through Luke and was on to Matthew. ‘Save John for last,’ Mamma said. ‘He’s the most beautiful.’
Would I have worked so diligently if Papa had still been there? Would I have learnt the beautiful cadences of the Latin so thoroughly? I have lost my Greek now, but thanks to the Mass my Latin still sings in my head. Gloria in excelsis ... For many Catholics, the whole Mass is an exercise in faith, because the Latin words swirl over their heads in vague torrents of meaning: this pattern is the Gloria, this pattern the Confiteor, this one the consecration. For me, each word is meaningful and that meaning has been a source of joy my life long. If Papa had been home, would I have worked so hard to master it?
***
In July, 1851, when I was nine years old, we travelled to Melbourne and stayed the night for a big party at the L’Estranges’ to celebrate Separation.
‘I know what Separation is,’ John said proudly to Mrs L’Estrange. ‘It means we’re not Welsh anymore!’
He was rather upset when everyone laughed at him. The truth was that permission had come at last from London to make Melbourne a separate colony, no longer under the control of Sydney. John was right, we were not New South Welshmen any more. We were part of Port Phillip colony. The new colony would be christened ‘Victoria’ in honour of the queen.
There was music and dancing and lots of delicious food. The men wore cutaway jackets and talked about how the colony would forge ahead now we had control of our own destiny. The women put on their best dresses with hoops under the skirts.
I had wanted a new dress, too, but Mamma had said we could not afford it. ‘Not just at this minute, Mary,’ she said, and I knew it was because Papa had still not returned. But I got a new pink sash for my old dress, and Mamma did my hair in ringlets.
Mr L’Estrange said I was the prettiest girl in the room.
I grinned at him. ‘I’m not really,’ I said. ‘Look at Adeline Seward.’ Adeline was dressed all in pink and white frills. Like a doll. Mr L’Estrange hugged me. It felt good to lay my head against his shoulder. He was always easier to hug than Papa. ‘I prefer my redhead,’ he said. ‘When are you coming to stay with us again?’
‘Not just at this minute,’ I said. ‘Mamma needs me.’
Mr L’Estrange made a strange noise. Like a cow burping, I thought with a private giggle. ‘Humph. Well, you’re right about that. Are things going all right on the property?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘Uncle Peter comes out every Sunday and gives the men their orders.’
‘Hmm. Well, if you ever need any help, you come to me, Mary.’
I shouldn’t need to. Papa should be here to help me if I need it ... But Papa is missing this, I thought with satisfaction, and then forgot about him as Mr L’Estrange swung me into the Pride of Erin that was starting up. I danced like a gypsy all night. I loved to dance, loved the swirl of the music and the beat that came up through the soles of my feet. The whirling and the twirling and the breathlessness. That night was the best night I’d ever had.
***
Pretty clothes and dancing—well, I suppose I missed them a little when I became a nun. The dancing more than the clothes. I was too busy to even think about clothes. But sometimes, when I was invited to a wedding and the fiddler started up, my foot would tap under my habit and I would wish to be out on the floor. I knew my young postulants missed it. Sometimes, newly entered young girls would ask me, wistfully, ‘Why can’t we dance too, Mother Mary?’
They were always shocked when I explained, ‘Because dancing like this, man and woman together, is about courtship and the marriage bed, and we are married to God already.’ Their faces would go blank with surprise that I would talk so frankly, and I’d laugh. They thought that I wouldn’t know of such matters—as if a girl raised on a farm would not know!
Apart from that, there was always a deep
Would I have worked so diligently if Papa had still been there? Would I have learnt the beautiful cadences of the Latin so thoroughly? I have lost my Greek now, but thanks to the Mass my Latin still sings in my head. Gloria in excelsis ... For many Catholics, the whole Mass is an exercise in faith, because the Latin words swirl over their heads in vague torrents of meaning: this pattern is the Gloria, this pattern the Confiteor, this one the consecration. For me, each word is meaningful and that meaning has been a source of joy my life long. If Papa had been home, would I have worked so hard to master it?
***
In July, 1851, when I was nine years old, we travelled to Melbourne and stayed the night for a big party at the L’Estranges’ to celebrate Separation.
‘I know what Separation is,’ John said proudly to Mrs L’Estrange. ‘It means we’re not Welsh anymore!’
He was rather upset when everyone laughed at him. The truth was that permission had come at last from London to make Melbourne a separate colony, no longer under the control of Sydney. John was right, we were not New South Welshmen any more. We were part of Port Phillip colony. The new colony would be christened ‘Victoria’ in honour of the queen.
There was music and dancing and lots of delicious food. The men wore cutaway jackets and talked about how the colony would forge ahead now we had control of our own destiny. The women put on their best dresses with hoops under the skirts.
I had wanted a new dress, too, but Mamma had said we could not afford it. ‘Not just at this minute, Mary,’ she said, and I knew it was because Papa had still not returned. But I got a new pink sash for my old dress, and Mamma did my hair in ringlets.
Mr L’Estrange said I was the prettiest girl in the room.
I grinned at him. ‘I’m not really,’ I said. ‘Look at Adeline Seward.’ Adeline was dressed all in pink and white frills. Like a doll. Mr L’Estrange hugged me. It felt good to lay my head against his shoulder. He was always easier to hug than Papa. ‘I prefer my redhead,’ he said. ‘When are you coming to stay with us again?’
‘Not just at this minute,’ I said. ‘Mamma needs me.’
Mr L’Estrange made a strange noise. Like a cow burping, I thought with a private giggle. ‘Humph. Well, you’re right about that. Are things going all right on the property?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘Uncle Peter comes out every Sunday and gives the men their orders.’
‘Hmm. Well, if you ever need any help, you come to me, Mary.’
I shouldn’t need to. Papa should be here to help me if I need it ... But Papa is missing this, I thought with satisfaction, and then forgot about him as Mr L’Estrange swung me into the Pride of Erin that was starting up. I danced like a gypsy all night. I loved to dance, loved the swirl of the music and the beat that came up through the soles of my feet. The whirling and the twirling and the breathlessness. That night was the best night I’d ever had.
***
Pretty clothes and dancing—well, I suppose I missed them a little when I became a nun. The dancing more than the clothes. I was too busy to even think about clothes. But sometimes, when I was invited to a wedding and the fiddler started up, my foot would tap under my habit and I would wish to be out on the floor. I knew my young postulants missed it. Sometimes, newly entered young girls would ask me, wistfully, ‘Why can’t we dance too, Mother Mary?’
They were always shocked when I explained, ‘Because dancing like this, man and woman together, is about courtship and the marriage bed, and we are married to God already.’ Their faces would go blank with surprise that I would talk so frankly, and I’d laugh. They thought that I wouldn’t know of such matters—as if a girl raised on a farm would not know!
Apart from that, there was always a deep
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