[Another fond memory from my childhood…and Dad’s catchcry, “for the time being” took a breather when, after being promoted to Deputy Principal, he bought the Holden Premier. Also, a timely piece as our recent Remembrance Day, November 11, marked the 50th anniversary of the sacking of our then prime Minister Gough Whitlam by the Governor General Sir John Kerr. I still remember where I was when that happened. At home watching the news and old Gough saying: ‘Well may we say, “God save the Queen”, because nothing will save the Governor-General.’
Anyway, a car tale from our journey to Canberra where my education in Australian politics began.]
The Dream Car—Holden Premier EH, Serena (100-word challenge)
Serena, our dream family car ferried the T-Team to Canberra. In 1975, hardly a maiden for this voyage, she drove us to our destination; a comfortable, safe ride over the Hay Plains. No breakdowns. No stranded waiting for road service on the hot dusty side of the road. A smooth ride that rocked me to sleep; the vinyl with scent fresh from the caryard to us.
She mounted the snow shovelled roads to Thredbo. From her window, my first sight of snow on a brilliant sunny day, snow shining on twisted eucalypt branches.
Again, a detective sat opposite Francis. This one was female and wore a smug expression. Introduced herself as Detective Dee Berry. She announced that she had further questions that must be answered into the cold case inquiry of the hit-and-run of Milo Katz.
Francis Renard watched as this woman who he vaguely remembered from his youth purse her lips as if her mouth were full of berries. He noted that his wife, Eloise had made herself scarce. Gone for a walk on the beach. A fine morning for it, so she said after hearing Dee Berry was coming to visit.
“You’ll be fine,” El promised, before departing, leaving him to be fed to the “shark”. “Text me if she becomes too much of a problem. Besides, Zoe’s in the next room.”
So, this lady detective opened her strawberry-coloured lips and said sweetly, ‘I have some news for you, Mr. Renard.’
‘Really?’ he shifted his wiry body in the occasional lounge chair making it squeak. ‘I really think I told your partner, Dan Hooper everything I can remember from back then.’
‘Can you remind me who you spent the night with, and where on the night in question?’
‘Er…um…well, it’s a long time ago,’ Renard paused, and decided to change the subject. ‘You look familiar, do I know you from a past life?’
Her expression soured. ‘We used to go out, around that time, Francis.’
‘Did we? I-I don’t…’
‘Obviously not,’ Dee said, glaring at him. ‘Just to clear the air, you stood me up at my own end of school party. Then later, you said that you were there, but you weren’t. I have it in my diary and you’re in none of the photos. And…’ Dee raised her hand for emphasis, ‘this is the best part, we have witnesses, and subsequent evidence that place you and your Kombi at Sellicks Beach on that night when Milo Katz was run over. Would you like to comment, Mr. Renard?’
‘Er…er…’ Renard fiddled with his phone trying to surreptitiously send an S.O.S. to El. ‘Wh-what evidence?’
‘Some pretty solid evidence,’ Dee rubbed her hands together. ‘On the night in question, witnesses reported that you spent the evening with a certain young lady. Do you remember? Or have you forgotten her too?’
‘Um…probably, there were a lot of them back then.’
Dee leaned back in her chair. Looking smug, she said, ‘It would seem there was fruit from your labours, Mr. Renard. Nine months later, a girl called Zoe Thomas was born. We believe this child is yours Mr. Renard.’
Renard looked up and beyond Dee. He smiled, ‘Oh, yes, I know all about Zoe.’
The blonde standing behind Detective Berry grinned. ‘Did I hear my name in vain?’
‘Huh?’ Dee turned; her eyes widened. ‘I’m conducting an investigation here, Miss. Who are you?’
‘Zoe Thomas, Ma’am,’ she held out her hand to Dee. ‘Barrister.’
Dee refused to take her hand. ‘I see, so you’re not just a wee bit curious about your mother?’
‘I am, but at this present time, I’m more concerned with the current investigation of my father.’
‘Why?’
‘It would seem from your tone and attitude, and from what I could hear, that your history with him makes it too close and personal for you to be involved.’ Zoe narrowed her eyes at Dee. ‘You may conclude your discussion and leave now.’
When she left the old man at the service station, Dee made a mental note to turn left at the fork in the road where the purple house sat; just as the man said she needed to do to find the Thomas farm. She hoped the new owners would know where the Thomas family had moved.
After parking her car off the road, and in a ditch near the creek, Dee picked her way over the road and up the uneven path to the pastel pink painted house. Chooks ran amok in the front yard, scratching and pecking at the patchy lawn. A silver-haired blue heeler trotted around the yard after the chooks, sniffing and checking out where the hens had visited.
The door creaked open before Dee had time to knock, and a plump woman in her early 40’s looked at her and asked, ‘Are you lost?’
Dee replied, ‘No, actually, I’m an old friend of a lady who worked here with the Thomases back 40-years ago. Name of Lillie von Erikson? Did you know her? I’m trying to track down the daughter she had here back then…Adopted out…’
‘Ah, me mum…’ a knowing smile spread across the woman’s face, ‘always suspected that woz the case. So, now the truth comes out.’
She laughed, her tummy jiggling under her apron that covered with her latest cooking venture. Then she beckoned to Dee to come inside.
Offering a side of the table free of papers, the local lady said, ‘Cuppa? I have some delicious apple pie what’s just been cooked.’
Dee, who had a weakness for dessert and anything sweet, gladly accepted.
Over tea and heavenly pie with cream, straight from the cow cream, so the woman called Mavis boasted, Dee learnt the history of the little Huon hamlet, the days of the lives of each of the inhabitants, who was related to who, how many partners each had as well as offspring. Dee’s head spun with all these extraneous details but struggled to put in even one question related to her enquiry. Mavis rabbited on and on, barely pausing to take a breath.
The apple pie was good, though, and Dee accepted a second, then third piece in the quest to ask at least one question.
When Dee glanced out the window and saw the hill presiding over the river all black in the darkness of night, she decided to move the conversation along. She pointed at Mavis’s pie and melted cream. ‘Aren’t you going to have some?’
Mavis stopped mid-sentence about her son and ex going Mutton birding, and she stared at her plate. ‘Oh, yeah, forgot about that,’ she remarked and shovelled a spoonful into her mouth.
As she chewed, Dee said, ‘Can you tell me where the Thomases went?’
At the mention of the Thomas family and Mavis’s mouth was off again, full gallop. Dee could see that at this rate it’d be midnight before she had an opportunity to leave. She didn’t fancy navigating these tricky Huon valley roads in the darkness of night and hoped Mavis would offer her a spare room or couch to sleep…if she ever stopped talking.
Dee tolerated the whole Thomas history, from convict beginnings of their ancestors, a ship that never was that they built and sped them to the coast of Chile, another daring escape from most certain hanging, to finally straightening out their lives to buy this patch of land on God’s earth.
Dee was sure Mavis was making it up as she went along.
A few hours later after weaving through the Thomas family history over the last century, Mavis announced, ‘You see, that’s why Zoe never fitted in; she wozn’t one of us.’
Before Dee could utter, “How so?” Mavis raced on, ‘Me mum grew up with Janine, went to school wif her and they got married at the same time. But while me mum went on to have ten kids, Janine had none. That was until that girl, Lillie come to work wif them. Me cousin worked wif her on the apple farm. She reckoned something woz wrong wif that girl. You can tell if someone’s up the duff, ya know. It’s the way their tummy sits, no hiding it.’
Mavis took a quick sip of her now, stone-cold tea, gulped and continued, ‘Then the next thing, off Janine goes on a holiday and bingo, comes back wif a baby. By that time, the girl, Lillie, so me mum says is gone. She woz preggers with me at the time.’
‘Did you…?’ Dee began.
Mavis cut in. ‘I went to school with Zoe. All brains that girl, and you could tell she wozn’t one of us. She definitely had the makings of a mainlander. But Janine never budged. As far as she woz concerned, Zoe woz hers and nothing could persuade her to tell the ‘onest truth. But we all knew…I mean, the Thomases, bof of them dark haired, Irish, and here they have a blonde who looked like one of them German kids that Hitler used to go on about. What were they called, them kids?’
‘Aryan,’ Dee replied and then zipped in, ‘so where are the Thomases now?’
‘Ah, well, Janine, the mother, she’s passed, so I heard. Cancer got her, they said, but Mister Thomas, he lives in Strahan. They moved to the West Coast a few years back when Zoe woz still in high school. Told ya, she never fitted in. Heard she became some hotshot lawyer in Melbourne. If that doesn’t tell ya, once a mainlander, always one, I tell ya.’
After this comment, Mavis yawned.
‘Have you been…?’
‘No, never, why would I do that?’ Mavis said. She straightened up and puffed out her generous chest. ‘We have it all here on the apple isle, why would I go there, to the mainland?’
Dee prepared to stand. ‘I must…’
Mavis jumped up and pushed her down. ‘No, no, you can’t go out now. Here, you stay here tonight. I have a couple of spare rooms; me kids are all grown up, ya see. ‘sides, it’s dark out there and dangerous to drive at night. All the animals come out and I wouldn’t want ya having an accident. No, you must stay and have a good sleep, and, in the morning, I’ll draw a map for how you get to Strahan, okay.’
Dee thanked Mavis for her offer. She’d forgotten about the wildlife. She’d seen more animal carnage on the roadside from Hobart to Huonville than she’d seen in a lifetime of driving in the Adelaide hills and surrounds. She would prefer not the add to the native wildlife body-count.
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.
[Oops! I made a bit of a blue last time when sharing a chapter of The Culvert. A repeat of a previous chapter under the guise of a different chapter heading. How did that happen? It’s a mystery…No, actually, I confess, the chapter repeated itself in the manuscript. All fixed, so here’s the real, fair dinkum “Fallout” Chapter.]
Fallout
Norwood Saturday, May 1, 2022 5 to 10:00pm
El
El gleaned from the afternoon that currently had turned into dinner and an excursion to an exclusive club restaurant in Kingswood, seated by an open fireplace, red wine in hand, that Lillie had loved her father. To her he was a kind man but had trouble holding down a job. She reckoned he deserted the family because he was ashamed that he couldn’t provide for them.
‘Just before he disappeared,’ Lillie said, showing an antique gold watch, ‘he received this watch and he said, “I’ve lost my job, and this watch is all I have to show for it.”’
‘Can I have a look?’ El asked.
Lillie took the watch from her wrist and handed it to El who studied it, turning it over in her hand. She recalled the watch Zoe was holding the other day after the discovery at Mt. Lofty.
An inscription on the back of the watch read: In appreciation. P.E.
For what? El wondered and said, ‘Interesting. Nice watch. Would be worth a few bob, I’d imagine.’
Lillie shrugged. ‘Yeah, it’s gold.’
‘Golden handshake, I guess,’ El remarked. Then without thinking glanced at Jimmy and asked, ‘Who’s P.E.?’ Lillie had consumed a few glasses of some red wine by then. Lillie’s choice. Madam being a connoisseur of red wine. She particularly recommended drops from the Clare Valley.
Jimmy squirmed in his seat, and mumbled, ‘My dad. His boss.’
‘Golden handshake?’ El said.
‘Hard times, had to lay off people,’ Lillie jumped in and with an edge to her voice. ‘Nothing personal, he reckoned. It broke him, though.’ She then gulped down her glass of red and poured another.
‘Is that why he left?’ El said.
‘You betchya!’ Lillie said followed by another skull of wine. She started to pour more Clare red into her glass.
Jimmy placed hand over the glass. ‘I think that’s enough, dear.’
‘Oh,’ Lillie glared at her husband, ‘I’ve only started, dear.’ She nudged his hand out of the way and completed the task of filling her glass. Then she offered the remainder of the bottle to El. ‘Want one?’
‘Why not?’ El replied. She shouldn’t, she knew she shouldn’t, but with this woman of status and force, resistance seemed pointless.
She watched Lillie fill her glass. I’ll just sip, she thought.
Lillie, now slurring her words and swaying, launched into a diatribe; wrongs done to her and her hard life. Her mother, once Dad had gone, worked two jobs to send her to college. But poor Lillie suffered bullying from the rich kids. Did she mention her nemesis? Dee. Dee Berry. Oh, how she hated that Queen of bitches.
Jimmy nodded. ‘Oh, yes, Dee. Oh, my goodness!’ He turned to Lillie and gestured. ‘Tell her about the time she beat you up in the woodwork room.’
El covered her mouth as she tried her best to hide the smirk forming on her mouth. ‘Dee Berry? You went to school with Dee?’
‘Yeah, piece of work she was. Had it in for me from the moment we met eyes back in Year 8. We both liked the same guy—Danny. Danny Hooper.’
A snort escaped from El. Dan? That’s one for the books.
‘Did you know her?’ Jimmy asked.
El in a moment of awareness, cleared her throat. Don’t mention her association with the police force. ‘Ah, small world. Adelaide, you know.’
Jimmy narrowed his eyes at El. ‘What sort of work did you say you did?’
Ah, trick question. ‘Public service in human resources and management,’ El was quick to reply. She’d added the “resources” to give some distance to the management (aka policing part). Now to distract him. She took a sip of wine, then said, ‘Speaking of your father, what ever happened to him?’
Jimmy blanched and turned away. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
El bit her lip. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ From what she had gleaned from Dan’s notes, Percy Edwards was himself a piece of work. ‘I understand.’ She decided not to mention the body in the freezer, even though she knew Percy was most likely the body they’d discovered under the culvert bridge on route up Mt. Lofty. She figured by this time, Dan or Dee had informed Jimmy of the discovery.
Meanwhile, Lillie was on a roll with the alcohol. She poured another drink, lost count of how many, and drawled, ‘Oh, my, Dee hasn’t changed. She’s plaguing me again. What is it with that woman?’
‘Yeah, no stopping that woman.’ Jimmy bobbed his head up and down. ‘She’s a copper now.’
‘Suits her, but why does she have to drag up the past and bother me?’
‘Why?’ El asked. ‘What’s she done?’
‘Aw, my brother hit a kangaroo way back in 1981, and now they think he’s killed somebody,’ Lillie said. ‘Hell, who do they think they are? Sven wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
Jimmy patted his wife on the hand. ‘They’re just doing their job, Honey.’
‘Yeah but takes Dee to start bugging me again.’ A cloud fell over Lillie’s expression. ‘I tell you, if that Constable Berry calls me again, I’m going to sue for harassment.’
From there the conversation meandered from current trends in politics, bitcoin (and the Edwards’ massive profits) to conspiracy theories and Lillie’s passion for pro-life. No mention of her early travels to Tasmania and adopting out her baby there.
She smiled and considered the extended time with the couple, a most productive time. She checked her watch. My goodness! 10pm!
Lillie slapped her on the back. A friendly pat that with her level of inebriation had been a slap rather than a pat. ‘I really l-l-like you, El. I feel l-l-like I’ve known you forever.’
‘Yeah, likewise,’ El replied. She realised that, although she’d warned Francis she’d be out on reconnaissance with team Edwards this night, he’d be starting to get worried. She also realised she, herself had too much to drink to drive home.
El glanced at her phone to phone for a taxi.
‘Hey, El, dear, come tomorrow and we’ll get some serious painting done.’
El nodded. ‘Sounds like a plan, but um, I need to…’
Her phone pinged. A message from Francis. Where are you?
At the “Fireside” in Kingswood. Pick me up? Over the limit. El returned.
Francis: Ok, be there soon.
El assumed that Francis would text her from the car when he arrived, and she would make her escape. She would learn never to make assumptions.
Twenty minutes later, with Lillie praising the glory of not-so-local celebrity politician, Ivan T Rumf, a slim blonde in a grey jogging suit, stepped through entrance door to the lounge.
Jimmy jumped up. ‘Zoe! Fancy meeting you here.’
Lillie continued extolling the wonders of Ivan T Rumf’s financial wizardry. Barely noticed Zoe’s presence, until…
Zoe refused the offer to join them for a glass of the good stuff and being converted to the cult of Ivan T Rumf. El assessed from Zoe’s sour expression as she waited, that she was not a fan of the money mogul.
That sour expression and lack of enthusiasm for Lillie’s current pet topic, got Lillie’s attention. She looked Zoe up and down. And narrowed her eyes. She rose with hands on hips and snapped, ‘Who do you think you are, Madam?’
Zoe stepped back and holding up her hand, tried to diffuse the situation. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve just come to collect my friend.’
‘Come now, Honey, it’s okay to have a different opinion.’ Jimmy tapped Lillie’s knee. Then to El and Zoe, ‘It’s the alcohol talking; she won’t remember a thing in the morning.’
Zoe and El glanced at each other. El rose, shrugged on her coat, lifted her handbag, and prepared to leave.
‘Hey, El, my friend, what do you think?’ Lillie tugged El’s coat sleeve.
Jimmy leaned back and smiled. ‘Hey, you know, just looking at you two. I mean, Zoe my Tassie friend, and Lillie, and I could swear you two are sisters.’
To say Lillie made a scene would be a gross understatement. Foot stamping. Fury flying. Abuse hurling. Colourful language not befitting of a prestigious college principal.
After making a hasty retreat out the establishment and into Renard’s car, El said breathlessly, ‘Sorry about that.’
‘What happened?’ Francis Renard asked.
‘She-she exploded,’ Zoe said. ‘What was all that about?’
‘Well, I’m glad I didn’t go in,’ Renard said. ‘How embarrassing for you.’
El sighed. ‘I think we have our answer, amongst other things.’
‘What do you mean?’ Zoe said.
‘If there’s any doubt, her over-reaction said it all,’ El replied.
Zoe scratched her forehead. ‘I don’t get it. You’re speaking in riddles.’
Renard huffed. ‘What the detective is trying to say, is that that crazy woman was your mother. Geez, I never knew she had a crazy side.’
El chuckled, ‘Ah, repression, does that to a person. Comes out sideways.’
‘Her?’ Zoe glanced behind her through the rear car window. ‘That woman who made a scene? Glad she gave me up…I can see the headlines now, “Judge’s birth mother is a nutcase.”’\
El raised her eyebrows. ‘Judge? You want to be a judge?’
‘Why, yeah. It’s all in my five-year plan; I was just taking leave after my mother died.’
On the drive back to Brighton, Francis Renard sat in the driver’s seat, tall, his chest puffed out. A grin split his face, and he said, ‘My daughter, a judge. My daughter a judge.’
And El contemplated. Perhaps I could return to work as a detective. Despite the fallout, she had enjoyed her foray into covert investigation. For her, Lillie’s outburst had been the highlight.
However, she was a tad concerned how she’d manage retrieving her car from the Norwood address the next day.
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.
Where to start? That is the question and challenge for every author as they embark on writing that “Great (insert your country of choice) novel”.
For years my first novel,Mission of the Unwilling has languished on the virtual shelves of Amazon mostly unread, unloved. Why?
So, I asked the team at Indie Scriptorium to have a look at the story and give feedback. Elsie commented that some scenes were too confronting and caused her to have nightmares. Boris can have that effect.
Mary apologized and said that I needed to rewrite the first chapter as there wasn’t enough information to keep the reader engaged.
So, for me, the work began…and a new chapter, a new beginning evolved. Oh, and some of the more “silencey of the lambs” bits were toned down. It worried me that Boris might be giving my readers nightmares.
Anyway, it will cost you nothing to download a copy of Mission of the Unwilling (second edition). It’s free on Kindle from today (23 December) until Tuesday 27 December.
[Extract from Mission of the Unwilling (2nd Ed)
PREAMBLE
ABDUCTED…ALMOST
October 1986
Minna: reflections from her diary
One Friday night in late autumn, I ventured up the dimly lit path of the university grounds to North Terrace and waited to cross at the lights. The air, although well into spring, October, in fact, still had a bite in it. Not that the chill deterred me from wearing a cotton plaid mini dress that I had discovered in my mother’s wardrobe. I often dipped into her 1960’s collection of fashion icons, especially when she’s away on one of her frequent business trips. I like the 1960’s. Although I’ve flirted with the buffed up and permed hair of current fashion, I’ve reverted to my natural long straight blonde locks. Günter likes my hair “natural” as he puts it.
I glanced at my watch. 6:00pm. The car traffic was at its peak, but the university student mass had begun to peter out. I smiled. That’ll be me, next year.
As it’s Friday night shopping, I anticipated the shops in Rundle Mall to be open. A chance to scout around the city’s dress and record shops before heading home and then off to a night at the movies with my friends from youth group, Monica and Liesel.
I sighed. The only problem with movies is that we can never decide what to see. As almost graduating high school students, Liesel and I would be hankering for a racy adventure or science fiction and Monica, who’s four years older than us, would be the ultimate wet blanket wanting to see only soppy love stories.
To my right, a voice with a distinct German accent, ‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’
Ah! Günter, I thought. Voice doesn’t sound familiar, though. Not Günter’s warm deep voice.
I turned abruptly intending to give my standard closed response, of a sharp “No!” However, on closer inspection, this owner of the lame line appeared familiar. But who? Dressed for power. Styled in an Italian-made dark business suit, up and coming, right and ready for money-making, and to impress the ladies in town. The finely cut features of his face and neatly cut ash-blonde hair made him an ideal candidate for a fashion magazine or David Jones catalogue. I gathered the impression that this familiar man was trying to be the world’s most eligible bachelor. However, despite all the familiarity and fine appearance, something about him was not right. I was suspicious. But not so suspicious to be unfriendly to him.
‘Now isn’t it amazing that we should meet, on a day, in a place at such a time as this,’ the model man said.
‘Perhaps,’ I replied whilst staring straight ahead. The pedestrian lights turned to “walk” and we strode over North Terrace to Pulteney Street.
‘We must have coffee and catch up. Why, I haven’t seen you since, um, since um…’
Instead of saying, “No, I have to go,” like a lamb to the slaughter, I meekly followed him down below street level into a nearby wine bar. The atmosphere was neat, clean, and the lighting dim. Although near Rundle Mall, I sensed a seedy darkness, as if downtown Hindley Street.
[My dad’s catchcry, “for the time being” dogged the choice of cars he brought home. The Austin was no exception… ]
The Austin appeared one winter’s afternoon in our backyard; Dad’s solution to the worthless Wolseley, and of course, just for the time being.
Only cost $100. What a bargain!
Next morning, his breath steaming with excitement, Dad marched up to the green lump of a car. I sat sulking in this woe-begone wreck, the vinyl seat threatening frostbite on my delicate buns.
Dad hopped in and turned the ignition key. Nothing. Not even a squeak on this icy morning.
‘Ah, well, we have to crank it,’ Dad said.
Crank it? Yep, we had to crank this ancient Austin to life.
Having both studied English at university, the subject that comes up often when visiting Carol is about all things writing and what makes a good story. So, one of my first blog posts came to mind…to encourage and inspire all of us who are writers.
Writers’ Privilege
‘Writing is a lonely craft,’ my university tutor said.
All of us in the group nodded and I thought: Yes, a writer has to hide away in their study clacking away on their typewriter. They have to concentrate. Those were the days back in the 1980’s…
I recalled as a student, hours locked up in my bedroom, writing my essays, trying to concentrate while my family went about their business, stomping in the passageway, dishes clattering in the kitchen and the television blaring in the lounge room. Not to mention my dear brother lifting weights, and dropping the things with the inevitable clunk and thud, in the lounge room. Did I mention trying to concentrate? Yes, trying, but not succeeding. And even now, as I write this blog, can’t go five minutes without interruptions. These days, though, I write my first draft, by hand, in a quiet place at a quiet time, and then I write this blog on the computer as a second draft.
Suffice to say, the statement by my tutor all those years ago, has an element of truth. And compared to being an artist or musician, writing is a lonely craft. I belong to an art group and enjoy going each week as the hall is filled with happy chatter and my fellow artists are friendly and welcoming. And I can imagine a musician, mostly has to play and sing with others in a band, their craft has to be performed to an audience. The lonely parts of a musician’s life, from my observation, is the process of composing music. Although, many musicians collaborate when they jam together and create new songs together.
On reflection, though, my experiences over time with the process of writing as isolating, no longer resonates with me. I don’t write alone. I have my characters. I go into their world. Call me crazy, but it’s like when I was a child and had imaginary friends. Come to think of it, perhaps because I was lonely, I became a writer. Figures, hours after school, on weekends and holidays to fill. There’s only so many hours my brother, five years older than me, would share with me playing games. And friends, too weren’t with me all the time. So, books became my friends, as well as characters in the world of fantasy I conjured up. I swooned away, sitting in my cubby house, and whole days drifted by in my other life of fiction, science fiction.
As I grew up, I became used to my own space. My loneliness transformed into the joy and peace of being alone. Time to think and explore ideas, the “what if’s” of life’s path, stories of people I’ve met, my story, and also the stories of my characters. Time to express these stories, writing them down. Many of these stories remain hidden in my journal, a hand-written scrawl; a mental work-out, sorting out ideas and emotions. Some make it to a Word File on the computer, others a blog post, and a few hundred pages have ended up as works buried on the shelves of Amazon—self-published but published all the same. And for six years, now, there’s my blog, again mostly hidden in the blog-pile of the world-wide web, but more visible today than in 2015 when I started the blogging journey.
Yet, once I’ve written the first draft in quietness and peace, the craft of writing becomes a collaborative process. Good writing needs feedback, editing and proof-reading. An effective piece of work needs a second, third and numerous sets of eyes, and many minds to weed the “gremlins” that beset the plot, content, and pacing. And a keen set of eyes to comb through the text to pick up grammar and spelling issues. The computer’s spell and grammar check are not enough.
I love to go to writers’ group. I heard someone on radio say that reading is the ultimate empathy tool. When we read, we enter into another’s world and how they see the world. Exploring another’s world—how much more social can one get? This is what happens at writers’ group. We share our own world through our writing, and we explore other writer’s world as we listen to each other’s stories; a privilege and an honour to be trusted with these gems. As fellow writers we need each other to hone our skills as a writer. We need each other’s feedback. How else will we refine our craft without feedback?
Still, there is an aspect of writing that makes it a lonely existence. As writers we are modern-day prophets, proclaiming words given to us, believing these words can and will make a difference in another’s life. Hoping, the change will be for good. The word is a powerful tool; a double-edged sword. God’s Word is described as a double-edged sword. (Hebrews 4:12) There’s a saying that sticks and stones can break bones, but words cannot hurt me. Not true. Words can hurt. Words can also heal. Spoken words can sting or soothe, and then are gone, but the written word can endure and have power. People believe something is true because it’s in print. Reputations have risen and fallen on the power of the written word.
The printing press revolutionised the fifteenth century. Imagine words once written and hidden in some monastic library, then with the advent of the printed word, being duplicated and spread, and even appearing on church doors, for all to read. In our times we have witnessed the evolution of the power of the word through the internet. Need I say more—the gatekeepers of the past, by-passed, allowing all who are wanting to have a voice, freedom of written expression.
However, with freedom and power to influence, comes responsibility to use our gift and passion to write wisely and for the good of others. As a writer, I have written with good intentions to help others grow, help others see the world differently, change attitudes and effect a positive change in the world. Even so, my good intentions posted on my blog may have affected others in ways I didn’t intend. So, I have an understanding now what it means that writing can be a lonely craft as there will always be someone who doesn’t see the world as I do and may find my public interpretation of life offensive. My voice in the world-wide wilderness of the web may actually alienate me from others. So, I’m back where I started as a child, alone, with time and space to explore my world of fantasy with my characters as friends.
I guess that’s why I’m drawn to write. With fiction, it’s out there, it’s fantasy and it’s a safe platform to explore ideas, issues and ways of looking at the world, the other world of “what-ifs”, that help readers open their minds to investigate alternative attitudes and create discussion. And with fact through my travel memoirs, sharing my life and worldview, joys, challenges and faith. Through this process, I hope to bring goodness and personal growth to all who are willing to join in the journey into my world.
‘We had that one!’ That’s what my brother would say when mum read him the same story when he was young.
“We had that one!” maybe was the cry from readers all over the world, as this is what I have done with the Out of Time project. For four weeks. How did I not notice?
Anyway, I think I know how it happened. I changed the sequence of chapters as one does in the editing process. Then up came that particular chapter and it was repeated. All part of the editing process.
So, in the spirit of the day, here’s a post from the past on feedback, which also is about a vital part of refining our work and making our stories the best they can be.
Feedback
I like to celebrate. As a child, when I received full-marks for a spelling test, Dad rewarded me with a Kitchener Bun from the Fish ‘n Chip shop/Bakery which in the good ol’ days of my childhood was situated opposite Glenelg Primary School. A few years ago, when I used to drive my son his course in Magill, my mum and I treated ourselves to lunch at the local hotel.
Every so often, I check my Amazon account. I wipe off the virtual cobwebs of neglect, and dig deep in the files of my mind, retrieving the password to enter. I expect nothing much to have changed.
I’ve been busy with my blog and the rewards, small, though they are, compared to the rest of blogging world, but the steady trickle of views, likes and comments, satisfies me. Over the years, the number of followers has steadily grown.
Once long ago, now, I made a daring move, and posted my short story, Boris’ Choice—not for the faint-hearted or while one eats breakfast…After the post, I checked for results on Amazon with my War on Boris Series books?
Then, I checked the reviews. Now, I don’t know how other writers have fared with reviews, but for many months since my books were published, I had received no reviews. Yes, I asked my readers to do the deed and tick the star-boxes and comment, with no results. Yes, they’d say and the weeks went by and nothing. Were they just being polite? I have no illusions and the reality is that art and literature are subjective—what one person likes another won’t.
Anyway, back to checking the reviews…I looked again at one of the countries one of my books sold. The page appeared different. A yellow bar, and a comment. Genuine feedback. Not a great appraisal, but an appraisal all the same. I knew the person responsible for this first-ever comment for my book, but was not surprised at their response. I did wonder at the time how my novella would work for them—not well—just as I imagined when they informed me they’d bought the book on kindle. As I said before, Boris and his antics are well…not for everyone.
That being said, and for fear my works may be misunderstood, I would describe the over-riding theme of my stories are the classic fight of good against evil. How evil, like Boris, can creep into our lives. And when for whatever reason, usually when we maintain and enhance our self, and to avoid discomfort, we allow evil to stay. This evil, however subtle, will drive us to isolated places in our lives, much like Boris does in The Hitch-hiker; places we never wanted to go. I want young adults and people young at heart, to make choices and use their energy for goodness and to fight evil, so they can live a full life and also be an agent for good in their community and the world.
[The continuation of the Survivor Short Story “project” in the War On Boris the Bytrode series. This time, back in time, 1967, following the adventures of middle-aged mum, Letitia…Now, being a project of sorts, over the summer holidays, I have pieced together the story from beginning to end, and then revised it. A main thread has evolved. Something to do with murder and Letitia’s unfortunate involvement in it.
This week, it became obvious to me that something had to be done with my time-travel mechanism in this story. Let’s face it, a black box is just a bit lame and over-used. Then the idea came to me, what about a box of chocolates? What assortment of adventures one could have with chocolates laced with the time travel microbiol mud from a cave on the *Pilgrim Planet? In this episode (14.3), I begin to explore how these chocolates might work. Unlike Forrest Gump’s famous phrase, ‘Life is like a box of chocolates…”, in Out of Time it is: “Time Travel is like a box of chocolates, you may not know when you’ll end up.”]
Meeting with Mutti
‘I thought you would never make it.’ A woman’s voice floated over his head.
He recognised that voice. ‘Mutti?’
‘Ah, Gans, immer spaet! (Ah, Goose, always late).’
‘What are you doing here?’
A slight woman, aged somewhere in her thirties, flaxen hair tied in a bun, locked eyes with him. ‘To rescue my future grandsons, naturally. Why else would I ask you to come here?’
‘Yes, I know.’ Gunter stood, dusted himself and sneezed. ‘But, I was expecting someone else…’
‘Have you got the chocolate box? You know, the time travel bon-bon thing. I left it here last time.’
‘Oh, Mutti! Always leaving your stuff wherever you go! We could trace you through time and space the trail of chocolate boxes and their wrappers you leave.’
‘Just as well I did, or I’d be lost forever.’
‘Ja, natuerlich.’ Gunter paced down the hall. ‘Let’s do it!’
‘Hey, not so fast.’ His mother caught his sleeve. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Saving the boys.’
‘Ja, aber, I have the matches and the bomb is all set up.’
‘Bomb? What bomb?’
‘The one to blow Boris into a million itty bits. You know, kaboom.’
‘But, but you can’t just go around killing people. Besides, a million itty bits would make a million itty Borises that would grow up into a million big Borises.’ Gunter shrugged. ‘Besides, look what happened to Letitia because of you.’
‘Hmph! What is she? Your papa’s second child? With that woman? Hmmm? How could he do that to me? Tossing me aside because I’m…I’m…’
‘I’m sorry, Mama, but we thought you were…’
‘Tot? (Dead?)’
‘So, then how is the bomb going to work?’
‘Oh, the bomb will work very well, indeed.’ She grabbed her son’s hand and dragged him out to a courtyard and onto a patch of lawn.
‘But, but, how are we going to save the boys, then? I cannot believe I will be the father of boys.’
‘Simple.’ She struck a match and tossed it onto the porch. The flame flared and then fizzled.
‘Yeah, right! And your point is?’
‘The point is, Gans, that the flame is a signal.’
Gunter stood scratching his head. ‘I don’t understand. I thought you were after your chocolates.’
‘Come on.’ His mother sighed and tugged at her son’s shirt. ‘You must get back to the house before they notice you are missing. I think Mrs. C is cooking you Bratwurst, your favourite sausages, you know, and fried onions on her outdoor barbeque.’
Gunter gazed back at the house. The weatherboard with its untamed cottage garden. The driveway concreted but cracked. He realized that since the flame throwing, the night had morphed into midday. A fine summer’s day. An afternoon southerly breeze cooled the air slightly. The smell of BBQ sausages wafted, making Gunter’s stomach growl.
‘How did that happen?’ Gunter asked.
‘Come,’ Wilhelm Thumm nudged him. ‘You can introduce me to the famous Mrs. C.’
As they approached the house, a slender blonde leapt from the Aston Martin parked in front of the boarding house. She slammed the door and marched down the street, away from the house.
‘Who is that?’ Gunter asked.
‘My wife,’ Wilhelm replied. ‘Frieda, remember her?’
‘She has not changed.’ Gunter stared at the gravel on the footpath. ‘She saw me, and she does not like me.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’
‘She blames me for what happened to Letitia.’
‘She’ll get over it.’ Wilhelm patted his back. ‘You’ll be friends, one day.’
‘Yeah, sure. Pigs fly, as they say here in Australia.’ Gunter locked eyes with Wilhelm. ‘And another thing, if I may ask, how did you…? Where’s my…?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Wilhelm burped and tossed a chocolate wrapper in the gutter. He flashed a shiny black box at Gunter. ‘I’d offer you one, but, um, we need you here and now, not some random time in the future or past. By the way, do you have the money?’
Gunter nodded and handed Wilhelm the wad of notes. ‘I don’t see why you need so much.’ He watched Wilhelm toss the box into the front seat of his Aston Martin. ‘You look like you are…’
‘All for a good cause. Besides, that greedy brother of yours can do with a bit less. So, I hear.’
As they walked up the rose-lined path to the front door of the house, Gunter said, ‘Won’t they melt? The chocolates?’
[The continuation of the Survivor Short Story “project” in the War On Boris the Bytrode series. This time, back in time, 1967, following the adventures of middle-aged mum, Letitia…Now, being a project of sorts, over the summer holidays, I have pieced together the story from beginning to end, and then revised it. A main thread has evolved. Something to do with murder and Letitia’s unfortunate involvement in it. Characters such as Frieda have been developed. Plus, characters, like Ella, have emerged from the shadows of past backstories that never before have been in print. In this episode (13.1) we have the meeting of these two characters…]
An Untimely Visitor
Part 1
Frieda
Meanwhile in Tasmania, the grass was dry and the weather about to heat up for the start of school.
The first rays of dawn filtered through the lace curtains of Frieda’s bedroom. After glimpsing the start of a new day, she turned over and settled back into a deep sleep.
‘Mummy!’
Frieda groaned. ‘Go back to bed Johnny.’
‘Mummy!’ Johnny pushed at her back, rocking her. ‘There’s a funny lady in our good room.’
‘What’s she doing there?’
‘I let her in, Mummy,’ Johnny sighed. ‘She says she’s my “Cross-mother”.’ Another sigh. ‘But she doesn’t look like a “Cross-mother”, she looks too young and pretty to be cross.’
‘Now you are making me cross, Johnathon, dear. Go back to bed. You must’ve been dreaming.’
Johnny tugged at Frieda’s hand. ‘No, Mummy, she’s a real cross-mother. You must see her. You must!’
Frieda rolled her eyes and gulped down a rising sense of seediness. ‘Oh, alright, if I must.’
Mother and son pad down the stairs and into the lounge room.
A petite figure dressed in a blue dirndl stood gazing at the panoramic view of the Derwent.
She turned and flicked a platinum plait away from her face.
Frieda gasped.
The stranger smiled, her deep blue eyes twinkling. ‘Beautiful view. I love it when the sun rises over the sea. Don’t you?’
‘Who are you?’
The woman stepped towards Frieda and took her hand. ‘Come, sit down. There’s something I need to explain.’
‘What?’ Frieda asked.
The German lady paused.
‘Well, don’t just stand there. Tell me.’
‘You need to sit. It’s important.’
Frieda exhaled and shook her head. ‘Fine, then, I will sit.’
She perched on the edge of the couch. The German lady sat beside her and caressed the frills on her baby blue dress.
‘I’m sitting,’ Frieda said.
‘So, you are.’
Johnny peered into the German lady’s blue, blue eyes. ‘Why are you cross, lady?’
‘I am not cross.’ The lady smiled. ‘My name is Ella and I am a friend of your mother’s.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’ Frieda leaned back and studied this strange woman called Ella. ‘You must’ve been a very young friend, my mother died during the war. So did my father. I am an orphan.’
‘To tell the truth, Frieda, your mother is very much alive. She is living in Melbourne now. You see, you were not an orphan; you were kidnapped.’
‘Really? All this time, since I was a child, I have believed I was an orphan, Lebensborn, they called me. Bred pure for the Reich. And now you tell me my mother is in Melbourne?’
‘Yes. Are you not happy about that?’
‘Ecstatic!’ Frieda scoffed. ‘And how long have you known about my mother and me?’
‘Um…’ Ella shrugged. ‘A little while.’
‘And why did it take you such a long while to come over to Tasmania to tell me?’
‘I have been elsewhere…on business. Out of…’ Ella touched Frieda’s arm. ‘But I am here now telling you. And she wants to see you. She wants you to come to Melbourne and for you to meet.’
‘And how exactly are we to travel to Melbourne?’
‘You have a sailboat, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but…I can’t…’
‘But I can.’
‘But my husband Wilhelm won’t…’
Ella’s eyes twinkled. ‘Don’t worry Frieda, I have been in close contact with your husband. In fact, I met him in Melbourne recently. One of the reasons he went there, to meet with your mother. And yes, he has agreed to lend us the boat.’
‘Not too close, I hope.’ Frieda frowned. ‘You and my husband.’
‘No! Not at all!’ Ella laughed. ‘We go way back, Wilhelm and me. Just old friends, to tell the truth.’
Johnny danced on the spot. ‘Are we going on a sailing trip, Mummy?’
Frieda nodded. ‘Yes, my darling boy. And you are going to meet my mummy, your grandma.’
Ella
As Frieda and Johnny packed clothes and essentials into a suitcase, Ella sipped a cup of tea that Frieda had prepared for her. Ella watched them and while the pair were busy packing, she chuckled. I remember Gunter, my youngest at Johnny’s age, she mused. So sweet, so innocent.
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