The Dressmaker (16 page)

‘Are you lost?’

‘I’d like a room for two nights please … with a bath.’ She held out her coat to him. Fred put down his form guide, folded the coat over his arm and smiled graciously. ‘Certainly madam, you may have the room next to the bathroom. It’s a share bathroom but you’re the only customer along with Mr Pullit and he hasn’t bathed in nine years, so it’s all yours. It’s a nice room, west-facing windows which will give you a view to the setting sun, a featured hilltop cottage and sweeping vista beyond.’

Edward came through the front door and placed her suitcases gently at her knees. ‘Thank you,’ she said and smiled faintly at him, then looked back at Fred, who bowed, took up her cases and led her upstairs. She inspected the room, opened the cupboard doors, sat on the bed, lifted a pillow to check the linen and then looked at herself in the mirror.

‘Travelling far?’ asked Fred.

‘I thought a night or two in the country would be refreshing.’ She looked at Fred. ‘That is what I thought anyway.’

‘Will you be eating this evening?’

‘That depends,’ she said and wandered out onto the balcony.

Fred told her that if she needed anything just to yell out, and rushed downstairs to find Purly.

The stranger sat in the afternoon sun. She lit a cigarette and inhaled, then glanced down at the people in the main street, noticed their dresses and stopped, agape. The women of Dungatar dressed astonishingly well, strolling from the library to the chemist and back again in luxurious frocks, showing flair in pant suits made from synthetic fabric, relaxing in the park in sun frocks with asymmetric necklines common to European couture. She went downstairs to the Ladies Lounge and found a group chatting at a table, drinking lemon squash and wearing Balenciaga copies with astrakhan trims. She peeped out the residential entrance door and studied a group of women holding common cane baskets, reading something in the general store’s window. A fat woman with unsightly hair wore a streamlined, waistless wool crepe, princess-cut frock with a standaway collar and magyar sleeves, which hung like cold honey and flattered her fridge-like form. A small, pointy woman wore a soft pink suit, double-breasted and wide-collared with revers and purple trim, all of which softened her leather-like complexion. Next to her, leaning on a broom, a girl with a boyish figure wore a design she was sure had not yet even been invented. It was a fine black wool dress with a shallow boat-shaped neckline and short sleeves. The bodice bloused gently into a wide, black calfskin belt with a huge black buckle. The skirt was narrow and knee length! There was a blonde showing great panache in satin-velour pedal-pushers, a shopkeeper in a smart faille tunic suit, and a small, taut woman in silk capri pants and a very chic sleeveless paletot. The stranger went back to her room to smoke her cigarettes. She wondered how Paris had found its way to the dilapidated confines and neglected torsos of banal housewives in a rural province.

‘Faith’s done a good job with the notice,’ declared Ruth.

They all nodded.

‘Very artistic,’ said Marigold.

‘Doesn’t say how much it costs,’ sniped Beula.

‘It’s always the same,’ said Lois.

‘Not this time,’ said Beula, nodding vigorously. ‘The club needs new umpires’ outfits and Faith’s charging for the band – they’ve been practising a lot, they’ve got new songs … and another new name.’

‘Well, you’d know,’ said Purl.

Beula put her hands on her hips. ‘And, Winyerp’s coming.’

They stared at her.

‘Winyerp’s comink?’ asked Lois.

Beula closed her eyes and nodded slowly.

‘Better book a table …’ said Muriel.

‘… next to each other,’ added Lois.

They looked again at the notice.

Nancy, standing at the rear with her broom said, ‘She got in another tea-chest lately.’

‘Where from this time?’

‘Spain?’

‘France?’

‘Neither – New York,’ said Sergeant Farrat. The women started and turned around. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘New York. I was there when she opened the crate.’

‘I’ve picked mine,’ said Purl, ‘you should see what I’m wearing.’

‘Me too.’

‘Of course mine’s quite different!’

‘I’m having something very original!’

‘But oh my,’ said the sergeant and raised his shoulders and closed his eyes in rapture, ‘you should see the material Tilly’s got for herself!’ He placed his hands on his cheeks. ‘Silk organza – magenta! And the design – she’s a
real
couturier,’ he sighed. ‘The structure of Balenciaga, the simplicity of Chanel, the drapery of Vionnet and the art of Delaunay.’ He walked away with his hat perched smartly and his shoes sparkling.

‘She always saves the best for herself,’ said Beula. The women turned to look up at The Hill and narrowed their eyes.

Purl waited, her pen poised over the order book. The stranger studied the three items on the menu board.

‘What’ll it be love?’

The woman looked up at her and said, ‘Where did you get your frock?’

‘Local girl. I suggest either the steak and salad or the soup if you’re not real hungry. I can heat a pie or even make you up a sandwich –’

‘Is this “local girl” open after hours?’

Purl sighed. ‘She’d be at home I’d say.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Up The Hill.’

‘Perhaps you could show –’

‘I’ll tell you how to get there after you’ve had your steak – how would you like it done?’

The traveller stood in her slip and stockinged feet in front of the fire flicking through Tilly’s sketch book, her Chanel suit slung over a chair. Tilly stood next to her with her note book and tape measure and admired her soft permanent wave, her slender manicured hands.

‘Right,’ said the traveller and smiled. ‘I definitely want the wild silk frock with the Mandarin collar the barmaid has, and I’ll have this Dior interpretation, and this pant suit – one of yours I take it.’ She continued flicking through Tilly’s designs.

‘What about alterations?’ said Tilly.

‘They’ll only be minor. If there are any I’ll manage them myself.’ She looked at Tilly. ‘Some of these are original designs.’

‘Yes – my original designs.’

‘I understand.’ She closed the book and looked at Tilly. ‘Why don’t you come and work for me?’

‘I have my own business here.’

‘Here? And where exactly is “here”?’

‘Here is where I am, for the time being.’

The traveller smirked. ‘You’re wasted here –’

‘On the contrary, I’m used a lot. And anyway, I’m worth a small fortune on paper but until I’m paid I can’t move to Collins Street.’

The traveller looked at the closed door behind Tilly. ‘I’d like to see what’s in your workroom.’

Tilly smiled. ‘Would you let me into
your
workroom?’

Some time later Tilly showed the traveller to the back door and handed her a torch. ‘Leave it in the letter box at the foot of The Hill.You’ll have street lights from there on.’

‘Thank you,’ said the traveller. ‘You’ll forward a bill?’

‘I will.’

‘And I will pay it.’ They shook hands. ‘Should you ever reconsider …’

‘I appreciate your suggestion, thank you, but as I said, at the moment I’m in no position to consider a move for several reasons. I know where to find you,’ said Tilly and closed the door.

• • •

As the time for the ball drew nearer they arrived at The Hill in waves, banging on Tilly’s back door and making sharp demands about unique designs and individual accessories. She showed them photographs of famous European beauties and tried to explain style and how it differed from fashion. She suggested they either cut their hair (there were an astonishing number of Louise Brooks look-alikes as a result) or brush it 100 times every night. She demonstrated back combing, pompadour and other coiffure styles. She got them to send away for hair clips and beaded shells, false flowers, postiches and plaits, ribbons, stone-headed hair pins and combs, fake vegetable costume jewellery and coloured glass beads, and buttons shaped like cigarettes. She had them thread earrings and bracelets from beads and old necklaces, she had them buy tinctures and hennas from Mr Almanac (who’d had them since the Belle Epoque) and she demonstrated the correct way to apply Chadlee and Ambre Solaire, or pale foundation makeup and indigo khol. She prompted them to order new lingerie, and quoted Dorothy Parker
– Brevity is the soul of lingerie
. She told them about body shape and what complemented theirs and why. She constructed patterns and designs especially for them and warned them they would need three fittings each, and then she told them they must choose fragrances that reflected the mood of their clothes. Again they rushed down to Mr Almanac’s, so Nancy summoned a Perfumer to call for an afternoon of sniffing and dabbing. Tilly tried to enlighten them, draping them in luxurious material and folding it against their bodies so that they knew how it felt to be caressed and affluent and they had an inkling of deportment when swathed in fine crafts created by genius.

The Faithful O’Briens arrived – Faith and Hamish, Reginald Blood and Bobby Pickett – wanting new costumes. Faith fancied two-tone red with sequined lapels for the men and neck-to-toe sequins for herself. Bobby Pickett stood in the kitchen with his arms out while Tilly stretched a tape measure around sections of his large form and wrote numbers in her note book. Reg and Faith sat patiently at the kitchen table, silently exclaiming over fashion pictures in international magazines and nudging each other. Molly glided in and sat at the table close to Hamish, put her hand on his knee then ran it up his thigh to his crotch. He turned his walrus face to her and raised two bushy orange brows, so she smiled and pursed her lips for a kiss. He moved quickly to sort through Tilly’s record collection.

‘Put one on,’ said Tilly.

Hamish carefully placed a disc on the turntable, lifted the arm and placed the needle gently on the record. There was scratching, and then the sound of soulful music filled the room.

‘What sort of bloody awful music is this?’ asked Faith disapprovingly.

‘Music to hang by,’ said Hamish.

‘Blues,’ Tilly said.

‘I like it,’ said Reg, ‘She’s got a tinny voice but it’s got something …’

Hamish grunted. ‘Pain, I reckon.’

‘What’s her name?’ Reg asked.

‘Billie Holiday.’

‘Sounds like she needs one,’ said Hamish.

Sergeant Farrat called after dusk to collect long, flat boxes containing lace, silks, beads and feathers, as well as gently folded gowns, plain and precise and in need only of a final warm press with a damp cloth or a splash of rain water. Tilly said to him, ‘I can’t talk Faith out of red sequins.’

‘Faith’s a red sequins kind of woman,’ said the sergeant and moved to the dress stand.

Tilly threw her hands in the air. ‘This is a town of round shoulders and splayed gaits.’

‘And always will be, but I appreciate what you make for them. If they only knew.’

‘Whose table are you on?’ asked Tilly.

‘Oh,’ said the sergeant, ‘I’m compelled to be on the Beaumonts’ table with the Pettymans, us dignitaries always sit together.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll ask you to dance, shall I?’

‘I’m not going.’

‘Oh – the magenta silk organza my dear, you would look so … you must come. You’ll be safe with Teddy.’ Sergeant Farrat shook the box and said, ‘If you don’t promise you’ll come I won’t finish these.’

‘You owe it to the gowns to finish them,’ she said, ‘you won’t be able to resist.’

So he left to spend the rest of the evening hemming, tacking down seams and facings and finely camouflaging hooks and eyes.

• • •

Lesley Muncan held his wife at arm’s length, directing his gaze to the ceiling. On the turntable a record circled, stuck in an outer groove, scratching around and around. Mona tightened her grip on his shoulder, moved closer and kissed her husband’s cheek. ‘Mona, stop it,’ he said and stepped away from her.

She wrung her hands. ‘Lesley, I –’

‘I’ve told you, I can’t!’ He stamped his foot then buried his face in his hands.

‘Why?’

Lesley kept his face hidden. ‘It just doesn’t … work. I don’t know why,’ he said, his voice miserable behind his hands.

Mona sat on the old couch, her chin dimpling. ‘You should have told me,’ she said in a wavery voice.

‘I didn’t know,’ Lesley sniffed.

‘That’s a fib,’ she cried.

‘Oh all right!’

‘There’s no need to be angry with me,’ said Mona and dug her hanky out of her sleeve. Lesley sighed and flopped down on the couch next to her, crossing his arms and looking at his slippers. Eventually he said, ‘Do you want me to go away?’

Mona rolled her eyes.

He turned to her. ‘I’ve got no family, no friends.’

‘But you said –’

‘I know, I know.’ He took her hands. ‘My mother did die, that bit’s true. She left me her gambling debts, a disease-ridden, infested stable and some geriatric horses. The horses are either glue or gelatin by now and the stables burned down.’

Mona continued to look at her lap.

‘Mona, look at me,’ said Les. ‘Please?’

She kept looking down. He sighed.

‘Mona, you haven’t got a true friend in the world and neither have I –’

‘So you’re not my true friend either?’

Lesley stood up and put his hands on his hips. ‘What’s got into you?’

‘I’m just sticking up for myself,’ she said looking up at him, ‘I love you, Lesley.’ Lesley burst into tears. Mona stood and held him, and they stayed in the middle of the lounge room for a long time holding each other, the record still scratching round and around. Eventually Mona said, ‘No one else wants us,’ and they laughed.

‘Now,’ said Lesley and blew his nose on Mona’s hanky, ‘where were we? A waltz, wasn’t it?’

‘I’m just no good at dancing,’ said Mona.

‘I’m not very good at a lot of things, Mona,’ he replied quietly, ‘but we’ll do the best we can together, shall we?’

‘Yes,’ said Mona. Lesley kicked the record player and as the opening bars of ‘The Blue Danube’ squeaked, Mr and Mrs Muncan began to waltz.

A nonwoven fabric made from short wool fibres lying in all directions, which become interlocked with steam, heat and pressure into a dense material. Dyed in plain, clear colours. Used for skirts, bonnets and gloves.