Those Hamilton Sisters

by Averil Kenny

  ‘Oh God—’ Fable whispered.

  Sonnet felt not unlike the wrath of God as she emerged onto the Hulls’ side, storming Summerlinn for the first time in nearly a decade.

  Both the grand homestead and the woman who came, at leisure, to the discordant knocking had lost their proud gleam. Perhaps it was simply the distance at which Sonnet had held Delia Hull over those years, combined with the dramatic powers of memory. For the woman who stood before her now – slim as ever, immaculately dressed and elegantly tressed – had neither the talons nor scales she recalled. Grey threaded heavily through her dark beauty, and sadness had diminished her blue fire gaze.

  Her face, however, was every bit as glacial as Sonnet remembered.

  Without greeting, Delia hissed, ‘I didn’t say a damned word about her to anyone!’

  ‘I didn’t accuse you of anything—’

  ‘Yet! Your presence on my doorstep is allegation enough. I’ve heard your lecture before, and I’m in no mind to hear it again.’

  ‘I can’t even visit a neighbour?’

  Delia’s lips pursed flintily. ‘You didn’t see fit to step foot on my property when we lost William.’

  Point one to Delia.

  ‘And I am truly sorry for your loss, Delia.’

  ‘Mrs Hull.’

  ‘Mrs Hull, it is a tragic loss, and our thoughts have been with you.’

  ‘A simple card would have sufficed.’

  Sonnet jutted her chin. This was not going to script. ‘Mrs Hull, I have not come today to talk to you about my sister —’ Much less your grandson.

  ‘I have not the slightest interest in anything your sister does. I doubt anyone cares what Fable Hamilton does with her life.’

  Well, this was a new tactic.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it. That will make a nice change for a Hamilton girl in Noah Vale.’

  ‘Hamilton girls would do well to spend less time obsessing over the opinions of others, and demanding everyone else validate their poor life choices.’

  Sonnet shut her hanging gob. ‘You haven’t changed a bit!’

  ‘I’ve heard enough,’ Delia snapped, the fly screen cracking shut in Sonnet’s face.

  ‘Delia, wait. I didn’t come for a fight.’ Only now did she appreciate the truth of this. ‘I need information – about my father.’

  The screen stayed closed. ‘Why on earth would I have any information to offer you?’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me. It’s about the paintings, you see.’

  The door squealed open. Light hit those shrewd, startlingly blue eyes. Sonnet thought of the boy who had inherited them, slumbering just beyond the vale of the creek.

  ‘What paintings?’

  Sonnet smiled. ‘Yes, exactly, the ones you and the other CWA members tried to pretend didn’t exist.’

  ‘If I recall correctly, we were in receipt of paintings by a local artist, given to us by my friend. However, they were deemed unsuitable for public exhibition, given the artist’s contentious history in our fine town.’

  ‘And so, you just gave them away – rather than to the daughter who might have appreciated them.’

  ‘You found a way to get your hands on them, anyway.’

  The words were a punch in the gut. Sonnet remembered the accusation, dripping red, on her bookstore sign. Did everyone in town think Sonnet whored her way to everything she wanted?

  Through her teeth, she said, ‘Yes, I did manage to right that injustice.’

  ‘What makes you think you’re entitled to anything of his? You’re unacknowledged, and illegitimate.’

  ‘Then why did his wife – Vera, is it? – why did she send them to Noah Vale in the first place?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask Vera herself? If you ever dare to face the woman whose life you ruined.’

  Sonnet smirked. ‘Now you doubt my chutzpah?’

  Delia sneered back. ‘You girls have had years to make amends with Vera, it’s clear to me you lack the moral conviction.’

  ‘She’s a stranger to me, how the bloody hell would I have made amends?!’

  ‘A simple thank you for your mother’s effects would have been the least you could have done, under the circumstances.’

  ‘My mother’s what?’ A greasy, panicked feeling came over Sonnet.

  Already she knew the answer.

  ‘The box of your mother’s belongings, given to you many years ago, by a woman selfless enough to sift through the reprehensible communication between them and their dirty mementos, and pass it on to his bastard daughter. She could have destroyed it all! I would have made a bonfire of everything – all their evil lies, every last hair or toenail he ever shed – and I would have watched it burn.’

  Delia quaked. Sonnet shook.

  In her mind’s eye, she read: For Sonnet, from Vera. She saw the cardboard box, already opened, filled with old books and useless junk. She remembered the tumble of those objects into a garbage bag; the books she had sold or left to moulder.

  One hand went to the door frame, the other covering her stomach’s revolt. Delia stepped back, breathing heavily.

  Sonnet spoke in anguish: ‘They were Mama’s things? I threw them all out! It was just rubbish. I was cleaning up!’

  When it came, Delia’s reply was pitiless. ‘That’s where they belonged. It’s what Vera should have done in the first place: taken out the trash!’

  ‘But Alfred received her box, not me, and he died without telling me!’

  Delia’s gaze was narrow. ‘You didn’t read Esther’s letters?’

  ‘What letters?!’ Sonnet was near to shrieking. Whether at Alfred, or Delia, she hardly knew.

  ‘I can see you’re shocked, but this hysteria! Lower your voice. If you weren’t mooning over your mother’s life of iniquity, then what were you doing in that shuttered bookshop for nigh on a year?’

  ‘I was cleaning, and grieving! I felt unworthy of my good fortune. I didn’t know if anyone even wanted me to reopen. Nobody reached out to me!’

  ‘Now that’s an outright lie. Marg herself went down personally to see how you were getting on, and if you needed help. The CWA would have been at your immediate disposal, if you hadn’t been so full of pride and self-righteousness!’

  Sonnet took stock of the woman before her, recognised her power and indignation for what it was.

  ‘You!’ she cried, clenching her fists. ‘You read my mother’s letters, didn’t you?’ Her voice broke.

  Delia was unmoved. ‘I certainly did. Death is the finish of all possession. They were as much mine to read as anyone’s. Your mother and father thought they’d hoodwinked us all! But every secret comes out in the end. I only wish they’d been exposed when they were made to pay for it in this earthly life. You live a lie, you become a lie. Your mother made you what you are.’

  A small, deadly smile settled on Sonnet’s lips. ‘You have no idea how right you are. Every secret does come out. Best be careful the bottom doesn’t drop out of your world one day, too.’

  Delia pulled the screen shut, dismissing her. ‘It already has,’ she said, turning coldly away. ‘What have I got left to lose?’

  ‘You’d be surprised!’ Sonnet called after that proud, straight back.

  *

  Sonnet was raging through the row of mango trees when she saw Adriana Hull, coming over the paddock, hessian bag in arms. She was on Sonnet like a fury.

  ‘What are you doing here?!’

  ‘Seeing your mother about secrets and lies,’ said Sonnet. It was a crow.

  Adriana tossed her hair over shoulder. ‘And I hope she sent you packing. You’ve got nothing left to say to my mother – now or ever.’

  Sonnet’s eyes glinted as she absorbed this. Ah, so she’d guessed. Good one, Fabes, might as well have hung a placard on your back.

  Adriana’s voice lowered to a vicious whisper. ‘My mother has been through more than enough. We’re fast approaching the first anniversary of my father’s death. We’re struggling to
keep our heads above water on Summerlinn. I won’t let her be hurt any further!’

  Sonnet clucked. ‘It’s hard losing a parent, isn’t it? Lucky you don’t have a whole town set against you, as we did. I’d hate to see Noah ever turn on the Hulls.’

  Adriana seemed almost pleased. ‘We’re in agreement, then.’

  Sonnet gave a harsh laugh. ‘Believe me, this is the most provisional agreement of your life! One wrong word against a Hamilton ever circulates in town, and—’

  ‘Enough! I get it.’ Adriana hoisted up the hessian bag.

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  Adriana rolled her eyes. ‘My brother’s a fool.’

  ‘No,’ Sonnet said. ‘My sister is.’

  PART FOUR

  ‘She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.’

  Jane Austen, Persuasion

  CHAPTER 44

  DYAD MOON

  May 1965

  T

  he Hamilton girls were cruising up Main Street on the way out of town, windows of their red Morris Minor open to the golden breeze of an early-winter afternoon. It might have been a ticker-tape parade, with those Sugar Festival posters flapping from every post and shopfront. A tall figure on the pedestrian crossing, wrapped Paragon sandwich in hand, waved them over towards the footpath.

  Sonnet ignored the low wolf whistle from the back seat as she swung her car, Moxie, kerbside.

  Dr Fairley came, widely grinning, to lean over the driver’s window. ‘Hello, Hamiltons!’

  Plum, in the front seat, blushed. Fable, leaning over a bassinet in the back seat, waved Rune’s chubby arm in greeting.

  ‘So, this is the new set of wheels, huh?’

  ‘New to me, anyway,’ Sonnet said, patting the dashboard. ‘If Fable gets a baby, I can at least have a car. This acquisition was slightly less painful.’

  ‘You look good in red. Did you end up getting old Ryan down on the price?’

  ‘Too right!’ Sonnet said. ‘Told you I would. Not a dollar more than I wanted to pay. Now we won’t have to rely on Olive’s car to ferry Fabes and Rune around. We’re just heading up to Cairns now actually, for our first appointment with the psychologist. Thank you for the referral.’

  ‘No worries.’ Jake leaned towards Plum. ‘I think you’ll like Carolyn. Fantastic approach with adolescents, and she has a lot of experience treating anxiety.’

  Plum nodded tightly.

  ‘And guess what!’ Sonnet remembered excitedly ‘We’ve finally got a phone on now!’

  ‘You’re joking. It’s the End Times!’

  ‘Certainly felt like the apocalypse trying to get the line. Do you want our number? Beats trying to talk to us in such a public show as this.’ That was an understatement. All around them, faces devoured the scene.

  ‘I’ve never wanted a phone number more!’ Jake said, reaching for a pen in his shirt pocket.

  Fable snorted in the back seat and Sonnet shot a dark look into the rear-view mirror, carefully avoiding the innocent baby boy.

  Jake held out his free hand. ‘Would you mind? I’ll put it in my address book when I get back to the surgery.’

  Sonnet took the proffered hand, resting it gently against the car door as she uncapped the pen. There was a tremble as she worked the pen into his tanned skin, and she couldn’t tell if it was his or hers.

  ‘Should you put your address down too?’ Fable piped up helpfully. ‘Just in case he needs to write you?’

  Sonnet recapped the pen a tad too smartly. Jake left his hand where it was; almost, almost brushing Sonnet’s skin. He looked past her at Fable. ‘As much as you’ve been my favourite patient in Noah – wouldn’t hurt you to do some doctor shopping in Cairns today, would it?’

  Sonnet stared straight through the windscreen, hands gripping at the wheel.

  ‘I’d do anything for my sister, Doc!’

  ‘So would I,’ Jake said, stepping back from the car, rapping his knuckles on the roof.

  Plum chortled. The car sped away.

  A few blocks later, Sonnet found her revenge. ‘Look, Plum! There’s Jim Taylor. What’s he doing out of school?’

  Plum was already following his course. ‘He plays truant on Wednesdays.’

  Fable and Sonnet shared mirrored bemusement.

  Sonnet beeped the horn and waved as Jim stopped to stare. Plum shrank low in her seat, beseeching face turned towards Sonnet.

  ‘Oh look, he’s waving at me!’ Sonnet said merrily. ‘What a nice boy, he’s so happy for me to have my new car. I might pull over and let him have a closer look.’

  Plum’s outraged cries were overpowered by Fable’s cheering encouragement. The car came to a stop beside Jim. Sonnet leaned across Plum.

  ‘Hey! Jim! Do you like my new car?’

  Jimmy strolled over, eyes firmly placed on the passenger seat. ‘Pretty cool.’

  ‘She’s very cool!’ Sonnet said. ‘Sorry I can’t stay and show you, I have to take Moxie for a spin on the open highway now. But hey, we’ll be at the Sugar Festival this Sunday if you want to come see. You could meet us at the Emerson–Hamilton table.’

  ‘Would that be okay, Novella?’ Jimmy asked, not looking at Sonnet.

  Plum nodded, before turning flaming face to the urgent matter of her cuticles.

  ‘I hate you,’ Plum said as the car sped on.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Sonnet replied, eyes on the rear-view mirror. ‘Wow, look, Jim’s so taken with my car, he’s just standing there watching me drive away.’

  ‘Does he look sad, or mad, or . . . ?’

  ‘Stoked, Plum. He just looks stoked.’ Sonnet put her foot down as they cleared Main Street, exuberance creeping up on her.

  ‘Right . . . so now we just need to find Fable a date for Sunday.’

  Fable laughed. ‘Already got one – best-looking boy in town, and he’s all mine!’

  *

  Sonnet knocked off early on Friday afternoon – she hadn’t seen a shopper all day, the whole town was prepping for the Sugar Festival. Even now, as she locked her front door, she could see bustling townsfolk setting up in Raintree Park: the long wooden trestle tables, fruit-and-veg stalls, livestock pens, children’s rides in a miniature sideshow alley.

  Sonnet smirked to spy the mayor and Olive’s minister deliberating at the gate about the dark clouds fast rolling in, the forecast for unseasonal rain. Already the rain trees were packing up their leaves.

  Hope it’s a drenching!

  Frankly, she’d be glad to skip this Sugar Festival as she had every year since they’d arrived. Sonnet had always used the excuse that the festival flowed out from Sunday services, and since she didn’t attend those, it would be rude to rock up for the free food – even stupider to present for the polite public stoning.

  This year, she was putting on a brave front. If Fable was courageous enough to appear in public holding her stupendously cute bastard while his unknowing grandmother swanned around nearby, then it was the least Sonnet could do to have her back.

  But she would turn up as a single woman! And Jake could keep calling her three times a night, monopolising her new phone line for hours on end – she wasn’t giving in! There’d be enough of a furore as it was, without adding further fuel to the fire. Jake was going to have to find his own bloody table.

  Sonnet looked up the street to the doctor’s surgery. A light was burning invitingly in the flat above Jake’s rooms. He too must have finished up early. He was probably sitting down to start dialling her right now.

  This time, Sonnet wasted no effort quelling a smile. Everything about that man made her beam. She glowed in his presence, became sweatier than even she thought possible; couldn’t eat for the fire pit in her tummy.

  Is this what you meant, Mama?

  Sonnet’s foot tapped an agitated beat against the balustrade as she contemplated the two-block dash to Jake’s. So close, yet inconceivably far.

  A sp
ot of rain rolled down her nose. She held out her hand to catch the drops, turning back to Raintree Park, and the melee erupting beneath the trees. She jangled her car keys in her hand. Better get home before she felt guilty and offered to help with tarpaulins.

  Jake’s light burned against her back the whole way home.

  *

  The rain had set in heavily by the time Sonnet parked Moxie at Heartwood, called in on Olive and Gav, and hotfooted it for the cottage.

  Fable had cleaned the whole house and cooked an early dinner. The leftovers congealed unappetisingly on Sonnet’s plate. Talk about burnt offerings! Fable should stick to making milk, Sonnet thought. Her foot drummed an edgy beat against the table leg.

  Fable herself was juggling a crabby baby from breast to shoulder and back again, on repeat. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Sonnet asked, leaving her fork to stand straight up in an untouched mound.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Fable confessed. ‘He’s been unsettled all afternoon. I’m wondering if it’s teeth?’

  ‘Teeth! He’s only three months old.’

  ‘He’s an advanced baby.’

  Sonnet snorted, and went in search of sherry. Sherry would definitely help to settle her nerves; too bad for Rune there was no such cure. She poured a glass almost to overflowing, ignoring Fable’s raised brow. The sherry might as well have been vinegar. She pushed it away to join her plate, with a sigh.

  Rain pounded on the tin roof.

  ‘Go on,’ Fable goaded.

  ‘Go on what?’

  ‘“Tell truth, and shame the devil.”’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  Fable shrugged. ‘I can think of much more enjoyable ways to be spending your Friday night than waiting for a phone to ring.’

  ‘Yeah, and look how that turned out,’ Sonnet intoned as Rune began to wail.

  ‘What are you so afraid of?’ Fable asked, standing to sway.

  ‘Venereal disease, big-headed babies, pitchforks, a hastily set-up pillory on Main Street . . .’ They shared a squall of laughter.

  Fable grew serious. ‘You’re such a fraud, Sonny.’

  Sonnet tried to take umbrage, but felt misery blanch her features instead.