Mad Men, Bad Girls

by Maggie Groff

  ‘Mm, I know, and I’m glad too. Do you want to go down and have a swim and I’ll heat up some shepherd’s pie?’

  ‘It smells good,’ she said. ‘Mother’s comfort food.’

  I nodded.

  As soon as Marcia had left for the pool, I called Harper. I was in for a bollicking and Marcia didn’t need to be exposed to our narky sibling exchanges.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Harper said crossly. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.’

  Not for the last two hours, I thought uncharitably. ‘I was in a meeting and had the phone switched off. What’s so urgent?’

  ‘It’s Mary Niles. She’s taken an overdose. Her mother called the school.’ Harper was using an unpleasant accusatory tone, as if these events were my fault.

  ‘Is she okay?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course she’s not bloody okay. She’s in the Intensive Care Unit at Gold Coast Hospital!’

  Harper is such a spitfire when she’s annoyed with me. I knew the format well—she’d ball me out a while, knock me down a peg or two, then tell me I’d been right that the school should have offered assistance to Mary Niles instead of throwing her out. After all these years I could practically write the script.

  ‘Is she conscious?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I think so. Her mother found her in time and they pumped out Mary’s stomach at the hospital. I don’t know any more and I don’t know what she took.’

  My thoughts sprang to the two students who were bullied into making false witness statements for Brianna Berkelow at Heathlands School, and I wondered if Mary Niles had been similarly coerced into making a dishonest statement about Robert Arnold. The girls at Heathlands had eventually come forward, whereas Mary Niles had tried to end her life. But there were two girls at Heathlands—two’s safe. Mary had been all alone.

  ‘Is anyone going to the hospital?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course I am, Scout! You have to understand, the school has a responsibility to look after students and address the cause of any misdemeanours that have occurred. Mary may have been expelled but we, as a premiere educational facility, must provide support to Mrs Niles and Mary. We have to organise and fund counselling if necessary. We can’t just cast the poor child on the scrap heap.’

  Whoa! This was a twist in the script. I grinned. When she was good, Harper was very, very good.

  ‘Is that what you told the principal?’ I asked, unable to hide my amusement.

  ‘More or less,’ Harper conceded. ‘And don’t you dare say I told you so.’

  ‘Can I come with you to see Mary?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that. Pick me up at 10 am tomorrow, Queensland time. I want to ride in the Lexus,’ she said. ‘And maybe you can tell me why Sam wants to learn to knit?’

  When Marcia had eaten and we’d cleared away the dishes, I put on a Robbie Coltrane album and we sat on the balcony drinking tea. The view was as black as pitch except for lights from a prawn trawler heading out to sea. Every few seconds a wave crashed on the shore and cigarette smoke wafted over from the adjacent balcony.

  I asked Marcia if she was up to hearing about my meeting with Cinnamon Toast and Tildy; she said that yes, she most definitely wanted to hear about it, so I opened my notes and ran through the conversation for her.

  ‘Tildy wasn’t herself, Marcia,’ I said. ‘You know that wasn’t the real Tildy, don’t you?’

  Marcia nodded, breathed in deeply and let out a long exhausted sigh.

  ‘It may be harder than we thought to remove her from the cult,’ I warned. ‘Tildy has to want to leave, and that may be our problem.’

  I gulped a mouthful of tea. This was the conversation we had to have, but that didn’t make it any easier. Marcia was quiet and I forged on.

  ‘I’ll do everything I can this weekend to evaluate what’s going on with Tildy. Information is the key. The more we know, the better chance we have of making her see sense. Because that’s what it is, you know, Marcia—she’s lost her sense. Tildy’s judgment has been impaired by a combination of the cult practices and the post having a baby thingy.’ I couldn’t grasp the right word, my mind distracted by concerns about what I might be walking into this weekend.

  Marcia sat back and gave me a questioning look.

  ‘You mean postnatal depression?’ she said. ‘Have you got something else on your mind, Scout?’

  ‘I think so. Sorry.’ I saw no point in elaborating.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Marcia said. ‘Six-two, black curls, blue eyes, moves like a panther, looks like he has a pleasing amount of goods in the shop window?’

  ‘Marcia!’

  She grinned at me and I started to laugh. Then Marcia started to laugh. Soon we were clutching our stomachs and falling about on the balcony, braying like hysterical donkeys. I couldn’t remember when I’d last cried with laughter.

  ‘Keep it down!’ shouted the lone smoker next door.

  ‘Oh blow it out your ear,’ Marcia shouted back.

  Chapter 42

  Explanations for problems pop up when you least expect them, which is what happened when I was killing time on Thursday morning, waiting for Marcia to wake up.

  I’d spent the night on one of the twin beds in the second bedroom, leaving the door ajar so that I could listen out for Marcia. Instead, I’d succumbed to a deep and rejuvenating sleep courtesy of the sensational therapy called airconditioning. Fortunately, I don’t think Marcia woke up, but I’d never get work as a night nurse in this town again.

  It was early and I’d completed my diabetic routine and munched my way through muesli and a banana. Leaving a note for Marcia, I took the lift down to the lobby and strolled south towards the local shops where I purchased a newspaper, the Australian Women’s Weekly, New Idea, Dolly, a packet of Tim Tams, four Danish pastries, a twin pack of crème caramels, a bottle of strawberry milk, a prepared fruit salad, bread rolls and sliced cheese. Then I lugged it all back to Marcia’s in two plastic bags, stopping occasionally to relieve the pressure on my fingers.

  As I re-entered the apartment block Tracey, the tarty blonde receptionist, clacked across the lobby in ridiculously high heels. Today she was sporting newly plumped lips that were as shiny as a snail trail. I beamed at her, mainly because I thought it might annoy her. Ignoring me, she fussed around and made a big deal of tidying the tourist brochures in the wall display.

  For some reason, maturity and I were not on speaking terms this morning and before I knew it I’d put down my shopping and was removing a range of brochures from the display. I flicked through them and then replaced them all in the wrong slots. I can’t speak for Tracey, but I found it hugely entertaining.

  Tracey, bless her fat lips, lasted quite a while before sighing, pulling out the misplaced brochures and returning them to their correct places.

  ‘Visitors can be so tiresome, can’t they?’ I said, giving her my best lemon-sucking smile.

  ‘Some,’ Tracey said sharply, and I informed her that, if she didn’t mind my saying so, her manner was a little hostile for someone in the service industry.

  She turned towards the reception desk and sunlight caught the silver pendant hanging from her necklace. The raising and lowering of her arms to tidy the brochure display must have caused it to work free from the depths of her cleavage.

  I gasped.

  Tracey stopped in her tracks.

  ‘What now?’ she snapped, her face flushed.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘A twinge of sciatica.’ I put my hand in the small of my back and hoped I was vaguely in the right area for the sciatic nerve, give or take a few metres.

  Suddenly I realised how Tildy had come across the cult the very first day she’d arrived on the Gold Coast last December. Or rather, how the cult had found and recruited Tildy. Funny, the other day I’d had a sense I’d seen another pine cone somewhere and now I knew where—it was the silver ball I’d noticed drowning in Tracey’s bosom the first day I’d come to the apartments. I grabbed my shopping and raced across the
lobby to the lift.

  Marcia was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter eating a mandarin. She’d showered and dressed and there was a hint of mascara, which was a good sign. Almost breathless with excitement, I told her what I’d seen.

  ‘Are you sure it was a pine cone?’ Marcia asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘You don’t think it’s a coincidence, that she just saw it on the net, liked it and bought it?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Marcia agreed.

  Naturally, she wanted to tear downstairs and rearrange Tracey’s facial features, so I made her promise not to do anything until after the weekend. Then, I told her, we would poleaxe Tracey together.

  Marcia paced up and down the kitchen. ‘Now I know why she has been cool towards me since I’ve been here.’ Marcia bit down on her lip, thinking aloud. ‘I never imagined any cult members would work, do proper jobs, but I guess they must.’

  ‘The woman you thought was Casey Steinman was wearing ordinary clothes too,’ I reminded her. ‘They don’t all fit the blue-dress mould, do they?’

  Marcia shook her head. ‘Scout, Tracey has access to this apartment. She could have been in here looking through my things. At my notes. They’re pretty comprehensive, and if she’s read them she would know that you’re going to try to infiltrate Bacchus Rising. And why. It could be dangerous. I don’t think you should go.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘Besides, there will be other members of the public booked in. They won’t try anything with witnesses around.’

  My bravado was false and we both knew it. The dynamics of the weekend had suddenly changed and high risk had been introduced. For Marcia’s sake I attempted to look cool, calm and collected while I gathered my things together. It was time for me to fetch Harper and go to the hospital to visit Mary Niles.

  I left Marcia calling a locksmith to install an old-fashioned deadlock on her front door.

  It was ten o’clock on the dot when I arrived at Harper’s house. My sister was sitting in the shade on the front doorstep drinking coffee from a Bart Simpson mug. As soon as I got out of the car Angus gave a joyful bark and bounded over to me. I ruffled his head playfully and spoke doggy talk—he’d been to the beauty parlour and was shaved of curls everywhere except his topknot. Amused, I wondered if Andrew had suffered a similar fate.

  ‘Are you ready?’ I asked Harper.

  ‘Yep, but you’re not,’ she said. ‘You can’t go dressed like that.’

  Harper looked smart and professional in a plain black sleeveless dress, a red Egyptian-style necklace and my red Jimmy Choo shoes. I was wearing the denim shorts and grey T-shirt from last night.

  Raiding Harper’s wardrobe, I selected a black skirt, a stretch charcoal top and a fabulous pair of flat black and white Bruno Magli shoes. I’d try hard to remember not to give them back.

  At 10.15 am we hopped into the Lexus and I pointed the car towards the Gold Coast Hospital in Southport.

  ‘Nice wheels,’ Harper said. ‘When do you get yours back?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I hope. Have you worked out what you’re going to say to Mrs Niles?’

  ‘Uh-huh. I’ll offer the school’s help to arrange counselling for Mary to address what she did at school. The behaviour’s been caught early, so there’s a good chance of successful treatment. And I’ll also say how sorry I am that Mary is in hospital.’

  Hell’s teeth, the school had already tried, convicted and punished the poor girl and now they were on to treatment.

  ‘And after you’ve said that,’ I asked casually, ‘what are you going to do when Mrs Niles attacks you with a machete?’

  I glanced across at my sister.

  Harper frowned at me. ‘Why do you think she’d do that?’

  ‘Because her daughter just tried to kill herself after she was ruthlessly expelled from your school,’ I said. ‘Because Mrs Niles knows her daughter, and knows she probably did what she did at the school because something very wrong was happening to her at your school.’

  Harper folded her arms and huffed loudly. ‘Tell me what to do then.’ She hesitated and then added, ‘Please.’

  I sighed. ‘It’s not so hard. Think about why things happened rather than what happened. Think about reasons. You told the principal that the school must look after students and address the cause of any misdemeanours. Those initial thoughts were right. That’s the key word: cause. And put Mary and her needs in the centre of the picture, not the school or what the school should be seen to be doing.’

  ‘All that?’ Harper leaned forward and turned the airconditioning down a notch.

  I nodded. ‘Yes, all that. Did Sam tell you he and I had a chat about Mary Niles?’

  ‘Sam’s twenty-one, he doesn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘Sam thought that Mary could be being bullied. He dismissed the jealousy factor as unlikely, as no one is jealous of students that everyone dislikes. His explanation made sense.’

  ‘Mm,’ Harper murmured. ‘And absolutely no one likes the fab four.’

  ‘It does make sense, doesn’t it?’

  I sensed Harper nodding. ‘You know, Tattings has a strong anti-bullying policy,’ she said, ‘but I always have concerns that the more rules and policies you make about something like bullying, the more covert the activity becomes.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible that Mary was retaliating?’ I asked.

  ‘Her grades are down and she’s missed a lot of school this year. Bullying would explain a lot. I don’t have trouble imagining Brianna Berkelow and her friends as accomplished bullies.’

  Harper was silent for the remainder of the trip to the hospital and I didn’t interrupt her thoughts. I knew she was working things through.

  I turned into Nerang Street and started searching for a parking space, which wasn’t easy as the area serves three hospitals and a school. After three sweeps of the block I found a vacant two-hour meter and, with difficulty, manoeuvred the car into the small space.

  Harper looked out of her side window and remarked, ‘That’s okay, I can walk to the kerb from here.’ I screwed up my nose and poked my tongue out at her.

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ Harper asked as I collected a carrier bag from the back seat of the Lexus.

  ‘Magazines, crème caramels, Danish pastries and strawberry milk.’

  I’d left the Tim Tams, a Danish pastry and the Australian Women’s Weekly for Marcia, who’d decided to blob at home for the day and watch television. We’d agreed that there was little value in her continuing to watch the post-office boxes in Surfers Paradise, unless she wanted to sell more artwork. After all, we now knew that Tildy was with the cult, and I’d be finding out the location of Bacchus Rising soon enough.

  ‘Do you think Mary Niles will be able to eat or drink any of that?’ Harper’s tone was indignant.

  ‘That’s not the point,’ I said. ‘Anyway, her mum or sister can have it.’

  Harper went very quiet and we walked the remaining distance to the hospital in silence. As we entered the lift to go up to the Intensive Care Unit, Harper said, ‘How come you think to do all that sort of stuff? It never entered my head to buy her anything.’

  I was touched by Harper’s feelings of inadequacy.

  ‘Oh,’ I said sarcastically, ‘I wonder if it’s because I didn’t have Andrew and Sam and Jack and Fergus to feed and water and push out of the house this morning? That’d be my guess.’

  A smile spread slowly across Harper’s face.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she said. And she gave me a hug.

  Chapter 43

  Having spent much of my childhood in hospitals, I’m allergic to squeaky wheels and long corridors, and I cringed in fearful anticipation as the lift doors opened at the ICU floor. Sensing my discomfort, Harper, in that tender protective way I recall so fondly from our childhood, looped her arm through mine, yanked me out of the lift and said, ‘Oh for God’s sake, grow up.’

  Composing ourselves, we approached a mal
e nurse who asked if we were relatives. Harper said that no, she was a teacher from Mary Niles’s school and had come to see how Mary was.

  The nurse wasn’t forthcoming with information, not even admitting that Mary was a patient. I was quietly impressed—I’d want my child’s privacy guarded too. He politely showed us to a room with a few chairs, asked us to wait and then left, his shoes squeaking as he walked away.

  Harper and I were alone in the waiting area, sitting three seats apart in case I pinched her. Important-looking people in uniforms and white coats passed us without a sideways glance. Trolleys came and went and I fetched little cardboard cups of water. We flicked through magazines and watched people using their mobile phones next to the notice saying not to use them. I’d spent better mornings.

  ‘Here comes Mrs Niles!’ Harper suddenly announced, putting down the magazine she’d been reading and standing up to greet the woman walking towards her. I remained seated, removed from the situation until Harper signalled my inclusion.

  Mary’s mother was a fortyish can-do, no-nonsense looking woman who was slightly overweight with short wavy brown hair. Her clothing was standard Gold Coast summer wear—cream pedal pushers, a pretty blouse with cherries on it and sensible brown sandals that I wouldn’t have been caught dead in.

  Unfortunately, Mrs Niles didn’t look like she wanted any type of greeting and openly ignored Harper’s proffered hand. Her stance was defiant, her expression angry.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she demanded.

  ‘Thank you for coming out to see me,’ Harper said. ‘I understand how angry you are, and how worried. Mary is one of my best students. She’s a hard worker, smart and a pleasure to teach. I’ve come to see how she is and if there’s anything I can do to find out what was going wrong at school, what was happening to her.’

  Go Harper . . .

  ‘It’s a bit damned late,’ Mrs Niles said.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ Harper said. She bent down and picked up the carrier bag of goodies I’d brought. ‘Please give these to Mary.’ Harper handed the bag to Mrs Niles. ‘I hope she recovers quickly.’ Then Harper looked at me and said, ‘Come on, Scout, we’d better go.’