‘And God will provide quicker if we go to Somerton for Grandfather,’ I said. ‘Come along, John.’
***
We walked quickly at first, up the road next to the railway, and then through the muddy, crowded streets of Melbourne.
In the few months we had been away in Sydney, new buildings had sprung up along every street. Money was pouring in from the goldfields, and being turned into brick villas and grand stone mansions. I kept my head down as we walked up Elizabeth Street and crossed over Lonsdale Street. The trials of adolescence are mostly those of pride. My family were destitute, and all I could think about was what if Mary Jane were visiting her brother’s chemist shop and were to see me? What could I say? That we had no money? That we didn’t know where Papa was and were forced to walk to our relatives to beg for help?
Please, Blessed Mary, Ever Virgin, don’t let anyone see us. Perhaps it is a sin of pride, but please don’t let Mary Jane or Adeline see me.
How silly I was. Our Lady must have had a sense of humour that day, because we made it unseen through the city and walked up past the cattleyards, stinking and noisy, to Sydney Road. It was called a road, but it was just a dusty track, rutted from wagons and spattered with cow pats from the cattle herded down it every week to market. At least away from the ocean the wind had dropped, and walking kept us warm.
We walked for several miles in friendly silence. My feet were beginning to feel like hot balloons inside my boots, when John said, ‘I wonder where Papa is.’
I bit my lip. It was no good trying to comfort John with soothing words; he had too hard a head. ‘He’s probably in the city somewhere, trying to get work,’ I answered carefully. He grunted.
‘He didn’t have much luck in Sydney.’
‘He didn’t know many people in Sydney,’ I reminded him. ‘It will be different in Melbourne, where he is so well known.’ I hope. I pray.
‘Maybe too well known.’
‘John!’
‘Well, would you hire him?’
I didn’t answer. On the surface, there was no real reason why anyone should not hire Papa. He was a hardworking, God-fearing man. He didn’t drink to excess, or fight, he was dependable and extremely intelligent and well-educated. But...
‘If it were the right job...’ I said, ‘with the right employer. Someone with high moral standards.’
‘No-one’s standards are as high as Papa’s.’
There was no answer to that. It was true. Papa could always find something to object to. Even the Jesuits hadn’t been good enough for him!
The days of my adolescence seem, looking back now, to have been filled with one Papa-generated crisis after another. They seemed to happen more often. As Papa became increasingly hard to employ, so the money became tighter and he took greater risks, like the Sydney journey, to try to find a solution. But the only solution—for him to take a job, ignore everything except his duties and keep his tongue between his teeth if he noticed something he did not approve of—appeared to be impossible for him. Not content with ruining his own life, he interfered with my own chances—but I am thinking of Portland and getting ahead of myself again.
That September of 1857, all I really knew was that we were poor again, unemployed again, homeless again, and dependent on the good graces of our relatives. Fortunately we were blessed with generous kin.
***
‘Anne! Anne! It’s the bairns come home!’ Grandfather’s voice was usually deep, but now it rose higher with excitement. ‘Peter! Duncan! Och, no, Duncan’s away. Come here, Maire, let me look at you.’
It was good to be enfolded in Grandfather’s arms. He smelt of sheep and sweat and Aunty Anne’s boronia soap. Even at 75, he was tall and strong. I relaxed against him. I could hand things over to him now and he would organise everything.
I hadn’t realised how glad I would feel to be home. The months in Sydney had been a time of strain and worry: about money, about Papa, about the future. I had done what I could to help, especially after Papa had left us to come back early to Melbourne. Mamma never complained, but it had been up to me to make sure nothing worried her unnecessarily. But now I was home and other people could take over.
Grandfather gave me a final hug and stepped back. ‘John,’ he said. ‘Why, you’ve turned into a man!’
John grinned and looked at the ground, embarrassed. In Sydney he had grown three inches and suddenly his face seemed to have acquired a jawline rather than just a chin.
‘I’m 12-and-a-half,’ he said. Grandpa nodded and held out his hand for John to shake. John blushed and shook it briskly, then looked at the ground again. Before we went to Sydney Grandpa would have hugged him, too.
‘Where’s your mother?’ Grandpa asked, but then the door opened and Aunty Anne ran out, her face flushed, wiping her wet hands on her apron.
She hugged both of us, and almost pushed us into the kitchen. We sat down at the scrubbed wooden table to a bowl of mutton and vegetable soup. The smell of boiling mutton filled the room. It was a smell I had always hated, but now I breathed in the strong steamy air with relish, and said grace with real thankfulness. No more depending on strangers for a roof over our head. Thank you, Lord God. Thank you, Blessed Mary Ever Virgin.
‘Mother’s at Sandridge with the children,’ I said to Grandfather. ‘She ... she wondered if perhaps...’
‘Alexander left her no money for the fare home,’ Anne guessed briskly, taking away the embarrassment. ‘Och, we should have guessed that and left dray-hire for you at the port.’ She glanced sideways at her papa, who was about to explode yet again about the fecklessness of his eldest son. ‘You’ll fetch them, Papa? Or should one of the boys go? Peter’s about somewhere.’
‘Aye, send Peter,’ Grandfather said. He settled himself heavily in the chair at the end of the table. I realised that he was not just getting old, he was old. Somehow, the time in Sydney made me see it more clearly. He moved more slowly than I remembered, and his fingers were swollen with arthritis.
Grandfather had always been there, whenever we needed help. What would happen to us if he were no longer there?
I felt cold in the pit of my stomach, and hastily swallowed a mouthful of soup. It didn’t warm me. What would Mamma do if there was no-one to help her when Papa got into trouble? She’d say ‘God will provide’, I thought. And he would. Just as he always had. Even if it were humiliating, he would always send us help through our friends or our relatives. Perhaps he wanted to drive the pride out of us. But poor Mamma. It always falls on her shoulders. It’s up to me to help her. That sounds as though I thought Mamma unable to cope. It wasn’t so. She was a most capable and determined woman. But I think eldest children often feel this kind of responsibility for parents, and even more so in families where the father is absent or incapable. I have seen, many times, the eldest child take on the role of breadwinner for a family, or disciplinarian, and fulfil that role admirably. We underestimate children.
***
Grandfather helped the family to rent a house—if you could call it that—in Collingwood. The next few months were made easier by the generosity of our friends. Not in money but in hospitality. We were asked out for dinner, to dances, to afternoon teas. Everyone understood our position. So although Maggie hated to attend dressed in her plain old gowns, we did not have to explain our inability to return the invitations.
Quite soon after we returned to Melbourne, I went back to the L’Estranges as governess. I was so thankful that they had sent the little girls to Miss Stewart’s school during my absence, instead of hiring another governess.
‘Joseph insisted on it,’ said Mrs L’Estrange. ‘He said you’d be back again, soon enough.’
The Keoghs and the L’Estranges were particularly kind—there’s no doubt that Aunt Julia’s family rallied round when they were needed! Mrs L’Estrange even held a birthday party for me when I turned 16—my official ‘coming out’ party, although I had been going to parties for years. She said it was her privilege because I
was living in her house. It was a lovely party, with music and dancing. I admit I thought, Make the most of it, Mary MacKillop, there’ll be no dancing in the convent!
I made my confirmation in June of the same year, along with Ellen Keogh. Bishop Goold performed the ceremony, and it was no gentle tap he gave me on the cheek! He wanted to show the seriousness of becoming a soldier for Christ, perhaps, but it was a solid slap and left a mark. He looked startled at the sound it made, so maybe he hadn’t intended it to be so hard. A sign of the future? Lord knows, bishops have given me slaps in the face often enough since, God bless them!
That was a hard time in some ways for the rest of the family, although in other ways it was fun, happy even. But we were happier when Papa was finally employed as a clerk on Back Creek goldfield. Papa called at Erindale as soon as he knew he had the job to tell me I should return home. I was half-happy and half-afraid—so many times Papa had been sure that things were turning out for the good, and so many times he had been wrong. But this was a good government job, a job for life; what could go wrong?
1857—TALBOT AND BACK CREEK GOLDFIELD
I have read many descriptions of Victoria’s goldfields but none of them really convey the liveliness of them—or the smell! Back Creek was not the largest of the fields, but it was rich enough. The nearby town of Talbot, where we lived, was a boomtown—hastily built wooden houses and shops had mushroomed almost overnight when gold was found.
I loved Talbot—the energy and excitement of the miners, the hearty prosperity of the shopkeepers (even if it was at the expense of the miners), the sense of promise in every shaft. Oh, I know how disappointing mining is for most prospectors, but I understand gold fever. It’s not the gold itself that brings men back again and again—it’s the sense of limitless possibilities.
I still dream about the creak of the windlasses and the shouts of ‘look out below’—though perhaps that is because of the song that Papa used to sing that had that line as its chorus.
Papa had been employed as the clerk to the warden of the goldfield. He had received the position as a favour from Mr John O’Shannessy, a member of Victoria’s Cabinet. Papa had helped him with his campaign.
The whole family was elated when we moved to Talbot. Finally, a job Papa could be happy in, achieved by his own efforts and diligence. And a well-paid job, too! We lived in comfort for the first time in a long while; at least, as much comfort as could be found in a country goldmining town.
‘Can I have a new dress, now?’ Maggie asked as we unpacked our boxes in the clerk’s house.
‘Yes!’ said Mamma, smiling. ‘What about you, Mary, what would you like?’
‘Oh, Mary would like a new Bible, wouldn’t you?’ Annie teased.
‘No, not a Bible, a new missal,’ said Lexie. ‘She’s almost worn out the old one.’
‘She doesn’t need a missal,’ Annie replied. ‘She’s memorised the Mass already.’
They giggled.
‘You leave your sister alone,’ Mamma said. ‘When was the last time you went to confession?’
Annie hated confession. She pulled a face. ‘I don’t need to go to confession,’ she said. ‘Mary sets such a good example I haven’t anything to confess!’
I pulled a cushion out of the box and hit her over the ear with it. ‘I’ll give you a good example!’
‘Ooh, Mary’s being naughty, Mary’s being naughty,’ Donald shrieked, so I grabbed him and tickled him until he sobbed with laughter.
‘Well, what would you like, Maria?’ Mamma asked when things quietened.
‘Could I have new dress, please?’ I asked meekly, and everyone laughed.
We laughed a lot in those early goldfield days.
Of course, it didn’t last long.
Papa was now a civil servant. It was understood that civil servants never openly criticised the government. Their job was to put into practice the policies that the government decided upon. Asking Papa to hold his tongue when he saw something he disagreed with was like asking the sun to stop shining.
Not long after Papa started work at Back Creek, Mr O’Shannessy became premier. As premier, he was responsible for the government’s policies. According to Papa, Mr O’Shannessy’s land policy was unfair. It advantaged those who already owned land at the expense of the poor who could not afford it. So Papa wrote to the newspaper, of course. He’d been writing to the newspapers for years, on every topic under the sun. They printed everything he wrote—a letter of Papa’s often sparked such a response that everyone in the colony talked about it.
‘What possessed you? Are you driven to make yourself unemployable?’ I cried out, when he told Mamma and me that the premier had offered him the choice of resigning or being dismissed. He had only been in the position four months. It was the first time I had openly lost my temper with him. My temper has always been my worst sin. Do I regret my outburst now? I am not sure. At the time I felt I had reached the stage, dragged there you might say, where I had to say what I believed to be true. Like Christ sweeping the moneylenders out of the temple.
Of course, that was Papa’s argument, too.
Mamma took his side, of course.
‘Your father has done what he thinks is right.’
‘And never mind about feeding his family and taking care of his wife!’ I said hotly. ‘That’s a very narrow definition of right you have, Papa.’
‘Would you want me to stand by and let the poor suffer so that we could live in luxury, Maria?’ he asked, his lips tight with anger.
‘Do you love the poor so much you want to be one of them? And make us poor, as well?’
‘Do you really think so badly of me, Mary?’
‘I think you have neglected your duty to Mamma and to the children,’ I said. I don’t think he ever forgave me. It was not done for children to criticise their parents. But more than that—I think he expected me to approve of what he had done, to support his decision to put, as he saw it, right over comfort, principle over mammon. Perhaps, too, his own sense of guilt—no, it wasn’t guilt, Papa never felt guilt over the actions he took on principle—his sense of failure as a provider made him more sensitive to my criticism. But I don’t think it made him question his own actions. Nothing ever did that.
I was bitterly disappointed. Once again I seemed to be the only one responsible for the family.
I apologised to him the next day—apologised for my temper and my disrespect, not my opinions—but he was aloof and silent. He could hold a grudge, my Papa.
I learnt in those weeks how rancid anger could turn, how it could eat away at years of love. It taught me that I had been right to disapprove of Papa’s actions, even if I was wrong to openly criticise them: merely criticising the actions of one in authority over you does nothing to improve matters (any more than the premier was going to change his land policy on the basis of what Alexander MacKillop thought) and usually just makes things worse. It was a valuable lesson.
I learnt to keep my mouth shut tight against uncharitable thoughts. If I had not, I wonder what my fate would have been. I know that one of the reasons the bishop reversed my excommunication was that I had never criticised his decision in the first place, never questioned his right to do it. If I had not learned that lesson from my father, would I still be excommunicated, cut off from the consolations of Mother Church? I shiver at the thought, and the sister who is sitting by me pulls the coverlet up further. I smile at her. It is a cold day, but it was not the cold that causes my sudden chill.
Being an excommunicate was the worst time in my adult life. It would be ironic if I have my father to thank for being restored to communion. So often it is the pattern of life: the Cross bears down on one at first, but then, later, it lifts one up.
After we had returned from the goldfields I went to see Mrs L’Estrange and she invited me to take up the position as governess to the girls once again. It was the easiest thing. Having Papa and me at odds in the same house was too much of a strain on Mamma. Besides, we needed the
money.
But it wasn’t enough.
Before, my money had just gone to keep the family. Now, it had to pay for the rent of a house as well. I had to leave the L’Estranges’ employment and find some better-paid work. As with so many, many times in my life, it was a friend who came to our rescue. Mr Kenny. Oh, I remember my first day at Sands, Kenny & Co.
SEPTEMBER, 1859—MELBOURNE
The shop was in an imposing building with a stone façade, three storeys high. ‘VICTORIA STATIONERY WAREHOUSE’ was carved in stone right across the top of the building. Above the ground floor I read, ‘SANDS, KENNY & Co.’ in gold. A great many signs in Melbourne in those days were picked out in gold, as though reminding visitors where the city’s wealth came from.
The windows were piled high with books, ledgers, writing desks, pens, drawing instruments and stationery samples—things I’d never seen before. There was even something that I took to be a theodolite for surveying mining claims. Above these things, pinned to the board that shielded the windows from the prying eyes of passers-by, were the maps: Victoria and the South-Eastern Provinces, the entire World. Underneath was a placard, ‘This is the largest and best Map of the World published. ’
Along the street, the smart carriages and the slow drays rattled over the paving stones. The noise as hooves and metal-rimmed wheels went past was ear-splitting. A bullock team passed. Even though the dray they pulled was empty, the bullocks trudged slowly, keeping to their perpetual rhythm. It took a while for the bullocks to pass by. I stared at the door of the shop the whole time.
It was early. The sign on the door said, ‘We regret that we are closed at this time. Please call back.’ I knocked.
Mr Kenny himself answered. It was typical of him to be waiting to greet me. He was a kind man. Too kind for business, Aunt Julia said, but Sands, Kenny & Co. was thriving.
‘Come in, come in, Mary. Come and meet the girls.’
A long wooden counter ran around the shop. Behind it were shelves upon shelves, right up to the high ceiling. The shelves were chock full of goods—it was like Aladdin’s cave. There were two other girls behind the counter, dressed like me in simple frocks buttoned down the front. These girls also wore blue aprons. They stared at me unsmiling. I could feel butterflies flying wildly about in my stomach. What if they didn’t like me?
The Black Dress Page 11