I unlocked the back door and heard the familiar ringtone from my carry-bag. Scrambled for my mobile.
‘Hey, are you OK? I got your email.’
‘Hi, Maree. What email? Why wouldn’t I be OK?’
My friend is an alarmist at times. She certainly sounded alarmed as she described an email from my Bigpond address. I (?) had asked her to email me. I seemed distressed and unable to phone her–no explanation given. A mystery to me too. I reassured Maree that all was well in my world, ended our brief chat, and headed towards the kitchen, urged on by hunger pangs.
That short trip was curtailed by my phone ringing. Again. Another friend. Another strand to be woven into a developing mystery.
The calls continued like a linked chain. Messages pinged. I sank into the nearest chair. My sweaty gym clothes were drying out, and thirst demanded my attention. Yet I couldn’t ignore the phone, could I? My friends and family were calling from all over. My frown lines were deepening. What was going on?
Sensing my agitation, one friend in a nearby town spelt out to me her sincere advice. ‘Change your Bigpond password,’ she calmly and carefully enunciated. Of many that day, that one call remains in my memory. Hours later, during a brief reprieve, I gulped water and a banana, and did just that. Or attempted to. I discovered that my email account had been suspended–irregular activity detected.
Quite alone in the house, with no cat to kick, figuratively, of course, I gave myself a pep talk. I could handle this. I would. My customary recourse to advice and support from a younger generation might be called for. Later.
Calls eased off. I indulged in some feelings of complacency. Too soon.
Gillian, a dear lady, phoning from Brisbane, sounded tentative.
‘Fay, sorry you’re in trouble. I’ve sent the $500 voucher.’
‘What the…? Oh, no, Gillian, you’ve been scammed too. I’ve had piles of calls and messages,’ I blurted.
‘You’re fine, Fay? That’s a relief. Your message seemed odd. That’s why I’ve called now; thought I’d better check before I send the other two $500 vouchers.’
‘That’s disgusting. I’m so sorry, Gillian. How could they convince you to send me, fake me, money?’
‘Easily, it seems. I sent the first amount, received immediate thanks, and further details. You’re stuck in a cottage somewhere. Your young niece requires surgery. Both her parents died from a disease called Covid-19. Send two more vouchers as soon as possible. Fay, how could I have fallen for that? Now that I say it out loud, it beggars belief. Damned liars.’
‘They’re criminals.’
Gillian’s calm demeanour did not waver. ‘Fay, I’ll visit my bank and request a refund, and return these two vouchers to Woolworths. Surely they’ll return my money? I left there only an hour ago.’
‘Good luck with that Gillian. Worth a try. You’ll phone me later, won’t you?’
My mind was racing. Was there a simple solution?
I fielded yet more calls and reassured more friends. That afternoon disappeared in a miasma of chagrin and disappointment interspersed with fury.
Gillian’s return call gave me something to mull over on subsequent nights when insomnia took control. No offer of a refund from either party was forthcoming. We discussed this matter from all angles. Gillian refused to accept less than full blame. I pleaded for her banking details so I could share the cost. No chance. Her words remain etched in my memory,
‘Fay, you and I both know that there are more good people than bad in the world.’
‘And that’s why you were taken in Gillian… You’re so kind.’
That wasn’t the finale. A further episode occurred later that evening. My husband received a call. Another kind friend had succumbed to the scoundrels. He lost $500. I made contact, commiserated and offered to share costs. He declined. (Kudos to the ANZ Bank, Gladstone for his full refund.)
The Police proved powerless.
But there was one positive outcome. In July, Gillian and I cemented our friendship by circulating for hours at the Brisbane Art Gallery and the adjacent Gallery of Modern Art. I treated her to lunch. She accepted a keepsake we chose together in the gift shop. Young family members will help her spend the $1000 in vouchers. Her bank is re-considering its decision.
I have forsaken Bigpond. My brilliantly-conceived password is defunct. I’m assured that Gmail is safer.
Busy day coming up. I need to follow e-mailed instructions for placing a deposit on a second-hand Datsun for sale on-line. Outstanding toll fees must be settled too. My Nigerian pen pal requests assistance in paying for his flights to visit me.
© Tropical Writers Inc 2025