And then it comes to the Miners’ Ball and she’s going with Sally Baxter and Ida Langley and Emmy Tyler, and it’s the first ball for all of them. She can make do with the blue dress she already has for the dances; she could put a sash around the waist, that would make it look different; she mustn’t dip into her savings. But then Sally and Emmy and Ida are full of talking about it — their shoes, their dresses, how they’ll do up their hair.
She slips into Miss Tinsdale’s room for a chat. She likes Miss Tinsdale and she likes seeing what she’s sewing for all the ladies. Miss Tinsdale opens up the newest Ladies’ Catalogue she has delivered every month from England, turns to a page and holds it out for Pansy to look at:
‘Notes from Paris. (By a Parisian Expert.)
‘A pleasing feature of present-day fashion is the ever-increasing appreciation of picture dresses. The idea of graceful line and of flowing garments and beautiful texture is suggested in the portraits of women by our esteemed modern artists. We shall find that clothes will lend infinitely more grace and distinction to their wearers than they have for some time past.’
Pansy looks at the picture. Evening gown. Rose-coloured silk gauze in empire style. She’s never seen such a dress: no puffs, frills, ruffles or flounces, only simple and soft and graceful, the sleeves trimmed with tiny black beads and lace falling softly to just above the elbows and the skirt with the same beading and lace. There’s a wide black satin sash and the picture of the back of the gown shows how this should be tied, geisha-style in a simple flat bow allowing the ends to gracefully fall at the back of the gown.
She can almost feel it; the coolness and delicacy of silk against her skin as the bodice folds over her arms and breasts and the skirt skims her hips and thighs. She mustn’t touch her savings, she mustn’t. But, oh, she wants this dress. When she leaves Blackball, this dress could go with her and take her to all the special places in her future that lie shimmery and coloured in front of her.
‘It’s the Miners’ Ball,’ she says. ‘Could we make this?’
‘We could most certainly do our best,’ Miss Tinsdale says.
The colour is so rich and the fabric so delicate. Would they find anything like it among the bolts of cloth at Currans? Oh, but Currans. Mr Curran with his eyes on everything and everyone as he takes the money from the little metal canister that whizzes to him from the counters. Miss Phillips and the Egan sisters in their long skirts and white blouses, their hair folded into twists at the top of their heads, all the ladies and their eyes and their gossip, I didn’t like to say but I don’t fancy that colour on her not with her skin. Stripes going around? Well, now, won’t she look a fright? Currans with everyone looking over her shoulder, I’ll have that one after you, give it over here when you’ve got yours.
‘I’ll go over to Currans later.’
Miss Tinsdale looks at her thoughtfully, then smiles in a way Pansy has never seen her smile before, with her eyes which are usually a little empty and resigned sparking up. ‘Not for this one,’ she says. ‘We’ll make an afternoon of it and go into Greymouth.’
Pansy looks again at the dress. She’s heard from Mrs Smithson often enough the story of how Miss Tinsdale had set sail from England to New Zealand to meet her fiancé only to find when she got here that he’d been killed in the Boer War and his family had no interest in her, some wealthy Canterbury farming family, more than likely had their boy lined up for somebody else. The story went that Miss Tinsdale couldn’t pay her passage back and somehow she had landed up in Blackball. Pansy wonders if the story is true. Miss Tinsdale has nice manners and a nice way of speaking and there’s still a prettiness about her though she must be quite old.
‘Did you ever go to Paris, Miss Tinsdale?’
‘I did. Only once.’
And although Pansy hears the loss and regret in Miss Tinsdale’s voice she has to ask it. ‘What was it like?’
‘Beautiful, Pansy. Just so beautiful.’
Mrs Smithson agrees that Pansy is due a half-day off, Tuesday’s all right but mind you’re back here sharp Wednesday morning we’ve the two gentlemen coming in. They buy tickets at the box office, climb up into the train and take seats opposite each other, their handbags perched on their knees. It’s the sort of holiday Pansy has read about, Miss Tinsdale dressed up for the occasion in a dark green skirt with a matching jacket lined and trimmed in dark red silk and a cream blouse with a soft ruffle at the throat. Her hat is cream and the green ribbon around the brim has a small red rose-bud tucked into it. Pansy wears her blue dress with the black hat she bought at Currans and put the blue silk band around, and the stockings meant to look as good as real silk. As the whistle blows and the cry ring outs, all aboo-ard, all aboo-ard, and the train shuffles forward with all the wheezing and whooshing and clatter they both burst into wide smiles.
‘An adventure,’ Miss Tinsdale says.
The train gathers speed as it passes the bridge, Blackball is behind them now and there are the cottages of Brunnerton, the river, the hills and the bush and, finally, Greymouth and the long veranda of the railway station, the people waiting for trains and the wind driving up from the sea.
Pansy’s heard the overnighters say that Greymouth is only a little place, nothing compared to Christchurch or to Dunedin. But for Pansy, Greymouth is huge and grand with the splendid buildings housing the banks and the Post Office, the horses and the automobiles, the men smartly turned out and important-looking and the nicely dressed ladies. She’s a little nervous among all the bustle and finery and she is pleased to have Miss Tinsdale leading her into ‘Thompson, Smith & Barkley Drapers’.
She stands behind Miss Tinsdale as they survey the bolts of dress fabrics. ‘That’s the shade,’ Miss Tinsdale says. ‘I’m not sure it’s the texture we need, though.’ She directs the boy lifting the bolts of cloth down to place it on the counter.
‘It’s almost the colour,’ Miss Tinsdale says, running her fingers across the fabric and bunching it in her hand, ‘but not nearly fine enough.’
But there, shimmering among the other silks, the deep rose that is almost pink, almost red. Pansy hauls the bolt out herself, and, yes, it is perfect. But two shillings and five pence a yard, what a price, and they need six yards, seven to be absolutely sure, Miss Tinsdale says. And then there’s the muslin for the under-dress and the lace, beads and black satin for the sash and the thread.
Pansy’s hands shake slightly as she counts out the money to the girl smiling and bobbing her head across the counter, yes modom, thank you modom, and she feels light-headed as she walks out carrying the brown paper parcel securely tied with string. Spending all that money, being inside ‘Thompson, Smith & Barkley Drapers’ of Greymouth and being the someone bobbed to and smiled at rather than doing the bobbing and the pleasing herself.
Miss Tinsdale takes her arm. ‘Let’s have afternoon tea.’
Afternoon tea? But she has barely any money left in her purse and there’s still the train ticket home to pay for. Afternoon tea.
‘My treat,’ Miss Tinsdale says. ‘We’ll go to the Victoria Tea Rooms.’
The room is filled with ladies in smart coats, frocks and hats sitting at little tables. A girl in a dark dress and frilly apron brings them a tray carrying a flowered china teapot with matching cups and saucers and a tiered cake-stand piled with tiny tasty sandwiches, scones with jam and cream, and chocolate eclairs. They taste and nibble and sigh.
‘Well,’ Miss Tinsdale says at last. ‘We have a train to catch and a dress to make.’
10
She’s walking home in the darkness, running each minute of it through her head. She was to meet Sally and Emmy and Ida outside the Miners’ Hall. Almost everyone in town would be there, Mr and Mrs Smithson as well, of course; they were to dine with Mr and Mrs Jas Irvine at the Dominion Hotel, as their guests, before the ball.
Could Pansy leave out the cold meat and bread and pickles for the
regulars? This was the one night of the year Mrs Smithson expected them to do for themselves. And she needed Pansy to have the bath filled for her by four-thirty and afterwards to help pin up her hair. Mrs Smithson was snappy as Pansy brushed, then wound her hair into a twist at the back of her neck. This is the ball, Pansy, it needs to be fancier than that. So Pansy brushed it out again and arranged it in loops at the top of her head then pinned on the headdress with the purple and black plumes.
Mrs Smithson’s gown was lavender brocade. She stood up, smoothed down her gown, attached her three-string necklace of pearls around her neck, pulled on her black lace gloves, fastened the diamante bracelet around her wrist and stood in front of the long mirror, turning from side to side. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Well. I think I will do, Pansy. I rather think I will.’
Mrs Smithson showed herself to Miss Tinsdale and all of the regular ladies who had been invited to take a small sherry in the parlour before the ball. Miss Tinsdale nodded and the ladies said Mrs Smithson looked lovely and Mr Smithson came in dressed in his black tails and white shirt and bow tie with his hair glistening with hair oil. The ladies said oh and didn’t they make a lovely couple and they left arm in arm.
It was Pansy’s turn. The lavender salts Miss Tinsdale had given her smelled heavenly in the bath she filled to near the top. Miss Tinsdale arranged her hair as they had practised, brushing it until it crackled, pulling it high up, parting, plaiting, twisting, rolling, smoothing and pinning until it framed her face exactly like the model in the catalogue. It was the latest thing. The French Twist.
She slipped the dress over her head. As Miss Tinsdale smoothed it down at the back, Pansy felt something being slipped around her neck. ‘There you are,’ Miss Tinsdale said softly. ‘Take a look.’
For ever she will remember the silken sheen of that dress and the circle of shining beads around her neck. ‘Jet,’ Miss Tinsdale said. ‘My mother gave them to me.’
There was the excitement of seeing Ida and Sally and Em all dressed up and admiring each other and the Miners’ Hall decked out with the ferns and flaxes and greenery and the band making them want to start dancing before they were even inside. There was Mr Jenner on the piano and the drum and the trumpets, Mr Bright playing the trombone, one song after the other, the gypsy taps and the waltzes and the schottisches and Mr Ellison singing ‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart’ which was serious and perfect for waltzing and ‘Oh You Beautiful Doll’ which made everyone giggle. Mrs Ellison, who had a beautiful voice but was shy, was called for and she said no but she gave in at the very end and sang ‘After the Ball is Over’.
Mrs Peterson’s dress was blue satin and her headdress was almost an exact copy of Mrs Smithson’s but it looked much nicer against her hair. Mrs Smithson had given Pansy an appraising look as she danced past, my goodness don’t we look nice? And Pansy knew she had looked nice, there was no other dress of that colour and among all the frills and sparkles and feathers hers had been different.
The boys she’d danced with at the weekly dances looked different in their suits and they’d treated her different; asking her nicely if she would dance and taking her to her seat after.
She’d seen Otto at the back of the hall talking with the men but he’d left early; she hadn’t seen him up and dancing. She’d heard he’d gone on to the university in Christchurch so it was surprising he was there, though she knew he sometimes came home to see his mother and Klara. Mrs Smithson had told her Mr Bader had gone back to work in Germany. Don’t know what’s behind all that, them Baders don’t let anything away, funny he’s left his family behind him though.
Klara was at the dance so perhaps Otto had taken her. She sat out most of the dances on her own in the row of seats for the single girls at the side of the hall. She was tall and skinny but her hair was pretty and silvery under the lights and her dress was pretty as well. If she would only smile, Pansy thought. The boys would ask her if she smiled. Pansy had smiled at her but she didn’t smile back. Perhaps she still held the grudge against her from when they were little.
Otto. Clem. Pansy.
Klara always wanted to be in it as well. Mummy says I’m to come with you. We’re not to go into the bush, it’s too wet and we’ll spoil our clothes. We’re not allowed near the mines either.
They didn’t like her, big and bossy as she was, with the games she wanted them to play with her directing it all. The three of them racing away from Klara through the scrub and the supplejack and the blackberry, quick, she’s coming, get down.
Klara was working for Mrs Peterson now. She’d cleaned at the Currans then the Grants but they’d both let her go and then Mrs Peterson had taken her on, Mrs Smithson told her. Ada Peterson said she’d had to take her on, I can’t keep up with it, the way business is right now. I said right back at her, I don’t know why you want Klara, no one else does and then she had the cheek to say she was only paying her four bob a week so she’s a bargain. I said to her, listen Ada, I pay my girl nine shillings a week and she’s worth every penny of it, if you get one good girl you don’t need to be bothering with two. I said to her, in this world, Ada, you get what you pay for. That great lanky beanpole of a girl, mooning about the place, hasn’t got a thought in her head worth keeping. No milk in her coconut, that one, I’m telling you now.
Clem was kinder and nicer than the other boys and he’d danced with Klara. Pansy had danced with Clem more than anyone else. He always blushed a bit when he asked her to dance and he talked slowly as though he was thinking out the words before he said them. She thought that was because of the stammer he used to have back in school. Mr Kennedy had strapped him once for stammering and Mrs Bright had come down to the school. They’d been able to hear her talking outside the classroom door, not that she’d shouted, Pansy couldn’t imagine Mrs Bright ever shouting, but her voice had been steady and strong. Don’t you ever strap my boy again for things he can’t help, Brian Kennedy.
She remembers how Clem’s face had flushed up and how he’d pretended to keep reading with his head bent down over his book. How the others had their heads up listening through the room. No other mother ever stood up to Mr Kennedy.
Clem had walked some of the way home with her. Not all of it. She’d told him she was all right now, thanks, she’d go the rest of the way on her own. He hadn’t argued. He knew how it was at home. They’d stopped a minute before he went on. He’d always been only a little bit taller than she was but now her head came up to his chest. He was looking down at her like he wanted to tell her something and she knew, even though it was dark, that his face was red.
‘You look beautiful, Pansy.’ His voice came out husky and he tripped over the word b-beautiful.
She remembered what Miss Tinsdale had told her about real ladies being dignified. ‘Thank you, Clem,’ she said. He’d bent down then and she’d felt his lips press for a moment on her cheek, close to her mouth.
She feels them now as she hurries through the night with the cold pressing on her bare shoulders and her face. It is like an imprint, firm and still warm. She’d felt a flutter in her belly, different from the excitement of the hall and its heat and light and music and skipping, swaying dancers; all that noise and dazzle.
She can see them now, running down the wide flat streets, hopping over the broom and the scrub then onto the tracks off into the bush, you’re in, you’re in. Clem was always the nice one, always kind. If she’d hurt herself it was always Clem who’d come. Otto had always been out in front with something else to find and do. She touches her face. There’s the little hollow of warmth she feels still in her belly.
It’s not only Clem Bright she’s remembering but everything about this night and now here she is quiet and all on her own with the sliver of the quarter moon and the pinch of her shoes and the swish of her dress and the frost and the dark and stillness. She walks slowly now. She doesn’t want to go inside and take off her dress, wash her face and take out her hair, pull her nig
htgown over her head and crawl into bed. She doesn’t want things to be ordinary ever again.
She could make a cup of tea for herself, carry it outside and drink it with the dark pressed all around her and the birds starting up their calling in the bush. Except Daddy might wake up and if he saw her in the dress there’d be hell to pay. She has to take it off, wrap it up and hide it.
Pansy had told Ma she was going to the ball and she’d be late home that night because of it. ‘Mrs Smithson wants me for the dinner, Ma, so I’ll just go on from there.’
Ma nodded. No what are you wearing, who are you going with? Just the one nod. Ma hardly says a word to her these days. Still, it’s not the night to think of all that.
She turns the handle of the door, slips inside and she hears the scrape of something moving. Is it the floorboards or just one of them turning over in bed? She stays still, her body rigid, her heart beating hard. Listen. But there’s nothing more and she takes off her shoes, tiptoes into her room, closes the door and slides the dress over her head. She folds it carefully then wraps it in the tissue paper and places it in the cardboard box Miss Tinsdale gave her, and pushes it to the back of the cupboard. She takes the pins out of her hair and washes her hands and face in the jug of water she keeps in her room. She pulls her nightgown over her head and gets into bed.
She’s tired but she can’t sleep. The band music is too bright in her head and the lights from the hall fixed inside her eyes when she closes them.
Not long now. She’s leaving and she won’t be back.
But she could leave right now, pack up her few things and be off on the morning train. She has enough money to get to Greymouth and to keep her while she looks for a job and there are plenty of jobs in Greymouth, she’d be sure to get one right away.
Through the Lonesome Dark Page 9