10 – A heart-stoppingly joyful smile (Bridget’s grandniece)

A black and white photograph of a young woman, about 25 years old, dressed in a long-sleeve white gown, standing indoors with an amused expression. She is clapping her hands lightly and looking slightly to her left. Behind her is a decorative, fan-like backdrop, enhancing the festive ambience of the scene. — My mother at a ball in the 1960s. She wears a white dress and is smiling at the photographer. [1]

For someone who has such an expressive face, Mary, my mother and Bridget’s grandniece, doesn’t smile a lot.

Mary’s a cheerful soul with an unmatched generosity of spirit. She can and does smile.

Her smiles, however, tend to be reserved.

Usually, Mary defaults to a wry grin. There’s enough dryness to indicate she’s amused but an edge to the smile that lets you know that she’s aware that you’re probably talking rubbish.

A vintage black and white photograph depicting a young woman in a plaid dress bending forward to hold the hands of a toddler in a light-coloured dress and bonnet. To the right stands another little girl in a white dress, looking slightly away from the camera. They are outdoors, with a garden and a picket fence in the background. — A woman (my grandmother) helps a toddler (my aunt) walk while another young girl (Mary) stands nearby. Even as a child, Mary wasn’t totally sure about this smiling malarkey. [2]

About every 10,000 smiles, Mary will break into a grin so joyful that the intended recipient’s heart will pause, mid-beat, in their chest. I’ve been on the receiving end of this expression about five times in my life. When I was younger, I envied friends who had smiley-er mothers: women whose faces were wreathed in smiles, bathing the world in their mirth.

I didn’t understand that rarity increases the value of a thing. Mary’s grin is as bright as it is fleeting. It flashes across her face only when she unexpectedly sees someone she loves.

I misunderstood about Bridget and her conscious forgetting by my family, too.

I thought they had buried Bridget’s memory because they blamed her for the circumstances of her death. Perhaps that the violence and notoriety of her murder had somehow diminished their love for her?

I was very wrong. Bridget never lacked for love. In point of fact, she was surrounded by it. Even to her end.

Sometimes, a thing hurts so much that you can’t bear to talk of it. To speak of it is to re-live it.

The silence of my family on Bridget’s life and death was not a condemnation of the woman and her end. It was a silent moan of pain at the Bridget-shaped hole that suddenly appeared in their lives.

A digital image of an open newspaper spread, The Allora Guardian from January 1914, showing various advertisements and articles. The page is predominantly text with small, dense, black type against a faded white background. An arrow points to a highlighted section in the center, which is a funeral notice thanking those who supported a family during a recent loss. — This historical newspaper clipping from The Allora Guardian dated January 24, 1914, includes a notice from Mr. and Mrs. P. O'Callaghan expressing gratitude to friends who attended their daughter’s funeral. [3]

#WildBridgie

End notes

[1] "Mary goes to a ball." B. Moulder, 1960s. Private archive.

[2] "Family Moment." B Moulder, early 1940s. Private archive.

[3] "Newspaper Clipping of The Allora Guardian." The Allora Guardian, 24 January 1914. Personal Collection, JPEG file.

Wild Bridgie

10 – A heart-stoppingly joyful smile (Bridget’s grandniece)

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