Szafran/PexelsThe title of Edwina Preston’s fourth book, Sororicidal, warns us against the presence of a happy family. After all, the word refers to the killing of a sister, or the tendency to harm a sister – and in each section of this novel we come up against a different kind of harm.It begins in early 20th century Australia and follows a dysfunctional family, and especially their daughters – one an artist, one later a conflicted mother – over several decades. It is organised chronologically in four sections, with the sisters alternating in the role of narrator, giving us very distinct perspectives on the start of their family. Sororcidal continues threads from Preston’s earlier work. Her biography of artist Howard Arkley (2002) illuminates the world of Australian art and artists. The Inheritance of Ivorie Hammer (2012) plays with the mores and the complexities of Victorian Australia, and showcases the author’s skill in crafting characters and events. Bad Art Mother (2022), does what it says on the label, exploring the complexities of being a mother who is also an artist. Edwina Preston’s Sorocidal follows a dysfunctional family and their daughters – one an artist, one who will become a conflicted mother. Pan Macmillan Blame the parentsParents usually take the blame, of course, and here the parents are indeed blameworthy. They are so cold, so uninterested in their children, that they are known to the sisters – and therefore also to us – only as Mr Cussens and Mrs Cussens. It is perhaps the iciest account of a parent-child relationship I have read since Jeanette Winterson’s autobiography. Neither notice that their elder daughter, Mary, actively tries to kill little Margot – or at least, that is what Margot claims. To make things worse, the girls are not permitted to attend school, so are deprived of everyday socialising. This is probably for the best, because the girls torment those around them: “Hiding things dear to people, removing and discarding people’s mail.” They maintain a Hate Book, full of written and sketched caricatures of those they dislike – which is everyone else. Indeed, “Even at Sunday school, where God was watching in his pall of yellow love, no one was safe from us.” They are caught out as bullies and reported to their parents, but their father’s mild rebuke lacks any moral centre; he points out, merely, that “preying on weakness […] casts you in a bad light”. Nonetheless, the girls continue their malicious behaviour, attacking their parents, the household staff, the cook’s daughter Nessy; and of course each other.Nessy appears in the story only as they move into adolescence. She and Margot build a friendship deeply embedded in naïve sexual desires. Margot is not the only one yearning for sexual encounters though: Mrs Cussens, Mary and Nessy all compete fiercely for the attention of the hot tennis coach. Inevitably, it comes to a bad end. At this point in my reading, I had to pause for fresh air. Such malevolence, especially from Mary. Such emotional dishonesty, especially from Margot. Such an excellent portrait of the family: beautifully told, sharp and witty, showing an unnervingly precise understanding of how awful children can be, and how awful it can be to be a child. The second section is told from Mary’s point of view. It is set a decade into the future, following Mary’s time in the United Kingdom, where she learned to paint, and learned too that the art establishment is at best patronising toward women artists. Mary as told by Margot is malign, but Mary as told by Mary is affectionate and patient with her sister. She is content to focus not on principles and depths, but simply on what she calls “the delineation of surfaces”. Home for their unmourned mother’s funeral, she finds Margot is now religious, married to an ordinary man and the mother of a rather extraordinary child. It is the child who becomes the catalyst for this section’s act of sororicide: to Margot’s resentment, Mary and her niece find ways to bond. I won’t explain this – no spoilers! – but only say that (again) it ends badly. Of course it does. By section three we have reached the 1950s, and Margot has the mic again. Her daughter has grown and gone. Her husband has died, as has their father. The sisters, now orphans, are living in the rather derelict family home: as Margot observes, “death brought us together”. But each pursues her own interests, and they live largely parallel lives, though still managing to hurt each other from time to time. Catastrophe and hopeMary takes over the narrative in the final section, some years later. Her account of what drove perhaps the most sororicidal event of their lives is, inevitably, self-interested. But she seems to accept she has caused Margot terrible harm, and Margot has responded in kind. However catastrophic, this final act seems to lance a lifelong ulcer. A scent of hope is in the air.For many women who, like me, grew up in the 1970s and 1980s, sisterhood was a word for mutual support in the face of the exclusion or trivialisation of women’s interests and needs. Sisterhood is what Mary and Margot constantly reject, refusing to join forces. Although each of them comments acidly at times on the gendered nature of their society, they remain separated by constant competition – for space, time, attention, and for control of the narrative. It takes them a lifetime to find a way to support each other.For those of us who are sisters, or who have sisters, this beautifully crafted, densely textured novel offers a warning: to be kind, to be connected, to cleave to sisterhood. The only other option, it seems, is sororicide.Jen Webb has received funding from the Australian Research Council.