your mother was lost at sea. Your father has been informed of your safety and looks forward to your homecoming. Mr. and Mrs. Deardon are going home in a few days when their leave falls due. It seems a good idea and would be most convenient-if you travelled with them.”
I was only half listening. My mother dead! I tried hard to remember her but could only think of her absentminded smile when her eyes alighted on me.
“Ah … the child …” and “This is our daughter, Rosetta. You will find her somewhat untutored, I fear.” I could remember Felicity on that occasion far more distinctly. And now my mother was dead. That cruel ocean had claimed her. I had always thought of her and my father together and I wondered what he was like without her.
Mrs. Deardon came to me. She was a plump, comfortably cosy woman who talked continually, which I often found a relief as I had no wish to say much myself.
“My dear,” she cried.
“What an ordeal you have suffered. All you have been through! Never mind. Jack and I will look after you. We shall take ship from Constantinople to Marseilles and then travel through France to Calais. What a journey! I always dread it. But there it is.
Needs must. But you do know that every minute you are getting nearer home. “
She was the sort of woman who gives you a summary of her life in five minutes or so. I learned that Jack had always been in the Service, that he and she had gone to school together, married when they were both twenty, had two children, Jack Junior who was now in the Foreign Office, and Martin who was still at university. He would assuredly go into one of the Services. It was a family tradition.
I could see that she was going to relieve me of making conversation and perhaps saying something I might regret. My great fear at this time was that I might be led into being indiscreet which would involve Simon. I must at all costs respect his desire for secrecy. I must remember that if his is whereabouts were betrayed he would be brought back to face a death sentence.
In Mrs. Deardon’s company I went out to buy some clothes. We sat side by side in the carriage while she chattered all the time. She and Jack had been in Constantinople for three years.
“What a place! I was thrilled when Jack first heard of the posting .. now I’d do anything to get out. I’d like a nice cosy place … Paris Rome … somewhere like that. Not too far from home. This place is miles away and so foreign. My dear, the customs! And what goes on on the Turkish side! Heaven alone knows, you’d have experience of that. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. My dear, I know how you feel. Do forgive me. Look! You can see across the water to Scutari. That was very much in evidence during the Crimean War when wonderful, wonderful Florence Nightingale took out her nurses. I do believe they played a bigger part in the eventual victory than people know. We’re on the north side of the Golden Horn, dear. The other side is quite sinister. Oh, there I go again … we’re not far from Galata, that’s the merchants’ quarter … founded by the Genoese centuries ago. Jack will tell you all about that. He’s interested in that sort of thing. Mind you, the streets are incredibly noisy and dirty. Our people wouldn’t risk going there. We’re in the best neighbourhood Pera, you know. Most of the embassies are there … the legations and the consulates. There are some fine houses too.”
While she was talking, I would go into a kind of dream. Pictures of the island would flash in and out of my mind . of going off with Simon, leaving Lucas to watch for a sail . and then the arrival of the galley. On and on . and I would come back to the question: Where is he now? What will become of him? Shall I ever know?
“Now here is a very good tailor. Let’s see what he can do. We have to get you presentable for home.”
Her discourse went on. The great charm about it was that she did not expect replies.
It seemed a long time before we sailed from Constantinople. To board the ship much smaller than the Atlantic Star to gaze across the Bosphorus at historic Scutari, where our men had suffered so much in that hospital which from a distance looked like a Moorish Palace, to look back at the towers and minarets of Constantinople, was an emotional experience.
Mr. Deardon was a tall man with greying hair and a somewhat dignified manner. He was the archetypal English diplomat rather aloof, giving the impression that nothing could ruffle his composure or break through his reserve.
The journey to Marseilles was, as Mrs. Deardon had predicted, uncomfortable. The Apollo, being many times smaller than the Atlantic Star, took a battering from the rough seas as severe as I had previously suffered, and there were times when it seemed like a dream and that it was going to start again. If the Atlantic Star had succumbed to the fury of the storm, I wondered how the frail Apollo could survive.
Mrs. Deardon took to her bunk and did not emerge. I missed her discourse. Mr. Deardon accepted the fury of the storm with the equilibrium I expected of him. I was sure he would remain serene and dignified, no matter what the disaster.
I could now go on deck and I recalled vividly that occasion when Simon had found me there during the great storm and had chided me and sent me down. I thought: All my life there will be memories of him.
At length the ordeal was over. Mrs. Deardon quickly recovered and was her old garrulous self. Mr. Deardon listened to her perpetual chatter with composed resignation; but I was glad of it. I could listen to it vaguely while inwardly following my own thoughts, secure in the knowledge that if I betrayed inattention I should be immediately forgiven on account of the ordeal through which I had passed.
There followed the long journey through France and finally the arrival at Calais and the Channel crossing.
The sight of the white cliffs of Dover affected us all. Tears came to Mrs. Deardon’s eyes and even her husband, for the first time, showed a certain emotion by the twitching of his lips.
“It’s home, dear,” said Mrs. Deardon.
“It’s always the same. You just think of Easter and the daffodils … and the green grass. There’s no green like our green. It’s what you think of when you’re away. And the rain, dear, the blessed rain. Do you know, in Egypt they go for a year or even two without seeing a drop just those horrible sandstorms. We were in I’mailia … how many years, Jack, was it? Surely it wasn’t that . and . and hardly ever saw rain. That’s what it is, dear. It’s the white cliffs. Home. It’s good to see them.”
And after that, London.
The Deardons insisted on delivering me.
“You must come in and meet my father,” I said.
“He will want to thank you.”
Mrs. Deardon was eager to do so, but Mr. Deardon was firm, and in this he showed his talent for diplomacy.
“Miss Cranleigh will want to meet her family alone,” he said.
I looked at him gratefully and said: “My father will most certainly wish to thank you personally. Perhaps you could come and dine with us soon.”
“That,” said Mr. Deardon, ‘would be a great pleasure. “
So I said goodbye to them in the cab which waited until I had rung the doorbell and the door was opened. Then immediately and discreetly, Mr. Deardon ordered the cabby to drive on.
The door was opened by Mr. Dolland.
I gave a cry of joy and threw myself into his arms. He coughed a little. I did not realize at that moment that our household had changed. And there was Mrs. Harlow. I rushed at her. There were tears in her eyes.
“Oh, Miss Rosetta, Miss Rosetta,” she cried, embracing me.
“You’re really here. Oh … it’s been terrible.”
And there were Meg and Emily.
“It is wonderful to see you all,” I cried.
And then . Felicity. We flew to each other and clung.