to doze.

Thudda! Thudda! Thudda!

The Rover rocked and jerked to a juddering halt. Again we piled out. This time a trailer tyre had been ripped to shreds. Bits of the tyre left a sorry trail down the highway.

[Photo 6: History repeats itself © L.M. Kling 2013]

Dad poked his toe at a fragment of rubber. ‘How did that happen?’

‘The rocks,’ Richard replied. Then removing the spare trailer tyre, he bounced it into position.

Again, we stood around and watched Richard change the tyre. Again, we piled back in the Rover and continued our journey. And yet again I had to sit in the rear of the Rover with Dad.

This time, Dad nodded off to sleep and snored. Richard who was driving, had barely driven ten minutes before Dad had fallen asleep. I watched Dad’s head loll from side to side, and with a snort, he’d jerk his head up, and then his head flopped followed by a deep rumble. Again, I covered my ears with a pillow and rested on my soft bag.

The rumbles penetrated my pillow. They grew louder and louder, sounding like an earthquake. I sat up and looked around. Dad wide-eyed and awake stared at me. The rumbling turned into a loud roar.

[Photo 7: The perils of the gibber plain © L.M. King 2013]

‘So, it wasn’t you snoring,’ Dad said.

‘I thought it was you.’ My voice vibrated with the jack-hammer effect. ‘Is it the corrugations?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Dad sounded like a Dalek. He leaned through the window connected to the front. ‘Richard, I think you better stop.’

‘Not again,’ I groaned.

[to be continued…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2017; updated 2021

Feature Photo: Car-nage © L.M. Kling 2013

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

For the price of a cup of coffee (takeaway, these days),

Click on the link and download your kindle copy of my travel memoir,

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari. (Australia)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (United States)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (UK)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (Germany]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [France]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (India)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Canada]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Mexico]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Italy]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Brazil]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Spain]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Japan]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Netherlands]

Out of Time (8.2)

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Berry Bogan

Part 2

[The continuation of the Survivor Short Story “project” in the War On Boris the Bytrode series. This time, back in time, 1967, following the adventures of middle-aged mum, Letitia…In this episode (8.2) Wilhelm gives Mrs Berry Bogan something to chew on…]

Without waring the Blue Berry Bogan rose. She pointed at Letitia and words exploded from her lipstick laden mouth. ‘Illegal aliens! They are taking over our jobs, our country. They are the ones having millions of children! They will take over our country if we are not careful.’

 Wilhelm stood up, turned, and faced her. ‘Yes, but you must understand that they are escaping from terrible persecution. They are often desperate. They need somewhere to go.’

‘But our country is being filled to the brim with aliens! I mean, look at Sydney. It’s like, like spot the white person,’ Berry Bogan argued.

Her children shrank into their cream buns as if the light of morning had made them embarrassed at their mother’s outburst.

Mrs. Bogan stabbed the Age with her false bright purple fingernail. ‘It’s these foreigners, mark my words, man. They are causing the crime to rise.’ Her girl with cream smattered over her rose painted lips was cussing audibly at her plate. The freckled son began hyperactively bobbing up and down as if he was an organ-grinder’s monkey.

Letitia giggled.

‘What are you laughing about, Mum?’ Wilhelm interrupted Letitia’s entertainment. ‘I hope it’s because you are finding Mrs. Berry’s bigoted views as amusing as I do.’

Mrs. Bogan Berry, stared at Wilhelm and then at Letitia. She paled. ‘Who are you people? She pointed at Letitia. Is she? Is she your mother?’

Wilhelm shrugged. ‘What is it, if she is, to you?’ He laughed. ‘Or, if in fact, I am hers? What is it to you?’

At that twist of a comment, the two little vipers stopped their cavorting and fixed their narrow eyes on Letitia.

‘No way!’ the boy exclaimed.

‘Told j’ya she’s too old,’ the girl said and turned to wolf down her bun.

‘Actually, aliens…’ Letitia began, then paused, ‘Aliens,’ she continued, ‘are just human beings – poor, persecuted human beings. They did not ask to be different. They just are. But after-all, in the end, the bottom line is…’ The Bogan family had now simultaneously paled to a seedy shade of green.

Letitia gathered her thoughts and resumed, ‘aliens are just human. Actually, they are nicer, more decent, more moral, more polite than the average Australian – is anything to go by.’ She smiled serenely beyond Wilhelm at the pale mum, daughter and son as they shuffled from the bistro leaving a pile of uneaten buns, coco pops, bacon and eggs, and instant coffee.

‘What a waste!’ Wilhelm glanced at the mountain of discarded food left in the Bogan’s wake.

‘Yep. I bet’chya aliens wouldn’t leave so much food to waste.’

Wilhelm twisted himself around and reached out a groping hand towards the deserted table. ‘Did they leave the paper? I forgot to pick one…’

‘Nup. They took that.’ Letitia was secretly hoping that they had read about her, that somewhere in that paper existed an article on the plane crash in Antarctica. She would be vindicated then. Leave them safe with the false knowledge that she was someone else. Although, she did not fancy being a science teacher, especially that girl’s science teacher.

As if reading her thoughts, Wilhelm remarked, ‘You know there will be no news about the crash, don’t you?’

‘How do you know?’ But before Wilhelm had time to answer, Letitia sighed, ‘Of course, Boris.’ Then as if the utterance of his name triggered enlightenment, she smacked her forehead, ‘Of course! Doris! Doris was their science teacher. Oh, she’d be one mean teacher!’

‘Shucks! I was hoping to read the news and do the crossword.’ Wilhelm lamented, totally unaware of Letitia’s a-ha moment.

Letitia smiled. ‘Hey, is that Melbourne?’

‘Na! It’s Geelong,’ Wilhelm pan-faced replied. ‘Don’t you know that it takes forever to reach Melbourne?’ He then rose abruptly from the table. ‘Darn! I’ll just have to go and get one for myself. I hope they haven’t run out. I hate it how they never have enough papers.’ With that he stomped off in the direction of the buffet.

Port Phillip Bay was murky green and choppy. The early morning sun glanced off the salt dusted window that spanned the bistro restaurant.

Sooner than expected, the Spirit of Tasmania was docking at the pier of Port Melbourne and Wilhelm and Letitia were packed and alighting. Letitia thanked Wilhelm for all he had done and all the help he had given her. When they had parted ways, Letitia sat on the beach by the shore. The sand had bags of shade as if it had just woken up from a long summer night of revelry. The waters of the bay were chopped and churned up, a muddy green blue, as if hung-over from the hard night before. She gathered her scattered plans for the day and resolved to seek out a telephone directory to look up Doris. Perhaps Doris lived in Melbourne. After all the Bogan family must come from Melbourne, surely, she reasoned. And if not, one more day’s delay in reaching Adelaide surely could do no harm.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

Feature Photo: Melbourne city 1986 © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger)

***

Want more?

More than before?

Read the mischief and mayhem Boris the over-sized alien cockroach gets up to…

Click on the link to my new novel, The Lost World of the Wends

Or discover how it all began in The Hitch-Hiker

And how it continues with Mission of the Unwilling

He Wanted us to Know God’s Love

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In Memory and celebration of my father’s life…

Remembering his passing 9 years ago this week…

DAVID BY NAME CLEMENT BY NATURE

Ron and Lina Trudinger’s third child was born in Adelaide on January 13, 1928. His parents named him Clement David Trudinger. He was a much longed for child as he arrived eight years after his older sister, Agnes.

[Photo 1: Growing family with Clement David baby no. 3 © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection circa 1928]

“Clement?” his aunts cried. “We don’t like the name Clement.”

So they called the babe by his second name, David, and David he has been ever since. Except, of course when he goes to hospital, then he’s Clement, officially.

Throughout his life, God watched over David who has shared many stories of how he showed His love towards him, protecting, and providing for him and his family. He shared how he felt he didn’t deserve God’s love; he wasn’t perfect, yet God loved him. It is this love that David would want all of you to know.

[Photo 2: David, the boy © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection circa 1930]

He began to write down his life-story, and in the last few weeks began to tell all, especially his grandchildren, how God worked in his life and how his Heavenly Father protected him.

When he was two years old, his missionary parents took David and his younger brother Paul to Sudan, in Africa. Not the kind of place to take small children. But God protected David and his brother from a hippopotamus, cobras, car accidents, and mad men. (He’s written in more detail about these incidents and I will share these in the future.)

[Photo 3: David and his brother on the Nile © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection 1932]

God also blessed him with a loving and God-fearing family. Some may say, too God-fearing, for his parents continued their mission work in Sudan while David from the age of seven, and Paul from five, commenced their schooling in Adelaide. As a student, David only saw his parents every five years when they returned home on furlough. He shared how despite missing his parents, he enjoyed his childhood, with so many aunts doting on him, and the game afternoons they had. I think his love of games started there in the Northumberland Street parlour. He’d even created a few games in his latter years.

[Photo 4: With siblings in Adelaide © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection 1940]

His other great love was sport, especially football. God blessed David with fitness, agility, and a few trophies along the way. In retirement, he played golf, and when his legs couldn’t keep up trekking the 18 holes, he took up table tennis instead. He was still playing table tennis up until a few months ago. Sport kept his body and mind young.

David also enjoyed hiking and exploring. During school holidays he’d visit his older brother Ron, a teacher at Ernabella. While there, he made friends with the Pitjantjatjara children and go into the Musgrave Ranges on hiking expeditions. One hot day, David and a friend became lost in the ranges without water, or salt. They wandered for hours parched and at the point of dehydration, before coming across a waterhole, the most welcome sight David had ever seen. I’m sure God protected and guided them back home. I’m also sure that’s when David’s love of salt began.

[Photo 5: Younger Brothers in Ernabella © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection circa 1940]

David progressed through his schooling, and gifted in art, he trained to be an art and woodwork teacher. After a couple of years at Lameroo, he won a position at Hermannsburg Mission as headmaster.

He taught at Hermannsburg for five years. In that time, he became close to the Aranda people, especially the students he taught. They took him on expeditions into the MacDonnell Ranges, Palm Valley, and gorges and beauty spots along the Finke River. David also became close to Pastor Gross’ daughter, Marie.

[Photo 6: Teacher in Hermannsburg (David far right) © S.O. Gross circa 1955]

On January 23, 1958, he married Marie in Hermannsburg.

However, his romance with Central Australia was cut short, when, for health reasons, he and Marie had to move down to Adelaide. On October 30, his first child, Richard was born.

David continued teaching, first at Ridley Grove Primary School, and then St. Leonards P.S. The little Trudinger family moved from schoolhouse to schoolhouse.

May 3, 1963, his daughter, Lee-Anne was born. By this time, Glenelg Primary School planned to convert their little rented home into a library. As his family grew and Marie grew more unsettled with the constant shifting, David faced the challenge to buy a house. But how could he on a teacher’s wage? He looked at his lovely stamp collection of rare Sudanese stamps. Could he trade them in to help pay for a deposit?

[Photo 7: David and Marie’s first own home © L.M. KLing 2005]

They looked at a few homes. A bungalow on Cross Road appealed to him, but not Marie. His father wasn’t impressed either. Marie didn’t like that pokey little home on the main road with no back yard at all and the property was right next to the rail line. Then a trust home at Gilbert Road Somerton Park came up for sale, and the deal was done. David regretted selling his stamp collection but reasoned that this was an investment for the children. And, many years down the track, it was, especially with the two lovely court yard homes, one of which David and Marie have lived in from 2006.

[Photo 8: New and improved courtyard home © L.M. King 2021]

God blessed David’s career. He taught at Port Adelaide Primary School from the late 1960’s until he retired in 1985 at the age of 57. In that time he studied to teach Indonesian, became Deputy Principal, and won a government research grant to go to Indonesia. He became interested in the Indonesian musical instrument, the Anklung. He brought a set home and proceeded to teach pupils how to play. He had bands of students playing in the Festival of Music until 2010. He continued to visit the school now LeFever Primary and train students to play the Anklung, right up till the beginning of this year. He also tutored indigenous students.

David lived life to the full and grasped every opportunity to explore the wild and untouched land God has created, especially Central Australia. With his long service leave, and then time in his early retirement, he made regular pilgrimages to the Centre. And God protected him. I like to think that now he is with the Lord, his guardian angel is enjoying a well-deserved rest.

[Photo 9: Dad having a well-deserved Sunday afternoon rest © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1983]

One example he gave of God’s protection was on a hiking trip in the Western Wilderness of Tasmania with a friend. On one narrow path climbing around a cliff-face, he felt his heavy pack over-balance and he began to fall. “This is it,” he thought. Then he felt the pressure of someone pushing him back against the rock and he was able to step two metres further to a wider path. He knew an angel of the Lord rescued him, preserving his life, not just for his sake, but for his friend’s sake, and also because his work on earth was not complete.

[Photo 10: Cradle Mountain, Tasmania © L.M. Kling 2009]

But on August 25, 2012, David’s work on earth was done. There are probably many things he has done that will be remembered as a blessing and encouragement to all who knew him. He was a regular member of Faith Lutheran Warradale church; he took an active role, and was a vital member of the congregation for over 54 years. He was a Sunday School teacher, an elder, and a Bible Study leader.

We will miss his cheerful nature, how he grasped life, lived it to the full and shared God’s love with all he came across.

He may have been David by name, but he was Clement by nature.

[Photo 11: The original men of the T-Team, David (3rd from left) and his father and brothers © C.D. Trudinger collection 1967]

First published as a eulogy to Clement David Trudinger by Lee-Anne Marie Kling ©2012

Revised © 2016; 2021

 Feature  photo: Central Australian sunrise © C.D. Trudinger 1977

***

More of my dad’s intrepid adventures in Central Australia in my memoir,

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari. (Australia)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (United States)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (UK)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (Germany]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [France]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (India)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Canada]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Mexico]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Italy]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Brazil]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Spain]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Japan]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Netherlands]

Out of Time (8.1)

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Berry Bogan

Part 1

[The continuation of the Survivor Short Story “project” in the War On Boris the Bytrode series. This time, back in time, 1967, following the adventures of middle-aged mum, Letitia…In this episode (8.1) Letitia and Wilhelm face their demons, and one Berry Bogan mother, on the Princess of Tasmania bound for Melbourne.]

Letitia faced breakfast behind sunglasses, her head covered with a silken scarf. ‘Protection against my identity has come at an inflated cost of $10 for the eyewear and a further $5 for the head gear; money well spent as far as I’m concerned,’ she said.

‘It was meant, however, for the taxi fare to Tullamarine Airport, and now I fear you won’t have enough to cover the flight to Adelaide,’ Wilhelm rambled as they entered the dining room. The lemon-yellow rays of the rising sun filtered through the salt-encrusted windows. ‘Now, what’s left of the loan may only cover the overnight bus fare to Adelaide.’

‘That’s a bit fiscally pessimistic, don’t you think, Will?’

‘You’ll see.’

Wilhelm pale, with dark rings under his eyes, began quibbling over the breakfast offering of ham and cheese sandwiches and orange juice. He then turned his criticisms onto the hairy family over the other side of the dining room.

‘Keep away from them,’ Wilhelm pointed at the homage to the Beetles party, ‘bad news, they are. Bad news.’

Letitia, shade-clad and sea-seedy, glanced in their direction and turned away.

‘You can’t make a judgement about them based on hair, Wilhelm. They might be perfectly good parents.’

Wilhelm wiped crumbs from his section of the table. ‘We have a bad feeling about them.’

‘We?’

Wilhelm leaned close to Letitia and whispered, ‘The IGSF. If you get my drift.’

Letitia prepared to take a second look, but Wilhelm held up his hand. ‘Don’t. It’s all under control. I’ll keep you safe. From them.’

‘Thanks, Will, but I wish you had been around when I had the Bogans from Boganville torment me last yesterday.’ Letitia adjusted her scarf. ‘By the way, where did you get to?’

Wilhelm patted their air between them. ‘Never you mind. Nothing to get alarmed about. Stay calm.’

‘Now, you are worrying me.’ Letitia sighed. ‘Just my luck, Boris will be on the boat and sink it.’

‘Stay calm. We won’t let that happen.’ Wilhelm stroked the table and then tapped it. ‘Bogan? What exactly is a “Bogan”? Isn’t it a type of moth?’

As he spoke, the said mother and her offspring walked into the dining room.

‘Speak of the devil. And her charges. They’ve just walked in,’ Letitia answered barely moving her mouth. ‘That, my friend, is what I mean by “bogan”.’

Wilhelm leaned back in his seat and observed. ‘Interesting! They’re joining the Hippie’s. Interesting.’ He locked eyes with Letitia. ‘Keep away from them too. They’re trouble.’

‘Shh! They might hear you,’ Letitia said.

Wilhelm casually sipped his juice and shook his head. ‘What parent lets her daughter walk around half-naked? I’ll never know! Tsk! Tsk!’

Letitia batted the space between them. ‘Wait till you have a daughter, Mr. Thumm.’

Wilhelm’s eyes widened. ‘Daughter? Am I to have a daughter?’

Letitia covered her mouth. ‘Maybe, who knows? In another universe, dimension, you do.’

Following that comment, Letitia could not resist taking a peek. She glanced quickly around just as the purple mo-haired clad mother armed with the day’s Melbourne Age, her minx of a daughter baring more thigh than skirt, and the short sniggering son, paraded past their table. Letitia turned away hoping that her scarf and sunglasses were enough to fool them into thinking that she was no one in particular.

The “Bogan” family ostentatiously chose the table directly behind Wilhelm. Mum who had all the round features of a blue-berry, and who wore ugg-boots to match her furry lavender cardigan, spread the paper over the narrow table while her off-spring raced off to fill their trays with cakes for breakfast. As she lifted the monumental sized newspaper to turn the page, Letitia noticed the headline, “Ryan to Hang.”

‘Nothing about any plane crash in Antarctica, then,’ Letitia muttered with a shudder.

‘Did you say something?’ Wilhelm said softly.

‘No, not really.’ Letitia kept her head down and eyes fixed on the one piece of vegemite toast and small glass of orange juice. ‘I see hanging is still a thing in this day and age.’

‘Yes, it is, although, there are calls to have it abolished.’

‘Just thinking about it, has made my seasickness return.’

‘Just as well we didn’t go on my yacht,’ Wilhelm said. ‘The sea was particularly rugged overnight.’

At that precise point in time, the ferry passed through the Heads of Port Phillip Bay. The boat rocked in every direction possible.  The Bogan mother directly behind Wilhelm caught Letitia’s gaze. Her chubby cheeks flushed. Her eyes narrowed.

Letitia bent her head and prayed that she would not be mother-Bogan’s victim for breakfast this morning. She had no desire to be bawled out by a blue berry. Especially after Wilhelm’s warning to keep away.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

Feature Photo: Spirit of Tasmania, Port of Melbourne © L.M. Kling 1995

***

Want more?

More than before?

Read the mischief and mayhem Boris the over-sized alien cockroach gets up to…

Click on the link to my new novel, The Lost World of the Wends

Or discover how it all began in The Hitch-Hiker

And how it continues with Mission of the Unwilling

TK-Team Flying Visit–Ellery Creek

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Ellery Creek Waterhole

[Join us, the TK-Team, in the holiday up North, we were able to and had to have…]

Rest after mission accomplished

My husband Anthony had a mission. That mission was to buy jocks and socks. He’d been threatening this venture in the days before we embarked on our mini trek to Central Australia. As if there weren’t enough obstacles to overcome to get to Alice Springs. Covid escapees and the lockdowns that ensue when that sneaky little virus escapes the confines of medi-hotels or the eastern states at this present time in Australia.

But, with South Australia free from new locally acquired cases of Covid and the Northern Territory happy to receive us, we took our chance. Not that it wasn’t like Paris post September the 11th at Adelaide Airport when we departed. The federal police paced the concourse of the airport while armed to the teeth and touting semi-automatic rifles. Or when we successfully arrived at Alice Springs airport, we were greeted with what I’d describe as “Checkpoint Charlie” where the disembarking passengers had to line up, and then show “Passports of Declaration” that they had not been to any hotspots in the last 28 days. Took an hour for all of us to get through.

Anthony recorded the aeroplane parking lot which reveals how much the world is not travelling these past eighteen months.

[Photo 1: Plane Park © A.N. Kling 2021]

So, on the morning after our epic journey north by plane, and a sleepless night on a bed of what seemed to be a hard plank, we embarked on our hiking trip of the day. This time through the heart of Alice Springs in search of the Target Store. Google maps seemed to be slightly confused and sent us marching in the opposite direction. I recalled seeing a Target sign. But where?

The township was packed with all sorts: tourists, beggars, shoppers, the sober, and not so sober. Not a mask in sight.

Finally, after twenty minutes of searching, we found the Target Store and Anthony found his socks and jocks to buy.

[Photo 2: That’s where: from Anzac Hill © L.M. Kling 2021]

Mission accomplished, we headed for the Araluen Cultural Centre and to Yaye’s Café, where we were to meet an old friend who I knew from church back in the 1970’s but who has lived in Central Australia now for many years.

Over Argentinian pies, we swapped books and stories all things Hermannsburg, Missions and Central Australia.

After lunch, Anthony and I journeyed out to Ellery Creek Big Waterhole. In all the previous visits to the MacDonnell Ranges, this waterhole was one which we would visit, briefly, to tick off on our to-do list.

1977, the T-Team with Mr. B assembled in front of the hole. Tick. Then onto the more spectacular Ormiston Gorge.

[Photo 3: Been there, done that in 1977 © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

1981, bypassed. For the more intriguing Ormiston.

[Photo 4: Ormiston Gorge © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

2013, a brief visit as it was heading towards sunset and we must get back to Hermannsburg before dark and potential car-carnage by animal.

[Photo 5: Too late for red cliffs © L.M. Kling 2013]

This time, 2021, we would give Ellery Creek a good hour or two to absorb the beauty and atmosphere of the place.

Problem was, we seemed to be driving, driving, driving on Namatjira Drive. Kilometres and kilometres. Noticed a sign that stated that Glen Helen, where we had camped in 2013, was closed.

[Video: Driving, driving along Namatjira Drive © L.M. Kling 2021]

90 km from Alice Springs and finally, the sign to Ellery Creek, Big Hole loomed large to our left. We turned right onto the graded but dirt track. As Anthony drove slowly over the corrugations, he remarked, ‘It’s been proven by the “Mythbusters” television show that driving slow over corrugations minimises damage to your car. It’s driving fast over the corrugations that causes damage.’

We parked in a near-empty carpark, and hiked the short distance to the waterhole. The cliffs glowed golden-red in the late afternoon sun. A sign by the rippled waters warned of currents and to take care if swimming.

[Photo 6: Glowing cliffs of Ellery Creek © L.M. Kling 2021]

Anthony and I decided it was enough to bask under the shaded beauty of the cliffs, and admire brilliant reflections in the pool capturing the images with our cameras. Anthony with his phone and me with my Nikon D7000.

[Photo 7: Reflections in the ripples © L.M. Kling 2021]

We then settled down on the towel I had brought and enjoyed a simple afternoon tea of bananas and water.

[Photo 8: Progress of the hardy ghost gum © L.M. Kling 2021]

While we basked in the stillness of the waterhole, the birds emerged: budgies, ducks, a kingfisher, and finches. Then some of the not-so-native wildlife appeared.

[Photo 9: Kingfisher © L.M. Kling 2021]

A man with a flynet over his head.

‘But there’s hardly any flies,’ Anthony said.

Another man disrobed to his bathers and dipped into the water. He soon scrambled out. ‘Too cold,’ he cried.

As the cliffs of the Big Hole deepened in hues of red, we made our way back to the car.

[Photo 10: Calming waters of red cliff reflections © L.M. Kling 2021]

‘Must get back to Alice Springs before dark,’ Anthony said.

So, in the golden light of late afternoon, we returned to Alice Springs where, at the IGA near the caravan park, we bought lamb chops for dinner. The kangaroo tails offered were tempting, but…

[Photo 11-Kangaroo Tails for tea? © A.N. Kling 2021]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

Feature Photo: Greetings from Ellery Creek Big Hole © L.M. Kling 2021

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

For the price of a cup of coffee (takeaway, these days),

Click on the link and download your kindle copy of my travel memoir,

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari. (Australia)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (United States)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (UK)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (Germany]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [France]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (India)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Canada]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Mexico]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Italy]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Brazil]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Spain]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Japan]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Netherlands]

Out of Time (7.2)

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Melbourne Bound

Part 2

[The continuation of the Survivor Short Story “project” in the War On Boris the Bytrode series. This time, back in time, 1967, following the adventures of middle-aged mum, Letitia…In this episode (7.2) Letitia and Wilhelm separately face their demons on the Princess of Tasmania bound for Melbourne.]

The cabin shuddered and roared. A flame-haired woman towered over and menaced her. Tails, lean and slimy, leered at her, laughing. His teeth turned black and jagged, and the face became that of the minx’s mum. Smoke filled the cabin. And bang!

***

Letitia bolted upright. Wide awake. Blinking in the darkness. Her world bucking and rolling. Side to side. Back and forth. Up and down. She clung to the sides of the bunk as it rolled one way then the other. She remained sitting, expecting to be assaulted with relentless seasickness. However, apart from a head that felt as though it was wadded thick with cotton wool and a nose stuffed with glue, she did not feel ill. She swung her feet over the bedside and landing them on the floor, she pushed herself to standing. She waded through the blackness to the door. Aiming for that thin sliver of light marking its direction. Letitia was hungry.

The mean mother and her menacing charges reared up in her memory. Perhaps, I’m not that hungry, she reasoned. Although her stomach growled protesting otherwise, she returned to her bunk and hibernated under the thin cotton covers.

***

Upon viewing the Hippie family in their Kombi, Will grew cold. Sweat, with a life of its own, dripped from his temples and underarms. The gentle sea breeze mingled with the dampness sending a chill through to his core.

Will studied the woman driving the van. ‘It’s him,’ the little lady’s voice echoed behind his ear.

‘Is it?’ he muttered. ‘Are you sure? Okay, I’ll just take a closer look.’

‘What?’ Letitia glanced at Will. ‘What are you saying?’

 ‘I, er, um am just taking a visit to the men’s room.’ He patted her arm. ‘You’ll be alright?’

‘Yeah, fine.’

Will made his way down to the car docking bay. There, he watched the Kombi and its inhabitants. And waited.

Close up, they were obvious. Not the kids though, like he expected. They were just kids. Proper little Munchkins. But the man and woman. The “man” in the kaftan with his long curly brown hair and John Lennon specs, currently carrying the dog, walked like a woman.

Will nodded. ‘Interesting.’

All those years merged with a woman gives a man a certain insight about such matters like how they walk and talk. The Boris attack and being thrown some 400-years into the past, that’s how that situation happened. And now that woman, her spirit or whatever it was, had been stuck in his head, even after the separation. Courtesy of Boris. With his slimy strings attached, of course.

As the van moved closer, Will focussed on the driver. ‘It’s him,’ the little voice at the back of his ear repeated.

‘Just the sort of thing Boris would do,’ Will said.

At a distance, Will followed the odd family to their cabin.

Once inside, he slid up to the door and listened.

‘Ah, that’s better,’ a woman said, ‘I swear this wig is giving me hives.’

‘Calm down, Maggie, dear,’ a man said, ‘it’ll all be worth it. Not long to go now, my precious.’

‘Did you see her?’

‘Yes, my precious. I have my agents onto her. She should be grateful I saved her life.’

‘Don’t know why you bothered. She’s just an old frump, now really. No use to breed with.’

‘Ah, but, my precious, that is where you are wrong. Her mind. Her skills. And the Admiral, just think what I can get the Admiral to do if I have his daughter in my grasp? Look at what lengths he’s going for his son?’

‘I don’t agree,’ the lady snapped. ‘You’re wasting your time. I’m going out for some fresh air.’

The cabin door swung open.

Will slipped around the nearest corner while a lady, red curls bouncing down the curves of her back, marched past him.

As she disappeared down the corridor, Will peeked around the corner to glimpse a round man in a brown tweed suit, close the door to the cabin.

‘It’s him,’ the voice behind his ear said.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

Feature Photo: Through Cabin Window, Gordon Franklin River Cruise © L.M. Kling 2016

***

Want more?

More than before?

Read the mischief and mayhem Boris the over-sized alien cockroach gets up to…

Click on the link to my new novel, The Lost World of the Wends

Or discover how it all began in The Hitch-Hiker

And how it continues with Mission of the Unwilling

How to Blog–Without re-inventing the Wheel (2)

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[Last week this time, I met my mum and son at a local bakery for coffee and chocolate éclair. We discussed our plans to travel to Central Australia. Next day, new cases of covid 19 were detected, and the following day, the state went into lockdown. Not sure if we will be able to travel to Central Australia now.

So, while we once again are confined to our homes, time to tackle the challenge of launching into the world of blogging…

Here’s part 2 of How to Blog (without reinventing the wheel)]

Part 2 — Connecting with Others

  1. Right, Content — As with any publication, be respectful and avoid anything that might be offensive. A turn-off for some is offensive language. Too many words of the four-letter and “F” variety, and some people won’t read or follow that blog. The Oxford English dictionary has officially 171,476 words, so surely, a writer of substance can find more effective alternatives to vent their frustration. Just my opinion. Another turn-off is the eternally looo-ng post. 500 – 1000 words has worked for me, both ways.
  2. Right, Networking — Think of your own life and how you live it. If you sit in your room and never go out and about, never go to parties or gatherings, never join clubs or interest groups, how is anyone going to know that you exist? I was out the other day with my mum and cousin. My cousin and I are both extroverts and have wide-ranging networks. At the restaurant, I bumped into a friend from art group. And at the bookshop across the road, my cousin met a friend. ‘I’m amazed,’ my mum said to my cousin and me, ‘everywhere we go, you meet people you know.’ It’s the same with blogging. It’s a worldwide community. But how is anyone going to know that your blog exists, if you don’t promote it? The simplest way to develop an online presence is to visit other bloggers’ websites and blog posts, like and comment. I have found that as I do this, Word Press (my platform of choice), sends the blogger a message to invite them to check out my blog post/website.
  3. Right, Views — Photos, ones that grab attention and draw the reader in have worked in my experience, especially for my travel blogs. Readers love that virtual travel adventure, particularly at the moment with our nemesis Co-vid stifling travel. Well, for us Australians who can’t travel overseas and bans on travel into our fair land. However, keep the photo files down around 1 MB, if posting a number of them. Otherwise, the post can take forever to load. Which can put off some readers.
  4. Right, Guest Posts — What about inviting other bloggers to be a guest author on your website? I haven’t done this personally on mine, except for a few re-blogs of posts from other bloggers. But I have been a guest author on other bloggers’ websites and it has worked for me to increase my readership. It works both ways, though. A guest author gives fresh content and attracts more readers to the website. One website that works well for this is a website belonging to Mohamed Al Karbi.
  5. Right Links — Facebook and Twitter do this well. There’s buttons and tick boxes in settings to set this all up so it happens automatically. Instagram, meh, hasn’t worked for me as it won’t link to my WordPress posts. The main advice here is to stick to one platform and allow the links to feed into it. It all depends on your audience and how they manage their social networks. These days I regularly get views from readers through Facebook, but most of my readers still come from WordPress.

Finally, this whole WWW thing is constantly moving and changing. Rather than give up and crawl into the foetal position under your doona, get out there, connect with others online, face to face, and as the Japanese (since it’s the Tokyo Olympics) say, “Gambatte, kudasai” (persevere and do your best).

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

Feature Photo: Sheep ready for shearing, South Australian outback © C.D. Trudinger circa 1995

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

For the price of a cup of coffee (takeaway, these days),

Click on the link and download your kindle copy of my travel memoir,

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari. (Australia)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (United States)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (UK)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (Germany]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [France]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (India)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Canada]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Mexico]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Italy]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Brazil]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Spain]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Japan]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Netherlands]

Out of Time (7.1)

/ lmkling / 1 Comment

Melbourne-Bound

Part 1

[The continuation of the Survivor Short Story “project” in the War On Boris the Bytrode series. This time, back in time, 1967, following the adventures of middle-aged mum, Letitia…In this episode (7.1) Letitia and Wilhelm board the Princess of Tasmania bound for Melbourne.]

Boarding

The Princess of Tasmania towered over the tedious queue of cars. Cars and some trucks, flanked one side of the Mersey River, waiting patiently to be uploaded. Not one vehicle seemed to be moving, and the long line just seemed to be getting longer, stretching into the distant blur on the horizon. The faces of the unfortunate occupants were gridlocked into grim expressions of determination or abject resignation that the next few hours of their lives would be spent sitting in the car and waiting for the ferry to swallow them up. There were, some enterprising fellows who reclined against their Holden or Ford Utes and puffed on their cigarettes.

From the vantage point of the deck, Letitia and Wilhelm cast pitying glances down upon their fellow car-jammed passengers. Boarding was a simple affair in the company of Wilhelm. After disposing of his Aston Martin in the care of a steward who looked after cars belonging to the rich and privileged, Wilhelm and Letitia presented their tickets to the ticket officer, and then simply walked onto the boat via a firmly fixed wooden slatted plank. While the masses languished in the linear car park below, the few car-free passengers scattered themselves sparsely around the sunny edges of the ferry or sought their cabins for comfort.

Letitia leaned on the thick metal white rail and basked in the soft southerly breeze that took the sting out of the late afternoon summer sun. The cavernous mouth of the ferry had not opened yet and the queue of vehicles kept piling along the side of the river far, far into the distance.

Directly below her, sat a Kombi Volkswagon housing a hippie couple and a pair of feral children. Well, they certainly were acting feral. Letitia reckoned to Wilhelm that waiting in a traffic line for hours on end would do that to anyone, especially kids. One of the dirt-smeared youngsters had climbed on top of the van with the family’s pet dog, a Jack Russel, and was attempting to tan himself. The problem was that the boy could not lie still long enough for the sun’s rays to catch the patches of skin that weren’t dirt blocked. A small girl in little more than grubby shorts and a singlet joined her brother on the roof and a tussle on the hot tin roof ensued. The mum, head clad with a brightly coloured beanie risked creeping forward the van to sort out her charges. Letitia tried not to stare directly at them from the deck in case she embarrassed the family. But she just had to point at the van and laugh, ‘What has become of the dog, Wilhelm? I wonder if dogs are even allowed on the ferry. How do you reckon the Kombi crowd have advanced this far with the dog in tow?’

Then she spotted the dog a few car lengths closer to-the-yet-to-be-opened opening of the boat and peeing with much satisfaction on some unsuspecting victim’s car tyre. Letitia looked back to the van. The kids were off the roof and squirming discontentedly in the hot car with only natural air-conditioning (open windows) to keep them cool. An older emissary, flowing long brown hair adorned with a red and brown headband and John Lennon glasses, hopped out the olive-green Kombi, and then wended his way in and out of the car jam in search of the dog.

Letitia never did find out the end of the hippie family’s story. After Will had excused himself in search of a toilet, a blonde girl with more make-up than sense began sneering at her.

Letitia locked eyes with the girl and pointed at herself. ‘Me? What did I ever do to you?’

But, she knew. Her dark skin tones marked her. Alien.

 A midget-sized freckle-faced boy had sided with the blonde girl and together they made a formidable team ganging up against Letitia. She had never heard so much colourful language in her life, except perhaps when Jemima was asked to grow her shaved head of hair in Year 7 when she was thirteen. By 2017, in Mirror, shaved heads were the norm. Oh, that’s right! It’s not 2017, apparently; the date is sometime in January 1967. Letitia sighed and murmured to anyone near who would listen, ‘I didn’t realize how rude children can be, even in 1967.’

The evil duo were doing their worst to get a reaction out of her. She was almost embarrassed for them as they began cavorting before her, for her exclusive benefit with suggestive, rude gestures. Letitia thought, Are they for real? I cannot repeat what foul words are coming from their mouths.

The girl proceeded to hold up her cheap plastic camera, aiming it in Letitia’s general direction. Then she screeched, ‘Get out of my way! You’re ruining my picture!’ Followed by a barrage of insults aimed at Letitia.

The boy then raised his voice above the profanities. ‘Nice dress, Miss Fahrer, did you get it at an Op shop?’

‘What?’ Letitia glared at this menacing midget. ‘How did you know…’

The tart of a teenage girl minced up to her, still holding up the camera, and spat out the threat, ‘My mum’s going to get you for failing me in Science, Miss Fahrer!’

‘What? You must have the wrong person—I mean, teacher,’ she said. Me, teach science? Now that’s a joke! Or, is this what this world’s Letitia did? Teach bratty kids?

‘You can’t get out of it that easily!’ the boy sneered fiercely. ‘There’s only one Miss. F ‘n that’s you! ‘n you know it.’

‘They should sack you, Miss F. My mum is going to get you sacked for – for – for—how come youse are so dark?’ The girl bared her buck teeth as she poked Letitia’s shoulder. ‘Too much baby oil and suntanning, eh?’

‘Yeah, right,’ Letitia replied. ‘The sun’s strong down south in Tasmania.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ she snorted. ‘What give’s you the right to give me a detention for my skirt being too short? Huh?’

‘You’re just a perve!’ the cheeky boy added.

‘Yeah! Perve!’ the girl repeated. ‘And, what’s with the French accent? Why are you putting on a French accent? You sound so stupid!’

‘Er, I think you’ve mixed me up with someone else. I’ve never taught in my life.’ Letitia began to back away from this troublesome pair, searching for an escape.

A woman’s sharp voice stabbed Letitia verbally in the back. ‘That much is obvious.’

‘Yeah, I was just, just telling them, that they, that they have the wrong…’ Letitia turned and stammered to a grown up and more weathered version of the teenage vixen.

A cigarette hung precipitously from the stale yellow fingers, and the rotting plaque covered teeth ground angrily at her. ‘No, we have the right ‘un. My daughter worked bleeding ‘ard and what did you do? But fail ‘er!’ The woman with straw hair dark roots showing, jabbed the air with the cigarette butt and ash fell onto Letitia’s dress.

‘I’m very sorry for your daughter’s misfortune – but, but I – I mean – you’ve got the wrong person. I’m not a teacher. I never have been. I’ve been living in France.’

‘I’m goin’ to get you sacked! You’ll never teach again.’ The mother aged beyond her years to even be a mother of this teenage girl, hammered her fist at Letitia.

‘Fine. Go ahead. See if I care!’ Letitia replied and then darted past the wheezing woman. Before they could again accost her, she ducked through the nearest door, climbed several sets of stairs and raced along the narrow maze of cabin passages.

Finally, Letitia had found her cabin. After several nervous jabs at the hole with her key, she unlocked the door and bolted into her room. There she sat on the edge of the bunk in an effort to regroup her thoughts. She trembled. A rising sense of nausea overwhelmed her.

She rifled through her purse and popped a couple of travel-sickness pills Will had bought her at the local chemist in Devonport. Then she lay on the bed. The heat of the sun through the salt encrusted porthole made her stuffy and ill. She closed her eyes to ward off the urge for the complimentary paper bag.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

Feature Photo: On Deck, view of Mersey River, Devonport © L.M. Kling 1998

 ***

Want more?

More than before?

Read the mischief and mayhem Boris the over-sized alien cockroach gets up to…

Click on the link to my new novel, The Lost World of the Wends

Below…

Or discover how it all began in The Hitch-Hiker

And how it continues with Mission of the Unwilling