In 2013 I was a divorcee in my early 40s in need of some financial advice. I was living in Canberra and a friend recommended a polite, plain-speaking accountant who came to town from time to time. That’s how I met David. He was a handsome, jovial fellow with sparkling blue eyes, not quite a silver fox then, but a few years my senior. At 6 foot 3 and dressed in a smart suit and tie (a weakness of mine), he certainly made an impression.
At some point between sorting out my taxes and asking where I wanted to be financially in 10 years, he noticed I was wearing hearing aids and went on to tell me what a hard time his ex-wife and stepson gave him about his hearing, and anyway, wasn’t I far too young to need them? I explained, perhaps a little curtly, that I’d worn them since I was eight so he shouldn’t be so silly as to think they’d make him look old. I had an appointment coming up with my specialist and somehow it was arranged that he’d join me.
On the day of the appointment the receptionist mistook us for a married couple and addressed me as Mrs Stephens. There was plenty of blushing on my part, but David, being a great flirt, had a great time playing with the idea.
When we went for coffee afterwards, David was still running with the Mrs Stephens routine. I’d been admiring the audiometrist’s high heels and he was making jokes about how he’d be able to make sure I had a shoe closet in my “financial future”, and didn’t I think we could get a good deal on the hearing aids if we bought them together? There was obvious chemistry, and when we met up for dinner the following week he asked me if I’d like to join him at a wedding.
A few weeks later I found myself in Brisbane, walking into a family wedding with a man I barely knew. He’d been married twice and was such a charmer – I had no idea what the family would make of me, but during the reception he pulled me aside and said his sister had told him I should have been his first wife.
As our relationship developed he often talked about how he wanted to learn sign language. What struck me most was his concern that one day we might struggle to communicate, and that he actually considered this a problem. I’d never been in a relationship with anyone who was interested enough in what I had to say to worry about things like that.
When I was a child any sign of disability was stigmatised. I was always made to feel as though I was being difficult or not making enough effort, so to have David be so supportive was deeply moving to me.
All my life I’d been in the habit of not putting my hearing aids on until after I’d showered. I’d wake up and have a few coffees in silence before I’d get ready and switch on for the day. Listening is hard work and it never bothered anyone else. So the first time David came to me as I sat at the breakfast table and presented me with my hearing aids like they were a little gift, I was taken aback. That small, silent gesture spoke volumes about how important my company was to him. Every time he quietly invited me to hear, and be heard, I fell in love with him again.
David proposed on our 10th anniversary and we married in 2024.
David was a true gentleman, in the best ways. He opened doors, pulled out chairs and took incredibly good care of his “Lady Lynda”, as he called me. Every night the table was set, we’d light candles, put on music, pour some wine and talk, and I mean really talk, about the deep things.
That’s how it should have been the night David disappeared. Like the caring, sweet man he was, he’d sent me a message to let me know he was setting off from Wangaratta and given me his ETA at Moruya airport. I’d made dinner, lit the fire and set the table with a tablecloth and serviettes. Our wine glasses were waiting to be filled.
David had a lifelong passion for flying. He’d got his pilot licence in 1969, before he even learned to drive, but life had got in the way. Knowing how much he loved it, I had encouraged him to return to the skies, even after a battle with cancer had delayed his reaccreditation for five years.
But David never came home that day. He had been flying again for eight years, then that afternoon he became disoriented over the Snowy Mountains and crashed. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
They don’t make them like David any more and the times we shared were the happiest days of my life. While his absence is excruciating, I remind myself that only the most successful marriages end in death. I take small solace in knowing he died doing what he loved and coming home to me.
