Troodos Mountains, Cyprus, September 1936
It was not someone ‘Sammy’ Sansom expected to come across on the descent from Mount Olympus in a small Ford saloon. A young fair-skinned woman was being sick beside the road. She was sat on a fallen pine tree, in the shade of the trees, her head between her knees unaware of the car’s approach. Or not caring.
Sansom had to stop. Here was a lady in distress, a European. But more important to him it was the right action to take.
‘Excuse me Miss, can I help?’ Sansom climbed out of the car and brushed off his clothes although there was no need. He was a dapper man.
‘Oh dear’ she said looking up at him, ‘I must look a sight.’ Her eyes were startlingly clear blue. She shook her dark hair away from her face. She noted the lightweight suit and knew instantly the type, a colonial been here for years. ‘I’m not a Miss, but Mrs Browning.’
‘Are you ill Mrs Browning?’
‘No, other than being pregnant and suffering morning sickness. Perhaps I was foolish to try to walk to Mount Olympus.’
‘In this heat, which is deceptive in the mountains even early in the morning, maybe it was not wise. Where are you staying Mrs Browning?’
‘The Forest Park hotel.’1
‘Yes I know it, near Platres, would you care for a ride back to the hotel? I am Alfred Sansom, but call me Sammy, insurance salesman for the Gresham Life Assurance Society from the Egypt office.’2
‘That would be kind Mr Sansom; I doubt this is going to pass quickly. It really is tiresome, something you men are lucky not to suffer.’ He was strikingly handsome, with the fashionable moustache that all men seemed lost without. And his eyes were dark pools, inscrutable but his smile was friendly and not condescending.
Sansom nodded and waited until Mrs Browning got up in case she felt faint. Her slim angular face was pale but she was steady on her feet, and strode with purpose to the car. She caught him by surprise with her height and speed of her walk, but he reached the passenger car door in time to open it for her.
‘A reader I see Mr Sansom’ she said, picking up the book Sansom had left on the passenger seat. ‘My goodness’ she said reading the title, ‘how strange, The Loving Spirit, one of mine.’
‘You are Daphne Du Maurier?’
‘That’s my maiden name.’ She opened the book to the page marked by a scrap of neatly folded paper and read: ‘Chapter fourteen. For five years Joseph Coombe was an inmate of the Sudmin Asylum.’3 ‘What do you think Mr Sansom? It’s not often I meet a reader.’
‘I like it; it inspires me to visit Cornwall one day.’
‘Oh do, how I wish I was there now. Mind you,’ she added quickly ‘I find Cyprus invigorating away from the heat and multitudes of Alexandria, my husband’s in the army there.’
She handed Sansom the book and climbed in. It was only a short drive to Platres and the hotel. The air fresh with the scent of pine and cypress trees was cooling which did much to restore her. By the time Sansom opened the door for her the colour had returned to her face.
‘Would you like me to dedicate the book Mr Sansom?’
‘That would be kind.’ He retrieved the book for her and handed her a pen from his briefcase. ‘Sign it to Sammy please.’
Sansom smiled at the dedication on the title page and read. ‘To my saviour Sammy in Cyprus, Daphne Du Maurier.’ He closed the book. ‘Thank you. Are you working on another book Mrs Browning?’
‘Yes Sammy, another Cornish novel about a great house, haunted by the dead wife of the owner. I will call her Rebecca.’
‘Good I will look forward to that.’ Sansom gave her a slight bow, climbed into the car and drove away.
Inscrutable she thought, but she did not understand the British, the Empire builders that is, who could live out here, probably only ever going home to school as a child. Yet he had been a godsend that morning.
Sansom was 26 and Daphne was 29 that day.*
See here for a list of abbreviations used in the below notes
* The pregnant Daphne du Maurier did stay on the island of Cyprus in 1936, writing her novel Rebecca published by Gollancz in 1938. There is no evidence she met Alfred Sansom. This is fiction; however everything that follows did happen.
1 Forster, M., Daphne du Maurier p.127–128
2 Sansom, A.W., I Spied Spies p.11
3 Du Maurier, D., The Loving Spirit p.191