The wedding

The wedding began quite normally. Wendy and I were dressed in new clothes, which my mum had sewed together from old curtains. Mum was the master coin squeezer, and Wendy and I benefitted from her frugal fingers and coin jar for years. She collected one and two cent pieces, and when the jar was full she would count out every cent and spend it on something for her daughters. She never spent any money on herself. Even today, as a millionaire, she only wears clothes Wendy and I 'hand down' to her. I don't think she could spend money if she tried.

My dress was orange, and it had a square sailor's yoke edged with black lace. Little blue and yellow flowers burst open from my knees to my throat. Wendy looked my twin, apart from her height (much taller) and hair (mine was vivid red, hers white). Apart from our distinctive looks, I also had what mum referred to as 'attitude.' Knowing mum, she didn't mean that as a compliment. I was confident, sure on my feet and unafraid of adults. Wendy was shy, reserved, and very attached to mum. She stuck close, invisible behind legs, sticky hand sweating. She didn't open her mouth much, having nothing in particular to say. She stayed like this until she was fourteen. That is probably why she is mum's favourite. I was high maintenance.

Dad opened his first beer at noon. It was an afternoon wedding, but dad wanted a refreshing draught before the business began, it being his opinion weddings were good for only one thing; to get pissed at. (Actually, weddings, BBQs, people over to play cards, cricket, footy, calisthenic concerts at Her Majesty's, hot days, cold days, netball games...pretty much everything was an occasion to get pissed. He wasn't choked for choices.) My mum gave him her evil glare, but this was before the hatred set in and she lay off after a few minutes. Even her spirits were raised by the prospect of a wedding, although it wasn't a 'proper wedding,' which it wasn't, because it was a civil ceremony in my Nanna's back yard. 'They won't be really married,' my mum said. 'I don't think that'll bother them, Rae,' said my dad. There is a certain irony in that, because today Uncle Robert is living in the shed outside Angie's house, downing two dozen beers a day and waiting to die. He stayed married, but he has lived in that shed behind his second wife's house for ten years now. Maybe they really were never married. He thinks my dad got off lucky, dying young. But he doesn't realize, alcoholics reliant on beer as their poison of choice never die easily. They hang on, having to consume so much beer they can never get the instant hit of the tequila man. And dad's death wasn't pretty. Robert really has no idea.

After dad finished his third bottle, he proclaimed it a good time to get going and we piled into the Toyota. Japanese cars were a luxury my dad was prepared to fork out on, because 'they never lose value.' I know now that like much of the bullshit my dad spat out, Toyota cars depreciate just like every other. But it was interesting that in a time where Holdens and Fords divided working class Australia, my dad stuck his neck out and bought 'dim sims on wheels.' Mum was wearing a singlet top, as it was a hot day, and her breasts lay perky and deep, on show and loving it. Her and dad were in jeans, appalling bell bottoms, which made her bum look big and dad a midget. But they were happy. Even my mother's constant discontent was tucked away, much to my relief.

Arriving at Nanna's, we were greeted by raucous relatives and a bathroom full of ice and beer. Dad was in his element. A coldie in hand, he proceeded to produce one of his finest and wittiest renditions of Bennie Hill. Pressing alcohol on my rather conservative mother, his family attempted to thaw out her reserved manners in a time when drink driving was de rigeour. She, not having this straw she would later grasp onto to strengthen her Methodist mean streak, accepted what was thrust upon her, and even gave Wendy a little push to 'go and see her cousins.' Let the party begin.

As with all Russell parties, including weddings, funerals and friendly get togethers, the big star was alcohol. And as a good little Russell girl, I was about to get my first experience of this warm, generous drug. Robert took me aside and told me he had a 'very special job for me, one only I could do, because I was a GOOD girl.' These days he might be suspected of pedophilia for an introduction like that, but even pedophilia fell into the back seat of Russell vices when there was alcohol about.

And so Robert led me into the shed, where a cane bar sat in a dark corner. The staples used to construct this bar were coming loose, and I scratched my arm on a twig as I got close. I remember thinking such a shabby piece of furniture was at odds with a Russell construction, because Poppa, Uncle Bill and Robert were all carpenters. Now, I wonder how they avoided dying on the job, when each of them began their day with a half dozen long necks.

Behind the bar was a swivel chair, gorgeous in green and purple velour. It matched the rug and fluffy seat cover in the toilet. Its opulence was amazing, and I was hooked. Behind the chair was a shelf, and on this were perched two casks of Kaiser Stuhl Moselle, and three flagons of Crown Port. On the bar were a dozen or so empty vegemite jars; these were clearly the glasses. Uncle Robert said, 'Beer they can get for themselves. But I need you to pour the wine and port. What you do is lift this little plastic lever up, and hold the glass here...then...when it's full let it go. The port just pours out the top but be careful when the flagon is full, don't spill any.' He smiled. And delivered his coda. 'Every glass for them have one for yourself,' and he actually winked at me. I watched him leering off, already half cut, and felt more important then I had at any moment previously in my life. I was wanted.