The Black Dress Read Free

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.

OCTOBER, 1845—MELBOURNE
    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