Callie had another Pimm’s and disappeared. She comes in to dinner, dressed up as my mother; she’s been rummaging in the trunks.
“You found the linen closet,” I say.
An old-fashioned winter slip, heavy linen straps on the shoulders, embroidery on the hem. It hangs long on her; she thinks that it’s another dress. She’s drunk.
“I was looking for the gramophone,” she says.
Dickie looks around from the sink. He’s washing plates so they’ll be clean enough to eat from. He begins to smile but stops when he sees what she’s wearing. His eyes linger on her for a second, as if he’s remembering. It makes Callie awkward. She smiles at him, it’s not her usual smile. She fingers an oblong brooch. Dickie picks up a plate he’s already dried, puts it back in the water.
Callie has on navy shoes, they’re long for her feet. A pair my mother would have worn when she still used stockings; when she still wore shoes. Callie’s a little unsteady on them. She sees me looking down.
“They’re a bit big,” she says.
She sits down on a kitchen chair, slowly, as though someone might be sitting there already. She clasps her hands on the place mat in front of her; she’s wearing small white gloves.
“What’s for dinner?” she asks.
Dickie has a pot on the electric stove. I have one on the Aga. I’m warming a tin of applesauce for Darwin.
“Spaghetti Bolognese, sans spaghetti, mit toast,” says Dickie. He has on black pants and a loose white shirt; he seems to have cut his hair and wetted it down. I’m the only one not dressed for dinner.
“Would you like a drink to start with?” he says to Callie.
She shakes her head. “I think I’ve had enough.” She smiles to herself, as though she’s kept it a secret. She smells of mothballs and lavender sachets.
“Why are you wearing my mother’s underwear?”
“I had to find something,” she said, “we’re dining with Dickie Del Mar.” She looks down at herself in the chair. “I thought it was a dress.”
She fingers the laces that gather at the side.
“They’re for underneath,” says Dickie. He puts plates on the table as I open the can of applesauce, put it with a spoon on a wooden drinks tray, pour a glass of milk for Darwin.
“My mother didn’t wear petticoats,” I say.
“She had on that one,” Dickie says, “under the wedding dress.”
I remember his song about love among the petticoats. “She didn’t wear it out here,” I say.