Part 13 (2/2)

Hamish grunted. 'Pain, I reckon.'

'What's her name?' Reg asked.

'Billie Holiday.'

'Sounds like she needs one,' said Hamish.

Sergeant Farrat called after dusk to collect long, flat boxes containing lace, silks, beads and feathers, as well as gently folded gowns, plain and precise and in need only of a final warm press with a damp cloth or a splash of rain water. Tilly said to him, 'I can't talk Faith out of red sequins.'

'Faith's a red sequins kind of woman,' said the sergeant and moved to the dress stand.

Tilly threw her hands in the air. 'This is a town of round shoulders and splayed gaits.'

'And always will be, but I appreciate what you make for them. If they only knew.'

'Whose table are you on?' asked Tilly.

'Oh,' said the sergeant, 'I'm compelled to be on the Beaumonts' table with the Pettymans, us dignitaries always sit together.' He sighed. 'I'll ask you to dance, shall I?'

'I'm not going.'

'Oh the magenta silk organza my dear, you would look so ... you must come. You'll be safe with Teddy.' Sergeant Farrat shook the box and said, 'If you don't promise you'll come I won't finish these.'

'You owe it to the gowns to finish them,' she said, 'you won't be able to resist.'

So he left to spend the rest of the evening hemming, tacking down seams and facings and finely camouflaging hooks and eyes.

Lesley Muncan held his wife at arm's length, directing his gaze to the ceiling. On the turntable a record circled, stuck in an outer groove, scratching around and around. Mona tightened her grip on his shoulder, moved closer and kissed her husband's cheek. 'Mona, stop it,' he said and stepped away from her.

She wrung her hands. 'Lesley, I '

'I've told you, I can't!' He stamped his foot then buried his face in his hands.

'Why?'

Lesley kept his face hidden. 'It just doesn't ... work. I don't know why,' he said, his voice miserable behind his hands.

Mona sat on the old couch, her chin dimpling. 'You should have told me,' she said in a wavery voice.

'I didn't know,' Lesley sniffed.

'That's a fib,' she cried.

'Oh all right!'

'There's no need to be angry with me,' said Mona and dug her hanky out of her sleeve. Lesley sighed and flopped down on the couch next to her, crossing his arms and looking at his slippers. Eventually he said, 'Do you want me to go away?'

Mona rolled her eyes.

He turned to her. 'I've got no family, no friends.'

'But you said '

'I know, I know.' He took her hands. 'My mother did die, that bit's true. She left me her gambling debts, a disease-ridden, infested stable and some geriatric horses. The horses are either glue or gelatin by now and the stables burned down.'

Mona continued to look at her lap.

'Mona, look at me,' said Les. 'Please?'

She kept looking down. He sighed.

'Mona, you haven't got a true friend in the world and neither have I '

'So you're not my true friend either?'

Lesley stood up and put his hands on his hips. 'What's got into you?'

'I'm just sticking up for myself,' she said looking up at him, 'I love you, Lesley.' Lesley burst into tears. Mona stood and held him, and they stayed in the middle of the lounge room for a long time holding each other, the record still scratching round and around. Eventually Mona said, 'No one else wants us,' and they laughed.

'Now,' said Lesley and blew his nose on Mona's hanky, 'where were we? A waltz, wasn't it?'

'I'm just no good at dancing,' said Mona.

'I'm not very good at a lot of things, Mona,' he replied quietly, 'but we'll do the best we can together, shall we?'

'Yes,' said Mona. Lesley kicked the record player and as the opening bars of 'The Blue Danube' squeaked, Mr and Mrs Muncan began to waltz.

III.

Felt.

A nonwoven fabric made from short wool fibres lying in all directions, which become interlocked with steam, heat and pressure into a dense material. Dyed in plain, clear colours. Used for skirts, bonnets and gloves.

Fabrics for Needlework.

18.

Tilly watched an upside-down beetle try to right itself on the worn floor boards. She picked it up and dropped it onto the gra.s.s. Below her, the light in Teddy's caravan burned. She went into the kitchen and checked the clock, then checked herself. She sat on her bed, folded her arms and looked at her lap, whispering don't, don't, don't, but when she heard his footfall on the veranda, she said b.u.g.g.e.r it and went out to the kitchen. Lately she'd found herself sitting next to him and reaching for his arm when they walked to the creek. One evening she'd caught three redfin before she realised Barney wasn't with them. Tonight he sat on the floor beside Molly, who sang a tune entirely different from Ella Fitzgerald's. Teddy poured them all a beer, then flopped into his busted armchair and put his boots on the wood box and looked at Tilly, who was st.i.tching ta.s.sels to the hem of a lemon, Jacquard jersey shawl for Nancy. 'I don't know why you bother,' he said.

'They want me to make them things it's what I do.' She put down her sewing and lit a smoke.

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