by Rosalie Ham
On Saturday morning Elsbeth Beaumont and her daughter-in-law arrived at Pratts General Store wearing a new frock each with matching hat and gloves. At 9:00 am they stood between the dingy shelves in their Dior skirts, huge and domed in yards and yards of taffeta, their hems brushing the tops of Nugget boot polish tins and shoe white bottles and rattling the hanging shoe horns.
‘Oh my,’ said Muriel, ‘just look at you.’
‘Hello Muriel,’ said Elsbeth, a little clenched-of-dentures.
‘Hello Mother.’ Gertrude leaned to receive a peck on the cheek.
‘Good trip?’ asked Muriel flatly.
‘Oh, won-der-ful!’ said Gertrude.
Elsbeth nodded in agreement, ‘Maaarrvellous.’
Muriel came from behind her counter. Her shoes needed polishing and her hair needed brushing but she too wore a new outfit – a long sapphire grey, fine-weave linen tunic with an unusual inset neckline and a very straight calf-length skirt. At the back the tunic and skirt were wrapped over double and fastened with a martingale. The outfit was well tailored, chic and practical, and it suited her. Gertrude and Elsbeth were both surprised and miffed.
‘Where’s father?’ said Gertrude.
‘“Father” can still be found out the back, Gert. If you call out “Hey Dad” he’ll still answer,’ replied Muriel.
‘Won’t you tell him I’ve returned and that we need to speak to him.’
Muriel crossed her arms and looked squarely at her daughter, ‘Reg,’ she said. Reginald closed his mouth. ‘Fetch Alvin for me if you don’t mind?’ He placed the tray of entrails he was holding on the marble counter-top and left to find Alvin.
The new Gertrude continued, ‘Elsbeth and I have great plans for lots of exciting things to do in the coming year. We’re going to take Doongatah for the ride of its life. It’ll be such fun won’t it Elsbeth?’
Elsbeth squeezed her eyes shut and raised her shoulders in delicious joy. ‘Such fun!’ she said.
Reginald returned, ‘Beg pardon, mams, your “Father” is rushing at your command and will be here as soon as he possibly can,’ and he bobbed ever so slightly.
‘Thank you,’ said Elsbeth graciously. Reg went back to his entrails and carcasses.
‘Well hello hello hello,’ boomed Alvin in his friendliest grocer’s voice. He approached his daughter (off-loaded so successfully) with his arms wide, grabbed her waist and lifted her in a circle so that her Dior petticoats hooped and the air unsettled the dust. He placed her clumsily on the boards with a squeeze and a cough. She was heavier than he expected. ‘My little girl,’ he beamed and cupped her fulsome cheeks in his flour-dusted hands. Gertrude winced and shared an exasperated look with Elsbeth. She straightened her hat.
‘Yes, I’ve noticed it,’ said Alvin, ‘New hat!’ And he nodded at Muriel who rolled her eyes.
‘Daddy, Elsbeth and I want you to put this prospectus in the window in a prominent position and pin several more about the store. We’ve several gestetnered copies and there’ll be reminders in the local paper –’
‘We’ve formed a Social Club,’ announced Elsbeth. ‘I’m secretary, Trudy’s president and Mona will be our typist. We thought Muriel could be treasurer and –’
‘Trudy?’
‘Yes mother, you will call me Trudy from now on. Our first meeting is scheduled for Monday and is to be held at home, at Windswept Crest. We have all the dates of every event and we’re going to gather the locals to organise functions, essentially fund-raisers … tea parties, croquet games, dances –’
Elsbeth corrected her, ‘A Ball, a fund-raising ball.’
‘A ball, the biggest and best we’ve ever had –’
‘And there’ll be a theatrical Eisteddfod with a section created especially for EL-O-CU-SHUN,’ emphasised Elsbeth.
‘So!’ said Gertrude and nodded to Elsbeth. Elsbeth thrust the gestetnered copies at Alvin. A neat pile of bold typed letters with ‘TRUDY AND ELSBETH BEAUMONT invite THE PROGRESSIVE MINDED LADIES OF DUNGATAH TO A MEETING’, and there was a paragraph of fancy scrolled print beneath. Alvin placed his thumbs behind his apron straps. A pause settled over the group.
‘Dungatah?’ said Alvin.
‘Where’s Mona?’ asked Muriel.
‘She’s learning Dressage and Equestrian,’ said Gertrude. ‘We’ve a new man at the property.’
‘Mona’s terrified of horses,’ said Muriel.
‘Exactly! That’s the point.’ Trudy tsked and shook her head.
Alvin looked surprised. ‘You have a new man?’
‘His name is Lesley Muncan and he is a true gentleman,’ announced Elsbeth and sniffed at Alvin.
The smile on Alvin’s face remained fixed. ‘My my.’ He looked the ladies up and down, from the waving feathers sprouting from their startling headdress to their pinched toes encased in stylish new shoes. ‘Had a bit of a spree in Melbourne, eh?’
Gertrude smiled conspiratorially at Elsbeth who squeezed her arm in camaraderie.
‘I take it William will be in with his harvest cheque soon – as there is the matter of your outstanding account Mrs Beaumonts, and I expect you’ve brought along all the receipts from your spree so shall we pop into the office and go through them together before I add them to your existing outstanding account?’
The smiles fell from the Beaumont women’s faces. ‘Daddy I thought –’ said Gertrude.
‘I said you could buy YOURSELF a small wedding trousseau,’ said Alvin, then looked at Elsbeth and sniffed.
Elsbeth shoved the leaflets at Muriel and looked blackly at her new daughter-in-law.
• • •
Septimus Crescant sat at the corner of the bar with Hamish O’Brien, talking. Purl stood behind the bar painting her fingernails while Fred, Bobby Pickett and Scotty Pullit sat at the card table, sipping, smoking and shuffling. Finally Fred looked at Teddy’s empty chair and said, ‘May as well start.’ Reginald dealt the cards and every man threw ten two-shilling coins onto the table.
The telephone rang. Purl walked to the far wall and gingerly lifted the receiver, careful not to smudge her nails. Bobby waved his cards at Purl and mouthed, ‘Tell her I’ve just left.’
‘Hello, Station Hotel …’
The poker players stared.
‘Look love I appreciate it very much but I’ll be busy on Sunday all right, ’bye.’ Purl hooked the phone back into its cradle.
‘That was poor suffering Mona-by-name-Mona-by-nature phoning on behalf of the Dungatar Social Club Invited me to their inaugural meeting out at Fart Hill, to discuss their first ever fund-raising croquet day and tea party – and there’s to be a “presentation night”.’
‘Now there’s something to look forward to,’ said Fred.
Purl closed her eyes and shook her head slowly from side to side, ‘I can hardly wait.’
The men resumed their cards and Hamish and Septimus resumed their discussion. ‘O’course,’ said Hamish, ‘it all started to go wrong when man domesticated crops so there was a need to protect the crop and to gather in groups, build walls to stave off hungry neoliths.’
‘No,’ said Septimus, ‘the wheel sank humanity the deepest.’
‘Och, you’ve got to have the wheel for transport.’
‘Then the industrial revolution followed, mechanisation that did the rest of damage –’
‘But steam machines, steam’s harmless, a steam train at full pelt is a sound to behold –’
‘Diesel’s cleaner.’ Septimus drank his beer.
The card dealer stopped shuffling, and the players shifted their eyes to the two sparring regulars at the corner of the bar.
Hamish turned to face his companion. ‘And the world is round!’
He quietly poured his remaining half glass of Guin-ness into Se
ptimus’s hard hat sitting squarely on the floor by the bar. Septimus in turn splashed the contents of his beer glass onto Hamish’s head, leaving his walrus moustache dripping. Hamish raised his clenched fists, took a classic, menacing Jack ‘Nonpareil’ Dempsey pose and started dancing, moving his arms like wheel rods on a train. Purl hastily waved her wet fingernails about and Fred sighed.
‘Come on then Septimus, up with ye dooks, out-side …’ Hamish took a jab just as Septimus reached down to the floor for his hat. Hamish swung two more air-jabs and the third landed when Septimus rose, lifting his arms to put his hat on. There was a soft but audible splat like a raw egg hitting a kitchen table. Septimus buckled, holding his bleeding nose.
‘Hamish,’ said Fred, ‘it is time for you to remove yourself.’
Hamish put on his station master’s hat and waving cheerfully from the door called, ‘See you tomorrow.’
Purl handed Septimus a handkerchief.
Septimus moved towards the door. ‘In this town a man can covet his neighbour’s wife and not get hurt, but to speak the truth can earn a bleeding nose.’
‘It can,’ said Fred, ‘so I wouldn’t say too much more if I were you or else you’ll end up with a broken nose next time.’ Septimus left.
Purl enquired if Reg was donating meat to the footy club again this year.
‘Doing the time-keeping as well,’ said Scotty.
Ruth and Miss Dimm, Nancy and Lois Pickett, Beula Harridene, Irma Almanac and Marigold Pettyman were also approached by the Dungatar Social Committee. Faith was not at home. She was rehearsing, with Reginald. Mona asked the ladies to attend the inaugural meeting at Windswept Crest and to please bring a plate. The newly recruited members of the Dungatar Social Club immediately rang Ruth at the exchange and told her to put them through to Tilly Dunnage.
‘Elsbeth’s got her by the ear at the moment,’ she said, ‘I’m next then I’ll ring all youse.’
When Ruth arrived at the top of The Hill, she banged on the back door and called, ‘Anyone home?’
‘We’d hardly be out visiting would we?’ came Molly’s reply.
Then the others arrived and had to wait in the kitchen with Mad Molly who sat hunched in her decorated wheelchair poking at a burning log with her walking stick. She blew her nose into her fingers and flicked the green slime onto the embers, watching closely as it bubbled and hissed and vanished.
Tilly, professional and gracious, took each of her clients one by one to the dining room to discuss their needs and visions. She noted the members of the newly formed Dungatar Social Club had acquired an accent overnight – an enunciated Dungatar interpretation of queenly English.
As customers, their demands were simple – ‘I’ve got to look better than everyone else, especially Elsbeth.’
• • •
Out at Windswept Crest the new man, Lesley Muncan, sat petitely, knees crossed in the kitchen, peering at Mona’s back as she leaned over the sink washing dishes.
Lesley had been working in the laundry at the hotel where the Beaumonts stayed for their honeymoon when he encountered William in the foyer, reading the paper.
‘The girls out shopping, spending all your money are they?’ he joked.
‘Yes,’ said William, surprised.
‘Enjoying your stay?’
‘Yes,’ said William. ‘Are you?’
Lesley adjusted his cuffs. ‘It’s a nice hotel,’ he said. ‘You’re from the country, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said William, smiling.
Lesley looked about the foyer quickly then sat on the lounge beside William. ‘I’ve done a lot of equestrian work and I’ve got my eye open for a suitable placement. I don’t suppose you know of anyone who needs a riding instructor do you?’
‘Well …’ said William.
Lesley glanced towards the reception desk. ‘Strapper? Stable hand even? I can start right away.’
Just then Elsbeth, Trudy and Mona bustled through the door, bringing with them the smells from the perfume counter at Myers. Lesley leapt to his feet to help with their parcels.
William said, ‘This is a fellow guest … Mr ?’
‘Muncan, Lesley Muncan, delighted to meet you all.’
‘Mr Muncan is an equestrian,’ said William.
‘Oh really?’ Gertrude had said.
‘Mona,’ Lesley said now, and tapped the end of his cigarette with his forefinger, ‘if I can get my foot in a stirrup, so will you – it’s very, very early days yet my dear.’
Mona was afraid of horses but she wanted Lesley to like her. ‘I’ll try,’ she said, running the dish-cloth around and around the clean plate. Mona wanted someone, a partner. Her mother and Trudy were best friends now and Mona often found herself alone in the big house, sitting at the bay window, watching the stables where Lesley worked. He’d set up quarters in the loft, but in the past few days would arrive in the kitchen when he saw her at the window.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘that’s what your mother wants – and we can’t let the boss down, can we?’
Elsbeth and Trudy were relaxing with William in the library which up until that day had been ‘the spare room’ – a room in the middle of the badly designed house with no windows that was used to store junk. William had taken to smoking a pipe. He found taking it from between his teeth and sweeping it about a useful gesture to emphasise an idea. Most of his points were actually Trudy’s, but she let him have them. That way she could say, ‘But William, you said a leather lounge suite would last longer.’ South Pacific played softly on the new record player, ‘Bali Haiiiiiiii, come to meeeeeee’. Without warning Trudy froze, clutched her mouth and ran from the room. Elsbeth and William raised eyebrows at each other.
Mona tripped down the hall calling, ‘Mummy, William, come quickly!’
Lesley cried, ‘She’s just been sick into the dishes!’ and he closed his eyes and raised the back of his hand to his forehead.
‘Why Trudy,’ said William and went to her. Elsbeth put her fingers to her lips and steadied herself on the refrigerator.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Mona.
‘Have you been feeling unwell of late, dear?’ asked Elsbeth, suddenly important.
‘A little tired, that’s all.’
Elsbeth looked knowingly at her son and they looked down upon Trudy with love and overwhelming gratitude. They reached for her while Lesley muttered to the ceiling, ‘OhmyGod. She’s preg-nnt.’
Mona held the teapot tightly to her chest and said, ‘You’ll want my room for a nursery!’ Elsbeth stepped towards her daughter. ‘Selfish little wretch,’ she snapped, and slapped her viciously on the cheek.
16
Beula Harridene was out walking one evening when she discovered Alvin shining a torch into a travelling salesman’s boot, sorting through cheap materials. In the morning she found the materials on Muriel’s counter, for sale at inflated prices. The haberdashery counter had expanded its range of buttons, zips and beads, which Alvin imported from specialist shops in Richmond, while he purchased accessories from wholesalers in Collins Street then sold them at 100 percent markup to the highly competitive locals. These days women made their housecoats from ‘imported’ brocade with ivory or diamanté buttons, and swanned about their country bungalows in pastel silk chiffons or tapered velvet pants with cummerbund waists and high-necked jerseys, like movie stars.
Tea-chests kept arriving for Miss T. Dunnage, Dung-atar, Australia. Sergeant Farrat arrived at The Hill one evening as Ruth struggled to drag one from the postal van to Tilly’s veranda. ‘Dear me,’ said the sergeant, ‘what’s in it – gold?’
‘Supplies,’ said Tilly, ‘cottons, patterns, sequins, magazines, feathers –’
‘Feathers?’ Sergeant Farrat clasped his hands.
‘Oh yes,’
said Ruth, ‘all different sorts of feathers too.’
Tilly looked coolly at her and raised an eyebrow. Ruth’s hand flew to her mouth. Sergeant Farrat caught everything that passed between the women. ‘Ostrich feathers?’
‘I don’t know really, sergeant’ said Ruth, ‘I’d imagine, there is, I mean I wouldn’t exactly know what’s in the box but everyone’s been talking about their new frock for the social club presentation night …’
They all looked down at the tea-chest. The seals were torn and there were raw holes where nails had been newly pulled and about them brand new nails inexpertly hammered in. The original tape had been torn away and new standard postal tape applied in its place. ‘Well,’ said Ruth, ‘I’d better get on then, Purl’ll be waiting for her new shoes and Faith’s got new sheet music to practise.’ They watched her putter away in her van, then the sergeant smiled at Tilly and asked, ‘How is your mother these days?’
‘These days she’s far from neglected.’ Tilly crossed her arms and looked at him.
Sergeant Farrat removed his policeman’s cap and placed it over his heart. ‘Yes,’ he said and looked at the ground.
‘It’s amazing what a little bit of nourishment will do,’ she continued. ‘She has good days and not-so-good, but she’s always entertaining and things come back to her from time to time.’ They dragged the tea-chest into the kitchen.
‘I was under the impression Mae looked out for her,’ said the sergeant.
Molly shuffled into the kitchen in her dressing gown and slippers, dragging a piece of rope. She stopped and looked closely at Sergeant Farrat. ‘In trouble is she? I’m not surprised.’
‘Would you like to join us for a cup of tea and some cake, Molly?’
She took no notice of Tilly but leaned closer to Sergeant Farrat. ‘My possum’s gone missing,’ she said, ‘but I think I know what happened to it.’ She inclined to a large pot simmering on the stove.
‘I see,’ he said nodding gravely. Molly shuffled on. Tilly handed the sergeant a cup of tea. He tapped the tea-chest with the side of his shoe then walked around it. ‘You’ll need pliers to get this undone,’ he said. Tilly handed him the pliers and he put down his cup of tea, then fell to his knees in front of the chest. He levered the top off and dug inside, grabbing packages and holding them to his nose, inhaling, ‘Can I open them, please?’
