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Author’s
Bio. Life
as a child on a farm in the Victorian Mallee was a harsh, but sound,
introduction to the necessity of self reliance, but then because all soldier
settlers from the first war were in the same situation, no one felt
disadvantaged. After
leaving school far too early, and working the family farm, the author tried
unsuccessfully to join up. At sixteen he finally convinced the recruiting
sergeant that he was twenty-one. Following undistinguished service as a commando
in Timor and New Guinea, he transferred to the RAAF. After the little tantrum of
Hirohito, Mussolini, and the Austrian corporal, a very generous Australian
government introduced a training scheme. Along with others he graduated in
Aeronautical Engineering and has been involved in Engineering in one or other of
its disciplines until retirement. A
year or so working in a shipyard in Sweden brought not only a beautiful Swedish
wife, but also an understanding of the problems of living in a country with a
language that bore little or no resemblance to English. Fate has allowed him an unbroken run of excellent health, which he has shared with three wonderful offspring who now have lives and children of their own. Cross country skiing, sailing and sailboarding are major interests, when time allows. Chapter
One
I
stood there, stunned amidst the pulverized glass that had been the window to
Jane’s room, it was the calling card of the supersonic bullet that had
shattered the front and back window before embedding itself in the gum tree in
the back yard. It was a harbinger of death for my precious little angel of a
child whose only crime had been to sometimes forget to put her shoes neatly
under her little bed. Not only were the windows shattered, but also my
confidence in the continuity and serenity of the beautiful Australia that we
once knew. Three days had elapsed since the
cowardly murderer had
decided to take from Sue and I the most beautiful part of our lives. I felt that
my fury would never diminish. The security of our home was gone, as was any
remaining sympathy or understanding in the excuses so often used by unscrupulous
lawyers to justify attacks upon children. It is my unshakeable conviction that
any attack upon the most gorgeous of nature’s creations justifies any and
every measure to ensure that such creatures can never do it again. It would be
wonderful if we as a people were able to say with absolute confidence that an
Australian would never do such a thing. Sadly it seems that we cannot make such
a claim. When we first moved to Echidna Street there was a minor problem that required me making contact with the local police, but it proved to be just a matter of clarifying legal matters to the satisfaction of the land and environmental people. Well that was soon fixed, but because one of the policemen had a problem with his car, which I was able to fix without much drama, we yarned for a while and I realised that we shared a fair bit of common ground. Steve and Jake were two of the police officers who handled trivial matters needing attention. They had a very relaxed time in our tranquil neighbourhood. Steve owned an old model Standard Vanguard – it was fifty years old. He loved it. One day it played up and simply would not start; that’s how we got acquainted. “Ivan, it’s got plenty of juice, and was running fair enough. It missed a bit when I drove in, but now she won’t kick at all.” “Let’s have a look at the donkey,” I said to him. “Wasn’t it running a bit rough before you got here?” “Yes it was. How did you know that?” Running my eyes over the engine I could see that the high tension lead was loose in the coil. I pushed the lead back into the top of the coil and turned to Steve. “Now give it a kick over.” It fired straight away. It was a strange way to develop a friendship with the two young officers, but I quite liked their style, and was glad of their open way of dealing with things. It was wise however never to broach any subject that hinged on police work, so we kept the relationship on a more general level out of mutual respect. It was a bit embarrassing though to be regarded as an expert on cars – which was what I eventually heard on the ‘grapevine’. Maybe
I had no right to, but I spoke to
Jake and Steve quite a bit about this crime against Jane. The suspicions of the
police investigating this vile act lead to the likelihood that the modus
operandi was of those without the inborn gentleness and consideration for
children that is one of our hallmarks. It seemed
strangely coincidental that three little school mates, Jane, Freda and
Rahma were to be in some way involved in an event that was intended to be the
most dastardly mass murder in modern times. I
stood looking at the wreckage of what had been a sanctuary for Jane; a retreat
where she could put the worries of her little world to rest, able to concentrate
on her school projects. She had been working on how spiders could build such
strong webs – not very scientific maybe, but to her, something to present to
Mrs Browning in the nature study class at Quangdong Hill School. Jane was our
perfect little angel; it’s been said that everyone owns the most perfect
child, and maybe that’s the case, for nature has built into all of us the
capacity to love our offspring passionately. She really did have outstanding
qualities though, and was a source of never ending pride for Sue and I. I stepped outside and looked from the roadway towards the house; it was very modest actually, just a standard fifty-foot wide block with the brick veneer house towards the lower side of the slope. That was not what interested me now though. It was clear that a person on the road could see directly through Jane’s room, through the back window and out to the back garden. Before we bought it several years ago, Sue and I looked for other features and liked what we saw. Sue stood on the road with me and as she often did, held her head on one side as if that made clear thinking a lot easier. “Wonder if we could start a native garden in the front to shield the rooms from such open observation?” “Well anything is possible,” I mused. My thoughts were on to the more realistic aspects of the loan repayments, the work that needed to be done to the drive way, and the fact that the garage door had a rough spot when lifting it open. In addition there was the height of the beautiful gum tree in the back yard. Our house was nothing to write home about. It consisted of a one level design with the dining room at the front. Sue was enraptured by the full length windows, and there was a terrace on the left hand side as it was viewed from the street. The terrace had an overhang draped with a wisteria of Sue’s choosing, truthfully not the ideal plant under which to sit while having a cup of coffee. Petals from its blooms frequently fell into the cups, which Sue thought romantic; picking the petals out of the cups was a small price to pay for a quiet life. Behind the terrace was the window to Jane’s room, and behind that a room lined with an accumulation of as many books as we could devour. We were both keen readers and the bookshelves on each wall simply had no more available space. An unusual design perhaps, for it accorded a view from the street straight through the house to the huge gum tree near the back fence. The garage had been excavated before the house was built and was underneath the dining room. I actually approved of that though, despite the fact that it was only a single garage; for it meant that it cost less energy to get the car out due to the slope of the street, for Echidna Street sloped downwards to the south. The orientation of the house was such that it faced the east, which I liked, except that there was not a great deal of morning sun into the kitchen. Most of the houses in the street were of a similar type – but none were exactly the same. It was a quiet street where nothing spectacular ever occurred, which gave us a safe and comforting feeling, assuring the best for Jane. There were no readily identifiable undesirables in the area, and there were no obvious sticky beaks who knew everything about everybody either. I was very grateful to have Joe Harper as a next door neighbour. He and I often found the help or advice of the other really great when the mower wouldn’t start, or we had something too heavy to lift. He was a very good neighbour. We chose the area because it seemed to be, or seemed at least to have good vibes; the sort of place where one could feel comfortable without the outlay of a massive expense. The suburb which is now known as Hawksburn, was originally known by its aboriginal name. As with a large number of such places, the pronunciation and the spelling beat the early mapmakers, so Hawksburn is now the official title. Spreading downwards from the main ridge or backbone of the track, cut by the pioneers to reach the Hawkesbury river, ran a series of ridges cleared by the pioneers. These were settled and used for agriculture. There are still remnants of the battles that pioneers fought trying to scratch a living from a difficult topography. Yet now the only value that is recognized is the amount of money each little area is worth for housing. It seems as if we don’t value the real country, and that we have lost sight of the efforts of the very tenacious and capable people who tamed it for us. The suburb had developed into a very pleasant area with no fences that meant anything. The fence between our house and Joe Harper’s place existed in name only, just a few bushes with a creeper or two, but not a fence that was ever intended to be a barrier. My job with ‘Mech Dynamics’ paid reasonably well, at least my position as chief Engineer afforded a measure of comfort and a minor amount of prestige, so we were perhaps typical of many in the locality. No signs of any social climbers or of others who imagined they are in some way superior to the rest of us; a very relaxed atmosphere. Echidna
Street runs directly along the spine of the ridge till it meets a little valley,
which would have made the climb too hard for the horses, so it turned to the
left and keeps climbing mildly to meet the main road. Actually Heinrich
Frischhaber’s house is right on the corner, so he has views in both
directions. The state school is off to the right past the corner and it occupies
an area equal to about three building blocks. Established in the time period
between the wars, the school building reflects the building standards of the
period. No air conditioning or other concessions to comfort; just plain red
brick with a tiled roof, recognizable from anywhere as a typical school. Of
enormous value to Jane, Freda and Rahma, who being in the same class, have not
the slightest doubt that it is the world’s best school. The three are great
mates and they each walk to school, often meeting up to discuss the latest
cicada, or greengrocer grasshopper that they have discovered, always something
to show Mrs Browning. She is the headmistress of Quangdong Hill School and it is well thought of in the
locality. There has always been great rivalry between Quangdong Hill and Possum
Gully schools, but of course there was never any doubt in the minds of the three
girls as to which is the best school. It’s odd how we can see people every day, yet never get to know them, unless there’s a compelling reason of some kind. I was reminded of this when I spoke to Heinrich Frischhaber as I passed him in the street or met him at school functions. It happens in a city though, and it’s worse the bigger the city becomes, yet in the country we all know each other and are always available in the event of an emergency. Having seen Mrs Frischhaber in the supermarket a couple of times I, like every one else, was immediately impressed by her beauty which radiated to everyone, and with the courtesy with which she treated everyone. “If
a branch fell, could it reach the house? No, I don’t think so,” I had
answered to myself, as I stood there with Sue looking at the house. Sue is
really quite a beauty, not in the false synthetic manner of the Hollywood types,
but a very dignified and calm blonde with peaches and cream complexion and a
really radiant smile. The one feature I would have changed was her ability to
simply ‘switch off’ when a really heart rending situation confronted her.
Maybe it was a defense mechanism, born in her; perhaps it was for her own good
that she did not feel the tragedies of others to the extent that I did. I now went back inside, a million thoughts racing through my mind; I looked around at the mess, my thoughts turning to the most stupid of reasons for the situation in which I found myself. My justified indignation at the events of the past few months began in the strangest of ways, and was at first directed quite unjustly at Joe, my good neighbour of many years. Joe had assured me he would water the pansies while we were away – but he hadn’t done it. Stepping carefully through the broken glass and the areas of blood on the floor, I was careful not to smudge the bloodstains on her desk and the stains of blood on the floor, then I went out to water the pansies. I mused on the events that led up to this act of terrorism, and it all seemed to have originated with the blessed pansies that I was now watering. It had started when we made preparations for a couple of weeks’ break before Christmas. Both Sue and I were keen to allow Jane the maximum contact with the nature of the immediate area and a bit beyond, so we often made trips to the Blue Mountains. We walked the well known foot tracks and used to stop to eat our oranges and sandwiches. Jane was always on the lookout for platypus, she dearly wanted to spot one in the wild; but she never succeeded. Sue and I were sitting on a rock in the sun one Saturday afternoon, when in my clumsy way I knocked the top of the Dewar flask over, tipping the tea all over the rock. It was my fault of course; so while I mopped up the mess on the tablecloth that Sue had so neatly spread, Jane sprinted off down to the creek to hunt for a platypus. Her enthusiasm didn’t last very long when she failed to find one, and she soon was back to sit beside us. “How do you get on with Rahma?” I queried. “She’s nice really, but sometimes she’s hard to understand.” “But she speaks the language very well, doesn’t she?” Sue asked. “It’s not that, she sometimes seems too frightened to talk,” said Jane. We switched the conversation onto other things and Jane wandered off to look for a bottlebrush, for she liked to rub her little hands along the blooms and feel the softness of the growing seeds. The enormity of the geographical reality of the Bluies has always stunned my imagination, maybe I just am incapable of grasping the fact that the tiny creek at our feet is what started the process of creating the enormous valley in which we sat; it is beyond my ability to grasp the astronomical amount of time that the beautiful work of nature expended on this masterpiece that is the ‘Bluies’. Sue said, “We don’t really have to be fully conversant with every geological and other type of feature that we enjoy.” “I know, but just how old is this place?” We
sat quietly for a few minutes then felt sleepy in the caressing sun. Jane came
back from the creek and scrambled around, so we were wide awake again. It was a
great and very relaxing day.
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