Rosalie Ham - The Dressmaker

The Jack Russells started yapping urgently, turning circles and making eye contact with Mae. She studied them for a moment. ‘Wallopers,’ she said.

Edward was a quiet steady man, but at the sound of ‘Wallopers’, he leapt as though he’d been bitten and ran with his drum net. The chook herders, two small girls in bib and brace and a lad in striped pyjamas, ran to the front gate. The toddler fetched a bag of marbles and the girls a stick each. The taller lass drew a circle in the dirt with her stick, the toddler emptied his marbles into it and both knelt down earnestly. The other lass touched up the lines of an ancient hopscotch game chiselled into the raw red clay in front of the gateposts, and began to bounce through the squares on one foot. By the time the black Holden eased to a halt at the gate, the children were deep in play. Sergeant Farrat tooted. The children ignored him. He tooted again. The taller lass slowly opened the gate. Edward ambled back and sat down innocently on the seat by the caravan.

Beula leapt from the car and Sergeant Farrat offered the three bawling children a bag of boiled lollies. They grabbed a handful each and ran to their mother, who was advancing with the bloodied axe in her hand. Margaret and Elizabeth walked either side of her, red-tinged feathers floating with them, Elizabeth red to her elbows and Margaret carrying a lighted tree branch. Beula stopped before them.

‘Top of the morning to you,’ said the friendly policeman. He smiled again at the three children. They smiled back, their cheeks bulging, and sweet saliva spilled and coated their chins.

‘Would these three littlies here be the children you saw, Beula?’

‘Yes,’ cried Beula ‘they’re the scoundrels.’ She lifted her hand to slap them. Sergeant Farrat, Edward, Mae and the daughters all took a step forward.

‘It was two girls and a boy then, Beula?’

‘Yes, it was, now that I see them.’

‘And the school uniforms?’

‘Obviously they took them off.’

‘I don’t go to school yet,’ said the toddler, ‘neither does Mary. Victoria goes next year but.’

‘Are you looking forward to school Victoria?’ asked Sergeant Farrat.

The three children answered as one. ‘Na, rather go tip fishin’.’

Sergeant Farrat looked at the short grubby lineup in front of him. They looked back at the bag of lollies he held at his chest. ‘You’ve all been tip fishing this morning, have you?’

They answered now in turns. ‘Na, bugger-all there today. We go Fridays – garbage day.’

‘We’ve been catchin’ chooks today.’

‘Creek fishn’ tomorra, to catch fish.’

‘Round off your words, stop dropping your G’s and sound your vowels,’ said Mae sternly.

‘They’re lying!’ Beula was puce, damp and pungent. ‘They threw seed pods on my roof.’

The children looked at each other. ‘Not today we didn’t.’

‘Would you like us to?’

Beula jumped up and down, screeching and spitting, ‘It was them, it was them.’ The kiddies looked at her. The small boy said, ‘You sure got shit on your liver today Mrs, you musta sunk a power of piss last night.’

Mae smacked young George over the right ear. The rest of the group looked hard at their shoes. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mae, ‘they learn that sort of talk at school.’

Sergeant Farrat explained the benefits of nipping mischievous behaviour in the bud, of setting examples. Mae crossed her arms. ‘We know all that Sarge, but what are you going do about it?’

Sergeant Farrat turned to Beula. ‘Miss Harridene, would you be satisfied with the screams if I took these children behind the caravan to teach them a lesson, or would you prefer I brutally thrash them within an inch of their lives here and now in front of everyone?’

The McSwineys doubled over, hooting with laughter. Sergeant Farrat handed Victoria the bag of lollies, and Beula lurched away to the car. She kicked and smashed a headlight then got in slamming the door so that the windows in the railway carriages and caravans rattled. She leaned over to the driver’s seat and put her palm firmly on the horn, holding it there.

Sergeant Farrat drove her through the front gate then stopped the car. He turned to her and moved close, leaning across her to place his hand on the door handle. He breathed warmly, tenderly into her face. She shrank against the door. Sergeant Farrat spoke softly, ‘I’m not going your way Beula, it’s an offence to waste police force petrol. I’ll let you out here.’ He flipped the door handle.

Above them on The Hill, Tilly Dunnage paused at her digging to watch Beula Harridene spill onto the ground from the black car. She smiled and went back to turning the soft soil for her vegetable patch.

Down in the town, William parked the Triumph Gloria outside Pratts and strode across the footpath in the morning sun. He smiled at Muriel stacking horseshoe magnets and picture hooks, tipped his hat to Lois scratching and searching for tinned peas and waved at Reg and Faith in his butchery. Faith was waiting for Reg to slice her two porterhouse steaks, humming, I’ve got you … under my skin.

‘Like that song do you?’ said the handsome butcher, flashing his bone-white teeth at her.

Faith blushed and placed her hand at her ample bosom, the gold rings on her fingers winking.

‘You’ve got a lovely voice,’ said the butcher, dropping his long, sharp knife into the metal holder hanging at his hip. His chest was broad under his starched white shirt and his blue-striped apron sat neatly across his flat waist.

‘Can I do anything else, for you Faith?’

She could hardly speak. She pointed to the small-goods and said, ‘A Devon Roll, please.’

In the office Gertrude was bent behind the glass partition, dusting.

‘Excuse me,’ William said.

Gertrude straightened and smiled broadly at William, ‘Hello William.’

‘Hello …’

‘Gertrude, I’m Gertrude Pratt.’ She held out her small round hand but William was looking about the shop.

‘Could you tell me where I can find Mr Pratt?’

‘Certainly,’ breathed Gertrude and pointed towards the back door, ‘He’s just …’ but William had already walked away. He found Mr Pratt unstacking boxes from the McSwineys’ horse cart.

‘Ah,’ said William, ‘just the chap.’

Mr Pratt looped his thumbs into his apron strings and bowed. ‘Remittance son returneth,’ he said and laughed.

‘Mr Pratt, a word?’

‘By all means.’

Mr Pratt opened the office door and said to his daughter, ‘Gertrude, the Windswept Crest account.’ He bowed again, ushering William past.

Gertrude handed a thick file to her father who said, ‘Excuse us now, Gert.’ As she left she brushed against William, but his attention was on the thick account file Mr Pratt held to his chest. ‘I was after some coils of fencing wire and a dozen bundles of star pickets …’

His voice trailed away. Alvin was shaking his head from side to side in a very definite manner.

Gertrude stood by the smallgoods counter. She watched the young man sliding the rim of his hat around and around in his fingers and shifting his weight, his thin dark face growing long and limp. When her father smirked at him and mouthed, ‘Three hundred and forty seven pounds ten shillings and eight,’ William sat heavily in the office chair and his tweed jacket suddenly looked big about his shoulders.

Gertrude went to the ladies’ rest room and applied red lipstick.

They stood at the front door, William frowning at the footpath, Mr Pratt smiling out at the sunny winter day. Gertrude sidled up to them, ‘Nice to see you home, William,’ she purred.

He glanced at her. ‘Thank you … and thank you Mr Pratt, I’ll see what I can do … goodbye.’ William walked slowly to his car and sat behind the wheel, staring at the dashboard. Mr Pratt turned his attention to his daughter, watching William with dreamy eyes. ‘Get on then Gertrude, back to your work,’ he said and stalked off muttering, ‘The idea … a great calico bag of water, not a chance of unloading her to anyone. Least of all William Beaumont …’