Mother Undone — Part Eight
A Psychological Thriller That Explores the Dark Side Of Motherhood
The story so far…
Johanna, a woman haunted by guilt following the death of her children decides to make a fresh start in a new city in a house inherited from her grandmother, but she later discovers that one of Australia’s most famous poisoners, Martha Needle, used to live there.
Is this the reason for the strange noises, disturbing dreams and ghostly apparitions that seem to be following Johanna?
Johanna decides to do something about it…
There were lots of reasons I decided to write Martha’s story.
Touring Melbourne Gaol and learning more about the enigmatic Martha were two of them. Kate’s dream of being an author was another. It had the effect of inspiring me.
A journalist — even an ex-journalist — is like a dormant volcano. After years of writing puff pieces for features publications and cobbling together front-page stories based on poorly-written press releases, the desire to be a serious writer simmers and bubbles beneath the surface just waiting for the opportunity to erupt.
But most of all, the thought of writing a book about Martha excited me. It made me feel alive again, like there was a reason to get out of bed each day.
So I wrote three hundred words every morning after I woke and, on the days I wasn’t working, I spent my time at the State Library, looking up old newspapers to fill the gaps in my research.
I tried not to think about Kate’s reaction to my news. Was I stealing her thunder? What if it came as a slap in the face? On the other hand, she might be flattered I’d followed her lead. We were due to meet for our regular Thursday cocktail session. I’d make my confession then.
I arrived at the bar half an hour early, enjoying the opportunity to sip a Martini in solitude and lose myself in the neon-lit splendour of Melbourne by night. The bar reminded me of the places I used to frequent in London — all polished chrome and dark timber, soft pale lights and floor-to-ceiling windows.
At twenty minutes past eight, Kate strode towards me wearing a pleated, tartan mini-skirt, knee-high black boots and a fitted, black turtleneck. Her perfume — spicy, earthy, animal — enveloped me like her greeting hug. It smelt familiar but I’d long lost count of the different scents she wore.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked.
“Because you’ve just flustered half a dozen men and earned the undying hatred of their girlfriends in the space of about ten seconds,” I laughed.
Kate rummaged around in her bag. “Where’s my purse? I need a bloody big drink after the day I’ve had.”
“Put that away,” I insisted. “Drinks are on me tonight.”
When I returned with the drinks, Kate had removed her boots. “I’ve been walking around in these things all day and I walked an extra round of yard duty as a favour to a colleague. Bloody students,” she muttered. “Teaching would be okay if it wasn’t for the kids — hey, thanks for the drink.” She took a large sip and smacked her lips. “That’s better. Hey, I’ve got some interesting news.”
“What?”
“Ramon… my ex… he rang last night. We actually had a civil conversation. He sounded almost… shy. Like he was about to ask me out on a date.”
I couldn’t help my pang of disappointment. If Kate got back with Ramon, it might mean I wouldn’t see her as much. I forced a smile onto my face. “I’m pleased for you Kate. Do you think you’ll get back together?”
“Much too soon to talk about that. I just feel better now he’s made the first move. To be honest, I’m not even sure I want to get back with him.”
I hung onto this small shred. I’d come to enjoy having a single friend, someone always available for lunch or a drink. But the intensity of my fear of losing Kate’s company concerned me. It meant I was coming to rely on her. It meant I needed her more than was good for me.
“So tell me,” Kate said, “How was your day?”
Here goes. I tried to sound enthusiastic, airy, as though the thought had only just occurred to me. “Do remember when you suggested I research the history of my house a few weeks ago?”
“Of course I remember. Did you find out anything interesting?”
“You’ll never believe it, but seems a famous murderess called Martha Needle probably lived there in the eighteen-eighties and early eighteen-nineties.”
Kate’s eyes widened. “Omigod, Johanna! That’s unbelievable!”
I nodded. “Martha was accused of killing her husband and three children with rat poison. That must be why I found that old tin of rat poison at the back of my kitchen cupboard.”
“Go on.” Kate sounded excited.
“Later, Martha went on to kill her fiance’s brother with the same poison, and, after that, she attempted to poison his other brother. I found out she was executed at the Melbourne Gaol in 1894 for the murders, so I decided to pay a visit and find out more.”
I related my visit to the Old Melbourne Gaol and told Kate about what I’d learned since. “The trial was pretty controversial at the time. Half the public believed she was innocent of her crimes, the other half thought she was guilty. Her defence counsel tried to get her off on an insanity plea.”
“So what’s your verdict?”
“From what I’ve read, I’m pretty sure she was guilty of poisoning her husband and her future brothers-in-law.” I sipped my drink. “What I can’t understand is why she poisoned her children when by all accounts, she adored them. Plus, she gained only a pittance from the death insurance then spent it all on their headstones.”
Kate looked thoughtful. “Didn’t you say she had a fiancé at the time?”
I nodded.
“Might she have killed her children so she could be with him… without encumbrances?”
I shook my head. “Unlikely. She poisoned them slowly and, according to all reports, the relationship between Martha and her fiancé only got stronger when he observed her tenderness towards her children when they were ill.”
“What if she gave them the poison but didn’t mean for them to die?” Kate asked.
I was confused. “What would be the point of that?”
“Have you heard of Munchausen’s Syndrome? When someone fakes an illness so they can go to the hospital?”
“I’ve heard of it. But that doesn’t explain why Martha poisoned her children.”
Kate finished her drink and placed the glass on the table. “When I was teaching at my first school, there was a kid in my form whose mum was always taking him to hospital for asthma attacks. Every second week, I’d get a note from the kid’s mother informing me he’d had another attack and he was at the children’s hospital. Then, one day, the boy tried to commit suicide. While he was in hospital and away from his mother, the doctors discovered the kid never had asthma after all. His mother had been medicating him to replicate the symptoms.”
“That’s ridiculous! Why would a mother do that?”
“Because of this kid, I did some research on the syndrome. It used to be called Munchausen’s-by-Proxy, but now they call it Factitious Disorder Imposed on Another. The parent — often the mother — knows that being ill guarantees attention.” Kate grimaced. “But when she’s the parent of a sick child, it gets even better. She earns kudos from the world at large for having a sick kid, she gets sympathy and admiration from other mothers and she impresses the doctors with her knowledge of the symptoms, causes and cures for her child’s illness.”
I whistled. “You know what? It fits. The newspapers reported that when the police searched Martha’s room after her arrest, they found letters from all the doctors she’d written about her children’s illnesses. And because of the high death rate of children in Victorian times, the doctors never guessed the symptoms treated were the result of arsenic poisoning.” I held up my glass in a toast. “I think you’re right Kate. I think Martha Needle suffered from that Factitious Disorder thing, a syndrome nobody even knew existed back then.”
Kate winked. “This calls for another drink!” she said, waving her arm. A drink waiter appeared within seconds, a goofy smile on his face. “A bottle of your best bubbly please… and don’t forget the ice bucket,” she called to his departing back.
The champagne arrived and the waiter filled our glasses. “Here’s to two clever girls,” Kate said, raising her glass. Then her eyes narrowed. “Johanna? You haven’t mentioned anything about my book.”
“What?”
“My book… the one you said you’d take a look at when we first met.” Kate’s eyes narrowed. “I sent you the PDF file… is it really bad? Is that the reason you haven’t said anything? You can tell me if it’s a shocker. I’m a big girl and I can take it.”
Despite my preoccupation with my own work, I’d made it halfway through Kate’s novel. Her writing bore the hallmarks of many novice writers — over-description and too many adverbs. Despite this, her writer’s voice was fresh and distinctive, her story compelling. With a bit of polishing, she might even have luck getting published.
I smiled across the table at a Kate I’d never seen before: a nervous girl-woman stripped of her poise and self-assurance, as though her entire existence depended on my next words. “So far, I think it’s a good story… you’ve got me turning the pages and wanting to know what comes next. And you’ve got a unique voice. Not a lot of writers get that in their first drafts.”
Kate sighed and ran her fingers up and down the stem of her glass. “Faint praise indeed. I just don’t know anymore… maybe I should give up on the idea of being a famous writer.”
“No, you shouldn’t — ” I began before Kate leaned forward and grabbed my hand.
“Johanna… I’ve just had the most fantastic idea!”
I tensed. “What is it?” I’d been one sentence away from telling Kate about my book.
“They always say you should write what you know… what you feel passionate about… and our conversation just then… about Martha Needle having Factitious Disorder syndrome. Well, that excited me. And you living in Martha’s house and visiting the Old Melbourne Gaol… it’s perfect!” Kate clapped her hands in delight. “Johanna… you’re an ex-journalist and I want to be a writer. You’ve already said I show some promise. What if we both write Martha’s story? We could write another Alias Grace!”
I looked down, gathering courage for my confession. “Actually Kate, it’s interesting you talking about us writing a book because — ”
“And Martha’s the perfect subject for a novel,” Kate babbled on. “Everyone will want to read about her. Was she evil murderess, misunderstood mother or hopelessly insane?” She stared at me with shining eyes. “What do you say Johanna? Can we do it? Together? Please say yes! I’ve got a good feeling about this. I really think this is the book that I’m meant to write.”
There was no way I could tell Kate about my book now. Irritation surged in my chest. I was the one living in Martha’s house… didn’t that give me the right to tell her story?
But I knew I was being unreasonable. I didn’t own Martha’s story after all… and writing a book was Kate’s long-held dream. What sort of friend could refuse her this? She deserved a chance… we both did. Besides, it might be even be fun working with Kate. It would bring us closer together… cement our friendship.
I forced a smile to my face. “Okay Kate… let’s do it. Together.”
Kate punched the air with her fist and poured me another glass of champagne despite my protests. “Shut up Johanna. We’re celebrating.” She raised her glass. “To us! And I promise I’ll dedicate the book to you, Johanna!”
I laughed. “No need… I’ll just take half the royalties.” I sipped my wine. “Do you know what they called her?”
“Who? Martha?”
I nodded. “The chaplain who visited Martha before her execution called her an abnormal woman.”
“Oh my. How very politically incorrect. Why did he call her that?”
“I imagine it was because she poisoned her children and he believed that no ‘normal’ mother could ever do such a thing.”
Kate’s gaze was challenging. “And yet history abounds with stories of women who killed their children. Diane Downs… Susan Smith… Andrea Yates… they were completely sane when they murdered their children...” Kate looked thoughtful. “And although we read more about fathers annihilating their families, statistically, way more kids are killed by their mothers than by their fathers.”
I stood.
It was time for me to go.
To be continued…
