AT A RECENT DINNER PARTY I was seated
next to a man I’d met briefly once before. Knowing
I was a writer, he told me he belonged to an
all-male book club; a generous gesture on his part,
as there’s nothing I like more than talking books.
In my enthusiasm to provide him with must-reads
for his group, I told him, “You’ll have to do The
Member Of The Wedding by Carson McCullers.”
I pointed my finger. “And you must read The Night
Guest by Fiona McFarlane.”
I saw him recoil, as if a laser beam had shot from
the tip of my extended finger and burnt through his
shirt. “You’re an elder sister, aren’t you?” he said in
a quivering voice.
Big sister issues, obviously.
I’m the eldest of six. Two girls, two boys, two girls
in a birth order of neat same-gender pairs. All two
years apart at school, to make things even neater,
though in fact I’m just 16 months older than my next
sister, Justine. And my younger sisters, Antoinette130 ELLE AUSTRALIA
tales
of
sisterhood
Four writers divulge the rivalry
and revelry that comes from
growing up with female siblings