The Midnight Dress (29 page)

‘I know.’

‘I burnt it down,’ says Rose.

Pearl goes to speak but looks away into the crowd instead.

‘Wave at the crowd
belle filles
,’ says Madame Bonnick. ‘Smile and look pretty.’

Pearl waves, nudges Rose. Rose waves. Vanessa has a fixed smile; she’s standing by the banana, waving like a robot.

‘Jesus,’ says Rose. ‘Look at Vanessa.’

‘And it’s finished,’ whispers Pearl, the star pins sparkling in her tousled hair. ‘He’s no good. Mum made me see it. She made me understand. She said my aura was changing colour. He cast a spell over me. I told him I never wanted to see him again.’

‘Good,’ says Rose.

‘I’m back with Jonah.’

Rose looks at her then.

‘It was always meant to be,’ says Pearl, part-apology. ‘He’s got a surprise for me tonight. Hey, there’s your dad.’

‘Mr Lovell,’ she calls.

‘Shit,’ says Rose. ‘Don’t encourage him.’

But her father has seen them. He’s putting his fingers in his mouth for a God almighty wolf-whistle.

The mayoress speaks into the microphone and the feedback sets off the flying foxes again.

‘Shall we parade the girls now?’ says the mayoress, when the noise has died down.

The crowd cheers, and the girls begin to queue beside the stage. The older girls go first, with their huge hair-sprayed fringes and stiff curls and dresses with long revealing splits. They know how to pose at the end of the short catwalk. Men on the second storey of the pub shout out scores and whistle, until the mayoress holds back the queue and reminds the crowd that it’s a family evening.

As each girl walks onto the stage, the mayoress introduces them: ‘This is Corrine Black in a yellow chiffon gown with yellow sequin detail. Corrine likes to water ski and hopes to be a vet nurse. This is Amber Marchetta in a hot-pink satin dress and matching pink elbow gloves. Amber likes horseriding and wants to be a marine biologist.’

‘This is Vanessa Raine,’ says the mayoress, and the crowd goes wild. ‘She’s in a golden gown with a love-heart neckline and intricate bedazzle. Vanessa likes to do all sorts of aerobics and wants to be a swimwear model.’

Vanessa struts down the runway like a professional. She stands at the end with one hand on her hip and smiles at the crowd.

Rose knows she could leave the line. She knows it, but her feet won’t move. She stands where she is, paralysed. Mallory says, ‘Move forward, Rose. You’ll be all right.’

Rose moves forward as though she’s on stilts.

‘I haven’t got your details, honey,’ the mayoress whispers, waiting for Shannon Fanelli to finish her turn. ‘Did you put your slip in?’

Rose shakes her head.

‘Who are you, honey?’ says the mayoress.

‘Rose.’

‘Rose who?’

‘Rose Lovell.’

‘What do you like, honey?’

‘What do I like?’ says Rose, trying to think.

‘Come on, darling.’

‘I like climbing mountains.’

‘Gorgeous,’ says the mayoress. ‘And what do you want to be?’

‘A writer,’ says Rose.

‘Even better.’

‘This is Rose Lovell wearing an absolutely stunning midnight-blue dress with antique, is that antique lace, honey? With antique lace and antique beading. Rose loves climbing mountains and wants to be a writer.’

‘Tolstoy,’ her father shouts in the crowd. ‘That’s my Rose.’

She hears him clearly but can’t see him.

The mayoress propels Rose forward onto the stage with one hand on her back. Rose holds up her skirt like an old-fashioned lady, because it’s too long, much longer than all the other girls’ dresses. She totters down the runway.

There are one hundred, two hundred, three hundred faces in the crowd, she can’t tell exactly, a moving, blurring rush of faces, all wearing the same strange fixed smile. They are all identically, horribly the same person until suddenly, like a lightbulb exploding, a face jumps out at her from the sea. It’s Paul Rendell. He’s throwing his head back, laughing, wiping his eyes.

When Rose makes it to the end of the catwalk there is a politer round of applause. In the quiet, a man from the top of the bar sings out, ‘Why don’t you give us a smile, love?’ Rose tries. She smiles. The smile sticks her lip to her top teeth, she looks like a grimacing bear, or that’s what she thinks. Someone, somewhere, laughs again. She tries to find Paul Rendell’s face again but can’t; it’s lost in the swell. She turns and walks back past the mayoress.

‘Good work, honey . . . Now, here is Maxine Singh in a green off-the-shoulder design with an interesting rainbow sequin border. Maxine likes scuba diving and wants to be fashion designer.’

There are tears, Rose feels them, a huge painful lump of them behind her eyes and another in her throat.

Vanessa says, ‘Don’t worry, Rosie.’

Rose says, ‘I’m not.’

Two tears spill down her cheeks.

‘You look pretty,’ says Vanessa. ‘Really, you do. I was only joking.’

Another two spill and follow the same path. Rose doesn’t hear what Vanessa says next, because Pearl has gone down the runway.

‘This is Pearl Kelly wearing a tangerine affair in chiffon,’ says the mayoress. ‘Pearl loves French and wants to live in Paris.’

Rose moves through the crowd, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes. The mayoress is announcing a short break to choose the Harvest Queen and princesses. Rose passes the food stands and the balloon stands and the church craft bazaar. She’ll just keep walking, she thinks, she’ll walk all the way back to Paradise. She’ll strip out of the dress and throw it from the rocks into the sea. She’ll swim naked out into the ocean. She’ll never look back.

Someone touches her shoulder.

‘Rose,’ Murray says. His blue hair is back again.

‘Oh,’ says Rose, setting her face into a mask.

It looks like he’s trying to think of some stupid voice to put on; he’s trying really hard but nothing comes.

‘Where are you going?’ he says.

‘Just for a walk.’

‘Can I come?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘I have refreshments,’ he says and opens his badly fitting tuxedo jacket.

In the inside pocket there is a hipflask.

‘Wodka,’ he says in a bad Russian accent.

He walks beside her through the crowd toward the park. They go to the rotunda and sit side by side on a bench. He unscrews the cap and gives her some. She swallows it and it burns.

‘I knew you were only kidding me about not drinking,’ he says.

Another mouthful.

‘You look so beautiful,’ he says.

‘Don’t say that,’ Rose says.

‘But I mean it.’

From where they lie they can hear who has been chosen as the Harvest Queen, to wear the tinfoil crown and carry the orb and sceptre. It isn’t Vanessa or Pearl but a senior girl, as it always has been. But Vanessa and Pearl are both chosen to be one of seven princesses, to wear the tinfoil coronets and walk in the procession to the church door to lay down the offering of cane.

‘Should I be watching this strange cultural event?’ asks Rose.

‘Don’t go,’ says Murray. ‘It is really very boring.’

He kisses her on the lips again. He has a thin prickle of a moustache that he’s trying to cultivate, and it makes her laugh.

‘What?’ he whispers.

‘Nothing,’ she says.

The vodka is burning inside her. Her lips are numb but she can feel it in her belly. It makes her feel taller and stronger and prettier. He moves her hair from her neck and kisses her there.

After a while she presses her hands against his chest and pushes him away. ‘Have you got any more vodka?’

‘Only a little bit,’ he says, offering it to her lips. ‘You like?’

She doesn’t know what to say. She’s in love with it. Instantaneously, miraculously, head over heels.

Hidden Stitch

‘Well?’ says Glass, when the old lady has nothing else to add.

The house is speaking around them, creaking. It’s agreeing, disagreeing, silverfish swim through paper, possums turn in their sleep. Updrafts of its strange perfume reach him: rising mould, dead flowers, rotting fabric, pages crumbling. The light in that place, in that long back kitchen – yellow walls, blue birds flying, shadows falling across their faces – he’ll take it with him when he leaves. The light and those blue-grey shadows. Each time he closes his eyes he’ll return there.

‘She’s here,’ says Edie. ‘All the time, but you didn’t ask for her.’

‘Rose,’ she says, more loudly, calling into the long dark hallway.

‘Right,’ says Glass.

He wants to be angry. It’s his first instinct, but the anger blooms and evaporates when he hears her footsteps.

She’s thin. Rose Lovell. Porcelain white.

She holds one hand across her body, resting on her other arm.

Her face has been polished bright by tears.

‘Are you Rose Lovell?’ he says.

‘Yes, yes I am.’

They swap dresses beside the toilet block in the park, the satiny night against their skin. They laugh in the dark. Pearl holds Rose and Rose holds Pearl in return, hands on forearms, heads together.

‘But why do you want to wear my dress?’ says Rose.

‘Because it’s magical, you know it is, he won’t be able to resist me. Everyone was just awe-struck when you walked onto the stage.’

‘I thought they were laughing at me.’

‘They were speechless,’ says Pearl.

‘You have to help me undo it at the back,’ says Rose.

Fingers and shadows: Rose stands undressed until Pearl releases her own and steps out of it.

‘Redheads should never wear tangerine,’ Rose deadpans.

‘It’s only for a little while, half an hour. Go and kiss Murray some more and I’ll be back.’

‘What’s Jonah’s surprise?’

‘I think he has a new car, only he hasn’t got a license. He told me to meet him in the mill yards.’

It seems so ordinary to Rose that the whole magical night almost dissolves into a puff of smoke.

‘Gee, don’t die of astonishment and excitement.’

‘Ruby Heart Rose,’ says Pearl, ‘maybe we could all go to the bay. You and Murray could come too. Wait in the park and I’ll be back soon.’

She can’t imagine Murray in Jonah’s car. Murray with his newly blue hair, his avant-garde moustache, his bad jokes.

‘Okay,’ Rose says.

‘How do I look?’ asks Pearl.

The midnight dress is perfect on her, as though it were made for her all along. She touches the bodice, looks down at her arms in amazement, and smiles at Rose.

‘See you soon,’ she says, not waiting for the answer, running through the park into the night.

Patrick Lovell is standing by a door in the Cane Cutter’s Hotel, leaning there, feeling sorry for himself, when he sees Rose across the road in the park. His girl, Rose. Rose, who he’s brought up all by himself, without any help, so many bloody days and nights. His Rose, who he has showed the world to, or the country at least.
His
Rose. The town has changed her, he thinks. His thankless Rose, who wouldn’t even stop in the street to talk to him.

He wants to tell her something. It begins like this: You can’t just walk away from me, I love you, Rose, you’re my girl, Rose, but you can’t just act this way, like you think you can sew up a dress and turn into someone else, it doesn’t work like this.

Rose, what if your mother could see you now?

He’s not sure, but he has to say something. She has to understand something. She just has to understand it.

He pushes off from the doorframe, staggers in a diagonal to a veranda post. Regains his legs quickly. There are so many people in the street. He didn’t know this many people lived in the crappy backwater. Someone slaps him on the back; it’s a man from the banana farm. Colin? Frank? Archie? His face is the same as any other man he’s ever worked with: broad, gleaming with sweat, smoke streaming from his nostrils.

‘We’re going to the Imperial,’ Archie says.

‘Yeah, yeah, mate, got something to do, back in a while,’ he says, waving him off like a horsefly.

When he gets to the ornate gates of the park he can’t see her, then catches just a glimpse of her moving way ahead through the trees. He squints, it’s her all right, that dress with the huge skirt, the colour of midnight. She’ll be meeting a bloke. The bloke she’s been lying about. She’ll be meeting him in there at the back of the mill yards. Some secret rendezvous. He’ll say, Hello mate, how you doing, I’m the dad, nice to meet you. He’ll think of something funny to say. He
needs
to say something. What is it he wants to say?

He steps quietly across the lawn.