Those Hamilton Sisters

by Averil Kenny

  ‘Get in the back!’

  The door opened and Eamon swung down. Even in the weak light seeping from the doused pools of headlight, even in the haze of inebriation, Fable saw the dark bruise that stained one side of Eamon’s face. He glowered at Fable in passing.

  She climbed into the cab, lost for words, or indeed thought. The situation was bigger than she could presently muddle out. For now, she wanted to rest her head against the window, just for a wee while.

  Raff leaned over Fable, placing a balled-up jacket between her head and the door. The truck shuddered into life and Fable closed her eyes. Raff’s steely silence and the rocking motion of their descent tipped her into sleep.

  *

  Fable stirred with the engine’s cessation at Summerlinn. Eamon leapt off the truck and disappeared into the dark drizzle.

  Raff turned to Fable. ‘Hang on a sec, I’ll be right back.’

  He crossed the manicured lawn and bounded onto the front stoop. Figures waited in a frame of spilling light: Mrs Hull and someone else Fable couldn’t distinguish through the rain-rippled glass and her drunkenness. It could only be Adriana, awaiting the gossip she would disperse, methodically, like a spring back-burn. The same rumour Mrs Hull would spin up and down Main Street in hushed, yet no-less-flammable tones.

  Raff conferred with the pair, using explosive arm motions, pointing in her direction several times. The smaller figure turned to peer. Yes, Adriana. With a theatrical display of pity, Adriana’s darkly fringed face began to shake slowly at the truck. Her lips moved in silent chastisement: ‘Fable, Fable, Fable . . .’

  The mimed words hit Fable with the force of a shout.

  Raff’s voice was audible now even over the distance and rain. He was furious. At Fable, obviously: the inconvenience of bringing her home, not to mention the scandalous position in which he’d found her, surrounded by groping boys, on the cusp of something irrevocable.

  But what? Fable couldn’t get it all straight in her head. She only knew she could not bear another moment of Adriana’s scorn, and Raff’s ire.

  She slipped out of the cab, fleeing for the forest.

  *

  The distended serpent rolled beneath Fable’s feet as she skirted the bridge unsteadily towards home. How many times must she cross this flood today?

  Dead centre of the bridge she slipped on a sleeper, and for one terrified moment felt the creek opening to swallow her. At the last second she managed to right herself, giggling with the terror of it. She planted her feet, and raised her face and arms to the few stars which shone against the cloud-strung sky, her body absorbing the power surging against the bridge.

  Raff arrived on the bridge with a panting stealth that was somehow reassuring.

  ‘Fable . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t need you to rescue me, Rafferty Hull!’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘I’m going home!’

  She whirled to leave, only to sway wildly again. Beside her, she heard a pronounced intake of breath.

  Once she’d regained her balance, he spoke in a slow, placating tone. ‘I know this bridge better than you – at least let me see you across.’ He advanced carefully, hands ushering her forward.

  ‘I don’t need you or your stupid brother.’

  ‘Nobody needs my stupid brother.’

  Raff was so close now she felt rather than saw his grin. Her urge to return the smile was unexpected. She fixed her feet, indignantly.

  ‘Come on, couple more steps and you’re there.’

  ‘You always treat me like a child!’

  Raff paused now. ‘No, not a child. Like a newcomer to Noah Vale – which you are.’

  ‘You mean an outsider! Or, worse, a Hamilton!’

  ‘The Hamilton name is as old as the hills, and us Hulls. But I grew up here, and you did not. There are things you only learn by long immersion – things that nobody is apparently going to let you in on.’

  ‘In other words, I’m only pretending to belong here.’

  ‘In other words, if no one else here is watching out for you, I will.’

  His words stung. ‘I don’t need a babysitter! Nobody asked you to drag me home. Matter of fact, I was having fun until you showed up.’

  ‘Oh sure, it’s all fun and games until someone’s hanging dead from a vine.’

  ‘What does that even mean? Is this the kind of interfering Adriana has to deal with whenever she goes off without her party-pooper of a brother?’

  His brow tightened at her words.

  Fable hurried beyond him. Crossing the last sleeper, she contemplated sprinting straight on for home without another word – then let Sonnet do what she did best with Hulls, should he dare come after her. But beer was a boldness she’d never known before. Fable swung back, outrage on her tongue.

  His quiet wrath, however, stopped the words at her lips.

  ‘Adriana would never go to Vinelands because she knows what Vinelands is. What no one else has cared to tell you. And those boys specifically took you there today, without saying anything, because they were pinning all their sordid hopes on your reputation.’

  ‘What reputation!’

  ‘You’re the daughter of Esther Hamilton. In this town, stories, true or false, circulate for generations. You’re climbing a mountain other girls, especially my sister, have never had to face. And let me tell you, every one of those boys there tonight was betting on you being as . . . “easy” as the town legends claim your mother was.’

  Fable’s bottom lip was no longer obeying her.

  ‘Do you have any idea what they had in store for you today?’

  ‘I went because Eamon invited me! And Vince, too . . . but they both disappeared.’

  ‘And Eamon will never ask you anywhere again; neither will Vince after I get to him.’

  Fable held her head, voice small. ‘Would you just tell me?’

  Raff dragged a handful of hair back from his own forehead, looking away. He sighed but began to speak – in quick, stilted phrases.

  ‘The Vinelands ruins are the . . . sexual initiation spot for the St Ronan’s boys. Each summer there are girls they take up there. Or maybe lure there. Get them drunk. Then share them around. Like animals. Who can go the furthest? How many turns can you have? They always say the girls are willing. But they only take the . . . vulnerable ones. It’s drunken, macho one-upmanship. They brag among themselves for years to come. It’s a tradition for the seniors. Usually, a couple of guys from the old boys’ club rock up, too, reliving their own hazing rituals. Every year there’s a girl, sometimes two together.’

  On he went, sparing her nothing. ‘There was one girl, the year I graduated, lovely person, but she “went to Vinelands”. They swore willingly. She said it was a bit of fun. It was a . . . big year. None of it bears repeating. And it’s only because she fled town that it didn’t go to the sergeant. It never does, though! Vinelands is only ever talked about as silly kids’ play. Everyone getting what they asked for, especially the girls. But only a few months later, that poor girl came back to hang herself at Vinelands. On the vines you were swinging from today.’

  Fable gagged, tasting bile.

  ‘I hate that I’m the one telling you this. It should have been my sister, or yours. But now you know. You can do whatever you want, but in future they’ll never have the advantage of your not knowing again.’

  Fable tried to shake her head, but it was too heavy for her control.

  ‘When I found my godforsaken brother stumbling down the gorge road this afternoon, drunk as a skunk, and he said you were at Vinelands . . .’ His jaw jumped. ‘I couldn’t just leave you there, could I?’

  He seemed to think she might answer this.

  ‘Fable?’

  Her thoughts were a slow turmoil in a whirling world. She bent and heaved repeatedly. He moved to help, then stopped short.

  Understanding finally punctured Fable’s stupefaction. Raff had expected to find her in the worst
predicament imaginable, and he’d come for her, anyway. What had Fable ever been to Raff but his sister’s pitiable friend? What did it matter to him what she chose to do with boys, how many of them there were, or where she chose to do it?

  Yet he’d come for her.

  It was too much to process. With a guttural cry, Fable turned and sprinted for the rain-enfeebled glow of the cottage. Behind she heard, or thought she heard, Raff call: ‘Take care, Fable.’

  *

  Fable dropped into the cottage with the impact of a pebble into a pool, absorbed without fuss or notice. There were no inquisitions to greet her, no need even to feign sobriety. Sonnet wasn’t home. In her stead, only a mildly defensive note propped on the kitchen bench in answer to Fable’s earlier message: Sonnet was staying late at the bookshop to attend rain damage, it had to be done, Fable should make dinner from leftovers and not worry about Plum, who was still at Heartwood. She too could duck up the hill if she really wanted company.

  The words swam as relief and dismay jostled for position. There was no one in the world Fable wanted to see or touch or be comforted by more than her big sister, but thank God she wasn’t home. Moments later, Fable was tumbling down the long, spinning slope into grateful oblivion.

  CHAPTER 22

  ECHIDNA

  Spring 1959

  S

  onnet’s daily bookseller routine unfolded precisely so: soaring down Main Street on Freya at eight o’clock, disobedient red strands already escaping her bun; a pot of tea straight up, with the quiet unpacking of orders, followed by dusting, rearranging and a fresh batch of scones out of the oven. She turned her sign to OPEN and put out the Story Bar placard promptly at nine, then her customers came, in a slow and steady drip until, at 3 p.m., Sonnet twirled the sign to CLOSED and marched proudly up the street to do her banking, mailing and groceries. Along her route, familiar faces smiled and nodded, and fewer people mentioned Esther Hamilton than ever before.

  Which made Sonnet think: perhaps there was a position on Main Street – and in Noah Vale – for a Hamilton girl, after all. Far be it from Sonnet to suggest Olive had been right, though. Now marking her first anniversary of proprietorship, these were quietly fulfilling days, and Sonnet wondered if she was content, perhaps even happy, for the first time since arriving in Noah.

  She had a business and a best friend, now.

  Sonnet acknowledged she had softened in unexpected ways under Kate Hardy’s influence. For starters, she had marked Plum’s ever-increasing presence at Heartwood with fewer plates shattered for cathartic relief than she might have expected. Kate’s counsel – ‘Let Olive have the weekdays, then you get to enjoy the weekends. Quality not quantity, Son’ – had proved, ultimately, true. Sonnet would have preferred quality and quantity, but Plummy seemed to love the arrangement.

  Kate was tonic for the soul. And at four o’clock every Thursday afternoon, she also ushered in Gin and Tonic Hour. Sonnet pulled out her largest teacups to hide their tipples, and served up a stack of romance novels, while Kate dished out juicy town twaddle. It was a puerile diversion, and Sonnet knew she was no better than her worst gossiping enemies. She didn’t care! Their cackling chatter enriched Sonnet’s life more than a constantly ringing till could ever have done.

  Not that Sonnet had relinquished the dream of a booming business. Time would prove her mettle as a bookseller, and her loyal stable of readers was being built with patience and aplomb, one cuppa and book recommendation at a time.

  The Story Bar was proving her biggest drawcard. Sonnet had never rated herself much of a listener before, but in the cosseted quietness of her shop, people sure liked to talk. Her patrons peddled tales over the counter as much as she sold stories back. And with such a slow trickle of customers, Sonnet had time to listen. It was remarkable what you could learn about a person when you kept them talking about themselves, instead of others; when their impetus to appear perfect was less appealing than the longing to be heard, and seen.

  In this way, Sonnet had met inveterate womanisers, hypochondriacs, unpublished authors, avid birdwatchers (filthy habit), barely literate literature lovers, reformed shoplifters (she hoped), divorcees, veterans, hoarders, gamblers, loners, losers – even the odd lush, loitering on Thursday afternoons.

  Her Story Bar had become a kind of confessional, though Sonnet thought of it as a sanctuary for bibliophiles. She’d always liked people who read best – but she was falling in love with narrators, too. And, as it turned out, everyone had a tale to tell.

  Initially, it felt like a leap going from dressmaker to bookseller, but Sonnet had come to realise how similar they were.

  Stories garbed the soul.

  *

  Scent of molasses hung in the spring air as Sonnet strode up Main Street towards the post office. She always hurried past Canecutter’s Hotel – the central pub, known colloquially as Cutters – with floral dress flapping determinedly, and head tucked low. The male laughter rolling out on a swell of yeast and cigarette smoke opened a pit of loneliness in her belly she could neither explain, nor quell. Worse were the crude laughter and catcalls. Sonnet was outraged by the nerve of them, though she would never give them the pleasure of knowing it. And though she loathed their attention, she refused to concede defeat by crossing Main Street to avoid them.

  Sonnet coursed along the fig-lined pub veranda, bracing for the stench and yowls, fixing her eyes above on the freshly watered ferns, dripping lightly on her shoulders. Distracted thus, she failed to spot the man sweeping fig leaves until the last moment. She pulled up with an almost audible screech, careening into a wooden pole.

  He was at her side in an instant. ‘You right there, darl?’ Cologne was a full-frontal attack.

  Sonnet dusted off her dress, and pride, hastily regaining her full height. ‘Fine. Didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Saw you coming a long way back, Sonnet.’

  Her eyes snapped to his face. Before her gaze skimmed away, she registered dark handsomeness and an indolently vulpine smile.

  Something prickled in her stomach. ‘Have a good day,’ she said, dashing away.

  ‘Will now.’ A few steps past, he called after her. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow, sweeping off your red carpet . . .’

  Sonnet turned. He leaned on the broom, insouciantly, brows lifted.

  Her hands rose to her hips. ‘Well I won’t be repeating that performance.’

  His smile spread, like a languid wave. ‘No, we can’t have you going bottoms up, can we?’

  Sonnet choked on a retort, spinning to leave. Her face glowed all the way to the bank, stayed hot throughout her dealings at the post office, and veritably burned on the return journey. Only once back in her shop, did the ball drop.

  He’d used her name without introduction.

  *

  True to his word, he was out sweeping off the veranda the next day, with one-liners primed, and then every day for the rest of the week. Cutters’ corner had never been so tidy before.

  By the fourth day, he’d pressed a name upon her: Brenton Furse, hotel proprietor. The publican himself pestering her. She’d supposed a general maintenance man, but it made no difference; she was no more intimidated by his flirtations than the ogling Cutters’ catcalls, which had only intensified now that he’d made such a spectacle of her passage.

  ‘Can’t you quiet your rabble?’ Sonnet asked after one particularly noisome volley of wolf whistles and lewd comments.

  ‘Boys, eh,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘We can’t help but admire beauty when we see it!’

  It was hardly ‘beauty’ they were proclaiming appreciation for, the filthy old men! Never before, in all Sonnet’s years of running, had her heart rate hammered quite as it did when she rounded the corner of Cutters each afternoon readying her caustic rejoinders to Brenton Furse’s overtures. She felt like a crazed schoolgirl, though it was unlike any attraction she’d relished or acted on before. Sonnet struck out on her quotidian errands with as much trepidation he would be waiting for her
, as that he wouldn’t.

  There was something else, too – a visceral feeling, uninterpretable. She had no lived experience of it, only the nostalgic recollection of her mother’s counsel . . .

  ‘Listen to your tummy,’ Mama had told her during senior year. ‘It’s the seat of intuition, and will always tell you what you need to know. Don’t trust your heart, don’t let your head overthink it; your gut knows.’

  Sonnet couldn’t work out why she’d retained that advice, given her adolescent propensity for filtering out her mother’s every word on relationships as the regretful mutterings of one who’d failed innumerable times to keep a man. But still, stick with her it had. Not that Mama’s teachings made any sense right now. There was an echidna in her belly, quilled and cowering, and how was she meant to interpret that?

  *

  The following Friday, Sonnet sashayed up Main Street towards the man waiting in the literal hopes of sweeping her off her feet, only to be distracted instead by a flash of movement in a Ford Mainline, parked at Cutters’ verge. Sonnet diverted, peering through rolled-down windows. There were two sweat-matted children in the back seat: a boy Plum’s age in a filthy school uniform, and a girl, perhaps a year younger.

  ‘Hey!’ Sonnet cried, rapping on the car.

  Both faces turned dully on her. Sonnet leant into the window. ‘You kids waiting on your parents? Do you think they’ll be much longer?’

  The boy shrugged.

  What’s your name, young man?’

  ‘Jim.’

  ‘And your sister?’

  ‘Jackie.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve got errands to run. But I’m going to check back on you, all right?’

  Having lost interest in her afternoon tête-à-tête with Brenton Furse, she crossed the street away from the pub, frowning.

  *

  Sonnet’s return was delayed by a long line at the General Store, twenty questions from Smithy over the newsagent counter, and footpath hijackings by loquacious townsfolk. By the time she was rushing back down Main Street, she’d forgotten the two children. With much dismay, she sighted the Ford still there; blond heads bobbing in the back seat, and the afternoon sun beating upon it.