was Stephen, and I told him mine was Grace. After dinner this evening, we had a wonderful dance band. All the officers I danced with were perfect gentlemen, including Stephen Fawley. Of course, this all took place under Matron’s eagle eye, and I think the men are even more terrified of Matron than I am! I noticed Kathleen and Brenda dancing with a number of young officers, but Doris remained at the table, despite a number of requests, being cheerfully true to her young fighter pilot. I never imagined that the sea could have so many different moods and colours. We must be quite close to land, as flocks of birds follow us, squawking after scraps from the kitchen. The food is wonderful. After rationing, it is marvellous to get dressed up in our best mufti and sit down to a grand dinner of such exotic foods as filets de poisson au beurre, cotelettes d’agneau reforme, pommes roties and peches Melba. For breakfast we get real bacon and eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes, with toast and marmalade to follow. The coffee is always on the boil, a cup of tea always available. Sometimes I do not even care where we are going, and I hope we will never get there. Life on board is so luxurious, I think I could live like this for ever. I miss Ernest, of course, but he will no doubt be busy with his friends and his war work.
Thursday, 8th August, 1940 We had our first sight of the Dark Continent this morning, though I must admit that it is not quite what I expected. Instead of a desert, with camels and sand dunes, there are rolling green hills dotted with houses, sparkling like diamonds in the bright sun. We came into Freetown harbour, which is not very large, so we have to lie at anchor with the destroyers and fishing boats and carry on all our refuelling and restocking through lighters. Sadly, we are not permitted to go ashore. How I would love to wander among the crowds in the markets and bazaars. The colours are like none I have seen before. Of course, there is green, and there is brown, the blue of the sky, the white of the houses, flashes of red flowers and yellow foliage, but each seems somehow more vibrant than any I have ever seen in England. It gives a very odd, quite dizzying effect, as if I am watching a colour film, rather than seeing the real world. The place has a unique smell, too, made up partially of sea and smoke from fires, but more subtle, with many elements I cannot name, perhaps exotic spices and flowers. Little boys and young men row out to us in boats made of hollowed-out logs and dive in the clear green water to swim like dolphins. We throw them pennies and they smile up at us.
Monday, 12th August, 1940 It has been almost unbearably hot since we left Freetown, and just keeping cool is a hard enough job in itself. We still manage the morning exercises, and the swimming pool is a godsend, but there are no more afternoon games of tennis. Instead, we try to find room in the shade for our deckchairs and sip gin and Tom Collins with ice. I am still getting along well with my Trollope, and I have just started Phineas Finn. Sometimes I could almost swear that reading Trollope actually makes me feel cooler! None of us is sleeping well, and we feel listless all day, like wilting flowers. Stephen said it will get cooler the farther south we travel. We will arrive in South Africa in their winter, he said, though he added that it would not be as cold as ours. I certainly hope not! At night, with the fans going at full power, we eat dinner and sometimes the band plays, though fewer people have the energy to dance now. More of us have taken to strolling around the deck, where one can occasionally catch a welcome breath of breeze, and I have witnessed many stolen kisses.
Thursday, 15th August, 1940 Everybody is so excited because we dock in Cape Town tomorrow! The convoy will split up because the harbour is not large enough to accommodate all of us. Some of them will be going on to Durban, and the convoy will re-form off the coast there in two days. We are promised shore leave in Cape Town, so all the sisters are queuing for the laundry to get their best clothes washed and ironed in time.
November 2010
It was a late afternoon near the end of November, and already getting dark, the time of year when people start to wonder whether they will ever see the sun again and begin to think about heading south after the swallows, already long gone.
I made some tea and wandered up to my bedroom for a sweater. The central heating was patchy, hot spots here, cold spots there, and it could not possibly keep such a big old draughty house at a constant and comfortable temperature. I couldn’t keep a log fire lit all the time, either, so I had taken to wearing layers of clothing. As I rifled through my dresser drawer, I glanced out of the front window through the drizzle across the valley and thought I saw a figure lurking by the lime kiln. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought it was the same hooded stranger I had seen watching the house once before.
I wasted no time. More angry than afraid, I dashed downstairs. This time he wasn’t going to get away. I flung the door open, determined to set off in pursuit and not to give up until I had caught him, but I had no sooner got to the garden gate when I stopped in my tracks. As I stood at the gate, I watched him cross the old stone bridge over Kilnsgarthdale Beck and walk straight towards me.
‘What do you want?’ I asked when he got near enough. ‘Why have you been watching this house?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the stranger said. ‘I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage.’ Then he pushed back his hood, and when I saw his face and hair clearly for the first time, I realised it wasn’t a he, but a she .
‘Who are you?’ I asked, though I thought I already had a pretty good idea.
‘I’m Louise,’ she said. ‘Louise King. You bought this house from me. I just wanted to come and see it, that’s all. I’ve never been to England before.’
I stood aside and gestured towards the path and the front door. ‘You’d better come inside, then.’
She hesitated for a moment and studied me with a serious and guarded expression on her face, then she walked ahead of me up the flagged path.
When we were comfortably established in the living room and I had lit a fire and made a pot of tea, I was able to get my first good look at Louise King. She was slight, which was perhaps why I had first taken her for a boy under the hooded anorak she had been wearing against the rain, but there was no doubt now that she was a young woman in her mid-twenties, wearing jeans and pale blue jumper. She had what I imagined to be her Danish mother’s high Nordic cheekbones, though her short, layered hair was the glossy coal black of her grandmother’s. She also had Grace’s eyes, unnerving in their darkness and unwavering gaze, especially in contrast to her overly pale complexion. She wore no make-up and had made no attempt to cover up the pits and blemishes of old acne or chickenpox. Perhaps no one would call her pretty or beautiful, but she was certainly striking, and the studs and rings she wore in her nose, lip, eyebrow and ears also made her look a little intimidating.
Louise held her mug of tea, with milk and three sugars, in both hands, close to her heart, as if using it partly to keep her warm. Her fingers were long and tapered, the nails bitten low, the flesh around them chewed and red. She wore no rings or jewellery of any kind except on her face. Her legs were folded beneath her in a way in which I had only ever seen women sit while still managing to seem comfortable and relaxed. I had put on one of my most recent loves, Imogen Cooper’s third set of live Schubert piano works, the second disc of which was as close to sublime as it gets for me. Louise had already asked about the Impromptus, which she recognised, said she liked them but that she knew very little of classical music. She had, however, she admitted, taken piano lessons as a little girl and had proved rather better than she, or anyone else, had expected. But she had let them lapse. I offered her biscuits with the tea, but she said she wasn’t hungry.
‘You’ve come a long way just to see an old house,’ I said.
‘You’ve no idea.’ She had a funny way of looking at me sideways as if always trying to make her mind up whether I was being sarcastic or having her on in some way.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘I’ve rented a holiday flat in Staithes. It’s pretty cheap at this time of year.’
‘I should imagine so. A bit nippy, too, I’ll bet.’
‘Yes, but I love it when the sea gets wild and lashes at the harbour walls.’
‘Why Staithes?’
She glanced down, into her tea. ‘I don’t know. It was the first one I saw advertised.’
For some reason, I thought, she was lying, but I didn’t challenge her. It didn’t matter. Samuel Porter had shared an artists’ studio in Staithes many years ago, had kept his paintings and sketches of Grace there. But surely Louise couldn’t know that? Staithes could mean nothing to her. Maybe she wasn’t lying, after all. Maybe I was trying to find connections where none existed.
‘How long do you plan on staying there?’
‘Not long. I’m moving to Cambridge soon.’
‘Is that your home now?’
‘It’s going to be. Why, do you know it?’
I smiled. ‘Cambridge? Yes. I was a student there. I lived there for five years – 1968 to 1973. A fine time to be in Cambridge. Good memories.’
‘Why?’
