A NATURAL REMEDY

Ross Duffy

Four months in custody awaiting trial, yet only three visits from my children. They've said little, but I read it in their eyes: Mother, you have disgraced us! How dare you shatter our orderly lives. So, thank God for Mary. My dear friend has not once failed me - the maximum two gaol visits each week. And how I relish her every arrival - and seeing her old-fashioned fair curls, joyful face and heart-warming smile. Then the chirpy conversation. But once she leaves it's all greyness again.

Of course, all my friends know I was incapable of this monstrous crime. For years, Lyall and I had presented as a gentle, staid couple. And as we'd drifted unpretentiously into our mid-fifties everyone had expected us to quietly and modestly age in unison.

At the half-yearly parties for professors, lecturers and staff, Lyall and I often ended up alone, stranded. No one was interested. One evening I overheard Professor Eric Jansson whisper to his wife that Lyall was "as inspiring as a deflated souffle." Ever-attentive Mary, a faculty secretary and organiser of all these parties, was the one who normally came to our rescue.

Through all his years as a lecturer in political science, Lyall had stuck to the plain dark suit - not for him the greasy suede jackets or baggy corduroy trousers or colourful bow ties of the radical members of the university fraternity. And even when he began thinning on top, he never aped his peers by growing the compensating sideburns, beard or moustache.

Despite a first class intellect, Lyall's range of interests was narrow - basically his own specialty, and bird life. He was an enthusiastic member of two ornithological societies. Every Tuesday and Thursday night he'd set off for their meetings.

Since my arrest I've had ample time to reflect upon my life - for example how, like Lyall, I always found it difficult to exude charm or bonhomie. Growing up in a Methodist manse must have left its mark. No risque stories. No colourful make-up. I've never smoked, even in my teenage phase. Just the occasional social drink. My hair has always been cut short and straight, and my normal street attire has been...well, conservative: the plain suit or twin-set. During her late teens, my daughter Margaret sometimes tagged me "a frump" and cruelly contrasted me with her friends' mothers.

And, in my gloomy, sour-smelling cell, I've thought a lot about my children. I'd really striven to provide a comforting home and a trouble-free start to their lives. But I was a colossal failure! They are so self-centred. They show me no warmth. For years, their visits home have mainly been when they've wanted something. Was the fault mine? An inability to generate, or transmit, motherly love? Did I err in even having children? Or perhaps it was my discovery about Lyall that turned me...

Murder. What a hideous word! But my friends are adamant: The police have made a dreadful mistake. They even organised a petition for my release on bail: Because no court will ever convict this woman. I can readily imagine their concerned chatter. 'Such a quiet, well-mannered couple' and 'Melva's so caring, so gentle - couldn't kill a fly, let alone her husband!' My neighbours, Lottie and Bert Haydon, sent a beautiful card. Lottie penned the words, Chin up. Any juror with half a brain will set you free in no time. If my barrister agrees, they want to give character evidence.

But, I ask myself, how much do we really know about the lives of others - once they're out of sight, that is? How devastated dear Lottie and Bert would be if they knew that, after Lyall and I'd waved them goodbye at our front gate, virtually all conversation ended - apart from Lyall's occasional bouts of irrational nagging. And that's how it's been ever since that night, way back in my third pregnancy, twenty-one years ago.

How far, I'd pondered, does a woman have to be pushed before her personality changes? How much coldness, emptiness, and psychological pain does it take? Over the years, I'd questioned why I didn't leave Lyall the moment I found out. Yet, back then, it was a hard option. So for many lonely years I'd paid the high price. But it's strange how, in time, we adapt to adversity and get on with our daily life - particularly when there are children involved.

The events of that night twenty-one years ago? In a flash, the whole scene can return vividly. It's a Tuesday morning. I've mislaid some bird pictures Tim wanted for kindergarten. I search everywhere. Perhaps Lyall mistakenly gathered them up with his own documents? So I look in his study, then turn to the small, black bag he takes to his ornithological meetings. To my surprise, it's unlocked. And that's when I find the literature - several copies of "Gay News."

I'm stunned. My knees are weak. But I decide I must follow him that evening. On a pretext, I persuade Lottie to baby-sit. Lyall stays only forty minutes at his ornithological meeting, then drives to Harvey Meldron's second floor apartment. Breathlessly, I clamber up the rusty fire escape. Through a gap in the curtains I see more than enough. And, in a flash, I understand Lyall's lack of sexual interest in me for several years. There'd been the occasional brief episode - but, surely, solely designed to divert suspicion, to protect his relationship with Harvey?

When Lyall returns that night, he is remarkably frank. In an odd way, he seems almost relieved. They'd become lovers as undergraduates. The affair had continued until Harvey, a lecturer in biology, accepted an appointment at Toronto University. It was during his three-year absence that Lyall and I had met, and married.

'You've over-simplified the issue,' he replies, coolly. 'I've only ever been with one man - Harvey. At first, I thought I'd never marry. But then I met you. And you were so warm...so gentle. I felt we'd probably be alright.'

He pauses, apparently selecting his words carefully. 'Look, I really wanted it to work out. I thought I'd be able to...to control my passions. And to be honest, at that stage I couldn't see much chance of promotion in the faculty - as a known homosexual, that is.'

His smug smile is too much for me. 'You selfish bastard!' I explode. 'I could kill you.' I snatch the reading lamp from the coffee table and strike his head. The globe shatters. Glass falls at his feet. Oddly, he just stands there, small cuts oozing blood, as though awaiting another attack.

'Listen, Melva, at the beginning I really did try.' He is still irritatingly calm. 'For a while, I even believed I had changed. But when Harvey returned to the university I...well, realised I couldn't... '

Lyall steps over the broken glass and sits in an armchair. 'I don't think that's wise. If the reason for your leaving becomes general knowledge, my prospects with the faculty are zero. And what does no job mean? It means no maintenance for wife and children. Even if I retain my present position, the salary's too paltry to support two households.'

'Yes,' I fire back, 'you'll never get promotion. Too busy reading your gay porn. Despite all your fancy qualifications, you're stuck in the rut as a lecturer.' Oddly, the last comment scores a hit. For the first time, he reddens.

He was right, in a cruel way. In those times, women forced to leave home received little governmental assistance. I just couldn't inflict such hardship on my children. So we stayed together - detesting each other, yet maintaining the facade, acting out roles to deceive relatives and our few remaining friends. But the separate beds, the atmosphere, the silences? Surely the children knew?

Lyall continued to visit his lover regularly. Promotion never arrived. And I adjusted my life, joined a music group, immersed myself in my beloved garden, read, and later found...

Shortly after the children left home, I started contemplating divorce and property settlement. Yet with so little to divide ...? Thanks to all the college fees, there was still a hefty mortgage and only minor savings. The one substantial asset, Lyall's superannuation, was available only on his retirement, or death. If I'd forced a property settlement at that time, I'd have ended up in dismal accommodation - certainly no beautiful, life-bracing garden!

What is the Crown's evidence to prove I murdered my husband? Well, its case is tenuous. My veteran barrister, Shaun Mackie, is a wily court performer. He's confident no jury will convict on such flimsy material - particularly after they've seen me give evidence. And I'm looking forward to that.

It's now the sixth day of the trial. The Crown case has almost concluded. It's still hard to accept that this entire elaborate performance is about me! From the dock, I survey the whole archaic, yet dramatic, setting: the stern-faced judge in his scarlet, ermine-edged robes; the barristers at the bar table, impeccably dressed for their roles, in wigs and black gowns; the anxious faces of the jurors, straining to evaluate every answer; the packed public gallery. And there's dear loyal, trusting Mary, in her usual seat. I give her yet another little wave and a smile.

Seven lay witnesses have now testified as to Lyall's appearance during his final days and his complaints of mild nausea and dizziness. He was never one to consult doctors. My barrister doesn't dispute the opinion formed by the Crown's medical witnesses: Death as the result of ingesting a toxic glycoside commonly found in the Oleander shrub. It was probably administered, in the form of an infusion of Oleander leaves, over several days. But the critical questions remaining are: How? And by whom? Was it at the university - in Lyall's several daily coffees, or in his cafeteria lunches? If so, with what motive? Or was it at home - by me?

The Crown has led evidence of my passion for gardening. When the police searched our home they found Dangerous Plants in Australia. Naturally, the Crown Prosecutor has sought to make capital out of the faint crease at the top of page 107, where the corner had once been turned over, and the passage below:

At the end of our street, in the reserve where I regularly walk my Pekingese, there are several Oleanders. Mrs Romano, a renowned nosy parker, has testified that on two separate occasions she saw me pluck leaves from these bushes. But she's doddery and her eyesight's fading. Besides, her house is nearly eighty metres from the reserve. Shaun Mackie's cross-examination was brilliant. So I don't expect the jury will give much weight to her evidence - particularly when faced with my denials.

Potentially, the most damaging evidence is the discovery, in one of my saucepans, of a minute trace of the alleged poison. The Crown's theory is that I'd boiled the leaves in water before adding the liquid to my husband's food or drink. But nothing was detected on any cup, saucer, plate or other utensil. And my forensic experts contend the trace found in that saucepan was not the substance that killed Lyall. Further, they have innocent explanations as to how it probably got there. Mr Mackie assures me the jury will be much too confused to convict on such a conflicting jumble of evidence.

The Crown's major difficulty has always been the absence of motive. But then, yesterday, there was a sensational development. Just as Harvey Meldron was describing Lyall's appearance in his last days, he suddenly broke down and pointed a shaking hand at me. My life's ruined, he blurted. That woman's killed my lover!

I noted the Prosecutor's instant glee - and Shaun Mackie's dismay. (I'd agonised for ages before deciding not to disclose the homosexual relationship to Mackie.) But the Prosecutor's hopes were immediately dashed by Harvey's next answers: their affair had begun twenty-nine years earlier, and I'd known for twenty-one. Surely the jury wouldn't believe I'd wait that long to take revenge?

The trial will end within three days. I'm confident I'll then be set free to join my wonderful, devoted lover. Free to hold each other caringly, entwine bodies, meld lips, invade secret places. It's incredible - seven years on, and our passion continues to grow.

It hasn't been easy, but now I've decided that once I'm acquitted there'll be no more furtive, stolen hours. We have already selected our piece of paradise - thankfully Lyall's superannuation monies will fund the purchase price. When the countryside is ablaze in morning sunshine, from our bedroom window we'll gaze out upon a sparkling stream flanked by towering gums, lush undulating green fields and multi-coloured bird life.

Gracefully winding its way to the house is a long, white gravel driveway. I haven't told dear, trusting Mary yet but, naturally, my first gardening task when we move in will be to line the driveway with Oleanders.