by Rosalie Ham
Beula Harridene leaned close to Lois. ‘She’s only been married eight months.’
When Evan got home that evening he found his nature strip ploughed, his front fence demolished, all the doors and windows open and an odd smell permeating the house. There was a large stain on the carpet and, in the middle of it, a pile of soiled towels. On top of the towels was a fly-blown lump of afterbirth, like liver in aspic. Marigold, fully clothed, was unconscious in bed.
23
Three women from Winyerp stood at Tilly’s gateposts, tiny flakes of ash from the burning tip settling on their hats and shoulders. They were admiring the garden. The wisteria was in full bloom, the house dripping with pendulous, violet flower sprays. Thick threads of myrtle crept around the corner, through the wisteria and across the veranda, netting the boards with shiny green leaves and bright white flowers. Red, white and blue rhododendron trumpets sprang up against the walls and massive oleanders – cerise and crimson – stood at each corner of the house. Pink daphne bushes were dotted about and foxgloves waved like people saying farewell from a boat deck. Hydrangea, jasmine and delphinium clouded together around the tank stand and a tall carpet of lily of the valley marched out from the shade. French marigold bushes, squatting like sentries, marked the boundary where a fence once stood. The air was heavy, the garden’s sweet perfume mingling with the acrid smoke and the stink of burning rubbish. A vegetable garden faced south: shiny green and white spinach leaves creaked against each other in the breeze while fuzzy carrot-tops sided against straight, pale garlic stalks and onions, and bunches of rhubarb burst and tumbled against the privet hedge, which contained the garden entirely. Bunches of herb bushes lined the outside edge of the hedge.
Molly opened the door and called, ‘There’s a bunch of old stools from out at fart hill trespassing out here.’
Tilly arrived behind her, ‘Can I help you?’
‘Your garden …’ said an older woman. ‘Why, Spring isn’t even here.’
‘Almost,’ said Tilly. ‘The ash is very good and we get the sun up here.’
A pretty woman with a baby on her hip turned to look down at the Tip. ‘Why doesn’t the council do something about the fire?’
‘They’re trying to smoke us out,’ said Molly. ‘They won’t though, we’re used to being badly treated.’
‘What can I do for you?’ asked Tilly.
‘We were wondering if you were still seamstressing?’
‘We are,’ said Molly, ‘but it’ll cost you.’
Tilly smiled and put her hand over her mother’s mouth. ‘What would you like?’
‘Well, a christening gown …’
‘Some day wear …’
‘… and a new ball gown would be nice, if you’re … if it’s at all possible.’
Molly shoved Tilly’s hand away, pulling a measuring tape from within her blankets, and said, ‘Yes – now take your clothes off.’
Again Molly woke to the sound of pinking-shears crunching through material on the wooden table, and when she got to the kitchen she found no porridge waiting, only Tilly bent over her sewing machine. On the floor about her feet lay scraps and off-cuts from satin velour au sabre, wool crepe and bouclé, silk faille, shot pink and green silk taffeta, all perfect to decorate her chair with. The small house buzzed with the dull whirr and thudding of the Singer and the scissors rattled on the table when Tilly let them go.
Late one afternoon Molly sat on the veranda watching the sun draw in its last rays. A mere breath after the last tentacle of light had been pulled below the horizon, a skinny woman marched up The Hill towards her hauling two suitcases. Molly scrutinised the severe woman’s widow’s peak, the mole above her dark lipstick. Ash settled on the tips of the pin-point nipples pressing against her sweater and the pencil-line skirt she wore stretched over her hip bones. Finally she spoke. ‘Is Tilly here?’
‘Know Tilly do you?’
‘Not really.’
‘Heard about her though?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Figures.’ Molly turned her wheelchair to the screen door. ‘Tilly – Gloria Swanson has come to stay,’ she called.
Una’s hand went to her throat and she looked afraid. The veranda light flicked on.
‘We saw Sunset Boulevard earlier this year,’ said Tilly from behind the screen door. She had a tea towel flung over her shoulder and a vegetable masher in her hands.
‘I’m Una Pleasance,’ said the woman.
Tilly said nothing.
‘I’m the –’
‘Yes,’ said Tilly.
‘I’ll get to the point. I’m afraid I’m rather inundated and need some sewing done for me.’
‘Sewing?’
Una paused. ‘Mending mostly, hems, zips, darts to alter. It’s all very simple.’
‘Well then I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,’ said Tilly. ‘I’m a qualified tailoress and dressmaker. You just need someone handy with a needle and thread.’ She closed the door.
‘I’ll pay you,’ called Una.
But Tilly was gone and Una was left on the veranda in the yellow light with a few moths and the sound of night-crickets chirping and frogs croaking.
‘Oh,’ said Molly, beaming up at her, ‘that’s very good, it worked very well in the film too, the way you open your eyes, bare your teeth and curl your top lip like that. It suits you.’
• • •
Mrs Flynt from Winyerp stood in front of Tilly’s mirror admiring her new outfit – a white silk satin jumpsuit with flock printed roses. ‘It’s so … so … it’s marvellous,’ she said, ‘just marvellous. I bet noone else is game to wear one of these.’
‘It suits you,’ said Tilly. ‘I hear there’s to be a concert?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Flynt, ‘poetry and recitals. Mrs Beaumont has been teaching elocution – wants to show off. She’s determined to beat us at bridge as well.’
‘Nothing like a bit of one-upmanship,’ said Tilly. ‘You should challenge her to a bit of singing and dancing as well.’
‘We’re not much good at either, I’m afraid.’
‘What about a play then? – best actress, best set design, best costume …’ suggested Tilly.
Mrs Flynt’s face lit up. ‘A play.’ She opened her purse to pay.
Tilly handed her the bill. ‘Plays are such fun to put on. They bring out the best and worst in people, don’t you think?’
• • •
Purl was being a good barmaid. She patted William’s wrist.
‘It’s horrible,’ said William. ‘I didn’t know it would be like this. She smells like stale milk and there’s pink, crusty secretions all over the bed, the baby’s all floppy and gooey, I feel so … alone. I wanted a boy.’
‘She might grow up to be just like her grandfather – on your side that is, like your dad, eh William?’ said Purl.
William raised his head from the bar cloth and tried to focus on her. ‘You knew him well didn’t you?’ he said.
‘I certainly did.’
Fred and the drinkers at the end of the bar nodded. She had known him very well.
‘He wasn’t a very good father either,’ said William. The men at the bar shook their heads. They watched William drain glass after glass until he focused on Purl again and said, ‘There’s more.’
‘What?’
William curled his finger at her and when she leaned closer he whispered very loudly to her earring, ‘I don’t really love my wife.’
‘Well,’ said Purl and patted him again, ‘you’re not alone there.’
The men at the other end of the bar nodded.
‘Oh God,’ he cried. The men looked tactfully out the window and sent more cigarettes and beer down the bar with Fred.
24
Marigold wasn’t in the front yard so Lois crept to the door and knocked softly. ‘Have you got an appointment?’
Lois jumped. Marigold had appeared in front of her wearing a blue housecoat with kneeling pads bound to her knees with elastic bands, a shower cap on her head and elbow-length canvas gloves. She had a handkerchief tied across her nose like an outlaw and held a tin of polishing wax and a greasy cloth.
‘Did you make an appointment?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got velvet?’
‘No,’ said Lois, ‘a fitting – didn’t she tell you?’
‘It’s already cut out then?’
‘Just some adjusting to do.’
‘As long as it’s not velvet – it gets everywhere. I hate it when she cuts velvet, or linen. You can see the bits in the air.’
Lois picked her fingernails.
‘Well you’d better go on in, but mind you take your shoes off – I’ve just vacuumed. And walk along the edge of the hall carpet because the middle’s wearing. I’ve had to put her rent up.’
Which means the prices’ll go up again, thought Lois.
Marigold took a clean hanky from her pocket and twisted the door knob open then watched Lois edge along the wall to Una’s room where she knocked quietly. Una opened the door a little and peeked out, ‘Where is she?’
‘Polishing the veranda.’
Una looked away while Lois eased on her new frock. It had a fitted bodice, a dropped waist and gay accordion pleats. When Una turned to look her eyes began to brim brightly and she bit her bottom lip. The dress strained across her shoulders and the neckline swam, the bodice drooped in folds where her breasts should have been, the waist stretched across her stomach, flattening the pleats, and the hem rode high above her knees.
‘It suits you,’ said Una. ‘That’ll be ten shillings.’
Evan waited behind the peppercorn tree at the side of the house. Lois, her new frock folded carefully over her arm, stopped on the nature strip where Marigold was hosing leaves from the footpath. Beula arrived and stood talking to them. While the women gossiped Evan crept through the back door and tiptoed to Una’s room. She sat in the chair, waiting as Evan rushed to kneel in front of her. He took her hands, pursed his lips to her finger tips then her palms as he kissed his way up to her neck. She swooned back in her chair and he pucked across her cheeks to her lips and pressed his mouth to hers. Una spread her thighs and undid her blouse. ‘Quickly,’ she gasped and tugged her skirt up to her waist. Evan seized his member in his hands and shuffled forward on his knees, aiming.
There was a sudden, loud, thruuppppp as the water-jet from the hose ripped across the windowpane. Una jumped and sat up wrenching her knees together, catching Evan’s testicles and squashing them so they shot up, leaving his scrotum crawling and empty. He bent double, folding like tinfoil, his forehead cracking dully on Una’s. They held their foreheads screaming silently, then Evan fell to lie staring at the fine threads and flux in the carpet nap, purple-faced and winded. He felt his mighty penis melt to a damp heavy mass.
Outside, Marigold stood on the front lawn running the hose back and forth, back and forth across the dusty windowpane.
That night, a year after Teddy McSwiney met his death, Lois lumbered up The Hill and pounded at the back door calling to Tilly and Molly as though she had visited only yesterday. Tilly opened the door.
‘I must say Til,’ she said and stepped into the kitchen, ‘that garden you got sure is lovely.’ She placed a bag and an envelope on the table. The envelope was from Irma Almanac and when Tilly opened it a pound note fluttered to the table.
‘You got any of them cakes you used to make her? She’s all stuck up again, stiff as a board with terrible pain. You know what to put in them,’ said Lois and winked.
‘Herbs,’ said Tilly, ‘and vegetable oils, from my garden.’
‘You got any I can take for her now?’
‘I’ll have to make some.’
Lois reached into the bag and dumped a packet of flour and half a pound of butter on the table then made her way to the door. ‘I’ll tell her you’ll bring them tomorrow shall I?’
When Tilly hesitated she put her hand on the door knob and added, ‘If we still had Ed McSwiney we could send them around wif him couldn’t we, eh?’
She closed the door firmly behind her.
The next afternoon Tilly made her way down The Hill, crossed the main road behind the hall and tramped along the soft, mossy creek bank behind Irma’s.
‘I’m glad to see you,’ said Irma, ‘and not just for the cakes.’
Tilly put the kettle on then broke one of the cakes into bite-sized pieces, placing them where Irma could collect them in her swollen fingers. ‘I have so missed getting out to the front gate,’ she said, chewing, ‘and as for Lois’s manhandling …’
She ate slowly and deliberately. While Tilly was making tea Lois rushed in. ‘Beula said you was here now,’ she said to Tilly. Then she removed her housecoat and stood before Tilly in her ten shilling accordion-pleat frock. ‘We’ve got a drama meeting tomorrow,’ she said, ‘and I need this fixed up. I’m in a bit of a spot.’
Tilly was still gazing at the dress.
‘I won’t say nothing to Mr A about you being here if you do it by tomorrow.’
Tilly raised an eyebrow. ‘Turn around,’ she said. Lois turned.
‘I could do something with it,’ she said.
Lois clapped her hands and started removing the dress. ‘I’ll collect it tomorrow then,’ she said.
‘It’ll cost you,’ said Tilly.
Irma stopped chewing and looked over at Lois, frozen with her skirt pulled up over her head, her grubby step-ins squashing folds about her knees and her shins shining maroon and pock-marked blue against the lino floor. ‘How much?’
‘Depends how long it takes,’ said Tilly.
Lois removed the frock, ‘I’ll need it by four.’
‘Pick it up about ten to,’ said Tilly, reaching for the bundle of beige pleats.
That night she sat by the fire and sewed darts into the neckline and let the bodice seams out. Then she unpicked the skirt and sewed it back on again, front to back, back to front.
• • •
Una, Muriel, Trudy and Elsbeth watched the visitors from behind the curtain. The Winyerp and Itheca Drama Club dignitaries stepped from their automobile and paused to admire the homestead and surrounds. They looked like a group of European aristocrats’ wives who had somehow lost their way. A statuesque woman with Veronica Lake hair wore a strapless jersey top with a scarf tied neatly about her throat like a choker, and a floral-printed silk organza pareo. Another wore a fitted skirt featuring an asymmetrical peplum and a polo-necked blouse and there was a trumpet skirt – afternoon attire – of black silk faille. A buxom lass wore wrap slacks and her top featured a keyhole decolletage and mitred corners. There was even a jumpsuit. The Dungatar Social Committee women smoothed the full circle skirts of the cotton seersucker sun dresses Una had made especially for them and frowned. Elsbeth took a deep breath and flung the front door open. There were loud introductions all around and the Dungatar committee welcomed them cheerily, squeaking and cooing and being very gay. William heard them in the nursery where Felicity-Joy gurgled in her cot, bubbling and reaching for her toes. William shoved his fists deep into his Bombay Bloomers and kicked the skirting board then leaned his head against the wall and banged it softly.
Lesley and Mona arrived. Mona looked crisp and summery in a lemon Nankeen sun dress with a cross-over top and pegged skirt – one of Tilly’s.
The socialites sat on the new leather lounge suite chatting as Lois came through the door pushing a tea trolley, the cups and spoons rattling. ‘Thank you,’ said Elsbeth in her most dismissive
voice, but Lois remained. ‘Hello,’ she said, smiling and nodding at the visitors. ‘My, don’t you look lovely in your smart outfits?’
‘Thank you,’ chorused the ladies.
‘I’ve got a new frock myself!’ she said beaming, nodding to Una, ‘our town dressmaker made it for me.’
Lois held her arms away from her sides and turned slowly, saying, ‘I’ll just fetch the semmiches, cucumber they are, real thin.’ As she walked across to the kitchen the accordion pleats rose and dropped on her cliff hips and because the hem rose alarmingly in the centre, the ladies glimpsed the bulge where her step-ins ended and the flesh behind her knees quivering like a baby’s bottom.
Una paled and Elsbeth excused herself, following Lois to the kitchen. A short time later the back door slammed and Elsbeth returned to calmly discuss the program for the concert.
‘We have an idea,’ said Mrs Flynt.
Elsbeth blinked at them. ‘An idea?’
‘An eisteddfod,’ said Mrs Flynt, ‘a DRAMA eisteddfod. That’ll test your elocution, and everything else, won’t it?’
Elsbeth stiffened. Trudy looked afraid.
‘What’s an eisteddfod?’ asked Mona.
‘I’ll explain, shall I?’ said Mrs Flynt, graciously.
‘If you would,’ said Muriel.
It was agreed the Winyerp hall was the most suitable venue. Trophies would be awarded to best actor, best actress, best play and best costumes … Elsbeth’s hand went nervously to her marcasite brooch and Trudy cleared her throat.
Muriel said, ‘I guess we’ll get Una to make ours –’
Mrs Flynt from Itheca slapped her knee and cried, ‘Splendid, because we want your Tilly.’
‘No!’ said Trudy and stood up. Her hem caught in the heel of her sandals and her full skirt peeled away from her waist like greased paper from a warm cake, exposing her off-white nylon slip. ‘She’s ours. I’ve spoken to Myrtle Dunnage, this morning in fact,’ she lied.
‘You could ask her to fix your skirt then,’ said Mrs Flynt. ‘They just aren’t made the way they used to be, are they?’