Cynthia saw the dreaded blue envelope as soon as she opened her letterbox. She felt sick, furious and impotent; there was nothing she could do. The notes inside were made up of words and letters cut from a newspaper. She used to get one every three months or so, but the demands were becoming more frequent these days; now it was every few weeks. The first letter had arrived two years ago, just after her husband's funeral. It too had been pasted together. It read "I know you murdered your husband. If you do not want me to go to the police with PROOF put $500 in a plastic bag and hide it in the hollow branch of the willow in Brennan Park on Thursday by 9pm. I mean it."
For the thousandth time, Cynthia wondered what possible 'proof' there could be. Jeffrey's death wasn't natural, it was true, but she hadn't murdered him. He'd been diagnosed with motor neuron disease a year before, and as he experienced his body gradually but inexorably refusing to obey him, he decided to end his suffering before life became too humiliating. Cynthia knew what he'd done, but when his doctor unhesitatingly signed the death certificate saying, "his heart -sometimes it happens in these cases" she decided to let her husband rest in peace. It was kinder to him, to the children and to his elderly parents. It also meant that Jeffrey's substantial life insurance (null and void in the case of suicide) would be paid without question.
Cynthia looked again at the letter in her hand. If Jeffrey's death were investigated and the truth came out, it would mean giving up the house, the children's school, the settled life they were used to. And what if she actually became a murder suspect? It was unthinkable. She ran a weary hand through her red hair, sat down and wrote a cheque to cash at the bank the next day.
Edie Watson lowered her overweight body into a new armchair and opened the Herald. This was her favourite time of the day. Good to put your feet up and relax after cleaning that bloody school for hours. Might be able to give it up soon. She was clever, she'd give herself that. Just wished she'd thought of this lurk years ago - it worked a treat -and the things you found out about people! She turned to the personal columns and folded the paper into a manageable size. Births and deaths first. Anyone she knew? Yes, maybe...... 'Angela and Bob Brown welcome baby Jason, a brother for Sarah.' Now they ring a bell, who.....? Then she remembered. They were the couple living in that la-dee-da two storey place opposite the school. Their kid was in year seven. Mmm, quite a gap. Maybe the old boy's lost it -he's years older than her -she's just the type to have an affair too. Worth a go! Edie started to feel a familiar tingle of excitement. She would paste up a letter tonight, something like, "I know that Jason is not your husband's child. If you do not wish dear Bob to see my PROOF put $500 in a plastic bag....etc." Same instructions. Not all the letters worked of course, but you didn't have to worry about people going to the police or anything. Most people had something to hide, but even if they didn't they preferred not to plant any seeds of doubt by showing accusations to anyone. Edie knew her letters would result in payment if she'd hit the nail on the head, or if not, get burnt or torn into tiny pieces and put carefully in the bin.
Angela Brown looked adoringly at her son, the baby she'd given up hope of having, and thanked God he looked so much like Bob. Babies changed every day, she knew, but there was no doubt; the shape of his tiny fingernails and precious little ears testified to his being a Brown. Angela had been tormented with worry ever since she knew she was pregnant. She was surprised to see the baby born without deep anxiety lines in his forehead!
Angela had never been unfaithful before and knew now she never would be again. She'd been so silly. She wasn't seventeen any longer but that's how Myer had made her feel -young, carefree and desirable. It felt so good for a while to forget Bob's concerns with the practice, Sarah's homework, getting the dishwasher fixed or the car services. It felt so good to talk about different,sometimes frivolous, things and have a man look at her as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world.
She'd met Myer last year when Bob was in Switzerland at a medical conference and Sarah was staying with her grandparents in the country. With time on her hands, Angela decided to spruce up the garden and went to one of Sydney's biggest nurseries to browse. Standing in front of a huge display of camellias, trying to decide between Elegans Supreme and Drama Girl, she stepped back for a different perspective, and bumped into a man holding a potted orchid. She watched, fascinated, as the orchid flew through the air and shattered on an unperturbed garden gnome, still smiling at them benignly. She apologised, he introduced himself and told her the only way she could possibly atone was to accept a coffee. He was charming. They talked about gardens, books, the latest exhibition at the art gallery and the remarkable talent of David Campbell. They speculated on why coffee seemed so much better in the Eastern Suburbs and how one's position in the family could influence personality. It was the sort of converation she hadn't had in years. He captivated her. The affair had been brief. Madly infatuated for a few days, Angela spent almost every minute with Myer, taking time out only to ring Sarah and Bob. Having tried to conceive without success for years, she didn't bother with condoms -so uncool anyway. It was a full five days of champagne, roses and the best hotels, (well, if she were honest, there were teensy little indications prior to that) before she realized Myer was not for her. On the sixth morning, Angela woke up in the Stella Regis. It was tremendous fun to stay at five-star hotels in her own city -how many people got to do that? She went to the bathroom, cleaned her teeth and chose from three scented soaps to wash with. Myer was still asleep. She crept in beside him. The bed was comfortable and she stretched and luxuriated in its softness and warmth. "Why did you wake me up?" Myer asked abruptly. "It's only seven o'clock." "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I usually get up about now when I'm home. I suppose it's my body clock." "Well you're not at home now, are you?" Myer glared at her and shrugged the covers over his shoulder. "Don't be cross, Darling. Go back to sleep. What time do you want to wake up?" "I can never get back to sleep after I've been woken unnaturally," he said peevishly. "I may as well just get up and have a shower." "Why don't you stay here for a little while?" Angela stroked his shoulder and tried to look seductive. "There's no rush." "Oh, what the hell," he said, and apparently forgetting the exciting but tender lovemaking of the past few days, took her roughly, almost without warning. She could smell his morning breath as he pounded into her. It hurt. It hurt dreadfully, but it was over quickly. When he was finished he pushed her aside and without a word, got up and walked into the bathroom. As soon as the door closed Angela was on her feet. She dressed in leggings and a sweater and rapidly threw the rest of her clothes into a case. It took about three minutes. The shower was still running. She snatched up some hotel stationery and wrote:- GOODBYE MYER NEVER CONTACT ME - EVER A few weeks later when her pregnancy was confirmed, she was not sure whether it had resulted from her wayward week or the romantic and enthusiastic welcome home she gave to Bob, darling Bob, who would never suspect her of being anything but totally loyal. Now everything was all right. She'd got away with her irresponsible fling and good riddance. The next day Bob brought her mail into the hospital. One of the envelopes was blue.
Three weeks after her last payment another blue envelope came for Cynthia. She was outraged. How often did this creature intend to milk her? She mangled the envelope and pulled out the letter. She was astonished. It read: "I know you set fire to your factory to get the insurance. If you do not want PROOF to be sent to the police put $500 in a plastic envelope...." and the instructions were the same as before. Cynthia was bewildered. She had no factory, burnt or otherwise. Had her blackmailer gone mad? "No-ooo," she mused, almost under her breath, "not mad, just careless. Apparently this is a racket and I'm not the only victim!"
On his way to parent/teacher night, Nigel Barrington, Headmaster of Brennan Park Ladies College, walked out of his lodge and checked his letterbox. Not another demand! How much did this wretch think teachers earned? He pocketed the threatening note and tossed the crumpled envelope into the bin at the door of the entrance hall. Angela and Sarah drove into the college grounds a few minutes before they were due to see the first teacher on Sarah's list. Cynthia, with Megan and Sally, pulled up beside them and they walked in together. Sarah and Sally, both in year seven, were close friends and chatted excitedly as if it were months, not hours since they'd last seen each other. Megan smiled indulgently at the younger girls, remembering how jittery she'd been on her first parent/teacher night, even though she always topped her class. As they walked into the hall the little group was jostled by an unexpected cascade of red pleated skirts, boots and flying sticks -the hockey team was running late. Angela's handbag was knocked out of her grasp, spilling its contents on the floor. Cynthia bent to help Angela return tissues, make-up and a dummy, into her bag. "One of your lipsticks ended up in the bin!" Cynthia laughed. As she picked it up both women saw the envelope at the same time. "Is this yours too?" Cynthia asked tentatively, smoothing the blue paper. "Yes." Angela held out her hand for it, wondering how she could have been careless enough to have left one of the envelopes in her bag. "It's addressed to Mr.Barrington," Cynthia said, quizzically. Angela's face went white. Her hands shook. "Mr.Barrington?" "Are you okay, Mrs.Brown?" Megan took her by the elbow. "Come over here and sit down for a minute." Angela sank gratefully into a chair. "Mum, we'll be late," moaned Sarah, looking at her watch. "No you won't, Sarah," said Megan briskly, nodding her red head, so much like her mother's. "I'll take you and Sally to your first appointments -I haven't got one for half an hour. Mum," she added, turning to Cynthia, "you can get water from the cooler in the next room. I'll get the girls to their teachers and say you'll be along soon." She ushered the youngsters out. "Listen, Angela, we need to talk. Tonight! Come home with me after all this is over. We might be able to help each other." Cynthia lowered her voice. "I take it you're being blackmailed like me. The kids know nothing about this but let's go home and talk -no need for details, okay?" "You too!" Angela was amazed. When they reached Cynthia's place, the girls went upstairs and Cynthia put on some coffee. "Have a look at this." Cynthia showed Angela the burnt factory letter and explained what she thought had happened. "So do you think maybe the principal is a victime too?" Angela pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "What a relief! You'll think I'm a fool but I imagined the blackmailer was reporting me to the school -telling them I was an unfit parent or something. I was terrified when I saw that envelope!" Megan walked into the room and looked from one to the other. "What is it? What's going on? You both look dreadful." "Why, thank you dear." Cynthia replied archly. "Oh, I didn't mean..."Megan was awkward. "But I can see something's wrong. I overheard a bit of it." Both women were silent. They glanced at each other, unsure what to do. "I think she's old enough to understand," said Angela eventually. "I've got to get home to feed the baby, but tell Megan about it. She's got your sense as well as your red hair. She might figure out something we can do."
Cynthia grappled with her thoughts. Why not tell her? She was almost grown up, seventeen, in year eleven. It was two years since her father's death. Was she distanced enough, mature enough, to understand? Cynthia desperately needed to talk about this with someone -someone close who could think clearly and help her decide what to do. "Meg darling, grab a coke and a biscuit. I want to tell you the whole story." Megan heard her mother out without speaking. Then she shook her head and took her mother's hand. "Why didn't you tell me about this before? We've lost thousands of dollars unnecessarily. I'm not blaming you, Mum, you did what you thought best, but I'll tell you what we're going to do now!" Cynthia was delighted by Megan's willingness to take over the situation and prepared to humour her with whatever she had in mind: there was surely no solution. It was just so nice to be able to share the problem. Megan went on. "You don't know who this person is, although I bet it's a woman, and I reckon she has no evidence at all. She simply takes pot shots and sits back to see which ones hit the mark. The only way you can communicate with her is through the tree, so we'll leave her a letter this time! "I know who you are. If you do not stop blackmailing people I'll give the police PROOF of your activities. I mean it." "Meggie, you're brilliant!" Cynthia leapt up and gave her daughter a hug. "Thank you darling, that's the answer! Let's write it now -get the stationery." "Mum! We don't need writing paper, we need newspaper and some scissors. It's just as important the blackmailer doesn't know who sent this letter as the other way round. If we copy her style, she won't know who sent it and will have to stop blackmailing everyone. Don't you see?" "Oh, of course." Cynthia wondered if all children had clearer insight and greater intelligence than their parents. They sat on the floor together, finding some whole words and lots of separate letters. "I need an 'f'". "Where did that 'police' go?" They both enjoyed the game and smiled at each other conspiratorially. "I've even got a blue envelope," said Cynthia. "Nice touch," Megan agreed, and went out to 'post' it straight away. She looked thoughtful when she came home. She gave her mother a kiss. "You don't have to worry about anything anymore." On the way to her room, Megan picked up the newspaper, scissors and glue.
Jill Single