CATHARSIS
Autumn 1965
Sonnet 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 that 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.
‘Oh God—’ Fable whispered.
Sonnet felt not unlike the wrath of God as she emerged onto the Hulls’ side, storming Summerlinn for the first time in nearly a decade.
Both the grand homestead and the woman who came, at leisure, to the discordant knocking had lost their proud gleam. Perhaps it was simply the distance at which Sonnet had held Delia Hull over those years, combined with the dramatic powers of memory. For the woman who stood before her now – slim as ever, immaculately dressed and elegantly tressed – had neither the talons nor scales she recalled. Grey threaded heavily through her dark beauty, and sadness had diminished her blue fire gaze.
Her face, however, was every bit as glacial as Sonnet remembered.
Without greeting, Delia hissed, ‘I didn’t say a damned word about her to anyone!’
‘I didn’t accuse you of anything—’
‘Yet! Your presence on my doorstep is allegation enough. I’ve heard your lecture before, and I’m in no mind to hear it again.’
‘I can’t even visit a neighbour?’
Delia’s lips pursed flintily. ‘You didn’t see fit to step foot on my property when we lost William.’
Point one to Delia.
‘And I am truly sorry for your loss, Delia.’
‘Mrs Hull.’
‘Mrs Hull, it is a tragic loss, and our thoughts have been with you.’
‘A simple card would have sufficed.’
Sonnet jutted her chin. This was not going to script. ‘Mrs Hull, I have not come today to talk to you about my sister —’ Much less your grandson.
‘I have not the slightest interest in anything your sister does. I doubt anyone cares what Fable Hamilton does with her life.’
Well, this was a new tactic.
‘I’m pleased to hear it. That will make a nice change for a Hamilton girl in Noah Vale.’
‘Hamilton girls would do well to spend less time obsessing over the opinions of others, and demanding everyone else validate their poor life choices.’
Sonnet shut her hanging gob. ‘You haven’t changed a bit!’
‘I’ve heard enough,’ Delia snapped, the fly screen cracking shut in Sonnet’s face.
‘Delia, wait. I didn’t come for a fight.’ Only now did she appreciate the truth of this. ‘I need information – about my father.’
The screen stayed closed. ‘Why on earth would I have any information to offer you?’
‘That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me. It’s about the paintings, you see.’
The door squealed open. Light hit those shrewd, startlingly blue eyes. Sonnet thought of the boy who had inherited them, slumbering just beyond the vale of the creek.
‘What paintings?’
Sonnet smiled. ‘Yes, exactly, the ones you and the other CWA members tried to pretend didn’t exist.’
‘If I recall correctly, we were in receipt of paintings by a local artist, given to us by my friend. However, they were deemed unsuitable for public exhibition, given the artist’s contentious history in our fine town.’
‘And so, you just gave them away – rather than to the daughter who might have appreciated them.’
‘You found a way to get your hands on them, anyway.’
The words were a punch in the gut. Sonnet remembered the accusation, dripping red, on her bookstore sign. Did everyone in town think Sonnet whored her way to everything she wanted?
Through her teeth, she said, ‘Yes, I did manage to right that injustice.’
‘What makes you think you’re entitled to anything of his? You’re unacknowledged, and illegitimate.’
‘Then why did his wife – Vera, is it? – why did she send them to Noah Vale in the first place?’
‘Why don’t you ask Vera herself? If you ever dare to face the woman whose life you ruined.’
Sonnet smirked. ‘Now you doubt my chutzpah?’
Delia sneered back. ‘You girls have had years to make amends with Vera, it’s clear to me you lack the moral conviction.’
‘She’s a stranger to me, how the bloody hell would I have made amends?!’
‘A simple thank you for your mother’s effects would have been the least you could have done, under the circumstances.’
‘My mother’s what?’ A greasy, panicked feeling came over Sonnet.
Already she knew the answer.
‘The box of your mother’s belongings, given to you many years ago, by a woman selfless enough to sift through the reprehensible communication between them and their dirty mementos, and pass it on to his bastard daughter. She could have destroyed it all! I would have made a bonfire of everything – all their evil lies, every last hair or toenail he ever shed – and I would have watched it burn.’
Delia quaked. Sonnet shook.
In her mind’s eye, she read: For Sonnet, from Vera. She saw the cardboard box, already opened, filled with old books and useless junk. She remembered the tumble of those objects into a garbage bag; the books she had sold or left to moulder.
One hand went to the door frame, the other covering her stomach’s revolt. Delia stepped back, breathing heavily.
Sonnet spoke in anguish: ‘They were Mama’s things? I threw them all out! It was just rubbish. I was cleaning up!’
When it came, Delia’s reply was pitiless. ‘That’s where they belonged. It’s what Vera should have done in the first place: taken out the trash!’
‘But Alfred received her box, not me, and he died without telling me!’
Delia’s gaze was narrow. ‘You didn’t read Esther’s letters?’
‘What letters?!’ Sonnet was near to shrieking. Whether at Alfred, or Delia, she hardly knew.
‘I can see you’re shocked, but this hysteria! Lower your voice. If you weren’t mooning over your mother’s life of iniquity, then what were you doing in that shuttered bookshop for nigh on a year?’
‘I was cleaning, and grieving! I felt unworthy of my good fortune. I didn’t know if anyone even wanted me to reopen. Nobody reached out to me!’
‘Now that’s an outright lie. Marg herself went down personally to see how you were getting on, and if you needed help. The CWA would have been at your immediate disposal, if you hadn’t been so full of pride and self-righteousness!’
Sonnet took stock of the woman before her, recognised her power and indignation for what it was.
‘You!’ she cried, clenching her fists. ‘You read my mother’s letters, didn’t you?’ Her voice broke.
Delia was unmoved. ‘I certainly did. Death is the finish of all possession. They were as much mine to read as anyone’s. Your mother and father thought they’d hoodwinked us all! But every secret comes out in the end. I only wish they’d been exposed when they were made to pay for it in this earthly life. You live a lie, you become a lie. Your mother made you what you are.’
A small, deadly smile settled on Sonnet’s lips. ‘You have no idea how right you are. Every secret does come out. Best be careful the bottom doesn’t drop out of your world one day, too.’
Delia pulled the screen shut, dismissing her. ‘It already has,’ she said, turning coldly away. ‘What have I got left to lose?’
‘You’d be surprised!’ Sonnet called after that proud, straight back.
*
Sonnet was raging through the row of mango trees when she saw Adriana Hull, coming over the paddock, hessian bag in arms. She was on Sonnet like a fury.
‘What are you doing here?!’
‘Seeing your mother about secrets and lies,’ said Sonnet. It was a crow.
Adriana tossed her hair over shoulder. ‘And I hope she sent you packing. You’ve got nothing left to say to my mother – now or ever.’
Sonnet’s eyes glinted as she absorbed this. Ah, so she’d guessed. Good one, Fabes, might as well have hung a placard on your back.
Adriana’s voice lowered to a vicious whisper. ‘My mother has been through more than enough. We’re fast approaching the first anniversary of my father’s death. We’re struggling to keep our heads above water on Summerlinn. I won’t let her be hurt any further!’
Sonnet clucked. ‘It’s hard losing a parent, isn’t it? Lucky you don’t have a whole town set against you, as we did. I’d hate to see Noah ever turn on the Hulls.’
Adriana seemed almost pleased. ‘We’re in agreement, then.’
Sonnet gave a harsh laugh. ‘Believe me, this is the most provisional agreement of your life! One wrong word against a Hamilton ever circulates in town, and—’
‘Enough! I get it.’ Adriana hoisted up the hessian bag.
‘Glad to hear it.’
Adriana rolled her eyes. ‘My brother’s a fool.’
‘No,’ Sonnet said. ‘My sister is.’