Free The Dressmaker by Rosalie Ham Page A

to put bigger buttons on them, easier for me to manage.’
    ‘She can never make up for it,’ he said.
    ‘She was only a child –’
    ‘You don’t know anything,’ he said.
    Irma looked at her husband, sitting with his face bowed close to the table, his features all hanging like teats on a breeding bitch. She started to laugh again.
    That week Teddy McSwiney called up to The Hill three more times. On his first visit he brought yabbies and fresh eggs that Mae had just collected, ‘She said if you ever need any, just sing out.’ Tilly was relieved, but still found urgent work to do in the garden and left him and mad Molly to eat the yabbies – freshly caught, cooked, peeled, wrapped in lettuce and sprinkled with homemade lemon vinegar. He left her share of yabbies in the refrigerator. She ate them late that night before bed, licking the juice from the plate before putting it in the sink.
    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