A few weeks after they returned from Queensland, Den and Jo Newman settled down to watch a Netflix movie recommended to her by a mate. It was called ‘Dumplin’ and Denny thought it was a reasonable night’s entertainment. It had a couple of familiar faces and Jo seemed to be into it. Being male, he didn’t make any connection. It was the story of a larger than life teen who decided to crash her mother’s organisation of the local beauty pageant. The central character was of fuller figure and Den thought she was stunning. He would, he supposed. The girl had also found love with a young lad who adored her for her curves, as well as her brain. The main character railed against those who reacted more to her weight than her. This included her mother. She lacked all subtlety in the treatment of her daughter. When the real life couple couple retired to their bedroom later on, Den did notice that his wife was unusually subdued. Once in bed she wrapped herself around him and whispered, ‘That film. That was our story, wasn’t it. I owe you so much my beautiful man.’ Den truly thought it was the other way around, but he let it go with a wry smile..

Denny was a Burnie boy. His father worked in the accounts department at the Associated Pulp and Paper Mills, the town’s largest employer, commonly known as the Pulp. His mother was a competent seamstress who operated from home. Their son was an only child. He was thin but always hungry, sort of nondescript – becoming even more so as he grew. He was overindulged by his mother in the eyes of the father, Jim. Jim also, deep down, loved both his wife and son to bits.

Denny was a loner through most of primary school. He was competent in writing, reading and basic maths, but showed little aptitude for anything else. He did, though, have a passion. Some might term it a fixation. Trucks. Every story he wrote was about trucks. Every drawing – trucks. His bedroom wall was covered in clippings of trucks. At school, come recess or lunch, he would hare around the playground pretending he was a truck, complete with the necessary sound effects of changing gears in a semi or dumpster. The other kids thought him odd and stayed clear. Today I suspect he would be diagnosed on the spectrum. It worried his teachers. It worried his parents.

It was a relief to all when the disconcerting behaviour moderated in upper primary. Now he just retreated to the school library, reading over and over again all they possessed on his favourite topic. The start of secondary education again, for a while, saw him shunned. But, by Year 8, it had all changed. He seemed to be starting to make friends. Only trouble was, they were of the wrong kind. ‘Easily led,’ his teachers regularly reported. To his parents’ consternation he seemed, in his free time, to be running wild around the suburb of Montello in a gang of juvenile ruffians, led by older boys. It came to a head when a local policeman turned up on the front door with Den in tow. He’d shoplifted from the corner shop. He was grounded for a month to try and break the cycle, but before they could evaluate the results the family’s circumstances changed. Den’s father was offered a new job.

Only potential issue was it required a move. It was thought the cement works, situated in a small town up behind Burnie’s sister city further to the east, was too far to commute to on a daily basis. The plus of moving for them would be the opportunity to get Den away from his negative influences, an environment he was hardly thriving in. They opted for the country community of Sheffield, about a quarter of an hour from Jim’s new workplace. They hoped a different school would settle Den down. It worked. For the first time their son was happy and accepted at his school. The smaller classes, rural situation and emphasis on the practical, as much as the academic, suited him. He loved the school farm, especially working on the tractor and agricultural machinery. He’d found a niche he was comfortable with and one those around him could accept him in. The kids were far less judgemental here than their big town neighbours and he finally found some friends who wouldn’t lead him up the garden path. He was still on the shy side, but at least he was smiling more now – laughing even. By the time Grade 10 came around he seemed perfectly content. Why, he even escorted a young lady to the leavers’ dinner at the end of the year. Even though she was on the reserved side too, she scared the shit out of him nonetheless. But he did manage to ask her to dance and she accepted. A first step.

Post Grade 10 even Denny realised he was no candidate for college, so he enrolled at TAFE for any courses to do with mechanics and engines. Jim’s father arranged for lifts down to the coast with an older boy in the town doing similar units of practical expertise, Paul, as his son was still on his L-plates. He was similarly a quiet fellow and Jim thought he’d be a positive influence, which he was. Paul also took on the job of mentoring him out in the wide world. Den liked Paul. Through Paul he learnt to chat about stuff other than trucks – the footy and the local girls, for instance. Paul had a girlfriend of sorts and often boasted to Den about what they got up to. Mostly Den tried to change the subject. He could never imagine being with a girl. But in introducing Den and Paul, Jim had inadvertently caused the worst event of Den’s young life.

Den was still rapt in trucks. He now was building up a library of books about them and subscribed to magazines. He harboured a hope of one day being a long distance truck driver – perhaps on the big island to north. Maybe he’d even wrangle those road trains in the outback. A kid could dream, but one winter’s morning those aspirations were shattered.

It was August 10, 1987. There’d been warnings of black ice on the country roads of the North West, but Paul was too inexperienced as yet to fully learn to drive to conditions. He could not be called a hoon by any stretch, but he loved to speed down the straights leading into Lower Barrington. What he wasn’t ready for was the ice on one of the sharp bends leading into the tiny hamlet. Paul and Den flew into a paddock, landing to the deafening sound of crashing metal. Paul was unhurt. As soon as he realised the condition of Den, he stumbled back up to the road for assistance. While they waited, Paul cradling him whilst the few guys he’d flagged down tried to extricate him, Denny lapsed into unconsciousness. When he came to in hospital, Jim and his mum by his side, he gradually realised something wasn’t quite right with his body. It was his father who broke the news that he had lost his left leg below the knee.

Later Den would tell that, although he felt the most miserable he’d ever been in his life, that terrible event led to his best days. It’d be a long time till he’d be able to drive a car – long after he’d mastered a prosthetic attached to his knee and thigh. Driving anything bigger would probably be beyond him.

His mother and father thought that, with the hard recovery from the accident and all the physio he’d have to go through, their son may well drop his bundle. They were wrong. He quietly took to his rehab with a steely determination they hadn’t witnessed before in him. Although they loved him deeply they were both of the opinion resilience wasn’t one of his attributes. They now felt a new sensation regarding their boy – pride.

So, that’s Den’s worst day. How about those good ones that stemmed from the wreck of Paul’s automobile?

Den’s dad knew John Freeman. John had started small with a delivery truck servicing Devonport and the towns in the hills behind it. When Jim received one of his deliveries from the docks they would chat and came to know each other pretty well as acquaintances. Then, one day, his truck arrived at the Goliath Cement Works with an unfamiliar face behind the wheel. Jim assumed John was just having a day off, but talking to the new guy he was informed that Freeman had taken over a larger trucking firm and was going to be managing it – but that he would still have the contract for Jim’s workplace. So the two men kept in contact through orders and such like, often chewing the fat about how things were going in general over the blower. Can you see where this is heading?

Den’s recovery, despite his fortitude, was a slow process. By the time he came of age at eighteen he had a fair handle on his artificial attachment and was getting around on foot reasonably well. He was bored, though, restricted to his books, the tele and his dog in a small town. Paul was now more serious about that girl and was visiting less and less. Jim could see his son losing his positivity if he continued to be in his situation for much longer. So he made the call he’d been pondering on for a while – a phone call leading to Den’s best days.

*****

When it all was made public Den didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Yes, he could understand that his boss had stuffed up and been silly in the way he’d been caught out. And yes it was embarrassing for him to be written about in the local paper, the Advocate. Jo had helped him to understand that the newspaper would be interested because his girlfriend was a public figure as the deputy mayor. Still, as far as he and Jo were concerned, John was their friend so it wouldn’t change anything. Only problem with that was that John himself changed. Even Den, who was getting less obtuse as he aged, could see the man wasn’t himself. He was shattered – not the joking happy person he’d been before. This perplexed Den, but Jo explained that he must feel humiliated. When he disappeared without a word of goodbye to either of them, Jo was distressed. Den, for a time, was simply numb.

*****

‘Sure,’ said John, ‘we’ll give him a go. We’ll put him on for a trial for a couple of weeks. If he’s okay he’ll be added to the payroll. I’ll link him up with Matt in the workshop if, as you say, he likes being under a bonnet.’ Jim was effusive with his thanks. John just laughed, ‘Anything to keep my customers onside. You guys up there in Railton have stuck by me so it’s a bit of payback.’ John even had a solution for getting his new potential employee to the worksite beside the Mersey in East Devonport. ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll have a word to Jo in the office. She lives up your way. She’s a ripper. She’ll look after your lad well and truly.’ And she did.

*****

People close to John knew something was out of kilter even before he was exposed – there was a vast change in his demeanour in the weeks leading up to it. It seemed he knew what was coming. And, even after the report referred to him as ‘a local businessman’, it was quickly figured out who that was. Many in the workplace changed their behaviour towards him, especially as the affair had occurred right under their noses. In the twelve months leading up to the shit hitting, April Pearson had been spending a fair amount of time around the office, on face value because she chaired a committee John was working on to improve the look of the town’s tired CBD. Jo, adept in such matters, claimed she, for one, thought something was going on and confided that to Den, but otherwise she kept her trap shut. It was the boss’ business. By now Den was in charge of maintenance but he was still fairly thick when something wasn’t staring him in the face, but he remembered a number of times he went to consult with John over something or other and she was in his office with him. For Den it was disconcerting, but he didn’t lose sleep over it.

*****

When Jim told his son John Freeman was giving him the chance of a job with his haulage firm Denny though he had died and gone to heaven. It was tempered a tad when his dad explained that a young lady would be picking him up each day and taking him down to the coast. That would give him something to think about certainly, but he was on cloud nine. He couldn’t stop smiling. The morning of his first day he was up with the chooks and out front half an hour before his transport was due to arrive.

*****

After the Advocate exposé, at home Jo and Denny talked it through. They recalled the days the previous week that John had been away on what patently hadn’t been a business trip. Instead, it transpired, he was holed up in a room in the Wrest Point tower while April attended her conference in the auditorium in the main complex. They were sprung when it also happened that staying in the tower was another Devonport alderman; in Hobart with his family for a short break. Said alderman wasn’t exactly enamoured of April, especially when certain rumours started to circulate. Imagine his surprise when he and his family, deciding on an early start to the day, encountered his colleague and the rumoured gentleman in question joining them in the lift. He cogitated on it for a few days and decided to confront the deputy mayor with the choice of resigning. If she refused he would raise his suspicions at the next council meeting under the label of misuse of ratepayers’ money. She chose the former. To the accuser, though, she didn’t seem contrite enough, so he leaked certain information to an Advocate reporter he was mates with. The couple knew their time was up when April was rung for comment. Jo expressed the view that she and John must be incredibly naive, or had a death wish, by staying at the most prominent locale in Hobart. Den didn’t quite get her drift but agreed nonetheless. He nodded his head when she remarked that, in a small place like Tassie, it was probably inevitable they’d be found out eventually, but why make it so easy for that to occur? It beggars belief, she went on, that he’d be shacked up in a place buzzing with people who knew her. And what was he thinking! One thing Den did know was that there was no way he’d ever be in that position. Even after all these years he was still madly in love with his Jo. Having a relationship with another woman just didn’t enter his head. But then, he wasn’t John Freeman.

Jo, along with most people, liked April. She was bright and colourful, had worked long and hard for the local community and she lit up any room she was in with her vivacity. She could see why John would be so taken with her. In contrast, she couldn’t warm to John’s wife, Gloria. She, to him, seemed cold, if organised and efficient. She had a great reputation in her job as school principal for keeping staff and students in-line, but Jo also knew that she found it hard to have empathy. She rarely visited John at work and at the few company functions she attended she seemed bored and out of place. John also seemed diminished in her company. So, yes, John’s actions came as a shock, but she understood his motivation. He had been so good to her and nurturing in the workplace. It was the same with Den. No one was more delighted than John when he had informed him, all those years ago, that his employment was now permanent. And, of course, for Denny, that was another of his best days to add to his list. As a result of John’s misdemeanour, she did realise her world was about to change.

*****

Den had seen Jo about Sheffield. She was always with other people around the main street and he suspected she couldn’t be missed. He found her attractive from a distance – large, always laughing and wearing clothes he saw no other girls her age sporting. When he pointed her out to his mum she explained that young women with a fuller figure needed apparel that were designed to show their attributes in the best light. Den reckoned she looked a treat, but he could only dream of seeing the attributes of a girl like her. So, when she rolled up in her car that morning to take him to his first day’s work, he was taken aback, but he did feel a frisson of pleasure amidst all his nervousness.

Till this stage the only close contact he had had with a person of the opposite gender was the girl at his leavers’ dinner, more that a year now prior. His accident had set him back in this regard, although he did develop the hots for several of his nurses. But he was hardly in a position to act on those. He really had doubts whether he could even muster the courage to initiate a conversation with a young woman, let alone get to dating somebody. He knew something of sex from Paul – of course he did. If he was honest with himself, he still was unsure how one actually went about it – you know, the mechanics of the thing. But hopping into a car that frosty morning he had the feeling that something monumental in his life was about to occur. He only could hope that he didn’t stuff it up.

Jo, 23 to Den’s approaching 19, knew the guy opposite her by sight too. She could tell, though, by his stammered greeting, that he was perhaps going to be hard work going up and down the hills till they reached their destination, morning and evening. And he was zilch to look at – rake thin, hair already receding and a greasy, pimply looking complexion. But then, from the get-go, the way he looked at her was different. Guys didn’t look at her like that. They saw her weight before they saw anything else. She described herself as big, boisterous and best of all, buxom. The only relationships she’d had to date were with half-pissed guys at parties and fumbles behind the grandstand at country footy matches. She could never imagine any male truly falling in love with her. Little was she to know, as her compact car made its way down that rural road that day, she was embarking on a whole different journey to her life thus far.

Yep, initially he was hard work. She yakked her way from Sheffield to East Devonport and back again. But, even then, she found him comfortable to be with, just as Den himself found comfort with her voice and just looking at her as she drove. He surprised himself by also being comfortable in the workshops of Freeman Transport. Matt was a first rate mentor having guided lads, more useless than Den when they started, into productive workers. At least Den knew something about trucks to start with. Matt soon began to worry that Den, indeed, knew more than him. Knowing something was different to putting knowledge to practical use. This Newman boy was soon showing himself to being adept at that too. For a time he was almost painfully withdrawn. But he soon found common ground through a love of big boys’ toys. He was on his way. Like minds abounded at Freeman’s.

The weeks passed and Den was thawing with Jo. He was beginning to tell her a little about himself – and a bit more than just the superficial. He relayed to her the tough times he’d had with the bullies early on at school because of his oddness; his accident and the limitations of having to wear an artificial leg; his shattered dreams. In turn she discovered herself warming even more to him, to be hanging out for eight o’clock each working day when he was again in her company.

On one occasion he asked her, red in the face, if she had a boyfriend. She guffawed and without thinking retorted, ‘Who’d have me? Would you have me?’ She meant it as a joke, but the blush on Den’s face deepened. She’d hit a nerve. She sensed it and changed the subject. Boyfriends weren’t mentioned again.

Jo loved her work and she knew her work loved her. She skylarked with the drivers and mechanics, flirted in a spirited way and they returned it in spades – all harmless, mind. She knew the boundaries. So did they or the boss would be down on them like a ton of bricks. They knew she was a favourite. But none of them looked in the same way at her as Den did. She was even beginning to think that she could actually be loved in a deep and meaningful way. Of course Denny was completely smitten; a subject other than trucks being now to forefront of his mind.

After the embarrassment of the boyfriend question, Jo twigged that her male companion would never have the confidence to make any sort of move on her. It would be definitely up to her so, with his nineteenth birthday coming up, she developed a plan. Who’d have thought that after first impressions. And what better time to put it into place that his upcoming big occasion? She intended to make it his best day ever. But, before she outlaid on her germinating idea, she had to be sure.

As a married couple Jo and Den never had children. They never bothered to find out why. When she went off the pill and nothing happened she didn’t worry too much. She and her hubby just got on with life, happy with their togetherness. When questioned she just batted it away with the throw away line that Den was a big enough kid and she didn’t need any more. Besides, she secretly thought, the gene pool wasn’t a great one to pass on. If Den knew this he’d reckon she’d be majorly underselling herself, even if he had no tickets on himself in the looks department. He considered he’d well and truly hit the jackpot with his ravishing wife. And all he wanted was Jo. He was perfectly content – always had been since Jo entered his world, happy helping build a life together at the Don, a little community on the outskirts of Devonport.

Whereas his wife loved partying and was totally, outwardly extroverted, he was happy just pottering away in his shed and tending to their garden. Under Jo’s wing his confidence in himself, though, did improve in social situations. With Matt’s tutelage he also became indispensable in the workshop and he knew that John appreciated the way he was constantly on call for breakdowns, night or day. The couple loved the open road so eventually the pair purchased a camper-van. After doing so they were constantly heading to the Mainland on the Spirit to explore their wide, brown land, as well as taking shorter trips within Tassie. They had no desire to venture out of Oz. Now and again they would upgrade their mobile accommodation, knowing that once retirement came around, they would spend the rest of their days grey-nomading. For years they planned the mother-of-all Queensland trips, their aim to caravan from the Gold Coast to the Tip. They were as excited about that as they had been about anything in their lives. Den was so looking forward to many more best days with his treasured wife.

So when John unexpectedly shot through their perfect world had its first major upheaval. After that work felt strange – it took them a while to adjust. Thinking about it, Jo realised that, in his mind, her boss hadn’t been really around for a while. Life under Angus, who took over, didn’t have the same sparkle. Sure, he was competent and knew the business backwards. But he was more an up tight kind of guy. There could be no stuffing around as there had been under John. He ran a tight ship, but not as happy a ship. Far more demanding than his predecessor, the trucking firm became a lean, streamlined organisation. Then one day the sign writers came in. The Freeman’s banner was removed, replaced by just Devonport Transport. Angus had bought out John. Around the same time something else changed. One morning, before the start of work, Angus called everyone together in the canteen. He thanked them for their support during the transition period. Then he dropped the bombshell. Taking a deep breath he announced that the new 2IC would be Gloria Freeman. He explained that she had provided most of the funds for the takeover and wanted to be hands-on as a result. That wasn’t what really floored the workforce, although it was totally unexpected given her previous invisibility around the place. What left them gobsmacked was that their new employer would also be marrying the woman. He added he was very happy to be announcing that. Jo later reflected that she had a good radar for what was going on behind the scenes in the company, but in all this she was completely blindsided. She had no notion what had been happening with he new boss and the wife of her old one. But, after the meeting, Jo duly marched up, gave Angus a hug and congratulated him on his good fortune.

By the time Den’s birthday rolled around, back in the day, Jo was all set. They had already been at Freeman’s together for well over six months. By now Den was driving down on his Ls with Jo beside him. He was a natural and would have no trouble getting his license, despite only having one complete leg to work with. When he achieved his Ps Jo took him out to celebrate after work at a pub. That meant wine for her but lemonade for him – as he would be driving her home under his own steam. They followed up with a counter meal before taking the trail up to Sheffield. Before Den left the car at his parent’s, Jo leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. Not satisfied with that, she then took his head in her hands, turned his head towards her and placed her lips on his. They way he enthusiastically responded she knew he was ready for her plans for his birthday.

After that initial kiss the two became inseparable – as they would remain from then on in. They started to have lunch together in the canteen instead of Den talking shop with the other grease-monkeys. She visited him at her parents; he was a constant at the dinner table of hers. Her mum was a sole parent, hubby having done a John Freeman years beforehand. She loved it that Jo had someone who obviously cared for her daughter as much as she did. And in the midst of all this had been Den’s very best day – or should I say night.

*****

The letter came as a surprise. Nobody had heard from John, to the best of their knowledge, for years. – and here, suddenly, was a missive to both of them. They read it – then reread it several times to let it all sink in.

Ultimately there was sadness, given his wife Yuko’s covering note informing them of John and her son’s passing. Jo, particularly, felt some pleasure that he had found happiness in his last years. She resolved that she would write back to Yuko. There was no return address, but with the information that the letter contained it was easy enough to track down.

*****

A birthday is usually a best day, but turning nineteen – well Den couldn’t image anything bettering what happened in the aftermath. Jo gave him the best present she possibly could. She was strictly no virgin but, by the same token, as she never felt love for any of the men who had bedded her to date, she felt she may as well have been. She couldn’t hardly remember a single name. Nothing in her own sexual history, therefore, was particularly earth-shattering, but she was going to damn well make sure that was about to change with, perhaps some would say, the unlikeliness of partners. True, Denny had come a long way in a short time, but, as yet, he was still very insecure in so many ways. Despite him making a start, he was still tentative around her, despite that first kiss, never initiating anything. She did all the heavy lifting, so to speak. Now she was determined that she was going to take their relationship to the next level and she also knew, with a woman’s intuition, that he wanted it as much as she was prepared to give it to him.

For Den’s part, he was totally oblivious to her plans. After a particularly heated session, up a forestry track in her car, he ventured forth that he was desperate that they make love together at some point in time. He said he’d like that very much, but with his usual reticence, he hastened to add that there was no rush. He knew he wouldn’t be her first and was still in the dark about the finer points of going about it. She said she would like it to happen too – but she wanted it to be special. Could he wait a little longer. Could he what? She told him, then and there, that she loved him and although he would not be her first, nobody else had been her lover. She wanted him to be that to her – therefore she could wait for the perfect occasion for their first time together. He was more than happy with that. He was ecstatic. He also knew there’d be nothing to fear with her. He’d be in safe hands.

After the birthday meal she shouted him at the restaurant over looking the Bluff Beach in Devonport they left for the car. She whispered to him that tomorrow morning he’d no longer be a virgin. He looked at her gobsmacked – then his face became awash with joy. She took him to the hotel she’d booked, the best their little city could muster. And she was correct in her prediction.

As the sun came up Den couldn’t wipe the smile from his mug as he watched her emerge from her slumber. They embraced, she reached down and they made love again. This time their warm bodies pressed together as if they had all the time in the world – which, of course, they did. ‘There,’ she said after they had finished, ‘I told the second time would be even better. You might not have been the first in there, but you’re the first to make me come, you beautiful man.’ And right then; right at that moment, Den knew what he had become – a man – and he hadn’t stuffed up. She took his head again in her hands, kissed him long and deep. ‘You are my first lover. I want you to be my only lover.’ Yep, truly, the best of all possible days.

The previous night was an eye-opener. Den saw a woman’s naked body for the first time in the real world. And she was magnificent – her breasts, finally freed, were a feast for his eyes. She guided his fingers and mouth to all the right places for her and finally took him into a warm and wonderful place. It was so exciting he quickly imploded. ‘Was that all right?’ he asked. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘but I betcha tomorrow it will be though. And every time after that.’

They would go on to marry and happily work together in John Freeman’s enterprise. Much later on Jo became quite the correspondent to her former boss’ de facto, Yuko. When the time came to embark on their grand expedition up the Bruce Highway they had a week set aside to spend some time with Yuko.

And there, with another letter, Jo and Den became privy to something as beautiful as it was intimate. It was a love letter from their former beloved boss to the exotic woman who turned his life around. Yuko had seen something in her guests’ devotion to each other and felt compelled to share the letter with them. She gave a copy to the wife with permission to show it to her own beloved fella. And share it with him she did.

On kunanyi’s flanks, above the fence line where bush meets the fringe of suburbia, live the Moonah mob. They roam together, mostly away from human-people (who can be of danger at times), perfectly at one with their surrounds beneath the brooding ramparts of the mighty mountain. Within their number resides a very unique marsupial, the wily and wondrous Wally. Now Wally has urges not shared by other of his number, for on many days, most days, he decides to depart the communal safety of the Moonah mob – as well as for an occasional night.

Most nights see him largely content to forage and nibble on the bush grasses amidst the contented collective. He’ll check on and sweetly nuzzle his special mate, now and again, sniffing at her to gauge when she may be in season again. If the time is right, they’ll come come together to produce another offspring, a joey to perpetuate the wallaby species.

Some nights, though, the wandering urge takes control and when the moon is in a certain place in the sky, he’ll bound upward, into the forests; into the deep recesses. For up there, under the skyline, he’ll commune with the more furtive denizens of the mountain’s other world. He senses the places they’ll be, for Wally is an inquisitive soul. He’ll espy, through the moon-glow, orange-brown eyes burning in the night, hear the whisperings of a guttural language beyond his knowing. Thylas are afoot. He’ll catch a dash of stripes as the shadowy shape-shifting beasts move about in their nightly predations. Now Wally has entered the orb of these creatures and like him, they are beings that exist in, not one, but two worlds of their own.

If his urges take him further, ever upwards, into the deepest and most sacred crevasses around which the great trees abound, he knows he may sense the most discreet and scarce of human-people, the spirits of times long past; the ghosts of what should still be. Their world; their presence is the most ephemerally fleeting of all, difficult to discern, but always there nonetheless. When Wally has ventured up there he perceives only the most fragile note of their existence on faintest whiff of wind.

But Wally has another stealthy existence as well. While the remainder of his Moonah mob rest in semi-slumber from their nightly replenishments, Wally heads downwards to that fence-line and Wally becomes the urban wallaby – a very rare breed indeed.

He knows well to be wary of human-people, but intuitively understands that most of their ilk do not wish him any harm. Wally has found and developed a symbiotic relation with one such human-person. It is in his company that he spends many days, most days. With Mr Walker around he feels there is nothing to fear in the whole world. For Mr Walker possesses a patch of sunny grass for him to snack on; to flake down and yawn on. Mr Walker, a noted bon vivant, a most sociable person, will often also scatter the leavings of his culinary delights for Wally to sample and if to his liking, consume – carrot scrapings, pear and apple peel, morsels of cabbage, celery and lettuce amongst them. Wally takes it all in his stride.

His presence, in return, provides a talking point for the other human-persons who venture to his northern suburbs residence, for Mr Walker is a fine and considerate host with many friends. He has copious tales to tell and adores receiving them as well. Wally will often notice more than one head peering at him, on any given day, through the windows for he provides the fodder for some of Mr Walker’s best stories.

As dusk approaches Wally will take his leave of Mr Walker’s yard of dappled sun and return to kunanyi’s lower hills, pick up again with his crew, the Moonah mob, and he’ll prepare for nightfall. Then, perhaps, there will be more callings from his urges to take him adventuring. Wally, the urban wallaby, is a most singular furry delight.

I love seeing this beautiful animal on my own visits to Mr Walker’s abode and can only wish that all relations between humankind and the other creatures of our planet could be as benign as that between Rob and Wally.                                       

(for Tessa Tiger and RW)

Author’s note – contains spicy writing. NSFW

She shimmered and sashayed down the steps towards him. Not a glance did she cast, though, toward the ageing photographer. Invisible. But he noticed her. How could he not? She was clad, loosely, in a vaguely metallic sheathe; full breasted, full-lipped, voluptuous, delicious – with her flowing, wiry hair all akimbo. Dusky-skinned, she was. Succulent was a word that seemed to him to be appropriate for her. He continued on his way, but she lingered in his mind. He was killing time, snapping the blooms, as you do. A sprinkler had been on earlier, the droplets remaining on the petals. Tiny bees were buzzing about. He clicked away, but it was a woman in full bloom he was thinking of.

The gardens that spring day were glorious still, but it was all about to turn as the summer approached. He took the opportunity to point his camera around as he waited to meet his friend down at dockside. Through the lens he caught sight of her again. This time she was accompanied by two others, both on her left side. He could see that, in relation to her, they were dowdy. Dressed in dun colours, with short cropped hair for convenience, they looked as if they came from a completely different world. They resembled two female drones around their queen bee. They were nondescript, a bit like him, he supposed. It was as if, no matter how much effort they put in, they couldn’t outshine her, so why bother? Almost as if they dressed down to heighten the difference. He caught her walking away in the corner of the frame and captured her for his posterity. The other two, if they appeared, he’d crop out later. He liked figures in his photographs. He was always careful to click from a discreet distance. It added something – and, there, another. He could now keep the vision of her with both.

He woke to gentle stroking, her head close to his. She was smiling broadly. He noticed she had reapplied her lipstick and she smelled of something sprayed on, something musky, almost earthy. It was the same scent as last night – a turn on in itself. The stroking had become more urgent. ‘More?’, she inquired. ‘Gee for a bloke getting on, Mr Business Man, you were quite something last night, weren’t you? Let’s see what we have left to work with this morning.’

He knew it was going to be expensive, but the visit to the city, from his provincial town, was another opportunity. He’d lash out this time though, treat himself to something special. He’d done it before on previous trips – frequented brothels or hired a call-girl for a couple of hours. But he’d never felt really satisfied. He knew they went into robotic mode – the deed was done and sometimes it was all over before it could present him with anything like the other relief he was desperately looking for. He needed, just for a time, to forget his soul-less life, his hectoring sexless wife, the big house she kept soul-less to impress her social circle. So soul-less it was as barren and as unwelcoming to him as his parched marriage. He wanted to forget his two sons who thought they owned the world, as long as they were well supplied with his money, as he slaved to earn their exorbitant private school fees. He disliked their sense of entitlement immensely. Well, this night he was going to be entitled for a change. He’d paid for a whole twelve hours. He booked her on-line. He knew much of it was spin. But she sure looked like that something special. He hoped beyond hope she would be worth it. That next morning he knew it was. He knew what it was to feel alive again.

He answered the knock shortly after ten and she strutted in. He sensed by her demeanour that she’d done this many times before. She put her hand out without a word and he handed over the agreed amount. ‘Tell me what you want, Mr Business Man. Tell me what you like.’ He thought, then replied, ‘Just you around me for a whole night. It’s been a while.’

‘We’ll soon fix that, Mr Business Man.’ She took a packet of condoms out of her bag. ‘Guess we’ll need a few of these. What do you reckon?’ She didn’t wait for an answer before ordering him to dispense with his trousers and underwear. ‘Now, let’s have a look at you.’ After her examination she covered his penis. She was out of her dress and her own undergarments in a flash, pushing him down onto the bed. She roused him to erection with her hand, straddled him and as he suspected it would be, it was over before he could count to ten.

He started to apologise. ’Don’t worry about it. That’s normal in your situation. It’ll be the second one you remember. I’ll make sure of it.’ He would, as it turned out. He’d remember it forever.

Next morning she raised herself up and over him, rubbing herself against him. She tried, but it was to no avail. He’d felt a tingle, but essentially he was spent. He gave her a wan smile and a pat to indicate he wasn’t up to it and she lay back down beside him.

As he relaxed beside her he cast his mind, happily, back to that promised second time. She knew how to treat a man, that was evident. She got his juices going again. Slowly, tenderly, almost lovingly their foreplay had continued for, it seemed, hours. She licked, his tongue explored – he breathing in her fragrant skin. And she made all the right noises at the end of it all, but he suspected they weren’t the real deal. But him? Well, he felt exultant in the aftermath. A weight had been lifted.

He was then drawn from his reverie by more tugging on his penis. There was some urgency to her action this time. He realised she was beside him pleasuring herself – and this time the orgasm was real. ‘Well, Mr Businessman, we’re both happy now. And thank you for last night, sir. It was yummy.’ She gifted him with a deep kiss and his organ one last squeeze. ‘There’s plenty of life in you yet, don’t you worry.’

She hopped out of bed, reached into her bag and placed a card on his chest. ‘For the next time you’re in these parts.’ Donning her clothes, including her green shiny dress, she then sat in front of his mirror to touch up her make-up. He enquired about what she was doing for the rest of the day. He was reluctant to let her go, thought maybe she might be interested in breakfasting with him. When he asked she responded, ‘Sorry sweetheart. That’d be just lovely. Maybe next time, but now I’m due to meet a couple of girlfriends coming in on the train from the ‘burbs. They’re both mums with young kiddies and I’ve known them both most of my life. We’re going across the road to the gardens. You can see them out your window. We’ll have a coffee in the cafe there and catch-up on the goss. They reckon I spice up their lives with my glamorous one. I don’t tell them everything though. Only the good bits. And you’re one of the good bits, don’t worry. If they only knew, Mr Businessman.’ With that she slipped on her shoes and was out the door.

He was soon on his way too. He felt a spring in his step that wasn’t there yesterday. Life, all of a sudden, didn’t seem that bad. He’d try to be more positive. Maybe he could make some changes at home – but he’d make sure he’d keep that card safely tucked away.

On his way back from snapping the flower beds the old guy spotted her again, this time holding court on a seat with her two friends. They were laughing as she smoked and regaled them with some obviously hilarious tale. He took another quick photo. Usually for him a woman smoking was a turn-off, but with her, even at a distance, he found it strangely alluring.

It was almost the appointed time so he headed off, walking past the trio, still deep in conversation. Near a statue he turned to capture it, then realised he could, with the distance, include her for she was just in the corner of his view down through the lens. He did so. He wondered, as he trudged off, if what he did was akin to stalking. Glory be, he had nothing salacious in mind with the beauty – just beauty itself. He didn’t see himself as a pest being so distant from the subject – but who knows in this day and age? Besides, he was a deeply contented man. He had enough warm and wonderful memories of his own to last a lifetime. But that’s the best bit, he concluded. Just the conjuring.

Will you indulge in a little game of ‘Who Am I’ with me? Some of you may remember her. She had an impact on this old fella once upon a time. Perhaps she may have had an impact on you too, way back in the mists.

Here we go. I was born Ingoushka Petrov in Warsaw in 1937 – not a good time to come into the world, particularly with a Jewish mother. My Polish accent in later life would, to some ears, make me sound incredibly sexy and exotic. In the early sixties I became an actress in Berlin, later having roles alongside such luminaries as Clint Eastwood and Richard Burton, after making my English-speaking debut in ‘Doctor Zhivago’. I played Queen Galleia to John Pertwee’s Dr Who in several appearances in that icon of the small screen. I was married three times, with the first being to my hero. But as for what may have bought me into your orbit once upon a time? Well, I was famous for two reasons. One – yes one – was because of my breasts, which I rather exposed quite a lot of on screen. The second were my fangs. They really didn’t appear all that often in my movies, only in titles such as ‘The Vampire Lovers’, ‘Countess Dracula’ and ‘The House That Dripped Blood’. But maybe you remember them too. The press at the time were quite enamoured of me for both reasons. They dubbed me ‘The Queen of Scream’. Well then, who am I? Do you know? If you do or don’t, I think you’ll find my whole story more that just a tad interesting.

By the early seventies your scribbler was studying at UTAS in Hobs, living at at hall of residence, sadly for males only. My love of movies had been triggered by the greater selection of offerings available in the big smoke compared to my former provincial town. And I was very much aware of Ingoushka. She seemed to only appear at the old Elwick Drive-in, so often I would take my jalopy out there, usually in the company of like-minded mates who also were not adverse to the good lady being presented unadorned, along with her blood-sucking mandibles. Those were the early years after the strictures of censorship were loosened. For some time we had been governed by god-fearing old men in darkened rooms having the say over what we could and couldn’t view. Ingoushka, unlike many who simply teased back then in that brave new age, delivered on what she promised. Of course she was a member of the Hammer film studios stable of voluptuous beauties. In fact, when she first auditioned, she fronted the head honcho of Hammer, James Carreras, sporting the most revealing of her assets type dress she could squeeze herself into. She reported in her autobiography, ‘I turned up at Jimmy’s office in a maxi-coat, a mane of hair, lots of make-up and high leather boots. I walked up to him and opened my coat like a flasher. I was wearing the tiniest and lowest cut dress you can imagine. He took me darling, but not in the way film moguls are said to!’ He offered her a choice, horror or porn – the latter most likely akin to offerings popular at the time like ‘What the Milkman Saw’ or ‘Confessions of a Window Cleaner’. They were more innocent days. But she chose the former. Ingoushka, by this stage Pitt, as a name, though, wouldn’t cut it up there in the credits – so she became Ingrid, Ingrid Pitt.

Her trajectory upwards was immediate, although her stay at the top was brief. The early seventies just about saw her out. She made guest appearances sporadically in the following decades till her death in 2010, but she was never one to let the grass grow under her. She simply re-invented herself when the popularity of vampire movies waned. She turned to writing to earn a living. She made up for quality with volume – she just wrote and wrote and wrote some more. She’d have a go at anything. She started off describing the conditions the first Americans were forced to endure after a stint living with a tribe of them in Colorado. Then she turned her hand to fiction, usually, to capitalise on her name, in the horror genre. She wrote columns for magazines and later on-line. She even penned scripts, submitting some to ‘Dr Who’ – never successfully, but she came close with a few.

When the popularity of a Hammer revival, at the turn of the millennium, bought with it screenings of her retro-fangwork all over the UK, she cashed in writing titles such as ‘The Ingrid Pitt Bedside Companion for Vampire Lovers’ and ‘The Ingrid Pitt Book of Murder, Torture and Depravity’. As well there were her memoirs she, fangs in cheek, called ‘Life’s a Scream’.

But as fabulous as her lives on screen and as quite the wordsmith were, her third life – the one she led prior to her notoriety in the movie industry – was perhaps even more hair raising than anything she acted out for the camera or wrote about.

Of course, to be of Jewish heritage in Poland during the war years was a dire situation to be in and in 1942 her family was picked up by the Nazis. She and her mother were separated from her father and elder sister and the pair were transported to the Stutthoff concentration camp. She witnessed her mother’s best friend summarily hung and one of her own little companions raped and beaten to death by guards. Come the Russians the pair were released and commenced to trudge between the various holding camps for survivors to try and find father and sister. The family were remarkably reunited, but such were the privations her dad had undergone at the hands of his captors he died a short time later.

After that life obviously improved and the young Ingoushka started to dream of a future and the shape it may take. Acting caught her imagination. We know from later events that she was a force of nature and it was not long till she moved to East Berlin to pursue her dream as the Iron Curtain was coming down. She became associated with Helene Wiegel, second wife of Bertolt Brecht, acting in his works in Helene’s theatre company. Unfortunately the redoubtable Wiegel was a strident critic of the communist regime and soon the Stasi came calling. Miss Petrov was about to take the stage for an opening night performance of Brecht’s ‘Mother Courage and her Children’ when some uniformed goons turned up to shut it all down and take in those responsible. Ingoushka did a runner. Hot on her heels were the thugs and as a last resort, she took a flying leap into the River Spee. The current took her, fully costumed, across the city to the American zone where she was spotted by GI Laud Roland Pitt Jr who, without hesitation, jumped in and bought her to shore in his his arms. Her hero. Sometimes life truly does resemble the movies. They fell in love and married.

It didn’t last for nothing could get in the way of her dream. The unstoppable Ingoushka Pitt continued on her drive to stardom. Of course, in the end, she made it to the delight of young men far away at a drive-in in Hobart.

Despite horror giving her that pathway to success, in an interview for a New Zealand newspaper four years before her death, she admitted she rarely watched or read anything to do with the genre, stating ‘I think it’s very amazing that I do horror films when I had this awful childhood. But maybe that’s why I was so good at it.’

And she was. Of course, in the digital age Ingoushka is only a mouse-click away on YouTube in all her fanged glory, bosoms heaving. Make that click and you’ll see what I mean. We were all so innocent and unworldly back then and she was ripe for our desires. Sometimes I think we were far better off in that era then when what she did was about was about the extent of it.

Today my son married.

Sitting here in his town; just sitting in reflective quietude with the juice of the peat in hand, I know that what had just occurred had made for the best of days.

There were doubts it would be thus at day’s dawning. This little place, fastened on the western shore of Anderson Bay, was holding its collective breath for all knew of the couple’s plan. It was an audacious plan – but the rain was then tumbling down in scuds. All comprehended if it continued to do so the plan would have to be scuttled, to use an apt nautical term; the desire to create an occasion, that would linger long in the mind’s eye, would be undeniably somewhat spoilt, but certainly not irredeemably tarnished. How could it be?

The ‘Bulldog’ was central. It was intended that later this day the sturdy snub-nosed barge would carry its first substantial cargo, a human one, on arguably its most important journey. For on board there would be a bridal arch at the prow and a beautiful bride aft, waiting for her moment. With a red carpet stretched down its main (and only) deck and weighed down tables for succulent seafood treats, convivial signs had been strategically placed to urge all to ‘Eat, drink and be married’. If the rain moderated, that would doubtless occur around the main event. What would be celebrated was the culmination of two separate journeys, not always calm sailing, coming together in the ether at first. Then my son moved to the little town to commence building a relationship and a vocational life. The place he now calls home has become a sort of second abode for this relaxed old fella as our couple caught the travel bug. They saw me only to happy to attend to their two beloved canines, not to mention one defiantly independent cat. To me the little town is a place the sun always seems to shine. Would it also shine on their day of days – this day?

The tides had been figured out long before and the decision on the date was fixed accordingly. The vessel, named in memory of a treasured workmate, taken well before his time, had been sweated on by my son with a posse of other workmates for long hours to make her ship-shape for the day. As this day in question proceeded, the scuds diminished in frequency and power. Then, just before the appointed hour, out came the sun. The blue-hulled barge looked splendid as family and friends gathered dockside, ready for her departure. As the Bulldog escaped the confines of the river, fine samples of local product from the briny were served from the tiny galley and a piper took his place, playing Hebridean airs. Our vessel faced into the swells of the open sea, turned and headed along the coast to a sheltered spot abutting the old pier. It laid anchor, the drawbridge forward was lowered and my son took his place, to wait, against background of sunlight dazzling off Anderson Bay.

Back aft the bridal party assembled. At their head, for the procession down the red carpet, a little girl made ready for her role. At times, in the lead up, she had felt overwhelmed by the awesomeness of her responsibility. Who would hold her hand? Where were Mummy and Daddy if there was a problem. But, one thing was for sure, in a gown sewn with love, she looked exquisite. The appointed time came. Hands were offered to help her on her way to spread rose petals afore her Auntie Shan and her gorgeous bridesmaids. Although her small valkyrian heart was beating so loud, she knew exactly what was required. She garnered together all the courage an almost four year old could muster, politely refused the hands and strode out amongst all those people she did not know. She did her task to perfection as her Poppy became misty eyed with pride and love.

My son took a deep breath, turned and faced his bride as she approached. He flushed a little as he noted the beauty of this woman to whom he would attach his future, as she would to him.

Two venerable grandparents, one from each side, watched the procession and taking of vows, also with swelled hearts. They had seen many a wedding during their long years, but none surely so unique and so carefully executed as this. Out in the element that helped sustain the little town, the Bulldog gently rocked as a mint new married couple made their way back along the carpet to begin their mingling and to receive the congratulations that were their due.

The Bulldog, successfully discharging its duty, raised anchor and sailed back to port, being gazed on by townspeople who lined the shore. Proceedings continued at the home of this family who have taken in my son, valued him for his many attributes, but at the same time ensuring he was firmly grounded in the culture of their calling and of the town. It is an amazing family he is now son-in-law, brother-in-law and husband to. My son made a speech – and he made a fine fist of that too. Looking on, his Dad couldn’t possibly be happier for him. So happy, in fact, that after some libation, his father took to the dance floor later this evening with his oldest mate and did some very fine moves and sprightly gyrations as the band pounded out a hip version of ‘Ring of Fire’.

Sipping now on my Glenfiddich, I can reflect how perfect this day has been. At the festivities this evening I was seated with aforementioned mate on one side, the woman I adore on the other, with my daughter and that brave little flower-girl opposite. Now I am content with the wonder of it all. I know that She up there beyond the silver lining will smile on this union, as Bulldog will do likewise from his spot in the constellations. Best of all, I have a daughter-in-law to cherish.

Yes, today my son married.

1. Early spring. Glorious day. At Sheffield, under Roland. It was that mini-wonder Little Ford Man’s third birthday celebration at the Newling abode. It’s an abode forever on the march to the beat of renovation and improvement. Each time it’s visited, there’s a new project on the go – LFM’s parents are marvels and my, what they’ve achieved! And the little people were having a ball on this day – running themselves into the ground with the excitement of it all. For most of the day Tessa Tiger was in the thick of it. There was a lull and she took time out. She wandered across the lawn, lost in a reverie of imagination such that only a three year (and some) old can conjure up. I sauntered across to join her, she took my hand and guided me to the fence-line, pointing to her favourites of the very fetching, to her sensibilities, blooms to be found there. Then quietly, almost imperceptibly, came the song. I listened hard to hear what it was. Quietly, breathily she was singing the chorus to Josh Ritter’s paean to the banishment of winter, ‘Snow is Gone’ –
Hello blackbird, hello starling
Winter’s over, be my darling
It’s been a long time coming
But now the snow is gone –
she trilled. It was small picture – but perfect small picture. Not earth-shattering, but in my dotage, if I remember nothing else at all from all the magic moments that little girl has given me in 2015, I’d be completely content just recalling that single episode and dwelling on it. It would be enough. The perfect moment in the perfect place. Her small hand in mine. Just love.

2. And then, not long after – the best of 2015’s big pictures. Suddenly he was gone – and now, if he’d only shut up and disappear completely. He was ridded by his own ilk – his own party. Even they eventually came to the conclusion most of us had figured out from the get-go of his unfortunate prime ministership. All the nonsense about Team Australia and captain’s calls, shirt-fronting and onion eating. the man was an embarrassment. Supposedly a man of faith, there was little that was Christian in many of his policies and those of his like-minded yesterday’s men – only men – he surrounded himself with. There was one divisive exception and she wasn’t even elected. He was an abomination, leading our country away from the welcoming decency that had once been our by-word for the decades after we banished White Australia. If Turnbull can prise himself away from his commitments to get the job, I have some hopes for him, although those yesterday’s men are still lingering there on his side of politics. But now, with some gifted women in cabinet, it all seems somehow softer – hopefully it will turn out to be a far cry from the mean-spirited reign of a man who should never have been let loose on our country.

3. It has been a tough twelve months for my beautiful lady since the tendon in her wrist snapped on Boxing Day last year. In discomfort always and often there’s a layer of pain as well on top to cope with. Despite medications and procedures culminating in an operation yet to prove successful, she continues to battle through, as positive and as good humoured – her hallmarks – as it is possible to be. I love her dearly – and now admire her even more, if that’s possible.

4. My home away from home these days seems to be Bridport. Although the missing of Leigh is palpable each moment, I’m content there in the sunny big house overlooking Anderson Bay, with its quietude and birdsong. It is so welcoming. I am only too happy to decamp anytime as Rich and his wonderful intended have adventures in the other hemisphere, on the big island or more locally. Oscar and Memphis fill my days with their unconditional canine devotion. Leopold controls my nights with his very conditional feline condescension. Such a fine place to be is Briddy – people who nod, smile and wish a good morning as I perambulate down the hill for my papers, the sparkling sea and a winter warmth emanating from the firebox. The only other place I could see myself permanently.

5. First came the three-peat and as we turn the corner into ’16, the aim’ll be a fourthorn. These are great days for the brown and gold – and with all that’s gone awry in the last twelve months in the world, at least we still have the salve that is sport to celebrate. I continue to avoid the stress my team playing confers, but there’s still the pride.

6. I have little truck with horse-racing or James Bond movies. That a female jockey can win the former and a fifty something woman, older than the hero, can play a love interest of 007 is something of significance, isn’t it?

7. I didn’t know him. Not really, I didn’t. I worked with him for years but I couldn’t get close to him. Closeness wasn’t for work colleagues. And now he’s gone. I’ll always thank him for what he did for my writerly and gorgeous daughter. Kate regards him as her best teacher, the one who had the greatest impact in steering her towards her calling. And he knew this, both from Kate and myself – and it chuffed him. I’m pleased about that. And another went this year whom I felt I really knew, although we never met. You see, he was a columnist for my favoured daily. He examined himself in print, brought us into his world and all the vicissitudes he was experiencing with a life that hadn’t gone perfectly. In the last months, before his leaving, I’d thought he’d lost his mojo as far as his weekly epistles were concerned. It was almost as if he was erecting a barrier between us, the reader and himself. The openness had gone. Then that last Sunday he was back on song, riffing away with his musings, telling something of the bliss of fatherhood, be it unshared with his former partner. Then, suddenly, Sam de Brito was no more. The Sunday Age isn’t the same.

8. My enduring mother is still as kind and caring as ever. She gives so much with her generosity of spirit.

9. She up there beyond the silver lining is still looking out for Jimmy Bx2, Willie N, Archie R, John P, Neil Y and Eric C, amongst other aging luminaries. Hopefully She’ll continue to see them remain ‘forever young’ throughout 2016.

10. The kindest of men came visiting from across the Strait and spent some time gracing us with his presence. Brynner, aka LFM, came calling too and owned all he surveyed.

11. The State Cinema, JBs, Fullers, the smiling blonde princess developing my images at city Harvey Norman, a bright sparkly new Myer, the welcoming of Tiger at Nicolatte, the cheap cards at the Hobart Book Shop – all give me cause to bless my luck in living so close to this vibrant little city.

12. No journeys off the island this year, but plans are afoot for ’16. There were a few journeys to within, but all in all, considering I have a life with a woman I adore and with people I love around, close and not so close, it all gives lustre to my world. Being alive is such joy.

It was a small gallery – pictures of women from long ago. Some were clothed, most were not. But it was a portrait that caught the eye most – a portrait in close-up that was the first I clicked on to enlarge. Above the set of images was the name Robert Wilson Shufeldt. I bookmarked it, as I do anything I discover in the ether that may have the potential of a bit of a yarn to it. In theory the plan is always to return later. When I eventually did so, with this image, just recently and dug a little deeper, I was quite amazed at what I discovered.

More often than not I find dead-ends, but this small beginning produced a gothic tale worthy of Hollywood – although it did take a little finding. There is, though, sadly no proof, one way or the other, as to whether the portrait was her. Perhaps the ‘colouring’ is right, but maybe this was of a younger woman? But, by the end, I had it fixed in my mind that it was of the heroine of the piece – that it was Florence.

There are quite despicable excuses for humanity in our own digital age, mostly male of course, who think it is fine to place private photographs on-line of former partners/wives/girl-friends/one night stands/whoever naked, or in compromising positions, for others to gawk at – predominantly male too. But if you think this is a thoroughly modern phenomena – think again. Robert Wilson Shufeldt was at it too – but obviously not in the same way. Here’s his story – and that of his victim – the remarkable Florence.

Google Robert Wilson Shufeldt and most references are for this fellow’s father. He has the same appellation (of course) – and was more historically famous than his son. He was an admiral on the Union side in the war that tore the nation apart. But Robert junior is there if one looks carefully. Delve deeper and his whole miserable existence can be exposed.

He was a bright lad, was Robert. He grew to become a Renaissance man of sorts – but with none if the enlightenment usually associated with that accolade. He was an ornithologist and it was his study of the avian species that led him to Florence. It has even been reported that he was the man who dissected the very last specimen of passenger pigeon on the planet – and what a sorrowful story that poor creature’s demise is. As well, this fellow was a renowned osteologist (expert on bones), myologist (of muscular systems), museologist (of museums and their systems) and ethnographist (of people and cultures). And he dabbled in the photography of the nude – purely for scientific purposes, you understand.

The younger Shufeldt was born in 1850 and spent the Civil War serving on one of his father’s vessels. In 1872 he enrolled at Cornell University, studying medicine. On graduation he joined the army and RWS went on to serve as a surgeon in the Indian Wars. It was at this time he commenced collecting. From that point on and throughout the remainder of his life he put together a vast trove of biological specimens, but eventually started to specialise in denizens of the air. Human anatomy also became his forte. Over the course of his career he published over a thousand books, articles and papers on a widely diverse range of subjects. One such was entitled ‘America’s Greatest Problem – the Negro’. He was, not unusually for the time, in the firm belief of the racial supremacy of whiter peoples. Determined to assist in proving that notion he took to exhuming the skeletons of North American Indians – something that we know from our own island’s bleak history wasn’t so unusual for the time either. For all these fine works, or so they were considered, RWS was appointed to the august post of Honorary Curator of the Smithsonian Institute.

But it was with his private life that Shufeldt, inadvertently, made his greatest contribution to society. His outrageous behaviour so shocked the powers to be at the time that it changed the way the American legal system viewed the rights of women and increased the move away from them being regarded as mere chattels of their husbands. Agonisingly slowly, the march for equality in the eyes of the law was starting to commence around that time – Shufeldt assisting it to get traction.

The scientist was wedded three times, firstly to one Catherine Badcock. Back in that period, when divorce was frowned on, many unscrupulous men, on finding their married situation holding them back in any way, would conspire to have their unwanted appendage certified as insane on the flimsiest of excuses. The next step would see these unfortunate souls installed in a lunatic asylum. That was Catherine’s fate. She had no means of fighting back so she took an also not uncommon path – she committed suicide. Why Catherine displeased her hubby I was not able to discern – but there seems no doubt she was very much the wronged party.

While all this was occurring Shufeldt continued his writing, with his ornithological work bringing him into contact with Maria Audubon. Now any twitcher worth his/her salt would recognise that surname. John James Audubon, Maria’s grandfather, is god to American bird-lovers. Shufeldt was a member of the Audubon Ornithologists’ Union (AOU). He and Maria published papers together in its journal. She was a spinster – thank heavens that term is disappearing from our language. Her sister, forty-two year old Florence, was also a reluctant member of the spinsterhood.

And so Maria bought sister Florence and RWS together. Being the type of self-aggrandising person he allegedly was, it would be quite a feather in his cap, excuse the pun, to be wedded to an Aubudon. He wasn’t really serious about her for, as soon as the nuptials were over, he was having it off with the home help, Scandinavian Alfhild Dagny Cowum. He wasn’t at all subtle about it, assuming he’d sort Florence out later if she presented any problems. He obviously didn’t know his new wife at all well. Two months into the marriage she was suing for divorce on the grounds of adultery – an unusual and brave step for a woman to take back then. Initially Robert thought all this mattered little. Being a man (of sorts) of his times, he took it as gospel the notion that the male of the species was entitled to affairs on the side. It was only to be expected of a fellow as virile as he. And normally this would be the case – but Florence was not as much a woman of her times as he took for granted. She would not be subjected by him. She was persistent and she never gave up. It was a long, tedious, demeaning and convoluted process she had to endure to see justice – but she fought bitterly to attain it. She was bold enough to convince court after court to see it her way. This, despite all the mud that her husband could throw at her; despite the despicable act he perpetrated when the mud didn’t stick. In the midst of all of it he did find time to take his mistress as his third wife. Florence gave him the wherewithal to do that – not that in any way is he deserving of any form of sympathy. She was also vital in his fall from grace.

What was shocking were the lengths Shufeldt went to to get his own back on Florence, once his wife was granted a divorce by the Maryland courts. It shocked him to the core that it was ruled he also was required to pay alimony. In the usual manner of men back then, with a rare adverse decision going against them, he simply took the common step and filed for bankruptcy. The thinking was that would put paid to any financial call she could have on him. He hadn’t figured, though, with his former wife’s determination to prove that this ploy was patently unfair. After all, he was still receiving a perfectly fine pension from the US army – surely she had a right to that, if indeed he was in dire monetary straits. She very much doubted this to be the true. She took her case all the way to the US Supreme Court – and in doing so took on the US Army as well. Compounding her problems there were the boffins at the AOU who were concerned what the impending scandal would do to their organisation’s standing. They took legal means to try and get her to desist. She refused. All this caused great publicity but again, with the bit between her teeth, she was unswerving in her campaign for her rights – and she ultimately prevailed. The loophole of bankruptcy was closed and the precedent had been set to apply that judgement to all future women in similar circumstances.

Now, what of the link to the abhorrent practice of placing intimate images on-line of women who have had the effrontery to displease their men folk in some way? Well, it was what Shufeldt published during these proceedings that caused him to lose all sympathy from those in positions of judgement. It was considered that he had well and truly crossed the line – even for that misogynist era.

It was not unknown for him to publish nude photos of women in his various scientific writings. His book, ‘Studies of the Human Form for Artists, Sculptors and Scientists’, was full of them. But when ‘On Female Impotency’ came out and it transpired that the nudes enclosed within were of his wife Florence, all hell broke loose for the slime-ball that was RWS. Supposedly a piece in the guise of being ‘scientific’, he wrote of a woman who had left a physician, who shall remain nameless, describing this anonymous wife as ‘…immoral, hysterical and not a virgin when she married.’ He also submitted that, shockingly, said woman also possessed the blood of a mulatto – a clear reference to the great bird-painter’s own mother. This outraged the AOU and the Smithsonian – they disowned him immediately. This only caused a fit of pique from Robert S who promptly marched up to their doors demanding all his specimens back. What a cheek they had not taking his side!

So what do we take out of all this? Probably that there is nothing new under the sun in this world. That it rebounded and the odious man received his just desserts is a plus. Hopefully that can happen to most of Shufeldt’s present day equivalents. All of this unseemly carry-on took it’s toll on the poor possum’s health. Most of his final years he was to be found brooding and wheezing in various sanatoriums before he did the planet a favour by dying in 1934.

It took years and years for Florence to obtain her legal win with, as a spin off, ever so slowly she assisted in setting in motion the creaky wheels of justice to make life more tolerable for the women of her time. She is worthy of greater recognition for this – and I still cannot help but wonder if that portrait that so intrigued me is indeed of her.

I’ll leave the final word to one of her supporters during her lengthy ordeal, Elliott Coves, who wrote – ‘Dr Shufeldt is morally a cancer – the most vilest and most depraved wretch I ever met. His former wife had committed suicide in an insane asylum to which his brutalities had consigned her. The horrors of poor Florence Audubon’s situation I never saw surpassed.’

It is a glorious name, Molly Fink, isn’t it? And a pretty special name too, given that its owner had an incredible time on this planet. And she had a connection to this island – her mother being one Elizabeth Fink, nee Watt, from Tassie. She married Wolfe – Wolfe Fink – a Channel Islander who practised law in Victoria and was a noted Shakespearean authority.

Molly was born, to the above, in Melbourne back in 1894. They named her Esme Mary Sorrett Fink – but she was always Molly. She went on to have an even grander appellation attached to her. She became the rani of Padukota. Later in Molly’s life she became a habitué of the French Riviera where, on certain occasions, she could be spotted, dressed to the nines in Chanel, walking her pet tortoise along the seafront. With its shell encrusted in diamonds, whenever the little creature would flag on its excursion, from her handbag, Molly would produce the most delectable of asparagus tips with which to revive it. In between her growing up on the Yarra and the tortoise towards the end she had quite a story to tell, did Molly. Let me present you with it.

Now some of us are familiar with another Australian abroad in the wide world at the same time as Molly. I refer to Sheila Chisholm – that amazing woman from Oz who outraged Buckingham Palace by taking young Bertie Windsor in hand and teaching him a thing or two about the delights of the fairer gender. He fell head over heels in love with her, but caused such consternation to the Firm that they quickly found unsullied, so they thought, eighteen year old Elizabeth Bowers-Lyon for him to woo and wed for the good of the country. We’ll hear more about young Lizzy anon. Maybe she wasn’t so pure – with a Tasmanian to blame. I do wonder, though, how the course of history could have been changed if Bertie had stuck to his guns, as with his elder brother? It was reading an article on SC that I encountered the name Molly Fink as another Down Under sheila who became embroiled with a royal around the same time, but with a more satisfactory, for a while, outcome. And this girl’s journey was no less fascinating than that of Sheila C’s with the capital S. A name like Molly Fink just yelled out for further investigation.

Molly grew up in the suburbs of Melbourne and, on attaining her ‘coming out’ in local society, quickly became the talk of the town for her beauty. Golden-haired with dazzling blue eyes, she had an ‘…oval, ivory-skinned face…’ and ‘…pouting pomegranate lips.’

Her life commenced its uniquely curious journey when, in 1915, she journeyed north to Harbour City. Up in the Blue Mountains – at the Majestic Hotel in Medlow Bath to be exact – the nineteen year old found a glorious male specimen also taking the air at that resort for the well-to-do. He was the dashing, cricket-mad Marthandra Bhairava Tondiman, who also happened to be Indian royalty. He was the rajah of the southern sub-continental principality that was to later become part of Molly’s official title. That was in April – soon, as with Sheila and Bertie, they were totally enamoured of one another. But their out come was far more romantic if none-the-less fraught. Nobody stopped them and by August in that year of war they were married in a Sydney registry office.

After the unadulterated bliss of an American honeymoon, the real world started to hit back at the besotted couple – the real world back then not quite so ready for a ‘mixed marriage’ of such import as in more enlightened times. This soon became obvious when the rajah took his rani home.

There are mixed reports about how the inhabitants of Pudukota reacted to their nominal ruler bringing home an Aussie missus – and a Catholic to boot. The ordinary people were bewitched by her, so it has been said, but the palace movers and shakers were mortified. They began plotting. With their diabolical scheming they found an ally in the British authorities. The latter assumed, being an antipodean, she could only be a gold-digger. There was no evidence at all this was fact, but that didn’t stop them. It was decided poisoning was a good option and the now pregnant Molly was fed doses of oleander. The rajah was a wake up to this and spirited her to a safe haven away from court. His wife duly produced the wished for heir. But, because of his mixed heritage, it was proclaimed that young Martanda Sydney would never sit on an Indian throne.

The rajah was not about to desert his Aussie belle on news of this. He figured the best way to deal with it was to escort her back to Oz. He’d determined to seek restitution from King George and he would state his case from Sydney. Having had issues with unsuitable matches for his own sons, George was not inclined to give this minor Indian prince much of a hearing. That was seemingly the sealer and Molly never set foot in her hubby’s homeland again.

In the Emerald City the couple cut a swathe through the high end of town. The rajah was heavily into the sport of kings. One of his steeds won the Grand National to entrench them as darlings of the turf. Molly became bosom buddies with Ada Holman, the Premier’s wife and an interesting woman in her own right – stay tuned. But the rajah was getting antsy for what was rightfully his. By 1919 he had deduced he’d do better stating his case from London, so Molly agreed to pack up and head for Old Blighty.

As the twenties wore on, though, it was obvious that their cause was dead in the water, but in recompense the British government did award the couple a healthy stipend. 1922 saw them quite taken with the French Riviera so they moved to Cannes. Here friendships were formed with such notables as Cecil Beaton and Anita Loos. Sadly the exiled rajah died in 1928. His Molly, at the time described as a ‘…very generous woman, madly extravagant.’ decamped back to London where, bejewelled and glittering, she attended all the right parties and performances. She also became a frequent visitor to the US and across the Channel.

Her story continued on with more twists and turns as the world again plunged into conflict. This saw her stranded in NYC with, oh dear, no access to her fortune on the other side of the Atlantic. And, quelle horreur, she was obliged to take a job. It was in an up-market fashion house so it wasn’t too much of a strain. She also involved herself in raising money for the war effort. This caused the FBI to come calling – they had proof she was embezzling much of what she inveigled out of the society types she consorted with. Eventually it turned out they couldn’t make the charges stick, so as soon as VE Day was celebrated, back to London she scampered. Tellingly, her son, the would-be rajah, later served time in Sing-Sing for stealing jewellery.

With her looks fading, the fifties witnessed her becoming reclusive, surrounded by her pekingese dogs and a certain tortoise. She became estranged from her son due to his criminal activities and sought solace in the bottle. In 1967 she donated all her worldly goods to the British public and in November of that year she was claimed by cancer.

Molly Fink – such a ‘common’ name. But, even with that handicap, she escaped the snooze of Melburnian suburban torpor to live a life large, mainly on the opposite side of the planet, Even with that name, she should not be forgotten. Hopefully a better wordsmith than I will bring her out of the shadows and place her in the same light as her contemporary, Sheila Chisholm, has been in recent times. I wonder if they ever met? I wonder what they would have made of each other?