Prologue from Goodbye Molly Maguire

Christine Johnston
Dunedin
New Zealand

Deep South v.1 n.1 (February, 1995)

Copyright (c) 1995 by Christine Johnston, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the New Zealand Copyright Act 1962. It may be archived and redistributed in electronic form, provided that the journal is notified. This consent does not extend to other kinds of copying, such as copying for general distribution, for advertising or promotional purposes, for creating new collective works, or for resale. For such uses, written permission of the author and the notification of the journal are required. Write to Deep South, Department of English, University of Otago, P. O. Box 56, Dunedin, New Zealand.

Prologue

Dunedin! Heavens above! Molly said. What are you thinking about, Libby? All that way! Lord help us! Dunedin! It's days of travelling and them coaches are so draughty. They're awful common, them drivers, cursing and giving cheek. What's your father thinking about? Poor man, has he lost his wits? It's no place for a wee girl like yourself Libby. Tell him no. It's a cold hole. Not as cold as here, sure, but awful cold. It gets into your bones, Libby, I'm telling you. I caught my death of cold down there and it wasn't even winter. Hark at me, will you, Libby. I may be an ignorant girl with no brains, but, God in heaven, I'm no fool. I know what I'm on about. The streets are so loud, it's deafening. Every man shouting and calling. You can't even hear a bird sing. And them barrowboys! They want their mouths washed out with soap and water. 'Tis no place for the likes of you, Miss Libby love. Now don't say nothing. Though you are clever for a girl, yet you don't know the truth when you hear it. I'm telling you the truth. Cross my heart. It's not a Christian town for all them big churches and bells ringing. There's folk there treat you like dirt. They'll walk all over you and then go off to church. You don't know the half of it. You don't know nothing. I could tell you stories that would make your hair curl, stories that would break your heart. You'll rue the day. Don't go, Libby. Stay here. Dunedin! Pah! And for what, God love us? You can read and write and sing real nice, and sew a seam on your whirligig. Will they make a scholar of you? It's not natural. What earthly good is French and German to a girl? Your father could make use of you, and Alice too. She'll be run off her feet come Christmas, with the wee one and all. 'Tis folly, Libby love. Tell him no. There's time enough when you've come of age. Not now. You're needed here at Precious Pass. This is paradise, I'm telling you, this is heaven. Don't go to town, there's a good girl. Stay.

Write a letter to The Editor. The authors of the work in the journal would appreciate your feedback, so take a moment to write to us if you wish to comment on or respond to anything you have read here. Write to:
deep.south@stonebow.otago.ac.nz