clients that I meet there; she is in her seventies and comes from the South of France, she had owned three cinemas in the heyday of bioscopes. She married several times, and the most recent husband had been a card-carrying communist, which seems very daring to me. She encourages me to do whatever I want to do; the only barriers are in my mind,
“Nothing can stop you; you are a beautiful, intelligent young woman, the world is literally at your feet. Do whatever you would like to do.”
I want to learn to speak French more fluently, the six months of attending the Alliance Francais in Cape Town before I left prove hopelessly inadequate. Madame Vivarel gives me lessons every afternoon for the three weeks that she is at La Ligniere. One afternoon I mention that ‘La Traviata’ is currently being performed in Lausanne, but it finishes after the last train scheduled to stop in Gland, our nearest train station (between Lausanne and Geneva), so I will not be able to go to the opera.
“Nonsense,” she remonstrates. “If you want to go badly enough you will find a way home. Here is the money for the train, taxi and the opera.”
I set off on my friend Madeleine’s Velo-Solex, a 50cc motorised bike, to the Gland station. Catch the train to Lausanne and then a taxi to the opera house. Imagine dressing for the opera and riding a motorcycle with a winter coat, boots and helmet. The opera is spectacular and of course all in Italian and the programme in French, so I do my best to understand the storyline. Poor Violetta is betrayed by her boyfriend Alfredo’s father. Alfredo only discovers the betrayal when it is too late. She dies of tuberculosis after singing a most poignant duet with Alfredo – ‘Great God …. To die so young’.
Now I must retrace my steps and its close to midnight. When I get to the Lausanne station, it is bare. As I suspect, the only train going to Geneva is an express which doesn’t stop at Gland. I don’t have the money for a taxi, so I sit down on a bench with a loud sigh; there is no one in sight! I am considering the feasibility of spending the night on the bench on the platform in my opera outfit, when a conductor appears,
‘Que fait une jolie jeune femme seule sur le quai, où allez-vous?’/ “What is a pretty young lady doing alone on the platform … where are you going?”
I try to explain that I want to stop at Gland, he seems to understand and asks me,
‘d'où Venez-Vous?’ / “Where in the world are you from?”
‘Afrique du Sud’/ “South Africa,” I respond.
Then he says, pointing in the direction of a train,
'Veuillez attendre pendant que je parle au conducteur.’ / “Please wait whilst I speak to the driver.”
He is smiling broadly when he returns,
‘Le conducteur veut bien ralentir autant que possible pour que vous puissiez sauter du train à Gland. Il ne peut pas sonner la sirène (le sifflet?) après neuf heures du soir, donc il fera le fort son SSHH du train pour que vous sachiez que l'on est arrivé à Gland.’ / “The driver is willing to slow down as much as he can so that you can jump off at Gland. He cannot sound the siren after nine at night, so he will make the trains’ loud SH…. ing sound, so you will know when you get to Gland.”
I could have hugged him, but instead, thank him profusely for his graciousness. I remember stories about running in the same direction as the moving vehicle so as not to fall - well now is my chance to try it out. True to his word, as we near a lighted station there is the loud sh...ing sound; the doors start to open. I hold my breath as I jump and run with the train. Wowa! I made it and blow the driver a kiss. I know that he sees because he waves and blows a kiss back.
By the time I get back to La Ligniere everything is securely locked up at the Ladies Residence, even the loud spluttering of the Velo-Solex doesn’t arouse a lighted window. What now? A stone thrown at the upstairs window might break it. I walk around to see if there is a light on anywhere, but no such luck. Eventually I tie a hanky around a stone and pluck up enough courage to throw it at Madeleine’s window, upstairs. I need a second throw to get her sleepy attention. She opens the door for me and welcomes me home, no doubt grateful that her Velo-Solex is safe and to hear of the evening's adventures. We giggle a lot and then go to sleep.
Madame Vivarel congratulates me on doing what I wanted to do and experiencing the fun of finding out how the detail will all fit into place.
I learned a great lesson, much more than the French lessons, from her that night.
I purchase a waterproof, automatic, 24-carat gold Omega wristwatch with my earnings in celebration of both being in Switzerland and enjoying the time at La Ligniere. However, since the therapy room is very moist and we don’t wear jewellery to work, I keep it in its box until the morning I am due to travel to Toulon, to spend a couple of days with Madame Vivarel on the French Riviera. To my horror the bally thing won’t work. I wind it and shake it but no sign of life! I leave from Nyon early enough to go to the Omega dealer in Geneva where the shop is not yet open. In sheer frustration, I stand snivelling, while pretending to be enchanted by the menswear in the window of the shop next door. Eventually, the little jeweller opens the shop, and I tell him my tale of woe. Fortunately he understands English very well and soon calms my fears and frustration. He will adjust it and send it to Zurich, so that I can pick it up there when I go skiing at Davos in ten days. He does precisely that, and I pick it up as soon as I get to Zurich.
The Omega is still ticking away merrily 50 years later. Although when I take it for a service at an Omega jeweller in Cape Town, and he hears that I play tennis and climb mountains with it on my wrist, he is horrified. He suggests that I only wear it for special occasions, which I try to do, but now it stays in the drawer most of the time...
In Toulon Madame Vivarel and I walk everywhere or take a bus, few people have cars of their own, and public transport is excellent. Soon enough I fly out of Nice to Davos for ten days skiing and then to Bulawayo, arriving two days before Christmas 1968, as promised. Mum and Dad are at the airport to meet me. After a long hug each, and collecting my luggage, we find the car to head back to Inunwa Ranch. Dad updates me on the latest developments,
“The bush war has escalated, but ZIPRA, have recently been heavily defeated by the Rhodesian Security Forces, and Ian Smith, the Prime Minister, is sure that everything is under control. We feel reassured because he says that a White government will remain for at least his lifetime.”
I feel the familiar tightening in my gut release as we pass all the familiar landmarks; Mopani trees, the signboard on the right to Turk Mine 10 Miles. A hornbill flits intently from the red earth to a branch and back down for a tasty morsel a flying insect. Back home, so far from any help should there be a farm attack, the tightness is back. Mum and Dad seem restful and confident that God is protecting us. We spend Christmas with family and friends visiting us, and I soon feel at home. Satisfied that all is indeed well, my imagination is more active when I am far away; at home everything seems so reasonable.
Edward happens to be home and is happy to see me. He can’t believe that I have gone ‘so far and seen so many things’ as I proudly show him my pictures and outline in the atlas the route of my travels. Edward says he has only been to the Victoria Falls and Bulawayo, so he doesn’t know where all these places are across the sea which he has never seen.
I wonder at his contentment at being in one place, Rhodesia, with no aspiration to see and experience the world.
I plan to start work at the Tygerberg Service Centre in Parow, Western Cape early in 1969, then one morning Dad announces at breakfast,
