The famine orphans, p.35
The Famine Orphans, page 35
“Can you forgive me?”
“Yes,” I said, knowing that I truly had.
He pulled me into his embrace, but I fought to free myself.
“No!” I cried, more forcefully than I meant. “No, we can’t do this. We mustn’t.”
His voice was hoarse with emotion. “Yes, we can, Kate, and we must!”
He backed away. “I am hopelessly in love with you, Kate. I always knew it. And, after I last saw you, I knew that would never change. Lucy eventually came to accept it too. She knew she had to set me free and, in the end, she did so. We must thank her for that, just as we must thank Luke for setting you free. We’re meant to be together, Kate.” He drew closer again. “Take all the time you need,” he said. “I know I’ve disappointed you in the past. All I ask is that you love me, Kate.”
All pride and fear left me the moment his lips met mine. A sensation of exhilaration and joy I’d never known before surged through me, along with a feeling of blissful contentment and I knew I had found home.
“I can’t promise I’ll be ready to marry again anytime soon,” I whispered as we finally stepped apart, “but I can promise you from the bottom of my heart that you are the only man I will ever love.”
I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was smiling. He put his arm around me and led me towards the tavern door. “Come on, then, let’s have a proper reunion. I can’t wait to see all my brave and beautiful orphans again.”
Epilogue
COME HERE TO ME AGAIN NOW, ’TIL I FINISH THE STORY—
In the autumn of 1873, Bridie O’Sullivan held a farewell concert at the Royal Theater in Sydney. She invited our “mess” group from the Sabine and as many famine orphans from Sydney as could attend. News of the event spread by word of mouth and through a notice Bridie posted in the Sydney Morning Herald. Admission was free to each woman and her guest, the only stipulation being that the orphan wear the bonnet she had been given at the start of her journey from Ireland.
That evening, I walked hand in hand with Nathaniel into the foyer of the theater to find a noisy throng of women, most of whom I didn’t recognize since we had all arrived on different ships. It was an amazing thing, though, to see us all together. I hadn’t realized how many of us there were. The women wore bonnets, some well pressed, some ragged and tattered, but all, like mine, embroidered with the name of their owner and the name of the ship they had sailed on. As recognition dawned among them, they rushed to hug one another, squealing like the girls they had been when they first arrived in Australia, even though now they were middle-aged women.
Some had come alone, others with husbands. Together, they sipped drinks, nibbled on finger foods and marveled at the grandeur of the Royal Theater, which most of them had never set foot in until now. When a bell rang signaling that the performance was about to begin, they edged their way through the ornate double doors and into the interior of the theater. Some rushed towards the plush, red velvet seats, vying to get as close to the stage as possible, while others made for the upper gallery. In no time, seats were filled, leaving latecomers to stand crammed together against the back wall.
Nathaniel and I made our way to the box nearest the stage, which Bridie had reserved for us and the rest of our “mess” and guests. I was transported back to our last reunion, twenty years before, when Nathaniel and I had at long last pledged our love to one another. I looked at him now. His brown hair had begun to gray, and he wore metal-rimmed spectacles, behind which his blue eyes still sparkled. We had been married for sixteen years and were blessed with two children: a solemn, studious son we’d named Michael, who wanted to be a doctor like his father, and a daughter, Grace, who was by contrast outgoing and full of mischief. We had left them in the care of Maria, who still taught at my school and assisted where needed in Nathaniel’s growing medical practice. His reputation as a researcher and practitioner of hygiene-based procedures meant he was called upon frequently to speak at medical associations throughout New South Wales. I was proud of him for this but, more importantly, for the fact that over the years local Aboriginal tribe members had grown to trust him with their care. As for me, my school continued to thrive, although it had been rough going in the early days when citizens picketed in front of our building protesting the education of Aboriginal children. In time, the furor died down, and we went about our business.
“Well, would you look who’s here!”
I didn’t have to turn around to know it was Patsy.
“Aye.” I laughed. “And how’s the craic with you, Patsy?”
She let go of Phineas’s arm and rushed forward to hug me, grinning from ear to ear. No one seeing her for the first time would ever have guessed she was the same girl Bridie and I had visited at the brothel on Pitt Street. Her gown and hat were expensive but tasteful, as was her jewelry. She stood straighter than in the past and her Belfast accent was reduced to a subtle lilt. I put these changes down to Phineas’s influence and the confidence he had instilled in her.
“Are you still giving the politicians what for?” I continued. “I see your name in the papers now and then.”
“Aye, sure they’re calling me the second Caroline Chisholm,” she said, referring to the English social reformer who had fought both in the British Parliament and colonial forums for increasing support for women immigrants, including convicts, back in the 1840s. Patsy had taken up the cause of women like herself, who’d been left with no option but to fall into prostitution, robbery, or drunkenness on the streets of Sydney. Like Caroline Chisholm, she argued for more support from the government for them, the kind of support she offered at her hotel in Bathurst. At first, she’d been laughed out of meetings, but her persistence and ability to state her case logically and forcefully was winning the day.
The stage curtain was still closed as Nathaniel and I took our seats next to Patsy and Phineas.
“How’s Malachy doing?” I asked Phineas.
“Fortune has not smiled on our dear friend, madam. He was too weak to make the journey to Sydney for dear Bridie’s festive occasion. But he sends his good wishes to everyone.” Phineas accompanied his words with an exaggerated sigh and flourish of hand, but, beneath his dramatic gestures, I saw sadness veiling his eyes.
The hubbub of the audience in the stalls and gallery rose and fell, the women’s bonnets bobbing and shaking as they talked. I looked down from the box, excitedly awaiting the rest of our group. As with Patsy, I heard Sheila before I saw her.
“Will ya not dawdle like an oul’ feller, Andy,” she cried as she climbed the stairs to the box, “sure the feckin’ show will be over before we even sit down!”
“I’m coming, lass,” said Andy.
Sheila had married a well-off Scotsman and had three teenaged sons who were studying in England. She had moved to Sydney after selling the emporium in Bathurst. The box seemed to shake as she stomped up the stairs, her husband behind her. She had always been a buxom girl, but now she was almost as round as she was tall. In a scarlet dress, and extravagant jewelry, she looked the very image of a Sydney matron. While she was well into her forties—she and Lizzie had always lied about their real ages—her skin was smooth, her cheeks burnished by a heavy application of rouge, and her small hands dimpled as a baby’s. Her husband, Andrew McTavish, a Presbyterian Scot, who owned an import-export business, was as plump as Sheila, balding and bowlegged. From what I heard, he doted on her, which was fortunate given that Sheila loved to be the one giving orders.
“Hello, Sheila,” I said, standing to hug her. “How are you, and how are your boys?”
“Och, them three,” she sighed. “They’ll be back from England any day now that the school term is over, and I’m dreading seeing them, so I am. Their bloody English accents give me the pip. You’d think they were swallowing marbles when they talk. Andy here says it’s what we’re paying the school for—to make them into proper English gentlemen so they can come back to the colonies and get positions in law or government.” She paused for breath. “I think he’s full of shite. Didn’t I do alright for meself, Belfast accent an’ all!”
She bustled into the row behind us, pulling Andy in beside her.
“Any sign of Lizzie and Sabine?” she asked. “Lizzie’s not been well. I hope Sabine can coax her out.”
I nodded. Lizzie’s story had not turned out as well for her as for the rest of us. I had been worried from the first time I learned that she had signed her baby girl over to the couple to which she was indentured in Moreton Bay, only to escape with her and Sheila to Bathurst a year later. I wondered at the time how long it would take the authorities to track her down. Almost three years passed until her employers arrived with the police at the emporium in Bathurst and snatched the protesting Sabine out of Lizzie’s arms. Lizzie was arrested and brought before the court in Moreton Bay on kidnapping charges and, even though Sheila, Patsy and Phineas had pleaded with the magistrates on her behalf for clemency, she had been sent to prison for fifteen years. When Sabine turned eighteen, however, she ran away from her adoptive parents and made her way to Bathurst to find her mother, whom she still remembered. After finding out that Sheila had left for Sydney, along with a recently released Lizzie, she followed them and set up house with her ma. When Sheila sold the Bathurst store, she put aside half the profits for Lizzie to live on when she was released. The strength of their friendship had impressed me from the day I met them on the Sabine, and I wasn’t surprised that their bond endured, and would probably last a lifetime.
A sound on the stairs caused me to swing around. Without meaning to, I stared at Lizzie in alarm as she slowly climbed, tapping her cane as she went, one hand resting heavily on Sabine’s arm. I hardly recognized her. She looked like an old woman, her gray hair sparse, her cheeks sunken, while her dress hung lifelessly on her thin body. Patsy jumped up.
“Here, Lizzie, take my seat in front. Phineas and I can move back beside Sheila.”
I squeezed nearer Nathaniel and helped Sabine settle her mother in the vacant chair next to me. Sabine smiled at us. “Hello, Kate, hello, Nathaniel, it’s nice to see you.”
“And you, Sabine,” I said.
She had grown into a beautiful young lady, tall with long, dark hair like Lizzie’s used to be, large brown eyes and full lips. I wondered how it had been for her living with those people in Moreton Bay—the ones Lizzie had told me punished her constantly for her “sin.” I wondered how much they had punished Sabine for it too. The miracle was that Sabine had never forgotten her mother and had been determined to find her once she was old enough to leave.
The only one of our “mess” still missing was Mary. I no sooner thought of her than she came rushing up the stairs, her long habit rustling about her ankles.
“Sorry I’m late,” she breathed.
Of all of us, Mary was the one who still looked like the young girl who had left the workhouse all those years ago, but she bore no traces of the fearful uncertainty that had filled her then. Now, her beautiful face was serene and kindness radiated from her large blue eyes. I had seen Mary often over the years since she spent much of her time tending to the needs of immigrants in poverty-stricken communities around Sydney. In fact she had encouraged many parents to send their children to my school. I smiled when I saw her blond curls poking out of her bonnet.
She put her hand to her head and blushed. “I know.” She laughed. “Bridie wanted us to wear our bonnets,” she said, “and I couldn’t disappoint her. I had to get permission to go out without my veil, but Mother Superior just laughed and told me to go ahead. It feels kind of odd, though!”
She squeezed past me and knelt in front of Lizzie, taking her hands in hers.
“How are you, Lizzie?” she whispered.
Lizzie put her hand up to her head. “Ah, I don’t have me bonnet anymore,” she said, her voice thin and hoarse. “They took everything away from me in that oul’ place.”
“It’s OK, Ma,” said Sabine, reaching into a bag beside her and bringing out two brand-new bonnets. Here,” she said, handing one to her mother, “Bridie left these by for us. She made them herself. One for you and one for me. Look, they have our names on them, and the name of the ship, the Sabine. Bridie said I deserved one because I sailed on the Sabine the same as the rest of you.”
Lizzie took the bonnet and put it on while the rest of us applauded.
At that moment, the lights dimmed, the curtains slid open, orchestral music filled the theater, Bridie O’Sullivan stood center stage, a spotlight illuminating her diaphanous aqua gown, and threw up her arms in greeting.
After twenty-five years of public performances at the Royal Theater, Bridie had told me that she was retiring.
“I’ve had a good run at it,” she said one evening at the Emerald Isle Tavern. “’Tis time I was putting me feet up!”
“But you’re still a young woman, Bridie,” I said, “and still in fine voice.”
“Arrah, will you whish’t, Kate,” she said. “If I keep going, in a few years I’ll be as hoarse as an oul’ crow. No, I want to step down while I’m at me peak. Anyway, Mr. O’Leary and I have plans for the next few months. We’re going back to Ireland to visit what’s left of our families after the oul’ famine.”
I looked at her in alarm. “But you’re not going for good, are you?”
She laughed and patted my arm. “Not at all,” she said, “sure this is my home now, but I might come back with a surprise for all of yez.”
I waited, my mind racing with possibilities.
Bridie grinned. “I might come back as Mrs. Terrence O’Leary!” she announced.
I was blindsided. “But you said . . .”
“I know what the feck I said. ’Tis only the oul’ biddies back in Ireland would be scandalized if they thought him and meself were living in sin all these years.”
I smiled at my dearest friend. I didn’t for one minute believe her reasoning. The Bridie I knew never cared what others thought of her, and certainly wouldn’t do anything that important just to please the old ladies of Ireland. No, our Bridie wanted to get married but, after all these years of saying she wouldn’t, her pride wouldn’t let her admit her real feelings. I reached out and took her hand.
“I wish you and Terrence all the best in your marriage,” I said, adding, “and I can highly recommend it.”
I’d thought about Luke then, and our ill-fated marriage. I bore him no ill will for his deceit—he had, after all, tried to make things right. But I realized that we’d entered the marriage without the essential ingredient of love. Love is what nourished my marriage to Nathaniel and would nourish Bridie’s too. My brother, Paddy, now a prosperous sheep rancher, married to a sweet Irish girl named Rose, and the father of six rambunctious children, would occasionally mention if he’d seen Luke in his travels. From what he told me, Luke had never remarried. I never stopped hoping that he would, one day, find love.
I hoped the same for Lucy Foster as well. Paddy, who was in business with Lucy’s sons, saw her often.
“She’s a strong woman, Kate,” he’d said once. “She bears you no ill will about Nathaniel, and wishes you nothing but happiness. She’s happy as can be managing one of our sheep stations up north. After all her years in the Outback, she found she was no longer suited to city life.”
After greeting the audience, Bridie waited for the cheers and applause to die down. The spotlight dimmed and she began to sing “The Last Rose of Summer,” a lament of loss written by Irish poet Thomas Moore, accompanied by a lone harpist. As she sang, the audience grew silent, each one of us orphans no doubt lost in our own memories of loved ones lost to famine. But before long, Bridie stepped up the tempo and soon feet were tapping, hands clapping, while some of the latecomers at the back of the theater broke into dance. Jigs and reels were followed by Australian music hall favorites including “South Australia” and other popular sea shanties celebrating Australia’s seafaring history; and “Click Go the Shears,” a lively song about sheep shearing, which the audience sang with gusto.
Later, the room grew silent again as Bridie sang another lament, this time in Irish—the one she had sung at young Jamie’s burial on the Sabine. I squeezed Nathaniel’s hand as she sang, and when I looked at Mary, her head was bowed. Patsy and Sheila sniffed noisily and Lizzie began to cry aloud. When Bridie had finished, the room remained silent.
It was time then for some hearty Irish anthems. The audience joined in with the likes of “The Wearing of the Green,” and “A Nation Once Again,” and I had an image of young girls in horse-drawn carts singing their hearts out on the way from Newry to Dublin on a cold August morning. Back then, the songs had been sung with defiance; now, it seemed, the defiance had softened from resistance to a simple joy in our heritage. When Bridie began “The Wild Rover”—the song Patsy had sung on our way to the gold diggings—Patsy stood up and belted out the words, much to the amusement of Phineas, who kept shouting, “Magnificent, brava, my angel!” while the rest of us laughed aloud.
At the conclusion of the concert, Bridie asked everyone to stand and sing, while the musicians played the first few bars of “The Parting Glass”—an old Irish song about emigration.
“Of all the comrades e’er I’ve had, they’re sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e’er I had, they’d wish me one more day to stay
But since it fell into my lot that I should go and you should not
I’ll gently rise and I’ll softly call, goodnight and joy be to you all
So fill to me the parting glass and gather as the evening falls
And gently rise and softly call, goodnight and joy be to you all!”
The memory of that reunion of 1873 will stay forever in my heart. It was the only time I joined so many other famine orphans gathered in one place, and the first time I saw clearly how we had grown from fear and uncertainty to the security of knowing our place in this new world. It was then the realization dawned on me that we had become Australians. Our children were Australians, our futures were Australian futures. Yet, in our souls we carried the memories of that land in which we were born, memories joyful and tragic, memories softened by the gentle music and poetry that flow through that ancient island. We are emigrants and we exist in two worlds, one past, one present, and we are nourished by both.
