The Dressmaker by Rosalie Ham

Your brother sent you to ask me to the races so that he could take me from you when we get there, then he’ll give you some money to get rid of you. Do you think that’s right?’
    ‘No. That’s wrong. I made him give me the money already.’
    Teddy was waiting at the library corner in a very old but very shiny Ford when Tilly – her brilliant, silky dress shimmering in the sunshine – strolled by on the arm of bobbing Barney. They chatted intensely as they passed on the creek bank opposite him and continued to ignore him as he puttered beside them all the way down Oval Street to the football ground, which became a race track or cricket pitch off season. The women in their sensible floral cotton button-throughs with box cluster pleat skirts stopped to stare. Their mouths dropped and their eyebrows rose as they pointed and whispered,
Thinks she’s royalty
. Tilly made her way to the stables on Barney’s arm. Teddy walked beside them, smiling and tipping his hat to the gawking townsfolk. The three of them turned their backs to the crowd and leaned on the stable fence to watch the horses. Barney said, ‘My best friend Graham, he’s a horse.’
    ‘So are you,’ mumbled Teddy.
    ‘I like horses,’ said Tilly.
    ‘Mum says I’m not quite finished. Dad said I’m only five bob out of ten.’
    ‘People say things about me too, Barney.’ Faint sibilant sounds reached them and Teddy heard Tilly say, very quietly, ‘We could go home if you like.’ He turned to face the women behind them. They were standing about in pairs and bunches, leaning together, glancing down at their own frocks – pale spun rayon prints, shoulder pads, swathed waists, prominent bust lines, high prim collars, three-quarter sleeves, tweed suits, gloves and dumpy, eye-veiling head-hugging hats.
    It was the purple dress. They were discussing Tilly’s dress.
    ‘There’s no need to leave,’ said Teddy.
    Gertrude Pratt came forward and stepped between Tilly and Barney. ‘Did you make that dress?’ she asked.
    Tilly turned to look at her and said cautiously, ‘Yes. I’m a dressmaker. You know Barney don’t you?’ Tilly indicated Barney shuffling at Gertrude’s back.
    ‘Everyone knows Barney,’ said Gertrude dismissively. Her eyes did not move from Tilly’s face. It was an unusual face with downy alabaster skin. She looked like some-one out of a movie and the air around her seemed different.
    ‘Ah-ha, there you are Gertrude!’ It was Sergeant Farrat.
    She turned to him, ‘My, what a pretty umbrella.’
    ‘Yes, lost property. William is looking for you, Gertrude. I believe you’ll find he’s over at the –’
    Gertrude swung to face Tilly again. ‘The sergeant means William Beaumont. William and I are engaged, almost.’
    ‘Congratulations,’ said Tilly.
    ‘So you’re a trained dressmaker?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Tilly.
    ‘Where did you train?’
    ‘Overseas.’
    ‘Here he comes towards us now,’ said Sergeant Farrat.
    Gertrude moved quickly to intercept her boyfriend, grabbing hold of the tall young man to drag him away.
    ‘You look extremely fetching, Tilly,’ said Sergeant Farrat, beaming, but Tilly was watching Gertrude’s young man and he was watching her.
    ‘I remember him,’ said Tilly.
    ‘He used to wet his pants at school,’ said Teddy.
    William thought the tall girl with the unusual face and strong shoulders was striking. A McSwiney stood either side of her, like sentries at a luminous statue.
    Gertrude tugged at William’s arm. ‘Is that …?’ he asked.
    ‘Myrtle Dunnage and the McSwineys. They deserve each other.’
    ‘I heard she was back,’ said William, staring. ‘She’s quite beautiful.’ Gertrude pulled his arm again. He looked down at his round, brown-eyed girlfriend, her eyes and nose red from crying, the sun in her face.
    That night Gertrude lay on the back seat of the car with her knees flopped open. William was elbow deep in her petticoats, his mouth jammed over hers panting through his nose