Open Writing

“All ashore that’s going ashore!” came the cry and slowly friends and relatives began leaving. “’Bye Mum, I’ll write, I promise,” she murmured, as she buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. They sniffed, smiled, and wiped away tears.

“Daddy darling, look after Mickey for me, won’t you? Don’t forget. You promised,” she whispered, kissing his bronzed cheek the familiar scent of his aftershave and after-breakfast cigarette tickling her nose.

Making their way down the gangplank, they stood on the cold, windy dockside while scuds of foam whipped off the waves and a swirling white tablecloth covered Table Mountain. Streamers arched from the ship, the last link with the land. A lonely piper skirled a lament, the sound lost in the general hubbub. Hooters blared and the tugs nuzzled the lavender hull away from the dockside, straining against the stiff south-easter until her bows were facing the open sea.

“This your first trip by sea?” the man next to her asked, and when she nodded, added, “Wind’s pretty strong. Going to be a bit of rough start to the journey, and it won’t improve until we get further out. Not a good beginning to the exciting journey you’re undertaking.” Smiling at her excited cries as she waved to her parents, he stood back as he watched this pretty girl on the cusp of her first big adventure.

Then it was blue days at sea, and “Look, flying fish, they’re surfing. Ohmigosh! The dolphins are playing tag, they’re keeping up with the ship!” She excitedly watched, calling her friend’s attention to the antics. What luck she had met him; he was nice. “Would you like a drink, Megan?” he asked. “Yes, love one,” she agreed as they moved to a shady spot on the afterdeck. “No need to go down to the dining room for lunch. Enjoy the sunshine while it lasts. We’ll have a couple of glasses of cider and sandwiches instead.”

“Hope you’re going to enter the fancy hat competition. Be interesting to see what you make. I’m sure you’re very creative,” and his approval was her reward when she paraded with the rest of the festively gowned and hatted ladies. The fact that her large-brimmed crinkle paper “My Fair Lady” imitation did not win a first prize didn’t worry her. It was enough that he appreciated her effort. The fun and laughter with the group of shipboard friends more than made up for the box of chocolates. She hated chocolates anyway.

The friend was Reg, a retired professor of some vague discipline at an obscure American university. Said he had learnt about South Africa from “SA Panorama” with its photographs of scenic parts of the country. He was on his way to the UK for a short holiday and then back to the States, but while on board he was a good prospect for the fancy-dress parade. Utilising a tandem belonging to one of the other passengers, she dressed him in a straw boater, a striped blazer and Edwardian knickerbockers. His ‘lady-friend’ also sported a boater, high-necked blouse with mutton-chop sleeves, and long skirt and pantaloons. Wobbling into the dining room on their “bicycle-made-for-two” on the night of the parade, they brought the house down to a chorus of “Daisy, Daisy, Give Me Your Answer Do.”

“Ready for a swim before breakfast?” she called when she saw him jogging round the deck. Later they watched the brawniest and ugliest of the below-deck crew as King Neptune in a yellow fright wig, Queen Amphitrite with balloons for bosoms and an enormous bum cushion enact the age-old ceremony of ‘Crossing the Line.’ The Royal Baby, complete with dummy and a drooping nappy, was accompanied by the Royal Constables while King Neptune asked first-time travellers silly questions. Then, irrespective of reply, they were ‘shaved’ with an enormous wooden razor before being chased round the pool and made to walk the plank.

While tanning, she fell asleep and was badly sunburnt. A visit to the surgery brought no relief; the doctor had a hideous hangover. “Tell her to take an aspirin and lie down for a couple of hours,” he muttered sullenly, turning away from her insignificant problem. His alcohol-laden breath washed over the waiting patients and behind his back, the stiffly starched nursing sister rolled her eyes, horrified at his bad manners.

Later: “Oooh, I’m so bored ... just wish I could see a tree, or green grass, or some colourful flowers.”

“What a thing to say! Never mind, we’re calling at Las Palmas in two days, you can go ashore and soak up the luxurious vegetation. If there’s time, you can take a shore excursion to see the views.”

Instead, they strolled the main street, examining the multitude of goods. Quality leather coats and jackets were popular and shops were doing a brisk trade selling duty-free electronic gadgets to the intimidating sailors from the huge factory ship in the harbour. Favoured customers, their purchases were smuggled past customs and easily resold back home in Communist Russia.

“Some factory ship that,” said Eric, “More like one of those ‘spy-trawlers’ we’ve been reading about. Just look at that enormous white geodetic dome on the deck. Bet it’s nothing to do with finding fish, but a great deal to do with tracking early-warning bombers!” Nobody dared to ask questions, the Russian sailors, plain clothes or not, looked frighteningly tough and it was time to get back. Better to keep out of harm’s way.

The weather turned stormy as they entered the Bay of Biscay and passengers stayed indoors. “Four no trumps,” she bid in the newly learnt game of bridge. Her partner was a charming young Afrikaner. He and his friend were going to Vienna to study singing. “We’re hoping for the Opera chorus,” they said.

The weather worsened as the ship trudged through the Bay of Biscay, and soon the cards and games were put away, fiddles were on the tables and the cloths dampened. “What are these, and why are you wetting the table cloth?”

“Stops the dishes sliding off the table,” said the steward as the ship began to buck and pitch. “Oh, the rough weather doesn’t worry me,” she said confidently. “I’m sorry that it’s too cold and grey to swim or sit round the pool, it was very social. I’ll go to the library instead.”

Then, early one morning, the ship entered the Southampton roads and gently, delicately, tiptoed through the crowded anchorage, past the oil storage tanks, until at last they tied up alongside and the gangplank was down. Grey skies, grey quays, grey harbour-side buildings. Colourless and grim, her spirits fell at this first glimpse of England. “Can it be as bad as it appears?”

Then, the rush and bustle of reclaiming luggage and boarding the Boat Train. “On my way to London at last!” The sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the soft greens, greys and blues of the English countryside. A flash of a gaily-painted gypsy caravan in a field; a split-second glimpse of a brilliant cock pheasant high stepping along a hedgerow.

“It’s beautiful. I know I’ll love it, and I’m ready for everything it has to offer!”