The near daphne experien.., p.16
The Near Daphne Experience, page 16
A blind is to be affixed to window that can be locked down at night
Dr D Buckley
Letter from Jonathan Cullinan to Myra Hindley
Peaceful Glades
Hamilton Highway
Haunted Gully
VIC 3999
Australia
HMP Highpoint
Stradishall, Newmarket
CB8 9YG
United Kingdom
Dear Hyra,
Today Amie, the orderly, told me a happy fact about you – you were nearly hanged but you weren’t. The UK law to abolish the death penalty came in four weeks before you were arrested. Then she told me a bad fact – you told a documentary that you wished you had been hanged. I don’t believe her, but I didn’t tell her that. Instead I told her two facts in exchange – I killed the cat and spilled blood smells coppery.
I hope they make a documentary about me. Mum would listen to me then. She watches every documentary she can. She thinks it makes her seem smart.
You are smart. That was a fact thrown in for free by Amie. She said you have a university degree. My aim is to get one in law and they’ll have to let me out so I can find Genny.
Yours sincerely,
Jonathan
Note to Self
Do not button up jacket when attending J. Add extra Pilates class and ask for exercises to get rid of muffin top. Def. don’t want to remind J of his mother.
From: Celeste Smythe
To: Dr D Buckley
Daff,
I’m going take a deep breath and tell you that I’m feeling a bit fed up. Why couldn’t you come here after the mystery date? Even if it was a flop, I would have sympathised. I was really relying on you to help me with Digby, but instead all I get is ‘Gone home’ in a text. Nothing that awful could have happened. It was still daylight.
I don’t know how much longer I can cope with Digby and his weird ways. I needed my friend and you just pissed off back to the country. I don’t know how many more times I need to say it. I need help. You are always so dedicated to your patients. What about your best friend?
I’m sending this straightaway before I chicken out and press delete.
Love, Celeste
Text message from Digby Smythe
Why didn’t you come?
D
From: George Prendergast
To: Dr D Buckley
Dear Daphne,
I hope you don’t mind my emailing, but I found this address on your card in your mother’s bag. I wanted to speak to you quickly to explain the situation.
As you now know, I am a very grateful recipient of your mother’s Meals on Wheels largesse. No one could have been more astounded than I to discover that you’re Mariana’s daughter. Isn’t it a funny coincidence? I hope you’re feeling much better. You turned quite pale when I opened the front door. You really should have let me fetch you a glass of water. I was quite surprised when you pushed past me and said ‘Mummy?’
Absolutely no offence was meant when I told your mother you were using me for a research project about the effects of sport on mental health for the more mature adult. It was, I felt, a somewhat inspired ruse to save you any possible embarrassment that may have arisen if we’d told her we met through a personal advertisement. Not that I am in any way ashamed, my dear. It’s been such a delight to become friends with a bright, intelligent and financially independent young lady like you. Your mother had told me all about you and I never had an inkling, given your reticence to share your name.
Mariana had popped in unexpectedly to pick up her fur coat, which she’d inadvertently left as I keep my house at a regular 23 degrees Celsius, and stayed a little longer than expected. It was my mistake as I understood that you were coming later in the afternoon. My secret is out now – I am a most inadequate cook, which is why I am on the Meals on Wheels roster, not because of my age or infirmity – just plain bad cooking.
You may have noticed Mariana’s clothes looked a little dishevelled. The dear good lady had been trying to dislodge an obstruction at the back of my stove. I need hardly tell you what a competent woman your mother is and it is quite useless to try to dissuade her from being helpful.
I hope we can still be chums.
Yours,
George Prendergast
From: Mariana Buckley
To: Dr D Buckley
Daffers,
Isn’t life hilarious? So full of the most extraordinary coincidences. I visit dear old George and then you walk in. It’s like something out of a book. George explained all about the sports research.
And he is sporty, most athletic. Mummy can vouch for that.
Darling, this may come as a shock to you, but your mother has taken a lover. I’m not going to separate from Daddy or anything tawdry, so don’t worry on that score. George is more an outlet, a recreation. Isn’t he a darling? And such a fine specimen for his age.
I feel this is the best thing that could have happened. I’ve been dying to tell you about George and me. I’m sure you must empathise with how wonderful it is for a woman past the first flush of youth to find a man who makes her feel vibrant and effervescent. Was it like that with you and Harley? I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned him. I would hate for you to feel a regretful pang.
I can’t begin to tell you how fabulous everything is. The orgasms – my toes are going around permanently curled up and I’m sure I’ve dropped a shoe size! Daffers, George may be an older gentleman but he sizzles in the bedroom and wears such smart underwear, which his family give him for Christmas, like Donald Duck and Goffy or whatever that dog is called. Those particular boxer shorts woof when I press Goffy’s nose. We roll around the bed laughing.
You must not tell your father. He is not being harmed and it isn’t as though he has never strayed from the marital path himself. This is an opportunity for us to work on creating an atmosphere of mutual trust again. Actually, Daffers, I know that I can trust you not to tell a soul. Talking to a psychiatrist is the same as confessing to a priest, with that little Hippocratic oath or whatever you took.
Be happy for me, what with MOW, church and George, I don’t know if I’m on my head or tail, and I am thriving.
Love, Mummy
From: Mariana Buckley
To: Dr D Buckley
Daphne,
It is not revolting that Mummy is orgasmic, it is wondrous. It wouldn’t do you any harm to explore your nether regions.
And why are you harping on about Grandma’s fur coat? I feel the cold. If you wanted it you only needed to ask, although I always thought that you were against the wearing of fur. I can arrange for it to be cleaned for you.
Your mother
From: Celeste Smythe
To: Dr D Buckley
Daff,
My life is unravelling. And now I know why. Finally. Digby has not only taken to wearing a ponytail and an earring. He has also taken up sniffing coke. Doing lines.
Every second he’s home he locks himself in his study (I have instructions to leave a dinner tray outside the door and to knock three times). Today after he left for work I searched his desk and discovered a secret drawer. Inside was his equipment carefully wrapped up in yellow silk. A brown speckled tin mirror.
I didn’t know it was his equipment until I showed Harley when he was dropping off more documents for Digby. I still don’t know why the personal touch instead of couriers, but thank God. I wasn’t going to say anything to anybody until you and I met up, but when I opened the door I burst into tears. Harley was so understanding and explained the mirror to me. My husband is a drug fiend.
Trust Digby to make some sort of ritual out of his sordid habit. On his rare appearances around the house, he darts around sniffing and dabbing a hanky to his nose, saying it’s hay fever and I should vacuum more. I don’t know what I’m going to say to Judy. It will destroy her. Luckily, she’s been away on a Probus bus trip the last couple of days, but I’m picking her up today. She’ll see it in my face. I hope she doesn’t blame me.
What am I meant to do? Harley says Digby could become paranoid and dangerous towards the children. He told me he’s seen people wreck their lives because they don’t have the discipline to dabble and instead become addicts. I’ve seen enough movies to know what my life might become if Digby is a coke addict.
Before she left, Judy promised to come over after seeing her bowel specialist tomorrow to look after Tom. Instead of a haircut, I’m going to meet Harley at the Hyatt piano bar for lunch to discuss my next steps. He’s been so kind and unlike himself – not a single Italian word or mention of Bhutanese food.
I’m sorry if I offended you in my last email and that’s why you didn’t answer. It was written in hurt, but I’ve had time to realise that there must have been a good reason for you to flee back to the country.
Please forgive me. I need you.
Love, Celeste
P.S. Your mother blew in briefly yesterday, wearing a mink of all things, wondering if I had any suitable flowers as she was on flower-arranging duty at the church before she had an important meeting. She swept out seconds later, arms full of dahlias, leaving my vases empty. Have you seen her lately? She looks amazing. I asked if she was using Harley’s moisturiser and she shook her head and said it was something better, something that makes a woman simply glow. Do you know what that was about? Maybe we all need it.
From: Mariana Buckley
To: Dr D Buckley
Darling Daffers,
I’ve sustained a blow, a fearful blow.
Poor George has gone to God and he’s dead as a door nail. I still can’t believe it.
I value your discretion in this matter. George collapsed when I was there. Underneath him, trapped by his dead weight. Darling, you can only imagine. We’d been having such a delicious time, with Wagner booming away in the background. It took all of my strength to thrust him off. I needed to bring my fists together against my breasts and push my knee into his groin to roll him over. Dear George was past feeling anything.
Of course, I’m as distraught as can be expected from being in such close proximity to a carcass. But you know, Daffers, I comfort myself I was doing my duty, making George so proud of his virility and athleticism. He died on the job, as it were, and how many men can claim that? Your father won’t ever be able to die during climax as alcohol is not helpful to a man’s potency.
After I departed the death scene, I experienced a couple of tense days. It could have been very awkward with a full-blown coronial inquest, but thank God I had the foresight to remember to peel off George’s condom (did you know sexually transmitted diseases are on the rise in my age group?), so any unpleasant implications were avoided.
It’s a most unpleasant task to peel a condom off a dead man, and then there was the question of disposal because I’ve watched enough crime shows to know that the police always search rubbish bins. I decided to flush it down the toilet, and if one fish dies due to what you will call my thoughtlessness in flushing a non-organic product down the loo, well, too bad – I’m afraid I don’t care. Surely you’ll allow Mummy one dead fish under these extenuating and traumatic circumstances.
The doctor declared death by natural causes and I really consider that there is a great truth in this verdict for what can be more natural than sex?
The funeral is tomorrow and I dread it, but I know my duty. Poor George was such a gentleman. I’ll miss him. I really will. Is that how you felt about Harley, such a loss?
I thought you needed to know as, apart from the atmosphere of mutual trust you and I share, it might affect your research results.
Love, Mummy
From: Hubert Buckley
To: Dr D Buckley
My dear Daphne,
Nothing surprises me about your mother. Of course, I knew about her little fling with that old buffer, George. He was a fair bit older than me. It said 75 in his obituary.
Your mother was much more pleasant to be around when she was all dewy-eyed and engrossed in George and didn’t interfere in my life. I’m not saying Mariana is not a wonderful woman, but she seems to have such a capacity for deciding what is best for everybody, even though she is often proven annoyingly right. However, sometimes one longs for a break from the intensity of her gaze and simply wants the chance to play bridge. Unbeknownst to your mother, I play bridge now every Sunday morning at Hughie’s house, which is conveniently opposite the golf club. There wasn’t a chance of my getting away with that before she had this distraction.
This George thing has hit her badly, really taken the wind from her sails. Yesterday I arrived home to a dark house and Mariana wrapped up in her fur coat, gazing through the terrace windows with tears running down her cheeks and some classical music booming away. Today, I deliberately chose to wear red socks to work to test her reaction and she merely glanced down at my feet and sighed. It quite smote my heart to see an indomitable woman like her losing her fire. It feels most unsettling.
Show her a bit of compassion, my Daphne; you were such a kind little girl, the way you brought injured birds for me to ‘make better’. You were always so amazed at the empty box the next day, convinced the bird was miraculously cured and had flown off home, and never realised I used to screw their necks and throw them on the incinerator as soon as you were asleep. They were beyond help and I didn’t want to upset you.
Your mother is really at a very low ebb.
Your loving father,
Hubert Buckley
From: Celeste Smythe
To: Dr D Buckley
Daff,
I’m not being hysterical about Digby. What other conclusion am I meant to reach when I find a sheet of shiny tin hidden in a secret desk drawer?
It’s easy for you to say keep calm, but you’re not the one married to a coke fiend, and Digby is losing it. He wouldn’t let his mother take away his coffee cup this morning until he studied the auspices of his coffee grounds. Is this a rational being? Especially as we had instant coffee today because poor Judy dropped the percolator on her foot. (Digby still gazed into the empty cup and nodded.) He will be moving into your psychiatric facility, where he’ll model a nice white jacket without sleeves.
Harley didn’t think I was overreacting when we met up. He says he really admires the way I take care of the children because I am virtually a single parent. I could probably put up with doing the child-rearing on my own because Digby is scaring me. Judy would help or maybe she wouldn’t. It’s so awkward with him being her son. Harley asked if I thought Digby might harm the children or me. What am I meant to do? I didn’t sign up for this.
You haven’t been much of a comfort to me either, Daff. Harley, the last person in the world that I would expect to help, has been so good to me. He’s shown me a whole other side over all of this. He says I should be whisked away to an exotic island where I can sleep and sleep, and says he’s worried that I look so tired, even while I still look stunning. That was a typical Harley remark, but it cheered me up a bit and he seemed really sincere. Digby never notices anything about me, except when I’m in his way or when the shirts aren’t ironed to his exacting standards. Our world may be crumbling, but not a single minute crease is tolerated by the drug-addled bastard. When I told him this morning to leave his suit jacket on all day so nobody saw the offending minuscule crease, you should’ve seen the death glare he flashed me. Then he rang up Judy in front of me and asked her to come over and iron his shirts properly. She refused. Good!
What do you think I should do? Do you think you could persuade Digby to see a psychiatrist for therapy or could you see him? Is it my fault Digby’s an addict? Harley assures me it isn’t, but what’s your professional opinion?
Love, Celeste
From: Mariana Buckley
To: Dr D Buckley
Dear Daffers,
Dear George’s funeral was yesterday afternoon and if only I had been in charge of the arrangements because it wasn’t worthy of such a fine gentleman. Nobody seemed to follow correct funeral dress code. Mourners wore singlet tops, like they were at the beach, and I even spied a t-shirt with a Disney character. Horrendous. People have no idea how to comport themselves at solemn occasions nowadays.
By the time I arrived the respectable ten minutes prior to the published start, unfortunately the whole church was packed. There was nobody assigned to the door to find me a seat or even get people to squeeze up a bit, and I was left standing up the back. The air-conditioning was most inadequate so, due to my low blood pressure, I pumped my toes continuously and, because the service was ridiculously long, my clip-on pedometer registered I’d walked 2009 steps all in that heat. The practice of holding an open-mic session and inviting people to come up to ramble and stutter about the departed should be banned.
They had a locum minister who seemed nice enough but he both lisped and sprayed. Watching the big screen, I saw a glob of spittle fly onto a full-blown rose resting on the top of George’s coffin. Most off-putting.
When it’s time for Daddy to go, I’ll make sure to interview the funeral celebrant first. He doesn’t want a church service, even though I made him peek in at the lovely stained-glass windows at my church.
Daffers, I am feeling rather disappointed not to receive any words of sympathy from you.
Love, Mummy
Text message from Digby Smythe
1/2: I will be patient as you ask, although it is getting harder and harder to be with somebody who mocks my beliefs. For some reason C is leaving pamphlets for drug …
2/2: addicts on the patio where I like to sit in peace when they’re all out. I suspect they’re for the mower man.
