The Alphabet Sisters

by Monica McInerney

  Lara had given her sudden sweet smile. “In that case, I’ll call you my bother, instead of brother. Because you’re almost my brother but you drive me a bit mad, so you’re a bother.”

  Harriet had always wished she’d thought of that. She’d often felt a few steps behind Austin and Lara, especially once the two of them started firing off each other.

  She thought about phoning her brothers now, just in case Lara had been in touch with them to say she’d been delayed. No, the timing was bad. It was too early in the morning for James in Australia. Austin was at least in the same hemisphere, but he was probably onstage right at this moment. A percussionist with an opera company, he was currently in Germany midway through a European tour. She wondered if he had been told she’d taken over the Willoughby tour. It had all happened so quickly, so possibly not. She was still finding it difficult to believe herself.

  It had started with a panicked phone call just four days before from James. He’d been calling on his mobile phone from an ambulance on the way to hospital, with a suspected broken leg. He’d fallen off a ladder while cleaning gutters at home. He got straight to the point. “Harriet, I’m in trouble. I need you to take over my Willoughby tour.”

  “The fan club tour? The one to England? The one that’s leaving tomorrow?” Her voice rose in pitch with each question.

  “I know it’s short notice. And I know you haven’t toured for ages. But please, Harriet, you know how important it is. And how much they’ve been looking forward to it. I’m begging you.”

  Her heart started beating faster. Was she up to it? After nearly a year of saying no to even the smallest of the company tours? After everything that had happened the last time she led a group? She opened her mouth to automatically say no, of course she couldn’t do it, when something stopped her. A split-screen image appeared in her mind—one side showing the old her, out on the road, getting to know all the group members, loving the excitement of traveling; the other side showing herself recently: deskbound, suffocated by paperwork and unspoken pity, feeling more trapped each day. It was like being at a crossroads. The longing to be her old self again was overwhelming. There was a moment’s pause, and then she heard herself answer decisively, strongly.

  “Of course I can do it, James. No problem.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He’d given a loud whoop. The painkillers had obviously just kicked in. “Harriet, you’re a bloody savior.”

  She’d driven up to the Geelong hospital from Merryn Bay that night, feeling the excitement rise throughout the hour-long trip, almost canceling out the doubts and fear. She was going back on the road. And not next month, or next year, but the next day!

  James had been pale but pain-free, tucked into a bed, his red hair and freckled skin vivid against the white of the sheets and the pillows. He was nearly forty years old, eight years older than her, but he still looked boyish. Harriet had heard her other brother, Austin, once describe James as looking like a ventriloquist’s dummy, and the awful thing was, she had been able to see the likeness for herself. She loved both her brothers but was the first to admit that James had missed out in the looks department. Austin had got the good looks in the family. His height, fine features, and glossy black hair gave him a dashing appearance, like a pirate, Harriet had always thought.

  She was neither pirate queen nor ventriloquist’s dummy, but something in between the two. Her short black hair was a less dramatic version of Austin’s dark locks—her hairdresser had breathlessly called his latest cut “my own twist on the Audrey Hepburn elfin look.” Her skin was pale but without James’s freckles. She was taller than average for a woman, nearly five foot seven, but still small beside her brothers. Their taste in clothes was different, too. When he wasn’t wearing his Turner Travel corporate suit, James unfortunately favored checked shirts and baggy jeans, adding to the ventriloquist-dummy look. Harriet preferred simple, unfussy clothes—jeans or cotton skirts; colored T-shirts, usually in bright shades of reds, blues, and greens, worn with one or two pieces of jewelry: the opal bracelet she always wore and perhaps a striking necklace or eye-catching earrings. Austin was the real follower of fashion, his lean frame the perfect clotheshorse for linen shirts and designer suits. He liked handmade leather shoes, too, when he could afford them. The only thing all three really had in common was their large, dark brown eyes. Their mother’s eyes.

  Harriet kissed James on the forehead. She gave him a large supply of cricket magazines, grapes, crossword puzzles, and chocolates, adding them to the pile his wife Melissa and daughter Molly had delivered earlier that day. At his invitation, she lifted the cotton sheet and peeked in at the large wire cage protecting his plaster-covered leg.

  “Wow, look at all that room. You could keep a few rabbits in there.”

  “If they give me any more morphine, I’ll be seeing rabbits.” He got down to business, wincing as he leaned across the bed to pass her the itinerary and information folder. She could see extra handwritten notes on some of the pages. He’d been busy since he rang her. “Harriet, you’re a lifesaver, you know that? These international theme tours are going to be the future of the company. It would have been a disaster if we’d had to call this one off.”

  She knew how deeply James cared about the family business. Since their parents had died and he and Melissa had taken over, he had thrown himself completely into making it as big a success as possible, working long hours, extending their range of tours into themed trips like this Willoughby one. The work was paying off. Turner Travel had nearly doubled its profits in the past year. Melissa hadn’t let any of them forget it.

  The Willoughby tour would be very straightforward, he assured her. Melbourne to Malaysia to Paris, then on to Bristol. They’d have one night in a hotel and then drive the next day to their base in St. Ives, where they’d meet up with their special guest, the English actor who had played Willoughby in the program. They’d spend the next five days visiting locations from the TV program. After that, she was to escort the group to Bath for a handover to another company for two of their themed tours, an All Creatures Great and Small–flavored visit to Yorkshire, followed by a Monarch of the Glen tour of Scotland.

  “No need to completely reinvent the wheel,” James explained. “We’ve set up a good working relationship with some of the UK companies. We link in with some of their tours, and they’ll send people over for our Neighbours and Thorn Birds tours down the track. And that’s it. You collect the group in Bath on their return and then bring them home safely. You’ll be away two weeks all up.”

  She’d been scribbling page after page of notes as he spoke. She looked up to find him studying her with a look of concern and affection.

  “I’m throwing you in the deep end, Harriet, but you’ll be okay, I know it. You were a great guide before all that stuff happened, and you will be again.”

  She was surprised at how much his words meant. James rarely spoke about personal things like that. She was about to thank him, when he leaned back against the pillow.

  “And you won’t be on your own with them once you get to England,” he said. “I’ve asked Lara to meet you at Bristol Airport and travel with you for the first couple of days. Just until you really find your feet again.”

  “Lara?”

  James didn’t notice her tone of voice change. “Don’t you think it’s a brainwave? The tourism college she’s doing that course at is in Bath, practically down the road from Bristol. And the Willoughby tour’s her baby, really. She knows it all inside out. Better than me, even. She said it was no problem, she could take a few days off from her course to give you a hand. I rang her as soon as you said yes.”

  “But you just said you knew I could handle it.”

  “I do, but Lara’s so close, it makes sense for her to help you out. It’s all organized. She’ll meet you at the airport, stay with you in the hotel nearby the first night, and then travel down in the tour bus to St. Ives with you the next day.” He gave he
r a smile. “The two of you will just have to toss a coin to see who gets the guide seat and the microphone.”

  Harriet gave a half smile back, trying hard not to let her feelings show. The excitement at the thought of going back on the road had abruptly faded. She twisted the bracelet she wore on her left wrist. It was a new habit. She’d only started doing it in the past few months. It hadn’t occurred to her that she would be meeting up with Lara, let alone traveling with her. What could she have said to James, though? “I’m sorry, James, but I’m not sure I can do the tour for you after all. I don’t think Lara and I can work together anymore.”

  What would he have said in return? “But why not? I always thought you were the greatest of friends. What’s happened? Something you did? Something she did?”

  Something Lara had done. But James hadn’t noticed her reaction or given her time to explain to him how she felt. He’d finished his briefing, she’d driven back home to Merryn Bay, hurriedly packed, and now here she was, less than seventy-two hours later, in England, in charge of a group, just minutes away from meeting Lara again.

  Mrs. Lamerton came up beside her at the baggage carousel. “The hotel’s not far from the airport, I hope, Harriet, is it? We’re all very tired.”

  Harriet glanced at her watch. It was getting late. “It’s just down the motorway, Mrs. Lamerton. I’ll have you there as soon as I can, I promise.”

  She stepped back out of Mrs. Lamerton’s earshot and surreptitiously tried Lara’s mobile again. Still no answer. Where was she? Had she had an accident on the way to the airport? Or was it something as simple as losing her mobile? And if she wasn’t there, should Harriet wait? Or get her poor, tired group to their hotel as quickly as possible and then worry about Lara?

  She felt a slow rising of anxiety and tried to ignore it. Another of her father’s travel rules came to mind, also a duck metaphor, she realized. A good tour guide is like a duck on a pond—serene on the surface and paddling like mad underneath. He was right. Her job was to keep calm and show leadership, to stay serene in the face of all difficulties. She tried to imagine herself gliding across a pond, but the only creature that came to mind was an agitated cat, eyes dilated, back arched, fur bristling. She imagined the group’s reactions if they were to turn and see their tour guide down on all fours, hair standing on end, hissing and spitting beside their suitcases. She tried some deep breathing instead.

  The conveyor belt started again and the last pieces of their luggage came past. She added them to the cart and did a quick count. It was all there. Another step of the tour successfully completed. She decided it was a sign. Of course, Lara was waiting for them outside. She would be friendly, and Harriet would be just as friendly back. And yes, the next few days together would be difficult—very difficult—but they would work through it. They had to work through it. It was what her parents would have wanted.…

  Gathering her twelve ducklings around her, pushing a laden luggage cart in front of her, Harriet took another deep breath and stepped through the door into the arrivals area.

  In Berlin at that moment, Austin Turner stood poised, watchful. He was dressed in a formal black suit and immaculate white shirt, with his dark hair slicked back. The music swirled around him, building to a crescendo. On the stage to his right the heavily made-up woman was kneeling, face wretched, voice pure, as she mourned the loss of her husband, only seconds from seizing a knife and plunging it into her own body.

  Austin felt the wood of the hammers in his hands, running his thumbs along the smooth surface as the music surged. He watched the conductor, waiting. The sound of the violins and cellos was building, quickening, as the drama reached its height on the stage. The soprano’s voice and the orchestra’s music intertwined, rising and falling. Austin didn’t need to look out into the audience to know that every person was sitting still, their eyes wide, caught in the story, seduced by the sounds. He focused on the conductor, waiting. The nod came, at last. Austin hit the hammer against the cymbal, the noise like a thunderclap, sharp, sudden. Again. Again. He kept one eye on the conductor, almost sensing the movement of the knife in the soprano’s hand in the corner of his vision, matching his sounds to her actions. Again. Then his two hands a blur, rolling and hitting against the sides of the drum, the echoes of sound layered with the other instruments, a cacophony of swirling and building up and then—

  Silence.

  A faint panting from the soprano.

  And then like a wave of sound, the applause, rushing at them. Austin bowed his head. Ten years of study, no money, constant travel, waiting for what seemed like hours every night for his short time in the limelight, when the only sounds filling the hall were the ones he was making. It was worth it, every time.

  There was one curtain call. Then a second. As he was turning to the audience for the third bow, the phone in his pocket vibrated. Just as well he’d put it on mute before he’d come into the pit. The bassoon player had been bawled out in front of the whole orchestra at rehearsals last week when his mobile went off midway through the tower scene. It hadn’t helped that he’d answered it, of course. Strictly speaking, they were all banned from keeping their mobiles on them. But they all disobeyed. The violinists couldn’t get away with it, under the nose of the conductor, but it was easy enough for Austin, tucked away to the side, surrounded by kettledrums and percussion instruments. Sometimes entire scenes went by and he didn’t have a thing to do. He’d taught himself to text without looking, which filled some of the time. The messages were often even more misspelled than usual, but that was the whole fun of texting anyway. And he needed something to occupy his time. He’d become bored enough of the opera story line by the fiftieth time he’d seen it.

  He waited until the conductor had left the stage and the other musicians had filed past him before he checked the new message. It was from Harriet. One word.

  HELP!

  Chapter Two

  Harriet’s bedside digital clock clicked over to midnight. Outside her door, the hotel corridor was quiet. Fifteen minutes had passed since she’d last heard the nearby lift being used. She knew the tour group members were safely in their hotel bedrooms, probably fast asleep already. Most had been so tired they’d started to fall asleep in the bus on the way from the airport. They’d only needed to be guided gently up to their rooms, although Mr. Fidock, one of the two men, had insisted on being guided gently into the bar.

  “Watch him, Harriet, won’t you?” James had warned her. “Mr. Fidock treats these tours like lonely hearts club outings. He had poor old Mrs. Kowalski in tears at the end of the Man from Snowy River tour two years ago. She fell for him, hook, line, and sinker.”

  “Mr. Fidock? The short bald man? But he’s more than seventy years old.”

  “And so is Sean Connery, as Mr. Fidock will tell you over and over again.”

  Harriet was still wide awake. She’d changed out of her Turner Travel uniform into soft brushed-cotton pajamas and

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Greetings from

  Somewhere

  Else

  a novel

  by Monica McInerney

  Published by Ballantine Books

  CHAPTER 1

  Stop the music please!” Lainey Byrne shouted, waving her arms as though she was fighting off a swarm of bees. The background music stopped with a screech. On the stage the ten dancers dressed in giant sausage costumes came to a wobbly halt.

  Lainey quickly climbed the steps, looking for the lead dancer. It was hard to tell who was who when the entire troupe was dressed from head to toe in pink foam. “They look more like hot dogs than sausages,” the sound technician had muttered unkindly that morning. Or something ruder, Lainey had thought privately. But it was too late to get new costumes and she could hardly scorch each of them with a cigarette lighter to get authentic grill marks. The fabric was far too flammable.

  She spoke loudly, hoping they could all hear her clearly through the foam. “Can I just remind you again how it’s
supposed to go? You run on after the barbecue’s been lowered, not before. Otherwise half of you will get squashed, which isn’t exactly the look our client wants for his big event.”

  There were a few muffled laughs. Lainey turned and nodded at the sound man, and the opening notes of the Beaut Barbecues jingle filled the East Melbourne venue once more. As she moved off the stage and into the middle of the room, Lainey winced again at the lyrics.

  Oh, believe me, mate,

  Sausages taste great

  On a beaut Beaut Barbecue-oo-oo.

  She’d tried to gently talk the managing director out of the jingle three months ago, when they’d first met to discuss the gala party celebrating his tenth year in the barbecue business. But it turned out his eight-year-old daughter had written the words and he wasn’t budging. Lainey wondered now if his eight-year-old daughter had come up with the idea of the dancing sausages as well. Or perhaps it had been his four-year-old son. Or his dog. Lainey just hoped none of today’s guests would think it had been Complete Event Management’s idea. Still, it was her job to give her clients what they wanted, and if Mr. Barbecue wanted dancing sausages, he was going to get dancing sausages.

  Lainey’s mobile phone rang. She took a few steps back, keeping an eye on the stage. “Complete Event Management, Lainey Byrne speaking.”

  “Lainey, have I rung at a bad time?”

  It was her mother. “Ma, of course not. Is everything okay? Is Dad all right?” As Lainey spoke, the dancers moved to the front of the stage to pick up the first of their props. Lainey held her breath as one of the fatter sausages teetered a little too close to the edge.

  “He’s grand. Well, no, not grand, no change there. This is a brand-new problem.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “It’s to do with his sister’s will.”

  “The will? I thought that had all been sorted out. Don’t tell me she left the B&B to the cats’ home after all?” The sausages were now making waltzing movements, each holding a giant plastic bottle marked Tomato Sauce. At the launch later that day the bottles would be filled with red glitter. For now the sausages were just puffing air at each other.