Rosalie Ham - The Dressmaker

‘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.’

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 so 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.