Second Friday Crime–Under the Bridge (6)

Sowing and Reaping

May 1977

Private College

Lillie

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?

[Photo 1: Gargoyle, Notre Dame, Paris © L.M. Kling 1998]

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.

Plop! Another drop. A rumble of thunder.

[Photo 2: Storm threatening © L.M. Kling 2023]

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.

[Photo 3: Seaweed Sunset © L.M. Kling 2001]

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.

[Photo 4: Blessed be the burger eaters © L.M. Kling 2023]

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?

[Photo 5: Duck © L.M. Kling 2017]

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.

[Photo 6: Love birds © L.M. Kling 2023]

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.

[Photo 7: Mum’s old car in Lillie’s mind © L.M. Kling 2010]

‘How was your day, dear?’ Mum asked.

‘You’re late,’ Lillie snapped.

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.

[Next chapter Friday fortnight…]

© Tessa Trudinger 2024

Feature Photo: Autumn fruit © L.M. Kling 2024

***

Sometimes characters spring from real life,

Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.

Sometimes real life is just real life.

Check out my travel memoirs,

And escape in time and space

To Central Australia.

Click on the links:

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

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Or for a greater escape into another world…

Check out my Sci-fi/ dystopian novel,

And click on the link:

The Lost World of the Wends

Family History Friday–Grandma’s Letter Part 2

Grandma’s circular letter

CIRCULAR WRITTEN by ELSA GROSS from HERMANNSBURG,

OCTOBER 1939

From Riverland to Desert (part 2)

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.

*[Photo 1: Greetings on arrival in Hermannsburg © S.O. Gross 1939]

        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.

*[Photo 2: The not-so-new home—even older in 2021!!! © L.M. Kling 2021]

        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.

*[Photo 3: The arduous journey of belongings to Hermannsburg © S.O. Gross 1939]

        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.

*[Photo 4: Garden view to Mt. Hermannsburg—yes, the palms still exist in 2021 © L.M. Kling 2021]

        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.

*[Photo 5: Hermannsburg back in the day © S.O. Gross circa 1950]

        And now we have been here nearly 4 weeks and haven’t been able to do any real work yet, but we hope it won’t be much longer before we can start.

        And so begins our life on the Hermannsburg Mission Station.  May God make us a blessing to many.

© Elsa Gross 1939

*Feature Photo: My grandma, Elsa looking out from her Hermannsburg home © S.O. Gross circa 1940

***

Want more, but different?

Check out my Central Australian adventures.

Click on the links:

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

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Friday Crime Fiction–Under the Bridge (4)

Chapter 3

Painting Pals

Monday, January 17, 2022

Church Hall in a Seaside Suburb of Adelaide

Eloise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Well, I could have told you that, him being French, I mean.’ Fifi wiggled her generous behind on the chair, and then smoothed a fresh page of her sketchbook. ‘Do tell.’

El opened her mouth to spill forth all the juicy gossip about tracing her husband’s tree, a royal line stretching way back beyond Charlemagne and to Julius Caesar—all done without the help of DNA, but hours of research—when the leader stood and welcomed the small art group back from the holiday break.

Plus, there was that strange woman sitting behind them who was listening to every word El spoke. That woman, Sharon Katz, nicknamed Shatz, with the mouse-brown hair and the poisonous mushrooms (picked from the forest and dried) she foisted on El just before Christmas—insisted she take them. Lucky for El, her husband, Francis Renard, as a keen gardener and scientist, warned her of the dangers and she threw the suspect fungi into the bin. The next week, Shatz made a point of asking how El how she was feeling. All holidays El puzzled over Shatz. Had she had a run-in with this Shatz in times past while doing her duty as a police officer? Or was Shatz one of Francis’s former lovers?

‘Tell you another time,’ El whispered. ‘Probably should get Francis’ permission first.’

‘Oh, okay, then.’ Fifi sighed. ‘So, how was your Christmas?’

‘Meh! Glad it’s over for another year, Fi.’ Eloise smiled. ‘Francis and I had a quiet one on the actual day, then we all went to my cousin’s in Flagstaff Hill on Boxing Day. It was a disaster. You know, in the middle of Christmas lunch, which I might add, was leftovers from their Christmas day, someone, not mentioning any names, just had to bring up the latest controversy circulating on Fox News. Next thing, arguments all round. Renard and I left early and walked around the newly opened Happy Valley Reservoir. At least that part of Boxing Day was enjoyable.’

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

‘Well, my Christmas Day, thanks for asking, Eloise,’ Fifi’s lips tightened for a moment, ‘I don’t know why we bother and make such a fuss about the whole thing.’

‘Yeah, I know, the novelty wore off years ago. I just wish we could get back to the basics, the real meaning of Christmas and celebrate that.’

Fifi nodded. ‘Yeah, who needs another voucher? All we do is exchange money and vouchers these days. Where did the love go? Although, in my family, even with all those kids my parents had, there wasn’t much love.’

‘Really? I always envied your big family.’

Fifi sniffed. ‘If you really knew my family and what went on behind closed doors, you wouldn’t be envious.’

‘Why?’ Eloise may have been taking time out from her job as a detective, but she had not lost her inquisitive nature. ‘What went on behind closed doors?’

‘My dad, when he was around, was a pompous twat.’

‘How so?’ Eloise asked. She noticed Shatz, lifting her head, looking at them and listening again. Her curiosity annoyed El and she turned around and glared at the woman. Shatz dropped her eyes down to her sheet of paper and pretended to work on her pastel rendition of a bullfrog.

Shatz’s eavesdropping didn’t bother Fifi who continued, ‘He was hard on us kids. If we did the slightest thing wrong, he’d thrash us. Typical of his generation and background, European, you see. He thought you hit kids into submission. And, as for girls, they were to be seen, but not heard. He treated us girls like slaves.’ Fifi thumped the table. ‘I hated him.’

Fifi’s cannister of coffee toppled from the table and rolled on the floor.

Shatz picked up the cannister and handed it back to Fifi. ‘My dad was the same,’ she said before El’s frown drove her back to her seat to resume painting.

El then said, ‘He didn’t mellow in his old age?’

‘He left and…’ Fifi paused, ‘…and I was glad. Life improved after he was gone.’

Eloise studied Fifi and the freckles that danced on her face as her eyes blinked and her mouth twitched. ‘I sense that your father did more than just leave, Fi.’

Fifi’s eyes widened. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Part of the job, Fi. So, what did he really do?’

 ‘It was the strangest thing, Eloise.’ Fifi took a deep breath. ‘One day, my friend Lillie, and Jimmy my brother and I went for a hike up to Mount Lofty. On the way down, we did a bit of exploring. I can’t remember whose idea it was. Anyway, I go looking at this culvert. I had in mind that this hole in the side of the hill could be some disused mine and that I could find gold there. But, when I go down there, I see this body. Just bones and leathery skin over the bones like…but I recognised the boots. Those boots. I had lost count of the times those boots had kicked me…I knew it was my dad. But at the same time, I didn’t want it to be true. I just hoped they, whoever they were, were somebody else with the same type of boots.’

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

‘Oh, right, when was that?’ Eloise had turned over her paper and had begun to take notes with a piece of charcoal. ‘How long ago, did you say?’

‘Over forty years.’ Fifi replied softly. ‘He’s been gone since January 1978.’

‘Forty-four—exactly.’

‘How did he end up in a ditch? Near an old mine?’

Fifi shrugged. ‘Not sure, but he had enemies.’

‘I see.’

‘You see, we did report it to the police. But nothing happened. Forty years, and nothing. I mean, I know he was a creep and often rubbed people up the wrong way, but he was still my dad. And I just wanted to…you know, find out why he ended up there. Why anyone would. Dead. And no one seems to care.’

Silence for a few minutes. Fifi sipped her coffee while Eloise studied her notes. The happy chatter from fellow artists provided background noise. The air conditioner continued to thrum.

‘Mm,’ Shatz began in a soft voice, ‘my brother was killed in a motorbike…’

El turned and narrowed her eyes at Shatz. Was this woman trying to get attention? she thought.

‘Sorry,’ Shatz said. ‘But I knew Mr. Edwards, he was a real…’

‘Well, of course you did,’ Fifi huffed, ‘we went to the same church, remember?’

‘Never mind, sorry,’ Shatz mumbled.

Another pause.

After the pause, Eloise looked up. ‘Would you like me to follow this up?’

‘I don’t know.’ Fifi wiped her eye. ‘I guess. But isn’t it a bit awkward for you now that you’re…?’

‘No trouble. I can call Dan, my partner, or should I say, my ex, or whatever he is now that I’m on leave. I can still use the phone.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. No promises. But it’s worth a try, don’t you think?’

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

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

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

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024

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

***

Sometimes characters spring from real life,

Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.

Sometimes real life is just real life.

Check out my travel memoirs,

And escape in time and space

To Central Australia.

Click on the links:

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

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

***

Or for a greater escape into another world…

Check out my Sci-fi/ dystopian novel,

And click on the link:

The Lost World of the Wends

Family History Friday–Detective Work

In the steps of Sherlock Holmes

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.

[Photo 1: Dr. Malcolm Trudinger © photo courtesy of L.M. Kling circa 1930]

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.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024

Feature Photo: Hubby as Sherlock Holmes, Reichenbach Falls © L.M. Kling 2014

***

Want more, but different?

Check out my Central Australian adventures.

Click on the links:

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

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Family History Friday–Remembering My Dad

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

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

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

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

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

He Wanted Us to Know God’s Love

In Memory and celebration of my father’s life…

Remembering his birthday 96 years ago, Saturday January 13…

DAVID BY NAME CLEMENT BY NATURE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Revised © 2016; 2021; 2024

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

***

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

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

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Travel Back in time with Family–Christmas Memories

You Better Be Good…

A Christmas Memoir

‘I remember you,’ says a lady from church, my mum’s age, ‘you couldn’t keep still. I felt sorry for your poor mother.’

Another lady nods. ‘She had her hands full, your mum.’

‘Ooh, there was the time you escaped and ran up to the altar—oh, your poor mother!’

I smile and nod. So different now.

***

Back then, mid 1960’s…

The Children’s Carol service Christmas Eve—the bag full of sweets and honey biscuits stacked under the live Christmas tree, an incentive to stand in front of the congregation, singing my little three-year-old heart out. I love singing. Then when the Pastor preaches, the Sunday School teacher, Mrs. S, tells me to sit still, be quiet and don’t sin. Be good if you want your bag of lollies.

So, unless I’m told, I sit, am quiet and I don’t sin. Being good means not singing unless told to sing. I thought that’s what Mrs. S meant. And, being good means the reward of sweets at the end of the service. Oh, dear! How long is the pastor going to preach! I try not to wriggle. Everyone’s looking at me. But it’s so hot and stuffy in the church. Poor baby Jesus born in the middle of summer when it’s so hot! My halo’s itching my head. I take it off and scratch my head.

Mrs. S holds up her hand to me. ‘Lee-Anne! Be still! You want your sweets, don’t you?’

I try and put the halo on my head. It’s crooked and slips over my ear.

Mrs. S snatches the halo off my head. She has a cross look in her eyes.

Oh, dear, I hope I haven’t been naughty. I wasn’t sinning, was I? I hunch over and hold my fidgety hands tight. Must be still. Must be quiet. Must not sin. Want those sweets.

Mrs. S gestures for us children to rise. Goody, I can sing! I stand, take a deep breath of pine-air. ‘Joy to the World!’

The service ends. We wait by the tree. I marvel at the white “crismons”, the symbolic decorations from our great-great Grandfathers from Germany. These white shapes made out of Styrofoam and sprinkled with glitter make me wonder, is this what snow looks like? I’ve never seen snow. Snow is for cold places and Adelaide is always hot. Except in winter when it’s cold enough to have the kerosene heater going in the kitchen. But Adelaide’s not cold enough for snow, mummy says.

[Photo 1: Christmas in Australia means it’s hot enough to go to the beach © L.M. Kling 2017]

‘Lee-Anne?’ Mrs. S calls.

I go up to the tree and she hands me my bag of sweets and a children’s book with my name in it.

‘This is for attending Sunday School every week and learning all your bible verses,’ Mrs. S says. ‘Good girl.’

I take the gifts in my arms and careful not to drop my cargo, I take one step at a time out the church as if I’m a flower girl in a wedding. I know about weddings. My Aunty K was married in this church and I wore a new pink dress that my mummy made. And I had this lacy hat, and everybody took photos of me.

[Photo 2: All Dressed up for wedding © C.D. Trudinger 1964]

I’m in the courtyard, lost in a forest of legs. I search for mummy’s legs. She has ones under her pretty aqua dress with frills at the bottom. That’s her new dress for Christmas. My mummy’s a dressmaker and she always makes a new dress for her and me at Christmas. I mean, what are daughter’s for but to be dressed up in the prettiest, frilliest dresses at Christmas?

I can’t see mummy’s dress, or legs. I weave through the legs and scamper down the gravel drive to the back of the church to the car park. She’s in the car, our FJ Holden, Bathsheba, surely. I look in the car. No, she’s not there.

Tramping behind me. A roar. ‘Naughty girl!’ Dad all red-faced. ‘You know not to go down the drive on your own!’ Dad smacks me on the back of my legs.

‘But I was looking for mummy!’ I howl.

Mummy comes running. ‘Ah, you found her. I was getting worried.’

My always-good-brother strolls up to the car. He rolls his eyes and mutters, ‘Lee-Anne, always getting lost.’

‘Now get in the car,’ Dad snaps.

I adjust my load. A biscuit drops onto the dirt. I bend to pick it up. Can’t waste good food.

‘I told you!’ Dad says with another stinging slap to the legs. ‘Get in the car! Behave yourself, or else!’

I climb in and assume “or else” means another smack on the legs. Dad crushes the biscuit with his shoe and then slams the door behind me.

‘Doesn’t matter how much you smack her,’ Mummy mumbles. ‘She never seems to learn to be good.’

As Dad drove down the road he glances at me and says, ‘We’re off to Grandma’s now, so be good, or else.’

Be good, what does that mean? I pondered in my three-year-old mind. I thought it had something to do with not getting into trouble or getting a slap on the legs. I still hadn’t worked it all out, this “being good” business. It had something to do with following my older brother’s and cousins’ example. Something to do with being still. Being quiet and not upsetting the big people. But I don’t know, just when I think I’ve got it worked out, I do something I’ve no idea is wrong and the next thing, I get a smack. All I know is sitting still and being quiet means I’m being good.

Our car tyres crunch on the stones in Grandma’s driveway. We climb out of Bathsheba and enter the house through the back door and greet Grandma who’s piling plates with honey biscuits. We side-step around the table in the dining area and into the lounge lined with couches, dining chairs, and a piano. The lounge room is filled with the smell of pine tree. Pinned in the corner another real Christmas tree, all lit with electric candle lights and decorated with colourful baubles. I move to the tree to touch the pretty decorations. I must be careful not to step on the presents wrapped in red and green paper under the tree.

[Video 1: The wonder of Christmas and bon bons © L.M. Kling 2005]

[Photo 3: The seats are for grown-ups, Lee-Anne (Christmas with the Gross Family) © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

‘Now, Lee-Anne, you sit on the floor,’ Mum says. ‘The chairs are for grown-ups.’

I sit cross-legged by the fireplace.

‘You better sit still and be quiet,’ Dad warns, ‘or else.’

Cousins, aunts and uncles, and the odd, lonely soul from church crowd into Grandma’s lounge room.

I try hard to follow my cousins’, all older than me, example. Sit still and don’t make a sound. I must be good. I watch the grown-ups all chatting, getting up and down, laughing and joking. Must be fun to be a grown-up.

Clothed in her purple swirly dress and beige apron, Grandma settles her generous backside on the piano stool. ‘Let’s sing some carols,’ she says and begins hammering on the keys.

In joyous and rousing strains, we sing our way through the black hymn book’s carols.

I like singing and can’t help but join in. Then I remember. Be still. Be quiet. Maybe only big people can sing. I glance at Dad. He’s singing, eyes closed. My brother next to me barely opens his mouth. He fidgets. Not a good sign. I’m meant to follow my brother’s example, aren’t I?

But I love singing. I love Christmas carols. I raise my voice and sing. Everybody’s happy. Everybody, except Richard sings. I check my cousins. They’re singing. Must be alright to sing if my cousins are singing. So, I keep singing.

[Photo 4: Lined up with cousins © C.D. Trudinger 1965]

A pause. Grandma dabs a hanky on her brow.

Mum pipes up. ‘Well, surely that’s enough singing. The children want to open their presents.’

‘What’s wrong with singing some more Christmas carols?’ the odd, lonely guy from church asks.

Mum points at the mantelpiece clock from the Fatherland. ‘I just think it’s getting late for the children.’

Dad blushes and cleares his throat while the other grown-ups look from my mum to Grandma.

Grandma looks down and wipes her hands on her apron.

Was my mum being naughty?

I reckon they’ve got the wrong person being the naughty one. Who’s the one who’s always told to sit still, be quiet and not sin? Me, of course.

I stand up and say, ‘It’s alright. I like sinning.’

Everyone laughs.

‘She means “singing” carols.’ Grandma’s tummy jiggles up and down as she chuckles. ‘Yes, it is getting late. Let’s open the presents. And Lee-Anne, since you are the youngest, you can help your mother hand out the Christmas presents.’

[Photo 5: Opening Christmas Presents © C.D. Trudinger 1964]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2023

Photo: My Christmas present revealed, me and Teddy, 18 months © C.D. Trudinger 1964

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

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

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

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

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

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

Serial Saturday–Diamonds in the Cave (8)

The Diet of No Return

For a week after Tails’ news, my life stagnated. I’d given up. Didn’t eat—much. As for Sister Salome’s porridge, she could have it.

Sister Salome shoved a bowl of porridge under my nose. ‘It is good porridge! Eat it M-Anni, eat it!’

‘Eat it yourself!’ I muttered curled up on the bed.

‘Your baby needs you to eat.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘What?’

‘About Andreas,’ I said. ‘Is it true?’

Sister Salome cleared her throat. She does that when she’s not quite telling the truth. ‘Officially.’

‘Officially? And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Andreas won’t be coming back, my dear.’

‘Why?’

‘Work it out for yourself.’

‘I can’t, that’s why I’m asking.’ I thumped the mattress. ‘Unless it was you who orchestrated the whole thing.’

‘Min—Anni! How could you!’

‘Easy, considering our discussions on the road trip here. I bet this whole Boris thing is a ruse.’ I paused. ‘Although, I wouldn’t put it past my mother.’

‘Oh, but it is real, my dear. We have our people closing in on the creature, at this very time,’ Salome said. ‘And a more serious situation has arisen. The son of Boris is on the loose. We have to find him. Very grave times. Very grave.’

‘So, your brother could be out there still…’

‘I cannot say.’

‘Then there’s hope.’ At light speed, then on Boris World, Günter’s life would be standing still, while mine moved on rapidly. I had to wait. If I followed, I would end up in a continuous game of time tag. I arrive, and he would have left, maybe only Boris-minutes before. He could arrive back on the Pilgrim Planet, and I could be out searching for him. Anyway, I was only days, maybe a week away from giving birth; the pursuit of Günter was not an option at this stage. Theoretically, the longer he was gone, the more chance that he would not return in my lifetime. However, there was a chance that he would be back. Time, space, black holes and Boris World become rubbery in space and the laws of physics become a law unto themselves. So, I had to wait, and hope and not move on.

‘Please do eat, Anni. This is g-Andreas’ baby, a-and your’s we are talking about. Go on it is very tasty. It is good for you—to eat it,’ Sister urged. I couldn’t fathom why she stuttered as if she had a speech problem.

‘I told you! What part of eat it yourself don’t you understand!’ I buried my head in the pillow to avoid Sister’s force-feeding tactics. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the porridge -laden spoon zoom towards me.

‘Look, what would Günter say if he saw the way you were behaving?’ Sister whispered, the spoon lingering above my cheek.

‘What? Are you doing a candid home movie to show him in twenty years’ time when he finally returns, are you?’

‘Who says it would be twenty years? He could come home tomorrow.’

‘He’s been gone weeks now. I’ve done my calculations—that’s twenty years or more!’

‘Oh, you don’t know that. Space can do funny things. And him too. Don’t underestimate him, dear. Now eat!’

‘As if you care—about us!’ I roared into the feathery down. ‘No! I will not eat! Go away! Leave me alone!’ With that I shut myself off. I pulled the blanket over my head and blocked out all light and Sister Salome.

‘Dear, can’t you see as Anni and Andreas it would’ve never worked. It wasn’t real.’

‘Too late to do the Dr. Phil routine on me!’ I screamed. ‘Get out!’

‘Very well,’ Sister said. ‘Have it your way.’ I heard the bowl touch down on the side table and the spoon go clink as she placed it inside the bowl. I counted the retreating steps as Sister stomped towards the door. The steps stopped and Sister Salome added one last biting comment, ‘But, if you don’t eat by tomorrow, I will be forced to call the doctor who will take your baby by caesarean. Understand?’

‘Fine, then I can go to Boris World and look for Günter myself,’ I mumbled into my bed linen.

‘You won’t find him there.’ Sister Salome chuckled. Then she said softly, ‘Just wait till I get my hands on that blabber-mouth Liesel.’

When I no longer heard her footsteps, I grabbed my voice recorder from under the sheets, saved the last comments and stored them. She had spoken in her ancient German tongue, but I had a translator. I played the results again and again.

The door burst open. I shoved the device under the blankets.

‘You haven’t seen my communicator around, have you?’ Sister Salome eyes wide paced the room picking up pillows, breakfast trays, and the bowl of porridge. Fancy that! Mobile phone detachment anxiety disorder.

I ignored her. Sister Salome’s communicator was stowed under the mattress by me. I had plans for that mobile phone…Who has she been talking to? Günter, I bet… I was glad that Sister Salome’s absent-mindedness had landed me the opportunity to hear what everyone was not telling me, and to try and make sense of it all. Salome never need know I was the “gremlin” that stole her phone and then put it back in an obvious place.

Unsuccessful in her quest to find the lost phone, or communicate with me,Sister Salome left me to my own and her state-of-the-art I-Phone. I stared at the cold porridge. It looked up at me in cold hard lumps saying: “Eat me!” Before I could consider what I was doing I dug into the bowl and scooped a spoonful of grey mass into my mouth. The lumps stuck to the roof of my mouth. I tipped the mattress and retrieved some sugar packets from the base. I sprinkled a few grams of sugar and ate a further few small spoonsful.

Holding Salome’s phone, I tottered to the window. Raindrops splattered on me as I pushed the pane open. I examined the communicator and my options. It rang. I pressed the answer button and put the phone to my ear.

‘Hello?’ A young man’s voice spoke. But not through the phone.

He stood at the door, bandages over his eyes.

‘What?’ I flung the phone out the window. Salome’s mobile smashed into a million pieces onto the path below. ‘Oops!’

[Read the continuation of Chapter 8 on Wattpad…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

Feature Photo: Murton, Switzerland © L.M. Kling 2014

***

And now, for some Weekend Reading…

Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Gunter and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris in…

The Hitch-hiker

See how Boris seeks revenge in…

Mission of the Unwilling

And the Mischief and Mayhem Boris manufactures in…

The Lost World of the Wends

Or if you would like some Aussie Outback adventure…

Check out my travel memoirs, click on the links.

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

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Friday Fiction–From the Backyard

[This account is based on a true story, but the names of the people have been changed, to protect the not-so-innocent…yada, yada, yada…so truth be told, it’s fiction to entertain.]

 Neighbours to Entertain

Gliding home in her Toyota, Mum waved at the children gathered in the street around the corner from her place. Karl, her younger teenage son scowled, ‘Why did you do that?’

‘Just being friendly, love.’

‘Stop being friendly. It’s embarrassing!’

‘Just changing the culture, you know, trying to make this community more friendly.’

‘We should just keep to ourselves,’ Karl muttered. He slouched in the passenger’s seat and pulled his hoody over his eyes.

‘Now, remember to let your brother, Phillip in, if he comes home before me,’ Mum said.

Karl mumbled a reply that Mum hoped resembled the affirmative in “Karl-ish”.

The mother dropped her sulking son home and tootled off to her hair appointment in a nearby shopping centre. The hairdresser was very chatty filling Mum in on all the latest gossip and then emptying her purse of cash. Mum didn’t trust credit cards; she always paid in cash. After shopping at the local supermarket, she loaded her environmentally-friendly cloth bags filled with groceries into the trunk of her car and sailed back home.

She pulled up the driveway, and observed Ned, who lived across the road, leaning against his fence and peering over at his neighbours. “Never trust a man in brown trousers,” her friend used to say when she spotted the man lurking in his garden. Ned was wearing the said trousers and a dirty white singlet, that day.

[Photo 1: Suburban Street scene of looming dust storm © L.M. Kling 2021]

‘I wonder what he’s up to?’ Mum murmured as she dragged the groceries out of the trunk.

Shouting echoed across the road.

Mum placed her loads down, and then ducked behind the acacia bush. She watched through the lattice of leaves and listened. JP, the father of the young family next door to Ned, raged at a pot-bellied man.

Mum frowned. ‘Poor JP, still in his pyjamas. Hmm, he doesn’t look happy. Wonder what Potbelly did to wake him up?’

JP jabbed his finger at Potbelly. ‘Get out of my home!’ he yelled. ‘I’m a shift-worker! You’re disturbing my sleep!’

Potbelly edged backwards up the drive as JP drove him up there with his finger-jabbing.

JP’s daughter darted around Potbelly. She waved her arms around and pleaded, ‘Please! Listen Mister…’

‘Get inside!’ her father snapped. Then back to Potbelly. ‘What gives you the right to come knocking on my door—waking me up. Did I mention that? How dare you accuse…Rah! Rah! Rah!’

Three more children emerged from the shadows and joined the dance around Potbelly, squeaking their protests. The grown men, as if bulls, launched at each other, locked horns with words, and flailed arms on the edge of blows.

Mum darted to her carport door where she watched, willing their fists to cuff. She breathed out. ‘More exciting than television.’

One boy, maybe a friend of JP’s son, lifted a mobile phone to his ear. The men, angry eyes only for each other, ranted.

JP bellowed at his kids, pushing the children before him as he steered them into the house.

Mum sighed, and then crept around the back of her home, entering through the rear door. Pushing aside the living room curtain, she observed the continuing drama.

*[Photo 2: Through the curtains © L.M. Kling 2020]

Mobile-boy’s mum rolled up in her little red Honda sedan. Voices now muted by the intervening glass, Potbelly, his face the colour of beetroot, railed at her. He pointed at the boy. Clutching his mobile, the boy ran the back of his hand over his eyes, and his shoulders shuddered. His mother raked her fingers through her dark curls. JP’s boy and girl stepped out of their home. They stood each side of “Mobile-boy”, placing their arms around him.

‘Mmm, this looks interesting,’ Mum said, and on the pretext of taking out the clothes-washing, slid out the back door. Instead of heading for the clothesline, she wandered down to the side gate and poked her head over it. ‘They can’t see me, but I can hear them,’ she whispered while catching glimpses of the action through the shifting apple tree branches in the breeze.

‘But we can’t find it!’ JP’s boy bawled.

‘We’re sorry, we didn’t mean it,’ JP’s daughter bowed before Potbelly whose elbows jutted out as he bore down on his victim.

Mum moved her head left and right. ‘Trust the bush to be in the way.’ She then scuttled around the backyard and out to the carport again. ‘Darn! What happened?’

[Photo 3: Bushes in the way © L.M. Kling 2022]

Potbelly and Mobile-boy’s mum were shaking hands. Then he shook the hands of another parent, a man.

‘Must’ve turned up when I wasn’t looking’ Mum murmured before returning to the backyard. She disappeared into her home to continue on with her life and dinner.

Pot-belly’s voice boomed. Mum dashed back outside to her stake-out position behind carport door.

‘You see,’ Potbelly said to Ned who still leaned up against his neighbour’s fence, ‘I saw them by my car. Fiddling with the wheel. By the time I got there, to them, they had run off and my hubcap was gone. It’s a Porsche, ya know. I chased them and caught up with them here. I want my hubcap back!’

Mrs Mobile-boy-mum spoke but the wind caught her words and blew them away. She pointed at JP’s carport door. Then the children and Mrs Mobile-boy-mum rolled it up, revealing the way to JP’s backyard.

Ned eased himself off the fence and followed the procession into the backyard of interest.

‘I wonder if they found the hubcaps?’ Mum said.

‘Wha?’

Mum turned. Karl towered over her, his arms folded across his chest of black windcheater.

‘What’re you doing, Mum?’

‘Er, um…just looking for the…I thought I heard…there was a disturbance…just checking it out…’

Karl tossed his head and flicked the dark fringe from his face. ‘You’ve been spying again, haven’t you.’

Mum glanced across the road. Ned and Potbelly had resumed their station leaning against the fence and mumbling in low tones.

Karl’s brother, Phil, backpack loaded with university books, strolled up the driveway. He threw a look behind him. ‘What’s up with those two? What’s with the glares?’

‘Mum’s been spying again,’ Karl replied.

***

 [Photo 4: Festival © L.M. Kling 2010]

A few days later…

All was calm, all was quiet for Karl who slept contentedly while his mum, dad and brother ventured down to some local hills spring festival. Karl smiled, pleased that his demand for his family to stay in their own little box, out of neighbours’ way, had been obeyed…And that he didn’t have to take any more drastic action.

‘Thank goodness nothing came of Mum’s spying,’ he said, smacking his lips. He patted the shiny hubcap under his bed, sighed and then drifted into dreamy entertainment of his childhood lost.

He was glad he’d been friendly to the neighbourhood kids the other day.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018

Feature Photo: Sunset Gumtree © L.M. Kling 2017

***

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

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Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (Germany]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [France]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (India)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Canada]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Mexico]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Italy]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Brazil]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Spain]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Japan]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Netherlands]

Remembering my Grandma

Elsa

Born March 16, 1906 – March 4, 1981

THE DOOR IS ALWAYS OPEN

Grandma rarely locked the back door; not when home or if she ran short errands. The only times she did lock the back door was when she went away on holiday. Ah! Those were the days! The 1960’s—Adelaide, the front door greeted strangers and salespeople, the back door welcomed friends and family who didn’t knock, but walked straight in.

[Photo 1: Opening the door to Grandma’s “Lace” © C.D. Trudinger 1964]

Grandma lived a ten-minute walk from my home in Somerton Park. Throughout my childhood and teenage years, I walked or rode the route down Baker Street, across “busy” Diagonal Road, and into Panton Crescent. Then I trod down her gravel drive of her Trust home to her back door; a door always unlocked and without any ceremony of knocking, I pulled open the fly-screen door, pushed open the wooden door, and walked into Grandma’s small kitchen. I still dream of Grandma’s place, “Grandma’s Lace” as I used to call it as a child, her huge backyard with fruit trees and hen house.

[Photo 2: Escape from Grandma’s “Lace” © C.D. Trudinger 1966

The same as her home, Grandma had an open heart with time available to be there for me. From the time I was born, she was there. She bought and moved into her Somerton Park home nearby, about the same time my mum and dad with my brother and me, bought and moved into our home.

Every Sunday all the family which included mum’s brothers and sisters and their spouses, gathered in her tiny kitchen dining area for Sunday roast. The home filled with laughter as we enjoyed Grandma’s roast beef and crunchy roast potatoes—the best ever! Dessert of jelly and ice-cream followed, topped with a devotion, then the Sunday Mail quiz. Holidays held extra treats of cousins from Cleve, all five of them and Auntie and Uncle. Grandma fitted us all in, albeit us younger ones sat at the “kinder tisch” in the passageway. Often friends from church or elsewhere joined us for Sunday lunch. The door was open for them too, and somehow Grandma made the food stretch and the table expand for unexpected guests.

Photo 3: An example followed by her children from early on © S.O. Gross circa 1941]

One of the first times I took advantage of Grandma’s “open door policy” was at two years old. I’d dreamt my cousins were visiting and no one told me. My beloved cousins were at “Grandma’s Lace” and I was missing out.

So early that hot summer’s morning, I climbed out of my cot, dumped my nappy, and naked, I navigated my way to Grandma’s. I streaked over Diagonal Road, not so busy at dawn, and then toddled down Grandma’s driveway. I pushed open the back door and tiptoed through the kitchen and passageway. Then I peered into the bedrooms one by one. Each room was empty. Where were they? Where’s my cousins? I was sure they were here.

[Photo 4: Lined up with Country Cousins © C.D. Trudinger circa 1965]

I entered Grandma’s room. The mound of bedding rose and fell with each puff of breath Grandma made.

I tapped Grandma and asked, ‘Where’s my cousins?’

Grandma startled and her eyes sprang open. ‘Oh! Oh! What are you doing here?’

‘I come to play with my cousins,’ I said. ‘Where are they?’

‘Oh, my goodness—no dear—they’re not here.’ Grandma climbed out of bed and waddled to the bathroom. ‘Now, let’s get you decent.’

After wrapping a towel around me, she picked up the telephone. I stuck by her solid legs while she spoke to my mum. ‘Marie, just wondering, are you missing a daughter?…You might like to bring some clothes…’

As I grew older, Grandma’s open-door policy included her home-made honey biscuits. My friends and I visited Grandma on a regular basis. We’d enter through the back door and make a beeline for the biscuit tin. Then we’d meander into the lounge room. With my mouth full of biscuit, I’d ask, ‘Grandma, may I have a biscuit?’

Grandma would always smile and reply, ‘Yes, dear.’

Grandma’s open-door policy helped as a refuge when love-sick boys stalked me. Mum and I arranged that when I rode home from school, if my blind was up, I was safe from unwanted attention. But if the blind was pulled down, I would turn around and ride to Grandma’s place.

Photo 5: Grandma with her white cat © C.D. Trudinger 1965

Grandma was there also when I had trouble at school. I remember at fifteen, having boy-trouble of the unrequited love kind. Grandma listened. She was good at that. She sat in her chair as I talked and talked, pouring out my heart, while emptying her biscuit tin.

When I paused one time, after exhausting all my words, she said, ‘Lee-Anne, one thing that may help—you need to have Jesus as your Lord and Saviour.’

Grandma passed on from this life to meet her Lord and Saviour in early 1981, less than two weeks’ shy of her seventy-fifth birthday. Her old Trust home on the big block with the fruit trees and chook-yard were razed and redeveloped into four units—front doors locked and no easy way to their back doors.

[Photo 6: Looking beyond into the Hermannsburg compound © Courtesy M.E. Trudinger circa 1950]

The Sunday after the funeral, it seemed to me strange not to gather at Grandma’s. Then Christmas, the brothers and sisters celebrated separately with their own family or partners. I missed the whole Christmas connection with my cousins, aunts and uncles. Time had moved on and our family had evolved to the next stage of our lives.

[Photo 7: Christmas Memories (Grandma in her iconic purple dress far left) © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

These days, leaving one’s back door open, even during the day, seems an odd and risky thing to do. Times have changed—more dangerous, or perhaps we’re more fearful of imagined dangers outside our castles. And now in 2025…Well, Grandma’s life and her “open door” policy in a more trusting time, has made me ponder: How open and available am I to others? How willing am I to listen and value others and their world?

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2019; updated 2021; 2023; 2025

Feature Photo: My Grandma and Grandpa courtesy of Marie Trudinger circa 1950

***

The adventure began in 1981…

Check out my memoir, click on the link below:

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

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Or

If a Science Fiction mystery is more your thing, have a look at my new book.

Click here on The Lost World of the Wends.

Tis the Season–Hurry Last Few Hours

Christmas, Thumm-style Down Under

[A Christmas special as a spin-off from my novels The Hitch-hiker and

Mission of the Unwilling.]

Christmas was encumbered with a monumental family gathering. Every family member imaginable plus a few ring-ins congregated at Grandma Thumm’s for the occasion. What was a logistical nightmare for Minna’s parents, aunts and uncles, was joy for Minna as her favourite cousin Holly visited from Switzerland. But she cringed on spotting Wally. (Grandma had felt sorry for his mum and her older teen charges Wally and Monica). That sense of pity didn’t extend to Minna as that dreaded ring-in, and one time school bully, scowled at Minna. Monica had escaped the Thumm Christmas. Home with a migraine. So, without Monica to protect her, Minna avoided Wally, and concentrated her attention on Holly.

Aunt Sophie, Holly’s mother, rounded the Thumm troops for the traditional family photo in the back garden in front of the grapevine. 

The camera got Minna thinking. I wonder…She became quiet and gazed up at the cobalt cloudless sky.

‘Is something wrong?’ Holly snapped her out of sky-gazing, then chuckled. ‘Oh, I know! You’re thinking of some boy.’

‘No!’ Minna shouted. ‘Not boys!’

‘Dinner time!’ Mum called. She rang the bell.

Like lemmings the Thumm clan trooped into Grandma’s kitchen.

As the elders settled around the antique 100-year-old oak table, with a spread of roast turkey, silver and the best china on white linen, Aunt Sophie beckoned to John, Minna’s older brother, ‘You can sit with us, dear, I want to hear all about that telescope you are making.’

Minna sighed, and followed the kids to the “kindertisch” on the back verandah. ‘My luck I’ll end up next to Wally’, she muttered to Holly as they heaped their plates full of the crispiest baked potatoes in the southern hemisphere.

Minna’s words came a reality as she perched on a foldable deck chair at the “kindertisch”. The only seat available for Wally, was next the hers. When he approached the table, paper plate laden into a V-shape from piles of poultry and potato, all the other kids had closed the ranks with their chairs, ensuring no Wally-sized gap existed. Minna, who had been busy discussing the method of making crunchy potato with Holly, had failed to register the Wally-approach. Too late, Wally squeezed his frame between her and Holly. Minna cringed. She would have preferred two Grandmas with wings on either side of her than to be seated next to him.

Wally spoiled what would have been a most pleasant Christmas dinner. As he hoed into his potato salad and smacked his lips together, Minna remarked, ‘You know, you remind me of Gomer Pyle! Where’re you from? Cornball Mississippi South?’

‘Shut up buck tooth Loch Ness Monster!’ Wally replied spraying a mouthful of spud over her plate.

‘Oh! Yuk! Creep germs!’ Minna cried. With that, she tipped the tainted contents over his lap.

‘I’ll get Boris onto you. Or better still, his cockroaches. Ha-ha.’

‘Whoever Boris is. Anyway, you’re one big cockroach.’

‘You dog!’ Wally scraped up a wad of potato and flicked it in her face.

‘How dare you contaminate me!’ She knocked her cola over his trousers. ‘Oops! Looks like someone’s had an accident. Ha! Ha! Wally’s peed himself!’

All the cousins laughed.

‘You cow!’ Wally squealed. His voice cracked and squeaked as if he were a pig.

‘Come, come! What’s going on?’ Grandma poked her head out the back door.

Wally pointed at Minna. ‘The dog did it!’

‘Now, now, that’s not a nice thing to say about your cousin.’ Grandma chided. ‘Dear me, what happened to your pants, Wally?’

‘It was an accident.’ Minna chortled. ‘Wasn’t it, Holly?’

Holly nodded and giggled into her napkin. She had no time for the loathsome Wally either. ‘Yeah, Gran, he had an accident, he peed himself.’ She guffawed.

‘What? Minna threw the drink on me!’ Wally yelped. He brushed the stain with his holly decorated napkin.

‘Now, now, Wally, calm down!’ Grandma reasoned. She waddled her wide-girth body to the table and put an arm around Wally’s shoulder. ‘You must treat girls with respect. You don’t go calling them names like that. Now you say, “Sorry”.’

Wally scowled and muttered, ‘Sorry!’

Satisfied, Grandma went back to her job of hosting the adults who were by this time popping bon-bons and laughing out loud at the lame jokes discovered inside them.

Holly and Minna tittered as they observed Wally move away and seat his slimy self all alone at an extra tiny card table. The paper hat sat crookedly on his greasy scalp.

Minna giggled and said, ‘Hey, Holly, with that salad bowl hair cut and pasty complexion, he looks like the dork from Oz.’

‘Shut up!’ Wally menaced as the girls continued to snigger. He hurled the bone at them. The girls dodged the missile and it landed with a plop in dried up plant pot.

‘Oooh!’ Holly jibed. ‘Respect the ladies, didn’t you hear what Grandma said?’

‘You’re no ladies,’ Wally mumbled.

His mother poked her nose out the window. ‘Wally?’

‘Nothing,’ her son muttered, and with head down, he played with a chicken wing on his plate.

 […to be continued]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018

Feature Photo: Christmas Table © L.M. Kling 2006 

***

Treat Yourself to a space adventure this Holiday season

Want more? More than before? Don’t just listen to the rumours of the war on Boris, read it for yourself. Find out how and why this war began.

Check out my novels on Amazon and in Kindle. Click on the links below:

Mission of the Unwilling—Free for the next few hours.

***

Or check out Holly’s adventures in

The Hitch-hiker