Those Hamilton Sisters

by Averil Kenny

  Sonnet burst into laughter.

  His smile was one of eye-curving sincerity, and Sonnet saw now he was older than on first impression. The laughter lines sprayed around his eyes hinted at alacritous amusement, and years numbering to mid- or late-thirties.

  ‘Please have a seat, Miss Hamilton.’

  Sonnet perched on the proffered chair, looking uneasily about the room. ‘He’s really not here?’

  ‘I apologise, no. Dr Herbert has had a family medical emergency arise, and unfortunately, he’s had to leave in a hurry, and indefinitely.’

  ‘He just left? How did that one slip past the town crier?’

  There were those smiling strokes of eyes and lips again. ‘Oh, I can assure you, word is getting round. Half the town is already booked in on questionable pretexts just to meet me this week.’

  Sonnet smirked. Poor Edna.

  ‘You’re actually my first patient. I’m Dr Fairley – up from Sydney. Here for a tree change, you might say.’

  This time Sonnet accepted the outstretched hand. Heat rose along her neck as her slim hand was taken in his solid grip.

  ‘I don’t think,’ Sonnet said, ‘there are enough trees in the whole valley to justify leaving a big cosmopolitan city for this hole. You will find a lot of deadwood here, though.’

  Dr Fairley settled into his chair. ‘I’ll hazard a guess you’re not an agent for the local real estate or tourist bureau, then?’

  ‘Ha! The only appreciation I have for trees, is the books produced from them. I’m Sonnet Hamilton, of Hamilton’s Books.’

  ‘What a Shakespearean name.’

  ‘Yes, I was conceived over The Bard. You’ll think I mean figuratively, and I mean literally. But that’s a story you’ll hear about me soon enough.’

  The urge to cringe made her temples ache. His expression, however, was one of tempered amusement.

  ‘And have you moved here with a family?’ she threw out, desperate to bury her last words.

  ‘No, just a lot of exotic souvenirs, I’m afraid. I’ve spent most of my working life in far-flung locales. More recently, I was with the Flying Doctor Service.’

  ‘You’re going to be bored out of your brains in Noah, then. There’s nothing worth seeing here.’

  He uncapped his fountain pen, suddenly gone businesslike. ‘And how can I help you today, Miss Hamilton?’

  She’d quite forgotten herself, or rather her sister. It was with some effort she scrambled for an affectation of anguish.

  ‘There’s . . . some trouble, and I need medical advice.’

  The sincerity of his eyes was dreadfully off-putting. She lowered her gaze to his primed pen, rapidly reworking her story. She’d come prepared with a few vague falsehoods to probe out conservative old Dr Herbert. But to hell with it, she didn’t know this guy, and he didn’t know her. If Sonnet truly wanted to help Fable, she needed to ascertain exactly what options her sister had left . . .

  ‘You see, I was stupid enough not to use contraception. And now I’m six months pregnant and I would just like to know what my choices are – medically speaking.’

  ‘Six months?’

  Sonnet’s consciousness flew to the belt cinched tight over her waist. ‘I don’t know, six . . . and a bit maybe.’

  ‘OK. What was the date of your last menstrual period?’

  His pen lowered to her card.

  ‘Six months ago.’

  Dr Fairley looked up, and Sonnet raised her eyebrows dauntingly. ‘Just write that down. Six months.’

  He paused. ‘I don’t see any record of antenatal appointments here, Miss Hamilton. In fact, we haven’t seen you, according to my records, for well over a year. Is this your primary medical practice?’

  Sonnet shrugged. ‘Sure. I’ve just been in denial about the pregnancy.’

  ‘This is your first presenting appointment?’

  ‘And hopefully my last, once you outline what options we have.’

  He frowned at his card, scratching a quick note. After some consideration, he looked up at Sonnet. Brown eyes crinkled with thoughtful warmth. She resisted the urge to grip the table.

  ‘Is this your first pregnancy?’

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘Okay. So, how about we start with a few basics to confirm pregnancy and your well-being. I’ll organise a test—’

  Sonnet quickly interjected. ‘No thanks! I’m not interested in tests. I just want to know more about . . . getting rid of this problem.’

  Dr Fairley sat back in his chair, steepling fingers to lips. His eyes were kinder still. Sonnet squirmed under the scrutiny. She jutted her chin, meeting his gaze straight on.

  Just when it seemed like he’d never open his mouth again, finally he spoke: ‘You said six months – right?’

  ‘And a bit.’

  ‘Which places you at approximately twenty-six to twenty-eight weeks’ gestation.’

  ‘Sure. Whatever.’

  ‘Miss Hamilton, do you know much about foetal development?’

  So, he thought she was a moron. And for Fable’s sake, she was just going to have to wear it now . . .

  She squared her shoulders. ‘I want to make sure I understand all my options.’

  ‘Well,’ he said carefully, eyes steady on hers, ‘having not established gestational age, or having discussed your mental and physical health, and thus going only on the information and dates you have given me so far, I have to say there are no other options for the time being.’

  ‘None!’

  ‘However, there are some choices available, for after the birth—’

  ‘It’s not fair! He gets off with impunity and she has to—’ Sonnet’s lips compressed to a white line.

  The doctor waited her out, with that infuriating frankness of eyes and brow.

  ‘I had my whole life ahead of me,’ Sonnet corrected. ‘This is not an option right now. I’ve got to get back to Brisbane!’

  ‘Brisbane?’

  Swiftly she was on her feet. ‘Yes, Brisbane! One slip-up shouldn’t have to ruin all my plans. This is bloody ridiculous!’ She gathered her bag.

  ‘Please, Miss Hamilton.’ He opened the desk drawer and rifled through it. ‘I actually have a brochure right here on—’

  ‘Making it all go away?’ she cried, hands on hips, no longer caring a whit how the action threw her stately hourglass into dramatic relief.

  He straightened, dark eyes curving with compassion. ‘I want you to know you’ll have my full support. I also have a close colleague in Cairns, whom, with your permission, I would like to—’

  ‘Forget it,’ she raged. ‘I’ll just take care of it myself! Nice to meet you, Dr Fairley.’

  *

  ‘Sonnet, would you stop staring at me like that!’

  ‘Sorry. Just thinking.’

  Sonnet leaned back in her wicker chair, stretching with feigned nonchalance.

  In truth, though her eyes had been fixed on the way Fable was scraping frozen mango out of the cup balanced on her belly, her mind had been six miles away, right where she’d left it that morning: perched in front of Dr Fairley’s desk like a vexatious child at the principal’s office. With every passing hour, her mortification increased.

  He’d seen right through it the moment she’d opened her mouth! Any doctor worth his salt would have. What must he think of her?

  In my defence, Sonnet imagined herself telling the doctor, it really does feel like my sister’s pregnancy is happening to me. It’s certainly ruining all my best-laid plans . . .

  Sonnet returned her gaze to Fable’s fecundity. In mere days, she’d bloomed obscenely larger. It seemed impossible she’d been able to keep the pregnancy hidden for even the first night. Which begged the question – how had Fable covered it up for six months while travelling and working in strange new cities?

  There was no way she could ask Fable directly. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies, seemed to be the law underscoring their every interaction – with O
live always hovering near, monitoring Sonnet’s speech like Big Brother himself.

  Big Aunt.

  The jibe lifted her out of rumination. ‘So, is the frozen mango thing a pregnancy craving or something?’

  Fable looked surprised at her interest. ‘I’ve always loved mango.’

  ‘Olive froze an entire box of mangoes last season, and you’ve already eaten through the lot.’

  Olive appeared, clattering plates off the table. ‘Everything OK out here, girls?’

  Sonnet wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer. She waited, smiling tightly, until Olive had gone, and the kitchen tap squealed on. Warily, she began. ‘You know you still have options – right, Fabes?’

  Her sister said nothing, cleaning her teeth with her tongue.

  ‘It’s your life, and your choice.’

  ‘My choice is pretty clear here, isn’t it?’

  ‘For now . . . apparently. But you can still make a different choice – after.’

  ‘It’s one and the same to me.’

  ‘But it doesn’t have to be. You’re not beholden to or trapped by one single event. Your life is still your own. I just want you to know that it’s okay for you to prioritise your dreams over biology.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m doing.’

  ‘No, I mean—’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  Sonnet clenched her toes, her teeth. Again she tried. ‘I hope you haven’t burned your bridges.’

  ‘All but one.’

  ‘Because you don’t have to give up your artistic ambitions.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘But . . . Brisbane?’

  ‘No, I’m not in Brisbane anymore.’

  ‘What does that mean – have you given up on writing and illustrating?’

  ‘A baby and work are not mutually exclusive, Sonnet – you and I should understand that better than most people.’

  ‘On the contrary, we lived always in the shadow of Mama’s broken dreams. She gave up everything for us.’

  ‘She still wrote.’

  ‘Words that never saw the light of day! Her talent squandered away while she ironed and sewed other people’s expensive outfits, wiped their crumbs off tables and numbed her own brain to exhaustion in factories. Don’t you remember how hard she had to work at menial jobs; how absent she was; how much she suffered; how often we all went without, just to survive?’

  ‘So, her artistic endeavours meant nothing because they weren’t paid?’

  ‘Not paid, not seen, and never appreciated. We don’t have a single thing left of her writing now! She died, and all her gifts died along with her.’

  ‘They were still her talents. She got to be a mother and an artist.’

  ‘How can you play her martyrdom and misery down? Stop kidding yourself. She missed her potential. She got nothing more than secret scribbles in a dark room between bouts of depression. Motherhood drained her dry. Having illegitimate children ruined her plans. Men ruined her life.’

  ‘Or, she made a few sacrifices – gave up some things, to have what she most wanted.’

  ‘What on earth was worth giving up the creative success she desired?’

  ‘Love. A family. Us!’

  ‘Hogwash. It didn’t have to be either-or. She should have established her life and career and then love and children. She should never have had to give up what made her Esther Hamilton – all her aspirations for her own self. That just made us a consolation prize. I can’t believe you’re justifying what he did, what they all did to her! Why would you want to make the same mistake?’

  ‘I’m not making a mistake—’

  ‘Yes, you are! By carrying his mistake for him, whoever he bloody well is. He gets off scot-free while you’ve got to sacrifice your life and happiness. It’s not fair, just like Mama!’

  ‘I’m not Mama!’

  Sonnet sat back, breathing heavily, alert to the dangerous undercurrent of emotion in her sister’s features. This was the moment, in any conflict, at which Fable would inevitably flee and hide.

  Olive had burst onto the veranda at the moment of impasse. She looked between the sisters in abject horror.

  We’re here now; might as well score the point before Fable’s security detail escorts me out . . .

  ‘You don’t have to keep an illegitimate baby, you can choose!’

  ‘I am, Sonnet – I’m choosing my baby.’

  ‘It’s not a stray kitten you keep because you’re lonely!’

  ‘You don’t get to control this.’

  ‘It’ll be a bastard, just like we were – why would you want that for it?’

  ‘Sonnet!’ exclaimed Olive.

  But on, Sonnet bludgeoned. ‘Haven’t you had enough of the shame and the struggle and the hardship? Your life can finally be different. You don’t have to exist that way!’

  ‘Enough!’ Olive cried, throwing herself into the fray. ‘Fable wants to keep her child. And she’s got nothing, absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.’

  Sonnet spun on Olive, rage springing forth unexpectedly. ‘You’ve got a hide to lecture me on shame! Your religion has been drowning improper women in shame for aeons! Your bloody father rejected his own daughter for shame! Your church excommunicated her! You didn’t have anything to say then in Mama’s defence, did you?’

  Olive collapsed into a chair with a guttural cry.

  Fable shook her head in a slow lament, hands cradling her belly. ‘Why is this so hard for you to accept, Sonny? You’re doing the same thing as Grandfather. You want me to give up my baby, too – only you’re couching it in concern for my “career” and ability to make money, rather than my morality. And it’s all the same anyway – a woman’s value, determined by others. You’re just a hypocrite.’

  ‘No, it’s only freedom I want for you! Unlike the rest of the bloody do-gooders in this family.’

  ‘Oh, Sonnet, stop!’ Olive cried. ‘Will you please just stop!’

  Plum appeared at the door in her nightgown – ablaze, agape. The table collapsed into winded silence.

  Still Fable stayed.

  ‘Wait, Fable,’ Sonnet said, softening. ‘Wait a couple of years to get established and then tie yourself down to motherhood! Just, wait.’

  ‘I am waiting!’ Fable cried, eyes wild with anguish. ‘You have no idea! Waiting is all I have left!’

  Sonnet turned to Olive. ‘I said my piece. She’s all yours now.’

  It was Sonnet who fled from the table first.

  *

  Sonnet was high atop the ladder, when the doorbell tinkled open. ‘Be right with you!’ she called, stretching precariously to shelve a book. She should have moved the ladder first – never did, though, no time. She was anchored by only a single leg now – capri pants stretching wide, the tightness of her sleeve constricting her arm’s reach. The ladder wobbled as she thrust out one last time, grunting.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Hamilton,’ came a voice below, and the ladder lurched perilously. She had no time to cry out, before a hand below moored the ladder to the ground.

  Sonnet disguised an exhalation of relief and turned to thank her customer.

  Dr Fairley was looking up at her, amusement in his eyes. ‘In my professional opinion, that’s not physical activity I would recommend, all things considered.’

  ‘How very Victorian of you.’

  ‘Just wait till I prescribe leech therapy for your head injury when you hit the floor!’

  She wobbled the ladder, deadpan.

  ‘However,’ he added, ‘in my non-professional opinion, while you’re up there, would you mind grabbing me that copy of Catch-22 by Joseph Heller?’

  Sonnet handed the book down. ‘Have you read this yet?’

  ‘It’s one of my new favourites, actually. And I need a good book or three now – nobody warned me you don’t have television yet in Far North Queensland.’

  ‘We entertain ourselves in Noah.’ She descended the ladder. ‘I hear it keeps the birth rate
up, though.’

  She stood eye to eye with him now, and felt a hot current run into her tummy. It was rare to meet a man on equal standing, even rarer to feel diminutive, as she did in his nearness.

  ‘What else would you recommend for a fan of Catch-22?’

  ‘Let me think,’ Sonnet said, not having to think about it at all. It was one of her favourite books. ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?’

  ‘Read it, loved it. More?’

  ‘Brave New World?’

  ‘Brilliant book. What next?’

  ‘Vile Bodies.’

  ‘Finished it a couple of months ago. Most excellent.’

  ‘You sound like the perfect reader for Lucky Jim, then.’

  Now she had him.

  ‘I was.’

  It wasn’t considered good custom for a bookseller to glare at a customer, though that didn’t stop her. Must he be so well read?

  While she mulled further, scanning her shelves, irony crept into his tone. ‘Maybe a story about a woman in a catch-22 situation?’

  Sonnet turned narrow eyes on him. Blood pounded in her ears. ‘If I had permission to give out a story like that,’ she said slowly, ‘it wouldn’t be a catch-22 situation, would it?’

  Did she mistake the relief on his face?

  ‘At least,’ she appended, ‘I don’t yet.’

  He nodded, in perfect comprehension.

  Silence ballooned.

  Dr Fairley gazed round her store, nodding to himself. ‘You’ve got it here, too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That wistful, achy feeling you feel in bookstores.’

  Sonnet raised a brow.

  ‘No, it’s a good thing – a longing.’

  ‘You mean biblioepithumia.’

  ‘There’s a word for it?’

  ‘Nope. I squashed that one together myself to mean “intense yearning or desire for books”. Or maybe . . . “book lust”. One of my favourite creations, though. You may borrow it. Unless your particular brand of bookstore wistfulness is related to the stockpiling of books never read, in which case the Japanese already have a word for that: tsundoku.’

  ‘You know your stuff,’ he said, eyes crinkling

  ‘I was lucky to have a word-loving mentor.’ She took the book from his hands, and marched to the till.