Those Hamilton Sisters

by Averil Kenny

  Sonnet leant over the washing tub now, and joined her tears to the rainstorm.

  It was a long time before she lifted her face from the altar of her regret. She stomped upstairs to the attic room, flaming with resolve. She would be a better mother-substitute! Turn over a new leaf. First thing in the morning, she’d race to Hadley’s store and buy the poor kid some Kotex. But for once she wouldn’t lecture; just let Fable know she was there for her. That she’d always be there for her. From now on, she was going to be kinder and more patient; less intrusive but present, too. She’d stop pushing but keep asking. She just would be . . . better!

  When Sonnet settled back into bed, however, the dread upon her heart had not eased a mite. Where normally goals and resolutions soothed her worries, this time they allayed nothing. She flipped and kicked under clinging sheets, unable to throw off the pressing sorrow.

  Threnody, she mouthed, without knowing why.

  Hours passed. The rain intensified, eased again and returned with a roar; and, through it all, Sonnet rolled from side to side, anguished and afraid.

  *

  Fable was still asleep when Sonnet rushed to Heartwood for Plum. She held her sister tightly to herself, exhaling. Plum buckled against the cleaving, as Sonnet’s eyes bored into Olive’s.

  ‘Was everything all right here last night?’

  ‘Absolutely fine! She woke once and climbed into our bed. But she slept the night through after that.’

  ‘Nothing unusual at all?’

  ‘Not a thing!’ After a pause, ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I didn’t sleep well last night, I’m skittish with overtiredness. Can I borrow the Holden this morning to grab some groceries?’

  ‘You know it’s yours to use whenever you need it. I don’t know why you punish yourself riding all those hills!’

  Plum nattered brightly all the way into Hadley’s General Store and Sonnet, shaky with hyper-vigilance, listened for red flags. Plum was spilling over with important news: she’d eaten two bowls of Milo-topped ice cream, won several rounds of Old Maid against Aunty Ov, and kicked obliging Gav out of bed when she made her regular pilgrimage from hers to theirs in the wee hours.

  See? Everyone’s all right.

  No, something’s wrong.

  They shopped the aisles at Hadley’s in companionable bickering over what went into the basket. Plum would eat nothing but sweets if Sonnet didn’t keep a close eye on her – and Olive.

  They reached Jeannie Hadley at the counter with a hoard of sanitary products, including six different styles of Kotex belts. Sonnet knew she was overcompensating, but once she’d started piling the basket, she couldn’t stop. Jeannie eyed the basket shrewdly, but directed her questions towards Plum, taking shelter in her sister’s skirt. It was a tactic Sonnet knew well by now: address the smallest Hamilton in the hope of eliciting information about the supercilious older Hamilton girl. Sonnet knew she was intimidating – it was the way she fixed her green eyes upon folks, just daring them to judge her, or tell her another of their damned stories. It was no way to win friends or influence people, but it felt like power.

  As Sonnet was grinding her teeth at Jeannie’s probing, her awareness piqued at a woman’s strident voice, carrying from a few aisles over. She’d know that voice anywhere, but in case she’d forgotten, her spine crawled. She glanced behind and spotted a coiffured roll of dark hair bobbing by the cornflakes: Delia Bloody Hull, gasbagging.

  It felt somehow right to have one particular nemesis in this town upon which to project her more general frustrations with the penetrating undertones which dogged her every step down Main Street. Delia was made for the role and seemed eager to fill it. She looked at Sonnet like a boil that needed lancing. The expression was reciprocated.

  As Country Women’s Association president, Church Ladies Fellowship convenor, Noah Patchwork Club organiser, and matriarch of the most influential founding family in Noah Vale, Delia held the ears and loyalty of most. No doubt she gloried in Sonnet’s self-imposed exclusion from various social circles – probably took the damn credit! In the eighteen months since their now-infamous altercation at Summerlinn, Delia had not once deigned to speak to Sonnet, though they skirted one another often enough on Main Street. Delia purposefully avoided Emerson’s Fashion and Fabrics on Sonnet’s day, and never stepped a heeled foot into Shearer’s Books.

  The nuclear winter, Sonnet supposed, was here to stay.

  Right now, Delia was making no attempt to hush her tone. In fact, Sonnet had the distinct sense Delia was speaking directly to her from five aisles over, and not Mrs Hickey and Mrs Johnstone at all. She waited to hear her name, or Fable’s, but was taken aback to hear Alfred Shearer’s, instead. Her hand stilled on the pads she was unloading, heart churning out a few too many beats.

  ‘Dead?!’ came a scandalised cry.

  ‘As a doornail! Found this morning by his cleaner, Glenda Harrison. She’s been cleaning Alfred’s shop for years now. Not that you can tell from the state of that cluttered bookshop, the dust for heaven’s sake, she must just push it from one corner to another. Well, anyway, there he was when she let herself in: face down on his study desk. Up and died in the middle of reading correspondence. Must have been something pretty shocking . . .’

  ‘Oh, bet I can guess!’

  The group snickered.

  Delia’s voice went up another notch. ‘I think we all can. Poor man, finding out her true colours like that . . .’

  The women clucked consensus.

  ‘Anyway, Derrick Windsor was up there this morning, that’s how we heard. Maybe it was Alfred’s heart, he’s always had issues with his ticker, but word is he’d caught a second bout of dengue fever. It’s deadly if you get bitten again, you know.’

  ‘Wasn’t only a mozzie he was twice bitten by . . .’

  Sonnet dropped her basket and hurtled out of the shop with Plum, leaving bewildered Jeannie Hadley holding the sanitary pads towards the still-shuddering door.

  Down Main Street Sonnet sprinted, Plum’s legs jangling against her thighs, heart pounding in her ears.

  Not true, not true, not true, not true!

  She collapsed against the railing with a gasp that drew no air. Plum slid down her leg and stood in the white glare, wailing.

  Slowly, Sonnet raised her eyes to the shopfront, praying she would see Alfred’s face peering through the window, beckoning her inside for a cuppa – ready to dispel Delia Hull’s putrid lies.

  But the shop was dark and locked with the shutters drawn, as Alfred was never wont to do. A handwritten page was taped to the inside of the front-door window . . .

  Closed until further notice, by order of Senior Constable Windsor.

  Sonnet fell to her knees, hands sliding down the locked door, head bowing against the wood. Her one friend in the valley, and her mother’s only ally, had left her.

  *

  Sonnet had slammed through the cottage door this humid morning with a wordless ferocity which sent Fable scuttling away to her latest hidey-hole. Recently, Sonnet had sewn up curtains to hang at the front bay window. The curtains, when pulled, transformed the window seat into another secret sanctuary for Fable. In slanting afternoon light, the old crystal wind chime on the porch spun magical rainbows throughout the alcove. Fable loved to chase the tiny bows across the page as she read and sketched, gratefully concealed from Sonnet.

  Today Fable had brought a pile of favourite books to her window nook. They lay untouched, absorbed as she was in trying to capture the post-deluge clarity she so adored.

  Sonnet had thundered upstairs for an hour then returned to the kitchen, hauling pots out of a back cupboard to thrash around in a sink full of suds. Fable had inched the curtains tightly closed, hoping Sonnet couldn’t hear her breathe, or think. Plum too was strangely morose this morning, not even pestering for food.

  Fable stole a peek through the curtains. Pain rolled off her swollen-eyed sister. She winced, letting the curtain fall back, focusing inste
ad on the brush at her command.

  A flash of colour made Fable glance up: Olive, flying down the hill with a large paper bag. Fable grimaced. Quite possibly, Olive and Sonnet had already had one of their famous standoffs this morning, in which case their aunt would coast in with ‘One more thing I need to say to you, Sonnet!’

  These one-more-things inevitably ended with fifty things Sonnet had to say back.

  The garden gate squealed. Fable slipped her notebook under her bum, taking refuge in her latest Georgette Heyer romance.

  Olive bustled into the cottage without even knocking, throwing herself across the room at Sonnet as though she expected, strangely, no resistance today.

  ‘Oh, Sonnet, I’m so sorry.’

  Fable’s mouth sagged in horror to hear the indomitable Sonnet Hamilton break into a guttural wail.

  ‘He’s gone! Just – gone!’

  Sonnet’s violent crying caused tears to push painfully against Fable’s tightly squeezing eyes. Her chest constricted. That sound! It was losing Mama. It was every tear she had left to shed, and more.

  ‘Alfred was a good man, Sonnet. One of the best.’

  At torturous length, Sonnet spoke. ‘He’s gone, and I’ve lost my chance to know him now. I hardly asked him a thing about his own life. I was so selfish, always begging for his stories of Mama – same ones, over and over. All I’d ever known was Mama’s brokenness and disenchantment, and Alfred gave me back young Esther Hamilton; full of spirit and ambition. I was gluttonous for it—’

  Another breaking cry.

  Olive’s voice came, soothing. ‘And you gave Alfred what he wanted at the end of his days: a daughter, a friend. We’re grateful he was with us long enough to finally meet you. I always imagined that dear man was holding on for Esther to return. And instead, it was you who came home to Alfred.’

  Sonnet’s weeping resumed. Fable massaged her pencil against the headache building between her eyes. She didn’t want to be hearing any of this. There was no escape from it, except to go deep within.

  Fable was recalled by the rustling of Olive’s paper bag. There was no one like Olive for treats and sweets. Hopefully, Olive thought they deserved plenty of sugar in recompense for Old Mr Shearer’s passing.

  ‘I’m sorry that you had to find out that way,’ Olive was saying. ‘Delia must have been in her element announcing her terrible news. Jean told me you dumped your groceries on her counter and ran out of the store. It was quite the scene by her retelling. I can only imagine how shocked you must have been. Wrong place at the wrong time!’

  ‘I bet that woman was lying in wait for me.’

  ‘Jean came to my shop in quite a state herself, dreadfully worried for you. Said to tell you she’s sorry for your loss, and that your groceries today were on her. So, here they are.’

  ‘That was generous of Jean, but I certainly am going to pay her back.’

  ‘Nonsense. She insisted. So do I.’

  ‘You didn’t have to rush them over, though.’

  ‘But when I saw all these pads, I thought you must be in desperate need, better shut up shop and bring them straight over!’

  Sonnet laughed. ‘You’re a woman’s hero, but they’re not for me.’ Her voice hushed – not enough, though. ‘Actually, Fable got her first period. But she didn’t ask for help, so she’s been bleeding everywhere. It was like an abattoir in her room!’

  ‘Oh, the poor girl. Do you need soaker? I’ve got plenty. How about you give me a pile of dirties to wash?’

  ‘No, I can manage. It’s not your job. But I wish the little grot had come to me about it.’

  ‘Perhaps if I talk to her—’

  ‘No. I’ll handle it my way.’

  ‘Sonnet, you need more help than you ask for. Oh now, don’t start getting all defensive, you’ve got enough to worry about today. Let’s strip her bed and I’ll take them to Heartwood to soak. My line’s bigger than yours.’

  ‘I can’t subject you to that.’

  ‘I cared for my father in his dying days – you think I’m squeamish at my age? Come on, quickly! We’ll get it done before she gets home.’

  The creak of their determined stride into the sunroom masked the front door’s quiet click. The slip of a girl streaking across the field towards the creek, with journal clutched to her chest, went unseen. Her frantic flight did not stop until she’d reached her grove of comfort.

  ‘Oh, Mama, Mama, Mama!’ she sobbed.

  The Green Woman opened ancient pleats, and gathered her in.

  CHAPTER 15

  PARAGON

  January 1957

  P

  aragon Cafe, enjoying its lunch-hour rush, was thrumming with teens savouring the last of the summer holidays. The milkshake frother bubbled on a continuous loop; ceiling fans whirred at full speed; arcade games competed with the jukebox.

  Sonnet rearranged her egg-salad sandwich, and sighed. She regretted not taking her lunch to the shade of Raintree Park, but she hadn’t been able to face either the sight of Alfred’s store, or the legion of black cockatoos that had taken up a haunting residence along Main Street, two or three birds to each light pole, puffing their dark crests. All birds, but especially black ones, piqued an unearthly terror in Sonnet.

  She was venturing forth for the first time in a fortnight, and only because she owed Olive a day in the shop. Sonnet certainly wasn’t going to have Olive picking up the slack for her self-indulgence. Life went on, and she had no right to mourn Alfred like a father or grandfather, when he was neither.

  Another wave of kids shoved through the art-deco doors, and Sonnet hunkered further in her booth, wishing she was safely shielded behind a shuttered shopfront. One of those Lagorio twins thumping at an arcade game hollered at the tall, young man entering, and Sonnet peeped up shrewdly as she recognised Rafferty Hull’s name.

  She’d seen Rafferty only from a distance, crossing Main Street or the canefields on his way to visit other farms. This was her first chance to evaluate, close up, both his alleged good looks and, from the way Gav spoke of him, the shining halo that must encircle his damned head!

  He was indeed handsome – in an obvious way, and obviously knew it; carrying himself with Delia’s tall, haughty posture.

  Not my type, though!

  Immediately, Sonnet upbraided herself for having stooped to evaluate him against her standards. But it was the way Rafferty bore himself which so instantly irked her – a strong, quiet confidence bespeaking an idyllic childhood and a boy beloved of all who knew him.

  How must it have felt for you to have grown up the darling of an entire community, with never a moment to doubt your own God-given magnificence?

  His life was the antonym of the one she had known. She disliked him instantly, and entirely. A Hull was a Hull.

  Kids all over the shop were clamouring for his attention. Who did he think he was, king of Noah Vale? As his eyes swept curiously over her lonely booth, Sonnet dived into her sandwich. She had a sudden fear Mister Popularity would come and introduce himself. Never had a sandwich been swallowed with such focus, and distaste.

  When a male shadow fell over her minutes later, Sonnet looked up, already crabby, expecting a politician’s smarmy smile and winning handshake. But it was a portly and much older man who stood grinning at her table.

  ‘Sonnet Hamilton!’ he cried. ‘You’re a hard woman to track down.’ He slid into the booth opposite, pushing his meal and milkshake onto the table. ‘Harry Payne!’ he pronounced, biting heartily into his asparagus-laden toast. ‘Solicitor.’

  Sonnet braced herself behind a quickly raised teacup. ‘I imagine you must be the Harry who’s been calling my aunt and uncle constantly?’

  ‘That’s me, all right. You girls still don’t have a telephone in the old Hamilton cottage?’

  ‘We don’t have a need for one. I haven’t returned your calls, Harry, because I’ve had other concerns.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad we bumped into each other like this. I was going to drive out to th
e farm this week and hunt you down, so you’ve saved me a trip.’

  Sonnet frowned. ‘How can I help you, Harry?’

  ‘No, actually, I’m about to help you, Miss Hamilton!’ he declared, slurping with great satisfaction. ‘Let’s lunch; then I’m going to need you to come back to my office with me. We have a will to read, young lady . . .’

  *

  ‘Alfred left you everything?!’ Olive cried in the afternoon heat of her orchard. ‘The whole shop and his unit above?’ Garden secateurs waved wildly in the air as she spoke. Sonnet followed their movement, unable to meet Olive’s eyes.

  ‘Everything.’ It was more an expulsion of air than affirmation. She sank to the earth before Olive’s half-pruned star fruit tree.

  Olive knelt to the ground beside her, tossing her garden gloves aside. ‘My word, Sonnet. My word!’

  Both women turned to follow Plum’s squeals as she navigated the exotic fruit trees with Mama’s cane perambulator, filled with porcelain dolls.

  After a time, Sonnet said, sotto voce: ‘So now I own a bookstore.’

  ‘Yes, you certainly do.’

  ‘But he never said anything about leaving it to me. The whole town’s going to think I insinuated myself into his life for this windfall.’ Sonnet gave a sour laugh. ‘Worse: they’ll probably say I poisoned him for it!’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Olive clucked. ‘Well, maybe some of them will think that. But you know how minds work in this town.’

  ‘Why would he leave it to me, though? He must have family who will come contesting this kind of lavish generosity.’

  Olive considered this. ‘Nope, I don’t think Alfred has anyone left at all now. You’re going to be home and hosed. I think he must have been mighty relieved to finally have someone to leave his beloved store to, actually.’

  ‘I didn’t spend all that time helping him out for anything like this.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t.’

  ‘I just wanted to be near her memory, and his admiration for her. I didn’t earn this.’