Rosalie Ham - The Dressmaker

‘Did you say her name?’ snapped Teddy.

‘You told me not to.’

‘So you didn’t say her name?’

‘No. I said your name, and he said, you gotta put it on tomorra.’ Tilly looked at Barney standing in her doorway. ‘Tomorra,’ he said again. ‘He told me to tell you, tomorra.’

Teddy rubbed his brother’s shoulders gently. ‘All right Barney.’ He turned to Tilly, ‘You remember my brother?’

‘Thank you for bringing the cream,’ she said. Barney blushed and looked at the wall beside him.

When they had gone she sniffed Mr Almanac’s cream and threw it away, then gathered some herbs and creams from a trunk under her bed and made a paste to apply.

Molly lay in bed naked from the waist down, while two palm-sized red blotches ballooned on her thighs and filled with clear liquid. Tilly emptied her mother’s bed-pan several times a day, dressed her wounds and did as the old woman bid. The blisters subsided to leave two smarting marks.

Out at Windswept Crest, Elsbeth sat rigidly at the bay window, fists clenched, eyes brimming. Mona slunk about the corners of the kitchen wiping shiny surfaces, peeping into the oven and checking container lids while casting sideways glances at her mother.

William was at the pub leaning on the bar, thinking about his mother and the fact that it was tea time. The youths about him drained their beers and zigzagged towards the door, heading for the hall. Scotty Pullit slapped his back. ‘Come on twinkle toes, let’s go give the girls a thrill,’ and he walked away, bent and coughing.

William stopped outside the post office, jangling some coins in his pocket, looking at the public telephone. He had still not recovered from his meeting with Mr Pratt and the thick file labelled ‘Windswept Crest’. Scotty Pullit appeared beside him again and handed him his bottle of clear, boiling watermelon firewater. William took a swig, coughed and gasped then followed Scotty and the other footballers, farmers’ sons and daughters into the hall. Inside, balloons and streamers were slung from bearer to bearer. He wandered to the refreshment table, where he and the boys drank punch and smoked. Local girls in twos and threes fluttered to corner tables, twittering and chatting.

The O’Brien Brothers tuned their instruments. Hamish rumbled around his drum kit while his wife stood at the piano, stretching her fingers and humming. Faith was squeezed into a fire engine red rayon taffeta frock. Her dark brown curls were piled on her head with flowers, à la Carmen Miranda and plastic roses dangled from her ears. A matching ring covered three knuckles. She wore too much foundation makeup and powder. ‘The brassy section,’ hissed Beula. She plopped her broad bum and billowing skirt onto a tiny stool, cleared her throat and warbled a flat scale up to a painful high C. Beside her, Reginald – ‘Faith’s fiddler’ – was tearing his bow over the violin strings, struggling to match Faith’s notes. Bobby Pickett plucked at his Fender, smiling through his missing tooth as the feedback screamed. Faith tap-tapped the microphone, ‘One two one two,’ then blew. A shrill electric scream bounced off the rafters. William winced and put his fingers in his ears.

‘Good Evening and welcome to the Saturday Night shimmer and shuffle with Faithful O’Brien’s Band –’

‘Och, the Blood and O’Brien Brothers Band!’ called Hamish.

Faith rolled her eyes, put her hands on generous hips and said through the microphone, ‘Hamish we’ve been through all this before. None of you are brothers.’

A cymbal clash from Hamish and the musicians struck the first phrase of ‘God Save the King’. Everyone stood to attention. It reminded William of his mother so he grabbed Scotty’s bottle of watermelon firewater and took a swig to quell his conscience. When the anthem was over, a line of footballers boldly led a girl each to the dance floor, then turned with arms raised, eyes to the picture rail. The band launched into ‘Buttons and Bows’ and the couples bounced sideways as one, setting sail in a clockwise direction around the hall. Faith O’Brien’s family band warmed to a jaunty rendition of ‘Sunny Side of the Street’. A lumpy farmer was snatched from William’s side by a lass from a neighbouring acreage and they swirled onto the dance floor awash with swaying full skirts, seamed stockings, kicking flat heels and petticoats peeping. Here and there, a frayed wool skirt-suit from ten years ago manouvred sedately through the circling frills.

Gertrude Pratt strolled through the door, her cardigan hanging from her shoulders and her purse over her arm. She cruised towards the refreshment table. William turned to grind his Capstan out in the sawdust and leave but found instead that he was facing Gertrude. He looked at the full-faced girl with the soft brown eyes and, smiling apologetically, raised an arm, pointing at the door behind her saying, ‘I was just about to go home …’

She stepped forward, took his raised hand in hers and spun him off into the dancers.

William hadn’t danced since lessons with Miss Dimm when he was fifteen and awkward. The girl in his arms reminded him of then, except she was surprisingly light on her feet, soft to touch and smelled of perfume. He could feel her hips twist, the warm flesh of her waist move under his palm, her luxurious brown hair against his cheek. He stumbled, trod on her toes and bashed his knees against hers so she held him tighter, closer, and he felt her soft breasts flatten against his lapels. After a while he was reassured by the friendly girl in his arms. She felt like the wake of passing angels, they could have been in heaven.

At the end of the bracket he went to fetch punch. He found Scotty at the refreshment table and drank lavishly from the watermelon firewater bottle. Scotty looked over at Gertrude. ‘Reckon she might cost a few bob to run, that one,’ he said.

‘Well,’ said William forlornly, ‘I daresay her father’s using my money to run her now.’ He wished he could somehow get some of it back or raise a loan, just to get started. He wondered if … he reached for the watermelon firewater again then made his way over to the table where Gertrude Pratt sat waiting for her punch. ‘It’s very warm in here,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said William.

‘Shall we go for a stroll outside?’ She took William’s hand.

The dancers stood poised like frozen champions on trophies, waiting. Barney McSwiney turned Faith’s black-spotted pages and the band searched for a common note, thunking, plinking. They saw Tilly Dunnage arrive on the arm of Teddy McSwiney, star full forward, as the two young people stepped inside the door. Then Faith spotted them and the band seized; all heads turned to look. Somewhere a balloon burst.

Tilly kept her eyes to the middle distance. She knew it was a mistake, it was too soon, too bold. A feverish nausea swamped her, guilt, and she said to herself, it wasn’t my fault , but moved to step back anyway. Teddy held her firm, his arm strong about her waist.

‘I can’t stay,’ she whispered, but he moved forward, steering her across the floor. Couples stood aside and stared at Tilly, draped in a striking green gown that was sculpted, crafted about her svelte frame. It curved with her hips, stretched over her breasts and clung to her thighs. And the material – georgette, two-and-six a yard from the sale stand at Pratts. The girls in their short frocks with pinched waists, their hair stiff in neat circles, opened their pink lips wide and tugged self-consciously at their frothy skirts. The wallflowers sunk further into the wall and a wave of admiring nudges kicked through the young men.