Red Herrings for Breakfast by Annabet Ousback
‘Anders was one of the most influential restauranteurs and chefs of his time and his legacy lives on today.’ Neil Perry ‘Such an insightful and hard hitting book… Bravo [to Annabet] for writing such a powerful work. It took a lot of courage.’ Mary Moody He was a Swedish Maritime Naval Officer who wanted to marry her; she was not at all interested but thought his lovely uniform was rather nice. Both had been raised in difficult and challenging households, growing up with hard work as the maxim, inflexible attitudes and exacting parents. Annabet was the first-born child, unwanted, grudgingly accepted and cared for; Anders, born prematurely, sickly and difficult was the second born; Amanda the third born child, several years younger, was their fathers’ favourite. Annabet Ousback recounts her childhood growing up in what is now the iconic Balmoral Boatsheds, owned for many years by her parents, through whose hard work, took the business from a post-war run-down outfit, to a thriving undertaking.
‘Anders was one of the most influential restauranteurs and chefs of his time and his legacy lives on today.’ Neil Perry
‘Such an insightful and hard hitting book… Bravo [to Annabet] for writing such a powerful work. It took a lot of courage.’ Mary Moody
He was a Swedish Maritime Naval Officer who wanted to marry her; she was not at all interested but thought his lovely uniform was rather nice. Both had been raised in difficult and challenging households, growing up with hard work as the maxim, inflexible attitudes and exacting parents. Annabet was the first-born child, unwanted, grudgingly accepted and cared for; Anders, born prematurely, sickly and difficult was the second born; Amanda the third born child, several years younger, was their fathers’ favourite.
Annabet Ousback recounts her childhood growing up in what is now the iconic Balmoral Boatsheds, owned for many years by her parents, through whose hard work, took the business from a post-war run-down outfit, to a thriving undertaking.
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2 RED HERRINGS FOR BREAKFAST
‘If it was important, they wouldn’t go off duty without leaving a report.’
Ken’s voice of reason almost convinced me. ‘Come on.’ He put an arm
around me. ‘We’ll sort it out in the morning.’
The phone rang sharply. I went to answer it, assuming it was Anders.
‘It’s Graham, Annabet. He’s gone.’
I was confused, silent. My brain was trying to process. At first, I did not
recognise the caller. Then I realised it was Anders’ business manager,
Graham.
‘Are you there, Annabet? Anders is gone. He’s dead.’
My scream was guttural. I clutched at my chest and dropped the phone.
Ken rushed forward and picked it up. ‘Who is this?’ I heard him ask as
I staggered to the balcony and ran out into the cold May night. I needed
air. Couldn’t breathe. Needed to escape, to get as far away as I could from
that phone call.
I ran around the deck, sobbing hysterically. Pain gripped my chest,
caught in my throat. I howled like a tormented animal. I could see Ken on
the phone, listening, nodding slowly. He put down the receiver and came
to me, his arms outstretched. I pushed him away. ‘Just tell me … How?’
‘Later.’
‘No! Now! I need to know. Please, Ken. Please.’
‘He hung himself.’
He caught me as I collapsed into his arms, gently steered me inside to
the lounge. He offered words of solace but I was inconsolable.
Somewhere in the horror crashing in on me, I heard him say he’d let
the kids know.
I felt disconnected. Out of body. Half of me was slowly dying with
Anders. My mother’s words rang in my head. ‘Be a brave little girl. Be a
brave little girl …’
The following morning, with a heavy heart, I rang Constable Smith. He
asked me to call the police station in Wollongong, a seaside city close to
where Anders lived.
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