I made it though and luckily Mr McConkey, the minister, had returned and the district nurse was with him and his wife having a cup of coffee. He very kindly drove us back to the castle. By the time we got there the doctor had arrived and pronounced Father dead. A light had gone out of our lives.
That night, after everyone had departed and after endless cups of tea, we all slept together in one bedroom for comfort - Bumpy, Mother and I. Of the next few days I can remember little, except that the house was very full and numerous cups of tea were made and drunk. His funeral, like all funerals was very sad. The Home Guard came out in full force to honour him, but most touching of all was the sight of his two old friends, Mr Crawford and Mr McDonald from the village pub, standing at attention giving the salute as the cortege arrived at the churchyard. It set us all off crying, and afterwards they all retired to the pub, and thereby hangs a tale.
These were three old friends from the village with whom Father used to spend an hour or two most nights. His habit for several years had been meet the 6.15 train at the station to collect the evening paper, which came by rail. He would then make his way to the pub, where he would sit in his special chair and discuss world affairs with his friends. On one occasion on his journey between the station and the pub he was stopped by an officious air-raid warden, Mr Herd, and asked why he was using his car. Dad waved his Evening News in the air and cried, "I'm allowed petrol for shopping and this is my shopping."
On the evening of his funeral many people were there in the pub, drinking to his memory, including this chap who was a trifle resentful of Father and his special chair and had therefore chosen to sit in it. At exactly 6.20 the door slowly opened (as usual), and he was out of the chair like a shot. But no one came in. Could it have been Dad's spirit coming for one last pint of beer?
A few months later I was cycling home from school through the field when I saw Mrs Cochrane, the lady who now lived in the Gardener's Cottage with her two little boys, waiting at the garden gate. I knew immediately something was wrong, and I was right. She had come to tell me that the dreaded telegram had arrived - Eric had been killed in action in North Africa. Nicola was very brave but soon gave up her little cottage and came back with her small son, James, to live in the castle with Mother and I, and, for a short time, Bumpy. For David Young had been courting Bumpy and it was not long before they became engaged. That gave us something cheerful to think about and once more the house filled up with visitors, but this time for a joyful occasion, not a sad one.
* * * * *
After her marriage Bumpy (or Vida as David called her) went to live in a house called Rockcliffe, at Rumbling Bridge about 3 miles away, so that left only three of us (or rather three and a half) living in the castle: Mother, Nicola and young James, and myself. It was really a very lonely time, and in such stark contrast to earlier days when there were so many people about and the atmosphere was always relaxed and carefree. There was I, fifteen years old, living with two widows who did their best to be companionable but were nevertheless wrapped up in their own problems. For company I would often cycle over to see Bumpy, or sometimes in the evenings to see Mrs Cochrane in the Gardener's Cottage and used to come in and help with the housework. She had two small boys called David and Ian who would follow me about during weekends or holidays. It was from David, then aged around six, that I received my first proposal of marriage. David was a gentle boy with light brown hair, freckles and enormous blue eyes. Ian, a couple of years younger, was a lively, bright little youngster - a 'real boy' as they say. They stayed in the cottage until after the war, when Mr Cochrane came home from the army, but by this time a disastrous thing had happened. One day Ian threw a stone and accidentally hit David in the eye and damaged the eye-ball. He lost the sight of that eye and, even more unfortunately, developed a Sympathetic Ophthalmitis - that is, the sight of the other eye faded in sympathy, especially when he was tired or emotionally upset. He was in and out of hospital for a year or two until he was registered as blind and eventually admitted to the Royal Blind School, where I believe he was happy and did very well.
But there was to be a greater tragedy. Mrs Cochrane had become pregnant after they returned to Kinross, and one day close to full term, she and young Ian were alone together in the house when she began to bleed vaginally. She sent the boy to his Auntie's, to ask her to come up to the house as she was not well. Her sister, not realising the problem, did not hurry but finished giving her family a meal before going to see Mrs Cochrane. When she arrived what a shock she received, for Mrs Cochrane had had a little baby on her own and was almost moribund after a massive haemorrhage.
She died shortly after, but the little girl, survived and was brought up by her aunt.
Another companion of those days was Nan Russell, a village girl several years older than myself, who used to come up to the castle to help in the house and garden but mostly worked on the farms, hawking tatties or shawing neeps - very hard work I can assure you. In her own way she was one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen - tall, with thick golden hair, light blue eyes and a peach-like complexion, and totally promiscuous. I have a picture in my mind of Nan at the Hay-making - in the field by Tullibole Mill were horse drawn carts, and Nan with her golden hair, bright blue shirt matching her eyes, in dungarees, with a hay fork in her hand, talking and laughing with the men while she tossed the bales of hay. It could have been a painting by Constable, if not for the dungarees! Many an evening she and I got the bus to Kinross, where we went to the Pictures (or even occasionally on a Sunday to church) and the chip shop, before catching the bus home. She was always cheerful and charming, and despite her very many "affairs" no one could help but like her, even though one did not approve. Eventually she was called up into the "Women's Army", and I believe this was disastrous as her sexual experiences got her into serious trouble. I don't really know what happened to her, but the last I heard was that several years after the war she called at a cottage in the village, begging for food and shelter. She was walking from somewhere in England to Inverness where her mother lived. She did not really know her mother, for she and her brother Jack had been brought up by their grandmother in a picturesque, but tiny and primitive cottage. The cottage had two rooms, no sanitation, running water or electricity, and only a stone grate with a pan and hook for cooking. Her grandmother made the most wonderful omelettes and cups of tea and toast. I would quite often call in to see her, even though Nan was not there, and know she was pleased to see me, and we would sit by the fire and chat while having our tea and toast. She scraped a living by taking in washing, which she did in huge tubs in the garden. She had to carry the water and light a fire under one of the tubs, if I remember rightly. You would see the sheets draped over bushes to dry in fine weather, but how she managed to dry them in bad weather, I cannot think. I often wonder what happened to Nan in the end. I do hope she managed to make some sort of decent life for herself.
At Tullibole life wasn't that easy either, although in contrast to Miss Russell's, of course, it was luxury. My sisters, Bumpy and Nick (later Nick on her own), had to battle with the large kitchen range - and 'battle' is the right word. The flues had to be cleaned regularly or the blooming thing would not heat the water as it should. During the summer it wasn't so bad but in the winter it was a major task. (There was double Summer time in the summer, and summer time in the winter - or so they said. In fact it made the winter harder than ever because it did not get light till well after nine, which meant getting up and cycling to school in the pitch dark. We had several severe winters in the Forties, and remember there were no fur boots in those days - only wellies. My feet and hands used to get so cold I would cry with the pain, and I had chilblains on my toes and fingers, especially my toes.)
But to get back to the kitchen range - Nicola and Bumpy recall getting up very early in the morning to clean the flues before making breakfast. As they carried the soot and ashes outside to the bucket Bumpy remarked - "It wouldn't be so bad if the moon wasn't shining!" I have a vivid memory of Bumpy coming in from the garden, cold and tired, and standing in front of the range, lifting her skirt and heating her posterior in front of the glowing coals. It was one of her favourite positions. We often used to riddle the ashes to re-use the cinders, as obtaining enough fuel to heat the large rooms was now a major problem. There was a large black boiler in the corner of the kitchen which would burn anything, so that if baths were wanted we would pile wood, rubbish coal etc. into it, and then we could have plenty of baths. We all became quite adept at sawing logs and chopping wood. Later we obtained some different types of paraffin stoves and would cook our breakfast in the dining room in front of the fire. I used to think it was nice and cosy. It certainly was easier than carrying everything up and down the stairs from the kitchen. Nicola did most of the housework and Bumpy still came up to work in the garden, although by now there was a land girl to help. My specific job when I came home from school was to go round the house, filling and lighting the paraffin lamps. In the bedrooms and bathrooms I left them turned down as far as possible, so that you just had to turn it up when required and there was not too much groping about in the dark when you went upstairs.
* * * * *
Sometime in 1940 the Greene family came to stay in the village. Ben Greene, the father, was a first cousin of Graham Greene, the novelist. There was his wife Lesley, daughters Margaret and Anne (who was my age and in my class at school), and young Paul. They were a very interesting family and always gave us plenty to talk about.
Ben Greene was 6ft 8" tall and big with it. He seemed enormous to me, and I well remember one evening in Tullibole dining room where we had been making tablet or toffee on a paraffin stove. Mr Greene was holding the pot and Bumpy just walked underneath without ducking. It was amazing to see and everyone started to laugh. He had been imprisoned for 18 months because of his interest in Fascism in the Thirties, so he was not inclined to talk politics. He was a Quaker, Lesley was Church of England, Margaret and Anne converted to Catholicism, and Paul joined the Free Church of Scotland (or Wee Frees). Quite a mixed bag! When they were younger they used to have family prayers in the evenings, but when the girls converted to Catholicism they would not participate and so this practice came to an end. I would like to think that if the same situation arose today there would be no objection; everyone, even though of different denominations, joining in the family worship. It seems that when faith is strong there is little tolerance, but when faith declines we become more tolerant. It is a pity that man cannot keep his faith strong and maintain a high level of tolerance. This doesn't only apply to Christianity, I hasten to say.
Margaret I knew little of, except that she was bright and already at University, but Anne and I were good friends and used to have long and sometimes heated discussions on all sorts of subjects, both in and out of school. This was encourgaged by Mr Sproat, who taught History and a subject called "Citizenship". He was a wonderful teacher who taught mainly by discussion and was always trying to encourage his pupils to air their own views. He would give us a short lecture with the relevant facts of the subject we were studying, and then hand it back to us for open debate. The main protagonists were usually myself, Anne Greene, and Sheila McDonald (who later became my sister-in-law by marrying Donald). He used to get quite angry with some pupils, saying, "I don't want my own ideas back - I want to know what you think", when he was reviewing their essays and they were disappointed in their marks. He once gave me one mark less than full marks for an essay which I wrote on the Wesley brothers (because he never gave full marks for an essay however good), then proceeded to give me a ticking off for being lazy and not learning a few dates, which we were obliged to learn in those days. He was quite right of course. I was not very conscientious about my set homework but was an avid reader. I used to read and study all sorts of books not relevant to my school subjects - David Young had a vast collection of books on history and poetry which I loved to read, and I also read some of Nicola's university books. I was, and still am, a great fan of Charles Dickens. I remember for my seventh birthday I was given David Copperfield and Nicolas Nickelby in abridged editions for children, but I had already read the original texts.
It was at the Greene's house that I learned to play Racing Demon with Ben Greene's brother, a BBC producer. It has remained one of my favourite games although I find it more difficult with my bifocals nowadays.
Paul the youngest was, I'm sorry to say, not very popular with most of the Dollar pupils who travelled in the train from Kinross. He did not attend Dollar but travelled in the same train to a small private school. He did not behave well, in fact he was very naughty on the train, and eventually some travellers reported his behaviour to the Headmaster, thinking he attended the Academy. We were subjected to a lecture by Mr Bell in front of the whole school. We thought it grossly unfair that the Kinross Pupils should be so criticized and, in the words of the great Queen, "we were not amused". I have not seen him for very many years, but Bumpy remained great friends with Mrs Greene and Paul and he has been very kind to her, so all is forgiven.
After the war Captain Ramsey who was second-in-command to Oswald Mosley came up to stay with the Greenes and they brought him over for tea. Mother was not too pleased and although we were all polite and friendly towards him, I think we were all relieved when they went home. After all, Harry had been through Dunkirk and later all three sons were in the Burma campaign. It is only now, when I have two adult sons and a teenage grandson, that I can truly realise how difficult it must have been at the time for Mother - losing her husband, and all three sons on the other side of the earth in great danger. I remember Mother and Father talking together early in the war and saying, "at least Bob won't have to go" - but he did, to be a fighter pilot. He eventually flew fighter bombers in Burma.
* * * * * * *
One warm but windy summer's day in 1943 I was helping Bumpy (who was well and truly pregnant) in the garden. I was wearing an old-hand-me down boy's kilt, tatty old gym shoes and a head scarf, and Bumpy was her usual casual self. Suddenly I noticed an old lady from the village walking up the garden with a very smart young man in suede shoes. I nudged Bumpy - "Quick we've got visitors" - and stood up, only to find my kilt had twisted round with the pleats at the front. Hurriedly turning it round, I looked at Bumpy and she had a ring of white chalk round her mouth. Desperately I tried to signal to her to wipe her mouth while at the same time trying to give a smile of welcome to our visitors. I was on the point of whispering "Rennies" - she had been sucking the wretched things for heartburn - when Miss Brown introduced the dapper stranger as her nephew Derek Renny. We walked down to the house, talking politely but feeling very self-conscious about our scruffy, if not dirty appearance. What a relief it was when Nicola arrived back with the shopping, stepping out of the car looking immaculate, neat and tidy - at least someone could maintain the sartorial standards of the family!
Later we discovered that Derek had seen a photograph of Nicola in the paper, at the time of her engagement to Eric, and said to himself: "That is the girl I'm going to marry". When he came back on leave from the Navy his Aunt had told him Nicola was now widowed and hence his arrival at Tullibole: he had arranged it with his Aunt for an introduction. After that we saw quite a lot of him and it was not long before he proposed. But it was not until after the war and he was demobbed that they finally got married.
It was shortly after Derek's arrival in the garden that Bumpy's first baby was due. David, being a somewhat elderly parent and having a more than usually nervous disposition, was in a state of high anxiety. It was arranged therefore that when she was near her expected date I would stay with them, to be on hand when Bumpy went into labour and also to keep David company. All went according to plan. I was there when labour started and during the long hours of waiting for news I sat up with David and we talked into the small hours. Or should I say David talked - mainly about Bumpy - what a sweet girl she was... how much he loved her...- what would he do if anything happened to her?... Occasionally we talked of something else but it always came back to Bumpy. And then when it was all over and she was safely delivered of a baby boy, Robert, he thanked me for listening to him and thanked me again and continued to thank me for many years. I was never quite sure why I deserved to be thanked so profusely but he did, and as a thank-you present he had a book case specially made for me, which I have to this day and treasure greatly.
* * * * *
Early in the war an army camp was set up in the fields around the castle. Most of them were Polish soldiers and what a sorry bunch the first arrivals were. They would never have been in a regular army, but were mainly refugees who had been put into uniform. Some of them had been severely wounded and all had been through severe mental stress. Father was invited to join them sometimes in the mess and, on a Sunday evening occasionally, Mother would invite a few of them up to the castle for a little get-together. Mr McConkey, the local minister, would play the piano and there would be some singing, games, and a few beers. For a time we had the senior officer stationed in the castle. He was an austere military man of the regular army - very different from the others. I remember his confusion and pleasure when I gave him a pair of socks for that first Christmas of the war. I have a terrible feeling they were too small, but he didn't seem to mind. In return he gave me a beautifully illustrated folder of Polish Folk Songs which I treasured for many years, but which disappeared during one of our removals.
There was another officer called Johnny. He was a totally different character - young, excitable, and very neurotic. He was a fighter pilot and had been through some horrible experiences. He used to wander round the garden singing: "Oh Johnny, oh Johnny, how you can love?", a popular song of the day, and also Deanna Durbin songs. He was hopelessly in love with her and she was his main subject of conversation - to a 13 year old girl at least. Later he joined the RAF and fought in the Battle of Britain. We heard from him occasionally over the years but gradually lost touch. The last we heard he was married and supposedly settled down.
Later on a large army camp was formed in nearby Kinross and the small town was full of soldiers and airmen, but mostly soldiers. There was also an RAF aerodrome outside the town. It became almost impossible for a young girl to walk down the street or stand at a bus stop without being accosted - usually just in a friendly way, but the trouble was that if you answered their greeting they tended to think you were looking for a boyfriend, and this could lead to a potentially awkward situation if you weren't. My instincts were to be polite and respond in a friendly manner when spoken to. This was not particularly wise in those days, as the young man could get a bit rattled when you made it clear you were just being polite and friendly. One of the advantages of increasing age is that you can talk to strangers without fear of mistaken motives. It took me a long time to really learn this lesson, and I remember on one occasion travelling by train from Edinburgh to Doncaster as a young Doctor, I had to share a compartment with a group of servicemen and a couple of other passengers. They started to talk to me about this and that, and the next thing I knew the hand of the bloke beside me began to wander. He had his hand hidden under a newspaper. I was not shocked - just very embarrassed, and I could not think of a way to stop him without alerting the whole compartment. I was never so pleased as when the train stopped at the station and I literally jumped off.
One of these casual encounters had deep and lasting consequences. I had been to an evening service at the church in Kinross with Nan, and we had decided to go to the chip shop for a bag of chips before getting the bus home. While we were waiting in the queue at the chippy, a Polish soldier started talking to us. His English was poor, but we exchanged names and he asked us the English words for different objects, and then accompanied us to the bus stop where we had to wait for half an hour before the bus arrived. Before I left Bruno had made me promise to see him next week at the same time. I thought it over during the week and decided it would not be wise to keep my promise but when the next Sunday evening came round I felt very guilty for breaking my word, and was quite miserable.
At that time - I was now 16 and in my last year at school - I used to go to the pictures in Kinross at least once a week, and several weeks later I came across Bruno waiting outside the Picture House. He came in with me and saw me to the bus afterwards, but I would not agree to see him by arrangement. Thereafter, for some mysterious reason, there was always a vacant seat next to me in the stalls even though the house was full and there was a long queue waiting outside. Bruno would fill that vacancy about half an hour later, always during an interval, to the accompaniment of Cavalleria Rusticana, which was the only record the Picture House ever played. At the time my romantic young mind thought it was fate; now my mind thinks - perhaps a little arrangement was made with the usherettes? I don't know for certain, but I do know I fell more and more in love and so, inevitably, we became lovers.
It was a big step. None of my school friends (as far as I knew) had deep relations with boys, and there was no Pill or reliable form of contraception. At the time I was also working for my Highers - luckily I found school work fairly easy and did the minimum of homework, learning my English poetry through the crack in my school desk during the chemistry lesson, and trying to teach two of my friends, Sheila and Jean Dewar, maths during the train journey to school.
I passed all my subjects and although we were not given our marks in those days - there were only two alternatives: pass or fail - I was told unofficially by one of the masters that I had done very well. Despite emotional turmoil I was still able to concentrate, and never for one moment did I think I might not become a doctor.
During the summer I had a big disappointment when my application for Edinburgh University was turned down - I would have to wait another year to start my studies in October 45. This left me a year to spare. I was determined not to go back to school for sixth year, so I applied to do a year's training as a nurse and was accepted by Astley Ainslie Hospital. One week before the University Session started in October I received a letter to say a place had been granted to me. What joy and what a rush! There was so much to do - clothes to buy, digs to find, arrangements to be made. My poor mother was worn out, walking the hard pavements of Edinburgh with her excess weight and arthritic knees. She was almost in tears with pain and exhaustion, but in the end we found suitable digs in Greenhill Place with Mrs Drummond-Young. I had a nice room at the top of a terraced house. There were several other girls - two Polish girls still at school, Barbara and Eva; and two English girls - Monica who was studying domestic science, and another (whose name I cannot now remember) studying occupational therapy. We ate with the family, and Mrs Drummond-Young provided a full breakfast, tea and buns when we arrived home around 4 or 5 o'clock, and an evening meal. She was an excellent cook and I was very happy there.
But although I was happy there and, for the first time in my life, had to really study, I did not forget Bruno. How shall I describe him? He was short with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, fair hair, blue eyes and a sweet smile. He had large scars running across his scalp where he had been wounded. Quiet and kind and, I think very lonely. I used some of my precious allowance of £1 per week to go home at the weekend as often as possible, usually every second Friday until the Sunday night. That only left me 10 shillings to live on for the rest of the week. From this I had to pay for my lunches, tram fares, toilet necessities and smaller articles of clothing. I seldom caught a tram but walked everywhere, and for the first year went to the Women's Union for lunch everyday where the only thing I could afford was pie and beans for one shilling and twopence. It was a long time before I touched pie and beans again! In 2nd year we discovered "Clarinda", a National Restaurant, where the menu was varied and the helpings generous. I never went back to the Women's Union - a cold and comfortless place, I thought.
The first year passed relatively uneventfully and I made a few close friends who remained friends for life. I was never a good mixer on the social scene. One of the things that struck me at that time was the difference between the English and the Scottish girls. You could always tell them apart even before they spoke - the English all dressed so much better and had more money to spend. There was still clothes rationing - I know my skirt was made from an old pair of Dad's trousers and I'm sure others had similar articles of clothing, but the English girls had smart suits and well-cut overcoats. We wore clogs on our feet which I found very comfortable, and on one occasion they came in handy as a weapon of defence.
I had been to my first orchestral concert at the Usher Hall, and as I walked home up Lothian Road, past Tolcross and over the Meadows, the music of Mozart was still ringing in my head. As I passed the Meadows and entered Whitehouse Loan I became aware that some footsteps had been following me for quite a while. I still wasn't nervous but continued happily on my way, and it was only when I turned into St Margaret's Road, leading to Greenhill Place, and the footsteps rapidly increased in pace, that I realised what was happening. The next minute a leather-clad hand came over my mouth and I was pulled backwards. When I felt my assailent trying to press his body up against mine I was suddenly furious - "How dare he touch me?" - and, remembering my brother Bob's instructions always to clench your fist when hitting someone, I twisted round and clobbered him one over my shoulder, at the same time kicking him in the shins as hard as I could. He ran away and I ran in the other direction - only 20 yards to my digs - and rang the front door-bell loudly and long. I discovered I had lost my handbag during the affray, but luckily a neighbour found it later and handed it in. I felt quite calm at the time and while telling the police all about it - they said I was a cool customer. It was only after I had gone to bed and lay listening for Monica to come home that I felt nervous. I was sure she too would be attacked as she walked along Greenhill Place. She did not come home until 2 am and until then I lay listening for running footsteps every time someone turned into the street.
* * * * *
The summer of 45 was passed quietly at Tullibole. I did some studying and enjoyed playing with my nephew James. I think it was that year that we went for a short holiday to St Andrews - Mother, Nick, young James, myself and Mary Blackwood, a great friend from school. We stayed at a boarding house where the food was good but not over-generous, and so we would go out after the evening meal to the local chip shop. One evening the three 'girls': Nick, Mary and myself, were walking along with our purchases, when Nick felt something slipping. She dived into the nearest doorway and, after a lot of giggling, stepped out of her French knickers, put them into her pocket, and we continued on our way.
Mary and I spent most of our time playing tennis, building sandcastles for James, or rowing in the bay. We became quite adept at handling a boat, even in fairly rough weather, and were quite put out when the supervisor insisted that we take along a young man one breezy day. This young man - a fellow holidaymaker - would not let us take the oars but continued to row across the bay. The wind increased, blowing us out to sea, and I suddenly realised the shore was fading into the distance. I could stand it no longer and, issuing dire threats if he objected, Mary and I took the oars and hauled as hard as we could towards the shore. Gradually we fought our way back and were met half-way by two men in a boat. They had come out to our aid but seeing how proficient we were did not offer any help. When we were safely ashore the supervisor was full of praise and apologised for saddling us with the young man.
All good things come to an end, and at the end of September I was back to Edinburgh and the University. I had continued to see Bruno one or two evenings a week and my affection was as intense as ever. I had only been back at University a week or so when I realised my period was late. Every day I thought it would start, but in my heart of hearts I knew it wouldn't. Almost immediately there was a breast change and after two weeks I began to suffer from nausea and then vomiting. I quickly learnt that if I ate immediately after vomiting there was some hope of retaining my meal. The answer was to get up early and drink a little water, wait till I had vomited, and then go down to breakfast. This was not infallible and many a day I had to rush up to the top floor again to vomit before going out to my lectures. Between lectures I would often dash to the Ladies for the same reason, but sucking black-striped balls was wonderful for combating the nausea, and by these methods or tricks I managed it so that I never missed a lecture or class.
There was no one to whom I felt I could talk and I was able to hide my condition from landlady, friends and family - but not of course from Bruno. And it was then and only then that I discovered he was married with a wife in Poland. This was pretty shattering but we continued to plan for marriage. We went to his Commanding Officer for advice but it seemed there was no possibility of divorce in those days - at such a distance. The time came of course when I had to tell my mother but, strange as it may seem, I have no memory of this. Did I write? Did I tell her face to face? I can't remember, but I know that after the first shock was over she gave me lots of support. She encouraged Bruno in his efforts to seek a divorce and found me new digs for the Easter term at Janetta's - a private hotel, more impersonal, where they would be less likely to notice my condition. I should add that never did it enter my head to give up my studies, which continued reasonably well.
On the whole I was quite cheerful that term - the nausea and vomiting had eased off and I was in good health. No one, not even my closest friends, knew I was pregnant. The loose short jackets of the day - Jigger Jackets they were called - helped to hide my thickening waistline and I kept mine on as much as possible. We had classes from nine to five every day except Wednesday, and hours of studying to do each evening, so there was little time for a hectic social life. On Wednesdays my friend Sheona and I used to treat ourselves to a lunch down town in Mackies Salad Bar and then go on to Janettas, where they would give us a second lunch. Sometimes we followed this up with a visit to the Pictures where we would sit munching chocolate caramels - and this without putting on too much weight.
Bruno at this time had been posted somewhere in Argyll so I saw less of him, although we wrote to each other and he came down to Edinburgh occasionally and we were as close as ever.
As Easter drew nearer so did reality. It was arranged that I would go and stay with my mother's sister Aunt Millie at the end of term. She lived in Bristol and I was to stay down there until after the baby was born. Mother now began to put on the pressure. She wanted to have the baby adopted and I was equally determined that I wanted to keep my child and so battle commenced, quietly but persistently - no shouting, a few tears, but a lot of pressure and persuasion. I dreaded opening letters from Mother because I knew what they would contain - very reasonable arguments in favour of adoption. Often I would open them in the bathroom so that I could weep in private, but none of Mother's efforts made me feel it would be anything but wrong to have the baby adopted.
Despite all this I was quite happy with my Aunt, her three daughters and Ilsa, a Jewish girl who worked for her as a housekeeper - and very efficient she was. My Aunt was quite a character; addicted to three things - tea, cigarettes and bridge - and extremely charming. She never did a hand's turn in the house but sat drinking tea, playing cards and puffing away at a cigarette. Her favourite expressions were: "I say", "gosh" and "what a shcweam". Later she became known as Aunty Gosh. She played bridge at various bridge clubs two or three times a day and, if she was not playing bridge in the evening, would join my cousins and myself in more light-hearted card games - with a fag in her mouth, of course, and a cup of tea by her side.
One such evening the telephone went. It was someone from Whitehall asking for Ilsa. She answered the phone rather timorously and then her voice became very excited. Her brother and family had been found alive in one of the concentration camps and were quite well. There was laughter and tears all mixed up together and, to celebrate, Aunt Millie decided we must have a drink, but what? It was around 11 pm and all the shops and pubs were shut, but after raking around in the