by Jenny Old
My mother flew up as planned, and we decided that the wedding would take place on 14 November in the chapel at Rick’s old high school, with the reception at the Australia Hotel. Poppy and Trenham planned an engagement party at their home, and Rick was driving down to announce our engagement. What a performance!
We were officially engaged and I had a real ring on my finger, much to Poppy’s relief. I felt so far removed from the Ridge, but I was glad that I was getting closer to eventually being with Rick.
All too soon, the first celebration done and dusted, Rick headed back to McAllister, and I left with Mum for Deniliquin. What a long three months this was going to be. Without a telephone to communicate, we wrote letters regularly. Then Rick had a great idea to send me tapes so I could hear his voice. Dad hired a tape recorder, and one night I heard him comment to my mother, ‘We’ve mustered that paddock so many times, the cattle must be exhausted!’ I realised how often I’d replayed the tapes. Poor Dad.
Kind friends hosted parties, lunches and dinners for me. I enjoyed them but it was weird celebrating without Rick by my side. A dear male friend accompanied me to many of the celebrations; he was also called Rick, which caused considerable confusion—he received hearty congratulations on our engagement on many occasions.
It was impossible for my friends to envisage my strange life at McAllister. Even though they were happy for me, I knew my descriptions failed to do justice to the life I was leading. Friends would just have to visit, which they all promised to do.
It was a strange time. I was about to embark on such a different journey. I would miss my old home, my wide circle of close friends and my family. Still, the days passed quickly. There was so much to do.
Selecting bridesmaids proved difficult with so many options. Finally, Dee and Jillie (two of my nursing friends and travelling companions), Barb (my sister-in-law) and Pam (my sister) all accepted. Soon their dresses—in pale aquamarine Thai silk—were designed and being made. My wedding dress was also underway: a simple empire-line style with a train in soft French chiffon, just as I’d planned while being stalked by dingoes.
I took farewell of my old home and former life at Lauriston, then departed for Sydney where I awaited the arrival of my fiancé, who was driving south with Paul.
It was a beautiful reunion and at last, after a time of confusion, I felt very happy and excited.
7
I Do
I looked out the window to see dark skies and pouring rain. My wedding day.
‘A wet wedding makes a happy marriage,’ my mother and bridesmaids assured me.
There was nothing I could do about the weather, and I refused to allow it to dampen my excitement.
Poppy took me to her regular hairdressing salon. We were greeted by John.
‘John, would you please put some curl into Jenny’s hair for her wedding day?’
‘Mrs Old,’ John replied, ‘it’s the wettest Sydney day we have experienced for a long time, and you bring me a client with the straightest hair I’ve encountered for a long time. A curl is, unfortunately, an impossibility.’
I loved him for that. I wanted a natural look. For me a curl was not natural.
I was the first of my close group of friends to be married. My bridesmaids, with Mum and Dad, did a great job distracting me with stories and laughter and some advice along the way, plus the necessary champagne. I was impatient to get to the church.
I dressed quickly and applied my own minimal make-up. We were ready. I wanted photographs taken in the beautiful gardens of the hotel. The rain held off briefly, much to the relief of the photographer.
The cars arrived; bridesmaids and Mum were dispatched.
‘Come on, Dad, let’s go!’ I called.
My father and I didn’t speak much on the way to the chapel, both lost in our own thoughts. This was the end of one stage of my life and the beginning of another. I felt sad I couldn’t have both at the same time, but the lure of a future with Rick erased any sadness.
Outside the chapel, a rather distressed minister was waiting for us. ‘The groom and groomsmen are not here yet!’ he whispered. ‘Could you drive around the block, please?’
My heart sank. I was five minutes late for the 6.30 p.m. ceremony.
Dad patted my hand. ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ he said, almost hopefully, ‘if he doesn’t turn up you can come home.’
Not exactly the words I wanted to hear. After a long circuit in North Sydney on a wet Friday afternoon, we returned to the chapel to see a relieved minister ushering in five rather stressed, very formally dressed young men.
At last I was able to walk down the aisle to my beaming groom and become Mrs Old.
As we turned to walk into the vestry and sign the marriage certificate, I noticed one of the groomsmen, Bill, was missing. He’d had to leave the service because the effects of too many drinks and the stress of getting to the chapel had made him quite ill. He greeted us in the vestry, feeling better. ‘I had to come and find the place for you to sign, Jen.’
Mmm, okay, I thought.
Then I noticed another groomsman, Jack, didn’t have a white tie like the others and was sporting a black one. This naughty foursome had some explaining to do.
In the car on the way to the reception, Rick told me the story. I could hardly believe what I was hearing.
Rick had left the others to go into the city, where he collected our travel documents and checked the final arrangements for our honeymoon. He’d arranged to meet his groomsmen in the afternoon at their motel and dress for the wedding.
Meanwhile, Paul, Bill, Jack and Don decided to go into the city together. They obviously found some bars to their liking. But when it was time to leave, they discovered that Sydney is not quite like Normanton, Capella, Ballina or Kingston on a Friday evening in the pouring rain when one needs a taxi.
The queues were interminable and no one was interested in their desperate story. Not even begging worked. ‘You should have thought about this a bit earlier,’ someone called out from the queue.
In desperation, they flagged down a taxi truck in the street, which dumped them further along the road. Here they flagged down a taxi driven by a university student who sympathised with this slightly desperate group of bushies. He put his hand on the horn and drove fast.
But then the taxi petered to a halt.
‘Oh shit, what’s wrong, mate?’ asked Bill.
The driver replied, ‘This is the first gas taxi in Sydney and we’ve run out of gas. I need to change the cylinder in the boot, manually.’
‘Can we help, mate?’
‘You can hold the umbrella.’
It was still pouring with rain.
Finally they were on their way again. At the motel a very concerned groom was wondering if he would have to go to the chapel alone, when the taxi screeched to a halt in front of their room. Rick threw them all in the swimming pool then hauled them into the room to dress. The wonderful taxi driver stayed with them to assist.
That’s when Jack realised he didn’t have the white tie to go with his dress jacket. The driver rushed into the restaurant to beg a black bow tie from a waiter.
Amazingly, the five men are still very close friends. They never saw the taxi driver again, but they certainly owe him one.
As Rick and I arrived at the Australia Hotel for our reception, we noticed people pointing to a function room sign and giggling.
‘OLD–BULL WEDDING. ELIZABETHAN ROOM.’
Our reception passed in a flash. I felt like a princess in my beautiful French chiffon gown that floated as I danced, holding the long train in my little finger to create a soft swathe of fabric. Look at me now, dingoes!
My bridesmaids, in their stunning aqua-blue gowns, were much sought after by the eligible men in the room. All four were auctioned off later in the evening, which created a lot of interest. Large amounts of money were never paid by the enthusiastic bidders. Barb, the only married one, fetched a good price—from her husband, my brother, thankfully
.
It was time for me and Rick to say goodbye to our guests. Everybody formed a large circle. There were hugs and tears and plenty of advice—both wanted and unwanted—as we passed from person to person. Then we were hoisted onto the shoulders of the groomsmen and deposited in the lift.
We didn’t want the guests to know we were staying in the hotel, or the party would have been in our room, so we ran outside to escape the enthusiastic crowd. We hailed a passing taxi only to discover we didn’t have any money. The unfriendly driver told us in no uncertain terms to vacate his cab, which we did, leaving us in full bridal dress to walk back to the hotel. I continued to dance in my lovely dress, much to the astonishment of passers-by. Oh, where was that nice university student in his LPG taxi?
Now we had to run the gauntlet to our room on a floor way above the reception, without being spotted. Luckily we only came across one elderly couple who, when we recounted our story, immediately offered us some money.
Before we opened the door to our suite, Rick gave me a word of warning. ‘Apparently the bridal suite is way over the top with a heart-shaped bed, satin sheets and plenty of frills, flowers, et cetera, but we’ll have champagne and chocolates.’
This sounded fun. He opened the door with a flourish, carried me over the threshold and nearly dropped me. ‘What is this?’ he asked.
We stared at the room, not in wonderment or even amusement, but in horror. It was a very basic room looking onto a dreary brick wall. There wasn’t even a bed cover, certainly not any flowers or champagne.
‘This isn’t right,’ declared my deflated husband.
The bridal suite was part of the package for which my parents had paid.
By now I was laughing. I really didn’t care if we had a heart-shaped bed with satin sheets. It was too late to complain, and the champagne, ordered on room service, still tasted delicious. We toasted each other and laughed.
In the morning we waited for the inclusive breakfast to arrive. Somehow we were not surprised when nothing had appeared by 9 a.m. We were starving. Rick ordered toasted sandwiches, which were finally delivered by a rather bored-looking waiter.
‘I’m checking out of here,’ announced Rick.
I happily agreed this was a good decision.
The reception staff were determined to charge us for the room, toasted sandwiches and champagne until we protested loudly. We phoned the wedding staff, who confirmed we were the bridal couple. I even showed them my gown in its protective bag.
The reason we didn’t have our honeymoon suite was discovered many years later by my mother, who was most upset about the situation. She’d paid for the suite and wasn’t going to let this go.
Rick’s parents had also stayed at the Australia Hotel that night. They had three little grandchildren sleeping in the room with them. Poppy had mentioned that their suite was very luxurious and that a beautiful breakfast had been wheeled in and served by a butler.
Yes: the wrong Mr & Mrs Old had been given the bridal suite. We were not amused. Imagine the waiter with the breakfast trolley expecting a bridal couple, and instead finding an elderly couple with three young children.
We wish we could contact the university student in the first LPG taxi in Sydney. I hope one day he’ll read this book and understand what an important role he played on our wedding day.
We drove away from the hotel to call on Mum and Dad, pass over the wedding dress and bid them farewell. I must admit I hadn’t spared a thought for my parents’ feelings; I’d been so caught up with my own excitement and happiness. They were bidding a daughter farewell to the great unknown. Now that I’m a parent, I can see why my stoic mother had tears in her eyes as she hugged me and said goodbye. Dad was very sad too, which made me understand the enormity of this parting.
‘Just think, Stuart, you won’t have to pay her bills anymore!’ someone called out, to cheer him up.
To which Dad replied, ‘I liked paying her bills.’
Bless him. I loved my parents deeply and would miss them every day.
We had arranged to meet up with many of our friends for lunch at a restaurant in the Rocks. There were twenty of us gathered. I don’t think any of them had been to bed since the wedding. Rick took our marriage certificate for all to sign. When we eventually left to drive to Rick’s family beach house at Palm Beach for the night, we realised we’d left the certificate at the restaurant. A frantic phone call was made to Paul, asking if he would return to collect it. He was a reliable best man, and the certificate was safely located. Not a good start to our marriage!
On the Sunday morning, Rick’s parents arrived at Palm Beach to take us to the airport. As we ascended in the elevator, we heard loud laughter and chatter coming from the bar area. We were greeted by cheers and hugs. Our twenty friends had come to see us off—and they still hadn’t been to bed.
‘This is the very final call for Mr & Mrs Old travelling to Fiji. Would you please go to Gate 32 IMMEDIATELY?’ came the desperate call. We raced to the gate and boarded the plane, apologising to the patiently waiting passengers.
With a deep breath, we were on our way, finally. We were both looking forward to two quiet weeks to recuperate from a very happy but hectic time. During the flight we relived every moment, or at least I did. I thought again of how lucky we were to have such wonderful family and friends to share and celebrate our happiness.
How quickly the celebrations had passed. I was Mrs Old and on my way to Fiji with my new husband. Life was one big, exciting adventure.
We flew into Nandi over beautiful swaying palm trees and aqua seas. After a night in a hotel, we sailed in a large boat across to Castaway Island for the first week of our honeymoon. We slept and swam and snorkelled and enjoyed early nights for two days, but…then things changed.
We were in the main bar having a quiet cocktail before dinner when a giant, bronzed man erupted into the room. He wore a pink bathing cap covered with plastic flowers, and he was singing ‘Lily the Pink’ at the top of his lungs. Then he announced, ‘I’ll shout the bar!’ There would have been more than twenty people present. We all enthusiastically accepted his kind offer.
‘I’m John,’ he announced, ‘and this is my mate Bob.’
Bob was a very pasty, thin, fair man wearing glasses who followed silently behind John. Both friend and accountant, he looked after the finances of the pair. A difficult job, we were to discover.
John and Bob had made a fortune playing the stock market, and now they were celebrating. They’d come across on a boat on the off-chance they would find accommodation at this honeymoon paradise. They weren’t so lucky: the island was fully booked. They were offered a linen room, which they accepted, but I doubt they laid their weary heads down there very often.
Rick and I had worked out a careful budget, but from this moment on we failed to adhere to it. Our alcohol consumption increased dramatically as we enjoyed the company of these two Englishmen enormously. We didn’t follow the tradition of our many fellow honeymooners of early to bed and early to rise. We often skipped breakfast only to be wakened by the cleaning lady rattling the mop bucket and calling out, ‘Wake up, Mr & Mrs Bullamacow!’ We were informed that the word ‘bullamacow’ meant ‘old’, but with the combination of Bull and Old, we wondered if they were having us on.
Finally John and Bob were due to depart the island. We found them disputing the final bill. Bob was horrified by all the wineglass icons.
‘It’s a stuff-up,’ John declared.
Somehow I don’t think it was.
With our crazy English friends gone, our honeymoon continued at a much more sedate and relaxed pace, the budget restored to sensible proportions. We sailed back to the mainland and enjoyed quality time together.
‘Do you feel guilty being away from McAllister when there’s so much to be done?’ I asked Rick one evening.
He looked at me and smiled. ‘I feel very strongly that it’s important to have a honeymoon, even though we couldn’t afford it. It’s a special time. A once
in a lifetime holiday to share. We need it because it’s going to be hard work when we get home.’
I loved this reply. We spent many hours talking about our goals and dreams for McAllister. It was a time that has always been special to us both.
8
Home Again
On returning to Poppy and Trenham’s house, we were greeted by a mountain of packages full of exciting wedding gifts. We spent hours opening the beautifully wrapped boxes and exclaiming over their contents. But how were we to get them home to McAllister? Rick decided it would be a good idea to buy a cheap car.
This is how a dear old eighty-dollar cream-and-black FJ Holden sedan came into our lives. She’d had one owner and been looked after with great care and affection. How her long life was about to change! We called her Bessie.
We packed all our luggage and gifts into Bessie, up to the hilt. I had just enough room to straddle the gearstick, cuddled up close to Rick on the front bench seat. The passenger side door was blocked by curtain rods tied along the car, meaning I had to climb in from the driver’s side. Poppy and Trenham waved us goodbye—probably with some relief at having this weird-looking circus depart from the circular driveway of their elegant North Shore home.
Things were going smoothly until the first red traffic light. As he cruised through the gears, Rick discovered the stick wouldn’t stay in third. ‘I need to tie the stick down to keep her in gear,’ he told me. ‘See if you can find some binder twine.’
Luckily there was some in the glove box. We pulled over and Rick attached the twine, demonstrating how I’d put it over the gearstick, attach it to something to hold it in place when we were cruising, then take it off when we needed to slow down.
Sounded simple to me. Although I was still in a post-honeymoon glow and not concentrating on the job at hand.
‘Gearstick, gearstick, take it off!’ Rick shouted.