Patricia and I discussed spending our lives together, and towards the end of term two in 1961 we got engaged. Maybe it was the case, as Patricia later claimed, that the only way for her to stop my awful Saturday morning caterwauling over the phone was to agree to marry me. I don’t believe so—she was just joshing, surely?
Patricia decided to return to Sydney and we planned to be married in the next year. I was over the moon and, eager to have her nearer me, arranged to drive to Melbourne in the September school holidays to collect and bring her back north.
My little car beetled down the New England Highway and set out onto the Hume. I sang all the way in anticipation and happiness. With no one to overhear, I just let my emotions gush out, and they distracted me enough that a long drive seemed but a small hiccup. Probably every Everly Brothers song, all the Elvis love ballads, some Frankie Laine, Billy Daniels and Little Richard got an airing—anything with a message about love, and a solid beat. The songs reeled up the miles, bringing me nearer to my desire, so I didn’t resent the time taken; every minute and every mile post were closing the gap.
My plan for the twelve-hour return journey to Sydney was to take time, not to rush, to relish being together, to milk the opportunity to talk about our future, to make plans, to cement the pact we had made. With no other company in the car we’d be able to converse openly, sharing our most honest and intimate thoughts. How I looked forward to that chance.
As part of her preparation for my visit, Patricia had visited the Randall Worth Salon for a fashionable hairdo. At that time, Randall was the hairdresser of preference for women from Melbourne’s worlds of high society and entertainment. Through her role at Channel 7, Patricia had befriended him, so he was determined to do his best for her coiffure. It had been arranged that I would call in to the salon when I arrived in Melbourne to meet up with Patricia and, perhaps, commence a reunion night celebration.
So, I found the salon and called to the reception desk. After a few minutes, Patricia emerged. She looked … stunning.
How can I describe what I witnessed? Randall had created a spectacular vision and, accompanying her, he beamed with pleasure both at his creation and at me. We shook hands. I was knocked for six, without the ability to respond appropriately. Unable to express my pleasure at meeting my friend or my appreciation of Randall’s art, I simply stood transfixed, mouth wide open, gasping. I knew I was being unmannerly but, it was true, I couldn’t help myself.
Sometimes fashions just can’t be explained and seem to have no sensible genesis. And, in their turn, fashions go and, perhaps years or decades later, return. The styling of Patricia’s hair that afternoon was a fashion that came, went fairly quickly and has never returned. As a wonderful treat, Randall had teased, trained, trellised, transfixed and transfigured her hair into, it seemed, the world’s highest and widest beehive.
Somehow the hair was standing, in the most amazing bouffant confection, as an almost circular tower that reached perhaps a foot above her head. The whole thing seemed rigid, with no chance of unravelling: it appeared to have been set with cement. Not one hair escaped the cairn.
The description of such styling as a beehive is most apt. It did have the appearance of an old-style conical English beehive, woven from straw, as seen in illustrations of nineteenth-century novels. Why on earth, I wondered, did my friend have such a thing perching atop her head?
Later she explained that the hair was able to defy gravity and stay in place only by the application of cans of hairspray, and she also explained that, as the only way to rid the hair of this spray-on goo was to shampoo it away, many young women maintained the expensive styling for months at a time. Rumours abounded of nests of beetles and even mice taking up residence in some of these hair palaces.
However, that afternoon I had been struck speechless. In anticipating our reunion, I had imagined Patricia appearing in the way with which I was most familiar and which I found most endearing. I thought she was beautiful, and one of my delights was her rich, thick hair, simply cut to rest above her shoulders, framing her lovely face. Now her hair stood to attention, raising its wiry tendrils way above her head. It was unbelievable and, to me, disturbing. I should have known better and found the initiative to commend what I saw. I regretted immediately that I was unable to do so—my dumb silence was unfair to both of them. After a minute or two I regained some composure and expressed a few feeble compliments, but the damage had been done. I could see I had hurt Randall’s feelings and discountenanced my friend. This wasn’t the way I’d planned for our getting back together to occur. I could have kicked myself. Silly, silly man.
Randall disappeared from our lives when we left his salon. And, to my absolute relief, Patricia’s upset didn’t last long. She confessed, ‘I could detect your shock when I came out of Randall’s. This beehive hairdo wasn’t my idea. I’d been quite overwhelmed by Randall’s enthusiasm for it, so I’d just gone along with him. Once he had commenced, though, I could see what was happening, and I was quite dismayed. I couldn’t find the courage to ask him to stop, though—I thought that would be too critical of his work, and I wanted to avoid any embarrassment or discomfort for him. So, against my best judgement, I let it happen. I think the hairdo ludicrous and will get rid of it as soon as possible.’
How relieved I was.
Patricia’s kind, self-effacing treatment of Randall was characteristic of her. She would tolerate some situations not to her personal benefit because she could see that others were obtaining something they liked or desired. She would put herself out for people. I’ve always loved that about her.
It took only the morning’s hair wash for the awful concoction to disappear.
I was introduced next morning to Patricia’s flatmates, who explained they felt they already knew me: they’d enjoyed listening to my ‘crooning’ and to some censored snippets from my letters. I was initially a little taken aback. But, on reflection, I saw it was just a part of the inclusiveness and openness that had attracted me to this wonderful woman who loved sharing her joy with friends.
That morning, I was surprised to see Patricia’s twelve-year-old sister, Janet, sitting on the couch. Patricia said she’d been visiting over the first week of her school holidays. Then came some unexpected news: Janet was to accompany us to Sydney.
Blood rushed to my head. This wasn’t part of my plan. I wanted a private ride, just the two of us. My temper was rising, and some unkind words were close to expulsion. Instantly my inner voice shouted: Idiot. Have you learnt nothing of worth from yesterday’s hairstyle incident? Calm down! Now! Be gracious. You can do this.
So, I said, ‘How terrific. We can get to know each other so much better as future in-laws on our trip.’
There were several cases and bags to load, as Patricia had packed up almost two years of her Melbourne life to take home. Little sister had her own port. We filled the boot of my small car, and when the three of us got in, the vehicle was weighed down but not dangerously.
Off we set, and after travelling about a hundred yards I was asked to call in to an address in South Melbourne where we were to pick up a friend, John, who was taking a holiday in Sydney and was to travel with us at Patricia’s invitation.
I had a feeling this wasn’t going to work out well—but, having adopted a conciliatory stance, I proceeded to the given address. I was quickly resigned to yet another travelling companion.
John was waiting for us along with several suitcases of clothes that he felt necessary to keep him well presented on all possible occasions during his two weeks in Sydney. My small boot was full, so we sat his ports on the back shelf, and between him and Patricia’s sister on the back seat. With the four of us now in place, the car was certainly overloaded. The springs began lurching.
Off we set again. No more surprises, so we tackled the highway. All went well until somewhere past Albury.
We started to climb up a long, gradual slope. The road went on and up. No top to the hill was in sight. The little car began to labour. My eyes shot to the temperature gauge, but wishing had no impact. The car boiled over and just died. Here were the four of us, miles from anywhere, with my biscuit tin not willing to carry its load any further.
After a whole lot of difficult, time-consuming and vexatious arrangements, and a night in an Albury hotel, the next day we got back on the road. Carrying an emergency can of water, which from time to time we decanted into the radiator, we achieved a slow, although not unhappy progress to our home town.
Having John with us through these troubles turned out to be a joy. He was a bright, witty conversationalist. Coming from a background of creating and directing shows for metropolitan TV stations, he had loads of inside stories and many funny anecdotes about the celebrities of the day. We shared much fun and laughter.
John was an educated chap. He loved poetry and, with a captive audience, could easily be encouraged to recite his favourites. Hopkins and Wilde received John’s full, emotive treatment, with his enthralling version of ‘The Windhover’, and his full-length, compelling telling of the ‘Ballad of Reading Gaol’. His favourite, quite obscure stories from English history also distracted our attention and kept us relatively content.
Poetry was already a link between Patricia and me. She knew many Shakespeare sonnets off by heart and recited those for us. Her rendition of Sonnet 18, ‘Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day?’, had me doing just that with regard to her as we sat patiently waiting by the roadside. All of us took part in remembering bits of Twelfth Night, Hamlet, the ‘Scottish Play’ and others. I contributed several poems, including ‘South of My Days’, and explained how Judith Wright’s words had crystallised much about Weabonga for me.
Through that journey, John and I became firm friends, and he remained a central and important part of our lives.
Courting is a process. The Hume Highway epic journey added to my understanding of the character, style and attitudes of Patricia. She was a very social person, making strong friends whom she came to adore and to whom she was immensely loyal. If I was to share life with her I must agree to—indeed, welcome—others sharing our life. And that encouraged me. Life was ours to make as we wished. If having many loving friends was central to Patricia, it was central to me.
Before we might begin building our future together, though, I had one more term to complete in Weabonga. Patricia and I would be separated for another three months, but I could face this with equanimity and composure, knowing our plans.
At Weabonga I would ensure the kids and I achieved as much together as possible. My desire was for them all to be capable of success no matter what was to follow.