Travels and Tribulations

So there it was. The cat was out of the bag, and we expatriates could at last admit to the reason for our mysterious presence. To what peaceful uses this newly found source of energy could be put were speculated upon by anyone with an ounce of brain, and it was clear that a whole new field of widely ranging research was going to be opened up. The problems of the nuclear arms race were evident to the great and the good. Einstein begged all prominent men of science to convince their governments that collective security, or internationalization of the arms potential, was essential. The speculation concerning this fundamental change in our thinking, whether in the context of war or of peace, was just beginning.

For the time being - and a brief time it was - the Allies had supremacy. Despite Mr Molotov's jaundiced, yet belligerent thundering - ``We too shall have atomic energy'' - the fact remained that the USSR didn't have it yet. But it was clear from his tone of voice that they were going to get it by fair means or foul, and by all accounts had been trying for some time.

What of the Germans? Had they not endeavoured to make an atomic bomb for themselves? I was told, many years afterwards, that some reports of experiments leading in that direction were captured as the Allies fought their way through to victory. When relayed to scientists working in the United States they were greeted with hilarious derision. Apparently, they were ridiculously elementary. Hitler, in his quest for racial purity in all walks of life, had inadvertently contributed to his enemy's victory in this respect. Such a large number of the ``brains behind the bomb'' were his erstwhile compatriots.

All the leading scientists in the field were questioned concerning their attitudes, and politicians all over the globe expressed their views. A few months later, back in Britain, Professor Oliphant was interviewed by the contemporary illustrated journal ``Picture Post''. The question of our momentary supremacy in the atomic scene was raised. He dismissed as ``unthinkable'' the idea that we should use this advantage to quell the Russians, and went on with characteristic optimism to speculate on the peaceful uses of the recently discovered force. He was photographed beaming endearingly and fuzzy as ever, discussing the possibility of an ``atomobile''.

Meanwhile, everyone from the policy-makers to the man or woman in the street was forced to take stock of the situation. The war had at last been decisively won, and by killing thousands of Japanese civilians we had prevented continued slaughter (of civilians as well as troops) on a much larger scale.

We were told that Tokyo was plastered with posters urging its citizens to prepare for a ``hundred years' war''. The extreme measure of the ``kamikaze'', or suicide pilots, who crashed to eternity with their aircraft laden with explosives, was a sign of their desperation and their determination. The seductive voice of the Japanese radio's chief propagandist, a lady nicknamed ``Tokyo Rose'', confirmed her country's doggedness. I heard her several times. She was far more persuasive and convincing than Germany's famous broadcaster to Britain, William Joyce, or ``Lord Haw-haw'' as he was usually called. He became a figure of fun, and his oily-sounding voice announcing ``Germany calling, Germany calling'' was awaited by listeners to the BBC with just as much alacrity as were Tommy Handley and other morale-boosting comics of the time. He broadcast regularly during the dark days of the war in Europe and was destined, when the Allies brought the war criminals to justice, to die a traitor's death at the end of the hangman's rope. Nowhere can I find out what fate befell his beguiling Japanese counterpart.

Here in Berkeley there was a lot of emotional reaction to the fait accompli. Many of the more sensitive members of our group confessed to feeling like murderers. Others reasoned that war involves killing and at least we had killed effectively. Even for the rationalists the euphoria of victory was to be short-lived. As I looked at my two little sons, one playing happily with his toys, and the other sleeping peacefully in my arms, I couldn't help wondering just how long they would be allowed to live in a world free from hostility between nations. Would they become involved in subsequent conflicts, and if so how? The question of whether it is right to give birth to children on a planet whose inhabitants were continually slaughtering each other was one I instantly suppressed.

During my childhood, I had heard World War I described as ``the War to end all wars''. Hundreds of my parents' friends and relations, including my mother's first husband, had been killed in that four-year period of strife, yet a mere twenty-one years later it had started all over again. When I thought of the death, destruction and devastation, I could not help but feel cynical. The War was over; but when and where was it going to start again?

Peace brought all kinds of new considerations into our personal lives. We, as a family, were now able to communicate freely with Oscar's parents for the first time. Since 1939, only a tenuous contact for those separated by war was maintained by the Red Cross: fifteen words per message, usually taking several months to arrive if at all. They knew of our marriage and Peter's birth, but, apart from those bare facts, nothing. Now we could actually correspond, tell them where we were, how we lived and describe their new grandson. From all reports we gathered that life for German civilians was a struggle for survival. Oscar wrote a letter ``to whom it may concern,'' making it clear that he was not seeking any special privileges for his family, merely the respect that a British official would normally show to the parents of a colleague. This letter was instrumental in helping them to keep their telephone from being requisitioned. To his father he wrote: ``...and for God's sake don't expect the average member of the occupying forces to know anything about Bernard Shaw, except that he introduced the word `bloody' to the respectable British stage.''

I had imagined that the rigidly pacifist Oscar Bünemann Senior, would have been horrified at the thought of his son taking any part in the development of this horrible instrument of annihilation. It was his proud boast, when conscripted in the First World War, that he had never fired his rifle at anything other than the sky. In spite of this he had been awarded an Iron Cross. Now he seemed far more upset by the simultaneous confession that we were neither vegetarians nor teetotallers, and that we even smoked cigarettes. I still can't imagine why we had to tell him just at this point. I suppose it was a youthful urge to put our cards on the table before he found out, as he eventually would have done, perhaps from others. Of the work accomplished he wrote: ``In my opinion, the invention of the atomic bomb is a tremendous advance. Just as the discovery of gunpowder put an end to highway robbery, so this new deterrent may end international warfare.''

Reflecting on this statement today, one can't help but comment, ``But look what it started!'' He must have meant what he wrote figuratively, for the bandits of old used muskets and pistols, which were far more lethal than the sling or crossbow. In any case, the occasional hold-up of a stage-coach or covered wagon was small beer indeed when viewed in comparison with the increasing slaughter and destruction since the Middle Ages, culminating in the carnage of two major world conflicts. I suppose he was formulating what came to be known as the deterrent theory: that if a sufficiently deadly implement exists, no power possessing it would dare to put it to use against another such power, for there could clearly be no victor and no vanquished. He may have had in mind the vast stocks of sophisticated poison gas held in reserve by both sides during the war that had just finished, yet never used despite all the precautions taken against it. It was interesting and a little surprising to read this sentence written by a citizen of a twice-defeated Germany, and one who was so bitterly opposed to his government and its policies, and to any sort of belligerence no matter where it occurred.

When I stop to think about the present-day version of the highwayman and the pirate, the bag-snatcher and the mugger, and consider how petty violence has increased, somewhat in proportion to larger attacks and counter-attacks, I can't help but think of the irrelevance of the comparison. No nuclear arsenal, wherever it is be to be found, will do anything to combat the sawn-off shotgun or even the jack-knife. The ultimate contemporary horror would be a nuclear device in the hands of a terrorist, but that is another question which has been investigated by many knowledgeable minds and is not part of my story.

My father could now resume the political work he loved; he had recently been defeated in the British elections when he stood as Liberal candidate for the constituency in which he lived. He wrote to us about his various public activities, and about his involvement in setting up the United Nations Association at home. I had wondered vaguely whether he might attend the San Francisco conference held earlier in the year, but I was to be disappointed. His comments on the bomb were predictable: it should come under UN control immediately. He added a remark made by a friend of his, a successful Manchester banker, who vowed that he would rather see his young son grow up to be a public lavatory attendant than train as a scientist.

There seemed to be no doubt that Oscar was to continue working in the field of nuclear research. He had received an offer from Peierls and Oliphant to work with their team in Birmingham, but it was hardly appealing and the salary offered was a mere £500 per annum as compared to the £1,200, tax-free, we had enjoyed during our posting to Berkeley. Had I known then what I know now about academic careers, I would have urged him to consider this seriously. An opportunity to work in what was soon to become the finest department of Mathematical Physics in Europe was not to be discarded thoughtlessly, even if it were necessary to live on the bread-line. Despite the RESPECT for learning with which I had been brought up, I had been perpetually led to believe that the prime reason for working at one's job was to earn as much money as possible, particularly when there was a family to support. The idea that I too might earn a wage when I had two children to care for never for one instant occurred to me.

The next move was to be to Montreal. Professor John Cockcroft (as he then was) and his team were already making plans for Britain's peace-time nuclear projects, and there appeared to be a role for Oscar to play. We planned to spend our annual leave on a leisurely journey by car across the States, stopping at various places of interest en route. There should be no problem. We were told that ``motel'' accommodation and ``diners'' were to be found in abundance on every highway in the vicinity of the smallest town, and the capacious car would hold us and our immediate effects while the larger items of luggage could be sent ahead by railroad.

I made intricate plans and studied Rand McNally route maps for hours. Despite an incipient breast abscess I was well able to feed the baby. This practice was definitely out of fashion in California at the time. Most mothers were given drugs to stop the flow of milk, and an infant would be given a ``formula'' prescribed by the paediatrician and fed a concoction of powdered milk enriched with vitamins and suchlike. I had to fight tooth and nail to be allowed to do as I pleased. Peter had flourished on my resources and there was no reason why Michael shouldn't do the same. The journey would have been well-nigh impossible with the glass feeding-bottles and clumsy sterilizers of those days. Yet in hospital the staff hadn't WANTED to understand. Once I had been given a ``drying-up'' pill by mistake. I threw it across the room. On another occasion I noticed on the chart, that Michael had been prescribed ``house formula'', I raged with all the force of my post-natal depression and aggression. Those in authority remained unmoved. Nursing mothers frequently needed help and that meant more work. Besides, it was considered slightly indecent. Of all the women in the maternity unit who had just delivered, only two of us had been supplying our children's needs entirely: myself and a black lady. Now that I was safely out of the clutches of the nurses, I never mentioned the painful swelling and carried on despite a fever. Had I reported it to the doctor I felt sure that I should be treated as insane and would have my plentiful milk supply forcibly cut off. How times have changed! Today's young mother in America frequently suckles her baby when and where she likes and for as long as possible.

When planning the logistics of the long journey before us I reckoned that, if one small bag was reserved for sterile pads and lotions and kept within easy reach, I could transfer myself to the back seat of the car when Michael needed a feed. Peter, the baby-basket containing Michael, and a hold-all were to occupy it at other times. It was quick and simple to change places with the hold-all at feeding-time, and it left plenty of space for everything else we needed on the journey. In the event I was to become proficient in the art of nursing the baby while the car was travelling at speed. It didn't do my figure much good, but Michael never objected except when a bump over cattle-grids temporarily wrenched the nipple from his mouth. Then he would protest at the top of his voice. I kept a gallon flagon of water at my feet to prevent the risk of dehydration when passing through the desert, and disposable diapers were stashed away in odd corners of the vehicle, to be replenished as need arose. ``Anything is possible if you set your mind to it,'' I told myself optimistically. Nothing short of a mastectomy was going to come between us and the great new adventure.

We waited in vain for news of when Oscar should report for duty in Montreal, and told the authorities how we proposed to get there. Repeated requests for instructions brought no response, which everyone agreed was typical of our administration in Canada. So, while freeing myself, as luck would have it, of what might have been a nasty situation, we continued to celebrate the victory with parties, weekend excursions and a whole day in San Francisco during which we registered Michael's birth with the British Consul-General. He now had dual nationality; little did we know that eighteen years later this supposed advantage was to land him in considerable trouble with the U.S. Draft Board during the war in Vietmam. We continued to picnic, swim and explore all the lovely places we were soon to say ``good-bye'' to.

Life with the new baby seemed like a piece of cake compared with all that Peter's arrived had involved. The equipment available made the whole process of handling an infant pleasant and easy. I had a wonderful folding bath with pockets for soap and powder, a rail for hanging diapers and towels on, and a sliding canvas top on which to change and dress the lively little boy who seemed averse to keeping still. It even had a strap to fasten him down if I was called to the telephone, or when I had to foil Peter's attempts to do something naughty. What a change from the battered, second-hand, papier-mâché tub I had used back in England! There was also the service of the ``Billion Bubble Baby Laundry'': a brightly painted van would call three times a week, collect the soiled diapers and deliver a fresh clean supply. I often wondered what the tough, broad-shouldered driver of this fantastic vehicle thought of his curious cargo. I relaxed in the sun drinking quantities of fresh orange juice, while admiring my children and making optimistic plans for the future. The world's immense problems I tried to push to the back of my mind. It was a time for rejoicing. The few restrictions imposed by rationing were lifted, and everyone happily tore up their gasoline coupons.

One day, out of the blue, a severe blow fell. Oscar telephoned from work to say that a message had finally come from Montreal. He was needed there to start work in two weeks' time. We were to proceed by train and our car was to be sold. The exciting project of driving across the continent was to be scrapped. I could not believe my ears. Seldom have I thrown a tantrum of such magnitude. After all those complicated plans, enduring all that pain, and our perpetual enquiries, I was furious. Had they told us sooner we could have been on our way by then. ``Resign your job at once!'' I yelled, ``Where's the sense in working for an organization that treats its personnel like that?'' The question of job security was not an issue to my way of thinking. After having been among the ``hand-picked'', surely Oscar was in a position to state some of his own terms? I even went so far as to assert that if I and the children were to leave the little house in any vehicle other than our own car we would have to be removed by force.

Mercifully for all concerned, a compromise was reached. We would be allowed three weeks' grace. This meant redrawing the line so carefully sketched across the map, and cutting out the part of the Deep South we had hoped to explore.

We packed up, and through a neighbour found a new tenant who not only wanted to rent our match-box, but would buy the old furniture and junk we didn't want to take with us, all for a magnificent one hundred dollars. Within a few days the car was loaded, our trunks despatched by railroad, and fond ``good-byes'' were said, accompanied by the ever-ready bottle of Bourbon. If I felt a pang at leaving the place that had become home to me and my enlarged family, it was quickly suppressed by the excitement of the adventures that were to come.

The wonders of the Western Desert sped past us in a kaleidoscope of colour and form. The Mojave Desert seemed like a dry ocean-bed with sharp blue hills rising suddenly in the distance. There were curiously shaped cactuses growing along the highway. The prickly pear, the Yucca and the Joshua Tree that flourished in the burning dry heat looked just like the murals in a Mexican diner, except that no matter how hard I looked I couldn't see that ubiquitous gaucho in his poncho, asleep under his sombrero.

Glamorous Las Vegas, where movie-stars in long shiny cars came to divorce, marry and amuse themselves, seemed like some fantastic dream. Every hotel we wandered into was distinctively decorated, had an ornate swimming-pool and a crowded casino. We watched tense, fidgety gamblers, their eyes riveted to the huge spinning discs on which their fortunes were staked. ``No minors at the wheel,'' barked a croupier who saw us approaching with a toddler and a babe-in-arms. Even the supermarkets were equipped with one-armed bandits waiting to gobble up your loose change and, if you were lucky, provide a small bonus to spend on more provender. It was a small hick-town in those days, but there were enough places of entertainment to give an indication of what was to come. To-day it spreads its brightly lit tentacles well into the desert, and even as you fly over it the Captain of your aircraft will draw your attention to this extraordinary town and as often as not unable to resist the crack will say: ``There's that place they call `Lost Wages'''.

The journey, although severely curtailed, was an experience I felt quite justified in making such a scene about. Nobody can fail to be impressed by the placid blue water of Lake Mead and the massive Hoover Dam (then still called ``Boulder Dam''), a curved monolith with its terrifyingly steep wall, stark white beside the red earth as we passed into Arizona. The hills and valleys appeared to belong to prehistoric earth. Had we been forced to brake because a dinosaur wanted to cross the road I should not have batted an eyelid.

The Grand Canyon mesmerized me as did the Navajo country and its indigenous inhabitants. Never before had I feasted my eyes on so much natural colour, nor had I experienced such seemingly extra-terrestrial rock formations. At night I would go to sleep dreaming in orange and purple and wake up to another palette of brilliant hues.

On one occasion we passed a small Indian pueblo where the men and women had their long jet-black hair tied with hanks of hemp, and children were running around nearly naked. They looked at us with hostile suspicion as we got out of the car to watch them roasting huge carcases on open fires and boiling water in old tin cans. When we produced a camera we found ourselves surrounded. There was to be no returning to the sanctuary of our parked vehicle without payment. More and more money was extracted before they would break ranks and let us escape. Their piercing black eyes and their naturally fierce profiles had me frightened for a moment. Much to my relief, my own papoose, asleep in his basket on the back seat had not been kidnapped. Were these primitive Navajos really the parents of to-day's sophisticated craftsmen who sell the entrancing turquoise jewellery, and the colourful hand-woven blankets, becoming increasingly prosperous as more tourists visit them?

We turned north into Utah where the soil was not merely red but the richest vermillion, in sharp contrast to the deep viridian green of the conifer trees. I could not believe that man had had no hand in the shaping of Bryce Canyon. The ``Silent City'' with stalagmites the size of sky-scrapers, and the aeons needed for erosion to produce their weird towering shapes, frightened me. It was like thinking of the Universe with no beginning and no end. Contemplating the time-scale involved still gives me a peculiar sensation in the pit of my stomach.

The nomadic life with no house to worry about and a new supply of impressions each day was exhilarating for a while. These were the days before towns were invariably by-passed by freeways, expressways, thru-ways and turnpikes. The old U.S. Highways actually took you through them, down ``Main Street'' and out the other side. There were few traffic jams, and accommodation was always easy to find on the roadside. Even though it was so brilliantly spectacular, the Wild West struck me as being a friendly and accommodating place. We often drove for as much as eighty miles before breakfast, secure in the knowledge that bacon and eggs, pancakes, fruit and hot strong coffee would be readily available whenever we were ready for it.

One episode marred the first stage of the journey. My greatly-prized folding baby-bath refused to stay on the roof-rack of the car and Oscar thought it wise to abandon it. I wept. It represented all that was progressive and practical in the American method of baby-care, symbolic of my new-found way of life. I hope some deserving person picked it up before it was destroyed by predators. That night I bathed Michael in a hand-basin. I might just as well have sluiced him with my tears, but I was to learn a lesson. Disappointments such as that should never be allowed to interfere with the experience of a lifetime. It could have been much worse, and the thing to concentrate on was the tremendous opportunity of seeing such a large slice of this wide and varied continent.

After the majestic scenery of Colorado, which reminded me vividly of my glimpse of Switzerland, we crossed the Rocky Mountains. The col was called Idaho Springs, and from desert heat we climbed up to a snow-storm. How daft can one be? Although well prepared for heat we never gave a thought to the possibility of extreme cold. We had no chains, no heater and none of the necessary equipment should we happen to get stuck in a snowdrift. A large Buick just in front of us was in serious trouble, but once again Providence looked after fools and the ancient Plymouth took the mountains in its wheel-base if not in its stride.

I had a sense of foreboding as we descended into Denver, a pricking in my thumbs if you like. In leaving behind that idyllic western country we were leaving a lot else besides. It was Fall in the city, real autumnal weather that we hadn't seen since we left England. A chilly wind had driven people into woolly caps and thick outer garments, which we hadn't had to think about for a long time. Added to this there was no prospect of finding a pleasant motel bathed in warm setting sun. Instead, after many telephone calls we were obliged to settle for a mausoleum of a hotel that looked as if it had been built the year after Christopher Columbus discovered America and never cleaned since.

Thereafter the prairies were dull, and the sameness of the flat stretches of land, with nothing to look at but telegraph poles and the occasional farm, became boring and oppressive. When taking my turn at the wheel I would get cramp in my leg through keeping my foot at the same level on the accelerator for mile after monotonous mile. We stopped briefly in Kansas City. Both Oscar and Peter needed haircuts. The bottles ranged along the shelves of the barber's shop had familiar designs but were distinctly labelled ``Hair Tonic'', ``Cologne'' and ``Bay Rum''. Some other sort of rum more like. Afterwards it was pointed out to me that although the city straddles Kansas and Missouri, the part that lies in the former was ``dry'' in accordance with State law at the time. The good barber was clearly the local bootlegger and no doubt his hair-cutting was merely a small side-line, but good cover for his chief business.

We crossed the Missouri and the Mississippi and had a brief look at St Louis. Never having seen anything wider than the Thames and the Seine, I marvelled at the immense width of these rivers. The noise of wheels rumbling over their bridges seemed as if it would never end. The scenery improved once we were across them. However, once again there was country to be admired and wondered at. The States of Indiana, Kentucky, West Virginia and Virginia itself rolled past us, becoming lovelier and lovelier, particularly the immense green garden of the Shenandoah Valley with its velvet-smooth pastures, and its neat, white colonial homesteads. But now it became clear that we had used up much of the time I had screamed and yelled for, and our holiday would soon be at an end.

Oscar had a firm appointment in Washington, D. C., with the great Sir James Chadwick. He was an enormously revered figure in the scientific world, having discovered the neutron in Cambridge back in 1932 for which he became a Nobel Laureate. However, he had acquired a reputation for vagueness, preoccupation with his ailments and insensitivity in his relations with junior staff. In the course of the interview the question of Oscar's salary came up. The great man said that he considered it ``quite enough'' without asking about the size of our family or other commitments. I was not to get to know him personally until well after his retirement. This was one of the episodes that brought us back to the world in which we had to live, and not the unreal realm of the travelling explorer.

During our wanderings we had chatted to innumerable people as well as having gazed open-mouthed at the scenery. Apart from our avaricious Indian friends there were other minorities: blacks in Kentucky, still sadly being obliged to enter public buildings by separate entrances from the whites, country folk, townspeople and an extraordinary young lad who served us in a diner. Ascertaining that we were not from the locality, he asked Oscar what sort of work he did and, on being told, promptly rushed for his autograph book. Someone who had actually helped to invent ``that bomb'' must indeed be famous.

Washington was an architectural and historical feast. While Oscar was being interviewed by Chadwick, I was shown round by a friend from home. She had also married during the war, but her first child, a son, was about the same age as Michael. We fed our children together and talked at length. Her husband had been an officer with the Polish forces in Britain. She was one of those who had cheerfully taken her husband's nationality and busied herself learning his language. When he was posted to his country's Embassy in America she had been allowed to join him. Alas, he had been ousted from his post as the Communists took control, and there he was with a wife and child, reduced to selling magazine covers for doctors' waiting-rooms on a commission basis to make a meagre living. My friend was never to use either her Polish or her new nationality, for her marriage broke up long before the days when crossing the Iron Curtain even for a short visit became possible.

The next stop was New York, and what a joy it was to be there again. Dear Mrs Grossmann cared for Michael while Peter was taken to Coney Island, on the subway and up the Empire State Building. Once again we went out on the town knowing that the children were in safe and capable hands. My love affair with the city was to last. For the first time since the start of the journey I had access to weighing scales. Michael had gained on average nine ounces a week, which was considered by those who knew about that sort of thing, more than adequate.

He was a lively baby, strong and wiry with a large appetite and powerful lungs. He had a long, serious face and was quite unlike his older brother. I frequently wondered about his future state of mind. Would the knowledge that he was exactly the same age as nuclear warfare, the twin of Hiroshima, have an effect on him in later life? What would the ``generation gap'' present for him and his contemporaries in forming THEIR attitude to war? I was to realize later on that his attitude was to be very similar to our own. Apart from a brief flirtation with the CND, about which I did not complain, my only criticism was that he and his friends once staged a ``sit in'' on a muddy street, in their clean trousers.

Our time was running out and the journey nearly over. Travelling north towards the Canadian border brought us a fine glimpse of the Fall colours in upstate New York and a short stop in Albany, the State Capital. Our route cut through the Adirondacks and the shimmering reflections of those brilliant trees in Lake Champlain was unforgettable and vivid. It was getting colder and as we approached Montreal I once again had that feeling that the sunshine was being left behind. Life was going to take a turn for the worse. Our trusty car broke down for the first time and we had to be towed for several miles. We had it repaired but my heart sank as we crossed into Canada.

There was no kind, smiling professor to welcome us when we found our way to the University of Montreal: just a curt note warning us that accommodation would be very hard to find and informing us that a room had been booked for us at the Queen's Hotel.

It was a grim and dreary hostelry right beside the railway station. A sulphurous odour hung over everything and the skies were grey with smoke and cloud. I tried taking the children out, piled into the buggy, but the cold, wet city streets were unappealing. It was as dismal as Manchester. I caught, 'flu, and while feeling sicker than I had in years, had to resort to tying a label on to Peter with our room number written on it and turning him loose in the corridor to play. A hotel room, a very small baby-brother and a feverish mother is no situation for a little boy of just over two-and-a-half. He was fascinated with the old-fashioned elevator and I just had to pray that there would be no accident and that the management would not take a poor view of the rubber ball, the picture books and building bricks that were scattered over their dusty carpets.

Two tweedy English ladies, wives of members of the Montreal research group, called on me and told me how expensive and difficult life would be. Both were childless, and whereas they sympathized with my indisposition, they offered neither advice nor practical help. They had paid their statutory call on the newcomer; I was to see nothing of them again for a very long time.

To find somewhere to live, cooped up with a young family and suffering from head-ache and back-ache in such impersonal surroundings was just the start of a miserable winter. Moreover there was no pay-cheque waiting at the office, nor were we to see one for a few months. It afterwards transpired that the keeper of the coffers had embezzled the funds and we were forced to live on loans, to run up bills and beg for overdrafts. The doldrums claimed me for more weeks than I care to remember.