Grace wished she was anywhere else as she stood in Ruth’s room. Ruth laid the dress on her bed. Emerald green silk, the sort of rich colour reserved for parrots, and then used only sparingly by them. Grace turned to Ruth in protest. It was far too beautiful. ‘Nonsense,’ replied Ruth and told the girl that she had owned the dress for ages and never worn it. It wasn’t her colour. But Grace, with her skin, would look wonderful in it.
All Grace could do was shake her head. She stood there, trembling, while Ruth dressed her.
At dusk, Charlie sauntered through the yard and found Peter Dingo parking his truck at the back of the hotel.
‘What are you so happy about, old man?’ Peter asked him. ‘Going to the concert?’
‘Not for the world,’ Charlie grinned. ‘But, oh Lord, my dress is going.’
Peter climbed out of the cab. ‘Whatdaya mean?’
‘Bought the girlie a dress,’ said the old man, his voice low but proud. ‘Grace. She’s wearing it. But don’t tell her,’ he added. ‘Don’t tell her it was me.’ He put a tobacco-stained finger to his lips.
‘Where’d you get a dress from?’
Charlie caught a trace of jealousy in Peter’s voice and grinned again. ‘From the missus,’ he said. ‘The five quid you gave me.’
‘From Ruth?’ said Peter. ‘Why would she do that?’ he said, more to himself than Charlie, and pondered the question as he made his way upstairs. Why would Grace even be going to the concert? He scrambled into his best clothes and hurried back down.
As Peter was getting dressed, Ruth and Grace were walking towards the church. Grace, bewildered, allowed her employer to hold her arm as they walked down the street. Ruth silently marked off the properties her parents had owned when her family meant everything to this town. The Commercial Hotel was ours, she thought. And that three-bedroom stone cottage next to it. This block of land across from it, and that one further down the road. As a ten-year-old, walking up and down this dusty street, the tang of ownership had been as strong and sweet as a stolen orange. She won’t have her, she thought. She won’t.
In the distance, beyond the town, the Flinders Range was merging with the evening sky. A straggle of Aboriginal children at a low section of the churchyard wall were taking turns to hoist each other up for a glimpse of the concert. Ruth and Grace walked past them and into the churchyard, towards the welcoming committee. Beyond them, nearer the stage, post office girls mingled with flat-footed clerks, waiting for the dancing to begin.
Ruth picked out Anne Hargreaves among the committee, laughing as she chatted with a smartly uniformed man, her dress shimmering in the evening light. Miss Shadforth, the missionary, noticed Ruth and Grace approaching. ‘Oh Lord!’ she said, taking a step back.
As she saw what she was being led to, Grace tried to snatch her arm away from Ruth. The older woman tightened her grip and marched her up to Anne’s little bevy. Port Augusta’s finest.
‘Good evening ladies. Don’t we all look wonderful tonight?’ said Ruth.
Several women gasped and Anne broke off her conversation and turned. Her breath left her. She couldn’t speak. She stared at the Aboriginal maid wearing her dress. Her beautiful dress. Grace’s face burned and she looked down at the ground.
Then Anne stepped closer. A nerve under her eye twitched and a sudden deep breath straightened her and Ruth waited for her to slap Grace, to make it complete. But, before she could, the missionary woman thrust out an arm, grabbed Anne by the elbow and pulled her away, towards the church.
Grace felt the eyes of every white woman in town on her. She wrenched her arm free and ran down the path, through the churchyard entrance, and onto the street.
Peter watched her go, then turned back to see Ruth walking up to the major, a smile on her face. Bugger this town, he thought. By tomorrow afternoon he’d be in Adelaide. Maybe he’d give Sydney another go.
Through the vacant lot he went and into the yard of the hotel. Golden light leaked from the doorway of Grace’s room. He stood outside it, hesitated, knocked and said, ‘It’s me, Peter.’ She opened the door and stood there in the warm glow of the hurricane lamp, her hair thick and clean and ponytailed against the honeyed skin of her neck, her eyes reddened. Behind her, on the bed, lay an open, battered suitcase.
She looked straight at him, proud but scared. Something moved inside him – something big.
‘You’re leaving, aren’t you?’ he said.
Grace nodded and Peter was close enough now to smell the lemony scent of laundry soap on skin. ‘I could take you to Sydney with me,’ he said, the words escaping before he knew he would say them.
‘Adelaide will do,’ said Grace.
Peter nodded. ‘Yeah. It will.’ He remembered the name of the street he’d been entrusted with. Snatches of double bass and laughter carried to them on the breeze.
‘I’ll knock,’ he said. ‘First light.’
Early the next morning, Charlie shuffled towards the counter of the post office. He was carrying a soft parcel, wrapped in brown paper, tied with string. ‘Can ya help me with this?’ he asked the postmaster.
‘Sure thing, Charlie. Who’s it for?’
‘Rosie Farquhar. Care of Granite Downs Station.’
The postmaster wrote the name carefully on the parcel.
‘My daughter,’ Charlie smiled.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to all those who have read and commented on these stories but especially Bruce McClintock, Tania Madigan, Wallace McKitrick, Sarah Gordon-Smith, Jenny Toune, Tim Taylor, Timo Bishop, Robbie Brechin, John McBeath, Beth McLean, Rose Ward and Anne Rothfusz Johnson.
Thanks to Robin Green for the illustrations. Love your work, Rob.
Thanks to Big Nan for giving me the story of the dress, to everyone at Wakefield Press, especially Ryan Paine, and to Arts SA for allowing me funds to write.
None of this would have been possible without Tania’s patience, support and love.
Some of the stories have been published or awarded prizes elsewhere.
‘The Colour of Kerosene’ won the Josephine Ulrick Literary Prize
in 2008 and was published in The Griffith Review, no. 22 (2008);
‘Sunlight’ in The Griffith Review, no. 23 (2009);
‘Semaphore’ in Wet Ink, no. 8 (2007); and
‘You Matter to God’ in Sleepers Almanac, no. 6 (2010).
‘The Smell of Touch’ was shortlisted for the Fish International Short Story Prize in 2010.
This collection was shortlisted for the 2009 Adelaide Festival Awards for Literature.
Wakefield Press is an independent publishing and distribution company based in Adelaide, South Australia.
We love good stories and publish beautiful books.
To see our full range of titles, please visit
www.wakefieldpress.com.au
where all titles are available for purchase.
The Colour of Kerosene and Other Stories Page 11
