Friday, July 12

Today is the day that our cleaner arrives.  She is provided by the Aged Care people who subsidise part of the cost and today was the day she carried out her regular assessment.  It's pretty comprehensive and covers what kind of mop we have, do we have a shower chair with arms, that glass hall table will have to go, and so on.  Today we were asked "do you have a personal alarm" and "do you have a key box at the front door"?  Funny, we were planning to go to Bunnings this afternoon to get a key box so we're on the same page at least.

Thinking about getting old, leads into today's story, Murder at Shady Banks Retirement Home.

MURDER IN SHADY BANKS RETIREMENT HOME                                               MAY 13, 2022

 

Muriel had lived at Shady Banks Nursing Home for the past twenty years. When her husband died she moved into a unit in the grounds of the complex and then into the large main building when she needed more assistance.  She realised that she had been at the home longer than any other resident and she knew, for example, that Shady Banks was not named for the portion of the garden where some chairs had been put out under the trees.  No, she knew it was named after Clive Banks, the businessman who had opened the home as a useful tax dodge many years ago.  His associates all called him Shady, probably because of the many rumours which had circulated about some of his deals.  Sadly, he hadn’t lived to enjoy the comforts of the establishment named in his honour, having died following a particularly memorable Melbourne Cup Day party in 2007.

 

Shady Banks wasn’t so bad, Muriel thought.  She’d never expected to live into her eighties and days were often tedious, but the staff did their best to keep the residents’ spirits up. The food was often less than she hoped for and there wasn’t always a lot to do, but there was one young filipina carer who sang cheerfully all day, other staff told her about their children and, occasionally, a visitor would bring along a dog for the residents to fuss over.

 

Muriel’s favourite day was Friday when all the residents gathered in the Dining Room for morning tea; often they had a visitor who would be asked to talk to the group about something interesting.  The best part was that, if there was time, Muriel would also be given the chance to read part of her latest story.  Yes, Muriel was an author.  Well, she hadn’t actually had anything published but she wrote a story every week, without fail.  Most of her stories had a murder in them and she was very careful about her titles: Murder on the Sushi Express, set in a Japanese restaurant, The Murders in the Kew Morgue, Death on the Pile, influenced by scenes of the rubbish stacked outside flooded houses in Lismore.

 

Muriel was aware that not everyone listened to her stories but so long as they didn’t talk while she was reading and made reasonably polite and positive remarks afterwards, she was content.

 

Of all the residents of Shady Banks, there was only one whom Muriel disliked.  This was Arthur, a retired butcher, who had spent his life on the killing floor of the Longford Meatworks.  He was a coarse man and prone to unrestrained swearing when he was out of sorts.  He didn’t like Muriel and thought her stories were ‘stupid bits of nonsense’ and had no hesitation in telling Muriel what he thought.

 

He also had a nasty habit of wandering around the nursing home late at night, putting his head around the doors of people’s bedrooms and saying Boo!  He had been warned by the management about this but he took no notice.  He seemed to single Muriel out for special attention and she began to dread going to bed at night, in case Arthur wandered by.

 

One morning, when the Early Nurse was doing her rounds she noticed a large figure lying on the floor of the loungeroom.  The curtains hadn’t yet been drawn so it was hard to see the details but, on inspection, the figure turned out to be a large male whose head had been swathed heavily in bandages purloined from the Nurses’ Trolley. He was clearly deceased and later examination would show that he had been suffocated by the thick layer of bandages; there was also a laceration to his head caused by a blunt object.  The police were called immediately and when the bandages were removed, the figure was identified as Arthur.  

 

Nobody at the nursing home was particularly sorry that Arthur was deceased and there was more than one muttering of “Serves him right!”  However, the police had to carry out their investigation to the best of their ability.  It seemed a fruitless task until Imelda, the filipina carer arrived to start her afternoon shift.  When the shocking occurrence was explained to her, she put her hand to her mouth and said, “I think I know who did it.”

 

She went on to remind everyone that the title of Muriel’s story last Friday was ‘The Case of the Bandaged Butcher’ and the plot was exactly as had been inflicted on Arthur.  Nobody who had been there on the Friday morning had listened to Muriel’s story or, if anyone had, it had disappeared from their memories in the days following.  

 

It was almost the perfect crime but Muriel was eventually found to have done it.  In consideration of her advanced age and the fact of Arthur’s harassment of her over the years, she was found guilty but with extenuating circumstances.  It was deemed not appropriate to send her to the overcrowded Women’s Prison at Risdon and she was sentenced to remain at Shady Banks Nursing Home for the term of her natural life.

 

Nothing changed much in Muriel’s life.  She still wrote her story every week and read it to the group each Friday.  The difference now was that her audience all listened … just in case.

Thursday, July 11

Yesterday was our Probus meeting so I didn't get around to posting anything on the blog. Now that I've given up the Writing and Poetry groups, Probus is one of the few regular activities I have and you'd think that I would look forward to going each month.  The other men are all pleasant and friendly, the guest speakers are usually interesting and the morning tea provided by the Bowls Club ladies is great. But, I'd be just as happy to stay home instead.   I know that everybody needs to have some sort of social life if they want to stay functioning but I find enough at home to stimulate me and I often feel resentful if I have to interrupt what I had planned for the day just to attend a, sometimes, meaningless meeting.

I hope nobody from the Probus Club is reading this but my excuse is that I've always been anti-social and am happiest when I am engrossed in some solitary activity.

Four Strong Winds is about a lighthouse-keeper.  Now that's a job I might have enjoyed, being isolated in a remote location with no chance of anyone knocking on the door to interrupt me.  Bliss!

     FOUR STRONG WINDS                                                                                          2023

 

Lester came from a long line of lighthouse keepers but he was the first to have such an exotic name.  His father and grandfather were both called Jack and, if he had taken the trouble to check, he might have found several more Jacks in his family tree.  However, his mother was a fan of horse-racing and he was named in honour of Lester Piggott, the famous UK jockey.  It could have been worse, he often said.  He might have been born the year that Michelle Payne won the Melbourne Cup and who knows what his Mum would have made of that.

 

Even though more and more Australian lighthouses were being converted to automatic operation, Lester was confident there was still a future for him.  Currently he was stationed at the famous lighthouse on Maatsuyker Island. It was a blowy place and Lester used to say that the wind came from four directions.  Four strong winds, each with its own identity.  The north wind brought hints of the dust and dryness of the Australian Outback, the east wind had a whisper of frangipani and the tang of sauvignon blanc grapes in the New Zealand vineyards.  The south wind blew off Antarctica and brought the icy golf-ball size hailstones which pock-marked the dome of the lantern house.  Finally, the west wind, the strongest of all had the edge of salt air, and the faint memory of the tar in the rigging of the sailing ships which harnessed the Roaring Forties to bring explorers and adventurers to the lands of the south seas.

 

It was all nonsense of course.  A wind is a wind and, in fact, the prevailing wind was the west wind which blew unrelentingly day and night.  Lester, though, was quite impressed with the images he had conjured up in describing the wind and he wondered whether he might put that undoubted talent to good use by becoming a writer.  

 

Although Lighthouse Keepers had regular tasks to be caried out, there were many hours to fill in.  The station had good internet access but Lester soon became tired of Netflix.  There was one other lighthouse keeper stationed there too but he was an odd fellow and kept very much to himself and seemed content to sit in his room reading or filling in one of the countless puzzle books he had brought with him.  

 

Where do you start if you want to become a writer?  A perfunctory search of the internet gave Lester some good ideas about what he might think about.  He knew he should start off with shorter pieces and followed the advice he found somewhere that 800 words was a reasonable target.  He wrote pieces of fiction and of non-fiction. He wrote letters and exotic recipes, he attempted poems and even sermons and speeches of thanks in the unlikely event that he won a prestigious award.  

 

All went well for a while but Lester craved some feedback.  He, again, searched the internet until he found an on-line Writing Group which welcomed him as a member; the moderator and other members were seemingly delighted to have in their midst someone from such an exotic location.  The participants were presented with a weekly task to write on a particular topic or using a particular style, and then would present them to the group as a whole at a regular Zoom meeting.   

 

It worked very well for Lester, at first, but he gradually became aware that a small group of predominantly middle-aged women in the group were showing signs of being shocked at some of the things he wrote.  He accepted it was his own fault as he enjoyed surprising people and he enjoyed their reaction.  He began to call them the Four Strong Winds because they attacked him from different directions and in different ways.

 

Lester was unsure whether they were genuinely upset at some of his subject matter and, of course, he had no one to ask for advice, isolated as he was in this god-forsaken rock in the Southern Ocean.  He managed to send a surreptitious note to the moderator who advised him to shrug it off and keep focusing on his writing. In fact, he was told, good writing has to be memorable and authors have to use whatever tricks they can devise to keep their readers’ attention.  Shocking the readers into some reaction is as valid a way of making his writing memorable as any other.

 

Life went on for Lester.  His stories probably didn’t improve as much as he had hoped.  The couple of stories he entered into various competitions sank without a trace, others he offered to obscure publications were politely rejected.  However, his fellow-lighthouse keeper picked up one story by chance one day, pronounced that he liked it and asked Lester to make sure he was allowed to read everything he wrote in the future.

 

You have to start small.

Tuesday, July 9

With our breakfast, we've been watching videos on YouTube.  As our travelling days are over we look for videos of places we haven't been and this morning we watched a young couple from South Africa called Shev and Dev, and they were in Shanghai.  We have been to Beijing, probably 14 years ago, but Shanghai is another thing entirely. Shanghai is a beautiful city and the people look so prosperous and content.  If anybody has any doubt about the place of China in the world, they need to look at the reality and, if there really is race between USA and China for leadership of the world, the US has to do a lot more.

Today's story is 'Colin' and I was influenced by hearing about Marilyn's father, Bill Lofting, who spent a bit of his childhood in Woolloomooloo. 

COLIN

He was the third child in the family and the first boy, so he was named Colin for his grandfather who had arrived from England in 1876.  Grandfather Colin hadn’t travelled far from the wharf where he landed, settling in Woolloomooloo, where his descendants still lived.  At that time, Woolloomooloo was a run-down, rather seedy home for petty thieves, con-men and others struggling to get by on the wrong side of the law.

Nowadays, of course, Woolloomooloo is one of the most prestigious addresses in Australia’s largest city.  The Finger Wharf, near where Colin’s grandfather landed, is now the site of luxury apartments available only to the most wealthy.  The Victorian cottages, once dirty and rat-infested, have been renovated and now house young, upwardly-mobile professionals who work in the city. 

By the 1920s, when Colin was born, Woolloomooloo was still regarded as a working class area, home to the dockers and wharf labourers who toiled around the Sydney shoreline.  However, it had also become a haven for artists and writers who appreciated the ‘bohemian’ atmosphere.  The Sydney P.E.N Club met there, often in the home of Hilary Lofting and Margaret Fane, well known authors. Dorothea MacKellar travelled from her home in Point Piper to attend the meetings and other notables such as AB Paterson and Henry Lawson were frequent visitors.

But Colin’s family wasn’t invited to the meetings.  Even in Woolloomooloo there was a class divide. Colin’s father worked hard on the wharves but spent too much of his paltry pay-packet in the Old Fitzroy Hotel. Colin’s mother struggled to put food on the table but Colin and his brothers and sisters were never really hungry.  In any case, the teachers at the Plunkett Street School made sure none of their children missed out on something to eat at lunchtime.

Colin had been born with a hair-lip; this affliction and the fact that his speech was affected by it, set him aside from the other children at the school.  Some took it as a sign that he was unintelligent although they would never have used that word.  ‘Colin is simple’, they would say.  Children, being children, didn’t make allowances for Colin and he was ostracised in the playground. Some of the children made an effort to include Colin in their games from time to time but soon learnt that, if they wanted to be part of the bigger group, they needed to shun Colin. Sadly, even some of the teachers treated Colin as someone whose difference meant he couldn’t be expected to understand the work.

But Colin did understand, even if he had trouble spelling words aloud and answering questions verbally.  Somehow, the fact that he always got his sums right was discounted by the teachers who only gave credit to those who could speak up for themselves. It was rare for Colin to enjoy a day at school but there was one treat he always looked forward to.  Another boy in the class had an uncle in America who was a famous author.  Often, he would send a copy of one of his stories to his nephew who would bring it to school and read it to the class.  They were wonderful stories about a doctor who could talk to animals.

Apart from the occasional tales of Doctor Dolittle, Colin learned that school was not an enjoyable place to come each day so, more and more often, he just didn’t go.  It was called ‘wagging’ in those days and Woolloomooloo provided plenty of attractions for a young boy looking for an excuse to avoid attending school.

You might have expected that Colin’s teacher would have complained to his mother that Colin was wagging school but it is likely that he didn’t even notice that Colin wasn’t there.  Colin never spoke up in class, never volunteered to answer a question, and had learned to blend into the background so well he was almost invisible.  In any case, children were always missing school for one reason or another and nobody bothered to let the school know when this happened.

Colin was also clever at keeping out of the way of other people on the days he was not at school so it was months before anyone even noticed that he was not where he should have been.  And, of course, when his teachers discovered they had been fooled, there was a cry of righteous indignation.  “He must be punished,” they said.  “He’s a criminal in the making.”  The other children, though, started to regard Colin as something of a hero.  The teacher had been reading The Scarlet Pimpernel to the class and suddenly the children could see the connection with the quote from the novel.  “They seek him here. They seek him there.  Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.”

It would be nice to say that everything changed for Colin and he lived happily ever after but life’s not like that.  His ‘wagging’ exploits made him an overnight sensation but just for a fleeting moment in time.  The children’s interests soon moved on to other things and Colin retreated to his own familiar loneliness.  The teachers, somewhat embarrassed by being bettered by a child, watched him more carefully and made a little more effort to include him in class activities, but it was too little, too late.  

Colin left school at 14 and his father arranged a job for him on the wharves.  He was still very conscious of his appearance and his speech, so was regarded as a loner.  Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise because he was the only labourer who didn’t go with his mates to the pub on Friday afternoon.  He finally married a widow who had been left with two children and he proved to be a good husband to her and, very importantly in those days, a good provider.  And, after all, what more can be expected.

Monday, July 8

When I looked out on the front yard this morning, there was a forlorn-looking blackbird on the edge of our bird bath staring unhappily at the ice.  I realised he was wanting a drink.  There would have been little standing water around during the past few days and the closest creek is miles away. I filled Archie's bowl with some water from the kitchen and took it out to him. I looked out after a few minutes and he was back, looking a little happier.

I noted that the ice in the bird bath had diminished overnight.  It was up to the top then and, now, it's only half full.  How does that work?  How does half of the ice disappear overnight.  It can't be evaporation.  My High School Physics did. not prepare me to answer that.

I found a story called The Icing on the Cake ... icing? ice?

Stuart, when he was little, thought his father was the cleverest man he knew.  No matter what was happening, his father always had a wise saying that explained the situation. Not that Stuart always understood the meaning of the words but his mother and other people would nod their heads and mutter, “Very true.”

“Make hay while the sun shines,” his father would say when they were going for a walk and it took a while for Stuart to realise it had nothing to do with hay but was the sort of thing you said when you were going to start doing something.  “Early to bed and early to rise” was another popular saying in the house, and was always said when his Dad tucked him in at night.  There were a couple of Dad’s favourites which Stuart would get mixed up: “Give him an inch” and “Give him enough rope” but they seemed to make perfect sense to his Dad.

Every time there was a shower, you could depend on Dad to say, “It’s raining cats and dogs” and, if it was sunny, “The sun is splitting the trees.”

By the time Stuart was in Primary School, he was becoming a little embarrassed by his father.  The other kids used to tease Stuart by quoting often-heard phrases, like “Actions speak louder than words”, and “Children should be seen and not heard.”  Stuart stopped inviting his mates home because he couldn’t be sure his father wouldn’t regale them with more of his folk wisdom: “the proof of the pudding is in the eating,” or “East or west, home is best.”

High School was little better. Stuart discovered his father’s little quotes were called aphorisms and he found lists of them in various books in the library.  At one stage, he tried the tactic of trying to beat his father at his own game and would drop aphorisms into his own conversation.  Sometimes he would start a well-known saying and leave it to his father to finish it: “The more things change, …”  But it only seemed to encourage the habit.

Stuart hoped things would get better as he grew older but it was not to be.  His father always watched the Breakfast Shows on commercial television and he picked up their habit of talking in clichés.  More and more trite sayings were added to Dad’s vocabulary.  Stuart couldn’t understand how his mother had tolerated it all those years but Dad said she had ‘selective hearing’ and was used to it.

Stuart began to avoid seeing his father and inevitably drifted away from his family as he made his own life.  It seemed a very trivial reason for cutting them off but, by this stage, Stuart was a well-respected academic and his father didn’t fit the image that Stuart was developing for himself. His father often said that “absence makes the heart grow fonder”, but Stuart could not believe there was truth in that.

There was only the occasional phone call with his mother to maintain contact and one day Stuart received the news that his father was in hospital, not expected to live.  In the lift on its way to the hospital ward where his father lay dying, Stuart thought about what the old man might say: something resentful, perhaps, like ”Oh, the prodigal returns” or “A bad penny always turns up” , but even Stuart, with all his experience, didn’t anticipate the words which were squeezed from his father’s lips, “Well, this is the icing on the cake.”

Sunday, July 7

 I'm tired of talking about the weather.  It's just the same this morning: cold/?check, miserable?/check, could be better?/check.  The only good thing is that it can only get better.  Nothing is happening today and we'll enjoy sitting with the heating on, reading our books.

I've decided to post Loch Ness today, the only one of my stories to be published, albeit it in the Annual Magazine of the Launceston School for Seniors.  Hey, you take your chances when they arise!

LOCH NESS                                                                                                              

 

‘Loch Ness!  What romantic images it engenders: moonlight quavering across the dark water, warm summer air and the gentle sound of wavelets breaking against the shore.’  

 

Well, that’s what the tour brochure promised, with the added benefit of a potential sighting of the Loch Ness monster.  

 

It was autumn and our tour bus was only half full.  It was no wonder that tourists don’t flock here at this time of the year; the evening air was icy and snow was still lying on the ground after the heavy fall the previous night.  I huddled into my heavy coat and pulled my scarf up around my nose and mouth.

 

I could hear the excited chatter of the other passengers from farther along the shore, most of them anxiously looking for signs of the elusive monster which everyone was hoping would make an appearance to give a lift to what had been a rather dull and predictable tour.  Wonders of Scotland, it was called and promised an insight to this ‘dark and mysterious land’.

 

I had arrived in Glasgow a few days before, excited by the thought of my new job at the University there.  I wasn’t expected to start until the following week so the bursar suggested I might like to take a bus trip around the highlands and ‘get a feel’ for my new home.   When I agreed, he rang a friend in the business and I found myself joining about twenty others on the bus.

 

I know I’m cynical and maybe I was expecting too much but you can soon get over porridge for every breakfast, kilts and bagpipes, surly, undecipherable Scottish accents and tartan everywhere.  I expected more from Inverness, and Culloden was just a featureless stretch of Scottish moorland.  The highlight so far had been the Whisky Tasting at Speyside but a side trip to the small town of Carrbridge was interesting.  It seemed the World Porridge-Making Championship was being held, and there were afficionados from all over the world there to join in the fun.

 

I had enjoyed talking to the other passengers, most of them couples from America, but I was intrigued by one passenger in particular: a young Japanese woman who was travelling on her own.  She was very shy but still happily joined in all the activities.  As she and I were the only two members of the group travelling alone, we tended to seek each other out and often ate together when we stopped for a meal.  Her English was excellent.

 

Loch Ness was almost the last place listed on our tour and was clearly regarded as something of a highlight.  The driver, who was also the tour guide told us some of the stories of the famous monster and how he thought it had managed to survive in the loch for centuries.  To hear him, you would think he was convinced that the creature really existed but we had learned over the past few days that Scotland’s whole reputation relied on myths and legends with very little truth behind them.

 

As we stood there, Kumi and I became aware of a ghostly green light appearing in the sky.

 

“It’s the Northern Lights,” said the driver. “We’re lucky to see them this far south so early in the year.  Farther north, they call them the Mirrie Lights.  It’s an omen.  I wouldn’t be surprised if we see Nessie as well.  I’ll just go back and talk to the other passengers.”

 

As he hurried away, Kumi and I watched the glorious sight in the heavens: the waves of green and magenta glimmering lights filling the sky, and I remembered a song my mother, Aberdeen-born, used to sing,

 

“.. we called them the Heavenly Dancers, merry dancers in the sky …” And I knew, at last, what she meant.

 

As Kumi and I stood there, in that magic moment, I felt her small hand slide into mine and, as we glanced at the loch, we both saw a movement in the dark water, as if a large pre-historic creature was waking from a deep sleep and turning over in his bed.

 

We didn’t tell the other passengers what we had seen; some things are not to be shared.

 

 

 

Saturday, July 6

 On these cold mornings a good breakfast is needed.  Marilyn usually makes herself an omelette but I'm more inclined to have a bowl of porridge followed by a couple of slices of toast.  The porridge is made in the frugal Scottish way: oats, water and salt ... never sugar.  I indulge myself by throwing in a small handful of sultanas.  The fruit toast we are buying at the moment is double thickness so one slice is enough, with a generous application of butter.

We first discovered double-thickness sliced bread in Japan.  Every little town has a bakery where customers collect a basket and a pair of tongs and they wander around the shelves collecting their preferred delicacies.  We were particularly attracted to to thick toast which the Japanese call 'toasto'.  And now we can have it at home as well.

I am posting a crime story today called The Mean Streets of Melbourne', written earlier this year.

He was just standing there: a tall man, dressed in a light-coloured raincoat, wearing a dark fedora and smoking a cigarette.  He was silhouetted in the lights behind him and there was enough illumination from the shop windows around him that I could see that he was not particularly young.  If you had told me he was an actor dressed for the part of Mickey Spillane or Sam Spade, I might have been reassured but in the Melbourne of 2024, he was an incongruous figure.

 

I started to walk towards him but he moved quickly away, weaving in between the people strolling along the lane looking for a restaurant.  I broke into a run but it was impossible to make any headway through the Saturday night crowds.  Reluctantly, I came to a halt and watched him as he disappeared into an underground carpark.  My planned confrontation with him would have to wait for another day.

 

My name is Gunter Strauss although that is not the name my parents conferred on me.  When I embarked on my current career, I chose a German name because I believe that nationality suggests connotations of ingenuity, integrity and intelligence.  These are all attributes I feel are key to the success of a private investigator.  It’s fair to say that I haven’t had much opportunity to demonstrate whether I can display these attributes because jobs have been few and far between.  I have said, I will never accept the challenge of finding a lost dog but , unless things pick up, I cannot afford to be so choosy.

 

The particular challenge I’m facing at the moment came to me through a friend of my wife’s.  As my wife explained it, the poor woman has become besotted with a younger man and has expectations that they will eventually marry.  My wife says, “She’s dreaming!” but, nevertheless is keen to help her out if she can, even if it means expecting me to take on a case for which I will not be paid.

 

The friend, let’s call her Amy, which is the code-name I’ve allocated to her in my files, is a mature woman of considerable means.  Her husband who died some years ago, left her a substantial property and there are no children to inherit.  Amy has made it clear that her estate will assist charity but the specifics of that seem to change from week to week as different ideas come to her mind.  I think she’s a gullible woman and easily influenced.  I’m not sure how she met the man I’m trying to tail but there was an article about Amy in our local newspaper which commented on her charitable work.  There are men who prey on vulnerable women like Amy and I believe ‘Mickey’ is one of those.  Yes, ‘Mickey’ is the code name for my suspect.

 

Amy had told my wife that Mickey was travelling to Melbourne on a supposed business trip but she was suspicious and, so, it was agreed that, heavily-disguised, I would travel on the same ‘plane and see whether I could discover what he was up to.  I wasn’t having much success.  I had managed to tail him as far as Melbourne city where he had booked into a hotel but following him through Chinatown was proving more difficult.  My best option, it seemed, was to return to his hotel, take a seat in the lobby and wait for him to return.

 

I had no idea that hotels were so unreasonable with regards to sitting in their lobby.  They wanted to know whether I was a guest in the hotel, why was I sitting there, if I didn’t move on they would call the police, and so on.  I had to resort to waiting in the street near the entrance to the hotel in the hope that I would see Mickey when he returned.  I tried sitting on the step but the doorman moved me on so I leant on the wall, occasionally walking up and down to keep the blood flowing.  After a while, I realised there was a tram stop opposite with a bench and that would give me both a seat and a good view of the hotel entrance.  Unfortunately, I may have slept for a minute or two because I didn’t see Mickey returning.  Of course, he may have chosen to stay out all night which would have confirmed my suspicions that he was up to no good.

 

Pondering on my next move, I almost missed seeing Mickey walking down the steps of the hotel, with a young, blonde woman beside him.  I tried to look inconspicuous but he caught sight of me and hurried across the street towards me.

 

“Hello, Gary, what are you doing in Melbourne?” he burbled, using the name he knows me by.  I was so surprised at being spotted that I didn’t know what to say.  I made a mental note to myself  to make sure I had a cover story prepared before each job in the future.

 

“Oh, I’m just here for a football match,” I said.

 

“Football? It’s the middle of summer!  What football is on?”

 

“Oh, it’s an exhibition match and I’ve forgotten which teams are playing,” I stammered.

 

Mickey looked at me suspiciously.  However, he didn’t press me.  He gestured to the blonde woman who had, by this time, crossed the street and joined us.

 

“This is my sister, Emily,” he said.  “I always try to see her when I come to Melbourne on business.”  And they went on their way.

 

I couldn’t see that there was much point in staying on so I made my way to the airport for the ‘plane home.  I was looking forward to telling my wife all about the trip and, of course,  embellishing the role I had played.  She was at the airport waiting for me.  I was surprised at the expression on her face and, before I could even say Hello, she burst out.

 

“I’ve heard all about your trip to Melbourne.  Mickey rang Amy to tell her he had seen you and that you seemed to be spending a lot of time with some blonde bimbo.  Don’t try to explain.  And you’ll be sleeping on the lounge tonight.”  

 

A private detective’s lot is not always a happy one.  Maybe concentrating on lost dogs is not such a bad idea.

 

 

Friday, July 5

Tasmania's Big Freeze continues.  I'm waiting for some boffin to announce that it's the coldest spell, or the most days of frost or the shortest hours of daylight or the largest number of skids on the road or some other contrived record.  In the meantime, we snuggle under our doona and turn up the heat.

The local Facebook page is full of complaints about freezing taps. Bertine from Number 5 told us the solution is to leave a kitchen tap dripping overnight.  I don't know whether this is official Taswater policy or an old wive's tale but she was overjoyed to tell us that, after doing this, she had enough water to have her first shower in three days.  We haven't had any frozen taps but Marilyn left our kitchen tap dripping last night 'just in case'.

I'm putting up the second story about someone attending his own funeral, the one I wrote on Wednesday.  I think I prefer this version.

OUTSIDER AT A FUNERAL

 

It’s supposed to be raining at a funeral: not heavy, teeming rain, but steady, persistent rain falling from dull, leaden skies. The sort of rain which sets the mood for a sad experience.  But, it was not like that on the day that I was being buried.  Instead, the sun was shining, there was a warm, gentle breeze and I could even hear birds whistling in the trees.  It was almost as if the elements were setting themselves for a day of happiness, rather than sorrow.  And I had been hoping for sorrow.  

 

I was looking forward to seeing all the guests in their dark clothes, stooped shoulders and sad expressions.  Is ‘guests’ the right word to describe people at a funeral?  Maybe spectators, attendees or, in this case, celebrants.  Because I expected there to be some element of celebration.  After all, my two brothers and their wives had been anticipating my demise for years and, now that the happy day has come, they’ll find it hard to conceal their satisfaction and yes, even delight.

 

In the distance, I could hear the sound of approaching vehicles.  A nearby gardener who was lethargically poking at some fallen leaves with his rake, lifted his head and moved slowly away from the driveway. Clearly, he had been instructed not to get in the way of grieving family members.  I had taken up a position beneath some trees some distance away from the chapel and no one who knew me would have recognised me, dressed as I was in shabby work clothes and floppy hat. It was a long way from my usual hand-tailored suits from Anthony Squires and bespoke shoes from Armani.  I didn’t want to be recognised today as my future depended on maintaining the fiction that I was dead.  It might have been better if I had kept away, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity of seeing my beloved wife forcing herself to demonstrate her sadness when, in her heart I knew she was crying with joy.  That joy would soon change, though, when it came the time for the reading of my will and she heard those words I had carefully chosen; ‘and to my beloved wife I leave the remainder of my estate which the accountants will tell you amounts to ‘bugger-all’.

 

In about an hour, when the last of the funeral cars has driven off, it will be safe for me to make my way to the airport for the flight to Bangkok where I will start my new life.  That gardener down there with the rake has agreed to drive me.  I know he won’t talk afterwards as we go back a long way and I know enough about him to make his life miserable.  That’s the benefit of being what the police call a ‘crime boss’: everybody bends over backwards to look after you.

 

The guests have all arrived now and gone into the chapel. The sound of organ music has died away and I can just about hear the solemn tones of Reg who is conducting the service.  I wonder if anyone realises that this time last month, Reg was serving time in Risdon Prison for various offences related to fraudulent bank loans.  No matter, I could think of no one better than Reg to conduct a service which was all about telling lies in a warm, comforting tone, and making the audience feel better after it.  That’s the skill of a confidence man.

 

I’ve estimated that it will be another twenty minutes before the sermon finishes, the curtain if drawn back and the coffin filled with the remains of a calf which met its fate along the highway slides from view.  I thought the calf was a nice touch and we were lucky to find it before the farmer did.  Putting bricks in a coffin is lazy and I’m glad we had an alternative.

 

Idly, I notice a couple of cars driving in through the gates.  I suppose it’s inevitable in a place like this where loved ones are laid to rest that there will be frequent visitors.  There’s something comforting about standing by the grave of a deceased loved one, or the niche in a wall where his or her ashes are supposed to be interred.  I wonder who will come to visit my ashes.  Certainly not my wife when she gets the news that I’ve left her nothing but memories. Maybe Reg will come but I suspect he will have forgotten me after the last of my final payment to him has been spent.

 

That’s funny!  Two policemen have got out of that last car to drive through the gates and are running towards me.  Something’s gone wrong!  Has Reg given me up or has my wife worked it out?  I turn to run but there are two more policemen running up behind me.  I drop to my knees, totally shattered.  My old Mum was right: crime does not pay.