Diamonds in the Mud and Other Stories by Joy Dettman Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joy Dettman
better quality than those of the small draper in town. Was he married? Did he have a house, children of his own? Her mother-in-law neither knew nor cared.
Yet I obeyed her without question, she thought. Her mother-in-law was long dead, but still the old ladyâs laws lived on. Keep him away from the house. Words sheâd once mimicked in humour she had made her own, reinforcing them with repetition, and sometimes in the same whining tone. She flinched from the fact, attempted a smile, a stretch of thin lips. Tight, narrow, brief, it no longer fitted her face. She coughed, lowered her tone.
âNo harm in looking, is there?â she repeated.
The hawker placed a small dress on the table, and the girlâs thumb crept into her mouth as she moved closer to the woman, pressing her slim frame into the softness of her motherâs hip. They stood together in the dust, two females in a manâs world, their attention fastened on a dress.
The fabric was unfamiliar. The woman looked at her hand, work-worn but clean enough to touch the delicate stuff. Green, it was, green as the first shoots on the willow that grew near the main dam, and so fine. Tiny white spots like goose bumps on gossamer, a collar edged with lace and a ribbon of apple green. Such a silly thing, a silly city thing. Her eyes moist with yearning, she handled the fabric as if it were woven from the last threads of a dream.
Then she saw her girlâs face, filled with new and naked hope. The womanâs eyes hardened. Hope had no chance out here. Better hope be killed at birth.
âThat would be about as much use out here as those china cups,â she said tartly. âFor goodness sake, show me something sensible.â
The Indianâs expression gave away less than the chipped plaster Madonna ruling the lounge-room mantelpiece. He took a brown thing from the van and the woman tossed the green dress to his table, then peered closely at the rag of frock he offered. She checked the length of its hem, held it before the girl.
âHow much?â Again the question was fired, again a satisfactory price was reached.
âItâs good material. Youâll grow into it.â Ugly words to justify a cheap and ugly purchase.
Grey drill shorts for the boys, vanilla essence and bootlaces, the children excited as they watched their pile of merchandise grow. Then it was done. The hawker tallied the price in his head. It matched to a penny the notes and coins the woman had counted grudgingly from her purse onto the space between the china cups and the green dress.
And her arm knocked a cup. Was it accidental, or a desire to destroy? Did she hope to barely chip it, to be forced to possess something of beauty?
Her girl swooped, caught the cup bare inches above the hard baked clay and held it to her breast as she might have held a fragile bird, her eyes big, filled with wonder.
The woman reached for it, wiped dusty fingermarks away with the corner of her apron, then one ragged fingernail traced the pattern of flowers as her small finger curved away from the others in memory of tea parties and other fine china cups. She sighed, placed it down beside the green dress, loaded her children with her ugly purchases, pocketed her purse and walked away.
âDonât you go hanging about here all day either. And make sure you close that gate behind you.â
The words flung over her shoulder to the Indian belonged to her mother-in-law, high, nasal. Today, she understood why that old woman had whined.
The Khaki Flannel Dress
Flood, devastation, loss of life and possessions. I read the newspaper headlines this morning and feel the years sliding away. My eyes then seek the faces of the small flood victims who, in photographs, stand behind defeated parents. Itâs there as I know it will be there, that merry glint of mischief in their eyes, excitement veiled by a hand.
I smile then, as memories flow back in delicious waves of childhood guilt. To
Yet I obeyed her without question, she thought. Her mother-in-law was long dead, but still the old ladyâs laws lived on. Keep him away from the house. Words sheâd once mimicked in humour she had made her own, reinforcing them with repetition, and sometimes in the same whining tone. She flinched from the fact, attempted a smile, a stretch of thin lips. Tight, narrow, brief, it no longer fitted her face. She coughed, lowered her tone.
âNo harm in looking, is there?â she repeated.
The hawker placed a small dress on the table, and the girlâs thumb crept into her mouth as she moved closer to the woman, pressing her slim frame into the softness of her motherâs hip. They stood together in the dust, two females in a manâs world, their attention fastened on a dress.
The fabric was unfamiliar. The woman looked at her hand, work-worn but clean enough to touch the delicate stuff. Green, it was, green as the first shoots on the willow that grew near the main dam, and so fine. Tiny white spots like goose bumps on gossamer, a collar edged with lace and a ribbon of apple green. Such a silly thing, a silly city thing. Her eyes moist with yearning, she handled the fabric as if it were woven from the last threads of a dream.
Then she saw her girlâs face, filled with new and naked hope. The womanâs eyes hardened. Hope had no chance out here. Better hope be killed at birth.
âThat would be about as much use out here as those china cups,â she said tartly. âFor goodness sake, show me something sensible.â
The Indianâs expression gave away less than the chipped plaster Madonna ruling the lounge-room mantelpiece. He took a brown thing from the van and the woman tossed the green dress to his table, then peered closely at the rag of frock he offered. She checked the length of its hem, held it before the girl.
âHow much?â Again the question was fired, again a satisfactory price was reached.
âItâs good material. Youâll grow into it.â Ugly words to justify a cheap and ugly purchase.
Grey drill shorts for the boys, vanilla essence and bootlaces, the children excited as they watched their pile of merchandise grow. Then it was done. The hawker tallied the price in his head. It matched to a penny the notes and coins the woman had counted grudgingly from her purse onto the space between the china cups and the green dress.
And her arm knocked a cup. Was it accidental, or a desire to destroy? Did she hope to barely chip it, to be forced to possess something of beauty?
Her girl swooped, caught the cup bare inches above the hard baked clay and held it to her breast as she might have held a fragile bird, her eyes big, filled with wonder.
The woman reached for it, wiped dusty fingermarks away with the corner of her apron, then one ragged fingernail traced the pattern of flowers as her small finger curved away from the others in memory of tea parties and other fine china cups. She sighed, placed it down beside the green dress, loaded her children with her ugly purchases, pocketed her purse and walked away.
âDonât you go hanging about here all day either. And make sure you close that gate behind you.â
The words flung over her shoulder to the Indian belonged to her mother-in-law, high, nasal. Today, she understood why that old woman had whined.
The Khaki Flannel Dress
Flood, devastation, loss of life and possessions. I read the newspaper headlines this morning and feel the years sliding away. My eyes then seek the faces of the small flood victims who, in photographs, stand behind defeated parents. Itâs there as I know it will be there, that merry glint of mischief in their eyes, excitement veiled by a hand.
I smile then, as memories flow back in delicious waves of childhood guilt. To