Those Hamilton Sisters

by Averil Kenny

  But she couldn’t look at him while he told this tale. Sonnet picked out a rain tree, the largest, making it her single point of focus.

  ‘I’d known Esther since she was a girl in the Young Readers section of my library – she was my library monitor for years, and I cherished our lunchtime chats. When she wasn’t in my library she haunted my bookstore. I used to call my back corner under the stairs “Esther’s Corner”. She was always starving for stories, like life just wasn’t enough for her. And when the bookshop and library were closed to her, Esther had a secret waterfall, somewhere up beyond Moria Falls, couldn’t tell you exactly, where she’d hide out with all her stories and dreams.

  ‘Esther lived for her books, or maybe lived in them – I’ve since thought perhaps it set Esther too far beyond her peers, made her yearn for someone who could equal her intellect and imagination, and that passionate heart of hers! And there were none in Noah like that.

  ‘Over the years, I watched Esther grow into a beautiful young woman, with a splendid mind on her. Oh she could write! I don’t think anyone doubted what Esther swore she’d make of herself. She had such determination about her, always demanding more than this valley could give her. But I sometimes thought Esther was frightened by the intensity of her own wanting. The idea that life might not ultimately live up to her expectations seemed unbearable to Es.’

  He broke off, sighing.

  ‘Then along comes Archer Brennan. And who could blame Esther? Everyone loved him. Such a handsome man, and an ambitious and charismatic teacher, with artistic talents. Archer was a painter, a mighty talented one. Just a newcomer to Noah; yet he made Vice Principal in no time, married the town beauty, and they had two lads in quick succession. He was a tremendous father, especially considering young Edmund’s state.’

  Tremendous father hung in the air, heavier than the humidity around them. Seeing her sneer, Alfred hurried on. ‘Archer had a passion for art and literature like we’d never seen in this town, and that tiny school. Believe me, I was the school librarian and the only bookseller, I knew! There wasn’t any genuine appetite for books here. I saw how Archer tried to whet their desires with his own zeal, a losing battle in this sugar-town backwater. He was too earnest. People didn’t want Shakespeare; they wanted to escape the slate as soon as possible, get back to the land or mind a steady income, and keep their heads above water when the floods arose.

  ‘Esther first came under Archer’s notice in her senior year. Well, we hope it wasn’t before. She always was a precocious beauty, though.’ Alfred cleared his throat. ‘He saw a promise shining in Esther he couldn’t believe, wouldn’t leave alone. He should have damned well walked away from the things she ignited in him! Archer fancied himself her sponsor – the one who was going to liberate her from small-town life, put her on the world stage. He was working hard to get her into her dream arts course. She had her sights on multiple university scholarships before they threw her out of school. You see? He ruined all that potential in his very attempt to possess it.’

  Sonnet put her teacup on its saucer with a clatter, no longer trusting herself not to take a bite out of the china.

  Alfred sighed. ‘Look, I can’t lie and say she did the right thing, either. Because she surely didn’t – he was married, he had those poor boys. But she was too green to understand the consequences. He was worldly-wise, he was her principal, he should have known better!’

  Alfred’s own teacup came to rest, trembling, beside hers.

  ‘I should have stopped it – somehow! All that time he spent with Esther, hidden away in the study annex of my library, the two of them setting my books alight between them. That none of us ever saw it until it was done, that’s the part that always confounded me. Then the terrible way they were found out on that school stage, in flagrante delicto . . .’ He trailed off.

  Raintree Park was a burning blur of green for Sonnet.

  ‘I was the only bloke in town who said it wasn’t Esther’s fault, that he bore the responsibility. She might have been eighteen, but she was still a girl. I copped plenty of flak, still do, for saying it.

  ‘And that was the worst of it. She was so much bigger than this town, yet they made her small by their shaming. And the graduation they denied her cost that girl her chance at university.’

  ‘Then I came along and spoiled any chance she had left. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve heard the rest of this story already.’

  Alfred shook his head, voice earnest. ‘Now, Sonnet, don’t you blame yourself. You were the after. Esther and Archer made their own bed and none of that is your fault. But your mother wanted you more than anything in the world. This is the part of the story you don’t know, how she gave it all up – her home and reputation, family wealth and security, all her education dreams – to keep you.’

  ‘I know precisely what she gave up. They were the very things we went without.’

  ‘She had no other choice! They gave her none. Sonnet, I sheltered Es in my home here for a month. I was her last stop on the way out of town, and the only door open to her after your grandfather threw her out, hoping to drive her to her senses. Of course, I only took her in because I was in love with her myself – or so said the town gossips.’

  ‘Were you?’ There seemed no reason not to ask.

  ‘She was the daughter I could never have. But no, Esther was never going to be in danger of that from a man . . . like me.’

  Alfred stared at his teacup, not meeting her eyes. Sonnet kept her gaze on his aged planes, until he looked up. Her eyes were soft with comprehension, and his grew wetter.

  There was a tiny catch in his voice as he went on. ‘I imagined I saw myself in Esther – being cast out like that by her family. I would have done anything for her. Least I could offer, though, was to keep her away from the pitchforks, while she planned her escape. Gave her whatever I could, as much money as she’d accept, and connections – old friends of mine in Sydney, good people who took her in, fed and sheltered her until she was ready to give birth. She had you in a tiny back room at their home, safely hidden away from the greedy hands of the state. When she was ready, they helped her on to her first home.’

  ‘She must have been terrified.’

  ‘Oh yes. If you could have seen her little face! She launched herself into the world at the same stage women were once retiring to their bedrooms for their lying-in. That kind of courage doesn’t come along very often. And she did it to keep you.’

  ‘To keep me from what?’

  ‘If she’d stayed, Sonnet, if she’d let your grandparents have their way, the doctors would have dragged you out of her womb and off for adoption before she could clap eyes on you. Most likely they’d have knocked her out first. You’d never have seen your true mother again. The government’s long been in the hidden business of stealing babies from “unsuitable” mothers. They’d already been flogging children from Aboriginal mothers for years. Then they set their sights on the white bastard babies. It made good sense to the do-gooders: rob the disreputable unwed mothers, to fill their adoption quotas for respectable married couples. There were dibs on Esther’s baby already.’

  Sonnet shuddered.

  ‘So she ran. Right out of my front door that wet September morning, heavy with child, determined to save you. And I never saw her again.’ He paused, gathering himself.

  ‘Initially, she sent me word of her safety, and yours; then precious titbits on postcards dashed out – though even they fizzled out after the first year. My friends kept me abreast of how she was going so long as she stayed in their district. But once Esther moved on, she severed those ties. She was done with us. The odd postcard graced my mailbox from time to time, and I was able to pass back some of your aunt’s letters, too. But we knew next to nothing about what happened to our Essie.’

  Sonnet exhaled. ‘And that’s what I owe you. The truth of what Mama did next.’

  ‘No, Sonnet. As much as I would love to hear about Esther’s life after Noah, that would ma
ke me no better than any busybody up the street.’

  ‘You must have questions? I’m sure Mama wouldn’t have minded – you helped her escape. What would she have done, and where would I be now, without you?’

  Alfred smiled. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve always longed to know, it’s whether Esther kept up her writing? I always hoped I’d see her name writ large across a novel one day. Imagined I’d crack open a new box of books, and there she’d be: Esther Hamilton, published.’

  Sonnet mulled this over, wishing she had better news. ‘I guess she still wrote, but only when life was . . . light for her. And that wasn’t often. She seemed to have endless phases of despair. You know, Mama called us her “Story Girls”, she named us for her love of writing, and yet we cost her that very aspiration. Who has time for writing while single-handedly raising three children and eking out a meagre living with factory work and seamstress jobs when she could barely raise her head from the pillow for anguish? She had to take her hand off the quill and put it to hard labour, instead.’

  Alfred’s eyes brimmed. ‘I’m sorry to hear those tempests followed her. Poor Essie, nobody to steady her; all those intense emotions hers alone to bear.’

  ‘I often wondered how much happier she might have been without us.’

  ‘Oh, she’d never have survived losing you, Sonnet. She gave up a lot for what she wanted most of all: love. You were the best thing in her life.’

  Sonnet couldn’t pretend to agree. ‘Not saying much, is it though?’

  They fell into a dense silence. Alfred shook himself, as though to cast it off. ‘And do you write yourself, Sonnet?’

  ‘Not a sentence. I’m starting to feel I missed out on some impressive talents. Daughter of an artist-cum-literature-lover and his protégée-turned-mistress. And here’s regular old me, no artist at all.’

  Sonnet looked away to the mountains, afraid of seeing disappointment on Alfred’s face. ‘But I do love reading. Mama used to call me her logophile, because I could spend hours with a dictionary.’ Oh, listen to her vain posturing! Never before had she so wanted her mother’s talents. ‘I just like to collect words,’ she corrected lamely.

  But Alfred was nodding intently. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘you’re a lexiconophilist.’

  Sonnet wanted to grin like an idiot. ‘But Mama’s creativity is alive and well in my younger sister. Fable can write like a dream, yet she’s not quite thirteen. And you should see her watercolours!’

  ‘She paints?’

  ‘Yes. She’s astonishingly talented for one so young. I say that with the bias of a proud sister determined to see Fable make something of herself.’

  Alfred considered Sonnet for a long minute. If he had another question, it remained unformed. Instead, he reached to nudge her teacup. ‘I want to thank you for today, Sonnet. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, lass, but you can come here at any time and help yourself to anything you want.’

  CHAPTER 11

  MORIA FALLS

  Late January 1956

  T

  he second-last day of summer holidays before the school bell would toll again for Noah Vale students, and Sonnet was all in a dither about Fable heading off to high school. Fable bridled under the fussing. Starting secondary school in Noah meant little more than moving to the opposite side of the quadrangle for classes, with a uniform upgrade from pinafore to blouse and skirt. It was only a big deal for the boys sent away to boarding school at the exclusive St Ronan’s.

  Nonetheless, Sonnet bossed and fretted. Fable suspected her sister’s behaviour arose more from unspoken anxiety at also sending Plum off to community kindergarten. Sonnet was over-attached. It wasn’t like she was Plum’s real mother – get a grip! But who was Fable to point a single thing out to Sonnet?

  The preparations had reached a fever pitch this day, with Sonnet taking it upon herself to re-hem Fable’s hand-me-down uniforms to add extra inches to the blue skirts.

  Forcibly detained, Fable huddled on the window seat, gnawing on resentment. Something about those lowered skirt lengths piqued a grievance she hadn’t known she possessed. Why should Sonnet get to decide how long her skirts should be? All the other girls would be gadding about with brand-new, fashionably cut skirts, and here was Fable’s not-mother putting her in nun-length skirts with glaring hem bands.

  As if she needed any more targets on her back.

  At the sight of Marco traversing the field towards the cottage, Fable straightened breathlessly. Maybe there was a way out of here, after all! She chanced a glance at Sonnet, who was earnestly cutting the seeds out of lychees for Plummy, thereby ruining all the silken joy of their mouth-popping perfection. Fable sighed. On second thoughts, Sonnet would no doubt take a sharp knife to Fable’s pleasure today, too.

  She flew from the window seat as Marco peered through the door. Her greeting, uncharacteristically animated, turned his face crimson.

  Sonnet came to stand behind Fable with hands on hips.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Hamilton, but can Fable come tubing down the creek with the gang?’

  Fable turned wide eyes on her sister, suspecting a ‘please’ was in order, but unwilling to produce it.

  ‘No. Sorry. We’re getting ready for school, can’t spare her.’

  ‘It’s our end-of-summer tradition. Raff Hull is catching the train back to Brissie for uni tomorrow, and he always takes us up for a tube before he leaves. When the creek’s up after the rains, we can float all the way down from Moria Falls at the top of the gorge. Only takes a couple of hours and Fable can walk home from the bridge. Both Raff and Kate are going, and they’re like adults. Adriana sent me to get her and everyone is—’

  Sonnet, already shaking her head, paused. ‘Who did you say?’

  ‘Adriana. She wants Fable to come. Everyone’s at Hulls’ waiting for us.’

  Sonnet pshawed. ‘Well, don’t be surprised if they’ve left by the time you get there.’

  The sarcasm was lost on Marco.

  Sonnet’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do I know it’s safe? You’re not tubing over falls, are you?’

  ‘We paddle in downstream from the falls. Raff drives us up in their truck.’

  Sonnet’s glare bore him out. He looked at Fable for help.

  ‘Please, Sonnet,’ Fable said.

  The triumphant flash in Sonnet’s eyes signalled acquiescence a dragged-out moment before permission was actually granted.

  *

  ‘Did she?’ Fable asked as she and Marco cut a hasty path across the paddock. Around them, the mountains steamed.

  ‘Who, what?’

  ‘Adriana. Did she send you? Or did you say that to convince my sister?’

  ‘Nah. She did.’

  ‘Did someone make her?’

  Marco laughed. ‘You could put it that way.’

  ‘But who?’ Fable was starting to lag behind.

  ‘Mrs Hull, in the end. But it was kind of a big deal before that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Fable stopped now, forcing Marco back to her.

  ‘I don’t want to go broadcasting family dramas. It was awkward. And I don’t want to hurt your feelings. Take it from me, in the end Adriana said you should come.’

  He moved to go. Fable folded her arms.

  Marco was faintly exasperated. ‘Okay, look. When we met at Hulls’ today, I asked if you were coming and Adriana just made some comments about how you didn’t belong in the gang or in Noah, plus . . . some other things. Raff heard it. He tore strips off Adriana in front of everyone, had a bit to say to Mrs Hull, too. Mrs Hull was siding with Adriana, to be honest, and they went inside to discuss it privately. But we could pretty much hear it. Anyway, Raff put his foot down – said he wouldn’t be taking anyone up the gorge today unless they cut their rot out. Told them it would be more embarrassing sending everyone home than admitting they were wrong to exclude you.’

  Fable exhaled in dismay. ‘So, the only reason Adriana asked me to come was so tubing wouldn’t be cancelled?’


  ‘You have to come – it’s your first time. Never mind Adriana. Raff runs this thing anyway.’

  Fable wavered, but only for a moment. Adriana could get stuffed. No one would stand in the way of her seeing Raff Hull today.

  *

  The circle of kids sheltering from the blazing sun beneath the mango trees grew quiet as Marco and Fable approached. By the idling truck, toes scuffed in dirt, girls giggled behind hands, and several boys scuttled away to assist with the last-minute loading of tyre inner tubes. Adriana marched straight up to the newcomers. Fable flinched.

  ‘Hi, Fable. Thanks so much for coming,’ Adriana said sweetly, eyes telling a different story.

  Fable had the obscene urge to laugh. ‘Thank you for asking me,’ she replied, with equal sugariness.

  The truck grumbled impatiently. Fable’s eyes searched reflexively for Raff. He was already in the driver’s seat, proud tautness in his back. As Fable shimmied onto the tray of the truck, Raff’s face appeared in the side-view mirror.

  Fable stared back, deer in the headlights. He nodded at her – a movement so subtle she might have invented it. Fable countered it with a tiny bow, and, heart thumping at her audacity, settled down with a tube.

  Diesel fumes rose in an enveloping fug as the truck rattled up the steep, narrow gorge road towards Moria Falls. Fable clutched her tube tightly among the crush of black rubber and sweaty young bodies. It was only when her legs began to cramp that she realised her every muscle was tensed against the precarious rock and clatter of the journey. She closed her eyes, pressed her forehead against the tyre and watched the dance of dappled light across her eyelids. Within minutes, the deep roar of cascades eclipsed the motor’s rumble.

  The road opened into a car park, dotted with caravans and Volkswagens. Fable marvelled at the sheer cliff face towering above. Moria Falls was a precisely vertical flume, over one hundred and fifty feet high, set against a ragged spill of ferny rocks and ledges. The waterfall tumbled into a large lagoon, peppered with swimmers. Moisture misted from the falls, casting tiny rainbows in the spray. Bordering the pool were picnic tables, hedged garden areas, and a long teahouse proudly proclaiming it had been ‘Serving Devonshire Tea since 1920’. Peacocks wandered regally by the water’s lapping edge.