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Collateral Damage
by Janice Shaw
by Janice Shaw
Struggle-walking along the path by the lake to achieve my daily steps, I glanced at my watch to see if my heart rate had fulfilled the promise my lungs had been screaming since the last hill, when I almost ran into a woman moving the other way. As I muttered the customary apology, I realised who it was, “Ms Armstrong! It is Ms Armstrong, isn’t it?”
But she replied, with eyes averted, “No, I’m sorry … no.”
“Did you teach at Claremont Girls College? English and History? It’s Angela … Angela Fairley. I was in your class for the last two senior years,” I persisted.
Still not making eye contact, she started to mutter, “You have the wrong person,” but then seeing my obvious disappointment, she sighed and spoke directly to me for the first time, “I’ve reverted to my maiden name. But please, it’s been a while since we were both at Claremont. Call me Bridget.”
With the enthusiasm of a student eager to display to a favourite teacher her life successes, I started burbling about my job, but then I realised we were blocking the path.
“I’m on my lunch break. Why don’t we walk up to the coffee shop on the esplanade and get out of everyone’s way?” I asked.
She was oddly reluctant about this, “Oh, I’ve just had lunch.”
“Just a latte, then?”
“No, coffee in the afternoon means I can’t sleep.”
There was an interminable pause. Never having encountered anyone who declined a coffee before, I was at a loss. “Oh, well, I’d best be getting back to work,” I finally stammered.
“Perhaps another time,” she said brightly, and turned away.
* * *
Returning to my office, I needed to run this by a colleague.
“Have you ever met an old teacher, and they didn’t want to know you? I literally just ran into my English teacher, and she acted like I was Typhoid Mary.”
Susan replied with some amusement, “My teachers! I went to a private school where the main employment requirement was seemingly to have been born when Victoria was in the peak of her reign. I doubt if any of them are still with us, and if they are, the last person they’d want to reminisce with is me. I was a horrible pupil, looking back. What would I say: remember the time I set fire to the bin at the back of the classroom and was on the brink of expulsion? Or when the game we played with student teachers was to see who could make them cry first – male or female? Wasn’t I a little scamp?”
“But that’s just the point,” I explained. “I was a goody two shoes, and I didn’t torment the staff. And certainly not this teacher – I really liked her and English was my best subject. Besides, I thought she was fond of me,” I said mournfully.
“Goody two shoes?”
“From what’s considered the first children’s novel in the mid-1700s. The character’s name is actually Margery Meanwell. Ms Armstrong taught me that when we were discussing the importance of names. My name seemed like a foreshadowing of my life after her classes, I remember …” I tailed off.
“Sorry, but it doesn’t mean that she would remember you. Think of how many students the poor woman saw in any given year and multiply that by the decades she was teaching.”
“You’re right. I’m just one of many – not memorable and not important,” I realised sadly.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” Susan replied uneasily, becoming aware that her flippant remarks had unwittingly eroded part of my identity and sense of self-worth. “I’m sure that teachers do remember their best students … and their worst. You up for a game of squash this afternoon?”
“Yes, see you there at 6pm,” I turned back to a screen full of figures. “As long as I can clear this before then. I need to find a way of shaving three percent from expenses before the audit next month.”
* * *
The daily walk along the foreshore to the coffee shop at lunchtime became a ritual wherein I could fool myself that my life was healthier since moving from an urban reflective glass tower to a sprawling brick abbey of regional offices. The barista greeted me as I walked in, and even this was heartening. I was becoming a local identity, it seemed.
“Are you Angela? From the Council?”
“That’s me,” I replied with a smug satisfaction at being greeted by name.
“An old lady left this for you. She said you come in every day at this time.”
“Old lady? Who …?” And then I realised. To me, she was Miss. Not elderly, not young, just … Miss. But then I saw her as others must, through eyes uncurtained by memories of vibrant teaching and enthusiastic scholarship.
The young woman passed over a yellow envelope, clearly full of manuscript. It evoked an earlier era of placing my own offerings on her desk, hoping for scribbled praise in the margin and equally dreading comments of ‘re-write,’ ‘edit’ or ‘somewhat dull – perhaps re-phrase?’
I took the envelope over to a table by the window, slowly opening it to find a story that echoed the first exercise I was given by a strong, confident woman, eager to impart the joys of literary creativity: a fairy tale.
* * *
Once upon a time, a queen lived in a beachside castle with her king. Her special place was an ivory tower, a beautiful space where she could gaze upon the problems of the world below without ever having to engage with any of them. Like watching the turbulent surf, she could look upon life without immersing herself in it.
She gained fulfilment by teaching beautiful maidens who loved the stories she passed on to them: myths and legends from a time before they were born, or social problems, most of which they were spared by their wealth, or talent, or loveliness. Like her acolytes, she viewed interpreting the often-enigmatic tales as a game where the highest scorers were awarded a golden scroll and access to a rich life.
Their young prince had excelled at this sport. He had a family of his own: a fair princess he had wooed with all the charm and promise his wealth could command and who had given him in return a princeling, a darling child the king and queen adored.
Life was wonderful.
But one day, courtiers visited the prince with harsh words and accusations of misdeeds. They bound him with icy chains constructed by the maids of the village and dragged him from his home to a stone tower wherein the only stories were those of his own wrongdoing, often gleaned from long ago. He wept and pleaded until the king and queen, aghast, pledged their support in defiance of these surely mistaken anecdotes. They were puzzled at why the accusers would target their cherished son, and finally, at a loss, decided that it was envy or longing or possibly, as suggested by their court advisers, unresolved trauma of their own making.
They carved their kingdom into saleable portions to support his defence. The best interlocutors in the land, the wiliest magicians to manipulate evidence and manifest arguments from air were transported to the court where the prince was to be tried. The queen visited him every day, relinquishing her role as mentor to the young maidens, for now she started to lose faith in them. Their beauty had taken on a sinister look to her, and it seemed calculated to deceive and acquire riches at the expense of an innocent but gullible lad like her son. Each night, the king and queen would try to find words to bridge their despair and terror at the evidence being shown, until finally they stared at each other in mute dismay, unable to deny the reality of the prince’s actions any longer.
On the day the judgment was to be read, the king could bear no more.
The queen was reminded of her former life in mentoring the young maidens, where she counselled them about storytelling. She would explain the difference between events and plot by using the example that “The king died. The queen died after him” is a mere series of events. But “The king died, and then the queen died of grief” is a story with a plot.
She realised that her life had become that story with a plot. In her tale, though, it was the king who died of grief after the idyllic notion of their son had been killed, and the queen was condemned to live with the consequences of his crimes. Her heart turned to stone when her husband’s body was buried in a crypt on the same day her son was buried alive in a tower cell.
The princess, unable to bear the shame, fled with the princeling to her people in a faraway land. The queen was never to see him again because the princess blamed her for the misdeeds of her son and assumed that because she had supported him throughout, she condoned his actions.
As the princeling’s grandmother, she had no rights.
As a king’s widow, she had no royal status.
As one who had sold her birthright, she was dispossessed of her lands.
So she wandered, immersed now in the problems she once viewed as an intellectual exercise. Sad and lonely and shamed, she avoided any of her former students or friends.
She changed her name and became a nomad, devoid of kith or kin, until one day a charming woman claimed her acquaintance and invoked the earlier time of vitality and hope. It was almost more than the queen could bear to even hear her former title and recall that previous life through the girl’s eagerness to impress. So she denied the relationship and watched with increasing despair the puzzled acceptance of her former student, realising that she would attribute this attitude to arrogance or dislike, or even worse, indifference.
Finally, the queen decided to revisit a connection established when the maiden, full of promise, had written one of the finest fantasies she had ever read. But this time, the queen wrote her own tale, hoping that by doing so the maid would realise how much their previous relationship meant to her.
In all fairy tales, the ending is ambiguous for all characters except the youthful adventurer. The queen must be content if she has bestowed the magical gift of creativity and success on the maiden because that is her reward and her happily ever after. The beautiful young maid is always the heroine.
And as in every story, the queen is heard of no more.
* * *
I glanced around, hoping to see Miss, but there was nothing but abandoned chairs askew against empty tables and far beyond, a windswept shoreline.
Calling one of the waitstaff over, I asked if she had seen the woman who had delivered the parcel.
“Do you mean the white-haired woman who lives in her car? No, I think she’s been moved on by your lot.” She motioned over to the chamber building.
“What do you mean, lives in her car?”
“That’s where she’s been for a couple of weeks now. With the others who couldn’t find anywhere to rent, either. It’s becoming a joke that it’s the newest suburb in town.”
“Can I just confirm this: she was living in a car, a normal sedan – not a campervan or motorhome?” I asked incredulously.
“Not by choice. She came in when she first arrived, asking if she could work as a dishwasher or waitress, but there was nothing. She said that she’d been evicted from her last rental and was in desperate need of a place to live, so if we heard of anything, to please let her know. She dropped in every morning and did the rounds of all the real estate agencies and shops, but it mustn’t have worked because the car was still in the same spot in the carpark. Finally, I think someone from the council told them all to move on. Not very fair, but then, that’s life.”
“Someone from the council?”
The waitress looked pointedly at my designer suit and heavy gold jewellery, “Yes. I thought you must have arranged it. You’re in charge, aren’t you?”
Taken aback, I replied slowly, “I control that section. But I work from spreadsheets and data projections. I had no idea ….” My voice trailed away.
“Where you work, doesn’t it overlook the lake and the park?” the girl replied disdainfully, “You mean you never looked out of the window?”
“No, I never did,” I realised.
When I walked back to my corner office, I turned my chair around from its usual position where I would sit, hunched, staring at the desktop computer. This time I gazed out the window over the view of the carpark to the beautiful shoreline beyond, hoping I would see a familiar figure.
But I knew in my heart that I would never see her again.
But she replied, with eyes averted, “No, I’m sorry … no.”
“Did you teach at Claremont Girls College? English and History? It’s Angela … Angela Fairley. I was in your class for the last two senior years,” I persisted.
Still not making eye contact, she started to mutter, “You have the wrong person,” but then seeing my obvious disappointment, she sighed and spoke directly to me for the first time, “I’ve reverted to my maiden name. But please, it’s been a while since we were both at Claremont. Call me Bridget.”
With the enthusiasm of a student eager to display to a favourite teacher her life successes, I started burbling about my job, but then I realised we were blocking the path.
“I’m on my lunch break. Why don’t we walk up to the coffee shop on the esplanade and get out of everyone’s way?” I asked.
She was oddly reluctant about this, “Oh, I’ve just had lunch.”
“Just a latte, then?”
“No, coffee in the afternoon means I can’t sleep.”
There was an interminable pause. Never having encountered anyone who declined a coffee before, I was at a loss. “Oh, well, I’d best be getting back to work,” I finally stammered.
“Perhaps another time,” she said brightly, and turned away.
* * *
Returning to my office, I needed to run this by a colleague.
“Have you ever met an old teacher, and they didn’t want to know you? I literally just ran into my English teacher, and she acted like I was Typhoid Mary.”
Susan replied with some amusement, “My teachers! I went to a private school where the main employment requirement was seemingly to have been born when Victoria was in the peak of her reign. I doubt if any of them are still with us, and if they are, the last person they’d want to reminisce with is me. I was a horrible pupil, looking back. What would I say: remember the time I set fire to the bin at the back of the classroom and was on the brink of expulsion? Or when the game we played with student teachers was to see who could make them cry first – male or female? Wasn’t I a little scamp?”
“But that’s just the point,” I explained. “I was a goody two shoes, and I didn’t torment the staff. And certainly not this teacher – I really liked her and English was my best subject. Besides, I thought she was fond of me,” I said mournfully.
“Goody two shoes?”
“From what’s considered the first children’s novel in the mid-1700s. The character’s name is actually Margery Meanwell. Ms Armstrong taught me that when we were discussing the importance of names. My name seemed like a foreshadowing of my life after her classes, I remember …” I tailed off.
“Sorry, but it doesn’t mean that she would remember you. Think of how many students the poor woman saw in any given year and multiply that by the decades she was teaching.”
“You’re right. I’m just one of many – not memorable and not important,” I realised sadly.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” Susan replied uneasily, becoming aware that her flippant remarks had unwittingly eroded part of my identity and sense of self-worth. “I’m sure that teachers do remember their best students … and their worst. You up for a game of squash this afternoon?”
“Yes, see you there at 6pm,” I turned back to a screen full of figures. “As long as I can clear this before then. I need to find a way of shaving three percent from expenses before the audit next month.”
* * *
The daily walk along the foreshore to the coffee shop at lunchtime became a ritual wherein I could fool myself that my life was healthier since moving from an urban reflective glass tower to a sprawling brick abbey of regional offices. The barista greeted me as I walked in, and even this was heartening. I was becoming a local identity, it seemed.
“Are you Angela? From the Council?”
“That’s me,” I replied with a smug satisfaction at being greeted by name.
“An old lady left this for you. She said you come in every day at this time.”
“Old lady? Who …?” And then I realised. To me, she was Miss. Not elderly, not young, just … Miss. But then I saw her as others must, through eyes uncurtained by memories of vibrant teaching and enthusiastic scholarship.
The young woman passed over a yellow envelope, clearly full of manuscript. It evoked an earlier era of placing my own offerings on her desk, hoping for scribbled praise in the margin and equally dreading comments of ‘re-write,’ ‘edit’ or ‘somewhat dull – perhaps re-phrase?’
I took the envelope over to a table by the window, slowly opening it to find a story that echoed the first exercise I was given by a strong, confident woman, eager to impart the joys of literary creativity: a fairy tale.
* * *
Once upon a time, a queen lived in a beachside castle with her king. Her special place was an ivory tower, a beautiful space where she could gaze upon the problems of the world below without ever having to engage with any of them. Like watching the turbulent surf, she could look upon life without immersing herself in it.
She gained fulfilment by teaching beautiful maidens who loved the stories she passed on to them: myths and legends from a time before they were born, or social problems, most of which they were spared by their wealth, or talent, or loveliness. Like her acolytes, she viewed interpreting the often-enigmatic tales as a game where the highest scorers were awarded a golden scroll and access to a rich life.
Their young prince had excelled at this sport. He had a family of his own: a fair princess he had wooed with all the charm and promise his wealth could command and who had given him in return a princeling, a darling child the king and queen adored.
Life was wonderful.
But one day, courtiers visited the prince with harsh words and accusations of misdeeds. They bound him with icy chains constructed by the maids of the village and dragged him from his home to a stone tower wherein the only stories were those of his own wrongdoing, often gleaned from long ago. He wept and pleaded until the king and queen, aghast, pledged their support in defiance of these surely mistaken anecdotes. They were puzzled at why the accusers would target their cherished son, and finally, at a loss, decided that it was envy or longing or possibly, as suggested by their court advisers, unresolved trauma of their own making.
They carved their kingdom into saleable portions to support his defence. The best interlocutors in the land, the wiliest magicians to manipulate evidence and manifest arguments from air were transported to the court where the prince was to be tried. The queen visited him every day, relinquishing her role as mentor to the young maidens, for now she started to lose faith in them. Their beauty had taken on a sinister look to her, and it seemed calculated to deceive and acquire riches at the expense of an innocent but gullible lad like her son. Each night, the king and queen would try to find words to bridge their despair and terror at the evidence being shown, until finally they stared at each other in mute dismay, unable to deny the reality of the prince’s actions any longer.
On the day the judgment was to be read, the king could bear no more.
The queen was reminded of her former life in mentoring the young maidens, where she counselled them about storytelling. She would explain the difference between events and plot by using the example that “The king died. The queen died after him” is a mere series of events. But “The king died, and then the queen died of grief” is a story with a plot.
She realised that her life had become that story with a plot. In her tale, though, it was the king who died of grief after the idyllic notion of their son had been killed, and the queen was condemned to live with the consequences of his crimes. Her heart turned to stone when her husband’s body was buried in a crypt on the same day her son was buried alive in a tower cell.
The princess, unable to bear the shame, fled with the princeling to her people in a faraway land. The queen was never to see him again because the princess blamed her for the misdeeds of her son and assumed that because she had supported him throughout, she condoned his actions.
As the princeling’s grandmother, she had no rights.
As a king’s widow, she had no royal status.
As one who had sold her birthright, she was dispossessed of her lands.
So she wandered, immersed now in the problems she once viewed as an intellectual exercise. Sad and lonely and shamed, she avoided any of her former students or friends.
She changed her name and became a nomad, devoid of kith or kin, until one day a charming woman claimed her acquaintance and invoked the earlier time of vitality and hope. It was almost more than the queen could bear to even hear her former title and recall that previous life through the girl’s eagerness to impress. So she denied the relationship and watched with increasing despair the puzzled acceptance of her former student, realising that she would attribute this attitude to arrogance or dislike, or even worse, indifference.
Finally, the queen decided to revisit a connection established when the maiden, full of promise, had written one of the finest fantasies she had ever read. But this time, the queen wrote her own tale, hoping that by doing so the maid would realise how much their previous relationship meant to her.
In all fairy tales, the ending is ambiguous for all characters except the youthful adventurer. The queen must be content if she has bestowed the magical gift of creativity and success on the maiden because that is her reward and her happily ever after. The beautiful young maid is always the heroine.
And as in every story, the queen is heard of no more.
* * *
I glanced around, hoping to see Miss, but there was nothing but abandoned chairs askew against empty tables and far beyond, a windswept shoreline.
Calling one of the waitstaff over, I asked if she had seen the woman who had delivered the parcel.
“Do you mean the white-haired woman who lives in her car? No, I think she’s been moved on by your lot.” She motioned over to the chamber building.
“What do you mean, lives in her car?”
“That’s where she’s been for a couple of weeks now. With the others who couldn’t find anywhere to rent, either. It’s becoming a joke that it’s the newest suburb in town.”
“Can I just confirm this: she was living in a car, a normal sedan – not a campervan or motorhome?” I asked incredulously.
“Not by choice. She came in when she first arrived, asking if she could work as a dishwasher or waitress, but there was nothing. She said that she’d been evicted from her last rental and was in desperate need of a place to live, so if we heard of anything, to please let her know. She dropped in every morning and did the rounds of all the real estate agencies and shops, but it mustn’t have worked because the car was still in the same spot in the carpark. Finally, I think someone from the council told them all to move on. Not very fair, but then, that’s life.”
“Someone from the council?”
The waitress looked pointedly at my designer suit and heavy gold jewellery, “Yes. I thought you must have arranged it. You’re in charge, aren’t you?”
Taken aback, I replied slowly, “I control that section. But I work from spreadsheets and data projections. I had no idea ….” My voice trailed away.
“Where you work, doesn’t it overlook the lake and the park?” the girl replied disdainfully, “You mean you never looked out of the window?”
“No, I never did,” I realised.
When I walked back to my corner office, I turned my chair around from its usual position where I would sit, hunched, staring at the desktop computer. This time I gazed out the window over the view of the carpark to the beautiful shoreline beyond, hoping I would see a familiar figure.
But I knew in my heart that I would never see her again.
Two Peas
by David Vernon
by David Vernon
April 1924, Adelaide, South Australia
“Good morning, Mrs Grosser. A particularly fine Adelaide day today. Yes? And this is your daughter?” said Dr Houndsmith briskly, not waiting for a response. “Sit. Please,” he said pointing to the two hard chairs opposite his large rosewood desk.
Sarah Grosser smoothed her dress nervously as she sat down. “Eth! Sit!” she hissed to the young woman accompanying her, who looked ready to run out the door at the slightest excuse.
“Doctor, sir, thank yer for seein’ us. This is Ethel, me eldest.”
Dr Houndsmith smiled reassuringly at the women. “And what can I do for you today?”
Sarah fiddled with her worn handbag and then suddenly looked up. “Ethel’s poorly. She’s been sick most mornin’s and ‘as missed two of ‘er shifts down the dairy.”
“And how long have you felt like this, Miss Grosser,” asked the doctor, looking at Ethel.
“She’s not Miss Grosser, sir. She’s Miss Rees. Grosser is me married name. Me first ‘usband, well, scarpered a long time back, but I’ve just remarried. Mr Carl Grosser… a lovely man.”
“Right. So how long have you felt like this, Miss Rees?”
Ethel stared long and hard at the trees through the window and felt numb.
“Miss Rees?” Dr Houndsmith repeated.
“Ethel!” barked Sarah. “Tell the good doctor how long you’ve been feelin’ ill for.”
Ethel started, and looked at her shabby shoes on the thick carpet under the desk. “’Bout three weeks, sir,” she mumbled.
“Speak up, Ethel. The Doctor ain’t got time to repeat ‘imself.”
“It’s alright Mrs Grosser. I’m a patient man. Three weeks you say? And please excuse me asking this. When did you last suffer from your monthly illness?”
“Wha?” said Ethel, looking at her mother.
“On the rags, Eth.”
“Oh!” said Ethel, a deep glow infusing her face. “Umm, ‘bout eight weeks back.”
“Are you certain?” asked the doctor. “Yeah. Cos I were a bit surprised when it dint come last month.”
“Are you married?”
Sarah’s brow furrowed. “Doctor,” she interrupted, “we… we… ah… we’re in a bit of a mess at ‘ome and I thought that maybe with Eth’s monthly illness bin late that perhaps she were in the family way an’ so that’s why we came ‘ere. But she can’t keep it and we were ‘opin’ that yer might ‘ave some way of ‘elpin’.”
Dr Houndsmith took a deep breath. His face stiffened as he looked at the two distressed women. “I’m sorry Mrs Grosser and Miss Rees with that I cannot help. Even if I could, you must know that it is illegal to do what you are suggesting. The best thing you can do, in my opinion, is to immediately marry the man and bring up a legitimate child in the eyes of all.”
“But…” stuttered Ethel.
“There really is no buts in this matter. As God-fearing members of the Empire, we must all do what is right. Marriage is right. Surely, you think the man will agree. If not, he is a cad and a reprobate. I can arrange for my vicar to meet with him.”
Sarah stood up quickly. “Thank yer, Doctor, for yer time. We know how precious it is. We will think very seriously about what yer said.”
“You do that. Once you are married, I will be very happy to provide my services to you throughout your confinement, Miss Rees. Most happy.” Dr Houndsmith bent and scribbled on a small pad. “Please pay this chit, to Miss Gavner, on the way out.”
• • •
“I’ll speak with him, Ethel, love,” said Sarah as they walked home.
“But, I don’t want to marry ‘im. It’ ain’t right,” said Ethel quietly.
“Well, yer should’ve thought o’ that before yer shared a bed. Anyways, tis much better that yer get married than bring up some bastard child or go to a mother’s home. We’ve got too much shame on this family already.”
• • •
Thirteen years earlier
Nov 1909, Wallaroo, South Australia.
State Children's Department
Kate contemplated the six children lined up on the rough wooden bench. They were sitting in order of height, with the eldest, a boy, on one end and the three youngest, who all looked barely of an age capable of walking, crowded together in a dirty huddle at the other.
The oldest, Horace, according to the letter in her hand, was apparently eight years- old but he had the physique of someone suffering malnutrition for many years. The next eldest, Ethel, sat unblinking, staring straight ahead. She too was starved, and the lack of tear stains down her filthy face suggested it was a condition she was all too used to.
Suddenly, one of the tiny children fell off the bench and onto the floor. Constable Johns, who had been standing behind the children scooped the little waif off the ground and held him to quiet the whimpering.
“You’re doing a good job, constable,” said Kate.
“It’s disgustin’, ‘avin’ kids and then abandonin’ ‘em. If I ever catch ‘im — the father — I’ll ‘ave ‘is ‘ide.”
“You do that, constable. We have a school full of children like this family. But we’ll do our best. Let me write out a receipt for them and you can be on your way.”
Kate quickly scanned the letter again, to ensure she had the right spelling:
Miss F.K. Cocks
Probation Officer
State Children’s Council
Dear Miss Cocks,
It is with regret that I am writing to you to provide you with the circumstances of the Maplesden children who will be accompanying this letter in the company of Constable Johns.
The children:
— Horace (8 years);
— Ethel Susannah (6);
— George (4);
— Miriam (3);
— Edith (2); and
— William (10 months)
were charged with being neglected children at the Wallaroo Police Court. They are the children of George and Sarah Ann Maplesden (nee Rees). Mr Maplesden, age 25 and a miner, left Wallaroo to find work four months previous and Mrs Maplesden has only received a total of £5 in support in this time. She is paying 5/- a week in rent. The magistrate issued a warrant for Mr Maplesden’s arrest under the State Children’s Act 1895.
The children have been found numerous times on the street begging for food and money, even as late as midnight. On inspecting the house Constable Johns found that there was no furniture and the children slept on the floor with little to cover them. Several of the children were naked. It is clear from their sickly physique that food is very hard to come by.
While I understand that the Benevolent Society has assisted in the past, help was inadequate to keep the family together. Mrs Maplesden has voluntarily given the children into the care of Edwardstown Industrial School. She understands that they will remain there until they have reached eighteen years of age.
Further particulars will be forwarded …
• • •
Thirteen years later
May 1924, Adelaide, South Australia
“Now,” said Sarah, casting a kindly eye over the two young people sitting across the table. She fiddled with the teacup in front of her, took a deep breath and then leapt in as though, if she didn’t get it all out immediately, it would not come out at all. “I’m not cross with yer, mind. I know ‘ow it ‘appened and I do remember me youth, even if you two think I’m old. It ‘appens despite everythin’. All I want is for me family t’ be respectable. With the death of George, the bloody wastrel, and me marryin’ Carl, I’ve seen things improvin’ for me and I don’t want it put at risk. Nor do I want yer reputation put at risk neither. Yer both had a tough time and I know it ain’t been easy for yer and I am so pleased that yer ‘ave found comfort in each other, though it’s not regular like. But love is love and I’ve always said there ain’t enough of it in the world. Gawd, I should know.”
Ethel looked up and was about to speak when her mother continued in a rush. “So, yer going to ‘ave t’ get married. All respectable like. Ethel, love, Rees is me maiden name and it will do fine for yer. Me and Carl ‘ave talked and ‘e ‘as agreed to be a witness. So, we’ll go down to the Registrar’s Office come this Thursday and get youse all respectable.”
“But what about our friends and family? They’ll know,” asked Ethel.
“Yer but they’ll keep their traps shut. I know ‘em. Anyway, we’re ‘avin no bloody reception, we’re just goin’ to the Registrar and then yer can head up state for some time. Yer agree?”
“Yes mother,” said Ethel with a sigh.
“Yes,” said Horace. “It’s prob’ly for the best.” He leant over and gave Ethel’s hand a squeeze. She gave him a small, sad smile.
11 July 1924
Adelaide, South Australia
Kate sighed and stretched out her legs under the old wooden table. Surely it was time for the tea trolley to rattle down the corridor laden with little cakes that Mrs Wilmot baked early every morning to supplement her low wages. Kate was dying for something sweet.
She turned to gaze out the window onto the busy street when there was a knock at the open door. Looking up she saw it was Preston, the runner.
“Yes?”
“Yer have a visitor, Matron. A man. ‘E says ‘is name is Mr Maplesden.”
“Oh,” said Kate. She quickly recalled the broad open face of the boy she had known as Horace Maplesden for thirteen years when she was a welfare officer at the Edwardstown Industrial school. “Send him up please, Preston.”
It was not unusual to have previous inmates of the school drop by. Usually, it was to show her proudly that something had come of their lives. She had always cared for the young people, and they had known that her care was genuine.
None of them seemed to have been put off by the fact that she was now South Australia’s first policewoman. They still seemed to like her.
There was another tap at the door.
“Come in, Horace. It’s never closed to my old pupils. Lovely to see you. You don’t mind me calling you Horace?”
“Not at all, Miss Cocks.” The young man stood awkwardly at her desk, shuffling his feet and holding his hat in one hand. His face was still round and his stocky body filled his clothes. Not like when I first saw you, thought Kate. Your face was hollow and your limbs made you look like a stick insect.
“You look well. Please do sit, Horace.”
“Thank yer, Miss Cocks.”
Kate looked expectantly at Horace but he said nothing. Rather, he focussed somewhere over her left shoulder. Kate left the silence hanging, waiting for him to say the first word. Many years of working with young people had shown her that the normal police interrogative techniques rarely worked on the long-term institutionalised.
“Miss Cocks.”
“Yes, Horace?”
“I’m in trouble.”
Kate felt her spirits slump. This was not going to be the usual ‘I’ve made it in society,’ chat which she always enjoyed so much.
“Horace, before you say anything, you do realise that I have recently been appointed a police officer and if you tell me anything criminal, I will have to report it.”
Horace visibly swallowed and then his knee started shaking badly. “Miss Cocks, yer’ve always bin kind to me and I dunno who else to tell and I know no matter what I’ve done you’ll give me a fair go.”
“I’ll always do my best to help, Horace, but sometimes the court system won’t listen, if what you have done is too bad.”
“Yeah. I know. But I’m gunna risk it. I got married in May.”
“Oh! Please accept my congratulations. Whom did you marry?”
“Ethel.”
“Do I know her?”
“Yeah. Me sister.”
“Your sister? Ethel… Ethel Susannah… that was her middle name, right?”
“Yeah. Ethel Susannah.”
Kate took a deep breath. She didn’t want to know the answer to the next question. If he answered the wrong way he could be imprisoned for up to seven years with hard labour. “Why?”
“She was with child.”
“Yours?”
Horace looked at the floor. “Yeah… since we came out of care and moved in with mother, we’ve become, umm, very fond of each other.”
“I see,” said Kate, her heart sinking. She swallowed and looked up at the young man and gave him a small encouraging smile.
“Me Mum said we ‘ad t’ marry. It were the decent thing t’ do.”
Kate closed her eyes. Pressure from mothers could be intense… That might be a defence, perhaps…
The Facts
On 11 July 1924 Horace walked into Fanny ‘Kate’ Boadicea Cocks’ (1875-1954) office in the South Australian State Welfare Department. Kate Cocks had known Horace Stephen Maplesden (1901-1971) from his thirteen years in State care. In the meeting he revealed that Sarah Grosser (nee Rees), his mother, had instructed him to marry his sister, Ethel Susannah Maplesden (1903-1985). On 8 May 1924 the two siblings married at the Adelaide Registry Office witnessed by their stepfather, Carl Albert Grosser (1872-1945).
As Principal Police Matron, Kate Cocks, charged both Horace and Ethel Maplesden in late September 1924 with unlawful marrying. They both pleaded guilty in the Adelaide Adelaide Criminal Court on 5 Nov 1924. Sarah Grosser, their mother, was given immunity from prosecution so she could provide evidence.
The judge, Thomas John Mellis Napier, (1882-1976) heard that both young people were of good character, that they had behaved well during their time in State care and that they had an appalling upbringing because of George Maplesden’s desertion of the family. Justice Napier sentenced Horace to six months imprisonment with hard labour. Ethel received a good behaviour bond on the grounds that she was “already suffering in mind and body.” This reference was likely owing to Ethel and Horace’s baby, Joyce Eileen Maplesden (1 Aug 1924 – 18 Aug 1924), dying seventeen days after her birth. Joyce was buried at West Terrace Cemetery, Adelaide, in an unmarked grave. Ethel stayed in hospital a further month after the death of Joyce and was discharged just in time to be charged with the criminal offence of ‘unlawful marrying.’
Both young people could have been gaoled for up to seven years for incest but the judge accepted all the mitigating circumstances.
On departure from gaol in 1926 Horace married Gertrude Vera May Jacobs on 16 April 1927 in Adelaide. They had no children. Horace died in 1971.
Ethel left Adelaide and moved to Broken Hill, NSW where in 1926 she married Leonard Bax (1904-1985), with whom she had three children. The marriage didn’t last and in 1941 she married Arthur Joseph Reed (1907-1979). They had no children. Ethel died in 1985 and is buried in Mt Gambier, South Australia.
References
Australian Dictionary of Biography — Fanny Kate Boadicea Cocks https://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/cocks-fanny-kate-5705
NEGLECTED CHILDREN. 27 November 1909. Chronicle Adelaide, SA, p12.
A REMARKABLE CASE. 4 October 1924. Observer Adelaide, SA, p29.
BROTHER AND SISTER. 30 September 1924. Recorder Port Pirie, SA, p1.
BROTHER AND SISTER WED. 23 November 1924. Truth Brisbane, Qld, p16.
Family Notices 9 April 1927, The Advertiser, Adelaide, SA, p12.
The South Australian Police Gazette, 15 Dec 1909, p303.
State Records of South Australia; Adelaide, South Australia, Australia; Admission Registers-Adelaide Hospital 1841-1946;
Reference: GRG78/49
“Good morning, Mrs Grosser. A particularly fine Adelaide day today. Yes? And this is your daughter?” said Dr Houndsmith briskly, not waiting for a response. “Sit. Please,” he said pointing to the two hard chairs opposite his large rosewood desk.
Sarah Grosser smoothed her dress nervously as she sat down. “Eth! Sit!” she hissed to the young woman accompanying her, who looked ready to run out the door at the slightest excuse.
“Doctor, sir, thank yer for seein’ us. This is Ethel, me eldest.”
Dr Houndsmith smiled reassuringly at the women. “And what can I do for you today?”
Sarah fiddled with her worn handbag and then suddenly looked up. “Ethel’s poorly. She’s been sick most mornin’s and ‘as missed two of ‘er shifts down the dairy.”
“And how long have you felt like this, Miss Grosser,” asked the doctor, looking at Ethel.
“She’s not Miss Grosser, sir. She’s Miss Rees. Grosser is me married name. Me first ‘usband, well, scarpered a long time back, but I’ve just remarried. Mr Carl Grosser… a lovely man.”
“Right. So how long have you felt like this, Miss Rees?”
Ethel stared long and hard at the trees through the window and felt numb.
“Miss Rees?” Dr Houndsmith repeated.
“Ethel!” barked Sarah. “Tell the good doctor how long you’ve been feelin’ ill for.”
Ethel started, and looked at her shabby shoes on the thick carpet under the desk. “’Bout three weeks, sir,” she mumbled.
“Speak up, Ethel. The Doctor ain’t got time to repeat ‘imself.”
“It’s alright Mrs Grosser. I’m a patient man. Three weeks you say? And please excuse me asking this. When did you last suffer from your monthly illness?”
“Wha?” said Ethel, looking at her mother.
“On the rags, Eth.”
“Oh!” said Ethel, a deep glow infusing her face. “Umm, ‘bout eight weeks back.”
“Are you certain?” asked the doctor. “Yeah. Cos I were a bit surprised when it dint come last month.”
“Are you married?”
Sarah’s brow furrowed. “Doctor,” she interrupted, “we… we… ah… we’re in a bit of a mess at ‘ome and I thought that maybe with Eth’s monthly illness bin late that perhaps she were in the family way an’ so that’s why we came ‘ere. But she can’t keep it and we were ‘opin’ that yer might ‘ave some way of ‘elpin’.”
Dr Houndsmith took a deep breath. His face stiffened as he looked at the two distressed women. “I’m sorry Mrs Grosser and Miss Rees with that I cannot help. Even if I could, you must know that it is illegal to do what you are suggesting. The best thing you can do, in my opinion, is to immediately marry the man and bring up a legitimate child in the eyes of all.”
“But…” stuttered Ethel.
“There really is no buts in this matter. As God-fearing members of the Empire, we must all do what is right. Marriage is right. Surely, you think the man will agree. If not, he is a cad and a reprobate. I can arrange for my vicar to meet with him.”
Sarah stood up quickly. “Thank yer, Doctor, for yer time. We know how precious it is. We will think very seriously about what yer said.”
“You do that. Once you are married, I will be very happy to provide my services to you throughout your confinement, Miss Rees. Most happy.” Dr Houndsmith bent and scribbled on a small pad. “Please pay this chit, to Miss Gavner, on the way out.”
• • •
“I’ll speak with him, Ethel, love,” said Sarah as they walked home.
“But, I don’t want to marry ‘im. It’ ain’t right,” said Ethel quietly.
“Well, yer should’ve thought o’ that before yer shared a bed. Anyways, tis much better that yer get married than bring up some bastard child or go to a mother’s home. We’ve got too much shame on this family already.”
• • •
Thirteen years earlier
Nov 1909, Wallaroo, South Australia.
State Children's Department
Kate contemplated the six children lined up on the rough wooden bench. They were sitting in order of height, with the eldest, a boy, on one end and the three youngest, who all looked barely of an age capable of walking, crowded together in a dirty huddle at the other.
The oldest, Horace, according to the letter in her hand, was apparently eight years- old but he had the physique of someone suffering malnutrition for many years. The next eldest, Ethel, sat unblinking, staring straight ahead. She too was starved, and the lack of tear stains down her filthy face suggested it was a condition she was all too used to.
Suddenly, one of the tiny children fell off the bench and onto the floor. Constable Johns, who had been standing behind the children scooped the little waif off the ground and held him to quiet the whimpering.
“You’re doing a good job, constable,” said Kate.
“It’s disgustin’, ‘avin’ kids and then abandonin’ ‘em. If I ever catch ‘im — the father — I’ll ‘ave ‘is ‘ide.”
“You do that, constable. We have a school full of children like this family. But we’ll do our best. Let me write out a receipt for them and you can be on your way.”
Kate quickly scanned the letter again, to ensure she had the right spelling:
Miss F.K. Cocks
Probation Officer
State Children’s Council
Dear Miss Cocks,
It is with regret that I am writing to you to provide you with the circumstances of the Maplesden children who will be accompanying this letter in the company of Constable Johns.
The children:
— Horace (8 years);
— Ethel Susannah (6);
— George (4);
— Miriam (3);
— Edith (2); and
— William (10 months)
were charged with being neglected children at the Wallaroo Police Court. They are the children of George and Sarah Ann Maplesden (nee Rees). Mr Maplesden, age 25 and a miner, left Wallaroo to find work four months previous and Mrs Maplesden has only received a total of £5 in support in this time. She is paying 5/- a week in rent. The magistrate issued a warrant for Mr Maplesden’s arrest under the State Children’s Act 1895.
The children have been found numerous times on the street begging for food and money, even as late as midnight. On inspecting the house Constable Johns found that there was no furniture and the children slept on the floor with little to cover them. Several of the children were naked. It is clear from their sickly physique that food is very hard to come by.
While I understand that the Benevolent Society has assisted in the past, help was inadequate to keep the family together. Mrs Maplesden has voluntarily given the children into the care of Edwardstown Industrial School. She understands that they will remain there until they have reached eighteen years of age.
Further particulars will be forwarded …
• • •
Thirteen years later
May 1924, Adelaide, South Australia
“Now,” said Sarah, casting a kindly eye over the two young people sitting across the table. She fiddled with the teacup in front of her, took a deep breath and then leapt in as though, if she didn’t get it all out immediately, it would not come out at all. “I’m not cross with yer, mind. I know ‘ow it ‘appened and I do remember me youth, even if you two think I’m old. It ‘appens despite everythin’. All I want is for me family t’ be respectable. With the death of George, the bloody wastrel, and me marryin’ Carl, I’ve seen things improvin’ for me and I don’t want it put at risk. Nor do I want yer reputation put at risk neither. Yer both had a tough time and I know it ain’t been easy for yer and I am so pleased that yer ‘ave found comfort in each other, though it’s not regular like. But love is love and I’ve always said there ain’t enough of it in the world. Gawd, I should know.”
Ethel looked up and was about to speak when her mother continued in a rush. “So, yer going to ‘ave t’ get married. All respectable like. Ethel, love, Rees is me maiden name and it will do fine for yer. Me and Carl ‘ave talked and ‘e ‘as agreed to be a witness. So, we’ll go down to the Registrar’s Office come this Thursday and get youse all respectable.”
“But what about our friends and family? They’ll know,” asked Ethel.
“Yer but they’ll keep their traps shut. I know ‘em. Anyway, we’re ‘avin no bloody reception, we’re just goin’ to the Registrar and then yer can head up state for some time. Yer agree?”
“Yes mother,” said Ethel with a sigh.
“Yes,” said Horace. “It’s prob’ly for the best.” He leant over and gave Ethel’s hand a squeeze. She gave him a small, sad smile.
11 July 1924
Adelaide, South Australia
Kate sighed and stretched out her legs under the old wooden table. Surely it was time for the tea trolley to rattle down the corridor laden with little cakes that Mrs Wilmot baked early every morning to supplement her low wages. Kate was dying for something sweet.
She turned to gaze out the window onto the busy street when there was a knock at the open door. Looking up she saw it was Preston, the runner.
“Yes?”
“Yer have a visitor, Matron. A man. ‘E says ‘is name is Mr Maplesden.”
“Oh,” said Kate. She quickly recalled the broad open face of the boy she had known as Horace Maplesden for thirteen years when she was a welfare officer at the Edwardstown Industrial school. “Send him up please, Preston.”
It was not unusual to have previous inmates of the school drop by. Usually, it was to show her proudly that something had come of their lives. She had always cared for the young people, and they had known that her care was genuine.
None of them seemed to have been put off by the fact that she was now South Australia’s first policewoman. They still seemed to like her.
There was another tap at the door.
“Come in, Horace. It’s never closed to my old pupils. Lovely to see you. You don’t mind me calling you Horace?”
“Not at all, Miss Cocks.” The young man stood awkwardly at her desk, shuffling his feet and holding his hat in one hand. His face was still round and his stocky body filled his clothes. Not like when I first saw you, thought Kate. Your face was hollow and your limbs made you look like a stick insect.
“You look well. Please do sit, Horace.”
“Thank yer, Miss Cocks.”
Kate looked expectantly at Horace but he said nothing. Rather, he focussed somewhere over her left shoulder. Kate left the silence hanging, waiting for him to say the first word. Many years of working with young people had shown her that the normal police interrogative techniques rarely worked on the long-term institutionalised.
“Miss Cocks.”
“Yes, Horace?”
“I’m in trouble.”
Kate felt her spirits slump. This was not going to be the usual ‘I’ve made it in society,’ chat which she always enjoyed so much.
“Horace, before you say anything, you do realise that I have recently been appointed a police officer and if you tell me anything criminal, I will have to report it.”
Horace visibly swallowed and then his knee started shaking badly. “Miss Cocks, yer’ve always bin kind to me and I dunno who else to tell and I know no matter what I’ve done you’ll give me a fair go.”
“I’ll always do my best to help, Horace, but sometimes the court system won’t listen, if what you have done is too bad.”
“Yeah. I know. But I’m gunna risk it. I got married in May.”
“Oh! Please accept my congratulations. Whom did you marry?”
“Ethel.”
“Do I know her?”
“Yeah. Me sister.”
“Your sister? Ethel… Ethel Susannah… that was her middle name, right?”
“Yeah. Ethel Susannah.”
Kate took a deep breath. She didn’t want to know the answer to the next question. If he answered the wrong way he could be imprisoned for up to seven years with hard labour. “Why?”
“She was with child.”
“Yours?”
Horace looked at the floor. “Yeah… since we came out of care and moved in with mother, we’ve become, umm, very fond of each other.”
“I see,” said Kate, her heart sinking. She swallowed and looked up at the young man and gave him a small encouraging smile.
“Me Mum said we ‘ad t’ marry. It were the decent thing t’ do.”
Kate closed her eyes. Pressure from mothers could be intense… That might be a defence, perhaps…
The Facts
On 11 July 1924 Horace walked into Fanny ‘Kate’ Boadicea Cocks’ (1875-1954) office in the South Australian State Welfare Department. Kate Cocks had known Horace Stephen Maplesden (1901-1971) from his thirteen years in State care. In the meeting he revealed that Sarah Grosser (nee Rees), his mother, had instructed him to marry his sister, Ethel Susannah Maplesden (1903-1985). On 8 May 1924 the two siblings married at the Adelaide Registry Office witnessed by their stepfather, Carl Albert Grosser (1872-1945).
As Principal Police Matron, Kate Cocks, charged both Horace and Ethel Maplesden in late September 1924 with unlawful marrying. They both pleaded guilty in the Adelaide Adelaide Criminal Court on 5 Nov 1924. Sarah Grosser, their mother, was given immunity from prosecution so she could provide evidence.
The judge, Thomas John Mellis Napier, (1882-1976) heard that both young people were of good character, that they had behaved well during their time in State care and that they had an appalling upbringing because of George Maplesden’s desertion of the family. Justice Napier sentenced Horace to six months imprisonment with hard labour. Ethel received a good behaviour bond on the grounds that she was “already suffering in mind and body.” This reference was likely owing to Ethel and Horace’s baby, Joyce Eileen Maplesden (1 Aug 1924 – 18 Aug 1924), dying seventeen days after her birth. Joyce was buried at West Terrace Cemetery, Adelaide, in an unmarked grave. Ethel stayed in hospital a further month after the death of Joyce and was discharged just in time to be charged with the criminal offence of ‘unlawful marrying.’
Both young people could have been gaoled for up to seven years for incest but the judge accepted all the mitigating circumstances.
On departure from gaol in 1926 Horace married Gertrude Vera May Jacobs on 16 April 1927 in Adelaide. They had no children. Horace died in 1971.
Ethel left Adelaide and moved to Broken Hill, NSW where in 1926 she married Leonard Bax (1904-1985), with whom she had three children. The marriage didn’t last and in 1941 she married Arthur Joseph Reed (1907-1979). They had no children. Ethel died in 1985 and is buried in Mt Gambier, South Australia.
References
Australian Dictionary of Biography — Fanny Kate Boadicea Cocks https://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/cocks-fanny-kate-5705
NEGLECTED CHILDREN. 27 November 1909. Chronicle Adelaide, SA, p12.
A REMARKABLE CASE. 4 October 1924. Observer Adelaide, SA, p29.
BROTHER AND SISTER. 30 September 1924. Recorder Port Pirie, SA, p1.
BROTHER AND SISTER WED. 23 November 1924. Truth Brisbane, Qld, p16.
Family Notices 9 April 1927, The Advertiser, Adelaide, SA, p12.
The South Australian Police Gazette, 15 Dec 1909, p303.
State Records of South Australia; Adelaide, South Australia, Australia; Admission Registers-Adelaide Hospital 1841-1946;
Reference: GRG78/49
Sea Stitch
by Roger Vickery
by Roger Vickery
In the Suva Yacht club, Winthrop, old man of the sea
tells me he sailed with Jimmy Buffet, quotes liquidly
and loudly from Masefield’s poems, declares: Herman Melville’s Typee
leaves Moby Dick for dead because in those pages the author chillingly
showed the South Sea ‘savages’ he was shipwrecked among
lived by a code of guilt-free cruelty which rocked believers
in Roussean theory. That pot boiler’s pithier than Herman’s prosy dung
about anthropomorphic whales. The Pacific’s no place for prissy dreamers.
He’s a burnt 50 years to my pale-skinned thirty, could pass
for several more, thinks he’s been cut from machismo grade
timber they’re not milling anymore. Those tatts: a tiger, a sumo’s bare arse
belching ‘Ah the Horror!’ and a busty mermaid pouting in a Botticelli glade
.... the ‘Wasting away in Margaritaville’ muscle shirt
with See Ya in Hades X X Jimmy B across the front
... that shark tooth bracelet... offering to shout me drinks like an eager flirt
when every other Romeo in the club had sussed I wasn’t fare for their hunt
... warns me it’s time to swallow my Fiji Bitter
and slink back to the YWCA, hoping a kindly
Christian, with a ‘cleanse the temple’ contempt for the Y’s bottom line, will be the sitter
on the desk, who’ll listen, patient as Queen Esther, while I pour out how I had blindly
followed a lover to this land of smiles.
and how she had milked and bilked me
and dumped me in a Nandi dive, black-dogged desperate, thousands of miles
from my New Zealand home. So, could she, possibly, slip me a room for free?
Then Winthrop, grinning as he lowers
his boom, offers me a gratis berth ... just
him and me ... to Aukland. ‘No way Jose’ is on my lips when he shows
me the pennant that flies from his mast when he’s shaking off the dust
of land... a blue Tibetan Bodhi Tree,
identical to my wrist tattoo. Fate, eh?
he asks. That’s how I came to sail from Suva on a Bermudan schooner, The Sweet Marie.
A rusty hull, a patched-up main, a petulant list to port ... a leaky, cantankerous old crate.
Three days out, on sea roads rarely taken,
my captain unfurled his skull and bones.
Dykes suck cock on this boat, he says. I give him a middle finger, badly shaken
but full of bluster. I have a brown belt karate kick that’ll send you to Davy Jones
I yell. And if that’s how things pan out
I’ll sell a sad tale when I reach dry land ...
how my skipper got drunk and tumbled overboard. I never heard a splash or a shout.
Any number of old salts will swear drink was an anchor around your neck. Lay a hand
on me and your sea dog days on this deck are done.
I’m bluffing and he knows it. A cuckoo in the nest
like me could never steer Marie to a port. The radio’s out of action. There’s a signal gun
to my head. Without that pig plotting our course, I’d be drifting around like Mary Celeste.
Just then the mainsail shrieks and rips.
’Haul the fucker down!’ Winthrop roared.
While I’m working the winch, he creeps up cat-like, stuns me with a spanner, and pitches
me over the side, as if I’m a bucket of slops. I surface flailing, no way to clamber aboard.
As Marie scuds away, I spot a fishing line
snaking from her stern. I strip off my shorts
slap them over my hand and lunge. The hook hits, blood spurts, I’m bait on the vine.
But the line tautens, towing me like a ski. The pain ebbs. Fight fills my gills, exhorts
me to dolphin kick to the rudder where I cling
to its side, loosening my blood-soaked line until
a loop drops free. I scream. Winthrop rushes over. I rear up, stitch his wrist and fling
myself into the sea. When I drag him back on board, I’ll bend him to my savage will.
tells me he sailed with Jimmy Buffet, quotes liquidly
and loudly from Masefield’s poems, declares: Herman Melville’s Typee
leaves Moby Dick for dead because in those pages the author chillingly
showed the South Sea ‘savages’ he was shipwrecked among
lived by a code of guilt-free cruelty which rocked believers
in Roussean theory. That pot boiler’s pithier than Herman’s prosy dung
about anthropomorphic whales. The Pacific’s no place for prissy dreamers.
He’s a burnt 50 years to my pale-skinned thirty, could pass
for several more, thinks he’s been cut from machismo grade
timber they’re not milling anymore. Those tatts: a tiger, a sumo’s bare arse
belching ‘Ah the Horror!’ and a busty mermaid pouting in a Botticelli glade
.... the ‘Wasting away in Margaritaville’ muscle shirt
with See Ya in Hades X X Jimmy B across the front
... that shark tooth bracelet... offering to shout me drinks like an eager flirt
when every other Romeo in the club had sussed I wasn’t fare for their hunt
... warns me it’s time to swallow my Fiji Bitter
and slink back to the YWCA, hoping a kindly
Christian, with a ‘cleanse the temple’ contempt for the Y’s bottom line, will be the sitter
on the desk, who’ll listen, patient as Queen Esther, while I pour out how I had blindly
followed a lover to this land of smiles.
and how she had milked and bilked me
and dumped me in a Nandi dive, black-dogged desperate, thousands of miles
from my New Zealand home. So, could she, possibly, slip me a room for free?
Then Winthrop, grinning as he lowers
his boom, offers me a gratis berth ... just
him and me ... to Aukland. ‘No way Jose’ is on my lips when he shows
me the pennant that flies from his mast when he’s shaking off the dust
of land... a blue Tibetan Bodhi Tree,
identical to my wrist tattoo. Fate, eh?
he asks. That’s how I came to sail from Suva on a Bermudan schooner, The Sweet Marie.
A rusty hull, a patched-up main, a petulant list to port ... a leaky, cantankerous old crate.
Three days out, on sea roads rarely taken,
my captain unfurled his skull and bones.
Dykes suck cock on this boat, he says. I give him a middle finger, badly shaken
but full of bluster. I have a brown belt karate kick that’ll send you to Davy Jones
I yell. And if that’s how things pan out
I’ll sell a sad tale when I reach dry land ...
how my skipper got drunk and tumbled overboard. I never heard a splash or a shout.
Any number of old salts will swear drink was an anchor around your neck. Lay a hand
on me and your sea dog days on this deck are done.
I’m bluffing and he knows it. A cuckoo in the nest
like me could never steer Marie to a port. The radio’s out of action. There’s a signal gun
to my head. Without that pig plotting our course, I’d be drifting around like Mary Celeste.
Just then the mainsail shrieks and rips.
’Haul the fucker down!’ Winthrop roared.
While I’m working the winch, he creeps up cat-like, stuns me with a spanner, and pitches
me over the side, as if I’m a bucket of slops. I surface flailing, no way to clamber aboard.
As Marie scuds away, I spot a fishing line
snaking from her stern. I strip off my shorts
slap them over my hand and lunge. The hook hits, blood spurts, I’m bait on the vine.
But the line tautens, towing me like a ski. The pain ebbs. Fight fills my gills, exhorts
me to dolphin kick to the rudder where I cling
to its side, loosening my blood-soaked line until
a loop drops free. I scream. Winthrop rushes over. I rear up, stitch his wrist and fling
myself into the sea. When I drag him back on board, I’ll bend him to my savage will.
A Country Phone Call
by Jann Karp
by Jann Karp
“They’re all dead” the caller said.
“All dead”.
I am holding my breath,
In the fog, early morning dew,
On Pinch Road, towards Thunderbolt’s palace.
Stressful.
The edge, bitumen to dirt,
the dogs, people in sight
in cold mossy, slippery mud
no stopping, sliding.
Listening out. No response.
We commit.
Police formation,
staying in swerving shape,
structured search.
The body, no blood, no story,
no press.
Give me strength.
Phone in hand,
Alone.
Dead ahead body of interest.
“Where are the others?”
All dead.
Not the person missing,
The caller?
“Where are the dogs?”
Missing.
Reported missing,
One found dead,
Family informed.
Grieving person “Who killed them all?”
“Where are the others”?
Distance mist, dogs barking,
They must be dead.
“All dead”.
I am holding my breath,
In the fog, early morning dew,
On Pinch Road, towards Thunderbolt’s palace.
Stressful.
The edge, bitumen to dirt,
the dogs, people in sight
in cold mossy, slippery mud
no stopping, sliding.
Listening out. No response.
We commit.
Police formation,
staying in swerving shape,
structured search.
The body, no blood, no story,
no press.
Give me strength.
Phone in hand,
Alone.
Dead ahead body of interest.
“Where are the others?”
All dead.
Not the person missing,
The caller?
“Where are the dogs?”
Missing.
Reported missing,
One found dead,
Family informed.
Grieving person “Who killed them all?”
“Where are the others”?
Distance mist, dogs barking,
They must be dead.
Poison was making the headlines in 1953. Post-war Sydney, facing rapid growth in the suburbs, had a rodent problem.1 Thall-Rat, a thallium-based poison, had become a staple household item. The fact it was both ‘tasteless’ and ‘odourless…made it a unique offering’.2 But over the course of that year, Thall-Rat gained notoriety for another reason. It started to show up in cups of Milo, tea and cakes. It transformed domestic spaces into scenes of domestic violence. It shone an unwitting spotlight on marriages, on the roles of husbands and wives and allowed the public ‘an opportunity to gaze’ into the home lives of the women who committed these crimes.3
The Thallium Trials took place over the course of 1952 and 1953, involving six different cases of poisoning by women. In each one, those poisoned were related or close to their loved ones. These cases ‘captured the imagination of the press and public’4 and their depiction in the media ‘codify [ed] and reinforc[ed] certain portrayals of these women’.5 They unwittingly exposed ‘an inherent patriarchal and misogynist culture within the criminal justice system’6 which was mirrored within the print media too.
The media coverage of the arrest and trial of Mrs Veronica Mabel Monty, accused of poisoning her daughter’s husband Bobby Lulham, illustrate the voyeurism and increasingly pervasive role of the press in post-war Australian society. Through a close analysis of the media print at this time, we can see the way in which women’s bodies were objectified and delineated, along with the way the press revelled in blurring the lines between the public and private domain: exposing the inner workings of the home for the enjoyment of their reading public.
This reporting also spoke to a complicity between the justice system and the media, their mechanisms of power removing any regard for privacy. It pointed to the increasingly invasive role which these institutions played. These were male dominated spaces, after all, fascinated with the female body, highly revealing of the power structures which operated in Australian society at this time. They promoted conservative views of women and domesticity, which shifted back into place after the more liberal opportunities afforded women during the Second World War.7
In his condemnation of Caroline Grills, on trial for one of the most prolific thallium poisoning cases, Crown Prosecutor Rooney pondered the various motives for poisoning but in Grills’ case suggested, ‘What about poisoning for fun, the kick of it, for the hell of it?’8 It would appear the press took a similar thrill-seeking approach in their own coverage of Mabel Monty over the course of 1953.
The Case of Mrs Mabel Monty
Veronica Mabel Monty made her first official appearance in the press on Thursday 6th August. Monty was 45 at the time and living in Ryde, a rapidly developing suburb in northern Sydney. She had spent the afternoon of Thursday 6th August at the police station and was charged later the same day with poisoning her son-in-law Bobby Lulham, a rugby league footballer who was a minor celebrity in his own right. The poison was administered in a cup of Milo, which Monty would maintain throughout the hearing and subsequent trial was a mix-up – the cup had been intended for herself.
Mabel Monty is commonly referred to in the coverage at the time as the ‘Mother-in Law’9, Lulham as the ‘international’ rugby player10, his wife the ‘attractive’11 brunette. They are already defined in their co-existing but separate worlds – the world of the home (‘domestic duties’12) and the world of celebrity, sport and the public sphere. The two would quickly merge.
The early media coverage of this time makes much of Mrs Monty’s unwillingness to engage with the press. The Advocate on 8th August informs us that she ‘hid her face in her hands as she faced a barrage of cameras’, that she ‘did not wish to see press men’. Between the lines, we can feel the implied disappointment as well as the evident invasion of privacy, the use of the word ‘barrage’ connoting an unwanted intrusion, a masculine offensive at Monty’s expense.
It didn’t take long for the lines between public and private to become increasingly blurred – the fact a crime had been committed providing the media with an entitlement to scoop a story at any cost. In the Daily Telegraph on 8th August, reporters make a visit to the family home in Ryde, speaking to Mrs Monty’s husband ‘through the closed kitchen door’. Regardless of the physical barrier, they still get their statement. We are told, ‘From inside the house, a woman’s voice said, ‘I’ve had a horrible day, a horrible day.’
This was the voice of Mrs Judith Lulham, Bobby’s wife. Much had already been made in the press of her emotional state, of how the ‘poor kid’13 had suffered. And once the full story was out, the inner workings of her family life would be completely exposed.
It is revealing that the reporters attempt to gain their story through the kitchen door – the realm of the female, soon to be destabilised by the role which Thallium played in disrupting accepted gender roles.
A Triangle in Family Relations14
On the morning of Wednesday 9th September, the case came to Central Court and the true nature of the scandal was revealed. It turned out all had not been well in the matrimonial home of the Lulhams, with no particular thanks to Mrs Mabel Monty herself.
It was alleged that Monty had taken on both the role of mother-in-law and lover, confessing to her daughter Judy that she had been intimate with Lulham on several occasions. The case was like a page-turner from a crime novel. There were the two mysterious phone calls, one to the CIB claiming that someone had poisoned Lulham’s beer; another to Dr Greenberg, the Rugby League doctor, made by a ‘sobbing’ woman15, who confessed her husband had put Thallium in the milk at the Lulham’s. There was also a strange note, created using letters and words from newspaper articles16. Monty, the press revealed, was the mastermind behind them all.
The reporting of this time exposes the patriarchal structures which underpin them – news created and presented by men, fascinated with the perceived behaviour of women. This can be seen in the way the press is particularly drawn to the popularity the trial gained with female audiences17. On the 10th of September, The Argus notes the way ‘women crowded’ outside the courtroom for the hearing. In The Brisbane Telegraph, we are told that the ‘women fought and jostled to get into court’. When the doors open, there is a ‘scramble for seats’ and in that scramble ‘an elderly woman dropped a mystery novel but left it on the ground rather than lose a seat’.18
From the press’ point of view, this was entertainment about women and consumed by women. It was better than any gossip column - the sorts of tales whispered around dining room tables being aired in a public arena. It unleashed an almost mass sense of panic, a desperation to get the next installment of events. The nod to the mystery novel feels like no mistake – an Agatha Christie perhaps. But there is also something unnerving in the reporting – women, driven by passion and emotion, like those in the crowds and Monty herself, quickly abandoned the social norms required of them.
It was also the perceived glamour which drew the press in. The Sun commented that, ‘Few Hollywood celebrities would have exacted more interest’19, Veronica said to have had an ‘uncanny resemblance’ to Joan Crawford’20. Throughout the print coverage, there is a relentless obsession with the female body which is continually objectified and scrutinised within the court room. On their daily appearances, we are under no illusion about what either the ‘pretty’21 Mrs Lulham or Mabel Monty were wearing, their fashions presented as a way to ‘engage’ the female readership. But it also served as a reminder of the critical and voyeuristic stance of the press.
This can be seen on Day Two in court, where Mrs Mabel Monty, according to The Argus, wears a ‘black faille suit with yellow spots’, with a ‘veil perched at an angle’. Judy wears a grey suit with a ‘bunch of red berries’22 on the front. Mabel Monty’s hat feels imbued with symbolism, almost funereal – complicit of guilt perhaps. And it’s hard to hear the phrase ‘red berries’ without putting the word ‘poisonous’ in front of it.
And what of Lulham? His appearance in court is of little to no interest to the press. But in their earlier reporting, they are fascinated with his loss of hair, one of the side effects of Thallium poisoning. In a story run in The Sun on the 9th August, he is looking into a handheld mirror, large tufts of hair missing from his head. The implication here is of stripped identity, but also there is an undercurrent of effeminisation – his hair loss connoting the ways in which Lulham has lost his virility and agency at the hands of a silent killer.
The Power of the Press
The trial, when it came to Central Court in early November, lasted only two days. Much was made of Monty’s emotion, The Brisbane Telegraph reporting on the 9th that she ‘almost collapsed as she gave evidence’, recounting the events she’d experienced as ‘an awful nightmare’. The press emphasised this for its dramatic qualities, but the genuine emotional toll these months had taken on Monty can only be imagined.
The truth was, she had been ruthlessly stalked by the press since August that year. The Sun, on the 13th September, ran a story titled, ‘They Came to Watch Mrs Monty’, describing the ‘eight press photographers with…cameras on her… bulbs flash[ing] almost in unison.’ There is something predatory and invasive in this portrayal, a synchronised agreement that Monty’s private life was now public property. The subsequent line is chilling, prescient even, describing the justice building as ‘built with an eye to the destruction of privacy’.
After her acquittal, Monty gave a ‘tell-all’ interview with The Truth where she described herself as the ‘loneliest woman in the world’, reiterating the ‘resentment’ she had ‘stored up…against the Press’. She explained, ‘To me the power of the Press is terrifying. They can do cruel things to you and you have no come back…It seemed wicked that they could write whole pages about me and go into intimate details of my domestic tragedy.’23
The gendered assumptions about her behaviour in the press were replicated within the justice system. Two divorce cases followed, both Monty’s own and Judith and Bobby’s. In the latter, Judge Dovey cited Monty’s behaviour as the sole reason for the divorce, providing the analogy of The Garden of Eden where ‘woman tempted man and he did eat’24. Monty was to blame, for tempting Lulham and for breaking the social contract which post-war society expected of her.
Ultimately, the pressure and responsibility she placed on herself had its own tragic ending. On 18th April, she was ‘found shot’25 in a hotel in North Sydney, under the new assumed identity of Veronica Morgan. She had unsuccessfully attempted to escape her previous life and start again. The Coroner’s Court ruled death by suicide on the 12th May.
The description of her in the Canberra Times remains true to the sensational depictions of her throughout the hearing and the trial, describing her ‘sprawled across a blood-stained bed’ 26. The story attracted sparse coverage, the death by suicide of a depressed older woman lacking the salacious appeal of her trial.
When asked for a statement following her death, Lulham stated, ‘I know nothing about it – it’s got nothing to do with me’. 27 But in many ways, it had everything to do with him – his abandonment of her eerily echoing the way which the power mechanisms of her society, exemplified in the press and justice system, had equally disregarded her.
It was after all rumours, and gossip, which were ‘pivotal to the criminal investigation’ in the Thallium Trials.28 All of these cases were fascinated not so much with the acts of poisoning themselves but the behaviour which accompanied them. In the case of Monty, it was her amoral and sexualised behaviour which contributed to a belief that she was capable of poisoning Lulham.29
Her emotional state was also sensationalised at her personal expense. Throughout both the hearing and the trial, Monty professed her innocence, citing how she had been ‘down in the dumps’ and wanted to poison herself, not Lulham30. But the effusion of emotion was seen as a cover up, another likely symptom of her manipulative behaviour.
Writing in The Truth, Monty said, ‘I feel I must go away where people don’t know me’.31 It would seem she had embraced Judge Dovey’s assessment of her behaviour. Like Eve, she’d been driven out from society - forced to leave. It is hard to ignore the detail in The Daily News on Monday 15th April, that Monty was found ‘surrounded by newspaper cuttings’. To the very last, she was unable to escape the power of the written word – the ways in which the press had ‘hounded’ her bound up with her own sense of meaningful identity.32
In the end she proved them right – she was capable of resorting to crime, after all.
The Thallium Trials took place over the course of 1952 and 1953, involving six different cases of poisoning by women. In each one, those poisoned were related or close to their loved ones. These cases ‘captured the imagination of the press and public’4 and their depiction in the media ‘codify [ed] and reinforc[ed] certain portrayals of these women’.5 They unwittingly exposed ‘an inherent patriarchal and misogynist culture within the criminal justice system’6 which was mirrored within the print media too.
The media coverage of the arrest and trial of Mrs Veronica Mabel Monty, accused of poisoning her daughter’s husband Bobby Lulham, illustrate the voyeurism and increasingly pervasive role of the press in post-war Australian society. Through a close analysis of the media print at this time, we can see the way in which women’s bodies were objectified and delineated, along with the way the press revelled in blurring the lines between the public and private domain: exposing the inner workings of the home for the enjoyment of their reading public.
This reporting also spoke to a complicity between the justice system and the media, their mechanisms of power removing any regard for privacy. It pointed to the increasingly invasive role which these institutions played. These were male dominated spaces, after all, fascinated with the female body, highly revealing of the power structures which operated in Australian society at this time. They promoted conservative views of women and domesticity, which shifted back into place after the more liberal opportunities afforded women during the Second World War.7
In his condemnation of Caroline Grills, on trial for one of the most prolific thallium poisoning cases, Crown Prosecutor Rooney pondered the various motives for poisoning but in Grills’ case suggested, ‘What about poisoning for fun, the kick of it, for the hell of it?’8 It would appear the press took a similar thrill-seeking approach in their own coverage of Mabel Monty over the course of 1953.
The Case of Mrs Mabel Monty
Veronica Mabel Monty made her first official appearance in the press on Thursday 6th August. Monty was 45 at the time and living in Ryde, a rapidly developing suburb in northern Sydney. She had spent the afternoon of Thursday 6th August at the police station and was charged later the same day with poisoning her son-in-law Bobby Lulham, a rugby league footballer who was a minor celebrity in his own right. The poison was administered in a cup of Milo, which Monty would maintain throughout the hearing and subsequent trial was a mix-up – the cup had been intended for herself.
Mabel Monty is commonly referred to in the coverage at the time as the ‘Mother-in Law’9, Lulham as the ‘international’ rugby player10, his wife the ‘attractive’11 brunette. They are already defined in their co-existing but separate worlds – the world of the home (‘domestic duties’12) and the world of celebrity, sport and the public sphere. The two would quickly merge.
The early media coverage of this time makes much of Mrs Monty’s unwillingness to engage with the press. The Advocate on 8th August informs us that she ‘hid her face in her hands as she faced a barrage of cameras’, that she ‘did not wish to see press men’. Between the lines, we can feel the implied disappointment as well as the evident invasion of privacy, the use of the word ‘barrage’ connoting an unwanted intrusion, a masculine offensive at Monty’s expense.
It didn’t take long for the lines between public and private to become increasingly blurred – the fact a crime had been committed providing the media with an entitlement to scoop a story at any cost. In the Daily Telegraph on 8th August, reporters make a visit to the family home in Ryde, speaking to Mrs Monty’s husband ‘through the closed kitchen door’. Regardless of the physical barrier, they still get their statement. We are told, ‘From inside the house, a woman’s voice said, ‘I’ve had a horrible day, a horrible day.’
This was the voice of Mrs Judith Lulham, Bobby’s wife. Much had already been made in the press of her emotional state, of how the ‘poor kid’13 had suffered. And once the full story was out, the inner workings of her family life would be completely exposed.
It is revealing that the reporters attempt to gain their story through the kitchen door – the realm of the female, soon to be destabilised by the role which Thallium played in disrupting accepted gender roles.
A Triangle in Family Relations14
On the morning of Wednesday 9th September, the case came to Central Court and the true nature of the scandal was revealed. It turned out all had not been well in the matrimonial home of the Lulhams, with no particular thanks to Mrs Mabel Monty herself.
It was alleged that Monty had taken on both the role of mother-in-law and lover, confessing to her daughter Judy that she had been intimate with Lulham on several occasions. The case was like a page-turner from a crime novel. There were the two mysterious phone calls, one to the CIB claiming that someone had poisoned Lulham’s beer; another to Dr Greenberg, the Rugby League doctor, made by a ‘sobbing’ woman15, who confessed her husband had put Thallium in the milk at the Lulham’s. There was also a strange note, created using letters and words from newspaper articles16. Monty, the press revealed, was the mastermind behind them all.
The reporting of this time exposes the patriarchal structures which underpin them – news created and presented by men, fascinated with the perceived behaviour of women. This can be seen in the way the press is particularly drawn to the popularity the trial gained with female audiences17. On the 10th of September, The Argus notes the way ‘women crowded’ outside the courtroom for the hearing. In The Brisbane Telegraph, we are told that the ‘women fought and jostled to get into court’. When the doors open, there is a ‘scramble for seats’ and in that scramble ‘an elderly woman dropped a mystery novel but left it on the ground rather than lose a seat’.18
From the press’ point of view, this was entertainment about women and consumed by women. It was better than any gossip column - the sorts of tales whispered around dining room tables being aired in a public arena. It unleashed an almost mass sense of panic, a desperation to get the next installment of events. The nod to the mystery novel feels like no mistake – an Agatha Christie perhaps. But there is also something unnerving in the reporting – women, driven by passion and emotion, like those in the crowds and Monty herself, quickly abandoned the social norms required of them.
It was also the perceived glamour which drew the press in. The Sun commented that, ‘Few Hollywood celebrities would have exacted more interest’19, Veronica said to have had an ‘uncanny resemblance’ to Joan Crawford’20. Throughout the print coverage, there is a relentless obsession with the female body which is continually objectified and scrutinised within the court room. On their daily appearances, we are under no illusion about what either the ‘pretty’21 Mrs Lulham or Mabel Monty were wearing, their fashions presented as a way to ‘engage’ the female readership. But it also served as a reminder of the critical and voyeuristic stance of the press.
This can be seen on Day Two in court, where Mrs Mabel Monty, according to The Argus, wears a ‘black faille suit with yellow spots’, with a ‘veil perched at an angle’. Judy wears a grey suit with a ‘bunch of red berries’22 on the front. Mabel Monty’s hat feels imbued with symbolism, almost funereal – complicit of guilt perhaps. And it’s hard to hear the phrase ‘red berries’ without putting the word ‘poisonous’ in front of it.
And what of Lulham? His appearance in court is of little to no interest to the press. But in their earlier reporting, they are fascinated with his loss of hair, one of the side effects of Thallium poisoning. In a story run in The Sun on the 9th August, he is looking into a handheld mirror, large tufts of hair missing from his head. The implication here is of stripped identity, but also there is an undercurrent of effeminisation – his hair loss connoting the ways in which Lulham has lost his virility and agency at the hands of a silent killer.
The Power of the Press
The trial, when it came to Central Court in early November, lasted only two days. Much was made of Monty’s emotion, The Brisbane Telegraph reporting on the 9th that she ‘almost collapsed as she gave evidence’, recounting the events she’d experienced as ‘an awful nightmare’. The press emphasised this for its dramatic qualities, but the genuine emotional toll these months had taken on Monty can only be imagined.
The truth was, she had been ruthlessly stalked by the press since August that year. The Sun, on the 13th September, ran a story titled, ‘They Came to Watch Mrs Monty’, describing the ‘eight press photographers with…cameras on her… bulbs flash[ing] almost in unison.’ There is something predatory and invasive in this portrayal, a synchronised agreement that Monty’s private life was now public property. The subsequent line is chilling, prescient even, describing the justice building as ‘built with an eye to the destruction of privacy’.
After her acquittal, Monty gave a ‘tell-all’ interview with The Truth where she described herself as the ‘loneliest woman in the world’, reiterating the ‘resentment’ she had ‘stored up…against the Press’. She explained, ‘To me the power of the Press is terrifying. They can do cruel things to you and you have no come back…It seemed wicked that they could write whole pages about me and go into intimate details of my domestic tragedy.’23
The gendered assumptions about her behaviour in the press were replicated within the justice system. Two divorce cases followed, both Monty’s own and Judith and Bobby’s. In the latter, Judge Dovey cited Monty’s behaviour as the sole reason for the divorce, providing the analogy of The Garden of Eden where ‘woman tempted man and he did eat’24. Monty was to blame, for tempting Lulham and for breaking the social contract which post-war society expected of her.
Ultimately, the pressure and responsibility she placed on herself had its own tragic ending. On 18th April, she was ‘found shot’25 in a hotel in North Sydney, under the new assumed identity of Veronica Morgan. She had unsuccessfully attempted to escape her previous life and start again. The Coroner’s Court ruled death by suicide on the 12th May.
The description of her in the Canberra Times remains true to the sensational depictions of her throughout the hearing and the trial, describing her ‘sprawled across a blood-stained bed’ 26. The story attracted sparse coverage, the death by suicide of a depressed older woman lacking the salacious appeal of her trial.
When asked for a statement following her death, Lulham stated, ‘I know nothing about it – it’s got nothing to do with me’. 27 But in many ways, it had everything to do with him – his abandonment of her eerily echoing the way which the power mechanisms of her society, exemplified in the press and justice system, had equally disregarded her.
It was after all rumours, and gossip, which were ‘pivotal to the criminal investigation’ in the Thallium Trials.28 All of these cases were fascinated not so much with the acts of poisoning themselves but the behaviour which accompanied them. In the case of Monty, it was her amoral and sexualised behaviour which contributed to a belief that she was capable of poisoning Lulham.29
Her emotional state was also sensationalised at her personal expense. Throughout both the hearing and the trial, Monty professed her innocence, citing how she had been ‘down in the dumps’ and wanted to poison herself, not Lulham30. But the effusion of emotion was seen as a cover up, another likely symptom of her manipulative behaviour.
Writing in The Truth, Monty said, ‘I feel I must go away where people don’t know me’.31 It would seem she had embraced Judge Dovey’s assessment of her behaviour. Like Eve, she’d been driven out from society - forced to leave. It is hard to ignore the detail in The Daily News on Monday 15th April, that Monty was found ‘surrounded by newspaper cuttings’. To the very last, she was unable to escape the power of the written word – the ways in which the press had ‘hounded’ her bound up with her own sense of meaningful identity.32
In the end she proved them right – she was capable of resorting to crime, after all.
Notes:
|
1 C. Scrine – ‘More Deadly than the Male’ The Sexual Politics of Female Poisoning: Trials of the Thallium Women, Limina, vol 8, 2002, p.129.
2 T. Bretherton, The Husband Poisoner, Hachette Australia, Sydney, 2021, p.166. 3 Scrine – ‘More Deadly than the Male’, Limina, vol 8, 2002, p.134. 4 ibid, p.127. 5 ibid, p.131. 6 ibid, p.138. 7 ibid, p.128. 8 The Canberra Times, 15th October 1953. 9 The Sun, Thursday 6th August 1953. 10 The Brisbane Telegraph, Thursday 6th August 1953. 11 The Sun, Saturday 8th August 1953. 12 The Sun, Thursday 6th August 1953. 13 The Daily Telegraph, Sunday 8th August 1953. 14 The Daily Mercury, Thursday 19th September 1953. 15 The Argus, Thursday 10th September 1953. |
16 The Sun, Wednesday 9th September 1953.
17 See Scrine, p.134. 18 The Brisbane Telegraph, Thursday 10th September 1953. 19 The Sun, Sunday 13th September 1953. 20 Bretherton, The Husband Poisoner, p.251. 21 The Argus, Thursday 10th September 1953. 22 ibid. 23 The Truth, Sunday 13th December 1953. 24 The Canberra Times, 2nd March 1953. 25 The Canberra Times, 18th April 1955. 26 ibid 27 The Daily News, Monday 15th April. 28 Bretherton, The Husband Poisoner, p. 292. 29 See Scrine, p.141 30 The Argus, 10th September 1953. 31 The Truth, Sunday 13th December 1953 32 ibid. |
The Lacquered Box
by Violette Amouroux
by Violette Amouroux
The girl stepped into her ebony-coloured leather pants, slipped on her jacket made from the same material, buckled her watch, and looked through the files one more time before adjusting the pin fixed to front of the jacket. The plastic pin spelled out the word ‘Leader’. She received it last year for winning a game at Emily’s party.
Swiftly, Leader, which was the name she had chosen for herself after being inspired by the pin, pulled her black straight hair back into a high ponytail. She gave herself a final once-over in the mirror, turned the silver doorknob and headed out into the hallway. She was a girl on a mission. The satchel slung over her shoulder was filled with essentials: flashlight, a hand-written copy of the plan, a walk-talkie and a small penknife. When she told her friends about her mission, they looked at her like she was crazy. Easy for them. They didn’t have to go to extremes to claim back what was theirs, for her it was becoming an almost regular occurrence.
She was a girl in pursuit. Leader started to softly pad along the hallway. She wasn’t quite halfway down when she heard a door behind her creak open. In one quick move, Leader was pressed against the wall, letting the shadows cover her presence. Grasped in her left hand was the penknife from her satchel. It was her most prized possession. The black handle was smooth and lustrous, having been cleaned the day before. The knife had an assortment of blades, all polished. Leader was ready to flick the serrated blade at any threatening signs. Slowly, carefully, Leader peeked out of the shadows. A grey figure passed her. She had feared this and knew it needed to be stopped. This was her mission. The grey figure was just ahead of her now. Leader sprang out of hiding and pounced. In comparison to Leader’s soft, fast footsteps, the grey figure’s feet crashed through the silence. Leader snapped her penknife to the dullest blade, the worst damage it could do was to leave an indentation in the skin. Leader caught up to the figure and slowly placed her knife at its throat.
On closer inspection, the intruder was a girl, no more than eight years old. Her grey outfit wasn’t professional looking like Leader’s. No, not at all. It was, in fact a pair of fuzzy pyjamas. Around the younger girl’s head was a grey bath towel and her feet were encased in oversized, silver Doc Martens boots that clomped heavily when she walked. Hanging around her neck on a piece of string was a square of grey coloured cardboard with the words ‘Black Sheep’ written on it. Leader couldn't help but ask,
"What on Earth are you doing here? You're supposed to be in bed. And why are you wearing my Doc Martens inside? You're scuffing up the floor, Mum will be furious."
Black Sheep made motions to imply that she could not speak because of the blade still at her neck. She looked both annoyed and scared. Leader let go and retracted the blade.
“Explain,” she hissed.
“I put on these boots because I didn’t have any grey or silver shoes to match my outfit, but I think they look pretty cool,” whispered Black Sheep, moving a foot around in the air so the shoes could sparkle in the moonlight. “Not that you’d understand,” Black Sheep added, looking at the older girl's outfit in disgust. Leader didn’t react, this wasn’t the time to engage, so she responded,
"Go back to bed. Now." But Black Sheep wasn't having it.
"No!" She retorted.
"Yes!" Leader shot back.
"No!"
"Yes!"
Leader clamped her hand over Black Sheep's mouth and threateningly raised her knife. They stood there in silence. Eventually, Leader let go and withdrew the blade; she had a mission.
Time to work the charm, thought Black Sheep grinning victoriously while turning to fling her arms around the older girl’s middle. Her arms encircled the air. Leader had gone. Black Sheep looked around frantically, her mind whirring. The clock on the wall at the end of the hallway ticked a rhythm. The hands told her it was 9 o’clock. Time to chase the leader and be a part of the action. Despite what she had told Leader, Black Sheep regretted her choice of footwear. She didn’t care about the scuff marks on the floorboards, but the boots made her clumsy and loud. As she kicked them to the side, the towel wrapped around her head fell off onto the floor unveiling her mass of blonde coloured curls.
Leader on the other hand had hit a roadblock. Creaky floorboards were sprawled out before her. She couldn't believe that she hadn't noticed them during the day. Groaning, she wondered how she could have overlooked these in her planning. She tried backflipping over them, but she landed short with a loud thud. She froze, fearing discovery. Silence. She ran her hands through her ponytail and rapidly went over her options. After that near-death experience she did not want to try any more acrobatics. Tiptoeing? Nope. Praying? It never amounted to much. Shame she didn’t have an ability to climb on walls and ceilings like characters do in the movies. Leader wanted to give up, to abort the mission. As she started to turn around to return to where she came from, a voice whispered,
“You don’t know how to pass the creaky floorboards do you?” It was Black Sheep. Leader spat, “Leave me alone. Get out of my way.”
“I can help,” said Black Sheep quickly while reaching up under her pyjama top to pull out a pillow. Leader’s eyes opened wide. Perfect and brilliant she thought.
Black Sheep smiled smugly as she tossed the pillow carefully into position above the groaning floorboards and clumsily stepped on top before treading carefully off the other side. Leader gracefully followed the same moves.
“Thanks,” she muttered, “you can leave now as I must continue my mission.”
“What? Not fair!” cried Black Sheep forgetting to whisper.
“Quiet! If you want compensation I’ll sort you out later,” responded Leader.
“No! I don’t want a reward, I want to come with you.”
“Forget it Black Sheep, I have to succeed, and I don’t need you hindering me.”
But Black Sheep wasn't backing down. She raised her right leg up high threateningly, ready to stomp her foot down hard.
“Fine,” glared Leader, “you can join me.” Black Sheep’s face glowed triumphantly.
Leader’s mouth was set in a grim line as she spun around, her ponytail swishing as she melted into the shadows. Black Sheep scurried after her whisper-shouting “Leader, where are you?” No response.
"Leader? This isn't FUNNY!" Still no response.
Leader ignored the young girl as she crept along the hallway, trailing her slender fingers on the walls, as if checking for ridges that may indicate an entrance to a secret room, like in mystery novels. Leader shook her head to refocus her thoughts back on the mission’s objective –her determination to get back what was stolen from her was sky-high and she was ready to wreak havoc.
Gabriella Toussaint, the mistress of the house, had been feeling a little peckish. Normally she respected a strict dietary regime that consisted of four well balanced meals a day, breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea and a light dinner. Tonight, she had a desire for a little something extra, something usually forbidden by her regime. She sat up in her four-poster bed, slid on her slippers and headed to the kitchen. After glancing over the benchtops, opening the cupboards and looking behind jars, she found it. A small powder blue coloured lacquered rectangular box with a silver clasp. She knew she shouldn’t, but the temptation was so strong.
Gabriella was the most elegant person Leader knew. She could perfectly prepare an eight-course meal, pairing each dish with its correct silverware, and could taste the difference between an Australian and a New Zealand grown carrot. In addition to being the queen of etiquette, Gabriella had style. Her spacious wardrobe was filled with immaculate pieces cut from linen in neutral colours, and the design of her home was straight from the glossy pages of a magazine.
Leader entered the light filled room and examined the scene before her. The creature in front of Leader was not her mother. Lying in the middle of the four-poster bed was a lady wrapped in a robe stuffing her mouth with chocolate after chocolate. Little gold foil wrappers were strewn around her. Leader heard Black Sheep sharply inhale air behind her.
Indignation rose in Leader’s chest as her eyes travelled to the bedside table and rested on the lacquered box with its silver clasp ajar.
“Mother, explain yourself,” she said coldly. Gabriella cleared her throat nervously.
”I, I was feeling a little peckish,” she said hesitantly, unable to meet Leader’s eyes.
“You know full well that box of chocolates was given to me as a gift from Dad, you have stolen them from me - again.”
Leader dug into her satchel and retrieved her walkie-talkie, all the while looking at her mother.
“Hello? Hello, Sergeant Johnson. I want to make a citizen’s arrest. What crime has been committed? Well, let me explain…
Swiftly, Leader, which was the name she had chosen for herself after being inspired by the pin, pulled her black straight hair back into a high ponytail. She gave herself a final once-over in the mirror, turned the silver doorknob and headed out into the hallway. She was a girl on a mission. The satchel slung over her shoulder was filled with essentials: flashlight, a hand-written copy of the plan, a walk-talkie and a small penknife. When she told her friends about her mission, they looked at her like she was crazy. Easy for them. They didn’t have to go to extremes to claim back what was theirs, for her it was becoming an almost regular occurrence.
She was a girl in pursuit. Leader started to softly pad along the hallway. She wasn’t quite halfway down when she heard a door behind her creak open. In one quick move, Leader was pressed against the wall, letting the shadows cover her presence. Grasped in her left hand was the penknife from her satchel. It was her most prized possession. The black handle was smooth and lustrous, having been cleaned the day before. The knife had an assortment of blades, all polished. Leader was ready to flick the serrated blade at any threatening signs. Slowly, carefully, Leader peeked out of the shadows. A grey figure passed her. She had feared this and knew it needed to be stopped. This was her mission. The grey figure was just ahead of her now. Leader sprang out of hiding and pounced. In comparison to Leader’s soft, fast footsteps, the grey figure’s feet crashed through the silence. Leader snapped her penknife to the dullest blade, the worst damage it could do was to leave an indentation in the skin. Leader caught up to the figure and slowly placed her knife at its throat.
On closer inspection, the intruder was a girl, no more than eight years old. Her grey outfit wasn’t professional looking like Leader’s. No, not at all. It was, in fact a pair of fuzzy pyjamas. Around the younger girl’s head was a grey bath towel and her feet were encased in oversized, silver Doc Martens boots that clomped heavily when she walked. Hanging around her neck on a piece of string was a square of grey coloured cardboard with the words ‘Black Sheep’ written on it. Leader couldn't help but ask,
"What on Earth are you doing here? You're supposed to be in bed. And why are you wearing my Doc Martens inside? You're scuffing up the floor, Mum will be furious."
Black Sheep made motions to imply that she could not speak because of the blade still at her neck. She looked both annoyed and scared. Leader let go and retracted the blade.
“Explain,” she hissed.
“I put on these boots because I didn’t have any grey or silver shoes to match my outfit, but I think they look pretty cool,” whispered Black Sheep, moving a foot around in the air so the shoes could sparkle in the moonlight. “Not that you’d understand,” Black Sheep added, looking at the older girl's outfit in disgust. Leader didn’t react, this wasn’t the time to engage, so she responded,
"Go back to bed. Now." But Black Sheep wasn't having it.
"No!" She retorted.
"Yes!" Leader shot back.
"No!"
"Yes!"
Leader clamped her hand over Black Sheep's mouth and threateningly raised her knife. They stood there in silence. Eventually, Leader let go and withdrew the blade; she had a mission.
Time to work the charm, thought Black Sheep grinning victoriously while turning to fling her arms around the older girl’s middle. Her arms encircled the air. Leader had gone. Black Sheep looked around frantically, her mind whirring. The clock on the wall at the end of the hallway ticked a rhythm. The hands told her it was 9 o’clock. Time to chase the leader and be a part of the action. Despite what she had told Leader, Black Sheep regretted her choice of footwear. She didn’t care about the scuff marks on the floorboards, but the boots made her clumsy and loud. As she kicked them to the side, the towel wrapped around her head fell off onto the floor unveiling her mass of blonde coloured curls.
Leader on the other hand had hit a roadblock. Creaky floorboards were sprawled out before her. She couldn't believe that she hadn't noticed them during the day. Groaning, she wondered how she could have overlooked these in her planning. She tried backflipping over them, but she landed short with a loud thud. She froze, fearing discovery. Silence. She ran her hands through her ponytail and rapidly went over her options. After that near-death experience she did not want to try any more acrobatics. Tiptoeing? Nope. Praying? It never amounted to much. Shame she didn’t have an ability to climb on walls and ceilings like characters do in the movies. Leader wanted to give up, to abort the mission. As she started to turn around to return to where she came from, a voice whispered,
“You don’t know how to pass the creaky floorboards do you?” It was Black Sheep. Leader spat, “Leave me alone. Get out of my way.”
“I can help,” said Black Sheep quickly while reaching up under her pyjama top to pull out a pillow. Leader’s eyes opened wide. Perfect and brilliant she thought.
Black Sheep smiled smugly as she tossed the pillow carefully into position above the groaning floorboards and clumsily stepped on top before treading carefully off the other side. Leader gracefully followed the same moves.
“Thanks,” she muttered, “you can leave now as I must continue my mission.”
“What? Not fair!” cried Black Sheep forgetting to whisper.
“Quiet! If you want compensation I’ll sort you out later,” responded Leader.
“No! I don’t want a reward, I want to come with you.”
“Forget it Black Sheep, I have to succeed, and I don’t need you hindering me.”
But Black Sheep wasn't backing down. She raised her right leg up high threateningly, ready to stomp her foot down hard.
“Fine,” glared Leader, “you can join me.” Black Sheep’s face glowed triumphantly.
Leader’s mouth was set in a grim line as she spun around, her ponytail swishing as she melted into the shadows. Black Sheep scurried after her whisper-shouting “Leader, where are you?” No response.
"Leader? This isn't FUNNY!" Still no response.
Leader ignored the young girl as she crept along the hallway, trailing her slender fingers on the walls, as if checking for ridges that may indicate an entrance to a secret room, like in mystery novels. Leader shook her head to refocus her thoughts back on the mission’s objective –her determination to get back what was stolen from her was sky-high and she was ready to wreak havoc.
Gabriella Toussaint, the mistress of the house, had been feeling a little peckish. Normally she respected a strict dietary regime that consisted of four well balanced meals a day, breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea and a light dinner. Tonight, she had a desire for a little something extra, something usually forbidden by her regime. She sat up in her four-poster bed, slid on her slippers and headed to the kitchen. After glancing over the benchtops, opening the cupboards and looking behind jars, she found it. A small powder blue coloured lacquered rectangular box with a silver clasp. She knew she shouldn’t, but the temptation was so strong.
Gabriella was the most elegant person Leader knew. She could perfectly prepare an eight-course meal, pairing each dish with its correct silverware, and could taste the difference between an Australian and a New Zealand grown carrot. In addition to being the queen of etiquette, Gabriella had style. Her spacious wardrobe was filled with immaculate pieces cut from linen in neutral colours, and the design of her home was straight from the glossy pages of a magazine.
Leader entered the light filled room and examined the scene before her. The creature in front of Leader was not her mother. Lying in the middle of the four-poster bed was a lady wrapped in a robe stuffing her mouth with chocolate after chocolate. Little gold foil wrappers were strewn around her. Leader heard Black Sheep sharply inhale air behind her.
Indignation rose in Leader’s chest as her eyes travelled to the bedside table and rested on the lacquered box with its silver clasp ajar.
“Mother, explain yourself,” she said coldly. Gabriella cleared her throat nervously.
”I, I was feeling a little peckish,” she said hesitantly, unable to meet Leader’s eyes.
“You know full well that box of chocolates was given to me as a gift from Dad, you have stolen them from me - again.”
Leader dug into her satchel and retrieved her walkie-talkie, all the while looking at her mother.
“Hello? Hello, Sergeant Johnson. I want to make a citizen’s arrest. What crime has been committed? Well, let me explain…