Racialism and Resolution

There would be little point in trying to write a detailed description of what I found South Africa like in 1950. There are innumerable books on the tragic internal situation of that country, both as it was then and is now. To learn about sharp contrasts in the stunning landscape, the lush, colourful trees and flowers, the fascinating variety of wild life, the forests, hills and valleys which form such a sharp contrast to the enormous stretches of flat, dry bushland, it would be better to read the literature provided by the South African Travel Agency than any words of mine. The beauty is well illustrated, but any suggestion that it was the setting for so much human ugliness was obviously hard to conceal.

Before I set out, I read Alan Paton's Cry the Beloved Country, which gave me a small foretaste of what I was in for when trying to get to know something about the African people; but nothing ever prepares one to comprehend to the full a system so devoid of human justice. It was tragic that this lovely land of sunshine, scenic marvels and rich natural resources was one where the suppression of free speech, imprisonment without trial and judicial killing presented such a hideous face. It struck me then, when I was there, and it struck me later when I revisited it, that it truly was a land where blood and tears as well as milk and honey flowed in abundant parallel streams. The apologists used to tell us that things were improving. Those who made it their business to find out the truth said that the changes in the law were ``cosmetic''. It was a prosperous country for white people, and the living was easy for those who conformed and didn't look too far beyond the pretty flowering bushes and clumps of elephant grass that decorated their own well-kept boundaries. Since the eruption of violence in the native townships and beyond, everyone, whether involved or not, had been forced to take stock of the situation, and no one, however blind to the facts, could claim it to have been a pleasant place to live in. Some blamed too lenient a stance towards the blacks on the part of the government, or the infiltration of communism. Some will accept that the system of apartheid had not worked, and admitted that it should have been dismantled. I remain convinced that any form of racial discrimination, no matter where it occurs, will always undermine peace and stability.

Shortly before I arrived, the Nationalists came to power and the doctrine of Apartheid was being legally enforced. It was nothing new; Jan Smuts had not been exactly a racial egalitarian. The Malan administration that took over from the United Party merely carried the racist policies further. During my five month stay, many retrograde steps were taken against civil rights and liberties for the enormous majority of the South African people, whatever their origin. Happily, things now have improved.

My sister Ruth lived about half way between Johannesburg and Pretoria. In those days her area was a long way from urban civilization and the short eighteen mile drive through gently undulating hills seemed immense. There was plenty of farmland in the district, and the fields of brilliant, emerald-coloured Lucerne afforded a sharp contrast with the dusty red soil and the parched grass of territory still in the process of development. The only people to be seen walking along the roads, and the tracks leading off them, were blacks. The women held themselves erect, carrying their burdens on their heads and their babies on their backs. Occasionally, we would pass a small, native village or kraal consisting of a huddled group of round, thatched huts, housing those that had not been lured into town by more varied work and better money. The road also took us past one of the borders of Alexandra, a sprawling mass of shacks and shanties where the native people still live in conditions of squalor compared with their relatively close neighbours in the affluent suburbs.

The homes that had been built for white people, most of them modern and functional, were widely spaced; and all of them were equipped with several small outbuildings for housing their black servants. They were the sort of dwellings one expects to see in a warm country: white walls, archways, wrought iron gates and a profusion of bright bougainvillia, hibiscus and poinsettia. It all appeared to be friendly enough, yet I was told that it was unsafe to walk even a mile along the sunny path separating the house in which I was living from the estate where some of Ruth's friends always welcomed us. I found it hard to believe that it was necessary to get into a car to avoid possible rape and murder along that harmless stretch of gravel and long, warm grass. Although studying this sad situation helped me, in some measure, to see the cause of my own depression in perspective, there were other times when my chief enemy, isolation, hung over me like a suffocating blanket.

I can't have been an easy guest in the household despite all my efforts to help with the day-to-day tasks involved in the running of a home. There were already two servants, and I didn't have enough to occupy me. The boys, particularly Peter, seemed to sense the vacuum in my life, and clung to me as children do when feeling insecure. I seemed powerless to cast Brian out of my mind. Once again, I felt emotionally helpless. No man had ever had so profound an effect upon me. I desperately needed to meet people and get involved with them. I was almost as cut off as I had been in the wilds of Canada. I could not afford a car, and there were no buses; not for whites, that is. Eric, my long-suffering brother-in-law, rose early and worked hard all day; funds were scanty, and their younger child barely six months old. Late in the afternoon darkness would fall suddenly and early without the prelude of dusk. At night, after dinner, when the houseboy had removed the dishes, cleared the kitchen and retired to the servant's quarters for the night, Eric and my sister would fall asleep in their chairs, exhausted with the effort of having three extra in their small house. With my children asleep too, I felt desperate with loneliness. I tried everything in my power to find some respite in reading or sewing, but there was no mains electricity, and the paraffin lamps did not provide enough light for the drawn threadwork that might otherwise have calmed my restlessness. Sometimes I would wander into the kitchen and look out on to the back yard. There, in the cheerful blaze of a fire upon which their evening meal was cooking, the servants and their friends were sitting in a ring chatting and laughing, or singing in their spontaneous harmony. The jollity of their burnished, ebony faces in the firelight made me envious even of their pitiable lot. As they swayed rhythmically to their own music I wished with all my heart that I could have stepped outside and joined them, learned their songs, partaken of their corn porridge and shared their jokes. But such a step was not only impossible in those days, because the differences in language and culture would have shocked and embarrassed them; it was socially quite unthinkable, and Ruth would have had some serious problems as a result.

Eventually a stroke of good fortune came my way. Usually we called on friends and neighbours to play tennis in the afternoons, while the children would amuse themselves on well-tended lawns under the watchful eye of a nanny. But one day my sister informed me, ``We are going to drive over to an old Dutch farm and visit Dr te Water. She is related to some people I met in Pretoria and you are NOT to get the giggles. She wears the most peculiar hat.'' Funny hats, since our childhood, have been a disproportionate source of hilarity to us; but when I beheld the incredible doctor, I had the greatest difficulty in obeying my sister's injunction.

It wasn't just the hat I found astonishing. Here was a transvestite lesbian, so typical of her kind as to be almost a caricature. Her khaki trousers, and her socks and shoes, were clearly purchased from a good gentleman's outfitters; and her check shirt, worn hanging over her belt, concealed, as if to draw attention to the incongruity of her sartorial preferences, the massive shelf of her bosom. But there was no mistaking the warmth of the welcome in her booming baritone, nor in the way she removed her hat and nodded her head in friendliness so that her cropped grey hair bounced like a shaken mop.

Up till that moment I had always considered lesbians as people to be escaped from at the earliest possible opportunity, particularly if they had a penchant for me. This time I was to welcome my admirer (for such she obviously was) for the fresh interest and new experiences she brought into my life.

The day after our very first meeting she drove up to my sister's house and strode into the living room. ``How long are you going to be here? What have you seen? What have you done?'', she demanded without waiting for an answer. Then, as soon as we were alone together, ``You're not happy, are you?'' She invited me to stay at the ancient, sprawling farm where she had been living since her retirement from a successful career as a pioneer psychiatrist. I don't think this pleased Miss Malherbe, her lady companion of many years' standing, but she endured it with dignity and, as mistress of the doctor's household, made arrangements for the warmest hospitality. The children and I were provided with a suite of shabby but clean and comfortable rooms in the rambling old house, and a specially chosen member of the bevy of black servants was detailed to care for the boys so that I should be free to go on excursions and meet people. The only price extracted from me was that I confide all my troubles to ``Doctor'', as she was universally called. It wasn't until after her death that I first heard her Christian name. I think it was Cynthia.

Looking back, I imagine she got some vicarious pleasure in the misfortunes of a young heterosexual in spite of making a determined stand for the right to her own lifestyle. She loved her farm, her animals and her home-produced fruit. She and Miss Malherbe were a hospitable couple, and they opened the rickety doors of their countless verandas and spacious, musty living rooms to many - occasionally even to black people, albeit reluctantly. They were both ardent Nationalists, and we differed on the subject of human rights. It was their conviction that the native people were of an inferior race, ``hewers of wood and drawers of water.'' They were to be treated like children, or rather backward adolescents, and I had many lessons to learn. To let a male servant see me in my all-enveloping night attire, or even to catch sight of an unmade bed, was unwise. Miss Malherbe explained that they could never be expected to learn self-control. ``They are not like American negroes who have been through the refining process of slavery,'' she added. That is why she had chosen a particular girl as nanny for the children. She was of the Griqua tribe, which meant that, ``she has white blood.'' This made a difference?! Their attitude shocked me, but it was a very usual one for Afrikaaners of that generation. They asserted repeatedly that I couldn't be expected to understand the nature of their country. It seemed curious therefore, that when I expressed a wish to learn about the native people, their customs, their culture and above all, their music, my kind host decided I was to be indulged (though why I wasn't interested in their Dutch folk dancing they couldn't for the life of them understand). We would discuss all these problems and many others in the evening, over an excellent meal which ``Doctor'' relished, her napkin held in place over her bosom by two bulldog clips attached to a cord round her neck. ``I'm a farmer,'' she asserted, as if to answer the look of amused incredulity on my face, which I was not polite enough to hide.

My sister's friends, who had heard of the set-up, warned me amid much sniggering to be sure to lock my door at night, but if anyone thinks I am about to confess to a homosexual love affair they will be disappointed. The elderly ``master'' of the household never as much as attempted to lay a finger on me. She treated me as a benevolent uncle would concern himself with a favourite niece.

In spite of her eccentricities, ``Doctor'' was a person of substance and influence. Apart from her farm she was a keen speculator and the first woman to get herself accepted on the Johannesburg Stock Exchange. She picked up her telephone and barked commands down it. As a result I had some thrilling experiences.

When she realized that it was useless to try to talk me out of my interest in the African people and their conditions, she didn't just condemn me for being a ``Kaffir Boetie'' (nigger-lover), because she knew that, although I had an enquiring mind, I was a completely ignorant foreigner. She arranged several visits to townships, to gold mine compounds, and to concerts where I could see the tribal dancing and hear the singing. I was even taken down to a depth of seven thousand feet to be taught something of the methods used to extract the gold ore from the rock face. Fortunately I do not suffer from claustrophobia. We were six in the small cage taking us down, but its usual complement, when carrying black workers, was said to be about eighteen.

I loved the tribal dances. One group after another would enter the arena and beat the earth with strong bare feet as they went through their various tribal ceremonies. Sometimes they wore their distinctive costumes: bright strings of beads, leopard-skin loin cloths, bracelets and anklets made of white tufted goat's hair. The music was intoxicating, and left me almost unable to sit still, such was the stirring rhythm from the primitive xylophones. I noticed with amusement that when a really low resonance was needed, and the hollow section of a wooden bough under the slat that made the note was not large enough, a petrol drum was substituted.

Although the attitude of those who showed us round the compounds where the natives lived and were encouraged to practise their indigenous tribal crafts was patronizing, it was a joy to see these handsome and gifted people enjoying some aspects of their own identity instead of being forced to play the role of cringing servants with low pay and little freedom.

I was able to visit a school for native children, and as we mounted the stairs towards a class-room, the sounds of four-part singing seemed sophisticated, although it had lost nothing of its ethnic character. Even more surprising was to come across a group of boys and girls singing in harmony, without a note of music in their hands. ``How do they remember their parts so well?'', I enquired of the music master. He smiled. ``We harmonize naturally. Once my boys' voices break, they no longer sing in unison. It is difficult for them.''

Through a kind introduction provided by ``Doctor'', I had the good fortune to meet Percival Kirby, that great student of musical theory and of human nature, who was at the time professor of music at Witwatersrand University. We found ourselves instantaneously en rapport. He gave me an exciting illustrated talk about the way that musical instruments were fashioned and developed by some of the most primitive people on earth, such as the Hottentot and the Bushman. These people are almost extinct. Some were hunted, like animals, by the early Boer settlers. But we saw them preserved in waxworks at the Capetown museum. They are strange, ochre-skinned people. Their women have the most enormous hind-quarters, as if designed to carry innumerable babies.

I became fascinated at the way the basic African musical syntax had been exported to America along with the slaves, and had eventually developed into jazz, only to be re-imported, re-simplified and re-played. If it hadn't been for the fact that I recognized some well-known melodies, I should never have believed they had been through such a complicated set of journeys.

Apart from music, I was to learn much about the structure of all sections of society, of their attitudes and their prejudices. Sometimes I was cheered by the courage I witnessed, sometimes appalled by the lack of foresight. Of the protagonists of Apartheid I heard it said by their opponents, ``It is not so much their integrity that's in question, it's their intelligence''.

On the last day of my stay on the farm, an acquaintance of ``Doctor's'', a lady who was to become a prominent member of the Black Sash movement, offered to drive me to Sophiatown. On this occasion ``Doctor'' donned a white alpaca dust coat and accompanied us there. It was a sprawling township for native people, where rows of utilitarian, brick bungalows stood beside groups of shanties that should have been declared unfit for human habitation. Most of the roads were of earth and gravel and there weren't many cars about. There were a few shack-like shops selling untempting goods, and everywhere groups of children squatted and stared. We had an invitation from a couple called Xuma. He had qualified as a doctor in Minnesota and during one of his subsequent visits to the United States had married a black American. She had returned with him, and was immersed in improving the lot of the women and children who were now her neighbours. Mrs Xuma's bungalow was cool and tastefully furnished. Her graciousness almost made me feel that we had driven up through a long garden instead of being parked just outside in a squalid street. She provided an elegantly served tea and told us about her work. Her husband was active in politics and had just finished his term of office as the fifth President of the later to be banned African National Congress, as well as meeting the demands of his busy general practice. I was told that he was already earning disapproval in his party for being too moderate. Indeed, he seemed timid and kept his distance. In the presence of another doctor with whom he might have had much in common had she not been white, the prevailing social customs prevented him from sitting down in his own living room.

I hadn't expected ``Doctor'' to be as surprised as she was. Later that evening she kept talking about the civilized way we had been treated by this smartly dressed black lady who was so dedicated to the service of others. Even though she had lived in the United States herself, she had obviously never been received in that type of home before. Not many years later, Sophiatown was partly razed to the hard red ground, its inhabitants rehoused. It now forms a small part of Soweto that has been so constantly in the news. Whatever indignities were meted out to her, I feel sure that Mrs Xuma kept a straight back and a courageous smile.

I returned to my sister's house feeling much more cheerful. My stay in South Africa had been enriched by these experiences, and a few weeks later there were more excitements to come.

My brother-in-law took us to the Kruger Game Reserve, and the children and I enjoyed seeing all the wild animals. The creatures seemed so full of spirited energy, and looked sleek and glossy compared with their relations in captivity. We watched lion pursuing prey, giraffe stooping to drink, springbok making unbelievably high leaps into the air, zebra and bush pig scampering their swift and frightened getaway at the slightest sound. We even saw baboons fighting, and still dormant crocodiles concealing their ferocity by the water's edge. We went right up to the banks of the Limpopo river near to the border of what was then Southern Rhodesia, where elephant roam and nibble the leaves of the gum trees. They can also pull them out of the ground as swiftly as a gardener removes offending weeds, a display of that devastating strength for which they are considered the most dangerous of all the animals. The lion will eat you only if you leave your car or disobey the rules, but these mountainous grey beasts are vegetarians. They can nevertheless stampede and crush. We were told of a professional photographer who inadvertently drove past a cow elephant, separating her from her baby who was following her. Indignantly she sat herself down on the bonnet of his car, forcing the engine into the ground and trapping its hapless driver until he was rescued with the aid of an oxyacetylene burner several hours later.

Dawn and sunset were the best times to go on excursions. Driving during the hours of darkness was strictly forbidden and heavily penalized. When night fell we would check into one of the several camp sites and settle in a couple of small rondaavels, or thatched huts, where we would make our own meals and relax in an atmosphere that seemed to be that of a different planet compared to the world of scientific progress and its dramas that I had so recently left.

Unfortunately, Ruth was unable to come on this trip as she had caught glandular fever, to which I had fallen victim shortly after my return from my sojourn with ``Doctor''. In those days the only treatment available was sulphur drugs, and these have depressing side effects. So, although sad at the prospect of a long separation, I think we were both a little relieved when the time approached for me and the boys to leave for England.

We travelled home by way of Durban where we spent a few days. There, and at East London and Port Elizabeth, we were met, entertained and shown round by kind friends and acquaintances. It was a leisurely voyage to the Cape, and quite often South Africans would choose this way of travel rather than taking a train or one of the still infrequent 'planes. On board we were in South African waters, however. I was reminded of this in a way I shall never forget, when I dived into the swimming pool on deck. The only other person in the water at the time was a black youth. Almost immediately, two young white men put down their books, leaped out of their deck chairs and dived in beside me. They swam around aimlessly until I clambered out. A tight-lipped lady stood waiting for me. She told me she was sure that I didn't realize what I had done, but never must I do it again. It was quite improper for a white woman to go swimming alone with a native, and I ought to thank those two courteous young men who had protected me. This was beyond endurance. I stamped a wet foot on the deck and shouted, ``Bollox!'' before calling my children and stalking away to our cabin.

Finally, we had about a week docked at Capetown before sailing for home. It was an experience filled with sunlight, spring flowers, beautiful beaches and the grand monolith of Table Mountain, whose flat top we reached by cable car.

I shall always remember the sense of relief with which I left South Africa. In spite of the company of my sister and the interesting holiday I had enjoyed in the land that was fast disappearing over the horizon, it was impossible while living there to escape for more than a few minutes from the sad political and social scene. Whatever one thought about or tried to concentrate on, there was always something, however trivial, to bring it back into focus. One felt frustrated and powerless. There was less than nothing a private individual and a visitor to the country could do to help the huge native majority. Despite many invitations to return, and tempting offers of hospitality, I resisted them until after the release of Nelson Mandela.

Shortly after our departure, the Cape Coloureds (those of mixed race, descendants of the Bushmen and their conquerors) were deprived of their right to vote. There had been a lot of talk on the subject, but it was a long time before it was given back to them. As for the blacks, they had never had any real representation of their own. About half way through the voyage from Capetown to Southampton a message was received on the ship's radio that Jan Smuts had died. He was a wily politician but he was an ardent patriot. One wonders how he would have reacted to the fate of his beloved homeland had he lived another thirty years.

In all, the return journey took about a month, and was even more of a whirl of high living than the outward voyage had been. The parties, the dancing, the flirtations and the gaiety were a temporary escape from what had been and that which was to come.

Oscar met the boat and drove us to Cambridge where I was expected to make my next home. He had rented some temporary university accommodation: an oversized flat on the ground floor of a grandiose, red-brick mansion. Standing in acres of private ground, with a small gate-keeper's lodge nestling among the prolific rhododendron bushes, it had in bygone times boasted a private chapel and had housed young members of the royal family during their brief periods of study at the University. Now, as in our short spell in the wilds of Canada, we were to experience life in a small part of a stately home. It was quite an easy place to settle into, and although the furnishings were hardly pleasing aesthetically, it could have been much worse. What worried and saddened me was that Oscar, acting in what he thought to be our best interests, by keeping me away from Abingdon, had caused all my belongings to be taken out of the house there. The removal men had dumped everything from the largest piece of furniture to the smallest teaspoon wherever they had thought fit. I wept at the sight. There had been tenants in my Abingdon house whose ideas of cleanliness didn't match up to my own; and although I am sure Oscar was not to blame, some of my cherished pieces of silver were missing. The green curtains of which I was so proud had been left behind. I could not imagine where to begin to make sense of the bewildering chaos. I don't know how I did it, but within forty eight hours I had stashed everything away and found places for the boys in a nearby primary school. If the proverb, ``needs must when the devil drives'' has any truth in it, there must have been a powerful demon wielding the whip during those two days. I was in good health after the long sea journey, and here at last were problems that could be solved.

I was delighted to find that some old friends were in my new neighbourhood. Professor and Mrs Hartree were across the street, and welcomed us warmly. Hermann Bondi, newly married with a small daughter and a wife who was just finishing her PhD, was near at hand. I was also to meet the well-known nuclear physicist Denys Wilkinson, who became Sir Denys and Vice Chancellor of the University of Sussex. He was to be among the kindest and closest friends in my future life.

Cambridge had just become a city and the new status became it. Unlike Oxford, the Colleges seemed, for some strange reason, more isolated and grouped separately from the rest of the town. I soon became a frequent visitor to the historic cloisters, chapels and courts, and found the prospect of settling down in the quiet and absorbing atmosphere not unappealing. If only I had been able to do it with the partner of my choice! I tried to find a house to buy, as we were told that one year was the maximum stay allowed in the flat. There was an acute shortage of the sort of place we could afford, and I knew little about Building Societies and tax relief. With more energy than enthusiasm I set out on my quest. I found a charming bungalow with plenty of spacious rooms and a well stocked orchard, but the surveyor's report was atrocious. Then, as before, the houses I liked found no favour with Oscar, and vice versa.

Once Brian was safely out of the way in Birmingham, no one tried to discourage me from revisiting Harwell and my old friends. It was shortly after returning from a visit there that I stepped into the Cambridge flat to hear the telephone ringing furiously. It was a mutual friend telling me excitedly of the Pontecorvos' final disappearance.

Oscar had spent the summer of my absence on the Île de Levant, a naturist reserve off Hyères on the Côte d'Azure. There he had met a young woman who was a children's nurse at a large hospital in Birmingham. She was about twenty-one, with the clean, rosy appearance of a bouncy schoolgirl and a mass of blonde curly hair. She came on frequent visits to Cambridge, and it appeared that she had formed a close friendship with Oscar. They had many interests in common and enjoyed long bicycle rides together. It didn't take me long to realize that she had also become his mistress.

After some soul-searching I consulted a solicitor. He was a comfortable man and gave the impression of having brought up several wayward daughters. I put the cards of my last troubled year on the table, and told this sympathetic lawyer how much I had wanted a divorce but couldn't risk being forced to relinquish my children. His replies were encouraging. Now that I could assume the role of the innocent party, I could easily apply to have my marriage dissolved, and there should be no problem about the boys. ``But, but ...'', I stammered, and recounted a few of the incidents in my own irregular behaviour. He explained that the law had been amended, and that all I had to do was to provide the material for a discretionary statement in which I was to list my peccadilloes. This would be handed to the judge in a sealed envelope, which he would open after hearing my case. It all seemed like jiggery pokery to me, but it was the law, and we have frequently heard the law described as ``an ass''. I don't suppose that my statement caused His Honour's eyes to pop out any more than they did when dealing with most cases in which his discretion was sought.

Oscar and I separated, and I stayed in the flat only for the time needed to bring my case to court and obtain the decree nisi, meaning ``unless'', which is short for, ``unless anything can be found to nullify the action during the following six weeks'', after which it would be made absolute. This was the shortest waiting period on record before the law was reformed. Earlier it had been six months; and a few years later a three month interval was required. It seems that I obtained my divorce at the most convenient time under the old regime.

Now my parents resignedly gave me their support. I was bringing the action, and therefore, on paper at any rate, I was guiltless. Matrimonial fracture was as distasteful as ever, but at least the situation had become respectable in their eyes. My father told me not to worry about money; he would help with my legal costs. Subsequently, whenever I referred to the fact that I was divorced, he would correct me, ``No, my dear, you have divorced your husband.'' Although appalled by the lack of justice in the system, I was thankful for their sake that no word of scandal ever reached the Manchester newspapers.

Now I had to think how best to support myself and the boys while waiting for my case to be heard. It was not easy. In a place like Cambridge my meagre qualifications as a secretary were fairly useless; besides, I had to find work that I could fit in with school hours so that the children would not run the risk of being left alone in that huge house. Eventually I found a job as an assistant cook in a canteen above a large grocery. The kitchen was archaic, the pots and pans heavy, and the food we produced unpalatable; but some of my workmates were friendly, and at least I had a little money in my pocket to buy the essentials of life. I could not square it with my conscience to take a penny from Oscar (apart from the rent of the flat which he had already paid), nor was I going cap in hand to my father. Such was my sense of pride that I paid the lawyers out of my own savings, and the money my father gave me for that purpose was invested in the children's names.

One stipulation made by Oscar was that the children should be sent to boarding school. I didn't like the idea at all and neither did they, but as my movements in the immediate future were very uncertain I agreed to it as a compromise. If my plans worked out the way I hoped there would be more removals, and a bit of stability was called for. The search for a school to which I could entrust my children and visit them frequently was long and heart-breaking. Eventually I found a small place on the south coast with a kind, jolly headmaster, a wife who was a State Registered Nurse, and a dear old mother who played the organ with more fervour than accuracy in the local church. The buildings were not imposing, but the staff were obviously well chosen and the atmosphere was a happy one. Fortunately for us all Oscar liked it too.

With the benefit of hindsight I realize that I might have been escaping from an unsatisfactory marriage only to face an empty future. Suppose that Brian, eligible and gifted as he was, were having his attentions gradually drawn elsewhere. I had to prove to myself that I could sustain life as a single parent. Fortunately it was all worthwhile. He was working away at his research in Birmingham, had not become attached to another woman and was still waiting and hoping. Under the prevailing system of the times, the law demanded that the so-called innocent party in a divorce should lead a celibate existence: it had to appear that the adultery was all on one side. There was a character known as the King's Proctor, whose duty it was to spy on the plaintiff. He could have the proceedings declared null and void if he caught him or her in flagrante. Who this mysterious creature was, and what benefit or enjoyment he derived from his missions, I have never found out.

Brian and I, by then considerably happier, had a series of adventures that would have made marvellous material for a French farce. Even before Oscar and I were technically separated, an understanding friend gave me an excellent alibi. Brian and I had a very special weekend in Cornwall - one we shall never forget - staying at places where no one could conceivably recognize us. Every morning I telephoned my friend for reassurance that our whereabouts had not been questioned. We felt light-hearted and carefree. Another time, while the divorce was still pending and Oscar was away, Brian turned up outside my kitchen window late one night, having left his car a cautious half mile away. Because small children cannot be asked to keep secrets I had to keep him under lock and key in one of the rooms until they were safely on their way to school next morning.

Now that the solution was in sight, I felt serene and contented as never before. The boys seemed more settled too. In July my case came to court, and the first step in the dissolution of the marriage went through. There was only one slight snag. Oscar requested that custody of the children be postponed and discussed later, by our representatives in chambers, instead of being dealt with on the spot. I was advised to concur. Meanwhile I was to have care and control over them.

The boys and I spent the summer with my parents, and subsequently with Brian's in South Wales where the children enjoyed all the seaside resorts around Swansea. I made a particular friend of Brian's father. Although we disagreed fundamentally about religion, this scholarly and knowledgeable parson never let it come between us. Agreeing to differ, we had many lively and interesting discussions. Not once did he let me think, as well he might have done, that I was not the most suitable bride for a son of the manse. The children adored him.

It was while we were there that my divorce was made absolute and final. Brian and I could at last associate freely and without subterfuge. After settling the boys in their new school and seeing to yet another removal of furniture and effects, we married quietly in Birmingham Registry Office. We regarded the ceremony in October 1951 as singularly irrelevant, but we invited our respective parents to witness the event.

Brian found an amusing flat with the most enormous living room imaginable. In it we could work, put up friends, give the boys a vast play area and throw parties. The rent was rather more than we could afford but taking it was well worth the risk. The first thing we did in it was to celebrate our marriage by inviting our friends for a modest reception. Both sets of parents were there and several colleagues. It was particularly gratifying that a sizeable contingent of friends from Harwell drove up, despite the autumnal fog, to be with us. Among them were Hans Kronberger and his new wife Joan. With characteristic frankness they let on that she was in the very early stages of pregnancy.

Brian was immersed in his research on the ``shell model'' of the atomic nucleus, and we had little time or money to spare; but we did manage to have a honeymoon - one week in a simple hotel in Paris. We flew from Birmingham immediately after the wedding. It was Brian's first flight, and the day that Churchill's Conservative party was returned to power. During that short respite we enjoyed many things that were to become central to our life together. We tasted meals at the little restaurants in the area of La Fourche, where in those days you could eat and drink extremely well for a pittance. It was the first time either of us had relished the joys of Moules Marinieres, Soupe de Poisson, various salads redolent with garlic and olive oil, not to mention such novelties as Cervelle au Beurre Noir, Tête de Veau Ravigote, Civet de Lièvre and Biftek au Poivre. To this day we are both enthusiastic about the pleasures of the table, and those early gastronomic treats still remain among our favourite dishes. We often remember with amusement how great used to be the difference between French food and what we had been used to.

One day we got caught in the rain while walking in the Parc Monceau. We took shelter quite by accident in the Russian Cathedral in the Rue Darue. Its mysterious interior resembled a cruciform Aladdin's cave, rich with gilded ornaments and icons. We were held spellbound by the sonorous liturgy sung by a small group of choristers, mostly loyal old servants of the Czar. Although the elderly singers are long since dead, the Cathedral Alexandre Nevsky still provides one of the finest free concerts in Paris. Many are the wet Sunday mornings we have spent there since.

There was also all the architecture to be admired at leisure, the galleries, the shops, the bouquinists. It was a short holiday, but a happy and fulfilling one.

We settled contentedly in Birmingham. Brian was engrossed in his work and I had to find a way to augment our income. I took in dress-making and stitched away at unattractive bridesmaids' dresses, evening gowns, blouses and skirts for all the customers that came my way. When the boys came home to us for their holidays - of which part were always spent with Oscar and the comely young girl he had since married - we were able to buy them extra luxuries they would otherwise have had to forgo. We could keep a car on the road and had a summer holiday camping in Cornwall.

When I wasn't sewing I typed furiously. Brian's work was being published as fast as he could write it. Our typewriter was a museum piece and had no mathematical symbols, but I muddled through. Once, to my everlasting shame, I had to telephone the department to ask whether a word on the manuscript should be ``photon'' or ``proton'' in a given context. I don't think I would make that mistake today. We had an enormous programme of work to complete each day. It was during one of my sewing sessions, when rushing to meet the deadline for a big wedding, that the radio programme was interrupted with the doom-laden announcement, ``This is London.'' King George VI had died peacefully in his sleep, and the second Elizabethan reign had begun.

By far the most rewarding aspect of this brief sojourn in Birmingham was our proximity to the Peierls household. Rudi ran a productive and happy department, while Genia provided a home that complemented it perfectly. She entertained frequently and enthusiastically in the mansion they occupied. What she lacked in funds she more than made up for in ingenuity. I often helped her prepare the food for the enormous parties she gave. Sometimes they would be for visiting academics from overseas, occasionally for a wedding. She never let any member of Rudi's department get married without a celebration if they had no family available to provide it. What I feel most indebted to her for, though, was her tuition in the art of being the wife of an active scientist. From her I learnt how to recognize the signs of creativity and how to cope when the all-absorbing force of a new idea takes over from other, more mundane considerations. She prophesied that Brian would be a significant figure in the scientific community, and under her tutelage I was able to learn how to help him with his achievements.

There was another conference that autumn, this time in Amsterdam. We travelled there by car via the Vosges, the Black Forest and the Rhine. Foreign currency was still tight even if we had we been able to produce the sterling to buy it with, but we managed. Every night we had a choice; it was either a comfortable room or a good meal. Frequently the meal won and we spent the nights in a varied assortment of attics.

The conference was exciting because we met many of those who had contributed so prominently to the proceedings at Como two years previously. I was astonished to find how many people had read Brian's recent work, and how widely it was discussed. Although I knew so little about his research, it was obvious that there was an air of great excitement as the mysteries of the atomic nucleus were gradually unravelled. We made a number of new friends and at long last I was able to talk at length with members of the Israeli delegation. Giulio and Zmira Racah, and Ygal and Hannah Talmi were among those who explained the problems confronting their young country, the up-dating of their ancient language and all the plans they were making to build universities and research centres.

We loved the journey to Amsterdam, the beautiful city laced with canals. It was the first of many trips we were to make over the years in the course both of Brian's international work and pure pleasure.

It was a happy year, but all too soon Brian's time at Birmingham was up and he had to return to Harwell. Although he was still a humble Senior Scientific Officer, we were offered a house on a new estate in Abingdon. This one had just been built and was a little to the north of the Fitzharries houses, lying beside the main road to Oxford, adjacent to a cornfield. I was quite amazed to find myself in a house that was almost identical to the one I had had to leave little more than eighteen months previously. This time it was to be home for an unprecedented six years.