Chapter 10. I'm getting married in the morning

Signing on the dotted line with help from Kobus and Sheila

For a few years, John and I lived and worked side by side, intent, not only on bringing the farm back to life, but on finding out whether our relationship was one that could withstand a more permanent arrangement.

Having both finalised our divorces from previous marriages, we each hesitated to embark on a second marriage unless we were absolutely certain that this was the wisest choice. We were well aware that the local population viewed us askance, and I came in for even closer scrutiny and censure since most of them had known my first husband far better than they knew me. To his great credit, Neville was not only understanding of our difficult situation, but was generous with both his time and expertise in helping us to get the farm established. Despite the fact that we were both involved in new relationships, our long term friendship and the fact that between us, we had produced two outstanding children, helped to smooth the path towards our final separation. John and I will always be grateful for his manpower and knowledge, much of which had been gleaned from time spent on the spectacularly beautiful farms in the Barkly East district, where I am glad to say he now resides and has also happily remarried.

I was fortunate that both my parents managed to make the journey from England to come and inspect the farm, and while my father proved to be a dab hand at dowsing for water and cooking up delicious meals in our solar oven, my mother enjoyed her water colour painting and rambles with the dogs. Her only slight concern was that Bokkie loved to come along on these walks, and in moments of excitement, he tended to bump and buffet whoever was in charge of the outing. She quickly learned never to wear a skirt when he was around, and learned the trick of getting through a gate first and quickly closing it before the attendant buck could race through with her.

Being thoroughly British, my parents viewed my current situation and decided that I was clearly happy and would probably work out my own destiny without any urging or advice from them. For the past twenty five years, they had watched as I had become a wife and mother, faced the end of my marriage and then ventured into this new relationship, and throughout all that time, they had given loving support, had kept me well supplied with letters from home, and quietly let me know that they would always be there for me.

John’s father had died when John was still a teenager, but his mother who was known by all and sundry as Mamy, had re-married a delightful man know to all and sundry as Papy.

Their generosity to us was exceptional and it was thanks to Papy that our windmill was replaced and we could afford a large and very useful diesel generator. He had wanted to pay for us to have electricity brought out to the farm, but we had to turn down his generous offer that would have cost thousands, so instead, he was responsible for us being able to run a washing machine, have a television set, and keep our computers going.

We had been on the farm for four years and so far had resisted the temptation to either beat each other to death with a frying pan or insert an axe into a sleeping head, and in light of this achievement, we began to discuss the idea of formalising our relationship. We rationalised that if we could still be together after everything that we had been through, then we had as much chance as anyone else did, of making a success of our future lives together. I can’t relate that John sank to one knee and proposed by moonlight, but somewhere along the line, we began to dig out our birth certificates and final decrees of divorce, and consider the legal aspects.

Having been born in England, I had no trouble producing the necessary document, but John had been born in Vietnam when it was still French Indo China. Needless to say, in the upheavals that surrounded the swift departure of the French in 1947, something that didn’t get packed was his birth certificate, and this was just one of the hurdles that had to be cleared.

Eventually we seemed to have dotted all the “i’s” and crossed all the “t’s”, and Mamy and Papy announced that they were coming over for a visit. It was time to make plans for the actual ceremony that would take place at the Magistrate’s Office down in Zastron. We drove down to town dressed in our “tidy clothes” and dutifully queued at the wooden desk, the front of which was fenced with large bars, and behind which sat rather ferocious looking ladies who dealt with the paperwork that held the town together.

We were starting to make known our request when the Magistrate himself appeared, and since we were something of an oddity, he came over to enquire if we needed any help. We explained that a marriage was imminent and that we would be delighted if he could officiate, and suggested that Thursday morning the following week would suit us ideally. He looked concerned and then informed us that although he would be happy to join us together in matrimony, he could only perform the service on Thursday afternoon since he dealt with criminal matters such as murder in the mornings!

Not to be daunted, we decided to have our wedding luncheon at the local hotel and then totter down the road to the Magistrate’s Office afterwards and sign on the dotted line. With Mamy and Papy beaming at us, and with our neighbour Hennie sitting in his wheelchair acting as witness for us, we said farewell to our single state, and inscribed our names on the document in front of us.

We were then showered with confetti thrown by our flower-girl Sheila, helped by our staunch young friend Kobus, before going to drink a most welcome cup of tea with Hennie and Aret. And then it was back to normal and we embarked on married life by going out and feeding the cattle and settling back into our usual routine, but not before we had taken Mamy and Papy with us on honeymoon to the Drakensburg!

Over the years, we had wonderful visits from family members who travelled from overseas, and from those who lived closer by. In addition to our respective parents, John’s two daughters flew over from France when they were still only eleven years old, and spent a couple of weeks with us, happy to chatter to John in French while leaving me to wonder what was going on most of the time. They not only delighted in having endless dogs to play with, but were over the moon when given the opportunity to drive the farm truck, despite the fact that they had to sit on a cushion in order to see over the steering wheel.

John’s sister and her husband came for a stay and supplied both extra manpower and a sharp pair of scissors. Michelle was a superb hairdresser back in France, and both John and I had become distinctly shaggy over the months that elapsed between visits to Bloemfontein. Taking into account my fly-away curls, John occasionally suggested that I wait until the man who sheared the sheep paid us a visit, and I could line up with them and get a short back and sides. I would get my revenge however, and when his hair became too shaggy, I would neaten him up with the scissors while giving Muffy the Maltese Poodle a quick trim, but it is debatable as to which of them came off worse. It is said that there are three days between a good haircut and a bad one, but John would jam on his old farm cap and refuse to remove it for about a week, after which time, he was once again returning to his normal shaggy state.

My son Peter and daughter Claire came to visit when they were back in South Africa between overseas trips to England and Australia, and it was wonderful to gather around the kitchen table with a few bottles of wine, and catch up on all their news and adventures. They subsequently each married terrific partners, and they all now live in Australia, and between them they have provided me with five beautiful grandchildren, and so the never-ending quest for air tickets continues.