by Rosalie Ham
On the second occasion, Teddy arrived with two Murray cod fillets marinated in a secret sauce and sprinkled with fresh thyme. Tilly went to work on her vegetable patch but the smell of frying cod brought her inside. The fish melted over their tingling tastebuds and when there was nothing left on their plates, Tilly and Molly put down their fish knife and fork side by side and gazed at the empty plates. Tilly said coolly, ‘That was delicious.’
Molly burped and said, ‘That’s better. You shouldn’t be rude to him, his mother saved my life.’
‘His mother left food Mrs Almanac made. I saved your life.’
‘He’s a kind young man and he’d like to take you to the dance,’ said Molly and blinked fetchingly at him. He smiled graciously at Molly and raised his glass.
‘I don’t want to go,’ said Tilly and took the plates to the sink.
‘That’s right, stay here and torture me, get under my feet, make sure I don’t go for help. It’s my house you know.’
‘Not going.’
‘Not important,’ said Teddy, ‘she’ll only upset my regular partners … and everybody else.’ He watched Tilly’s shoulders stiffen.
Molly sulked for two days. She didn’t look at Tilly and she wouldn’t eat. She woke Tilly three times in one night to say, ‘I’ve wet my bed.’ Tilly changed the sheets. When she came into the kitchen on the third afternoon with a basket full of dry sheets Molly rolled swiftly at her, scraping a deep gash across her shin with the sharp edge of the footrest.
Tilly said, ‘I’m still not going dancing.’
• • •
He saw her through binoculars as she sat reading on the veranda step, so hurried up The Hill carrying wine, six blood-red and wrinkly home-grown tomatoes, some onions, parsnips and carrots (still dirt warm), a dozen fresh eggs, a plump chicken (plucked and gutted) and a brand new cooking pot.
‘It came from Marigold’s bin,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t know what to do with it.’
Tilly raised one eyebrow at Teddy. ‘Indefatigable aren’t you?’
‘It’s called a pressure cooker. I’ll show you.’ He walked past her into the kitchen. Molly wheeled herself to her place at the head of the table, poked a napkin into her collar and smoothed it down the front of her new frock. Teddy began to prepare a chicken-in-wine pot roast. When Tilly stepped into the kitchen Molly said, ‘I had a surprise this morning, young man, a phonograph was delivered to me from the railway station. Would you like to listen to some music while you cook?’
Teddy looked at Tilly, his eyes teary and a handful of chopped onions on the board. Tilly hung her sun hat on a nail on the wall and put her hands on her hips.
‘She’ll do it after she’s set the table,’ said Molly.
Tilly placed a record on the turntable.
Teddy talked, ‘Have either of you read about this new play in America called South Pacific? It hasn’t been on here yet. I’ve got a mate can get me a record of it soon as it hits the shores. Would you like one, Molly?’
‘It sounds very romantic.’
‘Oh, it is, Molly,’ said Teddy.
‘I hate romance,’ Tilly said. Billie Holiday began to sing a song about broken hearts and painful love. Later over the chicken-and-wine pot roast Tilly played some sort of jazz, the likes of which Teddy had never heard and was too afraid to ask about so he said, ‘George Bernard Shaw died.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Tilly. ‘JD Salinger’s still alive though, could you ask your friend to get me a copy of The Catcher In The Rye? It hasn’t been published yet.’ Her sarcasm hung in the air.
Molly looked at her, then picked up her steaming bowl of chicken stew and tipped it onto her thighs. The terylene frock Tilly had finished for her that day melted onto her crepe thighs. Tilly froze.
‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ laughed Molly then started to shake, shock whistling softly through her thin elastic lips.
Teddy whipped the skirt away from her thighs before it stuck. He looked at Tilly, still frozen at the table. ‘Butter,’ he snapped. Tilly jumped. He pulled his hip flask from his pocket and poured whisky into the old woman. Then she passed out. He carried her to her bed then left, but was soon back to sit with Tilly. She said nothing, just sat at her mother’s bedside looking grim. Barney arrived with a bottle of cream from Mr Almanac and handed it to Teddy. ‘I did what you said, I said it wasn’t for Mad Molly.’
‘Did you say her name?’ snapped Teddy.
‘You told me not to.’
‘So you didn’t say her name?’
‘No. I said your name, and he said, you gotta put it on tomorra.’ Tilly looked at Barney standing in her doorway. ‘Tomorra,’ he said again. ‘He told me to tell you, tomorra.’
Teddy rubbed his brother’s shoulders gently. ‘All right Barney.’ He turned to Tilly, ‘You remember my brother?’
‘Thank you for bringing the cream,’ she said. Barney blushed and looked at the wall beside him.
When they had gone she sniffed Mr Almanac’s cream and threw it away, then gathered some herbs and creams from a trunk under her bed and made a paste to apply.
Molly lay in bed naked from the waist down, while two palm-sized red blotches ballooned on her thighs and filled with clear liquid. Tilly emptied her mother’s bed-pan several times a day, dressed her wounds and did as the old woman bid. The blisters subsided to leave two smarting marks.
II
Shantung
A fabric woven plainly with irregular wild silk yarn, having a textured effect. Its natural cream colour is often dyed in strong colours, producing a vibrant effect. Slightly crisp to handle and with a soft lustre. Suitable for dresses, blouses and trims.
9
Out at Windswept Crest, Elsbeth sat rigidly at the bay window, fists clenched, eyes brimming. Mona slunk about the corners of the kitchen wiping shiny surfaces, peeping into the oven and checking container lids while casting sideways glances at her mother.
William was at the pub leaning on the bar, thinking about his mother and the fact that it was tea time. The youths about him drained their beers and zigzagged towards the door, heading for the hall. Scotty Pullit slapped his back. ‘Come on twinkle toes, let’s go give the girls a thrill,’ and he walked away, bent and coughing.
William stopped outside the post office, jangling some coins in his pocket, looking at the public telephone. He had still not recovered from his meeting with Mr Pratt and the thick file labelled ‘Windswept Crest’. Scotty Pullit appeared beside him again and handed him his bottle of clear, boiling watermelon firewater. William took a swig, coughed and gasped then followed Scotty and the other footballers, farmers’ sons and daughters into the hall. Inside, balloons and streamers were slung from bearer to bearer. He wandered to the refreshment table, where he and the boys drank punch and smoked. Local girls in twos and threes fluttered to corner tables, twittering and chatting.
The O’Brien Brothers tuned their instruments. Hamish rumbled around his drum kit while his wife stood at the piano, stretching her fingers and humming. Faith was squeezed into a fire engine red rayon taffeta frock. Her dark brown curls were piled on her head with flowers, à la Carmen Miranda and plastic roses dangled from her ears. A matching ring covered three knuckles. She wore too much foundation makeup and powder. ‘The brassy section,’ hissed Beula. She plopped her broad bum and billowing skirt onto a tiny stool, cleared her throat and warbled a flat scale up to a painful high C. Beside her, Reginald – ‘Faith’s fiddler’ – was tearing his bow over the violin strings, struggling to match Faith’s notes. Bobby Pickett plucked at his Fender, smiling through his missing tooth as the feedback screamed. Faith tap-tapped the microphone, ‘One two one two,’ then blew. A shrill electric scream bounced off the rafters. William winced and put his fingers in his ears.
‘Good Evening and welcome to the Sat
urday Night shimmer and shuffle with Faithful O’Brien’s Band –’
‘Och, the Blood and O’Brien Brothers Band!’ called Hamish.
Faith rolled her eyes, put her hands on generous hips and said through the microphone, ‘Hamish we’ve been through all this before. None of you are brothers.’
A cymbal clash from Hamish and the musicians struck the first phrase of ‘God Save the King’. Everyone stood to attention. It reminded William of his mother so he grabbed Scotty’s bottle of watermelon firewater and took a swig to quell his conscience. When the anthem was over, a line of footballers boldly led a girl each to the dance floor, then turned with arms raised, eyes to the picture rail. The band launched into ‘Buttons and Bows’ and the couples bounced sideways as one, setting sail in a clockwise direction around the hall. Faith O’Brien’s family band warmed to a jaunty rendition of ‘Sunny Side of the Street’. A lumpy farmer was snatched from William’s side by a lass from a neighbouring acreage and they swirled onto the dance floor awash with swaying full skirts, seamed stockings, kicking flat heels and petticoats peeping. Here and there, a frayed wool skirt-suit from ten years ago manouvred sedately through the circling frills.
Gertrude Pratt strolled through the door, her cardigan hanging from her shoulders and her purse over her arm. She cruised towards the refreshment table. William turned to grind his Capstan out in the sawdust and leave but found instead that he was facing Gertrude. He looked at the full-faced girl with the soft brown eyes and, smiling apologetically, raised an arm, pointing at the door behind her saying, ‘I was just about to go home …’
She stepped forward, took his raised hand in hers and spun him off into the dancers.
William hadn’t danced since lessons with Miss Dimm when he was fifteen and awkward. The girl in his arms reminded him of then, except she was surprisingly light on her feet, soft to touch and smelled of perfume. He could feel her hips twist, the warm flesh of her waist move under his palm, her luxurious brown hair against his cheek. He stumbled, trod on her toes and bashed his knees against hers so she held him tighter, closer, and he felt her soft breasts flatten against his lapels. After a while he was reassured by the friendly girl in his arms. She felt like the wake of passing angels, they could have been in heaven.
At the end of the bracket he went to fetch punch. He found Scotty at the refreshment table and drank lavishly from the watermelon firewater bottle. Scotty looked over at Gertrude. ‘Reckon she might cost a few bob to run, that one,’ he said.
‘Well,’ said William forlornly, ‘I daresay her father’s using my money to run her now.’ He wished he could somehow get some of it back or raise a loan, just to get started. He wondered if … he reached for the watermelon firewater again then made his way over to the table where Gertrude Pratt sat waiting for her punch. ‘It’s very warm in here,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said William.
‘Shall we go for a stroll outside?’ She took William’s hand.
The dancers stood poised like frozen champions on trophies, waiting. Barney McSwiney turned Faith’s black-spotted pages and the band searched for a common note, thunking, plinking. They saw Tilly Dunnage arrive on the arm of Teddy McSwiney, star full forward, as the two young people stepped inside the door. Then Faith spotted them and the band seized; all heads turned to look. Somewhere a balloon burst.
Tilly kept her eyes to the middle distance. She knew it was a mistake, it was too soon, too bold. A feverish nausea swamped her, guilt, and she said to herself, it wasn’t my fault, but moved to step back anyway. Teddy held her firm, his arm strong about her waist.
‘I can’t stay,’ she whispered, but he moved forward, steering her across the floor. Couples stood aside and stared at Tilly, draped in a striking green gown that was sculpted, crafted about her svelte frame. It curved with her hips, stretched over her breasts and clung to her thighs. And the material – georgette, two-and-six a yard from the sale stand at Pratts. The girls in their short frocks with pinched waists, their hair stiff in neat circles, opened their pink lips wide and tugged self-consciously at their frothy skirts. The wallflowers sunk further into the wall and a wave of admiring nudges kicked through the young men.
She maintained a stiff expression all the way to the empty table at the side of the hall, right up near the band. She sat while he took her shawl and hung it softly over the back of the chair. Her shoulders were white against the green and a long curl escaped down her neck and hung between her shoulder blades.
Teddy went to the refreshment counter. The crowd of men allowed him through. He bought her a punch, himself a beer and sat down next to her. They looked up at the band. The band looked back. Tilly raised a single eyebrow to Faith. Faith blinked and turned to her keyboard, and in a second the din had resumed. The band ground its way into, ‘If You Knew Suzie, Like I Knew Suzie, (Oh Oh)’.
Teddy leaned back, slung one shin over his knee and stretched an arm across the back of Tilly’s chair. She was trembling. He nudged her. ‘Let’s dance.’
‘No.’ She kept her face to the band all night. She pressed the guilt down again until it churned in her stomach. She was used to it, used to forgetting and enjoying herself then suddenly remembering, suddenly feeling unworthy. No one came near the star full forward or his partner that night. She was glad; it was easier that way.
When it was clear William would not be home for tea Mona read for a while, floodlit beneath yellow lamplight in the corner. The quiet, dull drone of the radiogram wound through the house. Elsbeth Beaumont remained, silhouetted in the bay window with the bright moonlight edging the line of her nose.
Mona said, ‘I think I might go to bed now, mother.’ Her mother ignored her. Mona closed the bedroom door behind her firmly. She crossed to her dressing table and picked up her hand mirror. She closed the blinds, adjusted her bedside lamp, slid off her limp rayon panties and lifted her skirt. She perched on the edge of her bed holding a mirror angled to her and studied the purple black fronds of her groin, smiling at the dark fig puckers. Then she undressed slowly, watching herself in the mirror, letting her petticoat straps fall from her shoulders to tumble about her ankles. She caressed her breasts, and ran her hands over her throat. Then, beneath her terylene bedspread, Mona Beaumont reached her quiet, evening orgasm.
On the banks of the Dungatar creek William, erect and eager, rubbed hard up against Gertrude Pratt’s warm round thigh. Reaching for his fly he could think of only one thing to say. ‘Gertrude, I love you.’
‘Yes,’ said Gertrude and opened her legs a little wider. Gertrude Pratt won William Beaumont by allowing him to insert the middle finger of his right hand between the shifting crepe moisture of her purple inner labia minor to where the tightness closed, not quite to the bud.
William arrived at Windswept Crest flushed and grateful. His mother still sat in the bay window, the early morning light behind her. ‘Good morning, mother,’ he said.
She turned to him with tears seeping down her linen cheeks, dripping onto the marcasite peacock pinned to her breast. ‘I’ve been waiting for you all night.’
‘S’ not necessary mother.’
‘You’ve been drinking.’
‘I’m a man, now, mother and it’s Saturday night – at least it was.’
Elsbeth sniffed and dabbed her eyes with her hanky.
‘I had … fun. Next time I’ll insist Mona come with me,’ he said and whistled off to his room.
• • •
Teddy McSwiney walked Tilly home and saw her to her door.
‘Good night,’ she said.
‘It wasn’t so bad, was it?’
She pulled her shawl about her shoulders.
‘I can look after you …’ He smiled and leaned towards her.
She had tied her tobacco into her scarf and turned away to search for it in the folds.
&nbs
p; ‘… that is, if you want me to.’
She stuck a rolling paper to her lip and held her tobacco tin. ‘Good night,’ she said and opened the back door.
‘They’ll just have to get used to you,’ he said and shrugged.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’ll have to get used to them.’ She closed the door behind her.
10
Sergeant Farrat sat nipple-deep in steaming water, the alarm clock ticking and the hot tap dripping. At the edges of his wet pink body floated sprigs of rosemary (to stimulate clarity of mind) and lemon grass (for added fragrance). He’d lathered raw duck egg into his hair and snotty streaks of it slid down his forehead, merging at the ends of his white eyebrows with the aloe vera pulp face mask. A cup of camomile tea and a note pad rested on the soap stand suspended across the bath in front of him. He sucked on a pencil, pondering the frock sketched on the note pad. It needed a feather – a peacock feather perhaps.
The alarm clock rang. He had an hour before Beula would arrive, full of hate and accusations about the goings on at the dance. He held his nose and sank into the brown water, scrubbing the beauty preparations from his submerged body. He struggled out of the bath, his bottom squeezing against the enamel, and stood, his tomato scrotum hanging long and steaming. He reached for a towel and padded dripping to his bedroom to dress and prepare for the week ahead.
When Beula Harridene arrived and started banging at his office door, the sergeant was leaning on the counter peering at the small instructions in his knitting catalogue, Quaker Girl, for a pattern of an Italian jumper designed by BIKI of Milan. He was muttering, ‘No. 14 needles cast on 138 sts., work 31/2 ins in k.1, p. 1 rib Inc. thus: K. 21, (k.11, inc. in next st) 8 times …’ A thread of fine wool stretched over his fat index finger, and two thin metallic needles rested in his palms, held aside. Sergeant Farrat had on his police uniform and thin, pale pink socks and delicate apricot ballet slippers tied gently around his firm ankles with white satin. He ignored Beula and continued to ponder the stitches petalled beneath the needles, then the pattern. Finally he put them down, pirouetted to his bedroom and put on regulation socks and shoes. Then he unlocked the office door and resumed his position behind the desk while Beula fell in behind him yakking.
