The Noon Lady of Towitta Read Online Free Page A
family comes from the Barossa Valley, near where I have lived for most of my life. She understands my situation and we have become friends. She tells me of her sorrow for her sweetheart who was killed fighting near the end of the war in Europe. She bears this loss alongside the day-to-day squabbles between her, another nursing sister, seven nurses and the matron. The daily shenanigans provide us with much amusement; there isnât much else here to make us laugh. Without Sister Kathleen, I would have no idea of the âgoings onâ in the hospital.
For my part, I tell her of the hardships of living on a farm for years dogged by drought, and something of Fatherâs harsh treatment of my brothers and sisters and myself before they either died or ran away from home. I tell her that both my sisters died young, but I have not said how. It is touching that she is treating me as an equal. In the Barossa Valley and on the Murray Flats, where so many families of German descent settled, it is our lot to be treated as inferior or foreign because of our so-called peculiar customs and a foreign language and church. As for âblockerâ families like ours mixing, it simply wasnât done. Then, as now, it is always them and us â the British and the Germans.
We sit on the tiny verandah shaded from the warm sun with Sister Kathleen holding out her arms with my skeins of wool wrapped around her wrists as I wind balls. I pass much of my time knitting baby clothes for a church orphanage. When Sister Kathleen sweet-talks me into yarning about my life I find telling my own brand of tales still comes easy to me. We might spend just ten minutes together or as much as two hours, but these longer periods are rare as she is kept very busy.
After years of not saying much to anyone, I found it wasnât hard to tell tales in the way I once used to. So I began to look forward to her visits. I canât do much else now anyway, I have plenty of time to think of the tales I will tell her. Not long after we met she asked me straight out if I was that woman in the Towitta tragedy. She was plumping up my pillow at the time and asked, casually, âMiss Schippan, I know youâll think Iâm nosey and you can tell me to mind my own business if you wish, but Schippan is not a common name. I can remember our family talking about a murder in a family that had that name when I was a girl, and Iâm sure there was a woman called Mary. Was that your family?â
I was caught off guard and hesitated. It may have been only seconds before I replied, but my whole life flashed before me. I liked Sister Kathleen for she made a point of coming to see me whenever she was on duty, even when she wasnât rostered for duty to the âcorridorâ. You couldnât ignore her because, despite the recent loss of her sweetheart in the war, she was bright and cheery. People like her make all the difference in a place where so many have low spirits, and she lifted mine without really trying. I made a hasty decision to answer her question honestly. What did I have to lose?
âYes, it was my family. And if you donât mind me pointing it out to you, youâre a brave one asking questions that donât really concern you, Sister. I hope you donât go about asking other women such personal questions. Youâd be told you were nothing but a sticky beak. But I know that since arriving here a few weeks ago youâve done your best to make me comfortable as well as make me laugh. So please, donât keep calling me Miss Schippan, just call me Mary.â
Sister Kathleen came round to the front of the day bed, grabbed my hands and looked straight into my eyes. She told me she had grown up knowing of the Towitta tragedy, as it was referred to in the newspapers of the day. Once we started to talk about this part of my life she enjoyed revealing to me what a thrill it was to talk to someone like myself, though I failed to
For my part, I tell her of the hardships of living on a farm for years dogged by drought, and something of Fatherâs harsh treatment of my brothers and sisters and myself before they either died or ran away from home. I tell her that both my sisters died young, but I have not said how. It is touching that she is treating me as an equal. In the Barossa Valley and on the Murray Flats, where so many families of German descent settled, it is our lot to be treated as inferior or foreign because of our so-called peculiar customs and a foreign language and church. As for âblockerâ families like ours mixing, it simply wasnât done. Then, as now, it is always them and us â the British and the Germans.
We sit on the tiny verandah shaded from the warm sun with Sister Kathleen holding out her arms with my skeins of wool wrapped around her wrists as I wind balls. I pass much of my time knitting baby clothes for a church orphanage. When Sister Kathleen sweet-talks me into yarning about my life I find telling my own brand of tales still comes easy to me. We might spend just ten minutes together or as much as two hours, but these longer periods are rare as she is kept very busy.
After years of not saying much to anyone, I found it wasnât hard to tell tales in the way I once used to. So I began to look forward to her visits. I canât do much else now anyway, I have plenty of time to think of the tales I will tell her. Not long after we met she asked me straight out if I was that woman in the Towitta tragedy. She was plumping up my pillow at the time and asked, casually, âMiss Schippan, I know youâll think Iâm nosey and you can tell me to mind my own business if you wish, but Schippan is not a common name. I can remember our family talking about a murder in a family that had that name when I was a girl, and Iâm sure there was a woman called Mary. Was that your family?â
I was caught off guard and hesitated. It may have been only seconds before I replied, but my whole life flashed before me. I liked Sister Kathleen for she made a point of coming to see me whenever she was on duty, even when she wasnât rostered for duty to the âcorridorâ. You couldnât ignore her because, despite the recent loss of her sweetheart in the war, she was bright and cheery. People like her make all the difference in a place where so many have low spirits, and she lifted mine without really trying. I made a hasty decision to answer her question honestly. What did I have to lose?
âYes, it was my family. And if you donât mind me pointing it out to you, youâre a brave one asking questions that donât really concern you, Sister. I hope you donât go about asking other women such personal questions. Youâd be told you were nothing but a sticky beak. But I know that since arriving here a few weeks ago youâve done your best to make me comfortable as well as make me laugh. So please, donât keep calling me Miss Schippan, just call me Mary.â
Sister Kathleen came round to the front of the day bed, grabbed my hands and looked straight into my eyes. She told me she had grown up knowing of the Towitta tragedy, as it was referred to in the newspapers of the day. Once we started to talk about this part of my life she enjoyed revealing to me what a thrill it was to talk to someone like myself, though I failed to
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