The Black Dress Read online

  I had another reason for staying at the church each night—for when I returned, one of the guests dancing, or, more usually sitting and watching the others dance, was a man who was trying to court me. Unlike Matthew Polkinghorne, it gave me great pain to deny poor George, for he was an estimable man, kind, generous and loyal. Mamma encouraged him to visit, despite my protests that it wasn’t fair to him. She hoped that I would fall in love with him—not only because it would have solved all our money worries at one fell swoop, for he was very rich, but because she herself had found such pleasure as a mother that it cut her heart to think I might never know the delight of having my own child.

  ‘For there’s nothing like it, Mary. Nothing in the world like holding your own sweet baby in your arms,’ she said earnestly, time and again. She knew that this was my weak spot—my love of children—and the only argument she could use against my vocation. It did hurt, sometimes, to think of the babies I would never have. But I knew what God intended for me, and it wasn’t that. So I stayed later at the church than I might otherwise have done. Though in truth it was easy to stay there, a balm to the spirit always to be in the presence of the Holy Eucharist.

  Now I look back, and I think of all the babies I have had! So many, many babies, of all ages, from the tiniest ones born to the unfortunate girls in the Providences to the young postulants who seemed like babies to me, in need of a comforting mother to turn to as they left their own mothers behind. Oh, I’ve had my fair share of babies! I’ve changed nappies and fed mush and toilet-trained (sometimes after they were already at school!).

  It was one of the great pleasures of being elected to led the Institute, being called Mother Mary. What a lovely thing to be called! ‘Mother,’ they say now, ‘can you take a little water?’ ‘Mother, shall I wipe your brow?’ ‘Mother, shall I rub your feet?’ I’ve had hundreds of daughters and they have come, as daughters do, to be at my deathbed.

  My mother never had a deathbed. Oh, how I wish I had been with her at the end. It was sudden and hard, that death, when her ship went down in a howling storm. All lost. All. She was on her way to help me run a fundraising bazaar. I blamed myself at first, but when her body came back to shore so peaceful-looking, the only one recovered intact from the wreck, I knew that God was telling me that His Will had been done. We are children, always, not understanding the Will of Our Father. We protest at death, as children do when it is time to stop playing and go to sleep. But He is wiser than we are and knows when it is time to put down our toys and return to His arms.

  I am not protesting my death. Has anyone ever had such an easy death? Very little pain, now, and all my loved ones around me; I’ve received the Last Rites and I am ready to go ... but here I stay, and I suppose I must get back to the last bit of work He has set for me.

  I would come in from the church, greet everyone, trying not to smile too warmly at poor George in case he felt encouraged. I was always relieved when Dr Rodriguez, the Portuguese doctor, was there, for it was easy to sit near him and talk. He was a strange old thing, always dressed very formally and correctly, even though his trousers were shiny with age and his polished black shoes showed glimpses of bare patches on the soles when he sat. He was a doctor whose qualifications were not recognised in the Empire, but he treated the poorer people of the town and was very effective, I was told.

  I remember, one night, when I came back from the church and the parlour was full of people talking. George was trying to catch my eye, but I smiled instead at the doctor and walked towards him. He put up his hands as though to shield his eyes against a bright light and cried out, ‘Ah!’ Then his hands came down and he began to shake like someone in a high fever. I ran to his side, and so did the others.

  ‘What’s the matter, Doctor?’ I said.

  ‘I have seen, I have seen...’ he mumbled, and then got control of himself. He stopped himself shaking with a visible effort and stared up at me. ‘I have seen you at the head of a long line of virgins, they are wearing some ... peculiar dress ... you will be excommunicated, but stay strong, for the Pope and Rome will right you again,’ he proclaimed. Then he passed his hand over his eyes and said in a much more normal voice. ‘Forgive me, forgive me, this happens sometimes. I must go home.’

  I signalled to George to escort him, as the doctor was still very shaky, and they left leaving silence behind them. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Could it have been a real prophecy? Could the long line of virgins be the order of nuns I hoped to start? But if it were, what about the excommunication?

  Mamma exclaimed, in her soft voice, ‘Ah, the poor old thing. But I’m told he’s very sound as a doctor.’

  ‘Too much of the bottle,’ said Maggie.

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘There was no smell of liquor on him. Perhaps he is just growing old.’

  We went on to talk of other things. I thought about the doctor for a moment but soon enough there were other things to think of—the storm was about to break—and I never brought that night to mind until years later when I was excommunicated. Oh, what a momentous day. I was terribly worried in the days afterwards, for fear of how my Sisters were coping. But at the time, when the bishop raised his crozier and pronounced the sentence of excommunication on me, I really felt like one in a dream. I seemed unaware of the bishop and priests, but I felt, such a love for their office, a sort of reverence for the very sentence that I knew was being passed in full force upon me. I do not know how to describe the feeling, but I was intensely happy and felt nearer to God than I had ever felt before. The reassurance of the calm beautiful presence of God I shall never forget.

  I know I have a reputation these days for being defiant of the bishops of the time, but truly this was not so. I have always had such great respect for their office, for the authority God has given them, that I could never be truly defiant. I was not even being defiant to Bishop Sheil that day—not really. I would have submitted to his authority if he had expelled me from the convent; but he was trying to change the Rule of the Institute, the Rule under which I and all my nuns had taken our vows; and I could not believe that this was God’s will. I would have obeyed his orders regarding the Institute but that they ran counter to the solemn vows I had given. And the actual ‘defiance’ for which I was excommunicated did not even exist! The bishop had ordered me to go to St John’s (I believe so that changes could have been made to the Institute in my absence). I was willing to do so, but I wished to talk to the bishop first. I felt I could not leave my Sisters at this time of turmoil without making clear to the bishop how we felt about any attempt to change the Rule.

  Others reported my request for a meeting as defiance, saying that I refused to obey. It was deliberate malice, aimed at removing me from my position in the Institute. It is hard for me to accuse anyone of malice but the person concerned, Father Horan, admitted it later.

  He was never a friend of the Institute—partly because of his dislike of Father Woods and partly, I think, because he did not truly understand the needs of this new country. He wanted to replicate the convents of Ireland and Europe, with their class structure intact and all the power in the hands of the priests and bishops. He felt, poor man, very uncomfortable with the new way of thinking that was rising in Australia, the spirit of equality and energy that distinguished it. I think he would have felt more at ease with me as Superior of the Institute if I had been born in Ireland or Scotland, instead of Fitzroy!

  I felt calm at the moment of my excommunication, but immediately afterwards, as I saw the distress of the nuns around me who were ordered to avoid me from that time on or share in my exile from the Church, I too grew distressed. It was then that Sister Anne, who had been with me that night in Portland, reminded me of Doctor Rodriguez’s prophecy.

  ‘Why be so troubled?’ she said. ‘Don’t you remember what old Rodriguez told you? Rome and the Pope will right you again.’

  ‘Good God, Anne, what put that into your head now?’ I said. But I was comforted, not just by the prophecy but b
y the memory of Portland, the first place that anyone set out to blacken my name in malice and with lies. That had been the hand of God in action, and perhaps this was too, I thought. God can turn even the evil of men into good.

  If I had not been excommunicated, I would never have travelled to Rome, never met the Pope, and perhaps the Rule of our Institute would never have been ratified. The Institute’s special spirit might have been whittled away, bit by bit, in battle after battle with the bishops in Adelaide and Bathurst and Brisbane. It was a difficult time but in the end all was well and the Institute was stronger than ever. And after it was all over, the bishop admitted it had been a mistake, when he rescinded the sentence on me.

  I found so many friends through that time, too—especially the Solomons, God bless them! And the Jesuit fathers. Ah, the Jesuits! I smile and the nun saying the rosary at me smiles back, startled. The bishop had excommunicated me, as was his right, but he had not followed any of the procedures of canon law—so the Jesuits decided it had been an unlawful action and they were not bound by it. My brother Donald relishes the Jesuits’ reputation for sophistry and argument. ‘The rules don’t always work for the will of God,’ he says. ‘We Jesuits learn to use the rules to further the good, to look for the spirit of the law, not the nitpicking detail.’

  In any case, their decision meant that I was spared the worst consequence of excommunication—I was not denied the consolation of the Blessed Sacrament. Although I could not go openly to Mass, I did receive the Holy Eucharist regularly and I could make my confession that, troubled and confused as I was then, I sorely needed.

  But I am getting ahead of myself again. I needed the grace of the confessional in Portland, too, but the priest there turned so far against me that I refrained, waiting until I saw Father Woods again.

  Everything works for the good. Portland taught me of the extraordinary ways that God moves in our lives. I was beginning to hope that I could move on to Penola soon, that Annie and Maggie and John (who was working as a carpenter) would be able to support the family. But every time I raised the subject, I met with opposition. Until the debt was cleared, I felt I had an obligation to stay on. I hoped for a kind of miracle that would set me free.

  So I asked my friends and the class I taught to say a novena for me, a rosary every day for nine days, for a special intention. The special intention was for me to leave Portland, but I didn’t tell them that. And only a week afterwards, the storm broke!

  Papa again, of course. Perhaps that is not quite fair. It was Mr Cusack. At the time, teachers’ salaries were dependent on how well their classes performed when the schools’ inspector visited. Annie and I had great hopes that the performance of our students would mean an increase in our pay, which we sorely needed, with the extra debt of the piano to pay.

  We worked very hard and we were pleased—our students were performing well. Then, the week before the inspector’s visit, Mr Cusack rearranged all the classes, taking our best students—even some of Annie’s little ones—into his own class and giving us the dullards and laggards he had been unable to teach.

  Annie was furious, but I begged her not to say anything to Papa, knowing he would get into a righteous rage and cause trouble. Mr Cusack was our headmaster and could dismiss either or both of us if he chose. We simply could not afford to lose those jobs. I reminded Annie of how Papa had lost the Back Creek job by speaking out against a perceived wrong, and how we had been angry with him for taking away our livelihood.

  ‘We are in the same position, Annie,’ I said. ‘We must bite our tongues and work even harder so that next time the inspector comes, he will realise the truth.’

  ‘If he bothers to examine the rolls, he might discover the truth tomorrow!’ Annie said. She smiled at me suddenly. ‘It’s just as well I have you here to talk some sense into me, Mary. I lose my temper a bit too much, just like Papa.’

  I hugged her. ‘Well, we’ve all got a bit of the Scottish temper in us, I think.’ We laughed.

  If it had just been the rearranging of classes, I think the whole thing would have blown over. But Mr Cusack was a man of less than full probity. A cheat. The next day, as the inspector asked the children in his class questions, Mr Cusack wrote the answers on a slate and held them up behind the inspector’s back. The whole school was assembled for the inspection so all the students saw it, and Annie and I too. I was mortified. I knew, if I said anything at the time, Mr Cusack would deny everything and make me look like a spiteful female—he was good at that, good at sneering at others. So I held my tongue, and squeezed Annie’s hand to make sure she did the same, although my cheeks were flaming red with anger.

  I thought, ‘Let it go, let it go. God will see justice done in the end.’ The inspector left full of praise for Mr Cusack who looked contemptuously at us when we looked disapprovingly at him. I thought it was over.

  But my brother Donald was in Mr Cusack’s class and came home full of indignation.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do, Papa!’ he exclaimed. ‘I wanted to shout out, but if I did Mr Cusack would have whipped the slate down behind his back and I knew the other children were too scared of him to back me up.’ Mr Cusack had a heavy hand with the cane. ‘And Mary said nothing, so I held my tongue.’

  ‘Why did you not speak out, Mary?’ Papa asked me. I gave him my reasons, tension building up below my breastbone. I knew that look of Papa’s. The stop-at-nothing anger starting up in his eyes, the righteous anger that he seemed almost to enjoy. God only knew what he would do. I tried to calm him down.

  ‘It’s over, Papa. Next year the inspector will realise who has been teaching well, and—’

  Donald broke in. He was hopping from foot to foot with eagerness. He was very young; he didn’t understand the possible consequences to us of setting Papa off on a crusade. He just liked the excitement and the feeling that Papa would fight injustice. Oh, you could depend on Papa for that, if for nothing else.

  ‘That’s not all, Papa!’

  Donald told Papa of the rearrangement of the classes. Papa looked at Annie and me.

  ‘Is this true, Maria Ellen?’

  ‘Mr Cusack has the right to order the classes as he sees fit, Papa,’ I said quietly.

  Then he exploded. I’ve heard a lot of Papa’s rants and that was a good one. It went on for a full ten minutes, covering Mr Cusack’s morals, background, lack of integrity, unsuitability for having the moral care of young souls, and ending with a prohibition against Annie going back to teach under him.

  ‘You shall not return to that false authority, Anne,’ he said. ‘I forbid it.’

  Then he turned to me. I knew he wanted to forbid my going back, too, but wasn’t sure of my reaction. He didn’t even think for a moment about how we would manage if neither Annie nor I were bringing money home.

  ‘ I am over 21, Papa,’ I said. That was all, but it was enough. He had no legal authority to control me, and he was afraid, I think, that if he pushed me to defy him he would lose all our respect. What we had left, anyway.

  ‘You must make your own decisions, Maria,’ he said grandly. ‘Pray for guidance.’

  ‘Och, Mary, you won’t leave your position?’ Mamma cried. I reassured her.

  ‘Mary must follow her conscience,’ Papa said. He went over to the hatstand and took down his hat.

  ‘Please, Papa, please leave things as they are!’ I begged. ‘I need that job. The family needs the money! It will do no good to—’

  ‘We cannot consider our own needs when the moral guidance of children is in the hands of a liar and a cheat!’ he said, in his grand oratory manner. ‘That man must be removed from his position!’

  I lost my temper. I was upset myself, but that is no excuse. Papa, once again, was going off to set the world right without the slightest concern for others—for you know, he did not care individually for the students in the school, only for the abstract ideas of probity and moral guidance.

  ‘Papa, you should not! You are acting selfishly! Consider Mamm
a!’ I cried.

  ‘Well, Flora?’ he said, turning to her. Mamma looked up at him. I don’t know what she saw. Perhaps the young man she had fallen in love with? The man who had ridden through storm and rain to bring her the midwife when John was born? But her face softened and her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘You must do as your conscience directs you, Alex,’ she said. ‘God will provide.’

  Papa kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Thank you, Flora,’ he said.

  Then he went off to see the priest and demand that Mr Cusack be sacked. Which he was. Which started a war of words like Portland had never seen. It was my first experience of having an enemy, for Mr Cusack decided his dismissal was my fault, as I had the most to gain by his absence. He blackened my name in every way he could think of, with lies and slander and calumny. The town was split in its allegiance and the falling outs were bitter.

  I was astonished that so many of my ‘friends’ in Portland believed him. It taught me how shallow popularity is, how easily others will listen to lies, and how valueless is anything other than the truth that is known only to the soul and its Maker.

  It prepared me, as so much in my early life prepared me, for later calumny and slander and lies. Oh, the lies! Let’s see ... people have reported that I was a drunkard, have tried to get me arrested for the non-payment of debts (for a pair of boots!), and of course I was a defiant, wild, disobedient woman who, according to poor dear old Bishop Sheil, brought the wicked ways of the world into my convent. Oh, my, it’s hard not to laugh but laughing hurts so much.

  I was calm through all the kerfuffle in Portland, so calm that Annie and Maggie and my mother could not understand me. I said nothing. Replied to no taunts, no accusations. What good would it do? I had learnt, long ago, from Papa’s disputations in the newspapers, that replying to calumny only increased the slanders, only entrenched the two sides in their opposition, and merely fogged the truth even further. Besides, this was meant to happen.