[Keeping with the car-theme this week. Bought a new secondhand car. Sold our car. I say, if I’m a bit muddle-headed, it’s because of all the dealing with vehicles, banking, and paperwork that goes with it. The new-for-us car is beautiful, though and everybody involved is smiling.]
Road Trip to Sydney, the summer of 1979 – Episode 1
[Based on real events. Some names have been changed. And some details of events may differ. After all, it was over 40 years ago.]
Lost Control
A conference on the gifts of the Holy Spirit. I wonder what gifts God has for me? I pondered while dozing in the back seat of my brother Rick’s Chrysler Charger. And Dad…why was it that Dad had to go all on his own by car to the conference? Oh, well…much more fun travelling with my peers.
Crunch!
I sat up. Rubbed my eyes. ‘What happened?’
The car fishtailed. Rocking the carload of us back and forth.
‘Hey, mate!’ Rick, my brother, yelled at the driver, ‘Jack! You trying to kill us?’
Without reply, Jack bit his thin upper lip and swung the Charger to the right, and into oncoming traffic.
I gasped.
A truck bore down on us.
Jack, who reminded me of Abraham Lincoln, clenched his strong jaw and corrected back to the left. Keep left, that’s what you do when driving in Australia. Jack’s usually blonde curls appeared dark from perspiration.
The semitrailer gushed past us, sucking the air out of our open windows.
Rick held up his thumb and forefinger in pincer mode. ‘You missed them by that much.’
Rick’s navy-blue tank top was soaked with sweat around the neckline under his mouse-brown curls, and under his strong arms. Mid-January and the full car with only open windows for air-con, steamed with heat. And body odour.
To my right in the back seat, Mitch, taller and thinner than my brother but sporting chestnut brown curly hair, wiped his damp mauve polo shirt and then sighed, ‘That was close.’
Cordelia, in the briefest of shorts and a tight-fitting t-shirt, showing off her classic beauty and assets, sat on the other side of Mitch. She clutched her stomach. ‘I feel sick.’
Mitch leaned forward and tapped Rick on the arm. ‘How long till we reach the next town?’
‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ Cordelia said.
Rick nudged Jack. ‘I think you’d better stop.’
Jack rubbed one hand on his blue jeans, straightened his long white shirt, placed his hand again on the steering wheel, and kept driving.
Cordelia cupped her hand under her chin and groaned.
I smoothed my white wrap-around skirt and then brushed my light cream-coloured blouse patterned with blue roses. No way did I want Cordelia to mess up my most flattering-to-my-slim-figure- figure clothes.
‘I can’t!’ Jack said and continued to speed down the highway. The golden expanse of the Hay Plains, dried out by the fierce summer heat, spanned the horizon. White posts flitted past. The red-brown line of bitumen of the highway stretched to its vanishing point on that horizon. A faded white sign flashed past. Dubbo, 265 miles. How long had Australia been metric? A few years at least; not that one would know, travelling in outback Australia in early 1979. Still…
Another groan from Cordelia.
Rick screamed at Jack. ‘Stop!’
Jack slowed the car and rumbled onto the gravel beside the road.
Cordelia leapt out and hunched over a shrivelled wheat stalk. I looked away and covered my ears from the inevitable sound of chunder.
‘That was close,’ Mitch said.
‘Remember that drunk guy, your brother brought back to Grandma’s?’ Rick said. ‘Took me a week to get the smell out of her Toyota.’
‘Hmm,’ Mitch replied. ‘That was unfortunate.’
‘You mean, the guy who kept singing “Black Betty”?’ I asked. I remembered that fellow. He had messy blonde hair and a moustache. He lounged on the back seat of Grandma’s car while I sat all prim and proper in the front, waiting for Mitch’s brother to drive us to Lighthouse Coffee Lounge. ‘He kept saying I was so innocent.’
‘Well,’ Mitch said, ‘you are.’
I guess I was 15, but hated to admit it.
Cordelia stumbled back into the car. ‘That’s better.’
Rick and Jack arranged to swap places. So, after a brief stretch of legs and a nearby scraggly-looking bush receiving five visitors, we set off on our quest for Sydney. After all, we still had ages to go before arriving there for the Revival Conference. We hoped to arrive with enough spare time to see the sights Sydney had to offer.
[So, if you could go back and talk with your 5-year-old self, what would you say? What would your 5-year-old self say to your future self? Here’s a story where I imagine just that.]
MESSAGE FROM MY FUTURE ME
“Grandma, can I excuse the table?” I asked.
Grandma chuckled. “You mean, be excused from the table, dear.”
I nodded and then pushed my chair from the old wooden table.
“Yes, you may, but don’t go too far,” Grandma said. “Go only to the end of the road and then you must turn back.”
I escaped out the back door and down the gravel driveway. The street spanned before me, begging adventure. Sunday lawns green, pungent with fresh Saturday clippings piled behind an assortment of fences.
“Go away, will you,” she said in her grimy blue dress. She leaned over the stone wall and pushed me.
I brushed off her greasy prints and walked on, leaving the willow tree and that girl snarling in the shade behind me. As I strolled into the sun, I ran my hand over cracked rendered walls, rattling cyclone fences and peering through the oleander bushes for signs of life in quiet houses.
“Don’t go over the road,” Grandma’s voice warned in my head.
No, I won’t. I rubbed my bottom in memory of the Belair Sunday school picnic adventure when my brother lost me. Promise! Careful not to step on the lines in the pavement. Bad luck. I tiptoed and danced along the pavement in my pink ballerina shoes.
A shadow wriggled over the pavers. Stobie pole to my right, plastered its stunted midday image on the asphalt. I halted. Casting my focus up, I spied this big girl. I squealed and clapped my hands over my mouth. This lady-girl was dressed all in lace and brown velvet as if in Grandma’s clothes.
“Hello, you must be Lee-lee.”
“Why did you know my name?” I pointed at her; rude, I know. “Ha, ha! Why are you wearing funny clothes?”
She blushed and rubbed her stubby fingers over the velvet. “They’re trendy where I come from.” She smiled and straightened her long dress that swept past her ankles. “Actually, where I come from, I know a lot about you.”
“Why?”
“Because I have the same name as you.”
“So? I know more than you do. You’re dumb. So there, ner!” I planted my hands on my hips and poked out my tongue.
“That’s no way to talk about yourself.”
“Huh?” I pulled at my pigtail and chewed the ends of my hair.
“Elementary girl.” She flicked her long blonde strands and smirked. “I am the future you. In fact, I know more than you do because I know what’s going to happen to you.”
“Future me?” I scratched my cheek and screwed up my nose. “What does future mean?”
“Oh!” I wiggled a loose tooth. “Does that mean your teeth all fell out? Did you get grown-up teeth or did you get them all pulled out and get false teeth like Grandma’s?” I zoomed up to Future Me’s face and ogled at her mouth. “Come on, show me your false teeth.”
She bared her perfect row of pearly whites and nudged me back. “They are real. Orthodontically corrected, but real.”
“Arthur—what?”
“I had braces on my teeth.”
“Why? Were they crippled?”
“No, they were crooked.”
“Ugh! Crooked teeth.” I turned from her and poked stones with the point of my shoe. “I don’t think I like being you. Grandma clothes, crooked teeth that need Arthur’s braces. I’ll never be like you. You’re just pretending. ‘Sides, how could I be you?”
I squinted at this tall slim blonde who transferred her weight from one leg to the other. I noticed the worn back-pack groaning full of books, straps straining to pull the load from her waist. Future Me stroked her chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Well, it’s hard to explain to someone as little as you. You’re in Prep, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m a big schoolgirl, now.” I thrust my chest forward and with hands each side of my tummy, swung my hips.
“Well, big schoolgirl, Lee-Lee, to put it simply, it’s called T.T.T—thought, time, transportation.”
“What then?” I watched my pink dress swish as I swayed.
“You just think and instead of thinking time as moving forward, you make it move backward for you.”
“Just like that?”
“Well, actually, it’s more complicated than that—a kind of scientific experiment that my big brother Warwick invented. He put electrodes on my head and well, something happens that I can’t fully explain.”
“Oh, did you have a brother, Warwick too? Does your Warwick snort when he laughs?” I cupped my hand over my mouth and tittered.
The lady-girl raised her lace sleeve to her mouth and giggled. “Yes, he does.”
“You must be me.” Repressing the urge to gnaw my fingernails before my future-self, I clasped my hands together and looked in her eyes. “So, me, what’s going to happen to me?”
She avoided my gaze. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.
“That’s not fair! Why can’t I?” I grabbed at her, but she slipped through my fingers and drifted from me. “Plee-ease!”
“I can’t!”
I watched her move further away and shimmer in the sunlight.
“But why not? Please! Just a little bit.” I chased her and swiped at her. “Just a tincy-wincy-little bit. I won’t tell! Promise!”
“Alright, if you insist.” She floated above the greying plaster fence. “But I must be leaving soon.”
She faded, blending in with the oleander and honeysuckle bushes. I strained to see her. I attempted to touch her, but my hand passed through her.
The wind whistled through the bushes. “Have a good time with Jilly.”
“You didn’t tell me! You lied, me!” I cried.
I hunched over and plodded back towards Grandma’s house. Shouts and squeals from a yard on my left, caught the corner of my eye. A girl my age bounced on an old double-spring bed.
“Hello, my name’s Lee, what’s yours?”
“Hello, my name’s Jilly. Do you want to play on the trampoline with me?”
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11
***
Dreaming of being transported to another world?
Time for some weekend reading?
Take a break and journey to another world, another time to …
After the phone call to Fifi, Dee leaned back in her chair. ‘Gotcha, Mr. Renard. Gotcha!’ She couldn’t believe her good fortune in Fifi. Didn’t take that “Rannga” much to turn against her former friend.
However, youth group rumours were not enough to “hang” Lillie, she needed hard facts—evidence. She started with the local council office at Glen Huon. After all, most apple picking happened in the Huon Valley, Tasmania. So, a good place to commence digging dirt on her nemesis.
Thankful that she woke up the sleepy young man in the office before the council chambers closed, she trawled through the files he sent her. She was glad that such information about payrolls and workers in the area in 1981, had been digitised. Lillie von Erikson was listed as working for apple orchard owners, Greg and Janine Thomas. However, no mention of a baby or her being pregnant. Dee puzzled over the fact that Lillie, according to Fifi, seemed to have been in Tasmania long after the apple-picking season was over.
What was she doing there after apple picking? Dee wondered.
She moved onto Trove, an online digital archive, that has recorded historic newspaper articles and publications. Searched Lillie’s name in the local and state newspapers from the day.
Nothing.
She calculated when the baby would arrive if conceived in November. Then scrutinized state and also national papers for a birth in the personal pages. August—September 1981, in particular. Nothing. Still, all is not lost. Perhaps she didn’t put the birth in the paper if she adopted the child out.
But a quick check of newspaper dates available revealed that Trove only published papers up to 1950. What a disappointment!
A visit to the South Australian State Library was the next step in the search. There she trawled through the microfiche files for the Tasmanian newspapers, concentrating on births around August and September.
After an unsatisfactory August, she scanned the first week in September.
‘Ah! That looks more like it,’ Dee murmured.
She zoomed in on the notice of a daughter, Zoe, born to Lillie’s apple picking bosses, Greg and Janine Thomas. Detective Dee Berry smiled while resting her clasped hands on her belly. September 1, right in the timeframe too.
‘Interesting,’ she murmured. ‘Did the moll stay to help Mrs Thomas? Or did she give the baby to Mrs. Thomas?’
A check of the births, deaths, and marriages register, and confirmed. Mrs. Janine Thomas was over 40 when she had her first child, Zoe.
‘Not impossible, but suspicious,’ Dee muttered. ‘I think a little trip to Tasmania is what I must do.’ After saving the information onto a file labelled “Moll”, she put in an application for a visit to Tasmania courtesy of the government. After all, it was an enquiry into a murder investigation.
Who knows, Dee smirked, my enemy may be a suspect that needs to be eliminated; one way or another I’ll get her.
Dee gripped the leather-bound steering wheel of Toyota Corolla hire car as it rumbled up the unsealed road. Won’t tell the hire company about that little detour, she thought. From the Council records, the Thomas farm was hidden way out west, close to the “Great Western wilderness”. The further west she drove, the thinner and rougher the road became.
She passed a tiny town with houses painted in gaudy orange and pastel greens. A purple house stood sentinel at a fork in the road. Dee took the left track hoping to reach her destination soon. She’d given up on the Sat Nav. The designated voice, named Jilly was vague and hadn’t a clue where to go.
Dee was proud that she could still read maps and follow the directions of an old local manning the service station at Glen Huon. He said he’d remembered someone like Lillie 40-odd years back. Strangers were a rarity in a small town of fifty-odd people from where he had come. He said Lillie had walked into the church, and all twenty heads turned to size up the blonde from the mainland.
‘It wasn’t long before rumours were flying,’ the station owner said, ‘pregnant, just like the lady who lived in that purple house you’ll see when you get to the town up there. Rumour has it, she’s got a child from ten different men. Anyways, that’s a lifetime ago now. Back then, if someone sneezed across the valley there, everyone in town would know about it and the person who sneezed would have died from pneumonia. Not much better now.’
Dee must have given him a strange look, because the station owner added, ‘Oh, er, don’t believe the rumours. Them folk up there are all related, married cousins and what not, but they don’t have two heads.’
‘Didn’t think they had,’ Dee replied, ‘I just want to know how to get to the Thomas farm.’
‘Don’t know why you want to go there; the family left years ago.’
‘Do you know where they went?’
The man shrugged. ‘The missus died, so I heard. Daughter’s become some big shot lawyer in Melbourne. Something not right there, she never fitted, you know what I mean. She wasn’t one of us.’
‘Did she look like Lillie, the blonde?’ Dee showed the man a photo she had scanned to her phone of 17-year-old Lillie.
The man paused, squinted and then nodded. ‘Yeah, there were rumours. But we could never prove it. Janine, Mr. Thomas’s missus, always insisted the baby was hers.’
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.
When the football hammered on her favourite station, El switched to her USB drive and cheerful strains of Vivaldi swung into action. Nothing like this energetic Italian composer to get El into the mood for painting. Today, Lillie Edwards awaited another Saturday portraiture session.
El sighed as she replayed a rather awkward conversation with Dan. He so much wanted her to return to the force. El had put off the inevitable as long as possible. The longer she was away from the pressure of policing, the longer she enjoyed the luxury of sleeping in, and spending each day as she pleased, the less she was inclined to return to the drudgery of work. After all, she loved painting. Why spend days, weeks, months years behind a desk drowning in paperwork? Why waste time running multiple steps behind chasing criminals? Then, why spend all her hours again behind a desk researching, building up a case, just to watch the guilty slip through her virtual fingertips when at court, a clever defence lawyer convinces a jury to find them innocent?
With painting, she witnessed pleasant results in a few hours of dibbing and daubing while listening to her favourite podcast. Admittedly, lately, a certain crime story podcast was her go to of the month. Somehow, listening to crime stories proved more therapeutic than being involved in actual crime solving. Or so she told herself…
‘Would you consider returning to the force, El?’ Dan asked, desperation in his voice. ‘There’s nothing to stop you, now.’
‘I’ll think about it, and get back to you,’ El replied. The thought of returning to work, fighting the peak hour morning traffic, battling to find a park, and the daily grind of managing unruly people, set El’s teeth on edge.
That conversation happened on Tuesday.
Friday, Dan called again. He had asked, what was her decision.
While gazing out at the rolling waves from her wall to ceiling window, and still dressed in her dressing gown, El said, ‘I’m sorry, Dan, I’m not ready to come back.’
‘But why?’
‘I need more time.’ Just couldn’t break it to him that she really didn’t feel like ever returning. ‘The stress of the last couple of years has taken its toll.’
‘Oh, please reconsider, El.’ Dan’s voice softened to a whisper. ‘Just between you and me, Dee is driving me crazy. With her bean-counting.’
‘And her paranoia, no doubt.’ El snipped. ‘Look, it’s people like her that make the job an issue for me.’
‘But what about the challenge, the thrill of solving a case?’
‘Hmm, only to see it all fall apart and dissolve in court. And people like Dee who with their darn bean counting miss the whole point and give the defence lawyers a win on a silver platter.’ El shook her head. ‘Nah, I’m done.’
‘What? I thought you said you just needed more time.’ Dan sounded hurt.
‘Oh, I mean, for now. But if I decide not to return, I may still consider being a private detective. Be my own boss and bypass Dee and her cronies.’
‘Oh…but…’
‘Face it, Dan, I’ve had it up to here with the government and how they’ve treated us.’
‘But we need more…’ Dan sounded sad.
‘I know.’ El shifted in her seat on the lounge chair. Guilty. ‘Downward spiral. Less workers. More work for those left. Crime goes up. But-er-I’m pretty fragile at the moment. I can’t take the pressure.’
Renard chuckled in the background. ‘Can’t blame ya, they have treated public servants poorly. I’d quit too, if I was you.’
El turned and glared at Renard who pretended to concentrate on the newspaper crossword. She placed her finger on her mouth. ‘Shh!’
‘And you think I don’t have problems, El?’ Dan snapped. ‘You know, I’d much rather be an outback cop, on the coalface, than having to put up with all this cr—I mean politics here in the city. I mean, with all the demands put on me, I don’t have a life. It’s just work, and sleep. Hell, and then I can’t sleep because this cold case has got under my skin.’
‘Hell, yeah, it’s personal.’ Dan’s tone had a sense of urgency. ‘I mean, I remember Jimmy and Lillie Edwards from youth group. I remember when Lillie’s father Jan disappeared. And then, a year later, Percy, Jimmy’s father vanished. So strange. So strange.’
‘Perhaps, then, you are too involved,’ El said with a sniff, ‘you need to step back from it. perspective, remember. After all, just a thought, who says they didn’t run off together?’
‘Yeah, yeah, but something about the whole case doesn’t sit right. I can’t rest until I…’
‘Sounds like a rabbit hole, Dan.’
‘Well, let’s just say, Dee’s already dived in and buried herself in it. And so, I have to go along and pull her out.’ Heavy breathing. ‘That’s why I wanted you to consider coming back. Helping. I mean, you came to me with the cold case. You asked me. The least you could do is…’
‘I know. I know. I regret that. Moment of weakness.’ El clenched her fists. Be strong. Resist temptation. ‘Sorry, Dan, no can do. I’ve reconsidered and I’ve got to put my mental health first, or I’ll be no use to anyone.’
‘Not even now we’ve found a body?’ Dan urged. ‘Not even a little bit curious?’
‘No, Dan.’
‘Please, can’t you just find some time to do some digging. In an unofficial capacity, perhaps? Please?’
Renard swayed his head while filling in a crossword clue. ‘He’s desperate.’
‘You know that’s not…’
‘If you could just…I mean, I have a family…I’m so busy, Leo, my son has gone rogue. I think he has a girlfriend but…I don’t know where he is half the time. And I haven’t seen my girlfriend Jemima and our daughter Bella in weeks.’
El sighed. Nothing like a guilt trip to make her give in. ‘Alright, I’ll see what I can…’
‘Thank you! Thank you! I’ll send the details of discovery your way. Thank you.’
El pulled up in the wide driveway of the Edwards’ mansion. Just what she didn’t need, another hidden agenda behind the portrait session in honour of Lillie Edwards. Somehow, she envisioned the rabbit hole of the Edwards-Von Erikson cold case drawing her into its vortex too.
She giggled. Perhaps there was something in that idea that Percy and Jan had run off together. Then again, perhaps things turned sour, and Jan, in disguise, had given Percy the “heave-ho”. A variation on that famous cold case back in the ‘70’s of the body in the freezer.
El smiled and nodded while alighting from the car. Yes, she might start with that story and see if she sensed a reaction from Lillie.
Lillie, wearing a flowing, rainbow-coloured poncho, welcomed El into her mansion.
‘Sorry about the clutter, El,’ Lillie waved a hand at the stacks of books and piles of papers, tableaus ready to dance on what was intended to be a ballroom floor. ‘Every holidays, I intend to tackle that lot, but…’ While skirting the newspaper piles at the edge of the open hallway, Lillie led El to the spare bedroom come art studio. Freshly brewed coffee percolated its aroma, filling the room. Lillie glided over to the table holding the coffee and a silver standing tray with a pyramid of cupcakes laden with icing. El mused, pink icing with cupcake. Would she scrape off the icing and eat the cake? Risk offending her portrait muse and host who had gone to all that trouble, slaving the whole morning buying those cupcakes from the local bakery?
‘Coffee? Cupcake?’ Lillie’s shrill voice shook El out of her sugar-frosted nightmare.
El politely smiled and said, ‘I’ll have some coffee, but, um, I’ll need to pass on the cake. My sugar levels were a bit up, so I need to…’
‘But they are gluten-free.’
Before El could make another lame excuse, a cake appeared on a Noritake plate graced with delicate grey leaves and accompanied by a matching cup and saucer filled with coffee and cream.
‘I thought we could have some afternoon tea before you get down to painting,’ Lillie said while biting into her icing with cupcake. Gluten-free. ‘I’m sure that’s how that famous artist on the ABC does it.’
‘Get to know the subject—I mean, person he’s painting, you mean?’ El said, then sipped her coffee. ‘So, in that vein, let me ask about your childhood. Where did you grow up?’
From that question, more followed with the answers. No painting that afternoon, only more coffee, more cake, then biscuits which were brought in by Lillie’s husband, Jimmy—interesting—and finally, to keep the conversation flowing, some white wine, a Moscato, from MacLaren Vale. By the time the wine appeared, Jimmy had joined the party and El mused that this was the most successful informal interview she’d ever performed.
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.
Games days, Central Australian pilgrimmages, his garden, golf, table tennis…always having to win. These are the things that spring to mind when I remember my dad. Last Monday, he would’ve turned 97 if he hadn’t left this Earth for a more perfect life in heaven in 2012.
Another defining memory of Dad was his cars, except for his first one, a Gogo mobile, the rest were cheap, second-hand and the “that’ll do for the time being variety”.
This week I look back at the memory of one of these cars in the 100-word challenge.
[Driving around Adelaide these days, I see many classic cars. Brings back memories of our family cars from my childhood…]
Bathsheba
After 50 years, I have discovered the significance of our Holden FC’s name. My dad was called David. In the Bible, there’s a King David who has an illicit affair with a woman he spies in a bath on a roof top. Her name, Bathsheba. Bath-she-ba; an apt name considering the circumstances of their meeting. Did Mum think that when Dad bought this car, this silver-pointed beauty was his “mistress’? Similarities: Both Davids were master of their realms. Both Bathshebas, not new, used, yet beautiful. And both Bathshebas became parked in their David’s palace, in a harem, their love shared.
When the football hammered on her favourite station, El switched to her USB drive and cheerful strains of Vivaldi swung into action. Nothing like this energetic Italian composer to get El into the mood of painting. Today, Lillie Edwards awaited another Saturday portraiture session.
El sighed as she replayed an awkward conversation with Dan. He so much wanted her to return to the force. El had put off the inevitable as long as possible. The longer she was away from the pressure of policing, the more she enjoyed the luxury of sleeping in, and spending each day as she pleased, the less she was inclined to return to the drudgery of work. She loved painting. Why spend days, weeks, months years behind a desk drowning in paperwork? Why waste time running multiple steps behind chasing criminals? Then, why spend all her hours again behind a desk researching, building up a case, just to watch the guilty slip through her virtual fingertips when at court, a clever defense lawyer convinces a jury to find them innocent?
With painting, she witnessed pleasant results in a few hours of dibbing and daubing while listening to her favourite podcast. Admittedly, lately, a certain crime story podcast was her go to of the month. Somehow, listening to crime stories proved more therapeutic than being involved in actual crime solving. Or so she told herself…
‘Would you consider returning to the force, El?’ Dan asked, desperation in his voice. ‘There’s nothing to stop you, now.’
‘I’ll think about it, and get back to you,’ El replied. The thought of returning to work, fighting the peak hour morning traffic, battling to find a park, and the daily grind of managing unruly people, set El’s teeth on edge.
That conversation happened on Tuesday.
Friday, Dan called again. He had asked, what was her decision.
While gazing out at the rolling waves from her floor to ceiling window, and still dressed in her dressing gown, El said, ‘I’m sorry, Dan, I’m not ready to come back.’
‘But why?’
‘I need more time.’ Just couldn’t break it to him that she really didn’t feel like ever returning. ‘The stress of the last couple of years has taken its toll.’
‘Oh, please reconsider, El.’ Dan’s voice softened to a whisper. ‘Just between you and me, Dee is driving me crazy. With her bean-counting.’
‘And her paranoia, no doubt.’ El snipped. ‘Look, it’s people like her that make the job an issue for me.’ ‘But what about the challenge, the thrill of solving a case?’
‘Hmm, only to see it all fall apart and dissolve in court. And people like Dee who with their darn bean counting miss the whole point and give the defense lawyers a win on a silver platter.’ El shook her head.
‘Nah, I’m done.’
‘What? I thought you said you just needed more time.’ Dan sounded hurt.
‘Oh, I mean, for now. But if I decide not to return, I may still consider being a private detective. Be my own boss and bypass Dee and her cronies.’
‘Oh…but…’
‘Face it, Dan, I’ve had it up to here with the government and how they’ve treated us.’
‘But we need more…’ Dan sounded sad.
‘I know.’ El shifted in her seat on the lounge chair. Guilty. ‘Downward spiral. Less workers. More work for those left. Crime goes up. But-er-I’m pretty fragile at the moment. I can’t take the pressure.’
Renard chuckled in the background. ‘Can’t blame ya; they have treated public servants poorly. I’d quit too if I was you.’
El turned and glared at Renard who pretended to concentrate on the Advertiser crossword. She placed her finger on her mouth. ‘Shh!’
‘And you think I don’t have problems, El?’ Dan snapped. ‘You know, I’d much rather be an outback cop, on the coalface, than having to put up with all this cr—I mean politics here in the city. I mean, with all the demands put on me, I don’t have a life. It’s just work, and sleep. Hell, and then I can’t sleep because this cold case has got under my skin.’
‘Is it personal, Dan?’
‘Hell, yeah, it’s personal.’ Dan’s tone had a sense of urgency. ‘I mean, I remember Jimmy and Lillie Edwards from youth group. I remember when Lillie’s father Jan disappeared. And then, a year later, Percy, Jimmy’s father vanished. So strange. So strange.’
‘Perhaps, then, you are too involved,’ El said with a sniff, ‘you need to step back from it. perspective, remember. Just a thought, who says they didn’t run off together?’
‘Yeah, yeah, but something about the whole case doesn’t sit right. I can’t rest until I…’
‘Sounds like a rabbit hole, Dan.’
‘Well, let’s just say, Dee’s already dived in and buried herself in it. And so, I must go along and pull her out.’ Heavy breathing. ‘That’s why I wanted you to consider coming back. Helping. I mean, you came to me with the cold case. You asked me. The least you could do is…’
‘I know. I know. I regret that. Moment of weakness.’ El clenched her fists. Be strong. Resist temptation. ‘Sorry, Dan, no can do. I’ve reconsidered and I’ve got to put my mental health first, or I’ll be no use to anyone.’
‘Not even now we’ve found a body?’ Dan urged. ‘Not even a little bit curious?’
‘No, Dan.’
‘Please, can’t you just find time to do some digging. In an unofficial capacity, perhaps? Please?’ Renard swayed his head while filling in a crossword clue. ‘He’s desperate.’
‘You know that’s not…’
‘If you could just…I mean, I have a family…I’m so busy, Leo, my son has gone rogue. I think he has a girlfriend but…I don’t know where he is half the time. And I haven’t seen my girlfriend Jemima and our daughter Bella in weeks.’
El sighed. Nothing like a guilt trip to make her give in. ‘Alright, I’ll see what I can…’
‘Thank you! Thank you! I’ll send the details of discovery your way. Thank you.’
El pulled up in the wide driveway of the Edwards’ mansion. Just what she didn’t need, another hidden agenda behind the portrait session in honour of Lillie Edwards. Somehow, she envisioned the rabbit hole of the Edwards-von Erikson cold case drawing her into its vortex too.
She giggled. There was something in that idea that Percy and Jan had run off together. Then again, perhaps things turned sour, and Jan had given Percy the “heave-ho”. A variation on that famous cold case back in the ‘70’s of the body in the freezer.
El smiled and nodded while alighting from the car. Yes, she might start with that story and see if she sensed a reaction from Lillie.
Lillie, wearing a flowing, rainbow-coloured poncho, welcomed El into her mansion.
‘Sorry about the clutter, El,’ Lillie waved a hand at the stacks of books and piles of papers, tableaus ready to dance on what was intended to be the dining room table and floor. ‘Every holiday, I intend to tackle that lot, but…’
While skirting the newspaper piles at the edge of the open hallway, Lillie led El to the spare bedroom come art studio. Freshly brewed coffee percolated its aroma, filling the room. Lillie glided over to the table holding the coffee and a silver standing tray with a pyramid of cupcakes laden with icing. El mused, pink icing with cupcake. Would she scrape off the icing and eat the cake? Risk offending her portrait muse and host who had gone to all that trouble, slaving the whole morning buying those cupcakes from the local bakery?
‘Coffee? Cupcake?’ Lillie’s shrill voice shook El out of her sugar-frosted nightmare.
El bared her teeth in a polite smile and said, ‘I’ll have coffee, but, um, I’ll need to pass on the cake. My sugar levels were a bit up, so I need to…’
‘But they are gluten-free.’
Before El could make another excuse, a cake appeared on a Noritake plate which was graced with delicate grey leaves and accompanied by a matching cup and saucer filled with coffee and cream.
‘I thought we could have some afternoon tea before you get down to painting,’ Lillie said while biting into her icing with cupcake. Gluten-free. ‘I’m sure that’s how that famous artist on the ABC does it.’
‘Get to know the muse—I mean, person he’s painting, you mean?’ El said, then sipped her coffee. ‘So, in that vein, let me ask about your childhood. Where did you grow up?’
From that question, more followed with the answers. No painting that afternoon, only more coffee, more cake, then biscuits which were brought in by Lillie’s husband, Jimmy—interesting—and finally, to keep the conversation flowing, some white wine, a Moscato, from McLaren Vale. By the time the wine appeared, Jimmy had joined the party and El mused that this was the most successful informal interview she’d ever performed.
Something about Jimmy Edwards caused disquiet in El.
However, Lillie’s story about their history—Jimmy the boy next door, allayed El’s concerns…
Sometimes characters spring from real life, Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction. Sometimes real life is just real life. Check out my travel memoirs, And escape in time and space To Central Australia.
El plodded along the shore towards Seacliff Beach. Dan’s request had been troubling her all morning. ‘Darn! I was just beginning to enjoy my freedom,’ she muttered, ‘and now this.’
The crisp clear morning, blue skies dotted with cottonwool clouds, seagulls wheeling over the aqua waves and the sand crunching beneath her pounding feet, annoyed Eloise Delaney. How could she enjoy this brilliant day if she had to go back to work? Maybe after a few months of leisure she might get bored and want to return to the hamster wheel of police work and no play, but at the moment, she wasn’t bored.
El stopped, gazed at the sea, the morning sun sparkling on the waves, dug the device out of her pocket and spoke, ‘Hey there Sven. What’s up?’
‘I was just thinking, why don’t we organise another get together for Zoe and Francis?’
‘Why? Can’t they organise their own social life? They are both adults.’
‘Yeah, but, actually, I was thinking, I could invite Tiffy, my niece to come along.’
‘Tiffy,’ El sniffed, ‘good luck with that.’
‘I dunno, it’s worth a try,’ Sven said, ‘we don’t have to say anything, but we could see if they look alike and have similar…I mean, they’d be half-sisters.’
‘I can’t see it happening. Nah, only way is to get Tiffy to do a DNA test and that’s not going to happen. Besides, won’t Tiffy think it’s a bit strange you wanting her to meet Zoe?’
‘Uh…well…’
‘I mean, from what I understand about Tiffy, is that she rarely turns up to family gatherings. So, how are you going to get her to meet Zoe at say a park or coffee shop? Huh?’
‘Er, um, she does tend to show up if there’s something in it for her,’ Sven replied.
‘So, you reckon, then, that Tiffy might come if you tell her that Zoe is her long-lost sister and that she’s a lawyer?’ El said.
‘Oh, er…she might. That’s a good angle.’
Tramping in like an elephant where mice fear to tread. El shook her head. ‘Could get awkward, Sven. As for your sister, you might be opening a can of worms.’
‘Yeah, but, but the truth must come out. There’s been too many lies and cover ups.’ Sven’s voice raised an octave. ‘Francis, he’s upset. You know that Lillie, my sister, never said anything. Went skulking off to Tasmania and had her baby. Gave her away and came back home. Like nothing happened. Who does that?’
‘Lots of people,’ El said with a sigh. ‘In my line of work, people do things, not very nice things. Darn awful things, actually. You know kill people and bury their bodies and then carry on with life, as if nothing ever happened. Happens more than you think.’
On the other end of the phone a pause. Then, ‘Right, well, I better get going.’ Sven ended the call with a click.
El stared at her mobile phone, confused. Why didn’t he suggest Zoe meeting up with his son? she wondered. If Lillie were Zoe’s mother, they’d be cousins, after all.
Detective Dan Hooper leaned back on his chair and grinned at his Crispy Crème donut. Caramel frosting. Mmm! He deserved it. All that hard work collecting evidence from within the dusty bowels of the station archives and frosty interviews with long-forgotten witnesses had paid off.
The boss had approved the reopening of the cold case; the one involving a certain Mr. Percy Edwards and his partner in some dodgy business, Jan von Erikson. The two “mispas”, had to be related.
Dan nodded and took a bite out of the caramel donut. His sugar levels and cholesterol would have to take a back seat—maybe in Mr. E’s blue Ford Fairmont station wagon—while Dan enjoyed this moment of triumph.
After the second bite, he raised a finger and summoned Dee to his desk.
Dee raced over, police issue I-pad in hand, eyes twinkling above her mask while glancing at the remaining three Crispy Crème donuts waiting in the box to be consumed.
Dan noted that Dee paid particular attention to the strawberry iced donut. He spoke, ‘We have permission to proceed, Dee. The new evidence in this cold case of the missing Edwards and von Erikson case has piqued the chief’s interest.’
‘Well, you did come across that body,’ Dee said glancing at the strawberry donut. Dan picked up the box and held it towards Dee. ‘Take one.’
‘Aw, I know I shouldn’t,’ Dee’s hand, with a mind of its own pounced on the strawberry frosted donut. ‘But you’ve twisted my arm.’
Dee dropped her mask below her chin and the pink donut disappeared into her small mouth. ‘Your first task, Dee, is to contact a fellow by the name of Jim Edwards.’
‘Jim? Jim Edwards?’ Dee, still wearing her mask as a chin-guard, grinned like the cat that had licked all the cream. ‘He’s married to Lillie. Didn’t you know?’
‘Well, Dee, you really are the source of all gossip and information. I would’ve never…’ Dan sat up and drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘That’s one out of the box. The case has just risen to a whole new level.’ ‘If you say so, Dan,’ Dee replied, more interested in the second caramel donut beckoning her from the box.
Dan pushed the donut container towards Dee. ‘Go on, I need to watch my weight.’
Dee didn’t need much persuasion. She plucked up the cake and that vanished in three bites.
Dan picked up the last donut and examined its chocolate icing. ‘Dee, would you contact Jim Edwards and arrange an interview, please?’
Dee stood, strapped the mask back over her mouth, and said, ‘I’m onto it, Dan. I have this feeling in my gutters; there’s more to Lillie Edwards than meets the eye.’
Dan frowned. ‘Try to keep an objective view, Dee.’
‘I will,’ Dee replied and hurried off to her desk.
Dan settled his elbows on his own desk, and while savouring the chocolate donut, scrolled through the “millions” of emails that plagued his computer.
One caught his attention. “File of complaint—harassment”. He read further. He hit the desk. ‘The swine!’ ‘What?’ Dee called.
‘Lillie, she’s filed a complaint.’
‘See,’ Dee returned, ‘I told you she’s trouble. Like I said about her; you wouldn’t file a complaint unless you had something to hide.’
‘I’m starting to get that same gut feeling, Dee.’ Dan ground his teeth. ‘She’s hiding something. Definitely hiding something.’
‘Told ya, Dan, I’m not Adelaide’s most famous gossip for nothink. I get these guttural feelings and I have ta run with them. You’ll see, I’m right. I’m always right.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ Dan said with a chuckle.
He spent the rest of the morning printing photos of people related to this cold case and sticking them onto a Perspex storyboard.
Sometimes characters spring from real life, Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction. Sometimes real life is just real life. Check out my travel memoirs, And escape in time and space To Central Australia.
[Why 1978? Nostalgia for one. Some snapshot of the past for future generations. And, well…I do wish I could share the shenanigans of current family, but I think that would leave me Christmas card less and spending the next 40 years on my own at Christmas sipping some sort of spirits to drown my sorrows, forget my regrets and missing all the entertainment Christmas in Australia brings. So, what harm would be done to reminisce about one warm Christmas Day when life was simple, and the stars of this show are now twinkling in the sky of remembrance. Needless to say, like Mr B, I will not use their real names to protect the not-so innocent, and the little bit affected.]
Christmas to a T
The sun filtered through the dusty window golden and warm. I flung off my sheet and raced to the Christmas tree; a real one that filled the lounge room with the scent of pine.
Mum, still in her nightie, watched me as I opened my presents: two skirts and a pair of scuffs.
I hugged her. ‘Thank you, Mummy.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘So, what church do you think we should go to, today?’
‘I was thinking Maughan Church in the city.’
‘Excellent, I like that church.’
‘Well, then,’ Mum glanced down the passage way, ‘you better get ready.’
I hurried to my room and changed into my new Christmas skirt, relishing the T-female tradition of new clothes for Christmas. Even better, home sewn by mum, so no one would have the same dress as me. I pulled on a white lace shirt to match the simple V-cut skirt of fine red and white plaid.
Mum called out from the kitchen, ‘Hurry, we have to get there by half-past nine.’
‘Alright.’ Easy for her to say, but the challenge was my Dad and brother, Rick. How to wake the men who lay in their bed-tombs asleep?
Mum had an idea. ‘Why don’t you put the radio on? Make it loud. Really loud.’
I followed Mum’s suggestion and tuned the radio to 5KA and turned up the volume dial until it would turn no more.
Boney-Em blasted out a Christmas carol causing Mum to jump. ‘Not that loud,’ she cried through a mouth full of milk and Weeties cereal mixed with her ever-faithful All-Bran.
An unimpressed and bleary-eyed Rick and Dad joined us on our jaunt into the city to celebrate Christmas Uniting Church style, not much different from the Lutheran Church service. Rick nodded off during the sermon all the same.
Then, the highlight of our year, Christmas at Grandma’s. Always a spread, but as it was simmering around 35-degrees Celsius, cold chicken and ham, for meat, and potato salad, coleslaw, tomato and onion salad, cucumber and beans from Dad’s garden swimming in mayonnaise, and for our serve of greens a bowl of iceberg lettuce.
The food was only second to the company. Grandma, with her G (she wasn’t a T) gifting of hospitality, had invited some friends from church. My uncle and aunty from the inner suburbs of Adelaide also came to complete the gathering around the old oak extendable table. That year, the numbers being not large, I sat with the adults. Other years children were relegated out in the passageway or exiled to the back garden to sit at the “kindertisch”. Anyway, at 15, I was almost an adult.
After lunch, we lingered at Grandma’s all afternoon, waiting for the second wave of visitors to arrive. I flicked through Grandma’s photo albums and then read some of her books from the bookshelf in the spare room. Actually, that’s what I did, after helping Grandma and mum wash and wipe the dishes while the others lazed around chatting and playing cards.
I’d started on The Coles Funny Picture Book when called to bid one of Grandma’s friends, my uncle and aunty goodbye. Within minutes, the next influx of relatives rolled up the gravel drive. Aunt Wilma and her husband Jack stepped from their yellow Volkswagen Passat. The couple impressed me; so striking with Aunt Wilma’s elegance, matching her husband’s movie star looks and Scottish wit.
Sidling up to Mum, I asked, ‘Why didn’t the others stay?’
Mum mumbled something I didn’t quite catch before rushing up to her sister and hugging her. I followed mum with the greeting rituals of hug and kiss my aunt and uncle. Then, while the adults engaged in honey biscuits, tea and banter, I resumed my perusal of The Coles Funny Picture Book.
Dinner was left-overs from lunch. Sorry Wilma and Jack, but that’s the tradition. Waste not, want not, my Grandma used to say. She was a parson’s daughter and married a parson, not just any old parson, but a missionary one, during the Depression. And she and her missionary husband moved up to Hermannsburg at the start of World War 2. I was convinced that she still had rusty tins of food mouldering at the back of her cupboard from the “Dark Ages”.
Uncle Jack was in fine form—they’d obviously had a merry time at the last Christmas appointment. True to form, he kept us entertained with his brogue accent and humour, repeating variations of the Wattle ditty. Here’s how it goes with his accent:
“This ‘ere is a wat’le, The emblem of our land, You can stick it in a bot’le, Or ‘old it in your ‘and.’
Jack performed this with variations, and some subtle actions that at fifteen, I was a tad too innocent to “get”, but we all laughed anyway.
As the night progressed, the bolder Uncle Jack’s jokes grew and the more most of us laughed. Perhaps not Grandma’s friends who had dared to stay on; they kept glancing at Grandma, the expression on their faces reading, “Pull your son-in-law into line, dear.”
My dad sat on the piano stool, hands under his bottom, his lips doing the bird-in-mouth thing and a snort escaping with every new and daring quip from Jack. Dad hoped to play the piano as we sang some Christmas carols, but as each joke escalated in levels of risqué, clever though they were, the likelihood of carol singing became less likely.
One of Grandma’s friends suggested we should sing some carols. Ah, the innocence of good Christian folk in the 1970’s.
Rick and I commenced our own rendition of We Three Kings…
Grandma picked up a present and quietly said, ‘I don’t think we will sing this year. Let’s open our presents. Lee-Anne, you’re the youngest, you can start.’
So, here’s how I scored in 1978: Cosmetic mask from Aunt Wilma and Uncle Jack, hairdryer from Mum and Dad, photo album and book from Grandma and a cassette tape from my country cousins. Grandma’s present, a book, interested me the most and I stayed up to 2am reading it.
After the discovery, Dan had instructed her to make her way back to the car park.
‘I’ve called Renard and asked them to wait for you,’ he said.
‘What about you? We all came together, so, how will you get home?’ El asked.
‘Don’t worry about me. We’ll be here for hours yet—maybe all night,’ Dan replied. ‘I’ll get one of the team to give me a lift.’
El nodded and then trekked down the hill, then the steep steps of the gully. From the first lookout, the vehicles in the car park appeared so small, like toys. People like ants crawled around them.
I wonder how many of those “ants” know of the body? she thought. I hope no journalists got wind of the situation and are lurking down there with their lumpy film equipment and hundreds of onlookers. One thing she had learnt from her years on the force was that news like this, the finding of human remains, seemed to bring journalists out from behind their computers. As if they could sniff out a breaking story. Or was there a leak? Someone on the force mentioning it on Titter or Myface?
‘Wouldn’t put it past Dee,’ El said.
She had caught Dee out, mobile in the palm of her hand, scrolling. Then there were the Dee-spamming episodes. El had made the mistake of joining Myface, for a start, and then in a moment of insanity, accepting Dee as a friend. In a blink of a screenshot, inane and blatantly silly posts flooded her email and Myface page. Dee, of course. “Find out what sort of lover you are—do this survey”, “Upload your selfie and find out what you’d look like when 80”, “Stop pigs being persecuted—copy and paste this article and send to 10 friends” … And the list, the scrolling was endless. All Dee. Only Dee.
‘Doesn’t Dee have a life?’ El said shaking her head at the bottom of the steps.
El passed the kiosk, still shaking her head while mulling over her mistake with Myface. She’d ceased using social media. She had a life, even while on leave. When some suspect character stole her profile and pretended to be her, El erased all her social media platforms.
‘Hey! El!’ Renard called.
El spotted the father and daughter pair on the alfresco deck of the kiosk.
Renard waved his hand which clutched a mint-with-choc-chips-flavoured gelato. ‘Up here, El. Come join us and have an ice cream.’
El trotted up the steps to the kiosk and after purchasing a latte-flavoured gelato, joined Renard and Zoe. By this time Renard and Zoe had devoured their treat and sat with El at the metal dining suite, watching her lick her ice cream.
‘Well,’ Renard said, ‘that was a turn up for the books. Fancy finding a body…’
‘Shh!’ El said, ‘you don’t know who’s listening.’ She observed Zoe play with a watch, and then slip it into her pocket. Just the way she held the watch caused El to assume that the watch didn’t belong to her. Besides the watch looked old and rusty.
She was about to ask Zoe about her “find” when a van with a television logo crawled along the road below.
Instead, El nudged Renard. ‘We better get going before they start snooping around.’
El, Renard and Zoe made a quiet and unobserved exit from Waterfall Gully before the journalists became aware of their presence and connection to the “Breaking News”.
Next morning, as the news chimed triumphant, “Human remains have been found…” El dialled Lillie’s number. While waiting for Lillie to answer, El registered that the exact location of the human remains was still a mystery to the public.
Tuesday April 26, 2022 10am
Dan
In the informal interview room, Dan gestured to a comfortable chair to the side of the low coffee table. Fifi perched herself on the edge of the seat offered and kneaded a ball of tissues in her palm. Every so often, she dabbed her eyes with the tissues.
‘Now, Fifi,’ Dan placed on the table a plastic bag that held the mud-caked leather boots, ‘do these look familiar?’
Fifi nodded. ‘My father had a pair like those. He wore them when he went camping…and hiking.’ Dan looked at his voice recorder and said, ‘Fifi Edwards confirms that the boots possibly belong to her father, Percy Edwards.’
‘Why did it take you people so long to find the body?’ Fifi glared at Dan. ‘We told you guys forty years ago that he was down there. And you did nothing.’
‘Forty-two,’ Dan said with a brief cough. ‘I’m sorry for the pain and hardship you and your family have been through, not knowing what happened to your father. I can’t make judgements, but as you can imagine, it was a different time and policing…’
‘But we told you!’ Fifi thumped the table. ‘How hard would it have been for a detective back then to just listen and take us seriously?’
We have no record of anyone coming in and making a statement.’
‘Probably thought we were just kids and were just wasting their time.’
‘So, you and your friends came into the station and spoke to someone?’
Fifi sighed. ‘Well, actually, we got my friend Lillie to come in and make a statement. She said she did, and I believed her; she was that sort of girl. Solid. Trustworthy. I mean, now, look at her. She’s a principal of one of the most prestigious colleges in Adelaide.’
‘And your sister-in-law.’
‘Who would know better?’ Fifi continued, ‘I’ve known her since we were kids. We were neighbours. Best friends since kindy.’
‘Best friends, eh?’
‘Oh, well, these days not so much, I must admit,’ Fifi said. ‘She’s always busy with her work. No life outside of teaching, and now she’s a principal, the task is all-consuming.’
‘Hmm,’ Dan uttered, but thought, Just the sort of person not to be trustworthy. After all, if Zoe is her daughter, then Lillie would have been in the initial stages of pregnancy. Perhaps she had other things on her mind when her friends instructed her to go and report their finding. Did she get distracted and forget? Did she turn up at the police station and have to wait too long? Was she afraid her secret would become known if she reported the discovery of remains? What was her secret? Pregnancy? Or something more sinister?
Detective Hooper leaned back, laced his hands and rested them on his taut belly. ‘What can you tell me about the day your father went missing, Fifi?’
Fifi shrugged. ‘He went to work and never came home.’
‘Then, how come he was wearing hiking boots?’
‘I don’t know, I was just a kid. ‘sides, Mum ‘n I went to town that day. Had to get a new pair of school shoes. I remember ‘cos I was angry. Really peed off. My friend Lillie and her brother, Sven and my brother Jimmy, were going for a hike up in the hills and Mum said I couldn’t go. Not fair!’
‘And your dad, as far as you know, went to work.’ Dan leaned forward. ‘And what sort of work did your dad do?’
‘He was a businessman.’
‘What sort of business?’
Fifi shrugged. ‘I dunno. Cars, I think. Holdens up at Elizabeth, I think.’
‘I see…’ Dan mused. Always remember him into Fords.
‘So, on that particular day, January 1978, your dad drove off in his…’ Dan looked up from notetaking.
‘What car did your family own?’
‘Um…a station wagon…blue…’
‘What make and model?’
‘Gawd! I can’t remember. Those cars, they’re all the same. And Dad had so many of them. I mean, we’re talking fifty years ago.’
‘Forty-four, Fifi,’ Dan said, remembering that at the time, the family had a Ford Falcon, XA Fairmont station wagon. And she was correct, it was blue. He mused how the family looked a sight all piled into the wagon rolling up the church driveway to swell the numbers of the congregation on Sundays. Mr. E (Edwards) big noting himself after the service, Sunday best brown suit—look at me! I’m from Somerton. Look at me! The latest model car! Look at me! Look at what a good father I am! All these children I have! I’m a good Christian. I’m fruitful and multiplying. Look at my wife! She’s the most beautiful lady here! Dan’s dad called her a “trophy wife”.
‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Fifi lifted her bag from the floor and rose from her chair. ‘I don’t think there’s much more I can tell you, sir.’
‘Thank you, for your help, Fifi.’ Dan also stood. ‘If there are any developments, we’ll be in touch. And if you can remember anything else, let us know.’
When Fifi had gone, Dan reflected. His mum had once said when Mr. Edwards had gone, Mrs. Edwards came to life, became her own vibrant person. Before, she had no personality, she really was just a “thing”, a trophy. But once her husband had left, she was filled with verve and energy. Then there was no stopping Mrs. Edwards.
He thought about Lillie. At college, a pretty, but dull kind of girl; the sort who melted into the background. Studious, he reckoned. And now, according to Dee, all class and power, running a fancy-wancy college in the Eastern suburbs.
Dan chuckled, ‘It’s like Lillie took over where Mr. Edwards left off.’
Sometimes characters spring from real life, Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction. Sometimes real life is just real life. Check out my travel memoirs, And escape in time and space To Central Australia.
‘We had another one of those exchanges with “Karen” on What’s App over the weekend,’ Fifi said. She then, with her brush, spread a blob of paint over the canvas.
‘Karen?’ Eloise asked while detailing the finer bits of her work. Tree branches. ‘Who’s she when she’s at home?’
‘Code word for you know, she who must be obeyed.’
‘Huh? Can you be more specific?’
Fifi sighed and whispered, ‘Lillie, my sister-in-law.’
‘Ah, she who must be obeyed. The,’ cough, ‘controller.’
‘Yes, her.’
‘You see, Easter is upon us, and she who is high and mighty just had to have a rant on What’s App,’ Fifi said. ‘Like “I hope we aren’t all going to just scoff down hot crossed buns and soft drink. And let’s consider our dear 85-year-old Aunty Gracie and not sit back and let her do all the work and have a free lunch. And, to top it all off, “It’s about time we think about healthy food and not eating all this junk”.’
‘Must be going on a diet, do you reckon?’
‘Yeah, well, she has her 60th coming up and wants to look her best, I guess.’ Fifi snorted. ‘Last time I was there, she’d bought a new exercise bike. There she was, peddling away to the tune of the latest detective series streamed on the tele.’
‘Good for her,’ Eloise said and dipped her brush in her paint cup of water. ‘Tell her, if she wants a walking buddy and a stroll by the beach, I’m up for it.’ Then thought, Nothing like a spot of fishing of the family history kind. Although, after all that Fifi had divulged about her prickly sister-in-law and old friend, she just couldn’t imagine what Francis Renard had seen in the girl. Perhaps he was drunk, she mused.
‘I’ll tell her that. Doubt that she’ll appreciate the offer. But I’ll ask.’ Fifi dabbed a cluster yellowy-green blobs with her raggedy basting brush, ‘Can I join you? On these walks, I mean.’
Eloise pursed her lips. She really wanted to see Lillie on her own. To interview her. Informally. Can’t exactly do that with her sister-in-law around. But then she’d have more a chance of meeting this Lillie Edwards if Fifi came too. Such potential interviews of the informal family kind do take their sweet little time.
So, El smiled and replied, ‘Yes, of course. With you coming, she will be more willing to join my fledgling walking group and make it a regular thing.’
‘Oh, sounds wonderful. I’ll give it a go. Can’t promise. We’re not exactly close. I mean, over the last few years she has been a bit frosty. But walking together might thaw things out.’
Eloise was tempted to introduce the idea of the “aunty” compliments of Fifi’s sister-in-law Lillie, but decided such information may be too hot, too wrong, too complicated to put out there for Fifi to consider. Any mention might put her plans to get to know Lillie in jeopardy.
Instead, Eloise said, ‘Say, Fifi, you told me once that Lillie had spent time in Tasmania, um, around 1981. Do you think, considering what happened during the summer, you know, when you discovered the bones, that there might have been another reason she went there?’
‘I thought it was just for the apple picking,’ Fifi said. ‘And she was having a gap year.’
‘When did you see her again?’
‘I’m not sure. The next year, after travelling a bit overseas, she went to teachers college. I saw her around the neighbourhood, but I was married to Sven and wrapped up with my baby, and you know, we drifted apart.’
‘Why do you think you drifted apart? Sven’s her brother.’
‘It’s like, she had her study, her teachers college friends and like she looked down on me for getting in the family way and married so young. I was only 18.’
‘How did she feel about you marrying her brother?’
‘I don’t know. It’s so long ago. But Lillie and Sven were close. Come to think of it, I reckon she did resent me taking her brother away.’
Zoe perched on her stool in the workshop and stared at the blank screen on her laptop. The week before Easter and Strahan put on a cracker of a day. A warm breeze from the north, the sun shining, and boats bobbing on the shimmering blue waters of Macquarie Harbour. Pity that tourism was down.
After taking compassionate leave from her demanding work as a lawyer, Zoe Thomas was helping a friend selling souvenirs at this woodcraft shop in Strahan. She enjoyed the laid-back pace, and the stunning scenery that the wild west of Tasmania offered after the mad task-driven world of trying to make her mark as an up-and-coming barrister in Melbourne. She had only returned to the “Island” for her mother’s last days and funeral.
Then, after her “ancestry” discovery, Zoe stayed on in Strahan with her father. He needed her support. And she needed to process this information that her father and mother were not her biological parents, but one Francis Renard and an unknown woman were her blood relatives.
Thus, here she sat. Computer screen blank, begging her to send a message to this Francis Renard. All sorts of thoughts raced through her mind. Will he accept me? Does he want to know? What about my birth mother? Who is she?
“Dear Dad,” she typed. Delete.
“Dear Francis.” Delete.
“Hey there, Mr. Renard.” Delete.
Screen remained blank.
Check emails. Notification from “My Family History”.
The shop doorbell tinkled.
Zoe sighed. Star by notification. Close laptop.
She looked up at the tall, tanned gentleman with a long thinning mane of grey hair. He looked familiar. Ah, yes, one of the regulars from the mainland. Regular as in once a year, usually around this time, in autumn. The luthier and guitarist from a band in Adelaide. What’s his name? Ah, yes, Jim Edwards. Over the last few years, Zoe had made a habit of helping the local wood-turner out with sales when she came to visit her father in Strahan. She liked wood. She loved the scent of Tasmanian timber. The heady thrill of freshly cut Huon Pine. The subtlety of Sassafras. The boldness of Blackwood.
Zoe smiled. ‘Hey there, Jim, how’s it going?’
‘Great! Yeah, good. Good,’ Jim replied with a wave. He kept looking beyond Zoe. The grandfather clock cabinet constructed out of Huon Pine had caught his eye. ‘One day, I’m going to buy that.’
‘It’s not for sale, I don’t think. How would you transport it?’
‘Oh, you know, in my Hilux. My wife’s big zero birthday is coming up.’ Jim stood nodding at the clock. ‘I wonder…’
‘Dream on,’ Zoe said with a chuckle.
Jim shrugged and sighed. ‘Might make one like that for her next big birthday, I guess.’
‘That amount of Huon Pine is getting scarce, you know. You can’t cut down the trees anymore, so the only pieces are the ones loggers source from drifting down the river, the Franklin-Gordon.’
‘I know. The missus would probably complain its more junk cluttering up her house. Seriously, I reckon she’s got a chronic case of minimalism. Into decluttering, she is. I don’t know how many G-sales we’ve had over the years.’
‘She must love your business.’
‘She tolerates it. I have my man-cave, the garage, that is, and she has the house. No one touches my garage, except me. And me mates. And of course, me band. Been a bit slow, but we’re still jamming.’
‘Yeah, slow everywhere now, but I reckon it’ll pick up. Must,’ Zoe said while shuffling brochures advertising the local play, The Ship that Never Was.
‘My thoughts exactly,’ Jim said. ‘Keep positive. Anyway, I’m looking for some Sassafras for my neck. I mean the neck of my next guitar I’m building.’
‘I’ll see what we have out the back,’ Zoe replied and left Jim standing at the counter while she hunted through the stores of timber in the shed. She trusted Jim. She pictured him hauling the clock away and fixing it onto his Toyota Hilux tray. But he just didn’t look like someone who would take without paying.
Then, an idea. Did she dare ask if he knew Francis Renard? Worth a try, she thought. But then decided that divulging such a personal truth of her being his long-forgotten daughter to a virtual stranger was not worth the risk.
She found a suitable sized block of Sassafras wood, about 1500mm by 500mm by 50mm and returning to the desk, presented it to Jim Edwards.
‘Perfect,’ Jim grinned, ‘you wouldn’t believe how impossible it is to get timber anywhere in Australia at the moment. I’d almost given up on building guitars at this present time.’
‘I know,’ Zoe said. ‘It’s like gold.’
They negotiated a price that was more than Jim had paid for specialty timber such as Sassafras in the past, but Jim, Zoe and her boss were happy with the arrangement. For this piece, she didn’t have to wrap it up and post it.
After Mr. Jim Edwards left the shop, Zoe resumed her perusal of the emails. She opened the one she had started to read.
“Dear Zoe,” it read, “this is your Dad, Francis. I hope you don’t think I’m being too presumptuous but when I saw in My Family History, that you are a close relative, and possibly, no, my daughter, and that you were open to making contact, I just had to write to you.
You see, I have always wanted a family, children, but it never happened for me. Or so it seemed. And now, I am delighted to discover I have you. After all these years. I think the mother, who ever she was (confession, I was quite the lad, you see, sowed my wild… you get the picture), never told me. So, I never knew.
Dear Zoe, I would love to meet you.
Please let me know if meeting would be okay with you.
Love your Dad,
Francis Renard.”
Zoe collapsed onto the stool. Lightheaded. ‘Wow! My Dad!’
Then, before even replying, she googled “Flights to Adelaide” and began the process of booking the first available flight to South Australia.
Tru-Kling Creations 