For a sample of where some of the main characters have come from, a short story which will be serialised over the next few weeks. This one focuses on Minna’s future love-interest, Günter and his origins.]
The Choice—Bits
Short Story: Black Forest…in Bite-sized Bits
Bit 1: The Centripetal Force of Günter
Herr Crankendinger cracked the switch on Günter’s open hand. The lad, fourteen years old, the in-between of boy and man, clenched his teeth. He locked eyes with the scowling school master. Günter had the urge to snigger. Not a good urge to have when the school master is beating his hand. Günter pushed down the bubble of snigger rising from his beating chest. His stomach churned, and all fizzed up, the snigger with a mind of its own, rumbled in his throat and then slipped out of his curled mouth.
‘Dumkopf!’ Herr Crankdinger screamed. He hammered the boy’s palm again and again. ‘You will learn!’
‘Aber, the water in the bucket is held by centripetal force, not magic. The man at the Show is not the devil.’
Herr C’s face glowed red and his ice-blue eyes bulged. He stomped his one foot and peg-leg (a casualty of the Thirty Years War), and cried, ‘Heretic!’
In the candle-lit chapel, thirty-nine pairs of eyes stared at their castigated classmate, and the owners of those eyes froze on their cedar benches. One boy in the back row tittered.
Encouraged by the titter of support, Günter continued, ‘Gravity, have you not heard of gravity? Have you not heard of Isaac Newton?’
‘Oaf!’ The teacher pointed at the door. ‘Witch! And don’t come back! Your education is finished. Understand?’
‘Never learnt anything here,’ Günter muttered as he strode between the rows of school boys towards the heavy doors made of oak.
He pushed one open, squeezed through and then bolted. Pigeons fluttered as Günter ripped through the town square, of the small village in the Schwartzwald (Black Forest). First flush of spring made Günter a bundle of nervous energy, especially when he saw three milk maids delivering their buckets full of cow juice to the stalls in the square. He looked at the blonde triplets in their puffy cotton sleeves and blue pinafore dresses, and he stumbled on the cobble stones.
The girls sheered away from him.
‘Oh, keep away from the plague,’ one said loud enough for him to hear.
‘Ugh, he smells like cow dung.’
‘No one would want to marry him.’
‘All he attracts is bugs and flies.’
And the three girls giggled.
‘You’re no beauties yourselves,’ Günter muttered as he dug his hands in his pockets. He didn’t care it was bad manners to dig hands in pockets. Too bad, he thought, then tramped up the hill to his home.
On the way up, Günter glanced in a pond. His nose like the Blauen-Hoch dominated his dusky face, and pimples gathered in clumps like pine trees on his high forehead, square chin and of course, his mountain of a nose. He pulled his thick dark curls over his face to hide the awkward ugliness, and then with his head down and hands buried in his pockets, Günter shuffled up to his home presiding over the village, a mansion crumbling with neglect.
How long before his home looks like those Roman ruins down the road? Günter wondered. Another victim of the Thirty years war that had dominated life in the 17th Century. So close to the sanctuary of Switzerland, and yet…his father had to go and join the cause. So did his older brother Johann. How could Günter as a boy keep the house and home together?
Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Günter and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris in…
Oh, dear! I must’ve been deep in the rabbit-hole of painting yesterday. See what I painted in one sunny mid-winter’s afternoon, yesterday. Anyway, being what was intended to be Family History Friday for Tru-Kling Creations, went down a rabbit-hole and ended up somewhere else.
Check out the re-blog of the story of my great-great grandfather from Silesia.
Recent events on the world stage and closer to home have reminded me of this little gem I posted way back in 2016. Still relevant today—maybe even more so, as it was back then so many years ago when I was in high school. And it seems, while many of us have matured and have an open mind when it comes to opinions and how we view others, there are some who believe that if you tell a lie often enough, it must be true. The recipients who have no backbone who believe these lies are just as guilty. Need I go into detail with examples? Not here. But I may explore this issue in some of my future novels.
NOW YOU KNOW…
Year Ten at high school, and you could say I went to school each day with a big virtual sign on my back that read, “Kick Me”.
Don’t get me wrong, I had my close friends; friends who valued me for me and who saw through the prevailing attitudes of the crowd towards me. I assumed my lack of popularity was spawned from a rocky start in Year Seven—new kid when all friendship groups had been established in a ridiculously small school. And then there were those who had made it their mission in life to persecute me. I assumed they spread the rumours about me. Or maybe it was my buck teeth, and awkward way of relating to people…When you are told by your peers over and over again that you are ugly, unloved and no one wants you and you do regularly get picked last for the team, I guess you start to believe what people say. What kept me together, were my real friends, the ones outside of school, and my friends at school. I also belonged to a fantastic youth group that met every Friday night. A close-knit, loving family helped as well.
Most of all my faith in Jesus got me through those difficult early teenage years.
Anyway, at fifteen, my teeth had been almost straightened by orthodontics, and I’d perfected the enemy-avoiding strategy of spending lunchtimes in the library. I loved learning and my best friend, and I spurred each other on in academic excellence. My goal, a scholarship. I had heard rumours that some kids thought I was not so intelligent, a fool, in other words.
At my grandmother’s place, after Sunday lunch, I helped Grandma with the dishes. As I scraped away the chicken bones, I discovered the wishbone.
‘Can I make a wish?’ I asked Grandma.
‘Well, why not?’ she replied. Although a godly woman, some superstitions from our Wendish (eastern European) past had filtered down through the generations. So, wishing on wishbones was no big spiritual deal.
Grandma and I hooked our little fingers around each prong of the wishbone. We pulled. The bone snapped in two and I won the larger portion. I closed my eyes and made my wish, a scholarship. Dad had promised that if I studied hard and won a scholarship, he’d buy me a ten-pin bowling ball. So, in truth, my aspirations for academic achievement were less than pure.
What was it about socks? I wondered as I dutifully began to pull up my socks. For our summer uniform which we had to wear in first term, we wore blue cotton frocks down to our knees and long white socks.
Woe betide any poor soul who did not pull their socks up to their knees. The length of our uniform dresses was another issue that kept certain teachers occupied. And don’t get me started on hair. I tell you, if all the students had worn their uniforms correctly, I think the teachers would’ve quit out of boredom.
So, with my socks pulled up, I waited in line to troop into the chapel for morning assembly. A tap on my back. One of my friends smiled at me. I remember her simple bob of straight blonde hair; no fancy flicks or curls like many fashion-conscious girls in the 1970’s. Farrah Fawcet flicks were all the rage and drove the teachers to distraction.
‘Good luck,’ my friend said.
‘Why?’ I asked.
Miss Uniform-Obsessed-Teacher glared at us. She had those bulging blue eyes, mean pointy mouth that forced us to slouch into submission, and for me to check my socks again.
One of my foes snaked past and muttered at me, ‘Dumb idiot.’
I shook my head and concentrated on not getting glared at by the teacher. Really, I thought, he’s at the bottom of the class and he’s calling me dumb? What is it with that guy? In his defense, he did come out with a gem once in English class when the students were rioting and so reducing the first-year-out teacher to tears. He said to me, ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.’ So true for my home town.
Once inside the hallowed halls of the chapel, we went through the ritual of the school assembly. The principal delivered the talk. There’s a lecture I recall he made, don’t know if it was that particular one—how we were a bunch of jellyfish and we must get some backbone. When he said backbone I thought of the wishbone, and then that guy who said I was dumb and his cohorts. I thought of how people believe unquestioningly what others tell them, even if it’s not true. They go along with the prevailing attitude, even if it’s wrong and harmful to others. In some ways, like at school, I was a victim of these jellyfish, and in other ways, I was a jellyfish too. I had an attitude, an aversion against those who bullied me. Did I have backbone enough to get to know them as people rather than continuing to avoid them as enemies? The principal began to hand out the awards. Ah, yes, that’s what my friend meant. Today was the day of the awards. I watched as various students marched up the front and collected their scholarships. That won’t be me, I thought.
‘And for Year Ten,’ the principal said, ‘the scholarship for high achievement…’
I looked up. What? Me?
I walked to the front, shook the principal’s hand, collected the award, then head down and with a tug of my pig tail, I walked back to my seat.
Afterwards, my friend patted me on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations! Well done! Just like you to win an award and then pull at your pig tails.’
I nodded. The whole deal of winning a scholarship seemed unreal. ‘I’ll be able to get my own bowling ball, now.’
That guy slid past me. ‘Ooh, what a surprise—we all thought you were dumb.’
Sometimes we carry our hurt from the persecution from others like a big heavy bag on our backs and the truth is it influences the way we see the world. I realised being a victim had become my narrative, and I didn’t want it to be so. As a jellyfish, I had no backbone to stand against this view of myself and how others viewed me. I feared speaking out and going against the crowd in the cause of truth, justice, mercy and compassion. I kept my opinions to myself. Then just recently, when again the baggage of victimhood crept up on me, I read the following passage from the book of Matthew in the Bible. The words encouraged and gave me the backbone to stand out and for the sake of Jesus Christ make a positive difference in the world.
“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me (Jesus). Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”—Matthew 5:11-12
[Why 1978? Nostalgia for one. Some snapshot of the past for future generations. And, well…I do wish I could share the shenanigans of current family, but I think that would leave me Christmas card less and spending the next 40 years on my own at Christmas sipping some sort of spirits to drown my sorrows, forget my regrets and missing all the entertainment Christmas in Australia brings. So, what harm would be done to reminisce about one warm Christmas Day when life was simple, and the stars of this show are now twinkling in the sky of remembrance. Needless to say, like Mr B, I will not use their real names to protect the not-so innocent, and the little bit affected.]
Christmas to a T
The sun filtered through the dusty window golden and warm. I flung off my sheet and raced to the Christmas tree; a real one that filled the lounge room with the scent of pine.
Mum, still in her nightie, watched me as I opened my presents: two skirts and a pair of scuffs.
I hugged her. ‘Thank you, Mummy.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘So, what church do you think we should go to, today?’
‘I was thinking Maughan Church in the city.’
‘Excellent, I like that church.’
‘Well, then,’ Mum glanced down the passage way, ‘you better get ready.’
I hurried to my room and changed into my new Christmas skirt, relishing the T-female tradition of new clothes for Christmas. Even better, home sewn by mum, so no one would have the same dress as me. I pulled on a white lace shirt to match the simple V-cut skirt of fine red and white plaid.
Mum called out from the kitchen, ‘Hurry, we have to get there by half-past nine.’
‘Alright.’ Easy for her to say, but the challenge was my Dad and brother, Rick. How to wake the men who lay in their bed-tombs asleep?
Mum had an idea. ‘Why don’t you put the radio on? Make it loud. Really loud.’
I followed Mum’s suggestion and tuned the radio to 5KA and turned up the volume dial until it would turn no more.
Boney-Em blasted out a Christmas carol causing Mum to jump. ‘Not that loud,’ she cried through a mouth full of milk and Weeties cereal mixed with her ever-faithful All-Bran.
An unimpressed and bleary-eyed Rick and Dad joined us on our jaunt into the city to celebrate Christmas Uniting Church style, not much different from the Lutheran Church service. Rick nodded off during the sermon all the same.
Then, the highlight of our year, Christmas at Grandma’s. Always a spread, but as it was simmering around 35-degrees Celsius, cold chicken and ham, for meat, and potato salad, coleslaw, tomato and onion salad, cucumber and beans from Dad’s garden swimming in mayonnaise, and for our serve of greens a bowl of iceberg lettuce.
The food was only second to the company. Grandma, with her G (she wasn’t a T) gifting of hospitality, had invited some friends from church. My uncle and aunty from the inner suburbs of Adelaide also came to complete the gathering around the old oak extendable table. That year, the numbers being not large, I sat with the adults. Other years children were relegated out in the passageway or exiled to the back garden to sit at the “kindertisch”. Anyway, at 15, I was almost an adult.
After lunch, we lingered at Grandma’s all afternoon, waiting for the second wave of visitors to arrive. I flicked through Grandma’s photo albums and then read some of her books from the bookshelf in the spare room. Actually, that’s what I did, after helping Grandma and mum wash and wipe the dishes while the others lazed around chatting and playing cards.
I’d started on The Coles Funny Picture Book when called to bid one of Grandma’s friends, my uncle and aunty goodbye. Within minutes, the next influx of relatives rolled up the gravel drive. Aunt Wilma and her husband Jack stepped from their yellow Volkswagen Passat. The couple impressed me; so striking with Aunt Wilma’s elegance, matching her husband’s movie star looks and Scottish wit.
Sidling up to Mum, I asked, ‘Why didn’t the others stay?’
Mum mumbled something I didn’t quite catch before rushing up to her sister and hugging her. I followed mum with the greeting rituals of hug and kiss my aunt and uncle. Then, while the adults engaged in honey biscuits, tea and banter, I resumed my perusal of The Coles Funny Picture Book.
Dinner was left-overs from lunch. Sorry Wilma and Jack, but that’s the tradition. Waste not, want not, my Grandma used to say. She was a parson’s daughter and married a parson, not just any old parson, but a missionary one, during the Depression. And she and her missionary husband moved up to Hermannsburg at the start of World War 2. I was convinced that she still had rusty tins of food mouldering at the back of her cupboard from the “Dark Ages”.
Uncle Jack was in fine form—they’d obviously had a merry time at the last Christmas appointment. True to form, he kept us entertained with his brogue accent and humour, repeating variations of the Wattle ditty. Here’s how it goes with his accent:
“This ‘ere is a wat’le, The emblem of our land, You can stick it in a bot’le, Or ‘old it in your ‘and.’
Jack performed this with variations, and some subtle actions that at fifteen, I was a tad too innocent to “get”, but we all laughed anyway.
As the night progressed, the bolder Uncle Jack’s jokes grew and the more most of us laughed. Perhaps not Grandma’s friends who had dared to stay on; they kept glancing at Grandma, the expression on their faces reading, “Pull your son-in-law into line, dear.”
My dad sat on the piano stool, hands under his bottom, his lips doing the bird-in-mouth thing and a snort escaping with every new and daring quip from Jack. Dad hoped to play the piano as we sang some Christmas carols, but as each joke escalated in levels of risqué, clever though they were, the likelihood of carol singing became less likely.
One of Grandma’s friends suggested we should sing some carols. Ah, the innocence of good Christian folk in the 1970’s.
Rick and I commenced our own rendition of We Three Kings…
Grandma picked up a present and quietly said, ‘I don’t think we will sing this year. Let’s open our presents. Lee-Anne, you’re the youngest, you can start.’
So, here’s how I scored in 1978: Cosmetic mask from Aunt Wilma and Uncle Jack, hairdryer from Mum and Dad, photo album and book from Grandma and a cassette tape from my country cousins. Grandma’s present, a book, interested me the most and I stayed up to 2am reading it.
Thursday April 21, 2022, 10:30am Adelaide University
Dee
Dee wrapped her jacket tightly around her and shivered. Sven von Erikson’s office, on the fifth floor of the science block was cold. Science books and journals cluttered the shelves in no apparent order. The desk was a mass of papers weighed down by a model of a Mad Max replica of a Ford Falcon XB GT, colour red.
Sven, coffee mug in hand, hurried in slamming the door on a dozen students waiting to see him. He placed the mug on a stack of assignments, then with hands clasped leaned forward. ‘Now, Detective Berry, what can I do for you?’
Dee watched the coffee cup balanced on the paper pile, and worried that the coffee would spill and ruin the work. Resisting the urge to remark on this danger, she said, ‘Thank you for seeing me, Dr von Erikson.’ A young hopeful, seeming little more than a child, opened the door a crack and poked her head through. Sven smiled and waved the girl away.
Then he turned his attention back to Dee. ‘Sorry about that. First term, lost souls.’
‘That’s okay.’
Sven glanced at his analogue watch which Dee suspected was an Asian imitation of a famous and expensive Swiss brand. ‘I have half an hour, Ma’am. Lecture at eleven.’
‘Right, I’m investigating a cold case from…’ she paused and then said, ‘November 1980.’
Was that an expression of relief on Sven’s face? Dee noted the relaxation of Sven’s mouth. His cheeks all hard lines and gritting teeth before and during the pause. And then softening and a hint of a smile once the date was announced. What was that about? she wondered.
‘November 1980? What am I meant to remember about that time?’
‘The 29th of November 1980, to be exact.’ Dee held her gaze on Dr Sven von Erikson. ‘What can you tell me about the events of that day?’
Sven laughed. ‘I barely remember what I had for breakfast and you’re asking me to recall my movements over forty years ago?’
‘I’m sure you can remember if those events are significant.’
Dee glanced at her notebook and looked up. ‘I believe you attended a bonfire on the night of Saturday, November 29, at Sellicks Beach. Is that correct?’
‘If you say so.’ Was he mocking her?
‘We have a witness who puts you at the bonfire on that night.’ Dee narrowed her eyes. ‘Have you no recollection of that particular night?’
Sven shrugged. ‘Uni had…no, that was before I went to…I guess it’s something I would have done. Bonfires on the beach…ah, those were the days.’
‘Does anything spring to mind about that particular bonfire that you would like to tell us about, Dr von Erikson?’ Dee kept her eye on the Doctor of Computer Engineering for any flicker of deception.
The professor picked up the red model Ford Falcon XB and stroked the bonnet. ‘A roo hit my car; I remember about that time. Not at night, but the next morning. Gave my girlfriend a fright. We were nearly home, just driving down a little detour by the Happy Valley Reservoir. And this roo came leaping out and attacked my car. No respect those roos. Worse thing is, I had to stop and pull the animal off the road. Wasn’t sure what we were meant to do about a dead roo, so I left it there, I guess. My girlfriend at the time said that, if it had been a koala, being an endangered species, it would have been a different story, but…’
‘I see…’ Dee responded making a mental note of Sven’s version of how his car came to be damaged.
‘I always remember her saying that kangaroo-icide is better than koala-cide,’ Sven said with a chuckle. Dee remained stone-faced. ‘Do you recall a motorbike incident? A fatality on that night?’
‘Vaguely,’ Sven looked her in the eyes and blinked, ‘oh, yeah, Milo…Milo Katz. Was that, then? I always thought it was 1981. Wow, 1980. His death, I remember had an impact on me. There I was back then, a tradie, a brickie, life going nowhere. Milo was in our youth group. Then, he was gone, killed in that motorbike accident. Snuffed out. And it made me realise that life was short, and I needed to make the most of it. So, I applied as a mature age for university. And here I am today. My girlfriend who became my wife was none too happy. Being a wife with a baby to a poor uni student. She couldn’t hack it, and she left me.’
‘I bet she had some stories to tell,’ Sven snorted.
‘I can’t comment on that,’ Dee replied flatly.
‘Yeah, well, I wouldn’t believe much of what she has to say; being the village gossip.’
I wonder…he’s hiding something. Dee thought and then remarked, ‘That’s for a jury to decide, Professor.’
‘Are you implying something?’
‘No, but…’
‘Well, then, I have nothing more to say.’
Sven von Erikson gathered up some papers and placed them into an antique leather case. Then he picked up his mobile phone and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
‘As I said, I have a lecture to give, now,’ Sven said, before striding to the door. ‘Thank you for your time. I hope you get the answers you are looking for.’
Dee clicked off the record function of her phone and followed the professor to the door. ‘Thank you, Dr von Erikson, we’ll be in touch,’ Dee replied.
As von Erikson vanished around the corridor’s corner, Dee messaged Dan: “Any info on von Erikson that you might have gathered, past or present? What about his sister, Lillie?”
Sometimes characters spring from real life, Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction. Sometimes real life is just real life. Check out my travel memoirs, And escape in time and space To Central Australia.
Friday has rolled around and once again, the well-researched, edited and polished article on some nascent topic of family history has failed to materialize. Too busy researching and chasing promising leads down rabbit holes. Plus making a concerted effort to finish the first draft of “Under the Bridge”, now titled The Culvert.
Hence, I am blatantly and unashamedly going to ramble and keeping to the theme of rabbits, rabbit on.
A fellow writer has the penchant to invite the reader to get comfortable in their favourite armchair with a cuppa and a bikkie, and then travel along with her in her latest story. So, I’m doing something similar today. Imagine we are in your café of choice, I’m having my decaf cappuccino with almond milk and you’re having your beverage of choice, and we are having a chat about family history. Admittedly, I’m the one doing all the talking—for a start. You can have your say at the end in the comment section.
I’ll start with the food. Early on in My Heritage forays, the computer offered some guidance with AI (artificial intelligence) in finding those relatives who would prefer to remain hidden in the distant past.
I took the AI up on the offer, to my regret.
After many questions that became more ridiculous as time went on, the robot which I might prefer to call a “bubble-headed booby”, asked the ultimate in absurdity. ‘What did your ancestor like to eat for breakfast?’
You need to understand that AI was asking about an ancestor who lived three hundred years in the past. If I knew the answer to the breakfast question, I wouldn’t be asking AI, would I?
I decided then to avoid researching with the AI after that interaction.
It got me thinking, though. What did my ancestors eat for breakfast? Too late for most of them to tell me. Even the famous ones don’t include a breakfast menu.
So, for future generations, here’s my offering for the few of my immediate family of whom I know their breakfast preferences.
My dad, Clement David Trudinger grew up during the depression and Second World War times. He loved bread with dripping. I’m not sure if this was a breakfast go-to, but he did say. Just saying.
My mum has to have her cup of coffee first thing in the morning. Coffee gets her going.
A few nuts and a cup of Caro does me for breakfast.
I’m not sure what my maternal grandma, Elsa Gross liked for breakfast, but she didn’t eat meat. I remember her having toast with butter and jam.
As for my maternal grandpa, Sam Gross, and my paternal grandma and grandpa, Ron and Lina Trudinger, I have no idea. And that’s only going back two generations.
All I can say for AI is good luck with that one going back three hundred years.
Digging back further, I discovered that one of my ancestors and an ancestor of my friend, and Indie Scriptorium teammate, Mary McDee’s, were shipmates travelling over to England from Normandy way back when England was invaded by William the Conqueror. I wondered whether they were friends and what their conversation was like. Mary was adamant that her ancestor probably wouldn’t have had much to do with mine as they were likely different ranks. But hey, ships back then weren’t that big, so I wonder…One thing for sure, they probably weren’t discussing their latest books and giving feedback to each other on how to improve their manuscripts.
Continuing on my research voyage, Mary did ask me, “What’s a good Christian girl like you writing such content of bloodshed and gore. How did you come up with such an evil character like Boris?’
As I’m exploring those murky depths of my ancestral past, I’m beginning to understand. A relative of mine once read The Hitchhiker and was so shocked she gave it a poor rating. “This is not the person I knew,” she wrote as a comment. Little did she know that my ancestors and her husband’s were not the “Sarah Janes”, “Pollyannas” or “Saint Whoever” of the past. Quite the opposite. Think of Game of Thrones which is based on the War of the Roses, and you get the picture. One was likely a bishop, though, sorry to say…
And no, the dreams that formulated my Sci-Fi novels were seemingly not from ancestral memories from the mercenary soldier, Balthas Trudinger that the family was so ashamed of.
I looked into that and discovered that Balthas who lived at Lierheim which is a castle near Nördlingen, Bavaria, most probably belonged to the Teutonic Order. The Teutonic Order at the time of Balthas’ coming of age, had bought the castle there and were renovating it. Hitler gave the Teutonic Order a reputation as the exemplar of the all-German, all-Aryan fighting force. But once he won power, he ditched the Teutonic order—banned them. Actually, the order from what I can glean did much good over the centuries. They started around the end of the 12th Century as guards protecting pilgrims to Jerusalem. I bet Hitler kept that fact quiet. Although it was an army that did fighting and stuff in the past, these days it’s a charitable organisation.
I could go on rabbiting, but I think that’s enough random thoughts for one day. hubby has come home and we’re off to dinner for our 37th Wedding Anniversary.
Happy Friday and hope you enjoyed your cuppa and bikkie.
If you have a Family History comment or story, I’d love you to drop a line in the comment section below.
[Eleven years ago, the T-Team, Next Generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Now just a teeny-weeny bit on the Family History front. I delved into some research concerning family traits. You see, the T-team pride themselves on their T-Traits (Dad stresses that the word “trait” is pronounced “tray”.) So, I decided to have a peek at what characteristics, us who are the T-Team, have that make us distinct from other families. I’ll elaborate in a future blog. But briefly, what comes to mind that aligns with the posts I read on Google, are hairline (straight but peaked up at each side of the temple), high forehead (Dad’s cousin always remarked this trait as a sign of intelligence), high cheek bones, good teeth, a penchant for puns and a certain amount of daring for adventure; hence the T-Team and their treks into the outback.
So, again, the virtual journey continues, to the Centre, Uluru and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.]
Marla Track
Mrs. T slept in the T-Van, while the rest of the T-Team walked the Marla Track to Kantju Gorge. There, we were awed by the caves hollowed out as if by waves crashing into them. We marvelled at the vivid red ochre paintings in rock caves carved out by the sea of time. Tourists filled these caves, spilling out the sides and edges, listening intently to the guides explaining the stories behind the artwork.
As the cloud and damp set in during the day of July 9, the T-Team congratulated themselves on completing the mission to view the sunset on the Rock the previous night. Anthony reported, ‘Alice Springs had one of its lowest temperatures ever; 8 degrees Celsius maximum.’
‘Wow! Just as well we saw the rock in all its glory last night,’ I added. ‘Dad always said that the Rock is at its best at sunset when there are clouds to the West.’
The ever-changing colours of the massif amazed me; golden, then orange, then tangerine…until a rich deep red with the golden grasses glowing in the foreground.
And, with the photoshop features on my digital camera, I was able to make my image of Uluru, almost “chocolate box” quality. Not cheating, just capturing how I actually saw the famous Rock.
And on that night, as I stood transfixed, taking photo after photo of the Rock, Mrs. T called out, ‘Hey! Look the other way!’
We turned.
‘Wow!’ I exclaimed. ‘What a show!’ The expanse of sky painted in every hue from yellow to crimson; the sun’s parting gift as it sank from this evening’s horizon.
Evening, and I used our portable camp stove to cook rice for tea. Anthony no longer complained about the use of the stove instead of the cooking facilities. Having skipped lunch, he was hungry, and he knew better than to expect the public BBQ to perform; especially considering a biting wind had sprung up.
The T-Lings, as they had done every night, planted their mobile phones at the base of the power pole which was not far from the BBQ. With cables attached, they left them there to charge up. ‘Would you look after our phones?’ they each asked, expecting me, as I was cooking, to keep an eye on their treasures.
Night fell and as the wind turned bitterly cold, I made a toilet visit where I donned my thermals. On the way back from the toilet, I observed a group gathered around the communal firepit. They asked if I wanted to join, but I declined. The T-Team were playing games.
In some ways I regretted not accepting the invitation. We played card games but as the T-Crowd was too large for the small tent, I ended up playing cards outside in the cold and dark. There, half-frozen despite the best efforts of the thermal underwear, I taught my younger niece to play Patience.
Then, how pleasant it was to snuggle into our minus seven sleeping bags for sleep.
‘Oh, no!’ a T-Ling cried, then rustling. ‘Our phones!’
School holidays and Lillie relished the slower pace. Morning workout at the gym, working off the cakes and sweet buns and the excess that had gathered around her waist and thighs. Only six weeks to get in shape for her 60th.
Then Burnside Village for essential shopping. Clothes and shoes. Plus, hairdresser to colour and shape her whitening locks. Hairdresser suggested bronze streaks to compliment the blonde. Walked out looking like a porcupine and $300 less on her debit card. Swore never to go there again, but…somehow knows she will. Convenient and better the devil you know, so they say.
Lunch at the French Café with Tiffy, her daughter. Tiffy on about family history and over coffee she asked, ‘Mum, why don’t you get your DNA done?’
‘Why do I need to?’ Lillie retorted. ‘We are pure German stock, and you know everybody and their mother in our family have been digging up our ancestry. Haven’t you seen the five thick books in our library? If I want to find out where I came from, I just look in them.’
‘But Mum, von Erikson is not a very German-sounding name. More like Dutch. Just think, you might have Viking blood.’
‘Hmmm, Vikings were from Scandinavia, more like Norway, dear. And besides, your grandfather, rest his soul, came from Hamburg. Von also denotes aristocracy. Dad’s ancestors owned a castle. As I said, dear, it’s all in the family history books.’
‘But Mum, wouldn’t you want to find out what happened to Grandpa?’ Tiffy stroked the side of her cup. ‘He just sort of vanished. Who knows, maybe he ran off and started another family.’
Lillie’s stomach churned. ‘How’s your love life, dear?’ she bared her teeth and braced herself waiting for the inevitable response.
This time, Tiffy didn’t hold back. She smiled and said, ‘Oh, Mum, you’ll never guess. I’ve found someone special.’
‘Oh, time for some celebration,’ Lillie clapped, ‘let’s share your favourite apple cheesecake, and you can tell me all about him. It is him? Not her?’
Tiffy rolled her eyes. ‘Him! His name is Jacob, and he works at Woolworths.’
‘Woolworths? Couldn’t you do better? I mean, at least date someone with a proper job?’
‘Mum! How insulting! You always spoil everything with your impossible standards.’ Tiffy snatched up her smart phone and stood up. ‘Nothing’s ever good enough for you. I’m leaving.’
Tiffy stomped a few paces from the table. Then turned. ‘You know, Mum, you’ll never be satisfied. You want your perfect daughter to be a lawyer or some such high fancy thing. Well, I’ve got news for you, it’s not going to happen. So, suck it up and deal with it.’
With that final comment, her daughter swung around and marched out of the café.
After Lillie paid the bill for both of them, and also made a hasty exit.
While grocery shopping, Lillie chuckled. At least the DNA minefield had once again, been diverted. What is it with this craze to find one’s DNA?I don’t want to be responsible for sending one of my descendants, if I ever have more than Tiffy and…and…whoever she is, to jail because they use my DNA to trace them, she thought. Or long-lost secrets to be unearthed.
Lillie then mounted her brand-new Mitsubishi Pajero and wended her way home through the leafy streets of Norwood. A magic time of year when leaves change colour, red, golden and rusty brown. The light on this autumn day was golden, and the air had a hazy warmth to it.
She rolled into the double driveway. To her left she noticed a white Toyota Hilux with Tasmanian number plates filling the space.
A slight blonde woman who appeared aged around thirty leant up against the Toyota chatting to her husband. Smiling, flicking her long blonde hair. Flirting. Jimmy, exuding a youthful charm despite his plus sixty years. Jimmy lapping up the attention of the younger version of herself.
Lillie’s first thought was, Not another, younger woman. Her entanglement with the Frenchman, Renard all those years ago, had left her scarred. Jealousy.
Lillie pulled the Pajero to an abrupt stop and jumped out. She marched to her husband. ‘Hi, there, love,’ she called out. Then claimed him with a hug and a kiss. On the lips.
Jimmy beamed and turned to the young lady. ‘Lillie, this is Zoe from Strahan, I’ve been telling you about. She’s over here delivering my wood.’
‘Yeah, um,’ Zoe waved, ‘Pleased to meet you, Lillie. I was coming over on family business and as I waz in the neighbourhood, I thought I’d deliver the wood personally. Waz going to fly, but no flights available. So, drove. Glad I did.’
‘Isn’t it great?’ Jimmy rubbed his hands together. ‘It’s so hard to get timber these days. I’ll be able to start on those guitars I’ve been planning for I don’t know how long.’
There were minutes of awkward silence as Lillie studied Zoe, Zoe looked away and Jimmy stared off into the not-so-distant hills.
Zoe broke the spell. ‘Well, I better get going. I’m meeting my dad at the hotel in Magill.’ She climbed into her Hilux and waved again. ‘Nice meetin’ ya, Lillie. See ya, Jim.’
The couple waved in return as the Hilux backed out the drive and spirited down the leafy street.
After the truck had gone, Lillie faced Jimmy. ‘Bit young for you, Jim.’
Jimmy glanced away and replied, ‘Oh, yeah, but…I had no idea she’d turn up…it’s business…’
‘Yeah, right, so you say.’
Jimmy giggled. ‘Although, you have to admit, she does remind me of you when you were…’
Lillie shook her fist. ‘What do you mean? She looks nothing like me. Take that back.’
‘No, dear, you’re right, she looks nothing like you. Sorry for mentioning it and upsetting you.’
Too late. Lillie ranted and raged for the next half hour while Jimmy scraped, bowed and offered apologies to appease her. Lillie enjoyed watching her husband grovel and beg for his dinner. Then, they agreed to have takeaway delivery. Chinese. And together watch a classic movie from their favourite streaming service. On the couch. Eating lemon chicken and spicy fried rice. While sipping a sparkling glass of white wine.
Tuesday 19 April 2022, 6pm
Tower Hotel, Magill
Eloise
Eloise and Sven pretended to peruse their menus. Not that there was much to peruse. Just the usual hotel fare. A variety of burgers, fish and chips on offer, and steak and chips. The menu was simplified since the last time Eloise had graced the hotel with her presence as a police officer.
She watched Renard fidgeting with his glass of beer. Glancing up at the entrance every few seconds. Looking. Hoping. He had voiced his concerns to Eloise as they drove up. Maybe Zoe had second thoughts and won’t come. Did he provide too much information about his wild past? Perhaps he shouldn’t have written about sowing wild oats. Oh, dear. He must appear too wild for her taste.
Eloise had assured him that she’d be there. And all will be fine. Treat it like an adventure. At least there’s no film crew, she had joked. Besides, they share the same DNA, so perhaps she’ll be wild too and understand.
‘I’m going to have the steak. Well done,’ Sven said.
As he spoke, a slim blonde woman, approached Francis Renard. He stood up. Smiled. They hugged. And then they sat down.
Eloise transferred her attention from the menu to her smart phone. She flicked through the photos scanned from Fifi’s 1980’s photo album.
Sven peered over the table. ‘Any likely suspects?’
Eloise shrugged. ‘Hard to tell. The quality is seriously bad.’
Sven surveyed the pair. ‘Could be anyone’s. I mean, at youth group the girls were all blonde. Oh, except for a couple of brunettes. Oh, and I do remember Renard once went out with a Japanese girl. From Japan.’
Eloise swayed her head, then asked, ‘Are you going to order? I’ll have the Caesar salad with chicken.’
‘Wine?’
‘No, just water.’ Eloise nodded at the father and daughter. ‘And a closer look.’
Sven collected the menus and glided past the persons of interest.
‘Hard to tell, actually. It’s quite dark in…’ he paused; his eyes grew wide. ‘O-oh!’
‘What?’
‘I don’t believe it!’ Sven slid down in his seat and covered his face. ‘Not her!’
Eloise twisted around and looked in the direction of Sven’s terror. ‘Is that your…ex? Fifi?’
With hands covering his face, Sven nodded.
Eloise mouthed, “Oh my God!”
‘You can say that again, she’s coming in our direction.’
The curvaceous woman with strawberry blonde curls strutted up to the table. ‘Oh, hi, Eloise, Sven, fancy meeting you here.’
Eloise thinned her lips and whispered, ‘Hi, Fifi, we’d ask you to join us…but…’ pointing to the table where Renard and Zoe sat, ‘delicate operation.’
‘What the heck, Fifi, join us,’ Sven stood and pulled out a chair.
‘Oh, is that okay. If you insist.’ Fifi plonked herself down in the offered chair. She plucked up a spare menu from a neighbouring empty table. ‘What do you recommend?’
Neither Eloise nor Sven replied.
While fingering the menu, Fifi continued, ‘By the way, I had a call from a detective Dee Berry. She’s looking into the Milo Katz accident.’
Sven glared at Fifi. ‘I hope you haven’t dropped me in it. I had enough trouble…’
Fifi made the sign of the cross. ‘I haven’t said a word. I haven’t spoken to the lady yet.’
Sven turned and locked his gaze on Fifi. ‘Keep your bl@#%y mouth shut.’ He then rose from the table and stormed out of the bistro.
Fifi and Eloise glanced at each other.
‘What was that about?’ Eloise asked.
‘Bit of an overreaction,’ Fifi replied while observing Renard and Zoe. ‘Well, what d’ya know. She’s the clone of Lillie.’
Eloise’s lips spread into a wide smile. ‘Thank you, Fifi, I knew you’d figure it out.’
‘At your service,’ Fifi chuckled. ‘You don’t think that’s why old Dee is poking around, do you?’
‘’Fraid not. Strictly possible murder investigation, according to inside sources…’ Eloise lowered her voice, ‘Dan.’
‘Ooh, nasty, I always suspected Sven, but could never…you know.’
Eloise rose her voice. ‘Sven?’
‘Yes, Sven.’
A waiter balancing two plates, one with steak, the other with salad, approached the table.
‘Looks like you’re having the steak,’ Eloise said.
Fifi held up her hand as the waiter placed the steak before her. ‘Fine with me,’ she said.
Dan sighed as he filled in the archive retrieval request form. ‘Things I do for her majesty—Eloise Delaney.’
Under reason for retrieval, he wrote, “Relevant to cold case, the fatal accident of Milo Katz.” He had a hunch, but that was all. Had a gut feeling back in 1981 when he was a recruit, and the youth group was a-buzz with the sudden and tragic death of Milo. Something about his then friend, Sven’s behaviour in the weeks after the road accident had disturbed Dan, but being a trainee policeman, Dan put his head down, stuck it in the proverbial sand, and got on with training.
Dan recalled Christmas Eve, Sunday School kids doing their nativity play and Sven never came into the church hall to watch. Just kept loitering out in the carpark, smoking. Cigarette after cigarette. Even his girlfriend, Fifi couldn’t persuade him to join in the festivities.
While Dan hunted in the rolling file cabinets, he nodded and murmured, ‘Sven and Fifi, bonded over missing dads.’ Never discussed. Never. They went missing and their existence vanished with them.
Curious about information the police might have on the elusive von Erikson, he spotted the man’s name on a box on the middle shelf. Detective Dan Hooper pulled out a file titled, “Jan Von Erikson”. The one slip of paper described a disturbance on January 1, at 2:00am, 1977. One word dismissed the event. “Domestic”.
The account read, “Police were called to a disturbance at the home of Jan von Erikson in Somerton. Neighbours had heard loud shouting and glass smashing and called the police to attend. Police in attendance described the perpetrator, Mr. von Eriksson as drunk, belligerent, and angry.”
Dan flipped the page. No mention of von Erikson’s disappearance. No one asked. No one said. Had he disappeared? Or was it all in his youthful imagination?
He stared at the page. 1977, and he recalled Sven turning up to youth group with a brand-new Ford Falcon XB. Shiny red, as he remembered. Dan had been so envious that Sven, a contract labourer, could afford a shiny, red Ford Falcon XB. How could he? Sven was, what, nineteen? Same age as he was. And Dan knew he, at nineteen and a poor police cadet, didn’t have enough money in the bank to buy such an expensive car. Darn! He had to settle for a run-down, ten-year old Ford Cortina. Courtesy of church friend of the family, Gracie Katz.
The detective scanned the single sheet of paper with his phone and mumbled, ‘Something fishy here. Delaney’s onto something.’
After placing the Jan von Erikson file on the shelf, Dan moved the rolling cabinet to the 1978 section. He used a ladder to lift the cream and brown file box from the top shelf titled “Missing Persons, Percy Edwards”.
‘At least his Missus did the right thing,’ Dan said.
He hauled the box out and lugged it over to a desk. Under the light of a wide green hooded accountant’s lamp, Dan leafed through the wad of notes. Witness statements, leads, and character references.
Percy Edwards was a respectable businessman who dealt in antique furniture, art auctions, valuations and insurance. He belonged to the Ford car club which seemed odd to Dan. He remembered Percy from church as a man who exuded airs and graces, who he imagined preferring the elegance of a Mercedes Benz, rather than the common Ford.
Dan chuckled remembering a friend of his, Leigh who had gone camping with his family and Percy and his son Jimmy had come along too. Percy had never gone “roughing it” in the bush before and had complained endlessly, from the start of the camping trip to the finish. Leigh’s Dad never invited the high and mighty Percy on a camping trip again. Not that Percy would’ve gone after suffering the indignities of sleeping on stony ground under the stars.
Jimmy was okay about camping, though. He became a regular for youth group camps, hikes, and the road trip to Western Australia. In Perth, Jimmy was arrested after drinking beer in a public place and spent the night in the lock up. On camps, everyone appreciated the entertainment Jimmy provided with his strong singing voice and his acoustic guitar. He remembered the not-so-complimentary songs Jimmy made up about his father. That was before he disappeared. Jimmy lost his music mojo for years after his father mysteriously left. Started munching through packets of crisps instead.
Dan photographed page after page of the Edwards file. Boxes of evidence must not leave the storage facility. Percy Edwards fine upstanding citizen. Percy Edwards tall, distinguished, moustache, patting Jimmy on his head calling him, “Ma boy”.
Mrs. Edwards, otherwise known as “Primrose the plentiful” (yes, you got it, her real name was Primrose) as she had borne the illustrious Lord of the Edwards manor, eight children. Always pregnant or breastfeeding, yet eternally immaculate, black hair coiffured in a beehive to perfection, and with fashion sense that made her a trendsetter amongst the ladies. President of the church ladies guild, fantastic fundraiser, chairman of the local school’s Parents and Friends association, and all-round super mum. As some of the younger girls at youth group used to say about her, “What a woman!”
Dan smiled remembering how when her husband walked out the door and never returned, Primrose Edwards persevered. She worked on the checkout at the local supermarket, studied part-time and made full use of her mothering skills to become a teacher, and by gum, an exceptionally good teacher.
He thought then of Lillie. It was Mrs. Edward’s tenacity that inspired that socially awkward yet attractive girl Lillie to train to be a teacher. What ever happened to Lillie? he wondered. Is she still teaching?
His youth group had all grown up and drifted. Like Mr. Edwards they had disappeared into their grown-up lives. However, unlike Mr. Edwards, they were still traceable.
And Mrs. Primrose Edwards, was she still alive? Dan made a note to check the birth, deaths and marriage records. Or he could just ask Fifi, the encyclopaedia of life and everyone in Adelaide. Primrose was her mother. Besides, since Eloise was friends with Fifi, all he’d have to do is ask to have a chat with Fifi.
‘Who needs Google when you have Fifi,’ Dan laughed as he finished the final pages of scanning.
Dan entered the lift at the basement and as it propelled him upwards to the ground floor, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
‘Hello Dee,’ Dan spoke.
‘Hey, Dan, I’ve been searching all day,’ Dee said, ‘you don’t happen to have a number for Sven von Erikson?’
‘Hey, Dee,’ Dan chuckled, ‘you must be psychic. I was just thinking of him. Why?’
‘Um, I think he might be key to the investigation.’
‘What? How?’ Dan stepped out of the lift and onto the ground floor.
‘Well, I have found out that he had a red Ford Falcon. Didn’t Mr. Wilke who we saw a few weeks ago say that the motorbike was struck by a red painted car?’
‘Oh, oh, yes, I’d forgotten about Mr. Wilke. Yes, follow that up.’ Dan strode to his desk and packed up his laptop. It’s going to be a long night. ‘Good work Dee.’
‘By the way, did you remember that I interviewed Lillie Edwards, formerly von Erikson, today?’ Dee sounded proud of herself.
‘What?’ Dan dropped his laptop. It thudded on the table. ‘How? How did you…?’
‘When I read the reports, I remembered Lillie from school days. Small world, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I’ll be. It is Adelaide after all. Anything useful?’
‘Maybe. That’s why I would like to speak to Sven her brother. And there was a friend of hers she was always hanging around with. Fifi? Married Sven. Was, I mean.’
Dan snorted. ‘Welcome to the family. I’ll send through the contact details.’
‘You have them?’
‘Yes, just not on me at the moment.’ Dan wasn’t about to plop Eloise, his former partner fighting crime into the conversation. He avoided triggers of the Dee kind as Dee and Eloise never got on. ‘I’ll text them to you as soon as, okay.’
‘Great!’ Dee replied. ‘Bye.’
‘Great work, Dee. Catch you in the morning,’ Dan said and tapped the red button. Must make note to send Dee the details, he murmured while leaving the office.
Tru-Kling Creations 