Annette Stephens - The Good Little Girl

www.bigskypublishing.com.au

Copyright Annette Stephens 2012

First published 2012

Copyright remains the property of the authors and apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission.

All inquiries should be made to the publishers.

Big Sky Publishing Pty Ltd

PO Box 303, Newport, NSW 2106, Australia

Cover design and typesetting: Think Productions

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry (pbk.)

Author: Stephens, Annette.

Title: The good little girl: she stayed quiet for a very long time- / Annette Stephens.

ISBN: 9781922132024 (pbk.)

Subjects: Stephens, Annette--Childhood and youth.

Child abuse--Australia--Biography.

Abused children--Australia--Biography.

Cult members--Australia--Biography.

Dewey Number: 362.76092

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry (ebook)

Author: Stephens, Annette.

Title: The good little girl: she stayed quiet for a very long time- / Annette Stephens.

ISBN: 9781922132031 (ebook)

Subjects: Stephens, Annette--Childhood and youth.

Child abuse--Australia--Biography.

Abused children--Australia--Biography.

Cult members--Australia--Biography.

Dewey Number: 362.76092

To Nina and Stefan .

This book is based on the authors experiences. She has described events and conversations in the book according to her recollection and understanding of them. In order to obtain anonymity in some instances the names of individuals and identifying details have been changed.

I would like to thank all of the people who have supported this book: Margot Holden for generously donating her time and expertise to this project. Lynk Manuscript Assessment Service, especially Sean Doyle, whose advice and support has been invaluable. Big Sky Publishing for their willingness to take on a complex project. Thank you also to all those people who have shared their stories with me.

I wish to acknowledge my late mother, Gladys Stephens, for allowing me to publish her letters. A big thank you especially to my husband, Darcisio Bianchi, for his advice and loving support, and my children, Nina and Stefan, who have supported this project for a very long time.

It was an ordinary-looking photo, me in my cowgirl outfit, barely warranting the fact that it was enlarged, coloured and framed. Yet Mum thought it did. Perhaps that was her marker, the one she never quite recognised, the one that pointed to the time before she often said, I dont know whats wrong with Annette, she never listens anymore. Before my father called me his dreamer, and said I would forget my head if it wasnt screwed on. Before chunks of my life began to go missing from my mind. Before I began giving up friends.

We lived opposite the Heidelberg Station in Melbourne, Victoria. On either side of the entrance, land slopes steeply down from the tracks. One side was my secret place. I once described it as somewhere no one can hear you, with open drains big enough for a small girl to hide in, fairies never go there, they stay put, sipping hot tea in a sunlit messy place safe in our backyard. In this place, darkened and shadowless, eucalypts and peppercorns glowed after rain.

On the other side of the entrance to the station, the land also falls down from the tracks and flattens. A line of palm trees, intermittent and placid, stands among scatterings of agapanthus. I often ran up this slope and rolled down, dust and grass tagging my clothes. Mum would always shake her head.

Mum took the cowgirl photos near the path in the small park that separated my playing and rolling slope from the other, glowing and beckoning, side.

Smooth clouds filled the sky, the light was flat. It was a perfect day for perfect prints. Mum and Dad gave me the cowgirl outfit for my 11th birthday. On the day of my birthday, Mum couldnt wait to see me all dressed up. I wanted to play, but Mum insisted the photos came first while my outfit was brand new. Spit and polish helped my shoes, and I was centred for posterity.

Arms straight, fingers pointed to grass, tummy out, I stood smiling at my mother.

Annette, stand still.

Mum drew back, squinted at Dad. John! Theres something wrong with this camera.

No, girlie, theres not.

Mum looked doubtful.

With her attention back on me, her dismay mounted; my proper, photographic, stance had lapsed.

Annette, keep your hands by your side look here!

But Mum, Mrs Jones is coming.

A sprightly Mrs Jones charged along the path, nodded to us and kept walking. The park resumed its stillness, apart from the three of us and our dog. Mum looked at me, and harrumphed; I resumed my pose. She re-aimed her camera, stepped back and peered intently at her framing. I remained impatiently in place.

My girlfriend arrived and sat, cross-legged, on the grass. I shuffled, embarrassed by the cowgirl outfit. It had a red, long-sleeved shirt, separate black-and-white leather bands extended from wrist to mid-forearm. The black vest had white piping and the matching skirt had a white leather fringe. A scarf, tied around my neck, hung halfway to my waist. The hat was black and too big for my head; the holster held a pretend gun that dangled on my body.

Mum was proud of it and had tucked my hair under the hat and tied the scarf.

One last photo.

My girlfriend and I.

Then oh no, not the sun. Oh yes, and brighter by the minute.

More fussing from Mum.

My dog, Terry, pawed at my legs.

The afternoon beckoned; the park now astir; a crunch here, a rustle there.

Stand still, Annette, like a big girl now John! Will you tell that girl to stand still!

Its not me, its Terrys fault, Mum.

Terry, an Australian terrier and the tiniest dog Id ever seen, and I were inseparable. He licked my hand. I smothered him in cuddles and always hauled him up to my cubby house. This private place was on the roof of our rusty tin shed, its walls the hanging, swaying boughs of the weeping willow. Once an Alsatian attacked Terry in a park and he fought back, snapping at the big dogs heels until the owner dragged it away. Watching Terry that day, I vowed to be exactly like my dog: if I were attacked, I would be brave in the face of danger.

John! Call Terry away from Annette.