'Tears Before Bedtime' and 'Weep No More'

by Barbara Skelton

  *

  At eleven this morning the Yugoslavs heard their first siren. Shut up in my dungeon I heard nothing, but seeing the whole place in an uproar I asked the cause. Frantic telephoning ensued. All the extension flaps shot down. Frenzied demands for personal lines. A general call to all Yugoslav wives. Yugoslav wives appeared to be out. No time being lost in making for their respective shelters. The all-clear sounded within five minutes, but no one seemed aware of it, too engrossed in notifying wives.

  *

  Mr Fish came bustling in looking pink and purposeful. He seemed to have become more corpulent and prosperous since soap rationing. Some weeks ago, Mr Fish decided to take his family on a holiday to Devonshire on the proceeds of bad red wine. Every precaution was taken before his departure to ensure he had been paid, before the Yugoslavs discovered the quality of the wine. Mr Fish departed rich and happy. Unfortunately his holiday was curtailed. Not three days had elapsed before the sudden announcement of soap cuts. He took the first train back to London and appeared at the office wearing a beige linen shirt and bow tie with small white dots. He was carrying a box marked ‘Baby Curd Soap’ on its way to the Horse Thief. From out of his hip pocket he took a large bottle of olive oil, which he handed to me; it looked a very strange colour, resembling treacle with small pieces of fluff floating in it. I thanked him and paid him six shillings. Mr Brandy appeared soon after carrying four coat hangers with price labels attached. The competing black marketeers did not acknowledge each other.

  *

  Yesterday, met Peter at the Ritz. I arrived early and sat in a corner, drinking a large whisky and soda. My hair had been set on top of my head in a poodle cut with a fringe and I felt very self-conscious. Many of Peter’s friends sat about in groups gossiping in loud affected voices. The Queer group was headed by a fat pimply spectacled young man called Spongy who, before the war, had been an interior decorator. Loud-voiced girls in shapeless tweeds wandered idly from group to group and finally formed their own circle in another corner of the bar. Next to them sat a terrifying huddle of women wearing large black hats on the back of their heads and dark glasses (to show they were suffering from bad hangovers). Then there was the usual bar stool group of Queens dressed up as Guards officers. When Peter entered, howls of recognition rose from every quarter and subsided as suddenly as they had risen. Standing hunched in the doorway, Peter waved a limp hand at everyone in turn and then tottered over to my corner; ‘And how’s baby this evening? Is baby pleased to see Peter?’ ‘Baby’s been sacked,’ I said, ‘for arriving late at the office every morning for the past two months.’

  *Byron, the Years of Fame (1941).

  †Janetta Slater, who later married Robert Kee.

  ‡Lys Lubbock, who was secretary to Horizon magazine.

  §Son of Iris Tree, daughter of Herbert Beerbohm Tree.

  ¶Wife of J B S Haldane.

  Chapter VII

  Egypt

  Homeless and jobless, with the threat of being called up, I set about finding a serious war job. One evening in the Café Royal, I ran into the diplomat, Donald Maclean. He suggested I offer my services as a cipher clerk to the Foreign Office and said he would be my sponsor. Though Osbert Lancaster had taken me out to lunch several times and spent an afternoon assiduously chasing me round Gerda’s settee, when asked to be a second sponsor, perhaps wisely, he refused. So Ned Grove and Sidney valiantly rallied to the occasion.

  After three months training in the bowels of Whitehall, mostly on night shifts, I qualified to serve overseas and was given the choice of being sent to Guatemala, Sweden or Egypt. And one day in July of 1942 I took a train to Liverpool and boarded a ship bound for Lagos.

  Diary

  We are now passing a long stretch of land rumoured to be either Scotland or the Isle of Man. Nowhere to sit on the ship except in considerable discomfort on one over-crowded deck. The passengers are mainly technicians who congregate in spectacled pale-faced huddles on the jutting planks and carry coils of rope. Frequent drill practice. One is constantly being jerked out of a deep sleep by the insistent peal of an alarm, then, after scrambling into a life jacket with an exposure suit attached, one runs up two flights to the Captain’s bridge where we answer to our names and are then dismissed.

  I like listening to the screeching of the gulls and watching them swoop down from the mast, almost brushing one’s cheek. Today we passed several trawlers and stray fishing smacks surrounded by gulls, flitting white dots circling about the masts and settling on the water.

  The full convoy assembled this morning off the north of Scotland. Clear sky and blazing sun. Going through the minefields each ship followed behind the other in single file. When the file broke up we were the last and had to make a tremendous spurt forward to fall into convoy formation. One could see each ship get into position and with perfect timing turn simultaneously, as after facing due north we veered west. At eleven, there was a short gun practice. As each machine gun fired, the tracer flashes gleamed in the sun and curling puffs of smoke gradually dissolved into the clear blue sky. Except for the constant vibrating of the engines and the lazy bustling of the natives across the decks, with the heat and endless blue sky, one could imagine oneself to be sitting on some secluded beach.

  *

  I have now been on the ship two weeks. Have had several days of gloom and persecution, imagining the dried-up officials consider me stuck-up. I resort to the company of the Congolese and have adopted their way of dressing. Blue cricket caps and thick woolly pullovers with their names chalked on the back. It is appallingly hot. Impossible to concentrate on anything. This morning there was a tremendous storm which cleared the air a little. A thick mist and lots of white horses with heavy rain.

  *

  We have arrived in Freetown and been stationed in the harbour for two days. Nobody is allowed to go ashore except on some special mission. I commissioned the purser to buy some kirbygrips, cold cream and scent. He returned frightfully pleased with himself, laden with vanishing instead of cold cream and bottles of Soir de Paris, French tart scent. The inevitable amorous complications! Culminating in fisticuffs one night between a young Frenchman sometimes put on duty in the gun turret and a drunk purser. The sight of the Frenchman suspended horizontally across the top rail, about to somersault into the sea, sent me shrieking, with two haircombs missing, to the bridge, where I elicited the help of the Captain. The following day, to my surprise and irritation, I was greeted by my two courters, pacing the deck arm-in-arm. They had come to an agreement, and with solemn faces presented me with an ultimatum. So, taking a coin out of my money box, I tossed, promising to favour the winner. François chose heads, won and looked pleased. The purser slunk gloomily away to have his lunch. I was about to enter my cabin when he caught me up and said he could not possibly abide by the toss. Seeing his unhappy dark face, I felt sorry for him, told him to have his lunch and forget about it. Later I found François sitting in a deck chair in the sun, reading, and confessed what I had done. He immediately rose in a fury and, dragging me off to a remote corner of the ship, banged my head very hard against a spare engine that is being exported to the Congo, threw two of my combs into the sea and then ran as fast as he could in the direction of the kitchen.

  *

  Freetown looked green and hilly. There was a mass of ships in the harbour. Oil tankers, corvettes, cargo and troop ships in which men stood naked washing in tubs. Sirens roared and all the passengers lined the decks.

  *

  We remained in the harbour four days. Tiny native canoes laden with fruit crept to the side. The natives wanted to exchange fruit for clothing or cigarettes. One passenger dropped a woollen skirt over the side in exchange for some unripe bananas that were drawn up to her level in a worn-out bucket with a hole. I bargained for a dozen bananas for a shilling and was told by a cabin companion to throw them overboard, as they would spread disease. Audrey is a prim girl who wears large sun hats and is continually disinfecting the cabin with ‘Flit’. Since we
have been stationary there has been a persistent tapping. Groups of natives, wearing large eyeshields and resembling giant grasshoppers, hammer at the steelwork that was eventually repainted bright orange and gave the ship a very gay appearance.

  *

  Our cabin has got the reputation of being the most dissolute on the ship. Even Audrey, one of the most irreproachable girls, is suspect. On entering the dining room, we arouse immense interest, particularly at breakfast, when each of us troops in looking increasingly dishevelled. Joan, a married woman about to join her husband, disappears each night to meet the third officer on the bridge, followed by Sheila who has a standing date with the second officer, while Audrey sits and flits. There are several rather obvious-looking security agents on board who spend their time in the bar drinking tankards of beer and endlessly smoking cigarettes.

  *

  I have made friends with a Russian boy, Vladimir, an engineer on his way to the Belgian Congo. We agreed that ship life had a very numbing effect, that we were both lazy, changeable and frivolous. We then discovered we were both Crabs, whereupon we went into the bar and drank several whiskies on the strength of it.

  *

  While in the harbour of Freetown, we were able to smoke on deck after dinner; the lights of the town and other ships were reflected on the water and one could hear an occasional launch chug to the side taking officers to shore and back. But, it is a relief to be on the move again, one’s nerves were getting into a bad state. When I suggested to the purser that we separate for a day he told me not to speak of it. Didn’t I know there were only five more days before we reached Lagos?

  *

  The thick cold that developed in the harbour is beginning to clear. When I told Vladimir that I must have caught a chill from getting very hot and then becoming cold, he sniggered in a rather unfriendly way. The purser keeps referring to this diary as my black book and begs to read it. His English is deplorable and he translates hair in the plural, referring to the way I do my ‘hairs up’, which sounds indecent.

  *

  We are in a very fast convoy again and there is speculation as to where the troops can be going. Some say India. I have had two injections for typhoid, resulting in a sore arm, slightly swollen, but no fever as prophesied by the doctor.

  *

  I feel sick today. Sat up last night drinking coffee in the nightwatchman’s den and met François on deck at midnight. He interpreted my amiability as encouragement and tried to hurl me against the rails. But he failed to maintain his balance and kept slipping over one of the funnels.

  *

  The purser told me that while training for an AB he studied astronomy. I asked him to point out the Great Bear, to which he said, pouting, ‘I can show you more than the bears, you know.’ He tells me, when I sit in the sun, to please pay attention. Yesterday, the first officer came up and apologised about the hammering. His English being limited, he had difficulty in expressing himself. He has delightful manners; after listening politely to my chatter, he rose abruptly, bowed stiffly and, pronouncing each word with difficulty, said, ‘Thank you so much.’

  *

  Because of my reputation of belonging to a dissolute cabin, I am now waylaid by middle-aged officials who try to make dates for the evening. The request for a dinner date on a ship seems ludicrous. The intense grumbling on the part of the passengers about the food and the ship being Belgian has now generally died down. It is impossible to complain about anything beyond the fact that there are foreigners aboard.

  *

  The majority of passengers are so nondescript that even after three weeks one comes across a face that strikes one as new. It is now too hot to remain seated in the sun. I have become very tanned, though, and have hands like the negroes, bronzed on the outside with pink palms. Boat drill is much less frequent. I mislaid my life jacket after the first week and in its place found a fearfully smelly ragged one without an emergency light. There is a monkey on board. It lives in the crew’s quarters and runs about with a permanent erection.

  *

  This morning while I was drinking a citron pressé with the purser, a Dutchman passed and they exchanged greetings in Flemish. When I asked what he had said, the purser thought for a few seconds, and then said, hesitantly, ‘In English, I think it means, good morning, you old bastard!’

  *

  Two days ago we arrived in Takoradi. The ship steamed right into the harbour and pulled up in the docks. François and I leant against the rail of the lower deck and watched the gathering crowd of negro porters, shouting on the quay. There was one sitting cross-legged wearing a dhoti and an off-white cricket cap. One or two went about draped in yards of native cloth and gym shoes. Some wore tarbooshes and some had bare feet. Several stood in groups of threes wearing shapeless trilbys, torn shirts and black patent shoes, propped against each other smoking long pipes. Two negro policemen in topis stood out prominently in their blue uniforms covered with shining buttons; clusters of white-kneed sailors with caps perched on the backs of their heads, square-necked black braided shirts, black socks and shoes; to complete the picture, masses of smart immigration officers in wide-brimmed cowboy hats. I suddenly thought it would be a good idea to send Becher a message through a pasty-faced moustached man setting off for Accra.

  After lunch the purser rushed into my cabin in a great state of excitement. He had arranged for everyone in our cabin to go ashore (strictly forbidden to other passengers) and several passes were faked by the immigration officers.

  At 6.30 sharp, the four of us were smuggled down the gangway to a waiting car and taken to a modern bungalow situated on a hill overlooking the harbour. Relays of sandwiches were prepared by two boy servants and passed round with large mugfuls of Scotch. Three out-of-date records, a tango, waltz and quick-step, were repeatedly played over on the gramophone as we were whirled round the floor by Elder Dempster officials as though attached to roller skates. The host took me into the garden to pick a paw-paw and showed me the kitchen quarters, where his negro servant, Mugwub, dressed in a green Jaeger dressing-gown, was bent over a small sink, a cigarette behind his ear, filling sandwiches.

  We had just settled down when we were swept off to another shore party in an identical bungalow also on a hill, where we were plied with more sandwiches and drinks. On reaching the fifth bungalow, I had the brilliant idea of taking a hot bath. When I joined the others, they presented me with a large plateful of spam and chips which I took into a corner and ate while reading a collection of Life magazines. We were eventually walked back through the harbour surrounded by fireflies and the sound of cicadas rubbing their wings together.

  *

  Today, I took a desultory walk round the docks with Vladimir who thought some fresh air might do me good. After trailing along the waterfront for an hour, he led me into a foul dumping yard and, behind a stack of coke, gave me a smacking kiss, whereupon I felt sick and had to be hurried back to the ship to find the purser pacing the corridor; Audrey had twice caught him trying to climb through our porthole, so she threatened to report him to the Captain.

  *

  After three days in Takoradi, we joined another convoy. I am feeling very ill, headachey and lethargic. The purser becomes more and more intense, proposes marriage and has several weeping fits. For we are approaching Lagos and a packing panic ensues. The poor man is all the time being disturbed with a request for the keys to the baggage room by anxious trunk owners, when all he wants to do is to weep on my shoulder. I have a great washing morning and hang up rows of pants on the line erected across the top bunks. François, looking pale, wearing minute blue shorts, is seen running with his long skinny legs backwards and forwards to the hold while talking hysterically about films, customs and the future.

  *

  After spending a week in Lagos, I boarded one morning at dusk an airport bus with an engine driver and a boat companion, a gentle man with a caved-in mouth, two Ensas and a Polish Rabbi who had been torpedoed off Lagos.

  Fearful nosta
lgia, as we took off over the lagoon. My hut stood out so clearly one could almost see the lizards creeping about the roof. The first day, we flew over vast stretches of flat wild country, with no signs of life except for an occasional cluster of huts like mud bee-hives with a tiny track running toward a river or a forest. The first night was spent with the Resmin of a northern Nigerian outpost. I shared a room with Mrs Ensa, who gave me her entire life history as we lay under our mosquito nets drinking China tea with slices of orange.

  The second day we flew over endless stretches of flat red country until gradually all signs of habitation vanished. The earth became rocky, sandy and desolate. We stopped in the Sudan for lunch and it was unbearably hot. Throughout the journey, I shared a mattress with the Rabbi whose remarks were confined to ‘You go Cairo? Me go Televiv.’ Or, ‘Me take mattress now?’ He was completely unselfconscious and remained with his trousers unbuttoned as he repeatedly combed out a speckled beard with a very fine dog comb.

  We arrived in Cairo at three in the afternoon. The Egyptian officials were rude due to a dispute over my camera. One snatched my handbag and rummaged through it. I was retained at customs by four unshaven officials who stood scratching their heads until I mentioned the word ‘Embassy’. There was an excited chorus of ‘Wheech?’ When I said ‘British’, the camera was hurled across the barrier. I then joined the others who were sitting silently sweating under their topis in the airport bus.