Rosalie Ham - The Dressmaker

She maintained a stiff expression all the way to the empty table at the side of the hall, right up near the band. She sat while he took her shawl and hung it softly over the back of the chair. Her shoulders were white against the green and a long curl escaped down her neck and hung between her shoulder blades.

Teddy went to the refreshment counter. The crowd of men allowed him through. He bought her a punch, himself a beer and sat down next to her. They looked up at the band. The band looked back. Tilly raised a single eyebrow to Faith. Faith blinked and turned to her keyboard, and in a second the din had resumed. The band ground its way into, ‘If You Knew Suzie, Like I Knew Suzie, (Oh Oh)’.

Teddy leaned back, slung one shin over his knee and stretched an arm across the back of Tilly’s chair. She was trembling. He nudged her. ‘Let’s dance.’

‘No.’ She kept her face to the band all night. She pressed the guilt down again until it churned in her stomach. She was used to it, used to forgetting and enjoying herself then suddenly remembering, suddenly feeling unworthy. No one came near the star full forward or his partner that night. She was glad; it was easier that way.

When it was clear William would not be home for tea Mona read for a while, floodlit beneath yellow lamplight in the corner. The quiet, dull drone of the radiogram wound through the house. Elsbeth Beaumont remained, silhouetted in the bay window with the bright moonlight edging the line of her nose.

Mona said, ‘I think I might go to bed now, mother.’ Her mother ignored her. Mona closed the bedroom door behind her firmly. She crossed to her dressing table and picked up her hand mirror. She closed the blinds, adjusted her bedside lamp, slid off her limp rayon panties and lifted her skirt. She perched on the edge of her bed holding a mirror angled to her and studied the purple black fronds of her groin, smiling at the dark fig puckers. Then she undressed slowly, watching herself in the mirror, letting her petticoat straps fall from her shoulders to tumble about her ankles. She caressed her breasts, and ran her hands over her throat. Then, beneath her terylene bedspread, Mona Beaumont reached her quiet, evening orgasm.

On the banks of the Dungatar creek William, erect and eager, rubbed hard up against Gertrude Pratt’s warm round thigh. Reaching for his fly he could think of only one thing to say. ‘Gertrude, I love you.’

‘Yes,’ said Gertrude and opened her legs a little wider. Gertrude Pratt won William Beaumont by allowing him to insert the middle finger of his right hand between the shifting crepe moisture of her purple inner labia minor to where the tightness closed, not quite to the bud.

William arrived at Windswept Crest flushed and grateful. His mother still sat in the bay window, the early morning light behind her. ‘Good morning, mother,’ he said.

She turned to him with tears seeping down her linen cheeks, dripping onto the marcasite peacock pinned to her breast. ‘I’ve been waiting for you all night.’

‘S’ not necessary mother.’

‘You’ve been drinking.’

‘I’m a man, now, mother and it’s Saturday night – at least it was.’

Elsbeth sniffed and dabbed her eyes with her hanky.

‘I had … fun. Next time I’ll insist Mona come with me,’ he said and whistled off to his room.

• • •

Teddy McSwiney walked Tilly home and saw her to her door.

‘Good night,’ she said.

‘It wasn’t so bad, was it?’

She pulled her shawl about her shoulders.

‘I can look after you …’ He smiled and leaned towards her.

She had tied her tobacco into her scarf and turned away to search for it in the folds.

‘… that is, if you want me to.’

She stuck a rolling paper to her lip and held her tobacco tin. ‘Good night,’ she said and opened the back door.

‘They’ll just have to get used to you,’ he said and shrugged.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I’ll have to get used to them.’ She closed the door behind her.

Sergeant Farrat sat nipple-deep in steaming water, the alarm clock ticking and the hot tap dripping. At the edges of his wet pink body floated sprigs of rosemary (to stimulate clarity of mind) and lemon grass (for added fragrance). He’d lathered raw duck egg into his hair and snotty streaks of it slid down his forehead, merging at the ends of his white eyebrows with the aloe vera pulp face mask. A cup of camomile tea and a note pad rested on the soap stand suspended across the bath in front of him. He sucked on a pencil, pondering the frock sketched on the note pad. It needed a feather – a peacock feather perhaps.

The alarm clock rang. He had an hour before Beula would arrive, full of hate and accusations about the goings on at the dance. He held his nose and sank into the brown water, scrubbing the beauty preparations from his submerged body. He struggled out of the bath, his bottom squeezing against the enamel, and stood, his tomato scrotum hanging long and steaming. He reached for a towel and padded dripping to his bedroom to dress and prepare for the week ahead.

When Beula Harridene arrived and started banging at his office door, the sergeant was leaning on the counter peering at the small instructions in his knitting catalogue, Quaker Girl , for a pattern of an Italian jumper designed by BIKI of Milan. He was muttering, ‘No. 14 needles cast on 138 sts., work 31/2 ins in k.1, p. 1 rib Inc. thus: K. 21, (k.11, inc. in next st) 8 times …’ A thread of fine wool stretched over his fat index finger, and two thin metallic needles rested in his palms, held aside. Sergeant Farrat had on his police uniform and thin, pale pink socks and delicate apricot ballet slippers tied gently around his firm ankles with white satin. He ignored Beula and continued to ponder the stitches petalled beneath the needles, then the pattern. Finally he put them down, pirouetted to his bedroom and put on regulation socks and shoes. Then he unlocked the office door and resumed his position behind the desk while Beula fell in behind him yakking.

‘… 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.