Mad Men, Bad Girls

by Maggie Groff

  I felt bad about feeling good for, oh, almost five seconds.

  The familiarity of Marcia Sanderson’s voice was bugging me, and I couldn’t work out where I’d heard it before.

  But then I hadn’t yet seen the photo of Marcia’s daughter, Matilda Wilding.

  Chapter 5

  To celebrate that I had a lead at last, I gave Chairman Meow the thumbs-up and went out to the kitchen to make tea. Any excuse, really.

  I carried a cup of steaming tea back to my desk and, just as I was about to sit down, I glanced out of the window and a familiar figure caught my eye. Weaving in and out of the knots of backpackers waiting for onward coaches on the other side of Jonson Street was my sister, Harper. She sprinted across the road in front of a Wicked campervan that had Random Breast Checks artfully scrawled along the side. I guffawed in a feminine way, in case the guys over the road were still watching.

  It was term time, not school holidays, and I couldn’t imagine why Harper would be in Byron Bay, particularly as she’d been busy and hadn’t visited in a while. My sister has worked at Tattings, a posh coeducational private school on the Gold Coast, for six years. One of the sports she teaches is gymnastics, but I call it tatty gym-elastics to annoy her. I can be very childish if I try.

  Chairman Meow stirred as Harper’s key turned in the front door. This was followed by serious clomping up the stairs and a few expletives about the state of the carpet. Harper was on a mission, I could tell.

  ‘It’s awful hot out there,’ Harper said, ignoring my surprised expression and acting as though it was the most natural thing in the world for her to be in Byron Bay on a Thursday morning during term.

  I’m never quite sure how to describe my sister. There’s a sense of urgency about her, a quickness that comes across as almost a fear that she might miss something. She’s Alice’s white rabbit with killer black hair, killer white skin and eyes of forget-me-not blue. Her body looks soft and earthy, but it’s a front. Hidden beneath Harper’s stylish clothing is a body that has borne four children but is still as toned and taught as the string on a hunter’s bow.

  Of course, you should know that I, the fairer child, look like Nicole Kidman and have the patience of Gandhi.

  Harper, who had not met Chairman Meow before, made a beeline for the Windsor chair and gently scratched between the cat’s ears. He purred loudly, stretched his front legs and shuddered.

  ‘What sort of cat is this?’ she asked. ‘Is it yours?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Meet pet of the week,’ I said, although I had already told her about him. ‘Fifty dollars, desexed and micro-chipped. I think the breed is Russian Blue, but there were no formal papers.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Chairman Meow.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a boy, he looks like a girl,’ Harper said, maintaining her casual, just-popped-in charade.

  ‘This is Byron Bay. It doesn’t matter here,’ I said. ‘As I told you on the phone, I did a couple of volunteer shifts at the pound, filling in for a friend on holiday. First day, I fell in love with him. Second day, I brought him home.’

  Harper crouched in front of the cat and said, ‘Hello, Chairman Meow, welcome to the family.’ Then she dumped her bag on the floor, came over to my desk and planted a kiss on top of my head.

  ‘Have you heard from Toby?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I’ve had the odd email. Reuters would let me know if there was a problem.’

  ‘I’d be frantic with worry,’ Harper said.

  Worry aside, Toby’s regular overseas jaunts suit me just fine. It’s a situation that’s not displeasing to those of us who value independence and solitude, though obviously I’d prefer it if he weren’t assigned to dangerous places and I didn’t have this constant feeling of unease. Still, on the plus side, I can paint my toenails and watch reruns of Judge John Deed without someone saying, ‘That stuff stinks’ or ‘You’ve seen this one before’.

  By the way, Toby doesn’t live with me permanently. He has an apartment in the Rocks area of Sydney, a building with a uniformed doorman and security that would impress the CIA. On balance, he probably spends about four nights a year there.

  Harper was chewing her bottom lip, and frowning.

  ‘Are you playing truant?’ I asked.

  ‘Your hair needs highlights.’ Harper ignored my question and I wondered how many subjects we’d have to cover before she eventually told me the real reason she was here. Patience with my sister’s dithering is not my strong suit.

  ‘Why are you here? You’re supposed to be in school,’ I persisted.

  ‘Is the tea still warm?’ Harper said.

  I nodded.

  ‘It’s not the Old Socks stuff, is it?’ she said, referring to my personal blend of Earl Grey and Lapsang Souchong.

  ‘No, Darjeeling, the world’s finest. It’s quite safe.’

  Harper swept the cat up and carried him out to the kitchen. Instinctively, I knew exactly what she was going to do. Since childhood our family animals—cats, dogs and rabbits—have lapped milky tea laced with sugar from bowls. None of them like the sugar to be stirred—it has to be left in a pile in the middle of the bowl as a sort of grand finale.

  Harper returned with a mug of tea and settled in the Windsor chair.

  ‘You’ll get hairy,’ I warned. ‘That’s the cat’s seat.’

  ‘What are you working on?’ Harper asked, blowing on her tea.

  ‘A story about a cult called either the Luminous Renaissance of Illustrious Light or Bacchus Rising.’

  ‘Jeez,’ she said. ‘I love all that cult stuff.’

  It was good to hear Harper confirm Brian Dunfey’s instinct that the subject had mainstream interest. Normally Harper is only interested in reading historical romance novels and about sport, fashion and stamps. Personally, I’ve never understood the stamp thing.

  ‘There’s a lead that may go somewhere,’ I revealed. ‘I’ve got an appointment this afternoon with a woman on the Gold Coast. She was highly emotional and a bit snippy on the phone, so I’m not sure how much use she’ll be. Anyway, it’s not really important, just my sole source of income at the moment.’

  ‘No pressure then.’ Harper chuckled at her own joke.

  ‘Have you been sacked?’ I prodded.

  ‘Don’t be daft, I was just passing and thought I’d call in. And I want to borrow your black suit, the one with the peplum waist. I’m going to a forties party as Barbara Stanwyck.’

  ‘Harps,’ I said crossly. ‘Do I look as though I fell out of a stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down? Why aren’t you at school?’

  Harper ignored me yet again. ‘Where does the cat do his business?’

  ‘In a litter tray on the back verandah. Toby put a cat flap in the door.’

  ‘Scout,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Someone at school is slashing underwear in the girls’ change room. Cutting up bras and briefs. Cutting legs off tights.’

  ‘Ah.’ We’d got there at last. I waited in case there was more.

  There was more.

  ‘The school is keeping this very low-key. They don’t want to involve the police and risk it making the papers, what with the recruitment drive for next year about to start. The principal has indicated that, as Head of Sport, the change rooms are my responsibility, and it’s my duty to fix it. I thought you might help, you know, tell me what to do, as I really have no idea. I teach sports, for Chrissakes!’

  Harper let out a mournful sigh. ‘But, hey, you’re busy, so forget I asked.’

  Typical, I thought. Absolutely typical! Drive all the way to Byron Bay, disturb my important work as if it’s some sort of hobby that can be interrupted, whinge about the state of my stairs, throw my animal off the furniture, complain about my smelly tea, insult my hair, borrow my clothes and ask for help and then say that you don’t want it.

  Sitting very still, I went into thoughtful mode, knowing that I needed to climb down from my high horse. This was my sister, wh
ich was why I was on my high horse in the first place. There was no way that Harper would have the faintest idea how to handle this, and I knew she’d want the school to think she could. I also seriously doubted the school would be impressed if they knew that Harper’s first move had been to alert a journalist, even if I was family.

  Chairman Meow pranced into the room, leapt straight onto Harper’s lap and started to clean his paws. Instead of shooing him off, Harper leaned awkwardly around the cat to sip her tea.

  ‘Have you told anyone at the school that you’ve come to me?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where do they think you are?’

  ‘At the dentist having root canal therapy.’

  I couldn’t help smiling. It was most reassuring to know that teachers at posh private schools were at it too.

  ‘Do you know the names of the girls whose clothes were damaged?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have any photos of them? The girls, not the undies.’

  ‘Uh-huh. I have the year photo of the whole school, and the class photos.’ Harper, I was pleased to see, was starting to relax.

  ‘Has anyone spoken to their parents?’

  ‘Not spoken to in person, no. The school went into damage control and sent a letter to the victims’ parents expressing shock and horror that such a heinous incident had occurred at Tattings. The parents were told that the matter would be fully investigated and Tattings would reimburse the costs of the damaged clothes on presentation of an invoice.’

  Harper wrote me a list of who the damaged items belonged to, and the dates and times of the incidents. There had been three occasions of vandalism, and always underwear belonging to the same four girls. A big clue there, I thought.

  ‘The school obviously believes the perpetrator is another student,’ I mused. ‘Otherwise they would have contacted the police.’

  ‘Sure it’s another student.’ Harper looked aghast that there might be an alternative explanation.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be,’ I said. ‘It’s best, with things like this, to start with an open mind. It could be a teacher, parent, caretaker or someone walking through the grounds. Have there been any new teachers lately?’

  ‘Yes, Robert Arnold. He teaches science and is about thirty-five and very pleasant. It couldn’t possibly be him, though, he’s married with two children!’

  I let that one go.

  ‘If this isn’t just about kids being spiteful,’ I said, ‘and I find anything I think should be reported to the police, I’ll report it.’

  Harper frowned, which irritated me, as she knows how important it is that I maintain a collegial relationship with the police. Working with the authorities is a two-way street. Sometimes I scratch their back and, in return, sometimes they scratch mine, which is an essential advantage in my line of work.

  Trying to hide my annoyance, I allowed what I felt was an appropriate period of time for professional reflection. To gain maxi­mum effect I steepled my fingers in front of my face and tapped my forefingers against my mouth while staring intently at the wall.

  ‘Get real,’ Harper said. She can read me like a book.

  I grinned sheepishly at her. ‘Okay, I’ll help you.’

  She looked relieved and satisfyingly grateful. I didn’t tell her that from where I sat, helping big sister investigate the vandalism of girls’ undergarments at a high school seemed a lot less problematic than unearthing the goods on a secretive cult. This was something tangible. In fact, I could drop into the school this afternoon, when I was up on the Gold Coast. Hey, I’d probably have it all sorted in a couple of days and by that time I might know where I was going with the cult story.

  At least, that was the plan.

  Chapter 6

  Harper and I were in my bedroom—she was forcing herself into the skirt of my Saks Fifth Avenue suit and I was eating a ham and cheese sandwich on rye bread. Harper is vegetarian and her hummus, tomato and rocket sandwich was on a plate on my bed, next to Chairman Meow. Backpackers on the roof of a nearby hostel can see straight into my bedroom, and I’d pulled the heavy red velvet curtains to give my sister some privacy.

  Harper complains that my apartment is like a Turkish bazaar and that I’ve ruined the aesthetics of the high ceilings and polished wooden floors by filling the place with junk. The décor is what I call Byron-Bohemian with exotic fabrics, oriental rugs, terracotta painted walls, enormous art deco paintings, small palm trees in huge brass pots and an eclectic mix of old furniture and things I’ve acquired on my travels. There are books and photographs everywhere; nothing matches, and I love it.

  Harper pulled the jacket on—the skirt was a tight fit, but the jacket was perfect. She was starting to look like Barbara Stanwyck and, if she annoyed me again today, I’d tell her.

  ‘What shoes can I borrow?’ she asked, dragging a pair of red patent Jimmy Choos from the wardrobe, perfect peep toes in perfect condition. I’d bought them for ten dollars at a Vinnies op shop, and could have bought a second-hand car for the original price.

  ‘I haven’t seen these before,’ she cooed, putting them on. ‘They’re gorgeous.’

  She had, she’d just forgotten. Harper and I spend a couple of days each year trawling op shops between Byron Bay and the northern Gold Coast. We have a budget of two hundred dollars each and buy second-hand designer clothes; occasionally we find good quality shoes as well. It’s a great game and we’re practically professionals.

  I was getting bored and I’d finished my sandwich. Standing up to stretch, I felt an insane need to clean something and stripped the sheets and pillowcases off the bed and carted them out to the laundry, a euphemism for the washing machine and an old sink on my back verandah. I loaded the machine and switched it on, then remade the bed with fresh linen. When I’d finished, Harper was still prigging around in front of the mirror.

  ‘Shall I wrap your lunch and you can eat it on the way home?’ I hinted, not so subtly.

  Harper frowned. She was doing a lot of that today.

  ‘If you want me to go, just say,’ she said.

  ‘Okay, I want you to go.’

  I had work to do and the Bacchus Rising website was calling.

  It was one o’clock when Harper left, and I felt guilty for chasing her off. Chairman Meow looked forlorn as he watched the sandwich leave the premises.

  I called Tattings and introduced myself to the receptionist, Julia, as Mrs Davis, mother of twins, considering sending my girls to the school. Julia wasn’t to know that they were twenty-five. I’d heard good things, I said, and would like to see the school, particularly the library and the sports facilities—I threw the library in to keep Julia off the scent.

  Julia put me through to the bursar, Mrs Prendergast, who smelled double fees. She could fit me in tomorrow morning at ten for a tour, but if I wanted to see the principal I would have to wait a week as Principal Hathaway was attending a conference in Singapore. I was sure Mrs Prendergast had worked this information in to advertise the school’s international connections, so I said, ‘Gosh!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Prendergast proudly. ‘Singapore!’

  ‘Tomorrow morning’s fine,’ I told her, and she outlined directions to the school and then we said goodbye.

  So far, so good, I thought. Mrs Prendergast couldn’t wait to meet Mrs Davis, and I could spend the night at Harper’s house, which would save me having to drive home to Byron Bay tonight and back up to the Gold Coast in the morning. I emailed my sister, apologised for my rather rude dismissal of her earlier and said that I’d be there for dinner about half-past seven and would be staying the night.

  The Bacchus Rising website was a total ecstasy bath. Technically it was brilliant, constructed so that anyone with basic computer skills could follow the pathways, which all led—you guessed it—to the shopping and payment page. There were no flashy graphics, moving images, indecipherable fonts, or the need for log-ins or passwords. It was as easy to navigate as ABC.

  Th
is was fortunate as the complexity of the astral jargon and cosmic gobbledygook emanating from the computer screen was way beyond mere mortals, including me, though living in Byron Bay I’d heard a lot of the big words before. Even so, my bullshit detectors were clanging like church bells.

  Once again I charged myself to keep an open mind.

  The home page sported a smiling image of a youthful Bacchus wearing a crown made of vines and grapes. Sunrays beamed outwards from his curly-haired head, and a kneeling, doe-eyed female gazed up at him in rapturous adoration. Actually, she reminded me of me, twenty years ago, in the front row at a Dylan concert.

  I clicked on Bacchus Information on the menu bar and discovered the ancient path to the Bearer of the Herald, whose name was Serene Cloud, Mystic Master of Mars, although it was probably Reg Snape, licensed plumber, of Dubbo.

  Open mind, Scout, open mind.

  His Cloudiness led me through an ancient labyrinth to the Bacchus products that would take my mind beyond its conscious wisdom and activate the sacred tides within my cosmic energies. Apparently I would experience a merging of the universal self and a profound ascendance of my wondrous sphere, awakening my cosmic energies to achieve a higher consciousness.

  Whacko!

  The web page invited me to click here, so I did. Who wouldn’t?

  The click took me straight to the product range, where I could purchase a variety of pendants, guardian angel ornaments, goblets, rings, crystals, dream catchers and something called a Totarium that looked like a mesh cover to stop flies settling on a cake. Apparently the dimensions of the Totarium were based on the Great Pyramid of Giza, and I was advised that it was a cost-effective purchase at only six hundred dollars.

  I examined the other items and whilst they were attractive they certainly weren’t worth the asking prices, even though, as Serene Cloud kept reminding me, all the products had been showered by the energy of seven chakras and transfused with the supreme profluence of Bacchus.