chocolate and a doughnut at the Lagoon Café.
It was a somewhat painful experience: struggling to learn to swim, with the water so cold, being chilled to the marrow. But by the end of the morning, it felt so good to have done it and to have the treat afterward. In spite of the long ride home, it was always worth the effort—quality time with Dad.
I was promised a £5 note the day I learned to swim. In those days, a “fiver” was a large piece of white paper, thin like tissue, engraved with fine, beautiful calligraphy and with a tiny black thread of steel running through it, only visible when held up to the light. I remember the daywhen my feet finally came up off the bottom of the pool and there I was, swimming alone! Dad was thrilled. I was thrilled. We went home to tell Win the good news and we had a celebration lunch. I was duly given my fiver—it felt like a lot of money—and a great fuss was made over me. From then on, swimming was great.
Bedtime in Chessington was another painful experience. Dad would tuck me into bed and read me a poem or a story, in his precise, beautifully modulated voice. I would lie there, watching as he leaned toward the bedside light, studying his profile, loving him so much, knowing that my return home was imminent and that he was giving me every ounce of himself that he possibly could. I would feel achingly sad, and try not to cry, knowing that my tears would cause him grief. I’d pretend to fall asleep while he was reading, so that I wouldn’t have to return his good-night kiss or hug, for a gentle touch would have done me in altogether.
One particular day I was about to return to Beckenham, and feeling utterly miserable, I stood in the tiny dining area attempting to collect myself. There was a thick cut-glass bowl on the sideboard and the sunlight was sending rainbow refractions off the glass. I thought that if I stared at the bowl long enough, hard enough, something about its sharp angles would stop me from crying. I stared and stared, willing the cause of my anguish to come from the crystal and not my head and heart.
Dad would be stoic. He’d say, “Chick, we’ll get together again as soon as we possibly can.” We didn’t speak on the phone much, for that was painful, too. But he kept every promise, and whatever date he said he was coming for me, he came.
AUTUMN ARRIVED, AND lessons at the Cone-Ripman School began in earnest, which meant that I now had to go up to London every day. Aunt was still teaching dance at the school and living in her one-room apartment. Since I was only eight, it was decided that I would stay with her during the week while classes were in session, and go home to Beckenham at the weekends.
Uncle Bill was away in the Air Force, billeted somewhere, and Aunt and I were mostly alone together. I slept on a little cot; she had a single bed. Occasionally, Uncle Bill came home on leave, whereupon a screenwas put up in front of my cot. They would cuddle in the single bed, and Auntie, giggling, would call, “Julia, turn to the wall!”—a phrase that stuck with us over the years.
I never had the impression that Auntie was really in love with Bill, though she seemed glad whenever he came back. They made a handsome couple. He was a tall, good-looking man, with silver gray hair. He dressed immaculately, always sporting a good tie or cravat, and looking elegant in his beloved cricket sweater and whites whenever he wore them. His trousers had a perfect crease and his old shoes were polished to a shine. He was certainly dashing in his air force uniform; he was a flight engineer, plotting courses, operating the radio. He flew often, making sorties over Germany and France. If Aunt wasn’t completely in love with him, they made a good show of it. They both enjoyed ballroom dancing and shared a similar sense of humor.
Meals were pretty simple in Auntie’s flat. She was a fair cook, but money and goods were so scarce. I remember toasting bread on a fork
It was a somewhat painful experience: struggling to learn to swim, with the water so cold, being chilled to the marrow. But by the end of the morning, it felt so good to have done it and to have the treat afterward. In spite of the long ride home, it was always worth the effort—quality time with Dad.
I was promised a £5 note the day I learned to swim. In those days, a “fiver” was a large piece of white paper, thin like tissue, engraved with fine, beautiful calligraphy and with a tiny black thread of steel running through it, only visible when held up to the light. I remember the daywhen my feet finally came up off the bottom of the pool and there I was, swimming alone! Dad was thrilled. I was thrilled. We went home to tell Win the good news and we had a celebration lunch. I was duly given my fiver—it felt like a lot of money—and a great fuss was made over me. From then on, swimming was great.
Bedtime in Chessington was another painful experience. Dad would tuck me into bed and read me a poem or a story, in his precise, beautifully modulated voice. I would lie there, watching as he leaned toward the bedside light, studying his profile, loving him so much, knowing that my return home was imminent and that he was giving me every ounce of himself that he possibly could. I would feel achingly sad, and try not to cry, knowing that my tears would cause him grief. I’d pretend to fall asleep while he was reading, so that I wouldn’t have to return his good-night kiss or hug, for a gentle touch would have done me in altogether.
One particular day I was about to return to Beckenham, and feeling utterly miserable, I stood in the tiny dining area attempting to collect myself. There was a thick cut-glass bowl on the sideboard and the sunlight was sending rainbow refractions off the glass. I thought that if I stared at the bowl long enough, hard enough, something about its sharp angles would stop me from crying. I stared and stared, willing the cause of my anguish to come from the crystal and not my head and heart.
Dad would be stoic. He’d say, “Chick, we’ll get together again as soon as we possibly can.” We didn’t speak on the phone much, for that was painful, too. But he kept every promise, and whatever date he said he was coming for me, he came.
AUTUMN ARRIVED, AND lessons at the Cone-Ripman School began in earnest, which meant that I now had to go up to London every day. Aunt was still teaching dance at the school and living in her one-room apartment. Since I was only eight, it was decided that I would stay with her during the week while classes were in session, and go home to Beckenham at the weekends.
Uncle Bill was away in the Air Force, billeted somewhere, and Aunt and I were mostly alone together. I slept on a little cot; she had a single bed. Occasionally, Uncle Bill came home on leave, whereupon a screenwas put up in front of my cot. They would cuddle in the single bed, and Auntie, giggling, would call, “Julia, turn to the wall!”—a phrase that stuck with us over the years.
I never had the impression that Auntie was really in love with Bill, though she seemed glad whenever he came back. They made a handsome couple. He was a tall, good-looking man, with silver gray hair. He dressed immaculately, always sporting a good tie or cravat, and looking elegant in his beloved cricket sweater and whites whenever he wore them. His trousers had a perfect crease and his old shoes were polished to a shine. He was certainly dashing in his air force uniform; he was a flight engineer, plotting courses, operating the radio. He flew often, making sorties over Germany and France. If Aunt wasn’t completely in love with him, they made a good show of it. They both enjoyed ballroom dancing and shared a similar sense of humor.
Meals were pretty simple in Auntie’s flat. She was a fair cook, but money and goods were so scarce. I remember toasting bread on a fork
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