This is story #7 in the series “Where Exactly is Home?”. The author recommends you read them in order.
Introduction:
“Where Exactly is Home?” follows the story of my parents, my two younger brothers and me, Susan, who emigrated from war-battered Britain, in the mid-late 1950’s, to Southern Rhodesia, Africa.
The effects of this move on our family were huge, as we struggled to adapt to such a different way of life. Only after further upheaval, and more long-distance travelling, did our family eventually settle in the city of Salisbury, Rhodesia.
However, we did not know then that we would not remain there for the rest of our lives, either.
When the family first went to Africa, I, Susan, was 9 years old. My two brothers, John and Peter, were almost 7 and 4, respectively.
Nowadays, as seniors, John and Peter live in England. I live in Canada. Throughout our lives, we have both benefitted from, and suffered because of, our somewhat unusual childhood.
I, for one, still sometimes ask myself which country represents home to me.
This is a series of stories under the title “Where Exactly is Home?” – I recommend you read them in order, starting with story #1.
7. Salisbury to Darwendale, Southern Rhodesia, May 1957
When we first arrived in Salisbury, after a three day-long, dusty train ride from Cape Town, South Africa, our family stayed for a few days with my parents’ friends, Herbert and Bertha. Herbert had accompanied my father to Rhodesia at Christmastime the previous year, and, like my father, he was working for Rhodesia Railways. However, Herbert was going to stay in the city itself, rather than move into the bush, although he realized he would eventually have to do a stint in the bush, too. His wife, Bertha, had come out from England to join her husband earlier than expected. Originally, she had planned to come on the boat with my mother and us three children, but because we had had to wait for Aunt Jane to get her medical clearance, we were delayed.
Almost as soon as he had arrived, Herbert had bought a house on the outskirts of Salisbury, near the African townships of Harare and Highfields, where property was cheap. It was one of several bungalows, built in a large circle, each house on a quarter-acre plot of fenced land, facing a park area, on which children could play. No doubt, the houses seemed huge, all detached, with their pastel-coloured stucco walls so light and bright, and their gardens enormous, compared with the dingy-looking grime-covered, half bombed out properties of London, England.
Herbert himself was tall and slim, very intelligent, usually smoking a pipe. His wife, 13 years his junior, was small, with bright, red curly hair, a pale freckled face, and the looks of a child, rather than of a fully grown woman. It probably didn’t help that Bertha, who had been born with a cleft palate, had a speech impediment, making it difficult to understand her at times. Nevertheless, Herbert and Bertha were warm, loving people, welcoming us into their home, giving us the time we needed to grow accustomed to living at 5000ft. above sea level. Tiredness overwhelmed newcomers to life at such an altitude.
