The Dressmaker Page 6

  ‘Why do you wear it?’

  ‘There was an accident when I was a babe in arms – a fall. I’m no good at heights at all. I moved here because of the terrain and because it’s a long way from the edge. It’s a fraction above sea level as well, so we won’t be flooded when the end comes – the water will run away from us down to the edge. And of course there’s The Hill.’

  ‘The end?’

  A dart whistled past the men. It landed between Robert Menzies’ eyes. ‘A toast!’ called Sergeant Farrat. ‘To today’s second place getters in the art of balling by foot. To Winyerp.’

  There was silence while everyone swallowed.

  ‘And now a proud toast for our noble, brave and victorious sportsmen, the Dungatar First Football Team.’ Then there was a deafening noise, whistling and applause. The team were lifted onto shoulders and marched around the bar, with the club song sung again, and again, and again.

  When Beula Harridene passed the hotel just before dawn the party was still in progress. Bleary people were strewn about the footpath in pockets and piles, bushes shimmered to the sound of frottage, men were being led home by the hand and Scotty Pullit sat upright at the bar, asleep. Purl stretched alongside him, also asleep. Fred sat next to them sipping a hot cup of Horlicks.

  8

  Ruth Dimm leaned against the wheel guard of her post office van in the morning sun and squinted along the railway tracks. Hamish O’Brien walked down the platform carrying a dripping watering can, drenching the petunias, which were bunched like frilly socks on the veranda posts. In the distance, a long tooooooot sounded. He stopped, checked his fob watch then stared off towards the soft sounds, chuff chuff chuff chuff. The ten past nine Thomson and Company SAR raced towards Dungatar at a top speed of 32 mph, all steam and clatter and thumping.

  It drew towards the station, the long connecting rods slowing beside the platform, the pumping pistons easing, steam ballooning white and grey, then the giant black engine screeched, halted, rumbled and sighed. The flag-man waved, Hamish blew his whistle and the guard threw the great canvas bags of mail to land at Ruth’s feet. Next he dragged a cowering liver-coloured kelpie pup on a lead over to Ruth. It had a tag stuck to its collar that said, ‘Please give me a drink.’

  ‘This fer Bobby Pickett?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘Yes,’ Ruth was rubbing the puppy’s velvet ears, ‘from Nancy.’

  ‘Hope it’s not as scared of sheep as it is of trains,’ said the guard and slid a tea-chest from his hand cart onto the gravel next to the van. Hamish and Ruth looked down at it. It was addressed to Miss Tilly Dunnage, Dungatar, Australia, in big, red letters.

  The train pulled away and they watched it until it was a puff of grey smoke on the horizon. Hamish turned his beefy face to Ruth. Tears sat sideways in the cream coloured folds beneath his blue eyes. He shoved his pipe between his teeth and said, ‘It’s the diesel taking over you see …’

  ‘I know Hamish, I know …’ said Ruth, ‘… progress.’ She patted his shoulder.

  ‘Damn progress, there’s naught that’s poetic about diesel or electric. Who needs speed?’

  ‘Farmers? passengers?’

  ‘To hell with the blooming passengers. It’s got naught to do with them either.’

  • • •

  Because of the forthcoming footballers’ dance and the Spring Race meeting the mailbags were filled with parcels – Myers catalogues, new frocks, materials and hats – but Ruth concentrated on the tea-chest with the red address. Its contents were scattered about her feet. Small parcels, calico-wrapped, tied and glued, wax-sealed tins and wads of folded material, that Ruth had never seen before. There were recipes and pictures of foreign food, photographs of thin, elegant ladies and angular men, mannequins smiling in front of famous landmarks of Europe. There were postcards from Paris written in French, opened letters postmarked Tangiers and Brazil, addressed to someone else in Paris, but now sent on for Tilly to read. Ruth found some unusual buttons and matching clasps in a jar, some odd-shaped buckles and yards and yards of fine lace in a wrapped bundle post-marked Brussels, and some books from America – The Town and The City, and one by someone called Hemingway. Ruth read a page or two of the Hemingway but found no romance so tossed it aside and removed the tape securing the lid on a small tin before prising it open. She pressed the tip of her long nose into the dried grey-green herb inside. It was sticky, sweet-smelling. She replaced the lid. Next she unscrewed the top from a jar that held a lump of moist brown-black glue-like matter. She scratched at its surface and tasted it. It smelled as it tasted, like molten grass. There was a small jar of fine greyish powder, bitter-smelly, and an old Milo tin containing what looked like dried mud. Someone had scrawled, ‘Mix with warm water’ on the green label.

  She held the button jar against her grey post office shirt and dropped it into her jacket pocket, then carried the Milo tin to her cupboard to hide it.

  • • •

  They arrived at the base of The Hill, tired and laden. Molly carried on her lap a pile of groceries, a curtain rod and some material from Pratts. Tilly stood fanning herself with her straw hat. A large, piebald half-draft loped from around the corner dragging a four-wheeled flat-bed cart and Teddy McSwiney perched on the corner, the reins looped loosely over his fists. ‘Whoa-boy,’ he said. The horse stopped beside Tilly and Molly. It sniffed at Tilly’s hat, then sighed.

  ‘Want a lift?’ said Teddy.

  ‘No thank you,’ said Tilly.

  Teddy hopped down from the cart and swept Molly Dunnage from her chariot, bundles and all. He placed her neatly on the trailer in prime position.

  ‘This cart’s got the shit of Dungatar spilt all over it,’ said Molly. Teddy pushed back his hat and heaved the wheelchair up onto the cart. He grinned at Tilly and slapped the boards behind Molly. She looked at his flat man’s hand, resting in a dusty brown smear.

  ‘Leg up?’ he said.

  Tilly turned to walk up The Hill.

  ‘Safer for Molly if you ride with her.’

  ‘It’d suit her if I fell off,’ said Molly.

  Teddy leaned in close to Molly and said, ‘I’m not surprised.’ Tilly placed two hands behind her on the cart and heaved her neat bottom onto the boards beside her mother. Teddy clicked and lightly flipped the reins over the horse’s back. They lurched forward, Molly’s eyes fixed on the warm round equine rump folding and bobbing two feet from her sensible lace-ups. The horse lifted and swished its tail, whipping at hovering flies, the fine sharp strands of tail hair prickling her shins. He smelled delicious, like hot grass and greasy sweat.

  Teddy flicked the reins again. ‘We won the grand final, did you hear?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tilly.

  ‘What’s the horse’s name?’ said Molly.

  ‘Graham.’

  ‘Ridiculous.’

  They rolled resolutely up, sunshine on their faces and the smell of horse and night cart pungent. Graham stopped at the gatepost in front of the tilted brown house. Tilly headed for the clothes line and Teddy scooped up Molly again and bore her to the front veranda. She put her arms around his neck and fluttered her sparse, grey eyelashes at him. ‘I’ve got a packet of Iced Vo Vos – care for a cuppa?’

  ‘How could I resist?’

  They sat in silence in the kitchen, the Vo Vos pink and neat on Molly’s best plate.

  Molly poured the spilt tea from her saucer into her cup. ‘I like normal tea. Don’t you?’

  Teddy looked into his cup. ‘Normal tea?’

  ‘She made normal tea for you – she makes me drink tea made from grass and roots. Have another bicky.’

  ‘No thanks Molly, better leave some for Tilly.’

  ‘Oh she won’t eat them. She eats birdseed and fruit and other things she has sent from the city. She gets things fro
m overseas too, from places I’ve never heard of. She mixes things up – potions – says they’re herbs, “remedial”, and she pretends to be an arty type, so why would she want to stay here?’

  ‘Arty types need space to create.’ He drained his tea, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and leaned back.

  ‘You’re just trying to sound as if you understand her.’

  ‘Girls like her need a bloke like me about.’

  Molly shook her head, ‘I don’t want her. She used to think I was her mother but I said to her, “Any mother of yours could only live in a coven,”’ then she took her teeth out and put them on her saucer. Tilly came inside and dumped a pile of stiff linen on the table between the conspirators. It smelled of dry sunshine. Molly lifted her teeth to Tilly, ‘Rinse those for me,’ she said and looked apologetically at Teddy, ‘It’s the coconut see.’ Tilly ran her mother’s teeth under the tap.

  ‘Do they still have those dances here Saturday nights?’ lisped Molly innocently. Tilly placed the dentures on the saucer in front of her, then began folding, snapping pillowcases and towels dangerously close to Teddy’s left ear.

  Teddy leaned forward, ‘Footballers’ dance this Saturday, we won the grand final –’

  ‘Oh, how lovely.’ Molly smiled sweetly at Tilly. Then she looked at Teddy, raised her eyebrows and mouthed a gummy, ‘Take her.’

  ‘The O’Brien Brothers provide the music.’ He looked to Tilly who continued folding and smoothing the hard cotton into square piles.

  ‘I hear the O’Brien Brothers are rather good,’ said Molly.

  ‘Bonza,’ said Teddy, ‘Hamish O’Brien on drums, Reggie Blood on fiddle, Big Bobby Pickett plays electric guitar and Faith O’Brien tickles the ivories and sings. Vaughan Monroe and the like.’

  ‘Very flash,’ said Molly.

  Tilly folded, slap fhutt fhutt slap.

  ‘How about it Til? Fancy a spin around a polished floor with the handsomest born dancer in town?’

  She looked straight into his twinkling blue eyes. ‘I’d love it, if there were such a person.’

  • • •

  Nancy settled on the couch beside the exchange with the eiderdown and pillows. Ruth brought the steaming cup of brown liquid to her. They sniffed it, held it and looked at it.

  ‘It’s not Milo,’ said Nancy.

  ‘No,’ said Ruth. ‘Prudence says she must be a herbalist. She read it in a book.’

  ‘I’ve got salts from Mr A’s fridge in case we’re sick.’ Nancy patted her shirt pocket. ‘You go first.’

  ‘Nothing happened when we ate the green, weedy stuff.’

  ‘Slept like babies,’ said Nancy.

  Ruth looked at the brown drink. ‘Come on, we’ll drink together.’

  They sipped, screwed up their noses. ‘We’ll just have half,’ said Ruth, ‘see if anything happens.’

  They sat wide-eyed and waiting. ‘Anything happening to you?’ said Nancy.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  They woke to rapping at the back door. Ruth looked about, touched herself. She was all right, still alive. She went to the door. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Tilly Dunnage.’

  Ruth opened the door an inch. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve lost something, or rather, I never actually got it.’

  Ruth’s eyes widened. Behind her Nancy crept to stand behind the door.

  ‘It was powder,’ said Tilly, ‘brownish powder.’

  Ruth shook her head, ‘We haven’t seen it, don’t know anything about a tin of powder at all.’

  ‘I see,’ said Tilly. Ruth’s lips were brown.

  Ruth frowned. ‘What sort of powder was it?’

  ‘It wasn’t important.’ Tilly walked away.

  ‘Not poison or anything?’

  ‘It was fertiliser for my plants,’ replied Tilly, ‘South American Vampire bat dung – the best, because of the blood they suck.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ruth.

  As Tilly left (wondering where she could get some more henna) she could hear retching and feet scurrying about inside. The bathroom light flicked on.

  As Tilly was strolling towards Pratts she met Mae at the library corner. Mae was on her way home with pegs and milk.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said.

  ‘Morning,’ said Mae and kept walking. Tilly turned to the big red flowers hurrying away and called, ‘Thank you for looking out for Molly.’

  Mae stopped and turned. ‘I didn’t do anything, thought that was obvious.’

  ‘You hid the fact that she was …’ Tilly couldn’t bring herself to say the words lunatic or mad because that’s what they had used to call Barney. Once some people had come to the school to take him away and lock him up, but Margaret had run and gotten Mae. Someone was always with Barney, even now.

  ‘It’s better to keep to yourself around here, you should know,’ said Mae and walked back to Tilly. ‘Nothing ever really changes, Myrtle.’ She strode away again, leaving Tilly stunned and sobered.

  The next day was still and the low clouds sat like lemon butter on toast, keeping the earth warm. Irma Almanac sat on her back porch watching the creek roll away, carrying traces of spring with it. Tilly pushed her mother along the creek bank towards her.

  ‘How are you today?’

  ‘There’s rain coming,’ Irma replied, ‘only enough to settle the dust though.’ The two women sat together on the porch while Tilly made tea. Irma and Molly chatted, carefully avoiding the tender topics they shared – absent babies, brutal men. They talked instead about the rabbit plague, the proposed vaccination for whooping cough, communism and the need to drain kidney beans before and after boiling and before they go into soup because of possible poisoning. Tilly placed some cakes in front of Irma.

  ‘Speaking of poison …’ muttered Molly.

  ‘I made you some special cakes,’ said Tilly.

  Irma picked one up in her swollen, lumpy fingers and tasted it. ‘Unusual,’ she said.

  ‘Ever eaten anything Lois Pickett’s made?’

  ‘I believe I have.’

  ‘You should be right then,’ said Molly.

  Irma chewed and swallowed. ‘Tell me, why did a beautiful and clever girl like you come back here?’

  ‘Why not?’

  They left well before lunch. Irma felt light and pleased and was sharply conscious of the day’s details – the quiet sky and the creek smell, rotting cumbungi and mud – and the warmth of her buffalo grass lawn, mosquitos singing and a faint breeze moving her hair about her ears. She could hear her bones scraping inside her body but they no longer hurt and the aching had stopped. She was eating another cake when Nancy popped her head around the door. ‘Here you are, eh?’ Irma jumped, then stiffened to wait for the rush of red hot pain to take her breath away, but it didn’t come. Nancy was cross, her brow creased, her hands on her hips. Behind her, Mr Almanac’s bald dome taxied slowly through the door frame like the nose of a DC3. Irma giggled.

  ‘You wasn’t out the front to stop Mr A here so he’d have gone bang into the front door if I hadn’t rushed over.’ Nancy patted Mr A’s head.

  Tears were streaming down Irma’s face and her buckled old body was jigging with laughter. ‘I’ll just leave it open in future,’ she said and almost whooped and slapped her thigh.

  Mr Almanac fell into his chair like a rake falling onto a barrow. ‘You’re a fool,’ he said.

  ‘Right then, I’ll leave you to it,’ said Nancy and swaggered out.

  ‘Those Dunnage women have been here,’ muttered Mr Almanac.

  ‘Yes,’ said Irma cheerfully, ‘young Myrtle took my frocks away. She’s going to put bigger buttons on them, easier for me to manage.’

  ‘She ca
n never make up for it,’ he said.

  ‘She was only a child –’

  ‘You don’t know anything,’ he said.

  Irma looked at her husband, sitting with his face bowed close to the table, his features all hanging like teats on a breeding bitch. She started to laugh again.

  That week Teddy McSwiney called up to The Hill three more times. On his first visit he brought yabbies and fresh eggs that Mae had just collected, ‘She said if you ever need any, just sing out.’ Tilly was relieved, but still found urgent work to do in the garden and left him and mad Molly to eat the yabbies – freshly caught, cooked, peeled, wrapped in lettuce and sprinkled with homemade lemon vinegar. He left her share of yabbies in the refrigerator. She ate them late that night before bed, licking the juice from the plate before putting it in the sink.