So, it was no surprise when a week or two later the letter arrived from BOAC. I hardly dared open it, in case it contained a rejection. But open it I did, frantically speed-reading the first page. Wow! I had made it! I was being offered a position and was to begin my training the following month. I was over the moon, on my way to a new world of experiences! I was pleased that I was to be paid during my training. I needed this income since the 150 Rhodesian dollars which I’d been allowed to take out of the country, was not going to last me much longer. I was very thrifty but, because I had to survive the cold damp British weather, I had been obliged to buy some warm clothes. I had also paid a month’s rent and would soon have a second month’s rent to pay.
Everything was going to plan, I thought. I felt like dancing around the apartment. I was on my way to a new career and a new life! Hurrah!
Minutes later, when I read the second page of the letter, reality hit be like a brick. What?! No, I had not been refused. Far from it. The first page made it clear that I had been accepted. However, as I stared at the second page which came from the medical board of BOAC, I knew that I was being urged to rethink this offer for my own sake. The doctors were warning me of the possible repercussions to my health. As a newly hired attendant, I would be assigned to work on the huge jumbo jets recently put into service. Such work would involve much pushing and pulling of heavily laden carts up and down the aisles, along with considerable bending and lifting on my part, none of which would be good for my fragile back. The board was reminding me that I had shattered a disc in my back just two years previously, and that I risked damaging my spine if I accepted the position being offered me. It was, however, to be my choice.
I was devastated. To this day I cannot understand why I hadn’t considered my medical status, but I hadn’t, and that was all there was to it. I was so intent on getting to England and starting a new life involving travel, that I hadn’t thought of how my back could withstand the rigors of my new position. What would I do if I shattered another disk? Was I willing to risk such agony and subsequent surgery again, assuming the latter was even possible?
So, with tears rolling down my face, I came to terms with my new reality. I could never be a flight attendant. Instead, I would have to go back to teaching, a job which I loved, but which exhausted me and took over my life.
However, I had no choice. I had almost no money and couldn’t continue to live in London. As it was, I would still need to find a temporary part-time job to keep me solvent for a few more weeks.
I knew that the next school term began in April and that local County Councils would begin advertising vacant school positions. So, I needed to start scouring the classifieds sections of newspapers and educational magazines, looking for a job as a French teacher in a high school. I wanted to be in the south of England, preferably in Hampshire, where not only was the weather better than in the north, but also where my friend’s mother and my grandmother both lived. That said, if nothing was available for me, I was prepared to go anywhere in England. I had to find a full-time position by April.
A new plan was underway.
