The Dressmaker (24 page)

Marigold sneezed and said, ‘How unusual.’

‘Tagetes patula
,’ said Tilly. ‘They deter white fly from tomato plants, and they’re good for repelling eelworm in roses and potatoes as well. The roots have a component that deadens the detector that triggers eelworm release – numbs it completely,’ said Tilly.

Marigold looked at Tilly’s feet. ‘You should have taken your shoes off.’

Tilly sat down in the lounge room. Marigold studied her features; a fine looking girl with a pale complexion, Evan’s complexion, but Mad Molly’s thick hair and full mouth. ‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ she said.

‘No you’re not,’ said Tilly.

Marigold’s eyes bulged and the tendons in her neck rose like a warring lizards, ‘Evan sent a wreath!’

‘The very least he could do,’ said Tilly. ‘Shall I find a vase?’

Marigold grabbed the flowers and rushed out to the kitchen holding them at arm’s length. They were dropping pollen on the carpet. ‘What do you want?’ she called again.

‘Nothing – just visiting.’ She picked up a photograph of Stewart on the table beside her and was studying it when Marigold returned and sat down opposite. ‘It’s all very hazy now, but you left I seem to remember, because your mother became unwell?’

‘Not quite in that order, however –’

‘Where did you learn to sew?’ Marigold fiddled with the button of her dressing gown.

‘Lots of places.’

‘Like where?’ Marigold’s eyes darted across Tilly’s face, searching.

‘I returned to Dungatar from Paris but before that I was in Spain and before that in Melbourne, at a clothing factory. While I was at school in Melbourne I took sewing classes. It wasn’t a very good school, my benefactor –’

‘Who was your benefactor, your father?’ Marigold was tugging at the button at her collar now and the veins on her temples pulsed.

‘He’ll be paid back,’ said Tilly.

‘I had quite a bit of money put aside for Stewart’s education,’ Marigold said and looked out the window, ‘but it’s all gone.’ The button popped off into her fingers.

Tilly continued, ‘Apprentices don’t get paid much but I managed to travel and keep on with my learning so –’

‘Well,’ said Marigold, ‘no one was ever displeased with anything you made for them here, not like that Una …’ She slapped her hands over her mouth, ‘Don’t tell Elsbeth I said that!’

‘Never,’ said Tilly. ‘Would you like me to make you a new frock for the eisteddfod?’

‘Yes!’ she said and sat forward. ‘I’d like something special, very special. Better than everyone else. I won Belle of the Ball you know. Do you want a cup of tea?’ Marigold flitted into the kitchen, returning a short time later with an afternoon tea tray.

‘There’s one thing I’m going to say. I know you didn’t mean to murder that boy,’ she sipped her tea and Tilly’s stomach twisted, ‘that Teddy McSwiney, but I know how Mae felt. You see, my son fell out of a tree and died. Landed on his head.’

Marigold showed Tilly all her photograph albums – Evan and Stewart when Stewart was three weeks old, Marigold and her parents before they died, the house before the front fence was built, and there was even one of Tilly in a school photo, with Stewart. Marigold glanced at Tilly and said, ‘Where did your mother come from?’

Tilly looked directly at Marigold and said, ‘Would you like to hear the whole story?’ ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I would.’

Tilly took a deep breath. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘Molly was an only child and still unmarried, quite late in life for the times. She was very innocent, and easily swept off her feet by an ambitious, conniving and charm-wielding man. The man wasn’t very successful at anything, but told everyone he was. Her good Christian parents believed him with all the might of their open hearts and closed imaginations, and they let her go on a walk with him. The charming man was very persuasive. She found herself in a position where her parents would be deeply hurt and embarrassed unless she married quickly –’

‘I know this story!’ said Marigold, her voice shrill.

‘I know you do,’ said Tilly.

• • •

Evan lay on his back with the bed sheets pulled up to his chin. Around his knees the sheets humped, buckled and bulged, then Una emerged from under them and fell on his shoulder, breathless, red faced and moist. She lifted the sheet and looked down at Evan’s squishy, orange, wet conger lolling on his thigh. She giggled. Evan began to cry.

He arrived home early, undressed on the back sleep-out and headed for the bathroom. His wife sat calmly by the radiogram, knitting. ‘Hello Evan,’ she said softly, ‘how were things in Melbourne?’

‘Oh,’ he said absently, ‘a little disappointing.’ He was sitting on the toilet with a wad of crumpled Sorbent wrapped around his right hand when the door kicked open. Marigold leaned casually on the door jamb, still knitting. ‘You’ve been in here a long time, Evan.’

‘I’m sick. There’s something wrong with me,’ he said.

‘I used to be sick Evan, you used to make me sick, but Tilly Dunnage has cured me.’

‘What?’

She sighed. ‘You’ve had a lot of affairs haven’t you Evan?’

‘She’s mad, we can have her committed –’

‘She’s not mad Evan. She’s your daughter.’ She smiled down at him and said very sweetly in a baby voice, ‘Poor Evan is miserable and I know why and I think she’s a clever, clever girl, that Tilly.’

Evan stood up and closed the door but Marigold kicked it open again, ‘It’s in your electric jug, at the office-– poison, so you can’t do those things you used to do to me at night anymore, can you Evan?’ She walked away, chuckling softly.

He followed her to her immaculate kitchen where she stood gazing at a speck of fly shit on her otherwise spotless windowpane.

‘She murdered Stewart, did you know? Your new friend –’

‘You mean Tilly, your daughter, murdered
your
son?’ Marigold turned and looked at Evan, ‘Your son the bully. The fat, freckled, rude and smelly little boy who elbowed me when he passed, spied on me in the shower and assaulted little girls. If it weren’t for him I wouldn’t have had to marry you, I may have woken up to you.’ She shuddered.

‘Why don’t you fall down Marigold, faint, have one of your headache fits – you’re insane.’

‘You stole all my money!’

‘You’re unstable, drug dependent and neurotic, the doctor knows all about you!’

‘Certifiable,’ she said peacefully. ‘Beula says it’s nice in there.’ She sighed and fell gently to her knees. Evan looked down at her. He caught a flash of light as she reached behind his ankles and slid the razor-sharp carving knife across his calcanean tendons. They tore and snapped, making a sound like a wooden tool-box lid slamming shut. Evan hit the linoleum, trumpeting like a tortured elephant as his Achilles tendons shrunk to coil like snuggled slugs in the capsular ligaments behind his knee joints.

‘This is very wrong Marigold,’ he cried.

Marigold looked at Evan twitching, smearing a red puddle across her polished linoleum. ‘I’ve been under a lot of pressure for many years,’ she said, ‘everyone knows that, and they know all about Una Pleasance. They’d understand completely. But that doesn’t matter.’ She stood spread-legged over him and wiped the knife on her apron, then dropped it in the drawer.

‘Please,’ cried Evan. ‘Marigold, I’ll bleed to death.’

‘Eventually,’ she said and wrenched the telephone from the wall.

‘Marigold!’ he screamed.

She closed the door behind her and Evan was left in agony on the floor, his shins like loose thread at the ends of his knees and the door knob unreachable.

‘Marigold, please?’ he squealed, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Not as sorry as I am,’ she said. She sat on her bed and poured the whole bottle of her sleeping tonic into a jug, topped it up with sherry, stirred it, closed her eyes and drank.

T
he galah called ‘Wallopers’ as quick steps crossed Tilly’s veranda. The back door burst open and a haystack-size bundle of brilliant coloured frocks, feather boas, hats, shawls, scarves, satins and sequins, cotton, chiffon, blue gingham and matador brocade – the contents of Sergeant Farrat’s secret wardrobe – stood rustling in her kitchen. Tilly looked down at the sergeant’s navy pants and shiny shoes. ‘The district inspector’s coming to stay with me,’ he said and rushed out to Tilly’s front room. He dumped his load and rushed outside again, then came back and put his photo albums, some wall paintings, his gramophone and record collection on her table. ‘He might think I’m queer,’ he said but stopped at the table to rub some cloth he’d never seen between his fingers and thumb. ‘Silk or Peau de soie?’ he asked.

‘What exactly is the district inspector going to do?’ asked Tilly.

‘First Teddy, then Molly, then Beula’s incident and Mr Almanac, but it was my report on the Pettymans that sparked his interest. Committing Marigold was bad enough, but Evan – the things we found in that house! Drugs … pornographic books, even blue films. And he was an embezzler!’ Sergeant Farrat rushed out to his car for another load.

‘I’d like to meet the inspector,’ said Tilly.

‘Why?’

Tilly shrugged, ‘Just to see if he’s … smart.’

‘Not in the least. He wears brown suits – and I’m sure they’re made from slub.’

She fell asleep in the empty, busted armchair and dreamed of her round soft babe suckling at her breast, and of Molly when Molly was her mother, young and smiling, strawberry blonde and walking down The Hill to greet her after school. She was there with Teddy again on top of the silo, on top of the world. She saw his face, his mischievous grin in the moonlight. His arms stretched up to her and he said, ‘Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey, And glutton-like she feeds …’

Then her round soft babe was still and blue and wrapped in cotton-flannel and Molly, pained and cold in her rain-soaked coffin turned stiffly to her, and Teddy, sorghum-coated and gaping, clawing, a chocolate seed-dipped cadaver. Evan and Percival Almanac stood shaking their fingers at her and behind them the citizens of Dungatar crawled up The Hill in the dark, armed with firewood and flames, stakes and chains, but she just walked out to her veranda and smiled down at them and they turned and fled.

• • •

A fart drummed through Sergeant Farrat’s station, then a loud yawn. The district inspector was still in bed, in the cell. He was a scruffy middle-aged man with slovenly habits and very bad manners. At dinner time, Sergeant Farrat moved close to the wireless and turned the volume up so that he could eat his meal without retching, because the district inspector propelled his dentures about his mouth with his tongue, to suck out remaining food particles. He used his sleeve as a serviette and did not swish out the hand basin after shaving, he left drips on the floor after using the toilet, he never switched off lights or taps, and when Sergeant Farrat asked if he needed clothes washed – ‘since I’m just about to do a load myself,’ – the inspector lifted his arm, sniffed and said, ‘Narrr.’

The district inspector – ‘call me Frank’ – talked a lot. ‘I’ve seen a lot of action – been shot at three times. Had to leave my wife – broke her heart – but it was to keep her out of strife. Freed me up to solve a heap of unsolvable crimes – single handedly – caught a bunch of fugitives in me time, they’d done the crime, I made them pay the fine. Wasn’t fair on the cheese-and-kisses at all, the danger of it all. You understand, don’t you Horatio?’

‘Oh yes,’ said the sergeant, ‘that would explain why they’ve put you here, in rural Victoria.’ Sergeant Farrat just wanted his evenings back – his radio serial, his books and records, his sewing … and his 9:00 pm drive around, in peace.

‘What’s for tea tonight, Horry?’

‘We’re going out. We’ll be having tripe,’ said Sergeant Farrat and dropped his pencil onto the counter.

‘My favourite, love a tripe in parsley sauce.’ The inspector wandered out to the bathroom. ‘I like this place,’ he called and started whistling.

Sergeant Farrat closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

They arrived early for dinner. The inspector removed his hat and bowed when he caught sight of Tilly posing in the doorway. She wore a clinging black swanskin fishtail with a neckline that ended at her waist. The sergeant poured champagne and Tilly made conversation. ‘I hear you’re quite an effective crime fighter, Inspector?’

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.