The Feasts and Seasons of John F. Kelly

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Also by Robert Pascoe The Lettered Country (with Stuart Macintyre, John Ainley and Jim Williamson) Sierakowski: Five Generations Grollo in the Year 2000 Lifetimes in the City of Whittlesea The Passeggiata of Exile (with Jarlath Ronayne) Malta: A Siege and a Journey (with Jarlath Ronayne) The Seasons of Treviso The Winter Game The Irish Imprint in Australia (with Jarlath Ronayne) We Work with Grollo Open for Business Alienation and Exile In Old Kalgoorlie (with Frances Thomson) The Recollections of Luigi Grollo Buongiorno Australia Peppermint Grove A Place of Consequence (with Robert Reece) The Manufacture of Australian History Dean Laureate Robert Pascoe is an Associate of the Institute for Community Engagement and Policy Alternatives (ICEPA) at Victoria University, Melbourne.

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THE FEASTS & SEASONS OF

R O B E R T PA S CO E

With assistance from Stephen Pascoe

Foreword by Bishop J. O’Connell

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First published by Allen & Unwin Book Publishers in 2006 with support from the Catholic Education Office, Melbourne, PO Box 3, East Melbourne Victoria 3002. Copyright text © Robert Pascoe 2006 Copyright photographs © Our Lady of Good Counsel, Deepdene, unless otherwise credited All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act. Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander St Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218 Email: [email protected] Web: www.allenandunwin.com National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: Pascoe, Robert, 1953– The feasts & seasons of John F. Kelly Includes index. Includes bibliography. ISBN 978 1 74175 057 7 ISBN 1 74175 057 1 1. Kelly, John Francis 2. Catholic Church – Australia – Clergy – Biography 3. Catholic Church – Education – Australia 4. Catholics – Australia – History. I. Catholic Church. I1. Title. 282.092 Set in Goudy 11.5/15pt by Midland Typesetters, Australia Printed by Ligare Book Printers, New South Wales 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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Foreword by Bishop Joe O’Connell One does not meet many people in life like John F. Kelly. I am very pleased to discover that his life is now being told in a biography, and honoured to be asked to introduce this book to the reading public, for Kelly was a rare combination of learned scholar, inspiring teacher and caring priest. He was undoubtedly a genius—the only one I have known well in my life. He possessed a gigantic intellect, an elephantine memory and undoubtedly total recall in his prime, an incisive capacity to go to the heart of the matter in hand, an ability to analyse and synthesise and present his conclusions with sparse simplicity in terms which children easily grasped. His erudition was breathtaking—literature and the fine arts, scripture and philosophy, theology in its various branches and languages, history and, in an older usage of the word, culture. These were some of the words I used in my homily at his Funeral Mass at Deepdene in January 1993. I also talked about the personal life of John F.—his humour, his irritability at times, his unusual way of talking and moving quickly, and his love of good food and fine company. This personal side of John comes through in this book. But there is more to John F. in this biography than I knew of him, close as I was to him, because now we have access to his wonderful Diaries. He speaks to us anew through those pages. He tells us how he reacted to the latest books he was reading. He gives insights into his own feelings of inadequacy. And he also marvels at the proof of God’s work in the natural world around him.

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It is fitting that Monsignor Tom Doyle, the longest serving director of Catholic Education in Victoria, commissioned this biography of one of his predecessors. Kelly championed excellence in Religious Education and access for the poor to Catholic schools—both of which were embedded under Doyle’s directorship. I know you will enjoy this biography. It brings back to life a man whose story is worth the telling. It evokes a period and a place in our history that still helps explain who we are as Australians. And for those whose confidence in the Church has been weakened, it may give them a renewed sense of hope and trust in the Catholic project.

Most Reverend Joseph Peter O’Connell, D.D. D.C.L. V.G. P.P.

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Contents Foreword: Bishop Joe O’Connell

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Introduction

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1 A childhood in the Australian bush: Mansfield, 1910–19 2 An adolescence by the seaside: Seymour and Port Fairy, 1920–25 3 A scholar emerges: Ballarat and Port Fairy, 1926–27 4 A young man’s calling: Werribee, 1928–35 5 A difficult vocation: Kyneton, 1936–39 6 War and poverty: West Melbourne, 1939–42 7 The school inspector: Footscray, 1942–59 8 A catechist’s Grand Tour: Europe and America, 1959 9 Directing Catholic education: Footscray, 1959–67 10 Parish priest in an affluent locale: Deepdene, 1968–86 11 The end: Camberwell, 1986–92

3 21 37 45 65 83 121 153 167 201 239

Reflections

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Acknowledgements Notes Bibliography Index

259 261 287 297

Each chapter is prefaced by John F.’s reflections on one of the major feasts or seasons in the liturgical year, mostly drawn from his 1952 book, Through Christ Our Lord.

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List of tables 1.1 4.1 6.1 7.1 8.1 9.1 9.2 10.1

Religious and lay staff heading and teaching in Archdiocese of Melbourne schools, 1895–1925 Daily schedule of events at Corpus Christi John F.’s reading of Anthony Trollope (1815–1882) Catholic student enrolment in the Archdiocese of Melbourne Kelly’s 1959 Rome itinerary and the historical significance of selected churches John F.’s reading of Henry James (1843–1916) International developments in theology and Australian catechetical texts NPI enrolments, 1973–87, according to type of student

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10 54 118 136 159 174 196 228

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Dedicated to T.M. Doyle, who commissioned this work. Friend and brother priest of John F. Kelly

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The Season of Advent The Liturgical Year begins with the first Sunday of Advent. The word Advent means “coming”; four weeks are given to us to prepare for Christ’s coming at Christmas. Advent gives us, in a very summary form, the world before Christ, the world waiting for Christ. In the Advent Masses the note of longing, of yearning for the Redeemer, is heard: ‘To Thee have I raised my soul, My God, in Thee I trust, let me not be put to shame.’ (Introit of Mass of 1st Sunday of Advent, from Psalm XXIV.) The cry of Isaias, ‘Send dew from above, you heavens, and let the skies pour down on us the rain we long for, Him, the Just One; may He, the Saviour, spring from the closed womb of earth’, is used twice as an Introit (Ember Wednesday and IVth Sunday). There is longing for His coming, but joy also in the certainty that He will come. The great liturgical cry of joy, Alleluia (“Praise God”), which the Church has taken over from the Jewish worship, occurs frequently in the Masses; and the Introit of the third Sunday is taken from St Paul’s command to the Philippians to rejoice: ‘Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say it, rejoice . . . The Lord is nigh.’ (Hence, the name by which the Sunday is known—Gaudete Sunday.) What greater reason for joy can there be for those who lived before Christ than the fact that He would come and redeem them? John F. Kelly, Through Christ Our Lord, p. 49

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Introduction John F.: on writing a biography John F. was a voracious reader who recorded in his Diary his impressions of almost everything he read. He liked biographies, no matter how lengthy they were. The advantage of a long biography [is that] you can forget half of it without loss . . .1

Biographies in his view had to respect the position of their subject, usually deceased, and not be a vehicle for the author’s opinions. Finished Viola Meywell’s life of her mother; a fine re-creation of another’s life, and that is what all biography is. This modern craze for using a dead man as the butt for the author’s satirical brilliance is detestable.2 At the same time people were more than the sum total of external observations. The history of souls would be absorbingly interesting if one of the Archangels would only write it; even only a sample of one or two cases which to us who see only the outside are attractive.3

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And there were not enough biographies telling us about the lives of those engaged in religious work. Finished Life of Ullathorne. A fine, old-fashioned bishop, a ‘character’ in the best sense of the word, full of lesser vanity, ingenuous, almost childish, but fundamentally humble. A bishop and a real one. (Is it not a misfortune that very few ecclesiastical biographies give, or can give, [a] detailed account of the daily work of the subjects? How did Ullathorne divide his time? Etc. Of course the minutiae of pastoral work cannot be recorded. Yet on them must the bishop be judged.) . . . The book gives the man; in that sense it is a good biography.4

So Kelly, an unreformed bookshop habitué, would almost certainly have been tempted by this book about him, though any shortcomings and infelicities would no doubt have been recorded in his Diary.

This biography of John F. Kelly In Australia today, Catholics are the largest denomination. One-third of Australians who profess a faith profess themselves to be Catholics, making them the relative majority. What does this signify for Australia? And what does this mean for the Church? This biography introduces to the general public a remarkable Australian priest, now largely forgotten, who foresaw the day that the Australian Church would not be solely Irish, when Catholics would leave their ghetto, when Catholic teachings on social justice would come to the fore, and when Catholic women would demand and receive an equal role in a traditionally masculine institution. When John F. (as John F. Kelly was better known) was called to his vocation as a priest in 1928, Australia was still staunchly British. Its Catholics were a minority, confined to the margins of professional and business life, and their leader in Melbourne was the ascetic Archbishop Daniel Mannix. It was a Church viewed with suspicion or downright hostility by Protestant Australians. Conversely, most Catholics were

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curiously indifferent to how they were perceived—some were as sectarian as their Protestant rivals. Yet John F. loved his Church and was undoubtedly the most intellectually capable priest of his generation. This explains why he was selected by the bishops to write the Australian Catechism (1962), the handbook by which Catholics were taught about their faith. This biography should be a pleasure to read as one man’s story. It begins with a childhood in the Australian bush, followed by Kelly’s formative years in a typical 1920s seminary, and his early posting to challenging parishes where he cut his teeth as a priest. His career faithfully mirrored the trajectory of Catholic thought in the twentieth century, as he was a priest in the vanguard of new ideas. He became actively involved in Catholic Action, a novel attempt to reinvigorate worldwide the spiritual life of working-class Catholics who were seen by the Church to have been diverted to secular alternatives such as Socialism. His middle years were spent as the (third) Director of Catholic Education in Melbourne. Kelly’s wide reading kept him abreast of developments in French-speaking Europe, whence many of the century’s radical ideas in Catholic teaching had their origins. Kelly shared the view that the Church could be a genuinely universal and progressive agency, but that its Irish character in Australia put artificial boundaries around its potential. A biography must be written in a style that appeals to new generations of younger readers who did not know the subject in his or her lifetime. So this book aims to attract younger Australian Catholics with an interest in learning more about where their Church came from. As the author of the 1962 Australian Catechism, Kelly’s handiwork would be immediately relevant and of interest to Australian Catholics who are now in their 50s or older and wanting to reflect on their own lives and how they were influenced by Church teachings. Catechism classes once sat outside the curriculum and are remembered by this older generation as a distinctively separate aspect of their upbringing. John F. Kelly was one of those educational leaders who helped bring the learning of the Catholic faith inside the main curriculum. Older parents of children educated in Catholic schools want to

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understand how this controversial transition took place, how Catholic schooling became less tribal—and in the process of this detribalisation many middle-aged and older Catholics want to know how and why. The removal of the Catholic stigma coincided with postwar migration and the changing demography of Australian religious life. The book will be of interest to historians of the Church, educators, readers of social history, contemporary Catholics who want to reflect on the development of their community, and those interested broadly in the history of ideas. At the heart of this biography is the diary of a priest. John F.’s personal diary has been under lock and key since he died 14 years ago. It is unusual if not unique to have a diary that was begun in 1934, in his last year at the seminary, and continues until 1992, the year of his death, handwritten in 25 pocket-books. His Diary is a candid and uncensored daily account of his work, with self-reflections and summaries of his wide reading. It provides an interior voice to the biography, narrating his moments of doubt, hesitation, and occasional triumph. The biography is also based on interviews with dozens of people who worked alongside John F., knew him as his parishioners, or enjoyed his company as friends. Late in life he agreed to lengthy tape-recorded interviews with some of his closest priest-friends, conducted during the bonhomie of vineyard trips. This book has also benefited from the judicious use of some 200 dissertations and scholarly publications on aspects of Catholic schooling in Victoria. These doctoral and masters theses deal with the evolution of a school system in which John F. was deeply involved. His own publications, including Through Christ Our Lord (1952) and the six-part Catholic History Readers of the 1950s, provide further illuminations of his journey as a progressive Catholic Australian. This biography uses Kelly’s words, in the here and now, alternating with third-person comments written with the benefit of historical hindsight. He is a prescient eyewitness to a changing Church in a period of challenge from the Right—Santamaria’s Movement—and from the spectre of Communism on the Left. In this biography John F. Kelly is understood as a sensitive, well-

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read and deeply spiritual Australian who happened to possess a strong Catholic faith and a humanist view of his Church. An opponent of the Jansenist preoccupation with sin and guilt, he is portrayed here as more than a cipher of the Church: rather as a humble man who doubted his own abilities and who questioned his own life’s purpose. Readers will empathise with his struggle to find a role for himself in a Church that was sorely in need of renovation, for which the Second Vatican Council could not come soon enough. For those who despair of their faith, this book will be a reminder that earlier generations of Catholics also found themselves in contest with the hierarchy of the Church, while remaining obedient to the Church’s teachings. In Kelly’s day many Australian Catholics were still narrow-minded and wedded to the Irish ways, but this book opens a window on those Catholics—lay and clerical—who in that period understood that fresh ideas were circulating in Catholic Europe. It adds to the complexity of our understanding of a period in which Australian Catholicism was dominated by figures such as B. A. Santamaria, Daniel Mannix and Norman Thomas Cardinal Gilroy. It shows that undercurrents were at work at that time. While the Movement came to dominate Australian intellectual and political life in the 1950s, in divisive ways, it had begun as something more progressive—an attempt to redirect Australian society toward utopian Catholic ideals in the 1940s. Through John F.’s diaries and other sources, we glimpse his reflections on his early work, which reveal an attitude that celebrated the role of women in the Church and could see the vast potential of immigrant Catholics in postwar Australia, and the need to broaden the culture of the Church so that the contribution of both these groups could be felt. Early in his parish experience, he recognised and named as ‘Protestant’ those Catholics who were victims of the British hegemony in Australian thinking, especially around issues of racial or ethnic difference. John F.’s life illuminates aspects of the Irish experience in Australia. Between 17 and 33 per cent of Australians can claim some significant Irish ancestry, making them the largest group after the English, but theirs has been a history obscured by myth and stereotype.

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Irish-Australians were a feature of each of John F.’s parishes—those where he was educated as well as those where he served as a priest—but their style and character differed remarkably. In Mansfield (in the 1910s at least) they were staunch Republicans, bristling against the yoke of English domination. But in Port Fairy the majority of the Irish were Protestants. Thus, at each stage of his life, Kelly’s encounter with Irish-Australians reflected the kaleidoscope of their experiences. A priest is directed by his ecclesiastical masters to move from one parish to the next, so the structure of this biography follows Kelly from one locality to another. It is biography, however—not hagiography. John F.’s flaws were those often associated with academics: he was reluctant to take up cudgels to defend in public what he believed, and to confront the difficult human aspects of priestly work. Biographies are enjoyed first and foremost by the subject’s contemporaries, but where the person’s life stands for something beyond the grave, their story speaks to new generations of readers. John F. Kelly is such a person.

Feasts and seasons Feasts and seasons are at the heart of being Catholic. Feasts remind Catholics of the heroic lives of the saints and of the days within the religious calendar that recall key moments in the life of Christ. Seasons, such as Lent and Easter, provide an annual framework in which the people of the Church practise their beliefs. The liturgical year moves effortlessly and regularly from season to season as if some magical impetus were at work. So seamless is it that we sometimes underestimate the violence of the changes that are announced. But if we observe them carefully we find that some of these seasons break like ruptures into our consciousness.5

Seasons and feasts ornamented the life of John F. Kelly. His feasts were

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rich banquets for those around him. He offered his dining table generously to those in his circle. His parishioners and his fellow priests alike knew that fine conversation, a good meal and first-rate alcohol were always available at Kelly’s presbytery. The occasion might be an invitation to perform some service for the parish, a sympathetic ear for a troubled priest, or an excuse to bring together people from different parts of his life. John F. understood that life itself was a great table around which we all sit.6 Books were another feast. Kelly was undoubtedly the best-read priest of his generation, a polymath who devoured English poetry and novels, French plays, French and German theology, Australian literature, and some works from classical antiquity. He had a particular affection for church architecture and history, which influenced both his reading and his Australian and international travels. It was this encyclopaedic erudition that prepared him for the task of writing the Australian Catechism of 1962. Catholic rituals, especially the Mass, provided another feast for Kelly. He cared deeply for the Catholic liturgy and understood its transcendent meaning. He wanted to share with people the eternal truths of Catholicism that persisted through the twentieth century regardless of changes in form. The external form could and did change, especially because of Vatican II (1962–65), but the underlying beliefs did not. Kelly had an unrivalled understanding, among the Australian priests, of the relationship between modern history and catechetics. Why religious observance took a particular form at different times and in different contexts was a source of constant interest for him. The seasons in John F.’s life were varied and distinctive. His last season was as parish priest in the affluent Melbourne parish of Deepdene. The joke used to be that you needed to be a Queen’s Counsel to earn admittance to Kelly’s Deepdene, for he attracted well-educated Catholics from far and wide to Sundays at Our Lady of Good Counsel. Deepdene became a byword for a place where the Catholic life was richly celebrated. He had been given this parish as a reward for all the work he had done in Catholic education, but he rather surprised people at how well he performed as a parish priest. His learned bookishness posed no barrier to this performance.

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In 1972, four years after his appointment to Deepdene, and now Monsignor, Kelly (‘the Mons’) was invited by the bishops to establish the National Pastoral Institute. The NPI was intended to provide further education for religious and lay men and women. In the then absence of an Australian Catholic university, the NPI was an opportunity for people who otherwise were not connected to meet and share their insights into the faith. Before Deepdene, however, was the season in John F.’s life for which he became justly well known: he was the (third) Director of Catholic Education in Melbourne from 1955 to 1969, following Matthew Beovich (1930–40) and Dan Conquest (1940–55). In this role he began the task of transforming the Office from an inspectorate into a head office for all Catholic schools. (This process did not accelerate until significant government funding was attained in the 1970s.) As a school inspector and then Director, John F. got to visit all the schools and to meet the principals, teachers and many students. Years later students could recall this man with the rather formidable intellect coming to their school to review their knowledge of the catechism. Kelly had an excellent memory and carried in his head the genealogical details of dozens of Melbourne Catholic families. Being the Director was an excellent role in which to appreciate the realities of Catholic schools in the crowded conditions of postwar Australia. There were three main aspects to his reform agenda as Director. The small number of lay staff in Catholic schools were underpaid and insufficiently appreciated, yet he could see that they represented the future of Catholic education and so he sought to improve their position. He also considered that the religious instructors in schools had inadequate preparation in theology, so he organised Saturday morning classes at Cathedral Hall to remedy this shortcoming. Third, he was opposed to Jansenism, the doctrine developed from the Dutch theologian Cornelis Jansen (1585–1638) that teaches that human nature is necessarily corrupt and that human will is by itself unable to make us better people. The implications of Jansenism for human sexuality were repugnant to Kelly, and he advocated a modern attitude to sexuality in Catholic schools. A key strategy here was his participation in pre-Cana conferences,

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weekend meetings of Catholic couples engaged to be married, where freer discussions of sexuality could be conducted. These pre-Cana conferences were organised within the broader framework of the Young Christian Worker (YCW) movement, the twentieth-century response developed by progressive Catholics as an answer to the emergence of the labour movement in the nineteenth century. Kelly was one of the first Australian priests to recognise the importance of the YCW and to contribute to its theology. Around the same time, in about 1950, he began to urge the bishops to approve and support the preparation of a new catechism, a series

‘The Mons’: John F. Kelly relished his role as a Parish Priest at Deepdene. [photo: MDHC Catholic Archdiocese of Melbourne]

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of publications that would replace the 80-year-old Penny Catechism. The nineteenth-century Catechism was a small book of questions and answers that reflected traditional rote learning and had fallen far behind pedagogical developments in Australian schooling. He also wrote and helped research six Catholic History Readers in the 1950s that offered a distinctively Catholic understanding of European and Australian history for students in Catholic schools. But it would be the Australian Catechism of 1962, greeted around the world by theologians as a great work, for which Kelly would be best remembered. This season in his life coincided with the season of Vatican II in the life of the Church, and his catechism perfectly captured the mood of that significant moment. Kelly was the product of country Victoria, having been born in Mansfield in 1910, a moment in the life of the Church much closer to the First Vatican Council of 1870 than the great Council that would symbolise Kelly’s ministry. His story starts at the Delatite Hotel in Mansfield in 1910.

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The Feast of the Nativity When we see the Baby-God we cannot overlook something that the modern, pagan world hates to think about, poverty. ‘Ye know the graciousness of Our Lord Jesus Christ, how, being rich, for your sakes He became poor, that so ye through His poverty might be enriched.’ (II Corinthians VIII, 9.) He was born in a stable and laid to rest in a manger. The lesson that this birth gave He repeated in His teachings and that of His Apostles with almost fierce insistence. ‘Believe Me, a rich man will not enter God’s Kingdom easily . . . It is easier for a camel to pass through a needle’s eye, than for a man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven when he is rich.’ (Matthew XIX, 23–4.) John F. Kelly, Through Christ Our Lord, p. 56

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1 A childhood in the Australian bush Mansfield, 1910–19 Passed over Mansfield [on aeroplane to Sydney]. How tiny it looked, and dull! Diary, 19 August 1941 Mother rang to tell me they had leased the place. That means goodbye Mansfield and I am not sorry. Diary, 5 February 1938 There’s a Little Irish Mother that a lonely vigil keeps In the settler’s hut where seldom stranger comes Watching by the home-made cradle where one more Australian sleeps. While the breezes whisper weird things to the gums Where the settlers battle gamely, beaten down to rise again, 3

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And the brave bush wives the toil and silence share, Where the nation is a-building in the hearts of splendid men – There’s a Little Irish Mother always there . . . ‘John O’Brien’, from Around the Boree Log, 1921, quoted by Sally Kennedy, Faith and Feminism, 1985: xi.

John F. and his family John Francis Kelly came into this world in Mansfield, north-eastern Victoria, in 1910. The Kelly family had recently arrived in town to take over the main hotel. Only 30 years had passed since the capture near here and hanging of another Kelly, Australia’s most famous outlaw, and son of the Irish cause, Edward (Ned) Kelly. A landmark of Mansfield in 1910 was a large marble monument, in the form of an obelisk, commemorating three policemen—Thomas Lonigan, Michael Kennedy and Michael Scanlan—shot dead in 1878 by the Kelly Gang at nearby Stringybark Creek. This monument, raised by public subscription two years later, stood in the heart of Mansfield, at the corner of High Street and Highett Street. Looking down on this funereal memorial was the celebrated Delatite Hotel, a handsome twostorey building rimmed by a balcony overlooking High Street. The first hotel on this site was built in 1869. In 1896 the two-storey brick extension to the wooden structure was added and the name Delatite adopted. Mansfield’s main street was still gravel and sufficiently quiet for people to walk freely among the small number of horses and buggies. The new publican of this esteemed establishment was Edward James Kelly, a second-generation Irish-Australian born on a local farm. The advertisement KELLY’S HOTEL was painted up high on a side wall to promote the business.1 Publican Edward Kelly had no known connection to bushranger Edward Kelly, but, for all his adult life, Kelly’s older child and son, John Francis, would have to contend with predictable jokes implying some connection. It was upstairs at the Delatite in about 1979 that historian John Molony completed

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the manuscript to his biography of Ned Kelly, looking down on the monument. This obelisk is known colloquially as the Kelly Monument, ironically enough.2 And the country around Mansfield has since 1880 been known as Kelly Country. It was here in Mansfield, late in 1910—on 15 December, to be exact—that John F. was born. Born in an inn, he was never entirely reconciled to the circumstances of his beginning. He found himself inexplicably grumpy whenever he went home to Mansfield on vacation. Eighty-two Australian Decembers later, in 1992, John F., now a Monsignor, lay very ill in a hospital bed in Melbourne. He had seldom talked about his family and the details of his birth. Now, close to that point where he would meet his God at last, he was obviously thinking about his family history. To a friend at his bedside he disclosed that his father, Edward Kelly, had one older brother, Jonathon, and one sister, later to become a laysister with the Presentation Sisters, Sister Claver (named after Peter Claver, the saint). The Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary (PBVM) was an important religious congregation in Australia. Sister Claver Kelly’s photograph of 1934 suggests a cheery, round-faced woman in her late 50s. She died at Presentation Convent, Windsor, on 30 August 1960.3 Meanwhile, Jonathon Kelly is listed with Edward in the 1931 Sands & McDougall’s Directory as a hotelier at Mansfield, together with a Robert, presumably Edward’s nephew. Edward’s father, also Edward, had emigrated from Nenagh, in County Tipperary.4 Edward Senior’s Irish mother had died when he was about 14—it was ‘a great blow to him’. Edward Senior was a hard man with little formal education, who had cut the first supply track through the Gippsland bush to the young gold town of Woods Point.5 The family farm in Australia’s ‘Kelly Country’ was at Darlington, a hamlet later swallowed up by the Eildon Dam. Farming in Kelly Country has been hard work at the best of times; during the closing decades of the nineteenth century it was particularly so.6 John F.’s mother was Catherine Regan, whose parents were also both Irish, hailing from West Cork. Catherine grew up in Seymour, in central Victoria, where she and Edward married in 1909, the year before they settled at Mansfield and took over the Delatite Hotel. The

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Mary and John in a formal portrait taken in 1913, soon after Mary could sit up.

little Kelly family lived in Mansfield from 1910 to 1920, and again from 1930. A highly-gendered colonial Act obliged her to quit her job as a state school teacher upon marriage. She then threw herself into the work of the hotel, and trusted the Church to educate her children.

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After John, Catherine and Edward had a daughter, Mary. Both John and Mary enjoyed the warm intimacy of the bush Catholic school experience. Probably thrown together by their busy publican parents, they became each other’s best friend. In his Diary John F. makes occasional reference to the Regans, and to his aunt Ellen, presumably his mother’s sister.

The Irish in Australia Who were these Irish Australians? And what was the style of their Catholicism? At the time of John F.’s birth, the overwhelming majority of Catholics in the newly federated nation of Australia were of workingclass or peasant Irish background. Many were descended from the horrors of the early penal settlements or from the potato famine of the 1840s. In some districts, such as north-central Victoria, they were quite conservative politically.7 Elsewhere, in south-western Victoria, and in Kelly Country, they were somewhat more Republican. Mansfield had a strong Irish Republican element. The martyred Michael O’Brien, in whose name were raised several monuments in the Republic over the next century, was first commemorated at Mansfield in 1886, nine years after he was executed as one of the three Manchester Martyrs. In emigration, the Irish transplanted their grieving with them: Michael’s red-bearded brother, Timothy, had settled outside Mansfield, in the locality of Boorolite, and donated an acre of land for a small weatherboard church that would preserve Michael’s memory. In 1914, when John F. was four years old, Archbishop Daniel Mannix made the arduous journey from Melbourne to Boorolite, to bless an extension to this humble Irish-Australian icon.8 As Archbishop of Melbourne, Mannix kept alive the Irish-Australian claim for social justice. Boorolite was typical of the vast expanse of the Mansfield parish, with many tiny churches where Mass was said by a priest who arrived on horseback. Despite these beginnings, John F. in adult life wanted the Australian Church to transcend its Irish origins.

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The Church into which John F was born would be barely recognisable to Australian Catholics a century later. He was reared in a Church culture that positioned the parish priest at its centre and kept the laity at the margins. It was highly structured in its hierarchical organisational shape, in its exclusivist forms of worship, and in its theological certainty. To understand John F.’s childhood, we need to reconstruct the distant world of Catholic worship as it would have been practised by his parents in Mansfield in 1910. This was a period of considerable challenge for Catholicism. The First Vatican Council of 1869–70 had been called to help the Church deal with this period of rapid change and growth.9 Created in 1862, Mansfield parish belongs to this period of the Church’s development. The church building itself was significant. The construction of a sacred space was important and, while there were no rules about how this ritual space was to be built, there was a convention that the building follow an east–west axis so that the sanctuary behind the altar faced the rising sun. Priests and congregation together faced the east. The space between the priest and the people was defined by the communion rail. There was little space in the sanctuary because the priest always had his back to the people. This part of the church was the focus of attention, and the part most elaborately decorated, because it was understood to be a portal to Heaven, a threshold to the next life. The nearness of the divine world was an important part of Catholic faith. The glow of the red sanctuary lamp betokened the real presence of Jesus in the tabernacle. The ornamentation of the church interior was important because the faithful could attend to their devotions while the priest continued to recite the mass in Latin, a language incomprehensible to most of the laity. The Mass itself was highly structured, taking an internally elaborate form. The attention was less on what the priest said, and more on what he did. His movements were carefully scripted, rehearsed and performed. During this ritual the priest was alter Christus—an enactment of Christ himself. Priests felt the pressure this liturgical responsibility put on them; they wrote to the editors of the Australasian Catholic Record for advice on detailed minutiae of the Mass. They were always on display: the English Jesuit C. C. Martindale encouraged the laity to

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watch the priest as much as listen to his Latin, further emphasising the performative aspect of the Mass. This Latin was both familiar, since the same phrases were heard over and over again—‘Gloria’, ‘Credo’, etc—and utterly distinct, since few parishioners knew the language as a whole.10 No meat on Fridays, confession on Saturday night and the compulsory Mass on Sunday were all part of the Catholic life. With levels of 60 to 80 per cent Mass attendance, Catholics were the most devoted of all denominations in Australia. They regarded the Sunday Mass as vital, but activities during the rest of the day could be enjoyed for their own sake, whereas Protestants saw the Sabbath as an entire day of rest or religious observance, even if they did not attend a church service. Some Catholics would use the Mass as an opportunity to say the Rosary as individual worshippers; sometimes the entire group would say it out aloud together.11 One way of participating in the Mass was to imagine each step in its sequence as emblematic of Christ’s final hours. This was explained in the 1935 edition of the Catholic manual published under the title of New Key of Heaven. For example, ‘The Priest kisses the Altar’ reenacted ‘Judas betrays Jesus with a Kiss’. Or when ‘The Priest makes the sign of the Cross over the Chalice’, this corresponds to ‘Jesus is nailed to the Cross’.12

The problem of Catholic schooling This was the culture into which John F. was born. He was baptised on 31 December 1910 by John Barry, later Bishop of Goulburn, 1924–1938. Bishop Barry was a strong influence on the Kelly family,13 as the Mansfield parish priest from 1907 to 1912. As practical Catholics in the town of Mansfield, Kelly’s parents would readily have decided to send their son to the local Catholic primary school, St Mary’s, which was operated by the Sisters of Mercy. During this period most of the Catholic schools in Australia were staffed by young and enthusiastic sisters, brothers and priests from Ireland, France and other parts of Europe who, responding to the call, saw the new nation as a ‘mission’ given to them by God. In all,

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44 Orders came to Australia before 1950—nine Orders of priests, eight of brothers, and 27 of sisters.14 Six of these Orders were established in Australia, but most were from overseas. Not all 44 saw teaching as their main mission, but most operated a school at some stage in their history. Each of the Orders took upon themselves a particular purpose. So John F.’s first teachers, the Sisters of Mercy, had dedicated themselves to educating poor Catholics in the Australian colonies. Until he reached senior high school, John F.’s entire schooling was in the care of these sisters, both at Mansfield and at Seymour. The Sisters of Mercy schools soon dotted both the rural and inner-urban landscape, in locations ranging from Casterton in the pastoral undulations of western Victoria, to the Academy of Mary Immaculate in gritty inner-urban North Fitzroy, to Mansfield in the green forests of Kelly Country. Just as this period saw the development of anti-Chinese sentiment, so too did the rise of anti-Catholic feeling become evident among the Protestant majority, coinciding with the increasing political success of Catholics in some colonies. The Victorian press, led by The Age, denounced ‘priestcraft’ at every turn and conjured up images of a Vatican conspiracy. During the period John F. was at school, the percentage of religious teaching in Catholic schools in the archdiocese of Melbourne grew rapidly. 1.1: Religious and lay staff heading and teaching in Archdiocese of Melbourne schools, 1895–1925 Year

1895 1900 1905 1910 1915 1920 1925

Number of schools

112 107 116 128 142

Lay heads

Religious heads

Lay teachers

Religious teachers

75 76 92 108 123

242 270 203 158 169 171 156

151 178 249 274 328 354 418

37 31 24 20 19

Source: Fogarty 1959: vol. 2, p. 284.

Percentage religious

38 42 55 63 66 67 73

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The Diocese of Melbourne was created in 1847 and it was raised to the rank of an Archdiocese in 1874. Most of its archbishops have enjoyed lengthy periods of leadership. They are: James Alipius Goold (1848–86), Thomas Joseph Carr (1886–1917), Daniel Mannix (1917–63), Justin Daniel Simonds (1963–67), James Robert (later Cardinal) Knox (1967–74), Francis Thomas Little (1974–96), George (later Cardinal) Pell (1996–2000), and Denis Hart (2000–present). Eight leaders in a century and a half is a record of considerable stability, matched by a similar continuity in other areas of the Church’s work, including education, hospital administration and welfare. This, then, was the culture into which John F. was born, and the culture he helped change in the course of a busy and committed life spanning the twentieth century and both the religious leadership of Daniel Mannix. Mannix took charge of the Melbourne Archdiocese when John was merely seven years of age; he died just six years short of John F.’s retiring from the directorship of Catholic Education.

Catholic schooling in Mansfield We first meet John F. in the documentary record as a pupil in the care of the Mercys. The oldest historical reference to him is in the Pupils’ Register, 1906–1924, for Sacred Heart College, Mansfield, registered School No. 59 in Victoria.15 He began at this school in 1918, a few weeks after his seventh birthday. In this period parents in rural Australia were not as fastidious as they would later become about getting their children to school at the required age of five or six. Perhaps John F.’s parents wanted him to help them around the family hotel, or perhaps wanted him to learn the rudiments of bush life. We presume, but do not know for fact, that Edward, an experienced horseman, also taught his son the equestrian art and other fundamentals of the rural way of life. The school records document that it was aunt Ellen who brought John F. to the school to be enrolled as a seven-year-old pupil. She was understood to be saying that he was born in June 1910 (it was actually December) and it was this inaccuracy that went into the official record.

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She gave his address as High Street and her occupation as ‘Delatite Hotel’, presuming the accuracy of this record. This tells us that the family certainly did live in the hotel itself, and that she, like other female publicans of the age, felt no particular need to present herself as anything other than what Catherine was. As noted, she had been forced to give up teaching in the government schools of the day, but hotel work remained one of the best areas of female employment in that period.16 When she and Edward returned to Mansfield in 1930, following their stay in Port Fairy, it was she and not he who was listed as the proprietor of the Delatite in the Sands & MacDougall’s directory. Beginning in 1890, Archbishop Carr urged curricular reform in Catholic primary schools: ‘Teach the children about things, not

Ten-year-old John F. Kelly (front row, second from left) with his male classmates at Mansfield in 1920. Back row, left to right: Norman Redfern, Jim McCormack, Jack McCormack, H. Norman, Cyril Redfern, J. Brown, C. Comerford. Front row, left to right: Billy Aylward, Kelly, Dudley Crisp, A. Crisp, Richard Potter, John Reardon. [photo: Sisters of Mercy Archives, Melbourne]

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The gendered nature of the Irish-Australian Church is nicely caught in this portrait of the Mansfield Catholic community on the occasion of the visit by Daniel Mannix in 1914. Although making up the majority, the women and girls are relegated to the back. [photo: reproduced with permission from Sisters of Mercy Archives, Melbourne]

themes; exercise their senses before making demands on their intelligence’.17 Physical education, music and crafts were introduced during this period. John F.’s schoolroom would have been unrecognisable to his parents’ generation of pupils. The main purpose of Catholic education was, naturally enough, to teach religion. The catechism that John F. learned at school was still the old-fashioned memory test, the ‘Penny Catechism’.18 This was the catechism Kelly’s own would supplant. In 1890 Carr, with two other bishops—Jeremiah Doyle of Lismore and Joseph Higgins of Sydney— drew up standards that were to apply as the ideal across all Australian Catholic schools. Catholic educators were determined to reach the same standard as their secular counterparts. The Customs and Directory of the Sisters of Mercy (1865) stipulated that, far from falling below the standards set by government schools, the schools operated by the

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Sisters ‘should rather be superior in every way, for the greater glory of God’.19 In 1905 Pope St Pius X issued an encyclical, Acerbo nimis, on religious instruction in schools, calling for a more systematic approach. The Australian response was to convene this trio of bishops to set down a standard format for the Catechism (which took until 1950 to produce). It was not until 1937 that parents were officially recognised as the primary and most important educators of Catholic children. John F.’s school years belonged to a period when committed parents such as his own placed their children’s formation squarely in the hands of the religious teaching staff because they were the qualified educators. The emotional gap that emerged between John F. and his parents (especially his father) might have had its origins in this aspect of primary school.

John’s unhappy childhood Kelly’s was not a happy childhood, and he never confided even to his best friends later in life anything much about his early years. Most of what we know about those years comes in the form of retrospective comments in his Diary. From this source we glean a long list of what his boyhood was not. It was not a bookish childhood—perhaps there were no books in the family’s living quarters above the country town pubs—for he read no books until he was boarding at a school in Seymour as a teenager. So the trait for which he was to become celebrated—the most learned priest of his generation—started only in adolescence. His was a boyhood also lacking in ‘spiritual advice’, as he noted in his Diary on 21 June 1938. He describes his father as pious, an adjective that, in the mouth of John F. Kelly, was not particularly flattering. Kelly senior was an active parishioner, on hand to help the local priest as needed. He famously taught each new priest how to ride a horse, a necessary skill in as large a bush parish as Mansfield, where the family was already well established. There is a family legend that it was Edward Kelly’s job to meet Mannix at the Mansfield railway station in 1914 and escort him into the town. Though nervous, he found the

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Archbishop a surprisingly homely man. John F. believed that part of his father’s piety derived from his fairly rudimentary education. He was a practical Catholic whose duties would not have left much time for reading and thinking about the faith. There were no opportunities for lay retreats or Missions in Mansfield. Kelly’s was a childhood without close friends, except for his sister Mary. He and Mary remained close all their lives. Their parents’ marriage was not particularly warm. Mary’s birth had been difficult and there were no other children. They slept in separate beds; there may not have been much love life.20 John F. was a loner. ‘I had so little popularity with boys’, he later lamented.21 He and Mary lived above the family hotel, the Delatite, and presumably made their own amusements during the long hours their parents were downstairs. There is a reference to the family ‘place’ at Mansfield being leased in 1938, following his parents’ second stint

The convent school boasted its own art studio, pictured here in 1910, the year of John F.’s birth. The girls are Gertie Pike, Violet Kerr, Lily Graves and Lily Lester. [photo: Sisters of Mercy Archives, Melbourne]

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there: ‘Mother rang to tell me they had leased the place.’22 It is revealing that he calls it ‘the place’. He was never enamoured of this family home, or the other hotel, in Port Fairy, where he and his family also lived in rooms on the upper floor. (Curiously, his presbyteries in adult life would involve similar living arrangements, for at Footscray and at Deepdene, where he lived most of his life, his bedroom and library were also on an upper floor above a relatively public space.) Yet he was to call his family’s apartment in East St Kilda, and his father’s house at Malvern, ‘home’. When the parents were both dead, his sister’s apartment back in East St Kilda became the new ‘home’. There was little affection between John F. and his parents. On numerous occasions he recorded in his Diary how ‘cold and dull’ he felt in his mother’s company. Days before his 27th birthday he wrote: ‘We drift away from our parents very easily, but they less from us’.23 So what, if any, were positive aspects of Kelly’s childhood? His parents were materially successful, and bequeathed their two children relatively generous inheritances. Mary remained unmarried all her life and survived on this bequest. In the electoral rolls of the 1950s her occupation is described as ‘Home Duties’, and no one remembers her as having a paid job.

Curriculum reform in this period emphasised physical activity, such as theatre and music. Here is the annual school concert at John F.’s school in 1910. [photo: Sisters of Mercy Archives, Melbourne]

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These were Mansfield students who had successfully passed their Senior and Intermediate music examinations in about 1910. Back row: Fred Lester, Lily Lester, Ethel Fitzgerald, Kath Finlayson, Tom Williamson. Front row: Eva Dolling, Nellie O’Sullivan, Violet Kerr, Nea Thwaites, Vera Cryan, Irene Crispin. [photo: Sisters of Mercy Archives, Melbourne]

The parents were probably hard-working and good at their occupation. Running hotels in those days was one of the few areas of life where Australian women could establish their bona fides and gain considerable respect in the community. A hotel was a large household—cooks, maids, lead barman, cleaners, laundresses, fireplace cleaners and the rest. The enterprise required considerable managerial prowess.24 Kelly’s image of women as valuable contributors to the Church and to life in general may very possibly owe its origins to the example of his mother. John F. remembered his First Communion with great affection, writing about it in his Diary on 28 June 1935. The Mansfield parish primary school became a place where he found the warmth and affection missing at home.

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Not only were there very few books in John F.’s early years, there were ‘no fairytales, no “Alice In Wonderland”’. This led, he mused later, to a ‘need that had not been satisfied, and left its effect’. 25 John F. grew up in a cosseted environment, a sentiment felt at other Mercy schools. One young man who attended at the Casterton convent school in 1923 explained that the Sisters ‘were not only wonderful teachers and spiritual advisors but there existed between the nuns and children of that era a warm bond of loving friendship and loving care that time will never erase from my memory’.26 John F. was cared for by nuns who provided an education so appealing to his parents that they chose to send him to board with these same Sisters of Mercy after the sisters established a school in Seymour, his mother’s home town. This, then, was a classic country Australian education. There was plenty of playground space for the children to enjoy, a feature of schools noted by commentators on the young democracy. The curriculum was predominantly practical, with the ‘manual’ emphasis noted by the inspector of 1913. John F.’s comment that he had no reading and books in his primary schooldays was not atypical. Students were encouraged to be active and physical, learning through performance. John F.’s classmates were an interesting mix of turn-of-the-century Catholics in rural Australia. In 1913 there were 39 boys and 14 girls in the school, making a total of 53. Each teacher therefore had an average of a dozen students, taught in combined classes, and there was a degree of intimacy between teacher and taught that made the school experience memorable and rewarding. Most of the families had clearly Irish surnames, such as McCarthy, McCormack, O’Halloran, Costello, O’Brien and Clancy. However, there were also Italian surnames evident in the Pupils’ Register, such as Confeggi and Melano, and at least one Lebanese, Malouf. John F. did not make friends among his classmates, a pattern that would continue into his teens. So was formed a man whose boyhood was for the most part unhappy and empty. The Sisters of Mercy filled the vacuum for this naturally intelligent child, and his journey into the priesthood had already begun.

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The Feast of Epiphany The first Gentiles to be called to the Redeemer were the Wise Men who came to Jerusalem seeking the new-born King of the Jews. When they found Him ‘with his Mother, Mary, and fell down to worship Him,’ (Matthew II, 11), the Divine Redeemer for the first time showed Himself to the Gentiles. The Epiphany, then, is the feast of the universality of the Church, of its Catholicity; it is the feast of the Mystical Body. National hatreds have weakened that universality, (only God knows the harm done by excessive nationalism among Catholics themselves); racial hatreds like anti-Semitism, discrimination against any people merely on racial grounds, are utterly opposed to it; class warfare is no less contrary to it. It is for each Catholic living in the atmosphere of the modern world to see whether he is in danger of being infected by any of these poisons which can destroy his Catholicity. John F. Kelly, Through Christ Our Lord, pp. 62, 64

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2 An adolescence by the seaside Seymour and Port Fairy, 1920–25 Port Fairy publicans From 1920 to 1930, when John F. was aged between 10 and 20, the Kellys lived at Port Fairy. He spent his holidays there, while boarding at Seymour from 1920 to 1925. All through the 1920s his parents ran Port Fairy’s Star of the West hotel. In its heyday this was the most celebrated hotel in western Victoria. Built in 1856, it was the social hub of Port Fairy. Many local clubs and associations had their big events there—such as the Belfast Cricket Club in the 1870s and 1880s, plus rifle associations, rowing clubs, the Port Fairy Turf Club, and even the Horticultural and Floricultural Society.1 The family residence at the hotel is on the upper storey, away from the main street, at the northern end of the building. Five years later John F. recalled the clouded moonlit skies of Port Fairy, remembering those ‘many happy nights’ and the ‘roaring’ of East Beach.2 The sound of the beach from this direction would have been audible in the quiet of the evening as he lay in bed. The Port Fairy district was lacking in educational opportunity. This helps explain why John F. was sent for his secondary schooling to 21

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John F.’s right arm wraps his sister Mary in this fetching family portrait of about 1920.

Seymour, his mother’s hometown, boarding at the Seymour Convent up to Leaving Certificate,3 and Mary was sent to Portland. The Port Fairy of John F.’s teenage years was a prosperous Irish-Australian coastal town, home to the Glaxo pharmaceutical factory, a fisheries industry, and town businesses providing services to the surrounding farmers. By 1920 the town had 62 subscribers to its local telephone exchange; the next year, 70.4 A hotel (being a major business) always needs a telephone and earlier proprietors of the Star of the West had already

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subscribed. Over the Christmas of 1921, among the usual ‘hundreds of visitors’ to the town were former owners of the Star of the West Hotel, Mr T. H. Short and Miss Short, by now publicans in Stawell, many miles to the north. Short liked what he saw of his old town: indeed, as the newspaper put it, ‘he is enthusiastic over the future progress and prosperity of the town’.5 Another of the regular holidaymakers in Port Fairy was a Catholic bachelor, Mr Charles O’Driscoll, a Departmental Inspector who later became an Inspector of Catholic schools in Melbourne. His professional life and that of John F. were to become intertwined in later years, but it is not clear whether O’Driscoll ever met John F.’s parents or, indeed, ever stayed in their hotel during his regular sojourn, since he had by this time switched to inspecting Catholic schools: Brain fag and an enervated constitution follow after a strenuous year, but recuperation is quickly brought about after a few weeks’ rest at this ideal summer resort. There is the right sort of ozone here to cure thousands of run-down persons in a few weeks. Mr O’Driscoll and others who come here year after year are the best judges.6

The Star of the West hotel in Port Fairy in its heyday, when owned by the Kelly family. [photo: State Library of Victoria]

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Holidaymakers certainly helped the town prosper. The local newspaper waxed eloquent in January 1920 about the ‘property boom’ that was evident in Port Fairy: ‘Any comfortable, presentable and commodious villa residence in the town is being inquired about, eagerly sought after and owners of such persuaded to sell’.7 The town was well-suited to tourism, with the Moyne River and its wharves making a pretty promenade. The mutton-birds on Griffith Island attracted the interest of holiday-makers. The Council was beautifying the harbour, and the Eastern Beach was safe enough for children to swim. The housing stock in the main section of town mostly comprised 1860s and 1870s fishermen’s cottages. Bank buildings and other business houses were proof of the town’s prosperity. The Star of the West hotel shared in this happy prosperity. There was another Kelly family operating a hotel in Port Fairy, going off to another hotel, in Mortlake—and perhaps it was they who alerted the

John F. could hear the waves on the Eastern Beach at Port Fairy from his bedroom window during holidays. This photograph by Robert O’Brien captures the new avenue of Norfolk Island pines and a pavilion in about 1930. [photo: State Library of Victoria]

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Kellys of Mansfield, on the other side of Victoria, that Port Fairy’s premier hotel was up for grabs.8 The Star of the West hotel was a major business and a source of employment for people in the town: WANTED. Good KITCHEN MAID. Apply Mrs Presnell, Star of the West hotel Port Fairy9

So read a typical employment notice. Mrs Presnell was the wife of a local fisherman; as observed earlier, hotels were a major source of employment for women in that period. This hotel had livery stables adjoining it, in which a hansom cab was stationed. The owners of the hotel correctly reasoned that this cab was somewhat obsolescent and sold it to a certain John Lafferty, who regularly advertised in the local newspaper that he was available to transport passengers and parcels. In 1920 there were 21,000 motor vehicles registered in Victoria.10 The owners of the Star of the West shrewdly could see the writing on the wall. Hansom cabs were fast losing ground to motor vehicles. The hotel also hosted a typewriting enterprise. L. E. Elliott, who was based at the hotel, had a business lending typewriters to country students free of charge for four months and then securing for them an appointment as a secretary, where they could deploy their new skills.11 Elliott’s business was based on a specific gap, for tertiary education was beyond the reach of many talented locals. Very few Port Fairy students made it to the University of Melbourne; the achievements of the few who did were trumpeted in the local newspaper.12 Later in the 1920s the Star of the West hotel won the right to open late on the last Friday of the month.13

Irish Protestants and Catholics In its cultural complexion Port Fairy was becoming far more Catholic, an obvious fact for those living there, and borne out empirically by the results of the 1921 Census. The proportion was now 33 per cent, up

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from the 22 per cent of 1857, when 1,200 of its 4,000 inhabitants were Catholic. By 1921 the total population had dropped to 3,800, but the Catholic families had stayed. The Irishness was everywhere. The men who won the contracts to mend the roads of the district almost without exception bore Irish surnames, such as Kelly, Ryan, Riordan, McCarthy and Fitzpatrick.14 An Irish Republican film, entitled ‘Ireland Will Be Free’, was screened at the Port Fairy Lecture Hall on Monday evening, 31 January 1921, diagonally opposite the Kelly hotel. In addition to the rich propaganda fare of Alderman McSweeney’s death and the deportation of Father Jerger—events which famously stirred the Irish people’s nationalist sentiments at the time—the film also included images of the 1920 St Patrick’s Day parade in Melbourne, triumphantly led by Archbishop Mannix, escorted by 14 Victoria Cross winners and thousands of Irish-Australian soldiers and sailors.15 The young John F. could hardly have guessed how his own life and that of the famous Mannix would later intersect. The magic of Mannix’s world would have been powerful to a country boy. John F. never revealed exactly what led him to the priesthood, but there was an allure about the world of big cathedrals that overshadowed the small lives of country towns like Mansfield, Seymour and Port Fairy. A humbler Irishness flavoured the religious life of Port Fairy. The biggest church was the Catholic bluestone edifice on the main highway heading west out of the town. John F. commented in his diary that this was an unusual site for a Catholic church building, distant from the town proper,16 but this location made it easier for the farmers in their horses and drays to get to Mass from the outlying districts. It also reveals a significant aspect of the town’s ethnic origins, for most of the Irish living in the town proper were in fact Irish Protestants, at least in the nineteenth century. One historian has contended that it was the juxtaposition of Irish Catholics and Irish Protestants here and on the Illawarra coast in New South Wales that explains the genesis of Australian sectarianism. The Ulster Protestants joined forces with the local Scots graziers to compete with the Irish Catholic yeomanry of hamlets like Koroit.17 This explains why Port Fairy’s Protestants built their churches squarely in the middle of the town.18

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The Catholic church was named in honour of St Patrick, and described as being built in the Early English style. The church building was consecrated in 1860 on the site where a small wooden church had been built in 1844 (when Port Fairy was still called Belfast). The church’s windows are framed in Hobart stone and the ceiling is openarched timber.19 The parishioners of Port Fairy were gently lampooned in the local newspaper: An Editor, after looking over the situation, has concluded that: Some go to church to weep, while others go to sleep; some go to tell their woes, others go to show their clothes; some go to hear the preacher, others like the solo screecher; boys go to reconnoitre; girls go because they orter, some for reflection—but mighty few to help collection.20

The fulminations from the pulpit at the Catholic church ranged across many aspects of modern life, depending on what was fashionable among the clergy at the time. Weekly sermons were more likely to be reported in the local newspaper. In 1920 several priests were emboldened to speak out on what they saw as women’s immodest dress: ‘Certain styles of dress nowadays [which] have become usual among women are harmful to the well-being of society—as being provocative of evil.’21 In a similar vein, Reverend Father M’Gloin (formerly of Warrnambool), preaching at St Patrick’s Cathedral in Ballarat, also spoke of this indecent clothing: ‘The scanty attire was said to be in accord with up-to-date fashions, but it was, nevertheless . . . an abhorrence to all decent-minded men and women.’22 Other sermons were scheduled to illustrate each phase of the liturgical year. The opening speech of the first Sunday of the New Year traditionally concerned the theme of the family, a topic that followed on logically enough from the attention paid at Christmastime to the family of Jesus, Mary and Joseph. In their training priests were encouraged to tackle the issue of the ideal Catholic family as their first subject of the year, and the evils of the mixed marriage. In January 1920 Father Goidanich did precisely that, preaching on the follies of ‘late and mixed marriages’. Late marriages helped explain Australia’s declining birth rate, he opined. ‘The birth-rate was seriously affected in this

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way (as well as in criminal ways), and the future adult population of Australia would seriously feel the effects of this.’ Father Goidanich was likewise unimpressed with those who chose to marry people from outside the faith: mixed marriages—those involving a Catholic partner and one who was from another denomination—were not conducive to happiness. ‘Mixed marriages very often led to great unhappiness and separations.’23 The turn-of-the-century Church, according to its most extreme critics, had become anti-modern to the point where it was in danger of becoming completely irrelevant to the lives of its people. In 1910, the year of John F.’s birth, Pope Pius X had promulgated the anti-Modernist oath, a detailed renunciation of what were seen as the fashionably new ideas of the European intelligentsia. The Papal Territory was isolated geographically following the creation of modern Italy in 1870. The Church expected all Catholics worldwide to follow these papal dictates, regardless of their particular cultural or national identity. This obedience was institutionally arranged by the strict demarcation between priests and parishioners: the laity were the followers of the Church’s teachings; they were not the Church itself. Parishioners were given rules to follow, and it was by a strict observance of these ‘works’ that Catholics found salvation. As we have seen, the Mass was celebrated in Latin—again, with no regard for local nuances of culture and language. This was not an issue for people at the time. The Mass was a sacred celebration carried out by priests, with the laity as interested or less-than-interested onlookers. The officiating priest kept his back to the parishioners as he offered Mass. Good Catholics demonstrated their faith by their own performances. In the Irish tradition, strong in Australia, these included reciting the Rosary and devotion to a particular saint. In the Italian tradition, by contrast, the observances were far more social, such as participation in a street festival (the festa), and this tradition was imported into Australia with the arrival of Italian immigrants. The first Italo-Australian festivals date back to John F.’s boyhood in the 1920s.24 It was not obvious at the time how far the Irish and the Italian traditions diverged because the two groups occupied different spaces.

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Boarding at Seymour Invited to Seymour by the parish priest in 1900, the Mother Superior at Mansfield, Reverend Mother Alacoque Ryan, sent her own sister, Sister Mary Agnes (1860–1938), as the Superior of a small community of five sisters. Another of the Ryan sisters, music teacher Mary of the Divine Heart Ryan (1854–1944), was among this quintet.25 Over the next four decades, the original single-roomed brick building had expanded to a complex of buildings, including a twostoreyed convent, a separate primary school, a sports field built on the former six-acre Show Grounds, and a shelter pavilion. This was the complex of buildings in which John F. studied. When the school was half a century old, it was noted that, ‘Many fine boys from the Convent High School have joined the ranks of the priesthood and girls have entered the religious life’.26

Mother M. Agnes Ryan and Bridie Hession (later Sister M. Gertrude) with a class at the Seymour Convent school where Mother Ryan was principal from 1923 to 1926. John F. followed Mother Ryan from Mansfield to Seymour. [photo: Sisters of Mercy Archives, Melbourne]

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The dominant educational personality in the Seymour convent (and therefore having some influence on John F.) was Sister M. Berchmans Dodd. Born in 1871 and living to the impressive age of 92, she began her working life as a state school teacher before joining the Sisters of Mercy and progressing to become the principal of the Seymour convent school from 1900 to 1945. She also taught ‘commercial subjects’ at the school until 1957, and retired to St Joseph’s Hospital, Geelong, where she died six years later. She is buried at Seymour, the town she adopted as her own.27 As the principal, Sister Berchmans Dodd was in charge of a school population of constantly around 90 pupils. The principals of the Sacred Heart College in John F.’s years were Mother M. Antonia Dunworth, from 1920 to 1922, and Mother M. Agnes Ryan, who served in the role from 1923 to 1926.28 John F. had studied with Mother M. Agnes Ryan at Mansfield in his years there, in 1918 and 1919. When John F.’s parents moved to Port Fairy at the beginning of 1920, the decision to have him board at Seymour was no doubt partly because of his parents’ trust and confidence in the Sisters of Mercy. (Seymour was also Catherine’s home town, so perhaps she had Regan family members still living there. John F. was close to Catherine’s sister Ellen all her life.) Mary Kelly, in the meantime, was sent to board at the Loreto Convent in Portland, the next major town west of Port Fairy. The evidence is her school atlas, in her brother’s private library, inscribed by her as a student of ‘Loreto Convent, Portland’. So, with his sister at a separate institution, at Seymour John F. was on his own for the first time in his life.

Leaving Port Fairy From 1930 to 1938 John F.’s parents, Catherine and Edward, were back in Mansfield, having kept the licence to the Delatite Hotel. In 1926 John F. moved from Seymour to St Patrick’s College in Ballarat, and in 1927 he was Dux of the College, aged only 16. Already he had decided to become a priest. Something important had changed in his life—he had become a voracious reader.

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Began to read [in] 1924, or sometime perhaps in 1923. In the old note book in which I kept a list of books read I find the following: Seymour School Library, 74 books Seymour Public Library, 45 books. I began to get books from the Public Library apparently towards the end of 1924, and continued till I left Seymour in December 1925. Apparently in the school holidays, July–August 1925 I began to get books from the Port Fairy Mechanics Library, I used it extensively till the end of the summer holidays of 1928–9, (Our home was moved from Port Fairy about August 1929). From Port Fairy Library the note says ‘93 books [novels?], 8 others, 11 plays’.

Since it was not until 1923 or perhaps 1924 that John F. began to read books, we can date this profound change in his personal life with the influence of nuns such as Mother M. Agnes Ryan. His earliest theological books were what he later called ‘pious school books like Honour Without Renown’ and some American

Two decades after the Kellys left Port Fairy, the Moyne River, depicted here on 24 February 1950, was still largely unchanged. [photo: State Library of Victoria]

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Catholic school books, but he encountered God in other texts as well. The young John F.’s interest in colonial literature introduced him to the particularly Australian understanding of God that is found in the works of novelists such as Clarke and Boldrewood. ‘The God who shows himself in For the Term of His Natural Life is a hard God, the God who was crucified … [T]he difficult God corresponds more truly to experience, at least to the experience of the first settlers, cut off from all that was familiar, and delivered over to an environment of peculiar savagery.’29 Marcus Clarke portrays colonial Australia as a pitiless and unjust society where God’s mercy seems to have no place. The popular understanding of the harshness of the Old Testament rather than the mercy of the New seems to prevail. In a similar vein, Rolfe Boldrewood’s Robbery Under Arms describes a society where evil is thickly etched. At the end of the colonial period, ‘Such Is Life expresses the kind of folk belief that ours is a country somehow exempt from the evils and injustices of the old world . . .’ In Bernard O’Dowd’s telling, Australia is a place where the Edenic possibility remains true.30 Twentieth-century literature became indifferent to God, but in the work of some postwar novelists, especially Patrick White, we see a return to the metaphysical and characters motivated by good and evil.31 Not surprisingly, Kelly returned to Australian literature later in life through White, and was reading David Marr’s biography of White a few weeks before his death. We turn now to Kelly’s choice of vocation.

Towards a choice of vocation Priests need to be very reflective in their disposition. The habit of reflective thinking started early in John F.’s life. He was for the most part unhappy at the school in Seymour, while at Port Fairy he found comfort in the sea. Twenty years later, while at nearby Portland in the autumn of 1940, he wrote that he was: alone and resting. The sea is always greatly soothing. The happiest days of my life (humanly speaking) were the holidays at Port Fairy.

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(Of course I did not appreciate them at the time.) Arrived early this afternoon. A walk along the shore was sufficient to give me peace. Slow rain came; the break of the drought, let us hope. Another longer walk; beautiful view of Portland from the point on the Western end of the bay. It was before the rain became really heavy, before the glow of light was blotted out. The waters of the bay were a deep-green, the cliffs, buildings, all were suddenly touched with that fragment of divinity which only occasionally does the common mortal see.32

Again, one year later, while on another holiday at a seaside setting, this time at Phillip Island, admiring the ‘regular slow motion of waves’ was enough to transport him back in time to his childhood memories of Port Fairy: A reminder of the perfect happiness of nights at Port Fairy when the East Beach was breaking calmly under a moon. I have had few such times of ecstatic happiness. Perhaps it is better for my soul that I don’t. And I was not grateful for those given me.33

For the young John F., leaving Mansfield meant not only a change in setting but also a difficult period in boarding school. He occasionally recalled it later in life, remembering the loneliness and isolation that he felt at the time. In 1939 he reported to his Diary that he felt depressed and restless, ‘such as I used to feel at Seymour during those unhappy times when I was the object of petty school boy persecution’.34 Later that year, he wrote, ‘I had so little popularity with boys during childhood . . . I was crushed at Seymour’.35 This ‘crushing’ turns out to have taken place over months rather than years, but these experiences can obviously remain hurtful nonetheless. While writing about the problem of teenage sexuality, also in 1939, he added, ‘I have always been interested in this problem, perhaps because I myself had so many filthy companions, even at an early age’.36 The unhappy time at Seymour probably explains why John F. took up reading with such fervour in 1924. Seymour also made Port Fairy attractive by comparison. He remained nostalgic about those long-lost Port Fairy holidays throughout his adult years. Indeed, he would return

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to Port Fairy whenever he had occasion, often rerouting his returns to Melbourne when travelling so as to pass by the idyllic coastal locale.37 This was an older Port Fairy, a modest seaside town whose emblematic Norfolk Island pines had then just been planted, as photographs from about 1930 indicate.

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The Season of Lent Very early in the Church the custom arose of preparing for the great feast of Easter by a period of prayer and fasting . . . [Fasting] is found in one form or another in all religions; it seems to come from a natural tendency in man. Its basis is the recognition of sin, of the need of atonement, the desire to obtain forgiveness, to avert punishment. Sin is primarily an offence against God. Certain evil consequences follow for the sinner; but the fundamental fact about sin is that it is an attack on God, a refusal to give Him due honour, to recognise the order He has established. John F. Kelly, Through Christ Our Lord, p. 73

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3 A scholar emerges Ballarat and Port Fairy, 1926–27 This is the chapel: here, my son, Your father thought the thoughts of youth. And heard the words that one by one The touch of life has turned to truth. Here in a day that is not far You, too, may speak with noble ghosts Of manhood and the vows of war You made before the Lord of Hosts. Henry Newbolt, quoted in P. C. Naughtin, History and Heritage: St Patrick’s College, Ballarat, 1893–1993, St Patrick’s College, Ballarat, 1993

Dux of St Patrick’s The five unhappy years of secondary school in Seymour eventually came to an end. These years led up to the Leaving Certificate. Now John F. was dispatched to St Patrick’s College in Ballarat, one of the 37

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leading Catholic country schools in Victoria, for his final two years of secondary schooling. Again he boarded. This was his first experience of single-sex education. St Patrick’s College was the environment where his habit of reading was nurtured, and he proceeded to top the school in his academic results. He read prodigiously at Ballarat, and this laid the foundation for a lifetime of reading. It was all the more noteworthy in a school devoted to sport. The page in the school magazine on the Dux of the College, 1927, is fulsome in its praise of this unusual student. The magazine author, Jim Whitehead, writes:

The main hallway of St Patrick’s Ballarat is a highly ordered space. [photo: Robert Pascoe]

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One of the most brilliant youths who has ever passed through St Patrick’s is the term by which John F. Kelly will be described in our annals. This remarkable student began his meteoric career at S.P.C. at the beginning of 1926. He was then a fresh-faced boy of fifteen, hailing from Seymour, where he received his education at the Convent of Mercy. He had passed his Intermediate and Leaving Certificate there.

(Already John F.’s Mansfield origins were being glossed over.) On his arrival here, he became a member of the Honours Class. Conscientious working combined with great natural ability enabled him to become adept at every subject he took up. In the December examinations last year he obtained a first-class honours in History and third-class honours in English and French—a very meritorious performance for a first-year honours student. This year he became Dux of the College, and we tender him our heartiest congratulations. He is also a member of the debating committee and can always be relied upon to give a well-thought-out, logical and well-delivered speech.

The debating helped prepare him for priesthood, but Whitehead’s account is weak on personal details—John F. had made few friends in the school. But the Dux of 1927 was keeping up one of the important traditions of the college: ‘This student of such exceptional ability intends to study for the priesthood, and eventually to labour in the Master’s vineyard, thus giving all his talents to the service of God and Holy Church’.1

His vocation becomes public John F.’s choice of vocation was public information in the school, to judge from Whitehead’s account. When he decided to go to the seminary he was moving from the safe and intimate world of his parents to another place, well beyond their ken. The College Chaplain at the time was Reverend Father W. C. Mayo, with whom John F. most likely discussed his vocation.2 Not for nothing was St Patrick’s nicknamed a

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‘priest-factory’, with no fewer than 325 of its graduates entering the priesthood over the course of the twentieth century. Their names feature on an honour board constructed for the purpose of celebrating these alumni, alongside more conventional honour boards for sporting heroes and college captains. Later in life, John F. explained that his love of languages and literature was always there: Well, I suppose always, because you see I was no good at sport. That’s one thing and I had no brothers; my sister and I were very attached to

The Kelly family, c. 1928: upon his graduation from St Patrick’s Ballarat, John F. was no longer the ‘fresh-faced boy of fifteen’.

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one another, but I often think you know that her life was lonely also in the sense that she had no sisters. But I suppose it was sort of—not over-compensation, but at least fulfilling something that others would have done in other ways. I suppose it was that, and history always interested me. I didn’t go into the mathematical sort of line because I did go to Leaving included at the Seymour Convent at which no Science was taught; I think Geography was the Science we did to fulfil the Leaving requirements at that time. So that I didn’t have the opportunity of being geared to Science. I went and did two years Honours at Ballarat with the languages and histories and so on.3

In his Books Read volume, he explained: ‘In 1926 I went to Ballarat. The school library figures on the list, 32 books. I joined the Ballarat City Library. Note says ‘17 books (ie. novels).’ Ballarat had a literary tradition dating back to the 1850s—its library was probably the beststocked country library in Australia. Kelly undertook very little formal theological reading at Ballarat, but he began to read popular Catholic authors of the day, such as G. K. Chesterton (The Wisdom of Father Brown) and R. H. Benson.4 John F. remembered Ballarat as a cold place, but it had a certain ‘solidity and compactness’ that he liked. In 1936 he visited Bendigo from Kyneton and wrote in his Diary that Bendigo ‘lacks the slight air of distinction that Ballarat has continued to acquire’.5 Going to school in Ballarat meant acceptance there, for it was an extremely selfsufficient city: People shopped at Morsheads or Crockers or Ewins, drank Ballarat Bitter, ate Sunshine Biscuits, worked for Johns Engineering, read the Ballarat Courier, banked with the Bank of Ballarat and insured with the Ballarat Insurance Company.6

In 1952 Kelly confessed to his Diary those places that had been important to him: Kyneton on Monday attractive in the sun. It is one of the places that have bitten onto me as places, Ballarat, Port Fairy (certain aspects, the

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East Beach in sunlight, on a moonlight night, the Norfolk Island pines, the cosiness of the place), Sorrento.7

Neither Mansfield nor Seymour made this list, while Ballarat embraced him in a way he had not yet experienced. Being Catholic in such a sectarian city as Ballarat would have helped resolve his sense of vocation and his identity as a Catholic. It was also geographically much closer to Port Fairy and his parents than Seymour. There was a look of quiet satisfaction when he returned at the moment of his ordination to be photographed for the 1937 College Annual. The College was proud of its ‘priest-factory’ image and published group portraits of each cohort as they were ordained. In 1935 Kelly was featured in the College Annual together with the five other men of his year, and the College Principal, Reverend Brother D. G. Purton. One of these five is Reverend Leonard Monk, whose characteristic shyness as a young man is evident in the photograph. Another is Reverend John Tressider, who died before Kelly. Reverend John McNamara became the parish priest of East Kew.

Each year the ‘priest-factory’, St Patrick’s Ballarat, gathered its newly ordained alumni for a celebratory photograph. The priests ordained in 1935 were: (back row), Reverend John McNamara, Reverend John Tressider, Reverend J. Howard; and (front row) Reverend Leonard Monk, Reverend Brother D. G. Purton (Principal) and John F. [photo: St Patrick’s College Archives]

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The official history of St Patrick’s College concedes that the mid-1920s were lean years for the school. Brother J. C. McCann was appointed principal in 1927 to arrest the College’s slide. McCann attempted to assert the priority of academic achievement over sporting prowess: As it is controlled and directed in St Patrick’s, sport is a useful but quite subordinate ally of religious training and assiduous study, factors which have regard to the higher and more important interests in life.8

McCann remained as principal only until 1930, but John F.’s achievements fitted his vision. So John F.’s academic achievement was a cause for celebration in the institution. Now he was to go on to the seminary and bring further pride to the school. As a place to have found himself, Kelly was as much grateful for the city of Ballarat as he was for the College. He admitted to himself that he was not ‘jingoistic’ about his alma mater.9 Within its neat, red-brick cluster of buildings, however, there was a culture of muscular Christianity that also rewarded achievement of an intellectual kind. Probably for the first time in his life, John F. felt affirmed in this environment. The next step, from Ballarat to Werribee, was not as wide as that to Ballarat from Seymour had been.

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The Feast of St Patrick, March 17 . . . the overwhelming majority of bishops and priests who founded and built the Church in Australia were Irish. Now the native born are probably more numerous; but most of them are of Irish descent. The same can be said of the congregations of brothers and sisters whose educational and charitable work have contributed so largely to the spread of the faith in this country. John F. Kelly, Through Christ Our Lord, p. 215

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4 A young man’s calling Werribee, 1928–35 A good priest must forget about himself and work for God. Diary, 28 April 1935 I am unable to realise yet that I am a priest; the great fact with all its multifarious implications will dawn on me gradually. Diary, 30 July 1935

Training in a new seminary The decision to become a priest is never taken lightly. Training for the priesthood requires a mountain of commitment and self-sacrifice, and the years spent in the seminary prove to be a litmus test for many would-be priests, some of whom subsequently decide not to proceed with ordination. Seminary life at Werribee, as John F. Kelly experienced it in the late 1920s and early 1930s, was a quasi-monastic environment, in which learned scholarship of a kind unusual in Australian life at the time was in the ascendant. It was also expected and encouraged that 45

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students would participate in sporting and other cultural activities, of course, but this was much more in keeping with mainstream Australia. Sport and theatre were intended to round out the young men’s character. The seminarians were taught by Jesuits, a change from the secondary education most of them would have experienced. There was also a common discourse in Latin, following the pattern of the medieval European universities, and providing an exposure to higher learning not available in secular settings in the Australia of the 1920s. Werribee, the setting for this experience, was then an outer-urban farming community on the road from Melbourne to Geelong. There was already a seminary in Sydney, located in the beachside suburb of Manly. The seminary John F. entered was quite new. Daniel Mannix conceived the idea of purchasing the colonial Chirnside mansion towards the end of 1922. He conferred with the suffragan Victorian bishops and together they agreed to purchase the 998-acre site for the sum of £70,000. The Corpus Christi seminary had officially opened on 4 March 1923.1

John F.’s year at the Werribee seminary. He is fourth from left. [photo: Reverend Dan Conquest]

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The seminary’s first Rector, Father Albert Power, led Corpus Christi from its opening in 1923 to 1929. The Reverend Henry Johnston S.J. succeeded him as Rector from 1930 to 1947. The ‘professors’, as they were called, lived in the elegant rooms on the upper floor of the old mansion. Father Power, was nicknamed ‘The Mighty Atom’ by the young men because he was so short. ‘He lectured us in Scripture’, recalled Dan Conquest. Father John Meagher, a younger lecturer, taught theology. He was very charming, and, unlike the majority who were Irish in background, was Australian-born.2 The Rector after Power, Henry Johnston, was an aloof and very austere man. John F. said in his last days, however, that he was always grateful to Henry Johnston for letting him go home around July for a break from the enclosed seminary routine and for being understanding of his shyness and anxiety. Johnston also gave Dan Conquest permission to have a break at home. His brother Tommy Johnston was a member of staff at Werribee, serving as the Prefect of Discipline. New rooms were added in 1927 for the expanding student population, with the St Joseph’s wing (now the Mansion Hotel proper) completed in 1928. John F. was among the first cohort to enjoy these new rooms. By 1929, his second year, there were 78 students enrolled at Werribee. That was also the year Father Robert Peterson S.J. joined the staff. In 1937, shortly after John F. had left, a second wing was built behind the mansion on top of the hall. This wing, comprising a new hall and additional student rooms, was dubbed ‘the cardboard castle’. The Werribee River flowed through the old Chirnside estate and it became in the seminary years a favourite swimming hole for the young men, nicknamed ‘The Club’. The river widened at this point to make an attractive spot for the men to enjoy themselves. On the southern bank of the river, also at this point, stands a very old orchard, with apple trees, quince and other fruits. Former student Les Tomlinson remembers it was still popular in the mid-1960s, when he was at Corpus Christi. The summer house was likewise still popular. Dating back to the 1870s, it is decorated with shells, and is located within the ornamental lake, in front of the mansion proper. The lake was kept drained of water, however, on account of the annoyance of mosquitoes. In the

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ongoing restoration of the property since it was purchased by the Victorian Government in 1974, the lake has been successfully re-filled. The seminary provided the ideal setting for Fred Schepisi’s masterful film, The Devil’s Playground (1976).3

The intellectual stands out There are three surviving oral accounts from John F.’s time at Werribee. One is from Father Paul Ryan, who was a near contemporary of Kelly at Werribee; another is from Father Brian Leonard, who became a lifelong friend. (He died in July 2005.) The third comes from the memory of Father Dan Conquest, who entered Corpus Christi seminary the year before John F. Born in 1915, Paul Ryan was raised in Malvern and educated at Xavier College, Kew. He entered Corpus Christi at the age of 16, so was four years below Kelly. The second fellow seminarian, Brian Leonard, first met John F. upon entering the Corpus Christi seminary in 1933, when John F. was in his sixth year of study. Leonard was impressed by how graciously he treated the younger seminarians. He and Kelly remained friends and were in adjacent parishes for many years. Dan Conquest’s father had been a convert from Anglicanism. According to his son, he became a ‘bigoted’ Catholic in this process. Dan himself grew up in the East St Kilda area—where there was no evidence of sectarianism. (For many years they were neighbours of John F.’s sister in Westbury Street.) Dan Conquest’s mother was Clare Dorothea Tuomy, educated at nearby Presentation Convent, Windsor. She graduated in Arts from the University of Melbourne in 1904 and became a teacher at Madame Pignolet’s School, then taught in Brisbane and in Sydney before marrying at 30. Her beauty earned her the nickname ‘Venus’, and she is featured in a photograph of Melbourne University students, oddly mis-captioned as a Tomlinson.4 Dan was born six years later, in March of 1910, eight months before Kelly. He had come to Werribee from St Kevin’s College (in those days still located on Victoria Parade, East Melbourne) which produced fewer

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A theology class in progress at the seminary. Leonard Monk is at the front. [photo: Reverend Dan Conquest]

priests than John F.’s alma mater, St Patrick’s, or than Assumption College, Kilmore. None of these three men knew the psychological problems John F. was to experience while at Werribee, that was yet to come. He arrived at Corpus Christi in the company of another St Patrick’s boy, Leonard Monk, who was even more retiring than he was. As was said, John F. entered Corpus Christi the year after Dan Conquest, in 1928, and the two of them became close acquaintances. Although John F. was never one to become a ‘bosom buddy’ with men, Dan felt, nonetheless, that they became close. They were the same age, both born in 1910, and they shared a great deal in their backgrounds. Like John F.’s father, Conquest’s grandfather, also named Daniel John, was a publican. In the 1900s Daniel Senior held the licence to the Palace Hotel in Camberwell, in Melbourne’s leafy eastern suburbs. The ratepayers of Camberwell not long afterwards voted to become a ‘dry’ suburb; that is, to prohibit hotels and wine saloons within their boundaries. Dan’s father was Arthur James Conquest, a clerk at the accountancy firm of Patterson, Lang & Bruce. Most years there were about ten men entering Werribee, and the program was eight years in duration. This made for a sizeable college

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population. John F. was more outgoing than most of the priests in his year but, nonetheless, he retained a certain reserve. Never remembered as a ‘chummy’ kind of man, he would talk and make jokes, but was very intense at the same time, a curious mixture of outgoing and retiring. His intellectual sparring partners at Corpus Christi were John McNamara, now dead, and the late John Hussey, from Sandhurst diocese (Bendigo), who was a year above him. The well-rounded education at Werribee helped mould Kelly, according to Ryan. He remained humble about his fearsome intellectual prowess: ‘There was never any indication that he knew more than you’. He gave the impression of fitting in anywhere (even if his Diary reveals a more complex truth): ‘He was as much at home with rich as he was with the people of Footscray’, Ryan thought. The eight years of study contrasted with only six at Manly. First year comprised rhetoric, with English, French, Greek and Hebrew. John F. was the outstanding student in every class he took, some of which he shared with Dan Conquest. He had a wonderful memory for Hebrew and Greek. Then there were three years of philosophy and four years of theology, making eight years in all. In moral theology there was a section of the class where the students could ask questions. Despite the lecturer’s best efforts to evade the tricky questions, John F. and Dan delighted in pinning him down to provide an answer. Later in life John F. further developed his Greek and his Hebrew (a point confirmed by his personal diaries). Dan Conquest recollected John F.’s unusual way of talking. Even in those days he spoke very rapidly, and his brain certainly moved very quickly. He was second only to Daniel Mannix as the most intelligent man with whom Dan ever associated. For Dan, certain things stood out immediately about John F. One was that he did not like sport. The seminarians were divided into two football teams at Werribee, The Theologians and The Philosophers. Kelly appears in one team photo, but he cared so little for sport that he supported no team in Australian Rules football—an agnostic act in a city obsessed with its own football code. The sporting culture at Werribee was strong and this appealed to Paul Ryan: ‘The seminary was equipped with handball courts. Very Irish! There were a couple of nice big football ovals, and four tennis

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courts.’ Ryan could see the value in this holistic education: ‘We were always told that what we were learning there was just a beginning. They encouraged a very full life really, and a very strong sense of vocation. We were the people to serve the Church, not to serve ourselves.’ Even those who were not good at sport, like John F., were compelled to take part. John F. was so poor at football, according to Ryan, that he was consigned to the back pocket and in cricket batted last and fielded in the distant outfield, where the ball was unlikely to reach. Dan Conquest, too, was not particularly sporty. His great enthusiasm was theatre. Each year the residents of Corpus Christi performed a play. Dan kept photographs of these plays. Borrowing from the wellknown Wintergarten in Europe, the performance was a full-blown costume drama, cultivating the thespian talents among the priests-intraining. The Wintergarten theatre was set up with the approval of the teaching staff in about 1928, with a performance in French of Athalia. The Jesuits were accustomed to theatre as part of the Xavier experience and their long educational history dating back to the sixteenth century. At Xavier College, however, the female parts were played not by boys but—at least in those years—by girls from Loreto Mandeville Hall, Sacré Coeur and Genazzano. At Werribee all the female roles were taken by males. It would have been about 1929 when the Werribee seminarians put on Macbeth, and in 1930 they staged a version of The Cleric. Subsequent plays in the early 1930s included Henry VIII and The Critic. In one memorable comedy, E. A. (Ted) Fennessy, later famous for his impersonation of Adolf Hitler in a Roman chariot, dressed up as hardened landlady ‘Mrs Bouncer’, in the play Cox and Box, the tale of a daytime hatter and a nocturnal printer who had unknowingly rented the same apartment. The Wintergarten ritual served a number of functions in this tiny community. Like the sporting carnivals it produced a strong sense of connection and companionship among the men. They got to know each other better and, in producing the plays, also to appreciate each other’s talents and skills. Half of the young men were on stage; the others in back stage roles or in the audience. No one, apart from the professors and these other students, came to watch. There was

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another night of theatre in July to which even the professors were not invited—because the seminarians used the occasion to satirise their teachers! This, perhaps, was the most significant purpose of Wintergarden—to prepare these young men for a career in which public performance was central to their work. When viewed this way, indeed, the celebration of Mass requires some theatrical inclination.

Putting order in one’s spirit John F. was profoundly spiritual. At Werribee he made the Stations of the Cross every day in the chapel. It is said that he held the record for the number of meditations he made in this chapel. Between events, the seminarians would be given half-hour breaks: John F. would use this time to pace up and down the ambulatory, the verandah that ran halfway around the quadrangle; he was meditating. He was, however, definitely not pious. For example, he detested the hymn that spoke about ‘Sweet Jesus’. The Italian word dolce, he would contend, did not correspond exactly to the English word ‘sweet’—and the phrase ‘Sweet Jesus’ was an instance of this mistranslation. Dan Conquest continues: ‘After his time as Rector, Father “Bertie” Power became the spiritual director of the College. In this role Bertie would give the seminarians “points” (topics) for meditation, such as “the Little Flower”, a title for St Thérèse of Lisieux. John F. was less than impressed with the use of St Thérèse in these contexts. “Bertie” would ask us to pray for people who were very ill. John F. worked out that it always happened to be a woman parishioner who was the object of our prayers!’ (St Thérèse was a Carmelite who died of tuberculosis at the age of 24. Her Journal of a Soul, edited for publication by Mother Agnes, her sister, went into multiple languages and made her enormously popular to Kelly’s generation. Her convent was receiving 500 letters a day from people whose prayers to her were answered. She was canonised in 1925. The directness of her writing about the attainment of Christian perfection through complete trust in God appealed strongly to the First World War generation and its aftermath.)

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Reverend ‘Bertie’ Power. [photo: Reverend Dan Conquest]

Brian Leonard agreed that John F. was a deeply spiritual man. All the years that Leonard knew him, Kelly rose at 5.30 every morning and spent a full hour in prayerful meditation. He celebrated Mass every day, and fifteen minutes before lunch, in his early years, he would again take time out for prayer. The impression Brian Leonard got was that John F.’s spirituality came initially from his father. His attitude to work was upbeat. ‘If you didn’t have fun in the job, you’d go mad!’ he was fond of saying when asked later in life about his work as a school inspector. This work was much the same—day in, day out. The spiritual component was absolutely essential to his work as an educator-priest. Events at Werribee were highly ordered in all respects. To begin with, the academic year in its subsequent half-century (it ran as a seminary from 1923 to 1973) opened every year on 1 March, no matter on which day of the week 1 March fell. And the daily schedule at Corpus Christi was also highly routine, with the pattern as set out in Table 4.1.

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4.1: Daily schedule of events at Corpus Christi

5.55 am 6.25 am 7.00 am 7.45 am 8.15 am 9.00 am 12.30 pm 1.15 1.30 4.00 6.00 6.30 7.15

pm pm pm pm pm pm

9.00 pm 9.30 pm 9.45 pm

Wake to electric bells Assembly at chapel to hear a 10-minute homily based on the previous evening’s ‘points’ (items for contemplation) Mass Proceed in silence to breakfast (all meals were eaten in silence) Teaching rooms tidied in preparation for the morning’s classes Classes ran until 12.15 Midday meal, usually comprising soup, main course, dessert, with two students reading aloud from history or philosophical texts Walk around the ornamental lake, known as ‘The Rosary Walk’ Sports, agricultural pursuits, or play rehearsals Shower, followed by additional classes, or private study Meal of bread, jam and tea Choice of recorded music, billiards, a walk in the grounds, or orchestra Private study, governed by two Rules in particular—Rule 12, only necessary conversation permitted, and Rule 14, no entering other men’s rooms Presentation of ‘points’ for reflection overnight The great silence (‘Magnum Silentium’) was imposed on the seminary Lights out

The emphasis on formal study is obvious in the daily schedule, with at least 3–4 hours per day devoted to classroom learning or to private study. Thursday was a free day at Corpus Christi, a day on which the seminarians could take a ‘walk’ or undertake a ‘forestry’ task—jobs around the seminary were shared among the young men. Saturday was a normal academic day. Once a month on Sunday afternoons, between 2.15 and 4.15, visits by immediate family members were permitted. Even the walking was ordered. According to Father Paul Ryan, the seminarians were not permitted to walk alone or in pairs—three was the number required. Dan Conquest thoroughly enjoyed the experience of Corpus Christi. ‘I thought it was wonderful. I’d never been to boarding school in my life.’ He was keen on study. ‘The Jesuits were our professors. They were intellectuals and full of intonation.’ (They would recite the Mass rather than sing it.) The view that Werribee was excessively clericalist has to be weighed comparatively. ‘Later in our careers we were told by priests educated at Manly that Corpus Christi was more relaxed than

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their experience had been.’ John F. also felt at home in Corpus Christi. The seminary was only five years old, so it still had a certain freshness about it. He was surrounded, also, by young men whose socialisation had been similar to his.5 The world of Corpus Christi and that of one’s family were kept very separate. Dan Conquest could not remember any single occasion when John F.’s family visited him at Werribee. Explains Conquest: ‘They [the authorities] trusted us—there were rules, but they didn’t police them as severely as was the case in Sydney. We had more creature comforts, such as the dental care provided by Dr Manley from Werribee, and the food was very good.’ (Later in Corpus Christi’s history, when it was sold to private interests, the buildings were renovated and it became a luxury hotel, trading as The Werribee Mansion.) The prefects used to act as waiters. ‘When John and I were there we would have a normal breakfast—but not much fruit!—and then a three-course dinner and two courses for tea.’ A great silence fell on the building from 9.30 pm until the following morning’s breakfast. The seminarians were not permitted to visit each other’s rooms. There was no smoking allowed. John F. walked with short steps and was already going bald in his 20s, and was always making a joke of it. In those days everyone wore a hat, but he was one of the first to go hatless. The men had to wear a black soutane or

Each bedroom at the seminary was equipped with a desk and a bookshelf. Seminarians were not permitted to visit each other’s rooms. [photo: Reverend Dan Conquest]

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cassock at all times, except of course during periods of recreation— playing football, going on picnics, and the like. Although most definitely not a wowser in later life, John F. followed the rules at Corpus Christi. He could at times be very critical of the place, but he did not foment rebellion when he was there. His confidence in his capacity for reform came later, in the 1940s, when he was in his 30s. The separation of the seminarians from the outside world extended to relations with the local Italo-Australian community of Werribee, at least officially. By the 1920s this market-gardening hamlet comprised several Sicilian and Veneto families, supplying fruit and vegetables for the metropolitan market. When the Church purchased Werribee Park in 1923, it also appointed a farm manager to look after the considerable estate around the mansion itself. This manager leased these grounds to Sicilian farmers from Vizzini. The vizzinesi included families such as Acciarito, Burgio, Mantello and Vaina. These tenant farmers and their families lived in weatherboard houses transported for this purpose to the Corpus Christi lands.6 ‘Some of the students took their turn at being catechists for the Italians in South Werribee at a home or in a hall for those Catholic children in government schools’, remembered Dan Conquest. ‘But we were not allowed to visit anyone at home’. There was an Italo-Australian gardener named ‘Poochie’ by the seminarians (his real name was Puccio), but, following instructions, the seminarians were not especially friendly toward him. However, Dan Conquest’s father was on good terms with this gardener and conversed with Puccio whenever he visited his son. The daily pattern at Corpus Christi made it an ideal place as an academic setting for John F. to develop his habit of reading. Up to 1935, his reading of theologically-flavoured books had been confined to what would be called ‘the Catholic ghetto’. These were the great Catholic writers who informed the image Catholics had of themselves and gave them an appreciation of their tradition. In this group may be listed Hilaire Belloc, G. K. Chesterton, R. H. Benson, Christopher Hollis, and Canon P. A. Sheehan.7 There is also Henry Cardinal Newman, whose work only partly functions in that way; it also acts as a bridge to the broader Catholic tradition beyond its twentieth-century forms. Some of the French writers would function in that way, too, such as Fernand Prat’s biography of St Paul, which John F. read in 1933.

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In 1935 this diet of reading continued (Belloc, Chesterton, Dawson), but at this point John F. becomes absorbed in Newman, devouring both Arians of the Fourth Century and Development of Christian Doctrine, together with Sermons Bearing on Subjects of the Day. The work of Karl Adam, Spirit of Catholicism, was also an important book to read in this his Ordination Year. An unusual text at this time was a book by the famous ‘modernist’ Baron von Hugel, Perfume Claims. This was definitely not a core text for seminarians at that time, but a copy may have been available in the Werribee Library. The theological texts at Werribee in this period were in the traditional neo-scholastic tradition. The new European theologians were not available to Kelly yet—this period was dominated by Newman, C. C. Martindale, Christopher Dawson, St Augustine’s Confessions and the like. The diet was sweetened by the autobiography of St Thérèse, to which John F. would return again and again throughout his life. A pattern settled early for him to read not only serious works but also novels. Prominent in his reading fare for 1935 was Undset. The Norwegian writer Sigrid Undset (1882–1949) had become well-known among the Australian reading public after she won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1928. Her novels depicted the then risqué subject of wifely infidelity. In 1924 Undset converted to Catholicism five years after her marriage had ended. Her most celebrated work was the Kristin Lavransdotter trilogy (1920–22), a reconstruction of women’s life in mediaeval Norway. In this story, Kristin’s unhappy marriage to her husband Erland ends in her coming to terms with God and her demise in the Black Death.8 John F. enjoyed Undset’s novels for their accounts of life in mediaeval Catholic Europe. Her detailed research in this field gave her novels an authenticity that appealed to his developing sense of the distinctively Catholic story of Europe.

1935: The year of ordination The advantages of keeping a diary have been so recently insisted upon both by retreat masters and literary men that I have decided to make an experiment by keeping one for some months. I propose to make it

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a record both of the spiritual and the intellectual, to state frankly my successes and failures in the struggle for holiness and to make jottings of the impression produced on me by the books I read. (Diary, Friday, 28 December 1934)

In December 1934, around his 24th birthday—and a year before his time at Werribee drew to a close—John F. began his diary. At the time he was on holiday at Mansfield, where his parents had returned after their decade in Port Fairy. His stated rationale for keeping a diary is interesting. Like almost all young priests he had an interest in developing his ‘holiness’—he wanted a quiet and private place for spiritual reflection. The concept grew. He made an entry in this Diary almost every day, and continued to do so until the year he died, six decades later. It is a rare resource, and, carefully read, yields marvellous insights into this remarkable person. Thus his ‘experiment’ of keeping a diary ‘for some months’ turned out to be a lifelong personal confession. The most significant event for Kelly in 1935 was his ordination as a priest, which came a few months before graduation from the seminary. Yet, whereas his fellow ordinandi eagerly anticipated this momentous occasion, Kelly remained too gloomy and self-deprecating to indulge

Studying alfresco in 1934: seminarians Dan Conquest, Laurie Moran, John F., Bill O’Driscoll, Kevin Broderick. [photo: Reverend Dan Conquest]

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freely in the joy that this milestone should have brought.9 The day before he was ordained, he was moved to flagellate himself: I am ever becoming more and more convinced that the root, the motivating force of practically all my faults is my pride. I look back on my past life, back into the days of childhood and boyhood and I recall incidents in which my desire to shine has led me into faults, into sins. I realise that if I could acquire humility I should ipso-facto be charitable and patient. . . . In charity I am still as defective as ever. I do not speak a dozen words without saying something unkind about somebody. I am selfish, of no assistance to anyone and a hindrance to many. Would anyone ask me to do him a favour? That is a good test of charity.10

However, on the following day, ‘the day of days’, the brief entry he made in his Diary was telling: shining through his ‘throbbing nerves’ and restlessness was an ‘intense satisfaction’.11 Barely two weeks later, though, he felt ‘the aimlessness which follows the successful attaining of a long-sought goal’ come upon him. He did not share in ‘any of the radiant happiness which other newly-ordained seem to experience’.12 What gave him some comfort was to read the great works of Catholic writers who had preceded him, to realise that St Augustine, Chaucer, Newman and the rest all had human faults to overcome. His habit of reading had grown even more by this time. By his last year in the seminary, he saw himself as settled upon a ‘campaign’.13 He chose the word carefully. In his Diary he had written ‘our attack’ first, for this was no doubt the metaphor instilled into the seminarians. But then he corrected himself— ‘our attack, or campaign, I should have said’—for he understood better than his contemporaries that the struggle on behalf of the Catholic cause in Australia was to be long fought and more likely to be successful through the winning over of people than through acts of belligerence. The football coaches of his old school might use as their rallying cry to their charges, ‘Right boys, let’s get out there and retaliate first!’, but for John F. the real battle was intellectual.14 The duty of the thinking priest was to equip himself with the arguments and insights of the great Catholic writers so that ‘the

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Catholic spirit’ could be defended and advanced. The ‘campaign’ was to revive a Catholic literary culture. In Anglophone countries during the first few decades of the twentieth century, it was often implied that Catholic culture was a thing of the past, a culture that had stagnated in the early modern period. Reading Christopher Dawson’s Christianity and the New Age, for example, ‘one would think that the stream of Catholic culture ran dry somewhere around 1750’.15 John F. saw himself as belonging to a new generation that was applying its Catholicism to the pressing ‘social questions’ of the age.16 His was a forward-looking Catholicism—he could imagine that ‘human life’ in the twenty-first century would still be ‘conditioned by change’.17 Australian Catholic intellectuals arriving at adulthood in this period—Kelly, B. A. Santamaria and their cohorts—did not have the opportunities and confidence that were taken for granted by their Protestant and Anglican contemporaries (Max Crawford, Nugget Coombs and the like). John F. made a pledge to himself that he would read works of nonfiction twice over, in order to absorb these texts fully.18 The few times he broke this rule occasioned an apologetic note in his Diary. His account of these books is interesting—partly literary analysis, partly personal reaction. One work, J.B. Morton’s Hag’s Harvest (1933), he praised for being ‘as exhilarating as a cold shower’!19 He felt affirmed in his Catholic faith by authors such as Chaucer. Chaucer, in his reading, embodied ‘the expression of the ordinary faith and devotion of a Catholic age. His realism is refreshing, [a] pleasant contrast from the Romantic re-discovery of the Middle Ages by the nineteenth century.’20 And even in the case of Protestant writers he admired, such as the eminent English political philosopher Edmund Burke, John F. felt moved to attribute to him ‘Catholic’ qualities. He believed Burke to have possessed the virtue of humility, a feature of his ‘Catholic spirit’.21 In a tone that would become quite familiar in his Diary, John F. was critical of himself for not attending to his own spiritual development. He knew he must ‘advance from the milk of spiritual babies to the solid food of men’.22 But this was easier said than done. Sometimes he caught himself fantasising about ‘the honour and respect which the priesthood

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will bring to me’.23 Already his preoccupations about other priests were intense. He cared so much for the Church that he took an excessive interest in those he named his ‘brethren’, although he felt ‘hardened in bitterness’ about two men he called H. and P., College contemporaries with ‘irritating mannerisms’.24 John F. later confided to his Diary that he felt he had made few close friends with the priests with whom he trained; most of his best friendships would come much later in life. Yet as we have seen in the recollections of fellow students, this sentiment was not necessarily shared by those around him, who remember a warm collegial affinity with the young John F. At the age of 24, John F.’s intellectual precocity was already evident. He often felt guilty about the times he set aside for study, rather than for God.25 During this year, his last at the seminary, he could not help but look forward to the end of his college career and the beginning of his life on the mission, when he would have more time for personal study. He knew that for a priest ‘such an attitude is deplorably unworthy’, yet his natural inclination toward studying was almost stronger than himself.26 Kelly’s obsession with reading and recording what he had read in his Diary was no doubt therapeutic, for, as he admitted to himself on 17 May 1935, he had suffered five years of near-breakdown, and the Diary had become ‘a confessional’.27 In 1931 he had suffered what he now called ‘phantasms’.28 It is not clear exactly what happened in his third year at Werribee, but it may explain why he was advised to commence a Diary in 1934 when it became clear to his mentors that he was troubled. Henry Johnston was the professor in whom he confided.29 Unfortunately for the young Kelly, he was without a real sanctuary: Mansfield, for instance, was not a place where he felt any sense of repose. (A vacation in his parents’ town induced a sense of isolation, indeed, that was worse than College.30) Whilst on vacation there in the summer of early 1935, he penned a stark and bleak portrayal of his own ability to cope: I find Mansfield a severe trial. Faults, such as impatience, from which I am comparatively free at Corpus Christi, are daily occurrences at Mansfield. The monotony of the life, the lack of company, the heat and the dust, all make me disconcerted.31

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It caused him to reflect that ‘self-control’ was important for priests because ‘he may be in his presbytery alone or living with a priest with whom he has nothing in common’. Yet John F. had now devised criteria for his happiness, desiderata that would prove to serve him well in the years to come: I think I should be happy anywhere with regular study, regular work and a little company. The absence of the two former ingredients make eight or nine weeks at Mansfield heavy and dull.32

There was a degree of self-absorption in the young Kelly’s make-up that threatened to render him dysfunctional if unchecked. His time at Werribee was now at an end. He was ready to accept his first assignment as a priest. In his last springtime at the seminary, he sat in the garden on a Sunday afternoon and observed its beauty: Sunny spring day, trees in garden looking beautiful. The bridal veil bloom cascading its clear cold flowerets, the red and carmine and white of the flowering peaches, the judas trees showing touches of purple, the young shoots of the pomegranate, burnt siena, almost dark tan. And in a few days the young green of the oaks will be a vision. A beautiful spring in all; my last in the old garden. This year the wattles have bloomed more gloriously than ever before.33

His isolation from the other seminarians meant that he had kept the details of his near-breakdown a secret from the rest. Now he was ready, albeit with some trepidation, to begin the great journey of priesthood.

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The Feast of Easter It is never the Church’s wish that Christ’s sufferings should be presented to us in such a way as to arouse horror (too realistic pictures do not meet with her approval); but at all times, and today more than ever, she wishes to arouse our loving and grateful sorrow in return for the love which endured all for our redemption . . . A sacrifice is the offering of a gift to God as a sign of adoration, reparation, etc. Christ offered Himself as that Gift on Calvary. God accepted the Gift and made it His own by raising Christ from the dead. John F. Kelly, Through Christ Our Lord, pp. 94, 102

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5 A difficult vocation Kyneton, 1936–39 ‘A literary dilettante is useless to God or man’ In 1936 John F. received his first clerical appointment, as a curate in Kyneton, an old Irish Catholic parish (1852) north of Melbourne. Since he had grown up in Irish-Australian country towns, in one way it must have been familiar turf to him. But Kyneton lacked the radicalism of Mansfield and the countervailing Irish Protestants of Port Fairy. In fact, John F.’s appointment to Kyneton took him out of the IrishAustralian culture in which he had been born and the sectarian world in which he had grown up in Port Fairy and Ballarat. Kyneton’s character is reflected in the writings of the celebrated poet Vincent Buckley (1927–88), who famously said that he was inspired to romanticise his Irish heritage precisely because he belonged to an Irish-Australian population that did not care to remember its past.1 The Irish farmers of central Victoria were less political than their cousins either in Kelly Country or out in the Western District. Buckley’s people had attained greater economic success by the time of Kelly’s birth in 1910 than these cousins, though it seems they were not 65

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sufficiently shrewd to pass on this inheritance to their children. Agriculture was the occupation of choice for the Victorian Irish of the nineteenth century, and by the end of the century, one-third of the farming population was Irish in background. So the Irish landholders in north-central Victoria differed ideologically from the better-known Irish of Kelly Country, and were more successful economically. Contrary to historical orthodoxy these IrishAustralians were quite materially affluent; indeed, they even weathered the 1890s depression. They showed considerable commercial nous, diversifying into other areas, such as dairying, as opportunities arose.

John F. freshly ordained.

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Their fatal flaw was that they did not plan for their families’ futures. Instead of consolidating their properties they tended to ‘share and share equally’ among their children, with the consequence that there was not much left over for each member of the next generation. Endowments for the local parish priest were also popular.2 Buckley was a young boy amid this Irish-Australian yeomanry when John F., freshly ordained, was appointed to Kyneton, in the heart of Buckley’s country. From Buckley’s memoirs we get some sense of how Kelly’s generation of priests were perceived by the young Catholic boys of the area. As an altar boy Buckley felt the mysterious enchantment of the ubiquitous Latin and of being at one with the priest.3 But religious expression was not extravagant: Country religion was, however, not dramatic or conflict-ridden; it was stolid, accepting, and full of quiet satisfaction. It was not preoccupied with heresy, Protestants, or putting down nonconformists, though conformity was certainly thought a good, and who went or did not go to Mass might certainly be a matter for comment. Anti-clericals like my father were left alone; it was an aberration common enough to have an almost standard response . . .4

The first year of country religion was hard for John F. If he enjoyed the company of certain parishioners, especially the young Catholics he tutored, he did not talk about these experiences in his Diary for 1936. Instead he described the books he read that year—fewer in number than in more typical years—and lamented his own lack of spiritual progress as a priest. He was presumably busy enough with the ordinary duties as well. Kyneton was already an old parish when Kelly arrived there.5 The church building and the presbytery were constructed in elegantly cut bluestone and joined by a 1920s red-brick church hall. The motto of the parish, ad Jesum per Mariam, appears in large letters above the altar. Four panels in the life of Mary decorate the rear of the church; they are captioned: Regina, sacratissimi, Rosarii, Ora Pro Nobis. The workmanlike beauty of the church interior is complemented by a highly-vaulted wooden ceiling.

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Country religion reflected the life of the priests and other religious, for it was lonely being a country priest: ‘Loneliness was a common condition, and among the lonelier were the priests, ministers and nuns; loneliest of all were the priests of shy temperament’.6 Kelly was to feel this loneliness acutely. He had begun at Kyneton with high hopes. ‘To control my easily dissipated thoughts . . . should not be so difficult to maintain in a country town and a quiet presbytery.’7 It was a chilly place—in fact, ‘Kyneton’ became a byword for ‘cold’ in later life. It could also be dull. John F. wrote of the 1936 Anzac Day service that it was ‘indescribably lifeless’, a poor ‘pagan’ substitute for a Requiem Mass.8 Kelly was to be based in Kyneton from January 1936 until his appointment to West Melbourne in March 1939. He worked for Monsignor Laurence Martin, an older priest who was, like Kelly, a product of rural Australia, and a local boy made good as well. Born in 1870 in the hamlet of Drummond to local farmers Thomas and Bridget, Martin earned the plaudits of the locals by persuading the Marist Order to take an interest in the area and getting involved in providing a secondary education for local children. Martin was an alumnus of Propaganda University in Rome. By 1936, when Kelly met him, Martin was well known in Church circles. During a period when the Church in Australia was still technically a missionary church (which ceased in 1976), Martin led the way in encouraging parishioners to contribute to the missionary work of the Church in more deserving places, such as New Guinea. This fundraising was organised through the Society for the Propagation of the Faith. Martin’s interest in this charity was fostered by his training and ordination in 1893 at St Sulpice, Paris, and his work at Missions Étrangères. He became involved in the work of the Society around 1900; in 1907 he was appointed to Kilmore and so this humble country town became the national headquarters for a Society with international ambitions. Contributions came in from all over Australia, with certain parishes standing out for their generosity. Personal letters from the missionaries in the field were published in the Society’s newsletter—a publication first called Annales and later Catholic Missions—as a means of eliciting support from people. Martin succeeded in raising £512 in 1915; by 1921 the Australian total was 41,000 francs. Martin was appointed the parish

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priest at Kyneton in 1920. In 1927 he became the Society’s first Australian National Director. He was a far-sighted publicist: in August 1937, by then an old man close to the end, Martin was advocating the use of radio to promote the Society.9 Monsignor Martin was an excellent role model for a new priest, and Kelly enjoyed his evenings with him. The older man regaled him with vivid stories of Therry, Polding and Geoghegan, the big names of the colonial period, and men with whom Martin had some connection. (Patrick Bonaventure Geoghegan’s cousin, Horatio, was based at Kyneton from 1857 to 1895.) So Kelly was drawn back to the real history of the Church in Victoria in a way that was far more immediate than any books he had read up to this point. Kyneton was where Kelly first found himself connected to the authentic social history of the Church in Australia. Later in life he would pass on some of these stories to the young priests of his circle.

John F. retreats into his books Generally speaking, the account Kelly gave of his own life to himself was devoid of people. Even Monsignor Martin was absent from the pages of the Diary. In Kyneton John F.’s Diary was strangely unpopulated by the living. The people who do appear are few and far between. A school friend from Seymour, Dan MacCormack, died after a short illness.10 Months later Kelly was reminded of this old friend’s birthday: Wednesday, 19 May [1937] Dan McCormack’s birthday. He would be thirty-six if alive. How speedily and completely he passed out of my life, and that after years of intimacy. I think the drawing-apart was more his work than mine; but I could have done something to prevent it. His case is but symptomatic of my gross self-centredness. He was the first or almost the first of several from whom I drifted, because my interest and attention could not extend beyond myself. 11

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St Mary’s, Kyneton: John F.’s first appointment. [photo: State Library of Victoria]

Instead of living in the world of people; John F. inhabited the world of books. He continued to read Chesterton, and noted his death in 1936. Chesterton was a household name among Australian Catholics, reputedly one of the wisest four men in the world, according to one Mannix biographer growing up in interwar Malvern. (Others included Mannix and Einstein.)12 Australia was slowly recovering from the Great Depression. Like other priests of his day, John F. was not well tutored in Economics, so he turned to contemporary authors: Finished Belloc’s ‘Economics for Helen’, an excellent summary, at least I am sure that it is an excellent summary. It is a matter about which I know nothing.

But it was popular fiction, such as Wodehouse, that he found more useful: ‘Read P.G.’s “Big Money”. He is always a tonic’.13 John F.’s reading was often a counterpoint to the less satisfactory aspects of his life as a young priest. In early 1937 he lamented just how

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transitory were the benefits of a Retreat: ‘Tired and cowardly with the joy and consolation immediately consequent upon the retreat gone like the air in a pricked balloon’. He immediately reported, rather more brightly, on what he had been reading: I have been reading Hamlet; nearly ten years since I read it last. With Shakespeare the psychological interest is so great that I appreciate very imperfectly the poetry until I have read it again. There are depths and depths of thought and beauty in him . . . In atmosphere it is intensely Catholic, yet Hamlet has more than a touch of scepticism. The poetry is painfully beautiful like a violin.14

In a similar vein, his first anniversary reflections on serving in Kyneton were gloomy: Twelve [months] since I came to Kyneton, a short year and not very profitable either to my own soul or the souls of others. How sure of myself I was when I left the seminary. At least the last twelve months have taught me that that self-assurance has little foundation, in fact Parochial life is so different from any anticipations thereof; so much easier and so much harder.

But, in a characteristic turn, John F. right away averted to the pleasures of what he was reading at the time: Have been reading again Newman’s essay on Development. Nothing can really be said in praise of its greatness. If not his supreme achievement it goes near to being it. His great powers are all combined in their force. His ability to make the mere definitions of things sparkle is shown in the opening discussion of ideas. His power of marshalling facts, of historical synthesis receive great expression in the magnificent proof of the first note. That section teaches much of the history of the Church and in such a vivid way. His style is transparently pure. The Book may bear evidences of the anxiety and turmoil of mind in which it was written, but the style does not thus suffer.15

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Kelly’s reading was still relatively immature—his critical facilities were still developing. Moreover, his love of books was beginning to impede his ability to act in the here and now: I am become more and more cowardly. Opportunities have arisen, excellent ones, of asking men to go to the Communion and Breakfast and I have let them pass. I find it almost physically impossible to act. I am more and more of a dreamer[;] action other than routine work, initiative[,] I shirk with abysmal cowardice. O my God, help me. My fifteen months on the mission have been deprived of allowances by this overmasting cowardice. A literary dilettante is useless to God or man.16

At Kyneton his religious reading deepened rather than widened. He read Newman’s Difficulties of Anglicanism and St Augustine’s De Doctrina Christiana. He continued to read Hilaire Belloc (The Jews), Martindale (Our Blessed Lady), Chesterton (The Man Who Was Thursday) and Dawson (The Making of Europe). His historical reading now began to sharpen his focus on the history of his Church, with books such as Francis Aidan Gasquet’s Parish Life in Mediaeval England. He was yet to read the exciting new theology coming out of Europe. At times the books he read gave him insights into his own life: Just recovered from the cold of the last few days which I seemed to feel more than all last winter. I am getting soft. Chesterton’s ‘Napoleon of Notting Hill’ has set me thinking. I am like Quin; my life is marred by a disproportionately strong sense of humour. I cannot take myself really seriously in teaching or preaching. When I am in the pulpit the thought in the back of my mind is ‘Who am I that I should be talking to these people’. When I am endeavouring to persuade slackers to go to Mass, my subconscious mental attitude is the same. Of course it arises from my intense egoism. If I could forget myself and think only of the supernatural work I have been called to do then my diffidence would vanish. There is great virtue in a simple mind.17

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St Thérèse was a constant source of inspiration, for she had a ‘courage’ that he believed he lacked.18 He also found comfort in nature. The natural beauty of a country town appealed to this priest whose childhood was spent in the Victorian countryside. In May 1937 he was reminded of a John Shaw Neilson poem in what he saw around him: Rain, warm steady rain. The frost on Thursday (25°, coldest in the state) tumbled the ches[t]nut leaves, and now all the trees are bare. The rains came on Friday, rain, and soft clouds narrowing the view to the little basin of Kyneton. Everywhere striped poplars against rain or low-lying smoke. It is the autumn break of weather come weeks late; but come in time to inspire courage into the most pusillanimous of God’s creatures, the substantial farmers. Shaw Neilson has put this weather into a poem, and a good one; an admirable re-creation of atmosphere.19

(Buckley’s ‘The Too-Lateness’ deals also with the imminence of the godhead in the natural world—it is a lyrical response to this world, as the poet keeps all his perceptions at nerve’s end.) It is not clear to which Shaw Neilson poem Kelly was alluding—but 1937 stands out in the young curate’s life.20

Endings and beginnings: the year 1937 July 1937 saw some significant turning points in John F.’s life. He turned from reading to writing. He confessed to his Diary that now he wanted to write ‘Something’. He was convinced he should commit this something to paper: On Sunday [24 July] I began to fulfill a long made resolution to write Something. The Something was a criticism of Alice Meynell’s poems. It was underway on Sunday and has remained untouched since then. I am so lazy that I have to force myself to write.21

He had been reading Meynell’s poetry during June and now the opportunity presented itself to put into words thoughts that had previously

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been hidden from public view in his Diary. Within the space of a few years, the Diary would be transformed from a place where he gathered his thoughts to a record of what he had written day by day, especially for chapters and sections of the Catholic History Readers with which he was preoccupied during the late 1940s and 1950s. The turning point, reached in 1937, amounted to a greater confidence that his private views on literature, history and architecture deserved a wider audience. The year 1937 also contained a shock of a personal nature. Martin started each day with a swim in the river, no matter how cold the weather. So local chroniclers found it ironic that he died suddenly taking his evening bath.22 This happened on 10 October 1937, and he was not discovered until the next morning. John F. struggled with the news: Have been neglecting this diary; neglecting everything. Monsignor died suddenly, found dead on October 11th, and the consequent disturbance has been great. Many things to attend to, much distraction of mind. Did not feel any shock in the common sense of the word; but a re-action none the less, an inability to sit down, even to read; an almost irresistible impulse to be ever moving. Mgr I found a straight, square man, a great example in his life and one easy to live with. I respected him and I am of such a nature that I shall do anything for a superior I respect, and, conversely, fail one whom I cannot respect. And he merited the respect of everyone.23

A month later John F. was still in shock: Very negligent lately. Order of time completely upset. Shock made it difficult for me to settle down, must be moving. Reading and study neglect[ed]. Have resumed in part, and shall re-commence completely tomorrow.24

Slowly over the next few months it is possible to discern in his Diary a more positive attitude to the books he was reading and to life generally. In December he enjoyed a return visit to Werribee, and put aside much of the negativity he had formerly associated with the seminary:

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Down yesterday to the Corpus Christi break-up. I could almost feel myself a student again. The difficulties of the student’s life seem infinitely remote; we remember mostly the pleasures. But it was a happy time. Regularity contributes largely to happiness. I am convinced of that.

Then he also spoke philosophically about his parents: Saw Mother in town for a few minutes (hour or so). Once that meeting would have been joyfully anticipated for days. We drift away from our parents very easily, but they less from us.25

On the eve of Christmas 1937, just after his 27th birthday, he made a very candid admission to his Diary: I am lonely, spiritually lonely (mentally perhaps is a better word); and I have been for most of my years. I cannot make friends only pleasant acquaintances, good-natured companions. It is not that I do not take interest in other people, but rather because my personal reticence repels them. They close because I am always closed.26

This was an important thing to admit to himself. He suspected his problem was his laziness, and he turned to Shakespeare for guidance: In the last few months I have begun to understand Hamlet. Like Hamlet I can always find excuses, but they are never the right reason. If only God would give me such spiritual energy as would overcome my weakness.27

This search for energy took him to the modern novelists, and to Virginia Woolf in particular.

Reading Virginia Woolf During January 1938 he began reading Virginia Woolf, starting with Mrs Dalloway. He had a positive day visiting Ballarat at the end of the

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month with friends. ‘Ballarat in the summer is the best place I know to spend one’s day in, and with company it is better’, he enthused.28 An interesting breakthrough came the next day, when he regretted an absence of friends who enjoyed literature: I have long desired someone with whom to share my literary interests, but have never met one; and am not likely to meet one in the country.29

He could now see that literature was of more value if shared with others. The quality of his sermons was improving and he was becoming more animated in his delivery. He was also getting better at naming his demons—anxiety made his knees tremble and he felt a real coward at times. He was a curious mixture of sharp insight and lack of selfknowledge. The lives of John F. and the British writer Virginia Woolf had some uncanny parallels. The month in which John F. was born was a significant turning point in world history, according to Woolf: On or about December 1910 human character changed. All human relations shifted—those between masters and servants, husbands and wives, parents and children. And when human relations shift there is at the same time a change in religion, conduct, politics and literature.30

Woolf represents the Modernist trend in contemporary literature. Her essays and novels register a profound shift in how the world would be described by writers from this point on. Her work seemed to some critics to be excessively domestic, almost claustrophobic, but this concentration on the intimate detail is what gives it its distinctiveness, and explains its attraction to John F., whose upbringing, lacking in domestic continuity, made him all the more conscious of domestic minutiae. Born in 1882, Woolf was already 56 years old (and only three years away from her suicide) when John F. began reading her. This was an interesting choice of author, perhaps reflecting Kelly’s deeply held

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The interior of St Mary’s Kyneton, as seen from the choir, in Kelly’s period, with the altar set back. Spot lights and wall heaters were added later. [photo: State Library of Victoria; owned by Rose Stereographic]

interest in women and what they had to offer. The older he got the more he appreciated the female novelists since Austen. On Sunday, 8 January 1938 Kelly wrote in his Diary: Finished ‘Mrs Dalloway’ the other day, the first of Virgina Woolf’s I had read. It is like a piece of tapestry, beautifully done in pastel shades but without beginning, middle or end, just cut by the scissors. Of course that is Virgina Woolf’s style and her type of novel, just as Meredith has a style, and a type, as style. Virginia Woolf is often beautiful, very beautiful; but there is a sameness of pressure like a fountain ever spurting, spurting until it is turned off at the main. The eccentricity of not dividing the work into chapters and the shortness of time in the novel accentuate this unrelenting sameness. Even Meredith condescended to tell a story, and generally a big story, but Mrs Woolf, no. Certainly she is a psychologist, more than that a creator, certainly she can exactly reproduce . . . streams of thought and life; but does this all make a novel? She is very much worth reading, and belongs to a higher and older school of cultured agnosticism.

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At the end of February he read his second Virginia Woolf novel, To the Lighthouse, which he enjoyed even more than his first. He wrote in his Diary on Sunday, 27 February: Finished ‘To the Light-House’; not carefully read. Of its kind it is a wonderful book, and its kind is extraordinary. No one could record more delicately and more faithfully impressions than Virgina Woolf. But those impressions are only of kind, impressions in the strict sense of passive impressions, the thoughts and feelings of souls in action do not seem to be within the scope of her pen. The impressions are women’s impressions, impressions of women, and of men by women. ‘To the Light-House’ is, I think, a better work than ‘Mrs Dalloway’. The section ‘Time Passes’ is superb—the best in the book. The characters are all good in their way. Mrs Woolf has brought her style of novel writing almost to perfection, just as Jane Austen brought hers. Both are restricted to a narrow range but within her novels Jane Austen gave us a wide variety of characters, ordinary human beings which Mrs Woolf seems unable to give. (Of course I am generalising from this novel and ‘Mrs Dalloway’, but I think they may be taken as typical). However I finished ‘To the Light-House’ wishing to read more of Mrs Woolf’s novels and that is a real, if imperfect, test of appreciation.

The plot of To the Lighthouse is simple enough. An Edwardian family takes its holiday every summer by the seaside. (The novel begins around the summer of 1912, set in the Hebrides, Scotland, but in Virginia Woolf’s life—reflected in the film version—the events took place in Cornwall.) The head of the family is Mr Michael Ramsay, a lecturer whose chief fault is that he sees the world in entirely rational terms. This rationality means that he is incapable of saying anything but the truth, even at the cost of bruising his children. (Woolf’s own father, Leslie Stephen, had taught at Cambridge.) The son James struggles to negotiate a path between his two parents. The father’s refusal to take him on the boat to visit the local lighthouse stands as a powerful symbol of this struggle. So To the Lighthouse reflects John F.’s own life—it resonates with issues with which he was only too familiar. The novel posits a loving but inflexible father and a mother who too readily accommodates her husband.

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Life in this novel takes place in the mind—echoing John F.’s own cerebral preoccupation—and ‘the world of physical conditions is relegated to a subordinate place’, as one critic has put it.31 James is able to reconcile himself with his tyrannical father, but only after Mrs Ramsay has died and with the passage of years. 1938 is a year during which John F. made discernible progress in his maturation as a priest. The psychologically integrative effect of reading Virginia Woolf no doubt played a part in this. Later in April he described his loneliness: Lonely, that may sound sentimental. I am not lonely in the ordinary sense. I always have company but I am fundamentally solitary; my life has always been thus; only one or two real friendships and they are broken. With young men whom I would best like as friends I can reach a certain point of general acquaintanceship, but cannot go any further. They close themselves against me. Of course a priest is essentially solitary as far as the lay folk are concerned; but he has priest-friends. I have none; none from eight years at Corpus Christi. My own fault I admit, but not altogether my deliberate action. Pride in plenty I know; but a certain instinctive reticence and self containedness the result probably of the unfortunate years at Seymour.32

With her intense interest in the private emotional life, Viriginia Woolf spoke to his need to understand how points of view are played out in social contexts. At last he seemed ready to face squarely what troubled him and how it might have started.

Finishing at Kyneton Alongside this positive development in his personal life, the young curate was also starting to find his feet as a priest. Whilst he felt that he lacked the ‘missionary spirit’ necessary for such bold tasks as converting people to Catholicism,33 he was able to take other initiatives that enhanced the community and the parish. His time was divided between

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the multifarious tasks that curates are called to fulfil in their capacity of supporting the parish priest. He taught Catechism classes to local schoolchildren and instructed them in receiving the sacraments.34 He enjoyed teaching but would occasionally get frustrated by the difficulty that children had in grasping the holy mysteries of the Christian faith: after one First Communion class he was to declare that ‘children are such queer things’.35 Kelly also would hear confessions, and make home visitations, feeling that the latter was important work despite the fruits of it not being ‘immediate or apparent’.36 His talent for writing found him editing the parish gazette, which he considered tedious.37 Kelly also gave regular sermons, although he often felt that he did not make sufficient preparation, that his voice was too weak, and that his sermons were occasionally ‘above the heads of the people’.38 During the second half of 1938 there is a discernible improvement in his temperament, and he begins to take responsibility for himself. He takes his new camera around Kyneton to document the landscape he has grown to love. He buys himself a small typewriter.39 He admits to enjoying the company of younger men, and he resolves ‘to make some effort to begin a study circle’.40 After a nervous start, the Catholic Action discussion groups began to succeed. Catholic Action was to become a significant force in Australian Catholicism. John F. divided the men into an older and a younger group and met with them both every second Sunday. They showed ‘definite prospects’, he thought.41 Despite the initial difficulties he perceived in ‘loosening the string of young men’s tongues’, this group was to be a significant legacy that Kelly bequeathed to the parish.42 Kyneton had quite an active Catholic community in this period, and there seemed to be a clear potential for him to draw young men closer to the Church, and perhaps encourage some to consider priesthood. After noticing that one of his students in an Honours Latin class he was teaching possessed such a potentiality, Kelly was to comment that ‘Kyneton should be full of vocations. The families are here of the type from which vocations spring’.43 This was one of the first positive statements he had made about Kyneton. Then, out of the blue, in March 1939 he was transferred to West Melbourne:

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Letter today appointing me to West Melbourne. A complete surprise. West Melbourne was one of the places to which I used to think I shouldn’t wish to be sent. It is amusing how such places assume a more pleasant appearance when we hear that we are being sent to them. It should be agreeable enough. The Dean said that the Archbishop said I was wasting my time in the country and that if he, the Dean, insisted on keeping me he was standing in the way of my advancement. How well does Daniel know how to work his consultors. It must be an amusing game for him, but he rarely becomes bored.44

He spent the next few days packing and was looking forward to the change: A busy time since Tuesday. Packing, how I hate it! Letters and papers are an abomination. The carrier packed my books. Thank God I did not have that burden. Then farewells! I said a number at a rapid rate. Sorry to leave Kyneton, a shock, the change. However, I was particularly desirous not to be changed in January because I wished to be with Fred [McKenna] during his holidays. I had that wish. I have been perceiving a tendency to stagnate in Kyneton. My work was suffering, except, the Catholic Action Groups which were over. There is a good argument for moving curates every three years. Came down home yesterday afternoon.45

‘Home’ continued to be where his family members were living, particularly his sister. It was never a posting, like Kyneton, though Kyneton grew in John F.’s affection as the years went by. It was there he had made his first adult friends, such as Fred McKenna, with whom he took many picnics and outings. In his library he kept two copies of the Official Souvenir of the town marking its centenary in November 1936, together with the two volumes of its local history published to mark the event. In 1947 he again returned to Kyneton, for a Requiem Mass, and the experience was a happy one: ‘Met more people than I usually do on a visit to Kyneton, and re-captured some of the old spirit of the place. I was very happy there.’46 Five days after returning to Melbourne came the phone call from his mother to say that his parents were leasing Mansfield and moving to Melbourne, a decision which pleased him.

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The Feast of Mary, Help of Christians The principal patronal feast for Australasia is that of Mary, Help of Christians, May 24. The title, Help of Christians, suggests Mary’s power and her children’s need of help . . . It is an honour to have the Mother of God herself as our chief patroness . . . We know, too, that four-fifths of the people in our land are outside the fold. John F. Kelly, Through Christ Our Lord, p. 214 Mary, Help of Christians, and little have I done for Catholic Australia in the almost two years of my priesthood. I have been totally neglecting scripture study for the past month or more. Diary, 24 May 1937

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6 War and poverty West Melbourne, 1939–42 ‘Here at last’, said the Pope, ‘is someone [Joseph Cardijn] who comes to speak to me about the masses! The greatest scandal of the nineteenth century was the loss of the workers to the Church. The Church needs the workers, and the workers need the Church.’1

A basilica baroque and gothic St Mary’s, West Melbourne is one of Melbourne’s four official basilica churches and usually draws grudging admiration from most who have taken the time to appreciate its architectural merits. Its new curate in April 1939 was not so moved: [Its] interior [is] absolutely a jumble, [with] false pillars and corbels, ornate capitals a baroque Gothic, if such there be; not a line or curve simple or strong. Exterior very much better. Strong vertical lines.2

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John F. took church architecture very seriously, for he saw it as the physical embodiment of faith. The other church in the West Melbourne parish is St Carthage’s, a pretty little church in Royal Parade that has traditionally been the spiritual home for many of the Catholics from the nearby University of Melbourne. This church was more to John F.’s taste, but its small size made preaching difficult, as the new curate discovered after his first attempt at saying Mass there: Thought I was doing well, but was told afterwards that it is a hard church to make oneself heard in and that the priests usually spoke from the altar rail. A tactful way of putting it! 3

His keen eye for architectural detail and his aesthetic taste were informed by his wide reading, which included books devoted to religious architectural history and trends.4 He preferred austere and simple styles, as opposed to those ornate and cluttered. There was a slight snobbishness to his views of Australian churches, but when he visited

St Mary’s Star of the Sea, West Melbourne, in 1899, with its congregation conversing in groups after the Mass. [photo: State Library of Victoria]

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Europe for the first time in 1959, 20 years later, he cast the same cold critical eye over supposed masterworks there as well.

Counting the Catholics Now John F. was expected to say the Mass at both of these churches on a regular basis. But that was not all. Bigger challenges awaited him, for he was thrust into two projects that would extend him as a priest: the first was to undertake radio broadcasting for the Church, the second consisted of parish census work. The latter work, in particular, would extend the young ‘dilettante’ Kelly, because it forced him to confront the reality of priestly work in poor areas, and with that the dirt and the grime. He was fast learning that he could not separate spiritual matters from material ones, as he would have preferred. Consequently, his theoretical training and wide reading on social and political issues were now to be put to real application. He realised that establishing viable and effective Catholic Action groups was not just a matter for consideration and reflection, but that it had to be done, achieved in the real world with real people, to be made a fact. It was only a few days into his tenure at West Melbourne that Kelly discovered his responsibilities were to include census work, a traditional part of parish duties. The priest went door to door through the surrounding suburb and requested people to specify their religious affiliation; if they professed to be Catholic, they were asked how often they attended Mass. As the term implies, census work was a way of recording the number of Catholics in the area and determining regularity of Mass attendance among parishioners. The curate preceding Kelly had estimated that there were some 3,000 Catholics in West Melbourne, yet the number who went regularly to Church services was well below this figure. Compiling this information entailed door-to-door visitation during the day, and returning to the same houses in the evening when the men would be home. Kelly was somewhat anxious about beginning what he astutely predicted would be difficult work—difficult in terms of the nature of the task and due to his personal shyness. Besides this, he was also a stranger to the apparently not-so-religious parishioners,

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who would often be resistant to the efforts of a young priest imposing himself upon their families and judging their lifestyle practices. He had been warned from the outset that West Melbourne was ‘full of bad Catholics’, in stark contrast to Kyneton.5 His previous experience of census-taking in Kyneton appeared a walk in the park by comparison. Kelly was quick to discover the difficulties inherent in ascertaining truthful responses from his parishioners. While many claimed that they were ‘practical Catholics’, he remained sceptical, believing the contrary to be true.6 And he sincerely doubted whether there was any point in trying to hold people to their word: ‘There are the bad Catholics who will promise everything and do nothing and the bad Catholics who will promise nothing and will do nothing. (‘I won’t promise, Father, because if I make a promise I will [not] keep it; but I’ll come some time.’)’7 In short, ‘bad Catholics’ were those who had been raised as members of the Church but who were reluctant to attend Church services. In the beginning, John F. managed 50 households a week, but of the reputed 3,000 Catholics in the area, this average was merely the tip of a large iceberg. It was his first close experience of an urban working-class community. After five weeks of this work, he provided an insightful reflection in his diary, revealing the challenges that he had faced. A large proportion of the inhabitants of West Melbourne live in lodgings; a large proportion is always out, any morning or afternoon one may call. I have gone to some houses four or five times and never found anyone ‘home’. Some suddenly go out when they see me coming, are on the verandah even as I approach; but when I knock there is the perfect stillness of an empty house. Of course going from door to door is difficult. To ask some people whether Catholics live in the house is almost as grave a charge as to ask them whether prostitutes live there. Only a certain innate fear of the malevolence of the ‘Roman Catholic priest’ prevents them from showing their angry bigotry. Others again are unusually polite, ready to help with information about the next door neighbour; even thank me for calling; the first evidence of the servile mentality of a people living a life of inspection, questionnaires, etc. There is no privacy in census-work, in West Melbourne at least. It is done against the front door post often with a

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group of mates/families lingering at hearing distance at a neighbouring gate. And the evasions and the glib, unblinking lies! Even in Kyneton there were constitutional liars who said they always went to Mass. I never believed anyone there without independent evidence. The same scepticism is doubly necessary in West Melbourne. There is much wonderful faith and much crass, inexcusable carelessness.

The working males were the hardest to meet. The difficult[y] is to know the men who are not home till the late afternoon or evening. I have met some of the men and boys but only a few. I have made it a resolution that when I have gone round West once I shall begin in the evenings on the west round in the endeavour to meet the men and the young people.8

The streetscape that John F encountered as he ventured through the rough alleys of West Melbourne was captured in a lithograph executed by a contemporary artist, the Perth-born Nutter Buzacott (1905–77). Its warped Expressionistic lines and the loitering, ghost-like figures that inhabit the scene convey the poverty and misery of an inner-city suburb

Nutter Buzacott’s West Melbourne street scene, a lithograph from 1938, captures the mood of the locality at the time of John F.’s appointment in the West Melbourne parish. [photo: National Gallery of Australia]

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that had not yet recovered from the deprivations of the Great Depression. So it would seem that the trepidation of the priest before his flock was mirrored by an inherent distrust in them toward him. Despite Kelly’s best intentions to reach out to the people he had been assigned to serve, these people saw no distinction between him as a figure of religious authority, and the many other figures who made earthly demands upon them: landlords, debt collectors and government officials, to suggest a few. He was frustrated that ‘the greater part of the time seems to be spent in knocking at doors which remain persistently shut. I think many people fear the advent of collectors and take no risks’.9 Census work was to prove to be the most challenging part of all the work that Kelly undertook during his time at West Melbourne. His Diary shows that he began enthusiastically, then declined in his commitment to it, had a lower rate of houses visited each week, then had to force himself to continue with the work. It was telling that, more than one year after commencing this task, he wrote that he must ‘begin census-work again, and to do it with a better realisation of my vocation and of my oneness with the people that I have to deal with’.10 These people begin to populate his personal written reflections. None of John F.’s earlier Diary entries from his time at Kyneton had contained quite the same characters that he was to meet in West Melbourne while engaged in this census work. He became very personally involved in some cases, such as the case of H: Census work this afternoon, then the writing up of my census—book, and a visit to H. H. is a man of a good Catholic family; married, three children, wife convert. They are in lodgings. When wife was away a few weeks ago a woman who has rooms in the same house seems to have captivated him completely. He has also, quite naturally, become careless about Mass. His wife has been over here to see me on different occasions. I saw the husband over a fortnight or so ago. I went over tonight; he would not come out to see me. I went in to where he was. He was shamefaced, rather sulky, would not look at me; would not answer if he could avoid it. I hope for the best, but with many doubts, he seems utterly under the dominion of the other woman. Does it not often happen that in a marriage the convert lives the

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Faith, and the cradle Catholic fails; a lesson for those silly and ignorant Catholics who say, ‘He or she is only a convert’.11

West Melbourne began to have an influence on John F. and the way he saw himself and his work as a priest. On 17 April 1939 he recommenced teaching himself Italian, a not altogether unusual choice for a priest based in a suburb of Melbourne that was already showing signs of significant Southern European migration. He also hoped that Italy, which was still neutral, might prove a countervailing force, with German expansionism the talk of 1939. On 6 June 1939 he met an interesting Maltese man, perhaps the first Maltese he had come to know in such detail. West Melbourne was slowly opening his eyes to a larger world, and his encounters here prefigured the kind of work in which he would be engaged in postwar Footscray. Nowhere in his Diary, however, does he mention the famous makeshift huts put up by the militant unemployed in the unoccupied part of West Melbourne, known ironically as the Dudley Mansions. Although they were outside his parish, he would have driven past them

Photographed in about 1935 by the slum reformer F. Oswald Barnett, Dudley Mansion, as it was ironically titled, was one of several homemade houses built by the unemployed on the vacant land between West Melbourne and Footscray. [photo: State Library of Victoria]

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whenever he went through Footscray. St Mary’s was one of the suburb’s largest buildings, its presbytery a safe refuge for the priests who resided there, providing comfort at night. John F. dreamed of a significant role for himself in the Australian Church, but doubted whether he could attain it. West Melbourne provided him with an external point of reference in the material poverty of his parishioners: ‘The patience of the poor is superb. Why should they starve in the midst of plenty? What can the Church do?’12

Finding a voice John F. still did not feel confident with his preaching abilities, continually castigating himself for not preparing or delivering his sermons to the best of his ability.13 Perhaps this young priest would find his metier through public broadcasting, someone in authority believed, for the other new challenge thrown to John F. in 1939 was a radio program known as ‘Question Box’. His first broadcast took place on 4 June. Naturally he was nervous in his use of this relatively new medium, and the questions he received from the public that were his to answer were not particularly interesting, or so he thought. The concept of ‘Question Box’ had been devised long before radio technology was developed to the point of enabling people to call in to presenters. Instead, listeners would send their questions in written form, and on this program Kelly would have to respond. Such a format was challenging for the unexperienced participant: in one of his first assessments of his performance in this medium, he wrote that ‘wireless broadcasting is so impersonal that it is difficult to judge the success or failure of the broadcast’.14 Another time he mused, ‘How difficult it is to be humorous or ironical or anything else but plain statement of fact when you cannot receive any reaction from your listeners (if any)’.15 Moreover, he found some of the questions to be, in his eyes, prejudiced against Catholicism and written in a spirit of bad faith: ‘It has become a way of answering the stock objections of two or three Protestants who think of Catholicism only to object against it. I shall have to ask some Catholic Actionists and such to send in questions that would be of interest to Catholics’.16 After

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some improvement in his performance, he fell back to a lower standard in late August, saved only by the technology of this new medium: ‘ “Question Box” flat and dull last night; ran out of matter. Of course the graceful terminating gramophone record covered the retreat’.17 Radio was a new medium exploited by Melbourne’s Catholics. Throughout the 1930s, prominent Catholic intellectuals, such as Denys Jackson, Kevin Kelly and B. A. Santamaria, were regular radio speakers on 3AW’s ‘Catholic Hour’, a program slot dedicated to Catholic issues.18 It was in this same hourly slot that John F. presented. The fact that it was he who was selected to undertake this task remained un-noted in John F.’s Diary: he could not see himself as others were beginning to see him, an outstanding intellectual Catholic of his generation. The whole experience was eventually tarnished for Kelly: having finished his sessions with the program, he was presented with a cheque for 32 pounds from the Catholic Hour, as an ‘honorarium’. He was apparently offended by this gesture, writing in his diary that he would never have agreed to participate in the first place had he known that it was customary to be paid.19 Perhaps he saw it as simply another aspect of his priestly work. On special occasions, such as the 1942 St Patrick’s Day Mass, and the installation of Archbishop Simonds as Coadjutor at West Melbourne on 1 November 1942, Kelly was chosen to ‘broadcast’ the event. These were presumably radio broadcasts. John F. continued to be hard on himself, never lowering the bar of spiritual perfection that he aimed to attain. In July 1939 he assessed his progress so far as a priest: Fourth anniversary of ordination, and not a spiritual day. What have I done in those four years? Much work of a sort; but so much marred by imperfect motives, by selfishness, pride, by naturalism. I still find it hard to do things which naturally don’t attract me. I am still a coward, still yield too easily, still fail to persevere against obstacles. Because I have lost the first fervour of census work I find it difficult to keep going; I haven’t kept going. I have slackened to an alarming extent. And the work. The work, the boys. What have I done? Three years unsuccessful chaplaincy of a C.Y.M.S. at Kyneton, a Catholic Action Group there which will have success more from the excellent quality of the boys than

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from anything I did. I cannot arouse enthusiasm; I haven’t the courage, and the humility. Here in West Melbourne, what can I do for the boys? For those at the primary school I am doing something; for those at the college I can do something in the way of assisting towards vocations. But for the boys who have left school, the boys who leave the practice of the Faith in such large numbers, what can I do for them? A little Jociste movement is necessary in West Melbourne; but I am not the man to start it, not naturally at any rate; but supernaturally—? I am not lazy in the ordinary sense of the word; I do work and could work hard, but I lack that something which means control over others, which means leadership. It is not merely that I am shy; shy men have done great active work. It is more of a weakness.20

The underlining of ‘the work’ with ‘the boys’ was significant in view of the next stage of his career as a priest. A month later he itemised each part of his priestly life, trying to understand what was going wrong: Prayer: deplorably bad; no recollection, no control of thoughts and imagination. Going to bed, getting up, meditation, Mass, visits to the Blessed Sacrament, there is always the same utter mental dissipation. When saying Office I do not have any idea of what I am saying; I have no more consciousness than a bad pianist thumping out some tunes he knows more or less by heart. I make several visits to the Blessed Sacrament during the day, but I do not recollect what I am doing once, I do not speak to Our Lord. Patience: completely lacking. When I type a word wrongly, as often happens, I fly into a rage. I cannot be patient with deaf people in Confession (my impatience with the deaf is largely a result of vanity; I hate to think that I have not spoken sufficiently clearly to be heard.) Charity: very little; thoughts become very bitter, and without cause. Study: little or none. I must make out a programme for each day and strive to adhere to it. I have done this before but always failed through weakness of will. Active work: . . . I am making some attempt to meet the careless boys and men. Thank God I have been given some courage, but I cannot fight opposition. One boy of sixteen, away from school for about three

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years, could not promise to go, he saw no good in going; would not talk except to answer questions . . . Another case, woman in twenties has not been a practical Catholic for three years, is not sure whether she believes everything about the Church, the Church interferes too much in life. ‘I am getting married shortly.’ I have been trying to do a little more to foster vocations among the boys; but my shyness prevents me from speaking as I ought. (Of course shyness is another form of vanity.) If I prepared I should be able to talk to them better.21

This last comment was a signpost to where he was heading as a priest in the mid-twentieth century. He did not know it at the time, but John F. was by now on the way to finding his voice.

‘Help me, and all my fellow workers . . .’ He had been perhaps unduly harsh on himself in thinking back to his time at Kyneton, because by other accounts he had performed well in providing services to the Catholic youth of the district. But now at West Melbourne John F. recorded his first flash of inspiration about what was to be done: Seeing a boy last night; seventeen, Catholic school, altar boy, quiet, lawabiding, yet abandoned Mass and the Sacraments immediately he left school. He is one of hundreds. The need of an Australian J.O.C. is urgent.22

J.O.C. was the French abbreviation for Young Christian Workers, an international movement that had become very influential and effective in Europe. The project of this worldwide organisation was to be an abiding passion for John F. for many years. Although it was not yet obvious, it would give his work as a priest a philosophical hardness and a practical direction it seemed to be lacking to this point. John F. had already left a mark on some of the young men of West Melbourne. In his diary he recounted his mentoring to a ‘lad’ of eighteen who had come from a broken home and left school at a young

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age to work in a factory. After being persuaded by his Catholic landlady to receive instruction in the faith, he came to see the new local curate in April 1939. Although baptised, the young man had never had a proper Catholic education, attending State schools instead. Several months later, after a ‘complete course of instruction’ and frequent attendance at Communion and Confession, the lad was Confirmed. Enjoying what appears to have been quite a close relationship with Kelly, the young man confided in him, and they had open discussions on several issues facing youth. He has no Catholic boy friends. He, then, gave me his opinion of the average run of non Catholic lads from his own experiences. He thinks that about 50% of them start sexual intercourse with girls when they (the boys) are about 15. He said that they take it as the normal way of behaving and talk about it quite openly. (The talk is to be expected. Lads love to boast about their sins, even non-existent sins.) Masturbation most of them begin earlier. His experiences have given him a very gloomy view of the sexual behaviour of the young, and he asserts very strongly that great and determined corruption is done to decent lads and girls in factories (he mentioned some factories by name). He spoke of the great assistance the thought of Confession and Communion is to him in strengthening his resistance. All that he has said has just added strength to the conviction I have long had that it is one of our major problems to prepare boys leaving school at fourteen for factories, etc. to be able to meet the attack on their decency. How can it be done? Some of them, perhaps most of them leave school without any good sex instruction. It is not the brothers’ business to give it; it cannot be given to a class; the fathers of the lads won[’]t give it. What can be done? The boys pick up the information, not as part of God’s plan in marriage, but as filth. I have always been interested in this problem; perhaps because I myself had so many filthy companions, even at an early age.23

This case seems to have compelled Kelly towards some degree of action. Two days after his conversation with the young lad, he mentions attending a discussion group on ‘the Moral Life of the Young Worker’.24

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Yet more importantly, John F. felt impelled to start a new Catholic Action group for the young men of West Melbourne, which he sought to model in the mould of the J.O.C. The J.O.C. had been established by Belgian-born priest Father Joseph Cardijn in 1919.25 The acronym for the movement stood for Jeunesse Ouvrière Chrétienne, that is, the ‘Young Christian Workers’. In Australia the movement would eventually become known by its English acronym, Y.C.W., although in its infancy Kelly and others tended still to refer to it as the J.O.C. In 1919 Joseph Cardijn was a 37-year-old Flemish priest who wanted to turn the attention of the Church to the organised working class, whom he believed it had ignored. He was inspired by his socialist father, Henri Cardijn, who wanted his son to fight for the proletariat. Y.C.W. meetings were cells of ten or so members who met for an hour, reviewed their life, discussed a relevant Bible passage, and planned a specific

Monsignor Joseph Cardijn, the founder of the Young Christian Workers, visited Australia in the 1950s and was greeted enthusiastically by young people who had studied his ‘Jocist’ methods. [photo: M.D.H.C. Catholic Archdiocese of Melbourne]

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action (the ‘See, Judge and Act’ method). Through these ‘Jocist’ methods lay Catholics were encouraged to take a passionate interest in the outside world. Each meeting opened with a prayer: Lord Jesus, A Worker like me, Help me, and all my fellow workers, to think like You, to pray through You, to live in You to give You all my strength and all my time. May Your Kingdom come in all our factories, farms, workshops, offices, and in all our homes. Be everywhere better known, better loved, better served. Deliver us forever from injustice and hatred, from evil and sin. May our souls remain in Your Grace today, and may the soul of every worker who died on labour’s battlefield rest in peace. Amen.

The J.O.C. was not formally started in Australia until 8 September 1941, the date at which it was approved by Mannix, but its pioneers— including Kelly—began working on Jocist lines from around 1938. The key priest in its development was Father Frank Lombard at Northcote, a northern suburb of Melbourne, whom Kelly knew well, and Reverend John Cleary, with whom he was even closer. Lombard was a large athletic man with a big voice who knew how to engage young men. He had an ability to lead young people which John F. lacked—in return he gained confidence from priests like Kelly. Cleary, based at East Brunswick, possessed an intelligence of a similar order to Kelly’s—he

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did not enter the seminary until after he had completed university studies in French. He and Kelly began to translate the French texts that underpinned the J.O.C. movement.26 In early October 1939, John F. began work with a handful of youth who were being considered as potential leaders of the group. At the first meeting he stressed that they were to be good Catholics first and foremost, regular in the reception of the sacraments. He impressed upon them ‘the essentially apostolic aim of their work, of the necessity of their being really good Catholics’, and thus to give a positive spiritual example to other boys. Kelly was confident after this first meeting that ‘certainly in some of the boys there is almost unlimited energy ready to be used by anyone who will direct it.’27 However, he soon discovered that teenage boys ‘weary of discussion without any activity.’28 This realisation tempered his enthusiasm somewhat, so that by the end of November, he believed that there might be ‘some possibility of a limited success’ with the group.29 The first general meeting of the group on 8 December 1939 attracted a crowd of 68 young men. Despite this relatively large turnout, Kelly remained unconvinced that the group could foster the right spirit of involvement. He recorded in his diary that the event had been ‘successful enough as a sports night, but hardly a JOCist night.’ A few months later, he felt that the group was ‘struggling’.30 On 15 February 1940 another event was held, an afternoon consisting of hand-cricket, followed by supper. Kelly recognised that the social side of the club was strong, but was disappointed that ‘as yet it is merely a sports club’.31 By March 1940, John F. was made responsible for editing a monthly publication, J.O.C. Chaplain, which was distributed among the priests of the Archdiocese to update them on the activities of the emerging youth group. He could see ‘great opportunity in it; short articles of spiritual training in accordance with the Liturgy, dogmatic instructions, etc. There is much that can be included if the venture is a success.’32 His work on the paper quickly attracted the attention of his colleagues, including that of Simonds and Mannix, who both congratulated him.33 Therefore, despite his feelings that the J.O.C. group under his leadership was floundering, Kelly was confident about the publication and encouraged by the positive feedback from his superiors.

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Suddenly, in 1940, Kelly’s theological reading began to include the new work coming out of Europe. The first contemporary theologian he encountered was Emile Mersch, whose Grace, Charity and Marriage he read at West Melbourne. Mersch developed the theology of the Church as the ‘mystical body’, an essential building block for the new theological thinking that would eventually find its voice at Vatican II. Mersch was murdered in the opening months of World War Two, but the suitcase containing much of his masterwork, The Theology of the Mystical Body, was found on the side of a road and published. In 1941 Kelly read the minor theologian Dietrich von Hildebrand’s In Defence of Purity. His religious reading was still dominated by the traditional authors he favoured, such as Dawson, Belloc and Newman, but there were other events in his life, especially the Jocist work, that were taking him outside the safe boundaries of his seminary training.

The women of the Church John F. was not concerned solely with the spiritual development of young men; he also came to work for similar groups established for young women. He wrote in his Diary on 15 November 1939 that he had an ‘interview in the afternoon with two girls from a university praesidium of the Legion of Mary of which I am to become spiritual director’. However, Kelly left the first meeting a week later ‘not altogether favourably impressed’.34 He admired the ‘zeal of the members’, but the Legion did not otherwise appeal to him.35 In addition to this work with university girls, he was to work also with the girls of the parish in West Melbourne, who were apparently attracted by the concept of the J.O.C. He wrote in his diary that ‘the girls are trying to turn their club into something like a J.O.C.F.’, which, while he supported it, was to mean ‘more work for me’.36 Notwithstanding his reluctance to be over-committed to the girls’ club and his misgivings concerning the Legion of Mary, John F. was indeed favourably impressed by another Catholic organisation for laywomen, The Grail. This organisation had recently been established in Sydney, in 1937, following the arrival the previous year of several

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members from the Women of Nazareth, a lay Catholic women’s movement based in the Netherlands. The Grail was thus begun as an Australian expression of the attempts of lay Catholic women worldwide to become more active within the Church, a reflection of the spirit of the era. The Grail’s historian has written that: it combined a strong sense of purpose in the furthering of Catholic women’s claims to a greater role in the Church with a modus operandi which testified to a realistic appraisal of the patriarchal and hierarchical nature of that Church, and a pragmatic approach to maintaining independence of purpose and role in the face of it.37

On 7 March 1940, Kelly paid a visit to Grail House, the organisation’s newly acquired Melbourne headquarters at Tay Creggan, an historic Tudor-style mansion in the leafy suburb of Hawthorn. After this first encounter with the Melbourne branch of the movement, John F. wrote that ‘it is a pleasure to meet the Grail ladies. Their Catholicity is real, stimulating, joyful, seeing all difficulties, yet calmly and trustfully facing them. Their influence on the Melbourne girls will be an immense good.’38 At the time of his writing this glowing evaluation, The Grail had been present in Melbourne barely six months. The leading and most charismatic figure among the Grail ladies was Judith Bouwman, renowned for her ‘bright, warm personality’ and quick wit, qualities she possessed alongside outstanding diplomatic skills in advocating the expansion of her organisation.39 She saw much potential for the movement in the development of parish groups; it is most likely for this reason that she would have invited the young John F. to Grail House, to discuss Catholic Action among the young parishioners of Melbourne. For an ardently independent movement such as The Grail, the task of creating parish groups posed specific challenges, none more so than having to work with parish priests, some of whom would seek to encroach upon and direct the activities of the girls involved. Bouwman had earlier written in her personal diary that ‘it is essential that no move be made without the approval of the priest in the parish in which action is contemplated’.40 In other words, new groups were to be formed

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in parishes where the local priests were found to be sympathetic and supportive.41 John F. was precisely that type of priest. During this March 1940 meeting, Kelly and Bouwman discussed the Grail’s plans for establishing six-month-long residential training courses at Tay Creggan. Such courses were to be an expanded version of the workshops and small seminars the movement had already successfully instituted in Sydney. Kelly was clearly impressed by these plans, reflecting in his diary: ‘Would that we had a similar training house for young men!’42 One week later, whilst pondering the direction he would ideally like the burgeoning J.O.C./Y.C.W. movement to take, he again considered the establishment of ‘a Catholic Action College for boys something like what the Grail Ladies will be doing for girls’.43 Bouwman and Kelly got on together to the extent that she was sufficiently emboldened to talk to him in very personal terms (‘Miss Bouwman told me that I was a pessimist’44), a singularly unusual comment in that period. Barely three weeks after their fruitful meeting, Kelly was shocked by the news that Miss Bouwman had been killed in a car accident. Once more, he was confronted by the death of someone whom he respected greatly, feeling the depth of loss immediately. Again he struggled to put his feelings into words: She was such a vital personality that it is hard to think of her as dead. Her loss will be irreparable or as nearly irreparable as any loss in the Church is. She seemed to be the only Grail Lady who could speak English fluently. Without her the course of training for lay-leaders may be postponed. I am always very much afraid of death, largely sheer panic, but also a fear of dying, leaving work undone which I could do. Such deaths as hers always give me a jolt. She had work ahead of her, work for which she was most necessary.45

John F. was not alone in his grief at the death of Judith Bouwman. The Catholic communities of both Sydney and Melbourne were unanimous in their ‘outpouring of emotion and pageantry’. One year later, upon the urging of the Netherlands headquarters, a biography of Bouwman was released under the title The Call of the King, which contained a

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foreword penned by Mannix, and which sold out quickly, such that a second edition was published just six months later.46 Kelly’s concern that the training of lay leaders would suffer with Bouwman’s untimely departure was not altogether accurate: the Grail continued beyond her death, the opening of the training house did indeed go ahead, and the Grail under her protégés like Adelaide Crookall (1914–2000) expanded to become significant across the three eastern mainland states.47

Sectarianism in Australian culture John F. had begun to reflect more broadly on the place of the Church in Australia. He recognised that Australia’s was a predominantly Protestant culture, and that Catholics needed to move out beyond their Irish ghetto. He was frustrated with the cultural prejudice that he encountered among some parishioners he went to visit: a sick woman who amused me very much by telling me how strongly she had opposed her daughter’s marriage to an Italian. She could not have been more perturbed had her daughter married an aboriginal. It is sad to think that the old Protestant prejudice against the Latinos is still strong in many of our Australian Catholics. So many of them are culturally Protestant, no matter how strong their Faith may be.48

And he found many an occasion to critique the practice of Catholicism in Australia. After reading a stimulating book on the subject of marriage, which he found to be ‘an excellent work, straight and solid, giving the Catholic traditional doctrine in its full dignity and beauty’, he contrasted this vision of marriage with that commonly held by most Australian Catholics. His comments reveal several incisive criticisms of the community: ‘Why is it that there is that touch of Puritanism among so many Catholics in Australia, among nuns especially? Is it a heritage from the Irish? (I know that the Irish resent being called Puritans; but is the charge altogether unjustified?) I pity boys who leave school at fourteen after having been taught only

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by nuns. I am afraid that their (the boys’) idea of purity is mostly negative, a ‘we must not do this, or that’, rather than a realisation of marriage as holy and of other things as being wrong because they infringe on that holiness’.49 This incisive line of his thinking found confirmation in another book he had just finished reading, entitled Australian Journey, by Paul McGuire. Part of this book touched upon Catholicism in Australia. Kelly agreed with the author’s contention that ‘the Catholics in Australia have a great opportunity if they can only cast off their exclusiveness’. He added, from his personal insight that ‘in spite of everything that has been done and is being done we are still largely an organisation working for the people of Irish descent in Australia rather than for all Australians. Very few Catholics are conscious of the mission of the Church, of her obligation to be Catholic. Priests are woefully insufficient, in Melbourne at any rate; the busy officials of this already Catholic flock. Perhaps they could be better aware of their non-Catholic flock’. And then, in characteristic fashion, Kelly turned toward self-examination: What have I done myself? Nothing beyond the instructing of such converts as present themselves and the lay-people only too often distract converts. They speak of the Faith as if it were an hereditary thing like a good ear. The identification of Catholicism and Ireland (or our brand of Irish politics) which was so strong in almost every Australian mind and which doubtless tended to keep down the number of converts is gradually dying. We have the opportunity if we can only take it. In Australia there are about 1400 diocesan clergy and 600 regulars; not enough of course, but enough to do something.50

McGuire does indeed make this argument, but he also goes on to contend that if the Labor Party were to move closer to Marxism, it would certainly lose the Catholic vote (a wonderfully prescient comment in view of the 1955 Split in the Australian Labor Party), given the strong Catholic opposition to both Hitler’s Germany and Stalin’s Russia.51 John F. was in this sense very typical of Australian Catholics, as we shall see in his reactions to the war that was brewing in Europe.

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He got into disputes with West Melbourne people on this issue. One man, an ex-Catholic aged about 40, he described as a ‘fool’.52 McGuire also went on to say, however, that Australian Catholics were agrarian socialists and in this respect were following the tradition of the Bulletin, the late nineteenth-century radical newspaper. Again, John F. shared this philosophy, along with B. A. Santamaria. Early in 1941 Kelly was at a meeting of the Rural Movement, and told the participants about J.O.C. Chaplain. The reaction was positive: Possibility of its becoming more or less the organ of priests connected with the Rural Movement. If anything can save the Church in Australia from ultimate decadence it will be the re-establishment of a Catholic peasantry. An exceedingly difficult achievement. Farming has become a way of making money, not a way of life. And the Church has not helped. Religion has become centralised. Catholic education is urban; Catholic boarding schools produce almost a contempt for farm-life in the minds of most school-girls and a large number of school-boys. To reverse all these tendencies will be an enormous task.53

This was a period of radical thinking about pursuing an alternative Catholic life in the Bush, exemplified by the Whitlands settlement in north-eastern Victoria. Whitlands was a utopian Catholic community set up by idealists who wished to develop an alternative to urban competitive capitalism. What later became the Movement grew out of these idealistic origins. Several salient points emerge from Kelly’s critique of Australian Catholicism. To begin with, in spite of his own Irish background, John F.’s vision of the Church was a universalist one. He had excoriated the St Patrick’s Day march in 1938, for example: St Patrick’s Day. Green and Irishism aggravate me; but St Patrick was one of the greatest workers God ever sent on Earth. I love St Patrick, I hope I am grateful to Ireland for the faith, but I hate the vulgar display of Irish pseudo-patriotism on the part of narrow-minded and badly educated Australians. Ireland at present is able to look after herself and is doing it well.54

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Secondly John F. had no time for excess piety. ‘The curse of the Church is the great body of “pious” people; their religious life is entirely self-centred, often a matter of exterior observance, always negative rather than positive increase in Xt-like-ness [Christlikeness]. Whose fault is this? Our own, I suppose; the priests; perhaps the inadequate ascetical and pastoral training in seminaries.’55 These were the first stirrings of what would become his passion in the 1940s and 1950s—a critique of how most Australian Catholics saw their observance: In our enthusiasm there is always a danger that we become more ‘liturgical’ than the Church, that we depress the status of the individual. Certainly in Australia there is very little liturgical perception, ‘devotions’ rather than devotion appeals; Communion is separated from the Mass, an idea; Mass is first a preparation, or, in the case of most religious communities, a thanksgiving.

John F. proposed a radical solution: Much ought to be done to give over [to] nuns the liturgical spirit. It is the only effective way of ensuring that the next generation will be liturgical in mind. We can hope for very little from the present generation.56

At a time when the Church’s liturgical life was securely in male hands, his was indeed an unorthodox suggestion. His desire to employ the nuns to strengthen a heightened understanding of the Church’s liturgy, as well as the connection between the faith-life of individual Catholics and the role of corporate worship, demonstrates how well he understood the link between the complete living of the religious life and the education of children. The liturgical reforms that followed the Second Vatican Council enabled the whole Church to appreciate ‘the liturgical spirit’ of which he was writing. The challenges facing Catholics in Australia in this period were by no means few or simple to rectify. Indeed, the politics of sectarianism in the late 1930s manifested themselves in a range of complex ways, compelling Catholic leaders to respond creatively to what they

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perceived as a problem built into the very fabric of Australian society. The apparent second-class status of Catholics in this country and discrimination directed toward them as a community could be discerned in personal encounters, such as the hostile responses to Kelly during his door-knocking in West Melbourne. Yet it was the inequality at an institutional level that was of more fundamental concern to many Catholic organisations, the leaders of which strove to uphold a unified front on critical issues and petitioned on behalf of the entire Catholic community. At a conference of clergy in June 1939 that Kelly attended, the priests present lauded the efforts of the Catholic Taxpayers’ Association. It was discussed ‘how a threatened boycott of the papers in March made the three dailies promise to review their cables, to give fair space to Catholic events, to support the Catholic claim for more scholarships, how the laymen are working to obtain more scholarships from the Government, etc’.57 Kelly understood the importance of these scholarships to make a dint in the pattern of social inequality, as he reflected much later in life on the work of the Catholic Education Office: There was also the annual scholarship examination. We would set some subjects and then correct them. The scholarship classes began in the 1920s. They were organised by the various Brothers’ schools. They would support the teacher involved in that class, but no help—financially—was received from Mannix. He was so mean about money in so many ways. The scholarship idea gave people a bit of a kick on and helped them. With the war and so on, many Catholic families did not have much chance of providing further and good education for their children. They were often very intelligent people caught up in the working-class area. Their children had their same intelligence, the same character, guts, and the staying power. Those children could do quite well in the scholarship classes.58

His wide reading and his experiences at West Melbourne were having a strongly formative effect on this young priest.

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The press of world politics Alongside his work and his preoccupation with matters Catholic, Kelly could not help but be swept up in news of the deteriorating political situation in Europe and the outbreak of war. He had followed the rise of Fascism, Nazism in particular, with a great deal of unease. In the same spirit, he had earlier described Austria’s alliance with the Third Reich as a ‘tragedy’, protesting passionately in his diary that: There seems little to console a Catholic in the movements of affairs in Europe. Nazi-ism seems only one degree removed from Bolshevism, and the great central German state will surely be a terrible menace to God’s church. Italy would not, and probably can’t do anything. Spain, the new Spain, has not yet come to birth. Very few really care for Austria. There is much conventional expression of sympathy, that is all. However, the real murderer of Austria is not Hitler but Versailles, and Hell is too good for the politicians who have so lamentably failed to achieve even bare justice.59

A few months into his time at West Melbourne, on the evening of Pentecost Sunday, 28 May 1939, he attended a demonstration for Peace held in the Exhibition Building. At this event, he heard speeches by Menzies, Mannix, the Governor and the Lord Mayor, as well as ‘two C.A. speakers’.60 One of these two Catholic Action speakers was the young B. A. Santamaria, who argued that the Australian government should do everything in its power to avert war.61 Confiding to his Diary his opinions on the speakers, Kelly, the ever-discerning critic, found Menzies ‘cold in manner with a slightly clipped accent’. It seemed to him that the Prime Minister ‘spoke as if he were speaking merely because he had to speak’. This was the first time that Kelly had heard Menzies speak, so he was careful enough to concede that what he disliked ‘may have been merely a mannerism’. He was equally critical of Mannix’s performance on this night, describing his speech as ‘a little too long for the last and subsidiary speech’. Mannix might have done well to structure the content of his address differently, since Kelly’s perhaps uncharitable view was that ‘his ideas are successive; rather than the continuous development of an idea’.

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Notwithstanding the young Kelly’s critique of his superior’s performance, he was sufficiently loyal to remark in his diary that the Archbishop ‘looked outstanding on a platform of the distinguished’.62 However, rallies such as this one in Australia and the month of Prayer for Peace could do little to stop the march of German aggression, which propelled Europe into armed conflict.63 With the invasion of Poland in early September and the declaration of war on Germany by Britain, France and Australia on the third day of that month, John F. was deeply troubled: ‘The war will be such as will baffle all the prophets. It is literally time that God alone knows what will happen.’64 Kelly’s diary entries became increasingly dominated by the events of the war, or at least those events that could be gleaned from Australian newspapers. Indeed, he was extremely cynical about the role of the media in propagating incomplete, prejudiced and misleading reports concerning the war, and of their desire for profits above all else. Only a few days after the declaration of war, he remarked that ‘the newspapers are publishing specials; they will continue that profitable practice as long as the war is a novelty. Their stuff sells although it is only what many people have already heard over the air.’65 His suspicion of the unholy motives of news agencies continued throughout the course of the war: whilst in Adelaide the following year for the consecration of the new archbishop, Dr Beovich, he observed sardonically that ‘the boys are hawking their special editions tonight. The war is profitable to others than munitions makers.’66 This cynicism toward news agencies in Australia can be seen as broadly representative of Catholic opinion in this period. The historian Patrick O’Farrell has suggested that this was due to the perceived dominance of the pro-British Protestant Establishment in ownership of the media and therefore the views propagated therein. Australian Catholics ‘tended to be sceptical of whatever was the dominant orthodoxy being promoted by the major opinion-forming agencies in Australia, given that these were assumed to be unscrupulously pro-British’.67 The formation of independent Catholic newspapers and journals in the 1930s—such as the widely-circulated Catholic Worker—was no doubt motivated by this belief, and the resultant desire among the educated laity for alternative sources of news.68 The Catholic Worker had taken its name from the

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famous American publication, begun in 1933, which asserted a Catholic social program that was equally critical of both capitalism and Communism. The Australian Catholic Worker, which first hit the press in February 1936, was originally the mouthpiece of the Campion Society, young radical Catholic intellectuals in Melbourne who were at the vanguard of the Catholic Action movement.69 John F. knew that the First World War had achieved little, and at great cost. He had read enough history to know that the peace of 1919 was an unsatisfactory outcome to the years of bloodshed and loss of life. The talk of world war in the middle months of 1939 disturbed him and continued to preoccupy his thoughts as recorded in his Diary. To this point there had been little reference to world events in his personal journal, but now hardly a day passed without some reference to these dreadful events, and how they were reported in the Melbourne newspapers: ‘It is sad to see that so much of the Allied opinion is still proSoviet, that it does not realise that the Soviet is a worse enemy than the Nazi. Of course the “Herald” is very pink.’70 ‘In Sydney there was a clash between soldiers and Communists. Of course the Government did not seize the opportunity to suppress the Reds and Pinks.’71 Like most Catholics of his era, John F. was extremely hostile to Communism, seeing it as a pernicious threat to democracy and therefore to religious freedom. (This explains his views about the Soviet Union.) On another occasion, he wrote that Communism was ‘strong and dangerous’ in Melbourne, and that there had been tension between Communist Unionists and Catholics.72 Kelly was pleased by the subsequent news in 1940 that all Communist newspapers in Australia had been suppressed.73 Many years later, in a tribute to Dorothy Day, John F. was to recollect: Those of us who are my age, and I am 70, can remember a time in Australia when there were twin evils, Capitalism and Communism. I can remember as a student when Quadragesimo Anno [1931] came out there was a fuss then because in it Pius XI contrasted the raw materials that go into the factories and come out refined with the men who go into the factories and come out ruined. People did realise then that there were two sides; and there were dangers on both sides. Somewhat later on something happened and only one side became a danger.74

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That ‘something’ that happened was the Cold War, and the consequent Split in the Australian Labor Party.

Urban culture and friendships Living in the city afforded John F. more exposure to cultural events, something that he had missed in Kyneton. He would often go to the ‘talkies’ with his mother and sister Mary. In 1939 his parents had moved to Melbourne, and were living in the little house at 7 Leslie Street in the bayside suburb of St Kilda, not far from Mary’s apartment at 20 Westbury Street, East St Kilda. He also enjoyed musical performances (although he felt that he didn’t have enough of a finely-tuned ear to appreciate them at a critical level): ‘Went with Mother to hear Marjorie Lawrence on Thursday night. A very impressive voice; (so it seemed to me) but an undignified appearance. I wish I could appreciate music. I have no musical memory and certainly no powers of concentration’.75 On 21 October 1939, Kelly wrote at length in his Diary about the Herald Exhibition of Contemporary Art, a landmark event in the history of art in Australia. His preference for traditional art was betrayed in comments such as, ‘Picasso I could not understand’.76 Although enjoying improving relations with his family, John F. lost contact with many of the companions who had been close to him during the latter part of his time in Kyneton. After returning to Kyneton for a day trip on 26 February 1940, he found it ‘interesting to note how quickly one passes out of people’s lives and how quickly one forgets them. I saw some today with whom I had been very friendly; they were pleased to see me, but the former familiarity has gone.’ This observation led him to conclude, somewhat pessimistically, that ‘the only real friends a priest can have are priests’.77 Again we see that despite the reputation that John F. was to acquire in the years to come as a bon vivant, enjoying friendships with laypeople and religious alike, at this moment in time he continued to struggle with his natural tendency towards reclusiveness and shyness, a tendency that allowed only ephemeral friendships.

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However, the feeling of losing familiarity with former friends did not apply in all cases. Whilst in Adelaide in April 1940, he met another Kelly, Pat, aged 35, with whom he was able to instantly rekindle a previous closeness. ‘Had not written to him since he left Corpus Christi over six years ago; had not seen him except to shake hands at the Melbourne Congress; yet our friendship revived at the exact point at which it was suspended. There was none of that painful self-consciousness which comes over most former friends when they meet.’ Then he gave a colourful description of his old friend, which implied an affectionate appreciation of his idiosyncrasies: ‘Pat has retained his eccentricities of dress, grey pullover, very visible, trousers knee worn, hole in hat; and he smoked along the main streets of Adelaide’.78 The image presented of this other Kelly approaches the quintessential academic, one whose behaviour and attire would seem to be at odds with the expectations for a priest in this period.

The significance of West Melbourne Kelly’s Diary continued to reveal the disappointment he felt in himself. He resolved to give up bookshops for Lent in 1940, for example, only to succumb the very next day.79 After beginning at West Melbourne with a great amount of energy and enthusiasm, several months later he experienced ‘the first of those periodic moods of depression which come over me after a few months in the same place and at the same work. All the joy of census work is gone.’80 He was worried that in his five years as a priest his spiritual life had been ‘a sad failure’. ‘God has given me such lights, bright and clear lights which showed me in a flash what I had to change in myself.’ West Melbourne was an inspirational parish. ‘I saw; but I did not act. I am not acting now. Shall I go through life a half-priest? A babbler of prayers instead of the pray-er of the people, an official rather than a representative of?’ Kelly wanted to offer spiritual leadership and guidance, not merely officiate. Perhaps he was too self-reflective: ‘I think too much about my office (position, I mean, not breviary); not enough about our Lord’. He had previously criticised his own daydreaming; now it becomes

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clearer what he meant by this: ‘My mind is full of daydreams in which I, of course, play a leading and heroic part, yet I have not the energy to do real work. Lord Jesus, give me the spirit of your priesthood.’81 Mannix and the Melbourne hierarchy were assessing his work, however, and he stood out among his peers. As one of Kelly’s protégés put it, 65 years later: The Werribee graduates were good pastoral men. Mostly they loved their Australian football, and they went to run their parish like a coach runs a football team. But they hated ideas—they were men of action. John F. and Cleary were the exact opposite—they loved ideas, and their source was Pope Pius XII. He has had a bad press because of his accommodation with the Nazis, but he did support quite radical ideas coming out of the new theology written in French.82

John F.’s understanding of the new direction the Church was taking marked him off as usual. He was about to get a new challenge.

Moving to Flemington In early May 1940 John F. received the instruction to move to Flemington and to begin training for a career as an inspector of schools with the Catholic Education Office. This notification came precisely at a time when he was ‘not feeling well’. In his Diary he wrote he was ‘depressed, nerves, etc’. He went to a doctor but was told that it was ‘nothing organic’. The problem was psychological. He was feeling quite bad, ‘so much so that [he] did not realise what [the new position] meant to [him]’. It was only a week later that he could ‘realise better the opportunity being given me for the work I so much like, the work for which I can admit to myself I have some capability’.83 Only then did he ruminate upon his love of teaching, something with which he was gradually coming to terms: ‘I like children, boys especially, and schools and teaching. The ideal of my life would be to work in a junior seminary.’ He thus began training for the new inspectorship position, and one week later received a letter announcing his transfer to Flemington, where he would take up a new curateship until

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the end of the year. He was able to reflect positively on this shift, believing the new appointment to be ‘better than remaining in West Melbourne.’ He made a quick appraisal and summary of what his departure from the parish signified: ‘Very sorry to leave the girls’ group which is progressing, and the J.O.C., which is not. Little regret at leaving parish. Pastor very good, but so many of the people bad, and census work so discouraging’. He recognised that there was ‘an intensely strong need for census work in West’, but felt that he was not the right person for the job.84 In these reflections we see a significant shift in John F.’s thinking about his work, an initial crystallisation about the work for which he would be better suited, and a deeper consideration of his changed circumstance than was evident upon leaving Kyneton. The news of the move came to him as a complete surprise, but it was the logical consequence of Matthew Beovich being appointed as Archbishop of Adelaide. Beovich was replaced as Director of Catholic Education by Dan Conquest, who in turn recommended John F. (his second choice) as a new deputy, which required Kelly to undertake the same studies at Ascot Vale that he himself had previously completed. Kelly explained it as follows: Matt Beovich was made bishop in December 1939, so Dan Conquest moved up one spot. I came in to replace Dan. This was on Pentecost Sunday 1940. I had to take a one-year teacher training course at Mercy College (Ascot Vale), and had to do the three terms in two, the others having already completed one term. I became curate at Flemington at this time. Bill O’Dwyer, the P.P. of Flemington at the time, was a very sick man. He lived on for a number of years.85

The Catholic Education Office was now eight years old. Mannix had a distinctly different vision of education than that of his predecessor, Thomas Carr—Mannix’s was very political—and there was a positive side to his support for a Catholic Education Office. It was Beovich’s submission to the 1931 inquiry into education commissioned by the Hogan Government that set in train the decision to establish the C.E.O. the following year. Beovich was only one of 75 people to appear

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before the inquiry, and his testimony is absent from the published accounts of the commission’s work, yet the views he advocated anticipated much of what was finally recommended by the inquiry.86 The Catholic Education Office was, according to historian James Griffin (and Kelly), an example of Mannix’s parsimony: ‘He started a Catholic Education Office (1932) with one priest, one room and no staff.’87 This apparent parsimony was evident in other Mannix ventures, and did not reflect on Conquest. It was normal for the times. Dr Beovich had laid good foundations. He enjoyed a strong rapport with the State Education Department. He was particularly skilled at getting things from people. For example, school buses would traditionally drive straight past the Catholic ‘dogs’, as Protestant children lampooned them, so Beovich secured a new arrangement: if the schools

Archbishop Matthew Beovich, the first director of the Catholic Education Office. [photo: MDHC Catholic Archdiocese of Melbourne]

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were close together, government school buses could transport Catholic schoolchildren to their school as well.88 John F. was joining an Office that was already established. Flemington was not only convenient to Ascot Vale, it was probably part of the Mannix genius for getting his priests to undertake work that went against their grain. Mannix loved that sort of thing, sending priests to those parishes [like Caulfield] who hated races and so on. At Flemington I had to go [to the racetrack]. Bill O’Dwyer was too ill . . . At Flemington sometimes you would have three meetings a week. Trying to do the teachertraining course, and be curate in Flemington, the race meetings became a bit of a burden. I wasn’t particularly interested in the race meetings. But you would be too scared not to go!89

Early in 1941 John F. thought back over his experience as an inspectorin-training and detected the same failing of a sharp tongue that he recognised in himself in parish work: ‘I am to deal with children who are afraid of irony, who cannot understand sarcasm, my manner must be better. My lessons last year were criticised because my manner was not encouraging’. He admitted to a similar problem in the Flemington presbytery: ‘How often have I become angry when called down to the parlour, or even when a sick-call came? And in most cases I was not really working, probably reading a novel’.90 By the middle of 1941 he was conducting school inspections where he took sole responsibility for a particular school. West Preston on 10 July was the first occasion in which he made the inspection for all subjects, as he noted in his Diary. Typically he was not pleased with his efforts and reported that he felt very tired afterwards. On 21 January 1942 he moved back temporarily to West Melbourne and on 19 October 1942, when Justin Simonds came to West Melbourne, left West Melbourne to go to Footscray, his home— though he could not have known it at the time—for the next 25 years. School inspecting had become his main business.

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‘Trollope is life’ John F.’s voracious appetite for fiction continued, and among novelists, Trollope continued to interest him. Here was an authentic writer: Trollope’s depiction of sex was far more satisfactory than that of ‘the moderns’. For example: The moderns in endeavouring to save sex, from the persistent depreciation of three centuries of Protestantism have raised it to heights of ‘mystical’ and emotional experience to which it has no claim as distinct from marriage.91

Trollope, however, was not uniformly good. Read ‘The Three Clerks’, and a poor thing it is. Trollope at his worst. Interesting as autobiography; but otherwise bad. Yet it illustrates one point; that the bad Victorian novels are better than the bad modern novels. There is some workmanship and some thought in ‘The Three Clerks’. The plot is one which the older novelists could not resist; ‘Take three boys and three girls and unite them’. Charley would be passable if he were left alone; but Trollope must be forever telling us what a good fellow he really is. Katie is one of the silliest women in all literature; of course she would get her left and right hand confused! The fool. Yet Trollope liked intelligent women, Mary Thorne, Lucy Roberts, etc. Its apostrophes, to them, Katie, etc. are worse than anything Carlyle could perpetrate. If Trollope satirised Carlyle in ‘The Warden’ and Dickens too, he outdid both of them by this Katie and his treatment of her.92

John F. was similarly unimpressed by another Trollope novel of the same style. Read also ‘Can You Forgive her?’. Or it would be more correct to say I skipped through it reading only the Glencora patches. It is worse than ‘The Three Clerks’, so bad that it is almost enough to explain why Trollope’s worth came to be depreciated by the generation that followed him. The plot could have been a good skeleton of a good

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novel, but the men and women are appallingly bad. Alice is not only stupid but her action is left without psychological explanation (Trollope attempts it, but fails). George could have been any novelist’s supreme achievement; he is one of Trollope’s greatest failure . . .93

Later in 1939 he continued with Trollope: Finished this week ‘Phineas Finn’. Very much better than ‘Can You Forgive Her?’ although it has nothing so bright as the Glencora passages of the other novel. It is a good novel of politicians and political life, if not politics. We see the House of Commons and the Colonial Office as an outsider would see them. Hugh Walpole complains that the novel, or rather this set of novels has no real politics, that the statesmen are just like puppets, etc; but it must be admitted that, if Trollope does not give the whole truth, what he does give is true. What was his real opinion of the British Constitution? He does not attempt to criticise it here, but he does give the impression that he does not take its wars and truces, its changes of cabinets, etc. very seriously. It is the greatest senate in the world to Madame Goesker. Actually in the 60s and 70s it may have been the greatest senate in the world, but what was Trollope’s estimate of this greatest senate? Phineas himself is called by Hugh Walpole a hollow drum. He has not very intense vitality, but I think he is a little better than that. Chiltern Walpole praises highly; perhaps too highly. The old Earl and others are real but dim, faded. Kennedy is a type that Trollope must have loathed, the Sabbatarian; Violet is perhaps too courageous, too witty. At times we almost feel a little pity for Lady Baldock, just as most of us feel a little pity for Shylock under Portia’s lash. Laura could be really Trollope’s supreme creation; in this book at least she fails to be so. She makes speeches instead of speaking. I began ‘The Eustace Diamonds’ yesterday. A gloriously bright work.94

The Trollope binge continued, however, and in May 1940 he was enjoying him again. Read also Trollope’s ‘The Claverings’. A good novel. Atmosphere perfect; the rectory, the park, the Burtons’ home in London, etc; they

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are so real that we never think of them as scenery deliberately painted for the play. That is one element of the greatness of Trollope; his ‘ordinariness’; his real ‘realism’. Characters, Sophie of course; her brother also; Julia well done; Harry better than some people think. Of course it is hard to be a hero. Henry good; Archy not bad, Boodle I doubt. The ‘let her know you’re there’ scene excellent, but why must Boodle and Sophie get married in the approved style of comic opera? What a scene, the first between Sophie and Boodle, or between Sophie and Hugh. And the Rector and Hugh. Trollope is life; not all of it, not its heights and its depths, but life none the less.95

To write that ‘Trollope is life’—even if the statement was immediately qualified—was to make large claims for the novelist. The books Vincent Buckley read in the Romsey of the 1930s were very similar to those read by Kelly in Seymour a decade earlier.96 Now John F. began to read even more widely. In 1939 and 1940 he devoured no fewer than thirteen of the English novelist’s works (Table 6.1). It was the beginning of a serious addiction to Trollope that would last a lifetime. In about 1989 he paused to reflect on the many Trollope novels he had read. The appeal of Trollope to the young John F. no doubt lay in the fertile imaginings of this most prolific novelist (the author of 47 novels in all—of which John F. read 30). Trollope had a solitary childhood not dissimilar from Kelly’s and had filled his hours with fabulous storytelling. Trollope is clear-eyed, candid and nonjudgemental about his characters: ‘Trollope is great by reason of his very fidelity to the commonplace. His mind is photographic. Jane Austen would etch. Trollope just reproduce[s] the man, the woman, the whole scene, England as he knew it.’97 There is little moral sense in Trollope, merely a keen observation of social foibles. His novels can be read as a saga, one after the other, and this is how John F. approached them, quite methodically.

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6.1: John F’s reading of Anthony Trollope (1815–82) Framley Parsonage [1861] [The] Warden [1855] Barchester Towers [1857] Doctor Thorne [1858] [The] Small House at Allington [1864] [The] Last Chronicle [of Barset, 1867] [The] Three Clerks [1858] Can You Forgive Her? [1864] Phineas Finn [, the Irish Member, 1869] The Eustace Diamonds [1872] Phineas Redux [1874] The Claverings [c.1867] [The] Belton Estate [1866] The Prime Minister [1876] Orley Farm [1862] [The] Vicar of Bullhampton [1870] Ayala’s Angel [1881] Dr Wortle’s School [1881] Rachel Ray [1863] Sir Harry Hotspur [of Humblethwaite, 1871] The Way We Live Now [1875] The Duke’s Children [1880] Mr Scarborough’s Family [1883] Is He Popenjoy? [1878] Cousin Henry [1879] John Caldigate [1879] He Knew He Was Right [1869] Ralph the Heir [1871] [The] American Senator [1877] [The] Kelleys and [the] O’Kellys [1848]

1927, 1934, 1961, 1982 1933, 1960, 1982 1933, 1960, 1982 1933, 1960, 1982 1934, 1961, 1982 1934, 1982 1939, 1988 1939, 1978, 1986 1939, 1978, 1988 1939, 1965, 1978, 1987 1940, 1978, 1987 1940, 1979, 1988 1940, 1947, 1985, 1987 1940, 1978, 1987 1940, 1983 1940, 1979 1940, 1978 1940, 1979, 1987 1940, 1979 1941, 1968, 1988 1943, 1976, 1977, 1984 1943, 1978, 1987 1947, 1965, 1976, 1990 1956, 1979, 1987, 1991 1956, 1976, 1986 1957, 1980 1959, 1976 1960 1961, 1987 1988

Note:The full titles and year of initial publication are in square brackets; the subsequent years cited are those in which John F. read or re-read the novel in question.

Source: Books Read.

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The Feast of the Ascension For forty days the Risen Lord remained on earth: ‘He had shown them by many proofs that He was still alive, after His Passion; throughout the course of forty days He had been appearing to them, and telling them about the Kingdom of God.’ (Acts I, 3.) Then He took them up the Mount of Olives, and ascended into Heaven. We keep this feast as the day of His triumph; the victorious Son enters His Father’s house after having defeated the enemy. If ever there was joy in victory, joy in the return home of the Victor, it should be ours on Ascension Day. John F. Kelly, Through Christ Our Lord, p. 138

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7 The school inspector Footscray, 1942–59 Efforts at self-improvement Nineteen forty-two was a dark year in the history of urban Melbourne. Until the Battle of Milne Bay, the Japanese were winning the Pacific war; people felt the claustrophobia of military occupation, with American troops stationed in the Melbourne Cricket Ground and at Camp Pell in Royal Park; Albert Tucker’s expressionist paintings captured the gloomy mood of the day. Footscray and Melbourne’s outer western suburbs were a major centre for munitions production. The war continued to absorb Kelly’s thoughts and to consume more space in his Diary. Kelly’s struggle to become a better priest continued during his first years at St Monica’s Footscray. The same personal issues continued to trouble him: he confessed to his Diary that he was still too self-absorbed to be a good parish priest. At a retreat in 1943 conducted by Ugo Modotti (a cleric notorious for his bluntness), John F. was reminded by the Jesuit that his primary calling was as a priest, not as a teacher or a scholar: ‘My work is to make myself a priest of Christ, not to be a school teacher or to enjoy reading.’1 At least his intentions were 121

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honourable. In 1944 he promised himself once more that he would definitely give up book-buying for Lent.2 (He failed.) Four years later, and thinking he was no better as a parish priest, he summed up the problem well: he was, he wrote, in ‘great danger of settling into [the life of] a comfort-loving bachelor[,] with literary interests’.3 The truth of the matter was that Kelly found life in the parish somewhat confining. One episode will give the flavour: in January 1944 St Monica’s was besieged by a serviceman who had had too much to drink, and John F.’s account of the event is quite revealing: This evening a drunken soldier was apostrophising the Presbytery— ‘And my name is Daly’ seemed to be the refrain of his philippic.4

The verb ‘apostrophising’ is strikingly elitist—it means that Daly was talking to no-one in particular—and the language betrays a very academic priest’s means of dealing with the all-too-human confrontation of an inebriated parishioner. A good novel was usually more appealing than learning of the vicissitudes of life that engulfed the Daly

St Monica’s, John F.’s residence in Footscray. He lived on the upper storey of the Presbytery. It was to be his longest stay at any address, more than a quarter of a century. [photo: State Library of Victoria]

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types who lived in St Monica’s parish. He was expected to juggle the roles of assistant parish priest with the day job as school inspector. The workers’ cottages of Footscray were dwarfed by the imposing two-storeyed red-brick presbytery in which John F. had an upper-storey bedroom. This was to be the place where he lived the longest stretch of his life—25 years in all. His bedroom filled the north-west corner of the building and gave him a commanding view over what were then in the 1940s the Newmarket meat works and its associated housing stock. This was the heartland of Melbourne’s inner west, an essentially Protestant working-class culture with a distinct heritage going back into the 1850s. The St Monica’s presbytery was the best residence for miles around, but it stood somewhat aloof from its surrounds. Brian Leonard recalls that Kelly was friendly with Dan O’Callaghan, the delightful Irish parish priest at Footscray, originally from Cork, which explains why he would have asked to move in there, with his library and all. John F.’s book collection was already considerable, to judge from his Books Read, a summary of the reading he began a few years after moving into the Footscray house. One of his bookcases was still in the building in 2004. This lovely piece, a wooden glass-fronted case, had originally been located on the northern wall in his bedroom, because this scholar-priest went to bed each night surrounded by some of his beloved books, much as he would later do in Deepdene. Already he was confessing to his Diary that he was overspending on his one weakness, his books, and that he could not wait until he had finished one book before purchasing the next. This addiction to books would continue all his life. His bedroom was ample in size. It boasted a marble fireplace on the eastern wall, a pair of sash windows facing to the north and to the west, and enough room for a desk. Down the hall was a communal bathroom, and downstairs a kitchen maintained by a housekeeper who had her own private quarters up a flight of stairs (later removed) above the kitchen. The fare was plain, but he never complained, for this was an agreeable house in which to live. As Brian Leonard remembered, Kelly was a gourmet who enjoyed a good meal—but he rarely got one at Footscray. O’Callaghan’s successor as parish priest was an Irishman

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named Bill Bailey. Bailey started each day with blackbread and beans, while the housekeeper served cold cuts to John F, who never demurred.5 The house had been allowed to deteriorate inside—its walls were dark and dirty by the time John F. left, but it was built of pleasant dimensions and was spacious enough. Across the hall from John F.’s bedroom was the parish priest’s bedroom, in the south-west corner of the building. Circling the building on three sides was a wide verandah, along which John F. would regularly promenade, reciting his breviary much as he had done at Werribee. Alongside the presbytery was St Monica’s church itself, a modest bluestone structure thrown up in the middle of the nineteenth century, its west door facing out into Whitehall Street. Its interior speaks of an earnest congregation. The benches had been painted and re-painted several times over. The altar had been acquired on the cheap by a priest who seized the opportunity when he learned that a priest at another parish, having ordered it from the main supplier, Haslett’s, had been unhappy with it. It fitted happily into the pre-Vatican II context of St Monica’s. The church runs parallel to the presbytery, which is to say, east-west, and the two buildings occupy a city block on this outer extremity of central Footscray. On the east is the primary school; to the south, across the side street, was once a Josephite convent whose sisters staffed the school.6 It was the first time in John F.’s life that he was not living in a strongly Catholic community. Whereas Melbourne’s Catholic suburbs like West Melbourne and Richmond were punctuated with local pubs and big Catholic churches, the Protestant working-class localities like Footscray and Coburg were more likely to feature Masonic Clubs, trugo courts7 and RSL halls. Footscray Football Club had adopted the very British nickname of the Bulldogs and played in the imperial colours of red, white and blue. With a commanding view of the Maribyrnong River and the city of Melbourne, St Monica’s faces away from the town. Kingsville and the localities to the immediate west and southwest of Footscray proper were rather more Catholic than Footscray itself. Because Kingsville was a strongly Catholic community, the parish priest enjoyed a ‘huge social role’. Kingsville was regarded as a profitable parish. It attracted

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Catholics from Footscray—precisely because that was never as Catholic a locality. New Catholic churches sprouted across the western suburbs in this period.8 In the Footscray parish Kelly attempted to develop youth groups of the kind he had organised in previous parishes. Once again he had great difficulty in galvanising young people. There was a considerable gap between his theological confidence in Catholic Action and his performance in the here and now. No matter how hard he willed himself, he could not convey his own sense of enthusiasm for the Catholic cause to the young men of St Monica’s parish. However, he still preferred the company of teenagers: ‘I feel much more at my ease with those who are younger than myself than with contemporaries or older. My inferiority complex, I suppose.’9 Then he found that there was a contribution he could make to the YCW—he began to write their how-to books.10 He took the philosophy of Cardijn and appropriated it for action in the Archdiocese of Melbourne. As one participant, Gerry O’Brien, recalled: A behind the scenes activity by this ‘genius’, as Joe O’Connell called him, was the preparation of the YCW Leaders manual. This was a publication which came out 3-monthly of probably 60–70 pages & set out the subject matter & items for discussion including Gospel discussion, and action, for each weekly meeting over this period. As far as I know this went on for years and certainly was a major factor in the zeal & commitment of so many YCWs in the 1950s.11

As he got older he was able to relate more closely with Catholics in their twenties to the same extent as Catholic teenagers. From about 1951 he began conducting pre-Cana weekends—workshops for Catholic couples about to be married—and he proved remarkably successful in these. The pre-Cana conferences were a Mannix initiative. O’Brien recalled his experience of John F.’s pre-Cana Conferences half a century later: He was the ‘Brains’ behind the pre-Cana Conferences . . . They were usually carried out over 2 Sundays with Mass & a series of talks on the

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Catholic approach to sex and marriage plus 2 week night sessions in between. I can recall the pre-Cana my wife & I attended before our marriage in 1957 & over the years when we have arguments & are in the ‘make up phase’, of joking with her how glad I was that I attended the talk given by Mons Kelly on ‘Male & Female Psychology’ as up to that time most of the ‘wet behind the ears’ young men who attended had no idea that male/female thinking was so different. Mons Kelly for many years was basically the coordinator & key speaker & many other friends of ours speak with affection of his talks & how they helped their marriages. They really opened our eyes & were always delivered with his great sense of humour.12

This letter is typical. Kelly became well known among lay Catholics for his YCW pre-Cana conferences, preparing people for marriage. These took place at several locations, including Vaucluse Richmond and Sacré Coeur Glen Iris. John F. would know by name the majority of couples enrolled in these conferences, which were enormously popular. They opened with a Mass at 10.30 am, followed by lectures starting at about noon. Kelly was particularly sensitive to the unintended consequences of nuns ill-equipped in sex education giving young Catholic women an inadequate background to married life.13 He was equally concerned at the effect on boys of the narrow education offered by the Brothers. Sex education might not have been much better in government schools in those days, but John F. was determined to improve the situation in Catholic schools. For someone so shy, and a celibate as well, his immersion in sex education was all the more remarkable. His pamphlet, From Boy to Man (Australian Catholic Truth Society, circa 1962), caused a sensation because it used the word ‘penis’. John F. also continued to take a keen interest in the efforts of other Catholics to fashion a radical alternative to capitalist society. In July 1952 he attended a conference on cooperatives. He watched with interest the progress of the utopian Catholic community at Whitlands, in country Victoria, which closed in June 1951.14 However, he was not one for political solutions to the problems he saw around him; instead,

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he was confident in the capacity of the Church to improve Australian society.

The compleat inspector John F.’s main work continued to be in the Catholic Education Office. World War II did have the positive effect of bringing Catholic and government schools closer together.15 This emboldened Daniel Conquest to think that the long-awaited provision of State Aid was just around the corner. The case for State Aid fell back to the Catholic Education Office to prosecute. Conquest gained a minor victory in winning government funding for kindergartens in the closing years of the war. The mobilisation of women made this case easier than it ordinarily would have been. But it was an illusory moment and Conquest had to admit defeat by the mid-1950s.16 Around 1949 the Catholic Education Office moved from its Cathedral home into downtown Melbourne. It was one of the central Catholic institutions listed in the annual directory known as Sands & MacDougall’s, the crucial guide to the city’s businesses and organisations in that period. The Catholic Education Office was listed alongside such Catholic agencies as the Catholic Central Library (located at 352 Collins Street). The C.E.O. initially shared premises at the Bank of Australasia, on the north-west corner of Collins and Queen Streets, with the Catholic Social Services Bureau. This was 394–396 Collins Street. At that time Santamaria’s National Catholic Rural Movement (not to be confused with ‘The Movement’) was located on the other side of Collins Street, at Number 381. By 1952 the Catholic Education Office had moved across the road to 379 Collins. Now the staffs of the two organisations were in very close physical contact, a fact which was to make life uncomfortable as October 1954 got closer. The Catholic Education Office under the direction of Dan Conquest was a small, amiable place. The O’Driscoll who holidayed in Port Fairy in the 1920s was still an inspector, now with the Catholic Education Office. O’Driscoll was a lay Catholic, a pupil of the old St Francis

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school based in central Melbourne. The brief was to inspect all subjects. Dan Conquest would draw up the itineraries of schools to visit. O’Driscoll concentrated on English and mathematics. Another identity at this time was Julia Flynn, a retired Government Inspector of Schools, in whose name a prize for the top Catholic matriculant was struck.17 John F. was a very successful school inspector. It was arduous work, but it suited his temperament. Each day he motored off from Footscray to schools around the diocese of Melbourne, anywhere in the suburbs or in the surrounding countryside, or to the office in the downtown bank building where the Catholic Education Office was now located. Around this time John F. purchased a 1939 Chevrolet, ideal for making school visits. It was serviced by Charlie McCann, who worked in a garage in North Melbourne and later himself became a priest. But John F. also used the trains. The main Footscray railway station is only a five-minute walk to the west from the front door of the presbytery. Riding the trains gave him a close, if vicarious, connection with the broad population sweep of Melbourne. He could see this was a city in flux, first during the dark days of the war, and then subsequently with the dramatic demographic changes wrought by postwar immigration, felt keenly in this part of Melbourne. Inspecting also took him into the heart of a changing diocese. Kelly’s protégé, Pat Crudden, has provided a snapshot of this work: For much of his life John F. was a school inspector. There was a real art to being a school inspector and I was introduced to it by John F. and Mr O’Driscoll. At that time we would send a note to a school about a week ahead and then spend a day or two days inspecting depending on the size of the school. We would set written tests for each grade, examine the children orally, check the teachers’ time-table, work program and rolls. Then at the end of the day we would write our report into the school’s report book. This is what we all did day after day for years. We spent little time in the office. We carried out administrative tasks during down times—term holidays, early in the school year, toward the end of term and so forth . . . My recollection is that his reports were brief and cryptic.18

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(The Kelly Diary confirms this recollection, with its long list of schools visited during the middle months of the year, year in, year out.) My impression is that he was a very astute observer but not really a good examiner. People would often say that he made the children too excited and so got a wrong impression of their ability. His view was that you should use humour and engage the children in conversation about things other than school to loosen them up and get them behaving naturally. Over the years he came to know the teachers really thoroughly so that he virtually knew what to expect before he went into a classroom. We always had lunch at the presbytery and stayed overnight for two-day inspections. It was important to maintain good relationships with the Parish Priests, as they were legally responsible for the schools. John F. had an amazing memory about people and also for detail. He really enjoyed visiting and inspecting schools as it gave him a comprehensive knowledge of the Archdiocese, but he genuinely liked children and young people generally and enjoyed their company.19

Examples of his school reports survive in school and central archives. On 19 September 1956 Kelly inspected All Hallows School in Balwyn: There are 76 pupils on [the] roll, 36 in II–IV under Sister M. Borromeo, 40 in Prep–I, under a trainee [Sister Irene McCormack]. In Christian Doctrine both groups are doing successful work. The knowledge of the pupils is good, and their tone is very pleasing. In other subjects both groups are working hard. Their teachers are making every effort to help the children in those subjects in which they find difficulties. I would suggest that the good work being done to strengthen Reading be continued, that the Spelling that III–IV have learnt, be incorporated into simple pieces of dictation, that the use of oral number drill and number tests be continued and intensified. I am grateful to the Sisters for their help during the inspection. John F. Kelly.

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On 16 March 1959 the same school came up for its next inspection: There are now 93 pupils in all, from Preparatory to Grade IV, divided Prep–I, II–IV. In general work is well advanced and the pupils have already reached a standard in their new grades that is really creditable. Christian Doctrine is well known and seems to be appreciated. The tone of the school is very good, the atmosphere that of a happy family. The neatness of the writing and the book-work in general deserve special praise. I am grateful to the Sisters for their help during the inspection. The Sisters are hoping gradually to build up libraries and other class aids. John F. Kelly.20

When John F. began his work as an inspector, the general standard of teaching was quite low in places, especially by the measure of later generations. Vincent Buckley describes his time at the old Jesuit-run St Patrick’s College, under the shadow of Melbourne’s Cathedral, just a few years earlier, in the late 1930s: There was to be no love here. But there was geniality, a great deal of it. The whole ethos was one of genial casualness, an odd mixture of formality (the priests were to be called ‘Sir’, and we were addressed, probably for the first time in our lives, by our surnames) and joshing intimacy.21

According to Buckley, with the advantage of hindsight, even at the more highly-fancied Xavier College, ‘teaching was little more than the instructing and catechising of little Christian gentlemen; it was therefore incompetent’.22 The elite schools were not exempt from inspection. Buckley’s judgement arguably does not hold true for many of the female teaching Orders—the Mercy, Loreto, Presentation and Josephite Sisters— whose standards were routinely praised by Kelly. The real problems were financial and a lack of graduate teachers in secondary schools.

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Catholic schools may have performed better, however, with the sudden rush of immigrant children, according to one historian. Although the schools did not have a sense of being a ‘system’ and therefore no unified strategy to deal with the postwar influx, their emphasis on formal language learning probably gave the immigrant children demonstrable academic opportunity.23 The parish schools were built before the church. The parish of Glenroy, in Melbourne’s northern suburbs, was established in 1955. It was a classic working-class and immigrant community. John Fox, who rose to the principalship of Sacré Coeur, described his alma mater in that year: The new school building, which opened in 1955, was also the new Parish Church. We had a routine in class every Friday afternoon of lowering the lids of our desks and lowering the kneelers to facilitate our desks becoming pews for Sunday Mass. We also moved the desks together to enable extra seating to be brought in. Just before Friday dismissal the two portable walls were rolled to the side so that the three huge classrooms became one large hall/church . . . The altar was revealed behind the blackboards of the front classroom and I recall quite clearly as a little boy the sense of awe as the floor to ceiling blackboard/doors were rolled to the side revealing the altar, with sanctuary lamp, and candles lit; the brass tabernacle; the pre-Vatican II vestments; the incense and the gong (rather than bells) that used to sound at the Consecration. I think that it was at such times I came to understand the use of the word ‘mystery’ in the church. The sacramental life at Corpus Christi school in the 1950s seemed to transcend the outside world of battling working-class families all ‘scratching’ to make ends meet, many experiencing financial and social difficulties, with a very strong sense of family, community and Catholic identity to the fore. With the walls rolled back, the number of children now visible was enormous to my 5- or 6-year-old eyes. I think I recall that there were five or six classroom groups operating: the large hall/church held three classrooms but some of these would have been composite groups; in what really was a corridor along the northern side there were two

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elongated classes with the children facing a different teacher at each end of the corridor with only a portable partition between the two class groups—sound proofing was not on the agenda . . . Class sizes were huge, but, as I knew nothing different, I thought this was the way schools were—as indeed they were in the 1950s. I don’t remember how many children were in my Prep classes, however I know that in 1960 when I was in Grade 6, there were 75! I had completed both Prep and Grade 1 in 1955, yet when I arrived at Grade 6 in 1960, alas, I was not to be in the most senior group, as the school ran a Grade 7 that year. I suppose that this was a stop-gap measure until the Church had provided for Secondary education in the area.24

The work of inspection took John F. about 7000 miles in his car each year (he kept odometer recordings in his Diary). O’Driscoll was equally diligent, and seemed to live a monastic life, in an apartment Kelly called a ‘cell’.25 Many people’s first memory of John F. was in his role as an inspector, coming into their school to carry out the inspection. Joe O’Connell, later a bishop, remembers meeting John F. when he was a primary school student at St Mary’s School in Thornbury in the 1940s. Thornbury was a northern working-class suburb where some people of his parents’ generation migrated from the inner suburbs around that time. Kelly made an immediate impact on the Thornbury boy. He was the master of the clever aside, and did not fail to impress the young O’Connell with his wit and intelligence.26 Others talk of Kelly meeting them in later life as a priest and recalling these school encounters, for he had the wonderful knack of seeing the potential adult in the young person. As we have seen, he also possessed a head for genealogical detail and could summon up the details of family trees, especially among Melbourne’s Catholic population. Brian Leonard’s housekeeper, Marie O’Loughlin, remembered John F. from the days when she was a 10-year-old, having met him as an inspector coming to her school. She and her friends were terrified of him as an inspector, but got to know him later as a grandfatherly character. She was reminiscing in 2002: ‘I was a student at [what was then] St Flannan’s, living in Millers Road, Brooklyn. I was meant to say the Hail Mary. I was terrified. It was pre-Vatican II. You always felt you

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were being judged by what you didn’t know. He came in. There was absolute silence, a horrible atmosphere. The Sister stayed at her desk out front. There was probably about 60 children in the one room . . .’ Brian Leonard interrupts: ‘When I was there, there were 85 in the senior years.’ Marie O’Loughlin: ‘I would have been asked because they would have assumed I knew it.’ But she was terrified nonetheless.27 Helga Griffin, a postwar refugee taken in as a student at the Academy of Mary Immaculate in Fitzroy in the late 1940s, remembers the occasion of the inspectors making their visits to the school. ‘Mr O’Driscoll’s coming!’ would be the cry, and there he was, a fairly bald fellow, causing a big occasion in the school. Nothing would be done of much note in preparation for the visit, and although he was not awe inspiring, the girls had to be ‘spick and span’ for him. Conquest’s visits were more important, since he tested them for religious knowledge. Conquest was self contained and studious looking. Sex education was provided by Reverend Maurice Catarinich, who, as well as the senior nun, would blush when he explained how a man’s body was impassioned during sex.28 Kelly was pleased to report to ‘the Chief’, as he called Dan Conquest in his Diary. He hated the thought of being the Director himself, and was always pleased not to be in charge.29 In particular his old anxieties about dealing with interpersonal conflict came to the surface—he thought he had ‘no guts’, just like a certain unnamed man whom he knew in the government’s Education Department.30 This particular anxiety helps explain why he found it so difficult to deal with those who were more overtly political. One such person, Santamaria, was to loom large in his life. But Kelly’s everyday work as a school inspector did not involve much negotiation with older people, as it was principally a matter of dealing with young Catholic school children, and this was within his emotional capability. Very gradually, however, he was being drawn into the administration of Catholic education. In August 1950 he offered a session on teaching English to ‘new Australians’. In December 1953 he was involved in a discussion on a new Technical School at Coburg, and then another one at Yarraville in the following April. The Catholic school system was growing under the pressure of postwar immigration,

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particularly from Catholic Europe, and Kelly had a front-row seat for this sea change. Finally there came the moment he had been dreading for some time. It dawned on Dan Conquest that there was more to life as a Catholic priest than directing the Melbourne inspectorate. In 1954 he persuaded a colleague to accompany him on a trip to Europe. On the way back he decided—after 15 years of school inspection—that he would give up his directorship and go to parish work. As he recalled in 2002: ‘I spoke to the Archbishop—he evaded responsibility and said he would refer the matter to the consultors! When I told John F., he was appalled. I liked administration, but he didn’t.’31 There were two reasons John F. was ‘appalled’ at the prospect of taking on the directorship—one was his dislike of administration, the other his love of reflective work. On 11 January 1955 he wrote in his Diary: ‘Changes. Director[,] unfortunately.’ The man who had been Conquest’s second choice as a new inspector of schools in 1940 had become his obvious replacement. The shock was such that it was some while—years, to be exact—before John F. could fully articulate in his Diary the magnitude of the change. The next month he reported that he felt ‘no mental peace’.32 On Sunday 4 October 1959, while in London on his first overseas journey, John F. finally found the right moment to describe the enormity of the change in his life that Conquest’s sudden departure had brought about: For some weeks certain facts have made themselves clearer than before, and an analysis of past years and present state has been turning over in my mind. After a month or two, the first glow of the holiday faded, the strain of driving in right hand countries made itself felt. Other difficulties arose, e.g. the problem of my car. Consequently, there was a period of anxiety and depression combined with nervous restlessness. This state was changing during the second and third week of my last trip; but from Friday, September 25 (night) at Vienna there has been a recurrence of depression and restlessness. This analysis may have been occasioned by this state, but is not just a by-product of it. It has been calmly considered, and should, I hope, be spiritually helpful in times of renewed spirits and regard, such as I hope to obtain.

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1. Until the beginning of 1954 my life was one of narrow routine, and little responsibility. I inspected my schools, did other little things, and lived a little life. 2. In 1954 during Dan Conquest’s absence I had the responsibility of his work. I dreaded it, but found it less difficult than I had anticipated nonetheless. I remember the feeling of joy and relief with which I went down to Sorrento in December of that year, knowing that he was to return in a few days, and expecting to resume my former little life. 3. In 1955 I was, without any warning, appointed director. It came as an accomplished fact, which I received with less sinking of heart than I should have expected. I can look upon it as a great grace. It forced me to take responsibility. With changing circumstances, increased employment, and training of lay teachers, etc., the job became much more difficult. There were four years of this work, much neglected, much done perfunctorily, many failures in patience and charity; but, in spite of it all, some work, reasonable work done. In September of 1956, when Dan O’Callaghan left Footscray, and, still more, from the following January, when Pat Crudden was transferred, there was increasing isolation in the Footscray presbytery, and on my part as I realize now a failure to keep lonely young Irishmen in a strange country.33

The phrase, ‘to keep lonely young Irishmen in a strange country’, reverberates still. John F. took his new role very seriously, and it included the welfare of colleagues in the church. Kelly inherited a big school population. Catholic education in postwar Melbourne and Geelong grew much bigger, thanks largely to the strength of the Catholic proportion in postwar immigration. The aggregate numbers of Catholic schoolchildren more than doubled in Conquest’s latter years and Kelly’s first few years, 1948 to 1961, and so did the number of Catholic secondary colleges. The first regional secondary college, combining the resources of several adjoining parishes, was Immaculate Heart College in Preston, established in 1957.

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7.1: Catholic student enrolment in the Archdiocese of Melbourne

Primary Secondary Total

1939

1948

1955

1961

34,722 7,500 40,272

37,136 8,090 45,226

54,392 18,108 72,520

71,528 25,838 98,621

Source: S.F. Dooley, ‘St John’s College Braybrook’, M.Ed, University of Melbourne, 1985, p. 274.

The mechanism for constructing buildings and financing regional colleges was the Schools Provident Fund, set up in 1956 with Reverend James Wall as director, during Kelly’s second year as Director of Catholic Education. The Fund offered cheap loans to communities wanting to build such schools, loans based on money raised by investment and donations. The Schools Provident Fund solved a problem that had dated back to Conquest’s day—how to fund regional secondary colleges in the growing outer suburbs. The solution developed by Reverend Wall (who had been the curate in the Preston parish and saw the problem at first hand) was to create an investment bank into which monies could be paid by Catholics, typically in the older and wealthier inner-suburban parishes. The Pennies of the Poor campaigns of an earlier era had revealed the generosity of all Catholics. This newer scheme was intended both to derive a profit and also to help the newer communities of Catholics. Staffing was still mostly in the hands of the religious. In 1950 lay teachers made up just 20 per cent of the teaching workforce in Catholic primary schools. Teaching bursaries awarded to bright Catholic children were only tenable if they taught in government schools.34 Kelly was quite a different Director from Conquest.35 Another priest was appointed to help him. This was John (Jack) Keaney, a twin, whose parents were devout people from St Brendan’s, Flemington. John F. could safely delegate to Father Keaney, an intelligent and urbane man, day-to-day administrative work, such as looking into parental complaints about Catholic schools or teachers, and the appointment of new teachers. There are numerous letters on file that show Kelly deftly sidestepping an irksome or troublesome letter.

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Keaney enjoyed working with John F. and went on to make his own distinctive contribution as founding curator of the Diocesan Archives. He later became a parish priest. He was outlived by his identical twin brother, Matt, a Jesuit and teacher, and predeceased by another brother, Kevin Keaney, who managed the Schools Provident Fund. John F. sat on the Board of this Fund alongside Kevin Keaney. (Kevin’s daughter Leonie became the principal of Presentation Convent Windsor in 2003.) As the third Director of the Catholic Education Office, Kelly was suddenly drawn into all the important developments of Catholic schooling. In May 1956 he was ‘out Bulleen way’ looking at a proposed site for what, sometime later, became the new site of Marcellin College; in March 1957 he was invited to the opening of a new building at Ascot Vale.36 Catholic education remained a conglomeration of schools, not yet the system it would come to be. The Office was merely an inspectorate: without government funding to administer, it had no fiscal control over these schools. So the myth grew that the Director would not know of a new school until he was invited out to its opening, but Kelly’s Diary reveals an acquaintance with the plans of the teaching Orders to develop new schools that runs contrary to the legend. He also got to know the broader educational scene. In November 1955 he read the report of the famous young American educator R. Freeman Butts after the latter made his well-documented tour. (Butts wrote in Assumptions Underlying Australian Education that there was a fundamental contradiction between the democratic tenor of Australian culture and its bureaucratic British education system.) In August 1958 Kelly was at Wesley College for the first meeting, chaired by Sir James Darling, of what became the Australian College of Educators (ACE).37 Around him the postwar political culture was changing rapidly. In the office one floor above him, in the same bank building, there was a young Catholic layman plotting to change Australia. This was B. A. Santamaria. Santamaria’s secretary, Noreen Minogue, remembers John F. very well. Later in life she became his parishioner at Deepdene (as did Santamaria). The daughter of the controversial Collingwood-cumRichmond footballer, Danny Minogue, Noreen was recommended to

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Santamaria by the F.C.J. (Faithful Companions of Jesus) nuns at Vaucluse, Richmond, her old school. Santamaria’s office was within the law firm Adami & Maher. Noreen met John F. through the Principal of Vaucluse, Mother Veronica Lardner. He and Veronica Lardner were ‘kindred souls’. Kelly once said to Noreen, ‘You don’t know how lucky you are—you had the best teacher I ever met in the Catholic system anywhere!’ Veronica Lardner was a small, shrewd woman. Brian Leonard recalled an anecdote which revealed a great deal about her. He had friends at Vaucluse, and one day was visiting them in the company of his classmate, Reverend Justin McCarthy. McCarthy was known for his skills in Australian football—the proverbial footballer from the bush—but on this occasion he was pretending to be, of all things, a visiting American priest! Mother Veronica was too clever to fall for this ruse—she asked McCarthy some questions which exposed him for who he truly was.38 One of the most important moments in Australian history, October 1954, came and went in John F.’s life without any note in his Diary. Yet Australian political history had taken a dramatic turn involving his Church. On 5 October Dr H. V. Evatt, leader of the Australian Labor Party, finally went on the offensive against Santamaria and the Movement, bringing on the Party’s famous split. In the hothouse of Melbourne’s Cold War politics, the ALP could no longer contain its two dominant tendencies—a Left that was sympathetic to Communism and a Right sufficiently opposed to it as to be prepared to emulate Communist tactics of infiltration. Santamaria had moved far from the radical utopianism he once shared with Kelly—by now he was using the Catholic Church to underwrite his Movement. The Movement used techniques of organisation borrowed from the communists, and in doing so, embroiled the Church far more than the bishops understood in the Australian political controversy. Vincent Buckley composed a haiku to explain this paradox: The Movement could not be mentioned Because it was not known to exist It could not be criticised Because it was known to have the bishops’ special favour

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It could not be actively opposed Because the bishops did not want it mentioned.39 The controversy over Santamaria affected Kelly’s view of his Archbishop. John F. originally had a great reverence for Mannix. Years after the Archbishop’s death, the Mons would often say, with his delicious sense of humour, ‘They’d never do that in Mannix’s day!’ But Mannix’s association in his later years with Santamaria caused John F. to lose some respect for him.40 Clearly, ‘the Church had been mobilised [in Melbourne] for a political purpose’. Santamaria used ‘visible obedience as a technique of control’, that is, he sought the permission of Mannix and other bishops for all his actions, and this gave them an incontestable legitimacy they would have otherwise lacked. Snorts Buckley: ‘An activity sanctioned, financed, and in every way protected from criticism by the bishops, who nevertheless need it to remain secret, unmentioned, and blindly supported, is in a theological category of its own.’41 In many ways Santamaria was typical of the tertiaryeducated Catholic of that period: his was a forensic rather than a speculative mind, at least in Buckley’s opinion.42 John F. gave the young men of Max Charlesworth’s generation in the Campion Society the theological arguments as to why Catholics should not involve themselves too fully in party politics, as Santamaria was doing.43 Those Catholics who opposed the Movement drew on the French theologian Jacques Maritain, while Santamaria found his theological warrant in the Italian Luigi Gedda.44 But Kelly did not confront Santamaria directly, and endured the other man’s growing influence in Australian political life in silence. Given the period, Kelly could not have been too open or strong in opposing Santamaria or it would have looked like disloyalty to his bishop, Mannix. Kelly’s first responsibility was education. Within a comparatively short space of time Santamaria had become a force to be reckoned with. Catholic Action had become diverted from its original purpose; among the countries where Catholics were not in the majority, only in Australia did it produce a political party, the Democratic Labour Party, capable of keeping the left-wing Opposition out of Government for 23 years.

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The Catholic scholar Kelly was a scholar, not a political animal. One of his other roles in the Melbourne Archdiocese was to offer Saturday morning classes in theology to the nuns (and very few Brothers). The famous Brother Frank McCarthy remembered these well. Unlike others thronged together in Cathedral Hall, he found the content rather pedestrian. He sat at the back, cross-legged and arms folded. I was new to Melbourne, having returned from Rostrevor [in Adelaide] in 1951; I thought him brusque on meeting him at a teachers’ session in the Cathedral Hall. First appearances left one with the undeniable impression that you were small fry and the minimum of pleasantries were to be wasted on your young self—that impression was clearly felt but not intended . . . We, the Brothers, were ordered to attend and a few did so, but reluctantly and with little grace. We sat at the rear of the ‘sea’ of nuns in their varied gowns and took no active role in the lessons. But J. F. was clearly in his element . . .45

Saturday morning lectures in theology were given at Cathedral Hall, Fitzroy, mostly to nuns. [photo: MDHC Catholic Archdiocese of Melbourne]

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This style of work was John F.’s milieu. His favourite work was the scholarly. Through much of this period he was engaged in the Catholic History Readers, an ambitious program of curriculum development. The idea, which began under Conquest’s auspices, was to produce a distinctively Catholic view of the past as an antidote to the ‘kings and queens’ approach to British History that was popular in Australian schools at the time. A key part of Daniel Conquest’s agenda for Catholic education was the production of new curriculum in areas where Catholic teaching mattered a good deal. For Catholics like John F., there was a richer vein that ran through European history. The leaders that mattered were the popes; the schisms that took place within the church were more important than the growing gap between Catholics and Protestants, and, above all, he wanted to educate young Catholic schoolchildren about the social history of the Church. He wanted them to be able to imagine what it would have been like to experience the Catholic faith in some other part of the world in some other century. In historiographical terms, John F. was well ahead of his time, anticipating what in the 1960s would become known as the ‘new social history’. His two books were The Lands of Our Fathers (1957, second in the series) and The Changing World (also 1957, fifth in the series of six). John F. also knew he was writing for schoolchildren for whom history was not necessarily a large part of their worldview, and certainly not part of their experience of learning to be Catholics. This explains the narrative style he adopted, as he no doubt reasoned that storytelling would appeal to young people nourished on various stories from the Bible and not very scholarly Lives of the Saints. In the late 1940s and the early 1950s, when he was writing this history of the Church for younger readers, at the behest of Conquest, there was a thin layer of scholarship on which he could draw. This project helped inform some of the books he chose to buy and read. In February 1944 he purchased an old Baedeker on Northern Italy, ostensibly for ‘the History’—his Lenten promise notwithstanding—while on 24 March 1953 he reported in his Diary that he had just completed the Jesuit John Hungerford Pollen’s English Catholics in the Reign of Elizabeth. In both cases (there are many others recorded in his Diary,

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such as Dawson’s The Making of Europe, R. W. Southern’s The Making of the Middle Ages and Phillip Hughes’s Rome and the CounterReformation in England) the books were grist to his mill; he wanted to convey to the young Catholic children he was meeting in schools, in his guise as Inspector, something of their patrimony. He wanted to put into written words what he often failed to express in conversation, that they were heirs, wittingly or not, to a wonderful 2000-year history. He was passionate about this Catholic inheritance, and he knew that he was living in a philistine society that did not always know or care for its past. The Lands of Our Fathers outlined a basic history of the British Isles from the Roman Conquest until the eleventh century, written in episodic format with characters such as St Patrick looming large, no doubt to attract the attention of schoolchildren toward saintly and visionary figures. The final section of this volume jumped in time and place to the study of English settlement in Australia. The logic of this thematic design was clear: to provide primary school-aged children with a not-too-complicated account of how English-speaking peoples came to populate Australia. Indeed, the introduction asked students first to locate on a map the group of islands to the west of Europe, then stated: These islands are many thousands of miles away from Australia; but they are important islands for us. From them our own people came. Our grandparents or our great-grandparents or perhaps our great-greatgrandparents were not born in Australia as we were, and as most of our parents were. They were born in England or Ireland or Scotland, and they came out to Australia to live. We hope that more people from England and Ireland and Scotland will soon come to Australia to live.

The last sentence of this paragraph reflected the ever-present fear that Australia should ‘populate or perish’. Yet in postwar Australia immigrants were no longer exclusively from ‘The Lands of Our Fathers’, thanks to the policies of Arthur Calwell, Federal Minister for Immigration. Hence John F.’s introduction went on, striking a conciliatory note on Australia’s changing demographics:

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Perhaps you have in your school boys and girls whose grandparents did not come from England or Ireland or Scotland, but from the mainland of Europe. We are pleased to have them in Australia; we should like more of them, so that Australia may have a big population. But most of us have English, Irish or Scottish blood . . . We speak the English tongue; but our Faith came to us from Ireland. The first Catholics were nearly all Irish, the priests and brothers and nuns were nearly all Irish.

The second Catholic History Reader penned by John F., volume V, The Changing World, was somewhat more complex, in theme if not in style. This volume sought to explain the period following the Middle Ages, focusing on the Age of Exploration, the Renaissance, the Reformation (named here ‘The Protestant Revolt’) and the Catholic Reform that came in its wake. With the benefit of hindsight and access to subsequent historical revision, one may challenge the presentation of this vision of history and the assumptions contained within it. Yet for Catholics in the immediate postwar period, this version of European history was a powerful antidote to the dominant Protestant view in Australia. The Readers reflected John F.’s long-held interest in history as a subject. His Diary illustrates that he continued to read history to the very end of his life, especially Church history. That the only historical works he penned in his lifetime (apart from the history of Deepdene parish) were school primers instead of academic works signals his vocation as an educator. Kelly remained an educator rather than becoming an academic. There was no real provision (or opportunity) for diocesan priests in Melbourne during this period to receive an undergraduate or graduate education in any discipline other than canon law. The Church was still very Irish in the late 1940s. Among the priests working in Australia, the Irish stood out on account of their assumed moral superiority (not to mention their numerical advantage). Despite this blandness they held themselves in high regard.46 Theirs was to be the dominant voice in the Australian Church, a position based on the assertion of history rather than much else. This was about numbers, more than anything. Mainstream history books do not recognise the hundreds of young Irish men and women who signed up to work in

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Australia as missionary priests, nuns and brothers, yet taken together they had a major cultural and religious effect on Australian life. In the late 1940s Catholics remained a mysterious minority to many other Australians. The publication of Frank Hardy’s Power Without Glory which, in the fictional form of ‘John West’, depicted the IrishCatholic John Wren as a kingmaker in Melbourne, fed the sectarian attitude toward Catholics. To portray Wren as a scheming man of considerable power was to overlook the more obvious point that Australia was still controlled very much by Protestant interests.47 As late as 1960 Catholics were so under-represented in the corporate world that they constituted only two per cent of company directors.48 Indeed, the Church in the 1940s was not much different from the one into which John F. had been born. Vincent Buckley devoted an entire chapter to this topic in his memoirs. The chapter begins with an astute (and sympathetic) summary: ‘The Catholic Church in Australia just before mid century could not decide between missionary triumphalism and self-enclosing formalism.’ Both these tendencies were evident in John F.’s youth. It was not exactly a ‘ghetto church’ (‘self-enclosing’) because by the late 1940s Catholics were well represented in many Australian institutions—especially in the legal, administrative and political fields. But officially the Australian Church was still a ‘mission’, unchanged in canon law from the time of Kelly’s birth. This tendency, which Buckley calls ‘triumphal’, still gave the Church much of its drive in the late 1940s, and the battle against Communism fuelled that older fire. According to Buckley, Catholics were instructed to keep death candles at the ready, to be careful how they received the consecrated host at Communion, to make their Confession correctly, to avoid ‘flesh meat’ on Fridays, to refrain from alcohol until adulthood, and to subscribe to religious journals. The signs of Catholicism were (thus) external. Buckley says that these examples are ‘anthropological’, not applicable in equal measure: in other words, they illustrate the ‘thread of obsessiveness’ that connected these observances. In this the Catholic Church ‘came close to confusing the precisions of ritual with the prescriptions of morality’. The ‘signs’ of being a Catholic might have ‘presented as matters of conscientious conviction related to very sacred

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beliefs’. But they were not. ‘They were in fact matters of externally imposed discipline.’ What is more, they were the kinds of rules— crossing oneself, not attending Protestant weddings, not using artificial birth control—which one’s fellow parishioners could readily observe. People found their Catholicism was validated not in their inner spiritual life but through participation in the institutional activities of the Church, such as the sodalities, Communion breakfasts, group retreats, and Confession.49 As we have seen, Kelly had similar concerns. The laity were shaped in their behaviours and their thinking by this highly formalised and hierarchical model of Church participation in which clerics dominated. Even as a scholar working in a university—where academic freedom is basic—the Catholic poet and intellectual Vincent Buckley decided to have his book, Incarnation in the University, subjected to standard Church censorship so that it might enjoy a Catholic readership. Some of Kelly’s inspiration came from the new generation of university academics who belonged to the Catholic cause. Although still resolutely non-Catholic, the University of Melbourne now employed a handful of young Catholic intellectuals. In August 1955 Kelly attended a lecture on the Catholic novel given by Buckley. A new Catholic intelligentsia was emerging, centred around younger Catholics like Max Charlesworth and Buckley, and at The Grail for women. Buckley’s generation had more opportunity than Kelly’s. This coterie of Irish-Australian intellectuals had a confidence about themselves. In the words of one of his friends, Vincent Buckley ‘looked across the world with acres of self-regard’. The earlier generation of Catholic intellectuals, coming to maturity in the late 1930s with John F., had not been so self-confident. The postwar Catholic undergraduates preferred vocational degrees. Of the 27 boys in Jim Griffin’s matriculation year, he estimates that probably 21 went on to university. Griffin was one of the very few to enter Arts, however, because the Catholic schooling culture favoured Law, Science and Medicine. Griffin and Vincent Buckley (who worked together on the Melbourne University Magazine in 1952) were not typical of their generation of undergraduates, for a university education was still outside the purview of most young Catholics. Not only were there very

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few Catholic academics, Melbourne University could boast some prominent anti-Catholic bigots, like English professor Ian Maxwell.50 During the 1950s Catholic activists and their secular counterparts operated in ‘sets of concentric circles’, often not knowing much of each other’s activities. The two worlds came together from time to time, such as when the famous English Catholic Arnold Lunn engaged in a public debate with the local rationalist W. Glanville Cook, but generally the two groups occupied different parts of Melbourne’s public discourse.51 The Catholic avant-garde comprised some priests, lawyers, public servants and only a handful of academics. Their secular equivalents were more likely to be poets, academics and artists. The two groups operated in different spheres. Each group had its own heroes. For the Catholic liberals their pantheon included Yves Congar, the modest French Dominican priest whom Buckley got to know in 1955 in Cambridge, where Congar had been banished.52 Secular progressives were unlikely to have heard of Congar. In a similar vein, each group read their own journals and newspapers, often oblivious to those of the other group. For some progressive Catholics, the key Australian publication was the Catholic Worker, founded in 1936 by the new Catholic Action group. The leader was John Ryan. Second in charge was B. A. Santamaria, before he swung to the Right in 1942 and started the Movement. The Catholic Worker was run on collectivist lines, with no authors’ by-lines.53 Later in the 1950s the Catholic intelligentsia produced Prospect, which ran from 1958 to 1964, as its own equivalent of the secular literary magazines, Meanjin and Overland. Kelly’s contribution came a little later, with his membership on the advisory board of Dialogue, subtitled A Catholic Journal of Education, that began in 1966. Edited by University of Melbourne academic, Peter Gill, Dialogue continued into the mid-1970s to provide a forum for debating the big issues of the day in Catholic education.

Family, friends and Footscray Relations with family and friends did not improve greatly during this period. John F. developed the habit in 1944 of taking a weekly walk

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with his mother, to whom he remained much closer than his father. On 24 March 1949, four days after he had last seen her alive, Kelly reported to his Diary, much like Camus: ‘Mother died this morning’. In June 1958 he helped his father move to the nearby suburb of Malvern. Malvern belongs to the belt of inner-eastern suburbs of Melbourne that are renowned for their greenery and handsome houses. John F. reported in his Diary several walks he took through these localities, and how they stood in such striking contrast to the inner-western world of treeless Footscray that he inhabited. But he spent weekends and other spare time in Footscray. He was not one to sit around, idly talking and drinking. Walking became a major source of pleasure and inspiration. Footscray became the context for a regular promenade. In his full clericals he would walk out the front door of the presbytery, stride down the main street leading into Footscray, Barkly Street, even on the hottest of days—and Footscray can warm up in summer—and then head towards Ballarat Road. He would go as far as West Footscray, a somewhat genteel neighbourhood, and then perambulate up Geelong Road, walking south. From there he would return to St Monica’s through the southern end of downtown Footscray. It was a satisfyingly long walk, long enough to give this priest the space he needed to think

‘Reading Plato in the Park’, 1940s: John F. enjoyed the peaceful setting of Footscray Park for reading. [photo: State Library of Victoria; owned by Rose Stereographic]

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and reflect. John F. was a legendary pedestrian who enjoyed a good long walk. ‘I can remember seeing him on a blazingly hot day in Barkly Street,’ recalled Brian Leonard. ‘He would walk up Ballarat Road as far as West Footscray’.54 There was a full moon on 26 January 1945 that was ‘wasted on Footscray’, Kelly wrote in his Diary. On 21 March 1945 the smell from Angliss’s, the local meatworks, called for attention in the Diary. But he slowly became habituated to Footscray as a suburb. Footscray Park was the centre of his interest. It is recognised as the best example of an Edwardian park in Melbourne.55 On Easter Sunday 1944 he looked at it, lit up by electrical lights, from the heights of Ballarat Road. On 13 October 1945 he enjoyed reading Plato in the Park. On 4 October 1946 he wrote in his Diary that ‘the elms and poplars were just showing life, [the] blackbirds and English thrushes were enjoying themselves greatly’. The Maribyrnong River lay at the other side of St Monica’s. One ‘beautiful morning’ in 1944 he walked home and was captivated by the river: ‘Almost a haze on the Maribyrnong, a definitely autumnal touch’.56 Footscray had finally got under his skin.

European theology Down Under Kelly’s main scholarly work was in theology, in which he became one of Australia’s leading experts on the notion of the ‘Mystical Body’. In 1952 he published a remarkable synthesis of the liturgical year as understood by contemporary European theologians, entitled Through Christ Our Lord. He was invited around Australia to talk about this work. At that time theology was an extraordinarily rigid field of knowledge. In his lectures on this matter, John F. described traditional theology (and its accompanying liturgical practice) as itself historically and culturally bound. What had been historically created could be changed to suit modern conditions, he would argue. Where this would take him was soon to be revealed to all. ‘We made God out to be a bastard,’ Monsignor John F. Kelly used to say. Not publicly, of course, for he was a man of decorum. And,

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although he produced the new Christocentric catechism that eradicated the punitive tone of its forerunners, it is significant that he used ‘we’, not ‘they’; cherishing as well as superseding traditions, he took his share of responsibility for the past as well as the future, much as one has to do for the Fall.57

By now Kelly’s reading of the new theologians had deepened considerably. In 1944 he read Emile Mersch’s The Whole Christ; in 1949 he began to read Jean Daniélou and Eugène Masure. Nineteen fifty was the turning point. In that year he read Henri de Lubac (Catholicisme), Reginald Garrigou-LaGrange, Charles Journel, Karl Adam, Emmanuel Célestin Suhard, amongst others. Garrigou-LaGrange was writing from the 1920s on spiritual theology. Adam was another early foundational thinker for modern theology. Suhard, as Archbishop of Paris, had encouraged the worker-priest movement. The following year Kelly read Mersch, Dietrich von Hildebrand, and Romano Guardini. Guardini was a theologian with diverse interests, ranging from the spiritual life of Jesus to explanations of liturgical detail for both priests and lay people. In 1952 Kelly read much the same theological and religious authors. Kelly finally encountered Yves Congar in 1953, via Le Christ, Marie, L’Eglise. Now the circle was complete: here were the big names of mid-twentieth-century Catholic thinking. The Neo-scholastic approach imbibed by Kelly at Werribee was giving way to a new paradigm that would be expressed through Vatican II. Two streams flowed into the Council. One, associated with Congar, sought resourcement, that is, going back to the original sources to give the Church its due historical orientation. Congar wanted the Church to move on from a juridical and purely institutional view of itself to putting itself back in the ‘service of the Gospel’.58 Congar’s work owed a great deal to Karl Rahner (1904–84), the most influential Catholic theologian of the twentieth century. Tutored by Martin Heidegger at Freiburg in the mid-1930s, Rahner came to see that Roman scholasticism imposed its theology on people from outside—and made them incapable of conversing with people in the world. In Hearers of the Word (1941), Rahner showed how God was revealed to man at specific times and places, that is, historically.

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Jean Daniélou demonstrated how the rejection of modernism at the beginning of the century had hindered historical research into the Bible and prevented a better marriage between theology and spirituality. The other stream feeding Vatican II was connected to the work of Henri de Lubac. In Surnaturel he called for a return to simpler and more traditional forms of teaching in the Church. A Jesuit equivalent to Congar, de Lubac stressed the need for aggiornamento, the Italian term for ‘modernisation’. The Church needed a Council to take stock of where it had reached in historical terms. In 1954 Kelly added several new names to his growing reading list of contemporary theologians, including Yves de Montcheuil and Lucien Cerfaux. Based at Louvain, Cerfaux looked afresh at the Scriptures, to find more than merely the traditional ‘proof-texts’ with which Catholic scholars could do battle with their Protestant confreres. By now Kelly was reading fewer books by the populist Catholics, such as Belloc, whose later works did not seem to be saying much that was new. At Footscray Kelly read and re-read the Irish Cistercian Eugene Boylan’s Difficulties of Mental Prayer. (Boylan visited Melbourne in 1954.) He even tried the now-forgotten English writer on the spiritual life, Caryll Houselander. On matters liturgical Kelly sampled the work of Edmund Pascha—also forgotten—whose Liturgy of the Mass he turned to more than once. In 1947 he read Theology and Sanity, by the Australian-turned-English publisher, Frank Sheed, whose book, Are We Really Teaching Religion?, he read in 1954. He was also reading the new revisionist accounts of mediaeval Europe, such as the work of the Benedictine, Dom David Knowles, whose careful research overturned the earlier work of Gasquet. In 1956 Kelly read Rahner’s Marie et l’Eglise. This was his first recorded reading of the celebrated theologian. The following year, in addition to de Lubac, Guardini, and others, he read Bernard Leeming’s Principles of Sacramental Theology and Johannes Hofinger’s Teaching of Christian Doctrine. Hofinger visited Melbourne in January 1961 and Leeming in September 1961.59 Finally, a major shift in theological thinking centred around the Resurrection. In La resurrection de Jesus, by Francis Xavier Durrwell,

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a Redemptorist at Strasbourg, a book which Kelly read in 1953, the Resurrection becomes something more than merely proof of Christ’s divinity—it becomes an explanation of how we come to eternal life through mortal death. Kelly’s work in theology led directly to his invitation to undertake a study tour of Europe in order to prepare a new catechism suitable for Australia. This was an idea he had put to the bishops before, but now, with the announcement of the Vatican Council, its urgency was all the more apparent. On 13 March 1959 the question was put to him—would he produce a distinctively Australian catechism? The next day he rushed off to see John Cleary to get his views, and as a result of this conversation he laid down some conditions. This was quite out of keeping with John F.’s general disposition, and suggests that Cleary might have been a good influence on Kelly’s ability to negotiate with his episcopal masters. A week later, on 20 March, he confided to his Diary: ‘the bishops have accepted my conditions.’60 It was a signal moment in his life. On 17 April he had an interview with Mannix, and then he was off on a great overseas adventure. St Monica’s Footscray was in many ways an unusual place for the Australian Catechism to be imagined and then put into print, for Footscray in the 1940s and 1950s was in no way a strongly Catholic locality. Yet he was funded generously by the bishops to travel through Europe and America, in order to meet the Church’s leading theologians and to produce a wholly new Australian catechism.61

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The Feast of Pentecost Before the Ascension Christ repeated His promise; He told them to wait in Jerusalem: ‘there is a baptism with the Holy Spirit which you are to receive not many days from this’. (Acts I, 5.) And on Pentecost Sunday: ‘all at once a sound came from Heaven like that of a strong wind blowing . . . Then appeared to them what seemed to be tongues of fire, which parted and came to rest on each of them, and they were filled with the Holy Spirit.’ (Acts II, 2–4.) It is the Spirit which gives life to the whole Mystical Body; ‘You are one body with a single Spirit.’ (Ephesians IV, 4.) . . . As the Spirit was ‘to dwell continually’ with the Church ‘for ever’, He would always guide it in its teaching of Christian truth; He would ensure that what it taught would be Christ’s truth. John F. Kelly, Through Christ Our Lord, pp. 141, 142 A beautiful morning. Walked around the Aventine. S. Prisca, S. Sabina. High Mass with a few present. Church too obviously restored, especially near the apse. The Sassoferrato picture badly lit by bright electric candles at the bottom. The Comet of Paggio beautiful. The old wooden door surrounded by a group of German youths being lectured at. S. Alessio less interesting. The view from the Aventine Park and the walk around the streets gave me the feeling that I really was in Rome. Pentecost Sunday, 17 May [1959]

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8 A catechist’s Grand Tour Europe and America, 1959 On a mission Kelly’s 1959 pilgrimage to Europe and America was a milestone in his life. It was a carefully planned journey. He seems to have fashioned his itinerary around the concept of about a month in each place. From mid-May to mid-June he was in Italy, followed by a week in Spain and a fortnight in London. London became the hub for the remainder of the European segment of the trip. In July he began in France and finished in Belgium. August was entirely devoted to England and Scotland. September was allotted to Holland, Germany and Austria. October was mostly Ireland, with the last week in the United States. He stayed in the USA a month, returning to Melbourne on 18 November. In all he was abroad for almost exactly six months. A large part of the journey was sightseeing, taking in places he had described in his Catholic History Readers, but along the way he also visited the major catechetical centres and interviewed some of the leading theologians of the day. The first flight he took out of Australia was the ‘Kangaroo Route’ made famous by Qantas. It hopped from one city to the next—going 153

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towards Europe via Perth, Jakarta, Singapore, Karachi, Bombay, Cairo, Istanbul, and then Rome. This itinerary was a reminder of the old British Empire, taking Australians to the reassurance of the imperial capital, London. Economy Class was introduced by Qantas on its Kangaroo Route in 1953. It was in 1959 that Qantas began flying the Boeing 707, cutting travel times dramatically, but to judge from his Diary, John F. travelled to Europe on one of the old Lockheed Constellations, purchased by the airline from 1947 onwards. By the time he returned from the USA on what was called the Southern Cross route over the Pacific Ocean, the Boeing 707 was in service. Kelly left Melbourne on Wednesday, 13 May 1959. His Diary records his pleasure at seeing God’s wonder from on high—and it is striking how often he draws on Australian natural images to express his delight: Perth to Djakarta. Could not sleep; space cramped by baby’s basinet. Djakarta about 3 am. City dimly lit in the distance. Port not attractive. Djakarta to Singapore. Beautiful effect of early morning light on clouds and sea. Scene looked like water-colour of Australian country, clouds like gum-trees, sea green and apparently undulating like grass country with patches touched by reddish light looking like ploughed paddocks.1

John F. alighted at Rome, keen to experience the wonders of the Catholic capital. Having left Melbourne on a Wednesday, he arrived in Rome on Friday, 15 May and stayed there for just under a fortnight. On Thursday, 28 May, he took a train to Venice, where he remained until Tuesday, 2 June, when he went by train to Florence, taking side trips to Siena, to Lucca and Pisa, and then to Perugia and Assisi. From Assisi he made his way back to Rome, returning on Thursday, 11 June. This gave him the chance to re-visit some of his favourite churches. When John F. first visited Rome in 1959, he was almost 50 years of age. He had been suggesting for several years that someone, perhaps a young priest, should go overseas on behalf of the Australian Church to review the latest developments in catechetics. Finally in 1959 he found himself funded by the bishops to make this journey, travelling

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throughout Europe and the United States for over six months in the second half of the year. The bishops allocated him £1000 for this journey. Mid-way on the journey, while in London, he recalled how it had come about: For some time I had been talking of the importance of sending someone abroad in Catechetics. I talked [about] it at the Conference at Adelaide last year. I was sincere in my suggestion that it should be a young man, ordained a few years. Then came the suggestion, or request, from the bishops that I should do the Catechetical work for Australia. I think that I can honestly say that I did not want the work, that I accepted only because a refusal on my part would have put back the beginning of any work a year or more, probably more. My motive, then, was good, not selfish. I stated principles and the condition of the trip abroad. Sometimes during the trip I have wondered whether it will be worth the thousand pounds the bishops are giving for it. I have less and less confidence in myself, more and more realization of the enormity of the task.2

Air travel was relatively expensive in that period for Australians, but other priests, including Daniel Conquest, had already made similar journeys. Older Australians were less likely to use air travel. Mannix never took a plane in his life, not even to fly to Adelaide, and most of the older men chose to travel by ship. Kelly, however, enjoyed the adventure of air travel and also drove himself around Europe. His diaries reveal that he became very fatigued by this driving, especially on the right-hand side of the road: ‘After a month or two, the first glow of the holiday faded, the strain of driving in right hand countries made itself felt.’3

The significance of Rome Once in Rome, Kelly stayed for a few days in a private house at 12, via di San Saba, in the salubrious Aventine district, and then settled into the Villa Rosa nearby. This is a two-storey and very private house,

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a refuge for women travelling alone and Irish pilgrims, run by the Irish Dominican Sisters. Each day he set off in a new direction, excited by all he saw. His Diary makes scant mention of the pagan sites in Rome, such as the Forum Romanum or the Circus Maximus. Instead it is mostly a catalogue of churches—how he viewed them aesthetically, and how they were being used in a practical sense by his fellow priests in Rome. He walked or took public transport (and the occasional taxi) to all parts of Rome, clearly following his Baedeker’s guidebook and pursuing a private agenda. After a few days in northern Italy, Kelly returned to Rome and visited or re-visited more churches, around 70 churches in all. Those who travelled with John F. on his journeys to Europe and North America were always astonished by his uncanny ability to find his way around cities from one landmark to the next, using the geographical knowledge he had acquired from memorising guidebooks and drawing on his compendious history of the Church. Kelly truly had a knack for geography. One travelling companion remembered a memorable occasion during the 1959 journey: ‘In Cambridge one day we lunched at the Blue Boar, which he found without hesitation. He said “It’s three blocks down”, even though he had never been there before in his life.’ Kelly could read maps and memorise them in advance of each day’s travel. ‘One memorable afternoon we walked through Edinburgh—he knew every stone.’ ‘But’, added Joe O’Connell, ‘he tried very hard not to be the smart-arse’, with due modesty about his navigational talents.4 The relationship between the Eternal City and Australian Catholics has always been complex and multi-layered. For John F. the journey to Rome would have resonated with the city’s deep historical connections. After Rome had become the principal seat of Christianity, it became the site for Christian constructions devised for the benefit of pilgrims visiting the city. Indeed, pilgrims became its main business. Rome had become a poor city after the end of the Roman Empire and had shrunk in significance.5 The importance of the Renaissance for Rome lay in this sacralisation of the city.6 In practical terms, the urban shape of Rome was modified for the purpose of making it easier for pilgrims to move around. The sites of interest were located

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within the small urban area that constituted mediaeval Rome and also outside its walls. To make one’s way speedily from one site to the next required the authorities to construct new roads or widen and straighten the laneways that already existed. The countryside on the outskirts of Rome was also popular among the pilgrims for recreational horseriding. It was for the purposes of a Rome pilgrimage, too, that some of the first guidebooks for travellers were developed. One of these guidebooks, Ye Solace of Pilgrimes, appeared in about 1450, written by John Capgrave, an Augustinian Friar of King’s Lynn.7 This is the beginning of the process of reconstructing Rome as a Christian city. The concept of the Stations of the Cross is at least as old as Capgrave’s guidebook. The number of Stations varied according to different traditions, but sought to re-create the final journey through Jerusalem of Christ bearing on his back the cross on which he was to be crucified. The so-called Stations are listed in Capgrave’s guidebook in the order of the liturgical year. Certain sites in Rome took theological meanings as places pilgrims needed to visit in order to symbolically endure what Christ had experienced in his final torture at the hands of the authorities in Jerusalem.8 The guidebooks were therefore partly an historical guide to Rome and its wonderful sites; they were also a theological vade mecum to assist travellers in paying due deference to Christ’s Via Sacra. Parts of the pagan past appeared in these guidebooks, but the ‘marvels’ were as likely to be Christian, and often were superimposed on the pagan sites.9 Sometimes this was declared in the name of the Christian building, such as at Santa Maria sopra Minerva (literally, ‘the church of the Saintly Mary placed directly above the older temple dedicated to the pre-Christian goddess Minerva’) and at other times by the location of a Christian ritual. The House of Crescenzi San Giorgio, for instance, was known colloquially as ‘Caso di Pilato’, the house of Pontius Pilate, because it was a popular site for the performance of Passion Plays. Passion Plays were a theatrical re-enactment of Christ’s last hours, more popular in central Europe than in Rome (where the Papal government’s suspicion of popular piety was a disincentive). With this rich honeycomb of churches that could be visited in Rome, Kelly’s choices clarify his thinking for us. According to his Diary, he

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visited several dozen churches, in the order listed in Table 8.1 (some he visited several times). If we plot these churches on a map of Rome, some patterns do emerge and enable us to locate John F. in the larger story of pilgrims. Why he chose certain churches, and how he perceived them, is part of this larger story. One of his choices has a distinctively Australian twist. The Tre Fontane site was blessed with eucalypts as a result of communication with Melbourne’s Archbishop Goold in the 1870s.10 John F.’s appreciation was not essentially architectural, for some of the city’s gems (such as San Ivo) are not on his list11 Nor was he restricted to the big, official churches to which tourists are drawn. The interest he showed in San Clemente is a valuable clue, for this is a church redolent in layers of history. Thus the supposition in brief is that John F. was absorbed by the story of his Church—not necessarily the prominent Catholics, but also the everyday Christians whose lives are inscribed in the churches of Rome more than any other city.12 Kelly was a devotee of Church history. He wanted to feel what it was like to belong to this institution at various points of its development. The early ‘titular’ churches such as San Martino ai Monti grew out of the private homes of imperial Roman families who had converted to the new faith. As a symbolic recognition of their ancient role as the parish priests and deacons of Rome, cardinals have traditionally been assigned one or other of these churches as their particular ‘title’ (home base). It was to the lesser-known San Clemente that Kelly was drawn again and again, partly because he had a friend, the Ballarat priest Vincent Ryan, living nearby. But also, quite separate phases in the evolution of Christianity can be read in the building, as the excavations beneath the latest church reveal what went before. Three majestic buildings in Rome signify the survival of Christianity through the fifth to the eleventh centuries, according to Frank Delaney, in his imaginary pilgrim’s tour of AD 687 replicated in 1987. The first of these enduring buildings is the Pantheon, whose opened dome measured the passing years. ‘The disc of golden sunlight on the floor, beamed down from the oculus, travels across the paving of the interior as the sun traverses the skies.’ Then there is the basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore: ‘Many claim that this church, rather than San Giovanni in Laterano, should be Rome’s cathedral.’ The third

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Christian Roman edifice to survive the Dark Ages is Santa Maria in Trastevere, with its ‘more solemn and reclusive air’.13 8.1: Kelly’s 1959 Rome itinerary and the historical significance of selected churches 1 2 3 4

San Clemente (six visits) St Peter’s (eight visits) St Paul’s (San Paolo fuori le Mura) Ss Vicenzo & Anastasio (Tre Fontane)

5 6

Santa Prisca Santa Sabina

7 8 9

San Alessio San Sisto Vecchio San Giovanni in Laterano (3 visits)

10 11

Ss Quattro Coronati Santa Maria Maggiore

12 13

Santa Prassede San Pietro in Vincoli

14

San Martino ai Monti

15 16 17 18 19 20

Santa Maria in Cosmedin Temple of Vesta & Fortuna Virilis House of Crescenzi (San Giorgio) Santa Maria in Traspontina Santa Maria in Aracoeli San Marco

Layers of 3 buildings (Hager 45)

Connections with colonial Australia. (Barclay-Lloyd 2003) C5th fortress (Hager 78).The influential travel writer Georgina Masson thought that S. Sabina was ‘the finest of Rome’s ancient churches’. (Masson 1972: 415)

The Scala Santa, or holy stairway, at S. Giovanni in Laterano, has ‘traditionally been identified with the stairs ascended by Christ in Pontius Pilate’s palace in Jerusalem and brought to Rome by St Helena’. (Masson 1972: 312). The shape of S M Maggiore is reflected in the design of the piazza that makes up its forecourt. Early martyrdoms. (Hager 43) S Pietro in Vincoli has been the traditional haunt of souvenir sellers, an unusual example of the secular and religious worlds colliding. It is also the site of the Moses statue that entranced Freud. S Martino ai Monti is one of the early titular churches, dating back to Roman times and the conversion of certain prominent families whose devotion to the new religion is remembered. In this case it was the Equizio family. Greek artisans in Rome. (Hager 94) Passion Plays

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21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47

Santa Maria di Geriti Gesù S Andrea della Valle Santa Maria sopra Minerva Pantheon San Luigi dei Francesi Santa Susanna Santa Maria della Vittoria San Bernardo (2 visits) San Carlino Sant’Andrea in Quirinale San Carlo al Corso San Giacomo in Anguilla Gesù e Maria Santa Maria in Montesanti Santa Maria del Popolo Santa Maria dei Miracoli San Ignazio San Giovanni Bosco Church San Francesco a Ripa Santa Maria in Vallicella Sant’Agnese Santa Maria della Pace (2 visits) Santa Maria d’Assunta San Gregorio Magno Ss Giovanni e Paolo Santa Maria in Trastevere

48 49 50 51

San Crisogono Santa Trinità Sant’Agata Santa Costanza

52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

Sant’Anselmo San Carlo ai Catinari Santa Maria dell’Anima San Pietro in Montorio Ss Apostoli San Silvestro Sant’ Andrea delle Fratte San Lorenzo fuori le Mura Colisseum

SEASONS OF

Pagan temple site. C7th conversion. (Hager 85) Famous Caravaggio paintings. Bernini’s Ecstasy of St Teresa.

Postwar suburbs of Rome.

C4th virgin martyr. (Hager 71)

Martyred C4th brothers. (Hager 52) Oldest of the 25 tituli in Rome, recalling persecutions. (Hager 34) Very early.

Daughter of Constantine, married to Hannibalianus.

Sources: Diary, 1959; Hager 2001; Barclay-Lloyd 2003; Masson 1972.

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Waiting in Rome to greet John F. was Joe O’Connell, the former parishioner of St Mary’s Thornbury who, in the intervening years, had trained for the priesthood, being ordained in 1957. O’Connell arrived in Rome in October 1958 on the night that Pius XII died.14 Kelly had written to him to explain he was coming across to Europe. One lunchtime in Rome, O’Connell and Kelly dined al fresco in Trastevere with Reverend Michael Costigan. John F. tapped his fingers on the table nervously. His brain was in high gear. ‘What exactly are you doing here?’ Costigan asked him. O’Connell leaned forward to listen more carefully. ‘In ten minutes I got a brilliant summary’, he recalled in a 2002 interview.15 In Kelly’s Diary account of the same episode, he expressed surprise that Costigan recognised him in a chance encounter, and they agreed to the lunch the next day, Sunday 14 June, with O’Connell. Later in life they became firm friends. The anecdote is telling about John F.’s shyness, for he could not have imagined that Costigan would have remembered him.

Broadening the mind Along the journey, John F., like most travellers, was taken outside his usual preoccupations and had experiences that gave him a broader sense of life. In Catholic Italy, to begin with, he was at times irritated or puzzled by the aspects of life that affronted his Australian Catholic sensibilities: Travel in Italian trams, buses, underground very interesting. Being a pedestrian is exciting; being even a passenger in a taxi is perilous . . . At Tre Fontane saw the place of the alleged apparitions. Franciscan conventional parabolic shrine, ex voto’s, vociferous women selling repository stuff. Gum trees, and the eucalyptus liqueur on sale at the Trappist monastery.16

John F. noted in his Diary ‘the continual honking of homicidal drivers’, ‘loud-mouth guides’, poorly lit interiors, a snap public transport strike, bookshops that would not wrap books, nuns from a peasant background

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who pushed and shoved in the St Peter’s crowd, and staff at the Post Office who ‘in manner and speed would be worthy of a place like Bonnie Doon’.17 Other incidents served to remind him of Italy’s charm: the Borghese Gardens after a heavy downpour viewed from the upper windows of the Villa Borghese,18 the courteous manner of church officials, or the kindness of a motorcyclist who gave him a lift on his pillion from Certosa back to Florence: Long wait on hot road for bus back to Florence. Man on a motorbike offered me a lift which I gratefully accepted. To watch his skilful and hazardous steering was exhilarating.19

Sometimes the two aspects of Italian life—the irritating and the ennobling—came together in one moment. On his first Monday in Rome he travelled out to the College of St Peter to visit the Australian priests based there: Pleasant afternoon. Travelling to and back delightful; the quality of Roman light, the trees, the buildings that seem right except for some modern ones, the goodness of taste that makes one wonder at the appalling ecclesiastical junk and tawdry decoration that Italians seem to delight in.20

Rome made a significant impression on John F., though he also appreciated the quality of the church buildings in Venice and its comparative serenity: It is dangerous to generalise on two days. But the Venetian churches I have seen seemed much more cleverly made than the Roman. Some of course, I did not see. Perhaps the vast number of churches in Rome makes the difference.21

His views of the various nationalities he met along the way were typical of his generation of Australian Catholics. Americans he found often brash and altogether too literal. One American woman in London

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thought the railway station was called ‘King’s X’.22 But another American, a Mahoney from Kansas studying Scripture in Germany, was ‘a charming and enthusiastic young man, as only Americans can be’.23 Some of his most enjoyable encounters were with Irish people, both travelling in Europe and in Ireland itself. In Dublin, for example, he had a most enjoyable evening’ with two ‘very friendly’ teachers at Maynooth.24 It is perhaps not surprising, given his temperament and the intensity of the itinerary, that John F. finally suffered a nervous epsiode. It occurred on the evening of Friday, September 25, two-thirds of the way through his trip, while he was in Vienna. The Diary notes become sparser from this point, regrettably, but he was reaching his emotional and intellectual limits at last. It was, after all, an ambitious project: to distil what he could of contemporary European and American thinking about the essence of Catholicism and to translate it into a form suitable for Australians. O’Connell journeyed through France, Belgium, England and Scotland with Kelly. From Scotland, John F. went alone to Ireland, Germany and the United States. Until O’Connell left Rome in mid-1961, Kelly wrote frequently to him about the rest of the trip and about the writing of the Australian Catechism. The replies of two of the Australian bishops in particular did not always impress him, remembered O’Connell: ‘What crap!’ he sometimes scribbled in the margins of episcopal wisdom when their texts came back.

Meeting the scholars Kelly was thoroughly up to date on matters theological. O’Connell remembers his passion for the ideas of de Lubac and Congar, the famous French scholars, but also Daniélou, Chenu, and many others. Travelling with Kelly he got to meet some of Europe’s leading catechetical experts. In Paris he spent two mornings at the Institut Catholique. But John F. was not wholly abstract in his theology. He would inveigh against the excessive devotionalism of the French Catholics, for instance, but would spend hours in the famous shrines and pilgrim-

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age centres, at Lourdes, and elsewhere. So together with this great theological brain was a profoundly devotional soul which responded to the deeper aspects of the Catholic imagination. He might have retreated to bluster rather than admit this, but it was part of who he was. Where he chose to travel in this significant journey of 1959 was proof of this complexity. At Lisieux he encountered a friendly sacristan ‘who thought Australians deserved special treatment’. Although Thérèse’s tomb was a ‘ghastly piece of work’, the occasion was fulfilling.25 O’Connell recalled the excitement of the journey: ‘In France and Belgium we saw 20 cathedrals.’ John F.’s brain was turning over the big liturgical questions of the day as they motored around Europe. ‘What do you think about concelebration?’ was a question he fired off to O’Connell one day. At Lumen Vitae, the famous theological school in Brussels which was enjoying its heyday around this time—where Kelly’s protégé Crudden had been a student—the Belgian Jesuit in charge took O’Connell aside and confided to him, ‘We’ve learnt so much from him’. Kelly’s contacts there were Reverend A. Godin and Reverend P. Delcove.26 He described Delcove as bearded and with ‘long nails’, but ‘helpful’. He worked in the library over several days and enjoyed his conversations with the priests working there.27 Apart from Lumen Vitae in Brussels, Kelly also visited the modest Dutch town of Nijmegen, the home of a Catholic University with its own Catechetical Centre. Here he ‘met two Jesuits of the staff, one with some English, the other, born in Indonesia, very good in English’.28 In Cologne the next day he met Monsignor Funke.29 At Klingstarm in Germany he met Dr Schreibringer, with whom he enjoyed several days in mid-September. The theologian was younger than John F. had expected and they got on extremely well. He introduced him to several colleagues in the same town.30 Then at Innsbruck he got to meet the famous Jungmann, whom he found to be ‘quiet’ and ‘courteous’.31 Kelly next returned to London and flew over to Ireland. The highlight of his Irish experience was his visit to Maynooth. Here his strategy of visiting leading centres to ascertain who might be available paid dividends, for he was royally entertained. In late October he flew from Dublin to New York. When he got to the

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Diocesan Superintendent’s Office there was ‘no one home’.32 He flew down to Washington. In the United States his highlight was at Georgetown University with Gerard Sloyan. As in any journey of this nature, there were hits and misses. Some places he visited he found shut; elsewhere he encountered people who went out of their way to accommodate this foreigner in his clericals, earnest and attentive, conversant in some languages but most comfortable in English.33 He flew back to Australia via California, and was even persuaded to go to Disneyland. ‘Interesting enough, but not in my line’ was his curt description.34 Kelly returned to Melbourne in mid-November, to his father’s house at 23 Cummins Grove, Malvern, and was pleased to be back. He attended Mass in the familiar surrounds of St Joseph’s Malvern on 19 November. He had drafted parts of the Australian Catechism while abroad, but the main task of writing lay ahead of him. The directorship of the Catholic Education Office would also throw up new challenges.

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The Feast of Corpus Christi The Blessed Eucharist may be considered in three ways; as a sacrifice, as a sacrament, as the abiding Presence of Christ, our Lord, under the appearances of bread and wine. The Eucharist is primarily a sacrifice . . . Host means Victim. All Christian tradition also has attributed to Communion a power of allaying concupiscence, that unruliness of bodily tendencies resulting from original sin. The feast of Corpus Christi . . . should mean to us the fullness of the revealed truth of the Eucharist and the fullness of the Catholic devotion to the Eucharist, Christ offered as Victim, Christ the Food of the supernatural life, Christ abiding with us, all under the sacramental species, or appearances. John F. Kelly, Through Christ Our Lord, pp. 157, 159, 161

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9 Directing Catholic education Footscray, 1959–67

Singing for his supper John F. wasted little time upon his return from overseas in communicating the results of the trip to his superiors. During the morning of Friday, 27 November, he called in at Raheen. ‘Archbishop looking amazingly well’, he noted in his Diary. On 10 December he also gave Archbishop Simonds a report of his trip. On 15 January he visited Mannix again: ‘To Raheen to see Archbishop who thinks very strongly that my first work should be with teachers’. On 23 January, a Saturday, he put aside some time at Footscray to collect his thoughts on how to report the details of his tour to his patrons, the bishops. Kelly was no doubt mindful that they had invested £1000 in him to make this theological and catechetical pilgrimage. That day he also ‘came across some old snaps’, but he declined the temptation to go through them, perhaps because they dredged up memories of his past that he did not want to face then and there.1 Three days later he flew to Sydney to give his report. He was not happy with his performance: 167

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To Manly for bishops’ meeting, where I spoke, not as satisfactorily as I had hoped.2

On 9 February Kelly settled down to the task of writing the Catechism: ‘Began preparing something for work, an outline of main points’.3 And then, on 15 February: ‘A little work on Catechetics.’ Each day for a week he managed a little. But this was a false start, it seems, for March and the opening of the 1960 school year slipped past without Kelly returning to the task. Finally, on Sunday, 3 April 1960, he wrote in his Diary: Began work on Catechism at last D.G. [Deo Gratias: ‘thanks be to God’] at least to writing a draft of first three sections.

Two days later, he wrote Work. Rough, very rough draft of three sections.

‘Two sections’ followed the next day. And so on. He worked most days on the book, averaging three sections a day. In the final published version the ‘sections’ became ‘Chapters’—105 in Book One and 127 in Book Two. So there were about 70 working days required for the preliminary draft, or (assuming Kelly kept up an average of five working days per week), approximately fourteen weeks of continuous writing. But the revisions would take the project well into 1961 and 1962. The project clearly meant a great deal to Kelly—no other writing task in his career attracted as much attention in his Diary. He even recorded days when he could not get to the project, such as 7 April 1960: Egan Requiem. First confessions, Kingsville. No work on Catechism.

On 13 April, two days before the Good Friday of 1960, he was asked to have the Catechism finished by the time of the next meeting of the bishops. Over the Easter break and through the remainder of April he kept up good progress. May was another good month. On 23 May

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he gave a talk on Catechetics to the seminarians at the new Corpus Christi College which had been built in the new outer-eastern suburb of Glen Waverley for the pursuit of theological studies. He was spending less time in the Office, presumably with the support of his colleagues, and not undertaking school inspections. As winter set in, John F. maintained this steady pace with the Catechism, and finally, on 6 July, wrote in his Diary: ‘Finished first draft of first draft [book?]’ After slow weeks in July and August, he had recovered enough emotional strength by 23 August to begin to re-write it. This revision came easily, all through September 1960, and was finished on Grand Final Day, 24 September. Some years he recorded the Premiership team in his Diary; this year he was too engrossed in his work to bother. During October he had the handwritten script typed, checked and revised.4 He resumed some of the Office duties from which he had been excused, increased the number of books he was reading, and spent more time socialising with family and friends. On Sunday, 13 November 1960 he completed the task of correcting the script and visited his father at Malvern.5 A month later he sent out the typeset version as a draft for people to read. It was Kelly’s fiftieth birthday. As the year turned, the famous theologian Johannes Hofinger visited Melbourne from Manila. Kelly was his host and took Hofinger around to meet people, including Archbishop Mannix on 7 January.6 Later that month Kelly flew to Adelaide to speak to a conference of female religious about Catechetics and spent some time there with James Gleeson, the anti-Santamaria bishop.7 On 7 March 1961 he started work revising what he called in his Diary the ‘junior Catechism’. This comment implies that the second volume was typeset first. The junior version required shortening, during March 1961, and was written in the first person, as befitted the readership at which it was aimed. The script was ‘sent out’ on 19 May, presumably for typing. During June he lost energy again, saying that he was ‘Almost in despair about work on Catechism’, but on Tuesday 6 June, after a day out at work, ‘this evening did two sections in a sort of way, thank God’.8 Kelly continued resolutely during the winter months, much as he had during 1960, and on 20 July, when in Sydney, reported that he had

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a ‘Meeting on Catechism’, which was ‘Successful’. This was probably his scheduled meeting with the bishops. He felt a sense of relief that at last the end was in sight. Possibly as a consequence of this, he experienced a ‘bad turn’ on 29 August. He did not elaborate in his Diary the details of this episode, but for his generation ‘having a bad turn’ usually involved some kind of physical collapse brought on by stress or hard work. By September 1961 Kelly was well advanced with the revision— and noted in his Diary the Hawthorn premiership, their first—and discussions had commenced to determine who would publish the Catechism. Archbishop James Gleeson was at the meeting in Melbourne where this decision was made, and together they flew to Sydney to visit the publishers, E. J. Dwyer. An interesting point of their negotiation was the stipulation, printed in the front matter, that Book One was to be sold for no more than £0-5-9 (58 cents) and Book Two for no more than £0-7-6 (75 cents), in order to keep them affordable.9 Kelly was still revising both volumes at this point. He reported to his Diary that he was struggling in November, and spent part of 9 November drafting some prayers for the appendices. At the end of the month the script was once more handed to the typists. Work on the illustrations began in January 1962. On 16 March John F. was correcting the final proofs of Book One. In April he started working on a teacher’s handbook to accompany the Catechism. In May he enlisted the help of colleagues at O’Neill College—a girls’ school in Elsternwick that later housed the National Pastoral Institute—to work through Book Two.10 On 18 May he declared the book ‘finished’. A month later, 19 June, he completed the first hand-written draft of the Teachers’ Book. Both manuscripts were sent out to the bishops on the Education Committee on 26 June. On 25 July he attended the meeting of the Committee in Sydney at which it was all ‘passed’. A companion volume for teachers for Book Two was commenced on 20 November 1962. In early December he corrected the galleys for Book Two. In the end there were two books, one in green for younger children, published by E. J. Dwyer in Sydney in September 1962, and a second, Book Two, for older children, in September 1963, with a red cover.

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The emotional cost for John F. Kelly Rushing back to his administrative work at the Office after his overseas trips in 1959 had been a mistake. By Monday, 14 December, Kelly was confiding in his Diary that the anxiety attacks were returning: Bad night, consequent anxiety and fears. No resilience since return. A complete rest would have been wise, but did not seem practical.

The next day, his birthday, he wrote simply: 49—and lost.

By Tuesday week he was feeling better, with ‘A quiet day at Footscray. Read “Heart of Midlothian”’.11 Books continued to be his emotional salvation, together with the Botanic Gardens, where he spent some of 28 December 1959, admiring ‘Reflections on the lake’. References to Footscray Park by now have disappeared from his Diary—it was no longer a place of particular beauty after much of the parkland was sacrificed in the widening of Ballarat Road around this time. On 17 May 1960 Kelly attended a ‘Corpus Christi dinner’, probably a reunion of his classmates, at Glen Waverley, the site of the new seminary. It was the custom to hold an annual dinner near the feast of Corpus Christi. Significantly, given his lack of connection with his fellow seminarians, he did not record in his Diary the names of any of his dinner companions. Kelly’s Silver Jubilee of priesthood arrived in July 1960. This should have been a moment for celebration—jubilation even—but John F. was not satisfied with what he had achieved to that point: ‘Approaching silver jubilee with shame. So little of a priest, so little done.’12 He chose Kingsville as the place to mark the milestone, owing to his close friendship with Brian Leonard. Leonard told fellow priests many years later that he offered to host the 25th jubilee because nothing was organized for John F. at Footscray.13 Kelly was so depressed during the remainder of July and into August that his pace with the Catechism had slackened off. But once the first draft was completed, and he had had the

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opportunity of a good holiday at Sorrento in February 1961, he returned to Footscray with a ‘revival of spirit’.14 Kelly’s ups and downs coincided with the progress he was making with the Catechism. It had become an emotionally absorbing project. On Friday 19 January 1962, his father suffered a stroke and died two days later. The funeral was held on 24 January and straight afterwards Kelly was to go to Sydney for a meeting of the Education Committee of the bishops. He missed the meeting, but his Catechism was approved in his absence. So there was a strange coincidence of the loss of a father to whom he was not close—with whom he struggled to be a good son— and the culmination of his most significant publication. No reflections about his father appear in his Diary, merely a note on 1 March that he sent out acknowledgements of the condolences that had come in to him. Others in his extended family died around this time, including an uncle Tim Regan in Wangaratta, on 17 August 1962. His sister Mary stayed in the Malvern house until 18 May 1963, when she moved, back to East St Kilda. Kelly kept up his visits to ‘Aunt Ellen’, his mother’s sister, as he described her in his Diary.15 From September to November 1966 Ellen was obviously becoming quite frail, as he visited her almost every day, and then on 16 November she was moved to the nursing home of the Little Sisters of the Poor at Northcote. He had a circle of friends, Catholic families like the Begleys, the Baldwins, the Darmodys, and the O’Donnells. His first recorded visit to the home of Pat and Tom O’Donnell took place on Sunday, 2 May 1965. It was the beginning of a very long friendship. That summer he began to call by at their place more often. By September 1967 they were inviting him to join them at Point Lonsdale, where they took holidays.

Theological and literary homework Kelly’s choice of reading matter for the first few months of 1960 was partly inspired by some of the people he had met on the journey. On 3 January he read Sloyan’s Shaping the Christian Message. His general theological reading followed much the same course. In July 1960 he

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attempted de Lubac’s The Discovery of God, but admitted to himself that he found it ‘too hard’.16 He settled for some less demanding works during 1961, such as George H. Tavard’s new book, Two Centuries of Ecumenism,17 and The Church in Crisis, an account of the various Councils of the Church up to 1870 by Philip Hughes.18 That year Hofinger’s Katechetik heute appeared in its English form as Teaching All Nations. Kelly finished reading it on 28 October. He was back to reading 100 books a year (Hofinger was no. 83 for 1961). He continued to read Congar, including Divided Christendom and After Nine Hundred Years in 1960, and Le Mystère du Temple in 1961. He also read more of Rahner, Daniélou, Leeming, Cerfaux, Guardini and Louis Bouyer. Works like Bouyer’s The Paschal Mystery (1945) were inspired by the hope that he could show people how they could participate more actively in the liturgical life of the Church, to understand the meanings inherent in the various rites. Most new books Kelly read the moment they were published.19 In 1962 he read Josef Jungmann’s The Meaning of Sunday and The Mass of the Roman Rite. During the years of the Council, he began to read the works of the periti, the experts advising Vatican II, such as Edward Schillebeeckx, Marcel Lefebvre, Hans Küng, Rahner, Congar, Jungmann and Cerfaux. In 1965 Kelly read The New Creation, by Herbert McCabe, a Dominican who had become a trenchant critic of the Church. In 1966 he read Teilhard de Chardin for the first time, beginning with Le Milieu Divin (1960), and The Phenomenon of Man (1959) the following year. At the head of each year’s summary of reading, however, was the redoubtable Newman. Around the time in 1964 that the University of Melbourne invited the Office to join in discussions about the teaching of Biblical Studies, Kelly read works such as John Coulson’s Theology and the University: An Ecumenical Investigation (Baltimore, 1964) and Richard Butler’s God on the Secular Campus (New York, 1963). The 1960s were to prove the highlight of John F.’s career, a period of enormous change and challenge for him personally. We can see its impact in his choice of reading material. In this period of his life he turned to Henry James. He had come to James relatively late in his

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reading career, around the age of 40. This may reflect the comparative difficulty of this novelist, whose novels and short stories are notorious for the degree of concentration required to enjoy them. John F. first read James classics like The Portrait of a Lady and Washington Square around 1950, but most of his experience of Henry James took place in the late 1950s and early 1960s, then in the early years at Deepdene, and then again in retirement (Table 9.1). On 24 November 1961 Kelly decided he would re-read all the Henry James novels, but this time in the order they were published, to acquire a sense of the writer’s developing sensibility. James’ novels famously take as their subject matter the differences and similarities between Americans and Europeans in the second half of the nineteenth century. Now that he had seen Europe and America at first hand, the contexts for the novels were more evident. James’ stories also reveal how incompletely we understand our relations with other people. There were periods of John F.’s life (the early 1960s and early 1970s) when he was reflecting more profoundly on his own personal relationships. Another dominant theme of James’ novels—including those to which John F. returned again and again—is that of personal loss, the sense of regret that comes with compromising one’s own potential.20 As Kelly’s Diary reveals, again and again, he was burdened with the anxiety that he had not accomplished enough as a priest. 9.1: John F.’s reading of Henry James (1843–1916) Roderick Hudson [1875] [The] Portrait of a Lady [1881] Turn of the Screw [1898] What Maisie Knew [1897] [The] Aspern Papers [1888] Washington Square [1881] The Ambassadors [1903] The Other House [1896] The Tragic Muse [1890] The Lesson of the Master [1892] The Awkward Age [1899] The Bostonians [1886] [The] Spoils of Poynton [1897] The Golden Bowl [1904] The Wings of the Dove [1902]

1948, 1961 1949, 1962, 1978 1949 1949, 1970, 1984 1949 1950, 1962, 1982 1950, 1970, 1985 1950 1950, 1980 1951 1952, 1973, 1979 1954, 1967, 1977, 1988 1956, 1972, 1976, 1987 1959, 1976, 1989 1959, 1974, 1986

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Directing Catholic education Ten Short Stories In the Cage [1898] Selected Stories The Reverberator [1888] The Sacred Fount [1901] Watch and Ward [1878] The American [1877] The Europeans [: A Sketch, 1878] The Marriages [1892] [The] Princess Casamassima [1886] [Complete] Tales (12 vols, 1962–1964]

175

1959 1960 1960 1960, 1982 1960 1960, 1961 1960, 1962 1960, 1962, 1981 1961 1969, 1988 1 1963 2 1963 3 1963 4 1963 5 1963, 1985 6 1963, 1983 7 1964, 1987 8 1965, 1984 9 1967, 1983 10 1967 11 1965, 1986 12 1979

Note: The full titles and year of initial publication are given in square brackets; the subsequent years cited are those in which John F. read or re-read the novel in question.

Source: Books Read.

The way they do things ‘in town’ Slowly the balance between complete autonomy in the individual Catholic schools of Melbourne and the centralising interest of the Catholic Education Office began to shift subtly, in the direction of the Office. In the 1960s, as Director, John F. began to be consulted more often about what schools could and should do in response to the continuing pressures they faced. In the early 1960s he convened meetings to promote the idea of regional colleges to meet the growing Catholic population in developing areas.21 The Melbourne style of inspecting schools, made popular by John F. and others, was taken into Gippsland (the Sale diocese) in this period.22 In 1958 the proponents of a new school at Braybrook, in Melbourne’s West, had bristled at what they took to be undue

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interference from the Office. But within a few years they were seeing the sense of taking advice from Kelly and his colleagues. The Braybrook priests had resolved that there was a case to build a post-primary school for Catholic boys in the area. They made the case to the central authorities that such a school was financially viable and they initiated a search to find a teaching Order to run such a college. Failing to identify such an Order locally, they turned to the Brothers of the Sacred Heart, who came from North America to Australia in 1964 and opened the school in 1965. The school proved successful; co-education was introduced in 1972 and by 1975 a senior campus was mooted.23 Kelly was invited out to speak at schools, particularly after the publication of the Catechism in 1962–1963. Around 1969 John F. suggested to the Sisters of Charity, whose congregation had run Catholic Ladies College in East Melbourne since 1902, that they relocate the school out to Eltham, a fresh new suburb on Melbourne’s northern edge. They did so, with great success.24 The expression ‘in town’ became part of the argot of Catholic teachers and principals as shorthand for the attitudes and procedures of the Office. The expression ‘in town’ stuck long after the Office had left downtown Melbourne and moved to Brunswick Street, Fitzroy. Connections were made with Catholic Education Offices and their Directors in other states. Kelly had known (and liked) the Brisbane Director, Father Bernard O’Shea, since 1944, the year after O’Shea became an Inspector. O’Shea directed the Brisbane Office from 1948 to 1983.25 Kelly was also very close to Reverend Jim Bourke in Perth. Some international connections were made, too, such as a visiting school inspector from Nigeria.26 Connections between the Office and the University of Melbourne had grown. In 1964 the University was interested in developing Biblical Studies, and the Office was invited to participate in discussions.27 Cardinal Knox was strongly supportive of this initiative. Kelly sometimes visited Monash University, Victoria’s second university, and on 8 March 1967 he was at the official opening of La Trobe University, the third in the state. The staff of the Catholic Education Office remained few in number. The Office during that period was a very small operation, viewed still as an annex to the nearby Cathedral. It was located at

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18 Brunswick Street, Fitzroy, in the Golden Fleece building alongside Cathedral Hall. It comprised John F., Gerry Briglia, Frank Martin and a few other priests, including Bill McCarthy and Jack Keaney. The active politicking on behalf of Catholic education was undertaken by Frank Martin. Down on Gertrude Street were Italian greengrocers, so John F. would send Gerry Briglia out to buy lunches of meats and cheeses. His favourite joke was to order ‘Santamaria sardines [a current brand]—in oil, of course!’ During 1963 Charles O’Driscoll was fading fast. He continued to come into the Office each day—on 22 November John F. found him asleep at his desk—and he passed away a few days before Christmas. Most of Kelly’s parish work took place at Kingsville, where he heard Confessions. In 1962 he offered some Latin classes at St Monica’s. He continued to conduct the pre-Cana weekends, now further afield in new locations, including ones at Braybrook on 21 May and 4 June 1967. Kelly was appointed to the Marriage Tribunal in 1962 and this took up more of his time from June onwards. He kept it quiet, but he really did know his Canon Law back to front. On 28 April 1965 he was also awarded an honorary doctorate in theology by St Patrick’s College Manly. It was the first doctorate awarded by the Faculty of Theology. The speeches praised Kelly for his ‘widely acclaimed’ catechism. ‘The catechism alone is proof of the theological background of its reverend author and of his experience in expounding the most profound truths in a manner suited to the capacity of the young in the various stages of their intellectual and moral development.’28 In the meantime, Kelly’s Saturday lectures at Cathedral Hall were crucial in the theological renewal emanating from Vatican II. Kelly always contended that the rank and file of religious were short-changed when it came to theological training, so he continued these Saturday sessions in Brunswick Street, Fitzroy, alongside the then headquarters of the Catholic Education Office. Nuns and brothers from far and wide came to listen to Kelly and other theologians talk about the latest developments in theology. Like the later National Pastoral Institute, this was a moment of some significance in the spiritual life of many people. Kelly’s theology was self-taught; there is no evidence that he

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was offered the opportunity for further study at home or overseas, and he never spoke of it. Further honours came to Kelly, but it was not until 21 April 1966 that he was made a domestic prelate, and then only at the insistence of Simonds, as Mannix had remained obdurately opposed to these appointments—‘ecclesiastical millinery’ as he called them. Despite the admiration for the younger man’s work that Mannix felt, he made it a firm rule not to elevate priests to the rank of Monsignor.29 Mannix died on 6 November 1963, a fact noted by Kelly in his Diary without particular comment. It was a crucial moment in the history of Catholic education.30 By 1964 it had reached a crisis point, with Church leaders wondering if State Aid would ever arrive. On 30 January 1964 the new Archbishop, Justin Simonds, issued a circular letter to all schools outlining the nature of this crisis. The Catholic Teachers College at Ascot Vale was in danger of being closed down. Class sizes were still legendary for their over-enrolments. Sacred Heart at St Albans began with two classes in one hall—each with 100 students!31 One of Simonds’s actions was to set up two lay Sub-Committees in July 1964, who could advise him on educational matters. The Education Advisory Council had been established in October 1963 by Simonds, and it was to this Council that the two Sub-Committees reported. The Sub-Committees collected statistical data on the Catholic school system, which provided the context for discussing class sizes, teacher salaries and conditions, and educational standards more generally. That the Academic Sub-Committee was not consulted in 1969 during the Crudden crisis, six years later, suggested that its authority and influence were quite limited, but it was nonetheless the first opportunity given to lay Catholic educators to have some say in the running of the schools.32 Simonds wanted to capitalise on the growing level of Catholic expertise developing in the universities around academics. Whereas Mannix was comfortable with taking his advice on such matters from Santamaria or relying on his own judgement, Simonds was far more inclined to seek a broader view. Since tertiary education was now no longer a Protestant bastion, there was a pool of Catholic academics in

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the Vincent Buckley generation to choose from. The person Simonds chose to head the Academic Sub-Committee was Tom O’Donnell, an inorganic chemist teaching at the University of Melbourne. O’Donnell and John F. quickly struck up a friendship—and remained friends throughout the rest of Kelly’s life. The Academic Sub-Committee began on a bright note. Tom O’Donnell was invited by Simonds to select the members himself and to recommend the Sub-Committee’s terms of reference. O’Donnell’s suggestions of membership began with the obvious names—Max Charlesworth, Dick Selleck, Peter Gill and John Mulvaney, all from the University of Melbourne. Then he included Owen Potter, the Professor of Chemical Engineering at Monash; Murray McInerney, a prominent barrister and later a Supreme Court judge; Patricia Hince, a lay teacher at Xavier College; and Bill Hannan, a government high school teacher, later to become the chair of the State Board of Education. Charlesworth remembers the work of this Sub-Committee in looking into the provision of liturgical and educational materials. There was nothing at this time; indeed, there were not even libraries in many Catholic schools for children to draw upon. Upon being asked by this committee to describe their resources, some schools would report, ‘No, we do not have a librarian, but we do have a very fine Catholic priest in charge of our books!’33 Over the years the Sub-Committee notched up some significant achievements. One was reduced class sizes, for many years the bane of Catholic education. Another significant achievement was their successful lobbying for the establishment of Christ College at Oakleigh, another teacher training college, against the objections based on financial considerations of the Diocese. The diocesan authorities could not see the need for this college, despite the obvious downturn in the numbers applying for a religious vocation and the consequent reliance on the laity. John F. understood this new reality of Catholic education, but this understanding was not widely held. He was always averse to public advocacy, so this work was undertaken directly by the SubCommittee itself. The Sub-Committee, however, could count on the Office for its support and for typing and other administrative chores.34

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The pre-Vatican II pattern of Catholic schooling was put under enormous strain in the 1960s. In the first place there was the sheer increase in enrolments, with school-aged children from both existing Catholic families and the freshly-arrived postwar Italian, Maltese, Croatian, Polish and other predominantly Catholic groups. (The Latin Americans, the Philippinos and the Vietnamese were to come later.) Not only did they choose to migrate to Australia, but they chose Melbourne in particular, in order to win jobs in that city’s manufacturing industry. Moreover, the physical expansion of Melbourne as a metropolis presented a profound challenge for a system tied to the old parish-plusschool model. At the same time as the inner-suburban schools were not yet emptying of numbers, the need for outer-suburban schools was growing faster than the capital available. The inner-suburban junior schools at the Academy, Carlton, Collingwood and North Fitzroy were still full around 1960. The Schools Provident Fund (much later known as the Catholic Development Fund) continued to provide the key solution. The system was as taut as a bow string, even in wealthier suburbs. The school enrolments in this period at Our Lady of Victories, Camberwell, were as follows: 280 in 1955, 310 (1956), 350 (1957), 400 (1958), 420 (1959), 460 (1960–61), and then 492 in 1961–62. These students were taught by four Sisters of St Joseph (their head house is in the parish) and two and then up to three lay teachers. Camberwell is at the other extreme from St Albans in terms of social class, but this student-teacher ratio is not much better.35 The other problem, that of increased reliance on lay teachers, became a pressing issue in the 1960s. John F. wanted to improve the wages and conditions of Catholic teachers. The issue became critical when the numbers of young Catholics seeking to join the religious life really slowed down by the late 1960s, at about the time John F. was negotiating to retire from directorship of Catholic Education. The proportion of lay teachers in Catholic secondary schools rose from 30 per cent in 1963 to just on half by 1970, at the end of Kelly’s period. In 1972 the first lay principal in a Catholic school was appointed. Catholic lay teachers began to contemplate better pay and conditions, especially as governments became more generous with their funding.

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At the Commonwealth level Prime Minister R. G. Menzies provided capital grants for science blocks from 1964, while school libraries received federal support from 1968. At the state level the Premier, Sir Henry Bolte, introduced around this time a per capita contribution of $20 for each secondary school student in the state. On 10 August 1964 the first inroad in the issue of State Aid was made, with funding for ‘science equipment’, as Kelly put it in his Diary. He had spent most of his time as Director without the benefit of public funding. Further details of this long-awaited funding came through in September.

The reception of the Catechism The red and green Catechisms of John F. Kelly are two of the most remembered emblems of Australian Catholics born in the 1950s. They were attractive, lively and easy to read and understand. Each section—there were 105 Chapters in Book One and 127 in Book Two— began with an aspect of Church teaching cross-referenced to the Bible. Key terms were printed in capital letters. At the end of each exegesis, in italics, came the numbered questions as they had appeared in the Penny Catechetism. Next came the answers in bold typeface. Then followed a paragraph entitled ‘For My Life’, which suggested to the young reader how he might live out this teaching—this was the Jocist in Kelly—and what prayer might fit with this teaching. After that came a scriptural reference and a cross-reference to the relevant part of the liturgical year. A section called ‘Activities’ offered ideas for further research or reflection, and, finally, the Chapter concluded with three or four points for ‘Revision’. It was a breathtaking achievement, putting traditional Church teaching inside a thoroughly contemporary pedagogical framework. The Australian Catechism was published by E. J. Dwyer, the Sydney publishing firm which had a virtual monopoly on Catholic publications, and it proved a financial bonanza for the Australian bishops. This undoubtedly gave the Education Committee more clout with the other bishops than would have otherwise been the case.36

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When the Australian Catechism appeared, it was a great success. Canon Drinkwater gave it a very positive review in The Tablet. It was such a contrast to what had gone before. Kelly above all wanted the Church to refocus on Christ, and to move away from its obsession with sin. Mannix said a reworking of the Catechism was the sort of project he himself should have undertaken, but for his self-confessed laziness, which he admitted in his usual self-deprecating way. Not everyone was impressed, of course. At Werribee, the Jesuit Robert Peterson thundered, ‘We’ll have none of that nun theology here!’37 Kelly also included a bibliography at the back of the Teachers’ Guides to the Catechism, so that teachers could get to know the theological works that underpinned his Catechism. In a 2002 interview, Bishop Joe O’Connell took his copy off the shelf and opened the page where the bibliography was printed. ‘I keep my copies of his Catechism in my personal library as a memento to John F.’, he explained. ‘Recommending these books to the teachers opened the world up to them. It was a classic academic strategy!’ And then, quietly, he added, ‘It was a blessing to have John F. Kelly. So very few people had the necessary preparation for the Second Vatican Council . . .’ When the Teachers’ Guide appeared with the bibliography, some conservatives took umbrage. Simonds had just returned from his summer holidays in Koroit, where he had been told by two other bishops that this list of books was ‘heretical’. Matthew Beovich, in Adelaide, stood up for John F. He was angry at the way an intellectual like Kelly could be treated. Simonds carried the day, defending the publication to his fellow bishops.38 Kelly’s work with the Catechism made him well known across Australia. Brian Leonard, fellow priest and lifelong friend, remembers that, from 1963, when he brought out the new Catechism, Kelly found himself invited all over Australia (as confirmed by John F.’s meticulous list of Aeroplane Journeys) to teach people about its use. There was no reference to him by name between the covers, but he was the undisputed leader in catechetics. Around the time Francis Carroll became Bishop of Wagga Wagga, in 1968, he met Kelly for the first time, through the Education Committee of the bishops’ conference.39 Carroll and Kelly got on well. Carroll liked Kelly’s quirky manner and admired

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his encyclopaedic knowledge and extraordinary memory: ‘He could quote in full a text he had read 30 or 40 years beforehand, verbatim!’ What impressed Carroll even more was Kelly’s modesty about his intellectual skills.40 Kelly had learned well and truly by now how to control his intellectual prowess in the company of others. On 8 September 1962 Kelly was in Canberra to talk at a seminar about the freshly published Catechism—just a week old. He commented on the combination of ‘frost and sun’ in the spring weather of Canberra. He was taken out to visit Canberra’s second Catholic boys high school, Daramalan College. John Collins, then an MSC priest, remembers meeting Kelly that afternoon and the man’s wonderful intelligence.41 Later that month Kelly flew to Brisbane and spent time with his old colleague, Bernard O’Shea, on 20 September. Once again there was ‘warmth’ in people’s reaction to the Catechism. In December 1962 he toured the Riverina, giving talks about the book. When he visited Perth on 27 January 1963, the size of the welcoming group at the airport was so large he called it ‘almost a deputation’. He liked what he saw: Perth almost Californian in its light (without smog). Made joyful by many parks, squares, reserves of public land. The Swan glorious.42

A sure sign that Book One had been well received was that its first reprinting was ordered in February 1963. On 19 July 1963 Kelly flew to Sydney and back in one day just to deliver the Teachers’ Book for Book Two. In August he travelled through Queensland, including five days in Rockhampton. When Book Two appeared in September 1963, he travelled back to Canberra and through New South Wales. Kelly’s Australian Catechism appeared just as the significance of the Second Vatican Council was becoming evident.

Vatican II and Kelly’s Church Vatican II was the twenty-first Council of the Church. The Councils are the backbone running through the entire history of the Church. Despite

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the decades and centuries separating each Council from its 20 predecessors or successors, the institution of the Council is humanity’s longest-running parliament, a conversation among the Church’s representatives that is unrivalled in other institutions.43 Vatican II remains an epochal event. Three decades after its completion an international team of church historians began to document this critical moment in Catholic history and to assess its overall significance.44 Within 90 days of succeeding Pius XII, on 25 January 1959, John XXIII announced both the calling of the Council and a synod of the diocese of Rome. ‘Pope has announced general council’, noted Kelly.45 The new Pope, then aged 77, had served for 30 years as a Vatican diplomat. Angelo Giuseppe Cardinal Roncalli’s knowledge of world affairs had persuaded him that the energies released by the process of decolonisation, a key feature of the 1950s, as well as the stalemate reached in the Cold War, justified a second Vatican Council. The Council was intended to be ‘pastoral’ rather than ‘doctrinal’. The Church itself was now spread across the entire globe. The comfortable relationship between the Church and Western society denoted by the word ‘Christendom’ had ceased to exist. Roncalli’s announcement of the Council took the Church by surprise—it was not a Council forced by particular circumstances. Indeed many people believed that the principle of papal infallibility approved at the First Vatican Council in 1870 had removed the necessity of any successor pope to call a Council—his pronouncements would simply be communicated to an obedient Church. John XXIII understood the Council neither as an opportunity to repair schisms nor as an occasion to condemn people’s errors; it was, rather, ‘a renewed cordial invitation to the faithful of the separated Churches to participate with us in this feast of grace and brotherhood, for which so many souls long in all parts of the world’.46 John XXIII’s announcement had an immediate and dramatic effect around the world—people’s hopes and expectations were lifted. Suggestions for the program of Vatican II now came streaming into Rome. Many people, including the Swiss priest Otto Karrer, recommended the replacement of Latin with vernacular languages in the Mass. Others urged that ecumenism be based on something more solid than a shared anti-Communism (the unsuccessful attempt at union

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between the Latin West and Orthodox East at the council of Florence in 1439 had been partly an expression of anti-Islam solidarity). The World Council of Churches in Geneva was concerned to ensure that ecumenism not be seen as the prerogative of the Catholic Church. It was agreed early on that the considerable amount of work required to prepare the Council meant that it could not convene until 1962. Such was the challenge to the Curia, the central governing body of the Church, posed by John XXIII’s public announcements that they were hardly reported at all in the official media of the Holy See. Roncalli spoke of the Council as a second Pentecost, a moment in which the gospel message would again be communicated powerfully to humans. On the day of Pentecost in 1959, which fell on 17 May, he announced an Antepreparatory Commission, comprising twelve Italians, to lay the Council’s groundwork. Three days later Kelly was at St Peter’s to see the Pope, who was in fine form: Pope half an hour late. Saw him well, very fatherly and kindly in his attitude and deservedly popular. Spoke vigorously, using his feet and continuously moving his body, although, of course, sitting down.47

In July the Pope decided the Council was to be called ‘Vatican II’, to signal that it was more than simply a resumption of the First Vatican Council that had been suspended, not closed, in 1870. At the same time he calmed the conservatives in the Church by endorsing the policies of his immediate predecessors. In April 1959, for example, he confirmed the 1949 decree that condemned all Catholics who voted for Communist parliamentary candidates to automatic excommunication; he also acquiesced to the Curial view that the theologian Jacques Maritain not be granted an honorary doctorate. So the Roman Curia, initially hostile to the idea of a Council, now began to believe it could control it.48 The historian Étienne Fouilloux has described the lead-up to Vatican II as a pair of contrasting theological movements. The Roman position, as endorsed by a succession of twentieth-century popes, might be termed a ‘social Catholicism’, including Catholic Action. What was proposed in place of the old Christendom was ‘an open-air Christianity’ that offered an all-embracing way of leading a Christian life and resisting the

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totalitarian alternatives of an increasingly secular world.49 Against this was a range of theological options developing in the Church outside Rome. A newly-galvanised laity across Europe was increasingly discontented with Rome’s imperious ways. They began to read (in translation) the works of the ‘anti Roman’ theologians, such as the French Dominican Marie-Dominique Chenu, whose writings became better known than the official theologians of Rome. Kelly was told in Rome that the appointment of Roncalli as Pope was as a foil to the Vatican strongman, Alfredo Cardinal Ottaviani.50 The Vatican usually responded with a stick rather than a carrot; the worker-priest movement in France, for example, was banned in 1959. Kelly was in Rome at the time and noted that it was reported in The Times.51 The Antepreparatory Commission sought suggestions for the agenda of the Council from all the world’s bishops, not in the form of a questionnaire, but in a general letter. Replies had to be written in Latin. By the northern summer of 1960 the Commission had received 2,150 replies, out of a possible total of 2,812. This made Vatican II four times larger than the previous Council. Thomas McCabe, Bishop of Wollongong, sent a sixline reply, while the Cardinal Archbishop of Guadalajara sent in 27 pages. By now Kelly was in Nijmegen, and was impressed by the replies coming in from the Dutch bishops.52 There was sufficient disobedience to the injunction that respondents use Latin to suggest that it was beginning to lose favour as a common language of the Church. The suggestions in the letters were sorted by Vatican clerks into 2,000 thematic large-size cards, organised into theological and canon law categories. The Italian and European replies were coded first—reflecting the Vatican mindset—and the categories adopted ensured that a deductive approach would triumph over an inductive one. Proposals were also sought from the various agencies of the Vatican. The final agenda, then, gave the outside world the impression that the Council would be dominated by Rome.53 Despite the stated intention that this would be a ‘pastoral’ Council, the preparations were carried out without any significant participation by the laity. (Women were also excluded.) Despite complaints from several quarters about the lack of lay involvement in the preparation of the Council (and about other matters), John XXIII allowed the preparations to run their own course.54

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The Second Vatican Council was the first Council to be conducted in the full blaze of mass media. There was no interest in the Council in the Islamic world, however, and the indifference was mutual.55 John XXIII appointed as expert advisors to the Council, periti, a number of outspoken German and French theologians who had at times been in disfavour with the Church, including Rahner, Congar, Daniélou and de Lubac. By including theologians who had been under a cloud, the Second Vatican Council avoided the myopia of the First Vatican Council (where these oppositional positions were excluded). As the Council progressed, Kelly read or re-read the key texts of these theologians.56 Other condemed or suspect theologians who were not appointed as experts to the Council, such as Marie-Dominque Chenu, exercised their influence as consultors to bishops. Belgian theologians exerting a similar level of influence included Gommar Michiels, Guillaume Onclin, Henri Wagnon, Lucien Cerfaux, Gérard Philips and Gustave Thils. Dutch theologians included Johannes G. M. Willebrands, Alfons J. M. Mulders (Nijmegen) and Edward Schillebeeckx. John XXIII thought the Council would run from October to December, 1962. The central nave of St Peter’s was fitted out with 2,905 seats for the Council. There were 37 microphones and 92 loudspeakers. All proceedings were taped and a closed-circuit TV was installed in the Pope’s office. Seat allocation, attendance records and voting were carried out by means of punch-cards. The Australian bishops decided to travel to Rome by sea.57 They were not prominent at the Council, with the exception of Guilford Clyde Young, Archbishop of Hobart.58 At the commencement of the Council, the influential theologians were privately nervous about whether anything positive would be achieved. But the non-Roman bishops were more independentlyminded than people had expected, beginning on the second day with a motion from the floor that the voting for places on the commissions, that would undertake the substantial work of the Council, be postponed for a few days so that the visiting bishops could get to know each other first. The Council thus became relatively self-governing.59 Outside the formal meetings of the Council, groups of French and

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German theologians began to meet and to formulate possible positions on the key issues.60 The debate over the liturgy was an early item on the Council’s agenda. The reforms, such as the replacement of Latin with vernacular languages, was approved overwhelmingly. It was a defining moment, a sign that the Church could undergo renewal.61 This honeymoon period ended, however, when the Council turned its attention to the question of the sources of Revelation (De fontibus Revelationis), the historic debate over the relationship between oral revelation (the preaching of Christ) and its subsequent transmission (tradition) in the teaching of the Apostles and the New and Old Testament writings themselves. At this critical juncture in the debate, where it seemed a major doctrinal clash was inevitable, John XXIII intervened and proposed a permanent pontifical commission to deal with the issue.62 During this period of optimism the leadership group of the majority faction among the bishops succeeded in getting approval for a Coordinating Commission (C.C.) that would guide the work of the Council between the first and second sessions. When the bishops were back in their dioceses, John XXIII issued, at Easter 1963, his Mirabilis ille, calling on them to propose anew items for the agenda of the second session. So the preparatory work undertaken in 1960 and 1961 was now not to be understood as an unchangeable template. The C.C. was also charged with seeing that the decisions made in the 1962 session were being faithfully carried out by the relevant pontifical commissions. When the Pope died in June 1963, on the eve of Pentecost, the work of the C.C. was briefly interrupted while the conclave was summoned. Meanwhile two significant items were now re-introduced to the work of the Council, that of ecumenism and the apostolate of the laity. The new Pope, Giovanni Battista Montini, installed as Paul VI, endorsed the fresh agenda prepared by the C.C., and agreed that there would be appointed four moderators charged with the task of facilitating conciliar discussions. These moderators were appointed to membership of the C.C. Whereas John XXIII had encouraged a cacophony of views, the new Pope wanted firmer direction for the Vatican Council, even at the cost of giving too much authority to the Curia.63 The new Pope was ‘a better choice than I hoped for’, Kelly confided to his Diary.64

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In the middle of the Vatican Council there were two crucial events to which the Church would have to turn its attention. One was the invention of the pill, the contraceptive device for women that subverted many traditional assumptions about birth control. The other was the runaway success of Honest to God, a populist theology text by the Anglican bishop John Robinson, which drew on a hotchpotch of theologians in place of those considered authoritative by the Catholic Church. This publication demonstrated that the laity no longer needed to rely on official sources of theological insight.65 Kelly never bothered to read it. The bishops who assembled in Rome for the second session of the Council in September 1963 were now more relaxed: they had been there before. A small group of laity was now included. The bishops became more purposeful in their use of the expert theologians.66 Now some of the differences between the reform-minded majority and the more cautious minority started to emerge. On 30 October there was a celebrated and at times acrimonious debate between Josef Cardinal Frings of Cologne and the redoubtable Ottaviani of the Curia. Frings proposed that the number of bishops making up the Curia should be lessened as a strategy for making the Church less centralist; Ottaviani rejoined that any notion of collegiality among Christ’s apostles was not supported by Scripture. Each speaker was met with loud applause from his supporters. Giacomo Cardinal Lercaro of Bologna, one of the four moderators, gave a famous pacificatory speech, redefining the debate as fundamentally concerned with the exercise of papal authority. Informal meetings held outside the main assembly were becoming more common and more organised as the Council’s debates hardened.67 Collegiality was a big issue of Vatican II. The heart of Vatican II, its liturgical reform, was now adopted. Liturgy was not merely the precise performance of a ceremony, asserted the bishops gathered at the Second Vatican Council. Voting for simpler ceremonies showed that Vatican II was at heart a reform-minded Council, and it was this aspect that would most affect the Church in Australia. The innovations were gradually implemented throughout the 1960s and 1970s in Australian parishes. They met with mixed reactions, and put the Mass at the centre of the worshipping community.68

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There were three essential aspects to the Council’s reform of the liturgy. The first was the presence of Christ, the primary celebrant in all sacraments, particularly at the Eucharist. He is present in all sacramental activities, including the reading of the Gospel, and the prayers and songs performed together. It is not the priest who mediates between God and humanity, but Christ as the head of the Church. If a baptism is carried out by a lay person, for example, Christ is present. The second aspect of liturgy is that it is dialogical, between God and humanity. Human beings are sanctified in the liturgy and in their answer to God they worship him. Liturgy is therefore not simply ‘cultic’ (worshipful). The third feature of Vatican II liturgy is the insistence on ‘sensible signs’. Everything that takes place in the liturgy is presented through signs which affect the five human senses. The signs must be seen, heard, smelled, tasted and felt. Words alone are not enough. Without intelligibility liturgy becomes mere magic. It is this principle that underlines the adoption of the vernacular language. The Vatican II reform made the liturgy less clericalised and emphasised the role of the entire community. So choristers and lectors performing in the sacrament hold a liturgical office and are undertaking a genuine liturgical function. In its structured assembly the community concretises the Church as a whole. From this point on the Catholic laity were not merely attending Mass, but participating in it. These reforms were published on 4 December 1963 as Sacrosanctum concilium and were to be adopted as expeditiously as possible. Lercaro and Reverend A. Bugnini were delegated to oversee the implementation.69 By November 1963 the Council became noticeably fatigued and had difficulty making much progress on the vexed issue of ecumenism. The other Christian churches were defined as ‘separated brethren’ and the Jews were no longer defined as ‘perfidious’, but little else was agreed. Pope Paul VI concluded the second session with the announcement that he would undertake a pilgrimage to the Holy Land in January 1964—the first pope to travel outside Italy since the beginning of the nineteenth century.70 By the third session, in the northern autumn of 1964, the boundaries between ‘progressives’ and ‘conservatives’ had become blurred.

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Even the Italians no longer voted as a bloc. The only stable faction was a highly disciplined group of about 300 conservative bishops, calling itself the Coetus Internationalis Patrum (International Group of Fathers).71 The ecumenical theme was revived with the passing of a declaration on religious freedom. The Council’s aim was to widen the scope of religious freedom beyond what had been expressed in 1948 by Article 18 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. One of the leaders of the Coetus, Marcel Lefebvre, spoke against the proposal on the grounds that it encouraged relativism. Norman Thomas Cardinal Gilroy of Sydney agreed, contending that it would lend credence to heretical groups. Now debate switched to how the Council would deal with the Jewish question. The silence of Pius XII during the Holocaust was then still a lively matter. Opinions on this issue were bitterly divisive within the Council. Once again Lercaro was the peacemaker, with his argument that the Christian borrowings of ceremonies from Judaism meant that Jews and Catholics were liturgically connected. Finally De libertate religosa and De Judaeis were agreed upon in their shortened forms.72 The next item on the Council’s agenda was that of divine revelation, De Revelatione, the question left aside from 1962 of how to explain the means by which God communicates His existence to humanity. The final debate was postponed until the fourth session.73 It became Dei verbum, adopted on 18 November 1965. The Council now turned to document 13 (schema XIII) on its agenda, the relationship of the Church to the outside world (Ecclesia ad extra), a discussion that would lead to the Council’s most important document, Gaudium et spes, adopted on 7 December 1965. The Council expressed its solidarity with the poor, seeking structural solutions within which the poor might learn to help themselves. An informal collection of 50 bishops representing poor countries, known as the Church of the Poor Group, succeeded in putting to Paul VI a document sketching out possible strategies for the Church, including the revival of the worker-priest movement.74 On 21 November 1964 the Council adopted Lumen gentium, the document that defined Catholicism as the ‘pilgrim church’ and sought

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to rebalance the relative positions of the laity and the religious. Its most remarkable feature was that it did not list the Church’s members in hierarchical terms. At the end of the third session of Vatican II, it was proposed by Paul VI that there would be a fourth and final session in 1965. Top of the agenda were to be final votes on the two most troubled schemas, De libertate religiosa and De Ecclesia in mundo huius temporis. What to do about Communism was looming as an issue—whether to continue to condemn it out of hand, or remain silent on the matter (as Vatican II until this point had done) or begin a dialogue with Communist governments.75 What was impressive about Vatican II overall was its reconnection of the Church to history, following a century of mistrust between the Church and the world. Lumen gentium succeeded in giving an organisational shape to the Church that freed it of much of its excessive rigidity. The defects of the Council were its emphasis on Christ at the expense of the Holy Spirit, and its failure to deal with the needs of the Church outside Europe.76 The non-European churches were, however, enabled to pursue their own paths because of the liberating effect of Vatican II.77 On 13 June 1963, a year into the Council, Kelly had lunch in Melbourne with Michael Costigan, three years after their meal in Rome. Kelly followed the progress of the Council and, as well as reading the work of the current theologians, added histories of previous Councils to his diet of books.78 Costigan, aged 28 and fiercely intelligent, spent a total of 77 days observing the Council on behalf of the Melbourne Catholic newspaper, the Advocate. He had been appointed the paper’s associate editor by Mannix. Costigan saw it as his personal mission to communicate the work of the Council as best he could to a readership in Melbourne that was either apathetic or fearful about this historic moment in the long life of the Church. The Melbourne laity was not encouraged to anticipate anything positive from the deliberations in Rome; indeed, calls for reform were regarded as quite unnecessary by most Australian bishops. For Melbourne Catholics there was plenty of intellectual fodder to sustain different views of Vatican II. Apart from the Tablet, from

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England, which enjoyed an intellectual readership in Melbourne, there was the Catholic Worker, edited earlier by Max Charlesworth from his house in suburban Glen Iris, and later, in a resurrected phase, by Terry Laidler. It was modelled on the American newspaper of the same name produced by the group around Dorothy Day, and survived until 1976, its fortieth year. Far from fearing Vatican II, Kelly understood what it could offer Australian Catholics, and what were its limitations. The well-known disappointment felt by many of the younger generation of Catholics with Humanae Vitae (in which the Church banned the use of birth control by Catholics, 1968) was something he could understand, but it did not strike him to the quick as it did others.79 During his period of living at Footscray and directing the Catholic Education Office, John F. was working in a Church context that was undergoing the most profound changes it had ever experienced, and in a relatively short time frame. These changes were both national and international. John F.’s genius was to provide a rudder for people caught up in these profound changes. Intellectually and spiritually he was the right person to assist both lay Catholics and the religious in this period. No other Church leader in Melbourne from this period is remembered so vividly as someone who could guide others through these difficult times. Elderly nuns close to being called to eternal life would be heard talking about the encouraging words they had received from the man often just called ‘the Mons’. John F. was the great friend of many of the less powerful members of the Church, notably in the Melbourne archdiocese. No longer was the Australian Church Irish, beleaguered and a minority grouping. It was still working class and lower middle class, and the need for education was greater than ever. But it was now the dominant Church in Australia, from around 1970, at least in a numerical sense. The impact of postwar immigration was striking here. It was this fundamental demographic and political reality that partly explains the Church’s final success in winning government funding for its schools. In 1946 Catholics made up only 21 per cent of Australian society. By 1971 the figure was 27 per cent, and rising. In 1941 there were 1486 seminarians across Australia; by 1969, despite the much

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larger population, the number had fallen to only 1,100. In 1966 Friday abstinence and the compulsory Lenten Fast were abolished. The proportion of lay teachers in schools grew from 27 per cent to more than half (52 per cent) by 1971.80 Taking the national and the international changes together, there was a sense of renewal in the Church and the Church’s responsibility to the ‘Third World’ deepened, too. Australian Catholics took greater interest in the work of Mother Teresa in India and others like her in rapidly developing countries. More priests, nuns and brothers received better training, often overseas, in areas such as theology and education. The laity became more active in the life of the Church—they joined parish councils and school education boards. They began to read the progressive Catholic newspapers and journals. This was a laity that came to higher learning very slowly, and with various setbacks along the way. In 1961 a priest writing in the mainstream Advocate asked (presumably sarcastically) whether the study of philosophy at university level might be detrimental to one’s faith as a Catholic.81 One by one the old Catholic journals disappeared, but in their place much of the discussion moved into the new cottage industry of novels and other creative literature about the old Catholic experience in Australia. Inspired partly by certain English Department teachers at the University of Melbourne—Vincent Buckley, Dinny O’Hearn and the like—this new school of Irish-Australian writers lent a new respectability to the minority experience of growing up Catholic in the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s. Together with novels such as Barry Oakley’s A Salute to the Great McCarthy (1971) and Creina Rohan’s Down by the Dockside (1984), there were non-fiction accounts such as Buckley’s Cutting Green Hay (1983) and the feminist anthology, Sweet Mothers, Sweet Maids (1986). Former nuns and priests also wrote accounts of their lives and experiences in the Church. John F. welcomed the opportunity to provide a greater role for the laity, and made a very early move in this direction. In 1962 the Catholic Education Office, under his direction, put out an invitation for lay Catholics to take part in a 10-week training program in dogma, teaching method, and syllabus instruction. A staggering number responded, 550 to be exact, and this showed that John F. was on the

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mark in his thinking.82 It is in this sense that it can be claimed, quite reasonably, that he was a pioneer in the field of Catholic tertiary education. He knew that if the grand vision of a Church with greater say for the rank and file was to be realised, a basic building block was a laity who could engage theologically with the priests. John F. was among the four priests whom Buckley singled out for praise on account of their progressive views, along with Pat Crudden, Costigan and John Hanrahan.83 (These three eventually left the priesthood.)

Religious education in the 1960s No sooner was Book Two published than John F. started on My Way to God.84 The subsequent religious texts, such as Move Out and Let’s Go Together, which enabled Australian educators to keep abreast of world developments, also carried the Kelly stamp. This was remarkable not merely for the intellectual and spiritual energy required, but also for the behind-the-scenes political and organisational effort it entailed. In a calm period this would have been difficult itself, but this was not a calm time for Catholics, especially in Australia. For some religious and laity, it was an exciting time, the time to implement Vatican II. The disillusion about Vatican II did not set in until the very end of the decade. The Australian Catechism continued to provoke interest. The kerygmatic method, associated with Johannes Hofinger, had emphasised a return to the Bible for a Christ-centred proclamation of humankind’s salvation. The word ‘kerygma’ was coined from the Greek ‘keryx’, or herald.85 So Kelly’s Australian Catechism was keyed to passages of Scripture that gave warrant to the fundamental tenets of the Catholic faith. But no sooner had the much-praised Australian Catechism been produced, in the years coinciding with the Second Vatican Council, than theological debate moved on and a new paradigm took centre stage. This was the life-situation methodology, developed in the mid1960s by theologians like Marcel Van Caster, who, in pursuing the logic of Vatican II, put their emphasis on everyday existence, demonstrating that God was Revealed, and guided us in our actions, not as some figure from the distant past—as the kerygmatic approach implied—but in the

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here-and-now, today. The life-situation approach replaced the kerygmatic school relatively quickly. In Victoria the life-situation approach appears in Kelly’s second generation of catechetical texts, Move Out, from 1967. Move Out was published by a lay teacher, Garry Eastman, who was supported and encouraged by Reverend Frank Martin, of the Catholic Education Office, who created the committees that collectively developed the publications. Several of the people who had been involved with My Way to God, such as Clara Anson, Sister Joan Power and Sister Josephine O’Donnell, continued to help propel the new catechetical publications, including Move Out and its successor, Let’s Go Together (Table 9.2). These were well-credentialled educators. Joan Power had studied at the East Asian Pastoral Institute in Manila, and Josephine O’Donnell had taught at the Presentation Sisters’ Training College. 9.2: International developments in theology and Australian catechetical texts International developments

Key theologians

Australian champion

Australian texts

J. Hofinger

J. F. Kelly

Catholic Catechism Book One and Teacher’s Book 1962 Catholic Catechism Book Two & Teacher’s Book 1963 My Way to God 1964

1966 Life-situation methodology

M.Van Caster Gabriel Moran Theology of Revelation from Vatican II

J. F. Kelly F. Martin

Move Out 1967–74 Let’s Go Together 1968–74 Come Alive 1970

1973 Revelation reinforced

D. S. Amalorpavadass

J. F. Kelly and T. M. Doyle

1960 Early kerygmatic

Source: A.C. Smith, ‘An analysis’, 1981.

Guidelines for R.E. 1973–1984 at primary and secondary levels

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Not all Catholics kept up with these changes. By the late 1960s there was a general sense of confusion and disorder—throughout the world, not merely in Australia—as a result of this rapidly shifting paradigm. The Bishop of Sandhurst, Bishop Bernard Stewart, took the controversial step in 1970 of issuing an alternative catechism that went back into the pre-Vatican II period. The third postwar generation of catechetical texts, the Guidelines (1973), therefore dealt with both a political crisis and a theological shift. It was the task of Father T. M. Doyle, in an R. E. Department of the Catholic Education Office that was self-funded, to incorporate the theology of the Council in this new range of set texts. Doyle was a Kelly protégé, so the lineage was direct. Doyle was firstly Director of Religious Instruction in Government schools, and then Director of Religious Education in both Government and Catholic schools, a critical position in which to oversee these changes. The two parts of the role were brought together only in 1980, and it was this fusion of roles that gave Doyle his organisational clout. (They had been interrupted in 1969 when Crudden was appointed Director of the Catholic Education Office, but not Director of Catholic Education, because of some of his views with which Archbishop Knox disagreed.) One of the key theologians behind the Guidelines was Reverend D. S. Amalorpavadass.86 Its underlying theme is the developing awareness of self, others, the larger world, and then the community of the faithful. The key source for the Guidelines was the Council’s dogmatic Decree on Divine Revelation, Dei Verbum. God reveals himself to us through Christ, through creation, through our lives and through history, by tradition, in Scripture, by means of Church teachings, and through our participation in the liturgy.87 An Australian, Brother Gerard Rummery, was writing about the theology of Vatican II in his book, Catechesis and Religious Education in a Pluralist Society. As well as being the diocesan censor, and therefore the person ultimately responsible for declaring that the document did not contradict Church teaching (the nihil obstat), Kelly also acted as a mentor and guide to the committees doing the work on this new set of Guidelines. In that sense, his central role in Melbourne’s catechetical texts and guidelines, from the late 1950s all the way through to the 1970s, is an unbroken

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thread running through the life of the Church. After Simonds’ death in 1967 Kelly continued to have the support of Archbishops. In fact he got on well with Cardinal Knox, Melbourne’s Archbishop from 1967 to 1974. But Kelly’s life was about to change.

‘To Deepdene’ Kelly offered a Mass at Deepdene on Sunday, 27 August 1967. It was his first recorded visit to this parish since he had regularly inspected the local primary school in the 1940s and 1950s. As 1967 turned into 1968 he discovered he was moving to Deepdene. His Diary is silent on the matter, except to describe packing on Friday, 19 January and the move to the other side of Melbourne: Saturday, January 20 To Deepdene. Move in rain; steamy in car, recalled some former move in similar weather, which cannot recall.88

Kelly’s books arrived separately, on 6 February. At Footscray he had amassed a huge collection and presumably it had required the intervening fortnight for someone to pack them up. For the time being, Kelly continued to direct the Catholic Education Office while serving as Parish Priest of Deepdene. He was the first Director asked to juggle both jobs.

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The Feast of the Sacred Heart The Church, from the very early ages, has pondered on that love of Christ for man, that love so perfect that we, poor, weak, selfish men, can hardly understand it, although it is a really human love. The feast of the Sacred Heart is kept on the Friday after the octave of Corpus Christi. John F. Kelly, Through Christ Our Lord, pp. 162, 164

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10 Parish priest in an affluent locale Deepdene, 1968–86 ‘PP’ at Our Lady of Good Counsel By the second weekend of March 1968, Kelly was ensconced in his new presbytery at Deepdene. He spent Monday, 11 March, getting his beloved books ‘in order’. He subscribed to newspapers and journals such as Catholic Worker, Theological Studies and The Tablet, but did not hold on to them when he left Deepdene in 1986. It was only then he threw them out, with much regret.1 Books were a different matter: prowling through Melbourne’s numerous downtown bookshops was one of his greatest pleasures. The Deepdene library upstairs was a great improvement on the crowded conditions he had endured at Footscray. Kelly’s Deepdene library became legendary among his friends and colleagues. Parishioner Barrie Dunstan remembers it well. At one time John F. had his books laid out in rows and he would walk along these rows on the floor and pick up exactly the right book that he needed.2 The library was large enough to accommodate what grew into a private collection of about 6,000 volumes. Around this time he became more commonly known as ‘the Mons’. 201

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This nickname, superseding ‘John F.’, reflected his new position as a parish priest and an elder statesman of the Church in Australia. The Deepdene parish was established in 1922, when it was excised from the three existing parishes of Camberwell, Kew and Hawthorn. The new parish was given the name of Our Lady of Good Counsel and was almost half a century old when Kelly was nominated to head it. Deepdene is one of Melbourne’s better-kept secrets. Indeed, it is technically a locality, not an official placename, positioned within the suburb of Balwyn, and the local Catholic Church is one of the few remaining Deepdene institutions to carry the name officially. The irony of being appointed as the parish priest of Deepdene, a place that had almost no secular reality, would have appealed to John F.. True to his intellectual curiosity, he became very interested in the history of his parish and would later write a short book on it.3 As explained in his book, and also in an unpublished sociological study prepared by parishioner Ann Woodruff, the Deepdene area had begun to be developed from the 1880s boom period and was a station along the short-lived outer-circle railway line.4 The area was on the urban fringe and became quite affluent. Catholics were a distinct minority. By 1947 this was the only part of Melbourne where Presbyterians and Methodists continued to outnumber Catholics, a demographic fact that underlay and reinforced Camberwell’s ‘dry’ character. Again, it might have amused Kelly that a publican’s son was appointed to minister a flock in a suburb with no pubs! The original church building was the Deepdene parish school. The handsome church in which John F. offered Mass dates to 1955. Designed by L. Sam Miguel, the building was narrow and long, making it a difficult space within which to forge a strong sense of intimate worship. The interior of the 1955 structure was also quite cold, with cream-brick walls, and ornamentally minimalist. In the Mons’ time at Deepdene he had the concrete altar removed and installed a new statue (to the left of the new altar) to match the older one of Our Lady executed by Hans Knorr. The chocolate-box Stations of the Cross were replaced after his time with the carved-wooden works of Mrs Leopoldine Mimovich. By 1968, the year Kelly took charge, a parish census revealed that there were ‘501 individuals from 156 families’ registered at Deepdene.

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A plethora of bottles: James Gorman, Americans Maryanne and Harry Boland, living in Deepdene, and John F.

Kelly inherited a church that was stolidly bourgeois and emotionally quite cool. Our Lady of Good Counsel was notoriously toffy before John F.. His predecessor bar one would stand outside the church wearing a black biretta to greet the parishioners after Mass. When Ann Woodruff joined the parish in about 1962, she had to run this man’s gauntlet. ‘Are you renting or have you bought?’ the priest imperiously inquired of her. ‘I’m in Carlyle Avenue,’ she replied, not quite answering the question directly. ‘Why didn’t you buy closer to the church?’ the inquisitor continued. ‘I can’t afford the values here near the church’, was Ann’s honest reply. (Churches like this one of course themselves contributed to higher property values.) ‘What do you do?’ was his next question. ‘I’m a nurse.’ ‘That’s good! A professional.’ This final judgement was, of course, rather more flattering.5 When John F. arrived as parish priest at the end of that decade, it made for a refreshing change for the people of this parish. He turned out to be a caring and responsive leader. He had been given this relatively affluent parish as a reward for his services to Catholic education, over half a lifetime, but he certainly did not treat Deepdene as a mere sinecure—he worked hard as the ‘PP’, as Catholics are wont to call their

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‘parish priest’.6 Shortly after he arrived at Deepdene there was a function for ‘Men of the Parish’, dating from Bishop Arthur Francis Fox’s time as parish priest. Ann Woodruff was unimpressed by the gendered nature of this parish event. ‘I sent a small donation and said I would not be making a further contribution.’ John F. got the message. ‘I think we have worked out that women’s thing’, he announced to his parishioners. Every woman was invited, as well as those men who had contributed in some way to the parish. It was both a thank you and a statement, and the parish came alive with the new-found sense of inclusion. At Deepdene Ann Woodruff became one of Kelly’s friends. She was a Professor of Nursing at Victoria University (which had grown out of the old Footscray Institute of Technology). A Catholic activist, Ann was around that time serving as the lay representative on a diocesan committee looking at issues of liturgy. On the Diocesan Liturgical Committee were also Denis Hart, later Archbishop, and Tom Doyle. She was someone to whom John F. could turn as a friend and get honest advice, including personal advice. Their friendship was predicated on the respect and mutuality John F. had always felt more keenly with women than with many men.7 In this affluent parish he showed people that wealth was not everything, making do with little. He kept aside things that people had given him as presents—such as small bottles of alcohol—and asked his housekeeper, Moira Wall, to wrap them for use as gifts. This kind of frugality was an important virtue amidst this newly-rich Catholic community. On one occasion there were two nice bottles—emptied of alcohol— with one for Moira and another snaffled by a certain Genazzano nun. Moira was outraged at the nun’s temerity, to which John F. replied that next year she should make more of an effort to hang onto it! Moira was a widow and a very pleasant woman, with a grown family, including daughter Kath Richter. She had the Mons’ measure and was a great consolation to him in times of stress.8 Not only was he a firm believer in women’s rights, John F. had a good eye for colour: one day he spotted Ann Woodruff in purple, which provoked the witticism, ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself—you’re not a bishop just yet!’ At an interfaith meeting involving Deepdene parishioners, the clear message from one of the participants was that ‘we had to be careful

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of the women’s movement!’ Ann Woodruff put her views politely but forcefully: ‘I said it would have a beneficial effect on society. It would have been as important as the Industrial Revolution.’ The Mons was privately supportive of her: ‘Well said, well said . . .’ were his words of encouragement afterwards. A decade after his death Ann reflected on how much he would enjoy the progress attained during the 1990s: ‘I often think how much he would enjoy life going onwards.’ When the Church admitted women as lectors, he asked Ann Woodruff to get a group of women together for this purpose. (It was typical of John F. not simply to rely on the strongly individualistic women who would put themselves forward as lectors, but to provide a framework within which some who were less experienced in public presentation might feel emboldened to try out a speaking role.) A week before the new system started, the Mons ran into Ann and reported that the Archbishop (Frank Little) was not happy with the proposal. Ann turned and walked out without saying a word. Mid-week the Mons telephoned to say that all was well. (It was one of several moments of conflict with Archbishop Little.) One of the female lectors was a Lebanese-Australian woman. She took her job very seriously and showed up at church well ahead of the appointed time. She was keen to practise her reading, as she explained in her thick accent: ‘Oh, darling, I have to be early! I have to cope with all those terrible Irish names . . .’ John F. was a Vatican II reformer who was mindful of where his parishioners were. Ann Woodruff: ‘He was of his time, but ahead of his time. He had a great nervousness about introducing change.’ Fellow Deepdene parishioner Noreen Minogue agrees: ‘I had the sense from him at the pulpit that he was seeing how far he could take us.’ The reforms ushered in by Vatican II necessitated that parish priests introduce sweeping new changes to Church life at the level of the parish. There is no doubt that Kelly modernised Deepdene. The old sodalities were replaced with a representative style of governance. Ann Woodruff’s 1982 sociological paper summed this up: Devotional associations, known as sodalities, have disappeared from the parish, and their passing is regretted by older people. The official

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parish groups now consist of the Pastoral Council, with its subcommittees: Liturgical (nominated members); School and Youth (elected); and Finance (co-opted). The Mothers’ Club, Basketball Club, and Tennis Club are all open to interested persons, and all open to both genders. The collectors (male); collection counters (male); lectors (mixed); liturgical offertory bearers (families); and altar servers (male) are working groups within the parish. Also operative, but without formal attachment to the parish are the Knights of the Southern Cross (fraternal—male); the League of St Thomas More (professional—male); the St Vincent de Paul Society (service—male); Parents and Friends Association (parents); and the Teams of Our Lady (married couples). Catechists (mixed) are formally attached, giving religious instruction at state schools within the parish. This listing shows that adult single persons and females have fewer structured opportunities for communal interaction and service in the parish than do males, married persons and parents. Children and those under 25 years have the opportunity for regular participation through the parish school and youth group.9

This updating included aspects of the Mass. In mid-1973, like many other priests in the diocese, Kelly introduced the Sign of Peace. (At a fixed moment in the Eucharist parishioners are invited by the priest to offer the sign of peace, such as a handshake, to those standing near them, making it acceptable—indeed, providing encouragement—for complete strangers to acknowledge each other as fellow members of the parish community.) He talked about the ritual handshake in homilies he preached during the weeks leading up to its final incorporation, so that people would not feel confused by the change. Despite the reservations of some parishioners that such an innovation would be difficult in such a traditional church (‘it’s not that kind of parish’), the Sign of Peace became a joyful part of Deepdene liturgy.10 Kelly’s reforming of Deepdene was also noted by Noreen Minogue. Minogue, Bob Santamaria’s personal assistant of the 1950s, reconnected with John F. at Deepdene, because she was a parishioner there. She was very positive about his performance as a parish priest. ‘Kelly had an uproarious special kind of laugh’, she recalled in a 2002 inter-

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view. ‘He was very flexible in how the Catholic Church should react to the changes going on. I am still a member of his last parish.’ The parishioners were divided about John F.: ‘The community was in two distinct groups. A number of them were good people but didn’t like him because he was talking above their heads. I was amazed because I always enjoyed the sermons.’ According to Noreen Minogue, it was in his sermons that the essential teacher in John F. shone through—he related the doctrinal material to the push for change that was going on. The Movement and the Democratic Labor Party died after the Second Vatican Council. ‘I had long since left the Movement,’ recalled Noreen Minogue, ‘but Santamaria and I were still friends.’11 Bob Santamaria worshipped at Deepdene when he re-married and moved into the area.12 ‘It was an irritation to have Santamaria in the parish’, Ann Woodruff added. The ‘visible obedience’ which Vincent Buckley ascribed to Santamaria probably explains why this most prominent of Catholic laymen began appearing at John F.’s Mass. The Church historian Michael Gilchrist claimed in 1980 that, at the time of the Split, Mannix failed to discipline or remove his critics, including Kelly from the role of Director, ‘against Santamaria’s advice’.

John F. clowning around in a Chinese hat at a Deepdene parish function.

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Santamaria wrote to Gilchrist on 24 March 1981 to deny this—after all, he pointed out, Kelly was now ‘my parish priest, and I would not like him to think that I “advised” his removal’. What Santamaria did say, according to a letter dated three days later, was that Mannix’s ‘general policy’ (of tolerating difference) was ‘a mistake’. Four days later he suggested that Gilchrist write directly to Kelly to point out the error.13 There were times when John F. relied on the women in his parish to give him strength in the face of adversity. The women’s group at Deepdene and the practice of girls serving on the altar were issues of concern to traditionalists in the hierarchy of the Melbourne diocese. John F. loved the Church too much to be openly defiant on these issues. Women like Ann Woodruff challenged him to hold firm to his feminist principles. He liked the sticker she had rather provocatively stuck on the back of her yellow VW: ‘TRUST IN GOD. SHE’LL PROVIDE’ it read. ‘Don’t lose that’, John F. counselled, smiling at the mixture of piety and rebellion. He was, of course, equally at ease with the men of the parish, such as Bill Clancy, Judge Gorman and Max Rundle. Barrie Dunstan was another of John F.’s parishioners at Deepdene. A finance journalist by profession, his help was sought by Kelly in communicating his own version of contemporary Catholicism to a wider audience. Dunstan was fond of his P.P. ‘He had a terrific brain’, he recalled in a 2002 interview. ‘He appeared to be awkward with people—but you had to get to know him.’ John F. was also keen to stay connected with parishioners and was extremely skilled at remembering people’s family history. Once he was celebrating a home Mass at the Dunstans’ place and two neighbours had joined in. During the chit-chat that followed, he asked them, ‘Do you know so-and-so?’ and sure enough, he had worked out some genealogical connections with them. He kept up to date with all the goings on around his bailiwick, and obtained the information he needed on the lives of his parishioners.14 John F. was also a generous host. One never went hungry or thirsty at the presbytery! More importantly, he was skilled at the politics of leading a parish. He was determined to speed up the reform process at Deepdene. He wanted greater involvement in the liturgy from women (as well as men), but the idea was still controversial. So when the

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Archbishop (Frank Little) declared that lay people could indeed be readers during the Mass, the Mons announced: ‘I have decided that every five weeks there will be no men available to do the reading!’ John F. was not a naif in matters of parish finance. Barrie Dunstan and a colleague put up a proposal to raise the school fees in order to help the parish with its loan. John F. rejected the proposal, saying, ‘This parish is rich enough!’ and the matter ended there. It was not as if he were a bully. Far from it. He knew how to work with people. The origins of Communiqué were a case in point. Barrie Dunstan tells the story well: ‘He nailed Greg Walsh, an economist, and me, one day, and said, “I’d like you to come and have lunch on Saturday afternoon”—so we went and met other parish priests there. The housekeeper put on lunch. Another bottle appeared once lunch was over and the other priests had left. The Mons explained he wanted to bring out a parish magazine. Greg and I would be the co-editors. By the time I got home I needed to lie down on the settee, around three. I said to my wife, “I think I’ve agreed to publish a magazine for the Mons!” When I asked him if we could accept advertising in this magazine, his response was blunt. “No, I’m not having ads. It’s a rich parish.” And that was that.’ This parish newsletter appeared in December 1979, with no name on its masthead, merely a plea to the parishioners that they should christen it. By the second edition, a name had been chosen—by Kelly himself!—and Communiqué stuck as a name even after Kelly’s time at Deepdene. It became an important vehicle for John F. to circulate his somewhat challenging views among the people of Our Lady of Good Counsel. Communiqué was originally issued once yearly, but became a quarterly, so there were about 40 produced in John F.’s time as parish priest at Deepdene. The magazine appeared according to no fixed schedule. ‘It came out when the Mons nagged Greg and me to bring one out.’ For stories they basically just talked to the key groups in the parish. The story might have been a new project, or news about visiting priests, or the missions. After a while they engaged a parishioner, the professional photographer Nick Quin, who contributed greatly to the visual appeal of the publication.15 Living at the presbytery with Kelly were curates, visitors from

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interstate, and other priests. John Nicholson and Gerry Leahy remember fondly their days at Deepdene in the mid-1970s: He was incredibly ordered and methodical and, despite promoting large-scale change, didn’t like small changes to his routine. John F. was a supremely spiritual man. He was in the Church each morning by 10 minutes to 6, and meditated prior to Mass for about an hour. His supreme intellect could have left many of us feeling inferior in a conversation, but John F. made sure that those he was in conversation with were comfortable. He constantly introduced new information to the conversation with ‘as you would of course know . . .’. Meals together. His love of having us (household members) at meals, as often we were out and occupied with our various roles. He would sound delighted if you phoned and confirmed that you would be home for dinner. ‘Oh good, it’s the feast of St (obscure saint), we’ll have to “open something” to honour him/her’. Whilst the housekeeper, Moira Wall, usually had her own meal in the kitchen, she would often be invited to sit down with us for dessert and, on Sundays, coffee and liqueurs. But John F. was careful to maintain the space that gave the priests around the table the opportunity for some ‘in-house’ discussion and humour. As the son of an hotelier, John F. had excellent tastes in food and liquor, and introduced many of us to foods and liquors we would otherwise have known nothing about. Breakfast. He loved ‘smelly’ cheese, e.g. Stilton—often a bit overpowering for those sharing breakfast with him—and peeled his fresh fruit with a fruit knife. We remember his disappointment when cheese went on his restricted list because of his angina problem, a condition which he played down to us as something minor. At breakfast, he would remark or inquire amusingly about such things as the state of ‘Tuddy’s Knee’ (Collingwood’s Des Tuddenham). He knew all the footy news, even though he had no real interest in the game, and would amuse us at breakfast with the players’ injuries list and the footy gossip reported in that day’s paper. He seemed to be able to ingest the contents of a newspaper, with all its detail, in a matter of minutes, so had a head-start on all of us with the news. We all pitched in to cook week-day lunches when Moira was out,

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led by John F., who had reasonably good culinary skills. We remember imported soups and Belgian spinach from Georges, spuds and grilled chops, with each of us taking a part in the kitchen preparation. Gerry Leahy was usually given the task of ‘cooking the spuds’, being the son of a farmer. He remembered an amazing amount of detail about our families, extended families and pedigrees, and would ask about various members he might have met years previously, as well as those we may have made a passing mention of. He often made the point about the lack of a moderating (especially feminine) influence on male celibates, which resulted in many priests of that era lacking social graces. ‘We don’t have anyone to say, “Well, you made a bit of a fool of yourself at X’s place tonight, dear!”.’ He joked a lot about celibacy, but had a lot of respect for the principle and ideal of celibacy. His numerous irreverent jokes about celibates were mainly directed towards those who over-acted the role. Perhaps unwittingly he used humour to illustrate that adherence to celibacy did not demand a puritanical stance. Some succinct, witty retorts live on, e.g. ‘I see Father XX died’, one of us said one morning, to which he replied without looking up, ‘How could they tell?’, suggesting that there hadn’t been much discernable activity for some time. At a funeral, as a certain two bishops processed out together in full regalia, he mumbled without a smile, ‘Look at that, you could take them for sisters’. Also at a funeral, after a eulogy by Bishop Arthur Fox, ‘Now one more terror has been added to death’ (referring to the dreaded possibility of Fox delivering a eulogy at your funeral). Other more serious, often repeated remarks, are remembered, e.g. ‘The great tragedy of the Church in our time is that it lost the working class’. In a manner that was by no means patronising, he would repeatedly refer to various ‘working class’ people, saying, ‘people like (him/her) are of course the salt of the earth. They are what the Church is about.’ Whilst a rebel at the intellectual level, he also valued obedience. Consequently, whilst criticising various directives, he would not hesitate to carry them out. There was a certain humility in that. He would criticise those in authority, but he would respect the authority itself. Although he loved company, he obviously valued time to himself too, and when at home spent most of each day by himself upstairs.

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Priests who lived in the house with him were seldom invited upstairs, as he liked to also maintain his ‘distance’. (I think I was up there once only in five or so years.) So, though essentially sociable, he was also essentially a very private person. At appropriate times, he would come toddling down the stairs looking for company and suggesting a drink— his way of giving and getting some company, and possibly of getting some idea of what was on your agenda at that time. Those who lived with him will have memories of the welcome home they received when he heard the presbytery front door knob rattle—the sounds of someone coming home. The stairs would creak with the little feet quickly descending, and there would be a cheery greeting, often with some cheeky comment. He just loved company, and he must have found the days at home lonely. He often took us (priests living in the house) and his and our friends out to dinner, and always to good restaurants. His wit was invariably very sharp on those memorable occasions. After dining well, he would reply to the waiter’s question about coffee, ‘No thank you, we have an appointment’. No matter that it was, by then, 11 pm or so. He would then mumble that the ‘appointment’ was of course with the superior coffee and liqueurs waiting at home. The old model Holden that he drove had no heating or demisting, and on the way to restaurants or functions it was the front seat passenger’s task to demist the windscreen with an old pair of pyjama pants that were stored under the driver’s seat for that purpose. Getting a park close to the restaurant or venue was always a source of anxiety for John F., and he would be on edge for the whole journey. He was not a good driver, and very impatient. ‘Move through, move through!’ he would exclaim if the car in front was slow off the mark at the traffic lights. John F. loved Georges’ and Henry Bucks’ sales, and always attended. He would come home with small items such as new toiletries for himself and little accessories for the bar. The Hill of Content Bookshop was a favourite haunt of his, and he often wondered with amusement what the staff thought about some of the ‘naughty’ titles he would order and pick up. His rejection of puritanical thought was such that he liked to amuse himself and us with naughty little verses, and would purchase collections of such from the Hill of Content.16

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The relationship between the Mons and his curates said a great deal about John F. In 1970 he was given a new curate to assist him at Deepdene. This was Peter James, who appears in the Diary simply as ‘Peter’, while most other people—such as ‘P. Crudden’, ‘T. Doyle’—are not so familiarly named. On Saturday, 3 October 1970 Kelly recorded ‘Peter’s first Communion’, the first celebrated by Peter James. Peter was a real knock-about character. The Mons encouraged him to be himself rather than conform to what Deepdene parishioners wanted or expected. Peter certainly was different. On one occasion he celebrated the shortest Mass on record. He had very liberal views—sometimes the Mons had to shield him from the authorities. After Peter James the next curate was Geoff Baron, later to serve at Gardenvale. He was a refined man, among whose hobbies was collecting Wedgwood, but he did not get on as well with the Mons as Peter James. He suggested the Mons get a dog, but the idea disappeared when the Mons wanted a poodle! It was Kelly’s peculiar form of wit. John F.’s sermons at Deepdene were restrained. He never ranted— but he got his views across to the parishioners clearly enough. His sermons were short and to the point. They were never cluttered. In his mature years at Deepdene he had learned to wear his intelligence lightly. His sermons from the pulpit were buttressed of course by what he wrote in Communiqué, and it is often through back issues of the parish magazine that we catch the subtle inflections of his thinking that might have been lost on some of the Deepdene parishioners. In one Christmas issue, for example, he wrote that the real gift given on that occasion was God’s gift of his son to humankind. There would have been some people at Deepdene who would have walked out of the church after Mass not truly comprehending what the Mons had said. Deepdene flourished under Kelly. People came from long distances to attend his Mass. Other parishioners included Tony and Kaye Byrne, who much later both worked at the Catholic Education Office. John F. asked Tony to organise a liturgical program for the young people of the parish. This was a demanding role, but it attracted an honorarium and Tony had the imagination necessary to do the job well. The so-called Contemporary Liturgy program ran from 1979 to 1981 under Tony’s direction. He would meet young parishioners at five o’clock on

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John F. with Kitty Cotchett-Flowers, a parishioner at Deepdene.

a Sunday evening and discuss the following week’s liturgy with them. Together they would choose popular music appropriate to that week of the Liturgical Year, sometimes making selections that were so heterodox that they were still likely not to be permitted a generation later! Bill and Cath Clancy were sufficiently close to John F. for Bill to become one of the Executors of Kelly’s Will. Joe and Kath Window Delaney were also good friends. Delaney was an engineer who rose to a senior level in the Victorian Premier’s Department and also served on the board of the Mercy Hospital during the 1980s and 1990s. Others included John Dillon, Fred and Kitty Cotchett-Flowers, Peter and Margaret Gill, John and Mary Hayes, Peter and Helen Johnson, Marie and Gerard Joyce, Jack and Anna Kennedy, Margaret Leahy, Pat Moran, Tom and Pat O’Donnell, and Peter and Jan Sheehan. Peter Sheehan headed up the State Government’s Treasury and later served as a Professor of Strategic Economic Studies at Victoria University.17 The medical fraternity at Deepdene included Dr Bernard Clarke, together with his wife Celia. Clarke practised at St Vincent’s Hospital. John F. was particularly fond of their children. There was also a distant

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cousin, Justin Kelly, a pediatrician at St Vincent’s, and his wife Elaine. Overall there were 50 medical people in the parish. Legal folk were also prominent in the pews at Our Lady of Good Counsel. Parishioners in this category included the late Hon Xavier and Mrs Lorna Connor. A well-known Catholic, Connor, together with his wife Lorna, had been active in both the Newman Society and the Campion Society.18 County Court Judge Frank Dyett and Mrs Rita Dyett worshipped at Deepdene in John F.’s day. Other legal families at Deepdene were Sir James and Lady Gobbo, Judge Jim Gorman and Tess Gorman, Hon. John and Maureen Keily, Justice Murray McInerny Snr, and Corrs partner Barry O’Callaghan and his wife Clare. The well-known layman Tom Butler was also a parishioner.19 John F.’s critics, ‘who feared his irascibility and his tongue’, were surprised by the success Kelly made of Deepdene.20 He turned out to be an outstanding parish priest, putting into practice many of his ideas about how the Church should operate in the world. Kelly’s inclusive style of celebrating the Mass also impressed the O’Donnells. One of his great acts of kindness was to insist on celebrating their Silver Wedding Anniversary at Deepdene with Mass followed by a magnificent dinner for family members and friends, many of whom were not Catholics. Pat and Tom were gratified by the ease with which John F. managed to include the non-Catholics in the Mass. John F.’s travels with the Australian Catechism in the early 1960s meant that his friendships extended right across Australia. Other friends were men with whom he had studied in the seminary at Werribee. In Perth one of his Werribee friends was Cambridgeeducated Monsignor Jim Bourke, a parish priest who taught English part-time at the University of Western Australia and who shared Kelly’s passion for reading. He was also the Director of what was known as the Federal Catholic Education Office. When Bourke visited Kelly at Deepdene, he caught up with the O’Donnells at restaurant dinners hosted by John F.. Similarly, Archbishop ‘Jimmy’ Carroll would call in on the O’Donnells when he was staying at Deepdene. Deepdene became famous as a haven for young priests and ex-priests in need of counsel. Unlike Footscray, where John F. had himself been a guest, there was now plenty of room in the presbytery for his own house

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guests, as well as the separate space upstairs for his library. One young priest who had a ‘bad turn’ stayed in the presbytery a while until he felt better. Many others who had become discouraged with the Church turned to John F. for help in leaving the priesthood.21 The library was the inner sanctum into which he retreated when he wanted solace. Deepdene in Kelly’s time was a parish of gentleness and intellectual honesty. Given his shyness and years of work as Director of Catholic Education, few could have guessed that Kelly would make such a fine parish priest. Alongside the continuing routine of Catholic Education Office tasks came some new jobs that were strictly to do with Our Lady of Good Counsel. On Friday, 10 May 1968, he wrote in his Diary: Office. Meeting on Science grants. Meeting on parish dance.

The two parts of his life were now fused together, at least for the moment. There was a continual succession of parish functions: a dinner dance, the inter-parish bowling competition, elections to the Parish Council, and the like. John F. had found an agreeable milieu in which to work as a parish priest.

John F. preparing for a concelebrated Mass at Deepdene.

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At the Office John F.’s responsibilities as Director went on through 1968 and into 1969. He continued to host meetings to plan for regional colleges. He participated in meetings of the Schools’ Provident Fund (later called the Catholic Development Fund), including the Fund’s Christmas Party.22 In May 1968 he took part in a Canon Law Conference, while on 13 June he was in a meeting at the office of the State Education Minister. He continued to officiate at the Marriage Tribunal and to represent the Church on the Standing Committee of Biblical Studies. New issues and concerns were emerging. One was ‘religious TV’, or ‘electronic media’, as he sometimes termed it in his Diary.23 Using various technologies to communicate with a larger audience was a constant theme in John F.’s life—it could be seen in his use of radio in the 1930s, his school textbooks, his book on theology for the laity, the handbooks for Catholic Action groups, and of course in the Australian Catechism itself. Another issue emerging at this moment in the history of the Office appeared in his Diary as ‘tertiary predictions’ or ‘tertiary planning’, indicating his interest in how many Catholic school children were completing high school and getting into colleges of advanced education and universities. It went further, for Kelly instituted research into Catholics at university. The idea of surveying tertiary students was designed to ascertain how Catholic matriculants were faring at university. Patrick Morgan, destined to become the guru of Gippsland history and culture, was just ‘up’ from St Bernard’s Essendon, and remembers the survey well. ‘There was some concern that Catholic kids were finally getting into university in bigger numbers but were dropping out in first year. It was like the concern today [2006] that private school kids are trained up to get into university, but don’t know how to survive once they get there.’24 The Jesuit whom John F. asked to draw up the survey was Peter O’Dwyer, who also included questions about the extent to which young university Catholics retained their faith.25 Finally, on Thursday 20 March 1969 came the cryptic note: ‘Raheen’. To leave office.

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Because Kelly got on well with Knox, the conversation would have been amicable. It was probably time for a fresher Director, and one who had fewer outside commitments. It is not clear whether Kelly’s thoughts about a suitable successor would have been sought by the Archbishop, and certainly there was no urgency in John F. moving on. Indeed, he stayed at the Office as Director for another two months. On Monday, 26 May he wrote in his Diary: First day from office. M.Costigan. Read Battiscombe, ‘John Keble’

It was a poignant entry, with no intimation of regret. It had been fourteen years, and moreover fourteen years of great change. John Keble was a member of the Oxford Movement, the campaign in the early nineteenth century to ‘Catholicise’ Anglicanism. It was a singularly appropriate book with which to begin his new life, given the involvement he would have with the other Christian churches in the Deepdene area. From this point on Kelly was to adopt a new identity, as parish priest of a still small but influential parish. Now he was free to enjoy the life of the parish priest. On the evening of Friday, 18 July 1969, there was a parish dinner dance. This was three days before his thirty-fourth anniversary as a priest. Most priests get their own parish much sooner, but John F. had missed the opportunity for the warmth of community that accompanies this role and gives it some purpose. Now he had the endless rounds of Parish Council (6 August), the School fete (8 August) and the Tennis Club (24 August).26 He kept some of his earlier commitments, such as what was now called the Standing Committee on Biblical Studies, the initiative begun in 1964. He also continued his censoring work, reading through the new catechetical texts that appeared in the 1970s to ensure that they were theologically accurate. On 10 September 1970 he censored Let’s Go Together for the first time. As he got older, John F.’s Diary entries became terser, and less inclined to elaborate upon the issues and events of the day. There were several reasons for this. One is that the cathartic purpose of the Diary was no longer so

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The reading room at Deepdene presbytery in 2002. [photo: Robert Pascoe]

pressing, as he became reconciled to what he had achieved as a priest. Another factor was the consequence of the more localised life lived by parish priests. They can become absorbed in their intensely parochial world and do not always have the time to keep up their diaries.27 Major international events were less likely to demand his attention in the Diary, although ‘Man walking on moon’ (21 July 1969) was one obvious exception.

Widening circles Now Kelly began to spend more time with others in the Church, outside the Education Office. On 1 October 1969 he took part in a ‘Meeting of parish priests’. Four days later he met with the Motor Mission Sisters—these were nuns who used the car as a means of ministering to people in the newer suburbs. John F. was now officiating at more weddings than before. In his Diary he reported on several ‘mixed marriages’—people from this period recall him leaving them in no uncertain terms with the significance of the Catholic ceremony. The

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Catholic Worker group hosted a visit to Melbourne by the then elderly American activist Dorothy Day (1897–1980) on 16 August 1970, which gave Kelly a chance to meet her. Kelly’s successor as Director of the Office (though not of Religious Education) was Pat Crudden. In August 1968, 1969 and early 1970, Crudden made statements in public about Humane Vitae and Catholic education that caused offence to some conservatives in the Church. This led Archbishop Knox to invite him at 11.15 am on Thursday 19 March 1970 to resign from this role and to take charge of the parish of North Blackburn.28 This was a cause célèbre in Catholic circles that reverberates down the decades since. As Crudden tells the story, in the meeting, ‘Knox was as kind as ever. He said that he could not fault my competence as an administrator but that he could not have somebody as Director who did not support Catholic Education as it had been traditionally understood.’29 Crudden received 102 letters of support, including one from Bernard O’Shea in Brisbane, and only four that agreed with Knox’s action. In his first sermon at North Blackburn, Crudden quoted the poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, ‘Heavenhaven’, which captures the moment a nun takes the veil: ‘And I have asked to be/ Where no storms come . . .’30 As the Crudden crisis unfolded at the Office, Kelly’s Diary is spare on details. He had lunch with Pat Crudden on 23 February 1970. On 21 May he had dinner at North Blackburn, with Crudden. On 22 June he read Dick Selleck’s account of the affair, published as The Reluctant Rebel. He had lunch with Pat Crudden on 25 June, and another dinner on 20 August. Crudden’s views on the future of Catholic education were set out in a book edited by Peter Gill, the University of Melbourne academic, simply entitled Catholic Education, which Kelly read on 5 September 1972. By the time Crudden’s words were in print, he was no longer in a position to effect the kinds of changes he wanted to see in Catholic education. Kelly and Crudden remained good friends for years afterwards. Crudden later left the priesthood and became a specialist in adult education. In retirement in Shepparton he remains an active parishioner. He remembers Kelly fondly: ‘He loved the Church. I never knew anyone who knew so much about shortcomings and scandals in the Church but none

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of that took away his unwavering faith and confidence in the Church as a whole. His vast and influential contribution to Catholic life in the Melbourne Archdiocese far outweighed his personal idiosyncrasies.’31 During 1970 and 1971 Kelly had more time with his old colleague John Cleary, and he travelled around country Victoria. On 14 April 1971 he and Bill Murphy, an interstate visitor, drove through Mansfield. He wrote in his Diary that it was his ‘First view since 1943’ of his birthplace, and then added, ‘Perhaps last.’ The following week he and Murphy travelled through western Victoria, taking in many of the places from Kelly’s boyhood, including Port Fairy. On 21 July 1971, he was visiting Ballarat with some fellow priests and called in at the Curiosity Shop, ‘perhaps for the first time since I was at school.’32 The O’Donnells’ friendship continued. Kelly continued to visit them, and attended Terry O’Donnell’s wedding on Saturday, 21 March 1970. John F. would drive over from Footscray and then from Deepdene to visit them (only a few suburbs away) in Welfare Parade, Glen Iris. He would arrive in his clericals, carrying a Gladstone bag, and sit in his favourite armchair in the front lounge room of the house. Out of the bag would come a bottle of wine for the table, and sweets for the O’Donnell children. The family dog became fond of dropping on top of John F.’s feet. He taught the dog to steal cheese from his pockets. The O’Donnells succeeded in getting Kelly away from his beloved books for patches of time. He once accompanied them on a barbecue at Kinglake, on Melbourne’s northern outskirts. Because he was such a gourmet there were also restaurant meals with him, at places like Casa Virgona in Brunswick Street and David Triaca’s The Latin at the top of Lonsdale Street.33 Tom O’Donnell knew there were limits to John F.’s recreational interests: ‘I would never have dared to invite him to a football game!’ John F.’s workmates were more doctrinaire about football. ‘I suspect the Office was madly Carlton because of Frank Martin and Gerry Briglia. Gerry was photographed with the monogram C.F.C. embroidered on his stock (the priest’s vest) and travelled overseas, as “Chaplain”, with the Carlton team.’34 John F. saw Dan Conquest socially more often than he had managed in the past. On 26 June 1970, a Friday night, he had dinner with Noreen Minogue, the parishioner he had first known in the 1950s.

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In June 1971 Kelly took part in a Jewish-Christian seminar—an early attempt at ecumenism in the Melbourne diocese that included visiting a service at the Temple Beth Israel synagogue in Harp Road, Kew East. On 4 August 1971 he concelebrated a Requiem Mass for Owen Dunne, a Catholic writer of the period who had written the first Catholic History Reader, The Kings of the Earth. Priests began to organise themselves more formally at this time, as a result of official encouragement from the Second Vatican Council. Together with other Melbourne priests Kelly attended a meeting in Sydney of priests setting up an association of priests.35 The association of priests continued to meet during 1972. On 22 February 1973 it became the National Council of Priests. A Senate of Priests in the Melbourne archdiocese, with an elected membership, had been established in 1970. Kelly took his next overseas trip in September 1971. Fortuitously, his first leg, to Singapore, was the first Qantas flight made by a jumbo jet. He found it a strange experience: By accident travelling on first jumbo jet Qantas was running. As far as Singapore. Enormous, claustrophobic in effect; like travelling in a mobile theatre. Film, unbelievably bad Western which I had to see as I could not read without light. Long, hot wait at Singapore in airport that is being renovated. Into T jet, much cosier. Next stop Bahrain, great heat outside, but cool air terminal. Not so many on trip after Singapore.36

His first stop was Rome, and he retraced his steps from the 1959 visit. He spent ten days there, and everything seemed even better than he remembered it. He took a bus through Umbria to Florence, and then to Venice. In Venice he suffered some of his old traveller’s anxiety (‘Nervous tension, very bad’).37 Flying to London he booked into some day tours and enjoyed being shown around. On Sunday, 24 October he took a coach tour of the Cotswolds, which he greatly enjoyed. The following week his nervousness returned and he could

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not stay long in galleries and museums. Even the British Museum failed to soothe him. On 8 November he flew back to Melbourne, via Frankfurt, Cairo, Bahrain, Colombo, Singapore and Sydney, reaching Melbourne on Wednesday, 10 November. That evening he went ‘Home’, presumably to visit his sister. He was tired for almost a week following this journey. His theological reading continued unabated at Deepdene. If anything the new role gave him more time to read. As well as his old perennials, like Rahner, he now turned to the younger scholars such as Gabriel Moran, whose Theology of Revelation and The Catechetics of Revelation he read in 1968. In 1970 he read Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger’s Introduction to Christianity; in 1975 he re-read Garrigou-LaGrange’s Cloud of the Unknowing. Among his reading for 1977 was Küng’s On Being A Christian, John J. McNeill’s controversial The Church and the Homosexual, Donald Goergen, The Sexual Celibate and Congar, Challenge to the Church, a mix of contemporary and classic works. This reading prepared him well for the challenge of the National Pastoral Institute (NPI).

The National Pastoral Institute (NPI) The National Pastoral Institute (NPI) was John F.’s institutional attempt to implement the theological reform and renewal of the Vatican Council among the post-1965 generation of priests and female religious. In a significant endorsement of his capacity, he was appointed to this role by the Australian Episcopal Conference (later known as the Australian Catholic Bishops Conference). John F. said in an interview around this time that he had doubted whether a Catholic university in the Australian context ‘could reach as good an academic standard as the secular universities’.38 It was a parlous time for Catholic catechetics—there were many instances of secondary school students refusing to attend religious education classes.39 It is difficult to overstate the significance of the NPI as a practical application of Vatican II principles within Australia and its neighbouring countries. Although the core of the student population

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was Victorian, Victorians made up only one-third of the total. Large numbers travelled from New South Wales and Queensland to study at the NPI. The remainder came from the other states and territories, from New Zealand and Papua New Guinea, and from further afield (Table 10.1). For many of the participants, the NPI was their first experience of sharing the intimate details of their faith with members of the other sex, let alone crossing the divide between religious and lay. This was precisely what the Council invited Catholics worldwide to do, to see themselves as active players in the one Church. Thinking back in 1988 on the beginnings of the NPI, Kelly recalled how strange an institution it was: To make an example that seems trivial now; it was decided that the first step towards forming a genuine living community would be that everyone—staff, students, priests, religious—would call one another by their Christian names (or religious names where they were still being used) … The announcement of the use of Christian names . . . was received in some cases with stunned silence, and a few of the students never really accepted it.40

The NPI was intended to be ‘pastoral’ in the strict sense of the word— to provide a space within which parish workers, catechists, teachers and lay apostolates could foster their specific vocations. On 11 February 1972 the Mons was formally offered the directorship of the National Pastoral Institute by Archbishop Knox on behalf of the Bishops Conference. The following month Kelly organised meetings to discuss the new Institute. On 5 April he met with Brother Needham in Sydney to talk about the Institute. Brother Laurie Needham’s life was changed by meeting Kelly and he worked with him at the NPI from 1973 to 1975. He recalls a conversation with John F. about the Church. What is the Church? ‘He’s you and me, and a whole lot of other bastards!’ came the reply. Apart from using the masculine form to describe Mother Church, this is vintage Kelly. Kelly knew that the ‘other bastards’ would inevitably outnumber his intimates, the ‘you and me’ that belonged to his circle. Needham thought Kelly had about six doctorates in him—if the

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opportunity had arisen—on theology, history of the liturgy, art, literature, history generally, and the history of the Church. Accommodation for the Institute was secured in Elsternwick, in Melbourne’s south-east, in part of a building that served as a novitiate for the Presentation Sisters. The NPI was run on a shoestring. By 24 May 1972 an Institute Council met, and on 31 July John F. made his first report as Director. He was clearly keen to get the new entity organised and operating as quickly as possible. In September a brochure was produced explaining the Institute, ‘at last’, wrote Kelly in his Diary. To send this brochure out took two whole days, 8 and 9 September, which suggests that it might have gone to a very wide range of people across Australia. By now there were four permanent members of the Institute staff. The Council began to meet on a regular basis. By November 1972 the Institute had made its acceptances for the following year’s study. On 2 December Kelly set out his plan for the program of the first term. Then, on Monday, 26 February 1973 he was pleased to write: ‘Pastoral institute opened, successfully.’ From this point on he was at the Institute almost every weekday. At this time the International Eucharistic Conference was held in Melbourne. It was a major event in the life of the local Church, including among its distinguished foreign visitors Lawrence Cardinal Sheehan from Baltimore. In its second week of operation the Institute met at Mt Eliza, a beachside suburb on Melbourne’s southern edge, in a workshop facilitated by Brother Ronald Fogarty, the venerable historian of Catholic Education in Australia. The first group, including reverends Peter Matheson, Peter O’Rourke and Peter Nicholson, were sent to the course with one day’s warning by Knox. On Saturday, 10 March, as a result of this week, Kelly assessed his own performance as a teacher. Attempt to record points in week at Mount Eliza that are especially relevant. My whole relation to people, God in people, my long standing difficulty to open up, expand. 1. Listen rather than speak. 2. Listen to what people are feeling. X.

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Recognise people are ill-at-ease, have problems. Do not simply discuss them. B.U. Look at people when talking. X. Be content with silence; do not try to fill it in with nervous talking. Do not use humour as an escape. Face situations, comfort people, w[ith] patience and kindness. Too low an opinion of how other people rate oneself. Respond to people rather than from self. Mask hiding real self; fear of rejection, fear of being hurt.41

It is not clear where these points came from; perhaps one of his fellow instructors took him aside. It is remarkable that a 63-year-old educator was prepared to try to improve his teaching style. The NPI was adult education at its best. One of its graduates, Sister Margaret Woodward, understood and articulated well the underlying pedagogical philosophy at the Institute, that teaching is the process of ‘shared learning’, ‘for it involves mutuality rather than some sort of parasitic relationship in which the teacher takes down his knowledge from the bookcase and dispenses it to the passive studentrecipient. Learning, in this understanding of its meaning, is not merely an intellectual exercise, engaging mind and memory.’ This insight into learning and teaching had direct relevance for the Church: ‘we have too long tried to make men Christians without recognising the importance of freeing Christians to become men. We have ignored the truth of the Incarnation: that Jesus came, not only to reveal the Father to us, but also to reveal us to ourselves.’42 During the months that followed, Kelly devoted almost every weekday to Institute business. It was not until May that he began to report feelings like ‘Depressed’ and ‘No energy’ in his Diary. He experienced a level of enthusiasm and excitement about the NPI that he had not felt for some years in the Catholic Education Office job. When the second term finished on 18 August he was immediately thrown into another spiritual-teaching activity, but surprised himself:

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Sunday, August 19–Friday, 24 Retreat for deacons to be at Cheltenham. Agreed to give it reluctantly, but found I could communicate something and learnt much. A happy experience.

His rate of devouring books slowed down in 1973, but he did not seem to mind. Every other year from 1957 to 1976 he was on a plane somewhere, quite remarkable at a time when flying was not commonplace. In 1973 and 1974 he was too busy, and too committed to the Institute, to fly interstate. The NPI work passed to his successors by 1976. (His Diary for the period from February 1974 to April 1976 is missing.) On 3 June 1977 he attended an NPI function at St Mary’s College (at the University of Melbourne) that attracted 75 people. He attended key NPI events, such as farewells to staff, meetings of alumni, and annual dinners. Kelly’s immediate successor as Director was Reverend Jim Briglia, who led the NPI from 1976 to 1982. He was a classmate of Joe O’Connell’s and the brother of Gerry Briglia. He was followed by Sister Rosemary Crumlin (formerly Sister Mary St Thomas, a Parramatta Mercy). Rosemary Crumlin is a gifted educator and talented artist whose pencil sketches of NPI workshops vividly recall the excitement and intensity of the learning that took place. She was Director from 1983 to 1986 and was succeeded by the last Director, Sonia Wagner (1987–88). The Institute closed because its work had been done and the bishops were not prepared to invest in its future. There was already talk of a national university for Catholics. The Australian Catholic University was created in 1990 by the amalgamation of all the Catholic teachers colleges in the eastern mainland states. In a period with no Catholic university in Australia, and limited opportunities for theological dialogue among Catholics, the NPI stands out as one of John F. Kelly’s greatest achievements. In assessing the significance of the NPI, one historian has likened it to Corpus Christi in London. Sister of Mercy Rosemary Crumlin was a graduate of Corpus Christi and became a founding staff member of the NPI. The full-time, one-year course which resulted in a Diploma provided a fresh and contemporary spiritual experience for clerical,

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religious and lay people from all over Australia and New Zealand. Among the illustrious visitors to the NPI can be counted Ninian Smart, founding professor of Religious Studies at Lancaster, and Thomas Groome and Mary Boys from Boston College.43 10.1: NPI enrolments, 1973–87, according to type of student Year

73

74

75

76

77

78

79

80

81

82

83

84

85

86

87

Lay men

0

0

2

6

10

8

6

6

6

7

14

15

21

17

9

Lay women

0

3

8

8

17

10

8

8

6

15

22

27

32

34

17

Sisters

15

31

28

44

30

44

26

28

26

33

28

32

34

27

17

Brothers 3

7

10

9

7

7

7

7

7

6

3

11

10

1

2

Priests

3

1

3

3

6

2

1

2

0

0

1

3

1

0

1

37

39

67

56

84

53

50

49

52

56

72

91

91

71

44

Total

Source: Rosemary Crumlin, interview with Robert Pascoe, Brighton East, Vic, 29 January 2006.

The National Pastoral Institute was a brave and important venture in offering a form of adult education to a grand total of 912 people over the fifteen years it was in operation.

The right of young girls to serve on the altar reflected the new mood of the church in the 1970s.

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Later years as parish priest Kelly’s regular priestly duties continued. On 21 April he offered a Mass for the Serra group, a group of pious Catholic laypeople. Later in 1972 he became involved in the parish’s golden jubilee celebrations. On 22 October 1977 he gave a talk to the Knights of the Southern Cross. The parish work came easily to him, although on occasion, as in 1979, he was faced with a typical priestly dilemma: Received, not altogether happy, a Greek Orthodox girl into the church who is to marry a lad of Jugoslav parentage.44

Later that year he organised discussions about what the parish could do for refugees, commencing on 23 August 1979. A solution came unexpectedly. There was a house in Abercrombie Street, a block north of the church, which was bequeathed to Our Lady of Good Counsel by a grateful parishioner. The parish accountant declared, ‘We’ll get a good price for this house!’, but the Mons had a different idea. First it became a refuge for battered wives, and then, later, a place where refugee families could get temporary accommodation. In 1980, just on ten years after her Melbourne visit, Dorothy Day died and in Melbourne Kelly participated in the Requiem Mass offered for her on 17 December. The Mons socialised a great deal during this period with Brian Leonard, Tom Doyle, the O’Donnells, Jim Briglia and Rosemary Crumlin, John Cleary, Peter Matheson and the Begleys. He rarely got back to St Monica’s Footscray, where he had lived the longest of any place in his life. He had dinner there on Friday, 7 April 1978 and noted in his Diary: ‘First time in the house since I left it.’ He had parishioners Tom Butler and Joe Delaney to dinner on 16 February 1980. In 1980 he began socialising with Brendan Hayes, a young priest with whom he shared a passion for books. John F. served a lunch in the presbytery on Saturdays for any priests who cared to drop in. In his Diary he called this his ‘12 o’clock group’ and he was pleased when the gathering was large. Ann Woodruff got to know Kelly both as a parish priest and as a friend. To her, John F. was a very good cook himself, but at restaurants

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John F. concelebrated with Monsignor Tom Doyle at his 25th Anniversary Mass.

was fond of saying, ‘No garlic, please! It doesn’t suit me’, as if he were an unreconstructed Irish-Australian and a naif in matters culinary. In fact garlic interfered with his digestive system. He very much understood the importance of people eating together. Among Ann Woodruff’s favourite photographs of John F. is one taken of him at her 60th birthday, being driven away in her godson’s sports car. She holds on to this memory of him—laughing and relaxed, looking back fondly at his friends with the expectation of another happy occasion soon to be had together. As early as July 1972 Kelly began to express concerns in his Diary about his health. On 10 September he reported: Not well lately. Tightness of chest; frequent stopping when walking.

The first year of teaching at the Institute, 1973, passed without any major health scares. His health remained stable during the rest of the decade, and he tried from 1979 to resume the pattern of walking that he had enjoyed while living at Footscray. On 30 October 1979 he suffered a ‘bad turn’, and on Christmas Day he wrote that his ‘angina

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[was] not good’. By the time he got to his 45th anniversary of ordination he was not well: Forty five, old, not well, weary, depressed, with so little after so long.45

On 4 September he complained of a ‘bad night, angina, painful foot’. In April 1976 he took another overseas journey to Europe, this time with Brian Leonard. It was the third of what would be four European sojourns in John F.’s life. They began in Germany, which had not changed much since Kelly saw it in 1959, and then travelled down to Italy, still recovering from the recent earthquake in the north. He then went to Venice and Florence. He was reading books with some connection to the area, such as Trollope’s He Knew He Was Right and Ruskin’s Mornings in Florence. In Rome Kelly arranged to meet Cardinal Knox on 25 May and found him ‘very friendly’. He once more visited his favourite churches, including S. Clemente. On the Sunday, he had lunch with Cardinal Knox and a certain Aldo.46 The next day he flew to London, where he stayed just a week before flying home. A year later, in May 1977, he read back over his Diary notes for Munich and ‘recreated’ this part of his journey. Perhaps he turned to the books that related to Munich and re-lived the experience of walking through that city and its treasures. Kelly’s reading now broadened into Australian history in this period. In the middle months of 1978 he read the first four volumes of Manning Clark’s A History of Australia. He was beginning to reflect on his own part in this history. On 26 July he attended a meeting looking at the history of the YCW. In October he read Michael Hogan’s The Catholic Campaign for State Aid. In September 1979 he returned to one of his staple books, Virginia Woolf ’s To The Lighthouse. Among his books for 1980 was the history of Port Fairy by Jack Powling, published that year and offering him valuable clues to his own boyhood. On 13 March 1981 he read John Molony’s I am Ned Kelly, which is partly an evocation of the landscape of John F.’s childhood—and completed on the balcony of his parents’ hotel in Mansfield—while on 30 April he read Santamaria’s autobiographical Against the Tide. On 25 July 1983 he read Campion’s Rockchoppers, a classic account of growing up Catholic in Australia, and on 22 August he read Buckley’s Cutting Green Hay.

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Kelly’s fourth and last overseas trip was in 1981, from June to August. Once more he began in Rome, meeting ‘Sam’ (Reverend Peter Matheson). The time in Rome summoned up powerful memories of earlier journeys, as he made his way back to familiar places. In Florence the concelebrant at the Duomo changed the 7.30 Mass from Italian to Latin for Kelly’s benefit.47 In Venice he ‘bought some handkerchiefs for Mary’s friends’.48 He took a train to Milan, and then another train to Rome. He flew to London and hired a car to drive around England and Scotland. John F. was always extremely grateful to Sam because he drove the car all around England and Scotland. John wanted to visit cathedrals he had not yet seen, such as Carlisle, and they visited distilleries in Scotland. Coming around a steep bend in the Highlands, they nearly ran into a sheep that looked like Malcolm Fraser. John F. loved to tell that story. Sam said that John F. would say Mass every morning if possible, wherever they were.49 Kelly flew back to Melbourne and Sam continued his doctoral studies in Rome. Unlike previous trips this one was not marred by periods of depression or anxiety, no doubt because he had Matheson’s company. On 15 July 1982 he began to write the history of the Deepdene parish. A month later he had completed a first draft. In September it went out for printing, in time for the parish’s Diamond Jubilee Mass, offered on Sunday, 7 November 1982. In November 1983 he experimented with the idea of a Children’s Mass. This was evidence of his pastoral energy. He kept up a steady stream of articles for Communiqué, the parish newsletter. Close liaison with the parish primary school is an important aspect of the parish priest’s role, since he is the employer of the principal and the staff. In 1983, on 9 September, John F. signed the builder’s contract for the first part of school extensions. He had appointed a new Principal a few months earlier, Maureen Burke, the school’s first lay principal. She succeeded a wonderful line of F.C.J. sisters who had run the school for six decades. Kelly offered a Mass to farewell the F.C.J. from Deepdene. John F.’s health held up well in the closing months of 1981 and into 1982. On 22 April 1982, however, he experienced a ‘lapse of memory’. He started 1983 on a very sombre note:

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After celebrating the 1982 Diamond Jubilee Mass in the beautiful grounds of Genazzano F.C.J. College, Bishop Fox, John F., Archbishop Little and Reverend Peter James are all smiles.

Saturday, January 1, 1983 Very tired, seemed quite lacking in energy, and [wishing] to sit down indefinitely doing nothing. No concentration mentally, and little power physically. Walking is dragging one’s feet. The last months have impressed on me that I am old, that I have lost so much percipience, resilience, confidence. Only in these months have I realised with increasing intensity the isolation, the loneliness of old age. Mine is a specially isolated life.

He was 72. He still struggled with loneliness in the midst of people whom he loved and who loved him. Throughout January he complained that one foot was ‘arthritic’. He struggled through September 1984: Saturday, September 1 Felt worse yesterday and today than for many years.

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Things did not improve for him in 1985. Even his beloved books did not cheer him up, as he revealed when he compiled his regular annual list of reading for the preceding year: Thursday, January 3 Home. Spent time listing books read last year, and the Trollopes and Henry Jameses I have read during the years with the years and times I have read them: Waste of time for a man of seventy-four.

He was upset early in the new year with the loss of one of his oldest friends: Wednesday, April 10 Went to Caritas Christi to see John Cleary; found he had died this morning. Exhausted feeling so often lately. Tonight, could not read.

The death of Cleary hit him hard. Again he turned to Woolf, reading the third volume of her diaries. The Mons remained close friends with Peter James after he left Deepdene, visiting him at Melton South in Melbourne’s western suburbs on 17 December 1985. Other new dinner companions in this period included Monsignor Brian Walsh, parish priest at Our Lady of Victories in nearby Camberwell, and Terry Laidler, then chaplain at the University of Melbourne (who later left the priesthood). In the middle months of 1985 he helped Jim Griffin write his famous biographical piece on Mannix for the Australian Dictionary of Biography. There were sixteen applicants for the honour of writing the Mannix biography for the 1986 volume of the prestigious Dictionary, but the job went to Jim Griffin, because the co-editors, Geoffrey Serle—an agnostic of Presbyterian background—and Bede Nairn— a reputable Sydney Catholic—did not want hagiography and were impressed by Griffin’s earlier contributions to the Dictionary. He had done entries on the missionary bishop Alain de Boismenu (1870–1953) in Volume 7 and Father William Hackett S.J. in Volume 9.

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Griffin offered Dictionary readers a version of Mannix which was concise, terse and intimate.50 The Griffin entry on Mannix so shocked some people that Kelly’s involvement remained a closely guarded secret. Sir Bernard Callinan, the genial conservative who chaired the National Commission on Catholic Education, was particularly mortified to read Griffin’s account, not realising that Kelly was involved in its production. Kelly had moved a long way from his early affection for Mannix and was now quite willing to share details of the prelate’s personal life that seemed incongruous in a public secular domain.51 On 12 June 1985 he gave a talk on Catechetics at the Catholic Education Office. In this talk, brilliant in the extreme, he took his listeners on a wonderful journey into the world of nineteenth-century catechetical thinking as a way of demonstrating that they should understand the Vatican II changes for what they were—reasonable reflections of historical circumstances. This is one of the few speeches Kelly gave that is recorded verbatim.52 On the stage with him was Kathleen Dunlop Kane, one of Melbourne’s prominent Catholic laywomen. Kathleen was an openhearted, gregarious person who liked to hold court at the family dinner table. She held her views with strong intellectual foundations, was widely read, and enjoyed the company of visitors to her house, young and old. She was passionate about the history of the Catholic Church in Victoria, including Catholic education, writing several histories that gave a nuanced, detailed and altogether positive account of this story. Her histories were upbeat and positive because she understood that a Church as broad as hers was driven as much by the energy and beliefsystems of all its workers as by its institutional continuities. John F. read her books.53

The end at Deepdene Mary Kelly continued to be a fixture in his life. Now when he wrote ‘Home’ in his Diary, she was the only Kelly living there. Mary took an overseas trip on 1 June 1968, returning on 17 September. Aunt Ellen

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survived into 1968, but died two days after Mary went overseas, 3 June 1968. Mary needed an operation of some kind on 12 July 1976, so her brother visited her every day in hospital for six weeks afterwards. Finally, on 31 August he took her home. Again in 1978 she needed hospital treatment, from 16 October to 5 November. Then on 11 December she was taken to the Cabrini Hospital in Malvern for a few days. At the end of 1984 and in the early months of 1985, when his own health was poor, Mary returned to hospital on several occasions. She went back into hospital on 4 May 1985, and in his Diary he kept a dayby-day account of her ups and downs. By 24 May she appeared to be better, but then she ‘rather suddenly’ died late in the evening of Monday 27 May, after he had gone home. The day after her Requiem, held on 30 May, he suffered an accident that suggests how unnerved he was: Friday, May 31 To Turner exhibition to try something to steady my nerves, but too restless to enjoy it. In Swanston St knocked down by policeman on motor-bike but not, I think, hurt. That Sunday he turned again to Woolf’s diaries. The traffic accident severely bruised his left leg and he was in pain and very depressed for some months. On 1 August 1985 he wrote that he was ‘almost at [the] end of my tether’. On 5 September he complained that it was ‘Another of those empty days which are becoming a pattern’. By 26 October his reading was becoming impaired: As on other days no ability to read for more than a minute without going into a dazed state.

He read Woolf’s first volume of Letters on 10 November. As he now approached 75, Kelly felt his health was not good and confessed to his friends that little things were driving him mad.54 In January 1986 he began packing up to leave Deepdene. It was time to retire.

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An older John F. at a pensive moment.

237

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The Feast of the Assumption, August 15 As Mary alone of all mere creatures since the fall had never had original sin, as she was the Mother of God and had formed His flesh from her own, as it was through her body the Word became one of our race, her body was not allowed to corrupt in the grave, but was taken to Heaven in glory. The resurrection of the body which will happen on the last day happened immediately after death to the Mother of God. Hence the Assumption is to Mary what the Ascension is to her Son, the day of triumph. John F. Kelly, Through Christ Our Lord, p. 188

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11 The end Camberwell, 1986–92 Unemployed at last John F. hardly ever talked about his personal life or his family, even to close friends like Ann Woodruff. He talked a little, however, about his sister Mary, who bequeathed him her home. He later sold the St Kilda home and, with the profits derived from debentures purchased by his parishioners in his name, was able to purchase a house in which to retire in Inglesby Road, Camberwell, near Our Lady of Victories basilica. He could have chosen to live with other priests, but ‘I don’t want to end my days with those shits!’ was an oft-expressed retort, according to Ann Woodruff. He dreaded the thought in old age of losing his own intellectual agility—his most wonderful asset—as a consequence of being trapped as an old man inside a shared house with some of his contemporaries. He moved into the house in Inglesby Road on 21 January 1986. In the first few days he took some walks, as best he could manage, in his new neighbourhood. Inglesby Road is within the shadow of Our Lady of Victories, running along its southern boundary, not far from 239

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At Camberwell John F. welcomed visitors, especially the women from his parish and Reverend Peter James.

Camberwell Junction. He noted in his Diary that it was the fiftieth anniversary of his going to Kyneton, so it seemed somewhat fitting that he no longer had the responsibility of a parish or a church appointment. On Sunday, 2 February he noted drolly: ‘Mass privately on a Sunday!’ The thought of not celebrating the Eucharist in public on a Sunday was a novel one for him. On Sunday 2 March there was a farewell Mass for him at Deepdene. Many of his Deepdene friends called by to see him in the new house. During March 1986 he carefully arranged his books in order on the new bookshelves specially installed in the house. Kelly had a visit from Peter James in the afternoon of 8 April and commented that James looked ‘not at all well’. A week later he had a call from Wilma Hodgson (Peter’s sister) at Melton South to say that his old friend had cancer of the pancreas. He went to visit Peter James almost every day for the next few weeks. Kelly’s negative attitude to the perils of institutional living became evident when Peter fell ill. He did not want him to be committed to a nursing home. The women of Deepdene parish instead made a roster to look after Peter in John F.’s own house.

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By September Peter James was clearly deteriorating. He died on 8 October 1986, and John F. celebrated a Mass for him in the house the next day. Tom O’Donnell was present. The Requiem Mass was held on 13 October, at the Cathedral to accommodate the crowd, followed by a Mass at Deepdene the following day. Kelly observed an anniversary Mass for Peter James each year, and in October 1988 a memorial window to him was installed at Melton South. John F.’s own social life remained active, even though he often felt depressed. On Sunday 11 May he and Tom Doyle celebrated the younger priest’s 52nd birthday. Five days later he had dinner with Susan and Robert Fordham, the Deputy Premier. He regularly went back to Deepdene for lunch on Sundays with his successor, Reverend Patrick Duggan, and also with parishioners. More people appeared in the Diary in this period as visitors and dining companions, including Reverend Michael Elligate, Peter Gill, Max Rundle, Reverend John Hannon, and Reverend Mark Reynolds, the Flowers. John Hannon was a younger priest and good friend of Peter James who began to get to know John F. on his visits to Inglesby Road to see Peter. After Peter’s

In retirement John F. continued to enjoy fine meals, here with Justin and Elaine Kelly and Reverend Michael Elligate. [photo: Reverend Michael Elligate]

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death John frequently had Sunday lunch with John F. at his home. When the cooking of the roast became too much for the older John, the roles were quickly and competently reversed. They became very good friends. Even in his retirement John F. loved the company of younger priests, whom he encouraged and supported in their ministry. Some of the women who had looked after Peter James, and others as well, continued to look after John F. Like all elderly and frail people, he loved to get out for the foodstuffs, to meet people in the street, and plan the next gathering. Priest friends would take him to the barber’s, never a long outing! Brian Leonard was still a good friend in these last years. ‘John F. was such a gourmet that when he joked in later life that he might be stuck with Meals on Wheels, I said, “Come to my place!” I was at Toorak for twenty years and had Marie O’Loughlin as my housekeeper. She did the dinner. It was St Patrick’s Day [1986]. She remembered him very well from her childhood at Kingsville.’ The O’Donnells deeply appreciated the closeness of the ‘family’ Masses at Inglesby Road, celebrated frequently with their daughter Anne. On one memorable occasion John F. ‘suggested’ to Tom that he should go home to feed their dog, Jody, and return to prepare dinner—

Monsignor Tom Doyle and his sister Lorna Crough remained close friends of Kelly’s to the end. [photo: Reverend Michael Elligate]

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‘Would you go to feed Jody and let Pat and Anne stay with a lonely old man?’ As on many other occasions Tom prepared dinner, acting on instructions transmitted from John F.’s lounge room to the kitchen. During January and February 1987 Kelly did not drive, having had a car accident on New Year’s Eve. His health fluctuated. On Friday, 15 May he had a scare: A very unpleasant experience about 5 this morning. Felt danger of vomiting; very giddy. Could not come back to bedroom except crawling, difficult to get into bed.

In June he was admitted to St Vincent’s Private Hospital for tests, broke a rib in the hospital bathroom, and went back to Camberwell with John Hannon as a companion for a few days. He was well enough for Tom Doyle’s silver Jubilee Mass at Deepdene on 19 July. During much of 1988 he was better, but he had a ‘bad turn’ while visiting the O’Donnells for dinner on Saturday 10 September. He was having more and more difficulty with his walking. He had visibly deteriorated after the death of Peter James. When he was in rehabilitation as an old man, he vowed two things: never to be forced to do handicrafts again, and never to talk ‘from the pulpit’ (as it sounded when lying down in bed). Nonetheless, the Mons continued to read and write prodigiously. On 14 February 1987 he read Sweet Mothers, Sweet Maids, the anthology of women’s stories that was part of the new cottage industry of Catholic Australiana. He and some others put together a book about the life of Peter James, launched at Melton South on 28 November 1987.1 On 15 June 1988 he was interviewed by a student from Loreto Mandeville Hall undertaking a history project. He continued to read his favourite novelists, such as Trollope, Henry James and Woolf, and also the Classics. There was a small table beside his armchair in the lounge room on which he kept the current book he was reading, as well as the everyday books: a battered weekly missal and one of the volumes of Dante’s Divina comedia in the Temple Classics edition of 1962. It was always a great pleasure to call in on him and talk about what he was reading.2 In 1991 he read the leviathan Moby Dick. On 28 June 1988 he commented on how poorly he now read:

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Recently finished Iliad and Dante again, with very little development of understanding and appreciation. I find Dante less easy to translate than thirty years ago.

Kelly also continued to read religious and theological texts; he went back to his favourites, such as Garrigou-LaGrange’s Cloud of the Unknowing in 1988, Newman’s Apologia the following year, together with Daniélou’s God and Us, and St Thérèse’s Life in 1990. In 1991 he read Jean Galot’s Theology of the Priesthood. Until 1989 he was still reading an average of two books each week—the only difference was that he tended to read more fiction and general works at the expense of theology. On 17 July he was interviewed by a ‘Mercy Sister preparing a paper on Catechetics in the 60s’. In September he wrote the article for the NPI publication issued to mark the Institute’s closing on 26 November.3 He persisted with the Classics:

In his last years he drew comfort from his priest friends and his books. [photo: Reverend Michael Elligate]

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Monday, December 5 For some time feeling very unwell, especially in mornings, better in afternoon and evening. Very depressed, finding it difficult to read consecutively. This afternoon began Dante and The Iliad again, first for weeks.

As he read them he placed short pieces of paper in them to mark key passages. He never wrote on books, even in pencil. He lamented his loss of Greek in these last years. Peter Matheson and John Hannon were constant visitors to his house in 1988, 1989 and 1990, often staying the night to keep John F. company. He kept up a stream of social occasions nonetheless, but his health was getting worse. In August 1990 he wrote that he was ‘deteriorating rapidly’, with two falls on successive days.4 By December 1990 he had lost a lot of sight from his left eye. On 1 January 1991 Matheson and Hannon took John F. on a tour of the Barossa for five days. He loved every minute and regaled them with stories that were taperecorded for posterity.5 The next two years, 1991 and 1992, were quieter ones for Kelly. He kept his Diary going right to the end. On 23 December 1991 he was in hospital again: A bad turn, ultimately a turn that put me physically into the group I was already in chronologically, a very old man, weak in legs and arms, bladder control, etc. In Camberwell Private Hospital (how long? a week or more?) then to Peter James Geriatric Centre until December 7.

He apologised for his handwriting, which had become ‘almost illegible’, thanks to the Parkinson’s he had begun to suffer. The following year he described 1991 as his ‘year of collapse’ with fewer books read.6 On 11 April 1992 he was well enough to go to St Mary’s, East St Kilda, and concelebrate the wedding of Denise Hogan, the niece of Peter James. It was to prove his last public celebration. On 26 April 1992 there was a touching detail in his Diary:

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Last night began to wear pyjamas for the first time for years (except when in hospitals). Am beginning to feel the cold more intensely, although the weather has been good.

During 1992 he continued to read, particularly his favourites, such as Newman, James, and Shakespeare. His last religious books included The Life of St Thérèse, Anthony Cockshut’s history of English agnostics, The Unbelievers, Boylan’s Difficulties of Mental Prayer once again, Newman’s Parochial and Plain Sermons, volume 5, and Bruce Vawter, On Genesis. His friends continued to visit regularly. In the last entry in his Diary, on 9 October 1992, he reports that he is off to hospital again. His handwriting is very difficult. Then there is nothing more. But the habit of reading had persisted to the end. At Caritas Christi hospice he was trying to read the Letter to the Colossians in the Greek. It is the first Lesson for the Office of Readings between 29 December and 5 January: If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is seated at the right hand of God . . . Put to death what is earthly in you: immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry. (Colossians 3.1, 3.5)

He also asked John Hannon to bring him Boswell’s Life of Johnson and Manzoni’s The Betrothed. Kelly and Hayes talked about Manzoni on 30 December.7 He died peacefully in his sleep just before dawn on 31 December 1992. His funeral was held at Deepdene in the first week of 1993. The homily was given by Bishop Joe O’Connell. ‘He was undoubtedly a genius’ was O’Connell’s judgement. There was a curious absence of family at the funeral. There were some cousins in the body of the church, but they were strangers to the many priests and Deepdene laity who had thronged Our Lady of Good Counsel on that occasion. But, at the conclusion of the Mass, as the coffin was taken out of the church, there were no family members following it. Pat and Tom O’Donnell looked at each other and then turned to follow John F.’s body. They

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realised that they were essentially ‘family’ and that they had lost a very special person. Following his instructions, a dinner was held in John F.’s memory at Jacques Reymond, a fine restaurant in the Melbourne suburb of Prahran, not far from where Mary had lived, and his books were distributed among his friends, based on their intellectual interests. His book collection remained as a living expression of his life and work. Having been given a large slice of the 6000-book library, Father Brendan Hayes was obliged in his Healesville presbytery to lay out hundreds of books on spare tables and other surfaces downstairs in the two-storey house. Hayes then moved to a larger presbytery in Armadale, where the books could be better tended. They are a physical reminder of the powerful intellect of this scholarly and deeply spiritual priest.

John F.’s coffin is preceded by mourners.

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The Feast of Christ the King This feast, which Pius XI instituted in 1925, has a meaning for us all. We are subjects of Christ the King, bound to complete fidelity . . . By Baptism and Confirmation He has given us the right, and the duty to strive actively to spread that Kingdom, to strengthen those subjects whose loyalty is weakening, to bring back the rebels, to bring in new subjects. Pius XI himself made it clear how lay-folk could best do all this, by Catholic Action. John F. Kelly, Through Christ Our Lord, p. 177

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Speaking for John F. If the late John F. Kelly could have read this account of his life, he would have smiled at various points. He would have been pleased that this, his first biography, put into words some of the things he cared deeply about, but could not say himself for fear of offending his contemporaries or revealing things about himself that he felt were better left unsaid. Most of all, he believed that Santamaria and the Movement were a distortion of that Catholic idealism shared by the intellectuals of Kelly’s and Santamaria’s generation. Kelly was born in 1910, Santamaria five years later. They both embarked upon ‘a campaign’. Until about 1946 they were concerned for the same ends, and, significantly, agreed on the means. As Santamaria metamorphosed Catholic Action into a secret organisation, the Movement, ostensibly at the service of the official Church, the gap between the two men widened irreversibly. Next, Kelly struggled to join the dots between his passionate embrace of Cardijn’s ideals and the practicality of making them come 249

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alive for the country-town children in Kyneton and the young working-class people of West Melbourne. He and John Cleary enunciated the Catholic Action principles in theological terms, based on their close reading of the foundational French-language texts. But Kelly did not have the strength of personality to lead groups of young parishioners in this cause. Instead, he became one of the main theoreticians behind the movement. His modesty prevented him from receiving the credit owed to him for this behind-the-scenes work. For many years Kelly did not think highly of himself as a priest. He felt that he fell short of what he might have achieved. He shared with hardly anyone but his Diary his doubts and hesitations, not to mention his moments of anxiety and weeks of depression. Those who criticise him for not being more forthright in his public advocacy misunderstand both the hierarchical nature of the old Irish-Australian Church and Kelly’s own scholarly temperament.1 He did not seek the role of Director of Catholic Education, so his persistence in it for fourteen years is all the more remarkable and commendable. He gained in priestly confidence when he became P.P. at Deepdene and director of the N.P.I. His great gift was his intellectual understanding of the context in which he worked. John F. was prescient, almost prophetic, in his views of the Australian Church. He foresaw a Church that had moved beyond its Irish origins, had left the ghetto, was more sharply focused on social justice, and more inclusive of its women, both religious and lay. In his lifetime the Church evolved from the marginal social place where it had been positioned at the time of his birth to the central role it enjoyed at the time of his death.

The post-Irish church in Australia To understand why Australia was so virulently sectarian, to an extent that marked it out from other British settler societies, the situation of the Irish Catholics vis-à-vis the Ulster Protestants has to be better understood. One of the very few social scientists to offer a convincing explanation for this is James Jupp, who has focused on Port Fairy (and south-western Victoria as a whole) as a major epicentre of this sectarian

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divide. Jupp’s view is that the Ulster Protestants of the region sided with the Scots graziers against the poorer farming Catholic Irish in a triangle of competing interests. Kelly’s immersion in Irish and Catholic localities, notably Ballarat and Port Fairy, gave him an acute sense of the visceral intensity of sectarian politics. He was deeply conscious of the enormous work undertaken by young Irish priests and nuns in the building of the Church in Australia and at the same time concerned that this Irish flavouring had held the Church back. He welcomed postwar migration as crucial to the broadening of Catholicism in Australia.

Australian Catholics leaving the ghetto Education was the key to the process by which Australian Catholics moved out of the ghetto they had found themselves in at the beginning of the twentieth century. Kelly understood perfectly the necessity for scholarships, improved conditions for teachers, and better schools, where Catholic children could aspire to better careers than their parents had. Kelly’s interest in families, however, was more than sociological. He knew everyone’s family tree and could place individuals he met in the larger genealogical picture. In Kyneton, Monsignor Martin, whom he enormously respected, had enthralled him with stories about the early days of the Church. In West Melbourne he got to meet residents in his census work and to begin to connect people’s lives with the bigger urban story. In his school inspections he met teachers and young Catholic schoolchildren whose careers he would follow in later years. At Deepdene he took a keen interest in the families of his parish and saw at first hand some of the benefits of upward social mobility enjoyed by Australian Catholics in the postwar period.

Catholic teachings on social justice Kelly demanded of fellow Catholics more than that they should be materially successful. His books of the 1950s, beginning with Through

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Christ Our Lord, followed by the Catholic History Readers, and then the Australian Catechism, had in common a preoccupation with what it meant to be Catholic in everyday life. The first of these was a layperson’s guide to the liturgical year, with a strong accent on social justice. The feasts and seasons of the year were not merely punctuation marks to divide up the twelve months, but were moments to reflect on aspects of Catholic belief. The history textbooks were an attempt to put in young people’s language a detailed understanding of how this Church had come to be, the challenges it faced, and the role of Australia in that wider story. Finally, the Catechism was a handbook to action for young schoolchildren. The times were propitious for Kelly. The Second Vatican Council, coming midway through his ministry, was a call to Catholics to open a window on the world, to understand the social context in which they lived rather than merely be personally devout. The decline of the dogmatic Communist alternative and the end of the Cold War produced an opportunity for progressive Catholics in the West to reclaim ground on many of the key social issues that faced people in countries like Australia. The National Pastoral Institute was a chance for Kelly to engage in a national discussion with opinion leaders in the Church about the issues facing Australian Catholics.

John F. and women in the Church John F.’s efforts to include women while he was at Deepdene were born of a much longer and sustained interest in addressing ‘the women’s question’ in Church life. He was a feminist long before the label was common or indeed popular, and he applied a feminist reading to events and activities in the Church. He understood better than most males of his generation that the Church depended on women and that a lot of its work was carried out through the agency of women. He belonged to a Church whose attitude towards women was influenced by its Irishness. Women’s role in the Church was hidden—their activities were a version of ‘secret women’s business’. The nuns, whom John F. so greatly admired, quietly and loyally did their work. In the

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parish, women had their roles and their involvement, especially in the female sodalities.2 The Catechism was inclusive of women, of Mary Magdalene and other female biblical characters. In it he offered a fresher and more inclusive approach to the role of both men and women in the Church. The first significant female influences on him were, naturally, his mother and his sister, Mary. John F.’s mother is not described as ‘pious’ in the way that his father is. The impression we get of her, rather, is of an intelligent, hard-working hotelier, in whose the name the licence was often put. She had been a teacher before marriage. John F.’s grandmothers and aunts are still mysterious figures in his biography. The Mercy nuns who taught him at Mansfield and then later at Seymour were clearly of great influence. He had many good women friends throughout his life who resembled his mother, women like Sister Veronica Lardner (Principal of Vaucluse) and, some decades later, the nurse-educator Ann Woodruff. These two women had in common that they were intellectuals, dedicated teachers, and committed to the Church, or at least to a Church that accommodated the views and needs of its women. The religious sisters and laity who worked with him on the Catholic History Readers and the My Way to God texts were prominent in his life. John F. recognised that there were Catholic women among the laity whose views were noteworthy, if not always highly influential outside the immediate circles in which they worshipped. At Deepdene his ministry was tailored to the needs of groups who had been historically marginalised—including the women of the parish. His diaries are sprinkled with references to women with whom he dined and interacted easily. Joe O’Connell recalls that John F. had a favourite joke. He would pose the question, ‘Who are the four greatest men in the history of the Melbourne diocese?’ The answer he sometimes gave, with an impish chuckle, enumerated four women: Eymard Temby, a Principal at Star of the Sea, Gardenvale, the leader of the Presentation Sisters for a decade and founding principal of Christ College, Oakleigh; Phillipa Brazil, a Mercy, who ran the Mercy Hospital; Agatha Rogers, another Mercy, prominent in family welfare;3 and Carmela Connell, a Brigidine sister who went on to become the Congregational Leader. He recognised the value and worth of these women in the making of the Church.4

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Another of his favourite jokes (an old Catholic witticism) ran as follows. ‘What are the three things even Almighty God does not know?’ One was how much money the Franciscans owned. The second was why the Jesuits were formed (or what they were thinking). And the third, perhaps the most interesting, was how many orders of female religious there were! This joke appealed to his wicked humour. John F.’s attitude towards women became more visible later in life. Marie O’Loughlin was struck by the strong contrast between the John F. she knew as a young parishioner at Yarraville and the older John F. after Vatican II. ‘You never saw him in casual clothes before Vatican II’, she remembered in a 2002 interview. ‘He was buttoned up in his black clerical garb.’ But in later life he was completely the opposite—he reserved his priestly attire for official occasions. One night she ran into him at Melbourne’s Hilton Hotel when his hairy chest was showing out of his open-necked shirt! 5 Kelly’s advanced ideas about women went back a long way, well before the topic was fashionable. James Griffin remembers a conference at Newman College in 1966 where he shared the platform with John F., who talked about the significance of liberalising education for the sake of women’s advancement.6 Kelly’s sister was also important. John F. visited her in her East St Kilda apartment every Sunday night. Several people have commented that he always dressed formally, in his ‘clericals’, when going to see his sister, even long after this had ceased to be the fashion for Catholic priests in Melbourne. John F. did not talk much about his family. It is likely that Mary Kelly was an intellectual like John F.; according to the electoral rolls, as we have seen, she was of independent means. Mary Kelly remained something of a mystery, even to close friends of John F.’s like Pat and Tom O’Donnell, who in twenty years of friendship with him, never met her. There was money in the Kelly family, so it is possible that she never had the need for paid employment. She received a good Catholic education at Loreto Convent, Portland. In those days there was some old-fashioned snobbery directed against publicans’ daughters. Some elite Catholic schools would not admit them as students. One of Mary’s friends was Eileen McConville, a distant relative of the O’Donnells. When Mary died it was to the O’Donnells that John F.

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entrusted some of her most valued ornaments and objets d’art. One of these was a large green vase, which John F.’s mother had bought for herself when she received a ten-shilling note on her wedding day. For the O’Donnells it was a potent symbol of the connection they felt with the Kellys. Almost one hundred years after it was purchased, this vase has pride of place in their front lounge room.

Our Lady of Good Counsel Deepdene parish continued to flourish after John F. Kelly’s history of the church was reprinted during 1997 as part of the O.L.G.C. seventyfifth anniversary celebrations.7 The migrant house in Abercrombie Street continued to be a place of safety for refugee families in the various waves that came to Australia in the 1980s and 1990s. Most of the parishioners from John F.’s day continued to worship at Deepdene, and numbers were constant. None of the liturgical innovations from Kelly’s day appeared novel any longer.

The Catholic Education Office Once government funding arrived, the Catholic Education Office grew in size and capability. After Crudden the next directors were priests who had worked with Kelly, Frank Martin (1970–80)8 and Tom Doyle (1980–2002). The teachers and principals in the schools were now almost all lay. The religious Orders continued to own and operate their own schools in what was now a ‘system’. These teaching Orders carry traditions of learning that go back into mediaeval Europe. Just as university disciplines transcend particular systems of higher education, so too the Religious Congregations draw on generations of experience in particular fields. The Sisters of Mercy, for example, can now boast almost two centuries of educating girls from poorer families. Whether in a congregational or a parish school, each student is treated as a human being with inherent dignity. This core Church social teaching influences all aspects of school operation, from

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systems of pastoral care all the way through to the design of curriculum. The school buildings are decorated with potent symbols of Catholicism, such as statues, crucifixes and ecclesiastical pictures. These symbols provide a constant universe of meanings and associations for the students, even if they move from one Catholic school to another during the course of their formal education. By 2005, more than a decade after Kelly’s death, there were 384 Catholic primary schools in Victoria, with 97000 students enrolled, and 99 secondary schools, with 85000 enrolled. Some of the problems that bedevilled John F. were still there, mostly centred around how to build a system while allowing local autonomy, but ‘the show’ was still going. The annual turnover was $1.2 billion. It is now the fourth biggest school system in Australia. For the Catholic system to have prospered during a period of such significant decline in the public school system was no mean feat, for the Catholic system achieved this result without compromising its mandate to teach the poorest members of the community. Using the collectors’ districts from the 2001 Census to measure socio-economic status, Catholic schools enrolled students in equal measure from each part of the overall population. By contrast, richer families tended not to attend government schools to the same extent. While 12 per cent of the government school population were children from the poorest tenth of Victorians, only 7 per cent of this population came from the richest decile. The opposite was true of independent non-Catholic schools, with only 4 per cent of their enrolment from the poorest tenth and a massive 28 per cent from the richest decile of the population.9 Tertiary Catholic education was the new ingredient after John F.’s time. The Australian Catholic University, a conglomeration of all the old Catholic teachers colleges in Eastern Australia, now strives to offer a genuinely Catholic alternative form of higher learning.

Kelly’s favourite authors Kelly’s taste in poets, playwrights, novelists, historians and theologians has remained relevant to fellow Australians and Catholics since his

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death. Similarly, those of whom he tired, such as the middle-brow Catholic writers like Belloc, Chesterton and Dawson, have faded from view, and are now regarded as historical curiosities. Kelly never tired of the Norwegian Sigrid Undset, but, significantly, did not return to her in later life. His favourite theologian was almost certainly Newman, whom he read throughout life. The French-speaking theologians, such as Congar and de Lubac, produced classics that helped shape Kelly’s thinking about some of the big Catholic issues of the twentieth century: the meaning of the Resurrection, the role of the laity in the Church and political life, and the interpretation of Scripture. In political philosophy he enjoyed Edmund Burke. These choices would continue to be shared by many intellectuals in the West. Vatican II inspired a new generation of theologians whose explorations of key issues made them better known. Populist accounts such as Honest To God disappeared from view fairly quickly, while theologians like Küng, de Chardin and Schillebeeckx occupied a place in the general reading public their predecessors had not enjoyed. Many of the older theological texts in Kelly’s personal library are now available on the internet. Among the Classics, Kelly continued to read Plato, Homer and Thucycides, but was sufficiently broad-minded also to read Catullus. In his declining years he turned once more to The Iliad and to Dante for comfort and direction. Shakespeare was also a constant companion, but typically through reading and not necessarily through attending performances. Australians are now also more likely to appreciate their own writers, with some of Kelly’s favourites—Buckley, Clark, Neilson, White—in the ascent. The core of Kelly’s reading, however, was the nineteenth-century novel, and these writers now enjoy a resurgent and dedicated following. In particular, Austen and Trollope have enjoyed a revival of critical and public interest, with some of Kelly’s favourite novels now popular BBC TV series. Henry James remains a more difficult proposition for the public, as he did for the young Kelly, but popular interest in him is growing appreciably. Finally, of the moderns, only one really stood out for Kelly. He turned again and again to Virginia Woolf in moments of doubt and

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darkness in his life. Woolf’s masterpiece, To the Lighthouse, also became a TV series. The famous Cornish lighthouse at St Ives on which it was based survived demolition at the hands of the economic rationalists in 2005. The bean-counters said the lighthouse no longer served a useful purpose and should be pulled down. But cooler heads won the day, urging that it had become too potent a symbol of the creative life. Its rescue was a symbol of permanence in a rapidly changing world. Kelly would have approved.

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Acknowledgements

The author wishes to thank his employer, Victoria University, for granting him Special Leave in 2003 and a sabbatical in 2005; the University of Melbourne for hosting this sabbatical; and the following for their assistance: Ms Rosie Adams, Mr Peter Annett, Reverend Gerard Beasley, Sister Veronica Brady, Ms Anne Cameron, Reverend Ed Campion, Mr Anthony Cappello, Mr Shane Carmody, Archbishop Francis Carroll, Dr Peter Casey, Emeritus Professor Max Charlesworth, Mr Dermot Clancy, Dr Rosemary Clerehan, Archbishop Mark Coleridge, Dr John Collins, Reverend Dan Conquest, Mr Pat Crudden, Mr Peter Dalton, Brother Brian Davis, Monsignor Tom Doyle A.O., Ms Geraldine Doogue, Mrs Betty Duffy, Mr Barrie Dunstan, Reverend Michael Elligate, Dr John Fitzsimmons, Hon. Robert Fordham, Justice Robert French, Sister Agnes Gleeson R.S.M, Mr Gerry Gleeson, Emeritus Professor James Griffin and Helga Griffin, Reverend John Hannon, Archbishop Denis Hart, Ms Chris Heffernan, Reverend Brendan Hayes, Mr Tom Hazell A.O., Mr Michael Kane, Ms Leonie Kearney, Ms Trish Keenan, Mr Gerry Leahy, Professor Herman Lombaerts F.S.C., the late Reverend Brian Leonard, Brother Bill McCarthy, Professor Barry McGaw, Professor Stuart Macintyre, Emeritus Professor John McLaren, Reverend Chris McPhee, Mr Vin McPhee, Mr Graham 259

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Marshall, Reverend Frank Martin, Reverend Peter Matheson, Miss Noreen Minogue, Mr Terry Monagle, Ms Margot Morgan, Mr Phillip Naughton, Ms Rachel Naughton, Dr John Nicholson, Dr Val Noone, Mr Gerry O’Brien, Bishop Joe O’Connell, Emeritus Professor Tom O’Donnell and Mrs Pat O’Donnell, Associate Professor Tim O’Hearn, Reverend Frank O’Loughlin, Mr Richard Overall, Ms Carla Pascoe, George Cardinal Pell, Ms Cathy Portelli, Professor Helen Praetz, Dr Anne-Marie Priest, Bishop Christopher Prowse, Monsignor Les Tomlinson, Ms Violet Ramsdale, Reverend Brendan Reed, Reverend Paul Ryan, Professor Peter Sheehan (Victoria University), Ms Judith Staudte, Sister Kathleen Tierney R.S.M, Reverend Christopher Toms, Ms Margaret Watts, Ms Miranda Welch, Emeritus Professor Ann Woodruff, and Dr Beverly Zimmerman.

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Notes

Introduction 1 Diary, 17 July 1938. 2 Ibid., 6 June 1937. 3 Ibid., 2 October 1939. 4 Ibid., 28 January 1941. 5 Kathryn McGrath, The Age, 20 November 2005. 6 This biographical note is based on Edmund Campion, ‘The new catechisms: Mgr John F. Kelly’, Great Australian Catholics, Aurora, Richmond, Vic, 1997, pp. 191–3. 1 A childhood in the Australian bush 1 Main Street Traders of Mansfield, 1854–2000, Mansfield Historical Society, Mansfield, 2004, pp. 69, 75. 2 John Molony, Ned Kelly, Penguin, 1989, p. 131. John F. Kelly read the first edition of Molony’s book when it appeared in 1980. 3 Kathleen Dunlop Kane, Adventure in Faith: The Presentation Sisters, Congregation of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Melbourne, 1974. 261

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4 Nenagh is the first big town on the road to Dublin from Limerick. John F. passed through there once: ‘a biggish church, not much else’ was his curt summary in December 1992. This was a reference to the remains of the Franciscan friary, with three tall lancet windows, built by the Kennedys in 1240. Nenagh also boasts its own Castle, from the same period, with a circular, four-storey 100-foot keep. Nenagh was rather more important than John F.’s memory allowed. 5 High Street Traders of Mansfield, p. 69. 6 A diary kept by a woman in the same period and place documents her descent into madness on account of the harsh conditions. (Ailsa McLeary, with Tony Dingle, Catherine: On Catherine Currie’s Diary, 1873–1908, Melbourne University Press, Carlton, 1998). 7 Fahey, Charles, ‘ “A Fine Country for the Irish”: The Irish in 19th Century Rural Victoria’, Melbourne Irish Studies Seminars, Newman College, 27 May 2003. 8 Barbara O’Brien, ‘Mansfield link with Manchester martyr Michael O’Brien’, Tain, no. 18, April–May 2002, pp. 18–19. 9 Norman P Tanner, The Councils of the Church: A Short History, Herder & Herder, New York, 1999, pp. 87–96. 10 Francoise Waquet, Latin: Or the Empire of a Sign, Verso, London, 2001, Chapter 4. 11 Gavin Brown, ‘Mass performances: A study of Eucharistic ritual in Australian Catholic culture’, PhD, University of Melbourne, 2003. 12 Ibid. The Australian Church was shaped in the Roman mould because it was formed in the Irish tradition, itself romanised during the 1850–75 period by Paul Cardinal Cullen. 13 Reverend Brendan Hayes, personal correspondence, 20 January 2006. The diocese became Canberra and Goulburn in 1948. Refer Australian Dictionary of Biography, Vol. 7, p. 192. Kelly himself believed that Barry was a fine bishop of Goulburn: approachable, pastoral and administratively capable. 14 Ronald Fogarty, Catholic Education in Australia, 1806–1950, Melbourne University Press, Carlton, Vic, 2 vols, 1959, p. 269. 15 Mercy Archives, Alphington, Vic, series 637, box 05. 16 Bronwyn Higgs, ‘ “But I wouldn’t want my wife to work there!” A history of discrimination against women in the hotel industry’, Australian Feminist Studies, no. 14, Summer 1991, pp. 69–81.

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Fogarty, Catholic Education in Australia, p. 353. Ibid., p. 393. Ibid., p. 357. Reverend Brendan Hayes, personal correspondence, January 2006. Diary, 21 May 1939. Ibid., 5 February 1938. Ibid., 10 December 1937. For another Catholic hotel family in this period, see Robert Pascoe, Sierakowski: Five Generations, Brian C. Sierakowski, Perth, 2003. 25 Books Read. 26 Sister Mary Wickham, Music on the Hill: Memories and Voices, Spectrum, Richmond, Vic, 2002, p. 25. 2 An adolescence by the seaside 1 Pamela M Marriott, Time Gentlemen Please! An History of Western District Inns 1840–1915, P. M. Marriott, Corowa, NSW, 2001, pp. 104–31. 2 Diary, 14 February 1935. 3 Dunstan, ‘A pioneer, a teacher, an optimist’, Communiqué, no. 11, July 1985, p. 3. 4 Port Fairy Gazette [P.F.G], 5 January 1922, p. 4e. 5 Ibid., 5 January 1922, p. 2d. 6 Ibid., 29 January 1920, p. 2e. 7 Ibid., 19 January 1920, p. 2b. 8 Ibid., 9 February 1920, p. 2d. 9 Ibid., 19 January 1920, p. 3b. 10 Ibid., 27 January 1921, p. 3g. 11 Ibid., 19 January 1922, p. 3a. This was the means by which the Remington typewriter company got its QWERTY keyboard accepted as the industry standard in the late nineteenth century. Students learnt on this keyboard and then the Remington model became the most popular of the various typewriters available. 12 Ibid., 3 February 1921, p. 3d. 13 Ibid., 20 January 1930, p. 4b. 14 Ibid., 12 January 1920, p. 3. 15 Ibid., 27 January 1920, pp. 2e, 3a–3b. 16 E.g. Diary, 16 December 1938.

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17 James Jupp, ‘The making of the Anglo-Australian’, in James Jupp, gen. ed., The Australian People, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2001, pp. 796–803. 18 One of the early Dame Edna lines described the positioning of a Catholic church building on a hill overlooking the town: ‘they always get the best positions’ (Age, 19 January 2006). 19 Martin A. Syme, Seeds of a Settlement, M. A. Syme, Melbourne, 1991, pp. 96–7. 20 P.F.G, 20 January 1921, p. 2c. 21 Ibid., 15 January 1920, p. 6a. 22 Ibid., 29 January 1920, p. 2d. 23 Ibid., 20 January 1921, p. 2e. 24 Lidio Bertelli and Robert Pascoe, ‘Immigrant Italians and the Australian Catholic Church: Folk festivals and the Evil Eye’, in Abe Wade Ata, ed., Religion and Ethnic Identity: An Australian Study, Spectrum Publications, Richmond, Vic, 1988, pp. 230–44. 25 Sister Ignatius [O’Sullivan], The Wheel of Time, The Sisters of Mercy, 1954, p. 240. 26 Ibid., p. 243. 27 Maree G. Allen, The Labourers’ Friends: Sisters of Mercy in Victoria and Tasmania, Hargreen, North Melbourne, 1989, p. 166. 28 Mercy Archives, Alphington, Vic, series 637, box 05. 29 Veronica Brady, A Crucible of Prophets: Australians and the Question of God, Theological Explorations, Sydney, 1981, p. 3. 30 Ibid., pp. 45–6. 31 Ibid., pp. 69, 74. 32 Diary, 11 April 1940. 33 Ibid., 12 February 1941, at Cowes. 34 Ibid., 17 February 1939. 35 Ibid., 21 May 1939. 36 Ibid., 7 November 1939. 37 E.g. Diary, 18 December 1938. 3 A scholar emerges 1 S.P.C.B Annual, 1927, St Patrick’s College, Ballarat, p. 33. It is not clear whether Whitehead was a senior student in Kelly’s year or a teacher at the school.

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2 Manly-trained, Mayo was then quite elderly. He donated a monstrance to the college in 1928 and died in 1933. 3 Peter Matheson and John Hannon, conversation with John F. Kelly, 8–10 January 1990, Barossa Valley. 4 Books Read. 5 Diary, 29 February 1936. 6 John McLaren, Not in Tranquility: A Memoir, Australian Scholarly Publishing, Melbourne, 2005, p. 21. 7 Diary, 9 October 1952. 8 P. C. Naughtin, History and Heritage: St Patrick’s College, Ballarat, 1893–1993, St Patrick’s College, Ballarat, 1993, p. 120. 9 Diary, 28 January 1947. 4 A young man’s calling 1 Michael Thomas Gilchrist, ‘The role of Dr Mannix in Victorian Catholic education, 1913–1923, and its determinants’, M.Ed, University of Melbourne, 1978, pp. 57–60. 2 Meagher later became the Provincial of the Society of Jesus and pursued a progressive agenda, including teacher training for the Jesuits. 3 Go to www.abc.net.au/myfavouritefilm/locations/default.htm for details (accessed 8 February 2006). As it turns out, this classic depiction of Catholic life in Australia deals not with the training of diocesan priests but with the education of adolescent boys in preparation for a vocation as religious brothers. Although the original idea for the film dates to 1937 in the work of Irish writer Liam O’Flaherty, the Australian film is set in 1953. One critic has praised the choice of locale for the film, as the Werribee building is suitably ‘claustrophobic’, and has noted that the ending in fact gives a very positive image of the Brothers who teach 13-year-old Tom Allen. (Christos Tsiolkas, The Devil’s Playground, Currency Press, Sydney, 2002, p. 52.) 4 She and the other graduating women students of her year stand in the old Wilson Hall in a photograph dominated by men in academic gowns (Hume Dow, ed., Memories of Melbourne University: Undergraduate Life in the Years since 1917, Hutchinson, Richmond, Vic, 1983, facing p. 110). The mistake is an odd one, as Dow and Jock Tomlinson were good friends in the English Department in the 1960s. Clare’s name is sometimes given as ‘Clare Dorothea Tuomey’.

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5 James Griffin, ‘Obituary: John F.rancis Kelly, 1910–1992’, Eureka Street, vol. 3, no. 1, 1993, p. 33. 6 Maria Mantello, Now and Then: The Sicilian Farming Community at Werribee Park, 1929–49, Il Globo and the Vaccari Italian Historical Trust, Carlton, 1986. Mr Puccio, the gardener, appears in a photographic portrait—an older man, shading his eyes from the sun, and standing dutifully in the rear behind two unnamed seminarians and a young girl named Gaetana Burgio, with her mother, Mrs Paolina Burgio, outside the seminary’s wrought-iron gates. (p. 23). 7 Our analyses of Kelly’s theological and religious reading were greatly assisted by Reverend Frank O’Loughlin. 8 In 1940 Undset joined the Norwegian Resistance to fight the Nazi occupiers. 9 Diary, 28 June 1935. 10 Ibid., 20 July 1935. 11 Ibid., 21 July 1935. 12 Ibid., 14 August 1935. 13 Ibid., 6 November 1935. 14 This rallying cry was made famous by Brother W. T. O’Malley, the legendary football coach at St Patrick’s College, who taught there from 1928 to 1976. St Patrick’s won the Ballarat Public Schools Association football premiership every year from its origins in 1913 to 1953, a record 49 times. 15 Diary, 3 July 1935. Dawson’s book had appeared in 1931—he was writing actively on this theme in the late 1920s. 16 Ibid., 2 January 1935. 17 Ibid., 8 March 1935. 18 Ibid., 4 April 1935. 19 Ibid., 27 August 1935. 20 Ibid., 6 November 1935. 21 Ibid., 7 January 1935. 22 Ibid., 20 April 1935. 23 Ibid., 2 June 1935. 24 Ibid., 7 July 1935. It is not clear to whom H. and P. referred, but it would seem that John F. felt guilty about harbouring such negativity toward fellow seminarians. 25 Ibid., 16 May 1935. 26 Ibid., 2 June 1935.

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Ibid., 8 April 1935. Ibid., 26 April 1935. Bishop Joe O’Connell, personal correspondence, January 2006. Diary., 17 January 1935. Ibid., 28 December 1934. Ibid., 17 January 1935. Ibid., 8 September 1935.

5 A difficult vocation 1 Vincent Buckley, Cutting Green Hay: Friendships, Movements and Cultural Conflicts in Australia’s Great Decades, Penguin, Ringwood, Vic, 2003, p. 10. This memoir’s unusual title probably alludes to the third harvest made by farmers, so called because by this time the hay was freshly-sprouted and hence green (Verlyn Klinkenborg, Making Hay, N. Lyons Books, New York, 1986). Buckley had shared his life story several times earlier, especially by means of his poetry— thus the title. A further allusion may be that he was attempting through his apostolate at the University of Melbourne to bring students into the Catholic fold before the times were right. ‘How’s it cutting?’ an Irish person will ask of a friend or neighbour, meaning, ‘How are you succeeding with your life or your work (as if everyone still worked on the farm)?’ The Communists would make their move in 1940s Australia ‘before or after the harvest’ (p. 122) and the Catholics had to be ready with their counter attack. Buckley believed that his Church was too caught up in the lack of decision about where it was going for him to serve it well in his apostolate at the University. 2 Charles Fahey, ‘ “A Fine Country for the Irish”: The Irish in 19th Century Rural Victoria’, Melbourne Irish Studies Seminars, Newman College, Melbourne, 27 May 2003. 3 Buckley, Cutting Green Hay, p. 31. 4 Ibid., p. 33. 5 As part of its title, each Catholic parish is given the year of its foundation. Kelly’s parishes were mostly colonial in origin (Kyneton 1852, West Melbourne 1873, Flemington 1891, Footscray 1890) but Deepdene was created in 1922. 6 Buckley, Cutting Green Hay, p. 35. 7 Diary, 13 February 1936. 8 Ibid., 25 April 1936.

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9 James Waldersee, A Grain of Mustard Seed: The Society for the Propagation of the Faith and Australia, 1837–1977, Chevalier Press, Kensington, NSW, 1983, pp. 354–68. 10 Diary, 14 March 1936. 11 Ibid., 19 May 1937. 12 James Griffin, ‘Archbishop Daniel Mannix’, talk at the University of Melbourne, 16 August 2005. 13 Diary, 1 April, 23 December 1936. 14 Ibid., 27 January 1937. 15 Ibid., 1 February 1937. 16 Ibid., 28 April 1937. 17 Ibid., 5 June 1937. 18 Ibid., 28 June 1937. 19 Ibid., 15 May 1937; 25 degrees Fahrenheit is a few degrees below freezing point. 20 John Shaw Neilson (1872–1942) was living at 160 Gordon Street, Footscray, in his final years, but John F. does not seem to have met him personally. His poems are reproduced at http:nla.gov.au/nla.arc-34359. This extract from ‘The Good Season’ (1927) gives the flavour of his work: The sun, it was like a moon, it was never so mellow: Your heart would be thinking of plenty and always at ease: How drowsy the cattle were—oh, and the butter was yellow, All summer the little round parrots fell out of the trees. The shearing was late, for you never could get the fine weather; ’Twas close on to Autumn the last of the wool was away. The wheat was too rank and the year was too rich altogether; We started at Easter the second time cutting the hay. 21 Diary, 27 July 1937. 22 Violet Ramsdale, The Journey Turns Full Circle: The History of St Mary’s Mission, Kyneton, 1852–2002, The Author, P.O. Box 144, Kyneton, 2002, p. 23. 23 Diary, 22 October 1937. 24 Ibid., 14 November 1937. 25 Ibid., 10 December 1937. 26 Ibid., 23 December 1937. 27 Ibid. 28 Diary, 1 February 1938.

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29 Ibid., 6 February 1938. 30 Quoted by Malcolm Bradbury, The Modern World: Ten Great Writers, Secker & Warburg, London, 1988, p. 15. 31 A D Moody, Virginia Woolf, Oliver and Boyd, Edinburgh, 1963, pp. 30–1. 32 Diary, 21 April 1938. 33 Ibid., 24 February 1938. 34 He mentions his ‘usual Catechism class’ at the hamlet of Lauriston on 30 April 1938, as well as classes in Taradale (Diary, 10 May 1938). 35 Cf Diary, 4 October 1938—this comment was in reference to the children’s incapacity to comprehend the nature of Communion as the Body of Christ. 36 Diary, 13–14 October 1938. 37 Ibid., 1 November 1938. In this entry he writes that he ‘hates’ working on the gazette. 38 Ibid., 11 September 1938, where he writes that ‘I do not spend enough time in learning my sermons; consequently I have not sufficient confidence in the pulpit’. Cf also 29 May 1938. 39 Ibid., 2 May, 2 September 1938. None of Kelly’s photographs are extant. 40 Ibid., 27 May, 19 July 1938. 41 Ibid., 27 November 1938. 42 Ibid., 2 October 1938. 43 Ibid., 9 October 1938. 44 Ibid., 28 March 1939. The use of ‘Daniel’ for Mannix is interesting. 45 Ibid., 1 April 1939. McKenna is one of the few people in Kelly’s circle to be described in the Diary with his Christian name. 46 Ibid., 7 March 1947. Memories of his loneliness at Kyneton came back to him during a return trip on 26 February 1940. 6 War and poverty 1 Father Eugene Landale, ‘Introduction’ in Landale, ed., Challenge to Action: Addresses of Monsignor Joseph Cardijn, Geoffrey Chapman, Melbourne, 1955, p. 11. Cardijn often recounted the story of this meeting, including his visits to Australia in 1958 and 1966. See also, Val Noone, ‘A new youth for a new Australia: Young Christian Workers around 1960’, Footprints, vol. 12, no. 2 (December 1995) p. 22. 2 Diary, 1 April 1939. 3 Ibid., 2 April 1939.

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Books Read. Diary, 3 April 1939. Ibid., 11 April 1939. Ibid., 17 May 1939. Ibid., 13 May 1939. Ibid., 25 May 1939. Ibid., 22 April 1940. Ibid., 15 May 1939. Ibid., 8 October 1940. Cf Diary, 8 January 1941, for an example of this lack of confidence, as well as scores of other entries. Ibid., 4 June 1939. Ibid., 8 October 1939. Ibid., 12 June 1939. Ibid., 22 August 1939. Bruce Duncan, Crusade or Conspiracy? Catholics and the Anti-Communist Struggle in Australia, UNSW Press, Sydney, 2001, p. 13. Diary, 20 December 1939. Ibid., 21 July 1939. Ibid., 19 August 1939. Ibid., 22 August 1939. Ibid., 7 November 1939. Ibid., 9 November 1939. The Cardijn Internet Site includes an historical essay by Val Noone, ‘A late but apt Christian response to the industrial reverendolution’. See also Max Vodola, Simonds: A Rewarding Life, Catholic Education Office, Melbourne, 1997, pp. 12–15. Interview with Pat Crudden, Shepparton, 9 September 2005. Diary, 4 October 1939. Ibid., 19 October 1939. Ibid., 30 November 1939. Ibid., 7 February 1940. Ibid., 15 February 1940. There is an interesting passage in Sally Kennedy, Faith and Feminism: Catholic Women’s Struggles for Self-Expression, Studies in the Christian Movement, Sydney, 1985, p. 161, where she discusses similar problems encountered by the leaders of girls’ clubs, especially parish groups;

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‘one of its results was the more localised and passive nature of activities of these groups’. Ibid., 13 March 1940. Some issues of a successor publication are held by the Melbourne Diocesan Historical Commission. Cf Diary, 23 March 1940, where he mentions discussing J.O.C paper with Lombard and Ford, the latter ‘full of ideas, good ones, most of them and not afraid to express them’. As well as Diary, 30 March 1940: ‘letter from Simonds this morning in acknowledgement of the copy of “The Chaplain” that I sent him. Encouraging.’ Also, on 22 April 1940 he wrote ‘I hope that “The Chaplain” will be a success. Dr Simonds was encouraging in his acknowledgement of the first number, Dr Mannix liked it. I have not heard any other opinions that count.’ Whilst he praised the strength of prayer among the Legionaries, he believed that the group focused excessively on devotion to Our Lady, to the exclusion of the rest of the Mystical Body of Christ (Diary, 22 November 1939). Diary, 7 February 1940. This was the first real meeting (the others had been during university holidays). On this occasion he was also asked to talk to the University Catholic Action group. Idem. Kennedy, Faith and Feminism, p. 169. Diary, 8 March 1940. Kennedy, Faith and Feminism, pp. 167–9. Cf Ibid., p. 162. One of the Grail founders, van Kersbergen, had written in 1938 to a leader of the Catholic Girls’ Movement in Melbourne: ‘I would like to suggest that you . . . pay the parish priest a personal visit, and explain tactfully the idea of the course. Don’t be insistent, it is not necessary that every parish is represented, but it is important that every parish priest knows about it and is not passed by. You understand me don’t you . . .’ As quoted in Kennedy, Faith and Feminism, p. 168. Diary, 8 March 1940. Ibid., 13 March 1940. Ibid., 8 March 1940. Ibid., 30 March 1940. Kennedy, Faith and Feminism, pp. 188–9. Edmund Campion judges Bouwman to be one of the Great Australian Catholics, Aurora Books & David Lovell

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Publishing, Richmond, Vic, 1997: ‘A woman written in history: Judith Bouwman’, pp. 95–7. Kennedy, on the contrary, has argued that ‘the optimism of the 1930s that an active, strong, dynamic and relevant role for lay Catholic women in the Australian Catholic Church was possible, and even likely, was snuffed out in the 1940s’. This change came about due to ‘the stamp of clerical authority’ being ‘firmly planted’ on laywomen’s organisations. Cf Kennedy, Faith and Feminism, p. 169. Diary, 9 February 1940. Ibid., 23 February 1940. Idem. Paul McGuire, Australian Journey, William Heinemann, London, 1939, pp. 132–134. Diary, 14 October 1939. Ibid., 2 February 1941. Ibid., 17 March 1938. Ibid., 23 February 1940. Ibid., 8 March 1940. Ibid., 6 June 1939. And later in the sisters’ schools. Peter Matheson and John Hannon, conversation with John F. Kelly, 8–10 January 1990, Barossa Valley. Diary, 14 March 1938. Ibid., 28 May 1939. Cf Bruce Duncan, Crusade or Conspiracy?, p. 27. Diary, 28 May 1939. In entry for Diary, 31 May 1939, Kelly mentions the month of Prayer for Peace. Diary, 3 September 1939. The rest of this entry contains interesting speculations about what the outcome of the war will mean for the world. Ibid., 5 September 1939. Ibid., 9 April 1940. Patrick O’Farrell, The Catholic Church and Community in Australia: A History, Nelson, Melbourne, 1977, p. 388. For further information on the Catholic Worker, cf O’Farrell, Ibid., pp. 392–3, as well as Danny Cusack, ‘The Australian Catholic Worker newspaper, 1936–76: A political and intellectual history’, MA, University of Melbourne,

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1985. Consider also the two main Catholic newspapers in Australia at the time, the Advocate in Melbourne and the Catholic Press in Sydney. Cf O’Farrell, The Catholic Church and Community, p. 388 for a summary of the main issues addressed by these two publications. Duncan, Crusade or Conspiracy?, pp. 18–19. Diary, 8 November 1939. Ibid., 7 February 1940. Ibid., 23 October 1940. 25 May 1940. For more on the political struggle between Catholics and Communists in Australia, cf Duncan, Crusade or Conspiracy? Val Noone, ed., Fitzroy Requiem for Dorothy Day, M & V Noone, Fitzroy, 1982, p. 26. Diary, 3 July 1939. He was not alone, as this exhibition was famously divisive for Melburnians. See Eileen and Steven Miller, Degenerates and Perverts: The 1939 Herald Exhibition of French and British Contemporary Art, Miegunyah Press, Carlton, 2005; also, Gabriella Coslovich, The Age, 18 September 2005. Diary, 26 February 1940. Ibid., 26 April 1940. Ibid., 9 March 1940. Ibid., 30 June 1939. Ibid., 18 February 1940. A breverendiary is the book of daily prayers and readings used by the religious. Interview with Pat Crudden, Shepparton, 9 September 2005. Diary, 8 May 1940. Idem. Peter Matheson and John Hannon, conversation with John F. Kelly, 8–10 January 1990, Barossa Valley. Robert McPhee, ‘Daniel Mannix: A Study of Aspects of Catholic Education Policy in Victoria, 1013 to 1945’, M.Ed, Monash, 1980. James Griffin, ‘Mannix, Daniel (1864–1963)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, vol. 10, 1986, pp. 398–404, p. 403. Dan Conquest, interviews with Robert Pascoe, Brighton, Vic, 2002, 2003. Peter Matheson and John Hannon, conversation with John F. Kelly, 8–10 January 1990, Barossa Vally. Diary, 9 January 1941.

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91 92 93 94 95 96

Ibid., [1]6 September 1939. Idem. Diary, 29 September 1939. Ibid., 16 November 1939. Ibid., 18 May 1940. Vincent Buckley, Cutting Green Hay: Frienships, Movements and Cultural Conflicts in Australia’s Great Decades, Penguin, Ringwood, Vic., 2003, p. 37. 97 Diary, 23 January 1941. 7 The school inspector 1 Diary, 4–8 October 1943. Modotti, surprisingly not well known today, is well described in Monica Tolcvay, ‘Community and Church: Italian migrants and the Catholic Church in Australia 1900–1975, with special reference to South Australia’, Ph.D, Flinders University, 2005. 2 Diary, 23 February 1944. 3 Ibid., 22 May 1948. 4 Ibid., 28 January 1944. The word ‘philippic’ is also somewhat academic. 5 Reverend Brian Leonard, interview with Robert Pascoe, Macedon, Vic, 21 February 2004. 6 Reverend Gerard Beasley, Tour of St Monica’s, Footscray, 13 July 2004. 7 Trugo is a form of working-class croquet, invented at the nearby Newport railway workshops. See generally John Lack, A History of Footscray, Hargreen and Footscray City Council, North Melbourne, 1991. 8 Jill Barnard, ‘Expressions of Faith’, MA Public History, Monash University, 1990. Barnard’s father built some of these churches. Her judgement is that the best example of a Vatican II church in the region is St Martin de Porres, Avondale Heights. 9 Diary, [22] December 1945. 10 With Reverend John Cleary he also wrote an important pamphlet on The Dignity of the Young Worker (1950), which sets out the theology of the Young Christian Workers’ Movement. There are copies of this publication at Monash University and the Melbourne Diocesan Historical Commission. It is Kelly’s first major piece of writing, written in the form of a speech. He puts himself in the position of a lay apostle to explain how participation in the Mass is but part of a larger service to Christ in the Mystical Body that is the Church.

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11 Gerry O’Brien, Croydon Hills, Vic, personal correspondence, 24 March 2003. 12 Ibid. 13 James Griffin, ‘Obituary: John Francis Kelly, 1910–1992’, Eureka Street, vol. 3, no. 1, 1993, p. 33. 14 Research on this important utopian community is being undertaken by Mr Dermot Clancy, Victoria University. 15 Robert McPhee, ‘Daniel Mannix: A study of aspects of Catholic education policy in Victoria, 1913 to 1945’, M.Ed, Monash University, 1980, Chapter 6. 16 Given that the Democratic Labor Party was largely a Victorian as well as a Catholic party, the political challenges facing the Melbourne Director were arguably more difficult than for his colleagues in other Australian dioceses (McPhee, ‘Daniel Mannix’, Chapter 7; Anthony William Hannan, ‘The Catholic campaign for State aid in Victoria, 1939–1963’, Ph.D, University of Melbourne, 1983). 17 Edmund Campion, ‘A champion for girls: Julia Flynn’, Great Australian Catholics, Aurora Books and David Lovell Publishing, Richmond, Vic, 1997, pp. 161–3. 18 Pat Crudden, interviewed at Shepparton, 9 September 2005, by Robert Pascoe. 19 Ibid. 20 Catholic Education Office Archives. The Inspector’s Reports would make a fine source for a more detailed history of Catholic education, including class size, mobility of the teaching workforce, standards of numeracy and literacy across the Archdiocese, and more. 21 Vincent Buckley, Cutting Green Hay: Friendships, Movements and Cultural Conflicts in Australia’s Great Decades, Penguin, Ringwood, Vic, 1983, p. 41. 22 Ibid., p. 43. 23 D. Moore, ‘The initial response to the migrant presence in four innersuburban Christian Brothers’ schools as reverendealed in the Inspectors’ Reports and other available sources’, M.Ed, Melbourne, 1981, p. 1. 24 John Fox, ‘Memories of 1955’, Corpus Christi Parish Bulletin, 10 February 2005. 25 Diary, 3 June 1944. 26 Bishop Joe O’Connell, interviewed by Robert Pascoe, Moonee Ponds, Vic, 23 July 2002. 27 Reverend Brian Leonard and Ms Marie O’Loughlin, interviewed by Robert Pascoe, Macedon, Vic, 13 April 2002.

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28 Ms Helga Griffin and Em. Prof. Jim Griffin, interview with Robert Pascoe, Canberra, ACT, 12 March 2003. These memories are now published in her autobiography, Sing Me That Lovely Song Again . . . , Pandanus Books, Canberra, ACT, 2006, pp. 164–277. Catarinich (1917–2005) became famous in the 1950s for his advocacy of the Billings method of family planning. 29 Diary, 10 February 1944; 15 April 1944. 30 Ibid., 15 June 1944. 31 Reverend Dan Conquest, interviewed by Robert Pascoe, Brighton, Vic, 27 February, 21 October 2002; 21 February, 5 September 2003. 32 Diary, 26 February 1955. 33 Ibid., 4 October 1959. 34 Hannan, ‘The Catholic campaign for State aid in Victoria’, p. 267. 35 Ibid., p. 261. Hannan contends that Kelly lacked the lobbying skills of Conquest—that Kelly’s interest in curriculum reform did not require him to fight for more state aid. 36 Diary, 2 May 1956, 17 March 1957. 37 Ibid., 19 November 1955, 1 August 1958. 38 Reverend Brian Leonard, interview with Robert Pascoe, Macedon, Vic, 13 April 2002. Mother Lardner was at Vaucluse from 1915 until her death in 1962, except for her university studies. 39 Buckley, Cutting Green Hay, p. 111. 40 This is why he famously helped Jim Griffin write his Australian Dictionary of Biography entry on Mannix. 41 Buckley, Cutting Green Hay, pp. 112, 130. 42 Ibid., p. 126. 43 This injunction was made very clear by Luigi Civardi, A Manual of Catholic Action, tr. C C Martindale, Sheed & Ward, London, 1935, pp. 190–4. 44 Bruce Duncan, Crusade or Conspiracy? Catholics and the Anti-Communist Struggle in Australia, UNSW Press, 2001. 45 Brother Francis McCarthy, interview with Robert Pascoe, Carnegie, Vic, 20 July 2002. The Christian Brothers had a long tradition of jealous independence in the inspection of secular subjects in their schools that went back to the days of Archbishop Thomas Joseph Carr. 46 Buckley, Cutting Green Hay, p. 44. 47 James Griffin, John Wren: A Life Reconsidered, Scribe, Melbourne, 2004. 48 Leon Glezer, ‘Business and commerce’ in James Jupp, gen. ed., The Australian

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People: An Encyclopedia of the Nation, Its People and Their Origins, Angus and Robertson, Sydney, 1988, pp. 860–4. Buckley, Cutting Green Hay, pp. 232–4. Em. Prof. Jim Griffen and Helga Griffin, interview with Robert Pascoe, Canberra, ACT, 12 March 2003. Buckley, Cutting Green Hay, pp. 79–80. Ibid., p. 95. Ibid., pp. 102, 107, 120. Reverend Brian Leonard, interview with Robert Pascoe, Macedon, Vic, 13 April 2002. John Lack, ‘Footscray Park’, in Andrew Brown-May and Shurlee Swain, eds, The Encyclopedia of Melbourne, Cambridge University Press, Port Melbourne, 2005, p. 282. Diary, 22 February 1944. James Griffin, ‘Obituary’, Eureka Street, 1993. Klaus Wittstadt, Chapter V, in Giuseppe Alberigo, ed., History of Vatican II, vol. 1, Orbis, Maryknoll NY and Peeters, Leuven, 1995, pp. 405–500, p. 458. Diary, 3–12 January, 19–22 September 1961. Ibid., 20 March 1959. These conditions presumably included the £1000 expenses. For the general context, see Maurice Ryan, ‘My Way to God: The birth and early demise of the kerygmatic renewal in Australian religious education’, Journal of Religious Education, vol. 49, no. 1, pp. 2–8, and Kevin Lawlor, ‘Religious education in Victorian Catholic schools—the 1960s and 1970s’, Journal of Religious Education, vol. 48, no. 4, pp. 8–15.

8 A catechist’s Grand Tour 1 Diary, 14 May 1959. 2 Ibid., 4 October 1959. From 8 to 12 September 1958, Kelly attended an Inspectors Conference at the Passionist Retreat House in Adelaide. 3 Idem. 4 Bishop Joe O’Connell, interview with Robert Pascoe, Moonee Ponds, Vic, 23 July 2002. 5 Richard Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, 312–1308, Princeton University Press, N.J., 1980. 6 Charles L. Stinger, The Renaissance in Rome, Indiana University Press, Bloomington, 1985.

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7 John Capgrave, Ye Solace of Pilgrimes, ed. C. A. Mills, Henry Frowde, Oxford University Press, London, 1911 [c.1450]. 8 ‘Way of the Cross’, New Advent, Catholic Encyclopedia, 1913, online at http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/(1997). 9 Peter Murray, intr., Five Early Guides to Rome and Florence, Gregg International, 1972; John Osborne, tr., Master Gregorius: The Marvels of Rome, Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, Toronto, 1987. 10 Tre Fontane was well known to Australians. Joan Barclay-Lloyd, ‘Ss Vincenzo e Anastasio alle Tre Fontane near Rome: The Australian connection’, Footprints, vol. 20, no. 1 (June 2003) pp. 10–27. 11 Renzo Salvadori, Architect’s Guide to Rome, Butterworth Architecture, London, 1990. 12 June Hager, Pilgrimage: A Chronicle of Christianity through the Churches of Rome, Cassell, London, 2001 [1999]. See also Mark Coleridge, Saints in Rome: A Journey through the History of Christian Rome, CaFE, St Albans UK, 60 minutes DVD, 2005. 13 Frank Delaney, A Walk in the Dark Ages, Collins, London, 1988, pp. 178, 182. A Walk in the Dark Ages has echoes of Belloc’s 1902 The Path to Rome, in its content if not in its style. 14 O’Connell was in Rome for a total of three years, returning in 1961. Unfortunately, no family letters or photographs survive from this journey. 15 Bishop Joe O’Connell, interview with Robert Pascoe, Moonee Ponds, Vic, 23 July 2002. 16 Diary, 16 May 1959. The eucalyptus connection is explained by Joan BarclayLloyd, ‘The Australian connection’, 2003. 17 Ibid., 22 May 1959. Bonnie Doon is a quintessentially small town on the road between Mansfield and Melbourne. 18 Ibid., 25 May 1959. 19 Ibid., 6 June 1959. 20 Ibid., 18 May 1959. 21 Ibid., 30 May 1959. 22 Ibid., 20 June 1959. 23 Ibid., 20 September 1959. 24 Ibid., 8 October 1959. The men were named McGary and Birch. 25 Ibid., 11 July 1959. 26 Bishop Joe O’Connell, interview, 23 July 2002. This Institute now offers

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information and programs through the Web: www.lumenonline.net. Diary, 28 July–1 August, 1959. Ibid., 8 September 1959. Ibid., 9 September 1959. Ibid., 16–21 September 1959. Ibid., 29 September 1959. Ibid., 26 October 1959. Kelly read Italian, had good French, and some German. Diary, 11 November 1959. Directing Catholic education Diary, 27 November 1959, 15 January, 23 January 1960. Ibid., 27 January 1960. Ibid., 15 February 1960. One of the legendary but true stories of the Catechism is that the typist mistook John F’s handwritten ‘hymn’ for the word ‘hymen’ throughout the entire typescript! Never one to admonish staff, Kelly accepted the woman’s resignation at the beginning of 1966. Diary, 1960, passim. Hofinger’s significance is explained in Maurice Ryan, ‘My Way to God’, Journal of Religious Education, 2001, p. 4. ‘Pud’ Gleeson served as Co-Adjutor to Beovich in Adelaide before succeeding him as Archbishop. Gleeson, Beovich and Kelly were good friends, united by a passion for Catechetics. Diary, 6 June 1960. The significance of this is noted by Maurice Ryan, ‘My Way to God’, p. 4. Diary, Tuesday, 15 May: ‘Reverendision of Catechism Book 2 at O’Neill College, Sisters Campion and Christine and Brother Owen. A successful day.’ For example, Diary, 24 May 1963, 18 December 1967 (Broadmeadows). Terry Synan, A Journey in Faith: A History of Catholic Education in Gippsland, 1850–1981, David Lovell, Melbourne, 2003, p. 251. S. F. Dooley, ‘The History of St John’s College, Braybrook, 1958–1978: An Illustration of the Tensions between Local Initiative and Centralisation in the Field of Catholic Education’, M.Ed, Melbourne, 1985. Kelly’s Diary records Braybrook meetings on 7 and 10 February 1961. On 20 March 1966 Kelly had lunch at the school.

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14 Catholic Ladies’ College, Catholic Ladies’ College. The First Hundred Years 1902–2002, Catholic Ladies’ College, Eltham, 2003. 15 Maurice Ryan, From a Suitcase on the Verandah: Father Bernard O’Shea and the Development of Catholic Education in Brisbane, 1943–1983, Brisbane Catholic Education, Brisbane, 2005. 16 Diary, 26 May 1962. 17 Ibid., 5 November 1964. 18 Ibid., 28 April 1965; The Catholic Weekly, Sydney, 6 May 1965, p. 12. 19 Leo M. Clarke, ‘Archbishop Mannix: What was he like?’, Footprints, vol. 20, no. 1, June 2003, pp. 28–48, p. 37. On Simonds, see Max Vodola, Simonds: A Rewarding Life, Catholic Education Office, Melbourne, 1997. 20 Frank Rogan, A Short History of Catholic Education, Archdiocese of Melbourne, 1839–1980, Catholic Education Office, Melbourne, 2000, esp. Chapter 11; Anne O’Brien, Blazing a Trail: Catholic Education in Victoria, 1963–1980, David Lovell Publishing, Melbourne, Part One. 21 Peter Annett, presentation at Australian Catholic University, 2 July 2003. 22 Max Vodola, Simonds, pp. 91–2. 23 Em. Prof. Max Charlesworth, interviewed by Robert Pascoe, Carlton, Vic, 19 December 2001. 24 Em. Prof. Tom O’Donnell, interviewed by Robert Pascoe, Glen Iris, Vic, 10 June 2004. 25 Reverend Brendan Hayes, personal correspondence, January 2006. 26 Diary, 22 December 1959. 27 Ibid., 16 July 1961. 28 Reverend Brendan Hayes, personal correspondence, January 2006. 29 Diary, 25 February 1961. 30 E.g., Ibid., 13 April 1965. 31 Ibid., 9 July 1960. 32 Ibid., 6 July 1961. 33 Ibid., 2 August 1961. This book is now online at www.christusrex.org/www1/ CDHN/coun0.html. 34 He had the habit of writing the month and year of each book’s acquisition on the last page. 35 George Perkins, ‘James, Henry’, in D. L. Kirkpatrick, ed., Reference Guide to English Literature, St James Press, Chicago and London, 1991, pp. 772–6, p. 776.

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36 Archbishop Francis Carroll, interviewed by Robert Pascoe, Canberra, ACT, 17 March 2003. 37 The differences of view between Kelly and Peterson went all the way back to Werribee in the 1930s. 38 Bishop Joe O’Connell, interview, 23 July 2002. The bishops were James O’Collins of Ballarat and Bernard Stewart of Sandhurst. 39 Born in 1930, Carroll served as the Bishop of Wagga Wagga until 1983, when he became the Archbishop of Canberra–Goulburn. He was a member of the International Catechetical Council from 1974 to 1993, and served as Secretary for the Bishops’ Committee for Education (B.C.E) in Australia from 1968 to 1979, and then chaired the B.C.E in 1980. 40 Archbishop Francis Carroll, interview, 17 March 2003. 41 Diary, 8 September 1962 (the location was Dixon, not Griffith); conversation with John Collins, Richmond, Vic, 3 December 2005. 42 Ibid., 7 February 1963. 43 Norman P. Tanner, The Councils of the Church: A Short History, Herder and Herder, New York, 2001, pp. 114–55. 44 Giuseppe Alberigo, ed., History of Vatican II, 4 vols, Orbis, Maryknoll NY and Peeters, Leuven, 1995–2002, English ed. Joseph A. Komonchak. A fifth and concluding volume is planned. 45 Diary, 29 January 1959. 46 Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 1, p. 15. 47 Diary, 20 May 1959. 48 Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 1, pp. 1–54. 49 Étienne Fouilloux, Chapter II, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 1, p. 78. 50 Diary, 22 May 1959. 51 Ibid., 12 September 1959. 52 Ibid., 19 September 1959. 53 Fouilloux, in Alberigo, A History of Vatican II, vol. 1, pp. 55–166, esp. pp. 91–166. 54 Joseph A. Komonchak, Chapter III, in Alberigo, A History of Vatican II, vol. 1, pp. 167–356. 55 J. Oscar Beozzo, Chapter IV, in Alberigo, A History of Vatican II, vol. 1, pp. 357–404. 56 For example, on 9 July 1960 he reported to his Diary that he was finding de Lubac’s The Discovery of God ‘too hard’.

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57 Klaus Wittstadt, Chapter V, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 1, pp. 405–500. 58 Edmund Campion, Australian Catholics, Viking, Ringwood, Vic, 1987, p. 211. 59 Andrea Riccardi, Chapter I, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, 1997, vol. 2, pp. 1–67. 60 Gerald P. Fogarty, Chapter II, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 2, pp. 69–106. 61 Mathus Lamberigts, Chapter III, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 2, pp. 107–66. 62 Giuseppe Ruggieri, Chapter V, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 2, pp. 233–66. 63 Jan Grootaers, Chapter VIII, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 2, pp. 359–514. 64 Diary, 21 June 1963. 65 Jan Grootaers, Chapter IX, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 2, pp. 515–64. 66 Alberto Melloni, Chapter I, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 3, 2000, pp. 1–115. 67 Joseph Famerée, Chapter II, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 3, pp. 117–88. 68 Campion, Australian Catholics, Chapter 5. 69 Reiner Kaczynski, Chapter III, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 3, pp. 189–256. 70 Claude Soetens, Chapter IV, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 3, pp. 257–345. 71 Joseph A. Komonchak, Chapter 1, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 4, 2003, pp. 1–93. 72 Giovanni Miccoli, Chapter II, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 4, pp. 95–193. 73 Hanjo Sauer, Chapter III, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 4, pp. 195–231. 74 Norman Tanner, Chapter V, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 4, pp. 269–386. 75 Riccardo Burigana and Giovanni Turbanti, Chapter VII, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 4, pp. 453–615. 76 Giuseppe Alberigo, Chapter VIII, in Alberigo, History of Vatican II, vol. 4, pp. 617–40.

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81 82 83 84 85 86

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Tanner, The Councils of the Church, pp. 111–12. For example, see Diary, 13 December 1963 (Trent), 28 October 1964 (Vatican I). Campion, Australian Catholics, p. 221. A. C. Smith, ‘An analysis of the changes in the teaching of religion in Victorian Catholic primary schools, 1960–1974’, M.Ed, University of Melbourne, 1981, pp. 8–9. Ibid., p. 21. Ibid. Buckley, Cutting Green Hay: Friendships, Movements and Cultural Conflicts in Australia’s Great Decades, Penguin, Ringwood, Vic, 1983, p. 261. Diary, 16 February 1964. A. C. Smith, ‘An analysis’, p. 23. Amalorpavadass was the Director of the Indian National Biblical Liturgical and Catechetical Centre in Bangalore. He was the brother of Cardinal D. S. Lourduswami, a member of the Roman Curia, and was prematurely killed in a car accident. A. C. Smith, ‘An analysis’, p. 95. Diary, 20 January 1968. Parish priest in an affluent locale Reverend Brendan Hayes, personal correspondence, January 2006. Barrie Dunstan, interview with Robert Pascoe, Melbourne, 19 March 2002. John F. Kelly, Our Lady of Good Counsel Parish, Deepdene: Past and Present, Raven Press, 1982. It was incorporated into a large history of the parish published in 1997. Ann Woodruff, ‘Study of feeling of “community” in a suburban area, through membership of a church parish’, Urban Sociology essay, La Trobe University, 1973, mimeo, 32 pp. Em. Prof. Ann Woodruff, interviewed by Robert Pascoe, at Hawthorn East, Vic, 22 January, 15 February, 15 March 2002 and 3 September 2003. Bishop Joe O’Connell resided with Archbishop Knox from 1969 to 1974 and discovered that he firmly believed that Kelly was the right priest for Deepdene (personal correspondence, January 2006). Ann Woodruff had got into the nursing caper by accident—she was originally destined to follow in her mother’s footsteps as a hairdresser, having hated academic study—but she succeeded in nursing and rose to the top of the nurse

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educators. Indeed, she was part of the group of senior nurses who guided nursing education in its hazardous translation from teaching hospitals to universities in the mid-1980s. It was as part of this translation that she found herself at Footscray in campus 1986 establishing the nursing department there. She gave up her work as a housekeeper only when the Mons died. Ann Woodruff, ‘Study of feeling of “community” in a suburban area’, p. 13. Em. Prof. Ann Woodruff, interviewed by Robert Pascoe, at Hawthorn East, Vic., 22 January, 15 February, 15 March 2002 and 3 September 2003. Noreen Minogue, interviewed by Robert Pascoe, Hawthorn East, Vic, 15 February, 15 March 2002. Before Deepdene he was a parishioner at Balwyn, where the late Archbishop Eric D’Arcy celebrated Mass at times. Letter in Michael Gilchrist Papers, National Civic Council, North Melbourne. Barrie Dunstan, interview with Robert Pascoe, Melbourne, 19 March 2002. Ibid. Dr John Nicholson (with Mr Gerry Leahy), personal correspondence, 1 February 2006. Not to be confused with the vice-chancellor of Australian Catholic University. An obituary by Paul Ormonde appeared in The Age, 11 January 2006, p. 11. Obituaries by Bruce Duncan, Eureka Street, June 2005, pp. 30–1; Paul Ormonde, The Age, 19 January 2005, p. 17. Interview with Jim Griffin, 12 March 2003. Tom O’Donnell, interview, 10 June 2004. Diary, 19 December 1968. E.g. Diary, 30 October 1968. Patrick Morgan, conversation with Robert Pascoe, Melbourne, 4 January 2006. Monsignor T. M. Doyle, personal correspondence, 6 January 2006. Diary, August 1969 passim. This may also reflect his improving social skills. He was now talking more to others and had less need to talk to himself in the Diary. R. J. W. Selleck, The Reluctant Rebel, Heinemann Educational Australia, Melbourne, 1970.

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44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

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Pat Crudden, personal correspondence, 29 September 2004. Sellick, The Reluctant Rebel. Pat Crudden, personal communication, September 2005. Diary, 21 July 1971. The Triaca family were also parishioners at Deepdene. Tom O’Donnell, interview, 10 June 2004. Diary, 30 August 1971. Ibid., 17 September 1971. Ibid., 8 October 1971. Robert McPhee, ‘Daniel Mannix: a study of aspects of Catholic education policy in Victoria, 1913 to 1945’, M.Ed, Monash University, 1980, p. 63. Rosemary Crumlin, interview with Robert Pascoe, Brighton East, Vic., 29 January 2006. Monsignor J. F. Kelly, ‘National Pastoral Institute: Early Days’, NPI Journal, souvenir issue, 1988, pp. 3–4. Diary, 10 March 1973. Margaret Woodward, ‘The teacher as learner: A personal view’, National Pastoral Institute, brochure, 1973. Graham English, ‘The professional development of Australian Catholic religious educators over the fifty years since the Journal of Religious Education began’, Journal of Religious Education, vol. 50, no. 2, pp. 23–9, p. 27. Of course it also resembled Lumen Vitae in Brussels. Diary, 25 July 1979. Ibid., 21 July 1980. Monsignor Aldo Rebeschini, a Melbourne priest, was Knox’s private secretary both in Melbourne and Rome. Diary, 27 June 1981. Ibid., 8 July 1981. Reverend Brendan Hayes, personal correspondence, January 2006. Jim Griffin, interview, 12 March 2003. Monsignor T. M. Doyle, personal correspondence, 6 January 2006. John F. Kelly, ‘Religious education’ in Catholic Education in Victoria: Yesterday Today and Tomorrow, Catholic Education Office of Victoria, East Melbourne n.d. [1985], pp. 153–68. Kathleen was an intellectual Catholic, and culturally removed from the Irish Catholic tradition. She attended Star of the Sea convent in leafy Gardenvale

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during the 1930s, and during the Second World War became a broadcaster on Melbourne radio station 3AW. She moved mostly in Australian Labor Party and journalist circles. Kathleen’s younger sisters, Sister Josepha Dunlop and Sister Frances Dunlop, became Presentation nuns. Another younger sister Patricia became the head of primary schooling at the Catholic Education Office. 54 Reverend Brendan Hayes, personal correspondence, January 2006. 11 The end 1 Joe Delaney, ed., Father Peter James: No Wonder People Love You, Spectrum Publications, Richmond, Vic, 1987. 2 Reverend Brendan Hayes, personal correspondence, January 2006. 3 Monsignor J. F Kelly, ‘National Pastoral Institute: Early Days’, NPI Journal, souvenir issue, 1988, pp. 3–4. 4 Diary, 26 August 1990. 5 The Barossa Tapes. 6 Diary, 15 January 1992. 7 Reverend Brendan Hayes, personal communication, January 2006. Reflections 1 Anne O’Brien, Blazing a Trail: Catholic Education in Victoria: 1963–1980, David Lovell Publishing, Melbourne, 1999, p. 17. 2 Sue Anson, ‘Children of Mary: An examination of the lives of Catholic women who grew up in country Victoria at the time of Vatican II’, M.A., Victoria University, 2001. 3 Jill Barnard and Karen Twigg, Holding On To Hope: A History of the Founding Agencies of MacKillop Family Services, 1854–1997, Australian Scholarly Publishing, Melbourne, 2004, pp. 241–69 passim. 4 The ‘four’ would vary from time to time, depending on who he was with. But the point was the same. 5 Marie O’Loughlin, interviewed by Robert Pascoe, Macedon, Vic, 13 April 2002. 6 Jim Griffin, interview, Canberra, ACT, 12 March 2003. 7 John F. Kelly, Joe Delaney and Helen Doyle, Our Lady of Good Counsel, 1922–1997: Past and Present, O.L.G.C, Deepdene, 1997. 8 Anne O’Brien, Blazing A Trail. 9 Peter Sheehan, The Contribution of Catholic Schools to the Victorian Economy and Community, Victoria University, 2004, p. 30.

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Bibliography

Primary sources Aeroplane Journeys [appendix to Books Read]: Private journal of John F. Kelly. Australian Catechism, John F. Kelly, E. J. Dwyer, Sydney, 1962, 1963. Barossa: John F. Kelly interviewed by Peter Matheson and John Hannon, January 1991, in the Barossa Valley. Books Read, John F. Kelly, mss, (private collection), 1923–92. Catholic History Reader, John F. Kelly and others, 1950s, 6 volumes. Communiqué: parish newsletter, Our Lady of Good Counsel, Deepdene, 1969 to present. Diary: John F. Kelly, Diary, 25 vols, 1934–92 (private collection). High Street Traders of Mansfield, 1854–2000, Mansfield Historical Society, Mansfield, 2004. M.C: Mansfield Courier (State Library of Victoria), 1867 to present. Melbourne Mercy Archives (Alphington, Vic). P.F.G: Port Fairy Gazette (State Library of Victoria), 1890–1967. Rogan: Interview with Frank Rogan (Catholic Education Office). S.P.C.B Annual: Annual of St Patrick’s College for Boys, 1927, St Patrick’s Archive, Ballarat. The Catholic Weekly, Sydney, 6 May 1965. 287

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Interviews and private correspondence (with Robert Pascoe, unless otherwise stated) Annett, Peter. Peter Annett was Deputy Director at the Catholic Education Office. Presentation on Catholic schools funding to M.Ed (Leadership) class at Australian Catholic University, Fitzroy, Vic, 2 July 2003. Beasley, Reverend Gerard, Tour of St Monica’s, Footscray, 13 July 2004. Campion, Reverend Ed. Prominent Sydney priest, author and broadcaster. Interviewed in Sydney, 11 April 2005. Carroll, Archbishop Francis. Archbishop of Canberra–Goulburn. Worked with John F. in the 1960s. Interviewed at Canberra, ACT, 17 March 2003. Charlesworth, Em. Prof. Max. Philosopher, prominent lay Catholic. Interviewed at Carlton, Vic, 19 December 2001. Coleridge, Archbishop Mark. Archbishop of Canbera-Goulburn from 2006. Interviewed at Corpus Christi, Kingsville, Vic, 5 June 2003. Interviewed by Stephen Pascoe, 26 May 2004. Collins, John. Conversation, Richmond, Vic, 3 December 2005. Conquest, Reverend Dan. Second Director of Catholic Education in Victoria. ‘The Chief’ in John F.’s Diary. Interviewed at Brighton on 27 February, 21 October 2002, 21 February, 5 September 2003. Costigan, Michael. Former priest. Interviewed in Sydney, 13 July 2002. Crudden, Pat. Former priest and educator. Dismissed as Director of CEO in controversial circumstances in 1970. Interviewed at Shepparton, 9 September 2005. Personal correspondence, September 2005. Crumlin, Sister Rosemary. Interviewed at Brighton East, Vic, 29 January 2006. Doyle, Msgr. Tom. Sixth Director of C.E.O. Interviewed by Stephen Pascoe, 26 May 2004. Personal correspondence, 6 January 2006. Dunstan, Barrie. Finance journalist and Deepdene parishioner. Interviewed in Melbourne, 19 March 2002. Gleeson, Gerry. Former head of Premier’s Department, NSW. Interviewed at Sydney, 18 July 2005. Griffin, Em. Prof. Jim and Griffin, Helga. Retired historian and partner. Interviewed at Canberra, ACT, 12 March 2003. Hayes, Reverend Brendan. Parish priest at Armadale. Personal correspondence, 20 January 2006. Hazell, Tom. Prominent Melbourne lay Catholic. Interviewed at Carlton, 27 February 2003.

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Kane, Michael. Senior Victorian public servant. Interviewed at South Yarra, June 2003. Leonard, Reverend Brian. Retired priest and long-term friend of John F. Kelly. Interviewed at Macedon, Vic, 13 April 2002. McCarthy, Brother Francis. Distinguished Christian Brother. Interviewed at Carnegie, Vic, 20 July 2002. Martin, Reverend Frank. Director of Catholic Education, 1970–80. Interviewed at Cheltenham, 16 December 2004. Minogue, Noreen. Interviewed at Hawthorn East, 15 February, 15 March 2002. Monagle, Terry. Freelance writer on Catholic issues. Interviewed at South Yarra, 6 May 2003. Morgan, Dr Patrick. Conversation with Robert Pascoe, in Melbourne, 4 January 2006. Noone, Dr Val. Former priest. Interviewed at Melbourne, 2 June 2003. Nicholson, Dr John (with Gerry Leahy). Personal correspondence, 1 February 2006. O’Brien, Gerry. Croydon Hills, Vic. Participant at pre-Cana weekend. Personal correspondence, 24 March 2003. O’Connell, Bishop Joe. Close friend of John F. Interviewed at Moonee Ponds, 23 July 2002. Personal correspondence, January 2006. O’Donnell, Em. Prof. Tom. Retired lay activist. With wife Pat, a close friend of John F. Kelly. Interviewed at Glen Iris, Vic, 10 June 2004. O’Hearn, Assoc. Prof. Tim. Senior academic at Australian Catholic University. Interviewed in Sydney, 13 July 2002. O’Loughlin, Reverend Frank. Historian of Catholic Theology. Interviewed in Carlton, 23 February 2005. O’Loughlin, Marie. Housekeeper for Reverend Brian Leonard and Primary school Principal. Interviewed at Macedon, Vic, 13 April 2002. Pell, George Cardinal. Interviewed at Sydney, 22 February 2002. Ryan, Reverend Paul. Parish Priest at Greythorn. Interviewed by Stephen Pascoe, 14 May 2004. Toms, Reverend Christopher. Parish priest at Templestowe and friend of John F. Kelly. Interviewed by Stephen Pascoe at Templestowe, 10 May 2004. Woodruff, Em. Prof. Ann. Friend of John F. Kelly and retired nurse-educator. Interviewed at Hawthorn East, 22 January, 15 February, 15 March and 3 September 2003.

Theses and unpublished works Anson, Susan, ‘Children of Mary: An examination of the lives of Catholic women who grew up in country Victoria at the time of Vatican II’, M.A., Victoria University, 2001.

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Barnard, Jill, ‘Expressions of faith: Twentieth century Roman Catholic churches in Melbourne’s western suburbs’, M.A. (Public History), Monash University, 1990. Brown, Gavin, ‘Mass performances: A study of Eucharistic ritual in Australian Catholic culture’, Ph.D, University of Melbourne, 2003. Dooley, S. F., ‘The History of St John’s College, Braybrook, 1958–1978: An illustration of the tensions between local initiative and centralisation in the field of Catholic education’, M.Ed, University of Melbourne, 1985. Gibson, C, ‘A comparative study of changes in conditions of service in Victorian Catholic and State Secondary schools in the 1970s’, M.Ed, Monash University, 1981. Gilchrist, Michael Thomas, ‘The role of Dr Mannix in Victorian Catholic education, 1913–1923, and its determinants’, M.Ed, University of Melbourne, 1978. Hannan, A. W., ‘The Catholic Campaign for State Aid in Victoria, 1939–1963’, Ph.D, Monash University, 1983. Malone, M. R., ‘School closing and consolidation’, M.Ed, Monash University, 1978. McPhee, Robert, ‘Daniel Mannix: A Study of Aspects of Catholic Education Policy in Victoria, 1913 to 1945’, M.Ed, Monash University, 1980. Moore, D., ‘The initial response to the migrant presence in four inner-suburban Christian Brothers’ schools as reverendealed in the Inspectors’ Reports and other available sources’, M.Ed, Melbourne, 1981. Praetz, Helen, ‘Ideology, authority and power in a Catholic school system’, Ph.D, Monash University, 1978. Smith, Anthony Carroll, ‘An analysis of the changes in the teaching of religion in Victorian Catholic Primary schools’, M.Ed, University of Melbourne, 1981. Tolcvay, Monica, ‘Community and Church: Italian migrants and the Catholic Church in Australia 1900–1975, with special reference to South Australia’, Ph.D, Flinders University, 2005. Woodruff, Ann, ‘Study of feeling of “community” in a suburban area, through membership of a church parish’, Urban Sociology essay, La Trobe University, 1973.

Secondary sources Alberigo, Giuseppe, ed., History of Vatican II, 4 vols, Orbis, Maryknoll NY and Peeters, Leuven, 1995–2002, English ed. Joseph A. Komonchak. Allen, Maree G., The Labourers’ Friends: Sisters of Mercy in Victoria and Tasmania, Hargreen, North Melbourne, Vic, 1989. Andrews, Brian, Creating a Gothic Paradise: Pugin at the Antipodes exhibition, Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery, Hobart, 14 September–10 November, 2002. Barclay-Lloyd, Joan, ‘Ss Vincenzo e Anastasio alle Tre Fontane near Rome: The Australian connection’, Footprints, vol. 20, no. 1 (June 2003), pp. 10–27.

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Barnard, Jill and Karen Twigg, Holding On To Hope: A History of the Founding Agencies of MacKillop Family Services, 1854–1997, Australian Scholarly Publishing, Melbourne, 2004. Bertelli, Lidio and Robert Pascoe, ‘Immigrant Italians and the Australian Catholic Church: Folk Festivals and the Evil Eye’, in Abe Wade Ata, ed., Religion and Ethnic Identity: An Australian Study, Spectrum Publications, Richmond, 1988, pp. 230–44. Bradbury, Malcolm, The Modern World: Ten Great Writers, Secker & Warburg, London, 1988. Brady, Veronica, A Crucible of Prophets: Australians and the Question of God, Theological Explorations, Sydney, 1981. Brown, Gavin, ‘Theorising ritual as performance: Explorations of ritual indeterminacy’, Journal of Ritual Studies, vol. 17, no. 1, 2003, pp. 3–18. Buckley, Vincent, Cutting Green Hay: Friendships, Movements and Cultural Conflicts in Australia’s Great Decades, Penguin, Ringwood, Vic, 2003. Byrne, Geraldine, Valiant Women: Letters from the Foundation Sisters of Mercy in Western Australia, 1845–1849, Polding Press, Melbourne, 1981. Campion, Edmund, Rockchoppers: Growing Up Catholic in Australia, Penguin, Ringwood, Vic, 1982. ——‘Australian Catholics: The Contribution of Catholics to the Development of Australian Society, Viking, Ringwood, Vic, 1987. ——‘‘The new catechisms: Mgr John F. Kelly’, Great Australian Catholics, Aurora, Richmond, Vic, 1997, pp. 191–3. Capgrave, John, Ye Solace of Pilgrimes, (c.1450) ed. C. A. Mills, Henry Frowde, Oxford University Press, London, 1911. Carey, Hilary, Believing in Australia: A Cultural History of Religions, Allen & Unwin, St Leonards, NSW, 1996. Catholic Ladies’ College, Catholic Ladies’ College. The First Hundred Years 1902–2002, Catholic Ladies’ College, Eltham, 2003. Civardi, Luigi, A Manual of Catholic Action, tr. C C Martindale, Sheed & Ward, London, 1935. Clarke, Leo M., ‘Archbishop Mannix: What was he like?’, Footprints, vol. 20, no. 1, June 2003, pp. 28–48. Delaney, Frank, A Walk in the Dark Ages, Collins, London, 1988. Delaney, Joe, ed., Father Peter James: No Wonder People Love You, Spectrum Publications, Richmond, Vic, 1987. Douglas, Mary, Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology, Routledge, London and New York, 1978. Dow, Hume, ed., Memories of Melbourne University: Undergraduate Life in the Years since 1917, Hutchinson, Richmond, Vic, 1983.

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Duncan, Bruce, Crusade or Conspiracy: Catholics and the Anti-Communist Struggle in Australia, UNSWP, Sydney, 2001. Dunstan, Barrie, ‘A pioneer, a teacher, an optimist’, Communiqué, no. 11, July 1985, pp. 3–8. English, Graham, ‘The professional development of Australian Catholic religious educators over the fifty years since the Journal of Religious Education began’, Journal of Religious Education, vol. 50, no. 2 (2002), pp. 23–29. Fahey, Charles, ‘ “A Fine Country for the Irish”: The Irish in 19th Century Rural Victoria’, Melbourne Irish Studies Seminars, Newman College, 27 May 2003. Fogarty, Ronald, Catholic Education in Australia, 1806–1950, Melbourne University Press, Carlton, Vic, 2 vols., 1959. Fox, John, ‘Memories of 1955’, Corpus Christi Parish Bulletin, 10 February 2005. Gilchrist, Michael, Daniel Mannix: Priest and Patriot, Dove Communications, Blackburn, Victoria, 1982. Glezer, Leon, ‘Business and commerce’ in James Jupp, gen. ed., The Australian People: An Encyclopedia of the Nation, Its People and Their Origins, Angus and Robertson, Sydney, 1988, pp. 860–4. Grace, Gerald, Catholic Schools: Mission, Markets and Morality, Routledge Falmer, London, 2002. Griffin, James, ‘Mannix, Daniel (1864–1963)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, vol. 10, 1986, pp. 398–404. ——‘Obituary: John F.rancis Kelly, 1910–1992’, Eureka Street, vol. 3, no. 1, 1993, p. 33. ——John Wren: A Life Reconsidered, Scribe, Melbourne, 2004. ——‘Archbishop Daniel Mannix’, talk at the University of Melbourne, 16 August 2005. Hager, June, Pilgrimage: A Chronicle of Christianity through the Churches of Rome, Cassell, London, 2001 [1999]. Hutchinson, Mark and Edmund Campion, eds, Long Patient Struggle: Studies in the Role of Women in Australian Christianity, Centre for the Study of Australian Christianity, Sydney, 1994. Jackson, H R, ‘White Man got no dreaming: Religious feeling in Australian history’, Journal of Religious History, vol. 15, 1988, pp. 1–11. Jupp, James, ‘The making of the Anglo-Australian’, in James Jupp, gen. ed., The Australian People, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2001, pp. 796–803. Kane, Kathleen Dunlop, Adventure in Faith: The Presentation Sisters, Congregation of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Melbourne, 1974. ——The History of the Grey Sisters: 1930–1980, The Grey Sisters, Canterbury, Victoria, 1980. Kelly, John F., Through Christ Our Lord, The Advocate Press, Melbourne, 1952.

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[Copy in St Paschal Library, Box Hill, Vic.] ——‘Religious education’, in Catholic Education in Victoria: Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, Catholic Education Office, East Melbourne, 1985, pp. 153–68. ——‘National Pastoral Institute: Early Days’, NPI Journal, souvenir issue, 1988, pp. 3–4. Kelly, John F., Joe Delaney and Helen Doyle, Our Lady of Good Counsel, 1922–1997: Past and Present, OLGC, Deepdene, 1997. Kennedy, Sally, Faith and Feminism: Catholic Women’s Struggles for Self-Expression, Studies in the Christian Movement, Sydney, 1985. Krautheimer, Richard, Rome: Profile of a City, 312–1308, Princeton University Press, NJ, 1980. Lack, John, A History of Footscray, Hargreen and Footscray City Council, North Melbourne, 1991. ——‘Footscray Park’, in Andrew Brown-May and Shurlee Swain, eds., The Encyclopedia of Melbourne, Cambridge University Press, Port Melbourne, 2005, p. 282. Landale, Father Eugene, ed., Challenge to Action: Addresses of Monsignor Joseph Cardijn, Geoffrey Chapman, Melbourne, 1955. Lawlor, Kevin, ‘Religious education in Victorian Catholic schools—the 1960s and 1970s’, Journal of Religious Education, vol. 48, no. 4 (2000), pp. 8–15. Livingston, K T, The Emergence of an Australian Catholic Priesthood: 1833–1915, John Sands, Sydney, 1977. McConville, Chris, ‘The Irish townscape of colonial Melbourne’, in Jarlath Ronayne and Robert Pascoe, eds, The Irish Imprint in Australia, Victoria University, Melbourne, 1994. McGuire, Paul, Australian Journey, William Heinemann, London, 1939. McLaren, John, Not in Tranquility: A Memoir, Australian Scholarly Publishing, Melbourne, 2005. McLeary, Ailsa, with Tony Dingle, Catherine: On Catherine Currie’s Diary, 1873–1908, Melbourne University Press, Carlton South, 1998. McManners, John, ed., The Oxford History of Christianity, Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1993. Mantello, Maria, Now and Then: The Sicilian Farming Community at Werribee Park, 1929–49, Vaccari Italian Historical Trust, Brunswick, Vic, 1986. Marriott, Pamela M, Time Gentlemen Please! An History of Western District Inns 1840–1915, P M Marriott, Corowa NSW, 2001. Massam, Katherine, Sacred Threads: Catholic Spirituality in Australia, 1922–1962, UNSWP, Sydney, 1996. Miller, Eileen and Steven, Degenerates and Perverts: The 1939 Herald Exhibition of French and British Contemporary Art, Miegunyah Press, Carlton, 2005.

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Mok, Magdalena and Marcellin Flynn, ‘Quality of school life and students’ achievement in the HSC: A multilevel analysis’, Australian Journal of Education, vol. 41, no. 2, (1997), pp. 169–188. Mol, Hans, Religion in Australia: A Sociological Investigation, Thomas Nelson, Australia, 1971. Molony, John, Ned Kelly, Penguin, 1989. Molony, John N., The Roman Mould of the Australian Catholic Church, Melbourne University Press, Melbourne, 1969. Moody, A D, Virginia Woolf, Oliver and Boyd, Edinburgh, 1963. Moorhead, Mary Leonora, Journey Begun, Destination Unsighted: The Ecumenical Movement in the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Melbourne, 1960–1990, David Lovell Publishing, Brunswick, Vic, 1991. Murphy, Jeffrey, ‘The lost (and last) animadversions of Daniel Mannix’, Australasian Catholic Record, vol. 76, January 1999, 54–73. ——‘ “Up to Jerusalem”: Australian bishops’ suggestions for the agenda of Vatican II’, Australasian Catholic Record, vol. 78, no. 1, January 2001, pp. 30–61. Murray, Peter, intr., Five Early Guides to Rome and Florence, Gregg International, 1972. Murtagh, James G, Australia: The Catholic Chapter, Angus & Robertson, Sydney, 1959. Naughtin, P C, History and Heritage: St Patrick’s College, Ballarat, 1893–1993, St Patrick’s College, Ballarat, 1993. Neilson, John Shaw, selected poems online at http://nla.gov.au/nla.arc-34359 Nelson, Kate and Dominica Nelson, eds, Sweet Mothers, Sweet Maids: Journeys from Catholic Childhoods, Penguin, Ringwood, Vic, 1986. New Advent (1997) Catholic Encyclopedia, 1913, online at http://www.newadvent. org/cathen/. Noone, Val, ed., Fitzroy Requiem for Dorothy Day, M and V Noone, Fitzroy, 1982. O’Brien, Anne, ‘A church full of men: Masculinism and the church in Australian history’, Australian Historical Studies, vol. 25, no. 100, April 1993, pp. 437–57. ——‘Sins of omission? Women in the history of Australian religion and religion in the history of Australian women: A reply to Roger Thompson’, Australian Historical Studies, vol. 28, no. 108, 1997, pp. 126–33. O’Brien, Anne, Blazing a Trail: Catholic Education in Victoria: 1963–1980, David Lovell Publishing, Melbourne, 1999. O’Brien, Barbara, ‘Mansfield link with Manchester martyr Michael O’Brien’, Tain, no. 18, April–May 2002, pp. 18–19. O’Farrell, Patrick, The Catholic Church and Community in Australia: A History, Nelson, Melbourne, 1977.

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Osborne, John, tr., Master Gregorius: The Marvels of Rome, Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, Toronto, 1987. [O’Sullivan] Sister Ignatius, The Wheel of Time, The Sisters of Mercy, Melbourne, 1954. Pascoe, Robert, Buongiorno Australia: Our Italian Heritage, Greenhouse, Richmond, Vic, 1987. ——Sierakowski: Five Generations, Brian C. Sierakowski, Perth, 2003. Perkins, George, ‘James, Henry’, in D. L. Kirkpatrick, ed., Reference Guide to English Literature, St James Press, Chicago and London, 1991, pp. 772–776. Praetz, Helen, Where Shall We Send Them?: The Choice of School for a Catholic Child, Hawthorn Press, Melbourne, 1974. ——Building a School System: A Sociological Study of Catholic Education, Melbourne University Press, Melbourne, 1980. Ramsdale, Violet, The Journey Turns Full Circle: The History of St Mary’s Mission, Kyneton, 1852–2002, The Author, Kyneton Vic, 2002. Rogan, Frank, A Short History of Catholic Education, Archdiocese of Melbourne, 1839–1980, Catholic Education Office, Melbourne, 2000. Ryan, Maurice, ‘My Way to God: The birth and early demise of the kerygmatic renewal in Australian religious education’, Journal of Religious Education, vol. 49, no. 1, 2001, pp. 2–8. ——From a Suitcase on the Verandah: Father Bernard O’Shea and the Development of Catholic Education in Brisbane, 1943–1983, Brisbane Catholic Education, Brisbane, 2005. Ryder, William, ‘The Australian bishops’ proposals for Vatican II’, Australasian Catholic Record, vol. 65, no. 1, January 1988, pp. 62–77. Salvadori, Renzo, Architect’s Guide to Rome, Butterworth Architecture, London, 1990. Santamaria, B. A., Daniel Mannix: A Biography, Melbourne University Press, Melbourne, 1984. Selleck, R. J. W., The Reluctant Rebel, Heinemann Educational Australia, Melbourne, 1970. [Sheehan, Peter] The Contribution of Catholic Schools to the Victoria Economy and Community: Report to the Catholic Education Commission of Victoria, Melbourne Archdiocese: Final Report, Centre for Strategic Economic Studies, Victoria University, Melbourne, August 2004, Mimeo, 68 pp. Stinger, Charles L, The Renaissance in Rome, Indiana University Press, Bloomington, 1985. Syme, Marten A, Seeds of a Settlement, M A Syme, Melbourne, 1991. Synan, Terry, A Journey in Faith: A History of Catholic Education in Gippsland, 1850–1981, David Lovell, Melbourne, 2003.

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Tanner, Norman P, The Councils of the Church: A Short History, Herder & Herder, New York, 1999. Tsiolkas, Christos, The Devil’s Playground, Currency Press, Sydney, 2002. Turner, Naomi, Catholics in Australia: A Social History, Collins Dove, North Blackburn, Victoria, 2 vols, 1992. Vodola, Max, Simonds: A Rewarding Life, Catholic Education Office, Melbourne, 1997. Waldersee, James, A Grain of Mustard Seed: The Society for the Propogation of the Faith and Australia, 1837–1977, Chevalier Press, Kensington, NSW, 1983. Waquet, Francois, Latin: Or the Empire of a Sign, Verso, London, 2001. Wickham, Sister Mary, Music on the Hill: Memories and Voices, Spectrum Publications, Richmond, Vic, 2002. Willis, Sabine, ed., Women, Faith and Fetes, Dove & Australian Council of Churches, Melbourne, 1977. Wittstadt, Klaus, Chapter V, in Giuseppe Alberigo, ed., History of Vatican II, vol. 1, Orbis, Maryknoll NY and Peeters, Leuven, 1995, pp. 405–500. Woodward, Margaret, ‘The teacher as learner: A personal view’, National Pastoral Institute, brochure, 1973. Zimmerman, Beverly, ‘“She came from a fine Catholic family”: Religious sisterhoods of the Maitland diocese, 1867–1909’, Australian Historical Studies, vol. 31, October 2000, pp. 251–72. ——The Making of a Diocese: Maitland, Its Bishop, Priests and People, 1866–1909, Melbourne University Press, Carlton South, Vic, 2000.

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Index Adam, Karl, 57, 149 Amalorpavadass, D.S., 197 Anson, Clara, 196 Augustine, St, 57, 59, 72 Austen, Jane, 78, 117, 257 Australian Catechism (Kelly) xiii, xvii, xx commissioned by the bishops, 151, 155, 163, 165 writing of, 168–70, 171 approved by bishops, 172, 176 earns Manly doctorate for Kelly, 177 reception of, 181–83, 195, 198, 215, 217, 252, 253 Australian Catholic University, 227, 256 Australian Labor Party, 138 Aylward, Billy, 12 Bailey, Bill, 124 Baron, Rev. Geoff, 213 Barry, Bishop John, 9 Battiscombe, Georgina, 218 Begleys, 172, 229 Belloc, Hilaire, 56–57, 70, 72, 98 read less by Kelly, 150, 257 Benson, R.H., 41, 56 Beovich, Archbishop Matthew, xviii, 107, 112–13, 113 defends Catechism, 182 Boland, Maryanne and Harry, 203 Boldrewood, Rolfe, 32 Bolte, Sir Henry, 181 book collecting and reading (Kelly) xi–xii absence in childhood, 14, 16 borrowed, 30–32, 56–57, 60, 69, 71–73, 75–79, 98, 101–03 Trollope, 115–18 at Footscray, 122–123, 142, 149–51, 172–75 settling into Deepdene, 201, 212, 216, 219, 223, 227, 230, 231, 243–44, 245, 246 distribution at death, 247, 256–58 Boswell, James, 246 Bourke, Mons Jim, 176, 215 Bouwman, Judith, 99–101 Bouyer, Louis, 173 Boylan, Eugene, 150, 246 Boys, Mary, 228 Brazil, Sister Phillipa, 253 Briglia, Rev. Gerry, 177, 221, 227

Briglia, Rev. Jim, 227, 229 Broderick, Kevin, 58 Brown, J., 12 Buckley, Vincent, 65–68, 87, 117 views on Catholic education, 130, 138 on traditional Catholicism, 141–46, 179, 194 praises Kelly, 195, 207, 231, 257 Bugnini, Rev. Annibale, 190 Burke, Edmund, 60, 257 Burke, Maureen, 232 Butler, Richard, 173 Butler, Tom, 215, 229 Butts, R. Freeman, 137 Buzacott, Nutter, 87 Byrne, Tony and Kay, 213–14 Callinan, Sir Bernard, 235 Calwell, Arthur, 142 Campion, Rev. Edmund, 231 Camus, Albert, 147 Capgrave, John, 157 Cardijn, Henri, 95 Cardijn, Mons Joseph, 83, 95, 125, 249 Carlyle, Thomas, 115 Carr, Archbishop Thomas Joseph, 11, 12–14, 112 Carroll, Archbishop Francis, 182–83 Carroll, Archbishop James, 215 Catarinich, Rev. Maurice, 133 Cathedral Hall classes (Kelly), xviii, 140, 177 Catholic Action, xiii at Kyneton, 80–81, 85, 91–97 for women, 99–100, 106, 108, 125, 139 at Vatican II, 185, 217, 249–50 Catholic Development Fund, formerly Schools Provident Fund, 136, 180, 217 Catholic Education Office, 111–14 Kelly as inspector in, 127–37, 165, 173 in the 1960s, 175–77 offers instruction to laity, 194–95, 196, 197, 198, 213, 216 finishes as Director of, 220, 226 1985 speech at, 235, 250, 255–56

297

Catholic History Readers (Kelly) xiv, xx, 74, 141–43, 153, 217, 222, 252, 253 Catullus, 257 Cerfaux, Lucien, 150, 173, 187 Charlesworth, Max, 145, 179, 193 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 59, 60 Chenu, Marie-Dominique, 163, 186, 187 Chesterton, G.K., 41, 56–57 dies 1936, 70, 72, 257 Clancy, Bill and Cath, 208, 214 Clark, Manning, 231, 257 Clarke, Bernard and Celia, 214 Clarke, Marcus, 32 Cleary, Rev. John, 96–97, 111, 151, 221, 229 dies 1985, 234, 250 Cockshut, Anthony, 246 Collins, John, 183 Comerford, C., 12 Congar, Yves, 146–50 encountered by Kelly, 149, 150, 163, 173, 187, 223, 257 Connell, Sister Carmela, 253 Connor, Justice Xavier and Lorna, 215 Conquest, Arthur James, 49 Conquest, Rev. Dan, xviii, 47–52, 54–56, 58, 112, 127–28, 133–35, 136 commissions Catholic History Readers, 141, 155, 221 Conquest, Daniel John, 49 Cook, W. Glanville, 146 Coombs, Herbert Cole (‘Nugget’), 60 Costigan, Michael, 161, 192, 195, 218 Cotchett-Flowers, Kitty, 214 and Fred, 214 Coulson, John, 173 Crawford, R.M., 60 Crisp, A., 12 Crisp, Dudley, 12 Crisp, Irene, 17 Cryan, Vera, 17 Crookall, Adelaide, 101 Crough, Lorna, 242 Crudden, Pat, describes Kelly’s inspecting, 128–29, 135, 164, 178, 195, 197, 213 removed from Catholic Education Office, 220–21, 255

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Crumlin, Sister Rosemary, 227, 229 Daly, [? Leo James], 122–23 Daniélou, Jean, 149, 150, 163, 173, 187, 244 Dante, 243–44, 245, 257 Darling, Sir James, 137 Dawson, Christopher, 57, 60, 72, 98, 142, 257 Day, Dorothy, 108, 193 Kelly meets, 220, 229 de Boismenu, Alain, 234 de Chardin, Teilhard, 173, 257 Deepdene history (Kelly), 143, 202, 232, 255 Delaney, Joe and Kath Window, 214, 229 Delcove, P., 164 de Lubac, Henri, 149, 150, 163, 173, 187, 257 Democratic Labour Party, 139, 207 de Montcheuil, Yves, 150 Dialogue, Kelly contributes to, 146 Dickens, Charles, 115 Dillon, John, 214 Disneyland, 165 Dodd, Sr Berchmans, 30 Dolling, Eva, 17 Doyle, Jeremiah, 13 Doyle, Mons Thomas Michael, 197, 204, 213, 229, 230, 241, 242, 243, 255 Drinkwater, Canon Francis Harold, 182 Duggan, Patrick, 241 Dunne, Owen, 222 Dunstan, Barrie, 201, 208, 209 Dunworth, Sr Antonia, 30 Durrwell, Francis Xavier, 150–51 Dyett, Frank and Rita, 215 Eastman, Garry, 196 Einstein, Albert, 70 E.J. Dwyer Publishers, 170, 181 Elligate, Rev. Michael, 241 Elliott, L.E., 25 Evatt, Herbert Vere, 138 Fennessy, Rev. E.A. (Ted), 51 Finlayson, Kay, 17 Fitzgerald, Ethel, 17 First Vatican Council, xx, 8, 186, 187 Flynn, Julia, 128 Fogarty, Br Ronald, 225 Footscray Park, 147–48, 171 Fordham, Robert and Susan, 241 Fouilloux, Étienne, theology of Vatican II, 185–86 Fox, Bishop Arthur Francis, 204, 211, 233 Fox, John, memories of Glenroy, 131–32

John F. Kelly

Fraser, Malcolm, 232 Frings, Josef, 189 From Boy to Man (Kelly), 126 Funke, Monsignor, 164 Garrigou-LaGrange, Reginald, 149, 223, 244 Galot, Jean, 244 Gasquet, Francis Aidan, 72, 150 Gedda, Luigi, 139 Geoghegan, Horatio, 69 Geoghegan, Patrick Bonaventure, 69 Gilchrist, Michael, 207–08 Gill, Peter, 146, 179 and Margaret, 214 book on Catholic education, 220, 241 Gilroy, Norman Thomas Cardinal, 191 Gleeson, James, 169, 170 Gobbo, Sir James and Lady Shirley, 215 Godin, Andre, 164 Goergen, Donald, 223 Goidanich, Rev. E.O’S., 27–28 Goold, Archbishop James Alpius, 11, 158 Gorman, James, 203, 208 and Tess, 215 Grail, The, 98–101, 145 Graves, Lily, 15 Griffin, Helga, 133 Griffin, James (Jim), 113, 145, ADB entry on Mannix, 234–35, 254 Groome, Thomas, 228 Guardini, Romano, 149, 150, 173 Hackett, Rev. William, 234 Hannan, William (Bill), 179 Hannon, John, 241, 243, 245, 246 Hanrahan, John, 195 Hardy, Frank, 144 Hart, Archbishop Denis, 11, 204 Hayes, Rev. Brendan, 229, 247 Hayes, John and Mary, 214 Heidegger, Martin, 149 Hession, Bridie, 29 Higgins, Joseph, 13 Hince, Patricia, 179 Hitler, Adolf, 51 Hodgson, Wilma, 240 Hofinger, Johannes, 150, 169, 173, 195 Hogan, Denise, 245 Hogan, Edmond John, 112 Hogan, Michael, 231 Hollis, Christopher, 56 Homer, 244, 245, 257 Hopkins, Gerard Manley, 220 Houselander, Caryll, 150 Hughes, Phillip, 142, 173

Hussey, Rev. John, 50 Howard, J., 42 Irish character of Australian Church, xiii, xv–xvi, 7–9, 25–26, 28, 65–67, 101 St Patrick’s Day and, 103, 143–44 impact of postwar migration on, 193–94, 250–51 Jackson, Denys, 91 James, Henry, read by Kelly, 173–75, 243, 246, 257 James, Rev. Peter, 213, 233, 234, 240 dies 1986, 240–41, 242, 243, 245 Jansen, Cornelis, xviii Jerger, Rev. Charles, 26 J.O.C. Chaplain (Kelly), 97, 103 John XXIII, starts Vatican II, 184–86 Johnson, Peter and Helen, 214 Johnston, Rev. Henry, 47 helps Kelly, 61 Johnston, Rev. Tommy, 47 Journel, Charles, 149 Joyce, Marie and Gerard, 214 Jungmann, Josef, 164, 173 Jupp, James, 250 Kane, Kathleen Dunlop, 235 Karrer, Otto, 184 Keaney, Rev. John (Jack), 136–37, 177 Keaney, Leonie, 137 Keaney, Rev. Matt, 137 Keble, John, 218 Keily, John and Maureen, 215 Kelly, Catherine Regan (mother), 5–7, 11–12, 16–17, 30, 40 drifting away from, 75, 109 dies in 1949, 147, 253, 255 Kelly, Edward senior (grandfather), 5 Kelly, Edward James (father), 4–7, 14–17, 40, 147, 165 dies in 1962, 172, 253 Kelly, Jonathon (uncle), 5 Kelly, Justin and Elaine, 215, 241 Kelly, Kevin, 91 Kelly, Mary (sister), 4, 7, 15, 16, 22, 40, 109, 172, 223, 232, 235 dies in 1985, 236, 239, 247, 253, 254–55 Kelly, Ned, 4–5 Kelly, Pat (friend), 110 Kelly, Robert (cousin), 5 Kelly, Sister Claver (aunt), 5 Kennedy, Jack and Anna, 214 Kennedy, Michael, 4 Kerr, Violet, 15, 17 Knorr, Hans, 202

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Index Knowles, David, 150 Knox, James Robert Cardinal, 11, 176, 197, 198, 217–18 appoints Kelly to head NPI, 224, 225 in Rome, 231 removes Crudden, 220 Küng, Hans, 173, 223, 257 Lafferty, John, 25 Laidler, Terry, 193, 234 Laity in the Church and schools, xviii, 8–9, 136, 145, 180 at Vatican II, 186, 188, 189, 190, 191–92, 193, 194–95, LaTrobe University, 176 Leahy, Gerry, 210–12 Leahy, Margaret, 214 Leeming, Bernard, 150–51, 173 Lefebvre, Marcel, 173 leads Coetus Internationalis Patrum, 191 Leonard, Rev. Brian, 48, 123–24, 132, 138, 150, 171, 182, 229, 231, 242 Lercano, Giacomo, 189, 190, 191 Lester, Fred, 17 Lester, Lily, 15, 17 Little, Archbishop Sir Francis Thomas, 11, 205, 209, 233 Lombard, Rev. Frank, 96 Lonigan, Thomas, 4 Lumen Vitae, 164 Lunn, Arnold, 146 McCabe, Herbert, 173 McCabe, Thomas, 186 McCann, Charles, 128 McCann, Br J.C., 43 McCarthy, Dr Frank, 140 McCarthy, Rev. Justin, 138 McCarthy, William (Bill), 177 McConville, Eileen, 254 MacCormack, Dan, 69 McCormack, Irene, 129 McCormack, Jack, 12 McCormack, Jim, 12 M’Gloin, Rev., 27 McGuire, Paul, 102–03 McInerney, Justice Murray, 179, 215 McKenna, Fred, 81 McNamara, John, 42, 50 McNeill, John J., 223 McSweeney, Patrick, 26 Mahoney, 163 Manley, Dr, 55 Mannix, Archbishop Daniel, xii, 7, 11, 13, 14–15, 26, 46, 50, 70 moves Kelly, 81, 96, 97, 101, 105, 106–07, 111 establishes Catholic Education Office, 112–14, 134

Kelly’s changing view of, 139, 155, 167, 169, 178 reaction to Catechism, 182, 192, 208 Manzoni, Alessandro, 246 Maritain, Jacques, 139 not awarded doctorate, 185 Marr, David, 32 Marriage Tribunal (Kelly), 177, 217 Martin, Bridget and Thomas, 68 Martin, Rev. Frank, 177, 196, 221, 255 Martin Mons Laurence, 68–69 Kelly’s reaction to death of, 74, 251 Martindale Rev. C.C., 8, 57, 72 Masure, Eugène, 149 Matheson, Rev. Peter (‘Sam’), 225, 229, 232, 245 Maxwell, Ian, 146 Mayo, Rev. W.C., 39 Melville, Herman, 243 Menzies, Sir Robert Gordon, 106, 181 Meredith, George, 77 Mersch, Emile, 98, 149 Meynell, Alice, 73 Meywell, Viola, xi Michiels, Gommar, 187 Miguel, L. Sam, 202 Mimovich, Leopoldine, 202 Minogue, Danny, 137 Minogue, Noreen, 137–38, 205, 206–07, 221 Modotti, Rev, Ugo, 121 Molony, John, 4, 231 Monash University, 176, 179 Monk, Rev. Leonard, 42, 49 Montini, Giovanni Battista, see Paul VI Moran, Gabriel, 223 Moran, Rev. Laurie, 58 Moran, Pat, 214 Morgan, Patrick, 217 Morton, J.B., 60 Move Out (Kelly), 196 Mulders, Alfons J.M., 187 Mulvaney, John, 179 Murphy, Bill, 221 My Way to God (Kelly), 195–96, 253 Nairn, Bede, 234 National Pastoral Institute (NPI), xviii, 177, 223–28, 230, 244, 250, 252 Needham, Br Laurie, 224–26 Neilson, John Shaw, 73, 257 Newman, John Henry Cardinal, 56–57, 59, 71, 72, 98, 173, 244, 246, 257 Nicholson, John, 210–12 Nicholson, Rev. Peter, 225 Norman, H., 12

299

Oakley, Barry, 194 O’Brien, Gerry, 125 O’Brien, Michael, 7 O’Brien, Timothy, 7 O’Callaghan, Barry and Clare, 215 O’Callaghan, Rev. Dan, 123, 135 O’Connell, Bishop Joe, 125, 132 travelling with Kelly, 156, 161, 163, 164 opinion of Catechism, 182, 227 homily at Kelly’s Requiem, 246, 253 O’Donnell, Anne, 242–43 O’Donnell, Sister Josephine, 196 O’Donnell, Pat and Tom, 172 Tom chairing Academic SubCommittee, 179 at Deepdene, 214, 215, 221, 229, 241, 242–43, 246, 254–55 O’Donnell, Terry, 221 O’Dowd, Bernard, 32 O’Driscoll, Rev. Bill, 58 O’Driscoll, Charles, 23, 127–28, 132, 133, 177 O’Dwyer, Bill, 112, 114 O’Dwyer, Peter, 217 O’Farrell, Patrick, 107 O’Hearn, D.J. (Dinny), 194 O’Louglin, Marie, 132–33, 242, 254 Onclin, Guillaume, 187 O’Rourke, Rev. Peter, 225 O’Shea, Bernard, 176, 183, 220 O’Sullivan, Nellie, 17 Ottaviani, Alfredo Cardinal, 186 debate with Frings, 189 Pascha, Edmund, 150 Patrick, St, 142 Paul VI, at Vatican II, 188, 190–92 Paul, St, 56 Pell, George Cardinal, 11 Peterson, Rev. Robert, 47, 182 Philips, Gérard, 187 Picasso, Pablo, 109 Pike, Gertie, 15 Pius X, 14, 28 Pius XII, 111, 161, 184 silence during Holocaust, 191 Plato, 148, 257 Polding, Bishop John Bede, 69 Pollen, John Hungerford, 141 Potter, Owen, 179 Potter, Richard, 12 Power, Rev. Albert (‘Bertie’), 47, 52, 53 Power, Sr Joan, 196 Powling, Jack, 231

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Prat, Fernand, 56 pre-Cana marriage conferences, xviii–xix, 125–26, 177 Presnell, Mrs, 25 Puccio, Mr, 56 Purton, Br D.G., 42 Quin, Nick, 209 Rahner, Karl, 149–50, 173, 187, 223 Ratzinger, Joseph, 223 Reardon, John, 12 Redfern, Cyril, 12 Redfern, Norman, 12 Regan, Ellen (aunt), 7, 11, 30, 172 dies in 1968, 235–36 Regan, Tim, 172 Reynolds, Rev. Mark, 241 Richter, Kath, 204 Robinson, John, Honest to God, 189, 257 Rogers, Sr Agatha, 253 Rohan, Creina, 194 Roncalli, Angelo Giuseppe, see John XXIII Royal Botanic Gardens, 171 Rummery, Br Gerard, 197 Rundle, Max, 208, 241 Ruskin, John, 231 Ryan, Rev. M. Alacoque, 29 Ryan, John, 146 Ryan, Sr Mary Agnes, 29, 30, 31 Ryan, Sr Mary of the Divine Heart, 29 Ryan, Rev. Paul, 48, 50–51 Ryan, Rev. Vincent, 158 Santamaria, B.A., xiv, 60, 91, 103, 106, 127, 133 and The Movement, 137–39, 146, 169, 177, 178, 206 at Deepdene, 207–08, 231, 249 Scanlan, Michael, 4 Schepisi, Fred, 48 Schillebeeckx, Edward, 173, 187, 257 Schreibringer, Dr, 164 Second Vatican Council, see Vatican II Sectarianism in Australia, xii–xiii, 101–05, 250–51

John F. Kelly

Selleck, Richard (Dick), 179, book on Crudden, 220 Serle, Geoffrey, 234 Shakespeare, William, 71, 75, 246, 257 Sheed, Frank, 150 Sheehan, Lawrence Cardinal, 225 Sheehan, P.A., 56 Sheehan, Peter and Jan, 214 Short, T.H., and sister, 23 Simonds, Archbishop Justin Daniel, 11, 91, 97, 114, 167 raises Kelly to domestic prelate, 178, 182, 198 Sloyan, Gerard, 165, 172 Smart, Ninian, 228 Southern, R.W., 142 State Aid, 127 commenced, 181, 231 Stephen, Leslie, 78 Stewart, Bishop Bernard, 197 Suhard, Emmanuel Célestin, 149 Tavard, George H., 173 Temby, Sister Eymard, 253 Teresa, Mother, 194 Thérèse of Lisieux, St, 52, 57, 73 Kelly visits tomb of, 164, 246 Therry, Bishop John Joseph, 69 Thils, Gustave, 187 Through Christ Our Lord (Kelly), xiv, 148, 217, 251–52 Thucydides, 257 Tomlinson, Mons Les, 47 Thwaites, Nea, 17 Tressider, Rev. John, 42 Triaca, David, 221 Trollope, Anthony, read by Kelly, 115–18, 231, 243, 257 Tucker, Albert, 121 Tuddenham, Des, 210 Tuomy, Clare Dorothea, 48 Ullathorne, Rev. William Bernard, xii Undset, Sigrid, 57, 257 University of Melbourne, 84, 146

working with Catholic Education Office, 173, 176, 178–79, 227, 234 van Caster, Marcel, 195–96 Vatican II, xv, xvii, xx, 98, 104 announced, 151, 173, 177, 182 effect on Australia of, 192–95, 207, 222, 223, 235, 252, 257 summarised, 183–92 Vawter, Bruce, 246 Victoria University, including Footscray Institute of Technology, 204, 214 von Hildebrand, Dietrich, 98, 149 von Hugel, Baron Friedrich, 57 Wagner, Sonia, 227 Wagnon, Henri, 187 Wall, Rev. James, 136 Wall, Moira, 204, 210 Walpole, Sir Hugh Seymour, 116 Walsh, Mons Brian, 234 Walsh, Greg, 209 White, Patrick, 32, 257 Whitehead, Jim, 38–39 Whitlands, 103, 126 Willebrands, Johannes G.M., 187 Williamson, Tom, 17 Wodehouse, P.G., 70 Women in the Church, xv, 98–101 excluded from Vatican II, 186 Kathleen Dunlop Kane and, 235, 252–55 the Pill and, 189, 204–06, 208 Woodruff, Ann, 202, 203, 204–06, 207, 208, 229–30, 239, 253 Woodward, Sr Margaret, 226 Woolf, Virginia, 75–79, 231, 236, 243, 257–58 Wren, John, 144 Young, Archbishop Guilford Clyde, 187 Young Christian Workers, xix, 93–97, 98, 125

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