Hush, Little Bird

by Nicole Trope

  Women’s lives are filled with little incidents of that nature that mean nothing. Situations that could have turned ugly but didn’t and leave one with only the fading memory of having been slightly uncomfortable. Portia has spent most of her life ignoring men who call out to her in the street. ‘Hello, beautiful! Hey, baby! What about a smile? Jesus, look at that!’

  ‘Dickhead,’ I’ve heard her mutter when I’m out with her. Although Portia can be fierce, even she doesn’t have the energy to address every remark thrown her way. She usually just lowers her head and keeps walking. While she was at university, a professor invited her out for a drink; when she declined, he failed her in an exam. Portia was incensed. She reported him to the chancellor. I admired her for it, but Simon seemed to think she’d overreacted.

  ‘It’s one exam, Portia. You’ve hurt his feelings. Move on with your life. He’s been humiliated enough already, and I’m sure he won’t let you fail the course.’

  ‘There are so many things wrong with what you just said, Dad, that I can’t even be fucking bothered to explain it to you.’

  ‘Must you use an expletive, Portia? Is it really necessary?’

  I said nothing when Simon and Portia were speaking, but that night I went to find her in her bedroom. ‘I think you were very brave,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you didn’t let him get away with it.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say that when Dad was giving me shit about it?’

  ‘Oh, Portia,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, “oh, Portia”,’ she said. I wanted to chastise her then, to tell her that she had no right to tell me what to do, but I knew that Portia saw something when she watched Simon and me. I had raised her and her sister, just as my mother had tried to raise me, to expect more for themselves from their lives. I preached education and success and rarely mentioned that they should think of getting married and having children. I congratulated them for standing up to teachers and bullies at school and encouraged them to one day travel the world with friends. And yet when Simon was home everything revolved around him. I never contradicted him on anything, even when he was clearly wrong as he had been about Portia’s reaction to her professor. Portia saw this and it frustrated her but there was nothing she could do about it. I wasn’t ready to stand up to him. I was never ready to stand up to him. Not until the very end.

  It has, perhaps, taken me far too long to learn to stand up for myself. At fourteen, I had travelled into the city by bus one day with my mother. It was an exciting day for both of us because we were having lunch and then going shopping for a dress for me to wear to a cousin’s wedding. I can still remember that dress. It was green taffeta with ruffles on the bottom. My mother and I even found a pair of matching green shoes to accompany it. Hideous by today’s standards, but the height of sophistication in my fourteen-year-old mind.

  It was the middle of the school holidays, so the bus to the city was crowded and there were people standing in the aisle. When it came to our stop, my mother and I had to squeeze past some men standing by the door, and as we got out, one of them pushed his fingers against my breast. It happened very quickly. The doors closed and the bus pulled away and I said nothing to my mother. I wasn’t even sure if it had actually happened—and if it had, whether or not it was an accident. I soon forgot about the incident, but for some reason it comes back to me every now and again and I try to picture the man who may or may not have assaulted me.

  There was no harm done to me. I went on to have lunch and a beautiful afternoon tea complete with petits fours and cake, and I enjoyed shopping with my mother, laughing with her over some of the clothes we saw. I wasn’t upset then, even though I found myself throughout the day absentmindedly touching the breast that had been touched. But what is ‘harm’? What does it mean? How do you measure how much harm has been done? Some of the women who came forward spoke of lifelong depression after their encounters with Simon. One of them told the newspaper that she was addicted to prescription medication, but in the next breath mentioned a bad car accident. Would all of those girls have led happy lives if not for Simon? How much harm did he do, and how will anyone ever know the answer to that?

  Matthew Evans had used the words ‘no harm done’ when he talked about Simon. Matthew was the producer of My Kid Can . . . He was older than Simon by about five years and had been in the television industry virtually since it began in Australia. He became a close friend to Simon. A close friend and, I’m sure, a protector. For nearly all of its ten years on television, My Kid Can . . . always rated in the top five shows. High ratings meant advertising dollars. Advertising dollars meant survival. Simon’s appeal was a big part of those ratings. Who knows what Matthew was willing to overlook to keep things ticking over?

  When more and more women began to appear with their stories Matthew gave an interview to one of the major newspapers. In it he vigorously denied that Simon was ever anything but a model human being. His memory wasn’t what it used to be, he said, but he did remember one of the girls who had since come forward to say that Simon had exposed himself to her in his office. (He took out his penis and asked me if I wanted to touch it. I wanted to be sick.) She had been thirteen at the time. She had tripped over during her dance routine for the audition and never made it onto the show. Her name was Alexandra—I’d always liked that name, but Simon was adamant about naming the girls. ‘Ever since I first began performing Shakespeare I have dreamed of naming my children after some of his greatest characters.’

  ‘I remember that child,’ Matthew was quoted as saying. ‘She was very pretty, with long red hair, and she was very upset when she failed. She wanted the chance to perform her dance again, but we wouldn’t allow it. It wouldn’t have been fair to all the other children. She got quite hysterical and we had to work hard to get her to just sit down and let us continue with the rest of the auditions. The rules were the rules. Her mother had left her with us and disappeared, and once we had coaxed her off the stage the child wouldn’t stop crying. She was disturbing everyone else on set. The child after her was trying to sing and it really wasn’t fair.

  ‘Simon was kind enough to take her off the studio floor to comfort her in his office. Five minutes later she emerged with a smile on her face and a lollipop in her hand. I remember because the change was so radical. There was no harm done to the child. She was comforted and sent on her way.’

  At the television station, Simon had a small office with a desk and a chair, as well as a couch and coffee table. I used to buy giant packets of lollipops for him to put in a glass bowl on his desk. ‘Some of them can be very difficult when they don’t make the cut,’ he told me. ‘I like to reassure them that their lives are not over and give them something sweet before I send them on their way.’

  ‘That’s nice of you, Simon,’ I said, ‘but I don’t think upset children are your responsibility.’

  ‘Probably not and they can be a little annoying at times but if we’re careless with their feelings, they won’t want to watch the show. Matthew lectures me all the time on maintaining our audience. Sometimes I let them sit in the office and have a good cry, and then I send them on their way with a quick cuddle and something sweet to eat.’

  ‘Oh, Simon,’ I said, ‘you’re so lovely.’

  That’s what I thought he was being—lovely and kind and self-deprecating. Despite his high-handedness when it came to dealing with the studio, he still didn’t consider himself too important to comfort a child whose heart had been broken. When we were out with friends and he dominated every conversation, irritating me and other people at the table, I would remind myself that he was a man with a soft and generous heart. However bombastic and arrogant he might sometimes be, he was always deeply caring about the plight of those less fortunate—especially children. He served on the boards of at least five children’s charities and was always happy to appear for free any time they needed him to.

  After the stories began, what I hated most was that everything he ever said or did was called into questio
n. Things that had merely been said in passing or done without thinking now took on a sinister gleam. Was he just comforting children and giving away lollipops? Was he being kind or was he turning the children’s distress to his own advantage? Was he evil or did he just push being friendly a little too far?

  That’s what Matthew told the newspaper. ‘He’s simply a friendly man. He would hug me goodbye before he went on holiday. He hugged everyone. He liked to touch people. The fact that these girls misinterpreted his actions and that the media have now deemed him a predator speaks more to the changes in our society than to Simon Winslow’s character. When did a simple hug become a reason for child protection militants to accuse someone of paedophilia?’

  ‘Do you see?’ said Simon as he read out the article to me. ‘Do you see that the truth has finally come out?’

  I looked at my husband and nodded. In the months since the allegations began he had aged. His eyes were bloodshot and his shoulders more rounded. Each time a new woman came forward he would lock himself in his study for hours. He was drinking too much and I worried about him having a heart attack. Our local doctor was a frequent visitor. I told Simon I was calling Dr Robins for myself, but before he left he always said to Simon, ‘Why don’t I just have a listen to your ticker, old man?’ He had prescribed us both sleeping pills. Sometimes I was afraid that between the pills and the alcohol we would both be found dead in our beds one morning. What would the press say then?

  I know that if I had been outside the situation looking in, I would have been absolutely convinced of his guilt. By the time Simon died, twelve women had accused him of touching or groping them. But it was not as simple as all that. Two of the women were instantly discredited when it emerged that on the dates they claimed Simon had assaulted them the show was on hiatus. Our whole family was travelling through Europe at the time. Then the first woman who came forward was offered a book deal that she gratefully signed, and Simon’s supporters went into a frenzy on social media, claiming that she had made it all up for financial gain.

  ‘All of the children left the studio happy,’ Matthew told the newspaper. ‘None of them seemed damaged in any way. Surely if these things were happening they would have said something at the time. Why come forward now? Is it not possible that the news of his induction into the Hall of Fame has led some who have known him, however briefly, to question their own lives? These women who have come forward have since been catapulted into the national and even international spotlight. They did not go to the police privately. They did not even contact Simon Winslow to accuse him. They went to the press. What does that tell you about them? What kind of people are they?’

  And those were all reasonable questions. I stood by my husband because I wasn’t sure, not until the very end. I stood by him, and Rosalind supported him as well. ‘I know him,’ she said to me.

  I know him too, I thought, but then I wondered.

  He lost Portia after the television interview. She couldn’t get past what the woman had said. She became suddenly very busy with work, unable to join us for dinner or even a quick cup of tea.

  ‘I feel as though she has died, my dear,’ said Simon.

  ‘What rubbish,’ I replied. ‘She’s just taking some time. Give her some space, and when all this is over she will come back to us.’

  ‘Ah yes, possibly, but then will we want her back? How can she stand on the side of my accusers and still call herself my daughter?’

  ‘She is your daughter, Simon. She is our daughter and I will not discuss this any further.’ I felt a streak of anger go through my body. Mostly I pitied Simon, was very worried about him, wished it all away, but sometimes I would feel a red-hot rage at what was happening to my life. At those moments I reached for the wine bottle. I couldn’t leave the house for a calming walk, so I drank a glass or two and convinced myself that this time in my life would pass. So many years had passed since the alleged incidents, and many of the women couldn’t recall exact details. It seemed possible that it was all a huge mistake, that Simon was being targeted by vicious women who were jealous of his success and his renewed fame. I had been married to Simon for decades, there was no way I could have taken the word of someone who knew him for one day at the most. I had to trust my own judgement until the point when he told me the truth. Only then did I understand, and on that day, that day over a year ago now, I did the right thing.

  I think it was the right thing. I think he was finally telling me the truth after all the months of lying. I think, I think, and some days I feel I would give anything to know for sure, and on other days I would give anything to never know.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘So,’ says Henrietta, ‘have you thought any more about contacting your mother?’

  I shake my head. Every week Henrietta asks me the same question. It’s annoying. If I wanted to talk to my mother I would tell Henrietta or I would tell Lila. Every Wednesday Lila sends me an email about Isabel, and every Wednesday she puts at the end, Mum would really love to talk to you. I don’t want to speak to my mother ever again. I’m glad that after I go home I won’t have to see Henrietta anymore. She is pushy like a zebra finch.

  ‘You might feel better if you apologised,’ says Henrietta.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You keep saying that, and Emily said that too. But I’m not going to say sorry to her. She knows I’m sorry for hurting her. I don’t want to talk to her.’

  ‘Birdy, you broke her jaw and shattered her cheekbone. I’m hesitant to sign off on your release from here until you take responsibility for what you’ve done, or at least explain it so I can try to understand.’

  ‘I know what I did. I know it was wrong. People need to be punished when they do the wrong thing. I feel bad for hitting her, but I don’t want to talk to her.’

  ‘I know you’ve been punished, but won’t you feel better if you and your mother can be friends again? She’s a very important part of your life, and Isabel’s life as well.’

  ‘I have to go home to Isabel,’ I say. ‘I have just over a week left. I have to go home.’

  ‘I know, Birdy, stay calm now. I don’t want you to get upset, but you need to try and explain what happened. Please try.’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain,’ I say. ‘I got angry and I hit her. I didn’t realise she was so weak. I was so skinny and light when I hit her. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I was just angry.’

  ‘You’re not skinny now.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Do you feel stronger now that you’re bigger?’

  ‘I feel better.’

  ‘Can you explain what you mean by that?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘When you get out you may want to lose some of the weight. It’s not good for your body to carry so much weight. It’s unhealthy.’

  ‘You’re a doctor for my mind, Henrietta, not a doctor for my body.’

  ‘You seem angry today.’

  I sigh. ‘I’m not angry. I’m just tired of always talking about the same thing. I hurt Mum and I’m sorry for it. I won’t hurt her again. I won’t hurt anyone, but you can’t make me be friends with her. I’m too big for that.’

  ‘I have to know that you’re not going to let your anger lead you astray when you get out of here. I have to be certain that you know how to control it.’

  ‘I can control it. I’ve never hit anyone before and I won’t ever again,’ I say. ‘Jess has taught me about the monkeys.’

  ‘The monkeys?’

  ‘See no evil,’ I say, and cover my eyes, ‘hear no evil,’ I stick my fingers in my ears, ‘and speak no evil.’ I cover my mouth so she almost can’t hear the words.

  ‘And do no evil,’ says Henrietta.

  I put my hands behind my back. ‘Do no evil,’ I say, and then I laugh, and even Henrietta has to smile.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt anyone again,’ I say, and the bubbling in my stomach comes back because I’m lying and I’m not telling Henrietta about my agenda.

  ‘W
e only have one session left after this. I’m going to give you some exercises that you can use in case you get angry again. I don’t want you to hurt anyone else ever again.’

  ‘I won’t hurt anyone ever again.’ I squeeze my hands together and cross my fingers to keep my agenda from coming out of my mouth.

  Henrietta tells me about meditation. ‘Just listen to your breathing,’ she says. ‘Sit quietly and listen to the sound of your breath going in and out.’

  I’m not very good at meditation. My hand gets itchy and then my foot gets itchy and then I have to move because I’m uncomfortable.

  ‘Just listen to your breathing and think of a place that makes you feel happy and calm,’ says Henrietta. I scratch my chin and then I move my leg again. I try to think about a place that makes me feel happy and calm but I can’t think of one. I think about the finches and how I need to clean the whole cage and then I think about Mr Winslow’s cage and how clean it always was and then I think about how I hurt my mum.

  I don’t like to think about what I did to her. When it happened it was a Tuesday afternoon in summer and it was hot, really hot. Maybe it was the heat that made me hit her?

  I came home from work and Mum and Isabel were in the backyard, and Isabel was running under the sprinkler in her undies. She was wearing her pink Dora undies. She was like a little puppy, making happy noises. Every time the water touched her she laughed and then Mum laughed as well. Her curls were wet in some places and dry in others and when she ran into the sun her whole head looked like it was covered in gold. I looked at her and I thought that maybe she wasn’t real because she was so beautiful.

  I got some Diet Coke from the fridge because I liked to drink that when I came home from working at the fruit shop. I used to drink Diet Coke all day long. It made me feel not so hungry but still light and free.

  ‘You need to eat more,’ Mum said to me whenever she saw me drinking Diet Coke. She had been saying that to me for years and years and years. After we moved away from the big house I thought I would feel light again, but I still felt heavy and I knew I would always be too heavy to run away. You have to be light to run so fast you are almost flying like a finch. If I didn’t eat I was light. I didn’t say that to Mum. I knew she wouldn’t understand.