THE original wedding date had been changed because my parents were in the middle of immigration formalities and would not be in South Africa in time for the ceremony.
Then six other dates had to be cancelled because Corrie could not be spared from work.
It was over a year before we finally managed to get hitched, and even then we hit problems.
One bridesmaid’s dress was hemmed with masking tape, the other bridesmaid was on crutches and my mother’s zip was held together with faith, hope and self-control.
Our wedding gave the officiating minister a big headache. He had had to cope with long handles before, but not two such as ours and both at the same wedding. He must have practised “Cornelius Mattheus Smuts-Steyn” and “Susan Margaret Hamel-Cooke” for hours in front of his shaving mirror.
He managed it perfectly, while I, for months afterwards, refused to answer the telephone, because I couldn’t say “Sue Smuts-Steyn speaking” without spitting into the mouthpiece.
We held the reception at home, with a bar in the lounge, a disco in the garage and a barbecue in the garden. We decided to have the speeches early in the proceedings, before the speakers imbibed too liberally and forgot their words. One can usually rely on wedding speeches to be pretty boring, but there are exceptions.
As soon as we had decided to get married, Corrie had phoned my father and asked for my hand. David, awfully witty for seven in the morning, had asked what was to become of the rest of me.
The upshot of the conversation had been a terribly complicated lobola contract which claimed that I was worth two hundred and fifty-six cows, but that Corrie was entitled to twenty-eight years’ depreciation at a certain number of cows per year, plus so many cows discount for such failings as my taste for expensive Scotch and my total inability to soft-boil an egg.
In the end it had worked out that Corrie could buy me for a quarter of a cow. In consideration of the fact that cows are rather difficult things to put in the mail box, David had quoted an exchange rate of one cow to eight bottles of Scotch.
Corrie had never paid him.
So David delivered a tirade about Corrie’s inability to pay his bills and Corrie gave a lecture on tribal lore, with a special mention of the traditional trial period, during which the husband can return the wife to her father’s kraal and reclaim his cows. Paul, meanwhile, had slipped quietly into the kitchen and was ready with the presentation. Two bottles of Scotch and five pounds of rump steak.
The steak was put on the barbecue, which was a good idea, but some idiot poured the Scotch into the punch bowl. This was ill–advised, as it contained champagne cocktail, already well laced with brandy and Cointreau.
About ten o’clock that night, Margaret started dropping hints that it was about time we left. We had been enjoying the party so much that we hadn’t noticed how late it was getting. Now the getaway car was ready and I hadn’t changed my clothes or even packed a suitcase.
Of course the armful of clothes which I grabbed from the cupboard would not fit into the suitcase, so I left with two evening dresses over my arm and a pair of shoes in a plastic bag.
The car was festooned with toilet paper on the outside, filled with cornflakes on the inside, and trailing a string of empty beer cans from the rear bumper.
We stopped just round the corner to make sure that we hadn’t got a kipper tied to the exhaust manifold. This is a very smelly trick and was one of my favourites to play on other people.
We spent the first night of our honeymoon in the hotel nearest to home. This turned out to be a good thing because, in my haste, I had forgotten to pack any camping equipment. We were intending to spend three nights in the Wankie Game Reserve, and we didn’t know how well–equipped the cottages would be. We would have to take a few basic cooking utensils to be on the safe side.
We dashed back home the following morning, clambered over David, Margaret, Paul, Penny and three borrowed housemaids, who were all on their hands and knees picking up confetti, grabbed a camping stove and a couple of pots, and set out for Rhodesia.
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