The Amazing Mrs Livesey

by Freda Marnie Nicholls

  He agreed to send £25 (approximately $2400) a month to help support her family, and then told her to go back to Australia and look after her sons.

  And return she did—but not before she married William Lloyd Thompson in Manchester, stripped him of cash and spent it on a first class fare back to Australia.

  One Sunday afternoon, after returning to Australia, Ethel drove the big blue Studebaker to Cobargo, pulling up outside the convent in a cloud of smoke.

  There had been a previous Sunday afternoon visit to St Joseph’s by Ethel, before she had left for England eight months previous, when she had given her young boys bags of boiled lollies and a tin of marbles for them to play with. She had sat down with them under the pine tree in the garden and showed them how to play marbles, before kissing the top of their heads and driving away in a stream of smoke and dust.

  This time she told the nuns she was taking her sons for a short drive in her car around the countryside. Little did they suspect that Ethel had no intention of bringing them back.

  That first night they again slept in the car, and the following day were in Melbourne. Ethel found a house in Shelley Street, Elwood, near St Kilda, with the Palais Theatre and Luna Park nearby. Like Blackpool it had a long wooden pier and pavilion, and especially on weekends it was the place for Melbournites to relax and have fun.

  She added a year on the boy’s ages and sent them to Elwood Public School, where they made plenty of friends; their lives were not nearly as strict as the convent had been. Meanwhile, Ethel continued to spend up big.

  As usual, she never had enough money for all of the things she wanted, and started wheedling money and goods out of people. She used to catch the tram into the city during the day to shop in swanky establishments, without always paying.

  It wasn’t long before she was brought before the courts on four charges of false pretences.

  She dressed the boys in matching outfits, slicked their hair back and told them to be good, as they were ushered by her solicitor into the Supreme Court building in the heart of Melbourne. ‘Whatever you hear, Frank, Basil, don’t say a thing. Do you understand?’ she warned her boys as they waited outside one of the smaller courtrooms.

  The courtroom door opened and a man called out: ‘Mrs Gloria Ethel Grey.’

  Ethel walked in behind her lawyer, her young boys in tow, then stood with the rest of the court as the judge and a jury of twelve well-dressed men filed in.

  Retired Victorian premier and now Chief Justice of Victoria Sir William Irvine sat and listened silently as the four charges of false pretences were read out, giving an insight into why he was nicknamed ‘Iceberg’ Irvine.

  He listened, nodded his head and the case started.

  A hairdresser, Madam Du Barry of Swanston Street, stood up, then pointed animatedly and shouted at Ethel as she gave evidence, repeatedly calling her Gloria Grey. Mrs Grey, the hairdresser claimed, had signed useless cheques, and owed her over three pounds. Her’s was one of three business houses that had laid claims. ‘Maureen’, a milliners in Collins Street, was owed 25 shillings for a hat. This was where Ethel had also cashed a valueless cheque for four pounds. And as a lover of all things fashionable and expensive Ethel also owed the ‘Gift Salon’ in Collins Street over three pounds ($300) for a handbag.

  After some time Frank started squirming in his seat and mentioned to his mother quietly that he needed to go to the toilet, so during a break in proceedings, Ethel took her boys to the women’s toilets.

  ‘Who’s Gloria Grey?’ her son Frank asked once they were inside.

  Ethel stopped and quickly looked around to make sure no one else was in the toilets. ‘Hush now, Frank,’ she said sharply, and told him quietly, ‘That’s just my name sometimes.’

  She pulled their jackets straight and looked them over. ‘Best behaviour now boys, and don’t say another word. Do you understand? It’s important.’

  Gloria Grey was a platinum-blonde American actress with large blue eyes who played romantic action leads in the 1920s. Ethel had seen her play the role of stylish Lady Blanton in the movie Blake of Scotland Yard, where the actress chased a bandit through areas of upper-class London, and Ethel’s imagination swept her away into the action. She started bleaching her hair and having it cut in a fashionable bob style with a Marcel wave, the same as the young actress—hence all the trips to Madam Du Barry’s.

  Ethel held a cheque account with the Commercial Bank in Sydney and her cheques didn’t have the account owner’s name, or any other identification, other than the ornate bank logo and a number on the top left corner. Cheques remained like this for another twenty years. The cheque, when deposited, had to travel to the bank where the account had been opened. A clerk would then look through ledgers until he found the cheque number and the account it belonged to. The clerk then had to find the ledger that contained the account and draw it against the funds available—and if there wasn’t enough money in the account, the cheque would have to travel back to the bank it was deposited in, with an explanatory note stating that there were insufficient funds. The whole process could take up to two weeks depending on how far the cheque had to travel, and the speed of the delivery method used. Back then, people were more inclined to take you on your word—you were who you said you were—but cheques were generally not cashed unless the bank clerk or shop owner knew and trusted the person asking to cash it. It took considerable charm for Ethel to convince so many, so convincingly to take a relative stranger on her word. Perhaps it had started by accident; she may have initially just overspent as her father was still sending money but when the funds were not in the account, the cheques bounced, and when funds were not repaid, the shopkeepers took her to court.

  Her lawyer, Mr Bourke, using this argument, told Justice Irvine that Mrs Grey was waiting for remittances from abroad, and she had expected them to be paid into her account. He continued on, explaining that when she drew the cheques she thought the money would be available to meet them.

  The lawyer for the creditors, Mr Book, argued that Ethel had signed the cheques three different ways—as Gloria Grey, Ethel Grey and Ethel Anderson—and that trust could not be placed in her.

  Ethel was then asked to take the stand; all eyes were on her as she sauntered up into the dock and took an oath. She explained that Anderson was the name of her first husband, and father to her two sons, indicating her boys sitting quietly on either side of the policewoman.

  She suddenly burst into tears and stated that Mr Grey was no longer in their lives. It was her father in far away mother England who was now supporting them due to her unfortunate circumstances, and her boys were her only family in Australia. She told them she didn’t get the notice from the bank advising her that they had closed the account; otherwise she would have gladly paid.

  The jury went out to deliberate. Four hours later they decided she was guilty of fraud on two charges and let her off on the other two, but asked the judge for leniency in sentencing on account of her two young sons.

  Through his thin-rimmed glasses, Justice Irvine looked down at the two young boys sitting on either side of their elegantly dressed mother. He cleared his throat.

  ‘You have a bank account, Mrs Grey, and your address is known to your creditors—I do not see you as a dishonest person.’

  Ethel smiled uncertainly: having been found guilty on two charges, she had been warned of the prospect of a gaol term by Mr Bourke.

  ‘It was apparent from the evidence that you had reasonable hope of being placed in possession of funds, provided within a day or two or within a very short time,’ Justice Irvine continued. He stopped and again cleared his throat.

  ‘Had it not been for the strong recommendation of the jury, I would have felt compelled to impose a period of imprisonment. I instead impose a £50 fine and place you on a good behaviour bond for three years.’

  13

  MRS GARDINER

  Ethel and her boys were on the move again, this time to South Australia, to the small subur
b of Henley Beach on the outskirts of Adelaide. Henley Beach sat right up against the sand, and like Blackpool and St Kilda had a big wooden pier, pavilions, a wide esplanade and trams.

  Frank and Basil went to school every weekday, and Ethel seemed settled there for a while, making school lunches for the boys, and giving them a sixpence to spend at the shops each day after school.

  The Great Depression was starting to really hit, and a large red-headed man named Joseph Gardiner moved in with them. He and Ethel would leave the young boys at home alone for a day or two, sometimes more. Ethel would make sure there was food in the house and a sixpence on the table for every day they’d be away, leaving Frank, aged 6, and Basil, aged 5, to take themselves off to school and feed and care for themselves. By counting up those sixpences the boys knew how long their mother would be gone for.

  When Mr Baker’s old blue Studebaker finally gasped its last breath, Ethel started using taxis and then a flash car hire company—complete with a uniformed driver—to drive her where she needed to go; after all, having a big car and a driver was what she deserved. After paying her car hire accounts for some time with the money from her father, the company let her have an account—but as cash became tight, the account wasn’t always paid.

  Ethel was instructed to go to court. She didn’t turn up, however, and not long afterwards was picked up by the police.

  Joe took the two boys with him to bail her out; paying cash for her bond, and more for the outstanding fine she’d been given at the court case she hadn’t attended. Ethel was led out of the holding cells, all the while chatting quite gaily to the police officer who was filling out the ledger, telling him all about herself and her circumstances. She explained that this was her husband Joe, and how he was a war pensioner and held a big station up in Queensland, and all about her two young boys, their names, ages and what they liked to do. She behaved as if she was at a social occasion.

  Paperwork completed, she thanked the officer and apologised for any inconvenience she’d caused him, and then merrily waltzed out the door, with Joe and the boys in tow, as if she hadn’t been in trouble with the law at all.

  After one trip away in 1932, as the Great Depression was taking hold around the world, Ethel came home without Joe, agitated and uptight, smoking like a chimney.

  One morning, not long afterwards, she made a special effort with her appearance and, unusually, walked the boys to school, taking them by a very indirect route, down the main promenade. They stopped outside the Okeh Café, which had a lovely big delicatessen out the back.

  Strolling up to the counter, she enquired in her very proper English if Mr Nobbs was in? No, the lady behind the counter told her, Mr Nobbs was out.

  ‘Oh well, he should know us,’ Ethel began. ‘My husband Mr Anderson has just left on his way to Gawler. He is a magistrate there, attending a case.’ The lady behind the counter appeared impressed. ‘Unfortunately,’ Ethel continued, ‘he has mistakenly taken my wallet with him, and has left me no money to make my purchases for my boys—it is all most inconvenient.’ The lady behind the counter looked suitably concerned.

  ‘I’m sorry, I seemed to have missed your name?’ Ethel then asked.

  ‘Milly—Milly McCann.’

  ‘Thank you Milly, you have a wonderful array of goods here. I will have to try and get a message to my husband, and call back in,’ smiled Ethel. ‘Good day to you.’

  With that, she led her boys out of the café and finished walking them to school.

  Unusually, she was at the school gate that afternoon when the boys were let out of school. They walked back through town, stopping again outside the café, where she told them quietly, ‘Not a word boys, on your best behaviour.’

  Inside, they waited for Milly to finish serving a customer. Milly saw them and smiled.

  ‘Mrs Anderson,’ Milly greeted them.

  ‘Hello again Milly, I have managed to get in touch with my husband and he will come in and cover my purchases on his return,’ Ethel said sweetly, ‘but he is unable to get back from Gawler until tomorrow night, as the case he is attending has been held over.’

  Milly nodded in understanding, falling under Ethel’s spell.

  ‘I would like to have some goods until tomorrow; my husband will settle for them then,’ Ethel stated with authority, expecting her wish to be granted.

  ‘Certainly Mrs Anderson,’ Milly replied, ‘I’m sure we can help you out until tomorrow.’ She asked Ethel her details, with Ethel supplying a false address.

  Milly motioned for them to follow her downstairs, where she introduced Ethel to the manager.

  ‘Lance here will attend to your order, Mrs Anderson,’ Milly said. Hearing the bell ring in the shop upstairs, she then turned and headed back up.

  Shortly afterwards, Ethel walked out with plenty of groceries, including the biggest and tastiest leg of ham any of them had seen for a long time.

  The following day she again escorted her boys to school, stopping outside that same café. She looked at the boys sternly, and they understood not to say a word.

  ‘Ah Milly,’ she said as they entered. ‘Thank you for your kind assistance yesterday. I’m sure my husband will be in by the end of trade to fix our account, but I wanted to thank you personally—I was wondering if you’d care for two passes to the Rex Theatre? There is a wonderful picture playing.’

  Milly beamed back at her. ‘Thank you Mrs Anderson—I’ve already seen that picture, but it is most kind of you.’

  ‘Are you fond of flowers, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh I do so love daffodils, Mrs Anderson!’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Ethel exclaimed, clasping her hands in delight. ‘My husband will bring you a bunch. I’m just dropping the boys at school, could I possibly call in on the way past this afternoon and gather a few more items on my way home?’

  ‘Certainly Mrs Anderson, that will be no problem,’ Milly replied, as Ethel ushered her boys towards the door.

  One day there was a loud knock at the front door. Ethel opened it to find a big, burly man standing there.

  ‘Lady Betty Anderson?’ he demanded, before shoving an envelope towards her and turning on his heels.

  She owed another car hire company over £10 (over $1000) and they were taking her to court.

  The little family moved the next day to a smaller house further away from the beach. Ethel didn’t appear in court, and in her absence was fined nearly £30 and given two days to pay.

  The boys returned to their new home from school one day to find their mother wasn’t there. This was not unusual, so they looked in the cupboards—nothing much to eat—and no sixpence on the table, so she wouldn’t be gone too long. But hours turned into a day, two days, three … no mother, nothing to eat. Finally the neighbours realised something was amiss and took them in for a feed, sharing the little they had with two more hungry mouths.

  The next morning came a knock on the door. Thinking it was Ethel, the boys opened the door, but it wasn’t their mother; standing there instead was a police officer and a man from the Child Welfare Department. They scooped the bewildered boys up like a couple of stray cats and placed them into a boys’ institution, after which Frank and Basil were soon separated.

  All they wanted was for their mother to whisk them away, but she couldn’t—she was in way too much trouble.

  14

  THE DRAPERY AFFAIR & NURSE FLORENCE ANDERSON

  While the boys were at school, Ethel had been arrested at their new home.

  It was November 1933. Ethel was starting to carry a lot of weight by now, and with her fine clothes, jewellery and posh manner had been able to play the well-to-do matron convincingly. Tell them what you think they want to hear and pander to their desires: it had certainly worked well for her in the past.

  But she was also coming to the attention of the police in South Australia—she’d been plying her trade too successfully for too long in one place, opening many accounts under the names of Anderson and Gardiner.

  The pre
vious month, she’d gone to a drapery store, Coles & Hughes, to buy some soft furnishings—curtains, rugs, cushions—for their new home. Ethel had told the manager, Mr Eric Thompson, that she was Mrs Gardiner, wife of a large station owner from New South Wales. They had taken a house in Henley Beach for a few months as her husband had had a nervous breakdown, and they were in South Australia to take in the sea air and give him time to recover. The house was partly furnished, she casually told the manager as she walked around fingering the fine fabrics, but they were in need of some quality drapery to make it feel like home. She then asked whether it would be convenient for her to open an account.

  Mr Thompson politely explained that they didn’t make many accounts, especially with the effects of the Depression still being felt. Things were so bad, he confided, that he was concerned for his own job.

  She looked at him with concern. ‘Do you do business with Sargood Gardiner of Melbourne and Sydney, perhaps?’ she asked, naming a big importer of drapery.

  ‘A little, Mrs Gardiner,’ Mr Thompson replied.

  ‘Well, my husband is also a part owner in the firm,’ Ethel stated confidently.

  With that, Mr Thompson led her to one of his assistants and said it would be fine to supply Mrs Gardiner with goods, but made a point of advising Ethel that the account would have to be settled by the first day of the following month.

  On the first of November, Mr Thompson received a letter from Ethel asking to meet her the following morning at a fashionable hotel in Adelaide. When he arrived, he found her sitting in the lounge, waiting. She stood and greeted him with a smile before motioning towards the chair opposite.

  ‘I expect you wonder why I wish to see you?’ she asked, after they sat down. He said that he did, and handed her the outstanding account.

  ‘I will take this home and check it against my dockets,’ she said thoughtfully, looking down at the bill. ‘I’ll get my husband to write out a cheque for the, uh, £7 13s 10d, tomorrow,’ she added, before folding the docket and carefully placing it in her handbag.