Chapter 3
Painting Pals
Monday, January 17, 2022
Church Hall in a Seaside Suburb of Adelaide
Eloise
The sun’s rays filtered through the dust motes of the church hall near the seaside. The air conditioner thrummed pumping out the sticky 40-degree Celsius heat that Monday afternoon in January.
Eloise Delaney unloaded her motley collection of watercolour palettes, colour-splattered former honey jars and 300-gsm paper framed with masking tape. She then arranged her brushes. Thick sable, round and soft, like the tip of her tabby cat, Spike’s tail. Great for that initial wash of sky, sea and sand.
She had lined up the thinner brushes in order of detail as the painting progressed. She stroked the finest brush, the one used for her flourish of a signature; the one more than 70-years old from her maternal grandfather’s collection salvaged after the bombing of his home in Nördlingen, Bavaria 1945. It was premium quality being made in Germany.
She sighed, ‘Must do this so nothing is lost.’
‘Talking to yourself already?’ a voice sang. ‘Sign of madness, ya know.’
‘Consequences of early retirement, I guess.’ Eloise laughed. ‘Least I had a social life when I was working.’
‘What do you call this?’ Eloise’s pear-shaped friend flicked a wiry lock of henna tinted hair from her freckled face. ‘Is this seat taken?’
‘Nah, go ahead. I could do with the company, Fi.’
Fifi settled herself on the plastic chair diagonally opposite Eloise, and after fumbling in her tote-bag, produced a mini flask. The thin mauve cannister wobbled on the newspaper that covered the trestle table. ‘I’m economising today; made my own brew.’
‘I’m celebrating,’ Eloise said and held up her takeaway cappuccino from the café down the road. ‘The “Rabbit hole” beareth fruit.’
Fifi pulled out her sketch pad, set of Derwent pencils and three scrunched up tissues. Then she leaned forward ‘What? Oh, your family history. Any noble? Kings and queens? Or, let me guess, some royal fruit from the other side of the royal bed?’
‘Well, actually, sort of…’ Eloise dipped her brush in the former honey pot full of water. ‘France, actually. And a bed of his ancestor’s made long, long ago.’
‘Well, I could have told you that, him being French, I mean.’ Fifi wiggled her generous behind on the chair, and then smoothed a fresh page of her sketchbook. ‘Do tell.’
El opened her mouth to spill forth all the juicy gossip about tracing her husband’s tree, a royal line stretching way back beyond Charlemagne and to Julius Caesar—all done without the help of DNA, but hours of research—when the leader stood and welcomed the small art group back from the holiday break.
Plus, there was that strange woman sitting behind them who was listening to every word El spoke. That woman, Sharon Katz, nicknamed Shatz, with the mouse-brown hair and the poisonous mushrooms (picked from the forest and dried) she foisted on El just before Christmas—insisted she take them. Lucky for El, her husband, Francis Renard, as a keen gardener and scientist, warned her of the dangers and she threw the suspect fungi into the bin. The next week, Shatz made a point of asking how El how she was feeling. All holidays El puzzled over Shatz. Had she had a run-in with this Shatz in times past while doing her duty as a police officer? Or was Shatz one of Francis’s former lovers?
‘Tell you another time,’ El whispered. ‘Probably should get Francis’ permission first.’
‘Oh, okay, then.’ Fifi sighed. ‘So, how was your Christmas?’
‘Meh! Glad it’s over for another year, Fi.’ Eloise smiled. ‘Francis and I had a quiet one on the actual day, then we all went to my cousin’s in Flagstaff Hill on Boxing Day. It was a disaster. You know, in the middle of Christmas lunch, which I might add, was leftovers from their Christmas day, someone, not mentioning any names, just had to bring up the latest controversy circulating on Fox News. Next thing, arguments all round. Renard and I left early and walked around the newly opened Happy Valley Reservoir. At least that part of Boxing Day was enjoyable.’
‘Well, my Christmas Day, thanks for asking, Eloise,’ Fifi’s lips tightened for a moment, ‘I don’t know why we bother and make such a fuss about the whole thing.’
‘Yeah, I know, the novelty wore off years ago. I just wish we could get back to the basics, the real meaning of Christmas and celebrate that.’
Fifi nodded. ‘Yeah, who needs another voucher? All we do is exchange money and vouchers these days. Where did the love go? Although, in my family, even with all those kids my parents had, there wasn’t much love.’
‘Really? I always envied your big family.’
Fifi sniffed. ‘If you really knew my family and what went on behind closed doors, you wouldn’t be envious.’
‘Why?’ Eloise may have been taking time out from her job as a detective, but she had not lost her inquisitive nature. ‘What went on behind closed doors?’
‘My dad, when he was around, was a pompous twat.’
‘How so?’ Eloise asked. She noticed Shatz, lifting her head, looking at them and listening again. Her curiosity annoyed El and she turned around and glared at the woman. Shatz dropped her eyes down to her sheet of paper and pretended to work on her pastel rendition of a bullfrog.
Shatz’s eavesdropping didn’t bother Fifi who continued, ‘He was hard on us kids. If we did the slightest thing wrong, he’d thrash us. Typical of his generation and background, European, you see. He thought you hit kids into submission. And, as for girls, they were to be seen, but not heard. He treated us girls like slaves.’ Fifi thumped the table. ‘I hated him.’
Fifi’s cannister of coffee toppled from the table and rolled on the floor.
Shatz picked up the cannister and handed it back to Fifi. ‘My dad was the same,’ she said before El’s frown drove her back to her seat to resume painting.
El then said, ‘He didn’t mellow in his old age?’
‘He left and…’ Fifi paused, ‘…and I was glad. Life improved after he was gone.’
Eloise studied Fifi and the freckles that danced on her face as her eyes blinked and her mouth twitched. ‘I sense that your father did more than just leave, Fi.’
Fifi’s eyes widened. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Part of the job, Fi. So, what did he really do?’
‘It was the strangest thing, Eloise.’ Fifi took a deep breath. ‘One day, my friend Lillie, and Jimmy my brother and I went for a hike up to Mount Lofty. On the way down, we did a bit of exploring. I can’t remember whose idea it was. Anyway, I go looking at this culvert. I had in mind that this hole in the side of the hill could be some disused mine and that I could find gold there. But, when I go down there, I see this body. Just bones and leathery skin over the bones like…but I recognised the boots. Those boots. I had lost count of the times those boots had kicked me…I knew it was my dad. But at the same time, I didn’t want it to be true. I just hoped they, whoever they were, were somebody else with the same type of boots.’
‘Oh, right, when was that?’ Eloise had turned over her paper and had begun to take notes with a piece of charcoal. ‘How long ago, did you say?’
‘Over forty years.’ Fifi replied softly. ‘He’s been gone since January 1978.’
‘Forty-four—exactly.’
‘How did he end up in a ditch? Near an old mine?’
Fifi shrugged. ‘Not sure, but he had enemies.’
‘I see.’
‘You see, we did report it to the police. But nothing happened. Forty years, and nothing. I mean, I know he was a creep and often rubbed people up the wrong way, but he was still my dad. And I just wanted to…you know, find out why he ended up there. Why anyone would. Dead. And no one seems to care.’
Silence for a few minutes. Fifi sipped her coffee while Eloise studied her notes. The happy chatter from fellow artists provided background noise. The air conditioner continued to thrum.
‘Mm,’ Shatz began in a soft voice, ‘my brother was killed in a motorbike…’
El turned and narrowed her eyes at Shatz. Was this woman trying to get attention? she thought.
‘Sorry,’ Shatz said. ‘But I knew Mr. Edwards, he was a real…’
‘Well, of course you did,’ Fifi huffed, ‘we went to the same church, remember?’
‘Never mind, sorry,’ Shatz mumbled.
Another pause.
After the pause, Eloise looked up. ‘Would you like me to follow this up?’
‘I don’t know.’ Fifi wiped her eye. ‘I guess. But isn’t it a bit awkward for you now that you’re…?’
‘No trouble. I can call Dan, my partner, or should I say, my ex, or whatever he is now that I’m on leave. I can still use the phone.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. No promises. But it’s worth a try, don’t you think?’
The rest of the afternoon, Eloise and Fifi occupied their thoughts with painting and sketching. The cheerful chatter of the other artists continued, none the wiser of Fifi’s loss and childhood trauma. Except for Shatz. El wished that woman who attempted to poison her wouldn’t be so nosey and would mind her own business.
The air conditioner kept on thrumming until the rush for pack up and departure. Then as the last person locked up the building, they turned off the infernal humming machine and the heat of late afternoon in Adelaide seeped into the empty hall.
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024
Feature Painting: Seacliff Beach Sunset in pastel © L.M. Kling 2021
***
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:
The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977
Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981
***
Or for a greater escape into another world…
Check out my Sci-fi/ dystopian novel,
And click on the link:
The Lost World of the Wends
Tru-Kling Creations 