Dorothy

I find myself drawn to vintage bathing suits and the stories of the women who filled them. Bathing suits hide as much as they reveal. Like a woman's body, the fabric becomes threadbare and worn, yet she is still strong and imposing. Both the bathing suit and the female form continue to be a rich source of inspiration to explore memory, nostalgia and the transitional phases of womanhood.

The pretty postcard flier lay snail-nibbled and slimy in the garden bed under the letterbox. Josie meant to throw it in the trash, but something about the words drew her in and serendipity took over. They shared a love of nostalgia. They had worn vintage clothes for decades. One had been collecting vintage swimming costumes. The other had been painting them. When Josie walked into the exhibition space, she saw the artist before she was pointed out. She wore an emerald green party frock. Josie’s was blue.


Josie coveted her dress and told her so. The artist laughed and moaned about a house bursting with clothes. Josie laughed and moaned about a house bursting with teenage daughters. They made a pact to get together when she decided to unload her wardrobe.

A warm breeze wafted over the gathering crowd. Josie wandered through the high-ceilinged space sipping chilled white wine and nibbling tiny cheese biscuits. Old swimsuits were painted in gentle water colours over tea-stained musical scores, snippets of love letters and dramatic wood block prints.

High above on ancient wooden rafters, the original costumes hung on rusty metal coat hangers, keeping watch, setting the tone. The fabrics were patterned and heavy, their once jolly colours bleached from years of sunshine and seawater. In their corseted shapes, they had become molds of long lost sweethearts, wives and mothers. Josie felt a sob in her throat. She mourned their absence as she would a beloved family member.

The artist’s respect for the women who wore the suits was palpable. Rose, Ruby, Jeanette; their life stories were lovingly depicted in the background collages. It was a sacred site, that white-washed room down by the sea.

It was there, as the ocean wailed, that Josie fell in love with Dorothy.

She was full skirted and vivacious, and her polka dots and matching balloons floated over segments of letters in old fashioned cursive. How lucky Dorothy was, thought Josie, to live in an era where letter writing mattered. Josie imagined Dorothy setting off with her faded, threadbare towel and daisy cap, her stocky legs tanned from daily swims in the rock pools near her home. Anyone in a polka dot bathing costume must have been jovial and kind. The perfect neighbour; one who kept her eyes on the local children, potted parsley cuttings and shared her old grandmother’s cake recipes.

Josie imagined having a quick chat with Dorothy before she dipped her toes into the sea. No wasting time, though! The washing needed a peg out before she met the girls for tennis and cards.

Josie considered her withering finances for a blink, and called for a red “sold” dot.

Time moves slower for Dorothy now. She watches over a household, not from next door, but from a hook on a wall in Josie’s lounge room. Dorothy brings an aura of peace to busy days. She doesn’t replace a departed mother, but her constant presence softens the loss.

Sometimes Josie and the artist meet for coffee around the corner from the studio, where unfinished canvasses line the wall and perch on wooden easels. The women are friends now, thanks to a grubby postcard discovered in the dirt one warm Wednesday evening, many summers ago.

This story appeared in the Winter edition, The Zodiac Review, January 2012