The Accusation

by Wendy James

  Chip was initially reluctant to play, but while Mary’s demands might be childish, her adult perceptions only added to her cunning: if Chips Rafferty wanted to get rid of her for the evening, he would have to do as she said, viz, play Trouble. Playing with Mary was unpredictable. Some evenings she was wild; she shouted gleefully when she was winning and swore when one of her pieces was taken or if she got stuck for want of a six. She was accustomed to cheating – punching at the dice bubble manically until she landed her desired number. But tonight, with Chip there, she behaved beautifully, playing quietly and accepting her losses with reasonable grace. Still, between the two of us we contrived to let her win quickly, and the game, which could go on for far too long, was over in half an hour.

  Like a small child, Mary was desperately tired in the evening, but would still work hard to extend her day as long as possible, demanding a hot Milo, snacks, more television. But after a final crude remark – If you two are going to fuck, make sure he wears a condom. I’m too young to be a grandmother – she cooperated. Even so, it took a while to get her comfortable. First she demanded I straighten her blankets, pull them right up and tuck them in firmly, then complained she was too hot, that she couldn’t move, and wanted them folded back down. Then she was thirsty – what did I think she was, a bloody camel? And then, naturally, she needed to pee. After the trip down the hallway, she was cold again, and insisted on changing out of her summer nightdress into her favourite long PJs, a pink silk pair I’d bought for her birthday last year, that she called her Chanel pyjamas. As always at times like this, I felt the rage and resentment begin to bubble up, along with a childish desire to pinch her or push her or say something vicious; and as always I took deep breaths and held my tongue.

  Chip’s meal was simple but good: slow-cooked lamb, squash, roast potatoes, zucchini. He’d baked one small slice of pumpkin especially for me. Neither of us had dressed up for the occasion, though I’d made a bit of an effort with makeup, and he was clean-shaven, his hair tamed. Chip insisted on serving the meal, and I leaned against the bench and watched, sipping champagne, as he carved the meat, piled the plates with vegies, poured the gravy. He was clearly practised in the kitchen. We sat up at the breakfast bar to eat, and the conversation, slightly awkward at first, gradually became less stilted as the champagne took effect.

  He told me stories about the house, about his family, their long history in the area. The first Gascoyne had come to Australia as a convict – a fact that had been hushed up by the succeeding generations. I told him about school: gossip from the staffroom, a few stories of bad behaviour from the students. He seemed to know most of the staff, and almost all of the kids, had something to say about their various backgrounds, sometimes surprising, frequently counter-intuitive. No wonder Demi Barnes was a shit of a kid: her father Gary had been the same, and her mother – Jenny Downey before they married – was wild too; he was pretty sure she’d had an affair with one of the maths teachers when they were kids. And Connor McFarlane’s lawyer dad was a violent alcoholic who should’ve been locked up and the key thrown away.

  I laughed when he told me of his own most recent adventure: a visit to Italy and Germany, where he had attempted, and ultimately failed, to make deals with continental wool buyers. He’d been a classic innocent abroad, bumbling through encounters with rich and sophisticated, and frequently snobby, Europeans.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you. A confession.’ He sounded serious.

  I didn’t know quite how to respond, so I kept it light. ‘I hope it’s nothing illegal.’ Was it drugs? A second wife? A fatal disease? A criminal record? Somehow it already mattered.

  ‘It’s a bit embarrassing to admit, but I’ve never ever seen that show.’

  ‘What show?’

  He was having trouble keeping a straight face. ‘That soapie you were in. Surfworld or whatever it was. I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘Beachlife. Really? Not even one episode?’

  ‘Not one. We didn’t – we could only get the ABC out here then. And Channel Seven when the wind was blowing from the south.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘So you never saw the episode when Jason and I got married? I thought everybody under the age of thirty saw that.’

  ‘No, I . . . Hold on – wasn’t that the other show? The one with Kylie in it?’

  ‘Ah – so you’re not a complete philistine. You watched Neighbours?’

  ‘I told you – we occasionally got Seven. But I only watched it once or twice. I promise. And it was total rubbish.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, I’m just sorry you never got to see me in my prime.’

  ‘Pity. But you’re that bad now, you know.’

  ‘Not that bad?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve just ordered the full box set off Amazon.’

  ‘I didn’t even know there was such a thing. You didn’t really?’

  ‘No. But maybe I will.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Or maybe you could act out all the most important moments for me.’ I choked on my wine. ‘It’d save some time. Not to mention money.’

  Dinner eaten, the champagne drunk, we opened a bottle of red and moved into the lounge room, sitting in front of the fire I’d lit earlier in the evening, which, I was pleased to see, had somehow managed not only to stay alight, but warm the room, which had cooled down quickly even though it was still only autumn. The conversation became quieter, more personal. Chip told me about his marriage, the death of his wife, his sadness at not having children. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘You were married, weren’t you? No kids?’

  I answered the first half of the question.

  ‘I was married. We split up fifteen years ago.’

  ‘And there’s been no one since?’

  ‘No. I mean – I’ve been out with a few people – but I guess I wasn’t . . . ready. You know how it is.’

  He knew.

  ‘So who was he? Your husband? Is he someone I should have heard of?’ Chip looked embarrassed. ‘I probably should have googled all this – but I’ve never bothered to get the internet set up at the new place. And anyway – it’s a bit dodgy, isn’t it? Doing searches on your neighbours.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know him. He was a builder. Steve.’ I was relieved that he didn’t know much about me, somewhat hypocritically considering my own research efforts.

  ‘Right.’ He looked surprised. ‘A civilian? Isn’t that a bit unusual in your line of work?’

  ‘Maybe. But I met him after I got out of acting. I’d landed my first full-time teaching job. It was in Collaroy, which is an impossible commute from Bondi, so I rented out my place and moved there. My landlord sent him over to fix some windows.’

  ‘And he never left.’

  ‘Something like that.’ I laughed. ‘Actually, I moved into his far bigger, far fancier place.’

  ‘And didn’t live happily ever after.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What happened? Was the celebrity thing too much for him?’

  ‘It wasn’t that. Any fame I had was pretty much over by that time, anyway. We lived this totally conventional life. I was teaching, Steve was building. We went to the pub on Friday nights, dinner at his parents on Sunday nights. We had friends over for barbies, renovated. It was wall-to-wall picket fences.’ I could hear the wistfulness in my voice.

  ‘So what? Was it you? Did you miss all the excitement?’

  ‘God no. I’d been happy to get out. I’d had enough.’

  ‘Enough of what?’

  ‘Of acting, partly. But mostly it was the whole scene. Being a celebrity.’

  ‘Isn’t that something most people dream about?’

  ‘Most people don’t experience it. It’s not what they imagine.’

  ‘Most people don’t give it up without a fight, so it must have some . . . consolations.’

  This was something that I’d spent a lot of time considering, so the answer came easily.

  ‘It wasn’t ba
d at all. It was the opposite, if anything. And it was highly addictive. It was like the public “me” pretty quickly began to feel like the only me – and eventually that began to feel pretty scary.’

  ‘Why scary?’

  ‘I think you lose your sense of being like everyone else. You don’t have the same limits. It’s hard to describe. Anyway, I decided that I wanted out of it before it . . . consumed me.’

  ‘Was it to do with your mother?’

  I laughed, but his question was surprisingly perceptive. ‘Aren’t most things? But yes, I suppose she was a sort of . . . cautionary tale. I guess her life might have been exciting on one level – but on every other it was completely fucked. And I really didn’t want to go there. I realised what I really wanted was what other people had – marriage, family, a job I enjoyed, enough money to have a decent life. I got some of them. And I still don’t regret getting out. Most of the time, anyway.’

  ‘Only most of the time?’

  ‘Well, sometimes I miss the food. They always fed us really well on set. I never had to cook.’

  ‘Actually, there’s another thing I don’t get. What’s with all this dutiful daughter stuff? Are you some kind of saint?’

  ‘A saint?’ This time my laughter had a brittle edge. ‘I don’t think so. Half the time I want to kill her.’

  ‘Then why take her on?’

  ‘I really don’t know. She’s on the list for The Franchise, but that could take years. Living with her was never meant to be a long-term thing.’

  ‘So, why don’t you find her a place elsewhere. It doesn’t have to be close to you, does it? It’s not like you owe her anything.’

  I didn’t have a rational answer to that. ‘I honestly don’t know, Chip. Sometimes I think I might be a bit mad.’

  He looked thoughtful. ‘Have you checked your palms lately?’

  ‘Checked my palms? Why?’

  ‘For stigmata. Or hair. Maybe both.’

  I turned the conversation back to Chip, asked if he’d had other relationships since his wife died. He’d had a few flings, he told me, and his late wife’s younger sister had tried to set him up with a few of her friends, but nothing ever worked out. ‘Kate thinks that I’m still mourning Gemma, and it’s true, I do miss her, but it’s not that. Or not just that,’ he said. ‘The truth is, I just don’t have the energy to do it all again. I’m sure a shrink would say it’s fear of loss, and maybe that’s part of it too – but I think maybe I’m lazy. What about you?’

  ‘Am I lazy? Or do I think you’re lazy?’

  ‘No. I mean what’s your relationship to . . . relationships? I know you said before that you weren’t ready, but . . . I thought maybe . . .’ He faltered, suddenly awkward.

  The wine had loosened up more than my tongue. ‘What I think is that we’re two lonely people with nothing left to lose, and that you should probably stay the night.’

  He didn’t disagree.

  ABDUCTED: THE ELLIE CANNING STORY

  A documentary by HeldHostage Productions © 2019

  ELLIE CANNING: TRANSCRIPT N4

  She asked where I lived, and when I told her Manning she laughed and said, what a crazy coincidence, that she was actually heading up that way herself.

  So when she offered me a lift, I agreed. Okay, in retrospect it was dumb – what sort of an idiot accepts a lift with a stranger? But she seemed so genuine and kind, and so concerned about me spending the night at the station by myself . . .

  She said I should wait and finish what I was eating, and she’d get her car and come back for me in half an hour – she wanted to get a few things for the trip first.

  She picked me up and we drove for a while and chatted about things, school mostly, what subjects I was doing and that sort of thing. We’d been driving for an hour or so when she offered me a thermos of hot chocolate, told me to drink as much as I wanted, that it would warm me up.

  The next thing I remember was waking up in that room, tied to the bed.

  HONOR: MAY 2018

  THE TWO WOMEN MET WHENEVER HONOR WAS IN TOWN FOR the weekend and didn’t have other plans. Usually she went to Suzannah’s, but there had been drinks at the pub and the occasional meal out when Sally was available to stay with Mary. Dougal had even been persuaded to come with Honor to Suzannah’s on one of his increasingly rare weekends away with her. He had enjoyed the company, though he’d been bemused by Mary, who had insisted on calling him Hannibal throughout the evening, and made frequent allusions to eating human remains (Dougal was round-faced and balding, but that was his only resemblance to Anthony Hopkins). And he’d been pleased to see Honor making new connections, he’d said. When she’d laughed, pointing out that making connections wasn’t something she had a problem with, surely, he’d looked at her curiously for a moment.

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ he’d said. ‘But you know I worry about you, Honor. You don’t really have many friends, do you? Suzannah seems a bit more real than most of the people you know. And she doesn’t want anything from you.’ He’d given her shoulders a friendly squeeze, removing any unintended sting from his words.

  She enjoyed the informal meals at Suzannah’s place the most. They could both relax, let their guard down, and talk without worrying about being overheard. It was completely unexpected, Suzannah confided, the way being a teacher in a small town was a bit like being in show business – you really couldn’t say or do anything in public. There was always likely to be someone listening in, taking notes. They talked mainly about their current lives, but they gradually learned about one another’s pasts, too. Honor had told Suzannah bits and pieces about her happy-enough country upbringing, her hard fought for career, her marriage . . . had even mentioned the once heartbreaking fact of her infertility. She, in turn, had managed to build up a picture of the other woman’s history – Suzannah’s entry and exit from the limelight, her motherless childhood, the sad failure of her marriage. There were certain things that Suzannah hadn’t mentioned too, that Honor had read about online, but her desire to keep parts of her life private was something Honor respected, and understood.

  Honor had also come to enjoy Mary’s company – not when she was sitting blankly in front of the television, barely conscious of the world around her, but when she was in one of her manic, refractory moods, or telling outrageous stories about her misspent youth. Honor was never sure whether she should believe Mary’s anecdotes about all the famous people she’d worked (and frequently slept) with in the music industry. Suzannah was no help; her mother’s life was a complete mystery.

  ‘She really could have been anywhere, doing anything. Mary tells a lot of stories and drops a lot of big names, but I don’t know how much of it is true. She says she lived in New York and Rome and Paris, but she could have been living in the next suburb for all I know. She doesn’t have anything from her past – no photos, not even a passport. I’ve done online searches, looked in rock histories, but never come up with anything. Maybe she didn’t use her real name. But who knows,’ she added, ‘maybe some of what she says is true. Maybe she was bigger than we know. Then again, maybe it’s all bullshit.’

  ‘It’d be interesting to find out, don’t you think?’ Honor said. ‘Maybe I can make some inquiries for you. I know a few people who were around back then – they might know something.’

  Suzannah dismissed the idea. ‘I’m not sure that I really want to know, to tell you the truth. I kinda like the mystery.’

  One late autumn evening Honor and Suzannah were sitting out on the verandah, drinking gin and tonic, the sun sinking slowly behind Mount Waltham, bathing the surrounding landscape in golden light. Mary, who had rather rudely rejected the lasagne that Honor provided, was inside watching back-to-back episodes of SpongeBob. They had been trading tales about a notoriously handsy film executive, long dead, they’d both had dealings with, when they were startled by a faint rustling in the trees to the east of the farmhouse. They heard the crunch of footsteps across the gravel driveway before a figure
moved out of the shadows and resolved into a familiar male form.

  Honor spoke first. ‘Chip Gascoyne. What’re you doing here?’ ‘Saw the lights on, thought I’d drop in.’ His voice was as laconic as ever. If he was surprised to see Honor, he didn’t show it.

  He loped up the verandah steps and walked towards them. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’ He held out a bottle of red.

  Suzannah jumped up. ‘Not at all. We were just having an after-dinner drink. I’ll get some more glasses.’ She seemed awkward, her speech slightly stilted. ‘Take a seat.’

  Chip sat down in a vacant chair and yawned.

  ‘Big day?’

  ‘Not really. Just long.’ He yawned again and stretched his legs out in front of him.

  Honor broke the silence. ‘I didn’t realise you and Suzannah knew each other that well?’

  ‘We don’t. I just felt like some company, thought it might be time to do the neighbourly thing. Wasn’t even sure there’d be anyone home.’ He added casually, ‘Didn’t know you were coming out this weekend?’

  ‘I left a message—’

  Suzannah walked back out onto the verandah, carrying three wineglasses.

  ‘I was just telling Chip that I wasn’t planning to be here; it was all very last minute. I had a call from The Franchise this morning. They were worried about Dad – thought he’d had a stroke.’ She sighed. ‘But it was a false alarm. Just the after-effects of some nasty virus, apparently.’

  ‘Ah. Well, I guess that’s good news. And how’re things in the big smoke?’

  The night was pleasant, the conversation between the three of them comfortable, light-hearted. Mary made a brief appearance, requesting that Chips Rafferty show her his spurs, demanded more ice cream, and then disappeared inside again.

  Around ten, Honor called it a night. ‘I have to be back in Sydney early, so I’d better go get some beauty sleep.’ She offered Chip a lift home. ‘Thanks, Hon. It’s not that I don’t trust your driving, although I don’t,’ he smiled up at her, ‘but I might just wander back the way I came.’ He picked up the wine bottle, tilting it towards the light. ‘And I’m not quite ready yet. There’s at least another glass; this is a good red, pity to waste it.’