The Dressmaker by Rosalie Ham Read Free Book Online

children answered as one. ‘Na, rather go tip fishin’.’
    Sergeant Farrat looked at the short grubby lineup in front of him. They looked back at the bag of lollies he held at his chest. ‘You’ve all been tip fishing this morning, have you?’
    They answered now in turns. ‘Na, bugger-all there today. We go Fridays – garbage day.’
    ‘We’ve been catchin’ chooks today.’
    ‘Creek fishn’ tomorra, to catch fish.’
    ‘Round off your words, stop dropping your G’s and sound your vowels,’ said Mae sternly.
    ‘They’re lying!’ Beula was puce, damp and pungent. ‘They threw seed pods on my roof.’
    The children looked at each other. ‘Not today we didn’t.’
    ‘Would you like us to?’
    Beula jumped up and down, screeching and spitting, ‘It was them, it was them.’ The kiddies looked at her. The small boy said, ‘You sure got shit on your liver today Mrs, you musta sunk a power of piss last night.’
    Mae smacked young George over the right ear. The rest of the group looked hard at their shoes. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mae, ‘they learn that sort of talk at school.’
    Sergeant Farrat explained the benefits of nipping mischievous behaviour in the bud, of setting examples. Mae crossed her arms. ‘We know all that Sarge, but what are you going do about it?’
    Sergeant Farrat turned to Beula. ‘Miss Harridene, would you be satisfied with the screams if I took these children behind the caravan to teach them a lesson, or would you prefer I brutally thrash them within an inch of their lives here and now in front of everyone?’
    The McSwineys doubled over, hooting with laughter. Sergeant Farrat handed Victoria the bag of lollies, and Beula lurched away to the car. She kicked and smashed a headlight then got in slamming the door so that the windows in the railway carriages and caravans rattled. She leaned over to the driver’s seat and put her palm firmly on the horn, holding it there.
    Sergeant Farrat drove her through the front gate then stopped the car. He turned to her and moved close, leaning across her to place his hand on the door handle. He breathed warmly, tenderly into her face. She shrank against the door. Sergeant Farrat spoke softly, ‘I’m not going your way Beula, it’s an offence to waste police force petrol. I’ll let you out here.’ He flipped the door handle.
    Above them on The Hill, Tilly Dunnage paused at her digging to watch Beula Harridene spill onto the ground from the black car. She smiled and went back to turning the soft soil for her vegetable patch.

6
    D own in the town, William parked the Triumph Gloria outside Pratts and strode across the footpath in the morning sun. He smiled at Muriel stacking horseshoe magnets and picture hooks, tipped his hat to Lois scratching and searching for tinned peas and waved at Reg and Faith in his butchery. Faith was waiting for Reg to slice her two porterhouse steaks, humming,
I’ve got you … under my skin.
    ‘Like that song do you?’ said the handsome butcher, flashing his bone-white teeth at her.
    Faith blushed and placed her hand at her ample bosom, the gold rings on her fingers winking.
    ‘You’ve got a lovely voice,’ said the butcher, dropping his long, sharp knife into the metal holder hanging at his hip. His chest was broad under his starched white shirt and his blue-striped apron sat neatly across his flat waist.
    ‘Can I do anything else, for you Faith?’
    She could hardly speak. She pointed to the small-goods and said, ‘A Devon Roll, please.’
    In the office Gertrude was bent behind the glass partition, dusting.
    ‘Excuse me,’ William said.
    Gertrude straightened and smiled broadly at William, ‘Hello William.’
    ‘Hello …’
    ‘Gertrude, I’m Gertrude Pratt.’ She held out her small round hand but William was looking about the shop.
    ‘Could you tell me where I can find Mr Pratt?’
    ‘Certainly,’ breathed Gertrude and pointed towards the back door, ‘He’s just …’ but William had already