The Alphabet Sisters

by Monica McInerney

  “You can’t all help her. You’ve got work and study too. When are you going to find the time?”

  “We’ll take it in turns, like we do with the housework.”

  “I’d rather not change its nappy,” Miranda said.

  “I’ll do all of it,” Clementine insisted.

  “No, Clemmie, Miranda has to help,” Juliet said. “You can’t pick or choose, Miranda. What does the poor little creature do if its nappy’s full? Wait for one of its less-squeamish aunts to arrive home?”

  “It will just need to learn a bit of self-discipline.” Miranda’s tone was matter-of-fact. “I’ll make bargains with it. ‘Listen here, sonny, you hold it in until your mother gets home and I’ll take you to the park tomorrow.’ “

  “Girls, you’re not being realistic about this. You’ll lose interest. You’ll be like children getting a puppy for Christmas—bored with it by New Year’s Day.”

  “Of course we won’t,” Juliet said. “We’ll make a pact now. We promise to help you, Clementine, until your baby is at school. You all agree, don’t you?” She looked at Miranda, Eliza, and Sadie.

  “Of course,” Miranda said. “I’m sure the school won’t mind admitting her as an early-age student. Six months old, say.”

  “Until he or she is five,” Juliet said firmly. “Miranda? Eliza? Sadie?”

  Eliza and Sadie nodded.

  “Five, did you say?” Miranda looked alarmed.

  “It won’t be in nappies for five years.”

  “All right, but if we’re going to help look after it, do we get to choose the name?” Miranda asked.

  “You can make suggestions,” Clementine said. “If it’s a girl, I want her to have Mum’s name as her middle name. If it’s a boy, Dad’s name. The tricky thing is Faraday; it’s hard to get a name to go with it.”

  “I’ll pick up a book from the library and we could—”

  “Excuse me.”

  “—take votes on some of—”

  “Excuse me.” It was their father, knocking on the tabletop. They stopped talking and looked at him. “So that’s it, is it? Clementine calmly tells all of us that she is having a baby, that this entire house is going to be turned upside down for the next umpteen years, and you all just accept it? Start bickering already over who gets to call it what and who changes its nappy?”

  Five nods.

  “As if it’s as simple as that? As straightforward as that?”

  Juliet spoke on behalf of them all. “It is as simple as that, Dad.”

  Clementine moved toward him. Not right up to him; halfway. “I’m sorry I disappointed you. But I don’t think it’s a bad thing. It’s a wonderful thing. Don’t you think?” She smiled, the great open smile that all five of his daughters had. “A baby in the house. It will be fun, won’t it?”

  “It will be, Dad.” Juliet’s voice was soft. “It’ll be okay. We’ll manage. We know how to.”

  He shut his eyes. They waited. They had each walked into the kitchen or the living room in the past eight years to the sight of their father having silent conversations with their mother. They knew he wasn’t just sending up a prayer to his wife now. He was sending up an emergency flare. Less than a minute later he opened his eyes.

  “On one condition.”

  Clementine waited.

  “I never want to change its nappy either. I saw more nappies with the five of you than I ever want to see in my life again.”

  Clementine stepped forward and held out her hand. “It’s a deal.”

  They shook on it.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Family Baggage

  a novel

  by Monica McInerney

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Chapter One

  It was all coming back to her, Harriet Turner realized. The key to being a successful tour guide was to think of herself as a duck. A mother duck, to be precise. A thirty-two-year-old mother duck in charge of twelve elderly, excited ducklings.

  She glanced back over her shoulder, doing a quick head count of her tour group. Good, all twelve were still in sight, obviously tired but upright at least. They’d followed her obediently as she led the way off the plane, through passport control, and here into the baggage collection area of Bristol Airport. Ten gray-haired women, two balding men, none of them under sixty-five years of age, all in comfortable clothes and sensible shoes. Each sported a large TURNER TRAVEL: TOURS TAILORED JUST FOR YOU nametag on one shoulder and a homemade I’M ON THE WILLOUGHBY TOUR! badge on the other. Some looked bedraggled from the long journey, but more than half were still smiling. The excitement of arriving in England had obviously lifted their spirits. Harriet was glad to see it.

  Her protective feelings toward them had grown with each step of the journey. She’d arrived at Melbourne Airport two hours early so she could greet each of them personally. On the plane she’d regularly checked whether they were too warm or too cool and if they needed anything to eat or drink. During their overnight stopover in Malaysia, she’d kept a close eye when they crossed roads, walked across bridges, or ate anything that might have bones in it. All the simple rules of being in charge of a group had come flooding back. Of course she could do this, she told herself for the hundredth time since her brother’s surprise phone call. The tour would be a success. She’d do everything she could to make it a success.

  They were among the first passengers from their flight to arrive at the baggage carousel. Harriet found a prime position, near the start of the conveyor belt and close to the exit. She was taken aback when the group clustered in a circle around her, looking up with big smiles and expectant expressions. It took her a moment to realize what they were waiting for. The customary Turner Travel welcome speech. James, her eldest brother, had begun the tradition, marking the start of each group tour with a little poem or funny speech beside the baggage carousel. He was usually so organized he had copies printed to hand out to the group members as souvenirs. Harriet’s mind went blank. She had been brought in to this tour on such short notice she’d hardly had time to learn the itinerary, let alone write a funny ditty.

  She looked around at them again. Twelve faces looked back. Pushing embarrassment to one side, she smoothed down her official Turner Travel uniform, gave a big smile, and threw open her arms.

  “Welcome to England!” she cried.

  It wasn’t enough. They needed much more than that. She could see it in their eager expressions. She tried to ignore the curious looks from the other passengers coming into the baggage area and racked her brain. A rhyming game she used to play as a child with James and her other brother Austin sprang to mind. She’d have to give that a try. She threw out her arms again, hoping she looked confident and theatrical rather than weird and scarecrow-ish, and said the first lines she could think of:

  Here we all are on the Willoughby tour

  Through Devon and Cornwall, across several moors

  I hope you’ll all have a wonderful time

  And quickly forget this very bad rhyme!

  She cringed inside even as they rewarded her with a burst of laughter and applause. “She’s definitely James’s sister,” she heard one of them whisper. She was saved from attempting an even worse second verse by the sound of the conveyor belt starting up with a metallic groan. Everyone sprang to attention, their eyes fixed on the emerging luggage.

  As the first bags trundled past, Harriet felt a tug at her sleeve. She looked down. It was Miss Talbot. At seventy-three, she was the oldest member of the tour party. At four foot eleven, she was also the tiniest.

  Her soft, wrinkled face was all smiles. “That was a lovely poem, Harriet. You hit the nail right on the head.”

  “Oh, thank you, Miss Talbot,” Harriet said, smiling back. She had known Miss Talbot for as long as she could remember and was very fond of her. The little white-haired woman not only ran the Country Women’s Association craft shop in Harriet’s hometown of Merryn Bay but also knitted most of the contents. She specialized i
n yellow matinee jackets and small knitted penguins with crocheted orange beaks. She was also well known in the town for buying her clothes from children’s-wear shops. Harriet glanced again at Miss Talbot’s traveling outfit of pink tracksuit and matching shoes, trying not to look too obviously at the Groovy Chick logo embroidered on the front. “How are you feeling? Not too tired, I hope?”

  “Oh no, Harriet. I snoozed like a bug in a rug the whole flight. And those little meals on trays were just delicious, thank you so much.”

  “You’re very welcome, I’m glad you liked them.” No matter how many times she’d tried to explain, Miss Talbot remained convinced that Harriet was responsible for every single thing that happened on the trip, meals included.

  Miss Talbot gave another happy sigh. “I just can’t believe we’re here at last. All these years of seeing Willoughby on TV, and tomorrow we’re actually going to meet him. I know I’m old enough to be his grandmother, but it really is so exciting. He’s such a dreamboat.”

  Harriet grinned at the old-fashioned term, fighting an urge to pick up Miss Talbot and give her a cuddle. She wasn’t actually sure whether Willoughby was a dreamboat or not. She could never admit it to Miss Talbot—or any of the others in the group—but she had only a dim recollection of the Willoughby TV series on which their entire trip of a lifetime was based. All she knew was that it featured a dark-haired detective disguised as a postman solving crimes in beautiful seaside villages in Cornwall.

  Her brother James, lying in his hospital bed, had tried to assure her it wouldn’t matter.

  “You’ll never know the series as well as the tour group, anyway. You know where the word fan comes from, don’t you? Short for fanatics. And that’s what the Willoughby fan club members are.” He’d lowered his voice. “More Willoughby weirdos than fans, some of them, if you ask me.”

  A bright blue suitcase decorated with a gaudy yellow ribbon came trundling past. “That’s mine, that’s mine,” one of the tour group called. Harriet leaned across and retrieved it. In the pretravel information pack, each member of the group had been advised to attach a distinctive ribbon as well as the Turner Travel label to their suitcases so they would be easy to spot on the carousel. They had certainly taken up the challenge, Harriet saw, as more of their bags appeared. They were decorated with everything from tartan bows to shiny red ribbons and chiffon scarves. It looked like they’d been on holiday in a haberdashery.

  Another suitcase came toward them, decorated with the Turner Travel label and a bright pink pom-pom. It belonged to Mrs. Dorothy Lamerton, official president of the Willoughby fan club. English born, wealthy, polished, a widow, she thought of herself as the social Queen Bee of Merryn Bay. Harriet thought of her as the High Queen of the Willoughby weirdos. She had a matching pom-pom around her wrist. Harriet leaned forward and lifted her suitcase off the carousel, too.

  Mrs. Lamerton gave an imperious wave. “Thank you, Harriet. Those conveyor belts go by far too quickly, if you ask me.”

  A simple thing like collecting their clients’ luggage off the carousel was just part of the Turner Travel personalized service, but Harriet still got a little glow inside at the thanks. Harriet’s late parents, Neil and Penny Turner, had prided themselves on delivering personal touches. They had started the business thirty years previously in the small coastal town of Merryn Bay, two hours from Melbourne, after emigrating from England as part of the “ten-pound pom” assisted-passage scheme. The business had started slowly but grown successfully, with its emphasis on tailored tours and, latterly, themed tours like this one for the Willoughby fan club members. Harriet didn’t have to try hard to be able to picture the handwritten list of Turner Travel official rules her father had pinned to the wall of the staff room:

  • Always be punctual.

  • Help our clients in any way you can.

  • Check passports and tickets twice.

  • Confirm everything and then confirm it again.

  • Be sure to memorize everyone’s name.

  Neil Turner had once drawn up an unofficial list, too, only half in jest, one Friday night when they were all sharing a bottle of wine after work.

  • Remember, the quietest ones are often the most trouble.

  • Beware the domino effect—repair all problems as quickly as possible before they cause more.

  • All bus drivers are peculiar, the only difference will be in what way.

  • Drink and jet lag never mix—for guides or clients.

  The most important rule, her father had always insisted, was the simplest one to remember.

  • Expect the unexpected.

  Even as it came to mind, the conveyor belt gave a jerk and came to a halt. A voice over the PA announced a slight delay with the rest of the luggage. Harriet took the opportunity to check the itinerary one more time. She flicked over the cover page showing the new, brightly colored logo of a suitcase with wings and their slogan—TURNER TRAVEL: TOURS TAILORED JUST FOR YOU. She turned past page 2: Welcome Aboard the Willoughby Tour. Follow in the footsteps of one of TV’s best-loved detectives in this special Turner Travel tailored tour of Devon and Cornwall! She stopped at page 3, where the real business of the tour began. Day 1. Arrive at Bristol Airport. We’ll be greeted by Lara Robinson, our on-site guide, and then travel by bus to our hotel for the night!

  There it was in black and white. We’ll be greeted by Lara Robinson. James had hastily had it added to the revised itinerary. That’s what was supposed to happen. They were supposed to walk out into the arrivals area any minute now and be greeted by Lara, who would then lead them to a waiting bus and get them to their hotel, so they could all be tucked in asleep in their beds before eleven o’clock.

  So if Lara was waiting for them just meters away on the other side of the baggage area wall, why wasn’t she answering her mobile phone? Why hadn’t she been answering it for the past four hours, in fact?

  Harriet had rung her first from the airport in Paris, when she’d heard there’d been a delay with their connecting flight to Bristol. She’d got her voice mail and left a brief message. “Lara, it’s Harriet. Just to say if you’re not already at the airport, there’s no rush. Fog in Paris, so we’ll be a bit late.” Businesslike. To the point. The only way they spoke to each other these days.

  She had overheard several members of the group talking about Lara during the flight from Paris. Some of them were Merryn Bay locals and had taken Turner Travel theme tours before. They were cheerfully filling in the details for the others. Harriet heard every word. It was one of the advantages of traveling with people with hearing problems. What they thought were whispers were often almost shouts.

  Mrs. Lamerton in particular was holding court. As well as being the head of the Willoughby fan club, she had also appointed herself the Turner Travel and Lara expert. Harriet tried not to listen as her family’s private business was shouted across the cabin. “… Yes, it’s one of the last family-owned travel companies in the state. Started by the children’s parents, Penny and Neil Turner, may their souls rest in peace. Marvelous people, emigrated to Australia to start a new life and just took the bull by the horns and started their own business.… Actually, the Willoughby tour was my idea, well, mine and Lara Robinson’s.… Yes, she’s meeting us at Bristol, she’s at the end of a three-month study program at a tourism college in Bath.… Yes, part of an international travel industry exchange program, she told me all about it.…”

  One of the other women managed to interrupt her. “Is Lara married?”

  “No, nor is Harriet, for that matter.” Mrs. Lamerton lowered her voice, but only slightly. “They’re both in their early thirties, too. One of the drawbacks of living and working in a small town like Merryn Bay, I suppose. Not a big catchment area for eligible males. They’d want to start getting a move on.”

  Harriet had to force herself not to lean over the seat and explain that in fact she had been living with a man until quite recently and that Lara had also had several serious relationships ove
r the years.

  The other woman hadn’t pursued that subject anyway. “So why is Lara’s surname Robinson, not Turner? I thought you said all the Turner Travel tour guides were family members.”

  Mrs. Lamerton sounded almost triumphant with her knowledge. “Lara grew up with them, and she’s always worked with them, but she’s not a real Turner. The Turners took her in when her own parents were killed in a car crash. She was only eight years old.”

  “Oh, how tragic. So she’s not related to them at all?”

  “No, I understand both families emigrated from England to Australia at the same time. They all met on the ship, I believe.”

  “So what do we call her? Harriet’s foster-sister or stepsister or—?”

  A PA announcement from the captain had drowned out their voices after that. Harriet wondered what Mrs. Lamerton’s answer would have been. Lara’s title had always been a bit confusing, for all of them. Not a stepsister, or foster sister, or even half sister. An almost-sister, perhaps? Harriet remembered her brother Austin asking Lara once what she wanted them to call her. The four of them had been down on the Merryn Bay beach together, trying to sail a homemade raft Austin and James had built. It was about five months after Lara had come to live with them permanently. James was seventeen, Austin was fifteen, Harriet and Lara had recently turned nine. It had been a hot day. They were all dressed in shorts and T-shirts, sweating under their sun hats.

  Austin had brought the subject out into the open. “It’s up to you, Lara. If you want me to call you my sister, I will.”

  “I don’t mind.” She’d said the same thing to Harriet when she’d asked.

  “In that case, I’ll choose a name for you myself.” Austin thought about it. “Got it. I’m going to call you my blister, rather than my sister.”

  “Blister?”

  “Blister. Because you arrived suddenly but you’ve grown on me.”