Second Friday Crime–Under the Bridge (6)

Sowing and Reaping

May 1977

Private College

Lillie

She perched on the kerb waiting. The minutes stretched, ticking into what seemed to her, an eternity. Cars whizzed past. With each car that emerged around the corner, the hope—her mum’s car. That battered blue FJ Holden, had suffered many knocks in its fifteen years of life. Like me, same age and having suffered hard knocks, she thought. But cars with anonymous drivers passed by and so did her hope…until she just sat…waiting…expectations drained…waiting.

A mixture of gloom and uneasiness haunted her. It had shadowed her all day. Ever since the first period, home class, when Dee, yes, that’s right, Dee, her arch enemy, had sidled up to her and hissed, ‘He’s mine, Lillie. He’s mine. He never liked you. He likes me.’

Dee slithered into her seat; pink lips pursed in a smile. She flicked her brown mane, and then glancing at Lillie, she smirked and then rubbed her hands together. ‘Mine!’ she mimed. ‘All mine.’

Lillie imagined Dee at that moment morphing from the budding model she was into a female form of Gollum, bent on possessing the ring offered by her latest conquest—Danny. Why else was Dee gloating?

[Photo 1: Gargoyle, Notre Dame, Paris © L.M. Kling 1998]

Lillie’s heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. A drop of rain plopped on the pavement and sizzled. Lillie sighed. She’d seen him—Danny—that morning. Lofty, blonde hair tousled, framing his high cheekbones, strong jaw and his face all tanned. But Danny hadn’t seen her. He never saw her.

On the way back from chapel, Danny had been walking behind her and she’d worried about her uniform. Was her dress hitched up in her regulation stockings? Autumn and the school demanded girls wear the winter uniform with the awful scratchy woollen skirt. The month of May in Australia, that day, hot and all steamed up, clouds billowing with purple bellies, threatening a storm, but not before all the students at College were fried having to wear their blazers as well as their uniforms woven in wool. The principal threatened the punishment of suspension if they shed any part of their school attire.

Plop! Another drop. A rumble of thunder.

[Photo 2: Storm threatening © L.M. Kling 2023]

During the day, her usual foes added to her discomfort. She was already hot, sweaty, and itchy, and then they had to weigh in. On the way to English class, Dee and her clutch of fiends attacked from behind. They threw verbal abuse; the usual “stones” of “loser”, “dog” and “no one wants you, Lil”.

Lillie fixed her eyes ahead even as the heat rose to her cheeks. She trod up the stairs to Dee chanting, ‘Poor Lil, poor Lil, what a dill.’

As Lillie turned the corner of the stairs, she glanced down. Danny leaned against the rail. Dee sidled up to him and pointed. ‘Hey look! She’s got a hole in her stocking. Poor Lil, poor Lil. Too poor to buy new stockings, Lil.’

Dee laughed and her gang joined in.

Lillie turned and continued plodding up the stairs.

‘Charge!’ Dee yelled.

At her command, Lillie quickened her pace. She knew what was coming. The thudding, the cries and the horde as her foes surged upon her. They crowded in and jostled her. Big beefy Twisty jammed her into the lockers and then bumbled down the corridor.

As Lillie straightened herself, Dee strode up to her and poked her. ‘He’s mine, understand?’ She then waved her hand in front of her nose. ‘Phew! You stink! B.O.!’

Danny lingered an arm’s length from Dee, and as she minced into English class, she blew him a kiss. Lillie’s stomach churned, and with her gaze riveted to the floor, she followed Dee into class. Her scalp prickled with the sense that the eyes of every class member had set upon her. Her orthodontic braces took on astronomical proportions and her pigtails drooped like greasy strips of seaweed.

[Photo 3: Seaweed Sunset © L.M. Kling 2001]

Then Scripture class. Just her luck! Lillie picked Dee’s name out of the Encouragement Box. So, she had to find a verse from the Bible to encourage Dee. Dee? What sort of blessing could Lillie bestow on her worst enemy? The girl who had everything—popularity, beauty, and a boyfriend.

Lillie opened her Bible and picked out the first verse that caught her attention. She wrote down the verse from Galatians 6:7: “…for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” She plopped the note for Dee back into the box. From what she could tell, Dee seemed happy with her note, if not mildly miffed by the message.

As she sat on the kerb waiting, Lillie reflected on the verse she received. Matthew 5:3: “Blessed are the poor in spirit…” She nodded and mused, That’d be right, Dee had me. Still, it does say I’m blessed.

That odd pair of siblings, Milo Katz and his younger sister, Sharon shuffled by. Lillie curled her lip and shuddered. She sank deeper into the shadows of the school’s office entrance. Both had this peculiar awkward gait, like they were a “sandwich short of a picnic” as Fifi often said of the mentally challenged. Milo certainly was. He’d failed Year 8 twice, then been relegated to the “special class”. He was in her confirmation class at her church and attended the same youth group. For some reason, Lillie had no idea why, he’d set his romantic sights on her, despite Lillie telling him more than once, that they could only be friends.

[Photo 4: Blessed be the burger eaters © L.M. Kling 2023]

Then Sharon graduated from confirmation and began attending youth group. She’d taken a shine to Lillie after she was her leader at a youth South Zone camp. Now every time Lillie came to youth group, Sharon made a beeline for her and stuck to her like a clingy baby. They called her “Shatz” as Sharon’s mother called her that as a term for endearment in their native European language. Fifi joked that Lillie was Shatz’s “mother”. The other girls began avoiding Lillie. They didn’t like Shatz. Behind her back and in front of this unfortunate child, they teased her, calling her, Shatz the— (a derogatory name that rhymed with Shatz).

Lillie mused, How could a dynamo of a woman such as Mrs. Katz, leader of the ladies guild, classy dresser in league with Fifi’s mum, have borne and raised these two lame ducks? Were Mr. and Mrs. Katz first cousins? Were their offspring inbred?

[Photo 5: Duck © L.M. Kling 2017]

A flash of lightning. A crack of thunder. Fat dollops of rain splatted on the footpath. Lillie sighed and muttered, ‘I’ll just have to risk getting laughed at. My mum’s car. What a relic! How embarrassing!’

She shrugged her bag full of books over her shoulder and sauntered to the chapel. Rain pelted down on her, and she sought refuge in an alcove of the chapel hidden behind a diosma bush. There, she drew her knees up to her chin and sniffed. The rain and then the tears had melted her mascara. Her vision blurred. She drew a soggy tissue from her blazer pocket and wiped her eyes.

The downpour stopped. Fellow students emerged from shelter and straggled along the road to the carpark where their cars or parents in their shining white Commodores awaited them.

Lillie examined her calloused knees that had broken through the holes in her stockings. When would mum be able to afford new stockings? Her parents barely scraped together the school fees. ‘We go without for your education,’ Mum says. Lillie had begun to understand how that worked in a posh school like this one. No friends, no choice but to study and get good grades…and a scholarship.

A car screeched. Expecting her mother, Lillie looked up. But it wasn’t her. But she saw them. Dee and Danny. They held hands. Dee nestled into Danny’s side as he held an umbrella over her, even though the sun now shone casting an eerie golden glow over the gum trees and oval. Lillie winced.

[Photo 6: Love birds © L.M. Kling 2023]

The couple perched on the chain fence where they swung back and forth and whispered into each other’s ears. Lillie parted the diosma bush. She watched and cursed them as wrapped in each other’s arms they consumed each other’s lips.

‘Ugh! How could they? In public!’ Lillie muttered. ‘I hope the principal catches them and puts them on detention.’

Lillie heard a familiar roar. She stepped from the bush and strode towards the carpark.

The FJ Holden raced up the driveway, its wheels crushing the car-park’s gravel in its rush to meet Lillie. Dee and Danny remained oblivious in their passion on the chain fence. Mum’s car cut through a large puddle. Water flew high in the air and then dumped on the couple.

Dee shrieked. They stood like two drenched rats, their legs and arms spread in their sodden clothes.

Now Dee really does look like Gollum, Lillie thought. Her nemesis’ mascara streamed down her face and made her eyes look like a panda’s and hair pasted on her head.

The couple glared at the FJ Holden as it screeched to a stop in front of Lillie. She smirked as she jerked open the white door of the mostly blue car and then scrambled in.

[Photo 7: Mum’s old car in Lillie’s mind © L.M. Kling 2010]

‘How was your day, dear?’ Mum asked.

‘You’re late,’ Lillie snapped.

As the FJ Holden with Lillie and her mum merged with the crowd of cars on the main road, Lillie glanced back and smiled.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Mum spoke while patting her wet hair from a late shower, ‘your dad’s gone for good this time.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Just do,’ her mother snapped. ‘Stop asking questions.’

Lillie gazed out the window at the passing Morphettville Racecourse and muttered, ‘Fine, then.’

‘Oh, another thing,’ Mum added, ‘You’ll be staying at your grandmother’s tonight. I hope you don’t mind, sorry about that.’

‘What about my…?’

‘Don’t worry dear, I’ve packed a bag. You know how your gran loves to have you.’

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ Lillie sighed, ‘at least I don’t have to put up with Sven’s arc-welding all night.’

‘Sorry about the inconvenience,’ Mum rattled on, ‘it’s Sven, you see, we’re just trying to help him set up his business. And I wish you wouldn’t begrudge him of that. Show a bit of respect.’

‘Sven, it’s always about Sven,’ Lillie mumbled to the window.

Her mother rambled on about everyone is different and that her brother needs a helping hand to move forward in life, and that Mr. Edwards was doing his best to help them out.

Lillie tuned out. She uttered not a syllable the rest of the journey to her grandmother’s house near Marion Shopping Centre.

[Next chapter Friday fortnight…]

© Tessa Trudinger 2024

Feature Photo: Autumn fruit © L.M. Kling 2024

***

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

Family History Friday–Grandma’s Letter Part 2

Grandma’s circular letter

CIRCULAR WRITTEN by ELSA GROSS from HERMANNSBURG,

OCTOBER 1939

From Riverland to Desert (part 2)

About quarter to 7 we arrived at the station and there was the whole station out to meet us, black and white, big and little, and such a noise too, it sounded just like a whole lot of parrots or galahs.  Then the truck came to a standstill and Sam got out and had to shake hands all around.  I had to stay in the truck on account of the measles.  I could only talk to them from a distance.  It was just like a dream and to see all the natives running to and fro, reminded me of the movie films which Lou Borgelt had taken in New Guinea.

*[Photo 1: Greetings on arrival in Hermannsburg © S.O. Gross 1939]

        Well, after all the greetings were over we were taken across to our new home, which by the way isn’t very new, it’s one of the oldest houses on the station.  Mrs Albrecht was going to have us over there for the first few days for meals, but through this measles business we decided it was best if we stayed isolated for a while so as not to infect the natives.  Mrs Albrecht sent us over our tea, then, and such a huge tea, too, and we did full justice to it, too.

        And now began our life on the station.  But so far we haven’t seen very much of it, I haven’t been out of the place at all, Sam has gone to the other places more, but we keep away as much as possible.  And now, last weekend, Ruth gets the German Measles, she was fairly miserable, but is alright again now, except for a cough.  Now it means we have to stay isolated for another 10 days or so, in case Marie gets them.  It is a real nuisance, because we can’t get to anything properly.  The only advantage it has is that we can get things a bit straight around the place.

*[Photo 2: The not-so-new home—even older in 2021!!! © L.M. Kling 2021]

        Such a lot wants doing, the doors don’t fit, and the floors need doing, and the garden has to be made.  These last two days Sam has had 2 natives helping him with all sorts of odd jobs, yesterday and today they dug the front garden and this morning we planted the lawn and tomorrow I want to put in some flowers.

        The first 2 days we were here were terribly windy and dusty and hot.  The dust came in everywhere, it was just like a real dusty day in the mallee.   Our box of goods was supposed to come out the same day that we got out here, but it didn’t come Wednesday, we waited Thursday, and still didn’t come.  By this time Missionary Albrecht was getting worried, he thought the thing might have tipped over.  Friday morning we got a wire to say they couldn’t get it off the truck in Alice Springs.  They had been trying to get the wire through since Tuesday but the weather had been too bad, they couldn’t get it through.  So Sam had to pack up an go into Alice Springs and there saw to the unloading.  Eventually on Sunday afternoon the lorry arrived and was duly unpacked, of course the natives were very interested in everything, especially the piano.

*[Photo 3: The arduous journey of belongings to Hermannsburg © S.O. Gross 1939]

        So far I haven’t any house girls yet, as soon as we are out of quarantine I will get two.  Mrs Albrecht has been baking my bread for me until I get the girls.  Milk I have brought over every morning, also cream and from that I make my own butter, but unfortunately I am not a good hand at it yet.  There are some nice vegetables in our garden, which is quite a big one, we have over 20 date palms in it, 4 orange trees and 3 figs and quite a number of vines.  This last week we had about an inch of rain which was quite nice for the gardens and settled the dust.

*[Photo 4: Garden view to Mt. Hermannsburg—yes, the palms still exist in 2021 © L.M. Kling 2021]

        I am afraid it will take me quite a while to get to know all the natives and all their names too.  I know Albert, the artist, by sight, of course, he always wears an overcoat and is quite proud of his appearance.  I also know,

Manasse the leather worker, also Herbert and Ferdinand the two Sam had helping him.  Of the women, I think the only one I know by name is,        

Cecelia, an older woman who always wears a red dress.  Some of the children are lifted up so that they look over the fence to watch the children play and when we come out they scoot.  Some of their attire is pretty weird too.  One little chap wears his father’s shirt, it reaches nearly to the ground and has to have the sleeves rolled up.  Another little girl has her big sister’s dress on, and every time she runs she has to hold it up or she would fall over it.  Another little chap has a “has been” shirt on, his father’s, it’s only strips now.  Most of the men wear hats, some felt, some harvester hats.  The boys that Sam has have straw hats on but they look as though the mice have been at them.  Yesterday morning the one came along with feathers sticking out of the holes, I don’t know if he had visited the fowl-house or not.

*[Photo 5: Hermannsburg back in the day © S.O. Gross circa 1950]

        And now we have been here nearly 4 weeks and haven’t been able to do any real work yet, but we hope it won’t be much longer before we can start.

        And so begins our life on the Hermannsburg Mission Station.  May God make us a blessing to many.

© Elsa Gross 1939

*Feature Photo: My grandma, Elsa looking out from her Hermannsburg home © S.O. Gross circa 1940

***

Want more, but different?

Check out my Central Australian adventures.

Click on the links:

The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Flash Back Friday–100-Word Challenge

Character Study

I have spent a few hours of this good Friday reading the diary of my Great Aunt Dora. The story begins all full of the hopes of a young 18-year-old first-generation Australian girl whose parents had migrated from Germany to South Australia around 1877. I know her story, I knew and loved my great Aunt Dora. She will never marry. One of many women of her time, when, after World War 1, there were not enough men to go around. I imagine this is what life in the 1920’s was like for her, a maiden aunt caring for her parents.

Dora

She had one once. Before the war.

He came from Hamburg. A distant relative from the family.

But the Great War intruded. He was the enemy.

Interned. Never to return.

She perched on the bench in the Royal Botanical Gardens. Watching. Men promenading in pale pinstriped suits, on their arms women in their frilly-white Sunday best, giggling.

Easy for the men, she thought. Pick and choose. Pick and choose. Even the damaged men, the cripples, have a chance.

She sniffed.

What about me? Is that my future? Caring for my aging parents? No choice but to be an old maid?

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2020; updated 2024

Feature Photo: A lone date palm, Botanical Gardens © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1986

***

Want more memoir? Some travel?

Take a journey into Central Australia with the T-Team…

Click on the link:

The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Or

If Sci-fi is more your thing

Check out my War Against Boris series…

The Hitch-hiker

Mission of the Unwilling

The Lost World of the Wends

Friday Crime Fiction–Under the Bridge (3)

[In this bite-sized chapter, we meet Zoe Thomas who makes a discovery that will change her life and unbeknown to her at the time, unearth a more than 40-year-old mystery. This will ultimately open the proverbial pandora’s box and cause chaos to a number of now-settled individuals and their families. In future episodes, this revelation, for our Detective Inspector Dan Hooper, will add to his workload as the chief investigating officer, and force his partner in crime-fighting, Eloise Delaney to cut short her long-service leave and return to work.]

Who do ya think ya woz?

Monday January 17, 2022, 10:00 hours

Huon Valley, Tasmania

Zoe Thomas

While the mourners and well-meaning well-wishers and the like gathered in the church hall, loading their plates with condolences and their mouths with egg sandwiches, Zoe Thomas slipped out. Unnoticed, she slid around the corner away from the toilets and then leant up against the whitewashed wall warmed by the summer sun.

‘Oy!’ her dad called. ‘Y’ all right?’

She sighed. ‘Yeah, fine for a girl who’s just lost her mother, if you could call her that.’

‘What do ya mean by that?’ Dad rolled out a cigarette, flicked his lighter to flame, then cupped his hands to gently start the smoking ritual. Then with the cigarette hanging from his mouth said, ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead.’

‘You’re not my father, so how do I know that she’s my mother?’

‘Oh, what makes you think that I’m not ya pa?’

Zoe pulled a folded piece of paper, a computer printout, from her little black handbag. She opened it up and while he puffed away, she held it in front of him. ‘This says that a Francis Renard is my closest relative, my father, most probably. How do you explain that, Dad? I mean Greg.’

Greg blanched. ‘Oh, yes, well.’

‘Well? Did mum have a fling with this Francis Renard forty years ago? In 1981?’

Her father looked away before taking another drag on his cigarette. ‘She said neva to tell ya this. Ova ‘er dead body, she did. Well, now the bosses gone, I need to get somethink off me chest.’

‘What?’

‘Ya mutha woz not ya mutha.’ Greg coughed, a hacking cough.

‘What are you saying, Dad?’ She punched Greg softly on the arm. ‘You need to quit smoking before it…I don’t want to be staring down at you in a coffin or organising your funeral so soon after mum’s.’

Her dad cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, I know. Must give up.’ Then in a husky voice. ‘You woz adopted, luv.’

‘Oh, that explains it. You don’t mind if I chase up my birth parents, then? Which adoption agency did you go through?’

‘We didn’t. You came out of the apple orchard, ‘n paid for like.’

‘Huh? Come again?’

 ‘The truth woz, you wozn’t exactly a legal adoption.’ Greg sighed. ‘More like an arrangement between friends. Well, what I mean to say is that we ‘elped a girl who got ‘erself into trouble, out of ‘er trouble.’

‘For her financial benefit,’ Zoe said.

‘Yeah, but please don’t tell anyone. The missus, your mum didn’t want any trouble for us or the girl. She had a sad life and we just wanted to make sure she got off on the right foot and could make a go of it. And well, we couldn’t ‘ave children, so it was well, an arrangement that suited both parties.’

Zoe looked at Greg. ‘Do I know my birth mother? Did you stay connected with her?’

Greg shook his head. ‘It’s a long time ago, pet. Mum thought it best we didn’t. We didn’t want the townsfolk asking too many questions or the cops getting involved. And losing you.’

‘What was her name?’

Greg shrugged.

‘Do you know where she came from, at least?’

‘From the mainland, I think.’ Greg threw the spent stub on the pavement and ground it with his foot. ‘Came here for the apple picking season when we ‘ad the orchard in the Huon Valley. Stayed on in a caravan in the paddock till you woz born.’

‘You must’ve got to know where on the mainland?’

Greg rolled another cigarette. ‘All I know woz, she had a posh accent, like from England. It was a long time ago, luv. A long time…all under the bridge, now.’

[…continued next Friday fortnight]

© Tessa Trudinger 2024

Feature Photo: Sleeping Beauty over Huon River © L.M. Kling 2016

***

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

Final Trek Friday–T-Team Next Gen

Woomera, Then Home (part 2)

[I never actually finished the story of the T-Team, Next Generation’s adventures in Central Australia in 2013. So, here is the final chapter in the series. Next month, I will commence the journey at the beginning, as I revisit our journey to scatter my dad’s ashes in Central Australia eleven years ago.]

Woomera II and the Final Leg of our Journey

In the cool crisp morning, sun shining lemon yellow rays but not much warmth, we strolled around the Woomera Rocket Museum. Rockets of all shapes and configurations stood in the open-air, testimony of what once was. This RAAF Base and village was once a lively town in the 1950’s and 60’s, as an Anglo-Australian Cold War defence project. On this day Saturday July 20, 2013, the place seemed a mere shell of its former self, a cemetery of what once was, rockets rising like giant tombstones to the sky.

We meandered around the rockets, reading signs, eulogies from the past when threats from enemy nations was imminent. I was reminded of older friends telling me of a time when they practised drills of hiding under their school desk in the event of enemy attack.

*[Photo 1: Monument, A Rocket at Woomera © L.M. Kling 2013]

My mother recalled when on February 19, 1942, Darwin was bombed. She was a girl in Hermannsburg at the time and whenever a plane flew over, the Aranda women would wail, fearing disaster.

*[Photo 2: Twists and turns © L.M. Kling 2013]

Now, Hermannsburg was a mission set up by German missionaries in 1877. Although, by the 1940’s the mission was fair dinkum Australian having existed in Australia for all that time, with the advent of World War II and the conflict with Germany, the name, being German, raised the suspicions of the Allies. Hence, Mum remembers British Officers* drove into Hermannsburg to check the place out. They had to make sure there were no German spies. My grandpa, Pastor Sam Gross and his wife (my grandma) hosted these officers and put on a lovely spread of lunch for them.

[Photo 3: The Hermannsburg welcome Spread © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]

After investigating any mitigating threats, the British Officers* drove away in their propeller plane satisfied that Hermannsburg was no threat. Never-the-less, they confiscated the one and only link to civilisation, the community pedal radio. Just in case they really were spies, I guess. Further, to make sure that no threat to the allies arose from this humble mission, they sent Rex Batterbee, a world War I veteran, to oversee the mission in the role of “protector of the aborigines”. As he had visited and then lived in Central Australia since the mid-1930’s, Rex taught Albert Namatjira to paint watercolours and helped him launch his career as a renowned artist.

*[Photo 4: Albert Namatjira at work © S.O. Gross circa 1950]

Homeward Bound

Needless to say, in 2013, such threats of foreign enemies seemed in the distant past. But, being only 446 km from our home town, Adelaide, we were reluctant to linger amongst the rockets. Having packed, and checked out of our overnight accommodation, we were eager to start our journey home.

At a steady 90 km/h, we made progress down the highway that split the gibber plains in halves.

‘I bet the T-Team (my brother’s family) are home by now,’ I said. ‘No hanging around of taking time to look at any more places for them.’

‘Why don’t you ring them just to see where they’re at,’ my hubby said.

I texted my niece. The time was 10:30am.

“We are in Port Augusta,” she replied by text.

‘There’s no way we’ll catch up to them,’ I said, and then texted back, “Have a safe trip home.”

*[Photo 5: Off we go over the gibber plains © L.M. Kling 2013]

Clouds and rain descended on the land the further we drove south. By the time we reached Port Wakefield, the cold had seeped into the car. I put my parka on my legs to keep warm. Yet, for lunch Hubby insisted we eat alfresco in the rotunda at Port Wakefield. After all, despite his aversion to the cold, he needed to stretch his legs. Plus, it seemed no café existed in the town.

The rain and cold became more intense as we approached Adelaide. After driving through the grey, sodden streets, we arrived home, just as darkness fell at 5:30pm.

What disaster awaited us?

Hubby opened the door and we trod inside. Son 1 played a computer game on the PC in the dining/living annex. He ignored us. We tiptoed through the family room. Not too much mess and the carpet remained visible, and clean.

We found Son 2 all rugged up and cosy in his room playing World of Warcraft. He said, “Hello” and then asked for a coffee, then followed the conversation up with, “I’m hungry, what’s for tea?”

In the kitchen, as I prepared a drink, I noticed the dishes had been done and the cats fed. I thanked Son 1 for the effort. He took all the glory and remarked that his brother had done nothing.

The Aftermath

There’s always casualties that follow every holiday. And this one was no different. Two paintings which I had planned to exhibit in the upcoming Marion Art Group exhibition had gone AWOL. I’d like to think they were stolen…but I reckon they would be found in some odd place sometime in the future.

*[Painting: Dad’s resting place, Ormiston Gorge © L.M. Kling 2018]

Eleven years hence as I write this final chapter, I wonder what paintings they were.

Oh, and the other casualty, Hubby, who proudly exalted that he had taken thousands of photos of the Central Australian trip on his mobile phone, can no longer find where those photos went. It would seem those photos went AWOL too.

As for the T-Team, they actually arrived home after us, having spent a night at Port Germaine. They decided to treat themselves after roughing it for the past two weeks.

*[Photo 6: Port Germaine Jetty © L.M. Kling 2024]

***

Note: *My mum, Mrs. T checked this and questioned whether they were British. She thinks they were more likely to be Australian. However, I have read a letter written by these officers and the words they used made them sound British. When I find the letter, I will investigate the background of the visiting officers and plan to write a more detailed account of my grandparent’s experience.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024

Feature Photo: Woomera Open-air Museum in the morning © L.M. Kling 2013

***

Want more? More than before?

Take a virtual trip with the T-Team and their adventures in Central Australia.

Click below on…

The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981…

To download your Amazon Kindle copy of the story…

And escape in time and space to the Centre of Australia.

Friday Crime Fiction–Under the Bridge (2)

[A continuation of my foray into crime writing…]

Chapter 1

Part 2

UNDER THE BRIDGE

The Guilt of Omission (part 2)

Saturday June 27, 1980

2pm

Hiking Trail enroute to Mt. Lofty

Lillie

Raindrops stung the frozen tips of Lillie’s fingers. ‘There’s no way I’m staying it’s raining, now,’ she said rubbing her numb digits then taking a few steps along the path. The further she could get from her guilt the better. No one need know. But what if they found out? What if Fifi showed the necklace and the detectives linked her to the man’s death?  Lillie trembled. She’d never get a job, a boyfriend; she’d lose everything—possibly even her freedom.

Fifi blocked her. ‘There’s a cave. You can shelter in that.’

‘What?’ Lillie recoiled. ‘With the body?’

‘It’s dead – just bones, it can’t harm you,’ Fifi said.

‘I’ve got a bad vibe, man! Bad vibes.’ Jimmy paced back and forth, swaying his flowing locks. ‘I’m not staying.’

‘I won’t be long, just thirty minutes at the most.’ Fifi stomped further up the track. The rain intensified, drops pummeling their parkas. She whipped around and pointed at Lillie and Jimmy. ‘You two stay here!’

‘No!’ Jimmy strode a few steps towards her and stopped. ‘Look, I really have a bad feeling about this.’ He looked back at Lillie.

[Photo 1: Ice-Sculpture, Hokkaido © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger 1985]

Lillie froze to the spot like an ice-sculpture. A flock of black parrots shrieked above in the violet clouds. The birds dipped and whirled on the wind currents. Fifi’s words rang in her head. You have to tell. She knew deep in the emotion curdled base of her stomach, no one would miss that man, that horrible man. Wasn’t my fault, he deserved it. She reasoned and focussed on Jimmy shaking his pink fist at Fifi. The parrots circled above their heads, and as if bored with the rain, darted in formation south. With a dull throb of resignation, Lillie made her decision. ‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘Fifi, Jimmy, you stay here.’

‘I’ll come with you, Lillie,’ Jimmy offered.

‘No, it’s alright. Fifi looks brave, but she needs company,’ Lillie said.

Lillie forced her stiff legs to move, one foot in front of the other, each step she believed closer to a life with no future; her living death. She paced through the driving rain, down the path by the falls leading to the carpark below.

Lillie hopped in the car and hurtled down the winding road to Greenhill Road and then home. She had no intention of reporting to police. What if they suspected her?

[Photo 2: Home in a beachside suburb of Adelaide © L.M. Kling 2006]

7 Months later…

Mum was out cold, stone asleep on whiskey and an afternoon of television serials. Good, Lillie thought as she rushed to her room, pulled her sports-bag from under the bed, collected two drop-waist dresses, a pair of jeans and large tee-shirt from her wardrobe and stuffed them in the bag.

‘Bad timing,’ she muttered.

Winter had rolled into spring, exams, end of school celebrations and choices made that she had begun to regret. Like the body of that man, her friends’ father, who festered just beneath the surface of her conscience, another secret silently grew…

But she didn’t want to spoil Christmas, then New Year and plans for travel and seasonal work in Tasmania. She’d missed three periods.

*[Photo 3: Christmas Tree © L.M. Kling 2023]

 She fobbed off her friends telling them, ‘Yes, I did go to the police, but…you know, they have to keep it under wraps so as to not scare off the killer.’

However, she knew they’d figure it out and her image would be ruined. Francis Renard, the man involved in her bad choices and situation, wouldn’t want her in that condition. And she wouldn’t want him till death do us part—he was too much like her dead-beat father who abandoned the family long ago. She had to get away.

She moved the bed and pushed her fist through a hole in the wall; a hole hidden by an old Sherbert, the band, poster. She fished around before latching onto a small tin and pulled it out. Lillie opened the tin and then scraped out the notes and coins. ‘I have a ferry to catch,’ she said as she inserted the money into her purse. ‘All I wanted to do was have a quiet life with my friends. How dare that creep rear his bony head.’

*[Photo 4 and feature: The crimson rose © L.M. Kling 2006]

She sat down at her desk, picked out a pale pink sheet of paper. She wrote, taking care to avoid the crimson rose in the corner:

‘Dear Fifi and Jimmy,

I have to go away for a while. I have a job in Tasmania. None in Adelaide, ha-ha.

I went to the police station again and reminded them of the bones under the bridge. The nice policeman took down my details—AGAIN! and accepted my statement and said he’d deal with it. So don’t worry, it’s in the hands of the police. They are going to keep it quiet because they already have their suspicions who did it, and they don’t want to scare them off. They reckon they’re getting close. So don’t tell anyone, promise, please.

Take care of yourselves. And look after my brother, Sven while I’m away. I will miss you, my friends.

Love,

Lillie.’

*[Photo 5: My black cat, Storm standing in for the fictional Moe © L.M. Kling 2024]

Lillie sealed the letter in the envelope and pressed the stamp of the queen in the top right-hand corner.

Moe, her black cat scuttled under the table as Lillie raced past and out the door. She headed for the cream and red Kombi parked around the corner at the end of her street. A man with dark curls and a pair of square, black-rimmed glasses, opened the passenger door. ‘Are you ready for a road-trip to Melbourne?’

Lillie panted and then caught her breath. ‘Yes, Francis,’ she said as she scrambled in. ‘Just need to drop by the letter box.’ She stared at the letter addressed to Fifi and Jimmy Edwards. She had another one for Francis Renard. And her mum and Sven, of course. She left that note on the kitchen table.

She planned to travel on the ferry from Melbourne, Victoria to Devonport, Tasmania, alone.

[…continued in a fortnight]

© Tess Trudinger 2024

*Feature Photo: The Crimson Rose © L.M. Kling 2006

***

Check out my other writing project, a speculative novel, Diamonds in the Cave on Wattpad.

The Wends, they were such a gentle group of people…until someone put it in their heads that there were witches amongst them…

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Diamonds in the Cave.

Family History Friday–Detective Work

In the steps of Sherlock Holmes

This last week, Hubby and I have received our DNA results. Dear Hubby received his last Friday, but mine only arrived today.

So, the last week I have been familiarising myself with the process and slowly building our family trees. Early on, I discovered a truth, you could say a “skeleton” in one of our ancestral lines. I added the details to see if anything further came up. My Heritage, call this a “smart match”. Nothing did, but I left it there.

For certain family members this truth appeared absurd, and too difficult to comprehend. Surely, that ancestor wouldn’t. Didn’t. Noone told us that. You have it all wrong, Lee-Anne.

Hence, Lee-Anne (me) being a good person only wanting the best for the family, deleted the suspect members from that branch of the family.

Then, curiosity set in. Who was that ancestor’s mother? Father? My husband suggested we go down the line to the descendants and put in a particular name.

This I did.

You wouldn’t believe it, but the same results, only this time verified by the official birth and marriage records. My original hunch had been correct. Moreover, in the spirit of Sherlock Holmes, I managed to crossmatch the added, yet odd family members with DNA and behold, a match.

Now, the reason I’m being so vague about the whole ancestral situation, which I might add, is responsible for our existence, is because out of respect for some people, the details of such conceptions are to remain private/personal; too personal to be published.

Isn’t it interesting that for people who want to protect their reputation, the unacceptable behaviour of other members of their family, ancestors or close relatives, must remain hidden, buried and plainly, not discussed. Such individuals may even be ostracised from the family.

Yet, such flawed individuals can still be, in other circles, a valued and much-loved member of the community.

My dad’s cousin, Dr. Malcolm Trudinger for instance. The story goes that he had a problem with alcohol. Legend has it that he couldn’t do surgery without a nip or two before the operation.

Malcolm’s alcohol addiction was too much for his immediate family who it would seem distanced themselves from him. Maybe it was the other way around and he felt not good enough for them. Whatever…

According to articles about Malcolm on Trove, he was regularly in trouble with the law. Infractions that in the 21st century, we’d consider a nuisance, or minor, but in the 1940’s and 50’s were serious. For example, his car engine making too much noise at night in town. Or even one time, merely driving his car late at night. Another time he was charged for making a scene at a function.

Despite these misdemeanours, as I see them (glad my brother and I didn’t live in those times—my brother loved doing “donuts” and “burnouts” in his car like in Top Gear at night with his mates in his youth), the folk on the West Coast of South Australia, loved Dr. Malcolm Trudinger. He was their hero. He once helped rescue people from a shipwreck off the coast during a storm. He cared and was always there for the sick and injured.

I remember my mother telling me the story how a person upon meeting my father, and learning his name was Trudinger, sang high praises for his cousin Malcolm. The sad thing was, that although he was still alive when Mum and Dad were first married, Mum never got to meet Malcolm.

[Photo 1: Dr. Malcolm Trudinger © photo courtesy of L.M. Kling circa 1930]

Dr. Malcolm Trudinger was such a vital part of the West coast community, they established a rose garden was in his honour after he died in the early 1960’s. We have heard that rose cultivation was his passion and his roses were prize-winning. My niece discovered the garden when she and her partner were on a road trip passing through Elliston. She couldn’t have been more chuffed having found a Trudinger with a rose garden to his name. It showed Malcolm was a loved member of the community despite his demons.

This is what, I believe, grace is all about—valuing and loving people as they are. We are all flawed. Rather than hide the imperfections, celebrate the person, their life and goodness they bring or have brought to the community. It’s our pride and wanting to look good to others that makes us cover up our sins or those of our kin. But also, we may be protecting their reputation too, which is a reasonable thing to do.

The reality is, we are all fallen and we all struggle. No one is perfect. We are all cracked pots. Yet like in the Japanese art of Kingsugu (the repairing of broken pots), there is beauty that shines out through the cracks.

And so, it is with our imperfect ancestors. When you think about it, it’s the ones whose stories are different and colourful that we find most interesting.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024

Feature Photo: Hubby as Sherlock Holmes, Reichenbach Falls © L.M. Kling 2014

***

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Friday Fiction–Under the Bridge

[Hey, I had planned a profile of an ancestor, but somehow time got away and it never happened. Still more digging and researching must be done. So, in the meantime, here’s the beginning of my attempt at Crime fiction. (I stress that the following tale is fiction, the characters are fiction, and I’m writing under the name of my alter-ego/crime-fighting name, Tessa Trudinger). I’d love to know what you think as I tackle this challenge to develop my Detective Dan series.]

Chapter 1

Part 1

The Guilt of Omission

Saturday June 27, 1981

2pm

Hiking Trail enroute to Mt. Lofty

Lillie

Fifi’s voice echoed through the steep gully, ‘Hey, what’s this? Some cow carcass!’ The blackberry bushes around her rustled in the icy breeze. ‘Come on, Lillie! Have a look! It’s gross! I nearly slid right into it.’

Lillie brushed past the liquorice plants and tottered down the slippery clay of the embankment. ‘I really don’t want to see a dead cow.’ She held out the billy while hunting for clear running water from the storm water pipe. ‘I hope the water’s not diseased.’

‘Nah, you’ll be right.’ Fifi poked her auburn curls above the bush and beckoned. ‘Looks like it’s been there for years – it’s just bones.’ Her russet crown disappeared. ‘Just wait.’

Lillie stepped forward. The clattering of the stream over stone was louder here. She stood still and drew in the sweet, scented blend of rain-soaked eucalypt, liquorice and mud. The aroma awakened a memory. I’ve been here before. She thought. The sun’s golden rays parted a curtain of thick cumulous clouds, causing the droplets on the leaves to sparkle like a million diamonds.

‘Hey, Lillie! A chain.’ Fifi held up a blackened necklace, a tear-drop pendant with a quartz stone shimmering in the light. The hand and chain vanished behind the tangle of mint-coloured leaves and thorny branches. ‘Just a minute.’

Lillie’s heart galloped, slamming against her rib cage as if in a desperate attempt to escape. She wanted to run, straight up the hill back to the campsite, back to the comfort of the fire and Jimmy Edward’s, arms. No, that wouldn’t be proper. He’s just a friend. Fifi’s brother. Her legs turned to jelly and froze. ‘What?’ She squeaked through a constricted throat. She had been here before. Summer, five years ago when she was twelve. The landscape dusted in tan and yellow. The moist green of mid-winter had lulled her into a false sense of ignorance.

[Photo 1: Resting enroute to Mt. Lofty © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1983]

A scream pierced the winter silence. ‘Oh, my God!’ Fifi ripped through the tangled bush, her freckly face flushed and green eyes wide as saucers. ‘It’s not a cow! It’s – It’s…’

‘What?’ Lillie rasped puffing out plumes of breath into the frigid air. Blood rushed through her head, roaring, while remembering the hike she preferred to forget.

January 1975: She’d only gone to the creek to fill her canteen. On a 38-degree Celsius day, hiking with her friends, the same friends plus her brother Sven, she was thirsty and needed water; they all needed water. That day Fifi had already fainted from dehydration. What was the harm in getting water from the storm water drain? What was his problem? That man?

[Photo 2: Hiking with school friends up to the summit of Mt. Lofty © C.D. Trudinger 1969]

‘Human!’ Fifi announced.

At that single word, the ball of anxiety swirling into Lillie’s chest converged in the sickening centre and dropped, thudding to the base of her stomach. ‘Oh, dear!’ she said as a blizzard of shock swept over her mind blanking out any thought.

Fifi scrambled up to Lillie and grabbed her hand ordering her to see the skull, commanding her to check out the leather coat, demanding she follow her to under the drain bridge to view the grisly find. Her best friend pulled her down to the creek, to the cavity under the bridge, her body meekly following like a frightened lamb to the slaughtered, her mind viewing the sequence of events as if from above in the clouds.

At first the sight before her resembled a side of beef at the abattoir, except the remains of him lay half sheltered at the base of the sand-stone bridge, and melted into years of silt, moss and sour-sobs. The leather hide of dry skin had sunk into the ribcage, and a disjointed hand of bones reached into the subterranean cave.

That time, when she was twelve, Lillie intended to explore up the creek in search of water. She thought she heard the water rushing. She was sure she did. The creek proved disappointing. Just a trickle. The hot northerly breeze had gypped her. She listened. A faint mewing. A kitten? A poor little kitten mewing from further up. Tracking through the dry creek bed crowded with brittle sticks of shrivelled saplings and prickle bushes laden with green unripe berries, she discovered the man-sized drainpipe. Water dribbled out into a stinky puddle surrounded by a cracked clay pan and rocks, broken tree branches and salt bushes caked in white like plaster of Paris. The kitten’s cries echoed in the black hole that penetrated deep into the hillside.

‘There you are! Ripe for the picking.’ A man’s hot breath stung the back of her neck. Cold hard metal gouged into her shoulder-blade. She turned and caught the look in his eyes, glazed, pupils dilated. He looked like a hungry wolf.

Lillie pushed him away and ran, scampering up the slope like a frightened rabbit.

[Photo 3: Calmer times resting by the creek at Waterfall Gully © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1986]

‘We have to tell the police.’ Fifi stared at the coat of membrane and bones.

‘Why?’ Lillie patted her straight blonde hair. She remembered his boots thumping after her.

‘Cos it’s the right thing to do.’

[to be continued…Friday fortnight]

© Tessa Trudinger

Feature Photo: Waterfall Gully © L.M. Kling 1996

***

Sometimes characters spring from real life,

Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.

Sometimes real life is just real life.

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Travel Back in time with Family–Christmas Memories

You Better Be Good…

A Christmas Memoir

‘I remember you,’ says a lady from church, my mum’s age, ‘you couldn’t keep still. I felt sorry for your poor mother.’

Another lady nods. ‘She had her hands full, your mum.’

‘Ooh, there was the time you escaped and ran up to the altar—oh, your poor mother!’

I smile and nod. So different now.

***

Back then, mid 1960’s…

The Children’s Carol service Christmas Eve—the bag full of sweets and honey biscuits stacked under the live Christmas tree, an incentive to stand in front of the congregation, singing my little three-year-old heart out. I love singing. Then when the Pastor preaches, the Sunday School teacher, Mrs. S, tells me to sit still, be quiet and don’t sin. Be good if you want your bag of lollies.

So, unless I’m told, I sit, am quiet and I don’t sin. Being good means not singing unless told to sing. I thought that’s what Mrs. S meant. And, being good means the reward of sweets at the end of the service. Oh, dear! How long is the pastor going to preach! I try not to wriggle. Everyone’s looking at me. But it’s so hot and stuffy in the church. Poor baby Jesus born in the middle of summer when it’s so hot! My halo’s itching my head. I take it off and scratch my head.

Mrs. S holds up her hand to me. ‘Lee-Anne! Be still! You want your sweets, don’t you?’

I try and put the halo on my head. It’s crooked and slips over my ear.

Mrs. S snatches the halo off my head. She has a cross look in her eyes.

Oh, dear, I hope I haven’t been naughty. I wasn’t sinning, was I? I hunch over and hold my fidgety hands tight. Must be still. Must be quiet. Must not sin. Want those sweets.

Mrs. S gestures for us children to rise. Goody, I can sing! I stand, take a deep breath of pine-air. ‘Joy to the World!’

The service ends. We wait by the tree. I marvel at the white “crismons”, the symbolic decorations from our great-great Grandfathers from Germany. These white shapes made out of Styrofoam and sprinkled with glitter make me wonder, is this what snow looks like? I’ve never seen snow. Snow is for cold places and Adelaide is always hot. Except in winter when it’s cold enough to have the kerosene heater going in the kitchen. But Adelaide’s not cold enough for snow, mummy says.

[Photo 1: Christmas in Australia means it’s hot enough to go to the beach © L.M. Kling 2017]

‘Lee-Anne?’ Mrs. S calls.

I go up to the tree and she hands me my bag of sweets and a children’s book with my name in it.

‘This is for attending Sunday School every week and learning all your bible verses,’ Mrs. S says. ‘Good girl.’

I take the gifts in my arms and careful not to drop my cargo, I take one step at a time out the church as if I’m a flower girl in a wedding. I know about weddings. My Aunty K was married in this church and I wore a new pink dress that my mummy made. And I had this lacy hat, and everybody took photos of me.

[Photo 2: All Dressed up for wedding © C.D. Trudinger 1964]

I’m in the courtyard, lost in a forest of legs. I search for mummy’s legs. She has ones under her pretty aqua dress with frills at the bottom. That’s her new dress for Christmas. My mummy’s a dressmaker and she always makes a new dress for her and me at Christmas. I mean, what are daughter’s for but to be dressed up in the prettiest, frilliest dresses at Christmas?

I can’t see mummy’s dress, or legs. I weave through the legs and scamper down the gravel drive to the back of the church to the car park. She’s in the car, our FJ Holden, Bathsheba, surely. I look in the car. No, she’s not there.

Tramping behind me. A roar. ‘Naughty girl!’ Dad all red-faced. ‘You know not to go down the drive on your own!’ Dad smacks me on the back of my legs.

‘But I was looking for mummy!’ I howl.

Mummy comes running. ‘Ah, you found her. I was getting worried.’

My always-good-brother strolls up to the car. He rolls his eyes and mutters, ‘Lee-Anne, always getting lost.’

‘Now get in the car,’ Dad snaps.

I adjust my load. A biscuit drops onto the dirt. I bend to pick it up. Can’t waste good food.

‘I told you!’ Dad says with another stinging slap to the legs. ‘Get in the car! Behave yourself, or else!’

I climb in and assume “or else” means another smack on the legs. Dad crushes the biscuit with his shoe and then slams the door behind me.

‘Doesn’t matter how much you smack her,’ Mummy mumbles. ‘She never seems to learn to be good.’

As Dad drove down the road he glances at me and says, ‘We’re off to Grandma’s now, so be good, or else.’

Be good, what does that mean? I pondered in my three-year-old mind. I thought it had something to do with not getting into trouble or getting a slap on the legs. I still hadn’t worked it all out, this “being good” business. It had something to do with following my older brother’s and cousins’ example. Something to do with being still. Being quiet and not upsetting the big people. But I don’t know, just when I think I’ve got it worked out, I do something I’ve no idea is wrong and the next thing, I get a smack. All I know is sitting still and being quiet means I’m being good.

Our car tyres crunch on the stones in Grandma’s driveway. We climb out of Bathsheba and enter the house through the back door and greet Grandma who’s piling plates with honey biscuits. We side-step around the table in the dining area and into the lounge lined with couches, dining chairs, and a piano. The lounge room is filled with the smell of pine tree. Pinned in the corner another real Christmas tree, all lit with electric candle lights and decorated with colourful baubles. I move to the tree to touch the pretty decorations. I must be careful not to step on the presents wrapped in red and green paper under the tree.

[Video 1: The wonder of Christmas and bon bons © L.M. Kling 2005]

[Photo 3: The seats are for grown-ups, Lee-Anne (Christmas with the Gross Family) © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

‘Now, Lee-Anne, you sit on the floor,’ Mum says. ‘The chairs are for grown-ups.’

I sit cross-legged by the fireplace.

‘You better sit still and be quiet,’ Dad warns, ‘or else.’

Cousins, aunts and uncles, and the odd, lonely soul from church crowd into Grandma’s lounge room.

I try hard to follow my cousins’, all older than me, example. Sit still and don’t make a sound. I must be good. I watch the grown-ups all chatting, getting up and down, laughing and joking. Must be fun to be a grown-up.

Clothed in her purple swirly dress and beige apron, Grandma settles her generous backside on the piano stool. ‘Let’s sing some carols,’ she says and begins hammering on the keys.

In joyous and rousing strains, we sing our way through the black hymn book’s carols.

I like singing and can’t help but join in. Then I remember. Be still. Be quiet. Maybe only big people can sing. I glance at Dad. He’s singing, eyes closed. My brother next to me barely opens his mouth. He fidgets. Not a good sign. I’m meant to follow my brother’s example, aren’t I?

But I love singing. I love Christmas carols. I raise my voice and sing. Everybody’s happy. Everybody, except Richard sings. I check my cousins. They’re singing. Must be alright to sing if my cousins are singing. So, I keep singing.

[Photo 4: Lined up with cousins © C.D. Trudinger 1965]

A pause. Grandma dabs a hanky on her brow.

Mum pipes up. ‘Well, surely that’s enough singing. The children want to open their presents.’

‘What’s wrong with singing some more Christmas carols?’ the odd, lonely guy from church asks.

Mum points at the mantelpiece clock from the Fatherland. ‘I just think it’s getting late for the children.’

Dad blushes and cleares his throat while the other grown-ups look from my mum to Grandma.

Grandma looks down and wipes her hands on her apron.

Was my mum being naughty?

I reckon they’ve got the wrong person being the naughty one. Who’s the one who’s always told to sit still, be quiet and not sin? Me, of course.

I stand up and say, ‘It’s alright. I like sinning.’

Everyone laughs.

‘She means “singing” carols.’ Grandma’s tummy jiggles up and down as she chuckles. ‘Yes, it is getting late. Let’s open the presents. And Lee-Anne, since you are the youngest, you can help your mother hand out the Christmas presents.’

[Photo 5: Opening Christmas Presents © C.D. Trudinger 1964]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2023

Photo: My Christmas present revealed, me and Teddy, 18 months © C.D. Trudinger 1964

***

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Family History Friday–My Rogue Ancestry

[As a child, I frequently had dreams where I was locked up in a prison cell and couldn’t get out. When, through family history research, I discovered the plight of my young (at the time) great-great Grandfather, I realised the origins, genetic or spiritual, of those dreams.]

My “Convict” History

I admire a former convict, an ancestor of mine. Okay, you may think, yeah, of course, she’s an Australian—these days they wear their convict heritage like a badge of honour.

No, actually, my great-great grandfather Friedrich Schammer lived in Silesia which is now part of East Germany or Poland today. Rubber borders, you see. His crime was trivial by our standards today in the West. But then, so were the crimes of shiploads of convicts who were transported from Britain and Ireland to Australia in the early nineteenth century. (For this reason, I have included photos from my visits to convict settlements, Port Arthur and Sarah Island, Tasmania, as my two-times great grandfather, was living his life in Silesia around the same time, in the early nineteenth century.)

[Photo 1: Port Arthur was a recipient of many convicts from Britain and Ireland © L.M. Kling 2009]

My great-great grandfather Friedrich spent less than three months in prison for this crime he did not commit, but I admire the way he handled his dire situation.

How did he get into this trouble?

According to the family history book of this particular branch of the family, in the town in which my great-great grandfather studied as a medical student in the 1820’s, the military came to power and enforced strict and arbitrary rules. I might add here that my ancestor had already endured hardship, having been orphaned as a child, suffered poverty and then, his older brother who was his guardian, died from typhus. I imagine, these events spurred him on to be a doctor.

[Copy of Portrait painting: Two-times Great Grandfather, Friedrich August Schammer courtesy of Schammer Family History © 1922. Painting circa 1850]

Anyway, in this university town of Jena, the students protested against their restrictions to their liberty by reacting against the ridiculous laws the military had brought on the town. Some of these laws were that there be no singing in the streets, no wearing of caps and waving of flags. The students protested by marching in the streets to the town square, singing and waving flags. All went smoothly and peacefully with no trouble from the authorities.

Then some of the young men, probably after drinking a few beers, became bolder as young men do tend to become. They threw rocks at windows; action that got the authorities’ attention.

[Photo 2: View from window of former café in Port Arthur © L.M. Kling 2009]

The military swooped and arrested many of the protestors. My great-great grandfather was walking past the action and was in the proverbial wrong place at the wrong time.

Arrested and tried, though otherwise of exemplary character as a good Christian belonging to the Moravian Brethren, Friedrich was convicted and sentenced to prison for six months. I might add here that I have learnt recently that in Europe, the judge or judges determine the fate of the defendant. Whereas in the United Kingdom, United States and in Australia a jury (twelve randomly selected citizens) under the decide the fate of the accused.

It seems by his account and letters, a certain beadle in town had it in for my great-great grandfather Friedrich.

[Photo 3: Captain’s Quarters up on the hill, Port Arthur © L.M. Kling 2009]

Yet Friedrich accepted his time in prison and made the best of the situation both for himself and others. He studied, enjoyed the view of the valley from his prison room (I think he was in a low security prison) and used his medical knowledge and skills to help those around him.

Great-great grandfather Friedrich’s quiet conduct and enrichment of the prison community was noticed by the authorities, and they released him less than three months into his term.

[Photo 4: A view of convicts on the other side of Friedrich’s world may or may not have enjoyed in Port Arthur © L.M. Kling 1995]

Released, Friedrich’s ordeal was not over. The university where he’d been studying banned him from returning to study there. His reputation tarnished, the villagers shunned Friedrich.

However, Friedrich did not give up. He moved to Berlin and keeping a low profile, completed his studies at The Charite University Hospital and graduated as a Doctor of Medicine. He had a heart for the poor, having been poor himself, and would treat those in need without demanding payment.

My great-great grandfather demonstrated those godly qualities I admire—justice, mercy and compassion. And perseverance, even in the face of adversity.

Philippians 2:14-15—Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe…

Feature Photo: The Cry of the Convicts, Sarah Island Ruins © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2011

*** 

Note: Port Arthur housed what British authorities considered the worst of the convicts transported to Australia in the early to mid-nineteenth century. I visited this convict settlement in 1981, 1995 and 2009. A place well-worth visiting to learn from the mistakes made from the past (how not to treat fellow human beings). Although the place appears serene, the presence of the tortured ghosts of the convict past can still be felt.

Sarah Island situated in the Macquarie Harbour on the west coast of Tasmania, imprisoned the worst of the worst convicts transported to Australia in the early nineteenth century.

I have visited Sarah Island as part of the Gordon-Franklin River Cruise, both in 2001, and 2011. I highly recommend this cruise—a bucket list for travellers—history, wilderness, rare beauty of unspoilt rivers and rainforest and…excellent food. And not to mention entertainment. After your cruise I highly recommend that you see the historic play, The Ship that Never Was. It’s about convicts who build a ship to escape their prison island to make their way to South America. In January in 2024, this play celebrated 30 years of performances in Strahan.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2020; 2023; 2025

Resource: History of the Schammer Family, Based on the work of Dr. A.H. Francke and J. Gemuseus, Written by Reinhold Becker, Herrnhut, 1922, Printed Gustav Winter, Herrnhut in Saxony and Translated from German by Rebecca Gnüchtel 2009

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Virtual Travel Opportunity

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

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

Experience Historic Australian outback adventure with Mr. B

in

The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

Or come on a trek with the T-Team in

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981.