The Black Dress Read Free Page B

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