The Alphabet Sisters (56 page)

“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

T
he
F
araday
G
irls

a novel

by Monica McInerney

Published by Ballantine Books

CHAPTER 1

Hobart, Tasmania, Australia

1979

T
he 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 table. “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.

The toast popped. Juliet prepared Eliza’s breakfast and passed it across. She refilled the teapot for the others. Sadie and Clementine’s cups were already on the table. Juliet took down her father’s cup and saucer from the shelf. It was a delicate blue color, with a border of cheerful red blossoms. Their mother had always had her morning tea in that cup. Juliet could remember her sipping it, closing her eyes and saying, “Ah, that hits the spot.” Only Leo used her cup these days.

The kitchen door was pushed open with a bang. “Hell, Juliet. Look at the time.” Sadie was still dressing herself as she walked in, her head emerging from an orange and red striped poncho. Her hair, last night the model of current fashion with its teased perm, looked like a flattened haystack this morning. None of her sisters remarked on it. She threw her canvas bag and a pair of cork-heeled boots into the corner of the room with a clatter, then slumped into a chair. Sadie woke up grumpy every morning. “Why didn’t you wake me? I told you I have an early lecture.”

“You didn’t ask me to wake you. Do you want some breakfast?”

“What is it?”

“Cat sick on toast if you keep talking to me like that.”

“Sorry, Juliet. I’d love some of your beautiful cuisine. Thank you for getting up early to prepare it for me.” Eighteen years old, Sadie was in her first year of study for an arts degree. One month earlier she’d been in her first year of a science degree. She’d also completed one week of a teaching degree, before changing her mind about that as well. “Such a shame there’s not a degree in dillydallying,” Miranda had remarked. “You’d top the class in that.”

“Where’s Leo?” Eliza asked, bringing her teacup over for a refill.

“Shed Land. He’s been there all morning.” Juliet had been up at seven and the light in the garden shed their father used as his inventing room was already shining. He was spending more time in there these days than out looking after his tree plantations. She decided to give him another ten minutes before checking on him.

Miranda pushed the newspaper away and gave a graceful stretch. Her glossy dark-red hair shimmered down her back as she flexed her arms above her head. “If you ask me, we’re being replaced in his affections by test tubes and soldering irons. Juliet, call the authorities when you’ve finished washing the dishes, will you? If it isn’t bad enough that we’re motherless, we’re now heading toward fatherlessness.”

“You said you preferred it when he’s busy out there.”

“Busy out there is one thing. Abandoning his daughters for days on end is another.”

Juliet secretly preferred it when Leo was in one of his inventing frenzies. Life was much quieter. He didn’t care whether each of them had done their share of the housework, or express dismay about Miranda’s too-short skirts, tell Sadie off for playing her music too loudly, remind Eliza to mow the front lawn, tell Juliet to find more uses for mince or tell Clementine to get over her hatred of mince. He hadn’t even noticed when Juliet served roast chicken midweek, instead of as a rare Sunday luxury. She’d done it as a test.