We’re pleased to announce the winner of the April WWWC: Cath Bishop! Responding to the prompt ‘an excellent hat’, Cath’s ‘Cousins’ explores familial rivalry, and pride coming before a fall (literally).

Read Cath’s winning entry below.

Cousins

Mary could hear voices drifting from the house as she made her way up the path, relishing her final few moments of peace before the onslaught began. She loathed these annual family gatherings, even if they were in the sprawling Blue Mountains holiday home in which she had spent much of her childhood. At least this time she had some news to share with her family – her pictures had been chosen for her photography club’s annual exhibition. And she looked forward to escaping with her camera to her favourite place on the clifftops later.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped through the open front door. An unmistakable tinkle of laughter told her that her cousin Marianna had already arrived – her six-months-older, taller, blonder, prettier, and more successful cousin. Marianna was caviar; Mary was mince.

She dumped her bag in the hallway and followed the sound of voices to the back deck. She was late. The train had been delayed and she had walked from the station, enjoying her solitude, rather than calling for a lift. Several generations were gathered – she could see the children playing hide-and-seek in the large, unkempt garden which stretched down towards the cliffs, her grandparents already seated for lunch, her mother and aunts ferrying salads from kitchen to table, while her father competed with her uncles and boy cousins for control at the barbeque. At the centre of a small group of girls and young women was cousin Marianna, modelling her latest creation: a broadbrimmed hat, a frivolous concoction of pale pink silk and lace, festooned with scattered pearls and white silk flowers. It was stunning, and Mary felt instantly dowdy, old feelings of jealousy rising to the surface.

‘Oh hello Mary. You’re late,’ her mother bustled past with a pile of plates. She followed Mary’s gaze. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous? She won a prize for it in France, you know … Marianna’s just so clever.’ She sighed. ‘Grab the napkins from the kitchen, won’t you, dear? We’re just about to serve up.’ Mary went back inside. Marianna had done it again. How could her own news of a local photography exhibition compete with a Paris prize?

As Mary emerged with the napkins, she was enveloped in a perfumed embrace as her cousin greeted her. ‘Mary! How are you? I haven’t seen you for simply ages, which is ridiculous since we are both in Sydney. We really must have coffee sometime!’ Marianna beamed at her, but just as Mary was about to reply, her cousin was swept away, the younger girls demanding that she sit next to them at the table. They might both be in Sydney, Mary had been going to point out, but Marianna was in Potts Point, while she lived in Bankstown, about as far from Potts Point as could be, and not just geographically.

Lunch was just as Mary had feared. On one side was Aunt Margaret, who was most disappointed that Mary had no scandalous love affairs to report and turned away to probe her nephew’s private life. On her other side was Marianna’s father.

‘Taken any good snapshots, lately?’ he asked.

She mumbled something about being in an exhibition.

‘Which gallery?’

When she confessed it was just the local Bankstown club, he hesitated. ‘Never mind … today Bankstown, tomorrow the world! Just look at Marianna … you know she won at the International Hat Festival in Caussade?’ He gazed proudly down the table, to where his daughter was glowing, deflecting congratulations – ‘Oh the prize, well it was so unexpected’ – delighting everyone with tales of her recent trip to France, and the charming Jacques, who was following her halfway across the world to Sydney. ‘He’s coming next week, it’s so exciting!’

Mary contemplated her own week. Back to her boring dead-end administrative job at a small printing company, back to her tiny, dark flat. The bright spot was Saturday and the exhibition, although some of the shine was gone. How could an amateur suburban photography exhibition compete with an international millinery prize? Mary slumped a little in her chair.

It had ever been thus. Marianna, being a little older, had done everything first, and she had done everything well. She was a pretty child, an attractive teenager, and a gorgeous young woman. Unlike Mary, she had avoided pimples, puppy fat and the ‘gawky’ stage. Sometimes Mary felt she had never left off being gawky. Marianna had golden blonde curls, Mary’s hair was fine and mousy. Marianna had new frocks for dances and graduation. Mary, the poorer cousin, got Marianna’s cast-offs, which on her were never quite the right colour or the right fit. When Mary was chosen for the cast of her school play, Marianna was the lead in hers; while they both sang in choirs, it was Marianna who sang the solos. Mary was smart, proud of having just pipped Marianna in the HSC, but no one seemed to notice. Marianna somehow seemed smarter, always one step ahead. Even when people admired Mary’s photographs of her cousin, who had been a willing subject when they were teenagers, it was the beauty of the model they exclaimed over, rather than the skill of the photographer. Everyone loved Marianna, and Mary felt left in the shadows.

After lunch Mary helped wash up and then went to get her camera, tiptoeing past the dozing grandparents on the deck, avoiding the game of cricket that was keeping the children (and most uncles) amused. She escaped into the shrubbery, finding the path that led down to the cliff below. She could feel her stress easing with every step away from the house and her perfect cousin. She thought she had made it.

‘Coo-ee!’ It was Marianna, tripping lightly though the bushes after her, one hand clasping her precious hat to her head.

‘Are you going for a walk? What a lovely idea … we can catch up, just the two of us! I do so need to escape from “my public”,’ joked Marianna, screwing up her face in mock despair.

Mary sighed. There was no escape. Schooling her features into something passing for a pleasant expression she turned to Marianna, holding back the words she wanted to say, instead searching for something, anything nice.

‘Um … great hat, congratulations,’ she said finally, and continued down the path. Marianna followed, filling up the silence with a cascade of frothy confidences, about her hat, ‘such fun’, about Jacques, ‘quite divine’, about her career plans, ‘I’m going to open my own studio in Paddington – Millinery à la Marianna’. Mary was only half listening as Marianna prattled on, conscious only of a growing sense of her own inadequacy. Even the beauty of the mountain view, as they broke through the trees at the bottom of the garden, did not calm her sense of desperation. Usually this was her happy place – her special place.

But now, Marianna was taking that from her as well.

‘You know, many of my hats are inspired by the colours and shapes here,’ said Marianna. ‘I never get tired of this view,’ she murmured, turning her perfect face, under its perfect hat, towards her cousin, puzzled by Mary’s tightening expression, two bright red spots of anger in her cheeks.

There was only a low fence next to the cliff edge. And it was but the work of a moment. There was a brief shriek and Mary was alone at last. She raised her camera in time to photograph the large pink hat floating out across the void. It was an excellent picture. Of an excellent hat.