[Have you ever been to a place and had an immediate affinity with it? Well, that’s how it was for me when the T-K Team on their Swiss adventures visited Murten. Loved the place. I’m sure, now, that it wasn’t just the perfect weather, the picture postcard views of the lake and the charming medieval architecture so perfectly preserved. There was something more, which I was to discover recently.
Of course, my younger son would insist on putting a dampener on my dreams—’How can you be related? You’ve got no Western German in your ethnicity,’ he harps on and on about that point. Anyway, we will put that matter aside and I’ll take it up with My Heritage.
All I can say, is that there must be something in the connection I felt with the place. While doing my family history, I came across some ancestors, the De Bons, who lived in Murten, my five times great-grandfather was a protestant pastor in Murten. There were Huguenot connections in the family. And note the museum, where I mention that the Celts lived in Murten. According to my DNA results from My Heritage, my ethnicity is 25% Celt.]
Murten/Morat
Thursday, August 21, 2014, even earlier up as we planned to drive across the country to Bern and beyond, near the French part of Switzerland. Granny excused herself as the last two days had exhausted her and besides, she really needed to catch up with her uncle and auntie.
I might add here that Granny and her family, being Swiss German, were not fans of the French part of Switzerland. The feeling, I’ve heard, is mutual. (Thanks to Nepoleon, the French part of Switzerland only became thus in the early 1800’s. So, when my ancestors were living there in the 1700’s, they would’ve identified as French.)
In Murten, the people speak French. So, when P1 spoke Swiss German to the Museum attendant, she was not amused. We almost didn’t get a Museum pass.
Back to the timeline, and some photos.
Despite Tomina’s (Tom Tom) and my under par navigational performance (early morning—yawn), we arrived at 11.30am in Morat/Murten and relished a day of summer, eating lunch by the lake, exploring the Old town and its buildings garnished with flowers, the museum of Stone Age, Celtic, Roman and Medieval relics spanning 10,000 years of human settlement around Murten. Followed by a visit to the Roman ruins in Avenches, the ancient capital of the Roman province of Helvitica.
On our return, we suffered the frustration stuck in peak hour traffic, and Granny suffered stress worrying about our late arrival “home”.
While old diggers swilled down beer in RSL clubs around the nation, Dan led an intrepid group of friends up the steep steps of Waterfall Gully. A perfect day for a hike, he considered. And to do some snooping for El’s requested cold case being the mystery of the missing men, Jan von Erikson and Percy Edwards. First, he’d invited El to join him. He was confident that El could sense ghosts and point him in the right direction to find “souvenirs”. But then, El’s partner, Francis Renard asked to join the expedition, followed swiftly with a request that his newly found daughter Zoe Thomas come along too. Sven had then wanted to join the party. But at the last minute, he bowed out as he had a catch-up tutorial for students who had failed their first assignment.
Dan stopped at the viewing stand and, after glancing at the waterfall trickling a meagre offering of water down its cliffs, he watched his troupe of followers crawl up the steps. He chuckled remembering the times he’d taken his family on this same route up to Adelaide’s iconic mountain. While the children would be bounding up the steps and slopes like deer, Kate, his ex would be huffing, wheezing, and complaining. Inevitably, Dan would coax Kate, his wife at that time, saying, “Just five more minutes, and then five more minutes.” Then, just as inevitably, they’d reach the old ruin halfway to the summit, and there Dan and the kids inevitably leave “Mum” to rest and recover there while they completed the mission to the top.
No huffing, puffing and wheezing with this lot, though. All of them seemed to be at the peak of their fitness, even 65-year-old Renard. Renard boasted that he jogged up and down Mt. Lofty at least once or twice a month. Zoe his daughter as proof of nature over nurture, also boasted of her adventures in Tasmania: Traversing the Central Highlands from Cradle Mountain to Lake St. Clair, climbing Mt. Hartz and Frenchman’s Cap. And of course, El had kept up her fitness running, jogging and bike riding along the track from her home in Brighton to Hallett Cove.
He did think of asking Jemima, but she hadn’t been answering his calls lately. What was the current term of that? Oh, yes, he remembered, “Ghosting”. Rather fitting for today’s walk, he mused with a pang of sadness.
Dan waited and sighed. ‘What’s taking them so long?’
El strode up to Dan. ‘Sorry about that, Zoe has to stop every few minutes to take photos.’
‘What? Of this? We’ve hardly started,’ Dan said, ‘the rate we’re going we’ll be hiking back in the dark.’
El looked at her watch. ‘It’s only ten o’clock, plenty of time.’
Renard and his daughter joined them at the vantage point.
Zoe spent precious minutes framing her scenes and snapping shots using her Nikon camera with a formidable zoom lens attached to it. She kept muttering, ‘You said it’s a waterfall, but where’s the water?’
‘It’s been a bit dry over summer,’ El said, ‘it’s the driest state on the driest continent.’
‘Antarctica is actually.’
‘Spoken like a true lawyer,’ El laughed.
‘It’s important to have your facts right,’ Zoe returned while photographing the waterfall with minimal amounts of water dribbling down it.
‘That’s enough, girls,’ Renard said, ‘let’s enjoy the hike. Besides, Dan’s getting a bit toey; he wants to get to the top.’
‘And, how long does it take to get to the above-mentioned top?’ Zoe asked.
‘Erm, takes me only about an hour, on a slow day,’ Renard said, his chest puffed out in pride.
‘Well, then, what’s the rush? We’ll be up ‘n down in no time.’ Zoe looked at El. ‘Oh, unless El’s not up for it.’
‘Oh, I am,’ El snipped, ‘and if Dan is so desperate to summit, why don’t we make it a race? See who can reach the top first?’
Dan slung his backpack over his shoulder and pouted, ‘No need to rush. I was hoping we’d enjoy the hike. Maybe have lunch at the ruins.’
‘Nup, not good enough, mate,’ Renard jogged on the spot, ‘nup, I say race.’
‘We get to the top, and on the way down, we can have lunch,’ Zoe said rubbing her hands together. ‘Come on Dad, let’s do it.’
The foursome bounded up the steps to the Second Falls, but soon after, Zoe and her father disappeared into the scrub leaving Dan and his former crime-fighting partner sauntering behind.
While batting liquorice bushes just past the Second Falls, Dan glanced at El who had kept pace with him. Renard and his daughter had, in their quest to be “first”, become absorbed in the distant heights of the Mt. Lofty trail.
Dan asked, ‘Sense anything?’
El glanced around her taking in the dense grasses near the creek with just a trickle of water. ‘Actually, no. Should I? Is there something about Zoe that we should know?’
Dan shrugged. Perhaps it’s better if such things like ghosts of murder victims haunting the Mt. Lofty trail should come naturally. After all, it was El, who after talking to Fifi suspected that her father met his end here. She did say they found human remains…
El sat down on the ruin wall. ‘She didn’t. Just that they found them near a drain or mine entrance.’
Dan placed his hands on hips. ‘Great! No sense of what direction the body could be?’
‘No, but, logically, since they were up here in the height of summer, on a thirty-eight-degree day…after reaching the summit, Fifi was desperate for a drink. Almost fainting. They managed to get a lime cordial from the kiosk. But let’s just say, the lime cordial didn’t stay down her for long. Anyway, after a rest, Fifi reckoned they begin the climb down. She mentioned they had a rest around here at the ruins. She was feeling better and went looking for water. That’s when she came upon the remains. Under some bridge, she reckoned.’
‘Bridge? What bridge? In all my years exploring, hiking around here, I’ve never come across a bridge.’
‘Maybe it looked like a bridge but I s’pose it could have been some sort of drain or mine entrance.’
‘Could be. Perhaps what would be called a culvert. So, on that premise, she’d be looking in a gully where a tributary might be.’ Dan pointed at a nearby dip in the hillside. ‘I reckon if we follow that little gully there, we might find something. Or at least you may sense something.’
‘Worth a try,’ El chuckled, ‘I can imagine Renard and Zoe patting themselves on the back and treating themselves to cappuccinos at the top now.’
They tramped over the slimy creek bed and slippery rocks. Reeds and acacia bushes whipped their bodies as they thrashed their way through the scrub.
‘What possessed you to go down here?’ Dan asked.
‘I had to pee,’ Zoe said. ‘Then I sort of got lost. Lucky, I had a signal on my phone. Didn’t fancy…But I was wandering down this creek and I got curious…it looked so…familiar.’
‘What?’
‘Who would’ve thought I’d be on a hike with Detective Dan and just like those murder mystery shows, I’d come across…how strange!’
Renard met them as they approached a wattle bush. ‘It’s this way,’ he said pointing to a clump of blackberry bushes.
After navigating the prickles of those particularly thorny scourges that had invaded the native bushland, the group stood around a slimy puddle. What appeared to be a leathery cowhide draped the entrance to a drain as if it were a welcome mat. In the mouth of the cave, an upturned skull sprouted a sprig of native lilies.
Dan squatted by the leather. ‘It’s a ribcage,’ he said.
El hunched over and stepped into the cave.
‘Don’t go too far, love,’ Renard said, ‘it could be a disused mine.’
‘It’s not,’ El sang in return, ‘it’s a drain. See all the water trickling out of it?’
Zoe looked on and with arms folded, said, ‘This place is giving me the creeps.’
‘Now, that’s the sort of thing that El would normally say,’ Dan said, then poked his head into the drain. ‘Sense anything El?’
Something shiny caught Dan’s attention. He reached over to a tuft of grass by the drain’s edge and parted the leaves to reveal a silver chain. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pair of gloves, then a plastic bag.
El looked around at Dan. ‘You came prepared?’
‘You never know,’ Dan replied and bagged the chain with a cross pendant. He then smiled at Zoe. ‘Now, I was going to use my phone, but as you have such a quality camera, Zoe, would you mind taking some photos for me?’
Zoe stared at the “evidence”. She turned pale. Then she patted her camera bag and shook her head. ‘Sorry, I-I can’t…this is creeping me out.’
She backed away from the remains, then turned and ran, disappearing through the bushes.
‘Wait…Zoe…don’t…’ Renard called as he chased her.
Dan sighed, ‘Too much for the aspiring lawyer, I guess.’
‘And we are too used to scenes such as this,’ El said.
Dan lifted the phone to his ear and called in the forensic team, then the coroner. He hoped that there was enough DNA on the remains to identify the victim.
As the lawyer scrambled down the slope, her mind raced to a disturbing conversation she’d had at the hotel in Strahan four months ago. The week before Christmas, and one of the old locals had approached her. A fisherman who owned a fancy yacht and by her estimation had imbibed way too much. He sidled up to her at the bar and talked to her as if he knew her. Kept calling her Lillie.
“I dare you!” he repeated in his drunken drawl. “I dare you to hike up Mt. Lofty and find that geezer. He’s up there under the bridge, ya know. I dare you to find ‘im, Lilly.”
“It’s his fault, ya know. Ya ol’ man. He made me do it.” The fisherman then patted Zoe’s arm. “Nah, you’re a good girl, Lilly. You’d never rat on ya ol’ man.”
Zoe massaged the mud-encrusted watch in her pocket. Up until that moment, she had thought the fisherman’s words were the ravings of a drunk man.
[Eleven years ago, the T-Team, next generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge. In “Ready for the Weekend Friday”, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation. This time, the T-Team make their way, rather precariously, to Alice Springs.]
Rest Stop at Curtain Springs
We paused for lunch at the rest stop just outside Curtain Springs. There we sat and ate our sandwiches and watched the passing parade of tourists, trundling through in their RVs, and caravans. They’d park, snap a few photos of Mt Conner, walk stiff-legged to long-drop toilet, then stagger out waving the flies away before climbing back into the comfort of luxury on wheels and trundling away down the road to Uluru.
A big bus roared into the rest stop and a young Indigenous family alighted. The wife and children joined the queue for the toilets. Meanwhile, the husband gazed at the view of Mt Conner. As he walked back to his bus, he gave a nod and greeted us. He was the only one of the passing multitudes who did.
After our lunch, Anthony and I climbed up the sand hill opposite the rest stop. At the top, we viewed a salt lake in the distance. Maybe, I assumed, it was the tail-end of Lake Amadeus.
‘Wow!’ I said, ‘and all those tourists just go past and never bother to climb this hill and see the lake.’
No answer.
I turned. Where was Anthony? I scrambled around the scrub in search of my husband. ‘Anthony? Where are you?’
No Anthony in sight, I assumed he had returned to the car. Upon my return to the car, I discovered he was not there either. After checking the toilets and discovering only flies and the stink, I traipsed up the hill again. Where was he?
Just as I was about to give up on him and call in a search party, I almost stumbled over Anthony. He was squatting on the sand, sifting the grains through his fingers. ‘I can’t believe how red the sand is,’ he said.
At Erldunda we filled up the car with gas and I took over driving. As we headed for Alice Springs, I remarked, ‘The T-Team must almost be in Alice Springs.’ ‘Mrs. T will like that,’ Anthony replied, ‘she was in a hurry to get there.’ ‘Do we know how to get to her friend’s place where we are staying?’ My husband shrugged. ‘Guess we’ll have to call my brother and get directions. Haven’t got their friend’s address,’ I said. ‘Or we could stay in a motel.’ ‘That’s an option, if we can’t contact them.’ Anthony sighed, ‘Yeah, but, how easy will it be to find accommodation if we haven’t booked?’
We hadn’t travelled more than 40 km when we spotted a family on the side of the road and in distress. Maybe we should stop and help them, I thought.
As I slowed down, I noted that a lady stood at the edge of the road waving her arms. ‘What the heck?!’ Anthony exclaimed. ‘I think they’re in trouble,’ I said, and as we drew closer, ‘It’s Mrs. T waving her arms about.’ I braked. ‘Hey! Not so hard!’ Anthony screamed. Took my foot off the brake and then eased the car to a stop by the side of the road. All the while the T-Team grew smaller and smaller in our rear vision mirror.
‘What! Stop! What are you doing? Stop! Brake hard!’ I slammed my foot on the brake and jolted to a stop on the dirt. ‘Why did you stop so far away? Reverse back to them,’ Anthony snapped. ‘No!’ I retorted. ‘We can walk. Who knows what junk is lying in the dirt ready to puncture our tyres.’
In a huff, my husband raced ahead of me to where Richard was operating on the trailer. As I approached the T-Team, I noticed that my brother was pulling off one tyre carcass and proceeding to mount the spare.
‘The tyre got staked,’ Mrs. T held up what looked like an antenna, ‘by this metal thing.’
‘And we’d just changed a tyre at Erldunda; one that got shredded,’ Richard pointed at some rubber remnants on the verge, and then shook his head. ‘The mechanic didn’t do anything about wheel-balancing. The tyres got so worn they came to pieces. The other tyre was nearly worn through, so I changed them around.’
‘Why do we have such bad luck?’ Mrs. T cried. ‘It’s the curse of the Rock,’ my older niece said. ‘Who stole a rock from the Rock?’ my nephew asked. The T-Lings had been sitting in the van playing their phone games, but they emerged to join in the family conversation.
‘What d’ya mean?’ Mrs. T said. ‘I bought this rock as a souvenir!’ ‘Yeah, but, my brother did run down the Rock barefoot some twenty years ago,’ I laughed. ‘Perhaps the Rock remembers.’ ‘Well, one thing for sure,’ Richard rubbed his hands, ‘first thing tomorrow, I’m ringing the mechanics who did our wheel balance…’ ‘It’s just not safe,’ I said. ‘I know,’ my older niece held up her hands as if holding a steering wheel at an angle, ‘I told them something was not right and that I had to hold it like this all the time. But they wouldn’t believe me.’
With tyres fixed and resolution to acquire replacements in Alice Springs, plus promises to catch up in the same town, the T-Team disappeared down Stuart Highway in the late afternoon haze.
But our ordeals reaching our next place of accommodation were not over yet. [To be continued…]
Saturday, April 23, 2022, 4-5 pm Norwood to Brighton
El
El giggled as she dodged and weaved around slow-moving and stationary traffic on Unley Road. Just can’t win, she thought. Drive in the left lane, and cars parked on the side make her swing into the right-hand lane. Stick to the right and you get some geezer that must turn right and wait for on-coming traffic. So, you’re stuck. Swing to the left. Even on a Saturday.
In her head, she reflected on the portraiture session with Lillie Edwards. The larger-than-life figure, in more ways than the obvious, kept Eloise entertained with her stories of her family and misadventures. No mention of Tasmania, however. Nor a little bundle she may have left there. But that was to be expected. Lillie did moan about her fraught relationship with her young adult daughter, Tiffy, however. So, on the drive home, El, in her usual way of making sense of events, imagined those events running in a movie reel—especially the tale of Tiffy’s antics on the most recent Australia Day.
Australia Day, and the last vestiges of a less-than-perfect summer holiday wilt in the sweltering heat in the foothills of Adelaide. A blowfly beats against the window, in time to the droning of the radio, doom and gloom, global warming, and politics. Nine in the morning and thirty-four degrees Celsius—already! Tiffy sits at the kitchen table. She’s the sitting-dead, the zombie of no sleep after a hot night, with no gully breeze. Sticky and sweaty, after tossing and turning with Mum’s chainsaw of snoring filling the house.
El laughed, ‘Bet Lillie does snore.’
Mum enters the family room and Tiffy recoils. ‘Ugh! Mum! How could you!’ ‘It’s our family day, dear. I’m wearing my lucky golf shorts.’ ‘Those legs should not be seen in public! Oh! How embarrassing!’ She covers her eyes shielding against the assault of Mum’s white legs under cotton tartan shorts. At least she wears a white T-shirt; better than nothing. Matches the legs, she guesses.
Dad drifts into the family room. He’s looking at the polished cedar floorboards while tying up his waist-length hair in a ponytail. He wears his trademark blue jeans and white t-shirt with a logo of some rusty metal band. That’s Dad. He’s a musician.
‘Something odd about the man,’ El spoke while passing the shopping centre near the “Dead Centre”, as she called the cemetery. ‘Can’t put my finger on it, though. But I sense it. He’s hiding something.’ She glanced at the blue-grey structure. Do I go in? I need more Oolong tea. They have the best…nah, I’ll wait.
Catching up with Fifi at Bathsheba’s next week. I’ll get it then.’
On with the reverie…
Tiffy looks to Dad. ‘Dad, why do we have to play golf? Why can’t we just have a barbecue by the beach like my friends?’
‘Because this is what Mum wants to do,’ Dad says. ‘We’re having a family day together before Mum gets all busy with work, and you get all busy with Uni.’ ‘But, Dad, we always play golf. And it’s not family-building, it’s soul destroying.’ ‘We’re doing this for Mum.’ ‘That’s right, Tiffy.’ Mum strides down the hallway and lifts her red bag of golf clubs. ‘Ready?’ Dad and Tiffy follow Mum to the four-wheel drive all-terrain vehicle. The only terrain that vehicle has seen is the city, oh, and the only rough terrain, potholes. ‘The person who invented golf should be clubbed,’ Tiffy mutters. ‘Tiffy!’ Dad says. ‘Mum loves golf. We play golf on Australia Day because we love Mum, okay?’ Tiffy sighs. ‘Okay.’
‘Well, if I were Tiffy, that would be my stance,’ El said heading west to her beachside abode. She passed one of her old work places on Sturt Road and sighed with a sense of relief from the constant pressure of understaffing and increasing crime. However, a tinge of regret and longing to be in the thick of the action, solving crime, crept in.
She continued her imagining…
‘What a way to ruin a pleasant walk!’ Tiffy grumbles as she hunts for that elusive white ball in the bushes. Rolling green hills all manicured, a gentle breeze rustles the leaves of the gum trees either side. Her ball has a thing for the trees and bushes. She heads for them every time she hits the ball. And if there’s a sandbank, her ball plops in it like a magnet. And don’t get her started on the artificial lake. Dad and Mum wait at the next tee ushering ahead multiple groups of golfers. Tiffy’s ball doesn’t like the green and flies past it. She’s chopping away at the bushes near Mum and Dad. Mum smiles at her and says, ‘Are you having a bad day, Tiffy?’ Understatement of the year. She swings at the pesky white ball. ‘Remember to keep your eye on the ball,’ Mum says. Tiffy fixes her gaze on Mum and pokes her tongue at her.
Another shopping centre closer to home beckoned, but El turned at the Burger joint corner and drove ever west beach wards.
El sniggered as the reel of her over-active mind continued… It gets worse. Tiffy straggles to the tenth after twenty shots. Mum and Dad sit on a bench sipping cans of lemonade. ‘Well done! You’ve finally made it halfway,’ Mum says. Her daughter stares at her. The cheek! Now she’s got white zinc cream over her nose and cheeks. ‘You look stupid, Mum. Like a clown.’
‘You look sunburnt, dear,’ Mum offers the sunscreen, ‘come and put some on. There’s a pet.’ Tiffy glances at her reddening arms. ‘Can I stop now?’ ‘You may not,’ Mum says. ‘We’re only halfway. Now, come and I’ll put your sunscreen on. You don’t want to get skin cancer.’ ‘I won’t if I stop.’ ‘Come now, Tiff, it’s our family day,’ Dad says. ‘Oh, alright.’ Mum pastes her daughter with sunscreen. ‘Where’s your hat? Have you lost it? You need your hat.’ She finishes covering her with a bottle full of sunscreen and offers Tiffy her tartan beret. ‘Here, you can wear mine.’ Daughter jumps away. ‘No! Ee-ew!’ ‘Come on!’ Mum thrusts her hat in her face. ‘No!’ Tiffy says. ‘I’m not wearing any hat! It gives me hat hair.’ Mum shakes her head, replaces the beret on her bleached bob before placing her ball on the tee. As she stands, legs apart, eyes on the ball, the wooden club raised ready to strike, Tiffy watches her mum’s behind, not a pretty sight.
Mum turns slowly, her eyes narrowing at her. ‘Would you please stand back? You’re casting a shadow. Don’t you know that it’s against golfing etiquette to cast a shadow?’ Tiffy steps aside. ‘No, I seemed to have missed that one.’ Mum swings her club back. She stops again. She rotates her body and glares at Tiffy. ‘You’re still casting a shadow.’ ‘This isn’t the Australian Open and you’re not the “Shark”. Have I missed the television crews?’ ‘Don’t be sarcastic,’ Mum says. She’s acting like a shark. ‘Sorry!’ Tiffy says with a bite of sarcasm and then retreats behind a nearby Morton Bay Fig tree.
Mum arches back her polished wood, then stops a third time. She marches over to Tiffy and snarls, ‘You are in my line of vision. Take that smirk off your face!’ Dad shakes his head while tossing his golf ball in the air and catching it. ‘It’s not for a sheep station,’ Tiffy says and then edges further around the thick trunk. Mum stomps her foot and rants. ‘Now, that’s just ridiculous! Over-reacting! You haven’t changed. You always over-react. Grow up, girl!’ Tiffy slinks over to Dad and stands next to him. ‘Am I in your way, now, Mum?’ Mum shakes her club at Tiffy. ‘I’m warning you.’ Dad tosses the ball higher in the air and says, ‘Ladies, calm down.’ Mum puffs, lowers the club and strolls back to the tee. She swings. ‘She’s not in a happy place, Dad,’ Tiffy says, ‘she can’t be enjoying this family day. Next Australia Day we’re having a barbecue. And we’re using her golf sticks for firewood.’ Mum looks up. The club having shaved the top of the ball, causing it to dribble a few centimetres from the tee. Mum’s fuming. Tiffy sniggers and then says, ‘Good shot!’ Mum points at the ball. ‘Pick it up! Pick it up, child!’ Dad hides his mouth and giggles. ‘What’s your problem, Mum? I’m the one losing here.’ ‘Oh, stop being a bad sport and pick up my ball!’ ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’ Tiffy strides up to the ball. ‘I’m not one of your students.’ ‘Do it!’ ‘Get a life!’ Tiffy says and then grinds the ball into the recently watered earth. Dad claps. Mum sways her head and clicks her tongue. ‘You have seriously lost it, Miss.’ Then she places another ball on the tee. ‘Oh, well, I was just practising, considering the circumstances.’ She swings and lobs the ball into the air. Shading her eyes, she watches the ball land on the green. ‘That’s cheating!’ Tiffy says. ‘It’s just a game,’ Dad says with a shrug. ‘Mum’s psycho,’ Tiffy says taking her place at the tee. A crowd has banked up behind the family. Tiffy chips the silly white ball and watches it hook into the thick of the pine forest. Mum and Dad head down the fairway and Tiffy commences her next ball-hunting expedition.
El sits in the car while waiting for the garage roller door to oblige. The Edwards’ movie in her head continues…
Tiffy catches up with her parents on the eleventh. She’s given up forcing the ball in the hole. Mum holds a pencil over a yellow card. ‘Score?’ ‘Twenty,’ she fibs. Mum says, ‘I don’t believe you.’ ‘Thirty, then.’ ‘Oh, come on!’ Her beret flops over her left eye. She looks ridiculous. Tiffy waves. ‘Whatever!’ The Edwards family reach the circle of smooth green grass. Mum races up to the flag and lifts it. She grins at the sound of a satisfying plop. She stands still, her eyes fixed on the hole. Then she raises her arms and dances a jig on the spot. ‘I did it! I did it!’ ‘Is she okay?’ Tiffy asks Dad. ‘Hole in one, Tiffy. Hole in one.’ Tiffy gazes at Mum performing a River Dance, trampling over the green in her tartan shorts and white legs. She still looks ridiculous. How embarrassing, there’s an audience gathering, watching her performance. Now she’s hopping and clapping away from them.
Tiffy sighs. ‘Just my luck! Now she’ll be gloating for the rest of the game.’ ‘It has been her day,’ Dad says. He waves at Mum. ‘Well done, dear.’ ‘She’s demented,’ Tiffy turns to Dad. ‘I don’t know how you put up with her.’ Dad pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his eyes. ‘It’s called love, Tiff. You put up with the good, the bad and the ugly.’ ‘I say you’re putting up with ugly most of the time.’ ‘Your mum’s been through heaps. She had it tough growing up. That’s what love is about. You don’t throw it away, just because it’s not perfect all the time. I mean, none of us are perfect.’ ‘But Mum?’ ‘You’ll see,’ Dad says and then he taps his daughter’s back. ‘Come on, it’s our family day. Better get on. I reckon Mum’s danced her way to the thirteenth already.’
El chuckled as she stepped through the garage door into her home. ‘Not exactly the way Lillie related her experience of achieving a hole-in-one, but I think my version is more amusing.’ ‘What was that?’ Renard called from the kitchen. ‘Hey, Francis, dear, did you know that your old girlfriend got a hole-in-one?’ ‘No, my dear,’ Renard slung a tea towel over his shoulder, ‘did you know that Sven was interviewed by the police the other day?’ ‘Well, I’ll be,’ El replied and hugged her Renard, ‘Lillie made no mention of that during our portrait session.’
Sometimes characters spring from real life, Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction. Sometimes real life is just real life. Check out my travel memoirs, And escape in time and space To Central Australia. Click on the links:
A thunderstorm right over our home last Tuesday and one that rattled the windows threatening to blow out our modem, caused us to switch off our internet. Screen-free for the day, I spent my time excavating my writings from the depths of the closet. There, I discovered this memory from my childhood, and a special cat in my life, Barney.
The poem/prose was handwritten, so I have transcribed it. The original is set below this one.
Barney
He sits supreme over all, His fur as that of a mop Sweeps down his skeletal body. Still, he is king. Half his right ear Pricks up with alertness, The rest had been bitten off in a territorial battle. He is now supreme. Over all of them, One-eye, Buff-head, And the ginger cat who lives down the street. He is victor, no one dares to confront him.
When small, his eyes clamped shut, feeble and defenceless, I loved him. Cotton wool was his fur, paws as soft and pliable as velvet, Not to mention an adorable patch upon his button of a nose. I held him, cuddled him. Active, bold, curious when he frolicked in the sunlight, I watched him. When wide-eyed and fearful caught up in a tree, no way to escape, I rescued him.
He grew, years passed by many litters came forth, but no such kitten was as adorable as him. He became my favourite, waiting at the gate for my return from school. Not only faithful was he, but entertaining, his squabbles with enemy cats became a spectacle and often afterwards I could be heard imitating him; I respected him. We returned from a trip to Canberra one year, Barney was nowhere to be seen. Often lately he had been taking expeditions and for days would be missing. This time, he never returned. I missed him.
Thursday April 21, 2022, 10:30am Adelaide University
Dee
Dee wrapped her jacket tightly around her and shivered. Sven von Erikson’s office, on the fifth floor of the science block was cold. Science books and journals cluttered the shelves in no apparent order. The desk was a mass of papers weighed down by a model of a Mad Max replica of a Ford Falcon XB GT, colour red.
Sven, coffee mug in hand, hurried in slamming the door on a dozen students waiting to see him. He placed the mug on a stack of assignments, then with hands clasped leaned forward. ‘Now, Detective Berry, what can I do for you?’
Dee watched the coffee cup balanced on the paper pile, and worried that the coffee would spill and ruin the work. Resisting the urge to remark on this danger, she said, ‘Thank you for seeing me, Dr von Erikson.’ A young hopeful, seeming little more than a child, opened the door a crack and poked her head through. Sven smiled and waved the girl away.
Then he turned his attention back to Dee. ‘Sorry about that. First term, lost souls.’
‘That’s okay.’
Sven glanced at his analogue watch which Dee suspected was an Asian imitation of a famous and expensive Swiss brand. ‘I have half an hour, Ma’am. Lecture at eleven.’
‘Right, I’m investigating a cold case from…’ she paused and then said, ‘November 1980.’
Was that an expression of relief on Sven’s face? Dee noted the relaxation of Sven’s mouth. His cheeks all hard lines and gritting teeth before and during the pause. And then softening and a hint of a smile once the date was announced. What was that about? she wondered.
‘November 1980? What am I meant to remember about that time?’
‘The 29th of November 1980, to be exact.’ Dee held her gaze on Dr Sven von Erikson. ‘What can you tell me about the events of that day?’
Sven laughed. ‘I barely remember what I had for breakfast and you’re asking me to recall my movements over forty years ago?’
‘I’m sure you can remember if those events are significant.’
Dee glanced at her notebook and looked up. ‘I believe you attended a bonfire on the night of Saturday, November 29, at Sellicks Beach. Is that correct?’
‘If you say so.’ Was he mocking her?
‘We have a witness who puts you at the bonfire on that night.’ Dee narrowed her eyes. ‘Have you no recollection of that particular night?’
Sven shrugged. ‘Uni had…no, that was before I went to…I guess it’s something I would have done. Bonfires on the beach…ah, those were the days.’
‘Does anything spring to mind about that particular bonfire that you would like to tell us about, Dr von Erikson?’ Dee kept her eye on the Doctor of Computer Engineering for any flicker of deception.
The professor picked up the red model Ford Falcon XB and stroked the bonnet. ‘A roo hit my car; I remember about that time. Not at night, but the next morning. Gave my girlfriend a fright. We were nearly home, just driving down a little detour by the Happy Valley Reservoir. And this roo came leaping out and attacked my car. No respect those roos. Worse thing is, I had to stop and pull the animal off the road. Wasn’t sure what we were meant to do about a dead roo, so I left it there, I guess. My girlfriend at the time said that, if it had been a koala, being an endangered species, it would have been a different story, but…’
‘I see…’ Dee responded making a mental note of Sven’s version of how his car came to be damaged.
‘I always remember her saying that kangaroo-icide is better than koala-cide,’ Sven said with a chuckle. Dee remained stone-faced. ‘Do you recall a motorbike incident? A fatality on that night?’
‘Vaguely,’ Sven looked her in the eyes and blinked, ‘oh, yeah, Milo…Milo Katz. Was that, then? I always thought it was 1981. Wow, 1980. His death, I remember had an impact on me. There I was back then, a tradie, a brickie, life going nowhere. Milo was in our youth group. Then, he was gone, killed in that motorbike accident. Snuffed out. And it made me realise that life was short, and I needed to make the most of it. So, I applied as a mature age for university. And here I am today. My girlfriend who became my wife was none too happy. Being a wife with a baby to a poor uni student. She couldn’t hack it, and she left me.’
‘I bet she had some stories to tell,’ Sven snorted.
‘I can’t comment on that,’ Dee replied flatly.
‘Yeah, well, I wouldn’t believe much of what she has to say; being the village gossip.’
I wonder…he’s hiding something. Dee thought and then remarked, ‘That’s for a jury to decide, Professor.’
‘Are you implying something?’
‘No, but…’
‘Well, then, I have nothing more to say.’
Sven von Erikson gathered up some papers and placed them into an antique leather case. Then he picked up his mobile phone and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
‘As I said, I have a lecture to give, now,’ Sven said, before striding to the door. ‘Thank you for your time. I hope you get the answers you are looking for.’
Dee clicked off the record function of her phone and followed the professor to the door. ‘Thank you, Dr von Erikson, we’ll be in touch,’ Dee replied.
As von Erikson vanished around the corridor’s corner, Dee messaged Dan: “Any info on von Erikson that you might have gathered, past or present? What about his sister, Lillie?”
Sometimes characters spring from real life, Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction. Sometimes real life is just real life. Check out my travel memoirs, And escape in time and space To Central Australia.
As a child, I enjoyed creating what I see or images in my mind with colour on paper or canvas. I would go into “the creative zone” and spend hours drawing or painting. Once I missed a visit by favourite relatives because I was “in the zone” painting a Central Australian mountain range.
I remember at eight years old, painting with acrylics at my grandmother’s house. I loved the process of paint gliding and flowing from the brush and how my mountain became a volcano smoke billowing from its mouth and snow gracing its slopes. I was hooked.
But, in the 1970’s, with the rise of the status of women in society, the prevailing attitude was that every woman has a right to education, university and a career. The culture of the day was instilled in me that art was merely a hobby. So I never considered doing art as a career. My year eleven teacher cried as I chose Chemistry over Art for my final year. I reasoned I could always pick up art (as a hobby) once I left school.
This I did in 1981, my gap year. I joined a local Art Class in Glenelg and Arthur Phillips taught me to paint with precision, like a photograph, layer upon layer, with acrylics. I admired Arthur’s skill and enjoyed the classes that were always filled with laughter.
However, as a poor university student, I had to give up Art Classes. I thought the Art Club at University would suffice. But it didn’t. The University Art Club at that time, seemed to be more focussed on social activities than getting together to paint.
After graduating in 1985 with a Bachelor of Arts (majoring in Japanese and English), and then in 1986 a Graduate Diploma of Education, I entered the teaching profession and in 1987 relocated to Melbourne for my first job. After eighteen months of teaching teenagers, many of whom did not want to learn, coupled with a feeling my life had been hijacked by school, I quit teaching. I then took up a Research Officer position with Fusion Australia, a youth and community organisation that had an office in Murrumbeena, not far from where my husband and I lived.
Soon after I began working there, the community centre associated with where I worked, put on a community event—painting a mural with the help of a well-known local artist, Arthur Boyd. He shared his struggles as a professional artist over his career, making ends meet. This conversation opened my mind to the idea that for some (who were good enough) art can be more than a hobby. I now wonder what happened to the mural he helped us paint. The church in which the community centre was housed at Murrumbeena was knocked down and the land developed into a nursing home in the early 1990’s.
In 1989, my friend from church, organised art classes with artist Geoff Rogers as our teacher. Geoff taught me to loosen up with my paintings—more flow and movement in the scenes of the Flinders Ranges I painted.
At the same time, the local community centre offered art classes which I joined. There I continued my loose-with-palette-knife rendition of the Gammon Ranges’ Bunyip Chasm. The art teacher discouraged me. ‘You can’t do that, it looks awful,’ she said.
Later a friend came up to me as I was painting and remarked, ‘I love it! Can I buy it when you’re finished?’
I decided Geoff Rogers’ style suited me and kept with the loose style. I framed Bunyip Chasm which at the time cost $80 and then offered the painting to my friend for $100.
‘Oh, I can’t afford $100, dear,’ she said, ‘can you make it less?’
I loved my Bunyip Chasm and said, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t lower the price as the frame cost $80.’ To be honest, I was too attached to my painting to part from it.
For the next twenty-two years, Bunyip Chasm decorated the walls of the homes we lived in. I gave it as a fiftieth birthday present to my sister-in-law as it was a favourite of hers. I then painted another Bunyip Chasm in the same style, but different, and that sold too.
When my children entered our world, I couldn’t paint—no room in a two-bedroom unit, and even when we progressed to a larger home, life was busy raising a family. So nineteen years passed without touching a brush or canvas. When we returned to Adelaide, with the boys at school, I enquired about art classes, but was told the same story again and again—the classes are fully booked, you’d have to go on a waiting list. There must be a lot of people doing art in Adelaide, I thought.
Then in 2009, I joined a writers’ group. At the same time, the art-bug had bitten, and I began painting with an artist friend from church. I shared how I found it hard to separate from my paintings, they were like my babies. My friend’s husband said, ‘But you need to share your work and bring happiness to others.’
Half-way through the year, a fellow writer invited me to join Marion Art Group (MAG). ‘Just bring along some of your work,’ she said.
Gulp! What if they don’t like my work? But I steeled myself and armed with three recent pieces of art, I went down to the hall where the group was held.
No worries, I was accepted. And by the end of the year, I’d sold my first painting, Cockling at Goolwa, to another MAG member.
In my first MAG exhibition at a local shopping centre, I sold my second painting, Brachina Sunrise. Then…nothing sold for two years. Effects of the GST, perhaps. Customers not spending on luxuries like art.
I persevered with painting, attending MAG studio sessions every Monday morning, and exhibiting my work with MAG and with the local Rotary Art Show. Through workshops, videos and practice, I taught myself watercolour painting. The sale-drought made me work through why I paint. I came to the conclusion I paint because I enjoy it and can express the joy and glory of God’s creation. Perhaps that’s why I mostly paint landscapes.
Then, in 2012, I put my work in another exhibition. This time, I invested in a full screen—I had so many paintings piling up and reasoned if they don’t sell, at least my friends and family can enjoy going down to the shopping centre and looking at them. I came home one afternoon, and the phone message light was flashing. I listened to the recorded message. ‘Congratulations you have sold…’
Hooray! Since then, I have sold paintings—some years more, some years less. I guess at this stage the money made is “hobby money”. And I remind myself, it’s not what I sell, that’s important, but that I enjoy the process of painting…getting in the creative zone. And maybe for others who connect with my paintings, bringing joy into their lives too.
Oops! Almost one week into Marion Art Group’s (my art group) exhibition at the local shopping centre, and I have failed to mention it. Been too busy writing, appraising hopeful writer’s works, and transcribing a friend’s biography of her mother who lived through the horrors of World War II. Plus burrowing away in the family history rabbit hole.
I have been pondering where my art genes have come from. No mention of renown artists in my ancestry. My dad was an artist with some potential, emphasis on potential as he channeled his talents more into music than art. My maternal grandfather, Sam Gross was an amazing photographer. But as a missionary pastor in Central Australia, he was discouraged from furthering his photographic endeavours as the mission board frowned on it and said he was spending too much money on camera equipment and film.
So, in light of my predecessor’s unrealised potential and the fact that I am still using the watercolour paints and brushes my dad left behind, I will share an afternoon that we spent painting in Central Australia in 1981.
Mount Hermannsburg
My father and I sat in the dry river bed of the Finke River painting Mt Hermannsburg which towered above the river gums and spinifex. We painted our muse on site; Dad painted in watercolour and I painted in acrylic.
After a couple of hours, Dad packed up his brushes and palette and returned to the town of Hermannsburg. I stayed, in the creative zone, dibbing and dabbing, the setting sun casting shadows over the river bed and a cool breeze pricking me with goose bumps on my bare arms.
I made the final touches as the sun sank below the horizon and I was called in for tea. I signed with my maiden name, naturally, as I was only 18.
Dad’s painting and mine sat side by side on our host’s piano where all who saw, admired our work. I kept walking past and gazing at my painting. Did I really do this? Wow! Did I really?
[Eleven years ago, the T-Team, next generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Once every month, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, for the first time in this, my third visit to Uluru, we walked part of the way around the Rock.]
Yet Another Excuse not to Climb the Rock
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Packing—Anthony was very particular how the car and bags should be packed. He considers himself the master of packing; no one can do packing as good as he can. So, in an effort to get out of some extra work, I decided that since he considers packing his personal gift and calling, I’d allow him to pack while I prepared breakfast. Alas, my plan was not executed as well as expected.
‘Lee-Anne!’ the packing-expert called, ‘Can you come and pack your bags, please.’
It seems I’m the expert when it comes to packing my own bags. So, putting breakfast on hold, I trudged back into the tent to deal with my personal belongings.
‘Careful not to over-fill the bag,’ came the expert’s warning, ‘you might break the zip.’
He then lifted one of my bags ready to be piled in the car. ‘My goodness! What have you got in here? It weighs a tonne.’
While Anthony grumbled while playing Tetris with our luggage in the Ford station wagon, I resumed preparing breakfast while listening and watching the T-Team pack up camp in a haze of drizzle. Mrs. T barked orders organising her family into an efficient machine of packing and cleaning. Then, executing her sweeping expertise, she swept out the tent, trailer and car.
After eating, I trudged to the shared kitchen facilities where I washed the dishes. After three days at Yulara campsite, I had discovered that these facilities offered a communal kettle to boil water. Still, the T-Team had for that time, a more convenient one, courtesy of my brother’s inverter and battery-power.
The thing was, I had to boil the kettle to obtain hot water to wash the dishes. While I waited for the kettle to boil, I chatted to a mum from Sydney whose family were just finishing their holiday.
However, upon meeting up with the T-Team at the Service Station for fuel, it seems certain T-Lings had changed their parents’ minds. They would be trying one last time to climb Uluru. We agreed to meet them at the entrance to where one starts to climb the Rock.
Upon arrival, Anthony and I trekked up to the gate. The sign read, “Closed due to cloud”.
While we waited for the T-Team, a ranger with a metal panel tucked under his arm, sauntered up to the sign. He unscrewed the “cloud” sign and replaced it with a “high winds” sign.
‘Well, now we know how it’s done,’ I remarked.
Anthony sighed. ‘I guess the T-Team saw that excuse and are on their way to Alice Springs.’
We walked around the “ladies’” part of the Rock. The previous day we had explored the “men’s” section. The cloud cover lifted and the sun emerged, bathing the landscape in a lemony light. Although now dry and sunny, we encountered only the occasional hiker; for most of the trek we were on our own.
We marvelled at the grandeur of the Rock, and the sense of an ancient spiritual presence.
After an hour’s walk, we returned to the Rock’s entry point. A small crowd had gathered by the gate. They watched the ranger again fiddling with the notice board.
Anthony shook his head. ‘What excuse this time?’
The ranger placed an “Open” sign on the board and unlocked the gate.
We watched dismayed as the crowd surged through and scampered up the steep incline.
‘Poor T-Team,’ I said, ‘just as they had given up, the Rock is open for business.’ Using my mobile phone, I snapped a shot of the tourists like ants inching their way up the rocky sides of Uluru. Later, I attempted to share the photo with my niece. But, it seemed my endeavour failed. Anthony had also taken photos with his phone which he then tried to share with the T-Lings. Still no success.
After another failed attempt to send a photo, this time during a stop at Curtain Springs, Anthony muttered, ‘What do you expect from a cheap mobile plan?’ He then extolled the virtues of his Telstra plan.
[to be continued…next, Adventures on way to Alice Springs]
Less than half a kilometre down the road from Sven von Erikson, lived Dan. His home was also a former housing trust home. His air-conditioning still hadn’t been fixed. But it was well into autumn and with the constant clement weather, the need to be cool had been postponed until next summer. Dan hoped that the following summer might be mild, and then he could save for a well-earned break and trip to Europe to see his daughters. His son, Leo lived with him in this small three-bedroom abode. He had a yearning to travel to Europe to see his mother and sisters.
Although Leo had acquired a job filling shelves at the Woolworths grocery store in Glenelg, finally, he balked at his father’s suggestion to pay board. Yet, when it came to enduring the discomfort of summer heat, Leo was the first to whine that Dan, on his modest income, must buy a new air conditioner.
Dan managed to skirt that expense with the promise of a much needed and long-awaited European holiday the following year.
While his son slept soundly after an all-night Dungeons and Dragons (D&D) role-playing session with his mates, Dan yawned and rearranged the pens and papers on his desk. He then spoke to his phone. ‘Call Eloise.’
While his mobile obediently dialed and connected to Eloise’s phone, Dan smoothed the wrinkled edges of his note paper. He had free hands as he was on speaker. He yawned again. He’d been up all-night leafing through the von Erikson and Edwards files. No use sleeping when his son had mates over playing D&D.
He sipped a strong coffee he had bought while taking an early morning walk to local café up the street.
Eloise’s voice chimed through the mobile’s speaker. ‘Hello, Dan.’
Dan smiled. ‘Hey, Eloise, I have some interesting news for you.’
‘Yes? What have you got for me?’
‘Well, I was going over some old files from way back in 1977-78 and I think they might be connected.’
‘You mean the disappearance of Percy Edwards?’
‘Yes, and the disappearance of Jan von Erikson in 1977.’
‘They were neighbours, right?’
‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘I’ve been talking to Fifi,’ Eloise said. ‘She’s the one who has concerns about what happened to her father. She thinks he was murdered, and his body left up near Mt. Lofty.’
‘How’s this related to von Erikson—Jan did you say?’
‘A year before Percy Edwards went missing, Jan von Erikson walked out on his family. Or so his wife said. No one has seen or heard from him since. It’s like he disappeared off the face of the earth,’ Dan said.
‘He didn’t just up stakes and move interstate?’
‘Perhaps, but the more I looked into the case, the history, the call outs to the house, on several occasions, the more I began to suspect they were not happy campers behind closed doors. Heck, I’ve got school reports here where both Sven and Lillie were repeatedly missing school and for not wearing the proper uniform. And another from the school nurse reporting that Lillie was suffering from malnutrition.’
‘I suspected as much,’ Eloise replied and called out, ‘See, Francis? I was right. She was so skinny it wasn’t normal. School reports.’
‘Okay, love,’ Francis Renard could be heard saying, ‘the detective Delaney is always right.’
‘Where are you?’ Dan asked.
‘Still in bed,’ Eloise said tartly, ‘I’m on holiday, don’t you remember?’
‘Yeah, well, apart from being in bed at 7:30 am, doesn’t sound like it,’ Dan said with a chuckle.
‘When did you get up, detective?’
‘I didn’t; been up all…’
‘Dan! You really need to look after yourself or you’ll get sick…really sick.’
‘I know, I know,’ Dan sighed. ‘But Leo had his friends over and they were playing D&D and I figure, what’s the use. So, I used my time constructively, researching.’
‘Don’t blame me if you end up in hospital.’
He imagined El shaking her head.
‘I won’t.’
‘Anything else relating to those characters?’ Dan asked. ‘Like Percy’s wife—is she still alive?’
‘Nah, I think she’s passed. Fifi mentioned she died about ten years ago from food poisoning,’ El replied.
‘I see, anything else you might find relevant?’
‘Apparently, von Erikson worked for Edwards. It would seem they had a falling out just before von Erikson went missing. Not sure what it was about, but von Erikson had a drinking problem, so Fifi reckoned. What was Edwards’ business exactly?’
‘Not sure, but it made him quite cashed up.’ Dan straightened his pens lining them up on his desk like soldiers. ‘He was into cars. Mostly Fords. Belonged to the Ford club, I believe. I remember that from my youth group days. Mr. Edwards was a member at our church. All us lads admired the newest and latest Ford he and his family turned up to church in.’
‘The thing is, after his father disappeared, Sven, von Erikson’s son has this Ford. Ford Falcon XB, fresh off the assembly line. I was so envious. But at the same time, I could never figure out how Sven, who came from a poor family, was able to afford such a car.’ Dan drummed his fingers. ‘I remember Sven saying he earnt a lot with the building work he was doing. But I don’t think so. Anyway, there’s some pieces of the puzzle for you to work with, El.’
‘Interesting,’ Eloise replied. ‘Sven has suggested I paint Lillie’s portrait. I’ll see if I can get her to talk.’
Leo called from his bedroom. ‘Dad, can you take me to Woollies on your way to work? I have to be there in fifteen.’
Dan huffed and snapped, ‘Can’t you take a tram?’
‘No, I’ll be late.’
‘Oh, well, fine then,’ Dan muttered, ‘I hope you’ve showered.’
On the other side of the thin wall, Dan heard mumblings and shuffling. Leo had never learnt to drive, and Dan had regretted not forcing the issue. Milo’s unfortunate accident had left its mark.
‘I must go and be “Uber Dad” again,’ he breathed to Eloise, and then ended the call.
Tru-Kling Creations 