An illustrated letter about new beginnings

AT 68, I MOVED INTO A NEW VILLAGE WHERE NOBODY KNEW ME. MY DAUGHTER SAID, "MUM, THAT MEANS YOU GET TO CHOOSE WHO YOU ARE."

I lived in the same house for forty-one years. Three bedrooms, a lemon tree that never quite forgave us for planting it in the wrong corner, and a hallway with pencil marks on the laundry door where Claire measured herself every birthday until she was fifteen and declared it childish.

This winter, I sold it.

It was the right decision. The garden had become too much, the stairs at the back had become a negotiation, and since Graham passed, the house had grown far too quiet for one person. Claire helped me find a lovely two-bedroom unit in a village south of the river. It has a bowling green, a clubhouse with a proper kitchen and a lawn that catches the last of the afternoon sun.

I moved in at the start of September. By the second week of October, I had unpacked every box except one, the one labelled CLOTHES — GOOD in Graham's handwriting from a house move nobody remembered.

Then the notice went up on the clubhouse board.

Spring Sundowner. Friday evening on the lawn. New residents especially welcome. Nibbles provided, bring your own glass.

I read it three times. I'm not a shy woman, as a rule. I ran the tuckshop roster at Claire's primary school for nine years, which is a sort of military command. But I'd known everyone in my old street for decades. I hadn't walked into a room full of strangers since I was in my forties.

I rang Claire that night, mostly to complain about the lack of parking near the clubhouse. She saw straight through me.

"You're nervous about the sundowner."

"I'm not nervous. I'm just not sure what one wears to these things."

"Mum," she said, in the patient voice she uses on her teenagers. "Nobody there knows you yet. Nobody knows you as Graham's widow, or as the tuckshop lady, or as the woman who always brings the pumpkin scones."

"That means you get to choose who you are. Don't waste it on a beige cardigan."

I laughed, and told her she was being dramatic. Then I hung up and went and looked at the beige cardigan, which was, as it happens, exactly what I had been planning to wear.

THE BOX MARKED "GOOD"

The next morning I finally opened the last box. I'd half hoped it would hold some forgotten treasure, the kind of thing women in films discover in attics: a perfect frock from 1974 that still fits like a glove.

It did not. It held my mother-of-the-bride outfit from Claire's wedding, which is a lovely shade of apricot and roughly two sizes ago. There was a black cocktail dress I'd bought for a work Christmas party in 1998, the year shoulder pads were still a matter of personal conviction. And there was a cream skirt suit that had always made me look like a real-estate agent.

I tried each one on, standing in my new bedroom with the window open and the sound of somebody's lawnmower drifting over the fence. None of them were right. They weren't wrong because they were old. They were wrong because they belonged to other versions of me, women who had other occasions, other bodies, other lives.

I packed them back up, wrote OP SHOP on the lid, and sat down on the bed feeling oddly light. If I was going to choose who I was going to be in this new place, I would have to start with something that belonged to me now.

WHAT I DIDN'T WANT TO BE

I'll be honest about what was really bothering me. It wasn't the clothes, exactly. It was the fear of being filed away in the wrong drawer.

When you arrive somewhere new at sixty-eight, people make up their minds quickly. I'd seen it happen at the village already. There was the woman in the gardening hat everyone called "Rosemary from the roses," and the gentleman who'd mentioned his knee replacement once and was now forever "the knee man." First impressions stick like burrs.

I didn't want to be the quiet widow in the corner holding a glass of warm riesling. I also didn't want to look as though I was trying too hard, all sequins and new lipstick, desperate to be liked.

And there were the practical problems, the ones every woman my age will recognise. Perth spring evenings are a puzzle. The afternoon can be properly warm, but the minute the sun drops, the breeze comes up and you're suddenly very aware of your arms. Light summery florals look like a garden party, which felt a touch too sweet for an evening. Black felt too serious. And anything fitted through the middle meant an evening of discreetly holding my breath.

I wanted something that looked like evening, but not like mourning. Something with a bit of movement and a bit of mystery, that covered what I wanted covered without making a fuss about it.

THE IDEA I HADN'T CONSIDERED

The answer came from an unexpected place. My new neighbour, a retired music teacher called Pat with a laugh you can hear from the letterboxes, popped over with a plate of shortbread on my third week. She was wearing a long dark dress with a small print, and I remember thinking it looked both relaxed and quietly elegant at once.

"Florals don't have to be pastel, you know," she said, when I complimented her. "A dark floral works day and night. It's the most useful thing in my wardrobe."

It sounds obvious written down. But I genuinely hadn't thought of it. In my head, florals lived in one box, the sunny picnic box, and evening clothes lived in another, the dark and serious box. I'd never thought to look for something that sat in between.

A dark floral could go into the evening. It could stand up to the cooler air after sunset without looking wintery. And it could be cheerful without shouting.

FINDING THE GILVINE

That evening I sat down with my tablet and a cup of tea and browsed Perth Boutique, a local shop I'd ordered from before. I found their Parisian Charm collection, a group of romantic, slightly old-world dresses that made me think of summer evenings in a European square, though I've only ever been to one, and it was raining.

There, among them, was the Gilvine maxi dress.

It comes in a single colourway called Green Black: a deep, dark background scattered with soft, warm-toned flowers. It has a V-neckline, small flutter sleeves that sit just over the shoulders, and a long, flowing skirt made of tiers that fall one over the other down to a ruffled hem.

The listing describes it as having lightweight fabric layers, lace accents, and a smooth lining, and it calls the fit true to size. There's also a mention that you can wear it loose, or add a belt to define the waist. I liked that very much. Some evenings, a woman wants shape. Some evenings, she wants to eat the cheese platter in peace.

I looked at it for a good ten minutes. Then I thought about Claire saying don't waste it on a beige cardigan, and I pressed the button before I could talk myself out of it.

THE PARCEL AMONG THE MOVING BOXES

The parcel arrived on the Tuesday. My unit still had a few flattened moving boxes stacked against the spare room wall, so this new box looked quite at home in the hallway. I carried it into the bedroom and lifted the dress out onto the bed.

It was the first new thing in a house full of old things, and it looked rather pleased with itself lying there across the white quilt. The dark fabric made the little flowers glow. The flutter sleeves fell neatly at the shoulders, and the skirt seemed to go on and on, tier after tier, right off the end of the bed.

What surprised me first was how light it felt in my hands for such a long dress. I'd half expected something heavy, the way some full-length dresses drag. This felt soft and airy, and the layers moved when I lifted it.

HOW IT ACTUALLY FIT

I'll be straightforward, because I always appreciate it when other women are. I am not a model. I'm sixty-eight, I have a middle that has made itself comfortable, and my upper arms have opinions. With that said, here's what I found.

I ordered my usual size, as the listing suggests it's true to size, and it fit me the way I hoped it would. The V-neckline is flattering without being low. It drew the eye up to my face and my one good necklace rather than anywhere else.

The flutter sleeves were a quiet triumph. They're not long sleeves, so they don't feel hot. But they soften the line at the shoulder and give a little bit of cover over the top of the arm. When I moved, they moved with me.

The skirt is where this dress really earns its keep. The tiers fall loosely from the waist, so nothing clings at the tummy or hips. When you walk, it sways. When you sit, it settles. The listing mentions a lining, and I was glad of it. I didn't feel I needed to worry about the light behind me.

I tried it once loose and once with a narrow tan belt from my drawer. Loose, it felt relaxed and bohemian. With the belt, it looked a little more put-together. I went with the belt for Friday, but I suspect I'll wear it loose for lunches.

One honest note: it's a long dress, a true maxi. I'm five foot five and it reached my ankles with low wedge sandals. If you're petite, you may want to check the length on the product page, or plan on a small heel.

FRIDAY ON THE LAWN

On the Friday afternoon I hung the dress on the back of the front door while I fussed with my hair. I'd be lying if I said I didn't walk past it four or five times, the way you check the oven when you know perfectly well you turned it off.

At a quarter past five, I put it on, added my pearl studs, picked up my one good wine glass, and walked across to the clubhouse lawn. It's only a two-minute walk. It felt like a mile.

The sun was going down over the rooftops, warm and gold, and there were perhaps forty people scattered around the lawn in little clusters. Someone had strung fairy lights along the pergola. There was a table of nibbles and, unmistakably, a cheese platter.

For a moment, I stood at the edge of the grass and thought about turning round. Then a woman in a wide-brimmed hat stepped towards me, held out her hand, and said, "You must be the new lady in number fourteen. I've been dying to meet the person who owns that marvellous dress."

Her name was Joyce. She'd lived in the village eleven years and, as I would learn over the next two hours, knew absolutely everything about everyone. She introduced me to her husband, to Pat's bridge partner, to a former nurse called Lorraine, and to a gentleman who had once played the trombone in a jazz band in Kalgoorlie and wanted very much to tell me about it.

When the sun went down and the breeze came in off the river, half the women reached for their wraps. I didn't need to. The flutter sleeves and the long, layered skirt kept the chill off well enough, and I stayed out until the fairy lights were the only light left.

I'd spent weeks worrying about what they'd decide about me. In the end, I decided for myself.

Before I left, Joyce took my arm and told me that the Friday bridge group was looking for a fourth. "You strike me as a woman who plays to win," she said. I'd never played bridge in my life. I start lessons on Wednesday.

THREE THINGS I LEARNED

A new beginning deserves something new. Not everything has to change when you move house, or start a new chapter. But one thing that belongs to the person you're becoming, rather than the person you used to be, can make you walk into a room differently.

Dark florals are the in-between answer. For years I'd thought evening meant dark and serious, and florals meant sunny afternoons. A deep floral sits right between the two, and it's just right for a Perth spring evening that starts warm and ends with a breeze.

People see what you show them first. I'll never know what I'd have become at the village if I'd worn the beige cardigan. I suspect I'd have been perfectly welcome. But I wouldn't have been "the lady in the marvellous dress," and I've rather enjoyed being her.

ABOUT THE PRICE, PLAINLY

I'm careful with money, and a downsizing move makes you more careful still. Every removalist, conveyancer and electrician in Perth seems to have been invited to share in the proceeds. So here's exactly what I know.

When I'm writing this, the Gilvine maxi dress is listed at $119.95 AUD on Perth Boutique, with a regular price shown as $256.00. I can't speak for that higher figure. I can only tell you what it cost me and that I felt it was money well spent.

It comes in sizes XS to 2XL, in the one Green Black colourway, and the listing says it's true to size. Delivery was free and came with Australia Post. The shop lists a money-back guarantee, and as always, I'd suggest reading their Returns & Refunds page before ordering so you know where you stand.

The Gilvine sits in their Parisian Charm collection alongside quite a few other romantic dresses, so if dark florals aren't your cup of tea, there are other styles to browse there too.

WHAT I WOULD TELL YOU IF WE WERE FRIENDS

If we were sitting on my new little patio, I'd pour you a cup of tea and tell you this: you don't have to move house to start again.

Every one of us gets new beginnings at our age, whether we ask for them or not. A new village, a new widowhood, a new grandchild, a new group at church, a new doctor's waiting room full of faces. Each one is a room full of people who haven't decided who you are yet.

That can feel frightening. Claire made me see it could also feel like a gift. You get to walk in as the woman you'd like to be now, not the woman you were twenty years ago or the one everyone expects.

I'm not saying a dress does that for you. You do that yourself, by walking across the lawn when you'd rather turn back. But it does help, enormously, to feel you've shown up as yourself.

Nobody at the sundowner knew my story. So I let the first chapter be a good one.

With love from my new front door,
Maggie