Not the Body: A Story of Pain, Degradation, Intrigue, Corruption, Spirituality and Love.

By Shirlie K Plomer

Laugh, empathise, sympathise, and often be brought to tears. Prepare to become involved on a very personal basis.

Based on many different aspects of one familys life situations, Not the Body takes you from the happy birth of a precious baby down through the dark and sinister dealings of the police and government in generala miscarriage of justice and corruption in high places.

While it is an expos of lust, graft, and greed, it is also a love story of great depth and contains humour and happiness with an underlying spiritual message that fortifies the inner souls of innocents caught up in a horrifying, dehumanizing crime.

Not the Body is a spellbinding read for those who love a story that truly engages all their senses.

A real keeper!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Mar 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504301466

Shirlie K Plomer

Shirlie K Plomer, a new and compelling author, was sought out by Madeline Cruise for the writing of one extraordinary episode in her long and productive life. Shirlie’s first book Not the Body captures readers, keeping them pinned to their seats, indicating that this Australian author’s future writings are destined to become a must-have inclusion on many a booklover’s bucket list. Shirlie is quiet and shy and avoids gatherings, so sadly, she will only be found on bookshelves. She dedicates her happy life to writing, art, and family.

Book preview

PREFACE

THE LEAD UP

A rare and treasured privilege was mine, when joining a table of several writers at ‘The Pencil Jotters Annual World Seminar’, held in Connecticut, which was attended by 750 authors, and would-be authors, from every corner of the Globe. We were all eager to hear the diverse messages, instructions, suggestions, and teachings of those who had made their solid mark on the ‘Best Seller List’, having each sold millions of copies of their much-sought-after works. Truth, Fiction and Poetry were the topics of our speakers.

Being just one of the ‘would-be’s’, I felt a little awkward sitting there, with the famous Madeline Cruise (author of over 50 best-selling novels), who had invited me to accompany her on that journey to the other side of the world. We were great friends, and considered ourselves the same age, although she was 45 years my senior. We laughed about this often, especially since we shared the same birth date, with me soon to turn 59, and she to reach her 104th year.

We’d first met at a Writer’s Club back home in Australia, where Madeline had been the guest speaker. This ‘old’ friend had soon become my ‘new’ friend, after I’d edged my way to the front of the queue, in order to seek an autographed copy of her latest book – and to congratulate her on a very powerful and informative address. While she continued signing books, I headed back to my table to enjoy the hearty meal provided, but kept looking for another chance to seek her company. When all were fed and about ready for the second half of the function, I slipped over to Madeline’s table, to ask if she’d mind giving me her mailing address, for I had so many questions to ask someone of her magnitude in the Writer’s world. How delightful to learn that this great lady lived only one half hour’s drive from my home. Madeline had invited me to visit the following week – and the next and the next and the next - where we were able to chat on many subjects, including sewing, gardening, art, politics, world travel, and spiritual matters etc. – not forgetting writing, of course. There didn’t seem to be much this dear lady was not familiar with.

Quickly we became very close, enjoying our weekly visits very much. I always took Madeline a bottle of her favourite non-alcoholic wine, or flowers, such as violets, roses or irises – which I knew she was very fond of, even though they brought a mist to her eyes in memory of something dear to her heart. She had not divulged the reason, and out of respect, the question was not raised.

I’d never known anyone quite like her; the word ‘woman’ was definitely not a fitting title, for she was indeed a true ‘Lady’ – gentle, nicely spoken, always dressed in well fitting tailored suits and a hat (no doubt bought with the very lucrative royalties she received from her book sales), and I never heard her utter a word against another living soul, for she could only find goodness, even divineness, in every person she met or mentioned. Old enough to be my grandmother, or even great grandmother, I just thought of her as a friend whom I’d grown to love dearly, and who loved me in return. When Madeline requested I join her on the trip to the ‘The Pencil Jotters World Seminar’, and insisted on covering all my costs, I was blown away!

As this is a lead-up to her own story, I will not elaborate on the message she calmly addressed to all the writers in the huge auditorium. At the end of her talk the applause was almost deafening, and a standing ovation took place. She graciously said, ‘Thank You’, and then uttered astounding words, which sent me red from crown to toe:

‘I have decided to lay down my pencil and jot no more – in other words, to put my computer aside, at long last.’

A gasp of astonishment reverberated around the room. Madeline continued,

‘But I have one story left inside me, which has not been revealed to anyone for many years. Almost two decades ago, during one part of my long lifetime, whilst in another part of the world, I wore a disguise, and was known under another name. Something incredible took place, and the media-scoop swept the Globe. Reporters were very excited. They relentlessly followed me everywhere I went – printing many front page reports – ‘revealing’ false answers I hadn’t given to questions they hadn’t even asked! However, in other countries, the real story has never been linked to me, Madeline Cruise, and nobody has ever heard the full truth of it.

‘Nevertheless, my young friend here,’ and she pointed down to me, ‘a good writer and listener, is the author I’ve chosen to set my story to print.

‘As you well know, all other books I’ve written have been spiritual works, or crime fiction, but this is the real thing – and, no doubt, will once again send shock-waves all around the world.

‘Shirlie, please stand up ….. Ladies and gentlemen, please keep your eyes and ears open for the release, in due course, of our next book, written by Shirlie K. Plomer.’ She put her hands together, whilst clapping and winking at me.

With my mouth wide, in astonishment and stupefied confusion, I rose uneasily on jellied legs: this was the very first mention I’d heard of any such thing, and I wondered why she had told the crowd, before even a hint of it to me – or asking if I’d be interested in writing for her? We’d spoken at length about her past and her experiences; we’d covered just about everything. I thought I knew her fascinating, full life’s story – what more could there possibly be that I could put on paper, and do justice to? My head was reeling. I was shocked, excited, dumbfounded, and, actually, just wanted to be sick, but was brought back to reality by the people crowding around our table. They were eager to shake my hand and ask all kinds of questions about the upcoming book – of which I knew nothing!

The flashing of cameras, which had previously been directed to Madeline and the other speakers, was now turned upon me. TV cameras there to cover the seminar, had spotlights that almost sent me blind with their bursts of bright white.

Hardly a memory of what happened during the rest of the evening comes to mind, until Madeline and I were seated in the taxi and being driven to our hotel. I don’t think I’d even found the strength to speak to her at all until that time. Turning to my friend, I asked, ‘Madeline, what was that all about? Was it a stunt? Do you really want me to write for you, and do you really have such a hidden story? I’m so confused and confounded – and feel so inadequate for such a challenge! I do not believe I have the ability to write for you – for you, of all people!’

‘Nonsense,’ she quipped; ‘Your writing is excellent, and yes, it is true; and yes, I do have a hidden story. You must remember that I am a lot older than you, and my life has been well filled with more than most people even dream of. I’ve made each precious moment count, because I’m so grateful to have been given this gift of life. You will be writing the story – putting it all together from the notes you take, while I tell of the happenings as they come back to mind, in dribs and drabs. You will be the author, not I, and this book will put you on the map, right up there with the best of them, you wait and see! I’m approaching my last years, so we must begin the moment we return to Australia. You do want to write it, don’t you?’ she asked with the emphasis on ‘want’.

I stumbled around for the correct words, but all that came out was a quiet, little, ‘Yes’m’, just as the taxi pulled up at the door of our hotel. Did I want to write her story? – Oh, boy, did I!!

When safely in our room, I hugged her, and she hugged me back, with such force that I thought this sweet, trim lady was likely to crush me! Apparently, Madeline had been searching for someone to trust with such a sensitive story, while all the time knowing it must be written before her last breath had been drawn. She said she’d grown to love me, and knew two birds could be ‘downed’ with the one stone (metaphorically speaking), for not only could her story be published, but this was a means of getting my life as a writer rolling along – adding that, once it was in print, there would definitely be ongoing publishing of any book I should produce. Madeline wanted her secret revealed for herself and her loved ones, as well as for me.

I burst into tears of appreciation, not only of this gift handed to me, but for the love I had for her, and for the sad thought this precious lady would not be in my life for too much longer. Her announcement at the function, of ‘laying down her pencil to jot no more’, then mentioning she was approaching her last years, was the only time she had ever hinted that her life’s journey would soon be coming to an end.

However, it was plain that, at that time, she was healthy and bright, sharp of mind and with all her faculties intact, including clear hearing and eyesight. While I wore glasses, she did not need such, and confided that taking antioxidants for most of her life had been the answer to her long years. I made a mental note to purchase these ‘natural products’ myself, as soon as possible.

Here then is Madeline’s story ……

Chapter One

A SAD FAREWELL

E very mother fortunate enough to have given birth to a healthy and complete child, experiences a form of euphoria when seeing before her eyes, a miniature resemblance to herself or the baby’s father. I joined the billions of mothers, since time began, who have cherished such memories. All those long years ago, as my eyes first rested upon our little blanket-wrapped-bundle’s face, I saw an exact reflection of his father, while the hands and fingers were tiny replicas of my own. He had entered this world with a profusion of dark curls, a beaming smile, and eyes that seemed to peer into the depth of my soul.

We gave him only one name – Patrick – son of Cedric and Elsie Maine.

In those days it was considered important for mothers to stay home with their children, whilst frowned upon was the idea of holding a job, and leaving babes or children of any age, in the care of another, unless absolutely necessary. I became a ‘home mum’, devoted to giving most every moment to Patrick’s training, whilst showering him with an abundance of love. Cedric was always in and out of work, which made it difficult for me to afford the necessary baby needs, so both Patrick and I went without, while his father drank away the bulk of any earnings, at the pub.

Cedric was fourteen years my senior, and such a loving and jovial person when we courted, but totally different as a husband. Terror entered my heart on our very wedding night, when he slapped me around because I was unsure of what was expected in the wedding bed. He had been married previously, and had fathered three lovely children, but fancied fathering no others - a wish he’d failed to share with me.

After a few months of married ‘bliss’, I remember becoming quite ill, and needing to go for a medical check-up, with Cedric’s warning that I’d better not be pregnant, or ‘he’d do something about it’, ringing loud and clear. That my condition might have anything to do with pregnancy was, to my mind, out of the question! However, the result was, indeed, confirmation that a baby was on the way. Cedric was furious, and yelled, ‘If it’s a boy, I’ll shove it right back where it came from,’ and from then on, terror was my constant companion.

Eventually, along came Patrick, and for a while, Cedric seemed quite taken with him. Nevertheless, for me, Cedric’s physical and mental abuses and our trials and tribulations continued until our boy was eighteen years of age, and ready for University. That’s when I separated from his father; when life became easier to bear; and when fear finally fled. There and then, the decision was made to have no other man in my life for as long as I lived! How sad, though, for when finally free of Cedric, I was now also without my precious son, who had begun his University studies far from home. Gone was the husband who had filled my days with misery, and gone was the boy who had filled my heart with joy; I felt so terribly alone!

Life doesn’t always proceed the way we plan, and within the year, I’d found the most precious soul-mate with whom to share the rest of my days. Untold happiness, comfort, friendship and total love became mine from the day I married Warren Cruise. Deciding to use my first given name of Madeline, instead of the middle name, Elsie, I was now Mrs. Madeline Cruise.

Warren had no children of his own, but loved my Patrick very much, though Pat could only ‘tolerate’ his new step-father, whom he saw only on occasions, when home for uni holidays.

Patrick studied well at University, and filled us with pride by graduating with Honours. He’d also met and married a very beautiful girl, named Jennifer Surmer, who gave birth to our two grandchildren, Kathleen and William, with just two years separating the pair. So those four Maines became a beautiful little Australian family.

Alas for us, for no known reason and none ever proffered, Jennifer disliked me from the beginning. Patrick insisted we not ask her for an explanation lest she become upset, which, in turn, would cause him stress. Never able to call me ‘Mum’, or even ‘Nanna’ once the children were born, she continued to give me no title other than ‘Hallo’ or ‘Goodbye’, nor would she introduce me to her friends. Warren and I lived at Woolgoolga, which is on the mid-north coast of New South Wales, just under midway between Sydney and Brisbane, while the ‘family’ lived in Brisbane, Queensland, about five and a half hours’ drive from us.

Needless to say, we were constantly treated unfairly, and much heartache prevailed. Jennifer always chose to take the children to her parents’ home in Sydney on school holidays or special celebration days, whilst we were left alone and longing for a chance to hold our grandchildren in our arms, share their little hugs, watch them grow – and to share the other grandparents’ joy. An occasional ‘invite’ to Pat’s home, for a day, just gave Jennifer further opportunity to ignore us by leaving the room until it was time for us to go (the children having been given orders to stay upstairs and do their homework). Just the same, she was Pat’s wife, and if he loved her, then I had no right not to do so, too. I admired her for the mother she was to our grandchildren, as they had grown to be intelligent and polite, while excelling in most every activity they took part in. My prayers were that one day she would like me, and perhaps might even give me a name, but things just became more difficult.

It wasn’t long before Patrick’s high-pressure work over-burdened him, and struggles to ‘keep up with The Jones’s’ created more financial anxiety, causing his health to deteriorate. He would sometimes want to visit Warren and me, but that meant Jennifer became more agitated. My heart was breaking, the tears kept flowing, and the concern for him kept growing. All this mattered not to Jennifer, but Pat had reached breaking-point, and I could take no more.

Eventually, the constant shunning and the sorrow, plus my fear for Patrick’s state of mind, caused me to tell Pat, as gently as possible, that, for the sake of all of us, Warren and I must stand aside and remove ourselves from the family connection. They’d been married twenty-two years, and we were both getting on in age. It hurt us more than anyone could ever know. Warren and I both cried – me doing so uncontrollably throughout the days and the nights, unable to concentrate on anything other than the loss of this family, the loss of my ‘darling little boy’, never to see him or my grandchildren again. We stopped sending gifts, and they cut out any further contact; it was just as though we’d never existed – but, oh, that continuing pain!

Having had the strength to deliberately set our precious family free had astounded me. We all try to play our cards right while life deals different hands to each, and accepting the wins along with the losses is what the game is all about. Wondering about Pat’s health was keeping this old mother deep in the blues, until one day, I told myself: ‘Enough is enough; get on with your life, Madeline,’ and that’s when burying myself in as many activities as possible became the priority: helping others in any way I could; typing encouraging letters to post to the elderly; gardening and spending time at the library. These worked well during each daytime, but every night found this aging woman depressed and yearning. Warren was regularly holding me tightly in his arms, assuring me that ‘everything will be okay.’

Three years after standing back from the family, we both decided to go to Brisbane and see if we could just get a glimpse of them from a distance, because, although their phone number was still in the book, I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the phone: it would be so awkward! We just wanted to know if they were all okay. We’d previously called the only friends Patrick had once known in Woolgoolga, but they’d not heard from him for a long time; it was as though, once free from me, he’d also freed himself from everyone else in the area.

One of those friends was now working for the council, holding up the ‘lollypop’ signs along the highway road-works; a good job, but one which was a sad comedown from the executive work he once enjoyed. Another had become an alcoholic; another’s marriage had broken up, with his wife having taken out what is known today as an apprehended violence order (AVO) against him; while yet another dear friend had become a ‘mental case’, we were told. Here were the very four friends Pat had tried to impress with his own career as a civil engineer. Endeavouring to ‘stand out’ in the eyes of others is never a pathway to true peace and happiness!

With no-one able to tell us how Patrick and Jennifer were doing, we’d driven off to find them for ourselves. When only part way to Brisbane, a crazy, drunken driver in a stolen car came over to our side of the road, and hit us head-on at over one hundred and fifty miles per hour. We both had to be cut from our mangled vehicle and taken to hospital, where I was placed in an induced coma for almost three months, suffering from multiple broken bones in my body, head and face. When I came back into ‘focus’, most of my injuries had healed, but I was still very weak and unable to move. The first words I’d whispered, when realising I was in hospital, was to ask after Warren, only to be told that he, too, was in a coma, and would most likely never come out of it – in fact, they thought it may be the wisest idea to turn off his life support, but they’d been waiting for my authorisation.

These were not the words I cared to hear! I had no intention of giving consent for life to be removed from my Warren while any sign of breath still remained. I refused, and the moment I was able to be moved, insisted on being wheeled to his room. No words can describe the pain that shocks and then freezes you when your loved one is seen in such a state, with plasters and dressings over most of his dear body; tubes coming from his mouth, nose, and many sections of his torso; with machines all around him, issuing charts, graphs, numbers and beeps. I could barely recognise any part of my darling, but was wheeled up close and helped to momentarily stand, enabling me to touch him and kiss his once lovely face, and whisper to his Soul of my everlasting love.

To regain strength I remained in hospital a further fourteen days, during which time Warren was visited two or three times daily, with me whispering to him of the power within, of how we are not our body, but rather we are the Soul within the body, pleading to his Higher Self to return him to consciousness. How I wept at what seemed the unfairness of it all, feeling so small and incapable without him holding me tightly and assuring me that everything would be alright. It was now my turn to do the same for him!

After leaving hospital and returning home to my large and lonely dwelling overlooking the sea, I made a vow not to watch TV, or read newspapers, or get involved in anyone else’s sorrow and suffering, because, once we allow ourselves to become steeped in media reports, we sometimes ‘take on’ the hurts of others – there was already enough sadness and pain of my own. For a few weeks, I had some nurses and neighbours come to help me as I tried to move my bones, but soon I was able to manage alone.

From then on, the only one to mean anything to me was my Warren. Daily visits continued in a little car purchased with the insurance money from our vehicle, which had been totally destroyed in the accident. I found his favourite books – all stories of ‘The Saint’ by Leslie Charteris, which I actually began to enjoy whilst reading them to him. I believed even if Warren showed no sign of comprehension, the Soul is still present, and the words are being received.

It was no surprise that so few friends came to enquire of our wellbeing, because long ago I’d driven them away by the constant chatter about my loss of Patrick. I didn’t blame them, nor really care, because my need now was for freedom – time to plan what to do with the rest of my life.

After visiting Warren in this way for two years, and doing not much else, other than house cleaning, gardening and creating a few small oil paintings, I decided to contact some of the very nice hospital patients who’d given me their addresses before they’d left. Soon there was a happy bunch of friends of all ages, and some of us would meet in groups, or just visit one-on-one, and life was taking on meaning once more. I never missed a day of visiting my darling, as he was more important than anyone or anything else.

One day whilst reading to him, I remembered how he’d often told me he liked the way I wrote letters and articles, so I thought it might be a challenge to write a book of my own: I had many story ideas in my head, and had actually written little books for the grandchildren, back when they were babies. So I ‘went to town’ writing, and enjoying doing so! Eventually, there was not just one, but two books written and edited (as much as I was capable of doing – Warren had always done the editing of poems or articles I’d penned), and took them to a publisher in Sydney, flying there and back in the one day. To my great surprise they were accepted within a month, and within that same year, had gone to print, and began making good sales. The publishers asked for more novels, and so I wrote and wrote, receiving very gratifying reviews by the critics, attending many book-selling launches, and autographing until my fingers became numb. With good money rolling in, there was no longer any need for a pension: I was no longer a retiree!

Warren only had a couple of chapters read to him each day, but they were no longer about Simon Templar – The Saint: they were now the books written by his wife, Madeline Cruise. I found it a good experience, reading them aloud, and was able to return home to make changes needed before sending the drafts off to the publisher. My new friends were excited about my achievements, and although our meetings were fewer, we nevertheless kept in touch often.

Soon I was overwhelmed with work, and needed someone to help look after the business side of things for me; that was when a very bright young lady accountant named Connie Wright, came into my life, and from then on, I just left all my financial dealings in her very capable hands. I grew to love her dearly as a daughter, and her two young children as my own grandchildren. She taught me how to use my camera to its greatest advantage, and was also able to develop and print the films in her ‘dark room’, allowing me to add some nice pictures to my fiction stories.

Each person who walks into our life brings something valuable to add to it; we must remain aware and awake!

Chapter Two

BEGGARS KEPT KNOCKING

B ecause of my name as a writer, people were always coming to the door, seeking ideas and suggestions for their own literary efforts; or beggars would hear word of me, and come ringing the bell of the ‘wealthy lady.’ I endeavoured to assist them all, making sure to preserve time for my own life, as it is a sad fact that there are some who can, and will, drain you of all energy, should you permit it. For the beggars, I gave only a few dollars, together with a bottle of fruit juice and some sandwiches. Almost every week a new, interesting, lost individual would arrive at my door, and I’d even occasionally use some of their images, descriptions or circumstances in my stories.

We assist each other!

The house was such a big place to keep in order, and oft’ were the times that ‘moving’ crossed my mind; but what if Patrick or the grandchildren ever decided to visit – would relocating mean they’d never find me? I wasn’t sure what to do. Warren was still on life-support, and it was now twenty years since we’d parted company with the family. One morning, I finally got it into my ‘thick’ head that they would never be coming, and in fact, they may not even remember we existed. So eventually, I called for a taxi, rather than drive myself around in the holiday traffic, to go and seek advice. I’d go to town and enquire of the real estate people if I should put my house on the market and wait until it was sold from under me, or move into a new home right away. I’d look for something in the Coffs Harbour area, closer to the hospital, which was on a hill towards the Jetty end of town, and where I’d be so very much nearer to Warren.

When about to lock the door behind me, yet another ‘unfortunate’ came calling, and to tell the truth, I was a little put out by the inconvenience of it all – a taxi would be arriving at any minute, and it was a difficult time for this fellow to turn up. Here he was, looking like nothing I’d ever seen; he was filthy, and I could smell him before he even started down the walkway to the door. His hair was grey and matted, not tied back, and must have been almost to his waist in length, while his beard covered most of his face, and hung as long and tangled as the hair – it was putrid. His clothes were in threads – bits of rags, just held together here and there, and his shoes almost made me weep; the soles were gone altogether, and filthy feet poked out under the tops, which flapped and were still held to his feet by laces, hanging long, and dragging behind him. His hands were swollen and grimy, causing me to back-up when he held one forward.

Here was a homeless, desperate individual in the truest sense of the word – definitely a sight and subject for inclusion in one of my future works; but what could I do, when the taxi would be here in the next moment or so?

I said, ‘Look, my dear man, I am aware you are in need, but as you can see, I am on my way out, and my taxi is probably waiting up there by now – oh, well, if you would like to sit on that stool, I’ll quickly go and get you a drink and something to eat, okay?’

It was then the taxi driver honked the horn. I said to the beggar, ‘Just sit there and I’ll ask the taxi to wait a few minutes.’

Trying to hold my breath as I hurried past him, around the corner and up the stairs I went, to the driveway where, to my surprise, not one, but two taxis were waiting. Spreading my hands out in question, one driver alighted and came towards me, asking: ‘Excuse me, Madam, but is that beggar man okay down there?’ I asked what he knew of him and was told that he had been driving his taxi south without a fare, and saw this old fellow, all bent over and trying to struggle along the rough side of the road, when some young hooligans in a car drove as close as they could where, from the passenger window, one pushed him