Forget about Corona – Lets go to Australia
Well it’s almost time! I hope this lives up to your expectations now! It’s a scary time for every writer just before launch.
So here are the the first couple of chapters, to get you in the mood! Enjoy! And don’t forget – it’s out on Friday!
Prologue
October 1, 1933
Bishop’s Palace
Brisbane
Queensland, Australia
Sister Claire,
I hope this letter finds you well, my dear niece, and that you are continuing to enjoy your work at St Catherine’s. I am hearing wonderful things about you and your fellow sisters and the progress you are making in the school there. I’m sure the children of Cork City are blossoming under your tender care.
I am very much looking forward to my visit home. I can hardly believe it has been five years since I was last there for your final vows. A wonderful day for the whole family. Such a pity your granny didn’t get to see it. She would have been bursting with pride to see her little granddaughter joining the Ursuline community.
Your father and I have a lot to catch up on since neither of us are great men for writing letters, even if it is to one’s only brother. Your mother writes every month. If not for her, I’d have no idea what was happening back in Macroom at all.
Life here in Queensland is busy and hot as always, so I dream of the lovely Irish breeze, especially as the summer is coming here. I’m arriving into Cobh – how strange to no longer call it Queenstown – on the fifteenth of December, God willing, and I was hoping to call on you at the convent if it would be convenient? I have a proposal that may interest you.
Of all of my nieces, you are by far the most audacious, and I have a role here that might whet your appetite for adventure, as well as be a unique opportunity to do God’s work.
You probably know that Queensland is an enormous state, and while I am based in Brisbane in southern Queensland, I am 1,500 miles away from the Cape York Peninsula in the tropical north of the country. The area I mention, Cape York, is badly in need of a Catholic school. The town I have in mind is called Jumaaroo, and it is a thriving town as a result of gold mining, which was then followed by logging, sugar cane production and food growing.
There are many Catholic families based there now, Irish primarily but Italian and Polish as well, and there is no school to accommodate them. The parents face the upset of sending their offspring hours away to be educated, and even then, the school is a Protestant one. So you can see, Claire, there is a need.
I propose that you lead a group of sisters to set up a Catholic school in this town. I know you are young and have never taken on such an onerous task before, but I have faith in your abilities.
This is a young country. It is a place where the societal constraints of age, experience, class and family do not hold such sway as they would at home, and you will be accepted and welcomed with open arms.
There is a local man – well, he’s originally one of our own as they say – a Corkonian called Joseph J McGrath, who has very generously offered to build a convent and a school, entirely at his own expense. The gesture is a very welcome one. He is himself a devout Catholic and is anxious that the many people in his employ have access to a quality Catholic education for their children. Thank God for such men.
He is also the mayor of the town, and so you would have his full support. He is married to the daughter of a prominent Catholic family – also of Irish extraction, settlers though, not convicts – here in Brisbane, so the family’s credentials could not be higher. And so it would be with complete confidence in your safety and happiness that I would place you in the care of Mr and Mrs McGrath.
Claire, on a personal note, I genuinely think you would love it here. This is an incredible place, with animals and birds and all manner of divine creation that you would never otherwise see. While I know you had a desire to go on the African missions and do God’s work there, and in this role it will be white Catholics who will receive the benefit of your skills and grace, I promise you this position would fulfil you in a way dealing with natives – regardless of where in the world you would be sent – could never do.
There are natives here too of course. The Aboriginals, as they are called, are managed by other denominations largely, though of course there are Catholic missions as well. But you need not concern yourself with them.
There is a mission, I believe, quite near the town, run by the Seventh-day Adventist Church. They have said terrible things about our faith and are essentially a cult of some description, and so are best avoided. I do not know what they do there, nor do I want to. Our sole concern is for the Catholic families that are at this point without the necessary spiritual guidance that I hope you and the sisters that would accompany you out here can bring.
I know it is a daunting prospect, but I hope I have appealed to your sense of adventure and your deep commitment and vocation to spread the word of our Lord throughout the world.
Fond regards and God bless you,
Rev Bill
The Most Reverend William McAuliffe
Archbishop of Brisbane
Chapter 1
September, 1934
Sister Claire McAuliffe watched as the brass band sweated through ‘Faith of Our Fathers’ in the blistering Queensland heat. She felt sorry for the poor musicians in their elaborate royal-blue and gold woollen costumes, colourful and regal but entirely impractical. They’d been bussed in from Cooktown for the occasion, God love them.
That said, the long black nuns’ habits she and her sisters wore weren’t much better. Their heads covered in tight veils, she and her four fellow sisters sweltered. The people of Jumaaroo had gathered for the spectacle – the arrival of the nuns off the Cooktown bus this morning – and so to wish the ceremony could be over quickly and they could all move to the shade and get something cold to drink seemed churlish. It felt like they’d left Cork years ago. The journey had been demanding and long, and she longed for a meal, bath and bed. Mrs McGrath, the mayor’s wife, had invited the nuns for afternoon tea once the speeches were over, and Claire couldn’t wait. She was so hungry. But people seemed to have gone to such trouble, so she would force a smile on her face and endure the ceremony.
She sat demurely on the podium erected for them, feeling rather like a specimen in a museum placed there for gawping purposes. To her right up the hill was the brand new school, and according to Mayor McGrath, who’d walked up from the bus stop with them, it was built with every convenience in mind. It was going to be a wonderful place to work. She couldn’t wait to see it for herself. There were apparently five large classrooms and four smaller ones. She was to have an office on the second floor overlooking the school playground on one side and facing down the hill to the town on the other. And there was a hall with a stage, a large playground and, beyond it, even a playing field.
Rev Bill, as she’d always called her uncle, now Bishop of Brisbane, had warned her that Jumaaroo was nothing like Cork, and he wasn’t wrong. It was vast, hot and dusty, and so far she’d seen so many things she’d never before encountered. She couldn’t wait to write home and tell them all about it. She could just imagine her father’s sardonic smile at her descriptions of her new world.
The town consisted of one street, about a quarter of a mile long. The shops and businesses traded under a canopy that stretched out over a raised wooden boardwalk footpath, which shielded shoppers from the relentless tropical sun and kept their feet dry from the flooding rain during the wet season. There was a hotel and a grocer’s, a shoemaker and a draper’s, and a large hardware shop that had everything from a needle to an anchor, as the proprietor had informed them when Mr McGrath took them on a tour of the town before the ceremony began.
Beside her, Sister Mary seemed enraptured with the band. Anything musical delighted her, and Claire knew she couldn’t wait to get her instruments unpacked and her music classes set up. Claire didn’t get to choose the sisters who accompanied her on this mission, but if she’d had a choice, she would have chosen Mary. Mary was a sweet girl from Skibbereen in West Cork who missed her mother desperately when she first came to the Ursuline convent in Cork City, but she’d soon settled and realised her vocation was real. Claire and Mary had taught together at St Catherine’s. Mary was slight and short, with the sweetest smile and a tinkling laugh. A natural musician, she loved children and music in equal measure, and the grating noise of early days in violin lessons, or the endless plonk, plonk, plonk of a piano, didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest, though Claire admitted she herself often had to suppress a wince.
Claire wished she could say the same of Sister Gerard, who bristled at the end of the row. The fact that she was so overweight didn’t help her in coping with the heat. She was as sour as Mary was sweet. The Reverend Mother had confided to Claire that the order had proposed the taciturn nun for the move to Australia because she’d slapped the wrong child with the leather rather too severely, drawing the little girl’s blood, and the parents were threatening all sorts. Claire had never met her before that day on the quayside, but throughout the journey she’d been most disagreeable.
Gerard, now in her fifties, was too old for the missions, but the child she attacked had powerful parents and so she had to be removed. She’d complained ceaselessly since the day they left Cobh: It was too hot, she was seasick, the food was horrible, nothing was right. Claire knew she would be the most difficult to manage. Already she was refusing to accept that Claire was the school principal, as appointed by her uncle, the archbishop, and was making executive decisions without consulting anyone.
Sister Helen, who sat beside Gerard, was a mystery. She had come from a convent in East Cork and seemed serene, but she said very little and watched everything. She had pale skin and thoughtful hazel eyes, and there was a serenity to her, a kind of stillness that should be restful but wasn’t for some reason. She was devout, as they all were, and she prayed constantly the entire journey.
Sister Teresita was full of fun. She was from near Claire’s home of Macroom, but about seven miles outside the town, and her accent was so thick it was hard to imagine how the Australian children would have the faintest idea what she was saying. Claire could understand her – she used to hear her father talking to people with that accent at the fair in Macroom every month – but even to the townspeople they were hard to understand. So far, Teresita’s hilarity had been met with blank stares. Claire felt so sorry for her. She was so kindhearted, but it was going to be a struggle.
One of many.
Mr McGrath stood to the side of the stage, awaiting his introduction by a member of the town council. He was tall and handsome, and Claire noted with amusement his charismatic influence on her fellow sisters. Mary blushed when he spoke to her, and even Gerard lost her dour expression and smiled at him. He was very good-looking, she supposed; she was not a great judge of these things, but his dark wavy hair creamed back from his high forehead and twinkling blue eyes were pleasant. She’d been surprised at his accent. She’d assumed he was of Irish extraction by his name, but he wasn’t the son or grandson of immigrants or even convicts – he had been born and raised in Cork. His accent was odd, not city or county but very cultured. His perfect blonde Australian wife, Assumpta, was dressed impeccably, with a powdered face and pink lipstick. She was pretty but seemed cold somehow. She looked as if something unpleasant was directly below her nose at all times. They had three children, a toddler and twin babies.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, Reverend Father, Sisters, boys and girls.’ The short bald councillor addressed the gathered crowd. ‘It is my great pleasure to introduce to you all a man who needs no introduction in Jumaaroo. As we all know, our town, this school and indeed everything that makes Jumaaroo the envy of the state is down to this man. So without further ado, I invite Mayor Joseph McGrath to the stage to officially welcome our community of Irish nuns.’
This was greeted by enthusiastic applause.
Joseph McGrath took the stage, and the spectators instantly hushed.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, Reverend Father.’ He nodded and smiled at Father Bruno, the priest from Strathland, the nearest town over forty miles away. ‘And of course, the Ursuline Sisters, for whom this special occasion is a warm welcome to our town.’ He smiled at them. ‘As you all know, it has long been an ambition of mine to build a school for the children of Jumaaroo. For too long, we have had to send out little ones to board at the very wonderful – but very far away – Saint Xavier’s, and broken several mamas’ hearts here in Jumaaroo.’
This last comment produced indulgent smiles and a ripple of laughter from the crowd.
‘Well, that is no more, as Sister Claire, along with Sister Mary, Sister Gerard, Sister Helen and Sister Teresita, will provide quality Catholic education, not just for the townspeople of Jumaaroo but for the many families in the hinterland. Archbishop McAuliffe has taken a personal interest in our little town, and we are very grateful to him for that. Between us, we have made this school a reality. St Finbarr is the patron saint of Cork, the home not just of Sister Claire and her sister nuns but also of my own family, so it is a source of tremendous pride to me personally that Finbarr, himself a scholar, should have his name remembered here, as far from his home as it is possible to be.
‘And so all that remains is for me to welcome the sisters, to thank them for making the arduous journey and to pledge our support and dedication to their mission.’
The band struck up again as Joseph McGrath cut the ribbon in front of the brand new school building, and the crowd cheered even louder.
They walked in procession to the McGraths’ house, Claire almost fainting from hunger and heat. Everyone wanted to say hello, to welcome them. It was lovely, but Claire longed to get inside and drink something cold.
Her sister Eileen had suggested that she would lose weight in Australia, something that had eluded her thus far, and something she cared not a jot about. Her sisters were forever trying to be thinner, but she loved her food and had enjoyed years of her mother’s cooking followed by many more at the hands of wonderful sisters whose life’s purpose was feeding the nuns in the convent.
Eventually they reached the large house at the opposite end of the town to the school. It sat on a hill and seemed to watch over Jumaaroo. The McGrath house was so luxurious, and the nuns were lavish in their praise as they were led into the drawing room. Assumpta had a nurse and a governess to help with the children, as well as a cook, two maids, a housekeeper and a selection of groundkeepers and gardeners. The kitchen and laundry were in a separate building, for fear of fire, she explained, since everything was made of wood. The house was like nothing they’d seen in Ireland. It had a green copper roof and was built on stilts, which allowed air to flow around it and keep it cool. Inside, there were paintings and fine carpets and all manner of ornaments and antiques. There was a pianoforte, a full baby grand, which Claire could see Mary was itching to get her fingers on, and the walls were adorned with photographs of several generations of McGraths, she assumed, all glowering aggressively from their frames. Though none of them seemed to bear a resemblance to the mayor in any way.
The mayor had been charming and funny on the walk over, but once they arrived at the house, he took his leave – allowing the ladies time to chat, he explained – and withdrew to his study.
Claire’s heart sank when she saw the meagre spread laid out on a beautifully ornate marble table. There were tiny fancies, beautifully iced and presented, but she knew that they would be like a daisy in a bull’s mouth to her. And there was one plate of delicate cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. To add to her disappointment, they were serving hot tea in tiny china cups; she so longed for a long drink of something cold.
Several other ladies had arrived as well and were all sitting expectantly but respectfully silent as Assumpta explained to the new arrivals various aspects of the town, from the weather to dealing with the creepy-crawlies. At the mention of funnel-web, redback and huntsman spiders, the gathered ladies dutifully shuddered. Every time Assumpta stopped speaking, the air in the room seemed charged with the musty anticipation of her next pronouncement.
In one of those pauses that seemed interminable, Claire couldn’t help herself. She gushed about how fabulous the scenery was, how they’d seen kangaroos and a huge snake on the way up from Cooktown. She could tell that the audience were humouring her.
It was one of her many failings, the inability to endure social awkwardness. Her Reverend Mother had pointed out that her need to fill silence with chatter when she was nervous was a most un-nun-like trait. Sisters were supposed to be serene and contemplative, but Claire was impulsive and chatty and often ended up saying too much and cringing afterwards.
‘We even saw an Aboriginal man throwing a boomerang! He was too far away to see his face, but it was so fascinating to watch. It really is a remarkable place – I’m so excited to explore it. Do you know any Aboriginal people, Mrs McGrath? I’d love to meet one.’
Before Assumpta could answer, Gerard interjected. ‘I don’t think any of these ladies would mix with the natives, Sister Claire.’ She turned to the others and gave a saccharin smile. ‘Forgive my sister. She’s never been abroad before and doesn’t know the correct way of dealing with, well…those people.’
‘Quite, Sister Gerard, but I’m sure you’ll be a help,’ Assumpta agreed. ‘To answer your question, Sister Claire, I don’t. My husband employs some of them, caretakers and odd-job men, that sort of thing, but to be entirely honest with you, they are generally unreliable and often untrustworthy. He has employed one to care for the grounds at the convent and the school, and he would have handpicked him. They are not like us – they can’t settle to anything, they wander off mid-task, and following even the simplest instructions is entirely beyond them.’
During another awkward silence, Teresita shot Claire a glance of friendly solidarity. ‘So there are enough Catholic families in the area to fill a school, are there?’ she asked, changing the subject.
Claire exhaled slowly.
‘Oh, yes, indeed. At one stage, when Joseph first came up with the idea, he thought there might not be, that we would have to admit the Italians.’ This elicited a slight eye-roll and a titter from the ladies. ‘But thankfully, it won’t come to that.’
Claire sipped her tea and bit her tongue. Rev Bill might think Mrs McGrath was a pillar of the community from a well-got family, but Claire was finding her hard to warm to.
Chapter 2
Claire dragged herself out of bed, exhausted after another night of interrupted sleep. The stifling heat, biting insects and very different food were playing havoc with her body. The other nuns were suffering too, and all anyone seemed to say was that they would get used to it. She tried to put on a brave face for the others, and their days were filled with preparations for opening the school, but it was exhausting.
Three days ago, she and her sisters had moved in and were shown around by Mr McGrath, who was charming as always and smelled like expensive leather and wood.
‘So I hope you’ll be comfortable here, and if you need anything else, please just call.’
As they’d rounded the corner into the garden, they had almost collided with an Aboriginal man. Gerard had screamed, but Mr McGrath was quick to reassure her. ‘Please, don’t be alarmed, Sisters. This is Daku. He’s part Aboriginal, and he works here. He won’t hurt you, and he’ll stay outside.’
Claire was mortified. He was speaking about this man as if he weren’t there. No introductions were made. She tried not to look alarmed.
The powerfully built man just stood before them and remained still. His thick dark hair, with what looked like copper-coloured ends, was swept back from a high brow and fell in unruly curls to his shoulders. His deep-set, almost-black eyes were wide apart, intelligent and intuitive beneath straight black brows. His skin was the colour of chocolate, and he was clean-shaven. He wore ragged trousers held up by a length of rope, but his chest was bare. He had markings on his upper body and arms that looked like they were drawn with white chalk or something. It was hard to determine his age.
‘Let’s get on, shall we?’ Mr McGrath said, ushering the nuns past Daku.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Daku,’ Claire said, feeling foolish. She didn’t even know if he spoke English.
Did he give a ghost of a smile? It was hard to tell. As she passed him, he slightly inclined his head.
‘So that was a native, or an Aborigine,’ Mr McGrath explained as they gathered in the kitchen after the tour, where Mary made him a cup of tea. ‘Best to avoid them generally if I were you. They can be a bit… Well, let’s just say they take a bit of management. The old one who runs them here, well, he’s a bit daft to be honest. They are big into spirits and spooks and goodness knows what. But if he comes round, just let me know and I’ll have it dealt with. They don’t have any skills, and they have no concept of industry or development. I mean, they’ve been here for thousands of years and they’ve done nothing, achievements are literally zero, so educating them is a priority for the government.’
He took the tea and smiled, making Mary blush again.
‘So will they be coming to this school?’ Claire asked innocently, already knowing the answer.
‘Good Lord, no.’ McGrath chuckled. ‘You’re joking. Do you want my poor wife to have a heart attack?’ He sipped his tea. ‘No, there’s a place out at the coast, a few miles out of town, that looks after them. You needn’t worry.’
They chatted about this and that for a few more moments until he announced, ‘Well, I’m sure you ladies would like me to take myself out of your way so you can set about putting this place together as you’d like it, so I’ll be off.’
Claire saw him out, and as she went to close the door, she noticed a very old Aboriginal man, with long grey hair and a very long grey beard, approach the mayor.
‘McGrath,’ he called, his voice husky.
Mr McGrath sighed and turned towards him. ‘Yes? Can I help?’
The man stood four-square before Joseph McGrath. Though the Irishman was taller, there was an agility and strength to the older man. His sinewy arms were bare and his feet shoeless, but the speed of his movement and the way he squared up to McGrath belied his years.
‘You know what you can do.’ He spoke quickly, almost staccato, and with a heavy accent. ‘You can stop driving my people off our land, you can stop blocking the dam. I know what you are doing, McGrath, and I’m warning you, you need to stop or there will be consequences.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ McGrath spoke slowly and loudly as if the man were either deranged or hard of hearing or both. ‘But if you want to make an appointment, then of course you can come and talk to me.’ He turned on his heel and walked back to his car, raising his eyebrows at Claire and giving her a conspiratorial smile.
This must be the man he mentioned, she thought.
He drove away, and when she’d turned back, the elderly man was gone.
With a sigh, Claire threw back the covers. She had been woken – like she had been every morning – by the incessant arguing of some birds outside the window. She thought she’d seen birds at home, but nothing prepared her for those in Australia: the cockatoos that swooped so close to her head; the kookaburras, so cheeky with their laughing call and the way they flew down and plucked the food from your plate; the enormous jabirus that looked like they were too big to fly and yet they could; the tiny Jesus Christ birds that could walk on water. And she would take to her grave Mary’s blood-curdling scream when, as she was setting up some music stands, a huge prehistoric-looking creature – a gigantic bird over six feet tall with sleek black feathers, a colourful head and huge fat feet – stalked by. Claire had come running at the sound of the other nun’s distress, but one of the children who had gathered to watch the schoolhouse being prepared explained that it was a cassowary. They found the nun’s alarm amusing.
Claire normally loved nature, but the birds outside drove her daft with their loud calls that started at daybreak or before. Mynah birds, galahs, lorikeets and curlews – there were so many varieties, and they were all so loud. She tried to marvel at God’s creations, but it had been weeks since she’d slept the night through and she was exhausted. The voyage had been long, and she’d felt ill for a lot of it, and now that they were here, it was hot, itchy and noisy. At least in bed she wore the linen nightdress of the order. It was white and cool, and despite the oppressive heat even at night, she felt like she could breathe. During the day, the black habit was a trial; they longed for a breeze, even a tiny puff of wind, as respite from the relentless heat.
She sat on the side of her bed as the dawn streaked the morning sky and decided she may as well get up. There was no priest in the village – the nearest one was forty miles away so he only came for special occasions – but she and her sisters rose and prayed together before the day’s toil began. Then they would breakfast together, simple bread and tea and sometimes a boiled egg if one of the townspeople’s chooks, as they called hens, was feeling particularly bounteous. Morning prayers would be at seven and the big old alarm clock told her it was five thirty, but there would be no more sleep for her.
Dressing in her heavy black habit, she noticed her waistband felt looser. Even as a child, her grandmother used to say she was like a ball of butter, but now that she was here, for the first time in her life, she was shrinking. Though by anyone’s standards – she smiled ruefully as she dressed – I am still a short, fat nun.
She checked herself in the mirror and felt no satisfaction at what she saw there. She was no beauty, that was for sure, and she knew her father and mother were proud but also a little relieved when she said she had a vocation. Finding a husband was much easier for her pretty sisters. Her mousey hair was cut short under her veil, and her brother used to tease her that she had a face like a currant bun. Luckily such things mattered not at all to her; she had no vanity in that regard. Her body was a functioning thing, she could walk and even run if necessary, and she could teach. She was sure that her vocation was real. God had called her, and she felt immense gratitude to him for his divine intervention in her life.
She crept downstairs and saw that Mary had soaked the sheets and towels overnight, so she could hang them out on the makeshift clothesline recently erected by Daku. She carried the heavy enamel basin out to the line and realised she had no clothes pegs. She sighed. She could drape the larger things, but the little ones would surely blow away in the breeze that had thankfully arrived.
She stood, wondering what she should do, when she saw him, standing in the back yard of the convent, gazing intently at her. Feeling self-conscious but unsure of what to do, she carried on with her task. She hung up the sheets and towels but left the smaller things in the basin. Immediately, a gust caused the tea cloths to fly from the line onto the dusty ground. She sighed and retrieved them – they would need to be washed again now.
He was still there, just staring at her, a rake in his hand. She smiled at him and gave a little wave. She gathered the laundry that had fallen in the dust, acutely aware of his presence.
‘Good morning,’ she called, but he remained where he was, totally still.
Quaking inside, she approached him, crossing the garden as the sun was rising. ‘I am Sister Claire,’ she said slowly. He was only feet from her but still gave no reaction. He wasn’t nervous or aggressive; he was still, watchful.
She pointed at her chest and said again, ‘Sister Claire.’
Daku leaned the rake on a hedge and walked past her. Without saying a word, he bent down under a tree in the yard and picked up several round nuts about the size of a plum from the ground. Claire watched him and was fascinated by the agileness of his movements. Like the older man, he was supple and strong. The nuts had all naturally split on one side, and he carried them to the clothesline and wedged several over the clothes as very effective clothes pegs. Claire had never seen anything like them used before, and she was fascinated. The clothes were now secure and blew merrily in the early morning breeze.
Daku’s feet were bare and dusty, and that slight smile she recognised from the first day played around his lips. It felt like he was laughing at her. She couldn’t blame him. She must look ridiculous to him in her totally impractical habit.
Long seconds passed. Just as she was about to try again to thank him, he spoke, his voice gentle and clear. ‘Hello. I know who you are. Joseph McGrath told me your name.’
His English was accented in the way of all Australians, but she was astounded to hear him speak English fluently.
‘I’m sorry, I thought you…’ Claire was flustered now and embarrassed.
‘Reckoned I couldn’t speak English?’ he asked. No hint of sarcasm accompanied the words.
‘Well, I didn’t know,’ she said truthfully.
‘I can. I was taught in a mission, a Catholic one like yours, but I left, came home. They called me a whitefella’s name, but when I came back to country’ – he glanced around – ‘I was Daku again.’
She longed to ask him so many questions, but something about him told her he wouldn’t appreciate it. ‘Thank you so much for your work, making the place look so nice for us. Is there anything you need?’ she asked, steering the conversation away from his origins and her assumptions about him.
‘No. I don’t need anything from you.’ Again, it was a simple statement, and there was no belligerence in his tone.
‘Oh, right. Well, thank you very much. And if there is…or you need a drink or some food or anything…’ She was babbling again, she knew it, and she felt her face flush. ‘Well, just come up to the convent. You are welcome there. And thank you for the clothes peg solution – I would never have thought of using those.’ She smiled.
‘You’re the stranger here, not me. My people have lived here since the Dreamtime. All you whitefellas’ – he waved his hand down the hill towards the town of Jumaaroo – ‘it’s not your country.’
Claire didn’t know what to say. The land for the school and adjoining convent had been donated by Mr McGrath, but she imagined he was referring to the general colony rather than that specific piece of land. ‘Well, Mr McGrath donated this land to the Church. I think a school is badly needed for everyone around here, so I hope we can do some good.’
His dark eyes held hers. Clearly, he had no sense of the awkwardness of such an intense stare. ‘Not for us. The mission out at Trouble Bay is good enough for us. Mr McGrath sees to that.’
Claire knew she wasn’t imagining the sneer in his voice as he said the mayor’s name. It was all very confusing. Hadn’t Mr McGrath given Daku a job? Singled him out as a trustworthy person? And yet she could swear Daku’s tone suggested he didn’t like him.
Claire remembered the old Aboriginal man and the things he’d said to Mr McGrath as he was leaving. Surely it was a misunderstanding, or perhaps they didn’t fully understand what his plan was. She hoped so.
Rev Bill had mentioned the Seventh-day Adventist mission twelve miles away out at the coast. Apparently it was run by a teacher and his wife, and by all accounts, he was a force to be reckoned with.
‘Do you live at that mission?’ she asked.
He laughed, a loud guttural sound from deep in his chest. ‘No. I live here, in my country. When I was a kid – I told you already – whitefellas took me away, far south. But I got back. I wouldn’t stay there.’
She nodded, unsure if her question had offended him. His words were blunt with none of the deference she was used to; in fact, he could be interpreted as borderline rude, but he delivered his comments with no malice. She’d never met anyone like him.
‘And do you think it’s a good thing? The mission school?’ She knew from her uncle and snippets she’d heard about the mysterious Seventh-day Adventists their take on Catholicism, and the terrible names they called the Holy Father. Truth be told, they kind of frightened her.
Daku shrugged. ‘The best thing would have been for whitefellas to never have come here, to leave us alone. But now that you’re here, well, at least it’s somewhere for us to go, for the kids to learn – and he’s OK, Russell Gardiner, who runs it. He’s kind and he’s making space for more and more every day as they are driven off the land. McGrath is the biggest problem, not Russell.’
Just as Claire was about to ask him exactly what he meant, Daku picked up his rake and strolled away. The bush, which seemed a blanket term for all of the wild tangle of trees and hard spiky bushes that covered every bit of land not wrestled from it by human hands, bordered the property, and he just walked off into it, seemingly oblivious to the dire warnings they had been given about snakes and all manner of things that could kill you that lived in the undergrowth.
It was the oddest exchange. He just spoke as he found. In lots of ways, his manner reminded her of people at home in Macroom. They didn’t soft-soap anyone; they said what they had to say bluntly, and tough luck if you were offended.
Later, at breakfast, she described her encounter to her sisters. Mary and Teresita were fascinated, but as she spoke, Helen interjected. ‘Daku is Black Cockatoo – that’s what the ocean-going Aboriginals call themselves.’ Noticing the look of surprise on their faces, she smiled. ‘I was speaking to him yesterday about the fruit trees. He was telling me when the different trees would give fruit. He is so knowledgeable about nature and how things work here.’
Gerard sniffed, her disapproval seeping from every pore.
‘What is the matter, Sister Gerard?’ Claire asked gently.
‘Nothing. Why should anything be the matter?’ the older nun snapped.
‘You just seem annoyed, that’s all.’
Claire knew that Mary, Helen and Teresita were watching and observing. Since they’d left Cork, there had not been one pleasant exchange between Gerard and the others. Claire had tried her best to be friendly and gentle, but it fell on deaf ears. More than once, Gerard had snapped at poor Mary about the space her instruments took up, and she’d told Teresita her voice was giving her a headache.
‘I’m not one bit annoyed. I just don’t think it’s befitting a nun to be conversing alone with…well, with someone like that.’
‘Someone like what?’ Claire asked, her voice light. While she was anxious not to antagonise the other nun, she also knew she would have to stand her ground.
‘You know perfectly well what. Don’t make me spell it out.’ Gerard’s eyes glittered with disdain.
‘I don’t, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked you to explain.’ Claire smiled.
‘Fine. A native, a savage. Look, we are here to teach the children of the Catholic families who have settled in this dreadful place. I think we should stick to the job at hand and not involve ourselves with anything else. The likes of him are catered to in some other place, and they are presumably doing whatever is needed to tame them or whatever. I think we should stay out of it and stay away from them.’
Gerard’s tone suggested she was issuing a decree from on high that she expected everyone else to follow without question. Claire knew that if she didn’t establish herself as the person in charge now, not only would Gerard get worse, but the other three nuns in her care would be confused as to who to follow.
‘I disagree. We are, as we know, all God’s children regardless of where we come from or what colour our skin is. Jesus did not discriminate against anyone and we are trying to follow in his footsteps, so I think opening our hearts to all people is how he would want us to behave.’ Claire tried to stay conversational but firm.
Gerard coloured, a wash of dark crimson creeping up from her neck. Mother Patrick back at the old convent had warned Claire that Gerard was not a person to be trifled with nor underestimated, so her reputation preceded her. Claire didn’t know if Gerard understood that she was aware of her history of violence towards the children in her care. It was apparently not a one-off incident either. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’ was the motto of many Reverend Mothers, so Gerard’s behaviour must have been very far beyond the pale to have warranted, in effect, exile.
It had appalled her as a novice to see her fellow nuns beating children. She was sure that she could never do such a thing, and once she was qualified, she didn’t. She was determined that it would not happen here. She knew there was a culture of physical punishment in schools, but in her heart of hearts, she knew it wasn’t necessary. Little children wanted to please their elders, and as her mother used to say, ‘You get a lot further with wine than with vinegar.’ Praise and encouragement were the methods she used to teach, and they had served her well up to now. She hoped to instil that way of teaching in all the staff, even the bad-tempered Gerard.
‘Well, Sister Claire’ – Gerard’s emphasis suggested Claire was not a Reverend Mother and therefore in no position of power – ‘you can do what you wish, but I will not be engaging in any such interactions with anyone but the decent God-fearing people of this town.’ She eyeballed Teresita, Mary and Helen. ‘And I would suggest you three do the same. The McGraths, who have done so much to make us welcome, would not like it, and I’m sure the bishop would be horrified to think we were fraternising unnecessarily with people who have nothing to do with the job we came here to do.’ She pushed her chair back and stood, indicating the conversation was over.
Claire wasn’t going to let her win. ‘Bishop McAuliffe’ – she used her uncle’s formal title – ‘mentioned the Bundagulgi people to me on several occasions, and he feels strongly that they should be protected and cared for.’ Claire knew she was stretching the truth a bit, but she needed to win this. ‘And as for the McGraths, while we are very grateful to them, we must now paddle our own canoe, as it were. Daku seems like a very nice person, and I’ve told him he is very welcome here.’
‘Yerra, ’tis true for you, Sister Claire. Sure aren’t they grand people the same as ourselves?’ Teresita had decided which horse she was backing. Claire gave up a silent prayer of thanks.
‘I’ve never met a dark-skinned person before, but one of our missionary sisters wrote home often explaining about their customs and how they were so gentle and kind,’ Mary chimed in.
‘Those are Africans.’ Gerard corrected her as if speaking to a particularly slow five-year-old. ‘An entirely different continent.’
Mary blushed to be spoken to like that and mumbled, ‘I did know that, I just meant…’
Helen placed her hand on the younger nun’s arm and glared at Gerard. ‘I’m sure the message of the Lord is as welcome here as it is in Africa. I served plenty of years in India and in Ghana too, so I know you’re right. Those people were the grandest you’d ever meet. They had almost nothing, but they’d share what they had. And I’ll tell you something for nothing – they never moaned or groaned the way we do, only got on with it. I’ve great time for them, so I do.’
Three on her side. Claire hated that it had come to a power struggle like this, but if she lost this battle, she would surely lose the war.