by Averil Kenny
‘They’re not irrational to me.’
‘No, and that’s the problem. Before you were born, Mama constantly complained about her “nerves”. And sometimes her “nerves” tipped into such suffocating sadness she wouldn’t come out of her room for a month. I won’t let that happen to you, Plum. I think it we should find someone to help us.’
Plum shook her head, looking smaller than she had in years.
‘I’m talking about a physician who understands nervous illness.’
‘But don’t you have any books that I can read?’
‘Absolutely, I do. But it’s also important to talk to a psychologist. Oh, Plum, you’ve grown up right under my nose. You’re not our baby anymore; you’re a young woman. And I know you think of yourself as a scared, weird kid, but I happen to know you’re courageous and resilient.’
Plum twitched, brows furrowing.
‘Yes you are, Plum Hamilton. You lost Mama when you were still just a baby, and you’ve had to live every day of your childhood without her. I barely survived losing her as a grown woman! Every day I’m amazed by how much you’ve come through and how strong you are.’
Sonnet moved to place an arm about her sister, and was rewarded with an unstiffening sigh. ‘Don’t you have any friends you can talk to about big stuff like this?’
Plum began to weep. ‘Mostly, the other girls don’t talk to me.’
‘Well now, that’s something you have in common with both Fable and me in this place. But you’ll be surprised how a best friend can just walk through the door one day, right out of nowhere.’
‘I’ve only ever had one best friend – Jimmy.’
‘Jim Taylor?’
‘Yes. Except when all my fears got so big and weird, I pushed him away. I thought it would be better than to let him see how weird I am. And he doesn’t even save me a seat on the bus anymore, much less look at me. He probably hates me.’
‘I doubt that! But if he’s your best friend, I bet he’s hurting too. Hell, Plum. You’ve had all this going on, and no one to talk to about it. I am so sorry. Listen, this is what we’re going to do. As soon as we can get into town, I’m going to load you up with good books on being a teenager. Then we’re going to see a doctor about your fears.’
‘Not Dr Fairley!’
‘No, I hope to discharge Dr Fairley as soon as possible.’
*
Fable’s room smelt these days like maple syrup and roast chicken – a not-unpleasant brume of bodily fluids. Or, perhaps Sonnet’s sense of smell was thrown by the delicious meals accruing daily. Olive never came down at night without a dish or three, her payment for a hungry hold of Rune. Likewise, the nurse – sturdy, no-nonsense Rachael, to whom Sonnet had taken an instant liking – visited with home-cooked meals sent along by Dr Fairley. (That the man could cook so well on top of everything else was maddening.)
Olive, watching Fable feed Rune for the fifth time that hour, spoke with the quaver that never now seemed to leave her voice. ‘You look so much like your mother, Fable, sometimes I sit here and imagine I’m sharing it with her. This has been such a blessing for me – getting to live it through you. How it might have been, if only I’d had your courage, Sonnet.’
‘Mine?’
‘Yes, you’re the big sister I wish I had been to Es.’
‘That’s nice,’ Fable said, tongue in cheek, ‘but you do know Sonnet’s only in it for my dishy doctor?’
Sonnet turned, straight-faced, to Olive. ‘What – didn’t you have dishy doctors in your day?’
‘We had Dr Herbert, dear.’
All three women exploded with laughter. Rune snuffled, blinking, at the breast.
‘Oh no, don’t wake him!’ Fable said, gently rocking.
In the settling silence, Sonnet’s eyes went again to the waterfall above the bed. She asked, without preamble, and certainly without preparation: ‘Fabes, did you always know whose paintings they were?’
Fable required no clarification. ‘Yes, of course.’
Sonnet studied her sister. ‘Which begs the question, why on earth did you want them?’
‘Why shouldn’t I? Frankly, his talent is wildly inspiring.’
‘Because he’s pond scum, and he ruined her life!’
‘Or, he’s an imperfect human and even in his misdeeds, he still gave her what she wanted most.’
Sonnet snorted. ‘Which ruined her life. Look, I’m not going round in circles again.’ She turned to Olive, accusingly. ‘Did you know they were Archer Brennan’s paintings, too? That I had his bloody artwork hanging in pride of place in my shop?’
‘Well, no . . . . but I don’t quite understand why you’re so offended. He is your father. If anyone deserved to receive those painting from him, it’s you—’
‘But I didn’t receive them!’ Sonnet interrupted. ‘They were languishing in the back rooms of a pub. Shouldn’t they have been at least in a gallery?’
Olive mulled this over. ‘Archer never exhibited his work anywhere in town, so he must have painted them after he . . . left teaching, and Noah Vale.’
‘So, how did they come back to Noah? And why the pub?’
‘It’s a good point, I don’t know.’
‘Could you find out from some gossipmonger in town?’ Sonnet asked, trying to curb her impatience.
‘Why don’t you just go and ask Brenton?’
‘I’m not going near that bloody knave!’
‘Language!’ Olive said, nodding at Fable.
‘Never mind Fabes, she’s already had experience of her own with knaves.’
An odd smile played over Fable’s lips. ‘No, I haven’t.’
Sonnet fixed on her with steady significance ‘No? Can’t think of anyone who should have known better but went ahead anyway and used their precious reputation and years of friendship to take advantage of a vulnerable girl, then ran away so he didn’t have to face the music?’
Fable’s gravity rivalled hers. ‘No. I have no experience with anyone like that.’
Olive was already on her feet. ‘All right, Sonnet, that’s enough! Come and I’ll help you fold those clothes. Let’s give Fable some peace.’
Sonnet turned back at the door to deliver her coup de grâce, but found herself already dismissed.
Fable had eyes only for her tiny boy.
*
Fable didn’t know how her next book was going to sell given it would be eighty pages of naught but Rune’s perfection. Then again, she still didn’t understand how she’d sold a book of faerie pictures with acerbic captions. Come to think of it, who wouldn’t buy a tome comprised entirely of Rafferty Hull’s son?
Raff’s son.
If she didn’t daily replay the inexorable ascent of Raff’s lips along her innermost thigh, the lap of his tongue at her centre, and then the exquisitely tender way he had entered her and moved inside her, so incongruous with the thunder of his climax, she might have thought she’d dreamed Rune into life.
For he was Raff, in milk-drunk miniature.
Just as she’d filled notebooks with his father’s eyes, now her pages abounded with details of Rune’s beloved face: his tiny, elven ears (those alone, it seemed, were hers); ash-gold hair (Raff’s); tiny cheek dimple (oh-so-Raff’s); the gently serious way he looked at the world (who needed to spell it out?); and those blue, blue, blue eyes. Her favourite motif had been replicated, replaced.
Sonnet had tried to lord it over her with the choice between motherhood and creativity. But there was no choice. The creative juices Fable employed to bring forth new life and art were one and the same: it all flowed from her dreaming heart. She was still learning how to feed and draw one-handed, but each time her milk let down, prickling painfully across her chest, and as those languorous breastfeeding hormones coursed through her blood, Fable felt her creative powers surge.
For many years, Fable had believed inspiration flowed from her love for Raff, and her longing for Mama. But only in leaving girlhood behind, had Fable realised: each l
ove served creativity, and never had it been the other way around.
She traced the tiny upturned nose feeding now at her areola, little hand clutching at her breast, and sighed. If she could have foreseen or imagined the contentment she would know as a mother – even in her thwarted passion and relinquished livelihood– she might not have worried quite so much. She had been engulfed by love incomparable.
Fable had more of Raff now than she’d ever hoped for. She had joined his life with hers, in a way that could never be undone, or taken back.
The only direction was forward, she saw that now. Rune would grow up strong and clever and oh-so-loved, with or without his father. She would always be Rune’s mother, come hell or high water. And already, she’d faced both.
But Raff deserved to know the truth – to make his choice, as she’d made hers. Fable still had her quiet pride, though. She would not pressure Raff, or force him into any obligations, or drag him home unwillingly, to Noah. She did not need rescuing. She was worth more than that. If he genuinely wanted her – them – he had, now, to prove it.
Fable made a plan.
CHAPTER 43
CATHARSIS
Autumn 1965
S
onnet lifted her head from Olive’s table to accept the black coffee.
‘Six-week-olds suuuuuck.’
Olive smiled in commiseration.
‘I mean, he’s okay when he actually sucks, that’s the irony of it, he’s quite likeable when he’s got a boob in his gob. But the rest of the time? I don’t know how she stands it! He doesn’t seem to sleep a wink when he should – she was walking the hallway with him all night. The crying – my God – I’m exhausted.’
‘I wish Fable would let us help.’
‘She will! You come down at three o’clock in the morning and she’ll hand him over no worries. Then she follows you round mooning over how beautiful he is and how careful you should be, when she ought to be sleeping.’
Sonnet sculled the coffee and Olive promptly rose to refill it. Coming back with a fresh mug, Olive said: ‘By the way, I solved your picture problem for you.’
Sonnet reached quickly for the cup. ‘Seriously?’
‘Yes, turns out the paintings were a gift to Noah Vale nearly a decade ago, following Archer’s death. They were sent to the CWA for display in the hall, or otherwise marked out for exhibition and sale.’
‘Who sent the paintings?’
‘Archer’s wife, after his death.’
‘And how then did they get into the pub?’
‘That one was a decision on the part of the CWA’s then president.’
‘Delia Bloody Hull!’ Sonnet rolled her eyes at Olive’s face. ‘Language, got it.’
‘Delia and,’ Olive appended, ‘other members of the CWA made the executive decision, in light of Archer Brennan’s controversial history in Noah Vale, and in respect to recent arrivals in the valley, not to publicly display the paintings. It was simply deemed too shocking and, apparently, an “honour” he didn’t deserve. So, they were donated to a newly bequeathed character building of historic significance.’
‘The pub.’
‘In short.’
Sonnet boggled. ‘Why didn’t they at least mention to me they possessed my father’s artworks? Why hurriedly cover it up?’
Olive stirred her tea, looking towards the creek. ‘The answer runs as deep or shallow as you want. They’d probably say because you’re not a Brennan, your paternity has never been accepted, he never acknowledged you, you weren’t mentioned in his will, the paintings were a public donation, and so on.’
‘They did say all that, didn’t they!’
Olive sighed. ‘Yes, Marg made a few similar statements when I went to see her. Sonnet, the truth is more personal, though, I think.’
Sonnet didn’t know if the steam billowing in her face was coming from her ears or cup.
‘The choice was ultimately Delia Hull’s, and it would appear she made that call based on her personal feelings.’
‘Venomous bitch!’
Olive sniffed. ‘Whether you like it or not, Delia Hull was very close to the Brennans in her day.’
‘What?!’
‘You know all this. We discussed it after your falling out with Delia.’
‘I blocked most of it out of my mind.’ (She hadn’t.)
‘Delia and William were fast friends with the Brennans. The Hulls and Brennans were the most charming and popular young couples in town back then.’
‘Delia was never young; surely she was born an old shrew!’
‘Far from it. For a long time, Delia was the most beautiful young woman in town – Miss Noah Vale herself in 1930. She and William were sociable and fashionable; scintillating company from all accounts.’
Sonnet made a choking noise.
‘Delia Hardy grew up with Vera Logan, they vied for the crown of town beauty years before Archer rolled into town and chose Vera for his bride. Delia was married not long afterwards. They were bridesmaids for each other. Delia supported Vera through the birth of her boys, and those horrible diagnoses. You’d see Vera and Delia everywhere in town together – they were inseparable. When the scandal broke with your mother, whose shoulder do you think Vera cried on?’
‘Satan’s.’
‘Sonnet, really. If you can’t be serious . . .’
‘So, Delia was more intimately involved in my father’s life than I understood. No wonder she hated my mother’s guts, and still does. I don’t understand why you didn’t explain this years ago!’
‘On all those occasions you were willing to hear about it, you mean.’
‘That couldn’t be sarcasm from Olive!’ Sonnet stewed for a moment. ‘So, you think Delia was just punishing Archer and his spawn by refusing to show the works?’
‘Most likely. Though, beats me why Vera thought anyone in Noah would want them here. I sometimes wondered if she’d had a change of heart in later years, even forgave him. You’d have to, staying married that long. You’d need to ask Delia herself about that.’
‘Why would Delia know?’
‘She and Vera have always remained friends, through everything.’
‘Is she still alive?’
‘As far as I’m aware. With those poor boys.’
Sonnet’s next query was usurped by astonishment. ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’
Coming up the stairs, bundle in her arms, was an elegantly dressed Fable.
‘Where are you going?’ blurted Sonnet.
Fable looked only at Olive, fluttering neatly kohl-rimmed eyes. ‘I want to go to church with you this morning.’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ Sonnet cried, leaping to her feet.
Fable’s gaze was unflinching. ‘I need to get out of the house, Aunt Olive. It’s time. I’d like to see some of the old faces from church, too.’
‘No way,’ Sonnet said. ‘You’re sleep deprived; you’re not thinking straight.’
‘We would love to take you,’ Olive said, face beatific.
‘Olive, you can’t let her walk into that lions’ den! She’ll be eaten alive!’
‘For pity’s sake, it’s church! You’re thinking of the Colosseum.’
‘Fable, don’t do this. There are much easier ways to make a baby announcement than to prostrate yourself before every judgemental gossip in town.’
‘No one will say a bad word to Fable,’ Olive demurred.
‘Not to her face, no.’
‘Sonnet, the church exists to take in the fatherless and friendless, with open arms. She’ll get nothing but love and support. No judgement.’
‘Certainly they’ll judge, they can’t help themselves. They’re human ergo they’re judgement-making machines! Fable, don’t. I’ll drive you into town myself and you can buy a milkshake at the Paragon. Start with something simple. Not . . . church.’
‘Thank you, Olive,’ Fable said, refusing to yield to Sonnet’s penetrating glare.
Delia Hull is going to take one look at t
hat baby and know it for her grandchild! He’s the spitting image of her son!
Sonnet narrowed her eyes. And that was exactly her plan, wasn’t it? The salvation Fable wanted wasn’t from the pulpit at all . . . .
*
Fable lolled in enervated muteness as they journeyed home from church. Her aunt and uncle stuffed the silence with chatter, a near-giddy light in their eyes.
Well, good for them. The queasiness provoked by their elation was a small price to pay for today. She’d made her public declaration now: Fable would no longer hide in shame. Fable Hamilton would walk into any place in Noah she pleased, with head held high.
No more hiding; nothing to hide.
She had thoroughly underestimated how exhausting it would be to make such a statement. Showing up out of the blue like that; the protracted walk down the aisle, flanked by Olive and Gav, all those familiar faces swivelling to gape, their greetings high-pitched and overcompensating. Adriana was there, front and centre, with eyes rapacious as ever, though her welcome had been breezy with indifference.
Fable slumped tiredly out of the car.
Sonnet was already three steps down and flying towards her. ‘What happened? What did they say? Are you okay?’
Fable saw, again, Delia Hull’s face behind the morning-tea table as she’d filed past, heart in mouth, to accept the proffered cup of tea and lamington. Delia had looked at Fable like she was carrying an eye-wateringly fresh pile of dog poo, and asking her to sniff it.
Sonnet’s eyes drilled into hers. Fable read the question there: Did Rafferty’s mother recognise her own grandson? There never had been anything she could hide from her sister.
Sonnet’s brows were nearly at her hairline now. Fable shrugged. No, Delia saw only the floozy she’d always known I was, just like my mother before me.
Sonnet reached for Rune. ‘Come here, our beautiful boy; Aunty Sonny missed you more than anything.’
*
Sonnet stewed for the rest of the afternoon. By dusk, she was overcooked. With the abruptness of a timer going off, Sonnet charged out of the cottage door.
‘I’m going to see her!’
Fable looked up from her nappy pile in abject terror. ‘You can’t!’ She tore down the stoop and along the garden path after Sonnet, clinging to the gate as her sister marched beyond her.