Ethel’s barrister looked around the courtroom and again addressed the crowd. ‘It will be said that this woman absconded,’ he stated, pausing for effect. ‘I do not shut my eyes to that, but the charge is in relation to a paltry and trivial sum of £7 13s 10d.’
He again paused, letting his statement sink in. ‘Whatever her circumstances were in 1933, they are not her circumstances today. Mrs Gardiner, or as she is known properly and entitled to be known, Mrs Livesey, was granted bail of £200 when she first came to this court. She is able to secure any bail,’ he concluded, before sitting himself down.
Sergeant Briese, the police prosecutor, stood to address the court. ‘I ask Your Worship to take into consideration her antecedents, and refuse bail. She also absconded from bail in Adelaide for evading taxi fares.’
Mr Isaacs immediately stood: ‘But that matter has been dealt with—Mrs Gardiner paid her fines in that case, did she not?’ he asked the prosecutor.
‘Yes,’ the prosecutor reluctantly agreed.
Mr Parker looked between the two counsel. He refused the application by the Adelaide police to take Ethel in custody there and then, but increased her bond from £200 to £300, and instructed Mr Isaacs that Ethel was remanded to appear at the Adelaide Criminal Sessions of 14 January to face the charge.
Filled with relief, Ethel walked over to Mr Isaacs, shook his hand and thanked him and Mr Lander. She sauntered out of the Sydney Central Court with her legal counsel, to the cheering crowd outside.
‘Thank you!’ she called out to the crowd, waving as Mr Lander walked her towards the waiting car. ‘Thank you one and all!’
Mrs Livesey smiling as she entered the car, paused momentarily for the photographers, and the press got their photo, which was splashed all over that evening’s papers.
28
MRS LIVESEY MISSING
Ethel was besieged with letters of support. At least some people wanted to be her friends; she was gathering quite a following.
One of her new friends was a Mr James Donohue. Noting his eastern suburbs address on the letter he had sent to her via her lawyers, Ethel invited him to visit her at Mrs O’Hagan’s boarding house in Chester Hill. He felt sorry for her staying in such a dilapidated house, and suggested she move into his Potts Point flat, number 10 Pembroke Hall in Macleay Street, more suitable for a lady of her standing. He also agreed to loan her £250 until funds could be sent from England, with Ethel giving him a gold cigarette case and aquamarine ring as security, together with a post-dated cheque, to be presented when the money arrived.
Ethel was back in the eastern suburbs, and immediately started writing personal replies to all the letters she had received and was still receiving, from her new upmarket address, on Mr Donohue’s stationery.
Mrs Livesey was due to fly into Adelaide on 3 January with her Sydney lawyers. The South Australian press waited patiently at the airport for her plane to arrive, only to find she was not on the flight. She had disappeared again, and their newspaper columns that afternoon were filled with speculation that she’d again done a runner. Ethel had, instead, delayed her departure, as she was still trying to get in touch with her Sydney society friends.
She had managed to get in touch with Rex, via a letter, to thank him for his kind words in a newspaper article that appeared the week after their failed wedding. In the Daily Mirror article he explained that his feelings towards her were unchanged, that she was a marvellous woman and he held her in the highest regard. He told the reporter that he had met her when she was mixing with people in the highest society, that she had entertained lavishly, and he found her a woman of charm and personality, admitting that he’d sometimes wondered why he had been chosen as her bridegroom. When Rex replied to Ethel’s thank-you letter he had been curt, saying in light of what he had found out about her since the article had been published two weeks before, he did not wish to know her.
The South Australian press then heard Mrs Livesey was to arrive on 8 January, on a flight via Melbourne. But again she didn’t arrive, despite being booked on the flight, and again there were murmurings that perhaps Mrs Livesey was not going to appear at all.
But this time the reasons for Ethel’s non-arrival were rather different. Ethel’s notoriety had been getting her noticed everywhere, and when she had arrived in Melbourne to connect with her Adelaide flight, she had been picked up by the Victorian police, who wanted to ask her about an outstanding warrant on their books.
Two detectives questioned her in the presence of her lawyers, Messrs Isaacs and Lander, concerning a warrant issued in 1936 by a Caulfield shopkeeper, who was also brought in to verify that they had the right woman. Ethel denied she was the woman, Clara Thomas, who had passed a valueless cheque for £2 11s in his shop. She was in England at the time, married to Mr Coradine, Ethel insisted. The shopkeeper told the detectives that she was Clara Thomas, he wanted his money, but was finally convinced that he must have been mistaken when it was proven that she hadn’t been in the country at the time.
The four hours of questioning had caused them to miss their plane. Instead, Ethel and her lawyers finally arrived in Adelaide at 9.25 that evening, to be greeted by a lone photographer who had wisely decided to see if she was on the last flight for the day. The reporters who had earlier flocked to the airport had long gone, to write columns about Mrs Livesey’s latest disappearance for the evening edition of their newspapers. The patient photographer snapped a photo of Ethel emerging from the plane and rushed up to ask some questions for his unexpected scoop.
An exhausted Ethel held her hand up as he approached. ‘Young man, I have had quite a day,’ she began, ‘I don’t want to answer any questions just now.’
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ he began uncertainly, not used to interviewing, but having seen enough of it in his two short years with the paper. ‘Could I perhaps come and see you tomorrow?’ he asked.
The fashionably dressed Ethel stopped. ‘All I ask is for a fair deal,’ she said, looking the young man up and down slowly. ‘I am staying at the Ambassadors. Call tomorrow and I will see how I feel—I may give you an interview,’ she conceded.
‘I have a story that will rock the world!’
The following afternoon a somewhat rested Mrs Livesey sat with the excited young photographer from the airport, together with a more seasoned reporter from the Mirror in the lounge of the Ambassadors Hotel, Mr Lander sitting alongside.
‘I am sure that the people of Adelaide are more charitably disposed than many fairweather friends who took advantage of my hospitality in Sydney,’ Ethel stated, her well-rehearsed line rippling with barely hidden anger. ‘All I ask is a fair deal.’
‘And what of your wedding, Mrs Livesey?’ the reporter asked eagerly. ‘Do you still intend to marry Mr Beech?’
‘Definitely and irrevocably, no,’ interjected Mr Lander.
‘I do not understand why I have received so much publicity,’ Ethel continued. ‘It is the last thing I seek. I am not Australian by birth, but I have always understood that the great trait in the Australian nature is to give everyone, high or low, a fair deal. That is all I ask,’ she repeated. ‘I hope that everyone will withhold judgment of me until the court has dealt with its charge against me.’
‘Your court case, will it go ahead on Monday, do you think?’ the reporter asked.
Again Mr Lander interjected: ‘I learned today that the Crown Prosecutor will probably seek an adjournment of the case until the February sessions, and we will of course be applying for renewed bail.’
‘I see,’ said the reporter to Mr Lander, ‘but I understand you are unable to practise law in our state?’
‘You are well informed,’ Mr Lander replied. ‘Yes, neither myself nor Mr Isaacs hold a licence to practise in South Australia, and we will be obtaining the services of an Adelaide solicitor, Mr Kevin Ward.’
‘The police have told us that the State Children’s Welfare Department wishes to speak with Mrs Livesey, seeking repayment for the care of your two sons,’ the
reporter noted. ‘What do you have to say about that, Mrs Livesey?’
Ethel tilted her head ever so slightly at the older reporter and regarded him steadily. ‘Both of my sons from a previous marriage live in Australia, and were for a time, during the Depression, under the care of the department,’ she explained. ‘I have every intention to pay for their keep,’ she added. ‘Now if you will excuse me, gentlemen, this has been a tiring few weeks and I need to rest.’
29
MRS PERCY
After that interview, on the Thursday before the trial, Ethel had been ordered by the hotel doctor to remain in bed. All meals were sent to her room, and guests were no longer permitted, her only visitors being her legal counsel Messrs Lander and Isaacs.
The doctor saw her every morning, and by Sunday, when it looked like she wouldn’t be well enough to attend the trial, the judge asked for a second medical opinion. On Monday, 14 January 1946, Ethel’s South Australian lawyer, Mr Ward, presented the Chief Justice with a medical certificate, the contents of which were not read out, but it was rumoured among the press that Mrs Livesey had a hernia.
It was a subdued affair in the courtroom without the glamorous figure in attendance, but the case still went ahead. It was quickly agreed that a hearing date would be set for the near future, but there was a problem: someone residing in South Australia needed to go surety for the bail, which was set at £300, as in New South Wales. Thankfully for Ethel, a good Samaritan came forward. His name was John Malcolm Doyle, and though he had never met Mrs Livesey, he had become fascinated with the newspaper stories about the cotton heiress and was in court that day. He volunteered to put up surety, saying to the press afterwards that he, like so many others, thought she’d been given a raw deal.
Ethel was free to leave South Australia and return when the prosecutor set the hearing date, with the assurance that she’d be given plenty of notice and have ample time to return.
The following day Ethel left her hotel bed, but continued to take her meals in her room.
Five days after her trial, she made her way down to the dining room in the evening after most of the other guests had left, and made her way to the piano. She sat down and entertained the few still there, including a widower, Mr Percy. Most recognised who she was and she quickly charmed her fascinated audience, sitting down and speaking with them about her life. Mr Percy stayed on and they spoke until late in the evening.
Two days later Ethel flew out of Adelaide as Mrs Percy, in name only, together with her two Sydney legal representatives. They arrived at Sydney airport at dusk—and who should be waiting there but the friendly newspaper reporter from the Truth.
‘So lovely to see you again,’ Ethel greeted him.
‘It was nice of Mr Lander to tell me of your impending arrival, Mrs Percy,’ he said with a grin. ‘Can we have a chat?’
‘I am a little tired,’ she replied, ‘but perhaps we could meet at my hotel later.’
The reporter watched as Mr Isaacs said farewell, and Mr Lander went to retrieve Mrs Livesey’s luggage. ‘How was your trip?’ he asked as they waited.
‘Such weather!’ she exclaimed. ‘I have done thousands upon thousands of miles of air travel and I really should not be scared, but you know how it is—I suppose a woman is made that way.’
‘Rough trip, then?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know how those pilots saw anything—I certainly couldn’t, and it was pouring with rain … the clouds around us felt like they were tearing apart with the thunder, and the plane tossed and rolled and bucked nearly the entire trip from Melbourne!’ she gasped, enjoying her story. ‘But one had to only look at the broad Australian grins on the tanned faces of the pilot and co-pilot to see that there was nothing to be afraid of, and that to be in a plane in a storm was delicious fun … but … well, I didn’t really enjoy rocketing through a tempest,’ she enthused.
‘I understand you were sick in Adelaide?’ the reporter asked.
‘Indeed, unfortunately I became ill,’ Ethel replied. ‘I thought there were some people who might have suggested that I was feigning illness, so I called in the City of Adelaide medical officer. I had three visits from him actually, and that’s why I came back to Sydney, because I wanted to consult my physician here.’
‘The case went ahead?’ he asked.
‘Yes, without me,’ she said with a sigh. ‘When it came before the Adelaide court the Crown authorities asked for an adjournment, so the case goes over to a future date,’ she explained. ‘I would of course love to discuss the case, its beginnings and its reasons, but my lawyers tell me that I am not allowed to do that.’
The reporter saw Mr Lander approaching, struggling with Mrs Livesey’s baggage. Turning back to his celebrity interviewee he asked, ‘I suppose you will travel by train, then, when you go back to Adelaide for the case?’
‘No, certainly not!’ she replied. ‘I am going to fly back. That is the modern way of travel. The air, always the air.’
30
UP ON THE BIG SCREEN
Ethel sat in Mr Lander’s office reading with delight the heroic recount of her plane trip across the Victorian Alps in Truth the following day. While the article pleased her, she was seething from her conversation with Dr Cunningham’s secretary—no, Mr Cunningham could not and would not see Mrs Livesey, as either a patient or as a social acquaintance. He would pass her onto a colleague who could help her medically, but would appreciate it if she no longer bothered him, ever.
‘Your medical records have been sent by car,’ Mr Lander assured her, ‘and you have an appointment with another doctor tomorrow morning at Sydney Hospital.’
‘No one will see me!’ Ethel complained. ‘None of them! Lady French will not even receive my calls.’
Mr Lander looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Yes, well,’ he began, changing the subject. ‘Your newspaper articles seem to be generating the right amount of interest for us.’
‘Yes, I’ve been thinking,’ Ethel interjected. ‘What do you think about recording a Cinesound newsreel to appear in the movie theatres?’ she asked. ‘To promote my case of course,’ she added.
‘If you like, Mrs Livesey,’ he replied, nodding his head slowly. ‘It may help your case.’
Once again her new friend Mr Donohue was called upon, this time to organise, through his contacts, a meeting with the renowned Australian director Ken Hall at Cinesound, who after meeting Mrs Livesey agreed to record a short clip for her to tell her story.
The film crew arrived at Mr Donohue’s flat in Macleay Street to find the fashionable Mrs Livesey wearing her best string of pearls and large fashionable screw-on earrings, and sporting a corsage of fresh freesias and orchids on the right lapel of her sparkling black dress. They sat her down at Mr Donohue’s desk with the props she had brought along—dozens of yet unopened letters of support—and set up the cameras.
As the cameras rolled, Ethel opened letter after letter, and then looked up earnestly towards the camera. ‘I have taken this opportunity,’ she began in the best clear-cut plummiest tone, ‘to speak to the public through this medium, because what I have to say cannot be turned maliciously against me, or distorted.
‘I have suffered severely in the past few weeks, through the publicity that has been given me, of which I have not sought.’
She paused for a moment, swallowed and continued on with her performance. ‘I have had many hard knocks in my life, but the hardest to bear has been the mass of inactivity of people of whom I wanted their friendship most,’ she said directly to the camera.
‘Adversity brought me new friends,’ she added, softening her tone slightly. ‘Friends who I know are sincere. They come from the mass who have sympathy for a woman who is undergoing a great trial,’ she paused and took a quick, angry breath, ‘not the so-called Sydney society.’
She continued, ‘I take this public opportunity, as the only way I can, to thank the innumerable people who have written to me. I have had more than a thousand letters. A number of them have
been offering me a home and to these people I am eternally grateful. Their unselfish actions are a marked contrast to those who did not hesitate to accept my financial help, but have now excluded me from their visiting list.’
Then, looking almost directly into the camera. ‘I have had a varied life, and I have seen much suffering. I went through the Blitz and the Battle of Britain. I was an air-raid warden, and I have helped on many occasions to bring out the maimed and twisted bodies from the rubble,’ she paused and swallowed, closing her eyes momentarily before continuing on. ‘I am very proud to have been able to have done this, because I feel as an English woman it was my duty to do so.’
She shrugged her shoulders slightly and looked angrily into the camera, her voice calm. ‘Perhaps if some of those who have turned against me could have seen a little of the suffering that I have seen in the last five years of this dreadful war, they may have had a little more kindness to have shown to me in my trial,’ she said, shaking her head slightly. ‘I am not ashamed, of anything I have done, and I can look everyone in the face,’ she said grimly. ‘I wonder if they could do the same,’ she stated, slapping the letter she was holding into her other hand in finality.
And so Ethel got her two minutes of fame—billed as the Cinesound Review across the country, from Friday 18 January 1946 up until her trial. For nearly a month the movie-going public across Australia watched as Ethel declared her innocence, before she was due back in Adelaide, to face the twelve-year-old charge.
31
THOUSANDS WAIT TO SEE MRS LIVESEY
Wednesday, 20 February 1946, as Mrs Livesey alighted from the back of her hire car in front of the Adelaide Criminal Court building for her first day in court, a woman suddenly rushed over and handed her a large bouquet of orchids and maiden-hair fern. The woman, a stranger, had been waiting for some time outside the court with a small baby in a pram. She almost curtsied as Ethel accepted the bouquet, to which a small card was attached. Ethel read the good wishes and thanked the young lady demurely as she turned into the court, waving as thousands in the assembled crowd outside called her name as she passed by.
The Amazing Mrs Livesey Page 15
