The Gorge House: Auntie Lilian’s Wedding

Dad came home for lunch as usual that midsummer day. He liked to have brown bread and butter, and thinly sliced cucumber in vinegar and sugar. Just as he was leaving, he tossed over his shoulder: “I hear Lilian’s wearing a ring!” and he was off. Mum leaped up and ran after him, but he had escaped in a hurry, laughing. He had teased her once again. She was forced to phone Clovelly immediately to find out all about it.

It was true.

Auntie Lilian was to marry her long-lost sweetheart Carman Easton, who had a dairy farm in Saanich, where he had a herd of beautiful Jersey milk cows. The wedding was set for late November, and, what excitement. Connie and I were to be flower girls! I had already been a flower girl once, for my Sunday School teacher, who chose me and a look-alike Italian girl, also in her class. I’d found that wedding to be a bore, because I didn’t know any of the people, really, but this one was going to be different. It would be a major family occasion.

Mum soon had our dresses made – identical Kate Greenaways in golden velveteen, with scalloped beanies to match. Lilian was to wear ivory satin, and the two bridesmaids, Eileen Grubb and Auntie Phyllis, had very form-fitting gold flame sheaths – so form-fitting, cousin Rachel told us, that they couldn’t wear underpants under them because the ridges of the elastic would show. I got lots of teasing from Frank about “three times a bridesmaid”, warning me never to accept any other wedding jobs, but I was able to tolerate him for once, because a flower girl didn’t quite qualify as a bridesmaid, though goodness knows it was grand enough, and a worthy subject for boasting at recess.

Then in October, disaster struck. Mum had to go to hospital, for an Operation! We were told it was appendicitis, one of the few operations allowed to be mentioned in polite society. She was in hospital for several weeks. Dad was in charge of the household, with 12-year old Faith as his deputy. He brought home a large roast, and told Faith to cook it. “But how do you cook a roast?” she asked. “Just cook it.” said Dad.

How we managed I don’t know. Somehow, he got us off to school every morning. He made our lunches – thick slabs of brown bread with a generous slice of the roast beef, garnished with juicy pickled beets, which seeped into the bread, making it soggy and purple. Almost impossible to eat, but delicious. Even more scrumptious was his alternate menu of the same brown bread slathered with liquid honey; sticky ambrosia!

Anyhow, during this time of “batching” with Dad, Connie developed a horrendous cough. It was decided that the two of us would stay at Clovelly, at least until Connie’s cold was over and Mum was home and more able to cope. As it happened, we stayed at Clovelly right up until the wedding itself in late November.

What a joy it was to have a holiday in Clovelly! Especially since, as the adults were all so preoccupied with wedding plans we were allowed to amuse ourselves as we would, all through the house. We spent long hours in the study at the back of the house, where there were ancient games left over from the children of the older generation; Victorian-era Snakes and Ladders and Parcheesi, plus a much dog-eared Happy Families, and puzzles with tantalizing missing pieces, my favourite being some very scantily clad nymphs cavorting around a fountain in an almost impossibly garish sunset, or was it dawn.

There were also bound collections of “Punch” which we would pore over, plus two or three hefty volumes of collected “Girl’s Own” from the era of the Gibson Girl, everyone in bustle and shirtwaist, calling themselves “Bachelor Girls” and exchanging beauty hints and hairstyles which had us in stitches. We could also spend many happy hours in the conservatory, an octagonal glasshouse off the drawing room, full of comfortable rattan furniture (even a chaise longue!) and an enormous palm tree that threatened to grow itself through the roof.

The atmosphere in here was warm and humid, even in winter, and if you kept very still you would eventually spot the tiny green tree frog who lived amongst all the tropical greenery, a glowing emerald gem clinging to a tree-trunk with his tiny suction-cup fingers. He would sometimes allow himself to be caught, and would cling to your hand, slightly sticky, panting in fear.

Of course, we were excited to be part of the wedding preparations. There were daily deliveries of wedding gifts, which had to be ceremoniously unwrapped by Auntie Lilian, then put on display in the hall, each with a card propped up in front of it identifying the donor.

Auntie Lilian at this time was deliriously happy; she seemed like a fairy princess to us, the heroine of a syrupy romance, all her dreams come true. Every evening our new Uncle Carman would arrive at the front door, cheeks rosy from the cold, and sweep Lilian off her feet with a mighty kiss and a roar of laughter, dancing her around the room. Then we had our turn, too. Carman smelled funny; he was the first person we’d known who smoked.

Connie’s cold disappeared rapidly, but we stayed on, after all, the wedding was so soon, Granny decreed we might as well stay. It would give Mum a break, too, as she recuperated from her surgery. Then a wonderful thing happened – snow! It was unheard of, so early in the year. And it was a good snowfall, up to our knees at least. Because Clovelly was on the top of a hill, the snow was probably deeper than elsewhere. Also because it was the only house on the hill, there was no traffic besides cars coming to the house itself, so the snow remained pristine, just for Connie and me alone!

We bundled up and went out in it immediately. We made pathways and mazes all over the front lawn. We made snow men and snow angels. The Aunts suggested we try the family toboggan that was still in the basement. This was an enormous old thing, meant to carry 6 or 8 adults, with a complicated steering mechanism. We declined to risk our necks on it.

There was worry about the roads. Would they be clear in time for the wedding? They were, everything went as a story-book wedding should.

A couple of days before the wedding, Hester Wilkinson, Victoria’s premier society photographer, came up to Clovelly to take the wedding pictures at the bottom of the beautiful carved staircase in the hall. Lilian looked beautiful in her dress, its train elegantly draped on the stairs, and Connie and I, in our velveteen dresses, were posed to gaze up at her in adoration.

Phyllis hissed at me: “Don’t smile; your teeth aren’t very good.” What was wrong with my teeth? Were they in the process of falling out, or coming in unevenly, or missing altogether? Or were they just generally inferior? I thought the latter, and have been self-conscious about my teeth ever since.

At last the great day arrived, and passed, for all I remember of it. A few glimpses only remain. The cake is being cut at the head of the dining room table; a sugar rose falls off, my hand shoots out to grab it, and is promptly slapped by Auntie Phyllis.

Later, leaning too close to one of the many candles which filled the house, one of my ringlets caught fire. With great presence of mind, my cousin Joyce snuffed out the flame with a napkin. “You could have been killed!” she muttered fiercely.

Another thing, Mum was at the wedding, the first time we’d seen her for weeks. She looked even gaunter than usual, and was wearing a bright royal blue crepe dress with rhinestone pins on both sides of the low neckline, a dress she had not made herself. I can’t remember being overjoyed to see her, self-centred child that I was. In fact, I don’t remember being at all worried that she had been ill, or missing her presence. I know I loved her dearly, but my own concerns were more important to me, and the glamour of living at Clovelly was uppermost in my mind just then, anything else just passed me by as in a dream.

It was good to be back with the family again, though. Clovelly was exotic and grand, but the Gorge House was home.

Aunt Lilian’s Wedding Clip

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The Gorge House: Victoria Gospel Hall