Our lives are invaded by the ‘Australian Story’ film crew. Anyone who has been involved in the making of a documentary will know what it’s like, and we of all people should have realised the time implications of saying ‘yes’. David’s experience as a filmmaker and my nine years with ‘Gardening Australia’ have given us much more insight than most, but even so we are shocked at the intensity of the invasion.
It’s a small crew. Just the producer Janine, the cameraman and a sound recordist. They stay in nearby holiday cabins and arrive every morning immediately after breakfast. We film all day and they rush back to look at what they have captured before going to bed early to recharge their batteries for the following day’s filming. It’s exhausting. We retreat to our bedroom every night feeling shattered. The interviews alone take four or five hours, and they are done individually so neither of us really knows what the other person has said. Although we certainly have a pretty good idea.
Janine wants various members of the family to be interviewed. I ask the children, but only Miriam agrees. The boys are not camera-shy but the notion of being questioned about personal family problems worries them. My stepson Tony, who is married and lives in Sydney, has been very level-headed about our marital problems, not taking sides or passing judgement and offering love and support to us both throughout. But my biological sons Aaron and Ethan have been more deeply affected by the events of the last few years. In a sense my behaviour and its aftermath have rocked the foundations of their lives, having always felt secure in the belief that their parents were an unshakable unit. Perhaps they fear showing pain or anger during the interview and we don’t blame them at all for declining to be involved. Miriam, on the other hand, has plenty of views and attitudes that she would like to express, and in a sense almost relishes the opportunity to speak out.
Janine would also like my sister Margaret to record an interview for the program in Canada, but I feel certain she will refuse. Having her long-lost little sister reappear in her life after fifty years has been confronting enough for Margaret to cope with without the emotional strain of being interviewed for a television program as well. I give her the opportunity and she declines. As I expected.
Janine is keen to capture the beauty of the farm and the surrounding countryside, and she is fortunate to have the talents of a particularly gifted cameraman, David Marshall. It’s autumn and they shoot scenes at dawn in the rolling mist and at sunset with the house nestled among the old exotic trees. It’s cold so I light the open fires, which fill the rooms with a glimmering warmth that is also captured on film. I try to keep my input as lighthearted as possible. I make jokes and brush aside questions that I consider too intense or deep and meaningful. The only time I am moved to tears is when I talk about finding my sister Margaret. I had been determined not to cry, not to give way to such a public display of emotion. But I can’t help myself.
Janine wants to film me leaving for France. She wants to capture the moment of our farewell as I pass through the wide doors to the customs hall. David and I debate the issue all the way to the airport.
‘She doesn’t want us to act,’ I keep saying to him. ‘She wants the real thing.’
He is adamant that after we embrace and say our goodbyes for the camera I must go through the departure doors and wait a few moments before returning to say goodbye properly. Privately, without a camera under our noses.
David feels that the film is robbing us of a private farewell and is therefore too much of an invasion.
I check my bags through and fill out the customs forms. Our body language is nervous and hesitant, which is surprising because we have been filmed for weeks non-stop and surely by now we should be appearing relaxed in front of the cameras. But we are like wound-up springs, because in truth this moment will be the most significant in the film. David holding me before I leave once more for my other life. My fantasy life. For France.
When we embrace it is slapstick in its exaggeration. David insists on a full passionate kiss and I feel self-conscious and awkward. I disengage myself from his arms to go, aware always of the camera behind me. I turn for an instant and wave, then disappear behind the screen. I wait fifteen seconds and walk back to David and hug him again, properly. We have our private moment but I quickly retreat. The whole business has been too much for both of us and I can’t wait to escape the prying eye of the camera.
But for David the ordeal is still not over. As he walks away from the departure doors, the camera picks him up and closes in on his face.
‘How do you feel about Mary going?’ Janine asks.
‘Anxious,’ he says. ‘I’m always anxious when Mary is flying. I won’t relax until I know she’s safely arrived.’
‘No, no,’ she continues. ‘That’s not what I mean. I mean, how do you feel about her going back to France?’
‘In what sense?’ he says.
‘Well, surely you can’t trust her?’ A probing question that catches him by surprise.
‘I’m not going there, Janine,’ he replies. ‘That’s not something I’m going to respond to.’
But she has hit a raw nerve. He already has a feeling that things are not quite right between us. That there is more to the story than I am telling him. Obviously the instincts of Janine, the documentary maker, are also alert to the fact that the story is by no means over yet.