The Dressmaker Read online

  ‘It’s William,’ said the young man and wiped the foam from his nose, ‘not a ghost.’ He smiled his father’s smile. Teddy McSwiney arrived at the bar beside him. ‘Is there a ghost of a chance we’ll get a beer, Purl?’

  Purl drew in a long unsteady breath. ‘Teddy, our priceless full forward – did you win for us today?’ Teddy launched into the club song. William joined him and the crowd sang again. Purl kept a close eye on young William, who laughed readily and shouted drinks when it wasn’t his turn, trying to fit in. Fred kept a close eye on his Purly.

  From the end of the bar Sergeant Farrat caught Fred’s eye and pointed to his watch. It was well after six pm. Fred gave the sergeant the thumbs-up. Purl caught the sergeant at the door as he paused and put his cap on. ‘That young Myrtle Dunnage is back I see.’

  The sergeant nodded and turned to go.

  ‘Surely she’s not staying?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. Then he was gone and the footballers were fastening Masonite covers to the glass doors and windows – night air raid covers left over from the war. Purl went back to the bar and poured a fat foamy pot of beer, placed it neatly in front of William and smiled lovingly at him.

  At his car Sergeant Farrat looked back at the pub, standing like an electric wireless in the mist, light peeping around the edges of the black-outs and the sound of sportsmen, winners and drinkers singing inside. The District Inspector was unlikely to pass through. Sergeant Farrat cruised, his wipers smearing dew across the windscreen, first down to the creek to check Scotty’s still for thieves then over the railway line towards the cemetery. Reginald Blood’s Ford Prefect was there, steamy windowed and rocking softly behind the headstones. Inside the car Reginald looked up over Faith O’Brien’s large breasts and said, ‘You’re a fine-grained and tender creature, Faith,’ and he kissed the soft beige areola around her hard nipple while her husband Hamish sat at the bar of the Station Hotel sucking on the beige foam of his pint of Guinness.

  3

  There was a gap in the McSwiney children after Barney, a pause, but they had got used to him and decided there wasn’t much wrong really, and started again fairly quickly. In all there were now eleven McSwiney offspring. Teddy was Mae’s firstborn, her dashing boy – cheeky, quick and canny. He ran a card game at the pub on Thursday nights and two-up on Fridays, organised the Saturday night dances, was the SP bookie, owned all the sweeps on Cup Day and was first to raffle a chook if funds were needed by anyone for anything. They said Teddy McSwiney could sell a sailor sea-water. He was Dungatar’s highly valued full forward, he was charming and nice girls loved him, but he was a McSwiney. Beula Harridene said he was just a bludger and a thief.

  He was sitting on an old bus seat outside his caravan, cutting his toenails, looking up from time to time at the smoke drifting from Mad Molly’s chimney. His sisters were in the middle of the yard bobbing up and down over soap-sud sheets in an old bath tub that also served as a bathroom, a drinking trough for the horse and, in summer when the creek was low and leech-ridden, a swimming pool for the littlies. Mae McSwiney flopped some sodden sheets over the telegraph wire slung between the caravans and spread them out, moving the pet galah sideways. She was a matter-of-fact woman who wore floral mumus and a plastic flower behind her ear, round and neat with a scrubbed, freckled complexion. She took the pegs from her mouth and said to her oldest boy, ‘You remember Myrtle Dunnage? Left town as a youngster when –’

  ‘I remember,’ said Teddy.

  ‘Saw her yesterday, taking wheelbarrows full of junk down to the tip,’ said Mae.

  ‘You speak to her?’

  ‘She doesn’t want to speak to anyone.’ Mae went back to her washing.

  ‘Fair enough.’ Teddy held his gaze to The Hill.

  ‘She’s a nice-looking girl,’ said Mae, ‘but like I said, wants to keep to herself.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying Mae. She crazy?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘But her mother is?’

  ‘Glad I don’t have to run food up there any more, I’m overworked as it is. You’ll be off to get us a rabbit for tea now, Teddy boy?’

  Teddy stood up and hooked his thumbs in his grey twill belt loops, and inclined a little from the waist as if to walk off. He stood that way when he schemed, Mae knew.

  Elizabeth and Mary wrung a sheet, coiled like fat toffee between them. Margaret took it from them and slapped the wet sheet into the wicker basket. ‘Not fricassee rabbit again Mum!’

  ‘Very well then Princess Margaret, we’ll see if your brother Teddy can find us a pheasant and a couple of truffles out there in the waste – or perhaps you’d like a nice piece of venison?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I would,’ said Margaret.

  Teddy emerged from the caravan with the twenty-two slung over his shoulder. He went to the yard behind the vegie patch and caught two slimy golden ferrets, put them into a cage and set off, three tiny Jack Russells at his heels.

  • • •

  Molly Dunnage woke to the sound of a fire crackling nearby and the possum thumping across the ceiling overhead. She wandered out to the kitchen, balancing against the wall. The thin girl was at the stove again, stirring poison in a pot. She sat in an old chair beside the stove and the girl held a bowl of porridge out to her. She turned her head away.

  ‘It’s not poisoned,’ said the girl, ‘everyone else has had some.’ Molly looked about the room. No one else was there.

  ‘What have you done to all my friends?’

  ‘They ate before they left,’ said Tilly and smiled at Molly. ‘There’s just you and me now, Mum.’

  ‘How long are you staying?’

  ‘Until I decide to go.’

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ said Molly.

  ‘There’s nothing anywhere.’ She put the bowl down in front of her mother.

  Molly scooped a spoonful of porridge and said, ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘For peace and quiet,’ said the girl.

  ‘Fat chance,’ said Molly and flipped the spoonful of porridge at her. It stuck like hot tar to Tilly’s arm, burning and blistering.

  Tilly tied a hanky across her nose and mouth and stretched an empty onion sack over her large straw hat, then gathered it about her neck with a bit of string. She shoved her trouser legs into her socks and pushed the empty barrow down to the tip. She climbed down into the pit and searched through the sodden papers and fetid food scraps, the flies seething about her. She was wrestling with a half submerged wheelchair when she heard a man’s voice.

  ‘We’ve got one of those at home, in full working order. You can have it.’

  Tilly looked up at the young man. Three small brown and white dogs sat beside him, listening. He held a cage of writhing ferrets, and a gun and three dead rabbits dangled about his shoulders. He was a wiry bloke, not big, and wore his hat pushed back on his head.

  ‘I’m Ted McSwiney and you’re Myrtle Dunnage.’ He smiled. He had straight white teeth.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know a lot.’

  ‘Your mother, Mae isn’t it, looked in on Molly from time to time?’ asked Tilly.

  ‘From time to time.’

  ‘Tell her thanks.’ Tilly dug deeper, throwing fruit tins, dolls’ heads and bent bicycle wheels aside.

  ‘You tell her when you collect the wheelchair,’ he called.

  She went on digging.

  ‘So you can come out of there now. That is, if you want to,’ he said.

  She stood and sighed, waving away the flies from her onion sack. Teddy watched her scramble up through the rubbish on the far side of the pit, the side nearest the trench where his father emptied the night cans. He made his way around and was at the top of the bank when she got there. She straightened, looked up into Teddy’s face and overb
alanced. He grabbed her, steadied her. They looked down into the bubbling brown pool.

  She pulled free of him. ‘You gave me a fright,’ she said.

  ‘I’m the one should be frightened of you, isn’t that so?’ He winked, turned and whistled away along the bank.

  At home Tilly tore off all her clothes and threw them into the flaming wood stove then soaked in a hot bath for a very long time. She thought about Teddy McSwiney, and wondered if the rest of the town would be as friendly. She was drying her hair by the fire when Molly tottered out from her room and said, ‘You’re back. Want a cup of tea?’

  ‘That’d be nice,’ said Tilly.

  ‘You can make me one too,’ said Molly and sat down. She picked up the poker and prodded the burning kindling, ‘See anyone you know at the tip?’ she sniggered.

  Tilly poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot and got two mugs from the cupboard.

  ‘You can’t keep anything secret here,’ said the old woman, ‘Everybody knows everything about everyone but no one ever tittle-tattles because then someone else’ll tell on them. But you don’t matter – it’s open slather on outcasts.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Tilly and poured them sweet black tea.

  In the morning an ancient wheelchair of battered cane, cracked leather and clanking steel wheels sat outside Tilly’s back door. It was freshly scrubbed and reeked of Dettol.

  4

  The next Saturday brought the match between Itheca and Winyerp. The winner would play Dungatar in the grand final the following week.

  Tilly Dunnage had maintained her industrious battle until the house was scrubbed and shiny and the cupboards bare, all the tinned food eaten, and now Molly sat in the dappled sunlight at the end of the veranda in her wheelchair, the wisteria behind her just beginning to bud. Tilly tucked a tartan Onkaparinga rug over her mother’s knees.

  ‘I know your sort,’ said Molly, nodding and steepling her translucent fingers. As food had nourished her body and therefore her mind, some sense had returned to her. She realised she’d have to be crafty, employ stubborn resistance and subtle violence against this stronger woman who was determined to stay. Tilly smoothed Molly’s wayward grey hair and slung her dillybag over her shoulder, pushed a large-brimmed straw hat down on her head, put on dark glasses and pushed the chair off the veranda and over the buffalo tufts and yellow dandelions.

  At the gateposts they paused and looked down. In the main street the Saturday shoppers came and went or stood about in groups. Tilly drew breath and pushed on. Molly held the wicker armrests and bellowed all the way to the bottom of The Hill. ‘So you are going to kill me,’ she cried.

  ‘No,’ said Tilly and wiped her sweaty palms on her trousers. ‘The others were happy to let you die, I saved you. It’s me they’ll try to kill now.’

  When they rounded the corner to the main street they stopped again. Lois Pickett, fat and pimply, and Beula Harridene, skinny and mean, were manning the Saturday morning street stall.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Lois.

  ‘It’s a wheelchair!’ said Beula.

  ‘Someone pushing …’

  Next door, Nancy stopped sweeping her footpath to peer at the figures rolling through the shadows and shine.

  ‘It’s her. It’s that Myrtle Dunnage – the nerve,’ said Beula.

  ‘Well!’

  ‘Well well well –’

  ‘And Mad Molly!’

  ‘Does Marigold know?’

  ‘NO!’ said Beula, ‘Marigold doesn’t know anything!’

  ‘I’d almost forgotten.’

  ‘How could you!’

  ‘The nerve of that girl.’

  ‘This’ll be a treat.’

  ‘The hair …’

  ‘Not natural …’

  ‘They’re coming …’

  ‘The clothes!’

  ‘Oooaaa …’

  ‘Shssss …’

  As the outcasts rolled towards them, Lois reached for her knitting and Beula straightened the homemade jams. Tilly came to a stop with her knees pressed together to stop them shaking, and smiled at the ladies in their elastic stockings and cardigans. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Oh, you gave us a start,’ said Lois.

  ‘If it isn’t Molly and this must be young Myrtle back from … where was it you went to Myrtle?’ said Beula, peering hard at Tilly’s dark glasses.

  ‘Away.’

  ‘How are you these days, Molly?’ asked Lois.

  ‘No point complaining,’ said Molly.

  Molly studied the cakes and Tilly looked at the contents of the hamper: tinned ham, spam, pineapple, peaches, a packet of Tic Tocs, a Christmas pudding, Milo, Vegemite and Rawleighs Salve were all arranged in a wicker basket under red cellophane. The women studied Tilly.

  ‘That’s the raffle prize,’ said Lois, ‘from Mr Pratt for the Football Club. Tickets are sixpence.’

  ‘I’ll just have a cake thank you, the chocolate sponge with coconut,’ said Tilly.

  ‘No fear – not that one, we’ll get septicaemia,’ said Molly.

  Lois folded her arms, ‘Well!’

  Beula puckered her lips and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘What about this one?’ asked Tilly and bit her top lip to stop herself from smiling.

  Molly looked up at the brilliant sunshine, boring like hot steel rods through the holes in the corrugated iron veranda roof, ‘The cream will be rancid, the jam roll’s safest.’

  ‘How much?’ said Tilly.

  ‘Two –’

  ‘Three shillings!’ said Lois, who had made the chocolate sponge, and cast Molly a look that’d start a brushfire. Tilly handed over three shillings and Lois shoved the cake towards Molly, then recoiled. Tilly pushed her mother inside Pratts. ‘Daylight robbery,’ said Molly. ‘That Lois Pickett scratches her scabs and blackheads then eats it from under her nails and she only puts coconut on her cake because of her dandruff, calls herself a cleaner, does Irma Almanac’s house and you just wouldn’t buy anything Beula Harridene made on principle, the type she is …’

  Muriel, Gertrude and Reg froze when Tilly wheeled Molly through the door. They stared as she picked over the sad fruit and vegetable selection and took some cereals from the shelves and handed them to her mother to nurse. When the two women moved to haberdashery, Alvin Pratt rushed from his office. Tilly asked for three yards of the green georgette and Alvin said, ‘Certainly,’ so Muriel cut and wrapped the cloth and Alvin held the brown paper package to his chest and smiled broadly at Tilly. He had brown teeth. ‘Such an unusual green – that’s why it’s discounted. Still, if you’re determined enough you’ll make something of it. A tablecloth perhaps?’

  Tilly opened her purse.

  ‘First you’ll be settling your mother’s unpaid account.’ His smile vanished and he offered one palm.

  Molly studied her fingernails. Tilly paid.

  Outside, Molly jerked her thumb back and said, ‘Trumped up little merchant.’

  They headed for the chemist. Purl, barefoot and hosing the path, turned to stare as they passed. Fred was down in the cellar and as the hose swept over the open trapdoors he yelled and his head popped up at footpath level. He too watched the women pass. Nancy stopped sweeping to stare.

  Mr Almanac was behind his cash register. ‘Good morning,’ said Tilly to his round pink head.

  ‘Good day,’ he mumbled to the floor.

  ‘I need a serum or a purgative, I’m being poisoned,’ cried Molly.

  Mr Almanac’s bald dome shifted to form corrugations.

  ‘It’s Molly Dunnage, I’m still alive. What about that poor wife of yours?’

  ‘Irma is as well as can be expected,’ said Mr Almanac. ‘How can I help you?’

  Nancy Pickett came through
the doorway carrying her broom. She was a square-faced woman with broad shoulders and a boyish gait. She used to sit behind Tilly at school, tease her, dip her plait into the inkwell, and follow her home to help the other kids bash her up. Nancy was always a good fighter and would happily flatten anyone who picked on her big brother Bobby. She looked straight at Tilly. ‘What are you after?’

  ‘It’s in my food,’ whispered Molly loudly. Nancy leaned down to her. ‘She puts it in my food.’

  Nancy nodded knowingly. ‘Right.’ She took some De Witts antacid from a table nearby and held it under Mr Almanac’s face. Mr Almanac raised his veiny hand, patted his fingertips over the cash register keys and pressed down hard. There was a clash, a ring and a thunk and Mr Almanac wheezed, ‘That’ll be sixpence.’

  Tilly paid Mr Almanac and as she passed Nancy she said in a low murmur, ‘If I do decide to kill her I’ll probably break her neck.’

  Purl, Fred, Alvin, Muriel, Gertrude, Beula and Lois, and all the Saturday morning shoppers and country folk watched the illegitimate girl push her mad mother – loose woman and hag – across the road and into the park.

  ‘Something’s burning my back,’ said Molly.

  ‘You should be used to it by now,’ said Tilly.

  They walked to the creek and stopped to watch some ducklings struggling after their mother against a mild torrent and a flotilla of twigs. They passed Irma Almanac, framed by her roses, warming her bones in the sunlight at her front gate, a stiff faded form with a loud knee rug and knuckles like ginger roots. The disease that crippled Mrs Almanac was rheumatoid arthritis. Her face was lined from pain – some days even her breathing caused her dry bones to grate and her muscles to fill with fire. She could predict rain coming, sometimes a week ahead, so was a handy barometer for farmers – they often confirmed with Irma what the corns on their toes indicated. Her husband did not believe in drugs. Addictive, he said. ‘All that’s needed is God’s forgiveness, a clean mind and a wholesome diet, plenty of red meat and well-cooked vegetables.’

  Irma dreamed of moving through time like oil on water. She longed for a life without pain and the bother of her bent husband, stuck fast in a corner or hounding her about sin, the cause of all disease.