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?
School holidays and Lillie relished the slower pace. Morning workout at the gym, working off the cakes and sweet buns and the excess that had gathered around her waist and thighs. Only six weeks to get in shape for her 60th.
Then Burnside Village for essential shopping. Clothes and shoes. Plus, hairdresser to colour and shape her whitening locks. Hairdresser suggested bronze streaks to compliment the blonde. Walked out looking like a porcupine and $300 less on her debit card. Swore never to go there again, but…somehow knows she will. Convenient and better the devil you know, so they say.
Lunch at the French Café with Tiffy, her daughter. Tiffy on about family history and over coffee she asked, ‘Mum, why don’t you get your DNA done?’
‘Why do I need to?’ Lillie retorted. ‘We are pure German stock, and you know everybody and their mother in our family have been digging up our ancestry. Haven’t you seen the five thick books in our library? If I want to find out where I came from, I just look in them.’
‘But Mum, von Erikson is not a very German-sounding name. More like Dutch. Just think, you might have Viking blood.’
‘Hmmm, Vikings were from Scandinavia, more like Norway, dear. And besides, your grandfather, rest his soul, came from Hamburg. Von also denotes aristocracy. Dad’s ancestors owned a castle. As I said, dear, it’s all in the family history books.’
‘But Mum, wouldn’t you want to find out what happened to Grandpa?’ Tiffy stroked the side of her cup. ‘He just sort of vanished. Who knows, maybe he ran off and started another family.’
Lillie’s stomach churned. ‘How’s your love life, dear?’ she bared her teeth and braced herself waiting for the inevitable response.
This time, Tiffy didn’t hold back. She smiled and said, ‘Oh, Mum, you’ll never guess. I’ve found someone special.’
‘Oh, time for some celebration,’ Lillie clapped, ‘let’s share your favourite apple cheesecake, and you can tell me all about him. It is him? Not her?’
Tiffy rolled her eyes. ‘Him! His name is Jacob, and he works at Woolworths.’
‘Woolworths? Couldn’t you do better? I mean, at least date someone with a proper job?’
‘Mum! How insulting! You always spoil everything with your impossible standards.’ Tiffy snatched up her smart phone and stood up. ‘Nothing’s ever good enough for you. I’m leaving.’
Tiffy stomped a few paces from the table. Then turned. ‘You know, Mum, you’ll never be satisfied. You want your perfect daughter to be a lawyer or some such high fancy thing. Well, I’ve got news for you, it’s not going to happen. So, suck it up and deal with it.’
With that final comment, her daughter swung around and marched out of the café.
After Lillie paid the bill for both of them, and also made a hasty exit.
While grocery shopping, Lillie chuckled. At least the DNA minefield had once again, been diverted. What is it with this craze to find one’s DNA?I don’t want to be responsible for sending one of my descendants, if I ever have more than Tiffy and…and…whoever she is, to jail because they use my DNA to trace them, she thought. Or long-lost secrets to be unearthed.
Lillie then mounted her brand-new Mitsubishi Pajero and wended her way home through the leafy streets of Norwood. A magic time of year when leaves change colour, red, golden and rusty brown. The light on this autumn day was golden, and the air had a hazy warmth to it.
She rolled into the double driveway. To her left she noticed a white Toyota Hilux with Tasmanian number plates filling the space.
A slight blonde woman who appeared aged around thirty leant up against the Toyota chatting to her husband. Smiling, flicking her long blonde hair. Flirting. Jimmy, exuding a youthful charm despite his plus sixty years. Jimmy lapping up the attention of the younger version of herself.
Lillie’s first thought was, Not another, younger woman. Her entanglement with the Frenchman, Renard all those years ago, had left her scarred. Jealousy.
Lillie pulled the Pajero to an abrupt stop and jumped out. She marched to her husband. ‘Hi, there, love,’ she called out. Then claimed him with a hug and a kiss. On the lips.
Jimmy beamed and turned to the young lady. ‘Lillie, this is Zoe from Strahan, I’ve been telling you about. She’s over here delivering my wood.’
‘Yeah, um,’ Zoe waved, ‘Pleased to meet you, Lillie. I was coming over on family business and as I waz in the neighbourhood, I thought I’d deliver the wood personally. Waz going to fly, but no flights available. So, drove. Glad I did.’
‘Isn’t it great?’ Jimmy rubbed his hands together. ‘It’s so hard to get timber these days. I’ll be able to start on those guitars I’ve been planning for I don’t know how long.’
There were minutes of awkward silence as Lillie studied Zoe, Zoe looked away and Jimmy stared off into the not-so-distant hills.
Zoe broke the spell. ‘Well, I better get going. I’m meeting my dad at the hotel in Magill.’ She climbed into her Hilux and waved again. ‘Nice meetin’ ya, Lillie. See ya, Jim.’
The couple waved in return as the Hilux backed out the drive and spirited down the leafy street.
After the truck had gone, Lillie faced Jimmy. ‘Bit young for you, Jim.’
Jimmy glanced away and replied, ‘Oh, yeah, but…I had no idea she’d turn up…it’s business…’
‘Yeah, right, so you say.’
Jimmy giggled. ‘Although, you have to admit, she does remind me of you when you were…’
Lillie shook her fist. ‘What do you mean? She looks nothing like me. Take that back.’
‘No, dear, you’re right, she looks nothing like you. Sorry for mentioning it and upsetting you.’
Too late. Lillie ranted and raged for the next half hour while Jimmy scraped, bowed and offered apologies to appease her. Lillie enjoyed watching her husband grovel and beg for his dinner. Then, they agreed to have takeaway delivery. Chinese. And together watch a classic movie from their favourite streaming service. On the couch. Eating lemon chicken and spicy fried rice. While sipping a sparkling glass of white wine.
Tuesday 19 April 2022, 6pm
Tower Hotel, Magill
Eloise
Eloise and Sven pretended to peruse their menus. Not that there was much to peruse. Just the usual hotel fare. A variety of burgers, fish and chips on offer, and steak and chips. The menu was simplified since the last time Eloise had graced the hotel with her presence as a police officer.
She watched Renard fidgeting with his glass of beer. Glancing up at the entrance every few seconds. Looking. Hoping. He had voiced his concerns to Eloise as they drove up. Maybe Zoe had second thoughts and won’t come. Did he provide too much information about his wild past? Perhaps he shouldn’t have written about sowing wild oats. Oh, dear. He must appear too wild for her taste.
Eloise had assured him that she’d be there. And all will be fine. Treat it like an adventure. At least there’s no film crew, she had joked. Besides, they share the same DNA, so perhaps she’ll be wild too and understand.
‘I’m going to have the steak. Well done,’ Sven said.
As he spoke, a slim blonde woman, approached Francis Renard. He stood up. Smiled. They hugged. And then they sat down.
Eloise transferred her attention from the menu to her smart phone. She flicked through the photos scanned from Fifi’s 1980’s photo album.
Sven peered over the table. ‘Any likely suspects?’
Eloise shrugged. ‘Hard to tell. The quality is seriously bad.’
Sven surveyed the pair. ‘Could be anyone’s. I mean, at youth group the girls were all blonde. Oh, except for a couple of brunettes. Oh, and I do remember Renard once went out with a Japanese girl. From Japan.’
Eloise swayed her head, then asked, ‘Are you going to order? I’ll have the Caesar salad with chicken.’
‘Wine?’
‘No, just water.’ Eloise nodded at the father and daughter. ‘And a closer look.’
Sven collected the menus and glided past the persons of interest.
‘Hard to tell, actually. It’s quite dark in…’ he paused; his eyes grew wide. ‘O-oh!’
‘What?’
‘I don’t believe it!’ Sven slid down in his seat and covered his face. ‘Not her!’
Eloise twisted around and looked in the direction of Sven’s terror. ‘Is that your…ex? Fifi?’
With hands covering his face, Sven nodded.
Eloise mouthed, “Oh my God!”
‘You can say that again, she’s coming in our direction.’
The curvaceous woman with strawberry blonde curls strutted up to the table. ‘Oh, hi, Eloise, Sven, fancy meeting you here.’
Eloise thinned her lips and whispered, ‘Hi, Fifi, we’d ask you to join us…but…’ pointing to the table where Renard and Zoe sat, ‘delicate operation.’
‘What the heck, Fifi, join us,’ Sven stood and pulled out a chair.
‘Oh, is that okay. If you insist.’ Fifi plonked herself down in the offered chair. She plucked up a spare menu from a neighbouring empty table. ‘What do you recommend?’
Neither Eloise nor Sven replied.
While fingering the menu, Fifi continued, ‘By the way, I had a call from a detective Dee Berry. She’s looking into the Milo Katz accident.’
Sven glared at Fifi. ‘I hope you haven’t dropped me in it. I had enough trouble…’
Fifi made the sign of the cross. ‘I haven’t said a word. I haven’t spoken to the lady yet.’
Sven turned and locked his gaze on Fifi. ‘Keep your bl@#%y mouth shut.’ He then rose from the table and stormed out of the bistro.
Fifi and Eloise glanced at each other.
‘What was that about?’ Eloise asked.
‘Bit of an overreaction,’ Fifi replied while observing Renard and Zoe. ‘Well, what d’ya know. She’s the clone of Lillie.’
Eloise’s lips spread into a wide smile. ‘Thank you, Fifi, I knew you’d figure it out.’
‘At your service,’ Fifi chuckled. ‘You don’t think that’s why old Dee is poking around, do you?’
‘’Fraid not. Strictly possible murder investigation, according to inside sources…’ Eloise lowered her voice, ‘Dan.’
‘Ooh, nasty, I always suspected Sven, but could never…you know.’
Eloise rose her voice. ‘Sven?’
‘Yes, Sven.’
A waiter balancing two plates, one with steak, the other with salad, approached the table.
‘Looks like you’re having the steak,’ Eloise said.
Fifi held up her hand as the waiter placed the steak before her. ‘Fine with me,’ she said.
Over the Easter break in 1986, Dad took my boyfriend (future husband) and me to the Gammon Ranges. Dad had gone there the previously with his photographer friend and he was keen to show us some of the scenic secrets these ranges held.
We bumped and rolled in Dad’s four-wheel drive Daihatsu down the track into the Gammon Ranges. We camped near Grindell’s Hut, backpackers’ accommodation. A murder-mystery from the early Twentieth Century involving the hut’s owner, spiced our discussion around the campfire that night. Then we set up a tent, for boyfriend, on the ground above the bank of the creek. I placed my bedding also above the creek under the stars. Dad opted for his “trillion-star” site underneath a river gum. No tent for him, either.
The next day Dad guided us along the Balcanoona creek bed shaded by native pines to Bunyip Chasm. After an hour or two of hobbling over rounded river stones, we arrived at a dead-end of high cliffs.
‘Come on, we better get back,’ Dad said and then started to hike back the way we came.
We trailed after Dad. Although native pine trees shaded our path, the hiking made me thirst for a waterhole in which to swim. I gazed up at the lacework of deep blue green against the sky and then, my boot caught on a rock. I stumbled. My ankle rolled and twisted. I cried out. ‘Wait!’
After about ten minutes, with my ankle still swollen and sore, I hobbled after the men. We climbed down a short waterfall and at the base, I looked back. The weathered trunk of an old gum tree leaned over the stream, three saplings basked in the late-afternoon sunlight against the sienna-coloured rocks, and clear water rushed and frothed over the cascading boulders and into pond mirroring the trees and rocks above.
‘Stop! Wait!’ I called to the men.
‘We have to keep on going,’ Dad said and disappeared into the distance.
Boyfriend waited while I aimed my camera at the perfect scene and snapped several shots.
Then holding hands, we hiked along the creek leading to our campsite and Dad.
‘I’m going to paint that little waterfall,’ I said.
We walked in silence, enjoying the scenery painted just for us—the waves of pale river stones, the dappled sunlight through the pines, and a soft breeze kissing our skin.
Dan sighed as he filled in the archive retrieval request form. ‘Things I do for her majesty—Eloise Delaney.’
Under reason for retrieval, he wrote, “Relevant to cold case, the fatal accident of Milo Katz.” He had a hunch, but that was all. Had a gut feeling back in 1981 when he was a recruit, and the youth group was a-buzz with the sudden and tragic death of Milo. Something about his then friend, Sven’s behaviour in the weeks after the road accident had disturbed Dan, but being a trainee policeman, Dan put his head down, stuck it in the proverbial sand, and got on with training.
Dan recalled Christmas Eve, Sunday School kids doing their nativity play and Sven never came into the church hall to watch. Just kept loitering out in the carpark, smoking. Cigarette after cigarette. Even his girlfriend, Fifi couldn’t persuade him to join in the festivities.
While Dan hunted in the rolling file cabinets, he nodded and murmured, ‘Sven and Fifi, bonded over missing dads.’ Never discussed. Never. They went missing and their existence vanished with them.
Curious about information the police might have on the elusive von Erikson, he spotted the man’s name on a box on the middle shelf. Detective Dan Hooper pulled out a file titled, “Jan Von Erikson”. The one slip of paper described a disturbance on January 1, at 2:00am, 1977. One word dismissed the event. “Domestic”.
The account read, “Police were called to a disturbance at the home of Jan von Erikson in Somerton. Neighbours had heard loud shouting and glass smashing and called the police to attend. Police in attendance described the perpetrator, Mr. von Eriksson as drunk, belligerent, and angry.”
Dan flipped the page. No mention of von Erikson’s disappearance. No one asked. No one said. Had he disappeared? Or was it all in his youthful imagination?
He stared at the page. 1977, and he recalled Sven turning up to youth group with a brand-new Ford Falcon XB. Shiny red, as he remembered. Dan had been so envious that Sven, a contract labourer, could afford a shiny, red Ford Falcon XB. How could he? Sven was, what, nineteen? Same age as he was. And Dan knew he, at nineteen and a poor police cadet, didn’t have enough money in the bank to buy such an expensive car. Darn! He had to settle for a run-down, ten-year old Ford Cortina. Courtesy of church friend of the family, Gracie Katz.
The detective scanned the single sheet of paper with his phone and mumbled, ‘Something fishy here. Delaney’s onto something.’
After placing the Jan von Erikson file on the shelf, Dan moved the rolling cabinet to the 1978 section. He used a ladder to lift the cream and brown file box from the top shelf titled “Missing Persons, Percy Edwards”.
‘At least his Missus did the right thing,’ Dan said.
He hauled the box out and lugged it over to a desk. Under the light of a wide green hooded accountant’s lamp, Dan leafed through the wad of notes. Witness statements, leads, and character references.
Percy Edwards was a respectable businessman who dealt in antique furniture, art auctions, valuations and insurance. He belonged to the Ford car club which seemed odd to Dan. He remembered Percy from church as a man who exuded airs and graces, who he imagined preferring the elegance of a Mercedes Benz, rather than the common Ford.
Dan chuckled remembering a friend of his, Leigh who had gone camping with his family and Percy and his son Jimmy had come along too. Percy had never gone “roughing it” in the bush before and had complained endlessly, from the start of the camping trip to the finish. Leigh’s Dad never invited the high and mighty Percy on a camping trip again. Not that Percy would’ve gone after suffering the indignities of sleeping on stony ground under the stars.
Jimmy was okay about camping, though. He became a regular for youth group camps, hikes, and the road trip to Western Australia. In Perth, Jimmy was arrested after drinking beer in a public place and spent the night in the lock up. On camps, everyone appreciated the entertainment Jimmy provided with his strong singing voice and his acoustic guitar. He remembered the not-so-complimentary songs Jimmy made up about his father. That was before he disappeared. Jimmy lost his music mojo for years after his father mysteriously left. Started munching through packets of crisps instead.
Dan photographed page after page of the Edwards file. Boxes of evidence must not leave the storage facility. Percy Edwards fine upstanding citizen. Percy Edwards tall, distinguished, moustache, patting Jimmy on his head calling him, “Ma boy”.
Mrs. Edwards, otherwise known as “Primrose the plentiful” (yes, you got it, her real name was Primrose) as she had borne the illustrious Lord of the Edwards manor, eight children. Always pregnant or breastfeeding, yet eternally immaculate, black hair coiffured in a beehive to perfection, and with fashion sense that made her a trendsetter amongst the ladies. President of the church ladies guild, fantastic fundraiser, chairman of the local school’s Parents and Friends association, and all-round super mum. As some of the younger girls at youth group used to say about her, “What a woman!”
Dan smiled remembering how when her husband walked out the door and never returned, Primrose Edwards persevered. She worked on the checkout at the local supermarket, studied part-time and made full use of her mothering skills to become a teacher, and by gum, an exceptionally good teacher.
He thought then of Lillie. It was Mrs. Edward’s tenacity that inspired that socially awkward yet attractive girl Lillie to train to be a teacher. What ever happened to Lillie? he wondered. Is she still teaching?
His youth group had all grown up and drifted. Like Mr. Edwards they had disappeared into their grown-up lives. However, unlike Mr. Edwards, they were still traceable.
And Mrs. Primrose Edwards, was she still alive? Dan made a note to check the birth, deaths and marriage records. Or he could just ask Fifi, the encyclopaedia of life and everyone in Adelaide. Primrose was her mother. Besides, since Eloise was friends with Fifi, all he’d have to do is ask to have a chat with Fifi.
‘Who needs Google when you have Fifi,’ Dan laughed as he finished the final pages of scanning.
Dan entered the lift at the basement and as it propelled him upwards to the ground floor, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
‘Hello Dee,’ Dan spoke.
‘Hey, Dan, I’ve been searching all day,’ Dee said, ‘you don’t happen to have a number for Sven von Erikson?’
‘Hey, Dee,’ Dan chuckled, ‘you must be psychic. I was just thinking of him. Why?’
‘Um, I think he might be key to the investigation.’
‘What? How?’ Dan stepped out of the lift and onto the ground floor.
‘Well, I have found out that he had a red Ford Falcon. Didn’t Mr. Wilke who we saw a few weeks ago say that the motorbike was struck by a red painted car?’
‘Oh, oh, yes, I’d forgotten about Mr. Wilke. Yes, follow that up.’ Dan strode to his desk and packed up his laptop. It’s going to be a long night. ‘Good work Dee.’
‘By the way, did you remember that I interviewed Lillie Edwards, formerly von Erikson, today?’ Dee sounded proud of herself.
‘What?’ Dan dropped his laptop. It thudded on the table. ‘How? How did you…?’
‘When I read the reports, I remembered Lillie from school days. Small world, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I’ll be. It is Adelaide after all. Anything useful?’
‘Maybe. That’s why I would like to speak to Sven her brother. And there was a friend of hers she was always hanging around with. Fifi? Married Sven. Was, I mean.’
Dan snorted. ‘Welcome to the family. I’ll send through the contact details.’
‘You have them?’
‘Yes, just not on me at the moment.’ Dan wasn’t about to plop Eloise, his former partner fighting crime into the conversation. He avoided triggers of the Dee kind as Dee and Eloise never got on. ‘I’ll text them to you as soon as, okay.’
‘Great!’ Dee replied. ‘Bye.’
‘Great work, Dee. Catch you in the morning,’ Dan said and tapped the red button. Must make note to send Dee the details, he murmured while leaving the office.
[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.
I add here, that today, is my paternal grandfather’s birthday. In 1886, he was the first of his family to be born in Australia, a true-blue Aussie. His 12 siblings had been born in England, and his parents in Germany. Like the rest of his family, he was full of adventure and yen to travel. Seven of his siblings were missionaries. Some in China, while he and his brother were missionaries in the Sudan. Although his brother then went on to be a missionary in Korea, my grandpa continued his mission work in Sudan for decades until he retired in 1954. But, even after his retirement, the spirit of adventure spurred my grandpa on to travel to Central Australia to visit my uncle in Ernabella at the top end of South Australian, and my dad in Hermannsburg, Northern Territory.
On that note, over the next few weeks, I will continue to 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.]
Uluru—The Sign Not to Climb
Monday, July 8, 2013
Last night, over a game of cards, the T-Team decided to stay an extra night in the Yulara Campsite.
So, that morning, after a well-deserved sleep in, we pottered around the campsite, cooking, sorting, and relaxing. My husband, Anthony was doing a great deal of hunting…things, where were they?
Around midday, the T-Team, loaded up with hampers for a picnic lunch, set off for the Rock. We dutifully lined up at the National Park check point, for our passes.
Once through, Anthony gazed at the Rock. ‘Wow! It’s huge!’
‘It’s even more spectacular third time round,’ I remarked.
‘How long does it take to climb the rock?’ he asked.
‘Oh, a couple of hours, although, we are older; more like my Dad’s age when he climbed with us kids in 1981. He took longer to climb than us.’ I wasn’t keen on climbing and was going to give my excuses (such as inadequate footwear) when we arrived at the climbing site.
Over lunch, my brother and wife discussed with us their reservations about staying another night, as they had not budgeted for it. A reluctant Anthony agreed we would cover the cost of the extra night. After all, having seen the magnificence of the Rock and the Olga’s, Anthony wanted to spend more time exploring these wonders—and hopefully, climb the Rock…another day.
As the afternoon light bathed the conglomerate boulders of Kata Tjuta in bronze, the T-Team explored Walpa Gorge. Except Mrs. T who had retreated to the van. She had a headache.
The site had been seriously sanitised since the T-Team’s last visit in 1981. All for the tourists and preserving the environment. Parts of the track were paved, with plastic bridges over ditches. The edges were roped off and signs warning of fines for those who chose to stray from the path.
‘Boring!’ Richard said. ‘You have to stick to the path.’
‘But I want to still see what’s up there,’ Anthony said.
‘You can get a $135 fine if you go off the path,’ a random lady warned as she passed us.
My younger niece nodded. ‘I know, my brother just went a little off the path and this Indigenous guy appeared from nowhere and told us we’d be fined.’
‘So, I jumped right back on the path again,’ my nephew added. ‘I didn’t want a fine.’
As the T-Team Next Generation, we then hiked up Walpa Gorge as far as we could go. Not far, actually. Not like the old days when we climbed to the top of the gorge and could see the “plum pudding” rock formation on the other side.
From Walpa Gorge, the T-Team drove along the road to the Valley of Winds. After a short hike to the vantage point, we admired the view of boulders that had taken on the formation of rounded steppingstones. A school group passed by. They chatted amongst each other entertaining us onlookers with snatches of assorted topics ranging from food, to adventures in the cold.
Evening and Anthony insisted on cooking sausages using the camping BBQ facilities provided. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the snags were ready. Even shared a few with the teenaged T-Lings who have hollow legs when it came to food.
Then, as the campsite descended into darkness, Anthony’s voice rose in frustration. ‘Lee-Anne, where are your boots?’
‘Boots? Why do you need my boots?’
‘You need proper hiking boots for hiking,’ he snapped. ‘How are you going to climb the Rock in your sandshoes?’
‘Not going to climb,’ I muttered.
‘Where are they? I’m sure we packed them.’
‘Maybe we didn’t,’ I bit back, then wandered off to the BBQ facilities. There I heated up milk for hot chocolate.
Later, after drinking hot chocolate, I rang Son 1 back in Adelaide. During the conversation, I said, ‘By the way, I am missing my hiking boots. Would you be able to find them and bring them up when you and your brother and Grandma come up to Alice Springs next Saturday?’
Dee clicked on the video-recording app on her mobile phone. Lillie’s voice rang shrill, but shaky at times. She had interviewed Lillie in her college office, late the previous afternoon. Hard for Dee to discern if this private school principal is telling the truth.
Still, Detective Inspector Berry was pleased with herself. Tracked the elusive Lillie down—with the help of the Electoral Roll, Births, Deaths and Marriage Records and Trove.
Lillie seemed happy to share her perspective on that night of Saturday, November 29, 1980. Dee reflected, a little too willing.
“I remember that day, I mean night,” Lillie spoke, “We went down to Sellicks Beach for the end of year bonfire. There was this old man on the cliff top waving his arms around and shouting.”
She gave a short laugh. “Fifi thought that he was calling for Milo. Remember him? He was this loser from our school who had repeated year 8 twice. Not the brightest of bulbs, that one. Or should I say, not the full glass and a half.” Lillie chuckled at her own joke in reference to a current commercial involving a chocolate milk drink.
“Now, I was with Renard that night. Thought all my Christmases had come at once, you know. I remember being so proud of cutting your lunch, Dee. You see, as I recall, he said he was meant to be at a party you were putting on that night, but here he was, with me.”
Lillie stabbed the air. “He was afraid of you, Dee. Afraid of what you’d do when you realised that he didn’t turn up at your party. He reckoned your party would be boring.”
She’s enjoying this, Dee thought, then asked, “How did you travel from Adelaide to Sellicks beach?”
Lillie pursed her lips in a sly smile, “With my brother, Sven. In his Ford. So much better than chugging along in my mother’s little red Honda. Mum needed the Honda. Ladies guild meeting at the church. You should’ve seen the fuss my brother made about that. Reckoned I’d cramp his style. With Fifi, I s’pose. Fifi’s Jimmy’s sister who was with Sven at the time. Neighbours actually. Anyway, Sven didn’t have a choice, but. He just had to deal with it and endure me in the back seat.”
“Who else was there?” Dee asked.
“Oh, there was Fifi’s brother, Jimmy. Oh, yeah, Sven had to drive him too. Not a happy camper, Sven wasn’t. He plopped insults and sarcastic remarks aimed at Jimmy and me all the way to Sellicks. Poor Jimmy, he looked a bit sad and kept shovelling handfuls of salt ‘n vinegar chips into his mouth and crunching. Um, Jimmy’s my husband now. We grew up, as you may have gathered, Dee.”
Dee resisted the urge to roll her eyes at Lillie’s efforts to be condescending to her. Teachers. They never change.
“Anyway, also, besides Sven, my brother, and Fifi Edwards,” Lillie continued, “there was Francis Renard, as I have mentioned. Anyway, while we were there, we heard these sounds of puttering that filled the cove. And Sven, who had an uncanny ear for such things, reckoned it was a motorbike ridden by Milo Katz. He was right.”
Lillie smiled. “Sure enough, Milo on his Kawasaki turns up. He sprayed sand all over us. He was not popular.
Sven steps towards Milo and asks, ‘Who invited you?’
The rest of us cried, “Gate crasher! Gate crasher!” and we all threw sand at Milo.
Sven threw his cider bottle. ‘Go home to your mummy, Milo!’
Milo dodged the bottle and says, ‘Hey, I just wanna good time.’
Sven plucks up a rock. ‘You are not welcome here. Go away.’
‘Why not? I have every right to be here,’ says Milo.
‘Are you thick or something?’ Sven shakes his fist. He’s still holding the stone.
‘Did you call me thick? Did you call me thick?’ asks Milo.
‘Yes, you moron! Now, go home!’ Sven hurls the stone, hitting Milo’s helmet.
‘Hey! That’s my head you hit!’ Milo, hands on hips, leers at Sven. ‘You wanna fight?’
‘Be my guest, fool!’ Sven hits Milo’s shoulder.
‘Oh, cut it out boys!’ Fifi gets between the guys splitting them apart. ‘It’s not worth it.’”
Lillie takes a breath.
Dee asks, “What happened then?”
“We had this uneasy truce,” Lillie says, “Milo one side of the fire, in the smoke, Sven and the rest of us crowded on the other side. The tide was coming in and waves began to soak our feet and put out the fire.
I wondered why Milo doesn’t take the hint.
Jimmy munched through his third bagful of chips. Chicken, this time. I remember that because I was annoyed by his crunching. And I remember Milo too. Bad habits.
Milo coughed. And spluttered. He blew his nose into a grimy handkerchief and inspected the contents. He tried to move out of the smoke, closer to us.
[Photo 1: Brachina Bonfire (c) L.M. Kling 1999]
He provoked Sven again and they ended up fighting again. Sven and Milo toppled onto the sand crushing beer cans, steam-rolled one on top of the other singeing leather pants and denim jacket, rising from the ashes in a slow dance of boxing and fists and cuffs, and culminating in Sven’s $50 Reflecto Polaroid sunglasses flying into the fire. The coals must’ve still been hot as they melted the glasses on impact.
Sven was livid and vowed to kill Milo. We advised Milo to go. Nothing personal. But that he better take the hint and go. Fifi tried to calm Sven down reminding him that it’s only sunglasses.
Sven loosened his grip and sauntered towards the boulders, and Milo skulked to his bike and rode away, up the ramp, never that night to bother us again.”
“So, describe what you saw of the accident, then,” Dee said.
“Later, Fifi and I slipped away, up the ramp to the road. We kept warm with a kangaroo-skin blanket wrapped around us. We sat on a seat overlooking the miniature party scene. The lads still drinking. They’d moved up near the caves and away from the encroaching tide. We could see the orange glow of the revived bonfire. While we gossiped, focussing on Milo, the crisp air carried the beat of The Groping Paws from the sound system in Sven’s car.
Then we hear this almighty roar. ‘Excellent! A drag race!’ Fifi tears the blanket from me and waddles up the road. Shivering, I follow and peer down the peninsula. As the headlights approach, a dull thud and a blur of something flying, shock us. One headlight wobbles, then is out.
Fifi and I have this argument while rushing to the scene.
‘What was that?’ Fifi says.
‘Probably just a roo,’ I reply.
‘And what roo has two legs and arms? I definitely saw two legs and arms. I’m going to have look.’
We reach the spot. Motorbike shattered on the pavement. A group had gathered around a pole. We go and look. I can’t unsee the human wreckage; man’s frailty etched in my memory.
‘Come, we can’t just stand here. We better tell the others, someone.’ Fifi drags me down the ramp.
Sven is there lolling on the sand. He’s oozing the smell of alcohol vapours, and barely conscious.
Jimmy, through a mouthful of crisps, says to us, ‘A good thing that Milo wasn’t there otherwise he’d be raving about the grisly details till morning.’
‘It was Milo,’ I yell at him.
‘Oh.’ Jimmy pops a large curly crisp into his mouth and munches.
Renard pokes his head out of his Kombi. ‘What’s all the din?’
It’s the first time I register that Renard is there. He must’ve arrived while Fifi and I were up looking at the ghastly scene. I think I told him what happened to Milo to which he replied that was more exciting than going to your party, Dee.
Then Fifi pulls me away and says, ‘Come on, Lillie. We better see what we can do for the poor bloke.’
So, up we go.”
“What did you see then?” Dee asks.
“When we got back up,” Lillie says, “there was a group of pensioners hovering over the blood-stained sheet. Leaning up against the warped pole, a man with black rimmed glasses and bulging nose shook his head saying, ‘There’s nothing we could do.’
A woman, hair in rollers, wrapped in a lavender quilted dressing gown, was gawking, ‘Poor fellow. What a waste!’
It was a grizzly scene and I asked Fifi if we could go down again. I was feeling quite sick.
Renard was kind, you know, he comforted me. I found the whole ordeal very confronting.”
“What? Renard?” Dee asks.
“No, the accident.”
“Where was Sven? Your brother?” Dee says.
“He was there. His car was there. It didn’t go away.”
Dee leans forward. “Are you sure?”
“I’d know if my brother left; he was my ride.”
“What? With Fifi?” Dee leans back. “But you were with Renard, weren’t you?”
“So? So what? Nothing happened if that’s what you’re implying,” Lillie’s voice has an edge; agitated. “Sven was around the whole night and his car was still there in the morning. Besides, if he’d started up the engine anytime during the night, especially when Milo was hit, I would’ve heard it and recognised it. There’s no way Sven did anything. He was there the whole, entire night and Fifi was with him. Go on, ask them. You’ll see.”
The phone recorder clicked off. Interview terminated 18:05 hours.
Dee gritted her teeth and then muttered, ‘She’s lying. And I’m going to prove it.’
She straightened the page of her notebook holding the contact details of Lillie’s brother, Sven von Erikson and his ex, Fifi Edwards. ‘This will prove interesting,’ she said. ‘Pity she didn’t have any contact details for Renard.’
But then she remembered that Dan might. He’s interviewed Francis Renard the other day.
Lillie stared at the pink frosted cupcake in the middle of her desk. Must resist. Must lose weight. Oh, but it’s only one. And besides, you deserve it.
No, you’ll regret it. All that sugar. It’ll make you sick.
She slowly removed her hand from the cake.
But I need sustenance for the drive home.
Reach for the cake.
No, I’ll get a headache.
Replace hand on her lap. Stare at the cake.
She reflected on the interview with Detective Dee Berry. Sure, she was meant to tell a different narrative. Was it that night she spent with Renard? Hadn’t she actually gate-crashed Dee’s party because she wasn’t invited?
All the intervening years Sven had insisted, convinced her that she, Lillie had got it wrong. Imagined the accident, like a bad dream. Her mum had supported Sven. Mum, now, all muddled and in a nursing home. What would her 84-year-old mum say now? “No, dear, you have it all wrong—Sven’s the brains in the family, ya know.”
Lillie picked at the icing and licked her fingers. In increments the cake disappeared into Lillie’s mouth.
Last night, August 1, my husband’s maternal family hailing from Switzerland, we celebrated Swiss National Day. My husband’s mother was born in Basel and then grew up in Zurich. Her mother came from Wattwil, St. Gallen.
So, the family gathered at our home and enjoyed a firepit fire in the backyard.
When I asked my husband where fondue was “invented”, he said that fondue comes from the French part of Switzerland. In winter, the poor farmers used their cheese and bread to make a meal—fondue.
So, in memory of all things Swiss, here’s a revisit of an earlier post when the T-K Team travelled to Switzerland in 2014.
K-Team in Switzerland—2014
Welcome with Alphorns
Sunday, August 17, the real fun began—and so did the early starts.
Up by 6am to race to Zurich Airport to meet the rest of the K-Team, Hubby’s family: his mother (Mum K) brother (P1), niece (Miss K), our son (Son 1) and his fiancé. Drove into the airport car park where Hubby became confused and drove out again and then in again. After finding a park we made our way to arrivals where an English man chatted to Hubby.
‘We’re from Australia,’ Hubby said.
The English man nodded. ‘I can tell.’
A young woman accompanied by a man dressed in Swiss costume who’d been standing next to us spoke to us. We soon established that we had been standing next to Hubby’s second cousins.
We then waited together for the K-Team fresh from Australia to roll through the arrival gate. Tired of waiting, Hubby wandered down the hallway and there near an alcove of shops, he found our weary travellers.
Must be the atmosphere in Zurich, or just jetlag as after greeting us, they stood around for at least an hour discussing what to do. Hubby and I took custody of their luggage and had a coffee while they lingered in the hall in suspended animation apparently organising the lease car and then debating how to change Australian dollars into Swiss Francs.
Just as I pulled my diary out to write, movement, and then we were on our way to the farm near Wattwil of Toggenburg in the Canton of St. Gallen.
There Alphorns, and cow bell ringers, and the stunning green hills and blue mountains of the Santis greeted us. Mum K shrieked and cried and hugged her relatives. Our niece exclaimed, ‘It’s all so beautiful!’
Willing members of the K-Team tested their muscles swinging the huge cowbells, or their lungs playing the Alphorn. Some had more success than others. I escaped the test by recording the event with my camera.
After the insecticide incident, our hosts showed us our rooms and one of our cousins gave us instructions about the bathroom and how to place the flywire in our windows to keep out the “fleas”. She meant flies.
Mum K went missing. Found her in the dairy—yes, we were on a dairy farm that is still owned by the family. I was amazed that Swiss farmers have as few as ten cows and yet they make a living! Wouldn’t happen in Australia. And our hostess promised us fresh milk, dare I say it, raw milk, straight from the cow the next morning. Ah, the advantages of living on a dairy farm in Switzerland!
‘Actually,’ Hubby stated, ‘the Swiss Brown milk is known for its high fat content, so the milk is used for making cheese.’
As the T-Team talked to their dairy-farmer cousins, in this barn for the cows, I held my nose and edged towards the door. The up-and-personal experience with the cows and their calves in their enclosures, proved too much for my senses, and I suggested, ‘Let’s go for a walk to the forest.’ I moved out of the barn, sure that my bovine-close-encounter would be used in what was at that time in 2014, a future story—TheLost World of the Wends.
From the barn, the K-Team took a ramble to Mum K’s beloved forest—a smaller forest than one she remembered from her youth, but one she recalled vividly in a novel she wrote, A Teenager Long Time Ago.
Dee adjusted her mask. Deep in the bowels of the records office, layers of disturbed dust and mould spores conspired to afflict her sensitive sinuses. Dee wasn’t about to give these enemies of her overactive immune system the pleasure of making her life miserable, so on with the filtering mask.
She wiped her foggy reading glasses and peered at the details from the 1980 file of Mr. Katz’s unfortunate accident.
10pm on Saturday, November 29, 1980, Mr. Rex Ackers finds Mr. Milo Katz (17). Katz slumped near a Stobie pole, on the Esplanade, Sellicks Beach. The motorbike found some thirty meters distance from the victim, landing in Ackers’ front garden. Ackers was not impressed that his freshly planted petunias had been destroyed by the motorbike. He complained that he was quote, “sick and tired” of the thoughtless hoons who roared up and down the Esplanade like it was a speedway and kept him up at night with all their shenanigans”.
Although he had a motive, Mr. Ackers and his 1966 Ford Cortina Mark 1 were ruled out as suspects to having collided with Katz and his motorbike. The Ford Cortina was a pastel green colour whereas the scrape marks on the motorbike were from red paint. Red paint from a red car, Dee concluded.
Dee leafed through the crash report. Motorbike was estimated to be travelling in a northerly direction along the Esplanade at 60km/h, the red car clipped the front wheel of the bike sending it spiralling out of control. The rider was flung from the bike and into the Stobie Pole while the bike careered to a stop thirty metres away in the front yard belonging to Mr. Ackers.
Dee rubbed her itchy nose through the mask. The date bothered her. Why did it seem so familiar? November 29, 1980…What was so special about that particular Saturday night? Sure, it’s forty-two years ago. Dee tried to think. Remember…
1980, the year Dee matriculated. Yes, that’s what graduating from high school was called back then. Dee relived that feeling of her last exam. Once it was over and she stepped out of the school grounds. Relief. Freedom. Liberty. The weight of nose to the grindstone, endless study, cramming all that information into her skull…over. No more books, no more teachers with dirty looks. No more performing.
She walked with a skip in her step down the driveway, past the chapel that looked like rocket ready to launch. No more religion forced down our throats, she thought. I’m free to do as I want.
‘I’m going to have an end of school party,’ she told a friend who was walking with her. Can’t remember who. ‘I’m going to invite everyone in our year.’
Then she spotted the slim blonde, the brainy blonde wheeling her bike out from the bike racks.
‘But I won’t be inviting her,’ she said. ‘Not Lillie. No drips allowed.’
She remembered another time when she and that same friend — darn, what was her name? And why, oh why do names escape her who was almost 60? — laughed at Lillie. “Swatvac”, and somehow, the blonde brainiac was swanning past them. Dee remembered being particularly annoyed by the fact that her nemesis had both intelligence and beauty. So, as Lillie brushed past their desk, Dee remarked, ‘Bet Lillie’s still a virgin; how sad!’
Her friend, who she remembered was quite “loose” with her love with the fellas, joined in. ‘Heh, no one wants poor Lillie.’
Dee watched and laughed with her friend as Lillie walked away hurt and confused.
‘We had another one of those exchanges with “Karen” on What’s App over the weekend,’ Fifi said. She then, with her brush, spread a blob of paint over the canvas.
‘Karen?’ Eloise asked while detailing the finer bits of her work. Tree branches. ‘Who’s she when she’s at home?’
‘Code word for you know, she who must be obeyed.’
‘Huh? Can you be more specific?’
Fifi sighed and whispered, ‘Lillie, my sister-in-law.’
‘Ah, she who must be obeyed. The,’ cough, ‘controller.’
‘Yes, her.’
‘You see, Easter is upon us, and she who is high and mighty just had to have a rant on What’s App,’ Fifi said. ‘Like “I hope we aren’t all going to just scoff down hot crossed buns and soft drink. And let’s consider our dear 85-year-old Aunty Gracie and not sit back and let her do all the work and have a free lunch. And, to top it all off, “It’s about time we think about healthy food and not eating all this junk”.’
‘Must be going on a diet, do you reckon?’
‘Yeah, well, she has her 60th coming up and wants to look her best, I guess.’ Fifi snorted. ‘Last time I was there, she’d bought a new exercise bike. There she was, peddling away to the tune of the latest detective series streamed on the tele.’
‘Good for her,’ Eloise said and dipped her brush in her paint cup of water. ‘Tell her, if she wants a walking buddy and a stroll by the beach, I’m up for it.’ Then thought, Nothing like a spot of fishing of the family history kind. Although, after all that Fifi had divulged about her prickly sister-in-law and old friend, she just couldn’t imagine what Francis Renard had seen in the girl. Perhaps he was drunk, she mused.
‘I’ll tell her that. Doubt that she’ll appreciate the offer. But I’ll ask.’ Fifi dabbed a cluster yellowy-green blobs with her raggedy basting brush, ‘Can I join you? On these walks, I mean.’
Eloise pursed her lips. She really wanted to see Lillie on her own. To interview her. Informally. Can’t exactly do that with her sister-in-law around. But then she’d have more a chance of meeting this Lillie Edwards if Fifi came too. Such potential interviews of the informal family kind do take their sweet little time.
So, El smiled and replied, ‘Yes, of course. With you coming, she will be more willing to join my fledgling walking group and make it a regular thing.’
‘Oh, sounds wonderful. I’ll give it a go. Can’t promise. We’re not exactly close. I mean, over the last few years she has been a bit frosty. But walking together might thaw things out.’
Eloise was tempted to introduce the idea of the “aunty” compliments of Fifi’s sister-in-law Lillie, but decided such information may be too hot, too wrong, too complicated to put out there for Fifi to consider. Any mention might put her plans to get to know Lillie in jeopardy.
Instead, Eloise said, ‘Say, Fifi, you told me once that Lillie had spent time in Tasmania, um, around 1981. Do you think, considering what happened during the summer, you know, when you discovered the bones, that there might have been another reason she went there?’
‘I thought it was just for the apple picking,’ Fifi said. ‘And she was having a gap year.’
‘When did you see her again?’
‘I’m not sure. The next year, after travelling a bit overseas, she went to teachers college. I saw her around the neighbourhood, but I was married to Sven and wrapped up with my baby, and you know, we drifted apart.’
‘Why do you think you drifted apart? Sven’s her brother.’
‘It’s like, she had her study, her teachers college friends and like she looked down on me for getting in the family way and married so young. I was only 18.’
‘How did she feel about you marrying her brother?’
‘I don’t know. It’s so long ago. But Lillie and Sven were close. Come to think of it, I reckon she did resent me taking her brother away.’
Zoe perched on her stool in the workshop and stared at the blank screen on her laptop. The week before Easter and Strahan put on a cracker of a day. A warm breeze from the north, the sun shining, and boats bobbing on the shimmering blue waters of Macquarie Harbour. Pity that tourism was down.
After taking compassionate leave from her demanding work as a lawyer, Zoe Thomas was helping a friend selling souvenirs at this woodcraft shop in Strahan. She enjoyed the laid-back pace, and the stunning scenery that the wild west of Tasmania offered after the mad task-driven world of trying to make her mark as an up-and-coming barrister in Melbourne. She had only returned to the “Island” for her mother’s last days and funeral.
Then, after her “ancestry” discovery, Zoe stayed on in Strahan with her father. He needed her support. And she needed to process this information that her father and mother were not her biological parents, but one Francis Renard and an unknown woman were her blood relatives.
Thus, here she sat. Computer screen blank, begging her to send a message to this Francis Renard. All sorts of thoughts raced through her mind. Will he accept me? Does he want to know? What about my birth mother? Who is she?
“Dear Dad,” she typed. Delete.
“Dear Francis.” Delete.
“Hey there, Mr. Renard.” Delete.
Screen remained blank.
Check emails. Notification from “My Family History”.
The shop doorbell tinkled.
Zoe sighed. Star by notification. Close laptop.
She looked up at the tall, tanned gentleman with a long thinning mane of grey hair. He looked familiar. Ah, yes, one of the regulars from the mainland. Regular as in once a year, usually around this time, in autumn. The luthier and guitarist from a band in Adelaide. What’s his name? Ah, yes, Jim Edwards. Over the last few years, Zoe had made a habit of helping the local wood-turner out with sales when she came to visit her father in Strahan. She liked wood. She loved the scent of Tasmanian timber. The heady thrill of freshly cut Huon Pine. The subtlety of Sassafras. The boldness of Blackwood.
Zoe smiled. ‘Hey there, Jim, how’s it going?’
‘Great! Yeah, good. Good,’ Jim replied with a wave. He kept looking beyond Zoe. The grandfather clock cabinet constructed out of Huon Pine had caught his eye. ‘One day, I’m going to buy that.’
‘It’s not for sale, I don’t think. How would you transport it?’
‘Oh, you know, in my Hilux. My wife’s big zero birthday is coming up.’ Jim stood nodding at the clock. ‘I wonder…’
‘Dream on,’ Zoe said with a chuckle.
Jim shrugged and sighed. ‘Might make one like that for her next big birthday, I guess.’
‘That amount of Huon Pine is getting scarce, you know. You can’t cut down the trees anymore, so the only pieces are the ones loggers source from drifting down the river, the Franklin-Gordon.’
‘I know. The missus would probably complain its more junk cluttering up her house. Seriously, I reckon she’s got a chronic case of minimalism. Into decluttering, she is. I don’t know how many G-sales we’ve had over the years.’
‘She must love your business.’
‘She tolerates it. I have my man-cave, the garage, that is, and she has the house. No one touches my garage, except me. And me mates. And of course, me band. Been a bit slow, but we’re still jamming.’
‘Yeah, slow everywhere now, but I reckon it’ll pick up. Must,’ Zoe said while shuffling brochures advertising the local play, The Ship that Never Was.
‘My thoughts exactly,’ Jim said. ‘Keep positive. Anyway, I’m looking for some Sassafras for my neck. I mean the neck of my next guitar I’m building.’
‘I’ll see what we have out the back,’ Zoe replied and left Jim standing at the counter while she hunted through the stores of timber in the shed. She trusted Jim. She pictured him hauling the clock away and fixing it onto his Toyota Hilux tray. But he just didn’t look like someone who would take without paying.
Then, an idea. Did she dare ask if he knew Francis Renard? Worth a try, she thought. But then decided that divulging such a personal truth of her being his long-forgotten daughter to a virtual stranger was not worth the risk.
She found a suitable sized block of Sassafras wood, about 1500mm by 500mm by 50mm and returning to the desk, presented it to Jim Edwards.
‘Perfect,’ Jim grinned, ‘you wouldn’t believe how impossible it is to get timber anywhere in Australia at the moment. I’d almost given up on building guitars at this present time.’
‘I know,’ Zoe said. ‘It’s like gold.’
They negotiated a price that was more than Jim had paid for specialty timber such as Sassafras in the past, but Jim, Zoe and her boss were happy with the arrangement. For this piece, she didn’t have to wrap it up and post it.
After Mr. Jim Edwards left the shop, Zoe resumed her perusal of the emails. She opened the one she had started to read.
“Dear Zoe,” it read, “this is your Dad, Francis. I hope you don’t think I’m being too presumptuous but when I saw in My Family History, that you are a close relative, and possibly, no, my daughter, and that you were open to making contact, I just had to write to you.
You see, I have always wanted a family, children, but it never happened for me. Or so it seemed. And now, I am delighted to discover I have you. After all these years. I think the mother, who ever she was (confession, I was quite the lad, you see, sowed my wild… you get the picture), never told me. So, I never knew.
Dear Zoe, I would love to meet you.
Please let me know if meeting would be okay with you.
Love your Dad,
Francis Renard.”
Zoe collapsed onto the stool. Lightheaded. ‘Wow! My Dad!’
Then, before even replying, she googled “Flights to Adelaide” and began the process of booking the first available flight to South Australia.
[Over ten 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 weeks, I will take you on a virtual trip to relive and rekindle memories of our travel adventures. This time again to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.]
Yulara
Sunday 7 July 2013
Creature Comforts
Anthony tore off the tarpaulin and then, armed with the foldable shovel, stomped off in the direction of the bushes.
In the harsh light of morning, the scene into which we were brought under the shroud of darkness last night, was revealed. Road trains thundered past on the nearby Sturt Highway. On the opposite side of the road, a couple of these road-monsters basked in the golden rays of the rising sun. Camper vans and caravans crowded the free camping area.
I pottered around the wire fence that protected us from the Adelaide to Darwin rail line. I did not fancy an oncoming Ghan crushing me. Toilet paper littered the stony ground, shreds of it caught in the barbed wire of the fence, and nests of it rested under the salt bush. I gingerly picked up an armful of wood scraps. Hope it wasn’t contaminated.
Anthony returned from his morning adventure; a frown fixed on his face.
‘Not good, I didn’t sleep a wink.’ He pointed his shovel at the quiet mound resembling my brother and wife. ‘I had a chorus of snorers keeping me awake all night.’ He then glared at my pitiful gathering of sticks. ‘What’s that?’
‘Sticks for a cooking fire.’
My husband rolled his eyes. ‘And where are you going to put that?’
‘Where there’s a clear space.’
‘Good luck.’ He sniffed. ‘There was nowhere even to do my business. I had to walk miles.’ Anthony loves to exaggerate. ‘I can’t believe people don’t cover their mess.’
My nephew came jogging up to us. ‘I want a fire. Where’s the campfire? It’s freezing.’
I glanced around. Spying a clear patch of ground, I announced, ‘Here, I’m getting it started now.’
‘Watch out for any poo. This place is full of it,’ Anthony said.
My nephew chuckled. ‘We’ll use it as fuel, Uncle Anthony.’
Anthony shuddered. ‘Won’t be eating anything from that fire, then.’
I bent down, then cleared stones away to create a shallow basin to make the fire. Soon a small but functional campfire crackled away. Perched on top of the coals, a billy bubbled with boiling water.
Anthony sat some distance from the fire munching on his cereal. There was no way he’d get close to the fire. After all, who know what lies beneath or nearby, on the ground in this part of the world, unregulated by OC Health and Safety.
My nephew fried eggs on a frypan on that small but adequate fire.
The free camping site slowly emptied itself of vehicles. First, the trucks disappeared. Then, the Grey nomads, and their luxury on wheels vanished. I imagined they had left once the sun had peeped over the horizon. The caravans had gone too. Just us, the not so grey T-Team stumbled around the parking bay, slowly packing up bedding, wandering beyond in search of a bush in lieu of a toilet, and then gulping down breakfast.
I picked up a stray piece of wood for the fire. A poopy looked up at me. I recoiled. ‘Ee-yew!’
To avoid the inevitable “told you so” from Anthony, my nephew and I announced the fire a success, doused it and covered the remains with dirt.
‘Time to go!’ Mrs. T yelled. ‘Next stop Marla.’
‘What?’ Richard, my brother asked. ‘That’s only about twenty kilometres away.’
‘There’s no way I’m squatting anywhere ‘round here. It’s a tip!’ his wife replied.
So, after a day of driving with the quick toilet stop at Marla, an obligatory exploration and photo stop at the South Australian—Northern Territory border, and then a petrol pause at Erldunda, we turned down the Lassiter Highway to Uluru.
We travelled in convoy on this perfect sunny day. Anthony’s mood seemed to thaw, and he was happy to take the wheel while I filmed parts of the drive with my Dad’s digital movie camera. The bold purple mesa, Mt Conner emerged above the rusty-coloured sand dunes.
We parked at the viewing station to take a photo of this spectacular landform. Some of the T-Party took advantage of the facilities. I had in mind to follow them. But as I approached the wooden huts, the stench and surrounds thick with flies buzzing, made me turn back to the car. I decided to hold on until we reached the Yulara camping ground.
We reached the Yulara Camping Ground which lies just outside the Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park. Then, we had to wait in line to register and pay for our camping allotment.
Anthony drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and muttered, ‘Unbelievable! Hope we’re not too late.’
‘No wonder the grey nomads left early,’ I joked. ‘Anyway, I thought we’d booked.’
‘You know what thought did.’
Yep, after no sleep and all the driving, Anthony was not happy. Fortunately, though, our sites were still there and after tolerating the queues, we paid our fees and were directed to our adjoining grassy patches near the edge of Yulara. Not too distant were the toilet/shower blocks. As soon as we had parked, I made a beeline for these creature comforts.
Anthony set up our barely used 4-man tent with only the bare minimum help from me. Must remember that the thick pole has to go at the front and the thin pole next in line. While Anthony hammered in the tent pegs to secure the tent, I stood holding the pole and watching my brother’s family battle in the construction of their new tent. Five of them, twisting and turning, standing and sitting, lifting walls and dropping them, labouring at snail’s pace to build their tent.
‘Amazing,’ I remarked, ‘Their tent needs five people to build it and you’ve put ours up by yourself, Anthony.’
Anthony looked over at the T-Team and grunted, ‘Well, since I put up the tent, you can cook tea.’
This I did, using our portable camp stove. Signs all about the camping ground warned that there would be consequences, a fine for making one’s own personal campfire. The BBQ facilities opposite our campsite were monopolised by other campers.
As I stirred the spaghetti sauce, Anthony walked up to me and narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you using that for? Can’t you see?’ He pointed at the now vacant BBQ stands.
‘They weren’t available when I started,’ I replied. ‘Too late now, tea is almost ready.’
Later, I tried boiling water on the stoves that Anthony preferred. I stood, hovering over the billy of water, watching and waiting for something to happen for twenty, then thirty minutes.
We waited another twenty minutes in the icy cold darkness. ‘Seems that it’s too cold for the water to boil,’ I concluded.
Anthony and I sauntered over to the T-Team’s camp. Richard invited us to play cards and enjoy a hot drink. My brother had hooked up lights and electric cooking facilities courtesy of an inverter/generator which he had brought along for the trip. My brother connected the inverter to a spare car battery which was charged as the car travelled, and voila, the T-team had light, and their own personal electric cooking facilities.
Beyond, on route to the shower block was a communal fire pit. But on our first night in Yulara, no one was taking advantage of that.
Tru-Kling Creations 