The Mistake

by Wendy James

  The one person who keeps in contact, ringing occasionally to see if she’s okay, if she’s holding up, is a younger woman, known vaguely from the gym, Amber. Other than attending a few exercise classes together, they really don’t have anything much in common. They mix in very different circles – despite being in her mid-thirties, a single mother of three very unkempt-looking children, Amber is still very much a student, and a member of what Jodie still thinks of as Arding’s hippy community, though the real hippies are long gone – penniless, but eager, clothes worn, slightly grimy, always smelling vaguely of sandalwood and onions. Jodie finds her irritating, but she appreciates the woman’s concern, her persistent offers of support, even friendship.

  One morning, Amber calls her early, before she’s even got Tom out the door for the school bus (having given up driving him since he told her that he’d prefer it if she dropped him several blocks from their regular set-down area outside the school gates). She mentions that she has seen the report of the inquest possibility, her voice breathy and nervous, her statements lilting upwards in a way that sets Jodie’s teeth on edge, then asks, a little tentatively, whether she would like to meet for coffee.

  Jodie, suddenly wary, says bluntly: ‘Why now?’

  ‘Oh. What do you mean, why now?’

  ‘I’m just not sure why you’re ringing me now. If you’ve seen the newspapers. You must know what that means, what’s likely to happen next. It’s kind of you to think of me, but I’ve got a lot to think about and I’m not really up to socialising.’

  ‘Oh, I just thought … I thought you might enjoy the company?’

  The woman sounds even more nervous, and Jodie feels herself bending a little – there are so few people, after all, who would voluntarily spend time with her these days.

  ‘Look – you’re quite right, it would be fun. Thanks. But I’d rather not go into town today,’ she says, risking some slight vulnerability.

  ‘Oh, no. I understand completely. You could come here?’

  Jodie can sense some slight reluctance. ‘My place would probably be better, I think. Easier.’

  ‘Oh. That would be wonderful.’ Jodie hears the relief. ‘What day would suit you?’

  ‘Why not today? I haven’t got anything on.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ says the woman, her voice full of excitement. ‘I’ll bring the coffee. How do you like it?’

  They sit out on the deck with their café-brewed lattes, the younger woman obviously uncomfortable, twirling her hair around one finger, constantly shifting her position on the cushions, coughing nervously before she speaks. Initially Jodie is resigned, gracious; they talk about this and that, their kids, the local schools, a recent council scandal, the outrageous price of supermarket vegetables. Amber is pleasant enough, and the company should be welcome, but Jodie finds herself irritated by every aspect of the woman – her accent, her youth, her pale plumpness, most of all by the intensity of her endlessly banal conversation. She prattles away about the most trivial things, almost at random, but there’s a portentousness in her tone – as if there’s something significant she wants to say, but is too afraid to say it.

  Eventually Jodie loses patience, interrupts a rambling monologue about non-toxic weed-killer. ‘Yes, I’ve heard that garlic’s very effective. But I get the feeling there is something else, Amber? Something you wanted …?’

  Amber’s cheeks flare, she gives a slight gasp, suffers a fit of coughing. It takes her a moment to recover, but she rallies, makes a tentative admission. ‘Well, it’s nothing, really. It’s just that I wanted to tell you how awful I think it’s been for you. And to tell you that there are a lot of people out there who don’t agree with what everyone’s saying.’ She takes a breath, starts again, though only slightly more cogently. ‘You know I’m doing a couple of units of a BA? Well, I chose a women’s studies subject this term – Women and the Media? And so anyway, we were talking, you know, about the treatment of you in the press and we thought … well, that you’ve really been totally victimised, objectified by the media, and – I mean, it’s dreadful!’ Her eyes are wide, her voice heated, full of indignation. ‘It’s wrong, isn’t it – we all think so, anyway – the way they’ve taken to you, when there’s not even any actual evidence. And, well, it’s because you’re a woman isn’t it? And it’s really similar to – Lindy … um … you know – the dingo woman?’

  ‘You mean Lindy Chamberlain?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s exactly like that. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Well, no, I don’t think there’s really —’

  ‘Not on the surface, but I mean – there was that writer who had a go at you a few weeks ago in the papers, that McNally woman. That was just so nasty, wasn’t it? Really bitchy. The way she went on about your looks, about the fact that you’re well off. As if that makes any difference. It’s almost as if she hopes that you killed —’ Amber stops abruptly, looking down at her feet, her cheeks and chest flushing a deep crimson.

  Jodie feels some sympathy for her embarrassment; but more importantly, she suddenly feels grateful for her support – however awkwardly expressed, however dubiously come by. And the support of these other, unknown women, thinking about her kindly, sympathetically, championing her. God knows why, but it fills her with a kind of desperate cheer, some vestige of hope.

  She breaks into the silence. ‘Yes, well, the sisterhood isn’t exactly barracking for me, is it? They seem to have forgotten about the presumption of innocence. I think you’re right – I think there is something really nasty going on – there seem to be a whole lot of people out there who are really hoping that I have done what they think I’ve done. You should have a look on the web. It’s a … a viper’s nest. Anyway, thank you so much for passing that on. It really helps to know that there are people out there who aren’t calling for me to be locked up. I appreciate it.’

  Amber looks up at her, surprised and pleased. ‘Would you like to come to our book club?’ She blurts the question out excitedly as if the thought has just occurred to her.

  ‘Your book club?’

  ‘Some friends of mine at uni, actually it’s our book club – and one of our tutors, as well; she organises it, really. It’s fun. We do a book a month. Something topical.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not really reading anything much at the moment …’

  ‘Oh, that won’t really matter,’ Amber says airily. ‘Anyway, our next meeting is Friday, so you won’t really have time this month. Why not come and just see if you like the group?’

  It doesn’t take Jodie long to make a decision – the prospect of being amongst a group of sympathetic women, even if strangers, is suddenly very appealing. ‘Why not? It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do right now, is it? And I suppose it could be a way of meeting people. Book clubs are more about connecting than books, anyway.’

  She goes to the meeting that Friday evening. She has fed the children, left a plate ready for Angus, who is working and not expected back until late, cleaned the kitchen and left Tom with a strangely compliant Hannah. It’s dark already; she doesn’t have to worry about being seen by anyone, or having to encounter the nervous sideways glances she seems to receive from people who would have waved or smiled just a few months back. The meeting is being held at a member of the group’s home, a political science academic, according to the brief bio on a website that Jodie has consulted, who is currently living on campus.

  She arrives a little late, nervous; she has misread directions, taken wrong turns, then found it difficult to make out the house numbers on the ill-lit campus streets. A plump dark-haired woman opens the door, greets her, introduces herself as Jillian Stanford, ushers her into the lounge room, where a dozen or so others sit in a loose circle on an assortment of chairs and cushions. A coffee table in the centre of the room is covered with plates of food: slices, cakes, biscuits and cheeses, and there are several bottles of champagne and white wine, and as yet unfilled wine glasses. All of the women are nursing copies of a hefty paper
back book, some open, some firmly closed. The conversation falters when Jodie appears in the doorway, and it seems that all the faces are raised expectantly towards her, most smiling widely, welcomingly. There’s a short, but intense burst of clapping as she makes her way across the room into the only space left for her to sit – she squeezes between two middle-aged women, who look alarmingly identical, both dressed in black, both with iron-grey hair cut into slanting short-fringed bobs, both wearing steel-framed glasses, long skirts, and chunky purple lace-up boots – Doc Martens, she thinks, though none of her own acquaintances have worn them for years. Jodie looks around, half expecting to encounter someone she recognises, but other than Amber, who smiles at her encouragingly from amongst the floor cushions, they really are all strangers.

  Dr Stanford waits until the applause has died down, then beams around the room, makes a short speech. ‘What a wonderful, wonderful welcome. Thank you, ladies. And thank you Jodie for joining us. We’re really very excited to have you here tonight. I’m hopeful that there’s a great deal that you can add to our discussion.’ She smiles at Jodie again, her small dark eyes almost disappearing, then waits for her to respond.

  ‘Thank you. It’s lovely to have been invited.’ She hesitates. ‘But I’m not really sure how I can add to the discussion. I’m afraid I haven’t even read the book – in fact, I’m not even sure what it is. Amber only invited me the other day, and we decided it was probably too late, that I could start with next month’s …’ She trails off, embarrassed and confused by the encouraging smiles of the other women.

  ‘Oh.’ Their host looks a little put out. ‘Amber, didn’t you explain to Jodie?’

  Amber is in the middle of chomping on a biscuit, she swallows then gives a nervous shrug, her habitual cough. ‘I, well, I thought I did? But you know how it is sometimes. Maybe I wasn’t all that clear?’ She takes another bite, chews vigorously.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, Jodie – you’ve obviously come here under slightly false … I mean, of course it would be lovely if you could join our book group on a regular basis,’ she gives a perfunctory beam, ‘but tonight we wanted you here particularly – as a special guest. Occasionally we read a book by a local author and have them in to answer questions and so forth, and every now and then when we’re reading something more technical, we get in an expert to enhance our understanding – usually from the university. (I always think we’re so lucky to have that resource to exploit, aren’t we ladies!) So when we chose our current book we immediately thought of you. We could have asked someone from the law faculty, or communications, I suppose, but we thought that a more personal perspective would be far more illuminating. I think hearing about your current experiences might add a whole other dimension to our understanding. As Jess – who’s sitting next to you – has pointed out, some of the parallels are quite disturbing. The viciousness of the media coverage, in particular.’ The woman falters, as if sensing the mistake, taking in Jodie’s appalled silence.

  All at once Jodie knows what they’re reading, and understands why they’ve invited her here; the book sitting closed on Jess’s lap comes into proper focus. She gazes down at the suddenly familiar cover, speechless. Jess pushes her copy of the book closer so that Jodie can read the title. There’s a woman on the cover, her dark hair cut into an unmistakable pageboy, gazing down lovingly at a bright-eyed, bonneted infant. Through My Eyes: The Autobiography of Lindy Chamberlain. Jodie keeps staring down at the book, though the picture blurs; she feels her eyes prick, her throat tighten.

  The room is silent; all Jodie can hear is her own harsh and ragged breathing. She can barely raise her eyes, can’t focus, has to fumble for her handbag, her keys, and stands, gazing blindly about the room at the women, a couple of whom seem embarrassed now, squirming at her obvious distress.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ her voice is thin, but steady, ‘but I’d never have come if I’d known what it was you invited me here for. I’m not … I can’t. I had no idea you wanted me as a type of specimen, that you wanted my story.’ She takes one last desperate look around the circle, then stumbles through the crowded, silent room, keeping her eyes down, not daring to breathe or look up until she is out of there. Jodie ignores Dr Stanford, who follows her, apologising profusely, runs through the dark to the sanctuary of her car. She drives away fast, without looking back.

  She had thought that this was what she wanted: champions, supporters, people who wouldn’t condemn, would try to understand. But somehow these women are almost worse than the internet haters. Despite their good intentions Jodie knows she doesn’t really exist for them. She represents a theoretical point, provides an exemplar – whether of good or evil, it doesn’t matter; she’s nothing more than a centrepiece for their arguments, a prop.

  When she arrives home, both children are in bed, and Angus has eaten and gone back to the office. She opens a bottle of red, takes it into the study. Sits down behind the computer and pours a glass, downs it quickly and pours another. Sips as she reads the latest links, clicks feverishly through older stories. She doesn’t drink often, not in any significant quantity anyway, but tonight she needs the numbing effects of the alcohol. She can see now how it happens, to the Amy Wine-houses, the Heath Ledgers, the Michael Jacksons – can understand why they seek the solace of drugs or alcohol or risky behaviour. Perhaps it makes no difference, really, whether they’re feted or maligned, adored or abhorred – either way, they’re endlessly exposed, their every action scrutinised, discussed, critiqued. They’re like butterflies trapped under glass, microbes under a less than benign microscope. Separate. Isolated. Utterly alone.

  26

  The next morning Jodie sleeps in, doesn’t wake until after ten, which is the latest she’s slept for years. She feels horrible – her tongue thick, her eyes bleary, her head aching dully. The television is blaring, but the house is empty, the front door left unlocked. The kitchen is a mess of unwashed dishes, and Ruff is standing on the table, helping himself to leftover toast and egg. Angus must have taken Tom to cricket, and as for Hannah, Jodie has no idea – she never has any idea lately and has given up asking. She shoos the dog off the table, and locks him outside, starts clearing away the chaos. Under one of the breakfast plates she finds a note written in Tom’s appalling scrawl: call Briget Sullan, she reads, She wants to talk to you about last nihgt. There’s a number written more carefully, though all the sevens are back to front. Deliberately, she hopes.

  Bridget Sullan. The name rings no bells. About last night, so the call will have something to do with the meeting she’d run out of so precipitously. She would much rather not discuss last night with anyone. Christ, perhaps Bridget Sullan is a journalist with the local newspaper, who’s somehow already heard about this latest humiliation, is angling for the story. The way her life is heading now, she wouldn’t be surprised. She screws the paper into a ball, tosses it into the bin, starts methodically stacking the dishwasher. In some dark recess of her mind she’s glad to have the distraction, a few solid hours of cleaning that will keep her away from the pull of the internet.

  But the woman is persistent, calls again that evening. Jodie has finished cleaning up the dinner dishes, is about to iron the children’s uniforms, has plans to bake a slice for next week’s recess – though she doesn’t know why she bothers; these days even Tom rarely seems to eat any of the healthy baked goods she so conscientiously provides.

  Angus has gone back in to work for a few hours – it seems he has work to catch up on almost every evening. He has spent the early afternoon helping Tom with a science project, and then a few hours driving with Hannah, who has just got her learner’s permit. Other than some inconsequential utterances over dinner he and Jodie have again barely exchanged two words. She picks up the ringing phone without thinking, without checking the number.

  ‘Oh, Jodie.’ It’s a woman, her voice low, pleasant. ‘I’m so glad you answered. It’s me. Bridget O’Sullivan.’ Jodie says nothing, and the woman goes on. ‘I was there last night, at the bo
ok club – it was awful, wasn’t it? I was so embarrassed. Not for you, but for those women. But it’s so strange, you know – until you walked in I had no idea that you were you. I mean, that you were Jodie Garrow. This whole thing, I really had no idea. True story.’

  True story … It might be a woman’s voice, but it’s a voice she knows, a voice she’ll remember forever – a voice she still hears in her dreams occasionally – even though she barely remembers the girl it belonged to in any real sense.

  ‘Bridie? Bridie!’ Her own voice a whisper, small and light, as if she’s been swept back to the past, to her younger self. ‘Oh, my God.’ A catch in her throat, a half laugh, half cry, of relief, of sudden, unreasonable hope. ‘Bridie. Is that really you?’

  It is without doubt the same Bridie. She arrives for morning tea the next day, bearing gifts: dandelion tea (good for stress), milk fresh from the cow, a basket of wizened apples (excellent for pies) and, most bizarrely, a two-dollar bag of mixed lollies (heaps of cobbers) – which are all for them, she insists, and not to be shared with the kids. There is no time for awkwardness: Bridie envelops Jodie in a fierce hug, then draws back to take a good look at her face.

  ‘My God, you wouldn’t believe how often I’ve thought about you!’ She looks about inquisitively, adds: ‘So, it looks like you got your wish. You got your station wagon. Your rich husband. Your ordinary life!’ She grins, her bright eyes almost disappearing in a mass of wrinkles.

  ‘God, you remembered! I can’t believe I actually said that. But yes, I suppose I did. Not quite ordinary, though,’ she adds drily. ‘Not any more.’

  Jodie hadn’t recognised her old friend at the book group, but now, seated across from her, she’s unmistakably Bridie. She’s still tiny, only just five foot, and thin, but still sinewy, athletic looking. Her face has thinned out, the features matured, a network of fine lines creasing her eyes and cheeks – but her eyes are still fringed by those huge dark lashes, her smile is still wide and wild.