Rule of Thumb

By Julie McCarron-Benson

Wedding Coordinator Belle Saint James is in somewhat of a difficult social situation.

The mother of the bride, her old friend Margo, is in the toilet crying, and won’t come out! At first, Belle tries to soothe her old friend but it becomes apparent that Margo has very good reasons for not wanting to go home.

How far does Belle have to go to protect her old friend, and how much will her involvement cost her business and her own well-being?

Belle finds herself jolted out of her ignorance and suddenly made aware of a subterranean world of domestic violence and abuse which bobs along in secrecy just beneath the surface of everyday life. Does she return to her comfortable life or will she use her resources and those of her friends to try to help other women and children caught up in the cycle of domestic violence?

Rule of Thumb
An English law that allowed a man to beat his wife with a stick so long as it was no thicker than his thumb.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie McCarron-Benson
• Release date: Aug 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370219643

Julie McCarron-Benson

Julie McCarron-Benson grew up in Canowindra, a small town in the central west of NSW, Australia. She attended Canowindra Public School and Cowra High School, moved to Canberra as a school leaver to work in the Commonwealth Public Service, went nursing, got married, had three kids and went to the Australian National University. She has worked amongst other positions as a shop assistant, a movie usher, a security guard and a professional carer. She worked for several NGOs. She opened a café, set up a business manufacturing gourmet foods, and established an event management business specialising in wedding coordination. She has held art exhibitions. Julie would prefer to read, loves gardening and attending the opera. Her many friends ensure that her alcohol tolerance level remains comparatively high.

Book preview

Rule of Thumb

Julie McCarron-Benson grew up in Canowindra, a small town in the central west of NSW, Australia. She attended Canowindra Public School and Cowra High School, moved to Canberra as a school leaver to work in the Commonwealth Public Service, went nursing, got married, had three kids and went to the Australian National University. She has worked amongst other positions as a shop assistant, a movie usher, a security guard and a professional carer. She used to work for several NGOs. She opened a café, set up a business manufacturing gourmet foods, and established an event management business specialising in wedding coordination. She has held art exhibitions. Julie would prefer to read, loves gardening and attending the opera. Her many friends ensure that her alcohol tolerance level remains comparatively high.

Rule of Thumb

Julie McCarron-Benson

Copyright© 2017 Julie McCarron-Benson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Creator: McCarron-Benson, Julie, author.

Title: Rule of Thumb / Julie McCarron-Benson.

ISBN 9780994625847

Subjects: Domestic Violence - - Fiction.

Friendship - -Fiction.

Suspense fiction.

Dewey Number: A823.3

Dedicated to all the carers in all the women’s refuges and shelters around the world.

Rule of Thumb

An English law that allowed a man to beat his wife with a stick so long as it was no thicker than his thumb.

Other titles by the author

Snatch and Grab

Hide and Seek

Chapter 1

The ringing of my phone woke me early Monday morning. Actually, it doesn’t ring; it emits a soothing cheery tune. Sometimes I forget it’s the phone and enjoy the music. No, I don’t know what the tune is, the phone settings just say it’s called ‘Spring.’

I had a bit of a swear to myself as Monday is my day off and I really needed some quiet time and sleep. My partner, Marcel, was away on a case. Marcel (Mark) Smith was a Vietnam veteran and ex-police-officer. He was now working as a private investigator. We had what was referred to as a permanent part-time relationship. That is, we maintained our own houses and visited each other. I loved going to his place mostly because he had the most wonderful sheets on his bed. I think he ironed them. Although, I didn’t get there as often these days. Marcel usually came to my place because Ben, our newly adopted grandson lived with me and really couldn’t be left alone. He was staying the weekend at a school mate’s birthday sleep-over. The school mate lived on a farm just out of town, and Ben was very excited because he was going to go to school on the school bus.

I checked the time, 6.30 am. I ran through a roll-call in my mind of who could be calling. At such an hour, it could only be bad news. Probably Ben had made himself ill with too much birthday sugar – ‘would I come and get him?’

I dragged myself to the phone in the next room. I’d once worked as a 24-hour telephone rape crisis counsellor. The first instruction is ‘Do not take your phone to bed with you. Make sure you keep your bedroom a sanctuary.’ I applied the same rule to the rest of my life. Separate the world from the sleep. Occasionally like now I regretted that decision, but on the whole, I think it was a wise one. I sang the mantra to myself as I reached out for the phone. ‘Phones are our tool. We are the master of their use. They are not our masters.’

It was my friend Clara-Rose Duggan.

‘Belle, I’ve just seen the news.’

‘What are you doing up at this hour?’ I sleepily interrupted.

‘Committee meetings at 10, I have to do a couple of interviews and read over some draft legislation before them, so I have to leave in a few minutes.’ I had first met Clara-Rose when we were mature-aged Uni students together. The poor thing was named after both her Irish grandmothers. Marcel occasionally called her CR. We had remained close friends ever since. She was a politician. Our politicians regardless of party, work dreadful hours, and if they try to set-up reasonable hours to get some balance between work and family, they get slammed as lazy.

‘Belle, listen! Belle, it's Rosalie.’

‘Who?’ I said. ‘What? Rosalie?’

‘Belle, Rosalie was killed last night.’

I thought I might faint; I was so light-headed with the shock.

‘Who, who, what?’ I stuttered trying to take it in. ‘My Rosalie? The baby? Where’s the baby, little Riley?’ I panicked.

‘I haven’t heard. I think he is alright.’

‘How Clara-Rose? How?’

‘The ex-partner, the father, Belle.’

‘But she had a restraining order against him! He wasn’t allowed near her!’

‘As far as I can make out, I’ve put a couple of calls in, he broke in during the night and bashed her. Her screams woke the neighbours; they called the police who got there before he could get to the baby.’

‘The baby is just a week old. I was there with her yesterday afternoon. She’s having trouble feeding him; her milk isn’t coming in.’

‘Belle? Belle, are you all right?’

No, I wasn’t. Rosalie was like a beloved niece to me. She was a bit younger than my girls. Her family had lived nearby at one stage, and we’d kept in touch over the years. At one stage, she had done some work experience with me; and if she was available, she could be called in to help me out if I needed more hands. I’m a wedding coordinator. This last year or so I’d had quite a lot to do with her. She’d been a bit directionless and spent some of her spare time in my office. I was able to go away for a few days and leave her in charge of a couple of quiet weddings. I liked her. There had been several boyfriends over the years, but none of them were stayers. I knew she wanted a child, but she hadn’t been able to find the right partner. I had suggested she investigate sperm bank. She had a good job, owned her home, she was settled and established, and the old biological clock was starting to tick loudly.

Then one day she announced with great excitement that she had found The One! He’d moved in before anyone could look him over and she to her joy was almost immediately pregnant. It took about three months for the gloss to wear off. She’d had to get the police several times, and finally, she had him charged with assault. Like so many of the bashing cowards, he could get in a fair bit of violence, mostly kicking, while she was curled up unable to protect herself as she was protecting the unborn child.

The last time which had finally led to her charging him with assault, I had met her at the hospital in response to her cry for help, and after the medical examination I had washed the blood from her face and helped her dress in the clean clothing I had collected from her place.

‘Her parents?’ I said trying to make sense of what had happened and think sensibly. ‘Do they know?’

‘No, don’t think so. The police are trying to contact them now.’

Rosalie’s parents were doing the Grey Nomad thing. They were due home towards the end of the week. The baby had not been expected to arrive until next week. Rosalie’s parents had organised their trip around the proposed date joking that Rosalie would not allow the baby to come early. Rosalie’s punctuality came in for a great deal of teasing from her family. She was renowned for always being on time. The baby had come early. I was there as her support person. Her parents were somewhere in the remote Kimberleys and could not get back. We all agreed it was better for them to continue with their plans. I took stacks of photos and a small video of Rosalie glowing in afterbirth euphoria holding the brand-new baby and sent it to them. Her mother, devastated to miss the birth of her only grandchild, was resolved to make up for it when they finally got back home.

‘I’d better go and get the baby,’ I said. ‘I ‘m Rosalie’s emergency contact, and she has me down as next-of-kin after her parents.’

‘Belle, Belle it’s a big job. You may not be up to it.’

‘It’s only for a few days. His grandparents will be here soon. They’ll take him. Clara-Rose, if the police get onto them, ask them to tell them to come to my place. They can park their van in my yard. They won’t want to be staying at Rosalie’s place, at least not yet. Oh, and I have another phone number for them if it is of any use,’ I read out my contact number. ‘I don’t think I should ring them, Clara-Rose. I had better let the police tell them the news. They will accept it better coming from the police. They can ring me when they are able.’

‘See what I can do, Belle. You good?’

‘No, but thanks for telling me, though.’

‘Didn’t want you to hear about it on the news, Belle.’

‘No, absolutely not. I appreciate you calling me straight away. Thanks. Hope the police get onto her parents first as well. I’ll go now, get dressed and collect the baby.’

I tried to focus on the practicalities. I had to bring the baby home here to my place. I was sure that would be what Rosalie would want. She wouldn’t want the baby to go off with strangers, however caring. I didn’t have a baby capsule. They weren’t going to let me take little Riley if I didn’t have the right safety equipment in the car. Rosalie’s car had a baby capsule. I could take her car, but I’d need someone to drive my car home for me. I decided I had better ring my daughter Jasmine. She and Rosalie had been very close as well, Jasmine fussed over her like she was a little sister. It was awful news that no-one wanted to hear for the first time on the radio. It would help her get over the shock if she had a job to do. I rang her home number. Her husband Kal-el drowsily answered the phone. Yes, that’s right, that’s his name, the same as the comic book hero. He’s an international fashion model. He’s a bit thick but he is one of the nicest of men, and he seemed to like me.

I explained the situation as gently as I could. He was shocked.

‘Kal, please tell Jasmine the news and ask her to be ready for me to pick her up. I’m going over to get little Riley and look after him until his grandparents arrive. I’ll need to drive Rosalie’s car. It has a baby capsule. Jasmine can bring my car home for me.’

He agreed, his voice solemn and just a bit teary. I rang off thinking who else needed to be told immediately. I left a message on my younger daughter Katina’s message bank. I texted an old acquaintance Sue Mason who was heading up a Domestic Violence survivors’ organisation and had done her best to look after Rosalie after she had been bashed. I thought if she didn’t already know at least my message would prepare her for the news.

I had to have a shower. I found I was shuddering and shaking and trembling, simultaneously, I didn’t seem to be able to cry. I struggled to decide what to wear, finally dragging on some clean, comfortable around-the-house clothes and drove to Jasmine’s house. Kal-el was waiting just inside the front door and stepped out as I arrived.

‘I’ll come, Belle,’ he said as he climbed into the passenger seat and gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek. ‘Jazzy is sobbing her eyes out in there. She’ll take the girls to school, go past the shops and pick up some stuff for the baby, formula, nappies and so on, and then go to your place. She was searching out our old bassinet as I left.’

And so, it was, that I ended up with baby Riley for a while. There was, of course, a bit of official argy-bargy about me taking him, but sense prevailed in the end.

Still, it was a shock to the system. I had forgotten the constancy of the feeds, the changes, the washing, the colic and all that! I had forgotten how tired you get and realised that maybe age was catching up with me. Young Ben, my adopted grandson, who was now almost in high school doted on the baby. There was almost a race between the two of us as to who got to the baby first to change him.

My own kids, once they were over the shock of Rosalie’s murder, and my grandchildren were available at every turn. Then my Marcel arrived home unexpectedly. He had been away chasing a missing person lead in one of his cases.

‘Heard it on the news and came home to see how you were. I know you were close to Rosalie,’ he said as he came through the door. I greeted his unexpected arrival and kindness with gushing tears. He joined the chorus of attention givers for the baby.

Little Riley stayed with me until his grandparents arrived. They parked their caravan in my yard while the awful formalities took place. We shared the caring of him until an interim order placed him in the guardianship of his grandparents, and he went off to live with them permanently.

Chapter 2

Fortunately, the weddings coming up the next few weekends were nice quiet no fuss gatherings. I had most of them organised, just the final pulling together to go. Under other circumstances, I would have probably have gotten Rosalie to take over for me. My friend Sylvie was the celebrant at most of them, and I leant on her a bit. I had met Sylvie at the same time as Clara-Rose at Uni, and three of us stayed friends, through some very sticky periods; particularly sticky when Marcel and I got together. Sylvie never took kindly what she said was her friends taking her men. She had been particularly vindictive when Clara-Rose had fallen for a bloke Sylvie was seeing

‘He didn’t have to reciprocate,’ I pointed out. ‘If he were as committed to you as you make out, he wouldn’t have noticed Clara-Rose.’ I thought the man in question was a scalp collector, myself and both Sylvie and Clara-Rose were well rid of him. But Sylvie had hit the social media anonymously accusing Clara-Rose of sleeping around and insinuating that her children had different fathers. It was very hurtful and designed to hurt. It was all rubbish and Sylvie was found out. She was devastated with what she had done when she calmed down. She and Clara-Rose still have a tendency to circle each other at times. Anyhow, Marcel swears blind that it was all over between him and Sylvie before I came along. It’s just that Sylvie doesn’t seem to agree with that assessment.

She also loved Rosalie. She dropped in from time to time to see how little Riley was going and with various gifts for him. I never found out for sure, but I think she was the initiator of a social media fundraiser which collected a significant amount of money for an education trust for Riley.

I had to thrust my sadness into the background and resume my work interviewing prospective couples, organising forthcoming weddings and coordinating those already booked to go. There seemed to be no time to mourn which was both good and bad. Now and then when my grief for Rosalie threatened to overwhelm me I would ring her parents, and we would talk about her tearfully, and I would hear how little Riley was getting on. They sent regular photos of him which I printed off and put on a notice board on the wall in my office. I had regular visitors who came to see how he was progressing.

So, it was with this in the background, newly sensitised to violence in the home and Rosalie’s death hanging heavy on my heart that I realised that I was feeling twitchy. It's not a common occurrence for me but regular enough for me to accept that something was wrong. You know that feeling? As if you are out of step with everyone else, or that faint sense of being on the outside like you have walked into a room and know that everyone was talking about you and not nicely, or you are unwelcome even though you were invited? Hard to define, or explain. Just a sense of unease. There was absolutely no reason for it.

This wedding had been, wash my mouth out, a perfect wedding. It had also been a boring wedding. Everything had gone to plan, everything had worked as it had been organised. Nothing was outstanding about it. Perhaps it was its very blandness that had me feeling unsettled. I had felt superfluous. Really, the mother of the bride or the bride herself could have done the whole thing. I had been contracted by the father of the bride. As I said, I am a professional wedding coordinator.

The bride and groom, Robyn Hynds and Matt Kershaw, were a lovely unassuming couple. Robyn had not gone away to do further study after finishing school. She had stayed home and worked in one of the local chemist shops. She was an attractive, quiet, helpful girl. Robyn had an older sister Suzanne who was married to Ian. Both Suzanne and Ian were members of the wedding party, Suzanne was the matron of honour and Ian was one of the groomsmen. I was slightly acquainted with Ian’s mum. She always wore a vaguely anxious look, as though expecting some calamity to eventuate. One had an urge to reassure her. Robyn also had two