Rosalie Ham - The Dressmaker

Scotty Pullit said, ‘That’s why we’re here, to pay for it all.’

‘Nice lawn,’ said Bobby. The footballers looked at the croquet field and smiled.

Muriel passed along the stalls collecting the profits, bundling them into a brown paper bag. She limped over to Trudy with her canvas stool beneath her arm. She unfolded it, kicked off her dusty white sandals and plopped down beside her daughter, who lay in her deckchair on the homestead veranda. Trudy looked about her nervously. Lipstick sat on the ends of each hair of Muriel’s pale moustache, like tiny redhead matches. She needed a tint and a perm and her feet were dry and cracked, like big long warts.

‘I have some new relatives here today, from Toorak,’ said Gertrude.

‘Elsbeth’s cousin Una?’ said Muriel.

‘You didn’t introduce yourself!’

‘We actually met a long time ago Gert –’

‘ Trudy , my name is Trudy I keep telling you.’

‘They don’t live in Toorak they live next door – Prahran.’ Muriel stood abruptly, took up her stool and tossed the paper bag onto Trudy’s lap. ‘I ought to know, I’m South Yarra born and bred.’ Muriel limped away with her sandals swinging in her hand and her skirt stuck between her buttocks. She watched the ground pass between her feet. ‘My own daughter has turned into the sort of person I moved here to avoid.’

Graham raised his long, dusty, velvet nose and turned to look behind him. He’d crunched his way through half a row of carrots, about fifteen iceberg lettuce, one or two tomato plants – not ripe yet – some beans and a cucumber or two. Finding he wasn’t partial to the cucumbers he returned to the carrots and ripped them from the earth by their green tops, shaking them and shunting them between his soft, fat lips. Faith strolled past heading for a rendezvous with Reginald and smiled. ‘You’re a naughty horse.’

Hamish was at the far side of the homestead adjusting his model railway signals, the miniature steam train chugging and tooting around and around on tiny steel tracks. ‘You mustn’t get too close,’ he growled to the watching children. ‘It’s a very fine delicate piece of machinery, tuned, balanced … listen to the rhythm … magnificent. There was of course a better model than this, the D class, Type 4-6-0. Now it had two nineteen-inch cylinders, coupled wheels, 11/16 inch diameter OCH, I TOLD YE NOT TO TOUCH, NOW PUT THAT WATER TOWER BACK!’

Six of Lesley’s young pupils rode into the middle of the paddock on hacks and Shetlands. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, parents …’ Lesley smiled at the pastoral people from far flung properties, sitting in jodhpurs beside horse floats, picnicking at fold-up tables. They nodded back. Behind him the ponies moved diagonally sideways in an uneven line. ‘The foundation of dressage is rhythm, suppleness, contact, impulsion, straightness and collection in a horse. Rhythm is the beat and tempo is the measure of time between the beats, or steps. A rider must feel the music the horse is playing.’ The pastoral parents were pointing their thermos cups and laughing. Lesley turned to find the hacks and Shetlands had walked sideways into a bunch in one corner of the arena where they milled about, biting, kicking and bucking, the children bawling in their saddles.

Teddy removed the hoops from the croquet lawn and started a game of kick-to-kick. Someone kicked a wobbly and the ball bounced towards the creek but was picked up by Faith, who was wandering up the slope brushing grass from her hair and clothes. She shot back a powerful short punt right into Scotty Pullit’s lowered forearms, then remained where she was at the back line, close to the creek. Nancy joined the lineup in front of the homestead, then Ruth. Teddy gathered all players to the centre and they nutted out two teams. Bobby, Reginald and Barney stood horse jump poles in forty-four-gallon drums for goalposts. A coin was flipped and the players trotted off to their positions. Barney was given a white shirt and told to wave it whenever the ball came between the posts. He stood proudly at his position with the shirt held high, ready. Teddy kicked the first try and as the ball sailed towards the posts, he called ‘Watch it Barney.’ Barney dropped the shirt and marked the ball. Reginald Blood declared it a no-ball. Teddy lightly biffed the back of Barney’s head so Reg announced Teddy’s team would forfeit another point. There was an argument, the shouts echoing over the creek, the raucous laughter bouncing off gum trees and lifting the crests on roosting galahs. Elsbeth Beaumont turned her cousins towards the horse floats and station owners. ‘It’s always the way with the rabble,’ she sniffed.

While the townsfolk played football Trudy Beau-mont counted the money.

Mona and Lesley rested on hay bales in the gloom of the stables. ‘I suppose I’ll wear my bridesmaid’s dress again,’ said Mona and sighed.

‘What’s it look like?’

‘It’s rust –’

‘Oh that one, the cowl neckline. Why don’t you get that scandalous creature Tilly what’s-her-name to make you some new things? She’s cheap I hear.’

‘Mother says I haven’t had enough wear out of the orange one.’ They picked at bits of straw and swung their riding boots. ‘Are you, um, going to the presentation tonight with anyone special, Maestro?’

‘Why of course!’ squealed Lesley. ‘I’m picking up Lois Pickett at seven.’

‘I see.’

Lesley rolled his eyes. It dawned on Mona that her friend, her Maestro, had made a joke. They fell all over the hay cackling.

• • •

When Mona stepped through the hall door on Les’s arm that evening she was shining. She wore a plain blue rayon dress with a full skirt and a centre-front box pleat which she’d had for years, but she had draped a red floral scarf about her shoulders and pinned a red flower behind her ear. She blended with the other women who still favoured their long black gloves, waistlines and pleated skirts, taffeta, glazed printed cotton, princess-line skirts all in contemporary designs. But they’d been renovated, European-touched, advanced to almost avante-garde by Tilly Dunnage. The tempo in the hall was fast, the tone high and excited. Lesley turned to Mona and said, ‘Now hold your shoulders back and walk like I showed you.’

When Trudy and Elsbeth stepped onto the stage and took their place at the microphone a hush swept across the room. All heads tilted to them. Elsbeth wore an exquisite gown of rubescant shot taffeta. The collar was off-the-shoulder and very deep and wide, and Tilly had created a clever and complicated bodice in the modern wrap-over style.

Pregnancy had added almost three stone to Trudy. Her face had swelled so that her cheeks were spinnakers. Fluid bobbed about her stern like lifebuoys on rough waves, then cascaded down her legs to gather about the ankles. To distract the eye from Trudy’s appearance, Tilly had created a design that was very Vogue , all line and finish. It was calf-length navy silk taffeta, with a strapless underbodice, high-boned and gathered to accommodate her swollen midrift, and swept in wide, unpressed pleats to the hem.

Mona moved towards the stage with Lesley following. He leaned to her and said from the corner of his mouth, ‘It’s snowing down south.’

She looked out the door. ‘I’m not cold.’

‘Your slip’s showing.’ He indicated her hemline with his eyebrows then inclined his head to the door. They moved quietly towards it and stepped outside into the darkness. Lesley held Mona’s shawl while she fumbled about with her petticoat strap and a safety pin she kept fastened to her panties.

‘Quickly,’ said Lesley, ‘they’re about to make the welcoming speech.’

Mona removed her dress and shoved it at Lesley, saying, ‘Hold this.’