The older I become, the more I appreciate the distinction between romance and partnership. Romance is exciting and often makes for better stories. Partnership, however, is what carries people through the ordinary days that eventually make up most of a life.
One of the things I noticed very quickly when speaking with Kerre was that she rarely told stories the way other people did. If you asked somebody about meeting their future husband, you would normally expect a tale involving romance, nervous excitement or some memorable first encounter that became family legend. Kerre usually headed in an entirely different direction. She would start talking about horses, swimming pools, jobs that needed doing or people she knew, and only somewhere in the middle of the story would Lionel quietly appear.
That tendency revealed something important about her character. Kerre was never particularly interested in romance as a concept, at least not in the way modern society often presents it. She seemed far more interested in the practical realities of life and the people who proved themselves useful, dependable and trustworthy. Looking back, it becomes apparent that what she valued most was not grand gestures but consistency.
That is not to suggest that romance did not exist. Like most young women of her generation, Kerre had grown up on a steady diet of fairy tales, Hollywood films and magazine stories where handsome men arrived at precisely the right moment and somehow transformed ordinary lives into extraordinary ones. The dream of Prince Charming was very much alive, as it was for countless girls growing up in post-war Australia. The difference was that the realities of country life had a habit of grounding those dreams in practical considerations long before they had a chance to take full flight.
Dating itself was often less flirtatious than younger generations might imagine. Social expectations were different, opportunities were fewer and much of what passed for courtship occurred within the watchful gaze of families, neighbours and entire communities. A young couple did not disappear for a weekend together or spend endless hours communicating through private messages. They attended dances, visited swimming pools, rode horses, went to local events and spent time in groups where everybody knew everybody else’s business. In many respects, finding a partner was almost a function of community life rather than an act of rebellion against it.
The romantic elements were still there, of course. There were nervous moments, stolen glances, anticipation before social events and all the little emotional milestones that accompany young affection. Yet those feelings existed alongside a practical assessment that modern dating often seems to overlook. Young women like Kerre were not merely asking themselves whether a young man was attractive or exciting. They were also subconsciously asking whether he was reliable, whether he worked hard, whether he could be trusted and whether he possessed the character required to build a future.
For Kerre, those questions seemed to matter more than most. The Prince Charming dream was never entirely abandoned, but over time the white horse became less important than the man riding it. What impressed her was not somebody who could sweep her off her feet for an evening. What impressed her was somebody who could still be standing beside her when life became difficult. Looking back through the stories she told, it becomes clear that Lionel’s greatest attraction was not that he embodied a romantic fantasy. It was that he quietly demonstrated the qualities needed to turn that fantasy into a life.
The stories surrounding Lionel therefore provide a fascinating insight into both of them. They are not really stories about courtship. They are stories about two young people discovering that they worked well together, long before either of them could possibly appreciate how important that would eventually become.
To understand why that mattered, it is worth remembering the environment in which they grew up. This was rural Australia at a time when life operated at a different pace and under a different set of expectations. People generally had less money, fewer possessions and far fewer opportunities to waste either. Entertainment often consisted of whatever the local community could create for itself, and social circles tended to overlap to such an extent that almost everybody knew something about everybody else.
Young people met through dances, sporting events, family gatherings and mutual friends. There were no dating applications promising perfect compatibility and no social media profiles allowing people to carefully construct an image of themselves. If somebody wanted to know what sort of person you were, they usually asked somebody who already knew you. More often than not, they received an answer that was considerably more accurate than anything you might have written about yourself.
It was through those sorts of community connections that Lionel entered Kerre’s world. Like many of the stories she told, the details varied depending upon when the story was being told and who happened to be listening. What remained consistent was her description of Lionel as someone who simply got on with things. He was not remembered as a flamboyant character seeking attention. Instead, he seemed to possess a quiet reliability that stood out precisely because it was not trying to stand out.
That quality may not sound especially exciting to younger readers. After all, entire industries have been built around the idea that relationships should be dramatic, passionate and endlessly entertaining. Yet anyone who has spent enough time observing successful marriages eventually arrives at the same conclusion. Excitement might start relationships, but reliability is often what sustains them.
One of the recurring themes in Kerre’s stories involved horses. In many ways, horses occupied a place in rural life that younger generations might struggle to fully appreciate. They were not simply recreational animals. They represented transport, independence, responsibility and freedom all at the same time.
Kerre often spoke about Lionel lending horses to people. To modern ears, that might not sound particularly remarkable, but it reflected a level of trust that was common within country communities of the time. A horse represented real value. Lending one to somebody required confidence that it would be cared for properly and returned in good condition.
Those stories also reveal a great deal about Lionel’s nature. People who are possessive tend to protect what they own and share it reluctantly. People who are secure in themselves often take a different approach. The willingness to lend a horse reflected a confidence in both the animal and the person borrowing it, and Kerre clearly noticed those qualities even if she never consciously analysed them.
Listening to her describe those years, I was often reminded of how differently communities operated then. Trust was generally assumed rather than demanded. People still disappointed one another occasionally, but the starting point was usually confidence rather than suspicion. A handshake frequently carried more weight than a written agreement and a person’s reputation was considered one of their most valuable assets.
The horse stories inevitably led to stories about social activities. Horses created opportunities to spend time together and, perhaps more importantly, provided reasons for young people to interact without the awkward formality that often accompanies dating. Looking back through Kerre’s recollections, many of the activities she described would probably be classified as dates by modern standards. The interesting thing is that she never seemed to think of them that way.
Instead, she remembered what happened. She remembered where they went, who was there and the amusing incidents that occurred along the way. The relationship itself appeared almost incidental within the story. That tendency became one of the strongest clues that Kerre viewed life through a practical rather than romantic lens.
The swimming pool stories offered a similar insight. Every country town seemed to possess a swimming pool that became the centre of community life during summer. Long before air conditioning became common and long before electronic devices occupied every spare moment, swimming pools provided both relief from the heat and opportunities for social interaction.
Kerre’s stories about the local pool were rarely about swimming. They were about the people who gathered there, the conversations that took place and the endless attempts by young men to impress young women. Some of those attempts succeeded, many failed and all of them eventually became stories that could be retold years later with considerably more humour than embarrassment.
Kerre certainly played her own role in that theatre of youthful optimism. She freely admitted that she loved wearing bikinis, despite possessing what she described as very little of the anatomy that popular culture suggested a bikini was designed to showcase. As she told it, she thought she looked pretty good regardless. The fact that her bikini may well have come from the local St Vincent de Paul store seemed entirely irrelevant to her assessment. In her mind, she had the outfit, she had the confidence and therefore she had every reason to wear it.
The family, of course, saw an opportunity for humour. Kerre described herself as being exceptionally skinny during those years, a description confirmed by just about every nickname that followed her through life. Her brother Brolga dubbed her “Skinny Minnie,” a name that lingered for decades and occasionally still surfaces today. Lionel’s brother Henry was even less diplomatic. When Kerre was pregnant, he reportedly remarked that she looked like “a broomstick with a notch on it,” a description so outrageously unflattering that it somehow crossed the line into family folklore.
What makes the story amusing is that none of those comments seemed capable of denting her confidence for very long. While others focused on what she lacked, Kerre appeared perfectly content with what she had. There was a quiet self-assurance in that attitude which probably served her well throughout life. She might have been skinny, she might have worn second-hand bikinis and she might have provided endless material for her brothers and in-laws, but she still turned up at the pool believing she looked just fine.
In many ways, that confidence reflected the era. The local swimming pool was less about fashion and more about participation. Nobody was arriving with a personal trainer, a carefully managed diet plan or an Instagram account. Young people wore what they could afford, made the most of what they had and generally worried far less about perfection than modern generations seem to. The attraction often came from personality, confidence and a willingness to join in rather than any attempt to resemble a magazine cover.
Listening to Kerre tell those stories years later, it was obvious she remembered the laughter far more fondly than any embarrassment. The teasing, the nicknames and the good-natured insults became part of the fabric of those summers. Like many of the best family stories, the humour survived long after the details faded, leaving behind a picture of a young woman who may not have filled out a bikini particularly well but wore one with enough confidence to convince herself, and perhaps a few others, that she did.
What struck me most was how uncomplicated those experiences appeared. Nobody arrived carrying a mobile phone. Nobody documented every moment. Nobody was attempting to create an online identity or gather approval from strangers. People simply turned up, participated and allowed relationships to develop naturally through repeated interaction.
That environment made character easier to observe. You learned whether somebody was dependable because you watched how they behaved over time. You discovered whether they were selfish or generous through their actions rather than their declarations. Eventually patterns emerged, and those patterns told you far more than any carefully rehearsed conversation ever could.
By all accounts, Lionel performed well under that level of scrutiny. The stories consistently portray him as somebody who could be relied upon. He appeared comfortable helping others, comfortable accepting responsibility and comfortable allowing other people to receive attention without feeling the need to compete for it himself.
Those qualities mattered to Kerre because they aligned with her own worldview. Although she possessed a strong independent streak, she also understood the importance of competence. She respected people who contributed. She respected people who did what they said they would do. Most importantly, she respected people who accepted responsibility without constantly seeking recognition for it.
As the stories progressed, a picture began to emerge that was less about romance and more about compatibility. Kerre and Lionel seemed to possess complementary strengths. Neither appears to have been particularly interested in creating drama. Both seemed more focused on getting on with life and dealing with whatever circumstances presented themselves.
That observation becomes increasingly significant when viewed through the lens of hindsight. The challenges that would eventually arrive in their lives were still waiting somewhere in the future. Children, financial pressures, family responsibilities, work commitments and all the countless obligations that accompany adulthood had not yet fully arrived. Nevertheless, the foundations required to navigate those challenges were already being laid.
Partnership often develops quietly. Unlike romance, it rarely announces itself with grand gestures or memorable speeches. Instead, it emerges through countless small interactions that gradually demonstrate whether two people can work together effectively.
The stories Kerre told suggest that this process was already well underway. Every horse lent, every afternoon spent at the pool and every shared activity provided another opportunity to assess whether the other person could be trusted. Neither of them would have described it in those terms at the time, but that is exactly what was happening.
The older I become, the more I appreciate the distinction between romance and partnership. Romance is exciting and often makes for better stories. Partnership, however, is what carries people through the ordinary days that eventually make up most of a life.
Kerre seemed to understand that instinctively. Even when discussing her younger years, she rarely focused on emotional declarations or dramatic moments. Her stories consistently gravitated toward practical observations about character, reliability and behaviour. In many ways, she appeared to evaluate people according to whether they would still be useful and dependable when circumstances became difficult.
That might sound harsh to some readers. To me, it sounds like wisdom developed through experience and reinforced by observation. Life eventually tests every relationship, and the qualities that survive those tests are often remarkably different from the qualities that create initial attraction.
The more stories I heard about Lionel, the more obvious it became that Kerre had found somebody who passed those tests long before the tests actually arrived. He was not remembered because he dazzled her. He was remembered because he consistently demonstrated the sort of qualities upon which a life could be built.
That, ultimately, is what makes this chapter important. The horse stories are entertaining and the swimming pool stories provide colour and context. The dating stories help place the events within a particular time and culture. Yet all of those anecdotes point toward a much larger truth that would only become obvious years later.
Kerre did not simply meet a boyfriend. She met a partner. The significance of that distinction would become increasingly apparent as the rest of her story unfolded and the challenges of adult life began to arrive one after another.
The romance may have started the journey. The partnership is what carried it forward.
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