Past imperfect

By Winfreda Donald

A resourceful fourteen year-old, Freya Dunbar accepts responsibilities beyond the norm. Family is paramount. She has no regrets – she’d do anything for Mama, but she frets at being the odd-one-out in every part of her life. Always alert for clues about family mysteries she yearns for a sense of belonging until she meets soul-mate Alexander Marcou. Identity issues matter less then; they’ll forge a life together.
Reluctant to travel to Glasgow because of a vague premonition, Freya is distressed when the reason becomes clear. The intended four-week absence to help her grandmother pack up her home to migrate turns into a long separation from Alexander in Australia and from family support because the old lady suffers a severe stroke. Coping alone with a roller-coaster of difficult decisions and an uneasy connection with Gramma, Freya’s questions about personal identity resurface to haunt her.
Before Gramma’s discharge from hospital Freya starts training as a nurse with a view to completing the qualification in Australia when her grandmother is fit to travel. Her caring load is shared when Gramma invites another student, Kirsty McKinnon to live with them, and the housekeeper takes up her job again. Freya’s deep friendship with Kirsty saves her sanity.
As Gramma’s rehabilitation stretches to years, Freya and Alexander fashion long-distance dreams for the future and continue their studies to qualify them for work and the adventures they plan.
Unaware of the malevolent chain of events escalating under their radar they are shocked by the betrayal that tears them apart permanently. Both battle bewilderment and heartache for years.
Alexander marries eventually, starts a family and builds a satisfying life that combines teaching with his love of flying.
Relationship shy and unable to completely banish the questions and grief that bubble just below consciousness, Freya is resigned to a future without marriage and children. She immerses herself in a career and takes on increasingly responsible and varied positions as salve for the ache of loss.
Many years later when she meets Reg Prentiss, an Australian IT expert on a temporary contract in Glasgow, her life changes unexpectedly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Winfreda Donald
• Release date: Mar 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9780987529008

Winfreda Donald

WINFREDA DONALDNow retired from the paid workforce, Winfreda is able to indulge a life-long ambition to write fiction. Although she enjoyed her later work-life writing (research reports, policy documents, academic theses), the joy of allowing imagination to run is liberating. Farewell to the constraints of facts and statistics.Another ambition is to stay healthy for long enough to tap out the myriad fancies itching to take shape.Winfreda calls on experiences from a long working life and a fascination with family dynamics to fashion characters and plots. But as she writes, some alchemy happens to merge the temperaments and personalities of the characters with unforeseen events that often surprise her.Most of all Winfreda is interested in the rich and hidden stories of everyday people's lives - happy stories, sad stories, people in danger, exhilarating tales, ambitious exploits, self-sabotage and workplace skulduggery. Other incidents that weave into the fictions explode from our shared environment of tension, violence, and the increasing streams of news reports and documentaries of our times.Since 2013 Winfreda has published the first three books of The Long Shadows Series. This family and friendship saga traces the lives of young Freya Dunbar and Alexander Marcou, played out in the late twentieth century, against the legacies that World War II laid on both their families. Past Imperfect (Book One) begins the story with settings in Scotland and Australia. Present Tense (Book Two) and Future Hope (Book Three) follow the trials and adventures of the young lovers in Europe and Africa. The fourth story in the series, Tides of Time is still incubating (for publication at the end of 2015 or early 2016).Winfreda is also working on a short story assortment and possibly a memoir-ish collection of reflections.

Book preview

Glasgow – mid-October, 1970: – Rushes of energy rippled through the girl’s body like it sometimes did at home when a storm was building. There, it was always safe under the house or in one of the rooms but it was a puzzle to feel this scared inside her grandmother’s flat. She tightened the grasp on her father’s hand and half-stepped sideways to brush against the comforting softness of her mother’s woollen coat.

The old lady was almost spitting, ‘No . . . No, I won’t go there. I’ve told you before.’

The girl cringed inside, but showed no expression, as the grandmother’s dark eyes bored into her. Was the reaction stronger today because this visit was her choice?

She wanted . . . needed, to see where her mother lived as a small child. Could it explain why Mama’s life had been swallowed by all those depressions? Mother’s memory was vague, and grandmother would only say, ‘Forget that place.’

The older brother and younger sister fidgeted, ready to leave. They didn’t mind if grandmother stayed home or went with them. Their sister let her breath out gently, and felt her father’s hand relax around hers as he ushered her towards the door. Mrs Brown, the housekeeper was holding it open for them.

Outside, life in the grey city hummed under a lowering sky. Happed up people huddled and hurried along streets and cobbled paths that were greased and dark with the smirr of morning rain. It could turn into an anything kind of day but hadn’t yet made up its mind.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, mother, father, brother, sister and the girl stood in a blink of sun outside a four-storey tenement row on Dixon Road. The mother moved forward and pointed, ‘That’s number 44 there.’

In a knot at the edge of the footpath, the others stared at the drab façade and the ground level vandalism of scratched paint and damaged window sashes. They drew into themselves, appalled by a collection of crumbling masonry at the close entrance. The ragged edges of the pile spilled into an awkward hazard almost as wide as the footpath. Patches of crushed white powder stained the worn cement slabs.

The girl recovered first and ran ahead into the entry but turned back after a few steps, holding her nose. ‘There is pooh up the wall. You can smell it, and there’s rubbish on the steps.’

‘Sshh. Keep your voice down,’ said the mother as a careworn woman approached.

The child’s hand flew across her lips.

The woman looked official in a navy Burberry and matching cap with its blue and white badge, her right shoulder drooping under the weight of a well-worn bag. She stepped around the father and the other children, to say, ‘You’re quite right lass. This place does look awful. But most folks are clean and careful and take pride in their homes. Some of them are like palaces inside.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said the mother, ‘I lived here for a few years during the war but I was too young to remember much. The children wanted to see what it was like. It’s very different from what they know in Australia.’

‘So that’s the wee girl’s accent. Your own hasn’t changed a lot. Which one were you in?

‘Third floor at this number, but I don’t know the exact flat.’

‘I’m going up there to see an old man who needs some help. His wife doesn’t get out much but she loves company. Maybe you’d like to drop in for a few minutes if it suits?’ She looked around. ‘Yourself and the wee girl? The others have wandered off anyway.’

The mother started to refuse, ‘We wouldn’t like to intrude . . . ,’ but the girl pulled on her sleeve.

‘Please . . . please. It would be so good.’

The woman intervened, ‘I’m Florrie, a community nurse, and I think it truly would give Mrs Dalziel a lift. I’ve been looking after the pair of them for a few years. She’s a friendly soul and would fair love to tell the neighbours she had visitors from overseas.’ Florrie set bag and on the footpath and rubbed her right palm. ‘Her place is immaculate. She’s done it up a treat. It’s one of the old two-room-and-kitchen places. The chandelier in the living area is her pride and joy. It’d give you a chance to see that you can’t always judge a book by its cover.’ She looked upwards for a moment. ‘If you stand on the edge of the pavement in a few minutes, I’ll signal out the window on the third floor if she’s agreeable for you to come up. It could even be the very place you lived in.’

The girl’s eyes pleaded.

’Let’s catch up with the others to see what they think.’

‘She would offer you a cup of tea for sure. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll tell her right away you don’t have time, so she won’t be offended. Then I’ll be able to finish Mr Dalziel’s treatment after you leave.’

* * *

Mrs Dalziel said, ‘Some things are different now of course.’

The girl strained to fathom the accent, much broader than her mother’s or father’s.

‘Sadly the close entry hasn’t changed but it’s just the one family spoils it. You would have seen that, coming up the stairwell. But most of us manage to look past the nasties when we venture out. We find peace inside our own walls.’

‘You’ve certainly made this place very comfortable and light.’

The conversation between Florrie and the old man filtered from the other room.

As the girl listened to the women chat about what it was like during the war, something felt very odd. The conversation shaded in and out; she was herself and not herself, in the now but not in the now, losing touch. Prickling with fear she tried to pull back as shadows closed around her.

The room was desolate, dull and dingy. The days were crossed off on the calendar hanging from a nail on the wall, right up to November 6, 1941. Alarm transformed to hesitant surrender; the girl grasped that somehow she’d been thrust into another life. Her grandmother’s life?

Red and yellow embers spurted as a solitary lump of coal collapsed to ash with a light crash. The lamp dipped as if in sympathy, but flared again. Looking anxiously at the level of oil in the storage bottle she breathed relief; enough for tonight and the morning’s dark start. Numb with cold, a deep ache gnawed in her bones.

No energy. Her stomach cramped with hunger. At least there was still a spoonful of dripping in the pantry and the end of a stale loaf for tonight.

The baby? She reached out and shook the brown paper packet of oatmeal. Mercifully enough for now along with the end of the honey her neighbour brought back from the farm where her children were billeted. But what about tomorrow? A week was too long a stretch for the money and the coupons.

Dampness seeped from the clothes on the pulley above the table. It was impossible to keep the little one well in this place. She recoiled as the infant’s racking cough and thin jerky wail grabbed at her soul. Despair weighted around her midriff as she railed aloud at her absent husband, ‘Dougal you had no right to go to war. You didn’t need to abandon us. You had a choice.’

Kneeling awkwardly she scrabbled in a box under the bed for the creamy handmade blouse of fine linen, a reminder of days of comparative comfort in the spartan big house in Kyle. A heat of loathing welled up. She’d left before her father could turn her out; before he excluded her from the family and the church; scorned and banished because she dared to question his Brethren beliefs. With effort she subdued those thoughts. Her breath caught. . . .

Too cold to take the baby out tonight. But before work tomorrow, the pawn shop would exchange the garment for enough cash for several days of food.

And then there was Friday night and Saturday with the pittance from the Jew family to carry them through their Sabbath without flouting Shabbat rules. She abhorred their beliefs, so different from her own; detested her need for the work to survive. It was hard to be grateful for infidel help to scrape by each week . . . and then the humiliation when she felt compelled to accept the gift of a woollen hand-me-down for the baby. Kindly meant, but . . . .

Amid the flurry of talk with the Dalziels and Florrie as they left, the mother didn’t notice the haze over the child’s eyes.

In the car on the way back to Royal Terrace the girl clasped her young sister into her side with a massive hug and fell in a deep sleep against her brother’s shoulder. When they arrived the father carried the child into the building and up the stairs to the grandmother’s unit to sleep on.

When it was difficult to rouse the child for the evening meal the mother whispered, ‘I hope she’s not sickening for something.’

At the table she said to the girl, ‘You’re very quiet little one. Didn’t you hear Mrs Brown ask what you’d like to eat? Scrambled eggs or haddock?’

Part one – Awakening . . .

Chapter one

Maroochydore – 15 July 1976: The youth was fired up. Curled forward over lowered handlebars, he narrowed his concentration to the gaps between his wheels, the edge of the bitumen and the blue of the Morris Mini he was pacing. Exhilarated as the Mini accelerated, the boy matched his energy to its speed and the uneven flow of vehicles. The cords of sinew in his neck and limbs strained with the intensity of his pedalling. But he was careful as well.

Waiting for the car ahead to ease into a left turn, the stance of a girl on the street to the right diverted his attention. Inquisitive, he abandoned the Mini challenge and wove cautiously through the traffic towards her. She was leaning against a street-light pole, head down, her face half-hidden by a floppy hat brim. He braked and coasted slowly. Foreign emotion and a curious awareness bubbled. Some of his sister’s postures flashed before him; he sensed uncertainty, loneliness. Embarrassment?

His gut churned, tingles rippled through his trunk and limbs. New compulsions; he wanted to hug her. To comfort? To protect? His bike veered towards the footpath, seemingly under its own volition. Closer, he could see it was the student, new to the school this week. She’d made her mark in class that morning.

‘Hello.’ Surprised that his voice sounded ordinary, he said, ‘I’m Alexander Marcou, one of the extra ones in your English class today. Our teacher was away. It must be rough coming in this far through the year. I started at the end of January and that was bad enough. . . . How are you settling in?’

He’d never seen a look so direct or eyes so blue. Blue, and clear, and deep.

‘I’m not, not yet,’ she said, ‘but I expect it will come alright. Thank you for asking. My name is Freya Dunbar.’

‘Where did you come from?’

‘Nambour this time. Just up the road. You’ve probably been there. It was Southport and Cleveland in the Redlands and a few other small places before that. What about you?’

‘Last place was Roma, out west if you don’t know of it.’

‘How do you like it here?’

‘A lot. I miss my old friends but it’s good near the ocean. My grandmother likes the milder climate and enjoys writing to Melbourne friends about living on the Sunshine Coast.’

It felt special talking with this girl. There was something different, transparent, about her, not something he could explain. His awareness shivered again; a pledge germinating. The words surfaced unbidden, ‘Will you be my girlfriend, Freya?’

He held his breath, holding the bike steady as her questioning gaze sought his again. Waiting, aware of the bright patch of light that reflected from his watch and hovered over a long crack on the weathered wood of the light pole, it seemed like slow motion as she kept looking . . . and examined him, unselfconsciously.

Freya tallied his features; nice face, kind expression, brown eyes, very dark brown, and glowing with friendliness, olive skin, inner vitality. Laughter crinkles at the corners of his mouth radiated out to meet short, tight black curls. Something shifted in her being, a scramble of emotions, exciting and comforting; alchemy beyond her grasp.

Their gazes held . . . and held. Her expression changed. When the tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth he caught the slight in-breath as her eyelids fluttered and pastel pink flushed from neck to forehead.

‘Yes,’ she said in a low voice, ‘I’d like that. But I should tell you I don’t know how to be a girlfriend.’

A certainty rolled over him. Crystal clear. This was his girl for always. Since the day his grandfather died he’d known it would happen sometime. But he hadn’t expected it this soon.

A swell of happiness filled his chest. ‘Let’s find out together then. Thank you Freya. . . . I’m sorry but I have to go now and deliver some stuff from Mum’s shop. See you at school tomorrow.’ He waved as he dodged a jay-walking pedestrian.

Freya started the long walk home, glad of the cooling breeze from the sea. The delights of the climb towards Alexandra Headland were more potent today. Sun glints from the water were brighter, the cries and swoops of the gulls more thrilling, the lace patterns on the sand after the thud and rush of the waves as they broke and receded spelled enchantment, and the spikiness of the pandanus foliage against the intense blue sky was more dramatic. The schoolbag on her shoulders was weightless.

Excitement about Alexander helped her to overcome the squirm of memory at the fiasco in class this morning. Too bad she’d been the first one Mr Gormley asked to read out her interpretation of the homework poem. The sniggers of classmates had mortified. When the teacher asked Graham Enfield next, he’d answered, ‘Nothing daft like she said. The chap was just talking about the land and the trees being brown and dry. Dunno why he needed to, but there was nothing about people having sad thoughts.’

She appreciated that Mr Gormley had tried to put her at ease. He’d said, ‘Maybe Freya has a point then; the poet could have been trying to suggest something more than the obvious. Poetry means different things to different people. It can depend on personal experiences, your mood at the time. It’s not like maths or science; there’s no absolute right or wrong.’

But Freya knew the harm was done. She was the class weirdo – or someone would have spoken at break-times. Maybe it would be hard to fit in here. She’d longed for close friends but with the family so often on the move and Mama’s awkwardness it hadn’t happened anywhere.

Her mood lifted. It hadn’t put Alexander off! He was kind as well as looking kind. Now there was Alexander, she’d try not to care.

How come she’d agreed to be his girlfriend? All she knew was his name, he rode a bike, he seemed mannerly, and he helped his Mum.

But there were these unfamiliar thoughts, unfamiliar feelings. She hadn’t wanted to look away from him; it was as if they’d been friends forever. She couldn’t explain it. . . . Then the words came. Vital essence – it had radiated from him, enfolding her. She felt it still – comfort and a sense of wholeness. He would be fine with Mama, she was sure. Anyway Mama was good right now.

The sudden beep from a car swerving to avoid a dog jerked Freya into the everyday world again. She’d walked too far. After crossing the road away from the shore, she backtracked to enter Mayfield Street and then turned left for Victor Street. Her steps dragged to a halt and she propped her back against the fence of an empty block. There was serious thinking to do and it had to be quick – before she got home.

Gramma was staying for weeks yet, till after Douglas’s and Ness’s birthdays. And Gramma was seriously weird – about everything. Nothing and no-one was alright; the unseemly dress of the young, the violent programs on TV, that she no longer attended church or youth group, too much sport, that Papa was always working, that Mama should be a better cook seeing as she’d taught her so well. . . . No recognition that it made sense for dress and food and activities to be different in a warm country. . . . Or it might be too hot or too cold and the wind was a nuisance. And Gramma always wanted to eat in her own room; took off with her meal as soon as the grace was said.

With Mama already treading on eggshells, torn between what Gramma might approve of and how Douglas wanted to celebrate his coming-of-age birthday, Freya decided she couldn’t chance Gramma’s disapproval. Mama’s depression hadn’t surfaced for ages but they all knew how unpredictable it could be. So . . . Alexander would remain her secret until Gramma was safely returned to Scotland.

Freya just knew Alexander would co-operate even if he didn’t understand. It would be difficult but essential. She wanted to think some more but arriving home late could cause ructions with Gramma about lack of consideration for Mama.

She squared her shoulders, donned a neutral expression and battled to set aside the ever-present wariness about Gramma. But the thoughts kept rolling. There was more to it than the never-ending negatives with the family. Gramma could be quite charming; in shops and the library and such. And she fawned over her friend Mrs Atkinson, for sure because her husband was a clergyman. Freya grappled for the elusive flashes about Gramma that niggled below the surface. But she was never able to dredge them up or explain the shooting heat across her skull at times.

Bursting to tell someone about Alexander, Freya over-ruled the idea again. Mama could never keep a secret around Gramma. There wasn’t even a far-away friend she might write to. She’d have to wait for weeks till Douglas was home from school in Brisbane. He’d keep her news safe. She wouldn’t miss Doug so much anymore. How wonderful if he and Alexander could become friends.

Chapter two

14 August: It was mid-afternoon. Freya was keeping an eye on Gramma in a sheltered corner of the patio, looking tense and out of place in her long sleeves and black dress. Even the white lace trims didn’t soften the effect of shadow around her. Surrounded by a profusion of green ferns and the patterned leaves of outsized monstera deliciosa plants it looked as if she was holding court, cosseted among cushions, with a fluffy dark wrap around her knees. Freya just hoped she would eat sociably today instead of taking off as usual.

Gramma’s dour expression was at odds with the light-hearted banter between Douglas and his two school friends as they moved chairs, plants and three small tables into place, under Freya’s direction. Freya felt as if she was fielding jagged spikes of disapproval. Was Gramma objecting to the presence of Doug’s friends? Maybe she’d envisaged a ‘family only’ event because she’d timed the visit to coincide with the two special birthdays. Freya was thankful Gramma hadn’t actually voiced any censure and she was pleased that Doug had accepted Papa’s suggestion to invite other friends only for the beach party later. Fortunately Gramma wouldn’t be there.

When everything was right Freya disappeared to collect a package and to look for Nessie who was likely to feel slightly put out by the older company and the emphasis on Doug. Freya crossed her fingers hoping she’d got things right to keep Nessie and Gramma happy with each other.

The first idea was a hit. Ness had done a little jig when Freya asked her to take responsibility for serving Gramma’s food and drinks. And now she hoped the doll’s outfit gifts would keep Ness showing off and telling stories to her grandmother for most of the afternoon.

Freya’s inspiration had come during a flying after-school visit to the Marcou shop when she saw Alexander’s grandmother making doll’s clothes. Ness didn’t seem to love dolls for themselves, more for their appearance and the joy of stage-managing them. Old Mrs Marcou had been delighted to help Freya on Saturday mornings between customers. Together they’d designed and made three stylish, colourful and modest collections with accessories. And three more sets were in the making, to be ready for Ness’s birthday just before Gramma left.

Today Freya held her breath until Ness’s excited reaction and double hugs convinced her she’d hit another jackpot. The next marker of success would be if Ness could divert Gramma’s attention from any lurking cause of displeasure. Freya was banking on Gramma’s outright favouritism towards Ness, such an engaging little miss unless thwarted or ignored. A bit like Gramma perhaps?

Papa tended the sausages and steak on the barbeque, turning them expertly with long tongs, simultaneously checking the onions, corn cobs and tomatoes.

Doug offered to take over and mock-frowned at being deprived of a chance to nibble on a snag when Jacob waved him off. He said good-naturedly, ‘Smells good. I’m starved.’ Knowing his father preferred to be occupied and out of the limelight, he said, ‘I’ll grab the drinks from the fridge and get them into an Esky with some ice.’ They’d agreed no alcohol till the beach party. And no mention of it in Gramma’s hearing.

Claire and Freya laid out salads and condiments, and covered the dishes with net domes to ward off stray flies. Freya relaxed when Ness happily started up her make-believe on the floor next to Gramma and smiled to herself as the old lady took part in the conversation, even beaming from time to time. With her bevy of dolls the child chattered non-stop, mixing and matching clothes, describing the changes and parading them in front of Gramma, embroidering stories around recent activities at school, a Sunday School lesson and outing.

Freya heard her say of an imaginary trip to Brisbane, ‘This is perfect for travel. See the comfortable styling around the shoulders and the wide skirt hem.’ Her sister’s well-developed eye for detail was a surprise. She must have picked up the patter from TV. Maybe Ness would end up in the fashion industry and her disinterest in school lessons wouldn’t matter so much.

All the Dunbars were on best behaviour, their unplanned movements almost like a choreographed ballet. In turn each one spent time with the old woman, making a special effort to keep her in the loop. This birthday was to have no spoiled memories for anyone, especially Doug.

First Papa explained again how they’d planned the program for the afternoon; Gramma disliked surprises. Then Mama checked that everything on the menu suited her, before Freya let her know they’d be starting to eat in around ten minutes or so. Next, Douglas took each friend separately to talk with her. After the first one spoke with ease about Scotland and the weather there, Gramma seemed to preen with the male attention.

A pity she didn’t react that way to Papa thought Freya.

Freya’s eagle eyes monitored her mother regularly and unobtrusively. Claire was beginning to wilt but didn’t seem unduly tense. Jacob was watching too but Freya knew Papa didn’t always recognise the strain early enough. She’d coax Mama to rest a little before the trip to the beach. All was well with Ness and Gramma. Freya started to unwind; no upsets in the offing; for now.

When the food was ready and piled for serving, Jacob called on Gramma to say grace. Freya caught the surprised glances between her parents when Agnes quoted from the famous words of Rabbie Burns, finishing up, ‘we hae meat and we can eat and so the Lord be thankit.’ So Gramma was tuning in to the lightness of the occasion. They’d been expecting her usual long and weighty words of thanks.

With a gentle nudge from Freya, Ness shone in her hostess role, offering Gramma various bowls, replenishing her plate at intervals, and carrying a drink and fruit on request. The others helped themselves, changing chairs and places at table after they’d lined up for second serves. Conversation was carefree. Doug and his mates were optimistic about their final high school exams, their only concern to meet the standard of their first-choice university. As appetites were satisfied the talk tailed off.

Freya’s mind was off on a tangent, assailed by a surprise thought. With all of them walking so gingerly around Gramma, they were actually rewarding her awkwardness. It didn’t seem right. What would happen if Mama and Papa revolted? She supposed they’d tried. There must be reasons for them tolerating how things were.

Her train of thought was interrupted when Jacob rose to his feet and ceremoniously tapped a spoon against his glass. ‘I won’t make a speech, but on behalf of Claire, Freya, Ness and myself I want to wish Douglas a very happy eighteenth birthday, his gateway to adult life. We are proud of you son and delighted that your grandmother was able to be here for this important occasion.’

As he sat down, Freya started the ‘Hip-hip-hurrah’ triple and launched them all into singing For he’s a jolly good fellow.’ Everyone joined in with gusto, even Gramma.

From a corner table, Ness carried a number of parcels into Doug’s lap and insisted that he start opening them. Following the family ritual he exclaimed over each one, in particular the upmarket telescope from Claire and Jacob. He knew it would have challenged their budget. Freya was standing beside him as he opened her gift of a special lens for the telescope and blushed at his big hug when he asked how she knew what to get.

She said, ‘I wrote to your mate Arthur in Nambour. He gave me all the details.’ Surrounded by books, a camera, a shirt, and goggles from his friends, Douglas was vaguely aware that there was nothing from Gramma.

When chatter about the presents wound down, Gramma stood to make her own speech. After a homily admonishing Douglas to keep to the ways of the Lord, she handed him a handsome black leather-bound Bible with gilt printing on the cover. In a solemn voice she said, ‘As the future unfolds I trust you will use this book to guide your life and use it as your family Bible.’ She opened it to the frontispiece and showed him where she had entered the details of his birth, in perfect script.

Douglas thanked her as he examined the entry and reached towards her with a clumsy hug which she evaded. She drew herself up to full height and went on, ‘I haven’t finished yet. Now . . . not that I am thinking of dying soon, I want you to know Douglas, that my will names you as sole beneficiary. God be with you.’ And she sat down.

Freya heard a soft gasp from Mama, and an aside from Papa, ‘I hope she doesn’t leave him with any debts.’

As Doug made his thank-you speech to Gramma, Freya was half listening, relieved that Mama had primed him to thank Gramma for coming so far for the occasion. By a fluke of the wording, his lack of interest in the inheritance passed Gramma by. Freya was trying to think about what her parents had said. Was Gramma really poor? Or was Papa being sarcastic? And maybe Mama was not as accepting of Gramma’s ways as she always seemed.

Freya was jerked out of the reflection as Douglas said, ‘Gramma if you decide to come down to the beach later we’ll find you a comfortable spot.’

Horrified, Freya held her breath. It would spoil everything if Gramma accepted. She’d invited Alexander to join the party later on, trusting he’d blend in anonymously with a couple of other families; school friends of Douglas from Nambour days, a Scots family that Claire had befriended there, and a family here in Maroochydore that had taken Ness under their wing after she’d been bullied at school one afternoon.

‘No thank you Douglas. It is kind of you to ask, but I’ve arranged for my friend Mrs Atkinson to keep me company tonight. Enjoy yourselves.’

Freya breathed out gently.

Chapter three

By the time the Dunbar contingent reached the beach, Doug’s Brisbane friends had reserved an ideal spot and were already set up with games on the firmer sand by the water. The tide was rolling out. As other guests arrived, happy greetings and catch-up conversations floated in a gentle breeze.

Underneath her delight with the sense of fun around them all, Freya was poised at the edge of the group as she watched for Alexander, wondering how to mask their connection and hoping he would just meld in with the throng. Only eight more days till Gramma left.

Happy sounds all around. High-pitched voices from the youngsters goaded floundering parents to greater efforts; the sharp thwack of bat on cricket ball, the softer thud of quoits settling over the marker, screeches as a ball in the game of catch was retrieved from the cool of the ebbing waves. A friendly pooch from nowhere lured the young men into a marathon of throwing sticks into the sea. Little ones squealed with delight as the pup shook himself all over them. Even Mama was well enough to join in the quoits game, but she’d made her apologies after chatting with old friends, saying she should get back to make supper for Gramma and Mrs Atkinson.

Jacob had been hovering and Freya knew he was relieved that Claire was leaving. He draped a cardigan over her shoulders as they walked off, his arm protective around her. Freya was relieved when Ness ran after them. She’d been bothered in case her sister noticed her link with Alexander.

As soon as she saw Alexander, Freya waved casually before walking him over to the group gathered around Doug and his motorbike. As soon as Alexander was drawn into the enthusiastic young men’s chat she left them to join a Frisbee throwing game.

When the breeze cooled, Douglas lit the bonfire and one by one people settled behind the blazing logs, snuggling under rugs, jacket hoods up, backs against a bank of sand, looking out beyond the surf to the glowing orange moon. A boom-box sounded out in the background. One of Doug’s mates was settled possessively beside it, changing the mix of tapes from time to time.

Pleased that she’d unobtrusively manoeuvred into a spot beside Alexander, Freya was doubly delighted when Doug sought him out to continue discussing the motorbike. And more so when her brother asked Alexander if he’d like to ride pillion on a summer holiday trip to Glen Innes in Northern New South Wales. Doug was keen to visit a man who had telescopes for viewing the night skies, and offered opportunities for people to use his special camera under supervision. Alexander was enthusiastic, hoped his parents would agree. Freya was envious when Doug talked about field trips to explore local history as well, especially the bushranger stories. She couldn’t have asked for more; her two favourite young men had clicked. Doug would understand when she told him about Alexander.

After a while the chatter died down and some were singing along with the popular songs. Backs against the dune, with the day’s warmth leaching out of the sand, Alexander sneaked

Reviews for Past imperfect

[drled_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Synopsis: Oscar is off at a convention while Sigrid is holding things together at the precinct. She hears that one of the officers she transferred back to his original area has been killed. Not long after a clerk is also killed. It isn't apparent that the two are connected until they find that the gun that killed the officer was run through her computer. Very soon it also becomes evident that both were killed by someone working for the police. Sigrid's team is taken off the case, but she keeps up with what is happening and with the help of Tillie identified the culprit and helps bring him down.Review: Another page turner.

[lamour_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is my second Maron novel and I'm hooked. Again Lieutenant Sigrid Harald is the focus of the crime and solution especially since a cop is suspected to be the killer and the descriptions and other hints suggest it may be her dead father's best friend. An interesting aspect of Maron's narrative technique was to have a second narrator, a Sergeant in her detachment who is put on the investigative team when it seems clear that a cop is the killer.The question asked by the novel is "Who polices the police?" The answer is the Internal Affairs Department, a group who are never appreciated by fellow police officers. In this story we can see how the atmosphere changes in an investigative unit when they all fall under suspicion.Sigrid learns her "perfect" father was a real human with weaknesses like everyone else and while she is hurt by the revelations, she learns much about her mother's strength and character from the revelations. We also learn how her father died, something that hovered in the background in the previous Sigrid Harald novel I read.

[condorena · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

One of the best in this excellent series.

[laytonwoman3rd · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

No. 7 in the Lieutenant Sigrid Harald series. A past-it detective is shot on his way home from a routine late night ramble with his dog. A young Police Administrative Aide from the precinct he had been temporarily assigned to meets an untimely end a few nights later. Sigrid puzzles over the detective's connection to her long-dead father, and ultimately finds another connection that could be the key to both deaths. Pieces of her parents' past are revealed to her, with consequences apparently reserved for the next book! Oscar Nauman appears only in answering machine messages, but Sigrid takes another reluctant step or two in the direction of fashion when her grandmother sends her a gift certificate for an expensive make-over which includes "having her colors done". Lots of fun for the reader, if not for Sigrid. Perfect distraction for a couple lazy afternoons

[jamespurcell · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Solid police procedural as two disparate murders come together to cast a shadow over Sigrid's team. This series continues to produce good stories.