However, I had some social life, plus the inevitable heart break as a relationship didn’t pan out as I had expected. My new boyfriend who had written to me throughout my stay in France, returned from his South African university at the end of the year, but we didn’t last for long. We went out a few times together, where I thought all was going well. Not so for him, apparently, since he dumped me by agreeing to meet me at a party, to which I could walk from my parents’ house, and to which he arrived in his car, with his ex-girlfriend in tow. I was devastated. I don’t know how I kept things together for those initial few minutes, but I remember leaving the party without saying a word to him. I ran back home, where I cried my heart out to my surprised parents. I had only been gone 30 minutes or so. My brother tells me that our mother never quite forgave my so-called boyfriend for this hurtful behaviour. I am not sure that this is entirely true, since I know that my mother corresponded with him for many years, by which time both he and my parents had long since left Africa. So, too, had I. Indeed, forty or more years later, my husband and I hosted his son and girlfriend (now wife) when they were travelling the world and came to Canada.
However, I must have recovered from my heartache by keeping myself busy. I had a job in Salisbury, working in clerical position. I wasn’t free from a romantic interest for long. I met at the local swimming pool a young man a couple of years older than me, whom I knew from university. He had graduated as a geologist and was now working. I can’t remember where exactly, maybe in a government job in town. He still lived at home with his parents and his younger brother, though he had his own car and lived his own life. He asked me out on a date. I was hesitant, but accepted and was surprised to find that we got on well and enjoyed each other’s company.
So began a relationship that might have lasted forever, had all gone to plan. We saw each other frequently but only at weekends during my holidays, since he was working full-time, and I was studying. We went to movies, parties, the occasional night club and to visit friends.
The 15 months passed quickly, above all with long hours of studying on my part. In December 1969, in ten days flat, I took all ten final examinations, one after the other, each three hours long, for my French Honours degree. Phew! We were the first students on campus to have completed our examinations that year.
I felt as if I had done well, but I was exhausted. As per usual, when I came home at the end of the year, I went down with some ‘flu-type virus. I suspect I was just so tired that my immune system had become compromised.
The grading system in British universities is very different from the way it works here in Canada. Students who do exceptionally well are given a First Class degree. Then, slightly below the First, comes an Upper Second. Below that is a Lower Second, then a Third and finally a Pass. Below this: Fail. Because I was studying for an Honours Degree, rather than for a General degree, I knew that if I failed the three-hour-long Prose Composition examination, which required me to translate from English into French and vice versa (whilst always maintaining the style and flavour of the piece), I would fail my degree. There were no second chances. We students were not allowed to pick up credits here and there, as occurs here. It was all or nothing. I had to pass everything, all at once, at the same time.
