The Dressmaker Page 8

  ‘… and the fornication that occurred in this town on Saturday night – Sergeant Farrat – was vile and repulsive. My word there’ll be trouble when I tell that Alvin Pratt about his daughter –’

  ‘Do you knit Beula?’

  Beula blinked. He turned the catalogue and pushed it towards her. She looked down at the pattern, her chin receding into her neck.

  ‘I need you to write down for me in plain English what these abbreviations really mean.’ He leaned to her ear and whispered, ‘Code. I’m trying to de-code a message from HQ. Top secret, but I know you’re good at secrets.’

  At the chemist shop Nancy gently positioned Mr Almanac so that he faced the open front door. She gave him a small shove and he trotted inertia-powered, favouring the left. Nancy threw her hands to her ears and grimaced. Mr Almanac collided with a table, ricocheted and came to rest against the wall like a leaning ladder.

  ‘Why don’t you let me go get the mail today Mr A?’

  ‘I enjoy my morning walk,’ he said.

  Nancy worked his stiff body out the door onto the footpath and faced him the right way, then gently prodded him forward.

  ‘Stick to the middle crack.’ She watched his headless, stooped body totter away then ran inside and picked up the phone.

  Ruth stood by her electric kettle steaming open a fat letter addressed to Tilly Dunnage. She heard the buzz and went to her exchange. Picking up the headphones, she twisted the cone to her mouth, stretched the cord and plugged into the chemist shop. ‘Nance?’

  ‘’S’ Nance, yep, he’s on his way.’

  Ruth went back to her kettle, held the envelope over the steam, eased the last of the seal free and slipped the letter out. It was written in Spanish. She put it back in her delivery bag, collected Mr Almanac’s mail and moved to the door. Unlocking it, she slapped up the blinds, flipped the ‘OPEN’ sign, and went out to stand on the footpath. Mr Almanac shuffled towards her straight down the line.

  ‘Morning.’ She placed her hand on his shiny dome. He marked time with his feet until the ‘Stop’ signal from his brain made its way to them.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, an elastic line of saliva settling between his shoes. Ruth placed a brown paper and string bundle under one stiff arm, inched him about-face and pushed at his shoulder blades with an index finger. He shuffled off again.

  ‘Stay on that middle line now.’

  Outside the chemist shop a block away, Nancy stopped sweeping and waved to her friend. Reginald skipped into the chemist, beckoning Nancy to follow.

  ‘What can I do for you, Reg?’

  Reg looked pained. ‘I need something for a … rash,’ he whispered.

  ‘Show me,’ said Nancy.

  Reg grimaced, ‘It’s more like chafing, raw …’

  ‘Oh,’ said Nancy and nodded knowingly, ‘something soothing.’

  ‘Soothing,’ said Reg and watched her open Mr Al-manac’s fridge. ‘I’ll take two big jars,’ he said.

  Muriel was rubbing a polishing cloth back and forth over the petrol bowsers in front of the shop when Beula Harridene marched up to her, red and bothered.

  ‘Hello Beula.’

  ‘That Myrtle Dunnage, or Tilly she calls herself now, went to the dance Saturday night.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘With that Teddy McSwiney.’

  ‘You don’t say?’ said Muriel.

  ‘You’ll never guess what she wore, or almost wore: a green tablecloth she bought from you. Just wound it about her. Didn’t hide a thing. Everybody was speechless with disgust. She’s up to no good again that one, worse than her mother.’

  ‘I dare say,’ said Muriel.

  ‘And guess who Gertrude was with, all night.’

  ‘Who?’

  Just then William drove slowly past in his mother’s old black monstrosity. As they turned to watch he lifted two fingers on the steering wheel, inclined his hat and glided on.

  Muriel looked at Beula and folded her arms. Beula nodded. ‘Mark my words Muriel, he’ll have her out behind the cemetery before you know it.’

  • • •

  Lois was on her knees, one grimy arm wrist deep in a bucket of warm soapy water, the floor around her wet and shiny. She was a squat woman with an adipose apron that bounced on her thighs when she walked. Her short grey hair featured a permanent cocky’s crest and scattered snowy flakes of sticky scalp all over her shoulders. She was sweating, salt water dripping from the end of her blood-rushed nose, yet she had washed just one square yard of Irma Almanac’s floor.

  Irma was heading for her spot, her rusty knuckles working the wheels of her chair, her bones grating like chalk on a blackboard. As she inched towards the fire hearth, her axle squeaked.

  ‘Where’s your butter, Irmalove?’ said Lois.

  Irma inclined with her blue eyes to the fridge. Lois attacked the sprockets and joins of the wheelchair with butter then shunted it back and forth, back and forth. Not a squeak, but Irma winced and her eyes grew watery.

  ‘Need some for your bones Irmalove?’

  Irma watched Lois wipe away at her floor. She wished she had the strength to tell her to put the chairs up on the table and wash under it – that patch of floor hadn’t been washed since Lois had been hired to ‘clean’ the house years ago.

  ‘How was the dance?’ she asked.

  ‘Well. I’m not gossipin’ or anythink …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘… but that Myrtle Dunnage who calls herself Tilly these days, well she’s got a nerve I tell you, turned up wearing a very bold frock – obscene – and followed Teddy McSwiney around all night. It’s a bad lot it is, if you ask me. I’m not saying anythink just like I’m not saying anythink about Faif O’Brien and her goings on but that Tilly will cause more trouble, you just wait. Apparently young Gertrude Pratt and that William spent the whole night wif each other …’

  ‘Gertrude you say?’

  ‘… and Nancy tells me that Beula told her that she finks Gertrude’s getting married now. Can you imagine Elsbef?’

  11

  The morning sun shone on Sergeant Farrat’s back as he sat on his back porch, eating breakfast. He held the tip of a banana, steadying the curve against a plate and slit it down the centre, then dissected it at one-inch intervals. He put his knife down and carefully peeled back the skin using a dainty dessert fork, then popped a small half moon into his mouth and chewed quickly. He’d heard about the green dress and wondered if he could ask Tilly for an ostrich feather. He ate some toast and marmalade, then brushed the crumbs from his out-fit – a Rita Hayworth ensemble that he’d copied from a magazine picture of Rita’s marriage to Aly Khan. He’d given his hat a bigger brim – 18 inches – and edged it with pale blue net and white crepe paper roses. He sighed; it would have been perfect for the Spring race meeting.

  Up on The Hill, Tilly was bent over her machine sewing a six-inch zipper to the bodice of a deep amethyst frock, her expert fingers guiding the cloth over the grinding needle plate. Molly came into the kitchen, and as she moved towards the back door swept the salt and pepper shakers, a vase of dried herbs and an incense burner from the bench with her walking stick. Tilly continued to sew. Outside, Molly steadied herself against the veranda post and watched a figure approaching: a young man swinging his arms high to counter a club foot enormously booted at the end of his withered leg. At the gate he removed his battered hat and stood hot-smelling and grinning widely, despite a face rashed with yellow-topped red spots. His mouth was small and he had too many teeth. His jacket was tight and his shorts loose.

  ‘Mrs Dunnage?’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  Barney’s smile dropped. ‘It’s me, Barney.’

  ‘Are we related?’

  ‘No.’

 
‘Thank heavens.’

  ‘I’d like to see Tilly, please.’

  ‘What on earth makes you think she’d like to see you?’

  Barney blinked and swallowed. His face fell and he crushed his hat in his fists.

  ‘Hello Barney.’ Tilly stood behind Molly. She smiled at him.

  ‘Oh good,’ he said, then noticed she wore only a short vivid blue silk petticoat. He stepped from one foot to the other and back again, dipping sadly on his club foot.

  ‘Did Teddy send you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Barney …’ She came down the step towards him, and he stepped back. ‘Will you please go back and tell Teddy I said I didn’t want to go to the races with him and I meant it?’

  ‘Yeah, I know but I thought you might like to go with me. Please.’ He bobbed again, punching his hat.

  As Molly opened her mouth Tilly turned and put her hand over it. ‘I don’t care if you kill yourself Molly, I’m not going,’ she said. Molly’s burned thighs still smarted in a warm bath. Tilly turned back to the crestfallen lad. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to go with you –’

  ‘Nonsense, it is. It’s because you’re a spastic,’ chirped Molly.

  Tilly looked at the ground and counted to ten then she looked back into Barney’s hurt face, his small blue eyes brimming with tears. ‘If you’d care to step inside to wait while I hem my frock Barney? I’ll only keep you a minute.’ She turned back to her mother, ‘You’ll keep.’

  ‘I’ll hardly go rotten,’ she said, and smiled at Barney. ‘Come inside laddy, I’ll make you a cup of tea. Don’t let her make anything for you, she’s a sorceress. It must be a great nuisance dragging a club foot about with you – have you got a hump on your back too?’

  Sergeant Farrat stood at the mirror, stripped to his new Alston high-waisted rubber reducing wrap-around girdle, styled ‘to inhibit the spare tyre while controlling the diaphragm’. He dressed carefully, then picked up his box brownie camera, admiring his slimmer reflection. He caught sight of Rita Hayworth’s ensemble flung across the bed behind him and frowned.

  • • •

  The grandstand was full, everyone waiting for the next race. Elsbeth looked uncomfortable in the warm, horse-filled air. William Beaumont appeared with Gertrude Pratt on his arm and Alvin following. The spectators stopped fanning their race forms to watch. Mona gasped and Elsbeth’s hand shot to the marcasite brooch at her throat. She turned away and raised her opera glasses and looked earnestly at the distant, empty barrier. Mona covered her mouth with her hanky and moved closer to her mother. William, Gertrude and Alvin made their way through the crowd and sat down next to Elsbeth. Alvin smiled broadly at Elsbeth and saluted her while Gertrude fixed her smile at some point past the tree tops and William smiled cordially at the staring people in the stand.

  Then Alvin said, ‘Have you placed a bet, Elsbeth?’

  ‘I don’t gamble,’ she said.

  Alvin gave a short laugh. ‘I see, just here for a sticky-beak then?’

  Elsbeth took her binoculars away from her eyes and gave them to Mona.

  Alvin continued happily, ‘I think I’ll have a wager on number thirteen, Married Well.’

  The spectators started fanning their race forms again, slowly. Elsbeth screeched, ‘That would naturally be, on the nose.’

  Gertrude reddened, and William bit his bottom lip and stared at his shoelaces. Alvin stood up, cleared his throat and said very, very clearly, ‘Since I was sure we would meet here, Mrs Beaumont, I took the opportunity to bring with me your unpaid accounts … of the last two years.’

  He opened his jacket and reached inside to his pocket. ‘I thought I’d save postage. You know how it is.’ She snatched the fat wad of invoices from his hand. Gertrude stood and marched off through the parting crowd.

  William stood up next to Alvin and glared at his mother. ‘Bother you,’ he said, and rushed through the straw hats, bretons and berets, the white gloved hands flapping their race forms madly in his wake.

  • • •

  Tilly arrived at the kitchen table in her new dress and wide-brimmed straw hat. Barney stood rapidly, up-ending his chair. He swallowed. He had coconut and pink icing stuck to the tip of his extra long chin. Tilly stood backlit in the grey kitchen wearing the bright amethyst dress. It was made from shantung and had a low, square neck and firm bodice that continued down, pulling firmly across her thighs. At her knees, short tiers of gathered satin skirts kicked and swam. Her arms and legs were bare and Barney thought her black strappy sandals must be difficult to balance on.

  ‘Barney,’ said Tilly, ‘I think it’s only fair that you know something. Your brother sent you to ask me to the races so that he could take me from you when we get there, then he’ll give you some money to get rid of you. Do you think that’s right?’

  ‘No. That’s wrong. I made him give me the money already.’

  Teddy was waiting at the library corner in a very old but very shiny Ford when Tilly – her brilliant, silky dress shimmering in the sunshine – strolled by on the arm of bobbing Barney. They chatted intensely as they passed on the creek bank opposite him and continued to ignore him as he puttered beside them all the way down Oval Street to the football ground, which became a race track or cricket pitch off season. The women in their sensible floral cotton button-throughs with box cluster pleat skirts stopped to stare. Their mouths dropped and their eyebrows rose as they pointed and whispered, Thinks she’s royalty. Tilly made her way to the stables on Barney’s arm. Teddy walked beside them, smiling and tipping his hat to the gawking townsfolk. The three of them turned their backs to the crowd and leaned on the stable fence to watch the horses. Barney said, ‘My best friend Graham, he’s a horse.’

  ‘So are you,’ mumbled Teddy.

  ‘I like horses,’ said Tilly.

  ‘Mum says I’m not quite finished. Dad said I’m only five bob out of ten.’

  ‘People say things about me too, Barney.’ Faint sibilant sounds reached them and Teddy heard Tilly say, very quietly, ‘We could go home if you like.’ He turned to face the women behind them. They were standing about in pairs and bunches, leaning together, glancing down at their own frocks – pale spun rayon prints, shoulder pads, swathed waists, prominent bust lines, high prim collars, three-quarter sleeves, tweed suits, gloves and dumpy, eye-veiling head-hugging hats.

  It was the purple dress. They were discussing Tilly’s dress.

  ‘There’s no need to leave,’ said Teddy.

  Gertrude Pratt came forward and stepped between Tilly and Barney. ‘Did you make that dress?’ she asked.

  Tilly turned to look at her and said cautiously, ‘Yes. I’m a dressmaker. You know Barney don’t you?’ Tilly indicated Barney shuffling at Gertrude’s back.

  ‘Everyone knows Barney,’ said Gertrude dismissively. Her eyes did not move from Tilly’s face. It was an unusual face with downy alabaster skin. She looked like some-one out of a movie and the air around her seemed different.

  ‘Ah-ha, there you are Gertrude!’ It was Sergeant Farrat.

  She turned to him, ‘My, what a pretty umbrella.’

  ‘Yes, lost property. William is looking for you, Gertrude. I believe you’ll find he’s over at the –’

  Gertrude swung to face Tilly again. ‘The sergeant means William Beaumont. William and I are engaged, almost.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Tilly.

  ‘So you’re a trained dressmaker?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tilly.

  ‘Where did you train?’

  ‘Overseas.’

  ‘Here he comes towards us now,’ said Sergeant Farrat.

  Gertrude moved quickly to intercept her boyfriend, grabbing hold of the tall young man to drag him away.

  ‘You look extremely fetchi
ng, Tilly,’ said Sergeant Farrat, beaming, but Tilly was watching Gertrude’s young man and he was watching her.

  ‘I remember him,’ said Tilly.

  ‘He used to wet his pants at school,’ said Teddy.

  William thought the tall girl with the unusual face and strong shoulders was striking. A McSwiney stood either side of her, like sentries at a luminous statue.

  Gertrude tugged at William’s arm. ‘Is that …?’ he asked.

  ‘Myrtle Dunnage and the McSwineys. They deserve each other.’

  ‘I heard she was back,’ said William, staring. ‘She’s quite beautiful.’ Gertrude pulled his arm again. He looked down at his round, brown-eyed girlfriend, her eyes and nose red from crying, the sun in her face.

  That night Gertrude lay on the back seat of the car with her knees flopped open. William was elbow deep in her petticoats, his mouth jammed over hers panting through his nose when she wrenched her face away and said, ‘It’s time to go in.’

  ‘Yes!’ said William and reached for his fly.

  ‘NO!’ said Gertrude and pushed at his shoulders. She struggled, feeling about in the dark with William still oozing all over her, sucking at her neck. She crawled out from under him and was gone. William was left engorged, panting and alone in his mother’s car. He scratched his head, straightened his tie and sighed. He drove to the Station Hotel but there was no sign of life. The soft yellow light at the top of The Hill burned, so he drove towards it, stopping at the base to smoke a cigarette. Mona said the Dunnage girl had apparently travelled and was driving Miss Dimm spare, always at the library ordering in strange books. Ruth Dimm said she even received a French newspaper in the mail every month.