Theresa let that information soak in for a moment. ‘Or perhaps never tell me at all.’
Sister Carmel cast her eyes down and tapped at the letter. ‘I’ve prayed on this matter and I must do what is right,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot watch you follow a religious vocation without knowing you have other choices in life.’
‘Won’t you be in trouble for telling me?’ Theresa asked, knowing the answer.
Sister Carmel lifted her gaze and it was soft with affection. ‘Never you mind about that.’ She stood shakily and handed her the letter. ‘Vocation is a calling, girls, not a command.’ She walked to the door, turning to Theresa before she left. ‘Ask for your possessions, child, then decide what you want in life. I’m sure that is what your grandmother would have wanted.’
Missy followed the old nun out to help her down the stairs, giving Theresa a moment to open the envelope and read the few lines contained within. It was a simple letter, written in the old nun’s hand, summarising the words she had just spoken and ending with Sister Carmel’s typical kindness:
I put these things away for you many years ago on your grandmother’s behalf and if nothing else you deserve to hold these traces of her love. May God bless you and guide you always.
Her grandmother. How Theresa had wondered about her and then to find out after all these years that there were possessions, things that belonged to her, was too exciting to believe. And then there was another emotion. There was anger. She walked to the window and clenched her fists. How dare they withhold this from her? It should have been given to her when she’d turned twenty-one and she knew full well that they were probably planning not to tell her. Father O’Brien had always been inclined to recruit the orphan ‘graduates’ into the church, seeing it as a bounty provided by God. She wondered how many nuns and priests he’d procured in this way. Well, not her! And not Missy either. If this grandmother of hers had left her anything valuable she’d sell it and buy tickets to Sydney where they could fulfil Missy’s greatest dream of taking to the stage and start living at last.
Mother Superior may well say ‘God will provide’ but it was Sister Carmel who had proven it to be true.
Theresa stared at Father O’Brien’s door. Next to this dreaded office Mother Superior’s seemed like a picnic spot. She raised her hand, determined not to be intimidated by him, and knocked, trying to still her racing heart rate.
‘Enter.’
The priest finished what he had been writing and looked up at Theresa in mild surprise.
‘What is it, Theresa?’
‘I wonder if I might have a word, Father,’ she said, trying to inject an air of confidence into her tone.
‘Take a seat,’ he instructed, sitting back and looking rather impatient. ‘Although I haven’t long, so you’d best be brief. I expect you’ve come to tell me of your decision to take your vows.’
Theresa decided she might as well just come out with it then. ‘No Father…I’ve come for my possessions.’
She saw a flicker of surprise that he quickly masked.
‘Who told you there are possessions held for you?’ he asked coldly, remaining behind the enormous desk, his fingers pointed upwards together in a small tent.
‘Aren’t there?’
Father O’Brien seemed to wrestle with himself before replying. ‘For what purpose would you seek to sort through a trifle of possessions?’
‘Please, Father, it would be of comfort to have them.’
He narrowed his eyes, replying in a dismissive tone, ‘Comfort comes from prayer, Theresa. I cannot allow you to squander your soul on seeking a material life when a life of servitude and redemption awaits.’
‘Yes, Father, but I believe it is my soul to squander or otherwise, and as a legal adult I am entitled to have my grandmother’s things, as little as they may be.’ She stared him down, quaking internally but determined to fight for herself and Missy.
‘The Lord has spoken to us on the issue of piety many times, Theresa. Have you forgotten your namesake?’
Theresa reached up and touched the medal about her neck. The nuns had told her she’d been wearing it when she arrived. It was St Therese of Avila.
‘She spoke of the way to perfection, and lived a life serving God through poverty and prayer. Would you throw away this opportunity to live spiritually?’ He leant forward, casting what he knew was his ace upon the table. ‘What would you rather, the comfort and safety of your family here in the church or the coldness of life in a world waiting to take advantage of an innocent such as yourself? Come now, Theresa, let us have no more talk of such nonsense. Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and to God the things that are God’s. Think no more upon worldly things, my child.’ He rose, considering the subject closed.
‘You say they are but a trifle of possessions, so why do you fear they will lead me to a material life?’
He glared at her, unused to people arguing with him. ‘Even a trickle can run to a stream. What if you take these things and buy a small amount of shelter or clothing. What then? The flesh is weak and easily seduced, particularly for women, who haven’t sufficient sense when it comes to the practicalities of survival. I cannot allow you to be vulnerable upon the streets.’
Anger flooded her face. ‘I have the sense God gave me. As you say, St Therese lived a life for God – in fact she started her own religious order and it seems to me she had a firm grip on the practicalities of survival, even if she was just a woman.’
Father O’Brien’s cheeks turned red and he spat his words back. ‘St Therese was blessed. There were miracles that shaped her life that you cannot possibly compare to your own! She was a saint–’
‘Yes, but she was simply a woman once–’
‘Enough! I will pray upon the matter.’ He flung up his hands and sat back down but she remained where she was and responded in a clear voice.
‘Then I shall wait.’
Twenty minutes later she walked out of the presbytery and down the street to the hospital, stunned at her victory but not daring to look inside the deliciously large box until she and Missy had safely locked their door and sat down. Running up the stairs and along to their room she saw Missy waiting, her eyes so wide at the sight of the box that Theresa burst out laughing, telling her to be careful or they might fall out. They placed it carefully between them on the bed and Theresa paused for a moment to savour the wonderful anticipation. It was like opening an incredible Christmas present and, even though it was March and Missy wasn’t technically her family and her grandmother wasn’t actually alive, this felt like her very first family Christmas.
She’d witnessed a real family Christmas once, at a beautiful house where Sister Carmel had taken her and Missy to join her cousin’s charges, some other orphans from northern Sydney. It had felt like a wonderful dream as they’d lived like rich children from a privileged world for one whole day.
But now it wasn’t someone else’s family. It was hers.
She opened the lid and they saw that each item had been carefully wrapped in tissue paper. Theresa imagined it had been Sister Carmel who’d taken such care with them. Then she noticed a large envelope to one side and drew it out, opening it to find a registration form, filled out when she’d arrived back in 1916. They read it together, incredulous Theresa had never been shown it before.
Date: 21st of November, 1916
Child’s name: Theresa Jones
Parents: Deceased
Next of kin: Unknown
Hair: Blonde
Eyes: Brown
Date of birth: 4th of June, 1914
Age: Two years, five months
Documentation: Ticket of passage of child and grandmother confirms name, age and parents’ deaths.
Comments: Grandmother, Georgina Jones, aged fifty-nine, died mid voyage of a suspected heart attack. Child was not claimed upon arrival. Attempt to contact next of kin at registration address returned to sender.
Then, in a different handwriting, there was an ad
ditional comment. Child speaks some words in French.
Theresa stared at the words, desperately turning the page over for further clues, but that was all there was.
Missy gaped at her. ‘French?’
Theresa knew she had come off a ship and been taken to the orphanage after the death of her grandmother, but she had never been told she’d spoken French, only that the ship had sailed from London. She’d always assumed she was English.
‘Perhaps there are more clues in the box,’ Missy said hopefully and they began to unwrap each item eagerly.
One by one the precious treasures were revealed: a silk scarf, a bottle of French perfume, some soft cashmere gloves, a hand-embroidered child’s blanket and a large carved jewellery box. It was the last that caused the most excitement and the two exchanged glances before Theresa lifted the lid to reveal the contents inside. It was strangely almost empty, save four items: a gold ring, a heavy and very ornate gold watch, a string of pearls and a photograph. She picked up the photograph and stared at it as the image of her baby self smiled back, her face covered in what appeared to be chocolate, the medal shining about her neck. So I had it even then, she thought, holding it. It must have been from her mother. Theresa felt tears prick at her eyes. She had never seen a photo of herself as a child before. Tracing the image, she felt an aching sense of grief for the little girl in the picture who had no inkling what harsh days lay ahead.
‘Is there anything written on the back?’ Missy asked, but it was blank. They searched the contents again but there were no other clues as to her family, or her history.
‘It’s almost as if she was trying to make sure no one knew anything about me,’ Theresa finally sighed.
‘Look!’ Missy pointed to the corner of the blanket and they read the initials in confusion. EC.
‘Perhaps it was second hand.’
Theresa shook her head. ‘No. Not this dame,’ she said, holding up the pearls. ‘She really was trying to hide me. She didn’t even use our real address.’
‘EC. I wonder what your name was. Enid? Elizabeth? Elspeth?’
She held the holy medal, guessing her grandmother had used it for inspiration for an alias. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m Theresa now.’
‘Erica?’
‘I guess we’ll never know.’ Theresa shrugged sadly. ‘So,’ she brightened up and looked into the box, ‘what do we sell and what do we keep? We’ll need money for train tickets, the first month’s rent and some clothes of course. Can’t go to Sydney looking like a couple of hobos…What is it, Missy?’
She had begun to cry. ‘You mean we are really going?’
‘We certainly are, and you can sing and dance to your heart’s content! Unless you’d rather live in the jungle with the leeches…Personally I’m betting there will be leeches in the city too, big male ones, but I’m sure we’ll be smart enough to recognise them when they come along.’
Missy laughed and they hugged each other over the box that might not have held all the answers to the past, but certainly held the ones to the present.
Thirty-five
Kings Cross, Sydney, September 1939
Missy and Theresa were late for work as they tied the straps on their shoes and rushed out of their flat. Not that they ever called it a flat as such, it being not much more than a room with two beds, a stove and a wardrobe with a bathroom on the side; they just called it home, and lovingly so. It might have been tiny but they well used to small living quarters and besides, it was theirs, and that was all that mattered.
It had been two and a half years since they’d moved to the big city after their rebellion against the church. Theresa often looked back on those few days in wonder, still marvelling at the drastic turn her life had taken. Holding her medal she offered up a quick prayer to St Therese before running along with her handbag swinging.
‘If only Mother Superior could see us now!’ Missy laughed, flashing her new costume at her before tying her coat tight.
If only she could indeed, Theresa mused, thankful they were now well away from the nun’s penetrating gaze. She shuddered to think how she and Father O’Brien would judge them now.
The bright lights welcomed them as they jumped off the bus and ran down the street, giggling as Harry and Rick called after them, their heels tapping against the bitumen.
‘Just a quick drink before work!’
‘No, we’ll be late!’ Theresa called back as Rick began to sing along with the wireless coming out of a terrace window, running after them.
‘You must have been a beautiful baby,’ he caught up with them, swinging from the pole in front of her, ‘’cos baby look at you now!’
‘Stop it, you silly man!’ She laughed at him. ‘Missy and I have a show in half an hour.’
‘Any free tickets for a fella who’s dizzy for a dame?’ he implored, catching her hand.
‘No, not for the likes of you,’ she teased, ‘and since when did you become an American?’
He stroked her palm. ‘Since they say all the best lines in the movies to capture a sheila’s heart.’ He grinned at her, stealing a kiss. They’d been seeing each other for a few months now and Missy had been stepping out with his friend Harry. Secretly Theresa felt she was falling in love for the first time.
‘Catch ya after the show then?’ He nuzzled her ear and she giggled again.
‘Shhh!’ Missy waved her hands. ‘There’s going to be a message from the Prime Minister.’
People stopped alongside as they stood still in the street to listen, a stiff breeze filling the pause until Robert Menzies’ voice washed over them.
‘Fellow Australians. It is my melancholy duty to inform you officially that in consequence of a persistence by Germany in her invasion of Poland, Great Britain has declared war upon her and that, as a result, Australia is also at war. No harder task can fall to the lot of a democratic leader than to make such an announcement…’
Theresa stood frozen. Surely it wasn’t possible, she thought, the same sentiment echoing on the faces around her.
‘…we are therefore, as a great family of nations, involved in a struggle which we must at all costs win and which we believe in our hearts we will win.’
So there really was going to be another war after all. How could the world fall into conflict again so soon? Theresa saw the defeated slump of an older man, perhaps a veteran, and wondered if he had sons to send. A woman with a pram lifted the baby out and held it, brushing at her tears. Then Missy caught Theresa’s gaze with large worried eyes.
‘Strewth,’ said Rick, ‘well that’s it for me then.’
‘Will you join up?’ Theresa asked, fear clawing at her.
‘Course I will. Did ya hear that, Harry?’
‘Yeah I heard. Guess my old man’ll be happy I’ve got a job at least. Hey, gorgeous.’ He put his arm around Missy who allowed him a kiss, her eyes full of tears. ‘Come on, we’ll make short work of the bastards. Everyone knows Aussies are the best fighters around, eh, Rick?’
‘Too right!’ Rick slapped Harry on the back.
Theresa watched them, feeling sick. Why were men always so ruled by their lusts? Lust for fighting, lust for women, lust for drinking and gambling. Mother Superior had been right about that much all those years.
‘Come on, Missy, we have to go.’ Theresa grabbed her arm and they ran down the street, agreeing to meet the fellas afterwards to ‘celebrate’.
Arriving at the nightclub, they unbuttoned their coats quickly. They had become used to the scantiness of the costumes over time, acknowledging that it was the norm here in the Cross, but at first they had felt naked and sinful. Even the underthings they’d worn as nurses covered more than these concoctions. But the pay was good, more than nursing anyhow, and they had to start somewhere in the industry if Missy was going to be a success.
They hoped Mac hadn’t noticed how late they were. He had. Rounding through the door he loomed above them and Missy began to tremble next to Theresa.
‘Mac’ or Ge
rome McDougall was a much-feared man in Kings Cross and with good reason. He shoved them both back, pointing his cigar at them over his large protruding belly.
‘What the fuck kind of time d’ye call this?’ They flinched at the use of the word they definitely hadn’t got used to. The son of Scottish migrants, he had all of his father’s temper as well as his reputation for being a ‘hard’ man, earning four consecutive boxing titles before turning to nightclub ownership.
‘I’m sorry, Mr McDougall. It was all my fault. The radio…they announced that we are at w-war–’ Missy stammered.
‘And what’s that t’do with you, y’useless baggage? Get on out there and tell Clements I said t’dock yer pay.’ Theresa moved to follow but he held one arm across the doorway, blocking her way.
‘Not finished with ye yet, Princess.’ His face contorted into a lascivious leer as he swept his gaze down, taking in her spangled low-cut top and sequined shorts that she wore for that night’s new theme, ‘Aladdin’s Dream’.
‘Rocco’s been asking after ye. Seems to have taken a bit of a shine. Pay him some special attention tonight and I might throw in a bit extra in ye pay.’
‘Yes sir.’ She moved to walk on but he stopped her again.
‘And if he’s wantin’ to take ye upstairs just nod me way and I’ll fix ye up.’
‘I told you before, sir, I don’t do upstairs.’ She felt her palms begin to sweat as he leant in closer, his cigar-ridden breath nauseating her.
‘And I told ye to do as y’ told if ye want to keep y’ job,’ he breathed.
‘In that case I quit.’ She met his gaze squarely.
‘Is that so? Well I hope ye friend feels the same way, ’cos ye’ll both be out.’
Theresa paused. Missy wanted to keep this job, she knew. It had taken a while to learn how to dance and sing the songs and they’d only been working a few months in this club, which was a big step up from the waitressing they’d done in the early months. She’d quickly come to realise being a showgirl really wasn’t for her, but Missy was in her element on stage, her sweet face alight beneath her brown curls. The crowd adored her and she doubted Mac would make good on his threat, especially since Missy had been performing a new popular solo these past few weeks. Then again he had such a hot temper it was difficult to know. She would hate to shatter Missy’s hopes.
Gallipoli Street Page 27
