“Here you are, Sir, Ma'am. Your cabin for our voyage. If you need anything, just dial 9 on the telephone and a steward will be here immediately.”
It was a spartan cabin, two beds, a minimum of furniture. Just enough to keep a couple of immigrants on the Assisted Passage Scheme reasonably comfortable for the voyage to South Africa. “Well, Maisie luv. We're off now and that's no mistake.”
His wife nodded. It had been a hard couple of months. After they'd learned about the Assisted Passage Scheme, they'd talked long and seriously far into the night. It had been an eye-opening discussion, one in which they'd covered far more than just the possibility of leaving the UK.
Maisie Me Mullen had learned just how depressed and frustrated her husband was, no matter how good he was at his job, no matter how well he worked, he could never be more than he was now and would always be in the position of finding himself without a job at a few minutes’ notice.
He, in turn, learned how desperately tired and exhausted his wife was, struggling to keep a home running in the face of rationing, debts and never knowing whether there would be money coming in next week. And there was the grayness, the dank, futility of struggling to keep going in a bankrupt post-occupation Britain.
They hadn't decided to emigrate then, in fact they'd never made that decision. John McMullen had sought his friend out and got more information on the APS and on prospects in South Africa. Piet van der Haan had warned him that the material from the South African Government was rosily optimistic, that it presented the best of all possible cases in the best of all possible worlds. It wasn't untrue, just very glossy.
The three of them had spent a fun evening in the pub going over the material white van der Haan pointed out parts where the “official” line was unduly enthusiastic. “You'll have to work hard Johnno, no hiding that. But everything's there for a man who's prepared to make the effort.” Somehow, without anybody making a decision, they'd met a South African embassy official who'd helped them fill out the paperwork applying for places on the APS. McMullen had shown him his work chits from the Yard and the official had done a double-take at the number of all-passed bonuses he'd received. They'd been approved in record time.
That wasn't what had decided the issue though. It was the yard itself. Work on the cruisers was going well but there was an issue boiling away below the surface. The next ships to be built there would be two new X-class submarines. Welded. Experts from Canadian Vickers were coming over to train the workforce in welding techniques and that was the problems. The Steelworkers Union and the Boilermaker's Union both claimed that welding as a job for their members and their members alone.
The yard management had protested, there were enough jobs for both but their appeal had fallen on deaf ears. The Steelworkers demanded that welding was a job for steelworkers, the Boilermakers demanded that welding was a job for boilermakers. And both threatened to take it to a strike. A strike meant the yard stopped, work stopped, money stopped. Without saying anything, the McMullens decided to leave before it came to that.
They'd sold up, told their landlord they were leaving. They'd got good money for their furniture and the other stuff they'd not wanted to take with them. It had been good, prewar stuff and the town was still flush with money from the yard work. The implications of the impending labor dispute hadn't begun to sink home yet and when they'd started to sell, there'd been queues around the block. They'd had some hostility from those who saw them as cutting and running, others had been envious of their decision. Others had asked them about the possibility of following the McMullen example. Despite the varied reactions, they'd ended the sale with a healthy nest-egg to get them started. One that had impressed van der Haan when he'd helped them fill out the currency transfer papers.
“Johnno, with this, you could start up your own business. Way you swing a hammer, you could do well.”
“What, me join the bosses Brother?” McMullen’s voice had been guarded.
“One thing to join the bosses brother, quite another to be your own boss. Stand on your own feet, be beholden' to none. That's what the Republic's all about in the end. White men standing talk proud, on their own feet. Look, there's lots of riveting done on things other than ships. You set up a metal working shop, you do two things. One is get yourself work when there's nothing in the yards and you also can extend a helpin' hand to those who have just arrived and need a start. That's what the Union's all about so I've always thought. Give a helping hand to our brothers who need it. Get them started and on the right track.”
Again, they'd never made the decision but by the time they'd handed the keys of what had been their home back and got on the train for Southampton. McMullen knew he'd be starting his own metal working company as soon as he'd got established. He'd got an employment contract already, a year's work at the Simonstown Naval base, helping refit and repair the South African Navy's Imperial Gift. Something he'd never had before and he and his wife still wondered at it. A contract that said, as long as he did his job and didn't engage in misconduct (defined in the contract), he had a year's wages coming, guaranteed. All at Shipbuilder's Union approved rates.
“Look at this John.” Maisie McMullen handed over a sheet. It was a welcome letter “from the Captain” although the signature was obviously stamped and McMullen doubted whether the Captain had ever read it. It bid them welcome on board and gave them the ship's schedule. There were the menus for the meals next day and they were asked to select what they wanted to eat in advance so that the galleys could minimize wastage. There was information on emergencies, what to do if they were sick, what would happen if there was a collision or fire, how to abandon ship in an emergency. And there was a long list of courses held on board, about South African history, current events in the Republic, how to speak Afrikaans, cooking in South Africa, many, many things. Suddenly, the McMullens realized that they were indeed leaving everything they'd ever known behind them. As if to emphasize the point, the siren on the ship blasted.
“Come on luv, that's the ship getting ready to leave. Let's go up on deck and wave good-bye to the old country.”
Office of Sir Martyn Sharps, Chief of Staff to the President, New Delhi, India
“How does the new title sound?” Sir Eric Haohoa grinned at his friend as he planted the barbed question. He savored the taste of the vintage scotch whisky, usually only served when The Ambassador was visiting. But, today was special.
“Still getting used to it. Its going to be hard for a while, getting everything set up. How is it your end?”
“Fairing well. We've inherited a good network of human assets. Not much on the technical side and we're terribly short of funds but, we've a good intelligence base to work from. We'll manage. Given time.”
“Given time. That's the crunch isn't it? Will we get it. What are the Japanese up to?”
“'As far as we can gather, they're still trying to consolidate their hold on China. They hold most of the main areas no, they've pushed the Chinese Government back to the more remote areas. You heard the Flying Tigers had to pull out?” Sir Martyn nodded. The American Volunteer group in China had been a thorn in the Japanese side for almost a decade. Started off flying antique P-40s and eventually ended up in F-74s, all paid for by the Chinese Government of course and the pilots themselves were disowned by the Americans -although most of them seemed to rejoin the American armed forces with remarkably little difficulty after they left China. But, the last airfields capable of handling jets had gone so the Tigers had blown up their aircraft and left.