Rosalie Ham - The Dressmaker

The inspector blushed, ‘Caught a few crims in me time.’

‘Are you a good detective as well?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘To solve the Pettyman case?’

The district inspector was captured by Tilly’s plunging décolleté. She placed her finger under his chin and raised his head, made his eyes meet hers. ‘Have you had forensic training?’

‘No, I mean, not yet.’

‘The inspector is more of a “gatherer of facts” and report writer, wouldn’t you say, Inspector?’ The sergeant handed him a glass of champagne.

‘Yes,’ he said, and sunk his flute of sparkling wine in one gulp. ‘Tripe for tea is it?’

‘Gigot de Dinde Farcie with stuffed lovage and vine leaves, globe artichokes with ravigote sauce,’ said Tilly and placed the roasted fowl on the table.

The inspector looked disappointed and shot a questioning glance at Sergeant Farrat, pulled the chair at the head of the table out, sat down and rolled his sleeves up.

The sergeant carved, Tilly served, and the inspector started eating. Sergeant Farrat poured the wine, sniffed his glass then toasted Tilly.

‘You’re a very noisy eater, Inspector,’ said Tilly.

‘I’m enjoying your stuffed …’ The inspector caught sight of the galah, preening itself on the curtain rail.

‘It’s turkey,’ said the sergeant.

‘We’re not enjoying ours, so eat with your mouth closed,’ Tilly scolded.

‘Yes ma’am.’

They polished off all there was to drink (the inspector brought beer) and Tilly offered cigarettes to the men. The sergeant lit his and inhaled, while the inspector sniffed his and said, ‘Unusual. Peruvian?’

‘Close,’ she said, ‘British Honduras.’

‘Aaahhh,’ said the inspector appreciatively. She held a match to his cigarette. Tilly played loud music and they danced – an independent, jumping, goose-stepping twirl around the kitchen table, to the sound of Micky Katz playing an accelerating rendition of ‘The Wedding Samba’. They danced on top of the table to every other tune that featured on the record Music for Weddings and Bar mitzvahs . Then they dived off the kitchen table into each other’s arms and danced flamenco on the cement hearth, they played drums with wooden spoons and saucepans and they danced some more – rumbas and sambas and a Highland fling – then collapsed into a chair each, puffing and laughing, holding the stitches in their sides.

The inspector suddenly stood and said, ‘Well, we must be off,’ and rolled out the door. Tilly’s mop-head sat over his bald patch. Sergeant Farrat shrugged and followed, serviettes poking through the epaulets on his red Eton jacket.

Tilly stood, her hands on her hips and her brow creased. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m compelled to do my 9:00 pm drive around,’ said Sergeant Farrat regretfully and rolled his eyes at the inspector.

Frank swayed knee-deep in her small purple hemlock tree, its white flowers bleeding small droplets of foul perfume onto his trousers. ‘Wanna come?’

‘You can’t be seen with me,’ said Tilly, ‘I’m the town murderess.’

Frank laughed and waved and fell into the police car. Sergeant Farrat tooted farewell as they drove off. Tilly wandered back inside. She looked at the galah and said, ‘I can start now, there’s nothing to be afraid of.’ She surveyed the soft-coloured piles – calico, boxcloth, satin, silk, vicuña and velveteen, petersham ribbon, lace ribbons, paper flowers, plastic gems and gilded cardboard, all for the Baroque costumes. She wandered to her mother’s bedroom where she kept the soft creamy beiges and blue-white piqué, the poplin, ninon, lisle, organdie, silk, lace and duchesse for the balls, christenings and weddings, then went back to look at the tape measures, pins, buttons and mannequins in corners, waiting, between the rooms. Sergeant Farrat’s secret wardrobe hung in a locked cupboard next to the front door. Her foot rested on scissors lying on the floor where she did her cutting. Baroque sketches were pegged to the curtains and her concertina file containing the cast’s measurements sprang open on the floor.

She swapped her swanskin for overalls and found a mallet and a jemmy. She tore down the curtains and covered all the materials and machines with them, then stood in front of the wall that divided the kitchen from the lounge room, spat on her palms, lifted the mallet and swung. She hammered until she’d made a sizable hole, then jemmied the boards from their bearers. She repeated the process until all that was left between the kitchen and lounge room were old pine beams, covered in fine black dust. She removed the doors and walls from between the bedrooms and the lounge room in the same way then unscrewed the door knobs. She wheeled the splintered planks with rusty nails and her old bed down to the tip in her mother’s wheelchair. She returned to her remodelled house and nailed two doors together, then attached them to her kitchen table. At dawn she stood next to the great big cutting table in the huge open plan workshop and smiled.

She was covered in dirt and cobwebs, so drew a hot bath. While she soaked she hummed and held her toe against the nozzle, blocking the drips until water forced its way around her toe and sprayed out in a thin sharp thread.

The residents of Dungatar assembled at the hall to audition for the Dungatar Social Committee’s production of Macbeth . Irma Almanac rolled in and positioned her chair at the end of the aisle next to Tilly. Nancy nudged Ruth and said Hmph and the auditioners looked sideways at them. Irma was not wearing black: her white high heels sat awkwardly on the footplates and her dress was fire engine red.

Most people chose to read a poem or sing for their audition, although the district inspector did a soft shoe shuffle. The producer and director retired backstage to discuss casting and make their decisions, and then they made the announcements.

Trudy spoke first. ‘I am the director so everyone must do what I say.’

‘And I am the producer so therefore I am in charge of everything, including the director.’

Trudy turned to her mother-in-law. ‘Strictly speaking Elsbeth, however –’

‘Would you please read the cast list, Trudy?’

‘I am, as I said, the director and I am also Lady Macbeth. The part of Macbeth – General and future King – goes to …’

William braced himself.

‘Lesley Muncan!’

There was a general rumble of approval and a smattering of applause. Lesley had put everything into his audition. Mona leaned and kissed his cheek as he fluttered his eyelashes and blushed. William looked at the floor.

Trudy cleared her throat and continued, ‘William can be Duncan …’ Sergeant Farrat, Fred Bundle, Big Bobby, the inspector, Scotty and Reg nudged each other and shook their heads and when Trudy said, ‘… and his sons Malcolm and Donalbain will be Bobby Pickett and Scotty …’ they rolled their eyes and crossed their arms. ‘Septimus Crescant will be Seward and Sergeant Farrat will be Banquo but Banquo gets sort of killed by mistake. Whenever any of you are not Banquo or Duncan or King you are attendants, lords, officers, messengers and murderers. Purl, you are Lady Macduff. The witches are Faith, Nancy and the district inspector.’ The cast shuffled and whispered together.

‘I wanted to be a witch,’ came a faint voice.

‘Mona, I told you, you’re the ghost and an attendant.’

‘But I haven’t got a line to say.’

‘Mona, there are only three witches in the play.’

Nancy stepped forward, ‘My Lady Macduff was better than Purl’s –’

‘I’m a bloke – I don’t see why I should be a witch,’ whined the inspector.