One Long Thread (18 page)

It took me all day to dye the silk, spreading the bleeding wet hanks on old white sheets on the grass out back to dry. The wind howled through the gaps in our doors and the slices of sky between our houses. As the silk dried, the wind whipped it like tumbleweeds and I raced around the yard catching up red puffs in my arms. I piled them in the sewing room and alternated between tinkering with my design, rubbing out lines here and there, and adding new ones. I started again, ripping out sheet after sheet of paper before the shape on the page began to resonate with my subconscious idea of what I wanted. I ignored the phone. I snatched bread and apples from the kitchen. I napped through the afternoon.

I made panels of silk paper, each of which involved hours of meticulous design and placement.

I extended the dining room table to its widest length and pushed all the chairs to the edge of the room. This way, each panel would be a continuous length that could fall from the bodice at the waist, to the floor.

I twisted silk into long, tight threads, which I coiled and threaded over the base silk panel. I cut cocoons in half and placed them along the coil, I added silk moths – that I had cut and stitched – as well as silk shaped into leaves. With each panel completed, I added more fluffed silk and ironed it together. The shapes and leaves, moths and cocoons were a deep red pattern, buried between the lighter red of the bonding silk. It took me a week to make all the panels and I called Mr Grandy and asked for the rest of the week off my shifts.

I made similar panels for the bodice, stitching them together over a camisole, stiffened, along the length, with boning. I sewed the panels of the skirt together by hand, so that the skirt was fat and stiff and full, falling from the fitted bodice. It took shape on my mannequin.

The strapless bodice curved around the breast line in the shape of a moth and I stitched cocoons and embroidered more detailed coils and twists of deep red cotton. On the back of the bodice, I added stiffened lengths of silk tubes that stuck out from the dress, forming a halo around the back of the head. I added leaves and silk moths to each tube and sewed them together, at intervals, so they were a mass of silken branches. They fluttered in the breeze, like feathers. Tiny pearls stitched, haphazardly, around the shape caught the light quite unexpectedly, depending on the movement of the dress and the angle of light.

I was woven into every inch of that dress. Every fibre, every colour, every curve and weave, nip and tuck. It was my mother and Pearl and Sally. It was Ruby; beautiful because it was made entirely from imperfection; a fusion of half-formed ideals and broken threads, dyed and forged into something new. A fabric from all that was left after life emerged and fluttered her wings, if only briefly.

I twisted some of the silk branches and leaves across the shoulder and attached them to the front of the bodice and, for the first time in my life, I was unashamed to view what I had created. It glowed and hummed on the mannequin.

My dress was ready to enter into the awards. I had no idea whether it would be good enough to be shortlisted for the award night itself or not. But I did know that that dress was my family tree. Right there, living, beautiful. Completely red.

27.

Before dressing, I booked my flight to Darwin to spend four weeks with Barry. Barry and I had already planned to take a camping trip to Kakadu and the thought of being alone with him made my skin tingle. Becky and Rachel were planning a few days in Darwin on their backpacking trip and I was really looking forward to seeing them. Becky assured me she had so much to tell me. I smiled, thinking of all she might have seen and done. I hoped she was happy.

The cold had come suddenly to Melbourne and, out in the streets, people were rugged up in their winter coats, boots, hats and scarves and, while the cold was a depressing annoyance, at least it wasn't raining. Pearl's red coat kept me warm.

Dad had his hand on my arm as he steered me through the traffic to the footpath and up the stairs into the auditorium where the fashion awards were in full scale rehearsal mode. Dad delivered me into the foyer and stood there, awkwardly, for a minute, looking around him nervously.

‘I still can't quite believe I made it on the shortlist.'

‘I can,' Dad said.

I waved him away and he smiled.

I turned and flashed my VIP pass to the guard at the door, took one last look at Dad before disappearing into the auditorium.

Orchestrated chaos is how I'd explain my next few hours. Models and designers, techie types running here and there, racks and racks of clothes, sound tests and lighting tests.

A woman wearing high heels, holding a notebook and readjusting her headset waved me into a dressing-room where my dress was hanging on a rack beside the far wall. She tapped on her wristwatch and I took a deep breath.

I ran my fingers over the fabric, making sure the leaves and stems were in place as it would be my last chance to alter anything. I fought the urge to unstitch parts here and there, to re-do the bodice. The desire for perfection was never far away. But it was finished, it was as ready as it would ever be.

There was a large free-standing mirror in the corner of the room and I examined myself quickly, before leaving. I was wearing the midnight-blue dress and a pair of blue silk stilettos Amona had bought me.

Initially I had decided on ballet flats but Amona suggested I try on her heels – just to see the difference – and even I could see how much better the dress looked with heels. It changed my posture completely, it forced my small body into its most curvaceous advantage and I looked almost womanly.

I had spent various afternoons hobbling around the house in those high heels, hoping, over a few short days, to learn how to:

1. Walk.

2. Walk forward.

3. Walk forward without falling over.

Dad and Amona tried not to laugh as I teetered down the hallway but even I could see how funny the situation was. Walking in heels required years of practice. It's harder than learning to drive a car. Stilettos should come with licences and chiropractic supervision. I prayed for the poise and grace of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.

Looking in the mirror was like seeing Sally in myself and the thought made me smile. I glanced back at my dress hanging on the rack and left.

‘Come on, Ruby,' Dad said, linking his arm though mine. ‘It's time.'

Dad, Amona and I made our way through the auditorium foyer into the main ballroom which was decorated with balloons and lights, giant vases of flowers. Round tables were covered in white linen, set out with silverware and crystal glasses, individualised placecards and an evening program. Our table was relatively close to the stage. Molly Goodweather and Mr Grandy insisted on coming and I felt so privileged to be surrounded by the people I loved most in the world. All except Pearl and Barry.

‘Ruby, you look beautiful,' Molly said as we arrived at the table to find them already seated.

‘And so do you,' I said, bending down to kiss her cheek.

‘Divine,' said Mr Grandy, blowing me a kiss.

‘I can't say I approve of the centerpiece,' Molly said, waving a heavily jewelled finger towards the vase of flowers in the middle of our table. ‘How am I to see over them?'

As we took our seats the waiter arrived and filled our glasses with champagne. Music played, the room filled with people, fashion and the most colourful buzz I have ever known.

It would be a long wait through dinner, then the parade of fashion, which would run through categories, and the winners, from everything from daywear, swimwear, businesswear, wedding, formal and evening. The Young Designer of the Year category was last. It was going to be a long night. I couldn't imagine being able to eat much at all, my stomach was in knots.

‘Ruby.'

I heard someone call my name from behind and turned to see Barry walking towards me. At first I thought I must have been imagining it, there was never any mention of Barry coming to Melbourne, let alone the award. I spun back to face Dad and Amona and they were both beaming, leaning into each other. Dad had his hand around her shoulder and I knew from their faces I wasn't dreaming.

I stood up to meet him as he crushed me in a hug that felt so warm and right. I didn't want to let go.

‘I can't believe you came,' I said.

‘I nearly didn't. I've never worn a suit before.'

I smiled.

‘But I didn't want to miss it.'

‘I'm so glad you're here.'

Dessert had been served and eaten when The Young Designer of the Year category was announced. Barry took my hand as the models began emerging from behind the curtain, one at a time, wearing each of the ten different designs.

The category allowed each designer to create any piece of fashion they desired. The first model wore a flowing lavender chiffon dress with small diamantes set on a scooped neckline. A small fishtail of frills brushed the floor behind her. Following this was a grunge business suit look, pants at odd lengths, chalk tack marks visible on the outside seams, a shirt half tucked in at the front then hanging loose at the back. The tie had been cut off with a pair of scissors and a pair of suspenders hanging down completed the look.

We watched as seven more models paraded eveningwear, business suits and one masquerade costume.

When the model wearing my dress emerged, my heart jumped into my throat and my head felt giddy. I held Barry's hand.

My ‘Wedding Dress in Red' looked just as I imagined it would. Branches of twisted silk rose from the back of the dress and folded over the shoulder, attaching to the bodice with small leaves. Tiny pearls caught the light. In her hands the model held a bouquet of seven rose-shaped cocoons made from the
tapa
given to me before I left Tonga. They were surrounded by
tapa
-shaped mulberry leaves, wound tightly together with long threads of silk paper fused and fashioned into roots that snaked down the handle and fell as long as the dress. There was one rose for each member of my family tree. Pearl, Mum, Sally, Ruby, Jack, Amona and Dad. And a small fish was caught in the roots because Barry swam headlong into our family tree and was caught in the tangle of our lives.

The model walked to the end of the runway, around me I heard clapping and I saw Amona and Dad smiling.

‘. . . The last of our entrants for the Young Designer of the Year Category,' said the presenter who turned to watch each of the models appear once more, one after each other, walking down to the end of the runway then back to the stage where they spread out to await the announcement of the winner.

I felt as though I could barely breathe. I watched the presenter open the envelope, remove the card and smile.

‘And the winner is . . .' he paused.

‘Ruby Moon. “Wedding Dress in Red”.'

Dad and Amona jumped up from their seats and hugged me. It all felt surreal but I managed to stand and make my way towards the stage to accept my award. My feet were numb and my hands shook. I started to sweat. My makeup felt clammy and my hair – pinned and poked and sprayed to within an inch of its natural life – felt heavy.

Light flooded around me, defining and shaping and drawing me into it. My body moved where it was supposed to move. Forward. I was aware of the audience, their cheers and clapping.

I walked up the stairs and paused at the edge of the runway and the world in front of me was alive with pearl-white lights; a thousand false moons, and cameras flashing diamonds.

I knew I'd never have another moment like this. Just a single place in time where everything had come together to breathe in harmony. Time slowed and I had gathered all her restless strands in my hands; where I had come from, where I was and where I was going was one long thread as I emerged to make my way into the world.

I moved towards the presenter who had his hand out towards me. I shook it and he presented me with a small trophy and an envelope. I looked down from the stage to see Dad's wide smile. And Barry. I turned and, whether I was tearing up – or Ginger and Fred had been listening – those pearl and diamond lights flashed and blurred into the shape of a dress, a person in that dress. I saw fragments of the moon turned upside down and let loose, like confetti. Sally in that white wedding dress with my silk moth pinned to her chest. She smiled.

‘You didn't fall,' Sally said. ‘In fact, Ruby, you just flew.'

I blinked and she was gone.

Sally always had to have the last word.

Acknowledgements

This book has been an interesting journey and to the many people who have been part of this book, and the strange parallel it mirrored with my own life, I owe you my thanks and gratitude.

A few years ago, on a road trip to Bundaberg, Megan Adsett veered our car off the road and encouraged me to track down my grandmother whom I had not seen since I was a teenager. We found her in a small retirement village in Hervey Bay and, in her small living room, she told me the story of the red coat which begins this novel. I thank her for sharing her story with me.

I would never have started this story about Ruby if Katherine Lyall-Watson had not asked me one night, ‘Why don't you write about girls?' And this story may never have had an ending if she had not given me a room to stay in when I needed one. Thanks also to Pete, Jack, Bridie and Kirra. Thanks to Krissy Kneen for your friendship and support, and Anthony Mullins for your couch. Thanks to my sister Michelle, Guy, Sebastian and Joshua, and to Mum and David. To my wonderful friend, Ruth Ladley: I could never do without you. To the breakfast club and Chris Somerville.

Thanks to Michael Jeffrey for always believing in my writing. Thanks to my wonderful children, Caleb and Luke. To the people I met in the middle of this story; to Michael, Rob, Vera, and the people on my bus tour to Dover who may never know just how timely our conversations of love were.

Many thanks to Kerry B, John D, Dave H, Sheryl G, Katherine B, David S, Chris B, Molly P, Nick E and Ben L.

To my publisher and the team: Kristina Schulz, Kristy Bushnell, Meredene Hill, Simone Bird, Jody Lee and my agent Sophie Hamley who were all there in the beginning. My love and thanks to Krisz Somogyi who was not there when this book began, but was there with much chocolate at the end.