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?
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.’
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.
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.
Adelaide experienced another spectacular storm last Tuesday. Lightning, thunder, heavy rain…the lot. Our home received at least 45mm, according to the rain gauge. The ceiling leaked and we had to get our builder out to locate the cracked tile.
Anyway, all that rain reminded me of a story way back in my youth being caught in the rain while waiting for my mum to pick me up from school. The experience sparked this story, a re-blog, but hey, what are memories for?
Feature Photo: Rain, Kaniva, Victoria (c) L.M. Kling 2023
Gigantic waves lunged at the rocks. The cove was wedged between two rugged points. Wind raged, blasting sand through me. Only yards away I observed a motionless body of a girl. Three men hovered over her. Fritz crouched down over the girl. Dr. Mario stormed around with hands on his hips. The muscular bulk of Kirk roamed close by like a caged lion, the bandages gone from his eyes, his doe eyes squinting in the bright Pilgrim sunshine. I recognized the life-saving actions of CPR. Pumping the chest. The electric jolt of the defib machine. One…two…three…zap!
My spirit was standing next to the girl’s body. I studied the prone body, blue lips, white face. There wasn’t much time, for her—for me.
The words were picked for me as if a higher, holier sprit had ordered them.
‘What are you doing here? Boris—Maggie—Tails—Latitude 50, Longitude 130,’ I murmured. ‘Why am I on the beach?’
Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Gunter and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris in…
Crushed. Fighting for every breath. My lungs squeezed of air. Panic, I fought to pull myself out of the black hole of nothingness. With every stage of advancement towards wakefulness, came the false steps, an awareness of not fully awake. I pushed through the sleep barrier. Then floated in the half-world of illusion.
Cold, I scanned the room. I was lying naked on an icy shelf, an Antarctic ice shelf. Exposed. In a blizzard.
An avalanche of snow piled on my prone body. I was suffocating. My hands clawed through the snow. Tunneling, I broke through the mound of snowflakes. With a snap and a crunch, I pierced through the white world and saw blue.
I woke. This was real. I had dug my way out of the dream. In the grey of pre-dawn, I was alone. The frigid stillness frightened me. I opened my eyes wide. My muscles tensed, rigid with fear. I sensed danger; the threats imminent, as if evil lurked around the very next second. The child inside thumped. I could not escape.
Yet I tried. I moved my legs and swung them over the bedside. Danger was hiding in the calm atmosphere of dawn, and I was not about to submit to its attack. Anyway, I had to go to the toilet, as you do when you are nine months pregnant. I kicked the bed pan under the bed. I never did like bed pans. The concept of trying to sleep with the smell of urine under me never did inspire.
I trod my way down the passage to the lavatory. I knew exactly where the Antarctic dream came from; the hospital hall was freezing. The slate floor frosty, slippery. I imagined that I could skate across it to my destination.
The toilets sat perched in their cubicles. They appeared harmless. I did my business with much relief, and glancing around every few seconds, I washed my hands in the water provided by the jug beside the basin. The water dribbled out of the jug. Probably ice. I broke the sheet of ice which had formed over the top, filled the basin and then washed my hands.
I trundled out the door of the toilet block. All seemed still, quiet, too quiet. I considered seeking solace to quell my anxieties. I would pass Kirk’s room on the way back to mine. He’s strong, he’d crack some joke and distract me from fear. Minna, what are you thinking?
Sister Salome, do I drop in on her? No, worse. Then I’d have to tell her about Boris’ little visit. Nup, can’t handle that. And the thought of being lectured by her was worse than the danger imagined, or Boris for that matter.
Some shuffling in the entrance hall, made the hairs on the nape of my neck stiffen. The light was on. I went to investigate. Maybe a mutant had gone astray and lost his way to the dormitory. It wouldn’t be the first time. Mutants were always getting lost in the Convent. To them it was a maze. I clomped down the stairs with a misguided sense of helpfulness and in an effort to distract from my fears.
At the foot of the stairs,Tails stood by the hat stand. ‘Oh, Miss Muffet! I see you wasted no time.’ He rocked on the balls of his three feet.
‘Oh, Tails, you’re looking well!’ I said, my mind numb with terror. Miss Muffet, that’s the name he used for Minna. Did he know? Or did he call every young lass, Miss Muffet?
‘Well, well, haven’t you changed!’
‘What?’ I was curious and trod a few footsteps closer. ‘What do you mean?’
Maggie stepped out of a dark room. ‘Death doesn’t become you, Minna.’
Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Gunter and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris in…
For several days, Sister Salome’s misplaced communicator lay mysteriously smashed to smithereens on the footpath. That worried me.
The bath I was in had become too cold to enjoy, and a strange twilight glow hung over the horizon as the second sun began to make a shy appearance for Pilgrim spring. What if someone found the communicator fragments? Would they trace it back to me?
I turned on the hot tap and heated up the water.
The bath then was hot, but I went cold. ‘I hope they don’t find my…’ I said, and finished the sentence in my mind, ‘journal? That would incriminate me.’ I stepped out of the bath, dried myself off and wrapped the gown around my body. I can’t let them find that. I can’t let them see the smashed communicator. I can’t let them know what I’ve been up to.
Gums were already flapping since the first Kirk visit and sharing of honey biscuits. Following that occasion, he requested my company each day to read to him—Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, —that’s all I found in the Convent library—kid’s books. But Kirk didn’t mind. He liked my voice, he said. And I liked the endless supply of Frau Biar’s honey biscuits, kuchen and strudel…and Kirk’s easy going childlike nature… and his muscles. Did I say his muscles? No harm in looking, I remember Maggie saying. Besides, I was sorry for him, blinded and all alone so far away from Earth. And anyway, what’s wrong with a bit of colour in this dull cloister? Most importantly, Kirk’s attention on me, distracted the community of gossips from my plan—to gather intelligence on Günter’s whereabouts and to continue to find the thread to unravel the Taylor’s tight-knit alibi concerning their connection with Boris and the murders of John and others. My photographic evidence had been incinerated, it would seem.
I strolled down the stairs, out the huge oak entrance doors and to the path, where I aimed to surreptitiously sweep the offending bits of communicator into the bushes and bury them under some leaves. That was the plan…
Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Gunter and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris…
And the Mischief and Mayhem Boris manufactures in…
For a week after Tails’ news, my life stagnated. I’d given up. Didn’t eat—much. As for Sister Salome’s porridge, she could have it.
Sister Salome shoved a bowl of porridge under my nose. ‘It is good porridge! Eat it M-Anni, eat it!’
‘Eat it yourself!’ I muttered curled up on the bed.
‘Your baby needs you to eat.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘What?’
‘About Andreas,’ I said. ‘Is it true?’
Sister Salome cleared her throat. She does that when she’s not quite telling the truth. ‘Officially.’
‘Officially? And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Andreas won’t be coming back, my dear.’
‘Why?’
‘Work it out for yourself.’
‘I can’t, that’s why I’m asking.’ I thumped the mattress. ‘Unless it was you who orchestrated the whole thing.’
‘Min—Anni! How could you!’
‘Easy, considering our discussions on the road trip here. I bet this whole Boris thing is a ruse.’ I paused. ‘Although, I wouldn’t put it past my mother.’
‘Oh, but it is real, my dear. We have our people closing in on the creature, at this very time,’ Salome said. ‘And a more serious situation has arisen. The son of Boris is on the loose. We have to find him. Very grave times. Very grave.’
‘So, your brother could be out there still…’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Then there’s hope.’ At light speed, then on Boris World, Günter’s life would be standing still, while mine moved on rapidly. I had to wait. If I followed, I would end up in a continuous game of time tag. I arrive, and he would have left, maybe only Boris-minutes before. He could arrive back on the Pilgrim Planet, and I could be out searching for him. Anyway, I was only days, maybe a week away from giving birth; the pursuit of Günter was not an option at this stage. Theoretically, the longer he was gone, the more chance that he would not return in my lifetime. However, there was a chance that he would be back. Time, space, black holes and Boris World become rubbery in space and the laws of physics become a law unto themselves. So, I had to wait, and hope and not move on.
‘Please do eat, Anni. This is g-Andreas’ baby, a-and your’s we are talking about. Go on it is very tasty. It is good for you—to eat it,’ Sister urged. I couldn’t fathom why she stuttered as if she had a speech problem.
‘I told you! What part of eat it yourself don’t you understand!’ I buried my head in the pillow to avoid Sister’s force-feeding tactics. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the porridge -laden spoon zoom towards me.
‘Look, what would Günter say if he saw the way you were behaving?’ Sister whispered, the spoon lingering above my cheek.
‘What? Are you doing a candid home movie to show him in twenty years’ time when he finally returns, are you?’
‘Who says it would be twenty years? He could come home tomorrow.’
‘He’s been gone weeks now. I’ve done my calculations—that’s twenty years or more!’
‘Oh, you don’t know that. Space can do funny things. And him too. Don’t underestimate him, dear. Now eat!’
‘As if you care—about us!’ I roared into the feathery down. ‘No! I will not eat! Go away! Leave me alone!’ With that I shut myself off. I pulled the blanket over my head and blocked out all light and Sister Salome.
‘Dear, can’t you see as Anni and Andreas it would’ve never worked. It wasn’t real.’
‘Too late to do the Dr. Phil routine on me!’ I screamed. ‘Get out!’
‘Very well,’ Sister said. ‘Have it your way.’ I heard the bowl touch down on the side table and the spoon go clink as she placed it inside the bowl. I counted the retreating steps as Sister stomped towards the door. The steps stopped and Sister Salome added one last biting comment, ‘But, if you don’t eat by tomorrow, I will be forced to call the doctor who will take your baby by caesarean. Understand?’
‘Fine, then I can go to Boris World and look for Günter myself,’ I mumbled into my bed linen.
‘You won’t find him there.’ Sister Salome chuckled. Then she said softly, ‘Just wait till I get my hands on that blabber-mouth Liesel.’
When I no longer heard her footsteps, I grabbed my voice recorder from under the sheets, saved the last comments and stored them. She had spoken in her ancient German tongue, but I had a translator. I played the results again and again.
The door burst open. I shoved the device under the blankets.
‘You haven’t seen my communicator around, have you?’ Sister Salome eyes wide paced the room picking up pillows, breakfast trays, and the bowl of porridge. Fancy that! Mobile phone detachment anxiety disorder.
I ignored her. Sister Salome’s communicator was stowed under the mattress by me. I had plans for that mobile phone…Who has she been talking to? Günter, I bet… I was glad that Sister Salome’s absent-mindedness had landed me the opportunity to hear what everyone was not telling me, and to try and make sense of it all. Salome never need know I was the “gremlin” that stole her phone and then put it back in an obvious place.
Unsuccessful in her quest to find the lost phone, or communicate with me,Sister Salome left me to my own and her state-of-the-art I-Phone. I stared at the cold porridge. It looked up at me in cold hard lumps saying: “Eat me!” Before I could consider what I was doing I dug into the bowl and scooped a spoonful of grey mass into my mouth. The lumps stuck to the roof of my mouth. I tipped the mattress and retrieved some sugar packets from the base. I sprinkled a few grams of sugar and ate a further few small spoonsful.
Holding Salome’s phone, I tottered to the window. Raindrops splattered on me as I pushed the pane open. I examined the communicator and my options. It rang. I pressed the answer button and put the phone to my ear.
‘Hello?’ A young man’s voice spoke. But not through the phone.
He stood at the door, bandages over his eyes.
‘What?’ I flung the phone out the window. Salome’s mobile smashed into a million pieces onto the path below. ‘Oops!’
Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Gunter and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris in…
[Extract from Chapter 7–Pity in Their Eyes. Minna meets her nemesis then receives news that will devastate her future.]
Flash Point
I stowed along the corridors, glancing behind me, poking into rooms. Toe mountains of sheet were in the room opposite. I stuck my head around the door. ‘Hello? What? Three heads?’ Oh, well, it is the Pilgrim Planet and we’re not the only species in the galaxy. ‘Sorry about that, wrong room. Looking for three feet, actually. Seen any three-footed customers?’
The three-headed being waggled his heads and head-butted each other’s heads.
Down the corridor, crept past the nurses’ station. Good, they’re all busy…turn right. Hope I don’t lose my way. Next room, on my left. Nup, just a Grey alien the shade of green. Methane poisoning. Happens when there’s too many cows—like on this planet, for Greys, that is.
Crossed to the room on the right. Mutant frozen in wood. How’s that possible? I tiptoed in for a closer look. Curious. I touched its skin, like bark.
‘Hi,’ I said.
The man of bark blinked at me.
‘You wouldn’t—’ woops, hope he’s not offended by the pun, ‘—do you know of a three-footed patient in the hospital?’
The mutant nodded and pointed a branch in the direction further up the corridor. ‘Came in yesterday, saw him as I was returning from my oil bath.’
‘Thanks.’ I turned to go, then I looked back at the wood-paneled mutant. ‘How do you find the baths? Do they help?’
‘Oh, ye-es! I was like a forest before I came here and had them.’
‘Oh, well, all the best,’ I said, and then left. I tried to imagine how he looked before he came. If he were a forest, how did he fit into the Convent? Nah, must’ve been exaggerating. Or did he mean a Bonsai one?
Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Gunter and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris in…
I gripped my bike’s handles and studied the sand. “There’s plenty of fish in the sea,” I recalled Liesel saying. Another embarrassing break up. The previous night, this latest ex drove straight past me as I waited on Jetty Road with my friends after meeting at the coffee shop eleven o’clock at night. How was I going to get home now? Walk? Thanks a lot mate. No one else had room. My brother John ended up making two trips to ensure my safe transport home. Monica reckoned she saw the ratfink the next day. She hid behind a rack of dresses. He came by to apologise a week later. I sent the crumb on his way saying I had to study for exams.
Collecting shells on the beach calmed me.
That man again. Dressed in brown corduroy pants and beige top. He fell in-step with me. ‘If you could have anything in the world, anything at all, what would it be?’
‘Go away,’ I said and increased my pace.
‘Just a simple answer to a simple question, that’s all I ask,’ he said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, yes you do, you can tell me.’
If he made a move on me, I planned to use my bike as a weapon. ‘I don’t care, leave me alone.’
‘Not until you share with me your greatest desire,’ he said.
‘Fine, then you’ll leave me alone?’
‘Maybe.’
‘That doesn’t sound like you would.’
I jumped on my bike and pumped the pedals skidding the sand in my effort to escape. I sped along the hard sand until the intruder of the day was a speck spoiling the sea view. When I reached the ramp, I hopped off and with heart racing, I walked up to the road. On bitumen, I pelted home. Something about that man gave me the creeps.
I parked the bike at the back of my home under the plum tree. I raced inside, slammed the door shut and then fumbling locked the dead lock. Ah, safe, at last!
I strolled into the living room.
The man in brown reclined on the vinyl lounge. ‘You haven’t answered my question, Minna.’
‘How did you know my name? Who are you?’
‘I am Boris and I know many things about you, my dear. Except, perhaps, what you want most in life.’
Like rancid body odour this Boris wasn’t going leave in a hurry. Where was mum when I needed her to kick him out?
‘Will you go, if I tell you?’
‘Indeed, I will,’ Boris said.
‘Okay, I want to be beautiful, find a handsome man, get married, have children, oh, er and I would like to travel too, like in space.’ Ha, I’d like to see this cockroach of a man grant that wish.
Boris waved his hand as if he were a royal. ‘Done.’
‘Good, so you can go now. I have an orthodontist appointment—in the city—which I must keep, so if you don’t mind.’
‘Glad that you answered my question. You won’t be disappointed, in time.’ Boris walked to the front door and then turned, ‘Although, for all wishes, there will be a cost.’
Boris strode out the house and then disappeared out the driveway.
Tru-Kling Creations 