“I will write,” I said.

“I shall want to know about the school … and the Lestranges … and how everything works out.”

I nodded. “And you will let me know what happens at home?”

“I will.”

“You sound so serious.”

“It is very important to me. And there is one thing more. If you want to come home, let me know. I will arrange it.”

“You … ?”

“I shall see that you get a passage home at the earliest possible moment. Please remember that.”

“It is comforting to know that you are so concerned about me.”

“Of course I’m concerned about you … Davina.”

I looked at him in alarm.

“I can’t get used to that other name,” he said. “I always think of you as Davina.”

“Well, no one can hear now.”

“One day you will come back.”

“I wonder’”

“You will,” he insisted. “You must.”

I remembered that conversation for days to come and it brought me comfort.

We were on deck as the ship sailed out. The hooters were sounding all round us; the quay was crowded with the friends of passengers come to see the last of them. It was a moving scene. Some people were weeping, others laughing, as slowly the ship glided out of her berth and sailed away.

Lilias and I stood there waving until we could no longer see Ninian and Zillah.

I SHALL NEVER FORGET those first days on the Queen of the South. I had not dreamed of such discomfort. In the first place we had to share a cabin with two others. The cabin was little more than a large cupboard and there were four berths, two lower and two upper. There was one small cupboard for the use of the four occupants and there were no portholes. We were shut in with many other similar cabins and the noises around us never seemed to cease. We were at the after end of the ship and there were barriers to prevent our leaving that section.

Meals were taken at long tables. I suppose the food was adequate, but eating in such conditions was far from pleasant and neither Lilias nor I had much appetite for it.

Our section of the ship was overcrowded. Washing was not easy. There were communal quarters for this and little privacy.

I said to Lilias: “Can you endure this till Cape Town?”

“We must,” she answered.

When the weather turned rough, as it did very soon, this was an added trial.

The two women who shared our cabin were prostrate in their bunks. Lilias felt queasy, too. She could not decide whether to venture out on deck or withdraw to her bunk.

She decided on the latter and I went on deck. I staggered along as far as the segregating barrier and sat down. I looked at the grey heaving waves and wondered what I had let myself into. The future seemed bleak. What should I find in this country to which we were going? I had been a coward. I should have stayed at home and faced whatever I had to. People would say that if I were innocent I should have nothing to fear. I should have held my head high, faced whatever was coming and not hidden behind an assumed name.

And now here I was, in a condition of acute discomfort, being carried over this turbulent sea to … I could not know what.

I was aware of someone on the other side of the barrier.

“Hello,” said Roger Lestrange. He was looking down on me over the top of the fencing which separated us. “Facing the elements?”

“Yes … and you, too?”

“You find this uncomfortable, do you?”

“Yes, don’t you?”

“Mildly. Nothing to what it can do, I assure you.”

“Well, I hope it doesn’t attempt to show me.”

“I didn’t see you when you boarded. You had friends to see you off, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“That was nice. How are you liking the trip … apart from the weather?”

I was silent for a while and he said quickly: “Not good, is it?”

“It’s hardly luxury.”

“I had no idea you would travel in such a way.”

“Nor had we. But we did want to do so as cheaply as possible. Miss Milne has a horror of debt. How is Mrs. Lestrange?”

“Laid low. She does not like the weather.”

“Who does? I am sorry for her.”

“We’ll soon be out of this and then we’ll all forget about it.”

I had been standing up while I was talking to him, and a gust of wind threw me against the deck rail.

“All right?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks.”

“I think you should go below,” he continued. “The wind can be treacherous and one really shouldn’t face the decks when it is like this.” He smiled wryly. “I’m sorry I can’t conduct you to your quarters.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll go down. Goodbye.”

“Au revoir,” he said.

And I staggered down to the cabin.

LATER THAT DAY the wind abated. Lilias and I were alone in the cabin. The other occupants, feeling better, had gone out, as they said, for a breath of fresh air.

One of the stewards came to our cabin.

He said: “I’ve got orders to move you.”

“Move us?” we cried simultaneously.

“Some mistake, I expect. You shouldn’t be in this one. Get your things together.”

Bewildered we obeyed. He took our cases and told us to follow him. We did so and he led us through the ship, opening one of the dividing doors. He took us to a cabin which seemed magnificent after the one we had just left. There were two bunks which served as sofas by day, a fair-sized wardrobe, a washbasin and a porthole.

We stared at it in amazement.

“That’s it,” he said, and left us. We could not believe it. It was such a contrast. Lilias sat down on one of the beds and looked as though she were going to burst into tears, which was extraordinary for her.

“What does it mean?” she demanded.

“It means that they made a mistake. They should never have put us in with the emigrants.”

“But we are emigrants.”

“Yes … but here we are. Isn’t it wonderful? I feel dignified. I don’t think I could have borne much more of that.”

“Yes, you would … if you had to.”

“Well, don’t let’s worry about that. Let’s rejoice.”

“I wonder how it happened,” said Lilias.

“Doubtless we shall hear.”

We did ask the purser, who told us there had been some mistake and we were so relieved we did not take the matter farther than that. All we knew was that we could now continue the rest of the voyage, weather permitting, in a comfort we had not dared hope for.

EVERYTHING CHANGED after that. We were often in the company of the Lestranges; and it was during that voyage that I began to know Myra.

She was a self-effacing person, rather timid, in contrast to her mother. I often wondered whether having spent so much of her life in close contact with such a woman had made her as she was, for in such a presence even the most confident people must be aware of their shortcomings. I grew to like her. She was rather withdrawn in the presence of her husband, and rarely spoke unless addressed. I noticed that he often finished a sentence with “Is that not so, my dear?” as though trying to draw her into the conversation. “Yes, yes, Roger, indeed it is,” she would invariably reply.

“She’s completely subservient,” said Lilias.

“I think she wants to please him. After all, he is always kind and courteous to her.”

“Well, if he likes absolute obedience, she must suit him very well,” was Lilias’ rather terse rejoinder.

Practical Lilias might dismiss her as a woman of no spirit, content to be dominated by her husband, but I saw some character beneath that attitude, and perhaps because she sensed my feelings she revealed a little more of herself to me than she did to most people.

Our first port of call was Tenerife and as it was not easy for two women to go out alone, Roger Lestrange suggested that we accompany him and his wife. We accepted willingly.

We had a pleasant day, and under the guidance of Roger Lestrange went for a ride through the town and some miles out into the country. We revelled in the balmy air and marvelled at the brilliant flowers and shrubs, the poinsettia trees growing wild by the roadside, the banana plantations and the mountains.

Roger Lestrange was an amusing and knowledgeable companion and when we returned to the ship Lilias said how fortunate we were to be travelling with them; and I agreed.

Myra said: “It is a great pleasure to have you with us.” I was glad she felt that as the thought had crossed my mind during the day that we might be intruding. After all, it was not long since their honeymoon, and that was a time when newly wed people liked to be alone together.

As we came down the west coast of Africa the weather was warm, the sea smooth, and life on board was very pleasant indeed. Neither Lilias nor I wanted the days to pass too quickly. After our change of cabin, which had brought us to another part of the ship, we had found the life very congenial. We were meeting people who interested us.

Roger Lestrange was quite sought after. He was an asset to social gatherings; he was on good terms with the captain whom he had met on a previous voyage; and, as his friends, we were drawn into his circle.

It was delightful to sit on deck, to look over the water which scarcely moved, to watch the dolphins sporting in the distance and the flying fish skimming over the surface of that pellucid sea. It was conducive to confidences.

Myra was reluctant to talk, but eventually she began to give me a glimpse into her childhood.

“It would have been different if I had been brilliant,” she said to me one day. “But I wasn’t. I was slow … slow to walk … slow to talk. Right from the beginning I was a disappointment. My mother wanted me to be outstanding … not so much clever as beautiful … a success socially. You know the sort of thing … something she could arrange and then … grandchildren whom she could plan for.”

“People have to manage their own lives.”

“My mother would never accept that. She was so good at managing everything, so naturally she wanted to manage me. I was lucky in one way because there were the grandparents … my father’s parents. I spent a great deal of my childhood with them. I was happy there. They did not care whether I was clever or beautiful. They liked me just as I was. My mother said they spoiled me. She did not want me to be so much with them, but they were important. They were very rich and she respected that.”

“I can well believe it.”

“My grandmother died.” Her voice trembled a little. “I was fourteen then. After that there was just Grandpa. I was often with him. He wanted me to live with him. My mother could not allow that. My place was at home with her, she said; but I was with him a great deal. We used to read together; we would sit in the garden and play guessing games. Then he was in a wheelchair and I used to wheel him about the garden. My mother said it was no life for a girl, but I loved to be with him. I had to have a season in London. My mother insisted and my father agreed with her. The season was a failure. Nobody asked me to marry him. Soon after that my mother gave up. I went to stay with Grandpa. He said, ‘Don’t let them push you. You do what you want. And never marry a man because they tell you you ought to. That’s the biggest mistake a girl can make … or a man for that matter.’ He was wonderful. I was twenty-four when he died.”

“How sad for you.”

“I was heartbroken. I was very rich. He had left everything to me. It made a difference. My mother changed towards me. I knew she thought I should get a husband now, but when she started managing I said to her, ‘Grandpa told me I was never to marry anyone just because people told me to. I was to marry only if I, myself, wanted to.’ “

“I think your grandfather was very wise,” I said.

“Oh, he was. But I’m talking all about myself. What about you?”

That freezing sensation came over me. I heard myself say: “Oh, there’s nothing much to tell. I just had a governess … and then … I went to stay at the vicarage.”

“And your father?”

“He … he died.”

“And now you have to take this post in South Africa?”

“I don’t exactly have to. I just wanted to do something. I have a little income … not a great deal … but adequate, I suppose.”

“Did you ever think of marrying?”

“Well, once. But it didn’t work out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m sure now that it was all for the best.”

“Are you sure? I think you seem a little sad sometimes.”