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?
Friday has rolled around and once again, the well-researched, edited and polished article on some nascent topic of family history has failed to materialize. Too busy researching and chasing promising leads down rabbit holes. Plus making a concerted effort to finish the first draft of “Under the Bridge”, now titled The Culvert.
Hence, I am blatantly and unashamedly going to ramble and keeping to the theme of rabbits, rabbit on.
A fellow writer has the penchant to invite the reader to get comfortable in their favourite armchair with a cuppa and a bikkie, and then travel along with her in her latest story. So, I’m doing something similar today. Imagine we are in your café of choice, I’m having my decaf cappuccino with almond milk and you’re having your beverage of choice, and we are having a chat about family history. Admittedly, I’m the one doing all the talking—for a start. You can have your say at the end in the comment section.
I’ll start with the food. Early on in My Heritage forays, the computer offered some guidance with AI (artificial intelligence) in finding those relatives who would prefer to remain hidden in the distant past.
I took the AI up on the offer, to my regret.
After many questions that became more ridiculous as time went on, the robot which I might prefer to call a “bubble-headed booby”, asked the ultimate in absurdity. ‘What did your ancestor like to eat for breakfast?’
You need to understand that AI was asking about an ancestor who lived three hundred years in the past. If I knew the answer to the breakfast question, I wouldn’t be asking AI, would I?
I decided then to avoid researching with the AI after that interaction.
It got me thinking, though. What did my ancestors eat for breakfast? Too late for most of them to tell me. Even the famous ones don’t include a breakfast menu.
So, for future generations, here’s my offering for the few of my immediate family of whom I know their breakfast preferences.
My dad, Clement David Trudinger grew up during the depression and Second World War times. He loved bread with dripping. I’m not sure if this was a breakfast go-to, but he did say. Just saying.
My mum has to have her cup of coffee first thing in the morning. Coffee gets her going.
A few nuts and a cup of Caro does me for breakfast.
I’m not sure what my maternal grandma, Elsa Gross liked for breakfast, but she didn’t eat meat. I remember her having toast with butter and jam.
As for my maternal grandpa, Sam Gross, and my paternal grandma and grandpa, Ron and Lina Trudinger, I have no idea. And that’s only going back two generations.
All I can say for AI is good luck with that one going back three hundred years.
Digging back further, I discovered that one of my ancestors and an ancestor of my friend, and Indie Scriptorium teammate, Mary McDee’s, were shipmates travelling over to England from Normandy way back when England was invaded by William the Conqueror. I wondered whether they were friends and what their conversation was like. Mary was adamant that her ancestor probably wouldn’t have had much to do with mine as they were likely different ranks. But hey, ships back then weren’t that big, so I wonder…One thing for sure, they probably weren’t discussing their latest books and giving feedback to each other on how to improve their manuscripts.
Continuing on my research voyage, Mary did ask me, “What’s a good Christian girl like you writing such content of bloodshed and gore. How did you come up with such an evil character like Boris?’
As I’m exploring those murky depths of my ancestral past, I’m beginning to understand. A relative of mine once read The Hitchhiker and was so shocked she gave it a poor rating. “This is not the person I knew,” she wrote as a comment. Little did she know that my ancestors and her husband’s were not the “Sarah Janes”, “Pollyannas” or “Saint Whoever” of the past. Quite the opposite. Think of Game of Thrones which is based on the War of the Roses, and you get the picture. One was likely a bishop, though, sorry to say…
And no, the dreams that formulated my Sci-Fi novels were seemingly not from ancestral memories from the mercenary soldier, Balthas Trudinger that the family was so ashamed of.
I looked into that and discovered that Balthas who lived at Lierheim which is a castle near Nördlingen, Bavaria, most probably belonged to the Teutonic Order. The Teutonic Order at the time of Balthas’ coming of age, had bought the castle there and were renovating it. Hitler gave the Teutonic Order a reputation as the exemplar of the all-German, all-Aryan fighting force. But once he won power, he ditched the Teutonic order—banned them. Actually, the order from what I can glean did much good over the centuries. They started around the end of the 12th Century as guards protecting pilgrims to Jerusalem. I bet Hitler kept that fact quiet. Although it was an army that did fighting and stuff in the past, these days it’s a charitable organisation.
I could go on rabbiting, but I think that’s enough random thoughts for one day. hubby has come home and we’re off to dinner for our 37th Wedding Anniversary.
Happy Friday and hope you enjoyed your cuppa and bikkie.
If you have a Family History comment or story, I’d love you to drop a line in the comment section below.
Dan perched on the vintage two-seater 1960’s occasional armchair. He admired its upholstery, a stunning turquoise woven velvet. Francis Renard sat opposite in a matching single armchair.
‘You can’t get too comfortable in these chairs,’ Renard leaned back and crossed his long legs, ‘or get too heavy.’ Renard chuckled. ‘We once had a colleague of El’s here. Walt Wilberforce, chaplain from Yatala, actually. On the big side. Sat where you’re sitting. Chair had to go in for repairs after. There’s a good repairer down on the Broadway. Took ages to get it back.’ Renard laughed and fidgeted. ‘Guess these chairs keep us honest as far as weight and fitness goes.’
Dan stroked his chin. Hmmm, honest. Let’s see how honest Renard will be. He sighed wishing Eloise Delaney could be a part of the interview as she was so astute in reading people. However, he knew that El being there would ruin the interview. Being a close family member to Renard. Wife, actually.
‘So, Francis,’ Dan said, ‘can I call you Francis?’
Renard nodded. ‘What’s this about, Sir?’
‘We are looking into an incident that happened in November 1980. Saturday night November 29 to be precise. Do you remember that day?’
‘That’s over 40 years ago.’ Renard shrugged. ‘To tell you the truth, I can’t remember what I had for breakfast.’
‘You remembered Walt Wilberforce.’
‘He-he, lucky guess, oh and association with the chairs.’ Renard rubbed his ear and his face flushed a bright pink making his bald patch more prominent. ‘So long ago, I have no idea what I’m supposed to remember.’
‘Okay, let’s start with some basics, then,’ Dan leaned forward. ‘What make and model car were you driving at the time?’
‘Ah, that brings back memories.’ A wide smile spread across Francis Renard’s face. ‘A red and white 1967 Kombi.’
‘I bet you did.’ Dan scribbled 1967 Kombi on his notepad, then pulled out his mobile phone. ‘Do you give your consent for me to record this interview?’
Renard gestured with palms open upwards. ‘Sure, I’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘Right, now, I believe you were friends with Sven von Erickson at the time.’
‘Uh-huh, where this going? I’d rather not be dropping my mate in this, whatever it is.’
‘Alright, I’ll leave Sven out of this for now.’ Dan shifted his weight on the spongy cushions of the occasional lounge chair. They certainly didn’t allow one to get too comfortable. ‘Okay, what were you doing, I mean for employment, in 1980?’
‘I was a panel beater come mechanic, back in the day. Gap year, I mean, ended up being several years. I was still growing up, you could say. After dropping out of engineering in 1979, I went back to university as a mature-aged student to study Physics. Never looked back. That’s how I met Sven, actually.’
‘What was the name of your boss at the time?’
‘My boss? Hmm, some German, I remember. A perfectionist. Hard, really hard on me. Nothing I did was good enough.’ Renard scratched his chin. ‘But his name? It’s so long ago, I can’t remember.’
Dan placed a laminated photo of a red 1976 Ford Falcon XB on the glass coffee table that divided them. ‘Does this jog any memories?’
Renard jerked back and folded his arms. ‘Is that supposed to mean something?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Look mate, I worked on tonnes of cars. They came in, I fixed them up, they went out. Well, eventually, once the old boss…’ Renard sniggered, ‘can’t remember his real name, but we lads who worked at his shop, called him the Car-Nazi. Anyway, once Car-Nazi said it was good enough. Which, it never was, by the way. Oh, what a cruddy job. One of the reasons I went back to uni. And the pay was peanuts. You see, I wanted to have a gap year or two, to work, save up some dough and travel. You know, go overseas. See the world. But, never had enough, and the old Kombi was a money pit. Mon Dieu, talk about endless repairs.’
And, without Dan uttering another word or question, Francis Renard was off, back in the world of the 1980’s. For a start, the Detective Inspector was pleased that he’d successfully tapped into Renard’s memory files. That is, until he began wandering off track on his trek around Australia and sighting a fleet of UFOs on the Nullarbor Plain.
‘Did you see the news reports?’ Renard asked. ‘I was famous.’
Dan attempted to steer Renard back to November 29, 1980, only to be carjacked by a psychotic hitch hiker in 1984 when Renard and his friends took a road trip to the Flinders Ranges. He was glad to get rid of the van, then. The hitch hiker who stole it, had done him a favour.
Dan again attempted to guide the conversation back to November 1980 asking what make and model cars his friends were driving. To this Renard said he couldn’t remember. So long ago.
The front door clicked and clacked. Footsteps on the floorboards.
Dan and Renard glanced at the lounge room entrance.
‘Hi there,’ Eloise strode through. She looked from Dan to Renard. ‘What’s all this about then?’
‘We have a visitor,’ Renard replied.
‘I can see that,’ Eloise said.
‘Just an informal chat,’ Dan added. ‘Francis has been telling me all about his adventures with UFOs and hitch hikers.’
Eloise looked away and muttered, ‘Can’t help himself.’
Renard looked at his wife and said, ‘Dan was just asking about Saturday night, November 29, 1980, my dear. Do you remember anything?’
‘I was too young, and still in Switzerland, I think,’ Eloise replied. ‘But thinking about that date, and the age of your daughter, I would say that it might be a significant date.’ She faced Dan and explained the recent discovery courtesy of a DNA test.
Dan flushed, his face the colour of beetroot, and he chuckled. ‘I guess you got some value out of that old van of yours Francis.’ He glanced at his phone on the coffee table and realised the recording app was still activated.
Renard cleared his throat. ‘Oh, yeah, now, who was I with?’
‘Her DNA results will clear up that mystery,’ Dan said and then rose. He made the assumption that Renard would have been occupied with conceiving his daughter and thus not focussed on the fate of Milo Katz. No use continuing the interview now, he thought, and decided that if he needed more information from Renard, he’d make another time to see him on his own. He picked up his phone, with his notebook, tucked them into his pocket. ‘I better get going.’
Eloise walked him down the hallway. ‘How’s things?’ she asked.
‘Could be better,’ Dan said.
Over the next half hour, on the front porch, view of the gulf on a gentle autumn day, blue water and white sail boats bobbing, he proceeded to tell Eloise about the dramas in his life. His son wanting to move back to Europe to be with his ex. Mooch, actually. They’re in Lausanne, Switzerland. Whatever for, he has no idea. And his relationship with Jemima is under pressure. She’s all fired up about politics and a particular protest movement. Disruptions going on left, right and centre. And he must help police those from time to time and there’s Jemima on the other side. So awkward. What is he to do?
Plus, to make matters worse, he’s been partnered up with Dee Berry. Remember her? Such a difficult personality. And they have history going back to the ‘70’s. History he’d rather forget. Old flame, you see.
In the pause while Dan reflects on his lot in life, Eloise asked, ‘Say, Dan, there’s this cold case I’d like to look into, if that’s at all possible. Would you be able to lay your hands on the Percy Edwards files? He went missing back in 1978. And could you possibly pass them in my direction?’
Dan locked eyes with Eloise. ‘Delaney, you know I can’t do that.’
‘But…Also, I think there’s more to the disappearance of Lillie and Sven’s father, Jan von Erikson. And I have this feeling in my gut that Mr. Edwards who disappeared a year later, has something to do with it.’
Dan puffed. ‘You and your gut, El, one day, I believe it will be the end of me.’
‘You will?’
‘I’ll have a poke around.’ Dan shook his head. ‘Can’t promise anything.’
As Dan climbed into his Government issue 2022 Toyota Corolla Hybrid, he remembered that his mobile phone recording app was still running. A colourful word escaped his mouth before he muttered that he must delete the last thirty-minutes of recording. When he gets home and works out how to do such things.
Gaslighting—it’s something we believe is a modern practice, AI generated. But, in truth, fudging the truth is as old as history itself.
You could say that creating one’s own reality is a global pastime and no one is immune to it. As humans, we interpret, or mis-interpret the world around us through our experiences, what we see, hear, taste and touch. We use our worldviews to form our identity and place in the world and to serve as a personal force-field to protect our beliefs. Our personal paradigm helps us navigate our way through life, predicting the challenges life may throw at us.
It is fair to say that our worldviews are limited, and often skewed as we encounter the worlds of others. Naturally, we believe our truth is the one and only way. To feel secure, we impose our version of reality on others. We are right. They are wrong.
People I know repeat their version of truth and make it their mission to convince others. One relative is convinced that I had the worst time while travelling in Europe in 2014. Every opportunity they will preach their story of my perceived misery to all glory and sundry, including my mother. They are of the belief that if you repeat a lie often enough, people will believe it. Don’t believe them. I had a wonderful time in Europe, beautiful memories, and one day we hope to travel there again. Or have I been deluded by my own interpretation of reality? Hmmm. I did miss the Matterhorn…and the Basel Kunst Museum…No, I will have to agree to disagree with that relative, I did enjoy Europe.
Anyway, the same can be said for our own personal family history. I remember reading an article in a Genealogy magazine about family myths and to be wary of them. It’s not enough to believe a story, a narrative. Good research requires facts, preferably primary resources.
With this in mind, I have been researching on the internet, the history of Nördlingen and the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sönne. Did my Trüdinger ancestors own it for two hundred years, as my relatives have been led to believe? It wasn’t our branch as my great-grandfather Karl August Trüdinger and family emigrated from Bavaria to England in the 1860’s, and then from England to Australia in 1886. He was a textile merchant trading in wool in Yorkshire England and then in Australia he set up a business selling textiles in Adelaide city. Now, here again, the details get a bit murky, and I need to do some more research into the actual work history of Karl August in Adelaide. Suffice to say, from my gleaning of Trove, Karl August was a fine Christian family man who together with his wife Clara Theresa, raised eight of his twelve surviving children to enter the mission field. Vastly different from the family origins in Nördlingen who were apparently rich and influential enough to own the hotel that entertained royalty.
[Photo 2: Trudinger Family in Adelaide, South Australia courtesy L.M. Kling circa 1890]
Yet, as I delved deeper into the rabbit-hole of internet searches, I discovered that my four-times great grandfather, Balthas Trüdinger was a soldier in the Teutonic order. Why else was he living in Lierheim (a castle near Nördlingen) which at the time was owned by the Teutonic order. Oh, the shame that this brought on the family, having a mercenary soldier in their ranks! Another myth. Sure, Balthas was a soldier. Sure, as a soldier in the Teutonic Order he was paid. But was the Teutonic Order so bad? When I first mentioned the fact of Balthas belonging to the Teutonic Order, my son and husband joked that he was most certainly a neo-Nazi of his time. I began to imagine Balthas all buff, shaved head and going around on crusades killing anyone who wasn’t Christian. According to my research, Wikipedia, mainly, Hitler portrayed the Teutonic Order as the exemplar of the Aryan race and cause. Again, this was a myth. As soon as Hitler’s achieved his purpose using them, he then turned against them and discarded the Teutonic Order.
According to my limited research, although the Teutonic Order went on Crusades to Christianise Europe, and paid mercenaries to fight, they also did a great deal of good. Way back when they formed in 1191, they protected travellers making their pilgrimage to the Holy Land. They organised and built hospitals, initially for wounded soldiers and these days the order is primarily a charitable organisation. Anyway, it would seem from the records compiled from my uncle Ron Trudinger, that Balthas didn’t stay in Lierheim, but, after the birth of his son Georg, he moved to Nördlingen. Here, no mention of Georg being an innkeeper, but instead a linen weaver and Burgermeister of the town.
From a research paper on Nördlingen in the 17th Century called Early Capitalism and its Enemies: The Wörner Family and the Weavers of Nördlingen* (Published online by Cambridge University Press: 11 June 2012) which I accessed online through Jastor, I was able to surmise that for Georg to become the Mayor of Nördlingen, he would’ve needed to be seriously cashed up. I mean rich, one of the wealthiest in the town, if not, the wealthiest. It would seem he landed on his feet so to speak as a linen weaver or had come into a sizable inheritance. Or, had he or his father married into money in the town? The owner of the hotel, perhaps?
Nowhere in my gleanings on the town do I see that he was the innkeeper or owner of Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne. The above-mentioned article had a breakdown of income, which I presume was yearly, of people in the town. According to a study accessed online called “Nordlingen, 1580-1700: society, government and impact of war”, in 1700, the owner of the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne had the highest income of all, a salary of 41 Florin. A teacher at the time received one to four Florin per year. And a soldier, which is what Georg’s father, Balthas was, received eleven Florin per year.
Again, as far as the Trüdinger family is concerned, it’s all conjecture and where myths start to grow and take a life of their own.
One thing for certain, though, is that in family history, experiences that family members have had hold weight for evidence. After all, they are the life-experience of that person and from their point of view. My second cousin, who married a German, and lived in Bavaria, decided to visit the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne in the 1960s. Family there living in Germany, informed her that a Trüdinger relative owned the hotel. Upon seeing the hotel, my second cousin was impressed by how high-class it was with fancy décor and loads of antique furniture. The food offered was out of her budget, but my second cousin tried to talk to her hotel-owning relative.
The encounter didn’t progress the way my cousin had hoped. Although my second cousin could speak fluent German, the hotel owner seemed distant and appeared reluctant to engage with her. Maybe, the lady was having a difficult day…Or hadn’t been given enough warning that a cousin was going to visit the hotel unannounced.
My second cousin left the establishment and decided to eat elsewhere.
When we visited my second cousin in Germany, she told me this story and mentioned that by the end of the 1960’s the Trüdinger relatives had sold the hotel. She believed that the hotel had been in the family for 200 years.
I am still trying to figure out if this a fact, or if it is a myth.
Do you or someone you know have information on the history of the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne Nördlingen? Are you related to the Trüdinger family? You are most welcome to leave a comment. Or you may contact me through the My Heritage Trudinger-Kling website.
[There’s a story behind the feature photo. I caught this one on my way home the other night. The sky was ablaze with golds and reds reflected on the clouds. So I made a beeline down to Brighton Beach and after finding a carpark, snapped several shots on my trusty phone.
Next to me, an excited boy about eight, asked his mum, ‘Is that the Northern Lights?’
I chuckled to myself and proceeded to film the serene sea view. Even caught some dolphins gliding through the water.
Beautiful! So beautiful!
Today, we have rain.
*In this Episode of Under the Bridge, the proverbial can of worms has unwittingly been opened…]
You Have a Match!
Monday, February 7, 2022, 6pm
Brighton
Eloise
Eloise entered her Brighton home on the Esplanade greeted by the cooling balm of a sea breeze and spicy aroma of stir fry. A balding man in his mid-60’s, wearing a chef’s black apron over his white t-shirt and blue jeans, busied himself preparing dinner.
‘Hey, there, Francis love,’ Eloise hugged him and then scanned the oil-splattered tiles and the bench covered in an assortment of sauce spills. ‘Mmm, smells delicious,’ she said before noticing three places set at the table. ‘Visitors?’
‘Ah, yes, just the usual; my mate Sven,’ Francis replied before using the spatula to push around the fried rice in the wok.
Eloise spied an opened bottle of Clare Valley Shiraz. ‘What’s the special occasion at Chateau Renard?’
Francis grinned. ‘You’ll see.’
Eloise studied the dining room and table for clues. Next to her husband’s usual place at the table rested his Surface Pro laptop. She thinned her lips. ‘I hope you’re not going to watch sport while we…’ She hated the way that even in the slate-black surface of the laptop, she detected in her reflection, the signs of crow’s feet spreading out from her wide blue eyes and a stray grey hair escaping from her honey-blonde ponytail.
‘Can’t help yourself.’ Francis laughed. ‘Always snooping.’
‘Old habits die hard. You know how curious I am.’
‘Well, dear, you’ll just have to wait.’
‘I could just read your mind, love.’
‘What? And spoil the surprise?’
A rap at the door.
‘Come in, if you’re decent,’ Eloise yelled.
A tall, bronzed man with bleached hair padded up the hallway to the kitchen-dining area. He placed the bottle of sparkling wine on the table before straightening his pastel green polo shirt over his beige shorts. ‘Hope this is decent enough, Ms Delainey.’ He looked at Eloise, his small Nordic blue eyes crinkled. ‘That is right, isn’t it, now that you have retired?’
Francis Renard served the steaming plates of stir fry vegetables and wild rice, while Sven filled their wine glasses with the bubbly. Eloise stared at the table display and then looked at the men looking as if their mouths were filled with a canary or two. She resisted the urge to whip out the phone camera and take a photo.
‘So, what’s the occasion?’ Eloise asked.
‘What? You mean you haven’t guessed?’ Francis said.
‘Oh, Eloise, have you lost your superpowers?’ Sven joked.
‘He who must be obeyed said I’d spoil the surprise.’ Eloise said and then took a casual sip of sparkling. ‘Besides, there’ll be a war starting. March.’
‘Oh, it’s prophecy now,’ Sven said.
‘Among other gifts.’ Eloise sniffed. ‘I’m restraining myself from reading your grey matter.’
Renard opened his laptop and the screen lit up. ‘And now I’ll read the news that you’ve all been waiting for.’
Eloise and Sven put down their wine glasses and leaned forward.
Francis Renard cleared his throat. ‘I’m a close contact.’
Eloise and Sven sprang back. Eloise covered her mouth. ‘Oh, no! Then why have you…you’re meant to…you’ll get fined fifty-thousand dollars!’
Sven threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Priceless!’ he said. ‘Your reaction is priceless!’
‘Bad choice of words, but I’ve been waiting all day,’ Renard said and licked his lips. ‘My ancestry results from the DNA test. You know, the one you gave me for my birthday? They arrived in the email this morning. I have a close relative. A very close…’
‘Your dad? Mum? A sibling you didn’t know about?’ Eloise jumped out of her chair to look over her husband’s shoulder.
‘They say here that,’ Francis pointed at the screen showing a bar chart. ‘I’m a father.’
Eloise folded her arms. ‘I guess that’s always been a possibility.’
Her husband wiped an eye. ‘I don’t know how; the doctors always said I couldn’t…I had the mumps in my twenties. My wife back then and I tried, but then…well…’
‘What about before you were twenty?’ Eloise asked.
‘Possible, but you’d think I’d remember getting a girl pregnant back then.’ Francis Renard wiped his forehead. ‘Geez! That makes the kid over forty. I could be a grandpa.’
Sven’s eyes twinkled. ‘Try great grandpa. That’s what I am. If you include grand puppies.’
‘Is there a contact? A name?’ Eloise asked.
‘Well, yes. But it’s just a name and I don’t know how she fits in, who she’s related to—besides me, that is. I mean, for starters, who’s her mother?’ Francis sighed. ‘I’ve been looking through the list of matches. There are heaps of names. I spent all afternoon. It’s a real rabbit hole. And confusing.’
‘You mean, the physics professor can’t navigate the ancestry website?’ Sven said.
‘Here, let me.’ Eloise hooked the side of the laptop and swung it around to face her. ‘My job was mostly tackling computer stuff. What’s your child’s name? Are they a “he” or a “she” or, “they,” as some are these days? Oh, that’s right, you said, “she”.’
‘Come on, Frank, don’t keep us in suspense,’ Sven said. Then, ‘Hey, I’m hungry. Do you mind if I tuck in?’
‘Go right ahead, I’ll join you while the detective does her magic,’ Renard said and loaded up Sven’s plate with his signature Indonesian stir fry.
‘Well?’ Sven urged.
‘Her name is, according to this match, if she’s used her real name, that’s one thing I’ve found…’ said with a mouthful of rice.
‘Spit it out,’ Sven said.
‘Don’t you dare,’ Eloise snapped. Then quietly, ‘Zoe Thomas. Ta-da!’
Francis finished chewing and swallowed. ‘I was getting to that. But I still want to know who is the mother? Can you tell?’
After a few clicks, Eloise peered at the screen. ‘Hooper, how about that, I wonder if they’re related to Dan? Says here they’re a third cousin to you, Francis.’
Sven, his mouth full like a chipmunk, nodded.
Eloise dipped her fork into the rice dish and ate her meal, all the time staring at the screen.
‘But what about Zoe’s mother?’ Francis asked. ‘Any clues?’
‘I can’t tell you that; the results only reveal your DNA. Unless, of course, the mother is related to you somehow.’
‘A possibility in with our cultural and church heritage—everyone’s related,’ Sven said with a chuckle.
‘Not me,’ Francis puffed out his chest and announced, ‘my ancestors are French.’
El fixed her gaze on the computer screen and clicked the mouse. ‘According to your ancestry results, you are eighty percent Western European, ten percent Celtic and five percent Scandinavian.’
‘Okay, okay, there’s a little bit of German and I think my great-grandfather was Scottish, but so what?’ Francis replied.
‘So, back to Zoe Thomas.’ Eloise passed the laptop back to its owner. ‘I’ll let you do the honours of making contact, dear. How exciting! You have a daughter.’
The three raised their glasses and cheered Francis Renard’s success at producing a daughter.
After sipping, Sven placed his glass down. ‘Yes, but, mate. But who is the mother?’
Francis Renard shrugged. ‘Have no idea. Honestly!’
‘Don’t look at me.’ Eloise turned her head and looked behind. ‘My superpowers don’t extend to—what would that be—genealogy?’
Francis and Sven set their focus on her; eyebrows raised.
‘Is there nothing you can’t do?’ Sven said.
‘Or can do to help find out?’ her husband said.
Eloise sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ll see what the queen of gossip, Fifi can tell me.’
‘God no! Not Fifi!’ Sven said.
‘Yes, Sven, your ex and I do art together,’ Eloise replied.
Sven rolled his eyes. ‘One of the joys of living in Adelaide, I guess.’
After dinner, the three sat on the balcony and while enjoying the Shiraz, they watched the sun set over the sea. The discussion centred on what a young female offspring of Renard might look like, what she might do for a profession, where she lived and most frustratingly, who the mother might be.
Social media had drawn a blank. No photos existed of Zoe Thomas. The only information gleaned was from a site used for professionals, “Link In” where a Zoe Thomas was listed as a high-ranking lawyer in Melbourne. She had completed her law degree, though, at the University of Hobart, and had been practising law for over fifteen years, in a well-known and prestigious law firm in Melbourne and rising in esteem to the ranks of barrister.
Then the conversation between Renard and his friend settled on the good old times in the 1980’s before circling back to the identity of Zoe’s mother.
Renard even retrieved his little black book from that time.
‘You’re not going to call all those dames, are you, Frank?’ Sven remarked.
‘Nah, too much water under the bridge.’
‘Not appropriate,’ Eloise added. ‘But, if you give your precious secrets in that little black book to me, perhaps I can check them out on social media.’
‘Nah, not appropriate, Eloise,’ Sven said.
‘I’m not sure about that, either’ Renard said.
‘Yeah, you’re right, most would’ve gotten married and changed their names. And I don’t have access to records. But as I said, I’ll ask around. See what people remember,’ Eloise said, and then added, ‘discretely, of course.’
Francis Renard nodded and gazed at the grey wisps of cloud on the faded pink horizon. Eloise watched him as his eyes seemed to glaze with tears. She knew he’d had so many girls back then.
She gently touched his arm. ‘Are you remembering the days of your youth, love? Your Kombi?’
‘Those were the days.’ Francis sniffed and nodded. ‘I miss my Kombi.’
‘Ah, the good ol’ days.’ Sven sighed. ‘Before we…’
[Ooops! Friday passed me by, and I missed posting my latest episode of my Detective Dan series, Under the Bridge (working title as some recent television series has snaffled it).
So, here it is.
This week I introduce an interesting witness, Warick Wilke who, as my story has progressed, may take on more significance than when I first thought of him. We will see…
On another note, I had feedback about a speculative murder mystery novel I’d written way back in 2010. I had shared a draft with my writer’s group and with my mum. The news was not good. Not good at all. Relegating that manuscript to the bottom of the drawer until I can work out how to fix it.
So, as this current story is a work in progress and essentially a first draft, let me know what you think.]
The Ford
Monday, February 7, 10am
Kapunda
Dan
Dee adjusted her double P2/N45 mask as the pylons of the Northern Expressway flitted past. Her glasses kept fogging up. Dan who had offered to drive the unmarked Camry, wore his supermarket purchased mask as a chin bag.
Dee glared at her partner in the fight against crime. ‘What use is it under your chin, Dan?’
‘I’m driving I need to see.’ Dan sniffed. ‘And breathe.’
‘I don’t want ya germs.’
‘Had no trouble way back in what, ’78,’ Dan replied with a shrug and then lifted the mask to just under his nose.
‘No pandemics back then.’
Dan chuckled. ‘Ah, those were the days.’
Dee huffed, folded her arms across her soft stomach and stared out the window at the Max Fatchen overpass. ‘Glad those days are over,’ she muttered.
‘Wonder what ever happened to them all? Our gang, I mean.’
‘Who cares.’
‘I remember your parties, you’d invite everybody.’
‘Not everyone…there was that skinny, bean pole of a girl with white hair. What was her name? Oh, yes, I remember, Lillie.’ Dee nodded. ‘I’d like to know what happened to her.’
‘Hmmm, Lillie what? Watson?’
‘Something like that,’ Dan laughed.
‘No, I remember, how could I forget? She looked like a reject from the Abba band. All Nordic, ya know. Yes, that’s right, von Erikson. Lillie von Erikson. She had a thing for you, ya know.’ Dee tapped the window. ‘But I put a stop to that. There was something wrong with that girl. In the head. Told her you was mine. And she believed it.’
‘Pity, she may’ve been my perfect match. Remember that show?’
‘How can I forget? I went on it, remember? The guy I got matched up with, let’s just say was not perfect. But I got a free trip to Bali out of it.’
‘Good for you, Dee.’
‘Actually, speaking of matches, I did see that Lillie once years ago. I went to this church up in Norwood one time. I was going through my religious phase.’ Dee coughed. ‘In front of me was this lady. I was admiring her dress and fashion sense. I thought she must’ve bought it from one of those exclusive boutiques in Burnside Village. She had a girl all tarted up though she must’ve been only about tenish. Mini with crop top and midriff showing. Asking for trouble. But the most beautiful auburn waist-length hair…just like the man on the other side of her, who must’ve been her father.’
‘How did you know it was Lillie if you only saw the back of her? Wasn’t Lillie always plainly dressed?’
‘From op shops, yes. But you see, the priest up the front encouraged the congregation to greet each other.’ Dee wrung her hands. ‘So, this lady turns around and with a most beautiful smile on her face, shakes my hand and welcomes me. Then, she looks me in the eye and her smile vanishes. And I notice her nametag, put two and two together and my Sunday was wrecked.’
‘Why?’ Dan looked at Dee. ‘You could’ve kissed and made up.’
‘Never! That girl…I mean, why’s she so blessed? I ask you! And I mean there she was, still looking good, and rich enough obviously to live in the Eastern suburbs and afford clothes from Burnside. And darn it, her husband’s called Jimmy Edwards. Not the Jimmy but lead guitarist of the local band I liked.’
‘Oh, come on, people change. I remember the rumours back then. I heard that her father walked out on the family and her mother had to struggle to continue her education at our college. She refused to send her to the local state school…’
Dee turned her whole body and fixed her eyes on Dan. ‘How do you know so much about her?’
‘We went to the same youth group, Dee. I never went out with her, but we had some friends in common.’
‘So, what happened to her? How did she get so rich?’
Dan scratched his shoulder and took the tricky turn off the freeway to Kapunda. ‘After she finished school, she sort of disappeared. Went interstate for a while. We all went our separate ways, I guess.’
‘Probably got herself into trouble and…’ Dee chortled. ‘Now I remember, her brother was hot.’
‘Sven,’ Dan snorted. ‘Yeah, got married to the girl next door. Young. Didn’t end well, so I heard.’
‘What do you mean? Did he kill someone?’
‘No, they got divorced after a couple of years. But there were custody issues. I remember coming across the case. Still, long time ago. Geez! That poor little mite would be in his forties now. I wonder what he’s up to. Hope he turned out all right.’
The welcome to Kapunda sign appeared followed by the Miner statue on the left. “Karen”, the trusty sat-nav, directed them to a road off the main road to the workshop belonging to Warick Wilke.
Dan pulled the patrol vehicle to a stop in front of the pastel green painted home. A parade of classic cars of varying antiquity lined the driveway leading up to a massive tin shed.
Dan stepped out of the car and smiled. ‘You can always look your nemesis up on Facebook and ask her to be your friend, Dee.’
‘Never!’ Dee replied.
Dan and Dee walked up the path lined with standard Iceberg roses. Dan adjusted his protective facial mask before knocking on the wire-mesh security door.
A man, his face smudged with grease and wiping his hands with a once-white cloth, emerged from the shed. ‘Can I help you?’
Dan pulled out his identity wallet and showed it to the man. ‘DCI Dan Hooper and DCI Dee Berry here. I believe you have new information about a cold case.’
‘Come inside,’ Warick said and gestured to the pair of detectives to enter his humble home. ‘I have it all set up in the dining room.’
Dee’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, my Lord!’
‘You have gone to a lot of trouble, Warick. Do you mind if I take some photos of your findings?’ Dan asked.
Warick placed down his cloth on an antique cedar chair and straightened a photo of a presumedly deceased kangaroo next to an obviously dented bonnet of a 1995 model Ford Falcon station wagon. ‘Best I could do; considering the original Ford Falcon XB’s can be worth in excess of a hundred thousand.’
Dan studied the photo. He’d owned a car such as this. Back in the early 2000’s. Ah! Memories! Camping trips to the Flinders Ranges with his then wife, Kate. His smile faded. Kate insisted the children have a shower each night after hiking. And made the whole family miserable if one of the children muddied their clothes. Scenery was unimportant for his ex, unless of course Kate was prominent in the photo.
‘You may want to compare this,’ Warick said and passed Dan a faded Polaroid photograph of a red 1976 Ford. ‘You can see there’s damage to the right headlight and the right side of the bonnet is caved in a bit, but you can see that a roo makes much more damage.’
Dan nodded. ‘Hmmm, Mad Max.’
Dee snorted and then continued perusing Warick’s wads of paperwork he’d gathered.
‘Also, on further inspection, I noticed that there’s what looks like a streak of black paint on the original.’ Warick quickly pursed and relaxed his lips. ‘I had to use a magnifying glass, but the image came into its own when I scanned it and enlarged it.’
‘Good work,’ Dan said.
‘Do you have a name for the person who brought the car in for repairs?’ Dee asked.
‘You see, it was only years later, upon reflection, that I recalled the motorcycle accident down at Sellicks Beach…I’m still kicking myself. Just that one detail, that one piece of paper—missing,’ Mr. Wilke said with a sigh. ‘I had an apprentice at the time. Great worker, but well, his brains, let’s just say weren’t in his head; they were elsewhere. As for paperwork? Hopeless. And unfortunately, he was responsible for fixing up that car and dealing with the owner.’
‘Name?’ Dan asked.
‘Francis Renard,’ Wilke grunted, ‘never forget that name.’
Dan made a note. ‘Francis Renard, now why does that name ring a bell?’
Dee snorted again. ‘Now there’s a blast from the past.’
Dan leaned over to Dee and whispered, ‘Is he on our records?’
‘Not exactly,’ Dee replied softly but with a sour note in her tone, ‘tell ya later.’
After recording Warick Wilke’s abundance of information about Fords, kangaroos, and receipts of repairs, followed by coffee and sultana cake with an informal interview, come witness statement from Warick, Dan and Dee finally dragged themselves away from the little green house in Kapunda.
‘Francis Renard and Lillie von Erikson, now there’s an odd couple I’ll never forget,’ Dee said as she yanked open the door of their Toyota Camry. ‘Imagine the offspring if there was any.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Dan asked while securing his seatbelt. He smiled, noting that Dee’s mask had slipped to below her chin after coffee and cake, and had yet to migrate up to cover it again. ‘There were rumours. Her friend, Fifi Edwards was quite concerned for her after an end-of year party.’
‘Ooh, you do remember her. Thought so.’ Dee checked her image in the mirror. ‘Wonder what happened to Francis? A mechanic: that sounds about right. If he’s the same Francis Renard, he didn’t strike me as the academic type.’
Dan tapped the steering wheel, then adjusted the visor to minimise the glare of the late afternoon sun. ‘Francis Renard, I’m sure I know him from somewhere.’
She perched on the kerb waiting. The minutes stretched, ticking into what seemed to her, an eternity. Cars whizzed past. With each car that emerged around the corner, the hope—her mum’s car. That battered blue FJ Holden, had suffered many knocks in its fifteen years of life. Like me, same age and having suffered hard knocks, she thought. But cars with anonymous drivers passed by and so did her hope…until she just sat…waiting…expectations drained…waiting.
A mixture of gloom and uneasiness haunted her. It had shadowed her all day. Ever since the first period, home class, when Dee, yes, that’s right, Dee, her arch enemy, had sidled up to her and hissed, ‘He’s mine, Lillie. He’s mine. He never liked you. He likes me.’
Dee slithered into her seat; pink lips pursed in a smile. She flicked her brown mane, and then glancing at Lillie, she smirked and then rubbed her hands together. ‘Mine!’ she mimed. ‘All mine.’
Lillie imagined Dee at that moment morphing from the budding model she was into a female form of Gollum, bent on possessing the ring offered by her latest conquest—Danny. Why else was Dee gloating?
Lillie’s heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. A drop of rain plopped on the pavement and sizzled. Lillie sighed. She’d seen him—Danny—that morning. Lofty, blonde hair tousled, framing his high cheekbones, strong jaw and his face all tanned. But Danny hadn’t seen her. He never saw her.
On the way back from chapel, Danny had been walking behind her and she’d worried about her uniform. Was her dress hitched up in her regulation stockings? Autumn and the school demanded girls wear the winter uniform with the awful scratchy woollen skirt. The month of May in Australia, that day, hot and all steamed up, clouds billowing with purple bellies, threatening a storm, but not before all the students at College were fried having to wear their blazers as well as their uniforms woven in wool. The principal threatened the punishment of suspension if they shed any part of their school attire.
During the day, her usual foes added to her discomfort. She was already hot, sweaty, and itchy, and then they had to weigh in. On the way to English class, Dee and her clutch of fiends attacked from behind. They threw verbal abuse; the usual “stones” of “loser”, “dog” and “no one wants you, Lil”.
Lillie fixed her eyes ahead even as the heat rose to her cheeks. She trod up the stairs to Dee chanting, ‘Poor Lil, poor Lil, what a dill.’
As Lillie turned the corner of the stairs, she glanced down. Danny leaned against the rail. Dee sidled up to him and pointed. ‘Hey look! She’s got a hole in her stocking. Poor Lil, poor Lil. Too poor to buy new stockings, Lil.’
Dee laughed and her gang joined in.
Lillie turned and continued plodding up the stairs.
‘Charge!’ Dee yelled.
At her command, Lillie quickened her pace. She knew what was coming. The thudding, the cries and the horde as her foes surged upon her. They crowded in and jostled her. Big beefy Twisty jammed her into the lockers and then bumbled down the corridor.
As Lillie straightened herself, Dee strode up to her and poked her. ‘He’s mine, understand?’ She then waved her hand in front of her nose. ‘Phew! You stink! B.O.!’
Danny lingered an arm’s length from Dee, and as she minced into English class, she blew him a kiss. Lillie’s stomach churned, and with her gaze riveted to the floor, she followed Dee into class. Her scalp prickled with the sense that the eyes of every class member had set upon her. Her orthodontic braces took on astronomical proportions and her pigtails drooped like greasy strips of seaweed.
Then Scripture class. Just her luck! Lillie picked Dee’s name out of the Encouragement Box. So, she had to find a verse from the Bible to encourage Dee. Dee? What sort of blessing could Lillie bestow on her worst enemy? The girl who had everything—popularity, beauty, and a boyfriend.
Lillie opened her Bible and picked out the first verse that caught her attention. She wrote down the verse from Galatians 6:7: “…for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” She plopped the note for Dee back into the box. From what she could tell, Dee seemed happy with her note, if not mildly miffed by the message.
As she sat on the kerb waiting, Lillie reflected on the verse she received. Matthew 5:3: “Blessed are the poor in spirit…” She nodded and mused, That’d be right, Dee had me. Still, it does say I’m blessed.
That odd pair of siblings, Milo Katz and his younger sister, Sharon shuffled by. Lillie curled her lip and shuddered. She sank deeper into the shadows of the school’s office entrance. Both had this peculiar awkward gait, like they were a “sandwich short of a picnic” as Fifi often said of the mentally challenged. Milo certainly was. He’d failed Year 8 twice, then been relegated to the “special class”. He was in her confirmation class at her church and attended the same youth group. For some reason, Lillie had no idea why, he’d set his romantic sights on her, despite Lillie telling him more than once, that they could only be friends.
Then Sharon graduated from confirmation and began attending youth group. She’d taken a shine to Lillie after she was her leader at a youth South Zone camp. Now every time Lillie came to youth group, Sharon made a beeline for her and stuck to her like a clingy baby. They called her “Shatz” as Sharon’s mother called her that as a term for endearment in their native European language. Fifi joked that Lillie was Shatz’s “mother”. The other girls began avoiding Lillie. They didn’t like Shatz. Behind her back and in front of this unfortunate child, they teased her, calling her, Shatz the— (a derogatory name that rhymed with Shatz).
Lillie mused, How could a dynamo of a woman such as Mrs. Katz, leader of the ladies guild, classy dresser in league with Fifi’s mum, have borne and raised these two lame ducks? Were Mr. and Mrs. Katz first cousins? Were their offspring inbred?
A flash of lightning. A crack of thunder. Fat dollops of rain splatted on the footpath. Lillie sighed and muttered, ‘I’ll just have to risk getting laughed at. My mum’s car. What a relic! How embarrassing!’
She shrugged her bag full of books over her shoulder and sauntered to the chapel. Rain pelted down on her, and she sought refuge in an alcove of the chapel hidden behind a diosma bush. There, she drew her knees up to her chin and sniffed. The rain and then the tears had melted her mascara. Her vision blurred. She drew a soggy tissue from her blazer pocket and wiped her eyes.
The downpour stopped. Fellow students emerged from shelter and straggled along the road to the carpark where their cars or parents in their shining white Commodores awaited them.
Lillie examined her calloused knees that had broken through the holes in her stockings. When would mum be able to afford new stockings? Her parents barely scraped together the school fees. ‘We go without for your education,’ Mum says. Lillie had begun to understand how that worked in a posh school like this one. No friends, no choice but to study and get good grades…and a scholarship.
A car screeched. Expecting her mother, Lillie looked up. But it wasn’t her. But she saw them. Dee and Danny. They held hands. Dee nestled into Danny’s side as he held an umbrella over her, even though the sun now shone casting an eerie golden glow over the gum trees and oval. Lillie winced.
The couple perched on the chain fence where they swung back and forth and whispered into each other’s ears. Lillie parted the diosma bush. She watched and cursed them as wrapped in each other’s arms they consumed each other’s lips.
‘Ugh! How could they? In public!’ Lillie muttered. ‘I hope the principal catches them and puts them on detention.’
Lillie heard a familiar roar. She stepped from the bush and strode towards the carpark.
The FJ Holden raced up the driveway, its wheels crushing the car-park’s gravel in its rush to meet Lillie. Dee and Danny remained oblivious in their passion on the chain fence. Mum’s car cut through a large puddle. Water flew high in the air and then dumped on the couple.
Dee shrieked. They stood like two drenched rats, their legs and arms spread in their sodden clothes.
Now Dee really does look like Gollum, Lillie thought. Her nemesis’ mascara streamed down her face and made her eyes look like a panda’s and hair pasted on her head.
The couple glared at the FJ Holden as it screeched to a stop in front of Lillie. She smirked as she jerked open the white door of the mostly blue car and then scrambled in.
As the FJ Holden with Lillie and her mum merged with the crowd of cars on the main road, Lillie glanced back and smiled.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Mum spoke while patting her wet hair from a late shower, ‘your dad’s gone for good this time.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Just do,’ her mother snapped. ‘Stop asking questions.’
Lillie gazed out the window at the passing Morphettville Racecourse and muttered, ‘Fine, then.’
‘Oh, another thing,’ Mum added, ‘You’ll be staying at your grandmother’s tonight. I hope you don’t mind, sorry about that.’
‘What about my…?’
‘Don’t worry dear, I’ve packed a bag. You know how your gran loves to have you.’
‘It’s okay, Mum,’ Lillie sighed, ‘at least I don’t have to put up with Sven’s arc-welding all night.’
‘Sorry about the inconvenience,’ Mum rattled on, ‘it’s Sven, you see, we’re just trying to help him set up his business. And I wish you wouldn’t begrudge him of that. Show a bit of respect.’
‘Sven, it’s always about Sven,’ Lillie mumbled to the window.
Her mother rambled on about everyone is different and that her brother needs a helping hand to move forward in life, and that Mr. Edwards was doing his best to help them out.
Lillie tuned out. She uttered not a syllable the rest of the journey to her grandmother’s house near Marion Shopping Centre.
About quarter to 7 we arrived at the station and there was the whole station out to meet us, black and white, big and little, and such a noise too, it sounded just like a whole lot of parrots or galahs. Then the truck came to a standstill and Sam got out and had to shake hands all around. I had to stay in the truck on account of the measles. I could only talk to them from a distance. It was just like a dream and to see all the natives running to and fro, reminded me of the movie films which Lou Borgelt had taken in New Guinea.
Well, after all the greetings were over we were taken across to our new home, which by the way isn’t very new, it’s one of the oldest houses on the station. Mrs Albrecht was going to have us over there for the first few days for meals, but through this measles business we decided it was best if we stayed isolated for a while so as not to infect the natives. Mrs Albrecht sent us over our tea, then, and such a huge tea, too, and we did full justice to it, too.
And now began our life on the station. But so far we haven’t seen very much of it, I haven’t been out of the place at all, Sam has gone to the other places more, but we keep away as much as possible. And now, last weekend, Ruth gets the German Measles, she was fairly miserable, but is alright again now, except for a cough. Now it means we have to stay isolated for another 10 days or so, in case Marie gets them. It is a real nuisance, because we can’t get to anything properly. The only advantage it has is that we can get things a bit straight around the place.
Such a lot wants doing, the doors don’t fit, and the floors need doing, and the garden has to be made. These last two days Sam has had 2 natives helping him with all sorts of odd jobs, yesterday and today they dug the front garden and this morning we planted the lawn and tomorrow I want to put in some flowers.
The first 2 days we were here were terribly windy and dusty and hot. The dust came in everywhere, it was just like a real dusty day in the mallee. Our box of goods was supposed to come out the same day that we got out here, but it didn’t come Wednesday, we waited Thursday, and still didn’t come. By this time Missionary Albrecht was getting worried, he thought the thing might have tipped over. Friday morning we got a wire to say they couldn’t get it off the truck in Alice Springs. They had been trying to get the wire through since Tuesday but the weather had been too bad, they couldn’t get it through. So Sam had to pack up an go into Alice Springs and there saw to the unloading. Eventually on Sunday afternoon the lorry arrived and was duly unpacked, of course the natives were very interested in everything, especially the piano.
So far I haven’t any house girls yet, as soon as we are out of quarantine I will get two. Mrs Albrecht has been baking my bread for me until I get the girls. Milk I have brought over every morning, also cream and from that I make my own butter, but unfortunately I am not a good hand at it yet. There are some nice vegetables in our garden, which is quite a big one, we have over 20 date palms in it, 4 orange trees and 3 figs and quite a number of vines. This last week we had about an inch of rain which was quite nice for the gardens and settled the dust.
I am afraid it will take me quite a while to get to know all the natives and all their names too. I know Albert, the artist, by sight, of course, he always wears an overcoat and is quite proud of his appearance. I also know,
Manasse the leather worker, also Herbert and Ferdinand the two Sam had helping him. Of the women, I think the only one I know by name is,
Cecelia, an older woman who always wears a red dress. Some of the children are lifted up so that they look over the fence to watch the children play and when we come out they scoot. Some of their attire is pretty weird too. One little chap wears his father’s shirt, it reaches nearly to the ground and has to have the sleeves rolled up. Another little girl has her big sister’s dress on, and every time she runs she has to hold it up or she would fall over it. Another little chap has a “has been” shirt on, his father’s, it’s only strips now. Most of the men wear hats, some felt, some harvester hats. The boys that Sam has have straw hats on but they look as though the mice have been at them. Yesterday morning the one came along with feathers sticking out of the holes, I don’t know if he had visited the fowl-house or not.
The sun’s rays filtered through the dust motes of the church hall near the seaside. The air conditioner thrummed pumping out the sticky 40-degree Celsius heat that Monday afternoon in January.
Eloise Delaney unloaded her motley collection of watercolour palettes, colour-splattered former honey jars and 300-gsm paper framed with masking tape. She then arranged her brushes. Thick sable, round and soft, like the tip of her tabby cat, Spike’s tail. Great for that initial wash of sky, sea and sand.
She had lined up the thinner brushes in order of detail as the painting progressed. She stroked the finest brush, the one used for her flourish of a signature; the one more than 70-years old from her maternal grandfather’s collection salvaged after the bombing of his home in Nördlingen, Bavaria 1945. It was premium quality being made in Germany.
She sighed, ‘Must do this so nothing is lost.’
‘Talking to yourself already?’ a voice sang. ‘Sign of madness, ya know.’
‘Consequences of early retirement, I guess.’ Eloise laughed. ‘Least I had a social life when I was working.’
‘What do you call this?’ Eloise’s pear-shaped friend flicked a wiry lock of henna tinted hair from her freckled face. ‘Is this seat taken?’
‘Nah, go ahead. I could do with the company, Fi.’
Fifi settled herself on the plastic chair diagonally opposite Eloise, and after fumbling in her tote-bag, produced a mini flask. The thin mauve cannister wobbled on the newspaper that covered the trestle table. ‘I’m economising today; made my own brew.’
‘I’m celebrating,’ Eloise said and held up her takeaway cappuccino from the café down the road. ‘The “Rabbit hole” beareth fruit.’
Fifi pulled out her sketch pad, set of Derwent pencils and three scrunched up tissues. Then she leaned forward ‘What? Oh, your family history. Any noble? Kings and queens? Or, let me guess, some royal fruit from the other side of the royal bed?’
‘Well, actually, sort of…’ Eloise dipped her brush in the former honey pot full of water. ‘France, actually. And a bed of his ancestor’s made long, long ago.’
‘Well, I could have told you that, him being French, I mean.’ Fifi wiggled her generous behind on the chair, and then smoothed a fresh page of her sketchbook. ‘Do tell.’
El opened her mouth to spill forth all the juicy gossip about tracing her husband’s tree, a royal line stretching way back beyond Charlemagne and to Julius Caesar—all done without the help of DNA, but hours of research—when the leader stood and welcomed the small art group back from the holiday break.
Plus, there was that strange woman sitting behind them who was listening to every word El spoke. That woman, Sharon Katz, nicknamed Shatz, with the mouse-brown hair and the poisonous mushrooms (picked from the forest and dried) she foisted on El just before Christmas—insisted she take them. Lucky for El, her husband, Francis Renard, as a keen gardener and scientist, warned her of the dangers and she threw the suspect fungi into the bin. The next week, Shatz made a point of asking how El how she was feeling. All holidays El puzzled over Shatz. Had she had a run-in with this Shatz in times past while doing her duty as a police officer? Or was Shatz one of Francis’s former lovers?
‘Tell you another time,’ El whispered. ‘Probably should get Francis’ permission first.’
‘Oh, okay, then.’ Fifi sighed. ‘So, how was your Christmas?’
‘Meh! Glad it’s over for another year, Fi.’ Eloise smiled. ‘Francis and I had a quiet one on the actual day, then we all went to my cousin’s in Flagstaff Hill on Boxing Day. It was a disaster. You know, in the middle of Christmas lunch, which I might add, was leftovers from their Christmas day, someone, not mentioning any names, just had to bring up the latest controversy circulating on Fox News. Next thing, arguments all round. Renard and I left early and walked around the newly opened Happy Valley Reservoir. At least that part of Boxing Day was enjoyable.’
‘Well, my Christmas Day, thanks for asking, Eloise,’ Fifi’s lips tightened for a moment, ‘I don’t know why we bother and make such a fuss about the whole thing.’
‘Yeah, I know, the novelty wore off years ago. I just wish we could get back to the basics, the real meaning of Christmas and celebrate that.’
Fifi nodded. ‘Yeah, who needs another voucher? All we do is exchange money and vouchers these days. Where did the love go? Although, in my family, even with all those kids my parents had, there wasn’t much love.’
‘Really? I always envied your big family.’
Fifi sniffed. ‘If you really knew my family and what went on behind closed doors, you wouldn’t be envious.’
‘Why?’ Eloise may have been taking time out from her job as a detective, but she had not lost her inquisitive nature. ‘What went on behind closed doors?’
‘My dad, when he was around, was a pompous twat.’
‘How so?’ Eloise asked. She noticed Shatz, lifting her head, looking at them and listening again. Her curiosity annoyed El and she turned around and glared at the woman. Shatz dropped her eyes down to her sheet of paper and pretended to work on her pastel rendition of a bullfrog.
Shatz’s eavesdropping didn’t bother Fifi who continued, ‘He was hard on us kids. If we did the slightest thing wrong, he’d thrash us. Typical of his generation and background, European, you see. He thought you hit kids into submission. And, as for girls, they were to be seen, but not heard. He treated us girls like slaves.’ Fifi thumped the table. ‘I hated him.’
Fifi’s cannister of coffee toppled from the table and rolled on the floor.
Shatz picked up the cannister and handed it back to Fifi. ‘My dad was the same,’ she said before El’s frown drove her back to her seat to resume painting.
El then said, ‘He didn’t mellow in his old age?’
‘He left and…’ Fifi paused, ‘…and I was glad. Life improved after he was gone.’
Eloise studied Fifi and the freckles that danced on her face as her eyes blinked and her mouth twitched. ‘I sense that your father did more than just leave, Fi.’
Fifi’s eyes widened. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Part of the job, Fi. So, what did he really do?’
‘It was the strangest thing, Eloise.’ Fifi took a deep breath. ‘One day, my friend Lillie, and Jimmy my brother and I went for a hike up to Mount Lofty. On the way down, we did a bit of exploring. I can’t remember whose idea it was. Anyway, I go looking at this culvert. I had in mind that this hole in the side of the hill could be some disused mine and that I could find gold there. But, when I go down there, I see this body. Just bones and leathery skin over the bones like…but I recognised the boots. Those boots. I had lost count of the times those boots had kicked me…I knew it was my dad. But at the same time, I didn’t want it to be true. I just hoped they, whoever they were, were somebody else with the same type of boots.’
‘Oh, right, when was that?’ Eloise had turned over her paper and had begun to take notes with a piece of charcoal. ‘How long ago, did you say?’
‘Over forty years.’ Fifi replied softly. ‘He’s been gone since January 1978.’
‘Forty-four—exactly.’
‘How did he end up in a ditch? Near an old mine?’
Fifi shrugged. ‘Not sure, but he had enemies.’
‘I see.’
‘You see, we did report it to the police. But nothing happened. Forty years, and nothing. I mean, I know he was a creep and often rubbed people up the wrong way, but he was still my dad. And I just wanted to…you know, find out why he ended up there. Why anyone would. Dead. And no one seems to care.’
Silence for a few minutes. Fifi sipped her coffee while Eloise studied her notes. The happy chatter from fellow artists provided background noise. The air conditioner continued to thrum.
‘Mm,’ Shatz began in a soft voice, ‘my brother was killed in a motorbike…’
El turned and narrowed her eyes at Shatz. Was this woman trying to get attention? she thought.
‘Sorry,’ Shatz said. ‘But I knew Mr. Edwards, he was a real…’
‘Well, of course you did,’ Fifi huffed, ‘we went to the same church, remember?’
‘Never mind, sorry,’ Shatz mumbled.
Another pause.
After the pause, Eloise looked up. ‘Would you like me to follow this up?’
‘I don’t know.’ Fifi wiped her eye. ‘I guess. But isn’t it a bit awkward for you now that you’re…?’
‘No trouble. I can call Dan, my partner, or should I say, my ex, or whatever he is now that I’m on leave. I can still use the phone.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. No promises. But it’s worth a try, don’t you think?’
The rest of the afternoon, Eloise and Fifi occupied their thoughts with painting and sketching. The cheerful chatter of the other artists continued, none the wiser of Fifi’s loss and childhood trauma. Except for Shatz. El wished that woman who attempted to poison her wouldn’t be so nosey and would mind her own business.
The air conditioner kept on thrumming until the rush for pack up and departure. Then as the last person locked up the building, they turned off the infernal humming machine and the heat of late afternoon in Adelaide seeped into the empty hall.
This last week, Hubby and I have received our DNA results. Dear Hubby received his last Friday, but mine only arrived today.
So, the last week I have been familiarising myself with the process and slowly building our family trees. Early on, I discovered a truth, you could say a “skeleton” in one of our ancestral lines. I added the details to see if anything further came up. My Heritage, call this a “smart match”. Nothing did, but I left it there.
For certain family members this truth appeared absurd, and too difficult to comprehend. Surely, that ancestor wouldn’t. Didn’t. Noone told us that. You have it all wrong, Lee-Anne.
Hence, Lee-Anne (me) being a good person only wanting the best for the family, deleted the suspect members from that branch of the family.
Then, curiosity set in. Who was that ancestor’s mother? Father? My husband suggested we go down the line to the descendants and put in a particular name.
This I did.
You wouldn’t believe it, but the same results, only this time verified by the official birth and marriage records. My original hunch had been correct. Moreover, in the spirit of Sherlock Holmes, I managed to crossmatch the added, yet odd family members with DNA and behold, a match.
Now, the reason I’m being so vague about the whole ancestral situation, which I might add, is responsible for our existence, is because out of respect for some people, the details of such conceptions are to remain private/personal; too personal to be published.
Isn’t it interesting that for people who want to protect their reputation, the unacceptable behaviour of other members of their family, ancestors or close relatives, must remain hidden, buried and plainly, not discussed. Such individuals may even be ostracised from the family.
Yet, such flawed individuals can still be, in other circles, a valued and much-loved member of the community.
My dad’s cousin, Dr. Malcolm Trudinger for instance. The story goes that he had a problem with alcohol. Legend has it that he couldn’t do surgery without a nip or two before the operation.
Malcolm’s alcohol addiction was too much for his immediate family who it would seem distanced themselves from him. Maybe it was the other way around and he felt not good enough for them. Whatever…
According to articles about Malcolm on Trove, he was regularly in trouble with the law. Infractions that in the 21st century, we’d consider a nuisance, or minor, but in the 1940’s and 50’s were serious. For example, his car engine making too much noise at night in town. Or even one time, merely driving his car late at night. Another time he was charged for making a scene at a function.
Despite these misdemeanours, as I see them (glad my brother and I didn’t live in those times—my brother loved doing “donuts” and “burnouts” in his car like in Top Gear at night with his mates in his youth), the folk on the West Coast of South Australia, loved Dr. Malcolm Trudinger. He was their hero. He once helped rescue people from a shipwreck off the coast during a storm. He cared and was always there for the sick and injured.
I remember my mother telling me the story how a person upon meeting my father, and learning his name was Trudinger, sang high praises for his cousin Malcolm. The sad thing was, that although he was still alive when Mum and Dad were first married, Mum never got to meet Malcolm.
Dr. Malcolm Trudinger was such a vital part of the West coast community, they established a rose garden was in his honour after he died in the early 1960’s. We have heard that rose cultivation was his passion and his roses were prize-winning. My niece discovered the garden when she and her partner were on a road trip passing through Elliston. She couldn’t have been more chuffed having found a Trudinger with a rose garden to his name. It showed Malcolm was a loved member of the community despite his demons.
This is what, I believe, grace is all about—valuing and loving people as they are. We are all flawed. Rather than hide the imperfections, celebrate the person, their life and goodness they bring or have brought to the community. It’s our pride and wanting to look good to others that makes us cover up our sins or those of our kin. But also, we may be protecting their reputation too, which is a reasonable thing to do.
The reality is, we are all fallen and we all struggle. No one is perfect. We are all cracked pots. Yet like in the Japanese art of Kingsugu (the repairing of broken pots), there is beauty that shines out through the cracks.
And so, it is with our imperfect ancestors. When you think about it, it’s the ones whose stories are different and colourful that we find most interesting.
Tru-Kling Creations 