Mad Men, Bad Girls

by Maggie Groff

  ‘Divorced,’ I told her. ‘Davis is my maiden name. Rob and I parted ten years ago.’ In case Marcia was Rob’s sister’s best friend I added, ‘We’re still good friends, though.’ One never knows.

  This was agony. I couldn’t place her. I tried to think back more than ten years.

  ‘You do remember me, don’t you?’ Marcia said as we entered the lift and she pressed level five.

  ‘Of course,’ I lied. ‘It’s a shame that we’re meeting again under these terrible circumstances.’

  ‘I’m sorry I was such a mess on the phone,’ Marcia said. ‘I’ve felt so alone on this, and scared. The police tell me that Tildy—Matilda—isn’t a missing person and, as she is an adult and left home of her own accord, there’s nothing they can do. I was so hopeful when I saw your ad and just fell apart with relief when I realised that I might know you and you could . . . Well, I guess I felt I’d found someone I could trust to help me get Tildy back.’

  Oh, great. Somewhere between Miles’s car and Marcia’s apartment I’d morphed from an investigative journalist into the Scarlet Pimpernel.

  The door to the apartment opened into a spacious modern room with a white-tiled floor, sand-coloured walls and two large black leather sofas strategically placed to capture the expansive coastal views. Persian kilims in deep reds, burnt oranges and dark greens softened the harshness of the white floor. Along one wall was an intricately carved Balinese sideboard on which stood a Russian samovar.

  ‘I love the samovar,’ I said, not meaning to sound like a know-it-all but because it genuinely was a magnificent piece.

  ‘Oh, most people don’t know what it is.’

  ‘I’m a tea freak,’ I explained.

  ‘Me, too,’ Marcia said, looking pleased. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  While Marcia busied herself making tea, I studied the room. It was a typical upmarket holiday apartment, except with exotic showpieces. A large Villeroy and Boch jug containing Australian natives stood centrepiece on the dining table and the paintings on the side wall, away from the window light, were by Graeme Stevenson. Toby and I have been to a few of Stevenson’s exhibitions, and Toby owns a couple of his wolf paintings.

  I drew another investigative conclusion. ‘This is your apartment, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, how did you know?’ Marcia said, an element of surprise in her voice.

  ‘The parrots and the owls,’ I replied, indicating the paintings. ‘And the samovar.’

  Marcia nodded. ‘I bought this apartment as an investment fifteen years ago and it’s mostly been rented out. Special things I usually keep locked in the storage cupboard, but I’ve been here since I lost touch with Tildy before Christmas, so I got them out.’

  Tildy . . . Matilda? The name was ringing a bell somewhere, just not in my head. Where on earth had I met Marcia before?

  Marcia set the tea tray on the coffee table in front of one of the sofas. The teacups were also Villeroy and Boch—the Petite Fleur design—and the teaspoons were silver with little coffee beans on the end.

  ‘Milk no sugar, please,’ I said.

  Marcia poured my tea and handed it to me. Her hand must have been trembling as the cup rattled a little on the saucer.

  I took a sip. ‘Oh, lovely, is it Orange Pekoe?’

  ‘Ah-ha! You do know your teas.’ Marcia seemed delighted, and I didn’t damage my credibility by telling her that I’d seen the packet on the kitchen counter when we came in.

  Now that we’d broken the ice, I opened my bag and took out a notebook and pen. I needed to be sure Marcia understood why I was interviewing her. Briefly, I explained that I would be investigating the cult activities in order to write a story, which would hopefully be sold to one or more newspapers or magazines. I explained that the piece could be published anywhere in the world, and I’d like to include her information, if she would let me. At this early stage, I added, I was just starting to look into things, so I didn’t yet have any information that I could share with her.

  As it’s often the clincher when sourcing information, I reinforced that I didn’t have to use real names in my story. I also told her there was a possibility, if I felt the information wasn’t marketable, that I might not proceed at all. Then I ran through the release form I required her to sign.

  Marcia agreed to my requests and I thanked her.

  ‘I’d do anything to have Tildy back safe and sound,’ Marcia assured me, and she leaned forward and looked straight into my eyes. ‘Anything.’

  My pen was poised ready to take notes.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Marcia said, leaning back and looking slightly despondent. ‘I’m not sure where to start.’

  ‘Go back to the beginning,’ I said, smiling encouragingly. ‘And take your time.’

  Chapter 9

  Marcia took a sip of tea and I could see that her hands were now trembling quite badly.

  ‘Tildy . . . Matilda . . . is twenty-five,’ Marcia began. ‘Her teenage years were a mess. At fourteen, after her father died, she lost the plot and went wild, smoking dope, drinking and staying out all night. I moved from Sydney to Melbourne to get her away from the kids she was mixing with, but it didn’t help. At fifteen Tildy ran back to Sydney with a boy. At sixteen she arrived back on my doorstep in Melbourne, pregnant.’

  ‘Did she have the baby?’ I kept my tone gentle as I could see how much effort Marcia was making to not get too emotional.

  ‘Yes, she had Tommy, he’s nine now and a great kid. I never asked who the father was, and Tildy never said, so I’ve never known if it was the boy she left with. She was six months pregnant so there wasn’t a choice—about having the baby, I mean.’

  It was hard to believe that Marcia hadn’t asked who the father of her grandchild was. It was the first thing my mother had asked me when I was eighteen and told her I was pregnant with twins, even though Rob was my steady boyfriend.

  ‘Does Tildy have other children?’

  Marcia nodded. ‘Christopher is ten months. He’s still a baby.’

  ‘And Christopher’s father?’

  ‘Mark Wilding and Tildy married three years ago. Mark’s an accountant at Temple Bell and Associates in Melbourne. After Tommy was born, Tildy finished high school and took an administration course. They met when Tildy went to work at Temple Bell as a temp. At the moment Mark is caring for both boys. He’s completely devastated by what’s happened.’

  ‘What exactly has happened?’ I asked.

  Marcia folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath.

  ‘Tildy had a difficult pregnancy with Christopher and after his birth she became sullen and withdrawn and didn’t like touching him. When Christopher was a month old, Tildy was diagnosed with postnatal depression and started medication and counselling. I took leave from work and moved in with them to care for her and the boys.’

  ‘How did that go?’ I asked, immediately wishing I hadn’t as it obviously hadn’t gone well.

  Marcia was quiet for a while, regrouping.

  ‘I thought things were working out,’ she said finally. ‘Tildy seemed happier, she was taking her medication and liked the counsellor. And her relationship with Christopher was improving, so I didn’t see it coming. Neither did Mark.’

  ‘See what coming?’ I said, my voice almost a whisper.

  ‘In early December, when Christopher was seven months old, I came home from the shops and Tildy was gone. Christopher was alone, in his cot, crying. Tommy was at school. Tildy had left a note saying that she couldn’t stay and needed space. Space, for God’s sake! I still can’t believe she left Christopher alone.’ Marcia looked angry now, her emotions riding the proverbial roller-coaster.

  ‘Why did you think she’d come to the Gold Coast?’ I pressed on.

  ‘It was a calculated guess. Tildy likes it here and she knew the apartment was empty that week because I’d been complaining bookings were down. She has her own key and the managing agents are okay with owners and their families popping in for the odd night or t
wo between bookings, as long as we pay for the extra cleaning. It turned out to be a good guess. I called reception and spoke to Bronwyn, one of the receptionists. She told me Tildy had arrived that afternoon and looked fine, not upset or anything.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I couldn’t fly up immediately and neither could Mark. Tommy had to be collected from school and Mark was due to take his mother, who has breast cancer, for radiotherapy treatment the following morning, so I had to stay with the boys. As we knew where Tildy was, and Bronwyn had indicated that she looked okay, Mark and I agreed it wasn’t necessary to panic and get on the first flight. Also, I wanted to talk to the counsellor and ask for advice.’

  ‘What did the counsellor say?’

  ‘Nothing, she wouldn’t talk to me because of client privacy. Everything was confidential and there weren’t any exceptions, even though Tildy was obviously not in a fit state of mind and had run away and abandoned her children.’ A tear snaked down Marcia’s cheek and she quickly brushed it away and shook her head.

  ‘When did you or Mark last have contact with Tildy?’ I asked.

  ‘The day she left Melbourne. Neither of us has had contact with her since she flew up here before Christmas, almost three months ago. She doesn’t answer her mobile phone when we ring, doesn’t return our calls and isn’t responding to emails. Christmas was so sad, especially for Tommy. He’s only a kid and he misses his mum so much. It breaks my heart to see him so unhappy.’

  ‘How long did Tildy stay here?’

  ‘Only one night according to Bronwyn,’ Marcia said. ‘Bronwyn told Tildy I’d called—I mean, why wouldn’t she? She didn’t see Tildy again.’

  ‘What makes you so sure that Tildy has joined a cult? Couldn’t she have just wanted to sort herself out, find a quiet place to think things through?’

  ‘As soon as we knew that Tildy was up here, Mark contacted the Gold Coast Police for assistance. They were brilliant, but there was only so much they could do as Tildy is an adult and left home of her own accord. Because Mark told them that Tildy was mentally ill, they called Tildy’s mobile and, when she responded to them, officers from the Missing Persons Unit arranged to meet her in a coffee shop at Surfers Paradise.

  ‘After the meeting, the police told Mark that she appeared well and in a good frame of mind, and she was adamant that she didn’t want Mark or me to know where she was. The police said Tildy had a right to privacy and they had to respect her wishes, and although she had given them her address, they had agreed not to pass it on to us. They also said that if she had appeared unwell they would have contacted a mental health team. They did tell us that Tildy now wishes to be known as Eternal Shadow and she is living in a commune, and they didn’t believe she was in any personal danger.’

  ‘If they wouldn’t tell you her address, how do you know she’s with Bacchus Rising?’ I asked.

  ‘Mark asked if the commune was a cult, and the officer accidentally used the name when he replied, saying that no, Bacchus Rising was just a commune as far as he knew. Apparently the police are aware of the commune’s location and no zoning laws have been broken. I don’t think the officer even realised that he’d leaked the name.’

  I desperately wanted Marcia to explain to me why she believed that Bacchus Rising and the Luminous Renaissance of Illustrious Light were one and the same, but I knew it was best to be patient and allow her thoughts to flow in chronological order. Maybe there was a story in Bacchus Rising anyway, without the American cult connection.

  ‘And, since then, you’ve been up here looking for her?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, apart from when I flew back to Melbourne to spend Christmas with Mark and the boys. I can’t sit and do nothing. I must have shown Tildy’s photo to thousands of people. Every day I search in a different area and ask people if they’ve seen Tildy, or know of Bacchus Rising. I called the council and they have never heard of them.’

  Marcia put her head in her hands for a few seconds, and then sighed.

  ‘Tildy’s very impressionable and needy, and she can be quite gullible, too. I think she’s been looking for some sort of father figure. And there’s something else,’ Marcia warned.

  I waited.

  ‘She didn’t take any medication with her. I found her anti­depressants in the bathroom cabinet.’

  ‘Did Mark tell the police that?’

  ‘Yes, and they said she could have had another prescription filled and, just like the counsellor, they kept banging on about privacy issues. It’s absurd when someone has a mental illness that the family who care for them can’t be told where they are. It’s cruel. What if Tildy isn’t taking her medication? What if she’s suicidal?’

  I nodded in agreement. Someone seriously needed to look at the privacy laws relating to mental health issues. I filed the idea in my brain vault as a possible future story.

  ‘May I have a recent photo of Tildy?’ I asked.

  Marcia went into another room and returned with a glossy six-by-four photograph and handed it to me. It was a family snapshot of a pretty young woman with delicate features, warm brown eyes and dark wavy hair falling about her shoulders. There was a small beauty spot beneath her left eye, and she was cradling a new baby in her arms, and smiling. A boy who I assumed was Tommy stood beside her with his hand on the baby’s head. Happy days.

  The woman’s face looked so familiar and I looked at Marcia and then back at the photograph again.

  It took a couple of seconds, but I got there in the end.

  Chapter 10

  Everything tumbled into place. Tildy had been friends with my twins, Tasha and Niska, when they’d been at primary school in Neutral Bay, on Sydney’s lower north shore.

  Tildy—Matilda—had been called Matty then, though her last name wasn’t Sanderson. I still had no recollection of the name Marcia, although I knew the woman sitting opposite me was Matty’s mother.

  Rob and I hadn’t socialised with Matty’s parents, so we hadn’t known them well. Our paths had mainly crossed at school functions and kids’ birthday parties. I remember that Matty’s father, Hal—the father Marcia had said died when Matty was fourteen—was always the parent who collected Matty from school and our house. Marcia rarely appeared at school functions and our communication had been mostly by phone, which was why her voice was familiar. She no doubt remembered me because I had twins. People do.

  My daughter Tasha and little Matty had both been crazy about ballet and horses. They’d attended classes at Miss Magic’s School of Ballet and Ballroom Dance and I recalled Matty being a good dancer, elegant for a child. In contrast, Tasha was a rhino in clogs. Rob and I had been helpless with laughter when Tasha was cast as Tinkerbell in the end-of-year dance spectacular. It was spectacular all right—Rob said we should have had an ambulance standing by.

  Although Tasha and Niska look alike, they are not identical and, for the most part, they have followed individual paths. At ten, Tasha gave up dancing and turned to academia. She couldn’t get enough of education and ended up taking a medical degree at Sydney University. She’s just started her first surgical rotation at St Vincent’s Hospital in Sydney.

  Niska, then as now, was only interested in boys and books and had been committed to the cause from an early age. I’d worried that Niska might be jealous of her twin’s close friendships with other little girls, but there wasn’t a jealous bone in Niska’s body. She’s the most grounded person I know—and a great thinker. After starting a psychology degree at the University of Queensland, Niska had switched to journalism, which made yours truly very happy. It was good to know that at least one of the acorns hadn’t fallen far from the tree. Niska also lives in Sydney and these days she writes for a men’s magazine. No surprises there!

  Matty was a sweet, gentle little girl, and I remember being concerned that our boisterous household would scare her. She adored Rob, and would often hug him or throw her arms around his legs if she was standing near him. It used to unnerve Rob and it bothered Tasha a
s well. She’d grab him and say, ‘My Daddy,’ asserting ownership. Niska never cared. Me neither.

  Perhaps Marcia was right and Matty was drawn to father figures.

  I realised I’d been swimming in my own thoughts for a while and looked across at Marcia. She appeared agitated, so I suggested we go for a walk, and she readily agreed. Sometimes people find it easier to talk when walking, as they don’t have to look at you. It was also time for me to eat the almonds I keep in my bag. I didn’t want to go through the rigmarole of explaining to Marcia about my diabetes, or make her feel bad that she hadn’t offered me any food. Outside, I could comfortably produce the nuts from my handbag as we walked along, like trail mix.

  We set off along the path that runs beside the beach. Families carrying towels and bodyboards were spilling out of four-wheel drives and boys were playing soccer on the reserve. Overhead, thousands of screeching rainbow lorikeets flew around the Norfolk Island pine trees—the noise was deafening.

  ‘How old is Mark?’ I asked, almost shouting.

  ‘Twenty-seven, only two years older than Tildy,’ she said. ‘Did you think he might be older?’

  ‘I had wondered,’ I admitted.

  We separated to allow a large teenager to barrel between us on a skateboard. The boy smelled strongly of sweat and both Marcia and I made a face at the same time, then laughed.

  As we walked on, moving away from the birds, I rummaged in my bag.

  ‘Oh, look, I’ve some almonds in here,’ I said. ‘Would you like one?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Marcia said, and I didn’t blame her. Who would want food someone had found in the bottom of their handbag?

  We walked some more and I began to munch.

  ‘We used to call her Matty,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I’d forgotten about that. Tildy changed her nickname from Matty to Tildy when I changed mine to Marcia,’ she explained.

  That stopped me in my tracks and I caught her arm with my hand to stop her. Suddenly I remembered.