The Dressmaker (4 page)

‘How long are you staying?’

‘Until I decide to go.’

‘There’s nothing here,’ said Molly.

‘There’s nothing anywhere.’ She put the bowl down in front of her mother.

Molly scooped a spoonful of porridge and said, ‘Why are you here?’

‘For peace and quiet,’ said the girl.

‘Fat chance,’ said Molly and flipped the spoonful of porridge at her. It stuck like hot tar to Tilly’s arm, burning and blistering.

Tilly tied a hanky across her nose and mouth and stretched an empty onion sack over her large straw hat, then gathered it about her neck with a bit of string. She shoved her trouser legs into her socks and pushed the empty barrow down to the tip. She climbed down into the pit and searched through the sodden papers and fetid food scraps, the flies seething about her. She was wrestling with a half submerged wheelchair when she heard a man’s voice.

‘We’ve got one of those at home, in full working order. You can have it.’

Tilly looked up at the young man. Three small brown and white dogs sat beside him, listening. He held a cage of writhing ferrets, and a gun and three dead rabbits dangled about his shoulders. He was a wiry bloke, not big, and wore his hat pushed back on his head.

‘I’m Ted McSwiney and you’re Myrtle Dunnage.’ He smiled. He had straight white teeth.

‘How do you know?’

‘I know a lot.’

‘Your mother, Mae isn’t it, looked in on Molly from time to time?’ asked Tilly.

‘From time to time.’

‘Tell her thanks.’ Tilly dug deeper, throwing fruit tins, dolls’ heads and bent bicycle wheels aside.

‘You tell her when you collect the wheelchair,’ he called.

She went on digging.

‘So you can come out of there now. That is, if you want to,’ he said.

She stood and sighed, waving away the flies from her onion sack. Teddy watched her scramble up through the rubbish on the far side of the pit, the side nearest the trench where his father emptied the night cans. He made his way around and was at the top of the bank when she got there. She straightened, looked up into Teddy’s face and overbalanced. He grabbed her, steadied her. They looked down into the bubbling brown pool.

She pulled free of him. ‘You gave me a fright,’ she said.

‘I’m the one should be frightened of you, isn’t that so?’ He winked, turned and whistled away along the bank.

At home Tilly tore off all her clothes and threw them into the flaming wood stove then soaked in a hot bath for a very long time. She thought about Teddy McSwiney, and wondered if the rest of the town would be as friendly. She was drying her hair by the fire when Molly tottered out from her room and said, ‘You’re back. Want a cup of tea?’

‘That’d be nice,’ said Tilly.

‘You can make me one too,’ said Molly and sat down. She picked up the poker and prodded the burning kindling, ‘See anyone you know at the tip?’ she sniggered.

Tilly poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot and got two mugs from the cupboard.

‘You can’t keep anything secret here,’ said the old woman, ‘Everybody knows everything about everyone but no one ever tittle-tattles because then someone else’ll tell on them. But you don’t matter – it’s open slather on outcasts.’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Tilly and poured them sweet black tea.

In the morning an ancient wheelchair of battered cane, cracked leather and clanking steel wheels sat outside Tilly’s back door. It was freshly scrubbed and reeked of Dettol.

T
he next Saturday brought the match between Itheca and Winyerp. The winner would play Dungatar in the grand final the following week.

Tilly Dunnage had maintained her industrious battle until the house was scrubbed and shiny and the cupboards bare, all the tinned food eaten, and now Molly sat in the dappled sunlight at the end of the veranda in her wheelchair, the wisteria behind her just beginning to bud. Tilly tucked a tartan Onkaparinga rug over her mother’s knees.

‘I know your sort,’ said Molly, nodding and steepling her translucent fingers. As food had nourished her body and therefore her mind, some sense had returned to her. She realised she’d have to be crafty, employ stubborn resistance and subtle violence against this stronger woman who was determined to stay. Tilly smoothed Molly’s wayward grey hair and slung her dillybag over her shoulder, pushed a large-brimmed straw hat down on her head, put on dark glasses and pushed the chair off the veranda and over the buffalo tufts and yellow dandelions.

At the gateposts they paused and looked down. In the main street the Saturday shoppers came and went or stood about in groups. Tilly drew breath and pushed on. Molly held the wicker armrests and bellowed all the way to the bottom of The Hill. ‘So you
are
going to kill me,’ she cried.

‘No,’ said Tilly and wiped her sweaty palms on her trousers. ‘The others were happy to let you die, I saved you. It’s me they’ll try to kill now.’

When they rounded the corner to the main street they stopped again. Lois Pickett, fat and pimply, and Beula Harridene, skinny and mean, were manning the Saturday morning street stall.

‘What is it?’ asked Lois.

‘It’s a wheelchair!’ said Beula.

‘Someone pushing …’

Next door, Nancy stopped sweeping her footpath to peer at the figures rolling through the shadows and shine.

‘It’s her. It’s that Myrtle Dunnage – the nerve,’ said Beula.

‘Well!’

‘Well well well –’

‘And Mad Molly!’

‘Does Marigold know?’

‘NO!’ said Beula, ‘Marigold doesn’t know
anything
!’

‘I’d almost forgotten.’

‘How could you!’

‘The nerve of that girl.’

‘This’ll be a treat.’

‘The hair …’

‘Not natural …’

‘They’re coming …’

‘The clothes!’

‘Oooaaa …’

‘Shssss …’

As the outcasts rolled towards them, Lois reached for her knitting and Beula straightened the homemade jams. Tilly came to a stop with her knees pressed together to stop them shaking, and smiled at the ladies in their elastic stockings and cardigans. ‘Hello.’

‘Oh, you gave us a start,’ said Lois.

‘If it isn’t Molly and this must be young Myrtle back from … where was it you went to Myrtle?’ said Beula, peering hard at Tilly’s dark glasses.

‘Away.’

‘How are you these days, Molly?’ asked Lois.

‘No point complaining,’ said Molly.

Molly studied the cakes and Tilly looked at the contents of the hamper: tinned ham, spam, pineapple, peaches, a packet of Tic Tocs, a Christmas pudding, Milo, Vegemite and Rawleighs Salve were all arranged in a wicker basket under red cellophane. The women studied Tilly.

‘That’s the raffle prize,’ said Lois, ‘from Mr Pratt for the Football Club. Tickets are sixpence.’

‘I’ll just have a cake thank you, the chocolate sponge with coconut,’ said Tilly.

‘No fear – not that one, we’ll get septicaemia,’ said Molly.

Lois folded her arms, ‘Well!’

Beula puckered her lips and raised her eyebrows.

‘What about this one?’ asked Tilly and bit her top lip to stop herself from smiling.

Molly looked up at the brilliant sunshine, boring like hot steel rods through the holes in the corrugated iron veranda roof, ‘The cream will be rancid, the jam roll’s safest.’

‘How much?’ said Tilly.

‘Two –’

‘Three shillings!’ said Lois, who had made the chocolate sponge, and cast Molly a look that’d start a brushfire. Tilly handed over three shillings and Lois shoved the cake towards Molly, then recoiled. Tilly pushed her mother inside Pratts. ‘Daylight robbery,’ said Molly. ‘That Lois Pickett scratches her scabs and blackheads then eats it from under her nails and she only puts coconut on her cake because of her dandruff, calls herself a cleaner, does Irma Almanac’s house and you just wouldn’t buy anything Beula Harridene made on principle, the type she is …’

Muriel, Gertrude and Reg froze when Tilly wheeled Molly through the door. They stared as she picked over the sad fruit and vegetable selection and took some cereals from the shelves and handed them to her mother to nurse. When the two women moved to haberdashery, Alvin Pratt rushed from his office. Tilly asked for three yards of the green georgette and Alvin said, ‘Certainly,’ so Muriel cut and wrapped the cloth and Alvin held the brown paper package to his chest and smiled broadly at Tilly. He had brown teeth. ‘Such an unusual green – that’s why it’s discounted. Still, if you’re determined enough you’ll make something of it. A tablecloth perhaps?’

Tilly opened her purse.

‘First you’ll be settling your mother’s unpaid account.’ His smile vanished and he offered one palm.

Molly studied her fingernails. Tilly paid.

Outside, Molly jerked her thumb back and said, ‘Trumped up little merchant.’

They headed for the chemist. Purl, barefoot and hosing the path, turned to stare as they passed. Fred was down in the cellar and as the hose swept over the open trapdoors he yelled and his head popped up at footpath level. He too watched the women pass. Nancy stopped sweeping to stare.

Mr Almanac was behind his cash register. ‘Good morning,’ said Tilly to his round pink head.

‘Good day,’ he mumbled to the floor.

‘I need a serum or a purgative, I’m being poisoned,’ cried Molly.

Mr Almanac’s bald dome shifted to form corrugations.

‘It’s Molly Dunnage, I’m still alive. What about that poor wife of yours?’

‘Irma is as well as can be expected,’ said Mr Almanac. ‘How can I help you?’

Nancy Pickett came through the doorway carrying her broom. She was a square-faced woman with broad shoulders and a boyish gait. She used to sit behind Tilly at school, tease her, dip her plait into the inkwell, and follow her home to help the other kids bash her up. Nancy was always a good fighter and would happily flatten anyone who picked on her big brother Bobby. She looked straight at Tilly. ‘What are you after?’

‘It’s in my food,’ whispered Molly loudly. Nancy leaned down to her. ‘She puts it in my food.’

Nancy nodded knowingly. ‘Right.’ She took some De Witts antacid from a table nearby and held it under Mr Almanac’s face. Mr Almanac raised his veiny hand, patted his fingertips over the cash register keys and pressed down hard. There was a clash, a ring and a thunk and Mr Almanac wheezed, ‘That’ll be sixpence.’

Tilly paid Mr Almanac and as she passed Nancy she said in a low murmur, ‘If I do decide to kill her I’ll probably break her neck.’

Purl, Fred, Alvin, Muriel, Gertrude, Beula and Lois, and all the Saturday morning shoppers and country folk watched the illegitimate girl push her mad mother – loose woman and hag – across the road and into the park.

‘Something’s burning my back,’ said Molly.

‘You should be used to it by now,’ said Tilly.

They walked to the creek and stopped to watch some ducklings struggling after their mother against a mild torrent and a flotilla of twigs. They passed Irma Almanac, framed by her roses, warming her bones in the sunlight at her front gate, a stiff faded form with a loud knee rug and knuckles like ginger roots. The disease that crippled Mrs Almanac was rheumatoid arthritis. Her face was lined from pain – some days even her breathing caused her dry bones to grate and her muscles to fill with fire. She could predict rain coming, sometimes a week ahead, so was a handy barometer for farmers – they often confirmed with Irma what the corns on their toes indicated. Her husband did not believe in drugs. Addictive, he said. ‘All that’s needed is God’s forgiveness, a clean mind and a wholesome diet, plenty of red meat and well-cooked vegetables.’

Irma dreamed of moving through time like oil on water. She longed for a life without pain and the bother of her bent husband, stuck fast in a corner or hounding her about sin, the cause of all disease.

‘You’ve always had lovely roses,’ said Molly. ‘How come?’

Irma lifted her eyebrows to the petals above but did not open her eyes. ‘Molly Dunnage?’ she said.

‘Yes.’ Molly reached over and prodded Irma’s bruised and kidney-shaped fist. Irma winced, drew her breath in sharply.

‘Still hurt does it?’

‘A little,’ she said, and opened her eyes. ‘How are you Molly?’

‘Awful but I’m not allowed to complain. What’s wrong with your eyes?’

‘Arthritis in them today.’ She smiled. ‘You’re in a wheelchair too, Molly.’

‘It suits my captor,’ said Molly.

Tilly leaned down to look at her and said, ‘Mrs Almanac, my name is –’

‘I know who you are, Myrtle. Very good of you to come home to your mother. Very brave too.’

‘You’ve been sending food all these years –’

‘Don’t mention it.’ Irma cast a warning look towards the chemist shop.

‘I wouldn’t want it mentioned either, you’re a terrible cook,’ said Molly. She grinned slyly at Irma. ‘Your husband’s mighty slow these days. How did you manage that?’

Tilly placed an apologetic hand, lighter than pollen, on Mrs Almanac’s cold stony shoulder. Irma smiled. ‘Percival says God is responsible for everything.’

She used to have a lot of falls, which left her with a black eye or a cut lip. Over the years, as her husband ground to a stiff and shuffling old man, her injuries ceased.

Irma glanced over at the shoppers on the other side of the street. They stood in lines, staring over at the three women talking. Tilly bade her farewell and they continued along the creek towards home.

With Molly safely parked at the fireside, Tilly sat on her veranda and rolled herself a cigarette. Down below, the people bobbed together like chooks pecking at vegetable scraps, turning occasionally to glance up at the house on The Hill, before turning hurriedly away.

M
iss Prudence Dimm taught the people of Dungatar to read, write and multiply in the schoolhouse across the road from the post office, which her sister Ruth ran. Prudence was also the librarian on Saturday mornings and Wednesday evenings. Where she was large, white and short-sighted, Ruth was small, sharp and sunburned, with skin the texture of cracked mud at the bottom of a dried-up puddle. Ruth shared night shift on the telephone exchange with Beula Harridene but was solely responsible for loading and unloading the Dungatar letters and parcels onto the daily train, as well as sorting and delivering them. She also deposited everyone’s savings for them, cashed cheques, and paid their household and life insurance.