by Di Morrissey
May God bless you both,
your daughter,
Evangelista
All the letters were written in the same neat and precise hand, but when Ned looked closely, he realised that they had not been collected carefully and that many of their pages were missing.
Looks as though I’ll have to read everything so I can work out the order, Ned thought to himself.
He picked up a couple of pages and started to read them. He quickly saw that Sister Evangelista had a sharp eye for detail and her pithy comments made him think that whoever she was, she had taken an intense interest in all that surrounded her.
Cooktown
October, 1887
My Dear Parents,
This place seems a long way from home, not just because of the miles we have travelled to get here, but because the landscape of this part of the world is so different from that of dear Ireland. No rolling green pastures here as in Dungarvan. All I could see of my new home when we were first rowed ashore was a desolate shoreline of low red mudflats, straggling trees, and a few rough buildings. In the distance I could make out a large grassy knoll which was surrounded by jungle-clad mountains.
All five of us sisters truly feel the heat. Our faces continually perspire and our wimples and our heavy woollen habits are so unsuitable for this climate. And it is not yet summer. But I am sure that God has some great purpose in making us all so uncomfortable, and so I said a swift prayer for guidance and strength as I am determined to face my new home with resolve.
But we all must have looked quite miserable, for Bishop Hutchinson, who was accompanying us, spoke to us in a cheerful voice, telling us not to despair. He said that although our surroundings might look inhospitable at first, they weren’t all that bad.
We are all very proud to be associated with such a man of God as Bishop Hutchinson. He is indeed remarkable: humble and yet fired with enthusiasm for the task ahead, of establishing God’s Holy Church in Cooktown as well as founding a school where educational opportunities can be brought to the girls of the district where few now exist. How fortunate we are that he personally approached our motherhouse in Ireland to ask that some sisters should be allowed to accompany him back to Cooktown for this purpose. He is very fervent about this calling and frequently likes to tell us of the prospects that await us in this new frontier.
When I first sighted St Mary’s Convent
When Ned looked for the next page of the letter, he couldn’t find it anywhere. Perhaps it is hidden in another letter, he thought hopefully. He had a quick look through the bundles but couldn’t find any immediate trace of it, so he decided to start reading what he guessed was Sister Evangelista’s next letter.
February, 1888
My Dear Parents,
We have quickly settled into this new way of life. Each morning we meet for prayers in the small church that sits behind the convent. We are hoping to have our own chapel one day but for the time being the school’s dining room will have to double as the school chapel.
We are all very busy with our new life here. We have had no difficulty finding students to fill our classrooms, as we are prepared to take girls of all religious denominations, and I am spending many hours giving lessons as well as working on my new curriculum. The challenge is great, but there have been some compensations. The heat has meant that Reverend Mother has decided to relax some of the rules of our order. Thus, late on Saturday afternoons when the temperature has dropped a little, we are sometimes permitted to take a walk towards the town’s seafront, where the Cornish stonemasons have completed the granite kerbs on the edge of the road, making our stroll easier.
Cooktown continues to grow rapidly, as it is the port for the goldfields to the west. Indeed, as Reverend Mother observed dryly as we passed the construction of yet another hotel, there seem to be as many opportunities for entrepreneurs here as there are at the Palmer River diggings.
Our presence and work in the town has made us well respected, and as we take our walk we are greeted with smiles, nods, good wishes and acknowledgements. Hats are doffed and shy children scamper past us, eyeing us curiously.
When we first arrived we were all rather nervous about the native population as there were many stories about their savage ways, but there are few Aborigines in town, and those who remain are sorry examples of their race. I can see them at times, sitting on the edge of the road, or down by the river. They have no access to any basic comforts let alone acceptance or recognition here in town. They are treated as inferiors and considered more of a nuisance than a threat. I feel sorry at their plight and would like to help them but neither the Bishop nor Reverend Mother think it is our role to be missionaries. I have heard that the Lutherans have endeavoured to establish a mission not far from here in order to protect these godless savages. Perhaps these missionaries will be able to convert them to the way of God, although if they do, the poor souls will be Protestants.
We have a new priest, arrived from Ireland. Reverend Mother infers that he is still a bit ‘wet behind the ears’, but Father O’Brien is a good soul and as enthusiastic about this country as our Bishop. He has a parish four times the size of Ireland itself, but he is always eager to meet his thinly spread congregation.
Occasionally he tells us tales of Cape York to the north and his adventures travelling hundreds of miles by steamship, pony and stagecoach. One day he told us about the goldfields, the excitement of new finds and how other parts of the inland are opening up to cattle and tin mining. This all sounded very adventurous and interesting and I said that I hoped that one day I would be able to see the goldfields for myself. But it is unlikely that this will happen for, as Reverend Mother reminded me, my place is here, in the school.
Father O’Brien, perhaps sensing my disappointment, said that I was doing the work of the Lord and that God would be glad and rejoice in my efforts. And I must tell you, dear parents, that I do rejoice in doing the Lord’s work, here in the Australian wilderness. I do not know what the Lord has in store for my future, but I have faith in whatever plan he has for me.
May God bless you both,
your daughter,
Evangelista
When Ned looked quickly though the rest of the pile of letters he realised that Sister Evangelista had never returned to Ireland and so had probably never seen her family again. In a way, he thought she was fortunate. Sister Evangelista could just send a letter every now and then. She’d had time and space to deal with her family problems, if indeed she’d had any.
Suddenly Ned felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He knew that while he was continually trying to avoid conversations with Josie and Bella, in truth it wasn’t really his mother or sister he was trying to avoid. It was his own feelings about his father’s passing. He had thought he’d have time to confront his father about the issues that he knew needed to be sorted out between the two of them, but Alex’s death had been so sudden that the problems had been left unresolved, dangling untidily like Monday’s washing on the line. Ned felt angry with himself for not facing his father when he’d had the opportunity and now he felt such conflicting feelings about his father, he didn’t know how to make sense of them.
Putting the letters back into the box, he went and sat down in one of Carlo’s peculiar chairs. Looking around the room he saw a group of old-fashioned perfume bottles that were amongst the house’s amazing collection of glassware, and a memory flashed into his mind.
He had just started high school at the most elite private school in the district. His father was very proud that Ned was going to the school he himself had attended. Initially, Ned had found it hard to make friends. Everyone else seemed to have gravitated into small groups, and Ned had felt like an outsider. Then, after a couple of weeks of solitary misery, three or four boys approached him and offered to let him join them. Ned couldn’t believe his luck, until the obvious leader of the group said that Ned would have to pa
ss an initiation test first. When Ned found out that the test involved shoplifting, he had immediately baulked. The leader of the group had sniggered and called him several names.
After that, Ned had felt he had no option other than to show these boys that he wasn’t too frightened to take up their challenge, and it was arranged that he would go into one of Tennyson’s chemist shops and steal a bottle of perfume.
Ned remembered, even after all these years, how alone he had felt, the new boy with no friends, eager to do anything to belong, even when he knew that what he was doing was wrong. But he had steeled himself and walked into the chemist shop while his new-found friends waited outside, stifling their giggles. He was very surprised at how easy it was to take a small bottle of perfume from the shelf, stuff it into his blazer pocket and leave. Once he showed them the perfume, his new friends ran off. Confused by their actions, Ned walked home.
Later that evening, when Alex came home, he called Ned into his study. As soon as Ned entered the room and saw his father’s stern face, his heart sank.
‘Ned, I had a very interesting phone call this afternoon from Jim Bourke, the chemist on Fitzroy Terrace.’
Ned stared at the floor, not meeting Alex’s eye.
Alex continued, his tone hard. ‘Jim saw you take that bottle and decided to ring me rather than the police, although he was quite entitled to go straight to them. What were you thinking, son? How could you be so dishonest? Your actions are a complete disappointment to me, and they would be to your mother too, if I were to tell her about this.’
Even after all these years, Ned could still feel the shame of the incident. But surprisingly his father hadn’t shouted or even raised his voice. He was just very disappointed, which for Ned, who looked up to his father, was even worse. Ned had tried to explain about the other boys, but Alex would have none of it.
‘Saying that you were only trying to make friends is no excuse. You will return the bottle of perfume to Mr Bourke, apologise for your behaviour and accept responsibility for your actions like a man. If he accepts your apology, then we will put the matter behind us on the understanding that you never do anything like this again.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ned had said meekly.
He had started backing out of Alex’s office when his father had added more gently, ‘And Ned, you will make friends at school, just give it time.’
His father had been true to his word. After the bottle of perfume had been returned to the chemist and the apology made and accepted, the matter was never mentioned again. And his father had also been right about making friends. Soon enough, Ned had not only joined one of the school’s cricket teams, but had found a couple of boys who were as interested in music as he was.
Now, sitting alone with time to think, Ned could only wonder at the way his father had handled the whole incident. Calm, firm, even protective, but disappointed that Ned hadn’t lived up to his standards.
‘Accept responsibility for your actions like a man . . .’ Ned said out loud. Still feeling agitated, he returned to the box of letters in the hope they would distract him. He picked up another letter and started to read it.
May, 1893
My Dear Parents,
Sometimes as I look through my window and gaze across the bay and its bustling shores I recall the damp and cool, gentle greenness of home. This is a red and gold country with great pockets of ferocious green surrounded by bluer-than-blue seas. One morning I noticed from my window the arrival of a steamer from Hong Kong. As I watched, it disgorged hundreds of hopeful Chinese miners. The men wore simple cotton garments and all had long pigtails hanging down beneath soft caps. They were, however, not brought into shore, but were forced to walk the last few hundred yards through the mudflats, carrying all their worldly goods. Such treatment truly shocked me, as I was concerned that some might be taken by the crocodiles that lurk in these waters. I prayed for their safety and, God be praised, they all came ashore in one piece.
There is great fear of the Chinese among many here in Cooktown. Some are saying that this is now a yellow country, for the influx of the Chinese coolies is becoming overwhelming, and people are generally suspicious of them. Twenty thousand of them are on the Palmer River goldfields, we are told. Father O’Brien tells us stories about them. Many of them have arrived in ignorance, with no knowledge of the vastness and ruggedness of this country. Father says they expect to turn a corner in Cooktown and find the gold diggings there, when in fact the fields are located more than a hundred miles inland and are difficult to reach. Most miners are forced to walk to the diggings. They must carry at least six months’ worth of provisions to see them through the wet season since supplies cannot be brought to the goldfields at this time. In the wet season the rain arrives in torrential downpours and the rivers flood, isolating the miners completely. Indeed, we are ourselves isolated and can only leave Cooktown by ship at this time of year. Nor do these miners know about the natives who attack not just the settlers’ cattle but sometimes the settlers themselves, as well as miners on their way to the Palmer River. One hears such terrible stories of murders and massacres one scarcely knows what to believe, but we heartily pray for the lives of all those in danger.
In Cooktown, we have our own Chinese community who have built their own Chinatown, a jumble of wooden shacks divided by mean alleyways, with shops and eating houses, gambling places and a joss house where they worship their own gods. The Chinese crowd into small rooms and spill out onto the street, where I have seen them eating and smoking. They are often shrewd businesspeople. There are many Chinese establishments in town, and Father O’Brien assures me that there are also Chinese businesses in the towns around the diggings, Maytown and Palmerston. The Chinese make themselves storekeepers, barbers and laundrymen. They work as cooks and station hands out in the pastoral holdings, and provide eating houses in town and on the diggings for which they grow vegetables and breed pigs. They run hotels, often through licences owned by their European wives. Here in Cooktown we have several Chinese doctors, and many swear by their herbal cures. There is also a Chinese photographic studio and several fine tailors, I believe, who make beautiful silk dresses and handsome suits. I have also been told that the boarding houses they run are cleaner and cheaper than rooms in the hotels, so it is little wonder that they are well patronised. The Chinese often have noisy celebrations with drums, cymbals and fireworks, which we have no trouble hearing in our convent.
People may not like the Chinese, but they are impossible to ignore.
‘Damn,’ said Ned. Another missing page, or pages. He could hardly believe that the ship’s captain had hated the Chinese passengers so much that he would abandon them like that. Still, they had all made it to shore in one piece. ‘Must have been the power of your prayer, Sister,’ he muttered to himself.
As he folded the letter carefully, he tried to return to the present. He thought of the sleepy Cooktown he had experienced, so different from the town that Sister Evangelista described. But Sister Evangelista wrote with such clarity and expression that he could easily imagine it as it had been when it was a bustling sea port more than a hundred years ago. He felt he could almost hear her voice.
Although it was getting late, Ned decided to read one more letter before bed, although, like some of the others, it seemed to be incomplete, but he was delighted when he quickly realised that it told more about her experiences with the local Chinese community.
Although the town has many Chinese, we have very little to do with them, so I was pleased to be able to go with our Reverend Mother to the house of Mr and Mrs Woo Tan one afternoon. Mrs Tan is English and no doubt a civilising influence on her husband. She is also a great patron of our school. The Tans enquired about our school as soon as it opened and when Mrs Tan made a fine donation of good English books she’d brought with her from England, Reverend Mother was pleased to admit the Tan children to our school and occasionally accepts their invitation to aft
ernoon tea.
The Tans’ house is interesting and comfortable. The windows have wooden shutters which open to the breeze. The front door is very wide with a carved stable door in front to screen it. Mrs Tan explained to us that the whole house was designed to keep out bad spirits and bring good luck. The Chinese are very superstitious!
The house is as clean as could be in spite of the dust, which is a problem caused by the dirt roads. The furniture in the main room is ornately carved and heavy with many richly embroidered silk cushions. There are many family photographs on the walls and many beautiful lacquered and porcelain ornaments and vases. I noticed that in one corner of the room there is a shrine. People say these are common in all Chinese homes. The place is very cluttered but prosperous looking, and it seems a happy home, especially helped by the cheerful songbirds which hang in lovely cages in the shade of the courtyard just outside the windows.
We were served tea from a silver tea service with beautiful English bone china cups and tasty Chinese rolls. Mrs Tan was very welcoming and Mr Tan stepped in to greet us and pass a few pleasantries. He told us he’d asked his cook to make us food which is a specialty of his home town.
Mr Tan is an oriental gentleman who dresses in fashionable and formal English attire, although he still has a traditional long pigtail. His English is quite refined. He is an important member of the Cooktown community as he is head of one of the Chinese guilds. Reverend Mother is pleased to acknowledge the contribution that he and his wife make towards the progress of our school in spite of the fact that Mr Tan is, without doubt, still a heathen.
Ned could not help but chuckle to himself. Clearly Reverend Mother was a pragmatist who could distinguish between ordinary heathens and those who could help her school. What courageous women those Sisters of Mercy were to leave the soft and misty green of Ireland for the harsh red heat of the unknown and the extraordinary society in which they found themselves.