“Karen” on What’s App
Monday, April 11, 2pm
Art Studio, Beachside Suburb
Eloise
‘We had another one of those exchanges with “Karen” on What’s App over the weekend,’ Fifi said. She then, with her brush, spread a blob of paint over the canvas.
‘Karen?’ Eloise asked while detailing the finer bits of her work. Tree branches. ‘Who’s she when she’s at home?’
‘Code word for you know, she who must be obeyed.’
‘Huh? Can you be more specific?’
Fifi sighed and whispered, ‘Lillie, my sister-in-law.’
‘Ah, she who must be obeyed. The,’ cough, ‘controller.’
‘Yes, her.’
‘You see, Easter is upon us, and she who is high and mighty just had to have a rant on What’s App,’ Fifi said. ‘Like “I hope we aren’t all going to just scoff down hot crossed buns and soft drink. And let’s consider our dear 85-year-old Aunty Gracie and not sit back and let her do all the work and have a free lunch. And, to top it all off, “It’s about time we think about healthy food and not eating all this junk”.’
‘Must be going on a diet, do you reckon?’
‘Yeah, well, she has her 60th coming up and wants to look her best, I guess.’ Fifi snorted. ‘Last time I was there, she’d bought a new exercise bike. There she was, peddling away to the tune of the latest detective series streamed on the tele.’
‘Good for her,’ Eloise said and dipped her brush in her paint cup of water. ‘Tell her, if she wants a walking buddy and a stroll by the beach, I’m up for it.’ Then thought, Nothing like a spot of fishing of the family history kind. Although, after all that Fifi had divulged about her prickly sister-in-law and old friend, she just couldn’t imagine what Francis Renard had seen in the girl. Perhaps he was drunk, she mused.
‘I’ll tell her that. Doubt that she’ll appreciate the offer. But I’ll ask.’ Fifi dabbed a cluster yellowy-green blobs with her raggedy basting brush, ‘Can I join you? On these walks, I mean.’
Eloise pursed her lips. She really wanted to see Lillie on her own. To interview her. Informally. Can’t exactly do that with her sister-in-law around. But then she’d have more a chance of meeting this Lillie Edwards if Fifi came too. Such potential interviews of the informal family kind do take their sweet little time.
So, El smiled and replied, ‘Yes, of course. With you coming, she will be more willing to join my fledgling walking group and make it a regular thing.’
‘Oh, sounds wonderful. I’ll give it a go. Can’t promise. We’re not exactly close. I mean, over the last few years she has been a bit frosty. But walking together might thaw things out.’
Eloise was tempted to introduce the idea of the “aunty” compliments of Fifi’s sister-in-law Lillie, but decided such information may be too hot, too wrong, too complicated to put out there for Fifi to consider. Any mention might put her plans to get to know Lillie in jeopardy.
Instead, Eloise said, ‘Say, Fifi, you told me once that Lillie had spent time in Tasmania, um, around 1981. Do you think, considering what happened during the summer, you know, when you discovered the bones, that there might have been another reason she went there?’
‘I thought it was just for the apple picking,’ Fifi said. ‘And she was having a gap year.’
‘When did you see her again?’
‘I’m not sure. The next year, after travelling a bit overseas, she went to teachers college. I saw her around the neighbourhood, but I was married to Sven and wrapped up with my baby, and you know, we drifted apart.’
‘Why do you think you drifted apart? Sven’s her brother.’
‘It’s like, she had her study, her teachers college friends and like she looked down on me for getting in the family way and married so young. I was only 18.’
‘How did she feel about you marrying her brother?’
‘I don’t know. It’s so long ago. But Lillie and Sven were close. Come to think of it, I reckon she did resent me taking her brother away.’
Monday, April 11, 3pm
Strahan, Tasmania
Zoe
Dear Dad
Zoe perched on her stool in the workshop and stared at the blank screen on her laptop. The week before Easter and Strahan put on a cracker of a day. A warm breeze from the north, the sun shining, and boats bobbing on the shimmering blue waters of Macquarie Harbour. Pity that tourism was down.
After taking compassionate leave from her demanding work as a lawyer, Zoe Thomas was helping a friend selling souvenirs at this woodcraft shop in Strahan. She enjoyed the laid-back pace, and the stunning scenery that the wild west of Tasmania offered after the mad task-driven world of trying to make her mark as an up-and-coming barrister in Melbourne. She had only returned to the “Island” for her mother’s last days and funeral.
Then, after her “ancestry” discovery, Zoe stayed on in Strahan with her father. He needed her support. And she needed to process this information that her father and mother were not her biological parents, but one Francis Renard and an unknown woman were her blood relatives.
Thus, here she sat. Computer screen blank, begging her to send a message to this Francis Renard. All sorts of thoughts raced through her mind. Will he accept me? Does he want to know? What about my birth mother? Who is she?
“Dear Dad,” she typed. Delete.
“Dear Francis.” Delete.
“Hey there, Mr. Renard.” Delete.
Screen remained blank.
Check emails. Notification from “My Family History”.
The shop doorbell tinkled.
Zoe sighed. Star by notification. Close laptop.
She looked up at the tall, tanned gentleman with a long thinning mane of grey hair. He looked familiar. Ah, yes, one of the regulars from the mainland. Regular as in once a year, usually around this time, in autumn. The luthier and guitarist from a band in Adelaide. What’s his name? Ah, yes, Jim Edwards. Over the last few years, Zoe had made a habit of helping the local wood-turner out with sales when she came to visit her father in Strahan. She liked wood. She loved the scent of Tasmanian timber. The heady thrill of freshly cut Huon Pine. The subtlety of Sassafras. The boldness of Blackwood.
Zoe smiled. ‘Hey there, Jim, how’s it going?’
‘Great! Yeah, good. Good,’ Jim replied with a wave. He kept looking beyond Zoe. The grandfather clock cabinet constructed out of Huon Pine had caught his eye. ‘One day, I’m going to buy that.’
‘It’s not for sale, I don’t think. How would you transport it?’
‘Oh, you know, in my Hilux. My wife’s big zero birthday is coming up.’ Jim stood nodding at the clock. ‘I wonder…’
‘Dream on,’ Zoe said with a chuckle.
Jim shrugged and sighed. ‘Might make one like that for her next big birthday, I guess.’
‘That amount of Huon Pine is getting scarce, you know. You can’t cut down the trees anymore, so the only pieces are the ones loggers source from drifting down the river, the Franklin-Gordon.’
‘I know. The missus would probably complain its more junk cluttering up her house. Seriously, I reckon she’s got a chronic case of minimalism. Into decluttering, she is. I don’t know how many G-sales we’ve had over the years.’
‘She must love your business.’
‘She tolerates it. I have my man-cave, the garage, that is, and she has the house. No one touches my garage, except me. And me mates. And of course, me band. Been a bit slow, but we’re still jamming.’
‘Yeah, slow everywhere now, but I reckon it’ll pick up. Must,’ Zoe said while shuffling brochures advertising the local play, The Ship that Never Was.
‘My thoughts exactly,’ Jim said. ‘Keep positive. Anyway, I’m looking for some Sassafras for my neck. I mean the neck of my next guitar I’m building.’
‘I’ll see what we have out the back,’ Zoe replied and left Jim standing at the counter while she hunted through the stores of timber in the shed. She trusted Jim. She pictured him hauling the clock away and fixing it onto his Toyota Hilux tray. But he just didn’t look like someone who would take without paying.
Then, an idea. Did she dare ask if he knew Francis Renard? Worth a try, she thought. But then decided that divulging such a personal truth of her being his long-forgotten daughter to a virtual stranger was not worth the risk.
She found a suitable sized block of Sassafras wood, about 1500mm by 500mm by 50mm and returning to the desk, presented it to Jim Edwards.
‘Perfect,’ Jim grinned, ‘you wouldn’t believe how impossible it is to get timber anywhere in Australia at the moment. I’d almost given up on building guitars at this present time.’
‘I know,’ Zoe said. ‘It’s like gold.’
They negotiated a price that was more than Jim had paid for specialty timber such as Sassafras in the past, but Jim, Zoe and her boss were happy with the arrangement. For this piece, she didn’t have to wrap it up and post it.
After Mr. Jim Edwards left the shop, Zoe resumed her perusal of the emails. She opened the one she had started to read.
“Dear Zoe,” it read, “this is your Dad, Francis. I hope you don’t think I’m being too presumptuous but when I saw in My Family History, that you are a close relative, and possibly, no, my daughter, and that you were open to making contact, I just had to write to you.
You see, I have always wanted a family, children, but it never happened for me. Or so it seemed. And now, I am delighted to discover I have you. After all these years. I think the mother, who ever she was (confession, I was quite the lad, you see, sowed my wild… you get the picture), never told me. So, I never knew.
Dear Zoe, I would love to meet you.
Please let me know if meeting would be okay with you.
Love your Dad,
Francis Renard.”
Zoe collapsed onto the stool. Lightheaded. ‘Wow! My Dad!’
Then, before even replying, she googled “Flights to Adelaide” and began the process of booking the first available flight to South Australia.
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024
Feature Photo: Macquarie Harbour, Tasmania © L.M. Kling 2016
***
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