Should you be bored, maybe your life unhinges? What to do? Mr Cesspoddle decided to trace his ancestors. It was an unusual name, or so his lecturer informed him. It was a name the lecturer became animated about and asked the man to return to his roots to find out where the family came from. This he did willingly.
If one were given the vision of hindsight one would tread warily but this man became vigorous in his search.
He knew the area from where they came, but had never visited and as he had little else to do, set off to find his roots.
If I were Mr Cesspoddle, I would have stayed at home, fired up the barbecue, read the encyclopaedia or learned to knit!
Please enjoy the journey – or not? Thank you for reading my efforts.
BOREDOM = GENEALOGY = DON’T GO THERE © Nadine Crabtree
‘Boredom': Literal meaning: Tiresome; Tedious; Dull. The dictionary's interpretation set out in regular and italic type. That word became my destiny.
Over the previous twelve-months; twenty five years of marriage, two children and my position as Chief Executive Officer of our family company all came to an abrupt end. My son set off for an indefinite stay overseas; my daughter enrolled at an overseas university; my wife left me for another man and as if this were not enough with which to contend, the family company was taken over by a nameless but devious astute corporate raider but that wasn’t all. My dog died. If I could set the aforementioned to music it would be a Country and Western Hit.
At first it was a luxury to have the house to myself, to eat what I chose when I chose but even that became tiresome and I began to mooch. The gardener kept the grounds neat; the housekeeper left the house immaculate; the cars gleamed. There was nothing for me to do apart from bore the neighbours with my daily presence.
Weeks passed and my life showed no improvement until one evening a neighbour suggested I enrol in one of the local Adult Education courses.
At first the thought of returning to academia at my age seemed utterly ridiculous, but he assured me that the courses were interesting and suited all age groups. Therefore an application went off for the handbook. With interest born of tedium I read through the pamphlet with suitable courses highlighted. Mechanics were definitely out, as were the arts or anything dealing with science.
My pondering left me a choice of two. Genealogy or Public Speaking. The idea of standing up in front of a sea of unfamiliar faces and prattling for thirty minutes about a subject that neither they, nor myself found remotely interesting, went by the wayside and so it came to Genealogy.
The person to whom my application was sent was a Mr. Andrew Byfield, an expert in the field, or so the literature assured me. My cheque accompanied the application.
The course commenced the following Tuesday and every Tuesday thereafter in a series lasting ten weeks. As the first Tuesday approached my resolve materialised into thin air. To make it into the classroom required a tad of Dutch courage, which fortunately was on hand in the shape of an untouched whisky bottle of indeterminate age; so at seven sharp, looking neat and trim and with a fixed grin and a mouthful of mints, my classroom was accessed.
Mr. Byfield introduced himself to each of his eight students then asked our surnames.
We, like the good and faithful students that we would become, responded. He wrote the names on the board. He then accessed his plethora of textbooks, looking for, and then cross-referencing the eight names. Our class contained one each of Smith, Booth, Martin, Frances, Benson, Deloitte, Cantrell and me - Cesspoddle. Mr Byfield seemed intrigued by my name, it being the first Cesspoddle he set out to trace.
He questioned us all with regard to our ancestry and noted that the Smiths, Booths, Martins, and Bensons were all of British stock while the Deloittes were French and the Cantrells were originally from southern Spain. The Cesspoddles he admitted were a complete anathema and he knew not from whence we came.
At the completion of lesson one my stratagem was clear. The Cesspoddles would no longer be a mystery. Their beginnings would be traced with alacrity and all the zest produced by a lemon, so lesson two was viewed with mild anticipation.
Mr Byfield had, during the preceding week and in his own time, researched through copious material into the beginnings of the Cesspoddles. He was able to trace the Cess back to Scandinavia but of the Poddles there was no trace. There were Paddles, Puddles and Poodles but not one Poddle. Mr Byfield pounced on me as we filed into the classroom.
"Was my spelling entirely correct?" He demanded.
An assurance was given that indeed my father always signed himself as Cesspoddle, as had my Grandfather before him. His next query was their town and country of birth. The family history was fragmented but as far as memory served my Father was a native of Alice Springs in the Northern Territory while my Grandfather's place of birth was Darwin in the same Territory and my Great Grandfather hailed from a place called Giles on the edge of the Gibson Desert in central Australia. The class became restless when the whole hour and a half disappeared in tracing my itinerant ancestry.
The following week Mr. Byfield arrived early on Tuesday evening weighed down by textbooks. My classmates arrived and glowered at me with various expressions ranging from indignation to animosity. Mr Byfield opened the class.
"As we have spent an inordinate amount of time on the Cesspoddles, I have copies of pertinent literature for the rest of the class from various Registrars of Births Marriages and Deaths so that we can research Mr. Cesspoddle’s ancestry. Frankly I find this research quite fascinating."
Mr Byfield walked around the desks passing out sheafs of paper to the other seven of my classmates who had been placated by voluble encouragement. He then turned his attention to me. "The name Cesspoddle and the place of birth of your Great Grandfather made me wonder if you are
perhaps related to the Aborigines whose tribal origins come from that particular area, but although the research was arduous; my resultant findings assure me there is nothing remotely resembling this name." He took a deep breath. "Would you be prepared to travel to Giles and find out what you can about your Great Grandfather's origins? It would be eminently interesting to say the least?" He smiled benevolently. At this juncture I likened him to a terrier with a favoured slipper, unable to let go until the item was satisfactorily chewed to a pulp.
Various ideas about such a visit filtered through my excited brain. "Why not?" My reason told me it would be better than being bored. The funding of such a trip posed no problem so I agreed.
"Then you are excused for the next few weeks and when you return we shall continue." Mr Byfield positively beamed.
The following day I travelled; booked to Alice Springs by air and onto Giles, driving overland in a rental 4X4. The main roads were sealed until the track reached the Musgrave Ranges when they became sandy, rocky, water logged and sometimes treacherous, but my quest was set. There was no turning back.
Giles loomed on the horizon like an oasis or so I imagined until the car nosed its way into town. Well to be honest, the nomenclature ‘town’ would be an exotic description. There was a pub/general store, a straggle of unkempt houses and an Undertaker. The main street was devoid of human life.
In the almost non-existent shade that the pub veranda afforded, I left the vehicle and wandered into the bar. Two patrons and twenty million flies were the sum total of Giles' society.
My dreams of finding some extrinsic or romantic arena from which my family sprang, deteriorated in that first
glimpse. Giles was appalling. Surely my Great Grandfather would not have come here by choice and if he had, from where, but more importantly why? Perhaps he arrived from somewhere even more remote and terrifying!
The barman glared at me inhospitably through half closed lids.
'Nothing ventured.' My mind kept telling me as I strolled nonchalantly across what seemed a kilometre from threshold to bar. "Waddayawan'?" Mr Barman asked disconcertingly.
"Well actually I'm trying to trace my ancestors. My Great Grandfather came from Giles, at least that's what I'm told. Perhaps you could shed some light on my dilemma?"
Mr. Barman scowled. "Wassaname?"
"Cesspoddle. My name is Sol." My smile was forced and he knew it. At the mention of Cesspoddle the two patrons dropped their beer glasses and shot out of the bar. Mr Barman slumped out of sight leaving me standing bewildered. Obviously lunatics peopled the town and as the Hotel was the only place in the dusty town in which to stay, I decided discretion was the better part of valour and determined to beat a hasty retreat.
Not to be. As my foot stepped onto the veranda the entire population revealed itself, standing in a semi circle waiting for me. Several of the twenty odd people held a rifle aimed directly at me.
"What on earth is the matter?" My voice squeaked in fear.
"Don't move a bloody muscle mate." One of the denizens shouted. His hatred seethed conspicuously. "Did'ja ask Marius about the Cesspoddles?" The burley man enquired.
"That's right. I'm only here to trace my family. There's nothing suspicious or illegal in that is there?" My knees were on the brink of collapse.
"Nothing illegal maybe, well not in the true sense, but we don't want your kind here. That Cesspoddle was booted out of town and warned not to come within a thousand k's of Giles."
My mouth hung open. What on earth was it that my Great Grandfather achieved in this town? Surely nothing short of murder? My mind fused, however the situation required explanation. The well used saying came to mind 'the sins of the fathers etc. etc.
"Can you tell me why you ran my Great Grandfather out of town?" I asked trying to keep a sense of humour in my voice.
"He weren't one of us, that's why. Never was and never would be and none of his litter ain't neither." The gunman replied.
"Do you mean he came from some other country? An immigrant?" At least I was getting somewhere with my Genealogical foray. If he arrived from somewhere like Czechoslovakia or one of the Baltic states the name could have been unpronounceable by the Anglo/Australians and perhaps, with a wisdom born of alien settlement, had changed it to make it more tongue palatable.
A murmur rippled through the group. A youngish woman pushed her way to the front. Her features were delicate but she walked with the gait only countrywomen acquire.
"So ya wan'na see where you come from do ya?" She asked roughly.
"That's why I'm here." My smile bounced off her. "Well... if that's what you really want?"
"It is." I answered implacably.
"Good oh! - This yours?" She pointed at the four-wheel drive.
"Yes.” I replied and felt at last I was getting somewhere.
“Do you know the homestead then?"
"No homestead." She answered succinctly hauling herself into the passenger seat.
My intrigue was soaring now. "Can you direct me?" "Yep." She answered and pointed to a track leading due west and which, after an hour, ran nowhere.
"Are you sure you know where you're going?" My hesitancy cloaked alarm. This young woman could be taking me into the Gibson Desert to shoot me, steal my money and sell the hire car. It wouldn't be the first time strangers were treated thus.
"Go right at them rocks." She pointed. The vehicle bumped and ground across the terrain then suddenly she shouted. "Stop. We gotta walk now."
A sigh of relief escaped me as I noticed she was unarmed. In blazing heat the woman led me up the outcrop and down the other side. There was no vestige of humanity or any clue that there had been. We walked a hundred yards or so hugging the side of the rock formation. She stopped and motioned to a fissure in a huge rock.
"Good heavens - did my Great Grandfather live in there?" My puzzled expression brought the hint of a smile to the corners of her mouth.
"Go and look." She stood back allowing me to pass through the aperture, then followed me in. "Straight ahead." She prodded. We stumbled in the gloom before accessing a huge cavern. Light filtered from above and our voices echoed.
"This is where the Cesspoddles came from?" Disbelief shrouded my query but then I remembered Mr Byfield and his belief that the Poddles may be of Aboriginal stock.
"Over 'ere." She led the way.
My eyes opened in astonishment. This had to be some kind of joke. The locals had a weird sense of humour and why pick on my family. Why not the Smiths or the Bensons or those French families?
"No one what's seen this can leave. You understand that Cesspoddle eh?”
"This is ridiculous. Where did you get it and what's it for?"
The woman bent to the ground and slid a panel open then held up my left hand, pushing the offensive family signet ring into my line of vision "Look at that sign on this contraption right there, it matches your ring don't it?"
I had to agree that the insignia on the panel unequivocally matched my ring. "What does it all mean? What is this machine?" My voice echoed with alarm.
"It means Mr. Cesspoddle that you don't belong here. This craft brought your relatives from hell knows where. Your Great Grandfather thought he wiped out everyone in Giles. A few got away. Our grandparents followed him and found this craft. Your Great Grandfather was the leader of some sort of expedition. His arrival here was viewed as hostile. The few who found this vehicle waited their chance, removed some vital piece so it couldn't leave. The contraptions been here ever since. Your Great Grandfather was hounded from the town. We don't know how he got on - no one bothered to find out. He was a despicable man if indeed he was human which they doubted. Everyone was glad to see the back of him."
"But that was my Great Grandfather - not me?" I whimpered.
"We can't take the chance. If you find the missing piece for this contraption then by all means take it back to where it came from."
"Why haven't you told anyone about this, the Government or the UFO Society or the Police?" My question was viable and I needed time to think.
"Because Mr Cesspoddle we don't believe in UFO's." She slammed the door shut, turned an exterior lock and left me clawing at the transparent porthole.
These notes are made in case anyone should ever find my body and wonder who I was. Please inform Mr. Andrew Byfield. Genealogist Adult Education UCD that my Great Grandfather came from Podd.
The End.