The Accusation

by Wendy James

  ‘Thank you.’ Honor gave what she hoped was a friendly smile. ‘You’re very kind.’

  Mary had turned her baleful gaze on her daughter. ‘Suzie could be pretty too, if she lost some weight. Fat girls aren’t pretty, are they?’ She gave a coy smile. ‘No one ever wants to fuck a fat girl.’ She ducked her head and tripped down the hallway.

  Jesus.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Suzannah said to her now, ‘I really should have warned you.’ She took a big chug from her glass, downing half her champagne in one gulp. ‘But the thought of company was just too tempting.’

  ‘How do you cope with this full-time?’

  ‘She’s not always that bad, but it’s an unknown with guests. Sometimes she’ll behave really well – she’ll seem almost normal, and then other times . . .’

  ‘My dad’s much further gone, I guess. He basically just sits there doing nothing. I don’t remember him going through an in-between stage like this, though. One moment he seemed fine and then the next, he was in care.’

  Suzannah shrugged. ‘It’s different for everyone. Mary’s condition is most likely alcohol-and drug-related. They said it could be Korsakoff’s, but it doesn’t really fit the pattern. She’s okay during the day, at least not so bad that she has to be in a home – although I’ve got her on a list for The Franchise. Sally O’Halloran, who works there, comes out three days a week, and that’s helpful. But nights can be . . . difficult. I feel like it might be because some part of her remembers that this was once her drinking time. Although she never actually asks for a drink, which is surprising. The peppermint ice cream can be a bit of a problem. I forgot it today – usually that would be a major drama.’

  ‘Ha. Yes, she asked if I had any. So it’s not ordinary dementia? I thought she seemed on the young side. What is she? Seventy-ish?’

  Suzannah snorted. ‘She’s only in her early sixties. She had me very young.’

  ‘Wow. Sixteen or something? And she was an alcoholic. That must’ve made for a complicated childhood.’

  Suzannah shook her head, laughing. ‘It didn’t have all that much effect on me, actually. I barely knew her growing up. My grandparents raised me. It was worse, much worse, for them. She was an only child – they were older parents – and I suspect it broke their hearts. Mary was a classic bad girl. She was always in with the wrong crowd, even when she was a kid, or that’s what my nan used to say – truanting, shoplifting, “running amok”. By the time she was fifteen she was pregnant.’

  ‘Do you know who your father is?’

  ‘I’ve got no idea. At the time she was peripherally involved in the music scene – Nan said she fancied herself as a singer, and sometimes did back-up vocals. But I guess at that age it’s more likely she was some sort of groupie. My father could’ve been anyone. She would never say; I suspect she never actually knew. I spent half my childhood fantasising it was Jimmy Barnes, but I don’t think the timing’s right.’

  ‘And you look pretty, er, ethnic – Greek or Italian maybe? I’m guessing that’s not from Mary. And it’s not from Jimmy either.’

  ‘No. My father was probably a Greek schoolboy, and not a musician at all.’

  ‘So was she still involved in the music world when you were a kid?’

  ‘Who knows? Until she moved in with me I hadn’t actually seen her since I was about ten. I didn’t even know if she was alive.’

  ‘You’re kidding? So why the daughterly devotion now? Is there an estate or something?’

  ‘I wish.’ Suzannah filled her glass again. Took another long swig. ‘As to the daughterly devotion, I actually have no idea. It just happened. I got a call from St Vincent’s – she’d had some sort of turn, and put me down as her next of kin. I guess I’m her only kin. I certainly wasn’t looking for her – although a psych might have something to say about that. Anyway,’ she added briskly, ‘it seemed the right thing to do at the time.’

  ‘The right thing? For her or for you?’

  ‘Ha.’ Suzannah’s smile was rueful. ‘Exactly.’

  The conversation moved quickly on to other, more interesting subjects. Naturally, men came up, but neither she nor Suzannah seemed keen to expand on that particular topic. Suzannah revealed only the bare bones of her own story: she had been married and divorced, but that was years ago. There was no one at the moment, not really; she wasn’t really up for a relationship, way too much baggage – and now there was Mary to consider. Honor had little to contribute about Dougal, who was as gratifyingly besotted with her as he was when they first married, more than twenty years ago. And if Honor wasn’t besotted in quite the same way, if from time to time she discovered other interests, she had never, would never, discuss them with anyone. And they’d had no effect on her relationship with Dougal anyway: he would always be her rock, her still centre in this madly spinning world.

  The conversation moved on to the town itself. Honor provided a general rundown of the place, a who’s who and what’s what, and told a few salacious stories that only a local could know. But Suzannah was able to tell her a few things too – gossip she’d missed, news about people she’d forgotten. She was an acute, sometimes caustic, observer of people; her stories of the parents – so many of them classmates Honor had all but forgotten (and usually for good reason) – were particularly entertaining.

  ‘There was this one woman at my first parent and teacher night who asked if I was interested in coming to some sort of orgy. Or at least I think that’s what it was. Right at the end of the interview, she leaned right in, and whispered,’ – Suzannah moved her face up close to Honor’s, her mouth at her ear – ‘“I’ve heard you’re into alternative . . . er . . . sexual experiences.”’ Suzannah’s voice had deepened, developed a slightly sinister lisp. ‘“My hubby and I were wondering if you’d like to come along to a gathering of . . . like-minded people.”’ Suzannah sat back, her face alight with laughter. ‘My God. And the daughter was still sitting at the table with us. When I said no, she said, “Oh, well – there’s always next month,” like she was inviting me to join a book club. It was completely bizarre.’

  ‘Janet Cho, right?’ Suzannah’s impression had been extraordinary.

  ‘Shit.’ Suzannah looked stricken. ‘I’m probably being indiscreet.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about it. Janet propositioned all the teachers when we were kids, too. Teachers are her thing.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘It gets worse – her darling hubby, Antonio, is into, er, small mammals.’

  ‘No. Oh, no. I can’t even—’ They both dissolved into laughter.

  ‘I hope you didn’t come to the country to find normal people, honey. I’m telling you, Enfield Wash is kink central.’

  They opened a second bottle and the conversation moved into new territory. Like most people, Suzannah was curious about the world Honor inhabited, but hers was a curiosity born of experience, not ignorance – it had been her world too, once; she knew the reality. Mostly she was eager to hear gossip about people she’d known. Some Honor knew, others, like Suzannah, had disappeared from the scene, leaving no trace. Honor was pleasantly surprised by the commonalities. And there was a novelty in being able to talk to someone who understood this world intimately, yet didn’t have an angle. There was none of the usual danger here – Suzannah wasn’t trying to make contact with anyone, didn’t want any favours. And there was nothing Honor wanted from Suzannah either. She could relax and simply enjoy the company.

  Honor had still been a hack on a big city paper back in Suzannah’s heyday, and had always assumed that Suzannah had done something wrong, that her career had taken a nosedive, that she’d been left without options, forced into teaching. Celebrity worked like that for most people – took whatever they offered, chewed them up, then spat them out. Honor’s job was different. She’d approached it stealthily, entered from the back door, a secret door that let her into the real powerhouse, had become one of the people who ran the show. One of the people who did the chewing up and spitting
out of the Suzannah Wellses of the world. But if Suzannah was telling the truth, her exit had been entirely voluntary. Her part in the show was over, and she’d simply decided she’d had enough.

  It gave Honor a bit of a jolt to think that someone could actually choose such a life – small, peripheral, provincial, relatively meaningless – once they’d had a taste of living life at the centre of things. That Suzannah had made a decision to leave, to embrace this other life, frightened her a little. And when Suzannah looked like revealing more than Honor really wanted to know, Honor quickly steered the conversation back into acceptably shallow waters.

  ‘Have you seen much of your neighbour?’

  ‘Chip? Not really. Although he took me on a guided tour of the town one day after the trivia night – showed me the sights, drove out to the river, that sort of thing.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Of the river?’

  ‘Ha. No, although I want to hear about that too. What do you think of Chip?’

  ‘He seems okay.’ Suzannah’s shrug was casual, her expression non-committal. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Honor grinned. ‘Just a heads up. He has a bit of a reputation around here. With the ladies.’ She stretched the word out.

  ‘I gathered that. Anyway, there’s no need to warn me. He’s really not my type. He’s a bit too, I don’t know, a bit too sure of himself for me. And I don’t think there’s any interest from his side either.’

  ‘Don’t be deceived,’ said Honor. ‘Chip Gascoyne is always interested.’

  ‘You two seem like good friends.’

  ‘I’m not sure about friends, but we’ve known each other for ever, and now that we’re neighbours, it’s kind of impossible not to socialise. He and Dougal have drinks every now and then, and we have dinner occasionally.’

  ‘And you said you’d had a thing with him?’

  ‘Very briefly, when we were still in high school. It was never going to go anywhere. I was a townie and he was a grazier’s kid, a boarding-school boy. And in those days that difference meant something. Maybe it still does, I don’t know. There was an expectation that he would find someone appropriate – someone who would help him keep everything going for the next generation. A farmer’s wife. That was never going to be me.’

  ‘I guess he was a catch back then?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. He was. Every second girl had the hots for Chip. He was good-looking, he was rich, he had impeccable manners, he was smart, he was the vice-captain of some posh school, captain of the rugby team, the cricket eleven. He only had to click his fingers and he could’ve had any girl.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘He ended up marrying the kind of girl everyone expected him to marry – Gemma Barton. She was a grazier’s daughter, a boarding-school type – you know – well-bred, pretty, vacuous. Perfect breeding stock. Their fathers were great mates. Grandfathers too, probably.’

  ‘I heard she died.’

  ‘Yeah. Actually that was sad. It was all looking good, I guess – work had started on the new house. They’d been living in the old manager’s cottage, which was pretty basic, I think. It’s been knocked down since. His mum and dad were living in your place. And then Gemma got breast cancer. They shelved the build and focused on Gemma, on getting her better. She was sick for five or six years, I think, before she died. And then – wham! Everything else seemed to go wrong. His parents had died as well, maybe a year or so before Gemma, and Chip had had to buy out his older brother, Hal – he’s a lawyer, lives in town. So he had this big debt, and then the drought hit. He almost lost the farm. Hal helped him out, and I think he sold off some other portions of land as well. He finished building the new place a few years ago, but it took him a while to move in.’

  ‘I wonder if he’s a bit sad about leaving this place. It’s been in his family for what, over a hundred years? He must have some regrets.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Honor shrugged. ‘But the rest of us have never had that privilege – that history – to cling on to. I guess Chip Gascoyne has had to join the real world.’

  After the second bottle, Honor got up to leave. It was late, past midnight, and Suzannah suggested she stay over; it was no problem to make up a bed in the spare room, she said, or perhaps she could call a cab? But Honor insisted on driving: she would go at snail’s pace, it was barely a K if you discounted the driveways.

  As she drove carefully down the long driveway, Honor realised that she’d enjoyed herself more than she had in a long time. She liked Suzannah; she even liked the crazy mother. Suzannah was smart, curious, funny, and despite her trying circumstances, she was far from self-pitying. And there was something about her – some residue from her years in front of the camera, an easy sort of sexiness, a confidence in her own skin that most people outside the celebrity world rarely had, and that Suzannah herself probably wasn’t aware of. That the sexiness was latent, and that the woman herself was so unaware of it, made it all the more potent, and to Honor – who was easily bored by anything or anyone that smacked of the commonplace – all the more appealing.

  More importantly, the evening hadn’t left the customary bad taste in Honor’s mouth. There’d been no painstakingly disguised competition between the women; nothing was said that Honor was only just decoding now. And for once the thorny issue of children hadn’t come up – Honor’s lack of, whether she wanted them, and if not, why not; was it too late, did she regret, were there problems? But Suzannah hadn’t mentioned children at all, and for this she was grateful.

  ABDUCTED : THE ELLIE CANNING STORY

  A documentary by HeldHostage Productions © 2019

  ELLIE CANNING: TRANSCRIPT N3

  After my interview, I caught a bus back to Central. I had a few hours to kill, so I went to get something to eat. Somehow I left it too late, and by the time I got back I’d just missed my train. There wasn’t another until the next day and I didn’t have much money left – I mean, I had some, but not enough for a hotel or anything like that, so it was a bit of a disaster. And my phone was running out of power. I decided I’d just have to hang at the station all night, which was a pain, but I thought I could try and get some sleep on a bench or something.

  I wandered about the city for a bit to kill time. I went and got a snack at a cafe sometime around four, and a woman sat down next to me. She was old, like, in her forties I guess, dark-haired – I thought maybe she was Italian or something. I can’t remember exactly what she was wearing, it was probably like jeans and a jumper, but I do know she had this mad scarf with all these swirly colours. We got chatting and I told her what had happened and she seemed concerned, and said I could use her phone if I wanted to let someone know where I was – wouldn’t my parents be worried? I told her that no one was expecting me.

  SUZANNAH: APRIL 2018

  I WALKED OVER WITH A BAG OF LATE SEASON ZUCCHINI AND squash and one oversized pumpkin, intending to drop them on his doorstep and leave, but Chip was there when I arrived. He opened the screen door as I was treading quietly across the verandah.

  ‘G’day.’

  ‘Hi.’ I lifted up the bag. ‘I was going to drop these off. Didn’t think you’d be home.’

  ‘Thoughtful of you.’

  I held the bag towards him. ‘Here. Take it. They’re heavy.’

  He peered inside. ‘Glad to see you remembered how much I love pumpkin. Excellent.’

  ‘We’ve got more if you want them. Too many, really . . .’ He wasn’t listening.

  ‘I’ve had a thought.’ He pushed his hair back. ‘Why don’t you come for dinner? I’ll do a roast. Come on – it’s Saturday night. And I need to get rid of this.’ He pulled the pumpkin out of the bag. ‘I’ll give it to the pigs if you don’t.’

  ‘Do you have pigs?’

  ‘No. But I do have a couple of goats that eat practically anything. Come on, Suzannah.’

  ‘I—’

  He must have sensed my hesitation. ‘And if there’s marking, it can wait. My wife was a primary school teach
er, so I know all about marking. And I might be a country bumpkin, but I won’t believe you if you tell me you need to wash your hair.’

  It was true that dinner with Chip sounded far more appealing than the previous night’s spaghetti bol I was planning to heat up, the painfully drawn-out routine of putting Mary to bed, three gins on my own, and the pile of badly written essays on Waiting for Godot that sat waiting to be marked. But there was a problem.

  ‘I can’t leave Mary.’

  He looked crestfallen. ‘Really? But don’t you leave her when you go to work?’

  ‘I do. But nights can be . . . difficult.’

  ‘Maybe you could get a babysitter?’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s too late to organise.’

  ‘Give her a sleeping pill?’

  ‘They make her worse.’

  ‘Damn.’ He brightened. ‘I know. How about I bring dinner over to you?’

  He came just before seven, bringing the prepared meal and a bottle of wine. Mary had been fed and bathed and he was just in time for our evening game of Trouble. She was often restless at this time of day, sometimes aggressive, and always far less tethered to reality. If she was going to forget who I was or where we were, this was when it happened

  The old children’s board game distracted and focused her, and I got a strange pleasure out of it, too. I’d never really played these games as a child; once I’d moved past my earliest childhood my grandparents were simply too preoccupied, too tired, too old. I’d had a cupboard full of games though, and sometimes I’d take Trouble out and pretend to be two people – one me, the other some kid from a TV show or book, or even school. Occasionally, I’d pretend to be Mary, although even imagining Mary engaged in such an activity was a stretch. It was bizarre to find myself playing a real game with her now, always reminding me of the improbable nature of this late-life reunion.