The Waterfall Gods

By Jane Paul

This is the story of an ordinary English family that, partly because of the times through which they lived but more probably because of the choices they made, became an extraordinary family. The characters are drawn from life, but much poetic license has been taken, and the order of events and conversations of necessity, fictitious; but their stories are true. They are taken from the diaries, letters, and recollections of those who experienced them. Dates, times, and names have been changed to protect identities and privacy.

It tells of the beautiful, gentle Catherine Hamilton, whose romantic dreams saw her caught up in a loveless marriage to an English policeman in Ceylon, manipulated into a web of deceit and cruelty. Her beloved sister, Victoria, talented, ambitious, and vivacious, who became the darling of the West End in prewar London, and of the trials and tribulations of the two young English women in the 1920s, in Ceylon. It tells of the heat, leopards, snakes, and the inherent dangers in the colony. Also of the men in their lives, and of the children, whose lives were so influenced by the choices of their parents.

My father wanted this story told.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Sep 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503509429

Jane Paul

Jane Paul was born in England and travelled extensively throughout much of the world, both as a child, with her parents, and later as an adult. Her early life was spent as a ballet dancer in Australia and Europe. When illness ended that career, she went nursing, qualifying as a registered nurse in the 1960s. This, in turn, took her to some of the more remote areas of Australia. She has been writing since she was a small girl, but The Waterfall Gods is her first published work. A work mainly of fiction but based on her family’s history. Since retirement, Jane has been travelling again, recently to Sri Lanka, for background material for her novel. In her spare time, she enjoys her children and grandchildren; gardening, music, her dog, and cats; and drinking wine and swapping good books with her old friends. She intends to wear out, not rust out!

Book preview

Prologue

BACK TO THE BEGINNING

Matthew wearily wiped the salt from his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief as the harbour pilot guided the limping trawler Andromeda through the rough seas into the safety of Sri Lanka’s Galle Harbour.

‘Your first trip to Sri Lanka, Captain?’ asked the pilot.

‘No. It isn’t. I was here as a boy, and I called in to Colombo on a ship just before the war. It was a long time ago. I expect a lot has changed since then.’

The pilot laughed. ‘Indeed, yes. I was not even born then! I expect you will see many changes in my country, Captain. Not all of them good, I’m sad to tell you!’

Conversation ceased as the pilot manoeuvred the Andromeda alongside Closenburg wharf.

It had been a long slow trip of almost 3,000 miles from Darwin, Australia, during which they had been plagued by engine trouble, malfunctioning air-conditioning, and bad weather, from the tail of the south-west monsoon. The diesel fuel taken on in Darwin turned out to be 1 per cent water, which meant that when the engines failed halfway across the Indian Ocean and the ship was drifting helplessly, the fuel lines had to be emptied and the filters changed. Even so, they had intermittent fuel problems the remainder of their journey to Sri Lanka.

The crew, a motley bunch, recruited from Darwin and Brisbane, were disgruntled with the conditions. It had not been a happy journey. Matthew sighed; he couldn’t really blame them. He himself was relieved to be leaving the ship shortly for his flight home.

Born in Ceylon to English parents, Matthew had fond, if childish, memories of his time there, particularly of Kandy, and he had been looking forward to returning. He looked around keenly. He had not been to Galle since he was a very small boy and his recollections were hazy.

The pilot pointed out some landmarks he found vaguely familiar. The Old Portuguese fort was still impressive; the Closenburg Hotel, where he had once stayed with his mother and father, still kept its magnificent views across the harbour. He looked back to Watering Point, where he had picnicked with his sister in the 1920s, but the town itself looked run-down, rather sad and somehow smaller.

He shook the pilot’s hand. ‘Many thanks for your services. After the trip we’ve had, it is a relief to be here, I can tell you!’

The pilot nodded and smiled, ‘You are very welcome, Captain. I hope you enjoy your stay and that you will find some happy memories in my country.’

After over fifty years at sea, retirement had made Matthew restless, so initially, he had jumped at the chance to go back, even if only for a few weeks, to sail this prawn trawler to Sri Lanka. He now wondered, not for the first time, how he had ever been persuaded to skipper the vessel for delivery for its new owner

It seemed a crazy purchase for the normally sane Englishman, John Coughlin, to make in a country gripped by political unrest and uncertainty.

Matthew knew John quite well, having served with him many years earlier on an oil tanker in the Persian Gulf. He knew him to be an experienced skipper, who was now apparently determined to make his fortune prawn trawling. It is an industry largely neglected in recent times, certainly on a commercial scale, due to civil war.

The safest area for prawn trawling was just off the west coast, a limited area on a very narrow shelf which fell sharply into deep water. The best was in the north of the country, in an area where the Tamil revolution was still in full swing.

He hoped the skipper knew the risks involved in what he was doing. Not that it was Matthew’s concern any more. He had undertaken the delivery of the Andromeda on the promise of a generous remuneration, an air ticket home and a chance to visit his childhood home. His task was over.

The customs and immigration staff came on board for their usual checks. Matthew presented the ship’s papers, whilst the customs made a routine search of the vessel. Before he knew what was happening, amid much shouting and waving of hands, the captain and all five crew members were marched off the ship to the customs office and handed over to the local police. They were all under arrest! The charge? Illegal gunrunning! Apparently, fire arms had been found in the crew’s quarters, unlicensed and undeclared!

Six hours later, after much, mostly incomprehensible, questioning, they were still at the police station with nothing resolved. Matthew’s head ached. He was tired and wanted nothing more than a hot shower, a cold beer, and a good night’s sleep. Still the questioning went on.

Attempts to contact the ship’s agent in Colombo proved fruitless and only added to Matthew’s anxiety. Since he was supposed to be leaving the ship next day and had not, as yet, obtained a visa or his air ticket to Australia, he was technically an illegal immigrant!

Could it get much worse! A charge of gunrunning, in a country fractured by civil war, was an offence which could well carry a long jail sentence or worse.

The police superintendent flicked through the passports with obvious disinterest. Then he stopped and looked at Matthew’s for a long time. He studied Matthew himself with equal interest, stood up, and beckoned to him. ‘Come please, Captain,’ he said as he walked through into another room.

Matthew felt a moment’s apprehension as he followed him out of the office. He remembered the police in this country were a powerful force, whose members could be difficult if they chose. They were not above using ‘gentle persuasion’ to illicit information, but what could he tell them? He knew nothing of his crew’s activities!

The room he entered was a boardroom that had seen better days. There were a dozen or so leather chairs with cracked upholstery around a large, dust-covered table. On the walls were a number of honour rolls, some faded and peeling.

The superintendent stopped in front of one of them. He indicated the name of ‘Edward Clovelly, former Chief of Police. Any relation?’ he asked curtly.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Matthew. ‘He was my father.’

The superintendent appeared pleased. ‘My father served with Chief Clovelly,’ he said, smiling as he shook Matthew’s hand firmly.

‘It is odd, is it not, that their sons should meet here under such strange circumstances? Welcome to Galle, Captain Clovelly!’

Within half an hour, all the men were escorted back to the harbour. Their guns were confiscated; they were given a verbal warning and advised not to leave their ship prior to their return flights to Australia.

Matthew did not tell the crew why they had been released, and they were left thinking, with great admiration, that their captain must have done some pretty fancy deal with the superintendent to secure their release!

He himself was given a fourteen-day visa to stay in the country, a letter to the local police along the way to ensure his safety, and the superintendent assigned to him the use of a police car and driver for the duration of his stay. The ordeal was finally over.

The next afternoon after John Coughlin’s arrival, Matthew took leave of the ship and her crew. The police driver had arranged to take him to Colombo, to the shipping agent, to collect his cheque and his ticket home.

Although not so many miles, it was a tortuous journey, navigating through the narrow streets, past pedestrians, who all seemed to think they had right of way! The traditional Buddhist sacred cows wandered everywhere, sometimes sleeping on the roadway in front of them. All this apart from the crazy traffic!

When Matthew finally arrived in Colombo, it was too late to contact the shipping agents, so he booked himself into an old hotel he knew. There was no hot water, but at least the bed was clean and soft and the beer was cold!

The next morning, he went to the shipping office. There was no promised cheque and no air ticket waiting for him with the agent responsible. After much procrastination and debate, a disgruntled clerk eventually gave him the equivalent of eight hundred Australian dollars in rupees, promising to arrange a flight home in a week’s time. As for the matter of the balance of his remuneration, he was advised to take up with the Australian office on his return!

Matthew decided to take the car on to Kandy to look up his old home. It was an impressive drive of some one hundred and forty miles, all much the same as he remembered. His driver, no respecter of persons, had no tolerance at all for pedestrians and leaned out of the car window to push them out of the way. The roads were badly potholed and very narrow, particularly on the bridge abutments, and anyone pushed off there could easily fall down the embankment and into the ditch. Many did, but nobody seemed to take undue offence.

As he left Colombo city behind, there were small, colourful market stalls along much of the roadside, selling everything from clothes, jewellery, and furniture to household goods and pots and pans. Numerous food stalls emitted fascinating smells, reminiscent of his childhood. Goats, donkeys, oxen pulling heavy loads, and elephants walked unhurried in the roadway.

Amongst the patches of lush green jungle were dotted small villages, where smiling children played happily on the roadside, waving shyly to the passing traffic.

When he reached Kandy, he booked himself in to the Thalanka Guest House, a remnant of the colonial past with a wide cool veranda and quietly whirring overhead fans in the comfortable rooms … He had a welcome hot shower, some refreshments, and a good night’s sleep.

Early next morning, he went down to the reception, where a smiling girl behind the desk found him a map of the town and surrounding areas and directed him to a part of town where she thought he might find his former home.

Matthew strolled down through the courtyard of the Temple of the Tooth and along the edge of the beautiful lake. Once in the main street, he hailed a tuk-tuk, the local three-wheeled taxi car and headed up the slopes and, finally, to the house where he was born.

The old home appeared comfortably familiar on its leafy hillside. He walked slowly up the path, through the gardens where he had played as a child. A broken swing hung forlornly from a tree by a rotting rope, the flower beds were overgrown, the once beautiful dolphin fountain lay broken and dry. He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

After what seemed like ages, the front door slowly opened. As Matthew looked at the old woman, the memories came flooding back. Slender and graceful, she still showed signs of the once beautiful girl. Her golden skin was unmarked by age, and her once glossy black hair, now silver, hung to her waist. For a moment, he was unable to speak. Eventually, he said, ‘Hello, Silani.’

As she stared at him, the old woman caught her breath. He was the image of his once handsome father, but she quickly recovered and, ignoring his outstretched hand, said curtly, ‘Yes?’

‘Silani, I am Matthew Clovelly. Do you not recognise me?’

She gave a slight nod. ‘Why have you come here, Matthew? What do you want? There is nothing for you here. Everything your father had, he left for me. There is nothing else. Please go away and leave me alone!’

Matthew took a step back. ‘I didn’t come to take anything away,’ he said softly. ‘I just wanted to see you, Silani, and to remember my family.’

Silani did not answer him but shook her head and as she went to close the door. Matthew stopped it with his hand. ‘If you change your mind and you do want to see me, I am staying at the Thalanka Guest House until Tuesday.’

‘Why would I want to see you?’ she said. ‘You do not belong here anymore, Matthew.’

‘OK, OK, I will go but can you at least tell me where my father is buried?’ he asked quietly.

She paused and then indicated across the lake. ‘The British Garrison Cemetery, quite near where you are staying. Now you must go. Goodbye, Matthew.’

As the door closed firmly in his face, Matthew felt incredibly sad. The years had not blunted Silani’s resentment towards himself and his gentle mother. There had been a time, he remembered, when Silani had loved and cossetted him as if he were her own. That was before everything changed.

He walked slowly back the way he had come, hailed a tuk-tuk for the drive across town, and then walked up the narrow winding lane and a few stone steps, through the iron gates to the old cemetery.

It was a quiet secluded spot with high cliffs on two sides and low stone walls overlooking the lake below. In the still early morning, there was a gentle mist drifting across the hillside. The only sound was the twittering of tiny birds. Matthew felt a lump in his throat. Such a beautiful but lonely place, so far from England.

He managed to find the old caretaker and asked directions to his father’s grave. Further disappointment was that nobody had bothered to pay the sixty-rupee fee to register the plot, so no record of the actual spot existed. The caretaker vaguely directed him to a far, overgrown corner of the cemetery. As he stood gazing out over the beautiful lake, Matthew thought what an inglorious end it was for the once powerful Edward Clovelly.

He felt thoroughly depressed by the events of the day. He wandered back down the lane, along the lake to the guest house, reflecting, as he walked, on the futility of all that had passed before.

He thought of his father long gone; his mother, now a very old lady; his fascinating aunt Victoria; his sisters Amber and Angela; and of Akhtar. This beautiful place had affected all their lives.

He spent the next few days exploring Kandy and its surrounds. Armed with his letter of introduction from the police superintendent, he went to the local police station to see where his father had once worked. A large white Colonial-style building, in the centre of town, still housed the police force, greatly enlarged since the Civil War.

It was extremely busy, but the officers there were friendly and interested to meet him. They treated him to a cup of tea, and although they were all far too young to have known his father, they had many ideas on how policing had changed since his time.

Matthew could just remember seeing his father in his police uniform. His earliest enduring memory of him was of his height or was it that he himself had been very small? He used to ride up in front of his father on a big bay gelding, as he did his rounds. He remembered him teaching his small son how to ride his new bicycle, down the path in their garden. Most of all, he remembered his father’s rich deep voice and his warm laugh. That too was before everything changed.

With the help of the police, he was able to locate the tea plantation that had once belonged to Cyril and Mary Dixon. They had been special friends of his parents. Of course, they too were long gone, but the present owners welcomed him. An older couple, they vaguely remembered the Dixons, and his father, although not his mother, and their hospitality was heart-warming after Silani’s coolness.

On his last evening in Kandy, Matthew treated himself to an excellent dinner at the Queen’s Hotel, a remnant of Kandy’s colonial past. To him, it seemed to be more English than England and dressing for dinner was just an accepted custom.

When he arrived back at his lodgings, he was surprised to find a parcel waiting for him at reception. He took it up to his room and hastily unwrapped it. Inside he found two small paintings: one of a village in Derbyshire, which he recognised immediately as Avondale, and the other, a beautiful picture of a jungle waterfall, obviously somewhere in Sri Lanka. Attached to the package was a note, which read,

Matthew,

I believe these were painted by your mother. I thought you might like to have them. Silani.

A rush of emotion passed over him as he stared down at the small pictures. A reminder of his mother’s time in Sri Lanka.

He thought of his beautiful, gentle mother, Catherine, as he remembered her, sitting in the garden on the hill, painting. She was so loving, always hugging him and telling him how much she loved him, in her soft lilting voice.

A frown creased his brow, as other vague memories crossed his mind – his mother weeping, his father shouting. At the time, he had not understood what was happening, just that his world of love and warmth came to an abrupt end.

It was all such a long time ago. He was suddenly very glad to be going home.

Chapter One

THE HAMILTONS

The three Hamilton sisters grew up in the small village of Avondale in Derbyshire in England. As the children of a country doctor, with a well-established practice, they had the advantage of a large, comfortable home, positioned on a hillside, overlooking the river Derwent, and the rolling green dales beyond. In the distance were the misty moors Catherine knew and loved so well. The garden of their home was large, well-tended, and always a mass of colour and perfume. A chattering stream ran through it on its way down to the river.

The ‘beautiful Hamilton Girls’ as they were known in the district had a happy and very normal upbringing, and they took part in the social life of their class. All of them rode, played the piano, took dancing lessons, and pursued the gentle arts of sewing and painting. There were servants to make life easier for their mama – a governess, a cook, a maid, a gardener, and a groom.

In the late 1880s, their father, Charles Hamilton, had graduated with honours from the Edinburgh University School of Medicine, where he and his brother Alexander, had followed in the footsteps of their parents, both British doctors in India. Their father Robert was an eminent and respected surgeon in the British Army in Calcutta. His wife, Veronica, worked at the military hospital, providing care for the wives and families of serving army personnel.

Both their sons had been born in India and sent back to Scotland to a prestigious boarding school, as was the custom at the time. Alexander was eight years old, Charles only six. The two little boys seldom saw their parents over the next ten years, but it seemed inevitable that medicine would be their calling.

Alexander struggled with his studies, barely passing his final examinations before going to work in a small cottage hospital in the English countryside, where he met and married, Jessica Howard and settled into an obscure country life with his wife and, later, twin daughters.

Charles following two years later. He was a brilliant student, whose final results earned him a much-sought-after gold medal and the honour of being invited to complete his residency in Edinburgh at the Royal Edinburgh Infirmary, eventually staying on for some years.

It was there that he met and, in due course married, the daughter of one of his professors. Sylvia Colchester was considered to be one of the most beautiful and charming young women in Edinburgh and theirs was a love match that was to last through all adversity, for the rest of their lives.

Always keen on the idea of general practice, Charles was offered a partnership in a busy practice in Derbyshire by Dr George Prentiss, one of his former lecturers. Dr Prentiss was looking for a bright young doctor who would be able to take over his practice when he retired, in the not-too-distant future. In Charles Hamilton, he found the ideal candidate. The young couple moved south and bought a pretty house in the village of Avondale.

Apart from his not inconsiderable skills as a doctor, Charles was a kind, quiet, and thoughtful man with a rare gift of making everyone, with whom he dealt, feel as if they were the most important person he had seen all day. To Charles Hamilton, medicine was never just a job. He genuinely loved his profession, his community, and his patients.

He was greatly cherished by the people of the district he served. His kindness, good humour, and understanding, and his propensity to forget to send a bill to an out-of-work farm labourer all contributed to his fine reputation. With some of the locals claiming, ‘E be a right saint our doctor ’amilton.’

His wife Sylvia filled her role with charm and dignity. Although more restrained than her husband and less inclined to make friends, she was seen on every committee and function designed to give Charles support. She always demonstrated a great sense of propriety and was not afraid to voice her displeasure at anything that she considered fell short of her standards.

When their first daughter, Martha, was born, Charles felt a fleeting disappointment that it was not a son, but he soon became enchanted by the little girl. A replica of her mother, Martha was a beautiful child. Her golden curls and blue eyes complemented her loving and sunny nature which endeared her to all. However, with her father, she had a very special bond.

Within a year, Sylvia was expecting their second child. After their joyful expectations, a tiny son was born in the spring. He was christened Charles Robert Hamilton; sadly, he did not live to see the summer and was buried in the little church yard near the river.

They cried together for their loss. They were young, he told his wife, and that there would be other sons.

Two more little boys joined their brother in the church yard before two further daughters were born to the Hamiltons over the next few years. The good doctor put aside his disappointment and loved all his daughters greatly.

The three girls, Martha, Catherine, and Victoria, grew happy and healthy, and they were admired and respected wherever they went.

Martha was as beautiful as a young woman as she had been as a small girl – intelligent with an enquiring mind and sound judgement. Her father was delighted when, at seventeen years of age, Martha reiterated her desire to study medicine at the University of Edinburgh.

However, he was also a very sensible man. He was aware that the road she had chosen would be long and arduous. There was still much prejudice against women doctors in such a male-orientated profession. He recalled reading a report some years earlier by a clerk at the Royal Edinburgh Infirmary, which stated,

‘Examination of patients by a mixed class of students would be repugnant to patients. Also, many examinations and operations are offensive in nature and could not be undertaken before a mixed class without violating the feelings of propriety and decorum.’

Charles knew that much progress had been made in recent years in the education of doctors.

As early as 1872, the hospital board had passed a motion allowing female students to receive clinical instruction but at a separate hour to males and only in certain wards within the hospital. He was also aware that there remained a proportion of his colleagues who retained these outmoded sentiments.

At the university, the medical schools for men and women were still separate. However, he had faith in the strength and ability of his beautiful daughter, and together they drafted an application. Three weeks later, she was called in for an interview. Six weeks later, she left for Edinburgh to begin her studies.

Martha did extremely well at the university. She faced the many challenges with optimism and impressed her tutors with her intelligence and enthusiasm. She completed her second and third years and prior to her graduation, she wrote to her parents.

School of Medicine

2 July 1909

Dear Papa and Mama,

Well, I finally made it! I have passed my final examinations and will soon be able to call myself Doctor Martha Hamilton!

The date for the graduation ceremony has been given as 30 August. I do hope you will be able to come up. I will send you a formal invitation to the graduation. Papa, if it is all right with you, I would like to do some of my follow-up training with you in your practice. It is necessary for me to have some supervised practice, and I can’t think of a better place to do it.

By the way, as luck would have it, the merger of the male and female schools of medicine has just been announced. It will start with the next intake of students! Pity it didn’t happen sooner. It will certainly provide women students with greater opportunities.

Lots of love

Martha

The formal invitation duly arrived and her parents made the long trip up to Edinburgh by train to see their daughter graduate from medical school at the top of her class. They were both delighted and her papa’s pride knew no bounds.

After graduation, Martha went to work with her father and his young, newly graduated partner, Dr James Blair, in the practice in Avondale. Like her papa, she had a special talent for communication and empathy, which quickly overcame any reservations the villagers had about her their new doctor being a woman. Very quickly, she became a much loved and valued member of the partnership and of the community.

Her father harboured a secret hope that one day Martha might marry his new young partner, James Blair, thus ensuring the future of the clinic, but although they worked well together, Martha showed little interest in a love life nor in any of the young men who regularly showered her with invitations.

It, therefore, came as a great surprise to them all when she asked her mother, rather shyly, if she could invite a young man to Sunday lunch. He was, she said, a brother of her friend Heather from medical school. He was an engineer on one of the big liners regularly crossing the Atlantic, to and from America, and he was on his way south to join a ship in Southampton.

David Kilmurray duly arrived. He was a tall, pleasant-looking young man, and the family were quickly won over by his easy charm and his soft Scottish brogue.

Well-educated, the son of a lawyer and an Edinburgh socialite, his sister, Heather was a doctor in Martha’s class and his two younger brothers both at university in Edinburgh.

More important than all this to Charles was the way in which the young man behaved towards Martha. He had arrived with flowers for both Martha and her mother and was very charming and attentive. ‘Any man who treats my daughter as he does is all right with me,’ he later confided to his wife.

Martha said very little, but it was evident to her parents that she was much taken with David Kilmurray and looked to be falling in love. The young couple exchanged letters and things progressed rapidly.

On his next visit, David asked her father for permission to marry her. The initial concerns Charles felt about the future of Martha’s medical career were quickly dispelled when David asked if it would be possible for her to stay with her parents over the next few months while he was away and, later, studying.

This, he said, would enable him to gain his promotion and to buy their own home sooner, preferably nearby so that Martha could continue her work with her father. The Hamiltons were delighted. Martha’s happiness would be assured; she could still work at the clinic and live at home for the time being. Everything seemed perfect, and the wedding was scheduled for September.

What a glorious day it turned out to be! Martha was so happy; she was bubbling over. ‘It is a wonderful thing,’ she told her two young sisters, ‘to be able to marry the man you love above all others, a man you cannot imagine your life without!’

Catherine promised herself that when she grew up, she would look for such a husband. Victoria thought it highly unlikely that such a man existed, apart from her beloved papa!

Martha looked radiant in white organza gown with a full-length veil and her blonde curls held in place by a tiny coronet interlaced with pink and white flowers.

The local people all turned out to wish her well as she passed through the village in her flower-bedecked carriage. In the tiny church near their home, her proud father walked her down the aisle, to her waiting groom, to exchange their vows. She was gloriously happy.

Catherine thought about the legend her grandpapa had told her about the Greek gods.

‘Never let the Gods know your happiness, lest they become jealous and seek to destroy it.’

She thought it silly! Everyone knew it was just an old-fashioned legend! Grandpapa must have known a hundred of them! He had also said the gods lived in rocks and under waterfalls. Well, she was sure she had never seen any of them around Avondale!

This rather contradicted the old gypsy fortune-teller whom Catherine had seen at the village fair one year, who had told her. ‘You will always be happy, my love, if you are within the sound of running water.’

The wedding brought together family who seldom saw each other from year to year, but it was a fun gathering. The Hamilton cousins, Francesca, always known as ‘Frankie’, and Charmaine, the twin daughters of their father’s brother Alexander and their aunt Jessica, were welcome guests.

Accompanying them was their cousin, Edward Clovelly. A tall, blonde, extremely good-looking young man. Edward had lived with his aunt and uncle since his own parents had died under tragic circumstances some years previously.

Three years ago, he had joined the Colonial Police force in Ceylon and was at present in England on study leave. Catherine thought Edward was wonderful. She hung on every word as he told her about Ceylon and his life there.

‘I will never have anything exciting like that happen to me,’ she told him. ‘How wonderful it must be to see elephants just wandering around and leopards! I have only ever seen such things in books!’

He laughed at her enthusiasm and promised to send her a post card of an elephant when he went back to Ceylon. A promise he duly kept, much to her delight!

Following the wedding, David and Martha left by train for a three-week honeymoon in Devon. After they had gone, amid tears and hugs, the Hamiltons sat in the sitting room discussing the day. Mama, still dabbing her reddened eyes, declared the entire day an absolute success. ‘Martha was just the most beautiful bride I have