Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (29 page)

At that point I announced I was going to bed. ‘I’ve had a helluva day and I just can’t cope with this any more.’

Shoshanna and I snuggled up in Dory’s bed, where we performed our nightly ritual of reading books and singing songs. I didn’t want to be anywhere near Paul.

After Shoshanna fell asleep, I started reading Dory’s pocket notebook that she had left on her desk in plain view. There were notes about how she would like her funeral conducted, as well as contact addresses for her lawyer and accountant. There was also a recent receipt for ‘Alterations to Will’ from her Bourke Street legal firm. I gathered she had known her time was near and had been fine-tuning the document just days before her demise. There was also a note in large capitals in Dory’s shaky hand. It read:
You
know why I have done things this way
. Indeed I did, and I cried inside with gratitude.

In the morning, Paul greeted me with unexpected charm.

‘You’ll never guess what happened last night after you went to bed. Lloyd and I were chatting away over a glass of whisky . . .’

‘Oh, I see—you’ve already raided Dory’s liquor cabinet,’ I said cynically. Paul’s purloining of Dory’s alcohol had been an issue since his first days in Australia. She had kept it only for visitors and he’d embarrassed her on several occasions by sneakily stealing her spirits and covering the loss by topping them up with tap water.

‘Well, she won’t be needing it any more,’ he retorted callously; Paul could be ruthless. ‘Anyway Lloyd asked me if I’d suck him off. I always thought he fancied you more, but apparently not.’

In fact, I’d always known Lloyd harboured secret desires for Paul. But surprisingly Paul had rebuffed him, telling him rather sanctimoniously it wasn’t appropriate to be sitting in his late mother-in-law’s lounge room giving him a blow job, when she wasn’t even in her grave yet.

‘Lloyd disgusts me,’ I said. ‘He’s so libidinous—always seeking details of our porn shoots, and he’s getting worse.’

‘Yeah, well for once, he disgusted me too. I mean, if I was gay—which I’m not—he’s just not the type I’d go for, what with his red hair and pasty skin.’

‘You expect me to think you behaved nobly, after your despicable display yesterday, just because you rejected Lloyd?’ I asked angrily. ‘I know you—if it had suited you and you fancied him, you would have sucked him off, or vice versa, whether or not Dory had just died. And you wouldn’t have given a shit about the fact that it was in her lounge room and her body was barely cold.’

‘That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?’

‘No, not at all. Frankly, you and Lloyd deserve each other. You’re peas in a pod.’

‘Look,’ said Paul, ‘he was telling me how stressed he is—having a loveless marriage where he has to pretend he’s straight, and then running a successful legal practice.’

I said that maybe Lloyd should do the honourable thing by his wife and kids, and come out as the kinky bi transvestite that
we
knew he was. ‘And maybe you should do the same. No wonder you both get on so well.’ I stormed out, leaving my uneaten breakfast on the bench.

Consistent with Dory’s wishes, I placed a death notice in
The
Age
. It read:
Please, no flowers—donations to Amnesty International
instead
. We did this after Egon’s death, and I knew this cause was close to her heart. I wanted Shoshanna to attend the funeral, but Paul wanted her babysat rather than being ‘traumatised’ by the proceedings.

I went to Dory’s viewing and Paul insisted on accompanying me. He was edgy and impatient, but I wanted to be alone with my mother before the service. My heart broke as I viewed her body, its spent spirit now gone forever.

The funeral was a sombre and dignified affair. Thankfully, Dory’s friends attended to every detail—I was too distraught to deal with undertakers. Nevertheless, the various officials kept on deferring to Paul, which angered me. The chapel was filled with mourners and somehow I got through the day without breaking down completely.

For the service, I chose the famous funeral song from Shakespeare’s
Cymbeline
—‘Fear no more’. My favourite couplet from it reads:

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

In accordance with Dory’s wishes, there was no mention of religion; nor had she wanted to be buried in the Jewish section of the cemetery. Her ashes were to be placed next to those of her beloved Egon with a lawn memorial plaque; I would write the inscription later.

I deeply regretted allowing Paul to attend. He acted the grieving son-in-law with consummate ease. My stomach churned to see in action the very insincerity which Dory had always seen through.

Paul returned to Canberra and I breathed a sigh of relief. I stayed behind, to tie up loose ends. I desperately wanted to remain in Melbourne and live in my childhood home, surrounded by my fond memories and mementoes of a former life.

Now, after witnessing the most loathsome demonstration of avarice I’d ever seen, I could not see how I could continue living with Paul. Because I had now become financially secure, I could retire if I wanted to. I had a choice of houses in which to live and a healthy income. I certainly didn’t need to prostitute myself or sell pornography any more.

Slowly, I formulated a plan: on my return to Canberra I’d tell Paul I was leaving him.

I sorted through Dory’s dearest personal possessions, starting with her boxes of old scrapbooks from her Bodenwieser years. There was a stack of congratulatory letters to Egon from the time when he had received his AO, including Prime Minister Malcolm Fraser’s telegram and letters from various dignitaries and governmental heads. I found Dory’s concert program collection, including some from the Tivoli Theatre, where she had appeared with Chico, one of the legendary Marx Brothers. I even found an autographed photograph of him with a dedication to her. Her life had been extraordinary and I could hardly bear to part with any of it. But I did not have the space for all of it—I’d have to donate some to a library.

The largest problem was the many thousands of books. My parents’ tastes had been eclectic; included were all the autographed books from dear friends, such as author Eleanor Dark, poet Roland Robinson and pianist Alfred Brendel. It was overwhelming. These books were my childhood companions; while I hadn’t read all of them, the covers of most were as familiar to me as old friends. I could not throw them out, or even give them to charity.

I was also finding items from my childhood that I had left in Dory’s keeping. Most prized were keepsakes from the ABC’s Children’s Hour: my
Argonauts Club
badge and book prizes (I once came second for a piano composition). I rediscovered other treasures from my musical youth, including my old recorders and cello music.

The phone rang constantly, with people concerned about my wellbeing. One of Dory’s ex-Bodenwieser friends visited: Moira Claux—who had played Big Rebecca in
Mad Max 2
—was a remarkable woman whom I’d known since childhood. I found solace in her company as we talked of Dory’s exceptional life. I also received mountains of sympathy mail; I forced myself to write to her numerous overseas friends, including her close confidante, Paddy, the Countess of Harewood.

But several days after the funeral Paul called and told me I had to come home immediately; apparently we were being swamped with requests for freebie photos and stories. ‘The business is going berserk,’ he said.

Then I broke the news to him. ‘I don’t want to go back to all that tackiness.’

‘What are you saying?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘I just can’t deal with all the porn shit right now. I don’t want to do it any more.’

‘We can’t quit now.’

‘Sure we can,’ I countered. I didn’t need the money and we’d had only a small outlay with the printing. ‘We can cut our losses.’

‘But I’ve got boxloads of responses to the mailer. It hit the other day and we’re being flooded. I can’t do this on my own.’

I suggested we should post it all back, return to sender; we could put an apology in the next mailer and explain what had happened. ‘I’ll come back to Canberra when I’m ready—but that won’t be for a while. I’m sorting through Dory’s stuff . . . and we have to talk about things.’ I could feel my blood boil.

‘Your behaviour over Dory’s death has been disgusting. You’re not the person I thought you were—I definitely didn’t sign up to share my life with a materialistic, money-hungry psychopath who takes delight in the death of my mother.’ Expecting the usual tirade of abuse I paused, waiting with my heart in my mouth for his response.

When it came, it was measured and composed. ‘We’ll talk about this when you return.’ He was deliberately frustrating me.

‘Fine.’ I hung up, shaking.

Shoshanna and I returned to Canberra a week later. Paul was in the kitchen reading the paper when I confronted him with my decision. ‘I’m leaving you and I’m taking Shoshanna,’ I announced. ‘And I’m moving back to Dory’s house and quitting porn.’ Like the calm before the storm, he glowered at me as his expression tensed. I continued, ‘You’ve got the choice of staying in Canberra or moving to Melbourne.’

Paul railed at me in anger. He hissed and spat out hateful words, accusing me of lying and setting out to destroy him. I was shocked by the vitriolic viciousness of his attack.

‘I’ve made a huge mistake,’ I admitted. I explained how his manic eagerness to get his hands on Dory’s will and his anger over the trust arrangements had made me sick to the core—not to mention his insincerity at her funeral. ‘You’re one of the most abhorrent people I’ve ever met . . . You’re morally bankrupt.’

‘But Shoshanna needs her father,’ he said. ‘How dare you take her back to Melbourne without me!’

I could sense his fury rising. ‘You’re evil. Just when you finally inherit, you want to leave me with nothing.’ He was screaming now, using his physical dominance to intimidate me. Shoshanna had emerged from her room, crying. I motioned for her to return.

‘But you can come too,’ I suggested to him in a conciliatory tone. ‘I just don’t want to do porn any more; I’m financially secure now, so I don’t have to.’

‘No,’ said Paul emphatically. He refused point-blank to return to Melbourne; he was convinced that the Victorian police would take Shoshanna away again. ‘And besides, I can’t make a living there,’ he yelled. ‘There’s nothing in Melbourne for me. I finally have this chance for success—and you want to deny me that.’