The Black Dress (10 page)

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 fed 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.

‘Well,
macushla,
that’s better manners than I get out of them.’ Mrs L’Estrange stood in the doorway, sheltering from the cold August wind. ‘Come away in, then. Mr MacKillop, you’ll be taking a meal with us before you go back to Darebin?’

Papa hoisted the trunk onto his shoulders and trudged up the steps. ‘I’ll be thankful for it, Mrs L’Estrange. The wind might be coming straight from the South Pole today, I think.’

I took each girl by the hand and followed him.

‘Sophie, you show Mary where she’s to sleep,’ Mrs L’Estrange said.

‘It’s MISS Mary, Ma,’ Lizzie said. ‘Now she’s our governess she’s MISS Mary.’

‘Is she now?’ Mrs L’Estrange winked at me. ‘Well, you take
Miss
Mary to her room, then. I’ve put you in your old room, Mary, love. Welcome back.’

I kissed her cheek.

‘Thank you, Mrs L’Estrange. It’s like coming home.’

It was even more like coming home when I followed Sophie up the stairs to my old little room off the verandah. For many months I had slept in that plain iron bed and although I had missed Mamma and the children, I had been very happy—eventually—with Mrs L’Estrange.

‘I used to sleep here when I was your age,’ I told the girls. ‘And I’ve stayed in this room for visits, too.’

‘I don’t remember that,’ Lizzie objected.

‘You were only a baby the last time I came for a visit.’

‘
I
remember,’ Sophie said. ‘I think—I remember you tickling me.’

I smiled. ‘I used to do that. You’d shriek with laughter. You were only two. I’m surprised you remember.’

‘She’s still ticklish,’ Lizzie said.

‘Is she now?’ I moved slowly towards Sophie.

‘No! No!’ Sophie shrieked, but she didn’t try to get away as I tickled her and Lizzie joined in.

The three of us ended up in a giggling pile on the little iron bed.
It is probably bad for discipline, but I’ll make them mind me anyway. A little love never hurt discipline too much,
I thought.

I said goodbye to Papa almost shyly. I wasn’t sure what to say. He kissed my cheek and told me to work hard and be a credit to the family. Then he tucked a half-crown in my hand.

‘Papa!’
What’s the good of me going out to earn money for the family if you just give it back to me? Really, Papa!
But I said nothing.

‘You never know when you might need it,’ he said, looking at the ground, shoulders hunched. For the first time, I wondered how he felt, knowing I had to work because he could not provide for us all. At that moment it was impossible to stay cross with him.

‘Thank you, Papa.’

He looked up and smiled, then kissed my cheek again and climbed into the wagon.

As I unpacked my trunk that evening, I found a note from Mamma tucked under my slippers. ‘I am very proud of my eldest daughter,’ it said. ‘May God bless you and keep you. May the Blessed Mary, Ever Virgin watch over you and guide you. I pray for you every night and every day. Remember that Our Lord will be with you always. Your Loving Mother, Flora MacDonald MacKillop.’ The paper smelt of soap and roses.

I cried myself to sleep with the letter clutched in my hand, but that night no beautiful lady came to kiss me goodnight. Still, the memory of her comforted me as it had so many times before. I lay awake and wondered what she had meant when she called me ‘one of mine’. I had pondered this many times. I had always wondered if it meant I would become a nun.

That night I looked ahead at life as a governess. I could have a real effect on my students’ lives. I thought about Miss Stewart. Despite her bigotry, she had inspired me with a love of learning, just as Papa had. I could do the same for Sophie and Lizzie, and for other children. It could be a wonderful responsibility. But how much more wonderful if I was doing the work for God and inspiring a love for Christ at the same time!