The reliving of this experience, the memory of which and the anguish I suffered have stayed with me throughout my life, has actually been cathartic, as I have recalled associated events that I had overlooked at the time it occurred.  I was performing my National Service in the Royal Engineers in Hampshire where, thanks to my favoured position as Confidential Clerk and Shorthand-typist to the Commanding Officer (a position that was not on the official establishment) I was relieved of all extra-curricular duties.  Indeed, rather than have me apply for a posting, which I had indirectly allowed the C.O. to know I was considering, he had me dictate a letter for his Adjutant to sign whereby I was excused all "picquets, guard duties, parades, and inspections".

This had the effect of freeing me from Friday evening to Monday morning each week.  Every weekend, therefore, saw me back home in London and was spent in the company of my inamorata Rita.  Except for one weekend near the end of my military service.  It was to be a special occasion to coincide with a visit by some Army or Government notables and everyone - myself included - was expected to participate in some of the organised events.  I told Rita that I would, alas, be unable to get home that weekend.

However, I hit on the bright idea of organising one of the sporting events that were planned.  This was a cycle ride, planned to commence on the Saturday morning and finish at noon - which was also officially the end of the "festivities".  Anything to avoid breaking my self-appointed vow of never spending a weekend in camp through my entire military service.  It was sixty miles to London.  My plan was to start cycling with the main group which, inevitably will at some stage start to spread out, and at some point cycle off myself and head to London.  If I left around 10.00 am I might expect to be home before 3.00 pm.  But, in case I couldn't make it, I thought it more prudent not to inform Rita.

In fact, I made it comfortably and discovered - I can't remember how - that there was a dance at Hackney Town Hall that evening.  So I thought it was pointless to try and disturb the situation with Rita.  She wasn't expecting me, and I would anyway have to leave fairly early on the Sunday in order to cycle back to camp.  So I didn't call her.  In any case, we didn't possess a telephone.  In those days, if I wanted to phone someone I had to go to the public phone box across the road. 

I was enjoying the dance.  There was a plenitude of potential partners and, at one point, I found myself dancing with a rather nice young woman who insisted on singing the words of the song we were dancing to.  Unbelievable as it seems, I still recall the song.  It was called But Beautiful.  ("Love is funny, or it's sad, or it's quiet, or it's mad . . . it's a good thing, or its bad, but beautiful.")  After the song ended I suggested she might like a drink at the bar, and then I offered her a cigarette.  My cigarette case was one of those flat silver-coloured cases with an elastic band inside to hold the cigarettes in place.  On the side facing the band I had inserted a picture of Rita.  The one reproduced above.

The young woman, whose name I also incredibly recall was Joyce, spotted the picture, let out a squeal, and said "That's my cousin, Rita!"  Of such trifling coincidences disaster can strike.   All for want of a horseshoe nail!  Please don't tell her, I pleaded, that you met me here.  But, of course, it was inevitable that she would.  I tried to pre-empt the anticipated reaction by telephoning Rita before leaving for camp the next day, and explaining that I had returned unexpectedly, had not intended going out the previous evening, but had been coerced into doing so by a friend.  But the telephone line was frigid.

During the course of the next week I received a letter from Rita telling me she would not want to see me again.  She had been considerably embarrassed by the news conveyed by her cousin Joyce.  And that's how the break-up came about, and despite my letters, phone calls, and entreaties, she would not be budged. 

I still miss her!

But on mature reflection, and given the information that, within a few weeks of our parting she was engaged to be married to a (more distant") cousin, a photographer, who she had, in fact, mentioned to me when we were together, I now realise that it is more than likely she felt relief at the opportunity to break the affair off, while being able to put the blame on me.  After all, she must have had a social life during the months of weekdays that I spent in camp.  And she never told me what she did when I wasn't there.  Or at least I don't recall being told.

I had a further few months of army service to perform before leaving to take up my place at London University (LSE) in October 1949. I spent the entire time feeling sorry for myself. During the evenings, when I looked after the Camp library, I played on the record player I had there, the two pieces of music she had introduced me to: Brahms 2^nd Piano Concerto (soloist Wilhelm Backhaus) and the Sibelius Symphony No. 2 played by the London Philharmonic Orchestra. I wrote my reams of poetry. At the weekends I would try to speak to her and, when her mother kept answering the phone and saying she was not available, I would make the time-consuming journey from Stoke Newington to Wembley, only to have her refuse to come to the door. I stopped doing this after, on one occasion, the door was opened by a rather tall and (I admit ruefully) good-looking young man, who I presume was the fiancé, who informed me in no uncertain terms that my presence was not welcome.