Rosalie Ham - The Dressmaker

Lesley swung down the deserted main street between Mona and her mother’s cousin, Una Pleasance, who was shivering. ‘Of course, I’m used to European winters. I was in Milan for many, many years,’ he said. ‘I was working with the Lippizzaners.’

Mona slipped her arm through her husband’s. ‘He taught the horses, didn’t you Lesley?’

‘And now you are in Dungatar?’ Una looked at the few shabby shops along the main street.

‘I was forced to return to Australia upon the death of my dear, dear mama. Her affairs had to be settled and just as I was on the verge of returning to Europe, I was snapped up by the Beaumonts.’

Mona nodded, ‘Snapped up, by us.’

‘But Dungatar’s hardly –’

‘Snapped up just like you, Una!’ sang Lesley and smiled sweetly at her.

‘So,’ he continued, ‘here we all are! That’s the Station Hotel – miles from the railway line,’ and he laughed nudging Una.

‘They do a lovely steak and chips,’ said Mona.

‘If you like steak and chips,’ said Lesley.

Una pointed to The Hill. ‘What’s up there?’ They stopped, looking at the smoke curling up to shroud the vine-covered walls and creep away to the plains. Smoky fingers stretched around the chimney and up into the clouds.

‘That’s where Mad Molly and Myrtle live,’ said Mona gravely.

‘Oh,’ said Una, and nodded knowingly.

‘This is Pratts Store,’ said Lesley breaking the trance. ‘The only supply outlet for miles, a gold mine! It’s got everything – the bread monopoly, the butcher, haberdashery, hardware, even veterinary products, but here comes Dungatar’s richest man now!’

Councillor Pettyman was walking towards them, smiling, his eyes on Una.

‘Good morning,’ he cried. ‘It’s the Beaumont family with my special guest.’ He grabbed Una’s hand and kissed her long white fingers.

‘We’re just giving Una a guided tour of her new home –’

‘You must allow me!’ said Evan, rubbing his hands and licking his lips, his warm breath visible in the winter air. ‘I can drive Miss Pleasance in the comfort of the shire car, after all – she is my guest.’ He looped her arm through his and spun her off towards his car. ‘We can drive along the creek to some of the outlying properties and then …’ He opened the car door and helped Una settle in the front seat, lifted his hat at Mona and Lesley left standing on the footpath then drove the new girl in town away.

‘The cheek!’ said Lesley.

• • •

Tilly sat against the wall looking down through the grey mist to the round green and grey mud-smudged oval fringed by dark cars, the supporters standing between them like caught tears. The small men washed from one end of the field to the other, black bands on their flaying arms as they grabbed at the tiny ball, the supporters howling their scorn at the opposition. She knew anger and woe propelled them. Their cries bounced off the great silo and shot up to her and out across the paddocks in the smoke.

Rain started and fell from the clouds in sheets, pelting and drenching, pounding the cars and the iron roof above her. It bashed at the windows and bent the vegetable leaves in Barney’s garden. A diesel engine groaned away from the Dungatar station, the passenger carriages empty. The cow, tethered half way down The Hill, ceased munching to listen, then turned her rump to the weather and folded her ears forward. The players stopped and stood about, blinded and confused in the grey flooded air until the rain eased, when they started playing again.

Tilly feared football defeat would send the people to her, that they would spill wet and dripping from the gateway of the oval to stream up The Hill with clenched fists for revenge blood. She waited until there was a scattered clapping from the crowd and a horn tooted. The galah bobbed, raising his crest, and lifted a claw from the veranda rail … but it was Dungatar who had lost, failed at its last chance to make the finals. The cars drove out the gate and dispersed.

She went inside where Molly sat turning the pages of a newspaper. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it’s only you.’

Tilly looked at her mother, her skeleton shoulders under her tattered hessian shawl. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s me and you; there is only you and you have only me.’

She sat down to sew but after a while she shoved the needle safely in the hem of Molly’s new dress and leaned back to rub her eyes. She gazed at Teddy’s empty seat and the wood box where he always put his boots and let her mind rest in the orange flames dancing in the stove. Molly spread the paper on the kitchen table, squinted through the bifocals perched at the end of her nose and said, ‘I need my glasses, where have you hidden them?’

Tilly reached over and turned The Amalgamated Dungatar Winyerp Argus Gazette the right way up. ‘Well,’ Molly said and smiled slyly, ‘they got another seamstress, from Melbourne. There’ll be trouble now, she’ll have a trail of Singer Sewing Machine men after her, roaming the countryside leaving broken hearts and hymens in their wake.’

Tilly peered over her mother’s shoulder. The one item in ‘Beula’s Grapevine’ column read, ‘High Fashion Arrives’. There was a photograph of the president, secretary and treasurer of the Dungatar Social Club – wearing creations by Tilly – smiling at a severe woman, whose middle part dissected her widow’s peak.

‘This week Dungatar welcomes Miss Una Pleasance, who has brought to us her considerable dressmaking talents. The Dungatar Social Club, on behalf of the community, welcomes Miss Pleasance and we look forward to the grand opening of her dressmaking establishment, Le Salon . Miss Pleasance is at present a guest of Councillor and Mrs Evan Pettyman. Her business premises will be temporarily located at their home. The grand opening will be celebrated on Friday 14th July, at 2 p.m. Ladies bring a plate.’

First thing in the morning they heard the Triumph Gloria arrive and sit idling on the lawn. Tilly crept to the back door and peeped out. Lesley sat behind the wheel and Elsbeth waited in the back seat with a hanky held to her nose. The new seamstress sat beside her, staring at the wisteria climbing the veranda posts and up and over the roof. Mona stood on the veranda, twirling a riding crop around and around in her hand. Tilly opened the door.

‘Mother says she wants … all the things you’ve got half made, mine and hers and Trudy, Muriel … Lois …’ Her voice faded.

Tilly folded her arms and leaned on the doorjamb.

Mona straightened. ‘Could we have them please?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’ Mona ran back to the car and leaned in to talk to her mother. There was a small conversation in spatting tones then Mona stepped hesitantly back to the veranda.

‘Why?’

‘Because no one’s paid me.’ Tilly slammed the door. The frail building creaked and leaned an inch closer to the ground.

That evening, there was a knock at the door. ‘It’s me,’ called Sergeant Farrat, sotto voce. When Tilly opened the door she found the sergeant standing on the veranda in black linen gaucho pants, a white Russian Cossack shirt and red quilted waistcoat with a black hat with flat brim balanced at a scandalous tilt on the side of his head. He held a white paper package and from beneath his waistcoat he produced a long brown bottle which he held high, moths fluttering about his shoulders. ‘One of Scotty’s finest,’ he said, smiling broadly.

Tilly opened the screen door.

‘Nightcap, Molly?’ asked the sergeant.

She looked at the sergeant, horrified. ‘Don’t wear them, they’re the sort of thing that’d get wrapped around your neck while you’re asleep.’