Rosalie Ham - The Dressmaker

‘It’s twenty years since Stewart fell out of the tree …’ she said.

‘Yes dear.’

‘Twenty years since I lost my boy …’

‘There there dear.’

‘I can’t see him.’

Evan adjusted the photo of their dead, smiling son.

‘Twenty years …’

‘Yes dear.’ Evan poured a little more tonic and gave it to her. When she slept Evan undressed, then leaned over her, licking his lips and rubbing his hands together. He pulled back the bedclothes and removed Marigold’s nightie. She was limp but he positioned her as he wanted her, legs splayed, arms over her head, then he knelt between her thighs.

The next morning Marigold Pettyman stood safe from the dangerous rain at her kitchen sink with her saveloy-red hands deep in steaming suds, earnestly scrubbing all the doorknobs and window latches.

On Friday evening the footballers and a farmer or two were bunched at the far end of the bar, studying a diagram of the football oval that was pinned over a punctured picture of Bob Menzies on the dartboard. The names of the players were pencilled in at the various positions on the layout. The experts stood around it shaking their heads.

‘Crikey.’

‘Blimey.’

‘Coach’s gone troppo.’

‘Nar – he’s got a plan, tactics, according to Teddy.’

‘Teddy just wants your money.’

‘How much did you bet?’

‘A quid.’

‘Coach’s right – Bobby is big, that’s what matters.’

‘He’s better placed in the centre.’

‘Injury.’

‘Has he gotten over his dog dyin’ yet?’ The men shook their heads and turned their attention back to the game plan.

‘Gunna’s roving.’

‘Stroke of genius that is, half-time swap, bring on Bobby and they won’t see a ball down their end for fifty minutes.’

There was a general rumble of approval. The men turned from the diagram, their hands shoved deep in their pockets.

It was a serious evening. The tense footballers and their supporters lined up at the bar. A foaming beer sat waiting at every spot. They pondered the skirting board behind the bar, sipping. When the amber tide had sunk to one gulp above the glass bottom the men looked knowingly at each other, sculled, clapped and rubbed their hands, secured their hats and made for the door. They were needed at the footy oval. Purl looked at Fred and pressed her red fingernails to her red lips. ‘Shouldn’t you be going Fred?’

‘Purlywurly, we have a celebration to prepare for.’

She went to him and lay her head down on his, ‘I love them boys Fred …’ Fred reached two thin arms around his Purly’s waist and nuzzled so deep into her cleavage that only the tops of his ears were showing. ‘Weywuvootoo,’ he said.

Spectators lined the white boundary fence watching the players run and shout, desperate echoes in a cold dusk. Sincerity and determination spurred the brave athletes, though fear was in their hearts. The supporters worried about the bets they’d laid – not that they had any doubts about Dungatar’s victory.

Every available man, kid and dog gathered to watch the grand final training, to listen to the coach’s pep-talk in the dressing sheds afterwards and rub Oil of Wintergreen on the players’ thighs and calves. There was a heartfelt ‘Hear hear’ from the clever captain Teddy McSwiney and his grateful team-mates in recognition of the coach’s magnificent efforts, then they sang the club song in a sombre way, slapped each other’s backs, shook hands and went home to grilled chops, mashed potato and peas before bed.

The supporters went back to the pub. The last champions from Dungatar to seize the football cup were now war veterans hiding next to radiograms in dim lounge rooms, but tomorrow they would leave their armchairs and drag their shell-shock, emphysema and prosthetics to the white railing by the goalposts even if it killed them. Purl was so sick with worry that she was tempted to bite her nails. The supporters along the bar frowned at their beers. Hamish O’Brien and Septimus Crescant usually argued. Tonight they sat quietly.

‘Gawd,’ said Purl, ‘just look at all of us!’ She smiled brightly at them. No one smiled back. ‘How about the new girl in town?’ she said conspiratorially.

The line of pale faces along the bar looked blankly at her.

‘One more to fight off,’ said an ancient whiskered sheep drover.

‘Our own dandy and full forward has his eye on her,’ said a shearer.

‘Who?’ They felt the night breeze on their backs and smelt Teddy McSwiney as soon as he opened the door. He’d been wasting a lot of talc about his person ever since that woman got off the bus.

‘The new sheila,’ said the shearer.

‘Myrtle Dunnage,’ said Purl.

‘That’d be Tilly,’ said Teddy and winked at Purl.

‘She inherit any of her mother’s loose ways?’ said the drover.

Teddy pulled his clenched fists from his pockets and thrust out his chest.

‘Steady on steady on,’ said Fred.

‘Boys!’ said Purl.

‘I hear she’s a good looking sheila,’ said the shearer. Purl put a beer in front of him and took his money. ‘I suppose you could say that,’ she said and sniffed.

‘She is,’ said Teddy and grinned.

‘More like our Purl, is she?’ said the drover and looked at her with a lewd expression.

Fred looked the drover in the eye, ‘MY Purl,’ he said and screwed a bar cloth over the sink until it squeaked.

‘She’s yours now ,’ said the shearer, and finished his beer. The drinkers turned their backs to him and his glass sat empty in front of him. Teddy moved to stand behind the shearer, his fists low but ready.

‘I remember her!’ said Reginald and snapped his fingers, ‘That’s Mad Molly’s bastard girl. At school we used to –’

‘Shut it Reg!’ Teddy leapt back and raised his fists, dancing. The men turned.

The shearer sprang, ‘Hello, bit of a dark past here as well, better drop in for a chat with Beula on my way home …’

Teddy was on the shearer fast as a bullet, his singlet gathered at his Adam’s apple and his shoulders pinned to the tiles with Teddy’s knees, a fist poised.

‘STOP,’ shrilled Purl. ‘Teddy, you’re our full forward.’

Teddy paused.

‘Might be worth your while to keep your mouth shut from here on in I’d say,’ said Fred and pointed to the shearer, then to the old drover.

The shearer spoke. ‘Might be worth Teddy’s while to get an early night. All I have to do is sneeze and I’d send him through the glass door there.’ Reg and the other men stepped forward, circling the shearer.

‘Please Teddy,’ said Purl, tearfully.

Teddy stood and dusted himself off. The shearer stood and looked down on him. ‘Not much chance I’ll get another beer here tonight – may as well go home to bed.’ They watched him saunter to the door, put on his hat and disappear into the dark. All eyes turned to Teddy.

‘I’ll just finish me beer,’ he said showing his palms in surrrender. He walked home through the rolling fog. Sergeant Farrat, cruising past in his police car, slowed, but Teddy waved him on. Later he lay in his bed staring through the caravan window, pondering the square yellow glow from Tilly’s window up on The Hill.

• • •

The Dungatar supporters suffered four long quarters of a close and dirty battle with Winyerp, urging their warriors on with bloodcurdling oaths and well-founded threats. Towards the end of the fourth quarter the players were exhausted, wet and heaving for breath, blood seeping from their mud-caked limbs. Only Bobby Pickett remained clean – the crease still in his shorts and his guernsey dry – but somehow he’d lost a front tooth.