Read Online Diamonds in the Mud and Other Stories by Joy Dettman - Free Book Online Page B

curly wig on top, clad in something halfway between Cinderella and Scarlett O’Hara from Gone with the Wind .
    â€˜The town is in for hysterics,’ she said to Darlene, clad in an identical froth of petticoats and lilac satin. She was six inches shorter, definitely not undernourished and also teetering on four inch heels.
    â€˜They’re hurting already, Mum.’
    â€˜Then grin and bear it.’
    They were herded to the church on time, petticoats prickling, those crazy heels lifting Danni high above the crowd. She was seven years Darlene’s senior, but relegated to second bridesmaid, and teamed up for the day with George, a pasty faced cousin of the goon. Her pantihose slipping, her smile fixed, she tailgated the wedding party down the aisle, gave one of her giggling mates a look at her thumb, then stood, waiting for it to be over. And by the time it was, and the photographer, who was costing a fortune, had done his worst, her pantihose elastic struggling to get a grip on her hips had allowed the crutch to work its way down to her knees.
    She did it with as much decorum as possible, given the situation. She backed up to a wall, hauled up the rear of her skirts and petticoats and hitched the elastic high, or as high as the boob cage allowed.
    â€˜Will you try, for one day, to act like a lady, Danielle,’ the step dragon nagged.
    â€˜I’ll look like a bloody lady when they work their way down to my ankles and I trip over ’em, won’t I?’
    The reception was at the Central Motel and they’d booked the local band. Now Danni was supposed to dance while some dead whale’s bone took revenge on humanity and her pantihose elastic clutched at the final straw: her scrawny bum. She grabbed a handful of dress and petticoat and hitched, which gave the pasty faced goonsman ideas. He tried to do his own hitching but she got him with a sharp left elbow jab to the ribs, and he got her back with a foot applied to a silver sandal.
    â€˜Try sticking to the floor, will you? I could have bought a new water pump for the FX with what I paid for these sandals,’ she said.
    â€˜No one told me I was supposed to dance,’ he said.
    For two hours she behaved herself, keeping a metallic grin screwed securely in place, but by nine, her cheek springs were losing tension. Then she was harassed into getting up to form a circle so the oldies could have their progressive barn dance, pass her from hand to hand like the collection plate in church.
    â€˜How much longer do these things go on for?’ the goonsman asked.
    â€˜This is the country, George. We all turn into bumpkins – or is it pumpkins? – at midnight.’
    â€˜Want to take off, do something, babe?’
    â€˜Do what?’
    â€˜We’re booked in downstairs. We’ve got a room with a waterbed. Ever done it on a waterbed?’
    â€˜Done what, George?’
    â€˜What else do you do in this place for entertainment?’
    â€˜Dodge creeps like you, mainly,’ she said.
    Her usual hairstyle involved a rubber band and greasy cap, but that hairdresser had left it hanging long and loose, then wound flowers in it. She yanked at a string of the things, got them free and tossed them at the bride.
    â€˜You’re not much like your sisters,’ George said, feeling for flesh but only finding whale bone.
    â€˜What sisters? My father drove under a semi before he made an honest woman of their mother – not that I blame him.’ Maybe she lied. Maybe she did blame him. Five years ago she’d blamed him daily.
    George was desperate, or drunk. She’d insulted his aunty, and he was still trying to find a backside beneath slippery satin and petticoats. She disengaged his clutch and moved willingly into an old bloke’s arms. One of Elvis’s original fans, he rocked her off to a pair of hands belonging to the dragon’s younger brother, Uncle Ronnie, who’d hated her guts since she’d