The Dressmaker Part 3

As she unlocked the chemist shop door she saw Beula Harridene advancing. Her s.h.i.+ns were scratched and a purple petal clung to her cardigan. Nancy stepped into her path, smiled and said, 'Morning again, Mrs Harriden.'

Beula looked directly back at Nancy and said, 'One of these '

Suddenly she gasped, slapped a hand over her mouth and bolted. Nancy was both pleased and puzzled. She unlocked the chemist door, stood by the mirror to run a comb through her hair and saw why Beula had run a white milk smear rimmed her lips. She smiled.

By eight fifty on Monday morning Sergeant Farrat had bathed and dressed in his crisp navy uniform. His cap was perched gaily to one side, his navy skirt was taut across his thighs and generous b.u.t.tocks, and the seams at the back of his pale nylon calves were straight as a new fence line. His new checked gingham skirt hung starched and pressed on the wardrobe doork.n.o.b behind him. He was vacuuming the last of the telltale threads into the bladder of his upright Hoover.

Beula Harridene stood on the porch, her face pressed to the window, squinting into the dimness. She banged on the door. The sergeant switched off his cleaner and wound the cord precisely up and down the handle catches. He removed his skirt and hung it with his gingham skirt in the wardrobe, then locked the door. He paused a moment to run his hands over his nylon stockings and admire his new lace panties. Then he put on his navy trousers, socks and shoes. He checked his image in the mirror and made his way to the office.

Outside, Beula hopped from one foot to the other. Sergeant Farrat glanced up at the clock and unlocked the front door. Beula fell in blabbering.

'Those dogs barked all Sat.u.r.day night, stirred up by those hoodlum footballers, and since you haven't silenced them I've phoned Councillor Pettyman this morning and he's says he'll see to it, and I've written to your superiors again this time I told them everything. What's the point of having a law enforcer if he enforces the law according to himself, not the legal law? Your clock's set wrong, you open up late and I know you lock up early Fridays ...'

Beula Harridene had bloodshot-beige eyes that bulged. She had an undershot chin and rabbit-size buck teeth, so her bottom lip was forever blue with bruised imprints and froth gathered and dried at the corners of her unfortunate mouth. The sergeant concluded that because her bite was inefficient she was starving, therefore vicious, malnourished and mad. While Beula went on, and on, Sergeant Farrat placed a form on the counter, sharpened a pencil and wrote, 'Nine O-one Monday 9th October ...'

Beula stamped her feet. '... AND, that daughter of Mad Molly's is back the murderess! And that fancy William Beaumont's been hanging around town too, Sergeant, neglecting his poor mother and the property, hanging about with those hoodlum footballers, well let me tell you if he's got any queer ideas we'll all suffer, I know what men get up to when they go away to cities, there are men dressed as women and I know '

'How do you know Beula?'

Beula smiled, 'My father warned me.'

Sergeant Farrat looked directly at Beula and raised his pale eyebrows. 'And how did he know, Beula?'

Beula blinked.

'What is your particular problem today, Beula?'

'I've been a.s.saulted, this very morning, I've been a.s.saulted by a pack of marauding children '

'And what did these children look like Beula?'

'They looked like children short and grubby.'

'In school uniform?'

'Yes.'

As Beula talked the sergeant wrote. 'Sergeant Horatio Farrat, Dungatar police station, reports an official complaint made by Mrs Beula Harridene. Mrs Harridene has been the victim of marauding schoolchildren, two boys and a girl, who early this morning were seen fleeing from outside Mrs Harridene's residence having attacked her premises. Mrs Harridene accuses the said three school-children of throwing bunches of seed pods onto her corrugated iron roof, having stolen the bunches of seed pods from the jacaranda tree located on her nature strip.'

'It was those McSwineys! I saw them ...' She continued to screech, sweating, a sweet pungency permeating the room and small droplets of spittle flying, landing on Sergeant Farrat's logbook. He gathered the form and his book and took a step back. Beula clutched the counter, swaying, her teeth puncturing her lower lip.

'All right Beula. Lets go see Mae and Edward, look over a few of their kids.'

He drove Beula to her house. First they established that wind must have blown away all the bunches of seed pods from the guttering surrounding her roof. Next Sergeant Farrat drove in search of the said accused criminals. Nancy was leaning on her broom chatting while Purl hosed the footpath. Irma was at her front gate. Lois and Betty were at Pratts' window, their arms through wicker basket handles. Miss Dimm was standing in her school yard, waist deep in a pool of children. Opposite, Ruth Dimm and Norma Pullit paused while unloading mailbags from the small red post office van.

Everyone saw Beula drive past squawking away at poor old Sergeant Farrat and everyone smiled and waved back as the sergeant tooted his way through the main street.

It was a fine sweet Monday out at the McSwineys': there was an easterly blowing, which meant that their happy ramshackle home was downwind of the tip. Edward McSwiney sat on the car seat in the suns.h.i.+ne mending drum nets, threading new wire through bent and torn chicken wire and round and around rusty steel frames. Three small kids ran about cornering squawking flapping fowls, then took them to the chopping block where Barney, awkward, stood with an axe. The blade was stuck with blood-tipped feathers, Barney's s.h.i.+rt was red-splattered. He was crying, so Princess Margaret handed him the poker and sent him to stoke the fire under the boiling chook-filled copper while she wielded the axe. Mae grabbed the hot floating chickens from the copper to pluck them, then Elizabeth lay them on a tree stump and tore the entrails from their pink and dimpled carca.s.ses.

The Jack Russells started yapping urgently, turning circles and making eye contact with Mae. She studied them for a moment. 'Wallopers,' she said.

Edward was a quiet steady man, but at the sound of 'Wallopers', he leapt as though he'd been bitten and ran with his drum net. The chook herders, two small girls in bib and brace and a lad in striped pyjamas, ran to the front gate. The toddler fetched a bag of marbles and the girls a stick each. The taller la.s.s drew a circle in the dirt with her stick, the toddler emptied his marbles into it and both knelt down earnestly. The other la.s.s touched up the lines of an ancient hopscotch game chiselled into the raw red clay in front of the gateposts, and began to bounce through the squares on one foot. By the time the black Holden eased to a halt at the gate, the children were deep in play. Sergeant Farrat tooted. The children ignored him. He tooted again. The taller la.s.s slowly opened the gate. Edward ambled back and sat down innocently on the seat by the caravan.

Beula leapt from the car and Sergeant Farrat offered the three bawling children a bag of boiled lollies. They grabbed a handful each and ran to their mother, who was advancing with the bloodied axe in her hand. Margaret and Elizabeth walked either side of her, red-tinged feathers floating with them, Elizabeth red to her elbows and Margaret carrying a lighted tree branch. Beula stopped before them.

'Top of the morning to you,' said the friendly policeman. He smiled again at the three children. They smiled back, their cheeks bulging, and sweet saliva spilled and coated their chins.

'Would these three littlies here be the children you saw, Beula?'

'Yes,' cried Beula 'they're the scoundrels.' She lifted her hand to slap them. Sergeant Farrat, Edward, Mae and the daughters all took a step forward.

'It was two girls and a boy then, Beula?'

'Yes, it was, now that I see them.'

'And the school uniforms?'

'Obviously they took them off.'

'I don't go to school yet,' said the toddler, 'neither does Mary. Victoria goes next year but.'

'Are you looking forward to school Victoria?' asked Sergeant Farrat.

The three children answered as one. 'Na, rather go tip fis.h.i.+n'.'

Sergeant Farrat looked at the short grubby lineup in front of him. They looked back at the bag of lollies he held at his chest. 'You've all been tip fis.h.i.+ng this morning, have you?'

They answered now in turns. 'Na, b.u.g.g.e.r-all there today. We go Fridays garbage day.'

'We've been catchin' chooks today.'

'Creek fishn' tomorra, to catch fish.'

'Round off your words, stop dropping your G's and sound your vowels,' said Mae sternly.

'They're lying!' Beula was puce, damp and pungent. 'They threw seed pods on my roof.'

The children looked at each other. 'Not today we didn't.'

'Would you like us to?'

Beula jumped up and down, screeching and spitting, 'It was them, it was them.' The kiddies looked at her. The small boy said, 'You sure got s.h.i.+t on your liver today Mrs, you musta sunk a power of p.i.s.s last night.'

Mae smacked young George over the right ear. The rest of the group looked hard at their shoes. 'I'm sorry,' said Mae, 'they learn that sort of talk at school.'

Sergeant Farrat explained the benefits of nipping mischievous behaviour in the bud, of setting examples. Mae crossed her arms. 'We know all that Sarge, but what are you going do about it?'

Sergeant Farrat turned to Beula. 'Miss Harridene, would you be satisfied with the screams if I took these children behind the caravan to teach them a lesson, or would you prefer I brutally thrash them within an inch of their lives here and now in front of everyone?'

The McSwineys doubled over, hooting with laughter. Sergeant Farrat handed Victoria the bag of lollies, and Beula lurched away to the car. She kicked and smashed a headlight then got in slamming the door so that the windows in the railway carriages and caravans rattled. She leaned over to the driver's seat and put her palm firmly on the horn, holding it there.

Sergeant Farrat drove her through the front gate then stopped the car. He turned to her and moved close, leaning across her to place his hand on the door handle. He breathed warmly, tenderly into her face. She shrank against the door. Sergeant Farrat spoke softly, 'I'm not going your way Beula, it's an offence to waste police force petrol. I'll let you out here.' He flipped the door handle.

Above them on The Hill, Tilly Dunnage paused at her digging to watch Beula Harridene spill onto the ground from the black car. She smiled and went back to turning the soft soil for her vegetable patch.

6.

Down in the town, William parked the Triumph Gloria outside Pratts and strode across the footpath in the morning sun. He smiled at Muriel stacking horseshoe magnets and picture hooks, tipped his hat to Lois scratching and searching for tinned peas and waved at Reg and Faith in his butchery. Faith was waiting for Reg to slice her two porterhouse steaks, humming, I've got you ... under my skin.

'Like that song do you?' said the handsome butcher, flas.h.i.+ng his bone-white teeth at her.

Faith blushed and placed her hand at her ample bosom, the gold rings on her fingers winking.

'You've got a lovely voice,' said the butcher, dropping his long, sharp knife into the metal holder hanging at his hip. His chest was broad under his starched white s.h.i.+rt and his blue-striped ap.r.o.n sat neatly across his flat waist.

'Can I do anything else, for you Faith?'

She could hardly speak. She pointed to the small-goods and said, 'A Devon Roll, please.'

In the office Gertrude was bent behind the gla.s.s part.i.tion, dusting.

'Excuse me,' William said.

Gertrude straightened and smiled broadly at William, 'h.e.l.lo William.'

'h.e.l.lo ...'

'Gertrude, I'm Gertrude Pratt.' She held out her small round hand but William was looking about the shop.

'Could you tell me where I can find Mr Pratt?'

'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 ap.r.o.n 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 s.h.i.+fting 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 s.h.i.+llings 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 Sat.u.r.day fortnight,' she said.

The sign stuck to the library door said, 'Open Wednesday and Sat.u.r.day afternoons. Enquire at s.h.i.+re 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 cla.s.sroom. 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 a.s.sembled 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 cla.s.s in a crooked line, shunting with lifted knees and military arms to the beat of the ba.s.s 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 cla.s.sroom until Miss Dimm cried 'HALT! Be seated and don't sc.r.a.pe 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, r.i.m.m.i.n.g the white marble lip, so he b.u.mped 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 gla.s.s 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 s.l.u.t, Dunnyb.u.m's Mum's a s.l.u.t, 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 s.h.i.+re 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.