Of course, it couldn't last. How it might have ended I don't know, but I was already beginning to think that it could be in tears. Then Fate, as always, was ready with the next spanner for the works. You may recall that, some time before, I'd applied for a place on the RAF Ski School in Kashmir. Now my number came up.
There was no point in my attempting to "con" her that this was a Service Duty, and I couldn't get out of it. As a Daughter of the Raj, she was quite well up in military matters. All DOTRs had been chased around by young subalterns from the time they were out of pigtails, and were well able to recognise a "jolly" when they saw it. My choice was stark.
I could call off the Course and stay with her. There'd be no trouble in putting in a substitute from half-a-dozen eager volunteers ! The war was over, Group wouldn't object, I was sure. Or I could leave her and go off to Kashmir (about ten days before Christmas). This would be a renunciation, and we both knew it. My little group waited in delighted anticipation. It could go two ways. Either I would ditch the ski Course, in which case one of them was in line for a month's free skiing, all found. Or I would ditch the girl and go off to the snows: she would then need consolation, and that was available in spades ! Which way would the cat jump ?
I hesitated for a day or two, then Kipling (as so often in India) pointed the way:
"A Woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke"
(The Betrothed)
And a month's free skiing is a momth's free skiing ! You do not pass up a chance like that ! "
I wish I were coming with you", said June wistfully. So did I, but that was clearly quite impossible. One of our band, whom I shall call Alan (which is not his name as... etc) was with us. Of course he knew her well. "
Look after her till I get back", I told him. They smiled.
"What a chance - and what an idiot !" clicked the vicious tonga bar"
(Kipling: As the Bell clinks)
(The Tonga was a one [or in this case, two] pony trap. The traces jingle on the draw bar, the lovelorn passenger of the poem makes up self-mocking couplets to the rhythm of the ponies' trot).
Off I went to the snows of Kashmir, and spent a pleasant month scrabbling up and slithering down a Himalayan mountainside, then "pony express" down to Srinagar. I didn't hurry back. June might still be in Cannanore, or she might not. On balance I thought not. Even before I left, her mother had been bombarding her with letters: "
Come home and show yourself !" (for of course her absence from town had been noted, and the [wrong] conclusion drawn).
I stayed in Srinagar for a couple of weeks, having a good look at the place, had a silversmith make me little silver identity plates for my watch strap (they fell off after a few weeks !), and found a bookbinder who bound my logbook with some very fine-grained dark green leather. It was/is a lovely job, my name incised in gold leaf (good as new still), and a nice little set of pilot's wings embossed in the centre. All the gold leaf has worn off these over the years, but you can see a very faint trace of the outline if you hold it to the light in a certain way.
You might wonder why I would have my logbook with me on a skiing trip: I have wondered about this myself, but I suppose you'd have your log always with you, as it was your most treasured possession, and you couldn't afford to lose it.
Then a terrifying ride in a country bus down the mountains to 'Pindi, and after that I plodded down the stepping stones of the Indian railway system down to Yelahanka, booked in at the RAF station there, and got a signal away to my Unit. Next morning a VV flew in to pick me up.
"
I don't know whether I ought to tell you this", said the pilot uneasily, "
but June and Alan are engaged".
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