Sisters of Freedom

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  Her father looked over, eyebrows half raised at Ivy, and she knew he was encouraging her to raise the idea of pursuing her art but she didn’t have the nerve. It seemed a rather trivial purpose once more.

  ‘You need to broaden your horizons. Come along to the rallies and listen, and read like Frankie and Aggie,’ Harriet continued, ramming Ivy’s sense of inferiority home. ‘Like what you find or not. The laws are against womankind and that includes you.’

  Ivy nodded, torn between relief that the conversation seemed to be ending as her mother stood up, and guilt that she wanted it to. The strain of the moment was interrupted by Pretty Boy.

  ‘Ignoramus. Ignoramus.’

  He said it with a quizzical cock of his head and looked so cheeky it broke the tension. ‘He’ll never let us forget that word now,’ Ivy said, unable to hold back a giggle.

  ‘Oh dear. That could get us in trouble, especially if Father Brown ever drops in,’ Albert said, chuckling too.

  ‘I might have to take Pretty Boy with me next time I go by the presbytery,’ Harriet suggested as Albert rose to make his way outside to smoke his pipe. Ivy couldn’t help being further amused at the idea of her mother striding past the conservative priest with Pretty Boy crying ‘ignoramus!’ from her shoulder. Her father was still smiling too but he also looked a little worried. Knowing Harriet, she wasn’t joking.

  Three

  Sydney University, 24 December 1901

  Patrick Earle figured he must be the only student stupid enough to be studying on Christmas Eve but he wasn’t really there to improve his marks come next year. He was there for the cricket. Professor Jacobsen was announcing the Sydney University first-grade team to go on interstate tour. Patrick figured he may as well study as he waited for the list to be posted outside the library. Not that he was getting much done. The historical significance of court structure and writs hardly had his attention, especially since he’d seen Ivy Merriweather that morning in a Christmassy red hat, standing on his doorstep with an invitation to her birthday ‘box’ party, her gorgeous smile in place. That the girl was a knockout was an understatement and the image of her as he’d opened the door, coupled with the cricket team announcement, left scant room for boring facts.

  The party promised to be a good one, set down at Apple Tree Bay on New Year’s Day, which seemed a fitting birthdate for so unique a person. They’d have to lumber down the forest track in carriages to get there but it was a pretty spot and well worth the journey to bask in Ivy’s presence all day. She was bound to look ravishing in one of her colourful outfits as they played croquet and drank champagne and did whatever else you did at a box party. There was one thing he was definitely keen to do, but would she allow him to give her a birthday kiss? He suspected she liked him but he wasn’t sure she liked him that much.

  Plus he’d have to get past that mad sister of hers first. Frankie would be a looker too if she bothered with herself, but she was always too busy trying to whip the men at sport to show any inclination towards femininity. Feminism, on the other hand, the woman had down pat. Patrick supposed women deserved the vote, he just didn’t want to hear about it from a fired-up blonde all day. The third sister Aggie was just as political, and just as attractive, but she’d been snapped up by his mate Robert years ago and she was also a bit understated for his tastes. No, it was uncomplicated, rainbow-coloured Ivy who had his attention. Ivy and that cricket list.

  Thinking about either made him nervous though, and he stared out the window at the gothic turrets rising against the blue sky, forcing his thoughts towards law after all. How far they’d come in so short a time, especially this momentous year. Not only had Australia gained independence with Federation, influential men and politicians had also formed an entirely new government and agreed upon a constitution. As a budding lawyer, he understood that to be nothing short of monumental. Such things usually occurred when countries were defeated in wars or overrun but all had proceeded rather smoothly in the end, and in peaceful fashion. It was literally history in the making and especially personal to Patrick with his own father involved.

  Maybe that was part of the reason he was so keen to get into the prestigious cricket team. He had a lot to live up to, being Douglas Earle’s son, a man who presided as a judge as well as being a member of the new parliament. A cap in the Firsts would earn recognition and respect, two things very important to him at this point. Hopefully he’d done enough at grade level, earning a batting average of thirty-eight and being a handy spin bowler, taking a wicket in most games. It sounded impressive … didn’t it?

  He was staring up at the clock, wondering how many others would show up to see the list in person, when he heard a familiar voice call out from the corridor.

  ‘It’s up!’ It was his friend Nick Johnson and the announcement caused Patrick’s heart to leap hard. He ran out, shoving books in his bag as he went, spinning with a skid to rush over and see the verdict.

  ‘Barnett, Craig, Earle, Johnson – we made it!’ Nick cried as Patrick landed and they clapped each other on the back as a few others crowded in to read.

  ‘Thank God,’ Patrick said, the relief stronger than he’d expected. His hands shook and he shoved them in his pockets. His father would be proud now, no doubting that.

  ‘Come on, let’s have a drink and celebrate,’ Nick said and Patrick gladly went along. News such as this deserved a beer and, besides, it was Christmas.

  ‘Bloody ripper,’ Nick toasted as soon as the ales arrived at the Royal Hotel and they clinked glasses with a few other mates who’d been selected. ‘Think it’s time for us to sing the club song, lads,’ and so they did, in resounding fashion.

  We are the good ol’ Sydney Uni;

  We are the good ol’ gold and blue;

  Did we win? We shit it in!

  How’d we do it? Eaaaasssyy!!!

  Patrick relished every word, euphoric to consider he’d be singing it all season now, assuming they won their games. Yet surely they were bound to do well, he thought, looking around at the talented bunch who’d made the cut. Nick could really swing a ball and left-hander Greg King was a gun batsman when he was fired up. Predictably most of the talk and banter centred around cricket and their upcoming tour but the topic of women eventually came up. It always did with this lot.

  ‘Did you score an invite to the Merriweather do?’ Nick asked Patrick.

  ‘Certainly did, my friend,’ Patrick said, patting his top pocket where the invitation lay.

  ‘Think I might make a play for Frankie this time around,’ Nick said with a grin. ‘She’s bound to succumb to my charms now I’ve made the Firsts.’

  ‘Ha! I suspect envy would override admiration there, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, she can hardly join the team,’ Nick pointed out. ‘Women simply can’t play like men.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say anything along those lines either,’ Patrick told him. ‘You know how riled up she gets over women’s rights.’

  ‘A feminist, eh?’ Greg piped in. ‘Not sure I’d be too interested in a bluestocking.’

  ‘You might be if you saw her,’ Nick said. ‘Anyway, I can hardly try for Ivy. You seem to have cornered that little filly nicely.’

  Patrick was pleased with that but he tried to shrug it off. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe? She was hanging on your every word at Mariel’s party, half your luck,’ Nick added. ‘Bloody good sort. All that red curly hair and alabaster skin.’

  ‘Alabaster skin,’ Greg said with a sigh.

  ‘Wouldn’t mind seeing more of it,’ Nick said, with a cheeky glance over at Patrick, ‘especially past the neckline.’

  ‘Watch your tongue there, Johnson,’ Patrick warned.

  ‘Woah, what colour’s green then?’ Greg teased.

  ‘Someone under your royal skin, highness?’ Nick said, laughing.

  Having the last name Earle and a parliamentarian as a father often prompted such jokes.

  ‘Just, you know … she’s a lady.’

&nb
sp; ‘She certainly is, a bloody gorgeous one and sexy as hell with those cherry-red lips,’ Nick said, trying to goad further, Patrick knew, but this time he didn’t bite. He threw back the gauntlet instead.

  ‘So’s her sister.’

  ‘How many of these merry girls are there, then? Any left over for me?’ Gerard Fawkner, the team’s wicketkeeper, asked hopefully as he delivered another round of beers.

  ‘Not if I score Frankie and he gets Ivy. The third one is already taken by Pat’s old school chum.’

  ‘Bugger. A good looker too?’

  ‘They all are,’ Nick confirmed. ‘Like Neapolitan ice cream, or close enough: cherry, vanilla and chocolate. A redhead, a blonde and a brunette. Imagine getting the hat-trick,’ he said with another grin at Patrick over his glass.

  ‘Ladies,’ Patrick reminded him again firmly.

  ‘They certainly, certainly are.’

  The banter and talk of cricket and girls continued until, a good half-dozen ales later, they were on the train home, singing the club song, laughing at how nervous they’d been and their new good fortune. Then they sang carols. ‘Deck the Halls’ and ‘Good King Wenceslas’ rang out above the clatter of wheels, but none of the other passengers seemed to mind, and so Patrick disembarked at Hornsby Station that afternoon in good cheer. A cap for the Firsts, an invitation from a much sought-after merry girl and now dinner tonight with his hopefully proud father. Life felt good for Patrick Earle this Christmas. Very good indeed.

  Frankie was fed up with waiting but she forced herself not to fidget as she watched the editor, Gerald Forsyth, read her latest article. At least he had noticed her today, as predicted, but staring open mouthed and slightly horrified at her bright purple hat didn’t necessarily bode well. He seemed to be finished at last and Frankie held her breath.

  She’d taken her time with this one, outlining everything she could find on the plight of unwed mothers in northern Sydney, which was topical with the release of Maggie Heffernan from prison that week. Vida Goldstein, the woman behind it, was a powerful figure in Australian feminism, and Frankie’s heroine. She’d successfully saved poor Maggie from a death sentence – a girl from country Victoria who’d been left penniless on the streets with a starving newborn baby, and had chosen to quietly drown it in the Yarra rather than watch it slowly die in her arms.

  Vida had managed to rally the public and gather twelve thousand signatures asking the Crown for mercy, and so it had been granted. Frankie considered Maggie’s timely release a Christmas present to all Australian women – sympathy for the tragic girl was high, despite her crime, and Frankie suspected the article she’d written would be widely read if published. However, as the editor raised his eyes and pinned her over his glasses, she knew immediately that the conservative man before her wouldn’t print the piece.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit much, Miss Merriweather. Perhaps if you’d chosen to focus on what services are provided for such young women …’

  ‘I can’t write fiction, Mr Forsyth. There are no services.’

  ‘Surely you’re exaggerating.’

  ‘Unless a hospital or charity takes them in, they’re completely at the mercy of the streets, and believe me, few are so fortunate. It’s one of the main reasons the prisons are so crowded.’

  He gave her a derisive look at that assertion. ‘The government isn’t turning its prisons into nurseries for the illegitimate children of unwed mothers, Miss Merriweather. I suggest you choose a less controversial theme if you want to be taken seriously by the newspapers.’

  Frankie swallowed the angry words that threatened to spill out, opting for persuasion instead. ‘Controversy sells papers, as I understand it.’

  ‘It also exposes them to ridicule and possible litigation, neither of which I am willing to risk,’ he said with finality, glancing at his fob watch. ‘At any rate, I must wish you good day now, Miss Merriweather. The office closes early for Christmas and the staff need to lock up.’

  He stood, dismissing her, and Frankie glared at him. She stood too, ramming the purple hat on her thick hair.

  ‘Well, I’ll just have to see what the Herald has to say then.’

  He merely smiled in condescension, as if to say that her chances were non-existent. ‘Goodbye, Miss Merriweather.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ she gritted out before turning and leaving. Stupid, dratted man.

  Frankie stomped her way outside, holding on to her hat lest it fly off in the strong hot breeze and cursing under her breath as she strode down the dusty main street of Hornsby, past the post office, the dentist, the menswear store and the grocer.

  ‘Of all the insufferable, prawn-faced …’ she fumed as she avoided a stack of crates filled with fruit from the local orchards and rounded the corner near the Railway Hotel.

  ‘Woah there,’ said a familiar voice as she collided with a young man. Papers went flying, adding to the confusion, and she yelped and ran about catching them, still cursing.

  ‘Tarnation, oh lord … not the trough.’

  By the time she’d retrieved the final dripping page of her story from the water trough outside the hotel quite a few of the locals were watching on, and Patrick Earle was handing over what he’d managed to chase down after knocking into her.

  ‘One way to meet ’em, mate,’ drawled a flannel-shirted man as he leant against the post, his grin wide. It was Billy Higgins, one of the timber cutters from Old Man’s Valley. His wife Emma volunteered at the orphanage where Aggie worked so Frankie felt obliged to give him an awkward nod. She arranged the sodden papers in her arms as she did so, prompting amused chuckles from the small audience of beer-swilling men surrounding him.

  ‘My heartfelt apologies, Frankie …’ Patrick spluttered.

  ‘No, no, it was my fault, I’m sure,’ she said, but her annoyance was plain, even to her own ears.

  ‘I’m afraid I was in a bit of a hurry to get home …’

  ‘It’s fine, really,’ Frankie replied, still flustered but looking at him properly for the first time as she pushed back her escaping hair. He was slightly dishevelled himself and the patrons she was trying to ignore nearby weren’t the only ones smelling of beer. ‘Been … out, have you?’

  ‘Oh. Well, yes, as a matter of a fact. I had to go into the university.’ He spoke coherently but there was certainly a detectable slur, now that she noticed it.

  ‘University, was it? On Christmas Eve?’ she said, stashing the paper in her bag now and throwing it over her shoulder. He had enough manners to appear abashed and she raised her eyebrows, waiting. If Patrick Earle wanted to court her sister he’d have to show a little more propriety than this.

  ‘On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me,’ sang Joe Collins, the man who drove the grocers’ dray through the gorge and another familiar face.

  ‘A partridge who’s rather merry,’ finished Billy.

  Frankie glared at the two of them and the line was quickly amended. ‘Not very merry today, it seems,’ Billy said as the other men chuckled. ‘A few ruffled feathers, in fact, I’d say.’

  ‘The peacock seems a bit ruffled too …’ Joe observed to general laughter and Patrick stumbled slightly to face them.

  ‘Gentlemen, if you don’t mind,’ Patrick said with some semblance of dignity as he led Frankie away, his hand at her elbow. ‘I do apologise for that.’

  Frankie merely raised her eyebrows again and put a little distance between them so he could no longer touch her. ‘They’re harmless enough, although you do seem rather … merry yourself this afternoon, I must say,’ she ventured.

  Patrick paused and she knew he was choosing his words carefully. It was quite enjoyable, watching him be brought down a peg or two. He was always so annoyingly confident, and more than a little pompous, in her opinion. The working lads at the hotel may be rough around the edges, and not men she and her sisters would be likely to associate with, but at least they weren’t snobs, as she was beginning to suspect Patrick might be.

  ‘The fell
as and I had a few ales in town,’ he admitted, looking a bit sheepish, but then his usual cockiness resurfaced. ‘I’ve had some rather good news today, actually.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve been selected for the First Eleven interstate tour for Sydney University.’ He was obviously very chuffed about the news and with good reason. It was quite an achievement and Frankie tried not to feel jealous.

  ‘Congratulations,’ she said. What she wouldn’t give to play in a real team and be celebrated for her achievements, let alone study law there herself. The dean of the law school wouldn’t allow female students to enrol, although one woman was fighting her way through. Ada Evans had somehow slipped in and was looking at becoming the first woman to earn a law degree in Australia, perhaps as soon as that year, yet so far Frankie hadn’t been able to copy her successes. Frankie was eligible to sit for an arts degree, however that seemed like a consolation prize in comparison. How unjust, the opportunities denied the fairer sex. It made her blood boil even further as she shifted her bag filled with soggy, rejected words to the other shoulder and endured Patrick’s gloating.

  ‘Can’t wait to tell Father. I was more than a bit nervous about it, let me tell you; felt like they’d never post that list today but they did, finally, and my name’s on it so it’s all official.’

  ‘What a feeling that must be,’ she managed, striding forwards even more forcefully than usual.

  ‘Yes, it is rather,’ he said, tripping slightly as he matched her pace. ‘Good grief, do you always walk this fast?’