The Black Dress Read online

‘Mmm. I could be a maid.’

  ‘You’d have to learn how. There’s more to it than you think.’

  ‘I could learn,’ she said with certainty.

  She learnt so well and so fast that Aunty Margaret tried hard to get her to stay, giving her one of the men’s huts to live in. But Nancy was set on going. I often wondered whether she would be happy in a city house when she had been used to roaming the bush.

  When I questioned Nancy, she looked around her at the billabong, the trees, the grasses, and sighed.

  ‘This is my country,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back, maybe, one day. But I want to go somewhere no-one knows me. Where I’m not the half-caste girl no use to anyone.’

  I hesitated, but felt I had to warn her. ‘You’ll be called a half-caste in Melbourne. And worse.’

  She shrugged. ‘But it won’t be my mother’s people saying it.’

  I prayed she would find it better than her life here.

  I sent Nancy to Mr Kenny with a letter of introduction. My uncle paid her fare. The station hands took up a collection and bought her a new dress and a pair of shoes. That seemed the hardest thing of all for her, wearing shoes, although I think she hid a great deal of fear and anticipated great loneliness. Mr Kenny organised her a job in a boarding house and I heard later that she married one of the boarders. As to whether she was happy or not, I don’t know.

  I learned a great deal from Nancy. Mostly I learned how little I knew about the original inhabitants of this land. I chastised myself that I had never questioned what had become of the natives who had originally lived on our properties at Merri Creek and Darebin. They were long gone by the time we settled there, killed by sickness, driven off by settlers, shot and poisoned and simply frightened away. I was ashamed that I hadn’t thought of these things before.

  I wasn’t called by God to work with native people, as my brother Donald was when he became a priest. But knowing Nancy meant that wherever the Institute of St Joseph opened schools, Aboriginal children were welcomed on the same basis as everyone else. That caused a fair amount of trouble with parents. But having known Nancy, how could I believe all that nonsense about Aboriginal children being stupid, or savage, or untrustworthy? What silliness! As for the children coming only when it suited them, well, better that they come sometimes, and be welcomed with love.

  Over the next few months I had many talks with Father Woods. Each time I came away surer than ever that he was right—it was God’s will for me to start a new order of nuns.

  ‘The Institute of St Joseph,’ Father said enthusiastically. He was a great admirer of St Joseph, who worked away quietly and steadfastly looking after his precious family, without any recognition in his lifetime. I agreed. I knew that Our Lady would be pleased to have her husband honoured in this way.

  ‘We must get permission from the bishop to start the Institute,’ said Father, but I hesitated. I was still the main breadwinner for the family. Maggie had intended to start work with Sands, Kenny & Co., but had become seriously ill with rheumatic fever and was still not strong enough to work. John’s money was helpful, but not enough on its own and Mamma could not seem to attract boarders who could actually pay the rent—she was too soft-hearted, I think, to evict them if they fell behind.

  ‘Not yet,’ I said.

  ‘You must write and tell them, Mary, so that they can make arrangements for the future.’

  ‘I can’t tell them in a letter, Father. When I see them next—’

  ‘Very well. Indeed, you are still very young to begin such a great enterprise. A year or so’s delay will not destroy our plans.’

  1861—MELBOURNE

  Indeed, it was almost a year later that I returned to Melbourne and was able to speak to my parents.

  My family were still living in Richmond. They had taken in two boarders—older men who worked at the abattoirs up on Sydney Road. Poor Mamma! Getting the blood out of their clothes was an impossible job.

  I wanted to talk to my parents alone, but with the boarders and the children it was almost impossible. The kitchen and parlour always seemed to be full of people. Eventually I was forced to make my announcement in front of John, Maggie and Annie. Lexie, Peter and Donald were in bed, thank goodness.

  I stood by the fireplace, where I could see everyone’s face. I had rehearsed what I was going to say, but it all went wrong.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the future,’ I began.

  ‘So have I!’ my mother said triumphantly. ‘And this morning I received a letter from Eliza Lee Cameron. She wants you to be a governess for her daughters. Isn’t that wonderful!’

  ‘But—’ Aunt Eliza was Sandy Cameron’s aunt by marriage. She had married Sandy’s uncle Duncan, who had passed away a few years earlier. They had had two daughters, Sarah and Bella. If I had not been planning a very different future, I would have been delighted. The Camerons were lovely people, although I thought Bella might be a handful to teach.

  My mother was happily reading out the letter from Aunt Eliza to the others. The salary offered was very generous. It would mean that Mamma and the girls would be sure to keep a roof over their heads.

  For a moment I hesitated. Perhaps I should take this job and then, after that, when I’m of age, tell my parents. But that was cowardice.

  ‘I want to be a nun,’ I blurted out. Silence fell.

  Papa looked closely at me, and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Mamma spoke first.

  ‘Oh, no, Mary!’ Her voice held real pain.

  I was startled. I knew that financially it would be hard for Mamma without my help, but I didn’t expect her to be so anguished by the idea.

  Papa spoke.

  ‘If Mary has a true vocation, Flora, we cannot—we must not—stand in her way.’

  He came to me and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Are you sure, Mary? It is easy to be mistaken about these things—as I know.’

  I nodded, my throat tight. He rarely spoke about his time in the seminary. Then he smiled sweetly at me.

  ‘If you are sure, daughter, then God bless you.’ He kissed my forehead. His eyes were full of pride. At that moment, I felt very close to him, connected at a deep level. I remembered, with a rush, the hours he had spent teaching me, when we had been united in exploration of our Faith and our world.

  ‘I don’t see why, Mary,’ Mamma said.

  So I told them: about the poor bush children who never saw a school; about the schools that would not take Catholic students; about little ones growing up without being able to sign their own name and worse, not knowing the name of God. I told them all about Father Woods’ plans for an Institute of St Joseph, a new order of nuns who would work and live with the poor, with no more possessions than those they served. I talked about a network of small convents all over the country, each with its school and perhaps a house where the needy could come for help.

  My father frowned. ‘That’s a very big job for a young girl. Are you sure you are capable, Maria Ellen?’

  I hesitated.

  On my own, no, I’m not sure at all, but with God and Father Woods helping me...

  ‘Of course she’s capable,’ Maggie said dismissively. ‘Someone has to start these things—why not Mary?’

  John nodded. ‘Oh, yes, Papa, if anyone can do it, Mary can.’

  I had tears in my eyes, touched by their faith in me. ‘With God’s help, Papa, and the guidance of Our Lady.’

  Papa nodded. ‘Well, it’s God’s work, daughter, there is no doubt about that.’ He patted my shoulder again.

  All this time my mother had sat silent, listening.

  Now she burst forth. ‘But, Mary, Mary, if you go who can I depend upon?’

  My father stiffened and his hand dropped from my shoulder. Since that day I have sat with the sick and the dying and I have prayed with those condemned to die, but I have never seen a look on anyone’s face like the look on my father’s as he realised, finally, Mamma’s true opinion of him. His whole body curved inwards as if from a blow.r />
  Then he straightened, as his pride stopped him from showing his hurt in front of us. I saw so clearly his pain, and his strength as he met that pain.

  ‘I may not be of much assistance, Flora, but I am sure the other children will do what they can.’ His voice was dead.

  Mamma looked up at him, realising what she had said. ‘Alexander—’

  The hard thing was, I saw, that Mamma’s voice was full of love. They looked at each other in despair. God save us from loving those we cannot respect.

  ‘Of course I’ll help,’ John said. ‘I’m in line for promotion soon. After all, I’m the same age Mary was when she went to Sands, Kenny & Co.—almost.’

  ‘I could get a job,’ Maggie said.

  ‘No!’ Mamma said. ‘Definitely not. You’re not strong enough.’ Maggie had never really recovered from her fever. We were constantly afraid that consumption would set in.

  ‘I could help,’ Annie offered. She was only 14. When I saw that Mamma was seriously considering her offer, I realised I had to delay my plans. But not forever.

  That night in bed I prayed for guidance to Our Lady and St Joseph. I promised them—I vowed—that I would start the Institute as Father Woods and I had planned. It was the first time in my life I had ever made a solemn vow, except for repeating my baptismal promises each year at Easter. I think of that moment, in a way, as the true start of the Institute. A strange beginning, maybe. Certainly a humble one, with one young girl staring into the darkness while three others snored and sneezed and breathed in their sleep. But it was a true beginning.

  I have to smile at that young girl. I made a solemn vow, and then spent the next 20 minutes lying in the dark, planning what I would wear when I became a nun! At least I was practical. I would wear a black dress, I thought, which was respectable, solemn and wouldn’t show the dirt!

  But after I had planned my habit to my satisfaction, I thought about my father, and cried a little. I had learnt something about my father that night, from his dignity in meeting the worst blow he had ever suffered. He was a strong man, in many ways. But he had the wrong kind of strength for this world. I wonder, now, where he could have been happy or productive. Nowhere he had to take orders, for certain! I’m not sure any human organisation could have satisfied or contained him. No superior could ever have kept to the standards Papa expected of others. I feel sorry for his superiors at Blair’s College in Aberdeen, when he returned from Rome. They must have been astonished at this cuckoo in their nest!

  I chuckle, lying here now, as an image rises in my mind of Papa as a wandering preacher, the kind Europe once had, like Savonarola, tramping from town to town denouncing corruption and sin and simony. He’d have been good at that, and enjoyed it too, I think.

  As always, as soon as I make a sound the sister looking after me rises and offers me water. I manage to shake my head, although it is getting harder to move. Not long now, please God...

  Instead of staying and dealing with his unemployment in Melbourne, Papa convinced John to risk his savings in a trip to New Zealand, to work the new gold diggings there. John didn’t need much persuading, but of course, like all Papa’s schemes, it came to nothing and they returned nine months later, after Mamma and the girls and I had moved to Portland. They were empty-handed, without ever having dug an ounce of gold. Papa came back first. John stayed over there looking for employment as a carpenter, and waited, as he said, ‘For some opportunity to present itself.’

  Waiting is hard. Hard. I had to wait for the Institute. First I worked as a governess to the Cameron girls. They were wild, ungovernable and completely undisciplined by their mother! Then I taught at the Catholic Denominational School in Portland, while the rest of the family ran a small boarding house for three ‘parlour boarders’ as they were known.

  The years in Portland were a mixture of hard and happy and terrible. Hard because the work I really wanted to do was in Penola, with Father Woods. Happy, because for the first time in years the family was together again. That was when John came back from New Zealand. We were financially beginning to get on our feet. Papa was abstaining from local politics. There was harmony and a great deal of music. Annie and I both had jobs at the school, while Maggie taught the boarders. Mamma ran the house. And Papa? Well, he stayed out of trouble, which by then was all we could hope for.

  Maggie was particularly happy to have us all together again. She had Mamma’s great love of family. Her illness had brought her close to us all and afterwards she seemed to relish good things so much more. She loved to have Lexie studying with her, enjoyed guiding her as she always had. But more than that, she was happy because the whole family was at peace.

  At first, I enjoyed my time at Portland. I became sacristan for the church and what joy I had attending to the altar and the Blessed Sacrament. I loved to smell the beeswax and brass polish on my hands after I had cleaned the altar. It was as though I could carry the church around with me—and it made a nice change from the smell of chalk that always surrounds a teacher!

  To be able to worship when I chose, as long as I chose, that was a great blessing. I fretted over the delay in starting the school in Penola, and found quiet solace in contemplating the Holy Eucharist and praying for guidance—I was even locked in one night because I was praying so hard I didn’t hear the doors being closed!

  I loved teaching. I had to pass an examination to get the position, and it was the hand of God over me, I know, that allowed me to pass, because I had no time to study! I was given a middling class and soon after Annie took on the babies. The headmaster was a Mr Cusack. Poor man! He came to a sorry end, destitute and crippled.

  All went well in the beginning. We had to borrow money to rent Bay View House and that was a worry to Mamma, but with Annie and me in employment we were able to live moderately well and still pay off the debt. Annie and I worked hard to teach our charges and they made great progress.

  We made many friends in the town through the Church—too many, I thought, as whenever I talked about my ambition to start a school in Penola where all could come, our friends competed to talk me out of it. They tried to convince me that the work I was doing at Portland was too important to leave.

  Well. It’s nice to be loved and appreciated. But Portland taught me the illusory nature of popularity, that popular opinion is fickle and must not be considered when deciding on one’s duty. Taught me in a way I could never forget.

  We were in worse debt than ever. Again Papa. I do not mean to blame him for this, for truly I do not know the rights of it. I had written to Grandfather MacKillop, asking him to pay something towards the cost of a piano for the parlour, as we could charge, not only our boarders, but other children, too, for Annie to teach them piano. In any case, Grandfather MacKillop, generous soul, had sent the whole price of the piano to Papa who, misunderstanding, thought it was a present for himself and spent it on new clothes. His best suit was very shabby at the time. I tried to remember that. But it was hard to take, as our debt rose considerably as a consequence.

  There it is, the old resentment and exasperation rising against him. I can feel it speeding my heart and rasping my lungs. It was such a stupid thing to do! And yet he wasn’t a stupid man. He knew we were in debt; even if he hadn’t realised about the piano he could have used his ‘present’ to largely reduce our obligation. He could at least have discussed it with Mamma. But, no. His old impulsiveness overtook him.

  He was so proud of his new finery! He came into the parlour for dinner that night pleased as punch, showing his new suit and shoes. Mamma stared at him, a wondering look on her face.

  ‘Alexander?’

  ‘Father sent me the money for them,’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s been a long time since I had a decent suit.’

  I realised what had happened immediately and put my head in my hands, trying to control my anger.

  ‘Maria Ellen?’ Papa said realising that something was wrong. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘That was the money for the piano,’
I said.

  He stared at me, nonplussed.

  ‘The piano?’

  ‘The piano,’ I said quietly, ‘that we borrowed money to pay for. Grandfather MacKillop was helping us to pay for it.’

  ‘Oh, Alexander!’ Mamma said. ‘How could you?’

  I don’t know what Papa’s explanation was. I know, absolutely know, that if he had realised what the money was intended for he would never have spent it. He made a mistake, I said to myself, over and over. I should not be angry with Papa over a mistake. Yet I was. Oh, I was toweringly angry, and the only thing I could do was to go to the church and pray for the strength to forgive him.

  I prayed myself into calmness and I think I convinced myself that I had forgiven him—certainly I tried to calm the others when they expostulated to me about it. But I don’t think I did forgive him. Can I now? It was a small thing compared to what came afterwards, yet it seemed worse in some ways. Perhaps because, while the coming storm was clearly over a matter of principle, this spending of money showed an essential selfishness about Papa. Or, rather, since he was a generous man, a self-centredness, a lack of concern about the needs of others. As long as his conscience was clear he didn’t really consider what effect his actions had.

  I also have spent my life trying to follow my conscience. But there are ways of remaining true to God while caring for others—perhaps the only way one can be true to God is by caring for others...

  I know that if I had had a novice like Papa in my convent she would have received a great deal of advice about concern for other people, considering consequences, looking for alternative ways of following the True Path that did not involve hurting others. Yes, and then, like Papa, she would have stormed out convinced that she was doing right! Oh, what can one do but laugh?

  Granny used to say, ‘It’d be a muckle queer world if we were all alike in it,’ and she was wise, no doubt.

  Well, we had the piano whether we could pay for it easily or not, and that was good for Annie. She was a lovely player, much in demand for home dances. She used to complain that she never got to dance herself, because she was always playing for others! I would come home from my after-dinner prayers at the church to find her at the keys, a long-suffering look on her face, while our friends and the family danced around the parlour. Annie was always good at long-suffering, her kind nature making it hard for her to say no.