Category: Imagined

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.

 

It’s six in the evening and a westward sky has that slightly indefinable band of Paines Grey washing up against the burnished, retreating sun. At thirty-eight thousand feet, I stare out at the nothingness, the steady, low-pitched hum of engines felt, maybe just imagined, comfortably reassuring, somewhere behind.

The flight is interminable, a generous scotch, over ice, already in hand. I see the staff in the galley preparing dinner. I have the roast beef on order, Bearnaise sauce, chat potatoes and a green salad on the side. There are fresh berries over a delicate, coffee-based gelato, following. On medical advice, I will have just the one glass of red, but it will be the best that the house can offer. On the flight up to London last month, they had a wonderful Hill of Grace Syrah, I was hoping for another drop – 1998 was such a wonderful year! But on this Emirates flight, I have to doubt such offerings.

Through the window, never-ending emptiness, I can feel the silence. I note icy cold beads of moisture trapped between the double glazing are battling existence; the exterior hostility and the comparative ambience of the cabin. I idly wonder how the moisture gets into the cavity.

Another assignment. This time, two targets; the first in Muscat, then up the Gulf to Dubai. Two tobacco traders, both in breach of contracts, both to be reminded of Australian commitments, both to be forcefully told of the cost associated with delivery failures! I am acutely aware of the on-ground turf wars, following Border Force’s interception of our most recent consignments: but that is not my concern. I am just the Contract Enforcer!

I recall the cynical banter from the family – accusations of me; the lush, on the company purse, drifting around the globe wining and dining. I try unsuccessfully to paint a judicious slice of my international routines; the endless, lonely hotel suites, living out of a suitcase, the late-night encounters. I think they saw my life as some sort of permanent junket – if only they knew.

This trip should only take a couple of weeks. On arrival, I will secure a ‘piece’, packed with the essential silencer and ammunition. It’s prearranged but always just a little risky, I’m ever alert for possible slipups. Then the stakeout, the last-minute refinements to maximise the educational outcomes and my all-important exit strategies.

I like using the anonymity of bicycles for my getaway, although in some circumstances tuk-tuks or rickshaws also give me that capacity to disappear into a crowd. In the UAE, I think a small motorbike will do the trick.

I can see reflective silver slivers out of my window: other planes, pods of travellers, other destinations, their sleekness reflecting the last of the sunset, their cometlike vapours, trailing. There is a change in background noise, the engines are slowing—thirty minutes to arrival.

The pointy end of this assignment is drawing nigh. I briefly review my operational imperatives. I smile; yep, all my ducks are aligned!

Can you imagine a house simply disappearing? One moment it’s there, the next it folds in on itself, like closing one of those kid’s 3D panorama storybooks, concertina-like, and just disappears into a hitherto unknown abyss. Our house slides into an old gold mine!

Thank God we’re all at the supermarket. We turn into our street and confront a phalanx of emergency vehicles: cops; ambos; fire engines; red and blue flashing lights everywhere – the whole nine yards, as they say in the movies! We park and join the crowd, fifty metres back from the large hole that is replacing our house.

We muscle our way through the police cordon and identify ourselves. “Yep, we’re all here, we’ve been to the shops”, I tell the cops. There is an immediate and discernible shift of tempo, a collective relaxation of shoulders. It might’ve been imaginative, but my “Hang on. Has anyone seen Roger” sees those same shoulders stiffen again. “Our dog!”, I explain.

There is a chopper above. A TV camera is in my face and a reporter is insinuating herself into the conversation. “Do you know about the gold mine”, she asks, but before I can answer, follows up with “Who is Roger?” She is shouldered from the posse of Emergency personnel. I hear another question yelled over their shoulders. “Do you have any idea why?”

The ground burps. There is a tearing screech of tortured metal and then a thunderous crescendo as we see our neighbour’s house do a little shimmy, one side slumps, and then the house completes an ever so graceful slide into ‘our’ hole.

That gets everything moving. The next thirty minutes sees the whole street empty. The neighbours desperately collect a few valuables before we end up in the park at the end of the street!

Turns out Roger took off when things went pear-shaped. We reunite at the motel that night.

I reassure the family that everything will be OK. Probably false bravado, but I believe that this madness will somehow resolve itself. Maybe we will wake up!

We stay in the motel for several months. Bureaucratic prevarications are never-ending. We establish that the City Council knows of the old mine’s location. It also establishes that my work to restump the house has had no impact on subsequent events.

Letters arrived in the post advising that last century, the Council took the legal precaution to absolve itself of any possible repercussions from suburban development over the old diggings. They reassure us that they are here to help. Our legal class action confirms the efficacy of their earlier legal precautions.

Our group successfully challenge the insurer’s suggestion that the collapse is an ‘Act of God’, contesting that God never worked in the mine! They settle with a pittance, enough for us to build a Tiny House.

While the rug is effectively pulled from under us, we are survivors. We move to another town, well away from gold mining activity! We don’t reinsure with anybody. Stuff ‘em!

1. Deep dark deeds

The dark, uneven floor is littered with what my ears tell me are probably pottery shards. I stub my toe on something and am loathe to move the torch beam far from the floor. There are larger bits of pottery, that for the moment remain unidentifiable.

An hour earlier I tied my large string ball to a tree at the catacomb’s entrance. The two-kilometre-long string is now mostly gone, despite assurances that it would get me in and out safely. I only have a smidgeon remaining from the hefty two-foot-thick bundle of twine I start with.

I fail to note the stairway’s erosion; I fall into the darkness. For a moment I am back on the Egyptian freighter that last month ferried me from Alexandria. I remember my sudden fall down a steep companionway.

Now I am on a hard, stone floor, my torch, still shining, a metre or so from my outstretched hands. Fighting rising panic, I crawl and recapture its beam. I have only fallen a couple of metres, but it is enough to have my senses on high alert. I draw comfort from the torch’s presence and move its beam to illuminate my surroundings. I see the crumbling stairway; no wonder I fell, as most of the steps are missing.

I am at the edge of a bell-shaped chamber, maybe ten metres across, the roof five metres above me. I play the torch across the nearby walls – I see a frieze: intricately patterned red, yellow and white tiled symmetry, a metre above the floor, running around the cavern’s perimeter.

I make my way to the wall and have a closer look. Its simplicity is elegantly beautiful. I have a vision. It is two in the morning, pitch black, save for my bedside clock’s digital display – a series of numbers: five, five, two, two, five, five, two – a never-ending series of numbers stated, then reversed, repeated ad infinitum. I marvel at my brain’s tangential capacities.

My torch wanders further, picking up a very large block of stone. It looks like a coffin – the right shape and there is a partially displaced stone lid. I look inside. OMG, there is a skeleton – I hesitate to say a ‘mummy’. A bony arm rises upwards from the bleached jumble, caught in final rigor, a bony finger latched over the lip of the sarcophagus. I play the torch. An involuntary shiver has me stepping back, another block of stone, another fall!

This fall breaks my string, my umbilical to light and life. I panic but find and retie the ends. Emotions are surging – an urgency to share this fantastic discovery and a possibly draining battery galvanise my decision to start retracing my steps.

The battery did well, but it eventually splutters and leaves me to crawl the last twenty minutes in darkness. There is palpable relief when a corner reveals a tantalising, distant light.

I need Harry, my old Sydney-based mate, who happens to be a Private Eye.

2. Help arrives

I ring the last number I have for Harry. It is early, before 06.00 in Australia. Nobody picks up. After several attempts, I have to assume the contact is cold. I remember he marries a parliamentarian, an Asian Australian lass – Helen Chung, if my memory serves me correctly. I Google her and I get an MLA email contact.

My email goes unanswered for another couple of days, then a terse four-liner arrives, advising of Harry’s retirement, his present uncontactable circumstance. She tells me that he is trialling retirement aboard a coastal freighter running between Cairns and Bamaga, off coastal Cape York. She insists that I not try to contact him again! I respond briefly, schmoozing, with a bit of historical banter. I query the shipping endeavour, but she is not forthcoming, save suggesting I contact Isabella Tomjanovic, whose CV lists pathology and criminal investigation as her two interlinked professions. Helen includes an email contact.

Isabella is friendly and as I give her a brief rundown on how I have come to be in Israel and of my discoveries and suspicions, she confirms an interest to be involved. “Why contact me?” was her second response. I tell her of Helen Chung’s referral.

I share some background information; my contract with the NSW Museum, requesting that I investigate what they suspect to be dodgy provenance on a collection of recently offered, extremely valuable Israeli artefacts. I talk about how my preliminary investigations have led me to a Tel just north of Beersheva. I talk about Harry, my memory of his Middle Eastern forebears, his interest in antiquities and the intervention of Helen, warning me off any further contact.

I tell her about the local police, who are less than helpful, about as useful as a frieze on a melting iceberg. They are alleging that I am possibly an antiquities smuggler, and after I inform them about the skeleton in the Tel, that I am possibly interfering in a crime scene. They are not interested in fingering anybody and even suggest I could be a terrorist, after seeing the recent Egyptian departure stamp in my passport. For good measure, they are threatening to deport me!

I need a ‘friendly eye’ in the country. Isabella agrees to help and her El Al flight arrives four days later. She has her sister’s looks – fantastic – a trim figure, stylish clothes and a demeanour that exudes capability.

Clandestine preliminary briefings occur at her Tel Aviv hotel and later, at her room at the Hotel Negev, in Beer Sheva. I am clean-shaven now and have a reddish rinse through my hair. I think I look twenty years younger, and with my new pink suit, presenting quite the new me. She is complimentary, in a paternalistic, sisterly sort of way!

Isabella has bought a dozen cheap ‘burner’ mobiles – we split the haul. I move to Gaza, where I can quietly continue my background research on the antiquities trade and possible Palestinian connections. She arranges to visit the Tel and the crime scene.

3. A lonely parting. 

The only clothing on the skeleton is that uniform – possibly an Australian issue, but any identifying insignia has long gone. I play my torch up and down the remains. There are still wispy bits of dark hair on the skull and a hole – looking very much like a 303 calibre, straight across the top of the skull.

I am nervous – the location, deep inside some sort of ancient, manmade hillock is playing on my psyche. I am never much for confined spaces and the two-kilometre crouching-crawl into this place is spooking me badly. Being by myself isn’t helping, although, on Brad’s advice, I have taken the precaution of carrying an extra torch! A judicious comfort.

The outstretched skeletal arm holds my attention; in particular, the bony finger hooked onto the rim of the sarcophagus. It confirms the nature of this bloke’s death – unnatural, and an incompetent kill at that, poor bugger; to die, alone in this dark cold cavern!

I want some of that hair and I lean into the sarcophagus. I can’t quite reach the skull but by dragging a nearby block of stone closer, I gain extra purchase. I am within a ‘bee’s-dick’ of falling into the bloody coffin, but I reach the hair and pop a few strands into a forensic bag. In regaining my balance, I send the outstretched, skeletal arm clattering back to rejoin the rest of the jumble.

OK, I think I’m done here, as I play the torch across the skeleton one last time. I catch just the merest hint of a reflection. I look again at the skeleton. There, next to the fibula, on the floor. I carefully reach in again – God I hate doing this, but my fingertip moves the bone to reveal a metal clasp around the remains of a small book. I scrabble further and before I know it, I’m arse up, lying spreadeagled across the top of the bones.

As I gently disentangle myself, I see a metal hat badge partially hidden by the skull – an emu and a boomerang and the words ‘Light Horse Fifth AIF’. So, he was a Digger! With my treasure, I clamber inelegantly out.

I retrace my route, scrambling back up the broken staircase, and rewinding the twine onto the spindle. I commit to never, ever getting into one of these situations again! I have two items that might help the investigation – the hair’s DNA might be traceable. As a former pathologist at Sydney’s Chippendale Morgue, I still have privileged access for DNA analysis. The library at Canberra’s War Memorial will be crucial to identifying who the poor bugger was and possibly unravel events leading up to his lonely death.

From my hotel room, I call Brad and discuss my findings and intentions to take both items back to Australia for analysis. I’ll have it completed soon. I send him a picture of the hat badge and my preliminary assessment that this guy was not an antiquities smuggler. I dump the ‘burner’ phone.

4. Herrings, possibly red ones.

Isabella rings me from her hotel before she begins her flight straight back to Sydney. She sends me a picture of a bronze Light Horse military badge and suggests she will have a DNA analysis of the skeleton’s hair in a couple of weeks. She also shares her preliminary assessment of a probable disconnect between the skeleton and the smugglers.

I return to Gaza, via a circuitous route back through Cairo, then across Rafah, the Egyptian-controlled border crossing. I again book into the Grand Palace Hotel, overlooking the calming Mediterranean waters. I have a meeting with the Museum’s library staff in the late afternoon and in the interim, climb the staircase to my room and join the rest of the community in a midday siesta.

Gaza is a wonderful city, despite its aggressive Israeli encirclement. There is still a community life that continues in the streets – the food stalls, the coffee shops, the hectic, honking traffic, the donkey poo, the dust and the motorbikes – a friendly warm whole. Surprising historical links back to the Light Horse, and Beersheva in 1917 remain, and with Australians also based in Gaza in 1942, my accent delivers extra warmth and friendship.

Museum staff confirm the thefts of their recently acquired collection of 2nd-century Roman armaments. The four spears, found at the back of a Beer Sheva tel, they consider them priceless. They want them back and suspect they are already out of the country. Their intel’ suggests an Australian destination.

Their security further notes unusual consignments going to individuals associated with a gang calling themselves D’shakher. I had the privilege of crossing paths with these guys before – they were fencing a stolen Greek marble frieze. I would need to be vigilant – they dispense with niceties when their interests are under threat.

I know they have a local connection in Gaza. I get talking to a spivvy sort of chap at the library, not authorized to speak publicly, suggesting the thieves were Israeli, not Palestinian, simply using Gaza as a ruse. I retire to a cubicle to consider the state of play.

• I am sure the skeleton is an incidental ‘red-herring’, albeit it was in the same Tel that held the ancient Roman weapons;
• The skeleton’s hooked finger at the top of the sarcophagus indicates foul play, possibly during the First World War. The diary might provide explanations;
• Local intel suggests shipments are leaving Gaza consigned to the Sydney-based gang. The Israeli links to D’shakher membership, and their penchant for never leaving loose ends untended, are both well known.

I stake out a suspect warehouse and photograph four guys coming and going regularly. I also break into the premises one night, finding a large crate on a loading dock. I photograph the Sydney addressee and high-tail it back to my hotel.

The next day I follow a small truck back through the Rafah checkpoint into Egypt and to the Suez port facilities at Al Sokhna. I deduce my Middle Eastern work is done. It’s back to Sydney for me.

5. Gaza erupts 

I have flights back to Sydney booked on Monday and spend the intervening couple of days tidying up my investigation and alerting both Interpol and the AFP of my findings. I suspect the Vaucluse address on the crates, seen in the Gazan warehouse belongs to the D’Shakher hierarchy and I provide details of the ship that was seen loading the crates at Al Sokhna docks.

‘That’s a wrap’, as they say, and I retire poolside at the hotel. I ring Isabella, forgetting the time difference. “Brad, it’s two in the morning!” She’s pleased with my progress but reluctant to share her own results until we’re together.

My mind returns to that poor bastard dying deep underground in the Tel. It will be interesting to see what the skeleton’s hair analysis and her discussions, viz the precious old diary with the War Memorial’s staff turn up.

So, what to do with my remaining 36 hours in Gaza? It is Saturday, maybe a visit to the Museum of Archaeology?

Mustapha, my Interpreter/Driver and I hear the radio announcer break into the music program. ‘Hamas is raiding kibbutz, killing and taking hostages, firing rockets.’ We pull over, listening intently to the garbled account of some uprising! I switch channels. I can’t find Gaza FM, but pick up an Israeli station reporting massive rocket and insurgency attacks, mostly centred from Khan Yunus, down near Rafah and the Egyptian border crossing.

Moments later we hear the air raid sirens wailing. We leap from the car as the first of a series of missiles fly overhead! We are crouching between the car and a brick wall when the next barrage arrives, the high-pitched screech, whistling, deafeningly close. It must have missed us by a whisker; we feel and hear the thuds as the debris starts to fall around us.

The radio has Netanyahu promising to wreak unholy revenge, to destroy Hamas, to flatten Gaza. What the hell is happening? Missiles are pommeling the city, buildings crumple, fireballs rise and evil-smelling, toxic fumes blanket the city.

We turn the car around, hoping against hope to get back to the hotel in one piece. We round the corner at the moment the Grand Palace Hotel folds into itself, vomiting a huge fiery conflagration. A deafening explosion is followed by an eerie silence, then screams, sirens, people running – mayhem announcing that my world is losing its shape!

The radio is advising that the attacks are more deadly. Reports are talking about wholesale slaughter, hostage-taking, bodies in the streets. Gaza is being sealed off, the IDF are gathering at the Gazan/Israeli border crossings, a huge call-up of reservist troops is scheduled. Netanyahu is establishing a Government of Unity, threatening to exact massive revenge.

I need to find an escape route! The idea of catching my flight from Tel Aviv is fading by the hour. Mustapha suggests we drive north. His family, and fuel are loaded. Thank God I have my passport and wallet in my coat pocket. More incoming rockets. We head for the underground carpark at the nearby hospital.

6. Isabella’s attention shifts 

A tropical beachside, pina colada sipping and the bloody phone is ringing. Bloody 2.00 a.m. It’s Brad. “Are you still in Gaza?” He is and has provided Interpol and the AFP with shipping details and the consignee’s address. “I reckon we have earned a dinner at Doyles when I get home, Rock Oysters, salmon and cold beers. Watcha reckon?” He hopes to depart Tel Aviv on Monday.

The morning news carries images and sketchy details of a Palestinian attack: Hamas, slaughter, and Israeli hostages in southern Gaza and in the city. My calls to Brad ring out! I trust he has the wits to stay away from whatever is happening.

I was going to tell him about my skeletal findings – his name, for a starter – Arthur, (he prefers ‘Artie’) Makepeace. His diary provides a snapshot of his time in Egypt and Palestine with the 4^th Light Horse Regiment.

Arti grew up in Inglewood, central Victoria, the son of Eucalyptus Oil producers. His identity disk, tucked into his diary, will shortcut discussions at the War Memorial, in Canberra. He talks of his close mate Goldie, ‘Goldilocks’ Seppelt, from somewhere north of Adelaide, recruited into the Light Horse about the same time, and their shipboard meeting, en route to Alexandria. Goldie is creating a complete sensation with the local girls, drawn to his intense, white-blond hair.

The pyramids dominate their weeks of acclimatised training encampment, before the eventual deployment to Beer Sheva. General Harry Chauvel is calling the shots. The diary gets to the ‘pointy’ end in the last couple of pages. I quote

“We’re finally going to see some action tonight. Chauvel wants a nighttime attack upon Beer Sheva where the Turks have a stranglehold on the precious, accessible water It is heavily defended, with machine guns, and even aeroplanes being used to drop explosives.

Goldie and I ride together. We get about three hundred yards before both our horses are shot out from under us. I also cop a graze across the top of my head, bleeding a lot, but I’ll live. We make our way towards a nearby hillock, the bastards are still trying to ping us. We crawl into a cave. Goldie fixes a bandage around my head.

I ring all Brad’s burner phone numbers. They ring out.

Guttural voices approach. We retreat further into the darkness. There is a tunnel, we crawl quietly, as the Turkish bastards fire a weapon into the cavern. A bullet whizzes past, missing us by a whisker. Our trench torches work well. Batteries are uncertain, only mine in use at the moment. The Turks have given up looking for us. My head is hurting badly, although the bleeding has mostly stopped.

My battery is flickering—Goldie’s works. We fall out of the tunnel into a bell-shaped room. An old stairway has crumbled and …

The entries stop. A couple of misshapen words suggest their lamps are giving out. But I now know how Arthur arrived at his final resting place!

7. Isabella – a new focus

Over the top, some might even say hilarious, but my interests and responsibilities have completely shifted. Engaged to uncover antiquity-smugglers, now solved, leaving me with a deliciously intriguing trail of Artie’s to follow.

I now know he was from Inglewood, in Victoria. He is a casualty from the 1917 Charge of the Light Horse regiment that were seeking to wrest control of the vital water supplies locked up by the Turks within Beer Sheva. Artie’s diary records his final poignant moments, wounded, and with his mate Goldie, hiding out in the depths of the Beer Sheva tel.

I have been in contact with the library staff at the National War Memorial, establishing that Artie remains listed as MiA. His diary is going to change that! But they also tell me that Xavier Seppelt’s body was recovered from the battlefield, close to where the Charge commences. Putting two and two together, I surmise Goldie presumes Artie is dead, he leaves the Tel and is gunned down trying to get back to his lines.

My DNA hair analysis needs to be matched. Staff at the Loddon Council offices put me in contact with the local Historical Society and in less than a week, I am emailing Bessie Makepeace, who is declaring that Arthur was her Great Uncle. She now lives in Castlemaine and would be delighted to meet up, to share her DNA.

News from Gaza confirms Brad is probably on the edge of a precipice. I continue to call his mobile numbers ineffectually. My hopes for a positive outcome are flagging, as time erodes my expectations.

I am driving down to Castlemaine, but have arranged to meet Larry Jones, Inglewood RSL’s President en route. I stop for a few moments at their War Memorial, noting the MIA asterisk against Makepeace, E.A. I meet Larry at their lodge and he hands me a photo of Artie, one of those typically uniformed poses, held on a dwindling number of mantlepieces, leather-framed, dusty. I turn my car south towards Castlemaine.

I take a call from somebody in DFAT. They want to confirm Brad’s details and are seeking photo ID. She opined that the Department are expecting to find any remaining Australians in Gaza plastered to smithereens. I thanked her for her advice!

Bessie Makepeace’s twinkling eyes sit above a smile that is both welcoming and teary. We hug as she bundles me inside for a cuppa and cakes. Her 90+ years are incidental, as she busies herself around the kitchen. Questions fly at me over her shoulder as the tea cosy is positioned, biscuits arranged and cups brought to the old deal table. She is bursting with curiosity and excitement, that smile threatening to split her features.

She has already cut a lock of her hair and presented the plastic bag to me. She has a fading memory of the many stories being told, often in hushed tones, by the returning soldiers and recalls photos of a young man going off to war.

8. Collateral mishap

A massive explosion, rubble, smoke, fumes gushing down the corridor towards me. I am knocked off my feet by the force of the blast.

As things clear, there is sunlight streaming from what was the ceiling of our subterranean space. What remains of a car is rocking backwards and forwards, precipitously suspended through the rupture. The occupants have not fared well, although someone is moving – a man in the front passenger seat! Inshallah, I might be able to get to him!

Through the rubble, I fumble and release the seatbelt and he tumbles down into my arms. A bloodied soul, alive but with uncertain prospects. I undertook a quick triage of the other passengers, confirming everyone else has not survived!

There is a deep cut running across his scalp. I call for help and between us we get him onto a blanket amongst the rubble. His pulse is flagging and there is blood seeping through his coat. We need to move him from below where the car continues to rock, ominously. We carry but mostly drag him further down the corridor. It is a good thing that we are only a hundred metres from our makeshift clinic.

Settled with the other wounded, I reach into his coat pockets, finding a wallet, and an Australian passport. ‘Brad Gentle’, hailing from Sydney. I wonder what he is doing in Gaza – probably a journalist, reporting to the world what the Israelis are doing to us!

I walk over to what serves as our Nurse’s Station. A bit of a joke really, maybe even hilarious to allocate such an optimistic label – we are out of drugs, water is being administered by the half cupful and our only light, a series of candles, plus the newly accessed sunlight, now reflecting back along our burrow!

I record his details in the Register, noting briefly the circumstances of his arrival. I walk back to the suspended car and with several others helping, we extract the bodies of the driver, probably his wife, and two small children. We take their bodies into another corridor, to what has become a morgue.

How can this be happening? So many of us, we are not Hamas. Last week I was a doctor in the hospital, today I and one hundred and fifty others, mostly from the medical centre, try and offer medical support to our neighbourhood’s human collateral. We can only assume that the earth-shattering detonations above mean that our hospital has been targeted by the rockets.

One of the walls of the clinic has a portrait of Netanyahu. A target has been drawn and it is plastered with red splotches, blood-soaked bandages thrown with a curse, as the living make their final journey towards Jannah.

I looked after the journalist for several days, but sepsis set in, his temperature soared, and his pulse got weaker. I logged his passing in the Register and hoped his spirit was not unduly compromised by our Islamic funerary rites.

There is nothing unusual about shadows. They are synonymous with sunlight; dark, two-dimensional splotches duplicating the world about.

What’s unusual about the present circumstance is that there is no sunshine. It’s midnight, moonless and I am stumbling along the laneway, making my way homeward after a boozy session at the local. I sense, rather than see this shadow, just a few paces behind.

I stop to take a leak. I excuse myself to the supposed nearby humanity, explaining the sudden urgency, my ageing prostate, an unavoidable indiscretion. There is no response. I turn to add further explanation to the shadow’s creator, but there is nobody – just a dark shading across the nearby ground. I notice it deftly sidesteps to avoid foot-wetting.

How many pints? I count a couple of thirst quenchers, then two or three, maybe there were four, as we play pool, and I reckon I have one or two ‘roadies’. Not enough to deaden the ever-pressing regrets, but enough to buoy my egotistical front!

I lean against the wall to get a handle on things. I fumble with the tobacco and papers. Finally, I roll and light a functional smoke. I revel in the forbidden hit to the back of my throat, the delicious sensation as the nicotine threads its way down to my toes.

I am here in the laneway, by myself, save for the ‘presence’ – this dark human form nearby. I am drunk and my wallowing, scornful loneliness is threatening to overwhelm me.

At this point, my legs buckle and I fall heavily to the ground, my back still against the wall, my legs akimbo, splaying out into the road, my bum promising a significant bruise in the morning. My brain is working overtime, trying to find a rational explanation for my here and now. Things are foggy.

I throw out a question; seeking reassurance. I am sure I hear feet shuffling in the gravel and some movement within the dark greyness. There, did you hear that? It was a definite throat-clearing gurgle as I turn to gain confirmation from …? I draw on my smoke, there is a discernible arm movement from the shadow.

Nothing makes sense. My mind wanders around the last few months; the drinking, the hangovers, the verbal stoushes, the breakages as dishes and accusations fly. Consuming loneliness following the final, slamming door. My sober apologies unheeded, weightless but weighing a tonne upon my soul. I am sinking into a deep, deep pit, the booze’s braggadocio, my temporary evening prop, gone.

I wake to blinding light, and a familiar, splitting head. I am crying and snivelling as I sit in the dirt. Where to from here? Dark thoughts, eternity posing as a provocative, circling possibility.

The dark shape sits beside me in the laneway. I see and smell wet trousers and some of last night’s dinner, moist and sunk into the dust.

The shadow rises from the gravel, turns silently and walks off down the lane.

 

*A heartfelt thanks for Carl Jung’s exploration of ‘shadows’.

Losing my head was an unfortunate mistake. An invitation to attend the Tribunal Revolutionaire, an all-expenses-paid holiday at la Bastille and then away it went – the ‘national razor’ dropped, and that was that!

Silly, careless when I stopped to think about it. I know I was outspoken, loud sometimes, just a drunken, forlorn bore, but I did enjoy my cousin Louis’ company. He dressed immaculately and was generous, to a fault. Those soirees at Versailles, the champagne, the costumes – merveilleux.

He and I would hunt stag, sometimes pheasant across the estate or enjoy a dalliance in a woodland glade, the perfumed companions always such a joy! These were exquisite times, although head winds were definitely blowing.

Hardly a week went by without some boisterous street protest. La Bastille was bursting at the seams, le Widower was in constant demand, with reports that it has become a hazard even for the executioner, with the residues causing dangerous, slippery surfaces. The peasantry were revolting!

Difficult times were upon us. I was left sightless, at what was to become the Place de Bastille, left to wander – blinded, as the city fell into mayhem and I heard degenerate crime was rampant.

I found eventual refuge in the towers of Notre Dame – splendid elevation, and reasonable security. The only inconvenience was meeting up with that infamous tenant, that windbag Quasimodo. Supposedly gone centuries before, but actually just in retirement. He scared the hell out of me.

But he taught me several survival tips. The deadly boredom of death – the unending non-existence. I needed to amuse myself, to pass the time. I found strolling on the streets, of an evening, restorative, joining the throngs of deceased, wandering amongst the living. We would compare notes as the revolution swirled around us. Executions were responsible for many joining the outings.

On occasions, Quasimodo amused himself with devilish ‘guest appearances’. He’d laugh uproariously.

I was still unsure of my modus operandi and was often out on the streets by myself, mingling with the left bank set, once even returning to the Place de la Bastille. But the memories were overpowering. Screw them: I never returned!

Time moved at a funerary pace. We heard about the new decrees, promising egalitarian liberty and fraternity. There were decades of unrest. Armies came and went: soldiers, armaments, destruction but our creamy white sandstone towers remained secure.

Centuries passed, new technologies, new fashions in vogue. At some point, the universities poured out onto the streets demanding egalitarian reform. Our cathedral remained aloof, above the occasional spot of social unrest.

In recent times Quasimondo rarely travelled beyond the towers, whereas I needed the stimulation of the nighttime crowds. The laughter, that heady excitement in the cafes. I was back in the towers by daylight.

But it was all about to change! Some bureaucrat decided the Cathedral’s bells needed retuning. Digital replacements were temporarily installed. An electrical short circuit, a fire destroyed the cathedral, and we lost the roof over our heads – so to speak!

 

 

It took her several weeks to tell me. I think if she had confided her ‘vision’ earlier, maybe at the moment when we were first inspecting the property, I would have resisted purchasing that beautiful old house.

Its’ acre sat fronting the little river that wended its way through the village; the water easement effectively provided additional acreage, maintained by the council: a bonus. Our laneway was a cul de sac, just us and four other sandstones, all built when craftsmanship and pride mattered.

The south-facing verandah, with the old Ornamental grape, that doubled as a windbreak taming most of the late summer heat, was our preferred Friday soiree venue. Whiskey for Ginette, Ouzo, over ice, for me. We were sharing a plate of biscotti and Taramasalata.

“Do you remember that afternoon when we were waiting for the Estate Agent and we were looking over the fence?” “Yep. It was commanding, wasn’t it? I think I fell in love with it at that moment, more so as we moved through that enormous front door, the bay windows, the lead lights, the ceiling roses, the Baltic flooring, the generosity of the rooms.”

“I saw something!” “Whaddyamean, ‘ya saw something’?” “In that bedroom window. There was an old lady. She had long white hair, staring, silently out, like she was assessing us. You probably don’t remember but I made a beeline for that front bedroom, to introduce myself. There was nobody there, just a noticeable chill to the air!”

“That’s ridiculous,” I countered, as long-held fears started to scramble into my cerebellum; my voice quavering as I asked, “why didn’t you tell me before?” I had a deep-seated fear, childhood nightmares, irrational fear of ‘bears under the bed’.

She started to backtrack. “I’ve never seen her again. I think she may have been a forlorn figment of my imagination.”

Over the weeks, I gradually regained my composure, but then I heard old Missus Friedrich talking to Ginette over the fence. They didn’t realise I was pruning, nearby.

“Did ya see her?” “Yes, she was standing in that front room.” “Mmm, dear old Phyllis, she was a good friend and neighbour to my Mum. I only vaguely remember her. She and Mum would be at this fence for hours, some days. Gentle, but married a bloody bastard. He ended up murdering her, and the rumours were that the Screws ‘did for him’ before they could ‘ang im. A right bastard!”

She continued: “She always knows when new owners are coming. She stands at that window, quietly assessing them. Never known to do anything else, just looks and then quietly fades away. Until the next sale.”

The hairs on my neck were erect, goosebumps raised like sandpaper, rational thought swamped. I was badly spooked. I found myself turning extra lights on when moving between the rooms, avoiding being by myself in the evenings. Yes, total, irrational behaviour, but nonetheless, a visceral fear was gnawing.

It wasn’t long before Phyllis was at the window again.

A ghost story’ include words white, screw, wind and forlorn

Men! Two husbands and a brother-in-law, dead or as good as! And now I am forced, by circumstance, into an industry dominated by self-important misogynists who dismiss me out of hand. It is time for women to stand up, to unite. I have joined the Social Democratic Labour Party, and steer the Women’s sub-committee. It’s time for change!

My musical and linguistic accomplishments, and my teaching skills all go unused in the hurly-burly of the art world’s demands for exhibitions and promotional soirees. Both are greased with large amounts of alcohol, opiates and braggadocio.

Aah, my Theo, I miss you so. I remember your note, just five years ago, asking me to come to Paris and marry you. We had barely met, just a few times when your work brought you to Amsterdam. Brash, youthful, but interesting. I let you dangle for the moment. I had my studies at the Institute to complete and I had an offer of work in London for a few months.

You never really got over Vincent’s death, blaming yourself for the physical distance between you two; he in Arles, you at the other end of the country, in Paris. Your grief took a toll, adding to the effects of the pox from your earlier whoring. Six months after Vincent’s suicide, you followed him into the soil.

I have little Vincent, my constant joy. We are left with a small apartment, widowhood and the shame of a family suicide. My darling Theo. I have your legacy of over 200 unsaleable paintings, hundreds of sketches, letters between you and Vincent – and no income! I need my wits to turn these intangibles into a livelihood.

Holland and my familial roots beckon. I leave Paris. I teach piano and use my French and English language skills in manuscript translations. I open a small boarding facility. I am making do, but Vincent’s legacy continues as my main project.

I force myself to reengage with the art milieu, following up with Theo’s old contacts, sometimes dancing to the tune of the gallery owners, just to secure one or two of Vincent’s paintings or sketches exhibited. I gift a painting to a friend. It generates interest and two paintings sell!

Vincent’s voluminous correspondence with Theo has marketing value. I compose a note, attaching two of the letters, and send them off to a publisher. They agree to publish and their editorial staff help me prepare the material for print. The initial run of 1,000 copies sells steadily, in the Netherlands, in France, the UK and eventually in the USA. I work on the translations of Vincent’s work into English. It is time-consuming!

I continue to wheedle the galleries. It happens slowly – the long-sought appreciation: sales start to happen on a regular basis and by the turn of the century, Vincent’s paintings, and the works of the others in this post-impressionist movement, begin to be sought by the collectors.

The family gains a steady income. A note from a legal friend advises me to ensure absolute copyright over Vincent’s writing, sketches and paintings remains within the family. In my will I ensure this is transferred from me to young Vincent, and to any future issue. The move is to pay off handsomely.

I am content. My son has married a wonderful girl, their first baby is due shortly. These days I tire easily.

My earliest memories are of the six of us ice skating on the frozen canals running through the centre of Zundert, close to Father’s church. Vincent is a tentative skater, never keen to race with us, preferring the long straights where he would skate at his own pace. As the light closed in, we knew that Mother would have crispy potatoes, drizzled with rich, garlicky butter on the table ready to recharge hungry stomachs.

After school, Vincent used to stop off at Uncle Fredrich’s art supply shop. I watched my brother delight in arranging, rearranging, and then rearranging again the tubes of paint. He explains to me the colours he is creating, based on which tubes are next to each other.

Uncle sent each of us a note, offering us traineeships as we finished our schooling. Vincent was delighted to get out from under the oppressive religious dictates of our father, while I used the opportunity to seriously apply myself to a career prospect. I completed my training and secured a job with the Dutch office of the prestigious French art dealers, Goupil and Cie.

Vincent increasingly went his own way, wandering off with materials supplied by Uncle, into the surrounding countryside. The reality of money to secure materials never seemed to dawn on him and he eventually relied on me for paint, brushes and canvas, my lasting commitment.

The other children went their ways, the girls married off, and our eldest brother apprenticed into commerce. It left Vincent and me together, under the intimate influence of the artistic world, albeit he at the ‘pointy’ end, me supplying the necessaries.

We shared a small room in a local boarding house. I occasionally convinced him to come with me into town, to the cafes, the music halls, and to taste the delights of the brothels. But again, there was a disinterest, withdrawing into his sketching and painting, compulsively, often burning a candle well beyond my bedtime.

I was transferred to the London offices of Goupil. Vincent visited me a couple of times and in one of his weekly notes, declared an intention to move to Paris where the new Impressionist movement was gaining attention. I bankrolled the move.

Our letters were a lifelong habit, his increasingly frenetic ones were often detailing his ideas for a painting, sometimes including detailed sketches, ideas for new colour combinations, shopping lists, and the occasional mention of his domestic circumstances. He rarely responded to the specifics in my missives.

I appreciated his innovative bold colour combinations and his layered brush strokes. Despite my best efforts, he could not realise a sale in the conservative markets of Europe, still favouring a staid interest in the neoclassicists. But Claude Monet and Pierre Renoir were out in the pleine air. They were about to launch a revolution. These were exciting times and my decision to open my own art supply shop was superbly, albeit, accidentally timed.

The gallery attracted a small group of young men, the banter, the cross-fertilization was electric. None were selling their works; all were frenetically decrying the bourgeois surroundings.

I introduced Vincent to the crowd. Gauguin and he struck up a tentative rapport and plans were being made for Paul to follow him down to his newest haunt in Arles, where I had arranged for Vincent to receive help from Dr Rey for his growing medical uncertainties.

At about this time, I married my adorable Johanna and young Vincent was born within the year. Life was good, although Jo miscarried not long after Vincent’s first birthday. We were both devastated, but to add misery to the mix, my doctor was advising that my own feelings of tiredness, and sometimes delirium, might reflect a pox, from earlier exploits!

Things got worse. A note arrived advising that Vincent and Gauguin had had a massive falling out and that Vincent, in a moment of delirium, attacked himself with a knife. Dr Rey has stitched the wound but the doctor reports that Vincent is behaving very erratically.

I convince Vincent to move back closer to me and I have arranged lodgings with a Doctor Gachet, in Auvers sur Oise, just north of Paris, near the junctions of the Oise and the Seine rivers. The doctor runs a clinic for those with mental issues and is also a keen painter. He and Vincent briefly share a passion.

I see that Vincent’s paintings are losing their vibrancy; dark, violent pallets, nighttime scenes, full of almost satanic swirls, dark shapes. I visit him in Auvers and we spend a very happy, settled week together!

It was to be the last time we were out and about. Weeks later I made a frantic journey from Paris. I arrived in time to hold my brother, as his self-administered gunshot wound proved fatal!

Oh Vincent, why? I fear my own mortality as I am increasingly bedridden, nursed by Jo as the deliriums gain intensity.

I am working closely with Jo to ensure she works the market in my absence, to find and promote Vincent’s work. I know Vincent will be her salvation.

The sunflowers are intoxicating, growing from here to forever, as far as my eye can see, as I pack my easel, paints and brushes onto the trusty bike, and head back. The evening chill is a reminder that summer is faltering, the laneway leaves will be starting to fall, offering a new palette to consider, and capture.

Doctor Rey’s smile is as welcoming as ever as I prop his bike against the old stone wall. We share a pipe and watch the sun shimmer into the distant fields before we go inside. He mentions a letter from Theo that is on the small white noticeboard outside my room.

I sit on my bed and open his letter. As ever there are updates on the family’s Paris doings, plans for a holiday to Brabant, to see our ageing parents, little Vincent’s scratched knee, after a fall from the apple tree, the steady recuperation of Johanna after her miscarriage, and the business.

Theo talks excitedly about his move from London to Paris and the new ‘post-impressionist’ devotees who are starting to frequent his art supply, cum gallery shop. Paul Gauguin; Paul Cezanne and the boisterous crew gathering of an evening to drink that throat-scouring Brittany apple concoction, Chou’chen, or Absinthe in the Montmartre cafes. Theo is keen for me to return, enclosing the rail fare and a little extra.

In the quiet of my room, the invitation rolls around my head. I remember the dismal, cold wetness of the cobbles, the dull gloom of my Parisienne days considered against what I find here, the bluest skies, a hot vibrancy, riotous colours, the friendship of Doctor Rey, the reverend Salles and my little room’s security. I long for artistic company, and write, suggesting the painters consider decamping to Arles.

An advisory note from Theo coincidently arrives on the day that Gauguin steps down from the train. Our first argument is about our quarters, then the food, the heat and my bicycle. We paint frantically, obsessively – the cafes, the spivs, the girls, sometimes pressed even to draw breath between our artistic output and argumentative frenzy. He retreats back to Paris.

My nervous attacks continue. I have a ‘shaving’ accident. Dr Rey stitches my wounds.

The sunflowers continue to hold my attention. I sleep at midday beneath them, dreaming of a ‘School’ forming among their yellowy heads. I exhaust the local supplies of Cadmium yellow, Prussian blue, and Chrome orange but Theo resupplies me. I wake and continue capturing the excitement of these fields until the late afternoon light dictates a halt.

A note from Johanna advises of Theo’s increasing miasma. She is told it is a dimension that leaves him at times wondering who, what and where he is. She implores me to come back to Paris. A compromise is achieved as Theo negotiates my lodgings at Auvers sur Oise, just to the north of the city, with a Dr Gachet.

I write a cheery note, describing the laneways and farmlands beside the Oise. I attempt several portraits of the Doctor, even a couple of self-portraits. Theo visits and we share precious days together before his return to Paris.

He is gone, and sadness descends. I am alone. I paint and the Cadmium warms my soul.

But, it is time, I think. I have the means. It is time.

They had met in Sydney – a glassware trade fair – both wholesale agents. A morning coffee break, pleasantries, small talk, stolen glances, private assessments, later compared. ‘Coincidental’ shared lunchtime seating and a little gentle parrying from both parties. He inquired about her evening’s plans.

She broke a dinner engagement, he flicked the pub, and they enjoyed a little bistro just off George Street, in the Rocks. The Assas Chardonnay bubble was a wonderful start, and later, the half-bottle of Brown Brother’s Merlot richly matched their interest to learn more of each other.

Their responsibilities offered periodic opportunities, loosely fitting around the glass-trade circuits. They supplemented the interludes with letters and stolen nights in European capitals, at the annual Australian fair, the US circuit, throughout Asia.

The relaxed friendship, sparking intense electrical intimacy at a touch, anticipated, a total focus as his plane landed. He was heading towards her apartment in Fritzgasse. Three days to the start of the Fair. He needed a gift. A florist shop spied, the taxi waited and a 600mm, small, potted Ficus Benjamina was bundled in. He had been told that he often gave odd gifts but possibly proprietarily, Benji came from Australia. There was a beautiful turquoise pot to round off the planting.

They both loved galleries and rarely missed a visit to the exhibition featuring in whatever city they were in. The Impressionists were shared favourites and one springtime, in Paris, they stole two days and went down to the riotous colours of Giverny. There was a weekend in St Petersburg, with the Hermitage at their disposal.

They travelled incessantly, a trade fair network that meant they shared each other’s company in Rio, London, Beijing, Shanghai, New York, Paris, even the occasional escapades – Machu Picchu, Angkor Wat, Honk Kong, the bleakness of East Berlin.

Over the decades he saw Benji grow, reaching for the ceiling, revelling in an easterly facing aspect. There were new, larger pots, branches starting to fill in the window and one year, he was advised that the Janitor had fielded complaints from the tenants below, reporting a sagging ceiling!

He bought a pruning saw and secateurs, and over several evenings, their pruning works were disposed, surreptitiously into rubbish bins along Fritzgasse and Erdbergstrasse. Benji didn’t mind the haircut and the tenants, from below, had moved out.

He’d had a cancer scare, a month or so at a hospice, incommunicado. While emails now largely replaced their letters, his Inbox for several months had only delivered utility bills and offers for Drone X, fit bits and holiday specials.

It was a sleety, cold, grey afternoon as he made his way to Fritzgasse. He climber the familiar stairs, the three flights seemed steeper these days. He knocked. A young woman answered the door. “Bitte? Nein, nein. Entschuldigung. Die alten dame ist gestorben”.

He could see over her shoulder towards the window; Benji had gone too!

He shared a coffee with his memories in their little corner café. Tears tumbled, the coffee undrunk, cold, his balance disordered, unravelling. They had not planned this ending.

The beautifully delicate butterfly settled near my left ear. I barely felt her landing but the whispered inducement startled me.

She quietly informed me that I had been selected to receive three wishes. Why me, I cynically thought, unquestionably accepting this extraordinary happening! As if whispering butterflies were a ‘dime-a-dozen’, as if an offer of three wishes were something other than ancient folklore. I must have been dreaming, as my mind subconsciously chose an ice cream – a sort of validity test – and the vanilla cone was immediately, snugly in my hand!

This is ridiculous, but I had to wrestle with my brain to forestall another wish to test the waters again! I mean, what-if… hang on, wow this actually might be real!

My mind was racing, ideas, conjectures, possibilities. There was an insistent voice warning against squandering the wishes, not that they were real … wake up. But the ice cream was melting in my hand!

So, what might I wish? Health, wealth and happiness – was that one wish? What about ethical objectives – a universal elimination of poverty and pestilence, a pox on Orban, Putin, Trump and Morrison, or peace and tolerance … where do I get advice on the admissibility of a collective wish?

I looked about for the little butterfly, but it had flown off. There were other questions needing answers. Why was I selected to receive the gifts, who did the selecting – was there a committee – akin to the Nobel Academy? How long was I going to get, to finalise my wishes, noting that my ice cream had mostly melted onto the grass?

It was tricky to avoid the subconscious phrase “I wish for…”. It had hovered and sploshed around, ever close to my consciousness since the butterfly’s arrival. If I wished for something really good, would I get recognition for my gratuitous offering to humanity? Might I get the Nobel Prize. That’d be cool!

I was fantasizing about being on the dais in Stockholm. Out of left field a wish to fix my balding pate slipped past my guard. Bling, my 1960’s locks were back in place. Shit! How did that happen? Only one wish left. OK It’s gotta be a goody! No more half-arsed brain fades.

Could I really save humanity, maybe reversing the impacts of climate change. Hang on, what would that entail? I have got to be careful. Would we still have cars, or electricity, meat and veg? This is going to be difficult. What if my remaining wish sent us all back into serfdom, horse and cart transport, gruel to eat and plagues to dodge?

I needed guidance. I wish I had somebody to … Stop! My God, that was close! I was now on tenterhooks, scared shitless that my brain was going to accidentally torpedo my plans to save the planet. How do you eliminate a phrase from your memory?

It has now been twenty-four hours since the butterfly’s visit. I was stressed to the max. I had had very little sleep, constantly on guard against THAT phrase! Mrs Google has not provided any help, either, after several hours looking for guidance on climate change reversal.

Jees, I wish I had a million dollars for every time that phrase has popped …cha-ching!

Six pages of ads for Hardly Normal, four from Domayne furnishings, a total of eight offering adventure travel to the wilds of Thai beachside resorts or river cruising between Amsterdam and Vienna, insights into the life and times of some wannabe starlet, upcoming movie reviews, the astrological charts and a ridiculously obscure, giant crossword. There was bugger-all left of the Sunday paper. Why did I continue to subscribe? Thank God for the Sudoku.

The Sunday puzzle was always rated as ‘diabolical’. For a relatively new Sudoku-ee, that was the challenge, occasionally getting it out, a reward in the form of bragging rights to fellow inmates.

The sun shone across my bunk from two in the afternoon and while the others chose the exercise yard, I stretched out, my favourite Staedtler pen at the ready and two hours to myself! A brief circular inspection identifies the gimme’s – the four or five clues that incentivize the puzzle. OK, gottim’, so now the hard work starts. Bottom right has four numbers in position, five numbers leading up through the next two boxes with an initial suggestion a three goes into the bottom box, top row, centre. There’s a nine blocking the five … ahh. Oh yes, the seven definitely slots in there. And so it went … the afternoon drifting comfortably.

The tinkle of my pen hitting the concrete floor woke me with a start. Sheila and I had been in earnest discussion on the beach at Sorento, our sandy beachhead providing privacy, while we went through a final MO for this evening’s work. It would be easy, the last couple of days confirming nobody in residence, the hourly flicker from an automated, ‘anti-theft’ device in the upstairs toilet, further reassurance that we would have the house to ourselves this evening.

A lobster salad, a deliciously fruity Yarra Valley Pinot Grigio, a wonderfully mature brie and wafers, and three crisp counterfeit $100 notes concluded the public part of our evening. We drove back to the Airbnb, changing into our spandex ‘blacks’, rubber-soled booties and balaclavas. A final run-through, me in through the laundry doggy door, around to the front and disarm the door: 30 seconds. Sheila in through the front door: 45 seconds and into the lounge room, a quick review of the gallery: 75 seconds. McCubbin’s Winter Sunlight; Streeton’s Still glides the stream; Wither’s The Drover: as per our inventory, a wonderful collection, beautiful, valuable and all protected by a separate laser beam alarm system.

A bloody cat had followed me in through the laundry door. It just went ballistic inside the lounge – chasing a moth around the room, jumping from couch to table, from table to bench, back to the couch and then bounced off the wall as I ineffectually swiped at it.

The red laser pinpoint on my sleeve! All hell broke loose as the alarms, and lights, notified the neighbourhood of our presence.

Only 729 afternoons left, maybe less with remission. I resume my consideration of the Sudoku.

“What can be given to the dying, lives in the sea and/or grows in the desert”, asked the Quizmaster? I saw Jason surreptitiously picking his nose: we all noticed, urgh, wondering how this moron got onto our team! He had BO too, and that shirt, complete with deodorant stains, hadn’t been ironed, either! You’d think Beryl would be embarrassed to be out with him. Apparently not!

Mitzi gave a heave of her not inconsiderable chest, moving into a more prominent position and proffered “What about a drink of water?” Nathan, ever the clever dick, clearly suffering irritation at Mitzi’s early posit, huffily threw to the team “It’s a thorny problem for the Reef, a succulent and I believe Jesus was offered a sample!” We all thought for a moment; John considered “…in the desert, ah … oh yes. The Crown of Thorns”, a collective nodding and Jenny, our Scribe, recorded the answer. Mitzi sulked!

“Question fourteen. What is the ancient process for forestalling decomposition?” Jason hissed “Embalming”, we agreed, and Jenny’s pencil obliged.

A break. Nathan and I went to the bar and ordered another round. “Three Sauv Blancs, a half Guinness, two house reds and two of those special rhubarb liqueurs, thanks.” I’d seen Beryl demolish one of these Rhubarb numbers earlier – they looked deadly! I watched as measures of orange juice, orange liqueur, vodka, rum, candied orange, a shake of Angostura, pulped rhubarb and ice were brought together.  The fruity-looking concoction was poured into two generous glasses. “Two Viscosity Slammers!” announced the barman.

The room settled back into competitive mode. “Fifteen. When did the last known Thylacine die?” A deeply seated Maureen sprang forward in her chair – “Nineteen thirty … arrr … six” she confidently offered, and went back to sipping her Sauv.

“Sixteen. How many people involved in a duumvirate?”

The final questions were closing in. There were throat-clearing coughs, squished, restless bums were wriggled, a trouser-toot was politely ignored, competitive glances made across to neighbouring tables, conspiratorial whisperings.

Our rogue member, Nick, was reviewing our answers. Self-appointed El Capitano, he was a terrier at these nights. He was known to argue the toss, to challenge answers, recently replacing his miniature Britannica set with an Apple Smartphone linked permanently to Missus Google. He projected ‘unassailable’ – but to us, he was an embarrassment.

The third round of drinks appeared; my second Viscosity was going to impact my composure.  But they were wonderful! What the heck?

“Three”, said John. Nick spun on his heel. “What?” “Three” John repeated and went on to explain that ‘Du’ means three in Latin, similar to the French ‘deux’. “Oh shit. Hang on. I meant to say two!” Nick delivered a withering look. Maureen thought it meant ‘Whitlam’, but was told by Beryl to shut up. “What was the question”, asked Mitzi, at which point she spilt her wine across our answer sheet. Nick swore!

I had to join another team. Nick: jees, a right royal pain, a prick by any other name

“Look, if we follow your suggestion, we’ll be in deep shit. I mean, we can’t just break her arms: what if somebody sees them?”

We’d been wrestling with the issue for about forty minutes, and really, we were no closer to a solution. Two issues – Majorie Sweetman had reached PORM (premature-onset rigor mortis), long before we had settled her into her final viewing position – her arms were standing out like Christ, the Redeemer, directing the faithful above Rio! And we had run out of formaldehyde before completing her embalming. It was Easter Saturday; our suppliers were closed! Her funeral was scheduled for Tuesday.

“OK, let’s not panic, we agree her RM will start to reverse by midnight, tonight. Right?” There was a shuffling, general agreement among the two assistants, willing to accept the judgement of the mortician, happy also for a diversion from their admitted failure to maintain formaldehyde stocks.

Dr Jake Boode, Mortician, a rogue escapee from the grind of General Practice, seizing a perceived opportunity for early riches via the recently departed. He sat on the stainless benchtop; his Smartphone already in service.

A few grunts, a chuckle, the reflection bouncing from his screen, off the acres of stainless steel, lending a quite surreal lighting to his features. “Honey, ah, yep, that’ll do it, honey, we’re gunna need gallons of the stuff. It worked for Alexander the Great, it’ll work for us!” He continued, “the viscosity, combined with its antibacterial properties.”

The three of us worked the supermarkets. Easter presented a problematic barrier, but by seven that evening, we had assembled every jar and tube of Capilano, Bendigo, Manuka or raw branded supply in metro Sydney.

The honey was about 100 mls deep inside the coffin, at which point somebody noticed it starting to pool on the floor. Was this a thorny problem? Maybe more like a sticky problem! Jake got an identical coffin from the stockroom. We removed the satin lining carefully. Candles – from the chapel – we each grabbed a couple, lit them and waxed the timber generously.

One or two leaks were plugged with additional drippings.  Midnight and she was finally malleable, dressed, made up and slipping into the 300 mils of honey smoothly. Jake pronounced, “we’re set to go”, and a long day, albeit with a few irritations, closed.

Tuesday’s service went well. We apologised for the mix up, re the family’s request for a ‘viewing’, explaining that “… best not too, in the circumstances …” allaying any further discussion. There was some mention of the sweetness permeating the chapel, again explained in terms of the new brand of candles we were using.

The assembled family and friends departed, tears comforted, condolences expressed. Marjorie was parked, waiting for cremation and the Parlour’s routines were re-established, almost!

At ‘firing’, my God, that honey. The oven-door simply erupted, spewing thin spirals of viscous liquid across the entire crematorium. It took gallons of formaldehyde and days of systematic elbow grease before we could risk using the burners again.

Last week, this huge, pierced septum walked past me as I approached the supermarket. I saw the dreadlocks first, yards of grey, possibly greasy coils, suggesting an older alternative, home-spun- yoghurt sorta guy, not that I generally jump to any nasturtiums. But ya know what I mean, eh? As I parked the car, he walked past again, and I got this sideways look.

Oh my God, wow! My exclamation reverted to a ‘yuck’, and then all of these questions started to pop into my consciousness. This septum was quite amazing. In my mind, I remember something like a wedding ring, but wider, set longways into the septum. Blowing ya nose, I wondered, even picking it? Wow, how would ya stop things flying out sideways, if ya get me drift?

It must have been excruciatingly painful, presenting a huge irritation when it was first done. Practical issues, like being in bed with ya partner – where do ya look? Maybe they both had one, maybe this was an alternative to the more traditional placement of wedding rings?

I saw him again, standing outside the funeral parlour yesterday, just up from the supermarket. He and another guy were smoking. I couldn’t help myself. I pulled over and parked, but he had gone inside before I got to their doorway. His mate laughed at my enquiry. “Johnno, yer, quite a piercing, isn’t it? He’s actually our senior embalmer.”

I was starting to consider a ‘backstory’. I had seen pictures of men from the Sepik District, sporting these overly large perforations. Might my lad have been a missionary, working in a remote corner of PNG? To overcome resistance to the Gospel, or needing to boost his convert quota, had he thrown his septum into the ring?

What would it mean if ya didn’t get your quota. Would that mean expulsion from the Missionary Club? Did it create a thorny problem for their career paths, “… less than 3% conversion reached at last posting. Others have greater claims …” etc, etc. This, and a plethora of other fantasies started to gather.

I wondered if he had ‘other’ piercings! If he and his partner had them, my mind started to race. I had read about scrotum, foreskin and labia modifications! Belly buttons, lips and of course the near-universal lady’s ear jobs.

Then the setting changed, I was back working in Arnhem land, where it was quite de rigour for men to have piercings. Handy for some. I had seen ornamentation, feathers, bones and the like, inserted during ceremonial participation. There was one old bloke I knew, who used to keep his unlit claw pipe tucked into the aperture. Piercing wasn’t universally practised, some did, others didn’t. I wondered if those not pierced were seen as a rogue element of society?

I had personally never been tempted to have a piercing: anywhere – I was Numero Uno on the hemophobia membership list. The thought of all that blood, the viscosity, oozing, scabbing – oh I feel faint, just imaging it.

I was noticing that the décor in the study was being moved. Pictures were shifting, furniture rearranged, the floor rug had transmogrified from a beautifully salubrious Persian Kashan, to what today could only be described as a Hardly Normal special!

I thought it must have been the contract cleaners, taking liberties. My efforts to be home during their visits were fruitless, scheduled cleaning changing at the last moment, my work commitments dictating last-minute, interstate trips. Ridiculous really. I left notes, seeking explanations, assurances, I withheld payments, and finally, I had taken the awkward step of changing cleaners.

But things continued to wander! I was becoming quite paranoid. I changed my work schedules, arranging to often work from home.

I tried approaching home surreptitiously, taking a different route, turning left along Crystal Street to achieve an unexpected arrival. To no avail. The desktop accoutrements had moved. I always had the stapler next to the hole punch, eight inches to the right of the keyboard. They were now on the left!

The changes were not happening in other rooms, just the front room, my study. And I noted that the changes could occur while I was actually in the house, between evening’s arrival and the following breakfast! I lived alone.

Mrs Google provided the contact details for a paranormal psychic. For half a gold brick, they installed motion-activated cameras, a recorder and an electromagnetic monitor, all connected remotely, via wi-fi to their van parked in the street. I was resigned to being temporarily decamped. A week later, the remaining half gold-brick changed hands, and they revealed an abnormality, recorded two nights earlier, suggesting something!

I went to the local library to undertake historical research on the building. I was a little startled to learn that the whole suburb was built over a reclaimed late, eighteenth-century graveyard. Jees, hang on. Nah, that’s going down ‘bullshit lane’.

I set up my stretcher, made arrangements to work from home for the week, bought in extra provisions, some malt whiskey, brie, biscotti and settled in, ahh … to do what?

It scared the crap out of me. Day Three. Two am. I don’t know what woke me up, maybe a sort of suspended face, leering, bodyless, dancing in the dark across the study. Rational thought evaporated. The decision to sell was settled the next morning, and I was signing the Real Estate contract by week’s end.

“Wodger, you know, after so many years working on this project, and now to be finally at the pointy end, I actually feel quite deflated. Can you understand that?”

“Yer, I can Sheridan. I know what ya mean – beavering away on this inevitability, this financial bonanza just waiting to happen. It must be seven years since we started. How many scenarios have we developed, the variabilities explored? The market research, my God, we spent tens of thousands trying to refine expectations and build capacities to deliver satisfactions. And now, yes, we’re finally here. You’d think we’d feel some sort of gratifying acknowledgement of the milestone.”

“Those endless ‘hush, hush’ meetings with the Protocol officials, Health, the Governor, Emergency and Transport Services, Police, the Military, even the tourism mobs. I think we nailed it, but there has been a certain amount of luck. I mean, what if we had gone with another strategy, like, oh you know, the green one? In hindsight, that wonderful crystal ball, it would have been a complete trainwreck!”

“But, jees, the Top Brass, the establishment certainly played hahardballver the media rights. No wonder they are so well-healed. I gotta hand it to you Sheridan, you handled them beautifully. Bloody arseholes, wanting 50% of the broadcast revenue! Ya ready for another drink?”

“Yes, Wodger. that would be great. But make mine a Vodka Tonic this time.”

It had been a querulous journey, when you think back over our schedules. We’d approached the networks back in 2015. Of course, it had to be all off-the-records, quiet discussions, no leaks.

But they saw the logic of our proposal to deliver ‘public-interest’ coverage, the need to be prepared, to have capacity in place, to have the facility to swing into gear within the inevitably short lead-time, to be able to have the technical know-how in place, as needed, when events unfolded.

I continued to mull things over as Rodger did battle at the bar. He returned with the drinks: I noted a twist of blood orange in my vodka. “Do you remember those Government twerps, those castellated princes, wanting assurances in regard protocols? Their concerns that we would breach their ‘new, ancient traditions’ – absolute bullshit.”

“We knew it was going to happen. The scientific community, Emergency Services, the Police have all been rehearsing these scenarios for years. It just needed our blanket media coverage strategy to capitalise on the event. And we were in the box seat to stream nationally!”

We looked up at the screen above the bar. Our footage, our reporters, our technical team providing wall-to-wall coverage as the springtime flood waters surged, houses and cars floating away, towns, infrastructure and livestock engulfed.

The Great Turbulence took 20% of Victoria’s landmass on April 1^st, 2030!  Most of the Bellarine Peninsula, following a jagged line north to Ballarat, thence southwesterly, including the cities of Colac, Camperdown, Hamilton, Warrnambool, Portland, Coleraine across to Mount Gambier, and numerous smaller centres, simply disappeared.  A massive earthquake, molten lava, a cataclysmic series of eruptions as the volcanic reawakening tore through the regions, turning everything into a jelly-like slush, that over the coming week slid off into Bass Strait!

South Eastern Australia had embarked upon a massive expansion of its hydraulic fracking activities. Federal Energy Minister of the day, Tug Seamor talked of research showing commercially rewarding returns from fracking, in the old caldera of SE Australia’s extensive magmatic volcanic uplifts.

Almost all of the 400 calderas, stretching out between Mount Macedon and Mount Gambier were under scrutiny. Many, by 2025 were covered by fracking licences held by the international energy consortium, Hydraulic Oil & Alternatives Xploration Ltd. Their CEO, Louise Muscovy’s [nee Seamor] commitment to delivering lower prices, supply securities and virtually unlimited, renewal energy reserves, was beautifully wrapped in appropriately syrupy, sweet, political jargon. Even before the first holes were drilled, share prices were in free-climb, punters eager to get a toe-hold, “money for jam…”, a bonanza, driving a frenzied market.

Against this noisy, speculative madness, little was heard of the dissenting advisory group, Vulcanic Observatory & Intraplate Consultative Enterprise Pty Ltd. CEO, Tim Nimbello was urging caution, based upon extensive historical research into earlier Icelandic, and Indonesian volcanic-sourced gas extraction mishaps.

Records suggest it was at one of the early ‘fracks’, where hot magma was first encountered. Company hydrologists were able to dismiss the intersection as an anomaly, authorising deeper penetrations into a satisfactorily-rewarding gas field. Good news travels at lightning speeds, early successes driving HOAX prices stratospherically.  But the not-so-good news travels like a tortoise.

By early 2030, a network of extractive infrastructure was connecting Portland Bay, the massively expanded export hub, with the world. Tankers jostled for moorings, the Port, a bustling hive of opportunities. Employment, across Victoria, and much of Australia was intensely focussing on the energy sector, the call for engineers, hydrologists, system analysts, surveyors, and of course the heavy machinery maintenance teams, drivers, loaders, night-time entertainers, spivs and semi-skilled labourers.

It was welder, Antonio Incendio who had the dubious distinction of being the first casualty. He and his team were working on the Mount Buninyong caldera. Spears had penetrated down to 5,000m and were capped, waiting for Tony’s team to complete the intricate welds necessary to connect the well into the network.  Mates recollect super-heated steam erupting adjacent to Tony’s station. Seconds later, a deafening cacophony, a roar. Tony disappeared, the team ran as the mountain dissolved, the township of Buninyong swallowed.

The only survivor, Mustapha Mahomed, sustaining burns to 75% of his body, was subsequently interviewed from the hospital. Through hiccupping tears, his softly-delivered account of molten lava, house-sized boulders, a sulphurous, enveloping cloud, screams of terror, serpentine redness, oozing, shocked the nation! Shock turned to horror as the eruptions continued over the following week, cities dissolving, thousands of square kilometres simply slithering into “…a new Australian Bight”!

Like ducks in a row, 174 of the 350-odd calderas connected to the gas-extraction network simply exploded, in a cataclysmic display felt around the planet!

CEO Muscovy was initially taken into custody. That first accident claimed 2,324 lives, but hundreds of thousands of people were to perish that week, hundreds of billions worth of infrastructure and the confidence of a nation were shattered!

The entire magmatic field was obliterated. A Royal Commission was established. An early finding, leaked from a source unauthorized to speak, suggested that “the activity was anomalous”, 99% likely to be a one-off event, triggered by mistakes made by the welding team as they worked to tap that gas reservoir on Mount Buninyong. New regulatory procedures were agreed, but volcanic fracking remained off industrial agendas.

Estimates of the death toll ranged between 750,000 and 1 million people in that first week. The impact sent the national economy into a recession, the Greens called for a government of National Unity, and HOAX Ltd was declared bankrupt. No criminal charges were ever laid, but instead, its CEO and Directors were banned from holding executive office for ten years!

Next week marks the centenary of that volcanic implosion with satellite and drone imagery of the conflagration continuing to be played, capturing countless moments of horror, titillatory vision, writ large and reported at the time as a “Warning to the World”*.

*Borrowed from the original title of Wilfred Burchett’s Hiroshima expose.

There was a moment of hesitation, with the Bureau predicting wild weather, winds, hail and the possibility of a light dusting of snow. We had been sitting on the fence, wondering whether to proceed or not, but decisions were taken out of our hands. Eternity stretched out forever as the wall collapsed around us. Death looked remarkably uncomplicated, it just happened, bumph, there we were, squished and flattened!

So what did I have to do now?  There was quite a bit of gore, should that be cleaned up? What if people walked past and slipped? Mmm. The two bus tickets I could see were still clutched in my tightly-held fist. Should I let Mitzi and Bruno know that we were going to be late, maybe that we wouldn’t get there for the celebration, not to wait, start without us. I checked my back pocket but just a smattering of broken black plastic, a vinyl cover and glass fragments remained of the phone.

I looked down again and noticed the mess all over Katie’s new outfit. She was going to be really pissed, when she notices. And the bouquet, again looks like it is totally ruined, the rose petals have scattered and were blowing down the road! I think I remember being told that preen and a cold water soaking will fix the stains.

Gawd here comes the cavalry! Low and medium-pitched nee-naws are in the distance, getting closer, and louder! Ah, a different siren, I reckon that’ll be the cops. Funny how ya don’t really differentiate the siren noises but if ya listen, yep they are quite different! The cops are higher pitched, more intense, maybe!

Let’s get outta here, those people all rubber-necking, the ambo’s and now the cops. The rain is starting to get heavier. With a bit of luck, we should be able to hitchhike to Mitzi’s – yer we’ll be a bit late but better late than never!

Those bastards just about ran us over, didn’t even acknowledge us as they sped by. Its been a while but the ol’ finger should get somebody to slow, to take a chance on us. Jees, another bugger. Do ya reckon they see us? Hey watch it, jees that was too close.

We should walk for a while, put some distance between us and that mob of high viz jackets, sirens and the crowd. I reckon that’s spokin’ the drivers.

Is that snow? That’s why it has gone so quiet, but funny, it doesn’t seem to be all that cold? Despite the rip, the jacket still seems to be keeping the worst of the weather off. You OK? Righto.

A few corners, it’s a lot quieter, still background drama off a bit somewhere but I’ll try the finger again. There’s an incredibly bright light down the road. It’s getting closer, bloody truckie, lights on high beam but I can’t hear the truck! That light is getting brighter, God that is bright and I still can’t hear the truck!

Liz was giving us her pre-game rah rah. “This is it girls. Two/nil and if we don’t pull this next rubber off, we’ll be the laughing stock of the whole country. The Constellation Cup will be lost again!”

Everyone was keyed up.  Nervous chatter in the dressing rooms had quietened as the team absorbed the specific strategies and plays within the coach’s final instructions.

Peta Toeava’s injury was going to be a blessing. Her speed, accuracy and effortless court-work had terrorized us in the previous two matches. From her Wing Attack position, she had absolutely scorched Liz Watson, setting up countless attacks, exploiting our defensive weaknesses and enabling the machinery from across the ditch to fire, seamlessly.

Our decision to tell Gina to take her Hancock Prospecting sponsorship and ‘shove-it’, was proving a distraction. To some extent it had split the team – those wanting the security of the deal, against those awakening to the historical racism and the company’s impacts on planetary futures.  A couple of the girls noted that Origin Energy sponsorship decals were still on our uniforms and were suggesting pinning a blank square over it. Safety concerns scotched that idea, but the inconsistent messaging was noted and agreement for further, future discussions.

There were a few nervous tears in the rooms before the game, but we were stealing ourselves, rebuilding the aura that had us on top of the rankings over the past few seasons.  There was a capacity crowd inside Melbourne’s John Cain arena, the cacophony was deafening and as the teams made their way onto the court, the cheer squads were working the crowds. It went quiet.

The Kiwis took the first pass, and away they went. A huge court-length pass saw the first of six unanswered goals. And it all went black for most of the opening session. The crowd were on their feet, whistling, cheering. Excitement was building. The camera’s picked up Julia Gillard in the crowd, sitting next to Julie Bishop, both wearing green and gold and cheering madly.

Quarter time saw us down by four goals. It could have been worse, save for some brilliant attacking from Sophie Garbin. A great decision to have her as GS, complementing the precise work from Steph Wood at GA. Watson was demonstrating her skilful midfield play and the Diamonds had swung the early deficit into a 31:22 halftime lead.

There was raw energy on display, the girls sensing a gear-change, arrow-straight attack work that was delivering a confidence not seen in the previous two games. But the Ferns mounted a challenge, bringing the deficit back to just five points.

Gina was spotted in a corporate box, cheering as the Ferns delivered three straight goals. The commentator proffered that she might be about to make a New Zealand sponsorship offer!

The rest is history. The diamonds needed a three-point lead to avoid a dead rubber in the fourth. The 62:47 final scorecard ensured our girls were a step closer to reclaiming the Trans-Tasman cup.

Bluebells, backwards was the password! God I hate bloody passwords, as I ‘thumble’ with the keyboard, and managed to achieve ‘slleubeulb’. There was an immediate, terse, blue notice advising that the password was incorrect! Shit, I tediously, and deliberately retyped ‘sllebeulb’.

Ttrring and the screen dissolved into the soft pastel colours of compliance. I was in!

But what was I looking for? She had winked as she departed, advising that the site would entertain. I was looking at a site promoting springtime British garden tours – Sissinghurst, Hidcote Manor, Highgrove, even a couple on the Welsh border, Chirk and Powis Castles. I wasn’t planning a trip to Britain, this springtime or any time soon.

And why was a garden tour-site protected by a password? I started to mouse-over the names of the gardens, quickly drawn into the images of pleached and espaliered orchards, walled, colourful garden beds, delightfully romantic follies, acres of winter daffodils, timbered groves with massed, understory bluebells, ancient, clipped hedges, castellated towers, statuary, and fountains.

Believe it or not, I was being drawn further into the marvels on these pages. Two hours later, and I was actually wondering whether or not a UK trip might be doable. But my reverie was rudely interrupted. I had seen something, albeit ever so briefly! The hairs on my neck were prickling!

I moused over Sissinghurst. Yes, there, just the merest glimpse from the corner of my eye, as I moved the mouse. I turned to ask if you had seen it too, but of course, you were not there! I tried Powis, a picture of the castle’s forecourt, entwined dragons frolicking and spewing a watery welcome. Nothing, but as I shifted the mouse, there again, a flicker of movement at the bottom of the screen! This was ridiculous. I wiped my brow, and with deliberate conviction, closed the site down!

That evening, alone in the drawing room, I sipped a rather fine 2016 Silenus Merlot – an import from Langhorne Creek, that was complementing the deliciously burnt-caramelly, tart flavours of a hitherto untried Roquefort-en-biscotti. But my mind was still anxiously tossing over the imagery, that spied, tiny figure, flitting, seeming to move into my room. Insane! How could a digitally-contrived image morph off the screen?

I argued with myself for half an hour before I was back at the keyboard, my reversed bluebells falling effortlessly, and correctly into place!

The bland screen opened onto a verdant, treed meadows, a castle in the distance, massed, blue spikes waving under the trees. The picture’s central focus was a lake, with a punt, a young couple poling across the water, she, working the pole, he, idlily trailing his left hand into the water.

The punt was moving across the lake and out of the screen, into the study!  I could hear laughter, snatches of conversation, even the rhythmic splosh of the poling. There was a faint, musty smell of dank-water. I looked closer and made out a bassinet on the floor of the skiff, between the couple, and I was hearing a baby’s contented gurgling. I suddenly had the conviction that they were heading for the offscreen church, for the child’s baptism?

The little figure flitted about the study, zooming around my head several times. I tried ineffectually at swatting it away. It alighted on my shoulder.  My study and the gardens, the young family in the skiff, this little fairy had joined to become one! The fairy moved across playfully, and whispered into my ear “Beware the springtime fairies” and flew off!

I was now very uneasy, possibly tipsy too! It was late, and as I starting to tidy up, I noticed the cheese wrapper, Roquefort Jacinthe des Bois. There was a story on the paper, explaining an ancient nexus between bluebells and fairies, describing their sometimes evil, springtime antics in the fields near the cheesery. It finished “At your peril, never, ever, ever tinker with the fairies!”