CHAPTER #9

On the flight back to South Africa everyone seemed to be a-twitter because Gary Player, the golfer, was travelling with us. I was so drained of emotion that I would not have cared if the Pope himself had been in the seat next to me. All I wanted was to be able to relax and not think about the events of the past week.

Relaxing didn’t come easily to me, though. I kept wondering how my parents would react to the letter I had sent two weeks ago telling them that I was leaving Bill and returning to South Africa. All I had done was give them a brief synopsis of the situation, as well as the date and time of my arrival, and then told them not to worry. Faint hope. I later heard that when my poor mother received the letter she became so concerned that she threw up. Perhaps I should have broken the news to them more gradually, but then they would have had more time to worry, wouldn’t they?

All I could do for now was to take a tranquillizer and hope to get some sleep on the long flight home. That didn’t work either. A bad weather system over much of Africa was causing the aircraft to shudder and buck for long periods at a time and this made the passengers extremely nervous indeed. In fact most of us wanted the flight attendant to give another demo showing how to don the flotation vests. I actually felt like putting mine on.

We landed in Brazzaville, very much the worse for wear, only to be told that there would be an indefinite delay because of the bad weather system. That delay turned into almost 8 hours. It was night time, so the aircraft was sprayed with mosquito repellent, and we were invited to rest in it as best we could.

While there was not much hope of that for me, many of the passengers were able to sleep stretched out on the floor and on seats, snoring loudly throughout the hot and steamy night. Some people stayed inside the terminal, getting tanked at the bar, and that might have been my choice if I could have “held my likker” worth a darn.

At daybreak the pilot advised that, with Johannesburg still shut down, our flight was being diverted to Bloemfontein, in the Orange Free State. Holy smokes! Would this journey never end? In Bloemfontein, at least, we had rooms in which to rest for a while. Finally, showered and fed, we completed the last leg of our flight without further incident. When that incredibly long journey ended, I stumbled off the aircraft battered, bleary-eyed and weepy but infinitely grateful to be home safe at last.

The whole family was there to meet me, full of questions and concern. Despite my assurance that I had made the right decision and would be happy with Don, there was some doubt in their minds. It seems Bill had written to say that if I married Don it wouldn’t last a year (on account of he was a villain and a rotter!) Bill also urged them to persuade me to return to him and, in fact, there was a telegram waiting for me at the apartment pleading for me to do just that. Over the next several weeks I received several more cables, all of them filled with promises of love everlasting, but none of them worked. The horse had already left the stable for good.

As soon as we arrived home Mouse performed her joyful welcoming act, whimpering up to each of us individually. At the time I was just one of the mob and didn’t get any special attention. But the next morning as I was standing, barefoot, in the kitchen, Mouse came in, sniffed my toes and suddenly went wild with excitement. Amazingly she had recognized me by the particular smell of my feet! You can bet I gave them a jolly good soaping in the shower after breakfast that day.

The plan was for both Don and me to get quick Mexican divorces so that we could be together as soon as possible. Canadian and South African divorces would come later. Although Don was still working in Argentina, he wanted to return to Canada with me as his wife but, to do this, we needed to get married outside of Canada so that I could enter the country as a landed immigrant. However, for the moment, all I could do was wait for the Mexican divorce papers to arrive before joining Don in Buenos Aires.

By now my parents had accepted the fact that I would be spending the rest of my life in foreign lands. I knew only too well that marrying Don would cut me off from them in ways that could never be recovered. There would be moments in all our lives that would only be shared, displaced in time, by the vagaries of the postal service.... I worried about my Dad’s health, too, and what my mother would do if anything happened to him. I knew I would miss Eddie and Joan, miss seeing their children grow up and have children of their own. These were all sacrifices I knew would have to be made and yet, somehow, this time I felt that the path I was taking was the right one. But I did cross my fingers just in case.

During this period Eddie was doing some industrial photography as a side line for his company. He had a lot of expensive equipment set up in a studio next to the garage and was always conning family members into posing for portraits. Because he was preparing entries for a competition that was about to take place, I became the next designated victim. One of the photos he took of me, entitled Big Sister had me looking like a vamp, holding a cigarette (ugh!), but it won 1st Prize and Ed was quite chuffed with himself at this success.

Unfortunately, a few years ago, while the family was out, burglars smashed the window in my brother’s living room in Germiston, entered the house and stole all of his camera equipment, most of his woodworking tools and many other valuables. Eddie never replaced the camera equipment because he had become much more interested in working with wood by that time. And fishing.

Several months passed by in a flash. Then one day the mailman delivered my long-awaited divorce papers. I telephoned Don right away to tell him the good news and immediately set about buying a few last-minute clothes before packing. No wedding dress this time, and very few possessions - except for the only things I had brought from my marriage to Bill: the fur rugs: I definitely could not go without them.

At last, filled with equal parts of happiness and sadness, it was time for me to leave. As I hugged and kissed everyone goodbye I simply couldn’t allow myself to think of the long-term implications of living permanently separated from my family. I didn’t know then that I was never to see my beloved father alive again.

Buenos Aires, Starting a new life and Wedding #2.

I stepped off the aircraft on a boiling hot day in Buenos Aires. Don took photographs of the landing, my descent from the aircraft, the walk across the tarmac, and if the captain had had a dog he would have photographed that also. It was wonderful to see him again, of course, and we didn’t stop smiling until our faces started to ache.

Don had been staying at the Hotel California for several months and on the way there I checked out my surroundings. Big city stuff, people and cars everywhere, horns blowing, and exhaust fumes hovering in the shimmering heat like a pall.

I was told that Argentineans seldom stop or slow down for pedestrians, they just lean on their horns and expect the road to clear immediately. Few people obeyed traffic lights or signs in those days and everyone seemed angry and aggressive. I was still feeling airborne after a sixteen hour flight but that taxi ride certainly brought me down to earth with a bump. Thank goodness our room at the hotel was quiet and peaceful.

So here I was at last, starting a new life with another new love. Is anyone out there keeping score?

I didn’t even unpack because I knew we would be flying to New York in a few days to get married - although, as yet, we didn’t know where the wedding would take place. Hmmm. I like to have things planned in advance but Don was used to flying by the seat of his pants. Oh, well! It was a nice change for me to have someone else make all the decisions - we could worry about details later. For now I simply placed myself literally, and figuratively, in his hands.

I spent the few days we had in Buenos Aires checking out the stores and visiting a spa. The stores were fabulous and, like Rio, it seemed that every other one sold shoes. Argentina is a huge cattle-ranching country so there are naturally lots of leather goods on the market. Don bought me a lovely suede jacket as a wedding gift which came in handy when we got to the cooler air of Canada. That jacket also went on to serve another, completely different, purpose many years later. (I’ll try to remember to tell you about it when I get there.)

The spa was definitely an eye-popper. It was in an old building that looked kind of seedy but, since it had been recommended by staff at the hotel, I made an appointment and showed up at the appointed hour. A rather blowsy woman in flip-flop sandals presented me with a towel and some soap, gave me a locker and then led me to the showers.

Dutifully doffing my clothes I put them in the locker carefully, took a shower, then wrapped myself modestly in the towel. I followed someone into a huge, unbearably hot room with a large swimming pool in the middle and lounging chairs all around. It was filled with naked women of all shapes and sizes, strutting, bouncing, flapping, drooping, sitting, lounging or diving into the pool with total unselfconsciousness. I perched gingerly on one of the chairs and, for something to do, started checking out the great variety in colour of everyone’s nipples.

I had truly never seen so much naked flesh in one place at one time. For a while I thought it might be a lesbian bath house but, as there were no signs of any funny stuff, assumed that it was simply a liberating experience for those women to be able to let it all hang out in public, so to speak.

Later on I discovered a half dozen smaller rooms, or saunas. The first one was so hot and steamy that my heart instantly yelled “Get me out of here fast!!” So I gave up exploring further, took a cold shower then moved on to the beauty parlour for a shampoo and set and a beauty makeover.

Sadly, it didn’t work. When I got back to the hotel I realized they’d made me look like someone else entirely so I brushed out the set, washed off all the make-up and reapplied my own. While they didn’t succeed in making me beautiful, at least I came back squeaky clean.

New York, Wedding #2, New Immigrant.

I scanned the earth below us eagerly as we circled fabled New York city: jagged skyscrapers punching the sky, Liberty with her torch held high, the famous bridges, wave-laced coast line and Long Island. I would not have believed it if you had told me then that, one day, we would live in Long Island for almost five years.

Once through Customs we checked in at the car rental counter. Don chose a large one with automatic gear shift but when he was asked to produce his driver’s licence we found that it had expired. “Sorry, sir, no valid licence, no car!” Miraculously, I had an international driver’s licence (someone in South Africa had suggested I get it) and the problem was solved. The bad part was that I had never before driven a car with automatic gears. “Piece of cake,” said Don. The vehicle was waiting in front of the terminal. It was not so much a car but a whale on wheels, with flippers as large as paddles.

I was tired and nervous as Don tried to explain how to drive the whale. “Just don’t put your foot on the brake to shift gears,” he was saying, when a policeman stepped out into the street to halt the flow of traffic so that we could get into the stream. Panicked, I put my foot down on the accelerator, then hit the brake a second later; this tactic, repeated several times, caused the car to rear back and rush forward in ever lengthening jerks - and Don to wonder if he was going to be able to make it to the nearest bathroom.

There was enough adrenaline in my system at that moment to fight Joe Louis, but the panic diminished somewhat as we drove across George Washington bridge, heading in the direction of Canada. As soon as a likely motel hove into view, we stopped so that I could crash - and we could plan the next step of our journey.

Consulting a map it looked as though Lewiston, just outside of New York, might be a good place to tie the knot. A Justice of Peace was located by hunting through the telephone directory and he told us what documents we would need and where to get a licence. April 13th was set for the ceremony and, unless we ran into any problems, it looked as though we would be married at 10 o’clock on that day.

There were no problems so on April 13th we drove to Lewiston, papers in hand, all aglow with anticipation. Knock-knock on the door of the Justice’s house. No reply. Knocked again, louder. Still no answer. Finally pounded on it with our fists, making such a racket that the next-door neighbour popped her head out of a window and told us to look in a potato field down the road.

Oh! Okay.... So off we drove to the potato field.

As soon as we got out of the car we spied our Justice of the Peace on a tractor waaay over on the other side of a ploughed field. Eventually his attention was attracted by our frantic whistles and waves and he walked over to the fence, looking at us blankly. “We have a date to be married today!” “Oh, Lord,” he said, “I had totally forgotten.” He asked us to give him a half-hour to clean up and to call his sister, Sunday, as a witness. Delighted to have someone called Sunday as a witness, we drove slowly back to his house and parked in the driveway to wait for thirty minutes.

Right on time, a half hour later, the garage door rolled up to reveal a small courthouse containing desk, two chairs, hanging flags, a picture of President John F. Kennedy, and our scrubbed JP decorated with his chain of office. The ceremony was completed quickly and, to seal the deal, we all drank a toast in ginger ale to a happy life ahead for the bride and groom. Another hurdle over and the next one coming up fast.

Needless to say, my second honeymoon was much nicer than the first and, of course, it had to be spent in Niagara Falls. Don took pride in showing me around all the sights and I was particularly impressed by the sheer volume of water from the Niagara River thundering into the gorge. Hard to believe that anyone had voluntarily gone over those falls in a barrel and actually survived!

The town of Niagara Falls itself seemed to exist solely for tourists, with every corner store selling gifts and souvenirs, hot dogs and pizzas. But, no matter how commercial or junky, I was disposed to like everything I saw around me and revelled in each new experience.

From our motel in Niagara Falls Don telephoned Kay to let her know that we were close to Canada. Although I was hesitant to speak to her myself, Don insisted, and so (with racing heart) I did. Happily, Kay was as relaxed and friendly as she had ever been and, from that moment on, I think we have both taken pride in the fact that we have maintained the same bond of friendship for nearly 40 years.

Kay married Larry McKeever in 1967 and they lived together happily until he died in 2002 at the age of 94. But that’s not my story and, besides, it’s a rich and unusual one involving hundreds of owls that would take far too long to tell right now.

The greatest hurdle of all was coming up fast. Getting admitted to Canada as a landed immigrant. With blood pressure skyrocketing and dried up saliva, I nervously approached the Customs agent on duty and presented my documents. He examined them carefully but took so long about it that I felt sure I was going to be rejected. Then he picked up a stamp, pounded my passport and other papers, signed several places with a flourish and bade me do the same. With a big smile he said “Everything’s in order, Mrs. MacFadyen. Welcome to Canada!” I floated out of there on Don’s arm as a bona fide resident of my new adopted country.

We were just two hours away from the last hurdle I would have to clear that day: meeting Don’s father, Papboy. (The strange name was bestowed on him by the small Japanese daughter of a couple who looked after him for many years.) I didn’t think I could bring myself to call him “Papboy”, though, it just didn’t sound right to me.

Then, when I first met him, standing beside a grand piano in the hallway of his home at 29 Chestnut Park, I knew for sure the name didn’t suit, for it was a tall, elderly, gentleman in a red velvet smoking jacket who greeted me kindly, and urged me to sit down on one of the leather couches in his study.

Pap’s home was like a museum: a stained glass window featuring the Three Graces stretched from the ground floor past a wide staircase to the first floor. Walls were panelled with oak and there were paintings everywhere, including two with cows and sheep that were at least 5 ft x 8 ft and covered entire walls by themselves. The only place that wasn’t very formal downstairs was a small conservatory completely filled with flowering plants, leading into the garden. Oh, and our room upstairs which also opened out into a sun room above the conservatory.

The housekeepers who looked after Pap (and lived above the kitchen) were Hungarian: Mary and Michael Fekete. They were delighted to have Don back at home and pampered us unmercifully.

Although Don was expected to be back in Argentina to set up a new office in Mendoza soon, he did his level best to introduce me to as much of Toronto as he could and, while Don was at the office, Pap and I spent the time getting to know each other.

Despite the fact that Pap was deaf and couldn’t hear what I was saying, we had a mutual interest in books, particularly the stories of James Thurber and Robert Benchley. Several times he and I went downtown in the subway (which was an adventure in itself for me at that time), had lunch at Fran’s Restaurant and then went on to the movies. He also bought me a lovely camel hair coat, for no reason at all, but I was so appalled at the cost that we took it back and I chose a less expensive suit instead. Too bad. The suit is long gone but I’ll bet if I’d kept the coat it would still be hanging in my closet.

Don’s little son, Rod, and his cousin Richard, were due to come over for a visit one weekend and although I knew that Rod would not remember me from Brazil, I was worried that he might resent my intrusion into his parents’ lives. I needn’t have worried: Rod turned out to be a sweet little boy who allowed me to kiss him right away. He even made a Mother’s Day card for me (which I have kept for 39 years) that said “Roses are red, vilots are blue and I love you - guess who”. I am not much given to sentimentality, but that card meant more to me than any gift I had ever received, and ensured Rod a place in my heart which has never been vacated.

When we drove the boys back to Rod’s mother’s house in Vineland, Rod, seated between Don and me, reached up and pulled my arm around his shoulders as though he wanted to be close to me. Ah, motherhood at last! I smiled down at Rod, thinking: surely life couldn’t get much sweeter than this.....

Farewell, for now, Canada; back to Buenos Aires.

Papboy was very sad indeed to see us leave. He had been leading a lonely life for some years and enjoyed having us around for company, especially a willing listener like myself.

Pap, like Don, loved to talk and for that you need an audience, otherwise people start looking at you “funny”. We left, promising to return soon, and to write as often as possible.

The flight back to Buenos Aires was mercifully uneventful and, after arrival, we checked into the Hotel California again for a brief period. Since we were expected to stay in Buenos Aires for six months before moving to Mendoza, one of our first priorities would have to be finding an apartment to rent for that length of time.

Don was accustomed to living in hotels but it was not the life for me: dinner was never served before 9.30 or 10 o’clock at night and that meant going to bed with a full stomach and getting indigestion. Besides, no matter how good hotel food is, you always end up longing for something simple to eat like baked beans on toast. (Well, maybe that was a bad choice, but you know what I mean!)

Fortunately we soon found a suitable, centrally located apartment, complete with maid, and moved in along with (you guessed it) my own treasured vicuna fur rugs.