The Dressmaker by Rosalie Ham Read Free Book Online Page A

walked away. He found Mr Pratt unstacking boxes from the McSwineys’ horse cart.
    ‘Ah,’ said William, ‘just the chap.’
    Mr Pratt looped his thumbs into his apron strings and bowed. ‘Remittance son returneth,’ he said and laughed.
    ‘Mr Pratt, a word?’
    ‘By all means.’
    Mr Pratt opened the office door and said to his daughter, ‘Gertrude, the Windswept Crest account.’ He bowed again, ushering William past.
    Gertrude handed a thick file to her father who said, ‘Excuse us now, Gert.’ As she left she brushed against William, but his attention was on the thick account file Mr Pratt held to his chest. ‘I was after some coils of fencing wire and a dozen bundles of star pickets …’
    His voice trailed away. Alvin was shaking his head from side to side in a very definite manner.
    Gertrude stood by the smallgoods counter. She watched the young man sliding the rim of his hat around and around in his fingers and shifting his weight, his thin dark face growing long and limp. When her father smirked at him and mouthed, ‘Three hundred and forty seven pounds ten shillings and eight,’ William sat heavily in the office chair and his tweed jacket suddenly looked big about his shoulders.
    Gertrude went to the ladies’ rest room and applied red lipstick.
    They stood at the front door, William frowning at the footpath, Mr Pratt smiling out at the sunny winter day. Gertrude sidled up to them, ‘Nice to see you home, William,’ she purred.
    He glanced at her. ‘Thank you … and thank you Mr Pratt, I’ll see what I can do … goodbye.’ William walked slowly to his car and sat behind the wheel, staring at the dashboard. Mr Pratt turned his attention to his daughter, watching William with dreamy eyes. ‘Get on then Gertrude, back to your work,’ he said and stalked off muttering, ‘The idea … a great calico bag of water, not a chance of unloading her to anyone. Least of all William Beaumont …’
    Muriel came to stand beside her daughter. ‘The footballers’ dance is Saturday fortnight,’ she said.
    • • •
    The sign stuck to the library door said, ‘Open Wednesday and Saturday afternoons. Enquire at Shire Office.’ Tilly peered down the main street and saw the people to-ing and fro-ing and decided she’d come back Wednesday. As she turned away she caught sight of the school across the road. The playground was full of skipping girls, boys playing footy and small children playing hoppy. Miss Dimm came out to the pole and pulled the rope, her arm pumping and the bell at the top singing, and the children disappeared into the classroom. Tilly wandered across the road to the park, looked over at the low benches under the peppercorns where she used to sit for lunch, and smiled at the worn dirt patch in front of the veranda, where the children still assembled each morning. She found herself at the edge of the creek so she sat on the bank and slipped her sandals off. She stared at her toes through the amber surface. Bits of gum leaf floated past, insects skimmed by and small raindrops spat onto the water.
    They used to march to class in a crooked line, shunting with lifted knees and military arms to the beat of the bass drum. Stewart Pettyman played the drum, a big, solid ten-year-old banging away with a worn stick. Beside him a small schoolgirl chimed in time on the musical triangle while Miss Dimm called ‘AAH-ten-shon, RIGHT turn, QUICK MARCH.’
    They kept time behind their small chocolate seats in the classroom until Miss Dimm cried ‘HALT! Be seated and don’t scrape your chairs!’ Then shuffle shuffle clunk and silence. They sat with their arms folded, waiting.
    ‘Myrtle Dunnage you’re on ink-well duty again for fighting after school yesterday. The rest of you get out your pencils and exercise books.’
    ‘But I did it yest–’
    ‘Myrtle Dunnage, you will be on ink-well duty until I say so.’ Miss Dimm chopped Myrtle’s fingers with her rusty steel ruler and cried, ‘I did not tell