The Dressmaker (6 page)

‘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 …’

Muriel came to stand beside her daughter. ‘The footballers’ dance is Saturday fortnight,’ she said.

• • •

The sign stuck to the library door said, ‘Open Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. Enquire at Shire Office.’ Tilly peered down the main street and saw the people to-ing and fro-ing and decided she’d come back Wednesday. As she turned away she caught sight of the school across the road. The playground was full of skipping girls, boys playing footy and small children playing hoppy. Miss Dimm came out to the pole and pulled the rope, her arm pumping and the bell at the top singing, and the children disappeared into the classroom. Tilly wandered across the road to the park, looked over at the low benches under the peppercorns where she used to sit for lunch, and smiled at the worn dirt patch in front of the veranda, where the children still assembled each morning. She found herself at the edge of the creek so she sat on the bank and slipped her sandals off. She stared at her toes through the amber surface. Bits of gum leaf floated past, insects skimmed by and small raindrops spat onto the water.

They used to march to class in a crooked line, shunting with lifted knees and military arms to the beat of the bass drum. Stewart Pettyman played the drum, a big, solid ten-year-old banging away with a worn stick. Beside him a small schoolgirl chimed in time on the musical triangle while Miss Dimm called ‘AAH-ten-shon, RIGHT turn, QUICK MARCH.’

They kept time behind their small chocolate seats in the classroom until Miss Dimm cried ‘HALT! Be seated and don’t scrape your chairs!’ Then shuffle shuffle clunk and silence. They sat with their arms folded, waiting.

‘Myrtle Dunnage you’re on ink-well duty again for fighting after school yesterday. The rest of you get out your pencils and exercise books.’

‘But I did it yest–’

‘Myrtle Dunnage, you will be on ink-well duty until I say so.’ Miss Dimm chopped Myrtle’s fingers with her rusty steel ruler and cried, ‘I did not tell you to uncross your arms!’ The white crease from the ruler was still on her fingers when she started to mix the ink. She stood at the wash trough to mix the black powder with water then moved from desk to desk very slowly, carrying the jug. It was difficult to pour the blue-black ink into the wells. She wasn’t allowed to drip any on the desk and it was hard to tell which wells were full. Ink bubbled to the top of Stewart Pettyman’s, rimming the white marble lip, so he bumped the desk. The ink spilled, running down the desk top onto his bare knees.

‘Miss Dimm, she stained me, she stained me with the ink.’

Miss Dimm came, cuffed Myrtle over the head and dragged her from the room by her plait. The other kids leaned on the glass windows laughing out loud. Myrtle sat for the rest of the morning on the veranda where everyone in the whole town could see her.

After school she ran as fast as she could but they caught up with her. They held her and gave her Chinese burns, then they held her arms out and Stewart ran at her, head down like a charging bull so his head banged her in the tummy. She bent in half, lost her breath and fell to the ground, holding her stomach. The boys pulled her pants down and poked at her, then smelled their fingers. The girls sang, ‘Dunny’s Mum’s a slut, Dunnybum’s Mum’s a slut, Myr-tle’s a bar-std, Myr-tle’s a bar-std.’

• • •

Marigold Pettyman sat by the light of the radiogram with an icepack balanced on her curlers waiting for her husband, Evan. The six o’clock news muttered gently beside her, ‘
And now for the weather. Light rain is expected.
’

‘Oh Lord,’ said Marigold and reached for the small brown bottle on the lamp-stand table. She shook three tablets into her palm and swallowed them in one, leaned back and rubbed her temples. Marigold was a shrill, whippet-like woman with a startled bearing and a nervous rash on her neck. When she heard the key in the screen door lock she sat bolt upright and called anxiously, ‘Is that you Evan?’

‘Yes dear.’

‘You’ll take off your shoes and shake your coat for dust before you come in won’t you?’ Evan’s shoes thumped onto the veranda boards and there was the clank of wooden coat hangers meeting. He unlocked the kitchen door and stepped into the kitchen which was scrubbed and disinfected to surgery standard, its floor slippery and brilliant.

Evan Pettyman was a round man with yellow hair and complexion and small quick eyes. He was a man who touched women, leaned close to talk, licked his lips and at dances pressed his partners tightly, ramming his thigh between their legs to move them around the floor. The ladies of Dungatar were polite to Councillor Pettyman – he was the shire president and Marigold’s husband. But they turned their backs when they saw him coming, busied themselves with a shop window or suddenly remembered something they had to do across the road. Men avoided the councillor but were cordial. He’d lost his son and had a lot on his plate, with Marigold the way she was – ‘highly strung’. He was a good councillor who got things done. He also knew how every man earned his keep.

Marigold had been just a shy, innocent little thing when Evan came to Dungatar. Her father was the shire president then, and when he died he left her a lot of money, so Evan swept her off her feet. Her nerves started to go, and slowly got worse, and she had never been the same after their son Stewart was so tragically killed.

Evan passed directly through to the bathroom where he removed his clothes and placed them in the washing basket and closed the lid. He showered then put on the starched pyjamas left sitting on the bench with the freshly laundered dressing gown and as-new woollen slippers.

‘Good evening my pet,’ said Evan and pecked her cheek.

‘Your dinner’s in the refrigerator,’ she said.

Evan ate at the kitchen table. Sliced cold devon, tomato – seeds removed, beetroot – the liquid soaked from the neat round slices, a neat dome of grated carrot, and a halved boiled egg. There were two slices of white bread, buttered to the edges. Since there might be crumbs Marigold had spread newspaper around Evan’s chair. He peeled and ate a home-grown orange over the sink, careful to put all the pips in the bin. Marigold tidied up after him. She scrubbed his knife, fork and plate in boiling suds, littered the sink with Vim, rubbed, rinsed and dried the area thoroughly then disinfected all the handles and knobs where Evan might have left prints. Evan washed his face and moustache in the bathroom and returned to the kitchen.

‘It’s going to rain tomorrow,’ Marigold said shrilly. ‘The windows will need cleaning when it stops and all the doorknobs and window latches need a good soaking as well.’

Evan smiled down at her and said, ‘But my pet, it’s not time –’

‘It’s spring!’ she cried and held the icepack to her temples. ‘I’ve already washed the walls and skirting boards and dusted the ceilings and cornices, I can get on with the doors and the window sills if you’d just remove all the knobs and latches.’

‘You could save yourself some trouble pet, just wash around them, I’m very busy.’

Marigold bit her fist and hurried back to the radio-gram and closed her eyes, the icepack back on her curlers.

Evan filled her hot-water bottle. ‘Beddie-bies,’ he said and poured tonic into a spoon for her. She closed her mouth and turned her head away.

‘Come Marigold, your tonic.’

She closed her eyes and shook her head from side to side.

‘All right my pet,’ said Evan, ‘I’ll get up early and remove the doorknobs and window latches before breakfast.’

She opened her mouth and he spilled her medicine onto her tongue, then helped her to bed.

‘It’s twenty years since Stewart fell out of the tree …’ she said.

‘Yes dear.’

‘Twenty years since I lost my boy …’

‘There there dear.’

‘I can’t see him.’

Evan adjusted the photo of their dead, smiling son.

‘Twenty years …’

‘Yes dear.’ Evan poured a little more tonic and gave it to her. When she slept Evan undressed, then leaned over her, licking his lips and rubbing his hands together. He pulled back the bedclothes and removed Marigold’s nightie. She was limp but he positioned her as he wanted her, legs splayed, arms over her head, then he knelt between her thighs.

The next morning Marigold Pettyman stood safe from the dangerous rain at her kitchen sink with her saveloy-red hands deep in steaming suds, earnestly scrubbing all the doorknobs and window latches.

O
n Friday evening the footballers and a farmer or two were bunched at the far end of the bar, studying a diagram of the football oval that was pinned over a punctured picture of Bob Menzies on the dartboard. The names of the players were pencilled in at the various positions on the layout. The experts stood around it shaking their heads.

‘Crikey.’

‘Blimey.’

‘Coach’s gone troppo.’

‘Nar – he’s got a plan, tactics, according to Teddy.’

‘Teddy just wants your money.’

‘How much did you bet?’

‘A quid.’

‘Coach’s right – Bobby is big, that’s what matters.’

‘He’s better placed in the centre.’

‘Injury.’

‘Has he gotten over his dog dyin’ yet?’ The men shook their heads and turned their attention back to the game plan.

‘Gunna’s roving.’

‘Stroke of genius that is, half-time swap, bring on Bobby and they won’t see a ball down their end for fifty minutes.’

There was a general rumble of approval. The men turned from the diagram, their hands shoved deep in their pockets.

It was a serious evening. The tense footballers and their supporters lined up at the bar. A foaming beer sat waiting at every spot. They pondered the skirting board behind the bar, sipping. When the amber tide had sunk to one gulp above the glass bottom the men looked knowingly at each other, sculled, clapped and rubbed their hands, secured their hats and made for the door. They were needed at the footy oval. Purl looked at Fred and pressed her red fingernails to her red lips. ‘Shouldn’t you be going Fred?’

‘Purlywurly, we have a celebration to prepare for.’

She went to him and lay her head down on his, ‘I love them boys Fred …’ Fred reached two thin arms around his Purly’s waist and nuzzled so deep into her cleavage that only the tops of his ears were showing. ‘Weywuvootoo,’ he said.

Spectators lined the white boundary fence watching the players run and shout, desperate echoes in a cold dusk. Sincerity and determination spurred the brave athletes, though fear was in their hearts. The supporters worried about the bets they’d laid – not that they had any doubts about Dungatar’s victory.

Every available man, kid and dog gathered to watch the grand final training, to listen to the coach’s pep-talk in the dressing sheds afterwards and rub Oil of Wintergreen on the players’ thighs and calves. There was a heartfelt ‘Hear hear’ from the clever captain Teddy McSwiney and his grateful team-mates in recognition of the coach’s magnificent efforts, then they sang the club song in a sombre way, slapped each other’s backs, shook hands and went home to grilled chops, mashed potato and peas before bed.

The supporters went back to the pub. The last champions from Dungatar to seize the football cup were now war veterans hiding next to radiograms in dim lounge rooms, but tomorrow they would leave their armchairs and drag their shell-shock, emphysema and prosthetics to the white railing by the goalposts even if it killed them. Purl was so sick with worry that she was tempted to bite her nails. The supporters along the bar frowned at their beers. Hamish O’Brien and Septimus Crescant usually argued. Tonight they sat quietly.

‘Gawd,’ said Purl, ‘just look at all of us!’ She smiled brightly at them. No one smiled back. ‘How about the new girl in town?’ she said conspiratorially.

The line of pale faces along the bar looked blankly at her.

‘One more to fight off,’ said an ancient whiskered sheep drover.

‘Our own dandy and full forward has his eye on her,’ said a shearer.

‘Who?’ They felt the night breeze on their backs and smelt Teddy McSwiney as soon as he opened the door. He’d been wasting a lot of talc about his person ever since that woman got off the bus.

‘The new sheila,’ said the shearer.