Sisters of Freedom

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  ‘No, no, he’s not my beau. He’s just a … a good friend, is all.’

  ‘She asked him to her birthday party in person this morning. Wore her very best Christmas bonnet with the holly on it,’ Frankie told the neighbour, obviously glad to get the focus off herself.

  ‘Did you now?’ Dossie asked with a glance at the green one she was wearing. It boasted actual ivy and Ivy touched it self-consciously, at a loss.

  ‘As long as it wasn’t mistletoe,’ Harriet said. ‘Still a bit young for romance, Ivy girl,’ she added, much to Ivy’s further humiliation and annoyance. Aggie had married at eighteen and Ivy would turn that age next week, which in her opinion rendered the comment most unfair. ‘Anyway,’ Harriet continued, her attention back on Frankie, ‘is that what’s been bothering you tonight? That silly editor and a mishap in town? I wouldn’t have thought you’d let things like that concern you by now.’

  ‘Goodness, it’s a miracle to me you don’t end up in the good doctor’s office every day of the week the way you march along every which way,’ Dossie added. ‘It’s not very feminine, Frankie, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘The only “fem” she’s interested in is feminism,’ Ivy pointed out, still annoyed.

  ‘Feminists can be feminine as well as political,’ Dossie asserted. ‘A little powder and a pretty bonnet may not get you the vote, Frankie, but it could go a long way towards getting you a husband.’

  ‘Ha! She’s definitely not looking for one of those,’ Ivy said, thinking Frankie would roll her eyes or smirk too but she didn’t. She just looked … odd. Very peculiar, Ivy decided with a frown.

  ‘Perhaps not quite ready for romance either,’ Harriet said, gently now as she lifted Frankie’s long braid back off her shoulder and met her gaze.

  What on earth was going on? Ivy wondered, uncomfortable that Patrick was somehow involved in this. Surely Frankie wasn’t interested in him at all. Ivy wasn’t certain her sister even liked him.

  ‘Aggie was married at eighteen,’ Dossie pointed out, a fact Ivy would have liked articulated only a few moments ago but not so now. ‘Frankie’s twenty come Valentine’s Day. I’d start shopping for a new bonnet or two, dearie, if I were you,’ Dossie warned.

  ‘I don’t want a new bonnet, I just want to find my old one,’ Frankie said, setting biscuits out on a tray, her more usual resoluteness returning, ‘and Ivy’s right, I’m not looking for a husband. I’m looking for the right to vote, parliamentary representation and equality for Australian women.’

  Ivy felt comforted as the world set itself back to rights at those words but Dossie wasn’t done.

  ‘You can have women’s rights and the vote until the cows come home but it won’t give you a husband and babies any sooner,’ she warned.

  ‘Husband and babies,’ Frankie said, taking out the cream and whipping it hard. ‘It’s not the only thing we’re made for.’

  ‘True, true,’ Dossie said as Aggie returned. She took the ear horn gladly and Ivy hoped it didn’t improve her hearing too much. Frankie was beginning to sound rude. ‘Still, all the speechmaking and fancy newspaper articles in the world won’t give you the contentment that comes from having a family of your own, mark my words. Caring for Constance and my John has been the greatest privilege of my life, and now that we’ve got grandchildren to bless us in our old age, well … all I can say is that it’s a joy only a woman knows and one you shouldn’t be so quick to throw away.’

  Just leave it at that, Ivy pleaded silently to Frankie as Aggie quietly turned her back and began to fill the kettle. There’s no winning an argument with Dossie. But of course her stubborn sister didn’t.

  ‘I’m sure you’re very happy with the choices you’ve made but that doesn’t mean that’s what every woman should do. Where’s the law saying that’s the only future we can choose? In the heads of men, I suppose?’

  ‘Healthy debate is one thing, Frankie, but mind your tone,’ Harriet warned her.

  ‘Choose what you like,’ Dossie said, ignoring Harriet and straightening out a napkin with a sniff, ‘but having a family will make you happiest.’

  ‘Depends who you ask, I’d say,’ Frankie returned.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Harriet concluded, ‘no use fighting over things, in any case.’

  ‘Who’s fighting?’ Dossie replied, grey eyebrows raised. ‘I’m just trying to point out that you don’t want to make a mistake and miss the boat on marriage and having children, Frankie, that’s all. You’re not getting any younger, are you?’

  ‘Who gets to say when or if I have children – or not?’ Frankie said, setting the bowl down with a sudden loud clatter. ‘I say it’s my damn choice and no-one else’s.’

  Dossie let out a gasp and Harriet looked set to admonish Frankie for such profanity and anger but surprisingly it was Aggie who spoke.

  ‘Actually it’s Mother Nature’s,’ her sister said softly, turning around to face her sister. ‘Just pray that you never have to take up this fight with her.’

  And with that the strong, ever-practical Aggie dissolved into sudden, broken tears.

  Seven

  Silent night, holy night

  All is calm, all is bright

  Round yon virgin mother and child

  Holy infant, so tender and mild,

  Sleep in heavenly peace

  Sleep in heavenly peace

  Lydia’s slightly offkey yet wistful singing floated up towards them with bittersweet irony as the three sisters sat in the bay window of their parents’ room, quiet for a change. Words were hard to find for Ivy and Frankie, Aggie supposed, and as for herself, well, Lydia was doing an exemplary job of articulating the ache she’d never shared until tonight. The voice of the child seemed to say at all.

  Aggie hadn’t elaborated further after her outburst downstairs. The admission and what it could mean was simply too huge a subject for a Christmas kitchen debate and the mind-numbing realisation that she’d blurted out her darkest secret in front of the town’s biggest gossip was enough to make her run and hide without hesitation. She’d left the dumbfounded group in the kitchen immediately, seeking refuge here.

  The seat was a favourite retreat of the sisters, with its expansive view of the gardens, tennis court and bushland beyond, and it was a comfortable nook in which to read or ponder. Harriet had many cushions stacked along it, souvenirs of their parents’ long-ago honeymoon in India, and the velvet drapes were soft and thick, perfect to lean against and gaze out.

  Ivy and Frankie had given Aggie a little time before joining her and she wondered how to explain, and how much to reveal to her two unmarried sisters. Her mother would have greater insight and understanding but Harriet had to get every man, woman and child in the neighbourhood out of the home first – which Aggie didn’t consider too terrible a delay. How much comfort could even Harriet bring when God had never denied her this, granting her three children, all in a row. So natural, so easy, so perfect.

  So why were she and Robert, one of three siblings himself, being punished so?

  The thought of the dear, kind man she’d married brought fresh tears, the damnable things seemingly unstoppable now, and Aggie brushed at them and hugged a tasselled velvet bolster tight. Her knees curled up like a child’s. The action seemed to move Frankie to speak at last.

  ‘I’m so … oh Aggie, I’m so, so sorry,’ Frankie said, her expression pained. ‘Me and my big, stupid mouth.’

  ‘You weren’t to know, although I suppose you’ve wondered …’ Aggie said, trying to smile to reassure her.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you were, er … wanting to … I mean, trying to …’

  Aggie just nodded, sparing her sister further awkwardness as Ivy watched on, wide-eyed.

  ‘Have you … have you seen the doctor?’ Ivy ventured.

  ‘Yes,’ Aggie said, sitting straighter to clear her throat. ‘Had the last appointment today, actually. I’ve never been, you know, in a normal pattern of things like the two of you but I thought that was just �
� just my body’s way.’ She was blushing at the subject matter now but it seemed ridiculous to be overly polite to her own sisters at a time like this. ‘The doctor said I could consider myself much like a faulty clock, although that seems a rather ludicrous comparison. Then again, who can explain such a thing?’

  ‘Well, he is a prat so certainly not him,’ Frankie noted. That prompted a sniffly giggle and Aggie reached out to squeeze her fingers gratefully.

  ‘Oh Aggie,’ Frankie said as she gripped them, the sorrow returning to her countenance. ‘I wish I … I wish …’

  ‘Yes … yes, so do I,’ Aggie whispered brokenly, her bravery slipping once more. ‘You know, as … as I sat there in his office today all I kept thinking about was that poor girl Julia, out there alone on the streets at Christmas, an unwanted child in her womb,’ she said, wiping at tears with her handkerchief, trembling fingers clenched. ‘How can … how can one woman be cursed with a child and another cursed without one?’

  ‘You’re not cursed—’ Ivy began but Frankie interrupted her.

  ‘Julia’s only cursed because the world thinks the weaker sex need men to support them, and our children,’ she said, bitterness in her tone. ‘Heaven forbid we be allowed to raise babies without a ring on our finger or a man by our side, but no, our only choice is to give them up or struggle and starve.’

  ‘They allow other women to raise them, but not the mothers themselves,’ Aggie reflected with a small helpless shrug. ‘Widows and such. Nuns and people like me who work in orphanages and … and love the babies no-one wanted.’

  ‘It’s the government who doesn’t want them,’ said Frankie with disgust, ‘and some men of the cloth like that Father Brown. He’d rather see that baby a respectable orphan than some woman’s bastard child.’

  Both Aggie and Ivy flinched at the term and Frankie shifted angrily against the cushions.

  ‘Sorry, but it’s true, and why is that such a dirty word anyway? Who wears the stigma? The authorities? Ha – the innocent, that’s who,’ she declared, but her tirade came to an abrupt pause as Ivy cleared her throat and Frankie looked at Aggie’s stricken face. ‘Anyway, it’s just … just so bloody unfair …’ she finished, more quietly now.

  ‘Yes, that it is,’ Ivy said gently, reaching over to brush a tear from Aggie’s cheek. ‘Terribly, terribly unfair.’

  Then Lydia’s voice rang out as if God Himself had had the final word on the matter.

  Jesus, Lord, at thy birth

  Jesus, Lord, at thy birth

  Frankie leant her head on Aggie’s shoulder then, and Ivy did the same, as they gazed out together beyond the dispersing crowd below towards the clear, deeply burnished horizon; gold, brown and red hair catching the last of the warm light.

  ‘Mother Nature won’t deny you this, dearest,’ Ivy told her, her conviction so strong it seemed to glow too. ‘You’ve too much love to give. You’ve always been such a wonderful big sister, caring for we two, and look at the way you are at the orphanage with all those little ones. It’s meant to be, you’ll see.’

  But, as Lydia’s voice faded, Aggie’s arms felt as empty as the now silent, cloudless twilight. And the fear of being forever barren burnt within her like an endlessly setting sun.

  Eight

  Apple Tree Bay, Cowan Creek near Hornsby, New Year’s Day 1902

  Crack.

  The sound reverberated off the valley walls with a pleasing thwack and Patrick took off down the makeshift pitch as the ball bounced merrily along, disturbing a flock of rosellas who’d been grazing in the dry grass. It was as picturesque a setting as could be as the first day of 1902 sailed on, with the haze of the blue and green hills mirrored in the still, wide bay that lay there. The flat grassy area they played upon was just around the corner from Bobbin Head, the area’s main port, and it was usually a peaceful and quiet sanctuary. Not so today.

  A goanna had ambled by earlier, eyeing the cricket game with a wary disdain, blue tongue flicking as he found a wide trunk to climb and bake upon, the intricate patterns on his skin like pale mint lace on a textured slate background. A nearby wallaby watched occasionally too, eventually flicking an ear before loping away, but the wildlife mostly seemed to tolerate the disturbance of the human activity on display.

  It was surprising really, considering the racket they were making. Ivy and the other young ladies sitting in the shade were loudly cheering Patrick on, and Frankie’s displeasure at being dispatched earlier was still evident as she paced and fumed, yelling at Greg King to fetch the ball with more alacrity.

  ‘I’ve known chickens that can run faster than that!’ she called after him, causing Patrick to chuckle as he ran. God help the man who ended up with that particular sister. Ivy, on the other hand, well, if the cheering and dimpled smiles she was sending his way weren’t enough to encourage him, her elaborate birthday outfit surely was.

  She seemed to glow in her all-white blouse and skirt, as was the choice of many of the girls, but the commonalities ended there. It seemed no conservativism prevailed when it came to Ivy’s choice of embellishments for her day in the sun. The neckline and sleeves were embroidered in bright green ivy and her new red Christmas boots poked out cheekily at the hem. The whole effect was topped with an enormous sun hat that boasted a centrepiece of real flowers from her garden. They were mostly daisies but it was the perfect red rose at the centre that had him encouraged.

  ‘You said you loved my boots so I thought a red flower too …’ she’d told him with a blush when he’d complimented her on it. That she’d remembered he’d said so when he’d seen her briefly in town and gone to the trouble of showcasing the rose just for him had Patrick in especially good spirits. So much so, he didn’t even mind that his parents were here too. They were long-time acquaintances of the Merriweathers, after all, and had every right to join the other cricketers’ parents with the rest of the older crowd beneath the marquee. If only his mother’s voice wasn’t quite so loud. He grimaced, trying not to take any notice as her comments carried clearly across the grass.

  ‘Really, with a stroke like that it’s no wonder he’s made the team for Sydney University,’ she was saying, ‘and still not yet twenty-one. Of course his coaches have always said he was a natural talent, all the way through school, but one doesn’t like to brag.’

  ‘You seem to be doing a good enough job of it now, Sybil,’ Douglas Earle said dryly and Patrick could hear the general sniggering that followed as he faced another ball from a determined-looking Frankie.

  Crack.

  Straight for the edge of the bush, which meant four this time. Frankie tossed her hands in the air in frustration as the crowd applauded loudly and poor Greg took off after it in the blistering hot sun.

  ‘Your Patrick will be playing for New South Wales at this rate,’ Harriet Merriweather said as she clapped. Her parrot Pretty Boy let out a squawk of excitement.

  ‘Well, his coaches at university have said as much, but one doesn’t like to talk out of school,’ Sybil said, ignoring her husband’s previous censure and with a giggle at her own witticism.

  ‘Beating girls and a few friends for a lark is one thing,’ Douglas said dismissively, ‘a first-grade team is quite another.’

  That remark deflated Patrick a little and earned a scathing glare across the field from Frankie, not to mention a thinly veiled reproach from Greg’s father, Tristan, standing nearby.

  ‘I’m sure they will all hold their own when the time comes.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Alistair Johnson agreed. ‘Up next are you, Nick?’ he asked his son and Patrick felt a bit embarrassed as Frankie marked her run-up once more, flushed in the face and swatting at her hair.

  Perhaps it was time to just get out and give everyone else more of a go. But then Ivy called out, ‘Go, Patrick!’ and he looked over to see her holding her hat brim and smiling so sweetly at him he let out a low whistle and took a determined stance once more. Maybe just one more four.

  ‘Better watch out, your highness,’ Greg h
eckled in support of Frankie and down the grass she ran, impressively fast for someone wearing a long skirt. The ball flew at a pace, surprising him around the legs and whacking the empty box wicket. Clean-bowled.

  ‘Yes!’ crowed Frankie ecstatically. Aggie’s umpiring husband Robert lifted a single finger in the air and the verdict was sealed.

  Patrick was disappointed, of course, but he had to hand it Frankie.

  ‘Great ball,’ he told her as he walked off and she looked at him with surprise, then with a hugely satisfied grin as her teammates landed upon her, full of cheers and congratulations. Great smile, he added to himself. She was pretty gorgeous when she wasn’t trying to annihilate him at sport or shove politics down his throat. Patrick could read the similar thoughts in Nick’s expression as his mate stared straight at Frankie and tapped his bat as he passed him.

  ‘Bring it on, Miss Merriweather,’ his friend called.

  ‘With pleasure,’ she called back, and Patrick didn’t need to turn around to know that she’d be wearing the same mask of determination in her quest to get Nick out too, although Patrick wondered if the news he’d imparted on Christmas Eve would negatively impact her game. Or enhance it. The laws of attraction were funny things, he mused, looking at Ivy and taking a deep breath as he approached her, Aggie and the other girls gathered under the big gum tree. It was hard to think straight when the body started thinking for you.

  ‘Thirty-eight runs,’ Ivy exclaimed, her big blue eyes shining beneath the wide hat brim. ‘My hero.’

  ‘Would have liked to have made fifty but that sister of yours had other plans,’ he said ruefully, flopping down on the grass and taking out his handkerchief to mop his face. ‘Phew, certainly is hot out there.’

  ‘Here,’ Ivy’s school chum Mariel Chambers said as she poured him a glass of lemonade and passed him an orange from one of the many crates the family had strapped onto the convoy of carriages for the box party today. ‘Refreshments, kind sir.’