I am excited for Where's Joe Wellington's first guest post! Allow me to introduce you to my friend, my critique partner 'across the ditch', Léonie C. Kelsall. I'm honoured she agreed to not only do a search for Joe, but to write about the experience and share it with us. I had a good laugh while reading this, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Thank you, Lee, for contributing and for all the other stuff. Friends, here's Lee's search for Joe Wellington...
Hailing me from the other side of the ditch - known to non Kiwis/Aussies as the Tasman Sea - my lovely American-transplant friend sends a message, “Would you like to do a guest blog for me?”
“Sure,” I reply blithely, not
knowing what I'm committing to.
We exchange a few more positive
words via Twitter - we’re several thousand kilometres apart, and met via a
mutual desire to air our trials and tribulations on the road to becoming
published authors. Hey, how negative is that phrase? Shouldn’t it be ‘Triumphs, trials and tribulations’? I move for change.
Anyway, I digress. Lissa asks if I can
assist in the search for Joe Wellington. Of course I can. Mind you, I’ve
already tried to make more of the tale . . . young love lost; angry husband
pretending to assist in search, so he can ‘off’ the rival; lover proves to be
father of illegitimate child. None of which, Lissa assures me, is anything like
the truth; but, like I said, aspiring authors – any story has potential.
Mindful of my promise, and having
procrastinated for close to 24 hours, I knuckle down, standing in front of the
laptop at the kitchen bench. I hear you; “Health conscious, Lee?
New form of workout?” No, not at all. It’s camouflage. If
I’m standing at the bench, I could be
doing house-wifely type duties. The laptop can be closed down in a millisecond. “Writing? Who, me? No, I’m doing the
dishes.” Mind you, stuffing the Christmas turkey whilst employing this form
of multi-tasking was interesting. By New Years, plagued by images of botulism,
I did disinfect my keyboard.
So, laptop booted up, I must check
social media (it’s a warm up for my keyboard, I swear!) And I get to thinking –
do I just put Joe Wellington’s picture up on social media, let it go viral?
Surely he could be found this way? Or perhaps the thrill of the chase lends
intrigue to the story? Maybe Lissa prefers the journey to the destination?
I’ve obviously eaten gluten in the
last few days, because I’m finding it increasingly difficult to keep on track.
Instead, my mind is wandering, the idea of searching the Net for past lovers
calling to me (oh come on, don’t
pretend you haven’t!). The reasonably well-known artist I
had a fling with at 18 should be easy enough to find, even with my limited
skills. FaceBook, here I come . . .
Oh, wow, my ex-flame's name is actually quite common.
Realisation dawns slowly – Jim was
more than twice my age, which would now make him... Gulp. Maybe I need to look
in the obituaries, not social media. My partner wanders in and, despite
my bragging about swift cover-ups, catches me browsing Google.
Him: “What are you looking at?”
Me: “Um. Just old lovers.”
Him: “Oh. I see. Had many?”
Me: (Opting for smart-arse in an
attempt to sound offhand) “Well, obviously, that would depend on definitions.
Of ‘lovers’ and ‘many.’”
Quick change of screen, and I try to
look absorbed in work-type stuff, projecting a “please don’t interrupt my
concentration” aura.
Okay, so back to Joe Wellington. If
Lissa wanted to find him via the interwebby stuff, I’m sure she could – I mean,
the girl knows how to set up a blog! I haven’t
even managed to work out those funny facey things everyone else inserts into messages. Obviously, I’m going to have to put
in the hard yards: I’m going to hit the streets. Well, I live in a country town
in the Adelaide Hills, so it’s more like hit the edges of the paddocks.
I woggle (that’s my cross between a
jog and a waddle, with rather more of the latter) 6km and encounter one person.
Female, petite and twentyish. Definitely not Joe Wellington. Probably best if I
don’t stop her to ask his whereabouts, given I’m huffing and moaning in a most
inappropriate manner (you got the Adelaide HILLS
bit, right?). I may have to go where there are more people. Inspiration: the top of Mt Barker.
I’ll have a stunning view from there.
 |
| Mt Barker, South Australia |
And it’s a beautiful day for a hike.
Yes, it is bang smack in the middle of winter, but this is South Australia,
driest state on the driest continent. Actually, I don’t even know if that’s
true. We had it drummed into us at school, years before the internet could be
used to dispute and verify such ‘facts’. However, as it is one of very few
things I recall from my schooling, I’m not about to challenge that knowledge. Please
leave me in my little bubble - I’ve taught it to my kids so, by the power of
numbers, we shall make it ‘fact’.
The mountain is beautiful.
Any kiwi jumping the ditch is sure
to come here. And the weather is breathtaking
– one of those clear, crisp days that sear your lungs, making your heart ache
with unfulfilled promise. Or maybe that pain is just the lack of exercise?
It rained overnight, breaking a
long, dry spell, and the sides of the rough dirt track have turned to clay. Rivulets
of cold water cascade alongside, miniature waterfalls washing dusty
pebbles until they assume the shine of gemstones. I stop frequently, stooping to
collect the treasures. Well, actually, I have to stop, because this mountain is
ALL uphill, dammit.
The only other person on top of my
mountain is a man with three young children. Immediately he has a story; single
father, weekly access visit, determined to do better than the traditional visit
to Maccas. Possibly regretting his decision now, in light of the snot-faced
recalcitrance of his daughter.
I decide to do the circumnavigation
of the peak. Largely because, having huffed my way into a male presence, I now
feel the need to prove my vigour. Mind you, he drove up here in a 4-wheel drive, so I’m
winning anyway...
The track is narrow, winding between
the naked trunks of boxbark eucalypts, and bordered by bright pink native
orchids. In the purity of silence broken only by bell-birds and magpies (okay,
and my stentorian breathing, but I’m sure that doesn’t add anything to the
visual!), I hear the other visitor’s car departing. Excellent. Time to find
Joe.
Moving to a fairly dangerous rocky
outcrop (pay attention, Lissa, the risks I take for you) I bellow for Joe. Okay, I’m actually shy, so it was
more of a timid murmur. Oh, what the Hell, there’s no one else around. Cupping
my hands around my mouth, I let it rip, “JOE WELLINGTON, WHERE ARE YOU?!”
The
words echo around the valley. I’m pretty impressed at my output. However the
only thing that answers is a kookaburra, and even he seems uncertain whether
it’s safe to laugh at this maniacal, red-faced woman. Anyway, I’ve discharged my duty. I
can go back down the mountain now. Heavy emphasis on ‘down’.
I complete my circumnavigation of
the peak, back to the car park entrance, where the down track is located. And
stop in horror.
I may have found Joe Wellington.
There’s a pretty good chance I have. The vehicle I heard was not
the single-father’s 4 wheel drive departing, but a minibus arriving.
A minibus full of people.
A minibus full of people looking at
me. Apparently, the kookaburra is not the only one who thinks I may be
crazy.
Time to employ my best Mr Bean
impersonation. Jerking a thumb over my shoulder, I lift my eyebrows and shrug, “Did you hear that? Wonder if someone
is lost?”
I’m sure the tourists totally bought
it. However, I’m unable to bring myself to look closely enough to assess if one
is Joe Wellington. It’s possible, had he been there, he
may not have chosen that moment to disclose himself.
Trudging down the mountain, I
realise three things.
1. Down is far easier
2. My buscles (that’s butt
muscles) are gonna hurt tomorrow.
3. I’m suddenly,
ridiculously, invested in finding Joe Wellington. I’ve spent hours walking and
thinking about him, and now I care. I
want to locate him, to discover that he’s healthy and happy, to know that his
dreams are realised and that he harbors fond memories of his time with Lissa.
Next week, I’m off to a travel expo.
I’m pretty sure he’ll be there...
Léonie C. Kelsall is a qualified mental health practitioner with a passion for writing upmarket romantic suspense. She is currently seeking publication for two completed novels. You can follow Lee on twitter @leehotline, or read more about her on Writer Pitch.
