In 1992, I travelled from Adelaide to Poland to reconnect with my extended family. One afternoon, I came across a newspaper advertisement for the Warsaw Summer Jazz Days festival. On a whim, I decided to go, hoping to see Jack Bruce perform songs from his Cream days.
It was a Sunday afternoon and I arrived early at the concert hall. As I made my way to the bar, I overheard an Englishman struggling to order hamburgers. I stepped in to help, placed the order in Polish, turned to him and said, “She’ll be right, mate. Just pay the money, the food will be ready in 10 minutes.”
That was how I met Dave, the guitar technician for Jack Bruce.
We arranged to meet after the concert. It was not love at first sight – far from it. He reminded me of the mullet-wearing, heavy metal headbangers I had grown up with – not my type at all. But there was kindness in his eyes, a presence of assurance, and he wore his heart on his sleeve. We wandered across the road to the Akwarium jazz club where, over the next few hours, we listened to jam sessions by world-famous musicians while we laughed and drank beers.
He invited me to England, but I was about to go travelling in Mexico. He’d had enough of the music business and England, he said, so announced he would meet me in Mexico. Fifteen hours after we met in that burger line, he boarded a plane home.
Two days later, I called to see if he had been serious about Mexico. To my surprise, he had already set things in motion, and was even looking into an Australian working visa. I was due to leave for Mexico in three weeks, but Dave asked if I would delay my departure so he could raise enough money and secure his visa.
I agreed. However, I couldn’t shake the feeling I might never see him again. The whole situation seemed absurd. Who leaves behind their life to follow someone they’ve only met for a few hours?
My grandparents were sceptical and not happy I was meeting this Englishman in Mexico. My babcia was convinced he would sell me into the slave trade, and she passed those concerns on to my father in Australia who had already made up his mind about Dave.
Seven weeks after our meeting at the festival, I arrived late at night into Mexico City. My heart raced as I made my way through the airport. Dave had arrived the day before and promised he would be there waiting for me, but as I approached the arrivals hall, I was overcome with doubt. It was crowded with people — families reuniting, friends embracing, drivers holding signs above their heads. I scanned the sea of faces anxiously, searching for a tall blond Pom, but couldn’t see him anywhere. “I knew it,” I thought.
What I didn’t realise was that he was standing barely a few metres away, looking directly at me, holding a single red rose. Later, Dave admitted that during those few seconds, as I looked right past him, he feared that perhaps I was searching for someone else.
The instant I recognised him, a wave of relief and exhilaration washed over me. After weeks of anticipation, there he was. I walked straight into his arms.
We backpacked for three months and were together 24/7, getting to know each other in the most intense and honest way possible.
Despite our differences (my liberal outlook versus his black-and-white thinking; my penchant for cheap travel as opposed to his preference for five-star hotels; my affectionate Polish nature contrasting his reserved English upbringing), we found a rhythm. He was open to everything and easy with everyone, the kind of person who could strike up a conversation anywhere. My first impression that he was kind, genuine and warm turned out to be true. And he made me laugh – often.
With his money slowly dwindling, Dave flew to Melbourne to stay with friends we had met in Guatemala, while I continued travelling through Argentina and Chile.
After two months, I flew home to Australia, where to my surprise Dave was waiting for me at the airport again, holding a rose.
The next year was complicated as we navigated time together and apart, and my parents’ disapproval, all while I completed my studies. During one of the short, intermittent phone calls we shared while Dave was in England, I received a proposal: “How about it, Sheila?”
It was not exactly romantic, but it did make me laugh.
The day after I submitted my thesis, I flew to London. Once again, Dave was at the arrivals gate, holding a red rose.
Three weeks later, at the end of 1993, we were married in a register office in England, with Bob Marley playing as we said our vows.
In 1994, we returned to Australia, then moved to Queensland to build a life together.
In the 22 years we shared, we built a life full of love, laughter and adventure. We raised our beautiful daughters, travelled the world, and created a home grounded in kindness and respect. My parents’ fears proved unfounded. When my mother needed care, Dave stepped in without hesitation – that was simply who he was. He was a devoted father – the school runs, lunches, after-school activities, coaching football teams – and gave everything to his family.
He left the music industry because he said it was not conducive to a family environment, but music never left him. Our home was filled with it, played loud, through the best sound system he could assemble.
Even now, after his passing in 2014, the music remains. Last year in Brisbane, the girls and I went to a Metallica concert in Dave’s honour. As for the roses, I still have the one he gave me in London – well, two petals. Dried, pressed and a reminder of the life we had together.