The Lost Hours with Annabelle

Annabelle and I looked at each other. No matter how good a job the screen writers did writing spooky fiction, unexplained events in real life were far more eerie. And this Saturday could hardly have been more eerie. How do two people simply lose five hours of their day?

*

Neither Annabelle nor I had remembered the lost hours of Saturday when we awoke on Sunday. Again we attended church for Easter Sunday services, and then took the Smith family for a day out at Melbourne Zoo at Royal Park. The overnight rain had cleared to intermittent showers among long stretches of sunshine among the cloud cover.

At the zoo, Annabelle and I walked around looking at all the animals in the beautiful grounds, and Doris, Eddie and Chris stuck together, noting that Annabelle's immense height was attracting attention from zoo staff, patrons, and even more intelligent animals like monkeys, and deciding that they would rather not be around Annabelle.

Not that I minded, I loved being with her, and she looked so cute in the native Australian animal section bending over to pat a kangaroo, me casting discrete glances at Annabelle's cute bum in the pedal pusher pants she was wearing, the elastic lines of her panties visible through the fabric. Lucky Mr. and Mrs. Smith along with my parents were getting acquainted with an emu a short way away, and did not notice my voyeurism of their teenage daughter's bottom.

We took the Smiths for more sightseeing on Easter Monday, a fine and sunny day and we went to the city, to the beaches at St Kilda and Brighton, Albert Park Lake and to the markets in South Melbourne which were running this public holiday Monday.

It would have been a good day for me but for one thing. This time there were no weird stretches of lost time thankfully, but the day was overshadowed by the fact that Annabelle was leaving tomorrow and going home to Adelaide. I had really fallen for the long-legged blonde beauty, and wished she was staying longer but reality dictated. Unfortunately like people who are enjoying a great holiday and are sorry to see it come to an end, I spent the last day lamenting it was nearly over rather than enjoying it.

Tuesday was a funny day, stuck between Easter and Anzac Day tomorrow. Some businesses were open, but Dad had the day off work, and there was no high school for Doris, Eddie or myself. Others were working, such as the milkman who was up and about early on his float.

Of course the dreaded time arrived when the Smiths would leave, and we got into the two cars and drove to Spencer Street Station in the city, where they would depart on the 9 am train to Adelaide. We were there in plenty of time, and I waited not far from the ladies room when Annabelle went to the toilet. Doris also paid a visit to the girls' room at this time, and with her out of earshot, I learned from overhearing Chris's conversation with Eddie that he was also sorry to be leaving Melbourne.

"I wish I was staying and going to your high school, it would be so neat," Chris said. "Doris's friend Raelene, she's such a doll."

"Yeah, she is pretty," Eddie affirmed. "Looks like Sandra Dee."

"That's what I was thinking," said Chris. "If Raelene and her boyfriend break up, make sure you call me or send me a telegram and I'll be on the first train to Victoria."

Eddie laughed. "Dream on, I don't think that's going to happen."

"You can see where Raelene gets her good looks," said Chris. "What about her Mum, Mrs. Riley? Wow. She looks like Marilyn Monroe."

"Marilyn Monroe? Raelene's Mum is very pretty, but she's a fair bit older than Marilyn Monroe," said Eddie.

Chris nodded. "Yeah, but in ten years' time Marilyn Monroe will look like Mrs. Riley does now."

"I guess she would," said Eddie. "So what about Doris's other friend Paula?"

"She looks a bit like Natalie Wood," said Chris. "What is it with your neighborhood? Do they put something in the water around here? So many pretty girls."

The two boys went on their way, Chris's envy increasing when Eddie told him about other pretty girls at our high school, which included red-haired Year 11 girl Sandra, my co-worker at the supermarket. At the moment however unlike Eddie and Chris I only had one pretty girl on my mind, and this was Annabelle.

From the ladies room, I heard the sound of a toilet flushing and the taps running, before Annabelle emerged, adjusting the pretty pink frock she was wearing, a matching pink hairband in her blonde tresses. I looked at the clock, departure time was approaching for the Adelaide train, but not all was lost.

"So it will be fun writing to each other," I said as Annabelle walked up to me, and we went back to our parents. Last night Annabelle had given me the address of her house in Woodville and she of course had my address, so we would be able to write to each other. We had also exchanged phone numbers, but doubted that we would use them. Neither my parents nor Annabelle's parents would be overly pleased about getting large bills for long distance phone calls between Melbourne and Adelaide made by their son and daughter.

"It will," Annabelle said. "All of my pen friends are girls, it will be pretty swell to have a male pen friend from Melbourne. I've had so much fun here and spending Easter with you and your family, it's gone so fast, the time has just flown by."

"Talking about that, have you had any luck remembering what we did on Saturday afternoon?" I asked. "It's still completely blank for me."

Annabelle shook her head. "None at all, I have never had an experience like that before, it's so eerie and un-nerving having hours missing from your life like that. Tell you what, if I remember anything, I'll write to you about it."

"I'll do the same," I said, although I doubted that I would remember.

"Where's Doris?" Mum asked as we rejoined the parents and the two boys.

"She went to the toilet the last I saw of her," said Annabelle, before we turned and saw Doris emerging from the ladies' loo further along the platform.

"Doris, come on, the Smiths are about to leave," Mum called, my sister's frown indicated that she resented being hurried, and preferred things to run to Doris time, rather than Australian Eastern Standard Time as most Victorians did.

The Smith family and our family said our goodbyes -- Mr. Smith severely offending my sister again by making another Doris Day reference to her - then they climbed aboard the carriage, the conductor looking most amazed at a 6 feet 9 inch teenage girl boarding for the trip to South Australia.

It was now departure time, and the conductor blew his whistle and yelled out, "All aboard!" before stepping aboard. The Smith family waved at us as the train departed, and I saw Annabelle's pretty face as we waved back to them, that feeling of a crush sweeping my heart and running through my body.

The train left the station and my sight of Annabelle was gone, heading first for Melbourne's western suburbs, then Geelong and Western Victoria, before crossing the border into South Australia and its final destination of Adelaide.

I had to drive the car driven across by the Smith family back to the firm Dad worked for, and then I got into Dad's car and we went home. Patsy was looking for the tall blonde teenage girl that had been staying the last few days, and seemed relieved when she did not appear and things returned to normal, something very important to cats.

While Patsy was happy about the departure of Annabelle -- although not the other members of the Smith family as Patsy allowed them to make a fuss of her and give her treats while rejecting such advances from Annabelle -- I felt very sad that Annabelle had gone.

I spent the rest of the Tuesday feeling very blue, and didn't help myself by doing two things. One was thinking about where Annabelle's train was and how far away it was from Melbourne at various stages of the day. The second was listening to one of Doris's Bobby Vinton records, the young man singing heartbreaking tunes about a young man whose love was no longer in his life.

And when I went to bed that night, why did I have to dream of Annabelle still being here, and wake up around midnight and sinking back down in bed realizing she was gone? Dreams were so cruel sometimes.

However, on Wednesday for Anzac Day, our family watching Dad marching along with his former Navy shipmates from during the war I felt better. I thought about Annabelle back home in Adelaide by now, with she and her mother and brother no doubt watching Mr. Smith marching with members of his army regiment down Adelaide's King William Street. Annabelle and I had talked about our respective fathers' experiences in the Second Word War, Mr. Smith having served in North Africa and in Europe.

That afternoon back at home, I wrote a letter to Annabelle. Putting a stamp on the envelope, I took it to the post box up the street, my heart aflutter even as I looked at the name 'Miss Annabelle Smith' on the front. I posted the letter, and thought about how neat it would be when Annabelle received it next week, and it would be just as swell when I got a letter from Annabelle.

While over 400 miles separated Melbourne from Adelaide, not all was lost. Men and women from other cities met and fell in love all the time, and Annabelle and I seemed to find a connection. Plus we had been born on the exact same day in 1944 -- and February 29 at that -- clearly it was meant to be. I looked forward with great optimism about a happy future with Annabelle, even if it was only by pen and paper in the immediate future.

*

"Go on Grandpa, do it!"

"Yeah come on Grandpa, it will be fun. Grandma wants you to do it!"

I looked at the eager faces of some of my grandchildren, most of them teenagers by now. One annual thing our family looked forward to was an agricultural show in Geelong, and this sunny October Sunday in 2019 was no exception. It was sort of a tradition, and if nothing else it got the grandkids away from their screens and into the fresh air.

"Go on Dad, have fun!" my eldest daughter Tracy called out.

"Don't be a scaredy cat Jim, go up there," called my sister Doris, her bobbed blonde hair still bobbed but now long since grey, and there with some of her own adult kids and teen/tween grandchildren too.

"Maybe, but I'm probably a bit old for this," I said.

"Nonsense Jim, you're 18 years old, turning 19 next year," my wife joked.

"Go on the stage, Grandpa," came the voice of Mae. Mae, aged 6, was our great granddaughter. Thanks to Tracy's eldest daughter Holly having an interesting piece of news for her mother and father at age 19 in 2013, my wife and I became great grandparents that year, and since then Holly had had twin sons with her boyfriend.

"You heard my daughter Grandpa, go on the stage," said Holly, my granddaughter indicating the stage.

"Shall I?" I asked

"Yes!" my family called back.

The show in question was a hypnosis show, and the guy conducting it was calling for audience members to come up on stage and be hypnotized. In all of my 75 years I had never been hypnotized, and was curious to find out about it, although nervous as I mounted the stage.

The hypnotist welcomed me, made a few jokes, and then I took my place with the other volunteers. The show was a lot of fun, and a strange feeling. I was conscious the whole time, but under the control of the hypnotist. At one stage he had me convinced that there was a rooster on the stage, and on another he had me standing with three young women who were hypnosis volunteers like me. He instructed the three girls to say things to me obviously in English but I was to hear the brunette girl speaking Italian, the blonde girl Swedish and the red-haired girl German, which I did, much to the amusement of the audience especially my family members. I don't know how he did it.

When the show came to an end the hypnotist returned us to normal, thanked us for participating and asked the audience to give us a big round of applause. I climbed down off the stage and was greeted by my wife and the rest of the family.

"So how was it Jim?" my wife asked.

"Yeah, good thanks Sandra," I said, looking at my slim wife. Although she was graying now, it was still possible to tell Sandra was a redhead. As for me, my brown hair was completely grey by now, well what remained of it. "You did it once."

"That was years ago, and for some reason it didn't work as well for me as it did for you," said Sandra. "Maybe I resisted it."

I nodded, thinking back to 1987 and how we belonged to a local football and cricket club, which one Saturday night had a stage hypnotist as a fund raiser. Sandra, maybe having enjoyed one or two drinks too many, had eagerly volunteered to participate.

Our kids -- Tracy then aged 15, our son Jeff then 12 and youngest daughter Nicole then 10 -- were mortified, feeling sure that their mother was going to make a fool of herself and embarrass them. However, Sandra didn't seem to really fall under the spell, and the hypnotist used her least in the show. Now the kids were middle-aged and married, and all had kids of their own and Tracy obviously a grandmother, and more than happy for their Dad to get up on stage and be hypnotized.

I didn't feel anything different as we walked around the show, enjoying seeing the animals, the farm machinery and sideshow attractions, the grandkids enjoying the carnival rides. Things were fine until a man was passing by and his phone happened to ring. I knew the tune by the late Bert Kaempfert. Hearing it made me feel funny, sort of faint combined with a sense of de ja vu.

It was the same song that had been playing on the transistor radio that afternoon on the Yarra River, 57 years earlier when I had that strange experience of lost time. Dismissing it as an odd feeling I continued to walk along with Sandra, and we passed the building where the cats were being shown.

One woman aged about 60 was ecstatic. "Patsy won first place!" she exclaimed to her family, indicating the blue ribbon on the cat carrier. The cat inside didn't look overly pleased with her achievement, but I could not stop staring at the feline, a black and white tuxedo cat.

Clouds rolling in during the afternoon added to an odd sense of unease that was overcoming me, and other things added to my sense of disquiet and once again de ja vu. We passed a food truck, and a young couple emerged with milkshakes, the girl a strawberry shake, the guy a blue heaven shake, which they were sharing between themselves.

Along the way was a display of vintage and classic cars, and I stopped to look at two cars of the same makes and models as the car Dad owned back in the year 1962, and the same as the one that the Smith family had driven over from Adelaide. The uneasy feelings increased.

After lunch we passed the hypnosis show where the hypnotist was doing his act again with a new group of volunteers, my feelings of unease continuing until we stopped at another stage. On this stage were a young band of children's entertainers, good looking guys and girls all dressed up in clothes from the late 1950s and very early 1960s, their hair styled accordingly.

"So I bet you kids are looking forward to going back to school tomorrow?" the young male lead singer asked, playing to the audience, the groans of the kids indicating they weren't.

He grinned and indicated the female lead singer. "You aren't? Annabelle and I always did, we used to go to a fun school, like this!"

The music started, and the young man broke into a rendition of a Bobby Rydell song about a fun school, Annabelle providing the backing female vocals. It was a catchy tune, but I could not take my eyes off Annabelle. The young woman was exceptionally tall -- probably about six feet two in height -- and had long blonde hair styled in pony-tail with a blue ribbon, attired in a light blue dress with a swing-style skirt, white sneakers and ankle socks on her feet, a blue scarf around her neck.

The Bobby Rydell song came to an end, and the young man again spoke to his audience. "Now when she was in high school, Annabelle spent the days dreaming of her next holiday."

"I did I'm afraid," said Annabelle, the young singer breaking into a catchy Connie Francis number about a girl looking forward to her summer holiday from school, although she obviously used the American term vacation rather than holiday, the other girls providing the backing vocals.

This was uncanny and un-nerving. This Annabelle looked so much like Annabelle Smith from so many years ago, both tall blondes, wearing the same type and color of clothes and singing songs Annabelle and I had listened to that Easter Saturday way back in 1962 when we lost about five hours that we could never account for. I watched Annabelle on the stage, thinking that she was probably born sometime around the mid-1990s. But facially she was close to a double for a certain very tall young lady like me born on 29th of February 1944.

Mid-afternoon we left the show and caught the shuttle bus back into the center of town. I thought a walk through the Geelong CBD and along the pier and waterfront with its quaint bollard statues might help me lose my sense of unease.

But it didn't, and the feelings only increased as we boarded the train for the journey back to Melbourne. All the way there my now elderly body was sitting on a train in 2019, but my mind was back in 1962 when I was young. The tall buildings on the Melbourne city skyline came into view, and as we stopped at Footscray station in the western suburbs I blinked, imagining Melbourne's skyline back in 1962 before any of these skyscrapers were built.

We passed through the Docklands and I thought about how in 1962 this now very expensive commercial and residential area of Melbourne was just that -- docks, industrial buildings and warehouses. And as we pulled into Southern Cross Station where the train terminated, the ultra-modern transit center faded away in my minds' eye to the old Spencer Street Station and the Tuesday morning when along with my now long deceased parents Bert and Lillian, and my sister and brother Doris and Eddie we saw Mr. and Mrs. Smith along with Annabelle and her younger brother Chris onto the train back to the Adelaide.

And despite my hopes that Annabelle and I could turn a long distance pen-friend into a long distance romance and then something more, that Tuesday morning at this train station in 1962 was the last time I ever spoke to or saw Annabelle Jane Smith. We did correspond of course, and Annabelle sent me a photo of her and her girlfriends from school and one of her cousins of the girls at Glenelg Beach.

Around mid-year however I received a very excited letter from Annabelle, delighted that she had met a young man named Donny at a basketball game. It seemed that Donny was quite the basketball star, and had led the Woodville team to a stirring victory over local rivals West Torrens. During the match Donny had caught Annabelle's eye, and Annabelle had caught Donny's eye.

Annabelle gushed over Donny in her correspondence, saying how excited it was to go to her school dance with him, and to hold hands with him in the milk bar or they went to the cinema together, Annabelle saying that at six feet 7 inches, Donny was just two inches shorter than her. Clearly Annabelle was smitten with her new boyfriend, and what was even clearer in her letters was that she saw me as a friend, and only a friend. My romantic dreams of turning my crush on Annabelle into a romance were not going to come true, but I was happy for her that she had found love with a young man who sounded like a really great guy.

Around this time, I had been noticing pretty young redhead Sandra Fielding more and more both at school and the grocery store where we worked. With the school winter dance coming up, I summoned the courage to ask her, to my delight Sandra said yes, and 57 years later we were still together, happily married for 52 of them and three kids, plenty of grandkids and now great-grandchildren.