Those Hamilton Sisters

by Averil Kenny

  Hanging above all her handiwork was an unexpected gift from Gav, a majestic crystal chandelier. He had brought it to her, shrouded in dust and cobwebs, with the bearing of a boy presenting a hand-plucked flower.

  ‘Think you could find a use for this? It was originally your great-grandmother’s, and it’s been languishing amongst tractors and hoes in the Heartwood shed.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ Sonnet cried, throwing her arms around him. ‘I love it!’

  The chandelier had, like the bookshop itself, scrubbed up magnificently. In the afternoon light, it sent dazzling crystal-cast rainbows spinning through the shop.

  The final touch to her bookshop had been the hand-painted sign hung last night and now receiving its first morning sun kiss on Main Street.

  She’d entrusted the typesetting and graphic illustration entirely to Fable, and each time Sonnet gazed on her sister’s scrupulously rendered artwork, her shoulders drew back. The sign embodied everything this shop meant to Sonnet: an image of her yellow bike, with a stack of best-loved books in its basket (Persuasion atop the pile), and her name in Fable’s elegant calligraphy – Sonnet’s Books.

  And look, there was the artist herself coming across Raintree Park now, with Olive striding alongside and Plum leaping excitedly before them – all eager to see Fable and Sonnet’s sign triumphantly hung.

  ‘It’s simply beautiful!’ declared Olive. ‘Well done, Fable.’

  Fable assessed the signboard, head crooked. ‘But the perspective’s a tad off, though, see how the—’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Sonnet. ‘Olive, I had to drag it out of Fable’s paint-stained hands. She could have spent another year on it and still wouldn’t have been ready to hand it over. You’re just a perfectionist, Fabes.’

  Fable hurled a withering look. ‘If I were a perfectionist, it would be perfect, wouldn’t it?’ She flounced into the shop.

  ‘Oww,’ Sonnet said, clutching at her chest. ‘The scathing tone I can live with; it’s the constant eye rolls that do me in.’

  Olive smiled. ‘I wish you knew how much like your mother Fable is. That eye-roll-flounce combo is pure Essie. But remember, she’s frightened about her artwork being on public display.’

  Sonnet harrumphed. ‘She’s got to start sharing it sooner or later. I’m going to push her to make something of her gift, like Mama should have with her writing!’

  She looked to Olive for agreement, but Olive was staring at Sonnet’s dress, reaching to finger the fabric.

  ‘Are you wearing one of my mother’s dresses?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I knew I recognised that blue rose print.’

  ‘Found a whole wardrobe of old frocks in my bedroom. They’re . . . sweet, but hopelessly out of date, stinking of mothballs. Thought I could get some use of out them, with a few nips and tucks.’ Sonnet braked in sudden guilt. ‘I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Mind?! I’m delighted. Those ancient dresses never dreamed they’d see the light of day again. I can’t believe you’ve managed to make it work on your figure, though. Mother was six inches shorter and three dress sizes larger!’

  Oh yes, Sonnet knew Lois Hamilton’s dimensions by heart now after the many hours she’d spent bent over her grandmother’s floral sacks, altering them to swing-skirted, whippet-waisted tea dresses. The 1930s gowns, which had so obviously belonged to her mother, were a welcome surprise among the shabbier florals. Those gowns, however, Sonnet had left alone, unwilling to bring the shapely spectre of Esther Hamilton back to life.

  ‘Believe me,’ Sonnet said, ‘this one took quite some alteration.’ She twirled, and the rose garden flared.

  The cut accentuated Sonnet’s toned hourglass figure usually lost in slacks and shirts, and her hair was, uncharacteristically, unpinned. The combined effect was disconcerting; vulnerability revealed, perhaps even a desire to be found beautiful.

  ‘You’re such a clever girl,’ Olive said. ‘I miss you in my shop now that you’ve stepped into your own. You brought a youthful air I can’t replicate.’

  ‘Flatterer. You know I’m available to help you out with alterations, only have to ask. Anyway, I might be just twiddling my thumbs here, probably won’t get any customers . . .’

  *

  Initially, her prediction seemed to come eerily true. Sonnet did not see a customer for three torturous days after her launch.

  Just when you want all the local busybodies keeping you busy, they’re nowhere to be found!

  It was a conspiracy. Those bloody cows from the CWA probably handed out defamatory pamphlets on the next corner about Sonnet’s store, revenge for Marg Johnstone’s imaginary lost box.

  Sonnet outlined her theory of townsfolk collusion to Gav when he popped down for his now regular afternoon tea break; rather, long hour of yarns over the Story Bar.

  ‘How’s that chip on your shoulder going there?’ Gav asked, over a gigantic jam-laden, cream-topped scone.

  ‘How else do you explain it? Sure you haven’t seen a posse of peeved women shooing book lovers away?’

  ‘Only peeved woman I’ve met on this street today is you.’

  He ducked as she swatted at him with a tea towel.

  ‘Tell you what, though, these are the best flamin’ scones I’ve ever eaten. If the bookshop doesn’t work out, pet, you start selling these things, instead. You’d give ye olde famous teahouse at Moria Falls a run for its money.’

  Only Gav could get away with calling Sonnet Hamilton ‘pet’.

  ‘Come off it. You’ve probably eaten these scones a hundred times before. I filched the recipe from Grandmother Lois’s old book.’

  ‘Must be your jam, then.’

  ‘The jam recipe, also Lois’s, uses Davidson plums from your wife’s orchard.’

  ‘Alfred’s stove is working some kind of magic, then. As I recall it, Lois’s scones were rock hard, and her jam bitter . . .’

  Sonnet turned away, squeezing a smile flat between tight lips. She’d never truly known a man, until Gav. The nearest thing to a father she’d ever had. The thought always stopped her cold. Imagine how life might have been if she’d skipped over one recklessly fertile Hamilton womb for the other Hamilton womb, which had waited and wanted forever.

  Sonnet pinched the traitorous thought away and swung her sign back to OPEN.

  ‘Best be off, Gav. Can’t keep the store closed just for you, got customers beating down my door.’

  Gav heaved himself off the stool with a reluctant wheeze. ‘Well, if you want that smile fixed back on, I know a bloke who sells hardware up the road—’

  ‘Oh, shoo!’ Sonnet said, smiling at his departing bulk.

  Gav, her only patron. So be it. She’d take Gav’s stories of Noah any day over a hundred big spenders.

  *

  On the fifth day, at mid-morning, the shop bell clamoured noisily. Sonnet, having a nap upstairs on Alfred’s office settee, jerked guiltily to her feet.

  Fine look for a new proprietor, can’t even keep my eyes open!

  She hadn’t meant to fall asleep when she’d started poking, reluctantly, through Alfred’s office-cum-storage-room earlier. The mere sight of his disarray, decades in the making, had been soporific. One day, Sonnet planned to disembowel Alfred’s office, too. But the dust, and her sense of unworthiness, needed to settle a little longer.

  Hearing a voice below, Sonnet squeezed out of the study, sticky and flustered. She descended the stairs in twos, swiping at her rumpled dress.

  The dark-haired young woman loitering at the bay window display turned with a warm grin. Sonnet checked the corners of her mouth and eyes for evidence of her geriatric behaviour.

  ‘Hullo!’ sang the woman. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to drag you out of bed there!’

  ‘I wasn’t!’ Sonnet cried, taken aback. ‘I was just sorting things. I mean I was asleep, but I wasn’t in bed—’

  Her visitor shook with laughter. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I won’t tell. I’ve been known to sleep-
ride home after work, practically topple straight off my horse into bed. I’m Kate Hardy, anyway.’

  Sonnet’s interest was piqued at the surname. She tried to mentally map the Hardy clan as she accepted Kate’s hand.

  ‘Sonnet.’

  ‘So, these are all your books, huh?’ Kate said, with ironic brows.

  ‘Yes . . . these are my books.’

  ‘That’s a shame, because I wanted one, but if they’re all your books . . .’

  Sonnet shrugged helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’

  Kate laughed again; an open, easy sound that made Sonnet’s cheeks feel imprisoned.

  ‘The new sign out front – Sonnet’s Books?’

  Sonnet nodded, frowning.

  ‘OK, sorry. I’ll stop teasing. Let’s start again. Hi, I’m Kate. I manage the trail riding for tourists up at Moria Falls. Horses are my thing, not humour.’

  ‘Hi, Kate, I’m Sonnet.’

  ‘So, these are all your books, then?’ Kate replied in a rush, before hooting with laughter.

  Weary now, Sonnet retreated behind the front counter. ‘Can I help you with anything in particular today?’ She hated herself for the cold professionalism of her tone.

  Kate wandered, hands tracing the book spines. ‘Tell you the truth; I’m not a serious reader. Unless we’re talking about romances, those I devour. But last I checked, you weren’t stocking much new stuff. In fact, Old Mr Shearer used to tease me mercilessly for having read his entire collection of “frothy rubbish”, as he called it.’

  Sonnet latched on to a constructive task. ‘I’m proud to say, I’ve been expanding the romance section since taking over from Alfred.’ Sonnet headed for an impeccably organised row. ‘I know he didn’t think much of lighter women’s fiction, but I’ll be catering to all tastes. This is a modern shop.’

  Kate followed, grinning.

  ‘I can make a few recommendations, too, if you might like to try something a little more daring?’ Sonnet’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. ‘Have you ever heard of Forever Amber by Kathleen Winsor?’

  Kate leaned in, shaking her head.

  Sonnet handed her a chunky hardcover book. ‘This novel was banned in Australia for “sex obsession” by men who think they know better than female readers. The censors deemed it obscenity. It was only just taken off the list of prohibited imports this very year.’

  ‘Sex obsession,’ Kate breathed, turning the novel over twice, studying the beautiful woman in the cover illustration.

  ‘In truth,’ Sonnet said, with what she hoped was a proficient tone, ‘it’s an epic historical romance.’

  Kate flipped through the pages dubiously. ‘It looks long though . . .’

  Sonnet laughed. ‘You’re right, more than nine hundred pages. But if you want to try something meatier than your usual fare, a romance you can . . . get your teeth into?’

  ‘Exactly!’ Kate cried. ‘Okay good, I’ll take this indecent book of yours.’

  Hurrah! Sonnet had won her first official sale as bookstore owner. Nevertheless; she winced all the way to the counter. It had been far more nerve-racking than anticipated. What if she’d misjudged her customer’s pluck and open-mindedness? She’d have every book burner in town pounding on her door come the morrow!

  Kate gazed around the shop, eyes alighting on the grand chandelier. ‘I, for one, love what you’ve done with Mr Shearer’s old digs. It doesn’t look showy at all to me.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Sonnet’s hand stilled at the till.

  ‘You’ve gotten rid of the old fuddy-duddy vibe, and I think that’s fine. Haven’t ruined the shop as far as I can see.’

  ‘Ruined?’

  ‘A few people, don’t want to name names, think you’ve gone over the top repainting it all, see.’

  ‘Think I can guess who.’

  ‘Yeah well, I wouldn’t worry yourself too much with what Aunt Delia says.’

  ‘Believe me, I don’t.’

  ‘Besides, how were you to know it was Daintree silky oak before you painted it over? “Desecration” is a horrible word to use – it’s not like you vandalised his grave. It is your shop now.’

  Sonnet clenched a shilling coin deep into her palm. ‘You don’t like my repaint, Kate?’

  ‘No, I like it. But some people say it’s a sin to paint over vintage rainforest timber.’

  ‘Lucky this is a bookshop, not a church.’

  ‘You know Noah; folks get their knickers in a twist when anyone changes anything. Can’t move a fence post without someone accusing you of spoiling the heritage vibe!’

  ‘Funny, because you’re the only person to step foot in here since I reopened, so it sounds like they’ve had their noses pressed against my glass just looking for something to judge.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be far wrong there.’

  Sonnet slammed the cash drawer closed. ‘I see. Would you like a bag with that?’

  ‘Yes please, have to ride home.’

  Sonnet slid a paper bag across the counter. ‘Thanks for coming by.’

  ‘That’s my Misty out there – see?’ Kate tipped her head towards the white mare tethered to a post in Raintree Park. ‘I was going to park her out front, but your bike hogs the horse post these days.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sonnet said, without a note of regret. ‘Didn’t know a bookshop needed a horse-parking bay. Chalk it up to another thing I ruined. Have a good day!’

  Kate made no move to leave. ‘This has been awkward, hasn’t it?’

  Sonnet considered Kate for a flummoxed moment. She discarded cold indifference and thought better of sarcasm, before settling on honesty. ‘I don’t know quite how to take you.’

  ‘I can tell you don’t like me, which doesn’t bode well for future book advice.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t like you.’

  ‘But you didn’t offer me a Devonshire tea, even though your sign promised me one, and you keep taking that snooty tone with me. You’re treating me like a spy for the CWA!’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Never! Look, I love my Aunt Delia, but, frankly, those cliquey old cows have had this place stitched up the way they like it for decades. It’s about time we had someone new in town to liven things up.’

  ‘It’s just a bookshop.’

  ‘Not the way they’re nattering about it in the CWA tea rooms. Here you are, marching into town with your liberal paint can, changing time-honoured shop names, hanging flashy crystals, and, worst of all, pushing your free tea service in direct competition with the old guard. Apparently, you need to be brought down a notch or two.’

  Sonnet slumped against her counter. ‘So, I poured my heart into a shop that’s being embargoed.’

  ‘Chin up! Didn’t say it will last forever. But you need help getting the word out on how fabulous your tea service is. How about a complimentary sample for me to test?’

  Sonnet snorted. ‘After all that, you’re hitting me up for free scones?’

  ‘Wouldn’t call them free. I shelled out my precious wages on this grim-looking novel. And do you know how many dopey tourists I had to drag through the wilds of Noah to afford your naughty book, with no guarantee it’s going to stoke my fire?’

  Sonnet’s mouth fell open.

  ‘So, let’s have it!’ Kate said, claiming a bar stool. ‘White with three and don’t go easy on the jam or cream!’

  Sonnet would have to shut her own fly-catching mouth by hand. She reached for the kettle, impelled by curiosity.

  Who was this girl?

  CHAPTER 19

  IRIS

  December 1958

  T

  hank God for Old Mr Shearer, Fable thought on a daily basis. So obsessed was Sonnet with her shop, her other obsession with curtailing Fable’s freedom had slackened somewhat. And the bookstore couldn’t have come at a better time; the summer of sixteen was proving to be Fable’s favourite yet.

  She was riding an unsolicited wave of popularity, buoyed by her rec
ent advancement to the top of the ‘Knock-outs’ ranking at Noah Vale High; her name and associated virtues now scrawled on the senior boys’ toilet wall in permanent marker. A fact Adriana had verified for the other girls by striding in to see the legendary listings in the middle of lunch hour.

  It had been a dare by Christy, and Adriana had readily accepted. No one wanted to be thought lacking in boldness these days, especially not in comparison to the growing legend of Fable Hamilton.

  The newly acquired ‘jugs’, which had elevated Fable above the urinals, might have been the physical drawcard, but it was her inscrutability which conferred greater pull.

  Fable Hamilton was so quiet and such a loner, she wasn’t worth noticing – yet all eyes were on her. Where other girls demurred to tread, Fable went with a rambler’s grace. Bound to no clique, she drifted where and when she pleased; including, shockingly, with the local farm boys. But she didn’t agree to go steady with any of them, so why did she bother? Fable didn’t fit the most obvious labels – Tomboy or Easy – and how else were they to pigeonhole a girl who’d never had a date, yet spent the majority of her time hanging out with guys?

  The boys themselves were largely intimidated by Fable, and feigned comradely indifference, even though she was the cause of more missing tissue boxes in Noah homes than any other ‘well-stacked’ girl in town.