World War 2 was now over and I was discharged back into civilian life. The economies of Europe had been decimated by the war. Large volumes of army, navy and air force personnel swelled the workforce entering into an environment that had hardly started to change over from war production to commercial enterprise. It was obvious that it would take some years for the country to get back to some stability, consequently, I knew that I had to make a profound decision and without delay.

 

During my overseas service, I visited Australia and met a family there. They had offered me sponsorship should I wish to emigrate after the war.

 I reacquainted himself with the folks around the village, but as time went by, began to realize that my life, in contrast to my travels at sea, had virtually come to a full stop. It was a good feeling to be back with the family, and the wholesome way of life in the country still held the utmost potential for me, however, it had now been put into question, with regard to my future.

​

The time was approaching for me to find a steady job and settle down, but the enthusiasm just wasn’t there. When you live in a village and are technically oriented, it is practically impossible to find work locally, so it was no surprise when I eventually found a position as an engineer with an Electricity Generating Station that it was fifteen miles from the village.

​

With no transport, the only recourse was to use my father’s bicycle, and it turned out to be a long journey, in all weathers. I liked the work and had a common technical interest with the other employees, but that journey to and from the power station was punishing! Setting out before 6 a.m. each morning, I would be pushing against the wind only to find that it had changed direction and be against me going home. I ended up very fit, but also very discontented.

​

On those long, lonely rides, my thoughts would turn to Australia. Roy Richardson’s voice always seemed to be coming to the forefront of my mind regarding the offer to sponsor me and going to college in Melbourne. I said to myself over and over again, what a damn fool I was not to take up his kind offer, but I had promised my mother that I would stay home for two or three years, and hardly a year had gone by. I would have to suppress my thoughts of Australia until a later time, but that didn’t stop the devil sitting on my shoulder whispering in my ear “life’s passing you by Will!”

​

A year and a half passed without change and I knew that I would soon have to make some moves, or I would become permanently entrenched in this way of life. It did not require much thought in deciding that I would emigrate to Australia, it was just a matter of when? I was certain the Richardson’s would sponsor me.

​

My social life left a lot to be desired, but I had elevated my transportation to the purchase of a motorcycle, which enabled me to go farther afield. I would visit two or three acquaintances on occasions, and one of them, Mat Sawyer, invited me to meet his girlfriend who was a nurse at the local hospital.

​

Waiting in the Sister’s office where they had arranged to meet, I looked through the window across to an adjacent ward, and caught sight of a young attractive nurse, traveling backward and forwards at a speed reminiscent of the “Road Runner.” It was the speed that kept my attention as I tried to get a better look at the figure flashing past the external openings. Still engrossed, I failed to hear Mat and his girlfriend enter the office. “Something got your attention Will?”

​

“Yes, there’s a young nurse in that ward over there, but she’s traveling that fast I haven’t been able to catch sight of her standing still.”

 Mat’s girl-friend peered through the window in the direction I was pointing, and she smiled. “That’s Dorothy, the patients call her “tear-arse” and everyone laughed.

 “Would you like to meet her?” I recoiled, this was something I hadn’t bargained for.

 

“Perhaps some other time.”

 “There’s no time like the present, I’ll go over and get her.”

​

From the time of that first meeting my whole life changed. Initially, they went out as a foursome, but within a very short time, we were were dating regularly.

 Very few people owned cars. A motorcycle was, therefore, a very economical means of transport. In the summer months, it enabled them to pack a picnic hamper and traverse the countryside, exploring the quaint English villages, which abounded in their own area and around England.

​

Dorothy became an experienced pillion rider, leaning with the bends, and with a vice-like grip around Will’s waist at full speed. It was a privilege fit for kings to be able to stop in the deserted countryside and open the picnic hamper in a green meadow. The land seemed theirs for the taking, if only for that short period of time. A scenario requiring very little money, and the natural surroundings providing an ideal courtship. When the summer ended and winter came along, however, exposed to the elements on a motorcycle, their trips out became limited.

​

They would meet sometimes in the evening, and most definitely during the weekends in the small market town where Dorothy lived. A favorite meeting place was an old restaurant in the center of the town called “The Rendezvous” where they would talk for hours over as many cups of coffee that their meager finances would allow. For the amount of money spent there, I often wondered why they had not been asked to leave, to make room for more profitable customers. The only conclusion I could muster was that the owner may have empathized with their obvious circumstances at that particular time in their lives.

​

The weeks and months seemed to fly by, and I was constantly aware that I was now beginning my third year since returning home. The first year had seemed painfully slow, but the second year with Dorothy was accelerating me rapidly towards the inevitable, to break away from my roots again. Even though I had only promised his mother three years, I was dreading the inexorable path that I had chosen to take. I would now have to take the bull by the horns and start to make things happen.

 

It was a mild summer evening as they sat alongside the lake a few miles from where they both lived. I had driven the motorbike as far as I could, and then a short walk through the trees brought them to a vantage point overlooking the water. I had been there many times before as a boy growing up in the area, and I felt at home in familiar surroundings. Preparing to propose, however, created the agonizing thought that I would have to attach a proviso. Whichever way I put it to her it would have the same connotation, and I was scared that it would create a doubt in her mind.

​

They had the lake to themselves. Not a soul in sight, and in the silence my mind played with the thoughts that I would have to both propose to her and also ask her to come to Australia with me. They had already talked at length about the Richardsons in Australia but at this point in time, it seemed of little consequence, considering the importance of the moment. It could be ‘yes’ for marriage and ‘no’ for Australia in that order. The turmoil built up in my mind until I finally came to the conclusion that it would have to be now or never.

 

I had no need for concern, however. People were emigrating to countries around the globe and it was not uncommon to know someone who was leaving to start a new life elsewhere, consequently, Dorothy was aware of what it entailed. It was ‘yes’ on both counts, and they remained there until after darkness had fallen, talking about the future.

​

With both of them now in agreement I corresponded with the Richardson’s in Melbourne, eventually receiving a reply with authorization for me to go ahead with the necessary forms. Included, was the sad news that Roy Richardson had died, the end of a troubling episode for the family.

 

It would now be necessary for them to fix a date and arrange for the wedding. However, things started to evolve much faster than they had anticipated. Not being able to complete their immigration papers without a marriage certificate complicated matters, and a special license had to be obtained. The thought of having to abandon the application and re-apply with the possibility of a six month to one year delay, was in the forefront of their minds, until a visit to the Bishop of the diocese confirmed that everything would be in order, allowing the banns to be posted at the local church and all the other wedding arrangements to proceed. My friendship and experiences in Australia with a friend “Smithy” were of special significance to me, and a must for him to be best man.

 

We were married in the 12th-century church of St. Peter’s in the tiny village where I was born. On the day of the wedding, it was one of those rare perfect English summer days. Sunny and warm giving the village a special significance.

 

All the villagers were out in force gathered around the entrance gates to the church, waiting to catch a glimpse of the bride. l waited nervously for my best man Smithy to arrive but by 1 p.m. there was no sign of him and panic was setting in.

 

Everyone waited right up until it was time to go to the church, but he still had not appeared, so finally, a substitute best man, one of the guests was called in to take his place. I was disappointed, but it was far from crucial. After her long walk up the flagstone aisle, Dorothy looked across at Will an enquiring look on her face. “Where’s Smithy?” she whispered, I shrugged my shoulders and the service got underway.

On their final walk alone to kneel at the alter I walked past the choir stalls where I had spent my boyhood years as a choirboy. For a fleeting moment, my mind flashed back to my interrogation during the war. The two diametrically opposed thoughts colliding in my mind. During the signing of the marriage certificate in the tiny stone vestry and their walk back down through that old church, little did I realize that I would be back there thirty years later to witness my own daughter’s wedding.

 

The reception afterward was held at the church hall, located at the other end of the village, surrounded by fields. Smithy finally arrived at the reception looking sheepish, explaining that he had taken the wrong train.

 

It was a typical rip-roaring affair and the hall was packed. The food was plentiful and the beer flowed freely from the barrel until it ran out. The wedding car was duly dispatched to the local village pub for a refill and all the men anxiously waited for its speedy return. An hour or more elapsed, however before a frantic messenger appeared on the scene with the news that the car had developed a flat tire on the way back, and they had no jack to change the wheel. All the men ran up the country lane to the village.

 

Swarming around the back of the car like bees on a hive, and with a one, two, three, physically lifted it off the ground whilst the wheel was changed. A loud cheer resounded around the reception hall as the barrel was finally lifted onto its stand, and the proceedings got underway again.

 

Grandmas’ down to toddlers’ danced and played games. Apart from the best man not arriving on time, everything had gone well. It had been a typical country wedding.

 They left the reception to stay the night at a friend’s house, a few miles away. I had spent many hours converting my largest motorcycle to carry our suitcases etc. and early next morning kick-started the engine to begin their honeymoon journey to Ilfracombe, on the north coast of Devon.

 

The morning was cool and misty as they made their way along the winding country roads towards the Cotswold hills. They both began to relax as the mist gradually disappeared and the sun started to appear over the hills. There were virtually no other vehicles in sight and the quiet throb of the engine, the only significant sound. After traveling for about two hours and halfway to their destination, the engine started to misfire. I throttled back to give the engine a chance to recover, but without avail.

 

Coasting over the brow of a hill I looked down with relief at a village in the valley below allowing the motorbike to freewheel down into the main street before they both got off.

 “What’s the matter Will?”

 “I don’t know. Something’s wrong with the engine.”

 After enquiring, it was only a matter of pushing the bike a couple of hundred yards to a local repair shop. It seemed an eternity before they were eventually told that an electrical component had faulted and that they would have to send away for it.

 

I swallowed hard with the thought that the bike would not be fixed for them to continue their journey. Turning to Dorothy I made the fatal mistake of venting my innermost disappointment.

 “I think we’ll have to make our way back home.”

 It was a statement packed with dynamite to a young woman embarking on her honeymoon, and she did not mince words in making her feelings known.

 

They had very little money, making their options limited. Within a couple of hours, they boarded a bus to Exeter which was agonizingly taking them away from the general direction, to eventually board an antiquated train named “The Devon BelleI

 Finally, arriving in Ilfracombe in the late afternoon after a bone-shaking journey, it was a relief to relax in a quiet room prior to going down to the dining-room for their first dinner.

 

Without transport, the remainder of the honeymoon was mainly spent relaxing, or taking long walks along the rolling grassy slopes of the coastline. Just a single incident marked what was to be a wonderful honeymoon.

 

The coastline, in that part of the country, was punctuated with small coves that had been frequented by smugglers in bygone days, providing a haven for young couples to get away from the rest of mankind, at least for a short period of time. After lunch, on this particular day, they found one such deserted cove and lay on the warm sand eventually falling asleep.

 

I awoke abruptly to the sound of splashing water. Pushing himself up into a sitting position I was alarmed to see that the tide had risen to within a few yards of where they were lying. Trying to compose myself I looked around on all sides for an escape route, but could see no way out.

 The cliffs rose sharply on all three sides, and they had been cut off. I had been a fool. With all my experiences at sea, I knew only too well the dangers it could impose when least expected.

 

Gently shaking Dorothy to awaken her she got up preparing to leave. She looked out to sea, searching for the way they had entered the cove, until the full realization set in that they were trapped.

 

Turning her back to the sea and towards the steep cliffs, she started to run as fast as her legs could carry her. I stood frozen to the spot watching her. As she gathered speed the name the nurses gave her back on the hospital ward “tear arse” came foremost into my mind. At the rate she was traveling he was becoming convinced that with one mighty leap she would clear the cliffs to safety. Miracles rarely happen, however, when you find yourself in trouble, and this was no exception.

 

Dorothy couldn’t swim and time was of the essence. I had to convince her that they should not waste time and would have to walk through the water and around the headland.

 It was touch and go as the water lapped around their armpits before finally getting out of the cove to breathe a sigh of relief.

 They arrived back at the guest house to a sharp rebuke. Notices were posted everywhere warning of the danger which they had ignored and nearly ending in disaster. A couple had evidently drowned under the same circumstances that very year. Needless to say, during the remainder of their stay at Ilfracombe, they kept away from the coves.

 

Boarding a bus for the return journey, I did not need reminding that I would somehow have to get back to the village to collect my motorbike from the repair shop, and of course get the money to pay for it.

 

After the honeymoon, life returned to normal, except that things were fast approaching the day when they would have to leave. They had moved to an apartment close to my work, but for the final period before sailing, they moved back to the village to stay with my parents. All the immigration papers had now been approved and it was just a matter of time before they sailed.

 

On that last day, as they left the house and walked up the lane for the last time, I looked back to see my mother as he had seen her on so many occasions before, in the bedroom window crying, her head bowed. We both waved goodbye as the house disappeared from view. Even after so many times, parting was never easy, but it was now time to look forward into the future.

 

The last person they were to say goodbye to was my father who had insisted on seeing them off at the station, making the three-mile journey on his bicycle. They both leaned out of the carriage window waving, getting a last look at his receding figure and wondering how long it would be before they would see the family again.

 

As the train sped north towards Liverpool where they would embark on their voyage, I looked out of the window, watching the countryside fly by. My mind recalled that day on my way home from Gourock, after that frightening interrogation during the war, and what had happened since.

 

I looked across at Dorothy. She was looking forward to the voyage, and everything was new to her. Surely the organization would have no need of my services now? The war was over. I would say nothing to her about that part of my life unless it became absolutely necessary.

 

I took a deep breath and hoped that day would never come.