passion between my parents. It was discreet, but ever-present. It crackled between them all through my childhood like sheet lightning presaging a summer storm. I suppose it explains a good deal about them: the quick marriage, the children in swift succession, my mother’s patience with Papa’s faults, the disintegration of their marriage when passion, as it can, waned in their later years. It makes me wonder now how Mamma felt about that long separation when Papa went Home. It must have been hard on her in many ways that I, as a child, could not imagine.
***
It was September in 1851, and the weather was turning warm, before we finally received a letter from Papa, posted from Rio de Janeiro. He sent his love and said that Mr McLaughlin was becoming very ill indeed. Mamma looked sad.
‘Mr McLaughlin is a man who values family, and he has none here in Australia,’ she said, when I asked her why she was sad. ‘I suppose it’s only natural he would want to die at Home.’
Die. Papa had taken Mr McLaughlin Home to die. I thought about that, on and off, for days. Dying was such a serious thing, it made it easier to understand why Papa had gone with him. I couldn’t feel quite so angry with Papa.
‘We shouldn’t judge people,’ I told John. ‘We don’t always know the truth of why they’re doing things.’
John nodded solemnly and then shrugged. ‘Can we go down to the creek, Mary? It’s warm today.’
So we went down to the little creek that fed into the larger Darebin Creek and busied ourselves making a dam.
I didn’t like going down to the creek, although the others loved it. I couldn’t help remembering Grandfather MacDonald. I kept a close watch on John and Annie. I couldn’t bear the thought of them laid dripping on a table. But that didn’t stop me from putting a tadpole down John’s back.
‘Eerk! Mary, you beast! Get it out!’
John yelped and wriggled trying to get it out and Annie and I laughed until we had to lie on the ground to get our breath back. He finally pulled it out of his shirt and chased us with it until it died. Then he put it in his pocket.
‘John!’
He grinned. ‘It’s a present for Maggie!’
We laughed some more.
On our way back to the house I thought again about Papa’s letter.
Mr McLaughlin was dying. Little Alick, my baby brother, dead only a few months after Grandfather. How lucky it was that all my family were in Australia. There’d be no need for any of them to travel back to Scotland to die. Not that any of us were going to die. Of course not. But there were shipwrecks. Pirates. Storms. There was the damp and cold of Scotland—perhaps Papa would catch an ague. There were the tropics through which the ship would pass. Malaria, dysentery, and yellow fever—I didn’t know what these things were but I knew that some of every ship’s company did not make it through the journey.
Mamma’s own brother had fallen overboard while suffering from a bout of typhoid fever on their journey out, and some other passengers had died. Mamma and Grandmother and Uncle Donald had been in quarantine for weeks after they arrived in Australia.
Every morning and evening, at family prayers, we prayed for Papa’s health and that he would be returned to us safely. I prayed hard. At those moments, all I could think about was Grandfather’s face that day when Papa laid his body on the table, and Alick, all cold and pale in his best dress, laid in his shroud, with Mamma weeping silently as she placed the cloth over his face, the tears dampening the white cloth and turning it grey.
Death is a grief to the living, but to the dying it can be a promise. I am growing impatient again, but I suppose God knows what he is doing, keeping me here so long. I must have more work to do.
We were not a long-lived family. Maggie died when she was 29, John at only 22. Lexie was 33 and Peter, the youngest of us, was 23. Annie and Donald and I are the only ones left now. The others will seem so young
***
It was September in 1851, and the weather was turning warm, before we finally received a letter from Papa, posted from Rio de Janeiro. He sent his love and said that Mr McLaughlin was becoming very ill indeed. Mamma looked sad.
‘Mr McLaughlin is a man who values family, and he has none here in Australia,’ she said, when I asked her why she was sad. ‘I suppose it’s only natural he would want to die at Home.’
Die. Papa had taken Mr McLaughlin Home to die. I thought about that, on and off, for days. Dying was such a serious thing, it made it easier to understand why Papa had gone with him. I couldn’t feel quite so angry with Papa.
‘We shouldn’t judge people,’ I told John. ‘We don’t always know the truth of why they’re doing things.’
John nodded solemnly and then shrugged. ‘Can we go down to the creek, Mary? It’s warm today.’
So we went down to the little creek that fed into the larger Darebin Creek and busied ourselves making a dam.
I didn’t like going down to the creek, although the others loved it. I couldn’t help remembering Grandfather MacDonald. I kept a close watch on John and Annie. I couldn’t bear the thought of them laid dripping on a table. But that didn’t stop me from putting a tadpole down John’s back.
‘Eerk! Mary, you beast! Get it out!’
John yelped and wriggled trying to get it out and Annie and I laughed until we had to lie on the ground to get our breath back. He finally pulled it out of his shirt and chased us with it until it died. Then he put it in his pocket.
‘John!’
He grinned. ‘It’s a present for Maggie!’
We laughed some more.
On our way back to the house I thought again about Papa’s letter.
Mr McLaughlin was dying. Little Alick, my baby brother, dead only a few months after Grandfather. How lucky it was that all my family were in Australia. There’d be no need for any of them to travel back to Scotland to die. Not that any of us were going to die. Of course not. But there were shipwrecks. Pirates. Storms. There was the damp and cold of Scotland—perhaps Papa would catch an ague. There were the tropics through which the ship would pass. Malaria, dysentery, and yellow fever—I didn’t know what these things were but I knew that some of every ship’s company did not make it through the journey.
Mamma’s own brother had fallen overboard while suffering from a bout of typhoid fever on their journey out, and some other passengers had died. Mamma and Grandmother and Uncle Donald had been in quarantine for weeks after they arrived in Australia.
Every morning and evening, at family prayers, we prayed for Papa’s health and that he would be returned to us safely. I prayed hard. At those moments, all I could think about was Grandfather’s face that day when Papa laid his body on the table, and Alick, all cold and pale in his best dress, laid in his shroud, with Mamma weeping silently as she placed the cloth over his face, the tears dampening the white cloth and turning it grey.
Death is a grief to the living, but to the dying it can be a promise. I am growing impatient again, but I suppose God knows what he is doing, keeping me here so long. I must have more work to do.
We were not a long-lived family. Maggie died when she was 29, John at only 22. Lexie was 33 and Peter, the youngest of us, was 23. Annie and Donald and I are the only ones left now. The others will seem so young
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