s ’ e i l l e N Vow A remarkable true story of triumph over tragedy
LEON I E BI NGE
Nellie Peisley at 16 years of age, in 1935
s ’ e i l Nel Vow A remarkable true story of triumph over tragedy
Leon i e Bi nge
Published by Arbon Publishing Pty Ltd. 45 Hume Street, Crows Nest NSW 2065, Australia PO Box 623, Crows Nest NSW 1585, Australia Telephone: +61 2 9437 0438 Facsimile: +61 2 9437 0288 Email: admin@arbonpublishing.com or visit www.arbonpublishing.com Managing Director Publisher Author Project Editor Book Design Cover Design Proofreader Photo Restoration
Fritz Gubler Chryl Perry Leonie Binge Dannielle Viera Kylie Mulquin Kylie Mulquin Marie-Louise Taylor Monte Luke Photographers, monteluke.com.au
This publication and arrangement © Arbon Publishing Pty Ltd, 2015 Text © Leonie Binge, 2015 Photographs © Leonie Binge, 2015, unless otherwise credited on this page All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher. All images in this book have been reproduced with the knowledge of and prior consent of the copyright holder concerned, and no responsibility is accepted by the author, publisher or printer for any infringement of copyright or otherwise, arising from the contents of this publication. Every effort has been made to ensure that credits accurately comply with information supplied.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry Creator: Binge, Leonie, author. Title: Nellie’s vow : a remarkable true story of triumph over tragedy / Leonie Binge. ISBN: 9780992351281 (paperback) Subjects: Sisters--Australia--Biography. Orphans--Australia--Biography. Family reunification--Australia. Australia--Economic conditions-1929-1939. Australia--Social conditions-1929-1939. Dewey Number: 306.87540922 This book was printed and bound in China by Toppan Leefung Printing Limited on paper supplied from plantation or sustainably managed forests. Captions for the Cover Front cover: Nellie Peisley at 16 years of age, in 1935 Back cover: Nellie, Kathleen and Clare at St Joseph’s Catholic Convent, Nyngan Front flap and inside cover: Slum houses of Redfern/Surry Hills in the 1930s Back flap (bottom) and inside cover: Unnamed Australian cattle property in the 1920s Picture Credits The publisher would like to thank the following picture libraries and other copyright owners for permission to reproduce their photos. Every attempt has been made to obtain permission from the copyright owners to use these photos; if any errors or omissions have occurred, please contact the publisher. Les Atkins, Top Shot Photography: 31, 130, 142, 186, 271. Maree Dinger: back flap (top). State Library of New South Wales: front flap and inside cover, back flap (bottom) and inside cover, 48, 110, 305.
Acknowledgements I have to thank a chain of people, who all contributed to the publication of this family memoir. First, my thanks go to my dear friend, staunch supporter and colleague Rhonda Deed, who started it all off when she spruiked my originally self-published book to a very important person. Eternal thanks to that very important person, the lovely Monica McInerney – a kinder person you will never meet – who insisted on reading that earlier version and then passed my details on to her agent. Thanks to the amazing Clare Forster, who is now my agent, for all the hard work she did behind the scenes, which eventually paid off. Thank you to Sister Lia for the important information and photographs she found for me in the Good Samaritan Archives in Glebe, and thank you to Sister Mary at Narellan, who so warmly led my family on a tour of the former Mater Dei Orphanage and allowed us to take photographs. Thank you to my ever-supportive brother, Les Atkins of Top Shot Photography, for the beautiful photos of that day, which we will treasure forever; some of these photos appear in this book. Thanks also to my cousin, Noel Merrick, for the lengthy and arduous time he spent compiling the family tree, which was of immense assistance during the writing of the memoir. I also want to thank three trusted and very special people who critically but supportively read the early draft of this book and gave me their thoughts and encouragement – my brother John, my daughter Lauren and my lifelong friend Julie Ratten. You know how much I value your support and opinions, and I always will. But my greatest and most heartfelt thanks go to Chryl Perry and her team at Arbon Publishing, including my meticulously thorough editor Dannielle Viera, who brought the whole thing together. Chryl, you are just the best – so easy to work with and so supportive. It has been an absolute pleasure working with you, and so I say thank you from the bottom of my heart. Finally, thank you to the three strong, stoic and inspirational women in my family who inspired me to write this memoir. They are, of course, my mother Clare, my Aunty Nellie and my Aunty Millie. These kind, courageous and beautiful people have left a wonderful legacy that the rest of us can only hope to emulate.
Dedication For Clare, my amazing mother, my inspiration and my very best friend
Clare Peisley at 18 years of age, in 1941
Contents Hunt–Peisley Family Tree Prologue
8 10
Chapter One
Promise to a Nun
37
Chapter twO
Chapter Seven
Country Beginnings Eliza and Paddy Family Life Tragedy Strikes The Call of the City Clutching at Happiness
42 47 56 72 81 86
Chapter eight
Heartbreaking News
94
Chapter three Chapter FOur Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter nine Chapter ten Chapter eleven Chapter twelve Chapter thirteen Chapter FOurteen Chapter FiFteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter eighteen Chapter nineteen Chapter twenty Chapter twenty-One Chapter twenty-twO Chapter twenty-three Chapter twenty-FOur Chapter twenty-Five Chapter twenty-Six Chapter twenty-Seven Chapter twenty-eight Chapter twenty-nine Chapter thirty
The Beginning of the End Life with the Stepfather
99 107
Journey to Narellan Arrival at the Orphanage A Nun’s Dishonesty
124 129 137
Alone Again Uncontrollable Kathleen Eliza’s First Visit Poverty Takes its Toll
150 155 171 181
Death of a Nun Doing Penance Intruders in a Nun’s Bedroom
185 193 200
Clashing Wills Locked in the Cupboard
208 214
The Escapees Life on the Run Fugitives Discovered Eliza is Summoned Sisters Visit Mending Pyjamas Capturing a Priest’s Attention ‘Sweet’ Bondage Epilogue
222 231 241 247 254 268 282 304 322
Hunt–Peisley Family Tree Henry Joseph (‘Paddy’) Peisley (1891–1929)
Eliza Ann Hunt (1893–1968)
Frederick Isaac (‘Fred’) Masters (1904–1958)
John William (‘Willy’) Hunt (1895–1978)
John Hunt Mary Hunt Noel Hunt Peter Hunt [dates unknown] [dates unknown] [dates unknown] [dates unknown]
Stanley (‘Coolie’) Merrick (1911–2005)
Ellen Gertrude (‘Nellie’) Peisley (1919–2013)
Reginald Keith (‘Reg’) Towell (1914–1959)
Colin Towell (1938– )
Denis Merrick (1941– )
8
Robert Merrick (1944– )
NELLIE'S VOW
Noel Merrick (1949– )
Kathleen Mary (‘Kath’) Peisley (1921–1983)
Reginald Towell Jr (1941– )
Lynette Merrick (1952– )
Neville John Blackman [dates unknown]
John Hunt Sr (c. 1843–1930)
Ellen May Schumack (1866–1921)
Alice Lora Gertrude (‘Allie’) [maiden name and dates unknown]
Bridget Strachan (1846–1898)
John Hunt Jr (1865–1927)
Charles Edward (‘Ted’) Murray (1890–1939)
Maud Reine Rigby (1877–1958)
Ellen Mary Hunt (1899–1984)
Eric Arnold Balkam [dates unknown]
Ned Hunt Gloria Hunt [dates unknown] [dates unknown]
Veronica Murray (1927– )
Emily Clare (‘Clare’) Peisley (1923– )
Raymond Murray (1929– )
Fred Atkins (1922–1993)
Mildred Elizabeth (‘Millie’) Peisley (1927– )
Geoffrey Bugden (1951– )
John Atkins (1945– )
Les Atkins (1948– )
Ned Murray (1931– )
Phillip Bugden (1953– )
Milton Murray (1933– )
Bruce Bugden (1925–1975)
Alana Bugden (1958– )
Lorraine Bugden (1964– )
Leonie Atkins (1955– )
Hunt–Peisley Family Tree
9
Prologue
I
was lounging in my aunt’s living room with my cousin Lynette, textbook in hand, while she attempted to teach me French verbs in an effort to distract us both from the heavy atmosphere of grief in the house, when I glanced across to my aunt’s kitchen and saw something so familiar it gave me an unexpected jolt. It was my dear grandmother’s handbag. I immediately abandoned the French lesson and hurried to inspect the bag I had grown to love as much as Nanna had. Made of navy blue leather, it was soft and comforting to touch; parts of the leather surface had worn away at the bottom, a testament to how well loved it had been. The matching leather handles always remained upright, stiff and pert, at odds with my grandmother’s personality. I loved the hinged gold clasp with gold balls that made a loud click as they snapped tightly together, something I had done hundreds of times, though
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Nanna would admonish me for it. But I could see through her gruffness and knew she didn’t really mind. I loved to scavenge in the bag for pieces of Juicy Fruit® chewing gum, which were always to be found there, or P.K.®, which was never my favourite but would still do at a pinch. Now I pulled each item from the bag and scrutinised them one by one. There were a couple of scrunched white lace handkerchiefs, a navy E embroidered in the corner of one, the customary halfempty packet of chewing gum, a tiny bottle of her favourite perfume, hairpins, safety pins, a bankbook revealing a nil balance, a holy card of St Christopher and a sixpenny coin. I picked up one of Nanna’s white lace handkerchiefs and pressed it to my nose. The familiar scent of Apple Blossom perfume was still there; it was so comforting to me, yet I instantly felt a deep pang of longing and bit my lip to stop threatened tears from appearing. I remembered so many happy times we had shared together, the Irish songs she sang to me, the green ribbon she pinned on me every St Patrick’s Day, her brushing my hair around her finger into tiny ringlets. Tucked into the zippered side pocket was an assortment of small black-and-white photographs. I pulled them out and looked at each of them. There was one of Nanna flanked by her four adult daughters, all smiling and looking like a normal, happy family; another of her parents, John and Ellen May Hunt; and two photographs of Nanna with her grandchildren, one with her grandsons, the other with her granddaughters, including me. Eliza, my grandmother, looked the happiest in these last two snaps; wearing a broad smile, her eyes crinkled merrily as though someone had just made a joke. Curiously, there was a photograph, much older than the others – it had yellowed
Prologue
11
over time – that appeared to have been torn roughly in half. It was of my grandmother at a younger age, with longer and darker hair. Beside her, the partial profile of a man’s face turning his gaze towards her could still be glimpsed, though his body and features were missing. I turned the photo over, hoping for information, and saw my grandmother’s familiar writing on the back – Eliza and Fred – but no date, place or occasion. ‘Who’s Fred?’ I asked. My aunt glanced distractedly at me before quickly resuming the business of sorting through the rest of my grandmother’s possessions. ‘Oh, that’s a long story,’ she muttered. ‘We’ll save that for another day.’ ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why has the picture been torn?’ It seemed like a dramatic thing to do to a simple photograph. My mother looked at me and frowned slightly. ‘Now’s not the time, Leonie!’ she said quietly but firmly.
Kathleen, Nellie, eliza, Millie and Clare, photographed in april 1953
12
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I was disappointed. How strange for someone to have ruined a perfectly beautiful photograph, one of the nicest snaps of Nanna I had seen. But clearly my question was not to be answered just then, and so I had to let it go. The conversation turned to flowers for the funeral, and I quickly interrupted them. ‘Don’t forget violets!’ I said urgently. ‘They were her favourite – purple and white!’ They looked up in surprise, slightly chastened. I was glad I had thought to mention it. No-one else had remembered her favourite flower. I was secretly angry with them for overlooking this important detail. Nanna would have been annoyed, too. There was an undeniably strong bond between my mother and her sisters. An unspoken alliance had always existed between them. My aunts lived in the outer western suburbs of Sydney, so they were by no means close to us in distance (we lived in Greenacre at the time). But we would travel there by car on frequent day trips, or they would visit us. Nellie and Millie were the two aunts that we saw most, less frequently Aunty Kathleen. There were many family gatherings at each other’s houses, and a host of cousins for us to play with. These were happy occasions, with lots of fun and laughter, and they form some of my fondest memories. During school holidays, I would always spend a week at Aunty Nellie’s house. She was the aunt who most reminded me of my mother – she was exceedingly kind and loving – and I adored spending time with her. She would take me to nearby shops and purchase small surprises for me, like colouring-in books, paper dolls to dress and, as I grew older, needlework and cross-stitch kits to keep me occupied. She loved to knit and sew, and I quickly grew to share her passion.
Prologue
13
I remember that after I returned home from one such holiday, I felt rather bored and forlorn. After all the fun and attention I had experienced while I was away, home seemed dull and boring. I was sitting on the floor in my bedroom, somewhat tearful. My mother quietly entered my room, noticed my tears and asked what was wrong. ‘I miss Aunty Nellie,’ I eventually confessed, although I did not want to offend my mother. I half expected a mild reprimand, for I knew she must surely be saddened at this rebuff from her daughter who had just spent the last week away from her. But she surprised me by clambering down beside me on the floor and leaning her back against the side of the bed, so that our shoulders almost touched. ‘I know how you are feeling,’ she said. ‘I missed Nellie, too, when I stopped living with her!’ I was surprised. ‘How long did you live with her?’ I wanted to know. ‘And why?’ ‘When I left the orphanage, Aunty Nellie and Uncle Coolie [Uncle Stanley] took me to live with them. I stayed with them until I met and married your father. But I missed her terribly when I left.’ That my mother had grown up in an orphanage should not have come as a surprise to me, for I must have heard it mentioned at some point in time. I knew that her father had died when she was only six years old, but I assumed that my grandmother had raised her. ‘Why were you in an orphanage?’ I asked, perplexed. ‘You had a mother. Why didn’t you live with Nanna?’ Nanna was a regular visitor to our house. She would arrive with one small suitcase packed to overflowing and stay with
14
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us for several weeks at a time. She lived with each of her four daughters in turn, having no home of her own, and when she stayed with us there was always lots of laughter – and an equal amount of arguments. Small, quirky and outspoken, she possessed a razor-sharp wit and a wicked sense of humour. Her irreverence sometimes landed her in trouble with her daughters, and often annoyed her sons-in-law. She slept in my room, in the bed opposite, and there were nights of such hilarity that it was impossible to fall asleep until one or other of my parents shouted from their bedroom, ‘Righto! That’s enough you two!’ Finally subdued, we would settle down for the night. Nanna was an awesome cook, although she often had to be cajoled into doing anything that resembled work. She was also impossibly messy. When she cooked, there would be a mass of pots and pans, spills and slops from one end of the kitchen to the other, which she never thought to clean. Although my mother loved the delicious fare she conjured for us, it really wasn’t worth the pleasure because of the huge mess to contend with afterwards. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was her favourite grandchild. In fact, she unashamedly made no secret of this fact, at least not in our house. But who knows whom she proclaimed her favourite when in the company of my cousins? Naturally, I loved her dearly in return. But this was the first time I had thought to query why my mother had not lived with her as a child. ‘Mama wasn’t well, and she couldn’t look after us. She had no money, so Millie and I were sent to live at the Catholic orphanage in Narellan.’
Prologue
15
I remember that after I returned home from one such holiday, I felt rather bored and forlorn. After all the fun and attention I had experienced while I was away, home seemed dull and boring. I was sitting on the floor in my bedroom, somewhat tearful. My mother quietly entered my room, noticed my tears and asked what was wrong. ‘I miss Aunty Nellie,’ I eventually confessed, although I did not want to offend my mother. I half expected a mild reprimand, for I knew she must surely be saddened at this rebuff from her daughter who had just spent the last week away from her. But she surprised me by clambering down beside me on the floor and leaning her back against the side of the bed, so that our shoulders almost touched. ‘I know how you are feeling,’ she said. ‘I missed Nellie, too, when I stopped living with her!’ I was surprised. ‘How long did you live with her?’ I wanted to know. ‘And why?’ ‘When I left the orphanage, Aunty Nellie and Uncle Coolie [Uncle Stanley] took me to live with them. I stayed with them until I met and married your father. But I missed her terribly when I left.’ That my mother had grown up in an orphanage should not have come as a surprise to me, for I must have heard it mentioned at some point in time. I knew that her father had died when she was only six years old, but I assumed that my grandmother had raised her. ‘Why were you in an orphanage?’ I asked, perplexed. ‘You had a mother. Why didn’t you live with Nanna?’ Nanna was a regular visitor to our house. She would arrive with one small suitcase packed to overflowing and stay with
14
NELLIE'S VOW
us for several weeks at a time. She lived with each of her four daughters in turn, having no home of her own, and when she stayed with us there was always lots of laughter – and an equal amount of arguments. Small, quirky and outspoken, she possessed a razor-sharp wit and a wicked sense of humour. Her irreverence sometimes landed her in trouble with her daughters, and often annoyed her sons-in-law. She slept in my room, in the bed opposite, and there were nights of such hilarity that it was impossible to fall asleep until one or other of my parents shouted from their bedroom, ‘Righto! That’s enough you two!’ Finally subdued, we would settle down for the night. Nanna was an awesome cook, although she often had to be cajoled into doing anything that resembled work. She was also impossibly messy. When she cooked, there would be a mass of pots and pans, spills and slops from one end of the kitchen to the other, which she never thought to clean. Although my mother loved the delicious fare she conjured for us, it really wasn’t worth the pleasure because of the huge mess to contend with afterwards. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was her favourite grandchild. In fact, she unashamedly made no secret of this fact, at least not in our house. But who knows whom she proclaimed her favourite when in the company of my cousins? Naturally, I loved her dearly in return. But this was the first time I had thought to query why my mother had not lived with her as a child. ‘Mama wasn’t well, and she couldn’t look after us. She had no money, so Millie and I were sent to live at the Catholic orphanage in Narellan.’
Prologue
15
I remember that after I returned home from one such holiday, I felt rather bored and forlorn. After all the fun and attention I had experienced while I was away, home seemed dull and boring. I was sitting on the floor in my bedroom, somewhat tearful. My mother quietly entered my room, noticed my tears and asked what was wrong. ‘I miss Aunty Nellie,’ I eventually confessed, although I did not want to offend my mother. I half expected a mild reprimand, for I knew she must surely be saddened at this rebuff from her daughter who had just spent the last week away from her. But she surprised me by clambering down beside me on the floor and leaning her back against the side of the bed, so that our shoulders almost touched. ‘I know how you are feeling,’ she said. ‘I missed Nellie, too, when I stopped living with her!’ I was surprised. ‘How long did you live with her?’ I wanted to know. ‘And why?’ ‘When I left the orphanage, Aunty Nellie and Uncle Coolie [Uncle Stanley] took me to live with them. I stayed with them until I met and married your father. But I missed her terribly when I left.’ That my mother had grown up in an orphanage should not have come as a surprise to me, for I must have heard it mentioned at some point in time. I knew that her father had died when she was only six years old, but I assumed that my grandmother had raised her. ‘Why were you in an orphanage?’ I asked, perplexed. ‘You had a mother. Why didn’t you live with Nanna?’ Nanna was a regular visitor to our house. She would arrive with one small suitcase packed to overflowing and stay with
14
NELLIE'S VOW
us for several weeks at a time. She lived with each of her four daughters in turn, having no home of her own, and when she stayed with us there was always lots of laughter – and an equal amount of arguments. Small, quirky and outspoken, she possessed a razor-sharp wit and a wicked sense of humour. Her irreverence sometimes landed her in trouble with her daughters, and often annoyed her sons-in-law. She slept in my room, in the bed opposite, and there were nights of such hilarity that it was impossible to fall asleep until one or other of my parents shouted from their bedroom, ‘Righto! That’s enough you two!’ Finally subdued, we would settle down for the night. Nanna was an awesome cook, although she often had to be cajoled into doing anything that resembled work. She was also impossibly messy. When she cooked, there would be a mass of pots and pans, spills and slops from one end of the kitchen to the other, which she never thought to clean. Although my mother loved the delicious fare she conjured for us, it really wasn’t worth the pleasure because of the huge mess to contend with afterwards. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was her favourite grandchild. In fact, she unashamedly made no secret of this fact, at least not in our house. But who knows whom she proclaimed her favourite when in the company of my cousins? Naturally, I loved her dearly in return. But this was the first time I had thought to query why my mother had not lived with her as a child. ‘Mama wasn’t well, and she couldn’t look after us. She had no money, so Millie and I were sent to live at the Catholic orphanage in Narellan.’
Prologue
15
In writing this memoir, I decided to tell the narrative from an omniscient viewpoint. To cement the story together and to fill in gaps in the information, there has been some necessary embroidering of detail for realistic effect. I have stuck to the truth as far as possible, but I have had to imagine how certain conversations would have unfolded, having not been present to hear the actual words. To put some fluency into the story, I have had to read between the lines of my family’s history and surmise some of the elements. I do not know what clothes were worn, for instance, by various people who appear in the story, or what the weather was like on specific occasions, but I have included particulars such as these to add depth and texture to the memoir. However, all of the main characters and events in the story are real. It is merely the background tapestry that has been created to provide the richness that is required of a narrative. I now invite you to share my family’s journey.
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Chapter One Promise to a Nun
W
hen Sister Othilia summoned Nellie to her office that morning, Nellie was inexplicably filled with dread. Although she had been called up to the office on many other occasions, to run errands for the nuns or to receive words of praise concerning her studies, this time Nellie felt it in her bones that something was amiss. The wizened nun, with her crinkly skin and stooped posture, seemed strangely shrunken to Nellie’s young eyes that day, her expression more serious than usual. She held the door open for Nellie with one hand and ushered her in with the other, indicating the plump armchair opposite her desk. The sun was shining upon the glossy, timber surface of the desk, lending a warmth to the room that was at odds with the young girl’s frame of mind. Nellie imagined her heart was beating in time with the loudly ticking clock on a nearby shelf as she waited for Sister Othilia to seat herself behind her desk, then
Promise to a Nun
37
realised her heart was racing way ahead of the clock’s rhythm. Nellie watched as the nun rested her elbows on top of the desk, fingertips together; she was evidently trying to choose her words carefully. Despite her steely gaze and imperious voice, Sister Othilia was not without compassion. After a moment’s silence, she lowered her hands to her lap, and a softer expression appeared on her face. She spoke gently but resolutely. ‘Nellie, I am sorry to have to tell you that your mother has stopped sending money for your tuition and boarding fees. We have done our best to contact her, but she has been difficult to reach. We have tried our utmost to keep you and your sisters here for as long as possible, given the family circumstances, but I am afraid that the school can no longer afford to support the three of you. It causes me great sadness to tell you that you will be leaving us within the week.’ Nellie felt as if her heart had stopped beating entirely, leaving her body without the means to breathe. Here was yet another blow. How much more bad news was she to be given? The death of her father just over a year ago had been the greatest shock of all. She remembered her father’s wish that his children receive a good education. That was why they had sold the farm and moved to Nyngan, where St Joseph’s Catholic Convent was located. But fate, it seemed, was determined to keep chipping away at their happiness until there was nothing left. ‘Where are we to go, Sister?’ she asked. ‘That is a matter for your mother to decide, Nellie. But I expect you will attend a public school somewhere near your mother’s place in Sydney. Your Aunt Sarah is to accompany you to Enmore. She will see you safely into your mother’s keeping.’ It pained Sister Othilia to deliver such news to one of her students. She was particularly fond of Nellie Peisley, a reliable
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and responsible student capable of great things if given the chance. If you gave Nellie a job, you could be sure it would be completed perfectly. This child never needed scolding for absentmindedness or disobedience. Keeping a vigilant eye on her younger sisters, she was a perfect role model for them. All three Peisley girls were quick learners, though Kathleen, at nine years of age, had an unruly, rebellious streak that was hard to curb. Seven-year-old Clare was a beautiful child, as carefree and light-hearted as Nellie was solemn and serious. Sister Othilia feared what lay ahead for these children now. Alas, it was out of her control. The elderly nun watched 11-year-old Nellie sitting quiet and motionless before her, an air of resignation settling upon her young shoulders as though she had expected this further misfortune. She was old beyond her years, thought the nun. Considering the worrying rumours Sister Othilia was hearing from Sydney concerning the children’s mother, the future did not look bright for them. Such a pity! Sister Othilia rose from her chair, a sign for Nellie to stand as well, and they started for the door together. Nellie discovered that her legs were a little shaky. With one hand almost upon the door handle, Sister Othilia stopped mid-stride and turned to Nellie. ‘My child, will you promise me something?’ The old nun’s hesitation puzzled the young girl. She looked as though she was unsure of the wisdom of what she was about to ask. Nellie was still reeling from the news that she would be leaving St Joseph’s, the school that had become her home and where she had been content. Boarding at the school had given her a sense of normality since her father’s death and her mother’s move to Sydney. But she felt compelled to obey her superior. ‘Yes, Sister. What is it?’
Promise to a Nun
39
Nellie, Kathleen and Clare at St Joseph’s Catholic Convent, Nyngan
‘Promise me you will always look after your sisters, Nellie. They look up to you, my dear, and they are going to need you from now on. Do you understand?’ Nellie gazed into Sister Othilia’s piercing eyes, searching for more information, but could find none. She didn’t understand. What did their future hold? What obstacles lay ahead for them all? How could she be expected to take care of her sisters at just 11 years of age? It occurred to Nellie that Sister Othilia knew more than she was disclosing, and it filled her with deep gloom. Although she didn’t know how she would manage, Nellie made a solemn vow to the old nun that she would care for her sisters to the best of her ability. Nellie took her responsibilities seriously, so it was a vow she intended to keep no matter what; her love for her sisters was strong and timeless. Their world
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had begun crashing down around them from the moment their father had died, and, as the oldest sister, she knew they looked to her for support. They would need her strength to sustain them, thought Nellie, for whatever lay ahead. Their mother Eliza, it seemed, was preoccupied elsewhere. As she stepped out of Sister Othilia’s office that day, with the weight of the world upon her 11-year-old shoulders, Nellie knew she had left her childhood behind forever.
Promise to a Nun
41