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  PRAISE FOR WENDY HARMER

  Roadside Sisters

  ‘...robust, funny, the jokes run through her books like a constantly bubbling, refreshing stream.’ Age

  ‘An Australian Thelma and Louise without the violence...

  warm, witty and enjoyable.’ Herald Sun

  ‘the pace is brilliant...never a dull moment...what a talent is Wendy Harmer.’ Sunshine Coast Sunday

  Love & Punishment

  ‘A fast-moving, funny, poignant novel about love, loss, revenge and punishment.’ Herald Sun

  ‘well worth picking up...it can’t fail to make you laugh.’

  Good Reading

  ‘Fun rules here, and in the Hollywood ending, so does the fairytale.’ Sunday Telegraph

  Farewell My Ovaries

  ‘Moves at a cracking pace...a warm, assured comic voice, less strained than Kathy Lette, more laid-back than the gals on Sex and the City.’ Australian Book Review

  ‘...a sexy romp with an underlying core of morality and an overlay of the ace comedienne’s characteristic wit and humour.’

  Sunday Telegraph

  ‘...a truly entertaining read...with a down and dirty sense of humour when it comes to life and love...’ Geelong Times

  Wendy Harmer is one of Australia’s best-known humourists.

  She has enjoyed a highly successful career over almost four decades as a journalist, stand-up comedienne, radio broadcaster, television host and columnist for magazines and newspapers.

  This is Wendy’s fourth novel for adults. She has also written numerous books for children and teenagers, three one-woman shows, two plays, a musical and a libretto for the Australian Opera.

  Wendy lives on Sydney’s Northern Beaches with her husband and two children.

  For more on everything Wendy, go to: www.wendyharmer.com or www.thecupboard.net.au

  First published in 2011

  Copyright © Wendy Harmer 2011

  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

  Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London

  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

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

  from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74175 1 666

  Set in 11.5/18 pt Sabon by Post Pre-press Group, Australia

  Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  In memory of Dale Langley,

  dearly beloved,

  darling girl.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  The disgraced deputy headmistress of Sydney’s most exclusive private girls’ school. That was the caption under Josephine Margaret Blanchard’s photograph every time it appeared in the newspaper.

  No wonder the stories about her made compelling reading. The word ‘disgraced’ usually carried the appellation ‘footballer’, ‘wealthy businessman’ or ‘politician’. (And sometimes, oddly enough, ‘celebrity’. As if being disgraceful wasn’t part of their job description.) The deputy headmistress of the Darling Point Ladies’ College was a refreshing change from the usual suspects.

  If Jo Blanchard’s reputation had been worth anything to anyone she might have been given a ‘media adviser’ to help restore her tarnished public image. A televised trip to a refugee camp, a charity fun run, even a teary mea culpa may have been prescribed. As it was, Jo had just gone home to her cat. She got on with her life as best she could and was resigned to the fact that every time a columnist wrote a gossipy snippet about the goings-on beyond the gates of Sydney’s elite schools, her photograph would appear. And it was always the same snap of her looking down her nose and grimacing as if she had caught the whiff of someone rather common.

  Jo strode along the path around Rushcutters Bay, where the waters of Sydney Harbour were bordered by a low sandstone wall. It was unseasonably warm for March. The crisp tang of autumn she loved so much seemed to be weeks away. When she was a schoolgirl she would have been exchanging her white cotton gloves for grey leather by now. The weather in Sydney was changing, no doubt about it.

  In the shallows tiny fish darted over mottled green rocks and smudges of beige sand. Jo leaned to retrieve a floating ice-cream wrapper, disposed of it ‘thoughtfully’, as per the printed instructions, and marched on. She had always kept in trim as an example to her students and although she no longer had to be out the door at 6.30 a.m. for a daily walk, she had kept up the habit.

  Most people in the park observing the tall, slim woman in her sleek fitness gear would approve of her decision to take a constitutional on this perfect sunny morning. Good for the health. Good for the spirits. All in the good cause of self-improvement. But they wouldn’t know the real purpose of Jo’s expedition. She was doing penance. One more pilgrimage to the wrought-iron gates of Darling Point Ladies’ College, where she would light a candle to her disappointment.

  She shouldn’t be coming this way—there were any amount of trails she could follow back to her unit in Bondi Junction—but this morning it was as if she was on an express bus with a prepaid ticket and couldn’t get off.

  ‘Push it, ladies! Come on!’ A trio of women pranced by, blonde ponytails swinging, as a wiry personal trainer snapped at their heels. If they were out exercising in the park at this time of the morning, they were likely to be private-school mothers.

  Jo ducked her head. It was a reflex action. Just in case she might be recognised. Funny, she thought, how the line between being resp
ected and ostracised was so thin these days. Just one ill-considered remark and everything could come toppling down.

  It was surprising that a few intemperate words uttered in front of the three hundred mothers of Darling Point Ladies’ College had been enough to see Jo off. But of course it was all about ‘community expectations and standards’—that drill she knew so well from years of listening to speeches at college assemblies. If the Queen of England had made the same remark, it might well have been the end of the monarchy. If Pink had put it in a song, eleven-year-old girls would have happily sung along.

  And there was also the matter of the property damage—the college’s smashed front gate and the shattered gargoyle. It had been a wonderfully grotesque thing with the face of a lion and the body and wings of a dragon. Last time she visited the entrance of Darling Point, a week ago, it still hadn’t been replaced and Jo had felt some sympathy for its lonely mate—a horned monkey with a spiky tail. Even gargoyles ended up single in this part of the world.

  Jo strode up a steep one-way street. Lavish homes thrust ever-larger balconies in the faces of their neighbours. A row of show-off beauty-pageant contestants with expensive deck implants shouted: ‘Look at me. Look at me!’ There was always something to see in the unruly jostle of prime real estate, all shoving for the optimum view. To both see and be seen. Jo moved on past gates and high walls. Shimmering patches of blue water appeared in a shifting mosaic through gaps in hedges and fences.

  Melbourne’s wealthy might covet a view of lawns and lavish gardens from their picture windows, but the glittering prize for Sydney’s elite was water—and the larger the rippling azure mirror one could gaze into, the more clearly it reflected one’s success in life.

  Mighty fortunes had been made from selling a view of Sydney Harbour—from the smallest scrap visible through the aluminium-framed window of an apartment kitchen to sweeping spectacles of sea and sky that were ogled from the expansive balconies of penthouses and terraces of fine residences.

  Dirt could only be sold to one owner at a time, but the same square centimetre of water, twenty fathoms deep? It could be flogged a million times over.

  Jo negotiated the scaffolding erected over an excavation for a new three-car garage. There was always an individual in this street having some make-over or other—a new fence, pathway, top storey or paint job. Not unlike the woman of the house. Once they got started, they didn’t know when to stop, until they were all bright, painted facades hiding crumbling foundations. Keeping up her punishing pace, she crossed the street and threaded her way through a maze of rubbish skips and tradesmen’s vans. The country’s most coveted enclave always resembled a demolition site. The thump of jackhammers

  echoed through cavernous, glass-walled living spaces and

  across deserted swimming pools.

  Arms pumping, fists boxing the air, Jo loped past puffing au pairs pushing massive strollers up one side of the street and dragging small hairy bundles on leads down the other. She could have moved away, but she had lived in this part of Sydney for more than thirty years. Why shouldn’t she stay? It was as much her home as theirs. Some of them might have been here for generations, but there was no-one who had put as much of their heart and soul into Darling Point as Jo Blanchard.

  Pushing herself harder up the hill and relishing the painful strain of exertion in her thighs, Jo saw the spire of St Anne’s rising above the trees at the top of the avenue. And as the wooden cross loomed ever larger, the familiar feelings of loss and regret bowed her head and slowed her stride.

  Standing on the shady footpath outside the Darling Point Ladies’ College, which was partially obscured from view by an avenue of ancient Moreton Bay fig trees, Jo wondered if what she missed most of all was the grandeur of the old building, the splendid gardens and expansive grounds that swept down to the harbour’s edge. They had always invited her to step back into a more gracious era. Perhaps it was the daily communion of souls all bent in the pursuit of knowledge, or the camaraderie of her colleagues. If you asked Jo what she grieved for most, she wouldn’t have known where to begin.

  For more than three decades she had walked the college paths, first as a boarder and then as a teacher, with the satisfying crunch of white quartz gravel underfoot. Since 1880 thousands of women and girls had walked this same way. Like her, they had lifted their heads to trace every turret, chimney pot, column, balustrade and elegant curve of the golden sandstone edifice. The college was built as an institution for young ladies, and the architect who had designed it must have worked diligently to make it pleasing to the feminine eye. The first-floor balcony was hemmed with iron lace and in its middle was a stone archway carved with a garland of roses—a perfect picture frame where girls could gather and wave beguiling welcomes and goodbyes.

  Every morning at 8 a.m. Jo had paused at the first stair of the front terrace, placed her foot into the hollow worn into the stone there and thought of all those who had come before her. From this spot she looked through the shadows, beyond the cavernous entrance and caught a draught of cool air scented with lavender floor wax. Her heels had tapped across the intricately patterned black and white marble tiles of the shaded terrace and then she stepped into the vaulted heart of the building.

  Inevitably her eye was drawn up the grand cedar staircase to the ornate leaded window on the first landing, the sun shining through diamonds of emerald, sapphire and ruby glass tracing a shifting kaleidoscope on the tallow-wood floorboards. And as Jo’s eyes adjusted to the light she had read the finely carved honour rolls with row upon row of names recorded in gilded script—Emily Barker, Maud Challis, Lilly Macleay, Constance Lamb, Ermintrude Palmer, Faith Calwell. Since the earliest days of the Colony of New South Wales, the gentry had entrusted this place with the education of their most precious daughters. Jo had always been humbled and grateful that she was a part of this tradition. Even if the students groaned and wrestled with the wretched weight of expectation. But now she had been banished from this hallowed ground.

  If she hadn’t been roughly ejected from the rarefied atmosphere of carved stone, polished wood and the regular chiming of brass bells, Jo wondered, would she ever have found the courage to leave? She couldn’t help thinking that if she had found her courage earlier her carefully constructed world wouldn’t have come crashing down around her in the most public and hurtful way. She wouldn’t have been excluded. She would have instead been welcomed as a Darling Old Girl and been invited to stand on the stage in the draughty assembly hall, framed by maroon velvet drapes swagged with heavy gold tassels.

  ‘It is with the utmost pleasure and delight that I present this inscribed crystal trophy to the captain of our victorious netball team...’

  A cool breeze rustled the dense canopy of waxy leaves of the Moreton Bay figs. In the shadows, Jo slipped on her tracksuit top. She shivered as she thought of the last time she had stood on that stage. She replayed the scene in her head. The number of times she had done this was almost beyond counting.

  Chapter Two

  It had been another fine March morning, almost a year ago, when Jo was asked by Headmistress Mrs P.W. Kelly OAM to join her in her second-floor office. Immediately.

  She hadn’t been invited to take a seat in front of Mrs Kelly’s prized solid walnut desk, so she stood stranded on royal purple carpet in a field of golden fleurs-de-lis, and waited.

  Silhouetted against the multi-paned window that afforded a superb view of the college grounds and the harbour beyond, the narrow figure of the headmistress stood as stiffly as a dressmaker’s mannequin. Jo fancied that Patsy Kelly’s plain black suit was attached to her form with thousands of tiny pins. That would explain her permanently pained expression.

  Mrs Kelly kept her back to Jo as she spoke. ‘As I said, the telephone has not stopped ringing. I’ve been taking complaints all morning. I can’t imagine what on earth you were thinking.’

  ‘She is an Old Girl,’ Jo replied.

  Patsy turned then. She tugged at the lapels of
her jacket and Jo detected something more than the usual niggling pinpricks of irritation. ‘Oh yes, I remember her well enough,’ Patsy said as she inspected her tiny feet encased in black suede lace-ups. ‘A non-conformist from the outset.’

  Jo knotted her hands tightly in front of her. In her art classes she had always been grateful for the non-conformists. They were the ones who made teaching such a pleasure. She would give all her students the same lump of clay and it was always the oddballs like Cybele Dawson-Wright who fashioned something so surprising that it made Jo clap her hands with delight.

  ‘And she did offer to speak for free,’ said Jo.

  ‘Well, I think we’ve both been around long enough to know that things offered for free are usually not worth paying for,’ Patsy replied.