The Alphabet Sisters

by Monica McInerney

  Gracie would never admit it to her sisters, or to Spencer, but that motto was like a life message to her. She did her best with her school-work and her share of the housework and gardening, but she really tried to be prepared when it came to the family business. She bit her lip as she stood in the hallway, mentally checking her to-do list. Something was missing. She walked through the rooms again until it hit her. Flowers! There were no flowers. And there had to be flowers.

  She ran up the two flights of stairs and this time opened Audrey’s door without knocking.

  “Did you get the flowers?”

  “I’m asleep.”

  “Audrey, did you?”

  “I’m sleep talking. Go away.”

  Gracie’s voice got louder. “You promised you’d get them. We made a deal. I’d polish the silver if you got the flowers. You promised.”

  “I forgot.” Audrey’s voice was muffled by the pillow.

  “That’s not fair!” Gracie was shouting now.

  “Can you two shut up?” Charlotte’s voice sounded clearly from her room across the hallway. “I’m trying to get some sleep here.”

  Gracie surprised them both, and herself, by giving a loud shriek that lasted nearly ten seconds. It hurt her throat but it worked. Before the last note finished sounding, both Audrey (in a silk nightdress) and Charlotte (in plaid pajamas) were standing in front of her. Their expressions were murderous, but they were at least paying her attention.

  “Bloody hell, Gracie. Shut up. You’ll wake Mum and Dad and Hope,” Charlotte hissed. “You know the rules. No sleep-in on Saturdays, no pocket money for any of us.”

  Gracie stood her ground. “Audrey was supposed to get the flowers and she didn’t.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “So what? Who cares? If anyone asks, blame it on the maids.”

  “We don’t have maids.”

  “People don’t know that. Tell them we had a maid but she turned out to be light fingered—”

  “Flower fingered,” Audrey interrupted.

  Charlotte laughed. “So we had to dismiss her. Hence, no maid and no flowers.”

  Gracie wanted to cry. She hated it when her sisters ganged up on her like this. She also hated it when there were no flowers in the rooms. At any other time of the year, she would have gone out into the large gardens surrounding the house and picked what she needed. But there were no flowers at the moment, just lots of dry autumn leaves.

  “Stop fretting so much, Gracie,” Audrey said, more kindly. “It really doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “ ‘It matters to me.’ ” Charlotte and Audrey both mimicked her passionate tone, before laughing again.

  That did it. She stomped, as noisily as she could, down the hallway.

  “Shut up, Gracie. You’ll wake everyone,” Audrey hissed again.

  “I don’t care. I hope I wake them all, Mum and Dad and Aunt Hope. Then I’ll be able to tell them about the flowers. About your broken promise.”

  “I’m going back to bed,” Charlotte said, turning away.

  Gracie turned back toward her. “You can’t. You’re supposed to be dressed and ready by now, too. I checked the roster. It’s you and me on today. I’m downstairs, you’re upstairs.”

  “Check the roster again. It’s you and Spencer on today, not me. I did a deal with him.”

  Gracie felt a sudden rush of anger again, secretly enjoying the feeling. It gave her the courage to stand up to Charlotte and Audrey. She borrowed one of her aunt Hope’s phrases: “You two are absolutely and completely bloody incorrigible.” She headed downstairs, muttering to herself but loudly enough so they could hear her, borrowing another one of Hope’s favorite sayings. “If this was my house, I’d throw you all out.”

  She did her best to ignore their laughter as she tramped back down the polished stairs to the entrance hall. Audrey was probably right, none of the visitors would notice the lack of flowers. They were usually so busy noticing everything else about Templeton Hall, as well as whispering to one another about the age of their tour guide and the whole unusual setup. But this kind of fine detail mattered to Gracie. Unlike her two sisters and brother, she longed for her turn as head guide. She didn’t do it purely for the pocket money on offer, either. She loved sharing everything she knew about the Hall: its history, its beautiful contents, all it meant to her whole family, stretching back for generations.…

  “We’re just a tourist attraction, Gracie. You have to understand that. People don’t care if we’re descended from English aristocracy, Australian squattocracy, or a pack of werewolves,” Charlotte had said once. “We’re just one more stop before they drive on to their hotel or caravan park. Something to fill up the day. A place to take a photo or go to the loo. Don’t take it so seriously.”

  But Gracie did take it seriously. She couldn’t help it. She checked the time now on the large grandfather clock ticking beside her in the hallway. Nearly nine a.m. A glint of metal on the side table caught her eye. Charlotte’s car keys. They shouldn’t have been there, for two reasons. one, all signs of their “modern” life were supposed to be hidden on the weekends when the Hall was open to the public. And two, their parents had asked each of them repeatedly to please hang any keys on the hook behind the pantry door. The house was so big that a few rules and regulations had to be made. The alternative was many wasted hours searching through eighteen rooms.

  Gracie did some quick mental arithmetic. Templeton Hall was out in the countryside, a long way from a shop. It would take her twenty minutes to drive into Castlemaine, their nearest big town. Ten minutes, if she was quick, to buy flowers from the grocery store where the family had an account. Twenty minutes back. It was possible. If there were no delays, she’d be back with ten minutes to spare before the Hall opened to the public.

  There was the minor matter of it being illegal for her to drive. But she’d been driving Charlotte’s car, a little automatic, since she was ten years old, over a year now. So far, only in the paddocks around Templeton Hall, but Charlotte had always expressed amazement at how quickly she’d caught on. Her lack of height was the main problem, but a couple of folded wheat sacks from the stables had always given her the inches she needed. A coat or jumper or two would do the same now, surely?

  Five minutes later, she was at the wheel, turning from the Hall’s long dirt driveway onto the main road to Castlemaine. Her heart was beating so fast she could almost hear it. She was up a little high in the driver’s seat (she’d decided on three coats rather than two, and regretted it slightly now). Her steering was good, her braking impeccable, and the roads were thankfully quiet. As she passed the Welcome to Castlemaine sign twenty minutes later and drove into the wide main street, she started to breathe more easily. She could see the greengrocer ahead, setting up his outside display of fruit and vegetables. Yes, he had roses there. And she could see carnations, too, and chrysanthemums.

  She was so busy looking at the flowers that she didn’t see the car pulling out in front of her. There was, however, no missing the bang that sounded as the front of Charlotte’s car hit the back of the other vehicle, or the sound of her car horn as she fell forward against it for ten long seconds, that later would re-sound in her ears as lasting for hours.

  Afterward, she wondered where all the people had come from, and so quickly. The street had been quite empty. But within seconds of the collision, people came rushing from shops, from other cars, from side streets. She heard snatches of sentences.

  “I didn’t see her. She just appeared.” “What the hell is a kid doing driving a car?” “Why is she dressed in that weird gear?” “She’s one of those mad bloody Templetons, that’s why. They think they own the bloody place.”

  The greengrocer’s concerned face was replaced by a fiercer face attached to a body dressed in a policeman’s uniform. “What do you think you’re doing? You could have killed yourself or someone else.”

  “I was getting flowers. We’re about to open.”

 
; The policeman looked away from her, around the crowd, as if hoping they might be able to make sense of Gracie’s words. It was clear he couldn’t.

  A bystander stepped in. “You’re new here, aren’t you? She’s one of the Templetons.”

  “The mad bloody Templetons,” someone added.

  “Up to another publicity stunt.”

  “From Templeton Hall.”

  “Tembledinall?” the policeman misheard. “What is it, a religious cult?”

  More murmurs as locals hurried to offer explanations. Gracie didn’t have time to listen, or to worry about her family being called the mad bloody Templetons twice in five minutes. The town hall clock was striking nine-thirty. She had to hurry. She struggled out of the seat belt. One large brown arm pushed her back in her seat.

  “You’re not going anywhere, kiddo.”

  Much later that night, Gracie’s father, Henry, announced that he found it very funny. Hilarious, he said. Her mother, Eleanor, was still in a shocked, rather than amused, state and also angry—Gracie’s arrival at Templeton Hall in a police car just as a bus filled with tourists pulled up had caused such a fuss that Hope, Eleanor’s younger sister who stayed with the family on and off, had taken a “turn,” as Eleanor usually put it. “Threw a wobbly,” Audrey preferred to describe it. “Went psycho,” Spencer would say. “Exhibited pure attention-seeking behavior, more like it,” Charlotte would insist.

  Charlotte, as the oldest, had plenty of opinions on the relationship between her mother and Hope. “It’s Queen Elizabeth and Princess Margaret all over again,” she’d announced once. “The youngest is jealous of the older sister’s standing and marriage, so she goes wild and hits the bottle, resulting in the older sister having to take care of her for the rest of her days—the ultimate revenge.”

  “Hope got upset at the sight of the police, nothing more and nothing less. Stop talking about her like that, please,” Eleanor had said, in the voice they’d all learned to obey.

  “On the bright side, at least Gracie can’t lose her driver’s license,” Henry said, as the family sat around the kitchen table that evening. “Unfortunately it’s because she doesn’t have a license.”

  Gracie’s arrival in the police car had set off a domino effect of arrivals, with cars following buses following caravans and camper vans, all filled with tourists, as well as more than a few people from the nearby area. Usually the locals avoided Templeton Hall, but word had obviously spread quickly about Gracie’s accident, and curiosity had overcome their usual aversion to the family.

  “On the extra bright side, at least they all got the full ‘At Home with the Templetons’ experience,” Charlotte said cheerfully. “ ‘Welcome to our world, where chaos reigns—’ “

  “Flowers are missing,” Audrey added.

  “And where the souvenir biscuits are always stale,” Charlotte finished.

  “It wasn’t the full experience,” Gracie said, sulky now that the excitement had passed and she just felt achy and cross. “I was the only one dressed up, even though I begged you to go and put your proper clothes on.”

  Charlotte laughed. “I’d forgotten that bit. You, draped over the policeman’s shoulder, shouting at us all to go and get dressed. You should have seen his face. I’m sure he thought you were hallucinating, that we were greeting you in the nude.”

  “I don’t think anyone asked for refunds, Gracie,” Audrey added, in a kind voice. “It was all quite festive, actually. Until Spencer let off that stink bomb, at least.”

  “That was Spencer?” Eleanor wasn’t happy to hear it. “I told everyone it was the drains.”

  Ten-year-old Spencer said nothing, just smiled secretly to himself from his hiding place under the table.

  “I think we pulled together beautifully in what were very trying circumstances, actually,” Henry said, leaning back in his chair and beaming at his family. “Triumph over adversity, as our ancestors might have said.”

  “I still think you should all have got dressed up,” Gracie said. “It’s false advertising otherwise. It wasn’t the full colonic experience.”

  No one pointed out her error. Gracie often confused “colonic” with “colonial.” It had been Henry’s idea not to put her right. “It makes a funny story, which leads to word of mouth,” he’d said. “We’ll get more visitors out of that story than any advertising we do.”

  Now, though, Henry took pity on his youngest daughter. “Poor Gracie,” he said, pulling her onto his lap in one easy motion. He was nearly six feet and very fit from all the outdoor work he did on the grounds. “My poor lawbreaking Gracie. How can I make it better?”

  Gracie wriggled out of his arms and sat up straight. “Put me in charge again tomorrow,” she said.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  The Faraday Girls

  a novel

  by Monica McInerney

  Published by Ballantine Books

  CHAPTER 1

  Hobart, Tasmania, Australia

  1979

  The day the Faraday family started to fall apart began normally enough.

  Juliet, at twenty-three the oldest of the five Faraday sisters, was first into the kitchen, cooking breakfast for everyone as she liked to do. This morning it was scrambled eggs, served with small triangles of buttered toast. She added parsley, diced crispy bacon and a dash of cream to the eggs, with a sprinkle of paprika as a garnish. She also set the table with silver cutlery, white napkins, a small crystal vase with a late-blooming red rose from the bush by the front gate and a damp copy of the Mercury that had been thrown over the fence before dawn. The big earthenware teapot that had once belonged to their grandmother had center place on the table, resting on a Huon pine pot holder that sent out a warm timber smell as it heated up.

  Juliet stepped back from the table, pleased with the general effect. She’d been asked by her new boss at the downtown café where she worked to come up with ideas for menu items. She made a record of this morning’s arrangement in her notebook under the title “English-style Traditional Breakfast???” A smoked kipper or two would have been a nice touch, but they were hard to come by in Hobart. Too smelly, anyway, if her childhood memory served her well.

  Twenty-one-year-old Miranda was next up and into the kitchen. She was already fully made-up—black eyeliner, false lashes and very red lipstick—and dressed in her white pharmacy assistant’s uniform. She looked around the room.

  “Juliet, you really are wasted with us. You’d make some lucky family a lovely maid.”

  She absentmindedly pulled in her belt as she spoke. Two months earlier, a visiting perfume sales representative had flattered her by mentioning her slender waist. She’d been working vigorously to get it as thin as possible ever since. She worked in the local drugstore, publicly expressing an interest in studying pharmacy, privately thrilled with the access to discount and sample cosmetics.

  Juliet was also dressed for work, in a black skirt and white shirt, with a red dressing gown on top for warmth. She ignored Miranda’s remark. “English-style traditional breakfast, madam?” she asked.

  “I’d rather skin a cat,” Miranda answered, reaching for the newspaper.

  Eliza, sister number three and nineteen years old, came in next, dressed in running gear. She did a 4k run every morning before she went to university. “That’s not how you use that phrase, is it?”

  “It is now. I’d rather skin a cat within an inch of my hen’s teeth than put my eggs in Juliet’s basket.”

  Juliet looked pointedly at Eliza. “Would you like an English-style traditional breakfast, madam? Toast? Coffee or tea?”

  “I’d love everything, thanks. And tea, please. I’ve got a big day today.” Eliza was studying physical education at university. During the week she coached two junior women’s basketball teams. On weekends she ran in cross-country competitions. The only time any of her family saw her out of tracksuits was if she went to church on Sundays, and she rarely did that anymore. She took up her usual seat at the wooden tab
le. “Why do you put yourself through this every morning, Juliet?”

  “Practice. Research purposes. A strongly developed sense of familial responsibility. It’s all good training for when I have my own café.”

  “Really?” Miranda said. “So if you were training to be an undertaker you’d embalm us each morning?” She was now eating a grapefruit and ignored a yelp from Eliza as her jabbing spoon sent a dart of juice across the table.

  “If you get any funnier, Miranda, I’m going to explode laughing.” Juliet put Eliza’s toast on and stood by the window. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her body as a sharp breeze came in through a gap in the frame.

  It was autumn in Hobart, getting colder each day. Their weatherboard house was heated by open fires in the living room and the kitchen, though they were never lit in the morning. Wood was too expensive. This morning was bright and crisp, at least, the sun strong enough to send gentle light through the red and orange leaves in the front hedge. A scattering of frost lay on the ground. There’d been warnings already that the winter would be a cold one. Possibly even snow, and not just on top of Mount Wellington.

  Juliet touched the windowpane as she refilled the kettle. It was icy cold. Their North Hobart house was in the dip of a hilly street, but high enough to give them a view of the mountain, though the trees their father had planted years ago were now threatening to block it. If she stood on tiptoes, Juliet could see the glisten of frost on cars in the street and on the hedges of the houses opposite. She gave a fake little shiver. She liked telling her friends that this weather was nothing like the cold she remembered from her childhood in England. Not that her memories were all that strong anymore. Like their English accents, they had nearly faded away.

  The whole Faraday family had emigrated to Tasmania twelve years earlier. The girls’ father, Leo, a botanist specializing in eucalyptus plantations, had been headhunted by a Tasmanian forestry company. Juliet could still remember the excitement of packing everything up in preparation for the month-long sea journey from Southampton. None of them had even heard of Tasmania before then.