The Black Dress (7 page)

Miss Kane was a convert to Catholicism and she had all the convert’s enthusiasm and commitment. I had met her at St Francis’s before my father went away. She had seemed a little stern at the time.

She was stern. Strict and punctual. But she had a sense of humour and a real devotion to Our Lady, which gave us a bond. And she was a very good teacher—knowledgeable, patient and clear. I learned a lot about what makes a good teacher from Miss Kane.

It was a small school, only ten boarders and 11 day pupils. All the boarders slept in the same dormitory, but we each had our own bed and a little cupboard for our things. I had got used again to sharing a bed with Maggie when I came home from the L’Estranges’, and it was odd to go to sleep alone. I became friends with Mary Jane Dougherty, the buck-toothed girl that Maggie had once derided. She was a boarder at Miss Kane’s school—a mischievous girl who got into trouble almost every day, but I couldn’t disapprove of her. She never meant harm to anyone—it was just high spirits. Mary Jane wasn’t built for sitting still. She would have been better riding horse on her father’s farm, rather than stuck behind a desk day after day.

Mary Jane and I went everywhere together during the day, and at night we ate dinner together (Miss Kane said the food was ‘plain but good’ which meant no sugar or jam or honey or roast vegetables, but plenty of potatoes and bread and meat). Mary Jane and I did our schoolwork together, said our prayers together, and even got into trouble together.

Oh, I did get into trouble, more than once! The worst time was when Mary Jane put a chamber pot on the hen house roof. When Miss Kane asked me if I knew who had done it I said I couldn’t tell her. She knew who it was, of course—Mary Jane was the only one who would dare! So Miss Kane punished me for telling a lie. Of course, I wasn’t lying—I didn’t say I didn’t know, just that I couldn’t tell her, which was how I truly felt. But there was no use trying to explain. I just took the punishment. It wasn’t too bad—only six strokes with the cane on my left hand. It was worth it to keep Mary Jane’s friendship. Even though she was a scandal of a girl, she was fun.

I was only at Miss Kane’s for six weeks—just long enough for her to prepare me for my First Communion.

‘I’d like to keep you there, child,’ Mamma said, ‘but the truth is we just can’t afford it.’

I was disappointed. I missed Mamma and the children, but I came home every Saturday afternoon, stayed Sunday and went back to school early Monday morning—one of the men drove me in Papa’s gig. I was enjoying the lessons, and the library, and seeing Mary Jane and the other girls every day, but I couldn’t tell Mamma that.

‘It doesn’t matter, Mamma,’ I said. ‘I’ll be happy to be home with you.’ That was the truth, too. How could I not be happy to be with Mamma? I loved her completely, because she loved me completely. Later, when I became Mother Mary to my sisters in Christ, I took her as my model. Calm, personally scrupulous, clear in explanation, resolute in discipline, and always loving. I fell short of that standard many times, Lord knows, but I tried.

It’s a great joy to me that I will soon see her again—that the grief of her death, which is still with me, will be swept away. I think one of the greatest gifts God has ever given me was that her body was recovered from the shipwreck that killed her. That we could bury her and have her grave to mourn over. I am sure it was a direct answer to our prayers, because hers was the only body recovered intact from that wreck.

The day of my First Communion it rained. It was August 15th, 1850, the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin into Heaven—a wonderful day to receive the Blessed Eucharist for the first time. I was very nervous. On the drive into town I worried about how to stick my tongue out so that Father Geoghegan could place the host onto it. We had practised at school, but now I was anxious. I imagined not putting my tongue out far enough so he couldn’t get the host into my mouth, or putting it out so far it would look like I was making a face. My mouth was so dry I felt as though I wouldn’t be able to move my tongue at all! Even as I worried, I knew I was being silly. Yet I couldn’t control the butterflies in my stomach.

In later years I would remember that day. Whenever I had the honour of preparing children for their First Communion I would beg for some unconsecrated wafers from the priest and allow the children to practise receiving them on their tongues. Some parish priests wouldn’t do it—they thought it sacrilegious. But, oh, how comforted the children were! I couldn’t believe that Our Blessed Lord would object, when he loved children so.

On that day, right from the first words of the Mass, I felt the presence of the Blessed Virgin upholding me. ‘A great sign appeared in heaven,’ the introit ran as the priest entered. ‘A woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and on her head a crown of 12 stars.’ I remembered the warmth and peace I had felt that special night at the L’Estranges’ and all my worries melted away.

I breathed deeply as I knelt at the altar rail so I wouldn’t cry with excitement and joy. Mamma was on my left hand, Granny on my right. Father Geoghegan held the host in front of each of us in turn.

‘Corpus Christi,’
he said.

‘Amen.’ The Blessed Host was placed on my tongue, and I returned to my seat and knelt. I don’t quite know what I felt—except that underneath my joy and awe, I also felt very grown up as I slipped back into the pew next to Maggie and John, who were still much too young to be considered for their First Communion.

It shocked me that swallowing the host made me aware of how hungry I was. My stomach growled and I blushed. It seemed sacrilegious, as well as embarrassing. Then I smiled.
No,
I thought,
that was the point. It is real bread, and it is really the Body of Christ; just as Christ was both God and man. It feeds both the body and the soul. That is the wonderful thing about it.

A year and a day after Papa had left, when the grass was silver in the paddocks and the creek only a ribbon, Uncle Peter rode through the gate of the home paddock. It was after dinner but not yet time for tea—a strange time to come calling.

Uncle Peter went indoors with Mamma, to Papa’s office, and came out again half an hour later, looking upset but determined. He left without saying a word to any of us.

I went to the door of the office.
Papa is dead,
I thought.
Or Grandfather. Or Grandma Ellen.

‘Mamma?’

Mamma was crying into her shawl. Crying soundlessly, the way she always did, so that the children would not hear and be upset, too. I entered slowly as I was truly afraid. I put my arm around her shoulders.

‘Is it Papa?’

‘Of course it is!’ Mamma said, sobbing. ‘It’s always your Papa!’

Cold swept down from the crown of my head to my fingertips.
Papa dead. Papa dead. Papa ...
Then I thought again. Mamma had sounded angry...

‘What’s happened?’

‘Your Papa has mortgaged this farm away from under us!’ Mamma drew a deep breath and stopped sobbing, as though saying the words aloud had helped her somehow. ‘He gave Uncle Peter a mortgage on the property to pay for his trip to Scotland. A year’s mortgage. And now the time is up and Peter wants to foreclose. And where we are to find the money I don’t know!’

It was too big a thing for me to take in. But there was one thing I realised.
Papa! Always Papa! Mamma was right, it was always Papa!

‘Didn’t Papa tell you about this before he went?’

Mamma hesitated. ‘It was all arranged so quickly ... I suppose he thought I would be worried if I knew about it ... and he must have trusted Peter.’

‘He should have told you. We might have found the money if we’d had a year to work at it.’

Mamma shook her head. ‘It was a lot of money, Mary. But I’m sure our friends will help.’

‘If we get the money, he can’t foreclose, can he?’

Mamma shrugged. ‘I don’t know, child. I don’t know anything about mortgages and contracts.’

Well, you should know. You’re a grown-up, you’re supposed to know these things.
I closed my mouth tightly. It wasn’t Mamma’s fault. It was Papa’s. And Uncle Peter. Uncle Peter should not have foreclosed on his own kin. Grandfather would not approve of that.

‘Grandfather. Can’t he stop Uncle Peter?’

Mamma sat down heavily in Papa’s desk chair. ‘He wouldn’t let us starve,’ she said slowly. ‘But you know he never approved of your Papa going to Scotland. Perhaps he will think this is just punishment.’

‘It’s not Papa who’s going to be punished.
He
won’t be thrown out.’

Mamma set her mouth. ‘Nor will I. God will provide.’

Mamma had the wagon harnessed straightaway.

‘I am going to see Mr Bullen,’ she told me. ‘You and Bridget look after the little ones until I get back.’

It was a strange day, with Mamma gone, and a stranger night. Bridget got the baby settled, then she and Maggie and Annie and John and Mary sat down to evening prayers.

‘O my God, at the end of this day I thank Thee most heartily for all the graces I have received from Thee...’

The familiar words were comforting. No matter how our lives were torn apart, God would love and care for us.

‘Now,’ said Bridget, ‘I think we need to call in the heavy guns.’

She collected the children’s attention with a glance, then launched into Mamma’s favourite prayer. ‘Remember, O most Blessed Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to Thy protection, implored thy assistance or sought Thy intercession, was left unaided. Inspired with this confidence, we fly unto Thee, O Virgin of Virgins, our Mother; to Thee we come, before Thee we kneel, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not our petitions, but in Thy clemency hear and answer them. Amen.’

We all made the Sign of the Cross and got up, Bridget dusting off her skirt as she stood. ‘There,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘That’ll sort out those money-grubbing pests.’

John giggled, but I glared at him. I wasn’t at all sure that Bridget was right. Of course, the Holy Mother would answer our prayer. But it didn’t seem right to want to ‘sort out’ someone by praying to the Blessed Virgin.

Mamma came back before dinner the next day, jubilant. Mr Bullen had lent her the money. All would be well. And, unlike Uncle Peter, Mr Bullen did not require payment until after Papa returned.

Mamma sent one of the men with a message to Uncle Peter. ‘Let him come here to get it,’ she said. ‘I’m too tired to stir further.’

She was tired, I could see. But underneath the tiredness was a satisfaction. Not only that she had saved us from eviction, but that she had done it unaided.

Uncle Peter came before dusk, and left only 15 minutes later.

Mamma came to the verandah to watch him leave. The children followed her. Bridget came out carrying Lexie.

Uncle Peter hesitated before turning to his horse.

‘I’m sorry, Flora—’

Bridget spat at his feet.

‘A curse on ye, to throw these childer out on the streets, your own kin and all. A curse on ye till the day ye die. May ye never have child of your own, no grandchildren, no blood of your own from this day till the end of eternity! Be damned to ye, ye black-hearted leech!’

Then she burst out into tears and buried her head in Lexie’s shoulder, rocking back and forth. Mamma sank down on the front step as Uncle Peter rode off, his back straight but his shoulders hunched as though to ward off a blow.

‘Bridget,’ Mamma said wearily. ‘That won’t do us any good. You’re upsetting the children.’

Bridget hiccupped and wiped her eyes.

‘It’d try the patience of a saint, Missus, and I’m no saint.’

‘Nor am I.’ Mamma’s voice was gaining strength, and she stood up, clinging still to the verandah post. ‘Take the little ones inside.’

Bridget swung Lexie over to her other hip and held out her hand to John. ‘Come on, then, little fellow, come have your bread and milk. Come, Annie. Come, Maggie, help me with Lexie.’ Maggie cast a glance backwards, but left me to talk to Mamma alone. I was cold again, right to my fingertips.

‘What’s happened?’

Mamma bit her lip. ‘Uncle Peter is still going to foreclose.’

‘But you got the money!’

Mamma stood up straight, suddenly angry. ‘Yes, yes, I did,’ Mamma said. ‘I humiliated myself in front of the Bullens, for nothing! Peter doesn’t even
want
the money. He wants the farm! He says it’s more convenient for Julia, nearer to her sister down Merri Creek. Oh, I know it’s her doing. Your papa may have borrowed the money, but he would never have thought that Peter would foreclose on us! It’s that Julia, she’s never cared for any one of us. Selfish, mean-spirited, greedy Irish cow—’

Mamma stopped suddenly, her face flushing red. ‘Don’t listen to me, child. I should be ashamed to say such things about another Christian woman. No doubt Aunt Julia has her reasons. It’s true her sister has been ill. Perhaps she wants to be near her in case of need ... But I’m not leaving here unless I have somewhere safe to take you children. I will not move for the convenience of Julia Keogh.’

Julia MacKillop,
I almost said. But the fact that Aunt Julia was Irish instead of Scottish meant something to Mamma. I’d always known that, but didn’t understand it. It was Julia Keogh, the Irish name, which Mamma almost spat out. I thought that when Mamma calmed down she would change her mind. But she didn’t.

Uncle Peter rode over several times during the next week. But he never stayed overnight, even if he had to ride during the dark to get home. There were clouds, that week, and no moon, which made for dangerous riding. Mamma never offered Uncle Peter a bed, not even in the men’s quarters. The weather was hot and unpleasant, and no rain fell. Bushfire weather, the farmhands said, and made the sign against bad luck.

Every night we said the rosary to pray for rain. Every night we said the Memorare, ‘Remember O Most Blessed Virgin Mary...’ that Uncle Peter would change his mind and take the money for the farm.

‘Our Lady will stop him,’ Maggie said.