Rosalie Ham - The Dressmaker

• • •

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 fetching, 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.

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.’