Absolute Hush by Sara Banerji Page A

about dried egg powder, the doing up of fly buttons in a hurry, the insufficiency of ham in war-time, and whether the dirty fingernails of Elizabeth’s children had affected their growth.

Chapter 10
    â€˜We will make Sissy’s dress out of this,’ Elizabeth said, a quiver in her voice, and drew a package smelling of mothballs from the drawer. Mrs Lovage, measuring; Myrtle, pins pinched in her lips; Sissy in her underwear; George, scowling from the passage, watched as Elizabeth opened the tissue paper and revealed soft blue cloth.
    â€˜Ah,’ sighed Mrs Lovage as though a jewel had emerged.
    Elizabeth sank on to her heels as though the appearance of the cloth had been an overwhelming emotional experience, then, holding the four yards to her cheek, let out a moan so that Mrs Lovage’s features clicked from efficiency to compassion.
    â€˜There you go, luvvy. I remember when Mister Tim brought it back from France for you.’
    â€˜Mrs L, your memories!’ sighed Elizabeth, still squatting, her eyes distanced and wet with nostalgia.
    Sissy wiggled and suppressed a titter.
    â€˜You shouldn’t give it away if it means so much to you, ducky,’ Mrs Lovage gave a quick glare in Sissy’s direction as she rolled up the tape.
    The chiffon had been kept stored in mothballs ever since Tim had given it to Elizabeth just before the war and she had planned to be encased in it for an opening night at the Royal Opera House. The lovely cloth would caress her slim-as-an-eel body, and would go softly tight tight tight over her flat breasts and round her small waist. Gently swathing Venus’s mount so that it showed without showing, the chiffon would flow on downwards over Elizabeth’s long thighs like a sinking intosome warm sweet tropical sea. Elizabeth had flat kneecaps and she could walk smoothly from the hips.
    Below, where other people would have had jutting bumps at every stride and Elizabeth did not, soft fumes of gathered chiffon would go clouding out and, from underneath, Elizabeth’s lacquered toes encased in golden Grecian sandals would gracefully emerge.
    It had never happened because the war came, and Royal Opera House nights ceased.
    Tim’s sister Beattie had held the cloth against Elizabeth’s body when Tim had come back from France with it and Elizabeth could still remember the way her sister-in-law’s hands had trembled.
    She said to Elizabeth, ‘You are going to be so beautiful,’ and even Tim’s laugh of ‘She is already,’ had not deprived the statement of its soft hoarse impact.
    Recalling the way Beattie had flushed and shivered, Elizabeth had gone later to the glass and been disappointed not to see spiritual awareness reflected in her features.
    Still clutching Tim’s French chiffon to her face now, Elizabeth hesitated, making up her mind.
    Sissy’s feet were cold on the linoleum, she tingled with shame, had been twice stabbed by pins, once snipped with scissor tips and was now sore across her midriff where Mrs Lovage had hauled the tape measure; still, she did not complain but felt the spittle dry in her mouth as she waited for her mother’s words.
    There was a long pause while Elizabeth remained in thought, then at last she said, in the tones of one making the supreme sacrifice, ‘No, it shall be a dress for Sissy.’ She paused so that the impact should sink in, then added, ‘Pale blue chiffon. What could be lovelier for a young girl?’
    â€˜Myrtle’ll stitch it up for Sissy, luvvy,’ Mrs Lovage said.
    â€˜Myrtle?’ winced Elizabeth, glancing at the manicured hands of the vapid teenager.
    Mrs Lovage, recognising the look, said soothingly, Ofcourse she wouldn’t do for you, lovey. I know that. For you it has to be cootooreeay … or whatever the word is. But Myrtle got an ‘A’ in sewing for her school cert, didn’t you, Mert?’ She went on measuring Sissy while Myrtle