We stared at our parents in disbelief as they announced this decision. They didn’t explain to us the whys and wherefores. They simply said that our family was going back to England as soon as possible, in April or so, to live for good.
“OK, so be it, then”, I thought. We children had to accept the decision, of course. We were aware that our parents never discussed their plans with us and so we had no insight into their thoughts or reasoning. They decided, and we obeyed, no matter the topic, no matter our feelings on the subject. It was ever thus and would continue to be so for many years yet to come. I was approaching 12; John was almost 10; Peter almost 6. The decision to leave came as a complete shock to us children.
Off we go again, with all that upheaval of packing up and leaving, travelling 6000 miles back to Britain. Would we fly this time? That would be exciting since we children hadn’t been on a plane. No, we weren’t flying, we were told. Although my father had, so I learned years later, considered driving to Britain with our family, I can but imagine that my mother would have vetoed this on the grounds of the journey’s being too long and possibly dangerous. Travelling the entire length of the continent, much of it far from developed, with five of us in a car, would have not appealed to her at all. Nor to me, I have to say, if I had been given the choice. Instead, our parents had decided that we’d take the train from Salisbury to Cape Town and a Union Castle Line boat from there onwards. At least, our boat trip would be fun, I mused, and this time, our father would be with us, too. The thoughts were swirling around in my head, but I don’t think that I felt sad to be leaving Africa. I was quite pleased, really, at the prospect of being back on familiar ground in England.
Going home, for good?! Wow! So, I thought, then, at least. So, we all thought, in fact.
