The Dressmaker Part 19

'Ghoulish, according to Sergeant Farrat,' said Muriel.

'Well I suppose ...' said Lois and scratched her head. 'Do youse fink there's somethink going on between the sarge and Tilly?'

'What do you mean?' shot Muriel.

'An affair,' said Beula, 'I always suspected it.'

'Nothing would surprise me,' said Muriel.

Alvin rolled his eyes and walked back to his office.

Sergeant Farrat arrived to collect Tilly wearing a black knee-length wool-crepe frock with a draped neck, a stylish lampshade overskirt cut a.s.symetrically, black stockings and sensible black pumps with a discreet leather flower st.i.tched to the heel. 'Molly would disapprove,' he smiled, 'can't you just see her expression?'

'Your dress will be ruined in this rain.'

'I can always make another one and besides, I have a nice blue cape and umbrella in the car.'

She looked at him and frowned.

'I don't care, Tilly,' he said, 'I'm beyond caring what those people think or say anymore. I'm sure everyone's seen what's on my clothes line over the years, and I'm just about due to retire anyway.' He offered her his elbow.

'The rain will keep the crowds away,' said Tilly and they stepped from the veranda to the police car.

Reginald drove Molly to her resting place in Pratts' grocery van, then leaned on it to watch the two mourners, their hair plastered to their foreheads and their faces screwed in the rain. Sergeant Farrat clasped his hands together under his cape and raised his voice above the grey din. 'Molly Dunnage came to Dungatar with a babe-in-arms to start a new life. She hoped to leave behind her troubles, but hers was a life lived with trouble travelling alongside and so Molly lived as discreetly as she possibly could in the full glare of scrutiny and torment. Her heart will rest easier knowing Myrtle again before she died.

'We bid Molly farewell and in our sadness, our anger and our disbelief we beg for Molly a better life hereafter, a life of love and acceptance and we wish for her everlasting peace for I suspect that is all she ever wished for herself. That is what, in her heart, she would have wanted for anyone.'

Councillor Evan Pettyman, on behalf of the Dun-gatar s.h.i.+re Council, had sent a wreath. Tilly scooped it from the top of the coffin with the shovel then dropped it on the sodden clay at her feet and sliced it into tiny wedges. Reginald stepped forward to help them lower Molly to rest. Flat raindrops plopped, smacked a rat ta tat tat at the coffin top, as Tilly dropped the first clod of earth onto her mother's final bed.

The men stood respectfully in the rain either side of the thin girl in the big wet hat. She leaned on the shovel, shuddering in a grey crying sky, mud stuck to her boots and caked to the cuffs of her trousers. 'I will miss you,' she cried, 'I will just go on missing you as I always have.'

Reginald handed Sergeant Farrat the bill for the cost of the casket and hire of Alvin's van. The sergeant put it in his pocket, took the shovel from Tilly and said, 'Let's tuck Molly in, then go and drink laced tea until we feel some understanding has been reached on behalf of Molly Dunnage and the life she was given.'

Tilly held the umbrella over the sergeant as he shovelled, the blue cape stuck in folds about him, his black pumps sinking in the clay. The rain trickled down, darkening his stockings.

Much later Beula heard them singing as she crept up The Hill. She crouched at the back window and saw Tilly Dunnage leaning with Sergeant Horatio Farrat, who was wearing a frock. The kitchen table was littered with empty bottles, discarded clothing and old photograph alb.u.ms, and the Holy Bible lay open, its pages stabbed and ripped they'd found no understanding in it, so had killed it. The two mourners swayed together with their heads back singing, 'You made me love you, I didn't want to do it '

'No no no, not that one. That's exactly what happened!' said Tilly.

So Sergeant Farrat sang, 'Ma, he's making eyes at me, Ma he's awful nice to me '

'NO, definitely not that one either.'

'Who were you with last night? Out in the '

'No.'

'I've got one Til, howbout When I grow too old to dream-'

'Yes Yes, that's one she'd've liked. Lesgo, onetwo-tree ...'

They steepled together again and sang, 'When I grow too old to dream, I'll have you to remember, when I grow too old to dream, your love will live in my heart '

'Oh s.h.i.+t,' said Tilly, 'she would have hated that one. All those songs are corruptive, p.o.r.nographic.'

'No wonder she got into trouble.'

'That's exactly right. That's it!' said Tilly and took the tea cosy from her head and threw it in the air.

'What?'

'It's all the fault of persuasive popular song, and a lecher.'

'Solved,' said the sergeant and sat down at the table. He poured them a gla.s.s of champagne and they toasted.

'Lessing Loch Lomon' again.'

'No more singing,' said Tilly, 'it's corruptive!' She went to the lounge room and toppled back through the kitchen with the radiogram in her arms.

Beula jumped away from the window light and lay flat in the dark on the gra.s.s. Tilly braked on the veranda and with a grunt slung her radiogram out into the black night. There was a sickening uugghh sound and a m.u.f.fled thud as Tilly went back inside. She grabbed her records and ran back out with them, stacked them beside her on the veranda, then stood in the oblong yellow light from the doorway, flinging them one by one to the wind.

When the edge of the flying radiogram hit Beula it dented her forehead, broke her nose and gave her mild concussion. She felt her way home along the worn tracks, along the fences she knew so well, and lay down. Her wound started to seep, and a black and green bruise swelled from the raw fleshy cavity in the middle of her face all the way down to her undershot chin and over the creased brow to her hairline.

On Monday morning Sergeant Farrat took his preparatory bath and waited for Beula. He waited again on Tuesday morning until half past nine, then went looking. There was no response to his knock so he opened the door to Beula's grease-and-dust-caked kitchen, immediately dancing backwards, coughing. He rushed back to the police car, took a bottle of eucalyptus oil from the glove box and poured it onto his handkerchief. Back at the kitchen door he pressed the scented cloth against his nostrils and entered. He found her, a stiff, black-stained tea towel draped over her head, lifting and sucking back in the middle where a nose should have peaked the material. 'Beula?' he breathed. There was a noise like rattling drops in a drinking straw and her arms raised a little. He pinched the edge of the towel and jumped back quickly, dropping it onto the floor. Beula's eyes were bulging purple-red slits and there was a crusty, blackened hole in the middle of her face. Two brown stumps jutted where her eye teeth had snapped off at the gums.

The sergeant led her to his car and drove her to the doctor at Winyerp. They sat in the surgery. Beula could make out the fuzzied outline of a white-ish figure moving about in front of her. It said 'Hmmm.'

'I tripped and fell,' said Beula through her rotting face and burst adenoids, pink bubbles boiling through her lips.

'You tripped?' The doctor looked at the sergeant and made a gesture to suggest she'd been drinking.

'It was dark,' she said.

'You may have suffered internal optical damage it looks like the eye cas.e.m.e.nt is shattered,' said the doctor and handed her a letter addressed to a specialist in Melbourne.

'The nasal bone has crashed against the lacrimal bone splintering it. This in turn has severed the lacrimal duct, damaging the sphenoid bone and therefore the optic foramen and, unfortunately, the all important macula luteras. It's too late to do anything about it now of course ...'

The lights had gone out for Beula.

Sergeant Farrat gave her dark gla.s.ses, tied a scarf around her chin, placed a white cane in her hand and put her on a train to Melbourne with a tag pinned to the back of her cardigan which said, 'Beula Harridene, C/- police station, Dungatar, Ph: 9 (trunk call)'. Then he went to see Tilly, stepping from his car in the orange glow of dusk, his green-beaded, silk brocade matador's costume glinting. Tilly had altered it to fit the sergeant by adding gold silk inserts and the sergeant had attached green ta.s.sels to them. They stood in her garden, waist deep in flowers and bushes, herbs and vegetables, the air around them clear and fresh from the recent rain.

'I see Molly has put the tip fire out,' joked the sergeant.

'Yes,' said Tilly.

'Did you hear about poor Beula?'

'No.'

'She's gone to the sanatorium.' The sergeant rubbed his hands together.

'Tell me everything,' said Tilly.

'Well ...' he began, and ended by saying, '... it must have been an awful fall, she looks like she's been hit by the corner of a flying fridge.'

'When did it happen?' said Tilly.

'The night of Molly's funeral.'

She looked up at the heavens and smiled.

That afternoon Nancy arrived to fetch Mr Almanac. She found him in the back room stuck fast, his head bent into the cupboard where he kept his apothecary measures, his round shoulders resting against the ledge. Nancy carefully backed him out and shunted him out the door, checked for traffic and gave him a gentle shove. He tripped down the kerb and across the road while Nancy switched off the lights, padlocked the refrigerator and secured the front door. Mr Almanac accelerated towards his wife, who was dozing in the sun. He tumbled past her and continued through the house, whose hallway ran from the front door to the back. Nancy glanced across at Mrs A, then up and down the street. She frowned, cupped her hands around her eyes and peered back into the gloomy shop. She looked at Mrs A again, then bolted across the street, past Mrs Almanac, who felt the pa.s.sing breeze and opened her eyes. 'Holy Mary, mother of G.o.d,' she heard Nancy say.

Sergeant Farrat followed Mr Percival Almanac's foot sc.r.a.pes all the way across the back yard to the creek's edge. He stood on the bank looking sadly at the brown water, mosquitos singing around him. He removed his blue cap and rested it over his heart before dropping it despondently on a log and carefully removing and folding his clothes. When all that remained were his red satin boxers he eased into the still creek. In the centre his white head sunk and small bubbles circled on the watery surface, then Mr Almanac's head rose. The sergeant held him over his shoulder like a rigid upright question mark with slimy green c.u.mbungi streaming from his bent neck, yabbies clinging to his ear lobes and leeches hanging from his lips.

Tilly stood by the muddy mound of her mother's grave and related the details of Beula's and Mr Almanac's accidents. 'Like you said, "Sometimes things just don't seem fair".'

She heard the galah before she reached the crest of The Hill. The committee members of the Dungatar Social Club were being held against the veranda by the bird, which was dancing at them, screeching, wings outstretched, crest rigid. The women wore 'Tilly originals' and looked afraid. She strode to the veranda, looked at the galah and said, 'Shsss.'

He stopped, c.o.c.ked his head at her and closed his beak. His crest flattened and he waddled pigeon-toed to the gatepost, climbed to the top, then turned and hissed once more at the intruders.

'Your garden, Tilly,' said Trudy, 'so pretty, such a big job you've done and still managing to sew so well!'

They were all smiling at her.

'A very fragrant garden indeed.'

'You have some very unusual plants.'

Tilly plucked a blade of gra.s.s and chewed it.

Trudy cleared her throat, 'We're putting on a eisteddfod '

'We're doing Macbeth', snapped Elsbeth, 'Shakespeare's Macbeth. It's a play. Itheca and Winyerp Dramatic Societies are doing A Streetcar Named Desire and H.M.S. Pinafore '

'Light entertainment,' said Muriel disparagingly.

'So we're doing Macbeth, and we've chosen YOU to do the costumes.'

Tilly looked at each of them. They were all nodding at her, smiling. 'Really?' she said, 'Macbeth?'

'Yes,' said Trudy.

Elsbeth held up The Complete Works of Shakespeare, and Costumes Throughout the Ages. 'We have some ideas about what we want ...'

'Show me,' said Tilly. Elsbeth hurried towards her, the page open at drawings of men dressed in dull togas with rope looped around the waist, full sleeves and scalloped collars and women in tight, draw-string vests.

'I like the ones over the page,' said Trudy. Tilly turned the page. The pictures showed men costumed in skirts with layers and layers of petticoats and yards and yards of lace dripping from arms covered in voluminous cuffed ruffles and frills. They posed on the page in stockings, below-knee pantaloons with G.o.det bell-bottoms or deep flounces above high-heeled Cromwell slippers tied with large satin bows. Their hats were oversized and heavily plumed. The women wore three-tiered full skirts with ruffled bustles, elaborate multi-storied architect-designed fontanges, feather m.u.f.fs and jackets with complicated jabots or frilled revers.

'But this is Baroque,' said Tilly, 'seventeenth century.'

'Precisely,' said Elsbeth.

'It is Shakespeare,' said Trudy.

Muriel was incredulous. 'You've heard of him haven't you?'

'She may not have,' said Mona. 'I hadn't until last week.'

Tilly raised an eyebrow and recited, 'Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog ...'

The committee members looked at each other, confused.

Tilly raised an eyebrow. 'Act four scene one, three witches at the cauldron? No?'

The women remained blank. 'We haven't actually read the play yet,' said Muriel.

'I prefer the costumes I selected, don't you? asked Trudy.

Tilly looked directly at Trudy and said, 'They'd definitely be the most effective.' Trudy nodded emphatically at her friends.

Elsbeth took a step closer to Tilly. 'Can you manage them?'

'I can, but ' said Tilly.

'How soon can you start?' interrupted Elsbeth.

Tilly studied the pictures, thinking. The women looked at each other and shrugged. Then she smiled at them. 'I'd be more than delighted to contribute to your drama by making these costumes ... provided you pay me.' She snapped the book closed and held it to her breast. 'You still have outstanding accounts that go back twelve months and more.'

'We'll bring the matter up at the next meeting,' said the treasurer, lamely.

'Well, that's settled then,' said Elsbeth, wiping her hands down her skirt and starting off down The Hill.

'I won't start until I've been paid the outstanding accounts and I want cash up front. Otherwise I'll offer to take on Itheca and Winyerp's costumes instead. They always pay me.'

Elsbeth and Trudy looked to Muriel, who looked back at them evenly. 'He'll never lend it to us,' she said.

'Mother!' said Trudy and stepped up to the treasurer, and poked at her nose, 'You have to ask father.' Alvin had ceased extending credit to his daughter and her family again, charging only food to the Windswept Crest account they even had to do without soap.

Muriel folded her arms. 'No one's paid Alvin either, he's got accounts go back ten years. We can't feed everyone for nothing forever,' she said haughtily and glared at Elsbeth. Elsbeth and Trudy looked accusingly at each other.