Free Eighty Not Out by Elizabeth McCullough Page A

districts of the city. Harry, the chief engineer, joined my tennis club in the summer of 1947 when I was nineteen; he too was thirty-eight, and a dead-ringer for John Mills.
    Soon he asked me to dinner at the Grosvenor Rooms – where the Europa Hotel now stands – then considered the most fashionable place to eat. At last I was catching up with Celia’s sophisticated lifestyle, having too long envied her accounts of dinners eaten and drinks drunk – Pimm’s was her favourite – at this restaurant. I do not remember much about the meals, apart from Harry asking for French fries, and the waiter not understanding what was required. He was not a culture vulture, so most of our outings were to cinemas. I brought him home to meet my mother and aunt. Rosemary was by now working for a radiologist in private practice; the fact that she was the same age as my swain was again not a plus point, although I chose to ignore it. His Irish ancestors had emigrated from Ennistymon not far from the Cliffs of Moher in County Clare; his childhood was spent in London, Ontario, before he went to university to study engineering, prior to joining the Royal Canadian Navy. None of us enquired, nor were we told much, about his extended family; his mother and sister sent parcels of fruit cake and other delicacies unobtainable or scarce in Northern Ireland, and he sometimes went to Donegal in the Republic on shopping expeditions, bringing back nylon stockings – this was before the life-transforming advent of tights – and lengths of Donegal tweed, destined for Canada, where it was regarded as very fashionable.
    Thus began a hectic social life involving many drinks parties both at the captain’s flat and in the ward room of the Magnificent . Captain Balfour, of Scots descent, was a towering figure with what can best be described as a rough-hewn countenance, rather like the Easter Island statues. Renowned for a fiery temper, and unpredictable outbursts of venom, I was warned that being female was no barrier to becoming a target. His wife, of the same craggy build, wore little make-up, and in contrast to the other officers’ wives, dressed informally, preferring tweeds and jerseys to more feminine styles. When she came under fire, rather than engaging in fruitless defence or argument, she ignored him, knowing he would soon turn on another victim. Having no experience of the dramatic changes in personality and behaviour excessive drinking can provoke, I did not recognise the mood swings were due to a prodigious intake of alcohol. The officers under his command were in no doubt, but accepted his abrasive personality without apparent censure – heavy drinking, after all, was the norm in all naval circles.
    For the first drinks party I attended I wore the blue taffeta Gainsborough dress, sensible that it emphasised my youth and compared unfavourably with the more svelte styles worn by the wives of other officers. A few of the junior officers were unaccompanied, and Harry was the only senior one to bring a local girl – me. Rum and Coke was a favourite tipple, and at one point I remember being asked: ‘Just how much does it take to get you drunk?’ I despised those women who became giggly and unsteady on their feet, or worse, would disappear in haste to the ablutions, emerging looking pale and sweaty. My mother, despite the fact that alcohol had been the root cause of her failed marriage, had little experience of social drinking, but had warned me that drink affected one’s judgement and lowered female resistance to opportunistic advances: she did not mention its effect when the advances were welcome. I suspect most of the advice was based on hearsay, as apart from the cider at Christmas, she never drank, explaining that even a glass of sherry made her feel out of control and slightly dizzy.
    My deflowering took place early on New Year’s Day in a jeep parked in the Castlereagh hills: the temperature