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Connies’
SECRET
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Connies’
SECRET the true story of a shocking murder and a family mystery at a time when appearances were everything
Anne Lovell
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Every effort has been made to contact the copyright holders of material reproduced in this text. In cases where these efforts were unsuccessful, the copyright holders are asked to contact the publisher directly. First published in 2008 Copyright © Anne Lovell 2008 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act. Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218 Email:
[email protected] Web: www.allenandunwin.com National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: Lovell, Anne Connie’s secret : the true story of a shocking murder and a family mystery at a time when appearances were everything/Anne Lovell. ISBN: 9781741755381 (pbk.) Sommerlad, Connie. Murder victims–New South Wales–Tenterfield. Murder–Investigation–New South Wales–Tenterfield. 364.1523099444 Text design by Christabella Designs Set in 12.5/17 pt Goudy by Midland Typesetters, Australia Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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For Barry
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Contents Author’s note Acknowledgements Sommerlad family Prologue Part One A Fiendish Murder at Tenterfield
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1
Part Two Who Was Connie?
61
Part Three A Dire Punishment
183
Epilogue Appendix: Documents
239 255
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Author’s note This is a true story of a very public murder and a tightly held family secret. Like all successful secrets, while hints, nuances and slips occur over time, the author has used these clues with poetic licence to embroider otherwise unknown aspects of Connie’s life. Some names of people and places have been changed.
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Acknowledgements Among the many people who have both encouraged and assisted me in the writing of this book I would especially like to thank Lloyd Sommerlad for his support and the resources that he has made freely available to me, and Beryl Rutherford whose wonderful memories have assisted with my research. I am also deeply indebted to the Bay Road Writers—Helen Stevenson, Neroli Hay, Margaret Grace, Olga Chaplin, Jennifer Weissel and Betty Benson; to Jan Cornall for helping me to get started; and to Cath Saunt who inspired many of the early days of writing. I am also deeply grateful for the patience and encouragement given to me by Richard Walsh, without whom this book would never have reached publication. Finally I am indebted to my son Gregory, both for his technical support and for his interest and patience as we toured the countryside collecting information for this story.
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m. 1901
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Albert
Emma
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Ivy
Cliff
Dulce Geoff
Frank
Nancy Eric
Sommerlad family
Audrey
Darcy
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‘Edna’
Myrtle
Wilfred
Connie
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Prologue Something was missing from our family stories, though barely a hint escaped. Was it my childish imagination or was this apparently happy and forthright family struggling to keep hidden something that hurt each of them deeply? My curiosity was first aroused on the streets of Tenterfield by the name ‘Connie’. For many of my childhood years I made an annual pilgrimage by train from my home in Sydney to Tenterfield, where my mother, Myrtle, had been born. From an early age I was usually unaccompanied in my travels; my parents would send me to stay with an aunt, usually Aunt Edna who lived on a distant property but had a house in the town. While I loved the country, these visits were lonely experiences. With four much older children, my aunt already had enough on her plate and I was an extra burden. I would entertain myself wandering around the farm or occasionally, as I grew older, helping detassel the corn. My visits to the town
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usually coincided with my arrivals and departures; on these occasions, Aunt Edna would take me shopping, introducing me to people she met as: ‘Anne, Myrtle’s only daughter.’ Larger families were the norm in country Australia during the 1940s and only children were commonly regarded as spoiled and over-indulged. This was never to be my experience. Both my parents had come from large families and were not interested in repeating the pattern. Children were no novelty to them. Instead they filled the house with relatives, friends and people ‘in need’. I hated being treated as a solitary and dreaded even more a common response: ‘Isn’t she like Connie?’ At this frequent observation, my aunt would abruptly turn the conversation to other things. But that mysterious name ‘Connie’ hung in the air. ‘Who is Connie?’ I would ask Aunt Edna each year, and my mother when I returned to Sydney. ‘No one you’d know, dear.’ An innocuous remark, unless you were there to hear the steely tone in the voice warning: don’t ask! It’s none of your business. None of my business to inquire about a person I clearly resembled? I was curious and determined to find out more. But ‘mother’s word’ was law in our place and I grew to accept that her response would never change. It was a mystery. Why did Connie never appear or call to see Edna, nor visit my mother Myrtle in Sydney? Children sense things. I knew there must be a significant connection between Connie and my family but the subject was clearly off-limits. Nevertheless I was reluctant to let her escape. I began to incorporate Connie into my childish fantasies; she became my shadow person—a mystical companion, an imaginary ally on my aunt’s property.
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I even allowed her to accompany me on the long train trips, when there was ample time to speculate on her possible origins. And as I grew older and outgrew the need for a secret companion, I began to speculate more on what Connie might have done, and to wonder if it was anger or fear or even hurt that sealed my family’s lips. Train journeys between Sydney and Tenterfield were part of my family’s experience. While my great-grandmother had walked the thousand-kilometre distance as a young woman, later members had the advantages of rail. I grew to know and love the excitement—the sounds and sooty smells of trains as they crisscrossed the countryside transporting their material and human freight. The culture of railways in the 1940s and 1950s enlivened, at least for a while, my long and lonely journeys. After I adopted my imaginary Connie, I at least had someone with whom I could share the experience. I would leave Sydney in a sleeping compartment in the afternoon and have my bed made up by the guard in the evening. I knew we’d be at Murrurundi around midnight. I would always wake up and check the names of the stations through the curtains when the train stopped; over the years, I learned all their names. When the loudspeakers announced the longer stops, doors flew open and people emptied from the long belly of the train to stretch their legs, take in fresh air, and purchase food or drinks. A few would stroll off to walk up and down the platform. As I grew older, I became one of those platform walkers, trying to keep step with the outpacing Connie, imagining how she would turn heads in the refreshment room . . . I found the frenetic rush of station life stimulating. Up front, the engine was in a fury, steam erupting noisily through
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wheels and chimney. Men, stripped to the waist, strove to pacify the beast, shovelling coal into its fiery throat. Water from an overhead hose was funnelled to quench its thirst. Before the long climb into higher country, sounds of hissing and whistling from behind warned that a second engine was coming to help heave our carriages onto the Tablelands. Halfway down the platform the RRRs—the railway refreshment rooms—were crowded with people. Patrons waiting for service tapped their coins impatiently on the counter top. Those already seated would chat noisily to be heard above the din. Others in need of fresh air spilled back out onto the platform, taking with them their thick railwayissue china cups of tea and coffee. At the far end of the train, men were busy loading, and reloading, suitcases, mail and goods. A piercing, shrill whistle brought an end to all this platform activity and passengers scurried aboard. The gentle swaying of the train would soon rock me to sleep. When we’d arrive at Glen Innes at about five in the morning I’d know we were only a couple of hours away from Tenterfield. Uncle Aden would meet the train and take me to their property. As I entered my early high school years and adolescence, although Connie was no longer my secret companion she remained an enigma. In June 1953, my family was moving house; everything, even blinds and carpets, were rolled ready for transportation. I woke early on 3 June, keen to wander through my old home for the last time. The lounge room was in a state of upheaval with chairs, table and lounge stacked against one wall while old newspapers littered the floor where the carpet had lain. A stark headline from a paper printed in 1939 drew my attention.
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FIENDISH MURDER AT TENTERFIELD Woman Dead The victim of a brutal assault, Miss Constance Sommerlad, niece of Mr E.C. Sommerlad, M.L.C., was found on a farm four miles from Tenterfield.
Tenterfield and Constance? Was this her? The reason for my mother’s silence? My parents must have rented the house at the time of the murder and, preoccupied with their grief, inadvertently used current newspapers as underfelt for their carpet square. The answer to my question had been that close! I’d been walking over this newspaper since I was a toddler! The mysterious Connie was there in black and white, no longer an imaginary friend but a brutal headline. Confronted with the awfulness of what had happened, my brain was in turmoil. Who had murdered my secret companion? Was he still lurking? Was this Constance really my Connie? How had it happened? An uneasy feeling, a tingling fear, spread through my arms and suffused my body. My throat was so constricted I could barely breathe. I clutched the paper and went to find my mother. I had no voice. She grabbed the paper from me. I could tell that she was aghast at my discovery. The strain on her face expressed the pain she silently endured. In common with her mother, and each of Connie’s eleven surviving brothers and sisters, she carried this pain to her death, I believe. My mother had clearly never intended to worry me with details of the tragedy. Forced to admit that Connie was her older sister, she added, ‘Don’t burden yourself with bad things from the past, Anne.’ And that was all. It was clear that the matter was closed. My news clipping mysteriously disappeared and nothing more was said.
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Bereavement and sorrow for a sister was something I could understand. But the silence? Even some of my older cousins, who would have known Connie, never spoke of her. Younger cousins were in a similar state of ignorance to me. We seldom met as they lived in the country or interstate. We were like intelligence operatives in the field, each learning piecemeal, separately, of our family’s history until finally, as adults, we were able to compare notes and agree that, even though we’d uncovered a murder, there was still the scent of mystery in the air. We developed a prurient interest to dig deeper and know more about Connie. We could see that while her murder cast a broad dark shadow across the family, it was almost as if they were ashamed of her. Were they trying to erase some other stain as they tried to erase Connie herself? At first newspapers had callously splashed details of her murder across their pages but this ended abruptly in September 1939, when reports of war made domestic matters seem trivial. From this point, the family’s inner circle had found it easier to maintain a secret still undetected by the prying eyes of the community. Connie regained her anonymity. My mother occasionally mentioned Connie as the years passed. Once she surprised me by saying, ‘You’re so secretive, just like Connie.’ As my life at that time centred on schoolbooks and holidays in Tenterfield I didn’t understand the comparison; there was no need for secrets. It has taken me many years to find the real Connie and her legacy. My one-time imaginary friend has left a trail sufficient to enable me to piece together hidden details of her life. In my mind, I can share both the excitement of her high points and the inner chasm created by the experience of loss and misunderstanding. The gut-wrenching agony she must have
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endured in her final moments I leave for the reader to envision. This book is based on both documented events and family memories formerly hidden. While the main events portrayed are on the public record, the underbelly that the family never discussed is the story of Connie and the family she left behind. It is a story the newspapers never told and many of those closest to her never knew. I have changed a few names to protect family sensitivities. Just as in my childhood imaginings, the figure of Connie is ahead of me, turning, beckoning, enticing and commanding me to follow her, back into the past.
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Part One
A FIENDISH MURDER AT TENTERFIELD
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One
4 February 1939
It is past midnight. She listens to an unsteady tread making its way down the hallway, bumping walls as it advances. He stumbles into her room without knocking. ‘’S’your aspirin,’ he slurs, throwing the powders onto her dressing table. ‘Thanks.’ He comes towards her bed. Connie draws back into pillows resting against her bed head, her eyes filling with fear. ‘You loo’ korgeous.’ ‘You’d better go.’ ‘You’re pretty. You must’ve ’eaps of fellas!’ ‘Go! Or I’ll call Eric!’ ‘Just a little kiss: a tanks for the ’spirin.’ ‘Thanks,’ she says abruptly, her voice rising. ‘Now go!’ As he comes closer she withdraws more deeply into her pillows. ‘Come on sweetie, it’ll do ya good.’ ‘Go away! Eric! Eric! Help!’ Her screams vibrate from the walls.
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He grabs her in his arms, wrenching her from the pillows. She fights, pushing with all her might against his taut body. An absurd picture of a dragon blowing fire from its nostrils flashes into her mind. ‘Help! HEL . . .’ A hand fiercely punches into her face, bruising and breaking the surface of her nose, her lips, her cheeks, stinging her eyes. Her dentures fly from her mouth and onto the floor. The rough hand clamps her mouth. Another hand pulls wildly at her nightdress, tearing the thin fabric. Alcoholic fumes spray her face and the pillows. She hammers her clenched fists into his face. He retaliates. He runs his sharp nails across her neck and right down her arms. Blood flows. ‘Eric!’ She screams as her mouth is slapped shut. A sudden rush of adrenalin gives her the strength to raise her legs and push violently against his inebriated body. He reels backwards, falling to the ground with a tremendous crash. He is furious. His face turns an ugly red as a burst of fiery breath erupts from his opened mouth. His eyes are smouldering in an impassioned frenzy. ‘I’ll fix youse!’ he yells. Angrily he picks himself up, knocking heavily against both the wardrobe and bedside table. The oil lamp crashes to the floor, glass splintering in all directions. He crushes Connie’s dentures underfoot as he goes charging off down the hallway, out the side door. He misses the bottom step as he staggers out into the yard towards the woodpile. The axe stands in its customary place, wedged tightly in the chopping block. He grabs it. I’ll teach ’em! Connie lies on her dishevelled bed, sobbing, bleeding.
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Paralysed by fear, she neither moves nor calls again for help. Through heavy, largely silent sobs, she is praying that her attacker has left. But then she hears heavy footsteps echoing up the hallway. Adrenalin invades her frozen limbs. She leaps from the bed. Her shredded nightdress falls easily to the floor and she wraps herself in a light green gown. As though she is drowning, images of loved ones flash before her. Terrified, she stumbles towards the side verandah to rouse Eric. Her attacker bursts into the hallway wielding the axe. She turns, running towards the door into the dining room. With the axe held high, he lurches after her. At his first swipe, the blade misses her and digs deeply into the wall of the passageway. Screams leap from her throat—piercing, terrified screams. Her awareness of imminent death increases their volume—she’s screaming for Eric, for help, for her life, for . . . The walls vibrate. Behind her, with manic strength he raises the axe high above her head. Smash! The axe penetrates deeply, dividing her skull. Cursing wildly, he angrily wrenches it free and brings it down again with thunderous intensity. Smash! Her neck opens, with a gash that runs deep into her chest. In quick succession blows destroy an eye, annihilate an ear. Powerful fountains of blood spray the ceiling, the walls, the carpet and her attacker. She falls backwards, faceless, as he brings down the axe for the last time. Removing her gold ring with its cluster of diamonds, he leaves her: lifeless, brutally butchered. Blood pours from her body’s gaping wounds. The only noises he can hear are his madly thumping heart and his heavy, cumbersome feet.
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Two South of Tenterfield, a young woman stood, feet firmly planted, on an empty station platform. Her eyes were restless, darting down the line, watching for the faint curl of smoke that would herald the 4 am train. ‘On time,’ the porter told her. She’d arrived early, afraid to miss the connection. The pre-dawn light etched the soft charcoal outline of the station’s serrated wooden eaves. The porter rolled his trolley from the parcel office, stacked high with boxes to be loaded onto the train. A car door banged and two men dressed in overalls strolled onto the platform. In the distance shapes of trees emerged as the darkness faded. A light shone from the stationmaster’s cottage, a dog barked. Then from somewhere the reassuring crow of a rooster mimicked the whistle of the train from Sydney. A voice over the loudspeaker advised passengers wanting to stop at any of the smaller stations between Glen Innes and Tenterfield to tell the guard on the train when he came through to inspect their tickets. Dulce swung her small leather case and hatbox into a
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carriage doorway and quickly climbed on board. The seat she’d booked was next to the sliding door opening onto the corridor but, as the compartment was empty, she chose to nestle herself beside the window. Regaining speed, the train chugged over the high country of the Northern Tablelands peppered with its curving hills and gullies. Towards Tenterfield rocks bared themselves, contours became sharper and the train twisted its way around the steeper slopes that doubled as lookout towers for fleeing kangaroos, dingoes and wallabies. Once, in the days before rail, bushrangers like the notorious Thunderbolt had used the rocks as hideouts and vantage points to swoop on passing carriages. She loved returning to the Tablelands, to her family’s property and large rambling farmhouse of Hillcrest. Out west, in Coonabarabran where she worked as a nurse, she often missed this country that gave birth to fledgling streams, their fresh, revitalising water flowing east and west to become the source of major rivers. She liked the cool, bracing climate that encouraged her to rug up and move briskly during the winter months. She had made the journey many times before and was usually a keen window watcher, but this time she saw nothing, nor did she smell the soot flying through the opened window in the corridor. Her mind was already at the farm, thinking of her older sister Connie and younger brother Eric. She knew it was apple season and they’d probably be busy, but she’d be happy to pitch in and help for a day or two; it would be a welcome change from the hospital. Anyway, curiosity consumed her. She had spent the night with her mother and younger sister Nancy in Glen Innes and, while Nancy prepared the evening meal, her mother hinted that Connie was harbouring a secret she was not at liberty to share.
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Connie, as the second child of thirteen, had a certain status in their family and Dulce treasured fond memories of her. Connie had cared for Dulce when she was a baby; had held her hand as she began to walk; had taught her to sing as she grew older. She’d placed a strip of heated flannel around her neck when she had croup or a sore throat. She’d given her a teaspoon of vinegar to cure her hiccoughs and gently rubbed in the perfumed camphor liniment to relieve burns or chapped hands. Connie had been almost a second mother to her. The hint of mystery, maybe even intrigue, excited Dulce. She stood, swaying a little with the train as she reached for the water jug resting in its brass fixture between the windows. Lifting a tumbler from its bracket, she noticed a brightly coloured, blue-green Christmas beetle lying belly-up in the bottom of the glass. Aden, her brother-in-law, was waiting as the train drew into Tenterfield just after six. She was ten when he had married her sister Edna and he felt more like another brother. ‘I see you’re still smelling of roses,’ he said, admiring the bright yellow flowers sprinkled across her dress. ‘Is this all your luggage?’ ‘Yes, I’m due back nursing within a week.’ She handed him the small suitcase and hatbox as she skipped ahead. During the short drive to their house in the town, Aden assured her she had plenty of time to enjoy breakfast with Edna and the family, as the service car that would take her to the farm didn’t leave until after eight. ‘You know how to look after a girl,’ Dulce said, as she settled back into her seat. ‘Connie’s looking forward to seeing you,’ he continued. ‘Edna spoke to her last evening. Pity you missed Aud though.
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They saw her off yesterday. You’ll miss Beverley and Keith too; they’re away this weekend.’ ‘What a shame, I love seeing your family but I’m glad you’ve saved two for me. It’s a pity to miss Audrey, too. I haven’t seen her for a couple of years. She’ll be twenty-one soon. No longer the baby sister!’ ‘That’s the trouble with you young ’uns—scattered here, there and everywhere. Find yourself a husband and settle down, Dulce. You’re a good-lookin’ girl!’ Edna was waiting at the gate as Aden pulled into the driveway. She stretched out her ample arms, embracing Dulce tenderly as she stepped onto the grass, saying, ‘It’s so good to see you,’ before taking her hand and leading her through the house to the breakfast room where she’d laid out places for five. Dulce saw that her nine-year-old nephew Dan and elevenyear-old niece Jenny were already seated, but they eagerly jumped up to greet her. She stood tall in their eyes. She kissed them warmly before turning towards Edna, who’d re-entered the room carrying a tray laden with hot tea and toast. ‘Mum tells me you have a nice friend . . . Ian?’ Edna asked once they had all got stuck into the food; she liked to take a very maternal interest in the romances of her younger brothers and sisters. Dulce blushed. While Ian had taken her out several times, she was unsure of his intentions. ‘It’s special then?’ Edna leaned forward and patted her approvingly on the arm. Dulce shifted uncomfortably. ‘Not yet,’ she said, looking towards the door as though wanting to make her escape. ‘Are you getting married?’ asked Jenny, springing to her feet and coming straight to the point.
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‘No, dear . . .’ Edna began clearing away the breakfast plates while the children, surrendering the idea of imminent romance, raced to the door. They were determined to accompany their father when he drove Dulce to the post office where she would join the service car as it collected mail for outlying properties. ‘Come back soon,’ they called as she climbed into the big black Ford. Four other people were already on board but she was lucky to have a seat by the window. The driver closed the door behind her and piled several large parcels onto the running board, roping them securely in place. Orchards of trees hung low with ripening apples and pears as the town receded into the distance. Farmers in long wellington boots were hosing out their dairies, while their cows, mainly Guernseys, or an occasional Friesian, grazed on paddocks nearby. Normally days were warm at this time of year but as the car bumped along the uneven road surface, it was already unpleasantly hot inside. Dulce though was unaware of the rising temperature; she was too absorbed in hatching solutions to Connie’s secret. Connie had not been mentioned over breakfast even though Dulce guessed that Edna would know. They stopped several times for the driver to offload parcels and letters into large mailboxes that stood on stilts next to the road. A woman with two small boys—twins perhaps, thought Dulce—stood waiting for the car by a farm gate. As the young family climbed on board, they lowered the seats facing her and the other passengers. Though she smiled absently, she paid them little attention. Perhaps Connie’s found a secret lover? She’s about to be married? Maybe she’s had a fabulous offer to play in a concert? . . . No, our mother is worried. She’s contracted some dreadful
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disease? Startled by shifting shadows from roadside trees, Dulce felt a shiver slide down her spine, causing her to whisper anxiously, Are you all right, Connie? The young children sitting opposite looked up to see her lips moving and eyed her curiously. Her sense of foreboding evaporated as the car crossed the crest of a hill and she glimpsed at last the family homestead in the distance. Excitedly she leaned forward, eager to see Connie and Eric, who would be waiting. Reaching for her hatbox, she looked towards the driver. ‘We’ll be there soon,’ he reassured her as they passed the cowshed, and the car filled with the sound of grinding gears. Up a long driveway stood Hillcrest with its commanding view of the surrounding countryside. The driver slid slowly from his seat, careful not to disturb the remaining parcels. He went to the boot to find Dulce’s bag and to collect the bundle of letters and packets addressed to the Sommerlads. ‘Can you manage all of this?’ he asked as the children and other passengers watched with interest. ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Dulce politely, balancing bags and parcels. ‘Look after yourself,’ he called as he drove off, a column of dust beginning to rise as the car gathered speed. Dulce looked around, taking in the beauty of her former home. She breathed in the sweet perfume of ripening apples and smiled as she walked up the driveway, peering through the fence to see if anyone was busy picking. No one was there. Turning again towards the house she expected at least to hear the footsteps of Connie and Eric running down the path towards her, but the only sound was the shrill of crickets. The door remained closed.
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This wasn’t like her family! Gazing towards the dairy, she caught sight of cows, their udders bulging, waddling up the rise separating the dairy from the homestead. They mooed forlornly in their distress, but nobody heeded. She looked anxiously at her watch. It was half past eight. The dogs that normally raced up to nip the heels of visitors remained near the house cowering, their heads down. Gripped by fear, she called out shakily. ‘Connie? Eric? I’m here. Where’s the welcoming party?’ But she heard only the mournful lowing of the untended cows. ‘I’m here: where are you?’ she called more shrilly. Nobody came. The silence was unnerving. She walked up the stairs onto the front verandah, but was reluctant to try the door. Something was wrong. She left her bags and the mail there and instead made her way down the side of the house, circling the large water tank stand, and threading through piles of wooden fruit cases before reaching the back garden. It was equally deserted. Filled with fear, she returned to the front of the house. Recalling her eerie experience in the car, she had a strong urge to run back down the driveway; instead, with her heart racing, she pushed open the door and peered inside. A figure lay sprawled on the floor some distance down the hallway. Dulce started to run towards it, thinking there must have been an accident, but drew up in horror. It was Connie, lying shrouded in thick, drying blood. ‘Eric! Eric! Where are you, Eric?’ Dulce screamed, rushing towards the side verandah where she saw two beds, one stripped bare, its mattress flung clumsily on top of the mattress on the other bed. There seemed to be someone lying between them.
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There was blood on the floor. Cautiously she lifted the top mattress and discovered Eric’s battered, unmoving body. She dropped the mattress in terror and ran screaming down the hallway past the bloodstained walls towards the phone that hung on the wall in the office. Clumsily she unhitched the trumpet-shaped earpiece from its cradle and furiously rotated the crank handle. When she heard someone pick up at the other end she screamed hysterically into the mouthpiece grille on the front of the phone box. ‘There’s blood everywhere! Police! Murder! Come quick! It’s Dulce! Hillcrest!’ ‘Are you calling from Hillcrest?’ asked a voice. It was Mrs Graham, the exchange operator. ‘They’re dead—Police! Help me!’ ‘Take it slowly, dear . . . You think someone is murdered . . . Who is murdered?’ ‘Connie! Eric!’ ‘Are you alone? Is anyone there?’ Dulce’s body froze. She hadn’t thought that the murderer might still be lurking in one of the rooms. Perspiring profusely, her eyes and ears on full alert, she strained to detect even the slightest sound or movement. But everything, except her breathing, was deathly quiet and still, until she heard a man’s voice shouting through the earpiece: ‘Police here.’ She screamed again into the grille: ‘Help me!’ Dulce dropped the earpiece, leaving the cord dangling down the wall. She stumbled back to the side verandah in time to hear Eric moaning for his brother Frank. He’s alive! ‘Eric, it’s me, Dulce. Hang on, darling. Don’t die. I’m getting help!’
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She removed the mattress that was on top of him and flew back inside to crank the phone handle again. When she heard Mrs Graham on the other end, she cried desperately: ‘An ambulance! Eric’s alive!’ Unwittingly she was drawn back to the doorway into the dining room. Could Connie be alive too? She gasped as she recognised the green dressing gown now in tatters, given as a present one Christmas. It covered little of Connie’s naked body. Slowly she willed her eyes to look at Connie’s face, but she shrank back as she did so; much of it lay splattered across the floor. The putrid, ugly smell of death invaded her senses. Terrified, she fled to the verandah and leant over the railing, taking in deep gulps of air before bending again over Eric’s unconscious ear: ‘Hang on. Don’t die. Please don’t die.’ Disoriented, she stumbled into Connie’s room. The sheets lay stained and twisted across the bed. There was a broken light on the floor and a busted set of false teeth lay nearby, giving her the grotesque parody of a smile. Choking in terror, Dulce fumbled her way into the room where she would have slept. Against the wall lay an axe covered in blood. Bloodstained clothes lay strewn across the floor. It was too much. Screaming into the void, her legs took flight as she raced back to Eric. Dr Champain arrived by car, closely followed by the ambulance and Sergeant Schraeder. They stood briefly at the door, horrified by the carnage that lay before them. Oh, my God! The doctor moved quickly towards Connie, feeling for a pulse. It was not present. Her body was cold and he indicated to Schraeder his belief that she had been dead for some hours. They found Dulce crouched beside the upturned mattress
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on the side verandah; the visceral image of her sister’s face and fractured teeth loomed large in her consciousness. ‘Did you see anyone?’ Schraeder asked. Dulce shook her head, hardly aware that he spoke. The men placed Eric on a stretcher and carried him out the back door and across to the driveway where the ambulance waited. The doctor returned to where Dulce still knelt beside the empty, bloodied bed. He gently took her by the arm and led her towards a waiting car. She was no longer conscious of her surroundings. The doctor lifted her onto the front seat, where she sat motionless during the six-kilometre drive back to the town. Her sister Edna stood by the gate in front of her house, ashen-faced. The news had travelled fast; she already knew.
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Three Edna had been told, but she was struggling to comprehend. The police officer had said there’d been a murder at Hillcrest; that Connie was dead, Eric was dying and they were bringing her sister back to town. Now the blank face, drained of all emotion, staring from the car reflected the full horror. The doctor eased Dulce’s listless body out of the opened car door, holding her left arm tightly and attempting to steady her as she stood shakily on the roadside grass. Dr Watt, their local family doctor, was standing beside Edna and each of them reached forward hastily to grip one of Dulce’s arms. They thanked Dr Champain for his assistance and together led her through to the chair she’d so recently vacated in the breakfast room. ‘Keep her upright for now,’ advised the doctor. Jenny and Dan raced in but stopped, open-mouthed, in front of the frightening, inert sight. Edna summoned them to the kitchen where she scribbled a note, sealed it in an envelope and told them to give it to Mrs Pearson at the Criterion Hotel.
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‘What’s wrong with Aunty Dulce?’ ‘Nothing. Just go.’ The children, sensing that something dreadful had happened, felt excluded as they left the anxiety-charged room. They were mystified and dismayed by the dramatic change in their aunt, worried that she had been in some terrible accident. But they were also curious about their errand to the hotel, a place the family usually referred to as ‘a den of evil’. ‘It must be something too awful to tell,’ said Jenny. Edna returned to Dulce and shook her body gently, but there was no response; her face was still a deathly mask. Dr Watt searched through his bag for a tablet while Aden fetched water. Carefully the two men placed the tablet on her tongue, tickling her throat to assist in the swallowing. Edna found it too much. Without warning, a rush of tears sent her stumbling towards the phone to reach her Uncle Ernest in Sydney. She needed help. Ernest was her late father’s youngest brother. He had unstintingly supported his kinfolk through many difficult times in the past; she knew she could trust his advice. Her family had turned to him when their youngest brother and their father died. His home was open to them when they travelled to Sydney. From the age of eleven, when he left school, to 21, he had worked on family properties in Tenterfield. He knew and understood their lives. Although he was now an educated, respected man in public life, he never forgot his roots and shared freely the advantages he had accrued. Ernest Sommerlad did not hesitate. Along with his sister Gus, who was visiting Sydney, and his wife and son, he left immediately for the long drive to Tenterfield. The hours behind the wheel gave him time to reflect on the difficult
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mission ahead. His nineteen-year-old son Lloyd, who was still at university and planned a future as a journalist, was contemplating the gruesome details of his cousin’s murder. From their close connection with newspapers, all of them knew they were going to have to grow used to having their family name paraded before the public in the months ahead.
As family and members of the anxious community reached out to one another with news of the horror at Hillcrest, Tenterfield police sped into action. They had received Dulce’s desperate plea for help at 9 am on Saturday 4 February, 1939. Ninety minutes later they were already mobilising support well beyond the local district in their frantic hunt for the killer. All stations in northern New South Wales were alerted and Queensland police were asked for their cooperation; Sydney and Brisbane police and broadcasting stations were placed on alert with the circulation of this short bulletin: Would anyone seeing a man 25 years old, 5 ft. 5 in. in height, fair complexion, light brown hair, blue eyes, left index finger missing between the second and third joints, several scars outside corner of one eye, and who may be in possession of a 1937 Studebaker utility truck, painted green, No. L32760, please communicate to the nearest police or police station his movements, as police want to interview him urgently.
Myrtle received the following brief phone message at her home in Sydney: ‘Police here. Your sister Constance is dead. It’s murder.’ Propelled into action, both she and her husband John were on the train to Tenterfield by the evening. She was
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crushed by such a violent loss of the sister who had been a mentor to her since childhood, and further traumatised when the shock of grief resurrected uncomfortable memories. She had long been ashamed of accusing Connie of selfish and irresponsible behaviour when, years previously, both of them had run a shop together in Parramatta. Now the word ‘sorry’, long agonised over, would remain unsaid. Myrtle’s young sister Audrey, who had been with Connie and Eric until Thursday evening, was in a state of shock as she joined the train from Newcastle. Only last Sunday she had swept into Hillcrest wearing her blue cotton frock bordered with a bright yellow motif. As her friends had flocked to see her, the old homestead resonated with laughter, music and chatter. Connie had joined in the fun, spinning her hands across the keyboard in the evenings and seeming happier than she had been for a long time. It was as though the band had come to town. The empty rooms had filled with sound, movement and the warm yeasty fragrance of rising bread. Candles flickered in the lounge room where the young people danced, adding a brilliant glow to the windows and creating moving shadows on the walls. ‘Two steps backwards, one step forwards,’ Audrey had remembered singing to her partner as Connie called to her, ‘That’s my life!’—a phrase now reverberating endlessly in her mind.
Wilfred, the family’s eldest son, drove the winding track from his home on the north coast to Glen Innes to collect his widowed mother, Emma, and his younger sister Nancy. He stood at their door for several minutes, sensing their grief in the brooding silence of the darkened drawing room. His mother sat
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on one of the large lounge chairs, her head flung against the backrest, her mouth open, her face the colour of old snow. Nancy, in her early twenties, looked 60. Normally bright and exuberant, she sat on the heavy brown velvet lounge opposite, drained of energy and slowly twisting the fringes on an antimacassar. Eventually Wilfred approached the women and gently ushered them to his car. They sat silently, wrapped in their private misery, for the two-hour drive to Tenterfield. Nancy recalled how routinely her day had begun. She had been finishing a hair set in her salon when the police phoned. After she’d hung up the receiver, she panicked. Did the police say she’d lost one, two or three of her brothers and sisters? It wasn’t possible. Why, she’d seen Dulce only last night. She had been fine. Dulce and their mother had chatted in the drawing room while she made the dinner. Later the three of them had sat and talked about her salon, and about the hospital where Dulce worked. After the call from the police, Nancy had been overwhelmed with a desire to run, to escape from the claustrophobia that had suddenly descended on her salon. She returned to her client, abruptly placed a hat over her freshly shampooed set and said, ‘That one’s for free.’ She told the women waiting at the front of the shop that she was closing. ‘What’s wrong, Nancy?’ one woman had asked while the others stared anxiously. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost!’ Nancy did not reply. Instead, she put a rough, hand-written sign on the door and then raced down the street, trembling from the flood of unanswered questions: Who was dead? Connie? Eric and Connie? Both of them? Dulce? Had she been attacked too? Was the murderer still terrorising the district?
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Arriving home, the appalling thought had struck Nancy: I’ll have to tell Mum! Her stomach lurched as she locked herself in the outdoor toilet. Hyperventilating, she put her head between her knees and breathed deeply. ‘You’re early.’ Her mother, Emma, had been reading a newspaper in the breakfast room and looked up in surprise. ‘Why are you home so early?’ Nancy said nothing. She went into the kitchen, her hands flying to her head as soon as her mother was out of sight. With chaotic messages spilling from her brain, she couldn’t face her. How could she put the unthinkable into words? Her silence made her mother anxious. ‘What is it?’ Emma persisted, following Nancy into the kitchen. ‘Leave me alone! I’m ringing Edna!’ Nancy turned her back to hide her tears. ‘Tell me what it is!’ The rising note of fear in her mother’s voice was unmistakable. As she tapped Nancy on her shoulder, she already knew in her bones that something ghastly had happened. Nancy refused to turn around, instead repeating, ‘I’ve got to ring Edna!’ ‘Why? What’s happened?’ ‘Leave me alone!’ Nancy screamed. Emma slumped on a stool by the woodbox, a frown boring into her forehead as Nancy dialled Edna’s number. A lifeless voice answered and confirmed that Connie was dead, Eric might die and Dulce, who’d found the bodies, was in shock. ‘They’re dead, Mum,’ Nancy sobbed, blood invading her cheeks. ‘Who’s dead? What are you talking about?’ As Nancy repeated Edna’s stark words, her mother had
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swayed and grabbed the back of a chair next to the kitchen table, her face blank with incomprehension. Nancy still grasped the earpiece of the phone. The women remained frozen, until Nancy noticed her mother’s grip loosening from the chair. Frightened she might collapse, she let the earpiece drop and wrapped her mother in her arms. Together they shuffled into the drawing room, Nancy wiping tears from the eyes of both of them with the apron she’d grabbed from the knob on the kitchen door. The two women had sat keening for one of their own in the airless, heavily draped drawing room. From time to time, their wailing cries drifted down the corridor. Once or twice there had even been a shrill of anger. But now they were nearly in Tenterfield. Wilfred had been driving for close to two hours. Silence hung heavily in the car but, as he turned and twisted his way around tortuous curves in the high hills circling Bolivia, a tin and silica mining district, Emma splintered the silence with an agonised cry. ‘If Connie had only stayed in Bombala, this wouldn’t have happened!’ Nancy cringed, recalling the tactless remark she had made to her mother in the drawing room while they had been waiting for Wilfred to arrive: ‘You’ll have to tell me what you’ve been hiding,’ she had said. At this her mother had exploded: ‘Haven’t you any sensitivity? Now’s not the time. She’s dead, my poor girl is dead! We need help! Think of the headlines!’ While this outburst had made no sense to Nancy, she was ashamed that her blatant curiosity had surfaced. Finally arriving at Edna’s, together Wilfred and Nancy struggled to move Emma from the car before making slow and painful progress towards the open door. Jenny and Dan had
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long since returned from the Criterion Hotel with a bottle of brandy, well concealed in a brown paper bag. Aden, seeing the tortured appearance of his mother-in-law, gathered the children, directed them towards his car and drove them to his parents’ farm. Everyone agreed it was best to keep this horrific event from the ears of the younger generation. Gradually family members from across the country arrived, all feeling compelled to put their lives on hold and return to the family home. One, or maybe more than one, of their own had been murdered. The women squeezed into Edna’s house while the brothers—Wilfred, Cliff, Geoff and Frank—stayed among the extended family living in the district. Stripped of their innocence by the heinous crime, some were too distressed to talk, while others couldn’t stop. Many of their neighbours maintained a watchful eye, while in Edna’s house a few felt compelled to double-check the locks on windows and doors, terrified that the murderer would strike again.
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Four Ernest drove directly to his brother Phil’s house in Tenterfield. Over time Phil had become a sounding board, as well as a respite, for Ernest, whose responsibilities as a key member of the extended family weighed heavily. Ernest, born in 1886, was the twelfth and youngest child of two German migrants who had met and married in Tenterfield in 1858 and raised their large family there. While Ernest had worked on the family farm and orchard, he had visions of a different life and at 21, with the blessing of his parents, went to Sydney to further his education at Newington College. Passing the Junior Examination after only eighteen months, he was accepted as a candidate for the Methodist ministry and after theological training was ordained and sent as a missionary to Fiji in 1912. Unfortunately his health failed and on return to Australia he obtained a position as a journalist in Inverell. This was the beginning of a distinguished career as a newspaper editor and civic leader in the New England area, and later as head of the Country Press organisation in Sydney. He was prominent in the church and in politics and was a Country
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Party representative in the Legislative Council for twenty years. His personal values and compassion were the outcome of his upbringing and training, and he was respected by both extended family and his colleagues. The brothers sat together silently for a time on the back verandah, staring out onto the darkened countryside, swiping occasionally at mosquitoes buzzing around neck and ankles. They caught sight of the moon rising over the hill and began to converse quietly, recalling visits to ‘the Alberts’, the name they collectively gave to those of their nieces and nephews descended from their brother Albert. So many children that it was hard to remember all their names. They acknowledged that Albert had endeavoured to give his children a good education that would set them up for life, but how would he have coped with Connie murdered and Eric likely to die? Ernest rose to look at the class of 21 students shown in an old family picture Phil had framed of the Sommerlad Sunday School at Hillcrest. Each week Phil and Peter, two of Albert’s brothers who lived on nearby properties, used to send their children to join Albert’s family for a Sunday School conducted by Cappy Martens, a Salvation Army officer who was prepared to make the weekly journey out from Tenterfield. Although the families were Methodist, it was not easy for them to attend services in town on a regular basis. Ernest smiled at the bittersweet memory. But now one of their number was gone before her time. ‘It must be appalling for Emma,’ he said as he returned to Phil’s side.
Edna felt some of the weight lifting from her shoulders as Ernest called in to her crowded house next morning and kissed her
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gently on the cheek. She was dealing with so many simultaneous demands and expectations: Dulce’s health, her mother’s deep depression, terrified siblings. At last, someone had arrived who understood and could share the added burdens imposed by the law, the police and the press, all alien entities to Edna and Aden. Already reporters from newspapers and radio stations from as far away as Brisbane and Sydney were phoning for information; local reporters were knocking at the door. Edna found these intrusions both threatening and bewildering, while the rest of the family found them insensitive. They were here to mourn, to see the brute captured, not to engage in ghoulish gossip. Foremost questions in everyone’s mind were: ‘Who did it?’ ‘Where is he now?’ ‘Are we safe?’ Wilfred and his three brothers arrived shortly after Ernest. Everyone had seen the headline in the local paper, ‘Police Organise Wide Hunt’, and the story that ran below it: ‘Tenterfield, Saturday: An intensive man-hunt is being organised in the Tenterfield district to capture the murderer of Miss Constance Sommerlad. All northern police stations have been notified, roads are being patrolled, and broadcasting stations have been supplied with the description of a man police are anxious to interview. The stations are requested to repeat the description at frequent intervals.’ As the family crowded into Edna’s long sunroom, their faces revealed a tragic mix of emotions. Some were drenched in tears, others trembling with fear, or flushed with anger at an unknown monster. Ernest advised them all that he had been talking to the local police, who confirmed the extensive searches. Questions swirled randomly around the room: ‘Are we safe?’ ‘Is the murderer after us too?’ Chairs scraped against floorboards
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as one family member rose to close an opened window, while another made a fast double-check of the locks on all doors. Someone stood up and held the local Tenterfield Star paper high as he read: ‘The police found that a utility truck owned by Eric Sommerlad was missing. A farm hand employed by the Sommerlads could not be found.’ ‘Who was this farm hand?’ a chorus of voices demanded. ‘His name’s Kelly. He’s been working out at Hillcrest,’ answered Edna. ‘Did he do it?’ ‘They don’t know.’ ‘Is Eric’s truck really missing?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Is the murderer lurking near here, do you think? Can he attack us?’ ‘We don’t know,’ responded Ernest as he moved uneasily in his chair. Questions became more searching; fists were clenched in anger and frustration. ‘What’s the likelihood it was this Kelly?’ ‘It’s possible,’ Ernest said. Edna intervened: ‘Trevor Kelly’s been staying out at Hillcrest for the past month, helping Eric with the apples.’ ‘Who employed him?’ Audrey’s soft voice suggested he had seemed nice enough when she had been there only three days ago. ‘He slept on the verandah and ate with the family,’ she added. ‘What on earth was going on?’ ‘Eric said he was a quiet chap and a good worker,’ said Edna. ‘Gosh, he’s a poor judge of character.’ People winced.
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‘Aren’t the Kellys friends of Mum’s?’ ‘The Kellys have been in Tenterfield as long as our family. Trevor Kelly is some relative from the coast,’ explained Wilfred. ‘They’re all Catholics.’ ‘How did it happen? Was she molested?’ Everybody was speaking at once, but no one found answers to quell their fear. They just knew Connie was dead, and that Eric could die, and that there was a dark shadow of terror in Dulce’s eyes. ‘Connie hadn’t been courting this criminal, had she?’ The room fell silent. Someone had overstepped the mark.
The mood of the town reflected that of the family. Local people were worried that the murderer was lurking nearby. They had all heard the rumour that he might be a Kelly. They all knew the Kellys in Tenterfield. Surely it wasn’t one of them! While the Roman Catholic community was horrified by the crime, they feared the harm it could inflict on the innocent Kellys in their congregation and quickly united in their support for the local families. Among the Protestants a few were already seeking an outlet for their fear and anger, venting their frustration on the broader Catholic community. As the town began cracking along sectarian lines wild rumours circulated. ‘Maybe it was Eric? Did Connie egg poor young Kelly on?’ On the other side you’d hear, ‘Never trust a tyke.’ The fear and speculation was not contained within the town. A sixteen-year-old girl, who would later nurse Eric in the hospital, heard the broadcast from her coastal town where Kelly had worked in the local hotel. She knew that he’d had some trouble with the police previously and she feared he
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might flee in her direction. Terrified, she locked herself in the house for the entire day.
Next morning the sisters left their mother and Dulce, and joined their brothers at the local hospital. ‘He’s still in a delirious coma,’ the nurse warned them as they tiptoed into the room where Eric lay, swathed in bandages and mumbling incoherently. Frightened, the family pleaded for more detail. They needed to know if he was going to live or die. He was their brother; they had a right to know. The nurse in charge knew the family and saw their pain. Putting her arms around Audrey, who was weeping uncontrollably, she ushered them all into the waiting room and encouraged them to sit down. Taking her time, she explained that he was under 24-hour care and they were doing everything possible. But, she warned them, he was likely to remain unconscious for some time. ‘Will he survive?’ they pleaded. ‘It’s too early to say.’ Back at Edna’s, Dulce remained rigid and unspeaking, her face wearing the ugly black mask of one who had faced violence, beyond words, beyond comprehension. In her mind’s eye, Connie was sprawled on the floor at her feet.
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Five
4 February 1939
His anger is spent; he must escape. Half staggering back towards the verandah, he catches sight of Eric sleeping. Fear briefly reignites his rage. He swings the axe again, smashing it down into the sleeping man’s skull. Blood spurts. He tosses the mattress from an adjoining bed over the bloodied figure and runs to another room. As he flings the axe against a wall, it’s as though he is split in two. He tears off his bloodstained clothes and pulls on the suit Eric had discarded before dossing down. He doesn’t change footwear though and a bloodied shoe remains a chilling clue to his murderous frenzy. A new persona is in control as he sprints from the house to Eric’s green Studebaker utility and freedom. The Man is in the ascendancy. He has blood on his hands, but his anger is spent. He is confident, well-dressed; with a chequebook in one pocket and in the other an engagement ring he’ll give to the first woman who wants to marry him. The Man is now behind the wheel and he is on an exciting adventure; he is in control. Each mile he travels boosts his ego.
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His Achilles heel, his alter ego—his conscience, which he’s nicknamed ‘Gutless’—screams from the bloodied shoe for sanity. Gutless is bruised by the rough, dirt roads that bump, jar, hurt and confuse him. Dust invades his nostrils. Blood seemingly seeps into his socks. But The Man has got away with murder. His life is transformed. No longer a victim, he has new-found power. His actions have cut him loose from his old life, though Gutless is not so sure. Fear grips him. He is scared rigid at his entrails. The Man presses more heavily on the accelerator. He drives recklessly, haphazardly chasing his tail in ever-widening circles until he subdues Gutless sufficiently to set a course towards Brisbane. The Man arrives in Warwick, one hundred kilometres north of Tenterfield, as shops are beginning to open. He needs both petrol and money. Parking the green Studebaker utility, L32760, in front of the motor garage, there’s a cautious timidity from Gutless as he steps from the car. Momentarily he pauses and asks himself, Is this a good idea?, but then quickly straightens and enters. He asks the proprietor’s wife, Ellen Burns, for fuel: ‘I’ve come a long way and don’t have any loose money. Will you cash my cheque?’ ‘We don’t normally, for strangers,’ she says. ‘I’m to be married in Toowoomba this afternoon,’ he tells Ellen and draws out Connie’s ring from his pocket. He pays for the fuel, signing in his own name. Ellen gives him change of two pounds, two shillings and sixpence. This is more money than he receives for a week’s work. He is cock-a-hoop. He smirks at the image of Gutless shrinking before him.
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Driving into Pilton he notices Patrick Doran’s store. This time he doesn’t pause before recklessly entering, buying oil and receiving further change of one pound, ten shillings and sixpence. He is becoming a wealthy man! He proudly produces the diamond engagement ring from his pocket and tells Mr Doran that he is on his way to Toowoomba to become engaged to a girl who is waiting for him. The storekeeper smiles and wishes him well. I’m a big man, he tells himself as he returns to the vehicle. Gutless is mute. After an hour of hard driving, The Man is served a beer by Henrietta Cook, the licensee of the Tourist Hotel at Greenmount. He tells her that he is on his way to meet his new fiancée, Miss Downs; he shows her and an admiring barmaid the ring. The Man is on a winning streak! Henrietta cashes his cheque and gives him two pounds, nineteen shillings in change. Gutless has the temerity to suggest that he’s only compounding his ghastly crime, but The Man is not interested. At least, he is not listening. The Man speeds on as fast as he can, given the poor roads, towards Toowoomba. Here he has exceptional luck. He meets Mrs Nita Atkins. She serves him three drinks, which he downs quickly to fortify himself against Gutless. He is a good-looking man, she thinks; well-dressed, obviously has money. She notices his grey suit, grey shirt and tan gloves. She misses the strangely bloodied shoe. Instead, she is impressed with his ring and the story of his intended engagement. He leaves the hotel, driving distractedly for more than an hour before returning to tell Nita that the woman of his dreams has rejected him. She is filled with sympathy. The Man offers her a lift to Brisbane, where her older son is waiting. She accepts, taking his ring as insurance, or maybe for safekeeping.
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One of her sons accompanies them. She doesn’t sense Gutless shaking his foot, warning her to be more careful. What is this? asks Gutless. You’re drunk. You’ve committed murder and you’re offering this woman and her son a trip to Brisbane! Shut up! retorts The Man silently as he helps Nita place her son’s cases in the back. When they arrive at Central Station in Brisbane, The Man stops to let his passengers out. ‘I’ll look after your luggage, and then pick you up tonight at eight by the Australia Hotel,’ he says. Not bloody likely, warns Gutless. Nobody hears him. Nearby, The Man finds Danny Topp, a taxi driver. The steering on his Studebaker is giving him problems and he desperately needs a garage. Isn’t that an omen? suggests Gutless. Shut up! orders The Man, who is busy asking Danny to lead him to a mechanic. Danny drives on ahead. I’ve got away with murder, grins The Man at the wheel. Danny introduces him to John Barrett at Barnes Auto Shop in North Quay. John promises to have the steering fixed in an hour. The Man does not intend to wait around and he hires Danny to take him to the Australia Hotel, asking him to return in an hour. Though Danny returned and waited for over half an hour, The Man failed to reappear. The Man is tiring. He continues to drink. With each new glass of beer, he knows he is losing control. Gutless is gaining the upper hand. The police won’t be far away! The Man switches to brandy. It’ll make your money go faster, cries Gutless. By 11.30 that night, The Man needs distraction. He hires Richard Webster’s taxi. ‘Broth-elmate,’ he says.
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The taxi driver takes him to a Breakfast Creek brothel and waits for an hour until The Man reappears. ‘As . . . tors . . . Tair-rrace, mate.’ Richard Webster is worried. The man is paralytic with the effects of drink. Reluctantly he opens the cab door and The Man falls inside.
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Six
Monday, 6 February 1939
In Tenterfield, church bells summoned the shocked and stricken townsfolk to the streets as a long black car carrying Connie’s body slowly pulled out from the churchyard. The hearse’s black exterior contrasted with the brightness of the summer flowers that spilled over her coffin. Up until that morning Connie had still lain in hardened blood at Hillcrest as detectives wouldn’t release her body until they’d gathered all vital clues for a conviction of the murderer. In the meantime, the family had arranged a burial plot close to Connie’s father, young brother and grandparents. A line of cars following the hearse carried the traumatised family, their friends and those involved in the investigation. Only Eric and Dulce were missing. People lined the streets in the late afternoon heat: men dipped their lids and women, firmly holding the hands of their children, respectfully bowed their heads as the procession—the length of two blocks of the main street—passed by. From her car window, the bereft and heartbroken Audrey bit sharply into her lip when she caught sight of the Cameo
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Café, where she’d so recently enjoyed afternoon tea with Connie and Edna. The journey was unrelenting as the cars slowly turned off the main street, passing the police station and courthouse before crossing the bridge and travelling up past the railway station, where another crowd had gathered. Individual cars broke away from the procession to park along the roadside while the hearse continued on, passing through the rear gates of the cemetery before drawing to a halt. The crowd followed, moving as one in its blackness; a solemn line. Some had walked from the church on the other side of the town; others now emerged from their cars. Some were lost in their own private musings, while others shared their thoughts on the horror in their midst. Two hotel licensees, Eileen Pearson and Charles Bulmer, met by the gate to the cemetery. Mrs Pearson from the Criterion fanned herself with the local paper, finding the sun at four thirty still oppressive. ‘The family, poor things . . . can’t even go home . . . Two of Edna’s children were in the bar Saturday morning, after brandy if you please!’ Charles raised his eyebrows, but Eileen continued: ‘She’d explained in a note . . . that’s how I found out. People are angry. I felt it in the pub Saturday . . . Kelly’s on the run; they think he did it, I gather. I’d hate the families to hear what some people are calling Kelly! And Connie, for that matter. A lot of mudslinging has already started between Kelly and Sommerlad supporters—even to the point where I’ve heard Connie’s virtue questioned and Eric getting the blame for the murder! But then, of course, the other side are down hard on young Kelly. “A conniving beast” someone called him last night in the bar.’
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She paused for a moment, allowing her words to sink in. ‘I’ll have to give evidence . . . Eric and young Kelly were both in the Criterion on Friday. The police have questioned me already. I told the detective that I served both boys and they seemed friendly.’ ‘They questioned me too,’ said Charles, wiping away beads of perspiration. ‘Kelly was in the Exchange lookin’ for Bill to drive him home. He’d missed a ride with poor Eric. Those two blokes over there,’ he tilted his head back in the direction of two Sydney detectives standing under the trees, ‘interviewed me yesterday. Fancy being a Kelly! They’re a decent family. His brother’s even a priest! Awful. The town’s split between the tykes and us. Now this!’ Charles caught sight of Bill Jardine, a hire car driver, shuffling along with downcast eyes, and beckoned him over. ‘You’ll be in the court case, Bill?’ he whispered loudly enough to draw the attention of other mourners. ‘I’d been with Trev early evenin’ . . . He seem rather quiet, actually. He was drinkin’ . . . but not drunk, mind. I heard him tellin’ people nearby, “I’ve got me pay!” Later I drove him to Brooks’ for aspirin and then we went to the speedway for a few shots before takin’ a ride in the cars. I left him . . . about 9.30 and ’eard nothin’ til he rang after midnight askin’ for a lift back.’ Bill paused. ‘We shared a beer on the way . . . He’s not the one.’ As they continued to talk, young Gladys Crewe, Eric’s girlfriend, her head veiled in a large black scarf, walked slowly past with George Brooks, the chemist. ‘I’m frightened,’ she was telling him. ‘Eric’s still unconscious. They let me in, but all I could see was bandages.’ Tears stained her cheeks. ‘That brute has killed him!’
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Mr Brooks placed his hand gently on her shoulder. ‘It’s early yet. He’s young. Dr Watt said last night he was more confident . . . It’ll take a while.’ Dr Percy, who had performed the autopsy, and Connie’s Uncle Ernest shaded themselves under trees not far from the family plots. ‘They’ve got him,’ Dr Percy murmured. ‘The police told me as I left the station. He’s been charged in Brisbane with stealing the family utility. Kelly’s on his way back to Tenterfield as we speak. It seems he didn’t think to cover his tracks. There could be a charge of murder tonight.’ A feeling of relief and gratitude spread through Ernest’s body; his stiffened shoulders relaxed and a sad smile parted his lips. ‘That was quick! What a blessing . . . It’s rocked the family and town to the core. Wouldn’t want to be in the Kelly family’s shoes. It could still be double murder!’ ‘He will have a lot of explaining to do,’ said Dr Percy. ‘Oh?’ ‘John Kelly—Trevor, as he calls himself—has been in gaol. He was just out of Glen Innes when his father wrote to Eric asking for work.’ ‘Are you sure?’ asked Uncle Ernest, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his forehead. Dr Percy nodded. Leaning against the fence railing, Frank Brown was talking to an ambulance officer between drawing heavily on a cigarette. He’d come straight from work at the garage and felt selfconscious in his overalls, with only a black armband to mark the occasion: ‘My boss says she’d been away several years. He reckons she was teaching music and played in the silent movies—but who knows.’ He looked down at the ground and kicked a few loose pebbles. ‘Pity the poor thing came back—you’d wonder
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why she did if she was really so successful. She was never seen much round town and when you did she was usually in a hurry.’ He stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe before adding, ‘Eric’s nice. He always stops for a chat and will join you in a beer. It’s a jolly marvel he’s alive!’ ‘Dr Champain thinks the mattress thrown on top saved him,’ said the ambulance officer, blowing a coil of smoke into the air. Mavis Bowe, who was passing, interrupted. ‘The Methodist church was packed, with plenty more of us standing outside. Most of her family was there, even from Sydney. The minister called for justice. I should think so.’ ‘How did you know Miss Sommerlad?’ asked Frank. ‘From way back, though I hadn’t seen her for years ’til recently. She wasn’t good at keeping in touch, but then again I wasn’t either. We met at the School of Arts, learning music. She came out to see my children just the other week. I wasn’t even married the last time I saw her . . .’ Shaking with rage, she added, ‘I hope he hangs when they get him!’ ‘She could have egged him on,’ said the ambulance officer. ‘It’s a respectable family. She’s not young . . . she’s—she was—a very capable woman. A graduate in music.’ ‘People talk,’ said Frank. Mavis’s face reddened. ‘That’s not right. They can’t defame her!’ ‘People will,’ said Frank. ‘I’m not going to listen to any more of this,’ said Mavis abruptly. ‘I’m off.’ She left them quickly, her head held high, her stride lengthening. The pallbearers, Connie’s brothers, were moving through the crowd, carrying her coffin high above their shoulders. Wilfred and Cliff, the distress showing on their faces, led the
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procession, while the two younger boys, Geoff and Frank, their eyes moist, held the casket from behind. Finally, they came to rest in front of the prepared gravesite and carefully lowered the coffin into the ground. Two women folded into each other’s arms. They were hard to distinguish under their heavy black veils, but the younger one was Audrey, clinging to her mother. Edna, Myrtle, Nancy and Ivy, who had travelled from Newcastle to be at her older sister’s funeral, moved quickly to embrace them both. At the graveside, the Reverend Eben Newman read from several Psalms and from the Protestant Prayer Book. The many wreaths and other floral tributes lent a little colour to the bleak occasion. I said, I will take heed to my ways: that I offend not in my tongue. I will keep my mouth as it were with a bridle: while the ungodly is in my sight. I held my tongue, and spoke nothing: I kept silence, yea, even from good words; but it was pain and grief to me. Death is swallowed up in victory. Oh death where is thy sting? Oh grave where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin: and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through the Lord Jesus Christ. The minister’s closing words underlined the chilling reality. Connie was gone. We commit her body to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Her final resting place was close by, but not adjacent to, the grave shared by her beloved father and young brother Darcy. Her gravestone was later inscribed simply Marjorie Constance Sommerlad aged 35 years: she was a woman alone, save for her family’s name.
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Myrtle wept openly. Sorrow, anguish, guilt: a series of competing emotions flowed through her. As the tears continued to trickle down her cheeks, she thought again of the night in Sydney when she had waved Connie farewell. After the funeral, Myrtle chose to walk back to Edna’s alone. The poetry of Henry Longfellow, much loved by Connie, came into her mind as she lingered by Tenterfield Creek. Life is real and life is earnest And the grave is not its goal ... There was a strange solace from her broken sister in these words and she recalled another more cheerful favourite in the lines of Thomas Hardy: When I came back from Lyonnesse With magic in my eyes ... Connie, six years her senior, had given her the confidence to enjoy reading and introduced her to articles written by Louisa Lawson and the short stories of Louisa’s son, Henry. Then there were the many books. Henry Handel Richardson’s The Getting of Wisdom had been special; Myrtle had enjoyed it so much she had re-read it several times. She remembered Connie marvelling at the opportunity presented to the young author to go to Leipzig. Connie had said wistfully: ‘She had opportunities to become both a writer and a pianist! How I’d love to travel.’ Connie had introduced her to a life beyond Australia, through English writers such as the Brontë sisters and Jane Austen. But it wasn’t all reading; they’d both idolised the gifted yet shy swimming champion Andrew ‘Boy’ Charlton and appreciated the bravery and selfless industry of the Reverend
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John Flynn with the Inland Mission. Not all the family had glimpsed this ‘other’ side of Connie but, despite their differences in recent years, Myrtle knew she owed a debt of gratitude to the sister she’d lost. She even raised a tearful smile when she recalled the day, years before, when Connie had called from the clothesline, ‘Mrs Bennet?’ (she’d recently finished reading Pride and Prejudice), referring to the well-rounded Edna, who was bent over the copper prodding the steaming clothes in the outside laundry at Hillcrest. While Connie’s whimsies were often amusing, they were also at times capable of misinterpretation.
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Seven While the family were preparing for Connie’s burial, activity in Brisbane had been accelerating. By the Sunday morning, Brisbane police had found the missing green Studebaker at Barnes Auto Shop in North Quay. It had two suitcases in the back labelled ‘Mrs N. Atkins’. Danny Topp came forward with information about a fare of his, which led them back to the Australia Hotel. The first clue had come shortly after Kelly left the brothel, when Richard Webster’s cab had been stopped briefly for questioning. Returning from Breakfast Creek early on Sunday morning, Richard was not surprised when a police officer waved him over. Earlier on the Saturday evening he’d heard the broadcast requesting Brisbane people to watch out for a man who could well match the description of the man in the back of his cab. Worried that his passenger might become violent, Richard indicated towards his fare, who was smelling highly of alcohol, and suggested to the officer: ‘I’ll drop him and then report to CIB.’ The police officer checked the rear seat, nodded in agreement and waved Richard on.
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When the cab arrived at the boarding house in Astor Terrace, Kelly paid for his fare by cheque, groped his way towards his bed and fell into a deep, drunken and exhausted slumber. It was by now 1 am on Sunday morning. Twenty-four hours earlier, he had been at Hillcrest. He had not slept since Eric had woken him for work early on Friday morning, 3 February. At 1.15 am, cab driver Richard Webster went straight to CIB and handed the cheque Kelly had given him to detectives. The noose was tightening very fast.
‘John Trevor Kelly!’ Somewhere in the distance, Kelly heard his name and responded slowly, finding it difficult to open and focus his eyes. A strange man stood over him. He didn’t remember going to sleep here; this looked more like a cell. Fear gripped him. Where am I? The strange man said, ‘I am Detective-Sergeant Stolz of Brisbane CIB. I brought you to the police lock-up last night.’ Kelly was horrified. Has it really come to this? How did I get here? What came out was a whimpering voice asking, ‘Can I have a drink of water?’ Brandy would be better, he thought, a little of the old bravado still lurking within. Stolz took him into an interviewing room; Kelly had seen these before. I can’t handle this, he thought as Stolz read him an account of the murder scene in Tenterfield, the missing car and the missing ring, both of which had turned up in Brisbane. Kelly’s breathing accelerated. ‘More water please,’ he interrupted.
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His thirst was raging, his heart racing; he was hyperventilating like a wild animal caught in a trap. He longed for the bravado of yesterday, but it had gone. Sleep had changed him. Don’t start blubbering. It’s too late, stupid, he told himself. Kelly’s lips trembled. Suddenly he wanted to get it all out. Emptied of filth, he might still win the war tearing him apart. He was no longer The Man. There was no one to bolster his dignity and self-respect. I could have handled it yesterday. I need grog! Instead, he pleaded again: ‘More water, please!’ His heart was beating even faster. The confusion, remorse and self-pity he was experiencing demanded urgent action. His lips opened, and a torrent of words poured out. ‘The whole thing is awful. I will tell you anything you want to know about what happened at Sommerlads’ last Friday night. Can I have a glass of water? How is Eric Sommerlad? I hope he does not die. Eric and I went to Tenterfield on Friday night and made arrangements to meet at midnight, and then come home together . . . Eric went off with his girl and I had a few drinks.’ He told Stolz that, when he got back to the farm, Eric had sacked him for drinking. He told him about Nita Atkins and the utility at Barnes Auto Shop. Filled with remorse he continued pouring out the events of the past two days.
According to the official police report, at 2 am on Sunday morning, 5 February 1939, police had surrounded a boarding house at Astor Terrace. When First-Class Detective-Sergeant Stolz entered the premises, he found Kelly asleep and
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apparently very drunk. The policeman shook Kelly awake and informed him: ‘My name is Stolz, I am a detective-sergeant of police. What is your name?’ ‘John Kelly.’ ‘You answer to the name of John Trevor Kelly, inquired for by the New South Wales police in Tenterfield?’ Kelly nodded, his eyes rolling in his extreme drunkenness. After Stolz had taken him to the Brisbane CIB office, he left him to sleep until 11 am as Kelly was clearly in no condition for an interview any earlier than that. At 9 am on the Sunday morning, Nita Atkins called into the police station in Toowoomba and reported to Detective Elford that Kelly was missing and mentioned the ring she still had in her possession. Danny Topp reported to CIB and gave further information on Kelly’s movements in his taxi. At the 11 am interview Kelly provided police with his account of the horrendous happenings in Tenterfield. For the moment, John Trevor Kelly was charged with stealing Eric’s ute and his clothes. On the Monday morning, 6 February 1939, at 9 am Kelly went by car with Detective-Sergeant Henry Snowdon from Lismore, plus Detective Windsor and Constable McKinnon, to Barnes Auto. Kelly saw the taxi driver Danny Topp, whom police had requested to wait there, and he confirmed: ‘That is the taxi driver who took me and the truck to Barnes’s.’ Kelly identified the green Studebaker as the truck he took from Eric Sommerlad at Tenterfield. The mechanic John Barrett was there and Kelly identified him as the man he got to fix the steering gear.
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They then drove to Toowoomba, where Detective Windsor opened a ring case. Kelly said, ‘That is the ring I took from the Sommerlads and left with Mrs Atkins.’ From there they departed for Tenterfield.
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Eight Returning to Edna’s after the funeral, Audrey—Connie’s youngest sister—sought refuge behind the large overhanging hedge that concealed the vegetable patch in the back garden. She was reluctant to go with her family to the courthouse, where it was rumoured that Kelly would shortly appear. From a lively, gregarious twenty-year-old enjoying a brief happy holiday in her old family home, overnight she had been transformed into a slow, sad woman seeking solitude and time for reflection. It was only a week since she’d taken an early morning walk around Hillcrest with her now-dead sister, before the heat drove them inside. Connie had lingered on the back verandah to tie her shoelaces and put on a battered old farm hat, while Audrey bounded ahead, playing catch-up with the four kelpie pups that chased one another around the woodpile. Then Connie grasped her arm, and led her out onto the property. Birds and other creatures taking advantage of the early morning coolness had filled the air with their movement and sound. The croaking of a cattle egret and the hovering overhead of a letter-
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winged kite had distracted Connie, Audrey recalled, though she’d never taken it as an ominous sign at the time. Her attention had instead strayed to the apple orchard, where she’d caught sight of Kelly standing on a ladder picking apples and dropping them into the sack around his waist. She’d waved and called out, ‘Keep some for me,’ as two apples bounced to the ground. ‘He looks a bit of all right,’ she’d said cheekily to Connie, who’d nodded absently, distracted by the kite that swooped on some unseen prey. Connie had then introduced Audrey to Kelly, the man they were now saying had murdered her sister. It didn’t seem possible, she reflected sadly. The two women had wandered on down the driveway, crossed the dusty dirt road, and scrambled up between trees which camouflaged the uneven rocky ground facing the homestead until they reached the long narrow crest of the hill. They’d sat for a while, accompanied by a pigeon who began pecking urgently at the dry earth, scattering small dust-like pebbles. The farm spread before them and Audrey had eagerly pointed to special places, giggling: ‘The creek! That’s where we went swimming in the nuddy! And there’s where we had bonfire night!’ From their vantage point, the homestead, dairy and orchard appeared small; Kelly’s ladder in the distance was a mere dot amid a clump of leaves. They took turns identifying surrounding properties owned by uncles and cousins. The familiar countryside radiated a feeling of certainty, of permanency. ‘Nothing can ruin its beauty,’ Audrey had said as Connie took her hand and patted it warmly. The feeling of love between the sisters went back a long
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way. Audrey, like Dulce, was one of many Connie had helped to rear. The younger children enjoyed her wicked sense of humour, and she’d loved reading to her siblings and entertaining all of them on the piano. She’d confessed to Audrey that the house seemed very empty when she’d returned from her long absence to find only Eric remaining. Audrey sensed that visits from family were special for her. Feeling relaxed, and believing that Connie had rediscovered her former good humour, Audrey speculated: ‘You seem so much happier . . . Than last time, I mean.’ Connie abruptly moved her hand and snapped: ‘I am.’ The brush-off annoyed Audrey. ‘Connie, we’re sisters, for goodness sake. Why did you run away? Myrtle said you were gone from Sydney for nearly three years. We were all worried.’ ‘I was teaching music. How many times do I need to tell you all?’ Rising quickly, Connie had drawn herself up to her full height. An uncomfortable silence followed as she made her way back down to the road, followed by the repentant Audrey, who was sorry to have spoilt the outing. The rapidly heating sun began burning into their skin, causing Audrey to make a hat out of her hands while Connie wiped beads of perspiration from her brow. From the dairy, they’d heard the clang of tin milking cans as Eric’s head bobbed out around the corner of the shed. ‘I’m taking the surplus milk to feed the poddy calves and pigs. Any chance of a cuppa when I’m finished?’ ‘We can do that. Come on, Con—race you to the house!’ That evening, the unfortunate exchange seemingly forgotten, Connie had played tunes from old films while Audrey and a couple of friends leant over her shoulder, singing the words. She’d begun with ‘Anything Goes’, her hands flying across the
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keys. Later she’d played the more romantic ‘Blue Skies’, followed by ‘No-No-Nanette’ and, with a shy impish smile, ‘Strange Fruit’ and ‘Lady Be Good’. Eric invited his girlfriend, Gladys, to join in the dancing. Connie had watched out of the corner of her eye as Gladys attempted to teach Eric the steps to the foxtrot amid great laughter on both sides. ‘Keep your feet to yourself,’ Gladys teased as Eric’s foot stubbed her toe for the third time. Connie had seemed pleased to see her young brother enjoying himself and she told Audrey afterwards that she often worried that the demands of the property deprived him of companionship. She clearly liked Gladys and speculated on their possible future together. Kelly never appeared at these gatherings. He was a short, stocky young man with dark wiry hair that was divided by a severe-looking centre part. He was Eric’s age and had worked on the farm as a casual labourer for the past month. One evening, as she was on her way to bring in more chairs from the garden, Audrey recalled catching sight of him lying on a bed next to Eric’s on the side verandah. He looked sulky and she’d guessed at the time that he was disgruntled because he’d wanted to join the fun. While Connie and Eric treated him as a member of the household, during the revelry they’d obviously told him to keep out of the way. On the final evening, after the guests had departed, Connie played Chopin while Audrey, with arms outstretched, waltzed, carefree and alone, circling the drawing room until Connie stopped her, a broad grin spreading across her face. ‘No more!’ she’d cried, taking her baby sister in her arms. Before Audrey caught her train on the Thursday, Connie
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and Edna had organised an afternoon tea in the town at the Cameo Café, next door to Brooks’ chemist where, according to newspaper reports, Kelly had bought the packet of headache powders found in Connie’s room. Edna, carefully dressed in a grey suit adorned by a small string of pearls, was sitting at a table in the long, narrow tearoom when the others arrived. Looking at her then, Audrey had marvelled at how closely she had resembled their mother; her gently rounded figure contrasting with Connie who, only a year younger, was taller and slimmer and wearing a vivid floral frock in autumn tones. Despite the surface of camaraderie, Audrey had sensed that the old rivalries between her two sisters were deeper, more censorious. She guessed that Edna knew The Secret. How irrelevant that seemed now! On this last afternoon tea, scones, strawberry jam and cream were ordered. Audrey insisted on an extra pot of tea and some water, declaring, ‘I’m dying of thirst.’ When she saw the tray of tea coming, she had risen to her feet to make a toast. But, as she swept her chair to one side, she’d accidentally bumped the next table, where two farmers were speculating on the prospects for farming if war broke out. ‘It’s not “if” anymore, mate. It’ll be on before the year’s out,’ she’d heard a man with red hair and freckles declare just as their table was side-swiped. ‘Here’s to us! A toast to my two older sisters,’ Audrey had cried, and now she recalled—to her intense embarrassment— that both the men at the next table had joined the sisters in raising their cups in salute. ‘The future!’ they all cried. ‘I’ll be twenty-one this year,’ she’d said as she sat down. ‘I’ll be double that long before you’re thirty,’ Connie
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replied, rather too loudly for Edna, who was sensitive to discussions about age. ‘Con’s been playing tunes from the pictures. We’ve had a ball,’ Audrey said. Edna had looked unimpressed and replied somewhat offhandedly: ‘Well, of course. She always was a show-off. Got what she wanted while Dad was alive.’ A smile had crept out as she added: ‘I wouldn’t have the time; not with my husband and four children!’ Connie had looked uncomfortable and asked: ‘What’s your latest favourite hairstyle, Aud?’ Audrey recalled happily dancing her fingers around her brown, shoulder-length hair, pulling it first into a bun and then twisting it into a careless roll. ‘Which looks more sophisticated?’ she’d asked them. ‘The roll,’ said Edna. ‘The bun,’ said Connie. ‘Oh, you two! Always the opposite . . . I’ll keep it loose.’ Infected with devilment, she’d gone on to tease her sisters as she fingered the white beaded choker hugging her neck. ‘Eric gets on well with Kelly. He seems a bit of a find.’ She’d let go the choker and reached across the table to pour the tea before adding: ‘A good sort, don’t you think?’ Connie laughed. ‘He’s twenty-four, same as Eric . . . too young for me!’ ‘No, for me, silly!’ Audrey had grinned as Edna shifted uneasily in her chair. ‘How’s he come to be working for Eric?’ Audrey continued. ‘His father knew we’d need casual labour for the apples. His family calls him Jack.’ ‘He has family in town?’ Audrey couldn’t let the subject drop.
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‘Some, but he’s from the coast,’ Connie answered. ‘You’d know them, Edna?’ Edna, frowning, wasn’t sure whether her baby sister was serious or just teasing. ‘Oh yes . . . in a way, but . . . they’re Catholics!’ ‘Forget it—it’s really of no interest,’ Audrey admitted. But Connie had warned her softly: ‘You do tend to egg on the chaps with those eyes of yours.’ Audrey had already noted that Connie clearly kept her own very expressive green-brown eyes to herself these days. ‘What time’s Dulce coming? Pity I can’t wait,’ Audrey sighed, changing the subject. ‘Saturday,’ Connie said and turned to Edna. ‘You heard anything?’ ‘Yes, she’ll be on the early train. Aden’s meeting her. He’ll put her in the service car.’ ‘Thanks. I’m dying to see her.’ Audrey recalled that they’d all continued laughing and talking until Connie glanced at her watch, saying: ‘Eric’s probably waiting; we’d better be off.’ They had risen then, and given one another a reassuring kiss before linking arms and walking happily towards the School of Arts. ‘That’s where I learned to play the piano,’ Connie had said, pointing to a lovely old building where Henry Parkes had once given a famous speech urging the Australian states to join a federation. ‘I’ve been to good concerts there. I can even remember Dad taking me to hear you play when I was tiny,’ Audrey had replied. Eric waved from his green utility. He’d jumped out as they approached and taken Audrey’s luggage, which had been sitting
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on the front seat, and put it into the back. Then they had all squeezed into the front cabin as he drove them the short distance down the hill past the courthouse, and up to the station. That had been four days ago, and she had been a happy, carefree young woman. Everything had changed since then. Her unconscious brother now lay in hospital and that afternoon she had painfully watched Connie’s coffin slowly lowered to its final resting place. Only shadows remained. Audrey was still sitting in her secluded spot by the vegetable patch when the sounds of many feet walking up Edna’s pathway caused her to rise slowly and follow the latecomers inside.
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Nine On Monday, 6 February 1939, Kelly arrived back in Tenterfield under police guard. At 6 pm that day he appeared before Mr F.N.C. Beston, Chamber Magistrate, and was formally charged on three counts: that on 4 February, ‘near Tenterfield’, he had murdered Marjorie Constance Sommerlad; he had inflicted grievous bodily harm upon Eric Alfred Sommerlad; and he had stolen ‘a Studebaker utility truck, the property of Eric Sommerlad, valued at £200’. At this time Kelly provided the court with a revised and more truthful version of these events in a statement he signed as ‘J. Kelly’: On returning to the house on the morning of the 4th February, after midnight, I went into the front bedroom with the intention of giving Miss Sommerlad a letter and a packet of A.P.C. powders, which she had asked me to get for her in town on Friday. I was talking to her for some time, sitting on the edge of the bed, when a desire took possession of me. On making the suggestion to Miss Sommerlad, she opposed it, at the same time
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singing out for her brother Eric. Realising what he might do or say, I struck her on the face with my closed hand. I then left the room and, as I was walking down the hall, I heard her following me. Thinking she was going to call her brother, I again hit her with my fist. Rushing outside I took an axe, and returning to the house I saw her rising from the floor in the dining room. She screamed, and I hit her with the axe. I think it was on the head. I then changed the clothes I was wearing for a grey suit. I went into the front room and took £2 and a ring from the dressing table and a cheque book. I then took the Studebaker utility truck from the back of the house, went to Brisbane, where I was arrested.
Edna, Wilfred, Uncle Ernest and Lloyd were the first to return from the courthouse. Nancy heard them coming and ran to unlock the front door. ‘Kelly’s been charged down at the local police station!’ ‘With?’ Nancy asked anxiously. ‘Murder,’ said Edna quickly as she hurried towards her mother, who was making her way into the hallway. ‘They’ve got him, Mum!’ she said, wrapping her mother in her arms. ‘He won’t escape.’ As news flew around the district, the rest of the family sped to Edna’s house. After a fraught weekend, it was welcome news to hear that the likely suspect had confessed and was behind bars. But they craved news on the fate of their loved ones. How grimly had Eric fought? Did Kelly rape Connie before he attacked her with the axe? They wanted to know more, but the government medical officer, Dr Percy, opposed the calls for an early inquest. There
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was no certainty that Eric would survive and, without his testimony, the court would be forced to rely on Kelly’s version of events. Nothing had prepared the Sommerlads for the anxiety and grief that ripped through their midst as they dealt with the aftermath of the murder. The previously choppy waters of family life had been whipped to a frenzy: tossing some members together while flinging others towards divergent and sometimes hostile shores. No one escaped unscathed. All had to accept the brutality of their loss, the publicity it excited, and the endless police and forensic inquiries. Irrespective of the feelings of individuals, many seemingly mundane issues had to be settled before family members scattered. With work at the crime scene finalised, it was imperative to clean the house. Connie’s brothers, along with Lloyd and other cousins, volunteered for this sombre, gut-wrenching task. They’d heard the horrific story and they’d seen the violent effects on Eric, but, as they approached the driveway of Hillcrest, the house seemed wrapped in an eerie hush. It made them slow their pace, to walk hesitantly towards the verandah, leaving their buckets, household cleansers and rags to be collected later. They climbed the front steps and, as they cautiously opened the main door, the smell of death surged forward, sending them reeling backwards, disorientated. It was so much worse than they had anticipated. Many traces of Connie remained. The powerful, rank odours and chilling evidence nauseated them; it was a considerable time before they could regain their composure sufficiently to start scrubbing the ceiling, walls, floors and mats. Frequently they spiralled off to the verandah, or out into the garden, gasping for air and sanity as the putrid smell of decaying matter choked
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their airways. Decades later, the imprint of the scene they had cleansed remained unfading in their memories. Many years afterwards Lloyd would recall in his memoirs: ‘Later it fell to me and some of my cousins to clean up the house. As we scraped the blood off the floor and washed down the walls and ceiling and wiped the furniture clean, my mind was vividly imagining the scene—the terror, the rage, the swinging axe, the screaming girl. The sickening memory of that experience has remained with me for a lifetime.’ Outside the homestead, apples still hung on trees. While volunteers had milked the cows each day up to now, they needed to be relieved of this responsibility. Who would manage the property? Nobody wanted it sold but they guessed Eric would never be strong enough to return to heavy farm work, should he survive. The older brothers had their own properties and were reluctant to return; in the end, Geoff, his young wife and small children left their home and business in Kyogle to accept the challenge. The rest of the family packed and went their separate ways. With a heavy sense of loss they left Dulce and their shattered mother in the care of Edna. Inevitably, they knew, they would need to reassemble in the coming months. It was a chilling outcome for all the family, but particularly for Audrey, who had so recently shared mealtimes with Kelly and laughter with Connie and Eric; and Dulce, who had made the grim discovery at Hillcrest. Life had changed forever. These memories, like so many others, would be guarded closely within the immediate family.
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Part Two
WHO WAS CONNIE?
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Ten The family’s silence suggested that they had left Connie to rest in peace. They talked neither about her death, nor about their unwilling introduction to an alien world frequented by media, forensics and the police. Paralysed by fear, they could not reach out to friends and speak of their concerns, or even share their grief. In silence they awaited the forthcoming inquest and trial, events they feared would further undermine their failing sense of security and well-being. A hostile courtroom loomed large in their dreams, decreeing rough justice that was sympathetic to the villain but indifferent to Connie’s murder, or their own damaged lives. Ongoing trauma diminished the family’s ability to cope. As the weeks passed, Eric’s grip on life remained tenuous and those close to him worried that even recovery might leave him severely impaired. Nightmares tormented Dulce, while their mother was clinically depressed. Geoff struggled with recent horrific memories as he settled his young family into the home where murder had taken place. Edna was constantly fraught, trying to juggle the needs of the family, including her own
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children and husband, with the demands of the legal system. Myrtle, in common with many of her siblings, was at home silently carrying the burden of fear and notoriety she couldn’t cast aside. Despite their plea for privacy, the inherent curiosity of the press lurked in the background of all their lives, ready to seize upon any misplaced word, preferably about Connie and Kelly. Even more frightening was the local gossip, suggesting that the two had had a liaison. Silence was imperative! A slip of the tongue could damage the family name, while distressed members of the inner circle feared more for the safety of The Secret they held so tightly. Would a ruthless media, lawyers, the courts or the suspected murderer’s family bring it into the spotlight? Though few new details emerged of Connie in the press, her name remained in front of the public on banner headlines, in newspapers and on the lips of broadcasters across the country. Until now, most in the extended family and local community had registered Connie only as one ‘of the little Alberts’. They had seen her merely as part of the ever-expanding Sommerlad clan—too many to count, too many to reward with individual names and personalities. But friends from her musical circles were horrified by her violent death and the tragic end to what they believed was a promising career. If pressed, the inner circle would briefly recall their sister as a hard-working member of their team, though they declined to add that they’d known from an early age she was different. Connie had been an uneasy fit in the family even as she grew up. Few understood her real needs and aspirations. While living at Hillcrest, she had straddled two worlds: a day-to-day world of work and an imaginary one filled with dreams yet to
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be realised. Myrtle attributed her own love of music to Connie, even though she never had the opportunity to play a musical instrument herself. Connie had introduced her to the voice of Nellie Melba and helped her to appreciate the grace of Anna Pavlova from pictures in magazines. Myrtle knew that much of her sister’s reading was done by candlelight when most of the family was asleep. Her siblings believed she was a favourite. ‘What Connie wants, Connie gets’ was an adage not restricted to immediate family; a cousin who lived a long way from Hillcrest was familiar with this assessment. Even her features caused comment: while her sisters shared the gently rounded form of their mother, she was taller and, along with the much younger Audrey, she’d inherited the angular profile of her father. Her narrowly drawn nose complemented her deeply penetrating eyes as they gazed towards distant horizons. She kept her light brown hair bobbed, its soft natural curl gracefully cupping her face. Albert, her late father, had identified closely with his second daughter. Extra pairs of hands were needed in the early years of his marriage and he’d held her closely as a baby to relieve his young wife Emma. Edna and Connie had been born barely a year apart, and soon after a third was already ‘on the way’. Did he recognise an artistic, pioneering spirit in her tiny form? Maybe it happened later when he observed and understood her potential ambition and could detect some meaning in her distant gaze. Or was it the musical gifts he’d inherited and saw replicated in her fingers? He made sure that she received good tuition, and he took pride in her achievements. He regularly attended concerts when she was performing in local
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towns, so it was little wonder that the family dubbed her ‘father’s pet’. The younger children saw her as one of their childhood carers, almost a mother figure. Dulce, Audrey, Eric, Frank, Nancy and Geoffrey all remembered her loving hands. She had held them when they tried their first tentative steps. They loved her apple roly-poly and cream-filled passionfruit sandwich, and would snake their way into the kitchen when they caught the telltale meaty smells of her particular specialty, steak and kidney pudding. Her brothers had fond memories of her sweet gramma pies, while the sisters tried to copy her queen puddings laced with homemade jam, custard and meringue. They remembered her stories, the melodies she played, the songs she taught them. Among the younger children, only Eric had knowledge of The Secret. Alongside those sisters close to her in age, Connie toiled tirelessly at Hillcrest until her late twenties. But her busy life had begun by the time she was three. From this age, she was learning to change nappies, burp babies, wipe bottoms, cook meals, make beds and sweep floors. She helped pick up the men’s clothing, including her brothers’, thrown heedlessly onto the floor. Before Connie was five, an aunt saw her standing on a chair in the kitchen to reach table height, her arms rhythmically beating sugar into homemade butter while she hummed softly to herself, smiling towards a distant scene as she prepared a flyaway sponge. Was she already seeing herself as a conductor in her father’s band? Life outdoors followed a similar pattern. While this was predominantly a male domain, along with her sisters she gave some assistance in milking cows, feeding chooks and polishing apples down in the shed.
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Sometimes she sang a poem of Banjo Paterson’s: At daylight you must milk the cows Make butter, cheese, an’ feed the sows, Put on the kettle, the cook arouse, And clean the family shoes. Singing while she worked, she imagined the cows impatiently waiting to be milked in the yard as her patrons clambering for tickets to her sold-out concert. No wonder the family thought she was different! Several days each week the girls rose early to collect firewood, light the copper and sort piles of dirty clothes into heaps—those to be boiled, those that needed to be washed separately. They made starch for the men’s town shirts, for the tablecloths, serviettes and aprons. Two girls would become temporary wringers, each holding the end of a larger sheet, tablecloth or blanket; they would twist it and squeeze from it the very last drop of water, which fell onto the earth beyond the laundry. Myrtle believed Connie daydreamed her way through washdays, reliving scenes from books she was enjoying. On one occasion, the poem nominating Mondays as washdays inspired her to suggest they leave all the washing for the following week. That first Monday, the four girls, Edna, Connie, Ivy and Myrtle, slaved for twelve hours and the experiment wasn’t repeated. In addition to work on the home front, there was school to attend. Albert was very conscious of the need for a good education and ensured that all his children received at least ten years’ tuition. It began in the local one-teacher school at Leeches Gully, often half-filled with children from the extended family, and then on to high school in Tenterfield, by horse or sulky.
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School days were long, offering few opportunities to relax and play. Connie ultimately continued her musical studies beyond formal schooling and, to her father’s delight, he was able to accompany the young external student to receive her graduation certificate at the Conservatorium of Music in Sydney in 1917. By the time she was eleven the Great War had begun, bringing news of people and places from afar. As she ironed basketloads of clothes, the frightening tidings from Gallipoli, the Somme and the Sudan did little to feed her desire to travel for the sake of it, but by the 1920s her imaginings reflected a deepening desire for freedom. Longing to escape farm life, she would dream of the arrival of a telegram with offers to run a business or play in a concert. But these thoughts were outlandish for a country woman in the earlier years of the twentieth century and she learned to keep them to herself. The piano was her saviour. A clever detective could have spotted her moods from the way she played. When swept up in dreams of a dazzling future career, her fingers sped lightly over the keys. When recurring pessimism cut off her escape route, the slow, heavy deep notes sounded a dirge. She was still toiling on the farm in 1930, with help coming from her much younger siblings since those sisters and brothers closer to her in age were already independent, living in country towns or working on other properties. Edna, who had already married and started a family, was critical of her sister for taking so little romantic interest in the local men. During that year, however, she met Keith, a farmer who lived outside Tenterfield and had lost his young wife during childbirth, leaving him with a baby and a child under three. For a brief time she was flattered by his attentions. She invited him
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to several family dinners on a Sunday and enjoyed being taken to meet his young children and his sister, who was temporarily caring for them. Keith was appreciative of Connie’s culinary delights and gentle manner with her younger brothers and sisters. By August he had proposed, leaving Connie with a dilemma. She knew that at 27 her marriage prospects were diminishing, but she had other dreams. She knew if she married him she would remain a housekeeper to a man with limited vision and a surrogate mother to his children. She’d prefer to be playing in front of an orchestra, the conductor beaming as music flowed effortlessly from her fingers; or even the manager in a successful business. Nothing seemed impossible. Of course there were dangers if she never managed to escape. It was one thing to say ‘no’ to Keith but quite another to become the willing slave for the next generation. She didn’t want to end up like her maiden aunts, Maggie and Carrie, who were loving, affectionate and hard-working women devoted to the family’s interests. Everyone benefited from their care and kindness but their lives seemed lacking. Connie wanted more from life. She wanted the opportunity to be a woman known in her own right and not simply as a ‘little Albert’. She felt it was imperative to follow the path already forged by relatives such as Uncle Ernest, who was a successful businessman in Sydney. Her father unwittingly instigated her departure. Albert was an entrepreneurial spirit who had branched out to acquire a cheese and butter factory, and land holdings in the district. Now he wished to further diversify his investments and, in January 1931, he began to plan a trip to Sydney to see if he could buy into a business while prices were low.
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‘Please take me with you,’ Connie had pleaded the previous October, when he first voiced his plans. Then she added: ‘I could teach music or work in a shop.’ He was reluctant. He feared the Depression was deepening and savaging the lives of many people. It was difficult enough in the country, but at least they had food to eat and a place to live in safety. ‘You’d find it hard. There’s always plenty to do here,’ he had countered. She could have predicted this answer. She was too useful and should remain on the farm until she married someone like Keith. ‘Please, Dad. Even for a few months . . .’ Used to rewarding her special talents, her father had relented and in January 1931 they left by train for Sydney. She found the long train journey interminable. Impatient to put Keith and her old life behind her, she looked towards Sydney as her salvation. Albert tried to distract her by talking about the musical venues in the city, but this only increased her impatience. So he went on to describe the beaches at Manly and Bondi. He talked of the sheer cliff faces of the Blue Mountains and the rugged scenery that stood in stark contrast to the softly rolling Northern Tablelands. He promised to take her to a concert, introduce her to some of his friends and give her a guided tour of important landmarks. ‘We’ll see the new bridge—it’s almost finished, I believe,’ he was saying as the train steamed into the outlying suburbs. Privately, he believed she would not remain here in the city, where unemployment could increase the potential for violence. He’d give her a good holiday and that might satisfy her ambitions. Connie, on the other hand, saw the journey as a one-way trip and her ultimate escape from Tenterfield, though she was
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temporarily taken aback to find Central Station crammed with country people like herself, seeking opportunities for employment. Determined not to be discouraged, she urged her father to speed through the jostling crowd and escape by electric tram into the city. Albert decided they would first book into the Metropole Hotel in Bent Street, down near Circular Quay, before visiting his friend Norman Jones, who had a health food store and herbal remedy dispensary in Pitt Street. They didn’t linger at the hotel and were soon back out on the streets after depositing their luggage. Connie had already dismissed from her mind the turmoil back at the station and, as they walked briskly towards Pitt Street, she broke into a semiskip, crying, ‘I love this place,’ even before her father swung open the door to Norman’s shop. She was brought rapidly to a halt. In front of her, a rainbow of colours seemingly arched its way through the room, highlighting a collection of very sensual and colourful jars while mysterious perfumes came wafting towards her, enticing her, exciting her senses. ‘It’s like an Aladdin’s cave!’ she whispered, so softly no one heard. A man stepped out from behind a long curved counter inset with leather, and approached them with a pleasant, though distant, smile. He was quite tall with dark, wellgroomed hair and was immaculately dressed in a dark-brown striped suit under which Connie noted a beautifully pressed white shirt with a starched rounded collar. The navy blue handkerchief in the top pocket of his jacket added to his smart appearance. He must have an adoring wife, she thought. ‘Welcome to Sydney, Albert,’ he said in a deep baritone voice, carefully enunciating every word with a strange, lilting accent.
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‘Greetings from the north, Norman!’ mimicked her father. ‘Meet my daughter, Connie.’ ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Sommerlad. Your father has spoken of you often. A talented pianist, I’ve heard.’ ‘Thank you,’ Connie said, trying to copy his melodious diction. ‘You live in paradise, Mr Jones.’ Some of the distilling equipment used to extract herbal remedies quickly caught Albert’s eye and the two men disappeared behind the counter to examine Norman’s latest acquisitions, leaving Connie to wander around the shop alone. She was drawn towards the perfumes oozing from squat, purple jars on the far wall. I could be in an Indian bazaar, she mused, edging closer and shutting her eyes to inhale the unfamiliar yet warmly seductive scents. A smile playing on her lips, she moved on to a smaller room, where the fragrances from individual jars struck a more discordant note. Some were harsh, even offensive; others were sweet. Glancing around quickly to ensure nobody was watching, she sat on a small, narrow bed in the middle of the room, inhaling the complex aromas as if they were a whole symphony of fragrance; a far cry from the cowshed back home. She drifted back to the counter to watch Norman preparing remedies and talking to customers while her father, ever practical and anxious to help his busy friend, insisted on unpacking a crate of fruit. There was a striking resemblance and ease between the two men. Both were well built, with strong, expressive faces, though Norman was better groomed and moved more confidently. She noticed that his dark arched and trimmed eyebrows and clean-shaven face gave him an open, youthful and fresh appearance for a man who could be 50. She was intrigued. He was so different from the men she knew in Tenterfield.
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All too soon, Albert suggested they leave Norman to get on with his work. Norman delayed their departure, however, insisting they try one of his special health drinks. ‘Yes, doctor!’ Connie laughed. At the Metropole later that night, she asked her father if Norman was married. ‘He’s not the marrying kind,’ Albert remarked dismissively. ‘An independent spirit like myself,’ she observed. ‘That’s not what I meant. Look, Connie, you’ll be left on the shelf if you’re not careful . . . I hope you find a good man soon, who’ll make you happy.’ She was glad he hadn’t automatically mentioned Keith.
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Eleven Albert indulged Connie. The following morning he took her to the nearby Conservatorium of Music, where, as an external student, she had received her Certificate in Music fourteen years before. They took the opportunity to tour the Conservatorium—a historic building which had once been Governor Macquarie’s stables—with an acquaintance of Norman’s who worked there as the janitor. Connie was overwhelmed by the comprehensive range of quality instruments it housed—everything from piano to percussion, string to woodwind—and, as they trod softly along its hallowed corridors, she was soon lost for words. In the auditorium they encountered a full chamber orchestra rehearsing and sat quietly, enveloped in the spellbinding sound of Brahms’ Tragic Overture. ‘Oh, Dad, it’s so beautiful,’ she whispered, almost in tears. Walking through the Botanic Gardens after the performance, Albert noticed her restlessness so they sat for a while on a bench overlooking a flurry of water birds skimming across a pond. Albert talked of city park bands, something familiar to them both in Tenterfield. He spoke of the increasing number of
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cinemas in the city and the pianist’s role in silent movies. He reminded her of the rash of new musical comedies, like The Student Prince and The Desert Song, and the proliferation of wireless stations. ‘And of course, ballroom dancing is popular with some people,’ he said. ‘Think of the Conservatorium as the pinnacle . . . You can play there later.’ ‘So I can stay?’ Albert made no response. They walked on towards Circular Quay, where they saw at close quarters the soaring steel arch that was already a Sydney icon although the bridge was still a year from its official opening. They relaxed and enjoyed a ride on the Manly ferry, Baragoola, as it steamed across the harbour. Albert was anxious to show her the Steyne Hotel on the beachfront, where he and Emma had briefly stayed during their honeymoon in 1901. Connie looked at the old building and tried to picture her parents with a room to themselves and able to stroll genteelly along the esplanade, revelling in the cooling breeze without the interruption of anxious young voices. It must have been a small window of pleasure, she thought. No wonder her father was so keen to revisit Manly. On Wednesday, they set out to explore the city. Walking slowly past the rows of fine public and private buildings, along Phillip, Bridge and Macquarie streets, they stood for a while to marvel at the elegant Colonial Treasury and Colonial Secretary’s offices, whose stone figures and columns reminded Connie of pictures she had seen of London. They spent an hour browsing through the public shelves of the Mitchell Library before walking back towards the Quay. On their way, they
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peered through windows into the luxurious Australia Hotel, where exotic new furnishings were being added. They fantasised over staying in the Astor Flats in Macquarie Street. Connie had seen pictures of their very modern interiors in The Home magazine and Albert joked that perhaps he should be investing there. The wool trade dominated Circular Quay and Albert was keen to visit Mort’s Wool Store. Connie felt its large brick structure and stone archway paled in comparison with the distinctive stone carvings on Customs House next door. It was after four when Albert suggested they head up Pitt Street to Norman’s shop, as he wanted to get his opinion on business investments. The men excluded Connie from their discussions so she browsed through the range of herbs Norman used in his various concoctions. Finding their fragrances very soothing, she opened several storage jars, identifying citrus, lavender, yarrow, angelica and juniper, before the men signalled that their business was complete and invited her to join them for a parting drink. ‘The melissa and sage will help you relax,’ Norman said, more to the room than to his guests. The following day they travelled by train to Parramatta to meet Bill Granger, a businessman Albert knew from previous trips. Bill was at the station and together they walked to the shop he’d recently rented on Church Street. He was to open it as a bakehouse and cake shop in the coming weeks and, when they arrived, four men were noisily plumbing the new ovens. Bill showed them his plans before taking them to see how the changes would enhance the three small rooms. Connie could feel his excitement, though she detected a worried frown creeping across his forehead whenever Albert pressed him for
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more detail. Bill made tea in the incomplete kitchen and poured it into cups he’d placed on a table in the middle of the shop floor. The three sat on boxes surrounded by the metallic noise vibrating from the oven room. ‘Why Parramatta?’ Albert shouted. ‘It’ll be a major centre,’ Bill shouted back. ‘Rents are low. The area has a future.’ ‘Even in a depression?’ queried Albert. ‘People have to eat!’ Bill admitted that he’d planned to operate the shop with his wife, but Elsie had work at the hospital and it seemed unwise for her to resign in the present climate. Albert noted the indecision. Listening to Norman, and now Bill, he could see wisdom in delaying his own dreams. Connie, on the other hand, was excited. Her dreams might be within reach. ‘Do you need an assistant?’ she asked. ‘I’m an experienced cook!’ The men were initially shocked. Albert had been planning to take Connie back home, while Bill was unused to selfassured young women. Her confident offer, however, given without pretence, led him to eye this bright, energetic young woman with new curiosity. Albert noted Bill’s quizzical look and quickly intervened: ‘We’re not here, Connie, to talk about work.’ ‘I’d be doing Bill a favour.’ In a tone inviting rejection, Albert asked his friend: ‘How would you feel about it? She can cook, but . . .’ ‘We could give it a trial.’ Bill was already thinking that Connie would be ideal. He needed good inexpensive help and, from Albert’s previous visits, he had confidence in his family. He added quickly,
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‘We’ve a spare room. She could work for her board and I’ll pay the rest up front in cash. If you are worried, we could give her a month’s trial and then, if everyone is satisfied, I would make it permanent.’ ‘Let’s not be too hasty. We’ll be close by for the next week or two. If you find someone else, don’t feel obliged.’ Abruptly, Albert changed the subject. ‘I want to stay in the area. Do you know a good hotel? I’d like to book in tomorrow.’ ‘The Woolpack is very central,’ said Bill, feeling uncertain where this left him.
That evening Albert took Connie to see a Charles Chauvel film at the Lyceum in the city and it was not until they returned to the Metropole that he was prepared to broach the question of the cake shop. ‘It’s not a good idea. Bill’s run a café, but he lacks the finance for this. And what about Keith? He is sweet on you, Con. You know I’d like to see you married.’ Connie was annoyed but undeterred. ‘Let’s get back to Bill, Dad.’ ‘Don’t rush me! With his wife working up at the hospital to support him, it doesn’t look good.’ Albert closed the subject and next morning they returned to Parramatta. Having lost interest in a city investment, Albert was now seeking outlets for fruit and cheese from Hillcrest. For several days they seemed to visit every greengrocer for miles around, as well as jam and dairy factories and delicatessens that sold cheese and butter by the block; but there was no interest. By Thursday evening, Albert was exhausted and keen to return home.
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‘Things are tough,’ he said as they sat in the Woolpack dining room resting their feet and sipping lemonade. ‘It would be crazy to stay here.’ Connie could see her longed-for future fizzing out like the lemonade. ‘A month isn’t long, Dad.’ She sighed wistfully, gazing in the direction of Bill’s house, which was only a block from their hotel. The following morning Albert gave way and reluctantly accompanied her back to the Grangers’. After endless cups of tea, dutifully provided by Elsie, Albert reluctantly agreed to Connie taking the job. Bill sighed with relief and asked if she could move her things into his house on the Sunday evening so she would be there to help with the last-minute preparations prior to opening. She beamed. ‘Just for a month,’ said Albert as they were leaving. ‘Then it must be reassessed.’ Once back in the city, Albert redirected his energy and misgivings into warning Connie of potential dangers and places to avoid. He took her down the little alleyways and pathways in The Rocks at Miller’s Point and across to Woolloomooloo, pointing out the many pitfalls in wandering the streets alone. Finally satisfied he’d made his point, Albert shepherded Connie onto a tram to the huge department store of Anthony Hordern’s on Broadway where he bought new trousers for himself and his younger sons. Later they moved on to Mark Foy’s and Farmer’s, where he made purchases for Emma and his daughters. On Saturday, they visited the Town Hall, where there was an organ recital in progress. Connie was thrilled with the instrument’s soothing tones and pleased to spend a relaxing hour before crossing the road to the Queen Victoria Building,
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where she was eager to see the prestigious Julian Ashton Art School. The scene there, as they glanced into a large room used for drawing, was very different from what she’d expected. She had imagined a group of hard-working enthusiasts painstakingly intent on producing the perfect masterpiece; but instead she saw a very sophisticated group of artists in smart smocks lounging back admiring the scantily clad figures on their easels. Disappointed, she agreed to return to Norman’s for a lateafternoon health drink. ‘Keep an eye on her, Norman. Bill and Elsie are a fine couple, but I’m worried the work may not last,’ Albert said as they were leaving.
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Twelve Connie quickly adapted to the business. During her first week, she helped her new employers set up the last of the equipment. It gave her the opportunity to learn about the different ovens and the utensils she would be using. Bill introduced her to suppliers he’d selected and she took an interest in the cost of individual items. He was determined to have an attractive range of goods and for the first few weeks employed two additional women. Connie’s trial period passed quickly. When her father rang the Grangers’ home at the end of the first month, there was little doubt about her future. Bill was pleased with her contribution to his business while Connie expressed happiness with her new environment, which she found both stimulating and rewarding. Albert, reassured on both fronts, agreed to allow the current arrangements continue. The baking started between three and four every morning, but Connie wasn’t discouraged. She was used to getting up early to milk cows, prepare breakfast and assist with the younger children. Now she had only herself to consider. The
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oven room was hot and they needed to work quickly to have bread, cakes and pies ready for the early customers. She liked the smell of yeast rising and was used to icing and decorating cakes. She viewed all these preparations as precursors to the time when she would be in the shopfront, helping to manage the business and serving the customers. Their offerings were inexpensive and casual ‘drop-ins’ soon became customers. During her second month Bill introduced her to the Blackburns, a musical family who lived close by and owned a piano shop. Her skill and natural enthusiasm with the keyboard so impressed Mr Blackburn that he began giving her lessons, and encouraged her to practise on their Steinberg. He introduced her to the small organ that sat in their sitting room, and Connie quickly became an enthusiast. She was soon seeing the Blackburns three or four times each week, and sometimes she went with them to concerts. In November, the Star Picture Theatre in Parramatta offered her work on a Saturday afternoon once a month to play during some of their mainly live programs. Shortly afterwards she found additional casual work at Parramatta’s Cinema 1 and Town Hall. The ultimate, of course, would be to play on the Christie organ at the newly opened Roxy Theatre, but in the meantime she was content. She had to learn the music from many popular films, whereas before she’d concentrated on the classics. Adding to her repertoire, she gradually included the songs of Cole Porter—such as ‘Night and Day’, ‘It’s De-Lovely’ and ‘Anything Goes’—and came to know the work of entertainers such as Paul Robeson. Louis Armstrong’s ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’’ and ‘Stardust’ were special favourites. Connie was ecstatic. Her music was not only giving joy, but
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also the opportunity for her to play before large audiences. All those childhood dreams were finally coming true. Sometimes she’d stay after she played during the interval and watch the films that were being screened. They opened her eyes to changing styles of dress; but her protective, conventional upbringing had not prepared her for the loose living she saw glamorised in films such as High Society Blues. Norman had both suppliers and retail customers that brought him to Parramatta some days; after completing his business, he’d call round to see her before returning to the city. Sometimes they would share a hurried lunch. He invariably wore a smart trilby over his carefully combed hair and carried, with considerable flair, his highly polished brown leather case. He strode briskly, the tip of his long-handled umbrella producing a rhythmic beat as it struck the pavement, accentuating his firm, self-assured tread. Connie was fascinated. Norman reminded her of some of the heroes in the films she saw, although he was conservative compared with the new American actors. On her occasional visits to the city, she’d always call to see Norman. She developed a genuine enthusiasm for health foods when she found they helped to balance the Grangers’ rather fatty and sugary diet. Norman began to teach her about healthy preparations; knowledge that would come in useful if she got a shop of her own. He found her obvious admiration and attention very flattering. He appreciated her interest in his business practices and willingly gave her advice on how to improve sales at the cake shop. In his view, women normally didn’t show much aptitude for these things. He was proud that he was keeping afloat during the Depression and Connie, he felt, appreciated his skills while so many
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others either envied or overlooked them. He enjoyed their uncomplicated friendship though he remained self-contained, even deliberately aloof. He was a lover of music and she reminded him of his young sisters, not his previous liaisons. When they were together, he smiled but never made an intimate connection. She felt safe with him as he was more like her father or one of her brothers—but if he wasn’t motivated by romance, why did he seek out her company? She was confused, especially when she caught the occasional flicker of an ironic smile. Did he think she was flirting with him? She would never be so presumptuous! Nevertheless, the cake business seemed to be now on its feet and, as the months passed, Norman continued to invite her to music in the park or at one of the other local venues. She appreciated the opportunities his company afforded her and, fortunately, her busy lifestyle left her with little time to ponder.
Connie had been in Sydney a year when her world changed. It started with a distressed phone call from her father. ‘Darcy died last night. He got a throat infection. We need you.’ He was sobbing. She felt a part of her slipping away as she wept for her six-year-old brother. She and Myrtle between them had largely reared him from birth. She recalled going yabbying with him in the dam the week before she came to Sydney. He was so excited when he felt the tug on his piece of string; he’d jumped up, grinning: ‘I’ve got some for you, Connie!’ Her heart sank as she realised she would never see that smiling little face again. This young boy was like a son to her and she felt guilty at the thought of his death. Would he have
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died if she’d stayed on the farm? Weighed down by grief, she quickly put a few things into her suitcase and caught the night train to Tenterfield. Bill had assured her that he could easily get temporary help for the shop but the job was still hers as long as she returned within the month. It had been less easy to gain leave from the cinemas and in her desperation she had asked the Blackburns, who were well respected in local musical circles, to speak on her behalf. Connie stayed in Tenterfield for three weeks. After the burial and week of mourning, she found herself slipping back into her former lifestyle. The family was clearly glad to have her home but she began to feel unsettled by a subtle pressure to remain. While it was comforting to have the family, she had no wish to surrender her independence. She also realised, somewhat surprised, that she was missing Norman. Returning to Parramatta, she saw that sales were slipping. Bill was compelled to cut his prices and operate on a very low margin. As the months went by, he seemed to be unable to obtain supply of the ingredients he needed and the range of his products declined, along with the number of his customers. Fortunately, Mrs Granger was still working at the hospital, her income becoming increasingly essential to the continuation of the cake shop. In May Bill was forced to reduce Connie’s hours to four days a week; though this allowed her to work additional time at the theatres, she became anxious. Because the shop was important to her, she tried to discuss her personal concerns with Norman, who was clearly weathering the depths of the Depression more successfully than Bill. But Norman was quick to resist such intimacy and gave the very clear impression that he didn’t want to become involved.
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‘I can’t help you there, Connie,’ he said, much to her surprise and disappointment. The boundaries that restricted their friendship were so inconsistent with the amount of free time they spent together. In August, Bill finally and reluctantly confessed: ‘I’ll have to sell.’ It was devastating news. Connie knew that finding another job, not to mention suitable accommodation, would be difficult; clearly she couldn’t count on Norman to come to her rescue. Determined not to return to the country, she made an urgent call. ‘Dad, why don’t you buy the business? It’d be a good outlet for your produce. I’m experienced now. I could run the place.’ He was cautious but she knew she’d sown a seed. Following Darcy’s death Albert had become interested in Christian Science and wanted to learn more about it. This gave him a reason to come to Sydney and, as there was a Christian Science church in Parramatta, he pursued the takeover of the cake business with an enthusiasm Connie hadn’t expected. He approached Bill that September and agreed to make the purchase before Christmas. He decided that one of his younger daughters could leave nursing in Grafton to help Connie in the shop. Myrtle, who had not been consulted, was far from happy over this career change. But undeterred, Albert went ahead and found a suitable boarding house for his unmarried daughters. And Myrtle came to Sydney.
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Thirteen Connie opened the cake shop in her father’s name two weeks before Christmas, 1932. My mother, the reluctant Myrtle, had arrived the previous week with her father and mother in the family truck loaded with eggs, cheese, preserved apples and fresh cherries. Albert was keen to reduce costs by providing ingredients from his property and hoped in time to become a supplier for similar businesses in the area. In the early months, he began to send butter down by train packed in ice. Norman was interested in the venture and guaranteed them quality dried fruits and juices. Bill hadn’t expected Connie to show an interest in the business side of things, but she was a close observer of his misfortune and now it was paying off. She quickly became an efficient manager, who made few mistakes when it came to purchasing, pricing and doing the accounts. She set up a filing system in a corner of the kitchen and received plenty of advice, not always welcome, from Norman and Albert who’d invariably ask: Have you paid the baker? Do you need more jam? Has Mrs Hassel arrived for that order yet? Where is the latest banking slip?
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When time permitted she continued to visit the Blackburns and to practise on their piano and organ, but now it was only once or twice a week. She and Myrtle worked a half day on Saturday and then she would change her clothes and indulge her real passion: playing at the theatres. Summer, autumn and winter passed so quickly the sisters barely noticed the changing seasons. Albert’s supplies of eggs and butter continued, and Norman came regularly with dried fruits and nuts. It wasn’t until mid-September in 1933, while Albert was helping the girls move a large ice box from the back hallway towards the kitchen, that Connie finally noticed her father’s unhealthy pallor. She looked up as he groaned under the weight of the load and saw what she had failed to see earlier: a thin, worn man, gasping for breath. He seemed to have suddenly lost his robust energy and looked very tired. ‘Are you all right, Dad?’ In her anxiety she nudged Myrtle, pointing towards his face. That evening the sisters shared their guilt, but tended to blame each other for failing to notice his deteriorating health. Why hadn’t they queried the increasing amounts of time he was spending in the city, or thought to ask what he was doing or why he wasn’t returning home? They knew he’d stayed at the Woolpack for the past month, so by the following morning they were ready to bombard him with questions. ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Diabetes.’ Myrtle was shocked and pleaded with her father to see Dr Peters immediately. ‘I’ve seen Dr Watt back home.’ When Myrtle asked about treatment, he confessed to his trust in the healthy diet prescribed by Norman and to his faith
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that Christian Science would heal him. Both daughters were appalled. ‘If you want to help me, you’ll follow my path,’ he told them. It was a hard ask. Connie wanted him well and well quickly; neither sister could imagine life without him. Myrtle, with her hospital training, felt that their father needed drastic medical treatment and both sisters continued to implore him to seek professional assistance in the city. Albert won out, but Connie still wasn’t satisfied. ‘Why can’t he combine medical treatments with diet and meditation?’ she lamented to Myrtle. Determined not to give in, she finally went to see Norman. He must have been moved by the unconcealed misery in her eyes as she poured out all her anxieties, because this time he allowed the boundaries to slip a little and didn’t turn her away. ‘These things take time,’ Norman said. ‘He’s made his choice, so help him by accepting the treatments he has chosen.’ He lent her books on healthy eating and, after she returned to Parramatta, she spent the rest of the evening reading their positive messages and studying the ‘life-giving’ recipes. Resigned to the fact there was little alternative, she lent the books to Myrtle and together they began to join Albert in prayer and took time to prepare special meals in the shop. Norman kept Albert well supplied with health products, though he had little faith in spiritual healing. Connie’s feelings oscillated wildly. On her father’s good days she was confident and radiated optimism, but darker days were increasing. With no medical assistance, the sisters felt the full weight of responsibility for his recovery. Often they simply felt helpless. Albert finally went home.
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He died in Tenterfield shortly before Christmas, 1933. They were devastated. Norman came quickly to their side and Connie guessed he shared their feelings of failure. He suggested that they spend some time in Tenterfield while he organised temporary help at the shop, but Myrtle insisted they return to Parramatta by the New Year. Connie knew that Myrtle was currently mesmerised by a young man called John, who regularly appeared in their shop, but she was devastated when, after their early return, Myrtle virtually abandoned her, seeking support only from John. This left Connie with a considerable void. She had been particularly close to her father during his final illness; now that he was gone, she frequently called by the Blackburns’ to seek solace in her music. Mozart’s highly ordered compositions, with their thematic variations and lack of sentimentality, enveloped and consoled her. They alleviated, but could not cure, her lost sense of security. She found herself longing for a more intimate companion, and Norman was the logical choice. He’d been closely involved in Albert’s care so the love and affection she had lavished on her father she now subtly transferred to him. His previous ‘hands-off’ approach was outdated, and she felt he was responding to her warmth and even hinting at romance. By February he was in Parramatta every weekend and, as she maintained her work at the cinema, Norman was there to hear her play. They would stay on afterwards to watch a film or a comedy show, and then he would escort her back to her boarding house. On Sundays they strolled in the park, listening to music, or sat in teahouses talking about music and films. Now he held her hand, sometimes even venturing an arm around her waist. She found herself loving whatever tenderness
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he could offer, and was thrilled when he began to accompany these small attentions with a gentle kiss. He was a real gentleman; but was this enough? She excitedly started a journal in an exercise book she’d once bought for the shop. Having romantic notions about a long-term friend—an older man into the bargain—would be unacceptable to many in the family who already regarded him with suspicion. On paper, she could express feelings it would be unwise to communicate openly.
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Fourteen Norman had many reasons to keep his relationship with Connie uncomplicated, but now he was in a dilemma. He had drawn closer to her in recent weeks and the thought of romance with a woman he had long admired was tempting, though he knew it would be unsustainable. Should he expose her to one of his whirlwind romantic encounters, as he chose to think of them, when it would ultimately put a valued friendship at risk? He’d been careful to conceal from her the thrill of the chase he experienced; he knew from previous encounters how quickly he developed disgust when a woman became too clinging. He knew that women had a tendency to devour a man, rob him of his independence and his time. Even during the sexual act, they seemed to want to draw him in, cling to him and never let him go. Norman would never allow this to happen to him. Men were firmer, stronger and less complicated; but he didn’t intend to dwell on this. He was a successful businessman and wasn’t going to muddy his name by being labelled a queer. He preferred serial womanising as a means of quelling his lust.
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He could have visited a prostitute as a sexual release, but he saw them as shabby, dirty and reeking of other men’s semen. He remembered his childhood in Wales with his two sisters. His father, a miner, had been injured in the Sudanese War, and had worked above ground after that. He progressed to managing the mine’s office. Their family home had been filled with music. His father taught him how to play the piano; his mother sang. When their father played, he and his sisters used to love crowding around the small upright piano they’d inherited from their grandfather, and joining their mother in a chorus. Norman was fourteen when his father died. He had already started work in his father’s office—a lucky break as it turned out, as he was able to avoid the filth of the mines. He loved the company of his sisters and their girlfriends, whom he’d accompany to concerts; he encouraged them to take an interest in fashion and their general presentation. He had high standards of personal hygiene himself and liked dressing carefully, meticulously even. He loved striding the hills and valleys around the village like a lord of the manor, feeling little passion for men’s talk of sport, women and drink. His family, he felt, was refined—a cut above the grubby lives many endured in the town. As the main breadwinner, he allowed his work to become all-consuming and even took a second job in the music hall in Merthyr Tydfil. But he was restless. He felt there was more to life than a Welsh mining village. His mother wanted to see him get a steady girlfriend and settle down, but he couldn’t tell her he’d already sampled girls and found they quickly demanded marriage in return for sexual favours. They were dirty at close quarters, so he preferred to socialise with girls like his sisters,
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who had no such expectations. But his mother’s pressure grew. In his early twenties he heard of an opportunity to migrate to Australia, a place on the other side of the planet where, he believed, he could become the lord of all he surveyed. He sailed from London in March 1899 on the Arayaba. A week into the voyage he met George Evans, an older man who came from the town of Ebbw Vale, which was not far from his home. The two Welshmen quickly teamed up, amused to be migrating to a ‘new South Wales’. Both had been involved in the music halls and shared a deep love of music. George had a deep bass voice, which blended well with Norman’s baritone. George introduced him to the idea of natural foods and they spent most of their time on the voyage in each other’s company visualising the shop they eventually established in Sydney. They stayed together for some years until eventually Norman saw the opportunity to open his own business and the partnership dissolved. In his shop he was king. He was ambitious and hardworking, and gradually built up a steady clientele by stocking an increasing array of products. He became like a doctor, dispensing cures for a range of health problems. Women found him attractive and many of his whirlwind affairs were with women who came to his ‘surgery’. He finally met his match in Vera. She was a young country girl who had arrived in Sydney six years before Connie, without friends or suitable accommodation. She found employment at Mark Foy’s, a fashionable department store, and used to call to see Norman on her way to work each day. Norman helped her find a room in The Rocks and they quickly began an affair. It continued longer than the usual two to three weeks until she became pregnant and told him they had to marry.
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This angered Norman. She had used a diaphragm, which was supposed to be foolproof. He was disgusted, and convinced she’d done it deliberately to hook him. He was not about to share his bed, his bathroom and his kitchen for the rest of his life with a woman who was loose enough to have her own diaphragm! He offered her money for an abortion, but she was horrified; she begged him, through floods of tears, to reconsider. But eventually she gave in and a doctor in Paddington had performed the operation. But afterwards she started to stalk Norman, often arriving at closing time and pestering him to let her stay. In the end, when he threatened to call the police, she disappeared from his life. Norman sought refuge in his shop. It gratified his senses; he was not going to put that at risk with any more affairs. He built up his business around the things he loved; he equipped it, not with ordinary storage items, but with containers offering a variety of shapes, colours and textures, which provided such sensual delight. Some exuded the astringent smells of plants such as the citrus, while lavender had a more relaxing perfume and the Indian balms hinted at seduction. His massage customers were male. He liked the feel of their tight muscles and firm torsos, and the wonderful aroma that filled the air when he rubbed them down with his special potions. He didn’t have women customers for massage. It would not have been seemly. But the pattern of his life had altered since he’d met Connie. In Connie he believed he’d found a soul mate. She was sensual, but not filled with silly, romantic expectations. He found himself longing for sexual gratification and she was making it more difficult these days by smiling up at him and
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reaching for his hand, which he had until recently kept to his side. He’d been so careful. Whenever the urge to embrace her had arisen, he’d always managed to step back until the moment passed. There had been many good reasons for his distance. Her father was a good friend. Her genuine interest in his health studio, as he preferred to call his shop, pleased him. Her music took him back to his childhood, reminding him of his sisters and their girlfriends, whom he used to escort to concerts in Merthyr Tydfil. His love for Beethoven and Mozart had never wavered. He was also a film buff and the showman in him loved watching Connie play to the large audience between programs. But it was no longer enough. He knew she would not resist him if he made a romantic move. If he threw caution to the wind, they could have a sexual affair. His only worry was salvaging the friendship when inevitably his lust was sated. It was worth the gamble!
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Fifteen The invitation came in early February 1934. Connie and Norman had shared many lunches squeezed between busy work schedules. Sometimes they’d bought a sandwich or a pie, which they would eat while listening to a band in the park; they’d sat in teahouses or in The Star after interval. But Norman had never invited her to dinner. Not once in the three years she’d known him. She was in a flurry of excitement, expectant but trying to keep a lid on her emotions. It mightn’t mean anything—it’s just a dinner, she told herself. She didn’t want Norman to think she was jumping to conclusions, or for herself to make too much of it for that matter. She spent the morning in the shop and, as it was Saturday, closed the doors promptly at midday. For once she wasn’t playing at The Star or the Town Hall, so she planned to spend a couple of hours luxuriating in lengthy preparations. Myrtle had a date that afternoon with John, so Connie was free of snooping young eyes. She arrived at Norman’s shop shortly after three, dressed in the new outfit she’d finally bought on Friday at Murray’s. She
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had dithered for several days over the orange-and-green printed frock, with its matching green hat and gloves, trying to determine whether it would meet with Norman’s approval. She felt pleased with the result as she eyed herself critically in the small mirror over the dressing table before stepping out, full of nervous anticipation, to catch the city-bound train. It was a hot trip into the city and, as she arrived at Norman’s door, she felt with dismay moisture leaking from her armpits. I hope he doesn’t notice, she thought, self-consciously hugging her arms closely to her side as she greeted him. Norman, much to her relief, had planned a stroll in the Botanic Gardens nearby, saying: ‘It’ll be cooler by the waterfront.’ He reassured her that there would be plenty of time left for a leisurely dinner and for her to catch the 7.45 train so as to be home before it was too dark. That beautiful rich baritone voice spoke to her, not at her. Strolling towards the harbour, her heart soared as Norman pressed her hand, encouraging her to turn and catch his smile. Their eyes locked before she could turn away and she blushed. Norman was amused, though he pretended he hadn’t noticed her embarrassment. But she’d seen his look and wondered if she was making a fool of herself. Like a baby sister? They walked on in silence until Norman mentioned a film, The Mutiny on the Bounty, showing at the Regent Theatre: ‘It’s time you enjoyed our city theatres,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come with me next Saturday?’ This was a far cry from their usual routine, free music in the park; though her skin tingled, she tried to remain calm. ‘Well,’ she reminded him hesitantly, ‘I’ll be at the Town Hall. But I could come after two . . .’ ‘You’ll like the Regent,’ he continued, fully expecting her
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response. ‘The organist sits on a dais raised especially for her recital.’ This was not like Norman, and Connie giggled, thrilled by his new-found warmth. Returning to the shop, Norman closed the door firmly and drew the heavy brown curtains before ushering her into the small private sitting room she’d previously visited only when accompanied by her father. ‘I’ll get us some fruit juice and a slice of date and walnut loaf. Please sit on the couch. I won’t be long,’ he said, more formally than the setting suggested. He separated a small nest of tables and put one beside her, another nearby for himself. He brought the refreshments, placing them carefully on the tables he’d protected with white doilies, and sat beside her instead of assuming his normal regal posture on a chair which accommodated him alone. His proximity was overwhelming. Connie found herself gazing at his hands—those strong, assured and determined hands she’d recently held on the harbour front. She shivered with pleasure as she remembered the intimate smile. Down the passageway, she recalled, was the bed Norman used for massage. The bed where she’d sat when she first came to the shop. This oddly elusive man was exhibiting an unexpectedly romantic side and she was unsure how to respond. She tried to listen as he talked about a concert that he’d attended with his friend Theo from Melbourne, but she didn’t hear. Instead, she imagined those hands gently but firmly massaging her and she swayed, ever so slightly, under their seductive pressure. She was a tinderbox awaiting its spark. For three years they’d had separate chairs, and now they were nearly touching!
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Connie instinctively edged towards the armrest but Norman brought her back, holding his glass of juice high and wooing hers to chink against his in a toast: ‘To produce good cheer,’ he said as he edged closer. She was giving ground, excited but hesitant. Then, out of nowhere, came remembered words. He’s not the marrying kind. She wanted to block this thought out, but the sense of her father’s presence was strong. Suddenly she stood up and took her emptied glass to the small round table that Norman had covered with a cream linen tablecloth. She noticed the two matching serviettes he’d folded carefully and placed in the centre. Looking around, she felt the claustrophobia of the small room as she took in her surroundings. Norman lingered on the couch, his feet neatly resting between the two small tables. She was barely a pace away, leaning rather too heavily against one of the straight-backed chairs covered in brown velvet. A pole-like standard lamp with a bright orange shade was casting light on the empty armchair. A small tiled fireplace sat snugly beside a glass-fronted display case filled with books, some of which she’d read when her father was sick. Nearby was a large cabinet containing a wireless. ‘What about tea?’ she asked hastily. Norman rose, apologising, and said he’d been forgetting the time. From the kitchen he carried two Crown Derby plates containing a thick wedge of vegetable-and-nut loaf which he had neatly balanced with a perfectly rounded lettuce leaf containing a potato salad decorated with three thin slices of tomato topped with sprigs of parsley. She was impressed. Norman spoke about his old home in Wales, about his sisters and cousins who lived close by. Intimate details. Connie
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had heard little of his former life and was captivated by these unexpected glimpses of ‘her man’. On the way home in the train, her heart was dancing. He loves me, she thought and this time her smile broadened. That night she reached for her journal, hidden among her underclothes in the shared wardrobe, and scribbled: ‘I don’t even remember what we ate. I was hypnotised by the perfumed oils and fragrances which surrounded us, barely contained within their phials. My brain is bursting with frightening, exciting messages. Am I falling in love or tempted by the devil?’ Norman walked back to the shop, indulging his own thoughts of intimacy. He knew she longed to be enveloped in his arms. You will, my girl, he smiled. I’ve thrown out the spin rod and I’ll bring you in slowly. Softly, gently, slowly . . .
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Sixteen On the last Friday in February, Norman arrived to fetch the two sisters in the 1928 Chevrolet he had just purchased. From the front verandah Connie had seen the black car arrive, watched closely as its elegant driver stepped onto the kerb, and in her excitement she went running to meet him, her hands outstretched, a smile suffusing her face. ‘I hope nobody was watching,’ he cautioned her, knowing there could be up to six pairs of eyes peering through the boarding-house windows. ‘Will Myrtle be long?’ ‘She’s nearly ready.’ He smiled. Then, somewhat to Connie’s bemusement, he stepped back onto the footprint of the running board and leaned in through the front passenger window to proudly give the freshly oiled backrest one last irresistible caress, rhythmically circling his hand in time to a tune he began humming quietly to himself. Unaware that both Connie and Myrtle were curiously watching him, he rounded off his melody with a firm prod to the soft leather seat before looking up.
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‘All ready then?’ he asked jovially to cover his discomfort, and sweeping Myrtle a chivalrous bow, added: ‘Please, madame, your case.’ She handed him a small suitcase and accepted his hand as she stepped daintily onto the running board and up to the front seat, where he continued to fuss over her comfort before closing the door firmly. She was on her way to Tenterfield for two weeks and he had promised Connie that he would take her sister to the station. With a devious wink, he ushered Connie into the back. She was hurt. Why was Norman paying so much attention to her younger sister when they had never been the best of friends? While her fingers itched to stroke the only part of him she could see—his neatly brushed hair—she felt restrained by pangs of jealousy that made her wonder if she was already becoming a ‘has been’. Had he suddenly decided that she was too old? Don’t be silly, she told herself, he’s a good twenty years older than me, closer to thirty for Myrtle! . . . And what about John? She tried to settle back and experience the thrill of his new car, but her excitement didn’t re-emerge until they’d delivered Myrtle to the station. Then Norman stepped briskly to usher Connie into the seat beside him, observing jovially: ‘Well, she’s out of our hair for a couple of weeks!’ Connie’s sombre face blossomed as she leant over to softly kiss his cheek, reassured that she still had pride of place in her man’s affections. ‘This is so much nicer than the train,’ she said, settling back comfortably into her seat. Their return ride seemed much quicker and in no time Norman was stepping onto the footpath in front of the boarding house, before he turned briefly and said, ‘We should have a picnic in the park, tomorrow, after your recital.’
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Smiles mixed with tears, which she wiped hurriedly before Norman appeared at the passenger door to escort her to the gate. Stepping from the car, she felt like a flapper from The Great Gatsby, her feet barely touching the ground. Remembering his earlier caution, she refrained from offering a kiss but waved coyly from inside the gate, only her eyes betraying love and admiration.
He arranged the afternoon, as he arranged everything in his life, with care and an eye for detail. As usual, he was perfectly groomed, but this time in flannels, a blue striped blazer and panama hat. He arrived at her house shortly after four, giving her time to change. Connie wore her khaki-green cotton skirt with small slimming side pockets. In her excitement, the buttons on her new, long-sleeved white blouse found the wrong holes and she almost tore several from their moorings in her haste to refasten them. She was so pleased that Myrtle wasn’t there. A picnic with Norman in his new car! She could hardly contain herself. When they arrived at Parramatta Park, picnickers were already packing their leftovers and rounding up those wandering children who were playing in the river off Little Coogee Beach. ‘Let’s paddle,’ said Norman, much to Connie’s surprise. She had never imagined this dignified man taking off his highly polished shoes and dark-brown socks, let alone revealing the bare white flesh that must lie beneath. ‘Wouldn’t we get sandy?’ ‘It’ll cool us down,’ he said, his eyes laughing in anticipation. She caught her breath as he produced a blue-and-green
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checked woollen rug from the picnic basket he was carrying and spread it over a small grassy patch well concealed by bushes, upstream from the dressing sheds. He lent Connie a hand to steady her as she sat—rather too heavily, she thought—on the waiting rug. She remained quietly for a minute or two staring sightlessly towards the river. She had never been in such a romantic situation and when she turned her shining eyes towards him, he had already taken off his shoes and socks and was beginning to roll up the bottoms of his trousers. Connie realised she had come ill-prepared. ‘I’ll be back shortly,’ she said. With Norman making no response, she eased herself back up onto her feet slowly. She was reluctant to go to the dressing sheds where, she guessed, people would still be changing from wet costumes. Instead, she walked as gracefully as she could towards some bushes further along the slope. Here no one was in view so she bent over, unhitched each stocking from her suspenders, and peeled them awkwardly down each leg. She felt uneasy as she squeezed these intimate items into her slim skirt pockets but, by the time she returned, Norman was already paddling his toes and beckoning her to join him. She ran excitedly down the slope and onto the sandy spit, just in time to receive a splash on her new blouse. Ankle-deep in the river, laughing, she bent down to scoop up handfuls of water in retaliation—feeling like a young schoolgirl, her companion a much younger Mr Jones! Afterwards, considerably damper and breathless, they climbed back up the bank and Norman produced a red striped towel for her to dry her feet and wipe the wet patches on her clothes. Meanwhile he began unpacking the picnic he had
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prepared. First, he carefully unfolded a deep blue tablecloth; he took out two thick orange china plates that had been carried within it and spread the cloth over the rug. Then he brought out several colourful boxes: one contained a lettuce, cucumber and beetroot salad, another neatly enshrined slices of ham with some fresh wholemeal bread rolls. He laid the food carefully on the two plates and handed one to Connie. After they had eaten, he produced two cups and a thermos of tea. ‘To keep us warm,’ he said as the twilight faded. Connie looked around as she sipped the sweet fluid and became aware of the darkening and deserted park. ‘Shouldn’t we be going?’ she asked. ‘Let’s listen to the call of the birds for a little.’ As Norman lay back on the now-cleared rug, he gently tugged at her arm, bringing her to lie within his protective embrace. She was excited, nervous, timid and audacious; later she was never sure how she really felt. He kissed her gently at first, but then with more passion. She had the uncomfortable feeling of his tongue in her mouth, and felt his hand creeping under her skirt. She tried to sit up, but he reassured her that there was nothing to fear; they were doing nothing wrong. ‘Just enjoy it,’ he whispered. She felt warm, close, enveloped and loved. Her discomfort dissolved and, when she felt his hand tugging at her panties, she moved towards him. Afterwards, as they lay on the darkened ground she thought suddenly of the heroine in the film Friends and Lovers they’d seen together the previous week and asked Norman anxiously: ‘Will you still like me in the morning?’ ‘Of course!’ The two weeks of Myrtle’s absence confirmed a different relationship, one that, for Connie, was much deeper than
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friendship. On the final evening, she said excitedly: ‘Won’t Myrtle be surprised!’ ‘This is our secret,’ warned Norman. ‘It’s our business, and we should keep it that way.’
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Seventeen In Connie’s mind, the proposal could be only minutes away. So why shouldn’t Myrtle know? Now she was allowing him such intimacy, it surely was only a few weeks before her family would be gathering to celebrate their marriage. Not that Norman had mentioned a date—or marriage, for that matter. But she wasn’t concerned. She trusted that this disciplined, mature and organised man probably had it in hand. He’d told her ‘not to worry’. She would allow nothing to spoil her happiness. What if . . . but she didn’t want to think along those lines. The words had a dirty feel and he had assured her: ‘I’ll take care’; ‘Nothing bad will happen’; ‘This is our secret.’ He’d been there when Darcy died and for her father’s illness, and now they were . . . she resisted the word lovers. She knew she could trust him. Norman invited her to the State Theatre to celebrate her birthday on 5 March and, with Myrtle still away, they were set to make a night of it. After entering the lush gold and red foyers animated by figurines set against a patterning of foliage, they’d
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walked up the sweeping grand pink stone staircase leading to the galleries, taking time to gaze up at the vast 20,000-bulb chandelier that lit the auditorium. She was the happiest and most privileged woman in the theatre, she thought, and, when the hydraulic lift brought the 30-piece orchestra to the stage, she asked Norman to pinch her arm to make sure that she wasn’t dreaming. The enchantment carried over into Norman’s bed in Pitt Street. For the first time she felt at liberty to engage actively in the lovemaking, forgetting the rules of prudery so vigorously reinforced in her upbringing. That night she discovered new heights of pleasure in the act of being held, kissed with passion and penetrated. She later recorded the romantic occasion in graphic detail, beginning with the sumptuous theatre then continuing: ‘I love Norman and am now utterly shameless. I love lying in full abandon: legs spread widely. Something so good can’t be wrong, can it?’ After Myrtle’s return, there was seldom the opportunity to stay away for a whole night and their liaisons became more clandestine. Their affair, however, continued and was still in full vigour at the beginning of June despite the continuing silence of Norman on the timing of an engagement and wedding. As the weeks flew by, it was so hard not to tell people that she was walking on air and she found it increasingly difficult to pretend that Norman was simply an ‘old friend of the family’. Despite her best efforts, she feared Myrtle was watching her more closely. On one occasion the younger sister scolded her: ‘Why are you wasting so much time with Norman? Find someone your own age, for goodness sake!’ If only you knew,
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Connie thought. Bursting to share her excitement and love, when even Norman discouraged ‘lovers’ talk’, she increasingly turned to her journal, frequently and lavishly pouring out her romantic feelings onto its pages. At the end of May Connie observed: ‘Myrtle’s quite nosy about where I go on weekends. It’s none of her business. She says I’m neglecting my music and implies that my friendship with Norman is unsuitable. Little does she guess! I do wish though he’d say just once, “I love you”.’ In early June: ‘I stayed a whole night with Norman! It was marvellous! He held me closely; that’s when I didn’t have him moving urgently inside me. And then the most wonderful thing happened. A tingling, vibrating streak of what seemed like electrical energy surged through my body. I screamed in pleasure. Norman was delighted. Why wasn’t I told?’ Two weeks later she was writing: ‘I feel so guilty. But oh how I love those intimate hugs: to be held, caressed, made love to. My married sisters probably do it every night. What a difference a ring makes! Won’t everyone be surprised when we tell them we’re getting married! Norman hasn’t mentioned it yet, but he’ll pop the question soon. ‘Norman is so playful, so passionate, so determined. He said tonight that I won’t get pregnant. He hasn’t used that word before. My mum was always pregnant when I was growing up. She didn’t know how to stop the babies. ‘Making love is so exciting. Every time we are in a different place. A passionate encounter is breathtaking. Maybe I’m a sinner to like it like this, but he can be so persuasive and when I’m with him I love it. I’m going to spend my life with him. He’s sure to set the date next week!’ •
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This was the last impassioned entry in her journal. Unbeknown to Connie, the ‘love affair’ was fast running out of steam. Whether it was her ardour or her obvious expectation of marriage that caused his sudden cooling, or simply his own resistance to ownership and his unacknowledged fondness for the male body, the entry a week later was a presentiment of the harsh months to follow: ‘I can’t believe I was so naive. I should tear out that previous page: I’m a fool, a stupid fool.’ On the Saturday, she dressed very carefully in her favourite pink dress. She even went to the hairdresser and got Myrtle to paint her nails. She had bought a smart red handkerchief and a matching tie as a present for Norman, and had spent an age wrapping them and writing ever so carefully on the card, ‘with love from Connie’. She’d arrived at his shop around four that afternoon in midJune. As he opened the door, she smiled broadly but, as she reached forward for a hug and kiss, he withdrew. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Nothing, nothing. Come in,’ he said. They went into his private quarters and he sat on his favourite leather chair, leaving her alone on the couch. ‘What have I done wrong?’ she asked again. ‘Nothing, Connie,’ he said. Trying to ignore this uncharacteristic behaviour, she said brightly: ‘Well, I have a present for you.’ Then she rose to give him the small parcel she’d so carefully selected and wrapped. In her journal she later noted: ‘He blushed. Norman blushed! I was shocked. What had I done wrong? Nothing. He seemed to spend the whole time saying “nothing”.’ Norman had prepared an elegant early supper of Dresden patties accompanied by an egg lily salad. When they sat down,
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each on either side of the table, he became more relaxed and spoke at length of a new preparation he was developing for sleep problems. Anxious that she was the cause of his strange behaviour, she was only half listening. A couple of times she tried to interrupt and finally she asked him directly why he was treating her almost as a stranger instead of a loving friend. For a moment or two he was quiet. Then he said in a low voice that, while he valued their friendship, he thought the intimate cuddles were wrong. ‘We should be friends again,’ he said. Words failed her. Connie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It was as though he had slapped her across the face. Questions flew through her mind, questions she knew she should be asking. What had all those intimate cuddles and tender reassuring words meant? They had made love so many times and he had encouraged her to believe they were doing the right thing, which she had taken to mean that they would shortly marry. A nasty taste penetrated the Dresden patty she was eating and she pushed it to one side. As soon as supper was finished, she abruptly rose to leave. ‘That’s fine,’ he said and, after she had collected her handbag, he offered her a brotherly kiss. She felt like wiping it from her face, but instead she stood placidly, failing to reciprocate. Whatever did I think I was doing when I raced off to the shop in my lunch hour to buy that expensive handkerchief and tie? He walked with her to the train station though they hardly spoke and, for the first time in many months, he didn’t take her hand. She barely slept that night and the next morning she wrote in her journal: ‘He is coming next Saturday, but I’m worried and confused. Why this sudden need to revert to our former friendship when we are already . . . ? What have I done wrong? He could only say, “It’s me, I’m not like other men.”
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‘ “You’re wonderful,” I’d spluttered, but that was before he said he only wanted us to be friends. “Don’t say that,” he’d said. “I’m not all I seem.” Well, he’s certainly fooled me. I don’t know what to think.’ His words continued to reverberate in her brain: ‘I’m not like other men’; ‘I’m not all I seem.’ What is he telling me? Has he found someone else? Is it my body? How could our cuddles be wrong when, up until now, they have been so right?
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Eighteen Connie didn’t want to see Norman on Saturday. Although he’d been so persuasive in the past, as she sat alone on the back steps of the boarding house later that week she wondered if she’d been naive to trust him. A queasy sensation, spiralling from her stomach, sent her spinning down the stairs just in time to throw up in the tall grass behind the outside lavatory. It wasn’t the first time; she’d done the same thing yesterday in the toilet bowl. Mind over matter, she muttered. Get a grip, girl; you are letting him get to you! It didn’t help. She was sick again next day in the shop and had to rush off in the middle of serving a meat pie to one of the regulars, a young woman from the boarding house. Worse still, Myrtle noticed and said: ‘What’s wrong, Con? You look like death warmed up and your breath stinks.’ Trust Myrtle to come straight to the point. ‘I’m just a bit off-colour.’ ‘Go home and get some rest,’ said Myrtle. ‘It’s a quiet day, I can manage.’
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Connie had no interest in arguing and was already on her way out the door when she noticed that she was still wearing her white apron and whipped it off, cramming it into the pink stringbag she always brought to the shop. Once inside the small room she shared with Myrtle, she flung off her outer clothes and crawled into the safety of her bed, cocooning herself, shutting down her tormenting thoughts, seeking oblivion. And slept soundly, curled up like a baby possum in its mother’s pouch. Much later she stirred when Myrtle opened the door and crept in, but she kept her eyes closed. She didn’t want to talk. But lying there, the fears her sleep had momentarily allayed made their menacing return. Could her sickness be something more sinister than an ordinary tummy upset? She found herself thinking of the rule drummed into her as a young girl: ‘Never sleep with a man unless you are married.’ Her mother had been even more specific: ‘Don’t let a man touch you; he’ll lose control and afterwards you’ve lost his respect.’ Connie recalled a girl from the bakery in Tenterfield—what was her name? Emma used to say about her: ‘She’s not nice; she’s too free with the boys!’ ‘She’s a slut,’ said her brother when their mother was out of earshot. Later the girl disappeared and Emma told her daughters that the baker’s girl had got herself into trouble and received her ‘just deserts’. Just what those ‘just deserts’ meant was unclear at the time but Connie recalled accepting that it was something that happened to bad girls, loose girls, girls who were loose with their bodies and their heads.
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She straightened her legs and pulled the blankets firmly around her shoulders, trying to reassure herself that she was worrying needlessly: It doesn’t happen to girls like me; I’m in love with a caring man who says, ‘I’ll look after you, don’t worry, I won’t tell.’ But would he look after her? Norman’s recent strange behaviour, not to mention her recurring bouts of sickness, cast doubt on the legitimacy of those warm, fuzzy feelings. She turned uneasily in the small single bed, unable to block a stream of unpalatable thoughts that surged into her consciousness. Instead of a woman in love, was it possible that she was just another baker’s girl, an outcast of society? No one would want to know her! She must take immediate action, just in case she had a problem—a problem she couldn’t name. She’d see Norman on Saturday after all and tell him he’d been her fiancé since February; surely it was time they came out into the open, declared their love and married! But was she being too hasty? He might take umbrage if he felt she was pressuring him. Perhaps his abrupt change was only a minor blip in their relationship. Maybe his coolness the other night had no real meaning and by Saturday he would again be the man she thought she knew and loved. But with a sense of foreboding she recalled their many intimate cuddles on the river bank, in his shop, in the Chev, and the soft reassuring way he told her, ‘I won’t tell.’ And what had he meant when he said, ‘We’ll stay friends’? Was he really saying ‘I’ll never marry you’? The idea once more triggered the memory of her father’s warning: ‘He’s not the marrying kind.’ Somehow, she dragged herself from her bed next morning and continued to work in the shop for the rest of the week.
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By Saturday, she’d convinced herself that marriage was imminent. Norman met her in front of the Parramatta town hall after she had played the accompaniment for a singer preparing for her role in the short Gilbert and Sullivan opera Trial By Jury, which was to be staged in the spring. They walked silently to a café nearby and sat facing one another across a small round table. Connie sought his eyes, but he wouldn’t look at her. Instead, he spoke at length to the waitress, taking his time to question her on the blends of tea and fussing over the ingredients in the two slices of teacake he was ordering; as he spoke, he fiddled with his cufflinks, ones she hadn’t seen before. Then, when the waitress finally disappeared, he took to shaking his watch, as much as to say, It must be later than that! ‘We need to talk,’ she said at last. ‘I’m—’ ‘You look as if you need a rest,’ he interrupted. ‘Why don’t you go home for a while? One of your other sisters would help with the shop.’ ‘But Norman, this is—’ Norman sat tall in his chair, in a way that frightened her; her resolve vanished. The ice in his voice as he continued to ignore her efforts to communicate sent a shiver down her spine: ‘I’m off to Melbourne tomorrow, staying with Theo. Closing the health studio and I’ll be back in a week or two.’ ‘You never said—’ Norman had never taken a holiday in the three years she had known him. ‘That’s the advantage of being a bachelor!’ She tried to hide the moisture accumulating in her eyes by sipping her tea; she left the teacake untouched on her plate. She wanted to run out of that place, out of Norman’s reach, away from the love nest she thought was her future home. Feeling threatened by the indifference of the man she had
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believed she would marry, colour drained from her face and the sick feeling returned. She gulped visibly; stifling as best she could the urge to vomit the tea she’d just swallowed, she put her hand to her forehead, which was growing hotter. Norman seemed not to notice the tears, the grey face or the heated brow and went on describing the musical venues he’d be visiting while he was in Melbourne with Theo. They walked back to her boarding house, side by side but seemingly separated by a void neither tried to bridge. Norman said ‘goodbye’ in his rich baritone voice. ‘I’ll call,’ he said, raising his felt hat and sweeping his hand quickly over his greying hair, before replacing the hat, ‘some time after Melbourne.’ No mention was made of the holiday he had recommended she take. That evening she tossed fretfully in bed, unable to sleep, unable to turn off a recurring chant from her subconscious— ‘You’re three weeks late! You’re three weeks late!’—until she could ignore it no longer. The phrase ‘in the family way’ slipped into her mind, but she wasn’t married so it didn’t apply! No, it was that dreaded word, ‘pregnant’, which Norman had casually mentioned on their last wonderful night together. Why hadn’t she, Connie, the second of thirteen children, thought she could get in the family way? She was no longer a respectable person. Clearly Norman had lost interest, though he would keep her as a friend, he had said on that dreadful night in the shop. But this afternoon, when she really needed him, he hadn’t given her a chance to tell him of her fears. He would call and see her when he returned from Melbourne, he said. But did he really want to know a wanton woman? Wild thoughts careered through her head like stampeding cattle. She’d have to find a way to get rid of it!
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Two weeks later, her journal entry described the desperate measures she took to seek a cure for her ‘woman’s’ problem’: ‘I’m scorching in hot baths but can’t afford to attract attention. I’m collecting kindling from the park and hiding it by the back fence. This way they won’t see the quantities I’m shovelling into the bath heater. I’m jumping, down in the park and off the bed when Myrtle’s out.’ She even managed a touch of humour: ‘With all this exercise it’s a pity I’m not younger. I could be off to the Berlin Olympics! I can pull myself together. I must work on it.’ But later she added: ‘I should tell him, marry me or leave me completely.’ Her resolve quickly weakened and her disturbed state of mind is obvious from notations on the following page: ‘Do I want a man who marries me out of pity? A husband who rejects my body? His friendship isn’t enough. Why is he so cold? Pray God I’m not really pregnant. Pregnant . . . The word is planted in my brain and it won’t let me go. If he can’t stand touching me, how on earth would he cope with a woman and a spewing baby? . . . I can’t be in the family way. And I’ll never tell him if I am, or the family, they must never know either . . . they wouldn’t understand unless he marries me.’
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Nineteen Three agonising weeks passed. Then, without warning, Norman called into the shop. Would she like to go to a recital in the park on the following Sunday? Against her better judgment, Connie was excited. He’s missed me, she thought. I’ll tell him, and we’ll marry. She was even smiling in the shop for the rest of the day. ‘You’re not serious about him, are you?’ asked Myrtle, who had noticed the sudden improvement in her colour. Connie was tempted to tell her they were soon to be married, but thought better of it. It’ll come out soon enough, she assured herself. After this brief encounter which had taken place during a lull in customers, she just wanted to tread carefully. But by midday she was almost skipping between the ovens, ice chest and display cases as she rushed to serve the lunchtime crowd. The following Sunday Connie found she had the large old boarding house to herself and took a long bath before dressing in the green suit with the loose-fitting jacket she’d bought a week ago, when she’d been worried that she might soon begin to show.
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Her moods had swung wildly all week. Sometimes she visualised the wonderful words ‘love’ and ‘marriage’ falling from Norman’s moistened lips and her tread lightened, her movements quickened and her eyes flashed a twinkle. But such highs didn’t last. They were soon dampened by a cautionary whisper she heard reverberating in her head: Those words are taboo; he can’t articulate them! Which brought on an attack of the if-onlys: If only I’d realised before I got myself into trouble. If only I’d known that he offered no future. If only I’d listened to Mum! And Dad! But maybe . . . And then the cycle would repeat itself. She was as restless as a young filly—one minute certain of a proposal, the next believing she was doomed. They met at the door. Norman was smartly dressed in casual trousers and the blue striped blazer she remembered him wearing on their first night of intimacy in Parramatta Park. It’s a good sign, she thought. As they walked along the street she reached for his hand, but he transferred the case he was carrying so it was now between them. When they reached the area in the park where the band was playing, he produced his checked woollen rug and spread it on the ground, saying, ‘It’ll save dirtying your dress,’ but he sat down without offering her any assistance. She tried to edge closer but he crossed his legs and turned towards the musicians. Worried that this could be her last opportunity to tell him they needed to marry, she suggested they take a stroll by the river after the concert. ‘I have something very important to tell you,’ she said hesitantly.
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‘It’ll have to wait. I have to be back in the city before six,’ he said loftily. ‘I haven’t the time.’ She could deny it no longer: she’d been jilted. She sat there fingering the blue and green checks on the rug, irritated by the music that engrossed Norman. She visualised him sitting in a large bus, gazing through the back window as it pulled away, waving her and the unborn child a cheery farewell. It was over. Perhaps it is not too late for an abortion, she sobbed quietly to herself as she lingered near the woodpile later that evening. So far she’d lacked the courage to consult a doctor. That night she hardly slept, thinking of various scenarios. Her hot baths and exercise were a waste of time as they’d never produced the longed-for sign that a natural termination was imminent. Should she find someone to help her get rid of the baby? Her thoughts turned to Nora, a local girl who had been in trouble not long before Connie first came to Sydney. They’d been in the same class in high school and Nora had trusted her enough to seek her advice, tearfully confessing her predicament. But Connie was too shocked to be of any assistance and Nora went to see a woman in Drake, a small town outside Tenterfield, and returned very sick. Connie visited her in hospital; they said she had blood poisoning. The next year she had married, but then died during childbirth soon after Albert died last Christmas. Following another sleepless night Connie rang and made an appointment for the following Wednesday to see a Dr Angus she had been told about; she would see him while she was in the city buying ingredients for the shop. He confirmed her suspicions and said she was at least three months pregnant. ‘Your husband will be excited,’ he said. She tried to look pleased.
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That night her journal told a different story: ‘I can’t fool myself any longer. I’m used, humiliated, unclean. This ghastly secret will be on the headlines unless I take drastic action. I’m not an outcast, or “a fallen woman” or “a bad girl”. My child mustn’t be a bastard though. God help me! This is a nightmare!’ In Connie’s sleep-deprived state, the claustrophobia of the small, cluttered room—3 metres by 4 metres—that she shared with Myrtle caused her further agitation. The two single beds took up most of the space and they draped the white uniforms they washed every night over a small wooden drying frame propped under the window. Their dresses wouldn’t fit into the little corner cupboard; instead they hung them on a series of hooks they’d nailed to the back of the door. She recalled the baker’s girl in Tenterfield ‘who got herself into trouble’; the one her mother used as a cautionary tale to her daughters. Whereas she had once wondered what type of trouble, now she knew only too intimately. Other names came flooding into her mind. What about Mildred? Connie remembered hearing that she went to see someone in Armidale and, unlike Nora, died during the procedure. Alarmed to find she was wishing she’d accepted Keith’s proposal of marriage and remained in Tenterfield, she sprang out of bed. The full moon beamed through the window and as Myrtle remained undisturbed, Connie felt beneath her pillow for her beloved journal and made a series of hurried notes. She was surprised later to read: ‘I’m still in love with Norman. I still yearn for some of the warmth, closeness and intimacy we shared. For a time at least, I was happy. Those encounters are gone but they were more than that. I still feel his passion, smell his smell; I miss him. I wish I could tell him about our baby. But I can’t.
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‘After the park, I can’t imagine going up to him and saying, “I’m in the family way, Norman.” I can hear that melodious baritone voice of his say, in his very superior and condescending way, “It’s nothing to do with me, Constance!” ‘Did I ever really know him? Can’t somebody help me?’ While serving customers in the shop the following day she longed to take one or two aside and ask for their advice, especially a kindly-looking older woman with a small grandchild by her side who bought one of her special steak and kidney pies. She’d have gone to the church, but it preached of the virtues of chastity so it would be useless seeing a minister. That night she noted: ‘The gossips whisper at concerts and in the shop, belittling girls like me. Purity is essential for the unmarried female and I’ve failed! Women like me shoulder the blame. It’s the wife’s duty to have babies, not a girlfriend! I’m so scared I’ll be ridiculed, outlawed or silenced if anyone discovers. My mind is spinning so fast it makes me giddy. If only I could get some sleep.’ By early October, Connie realised that she could no longer procrastinate. The baby was beginning to feel more real and one morning she caught sight of a small bulge in her tummy as she eyed herself in a mirror in the hallway. At first she was horrified, viewing it as a tumour taking over her body, but that sensation was short-lived. Four months into pregnancy, her feelings were more positive, bordering dangerously on love for the small sprig of life she was sheltering. Thoughts of termination disintegrated. She would have this baby and give it all the love and security it would need to survive in an unfeeling world. She felt she had to find out how women achieved this goal without the help of the father or family.
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Escape was her new priority and she began looking in newspapers and on the local noticeboard in the town hall for a place where she could hide until after the birth. She was at a loss to know where women in her predicament turned, other than to the abortionist or to family. There seemed to be nowhere. As Norman would never know he was to become a father, it was no use asking him. Everything will work out. I must have faith, she told herself. But the sleepless nights continued and Myrtle sometimes noticed her tired eyes. I’ve got to get out of here. I didn’t have a backyard job though I had the chance—even the money. Now it’s too late. I must hide. She thought of buying a train ticket to some remote part of the state. Animals do it by themselves, she thought. Now that the loss of her family and Norman was inevitable, she must steel herself to cope on her own. There was no way she could keep her baby if they had even a hint of her problem. The future belongs here, she thought, patting her tummy. It’s worth the persecution because I’ll prove them all wrong. We’ll find forgiveness. In mid-October, she began to plan her escape. She told Myrtle she’d had an offer to teach music to some children in the country. Her sister’s response was predictable: ‘Oh, don’t do that!’ ‘Why not? You know I love music and I’m really good with children.’ ‘But what about Dad’s shop?’ ‘They’ll sell the business once Dad’s will is finalised. I must look to my future.’ Connie let the subject drop, but at least Myrtle had been warned. She hadn’t seen Norman since the concert, but he called by the following afternoon while he was in Parramatta on business
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and suggested they take a walk in the park. She took the opportunity to tell him she was thinking of going to the country to teach music. He seemed pleased with the idea and said he had thought she was wasting her talents in the shop. He gave her the impression that he was glad she was planning to leave town and, despite her resolve, she spent most of the night in tears. Still, facing up to Myrtle and Norman helped her plan assume credibility in her mind. She had previously taught music in the country and would do so again. She’d find a suitable town, one her family wouldn’t visit. She’d adopt a new persona; perhaps even become a widow with a baby . . . after the birth, of course. She found the courage to call in to the Catholic seminary in Parramatta, where she told a nun that she had a young Catholic girl working at the shop who was in trouble. Where should she go? The girl didn’t want to stay in the city because she was terrified that her parents would find out. The nun was helpful and told Connie about a Catholic home for unmarried girls at Bathurst, where they worked for their keep in the laundry until the baby was born. Then the baby was adopted out. Connie noted down the address and wrote a letter to the home. She never convinced Myrtle of the merit of teaching music in the country; this idea fell on deaf ears. Myrtle knew that clauses in their father’s will meant that the business would eventually be sold and she did not want to be solely in charge when this occurred. She had her relationship with John to consider and he had already made mention of marriage in the following year. Her new home would not be in Parramatta. Despite her opposition Connie could not be dissuaded and Myrtle was angry. She deliberately hurt Connie on the evening of her departure in early November by giving her a cursory kiss
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when she finally boarded the train. She wore a smug smile as she leant heavily on John’s arm and watched the train pull out of Central Station. Connie felt the hostility and was close to tears but, once the train was steaming away from the city, she could only feel relieved. Her secret was safe! I’ve escaped! she breathed, drawing the address of the Bathurst home from her handbag. She’d told both Myrtle and Norman that she was going to Parkes; it was further from Sydney, as well as from Tenterfield. Peering through the window later, she could see the country changing. Once over the Blue Mountains the blue-greens changed to browns. Sooty ash from the engine coated the glass, seeming to envelop the drying landscape and, as Bathurst grew closer, she began worrying about her welcome at the home and her ability to pass as a Catholic.
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Twenty As the train steamed into the long, curved platform Connie was having second thoughts; but the country gentleman sitting opposite was on his feet lifting down her suitcase and small bag from the overhead luggage rack. ‘Thank you,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Enjoy your stay,’ a couple beamed. Stay? Had she told them she was on holidays? Stepping from the train into the unknown, she felt as though the world had turned its back on her. Alone and frightened, she regretted saying farewell to Myrtle, to the shop and to Norman; she was no longer ready for the plunge into a home for the fallen. She decided on a delay even before she emerged from the platform. Until I know my way round town, she rationalised. She asked the stationmaster standing out front by a bay window if he knew of a suitable boarding house and he pointed to the Cambria Terraces, an attractive line of nineteenthcentury buildings just along the road.
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She was in luck. There was a bedroom available and, being both physically tired and emotionally exhausted, she skipped dinner and fell straight on the bed, sleeping soundly until morning. Next morning she decided on a self-guided tour—a sad echo of her exciting first week in Sydney, when she’d had her father for company and support, to get my bearings. She set off early, walking up Keppel Street as far as Machattie Park, where she sat for a while near an exquisite bandstand, reminiscing on her forsaken musical career, regretting its loss and the solace she once received from playing her musical scores. Above the treetops, she glimpsed a magnificent cream building with a towering, windowed dome. A palace, she thought, but later discovered it was the district courthouse. She crept cautiously into the cathedral of St Michael and St John, and sat for a while in one of the pews branching from the long central aisle. Although a stranger, she identified quickly with the rows of candles against the side wall, one or two burning brightly while the rest either gave out black smoke or a guttering flame. She gazed at the various saintly statues, hoping for a little solace, but they seemed gaudy and alien to her strict Methodist upbringing. Restless, she left quietly to find sanctuary along the banks of the Macquarie River. That night she was unsettled and hardly slept, torn between either escaping or sticking to her original plan. Without waiting for breakfast, she walked resolutely back to the station and hired a car to the Catholic home. There was no choice! As she was driven south along Russell Street and up Gorman’s Hill Road, her hand wandered to her stomach, where she felt a tiny kick. ‘We’re almost there,’ she said aloud. The driver, thinking she was talking to him, smiled and pointed upwards, saying: ‘That building on top of the hill.’
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She paid her fare and brightened a little as she stood by the roadside, admiring the splendid view of the surrounding fertile plains before making her way down the neatly trimmed pathway that led to a big rambling old home. She had arrived early and was met by a young woman wearing only a partial veil who ushered her silently in to meet the senior nun. ‘Your name?’ the nun asked. ‘Connie Campbell.’ She’d used that name on her letter. The nun pulled out a large book bound in canvas. ‘Yes, you have reserved a place. Where is your letter from your priest?’ Connie coloured and said she didn’t know. ‘Well, my girl, when the priest arrives this afternoon your first duty will be to attend confession.’ Connie squirmed inwardly. There was no turning back, now that Connie Sommerlad was gone. But how to confess? ‘How many weeks pregnant?’ the nun asked. Connie replied haltingly that the baby was due in March. ‘You are having it adopted?’ ‘No,’ she said and went on to explain in exaggerated detail how her older married sister, who lived in Adelaide, was very happy to rear the baby for her. ‘Are you a Catholic?’ ‘Yes,’ she replied, already hating the lies. She’d hoped that, by coming to an unfamiliar place, she’d be spared the indignity. The atmosphere in the draughty corridor was unwelcoming and her discomfort increased as the nun went on to explain in a frosty voice: ‘You are here as a witness to the compassion of the church, and you will repay its charity by working hard.’
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The main street of Tenterfield, early twentieth century.
The road separating various properties owned by the Sommerlads’ extended family.
Albert Sommerlad’s original family home, where Connie was born.
Myrtle, the author’s mother, in front of the new house on Hillcrest in the 1920s.
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Above Emma Sommerlad, Connie’s mother. Top right Albert Sommerlad, Connie’s father, who encouraged and supported her brief career. Right Ernest Sommerlad, Albert’s youngest brother, who gave succour to his brother’s family. (Photo courtesy of Lloyd Sommerlad)
Children of the extended Sommerlad family at Cappy Martens’s Salvation Army Sunday School at Hillcrest. Back row, left to right: Myrtle, Wilfred, Freda, Connie, Cappy Martens, Ivy, Cliff. Second row: Fred, Hazel, Harold, Thelma, Allan, Edna, Geoff, Myra. Front row: Dulce, Roy, Grace, Verdun, Nancy, Eric, Linda. Cappy Martens was religious adviser and friend to the Sommerlad family. (Photo courtesy of Lloyd Sommerlad)
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Above Connie aged around nine. Right Connie receiving her Diploma of Music at Sydney Conservatorium c. 1917. (Photo courtesy of Barry Jones)
Left The three eldest sisters: Connie (standing), Edna (seated left) and Ivy, who toiled in the large, ever-expanding family. Above Myrtle and Dulce.
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(Photos and scanned text on insert pages 4–6 are from Notorious Australian Crimes magazine.)
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Eric Sommerlad, who was left for dead but survived the attack. He was physically disfigured and silently carried the trauma to his death.
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John Trevor Kelly (centre) with police after his arrest for Connie’s murder.
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Above left Audrey, who had enjoyed a brief holiday with Connie and Eric just before the murder. Right Dulce, the younger sister who discovered the murder scene. Both sisters gave evidence at the inquest.
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The murder weapon used by John Kelly—a gruesome court exhibit.
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Norman Jones, c. 1920s, aged around forty.
Connie with Barry; photograph probably taken in Bombala c. 1935. This is the only photograph of Connie and Barry together. (Photo courtesy of Barry Jones)
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The young Barry with Thea, who cared for both Connie and Barry.
Barry and Margaret shortly after Barry was fostered.
Barry, aged three: his first Christmas after Connie’s death.
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The ‘home’ was a fancy name for an institution filled with a colony of young women with rounded tummies; she quickly learned that, whether young or old, they were all just ‘girls’. A young nun in training led her to a dormitory with six beds, three either side; she pointed to one in the middle. The church rituals were unfamiliar and initially she was terrified that she’d be discovered as an ungodly Protestant. Fortunately, the nuns took the view that her current predicament was indicative of a less than pious life and sought her salvation through extended sessions of penance. She attended daily prayers, learnt procedures for making a confession, and undertook extra duties in both the laundry and kitchen. The work was hard, she was always tired and her legs ached, but there was little sympathy. Pain is God’s will, the nuns explained, encouraging her to believe that, while she was in the hands of a harsh and unforgiving God, her chances of attaining heaven were increasing. There was no respite as the ‘girls’ never went down the street or wandered outside alone. She desperately needed a confidante. She was already guilty of lying to her family, but now was she also lying to God? By Christmas she had made friends with a couple of girls in the home. Elsie was only sixteen—a bright young girl, devastated by her condition. Her parents had disowned her when she became pregnant, but she had an aunt and cousin from Forbes who visited her regularly. They were compassionate people, and happy to post the odd letter in Parkes for Connie. She sent a Christmas card to her family with no forwarding address, telling them she was having a wonderful time, but failing to mention that she missed them dreadfully. Elsie began to look on Connie as an older sister and tearfully confided to her how she’d fallen in love with a young man
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who worked in a garage close to her home. She called him George, though Connie was never sure that this was his real name. George had asked for ‘proof’ of the love she said she had for him and, without her fully understanding what he was doing, he’d stripped off her panties and hurt her. ‘It wasn’t the only time,’ she admitted. ‘He threatened to tell Mum if I stopped. It always hurt me, but then I got pregnant. When I told him, he laughed. It was horrible. My father was furious and ordered George to marry me, but he disappeared and my parents sent me here.’ Connie was amazed, and somewhat jealous of Elsie’s capacity for frankness, but felt unable to reciprocate. In early January an older woman arrived to visit Elsie. Connie noticed the gentle, reassuring embrace she gave Elsie and her encouraging smile as she led her out into the grounds—a place normally ‘out of bounds’ for the inmates. ‘Who was that?’ she later asked Elsie. ‘Her name’s Thea. She’s an old friend of my family’s and lives in Sydney. She has always been kind to me.’ Thea was intending to be in Bathurst for a month while her husband acted as bookkeeper to local firms. The couple had taken rooms in the Railway Hotel on Havannah Street and Thea had promised to make frequent visits to Elsie while they were in town. On Thea’s next visit, three days later, Elsie introduced her to Connie and explained that, since Thea was a teacher before she married, she had promised to help her complete her education and afterwards find work once the baby was born. Connie was impressed with this tall, sprightly middle-aged woman, who radiated both compassion and calm—qualities she found irresistible. Thea noticed Connie watching her closely
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and lingering near the doorway as she and Elsie walked out into the garden. Before Thea took her leave on this occasion she sought Connie out, promising to spend a little time with her in the garden on her next visit. ‘I really loved him,’ Connie found herself confessing tearfully. Thea produced a clean handkerchief from her bag, but never wavered in her sympathetic eye contact. ‘We shared so many things and I believed him when he said nothing bad would happen. I thought marriage was inevitable.’ ‘How did he react when you told him?’ Connie blushed deeply and stammered: ‘I didn’t . . . didn’t. In tru-truth he didn’t seem to want . . . to want to know and I lacked the c-c-courage.’ She couldn’t believe she’d allowed the words to fall out of her mouth. ‘You’re a brave woman, though he should take responsibility for his actions,’ Thea said, taking Connie in her arms and promising to stay in touch. Lucy, her other ally in the home, was an attractive young woman with flowing long brown hair that the nuns quickly cropped. She arrived about the same time as Connie and they clicked immediately. She was closer to Connie in age than Elsie and had similarly escaped to Bathurst to hide the impending birth from her family, telling them she was working as a clerk but would return to her home in Bombala before Easter. Like Connie, she never had visitors and was always circumspect about her current condition. Though Lucy did not intend to keep her baby, Connie could see the pain this decision caused her friend, and once suggested that she reconsider. ‘I envy your strength,’ Lucy replied, a tear rolling from her eye.
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Connie confessed that she had little idea how she was going to manage, though she was determined to find a way to earn sufficient money to raise her baby. She went on to say that, while she’d prefer to be hired as a qualified musician, she was also experienced in housework and cooking. ‘Surely one of these things will help me!’ she added wistfully, recalling the nuns’ caution to ‘girls’ that although in New South Wales there was a family endowment pension for children under the age of fourteen, it was not available for the single mother. Lucy admired Connie’s courage and suggested they join forces once their babies were born. She wrote to her family describing her new friend as a woman who recently lost her husband in a car accident, a matter of a few weeks before she was due to give birth. She described Connie as a woman who had run her own business before she married and was a talented musician, adding as a postscript that she’d be grateful if they would keep an eye out for any work that might be suitable for her traumatised friend. While Connie was appreciative of Lucy’s concern, she had little confidence that it would yield fruit. Still, it did give a ray of hope for a life beyond the institution’s dismal walls.
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Twenty-one Lucy’s baby was born prematurely towards the end of February. It was apparently a healthy baby girl, though they whisked it away before she saw it. As she approached the hospital wing, Connie heard Lucy’s stifled cries, and wept for her friend as she gently massaged her scalp and shoulders, unable to think of anything appropriate to say. Lucy was deeply depressed and remained in hospital for several days before leaving to take a room in a boarding house on the other side of town. Though barely functioning, she refused to return home. The experience increased Connie’s resolve. She must find a way to support her baby so she didn’t end up suffering a similar fate. At the same time she had the responsibility to ensure that the growing life within her would never suffer the dread label ‘bastard’. The night after Lucy left for the boarding house, a light but very definite pain nudged Connie’s spine, awakening her from a heavy sleep. It wasn’t an angry pain, not then; it was gentle, soft, easy. Like that from a well-padded and blunted prod, it was short and slow. It came again and then again, but there were long intervals in between.
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The darkness suggested it was early in the morning. It was a time of peaceful silence that only ever occurred before dawn. The girls were always exhausted and seldom woke until a peal of bells roused them for prayer. Be gentle with me, she whispered to the darkness. The quietness was luxury; a gift for a very special day. She later told Elsie that she felt a lightness of spirit, as though she was floating in another place—a special place. ‘I think my baby is coming,’ she whispered to the matron after prayers. She was told to go and wait in Matron’s office, which was a quiet, peaceful and pretty room. There were even some flowers. But the pains were increasing. Eventually, after what seemed forever to the labouring Connie, the matron arrived. She ushered Connie into the emergency ‘sick bay’ along the corridor. ‘There you are, girl, it’s on its way,’ Matron told her. Connie lay on a bed, her uniform held high. ‘But,’ the nun continued, ‘it’s facing the wrong way. I will have to send you by car to St Vincent’s Hospital in the town. It’s run by the Sisters of Charity.’ She arrived at St Vincent’s alone and handed her papers to a nun sitting behind a large desk. As Connie bent down to pick up a dropped pencil, a sharp pain tunnelled into her back. ‘Ouch!’ ‘Don’t start making a fuss here,’ the nun warned. ‘Nurse, take this woman to the adoption ward.’ Connie said she was keeping her baby. ‘You have a husband?’ As she lay on a bed pain progressively took over, making her feel that her body was ripping apart. Later she asked a nun who was holding a candle over her head: ‘How long?’ ‘Hours away.’
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She was told to be quiet and to pray to the Lord to forgive her sins. ‘Help me!’ she called out often. But it did her no good. The nuns had warned her that bad girls must be punished so they wouldn’t sin again. Pain was the price they paid for disobedience. While she tried to recall the prenatal instructions she had received, the reality was much worse. She yearned for a tender word. Her body was a battleground; as the pain became intense, her earlier positive feelings vanished. She became increasingly tense to the point of rigidity while the baby engaged in a counter-struggle, needing space and assistance. Filled with fear, apprehension and remorse, she was unable to respond to its needs. During two days of pain and increasing fatigue, she found herself screaming: ‘Help me, Lord!’ Whenever a scream fought its way up through her rupturing body, it seemed that rough hands clamped over her mouth, cautioning her to be silent. Instead of salvation, she was enduring purgatory. Finally, the head nurse summoned a doctor and, with the help of his instruments, a tiny, bloodied bundle emerged from her torn body. She held the precious babe briefly while the nuns in sudden flurry went searching for scales, sponges and towels. Otherwise occupied, they allowed her a few moments of fatigued joy. ‘It’s a boy,’ the doctor said. ‘I have a son!’ She beamed up at him. ‘You’ll be Barry!’ she told the tiny form, gazing at him with pride. He was unwashed, but clean and beautiful in her eyes; she knew she’d always love this precious, fragile and innocent baby. Nobody will take you from me, she vowed.
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‘What day is it?’ she asked. ‘It’s the fifth of March,’ said the doctor matter-of-factly. ‘My birthday!’ And she kissed her son softly. ‘Barry, happy birthday!’ Few girls in the home enjoyed this reward. Babies were usually taken quickly to another room before the mother had the opportunity to see them. Because she was older and her baby was supposedly going to be adopted by her own family, Connie enjoyed this advantage. Now Barry was born she couldn’t return to the girls’ home. Not with a baby! Girls went there waiting as if to have a tumour excised. Instead, she went to stay in a hostel for newly nursing mothers attached to the Catholic hospital, though they segregated her from the married women. She’d read about Truby King, the child health reformer and advocate who, they said, was responsible for the new generation of healthy and well-nourished Australian babies and she wondered whether he also helped the unmarried. Lucy, her puffy eyes standing out from her pale sunken cheeks, came to see her from her boarding house in Keppel Street, not far from the cathedral of St Michael and St John. She kissed Connie on the forehead and sat wriggling on a chair beside the bed. Connie told her she had had a son born as a birthday present. Lucy said, ‘That’s nice,’ and looked the other way. Connie saw the tragic face and suggested: ‘Maybe it’s time to go home and have your folks look after you for a bit.’ Lucy just shook her head and bit into her lower lip. Connie suggested they might soon travel to Bombala together, giving each other urgently needed comfort and support, but Lucy remained silent.
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The following day Lucy arrived with news that seemed to cheer her. She’d received a letter from her parents saying they’d spoken to their friends the Archers, who owned a sawmill in Bombala and had three young children. They were looking for a housekeeper: ‘Would your friend Connie be interested?’ they’d written. It seemed a good omen and together the two women began planning their future. Everything’s going my way, Connie sang softly to Barry after Lucy left. Bombala seemed the best, the most romantic, the most distant place on earth. Lucy had said it was at the end of the line. There was no rail connection into Victoria. What a stroke of luck! Her family wouldn’t venture into such unfamiliar and remote terrain. She could safely start a new life with Barry and give him all the love a baby needed. There would be no stigma of illegitimacy. But her euphoria was short-lived; it evaporated entirely the next day when a long-faced Lucy returned to confess she’d been awake all night and knew she was not ready to accompany Connie to her home town. ‘Lucy, you must come with me. I need your help with the baby and he’ll help you to forget your loss,’ she pleaded. ‘I lack your strength,’ was all Lucy could reply. Undeterred, Connie went to see Sister Gabrielle and told her that she must leave, as her sister was anxious to see the baby. The nuns were prepared to let her go, ever conscious of the need for the baby to find law-abiding parents, but the doctor was less cooperative. Concerned over Connie’s state of health, he put his foot down and she was forced to delay her departure.
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A few days later, however, she sought permission to take her baby into the town to buy clothes for their impending trip. While Barry needed these clothes, that was not her main agenda.
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Twenty-two Legitimacy was the one thing Connie craved for Barry. How would he cope if she brought him up alone with no father? Would people look down on him, call him a bastard, a lesser person, an illegal? Would they regard him as simply a baby born in sin and of no consequence? She couldn’t do it. Why should he suffer because he lacked a conventional home with a mother and a father who had been lawfully married in a church before a minister? Without married parents and, worse still, without any father and to be reared by a single, sinning woman, where was his future? Her baby would bear the stigma of illegitimacy till death unless she found a way to save him. She was already hiding him from her family, from Norman, but was this enough? There was a whole world out there and how could she shield her son? Images flashed before her eyes of children at school laughing and calling him horrible names; nosy neighbours rudely pointing at him and sneering. What would become of
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him when he was grown up and out in the world seeking work and possibly a wife? She was to blame, so it was her job to find some way to protect him from righteous judgment. I will do the right and honourable thing, she told herself as she devised a plan to register her baby under her assumed name. Now she was about to go into Bathurst, she sought Lucy’s opinion. Her friend was shocked. ‘You can’t do that, Connie,’ she said. ‘Wait till you’ve had time to think it over.’ But Connie wasn’t interested in ‘thinking it over’. She’d been doing that all night and for the last nine months. Lucy caught her hands: ‘The certificate wouldn’t be legal, Connie!’ ‘It mightn’t be legal, but it would be just. You of all people, Lucy! You are hiding yourself away here, afraid to go home; you’ve even lied to your parents. How can you be my judge and jury?’ Lucy’s already traumatised face shrivelled. Finally Connie said, ‘I’m sorry, Lucy. That wasn’t fair. But I must protect Barry.’ Lucy was hardly out the door before Connie burst into tears. She knew Lucy was right but believed there was no option. If she registered Barry as a Sommerlad—such an unusual name— it would be a short hop, step and a jump before her family heard about it. If she gave her name and wrote ‘Norman Jones’ as the father, she’d be dragged through the mud and Norman would inevitably find out he had a son. She had gone to extreme lengths to keep this from him, and wasn’t about to allow a simple name change to stand in her way. Barry would become a ‘Campbell’.
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She dressed carefully but, in her weakened state, she struggled to pull on her stockings. She hadn’t worn ordinary street clothes since early November, the past few months having been spent in dreary ‘hand-me-downs’ from the convent’s store, covered by a large grey apron strapped round her neck and loosely caught at the waist. She shuffled into the green skirt and threaded her arms into its loosely flowing jacket, which she had last worn the day Myrtle and John half-heartedly farewelled her at the station. She was a new woman as she wrapped Barry tightly in a pure white shawl she’d bought in Parramatta, the only item in his layette and one she’d been unable to resist. She took the car service to William Street and then started to walk. The town was busy. Outside Dalgety’s a row of utilities and a couple of horse-drawn drays were lined up. Men, their faces shielded by wide-brimmed hats, were loading supplies for their farms onto table trays. Walking on, cradling Barry in her arms, she came to Farmer’s department store. Unable to resist the urge to walk in, she was instantly inspired by the bright lights, colours, perfumes and the spring in people’s steps as they moved around the store. It was so different to the drab and depressed atmosphere in the home for bad girls. The elegantly arranged goods triggered a memory of Norman’s shop before she could suppress it. Well-dressed women circled the counters, receiving attention from courteous shop assistants. She went searching for babywear. Money would be tight until she started work in Bombala so, after running her hands over some little suits and christening robes, she bought a couple of blue nighties, singlets and a few nappies. She looked into the tearoom, but it was crowded with ladies whose husbands were probably still down at the produce stores.
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She carried Barry back onto the street, planning to look for the registry office. But, before she could begin, she collapsed into a chair in the Acropole Café, which seemed like a homely reminder of Cameo’s in Tenterfield. She was feeling weak; pains were shooting up her legs, making her worry that she might be getting varicose veins. Her head ached. She asked for a glass of milk before she unwrapped Barry from his shawl and held his tiny body out in front of her, watching as his skinny little legs kicked gently against her tummy while his eyes moved restlessly in an attempt to focus. He looked a lot like Norman and she had a feeling of acute sadness that Barry would never know his father. What would Norman be doing as she held his child? Barry would be her constant reminder of the other times—a blessing and a curse. The waiter brought the milk to her table and seeing her seemingly preoccupied turned to leave, but Connie called him back. ‘Where’s the registry office?’ she asked, struggling to regain her composure. She couldn’t afford to allow thoughts of what might have been stop her from registering Barry as a Campbell. ‘It’s in the courthouse next to Machattie Park. You’re registering the little one?’ ‘Yes.’ He queried whether her husband hadn’t done this already, but she said he was in Melbourne on business. The lie caused heat to rise from her neck and spread across her face so she bent down, pretending to search for something in her bag until the waiter disappeared. Feeling cooler, she rewrapped Barry and held his tiny head firmly against her body. He started to whimper and sicked up a
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little from his morning feed, leaving them both smelling of slightly soured milk. Contented, he snuggled his body down against her breast. Sitting in this teashop, holding her precious baby, was her first real feeling of freedom in a long time. She smiled, believing she was regaining control over her life. Soon the scrutiny of the nuns would be a thing of the past. Barry stirred again, rubbing his head lightly against her neck, and she knew it was time for a feed. She paid for the drink and walked proudly towards the courthouse to give her tiny son a most valuable gift: legitimacy in the eyes of the law. Before her loomed the grand building with its huge dome she’d seen when she first arrived in Bathurst. It was about to serve them both well. ‘Baby’s name?’ ‘Barry Campbell.’ She felt herself shrinking to the size of a pea. ‘What was the surname again?’ ‘Campbell,’ she repeated with unnatural loudness. ‘C.A.M.P.B.E.L.L.’ She managed to stumble through the rest of the form with the man behind the counter; as Barry was whimpering, the clerk wanted to get rid of them. His indifference made it a little easier to continue, giving her name as: ‘Elsie Campbell.’ His father’s name? ‘James Campbell.’ Out in the street she felt weak. She hated the endless stream of lies and suspected that in time the truth would surface; she knew she could never rest easily. The false name was illegal, but she was desperate. This small lie, she rationalised, would ensure the best outcome, not only for herself but also for Barry, the family and Norman. She prayed for forgiveness.
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Lucy was waiting at the home for nursing mothers—worried that she’d been caught already—when she returned. ‘He’s legitimate,’ Connie said. ‘Any problems?’ ‘Lucy, I know you’re worried for me but I’ll be all right.’ ‘Did they ask for any proof?’ ‘No. Stop worrying.’
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Twenty-three Connie’s train steamed through Goulburn, Queanbeyan and Cooma before branching onto new tracks leading towards Bombala. The countryside opened out into leisurely rolling hills and as she watched sheep grazing on the browning autumn grasses, she felt wondrously free and alive, anticipating a new life where the humiliations of recent months would be a thing of the past. She hugged and kissed baby Barry, overcome with gratitude for the opportunities that lay ahead. The reality of her situation struck home when she glimpsed Bombala in the distance. Though determined not to have a rerun of the emotion she’d experienced when she arrived in Bathurst, she was already regretting Lucy’s decision to stay behind. Stripped of her identity and past, who was she? How should this unknown person face strange new people, and settle into a role as their housekeeper? Lucy’s family had made all the necessary arrangements with Tom and Elizabeth Archer, but they were as strange to her as the Archers. Would any of them accept the improbable story? They knew she had a baby, but would they really think of her
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as a mature country woman who’d lost her husband? She drew Barry close, protecting his eyes from the engine soot blowing through the open box carriage window. An explosion of steam erupted through the engine’s wheels, announcing the train had terminated. There was no need to hurry. She laid Barry on the seat while she tugged her suitcase down from the overhead luggage rack. An assortment of smaller parcels tumbled to the floor. Bending to retrieve her scattered belongings, her uncertainties continued. Would the Archers be there to meet her? How was she going to get all this luggage off the train while carrying her baby? She climbed the stairs from the station to the footbridge above, all the while craving the family and friends she’d deserted. Holding Barry tightly in her right arm while juggling her motley assortment of parcels, she wondered whether she would always be in hiding. While she’d had plenty of experience cooking, cleaning, and caring for young children, it was ironic that she was about to resume duties she’d left Tenterfield to avoid. She walked slowly across the wooden bridge spanning the railway line, looking down anxiously at the small crowd of people, horse-drawn carriages and the two or three small trucks all awaiting passengers or produce from the train. Tears slid from her eyes; her neck and shoulders ached; her idealistic dreams were in tatters. Mr Archer stood at the bottom of the railway steps. He was a big, broad man with a thick crop of red hair and freckles sprinkled liberally across his face. He greeted her with a cheery smile. ‘Are you Connie Campbell?’ he inquired amiably.
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She nodded, feeling unpleasantly self-conscious. She’d decided to keep the name ‘Connie’, despite the registration certificate. Family members would not find her here and she cherished the intimacy of her name, having discarded everything else. Thankfully, they were soon on their way in a new black Ford ute, driving down the main street of the town, fringed with maybe a dozen shops. Barry snuggled close to her breast wrapped in his special white shawl, which was now speckled with unsightly black dots of soot. The family were pleasant kind-hearted country folk, who greeted her warmly. Despite her fears, she related to them easily on a superficial level. The days were long, once more filled with washing, ironing, cleaning and cooking, but this time her family was missing. Though she enjoyed caring for Keith, John and Julie, the three Archer children, and Julie, who was seven, loved carrying Barry and helping her with his feeding as he grew older, Barry was her only true consolation. Despite her busy life, Connie was never comfortable. She hated the ongoing deception and suspected that the Archers and others guessed the truth. Even though Lucy finally returned to Bombala a month later, having apparently regained her health, she never settled. Connie suspected the father of Lucy’s baby was living somewhere nearby, though this was not confirmed. The former camaraderie between the two women was there whenever they met, but Lucy soon found work in the small but growing town of Canberra and only returned to Bombala once every month or so, giving them just occasional afternoons to share their thoughts and experiences. Connie treasured these occasions when, for an hour or two, she could drop all pretences and talk freely with someone who knew of her recent past. But they were too irregular. She
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needed a more accessible confidante—someone readily available, who could save her from the relentless need to answer to the assumed name of ‘Mrs Campbell’. She was in Bombala six months before she arranged a weekend in Canberra with Lucy. Peggy, the Archers’ governess, kindly agreed to care for Barry and, excited as a schoolgirl, Connie set about planning her wardrobe. She wanted to appear as the bright, happy woman she was during the months she had once shared with Norman. She went into town and bought a floral dress that was a mass of reds, pinks, greens and yellows, adding a pair of red shoes, a bright yellow hat and yellow gloves. The weekend lived up to expectations, though it contained a fatal flaw. Lucy took this opportunity to tell her about Wallace, a wheat farmer from Cooma she had met and was planning to marry the following Easter. Connie was shocked at this news. While she was happy for her friend, she knew she would lose her valued sole companion. ‘You’ll like him, Connie.’ Lucy paused a little. ‘He’s fifty. He’s been married and has two children: a girl, ten, and a boy, fourteen.’ If she was worrying about taking on two growing children, she certainly didn’t show it. ‘He’s kind. I’ll see you often when I move to Cooma; it’s only a couple of hours by train.’ ‘Have you told him about your baby?’ It was a mean question, but Connie couldn’t resist. ‘No. That is my secret.’
In the New Year Lucy asked Connie to be her bridesmaid. ‘Wouldn’t people refer to me as a matron of honour?’ she asked Lucy.
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‘So what! You’re my best friend.’ Lucy was glowing—a very different young woman to the one Connie had left behind in Bathurst. They went shopping. Lucy selected a frock of white georgette touched with pink and reaching to her ankles. Connie chose a gown of shrimp pleated georgette, adding a hat of black crinoline straw trimmed with black tulle streamers and pink roses. She bought a smart little sailor suit for Barry, who would be going to the wedding with Peggy and the Archer children. Easter Monday, 1936, was a festive occasion. In brilliant sunshine relatives arrived to join with friends from Bombala, Cooma and even Canberra to wish the couple a long and happy marriage. The wedding took place in the local Catholic Church and, as Connie had never confessed to Lucy that she was not a Catholic, the lie continued. Afterwards the bridal party returned to the reception, held in the grounds of Lucy’s Bombala home. Connie accompanied Lucy into her old bedroom to remove her veil, tidy her hair and touch up her face with lipstick, rouge and powder. Lucy had kept one visitor as a special surprise for Connie and, as the two friends were stepping out into the garden to join Wallace and the guests, a young woman rushed from the crowd. ‘Hello Connie, don’t you remember me?’ She was smartly dressed, wearing a navy dress and shoes. Her long hair had been swept up under her navy hat. ‘Elsie! Where have you been?’ ‘These days I live in Bomaderry, near Nowra. Come and see me sometime. Lucy and I have kept in touch. Is this your baby?’ Peggy had just appeared, holding a wriggling one-year-old in her arms.
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‘Yes, this is Barry.’ ‘Bring him too. I love children!’ She looked rather wistful, Connie thought.
After the wedding, Lucy and Connie remained friends, but met less frequently. Lucy, the only local who knew Connie’s secret, was seldom in Bombala and was kept busy with her ready-made family. Connie awaited her arrival in town with increasing impatience, yearning for a ‘real’ talk with a ‘real’ friend. She missed her family too and wished there was some way they could be reconciled. She wanted to talk frankly to people who knew and appreciated where she came from, who could comprehend the depths of humiliation and despair she had endured. Her former life beckoned. She wrote to Elsie, suggesting she make another trip to Bombala. As she was working as a governess, she would have school holidays. Meanwhile the piano in the largely neglected drawing room at the Archers’ became Connie’s escape from loneliness. Whenever time permitted, she crept into this room and began playing a selection from Chopin or maybe Beethoven, mingled with some popular melodies she remembered from Parramatta. At other times, she chose extracts from Bizet’s Carmen or, when she was particularly tense, an abbreviated piano version of the fourth movement from Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique Symphony. She luxuriated in the abandonment of this piece, so often overlooked in a symphony where the recurring theme is one of anxiety and death. One evening, as she was playing ‘I Want To Be Happy’, a tear trickled down her cheek.
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Music wafting through the house attracted the attention of Elizabeth Archer, who asked if she would teach her children for an extra fee. Gradually student numbers increased and she was working early evenings and most Saturdays. A pattern of life not dissimilar to the early days in Parramatta was re-emerging. But this time there was the loneliness factor. Finally, she was forced to reach out to her cousin, Clem, who was only two years her senior. Clem was suffering from an incurable illness and she felt confident that he would not destroy her trust. Dear Clem, I have been living in Bombala for the past eighteen months and feel concerned that I have not heard from you and to know of your current state of health. I am living with a pleasant family who own several sawmills in the district. They have given me access to a piano and I give music lessons to several of the children in the town. I play at local festivals and sometimes at the church on a Sunday when the regular pianist is absent. I have a very good friend, Lucy, who is married and living in Cooma. We met when I first left Sydney. Do write to me with news of the family. I have not heard from them for many months. I would prefer you not to mention this letter. I hope you are feeling better. Love Connie
• Her second Christmas in Bombala was looming and Barry was twenty months old. Days felt like weeks; a week ahead—when Lucy was coming—seemed months away. Connie wrestled
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endlessly with deep, dark thoughts. The lies and deceits she felt obliged to maintain in turn generated a paralysing selfcontempt. Her longing for reconciliation with her family and a return to her former life intensified, though she still lacked the courage. There was so much to weigh up. Arguments in favour of returning seemed to carry less force than those keeping her in hiding. The harsh judgment meted out to fallen women was a serious deterrent. She dreaded exposure, but at the same time yearned for the type of compassion that she would never find in Bombala. She knew confession might unplug the torrent of tears she couldn’t shed. She had run away to preserve self-respect but was now fighting for the courage to expose her weakness and accept humiliation from those she knew and loved. It was inevitable. She would return to Sydney. At least for now, Tenterfield still seemed too daunting a destination.
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Twenty-four The rocking effect of the train had a calming effect on Barry, but Connie found it unsettling. As he edged softly towards sleep, her mind drifted back to her family. She had deserted them, she knew, and yet for a time fantasy overtook fear as she imagined her sisters and brothers arriving in Sydney to welcome her and her baby—her mother weeping for joy as they all proudly passed Barry from one to the other, admiring his handsome features and bonny smiles. They tickled his tummy and blew kisses towards his tiny rosebud mouth that pursed in readiness. Of course it was never going to be like that. They were unlikely to make a special journey to the city to see an errant relative. Gazing out the window across the head of her nowsleeping child, she knew she’d be harshly criticised and reprimanded whenever the fateful reunion took place. Barry would be lucky to receive more than a frown. Her thoughts shifted towards Sydney. As the train drew ever closer to the city, it no longer seemed the ideal solution. If she remained there she’d inevitably run into Norman, maybe the
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Blackburns or others she knew from the old days in the cinema and shop. Why hadn’t she thought about these possibilities while she was in Bombala? Even before the train arrived at Central Station, she had abruptly changed her original plans, deciding instead to continue her journey to Bomaderry on the south coast. She’d accept Elsie’s offer, made many months ago at Lucy’s wedding, and perhaps receive some of the warmth and companionship she yearned for. She was in luck. Despite her unannounced arrival in Bomaderry, the Browns, Elsie’s employers, welcomed her into their house and urged her to stay for a few days. Elsie quickly noticed Connie’s disquiet and was determined to help her. Mrs Brown senior needed a companion to take her to the Hydro Majestic Hotel in the Blue Mountains, to link up with her daughter’s family, and Elsie urged Connie to go as her short-term companion. ‘But I can’t.’ ‘You need a break,’ Elsie insisted. ‘You look worn and fragile. Not the happy woman I saw at Lucy’s wedding.’ Sensing Connie’s vulnerable condition, Elsie left nothing to chance. First of all she gained the approval of the Browns and then she contacted Thea, who was still living in Sydney and had recently lost her husband. Thea, having been Connie’s confidante in Bathurst, readily agreed to care for Barry while his mother accompanied Mrs Brown to the mountains. When Connie and Barry arrived back at Sydney’s Central Station, Thea was there to meet them and take them into her South Sydney home. She generously offered to continue caring for Barry after Connie returned from her short role as companion for Mrs Brown, so she could find more permanent work.
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‘In the meantime, you’ll have to learn to relax, dear,’ she said. ‘You are doing a wonderful job, but it won’t continue if your health fails.’ There were two weeks to fill in before the appointed journey. One morning, Connie’s curiosity impelled her to make a furtive trip into the city with the intention of walking past Norman’s old shop in Pitt Street. She disguised herself by wrapping her head in a large black scarf but when she arrived at the shop, she found the windows pasted over with newspaper. Peering through a crack, she could see that the shop was empty and there was a sign on the door saying that he’d moved. It was a strange feeling, but it gave her some finality and she was relieved. The following day, despite the tears and regrets as she hugged and kissed Barry goodbye, she left with Mrs Brown senior by train for the mountains. The Hydro Majestic Hotel was close to the station and, as they crossed the small railway bridge, she caught her first glimpse of its magnificent sprawling buildings, perched along the top of cliffs that stared out across the Megalong Valley. The central building of this vast, somewhat haphazard complex was crowned with a large grey dome, creating an exotic, oriental feel. Connie whispered a ‘thank you’ to Elsie and Thea. Her room was in the maid’s quarters. It was tiny, but the view through a small sash window stilled her breath. The land sloped steeply from the hotel, as if cascading towards the valley floor. Opposite were cliffs of browns, yellows and greys glistening in the sun. Her duties included seeing to the bathing of Mrs Brown and to her clothes. Sometimes she read to her and kept her abreast of her family’s activities. Each day they walked along the vast
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balcony with its breathtaking mountain views. Afterwards they went to the hydrotherapy rooms for Mrs Brown’s special water treatment, which she took before joining her family for the evening meal. One water therapy session was booked for Connie during their stay and she revelled in the experience. As she slid down into the bath, she found the waters from the mountain streams consoling, comforting, healing. Later she was rubbed down with warm towels, her hair was combed and she was offered a glass of the famous water that came from a spa in Germany. She emerged from her cubicle feeling pampered, special and whole. Afterwards she sat alone, quietly sipping tea at the far end of the vast lounge room filled with sofas, chairs and tables, listening to a man and woman playing extracts from Carmen on a piano and violin. On the last day, Mrs Brown’s family took their mother to visit the Jenolan Caves while Connie chose to catch a train back to Katoomba and walk down to Echo Point. Descending the Giant Stairway with a large number of other tourists, she kept a contemplative eye on the Three Sisters, from their jagged rocky crowns to their broad, solid supporting bases. Later she walked slowly along a path through the rainforest, pulling off leeches as she brushed against the damp undergrowth, returning by the Scenic Railway that scared her as it heaved its carriages over the vertical face of the cliffs. It was an exciting end to her adventure and ensured she was back at the hotel in time to help the old lady take her bath before tea. When she returned to her room that evening, something of the old Connie was there, the one who used to love inventing stories and acting out their scenes. The sun was just setting and she imagined the opposing valley sides as two armies ready to
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do mock battle. The valley floor was green and empty awaiting the victors. The closer side took the full force of the setting sun, which lit up the crowns of the trees, giving each an identity, while the trees clinging to the valley walls opposite lacked light and appeared as a darkened mass. A man standing near the edge of the cliff had carefully placed a large camera on a tripod and was waiting for the ideal moment to begin his photography. Clouds scattered across the sky and, as the sun neared the horizon, it seemed to outline them in blood. That night she slept like a baby and when she woke the sun was already penetrating the valley. She packed quickly as they were to catch the ten o’clock train. Suddenly the only person she wanted to see was her son.
‘I’ll ring Myrtle this evening,’ she told Thea after she’d spent the afternoon playing with Barry. Thea asked, ‘Why Myrtle?’ ‘It’s strange, but she is the one I trust.’
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Twenty-five A lone figure, clad in blue, stepped cautiously from the tram that drew to a halt opposite Circular Quay. That’s her, thought Myrtle, trust her to keep me waiting. Myrtle was dressed in a homemade frock, enlivened by a long string of yellow beads. Her hair was caught back, twisted into rolls that followed the curve of her neck. She sat by the window in a dimly lit tea-shop clinging to the ferry wharf. On a seat next to her sat her newest creation, a smart brown hat made from coils of straw she’d finished stitching together that morning. The slow pace of the needle poking its way through the straw had given her time to reflect on the years she’d spent with Connie in their father’s shop before this long and unseemly absence. She’d initially resented her father’s insistence that she give up her nursing career to work with Connie but, despite these misgivings, the experience had proved valuable. Establishing themselves as new owners of the business meant that little else mattered in those early months. They’d breathed a world of cakes and pastries, examining every texture and always
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experimenting with new ways to decorate and display their creations. Why don’t we try glazed cherries on our cupcakes for Mother’s Day? Why not boiled fruit cakes for the long winter nights? Steak and kidney pies are selling well: should we try some with just vegetables? Her life was so different then; they would arrive at the shop by four every morning and never left before six at night. In addition to cooking and sales, they attended to market day, cleaning and research. Myrtle couldn’t remember either of them spending much time in the rambling old boarding house. She always found that tiny room they’d shared, with its sloping ceiling, claustrophobic, and the other boarders were unfriendly. She would never forget that first September. Their combined efforts were paying off, and they’d begun to indulge themselves away from the business. She’d met John at a social gathering organised by her church on a Saturday afternoon while Connie played at one of her venues. He soon began calling to the shop for date scones every morning on his way to the train station, she remembered with pride. She recalled that tensions began to surface with Connie shortly after their father’s death. While Myrtle had wanted to go home for the funeral, she’d worried that a prolonged absence might undermine her relationship with John so she had successfully argued that two weeks was long enough to be away from the business. She suspected Connie needed to spend more time with the family and sensed her unhappiness; when they’d returned to the shop, just before the New Year, Myrtle had turned to John for support in her grieving. Subsequently Connie had become more secretive and less inclusive and had wasted an unseemly amount of time with an old friend of their father’s.
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Two years had passed since the two sisters’ last meeting. Myrtle was now 27, married to John and living in a small rented flat in Mosman. She still deeply resented the way Connie had abandoned her so precipitously, and then failed to keep in touch until that recent unexpected call. She’s slimmed down a lot, Myrtle observed as Connie stepped onto the footpath in front of the tea-shop. She hesitated near the doorway like a frightened deer sniffing danger, unsure whether to advance or make a hasty retreat. For goodness sake, hurry up and let’s get this meeting over, thought Myrtle, who resolutely refrained from waving. As Connie entered the shop, she rose, pushing her chair roughly to one side before holding out her arms to embrace her sister. ‘I thought you were lost forever,’ she said, her voice rising slightly. ‘Hello Myrtle.’ Connie had caught the inflection and thought, My God, she’s started the inquisition already! ‘You look well.’ She actually thought Connie looked pale and somewhat drawn. ‘You too.’ They moved towards the table, Myrtle resuming her chair. Connie turned briefly towards the door before sitting, as if to check an escape route. ‘Connie, it’s been too long,’ said Myrtle firmly. Connie did not quite meet her sister’s penetrating eyes before she looked away and replied: ‘I’ve been busy.’ She removed her matching blue hat and placed it carefully on the other chair. ‘Doing what?’ Myrtle’s eyes sought contact, but Connie was busy peering into her navy handbag. ‘Teaching music.’
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‘Why didn’t you write?’ ‘There wasn’t time.’ Connie looked up and pushed a strand of hair back from her face. The waiter approached and they ordered tea. ‘Where have you been?’ Myrtle was already losing patience. ‘Here and there.’ Connie shifted uneasily in her chair. She was already sorry that she’d come. ‘Here, there—where? That’s what I’ve asked you.’ ‘Oh, Queanbeyan, Bombala, Cooma—those sorts of places.’ Myrtle couldn’t tolerate the pussyfooting any longer. Connie had already created enough consternation in the family. ‘Look, Con, it’s been over two years! We’re all worried. You deserted . . . and left me to run the cake shop . . .’ ‘I know.’ Connie wiped her forehead with a serviette. I wish I could tell her and get out of here, she thought. ‘I’m married now, for goodness sake. You didn’t even reply to the invitation.’ Myrtle fingered her rings, twisting them around her wedding finger, admiring the single diamond as it caught the dull light from the wall. ‘I didn’t get it,’ Connie retorted, thinking: How could I? You wouldn’t have had my address! ‘You must have.’ The truth doesn’t seem to bother her, thought Myrtle. ‘I was busy.’ ‘Look, Connie, I’ve a house and a husband to care for. I do voluntary work for the church. Yet I manage to keep in touch. You—you go sailing around the country, fancy-free like some irresponsible youngster.’ She had the air of an older sister talking to a recalcitrant young sibling. Connie rolled her eyes.
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‘This is not a matter for rolling your eyes. What’s got into you? You were the sister I trusted and respected. Why else would I have given up my nursing? What have you been up to?’ ‘I told you I was going . . . You saw me off.’ ‘I thought you’d be back in a month.’ ‘I couldn’t.’ ‘Or wouldn’t?’ ‘I’ve told you: I had to teach.’ Connie was close to tears. ‘What was wrong with the cake shop?’ Myrtle was exasperated. ‘It had to be sold.’ ‘Well, why didn’t you stay and help me?’ It wasn’t how Myrtle had imagined this meeting at all. She thought a contrite Connie would explain her absence, beg forgiveness and reconciliation would follow. Two brown pots of tea arrived. Myrtle poured her own tea and sipped it slowly, thinking: She went away and then comes back as if nothing has happened. Who does she think I am? We’ve all been worried; suddenly, after two years, I get a phone call. It’s a wonder she bothered. Then she said brusquely, ‘You need to pull yourself together. Where’s the old Connie? If you don’t want to talk, why did you ring?’ ‘I wanted to see you.’ Connie leaned sideways, briefly lifting one shoe and giving her heel a rub. She left her tea untouched. ‘Well, here I am and I’ll have to be going . . . John finishes work at five and I must do some shopping and make tea.’ Myrtle was fed up. She picked up her braided straw hat from the chair and removed its hatpin. ‘Don’t be hard, Myrt—you don’t know the hell I’ve been
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through!’ The words came tumbling out. She couldn’t let her go without confessing. ‘What’s happened?’ Myrtle placed her hat back on the chair and lifted her orange checked table napkin to her lips, but her eyes never left Connie’s face. ‘I’ve . . .’ her eyes dropped onto her lap, ‘. . . had a baby.’ ‘When?’ The napkin dropped with Myrtle’s jaw. ‘A while ago.’ ‘You’re married?’ Connie looked around, but the waiter had gone. ‘No.’ ‘Is this why you flew off? Chasing some ne’er-do-well. And now he’s done a runner?’ ‘It wasn’t like that.’ Connie felt tears hammering at the back of her eyes. ‘What’s happened to the baby?’ ‘I still have him.’ ‘You still what?’ Myrtle’s eyes sprang, like a cuckoo on the hour. ‘I’ve kept the baby. That’s why I stayed away.’ ‘Where is it now?’ Myrtle looked at Connie searchingly. ‘With a friend. I visit him often . . . but I have to find work.’ ‘What a mess. Why didn’t you have it adopted?’ This beggars belief, she was thinking. Connie’s softly spoken voice strengthened: ‘I love my little boy.’ There was a long pause as she took a sip of the cold tea. ‘He’s a little boy, Myrtle; not an “it”.’ ‘Who’s the father?’ Myrtle frowned, wondering if she really wanted to be told. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ ‘What on earth will the family say? What an example to your sisters. Not to mention your nieces and nephews.’
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‘I’m scared, Myrtle.’ ‘So you ought to be. No decent woman goes flirting around the country like a common hussy. And at your age too. How old are you? Thirty-three? You can’t say you were innocent.’ Myrtle was incredulous. It wasn’t what she had expected to hear at all. A younger sister might get caught, but her older sister . . . the one she’d looked up to? ‘It wasn’t like that.’ ‘Don’t flaunt your kid around town, or take him to Tenterfield.’ ‘I know.’ Connie’s face had turned a deathly white. Myrtle could see the pain and made an effort to calm herself down. ‘Why don’t you have him adopted now?’ ‘Do you have a baby?’ Connie made eye contact with Myrtle for the first time. ‘No. But I have a husband.’ She was deeply shocked and it showed. ‘You’ll have to tell Mum.’ ‘I can’t.’ ‘She’s coming to Sydney next week . . . with Edna. Your niece Beverley starts school down here next year. You’ve no choice, Connie. You’ll have to meet them.’ ‘Only if you tell them first.’
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Twenty-six Myrtle had fulfilled her promise. ‘Connie’s turned up with a kid,’ she told her mother and Edna. The three had clustered around Myrtle’s dining room table in Mosman, trying to come to terms with Connie’s inexcusable actions. ‘She was hardly a “girl”—did she never think of her younger sisters? It is appalling. The child must be adopted.’ They agreed to a meeting with Connie at Circular Quay. But to their dismay, she arrived with Barry in a stroller; it was not what they were expecting. It was difficult enough to kiss Connie and say how pleased they were that she had returned— but expecting them to admire her bastard! Why did she bring the child? they wondered as they looked past, rather than at, him. They decided to take a ferry across Sydney Harbour, hoping the trip might ease the tension, but it was a frosty and strained affair. Very little was said, each waiting for the others to raise the issue dominating their thoughts. Later, they walked along the promenade at Manly Beach. Myrtle and Edna were with their mother Emma, while Connie was slightly ahead, wheeling the stroller and gazing at the
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white-capped waves as they rolled in quick succession towards the beach. Barry, a bright-faced little boy who would be two the following March, sat watching the legs of those passing and making the occasional squeal as he was wheeled past a flock of scavenging seagulls. Emma finally suggested they needed to talk. They sat in single file along a park bench facing the sea with Connie at one end and Barry parked close by, so he could watch the gulls swooping on abandoned crumbs. His was the only happy face. ‘It’s not just your problem, Connie,’ said her mother, trying to sound reasonable. ‘Your actions affect the good name of the family—your sisters, your brothers, nieces, nephews, uncles and aunts.’ Connie drew a deep breath, drawing in the salty taste of the ocean before she spoke. ‘I’ve kept Barry hidden . . . but it’s so lonely. I’ve missed you.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘That’s why we are here,’ said Emma. ‘But you must never bring the child to Tenterfield,’ added Edna firmly. ‘The tongues would never stop wagging.’ ‘Why don’t you have him adopted?’ suggested her mother. Connie lifted Barry from the stroller and held him closely. ‘No,’ she said firmly, but she wasn’t ready for the next question. ‘Who is the father?’ ‘Norman, Norman Jones.’ The words rushed out like the tumble of the waves. ‘Norman Jones?’ squealed the shocked Myrtle, abruptly standing to face everyone. They all found their voices. ‘How could you be so stupid? Why didn’t he marry you?’ They were beside themselves.
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In the end, only Connie remained seated. ‘He doesn’t know. I couldn’t tell you, and I couldn’t tell him.’ ‘You will now, though!’ Edna was almost shouting. ‘No.’
As the meeting ended they could see that she would never take their advice. Afterwards, they turned reluctantly away from her, although they stayed in touch. Connie paid Thea to care for Barry while she found work in another cake shop. She rang Myrtle occasionally, but she was never comfortable with her. Her happily married younger sister intensified Connie’s feelings of shame. She began thinking of her old family home with longing. Defeated by loneliness, nauseated by the aliases and other fabrications she’d created, it was time for reconciliation; time to seek safety and security. So in early 1938 she agreed to return to Hillcrest to help her young brother Eric, who was managing the property. But, on her family’s insistence, she left Barry with a woman in Brisbane. It was a tough decision, but she saw no other way; maybe the restrictions would ease in time. Over the following year, she grew close to Edna’s children and gradually other family members re-established contact. She took Eric into her confidence, and he became the first of the younger members to learn of, and meet, Barry. But it was not the home she remembered. The loss of her father and youngest brother, Darcy, felt very raw as she wandered the farm that seemed steeped in memories. Her mother and younger siblings lived permanently away in Glen Innes while the older ones were either married or had found
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employment elsewhere. Family returned only for brief, usually independent, visits. While she had plenty to do in the house and on the farm, the unfamiliar silence of the family home gave her excessive time for reflection. She imagined both friends and relatives were suspicious of her past and, although she remained tightlipped, she was convinced they judged her harshly. Any hint of criticism unnerved her. She was as a fish stranded on the sand, unable to reach out and ask for the help she so desperately needed. In January 1939, she was still largely alone and, as she saw little of Barry, she was thinking that maybe it would be wise to move. The times she enjoyed most were weekends when one of her nieces, Beverley or Jenny, came. She felt a special affinity with Beverley, Edna’s elder daughter, since they both enjoyed reading books and making up stories, though Jenny shared her love of cooking, and was always full of fun. She reminded Connie of the young Audrey, whose impish vitality she missed so much when she returned to Hillcrest.
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Twenty-seven Family visits buoyed Connie’s spirits and on the morning of 3 February 1939 she awoke smiling. Audrey had left, after five days when the house had once again been filled with laughter and companionship. Dulce was due to arrive early next morning and Eric, her 23-year-old brother, was taking her to visit Barry on Sunday. Only Beverley would be missing; she had arranged to visit a friend in Wallangarra. That morning Connie’s smile radiated from her eyes and danced lightly across her cheeks, spreading towards her lips, teasing them gently apart, releasing them from years of bondage. Happiness was a novel feeling; she stretched herself, luxuriating in its glow. A curl of smoke drifted through her bedroom window, interrupting her reverie. Kelly was enjoying his early-morning smoke in the back garden as he gazed idly into the woodpile, while the sound of gurgling water suggested that Eric had completed the milking and was now showering. Connie dressed quickly and sped to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the two men, who had begun work early to avoid
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the heat burning the Australian countryside throughout the summer of 1939. The fuel stove was still alive from the day before but, as she gently stoked it with a few pieces of kindling, she noted the near-empty woodbox. Eric entered the kitchen, tumbling his hair in a towel. He was anxious to get on with the apple harvest and pleased to have the assistance of young Kelly, who was proving useful in the orchard and with machinery. ‘I need more wood.’ The muffled call reached Eric from the direction of the oven, where Connie was on her knees, coaxing the embers to catch the kindling. She stood up, giving her brother a winning smile. She loved the company of the young men. She proceeded to put several slices of thick home-cured bacon into a heavy blackened pan and then added eggs. She produced toast by holding slices of bread, speared on two longhandled iron forks, against the fire. Eric ate his breakfast hurriedly and rose, leaving Kelly at the table using his toast to mop the remaining food from his plate. ‘Get the wood for Connie,’ Eric ordered Kelly, and then went outside to put on his shoes. Kelly later passed Eric on the back verandah as he returned from the woodpile, leaving a trail down the hallway of kindling pieces that kept slipping from his arms as he headed towards the kitchen. ‘Thanks. In the box,’ said Connie. ‘Right,’ muttered Kelly. The amount he had brought in would do a day or two. Connie washed the breakfast dishes as stillness again enshrouded the house. She recalled an earlier time, when its rooms had constantly buzzed with the voices and clatter of her ever-increasing brood of brothers and sisters.
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She left the kitchen and entered the dining room, carrying a pile of plates she had just washed and dried, which had been used during Audrey’s visit. She carefully stored them in the buffet, and then paused before the large wooden table, gently rubbing its surface with her hands. It had been there in the old house when she was growing up and carefully carried across the paddock when the new, larger and more comfortable home was completed in the 1920s. Mum had once sat here, and Dad there. She moved towards his old chair and lowered herself into it carefully, and with reverence. Next to Mum always sat whichever child had just graduated from early meals. Even Eric sat there once! She closed her eyes, visualising times when more than twenty people squeezed around the table of a Sunday. It’s even emptier now that Audrey’s gone, she thought. After completing the baking and preparing lunches for the men, she made her way into the lounge room, the coolest part of the house at that hour, and turned on the wireless. The news was depressing. Drought and bushfires seemed to be everywhere and the news from overseas seemed scarcely better. Hitler was on the move and the talk of war was persistent. She returned to the piano, where she began to play her favourite version of the fourth movement of Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique Symphony, thinking of the father she loved, the confidence he always expressed in her abilities. He had bought her the piano; that had been her escape, her sanity, when feelings of loss and remorse slunk into her consciousness. What would he think of me now? The men arrived home before five and Eric called, ‘Don’t cook. Kelly and I are off to the Criterion. I’ll deliver the cream and call on Gladys.’ They disappeared to shower and change into clean clothes. Kelly put on his navy suit, planning to have a good night. Eric
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dressed carefully in his grey suit before taking time to look over some correspondence Connie had brought from the town. Kelly watched him impatiently as he slowly wrote out the cheque for his wages. ‘Need anything in town?’ Eric inquired, as he and Kelly appeared in the kitchen where she was preparing her dinner. ‘Yes. Would you go to Brooks and get me some aspirin? I’ve been getting bad heads.’
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Twenty-eight A fortnight after Connie’s murder Edna, Wilfred and Cliff, along with their mother, Emma, were summoned to the Tenterfield courthouse, an attractive, gabled late nineteenth-century building with impressive, capped chimneys, which was a short distance from Edna’s house. Dr Percy, who had returned to Tenterfield to give the results of the autopsy he’d carried out on Connie to the police, requested the interview and was waiting for them as they filed into an office in the prosecution wing. They sat tensely in front of his large cedar desk. The medical officer saw their ashen faces focused on him. He registered their anguish and spent time trying to reassure them that Connie had not lingered, but died quickly from the wounds inflicted by the axe. Eric had possibly been attacked by Kelly as he slept. Dr Percy went on to explain that all Connie’s injuries were to the upper part of her body and, noticing the four probing sets of eyes, he reassured them that there had been no sexual assault. Emma gasped with simultaneous horror and relief.
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‘She must have fought hard,’ the pathologist added. The room was quiet. While Wilfred patted his mother’s hands, Edna and Cliff exchanged expressions of sadness and relief. They were unprepared for the question that followed. ‘When was the baby born?’ Edna reached for her mother, hiding her face against her bosom while Wilfred stood quickly, incensed. ‘What has this to do with my sister’s murder?’ ‘The autopsy revealed that a birth had taken place.’ ‘You said Kelly didn’t molest her. Isn’t that all that’s relevant to her murder?’ ‘It is an observation for court records and her death certificate.’ Wilfred was alarmed. ‘It mustn’t be,’ he said hastily. ‘They never married.’ There was silence. This revelation could ruin the reputation of Connie and her family; their demand for justice would be immeasurably weakened if even a hint of this unmentionable event made its way into the courtroom. Emma pulled herself away from Edna and held her face in her hands. The others wriggled in their seats as they gazed fixedly at the floor. How could they continue to save their closely guarded secret from exposure? The pathologist could see the anxiety levels escalating. He leant back in his chair, watching them closely. He was used to families cross-questioning him on the exact nature of injuries, but this family had worries that went beyond homicide. He was sympathetic to their dilemma, however, and knew that, by deleting the contentious observation from his report, he would not be compromising its integrity. ‘I appreciate the sensitivity of this for you and your family,’ Dr Percy said finally. ‘You have my assurance that my report
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will be restricted to observations of the extent and nature of injuries sustained at the murder scene.’ ‘Thank you,’ murmured Wilfred. The family drew a collective sigh of relief though they all viewed this as a warning: next time they might not be so lucky. They rose slowly and Wilfred again thanked the pathologist for his consideration. Deep in thought, they left the meeting. ‘He’ll have to remain hidden,’ Edna said as soon as they were back on the street. The others, still shocked into silence, nodded their heads in agreement. For members of the inner circle, this meeting brought matters to a head. Though those ‘in the know’ were convinced that even a hint of the existence of Connie’s child would be detrimental to their case, it was nonetheless now essential to apprise other close family members of their secret. Dulce and Audrey would give evidence at the impending inquest so they needed to be on their guard in case someone leaked the ghastly truth. It was agreed that Nancy should also be briefed and drawn into the closed circle. She was saddened by the revelation, believing she understood too late the bereft look that had sometimes crept onto Connie’s face. If only she had known then, she could have offered support for her older sister. She had always suspected there was a secret and once wondered if Connie had had an abortion, though at the time she dismissed this idea as ludicrous. Her belated knowledge of Barry’s existence made her uncomfortable. Nancy had pitied, rather than condemned, a young girl in her hairdressing salon who had become pregnant and simply disappeared. The girl’s family had never mentioned her again and this episode made her aware of the private hell her sister
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must have suffered while she was alive. Nancy couldn’t tell her family that she had private sympathy for women who found themselves unmarried and in trouble; she was aware that her views were out of step with current thinking. In common with many hair salons, Nancy’s was a place where women freely exchanged local gossip and opinion. She’d heard that Child Welfare was particularly unsympathetic in its treatment of women who were either deserted wives or unmarried mothers, though it was rumoured the deserted wives received a better deal, even a pension. How Connie must have loved that child, she thought, managing to keep it away from the orphanage and foster care. She suspected that some ‘late’ babies she knew belonged to an older daughter rather than to the older woman. She realised that such a solution would be regarded as immoral in her family. The threat of an unseemly pregnancy was proof of immorality and could undermine the whole family’s standing in the watchful eyes of the community. The local Women’s Temperance Union was strongly supported by her church, and members of both institutions were frequently called wowers. Wowsers; she pondered, remembering a reading of C.J. Dennis defining the word: ‘Wowser: an ineffably pious person who mistakes this world for a penitentiary and himself for a warder.’ Perhaps there was some truth in his humour after all. Clearly her family had been placed in a most difficult position both before and after Connie’s murder. She recalled her mother’s strange outburst of rage on the morning of Connie’s murder; for the first time it made some sense. She realised that she was being drawn into a conspiracy of silence that could only prolong the mourning period for the sister she had loved. Whatever will happen to Barry now? she wondered.
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• As Eric’s health remained poor, the much-awaited inquest had been delayed in the belief that his evidence was vital. But in March the Coroner decided they would have to go ahead without him. The horrors Eric had faced would need to wait for another day. While Dr Percy assured the family that none of Eric’s injuries were self-inflicted—putting paid to speculation about his guilt—it was still possible that he had been drawn into the violence. Police had only Kelly’s statement of events up to now. Townspeople and the Sommerlad family packed tightly into the Tenterfield courthouse for the inquest on 6 March. The wood-panelled courtroom was furnished with sturdy wooden pews; natural light flooded in from the windowed rectangular apron that formed part of the ceiling. It was here that Magistrate Beaton had charged Kelly the previous month, on the evening of Connie’s funeral. Following preliminary medical and police evidence, Dr Percy, the forensic pathologist who was the government medical officer from Sydney, testified: On February 6th, I visited a house on Warwick Road, Tenterfield, where I saw a body, identified by Sergt. Schraeder, of Tenterfield, as that of Connie Sommerlad. The body was lying on the floor of the dining room in a dressing gown. The upper part of the body was lying in a pool of blood. There were bloodstains on the walls and ceiling. In the main bedroom I found a bed in a state of disorder, with some bloodstains on the bed, on some of the clothing, and also on the carpet. I found a piece of artificial dental plate on the carpet. On the dressing table was a packet containing A.P.C. powders.
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Later the same morning I performed a post-mortem examination, and found abrasions on both sides of the neck and bruising of the deep tissues of the neck and bruising of the right side of the forehead, the left side of the nose, with a fracture of the left nasal bone, and a fracture of the left cheek bone, I also found bruising of the upper and lower lips, and there were two wounds inside the lower lip. There was bruising of the left shoulder, abrasions of the right middle finger, a wound on the scalp, three wounds on the scalp behind the left ear, and a wound at the back of the scalp, together with extensive fracturing of the skull on the right side, extending to the base of the skull on the right side, bruising of the brain on the left side, with haemorrhage over the surface of the brain. In my opinion death was due to the injuries described . . . In her left hand was a hair, and there were several hairs in her right hand. I found no evidence of sexual interference.
Edna took the stand and said she last saw her sister Connie alive on 3 February about 8 am at her home. At about 8.10 pm that evening she had had a telephone conversation with her sister. She asked what she was doing and Connie had replied that she had gone to bed, as she had been working hard all day. She said that she was alone, and asked her to arrange for Dulce to go out in the service car next morning. Edna testified that her brother, Eric, usually slept very soundly. He possessed a motor truck. She recognised her brother’s handwriting in a chequebook presented in court. The troubled Dulce had already taken the stand early in proceedings and given her account of the murder scene. Audrey testified that she had come to Tenterfield on 29 January
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to spend a holiday with her brother Eric and sister Connie and remained until 2 February. When she left, her brother and sister had been in good health. There was an employee named Trevor Kelly working there. He had a room in the house and slept on the verandah. He had his meals with them. Audrey recalled that Eric had been sleeping in the back room. The relations between her brother and Kelly were very harmonious. Eric liked him and said he was a good worker. Eric was a heavy sleeper and she knew he was fond of sleeping out. Gladys Crewe affirmed that she was a schoolteacher and was currently keeping company with Eric Sommerlad. On the night of 3 February she had met Eric at her boarding house. He told her he had left Trev Kelly in town. She accompanied him while he drove his utility truck and delivered a load of cream to the butter factory. Eric had told her he had agreed to meet Kelly at her boarding house about 10.30 pm. They waited for Kelly till about twenty minutes to twelve but, when he failed to arrive, she went inside and heard Eric drive off. Eric had told her he got on well with Kelly. He had been wearing the grey suit that had been shown to the court. Other witnesses described their encounters with Kelly in his final hours of freedom, both in Tenterfield and during his aborted bid to escape. The court heard the two statements Kelly made after his arrest, which acknowledged his guilt and suggested his repentance, but he was not called as a witness. At the end of the second day of the inquest, on 7 March 1939, Coroner Jennings found that ‘Miss Sommerlad died from the effects of wounds caused by blows of an axe feloniously and
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maliciously inflicted by John Trevor Kelly’, and that Kelly had murdered her. He committed Kelly for trial at the Supreme Court in Armidale. The next day Connie’s death certificate was prepared and registered. It described Marjorie Constance Sommerlad as an unmarried woman of 35 years, survived by her mother and without children. The minister, the undertaker, the district registrar and two witnesses who had observed the burial were identified. Only Barry’s name was missing. He’d had his fourth birthday on 5 March and remained in Brisbane, waiting for his mother who never came.
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Part Three
A DIRE PUNISHMENT
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Twenty-nine Who’s this ‘John Trevor’ person they’re calling our Jack? Michael Kelly wondered as he slipped quietly from the courthouse, looking neither right nor left as proceedings drew to a close. Was it possible that his son had ‘feloniously and maliciously inflicted’ this dreadful crime? Trying not to run, this slight, grey-haired father was almost tripping over the toes of his shoes as he hurried down the hill towards his truck, which he’d concealed in a small side street. Did Jack really do those things? It seemed he’d already confessed and witnesses were in no doubt of his guilt. Evidence presented by publicans, garage owners and taxi drivers had the familiar ring of his son’s larrikinism—he’d never really grown up. But the evidence of Dr Percy had chilled Michael Kelly to the bone. The description of the murder sounded like the work of a madman. Surely Jack hadn’t sunk this low, he thought as he fumbled in his pockets for his keys until he eventually noticed they’d fallen to the ground at his feet. He sat for a time behind the steering wheel, trying to slow his breathing. He’d have to drive away now and come back later,
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after the crowd had dispersed, and say his farewells to Jack, who he knew they would keep in the police lock-up overnight. Forced to drive back up the road, he shrank down low in his seat as he passed the courthouse, where the crowd was still spilling onto the street. Mottled sweat was smearing his forehead. He must get out of town! Where would they send his son? Had he heard some mention of Long Bay in Sydney? Sydney. The name had an ominous ring to it. His wife was there already, in the Government Home, Broughton Hall. He’d had to let the ambulance men take her. He could no longer control her tantrums and demented behaviour. How he longed for the asylum to find a cure for her, so she could come home. He needed her support as right now he was frightened, blaming himself for the parlous state of affairs. He had failed to control his wife and his son. He’d failed as a husband and as a father. He drove slowly, barely registering the familiar countryside. Some way out of town, he pulled over to the side of the road, parked his car and reached into his shirt pocket for a pouch of tobacco. Slowly he rolled a cigarette as he recalled the headaches Jack had caused him in recent years. Up until four or five years ago, he’d been a good kid, and he still was at heart, Michael reminded himself. While Jack had never made the grades at school like his brother and sister, he’d been a good mechanic and in work from the age of thirteen until he was nineteen. Then he’d been bitten by the Depression like everybody else, and there’d been no steady work since. He’d got a local girl into trouble. Not that Michael had seen the child—a little daughter, he’d heard. With plenty of time on his hands, Jack began carrying out a series of silly pranks, but they became more serious and in 1937 he’d coaxed a young girl he’d seen at a local cinema into Michael’s ute after a show.
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Apparently he’d driven her to the banks of the Richmond River where he tried to kiss her and touch her breasts but she’d managed to break free and reported her terrifying experience to the police. Jack was convicted of abduction and sent to the prison farm in Glen Innes for eighteen months. When this term expired, Michael travelled to the Tablelands to pick him up just before Christmas 1938 and together they’d gone to stay with a relative in the town, intending to travel back to the coast on the following day. But Jack had taken off to a local pub and quickly became intoxicated. When he failed to return for tea, Michael went looking for him. Jack was lying under bushes close to his relative’s home and, seeing his father go past, he took the opportunity to slip back into the house and hide under a bed. His father found his hiding place the following morning and demanded that he come out and explain his actions. Jack went into a frenzy and grabbed Michael by the wrists, shouting: ‘I’ve just served eighteen months cold for a crime I never committed. Leave me alone!’ After that, Jack had had some casual work and that job at Hillcrest in January. Work had seemed to settle him down and he appeared happy. He’d even written to Michael saying how much he enjoyed Eric’s company. It didn’t seem rational that a couple of days later he had tried to kill him. While he was up in Tenterfield, Michael knew he should call in to visit his relatives here, but he felt queasy at the thought of seeing anyone. His large extended family originated from his grandfather who had come to the Northern Tablelands as a pioneer back in the 1850s and had been an early settler on land sold off from large squatter properties. The Kellys were pillars of the local Catholic Church. Michael’s other son was
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already in training to become a priest. But now there was this appalling crime. Or was it an accident? The boy he’d cared for from birth was not bad. Still, his actions could threaten the reputation of a respected family. He could bring disgrace to the Kelly name. My family doesn’t deserve this! Michael thought.
Around eight o’clock that evening Michael returned to the police station to see his son. The on-duty police officer eyed him with suspicion but gave him permission to speak briefly through the pull-down slat in the door. Peering into the cell, Michael saw the man they called John Trevor hunched over on a bench, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands covering his face. ‘How you going?’ Michael called softly, almost in a whisper. Jack looked up, the terror in his eyes revealing his inner turmoil. ‘They’re sending me to Long Bay Gaol.’ His voice was shaking. Any fighting spirit had left him. ‘I’ll visit.’ Jack hunched his shoulders; no words came. ‘Take care.’ The policeman motioned Michael to leave and, as there was nothing more he could think to say, he turned away sadly. ‘Where will they try him?’ he asked at the desk. ‘At the Armidale Quarter Sessions. Late April, I believe.’ Michael left and drove the long, twisting dirt road down from the Tablelands to his home in Lismore, near the northern coastline of New South Wales. It was after midnight when he arrived. His house was in darkness. The following Monday the local monsignor arrived, the tassels from his black berretta swaying as he knocked firmly on
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Michael’s door. The priest was concerned to find the house shrouded, with dark blinds covering all the windows. ‘Young John’s in trouble, I hear,’ the monsignor observed as he gathered his cassock around him and settled on a chair in the darkened drawing room. ‘We’re all in trouble.’ Michael had hardly slept for the past week and the heavy circles under his eyes revealed the anxiety that was eating away at his heart. The priest said that the church was praying for his family and urged him to come to confession during the week. ‘Faith will help you through these tough times. You need to come back to the Lord’s Table and seek His forgiveness. He will see you through this time of grief.’ Michael nodded and the priest continued, ‘Your church will stand by you. You have done nothing wrong.’ The monsignor rose: ‘We will invoke the Holy Trinity before I leave: In nomine Patris. Et Filius. Et Spirito Sanctus. Amen.’ Meanwhile, in Tenterfield the Catholic Church became a place of support and sanctuary for the local Kellys. Friends and other parishioners were horrified at the wild rumours circulating around the town about young John Trevor. They could see the unsettling influence this was having on the extended family and were determined to offer their sympathy and support. Some had heard local gossip that the young bloke would be hanged. ‘Serve the dirty tyke right,’ one of the younger Kellys overheard while he was in the Criterion. ‘He may have done wrong, but how dare they judge him so harshly!’ the young man complained to friends afterwards. Relations between the Protestants and Catholics in the town had never been particularly good, but this issue brought them
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to a new low. Townspeople took sides along sectarian lines. Only the week before, a few of the Sommerlad supporters had been spotted crossing to the other side of the street when they saw a Kelly. Children, ever receptive to adult talk in their homes, brought their prejudices to the local schools. At the local convent pupils could be heard chanting popular ditties: Catholics, Catholics ring the bell, Prodies, Prodies go to hell. While Protestant children retaliated with: Catholic dogs they eat like hogs, but can’t eat meat on Friday. Many local employers and farming families were reluctant to employ people not of their faith, while parents with older children warned against socialising with or, worse still, marrying a Catholic if the family was Protestant (or a Protestant if the family was Catholic). While these attitudes were already prevalent in the small community, they had intensified under the pressure of murder in their midst and speculation ran riot for the outcome of the widely anticipated trial. Sensitivities between the immediate families of Connie and Jack led to a souring of relationships. A local Mrs Kelly had been on friendly terms with Emma Sommerlad. They had previously been pregnant at similar times, and often met in the street or at the house of the local midwife. As each of their families had ancestors who’d been successful Tenterfield pioneers, they were both well known and respected in the district. But now that had all changed. The talk in the town was increasingly ugly.
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Thirty In early May 1939, the northern New South Wales town of Armidale was abuzz. Among the reds, browns and gold of autumn leaves littering its pathways was a steady stream of people wrapped warmly in woollen jackets, felt hats and warm gloves to protect them from the bitter chill of winter, which always came early on the Tablelands. They were making their way towards the centre of town to take part in the widely anticipated trial of Jack Kelly. Some of the faces were local, but there were many visitors. Everyone’s attention focused on the courthouse, a stately, formal, Georgian-style building with four imposing Doric columns guarding the entrance. Inside the courtroom, the five rows of public seating on either side of the rear doorway were already filling but people still crammed themselves onto benches as those seated were encouraged to squeeze progressively closer to their neighbours. Members of the victim’s family were ushered through a small set of gates to sit in the two segregated rows immediately behind the fenced box for the accused.
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The family sat tensely; their silence and stiff, erect postures belied the troubling mix of grief, sorrow and rage that burdened their minds. While they sensed support from the rows of people behind them, the rawness of tragedy rendered them incapable of response. The accused waited in a closely guarded room in the space that had been allocated to the defence, which was on the righthand side of the court. Eric, whose health was still fragile, sat cushioned against the hubbub inside the offices for the prosecution. His new suit, his carefully ironed shirt with its well-starched collar, his sombre tie and highly polished shoes all bore testimony to the anxieties of his family, who had deflected their uneasiness into his preparations. He was incapable of telling any of them about his ongoing nightmares, nor of his belief that he had failed in not being there to protect his sister—he should not have slept! He dug into his pocket, anxiously searching for the tablets that provided minimal control over his recurring headaches. Dulce rushed to find him a glass of water, pleased to have a distraction from her own memories. Before this court she would shortly describe again the horrors she had faced on the day she arrived at the homestead to find her sister’s body lying in the blood-soaked hallway and her search for Eric, who she discovered lying under a mattress on the side verandah. Other witnesses sat on benches in the prosecution’s waiting room, some of them spilled out into the courtyard seeking air, cigarettes and a chance to stretch their legs. Connie’s young sister Audrey was there with publicans, taxi drivers, petrol station owners. The forensic team and police were assembled in rooms set aside for that purpose.
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The only witness for the accused was his father. He stood alone on a side street, obscured from the other witnesses by the sheriff’s cottage, which was to one side of the courthouse. He was ill prepared. The witnesses he glimpsed were clearly different; they had justice on their side. He couldn’t trouble his sick wife with his concerns and had been avoiding contact with other relatives and friends. Now he worried for Jack, unsure how to help him, but blaming himself for failing as a father to prevent this tragedy. Inside the courtroom there was a hush as the accused was escorted in by two armed guards through a side door to the right of the prisoner’s box. With eyes downcast Kelly was led there, passing in front of the assembled crowd. Some saw a short, stockily built young man with a fair complexion, light brown hair parted in the middle, and scars on the outside corner of one of his blue eyes. His left index finger was partially missing. Others saw evil—a vicious murderer, a violent unprincipled man who deserved the sentence of death. The jury was seated against the front left-hand wall, separated from the judge’s bench by a brick fireplace which was providing them with some warmth. Everybody rose as the judge, Mr Justice Halse Rogers, entered the court from a small side door. A deathly quiet spread as they awaited the signal to be seated. There followed a shuffling as people squeezed back into their allotted space. The prisoner sat facing the judge, the armed guards now seated on either side of his cubicle. Those in the public gallery could only glimpse his thick brown hair. His voice was low, almost inaudible, as he pleaded ‘not guilty’. The Crown provided graphic evidence of the murder. Mr Clancy, KC, described the horrific wounds sustained by Connie
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and the near-fatal blow administered to Eric. Dr Percy gave his description of the death scene and Connie’s wounds, and restated firmly his view that there was nothing to suggest that the woman had been the victim of a sexual assault. Charles Bulmer, licensee of Tenterfield’s Exchange Hotel, testified that on the night of 3 February he had seen the accused for about five minutes between eleven o’clock and half past eleven. The accused spoke quite rationally. He had had some liquor but, apart from being talkative, showed no sign that he was ‘in liquor’. Eileen Pearson, licensee of Tenterfield’s Criterion Hotel, had first seen the accused at about six o’clock, when he was with Eric Sommerlad. Both men had had two drinks. At 12.30 am Kelly returned and knocked on the door of her hotel. He said Eric had gone home without him and asked to use the telephone to ring Jardine, a taxi driver, to take him home. According to her, the accused did not have any liquor, and remained for only a few minutes. William Jardine said he first saw the accused at about 7.30 pm at the Criterion, where they shared a drink. Kelly had paid him back eight shillings, owed from a previous hire. They then drove back to his taxi stand, but along the way Kelly went to Brooks’ chemist, where he seemed to purchase something. Later they went to a speedway attraction in Rouse Street, where they had a few shots at the shooting gallery and a ride in the cars. He left Kelly at 9.30 and went home to bed. He did not see him again till he received a phone call at 25 minutes to one, when Kelly asked Jardine to drive him home. Jardine met Kelly at the Criterion and drove him home about 12.45 am. They had no more drinks at the hotel, and on the way home Kelly spoke sensibly and rationally. Jardine
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thought Kelly had drunk some more since he last saw him but, except that he was more talkative, there were no other signs of liquor. Jardine had a spare bottle of beer with him in the taxi; they both had a taste on the way out to the Sommerlads’, and then he threw the rest away. After Dulce and Audrey gave their evidence the police reported their findings. First-class Detective-Sergeant Stolz from Brisbane testified that, as a result of certain information he had received, he went to a house in Astor Terrace, Spring Hill, Brisbane, where he found a man asleep. Roused, the man said his name was John Kelly, and that he had come from Tenterfield by car. Stolz told him that he answered the description of a man, John Trevor Kelly, inquired for by the New South Wales police at Tenterfield. Stolz took the accused to the CIB office. When the accused was searched, a chequebook was found. When asked if it was his, the accused did not reply. He was under the influence of liquor. The Crown alleged that, following the brutal axing of his two victims, Kelly stole a suit of Eric’s, a chequebook, £2, a gold ring inset with diamonds and a dark green 1937 Studebaker utility truck. The prosecutor alleged that he drove ultimately to Brisbane, stopping on the way to cash Eric’s cheques to a total of £5 to purchase petrol and alcohol. He took a passenger, a Mrs Atkins, licensee of a hotel, for the last part of the journey, telling her that he was going to Brisbane to propose to his girlfriend and asking her, in the meantime, to look after the ring that he had so recently stolen. He left her at a railway station in Brisbane, promising to collect her for a return journey at 8 pm. Kelly never turned up. Instead, he had taken the utility to a garage for repairs, had hired two taxis, one to take him to a Brisbane hotel at 5.30 pm. Five hours later he hired another
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taxi to take him first to a brothel and then to a cheap lodging house. From signing the cheques, to hiring taxis, to taking the utility to a garage, and in transporting the hotel proprietor to Brisbane, Kelly consistently used his own name. Leaving so many clues littering the countryside he was easily traced and police arrested him at 2 am on Sunday, 5 February, 24 hours after the murders had taken place. At that hour of the morning he was so drunk he was taken to the police station and allowed to sleep until eleven before being awakened and charged with the theft of the utility. Witnesses were called to verify all these assertions. Kelly had provided the police with two different statements of events which had taken place at Hillcrest in the early hours of Saturday, 4 February. Both statements were made within three days of the murder. In his first statement, made in Brisbane at the time of his capture, he alleged that he had been sacked by Eric and that he had waved the axe in revenge. By the time he was brought back to Tenterfield on the day of Connie’s funeral he had altered his statement to portray events largely substantiated by other witnesses. At the end of this second statement he had written the following apology, which was read to the court. I am very sorry for what happened to Miss Sommerlad and hope that Eric Sommerlad makes a speedy and full recovery from his injury. I realise what a great sorrow it must be to his mother and family. Also for his own sake, I would not wish him to die, as he has been very kind to me in helping me with work on the farm. I would like to add that Miss Sommerlad had never at any period encouraged me by word or action to desire her. I believed, and still do, that she is a pure girl.
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Eric’s evidence was inconclusive as he had no memory of the events which had so badly damaged him. He stated: I drove Kelly into Tenterfield and before parting arranged to meet him again at 11 pm. I waited until 11.45 pm and as Kelly had not then put in an appearance, I drove home, where I talked to my sister for about half an hour. We shared some bananas and then I blew out her light and went to bed. I cannot remember anything else, until I recovered consciousness in hospital . . . I had never noticed anything wrong with Kelly at any time. I had never had an argument with Kelly, and could not complain about him. I had given Kelly the job because I wanted to help him, but I did not know that Kelly had just left gaol. Kelly had been employed at Hillcrest for a month, as at that time casual staffs were needed to pick the apple crop. My family and the Kelly family were friendly and I had received a letter from Kelly’s father asking if I could give his son a job. Kelly slept on one of the beds on the verandah and had meals with the family.
Kelly’s counsel, Mr McMinn, addressed the court. He said he was not disputing any of the Crown’s evidence. The defence would be that Kelly was insane at the time of the crime, that he had diminished responsibility because of a low mental capacity and the effect of drink. Kelly’s father was called to the witness stand to testify under oath. As his son’s only witness, he told the court that until the last four or five years his son’s conduct had been very good. Then, owing to unemployment, he seemed to get desperate and took to drink.
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Counsel for the prosecution questioned him closely on his son’s previous convictions. He admitted that Kelly had been charged with a number of offences, including the passing of valueless cheques. On one occasion his son had posed as a police officer from Newcastle and had stopped cars and demanded to see their licences. He had also posed as a liquor inspector. He had been accused of abducting a girl, a charge he strenuously denied, but had been convicted and sentenced to eighteen months. Counsel for the defence rose to his feet. He asked the witness about the health of other members of the family. Michael Kelly admitted that his wife had recently been released from a mental hospital and that a cousin of the accused was still incarcerated. Counsel then asked Kelly senior about the relationship between Jack and his employers. The father tended a recent letter, written to him by his son earlier in the week before the murder occurred. In part it read: ‘Eric is a very nice chap, about three months older than myself. We get on well together. We go to town on Friday nights and have four drinks together, do the Friday night shopping, and return about 9.30, so you see a person leads a fairly quiet life.’ Medical evidence was given by one of Long Bay Gaol’s visiting surgeons, declaring that Kelly was in excellent health and not abnormal. He was suffering from depression, but this was only to be expected. A psychiatrist from that gaol was called and he claimed that Kelly showed the mentality of a boy of thirteen and had an IQ of 80, so that his capacity to understand the outcomes of his actions, both during the murder and afterwards, was not examined. These statements remained unchallenged and no independent medical officer was questioned.
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After all the witnesses had testified, the accused was given the opportunity to make a statement. He rose slowly to his feet and provided the following short statement in his own defence: ‘I am 24 years old. I am sorry for what I have done. Mr Sommerlad and Miss Sommerlad have always shown me kindness. I have no reason whatever for doing what I have done. On the night of the tragedy Mr Sommerlad cashed a cheque for me for £2. I gave the taxi driver eight shillings and I drank the rest. I started on beer and finished drinking brandy. Again I say had it not been for the amount of drink I had, the tragedy would not have occurred. I am sorry for what I have done.’ The jury took two hours to find Kelly guilty of murder. The trial had lasted two days. Justice Halse Rogers asked the accused to stand and pronounced sentence: John Trevor Kelly, you have been found guilty of murder, a murder of extraordinary ferocity. In my opinion the jury has arrived at the only possible verdict. The evidence disclosed no mitigating circumstances whatsoever. My duty is to pass sentence provided by the law. The sentence of the court is that you, John Trevor Kelly, be taken from hence to the place from which you came and that on a day hereinafter to be named by His Excellency the Governor of the Executive Council, you be taken to the place of execution and there be hanged by the neck until you are dead and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.
Asked if he had any response, Kelly swayed on his feet, and with his hands in his trouser pockets, he replied in a low voice: ‘No. Only that I am sorry. Only that.’
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Thirty-one ‘Bit late to say he’s sorry, wouldn’t you say!’ said Edna as she and Aden emerged from the courthouse and joined the expanding circle of close family. ‘At least he got what he deserves.’ ‘He did seem genuine in his—’ Nancy began. But Edna cut her short: ‘Smart ploy. It might help him get a reprieve,’ she said, eyeing the eight or nine family members already assembled. ‘Think of the price we’ve paid—and it won’t stop here. How dare any of them seek a reprieve!’ warned Cliff, stabbing the empty air with his forefinger pointed. Ernest and Phil had nodded to the group, but continued walking towards the car they’d parked at the other end of the block. Ernest was ill at ease with the decision: as the two brothers settled themselves in the car, he turned to Phil, trembling with emotion: ‘It’s not Christian. The death sentence brutalises everyone connected with it . . . It’s another form of murder; legalised murder.’ There was silence for several minutes before Phil suggested: ‘Maybe they’ll give him another chance . . . if the Kellys ask for an appeal.’
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‘I saw little fight in the defence team,’ said Ernest, recapturing his composure. ‘It’s to be hoped that the verdict will energise them now. If I was a Kelly, I’d be far from satisfied.’ Thinking of Ernest’s own seat in the New South Wales Legislative Council, Phil asked: ‘Do you think the Kellys would go so far as to appeal to parliament?’ ‘Let’s hope a court appeal will reduce the sentence to life in prison. I’m sailing to London in a couple of weeks, but I should be home if the case does come to the notice of the House,’ Ernest replied. Phil shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Kelly’s created havoc in poor Albert’s family. I’m not sure how I’d feel if he’d murdered one of my children,’ he said, adding, ‘I don’t think the idea of hanging will go over very well in the Catholic community, though. There’s enough bad blood around town over the affair as it is.’ ‘I know,’ responded Ernest. ‘I wish I could do more for Emma and her family. What support can we give them? Kelly being hanged won’t give long-term relief.’
Michael Kelly remained in the building. Blood had drained from his face as he’d slumped involuntarily into his seat, his vision of the courtroom blurred. His head was spinning with competing emotions, though futility quickly out-manoeuvred the anger he had felt as the fateful words ‘hanged by the neck’ had been proclaimed. The hope he had brought to the court that morning had dissipated, giving way to despair. His facial muscles were tense, holding a weight of tears at bay. His thoughts were interrupted by a firm pat on his shoulder and, looking up, he heard his solicitor asking if he wished to speak to Jack before the police took him away.
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Michael staggered to his feet. Gazing around the courtroom, he was appalled to find it empty. He reached for his collar and eased his tie, which seemed to be choking him. His solicitor led him through the side door to the Defence Wing, but he found it difficult to keep up. His vision began to cloud and his breathing to labour. ‘Where is he?’ ‘Through here.’ After the solicitor had shown his pass, a police guard unlocked the door to a small room. Jack stood beside a table between two policemen: his face was ashen, his reddened eyes downcast, his forehead creased and his hands manacled behind his back. Michael longed to reach out and hold him, to tell him not to worry. He groped for words, but could only muster: ‘Take care, I’ll come . . . and see you.’ Jack hunched his shoulders. His eyes, as they travelled slowly upwards to meet those of his father, were filled with terror. The police guards on either side of him clenched his arms firmly. ‘Goodbye, son,’ Michael whispered, fighting back tears as the guards led their prisoner, manacled and silent, down a stairway. The father remained watching until he saw his son being roughly loaded into a police van that was standing in readiness on the street behind the courthouse.
Emma returned to her home in Glen Innes with Nancy, Edna and Aden the next morning. As the day progressed their ranks
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swelled as other close family members sought their company before departing for distant homes. Myrtle and John, who were the last to arrive, appeared in Emma’s overcrowded drawing room as Edna was speaking. ‘It’s a just punishment. Why should the brute live after what he’s done to us?’ ‘We’ve got justice,’ agreed Cliff. ‘Hear, hear!’ muttered others. ‘He deserves gaol . . . but hanging worries me a bit,’ Audrey volunteered shyly, her eyes cast downwards. ‘He didn’t try to deny his guilt,’ said Myrtle as she squeezed onto the armrest of the chair where Audrey was seated. Aden clasped his arms tightly across his chest. ‘Hanging’s too good for him, my girls,’ he said. Nancy, her face colouring, interjected. ‘He did say he was sorry.’ ‘Sorry! Bit late for that now!’ ‘Wouldn’t have the brains to dig himself out of a ditch,’ Frank chided. The atmosphere was getting heated and everybody began throwing in their own convictions. ‘I won’t feel safe till he’s dead!’ someone cried out. Wilfred caught the anxious look on Dulce’s face and said, ‘He’s the lucky one.’ ‘How do you make that out?’ ‘Eric and you, Dulce—and Mum, for goodness sake—go on living with wounds that will never heal. His problems are over in a couple of months. Anyway, it’s out of our hands. The law’s in charge.’ ‘I wouldn’t want to be the one to do the hanging,’ said Audrey.
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Emma’s face burned. The past week had taken a heavy toll and she’d had enough; covering her ears, she shouted, ‘It’s just! Leave it!’ The sharp burst of a siren coming from the direction of the railway yards temporarily silenced the family but as it faded, Edna, ignoring her mother’s plea, said, ‘The Irish Catholics might try to throw him a lifeline.’ ‘You can’t trust them,’ agreed Cliff. There was an angry general murmur of agreement. ‘That’s right!’ ‘I know, I know. But we’ve got justice for our girl—and for Eric,’ pleaded Emma, willing the discussion to end. ‘How about preparing tea for everyone, Audrey?’ Gradually the mood mellowed. The general consensus seemed to be, ‘After all, we’ve got the outcome we wanted.’ But then Nancy opened the forbidden topic. ‘Would we have got the same result if Kelly knew about Barry?’ ‘Leave it,’ Emma cautioned, her voice rasping. ‘But we do have to do something with him,’ said Wilfred. ‘Violet in Brisbane wants a break.’ ‘He can’t come to Tenterfield—or Glen Innes for that matter,’ said Edna hastily. ‘I’ll take him for a bit, till we get something sorted,’ Wilfred volunteered. By evening only Edna, Aden, Nancy and Audrey remained with their mother. The rest of the family had scattered.
Michael Kelly went home, his feelings frozen; he was beyond reach. For many hours and for many days, he stood, a
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motionless figure staring intensely before a shuttered window. Before him hung an apparition: an inert, hooded figure with a noose twined around its neck. It hung in the air, somewhere between heaven and hell. It was motionless. Somewhere in the void there was a voice: ‘To be hanged by the neck until you are dead.’ They’re going to kill you, Jack, he whispered to the darkened room. You were bad . . . I know you were bad, but you confessed. It must count for something! Is it all my fault? Michael’s eyes were weighed down with unshed tears as he wondered if he’d been wrong to tell the court about events from Jack’s past. They’d asked him and he’d told the truth; there wasn’t an option. But now they’re killing you, Jack. You’ll go to hell. Damnation! Eternal damnation! All of us . . . And then there’s the uncles in Tenterfield, and my brothers. Are we all lepers? He could see no way out from the dark night of his soul. He was a leper—misshapen by grief, tainted, dirty. Would the church support him now that Jack was heading for hell? When a week had passed and Michael did not emerge from his home, friends of the Kelly family began to feel worried. The monsignor raised the issue in local district churches and called on Michael again, encouraging him to take some more positive action. ‘You’ll challenge the sentence?’ the monsignor asked Michael one day. ‘Challenge? Challenge? He’s to be hanged. He’s to die in August: hanged by the neck!’ ‘Get an appeal. He’s not violent—it’s the demon drink.’ Time was ticking away. In three months’ time Jack would be dead—killed by prison guards, he thought anxiously, unless
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something could be done to save him. Michael realised that if he didn’t shake himself free of lethargy he’d only guarantee Jack’s death. Glimmers of hope crept into Michael’s consciousness. Adrenalin leaked into his tissues. His cause wasn’t lost— but it would be soon if he didn’t act. Instead of capitulation, he sought decisive action. With the help of the local Catholic Church, his friends and relatives, he contacted his lawyers and sought an appeal. It was lodged on the grounds of insanity, the only reprieve available at the time. Three judges sat as the Court of Criminal Appeal and reviewed all the evidence at a hearing on 26 May 1939. But the appeal was unsuccessful, the court declaring: ‘The crime was undoubtedly a foul and brutal one without any redeeming feature whatsoever, but there is nothing whatever to suggest that the appellant was insane at the time when he committed it. In these circumstances, there is no possible ground on which this court could interfere with the verdict of the jury.’ After this latest setback, rather than giving way to inactivity and depression, Michael began to seek other avenues to rescue his son. His church, his friends and his family, locally and elsewhere, persuaded him to petition parliament. Reenergised, he picked up a pen and began composing a letter to Jack Lang, the Leader of the Opposition in state parliament. He consulted the monsignor after his fifth attempt, having screwed up the earlier versions, tipping them impatiently into an overflowing wastepaper basket at his feet. He was pleased that only minor changes were suggested by the cleric. There suddenly seemed every reason for hope. His wife had recently been released from hospital and was there with him to join in the desperate bid to save their son. While it was a comfort to have her home, she was still in a delicate state of
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health and spent much of the time in tears. The rest of the family soldiered on and prepared a petition; a dedicated band of workers took this from one town to the next, knocking tirelessly on doors. The numbers of people signing the petition to rescue Jack from the gallows steadily increased while the Kellys continued to make personal representations to individual members of parliament. One Saturday morning in early August, the house of Connie’s older sister, Edna, received a knock at the door.
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Thirty-two Edna remained as the point of contact for family, lawyers and journalists. Her two daughters, aged thirteen and eleven, learned about the murder from their schools and were unsettled. Her eldest, Beverley, blamed herself for cancelling her visit to Aunty Connie on the weekend she was killed. ‘If I’d gone, she’d still be alive,’ she confided to Jenny. Jenny absorbed her mother’s anxiety. She also worried for Aunty Dulce, remembering her blackened face on the morning she had found Connie’s body. It was into this home that a relative of Kelly stumbled one morning in early August. The family sat around the kitchen table that overlooked the garden at the back of the house, finishing their breakfast. The four children were listening intently to their parents as they discussed the imminent death of the murderer. Aden was saying: ‘There’s only three weeks to go.’ ‘It can’t happen soon enough. Poor Eric’s new girlfriend is in terror of her life till he’s hanged,’ said Edna. ‘Why?’ asked Jenny.
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‘It doesn’t affect you, darling.’ ‘What’s hanged?’ asked Keith, who was only seven. The older children looked uncomfortable. ‘Daddy’s talking about the sheep out at Bryan’s Gap. Anyone for more toast?’ It was then that a knock sounded at the front door. Aden glanced at his watch as he rose from his chair. ‘It’s early for callers.’ Leaving the room, he walked down the hall and opened the front door. He saw a man who seemed familiar, standing two steps down, neatly dressed in checked trousers and a well-pressed brown shirt, clutching a sheaf of papers and a small brown leather bag. ‘Yes?’ The man stood looking awkwardly towards the front windows after a brief glance in Aden’s direction. ‘I am Jack Kelly’s cousin. We are petitioning parliament to spare him the death penalty. Would you be interested in supporting our appeal?’ Aden was momentarily speechless, his thoughts spinning as he drew a deep breath in an effort to regain control. Eventually words flowed. ‘How dare you! How dare you come to this house! Get out! That man will hang. Even that’s too good for him!’ He stepped back and slammed the door. Edna heard the bang and noted Aden’s ashen face as he reemerged in the kitchen. ‘Who was it?’ ‘They want us to spare Kelly.’ ‘Haven’t they any decency?’ Breakfast was abandoned. The children could see their parents were upset, but knew instinctively that any conversation would be off limits.
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Jenny and Dan left their confidences until later, when they were on their way down the street for Saturday morning shopping. ‘It’s all to do with Aunty Connie,’ said Jenny. ‘Remember the morning Aunty Dulce came and they sent us to grandfather’s?’ ‘Yes . . . But before that we went to the pub to buy a bottle of brandy for Mum. And the woman in the pub wrapped it in brown paper and told us not to drop it. I’d never been in a pub before.’ ‘Mum and Dad don’t go there either,’ said Jenny. ‘How did Aunty Connie die?’ asked Dan. ‘The man killed her and hurt Uncle Eric.’ ‘The man at the door?’ Jenny rolled her eyes. ‘No, silly—the man in gaol.’
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Thirty-three ‘It was the drink . . . I am sure you will believe that no sane boy would do as he did.’ War was imminent. And while Ernest Sommerlad was in London, searching for a ship that would bring him and his wife back to Australia, Michael Kelly was on a desperate mission to save his son. On Monday 21 August, just three days before his son was due to be hanged at Long Bay prison, he presented his wellsubscribed petition to Vernon Treatt, the new Minister for Justice, in rooms at Sydney’s Parliament House. The Sydney Sun described the father as ‘grey-haired, and somewhat shaken’. Mr Treatt promised to put a transcript of the notes he had made on the Kelly family representations to the Cabinet ‘not later than tomorrow’. This was hardly reassuring. The morality of the issue divided the United Australia Party Cabinet of New South Wales. Premier Alexander Mair had only taken over the premiership from his long-serving predecessor, Bertram Stevens, at the beginning of the month, making Cabinet’s decision that much more difficult. While
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some members felt that Kelly had received a fair trial and pointed out that the subsequent court appeal did nothing to question the guilt and sanity of Kelly, others were not convinced and felt the death penalty, far from being a deterrent to murder, was a form of legalised killing. Previously Michael had written to the Leader of the Opposition, the Labor veteran Jack Lang, who had encouraged him to appear before parliament to present his case and managed to secure a suspension of standing orders to raise the matter. Addressing parliament on both the Tuesday and Wednesday, Lang appealed to the government not to carry out the death sentence. The Labor Party stalwart acknowledged that he had received letters from Michael but he said that, quite apart from these representations, he felt the parliament should address the whole question of the morality of the death penalty and the reasons for the sentence. ‘This is a Christian community, but the acts of the government spurn the most challenging of the Ten Commandments: “Thou shalt not kill”. Every member is fully aware of all the arguments against the death penalty that have been advanced in all parts of the world. They are also aware of the laws of other countries and they are also no doubt aware that the whole weight of evidence is against the barbarous custom of legal killing.’ Lang went on to describe the taunts he had received because he had done nothing about the death penalty when he had previously been premier of New South Wales. To set the record straight, he reminded members that the Lang Government had passed such a bill but it had been rejected by the Legislative Council. He said the main argument used by the people who favoured the death penalty was that it acted as a
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deterrent but he argued that ‘hanging by the present government has been done by favour—it has selected those whose sentence shall be commuted and those whose sentence shall not. If it is a deterrent, it should not be one law for one lad and one law for another.’ Lang drew attention to the fact that a number of death sentences had previously been commuted: ‘No one, of course, can look at this crime with anything but disgust and abhorrence, but the fact remains that he was drunk and that insanity ran through his family.’ Mark Davidson, the Independent Labor member for Cobar, supported Lang: ‘If there is a man among you that is prepared to go out there and pull the lever and send that boy to his Maker, then you are justified in voting for his execution. If you are not prepared to do it yourself, you are not justified in authorising some other poor, menial individual to execute that young man.’ He spoke of a time when the Stevens Government had had thirteen death sentences to review and had commuted twelve. The young man who hanged had previously repented, but the hanging left his mother and relatives to suffer. Stanley Lloyd, the UAP member for Concord but one of Premier Stevens’ fiercest critics, declared he was unequivocally opposed to capital punishment but yet had the greatest sympathy for the new Cabinet, in the early hours of its existence having to determine such a grave question as the fate of a man’s life. Tom Mutch (UAP, Coogee) asked the ministers to tell the whole facts they had on the case; he suggested their debating was based on fragmentary facts and they should not be asked to vote until they were better informed. Lewis Martin, who had been Minister for Justice until a few weeks earlier, said that the question before Cabinet was
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whether there was any reason to believe that Kelly was intoxicated when he committed the crime, or whether he was in such a mental state that he was not responsible for his actions. He produced evidence from medical witnesses who said there was no evidence of insanity. The debate had by now moved to the circumstances of Kelly’s case and, in particular, his plea of insanity, which was the only legal grounds for a reprieve. It was claimed on Kelly’s behalf that no one in his right mind would have acted as he did as he sought to make his escape, and that he had committed the act ‘in a moment of severe, temporary insanity’. It was pointed out that his mother had received treatment in a mental institution and that one of his cousins and two uncles were mentally disturbed. Vernon Treatt reiterated that ‘the crime has been committed in a particularly atrocious way . . . When Kelly committed the crime he was fully aware of what he was doing, and sought to avoid the consequences of his action.’ He said that Kelly received a fair trial and there had been no recommendation for mercy. He went on to defend the death penalty as a deterrent. Other speakers were not so convinced. As one of them declared: ‘We have every sympathy for the relatives of this unfortunate girl but all the sympathy in the world would not justify the government taking the life of a human being . . . If we take the life of Kelly we are adding a grave injustice to the injustice already done.’ The issue of capital punishment created widespread public debate; the country buzzed with the question of whether the government should go ahead and kill the young man, or repeal the death penalty and save him. The loudest voices favoured the latter. For some of Connie’s family the idea of a reprieve
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was abhorrent, while for others the thought of hanging a young man was a violation of their beliefs. Emotions ran particularly high in Tenterfield, which remained divided on the issue, still along sectarian lines. Kelly’s family was distraught and deeply resented the victim’s family, whose refusal to support the reprieve led to bitter feelings. Kelly’s mother was beside herself with grief and said she would curse Emma if her boy’s hanging went ahead. The threat disturbed Emma who had already suffered the tragic loss of her own child earlier that year. How would she cope if people began blaming her for Kelly’s death? For the Kellys and their growing list of supporters, doomsday was almost upon them. Unless members of parliament came to their aid, the premeditated murder of one of their own would be committed before the end of the week. There was no time to waste if Jack was to be spared eternal damnation at the hands of the state. The schoolyard chants grew louder and with increased vindictiveness on both sides. Scuffles broke out daily in the Criterion and Exchange hotels. The Tenterfield Star devoted detailed coverage to the parliamentary debates, though the local member preferred to take a low profile during the proceedings. Meanwhile in the House one member raised the issue of ‘impulse’: ‘Is there a member in this house who has not at some time or other been seized by an impulse?’ To which the member for Cobar replied: ‘Then we should all be hanged.’ Clive Evatt, at that time the Labor member for Hurstville, made a strong plea for clemency based on the fact that the only two doctors to be called at the trial had been in the pay of the Crown. Messrs Treatt and Martin, the present and previous Justice ministers, both vigorously defended the evidence of the
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doctors but Evatt continued: ‘Before a rope is placed around Kelly’s neck some eminent psychiatrists should see him. Eternity is a long time.’ Jack Lang argued that ‘Kelly is to die, not because he committed murder, but because of the circumstances in which he committed it. His death, therefore, is not to be a deterrent to others, but is an act of vengeance.’ During the afternoon the Premier, Mr Mair, announced the arrival of new information and asked for the adjournment of the debate until evening to give Cabinet time to reach a decision. Cabinet reviewed the evidence for an hour and three quarters but could find nothing contrary to the rulings of the court. The press observed considerable agitation as ministers took their hurried meal. During the meal break, the government brought a large body of both plain-clothed and uniformed police into the parliamentary chamber, as they feared public demonstrations and believed that the mood of the community could turn nasty. The officers took up positions in the galleries and circulated among the public outside. Premier Mair returned to the House after eight that evening, white-faced. His voice faltered as he pronounced: ‘I would inform the House that no evidence has been produced which would cause the Cabinet to alter its decision, and the course of the law must therefore be carried out.’ Lang’s motion that the sentence of death be not carried out was defeated by 44 votes to 33. Two members of the UAP voted with the combined Labor parties. Kelly’s fate was now sealed.
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Thirty-four If you wish to teach people to reverence life, you first must show that you reverence it yourself. —John Bright, nineteenth-century British statesman
Towards the evening of 23 August 1939, Jack Kelly sat alone in his small solitary cell close by the gallows. Next morning he would be executed by hanging, all hope of a reprieve having vanished. He had spent the previous three months in solitary confinement. Alone, untouched, but constantly under surveillance. He was afforded no privacy of any kind—sleeping, eating, bathing and relieving himself were all subjected to unrelenting scrutiny. His every scowl or tear, and his every sigh of frustration, boredom or resignation, could be noted and interpreted at the whim of the observer. He was a number to be fed, guarded and accounted for. He was a repentant man, whose apologies and expressions of remorse had gone unheard or disbelieved. He was a man who had been once held captive to the spell of a bolder, brazen,
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more brutal persona. This ‘other self’ had been destroyed by evidence he had never tried to deny. He awaited his punishment—depressed, uncomplaining, fearful. He thought of his family, who had worked so hard to save him, and of the five-year-old girl, his illegitimate daughter from long ago. He had failed them all and deserved to die. Late that afternoon a new figure appeared on the walkway carrying a large canvas bag. The prison guard patrolling the area nodded as the man approached and produced a key to unlock Kelly’s cell door. ‘John Trevor Kelly?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I’m checking details.’ Jack’s breathing accelerated. His muscles tensed as the man stood silently observing him for a minute or two before gruffly explaining that he was there to collect information to expedite the hanging. Kelly submitted like an obedient child. The hangman produced a tape and took measurements of his client’s head—its circumference and the distance between his ears. He made a close examination of Jack’s neck and demanded he show his tongue and repeat the words ‘ninety-nine’. He placed him on a set of scales. The procedures took about half an hour and left the prisoner in a state of hopeless resignation. Having scrupulously recorded the measurements, the hangman went to ready the gallows, which was located within easy earshot of the cell. Kelly’s silence screamed, ‘Do it now!’ But the hangman had more immediate concerns. He knotted the noose, referring to the measurements he had taken of the head and neck. He supervised the filling of sandbags, which had to equal the recorded weight; he then activated the gallows
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to test the responsiveness of the trapdoor and the distance for the drop. Satisfied, he tidied the area and glanced towards the opposite wall, where the large round-faced prison clock was noisily ticking away the seconds. Bedtime, he thought, and retired to his quarters in the gaol. He was on early shift next morning. Jack’s brother, a seminarian, was in Sydney and anxious to give his brother the gift of forgiveness before he died. Although still not eligible to administer the sacrament of Extreme Unction, he could at least offer a Sacrament of Desire: May eternal light shine upon him, may he rest in peace. Amen. Jack understood the reason for his brother’s visit. But he’d seen the pain on his father’s face the previous evening when the old man had told him of his failure to have the sentence commuted through parliament, and now knew that they’d all be better off when he was dead. While he longed to see his brother, he requested that the seminarian be prevented from entering unless he removed all priestly attire, an act that would ensure Jack did not receive admission to any ‘afterlife’. The request disturbed the slight young trainee, who longed to ‘save’ his brother, to wash away his sins and allow him to enter Paradise unblemished. How could he come and not offer redemption? Sadly, he turned away. The night ahead was long and the prison very quiet. The following morning the gaol remained virtually silent. Prisoners were left locked in their cells; all prison guards were in attendance. The area around the gallows was screened from view. An official arrived early to prepare Kelly. He tied his legs at the calves with rope and secured his hands behind his back. Seconds ticked by.
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Far away a phone rang at Hillcrest, and the sheriff asked, ‘Would the family consider registering an appeal to have the death sentence commuted to a life term in prison?’ Without any hesitation the answer was: ‘No! We want justice.’ The official party, the sheriff and his officers took up their chairs on the gallows level and quickly began passing around a bottle of spirits. The gaol’s chaplain, Reverend Father Deeley, arrived to escort Jack the short distance to the gallows. Hanging was a solemn, highly regulated affair. The prison clock dictated the moment of the knock on the door; the walk to the gallows was controlled, timed. Jack was very subdued as he shuffled from his cell and along the catwalk. The leg ropes cut into his legs and impeded his steps. ‘You’ll be next,’ he called, without much conviction—a final act of bravado, or perhaps a call to buoy his spirits on the gallows walk. He was taken to the enclosed area, where he was given the opportunity to make a statement. He declined. In hushed tones he simply said: ‘Let’s get it over.’ The preparations for a state-prescribed death had been carried out with absolute precision—in the positioning on the trapdoor, the readying of the noose, the pulling of the lever. The verdict issued after the body dropped was always the same: death was ‘instantaneous’. The hangman, reputed to be the courthouse cleaner at Darlinghurst, was paid £5 for each hanging. The hangman, glancing at the gallows clock, hesitated slightly before stepping forward to position Jack on the wooden planks of the trapdoor. Overhead a knotted rope hung from a solid timber beam. Jack’s hands were already handcuffed behind
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his back and his legs were secured together. A camisole was placed around his body and the hangman lowered the rope, placing the knot below Jack’s left ear. A hood was dropped over his face, a gesture of mercy for both the condemned and those who were there to witness the proceedings. To one side of the gallows the large iron lever—similar to those used for changing the direction of railway lines or ‘points’ in signals boxes—was loosened ready for action. In the room below the scaffold, another small group was passing around a bottle. A curtain was positioned a short distance from the ceiling trapdoor, which was expected to fall at any moment. The hangman above watched the sweeping second hand: fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine . . . He leant forward to tug on the lever. The trapdoor sprang open with a bloodcurdling screech and Kelly fell fast, secured by the neck, to the room below. The press and others waiting below were given a brief glimpse of the opening trapdoor before the curtain dropped quickly to the floor to disguise the gruesome sight of a body discharging its last signs of life. The officials moved downstairs to join the rest of the small party. The bottle reappeared. Only the medical officer, Dr Holloway, and his assistant witnessed the telltale signs of a life ending. It was not for the public to know of the frequent botches in the process, nor of the flinching of limbs, the inevitable letting go of urine, faeces and sometimes blood, which collected in the slope of the stones under the drop and drained into the nearby gully trap. Hearts and pulse rates slow unpredictably. Sometimes the body was left to swing for an hour to ensure death was ‘instantaneous’.
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The doctor looked at his watch and a silence took hold of the room. Twenty minutes passed. At last Dr Holloway moved forward, towards the hanging body, to take Kelly’s pulse and check the arteries in his neck. ‘The prisoner is deceased.’ Attendants arrived, took the body down and carried it to the mortuary. Later, they gave him a pauper’s funeral and buried him in the prison grounds at Long Bay Gaol. His burial was observed by a prison officer, who then made a formal report to the superintendent: ‘John Trevor Kelly has been executed and buried.’ The superintendent responded by removing Jack from the prison roll—he would no longer require food or scrutiny.
That morning, hundreds of kilometres away in Tenterfield, Edna and Aden and their four children were seated around their breakfast table. Edna kept glancing at the mantle clock on the kitchen sideboard until the crucial hour had passed. Their phone didn’t ring; there was no last-minute knock at the door. ‘He’s dead,’ she said, rising from her chair. The family quickly followed. All were relieved. ‘He is dead,’ Edna repeated. ‘The murderer is dead!’ The previous six months had exacted a heavy toll on Edna and Aden. Now the murderer was hanged, there was a feeling of justice being done; but their memories of the horrific events remained.
The outcome left Connie’s family divided. While they felt some consolation in the aftermath of the hanging, a few shared Ernest’s disquiet over the morality of the action. Ernest had
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been left stranded in England for the weeks leading up to the execution and felt frustrated that he was unable to air his strong concerns over the legitimacy of the death penalty, an issue that he would have raised in the Legislative Council.
In another place Kelly’s family sat in a church—alone, defeated, vulnerable. In Brisbane, Connie’s small son, Barry, was still waiting for his mother, who never came. He was discreetly left out of the picture. The following week the country exploded into war.
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Thirty-five For the majority, passions raised by the images of a man swinging endlessly in space between an opened ceiling and an unreachable floor quickly transferred to the ever-expanding battlefields of the Second World War. People lost interest in the legitimacy of the death sentence, the wickedness or otherwise of the Kellys and the tragedy of the Sommerlads. As the theatre of war grew ever closer with the bombing of Darwin and the northern coast of Queensland, the nation’s fear intensified. Australians were seeing their security threatened and felt relieved when their government sought allied help to build and maintain a Brisbane Line to defend the southern states from enemy bombing. Beyond this point resistance would be total. In time, Tenterfield saw thousands of troops, many from the United States, arrive by train to man that part of the Brisbane Line which cut a path only a short distance from the town’s centre. Thoughts of the gruesome local murder receded further. Connie’s family gave every appearance that they, too, had moved on. But they could never relinquish their melancholy
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duty to keep Barry hidden, though in care, until he reached an age when he could look after himself. Connie’s memory remained a raw mixture of profound loss, embarrassment and regret which they confined to those who had known her closely. While convinced that her appalling story must never be the object of any lingering interest, in particular among the younger generation, they were never confident that their closely guarded secret would not slip out from the shadows to arouse the curiosity of the extended family, the town, the press or even a generation yet to be born. They must remain constantly vigilant! So Barry—this family’s most tightly held secret, this ‘nobody’s child’, the child they’d inherited—remained concealed. Initially he stayed on in Brisbane, until Wilfred stepped forward and agreed to take him for a few months, introducing him to his family as a young child from Broken Hill, a remote town on the far western border of New South Wales. Edna considered adopting him but, after the court case and hanging, she knew Barry could never live in Tenterfield. His sudden appearance would raise suspicions in a town where sympathies, despite the war, remained split between the Sommerlads and the Kellys, between the Protestants and the Catholics. A child suddenly arriving in Edna’s household would be quickly construed locally as the illegitimate offspring of not only a sister but maybe ‘the’ sister, Connie. Children born out of wedlock continued to be treated with suspicion, their mothers despised. If a woman found herself in this position it was her duty to seek marriage. Abortion was illegal and confined to ‘the backyard’, except for the very rich. Advertising any contraceptive devices had been banned in the 1930s. In Connie’s case a local young man had been hanged for the
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murder of a ‘pure girl’. It would never do for her concealed offspring to suddenly materialise on Edna’s doorstep. Myrtle, living in Sydney, felt responsible for the child she believed had been so ‘thoughtlessly’ conceived while she and Connie ran the cake shop. To deny him now was to dishonour the begrudging admiration she felt for her sister; to acknowledge him could bring condemnation to the whole family. Adoption, which she too had considered, was ruled out; the risk of exposure was too high. But the family could not forget him. As the inner circle shared their Christmas best wishes in 1939, Emma circulated a small professional photo of Barry. A little fair-haired boy with large brown eyes was looking up wistfully, shyly, towards the camera—towards them? He was carefully dressed in dark brown shorts and under his cardigan he wore a light cream roundnecked shirt topped off with a striped bowtie. The outfit was perfect except for a small dark stain that ringed the centre button on his shirt. The family neither displayed nor discarded the photograph, but filed it carefully. Early in the New Year, Connie’s friend Thea heard of Barry’s plight and volunteered to care for him in Sydney while the family searched for a more permanent solution. She remembered with affection tinged with sadness the times she had cared for both mother and child in the past. Thea was sympathetic to women left out of the social loop and was pleased to help. She recalled Connie’s unsettled state those two or three years ago. When she arrived at Thea’s house on her return from Bombala with Barry, she’d been unable to sit still for more than a few minutes at a time and she had slept fitfully. Barry had reflected her discomfort, climbing into her bed at night and
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virtually giving up his midday sleep. One day Connie snapped at him for wetting his pants, but when he cried she had been filled with remorse. Although the Sommerlads only knew Thea as Connie’s friend, they were grateful for some breathing space. They sensed that their secret would be safe with her, though they warned her never to tell Barry of the tragedy. So Thea met Barry’s train from Brisbane and received into her arms the small lonely boy as he stepped onto the platform. He snuggled closely against her on the bus to her home, happy to be with someone who knew his missing mother. Maybe Thea would help him find her? During the early months of 1941 Myrtle reignited the smouldering flame by contacting her family with concerns for the way Barry’s birth had been registered. Her sister had once confided that she used the name Campbell. Until now it had seemed harmless enough but Myrtle was becoming aware that if Barry was to be successfully fostered the name ‘Campbell’, if indeed it was really on the official records, must now be deleted. For so delicate a matter she needed the support and advice of other family members. What name would they give him? Sommerlad? She thought not. Jones, perhaps? ‘You’ll have to come to Sydney, Mum—there’s a . . . problem, with the boy,’ she told Emma in a phone call to Glen Innes. Hearing the anxiety in Myrtle’s voice, Emma responded quickly, persuading Edna, Dulce and Audrey to accompany her on the train south. ‘She used the name Campbell,’ said Myrtle hurriedly after greeting them on Central Station, not waiting for formal niceties. ‘I don’t think Barry’s legally registered.’
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‘Are you sure?’ Their mouths gaped. No one felt free to speak during the tram journey to Myrtle’s home. Taking no time to unpack, they made a hasty phone call to Uncle Ernest, who confirmed their need to take action and suggested they contact a solicitor. The legal advice they received was predictable—they should see Norman and, if they were able to persuade him to accept Barry as his son, it would be possible to legitimise Barry’s registration without drawing attention to the anomaly. Squeezed around Myrtle’s small kitchen table in Shadforth Street, Mosman, sipping tea and crunching on Sao biscuits, they debated the alternatives. None of them wanted to see Norman and discuss his relationship to Barry, but they’d been backed into a corner. ‘If only she’d told him!’ groaned Emma. ‘I think he’d have married her,’ chimed in Myrtle. ‘I never liked him, but he was always interested in Con.’ Emma was shocked. ‘She rarely mentioned him to me except when Dad was ill.’ Audrey’s hands waved aimlessly. ‘Maybe the story isn’t true!’ ‘Perhaps,’ said Myrtle, pleased for a distraction, though she knew in her heart that it was unlikely to be false. If only they had questioned her more closely! They all privately regretted how little they knew of Connie’s missing years. ‘We’re making a start,’ said Dulce, appearing more positive as they walked towards the office of the Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages early next morning, but it was here that they received confirmation of Myrtle’s fear. A ‘Barry Campbell’ had been born to an ‘Elsie Campbell’ in Bathurst, on 5 March 1935. ‘That’s him,’ said Myrtle.
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‘She tried to protect us,’ suggested Audrey. The others eyed her doubtfully. Exhausted, they sat for a while talking near the fountain in Hyde Park, enjoying the cooling spray drifting towards them on the light breeze. To a casual observer they could be debating some trivial family matter as a flurry of pigeons pecked crumbs from the asphalt at their feet. ‘Norman’s our only hope,’ Dulce concluded finally, gazing from the pigeons towards the fountain. ‘If he accepts Barry, the child would have a legal identity. Connie needn’t be mentioned.’ ‘And Barry would be fostered,’ said Myrtle, interpreting their thoughts. ‘Thea is very kind, but she was too close to Connie . . . and she’s not a young woman.’ Dulce suggested they arrange a meeting with Norman as soon as possible. But Emma was hesitant: ‘How can we ask him to adopt an unknown son?’ ‘We’ve no choice,’ said Edna firmly, suggesting that Myrtle phone Norman, requesting the family visit him the following day. She complied and, somewhat mystified, he agreed.
Norman hadn’t heard from any of them since Connie’s murder, although he’d sent flowers at the time of her funeral. His thoughts went back to his last outing with Connie in Parramatta Park and these memories made him uneasy. With a sense of foreboding, he sought distraction in his record collection, playing Beethoven symphonies until close to the time of the family’s arrival at his new health food store. Then he looked for something more strident. ‘What are you talking about?’ he cried above the ringing strains of the ‘Marseillaise’ as later the five women sat round
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a table sipping his ginger tea. ‘Connie had my son? That’s laughable!’ ‘She must have told you?’ Myrtle shouted above the anthem. ‘I hadn’t seen Connie for years,’ said Norman, staring straight through her. ‘She slipped out of reach.’ A repetitive scratching sound signalled the end of the record and Norman rose to lift the needle from the turntable. Should he deny impropriety straightaway, or was it better to hear them out? ‘Connie told me when Barry was two,’ said Emma, more to Norman’s back as he replaced the record in its sleeve. Norman raised his eyes and turned quickly to face them. ‘So you never knew either! When was it born?’ ‘The fifth of March, nineteen thirty-five,’ said Myrtle, watching Norman closely. He wasn’t giving much away. She noted that while he was still immaculately dressed, wearing a deep maroon velvet jacket over his well-pressed grey trousers, his eyes hung more heavily and his neck had creases not evident when she’d last seen him at the cake shop. He remained standing. He knew he was in a tight corner. Scratching nervously at his silver sideburns, he tried to figure out whether it was in 1934 or 1935 that he had had the affair with Connie. It was probably ’34, because Albert had died at Christmas ’33. He remembered that well. Perhaps he’d suspected an unwanted pregnancy at the time, but had quickly discarded the idea. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about feelings more than six years old! His face flushed and he wiped at his heated brow and cheeks with a freshly starched white handkerchief from the top pocket in his jacket. He felt both a tad guilty and very confused. What do they want from me? Reluctantly he returned to his seat, stony faced,
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though breathing a little too rapidly and fiddling with the large gold signet ring on his finger. He really had little to fear. Everyone was tense. The women were not interested in pursuing the moral high ground at this point and began quickly to explain their mission. Emma described the predicament over the birth certificate and Edna filled in details of how Norman could help. They gave him no time to declare his innocence or admit to guilt. Their assumption was very clear: Norman was Barry’s father and, even if he wasn’t prepared to admit as much, he could help them by agreeing to legally adopt the child. He relaxed a little; his breathing steadied. The mother and her daughters were not harassing him, nor were they asking him to take over the care of the child, even if it was his. But he was still uncomfortable. This was precisely why he avoided women when he could, he reminded himself, though at least in this case there could be no thought of imposing a marriage and it would look bad if he failed to help the anxious family. He owed that much to both Albert and Connie. Still he stalled. He wanted time to think by himself. He hadn’t been with a woman since his affair with Connie, having begrudgingly decided that women were not for him. He went to another room and reluctantly made a fresh round of tea, placing a Beethoven allegretto on the gramophone as he passed. I’d have married her, he told himself as he reached slowly for the tea caddy on the top shelf, if she’d asked me. I’d have felt obliged. She was a good woman; not that I’d have been a good husband to her. I’d have made her miserable, but, well . . . perhaps she’d be alive! He swallowed hard and found he was blushing as he stopped to check his appearance in the mirror hanging on the back of the door; he hesitated to brush back some straying
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locks from his forehead before returning to the women with the fresh tea. ‘I cared for Connie and for your husband, Emma, as you know,’ said Norman slowly and deliberately. ‘If she’d told me, I would have married her. But this is a terrible shock. I’ll have to think about it.’ The handkerchief, now crumpled, reappeared from his pocket. ‘We’re returning to Glen Innes next weekend,’ said Emma, torn between wanting an immediate resolution and the desire to run. Had her daughter really been so foolish with this man who was so feminine in his ways? He’s not denying it, though, she noted. They were all standing, the fresh herbal tea untouched. Norman just wanted them to leave. As he pushed his chair away from the table, he said, ‘I’ll ring you. Your number?’ ‘XM2587.’ Myrtle, relieved by the brush-off, was already heading for the door, quickly joined by the others. ‘I was sure Norman would know all about it,’ said Dulce as soon as they were all back on the street. Myrtle looked sheepish and said softly under her breath: ‘I was living with Connie and never suspected she was in trouble.’
Norman consented to the legal adoption, with the proviso that they find a responsible woman to care for the child. She must be told everything, but sworn to secrecy. He knew the law would expect him to pay a small retainer for upkeep but, as he had never married, there was no strong financial or family reason to reject the women’s request. It would require little of his time and he had no wish to become embroiled in any
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potential scandal. The family, for their part, appreciated his desire for silence. Norman formally adopted Barry, sight unseen, on 17 October 1940. He gave him the name ‘Jones’, a new place of birth (Paddington), a ‘foster’ father, but no mother.
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Thirty-six Margaret re-read the advertisement in the Mosman Daily several times before drawing a heavy circle in ink around the telephone number supplied. ‘Wanted, a responsible woman to foster rear a six-year-old boy. If interested please call . . .’ I could do that, she thought and made a special trip to the local post office to ring for an appointment. Later that week she received a telegram from Norman with the date for an interview. She dressed carefully in a black long-sleeved blouse and, despite her ankle-length brown skirt, she added a pair of heavy dark stockings to conceal her legs, and a pair of sensible laceup shoes. A close-fitting brown felt hat covered her hair. Norman was impressed. He saw her as a woman unlikely to give trouble either to himself or the family. He agreed to pay one pound a week towards the boy’s upkeep. When the two women met in late November, Myrtle was surprised to be approached by a diminutive middle-aged woman, who greeted her with a shrill little laugh. Margaret lived near Myrtle’s home but was perhaps not the type of person she would have chosen, though, with Norman’s approval and her appar-
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ently genuine desire to foster, she was the logical candidate. Myrtle hid her lack of enthusiasm, stressing her availability for help and advice and emphasising her desire to stay in touch with Barry, though Margaret must be discreet when questions of his past inevitably arose. ‘He’ll be your child,’ she said. As Myrtle walked slowly back to her own home, she was uneasy with her decision not to adopt Barry, suspecting that Connie would never have wanted him to be fostered out. But then again, she reasoned, Connie had resisted family involvement in her affairs and was slow to trust them with her secret. In any case, after the murder, it was unthinkable that anyone should find out that she was not a virgin. What would the Kellys and their friends say? Barry must settle with Margaret. He needs this stability. ‘We’ll be able to relieve you soon,’ Myrtle told Thea when she contacted the older woman with news that Barry had been adopted by his father, who was arranging to have him fostered. Myrtle intimated that the handover would be taking place within the next couple of weeks and that she’d be there at the rendezvous to assist with introductions. She added that Norman did not intend to reveal his identity at this stage. ‘One new parent at a time,’ he’d said. Thea was incredulous: Why is the man who successfully ambushed Connie suddenly part of the picture? She never expressed any desire to introduce the baby to his father. When Myrtle went on to describe it as a ‘timely solution’, Thea was horrified. They’re rushing into this, she thought, these are reckless plans. She tried consoling herself, thinking that perhaps she was too old to raise Barry indefinitely and praying that it was for the best, though her doubts persisted. The thought of parting with him under these circumstances was heartbreaking.
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Worried for Barry’s future welfare, Thea contacted Elsie, seeking reassurance. But Elsie could only share her concerns. Connie had never spoken of Norman to her, though she’d sensed some hostility and was amazed that the family, who had always seemed so distant, would so suddenly bring the father into the picture. ‘Why don’t you give Lucy a ring?’ Elsie advised. ‘They were always pretty close, not only in the girls’ home but afterwards. Remember, Connie was living for a while in Lucy’s old home town of Bombala—and she was Lucy’s bridesmaid when she married Wallace.’ Late one Tuesday afternoon in early December, Thea reluctantly collected the small suitcase she’d neatly packed with Barry’s few possessions. He was hard on her heels, unwilling to let her out of his sight. She turned and gathered him up in her ample arms, smoothing his hair, purring to him softly, reassuringly, as he gazed up at her with fear-filled brown eyes. He was nearing six—a little boy too used to the packed suitcase and the inevitable new home. Thea had taken Elsie’s advice and contacted Lucy, who was most fortuitously coming to Sydney and was staying with Thea on the day of the fateful ‘handover’. Lucy’s stepson had enlisted for war service and she’d agreed to stay on in Sydney with Thea after the farewells. ‘It’s time we left!’ Lucy called from the next room. She was nervous about the proposed visit to Norman’s shop, the chosen venue for the handover. She remembered Connie’s vivid description of a fabled health food store filled with wonderful aromas wafting from shapely and colourful jars, reminding her of Aladdin’s cave. Maybe that had been her undoing; and the Bathurst Home its inevitable consequence. She knew Connie
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had chosen not to reconnect with this man before her tragic death, facing instead the hostility of the family. How would she react, had she known that Barry was to become a part of Norman’s life? Lucy became tearful, recalling the unknown fate of her own baby, the little girl she’d surrendered. She considered telling Thea she wasn’t going, but her older friend had been so kind and deserved support. Myrtle was at the shop when they arrived. They eyed Norman closely during the introductions. Connie never told me he was so old, thought Lucy. Why, he’d be the same age as my Wallace! Her thoughts were interrupted by a little over-dressed pixie who rushed into the shop, her tightly pulled-back hair emphasising the sharply pointed nose on her tiny face. Lucy stared in disbelief. ‘I’d like you to meet Miss Margaret Entz,’ said Norman. Thea turned to gaze at the little woman now standing in their midst. Her first thoughts were of a scarecrow—Surely they could have done better than this! The adults shook hands as if in a vacuum, but Barry held tightly to Thea’s skirt. Norman glanced at the child he’d adopted as he handed around tea that they sipped nervously while leaning against the counter or chairs. It seemed only Margaret was pleased to be there. ‘So you are young Barry,’ Norman said finally. Barry looked up at him. The child had a strong family resemblance, and although outwardly Norman remained composed, the sight unsettled him. ‘This is your new mother,’ said Myrtle, taking the cue that it was time to proceed. Barry looked at Margaret shyly for the first time before turning back, his eyes pleading for Thea’s help. She tried swallowing her grief before saying: ‘I’ll stay in touch
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with you always.’ She reached out to wipe tears from his pale cheeks, and then hers. ‘You mustn’t cry. You’re a big boy. Margaret’s going to be your mother. You’re lucky to have her,’ said Norman, taking Barry gently by the hand and passing him to Margaret. Margaret gripped his small hand tightly, and told him to be a good boy and come with her quietly. As she reached the doorway, she turned briefly to the others, saying: ‘Thank you. I’ll be in touch, Myrtle, and hear from you, Mr Jones.’ Then she and the bewildered little boy disappeared.
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Epilogue
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Thirty-seven My childhood home hummed with the comings and goings of visiting country relatives, friends, acquaintances and people my parents were helping. Among this large, shifting population was an unexplained pair who commanded much of my mother’s attention during my early years. Margaret, always accompanied by a shy boy, was an enigma—a severe, darkly dressed and tiny woman, modestly clad even to the heavy black stockings that forced their way into sensible shoes. Occasionally her penetrating eyes sparkled or she gave a girlish giggle, giving temporary relief to the solemn duties at hand. Invariably she arrived seeking my mother’s advice, either on Barry’s physical health or on moral issues as he approached adolescence. Whenever this unlikely pair appeared, the small woman quickly drew my mother to one side, leaving the child and me to gaze shyly at one another across a void. We had nothing to say to each other. The boy, who was the source of conversation between the older women, was somewhat of a loner, as was I, and we seldom spoke beyond the few words of social necessity. I was curious
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about him though, and while both women discouraged our friendship I, from eavesdropping, developed a somewhat skewed view of his life, health and interests. Margaret relished details of Barry’s many ailments. Maybe he had a nose pouring thick, yellowish-grey mucus, or a cough that vibrated his whole body. Sometimes I viewed from a distance as he lifted his shirt or rolled up a trouser leg to show bulbous boils sprouting from his neck, stomach or legs. On one occasion, he arrived with horrible circular sores that looked like little wheels spinning on his arms. The cycle was always the same—Margaret brought him to display his latest eruption; I watched; he was humiliated. During the 1950s the contact diminished, though I learned he’d left school and begun working as a printer. On one occasion, Myrtle suggested he join us on a trip to Umina Beach to visit my grandmother and aunts Edna, Dulce and Ivy. I never thought to ask why he was included. Although I’d learned about an aunt called Connie in 1953, her link to Barry remained concealed for another ten years, when my mother casually mentioned that he was going to work in New Zealand and that perhaps this was for the best as it would get him away from Margaret, and more tellingly, that this is what Connie would have wanted. Suddenly the penny dropped. He was my cousin, the child of my former imaginary friend! I pushed my mother for more details but the matter was quickly and promptly closed. During the 1960s I moved to the country, married and started a family. Barry spent much of that decade in New Zealand. On visits back to Australia he’d contact Myrtle, who he was now calling ‘aunt’. The openness was amazing and I was
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thrilled that this lifetime mystery man was now recognised as a cousin, and one who I wanted to know better. Barry walked in and out of my life in those days—an interesting but still unknowable acquaintance up until 1973. In that crucial year both Margaret and my mother died, and Barry returned to Australia, a victim of technological change in the printing industry. My mother’s death led me to identify strongly with Barry’s feelings of aloneness. I longed for a sibling to lessen my own trauma, but I was unaware of the chasm that lay between us. I thought all he needed was recognition from a branch of his mother’s family. I was soon to discover how little I really knew of our family’s secrets, let alone of other trials that had shattered the lives of both Connie and her son.
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Thirty-eight My children and I watched as the pleasant-looking man of average height made his way down the steep driveway of our Sydney home, radiating a bright cheery smile. The children were excited over the prospect of a new ‘uncle’; I was thrilled at the opportunity to know Barry better. It was February 1974, less than a year since my mother Myrtle had died, and we were there to welcome his return from a brief overseas trip financed through a small legacy he’d received from Margaret’s estate. It seemed inevitable that Barry and I would become more acquainted. As it turned out, he stayed for a year; a year which slowly unravelled some of the family’s deepest mysteries. At first I believed he had emerged relatively unscathed from what I knew must have been an unhappy childhood, but it soon became apparent that Barry’s warm, bright personality masked a deeply troubled inner self. Oblivious to the baggage he carried, I made many mistakes. Shortly after his arrival I told Barry about my supposed resemblance to his mother, Connie. He seemed interested so I went on to describe the morning in 1953 when we were moving
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house and I found an old newspaper that told me of Connie’s murder. I asked him if he remembered visiting Shadforth Street and to my surprise he not only recalled the house clearly but also remembered its number in the street, though no further comment was made about my discovery. Unaware of the many conspiracies that had kept him hidden from his family, I was surprised by his reticence to embrace opportunities to meet with our cousins and get to know his extended family. Years of resilient silence had reaped an unintended harvest. He deeply resented the secrecy that had robbed him of a normal childhood and he longed only to be reunited with the mother in his dreams. But he lacked confidence in her identity. Disregarding the years I’d taken to find Connie and so much later the link between her and the boy I knew only as Barry, I couldn’t understand his inability to accept Connie Sommerlad, the woman who had been murdered, the sister of my mother Myrtle, as his one true mother. Surely it was time to move on! Frustrated, I suggested that he get a copy of his birth certificate but he dismissed the idea at the time. One morning early in his stay Barry described a vivid childhood memory. Beginning softly he told me of a tiny boy running to a gate because his mother was coming, anticipating the warm, sweet hug she always delivered. As he spoke of the day that she never came, the day he was sternly chastised and pulled away from the gate, his voice rose and his anger mounted. He had last seen his mother in January 1939, when he was three—nearly four—years old. Barry had been with my family for at least four months before he revealed that he was 23 when he first learned of Connie’s murder and that, like me, he read it in a newspaper.
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He described reading an article about the pros and cons of the death penalty for murderers and about the last man to be hanged in New South Wales. But then he had looked more closely, finding the familiar names of ‘Sommerlad’ and ‘Connie’. Surely this wasn’t his mother? It was only then that he confronted Margaret and was told the terrible truth. He felt deeply that this information should have come from Connie’s family or from his father, but they had never mentioned her. Was it shame: of him? of her? Why else would they have not wanted to share their memories? Her anonymity was as painful as his uncertain pedigree.
I asked him one day if he’d seen very much of his father and he replied ‘no’, but added to my surprise that his father was now living out Richmond way and had asked him to help in the health food business when he returned from New Zealand. He had not pursued the idea as his father was now very old and they had never formed a relationship in the past. I was startled. Any mention of ‘Jones’, as my mother called him, cast him into a bygone age. Apparently Norman had given Margaret money while Barry was growing up, but it was never adequate for his upbringing, and Barry remembered his father as a very aloof and mean man who refused to speak about Barry’s mother. We were sitting outside on a balcony of my home overlooking the upper reaches of Sydney’s Middle Harbour. Eucalypts, bottlebrush and she-oaks were growing in profusion in the adjoining steep valley parkland, their foliage providing varied colour and texture to the landscape. Beyond the trees the new Roseville Bridge was clearly in evidence.
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But Barry was gazing straight ahead, his eyes focusing on a different scene. Dismissing the mention of his father, he went on to say that, while Margaret was quite good to him and did her best, she didn’t understand children. The boys at school laughed at her because her clothes were so old-fashioned, but she countered this by saying they gave her moral protection. At one stage, he and Margaret had boarded with a family in a beachside suburb. The husband, a family man with young children, took the opportunity presented to him of having a young lad in the house to abuse Barry sexually over several months. I asked him if he’d told Margaret about the abuse but he assured me that he couldn’t tell her anything. She would have been disgusted and blamed him. I pressed him more closely, suggesting that he could have told his father or his teacher at school, but he said they would never have believed him. I could see by the way he twisted a handkerchief he’d drawn from his pocket that he was still grappling with the terror and sense of uncleanness the experience had generated. Until Margaret finally settled in Parramatta, the pair had moved constantly, making it impossible for Barry to form enduring friendships. He came to accept that he and Margaret were different and, despite his unhappiness, Barry continued to live with his little mum until he was 30. Things improved when he moved to New Zealand, where he found himself very much in demand for a job in printing. For the first time, he was making a move which he’d orchestrated and he took with him only those parts of his life that were bearable, leaving the rest behind in Sydney. He boarded with a woman who looked and acted in a way that was both friendly and ‘normal’. She treated him as her son,
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cooking beautiful meals and encouraging him to bring home people from work. For seven years he assumed a new, brighter and more optimistic persona. No one was aware of his past. Reinventing his childhood, he found that people related to him differently. He was content. But his luck was not to hold. He was made redundant and soon after received a letter from Margaret. She was very ill. He had to go home.
Seven months into his stay with us, on one of those sunny mornings in mid-September that herald an early summer, Barry boarded a crowded, city-bound train, impatient to reach the office of the Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages. He later shared with me the frustrations he experienced that day, making no effort to conceal his despair. Before he’d left, Barry had jotted down on a scrap of paper the few details of his birth and parentage he hoped were true. He fiddled anxiously with this while waiting in the queue at the registry. Eventually he reached the appropriate officer and was asked to fill out the necessary paperwork, assured that the certificate he would receive would have all the details of his parents and his place of birth. He took the form to a nearby table and carefully printed his name, date of birth, his father’s name and his mother’s name in the spaces provided before handing it to the bland-faced officer behind the counter. While waiting for the officer to find the required document, he applied for his mother’s death certificate. Finally he had the two documents and left the registry office, clutching them closely. He bought two small bottles of beer and
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a ham sandwich and headed for the duck pond at the lower end of the Botanic Gardens before easing himself down onto the soft grass. For a while he sat gazing at the low sandstone wall at the harbour seafront and the flotilla of sailing boats as they were making their way towards the main harbour. Then he flicked the lid off one of his bottles and drank it quickly. Slowly he reached for his birth certificate. Skipping over details of the child, he stared at the section dealing with ‘parents of child’. Against ‘adoptive’ father was the name Norman Jones, Business Manager. Where his mother’s name should have been there was no entry: it was blank. Stunned, he turned quickly to the death certificate. Surely this would give him the information he craved. But instead it only served to twist the knife further. Barry stared at the second certificate for a long time. He looked at the cast of names. Beside those of Connie’s father and mother were the names of the coroner, the district registrar, the undertaker, the minister who conducted the service and two witnesses to the burial. Everyone was there but him. As he confronted me with this evidence his reactions were understandable. The Sommerlads had assured him that Connie was his mother but now he was asking why the family had been too ashamed to have him placed on her death certificate? And why hadn’t his birth been registered until he was six years old? Why was Norman listed as his adoptive father? Indeed, given what the certificates said, was Connie even his real mother or could it be that his birth mother was still alive? Both Barry and I still had a long way to go in our search for this elusive woman. The year passed quickly but there were few changes to Barry’s situation. He remained unable to find work and the
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endless time on his hands fed his anxieties. He was in need of a change. Fortunately, some cousins were in Sydney and they offered him a home in the country. He was pleased to go; sadly our ties were broken.
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Thirty-nine In 1986 Lloyd Sommerlad—my second cousin and the son of Ernest, the distinguished former Legislative Councillor— published a book on our family’s history and organised a reunion at Hillcrest to celebrate the event. Some cousins invited Barry and it became his first visit to the farm where his mother was murdered. Among the flowers, the apples and the many country delicacies the afternoon in the gardens of Hillcrest seemed to be a triumph. The cakes and scones were dripping with cream— fresh, lush, moist cream, unsugared, unadulterated. Any surplus was wiped surreptitiously from chins, shirts, scarves and sleeves. The women drank their tea and iced water as they chatted while the men enjoyed their unlimited supply of cold beers. Conversation was animated and reminiscences abounded. The more vocal focused on their current activities. Introductions were occurring among every group. Smaller pockets exchanged controversial titbits in hushed tones. Preparations for the festivities had been under way for many weeks. Hillcrest was a logical venue as the original
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Sommerlads pioneered the land back in the mid-1800s. Family members from across Australia travelled considerable distances to celebrate this publication of their heritage. Distant relatives were meeting for the first time. These people and their offspring were Connie’s cousins, nieces and nephews. Barry was a surprise to many present. He’d arrived early and was pleased to meet up with those he already knew. As the afternoon progressed, they introduced him more widely. This friendly, well-presented man with his shy smile and twinkling eyes impressed people. Yet inwardly Barry was somewhat embarrassed and rather hurt as he came to realise that even some of Connie’s contemporaries had been unaware of his existence up until now. Those who had grown up with her were shocked. They knew of her tragic death, but had no idea that she had ever given birth to a son. Indeed, even his host hadn’t known of his existence until that morning, but he greeted him warmly. Eventually Barry needed to escape the constant interest and chatter centred on him. Both exhilarated and exasperated by the attention, he turned his gaze thoughtfully towards the large family home. All the activity was currently coming from the rear of the building, where hidden stoves, refrigerators and dishwashers were working overtime and people were hurrying with laden hands between kitchen, pantry and the outside tables. Barry, on impulse, made his way towards a large but deserted verandah, sheltered from heat and rain by a substantial iron roof. In his mind’s eye, he conjured up not the current furnishings but a few scattered single beds. He heard not the happy chatter from the garden, but the screams of terror which must once have resonated from within these walls. Despite his unease, Barry walked tentatively inside. A strange quietness descended as he made his way up the long,
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broad hallway. Off to either side he noted what appeared to be guest rooms. He had rehearsed this experience many times, picturing the passage of terror in February 1939. Now he was finally there, it was different. His pace quickened as did his breathing. He wandered into the dining room and allowed himself temporary reflection before a queasy sensation gripped his stomach and moved him on towards the noisy kitchen. Unwilling to attract attention, he continued on to the book table in the garden where Lloyd was signing volumes for family and friends. Sensing the man’s distress, Lloyd left off his duties to talk with him. Lloyd’s quiet manner, along with his sensitivity and compassion, was reassuring. Lloyd told Barry that, as a nineteen-year-old, he had come to Hillcrest with his father on the day after Connie was murdered. This very personal account was rewarding but Barry needed more. Turning for a last time towards the large gathering, he hesitated, unsure whether to flee or rejoin one of the groups. As he had been known to so few before the reunion, could he expect anyone to understand the complexities of the life he had lived? Would any of his relatives be able to share memories of his mother as a child and a young woman? Could any tell him of Connie’s friendship with Norman; had it been meaningful or fleeting? Was there, in fact, any love behind his conception at all? These were the memories he yearned to hear. It was too much for Barry. He turned towards the front gate, and noiselessly slipped away.
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Appendix On the following pages are documents relating to Connie’s death and Barry’s birth and later discovery of his secret past.
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Barry’s birth certificate, with a blank space where his mother’s name should appear.
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The registration of Connie’s death. Following her family’s wishes, there is no record that she had a child.
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The response from the Department of Youth and Community Services to Barry’s request for information about his birth mother and his adoption. Barry had inquired specifically whether Connie was his mother.
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Finally, not long before Norman died, Barry received the confirmation he had been waiting for: a letter from his father which read, ‘Dear Barry, Marjorie Constance Sommerlad was Barry’s mother and Miss Entz adopted him. I feel this is quite correct. N.A. Jones’. Barry had requested this admission many times.
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