Stars over Shiralee

by Sheryl McCorry

  Out in the waiting room I told Robby. He went terribly quiet and I had no idea what was going through his mind — beyond the obvious fact that he had just lost his father and the last thing he needed to hear was that his mother had breast cancer.

  From the hotel room I called Leisha at the Shiralee, then my parents. Leisha broke down in tears. Like Robby, my mother was very quiet, but it was a confident quietness. ‘You will beat this cancer, Sheryl, you are strong,’ she said. My mother always had great faith in me. I put the phone down and burst into tears. If this cancer got a grip on me and I was to die, my children would be alone. They were my only concern. They had already been dealt enough bad news in their short lives.

  Everything seemed too much to handle and I badly needed to talk to someone, but Terry was asleep and I wasn’t going to wake him up. I couldn’t stop crying; I became very cold and started to shake, and then I couldn’t stop shaking. Robby piled blankets on me and sat with his arms wrapped tightly around me. When I saw the tears and fear in his worried blue eyes, I made a supreme effort and pulled myself together. Terry was still sound asleep, and I wondered if he would ever really be there for me.

  But I told myself that sort of thinking was coming from weakness. I was in shock. Really, this was about me and my children. Terry was such a newcomer in my life, I had to get through this on my own. I could, and I would. I suddenly had perfect confidence of that.

  Bright and early the next morning the nurses at the Mount Hospital prepared me for surgery. I was first on the theatre list to give me time to come out of the anaesthetic before Terry drove me to Busselton for our wedding the following afternoon. All gowned and warm I lay dozing on the theatre gurney waiting for the operation. At one point I looked up and saw Terry in tears before a nurse ushered him from the room. I had no more tears myself. I had made up my mind that once the cancer was removed, that would be the end of it.

  A pleasant voice asked me my name, and then I was wheeled into a room full of bright lights. I wished they’d turn them off so I could sleep. I registered Dr Ingram’s face hovering above me, then nothing more until, what seemed like no time later, I heard my name called again, over and over. Eventually I found the will to answer. ‘It’s over, Sheryl,’ the nurse said. ‘All done.’ For a moment I wondered where the heck I was, and then I remembered: my cancer was out. Instant relief flooded over me. It was over.

  In the afternoon Dr Ingram came with some preliminary results. He had found two smaller cancers that had started to travel away from the main cancer. This meant I would need to have the glands removed from under my right arm to help prevent any further spreading. I could come back in three weeks for that. This news didn’t affect me at all. I could only see a cancer-free future for myself. He left and I went straight back to sleep.

  Meanwhile my girlfriend Joanne, who was to be my maid of honour, had arrived from Derby. Joanne had been busy rushing in and out from my hospital bed, trying to organise the final touches for my wedding. I wasn’t much help; I remember very little as I drifted in and out of the anaesthetic.

  My mind was still very disorganised by late afternoon. Robby was sitting next to me, holding my hand. ‘You’ll be all right, Mum,’ he kept repeating. I was conscious that Terry was pacing up and down and asking the staff when they were going to discharge me. I had no desire to move, I just wanted to stay put. I wished that I could have told him I didn’t want to move, but I still felt hazy, and wanted only to sleep. The head nursing sister also wanted me fully recovered from the anaesthetic before discharging me, and I could hear her firmly telling Terry he would have to wait. I was glad it was out of my hands and I continued to doze.

  Eventually somebody helped me to dress, and Terry led me from the hospital out to the waiting hire car. We all got in, Terry, Robby, Joanne and me. I was soon asleep and remember nothing more until waking up as we pulled in to the Radisson late that evening.

  Then the rush began. Leisha and Kristy had arrived from the farm and both hugged me at the same time. ‘Will you be all right, Mum?’ asked Kristy, who hadn’t seen me since I left for Broome. Leisha’s eyes were filled with tears; she hugged me so tight I had to gently push her away for fear of opening my wound.

  The bridesmaids’ gowns needed slight alterations, which Joanne’s mother Jan Finlay would take care of. I didn’t really need to be there for that, but I was awake now, and feeling quite alert. I wanted to be in the thick of things. This was my wedding, it was girl time!

  We arrived at Jan’s house on the Busselton waterfront at 10 pm and it wasn’t until the early hours of my wedding day that all the gowns were perfect and ready to wear. It was time for me to put my weary body to bed, but my hair needed serious attention and I thought that would be better than a shot in the arm to get back some of my strength and enthusiasm. Joanne, who was a nurse, was pushing me to rest, but I figured if I could just get my hair done, there would be little else for me to do, and I could sleep then.

  Barbie, a Busselton hairdresser, came to the house and styled my hair and put a touch of gold in it for me, which certainly gave it a lift, but by the time it was finished the tiredness had finally set in and I hardly cared any more. I returned to the resort in the early morning to an empty room. I was so exhausted I collapsed on the soon-to-be matrimonial bed and fell straight into a deep sleep.

  When I woke the sun was high and I was still alone. I was feeling quite rested, with only a little soreness from the surgery. I went onto the balcony where there was a stunning view across the pristine white sands to the deep blue of Geographe Bay. This wasn’t a part of the south I was familiar with — I didn’t know anyone in the area other than Terry’s family — but it was certainly beautiful. The day was still and clear, and the sparkle off the water swam before my eyes. Yes, I thought, this was as good a place to marry as any other — though a marriage celebrant in a paddock would have done just as well for me. I’m not a party girl, not into making a big fuss. But it’s not every day you marry.

  I went back to bed and kept a low profile through the morning. I wanted to look my best, and figured sleep would be the best restorative. The kids were fine, they didn’t need me.

  Leisha and Kristy were sharing a large suite of rooms with Joanne, while Robby had two friends in his room, twins Simon and David whose family rented the second house on Sleepy Hollow. The Radisson was a great place for three young mates to have fun. But not too much fun! I phoned Leisha in her room to ask her to keep an eye on them for me. I didn’t want them getting up to mischief.

  I was dozing when the phone rang at three in the afternoon. The girls had already started celebrations. ‘How are you, Mum? Are you ready yet?’ said Leisha. My god, I thought, they’re jovial already. I listened to the chatter on the other end of the line for a moment, then got up to start dressing.

  I was tugging and pulling at my ivory jacket trying to conceal the plaster covering the wound on my right breast. It wasn’t easy, and I was feeling a bit crazy to be doing it at all. But oh, the outfit was beautiful. The gown was tailored to perfection with a full-length brocade skirt that had a delicate inbuilt train. The jacket had a cinched-in Victorian line to it, with wide collar and long sleeves and Czechoslovakian crystal buttons.

  Terry was dressed and pacing around the unit while I dabbed the finishing touches to my make-up and gave myself a final spray of Chanel. Then he walked me to the girls’ suite. I turned my cheek so he could kiss me, but instead he drew back and looked at me quite seriously. ‘Make sure you turn up,’ he said, ‘and on time,’ and strode off down the corridor. I was trying to decide what to make of this behaviour when the door burst open and I was suddenly enveloped in a warm wave of love and laughter. My girls were having a party.

  ‘What’s up, Mum?’ asked Leisha as Kristy handed me a glass of ice submerged in Baileys Irish Cream. I flashed them a smile. ‘Nothing’s up at all, my darling girls, everything’s wonderful.’ I took a sip of the drink. It was so smooth and delicious it went straight down and I had
another.

  The wedding photographer arrived and photographed us in every conceivable pose bar hanging upside down from the chandeliers. We were relaxed and happy. Then there was another knock on the door and someone was there with a gift for me. I opened the slim box to find a gold bracelet. It was from Heath. No letter or message, just a card with his name. All of a sudden all the laughter left me and my body was burning. I wondered if it was obvious to everyone in the room. Was my blood pressure going through the roof or was this second thoughts? What was he playing at? More to the point, how did he know where I was? I hadn’t invited him to my wedding.

  Leisha tapped my arm. ‘It was me, Mum. I told him. He was asking after you. I’m sorry, I hope it’s okay.’ I shook my head to clear away all the questions, and to indicate to her that it was nothing, I was fine.

  Someone poured me another Baileys and then it was time to head for the grand entrance. Any more to drink and I knew it would be a battle to stay in control. I am not a drinker, and not twenty-four hours earlier I had been in a post-anaesthetic haze. All the alcohol surely wasn’t doing me any good, but I was feeling reckless. I finished off my glass. Soon, I thought, I’ll be married again. I felt uneasy. On this, my third marriage, I had my worst case of pre-wedding nerves. My first marriage, to a Yank when I was only nineteen, was short-lived and a total disaster. I was only five years older when I married McCorry but I had really loved him. Even when it became too difficult to hold the family together, I still loved him. I suddenly didn’t know whether I loved Terry at all.

  Well, there was only one way to find out. ‘Come on, everyone,’ I called over my shoulder while gathering up my brocade skirt to protect it from the dust. The reception staff were all waving and wishing me well. ‘We’re going to a wedding, where’s the wedding?’ I cried, trying to hurry the girls along. I had no idea what room I was to be married in or, for that matter, where the bloody hell the reception would be. I was feeling very reckless.

  ‘Up the stairs,’ the receptionist replied between gusts of laughter.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, grateful that someone knew what was going on. ‘Come on, girls,’ I cried, carrying my high heels as I tried to hold metres of cascading ivory up around my waist. Joanne and the girls were in similar predicaments, tripping over themselves and giggling. What a mess we were, I thought, as we made our way carefully along the endless corridors, but at least we were an elegant mess.

  As we reached our destination I let my beautiful skirt fall to the floor and slipped my heels on. I walked into a room full of smiling strangers and great bouquets of flowers. I had arrived. Glancing towards Terry, I could see an expression of relief cross his face, and I was relieved too. I’m here at last, I thought.

  Then it hit me: as I looked around I realised I was practically a stranger at my own wedding. All Terry’s family and friends were there, but very few on my side. Peter Melsom, who I’d managed cattle stations for in the Kimberley, had come down from Perth, as had my old helicopter mustering pilot, Brett Nixon. Richard O’Connor and his mother Joan and a few other good neighbours from around the Shiralee were here, but other than my children — oh, and my accountant and his wife — that was it for me really.

  It was almost the middle of winter, but suddenly I was burning hot. Fine beads of perspiration gathered on my forehead, the overhead lights seemed far too bright, and I started to shake. I felt a surge of nausea rising in my throat, and then, thank god, my fifteen-year-old son moved through the crowd and took a firm grip on my hand. ‘Come on, Mum, come in here,’ Robby said softly, and led me gently towards the podium.

  It was just as well my parents and brothers had not come. Dad was not in the best of health, which made it difficult for him to travel. But if that had been the only reason, I’m sure he and my mother would have been there. Like my brothers, they were also worried about this marriage. I was their only daughter and they only ever wanted me to find happiness — and they didn’t think I was going to find that with Terry.

  But I was a big girl now. Their effective boycott of my wedding didn’t hurt me; I understood their feelings, but I decided I would just take pleasure in proving them wrong.

  Because of my condition, the marriage celebrant was keeping the vows short. I was nervous, though, and stumbled over the words, and so did Terry, but that wasn’t the end of it. Where was the ring? Ed Robertson, a long-time friend of Terry’s, was best man. He had trouble locating the wedding band, and for a fleeting moment I thought, If the ring doesn’t turn up, I’m not married. I could see Terry’s stress levels rising; Ed was in a complete dither and all of a sudden I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help myself. Perspiration gleamed on Ed’s brow as he frantically turned out every pocket in his hired suit until eventually, with a massive sigh of relief, he muttered, ‘It’s here, I’ve got it.’ Ah, we have the ring. All solemn and proper, Terry dutifully placed the wedding band on my finger — the wrong finger. As he pulled it off to have another shot, I thought, Holy hell, I’ve had better days — and weddings!

  It turned out the reception was in the same room as the service. The band started playing and the evening went off with a bang. The speeches began with Terry thanking the barmaids instead of the bridesmaids — an interesting substitution, I thought. Peter Melsom spoke on my behalf, reminding my new husband that the last time he had seen me I was wielding a pocket knife for castrating ‘micky’ bulls on Fairfield station. With a wicked laugh, he suggested Terry think twice about playing around.

  It was a strange night, alternately wonderful and disconcerting. Terry was a good dancer, lots of fun and good company, but he would disappear outside for a smoke and a yarn with his mates, leaving me for long stretches in a room of mostly strangers. As the evening went on, however, I felt increasingly mellow and contented, until finally the moment came when we said goodbye to our guests and wandered off to our suite. We were so close to the water we could hear the steady lapping of the waves on the shore.

  My first thought after taking off my shoes was to put the kettle on for a cup of tea! As I waited for it to boil I gazed over the pile of wedding gifts, still in their rich wrappings, overflowing the coffee table. Then, lifting my head to look out of the window, I saw flashes of gold over the sea as moonbeams danced across the bay. The vision was perfect and I felt deeply moved to be experiencing such a profound stillness. A quiet sigh escaped my weary body.

  The kettle had boiled, and I filled the cups, thinking with a wry laugh that this wasn’t your typical blushing bride! Still, it was my wedding night, and a girl has to get her priorities right. Besides, I was looking forward to the conjugal bed. But as I turned to that conjugal bed I discovered Terry had completely outdone me in the priorities stakes — he was sprawled out cold, fully dressed and snoring like a train. I tried in vain to wake him. I could hardly believe it. All my mellow contentment vanished and I suddenly felt hurt by my new husband. It had been barely thirty-six hours since I’d had a serious operation. Didn’t he care?

  Fighting back tears, I sat on the soft leather couch in my beautiful ivory gown feeling desperately in need of a friend; I didn’t even have the energy to look through the cards. Holding my head in my hands I began to sob, loudly and not caring whether anyone heard. I lay awake most of the night tossing and turning between feeling neglected and lonely, and being mad at myself for feeling upset over something so silly.

  My marriage wasn’t consummated that night. The next morning I thought Terry might have apologised, but he didn’t, and I said nothing about my disappointment. It was as though we were two strangers — not a promising beginning to our married life, and the day didn’t get a lot better.

  We were having morning tea at Terry’s family farm on Wildwood Road. On our way we had a close shave with another vehicle — both Terry and the other driver were travelling too fast and neither wanted to share the black-top with the other. At the Wildwood farm, Terry’s mother, Molly, came out to meet us. She greeted me very warmly, and led me inside with an arm aroun
d my waist. Inside, everyone was far older than I, but I did connect with some of the old ladies.

  Terry’s Aunty Elsie said to him, ‘You look after this girl; she’s the best thing that’s happened to you.’ I thought that was funny — I was fifty years old!

  On our return we walked back into the Radisson to a bizarre scene: a man in his thirties leaped up and fronted Terry aggressively, accusing him of hogging the road. He was waving his arms about and suddenly I had a fight on my hands, both men accusing the other of forcing them off the road. Now they were pushing and shoving each other around the Radisson grounds. This is bloody lovely, I thought, and jumped in between the two men, telling them to grow up. They were not to be stopped so quickly, but after more shoving and pushing and accusations, I demanded of Terry that we walk away, and we did. But the incident left me with a new uneasy feeling about my future. I liked a man to know how to handle himself, to be able to contain his aggression and not get drawn into unnecessary fights.

  We checked out that afternoon and drove the three hours to Perth to watch Terry’s horse race at Ascot. It came in second, which was good enough for Terry, and we celebrated that night, laughing and happy together. And that was the end of our honeymoon. The next morning we caught an early flight back to Broome.

  Terry needed to get back to the caravan park. He was a man in a hurry: in a hurry to get married, and now in a hurry to get back to work. He had purchased an additional ten acres of land next to the park and was racing to develop it. This was 1999 and Broome was bursting at the seams with tourists and visitors. I could understand that he would want to capitalise on this, and I was more than happy to support him.