Secrets Through the Lens

By Connie Eales

Murder, suicide, guilt, revenge, and fear invade the lives of so many people - all because of one mistake made by one woman.

Although married and living in the same house in a leafy Sydney suburb, John and Laura Milford pursue, for the most part, separate lives. Both harbour dark secrets from their pasts.

Daughters, Mallory and Bannon have been afforded private schools, travel, expensive extra-curricular activities - in fact almost anything money can buy. Their parents are dutiful, but not close to their children or to each other, so the girls’ lives have become intensely enmeshed as they try to help each other negotiate destructive and perilous forces in their lives. Both girls continually seek the love they can never find from others. So, they love each other.

Bannon comes across intriguing black and white photograph in Laura’s study and it sets her on a path to find answers. Photographs play a large role in Bannon’s search, as she gleans more and more worrisome clues about her parents’ past lives.

Then there is Jennifer, a much older sister who lives with her husband in rural Queensland. Jennifer has secrets of her own which Bannon also seeks to unravel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Aug 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669831037

Connie Eales

Connie is the author of Raising Your Talented Child (and mendidik anak berbakat). Educated at Sydney University and Macquarie University, Connie has post-graduate qualifications in Psychology and in Public Policy. While working for the New South Wales government, she wrote extensively for the Department of Education. She has contributed to professional journals and has had work published by the University of New South Wales. Connie has spoken at world conferences in her area of expertise, and has taught in post-graduate programs at UTS and Macquarie Uni. Connie operated her own psychology practice, the Advancement Centre, for ten years, before embarking on a career as an artist. Her paintings now hang in many private collections across Australia. More recently, Connie has turned her hand to fiction and has had a few stories published in anthologies and magazines. Secrets Through the Lens is her debut novel.

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Copyright © 2022 by Connie Eales.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 08/17/2022

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 Bannon 1987, 1988

Chapter 2 Laura 1960

Chapter 3 Bannon 1988

Chapter 4 Laura 1960

Chapter 5 Bannon 1989

Chapter 6 Laura 1961

Chapter 7 Bannon 1990

Chapter 8 Laura 1961

Chapter 9 Bannon 1991

Chapter 10 Laura 1961

Chapter 11 Bannon 1992

Chapter 12 Laura 1962

Chapter 13 Bannon 1993

Chapter 14 Laura 1965

Chapter 15 Bannon 1993

Chapter 16 Bannon 1994

Chapter 17 Laura 1970

Chapter 18 Bannon 1994

Chapter 19 Laura 1971

Chapter 20 Bannon 1994

Chapter 21 Laura 1971

Chapter 22 Bannon 1994

Chapter 23 Laura 1971

Chapter 24 Bannon 1994

Chapter 25 Laura 1994

Chapter 26 Bannon 1994

Chapter 27 Laura 1994

Chapter 28 Bannon 1994

Chapter 29 Laura, 1994

Epilogue

About The Author

For

Eloise

Prologue

1961

God, what have I done? Laura repeated the words over and over under her breath while the steel wheels thumped and crashed on the track and the carriage rocked from side to side as it sped through the night. The old red rattlers seemed to rattle even more loudly on these late-night runs when there were no passenger voices to detract from the noise. She hunched her body into a corner seat at the end of the compartment with the wooden panel at her back. She stared fixedly at the crude stitching that some railway worker had applied in an attempt to repair the slashed vinyl on the seat opposite her. The carriage smelt vaguely of unwashed bodies and stale aftershave.

The spicy sausage she had eaten for dinner sat like a partially digested clod in her stomach, and she could feel the presence of garlic on her breath.

The carriage was empty except for a young couple at the far end embracing, kissing, groping frantically as though they were about to disrobe at any moment and have sex right there on the seat; and a middle-aged man sitting in one of the side seats reading a newspaper. Laura felt sure that what she had done would be written all over her face like a neon sign for all to see, yet the other passengers remained completely oblivious to her presence.

As the train screeched to a halt at one of the ill-lit deserted stations, the couple got out and was replaced by two shift workers still dressed in their work clothes. All they wanted to do was lean back and close their eyes. Laura assumed they were probably bound for where the train terminated so they didn’t fear missing their stop.

How has it come to this? she asked herself. Am I, Laura Hallam, eighteen, the only person in the world to have to face a conflict like this? As she got her breathing to something like normal, Laura thought of her beautiful little mother, who had finally succumbed to the cancer that stole her spirit, and of her dear unworldly father, now facing the greatest challenge of his life.

Laura peered at the black glass of the window to see if she still existed. She almost expected to see a blank black glass reflected at her, but, sure enough, there she was in the middle of the night sitting like a zombie on a train to nowhere with £20,000 in cash in her handbag.

I needn’t have answered that advertisement I saw in the Herald. But I did.

CHAPTER

1

Bannon 1987, 1988

11/9/87

Dear Jennifer,

Well, we are home from our grand tour of Europe. It was Mum’s idea for the trip but Dad was happy to go along with it and we fitted it all into 8 weeks. Mum asked Sister Josephine about taking Mallory and me out of school and would you believe Sister Joe told her we would learn more with our parents in Europe than we would at school with her. I would never have believed it, but that’s what Mum said.

We saw some marvellous places and even went to a play on Shaftesbury Avenue in London. It was called ‘The Bed Before Yesterday’, and it was very funny. I wouldn’t mind living in London.

We went to a Bier Hall in Munich. Dad said Mallory and I shouldn’t be in there, but Mum let us, so we did. It was great fun. They had big mugs of beer called steins. They sang too, it was fantastic.

I thought the galleries and museums and historic buildings would be boring, but it was quite the opposite. I even learnt to identify stuff by Michelangelo without even looking at the signs. The Sistine Chapel was fantastic and Dad wanted us to see the Pope, but we didn’t manage to see him.

The British museum was fantastic and they had the Rosetta stone in there and lots of Egyptian stuff. It made me want to go to Egypt, and I will someday.

I have lots of photos to show you when I see you next time. When will that be, Jen? I miss you so much and I hardly ever see you these days.

How is Queensland? Is it hot where you are?

School is just ticking along. Didn’t take me long to catch up, so Joe was right, I didn’t miss much by being out of school. Anyway, some of it was school holidays anyway.

Mallory sends her love. She’s not much of a letter writer, but we talk about you a lot.

Your devoted sister,

Bannon XXXX

We sit at the dinner table—always semi-formal dinner with cloth serviettes and at least one candle and some background music. It is a family dinner, but without Dad, and we are supposed to talk to each other. Mallory and I are not comfortable, but we try to talk about our school assignments, some of our friends’ escapades, school sport, or whatever we can think of because we know that’s what Mum wants to hear. My mum, Laura Milford, is not one for trivial things however, and she prefers to talk about world affairs or about her current degree course (there have been four so far plus German and Spanish language courses. Sometimes I wonder if she married Dad just so she’d have somebody to fund her endless university studies). Tonight, she chooses a topic to talk about, and she wants us to talk about it with her, but we don’t know what to say. If Dad were with us, he would be asking us about school. He is never interested in Mum’s topics.

Mum is saying something about her psychology course at uni, and I am interested. Not sure about Mallory. I try to think of something important to say but I can’t, so I just listen. Mallory listens too, but her face is in neutral.

We sometimes wish we could just eat dinner off a tray in front of the television like some of our school friends, but we don’t ask because we know what the answer would be. Mum associates such practices with junk food and sloppy lifestyle.

Our meals are far from junk food. Mum makes sure it is a proper meal with at least two courses every night. Mum doesn’t do all the cooking herself, although she does cook most nights.

So, we sit down at our huge carved dining table with our serviettes on our laps. We never eat in the kitchen. Mum gets up and heads for the kitchen. She comes back with Yorkshire Pudding. It is a traditional kind of Yorkshire pudding with the pastry on top and the mince underneath. I don’t know that until Mum sets the dish in the middle of the table and starts to serve us helpings. She tells us her friend Rose prepared it. She says she thinks it is too greasy, but she doesn’t want to offend Rose, so it looks like we will have to eat it tonight.

I think about Rose for a few seconds after Mum says that. Rose is an old friend of Mum’s who comes to help in the house a couple of times a week. She knew Mum way back before she married Dad, when she was still Laura Hallam. Rose is divorced, and Mum says she is a bit hard up. I know Rose has a history. I never ask about her history. I am not that brave.

During dinner tonight, Mum tells us a little about the thesis she is writing for her masters in psychology. It is something to do with abnormal psychology. I am interested. I start to think psychology might be an interesting career for me sometime in the future. But then every time I experience some new profession, I tend to think that might be a good career for me. These have included veterinary science when our neighbour’s dog got run over and we took her and the dog to the vet hospital. It included nursing when we went to see a friend who had just had a caesarean. It included ski instructor when our school went to Thredbo on an excursion. It included the army when I saw the girls marching so beautifully on Anzac Day. I am actually pretty fickle when it comes to career planning. Mum never gives me any advice. She just says it is up to me to make up my own mind. But I can’t. I need advice.

I sit and eat the Yorkshire Pudding. The pastry part feels greasy on my tongue. I don’t like it, but I don’t say so. I try to think of something Mum might like to hear, so I tell her about the novel we have started reading for English. She listens dutifully and asks me the occasional question, which I answer hopefully, trying to make out how good I am at English. I am actually good at English as it happens. Mallory tells Mum about a new song one of the girls at school is teaching her to play on the guitar. Mallory had asked for an acoustic guitar, and Mum had given her the money to go and buy whatever she wanted. Mallory didn’t know what to buy, so she asked Beatrice, who suggested she get a Yamaha. Mallory loves it and has virtually taught herself enough chords to handle most of the songs she wants to play. Mallory never asked for guitar lessons. If she had, Mum would have found her a teacher and arranged for the lessons. I happen to know that Mallory doesn’t want any more extracurricular activities of any sort, so she is quite happy to engage the help of her friend Beatrice at school. Beatrice is having guitar lessons, and Mallory says she is thrilled to be able to teach somebody else what she learns.

I think Mallory and I are doing well tonight. We are both talking the talk we think Mum wants to hear.

Mum chooses another topic, and I wonder what my response should be. It is about record-keeping. ‘Do either of you girls keep a diary or a journal?’

For a moment, her question bounces around in my brain, and I wonder what I should say. I get the feeling Mum is going to suggest we start keeping a diary, so I look up from my plate, and I tell Mum I hadn’t thought of it but I would be interested in trying. Mum looks satisfied, so I feel relieved I have said the right thing. Mallory stays silent.

Mum says, ‘Well, I’ve kept a journal since 1972 and it’s been an invaluable source of information if I ever need to remember when something happened, or when I bought something important. I’ve actually filled up dozens of notebooks. Someday, I might use it to help me write my memoirs.’ She smiles and takes another mouthful of Rose’s Yorkshire Pudding.

Mum tells us how a journal should be written. She gives us an example of something in one of her journals. ‘I might have written something like Today we christened Mallory Margaret Milford.’ She smiles in Mallory’s direction. ‘For instance, Mallory, you might write On my thirteenth birthday, I climbed Ayers Rock, and Bannon, you might write something like On my fourteenth birthday I climbed the Leaning Tower of Pisa . . . and you could add some notes about what it was like and what you thought and felt about the occasion.’

I can’t let that pass entirely, so I remind Mum that it wasn’t my birthday the day we climbed the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I remind her that my birthday’s in November. I am sorry to say that my words make Mum a little irritable. ‘I’m just using it as an example, Bannon, for goodness’ sake.’ Mum thinks I am being obtuse on purpose. Despite this, I tell Mum that I do remember my fourteenth birthday because it was the year that Jennifer sent me the cowhide rug. I love that rug because it came from my sister Jennifer, who is about thirty and lives on a station in Queensland with her husband, Rob Steadman. I think about Jennifer for a few seconds. I love her. Very much.

Mum makes a face and declares that the ‘horrible thing’ completely ruins the decor in my room. It seems my brain is seeking any old escape, and an image of my room comes into my mind then. My room and Mallory’s have double beds each with square continental pillows and big plump doonas. The curtains are pink roses for me and yellow roses for Mallory, and the carpets are New Zealand Berber in a neutral colour, the same carpet as throughout the rest of our house, which is very big and has a lot of rooms. Mallory has posters of famous ballet dancers and I have posters of equestriennes and champion swimmers on our bedroom walls.

‘Well, what do you think, girls?’ Mum’s voice brings me back to the present. I consider her question. I think that life for a year-eleven schoolgirl is not very exciting to write about in a journal, but I tell Mum again that I like the idea and will give it a go. I wonder if perhaps I can get into uni someday and write about that. That will be the first day of the rest of my life. I will finally be free to think and do whatever I like. Maybe.

It is Mallory’s and my job to clean up after the evening meal. While I am at the kitchen sink washing the stuff that can’t go in the dishwasher, I turn to Mallory and I ask her if she knew Mum kept a journal.

Mallory looks up from stacking plates in the dishwasher. ‘I had an idea. I’ve seen a lot of hardcover books in her bookcase that don’t have any writing on their spines.’

‘Do you reckon she’d let us read them?’

‘Would you want to?’

I tell her it might be interesting and that there might be something in them about us or about Jennifer. I want to know more about Jennifer. Just lately I’ve thought about her more, and I realise I don’t know anything about her life before I was born. Mallory remains uninterested in reading Mum’s journals, but my imagination starts conjuring up all kinds of mysteries, like a Dickens novel where the hero finds out that he is really of noble birth and very wealthy. And it might all be written in Mum’s journals, just waiting to be read.

‘Well, what do you think of the idea of us keeping journals, Mal? I think Mum’d be pleased if we did what she suggested, don’t you?’

Mallory grabs a clean tea towel out of the drawer and turns to me and says, ‘To tell you the truth, Bannon, for me it would just be an added burden in my life. Year twelve’s hard enough as it is, and I have enough trouble writing stuff for school without an extra chore added to that. You should try it, though. You like writing and you’re good at it.’

I clatter the wet baking dish that had held the Yorkshire Pudding onto the draining board. I think to myself, Yes, I do like writing. I tell Mallory that someday I might write a novel and that I might possibly be able to write ideas for it in a journal. I ask her if she thinks Mum would be pleased with that effort.

Mallory sighs. ‘Mum’ll forget all about it. She won’t care whether we do it or not.’

‘You’re probably right.’ I stand motionless for a few minutes, and then I realise my face is wet with tears.

CHAPTER

2

Laura 1960

Something didn’t feel quite right. These people were obviously trying to be pleasant, but Laura sensed a disquieting undercurrent. They seemed to want something from her—something more than the usual contract between employer and employee.

‘You’re very welcome here, Mrs Hallam,’ said Joseph Lawson. ‘We want you to feel at home here with us.’ He stood behind his wife and hovered over her like a guardian angel as she sat perched on the edge of their capacious modular lounge. Glancing around, Laura observed that it was a very modern room with deep-green shag carpet and a feature wall of old gold wallpaper, and she thought she caught a faint hint of room deodorant. On the walls, she noted good quality framed prints and pendant lights hanging over a cocktail bar. The very latest in decor. Very ‘now.’ Joseph indicated for Laura to sit on the lounge adjacent to his wife. Laura sat with Jennifer lying across her lap, a dummy in her mouth to keep her quiet for this all-important first meeting with her new employers.

Mrs Lawson waved a hand upwards towards her husband. ‘Call me Ida, please, and this is Joseph. It’s alright if we call you Laura, is it?’ She sounded almost pleading and a little unsure of herself. Laura noticed that Ida spoke in a very refined way, while Joseph had a broad Australian accent.

‘Of course, and this is Jennifer.’

Ida and Joseph both peered at Jennifer, who looked at them with something Laura thought looked like curiosity.

‘I can hold her for you while you drink your tea.’ Ida reached out to take Jennifer from Laura’s arms. Laura was not sorry to have a break from holding Jennifer so handed her over to Ida’s outstretched arms.

Laura drank the tea and was not surprised that it was weak. She had almost expected weak tea from this frail-looking woman. Laura noticed that Ida Lawson was thin and her skin was pale and translucent. Her wispy mousy-looking hair hung stylelessly about her shoulders. She was wearing a pale-blue cardigan over a pale-blue shift-like dress. She looked at Laura with large, watery, ever so slightly bulging pale-blue eyes. Laura thought this woman seemed sad.

Laura turned her attention to Joseph, who loomed over the two women with an almost voracious expression on his features. She noticed that his skin was olive and his nose was a trifle larger than life. His hair was almost blue-black and matched his neat little moustache. Laura thought he looked several years younger than his wife, but then she realised that that impression may have been due to Ida’s apparent indifferent health. She saw Joseph and Ida look at Jennifer in Ida’s arms and at each other and smile tight little smiles.

Laura had to admit she was glad to be sitting on their lounge without a baby in her arms for once. She had got the train to Penrith and then a bus to Petrove Park. She had found the public transport difficult and tiring with an infant and three bags to carry. Of course, she had the second-hand pram she had acquired from a friend of one of her flatmates, and that had helped. It was difficult on the bus, however, and the driver had been surly about the pram.

‘Oh, just look at those beautiful big eyes!’ Ida exclaimed, looking up over her shoulder at Joseph. ‘She’s a beautiful baby.’ Laura found herself mildly surprised to see that Jennifer appeared to be actually smiling around her dummy. She hasn’t done that for me as yet. Laura felt a little put out, but then she told herself, Don’t be stupid, she’s a baby, and babies’ faces do funny things.

Ida rocked Jennifer gently in her arms and looked over to Laura. ‘How old is she?’

‘She’s eight weeks.’

‘Oh, she’s lovely,’ cooed Ida yet again.

Ida looked at Laura, her pale face full of anticipation. ‘As I said, Laura, Joseph and I want you to feel welcome at our home here. We’ve lived here in this house for eight years. We like it, and we hope you will too.’

Joseph interjected, ‘You’ll find us pretty easy to get along with.’

Ida ignored the interruption and continued, ‘I don’t work nowadays, although I used to do a bit of office work in Joseph’s business. So I’ll be at home most of the time.’

‘You’ll have to come for a visit to the factory, Laura, after you get your bearings. It’s just at Emu Plains. I didn’t go in today because I wanted to be here to welcome you with Ida.’ Joseph placed his hand proprietorially on his wife’s shoulder.

Laura felt sure that was the third time the word ‘welcome’ had been uttered since she had arrived here. She tried to smile.

Ida sat rocking Jennifer, who was looking up into her face as she spoke. ‘You said in your letter that your baby was born at the Salvation Army hospital and that you had no connection with your husband.’

‘Well, yes. Our marriage was . . . uh . . . very brief, I’m afraid. Will Hallam left me before Jennifer was born. It . . . uh . . . wasn’t a marriage at all, really.’ Laura did not like talking about it, but she thought if it would help things here, she would give them a bit of information, so she continued carefully. ‘I’ve been sharing a terrace house in Leichhardt with two nurses I met when I was having Jennifer. They wanted a third person to help with the place because they both worked long hours and odd shifts, and I could help with the housework and meals and make a contribution towards the rent with a bit of my pension money.’

Laura didn’t think the Lawsons needed to know about the times tempers had frayed when Jennifer’s crying had kept one or both the nurses awake when they were on night shift. Laura was sure they had only taken her in because they felt sorry for her, but the whole arrangement was on the verge of breaking down, and she knew it would only be a matter of time before they asked her to look for other accommodation.

Ida and Joseph were both nodding. ‘And then you answered our ad,’ said Joseph, grinning broadly in Laura’s direction and casting an affectionate smile towards his wife.

‘I was hoping to get a job and pay somebody to mind Jennifer, but I’ve had no luck so far. When I saw your ad, I couldn’t believe my eyes—the fact that anybody would consider employing a person with a baby.’

Ida started to stand up. ‘Well, you’re here now. We’ve prepared a room for you, so if you’ve finished your tea . . .’ Laura stood too.

Joseph placed a hand under Ida’s elbow to help her up while holding Jennifer. ‘You can settle in, and then we’ll have lunch.’

Laura put her arms out to take Jennifer, but Ida said, ‘I’m right with her for the moment. You just grab your bags and come this way.’

The two women headed up the hall and Joseph headed for the kitchen. ‘I’ll just check on the lunch.