Aunt Matilda

             Aunt Matilda's Party Dress


It was one of those increasingly rare occasions for us, a family gathering. Not the whole clan, which is pretty humungous. It was spur-of-the-moment. My mum, my brothers and I decided to go and wish Mum's sister, Nance, a happy birthday. We didn't have any money for a present, but we've got used to not having money for stuff like that since Dad's been gone, so Mum simply got down to it and did her usual birthday thing: made a cake and some Anzac biscuits, and off we went.

We'd just demolished the cake, all gathered round in the kitchen with Aunty Nance's husband and kids, when we heard somebody yoo-hooing through the living-room, and who should appear in our midst but Aunt Mat.

Aunt Mat is something of a legend in our family. She travels a lot, so what we hear of her is often second-hand. She has this slightly mysterious, rather glamorous image, and I've heard her referred to as a dark horse, a black sheep, a lame duck, an enfant terrible, a bohemian, and a bit of a nomad. Depending on who was telling the story. My Mum's very religious, although she's pretty understanding too, mostly. Matilda, as far as we know, has no fixed religion.

Anyway, the odd thing is, when you meet Matilda, she seems neither glamorous nor mysterious. She always looks as if her clothes were thrown together without much thought. On this occasion she was wearing a warm black top under a fluffy, sleeveless vest, but the other half of her outfit didn't match at all. The bottom half consisted of daggy old tracksuit pants, and then, although it was winter, open sandals. Red hair (like mine), pale face, no make-up. That's my Aunt Mat.

She'd brought various bundles to distribute, another thing she's famous for. Birthday presents for Nance: two fluffy sleeveless vests like the one she was wearing herself, still with the price-tags on. Various hand-me-downs, not very interesting. Mat's weight fluctuates, so she's always offloading things that are suddenly either too big or too small. But nobody ever looked good in her cast-offs. You needed her kind of personality to get away with the outfits she wore, which were an original mixture of daggy and daring. (Half poodle, half blue heeler, Uncle Ted once rudely said.) So I wasn't taking much notice, until she pulled out this scrunched-up black thing, gleaming here and there where it caught the light.

She gave it a shake and held it up, and it fell into the shape of a dress, a little black party dress, very plain, except for the beading on the bodice, shiny jet beads sewn in a pattern to form a deep V, accentuating the narrow, plunging neckline.
 
As soon as I saw it, I wanted it. That dress was made for me. I hoped Aunt Nance wouldn't put in a bid, seeing it was her birthday. But Aunt Mat was looking at me as if something had just occurred to her.

"Here, Janey," she was saying. "I brought it for Nance, but you could wear this. I picked it up in Paris, years ago, when I was young and slim."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mum open her mouth as if to say something, and then think better of it, and snap her lips shut like a coin purse. Everyone was looking at me. I was looking at Mat. Did she really mean it? She was holding it out for me to take it. I looked at my mum for permission, but she gave no sign, just kept her lips tightly compressed. Nance didn't seem to want it either. She was into a more sporty look, you never saw her in slinky outfits.

I stretched out my fingers and touched the silky fabric. It felt almost alive. Mat sort of thrust it into my hand. They were all still watching, and then Nance said: "Aren't you going to try it on?"

 I shook my head.

Someone found a carry bag, and the dress was bundled away out of sight, almost as if it was something scandalous or provocative. Then Nance and Mum made cups of tea, and we took them out onto the deck.

 Aunt Mat sidled up to me. "I hope you enjoy the dress," she said. "It's been to many magical evenings: operas, parties, embassies, glamorous nights along the Seine, in Montparnasse. I'm glad it's yours now, Janey. Hope it brings you happiness. I always used to wear it to attract good luck."

My head was on fire. Good luck in what, I wondered. True love? Success and fame? Mat had been unfortunate in both respects, they said. She wasn't exactly wealthy, either, and her career in art (she was a sculptor) had more downs than ups.

Very quietly I said, "If Mum lets me wear it!"
 
Just at that moment, Mum, sniffing conspiracy, moved closer. "You really shouldn't be giving Janey clothes that are far too old for her," she reproached Mat.

Mat was diplomatic. "It's such an elegant little number, Gracey, don't you think? And young beauties like Janey, with her artist's-model hair, look stunning in simple black, trust me! It's the last word in chic and savoir-vivre! You can't keep her rigged out like the von Trapps much longer. After all, she's turning seventeen this year, isn't she?"

Well, I doubted that dress would be going anywhere, at least on me. But fortunately Nance stepped in and changed the subject.

When we got home, I locked myself in my room, saying I had an important French assignment due in on Monday. That was true. But first of all, I took off all my clothes and slithered into the new satin camisole and knickers Nance had given me. I slipped the elastic band off my ponytail, and took a long look at myself in the mirror. To my surprise, I liked what I saw - my smooth, creamy-white neck and shoulders, and the satin clinging to my breasts reminded me of one of Aunt Mat's little clay maquettes of nymphs and dancers.

Then I took the dress out of the plastic bag, taking care not to make any loud rustling sounds, and slowly, very gently, lowered it over my head.

It was a perfect fit. I closed my eyes, then opened them again. There was a hint of old, expensive perfume coming from the silk, and a faint but not unpleasant whiff of smoke. I fancied I could also smell the musky scent of skin, of flesh, but it was so subtle, maybe I imagined it. I closed my eyes again, and I had the weird sensation of drinking in another world through the pores of my skin, a feeling as if someone's arms enveloped me. I could feel my body moving in harmony with the other, the stranger's, a slow dance in a smoky room, with windows overlooking the Seine. I even fancied I could hear the murmur of voices, speaking French. I slowly circled in my room, dancing with eyes closed, synchronising my breathing with my imaginary partner's.

So at first I didn't hear Mum tapping at my door, not until she thumped it more insistently. "Jane!" she was saying. "Open up at once!"

Panicking, I twisted the key, grabbed the door handle and wrenched the door open so suddenly, she almost fell into the room, then braced herself and glared at me in frigid disapproval. Of course, the dress. I'd been so startled by her sudden knocking, I forgot.

"What do you think this is?" she began indignantly. Then, in a quieter, more ominous voice. "Take it off at once! I don't know what Matilda's thinking of, giving an innocent young girl clothes you'd see in a French film that no respectable person would watch! Look at the way it exposes your chest! It's indecent, not to mention unhealthy! What would the pastor say?"
 
"Don't look at me then!" was all I could reply.

As soon as she turned her back, I dragged off the dress and grabbed my ordinary clothes to put on.

She turned and snatched the little black dress, its beading flashing and glinting defiantly. "I'll take that," she said. "I'll put it away where it won't give you the wrong kinds of ideas."

I knew it would be useless to protest. Perhaps that was the last I'd ever see of the tantalising garment. She'd bundle it into the bag of old clothes to donate to Lifeline. What she didn't know was, now I had seen myself in that dress, and danced the slow, erotic dance in a room above the Seine, with the mingled scent of Matilda's perfumed skin and the masculine scent of her lover, like ghosts in the fabric coming to life to embrace me, nothing could ever be quite the same. In those few minutes that I had worn it, the dress had become my dream passport. I didn't yet know where I'd be getting off the plane, but it would be there, in my luggage, one day…