The Black Dress by Pamela Freeman Read Free Book Online

me to fast so that by the time we came to make our First Communion we would be used to it. It was hard. But when I was helping to set the altar table, I forgot I was hungry.
    If the weather was inclement, we used the small table in the parlour and the congregation crowded in as close as it could. There were always some who spilled out the door onto the verandah, and some looking in the parlour window.
    Ours wasn’t a big house, not like the L’Estranges’—that was one reason that it was such an honour to have the Mass there. Everyone knew that Bishop Goold had chosen our house because of Papa’s faith and hard work for the Church in Melbourne, right from when he first arrived. Perhaps it was also because Papa had studied to be a priest, in Rome, before he came out to Australia. The bishop knew that everything would be done correctly and I was proud of that. Proud of my father’s contribution to the Church. As I grew older, I wondered how much of the energy he spent on Church matters should have been given to his own work on the farm. He wasn’t a farmer by nature; I suspect now that he hated it and escaped whenever he could to the more congenial atmosphere of the bishop’s office. That might explain why our farms failed so often and why we were always in debt to Grandfather John. It was like setting a racehorse to draw a dray—no wonder Papa kicked over the traces.
    I smile, and the sister sitting with me gets up to give me a sip of water. She can see real amusement in my face, and it puzzles her, but I can’t explain that I am laughing inside, thinking that we were lucky Papa’s idea of escape and indulgence was going to do the bishop’s paperwork! When I think of the excesses of drink and drugs and licentiousness I have seen since then, and the effects on the families involved, I think we had a lucky escape.
    Poor Papa. At least he got his reward when the bishop chose his house for our Masses.
    Neighbours came from miles around. The Andersons, the Gardiners, George Langhorne’s Irish foreman and his family, Thomas Walker and John Brown. Farm hands, shearers, men passing through who’d heard about it from the locals. Some of them had ridden for two hours to reach Darebin Creek.
    ‘It’s a balancing act,’ Father Geoghegan had said the night before. ‘Can’t have Mass too early or the farthest flung parishioners won’t get here in time; can’t have it too late or you’ll all be fainting with hunger in the heat.’
    At nine o’clock precisely, Mass began with Father Geoghegan leading us in a hymn. It was my favourite time of the week. As soon as the first hymn started, I felt myself grow warm and happy and relaxed.
    No matter where I lived—in Melbourne, at the L’Estranges’, with Grandfather John and Grandma Ellen, or home—the Mass was always the same. Always. It flowed on from the first In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, to the last Amen. Confiteor, Introit, Collect, Epistle, Gradual, Tract, Alleluia, Gospel, Credo, Offertory, Consecration, Communion, the Sending Forth. It formed a pattern I knew—had known since I was a baby. As long as the Mass held its shape, there was order and meaning in everything. That is still true. The thing I miss most due to my illness is going to Mass. Ah, well. I am luckier than most. While I could still swallow, I received the Holy Eucharist every day.
    After Mass, everyone stayed for breakfast. They all brought their own food: hard-boiled eggs, bread and cheese, mostly. Food that would travel. Or sometimes there was bacon, cooked over a small fire, and Mamma and Bridget made tea for everyone, and scones. The children raced around with an egg in one hand and a buttered scone in the other, playing chasey and hide-and-seek and skipping.
    We couldn’t do too much because we were all in our Sunday clothes, but still it was the best time of the week.
    ‘I like Sundays after Mass best of anything,’ John said. ‘Don’t you, Mary?’
    ‘I like Sundays