The Black Dress (2 page)

Papa had been a brilliant seminarian at Scots College in Rome. He had excelled in theology and disputation. Forty years later, when I visited the Holy See, I met monseigneurs and bishops who told me that my father had demolished their arguments in open debate; that he was considered the brightest and most formidable of his generation. No-one doubted his passion for the gospel and for spreading the Good News. Yet not long afterwards, at the age of 19, when he returned to Scotland because of an inflammation of the lungs, he left the seminary.

Uncle Donald, my mother’s brother, once speculated that the priests in Scotland hadn’t given my father the respect he thought he was due and he’d left ‘with his nose fair out of joint’. But I thought it more likely that Papa had gotten into a war of words with someone—probably someone senior. Because he was always unable to apologise or back down if he thought he was right, Papa may have felt it was impossible to stay. Or maybe he was asked to leave for the same reason. My brother Donald thinks it was because the prior of the seminary in Aberdeen would not allow my father to have a fire in his room, despite his lung complaint, and that my father complained to the bishop. That may be so. If my father thought he was right, he would brave hell itself, even if Our Blessed Mother asked him not to. I suppose that is admirable.

I suppose, too, it must have been a difficult time for him upon his return. Suddenly cut off from the career he had so successfully been crafting for himself, suddenly returned to the family he had not seen, except in short visits, since he was 12—a family which had adjusted itself to his absence and must now adjust itself to his intensely alive presence.

Papa’s return to the family fold was not successful. Still, perhaps Papa emigrated to Australia—instead of America, which most Scots at the time were choosing—because affection remained between him and his family. He had known of their plans to immigrate to Australia, which they did a year later. So, unlike the children of most immigrants, I was lucky enough to have both sets of grandparents around as I was growing up. God alone knows what would have happened to us without them.

Too many questions remain unanswered—you would think I would know more about my father, wouldn’t you? I was told stories—by him and by his parents—but even as a child it seemed to me that there were things unsaid behind the stories, family secrets and passions that were hidden behind simple explanations, fit for a child’s ears. By the time I was an adult my grandparents were dead and my father and I rarely spoke at any length. So the story of my life—tightly bound up in my parents’ lives and the decisions that they made—is partial, in both senses of the word. It is seen through my eyes only, with almost certainly too little compassion and too little understanding.

Now that all I can do is lie here and remember, I must try to be just, and not let old anger or grief or despair colour my thoughts. If I succeed it will be due to the grace of God.

There were times of pure joy, in the early years. My family was happiest when they were together praying or worshipping God, especially if there was singing.

In 1845, when John was eight months old and I was three-and-a-half, the Catholic community in Melbourne finally completed a church—St Francis’s.

‘It’s a party for God,’ my mother said, and held me up so I could see the blaze of candles, the choir, the procession of priests clothed in rich colours winding up onto the altar. ‘It’s the first time this church has been used and we’re celebrating.’

‘Can I blow out the candles?’ I asked, and didn’t understand why my parents laughed, but I laughed along with them.

The whole church was alight and everyone was singing. I felt dizzy and happy and wild. The incense smoke drifted upwards, fragrant and intoxicating. I followed its path into the soaring heights of the church ceiling and my head spun.

‘Are you joyful, Maria Ellen?’ Papa asked. Papa was the only one who called me by my full baptismal name. I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. ‘Then God is with you. God is always with us when we feel real joy.’

I thought, I must be
full up
with God. There have been other times I’ve had that wonderful feeling. My first Holy Communion, the first time I heard Father Woods celebrate Mass, my first class in the stable at Penola, taking my vows to be a nun, my meeting with the Holy Father ... so many, many times I have been
full up
with God. God has been very good to me.

I smile as I think it, and the sister who is trying to give me a sip of water smiles back, a little uncertainly.

But from those early years, my next memories are of death—Grandfather MacDonald, my mother’s father, fell into the Plenty River on his way home from our farm. Papa found him and carried him in to the kitchen, dripping wet, staggering under the weight of his body. Grandfather’s lips were blue, his eyes half-open, and the water trickled from his slack mouth. I remember Papa’s face as he laid him down on the kitchen table.

I was five. I had loved my grandfather and he had loved me but I didn’t cry. I saw Papa’s face, Mamma’s too, and thought
I have to look after them. If I cry, it will be worse for them. I must be strong.

So I was strong. All through the next two days, through the funeral (we children weren’t allowed at the graveside) and the wake. I looked after John and Maggie and played with our new baby, Alick. I stopped them bothering Mamma. At the time, I was proud of myself for not ‘giving in’ and crying. Now I know I was just fighting my grief, as even children can do.

I couldn’t fight forever. The night after the funeral, I was lying in bed with Maggie and suddenly I realised that I would never see Grandfather again. Never.
Never.
That first sob racked my whole body. It does, the first sob of grief. It rises from the pit of the stomach, tearing the throat open, twisting the mouth awry—soundlessly at first, as you fight for air, then bursting out, burning, bringing the tears with it.

My mother heard my sobs and came in to comfort me. I clung to her and we cried together, then we prayed.

‘You will see Grandfather in heaven, Mary,’ she said. ‘And he is looking over you, taking care of you, right now. Always.’

I could tell that she believed it utterly. It was a huge relief. Anything my mother believed so completely must be true. Her soft hands stroked the dampness away from my cheeks.

‘Grief is natural, my lamb, and nothing to be ashamed of. But for someone like Grandfather, we can be glad too, because we know he is in heaven.’

She rocked me in her arms until I fell asleep.

Mamma needed the comfort of belief a great deal that year, because only a few months later my little brother Alick died. He was 11 months old.

Years afterwards, when Father Geoghegan would sing ‘Molly Malone’ round the fire on a Saturday night, I would leave the room. I wouldn’t bear to hear the words, ‘she died of a fever and no-one could save her’. That was Alick. Even now, I can’t bear to think of it.

But what do those memories tell me? Why would the Holy Spirit bring them to my mind? They are memories of the ebb and flow of life. Perhaps they should remind me that our later vicissitudes were also part of that flow, a natural thing as a fever is natural, inevitable as the will of God.

In September, 1847, when I was five-and-a-half, we lived at Darebin Creek, outside Melbourne. Aunty Margaret’s husband, Sandy Cameron, had finally finished the house on Penola Station in South Australia. He had taken up a selection there in 1844 and for three years had cleared land and built a house for Aunty Margaret, while she stayed with Granny Ellen and Grandfather John, my father’s parents.

When the house and the farm were established enough to support Aunty Margaret and my three cousins, they packed up all their things and moved to South Australia. It was a big wrench for my grandparents, and for Mamma, too. She and Aunty Margaret had been friends ever since the MacKillops had arrived in the colony, about a year after my father emigrated. By that time he and my mother were already married. Like everything else with my father, that courtship was a swift and passionate event. They were married within a month of meeting!

Aunty Margaret had been as much a part of my life as my grandparents and we had all looked forward to Uncle Sandy’s visits from South Australia. He would arrive like a fresh wind, laughing and calling out for us children before he was even out of the saddle. He always brought something for us—honeycomb from native bees, an Aboriginal stone axe, or strange shells from the desert. He smelt of tobacco and leather and another scent, which I thought of as ‘hugeness’, because everything about him seemed larger and louder and more intense than other people.

Uncle Sandy is a legend, now, in Penola: the founder of the township, the ‘big man’ who brought civilisation to that part of the bush. He was an astonishing man, I realise, looking back, with enormous energy and intelligence. He also had a deep respect for others, which showed in his treatment of the native people on his land.

I learnt a great deal from him, later, about bringing plans to fruition.

When I was five, though, it was his grins and his hugs and his loud, energetic voice that I would miss. And Aunty Margaret’s cuddles and griddle cakes.

My grandparents threw a huge party and I think every Scot in the colony attended, and half the Irish, too. Everyone knew Sandy Cameron—and if they didn’t, they knew his uncle, Black Sandy. Besides, Black Sandy was a publican and they could be sure of getting a decent dram at any party he supplied.

Uncle Sandy and Papa sang old ballads and all the Scots danced reels and strathspeys. There were fiddlers and drummers and a piper—oh, how I loved to hear the pipes echo out across the Australian paddocks! It seemed to bring the two halves of me together, a Scottish thistle rooted in Australian soil.

Papa made a speech farewelling Uncle Sandy and Aunty Margaret, ‘...whom we shall miss as the desert misses rain,’ he said. ‘Whom we shall think of as often as we think of Home. Who will still walk with us and smile at us in our memory until the happy day when we shall see them again.’ Then he grinned. ‘And who will no doubt take South Australia and give it a good shaking up—raise your glasses to Sandy and Margaret Cameron, the King and Queen of Penola!’

‘Safe journey!’ everyone said, and ‘God bless you!’ and ‘The Blessed Virgin watch over you!’ and drank a dram. We children had lemonade, tangy and sugary. In the morning Aunty Margaret and Uncle Sandy, their children, and the two station hands my uncle had employed in Melbourne trundled off in their wagons. We were left with the cleaning up, but many guests stayed on for lunch and it was not so sad a day after all. I didn’t pay much attention to the adults’ talk of Penola. It was so far away it seemed to me a fairytale place, like Edinburgh or London. Twelve years later it was my home, and later still the beginning of the Institute of St Joseph. Perhaps it was a fairytale place after all, where dreams could come true.

There were other happy times. Uncle Peter MacKillop married Julia Keogh when I was six. We already knew her—I’d known her even before Uncle Peter, because she was our neighbour Mrs Seward’s sister, and Adeline Seward was my best friend.

Adeline and I sat together during the wedding service, with Maggie holding my hand on the other side. Aunt Julia looked so pretty, with her dark hair and blue Irish eyes. I had to stop Maggie from following her up the aisle. Adeline giggled. Adeline always giggled.

My baby sister Annie cried all through the service (she was only two months old then), but Aunt Julia only laughed afterwards and cuddled her. I could see that she loved babies and little children. Uncle Peter watched her with Annie and beamed.

‘Ah, you’ll soon be having bairns of your own,’ my granny said, and Aunt Julia blushed and laughed and held Uncle Peter’s hand.

We first met the L’Estranges at the wedding breakfast. Mrs L’Estrange was Aunt Julia’s older sister. She also crooned over Annie, clearly wanting a baby of her own. And there’s a strange thing that shows the workings of the mind of God. If Aunt Julia or her sister had had children, my life might have been quite different. Poorer, more frightening, less distressful, more so, who can tell? I have experienced such a tangle of need and help and hardship and love that I cannot tease it apart.

At the time, our families became good friends. Mr L’Estrange was as fond of books and learning as Papa, and was planning a big library in his new house, which he called Erindale. I remember our first visit to Erindale, not long after the wedding. It was a large, lovely house in bluestone, but the field around it was still bare.

‘Don’t you worry,’ Mrs L’Estrange said. ‘I’ll soon have it as green as old Ireland.’

I thought it was the grandest house I had ever seen. Only a year later, I went to live there, and the entwining of my life with the L’Estranges’ began in earnest.

By the time I was seven I was the eldest of four children (not counting little Alick). The youngest was Annie, a toddler then. Why send a seven-year-old away from her family for an extended stay when she was so needed at home? I wondered.

Oh, I wondered.

Arriving at Erindale, I clutched Papa’s hand, half-excited and half-afraid. I didn’t understand why he was leaving me there. Mamma had said it was for a holiday, but why weren’t the other children coming, too? Did Papa and Mamma want to get rid of me? Perhaps they would leave me at Erindale forever. Though I couldn’t believe that, there was a thread of fear that began to unravel in my mind. I was not to find out the real reason for my stay until years later.

When Papa and I arrived at Erindale, Mrs L’Estrange came down the bluestone steps and held out her arms to me. She was thin and pale, but she smiled, and I knew her from visits to Aunt Julia’s, so I walked into her arms and kissed her cheek. She held me tightly, as if afraid I’d run away.

‘We’re very glad you could come and visit us, Mary,’ she said in her soft Irish accent. I could hear she was telling the truth. ‘We’ll have a lovely time,’ she added. ‘We can go on picnics and play with dolls—wait until you see the dolls I have upstairs! And you can ride on my horse if you want.’

Immediately I forgot my fear. ‘A horse? Can I see him now?’ How jealous Maggie and the others would be if I came home riding on a horse! Our horses at home were much too big for children to ride. Besides, they were constantly out on the run with Papa and the men. I loved our horses, though, and stole every moment I could from my chores to watch them.

Mrs L’Estrange laughed and took my hand. ‘Come along then,
mavourneen,
we’ll go to the kitchen and get a carrot for Misty.’

I took Papa’s hand and he came, too. Misty was a small grey, neat and quiet—a lady’s horse, but well mannered enough for a child, Mrs L’Estrange said. Papa lifted me up to the horse’s warm, bare back and I laughed down at him. He grinned at me, his auburn head thrown back. I felt my love for him like a full stomach after a lovely meal.

Papa had a chat afterwards with Mr L’Estrange. Then, before he left, he came to say goodbye.

‘Now, Maria Ellen,’ he said, ‘you’ll be a good girl, I know.’

I nodded. I wanted to ask him why he was leaving me. My eyes filled with tears and Papa put his arms around me.

‘Oh, sweetheart, don’t cry. It’s just for a little time. Then you’ll be back home, safe and sound with us, I promise.’

So he would come back for me. I knew that Papa always kept his promises, so I smiled at him. He kissed me goodbye, and Mrs L’Estrange came to hold my hand.

‘Let’s go down and see the baby calves, Mary,’ she said.

But I waited until I couldn’t see my father’s wagon any longer before I turned away and went with her. I think that was the first time I had any serious doubts about my father’s perfection.
Of course,
I told myself,
he wouldn’t have brought me here if it wasn’t the right thing to do.
But ... oh, I was sad and lonely at first, and he hadn’t realised that I wasn’t big enough to be left. If Papa hadn’t realised that, what else didn’t he know? It was a disquieting thought, and I pushed it away.

Instead, I threw myself into riding lessons on Misty. How I loved that horse. I don’t remember the actual lessons, but I remember the feel of his coat, the smell of horse and stable, the smooth leather of the reins between my fingers. I remember how sore my bottom was after I learnt to trot! The skills I learnt stayed with me, though, all through my life, and there have been many times I was glad of them.

I don’t remember much more about being at Erindale, except that I had fun but missed my family—especially my mother. And, of course, I remember the night the beautiful lady came to kiss me goodnight.

Because she had guests for dinner, Mrs L’Estrange hadn’t come up to kiss me goodnight and tuck me in as usual. She had told me she would be up later, after dinner. Without her I missed my mother so—my mother with her soft Highland voice and gentle hands. I missed my father and my sisters and brother. I was homesick and lonely and felt forgotten by Mrs L’Estrange.

My misery was a hot river in my chest that flowed out of me as I sobbed into my pillow—those huge sobs that feel like they’re tearing your throat apart. That was the loneliest moment of my life. Nothing that came afterwards could ever be as bad, because I had the memory of that night to comfort me.

I don’t remember my bedroom door opening, but when I looked up I found a beautiful lady bending over me. What did she look like? I have never been able to describe her, except that she was beautiful. She bent down and kissed me on the forehead. She smoothed my hair back from my eyes, just as my own mother did. Then she said, ‘Don’t cry, Mary, my child. I will always be a mother to you. I have known you would be one of mine since the day of your birth.’

At the time I thought it was the lamp in the passage that outlined her head with light. But a moment later, when she was gone, the door was still shut and it hadn’t opened to let her leave.

The next day, at breakfast, Mrs L’Estrange apologised to me for not coming up to kiss me goodnight. By the time their visitors had finished dinner and she had come to my room I had been asleep.

‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘The other lady kissed me good night.’

‘What lady?’ Mr L’Estrange asked. ‘There was no other lady here last night, just some old business friends of mine.’

‘Yes, there was,’ I insisted. ‘A beautiful lady.’

I told them the story.

‘Just a dream,’ Mrs L’Estrange said, but Mr L’Estrange looked at her oddly.

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘And maybe we’ve been blessed.’

When I saw my family at Sunday Mass, I told them about the beautiful lady.

‘Ah, it was the Blessed Virgin Mary, no doubt, comforting the poor wee bairn,’ my grandmother said.

As I grew older, I wondered if Granny was right. I would never claim it was so. Part of me has trouble believing that I could be so singled out, so blessed. To say out loud that the Blessed Virgin had visited me would be putting myself on a par with the saints, and that would be a grave fault of pride—not to mention commonsense! But in my darkest times, the lady’s voice returns to me. And it was as though that experience sank into my heart and made me sure, later, that I was meant to devote my life to God. So even if it were a dream, I am sure it was a dream sent by God.

Although all my memories of the year I spent at the L’Estranges’ grew cloudy with time, that memory stayed newly minted and bright. That sense of being totally loved, protected and watched over. It has stayed with me. I am lapped by it as if by warm water. God’s love, the love of Our Blessed Virgin, those were the waters I swam in that night and have done so ever since.