by Wendy James
I busied myself with housework – cleaning the kitchen, throwing on washing and then wrangled Mary into semi-appropriate cold-weather clothing – a pair of green and purple harlequin pants, worn under a hoop-skirted mid-Victorian confection, overlaid with a dark grey knitted tunic designed to look like medieval armour, for added warmth (all taken from my collection of stage costumes). I got her to sit quietly with some colouring-in, the TV blaring as back-up. But after more than an hour of this enforced busy-making I could resist the siren-song of the internet no longer. I googled Ellie’s name initially, rather than my own. There were already a few interviews, all remarkably similar in content and tone: the interviewers bordering on reverential, Ellie herself composed, self-deprecating, unaffected, serious and so, so sincere. There was nothing of the victim about her, and nothing in the least confrontational. There was no anger or outrage: she was careful to never mention her alleged abductors, and despite the journalists’ efforts, reluctant to comment on the clearly flawed system that had allowed her disappearance to go unnoticed. All the details of her ordeal were cleverly glossed over; Ellie merely expressed her deeply felt relief over her escape, and her hope that she would be able to get on with the rest of her life. She was entirely media-friendly and utterly, utterly convincing.
I browsed the newspaper accounts, scrolled through all the #EllieCanning tweets, listened to a few talking heads pontificating on the bizarre nature of the kidnapping, their intense admiration for Ellie: her determination and fortitude, her remarkable lack of self-pity – what an excellent role model she was for her generation. A couple of teenage girls had recorded their take on the story – a confused analysis that seemed to be more concerned with Ellie’s perceived attitude and her looks than the serious aspects of the abduction, and featuring a tutorial on how to achieve her ‘signature’ look (pale foundation, concealer, grey eye-shadow, kohl, salt spray for the messed-up hair), as well as a conversation about how Ellie’s escape – her empowerment! – had already made her, like, so iconic.
My own web presence was a significant contrast. Just a few months ago the hits would have been minimal: my very brief IMDb bio, and a few articles of the ‘whatever happened to?’ variety, detailing my exit from acting into teaching and motherhood, and illustrated largely by pictures of me taken from the show, with perhaps a wedding photo thrown in for contrast. There were a couple of dedicated Beachlife fan sites too, but these tended to focus on the dramas of the characters rather than the life stories of the actors. Now, in just the few days since my arrest, the links had multiplied exponentially. The fact that the case was sub judice had restricted commentary by most of the respectable media outlets – they could only mention my name, the fact that I was a teacher and former soap star, and that I had been charged. One broadsheet had made a valiant attempt to broaden the discussion, with an outraged young feminist arguing that my transgression was yet another instance of the ways in which internalised misogyny forced women to replicate patriarchal power structures.
Legal ramifications appeared to have little effect in other places. The number one link took me to a site called 180Degrees, which had scooped up all the available facts and run with them. Their piece managed to insinuate that not only was I a failed actor of negligible talent, I was also embittered and barren, with a sinister character and a dubious past. According to ‘unnamed sources’, I was an unpopular figure in the town – a bad teacher and social climber to boot – and my connection to the rich and influential Chip Gascoyne made me even more suspect. In the accompanying image, another one that must have been taken outside the station just after my arrest, I looked frankly hideous – my body hunched, hair flying around my face, my expression vindictive. Like Ellie, I had earned my own Twitter hashtag, and the accompanying tweets were horrifying to view. Of course most threads linked to the 180Degrees piece, and the comments ranged from the mildly alarmed – the types who wonder how someone so clearly disturbed has been allowed to teach young people – to those that questioned why I was given bail. A few called for Royal Commissions into foster care and private schools. A frightening number suggested that I should be sterilised, that my baby should be adopted out (or aborted), that I should be thrown into prison and the key destroyed. I was described as a bitch, a witch, a sicko pervert. The invective was impressively non-partisan, coming from all directions: young and old, men and women, left and right. But the fact that I’d created some rare form of community cohesion by being universally loathed was of no comfort at all.
These were only the public sites, the ones I could see – the open forums, the less mainstream, and sometimes completely dodgy news sites. Their dodginess didn’t seem to matter – whatever they reported, regardless of whether it was true or false, would be accepted by some, and often by many, as the truth. And then there were all the other sites that couldn’t be seen, the private forums, Facebook pages, Snapchat communications, where the gossip moved like wildfire, where stories could be shared by hundreds, thousands, without any threat of exposure or censure.
I’d seen it happen to others, though never had I imagined being the subject of this deadly game of Chinese Whispers. I might as well forget the formal legal process: this was where I was being tried, by these thousands and thousands of people who had nothing at stake, and who were enjoying every moment of their own outrage. It was completely beyond my control.
When Chip arrived back with the dogs it came as something of a surprise, to me at least, that Mary was a dog lover. My grandparents had had German shepherds – spoilt family pets – when I was a child, but somehow I had never really considered that Hugo, the shepherd who’d already been an old dog when I was a small child, had once been Mary’s childhood pet. Chip had two almost-retired working dogs – black and white Border collies, Rip and Ned; siblings I had only met on a few occasions who were slavishly loyal to Chip, and almost embarrassingly indifferent to me. But Mary was another matter.
Initially, Chip tried to get her out in the backyard with them, teaching her to use some basic commands, but Mary tired of this quickly, and so did the dogs. Instead she huddled with them on the front verandah, ignoring the Arctic outdoor temperature, her beloved television programs forgotten. For the rest of the afternoon, I sat in a patch of sun and watched as Mary regaled the patient duo with stories about her youthful exploits, real and imagined, the dogs’ attention assured by her petting, and the cereal she shared with them, doled out piece by piece, straight from the packet.
I wasn’t sure if the dogs were protecting us from the barbarians at the gate, but they were saving my sanity, even as they added to my Froot Loop bill – pun, metaphor, irony, whatever, intended.
ABDUCTED: THE ELLIE CANNING STORY
A documentary by HeldHostage Productions © 2019
ELLIE CANNING: TRANSCRIPT N13
After a couple of days I had to leave the hospital – they needed my bed – but I really didn’t want to go. My foster parents didn’t want me back, and there was no point going back to school. There was no way I was going to my mother’s. I’d turned eighteen, so the department wasn’t legally responsible for me anymore. There was literally nowhere for me to go. That’s when Honor came on the scene.
Once the media knew Honor was involved things calmed down. Before that it was nuts. Some journalist had even dressed up as a nurse to get into my hospital room.
Honor fielded all the calls, and then I made an official statement. I was able to make sure that what went on the record was true, and not just speculation. The police told me what to say and what not to say. I had to be careful to leave out any information that might identify my captors before the police could do their job.
At first I resisted Honor’s advice that I be paid for interviews and appearances – it didn’t really seem right. But my life had changed because of what happened to me, and not necessarily for the better. I wasn’t going to be able to go back to school, or to Manning. Honor offered me a room at her place, but I was eventually going to have to find somewhe
re to live, and for that I needed money.
And even though Suzannah Wells had been charged, the committal hearing was still four months away. And we had no idea about the trial itself. It seemed as if it was going to be a long, boring wait.
SUZANNAH: SEPTEMBER 2018
I HAD WORK THAT HAD TO BE HANDED BACK TO MY CLASSES, and there were a few things I wanted to collect from the staff common room and the drama room, so I rang to arrange a suitable time. Tania was civil but cold: I wasn’t to be on the grounds between nine and three; 4 pm would be best as most of the children would have left by then. I wasn’t naive; I wasn’t even hopeful. I had a pretty clear idea about what was going to happen when I turned up at the school, how my colleagues would behave, but I wanted to go anyway. I wanted to see it for myself, perhaps.
But first I had to get through the small crowd still gathered at the bottom of the driveway. I donned dark glasses and wore a padded jacket with a hood that I pulled as far down as I could, and wrapped a scarf over the bottom half of my face, but even so there was no disguising my identity. Who else could I possibly be? I pulled up to open the gate, ignoring the clamour, the shouted questions, the flashing lights, sliding back into the car and locking the doors as quickly as possible. I looked straight ahead, drove through slowly and determinedly, then sped off down the Wash Road. I didn’t get out to close the gate, and I didn’t look back.
When I walked in, the still-crowded common room was silent for an almost imperceptible moment. The resumed conversations were stilted, tense; necks were carefully angled, heads deliberately still as I made my way to my desk. Everyone was trying so hard – too hard – to act as if it was no big deal. When they came, the greetings were offhand and oh-so-casual, as if nothing had changed.
Only Julia made an effort to speak to me. She asked how I was holding up, and then, without waiting for a reply, launched into a long story, telling me about her weekend trip to Sydney, her trip back early this morning, the mess her housemate had left in their kitchen. Julia’s stories tended to drag out inexorably, and where I would once have tried to move away as quickly as possible, today I found her conversational meanderings comforting. And listening to Julia saved me from making eye contact with anyone else, excused me from confronting their ill-disguised curiosity. Eventually, Sarah Bower, the principal’s PA, bustled over to us.
‘So sorry to interrupt, ladies, but you’re wanted in Tom’s office as soon as possible, Suzannah.’ Her words were ice-tipped, her expression frozen.
I gathered the few odds and ends I’d come for, and made my way back across the room. This time all pretence at normal behaviour was dispensed with, heads turned blatantly and the silence was charged. I could hear the soft murmur begin as soon as I exited.
I handed Tom the folders I’d brought in for my Year Elevens and the marking sheets for their last performance. ‘Do you want me to sort out some class plans for whoever is relieving?’
‘No. It’s fine.’ He didn’t quite meet my eye. ‘We’ve got a replacement coming.’
‘An actual drama teacher?’
‘Well, English-History primarily, but apparently he’s had some experience in amateur theatre. He should be able to sort something out.’
‘Will you keep my job for me?’
‘We’ll see what happens. You know I have to go through the department. It’s not just my decision.’ He changed the subject. ‘Now, have you got what you needed from the common room?’
‘There wasn’t much, really. A few books, some notes.’
‘No sense leaving them; things tend to disappear. You know what it’s like.’
I nodded, smiled. I knew what it was like.
Tom gave a tepid smile, shook my hand, thanked me for my hard work, wished me all the best.
I turned back at the door.
‘I didn’t do it, you know, Tom.’ His expression was neutral. I didn’t stop there, though I knew I should. ‘What this girl’s saying I did. It’s utterly ridiculous. Why on earth would I kidnap anyone? It’s crazy.’
‘You’re right,’ he said eventually, ‘it is crazy. But sometimes people do crazy things, things we can’t ever understand.’ His voice was all gruff sympathy now, full of a pity I didn’t want to hear.
ABDUCTED: THE ELLIE CANNING STORY
A documentary by HeldHostage Productions © 2019
ELLIE CANNING: TRANSCRIPT N14
I guess every teenage girl fantasises about being a celebrity, but I could never have imagined the media craziness surrounding the case.
It was as if I’d fallen into the plot of some Hollywood movie: one moment I was a pretty average Australian schoolgirl, getting ready to do my final exams, making plans for my future, and the next thing I knew I was locked in a bedroom, drugged out of my brain, the prisoner of two mad women.
And then, after I escaped, before I’d even processed what had happened to me – I was still dazed and confused and falling asleep at random times, and so unfit I could barely make it up one flight of stairs without panting like an old lady – there was a crowd of journalists following my every move, shouting questions at me, microphones shoved in my face every time I went outside.
Right from the start the media were over the top about my story. I still don’t really understand why, but for some reason it really hit a nerve. Everyone wanted to talk to me; everyone was so fascinated by what happened. And most people were nice, like they really genuinely cared what had happened to me. My biggest ‘fans’ were probably teenage girls – I’m not sure why – whether it was my story, or just that I seemed like one of them . . . Anyway, for whatever reason, everyone was so amazingly supportive and caring. And I know it sounds cheesy, but I felt really lucky, really blessed.
HONOR: SEPTEMBER 2018
THE GIRL HERSELF WAS MORE THAN HONOR HAD HOPED FOR, better than she’d expected. From the first moment she hit the public eye they’d loved her – how could they not? Ellie was pretty, she was poor, she’d had to work hard, she’d been neglected by her family and the system, and then used all her nous to escape what might have been a sticky end by the skin of her teeth. She’d had so many obstacles to overcome, and yet she’d emerged triumphant. Some of the narrative elements could have been improved, of course – if there’d been a man involved, the story would have been more conventionally titillating, perhaps excited a different sort of audience. But Honor wasn’t sure if that would have made it bigger. However appalling it was, a man abducting a young girl wasn’t that remarkable; being kidnapped by a seemingly respectable woman was something else again. And because it was something unexpected, it was even more sinister. In this scenario, nobody could be trusted, no one could be safe.
There was something perversely rousing, it had to be said, about pitting these two very different women against one another. And, as expected, the crowd was cheering for the golden-haired damsel in distress and not the dark and bitter crone. One had all the moral weight, the popular appeal, the other faced community hostility and loathing. Honor was filled with pity for Suzannah, of course she was; the imagined monster they were excoriating bore no resemblance to the warm and engaging woman she knew, but there was no denying that the online outrage machine had been good for Ellie, and for Honor too. She’d made it her business to check out every site that featured Suzannah, and to read the comments. Much of it fuelled the outrage: the students who didn’t like her; the parents complaining about her bad marks, dodgy teaching methods, her retrospectively suspicious behaviour; the former colleagues who thought she was big-headed; the stories about her youthful indiscretions; the rumours of a manufactured relationship with her gay co-star. Someone claiming to have been a midwife in the hospital when Suzannah’s daughter was born had even hinted she suffered from post-natal psychiatric problems that may have led to the infant’s death. Honor had no doubt that almost all of it was fabricated. This sort of publicity always encouraged the nasties to crawl out of the woodwork. What could be more thrilling to the self-righteous than to join a crusade agai
nst such a vile predator?
Honor was honestly impressed by her new client’s behaviour. Ellie had listened respectfully to everything she’d told her, had happily taken her advice on every aspect. She’d explained what was permissible legally, how she needed to avoid any suggestion that her public appearances could be considered prejudicial. ‘If they try to get you to discuss the case directly – and they will, especially the surrogacy angle – deflect. Talk generalities.’
When she explained that an appearance on a certain show, although immediately lucrative, would blow Ellie’s chances of a hard-to-get, less financially attractive but ultimately more advantageous post-trial exclusive, the girl had agreed to wait. She’d kept her twitter feed completely anodyne – not even retweets of anything controversial – and her Instagram was almost exclusively (and lucratively, as her followers increased) brand-based. Most importantly, she’d listened to what Honor said about what her approach should be, what tone to take. ‘The media love you right now, and they’ll love you more if you keep it together. Try not to seem too vulnerable. Victimhood might be the new black, but people still like to think you’re capable of being brave – that you can take some things on the chin. The more serene you are, the more outraged the public will be.’
And thus far Ellie had been impressively circumspect in all her interviews: she’d come across as quietly courageous, self-deprecating, generous. And most importantly, authentic.
One thing they had argued about was Ellie’s living arrangements. Honor had initially suggested she go back to Manning until the committal hearing, had thought it’d be best to lie low, to make only carefully stage-managed appearances. Honor would pay rent on a flat, but maybe Ellie could get someone to move in with her. She could even look for part-time work. She must have friends, some sort of support network in town, surely?