fitting to last. In that time Clare and Peg would get quite a peek into the lives of the clients.
On rare occasions the wedding was called off before the final fitting and Peg would get a phone call, usually from the bride’s mother who was often angry enough to share all the details, which Pegwould recount to Marla and Clare over dinner, much to everybody’s amusement.
‘You know the petite Greek girl with the long fingernails and frizzy hair from the big hotel family? Ran off with her bridesmaid. Yup. The mother said she will make her work in their kitchen, peeling potatoes and making chips, to pay off every cent they have spent on the wedding.’
Clare wondered if this bride would make it up the aisle. First she had to get through these fittings with her mother. Clare could picture her own mother on her knees in front of the mannequin, her mouth full of pins, which she managed to keep in place and still talk, as she created in an instant another fabulous taffeta creation – a little less demure, a little less matronly – that would suit both the bride and the mother.
The mannequin was Peg’s exciting new acquisition. They usually cost about $1000, she proudly told Marla and Clare. But this one had fallen off the back of a truck and into the lap of her friend’s husband Gerald, who had tied a ribbon in its hair and driven it over secured to the roof of his Volkswagen. ‘Peg, meet Doris,’ he announced. Doris Dalton, with her long painted nails and permanently surprised thirties-style face, stood like a silent sentinel guarding the sewing machine and dressmaking paraphernalia that covered the lounge room.
Sandra’s voice was starting to acquire the tinge of hysteria that Clare recognised. It almost always appeared sometime during those three months. Why do brides always throw tantrums, she wondered. Fora time of life that was supposed to be so happy, often they seemed awfully unhappy. Clare knew exactly what she would wear to her own wedding, so she didn’t expect any stress on that front in the preceding months. It would be a simple cream sheath – no flounces or ruffles.
Her reverie was interrupted by the telephone ringing beside her. A young male voice with a heavy European accent asked for Peg Dalton.
‘I’m sorry, she can’t come to the phone right now. Can I take a message?’
‘Could you tell her to come and collect her daughter please.’
Clare felt the muscles inside her stomach contract in a combination of dread and fear. She had assumed her sister was at the frock shop where she worked a couple of days a week. ‘Is Marla all right?’
‘Yes, yes. You’d better come now though.’
‘What’s the address?’ She wrote down a street not far from their home. It was near the city, a suburb of terraces and apartments close to the university.
Another male voice came on the line. ‘And bring more beer,’ he laughed.
Clare smiled politely at the clients as she told Peg she was going out, saying she had an errand to run. The address turned out to be a rundown old terrace house with peeling paint and no front fence. There was a broken sofa on the verandah and three cars, each partly damaged, were parked half on the curb and half on the road. As soon as she opened her car door, Clare was assailed by themusic, loud and full of thumping bass. The front door was wide open but she hesitated.
A young blonde woman, about twenty, wearing very short shorts came running down the hallway laughing. A man in a sarong was chasing her and Clare stepped aside to let them pass. They seemed oblivious of her. Inside she could hear the hubbub of more voices. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and a party appeared to be in full swing. She tried the doorbell but couldn’t hear it ring above the music. Knocking was equally futile. She tried calling out ‘helloooo’ but it was impossible to make her voice heard. With all her senses alert, she walked through the front doorway.
It was a typical Edwardian
On rare occasions the wedding was called off before the final fitting and Peg would get a phone call, usually from the bride’s mother who was often angry enough to share all the details, which Pegwould recount to Marla and Clare over dinner, much to everybody’s amusement.
‘You know the petite Greek girl with the long fingernails and frizzy hair from the big hotel family? Ran off with her bridesmaid. Yup. The mother said she will make her work in their kitchen, peeling potatoes and making chips, to pay off every cent they have spent on the wedding.’
Clare wondered if this bride would make it up the aisle. First she had to get through these fittings with her mother. Clare could picture her own mother on her knees in front of the mannequin, her mouth full of pins, which she managed to keep in place and still talk, as she created in an instant another fabulous taffeta creation – a little less demure, a little less matronly – that would suit both the bride and the mother.
The mannequin was Peg’s exciting new acquisition. They usually cost about $1000, she proudly told Marla and Clare. But this one had fallen off the back of a truck and into the lap of her friend’s husband Gerald, who had tied a ribbon in its hair and driven it over secured to the roof of his Volkswagen. ‘Peg, meet Doris,’ he announced. Doris Dalton, with her long painted nails and permanently surprised thirties-style face, stood like a silent sentinel guarding the sewing machine and dressmaking paraphernalia that covered the lounge room.
Sandra’s voice was starting to acquire the tinge of hysteria that Clare recognised. It almost always appeared sometime during those three months. Why do brides always throw tantrums, she wondered. Fora time of life that was supposed to be so happy, often they seemed awfully unhappy. Clare knew exactly what she would wear to her own wedding, so she didn’t expect any stress on that front in the preceding months. It would be a simple cream sheath – no flounces or ruffles.
Her reverie was interrupted by the telephone ringing beside her. A young male voice with a heavy European accent asked for Peg Dalton.
‘I’m sorry, she can’t come to the phone right now. Can I take a message?’
‘Could you tell her to come and collect her daughter please.’
Clare felt the muscles inside her stomach contract in a combination of dread and fear. She had assumed her sister was at the frock shop where she worked a couple of days a week. ‘Is Marla all right?’
‘Yes, yes. You’d better come now though.’
‘What’s the address?’ She wrote down a street not far from their home. It was near the city, a suburb of terraces and apartments close to the university.
Another male voice came on the line. ‘And bring more beer,’ he laughed.
Clare smiled politely at the clients as she told Peg she was going out, saying she had an errand to run. The address turned out to be a rundown old terrace house with peeling paint and no front fence. There was a broken sofa on the verandah and three cars, each partly damaged, were parked half on the curb and half on the road. As soon as she opened her car door, Clare was assailed by themusic, loud and full of thumping bass. The front door was wide open but she hesitated.
A young blonde woman, about twenty, wearing very short shorts came running down the hallway laughing. A man in a sarong was chasing her and Clare stepped aside to let them pass. They seemed oblivious of her. Inside she could hear the hubbub of more voices. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and a party appeared to be in full swing. She tried the doorbell but couldn’t hear it ring above the music. Knocking was equally futile. She tried calling out ‘helloooo’ but it was impossible to make her voice heard. With all her senses alert, she walked through the front doorway.
It was a typical Edwardian
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