The Dressmaker Page 9

  He drove home. His mother was waiting. ‘Why?’ she cried.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You can’t marry her, she’s a heifer!’

  ‘I can if I like,’ said William and raised his chin.

  Elsbeth stood looking at her only son and shrieked, ‘You’ve been had – and it doesn’t take too much imagination to work out how.’

  William’s voice rose to the Beaumont shrill. ‘I want a future, a life –’

  ‘You’ve got a life.’

  ‘It’s not mine!’ William stomped off towards his room.

  ‘NO!’ his mother wailed.

  He turned. ‘It’s either her or Tilly Dunnage.’

  Elsbeth collapsed into a chair. On his way past Mona’s room, William called, ‘And you should find someone too, sister.’

  Mona’s wet rubbing halted under her blankets and she bit the sheet.

  William went to see Alvin Pratt the next day and by evening all had been arranged for William to marry down, thus reinstating his mother to her rightful place.

  12

  Marigold Pettyman, Lois Pickett, Beula Harridene and Faith O’Brien were standing at Pratts’ vacant window. Alvin had removed the specials advertisements from the glass two days ago. Purl, Nancy and Ruth joined the gathering crowd. Finally Alvin, dusty and scone-coloured, leaned into his window, scooped away a few dead blowies, and rested a catalogue open on a page featuring five richly illustrated wedding cakes. Beside it he placed a two-tiered, elaborately decorated and perfect wedding cake on a silver tray. He smiled lovingly at his beautiful creation before carefully closing the lace curtains hanging behind.

  Inside, Muriel, Gertrude and Tilly leaned together over the haberdashery counter flicking through a magazine. Molly sat beside them in her wheelchair, watching out the door.

  ‘Lois Pickett always looks like a tea-stained hanky,’ she said.

  Tilly gave her a black look.

  ‘And we all know how unbalanced Marigold Pettyman is, these days.’

  The wedding gown they were looking at was strapless with an overly clinched waist held by a bunchy satin sash which gave way to an overskirt of unspectacular beaded net. At the bodice top there was another bunch of satin, a bow, fit to camouflage any cleavage.

  Gertrude pointed to a picture and said, ‘That one, I like that one.’

  ‘It’s beautiful, Gert,’ said Muriel and stepped back to picture her daughter wearing the white wedding gown.

  ‘It’ll hide those thighs of yours,’ said Molly. Tilly pushed her mother over to hardware and parked her in front of a shelf full of boxes of nails. Molly was right about the thighs but Gertrude had a waist Tilly could emphasise, which would also help with her hips. Then there was the square bottom and shapeless down-pipe legs and matching arms, and under that cardigan Gertrude was hirsute, so bare skin was out of the question. She also had a pigeon chest. Tilly looked again at the gown. ‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘we can do much better than that,’ and Gertrude caught her breath.

  • • •

  Teddy was leaning on the bar and Purl was telling him all about the wedding,

  ‘… so of course Elsbeth’s furious, Ruth said she hasn’t posted the invitations yet but Myrtle Dunnage phoned Winyerp and ordered six yards of cloth and five yards of lace. It should arrive Friday.’

  ‘Friday?’ repeated Teddy.

  ‘By train.’

  Teddy arrived on the veranda at The Hill that evening and talked about the poor mail service around Christmas and how Hamish complained the new diesel trains were always late. Tilly leaned on the doorjamb, crossed her arms and raised one eyebrow.

  ‘… and I understand it’s a hasty decision, on William’s part,’ he said, ‘a very hasty decision.’

  ‘So you think Gertrude needs her wedding dress as soon as possible?’

  ‘I don’t, but I bet Gertrude thinks that so she can tell him as soon as possible that’s it’s all stitched up.’

  ‘Perhaps we should leave it to the trains, and fate.’

  ‘No one would ever know how well you can sew,’ he put his hands in his pockets and looked at the stars, ‘and I happen to be driving to Winyerp tomorrow.’ He looked at her. ‘Molly might like the drive. Ever been for a ride in a car, Molly?’

  ‘They don’t look much chop to me,’ she said.

  Teddy said he’d be leaving about eight.

  When he got to his car the next morning she was already sitting in it, lovely in her deep cloche and dark glasses. She looked at her watch and waved a fly away. ‘Hello,’ said Teddy. He left her alone, and dropped her off at nine with a plan to meet her at the pub at noon. At lunch he shouted her a plate of vegetables and a stout and took her parcels for her, leaving her free all afternoon. He dropped her home at dusk. When she went inside she found Molly had dismantled her sewing machine entirely. It took her three days to find all the parts and put them back together.

  A week before Christmas Tilly sat hunched over her sewing machine at the kitchen table, happy to be creating again. Molly was in her wheelchair beside the stove unravelling the jumper she was wearing, a crinkly nest of wool gathering over her knees. Tilly glanced at the woolly pile. ‘Why are you doing that?’ she said.

  ‘I’m hot.’

  ‘Move away from the fire.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Please yourself.’

  She pressed down firmly on the electric treadle. Molly reached for the stove poker and hid it under her knee rug then slowly pushed at her wheels.

  Tilly’s fingers guided the slippery surface beneath the speeding foot, the needle racing. Molly fumbled about under her knee rug, found the poker, raised it high and let it fall on Tilly’s head just as Teddy rapped at the screen door. He heard a yelp, then someone stumbling.

  He found Tilly standing in the corner holding the back of her head. Molly sat innocently by the fire unravelling thread from her jumper. On the floor by the table satin and lace lay heaped like cloud cushions.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She hit me,’ said Tilly.

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘You did. You hit me with the poker.’

  ‘Liar. You’re just trying to have me put away. You’re the dangerous one, you killed my possum.’ Molly began to weep.

  ‘He moved back to the tree because of the chimney smoke, you can see him any time you like.’ She rubbed her head.

  ‘If you weren’t always stirring away at your cauldron.’

  Teddy looked from one to the other, then went to Molly and rubbed her bony back and handed her his hanky. ‘There, there,’ he said.

  Molly fell against him, howling. He handed her his hipflask. ‘I’ve got just the thing.’ She grabbed it and put it to her lips.

  Teddy moved to Tilly and reached for her. ‘Show me.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She pulled further into the corner but he persisted. He pushed his fingers into her glorious hair and felt around her warm scalp. ‘You’ve got an egg on your head.’ He turned back to Molly just as she shoved his hip flask down the front of her nightie.

  ‘Give me that.’

  ‘Get it yourself.’

  Teddy screwed his face up. Tilly dived down her mother’s nightie with two hands, retrieving the flask and handing it to Teddy.

  ‘It’s empty,’ he said.

  Tilly heaped Gertrude’s wedding dress back onto the table.

  ‘I came to invite both of you for a Christmas drink tomorrow night, but …’ He looked sideways at Molly and shook his flask one more time.

  ‘I’d love to come,’ said Molly then burped.

  ‘I’m not going,’ said Tilly.

  ‘That’s all right. He’ll come and fetch me, won’t you sonny?’

 
He did come to fetch her and he brought roses to Tilly. A huge bunch of velvet-skinned, scarlet-black roses that smelled thickly of sugar, summer and misty creek water. Tilly was amazed.

  ‘I risked my life to get these for you last night.’

  ‘Which garden – Beula or Sergeant Farrat?’

  Teddy winked. ‘Come for a drink?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just one.’

  ‘I really appreciate you taking Molly off my hands for an hour or so, I really do.’

  ‘You can still come.’

  ‘It’ll be nice to be by myself.’

  Molly was at the veranda step. ‘Come on then,’ she called, ‘leave her to sulk.’

  From the back step Teddy pleaded one more time. ‘Come on please? We’re having a high old time down by the Tip, pile of presents from Santa under the tree for the kids, all down there screeching about.’

  She smiled, closed the door and said softly, ‘That would break my heart.’

  13

  Elsbeth took to her bed and refused to have anything to do with the wedding plans. William despaired a little, but things just seemed to go ahead. Mr Pratt restored the credit account so he was able to think seriously about developing the property; buy some star pickets and mend a few fences to start with, a new tractor, next season’s crop, there would be children, a family to raise, and Gertrude would adjust, learn …

  He read her a sonnet – Shakespeare, number 130. ‘What did you think of that, dear?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was Shakespeare, William Shakespeare.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Yes – what did you especially like about it, Gertrude?’

  ‘Most poems are too long; that one wasn’t.’

  They were standing beneath a halo of moths skipping about the light globe above the Pratts’ back door. William moved his hat brim around and around in his hands and said, ‘Mona says the invitations are all ready to go …’

  Mona had never dreamed she’d ever be anyone’s bridesmaid. Since Elsbeth would not provide a guest list, Mona supplied Gertrude with one – she simply named every relative and school chum William ever had.

  ‘… I’d rather hoped for a small wedding, I hadn’t realised –’

  ‘Kiss me William, you haven’t kissed me in ages,’ Gertrude pouted.

  He pecked her on the cheek but she reached for him.

  ‘Gertrude, I’ve got to tell you, to say um I know you’ve got your frock and everything –’

  ‘It’s a gown William, a gown.’

  ‘– and the arrangements are going so, well, quickly – you’re doing an exemplary job it seems. I just wonder, because this is meant to be for life, I just … it was so hurried and … well, if you’re not sure you’ll be happy with me out there with Mother, and Mona, there’d be no harm waiting – until we’re more secure, not so busy, after harvest … we can easily … I’d understand.’

  Gertrude’s chin contracted and dimpled and her eyes puckered like burst apricots. ‘But you, I mean we … I’d never have … I thought you loved me. What about my reputation?’ A light flicked on at the front of the house. Gertrude slumped to the wooden floor boards and sat among the old shoes and gardening tools with her hands over her face. William sighed and bent down to her. He rubbed her shoulder.

  • • •

  He was studying his shoelaces when he sensed fussing at the church door. The guests turned to look and an ooh swept through the crowd. William closed his eyes and Faith played ‘Here Comes The Bride’. William took a deep breath, then opened his eyes to look down the aisle. The deep lines across his brow fell away and the colour rose in his cheeks, his shoulders relaxed and he bounced on his toes. Nerves, it had all been nerves. She looked lovely. Her dark chestnut locks were swept up in a poised wave and held secure with a row of luscious pink roses, her eyes sparkling, velvet brown. Her neck looked slender and her skin peachy. She stood there in a fine silk taffeta gown, apricot pink, scoop necked – not too scooped – with sheer off-white tulle three-quarter-length sleeves. The bodice was wrapped firmly about her waist and gathered snugly around her hips, culminating in a large soft bow below her bottom, before falling to swing elegantly. Ribbons hung from the bow and trailed a full three yards as she walked slowly towards him, the silk taffeta flowing thinly about her legs. Gertrude Pratt looked curvy and succulent and she knew it. Mona crept behind her, hunched and trembling. Her hair fell in soft curls about her shoulders and was crowned with rusty dewy roses that complemented perfectly her scoop-necked gown of rust-orange silk taffeta. It was cut to emphasise the few curves Mona had. The silk gathered about her thighs and flared slightly at her knees. Her sloping shoulders supported an off-white tulle cowl which fell to a large bold loop at the small of her back. The bride and bridesmaid clutched enormous clusters of brightly coloured roses. The women noted as they passed that the dressmaker was an absolute wizard with fabric and scissors. Gertrude looked at William beaming back at her and knew she was safe.

  Elsbeth sat stone-faced in the front pew. She had risen from her bed only when William’s chums from university and all her relatives arrived cheering and ra-rahhing about the jolly big occasion. Her fashionable cousin Una from Melbourne leaned to her and said, ‘Exquisite,’ then smiled approvingly. Elsbeth turned around doubtfully, then swelled. Her chin went up and she assumed her, ‘I-can-smell-dog-dirt-on-someone’s-boot,’ expression. ‘Yes,’ she said to her cousin, ‘my daughter-in-law’s family are in business, they move in commercial circles.’ Gertrude stood shining and assured on her proud father’s arm at the altar. Muriel burst into tears, became flushed and breathless and was assisted outside where she removed her girdle. She missed the ceremony.

  Afterwards the attractive bridal party stood in bursting sunshine and beamed at the clucking box brownie shutters. Small girls in pretty dresses hung lace horse-shoes on Gertrude’s arm while Sergeant Farrat pumped William’s arm with serious vigour for a long time – he was noting the fine detail on the gowns. Gertrude and William paused at the Triumph Gloria to wave at the stickybeaks – Purl and Fred, Lois, Nancy, Ruth and her sister Miss Dimm and Beula, all gathered along the fence in their housecoats and slippers. Muriel had wanted to include her lifelong friends and loyal customers in her only daughter’s wedding day but Gertrude said simply, ‘We’ll have Councillor and Marigold Pettyman and the Sergeant – but we needn’t bother with the others.’

  At the hall the guests boiled happily together at bleached damask tablecloths beneath crepe peonies and satin ribbon. The CWA ladies poured the champagne for the toast, beer for the men and wine for the women, and served cold chicken salad for tea followed by pavlova.

  Tilly Dunnage arrived just in time for the speeches. She stood in the darkness outside the back door and peeped over the top of the seated guests. William rose from his seat to clink a spoon against his glass. He was flushed and jubilant and started, ‘There comes a time in every chap’s life …’ He thanked his mother, his deceased father, his sister, Mr and Mrs Pratt, his beautiful, radiant bride, the army of caterers and friends helping with the refreshments, without whom none of this would have been possible, the Minister for his fine words, Sergeant Farrat and Miss Beula Harridene for the splendid flowers. He ended with, ‘… and that just about covers everyone, so without further ado, I will now propose a toast …’ and fifty chairs scraped as one as the guests stood to join him in an upright toast to King and Country, the Prime Minister, The Happy Occasion and The Future. Hear hear.

  Every female seated in the War Memorial Hall that afternoon had listened hard, waited with bated breath for the name of a seamstress or dressmaker. She wasn’t mentioned.

  At home, Tilly sat by the fire with a glass of beer and a cigarette, thinking about her schooldays with dumpy little Gertrude who had had to wear extra elastic in her plaits because her hair was s
o thick. At lunchtime Tilly would sit on a wood bench at the boundary of the playground and watch the boys play cricket. In the far corner little Gertrude, Nancy, Mona and some other girls would play hoppy.

  A rubber cricket ball bounced and rolled past her. Stewart Pettyman called, ‘Get it Dunnybum, get it!’

  Another boy called, ‘No no, she’ll take it into the girls’ toilet again!’

  ‘Yeah, then we can get her again!’

  They all started shouting, ‘Get the ball Dunnybum and we’ll get you, get the ball Dunnybum and we’ll fill your mouth with poo.’ The girls joined in. Myrtle ran inside.

  After school Myrtle ran, but he was waiting, blocking her way at the library corner. He grabbed her around the neck, dragged her down beside the library, held her by the throat against the wall and rubbed her fanny hard under her panties. Myrtle couldn’t breathe and vomit rose. It burned in her nose.

  When he finished he looked into her eyes, like a red devil. He was wet and smelled hot, like wee. He said, ‘Stand really really still Dunnybum or I’ll come around to your house tonight and I’ll kill your mother the slut, and when she’s dead I’ll get you.’

  Myrtle stood still, up against the wall. He walked backwards looking at her with his devil eyes. Myrtle knew what he was going to do, it was his favourite. He put his head down like a bull and ran ran ran at her as fast as he could, head first at her tummy, like a bull charging. Myrtle sucked in her tummy and closed her eyes – he could just kill her.

  She decided to die.

  Then she changed her mind.

  She stepped sideways.

  The boy ran head first, full pelt into the red brick library wall. He crumpled and fell onto the hot dry grass.

  • • •

  Molly wheeled in. She’d grown fond of her chair and had decorated it. As she sat by the fire or in the sun on the veranda, she tied bits of wool thread and plaited ribbons over the armrests, wove climbing geraniums through the spokes, and shoved several small square knitted rugs about the seat-cushion. When the whim took her she would abandon her colourful wheelchair for her walking stick and wander around the house prodding about in crockery cupboards, dislodging curtain rails or scraping objects onto the floor from bench tops. She parked at the hearth next to the girl who was staring into the fire. ‘How was the ball, Cinderella?’ she asked.