Page 31 - My Story (final)

Not too long after this wedding we had the shocking news that Ernie Morris had died in his sleep
in Sydney. The family decided that my mother, who had never been out of the country, should be the
one to fly over to Australia to make sure that Auntie Anne and Mark were OK. She flew on a BOAC
Constellation and the flight took three days with stops in Rome and somewhere in the far east. She had
a ball on the flight over, being entertained by the captain, but the subsequent stay, and getting Anne’s
affairs in order proved too much for her and she had something of a breakdown on her return. Thereafter
the family tried to get Anne to return to England, but she had made a life for herself and had friends and
told me, on one of her trips back that she could never return to the arms, and the control, of the family.

In the summer of that year our friend Norman married his Pauline despite loud protestations on
the part of his parents who refused to attend, because the bride wasn’t Jewish. It was a lovely wedding,
held in Nottingham, where Pauline lived, and the two have been up there ever since. Norman was a
teachers’ training college lecturer and Pauline, who had high degrees in English used to mark the papers
of national exams – School Certificate, Higher School Certificate and so on. She went back to university
at an advanced age and got her doctorate.

We used to spend a fair amount of time with them. I remember being with them one New Year’s
Eve and we were all talking about Robin Hood. Suddenly there was a loud knocking at the door. “Watch
out”, said one, “it must be the sheriff”. And it was! He stood at the door, waiting to be invited in (he was
a friend of Norman and Pauline’s) and saying, in the broadest of accents, “A’ve just come from Sherwood”.

In the summer of 1954 Dolly Diamond realised a long-held ambition to visit her sister in Australia
– and yes, she would visit my aunt and check up on her. There was a big farewell party before she left
which Peter and I could not miss. I was on holiday with my parents in Parkstone, near Bournemouth and
Peter had gone down to stay with Auntie Clara so that we could be together. My parents gave their
permission for us to go back up to London for the day for the party and I believe I was actually permitted
to stay out till midnight. We went up on the Vespa, enjoyed the party and left in plenty of time to get
back. But in Basingstoke the bike coughed and stopped. We had petrol, that wasn’t the problem, but it
was now after 10pm, dark and all the garages were closed. Nothing for it, we’d have to spend the night
and try to get it fixed the next morning. We tried a couple of hotels, but they were fully booked. Someone
pointed out that there was a big atomic energy conference in town and probably no accommodation. I
had to let my parents know what had happened and there was no phone in the boarding house where
they were staying. We went to the police station and explained our plight and I asked whether it would
be possible for them to phone the Parkstone station and have them send a policeman to the house to
explain what had happened. No problem, of course they could do that. Then the policeman asked where
we were going to spend the night. We told him we hadn’t found anything yet, perhaps he could
recommend somewhere.

“Well”, he said, “Our inspector won’t be in until morning. We could offer you two cells for the
night – but you’ll have to be out by the time the inspector comes around at 7.30”. We accepted,
gratefully. I don’t ever want to go to jail – there is no privacy, the toilet has only half of a door, the bed is
hard, and Peter’s blanket had fleas, judging by the bites on his body next day. Still, we slept and were
awakened next morning with a nice cup of tea, brought in by a friendly young policeman and when we
offered to pay for our accommodation were invited to make a donation to the Policemen’s’ Benevolent
Fund, which we did, gratefully.

Peter, able to see his precious bike again stuck a pin in a small hole and it started quite happily,
and we rode off, arriving at my parents’ in time for breakfast. Many years later I was telling this tale to
someone and my mother said, “Oh, so that was true. Daddy and I thought you’d made it up so you could
stay away longer.” Oh, these untrusting parents!

Then, suddenly, it was 1955 and I was going to be twenty-one at the end of March. We set about
making plans. Connie and Teddy had no objection to my moving in with Peter – they’d seen a lot of me
over the past two years. We needed to have a Registry Office wedding and Connie said we could use her
living room for the reception. Invitations went out to all our friends. Three weeks before the date we
went to Hackney and Wandsworth Town Halls to register. We were unable to get married actually on my
birthday because it fell on a Monday and we had to give three weeks and a day’s notice, and the offices

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