The trio continue to giggle, occasionally breaking out into uncontrolled laughter. Musical Director, Richard, bristles.  Jessie just can’t seem to hit the opening C, and of course, her B Flat throws Sybil and Lily off, too. “Er, ah … Three little maids from school are we…”, hits the theatre’s far wall and lands somewhere: as flat as a pancake!

“Righto girls, let’s try it again!” Richard thumps Middle C on his keyboard. Jessie’s throat gags nervously, the note flies south again, with the other two maids inexorably following!

Four weeks in, the production is falling into place, lyrics learnt, staging looking great, and for the first time, the orchestra and choral components are under the one umbrella. If we can just find some way to bring Jessie in half a note higher, and also, to get that Double Bass player to ease back on their ‘Um pah pa’, Richard muses.

Three weeks until opening night.  The stage flats are looking great, and some clever carpentry is providing a wonderful, three-dimensional depth to the set. The painted cherry blossoms, rosy, sugary pink, looking good enough to eat!

The rehearsal continues. A complete run through, a flawless ending “…at a tree by a river, a little tom-tit”.  It’s a wrap. Richard has a quiet word with the Double Bass player before his “OK, see you all next Thursday” has everyone retrieving hats, coats, and bags.

“Margaret, can I have a quick word. You know when you are about to bring the orchestra in at ‘Three Little Maids’, I need you to throw Jessie an extra Middle C; nothing too overpowering, sotto voce, just enough for her to pick it up and hit that elusive note?”  “Yes, I can insert that. We’ll practice it on Thursday.”

Friendly banter as the troupe reconvenes. Richard overhears a couple of the chorus making quite unsavoury comments about Jessie’s missing C. Richard chooses to ignore the sniggers and throws a meaningful look across to Margaret. The session gets underway.

That extra note works beautifully. Those ‘Three little girls…’ hit Middle C beautifully; clear, melodic, on-pitch. Everyone hears it; there is an acknowledgement of Jessie’s triumph, and at the next break, there is spontaneous applause. Jessie beams: the rehearsal continues.

Opening night. Gas lanterns highlight The Savoy’s profile in the cool Covent Garden’s evening. Hansom cabs jostle with lively foot traffic: an expectant, excited crowd humming with anticipation of this new D’Oyly Carte production. The Telegraph and the Times both carry editorial, enthusing this latest exploit from Messrs Gilbert and Sullivan.

A last-minute program review, throat clearing, settling. The chatter stills as the lights dim. Everybody is already familiar with the antics in Pinafore and Pirates, drawn tonight with the prospect of a new comic romp. The audience collectively indulges in that quirky, almost audible intake of held breath. The curtain rises.

History never records the triumph, but Richard’s fingers are tightly crossed. Jessie leads the trio as a Middle C flies effortlessly out towards the Dress Circle.

As kids, the waterhole on the Eight Mile Creek was the go-to centre of our world. The four of us would ride our bikes down to its deep watery world, then line up to swing off the rope for that first exhilarating ‘bomb’. We had no idea where it was eight miles from, or to. We supposed from somewhere, now forgotten.

There was a spring at the bottom of the waterhole. As we got older, and could hold our breath for longer, we’d dive down and see the bubbles escaping. We discovered quite a few springs in the area, all with those telltale surface bubblers. The creek never dried up, not even during the long, irregular periods of drought.  It just gently burbled along, crystal clear, inviting. But it could be a monster!

Dad and Grandpa used to talk of the floods, huge sheets of water, stretching off towards the horizon. “Never got near the house …”, Grandpa used to reflect, “… built us on top of this little rise.” Even so, he and Dad had taken the precaution of building an earth retaining wall outside the homestead fence.

I remember Christmas 2000. The Georgina ran ‘a banker’, in turn, enthusing our little tributary creek to stretch its wings. The Eight Mile came up, but even in flood, it was still eight hundred metres from home. Two weeks later, we noticed the green carpet delineating the flood’s extent. Dad went to the Mount Isa cattle sales, buying eight hundred young weaners.

In February, we hosted the annual Eight Mile District get-together. Mum was planning for weeks, ordering extra groceries and grog, for delivery on the next mail plane.

That Saturday night, everyone was pretty relaxed: the booze flowed freely. There was talk of the recent stock sales, the floods, and the Council’s road-maintenance backlog. Someone mentioned the unseasonal conditions – the temperatures had topped 45 degrees eight times last month. That was the trigger – the elephant was off and trumpeting!

Wearie Robbie, from across the range, rendered Dorothy Mackellar’s “a land of sweeping plains … of droughts and flooding rains…” while Don Smalljoy, our next-door neighbour, quipped about the bloody woke lefties climate hoax. Furious head-nodding, beers and declarations about the historic natural order did the rounds.  No climate change in these parts!

March, and another cyclone formed in the Gulf – the eighth in three years! The heavens opened: you could cut it with a knife! Eight days without let-up, and the creek crept closer. The family boarded the mail plane on the Saturday. I stayed.

By eight on Sunday morning, the creek breached our levy. By nine I was on the roof as the unending muddy deluge crept into the house, up the walls, over the gutters. This was going to be tricky – no mobile coverage and the rain kept falling.

A chopper hovered. A Hi-Viz-clad figure descended and dangled in front of me. She suggested I slip into the harness. “Hi, I’m Angela, you must be Bach?”

It was a risky strategy, but risk often maximised returns. And besides, it was fun ‘gaming’ the system.

As an Investment Banker, I read the Morning Brew newsletter religiously. But the routine was starting to bore me. The takeaway latte, sipped as you trudged along cloudy Collins Street. But jees, that newsletter opened up a new, exciting direction.

But the MB ran a series of articles on the emerging online gambling industry. It suggested there were regulatory weaknesses in the accounting and auditing systems. Those articles set off an intense reaction; they stirred up old addictions. I did extensive research and reached the same conclusion. Not only weaknesses, but I identified one or two very exploitable openings!

Horse racing offered the most lucrative opportunities, but while still in the banking sector, I trialled a couple of possible systems. They failed, inherent faults: too easy for detection. I went back to the drawing board for the next six months, weekend trackwork, standing at the fence, watching the crowds, looking in particular at the mannerisms of those big, last-minute punters.

That first year I worked trackside and netted $150,000, more than enough to cover expenses. I knew that once I was inside the system, that figure would grow exponentially. I quit banking, leaving the factory in the hands of the young corporate wannabees. I was on a new trajectory!

Computing literacy, programming, data entry, a knowledge of the racing industry and a clean security check landed me a position as ‘Bagman’, or Penciller, in a small online betting agency opening up in Alice Springs. The agency took wagers on the Trots, the Dogs, Steeple and Flat racing anywhere in Australia, as well as on feature, international fixtures. The Flats remained my focus.

I figured a regional base would attract less scrutiny. Hindsight is a wonderful thing!

These new, online betting systems still used the traditional Penciller, the so-called Bagman, to monitor betting levels, and where necessary, to manually adjust the odds. My diddle needed about 10 seconds to execute, focusing critically on those last few seconds before a race start, and only then, when a false start was called.

A restart throws the computers into a spin. The race is physically rerun, but for us, we are frantically and manually rebooting the systems. In the time it takes for us to get everything back on track, the race is won, and a winning bet can be quietly inserted into the system. As I said, it doesn’t happen often, but enough for me to keep myself in the manner I was becoming accustomed.

Three and a half years, a house in a leafy, gated community, a convertible Merc. These were good times.

But I moved on. I now have a single bed, a small television, my own toilet and wash stand, a bookshelf and access to the library. I am meeting really interesting guys; one young bloke is teaching me Pitjantjatjara. I am also a keen member of the weekly watercolour painting classes.

The mind moves towards discernible thought, fog dissolves into a clearer scape. There is still haze, a lamp-lit bridge, stark, silhouetted, but distorted against the softening night, a misty swirl. There is a hooded figure, hunched against the chill, pausing under a lit space to light a cigarette. There is an illuminated clockface atop a tower, assumed to be the British Houses of Parliament.  Things change – Monet’s Waterloo Bridge, an industrial factory backdrop blurred in the misty light. The Eiffel Tower interjects itself, rising above a damp Champs-Élysées.

Sensed dawning light penetrates eyelids, entering deeper into brain-space, demanding attention. There’s initial resistance, a refusal to crack an eyelid. Waterloo Bridge reappears defiantly, but maintenance of the image is commandeering consciousness.

Is that a blackbird? It must be just outside the window; its intrusion melodious, but unbidden, unwelcome.  A dog barks somewhere. Consciousness or the ‘land-of-fuzz’? Foggy landscapes momentarily triumph, but there are forces at work demanding wake-ness. There are tumbling, solid thoughts, and now the intrusion of tiny floaters climbing endlessly up the inside of closed eyelids.

Is it a magpie? Maybe a young currawong. Images blur: alternate Waterloo and Tower Bridges. Bladder demands relief. Just hunch down into the blankets. It’s still early.

Thoughts are taking on deliberate, considered dimensions.  Self is now demanding consciousness, inserting rational concepts. Attempts to ignore fail miserably. It is a magpie, and it will be sitting on the fence outside the window! It is way too early!  The ‘command module’ is in auto-drive; oh, to find the kill-switch!

But this is a nonsense – the intention to ignore the dictates of the mind belies a conscious self.  Despite protests, humanity has been activated. Complaints are fruitless, awareness is present and the bladder definitely needs attention, now!

With eyes mostly closed, the bathroom is achieved, then a re-entry into the jumble of sheets and doona. An eye involuntarily cracks open, noting light seeping around the edges of the blinds, a swivel to the bedside table records an outrageously early declaration on the clock. It is not time!

The Samsung ‘prings’ loudly, and again, announcing the arrival of the first New York Times’ bulletins. Another slew of Trump outrages. Who has he threatened today? Maybe it is New Zealand, for telling him to stick his Board of Peace ‘where the sun don’t shine’!

Today is Friday – that’s ABC quiz day. OK, OK, as a hand reaches over and grasps the tablet. A little fumbling, then Question one. “Which US aircraft carrier is near the Straits of Hormuz?”  That’s an easy one – the USS Abraham Lincoln. Two “Who has a 99-year lease on the Port of Darwin?” The Chinese. Three: What breed of…”

The Bureau is forecasting a cloudy morning, humidity building before the possibility of afternoon showers. Consciousness One: Sleep Nil!

Aurora indignantly leaves the bedroom. But herbal tea is just not going to cut the mustard, and the dial on the Delonghi is moved to deliver a strong Long Black!  A new day begins!

Quod erat demonstrandum, ‘that which is to be demonstrated’ had been drummed into me in Year One science. The facts must be accepted as irrefutable evidence. But these results – 99.9% likely paternity – utterly unbelievable – I always wore protection!

I reread both the DNA pathology report, and the attached letter. A small photo is enclosed, a petite redhead, introducing herself as Phoebe Shamus; glasses suggesting a slightly schoolmarmish young woman. She is thirty-two years old, born in November 1993, and she thinks we are related!

I realise I’m humming the 23^rd Psalm’s wonderful descant – when stressed, it’s always such a comfort. My mind swirls back to my youthful 1990s.

I’d just finished Uni, living in that grungy three-bedroom flat in North Carlton, with Roberto and Stavros. There had been outrageous parties, a lot of booze, girls, music, not much sleep. I reckon I must have just met Anna! I clearly remember her insistence on the need to get out of that flat, gain some privacy, an early precondition, she said, if we were to become ‘an item’.

I remember some indignation at her ‘Terms of Engagement’; we blokes had been together since high school. I recall stringing Anna along, assuring her that I had started looking for a new rental. The parties continue:  she is getting antsy, threatening. I lie:  I tell her I have found new digs, but they will not be available for another eight weeks.

Jeez, there was that fantastic weekend. Late summer, we’d hired a shack. It was somewhere on the Goulburn River. There are indelible memories of sheep, green pastures, still waters; an outdoor table setting: we all bought swags, mobs of booze and a few snags. Anna had an exam coming up. She didn’t come on the trip.

What was her name? She had red hair, a great body, just finished her Pharmacy at Latrobe and was trotting out with Roberto. Somehow, we ended up in the river together. One thing led to another, swish-oh, and there it was. Roberto stumbled upon us entwined, asleep, compromised. He was furious and drove back to Carlton that afternoon, alone!

I tried to explain to Roberto that it’d been a ‘spiritual, preordained encounter’: the green pastures, the river, I was being led: there was nothing personal, but it took years to achieve the reproachment!

I move out; and then in, with Anna. We set up house in Northcote, settle down, start a family and eventually get married. Three wonderful kids, the eldest, Rebecca, just turning 30, and about to get married.

I never did give Anna many details of that Goulburn River weekend. My memory suggests I probably fudged most of the specifics: time erased the rest.

I scrunch the pages into my pocket as I wander outside. I climb the railway embankment behind the house, following the path to my High Street café.

“G’day Callum. Your usual?” “Ah yep, thanks, Bob”. I continue to mull over the pocketed paperwork.

…

Meanwhile Phoebe is consumed by a niggle. With her mum, Sandra, she grew up in Nunawading. Her mum was the local pharmacist, while she attended the state schools in Mitchum. They had each other, always a mob of kids around, trees to climb and birthday parties to attend, but the others all had dads: that caused some ongoing schoolyard discomfort.

Mum’s brother Dougal was a proxy dad. He and his wife Merle, and their three kids lived close by, and they saw a lot of each other.

As a young teenager, Phoebe did ask her mum where her dad was, but her mother was evasive, saying just that he’d gone away before she was born. The explanation was accepted, sort of.

There were good times, regularly shared holiday activities with the cousins, sometimes in remote bushland, even a couple of summer holidays at Rosebud – close to the beach. But there remained a gap in the party!

She remembers one holiday when they went with Uncle Dougal’s mob to a cottage somewhere on the Goulburn River. Mum got quite upset at the proposed trip, ending up saying she couldn’t get time off work. They went without her! It was a great spot, lots of sheep, green pastures, an outdoor barbecue setting beside the tumbling, burbling river!

She finished school and was accepted into Latrobe to do a Bachelor of Education. She revelled in the study, made a lot of friends but just after graduation, her mum has a breast cancer diagnosis. It floors her.

Chemo knocks it, but a few years later, it returns in a mean, aggressive form. Phoebe loses her best mate and despite Merle and Dougal’s support, she feels abandoned. Those first few months were pretty terrible.

The issue of an unknown Dad took on a new dimension. The need to find the missing man in her life becomes an overriding obsession!

Her Mum’s old diaries don’t provide any clues, and Uncle Dougal isn’t much help in identifying any mysterious bogeyman. Phoebe sees an ad for Ancestry.com, touting successes at tracking missing relatives. She submits a DNA sample.

It takes about a month for a response to arrive. It advises close matches to several people on its database.  Two of those matches live in Melbourne.

She sits on the info for about a week, thinking about what she might do. She decides to revisit Ancestry and sends a message to both matches, including her address, explaining her interests, and seeking their possible help.

There are a few anxious weeks and then a letter arrives. It is from a woman living in Brunswick. She is quite defensive, even a little guarded but she mentions her Scottish forebears, who migrated to Melbourne during the gold rushes. She and her younger brother are the only living relatives. She finishes with her best wishes for Phoebe’s endeavours.

There is a brother! Is this a breakthrough? Her excitement grows, and she writes a second note.

…

Using Ancestry, I write to the woman again.  Months go by, my frustrations grow, unsure what my next steps might be. I assume Mum must have had an affair, fell pregnant and decided not to share things with the father.

And then one day, an email arrives. A young woman named Rebecca, about my own age makes contact. She tells me of a discussion with her Aunt about a letter from some girl named Phoebe suggesting she was related. Rebecca asks me if that is me, and if so, asks me to post a photo and details of my birthday and email contacts.

Could this be my half-sister? I have a selfie and the other information attached to an email and forwarded within minutes!

I am left on tenterhooks for a few days before an email arrives: Rebecca’s photo. I am almost looking into a mirror: an uncanny likeness, the same red hair, freckles, button nose, ear lobes and smile. I burst into tears: I sense I am one step closer to finding my Dad!

Rebecca phones a few minutes later. Excited introductions, questions fly between us, there are tears, laughter and we arrange to meet at a Preston cafe next weekend. I am beside myself, all the years of wondering, Mum’s prevarication, the unanswerable queries about her romantic liaison, so long in the background, might finally be over.

I reread Mum’s earliest diaries with renewed interest. I find quite a few references to old boyfriends: one in particular, a Roberto, features for a year or so! She records boozy parties, some Carlton flat, mention of Roberto’s flatmates, bush camping trips, and confidential ‘Dear Diary’ admissions of her emotional interests in this bloke.

I can hardly contain myself as the tram trundles up High Street. I have a folder of documents and photos of Mum. I approach the Café and as I open the door, a body flings itself around my shoulders, shouting “Phoebe!” MY SISTER holds me tight, tears flow as she grabs both my hands and steers us to a corner booth.

Rebecca is still holding my hands, vice-like. The waiter takes our order. Tears and shuddering hiccups provide a necessary pause as we stare at each other. We both start to talk! “How come…” “How did you…”

I open my folder and hand over Mum’s pics. “This is my mum, Sandra.” Rebecca stares, and then opens her bag and takes out her family snaps. I look at a young couple standing in the shade of a large tree. “Is this Roberto?” I ask, and immediately see confusion. “No, No this is my Dad, Callum: Callum Mc Rolfe. And that’s Mum, Anna, on their wedding day. No, Uncle Roberto – he’s not really our uncle, that’s him, next to Dad” as she hands over a group wedding photo.

I’m totally confused. I take a moment to consider what’s being implied. So, Roberto is not my dad.

A million questions swirl, my shoulders hunch. So what now? The cogs turn!

…

Rebecca and I talk for ages; our coffees cool and stand forgotten. Our stories bump along, but the revelation that this bloke Roberto is not my dad, has taken the wind from my sails. From excited elation, I sense I maybe back to square one!

I need to talk to Rebecca’s dad, Callum, but I assume from his earlier reaction to my Ancestry approach, that such a conversation will need to reassure him of my non-filial intent.  And what about a meeting with this ‘Uncle’ Roberto? Maybe he could shed some light on this Gordian knot.

Rebecca and I share Facebook details, we take several selfies, and leave. Excitement rekindles as I sense a new direction for my search takes shape. My brain starts to work overtime, certain that my next step will be a letter to Callum: written reassuringly, a very carefully considered draft, but still seeking some confirmation of our relationship. It needs to land without raising fears. I reckon I compose twenty possible opening sentences as the tram jiggles along.

I spend the rest of the weekend on the laptop. Eventually:

Dear Callum,

 My name is Phoebe Shamus. I am 32-years-old, working as a teacher in country Victoria. My mum, Sandra and I lived in suburban Melbourne; she was the local Pharmacist. I never knew my dad, Mum just told me he ‘disappeared’, before I was born. Mum died of breast cancer a few years ago, without ever revealing any details of my biological forebears.

 I suppose her death prompted me to pursue this quest, and hence my decision to use the Ancestry DNA services to see if I could find my missing parent. Their DNA analysis led me to contact two people identified as 99.9% positive relatives. I had a response from one of those matches: a woman: possibly your sister.

 Mum was a diarist and reading her early journals, mostly covering her student days at Latrobe, she was, for a time, going out with a young man named Roberto. I thought I had found my dad, but subsequent investigations suggest he was not Mum’s partner.

Her diary mentions regular visits to Roberto’s Carlton flat, which he shared with a couple of his unnamed mates.  I am wondering if you might be one of those mates?

I need to reassure you that my interest in finding my dad is purely and simply to put someone into that special place, complete my family tree, fill an important gap. I do not want to exert any unwanted intrusions into my father’s life, or to make any moral judgements on what happened decades ago. But I would love to have some person I can know as my father; maybe even an occasional hug!

At this point I consider attaching one of the ‘selfies’ of Rebecca and I, but immediately realise the untenable position this would place her in. I end up just attaching a recent pic of me, and a photo of Mum, taken at her Latrobe graduation.

…

The email arrives late on Sunday evening. Thank God the family are asleep as I need space to absorb its contents. I know instinctively it’s from the Ancestry girl.  I open the attachment, a photo. I am thrown into a tailspin. Out of the blue, I am staring at one of my kids! It could be Rebecca, maybe a slightly older version.

I need a whiskey, some reflective time. I reread her – ah, Phoebe’s email. It takes me a couple of moments, but I am quickly brought back to that boozy weekend on the Goulburn River, a weekend of bushland adventure. Tears well, I slump heavily into the armchair as my tears tumble. Sandra Shamus. I remember now. Why didn’t she ever tell me?  I dig out the old scrunched letter from Phoebe.

The aroma of Anna’s thoughtful, long black brought me back to the here and now. “Your keen, if you’ve slept here all night”. I sip my coffee, wondering where to start.

“I’ve had an email”, I begin, “from a young girl suggesting I am her dad! She has attached a photo. Take a look.” Anna moves across to the computer and scrolls down to the photo. There is a momentary pause, an audible gasp and she moves back up to the top of the email and reads.

The trees outside brush the window pane gently as she reads. She swivels in the chair. “Gosh, a missive from your past, from when you were living in that horrible flat in Carlton. My memory says that Roberto was trotting out with a girl named Sandra? I shouldn’t ask, but it looks like there was some genetic dalliance at work!” “She looks absolutely adorable,  just like Rebecca. Mm, so she was born a couple of years before we were married. I take it you never knew?”

She moves over to the couch with a reassuring cuddle and a huge, lingering kiss. “You bloody Casanova! Phoebe, such a wonderful name. So when are we going to meet her?”

I realise I am holding my breath; tensed, on a knife edge. I take a deep breath and put my arms around her. “Well, if I remember …”

“Stop! I don’t want to know the details. Maybe the priority now is to give Phoebe her long-searched-for Dad – probably that requested cuddle wouldn’t be out of place either.”

My tears resume. Anna leaves the room and I pick up my mobile. “Phoebe?” “Hello Dad.”

It’s a wonder we didn’t drown as our tears cascaded down the interminable years. “Where are you at the moment?” “I’m at home, in Nunawading.” “Can I come over. It will only take me 20 minutes.”

“Let me check my social calendar. Yep, that should be Ok. I mean I‘ve only been waiting 32 years for this meeting.” We laugh, and I’m in the car, driving towards a long, long overdue rendezvous.

Roberto crosses my mind, but that will be a discussion for another day!

He wanted his photo taken standing in front of the old Burrumbeet pub! He explained that it was sentimental, his great-grandfather had been the first publican and hence he dragged me out of the car beside the highway for this snap.

The pub sits alongside a bald, oddly shaped hill named Mount Callender. Many similarly-shaped hills run back towards Clunes, others eastwards to Mount Macedon, south and west, and across to South Australia’s Mount Gambier.  They are all old volcanoes, extinct for millennia. The oral traditions handed down through generations of Wadawurrung custodians, record the creator spirit’s violent capacities, mythic battles weaponising the ‘volcanic’ fire across the land.

But here today I look at an industrial landscape. Each of the hills is now interconnected, part of a massive fracking infrastructure, tapping rich, proven fields of natural gas. Thousands of kilometres of underground piping, huge white storage tanks, steel columns, roads, all connecting the hills into the international gas-export facilities at Portland. The pub now sits abandoned, derelict, with the glistening steel backdrop nearby.

In the 2030s, successive Federal Governments had largely addressed the national energy emergency ineffectively. Coal had gone, wind and solar were generating 90% of the country’s needs. But high-voltage distribution remained a weakness, still more than a decade away from completion. Bickering between those pushing a nuclear industry, others wanting green hydrogen, and some of the landholders refusing high-voltage towers across their land, meant successive governments had allowed the electrical grid to slowly fragment.

Gas came back onto the agenda. Huge Chinese, US and European investment flowed, the old volcanic caldera were progressively tapped and a massive, underground network of interconnect pipes spread out. Gone were the bald, green hills of yore, as the extraction headworks sat immutable upon the hills. We were inundated with much-hyped media about the possible development of carbon sequestration: into the space recently vacated by the gas! A win:win, we were told!

So much for the pristine hills! I fiddled with the camera and got several pics – him smirking, another with one eye closed, looking away from the lens and eventually a nice smile, the pub identifiable, off to the right and the jet of smoke streaming upwards, on the left.

What the … At that moment there was an almighty, deafening explosion. Steam and a molten red column shot into the air. A fissure, unzipping rapidly, widened as it snaked forward, a ripped mantel vomiting red, hot terrestrial innards. He and the pub disappeared into the vortex.

The car was being pelted, rocks falling: but I ran. The ignition behaved and it started. Stunned, snivelling I drove erratically, confused – away from a rearview vision of unmitigated terror.

The media reported that six other caldera erupted that day. Mt Buninyong disappeared, along with its township, and more were to follow. In the days and weeks that followed, the old ‘extinct’ volcanoes went off, one by one. Much of Western Victoria slid into the abyss.

His photo sits on my mantlepiece, a memory.

This was my swansong, my finale, a farewell from thirteen wonderful years with the Ukrainian National Opera.  Rehearsals had been perfunctory; necessarily short with Kyiv’s ongoing power disruptions, security alerts and the overarching tensions across the country as the Russian invasion ground on.

But theatre-goers are resilient, balancing inconveniences and uncertainties, sometimes, particularly in the Kyiv of 2024, even life and limb, against entertainment. But like moths to the flame, they come, never shrinking from the operatic excitement, drawn inexorably through this wretchedness to take their seats for three hours of magical, masterful escape.

Tonight is to be no exception. The crowds know of my departure, but also, they’ll thrill to the opportunity to be part of this audience, with Iryna Petrova, Pyotr Oleksander and me in the three key roles: Pyotr playing that dastardly, morally bankrupt Duke of Mantua, Iryna, Gilda, my unfortunate, love-struck daughter and me, the cursed, luckless hunchback, Rigoletto.

The third act is reaching a climax. The Duke, Gilda, the Duke’s mate Borsa, and I come together in that wonderful quartet. The Duke continues to loudly declare his love from the castle battlements. Gilda’s takes the melody, rising above the rest of us and the audience are on the edge of their seats. The house holds its collective breath as she delivers her cadenza, from top C, trilling between D and E flat.

The orchestra is restless, another crescendo building, and the conductor, with practiced mastery, holds back the energy, massaging and directing, skilfully allowing the groundswell to build. And then, the orchestra stills.

The massive chandelier, above the orchestra pit, falls. I see the movement from the stage, a dreamy catastrophe unfolding, ever so slowly. First dust, plaster flakes, then tiny individual glass filaments following. Maybe another five seconds and the superstructure groans massively, lights flicker, sparks and then it descends onto the musicians.

A moment’s stunned silence. Loose plaster continues to float down from the ceiling as the collective mayhem erupts. Screams, the crowd unsure but they struggle: along, over, even under the seating, desperation and panic as they surge towards the exits. I watch, still rooted to the stage.

A moment’s reflection – flashes from a hundred cameras underscore the uncomfortable reality of a 21st-century crowd: record the moment first, help later! The venality of the crowd!

People are now in the pit, citizenry, helpers assisting the injured and removing the debris. I presume the white coats are medicos, others carry stretchers. I remain fixed above, witness but divorced from the carnage. It takes me a few minutes to get down into the pit. I am instructed to hold two separate intravenous saline bottles, one going into the arm of a violinist and the other, into the bass player.

I will never forget that Kyiv farewell. Investigators were unable to determine whether terrorism, the vibrations from repeated, nearby bombardments or a failure of a maintenance schedule were responsible for the tragedy. Remarkably, there were only two deaths.

Tragedy on and off the stage!

I can see the laser cameras, four of them, each overlapping to provide impenetrable beams around the Van Gogh painting – the Bridge at Langlois, Arles, hanging on the wall in front of me. We have just flown in from Amsterdam, having spent the previous two days at the Van Gogh Museum, studying the security surrounding two of the other Langlois bridge paintings. My preliminary assessment of this one, at Cologne’s Wallraf-Richartz Museum, is that the lasers can be beaten!

Daytime security only relies upon the eyes of two security guards, each monitoring three separate rooms, constantly moving between the spaces.  I time their circuits at 180 seconds. I take high-resolution photos of the jointing on the picture’s frame. I map the exit: three turns, and then the automated doors. Nothing to fear here.

I leave the gallery and note the high lavender hedge that runs as an ornamental wall 100 metres from the entrance. I return to our hotel. Wendy’s hired motorised wheelchair has arrived and she is rapidly gaining confidence at the controls, running up and down the corridor. She comes back into the room and we spend the next few hours reviewing our MO.

The century-old frame will not be an issue. Zooming into my photo, we can see the old mitre joints – a fine, well-placed chisel will quickly tease the timbers apart. I have an overly large umbrella tube assembled and attached to the back of Wendy’s wheelchair.  We now just need some wet weather.

The following day is sunny, we schedule a late afternoon visit to the Museum, anticipating weary guards as museum closure approaches. Wendy is in the chair, powering along the footpath, me at a trot, trying to keep up. Inside, we introduce ourselves to the security staff, Wendy suitably schmoozy, gushing over the wonderful collection, to beguile and imprint ourselves on their memory.

Mid-afternoon drizzle arrives the next day. The large umbrella keeps us dry between the hotel and the Museum, but the wheelchair drops water in the foyer. I conscientiously use a hotel bath towel to mop up the puddle. Security nods their approval.

Inside we admire the Rembrandts, the impressive collection of Albrecht Durer drawings, and the comprehensive collection of French Impressionist’s. Van Gogh is in an adjacent gallery and while Wendy engages the guards, I walk purposefully towards my appointment with Vincent.

The guards resume patrolling, and I have the painting off the wall and my chisel easing the timbers apart. I remove the top and bottom sides of the frame, quickly rolling the painting around the remaining two sides. Wendy arrives on cue, and the painting disappears into the umbrella tube.

We are outside, on the footpath, shielded by the lavender bushes and moving fast towards the hotel. Behind us, distantly, alarms wail as we collect hand luggage from the concierge and loudly flag a cab to the airport. A prearranged plan has the taxi dropping us at the train station: first class SNCF to Brussels.

Those tiny, impossibly beautiful ‘Peacock’ spiders. I lie here, still, and they dance on the inside of my eyelids, opal-coloured backs held aloft, displayed for my enjoyment. I recall finding a whole family nestled amongst the potted succulents on the verandah. They love to dance in the early morning, backlit as those first rays reach the window sills; me snug, well-wrapped, nursing my first short black.

But now? I lie here, still. I know the curtain has been drawn back, I can feel those streaks of warmth sneaking through the venetian blinds. They touch the blankets. I have been restless, sheets scrunched, pillows damp and I sense, maybe smell the stale, fetid room. Mum is in the corner, watching, waiting; she’s still wearing that same old orange nightie, worn when attending my nighttime asthma attacks. It was always such a comfort.

I lie here, still. I cough; a phlegmy gurgle, reluctant or unable to move anything. Breathing difficulties have increased recently, and my throat hosts several musical vibrations. I listen to the symphony. There is a thin, raspy cadence, a quick, painful swallow and the pitch changes, deeper, around an obstruction.

I remember the enjoyment of getting seats at the theatre that enabled me to look down into the orchestra pit. The delicate strings, the bold bass, trumpets and trombones, sometimes, the magical harp, and the timpani working with the conductor to keep everyone together. We went to Sydney once, the Opera House: what a wonderful occasion!

I lie here, still. Someone settles a moist face washer on my dry, chapped lips.  Gentle movements as the bed linen is changed. My old body is being washed and I have fresh pajamas. Do you remember those midnight bedside visits: “Gran, I’ve had an accident” and we all went into the laundry and bed-making routine? They’ve grown up now. There are six grandchildren, I think, or is it seven?

We all loved the beach, the shack we rented, the same one each year down at Rosebud, hot sand, shallow, safe swimming, sunburn, fish and chips, barbeques and the youthful experiments with the sweet cream sherry and the cigarettes! I don’t think any of them smoke now, thank God!

There’s a light shining; not bright but it is disturbing the dancing spiders.  I think someone is talking, quietly, importantly. I lie here, still.

There is a terror in my system: it upsets the spiders. It comes to me at night, rummaging around in my pelvis, near my kidneys, sometimes up in my chest; always unwelcome, always painful!

I feel the prick of a needle in my arm. That’ll be the morphine – such wonderful medicine, but in recent days it has been losing the battle. Everyone knows my wishes. No pussy-footing around when the time comes!

I lie here, still. Mum is coming over to see how I am. She suggests we go outside and start to deadhead the roses. She has secateurs. That light is getting brighter, but I’ll just lie here, still.

Life is just wonderful. I have been snuggling in here for months, room service providing regular inputs of snips, snails, sugar and spice, my every need on hand in this all-encompassing, secure capsule, even taking the garbage out, as necessary. Really, what more could I ask?

But I know things need to change. I’ve been ready for weeks. There is a new pulse, excitement, some trepidation but adventure awaits. I start to kick, to alert the assembled masses that there is a need to move the dial to an ‘all systems go’ setting. My efforts are not getting the necessary responses. I try another kick. I hear a soft murmur, a grunt.

I hear lots of gentle murmurs from ‘outside’ – are they lullabies on the airwaves? There is singing, out of tune, softly as I’m trying to do a little stretching; getting myself ready for a final manoeuvre.

My thumb disappears. Its long slippery surface confirms calm in this moist, dark warmth. I refine my technique – gotta line it up, then in it goes; slurp, suck and hold. Mmm yep, that’s it. I’m ready.

I think I’ve been here forever. I try to pinpoint when I first arrived, but can’t get a handle on it. I have just always been here.

The room is getting tight, space is becoming a premium. There are nearby rooms that regularly intrude. One moment they’re full, cramping my style: the next, they’re empty. I’m squished, but I have learnt to push back against their intrusions successfully.

I realise that if you want something done, you’re better off rolling up your sleeves and doing it yourself. I start by squirming around. Oh, that’s different. But hang on, hey, I think I have turned around, I’m sort of standing on my head. I’m not sure if I like this. I try stretching my legs. Things are changing. What have I started? The tide is going out. I reckon I better skip this evening’s exercise: there’s a new, demanding schedule at hand.

The exit looks ridiculously narrow. You expect me to get down there! Come on, give me a break. I muscle down, head first. The walls are pulsing, rhythmic, urging me down, onwards and something close by is screaming blue-murder; fit to bring the house down. What is going on? A journey has started.

I’m out of puff. I need a breather: this is hard work and these walls are making things tricky. I’ll just take a short break. But things are now out of my control. I have to keep going and I start to squidge forward again. The ruckus is getting louder but I hear another, gentler sound – a quiet, deep, soothing noise. It’s syncopated, against the panting, pushing and moaning that has me moving along.

Then suddenly there is light, and release. I blink and while I don’t know why, I join in the screaming. Somebody is commenting upon my wrinkly skin. Hey, cut it: I’m here, aren’t I? Better late than never!

Date:                     22^rd November 2023

Venue:                  Phoenix, a gated mansion owned by General Sebastian Makepeace

Agenda:               Contingency planning for the US, post-November 2024 Presidential elections

Participants:

• General Guy Warren, Chairman, Joint Chief of Staff
• General Sebastion Tippett, Commander, National Guard
• Mr David Rubicon, Director Federal Bureau of Investigations
• Ms Lucy Oswald, National Reconnaissance Office
• Ms Susan Connally, Director, Central Intelligence Agency

Status: PEO Lv 1 (participant’s eyes only).

General Warren: “Ladies and Gentlemen: friends. I believe there is a problem of national significance brewing, so I thank you for coming at such short notice This meeting has no official status, and I hasten to assure you all that there will be no minutes of our discussions.”

“I won’t worry too much about preliminaries, but I have been considering calling this group together for the past several weeks. Today marks the sixty-second anniversary since the sensitive work of our collective agencies was last on public display. I believe we are approaching another momentous moment of equal stature. I believe that we are facing similarly dark times.”

“Our Nation is on the brink of the abyss. The upcoming election might well determine our future. I believe that apart from the Civil War, there has only been one other occasion – that pesky upstart populist taking the White House in 1960 – when our great nation has been exposed to such a potential unravelling of both our civil society and our international standing. We cannot sit idly by and allow this to happen. It is beholden on us to intervene.”

“I want to take a moment now to put several scenarios before you. I think we need to think urgently upon them.”

Scenario One has our incumbent, an aging President dying in office, with the Vice assuming the Presidency for the interregnum period through until the scheduled November elections. A temporary solution! The residual scenarios are still in play.

“Scenario Two sees our incumbent leader re-elected into the Whitehouse. I not only have a privately sourced, medical assessment of his advancing incapacities, but I think we all share the horror of the insurrection that followed his elevation two years ago. A repeat of that result will most likely see another mob uprising, but probably with a much sharper zealotry. Our failure to bring legal redress to those January events will embolden participants.”

“Scenario Three will have the Republican candidate taking the House. God help us, given the utter contempt he shows for our international allies, and our institutions. His dalliance with our enemies, his empty, populist rhetoric across the Nation underscores his total lack of expertise for this high office. I believe our mighty country will not survive another round of his idiocy!”

Scenario Four will follow a close result, giving life to the growing divide between the ‘haves’ and the ‘malcontents.’ We assess that there are somewhere close to thirty-five million military-grade weapons held in private hands. On top of that, the NRA estimates the number of personal guns in the hundreds of millions! Social media amply demonstrates its capacity to galvanise a general ‘call to arms’, local vigilante groups, warring against each other, fighting in the streets, a national uprising.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, desperate times call for desperate measures.”

There is a sombre mood across the room. David Rubicon clears his throat, about to speak, but settles back into his seat, reflectively. There is a knock on the door and coffee arrives, providing the necessary opportunity for members to move from the table, to stretch their legs.

Susan walks across to the large bay window and surveys the manicured gardens, the distant hills, the cloudless blue skies. Sébastion takes the opportunity to use the bathroom. The delegates quietly sip their coffee, separately, introspectively and privately mulling over the presentation.

General Warren returns to the table. The rest follow. “As I said, these are dark times” reaffirms Adams. “The question that remains in my mind is whether or not the country is ready to accept an alternative, interim President?”

David squirms slightly, coughs and addresses the ‘elephant in the room’. “Are we suggesting a ‘strategic removal’ of both contenders?”

“Yes, it’s on the table” says Warren. There is a collective, audible intake of breath.

“Like Kennedy and Oswald?” queries Susan, her voice breaking, as she spoke. Warren nods. “Oh, my God.” She remembers the sometimes mooted rumours heard when she was first recruited into the Agency, the involvement in preliminary planning and support for Dallas, all those years ago. Her mind swam, in partial disbelieve that were approaching the same platform, again!

“Precisely, yes. As I said before, these are perilous times and I believe America is close to an irreversible slide into oblivion!”

“But how can we do it? Surely a civil breakdown would erupt, slaughter, towns against towns, States against States. It will put the Civil War antics into the shadows” proffers Sebastion.

The enormity of the discussions swirl around the table for the next sixty minutes. The illegality, the logistics, the blowback, the outrage that will inevitably follow. General Warren gently massages the discussions, letting the discussions move around the room, the logic of the proposal, and eventually arriving at the pointy end of how to possibly achieve such an outcome.

“Our man in Moscow uses Novichok. In North Korea the same. “My God, I am amazed that we are sitting around this room discussing this”, opines Susan.

Warren straightens himself. “We have nine or ten months to work on the logistics. The assignment, the assassinations,”  that word, its first use in the meeting, fell like an axe across the heads of the assembled members, “… ah, will need to be simultaneous, to avoid the obvious suggestion that the party apparatchiks are responsible. No, we will need to have a foreign patsy again.” He was warming to his subject! Both Israel and Ukrainian owe us, big time.”

“I admit to liking the Novichok method, but the simultaneous delivery will be tricky. A marksman won’t gain necessary access, given security logistics. Their staff try to ensure that their schedules don’t overlap. No, I think it will involve those mini drones., somehow”

“I anticipate there will be some televised debate between the two contenders. Probably in September. We need to have our planning well and truly concluded by that date.

I suggest we meet again in a month. Meanwhile, can you individually ensure that any travel documents created in getting to this venue are redacted from your official records.”

STOP PRESS:

Authorities are calling for calm as they investigate yesterday evening’s simultaneous shootings of General Guy Warren, Chairman, Joint Chief of Staff; General Sebastion Tippett, Commander, of the National Guard and Mr David Rubicon, Director Federal Bureau of Investigations. Each has been gunned down at their respective Washington offices. The CIA’s Director, Susan Connally was also an apparent target, but was away from her office as assailants stormed the building. Breaking news; more details as they come to hand.