Nights with a hint of frost…full moon rising over mountains… it reminds the Man of the House of his second visit to Rocky Hall.
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He was travelling in our first car, an ancient Morris Isis, with my brother and two friends from England.
Like most cars of its vintage, it guzzled petrol. The last petrol station between Sydney and Bega on the coast road then was a single pump at Quaama; but the car coasted to a stop on a deserted stretch of road well before that.
As they stood scratching their heads, wondering what to do, wonky headlights came towards them, bouncing over paddock grass.
It was the rabbit man; his profession was obvious, because rabbit corpses were strung from the frame of his ute tray.
He was a friendly, helpful sort of man, but couldn’t give them any petrol; his own vehicle was very low too.
“You could try old Joe at the farmnhouse over there,” he indicated, pointing at a distant single light twinkling.
The Moth and one of his mates set off towards the light, thankful for the moon shining on the frosty tussocks.
They called out in what they hoped was a reassuring manner as they approached the house; it was, after all, three o’clock in the morning.
The light went out, which was not reassuring. They called again; this time they did get a reply.
Bullets zinged over their heads. They didn’t try any more reassurance; they turned and fled back to the car and the rabbit man.
“Don’t know what’s the matter with him,” said the latter. “He’s been living on his own too long!”
The rabbit man would have been happy to stay chatting and smoking until dawn; but the party in the Isis had an important engagement the next morning, one that they seemed likely to miss.
Traffic was sparse at night on the road then, and it was with relief that they saw another car approach, and slow down.
Although the Moth had never met the occupants, they were the only other guests from Sydney attending the same function that he was.
They didn’t have spare petrol in a can; indeed, they were running low, too.
But they let him siphon a little into the Isis’ tank, enough to get him to Quaama.
The Moth hadn’t had much experience at siphoning petrol, and couldn’t get any flowing; eventually he gave the tube a stronger suck – and spluttered as the gas finally came through.
The other carload of guests continued to the schoolhouse at Rocky Hall, and arrived at daybreak. They were able to reassure my parents – and me – that the groom and his party for our wedding that morning were sitting outside the Quaama petrol station, waiting for the proprietor to open up, and would be along in time for the ceremony at eleven.
Which was fifty years ago.
The ceremony was held at the Rocky Hall hall, which was transformed into a church by placing paper arches over the windows.
The ladies who organised this had some practice – ours was the second wedding there in two years, after a lapse of a decade.
I made my gown, a neighbour supplied bridesmaids dresses, the guests all brought a plate with something on it, and Mum’s and Dad’s mates, the Wyndham publicans, supplied champagne.
Dad played the organ, so my military grandfather marched me up the aisle in double-quick time.
Once there, I very nearly had to stay there, because when we knelt at the altar, my sister, one of the bridesmaids, trod firmly on my train and I couldn’t rise.
The following party was the best that the Moth and I had ever been to, and we were reluctant to leave; but eventually made our way to the coast in the Isis, now fortunately fuelled up.
The Moth didn’t think he’d swallowed any petrol; but the smell about his person persisted, so much so that any honeymoon kisses were brief affairs held well away from any open flames.