Scarlet Woman

3 September 2011

SCARLET WOMAN

The first Scarlet Woman I ever met wore an ankle length blue dressing gown and felt slippers. Her hair streaked brown, blond with wisps of white, hung over one shoulder. She stood at the open door of this terrace house in North Melbourne, shivering slightly, and looked at me questioningly. The time was 11 o’clock in the morning.

“It’s early, young man … but what can I do for you?”

The young man, myself, was sixteen years old.  At that time I did not know what the lady in the blue dressing gown could possibly do for me, why she should call the time early, and where Bedford Crescent was. Of the three the last item was of immediate importance.   I was to deliver an assortment of tinctures, powders, and medications from the local chemist, where I worked part time, to 37 Bedford Crescent, North Melbourne.  It was a rundown part of town, mainly comprised of shacks and terrace houses in dire need of renovation or removal.  Bedford Crescent exists no more. And when it did in the heart of North Melbourne it was hard to find the street names and house numbers.

“Could you help me please? I want to find Bedford Crescent. Number 37 Bedford Crescent …
I have been looking …”

“This is number 37 Bedford Crescent!” said the lady in the blue dressing gown.

I was relieved.  I steered my bicycle to a lamppost and then opened one of the two black carrier bags hanging over the rear wheel. While fishing out the five parcels addressed to ‘The Proprietor, Romance and Leisure, 37 Bedford Crescent, North Melbourne’, I heard a shrill voice screeching behind me: “Is that from the chemist? It’s about time!”

The blue dressing gown had been joined by a spindle thin woman, wearing black slacks and a completely unbuttoned golden colour silk top.   Her black hair was cropped short like a boy’s,  I turned to hand the five parcels to the blue dressing gown, but golden top had stormed past her, slithered to a stop before me and tried to grab the topmost parcel I was holding.

“Hang on!” I said,  “I need a signature … and … are you the proprietor of ‘Romance and Leisure’ … “

Golden top did not answer. She grabbed my hands cradling the parcels and twisted them.  The top parcel toppled to the pavement.  Golden top ducked and grabbed it. “Cheers!’ she cried, “that’s mine!”  She winked at me, backed away and ran back into the house.

Now I turned frantic.  Without a signature by a trusted recipient the goods could not be charged to them.   Rather having delivery not validated,   they would be charged to … me.  I began to tremble at the thought.  I would lose a tidy sum of money, possibly the job, possibly become known as unreliable, easily duped, not trustworthy, unemployable.

“Well,” said the blue dressing gown, “that was Josie at her best.  You’d better give me the rest of the stuff, and where do I sign, and have you got a pen?”

Blue dressing gown spoke with quiet authority and I fell under its spell.  I held the receipt book while she signed it, handed her copy of the docket, and watched her carrying four parcels back into number 37 Bedford Crescent.

Sometime later, maybe a couple of years later, I made the acquaintance of more blue dressing gowns and golden top Josies. And to this day I relax with the former and studiously steer clear of the latter.