The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte

by Lesley Truffle

  ‘Miss Kane and Miss Torte, what a very fine day we have, and how may I serve you?’

  As usual Lily looked totally foreign. On her glossy red hair she wore a jaunty velvet cap with a single green feather. Her attire was so simple and tasteful that she made everyone else look overdressed.

  Lily ran a discerning eye over the fabric, ‘I’m here for a riding costume.’

  ‘A gift for your father is it now, Miss Kane?’

  ‘No. For me.’

  He whipped the door open. ‘Then you’ll be requiring the dressmaker opposite. I don’t make ladies’ apparel.’

  Lily got a firm grip on the door and slammed it shut. ‘I don’t want ladies’ apparel, Mr Cuthbert, I require a riding jacket and a pair of jodhpurs.’ She looked him straight in the eye and he flinched. ‘And while you’re about it, we’ll have the same for Miss Sasha.’

  It was on. The battle lasted a good ten minutes. Mr Cuthbert’s assistant seemed quite distraught. Leonard Jones’s glasses misted up and I suspected he was on our side. Poor Leonard had acquired a reputation for being over-sensitive and highly strung, after he’d shed a few tears during one of Tremont Pearson’s public recitals.

  Of course Mr Cuthbert didn’t stand a chance against our Lil. ‘I’m fully aware, Sir, of the accepted style. Lordy, how ridiculous to have a skirt hiding trousers underneath! And riding side-saddle is just asking for trouble. I ride like a man. It’s imperative I have riding jodhpurs and a hacking jacket.’

  Mr Cuthbert was barely coherent. ‘We do not think it will be very becoming. Furthermore, I want nothing to do with radical members of the Dress Reform Movement.’

  ‘Sir, your concerns are dated, even here in Wolfftown. How sad to think that all these years you’ve been the Kane family tailor and yet here you are baulking at a simple request. You know, my father still has the first greatcoat you ever made him. What a superbly tailored garment it is indeed. Ah, Sasha, the cut and the quality of the garment is unsurpassed.’ She yanked on her gloves. ‘Well then, I suppose we’ll have to cross the street to Mr Brown, Professional Gentlemen’s Tailor.’ Lil paused with her hand on the door knob and raised an eyebrow. ‘Unless Mr Cuthbert cares to rethink the matter and elects to retain our business?’

  Naturally Mr Cuthbert didn’t want to be upstaged by his rival. So he measured us very promptly and soon we were being ushered off the premises by Leonard. I could tell Leonard was smitten with Lily Kane; most men enjoy spirited women and Lily was mistress of the operatic.

  I was looking forward to my first pair of jodhpurs. Against Mr Cuthbert’s advice I’d chosen Black Watch tartan.

  Most of my clothes were designed by Lily. It was customary in those days for young girls to wear shorter skirts than their elders. But once we matured we were expected to wear cumbersome long heavy skirts, several undergarments, a tightly laced whalebone corset and silly thin slippers that didn’t protect our feet. Lily was never militant in her rejection of women’s apparel, she simply wore what she found comfortable and attractive.

  The day clothes she designed for me were practical and comfortable. In summer I wore light cottons and in winter heavier serges, woollens and drills. She ensured I had sturdy footwear for walking and riding. Under Lily’s supervision I became the proud owner of four exquisite evening gowns with full skirts, massed petticoats and tight bodices. She was a highly skilled seamstress and if we were going to a special social event Lily would design and whip up new party gowns for us both. I was in awe of her mastery of style, pattern and fabric.

  Shortly after my fifteenth birthday Lily presented our dressmaker with pictures of elegant young Europeans dressed up for the opera and gave specific directions as to cut, texture, colour and style. She really laid down the law. ‘Furthermore, Mrs O’Shea, I’m very particular about Sasha’s winter coats. That ghastly cumbersome style you made up for her last season in wool kersey cloth must not be repeated. I’ve never seen such a vile shade of green and the fur collar resembled a dead wild rabbit! Believe me, I’m not overstating it when I say Sasha looks like a prize-winning cabbage in that coat.’

  Mrs O’Shea pulled herself up to her full height of four foot five. ‘I’ll have you know, Miss Kane, that particular coat was copied by just about every other dressmaker in this town.’

  Lil nodded thoughtfully. ‘Please understand, I wasn’t casting aspersions on the quality of the fabric, nor your skills as Wolfftown’s foremost dressmaker. I just think both style and colour were hideous. Besides, I happen to know that a stylish, elegant woman such as yourself would never be caught wearing such a coat. Not even in your goddamned coffin.’

  Mrs O’Shea burst out laughing and the riff was mended.

  She was an accomplished dressmaker but I always preferred anything made by Lily. My favourite gown was pearl-grey taffeta designed and made by Lily, with narrow flounces cut on the bias. It had a low-cut bodice and was embellished with tiny pearl buttons. I wore it with the pearl choker Lily had gifted me. Within days my gown was being surreptitiously copied by dressmakers all over town. My cabbage days were behind me.

  I wore my new gowns to our grand dinners, and after midnight, when I’d been ordered to bed, I’d spend the next couple of hours clutching a candelabra and floating up and down staircases. My fantasy life kept me up for hours and it was quite exhausting. Sometimes improvised plot changes required a visit to the rooftop at three in the morning, dressed in nothing but a wisp of satin and dancing slippers. A constant theme was the beautiful maiden abandoned in a tower, with a devilish bushranger dropping by to ravish her when the lamps went out. I was pragmatic in my reveries because I knew that eventually my prince would come. Nothing much has changed, I’ve always adored the company of men.

  When summer arrived Lily rode out every single day. I heard Tim say, ‘Miss Lily, you have a natural seat and great skill as a horsewoman. All my stableboys were hanging around this morning just waiting to watch you ride out in your dashing jodhpurs. I say this with the greatest of respect – you could make a dead man walk.’

  What Tim said about the dead man was much cruder, but he meant it as a sincere compliment and Lily accepted it as such. Dear reader, in future I will endeavour to be less circumspect.

  Soon Lil was spending the mornings riding around the hills in Tim’s company. On warmer days she favoured skirts but when Lil wore her jodhpurs they created an absolute sensation. She was rumoured to be a trollop and a loose woman. It wasn’t anything Lil hadn’t weathered before and she brazened it out. Soon Wolfftown’s gossips and God’s police gave up and switched their malicious attention elsewhere.

  Some of Wolfftown’s more daring maidens went to Mr Cuthbert’s and ordered tailored jodhpurs. Viola persuaded Mrs Taylor to let her have a pair made on the dubious grounds that it was more decorous to go riding in jodhpurs than long skirts. Why? Because a freak breeze could easily blow a young woman’s skirts up around her neck. Viola’s green velvet jodhpurs created a storm in the Taylor household. The vicar was outraged, but as usual his opinion was ignored. No wonder the poor man spent all his time talking to God as he decanted the sacristy wine.

  It was rumoured that Leonard Jones’s chances of finding a wife had improved dramatically. Roger Dasher opened a betting book; as to whether nervy Leonard would have cardiac arrest at the sight of half-dressed women being fitted for jodhpurs or if he’d try to bed one of Mr Cuthbert’s female clients on the sly. Only Roger could come up with such base suppositions. The prospect of Leonard finding love didn’t feature in Roger’s calculations.

  Even Thomasina Brown had been spotted in Mr Cuthbert’s shop and I was worried that Leonard would succumb to her charms. She was a bit older than me and she’d reached an age where she was becoming a coquette like her mother. I need not have concerned myself, as Thomasina was after the money. She got herself betrothed to Mayor Wolff’s son, Wilbert Wellington Wolff. Salacious jokes did the rounds, concerning Mayor Wolff wanting to keep it all in his mistress’s family.

  Wilb
ert Wolff was reputed to be something of a conman. While his brother, Algernon Wolff, was in England studying law at Oxford University and cutting a swathe through London society, Wilbert was back home making a nuisance of himself. Gambling was endemic in Wolfftown and wealthy young blades such as Wilbert wagered hundreds of pounds on obscure and random events. Roger staked his monthly allowance on a bet with Wilbert, over two drops of water sliding down the pub’s window. Roger put his money on the wrong droplet and lost.

  He was a sore loser and Wee Willy became the butt of his tasteless jokes. It hadn’t gone unnoticed in some quarters that since Wilbert’s very public dressing down by Nora O’Brien, Wilbert had lost his passion for cigars. When Roger heard about it, he promptly sent Wee Willy a box of phallic shaped Cuban cigars.

  Grandpa grinned when he saw me kitted out in my new Black Watch tartan jodhpurs and hacking jacket. ‘Ah, what a sight for sore eyes. You look like an aristocratic member of London’s Fancy. Good on you, Sasha, I can see you’ll go your own way like all Kane women.’

  It was thrilling to gallop around without the impediment of a skirt. I contrived ways of cutting my long hair off but Lily put her foot down.

  My piano lessons at the Dasher Estate continued. I was often half asleep because I had to get up very early if I wanted to continue my cooking lessons with Charlie. Acquiring culture was exhausting. Twice a week I rode Satan into town for my lessons with Grandpa, then all the way back home for science, English, French, history and geography with my tutors.

  Lily personally supervised my artistic attempts with paint and brush and taught me how to converse in Russian. She also trained me in archery and firearms. On hot summer afternoons, she and I would sip cold lemonade, make small talk in Russian and blast gunshot at the wine bottle targets set up for us by Tim. I was chuffed to discover I was a crack shot. I damn well couldn’t add up but I was more than capable of defending myself.

  Tim often found himself in mortal danger, ‘Nice shot there, Miss Sasha, but do you think you could hold fire until I’m clear of the range? If you plug me, instead of the target it will be called murder in a court of law.’

  ‘Sorry, Tim.’

  He removed his hat and mopped his brow. Sweat beaded on Tim’s bare throat and drenched his shirt. He was prime-cut muscle and brawn.

  As Cecily, our maid put it, ‘Tim O’Flaherty is so very easy on the eye. You’d be surprised at how many Wolfftown virgins are plotting to bring him to heel and march him up the aisle. No chance. Tim’s his own man.’

  When you’ve known someone all your life, it can be difficult to really see them. Cecily gave me an insight into Tim’s masculine appeal; women were actually mesmerised by his presence. He had that special something that distinguishes the heart breakers from ordinary decent blokes.

  I watched Lil like a hawk and tried to spot any flirtation on her part. Tim grinned down at her, his green eyes locking onto hers. Any woman with a pulse would have melted but she seemed oblivious to his manly presence. He said, ‘Haven’t you ladies had enough for today? It’s getting hotter than Hades out here and you’ve been at it since bloody noon.’

  Lily would have none of it. She smiled up at him as she rapidly loaded more shells into her shotgun. ‘Young ladies need this kind of relaxation, Tim. Now do be a good fellow and put up our next targets. This is all too easy, further away would be good. Let’s make it a bit harder, eh?’

  Tim grinned and set up the next dozen bottles so far away that I could hardly see them. He then nonchalantly cleaned his own shotgun as we blasted everything in sight, except the bottles, to smithereens. Eventually we had to give it away and retire to the shade. Lily quietly cursed Tim in fluent Russian but she didn’t let him know she was annoyed. As far as men were concerned, Lily had a strict policy of never showing weakness by conceding defeat.

  I came to the conclusion that Grandpa had been mistaken in thinking Lily and Tim were having an affair because never once did I see any gesture of sexual complicity between them. Until one summer’s day, when I took a shortcut down to the river that ran through our property.

  It happened when I was riding Satan home from Grandpa’s house. The air was hot and heavy and it was only the opportunistic blowflies that kept me awake. On a whim I decided to stop by the river and sneak in a nude swim. Satan loved dipping in the cool waters. Just as I was leading him down the embankment he whinnied and another horse answered. I recognised Tim’s and Lily’s horses tethered to a tree. Tim’s mongrel bitch, Jess, was keeping watch but she made no sound and wagged her tail. I glanced around and noticed two figures partially concealed in the tall summer grass.

  Lily was writhing around naked on a bed of petticoats while Tim’s head revolved slowly around her lower belly. Sweat drenched his naked back as he laboured under the searing sun. Lily was in a hurry but he refused her pleas and continued to slowly pleasure her orally.

  Tim managed to get his trousers only halfway down his buttocks before she claimed him. They moved together in perfect unison, then he flipped her over so she was astride him. She rode him like a horse. Her long neck was stretched back, her hair was loose and her movements erratic. Finally her body jerked in ecstasy and her long howl reverberated right up to the tree tops. It must have been a hysterical paroxysm. I froze and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Jess and the horses were unfazed by the proceedings. It was just another day in the bush for them.

  It was the most beautiful sexual coupling I’d ever seen. My feet didn’t know which way to go. Embarrassment, awe and a strange fascination nailed me to the spot. I’d only ever seen farm animals mate before. This was something completely different, secret and tender. Tim was now holding Lil close, gently kissing her face, stroking her breasts and murmuring endearments.

  I was deeply shocked when Lily laughed with glorious abandon. She just lay back, buck naked in the grass and laughed until Tim stopped her with a long kiss. Soon they were at it again. I crept backwards clutching Satan’s reins.

  And all the way home I worried about the wildness of Lil’s laughter.

  In the evening we had twenty-four guests to dinner. I took a special interest in Lily’s appearance but all I could detect was a certain languor in her movements. She was wearing a magnificent necklace of emeralds with her white satin gown. The candlelight illuminated her powdered bare shoulders and emphasised her high cheek bones. Lil was especially dazzling that night, probably because she seemed so completely and utterly herself.

  Several male guests kept sneaking looks at Lil when they should have been paying attention to their dining companions. Quite a few ladies noticed this and they became somewhat snaky.

  The gauche young grazier seated next to Lil was the worst. Damien Guthrie couldn’t take his eyes off her. He paid hardly any attention to the food on his plate and seemed in danger of shoving his fork up his nostril.

  Our Lil had that effect on males whether they were nine or ninety.

  11

  BUTTERFLY CHOP

  Lily’s hero Jean Francois Gravelet died several years after I was born. Known as The Great Blondin, he’d crossed the river below Niagara Falls on a tightrope. Lily told me, ‘Blondin polished his act, until he was pausing midway, to set up a small primus stove. He would then cook and eat an omelette. Ah, the French, they really know how to enjoy their food.’

  ‘Did he have pudding too?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I was told he often lingered on the rope sipping a glass of French wine.’

  While travelling through Russia, Lily had a love affair with a famous circus aerialist and joined his act as an acrobatic dancer on the tightrope. She told me, ‘Nothing else will ever be as exciting. I’d stand on the elevated platform, practically nude in white tights and the tiniest red skirt. The orchestra would start, Misha would give the signal and I’d step out and skim the rope. No net, just me pirouetting, turning cartwheels and waltzing with Misha on the tightrope.’

  ‘Were you scared?’

  ‘Of course, but it w
as wonderful and my blood raced for hours afterwards. I could feel the fear of the crowd, it kept me up there. Then there were the waves of applause at the end and the sheer excitement of the spectators willing me to go on. Occasionally I sensed somebody in the crowd willing me to fall. It just gave me the incentive to spin faster. I sent Brendan a photograph of myself on the high wire. Tim told me, he kept it in his breast pocket and showed it to everyone in Wolfftown. Apparently he was proud as punch but never said a word about it to me.’

  Tim resigned his job and left Appletorte. The Wolfftown Chronicle declared he’d gone to try his luck in the Americas. Grandpa didn’t discuss the matter with me and got a sad faraway look in his eye if Tim was ever mentioned. I expected Lily to be upset but she gave nothing away. I missed Tim badly yet Lil never mentioned him. But after a while I pretended that I’d stopped waiting for him to return. Tim’s absence left a space in my heart.

  I took to riding Satan up to Dead Man’s Gorge in the early morning, before the mists cleared. Soon the sun would rise in a fiery orange mass over the horizon. I loved the quiet stillness of the wilderness. The primitive forest floor was thick with damp bracken and ferns and the ghost gums loomed out of the mist at me. Every so often cackling magpies and kookaburras were drowned out by flocks of screeching sulphur-crested cockatoos. They rose in a flurry of yellow and white as we approached and fanned out across the gorge with an enormous whoosh of hundreds of wings.

  One morning I came across a coiled pile of hemp rope but when I searched for it the next day it had gone. Two days later I noticed the rope had been strung across the gorge, suspended between the trees on either side.

  Late one night when I was unable to sleep, I rode up to Dead Man’s Gorge. The moon was so bright, it illuminated the landscape like a giant lighthouse beacon. Satan was glad to be out and about amongst the whispering pines and he moved quietly with great certainty through the soft undergrowth. Tasmanian mammals are nocturnal, so the forest seethed with activity as they emerged from their hiding places. I detected the hiss of wombats, the growl and ticking of brushtail and little pygmy possums and the rustlings of marsupial rats. My night vision sharpened and I thought I could feel the body heat of other night creatures as they went about their business. Potoroos, who most closely resemble dormice, rushed past and I caught a glimpse of a tiger cat on the prowl. A boobook owl leapt on an unsuspecting mouse and sank its claws into the tiny thrashing body. I had to look away. Mother Nature has her own rules and it wasn’t my place to interfere.