The Dressmaker (8 page)

‘Do they still have those dances here Saturday nights?’ lisped Molly innocently. Tilly placed the dentures on the saucer in front of her, then began folding, snapping pillowcases and towels dangerously close to Teddy’s left ear.

Teddy leaned forward, ‘Footballers’ dance this Saturday, we won the grand final –’

‘Oh, how lovely.’ Molly smiled sweetly at Tilly. Then she looked at Teddy, raised her eyebrows and mouthed a gummy, ‘Take her.’

‘The O’Brien Brothers provide the music.’ He looked to Tilly who continued folding and smoothing the hard cotton into square piles.

‘I hear the O’Brien Brothers are rather good,’ said Molly.

‘Bonza,’ said Teddy, ‘Hamish O’Brien on drums, Reggie Blood on fiddle, Big Bobby Pickett plays electric guitar and Faith O’Brien tickles the ivories and sings. Vaughan Monroe and the like.’

‘Very flash,’ said Molly.

Tilly folded, slap fhutt fhutt slap.

‘How about it Til? Fancy a spin around a polished floor with the handsomest born dancer in town?’

She looked straight into his twinkling blue eyes. ‘I’d love it, if there were such a person.’

• • •

Nancy settled on the couch beside the exchange with the eiderdown and pillows. Ruth brought the steaming cup of brown liquid to her. They sniffed it, held it and looked at it.

‘It’s not Milo,’ said Nancy.

‘No,’ said Ruth. ‘Prudence says she must be a herbalist. She read it in a book.’

‘I’ve got salts from Mr A’s fridge in case we’re sick.’ Nancy patted her shirt pocket. ‘You go first.’

‘Nothing happened when we ate the green, weedy stuff.’

‘Slept like babies,’ said Nancy.

Ruth looked at the brown drink. ‘Come on, we’ll drink together.’

They sipped, screwed up their noses. ‘We’ll just have half,’ said Ruth, ‘see if anything happens.’

They sat wide-eyed and waiting. ‘Anything happening to you?’ said Nancy.

‘Nothing.’

‘Me neither.’

They woke to rapping at the back door. Ruth looked about, touched herself. She was all right, still alive. She went to the door. ‘Who is it?’

‘Tilly Dunnage.’

Ruth opened the door an inch. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve lost something, or rather, I never actually got it.’

Ruth’s eyes widened. Behind her Nancy crept to stand behind the door.

‘It was powder,’ said Tilly, ‘brownish powder.’

Ruth shook her head, ‘We haven’t seen it, don’t know anything about a tin of powder at all.’

‘I see,’ said Tilly. Ruth’s lips were brown.

Ruth frowned. ‘What sort of powder was it?’

‘It wasn’t important.’ Tilly walked away.

‘Not poison or anything?’

‘It was fertiliser for my plants,’ replied Tilly, ‘South American Vampire bat dung – the best, because of the blood they suck.’

‘Oh,’ said Ruth.

As Tilly left (wondering where she could get some more henna) she could hear retching and feet scurrying about inside. The bathroom light flicked on.

As Tilly was strolling towards Pratts she met Mae at the library corner. Mae was on her way home with pegs and milk.

‘Good morning,’ she said.

‘Morning,’ said Mae and kept walking. Tilly turned to the big red flowers hurrying away and called, ‘Thank you for looking out for Molly.’

Mae stopped and turned. ‘I didn’t do anything, thought that was obvious.’

‘You hid the fact that she was …’ Tilly couldn’t bring herself to say the words lunatic or mad because that’s what they had used to call Barney. Once some people had come to the school to take him away and lock him up, but Margaret had run and gotten Mae. Someone was always with Barney, even now.

‘It’s better to keep to yourself around here, you should know,’ said Mae and walked back to Tilly. ‘Nothing ever really changes, Myrtle.’ She strode away again, leaving Tilly stunned and sobered.

The next day was still and the low clouds sat like lemon butter on toast, keeping the earth warm. Irma Almanac sat on her back porch watching the creek roll away, carrying traces of spring with it. Tilly pushed her mother along the creek bank towards her.

‘How are you today?’

‘There’s rain coming,’ Irma replied, ‘only enough to settle the dust though.’ The two women sat together on the porch while Tilly made tea. Irma and Molly chatted, carefully avoiding the tender topics they shared – absent babies, brutal men. They talked instead about the rabbit plague, the proposed vaccination for whooping cough, communism and the need to drain kidney beans before and after boiling and before they go into soup because of possible poisoning. Tilly placed some cakes in front of Irma.

‘Speaking of poison …’ muttered Molly.

‘I made you some special cakes,’ said Tilly.

Irma picked one up in her swollen, lumpy fingers and tasted it. ‘Unusual,’ she said.

‘Ever eaten anything Lois Pickett’s made?’

‘I believe I have.’

‘You should be right then,’ said Molly.

Irma chewed and swallowed. ‘Tell me, why did a beautiful and clever girl like you come back here?’

‘Why not?’

They left well before lunch. Irma felt light and pleased and was sharply conscious of the day’s details – the quiet sky and the creek smell, rotting cumbungi and mud – and the warmth of her buffalo grass lawn, mosquitos singing and a faint breeze moving her hair about her ears. She could hear her bones scraping inside her body but they no longer hurt and the aching had stopped. She was eating another cake when Nancy popped her head around the door. ‘Here you are, eh?’ Irma jumped, then stiffened to wait for the rush of red hot pain to take her breath away, but it didn’t come. Nancy was cross, her brow creased, her hands on her hips. Behind her, Mr Almanac’s bald dome taxied slowly through the door frame like the nose of a DC3. Irma giggled.

‘You wasn’t out the front to stop Mr A here so he’d have gone bang into the front door if I hadn’t rushed over.’ Nancy patted Mr A’s head.

Tears were streaming down Irma’s face and her buckled old body was jigging with laughter. ‘I’ll just leave it open in future,’ she said and almost whooped and slapped her thigh.

Mr Almanac fell into his chair like a rake falling onto a barrow. ‘You’re a fool,’ he said.

‘Right then, I’ll leave you to it,’ said Nancy and swaggered out.

‘Those Dunnage women have been here,’ muttered Mr Almanac.

‘Yes,’ said Irma cheerfully, ‘young Myrtle took my frocks away. She’s going to put bigger buttons on them, easier for me to manage.’

‘She can never make up for it,’ he said.

‘She was only a child –’

‘You don’t know anything,’ he said.

Irma looked at her husband, sitting with his face bowed close to the table, his features all hanging like teats on a breeding bitch. She started to laugh again.

That week Teddy McSwiney called up to The Hill three more times. On his first visit he brought yabbies and fresh eggs that Mae had just collected, ‘She said if you ever need any, just sing out.’ Tilly was relieved, but still found urgent work to do in the garden and left him and mad Molly to eat the yabbies – freshly caught, cooked, peeled, wrapped in lettuce and sprinkled with homemade lemon vinegar. He left her share of yabbies in the refrigerator. She ate them late that night before bed, licking the juice from the plate before putting it in the sink.

On the second occasion, Teddy arrived with two Murray cod fillets marinated in a secret sauce and sprinkled with fresh thyme. Tilly went to work on her vegetable patch but the smell of frying cod brought her inside. The fish melted over their tingling tastebuds and when there was nothing left on their plates, Tilly and Molly put down their fish knife and fork side by side and gazed at the empty plates. Tilly said coolly, ‘That was delicious.’

Molly burped and said, ‘That’s better. You shouldn’t be rude to him, his mother saved my life.’

‘His mother left food Mrs Almanac made.
I
saved your life.’

‘He’s a kind young man and he’d like to take you to the dance,’ said Molly and blinked fetchingly at him. He smiled graciously at Molly and raised his glass.

‘I don’t want to go,’ said Tilly and took the plates to the sink.

‘That’s right, stay here and torture me, get under my feet, make sure I don’t go for help. It’s my house you know.’

‘Not going.’

‘Not important,’ said Teddy, ‘she’ll only upset my regular partners … and everybody else.’ He watched Tilly’s shoulders stiffen.

Molly sulked for two days. She didn’t look at Tilly and she wouldn’t eat. She woke Tilly three times in one night to say, ‘I’ve wet my bed.’ Tilly changed the sheets. When she came into the kitchen on the third afternoon with a basket full of dry sheets Molly rolled swiftly at her, scraping a deep gash across her shin with the sharp edge of the footrest.

Tilly said, ‘I’m still not going dancing.’

• • •

He saw her through binoculars as she sat reading on the veranda step, so hurried up The Hill carrying wine, six blood-red and wrinkly home-grown tomatoes, some onions, parsnips and carrots (still dirt warm), a dozen fresh eggs, a plump chicken (plucked and gutted) and a brand new cooking pot.

‘It came from Marigold’s bin,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t know what to do with it.’

Tilly raised one eyebrow at Teddy. ‘Indefatigable aren’t you?’

‘It’s called a pressure cooker. I’ll show you.’ He walked past her into the kitchen. Molly wheeled herself to her place at the head of the table, poked a napkin into her collar and smoothed it down the front of her new frock. Teddy began to prepare a chicken-in-wine pot roast. When Tilly stepped into the kitchen Molly said, ‘I had a surprise this morning, young man, a phonograph was delivered to me from the railway station. Would you like to listen to some music while you cook?’

Teddy looked at Tilly, his eyes teary and a handful of chopped onions on the board. Tilly hung her sun hat on a nail on the wall and put her hands on her hips.

‘She’ll do it after she’s set the table,’ said Molly.

Tilly placed a record on the turntable.

Teddy talked, ‘Have either of you read about this new play in America called
South Pacific
? It hasn’t been on here yet. I’ve got a mate can get me a record of it soon as it hits the shores. Would you like one, Molly?’

‘It sounds very romantic.’

‘Oh, it is, Molly,’ said Teddy.

‘I hate romance,’ Tilly said. Billie Holiday began to sing a song about broken hearts and painful love. Later over the chicken-and-wine pot roast Tilly played some sort of jazz, the likes of which Teddy had never heard and was too afraid to ask about so he said, ‘George Bernard Shaw died.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Tilly. ‘JD Salinger’s still alive though, could you ask your friend to get me a copy of
The Catcher In The Rye
? It hasn’t been published yet.’ Her sarcasm hung in the air.

Molly looked at her, then picked up her steaming bowl of chicken stew and tipped it onto her thighs. The terylene frock Tilly had finished for her that day melted onto her crepe thighs. Tilly froze.

‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ laughed Molly then started to shake, shock whistling softly through her thin elastic lips.

Teddy whipped the skirt away from her thighs before it stuck. He looked at Tilly, still frozen at the table. ‘Butter,’ he snapped. Tilly jumped. He pulled his hip flask from his pocket and poured whisky into the old woman. Then she passed out. He carried her to her bed then left, but was soon back to sit with Tilly. She said nothing, just sat at her mother’s bedside looking grim. Barney arrived with a bottle of cream from Mr Almanac and handed it to Teddy. ‘I did what you said, I said it wasn’t for Mad Molly.’

‘Did you say her name?’ snapped Teddy.

‘You told me not to.’

‘So you didn’t say her name?’

‘No. I said your name, and he said, you gotta put it on tomorra.’ Tilly looked at Barney standing in her doorway. ‘Tomorra,’ he said again. ‘He told me to tell you, tomorra.’

Teddy rubbed his brother’s shoulders gently. ‘All right Barney.’ He turned to Tilly, ‘You remember my brother?’

‘Thank you for bringing the cream,’ she said. Barney blushed and looked at the wall beside him.

When they had gone she sniffed Mr Almanac’s cream and threw it away, then gathered some herbs and creams from a trunk under her bed and made a paste to apply.

Molly lay in bed naked from the waist down, while two palm-sized red blotches ballooned on her thighs and filled with clear liquid. Tilly emptied her mother’s bed-pan several times a day, dressed her wounds and did as the old woman bid. The blisters subsided to leave two smarting marks.

A fabric woven plainly with irregular wild silk yarn, having a textured effect. Its natural cream colour is often dyed in strong colours, producing a vibrant effect. Slightly crisp to handle and with a soft lustre. Suitable for dresses, blouses and trims.

O
ut at Windswept Crest, Elsbeth sat rigidly at the bay window, fists clenched, eyes brimming. Mona slunk about the corners of the kitchen wiping shiny surfaces, peeping into the oven and checking container lids while casting sideways glances at her mother.

William was at the pub leaning on the bar, thinking about his mother and the fact that it was tea time. The youths about him drained their beers and zigzagged towards the door, heading for the hall. Scotty Pullit slapped his back. ‘Come on twinkle toes, let’s go give the girls a thrill,’ and he walked away, bent and coughing.

William stopped outside the post office, jangling some coins in his pocket, looking at the public telephone. He had still not recovered from his meeting with Mr Pratt and the thick file labelled ‘Windswept Crest’. Scotty Pullit appeared beside him again and handed him his bottle of clear, boiling watermelon firewater. William took a swig, coughed and gasped then followed Scotty and the other footballers, farmers’ sons and daughters into the hall. Inside, balloons and streamers were slung from bearer to bearer. He wandered to the refreshment table, where he and the boys drank punch and smoked. Local girls in twos and threes fluttered to corner tables, twittering and chatting.

The O’Brien Brothers tuned their instruments. Hamish rumbled around his drum kit while his wife stood at the piano, stretching her fingers and humming. Faith was squeezed into a fire engine red rayon taffeta frock. Her dark brown curls were piled on her head with flowers, à la Carmen Miranda and plastic roses dangled from her ears. A matching ring covered three knuckles. She wore too much foundation makeup and powder. ‘The brassy section,’ hissed Beula. She plopped her broad bum and billowing skirt onto a tiny stool, cleared her throat and warbled a flat scale up to a painful high C. Beside her, Reginald – ‘Faith’s fiddler’ – was tearing his bow over the violin strings, struggling to match Faith’s notes. Bobby Pickett plucked at his Fender, smiling through his missing tooth as the feedback screamed. Faith tap-tapped the microphone, ‘One two one two,’ then blew. A shrill electric scream bounced off the rafters. William winced and put his fingers in his ears.