The Dressmaker by Rosalie Ham Page B

phoned Winyerp and ordered six yards of cloth and five yards of lace. It should arrive Friday.’
    ‘Friday?’ repeated Teddy.
    ‘By train.’
    Teddy arrived on the veranda at The Hill that evening and talked about the poor mail service around Christmas and how Hamish complained the new diesel trains were always late. Tilly leaned on the doorjamb, crossed her arms and raised one eyebrow.
    ‘… and I understand it’s a hasty decision, on William’s part,’ he said, ‘a very hasty decision.’
    ‘So you think Gertrude needs her wedding dress as soon as possible?’
    ‘I don’t, but I bet Gertrude thinks that so she can tell him as soon as possible that’s it’s all stitched up.’
    ‘Perhaps we should leave it to the trains, and fate.’
    ‘No one would ever know how well you can sew,’ he put his hands in his pockets and looked at the stars, ‘and I happen to be driving to Winyerp tomorrow.’ He looked at her. ‘Molly might like the drive. Ever been for a ride in a car, Molly?’
    ‘They don’t look much chop to me,’ she said.
    Teddy said he’d be leaving about eight.
    When he got to his car the next morning she was already sitting in it, lovely in her deep cloche and dark glasses. She looked at her watch and waved a fly away. ‘Hello,’ said Teddy. He left her alone, and dropped her off at nine with a plan to meet her at the pub at noon. At lunch he shouted her a plate of vegetables and a stout and took her parcels for her, leaving her free all afternoon. He dropped her home at dusk. When she went inside she found Molly had dismantled her sewing machine entirely. It took her three days to find all the parts and put them back together.
    A week before Christmas Tilly sat hunched over her sewing machine at the kitchen table, happy to be creating again. Molly was in her wheelchair beside the stove unravelling the jumper she was wearing, a crinkly nest of wool gathering over her knees. Tilly glanced at the woolly pile. ‘Why are you doing that?’ she said.
    ‘I’m hot.’
    ‘Move away from the fire.’
    ‘I don’t want to.’
    ‘Please yourself.’
    She pressed down firmly on the electric treadle. Molly reached for the stove poker and hid it under her knee rug then slowly pushed at her wheels.
    Tilly’s fingers guided the slippery surface beneath the speeding foot, the needle racing. Molly fumbled about under her knee rug, found the poker, raised it high and let it fall on Tilly’s head just as Teddy rapped at the screen door. He heard a yelp, then someone stumbling.
    He found Tilly standing in the corner holding the back of her head. Molly sat innocently by the fire unravelling thread from her jumper. On the floor by the table satin and lace lay heaped like cloud cushions.
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘She hit me,’ said Tilly.
    ‘I did not.’
    ‘You did. You hit me with the poker.’
    ‘Liar. You’re just trying to have me put away. You’re the dangerous one, you killed my possum.’ Molly began to weep.
    ‘He moved back to the tree because of the chimney smoke, you can see him any time you like.’ She rubbed her head.
    ‘If you weren’t always stirring away at your cauldron.’
    Teddy looked from one to the other, then went to Molly and rubbed her bony back and handed her his hanky. ‘There, there,’ he said.
    Molly fell against him, howling. He handed her his hipflask. ‘I’ve got just the thing.’ She grabbed it and put it to her lips.
    Teddy moved to Tilly and reached for her. ‘Show me.’
    ‘It’s all right.’ She pulled further into the corner but he persisted. He pushed his fingers into her glorious hair and felt around her warm scalp. ‘You’ve got an egg on your head.’ He turned back to Molly just as she shoved his hip flask down the front of her nightie.
    ‘Give me that.’
    ‘Get it yourself.’
    Teddy screwed his face up. Tilly dived down her mother’s nightie with two hands, retrieving the flask and handing it to Teddy.
    ‘It’s empty,’ he said.
    Tilly