The Midnight Dress(65)

‘I wear mine very short,’ she continues. ‘There’ll be no one to brush out mine when I’m gone.’

She explains how to attach the petticoats, which stitch to use, then pins the sleeves to the bodice and sews black pearl buttons at the neck.

The night creaks slowly past. Rose, hands numb, gives thanks for every stitch. Here’s my mother painting. Here’s my mother showing me rock pools; here’s my mother brushing out my hair, seventy-one strokes.

‘Edie,’ says Rose.

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s all right, my dear.’

‘Will we finish it tonight?’ says Rose.

‘Tonight?’ says Edie. ‘You’re too tired. Way too tired.’

‘No, I’m not,’ says Rose.

‘Yes, you are,’ says Edie. ‘Look at you. You’re swaying there like a tree about to fall.’

Rose pricks her finger then, places it in her mouth, closes her eyes.

‘Look at you,’ says Edie. ‘You’re going to fall asleep where you’re sitting.’

‘I know,’ says Rose. ‘I am tired, I’ve never been so tired.’

She lies on the day bed and Edie covers her with the shawl. The hurricane lamps are turned off. Rose hears the old woman’s footsteps disappearing down the hallway. The house sighs.

She sleeps and does not wake. Not when Edie leaves in the morning for her walk, not through the morning, as the sun crosses over the house, not when the velvety shadows begin to fall. She wakes in the evening, and Edie gives her food, damper and hot butter, which she gobbles, licking her fingers, not speaking, before lying down and sleeping again.

She sleeps the way a girl should sleep, a girl preparing herself for a ball.





Beautiful and Easy Rose Stitch





Glass isn’t expecting the man to top himself. It floors him. He wobbles for a while like a planet thrown from its axis. He was about to go round to the newsagency to pick him up again for another little chat, when it was called in. A man hanging up on one of the walking tracks. Main suspect. All he had to go on. ‘Stupid bloody prick,’ is what he says. ‘Stupid bloody prick. Why’d you go and do a stupid thing like that?’

The two officers stare at Glass from across their tables. We’re not getting anywhere, is what their eyes say. We’d like to get back to Cairns soon. Why’d you let him go home? Do you know what you’re doing?

‘What are you fools looking at?’ he shouts. ‘It wasn’t him, anyway.’

Stupid bloody prick. He’ll have to talk up the line now. Explain.

‘Go on, go and do something useful,’ he shouts. ‘Go up and see where he is. Find the confession.’

They grab their hats and shuffle from the room, unsure. When they’re gone Glass rests back in his office chair, puts his hands behind his head. He lets the thoughts come and go.

Of course he’ll have to go up there too. He’ll have to go up and see the body taken down. He hates these things, the dismantling of suicide scenes. The tidying up, the zip of the chord spinning free, the crackling body bag laid out on leaves. The way the birds will go on singing the whole while. The way nothing will be left behind afterward. Such a loud and theatrical act, leaving not the faintest echo.

Mrs Edith Baker, the witch, glides through his thoughts. He’s not expecting her. She’s holding something in her hands. He can’t see what. She’s gone just as quick. He sits up in his chair, shakes his head, touches the drawing of the dress in his pocket.





While Rose sleeps, Pearl comes to the back door. The kitchen is funeral-parlour quiet, not a sound except Miss Baker’s needle and thread running through lace. She stands there, watching Miss Baker sewing, and then sees the crumpled silhouette of Rose asleep on the day bed against the louvres.

It’s afternoon, and the sun casts a slant of light over the reclining figure, cuts her neatly in two: the bottom half of Rose is in shadow, the top half in light. Her flame hair blazes.

‘I haven’t had it in me to wake her,’ says Edie.

‘How long has she been sleeping?’

‘This is the second day.’

‘Is she all right?’

Pearl takes a step closer to Rose, examines her pale freckled face, looks at her mouth, her lips slightly parted.

‘I should think so,’ says Edie. ‘Just tired. She’s had a hard time.’

Pearl looks anxious then, and can’t turn back to face the old woman.

‘I came to say sorry to her, that’s all,’ she says.

‘Well, you can,’ says Edie. ‘Why don’t you try to wake her? I’ll give you some peace.’

Before Pearl can protest, Edie puts down her work and starts out of the room and down the creaking hallway, leaving her there with the blue birds on the wall, the king brown floating in its jar, and the shadows of the mango leaves rocking against the louvres. The midnight dress touches the floor with its sighing skirt.

‘Rose,’ she whispers.

She takes another step forward.

Rose sleeps.

‘Rose?’

Pearl hears a door open and shut a long way away, deep in the house.

‘Come on, sleeping beauty,’ Pearl says, and she laughs self-consciously.