Spiritual

Friday Crime Fiction–Under the Bridge (4)

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Chapter 3

Painting Pals

Monday, January 17, 2022

Church Hall in a Seaside Suburb of Adelaide

Eloise

The sun’s rays filtered through the dust motes of the church hall near the seaside. The air conditioner thrummed pumping out the sticky 40-degree Celsius heat that Monday afternoon in January.

Eloise Delaney unloaded her motley collection of watercolour palettes, colour-splattered former honey jars and 300-gsm paper framed with masking tape. She then arranged her brushes. Thick sable, round and soft, like the tip of her tabby cat, Spike’s tail. Great for that initial wash of sky, sea and sand.

She had lined up the thinner brushes in order of detail as the painting progressed. She stroked the finest brush, the one used for her flourish of a signature; the one more than 70-years old from her maternal grandfather’s collection salvaged after the bombing of his home in Nördlingen, Bavaria 1945. It was premium quality being made in Germany.

She sighed, ‘Must do this so nothing is lost.’

‘Talking to yourself already?’ a voice sang. ‘Sign of madness, ya know.’

‘Consequences of early retirement, I guess.’ Eloise laughed. ‘Least I had a social life when I was working.’

‘What do you call this?’ Eloise’s pear-shaped friend flicked a wiry lock of henna tinted hair from her freckled face. ‘Is this seat taken?’

‘Nah, go ahead. I could do with the company, Fi.’

Fifi settled herself on the plastic chair diagonally opposite Eloise, and after fumbling in her tote-bag, produced a mini flask. The thin mauve cannister wobbled on the newspaper that covered the trestle table. ‘I’m economising today; made my own brew.’

‘I’m celebrating,’ Eloise said and held up her takeaway cappuccino from the café down the road. ‘The “Rabbit hole” beareth fruit.’

Fifi pulled out her sketch pad, set of Derwent pencils and three scrunched up tissues. Then she leaned forward ‘What? Oh, your family history. Any noble? Kings and queens? Or, let me guess, some royal fruit from the other side of the royal bed?’

‘Well, actually, sort of…’ Eloise dipped her brush in the former honey pot full of water. ‘France, actually. And a bed of his ancestor’s made long, long ago.’

[Photo 1: Eiffel Tower, Paris © L.M. Kling 2014]

‘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.’

[Photo 2: Happy Valley Reservoir © L.M. Kling 2022]

‘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.’

[Photo 3: Mt. Lofty Botanical Gardens © L.M. Kling 2014]

‘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?’

[Painting 2: Late Summer Sunset Kingston Park, Brighton in Watercolour © L.M. Kling 2023]

The rest of the afternoon, Eloise and Fifi occupied their thoughts with painting and sketching. The cheerful chatter of the other artists continued, none the wiser of Fifi’s loss and childhood trauma. Except for Shatz. El wished that woman who attempted to poison her wouldn’t be so nosey and would mind her own business.

The air conditioner kept on thrumming until the rush for pack up and departure. Then as the last person locked up the building, they turned off the infernal humming machine and the heat of late afternoon in Adelaide seeped into the empty hall.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024

Feature Painting: Seacliff Beach Sunset in pastel © L.M. Kling 2021

***

Sometimes characters spring from real life,

Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.

Sometimes real life is just real life.

Check out my travel memoirs,

And escape in time and space

To Central Australia.

Click on the links:

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

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

***

Or for a greater escape into another world…

Check out my Sci-fi/ dystopian novel,

And click on the link:

The Lost World of the Wends

Friday Crime Fiction–Under the Bridge (3)

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[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

Friday Crime Fiction–Under the Bridge (2)

/ lmkling / Leave a comment

[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…

Want to find out more? Click on the link to my story on Wattpad,

Diamonds in the Cave.

Family History Friday–The Romantic Road

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Virtual Travel—Postcards: Bavaria (Bayern)

[Over our Australian summer Holidays, I have been down that proverbial rabbit-hole of family history research.


While researching the Kaiserhof Hotel Sonne in Nördlingen, which my family have claimed the Trüdinger ancestors owned for a couple of hundred years until the 1960’s, I discovered that, according to the information provided by the hotel’s website, that Goethe lived there for a year in 1788.


It’s amazing how life works and how the threads of our lives weave in and out. How our attitudes and values are influenced by how we see the world, and who we see in it. While Goethe was living in Nördlingen, Captain Cook in the Endeavour claimed Australia as belonging to Britain (as one who belonged to the British Empire would back then). And I wonder what Goethe thought of Nördlingen and my ancestors. Did he give much thought to the discovery of Australia and that someday, a little over a century hence, a descendant of those Trüdinger ancestors, or perhaps a relative who may have visited the hotel, would be emigrating to Australia with their family…erm, from Great Britain. That’s another story, suffice to say, my great-grandfather, a Trüdinger from Bavaria, was not a fan of Bismark.


Meanwhile, in 1788, a former Swiss noblewoman, Henriette Jeanette Crousaz de Prelaz (her father had died leaving the young family of mother and ten children in financial strife) relocated to the Christian community of Herrnhut. Did she have any idea that almost one hundred years later, her grandchild would marry my great-grandfather Karl August Trüdinger and relocate to Australia?
Below is our modern experience of this famous road, joining the many people who have travelled it.]

The Romantic Road

We passed through Ulm which was featured in this postcard but didn’t visit Ulm. We stayed in a town nearby called Burgau for a few days while we explored the Romantic Road. Our Tom-Tom, which we named Tomina, took great delight in leading us astray. In our quest to reach our Burgau apartment, Tomina decided to take us on a roadway that was closed to traffic.
Similarly, over one-hundred years ago, this postcard chased Theodora Bellan across Bavaria, originating in Sofflingen (a town that Google maps doesn’t recognise), then Nussdorf, and finally found her in Ludwigsburg.

The Romantic Road was one part of Germany, that despite the wars and modernisation of the twentieth century, never lost its Medieval charm. A reason I so wanted to travel this road of the Romans when we travelled to Germany in 2014.

Romantic Road


The next few days we explored the Romantic Road, although Tom Tom always tried to get us on the freeway. Friday, we did Tomina’s circuits in by never obeying her commands and instead following the Romantic Road signs.
Highlights of the Romantic Road:
• Nördlingen–the town of my Trüdinger ancestors and having lunch in the Kaiserhof Hotel Sonne restaurant which, we believe, was owned by the Trüdinger family until the 1960s. We then walked around the medieval wall. Hubby amused fellow travellers by greeting them with an Aussie “G’day”.

[Photos 1, 2, and 3 Aspects of Nördlingen, 4 & 5 Wassertrüdingen © L.M. Kling 2014]

Photo 1: Red Rooves were filmed in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
Photo 2: The Wall of Nördlingen.
Photo 3: Kaiserhof Hotel Sonne
Photo 4: Rain in Wassertrüdingen
Photo 5: Reflections in the water of Wassertrüdingen

• Dinkelsbuhl–the church, St. Georges Minster, the ornate carvings and artwork and the bejewelled skeleton of a martyr executed by Emperor Nero on display. And…that day, Goths and Emos aplenty.


[Photos 6 & 7: Dinkelsbuhl © L.M. Kling 2014]

Photo 6: St. Georges Minster
Photo 7: Segringer Tor

• Rothenburg ob der Tauber where we enjoyed the delicious sweet pastry as well as the beautiful sunny day that showed off its cobblestone roads and medieval buildings at its best.


[Photos 8 & 9: Rothenburg ob der Tauber (c) L.M. Kling 2014]

Photo 8: Sweet Treats
Photo 9: Typical Rothenburg Street
Photo 10: Rothenburg ob der Tauber most popular

Challenges of the Romantic Road:


• Too many tourists especially at Füssen on the Saturday we visited, caused us to be trapped in a massive traffic jam that held us in a virtual carpark for an hour.
• So many tourists at Neuschwanstein (Mad Ludwig’s Castle). If we’d attempted to buy a ticket, we would have waited four and a half hours or more to enter the castle!
• Traffic jams and rain, both especially heavy that particular Saturday in August.

[Photos 11 & 12: Neuschwanstein and surrounds © L.M. Kling 2014]

Photo 11: Neuschwanstein with Schloss Hohenschwagau in foreground
Photo 12: Schwansee

    We took a break from the Romantic Road one day to visit my relatives. Tomina had trouble with the “dud” roundabout, so we ended up travelling the “scenic route” through the back way off the motorway through corn fields and behind slow tractors. The hour’s trip took two hours, but once we arrived, we had a wonderful day.
    Back in our apartment in Burgau we had no internet. I think Hubby coped…although to be honest, he was grumpy at times. I guess there’s something to be said to slow down to the pace of snail mail and send postcards as folk did over 100 years ago…especially when there’s no internet.

    © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2020; updated 2022; 2024
    Feature Postcard: Ulm © 1905

    Postcard Front: Ulm, Bayern
    Postcard Back


    And now, for something different…from Europe…

    Dreaming of an Aussie Outback Adventure?

    Click the link below:

    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 way back when…

    Family History Friday–Remembering My Dad

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    [As I may have mentioned in a previous post, I have embarked on a journey of discovery, down the rabbit hole of family history. To be honest, I have spent more time researching than on writing new blog posts. So, as it’s my late-dad’s birthday tomorrow, I am revisiting his life-story which was the eulogy read out at his funeral.

    It is interesting that usually at this time of year, way back when he was with us, we would plan to celebrate his birthday. Inevitably, being Adelaide, South Australia and the middle of summer, the temperature would be nudging 40 degrees Celsius, or over, and the party would be cancelled. Too hot for my mum who, having lived in the heat of the Centre of Australia in her youth, couldn’t tolerate the blazing heat.

    [Intro photo: Celebrating Dad’s birthday with mum’s specialty, sponge cake © L.M. Kling 1996]

    When we finally did celebrate his birthday, on a cooler day several weeks later, if there was a lull or even if there wasn’t, Dad would rest his head in his arms at the table and take a nap. He even did this once when his brother was visiting from Canada.

    This week is no different, after a cooler and wetter than usual start to summer, today is typically the hot, dry heat that Adelaide does best; a reminder of all those cancelled birthdays of Dad’s, yet remembering what he emphasised was most important in life—God’s love.]

    He Wanted Us to Know God’s Love

    In Memory and celebration of my father’s life…

    Remembering his birthday 96 years ago, Saturday January 13…

    DAVID BY NAME CLEMENT BY NATURE

    Ron and Lina Trudinger’s third child was born in Adelaide on January 13, 1928. His parents named him Clement David Trudinger. He was a much longed for child as he arrived eight years after his older sister, Agnes.

    [Photo 1: Growing family with Clement David baby no. 3 © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection circa 1928]

    “Clement?” his aunts cried. “We don’t like the name Clement.”

    So they called the babe by his second name, David, and David he has been ever since. Except, of course when he goes to hospital, then he’s Clement, officially.

    Throughout his life, God watched over David who has shared many stories of how he showed His love towards him, protecting, and providing for him and his family. He shared how he felt he didn’t deserve God’s love; he wasn’t perfect, yet God loved him. It is this love that David would want all of you to know.

    [Photo 2: David, the boy © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection circa 1930]

    He began to write down his life-story, and in the last few weeks began to tell all, especially his grandchildren, how God worked in his life and how his Heavenly Father protected him.

    When he was two years old, his missionary parents took David and his younger brother Paul to Sudan. Not the kind of place to take small children. But God protected David and his brother from a hippopotamus, cobras, car accidents, and mad men. (He’s written in more detail about these incidents and I will share these in the future.)

    [Photo 3: David and his brother on the Nile © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection 1932]

    God also blessed him with a loving and God-fearing family. Some may say, too God-fearing, for his parents continued their mission work in Sudan while David from the age of seven, and Paul from five, commenced their schooling in Adelaide. As a student, David only saw his parents every five years when they returned home on furlough. He shared how despite missing his parents, he enjoyed his childhood, with so many aunts doting on him, and the game afternoons they had. I think his love of games started there in the Northumberland Street parlour. He’d even created a few games in his latter years.

    [Photo 4: With siblings in Adelaide © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection 1940]

    His other great love was sport, especially football. God blessed David with fitness, agility, and a few trophies along the way. In retirement, he played golf, and when his legs couldn’t keep up trekking the 18 holes, he took up table tennis instead. He was still playing table tennis up until a few months ago. Sport kept his body and mind young.

    David also enjoyed hiking and exploring. During school holidays he’d visit his brother Ron, a teacher at Ernabella. While there, he made friends with the Pitjantjatjara children and go into the Musgrave Ranges on hiking expeditions. One hot day, David and a friend became lost in the ranges without water, or salt. They wandered for hours parched and at the point of dehydration, before coming across a waterhole, the most welcome sight David had ever seen. I’m sure God protected and guided them back home. I’m also sure that’s when David’s love of salt began.

    [Photo 5: Brothers in Ernabella © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection circa 1940]

    David progressed through his schooling, and gifted in art, he trained to be an art and woodwork teacher. After a couple of years at Lameroo, he won a position at Hermannsburg Mission as headmaster.

    He taught at Hermannsburg for five years. In that time, he became close to the Aranda people, especially the students he taught. They took him on expeditions into the MacDonnell Ranges, Palm Valley, and gorges and beauty spots along the Finke River. David also became close to Pastor Gross’ daughter, Marie.

    [Photo 6: Teacher in Hermannsburg © S.O. Gross circa 1955]

    On January 23, 1958, he married Marie in Hermannsburg.

    However, his romance with Central Australia was cut short, when, for health reasons, he and Marie had to move down to Adelaide. On October 30, his first child, Richard was born.

    David continued teaching, first at Ridley Grove Primary School, and then St. Leonards P.S. The little Trudinger family moved from schoolhouse to schoolhouse.

    May 3, 1963, his daughter, Lee-Anne was born. By this time, Glenelg Primary School planned to convert their little rented home into a library. As his family grew and Marie grew more unsettled with the constant shifting, David faced the challenge to buy a house. But how could he on a teacher’s wage? He looked at his lovely stamp collection of rare Sudanese stamps. Could he trade them in to help pay for a deposit?

    *[Photo 7: David and Marie’s first own home. Bought in 1963 © C.D. Trudinger 2005]

    They looked at a few homes. A bungalow on Cross Road appealed to him, but not Marie. His father wasn’t impressed either. Marie didn’t like that pokey little home on the main road with no back yard at all and the property was right next to the rail line. Then a trust home at Gilbert Road Somerton Park came up for sale, and the deal was done. David regretted selling his stamp collection but reasoned that this was an investment for the children. And, many years down the track, it was, especially with the two lovely court yard homes, one of which David and Marie have lived in from 2006.

    [Photo 8: New and improved courtyard home. Built in 2006 © L.M. King 2021]

    God blessed David’s career. He taught at Port Adelaide Primary School from the late 1960’s until he retired in 1985 at the age of 57. In that time he studied to teach Indonesian, became Deputy Principal, and won a government research grant to go to Indonesia. He became interested in the Indonesian musical instrument, the Anklung. He brought a set home and proceeded to teach pupils how to play. He had bands of students playing in the Festival of Music until 2010. He continued to visit the school now LeFever Primary and train students to play the Anklung, right up till the beginning of this year. He also tutored indigenous students.

    David lived life to the full and grasped every opportunity to explore the wild and untouched land God has created, especially Central Australia. With his long service leave, and then time in his early retirement, he made regular pilgrimages to the Centre. And God protected him. I like to think that now he is with the Lord, his guardian angel is enjoying a well-deserved rest.

    [Photo 9: Dad having a well-deserved Sunday afternoon rest © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1983]

    One example he gave of God’s protection was on a hiking trip in the Western Wilderness of Tasmania with a friend. On one narrow path climbing around a cliff-face, he felt his heavy pack over-balance and he began to fall. “This is it,” he thought. Then he felt the pressure of someone pushing him back against the rock and he was able to step two metres further to a wider path. He knew an angel of the Lord rescued him, preserving his life, not just for his sake, but for his friend’s sake, and also because his work on earth was not complete.

    [Photo 10: Cradle Mountain, Tasmania © L.M. Kling 2009]

    But on August 25, 2012, David’s work on earth was done. There are probably many things he has done that will be remembered as a blessing and encouragement to all who knew him. He was a regular member of Faith Lutheran Warradale church; he took an active role and was a vital member of the congregation for over 54 years. He was a Sunday School teacher, an elder, and a Bible Study leader.

    We will miss his cheerful nature, how he grasped life, lived it to the full and shared God’s love with all he came across.

    He may have been David by name, but he was Clement by nature.

    [Photo 11: The original men of the T-Team, David (3rd from left) and his father and brothers © C.D. Trudinger collection 1967]

    First published as a eulogy to Clement David Trudinger by Lee-Anne Marie Kling ©2012

    Revised © 2016; 2021; 2024

     Feature photo: Central Australian sunrise © C.D. Trudinger ©1977

    ***

    More of my dad’s intrepid adventures in Central Australia in my memoirs:

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

    Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

    Travel Back in time with Family–Christmas Memories

    / lmkling / Leave a comment

    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

    ***

    Virtual Travel Opportunity

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

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

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

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

    Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981 (United States)

    Time Travelling Tales on Thursday

    / lmkling / 1 Comment

    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

    Story Time–Sowing and Reaping

    Family History Friday–My Rogue Ancestry

    / lmkling / 2 Comments

    [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

    ***

    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.

    Serial Saturday–Diamonds in the Cave (11)

    / lmkling / Leave a comment

    Rescue

    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?’

    [continued on Wattpad…]

    © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

    Feature Photo: Spiderweb on Ice © L.M. Kling 2011

    ***

    And now, for some Weekend Reading…

    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…

    The Hitch-hiker

    See how Boris seeks revenge in…

    Mission of the Unwilling

    And the Mischief and Mayhem Boris manufactures in…

    The Lost World of the Wends…

    Some real, outback Aussie adventure…

    Click on the links for:

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

    Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

    Serial Before Saturday–Diamonds in the Cave (10)

    / lmkling / Leave a comment

    Kidnapped

    Kidnap

    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.’

    [continued on Wattpad]

    © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018; updated 2023

    Feature Photo: “Smugglers” Cave, Pt. Willunga © L.M. Kling 2020

    And now, for some Weekend Reading…

    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…

    The Hitch-hiker

    See how Boris seeks revenge in…

    Mission of the Unwilling

    And the Mischief and Mayhem Boris manufactures in…

    The Lost World of the Wends…

    ***

    Or for…

    Some real, outback Aussie adventure…

    Click on the links for:

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

    Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981