by Helen Trinca
She dedicated the novel to M & Mme J. M. Cargher. Her grandparents, with their different foods and accents, their menial jobs and marginal place in Australian life, were put centre stage. The dispossessed Europeans became the teachers who were ready to guide the Anglo-Australians to a more refined world. As Magda says, ‘Ah, the people here know nothing.’5
Elements of Madeleine’s early life appear in the novel. Lisa’s fascination with a special party dress in Model Gowns recalls Madeleine’s love of her mother’s Dior copy, which she was wearing the last day Madeleine saw her. Sylvette’s life resonated in the story of Rudi as he looks for an Australian wife. Madeleine was never sure why Sylvette married Ted.6 The novel offers an explanation: Rudi and Fay—just like Sylvette and Ted—will both gain from their partnership. Fay looks forward to a bigger life when she weds the European, while Rudi will find a place in his new world, through his Australian spouse.
Madeleine showed the manuscript to James Hughes, who saw immediately that it was a very different proposition from the Blavatsky biography. He sent it to Esther Whitby, an old friend, with whom he had worked at Andre Deutsch.7 The company published many great writers—John Updike, Norman Mailer, Philip Roth, V. S. Naipaul, Brian Moore, Jean Rhys and Gitta Sereny among others—and was one of London’s most respected houses. Esther Whitby was a talented editor and she thought Madeleine’s novel was ‘in every way a perfect little book’.8 Her colleagues agreed that it was an exciting find, just the sort of writing the small publisher relished. And Madeleine was given a contract and paid an advance of £1000, a small but welcome sum.
In March 1992, she talked to James Hughes about a commission from his firm, Mitchell Beazley, to write a book on fairies. She was excited: it would pay ‘seriouser money than novels do & it’s the dole queue again for me if it doesn’t come off!’9 Hughes, her ‘dear friend and mentor’, wanted her to do the book, but the project came to nothing.
Thank God for her ‘jobette’ as a salesperson at an antique shop. Madeleine knew nothing about antiques, but she was good at sales, conversing brightly with clients. Every Saturday, she packed her minuscule lunch and headed to Stockspring in Kensington. She introduced herself to customers as a writer and often interrogated them about their lives. She was writing about the London professionals who lived and worked around her and her job was a time for empirical research. She even asked clients what cheeses they had in their fridges. Also working from the Stockspring space was Robert McPherson, a dealer who sold through the shop. He and Madeleine became friends, sometimes visiting each other’s homes for drinks. An Englishman less than half her age, McPherson was a good match for this brittle Australian who was intent on presenting herself as more English than the English.
Madeleine wanted people to know where the St Johns slotted into society. Everyone was ‘judged, ranked and organised in her mind’, Robert recalled. She was fascinated by his girlfriend Georgina, who was from a French aristocratic family. But Robert thought Madeleine’s politics were, ‘like a lot of things in her life, somewhat confused. She had left leanings but she always wanted to support the upper class, and the two did not go together at all.’10
She still smoked heavily, retreating to the back office at Stockspring to roll her cigarettes. She often sat in the dark, and Robert assumed she felt more secure without the lights. There was ‘a sadness about her’, an aggression and vulnerability that suggested depression, he recalled. ‘I always felt she was sort of on the outside, watching, like a commentator and not always getting involved.’11 The antique shops on Kensington Church Street formed a lively community and Madeleine made friends with Jane Holdsworth, who also worked at Stockspring. Sometimes a small group would gather for supper at Costa’s Grill, a nearby Greek restaurant. Madeleine revealed the story of Sylvette and Ted, and Val, but it was not a major discussion. She told Jane about Sylvette’s death. ‘She did not go on and on but dropped bits, and you were meant to take them up. They were like asides really.’ Asides that had been honed over decades. Her friends were never in any doubt her childhood had scarred her. But Jane felt Madeleine had a strong sense of self: ‘Hers wasn’t the kind of character that shrunk in on itself.’12
To some, Madeleine seemed quintessentially French. Even her pukka accent could easily have been the English acquired by a French speaker, according to one Stockspring client, Old Bailey judge and porcelain collector, Sir Stephen Mitchell. He was impressed by Madeleine, who seemed nothing like a regular ‘shop girl’. For years, Sir Stephen had a Saturday morning routine, driving from his Hampstead home to trawl the Kensington Church Street shops for eighteenth-century Derby porcelain. He was a passionate and expert collector and he usually spent an hour or two at Stockspring, part of it in conversation with Madeleine. He picked her as a daughter of a lawyer from the way she reasoned. He found her an engaging conversationalist: observant and a clear thinker with an excellent vocabulary. She spoke English exceptionally well and had ‘a marvellous strong voice’. She was dry and witty and tuned into popular culture and politics. He recalled that while some of her clothes looked as if they had come from Oxfam, Madeleine managed to seem French and elegant. He assumed she was short of cash, but she never complained about her circumstances.13
As the publication date for The Women in Black approached, publicist Christobel Kent drummed up interest, pitching the book as ‘a literary novel that reads with the ease of a soap opera…a sex-and-shopping novel as Muriel Spark might have written it’. The information sheet to booksellers and sales agents described Madeleine as ‘an Australian of the same vintage as Clive James and Germaine Greer—need we say more’. The novel was set in ‘the world of Jacques Fath [a post-war designer who was a contemporary of Christian Dior and Pierre Balmain] not Vivienne Westwood [the British designer who made punk fashionable]’. A brief biographical note said Madeleine had supported herself in London with a variety of menial jobs. ‘Basically I was a flaneuse until I took up writing at—as you can see—the eleventh hour,’ Madeleine quipped.14
The Woman’s Hour on BBC Radio 4 serialised The Women in Black for its daily book reading in February and March. The reader for the ten episodes was Nicolette McKenzie, a New Zealand actor who had worked in London for many years. True to form, Madeleine found fault: the voice was ‘ghastly…broad but ersatz BBC Australian’. The broadcast was ‘very abridged, with a blunt instrument—but what the hell’.15 She feigned indifference, but London friends felt that Madeleine was delighted with the fanfare, especially when she was interviewed by Michael Rosen for the BBC World Service book program.
On publication day, 25 February 1993, the publishers took their author to lunch, presented her with flowers and made a fuss.16 She inscribed a copy of the novel to her editor: ‘For Esther, undying gratitude and love. Madeleine.’ Shena Mackay called The Women in Black a ‘small masterpiece’. In her review she said: ‘Apparently artlessly told, without condescension to its characters, it is actually a highly sophisticated work, full of funny, sharp and subtle observations of Australian life, and laconic, inconsequential and inarticulate dialogue which speaks volumes.’ The Times Literary Supplement ran a review from Nicola Walker. She was not so kind. The Women in Black was a ‘twee, not unenjoyable little tale, written in a whimsical style’, but with ‘stilted, vapid sentences’. Walker criticised Madeleine for not engaging with her main subject directly: ‘St John merely tickles the perpetual Australian dilemma of multiculturalism, [and offers only] fairy-tale resolutions’.17 Abacus bought the paperback rights for what Madeleine called a ‘derisory sum’,18 but her Kensington friends noticed the spring in her step. Robert McPherson recalled: ‘She was suddenly given some validity, she felt she could do more than antiques on Saturday. There was an intellectual status, not the fame of being on telly, but the fame of books and writing.’19
The novel was not published in Australia, but the English edition was distributed here. Copies were hard to find and the St John clan heard about Madeleine’s success via Florence and Felicity.
Colette was disappointed that stores were not making a fuss. She was proud of her sister’s achievement, even though it contrasted sharply with her own struggles at the time. Her marriage to Steve Lippincott had ended not long after the family had arrived in the US in 1987, and she had struggled to raise Aaron alone. In 1990 Ted paid for fares back home and Colette and Aaron moved to the northern beaches of Sydney.
Patrick St John was living in London with his wife Karen in a flat not far from Colville Gardens. The couple often walked past All Saints, directly below Madeleine’s windows, and wondered if they would bump into her. Patrick assumed his half-sister knew that he was living in London, because she was still in touch with their aunt Florence. Madeleine could make the first move, he decided.20
In Sydney, Ted St John was privately thrilled that Madeleine was now a published author, but there was no reconciliation.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dear Ted
Ted’s approval mattered to Madeleine, and she was drawn back time and again to the wounds of her childhood. The publication of The Women in Black was evidence, surely, to her father that she was worthy of his love. But Ted was almost grudging in his comments. He wrote to Josette in Adelaide and included a review of the book that had been sent by Florence Heller from London:
This review isn’t too flattering—but Florence says the reviewer was probably jealous! Being serialised on the BBC is no small thing. F says she can remember M saying years ago that she thought she could write a book which would be serialised on the BBC—and some years later, hey presto!
He added that ‘Val has started to read M’s book and likes it’, but gave no sign that he intended to read it himself.1
A few months later, in October 1993, Ted drew up a new will, in effect cutting Madeleine out of his estate.2 Madeleine’s decision in 1990 to confront Ted over the Cargher money had done her little good. Ted was determined to ensure his oldest daughter had little claim on his assets. If Ted died first, Val would inherit everything, but each child would receive $10,000. If Val predeceased Ted, the will made different arrangements for what would happen upon his death: Madeleine would still receive $10,000, but the rest of the estate would be shared between Ed, Patrick and Colette, with special arrangements for the ongoing care of Oliver. It was a deliberate rejection of Madeleine in dramatic contrast to the way he intended to treat Colette. It is not known if Ted told Madeleine about the new will.
It was a tragic situation and perhaps inevitable. The mutual animosity between father and daughter was no secret within the extended St John family and some members took sides. But Madeleine had constructed enough emotional shields against the past to operate effectively, and her life was expanding, thanks to The Women in Black.
Madeleine and Esther Whitby grew closer in 1994 when Esther battled Andre Deutsch over her pension. Madeleine helped her through the difficult period, teaching her patchwork as therapy. The two spent hours sewing in the sunny kitchen of Esther’s home in the northern London district of Chalk Farm. They gossiped and swapped life stories. Esther thought Madeleine was ‘wonderful company’.3
She suggested to Madeleine that she needed a literary agent and put her in touch with Sarah Lutyens, who had also worked at Andre Deutsch before setting up her agency in 1993. Lutyens & Rubinstein, formed with Felicity Rubinstein, was located in Westbourne Park Road, a few minutes’ walk from Colville Gardens. It was the proximity that tipped the balance for Madeleine. On 4 October 1994, she wrote to Sarah:
My first novel, The Women in Black, was published by Andre Deutsch in February 1993 and in paper by Abacus in March 1994; I have written two more and am at present working on yet another, but none of these has yet been seen by anyone (including Andre Deutsch, who have first option on my next as per contract). So I dare say it is time that one or other of them was.4
On 15 December, Madeleine wrote again to Sarah, this time in her sprawling hand: ‘I am very glad that you have decided to represent me…’5 She had embarked on one of the most important relationships of this period of her life.
Madeleine was not long back from a trip to France. In September, Robert McPherson, her friend from the antique trade, had married his partner Georgina. Madeleine was among the guests, travelling with friends to the wedding, which was in a chateau near Amiens that was owned by Georgina’s family. The chateau had been used as a field hospital during World War I and was steeped in history. The poet Roland Leighton, fiancé of writer Vera Brittain, died in the house from war injuries and he was buried in the military cemetery just outside the village. Madeleine loved the heritage: there was a dining table with axe marks from the time the Russians tried to take Paris in the early nineteenth century and there were original wallpapers in some rooms. The McPherson nuptials took place over a couple of days and Madeleine was in her element, secure among friends. Faded grandeur, whether French or English, was her thing. ‘Anything from the upper classes had to be okay—she had a deference to the English upper class in particular,’ Robert remembered.6
In Sydney, Ted was desperately ill in hospital. Weeks earlier he had been diagnosed with a lung complaint, which neither he nor the family thought life-threatening.7 Ted was seventy-eight and had always been very fit. He was still absorbed in writing his anti-nuclear book—a decade after he had begun. But he must have been a little concerned about his health because shortly before he entered hospital, he told his sons and Val that he was now giving all his possessions to Val. The plan was that his will would be rendered irrelevant, because he no longer had money or property to bestow.8 It seemed he was taking out insurance against Madeleine.
Ted deteriorated rapidly and the family realised he was dying. When Florence Heller heard of it, she travelled across London to break the news to Madeleine. Madeleine was composed. She told her aunt that she had ‘said goodbye to my father a long time ago’.9 But the next day she phoned Florence to say she had had a strong reaction to the news. On 21 October 1994, Madeleine wrote a card to her father. She posted it to her cousin Annabel Minchin in Sydney, asking her to pass it on to Ted.
Dear Ted, Florence came here all my way from Highgate & then up all the stairs to bring me the sad news. Think of it. What a shame that you could send no answer to my last letter of so many months ago—but life is like that, isn’t it? The memory of happy times long ago is forever bright in my mind. God be with you & my love, Madeleine.10
The letter was conciliatory, but Madeleine could not avoid a sharp undercurrent, even as her father lay dying. Ted never saw the letter: Annabel had not received it when Ted died on 24 October. Madeleine never asked what happened to it, and Annabel, unsure what to do, put it in a drawer of her desk. Neither Ted nor Val nor her half-brothers nor Colette would know that Madeleine, estranged for so long, had made a last overture to her father.
A memorial service for Ted was held at St Luke’s Anglican Church, Mosman, on 3 November. The eulogy was delivered by Justice Michael Kirby, who described Ted as a man with ‘a restless, reforming spirit’, who ‘attracted calumny and praise in equal measure’. His admirers, Kirby said, saw Ted as a modern pilgrim.11
The Sydney Morning Herald reported that only one politician was there to mourn the man who had stood on principle, and had helped bring down a prime minister.12 In federal parliament on 7 November, MPs made their formal condolence speeches. Labor’s Barry Jones looked back at the Gorton incident in the 1960s when Ted had denounced his leader and noted there was a ‘puritanical flavour going through Ted St John which made it very difficult for him to understand what it was that made John Gorton tick’. Jones said that Ted ‘was a remarkable man’ with ‘a very fierce independence of mind in a variety of areas’. Don Dobie, the Liberal member for Cook, with whom Ted shared an office in Parliament House, said:
We were very close friends for a period of three years…he was a man of real conviction. He was not scared by anybody in a senior position. He was not angered by Harold Holt’s interjection during his maiden speech; he was annoyed by it—and so he sh
ould have been.
Then Dobie dropped a bombshell for the St John family. He told the House of Representatives that Ted had ‘a lot of tragedy in his personal life. He had three disabled children, which is more than most people have to face. He faced that, particularly with his second wife, Val, with great courage and great strength.’13
When Madeleine heard about Dobie’s comment she challenged him. He wrote back, saying that Ted ‘disclosed to me that he had two daughters who suffered from disabilities. That is the sum total of my knowledge.’14 Dobie’s inadvertent insult to Madeleine and Colette reflected Ted’s views of his daughters in the 1960s when both women suffered depression. If there had ever been hope of reconciliation between Madeleine and her immediate family, Dobie’s statements surely put an end to them.
Madeleine had sounded compassionate in the card she sent to Ted. But on 29 December 1994, when she wrote to Colleen Chesterman in Sydney, she was brutal:
Thank you so much of your letter in re. the ghastly Ted—it was extremely good of you to take this trouble—but as you will already have seen I hardly deserved it as I am just very sad at a wasted spirit & glad that he has gone where he can never hurt me or mine again: