Sisters of Freedom

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  ‘Time and tide wait for no man … or woman,’ she replied brusquely.

  ‘A pity they don’t let women play,’ he said, seeming to pick up on her envy. ‘You could outpace the best of them and I’ve seen what you can do with a bat.’

  ‘Yes, well, give us enough time and we’ll change that too,’ she told him. He didn’t respond but failed to hide a smirk and she recognised what it signified. Feminism obviously bored the man. Another mark against him. ‘Anyway, until then you can pave the way for Sydney with the men. Who knows? You may even end up playing for New South Wales or Australia.’ She’d hoped that comment might humble him but he only seemed encouraged.

  ‘Yes, you never know what the new year has in store,’ he said cheerfully, grinning at her now. He still appeared a bit drunk but, annoyingly, the grin made him appear more handsome too. That was pretty much the last thing she wanted to be thinking so she changed the subject.

  ‘There will be a wonderful party to start it off, at any rate.’

  Patrick’s grin remained as he kicked at a pebble and it scuttered across the wide dirt road. The corner where she would turn for home was coming up and Frankie braced herself for a good two minutes of hearing how lovely her younger sister was. How colourful. How pretty. Ho hum.

  ‘Yes, I’m very much looking forward to it. Ivy dropped the invitation around herself in what I must say was a very fetching hat.’

  ‘She has a few of those. I was forced to wear one myself today.’

  ‘I was going to say … I mean, it is rather bright, for you,’ he observed. ‘The one Ivy wore was red. It even had some holly on it,’ he added, rather dreamily.

  ‘I’m surprised she didn’t stick an entire Christmas tree on her head,’ Frankie muttered and he paused to look at her in surprise before bursting into laughter.

  ‘You know, I think she could actually pull that off.’

  Frankie giggled too then, the image too comical not to.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll wear something marvellous to her box party. Perhaps a gigantic present?’ she suggested and he laughed again.

  ‘She’s a gift enough in herself,’ he said, all charm once more.

  ‘Yes, she is that.’ Frankie had to agree.

  ‘I’ve been wondering,’ Patrick said, ‘what exactly is a box party?’

  Frankie shrugged. ‘Oh, she read about something similar somewhere and dreamed up the plan. She loves the theatrical notion of bringing lots of mysterious boxes down to the bay filled with goodness knows what.’

  ‘A change of hats, perhaps?’ Patrick suggested.

  ‘Hats, gowns, shoes. Anyway, I’m sure she’ll be the centre of attention no matter what she wears.’ She hadn’t meant to sound so suddenly petulant and tried to soften it with a smile.

  Patrick looked at her with a side glance. ‘You know, there’s one fellow coming who’s rather interested in paying attention to you.’

  Frankie momentarily slowed down, face flaming before she marched back on. ‘I seriously doubt that.’

  ‘It’s true. Heard it from the horse’s mouth this morning.’

  ‘Does he look like a horse?’ she joked, but the blush burnt. She was used to being considered a chum, not a woman who attracted suitors. And hardly one who wanted to.

  ‘Not really,’ he said, appearing to consider the comparison. ‘He runs rather like one though, which hampers his scoring ability terribly, but he’s good with the ball. Excellent in fact. Made the team too.’

  ‘Not Nick Johnson?’ Frankie said, slightly incredulous and stopping altogether as they arrived at her street.

  ‘One and the same,’ Patrick confirmed.

  ‘But … but he always tries to run me out or smash my bowling around …’

  ‘Yes, funny that.’

  Frankie gaped. ‘I thought he just saw me as a … a friend. You know, one of the boys.’

  Patrick tipped his hat, facing her as he backed away. ‘It’s hardly my place to say, Frankie, but I don’t think any man sees you as that.’

  He turned and left then and she stared at his retreating back in astonishment, not just at the news that a young man was interested in her romantically, but because Patrick Earle had just done something she’d never thought she’d hear him do: he’d paid her a compliment.

  Four

  Sisters of Mercy Orphanage, Waitara

  The curtain was flapping in the hot breeze and Aggie tiptoed towards it, breath held as she carefully lowered the window pane to ease the sound of Eddie and the other older children outside. The infants were almost all asleep although six-month-old Annabel, their newest charge, had fought against it, her big brown eyes watching Aggie intently as if asking her to promise to still be there when she awoke. It had prompted Aggie to stroke her soft cheek and smile until the baby’s lids lowered trustingly, leaving Aggie teary, a familiar chasm forming inside.

  ‘Tea,’ she whispered to herself, casting Annabel one last look before squaring her shoulders and walking quietly away. The nursery was becoming a trap of late and she had no time to become ensnared. Least of all today, of all days.

  Aggie headed down the open-air brick hallway that linked to the kitchen where the rare wafting scent of stewing fruit in sugary syrup tantalised her. The children would have it with custard tonight and Aggie wished she could see their rapturous expressions as they tasted it; a wondrous Christmas Eve treat for tastebuds usually deprived of sweet fare. Even the fresh, juicy apples of Father Brown’s orchard were denied them, although Eddie didn’t seem to mind risking the odd covert mission to pinch a few. His voice reached her and Aggie paused to look out at the grassy apron where Eddie was standing on a pile of rocks and swinging a stick about as he sang loudly. The others watched on.

  We three kings of Orient are

  Drinking beer and smoking cigars

  Fully loaded we exploded

  Drunken and full of farts …

  ‘Blessed saints – Eddie!’ exclaimed Sister Judith, rushing over. ‘Get down from there at once, you naughty boy. Such language!’ she scolded as she went, waggling an angry finger, her black habit flapping. Aggie moved on, smiling at how much Eddie was like a young Frankie. Some people were just born to a life of mischief-making.

  The kitchen was busy today with two local women in attendance. They’d ostensibly volunteered to cook and prepare but Aggie knew they really worked in lieu of paying school fees, which few in the parish could afford. The nuns ran the local school next door as well, which doubled as the church, and they also had the convent to maintain along with the nearby presbytery. Father Brown seemingly had no qualms in extending their duties to cleaning, washing and cooking for him as well.

  It wasn’t an easy life for the Sisters of Mercy, by any means, Aggie reflected as she put on a fresh apron and joined the women in the kitchen, and without the help of volunteers it would certainly be a lot harder. However wondering how the nuns would ever cope without her if she did leave wasn’t an advisable train of thought either so she forced herself to focus on the job at hand instead.

  Ham and duck were both baking in the oven, a donation from Aggie’s parents, and the large wooden table was covered in vegetables as the women peeled and diced and shelled, chatting endlessly as they worked. Unlike the Merriweather girls, who had attended the prestigious Anglican Abbotsleigh Ladies College down the road, these two women had been raised Catholic, local and poor. They knew each other well and the conversation was usually just gossip and chit-chat, topics that came as welcome relief to Aggie. Unlike in her family, no complex debating occurred here, just easy friendship as they discussed their husbands and children, but there were undercurrents when it came to chatting about their vegetable gardens. These precious plots were essential to their families’ survival but they also inspired quite a bit of rivalry. As such the produce before them was being prepared with a mixture of envy and pride.

  ‘Goodness, that’s big enough to feed the lot of them,’ Aggie observed, eyeing the massive pumpkin they were cuttin
g up.

  ‘Only won second prize though,’ Tessa Collins lamented, pushing down hard on a wedge and grimacing. ‘Coulda sworn I had you this time, Emma, but it wasn’t to be.’

  Emma Higgins looked smug at the admission but she replied politely enough. ‘It was awful close, I’m sure.’ Aggie picked up a knife of her own as the woman continued. ‘It’s a pity those sons of mine don’t work as hard at getting ribbons for fare but there y’go. It’s all about the woodchopping, ain’t it?’ she said with a grunt, pumpkin skin splitting. ‘I swear, if I have to hear one more word about that bloody Royal Easter Show … ’scuse the French.’ Someone else cleared their throat as they walked behind her and Emma turned and blanched. ‘And yourself, sister.’

  The mother superior, Sister Ursula, merely raised an eyebrow as she passed through but it was enough to leave Emma pink-cheeked. No-one liked to be in the bad books with the sternest of the convent’s nuns. Aggie was a bit scared of the woman herself, but Sister Ursula’s discipline was needed sometimes, especially when it came to keeping young Eddie in line. He was no doubt about to get a serving for his Christmas carol antics. The sound of a man’s raised voice outside indicated she’d been beaten to it, however, and the three women exchanged glances before going over to the window to see what was going on.

  ‘Disgusting boy!’ Father Brown roared. ‘Hold out your hand.’ He held a leather strap high as Eddie looked up at it fearfully. The other children stood watching, each little face terrified, and Aggie’s heart went out to them. Aggie had the run of the nursery most of the time but the school-aged children were firmly under the jurisdiction of the nuns and sometimes, unfortunately, the priest. There was nothing she could do but watch.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ the priest demanded, his black-clad form menacing as he towered over Eddie. The child slowly raised his arm, his fingers visibly shaking even from a distance.

  Aggie held her breath and Emma made a sign of the cross as Tessa muttered alongside.

  ‘Bloody brute.’

  Eddie squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the cruel strap to slice the air and land upon his bare palm, but then a voice carried across the grounds.

  ‘Father Brown, a word if you please.’

  It was Sister Ursula, her black robes fanning around her as the hot summer breeze whipped them about. All eyes turned towards her as the priest lowered the strap.

  ‘I am doling out punishment at the moment, sister, so it will have to wait.’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot let that happen,’ she said, immoveable and undeterred. ‘The bishop has clearly stated that he doesn’t want the reputation of our priests sullied by menial tasks such as school discipline.’ She held her chin high. ‘Eddie, go to my office at once. I will deal with you myself.’

  Eddie ran off before anyone could stop him and Father Brown glared at Sister Ursula.

  ‘In this parish my authority is final,’ he said angrily.

  ‘Of course, Father. Pardon me for not acting sooner myself on this matter and saving you from feeling you had to do such a distasteful act.’

  The priest straightened, red-faced above his white collar, but he could hardly argue the logic of her words when they were based on the bishop’s orders.

  ‘Very well, sister, I will leave you to it. Just make sure you keep these orphans in line during mass tomorrow. I’ll not have the congregation scandalised by their unholy behaviour on Christmas Day,’ he stormed before walking away, leaving the stunned children to gape at his retreating back.

  The women quickly returned to their stations as Eddie ducked through the kitchen. Sister Ursula soon followed and not a word was spoken until she closed the door behind her.

  ‘Well, good on her, I say,’ Emma whispered.

  ‘She needs to watch those children like a hawk around him,’ Tessa whispered back. ‘I remember what he did to Charlie Beatson a few years back, poor lad.’ Aggie had heard about it too. Father Brown’s strap had given the boy two broken fingers, and he’d ended up being billeted into trade not long after, despite being only eleven years old. Sister Ursula had arranged it, making sure he was well out of the priest’s way.

  ‘Eddie almost copped the same,’ Emma said with a shudder. ‘Why that boy doesn’t keep his nose clean.’

  ‘He’s just trying to entertain the others half the time, I think,’ Aggie said, ‘even though I’ve tried to warn him to behave. He’s a smart boy and he acts up because there’s not much else to do, outside lessons.’

  ‘Idle hands and all, it’s true enough if you ask me,’ Tessa agreed, picking up her knife again and continuing with her work. ‘Some men never grow out if it, neither. Take our husbands. Once the crates are delivered, my Joe seems to find nothing better to do with himself but drink at the pub with Tessa’s Billy. Tsk, can’t see no rhyme or reason for such a sinful waste of time.’

  ‘True, true, it starts young and it keeps on going. Not everything makes sense to we women,’ Emma observed, ‘although Billy doesn’t usually start work until after breakfast. Your Joe is up before the birds. You’d think he’d be too tuckered out, starting so early, although Barney’s the same.’ Both Tessa’s husband Joe and Emma’s brother Barney worked for Fagan Orchards out at Galston, with Joe picking up Barney at the creek most mornings as he drove his dray through the perilous Galston Gorge from Hornsby. The track was carved straight through thick rainforest and filled with ‘more hairpins than a debutante’ as Tessa liked to say, which meant setting off at four to deliver the produce to the trains by nine. ‘At least Barney is well up the river before he has his grog. How does Joe make that long drive back without nodding off to sleep if he’s stopping to drink beer at the pub along the way?’

  The valley where the Collins family lived was difficult terrain to traverse, and the question prompted a wry smile from Tessa. ‘To tell you the truth, Chompers knows his own way home. Last week that horse pulled up with Joe fast asleep and snoring away in the back. God knows how long he’d been there.’

  Aggie chuckled and Emma noted with amusement, ‘So long as he gets the job done, I ’spose, awake or no.’

  ‘I always thought that man could sleep through anything, although I never figured it’d be his job,’ Tessa said wryly as she slid the chopped pumpkin into the pot. ‘At least he comes home in one piece and gives me the coin.’

  ‘True enough. How’s that fruit coming along?’ Aggie asked her and Tessa brushed her hands and went over to check.

  ‘Looks good to me,’ she said, stirring the contents and breathing in the sweet aroma.

  ‘Might be an idea to get those potatoes washed now, I’d say. I’ll put this pumpkin on too, although I’ll need to get you to watch it,’ she said as she hefted the pot to the stove and stoked the fire below. ‘I have to head out soon, I’m afraid,’ Aggie told them, trying to sound nonchalant. In the three years she’d volunteered her she’d never missed a day’s work and sure enough curious eyes were raised her way.

  ‘Where you off to then? Christmas shopping, is it?’ Tessa asked.

  Aggie hesitated before nodding but it was probably the best excuse, if one that would cause possible resentment. Being affluent wasn’t something she liked to highlight around these women, especially at Christmas time. Their children would be given simple, handmade gifts at best, and wouldn’t be attending the carols and the following party on Rosemead Road tonight, as enjoyed by their wealthier neighbours.

  Sure enough, the topic of gift-giving inspired the next topic of conversation and Aggie’s guilt increased with each rag doll and second-hand pair of shoes discussed. It was hard not to feel guilty, working here, at this time of year especially. Hard not to feel resentful on these women’s behalf, too. They worked tirelessly as mothers and wives, with no pay for any of their backbreaking efforts, and little appreciation from their husbands who expected no less. They took whatever other work they could get as well and Tessa confided that she’d somehow managed to afford a longed-for pink satin ribbon for her daughter Molly.
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  Something in her tone tugged at Aggie’s heart, causing the chasm inside to return. For they had love in abundance, these women, despite the hardships they endured – the adoring smiles their children bestowed upon them were treasures only a mother could ever receive.

  Aggie heard a horse and cart approaching and looked out to see her husband arriving with a cheerful wave. A small crowd of children ran to greet him and climbed up for a short ride down the drive. He was a favourite when he dropped by occasionally to pick her up, especially with the boys whose only adult male influence was Father Brown.

  Robert always took the time to throw a ball or listen to their stories and jokes, unfailingly kind and patient while they clamoured for his attention. Just like now, Aggie observed, watching him allow Shirley Bennett to put tinsel on his hat as he picked up Johnny Hayes for a piggyback across the yard. Eddie came through the kitchen then, his expression woebegone, and Emma nodded outside at Robert. He followed her gaze and his face split into a grin as he took off through the building to greet him.

  ‘Robert!’ he called and Aggie saw her husband laugh as Eddie ran across the grounds and launched himself against him.

  ‘Hey Eddie, how’s it going, little mate?’

  Robert made slow progress with so many children upon him and the sight of him approaching like St Nicholas himself deepened the chasm inside Aggie to almost physical pain. She tried to ignore the feeling as Tessa came over and stood beside her, knife still in hand as she peered outside.

  ‘He’s a natural with ’em, and that’s a fact,’ Tessa observed quietly as the sound of Emma’s chopping echoed behind her. Aggie merely nodded, swallowing hard before untying her apron and turning around.

  ‘Back soon,’ she announced before briskly walking out, bracing herself for the verdict she and Robert would soon hear; knowing that only time would reveal if Christmas would bring them the most precious of gifts or leave them forever empty-handed.

  Five

  Cicadas rang and small feet pounded the street but for once Frankie didn’t envy the neighbourhood children the fun of being young enough to still race to each letterbox for the next carol. She felt rather strangely grown up this Christmas Eve as she followed along, keeping pace with her family for once, and she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the concept. Not at all, in fact. ‘Grown up’ had connotations for women, paralysing ones Frankie was unwilling to face.