“I’m going to help Magda in the mornings, Mum.”
“Magda? Who’s ‘Magda’?” asked Mrs. Miles.
“You know, Magda. She’s in charge of Model Gowns; I told you.”
“Model Gowns? Now what’s ‘Model Gowns’ for goodness’ sake?” asked Mrs. Miles. “I thought they were all ‘Model Gowns’ at Goode’s. An expensive shop like that.”
“No, no,” said Lisa. “They’re just un–Model Gowns, all the other things in Goode’s, they come in all sizes, anyone can buy them.”
“Anyone who can pay for them,” said Mrs. Miles. “I’m sure I can’t.”
“No, but—” continued Lisa, “the Model Gowns are unique. There’s only one of each, and they’re from France and England, and if you have one, you know nobody else will have it too, because it’s the only one in Sydney.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Miles, “I know. Individual. Well, no one else has the same clothes as you do either, except for your old school blouses, because I make them, so they’re unique too, aren’t they?”
“Ye-e-es,” said Lisa, “yes, I suppose so—”
“Well, there’s no ‘suppose’ about it,” said her mother, “they are. That pink frock I made you, if you could get one like it I reckon you’d pay five or six pounds at least, but you can’t.”
“Yes, but the Model Gowns,” said Lisa, “are mostly evening frocks.”
“Oh, yes, evening frocks. I see,” said Mrs. Miles. “For balls, and that. That’s another story. I suppose I could try my hand at that if you wanted to go to a ball.”
And she began to get a dizzy feeling at the thought of making an evening frock, for a ball, not that she wouldn’t do her best, not that she wouldn’t try her very best to dress her daughter for a ball. Well.
“But then you haven’t reached that point yet so we needn’t worry about it yet, need we?” she asked brightly. But while she was doing so, each naturally had the same awful thought: the secret suddenly rose in a pink cloud and hovered near the kitchen ceiling above their heads.
If Lesley is really going to go to the university, thought Mrs. Miles, she’ll very likely be going to balls, she’ll be doing goodness knows what. The clothes! All those other girls there—the daughters of professional men, business men: rich girls, with lots of clothes, clothes from Goode’s, for example—it was going to be a headache, keeping up with that. Lesley had been such a slow developer, her life had been so simple, so far—she had hardly been out with a boy; only a few young chaps she called weeds, chaps she didn’t care about making an impression on. How would it be when she got to the university, and met others, not weeds—well. She would just have to do her best. They would see.
“No, but when I do go to a ball,” said Lisa, “I’ll have my money I’ve saved working at Goode’s, won’t I? So I can buy something, and not bother you about it.”
“That’s true,” said her mother. “I’d forgotten that. You could buy a Model Gown, with that money. You’ll look just lovely.”
They laughed together, and Lisa jumped up and took her mother’s arm and they danced around the room, singing together.
Volare, oh, oh!
Cantare, oh, oh, oh, oh!
Everything will work out somehow, thought Mrs. Miles; and my Lesley will go to the ball.