The Black Dress

by Pamela Freeman

  I glared at her and held Donald tightly. I wasn’t sure if she would take orders from an 11-year-old, but I’d run out to the stable and hide with him rather than let her have him again. Then I thought I should get Granny. Maybe the nurse thought the same, because she sniffed and flounced out the door.

  I sat on the bed and cried a little from relief. Then I dressed the baby, which took some time. In those days there were a lot of layers to a baby’s outfit.

  ‘Mary, sweetheart, what are you doing with Donald?’ Mamma came back from the privy leaning on Granny’s arm.

  I finished buttoning Donald’s dress and picked him up from the bed. He was almost asleep, his dark blue eyes closing. I love babies. I love the way they smell, all milky and sweet, and their soft little hands with the tiny nails.

  ‘Dressing him,’ I said.

  ‘But where’s the nurse?’

  My mother was very pale. She sat down on the side of the bed and held her arms out for him. I placed him carefully in the crook of her arm and he began to nuzzle his head against her breast.

  ‘The nurse is gone.’

  ‘Mary sent her away,’ Annie piped up. She had been playing on the floor with her doll, pretending it was a baby like Donald.

  ‘Mary?’ Mamma asked gently.

  ‘She was stinking drunk and trying to feed Donald rum,’ I said. ‘So I told her to get out.’

  Granny laughed. ‘That’s my girl,’ she said. ‘You know how to look after your own!’

  ‘You should have called me, sweetheart,’ Mamma said. ‘I would have dealt with it.’

  Granny and I traded looks.

  ‘Into bed with you,’ Granny said to Mamma. ‘You’re not fit to scare off a starling, let alone a brazen hussy like yon. Feed the bairn and look after yourself and Mary and I will see to the rest. Right, Mary?’

  ***

  We did, too, especially after Granny came to live with us for good, the next year, after Uncle Donald married Eliza MacDonald. That was a happy day, and an even happier one the next year when they had a little girl, Catherine.

  Times were good. Papa bought a property on Darebin Creek, near where we used to live, and we were all relieved.

  Where did he get the money? I wonder now, but I will never know. Papa insisted on inviting Uncle Peter and Aunt Julia to the house-warming. Maggie thought we should never speak to them again, and said so.

  ‘Christian love is about forgiveness and tolerance,’ Papa said.

  ‘Easy for him to say,’ Maggie said later. ‘He was safe in Scotland. How will Mamma feel, seeing them in her house?’

  I didn’t know either. I watched Mamma carefully as Aunt Julia arrived, saying hesitantly, ‘Blessings on this house.’ I was afraid, I suppose, that Mamma would be unkind or cold or that Aunt Julia would say something hurtful.

  But Mamma smiled and said, ‘Welcome to my home, Julia,’ and it was as though those terrible tense days on the old farm had never happened.

  Bridget had come from The Plenty to help us with the party. It was lovely to see her, but she glared and scowled at Aunt Julia and Uncle Peter as they came through the door.

  ‘I don’t know how you can forgive her,’ she whispered to Mamma as she poured the welcoming drams. Mamma slid her arm around my shoulder.

  ‘She did what she thought she had to do,’ she said. ‘I can’t hold hatred and anger in my heart, Bridget. It would do me much more harm than it would her.’

  ‘She would have tossed you and the children out on the street,’ Bridget hissed.

  ‘But God provided for us, as he always will,’ Mamma said tranquilly, and took the tray from Bridget to offer Uncle Peter and Aunt Julia a drink. My father smiled at her, and she smiled back. He would never allow any of us to harbour resentment, despite his own vicious battles of words in the newspapers with people like Dunmore Lang—although he said himself once, that if Dunmore Lang ever showed any spirit of repentance or tolerance he’d forgive him gladly.

  Papa was strict about turning the other cheek and extending Christian charity—he even named the next baby after Uncle Peter! On the other hand, he would defend us to the death if he thought we were acting out of conscience.

  Maggie, John and I were attending Miss Stewart’s school. We were all in the same class (with 40 others), as Miss Stewart was the only teacher, with an assistant to help with the very young children. Miss Stewart was an Englishwoman, of some education, but with a poor opinion of those not English. She worked hard to stamp out the Scottish and Irish accents of her students. We complied in class, but in the yard at recess we made sure she could hear us use as much Gaelic as we knew.

  It wasn’t a bad school. But one day we were studying history and I was given a text book about Queen Elizabeth I, that great persecutor of Catholics, and of Mary, Queen of Scots. It was a monstrous collection of lies, full of anti-Scottish sentiment.

  I had to write a book report on it. I sat reading and becoming increasingly angry. What should I do?

  What would Mamma do? I wondered. Perhaps she would just talk about the good aspects of the book and make sure that we understood the facts were incorrect. I wasn’t sure. What would Papa do? That was easy.

  I wrote the book report as honestly as I could and handed it in that afternoon. The next day Miss Stewart stopped in front of my desk and threw the report in front of me.

  ‘Explain yourself, Mary MacKillop,’ she said.

  ‘The book is incorrect, Miss Stewart,’ I said.

  ‘Is that so?’ she said grimly.

  ‘The things the author says about Mary, Queen of Scots are not true, Miss Stewart. I do not think the author likes Catholics very much.’

  ‘And why do you think that, Miss MacKillop?’ It was always a bad sign when Miss Stewart called us Miss. She’s going to lose her temper, I thought.

  ‘He only puts the Protestant point of view.’

  ‘And you only see the Catholic point of view, you little bigot!’

  I flushed, but here at least I knew what my parents would expect. I have to stand up for my faith. ‘I am sorry you think that of me, Miss Stewart. But the book is incorrect and I cannot study from it.’

  She didn’t punish me, although I had expected it. I think she even respected me a little for standing up to her—certainly she never gave me any more anti-Catholic material to study. But she had very strict rules about obedience and respect, so she wrote to my parents.

  When Papa heard the full story from me, he saddled up his horse and rode to town to confront her. I didn’t want him to. I asked him to let it go. But Papa could no more turn away from a fight when he thought he had right on his side than I can turn away from a child in need. Perhaps we both had our blind spots—perhaps both our compulsions have made life difficult for other people at times.

  ‘I’m proud of you, Maria,’ he said. ‘That’s what all people of faith must do, stand up for their beliefs.’

  Of course she and my father had a full-blown argument. When he came home he said that he would teach us himself. I never went back to Miss Stewart’s, nor did Maggie or John.

  Papa was a much better teacher than a farmer. He couldn’t make the farm pay, despite the high prices for produce now that gold had been discovered in Victoria. We had to find work for our maid Peggy, Bridget’s replacement, with friends in the city because Papa couldn’t pay her. It was difficult even to find the men’s wages. I knew we were faced with losing the farm. But at least I studied Latin again.

  AUGUST, 1856—DAREBIN CREEK AND ERINDALE

  In August, 1856, I had to leave home once more. The farm wasn’t paying and someone had to earn some money. I can’t remember what day I left. There was washing boiling, so perhaps it was a Monday—but the farmhouse at Darebin Creek always smelt of hot soap; with three men helping Papa on the farm, plus all the family, it seemed Mamma had to wash almost every day.

  ‘Who will help you with the washing when I am gone?’ I asked.

  ‘Maggie’s a good girl,’ Mamma reassured me.
‘It won’t hurt her to get her hands wet.’

  ‘Maggie’s only 12.’

  ‘And how old were you when you started helping with the wash?’ Mamma smiled at me, and I had to smile back. I’d been nine the first time I’d fed the fire under the copper and turned the mangle for Mamma. ‘It’s pride, I think, to believe that you’re the only one who can manage things. Not that you’re not the best help I could have.’

  It was true that, as the eldest, I took on the greatest share of the responsibilities. But ... they needed me. Oh, yes, I chided myself, and no-one can do anything without me, of course not. Humility was never my best quality!

  I packed my clothes into the black trunk that had come out with Papa from Scotland 21 years before, and before that, from Rome. Petticoats, drawers, stockings, slippers, two shirtwaists and two skirts. I was lucky to have three changes of clothing. In the hot Melbourne summer I would be glad to change shirts almost every day. Aunt Julia had given me the third blouse and skirt. They were soft Indian muslin that she no longer liked.

  ‘Perhaps they’ll be a bit fine for a governess,’ Aunt Julia had said, ‘but you just remember that Mary L’Estrange is my sister, and that makes her an aunt of yours, in a way, Mary. Neither she nor Joseph will want you to act like the hired help. You’re lucky—you’re going to family.’

  Indeed I was. I wrapped my Bible and missal in a wool scarf (the MacDonald tartan, that had belonged to Grandpa MacDonald). How horrible it would have been to earn money by working for strangers, to live in an unknown house among people I did not know. I shivered. It was horrible leaving the family behind again, but at least I was going to a house I knew well, and loved, with people who loved me.

  I remember how I had cried the first time I had lived there ... I felt almost as upset now, but wouldn’t show it. It would just upset the others. To take my mind off my departure, I asked Mamma why she had sent me to stay with the L’Estranges when I was seven.

  Mamma sat on the bed, a thing she never did, and clasped her hands together. ‘Ah. Well now, I suppose you’re old enough to know. Mrs L’Estrange had just lost a baby then. Stillborn, after two miscarriages in two years. She was in a sad way, poor bairn. Her husband was afraid for her reason. She wouldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Your Aunt Julia begged me to let you go to her. Said she needed a child in the house to take her mind off things.’

  Perhaps Aunt Julia had asked Mamma because she knew that we were chronically short of money and being spared the feeding of even one mouth might be a blessing. Perhaps Mamma let me go out of Christian charity, and perhaps because it would be easier to fill the other children’s stomachs.

  ‘I knew you would be fine,’ Mamma said, as if she were trying to convince herself. ‘You were such an independent little thing. You never needed me the way Maggie or Lexie did.’

  It hadn’t felt that way to me, of course. Driving up to Erindale that day with my father I had felt that I needed my mother very much indeed. But, as if turning a drawing right way up, a great deal suddenly became clear to me. Mrs L’Estrange had been so pale, so quiet except when she was playing with me. Her husband had hovered over her whenever he was home, and smiled at me encouragingly—but what he was encouraging me to do I never understood. She had hardly let me out of her sight.

  On my first visit to Erindale, I had been cosseted and played with and frankly spoiled. I had missed my family—oh, how I missed my mother every night before I went to sleep—but during the day I had just enjoyed myself. Things would be different now. I was going there to work.

  Mamma put her arms around me. ‘You know, Maria Ellen, we need the money the L’Estranges will pay you ... but you’re young to leave home. Perhaps 14 is too young ... perhaps I should write and say—’

  ‘Nonsense, Mamma,’ I said briskly. ‘I’m old enough to start bringing some money back into the family. And you won’t have to feed me, either.’ I grinned at her. ‘You know I like to eat—you’ll save a fortune!’

  Annie came in the door with a double handful of rags and dumped them in the trunk. ‘Mary, can I have your share of dumpling when you go?’

  ‘You’ll have to fight John for it.’

  Annie made a face. ‘He thinks he can have everything, just because he’s bigger than me.’

  ‘Bigger than I, Annie,’ Mamma said absently, folding the rags neatly at the foot of the trunk. ‘And John is helping on the farm with your Papa, he needs his victuals.’

  I pushed the folded rags down so they didn’t show—just in case Mrs L’Estrange helped me to unpack. Of course, Mrs L’Estrange would know what the rags were for, and no doubt ignore them, as a lady should, but even so ... I didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of her on the first day. And no doubt I would have a pitcher and basin in my room, to wash them in when I needed to ... at least, I hoped I wouldn’t have to go to the scullery ... and that I would have enough soap. Perhaps I should ask Mamma for some, just in case ... some strong soap ... oh, it would be terrible to be away from home, where everything was so familiar ... Annie slid an arm around my waist. ‘Don’t cry, Mary,’ she said. ‘We’ll come to visit you at Erindale.’

  ‘Daughter, we will be in your debt,’ said Mamma.

  Take up your cross, Christ said. I managed to smile at them. ‘Don’t be silly, Mamma. How can you talk of debt within the family? We all do what we can.’

  That’s all. I just have to do what I can.

  ***

  The doctor is trying to give me a spoonful of brandy, but I close my mouth against it and shake my head. Oh, I never want to taste brandy ever again. It just brings back bad memories. I was lucky that the terrible pains I suffered from for so many years had not begun when I went to Erindale. My women’s courses were irregular at 14; it wasn’t until they settled down to regularity that the cramps and pains and headaches began. Of course, what I called ‘regular’ was a bit different to other women—once a fortnight, good God, for 30 years! And in those years the only thing the doctors had to help was brandy. A tablespoon at night, to relax the muscles and let me sleep. That’s how rumours of me being a drunk began.

  When I remember how careful I was—always having another sister measure out the dose and give it to me, then locking the bottle up afterwards. Still people called me a drunkard. The calumny hurt worse than the cramps, and they were bad enough. How wonderful the climacteric was when it came! I know other women dread the change of life but for me it was such a great relief. A blessing in every way. I felt as though I had been born again, I had so much more energy and vigour. As though I were 14 again, and just starting life.

  ***

  Erindale was a big, two-storey bluestone house, set in eight acres of home paddock. The last time I had stayed there, the trees planted by Mary L’Estrange had been saplings; now they were as high as the house. Elm, willow at the back by the creek, graceful birches, even the slow growing oak was tipping the edge of the upstairs balcony with its winter-bare branches. All the trees of Home, Mary L’Estrange had said to me when she planted the beeches on the drive up to the house. For Mrs L’Estrange, home was Ireland, greener than spring grass, ‘So green it hurts the eyes sometimes, or it would if the light were not so soft.’ Then she’d laughed, and hugged me. ‘But what would you know of that, you young Australian?’

  She had been right. For me, the European trees were strangely symmetrical and a very pretty green. But they had nothing to do with home, which was Darebin Creek, where the gum trees rose as high as two houses piled on top of each other and had roots that stretched over half an acre.

  Papa drove the wagon under the stark branches of the beeches. My trunk was in the back.

  ‘Now, it’s only eight miles,’ Papa said. ‘If you need me, send me word. I will come, no matter what I am doing.’

  I nodded and felt comforted. Papa always spoke the truth. If I sent word, he would drop everything, no matter how important it was, no matter how much Mamma needed it done, no matter if it would make the difference between the family being f
ed or not.

  I won’t send for help to him. What could happen here that Mr L’Estrange could not cope with as well as Papa? Better. I bit my lip. I didn’t want to be impatient with Papa. He was my papa and I had to honour him. The Bible said so, and Father Geoghegan had counselled me at my last confession to show Papa more respect. Fourteen is not a good age for respect in any case, but I remember I tried.

  It was a short driveway. We pulled up at the door and Papa turned to me. For a moment, I was aware of how much I looked like him: the auburn hair, grey eyes, and wide brow. He was looking uncertain, unlike his normal loud confidence. I smiled with determination.

  ‘I will be fine, Papa.’

  ‘You will serve the L’Estranges faithfully, Maria Ellen.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Papa.’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled. ‘You know your duty, Mary, that is for certain. Och, down with you.’

  As we climbed down, the front door opened and two little girls came flying out.

  ‘Mary, Mary, Mary!’ they shouted and hugged me.

  I hugged them back and grinned over their heads at Papa. He smiled back, relieved, and straightened his shoulders.

  ‘Sophie, Lizzie,’ I said. ‘If I am going to be your governess, you must call me Miss Mary now.’

  They stood back from me a little, doubtfully. I smiled at them. ‘Now, let us practise. Good morning, Sophie. Good morning, Lizzie.’

  Sophie frowned. She was the elder child and by far the more independent. I guessed that she had thought having me as a governess would be fun. I was only a big girl, after all, not a grown up. For a moment she looked mutinous. But it was vital that I establish my authority over them right away, or I would never be able to teach them. As I stared gravely in her eyes I saw her change her mind. For the moment, anyway.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Mary,’ she said, and dropped a little curtsy, for good measure. Lizzie copied her.