Those Hamilton Sisters

by Averil Kenny

  Release me.

  I will never write to you again. Close your secret post box, discard this last word, burn every chapter I mailed you – for I will begin my novel anew. If you kept all those many letters I wrote you of our daughters – of their insignificant, infinitely valuable lives – know they are all you have left of us.

  ‘All our evening sport from us is fled,

  All our love is lost, for Love is dead.’

  Only the tales inscribed in our own blood will live on now,

  Esther.

  Panic had frozen up the lobes of Sonnet’s lungs. She turned and gaped, unbreathing, at her store of books.

  Where were the rest of these lewd epistles? What chapters, what novel had she given him? And how many of Mama’s most intimate writings, details of their innermost lives, had Sonnet peddled out, unwittingly, to townsfolk?

  Mama’s letter was a white flag quaking in her hand. Sonnet closed her eyes, unable to shut out the image of Esther Hamilton’s secrets spreading through the town, burning on bookshelves across the vale; igniting scandal for years to come.

  CHAPTER 46

  SUGAR FESTIVAL

  T

  he swing band in the rotunda had started up and the jazzy mood swept beneath the giant rain trees, over the family tables. One tense, slender back resisted the ambiance. Fable, waiting at the Hamilton table alongside her bustling aunt and uncle, had not taken her eyes from the wrought-iron gate. Through an arching tunnel of flowering sugarcane, townsfolk merrily streamed. All the wrong people. Fable’s eyes burned from not blinking, lest she miss him. Would it always feel this way – that she’d dreamed him into being?

  They’d only been separated an hour, enough time for him to slip across the creek to reunite with and, moreover, ruin his family. Raff had wanted Fable to come with him. No, she told him, that scene was for the Hulls alone, she wanted no part of it. Not that her mind hadn’t been fixed firmly on Summerlinn all this last hour, anyway.

  Delia, Adriana and Eamon had arrived ten minutes ago, setting up at the Hull table, beneath the grandest rain tree of all, not looking a mite perturbed, or even once in her direction. Eamon hadn’t even lowered himself to ogle her.

  Why had Raff not come with them? If he’d already told them, why were they not this very second tearing her hair out?

  Terror rippled beneath her skin. Fable’s hand reached out as though to grip Sonnet’s – a reflexive habit she had not been able to shake since Rune’s birth. But her big sister was absent, and strangely late.

  Where are you, Sonny?

  Marg Johnstone passed by, en route to the Hull table, and her stage whisper landed with well-practised accuracy. ‘Oh, look, another Hamilton with her breasts hanging out.’

  Fable glanced at herself, and saw Rune had fallen from her peachy areola, fast asleep. She smiled, drew her blouse back together, and wiped the milk that ran from his lips.

  Olive smacked Plum’s reaching hand away from the fruit-garlanded pavlova, and sent her off to fill the water pitcher. Gav leaned over Fable’s shoulder to stare at Rune’s sleeping face. He nodded to himself and moved on again, whistling. Uncle Gav approved heartily of everything Rune did.

  Fable’s eyes did the rounds again, hurrying past the Hulls’ table on a missed heartbeat. She sighed.

  Doctor Fairley – no, she had to stop doing that – Jake arrived at their table, beaming, with cheek kisses all round, and a platter of his already-famous quiche. Fable had come to love Jake’s meals. Could Raff cook? She’d borne his baby before she’d even sampled his culinary skills. Fable wanted to ask after Sonnet, but couldn’t remember how to make her mouth open.

  Hurry, Sonny, I need you!

  At last, those Titian tresses, flaming beneath the sugarcane arch. Fable’s hand clenched once more and the knot of fear began to unravel. Whatever happened next, they’d face it together. It was what Hamilton sisters did.

  Sonnet had arrived several long minutes after her new lover, but where Jake had shone, Sonnet glowered. Cripes, had they fallen out already? No, far from it, judging by the easy abandon with which Sonnet threw herself into his embrace and how quickly his hands ran the length of her spine to scoop beneath her . . .

  Oh come on, guys, you’ve got two sets of rooms for that now!

  Fable strained past their schmaltz, and the blushing joy it kindled, to the gate.

  ‘What did you shout at me on Main Street before?’ Jake asked Sonnet, in a baiting tone.

  ‘I said yes.’

  ‘Yes to what?’

  ‘Missing the mark, going down in flames, meeting with triumph and disaster – so long as it’s all with you.’

  Fable heard the deep well of feeling in Sonnet’s voice, and chanced another look at the couple. Her sister was all over Jake like a strangler fig. Olive and Gav, two feet away, were studiously ignoring them. Plum, returning with her jug, offered to pour it over the pair.

  Sonnet came then to gather Plum into her arms, enfolding her so tightly Plum mimed asphyxiation over her shoulder at Fable. Next it was Fable’s turn – though at least she had the baby as some buffer against the ferocity of Sonnet’s embrace, and the suppressed need in her own clutch.

  What was up with Sonnet today? Her eyes were a reservoir of unshed emotions – yet happiness rolled off her, in waves. Must have been one intense lay!

  Fable fixed her eyes again on the gate. And just in time – for there he was. Through the pink-turreted tunnel he came, a throng of people converging on him so quickly she had no time to even wave him over. Fable rose, eyes striving in vain for his. It was a returning king’s procession, his progress impeded by the back-slapping hugs and boisterous handshakes which came from all directions. Fable’s heart hammered so violently, it seemed to move Rune’s head against her breast.

  From the stage, ‘Bei mir bist du schoen’ began its whimsical quaver. The merry-go-round twirled to raucous laughter. Sausages popped and sizzled.

  Beneath the rain trees, between family groups, Raff threaded. Not to her table, but the Hulls’. Still he had not sought her eyes, or acknowledged her at all. Fable sank back in her seat, scrambling to cover her sinking dread.

  He went first to his mother. Delia stood, tall and regal, hands outstretched for her golden boy. He took her arms in his hands, and leaned to whisper in her ear. Her figure stiffened, but her face did not waver from its proud glory. He pulled her into a tight hold then, her silver-threaded head tucked against him. For the longest time they stood, just like that. He placed a kiss upon her cheek, then, with one final word, gently disentangled himself and moved away from the Hull table.

  His blue gaze swept the crowd until he found his Glade eyes, already set upon him. He was deaf now to the friends and relatives pressing in – strode past them all, and straight for Fable.

  She’d barely made it to her feet before he reached her. There was no time for a greeting, so swiftly did he take her face in his hands, lips swooping over hers. Fable heard, from some far-off quarter, a whooping cry and applause. On and on and on Raff kissed her, until the baby between them stirred and protested.

  Raff straightened then and reached for his son, lifting Rune gently to his shoulder.

  ‘Hello again, my little mate,’ he said, nuzzling a rosy cheek. Fable’s hand went to her heart, pressing back the ache.

  He turned to Fable’s family. Sonnet marched up. Eye to eye, she and Raff stood.

  ‘If you ever hurt her,’ Sonnet said, not even trying to keep her voice low, ‘I’ll tear you apart with my bloody teeth.’

  Raff grinned. ‘From you, I’ll take that as, “Welcome to the family!”’

  Sonnet harrumphed, eyes twinkling now.

  Jake extended a hand. ‘You must be Rafferty, I’ve heard nothing about you.’ The two men shared a laughing handshake.

  ‘And you must be the Doc,’ Raff said, ‘who crossed a flood to deliver our baby. I don’t know how to thank you enough.’

  Jake waved it away. ‘I only oversaw the process. You
r Fable delivered the miracle. You have quite a woman on your hands there.’

  Fable heard the appreciative sound Raff made, low in his throat, just for her. She lifted a face, unmasked and refulgent, to his.

  Olive and Gav, busting their guts to get their hands on Raff, pushed in.

  ‘It’s wonderful! Too, too wonderful!’ Olive cried.

  Gav squashed the new family, three at once, in a bear hug.

  Only Plum dallied behind, unsmilingly. The family turned expectantly her way.

  Jake noted, in an aside, ‘Sorry to say it, but if you don’t get Plum’s approval, you’re out!’

  Raff pretended to smarten up. ‘Right then.’

  Plum came close. She squinted hard. ‘You look like Runey.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Raff said.

  ‘Did you know,’ Plum continued, ‘you both have the same blue—’ She stopped, face red, as a young man decked out in brand-new, button-down shirt, with slicked-back hair approached the Hamilton table.

  Everyone turned to gawk.

  Jimmy waved, his hand falling away awkwardly. Plum moved quickly to his side, ushering him off towards the game stalls with a hand at his elbow. Rune and Raff were forgotten.

  ‘But what about lunch?’ Olive fretted after her.

  ‘Not hungry,’ Plum yelled back, without turning.

  ‘Not hungry?’ Olive muttered, watching the young friends disappear from sight.

  Raff turned to Fable. ‘Wait, does that mean Plum approves or . . . ?’

  ‘Nope, you’re still on probation,’ Sonnet said. ‘Hands off Fable until you pass.’

  Raff tipped Fable’s chin and bent down on her lips. Fable was a slender, bending branch. Rune smacked a dimpled hand against their cheeks.

  A bottle popped and bubbled. ‘I think a drink is in order,’ Jake said, glasses clinking in his hand.

  ‘Yes, please!’ Sonnet said, taking a flute eagerly.

  ‘Dear me,’ Olive said, ‘wine at a church picnic?’

  ‘It’s a miracle,’ Sonnet replied.

  Olive tutted as the glasses overfilled, running onto Lois’s vintage tablecloth.

  ‘What are we celebrating anyway?’ Olive asked, waving the bottle away from her glass.

  ‘Letting go,’ Fable murmured into her own cheek. Aloud, she said, ‘New horizons!’ and smiled, as Sonnet was caught up in arms again.

  ‘Such a scene,’ Olive muttered, looking askance.

  Jake broke away to raise his glass. ‘While we’ve got an audience, I would actually like to propose.’

  ‘No you bloody won’t,’ flashed Sonnet.

  ‘A toast, that is,’ Jake amended, grinning as Sonnet smacked his backside.

  ‘So, here’s to . . . coming home to Noah Vale!’

  ‘Coming home to Noah Vale!’ the circle cheered.

  ‘Coming home,’ Raff echoed, a moment too slowly, holding Fable with his eyes.

  With a roar like thunder, Fable’s eyes answered. His lips twitched. A hot, drawing ache, low in her belly, made her want to sink to the ground, and be carried off.

  *

  Sonnet sipped hard at her glass, eyes set above the arch of cane on her bookshop sign, picturing within: the books torn from shelves and scattered across the floor; the letters yet unfound; a mythical manuscript to forever now pursue.

  ‘Coming home . . . to no avail,’ she said darkly.

  But Jake wasn’t finished. He raised his glass again.

  Sonnet placed a hand on his arm. ‘Actually, may I?’

  ‘Well, I was going to toast you next, Son,’ he said, ‘but it does seem more fitting you toast yourself.’ The lines at his eyes striated, like rays.

  Sonnet cleared her throat, holding aloft her stem. ‘A toast,’ she began loftily, but her throat closed over.

  An unexpectedly stricken silence unfolded. Tears flooded, her lungs heaved. For she saw it now: the promise of a clean slate for the Hamilton girls in Noah Vale had not been real, would never come to fruition. They could not undo the story Archer and Esther had written here. Even now, all around them, new embers leapt – table to table.

  Noah had never offered a brand-new life; only life.

  And still – our story to finish.

  Jake moved quietly to her side, placing a hand at the small of her back. Fable slipped in on the other side, a slim arm winding about Sonnet’s waist. Sonnet looked gratefully to both of them in turn, pressing her head against Fable’s.

  Sonnet started again, on a half-breath. ‘To . . . Mama.’

  ‘Yes—’ Olive nodded, lifting her empty flute ‘—to mothers.’

  ‘No, Aunty Olive,’ Sonnet said, reaching – at last – for her. ‘To sisters.’

  Olive stepped forward.

  EPILOGUE

  Neither eyes nor hearts bore witness on the rough eve that ancient tree, gowned in green and veiled by rain, finally fell, though the forest seemed to reverberate long after it had come to rest. A rotting book cover floated free, peridot crystal dropped away and tiny bone fragments settled on the creek bed.

  A lissom, red-tressed figure, streaking barefoot through the forest at gilded dawn, was first to chance upon the Green Woman’s Grove, where new sunbeams shafted now through draping mist.

  Fable stood a moment, perplexed by the gaping new hole in the forest ceiling. Above her, the wind tossed raindrops, sparkling, from leaves. In the droplets, a rainbow glory had appeared.

  Her eyes drifted lower then, to the Green Woman herself. Across the creek she lay now, like a bridge between two lands.

  Fable dropped to her knees, hands crossing at her chest, a sob catching in her throat.

  ‘Oh, Mama’

  Light flamed in the understory, and on the serpent wended, through the slumbering vale.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  T

  hose Hamilton Sisters is richly imbued with my experiences of motherhood, love, family bonds and growing up in the lush, enchanted tropics of Australia. Noah Vale is a fictional place, based on the rainforest valley I call home. The majority of magnificent locations described herein are inspired by real, sometimes secret, places in my beloved Far North Queensland.

  This story was conceived fifteen years ago, when I was a new mother, living in a quaint villa overlooking a sea of sugarcane. Sitting up late at night, breastfeeding for hours on end, I would listen to ripe mangoes falling on our tin roof with a whomp, letting my overtired imagination run to wild imaginings. One such night I was gripped, viscerally, by the image of an amethystine python uncoiling from the rafters above me, and dropping down on my baby boy in his hammock. That motif would not let me go. In the tempest of sleep deprivation and postnatal anxiety, something else arrived then, too: a spirited character named Esther, with three plucky and resilient daughters she wanted me to take care of.

  In the writing and publishing of Esther’s story, so many generous and talented people have taken care of me, too . . .

  First and foremost, thank you to my fabulous and amazing agent, Selwa Anthony, for championing Those Hamilton Sisters. In countless books read over the years, I saw Selwa effusively credited by authors in their Acknowledgments, and I still have to pinch myself that now she’s my agent, working her magic for me.

  I am also tremendously indebted to the brilliant Alexandra Nahlous for her editing genius and key guidance in the developmental stage.

  To my beautiful Publisher, Tegan Morrison, thank you for falling in love with my story. Your vision for Those Hamilton Sisters has been wise, perceptive and truly elevating. You’ve made publishing my first book an utter dream.

  Those Hamilton Sisters found a most wonderful home with Echo Publishing, and Bonnier Books UK. I have so much gratitude for the warm and passionate Echo Publishing team: Benny Agius, James Elms and Emily Banyard. Huge thanks to my UK editor, Claire Johnson-Creek, and my copyeditor, Sandra Ferguson, for their expertise and finesse.

  This lush book cover was designed by Louisa Maggio, who has perfectly evoked Heart
wood and those Hamilton sisters. Thank you!

  Beta Readers are unsung heroes for wading through ugly early drafts, and I thank mine – Ally, Jenn, Lyndell, Jane, Libby, Karen, Amanda and Em – for their thoughtful feedback. Thank you especially to my Bossiest Beta Reader™, Kate DiGiuseppe, who has been my counsellor, cheerleader and ‘unofficial’ manager through everything. Kate Hardy is named after my Kate – because there had to be one surprise left in this book for her.

  I was also blessed by the big-hearted encouragement of Annie Love, Life Coach extraordinaire, during my journey to publication.

  For my research, I am most grateful to the Cairns Historical Society and Research Centre for their generosity, patience and expertise. Any blunders are entirely my own.

  I am forever thankful for my husband’s family – Des and Vicki Kenny, and Wendy Kenny – who shared their firsthand recollections of growing up in Far North Queensland during the 1950s and ’60s.

  I also drew intimately from my own birth experiences in writing Fable’s birth scene, and I want to pay tribute to the book which prepared and empowered me for those births: JuJu Sundin’s Birth Skills, with Sarah Murdoch.

  My husband, Liam Kenny, has always been my first reader. Thank you, Wiam, for declaring me a ‘famous author’ when I was really just a teary, tiredly scribbling new mother, and for loving me, and my writing, at our rawest.

  Thank you to my bewitching sister, Aleta, for being my second reader. I hope I have been able to honour the absolute privilege of sisterhood in this. To my brother, Rowan, I just want to say: ‘Roundhouse Bodalla, I saw it first!’

  Mum and Dad, thank you for giving me a farm-girl childhood, deprived of television, with a bedroom full of books and grandparents in a tiny cottage just over the hill. Thank you, Mum, for modelling determined, resilient womanhood, and Dad for long poetry recitals, nature commentary and waiting for Mum to grow up. Because of you Joy is, both literally and figuratively, my middle name.