Rosalie Ham - The Dressmaker

‘The more they hate you the more we’ll dance,’ said Teddy and pulled her up, holding her close. They looked at each other, their faces close, the tips of their noses almost touching.

‘Sickening,’ said Molly.

Teddy zipped up the back of her dress and shoved his hands into his pockets, looking closely at the perfect way the zipper sat over her backbone, the way it raised mounds of skin, the way she’d scooped up her hair, admiring her lovely ear lobes and the fine down across the top of her lovely lip. He stepped back and looked at her standing there in her fabulous dress. Tilly had copied one of Dior’s most famous gowns – the Lys Noir, a strapless, floor-length creation conceived as a sarong – but she had shortened the hem, so the magenta silk organza sat just above her knees at the front and swung behind to catch between her shoulder-blades and then fell away to a short train that frothed along the floor behind her. ‘Dangerous,’ said Teddy.

‘You said it.’ She held her hand out to him. He took it, folding it in his strong hands. He was her good friend and he was her ally. She gathered her train, draping it over her free arm. He pulled her to him and kissed her. It was a warm, soft, delicious kiss that found its way to the soles of her feet, curled her toes and melted her. It made her knees want to lift and her legs open, it pulled her hips against his and made her groan in the back of her throat. He kissed her slowly all the way across her neck and back up to her ear, then to her lips where he found her a little breathless.

‘What am I doing?’ she whispered.

He kissed her again.

Molly wheeled quietly up to them. They turned to look down at the old woman with the tea cosy on her head, the wool threads and ribbons dripping from her chair like soiled horsehair and the dried geraniums clinging to the spokes of her chair.

‘My intentions are only honourable,’ said Teddy.

‘You know perfectly well girls who wear dresses like that don’t warrant honourable intentions,’ said Molly.

They laughed out loud together and she felt her breasts press against him, felt his heart beat and his belly shimmer gently against hers when they laughed. Teddy held her as though she were crystal and she smiled. He drove down The Hill holding her hand.

• • •

The couturiered ladies of Dungatar arrived late and entered the hall at three-minute intervals, poised, their noses aimed at the lights and their mouths creased down. They moved slowly down the centre of the hall through the gaping guests from Winyerp.

Usually Marigold sent her measurements and a picture of what she wanted to Tilly via Lois, but this time she had gone for a fitting. Tilly had swathed her tightly-sprung and trembly form in long, soothing lines of pastel blue silk crepe, very closely cut on a bias with a saucy short train. A high, fine net draped softly over her throat (to hide her rash) and was sprinkled with light diamantés. The sleeves were slightly angel cut, three-quarter-length net. She had dressed her hair in a high, curled fringe. Evan told her she looked ‘like a seraph’, and rubbed his hands together.

Lois Pickett had brought a drawing to Tilly and said, ‘What about this?’ Tilly looked briefly at the long-sleeved cuffed blouse with a neckline featuring a high stand-up collar and flounced peasant skirt, then made her a sculpted, floor-length black crepe gown with a lifted front hem which exposed her slim ankles. The sleeves were bangle-length Magyar, the decolletage horse-shoe shaped and low, exposing a respectable but alluring show of Lois’s cleavage. Tilly stitched a pink satin rose at the front, just inside her hip, softening her barrel appearance. Lois floated down the centre of the hall looking quite the bon vivant and three sizes smaller, her hair bobbed and waved and sprinkled with glitter. For Miss Prudence Dimm, Tilly had tailored royal blue wool crepe close to her body and inserted a sky blue silk double pleat down one side which kicked and shimmered when she moved. She followed Nancy, who oozed in only just wearing a silver lamé halter-necked backless gown that clung like warm toffee over an apple. She was unable to swagger since the skirt was firm, and she held herself erect (unaided by a broom handle) in case the lamé lapels curled and exposed the side of her breasts. Ruth followed Prudence. Tilly had created the perfect outfit to hide Ruth’s sun-baked shoulders: a long-sleeved, high-necked diaphanous black top with light beading that started at her nipples and accumulated at her waist. The silk skirt was long and soft, split to the top of her slim thigh. She looked like someone normally seen at New York’s Cotton Club.

Purl had pointed to a picture of Marilyn Monroe in Bus Stop and said, ‘I want to look like that.’ She stood in the doorway on Fred’s arm, milky white and sparkling in an itty-bitty frost-green satin bodice with thin beady shoulder straps. A frothy ice-green tulle skirt curled seductively from her tiny waist to hang in jagged handkerchief triangles about her beaded ankle straps and spike heels. She had gone platinum and copied Jean Harlow’s shoulder-length creases and curves. Fred’s smile equalled her glow.

The fashion parade continued. Tilly had chosen pastel pink satin for Gertrude. The bodice was chic – boat-necked with cap sleeves – and the waist dipped at the back, rising gently at the front to accommodate her fecundity. The skirt fell to a bias A-line that kicked happily about her ankles. William had grown a Clark Gable moustache and escorted his wife down the centre of the hall, one hand behind his back, the other raised slightly, Trudy’s palm resting on it. They followed Elsbeth, who glided as though she had a vase balanced on her head. Her gown was lush, bottle-green velvet, sleeveless, with a black satin-trimmed square neck. A wide satin belt, fitted low across her pelvis, tied over her bottom in a huge knot that trailed the floor behind her. Tilly had made her elbow-length black satin gloves to match. Elsbeth and Trudy both dressed their hair in a French pleat coiffure.

Sergeant Farrat arrived in top hat and tails and went straight to his table. Evan and Marigold sat opposite. Trudy and Elsbeth were on either side of William and leaned across him talking. ‘When shall we have Belle of the Ball?’ asked Trudy.

Elsbeth looked about the hall. ‘Can you see a mag-enta dress?’

‘She’s not here yet,’ said William.

Elsbeth turned to her son. ‘What table is she on?’

Evan patted his wife’s hand and said, ‘I don’t think the judges will have much trouble finding Belle of the Ball tonight.’ He winked at Elsbeth and Trudy.

Beula Harridene came marching through the door. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair untidy and she wore a white cardigan over a floor-length, pale green button-through with a dusty hem.

‘They’re on their way!’ she said and sat down next to Sergeant Farrat.

Elsbeth, Trudy and Evan stood and moved to the stage. The Faithful O’Briens played ‘My Melancholy Baby’. Lesley turned to Mona and said formally, ‘Shall we dance, my dear?’ and they moved to the dance floor, followed by Sergeant Farrat and Marigold and the remaining Dungatar couples. They swished and shuffled in circles with their chins high. The ladies from Winyerp and Itheca remained in their seats hiding their frothy frocks and net shawls. When Nancy visited the ladies’ powder room, a woman in a stiff, strapless bird’s-eye gown stood beside her at the mirror and asked, ‘Who makes your enchanting gowns?’

‘That’s our secret,’ said Nancy and turned her back.

Evan Pettyman stood in front of the microphone and wiped the sweat from his brow with a square white handkerchief. He welcomed the guests from out of town, then went on to speak about good neighbours and competitors, and begged the entrants for Belle of the Ball to rise and parade the floor just once more so the judges could make their final, very difficult decision. Purl, Lois, Nancy and Ruth, Miss Dimm, Mona and Marigold crossed the floor, stiff and smiling in front of Trudy and Elsbeth who leaned together, nodding and whispering. Evan leaned down to them as Hamish played a drum roll.