Born at the Right Time Page 11

  The speed and intensity of my courtship and marriage to Mary Crock turned me inside out and upside down. From being a somewhat inexperienced man, I began a relationship with Mary in August 1985. Within nine months we were married, and within two years we were parents.

  I first met Mary on a Saturday evening, 18 August 1984 at a dinner party hosted by my colleague and friend Sue McNicol, with whom I taught Evidence at Monash. Later Mary told me that she had met Sue that afternoon and Sue said that she had too many men and not enough women to grace her table. She asked Mary to come along and make up the numbers.

  The dinner was a fine one, with the guests predominantly lawyers and academics. However, Sue’s husband, Andrew, had a stomach bug, so he spent most of the evening in bed. Father Frank Brennan, whom Mary and I both happened to know before knowing each other, was also in attendance. At some time towards midnight, I found the conversation around me to be a little dull. Then I heard a beautiful mellow voice from across the table. When the moment proved opportune, I walked around and introduced myself to Mary.

  We said hello and exchanged names, and Mary then said, ‘You are obviously an RLF child.’

  I asked her what she meant and she explained that from her observations I was most probably born premature and had suffered from retrolental fibroplasia.

  I said, ‘Well, smarty-pants, how come you know all about RLF?’

  Mary then explained that her father was Professor Gerard Crock, Australia’s first full professor of ophthalmology. When she took my arm to find a seat, it was instantly clear to me that Mary had experience being in the company of blind people, because her approach was relaxed and capable.

  We chatted away and I learned that she was only twenty-five years old. After graduating with honours in both her Bachelor of Arts and Bachelor of Laws degrees from the University of Melbourne, Mary was a junior solicitor at a large law firm. Mary had found her feet as a graduate solicitor with a big city law firm (known then as Corr & Corr); tasted inner-city life in a share-house; travelled to Germany to undertake a language course and skiing holiday; and then assumed a position as Judge’s Associate at the Victorian Supreme Court, first to Justice Norman O’Bryan and then to Chief Justice John Phillips. As I was then aged thirty-five, I was much older, but Mary was so confident and exuberant that I didn’t feel out of place or awkward at all. In truth she captivated me. Her voice, her breathing, her inquiring mind and her scent overwhelmed me.

  At some time between 2 and 3 a.m., all the guests had departed except Father Frank, Mary and me. Mary suggested that she drive Frank and me home, but Frank said he would walk. My memory of Mary driving me home is a little hazy, because I had drunk a few glasses of wine. Mary got lost somewhere around St Kilda; as we drove by, she told me that there were street walkers plying their trade. Mary got me home, and we said goodbye; I kissed her on the cheek and she left to drive herself back to her parents’ home in Kew.

  Eight months passed. Thinking that I might never meet Mary again, I just thought, ‘Well, what a special woman and what an experience to treasure and to remember.’

  Then, through happenstance, we did meet again. On 14 April 1985 (at Mary’s urging) Mary’s parents invited Andrew and Sue McNicol and me to one of the Crocks’ famous Sunday lunches. I was a little nervous, so I looked up Professor Gerard Crock in Who’s Who and learned that, aside from being a famous ophthalmologist, his identical twin brother Harry Crock was a distinguished orthopaedic surgeon.

  At the lunch, I found Gerard and his wife, Jacqueline, to be charming hosts. Mary has three brothers and two sisters. To me, there just seemed to be a lot of them at the table. I didn’t really understand the social world of this large and prosperous Catholic family who lived in, what seemed to me, a mansion. There was perhaps a little irony in the fact that Mary’s dad was an eye doctor. On the other hand, it may also explain her ease with my blindness: she had literally grown up with people with visual impairments around her. Perhaps most importantly, her dad made a point of including his children in his professional life. With her siblings, Mary would accompany him on his ward rounds, running to keep up with his long strides. For her thirteenth birthday she told me that she was given a guitar and taken to see her first cataract operation. The experience confirmed her resolution that she did not want to follow her sister Trish into medical studies.

  A couple of months after this lunch, in early June 1985, my mum had a massive heart attack. She was taken to the Repatriation Hospital, which is situated in the Melbourne suburb of Heidelberg. I was distraught, and knew deep down in my bones that Mum, who was by now in her late seventies, would probably die in the hospital. I visited her weekly, taking either a cab or being driven by friends. I really had to steel myself. She was breathing through an oxygen tube and she had become rather shrunken. We were able to talk, but often Mum grew quite tired. At times I could sense that it took a lot of effort for her to breathe and to remain calm. It was clear to me that she would never recover.

  Amid this began my relationship with Mary. Courtships have about them many similarities, such as kissing, falling in love and deciding to marry. I don’t wish to write about every small detail of our courtship. Suffice to say that, owing to my blindness, to Mary’s father being a professor of ophthalmology and, to be honest, to my below-average experience of women, our courtship was a little out of the ordinary.

  One afternoon in July, I was sitting in my Law School office when the telephone rang. It was Mary, saying she would escort me to and from the Legal Convention dinner, which was on 6 August. I had already been invited by several former students, and Mary was going to be on our table.

  I remember Tuesday, 6 August 1985 as though it were yesterday. The dinner was being held on the banks of the Yarra River, some fifty-plus minutes’ drive from Monash University, and was a black-tie affair. I had an Administrative Law class to teach at 5.15 p.m, which Mary suggested I skip in order for us to avoid being late for the dinner. Instead, I conducted the class in my tuxedo and then took a cab to Mary’s Kew home.

  Jacqueline, Mary’s mum, opened the door to me. Jacq, as she is known, later told me that she knew in that instant that Mary and I would marry. I had no idea of what was to come.

  I was a little distraught that evening—my mum was dying—but I decided to put my sadness aside and enjoy myself as best I could. After all, I reasoned, I was with a gorgeous and intelligent young woman, and these types of evenings were a rarity for me; I might not have such enchanting company again, so I would make the most of it. Mary and I talked and laughed and danced together. Mary later told me that she could hardly believe that someone like me, who danced so badly, would actually get up on the dance floor, but I guess it was all part of what was happening between us.

  It didn’t bother me that my dance steps were so poorly executed. I just wanted to live for those few hours. It was a happy table and as we all chatted together I quickly realised that Mary and I shared deep intellectual interests—in music, books and the role of law in our society. Mary drove me home and I was very happy indeed. The following morning, I came to the realisation that I would never meet such a wonderful woman again.

  Just a few days later, on Saturday, 10 August, I received a phone call from the hospital suggesting that I come in promptly to see Mum. My brothers had been in earlier but she was particular in asking me to come in. She must have had a premonition: none of us expected her to pass away immediately. I straight away took a cab and discovered she was going into theatre to have a blood clot removed from her leg. After the operation we chatted. Mum said that she had tried to do her best for me and that she was proud of my achievements. She added that I had a good job, which I enjoyed, and that I should continue to live a wholesome life.

  I spoke to her about Mary who, I said, would be bringing me to see her the next day. I didn’t cry in front of Mum, but I was a little tearful on the cab ride home.

  Mum would never meet Mary.

  Mum passed away in the early hours of the fo
llowing morning, Sunday, 11 August, owing to another blood clot. I was woken by a telephone call at about 3.30 a.m. and a young doctor told me the sad news. I think this may have been the first occasion on which one of his patients had died. I actually remember comforting him. Honestly it was a release for Mum, because she was such an independent woman; she would have hated to have been discharged from the Repatriation Hospital into a nursing home.

  As events turned out, it was a kind of handing over by one woman to another—a mother handing over her son to a wife. It mattered not that they never met.

  As for me; well, I found Mum’s death to be truly devastating. Through all of my development and challenges she had been my great confidante and supporter. I remember crying quietly in my living room in the small wee hours, and I don’t recall crying again until Mary gave birth to our first child some two years later.

  I recall once listening to a radio program in which one of the speakers said that men cry after the death of their mother and after the birth of their sons, and it really rings true with me.

  The following evening when I returned home, I found a basket of food on my doorstep, which Mary had kindly delivered. The next night, Mary came over to my home straight after work and she comforted me. Mum’s funeral took place on Wednesday, 14 August and I delivered the eulogy, which exhausted me. Mary couldn’t leave court to attend the funeral, but that evening she joined me for dinner at the home of Sue and Andrew McNicol. I felt very emotionally conflicted. I was grieving for my mother and at the same time falling in love with Mary. From that moment on, we were very much the courting couple—much to the delight of our friends.

  Soon afterwards, we agreed that Mary would come to my place and then I would take her out to dinner.

  Mary’s mum suggested that Mary should dress professionally to go to dinner with me, because I was a senior lecturer in law. I hadn’t gone out to dinner with many women and I didn’t know quite what to do. I chose a small local pizza restaurant, where I had occasionally been with Lois’s daughter Jennifer and her children. Mary told me that throughout our meal she sensed many curious eyes on our table, and that in a way, this became the story of our courtship. She saw that I was fortunate to have so many people who cared about me. When we first arrived at the restaurant, however, Mary was a little taken aback and said that she hadn’t needed to dress up for this meal.

  To make amends, I suggested that on the next Saturday evening I would cook dinner for two. I worked very hard all of that following Saturday afternoon, and Mary arrived shortly after 6 p.m. I knew that Mary liked sherry, so I bought a bottle; but I probably hadn’t chosen very well. We both sipped some of it, but I didn’t like the sherry at all. I must have pulled a face because Mary simply said, ‘Darling, you don’t have to drink it. You can pour yourself a scotch.’ I am always surprised when people read my facial expressions.

  I had cooked roast lamb with potatoes and vegies, and I put candles on the table. Lighting them, however, was a little problematic. I accidentally lit one of the place mats, which Mary deftly extinguished. We talked, drank wine and opened up to one another. Our conversation spanned books, music, children and the law. We hugged and kissed deeply, and Mary left around midnight.

  Within a fortnight of the legal convention dinner, Mary had taken over from Lois the chore of helping me with my grocery shopping. Actually, Mary helped me re-organise my kitchen, because it was difficult at first for the two of us to cook and wash up in such a small space. When I needed more clothes, Mary helped me shop for them too.

  Six weeks after the legal convention dinner, on the evening of Tuesday, 17 September, I finished my Administrative Law class then caught the bus home. When I arrived at my door, I didn’t need to find my key because Mary opened it. When we kissed, I realised that she had already helped herself to that sherry.

  After a dinner that she had cooked, we were sitting on the couch discussing couples we knew. I said, ‘Darling, why don’t you marry me?’

  By then I had got to the stage where I couldn’t go on just being Mary’s friend. I knew that she was the only woman I would marry. For me it made sense to ask Mary to marry me. If she said ‘yes’, then I would be filled to the brim with happiness. If, however, she said ‘no’, then it would be best for us to go our separate ways. Mary simply said, ‘Yes, I guess.’ I’m a pretty ordinary guy, so I was over the moon when Mary accepted my proposal.

  Later Mary told me that she was concerned about me because my mum had recently died, and she had to make sure she was not entering a relationship with me out of sympathy. For her, a marriage must be built upon true love and deep respect.

  Of course, I had to speak to Mary’s father. We had a chat on the following Saturday afternoon. He said that he gave our marriage his blessing because our shared intellectual interests were a good foundation for marriage.

  Of course Gerard knew all about my retrolental fibroplasia. We never spoke about my blindness directly, but Gerard and I were very aware of the irony of the situation. Gerard had either improved or restored the sight of literally thousands of people, yet he was to have a blind son-in-law who could not be cured and who would be the father of some of his grandchildren. His work in curing blindness had in its own way equipped Mary to marry me.

  Mary’s mum, Jacq, was a little more restrained. Now that our children are of marriageable age, and Daniel is already married, I can better appreciate her slight reticence. It’s a big step for a parent when a child decides to marry.

  While Mary’s parents welcomed our engagement, they did note that we hadn’t known one another for very long and had really only been going out for six weeks. They suggested that we keep our engagement a family secret for a few more weeks. This was wise counsel.

  Dear Lois was a little nervous when I told her that Mary had agreed to be my wife. I think she wondered what relationship she would continue to have with me and with Mary. She needn’t have worried: by then she was my surrogate mum and part of my family. I think that my brothers were also very pleased for me.

  While I had not experienced true love before, I was hardly naïve. My travels, my academic work and my general experience of living meant that I did comprehend and delight in my sexual attraction to Mary. Friends are occasionally a little curious as to whether my lack of sight makes it more difficult for me to become attracted to women. After all, in the art of attraction, and no doubt of sexual attraction, vision plays a large part.

  I was initially attracted to Mary by her clear, warm and mellow voice. Then, as we spoke, it seemed to me we had so much in common. Once we became closer, touch became important to my attraction.

  Our oldest sense is our olfactory sense. It’s the first sense we know as babies, and some say it is the last sense to depart on our passing. Smell can really arouse me, and when we first came to know one another even the smell of Mary’s skin was an attraction. This is surely unsurprising news. Throughout the ages women and some men have used perfume as an allure.

  Well before I asked her to marry me, I had fallen head over heels in love with her. I had never experienced anything like this before; it was intoxicating. I kept dropping Mary’s name into conversations, even though she was largely irrelevant to the subject being discussed; it was exciting for me to say her name out loud. Friends at the Law School, especially Elizabeth Dodson with whom I worked, recognised that I had fallen in love and excused the fact that I was very distracted. Everyone was kind and tolerant.

  Before our engagement became public, Mary and I had a free day one Friday. I suggested that she should come along and meet my crèche class. I may have playfully teased Mary that if the children got tense with her, then perhaps we would have to do some deep thinking. Mary came with me to the crèche and sat alongside me in the kindergarten class. I introduced her to the group and Mary read the class a story. She spoke softly and answered their questions. I basked in her warmth and the unspoken promise of children to come.

  Afterwards, as Mary and I had coffee with Mrs Tsai
and the staff, a little girl named Jennifer came up and took my hand. ‘We’ve been talking,’ said Jennifer, referring to her classmates, ‘and we think you should marry that lady.’

  ‘Jennifer,’ I whispered, ‘consider it done.’

  Our engagement in those pre-Facebook days was announced in the newspapers on Saturday, 19 October 1985. I had been single for such a long time that my altered status as Mary’s fiancé caused a little consternation among a small number of my friends. After all, our meeting and engagement did happen rather quickly.

  One day at the Monash Law School, my labour law colleague Marilyn Pittard came into my office and shut the door noisily. I said with some surprise, ‘What’s up?’

  Marilyn recounted that she was tired of colleagues asking her whether I really knew what I was doing. ‘So, what did you say?’ I asked her.

  ‘Well, I said that I only write labour law articles with you, but that I had never known you to do anything foolhardy, and that you and Mary will make a great couple.’

  During my administrative law classes I became quite wistful and adopted the practice of reading out a short romantic poem every couple of lectures. When our engagement was in the newspaper, the students applauded me in the classes that followed. I hope that, despite my falling in love, I taught them sufficient administrative law for legal practice.

  The fact that Mary has full vision has led to some humorous moments. For example, early on in our courtship we were getting ready to go out one evening. Mary went to the bathroom in my home to put on make-up, and came out exasperated. ‘There is no mirror in this house,’ she said, and I explained that I didn’t need one. My wedding present to dear Mary was a full-length mirror. It still has pride of place in our bedroom.