Rosalie Ham - The Dressmaker

‘Good,’ he said, ‘that’s what your mother wants – and we can’t let the boss down, can we?’

Elsbeth and Trudy were relaxing with William in the library which up until that day had been ‘the spare room’ – a room in the middle of the badly designed house with no windows that was used to store junk. William had taken to smoking a pipe. He found taking it from between his teeth and sweeping it about a useful gesture to emphasise an idea. Most of his points were actually Trudy’s, but she let him have them. That way she could say, ‘But William, you said a leather lounge suite would last longer.’ South Pacific played softly on the new record player, ‘Bali Haiiiiiiii, come to meeeeeee’. Without warning Trudy froze, clutched her mouth and ran from the room. Elsbeth and William raised eyebrows at each other.

Mona tripped down the hall calling, ‘Mummy, William, come quickly!’

Lesley cried, ‘She’s just been sick into the dishes!’ and he closed his eyes and raised the back of his hand to his forehead.

‘Why Trudy,’ said William and went to her. Elsbeth put her fingers to her lips and steadied herself on the refrigerator.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Mona.

‘Have you been feeling unwell of late, dear?’ asked Elsbeth, suddenly important.

‘A little tired, that’s all.’

Elsbeth looked knowingly at her son and they looked down upon Trudy with love and overwhelming gratitude. They reached for her while Lesley muttered to the ceiling, ‘OhmyGod. She’s preg-nnt.’

Mona held the teapot tightly to her chest and said, ‘You’ll want my room for a nursery!’ Elsbeth stepped towards her daughter. ‘Selfish little wretch,’ she snapped, and slapped her viciously on the cheek.

Beula Harridene was out walking one evening when she discovered Alvin shining a torch into a travelling salesman’s boot, sorting through cheap materials. In the morning she found the materials on Muriel’s counter, for sale at inflated prices. The haberdashery counter had expanded its range of buttons, zips and beads, which Alvin imported from specialist shops in Richmond, while he purchased accessories from wholesalers in Collins Street then sold them at 100 percent markup to the highly competitive locals. These days women made their housecoats from ‘imported’ brocade with ivory or diamanté buttons, and swanned about their country bungalows in pastel silk chiffons or tapered velvet pants with cummerbund waists and high-necked jerseys, like movie stars.

Tea-chests kept arriving for Miss T. Dunnage, Dung-atar, Australia. Sergeant Farrat arrived at The Hill one evening as Ruth struggled to drag one from the postal van to Tilly’s veranda. ‘Dear me,’ said the sergeant, ‘what’s in it – gold?’

‘Supplies,’ said Tilly, ‘cottons, patterns, sequins, magazines, feathers –’

‘Feathers?’ Sergeant Farrat clasped his hands.

‘Oh yes,’ said Ruth, ‘all different sorts of feathers too.’

Tilly looked coolly at her and raised an eyebrow. Ruth’s hand flew to her mouth. Sergeant Farrat caught everything that passed between the women. ‘Ostrich feathers?’

‘I don’t know really, sergeant’ said Ruth, ‘I’d imagine, there is, I mean I wouldn’t exactly know what’s in the box but everyone’s been talking about their new frock for the social club presentation night …’

They all looked down at the tea-chest. The seals were torn and there were raw holes where nails had been newly pulled and about them brand new nails inexpertly hammered in. The original tape had been torn away and new standard postal tape applied in its place. ‘Well,’ said Ruth, ‘I’d better get on then, Purl’ll be waiting for her new shoes and Faith’s got new sheet music to practise.’ They watched her putter away in her van, then the sergeant smiled at Tilly and asked, ‘How is your mother these days?’

‘These days she’s far from neglected.’ Tilly crossed her arms and looked at him.

Sergeant Farrat removed his policeman’s cap and placed it over his heart. ‘Yes,’ he said and looked at the ground.

‘It’s amazing what a little bit of nourishment will do,’ she continued. ‘She has good days and not-so-good, but she’s always entertaining and things come back to her from time to time.’ They dragged the tea-chest into the kitchen.

‘I was under the impression Mae looked out for her,’ said the sergeant.

Molly shuffled into the kitchen in her dressing gown and slippers, dragging a piece of rope. She stopped and looked closely at Sergeant Farrat. ‘In trouble is she? I’m not surprised.’

‘Would you like to join us for a cup of tea and some cake, Molly?’

She took no notice of Tilly but leaned closer to Sergeant Farrat. ‘My possum’s gone missing,’ she said, ‘but I think I know what happened to it.’ She inclined to a large pot simmering on the stove.

‘I see,’ he said nodding gravely. Molly shuffled on. Tilly handed the sergeant a cup of tea. He tapped the tea-chest with the side of his shoe then walked around it. ‘You’ll need pliers to get this undone,’ he said. Tilly handed him the pliers and he put down his cup of tea, then fell to his knees in front of the chest. He levered the top off and dug inside, grabbing packages and holding them to his nose, inhaling, ‘Can I open them, please?’

‘Well, I was going to –’

He tore lasciviously at the corners of the paper, tugging fabrics out and rubbing them between his thumb and fingers, then he placed them along her small work table. Tilly sorted through the drawings and measurements she’d made and placed them with the material. Sergeant Farrat came to the last package at the bottom of the tea-chest. He clutched it to his heart then ripped the brown paper apart and freed yards and yards of brilliant magenta silk organza. ‘Oh,’ he cried and buried his face into the boiling mass. He stopped abruptly and gaped at Tilly, smacking his hands against his reddened face, appalled at his abandonment.

‘Gorgeous isn’t it?’ said Tilly. ‘It’s mine.’

The sergeant stepped to her, took her hand in his and looked into her eyes. ‘Can I please have one of your ostrich feathers?’

‘Yes.’

He kissed her hand then wrapped the magenta silk organza about his shoulders like a giant Trailing Bertha and walked gracefully to the mirror in imaginary stilettos. He twirled, enjoying his reflection, then looked at Tilly and said, ‘I’m brilliant at sequins and diamantés and I bet I can hemstitch just as fast as you – I’m a whiz with zippers, gauging and frogging too.’

‘How do you feel about ruffs and flounces?’

‘I hate them.’

‘So do I,’ she said.

• • •

Beyond Windswept Crest the neat, cut stubble stretched to the horizon, like a new coir mat. On the Beaumont property, cattle stood stomach-deep in the low, grey stubble, which was the remains of last season’s crop. There was a green oasis that was the homestead, surrounded by gums, its roof red against the bright sky. Parked cars glittered in the sun and small striped marquees stood in front of the green island. In one paddock a horse skipped stiffly around at the end of a rope held by a small figure in a red coat – Lesley demonstrating dressage. People stood about on the mowed paddock that fell away to the Dungatar creek, which was lined with grey drowned gums. William was explaining to Bobby and Reg the new developments. ‘We had Ed McSwiney build a new yard and stables for the equestrian. The tennis court is under renovation and we’ve a new irrigation system dug for the gardens, the poultry and so on – and of course you’re all here to try out the new croquet lawn and I believe mother is going to announce a new project when she awards the various prizes for the cakes …’ the smile fell from William’s face and his voice trailed away, ‘… and I have plans for the agricultural side of things, when I get the machinery …’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and wandered away.