by Wendy James
The woman surveys her carefully. Jodie can’t remember ever being looked up and down quite so obviously, even by hostile teenage girls.
‘Well,’ she says slowly. ‘You are pretty enough, I suppose. I’d heard you weren’t anything special, but you’re young – and that counts for a great deal, doesn’t it? Your skin’s good, your features are regular, your figure’s trim enough – everything’s still firm.’ Jodie suspects her input isn’t required at this point, so says nothing, lets the woman continue. ‘Now, I’d like to have a bit of a talk with you, dear. I’ve a … a proposition – of sorts – to make. We could go to a café if you like – I could buy you a cup of tea, or we could walk, I suppose.’
Jodie half-smiles as the woman looks around doubtfully. There are no designated walking areas, no proper footpaths, in this neighbourhood, just neglected half-dead or overgrown lawns, patches of red earth. The potholed road isn’t even guttered.
‘I’m sure that anything you have to say to me can be said right here, Mrs Garrow.’ Jodie is surprised by the steadiness of her own voice, the clarity, the ease of her response. The woman is obviously taken aback.
‘I … well, that’s not what I had in mind.’ She frowns, obviously discomfited. ‘I’m sure it would be easier …’ She looks hard at Jodie, who is standing solid and immovable on the other side of the fence. She sighs. ‘I suppose here,’ she gives the overgrown yard, fibro house, neglected street a brief, disdainful look, ‘is as good as anywhere else.’
Jodie stays silent, impassive. Waits. The woman clears her throat, but her voice is clear, unwavering.
‘I’ll be straight with you, Jodie. I think that’s always the best way to handle these things. Now, I have nothing, absolutely nothing, against you personally. Indeed your principal, Mrs Doulton, who is a great friend of mine – we have a long history together, both old girls you know, and her mother and mine were dear friends, too – Mrs Doulton has told me that you’re a good girl, hard-working, clever, industrious. Well, obviously you are or you wouldn’t be there, would you? And that you’ve achieved a great deal, considering …’ cue another purse-lipped glance at her surroundings, ‘considering your background. Anyway, I came here today to ask you something – to ask a favour, if you will.’ She pauses, gives a brisk inquiring look, but with no response from Jodie she keeps going, undaunted. ‘What I’d like, dear, is for you to stop seeing my son.’
Jodie has been expecting something of the sort, knows that the woman’s presence can mean only one thing, but she can feel her stomach turning, her throat tightening, finds it difficult to keep her expression neutral. The woman is watching her carefully, but keeps talking when it is apparent that Jodie isn’t going to offer anything.
‘Now, I’m not going to go into the reasons for my request, though I should imagine it’s quite clear that you and Angus are completely unsuited to one another in numerous ways. And I don’t imagine you intend to stop seeing him just because I’ve asked – although if you had any real regard for Angus’s wellbeing, his future, you wouldn’t hesitate. So I thought it might be … that it might help you to make the right decision, if there were some obvious benefit to you.’ She pauses again, as if trying to provoke some sort of response. But Jodie has taken her eyes off the woman, is gazing steadfastly down at her own bare feet, admiring the way her silver toenails shine up out of the surrounding weeds, and says nothing.
‘So, dear, I thought that if there was some way I could help you – say, with finances – you might find it in your heart to help me, too.’
Now Jodie does look up. She looks straight at the woman, gives her a twisted smile. ‘So, how much?’ she says bluntly. ‘How much is Angus worth?’
‘Well, I don’t think you really need look at it quite that way, dear. But I’m willing to give you $5000. Cash, obviously. I hear you’re hoping to study, and I imagine you’ll need all the help you can get. Five thousand should cover your living expenses for your first year at university if you’re not extravagant.’
‘But why? We’re just going out. We’re not engaged. It could all end tomorrow.’
‘There are certain ways, ones that I’m sure you’re aware of, of keeping a man, of tying young men up, binding them to one.’
Jodie gives a disgusted snort. ‘But why would I … why would I want to do that? I’ve got my own plans.’
‘Yes, well, plans have a strange way of going awry. And there are easier, more effective ways to move ahead – away from this life – than careers, education. And I know my son,’ she adds dryly. ‘He’s very loyal. He finds it hard to hurt people. An admirable trait in many ways. But he could so easily be pressured into doing something he’ll come to regret.’
There is a long silence. The two women stand on either side of the fence, the elder smiling slightly, Jodie’s clenched fists the only sign of her rage.
‘Twenty-five.’ Jodie can’t quite believe her own words, nor that she sounds so unruffled when her heart is pumping so madly. ‘That will pay for my expenses over the whole degree. What point is there in just paying for first year? What am I supposed to do after that?’
The woman looks at her in disbelief, suddenly discomposed. ‘Twenty-five? That’s ridiculous, girl. Where do you think I’ll find twenty-five thousand dollars?’
Jodie shrugs. ‘That’s not my problem, is it?’
The woman glares, but looks away when Jodie meets her gaze.
‘You want twenty-five thousand?’
Jodie smiles, but says nothing.
The woman clasps and unclasps her handbag convulsively. ‘How about fifteen?’
‘Twenty-five.’
Mrs Garrow gives a long sigh. ‘I’ll find it, then. Whatever it takes. You’re a hard little bitch, aren’t you? Extraordinary. But I guess you have good reason. I expect you’ll go far.’ The smile she gives Jodie appears almost genuine, admiring. ‘In different circumstances I might have quite liked you.’ She turns, heading back to her car. ‘I’ll contact you on Monday with the payment arrangements. You can see my solicitor – we’ll organise a contract, set up some sort of trust. I’ll give you half, we’ll open an account – and then you’ll have a week to drop him, or dump him, or whatever is the term you children use. You’ll see the rest of the money once that’s done.’
As the woman goes to open the car door, Jodie leans over the fence, speaking just loudly enough for her to hear.
‘Mrs Garrow. I won’t do it.’
The woman’s panic is unmistakable. ‘What do you mean you won’t do it? I’ve just promised to give you what you want.’
Jodie tries hard to suppress her smile.
‘You really think you have so much power? You think people can really just be bought off like that?’
‘I’ll give you thirty, forty.’ She swallows. ‘Fifty.’
Jodie shakes her head in disbelief.
‘Then what do you want?’
‘Angus.’ Jodie’s voice is calm, certain. ‘I want Angus, Mrs Garrow. I don’t want your money.’
The woman stands as if stricken for a long moment. ‘You mean it, don’t you? Nancy Butterly was wrong – she thought you would be easy to persuade. But you’re far, far smarter than she assumes. Smarter than anyone has guessed.’
‘I love him. I’m sorry.’
‘Love.’ The woman’s voice is a hiss, her smile full of contempt. ‘There’s no such thing. Love is just an excuse for getting what you want.’
What does Jodie want, really? She has told the woman that she wants, simply, Angus – the boy himself. But the attraction is complex, as attraction always is: Jodie also wants, as Mrs Garrow has guessed, a husband. Not just any husband, but one whose status is guaranteed, his antecedents proven, his respectability ironclad, his future assured. Although she’s well aware that this desire is somewhat unusual for a girl – a bright girl – of her generation, Jodie doesn’t let herself think too deeply about just what this striving for social standing and security through a man says about her, what it means.
What it will mean.
Part Two
AAP NEWS
‘Missing Elsa Mary may be in Tasmania’
A young woman from Hobart will undergo tests to establish whether she is Elsa Mary Evans, the missing daughter of Jodie Garrow. NSW Police have begun a nationwide search in an attempt to ascertain the whereabouts of Elsa Mary, who has not been seen since three days after her birth at Belfield Hospital in December 1986, when she was discharged into the care of her mother. A young woman from Newcastle will also undergo tests …
DAILY TELEGRAPH
‘“Jodie’s not my mum” – negative DNA tests
shatter adopted woman’s hopes’
Two 24-year-old women who share a birthday with Elsa Mary Evans, missing since 1986, have had their identity – and the identity of their parents – put under scrutiny as the nationwide police search for missing Elsa Mary continues.
Jessie Farrell from Hobart and Anna Brown of Newcastle were required by NSW Police to undergo blood and DNA tests, but no biological links to Mrs Garrow have been established.
Miss Brown, a university student who was adopted when she was a newborn, has been searching for her birth mother and says she volunteered for the tests because her birthday is the same as Elsa Mary’s.
‘It was just a stab in the dark, really. Mum and Dad have always said the adoption was above board, but I thought it was worth checking out anyway, I was pretty disappointed, as I’ve had no luck making contact the regular way,’ she said.
Miss Farrell declined to comment.
AAP NEWS
‘Twenty-four-year-old women with webbed
toes urged to volunteer for DNA testing’
The search for Elsa Mary, missing daughter of Jodie Garrow, has taken a bizarre twist with police urging any young women born between 1985 and 1987 who have webbing between the toes of both feet (syndactyly) to come forward for DNA testing.
A search for any records of surgery has led nowhere, and a police spokesperson said there is a strong possibility that Elsa Mary’s webbing has been left intact.
‘According to medical advice, this sort of syndactyly isn’t actually physically disabling, and it would really only be corrected for cosmetic reasons,’ a spokesperson said yesterday.
THE AUSTRALIAN
‘Elsa Mary, where are you?’
Despite a three-month-long nationwide search – conducted through media outlets, as well as many official channels – no evidence has come to light regarding the fate of baby Elsa Mary Evans. Mrs Jodie Garrow, of Arding in Northern NSW, claims to have no knowledge of the child’s whereabouts since she allegedly gave her up in an illegally arranged adoption only days after the child’s birth.
Despite several false leads, and a $50 000 reward offered by the Garrows, the current or past whereabouts of the child have not been established.
If you have any information on Elsa Mary, or on her alleged adoptive parents, ‘Simon’ and ‘Rosemary’, please contact Detective Sergeant Paul Rossi, NSW Mispers, 9765 2323, or toll free 1800 153 153.
AAP NEWS
‘Search for Elsa Mary goes global’
NSW Police today confirmed that they would be working with Interpol in an effort to locate the whereabouts of Elsa Mary Evans, missing since her discharge from hospital a few days after her birth in December 1986. Detective Sergeant Paul Rossi, who is heading the investigation, says that ‘while we have no particular reason to believe that Elsa Mary was taken overseas, every avenue must be thoroughly investigated.’
DAILY TELEGRAPH
‘Jodie Garrow lied: former midwife speaks out’
Debbie West, former midwife at Belfield Hospital, and a central witness in the investigation into the whereabouts of Elsa Mary Evans, says the missing girl’s mother, Jodie Garrow, lied to her when questioned recently about her actions following Elsa Mary’s birth. Mrs West, who was instrumental in bringing the case to official notice, says that when she inquired into the baby’s wellbeing, Mrs Garrow assured her that she had arranged for Elsa Mary’s adoption through the ‘proper channels’. ‘Jodie Garrow is a very good liar,’ Mrs West said, ‘She’s convincing and plausible. When she told me that she’d adopted the baby out I believed her. I only had the records checked in an effort to help her, should she decide to connect with her daughter at some later date. I was as shocked as anyone to find there was no record of adoption, no birth certificate. She’s expert at lying – she didn’t turn a hair. And what she’s saying about Matron O’Malley is a lie too – I had the privilege of working with Sheila O’Malley when I was a young nurse, and she was a midwife who maintained the highest ethical standards. It’s a disgrace to have her reputation so publicly damaged.’
NEWS OF THE DAY
Editorial
As the nationwide search for Elsa Mary enters its third month, and with any positive results looking less and less likely, people are justifiably beginning to wonder why the official police investigation into Jodie Garrow is taking so long to get off the ground. Could it be that Garrow (see inset picture), wife of a prominent Arding solicitor, is being treated very differently to your common, garden-variety suspect? It’s another indictment of our so-called fair legal system, where the rich have recourse to the best legal advice before they even need it, and perhaps ensuring they never do. Anyone else so intimately involved in the disappearance of a child – even twenty-four years ago – would be under far greater scrutiny than Garrow whose statements and media appearances have all been carefully scripted and controlled.
Shame on the NSW police, and shame on Jodie Garrow.
ARDING TIMES
Letter to the editor
I would like to express my disappointment and frustration – sentiments that are shared by many others – at this newspaper’s lack of proper coverage of the Jodie Garrow case. Mr Garrow may be one of Arding’s most respected citizens, as the paper constantly reminds us, but that should make no difference to the way this news is related. There’s still a missing child at the centre of this story, and, most significantly, Mrs Garrow was still the last person to see her alive.
Name withheld,
Arding
16
Jodie knows that if she’d been raped, it would have been an entirely different story.
The whole thing would have been just that little bit easier. There’d have been – what do they call them? – Extenuating Circumstances. Of sorts. So there’d have been some kind of defence. Jodie could have said – or they, others (and there would have been others if this had been the case: women’s lobbies, advocates, public figures championing her cause) would have declared Jodie to be a victim, emphasised her suffering. She could maintain that she’d had no agency, no choice – at least in the beginning, the conception. It would have been clear that she’d been wronged, that she was more sinned against than sinning.
But that’s not the real story, is it? And no matter which way you turn it, looked at from whichever direction, whatever perspective – there’s no way that she’s the victim here, is there?
No way at all.
A few years back Jodie had been on the front cover of the local paper; her image was practically life-size, beaming cheerily, her hair glossy, eyes sparkling. She had been the spokesperson for some committee or other – wool awards, greening the park, literacy in homes – one of the myriad of community initiatives she’d been involved in over the years, and she’d been flattered by the faint aura of celebrity that surrounded her for the next week or two. Hey, didn’t I see you in the paper? Isn’t that you? She had enjoyed the comments from near strangers, shop staff, the woman behind her in the supermarket queue, as well as her friends – there had been some friendly teasing over her photogenic features, her model potential, the flattering line of cleavage revealed. She had cut out the photograph and article and filed them away with all the other family newspaper cuttings, and promptly forgotten all about it. She had thoroughly enjoyed every one of her allotted fifteen minutes – and it had
given her absolutely no inkling into the horrors of public exposure she is currently experiencing.
The local paper has been remarkably discreet – out of some sort of residual loyalty to Angus’s family, probably; the proprietor is a New England School old boy, and his father too. The story has been front page news once or twice over the past few months, but the stories have never been accompanied by pictures, and there has been no editorial commentary. But the national newspapers, the tabloids as well as the broadsheets, are another matter. Somehow they’ve managed to get hold of what must be one of the least flattering photographs of her in existence: anonymously supplied, the picture taken at last year’s Grammar Christmas party moments after a minor disagreement with Hannah, and Jodie is frowning, looking sour and rather unfriendly. She has no idea who’s supplied the snap or why, but it’s devastating to think of so-called friends, or even acquaintances, supplying such material. Then again, she’s barely heard from any of her friends since the news hit the street.
Despite her mother-in-law’s warning, she had expected a show of support from the women in whose company she has spent the last few decades. She has taken Sue’s virulent anger and subsequent distancing with relative equanimity (there has been no apology, no further communication at all, though Angus still sees Dave occasionally), but she would have expected Fiona, Peter’s wife, and Karen, a colleague from her nursing days, to be making an effort to keep in touch, ask her out, keep her busy. But even these two – who she counted her best, her most intimate friends – had, after their initial declarations of ‘being there’ for her, gradually distanced themselves, until they’d virtually disappeared from her life. And there are others, people she has helped out in times of crisis – divorce, infidelity, illness, births, deaths – who she’d expected would appear on her doorstep with casseroles, bottles of wine, with invitations, offering their unconditional support, sympathy, loyalty. But other than one woman, a gym acquaintance who she’d barely counted a friend, who has made a point of ringing to see how she’s going, Jodie’s been left stranded. Her social encounters now consist of awkward conversations during unavoidable meetings down the street or at school events. She knows she’s been summarily judged, condemned and discarded – it seems that even in friendship, contrary to popular wisdom, everything’s conditional.