by Tyler, Anne
“What?”
“All sorts of things.” Bett wasn’t ready for this. She tried to find the words. “Maybe we were unnaturally close all our lives, you know, with the three of us moving so much and the whole Alphabet Sisters thing.”
“So now you’re blaming me?”
“Lola, of course I’m not blaming you. I loved the Alpha-bet Sisters, until—” She stopped short. Was that actually the truth? She grabbed her grandmother’s arm. “Can we please not talk about it right now? Just for a little while? Can you and I go inside and talk about normal things, like terrible gossip from the charity shop or the party tonight or—”
“In a moment.” Lola had heard the sound of a car coming up the driveway. “Carrie has just arrived back, and I want you to meet her. Now.”
“No.” To her own astonishment, Bett leaped inside and shut the door of the room.
A second later it opened, and Lola came in. “What happened to you in London? Have you been regressing rather than aging? Don’t tell me you were about to hide under the bed?” Bett had spent hours of her childhood under the bed. Looking for peace, she had insisted. Hiding from work, Lola had preferred to put it. “I’m sure you weren’t this cowardly before you went away.”
“I wasn’t. And I wasn’t this cowardly while I was away.”
“So you admit you’re being cowardly now, wanting to hide under the bed? Did I tell you in any of my letters that your mother found some rope under one of the beds last year? Several meters of it, imagine. We had quite a discussion about what that might have been used for. I have to say I think your mother was shocked.”
Bett glared at her, trying not to laugh. “You’re the equivalent of that white noise that armies use to confound their enemies, aren’t you? When they play noise at such a volume and for so long that the enemy gives in eventually.”
“Enemy? You’re not my enemy. You’re one of my dearest girls in the world. Now, come and meet another of my dearest girls. Her name’s Carrie, and she’s your sister.”
At first there were fifty meters between them. Then forty. Thirty.
“Good afternoon, Carrie,” Lola called as they reached ten meters.
“Hello, Lola.”
“Carrie, may I introduce your sister?”
“Stop it, Lola,” Bett muttered. She forced herself to look directly at Carrie, taking in the blonde curls, the petite figure, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, an inch of flat brown belly showing, casual, stylish, neat. In her own mind she ballooned to Michelin Man proportions, her skirt and T-shirt turning supersize, her cheeks expanding like balloons, getting redder and redder.…
Lola interrupted her train of thought. “But of course neither of you need any introductions. Say hello, girls.”
“Hello, Carrie.”
“Hello, Bett.”
“How was your flight?”
“Good thanks. Long.” She swallowed. “How is—” she couldn’t say Matthew’s name. She tried again. “How is work?”
A look of relief crossed Carrie’s face, Bett was sure of it. Perhaps Carrie didn’t want to talk about Matthew yet either. “Fine. We’re busy enough for this time of year.”
Lola was beaming between them, for all the world like a country matchmaker.
Then there seemed to be nothing else to say. “I’d better finish getting ready for the party, then,” Carrie said briskly.
“Do you need any help?” Bett forced out the words.
“No,” Carrie answered too quickly.
“Are you sure about that, Carrie?” Lola’s voice was firm.
“It’s under control, thanks, Lola. See you, Bett.”
“See you, Carrie.” They stood silently as Carrie walked through the back door of the kitchen.
“Well, that went okay,” Bett said, once she was out of sight.
“Gloriously. Imagine that, all those years of rancor swept away in one easy and honest conversation. I’m so proud of you.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Lola. You taught us that yourself,” Bett said, stung. She thought it had gone okay. Better than she’d expected, anyway.
“Well, it’s a start, at least,” Lola said. “Carrie probably does need help with the party, by the way, if you truly want to give her a hand.”
“Um, no. I might unpack, I think. Relax a little before the party. I’ve been very busy getting organized to come back.” A wave of tiredness and emotion hit her as they walked back to her motel room. “Not that anyone in this family seems to care enough about my life to have actually asked what I’ve been doing in London the past few years.”
Lola surprised her with a loud burst of laughter and a kiss on her cheek. “You definitely have regressed. You know you used to be the same at the end of some school days, especially if I dared to have something else I wanted to talk to you about. I promise we will talk about you, my dear Bettsie. We’ll talk about you until we are both bored rigid or blue in the face, whichever event takes place first. But all in good time. Don’t rush things, Bett. Let things happen slowly sometimes.”
Caught out, Bett grinned. “You’re a fine one to talk. The woman who’s summoned us all home like this, forced it to a head.”
“I had to.” Lola decided there was no harm in dropping another hint. “I need the three of you to do something for me.”
Bett stopped at the door to her room. This was the second time Lola had referred to something needing to be done for her. “Lola, what is it? You’re not sick or anything, are you? I mean, you look well.” As much as she could tell. Lola had gone overboard on the makeup that morning. There were smears of red blush like jam stains on each cheek.
“Right now, because you are here, I feel one hundred percent. Patience, Bett. All will be revealed in good time. Now, come on. Let’s get you unpacking and making yourself at home. Haven’t I always said the devil makes work for idle hands?”
“No. Your favorite phrase was that one about too many cooks spoiling the broth. And not counting your chickens before they were hatched. And the one about water under the bridge.”
“I really am a font of wisdom. Now, you unpack while I watch.”
As she opened her case, Bett glanced at Lola. “I thought Anna looked well. And Ellen is very sweet.”
“Anna doesn’t look well. She looks exhausted. And unhappy. Something’s wrong there. And Ellen is a bag of nerves as well. That scar is fading but not as quickly as it should be. The city air is no good for that child. Nor is that psychiatrist she sees every month. Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous in your life, making her go over and over the incident? The child has to move on, put it behind her, get on with life, not go back every four weeks and talk about her feelings. Now, have you had any thoughts about work yet?”
Bett laughed. “Lola, I’ve just arrived.”
“It’s just I had a fascinating conversation with Rebecca Carter last week. You remember Rebecca?”
“Of course.” She and Rebecca had worked side by side as reporters on the Valley Times for two years. Until the day Bett had left so suddenly.
“She’s editor now, imagine. Filled with ideas, too. She was so interested to hear you were coming back home and looking for work locally.”
“But I’m not.”
“Of course you are. As we just said, the devil makes work for idle hands. You’ll see her at the party, and you can have a good talk about it with her then. So, show me what you’re wearing tonight.”
Bett blinked, wondering which part of this conversation she could blame on jet lag and which part on Lola’s conversational style.
“Bett? Your outfit?”
Bett took out the dress and held it against herself. She’d found it in a vintage shop in London. The style was sleeveless and simple, the fabric a rich red brocade, swirls of color picked out with gold thread here and there.
“Beautiful. Try it on for me.”
Bett did as she was told.
Lola asked her to turn around, inspecting her from all sides. “I thin
k that back seam could do with taking in, to stop the skirt flaring so much. Would you like me to do it for you?”
Bett took it off and handed it over without argument. If she didn’t agree, Lola was just as likely to come running after her at the party with a needle and thread.
“I’ll drop it back in a little while. By the way, I don’t think you’re looking well either, despite what I said when you first arrived. You look like you need some fresh country air, too.”
Bett glared for a moment, then a smile started on her face and a warm feeling started in her chest. “You really are a nasty old crone, aren’t you?”
“And getting worse every year.” She held her granddaughter tight against her for a moment. “I really am very, very happy to see you.”
“I’m very, very happy to see you, too. I’ve got something for you, by the way.”
“A present? How splendid.”
Bett reached down into her handbag, where she had been carrying the gift, not wanting to let it out of her sight. She had spent the last two weekends searching through the stalls at Camden market until she found what she wanted. She watched as Lola opened the blue velvet box. Inside was a pair of costume jewelery earrings and a matching necklace, made from extravagantly colored glass beads of different sizes and shapes. Lola looked up, eyes wide. “Bett, they’re beautiful.”
“Do you like them?”
“I love them. Where did you get them?”
“In London. An old gray-haired woman in a rainbow cloak was hobbling along the road near the Houses of Parliament as I drove past one morning. As I got close she dissolved in a flash of silver smoke and there lying on the ground were these. So I picked them up and brought them home for you.”
Lola clapped her hands gleefully. It was one of her traditions—anything brought home from a market or charity shop had to be handed over with a story attached. “You haven’t forgotten the rules, have you? I adore them, thank you.” Bett was enveloped in another hug, and then spoken to sternly. “Now, leave your unpacking for the time being, climb into bed there, and have a quick nap. You’ve bags under your eyes big enough to take shopping.”
Bett did as she was told, peeping up at Lola from under the sheets, the white cotton pulled up to her nose. “Thanks, Granny.”
“Don’t you Granny me, you bold girl.” With that, Lola pulled the curtains, turned out the light, and shut the door firmly behind her.
Chapter Five
Lola walked two doors down and let herself into her own room. Number four had always been her favorite, with its view over the vineyard-covered hills. She liked number fifteen, too. It was the most peaceful, when she was in that kind of mood. Number eleven was the best one in high summer, she’d discovered, nice and cool, and number eight was the best for the Christmas party season, with its excellent view over the carpark and all the shenanigans that took place there late at night.
She’d always enjoyed all the moving around, had never found it at all unsettling. Of course, it helped that the decor in each room was identical: brown carpet, pale cream walls, one double bed, one single bed, a pastel print of a vineyard scene—from France, not the Clare Valley, but the guests weren’t to know that—a small table and chairs, a wardrobe that contained not just tea- and coffee-making facilities, but a bar fridge and a mini safe. There was even a full-length mirror installed on the long single door. All a person could need.
She went straight to her CD player and put on a Glenn Miller collection, a little louder than usual, then sat down and shut her eyes, all the better to review things so far. She always played Glenn Miller when she needed cheering up, and the sad truth was that’s what she needed right now. Was it wrong to be feeling so disappointed? What had she expected, after all? That the girls would only have to glance at each other and all the troubles and cares of the past would melt away? That they would turn back into her little Alphabet Sisters again? It wasn’t going to be as simple as that, it seemed. Not when the three of them had such stubborn, dramatic streaks. All her own fault, of course. She’d always encouraged it in them.
She still found it hard to believe this rift between the girls had lasted so long. And even harder to believe the whole row had been caused by Matthew, of all people.
“The three girls had a terrible catfight over him, I believe,” Len the butcher, the town gossip, had said to her eagerly just after it had happened.
Lola remembered briskly suggesting he shouldn’t believe everything he heard. A catfight, indeed. But afterward the term had quite appealed to her. Her granddaughters weren’t unlike a trio of cats. Anna, the eldest, like a Siamese, all sleek and sophisticated. Carrie, the youngest, still in her kitten stage, even though she was nearly thirty. Sweet as can be one minute, hissing and spitting the next. As for Bett, her middle darling—Lola softened at the very thought of her. Bett reminded her of a lost stray sometimes, needing lots of affection and love but then repaying it in spades.
For weeks now she’d been thinking of nothing else but this reunion. She was sure the other ladies in the charity shop were sick of hearing about the three girls, and especially about their days as the Alphabet Sisters. At least Mrs. Shaw, God bless her, always seemed interested.
“Was it a serious thing?” Mrs. Shaw had asked. “Like the Andrews Sisters? Proper tours and recording contracts and all of that?”
“Oh, good heavens, no,” Lola had answered. “I started it more as a way of keeping the three of them occupied, to tell you the truth.”
It had been her idea to take on the role of minding the girls while Jim and Geraldine got on with the running of the motels. She’d been concerned how little attention the girls were getting from their parents. Too many late nights and too much roaming around unchecked hadn’t been good for the three girls, she’d thought. It wasn’t that they were neglected, exactly, just more in need of a firmer hand.
The new arrangement had suited everyone very well from the start. Lola’s great affection for her granddaughters had turned into a love so strong it had surprised even herself. She had been so busy trying to find her feet in Australia when Jim was a child that she’d never had the luxury to enjoy being a mother. They had been very close, and still were, but being a grandmother was completely different from being a mother, she’d discovered. More carefree, more fun. Watching her granddaughters running around outside in the sunshine, or even hearing them call to each other in their Australian accents had once or twice even brought her to tears, though they were hastily wiped away. Anna, Bett, and Carrie had made her feel settled here in Australia, she’d realized. Made all the hardship of the early days worthwhile.
But Lola had also discovered that three strong-minded, intelligent little girls needed more than dolls and puzzle books to keep them stimulated. “Music has charms to soothe a savage breast,” she remembered reading. She’d hoped it would have the same effect on three near savages of granddaughters. She started teaching them Irish songs she’d known since she was a child, picking out the tunes on the old piano that took up a corner of the dining room in the motel they were living in at the time.
She’d been surprised at how quickly they’d taken to it. Anna’s voice had been distinctive even back then, deep and melodic. Carrie’s voice had matched her looks, sweet and instantly appealing. But it was Bett who shone musically, quickly displaying not just an ear for harmonies but a real talent at the piano. Lola had silently and belatedly blessed the elderly music teacher from her own childhood, who had come to her house twice weekly and joylessly taught her scales, folk tunes, and simple classical pieces. Lola had passed it all on to Bett, with much more enthusiasm, she hoped. The two of them had spent hours side by side on the wooden piano stool, graduating quickly from simple tunes to lively duets. Bett had soon started teaching herself to play more complicated songs. When they’d moved to a new motel the following year, the first thing they’d bought was a good-quality piano. It had been with them ever since.
It wasn’t the piano, though, but three dresses
that had marked the start of the Alphabet Sisters. Lola still couldn’t think of the day she brought home that first trio of dresses without laughing. Anna had been twelve at the time, Bett ten, Carrie seven. The dresses had been made for little girls of fifteen, thirteen, and eleven, but Lola folded and pinned each of them until they just about fitted. Then she lined the three girls up, eyes shut, in front of the mirror in her bedroom and then told them to take a look.
Anna was appalled. Bett was horrified. Carrie was quite pleased. The dresses were of green and red gingham, with tight bodices and flared skirts.
“We look like we should be in Little House on the Prairie,” Anna said in a disgusted voice.
Bett was just as alarmed. “We look like we should be in a dustbin.”
“I think we look nice,” Carrie said.
Anna reached behind her, trying to take her dress off. “It’s all right for you, Carrie. You do look nice. Lola, can you help me get this off?”
“No, not yet. And stop pulling at it like that. You won’t be able to get out of them yourselves, darling. I had to pin the backs to make them fit.”
Bett was wriggling in her dress as though it was coated in itching powder. “Lola, please.”
Carrie had been silent, happily admiring herself in the mirror.
“Who did they belong to?”
“I asked the lady in the charity shop, and it was quite some story. They apparently belonged to a famous trio of child conjurers called the Okey Dokey Gals, who toured the world with their pet camel and a small gray-faced cat, doing magic tricks and chores around the house for anyone who took their fancy.”
“So how did their dresses end up in a charity shop?” Bett challenged.
“It was a tragic story and one for another day. So what do you think of them?”
Anna was not happy. “They’d suit the Pokey Yokey Gals better than the Okey Dokey Gals.”
“Or the Yukky Pukky Gals,” Bett added.
Anna again. “They’d be perfect for a country-and-western singing group called the Yukky Pukky Gals, in fact.”
Lola was actually pleased. “Do you really think you look like a singing act?”