J.R.'s figure disappeared from view, and I was truly on my own.

I was sailing on an Italian ship, the M.V. "Africa", from Dar es Salaam (to avoid going through Nairobi), to Genoa, through the Red Sea and Suez Canal again. I would be disembarking at Genoa to complete the journey across Northern Italy and France to Calais by train, followed by the cross Channel steamer to Dover and thence by train to Victoria terminus. The idea was that this would cut the journey by a week and avoid the last days of probably rough weather through the Bay of Biscay and up the English Channel. I knew the "Africa" was a brand new ship and this would be its return maiden voyage, from Cape Town back to Genoa; everyone had confidently told me that I should have a very comfortable trip and be well looked after. What I hadn't been able to make anyone understand was that in my condition I was not in the mood to be sociable and would much have preferred a quick air trip. But I had given way to pressure as usual, and was now gearing myself up to at least having a couple of weeks' holiday, and doing a lot of knitting.

But the train journey down to the coast was something I really could have done without. I had a sleeping compartment and all conveniences, and also made friends with a young woman and her small child travelling in the adjoining compartment, but the time dragged dreadfully. Added to which, the train broke down and we were stranded for several hours at a small wayside station, getting hotter and hotter, and unable to find out the cause of the delay.

The only thing which shook me temporarily out of my depression was that at one of our stopping places I had my first and only sighting of a Masai warrior. There he unmistakably was, a tall thin African with his long ringlets coated in red mud, a cloak of monkey skins flung over one shoulder and a long spear in his hand, standing proud, aloof and independent, taking no notice of anyone. For about five minutes I envied him. He didn't have to rush about catching trains and ships to take him to places he didn't want to go to. This continent, Africa, was his home and we were the interlopers. He only had to patiently wait his time and we would undoubtedly all go away again, and he and his tribe could get on with their lives as they had done for centuries.

Then the train jerked into motion again and I was jerked back to the present day.

When we eventually arrived in Dar es Salaam it was dark. My luggage was dispatched straight to the ship, already waiting in the harbour, and I spent the weekend in a sea-front hotel, fretting because I wanted to be on the move. The hotel was filled with mainly English civil servants and up-country mining personnel on short leaves, who were all determinedly having a good time. It was "the weekend" again. I sat and watched them, all these total strangers, knocking back their gin and tonics and ice cold beers, while I was dutifully sipping lime juice and water, wishing I was back at Geita.

Finally, I was able to board the ship and find my cabin, which it appeared I was sharing with a young Polish girl, Maria. She and her mother had come to England after the end of the War, but for the last year Maria had been working as a secretary in Cape Town. Now her work permit had run out and she was on her way back to Europe, to be met by her mother at Genoa. She told me very soon that they were both now naturalised British citizens and that her most treasured possession was her British passport, which she would never part with under any circumstances. I sensed a story in the background here, but didn't ask any questions. She certainly spoke English like a native.

We sailed at dawn the next morning. We were soon past Zanzibar, which we saw as a palm fringed coastline across the blue water, and our first port of call was Italian Mogadishu, before we rounded the Horn of Africa and entered the Red Sea. The worst problem for me was the moist heat. I was very much affected by it, probably because I was pregnant, and in my ignorance I thought that the notorious Red Sea heat, which had not been too bad in January, could not possibly be worse than this. And why anyone should want to go to a place like Mogadishu was beyond our comprehension. We lay out in the bay, gently stewing, while small boats ferried passengers to and from the distant shore, and all we could see was a sandy spit and parched land, not even a sign of any town. It was hot enough to fry an egg on the deck.

At Mogadishu we collected another passenger in our cabin, an Italian girl who spoke no word of English. As Maria and I knew no Italian, communication between us and the newcomer was rather difficult. We never even got to know her name. To us she was "the signora", and we didn't take to her much as she didn't wash very often. This, in a small cabin and with the temperature permanently in the eighties, was not endearing.

Maria and I shared a table in the dining saloon with two young English men going home on leave from up-country Tanganyika and a single woman, whom I immediately labeled "Bossy Boots". She appeared to be one of these people who think they know everything worth knowing, and who deem it their duty to enlighten all who come within their orbit. She was on the second half of a round-Africa sea trip, and at our first meal together she insisted on showing us her booty. This consisted of some small carved wooden animals she had bought while exploring Dar es Salaam, and she proudly told us how much she had paid for them. Dan, one of the young men, informed her right away that she had paid too much.

"But I don't care!" she exclaimed, staring defiantly at him with her rather protuberant blue eyes - (like marbles, I thought. She was no beauty). "I shall only be passing this way once, so it doesn't matter to me if I paid too much. I couldn't get them in England at any price!"

Dan was irritated. "That's not the point", he said. "It's people like you, tourists, who spoil the market for the rest of us".

A long and pointless argument developed between the two of them, while the rest of us concentrated on our food. I could see fun and games between these two for the rest of the trip. Maria grinned at me and poured another glass of wine for both of us. The rough red Italian vino was on the table for every meal and we drank it instead of water, not being too certain of the purity of the ship's drinking water. Nobody had told me that perhaps wine was not the best nourishment for unborn infants, but I had to drink something and it doesn't seem to have done my daughter any harm.

The next evening, Bossy Boots sat down at our table obviously bursting to impart some earth-shattering piece of news.

"Do any of you", she began, fixing each of us in turn with her eagle eye, "know what is the meaning of Dar es Salaam?"

Well, as it happened I did, but I wasn't going to spoil her fun. The others at the table either didn't know or didn't care, but there was no doubt we were all going to be informed forthwith.

"Haven of Peace!" she intoned. and then looked all around to observe our various reactions. These were not very startling - Dan looked bored, Michael said, "Well, fancy that!" and Maria got the giggles. In any case, it didn't matter what our reactions were, she didn't notice, being totally engrossed in herself. She loved the sound of her own voice, and I was sorry we were going to be stuck with her at every meal for the next fourteen days, but barring accidents, such as her falling overboard at the dead of night, it looked as if that was the way it was going to be.

The first part of the voyage was enlivened for all of us by the actions of some of the other passengers. This was not a one-class ship like the others I had traveled on, but had three separate sections - first class, second class, and steerage. I was travelling second class to save money, because as I had only been at Geita for eight months I didn't warrant a free passage home. First class was obviously more opulent, but I didn't have any grouse against second class. The cabin was comfortable, the lounge spacious and the food in the saloon was as good as Elder Dempster's. I didn't need any luxuries, only speed, to get me home.

But the steerage housed amongst other people twenty or thirty ex-convicts from South Africa, petty criminals who were being forcibly returned to their homeland, Italy, at the end of their prison sentences. Evidently South Africa had had enough of them and preferred their absence to their presence. They were well into the vino every evening, and we could look down into the well deck where they all sat around in a circle, singing Neapolitan songs and becoming more and more boisterous. After an hour or two the fun would really begin, when they would start to break up the ship's furniture and pitch it over the side, and the poor Captain was beside himself with fury and impotence.

"My beautiful ship!" he would exclaim, ringing his hands and capering about, at a complete loss to know what to do and how to cope. He was obviously thinking of what the owners would say if the brand new ship finally docked at Genoa after its maiden trip, looking as if it had been at war. I don't know how he sorted the matter out, but we had regular musical evenings accompanied by the crunch of wood meeting metal, and sometimes fists meeting heads, until we got shot of them when we docked at Naples.

Once we arrived at Aden and started to progress northwards up the Red Sea, the heat became intolerable. It was so hot by nine every morning that I was in despair as to how I was to get through the day. I simply wanted to die. I didn't know whether to sit down, lie down or stand up, in my cabin, on the deck or in one of the lounges. At times I felt I couldn't breathe, and I must have drunk hundreds of bottles of fizzy lemonade from the ship's shop, in an effort to replace the fluid I was sweating off. It was hot, hot, hot, and I was worried for the baby as I knew very little about how excess heat would affect it. At one point I visited the ship's doctor because my ankles were swelling, but he was no help at all - simply told me to lie down. In the end, it was a question of gritting my teeth and enduring, day after day, until finally when we reached Suez the heat did start to abate.

By the time we reached Port Said, it was only pleasantly warm. It was dark when we arrived there and there was no question of either Maria or I going ashore. We were both too scared. Instead we retired to our cabin, where there was no sign of Signora, and we were then subjected to visitations from various unknown males, probably from the lower deck, who, repeatedly knocked on the door, enquiring gently "Would you like to come for a walk round the deck?" Offers which we had no difficulty in refusing.

At the same time, through the porthole we could see strange men in small boats, coming close up to the side of the ship, holding cards up to us and saying, persuasively, "You buy dirty postcards ?" Looking out of the porthole, we could see the boats clearly, and the swarthy-looking vendors bending double and grinning at us, waving the cards for us to see. Between one and the other/ door and porthole, we could only sit tight, put out the light and wait for the ship's engines to start up again and carry us on into the Mediterranean.

We had two or three very noisy nights. The majority of the passengers were Italian, excitable and voluble, and many of them had been away from their homeland for years. The prospect of returning home and being re-united with friends and relatives was almost too much for some of them, and they were determined that no one else on the ship was going to get any sleep. Feet were tramping up and down the companionways throughout the hours of darkness, doors opening and closing, the occasional snatch of a song was heard, and we received several more invitations, which we had no difficulty in turning down, to view the now rapidly passing Mediterranean.

Some time during the second or third night out from Port Said, the noise rose to a crescendo and we heard hysterical shouts of "Etna! Etna!" as we approached the shores of Sicily and the fires of the active volcano became visible in the distance. We did peer out at this and decided it looked like a rather mediocre firework display, and consequently went back to bed. Later still, as it was starting to get light and I was at last dropping off to sleep, the shouts changed to "The Straits of Messina!" and the Signora burst in, waving a balloon. We were back in Italian waters.

After breakfast that morning or the next (time has eroded the details), feeling rather jaded from lack of sleep but drawn by the commotion which was still going on, we both went on deck to find that we were now passing Capri. Nearly all the passengers who were disembarking at Naples were crammed onto the promenade deck, together with their luggage, staring anxiously in the direction of the port which was even now beginning to emerge from the early morning haze. Maria and I stood well back from the screaming, chattering throng, not wishing to be trampled under foot, and watched from a safe distance.

The water was dead calm. Two tugs pulled us slowly towards the distant dock, where a large mob of yelling, gesticulating people could now be seen. It was a scene of extraordinary emotion for those who were seeing their relatives after a long separation, but it afforded us a great deal of amusement as well, because owing to the press of the crowds behind them, several people standing on the edge of the dock were shunted willy-nilly into the water and their frantic protests were added to the general uproar. But they all seemed to be swimming quite well, and managed to haul themselves out before the approaching ship was close enough to do them any harm.

Once we were tied up, we looked forward to at last going ashore and doing a bit of sight seeing, except for a few of us, myself included, who had handed our passports into the Purser's office the day before (as requested) and hadn't yet received them back. The message had come over the ship's loud speaker system, requesting all passengers to bring their passports in and leave them to be checked over. No explanation, but we assumed it was something to do with the Italian authorities. Most people received their passports back within half an hour, but a few of us didn't. And now, as I stood waiting and wondering, I heard my name called and I was asked to go to the forward lounge to see some Immigration Officers who had now come on board.

Whatever could be the matter?

As I approached the table where three of these officers were sitting, I could see that one of them was holding my passport in his hand. He explained to me in very bad English that I could not go ashore as I did not have a visa.

I was struck dumb for a few seconds.

"But I have a British passport!" I protested. "I don't need a visa". I felt like countless others must have felt when reaching a foreign shore - you can't touch me, I'm British!

He tapped the passport contemptuously. "This is not a British passport. It says here - 'issued in the Gold Coast"'.

Then I realised what had happened. After I was married in Accra, I sent my passport back to the authorities to have the name changed to my married one, and was sent this new one which was of course issued in the Gold Coast.

I tried to explain and pointed out to them that the Gold Coast was a British Colony, that this was in fact a British passport and it said so in gold letters right across the front. I couldn't decide whether they were really stupid and ignorant, or simply being awkward. Whichever it was, they wouldn't accept my explanation, continually jabbing their fingers at the offensive words GOLD COAST, and between my lack of Italian, their lack of English and what I thought was sheer bloody-mindedness, we got nowhere at all.

Eventually, they did graciously allow me to go ashore, and gave me a piece of paper with these words written on it

I was ordered to keep this with me the whole time, otherwise no doubt I should have ended up in some Italian police station.

I felt like telling them what to do with Naples, but in the end Maria calmed me down and we did go ashore for an hour or two, although we did not think much of what we could see of the city. We probably did not see the best of it. It was a grey day with an overcast sky, the sort of day when nothing looks very good. We walked around streets of shabby houses, once finding a small park of windswept shrubs and trees, muttering to each other, "See Naples and Die", and were most unimpressed. The bay, when we finally caught a glimpse of it, was the same grey as the lowering sky.

And Vesuvius was totally uninspiring, crouching there in the distance, dark brown, and without even a wisp of smoke coming from its summit.

Back on the ship, the Purser came up to me holding my passport in his hand.

"So sorry, Signora", he said, thrusting it at me and almost bowing to the ground, "it was all a mistake".

And with that I had to be satisfied.

I parted from Maria at Genoa, where her mother was waiting on the quayside, both of us promising faithfully to write. Then I disembarked with no trouble at all, left my heavy luggage to follow on by train in due course, and made my way to the railway station where I was booked on the overnight sleeper to Paris. This train was very late and didn't come chuffing in apologetically until 10 p.m. But oh! how glad I was to find my sleeping compartment and to stretch out on the bunk in the certain knowledge that I would not have to move myself and my overnight baggage until we arrived at Calais the next afternoon, as this train would join up with another train for the last part of the journey.

I saw nothing of the mountains of northern Italy as we made our way through them in the dark, but was roused momentarily at Modane on the Italian/French border for officials to look at my passport - again. When I woke up it was daylight and we were humming smoothly across the central plains of France. The sun was shining brightly and everything looked so green after the parched grasslands of Tanganyika.

Sitting there, peacefully knitting with my feet up on the opposite seat, I reflected on the past few months and let my mind rove forward to the probable events of the future. I didn't know what, if any, arrangements my mother had made for me to go into hospital to have the baby, but it was most likely that everything was in hand. This would be my mother's first grandchild - a momentous event in any family. Africa began to take a back seat, and I found I was looking forward to the entirely new experience of becoming a mother. I don't believe any man can be expected to understand what it means to a woman to become pregnant for the first time. How can he? No woman knows, until it actually happens, that it is possible for her as an individual to have a baby. She and her husband may be in perfect health, they may desperately want a child, but until it happens, no one knows for certain. And when it does happen, it's like a small miracle.

At least, that's how I felt. Now it was up to me to do the rest. I looked forward to it confidently and wasn't in the least afraid. I did my relaxation exercises regularly, tried to eat the right things, and was happy that at last another one of my major ambitions was about to be fulfilled - to have a family. I did spare a few passing thoughts to J.R., left behind on his own, but there was nothing I could do about that and the sooner I got the whole thing over, the sooner I could return to him.

After several hours we approached Paris and entered the suburbs, coming to a halt eventually at one of the main line stations. I can't remember which one it was, but I know I was thrilled when, leaning (with difficulty!) out of a window I could actually see the Eiffel Tower in the distance. All the passengers were told that our train would be shunted across the suburbs to join up with the other train, now waiting for us at another terminus, and this would take two or three hours. Those of us who wished to get out and have a look round the city had time to do so, but if we preferred we could stay put. I thought I might get lost and so miss the connection if I did get out, so I stayed where I was, and spent a fascinating hour or so gazing at the passing panorama of Parisian back gardens, which did look remarkably different from those of South London. Brighter, more interesting, not so shabby - just different.

Eventually we came to a halt in another terminal building and some more passengers joined the train, including a middle aged English lady called Muriel, who came to sit next to me. We were pleased to meet each other in this alien land, surrounded as we were by all these foreigners speaking French. She brought out her knitting also as soon as she sat down, and we sat chatting companionably for the rest of the train journey.

As we came nearer and nearer to the Channel coast, so the weather steadily deteriorated, until when we arrived at the Calais quayside it was pouring with rain and blowing half a gale. We now regarded the grey, tossing waves with the beginnings of apprehension. Would we be seasick?

The ferry when we boarded it was going up and down quite appreciably even in the comparative calm of the harbour, which did not auger too well for a calm and peaceful crossing. I was not normally seasick, and I also remembered someone once telling me that the best way to survive a rough sea without being ill was to eat all the time, thus giving the stomach something to fasten on and the muscles of the esophagus something to do. From somewhere at the back of my mind a memory surfaced, of biology lessons at school.

"Peristalsis", I murmured.

My companion looked understandably puzzled.

"Peristalsis", I explained, "the muscular contractions of the esophagus which push food down from the throat to the stomach. Anti-peristalsis is the reverse procedure, when the food is pushed up again and we vomit."

She looked slightly pained at the use of this word, but quickly recovered and said, bravely, "In that case, let's get down to the saloon without any delay and start practising peristalsis."

Amazingly, it worked. We were the only ones eating and drinking, and we worked our way steadily through the high tea menu from real crumpets soaked with butter, tea with fresh milk, thin bread and butter spread with strawberry jam, to cakes covered in soft English icing. We had to ignore the retching sounds which started to come from all directions, and to avert our eyes from the unappetizing sight of grown men turning green and being sick all over their luggage and everyone else's. Our own hand luggage was stowed firmly beneath our table, out of the danger zone. I did feel like jumping on the table and drawing attention to my condition by yelling out, "Here, look at me! I'm six months pregnant and I'm not being sick!" In fact, having just enjoyed the first English food I had tasted for eight months, I never felt better in my life.

We were half an hour late docking at Dover, because of the high wind, but when at last I set foot on solid ground I felt a wave of thankfulness to be back in good old England again. The boat train to Victoria was waiting, and although it was by then a dark and dismal evening and the British Rail carriages had not improved in cleanliness or comfort in my absence, I sank back in my seat with a great sigh of relief.

Another seemingly endless journey was almost at an end.