The Midnight Dress(67)

The dress speaks softly against her, in whispers and sighs.

‘Yes, you look a great beauty,’ says Edie. ‘There’s no doubt about it.’

‘Don’t,’ Rose says.

‘I’m only speaking the truth.’

Rose doesn’t know if she can sit in the dress or even if she can stand. She’s dizzy with the feel of it against her. The black mourning lace holds her arms, her throat; Edie lifts her curls at the nape, fastens the hook and eyes, the three pearl buttons.

‘Now, I don’t want you to complain, but I found these in a drawer and I knew I saved them years ago for a reason,’ says Edie; she holds out a pair of blue diamanté shoes. ‘Have you ever worn heels?’

‘No,’ says Rose.

When the shoes are on they peek out, just the toe, from beneath the dress: a perfect fit.

‘Lovely,’ says Edie. ‘And this.’

It’s a small black satin handbag with a love-heart lock.

Rose wobbles her first few steps down the hallway to a room with a dusty full-length mirror.

‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t seem like me,’ says Rose. ‘I am someone else.’





Simple Thorn Stitch





When Glass gets there and climbs the back steps, she’s sitting at her table with a teacup in her hand, like she’s waiting. The whole time he’s there she doesn’t raise the cup once to her lips, and it’s only later, when he’s leaving, that he sees it’s filled up with tiny pieces of coloured glass.

‘I think you know more than what you’re letting on, Mrs Baker,’ he says by way of greeting. Softly. He feels far too big in that kitchen. He doesn’t want to scare her.

‘Miss Baker,’ says Edie. ‘I never married, but I was asked. Not in a traditional way. He didn’t get down on one knee.’

‘Do you know where Pearl Kelly is?’

‘No.’

‘What about Rose Lovell? We haven’t had any luck tracking her down. She was seen around though, those first few days.’

He looks at the dark hallway.

‘Rose?’ says Edie. She looks at her cup.

She seems smaller, frailer, much more faded since he was here a week ago.

‘Yes, I know where Rose is.’





Red and yellow ribbons and crepe-paper flowers decorate the light posts, and all the girls in their dresses are lining up in front of the town hall. From where the taxi sets her down, Rose can see their dresses are every colour of the rainbow and they wear flowers in their hair. She touches her own hair, realises she has none of these.

She is midnight blue and flowerless.

She feels the scratch of the black mourning lace against her throat and fingers the glass beads on her bodice. She tries to remember to breathe.

The back street is filled with the shrill whistling of recorder players, a dishevelled marching band struggling to find a melody, several loitering clowns and a confusion of floats: the Leonora State High bowl-of-fruit float, a sorry collection of sagging pastel apples, pears and grapes, the Leonora Karate Club giant banana-split float, truly a sight to behold, the belly-dancing float, the mill float, which features Mickey and Minnie Mouse, both their costumes a little threadbare. Mickey has his head off and is smoking a cigarette, which he grinds out when the drivers shout that it’s time to go.

The lead truck driver blows his horn and a clamorous cloud of flying foxes rises from the great figs in the park. The streets are filled with people, and in the sky the clouds have torn open to let the stars shine through.

Rose hears a voice close beside her and turns to see her father.

‘Home is the sailor home from the sea,’ he says, which makes no sense, but oh, how the rum fills him out.

He’s tall, there on the street, a full sail, eyes lit up, obsidian glass.

Straight away she can see it has happened. He’s swaying slightly, like a man on a rocking boat trying to keep himself still.

‘I’ve been sleeping,’ she says. It’s the truth.

‘Sleeping?’ he says, he’s angry. He puts his hand out, as though noticing the dress for the first time but says, ‘Sleeping. That’s plain stupid.’

‘I’ve got to go, Dad,’ she says, already turning.

‘Rose,’ he says. ‘We’ll be packing up in the morning. We’ll be leaving this shithole.’

She stops, a fraction of a second, then keeps walking.

‘Rose,’ he shouts.

Shannon sees Rose first and turns and whispers into Vanessa’s ear.

‘Well, well,’ says Vanessa, ‘look what the cat dragged in.’

Vanessa is beautiful in her golden gown, with its Barbie puffed sleeves and love-heart neckline trimmed with silvery sequins. Her perfect blond hair is laced with perfect white flowers, and huge curls bounce against her perfect tanned shoulders. She smiles with her little white razor-sharp teeth.

‘Please tell me,’ she continues, ‘that you’re not going to get up on stage in that.’

Rose looks at her own dress again.

Of course, beside the others it’s old-fashioned. She holds the skirt out with her hands and something about the action makes Vanessa laugh. It looks handmade, suddenly; it looks like something she has sewn herself.