THESE were the quotes of a West Australian woman who lived alongside the mother found unconscious as her twin seven-month-old babies lay dead in another room: “I think it’s sad this went on under our noses and nobody knew.
“Could I have done more as a community member?
“I suppose people are good at covering stuff up.”
They were the only neighbours in the street nobody else knew; a husband and wife with newborn infants.
To the outside world, they were the perfect family. But behind closed doors, everyone has a story.
And in this case, the chilling story has a lesson for all of us.
When I first heard of this tragedy, I wanted to scream to the world to stop turning their noses up at women who experienced post-natal depression.
I felt so angry this woman had reached the point where she thought this was her only out.
Why hadn’t anyone noticed? Or had they, but simply dismissed it as the baby blues?
Here was a woman living through a hell only those who have taken that path can understand.
My first instinct was to write this column to highlight issues surrounding post-natal de
pression.
But instead, I spoke to others and the conversation always turned to how well they knew their neighbours.
So I ask you, how well do you know yours? Have you knocked on their door and introduced yourself?
Never mind that you might not ever be friends, at least be neighbours.
Check on them occasionally, wave, start a conversation, don’t turn a blind eye to what goes on next door.
Have we become so shallow and absorbed in our own lives that we have forgotten one of life’s most rewarding and simplest courtesies - loving thy neighbour?
I’ve heard tales of those who were terrified about the future tenants when the property next door was sold to the Department of Housing.
But the first thing they did when the tenants arrived was knock on the door with a sponge cake - and the relationship has never soured.
Despite the fact they would never become friends, they were neighbourly.
I’m lucky, some of the people I hold dearest to me now have been neighbours.
Isobel is one of them. We were each other’s saviour in those first few months after babies arrived.
On one occasion, I was having such a bad day that I crossed the road with two screaming youngsters in tow - only to find she was having a similar experience.
In true Desperate Housewives style, we sat in the playroom all afternoon, each knowing we were about to break with frustration and exhaustion - but pulling each other through.
It was the day we knew we had gone from being neighbours, to lifelong friends.
To her right lived Charlie and Mavis, who were quite possibly the best neighbours of all time.
They came to the rescue when my then three-year-old was covered in oil-based paint, her fingers stuck together and hair a tangled, green mess.
And when she coloured my dining table with texta . . . flooded the passage . . . the list goes on.
When the girls and I couldn’t recognise a bird in a tree, we would knock on Charlie’s door and he would find the name.
Mavis was always there to tell him to stop holding us up - but we never did mind.
She loved telling us about her own family, and would always bring her darling granddaughter over for a play when she was in town.
When we moved away from their neighbourhood, Mavis sent us on our way with a package of necessities and groceries only someone with her heart could put together.
In our new neighbourhood, we’re surrounded by people like Laurie and Audrey, who love us as much as their own family.
The lovely children next door have made our house their second home and the beautiful family across the back fence are also among the girls’ favourite people.
I love that we are all connected. It makes me feel safe, and whether I need to ask for an egg at dinner time or have them watch the girls for five minutes, nothing is too much trouble.
Perhaps if we all took a little time to say hello and notice what goes on around us, those who feel they are alone will realise they’re not.
And they might just ask for help, before it’s too late.
Isobel, Charlie and Mavis - you know who you are. Thank you.
Nicole Ferrie is The Advertiser’s deputy editor.
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