Dressmaker Read Online Free PDF Page A

clamp, her head bent and all her concentration on the lovely width of serge beneath her fingers.

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    In the circumstances Margo couldn’t help feeling that she was superfluous. The party was not a knees-up for the neighbours
     with a few of Cyril Mander’s business acquaintances on show to make a bit of a splash. She didn’t suppose there would be
     any political talk or views on how the war was going. Nor would there be fancy cakes and a few bottles of beer on the sideboard.
     The house was swarming with American soldiers and young women in their gladrags. The three-piece suite was quite submerged.
     On the hall table there was a pile of mustard-coloured caps, one upon the other, like a plate of sandwiches. She was struck,
     as usual, by the dazzling display of lights, in the hall, the front room, the kitchen. She stood blinking, helped out of her
     duster coat by the young man who had escorted them the few yards up the street. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and repeated it for
     Rita, who said nothing at all, allowing the pink cardigan to be removed from her shoulders. Valerie was wearing a black skirt
     with a patent-leather belt about her waist. She was bubbling over with excitement and generosity, explaining that she thought
     Rita would never have come if Chuck hadn’t fetched her. Chuck nodded his head lazily, and she put her arm through his and
     pressed close to him.
    It occurred to Margo that it was a funny name for agrown man. Surely the whites of his eyes were a shade too milky and the curve of his eyeball somewhat extreme. She remembered
     all the stories circulated about English girls marrying GIs and having black children. You could never be sure until it was
     too late. Jack said all the decent Americans had left the country before D-Day, ready for the thrust into Europe; only the
     riff-raff remained – canteen staff and garage mechanics. Mrs Mander couldn’t wait to tell her all about him. Valerie had met
     him at a dance a week ago and he’d taken her out nearly every night since, to the State Restaurant, the Bear’s Paw, to the
     repertory company, to some hotel over on the Wirral, very posh by all accounts.
    ‘The repertory company?’ said Marge, bewildered.
    ‘To a play,’ said Mrs Mander, ‘with actors.’
    ‘He must have money to burn.’
    ‘Well, there’s no harm in that, and he does seem keen, doesn’t he?’
    She peered at Marge, trying to gauge what she was thinking, scrutinising her mouth as if she were deaf and needed to lip-read.
    ‘They certainly seem very thick,’ Margo said, watching the young man at the fireplace with his hand dangling over the white
     shoulder of Valerie Mander. On his wrist, strong black hairs and a watch of solid gold.
    ‘Oh, they are,’ cried Mrs Mander gaily, putting a glass of whisky into her hand and leaving her, waddling out of the doorway
     in her midnight blue dress with the enormous skirt.
    Cyril Mander was playing the piano very slowly as ifhe weren’t sure of the tune. He was in his best blue suit, showing a lot of white cuff, his silver links catching the light.
     On the top of the piano was a jug full of lupins and a photograph of son George in his sailor’s uniform. Every time Cyril
     struck a chord, the flowers trembled and showered petals on the keys. None of the young couples heeded his playing. Valerie
     was looking through the gramophone cabinet for records.
    Marge wondered whether the Manders were wise, filling the house with strangers and letting them behave any way they pleased.
     There was a war on, of course, and she knew attitudes were different, but there was such a thing as a responsibility. It would
     serve Mrs Mander right if she became the proud grandmother of a bouncing piccaninny.
    Sipping her drink and shuddering at its strength, she went out into the hall to look for Rita. The coats on the banisters
     had slid to the floor. She could see Rita’s cardigan lying all crumpled. As she bent to retrieve the clothing, Cyril