Games days, Central Australian pilgrimmages, his garden, golf, table tennis…always having to win. These are the things that spring to mind when I remember my dad. Last Monday, he would’ve turned 97 if he hadn’t left this Earth for a more perfect life in heaven in 2012.
Another defining memory of Dad was his cars, except for his first one, a Gogo mobile, the rest were cheap, second-hand and the “that’ll do for the time being variety”.
This week I look back at the memory of one of these cars in the 100-word challenge.
[Driving around Adelaide these days, I see many classic cars. Brings back memories of our family cars from my childhood…]
Bathsheba
After 50 years, I have discovered the significance of our Holden FC’s name. My dad was called David. In the Bible, there’s a King David who has an illicit affair with a woman he spies in a bath on a roof top. Her name, Bathsheba. Bath-she-ba; an apt name considering the circumstances of their meeting. Did Mum think that when Dad bought this car, this silver-pointed beauty was his “mistress’? Similarities: Both Davids were master of their realms. Both Bathshebas, not new, used, yet beautiful. And both Bathshebas became parked in their David’s palace, in a harem, their love shared.
When the football hammered on her favourite station, El switched to her USB drive and cheerful strains of Vivaldi swung into action. Nothing like this energetic Italian composer to get El into the mood of painting. Today, Lillie Edwards awaited another Saturday portraiture session.
El sighed as she replayed an awkward conversation with Dan. He so much wanted her to return to the force. El had put off the inevitable as long as possible. The longer she was away from the pressure of policing, the more she enjoyed the luxury of sleeping in, and spending each day as she pleased, the less she was inclined to return to the drudgery of work. She loved painting. Why spend days, weeks, months years behind a desk drowning in paperwork? Why waste time running multiple steps behind chasing criminals? Then, why spend all her hours again behind a desk researching, building up a case, just to watch the guilty slip through her virtual fingertips when at court, a clever defense lawyer convinces a jury to find them innocent?
With painting, she witnessed pleasant results in a few hours of dibbing and daubing while listening to her favourite podcast. Admittedly, lately, a certain crime story podcast was her go to of the month. Somehow, listening to crime stories proved more therapeutic than being involved in actual crime solving. Or so she told herself…
‘Would you consider returning to the force, El?’ Dan asked, desperation in his voice. ‘There’s nothing to stop you, now.’
‘I’ll think about it, and get back to you,’ El replied. The thought of returning to work, fighting the peak hour morning traffic, battling to find a park, and the daily grind of managing unruly people, set El’s teeth on edge.
That conversation happened on Tuesday.
Friday, Dan called again. He had asked, what was her decision.
While gazing out at the rolling waves from her floor to ceiling window, and still dressed in her dressing gown, El said, ‘I’m sorry, Dan, I’m not ready to come back.’
‘But why?’
‘I need more time.’ Just couldn’t break it to him that she really didn’t feel like ever returning. ‘The stress of the last couple of years has taken its toll.’
‘Oh, please reconsider, El.’ Dan’s voice softened to a whisper. ‘Just between you and me, Dee is driving me crazy. With her bean-counting.’
‘And her paranoia, no doubt.’ El snipped. ‘Look, it’s people like her that make the job an issue for me.’ ‘But what about the challenge, the thrill of solving a case?’
‘Hmm, only to see it all fall apart and dissolve in court. And people like Dee who with their darn bean counting miss the whole point and give the defense lawyers a win on a silver platter.’ El shook her head.
‘Nah, I’m done.’
‘What? I thought you said you just needed more time.’ Dan sounded hurt.
‘Oh, I mean, for now. But if I decide not to return, I may still consider being a private detective. Be my own boss and bypass Dee and her cronies.’
‘Oh…but…’
‘Face it, Dan, I’ve had it up to here with the government and how they’ve treated us.’
‘But we need more…’ Dan sounded sad.
‘I know.’ El shifted in her seat on the lounge chair. Guilty. ‘Downward spiral. Less workers. More work for those left. Crime goes up. But-er-I’m pretty fragile at the moment. I can’t take the pressure.’
Renard chuckled in the background. ‘Can’t blame ya; they have treated public servants poorly. I’d quit too if I was you.’
El turned and glared at Renard who pretended to concentrate on the Advertiser crossword. She placed her finger on her mouth. ‘Shh!’
‘And you think I don’t have problems, El?’ Dan snapped. ‘You know, I’d much rather be an outback cop, on the coalface, than having to put up with all this cr—I mean politics here in the city. I mean, with all the demands put on me, I don’t have a life. It’s just work, and sleep. Hell, and then I can’t sleep because this cold case has got under my skin.’
‘Is it personal, Dan?’
‘Hell, yeah, it’s personal.’ Dan’s tone had a sense of urgency. ‘I mean, I remember Jimmy and Lillie Edwards from youth group. I remember when Lillie’s father Jan disappeared. And then, a year later, Percy, Jimmy’s father vanished. So strange. So strange.’
‘Perhaps, then, you are too involved,’ El said with a sniff, ‘you need to step back from it. perspective, remember. Just a thought, who says they didn’t run off together?’
‘Yeah, yeah, but something about the whole case doesn’t sit right. I can’t rest until I…’
‘Sounds like a rabbit hole, Dan.’
‘Well, let’s just say, Dee’s already dived in and buried herself in it. And so, I must go along and pull her out.’ Heavy breathing. ‘That’s why I wanted you to consider coming back. Helping. I mean, you came to me with the cold case. You asked me. The least you could do is…’
‘I know. I know. I regret that. Moment of weakness.’ El clenched her fists. Be strong. Resist temptation. ‘Sorry, Dan, no can do. I’ve reconsidered and I’ve got to put my mental health first, or I’ll be no use to anyone.’
‘Not even now we’ve found a body?’ Dan urged. ‘Not even a little bit curious?’
‘No, Dan.’
‘Please, can’t you just find time to do some digging. In an unofficial capacity, perhaps? Please?’ Renard swayed his head while filling in a crossword clue. ‘He’s desperate.’
‘You know that’s not…’
‘If you could just…I mean, I have a family…I’m so busy, Leo, my son has gone rogue. I think he has a girlfriend but…I don’t know where he is half the time. And I haven’t seen my girlfriend Jemima and our daughter Bella in weeks.’
El sighed. Nothing like a guilt trip to make her give in. ‘Alright, I’ll see what I can…’
‘Thank you! Thank you! I’ll send the details of discovery your way. Thank you.’
El pulled up in the wide driveway of the Edwards’ mansion. Just what she didn’t need, another hidden agenda behind the portrait session in honour of Lillie Edwards. Somehow, she envisioned the rabbit hole of the Edwards-von Erikson cold case drawing her into its vortex too.
She giggled. There was something in that idea that Percy and Jan had run off together. Then again, perhaps things turned sour, and Jan had given Percy the “heave-ho”. A variation on that famous cold case back in the ‘70’s of the body in the freezer.
El smiled and nodded while alighting from the car. Yes, she might start with that story and see if she sensed a reaction from Lillie.
Lillie, wearing a flowing, rainbow-coloured poncho, welcomed El into her mansion.
‘Sorry about the clutter, El,’ Lillie waved a hand at the stacks of books and piles of papers, tableaus ready to dance on what was intended to be the dining room table and floor. ‘Every holiday, I intend to tackle that lot, but…’
While skirting the newspaper piles at the edge of the open hallway, Lillie led El to the spare bedroom come art studio. Freshly brewed coffee percolated its aroma, filling the room. Lillie glided over to the table holding the coffee and a silver standing tray with a pyramid of cupcakes laden with icing. El mused, pink icing with cupcake. Would she scrape off the icing and eat the cake? Risk offending her portrait muse and host who had gone to all that trouble, slaving the whole morning buying those cupcakes from the local bakery?
‘Coffee? Cupcake?’ Lillie’s shrill voice shook El out of her sugar-frosted nightmare.
El bared her teeth in a polite smile and said, ‘I’ll have coffee, but, um, I’ll need to pass on the cake. My sugar levels were a bit up, so I need to…’
‘But they are gluten-free.’
Before El could make another excuse, a cake appeared on a Noritake plate which was graced with delicate grey leaves and accompanied by a matching cup and saucer filled with coffee and cream.
‘I thought we could have some afternoon tea before you get down to painting,’ Lillie said while biting into her icing with cupcake. Gluten-free. ‘I’m sure that’s how that famous artist on the ABC does it.’
‘Get to know the muse—I mean, person he’s painting, you mean?’ El said, then sipped her coffee. ‘So, in that vein, let me ask about your childhood. Where did you grow up?’
From that question, more followed with the answers. No painting that afternoon, only more coffee, more cake, then biscuits which were brought in by Lillie’s husband, Jimmy—interesting—and finally, to keep the conversation flowing, some white wine, a Moscato, from McLaren Vale. By the time the wine appeared, Jimmy had joined the party and El mused that this was the most successful informal interview she’d ever performed.
Something about Jimmy Edwards caused disquiet in El.
However, Lillie’s story about their history—Jimmy the boy next door, allayed El’s concerns…
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.
[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.
Over the next few months, once a month, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation. This time, the T-Team arrive, and again for us, rather precariously, in Alice Springs.]
The remaining 160km to Alice Springs progressed through sundown and twilight uneventfully…
Except for the car towing a camel trailer who decided to overtake us. An oncoming truck caused it to swerve back into our lane; the camels’ heads struggling to catch up with their necks at the force of the turn.
‘Missed the truck by that much,’ I remarked holding my fingers in pincer mode.
‘What the —! How do you get the thing to record?’ Hubby fiddled with the video camera. ‘Too late. Missed it.’
We watched the camel trailer disappear around a bend. ‘Bet that’s another event the T-Lings missed being too absorbed on their phones.’
Hubby pouted. ‘I should’ve been driving, then you could’ve caught it on video.’
6:30pm and a thick blanket of darkness had set in by the time we reached Alice Springs. By some miracle we’d managed to stay in convoy with the T-Team and had followed them through Heavitree Gap and into streets of the town. The blackness of night seemed to suck the glow out of the streetlights.
It was not long before, the T-Team too, were absorbed into the darkness after we missed the first set of traffic lights.
‘We’re stuffed now,’ Hubby grizzled. ‘Where’s the map?’ He turned and groped around the baggage on the back seat. A fruitless search.
‘There’s Richard.’ I flashed the car’s lights and he remained parked as I overtook the van.
‘Why didn’t you stop?’ Hubby started to panic. ‘You can’t stop now. You’re embarrassing everyone.’ This all said on the quiet and empty streets of Alice Springs. ‘Hey! Where are you going?’
‘There’s nowhere to park,’ I finally managed a word in edgewise as my hubby took a breath in between his hysteria and panic. I then stopped near the entrance to the Chifley Hotel. I glanced at the enticing amber lights leading to luxury and comfort. ‘You did mention staying at a hotel.’
‘Oh, you’ve lost them!’ Hubby snapped. ‘I’ll take over. You have no idea!’
I allowed Hubby to take control of the car. We wandered around the hotel resort carpark, and then out onto the road. We meandered around some more streets until we ended up on a dead-end road near a backpacker’s hotel.
I rang my brother, Richard and he instructed us to drive to a road with a name and stay put. We were to tell Richard the name of the road, and with the help of his Sat-Nav, he’d find us.
More driving round, and round…until we chanced upon a road with an actual name attached to it. Stott Street. There we parked. And waited. And waited…and waited.
‘You better get out that road map for a list of motels,’ Hubby said. ‘Can’t wait around here all night.’
I hunted in the dark for my bag, then finding that little treasure, I fumbled around its clutter for the road map. Under the dim glow of the streetlight, I scanned the pages. You would think that such a brochure would have a handy list of hotels and motels…but no. ‘There’s no list of accommodation I can see.’
‘Oh, that’s just great!’ Hubby sniffed.
‘I’m sorry, I made a mistake. I should’ve stopped near Richard, even if it had been an illegal park,’ I said. ‘Would you forgive me?’
‘Oh, all right,’ he sighed. ‘Sorry for snapping.’
Just at that moment, the T-Team van appeared, and we followed them, very slowly and carefully to their friend’s home.
Although their house was huge, by this time Hubby and I were not sure about setting our tent up in the dark, in their back yard. We had been warned of visiting or possibly resident wildlife, namely dingoes.
While drinking a most welcome cup of tea, we discussed and scanned the phone book for hotel accommodation. Our hostess was fine about us staying in a hotel as she wasn’t sure about the wildlife in her backyard either, or whether we’d be able to secure our tent as the ground was quite hard. She suggested a couple of hotels, but they had already closed their bookings for the night.
By this time, it was about 7.30pm, and our stomachs were rumbling. The T-Lings insisted on Hungry Jacks as our nephew had accrued some vouchers. So, Richard drove us all in the van to this venue for burgers.
The line-up was long, and the service was, to say the least, slow; partly because a certain T-Ling was very particular about getting value for his voucher. By the time my nephew had finished his order, I had eaten my chips. I think the African girl who was serving looked relieved after such voucher discussions with my nephew. Making the discussions and our orders understood were not helped by the fact that both girls serving struggled to comprehend what we said, as English was not their first language.
Then, as we waited for our nieces to receive their orders, a group of Indigenous people piled out of a bus and walked in. I noticed that they wore T-shirts with Areyonga written on them. I smiled at them and silently remembered the special time we, as the T-Team, had there in 1981; the oasis, the beautiful singing of the Indigenous who lived there and the hospitality shown to us.
When we left the burger shop and had piled into our van, my older niece said, ‘Now I know what it feels like to be a minority.’
Hubby and I managed to book a room at the Chifley Hotel. The receptionist apologised to Hubby that they only had a standard room available. But for us, the standard room was most acceptable; it even had a print of Mt. Hermannsburg on the wall.
We flopped down on the bed and relished in our comfort and luxury.
El plodded along the shore towards Seacliff Beach. Dan’s request had been troubling her all morning. ‘Darn! I was just beginning to enjoy my freedom,’ she muttered, ‘and now this.’
The crisp clear morning, blue skies dotted with cottonwool clouds, seagulls wheeling over the aqua waves and the sand crunching beneath her pounding feet, annoyed Eloise Delaney. How could she enjoy this brilliant day if she had to go back to work? Maybe after a few months of leisure she might get bored and want to return to the hamster wheel of police work and no play, but at the moment, she wasn’t bored.
El stopped, gazed at the sea, the morning sun sparkling on the waves, dug the device out of her pocket and spoke, ‘Hey there Sven. What’s up?’
‘I was just thinking, why don’t we organise another get together for Zoe and Francis?’
‘Why? Can’t they organise their own social life? They are both adults.’
‘Yeah, but, actually, I was thinking, I could invite Tiffy, my niece to come along.’
‘Tiffy,’ El sniffed, ‘good luck with that.’
‘I dunno, it’s worth a try,’ Sven said, ‘we don’t have to say anything, but we could see if they look alike and have similar…I mean, they’d be half-sisters.’
‘I can’t see it happening. Nah, only way is to get Tiffy to do a DNA test and that’s not going to happen. Besides, won’t Tiffy think it’s a bit strange you wanting her to meet Zoe?’
‘Uh…well…’
‘I mean, from what I understand about Tiffy, is that she rarely turns up to family gatherings. So, how are you going to get her to meet Zoe at say a park or coffee shop? Huh?’
‘Er, um, she does tend to show up if there’s something in it for her,’ Sven replied.
‘So, you reckon, then, that Tiffy might come if you tell her that Zoe is her long-lost sister and that she’s a lawyer?’ El said.
‘Oh, er…she might. That’s a good angle.’
Tramping in like an elephant where mice fear to tread. El shook her head. ‘Could get awkward, Sven. As for your sister, you might be opening a can of worms.’
‘Yeah, but, but the truth must come out. There’s been too many lies and cover ups.’ Sven’s voice raised an octave. ‘Francis, he’s upset. You know that Lillie, my sister, never said anything. Went skulking off to Tasmania and had her baby. Gave her away and came back home. Like nothing happened. Who does that?’
‘Lots of people,’ El said with a sigh. ‘In my line of work, people do things, not very nice things. Darn awful things, actually. You know kill people and bury their bodies and then carry on with life, as if nothing ever happened. Happens more than you think.’
On the other end of the phone a pause. Then, ‘Right, well, I better get going.’ Sven ended the call with a click.
El stared at her mobile phone, confused. Why didn’t he suggest Zoe meeting up with his son? she wondered. If Lillie were Zoe’s mother, they’d be cousins, after all.
Detective Dan Hooper leaned back on his chair and grinned at his Crispy Crème donut. Caramel frosting. Mmm! He deserved it. All that hard work collecting evidence from within the dusty bowels of the station archives and frosty interviews with long-forgotten witnesses had paid off.
The boss had approved the reopening of the cold case; the one involving a certain Mr. Percy Edwards and his partner in some dodgy business, Jan von Erikson. The two “mispas”, had to be related.
Dan nodded and took a bite out of the caramel donut. His sugar levels and cholesterol would have to take a back seat—maybe in Mr. E’s blue Ford Fairmont station wagon—while Dan enjoyed this moment of triumph.
After the second bite, he raised a finger and summoned Dee to his desk.
Dee raced over, police issue I-pad in hand, eyes twinkling above her mask while glancing at the remaining three Crispy Crème donuts waiting in the box to be consumed.
Dan noted that Dee paid particular attention to the strawberry iced donut. He spoke, ‘We have permission to proceed, Dee. The new evidence in this cold case of the missing Edwards and von Erikson case has piqued the chief’s interest.’
‘Well, you did come across that body,’ Dee said glancing at the strawberry donut. Dan picked up the box and held it towards Dee. ‘Take one.’
‘Aw, I know I shouldn’t,’ Dee’s hand, with a mind of its own pounced on the strawberry frosted donut. ‘But you’ve twisted my arm.’
Dee dropped her mask below her chin and the pink donut disappeared into her small mouth. ‘Your first task, Dee, is to contact a fellow by the name of Jim Edwards.’
‘Jim? Jim Edwards?’ Dee, still wearing her mask as a chin-guard, grinned like the cat that had licked all the cream. ‘He’s married to Lillie. Didn’t you know?’
‘Well, Dee, you really are the source of all gossip and information. I would’ve never…’ Dan sat up and drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘That’s one out of the box. The case has just risen to a whole new level.’ ‘If you say so, Dan,’ Dee replied, more interested in the second caramel donut beckoning her from the box.
Dan pushed the donut container towards Dee. ‘Go on, I need to watch my weight.’
Dee didn’t need much persuasion. She plucked up the cake and that vanished in three bites.
Dan picked up the last donut and examined its chocolate icing. ‘Dee, would you contact Jim Edwards and arrange an interview, please?’
Dee stood, strapped the mask back over her mouth, and said, ‘I’m onto it, Dan. I have this feeling in my gutters; there’s more to Lillie Edwards than meets the eye.’
Dan frowned. ‘Try to keep an objective view, Dee.’
‘I will,’ Dee replied and hurried off to her desk.
Dan settled his elbows on his own desk, and while savouring the chocolate donut, scrolled through the “millions” of emails that plagued his computer.
One caught his attention. “File of complaint—harassment”. He read further. He hit the desk. ‘The swine!’ ‘What?’ Dee called.
‘Lillie, she’s filed a complaint.’
‘See,’ Dee returned, ‘I told you she’s trouble. Like I said about her; you wouldn’t file a complaint unless you had something to hide.’
‘I’m starting to get that same gut feeling, Dee.’ Dan ground his teeth. ‘She’s hiding something. Definitely hiding something.’
‘Told ya, Dan, I’m not Adelaide’s most famous gossip for nothink. I get these guttural feelings and I have ta run with them. You’ll see, I’m right. I’m always right.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ Dan said with a chuckle.
He spent the rest of the morning printing photos of people related to this cold case and sticking them onto a Perspex storyboard.
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.
[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.
After the discovery, Dan had instructed her to make her way back to the car park.
‘I’ve called Renard and asked them to wait for you,’ he said.
‘What about you? We all came together, so, how will you get home?’ El asked.
‘Don’t worry about me. We’ll be here for hours yet—maybe all night,’ Dan replied. ‘I’ll get one of the team to give me a lift.’
El nodded and then trekked down the hill, then the steep steps of the gully. From the first lookout, the vehicles in the car park appeared so small, like toys. People like ants crawled around them.
I wonder how many of those “ants” know of the body? she thought. I hope no journalists got wind of the situation and are lurking down there with their lumpy film equipment and hundreds of onlookers. One thing she had learnt from her years on the force was that news like this, the finding of human remains, seemed to bring journalists out from behind their computers. As if they could sniff out a breaking story. Or was there a leak? Someone on the force mentioning it on Titter or Myface?
‘Wouldn’t put it past Dee,’ El said.
She had caught Dee out, mobile in the palm of her hand, scrolling. Then there were the Dee-spamming episodes. El had made the mistake of joining Myface, for a start, and then in a moment of insanity, accepting Dee as a friend. In a blink of a screenshot, inane and blatantly silly posts flooded her email and Myface page. Dee, of course. “Find out what sort of lover you are—do this survey”, “Upload your selfie and find out what you’d look like when 80”, “Stop pigs being persecuted—copy and paste this article and send to 10 friends” … And the list, the scrolling was endless. All Dee. Only Dee.
‘Doesn’t Dee have a life?’ El said shaking her head at the bottom of the steps.
El passed the kiosk, still shaking her head while mulling over her mistake with Myface. She’d ceased using social media. She had a life, even while on leave. When some suspect character stole her profile and pretended to be her, El erased all her social media platforms.
‘Hey! El!’ Renard called.
El spotted the father and daughter pair on the alfresco deck of the kiosk.
Renard waved his hand which clutched a mint-with-choc-chips-flavoured gelato. ‘Up here, El. Come join us and have an ice cream.’
El trotted up the steps to the kiosk and after purchasing a latte-flavoured gelato, joined Renard and Zoe. By this time Renard and Zoe had devoured their treat and sat with El at the metal dining suite, watching her lick her ice cream.
‘Well,’ Renard said, ‘that was a turn up for the books. Fancy finding a body…’
‘Shh!’ El said, ‘you don’t know who’s listening.’ She observed Zoe play with a watch, and then slip it into her pocket. Just the way she held the watch caused El to assume that the watch didn’t belong to her. Besides the watch looked old and rusty.
She was about to ask Zoe about her “find” when a van with a television logo crawled along the road below.
Instead, El nudged Renard. ‘We better get going before they start snooping around.’
El, Renard and Zoe made a quiet and unobserved exit from Waterfall Gully before the journalists became aware of their presence and connection to the “Breaking News”.
Next morning, as the news chimed triumphant, “Human remains have been found…” El dialled Lillie’s number. While waiting for Lillie to answer, El registered that the exact location of the human remains was still a mystery to the public.
Tuesday April 26, 2022 10am
Dan
In the informal interview room, Dan gestured to a comfortable chair to the side of the low coffee table. Fifi perched herself on the edge of the seat offered and kneaded a ball of tissues in her palm. Every so often, she dabbed her eyes with the tissues.
‘Now, Fifi,’ Dan placed on the table a plastic bag that held the mud-caked leather boots, ‘do these look familiar?’
Fifi nodded. ‘My father had a pair like those. He wore them when he went camping…and hiking.’ Dan looked at his voice recorder and said, ‘Fifi Edwards confirms that the boots possibly belong to her father, Percy Edwards.’
‘Why did it take you people so long to find the body?’ Fifi glared at Dan. ‘We told you guys forty years ago that he was down there. And you did nothing.’
‘Forty-two,’ Dan said with a brief cough. ‘I’m sorry for the pain and hardship you and your family have been through, not knowing what happened to your father. I can’t make judgements, but as you can imagine, it was a different time and policing…’
‘But we told you!’ Fifi thumped the table. ‘How hard would it have been for a detective back then to just listen and take us seriously?’
We have no record of anyone coming in and making a statement.’
‘Probably thought we were just kids and were just wasting their time.’
‘So, you and your friends came into the station and spoke to someone?’
Fifi sighed. ‘Well, actually, we got my friend Lillie to come in and make a statement. She said she did, and I believed her; she was that sort of girl. Solid. Trustworthy. I mean, now, look at her. She’s a principal of one of the most prestigious colleges in Adelaide.’
‘And your sister-in-law.’
‘Who would know better?’ Fifi continued, ‘I’ve known her since we were kids. We were neighbours. Best friends since kindy.’
‘Best friends, eh?’
‘Oh, well, these days not so much, I must admit,’ Fifi said. ‘She’s always busy with her work. No life outside of teaching, and now she’s a principal, the task is all-consuming.’
‘Hmm,’ Dan uttered, but thought, Just the sort of person not to be trustworthy. After all, if Zoe is her daughter, then Lillie would have been in the initial stages of pregnancy. Perhaps she had other things on her mind when her friends instructed her to go and report their finding. Did she get distracted and forget? Did she turn up at the police station and have to wait too long? Was she afraid her secret would become known if she reported the discovery of remains? What was her secret? Pregnancy? Or something more sinister?
Detective Hooper leaned back, laced his hands and rested them on his taut belly. ‘What can you tell me about the day your father went missing, Fifi?’
Fifi shrugged. ‘He went to work and never came home.’
‘Then, how come he was wearing hiking boots?’
‘I don’t know, I was just a kid. ‘sides, Mum ‘n I went to town that day. Had to get a new pair of school shoes. I remember ‘cos I was angry. Really peed off. My friend Lillie and her brother, Sven and my brother Jimmy, were going for a hike up in the hills and Mum said I couldn’t go. Not fair!’
‘And your dad, as far as you know, went to work.’ Dan leaned forward. ‘And what sort of work did your dad do?’
‘He was a businessman.’
‘What sort of business?’
Fifi shrugged. ‘I dunno. Cars, I think. Holdens up at Elizabeth, I think.’
‘I see…’ Dan mused. Always remember him into Fords.
‘So, on that particular day, January 1978, your dad drove off in his…’ Dan looked up from notetaking.
‘What car did your family own?’
‘Um…a station wagon…blue…’
‘What make and model?’
‘Gawd! I can’t remember. Those cars, they’re all the same. And Dad had so many of them. I mean, we’re talking fifty years ago.’
‘Forty-four, Fifi,’ Dan said, remembering that at the time, the family had a Ford Falcon, XA Fairmont station wagon. And she was correct, it was blue. He mused how the family looked a sight all piled into the wagon rolling up the church driveway to swell the numbers of the congregation on Sundays. Mr. E (Edwards) big noting himself after the service, Sunday best brown suit—look at me! I’m from Somerton. Look at me! The latest model car! Look at me! Look at what a good father I am! All these children I have! I’m a good Christian. I’m fruitful and multiplying. Look at my wife! She’s the most beautiful lady here! Dan’s dad called her a “trophy wife”.
‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Fifi lifted her bag from the floor and rose from her chair. ‘I don’t think there’s much more I can tell you, sir.’
‘Thank you, for your help, Fifi.’ Dan also stood. ‘If there are any developments, we’ll be in touch. And if you can remember anything else, let us know.’
When Fifi had gone, Dan reflected. His mum had once said when Mr. Edwards had gone, Mrs. Edwards came to life, became her own vibrant person. Before, she had no personality, she really was just a “thing”, a trophy. But once her husband had left, she was filled with verve and energy. Then there was no stopping Mrs. Edwards.
He thought about Lillie. At college, a pretty, but dull kind of girl; the sort who melted into the background. Studious, he reckoned. And now, according to Dee, all class and power, running a fancy-wancy college in the Eastern suburbs.
Dan chuckled, ‘It’s like Lillie took over where Mr. Edwards left off.’
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.
[Have you ever been to a place and had an immediate affinity with it? Well, that’s how it was for me when the T-K Team on their Swiss adventures visited Murten. Loved the place. I’m sure, now, that it wasn’t just the perfect weather, the picture postcard views of the lake and the charming medieval architecture so perfectly preserved. There was something more, which I was to discover recently.
Of course, my younger son would insist on putting a dampener on my dreams—’How can you be related? You’ve got no Western German in your ethnicity,’ he harps on and on about that point. Anyway, we will put that matter aside and I’ll take it up with My Heritage.
All I can say, is that there must be something in the connection I felt with the place. While doing my family history, I came across some ancestors, the De Bons, who lived in Murten, my five times great-grandfather was a protestant pastor in Murten. There were Huguenot connections in the family. And note the museum, where I mention that the Celts lived in Murten. According to my DNA results from My Heritage, my ethnicity is 25% Celt.]
Murten/Morat
Thursday, August 21, 2014, even earlier up as we planned to drive across the country to Bern and beyond, near the French part of Switzerland. Granny excused herself as the last two days had exhausted her and besides, she really needed to catch up with her uncle and auntie.
I might add here that Granny and her family, being Swiss German, were not fans of the French part of Switzerland. The feeling, I’ve heard, is mutual. (Thanks to Nepoleon, the French part of Switzerland only became thus in the early 1800’s. So, when my ancestors were living there in the 1700’s, they would’ve identified as French.)
In Murten, the people speak French. So, when P1 spoke Swiss German to the Museum attendant, she was not amused. We almost didn’t get a Museum pass.
Back to the timeline, and some photos.
Despite Tomina’s (Tom Tom) and my under par navigational performance (early morning—yawn), we arrived at 11.30am in Morat/Murten and relished a day of summer, eating lunch by the lake, exploring the Old town and its buildings garnished with flowers, the museum of Stone Age, Celtic, Roman and Medieval relics spanning 10,000 years of human settlement around Murten. Followed by a visit to the Roman ruins in Avenches, the ancient capital of the Roman province of Helvitica.
On our return, we suffered the frustration stuck in peak hour traffic, and Granny suffered stress worrying about our late arrival “home”.
[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. In “Ready for the Weekend Friday”, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation. This time, the T-Team make their way, rather precariously, to Alice Springs.]
Rest Stop at Curtain Springs
We paused for lunch at the rest stop just outside Curtain Springs. There we sat and ate our sandwiches and watched the passing parade of tourists, trundling through in their RVs, and caravans. They’d park, snap a few photos of Mt Conner, walk stiff-legged to long-drop toilet, then stagger out waving the flies away before climbing back into the comfort of luxury on wheels and trundling away down the road to Uluru.
A big bus roared into the rest stop and a young Indigenous family alighted. The wife and children joined the queue for the toilets. Meanwhile, the husband gazed at the view of Mt Conner. As he walked back to his bus, he gave a nod and greeted us. He was the only one of the passing multitudes who did.
After our lunch, Anthony and I climbed up the sand hill opposite the rest stop. At the top, we viewed a salt lake in the distance. Maybe, I assumed, it was the tail-end of Lake Amadeus.
‘Wow!’ I said, ‘and all those tourists just go past and never bother to climb this hill and see the lake.’
No answer.
I turned. Where was Anthony? I scrambled around the scrub in search of my husband. ‘Anthony? Where are you?’
No Anthony in sight, I assumed he had returned to the car. Upon my return to the car, I discovered he was not there either. After checking the toilets and discovering only flies and the stink, I traipsed up the hill again. Where was he?
Just as I was about to give up on him and call in a search party, I almost stumbled over Anthony. He was squatting on the sand, sifting the grains through his fingers. ‘I can’t believe how red the sand is,’ he said.
At Erldunda we filled up the car with gas and I took over driving. As we headed for Alice Springs, I remarked, ‘The T-Team must almost be in Alice Springs.’ ‘Mrs. T will like that,’ Anthony replied, ‘she was in a hurry to get there.’ ‘Do we know how to get to her friend’s place where we are staying?’ My husband shrugged. ‘Guess we’ll have to call my brother and get directions. Haven’t got their friend’s address,’ I said. ‘Or we could stay in a motel.’ ‘That’s an option, if we can’t contact them.’ Anthony sighed, ‘Yeah, but, how easy will it be to find accommodation if we haven’t booked?’
We hadn’t travelled more than 40 km when we spotted a family on the side of the road and in distress. Maybe we should stop and help them, I thought.
As I slowed down, I noted that a lady stood at the edge of the road waving her arms. ‘What the heck?!’ Anthony exclaimed. ‘I think they’re in trouble,’ I said, and as we drew closer, ‘It’s Mrs. T waving her arms about.’ I braked. ‘Hey! Not so hard!’ Anthony screamed. Took my foot off the brake and then eased the car to a stop by the side of the road. All the while the T-Team grew smaller and smaller in our rear vision mirror.
‘What! Stop! What are you doing? Stop! Brake hard!’ I slammed my foot on the brake and jolted to a stop on the dirt. ‘Why did you stop so far away? Reverse back to them,’ Anthony snapped. ‘No!’ I retorted. ‘We can walk. Who knows what junk is lying in the dirt ready to puncture our tyres.’
In a huff, my husband raced ahead of me to where Richard was operating on the trailer. As I approached the T-Team, I noticed that my brother was pulling off one tyre carcass and proceeding to mount the spare.
‘The tyre got staked,’ Mrs. T held up what looked like an antenna, ‘by this metal thing.’
‘And we’d just changed a tyre at Erldunda; one that got shredded,’ Richard pointed at some rubber remnants on the verge, and then shook his head. ‘The mechanic didn’t do anything about wheel-balancing. The tyres got so worn they came to pieces. The other tyre was nearly worn through, so I changed them around.’
‘Why do we have such bad luck?’ Mrs. T cried. ‘It’s the curse of the Rock,’ my older niece said. ‘Who stole a rock from the Rock?’ my nephew asked. The T-Lings had been sitting in the van playing their phone games, but they emerged to join in the family conversation.
‘What d’ya mean?’ Mrs. T said. ‘I bought this rock as a souvenir!’ ‘Yeah, but, my brother did run down the Rock barefoot some twenty years ago,’ I laughed. ‘Perhaps the Rock remembers.’ ‘Well, one thing for sure,’ Richard rubbed his hands, ‘first thing tomorrow, I’m ringing the mechanics who did our wheel balance…’ ‘It’s just not safe,’ I said. ‘I know,’ my older niece held up her hands as if holding a steering wheel at an angle, ‘I told them something was not right and that I had to hold it like this all the time. But they wouldn’t believe me.’
With tyres fixed and resolution to acquire replacements in Alice Springs, plus promises to catch up in the same town, the T-Team disappeared down Stuart Highway in the late afternoon haze.
But our ordeals reaching our next place of accommodation were not over yet. [To be continued…]
A thunderstorm right over our home last Tuesday and one that rattled the windows threatening to blow out our modem, caused us to switch off our internet. Screen-free for the day, I spent my time excavating my writings from the depths of the closet. There, I discovered this memory from my childhood, and a special cat in my life, Barney.
The poem/prose was handwritten, so I have transcribed it. The original is set below this one.
Barney
He sits supreme over all, His fur as that of a mop Sweeps down his skeletal body. Still, he is king. Half his right ear Pricks up with alertness, The rest had been bitten off in a territorial battle. He is now supreme. Over all of them, One-eye, Buff-head, And the ginger cat who lives down the street. He is victor, no one dares to confront him.
When small, his eyes clamped shut, feeble and defenceless, I loved him. Cotton wool was his fur, paws as soft and pliable as velvet, Not to mention an adorable patch upon his button of a nose. I held him, cuddled him. Active, bold, curious when he frolicked in the sunlight, I watched him. When wide-eyed and fearful caught up in a tree, no way to escape, I rescued him.
He grew, years passed by many litters came forth, but no such kitten was as adorable as him. He became my favourite, waiting at the gate for my return from school. Not only faithful was he, but entertaining, his squabbles with enemy cats became a spectacle and often afterwards I could be heard imitating him; I respected him. We returned from a trip to Canberra one year, Barney was nowhere to be seen. Often lately he had been taking expeditions and for days would be missing. This time, he never returned. I missed him.
Oops! Almost one week into Marion Art Group’s (my art group) exhibition at the local shopping centre, and I have failed to mention it. Been too busy writing, appraising hopeful writer’s works, and transcribing a friend’s biography of her mother who lived through the horrors of World War II. Plus burrowing away in the family history rabbit hole.
I have been pondering where my art genes have come from. No mention of renown artists in my ancestry. My dad was an artist with some potential, emphasis on potential as he channeled his talents more into music than art. My maternal grandfather, Sam Gross was an amazing photographer. But as a missionary pastor in Central Australia, he was discouraged from furthering his photographic endeavours as the mission board frowned on it and said he was spending too much money on camera equipment and film.
So, in light of my predecessor’s unrealised potential and the fact that I am still using the watercolour paints and brushes my dad left behind, I will share an afternoon that we spent painting in Central Australia in 1981.
Mount Hermannsburg
My father and I sat in the dry river bed of the Finke River painting Mt Hermannsburg which towered above the river gums and spinifex. We painted our muse on site; Dad painted in watercolour and I painted in acrylic.
After a couple of hours, Dad packed up his brushes and palette and returned to the town of Hermannsburg. I stayed, in the creative zone, dibbing and dabbing, the setting sun casting shadows over the river bed and a cool breeze pricking me with goose bumps on my bare arms.
I made the final touches as the sun sank below the horizon and I was called in for tea. I signed with my maiden name, naturally, as I was only 18.
Dad’s painting and mine sat side by side on our host’s piano where all who saw, admired our work. I kept walking past and gazing at my painting. Did I really do this? Wow! Did I really?
Tru-Kling Creations 