Rosalie Ham - The Dressmaker

Tilly placed three chilled glasses on the table and Sergeant Farrat poured. He unwrapped the package he’d brought. ‘I have a challenge for you. I’ve been reading up on the Spanish invasion of the South Americas and I have here a costume for my collection which needs alteration.’ Sergeant Farrat stood and pressed a diminutive matador’s costume against his round form. It was bright green silk brocade, heavily beaded, bordered with elaborate gold lamé binding and tassels. ‘I thought perhaps you could improvise some inserts, similar or at least blending with the general glitter of the costume. They could be disguised quite cleverly by Dungatar’s only real creative hands, don’t you think?’

‘I see there’s a new seamstress in town,’ said Tilly.

Sergeant Farrat shrugged, ‘I doubt she’s travelled, or received any sophisticated training.’ He looked down at his shiny green outfit, ‘But we’ll see – at the fund-raising festival.’ He looked back up at her expectantly, but she merely raised an eyebrow. Sergeant Farrat continued, ‘The Social Club have organised it, there’ll be a gymkhana and a bridge competition during the day with refreshments of course … and a concert – recitals and poetry. Winyerp and Itheca are participating … there will be prizes too. It’s in this week’s paper, and Pratts’ window.’

Tilly reached to feel the beading on the matador’s costume. She smiled. Sergeant Farrat beamed down at her, ‘I knew a bit of needlework would lift your spirits.’ He sat down in the old armchair by the fire, leaned back and put his leather slippers up on Teddy’s wood box.

‘Yes,’ she said, and wondered how her teachers in Paris – Balmain, Balenciaga, Dior – would react at the sight of Sergeant Farrat sailing down a catwalk sparkling in his green matador’s costume.

‘Poetry and recital you say?’ Tilly swallowed heavily from her glass.

‘Very cultural,’ said the sergeant.

William was slumped in a battered deckchair on what was now called ‘the back patio’, formerly the porch. His heavily pregnant wife sat inside, filing her nails, the telephone caught in the fatty folds of her chins and shoulder, ‘… well I said to Elsbeth today that there’s no hope at all of getting any of our mending back, lunacy is hereditary you know – Molly most likely murdered someone before she came here so Lord knows what they get up to in that slum on that hill … Beula’s seen her milking the cow and she sneaks along the creek to steal dead wood, like a peasant, in broad daylight! Doesn’t look the least bit guilty, Elsbeth and I were just saying the other day, thank heavens we’ve got Una …’

‘Yes,’ muttered William, ‘most important.’ He reached under his chair for the whisky bottle, slopped a generous amount into the thick glass, held it up to his eye and viewed the horse jumps in the front paddock through the amber liquid. Inside his wife talked on. ‘I’ll get William’s cheque book but I really shouldn’t have a new wardrobe until after the baby … must dash, here’s Lesley with the car, see you there.’

William waited until the scurrying heels had ceased and the front door slammed. He sighed, drained his whisky, refilled the glass, banged his pipe against the wooden armrest and reached for his tobacco.

Una Pleasance stood at Marigold’s front door wearing a navy A-line with matching pumps featuring a striped bow at the toes.

‘Please remove your shoes,’ she said to the arriving guests before they walked on Marigold’s bright, white floor.

Beula cruised the parlour, peering at photos, searching for dust on the skirting boards and picture rails. ‘What an unusual sideboard,’ she said, opening the top drawer.

‘It’s antique – my grandmother’s,’ said Marigold, worrying Beula would leave fingerprints on her polish.

‘I chucked all my grandmother’s old junk out,’ said Beula.

Just then Lois lumbered past pushing Mrs Almanac in her wheelchair: there were bindis in the tyres and oil traces on the axle. Marigold shuddered, and ran to her room, grabbed a Bex powder sachet, flung back her head and opened her mouth. She winced as the powder slid from its paper cradle onto her tongue, then reached for the tonic bottle on the bedside table, unscrewed the cap and sucked. Just then Beula barged in. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘your nerves again is it?’

She smiled and backed out. Marigold put her hand to her neck rash and took another long swig, then popped two tin oxide tablets onto her tongue just for good measure. In the parlour, Beula selected the chair in the corner for a prime view and sat with her chin tucked down, her arms folded over her white blouse and her skinny legs under her kilt. The rest of the ladies sat on plastic-covered sitting room chairs sipping tea from cups that tasted faintly of ammonia, tsk-tsking at the offered cream cakes. When Lois landed on the couch next to Ruth Dimm stale air billowed, and Ruth pressed a hanky to her nose and moved to stand by the door. Then Muriel Pratt caused a stir when she arrived wearing a frock made by ‘that witch … just to show you what we’re used to,’ she said to Una, who looked closely at it then went to stand next to her display.

For the opening of Le Salon , Una had provided a sample of her work. A mannequin stood in the corner wearing a button-through seersucker peasant floral frock with a flounce-collared neckline and small puffed sleeves. The mannequin wore vinyl Mexican moccasins to match and a small straw bonnet. It was an outfit straight from Rockmans of Bourke Street catering for the ‘not-so-slim figure’.

When Purl arrived she dumped a concave sponge on the table and said, ‘Lovely day,’ then turned to Una and looked her up and down. ‘Get sick of Evan or Marigold, you just come and camp at the pub.’ She lit a Turf filter tip and, looking about her for an ashtray, spotted the mannequin in the corner. ‘That one of the first things you made back at sewing school, is it?’ she asked with interest.

Beula turned to the Beaumonts standing together by the window like a grim wedding photograph from 1893, and said loudly, ‘My you’re big Ger, I mean Trudy. When exactly are you due?’ Mona offered the cake plate around again. Soon everyone’s saucer was crammed with thick bricks of lemon slice, hedgehog, cinnamon tea cake and pink cream lamingtons, and they were picking the crumbs and coconut flakes from their bosoms.

When Marigold stepped red-faced and shaking back into the crowded room, Mona handed her a cup of tea with a cream scone on the saucer. Nancy marched through the door behind her, bumping Marigold and sending her cup and saucer splashing onto the carpet. Marigold collapsed, her face resting in the tea and cream puddle, the two fluffy pods of scone dough resting at her ears. The clucking, floral women assisted her to bed, and when finally they returned, Elsbeth stepped to the table, clapped loudly and began the formal proceedings. ‘We welcome Una to Dungatar and wish to say –’

At that moment Trudy bellowed like a distressed cow and doubled over. There was a noise like a water bag bursting. Pink, steamy fluid flowed from her skirts and a circle of carpet around her feet darkened. Her belly was lurching as if the devil himself was ripping at her womb with his hot poker. She folded down on all fours, yelling. Purl finshed her tea in one swallow, grabbed her sponge and left hastily. Lesley fainted and Lois grabbed his ankles and dragged him outside. Mona watched her sister-in-law labouring at her feet. She put her hand over her mouth and ran outside, retching.

Elsbeth turned crimson and cried, ‘Get the doctor!’

‘We haven’t got a doctor,’ said Beula.

‘Get someone!’ She knelt beside Trudy. ‘Stop making a scene,’ she said. Trudy bellowed again.