The Beach Book Bundle: 3 Novels for Summer Reading: Breathing Lessons, The Alphabet Sisters, Firefly Summer (67 page)

Chapter Nineteen

W
elcome, General MacArthur. Can I offer you one of our finest lamingtons?”

Anna sighed. Still no good. So much for her pep talk the previous week. Yes, some of them had learned their lines, and yes, some of the songs sounded a bit better, but the acting was still atrocious. There was no other word for it. This was the fifth run-through of the scene featuring the CWA president, Mrs. Smith, greeting the newly arrived General MacArthur at the Terowie Station, and it was getting worse, not better.

“One more time? With perhaps a little bit of enthusiasm?” The woman sounded as though she was offering him a plate of snake heads instead of cakes.

Mrs. Smith put her hands on her hips. “I can’t help it if I don’t like lamingtons. Have you ever tried to make them? You get chocolate icing and coconut all over the place and the cake always crumbles.”

“Well, could you pretend you like lamingtons? Just for this scene?”

“Can’t I offer him a cheese sandwich or something simple like that?”

Anna kept her voice calm. “An American general has survived days of fierce battles, has traveled on a train for hours and hours to your tiny town in the middle of nowhere, and you want to offer him a cheese sandwich?”

“He might like cheese sandwiches. We might have heard from one of his people that he likes cheese sandwiches. Sometimes the simple things are what people want. I read in a magazine once that Princess Diana used to get sick of all that fancy food and would long for a night in front of the TV eating cheese on toast.”

Anna tried counting to ten. Then to twenty. It didn’t help. What had gotten into them all tonight? She looked around the room. Romeo and the American GI were playing an improvised game of table tennis in a corner of the room. The musicians from the high school were reading pop magazines instead of rehearsing their songs with Bett. General MacArthur was sending text messages. The plumber playing Jack-the-Lad had disappeared, muttering something about a burst pipe in one of the pubs in town.

Things had been as bad earlier, too. Kaylene had at least learned her lines, but was insisting on speaking them in an English accent.

“Kaylene, you can’t,” Anna had said. “She’s American.”

“But she doesn’t sound posh enough. Can’t she be English? I love doing English accents.”

“If we were doing
My Fair Lady,
yes. But you’re Mrs. MacArthur. Mrs. Married-to-the-American-general-and-an-American-herself MacArthur. So will you please speak in an American accent?”

Kaylene folded her arms. “There’s no need to get huffy about it.”

Things had gone no better with Kaylene’s father, either. Len had arrived with the first of the set panels that evening. His painting of the railway station at Terowie looked more like the interior of a submarine. He had been telling her for days how well the train was going and then had produced it in a shoebox. It was five inches long.

“Len, I don’t know if this is going to work on the stage. It’s a bit small, don’t you think?”

“This is the model, Anna.” He roared laughing. “As if this would be the real one.”

“It’s just you’ve spent days making it, and I’m a bit worried we’re running out of time.”

“It’s the detail that takes time. See, Anna, take a look. I’ve even painted tiny people in the carriages. Have a look.”

Anna looked. Yes, so he had. A row of faces grinned wildly out of one of the little carriages. Marvelous. Splendid. Especially if she was planning on staging this musical in an ant farm. What was she supposed to do—give everyone in the audience a pair of binoculars?

“So can it be a cheese sandwich, Anna?” the CWA woman asked stubbornly now. “Maybe even a cheese and tomato sandwich?”

Anna stared at her. “Can you please excuse me?”

She marched out the door, across the carpark, and knocked politely on Lola’s door.

“Come in.”

Lola was in bed, a folder of papers on her lap. “Anna, darling, how are things going?”

Anna opened her mouth, screamed, then shut her mouth again. Feeling much better, she turned on her heel and returned to the rehearsals.

T
he next morning in his room, Richard Lawrence took a break from his writing and picked up the latest edition of the
Valley Times.
As he flicked through the pages, an article on page five caught his eye.

Auditions Unearth Valley’s Hidden Talent

Auditions for the forthcoming fund-raiser musical
Many Happy Returns
unearthed a surprising amount of local talent, musical director Anna Quinlan said this week.

All seven lead roles have been cast, with a large chorus also assembled for the 1940s-style musical, written by Anna’s grandmother, Lola Quinlan (eighty).

The musical is loosely based on the true story of General Douglas MacArthur’s wartime visit to the small town of Terowie.

It will be staged at the Clare Town Hall on March 20, the anniversary of General MacArthur’s visit to Terowie. All proceeds will go to the Buy a New Ambulance Fund. Tickets are available from the Valley View Motel.

Richard smiled. Anna had told him she’d given a diplomatic interview to the local paper. She had called over for another drink after rehearsals the evening before. She was such good company, full of stories about plays she’d been in, voice-overs she’d done, but filled with questions for him as well, about London, about his work. She’d also been keeping him hugely entertained with stories of the rehearsals, five-inch trains, stubborn actors, and all.

“It’s not too late for you to join in, you know,” she’d said. “I’m sure I could find you a part. General MacArthur even.”

“No thanks. I’m happy to save myself up for the opening-night audience.” He’d already extended his stay for another fortnight so he could be there.

His mobile rang, and he hoped briefly it was Anna calling from Adelaide. She’d told him she was going there early that morning to hunt down some costumes for the musical. She’d thought it was safely in Len’s hands and then discovered his idea of an army uniform was a spray-painted ice-cream container helmet and a broomstick as a gun—with the bristles still attached.

The name Charlie came up on the phone display. Charlie Wentworth, a university friend currently traveling around Australia producing an offbeat cable TV travel series. “Charlie, hello.”

“Mr. Lawrence, how are things with you? That book of yours still coming along?”

“Couldn’t be better. How about you? Still headed this way?” He settled back, preparing to be entertained as his friend filled him in on the latest batch of items he’d been filming. The program specialized in quirky “Did you know?” stories. Last time they’d spoken Charlie had just finished a segment on Australia’s oversize tourist attractions—the giant fiberglass pineapples, koalas, lobsters, and oranges dotted around the countryside.

Charlie had just as many stories this time. Richard laughed as he heard of a filming disaster in the Flinders Ranges the previous week. Charlie had tracked down a camel that made a sound uncannily like the tune of “Jingle Bells” when it brayed. The animal had upped and died the morning they arrived.

“How very inconsiderate, leaving a hole in your schedule like that.”

“Who are you telling? Keep an ear out for stories for me, would you? I’m desperate, to tell you the truth. Any sort of Australiana you can lay your hands on.”

Richard picked up the newspaper beside him. “All right, then. Did you know that in 1942 General Douglas MacArthur, yes, as in the song ‘MacArthur Park,’ caught a train from Alice Springs, stopped at a tiny outback town, and made one of the most famous speeches of the war?”

“Is there a plaque marking the spot? A MacArthur plaque?”

“Very funny.”

“What’s the place? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Terowie,” Richard read from the newspaper. “I think that’s how you pronounce it. It’s not far from where I am. Less than an hour, anyway. You could drive through it on your way here, check it out.”

“Rich, you might have saved my bacon. Are there any locals who’d remember it? Anybody I can get to talk about it?”

“I don’t know. The only expert on the subject I know is an eighty-year-old Irishwoman here in Clare who’s written a musical based on it.”

“An eighty-year-old Irishwoman who’s done what?”

Richard filled him in. He could nearly hear Charlie thinking it through. “Could we film a bit of it, do you think? Just enough to add a bit of color and movement to the station footage?”

“Let me check, and I’ll call you right back.”

He dialed the number of a phone just two rooms away. “Lola, hello, it’s Richard. Something very interesting has come up. Would you have a moment to talk about it?”

T
en minutes later, Lola hung up the phone and beamed from ear to ear. God had been smiling on them the day Richard Lawrence came to stay at their motel.

“Would I like to be interviewed on a TV program? Would I like my musical to be filmed? Richard, has Elizabeth Taylor got any jewelery? Was Fred Astaire light on his feet? When? Now? All I need is five minutes to pop on a bit of makeup.”

Richard had laughed down the phone. “It won’t be for a couple of weeks, Lola, if it happens at all. They’re still working out their filming schedules. It’s just a possibility, an idea, but I wanted to check with you first, to see if you minded.”

“Such manners, Richard. You’re one of the world’s gentlemen. Let me say loudly and clearly, we would love to appear on the program. Just say the word, and I’ll have them all primed and ready.”

“I’ll call my friend back, then. He’ll probably want to talk to you himself as well, if that’s okay?”

“Oh, darling, it would be my pleasure.” She was thinking quickly. “But it might be best to keep it a secret from everyone else for the time being, from my granddaughters as well as the cast, don’t you think? Just in case it doesn’t come off. I’d hate to disappoint anyone.”

“That’s probably good advice,” he’d said.

Which Lola had no intention of following herself. She ran her eye down the cast phone list in the folder beside her, trying to decide who would be the best one to tell. Who had the biggest mouth, to put it bluntly. Of course, Len the butcher. Plant a little seed with him and before long it would have turned into a big oak tree. And if Lola knew human nature as well as she thought she did, Anna might find her problems at rehearsals magically disappearing.

She dialed the number. “Len, it’s Lola Quinlan, up at the motel. Oh, I’m absolutely grand again, not a bother on me. I’ve had a bit of news about the musical, and I’m bursting to tell someone and I know how involved you are in it, but will you promise me you’ll keep it to yourself?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It looks like a British TV company is going to come and film a documentary about us. I’m not sure when, soon. Yes, isn’t it wonderful? The only thing that’s worrying me is everyone might not have learned their lines by then, or the set won’t be ready and we’ll be the laughingstock of the United Kingdom. Or of the world, if they end up showing it on all the cable channels. Oh, I’m absolutely serious. The producer is a mad fanatic about General MacArthur, apparently. He couldn’t believe his luck when he heard about it. Don’t tell anyone, though, will you? And it’s especially important that you don’t tell my granddaughters. Even if you happen to let it slip to someone else, as long as they don’t find out. I want it to be a real surprise for them.”

She hung up, pleased with herself. She waited and then tested her hunch, ringing Len’s number. It was engaged. Good. She had a feeling it would be engaged for the rest of the night.

A
t the rehearsals three nights later, Bett turned away from the piano, amazed. Anna and Carrie came over.

“Has someone put something into the town water?” Anna asked.

“It’s bizarre, isn’t it?” Carrie whispered.

Every single cast member knew their lines, and the words to the songs. They had all arrived on time. There was an air of excitement about them as well, faces made up, clothes a little more flash. Kaylene looked as if she was on her way to a nightclub.

“That pep talk you gave them really had an impact,” Bett said.

Anna smiled proudly. “It must have. Whatever it was, I’m not questioning it. If this keeps up, we might get there yet.” She clapped her hands to end the break. “All right, everyone, from the top once again.”

Chapter Twenty

I
t was one week later. Lola lay back farther against her pillow and yawned delicately. “It’s a terrible thing, but since I’ve turned eighty I seem to be feeling tired earlier each night.”

“Is it your arm? Do you need any painkillers?” Bett turned from the wardrobe where she was hanging up Lola’s clothes. The three of them had been taking turns dressing and minding Lola since she had broken her wrist. Tonight Bett was on duty. Carrie was on a night off. Anna had gone to Adelaide again to collect the last of the costumes. Ellen was already tucked up in Bett’s room for the night.

“Not at all. It’s not giving me any bother at all. You’re the ones it’s bothering, having to come in here every morning and night to dress me. And don’t think I’m not noticing that you’re trying to change the clothes I wear, because I am.”

Bett smiled innocently.

“What do you think of that Richard Lawrence, Bett?”

Bett didn’t blink at the change in subject. “He seems nice.” He seemed very nice, actually. But she still hadn’t invited him out for that drink. Life seemed to have suddenly gotten too busy, between the musical, and work in the motel, and the assignments with Daniel around the Valley.… 

“He has an excellent sense of humor, you know.”

“He seems to have, yes.”

“I wish I’d known at your age that a sense of humor is worth far more than a bulging wallet or a bulging—”

“Stop it, Lola.”

“Truly, a shared sense of humor is all you need to get you through.”

“Was Edward funny?”

“No.”

“He didn’t make you laugh?”

“He might have once, that time he tripped over the fence wire. Yes, that was very funny.”

“Why did you marry him, then?”

“Things were different in my day. And especially with my family.”

“It was an arranged marriage, do you mean?” Lola had never been so forthcoming.

“A suitable marriage would probably be the correct term.” Lola wasn’t in the mood to talk any more about that right now. She yawned widely, covering her mouth in a mannerly way. “As a matter of fact, Richard was asking about you today.”

“Was he?”

Actually, he hadn’t been. Lola hadn’t seen him today. “Yes, he asked me if you were single. He also said he thought you had the most beautiful eyes he’d seen.”

“What?”

“And the creamiest skin. Is that how he put it? No, sorry, he said milky-white skin.”

“Richard said that? He’s hardly spent any time with me. How would he know what my skin is like?”

“He mentioned how much he enjoyed your company the night of my party. How entertaining you were.”

“Did he?”

In Lola’s experience, nothing made someone more attractive than to think they found you attractive. And Richard may well have thought all those things about Bett. Perhaps he was too shy to mention them.

A knock at the door. Richard poked his head around. “I’m ready when you are, Lola. Oh, good evening, Bett.”

“Hello, Richard.” Her smile was very broad.

Lola yawned extravagantly. “I’m so sorry, Richard, but I just seem to be overcome with tiredness this evening. And so suddenly.” She turned to Bett. “Richard was saying today how curious he was about the whole MacArthur story and kindly invited me out for a meal so he could pick my brains.” Another yawn. “Richard, my dear Bett knows the story as well as I do, if not better, and she’ll have that journalist’s way of giving you the concise story, whereas I would be inclined to ramble all over the place. Or nod off midsentence, the way I’m feeling tonight. Bett, would you mind at all taking my place as Richard’s dinner guest tonight? Richard, I promise she’s sparkling company.”

Richard handled it all very smoothly. “It would be my pleasure, of course. But I wouldn’t like to deprive you of a night out, Lola. We can reschedule for another night when you’re not so tired if you like.”

“I seem to be tired every night these days.”

Bett glared at her. It was only tonight she’d been complaining of this sudden tiredness. “I can’t go out, Lola. I’m minding Ellen tonight.”

“Is she asleep yet?”

Bett shook her head.

“Then bring her in to me and I’ll mind her myself. We’ll both be asleep before eight o’clock, I should think.”

Five minutes later Ellen had been transferred into the double bed beside Lola. Bett had hurried back to her room, changed into a new skirt, run a brush through her curls, and applied mascara and lip gloss.

She poked her head into Lola’s room. “You’re not up to anything, are you?”

“How could I be? I’m too tired. I look tired, don’t I, Ellen?”

Ellen was propped up with several pillows, in imitation of Lola. “Yes, you look very, very tired.”

That sounded suspiciously rehearsed to Bett. “Good night, then.”

“Have fun,” Lola called.

“Have fun,” Ellen echoed.

Lola waited until Bett had definitely gone, then brought out a packet of chocolate éclairs from under her pillow, pointed the remote control at the TV, and grinned at her great-granddaughter. “Make yourself comfy, Ellen. You’re going to love this.”

As the opening credits of
Mary Poppins
came up, Lola smiled to herself.
Operation Richard and Bett,
we have liftoff.

R
ichard had made the dinner booking at Lorikeet Hill, a small winery-restaurant south of the town. The food was delicious, the Irish music playing in the background soothing. The wine relaxed Bett’s mood and loosened her tongue. Richard seemed genuinely interested in so many things. Not just the General MacArthur story, but in Lola, Anna, Carrie, herself—all of them.

He refilled her glass. “So you went to journalism college a couple of years after you left high school?”

“That’s right.”

“And Anna went to drama school around the same time?”

She nodded. “She always said that the Alphabet Sisters had given her the edge. Not many people have spent six years touring the country by the time they’re nineteen.”

“And she met her husband in Sydney?”

“That’s right.” She pulled a face. “Unfortunately.”

“You don’t like him?”

“Sorry, that was very childish.” And alcohol-induced, she realized. Bett tried to find the words. “If Glenn was an animal, he’d be a bear. If he was a vehicle, he’d be a bulldozer. But he adores Anna, and I suppose that’s all that matters at the end of the day.”

“He adores Anna?”

“He idolizes her. Worships the ground she walks on.” It had given herself and Carrie the creeps, in fact. Glenn had a way of looking at Anna, of talking about her, as if she was his latest acquisition. “This is my new car, this is my big house on the harbor, and this is my beautiful actress wife.”

Richard was looking at her closely. “And how long since you’ve seen Glenn and Anna together?”

“It’s been a while, actually.”

“A while?”

“More than three years,” she admitted.

As the waiter came up and removed their plates, Bett realized how much she’d been talking. He must have been a skilled journalist, she guessed. She should be taking tips from him, not spilling her soul. She waited until the waiter left before she spoke again. “You’re not about to write an unauthorized biography of the Alphabet Sisters, are you? I don’t know if there’s enough scandal for a book.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

She caught something in his tone and narrowed her eyes. “You know, don’t you?”

He gave a slightly sheepish smile. “A little.”

Bett cursed Lola inside. Of course she would have told Richard all about it. “Can I ask exactly what you were told?”

“That you had been engaged to a man here in Clare, but then he met your younger sister and fell in love with her instead. And that there was a row between you and Anna and Carrie, and that you hadn’t spoken or seen each other from then until Lola’s party.”

“Well, that’s it in a nutshell, I suppose.”

“That must have been terrible for you.”

She took a sip of wine. “Yes, it was. It’s been hard. I’ve missed them a lot.”

“Them?”

“Anna and Carrie.”

“I actually meant it must have been terrible when your fiancé left you for your sister.”

Bett blinked. “Yes. Yes, it was.”

The waiter came then with their main courses. Bett was glad of the interruption, taking the opportunity to steer the conversation back to safer ground. They spoke about the musical, about Lola, and then Richard moved on to the Alphabet Sisters again.

“Do you miss those days? All that adulation? The tours? The motel rooms?”

“Well, we’d grown up in motel rooms, so that was never a luxury for us.”

He laughed. “No, I suppose not. What did you demand? That the promoters give you a three-bedroom suburban house to stay in?”

“Exactly. And you should have seen our backstage requests. Bottles of lemonade. Comics. Barbie dolls.”

“Now we’re getting down to the nitty-gritty.” He grinned. “I think I always wanted to be a showbiz journalist. You know, sniffing out the stories behind the stories, the truth behind the public image.”

“Oh, we were squeaky clean, I promise. Except for the time Anna and I stole a bottle of Dad’s wine. And Lola told Carrie off for swearing a few times, but I think she apologized afterward.”

“So why did it come to an end?”

Bett thought about it. She could wave it away. Or she could tell the truth. “Because of me.”

“You?”

“I finished it. I refused to do it anymore.”

“Why?”

Because of their awful final performance at the local music society Christmas show. The real number one on her embarrassing stories hit parade. “It’s a long story.”

“Tell me,” he said.

She took a sip of her wine, gathered her thoughts, then started to talk.

They’d been too old for it, really—Anna eighteen, Bett sixteen, Carrie nearly fourteen. The three of them had stood in age order, as always. Lola had gone all out on their outfits, dressing each of them in red satin, with a green tinsel hat. In the mirror, Bett had been aware that her dress was tighter on her than Carrie’s and Anna’s were, but Lola had just hugged her, told her she was gorgeous, and sent the three of them out onto the stage.

Midway through “Sisters,” their opening number, she looked out into the audience and noticed the three cool boys of the town. Her heart gave a leap, as she veered from self-consciousness to excitement. She looked away, then looked back. The three of them were actually looking at her, concentrating on her for once, not Anna, not Carrie. She had a rush of confidence, stood straighter, sang louder, smiled wider.

Then one of them shouted, “Piggy in the Middle.”

The people in the front of the hall heard. She noticed neighbors leaning and asking what he’d said and then stifling a laugh themselves. The three boys kept it up as a sort of chant, under their breaths. She tried to keep singing, knowing her cheeks were fiery red, feeling as though her skin was about to burst. They nudged a few of their other friends into it as well then, a row of them mouthing the chant “Piggy in the Middle.” Anna hadn’t noticed or, if she had, hadn’t cared—too busy striking an aloof pose, always the lady. Carrie had probably been too busy reveling in the fact she was attracting most of the admiring glances, people nudging each other and whispering, “Isn’t that little one cute?”

Somehow she got through the other three songs. But she was in tears when they came offstage. Lola was waiting. She had noticed everything. “They’re just stupid, silly boys, Bett. Ignore them, do you hear me?”

In Lola’s arms, Bett was almost comforted. Then from behind her came Carrie’s voice. “Maybe you could lose a bit of weight, Bett, if you don’t mind me saying. We probably would look better if we were all the same sort of size.”

Her tears stopped abruptly. She felt as though iced water had been flung over her. “What do you mean by that? I spoil the look?”

“Not spoil it. But if we are going to do this thing seriously, keep up the Alphabet Sisters, then maybe you do need to think about losing some weight.”

Bett turned to her other sister. “And what do you think, Anna? Do you think I should lose weight?”

Anna gave a shrug. “Carrie’s got a point, yes. But it’s your choice how you look.”

Bett refused to sing with the Alphabet Sisters from that moment on. There had been three more performances booked after the Christmas one, but she point-blank refused to do them. Lola tried talking sense. Anna tried to apologize. Carrie was sent in, pleading, eyes filling with tears. But it was too late for Bett. The Piggy in the Middle taunt had lodged itself firmly in her brain. She was never going to perform with her sisters again.

Anna didn’t mind too much. She’d already set her heart on getting into drama school and treated the Alphabet Sisters as a joke by this stage. But Carrie was very upset. One of the performances was going to be televised on the local TV network. She’d been looking forward to it for weeks. She kept trying to talk Bett around.

“Please. You have to do it, Bett.”

“No, I don’t. I told you, I’m never singing with you again.”

“But I apologized.”

“Only because Lola told you to.”

“But I really am sorry.”

“You should have thought before you spoke.”

“You’re spoiling it for everyone else. Not just me. For Lola. For the TV people.”

“I would have thought you and Anna would love to have the stage to yourself, without me spoiling the perfect look.”

Carrie had lost her temper. “I didn’t call you Piggy in the Middle, it was those boys. But you are behaving like a pig now. A selfish pig. And I’ll get you back for this, I promise.”

Bett didn’t tell Richard this, but the truth was that her sisters’ lack of support had hurt far more than the taunts. It had been the start of a horrible period of her life. From that moment on it seemed as though Anna and Carrie had been set adrift from her, into a world of romance, dates, boys, and confidence. Bett had felt like Cinderella and Bessie Bunter rolled into one—overweight, unhappy, finding pleasure only in food and books and her piano.

“And that was the end of it,” she said to Richard. “We just stopped.”

He had been listening closely. “They always say it’s the people closest to you who know how to hurt you the most.”