A New Beginning
With the help of his Free Officers, Colonel Nasser had spent the past few years building up a guerrilla campaign against the British on the Canal Zone. This was all part of his long game, and I often wondered if he’d ever dare chance his arm against us in a real battle. If he had, our forces would have cut his men down, one by one; but Nasser was clever, astute and above all, stealthy. He wasn’t going to risk an open war, not after all his efforts. He had bigger plans to focus on: Nasser was committed to dissolving the monarchy and establishing a fair republic, and now the perfect opportunity had presented itself. Farouk and his government had gone to Alexandria for the summer, and Nasser knew he had to get cracking otherwise his grand scheme would be upset, and he’d receive a bullet in the back of his head for his part in the plot.
Events were moving quickly, and timing was key. On 20 July 1952, yet another weak Egyptian government stepped down, after just eighteen days in power. It was now or never. Colonel Nasser summoned a secret meeting between the seven hardcore members of his revolution command council and informed them it was time to act. He stressed, however, that if they succeeded, Farouk was not to be harmed; instead he was to be allowed to abdicate with full military honours, and sent into exile. Some of the group were opposed to this, and would have liked nothing better than to blow the king’s head clean off, but Nasser was a patriot and didn’t want a drop of Egyptian blood to be spilt unnecessarily.
His main concern was that the British Army might intervene, marching back on Cairo from Fâyid and Moascar. There were only 300 Free Officers in Cairo he could summon for assistance, but it’d be too risky to call on them all lest it aroused suspicion. Speed and planning were the officers’ main tactics now, so on 22 July Nasser and his military associate, Abdel Hakim Amer, sped away in the colonel’s trusty old Austin motor car to collect some troops from Abbassia Barracks, which was halfway between Cairo and Heliopolis; but they were too late. The barracks had been tipped off and the gates were sealed by the military police.
It looked as though Nasser’s plan was finished before it had even begun. The pair turned around and as a last resort began making their way to Almaza Barracks, on the outskirts of Cairo. As they travelled down the dark, unlit road, they ran into a company of Egyptian troops. They were surrounded and dragged from their car, fully convinced this was the end, but just in the nick of time one of the Free Officers, a lieutenant colonel named Yusuf Sadiq, appeared on the scene and ordered his men to stand down. Joining forces with the lieutenant colonel and his troops, the company marched on Abbassia Barracks. After a brief struggle outside, where two soldiers were killed, Colonel Nasser and Hakim Amer entered the conference room with pistols drawn. There they found the chief of staff, Lieutenant General Hussein Farid, at the head of the table, where he’d been busy making plans to foil the Free Officers. Farid and the other members of staff put up no resistance and were marched away with their lives.
By some miracle Nasser had pulled it off. Allah must have been on his side that night.
In the early hours of the morning, seven prominent Free Officers met in the same conference room. Nasser wanted to be certain there’d be no counter-attack from Britain or America, so he telephoned both embassies from the very room where the chief of staff had been plotting Nasser’s downfall just hours earlier.
‘The Free Officers have taken control,’ he declared. ‘Providing there is no intervention, the whole takeover will be completed in good order, and the lives and property of all aliens will be safeguarded.’
Though the embassies must have been staggered by this proclamation, they stood by, allowing Nasser to grasp Egypt’s reigns with both hands.
At 7.00 am, just as Egypt was waking, it was broadcasted across the nation that a new era had dawned. The bleary-eyed Egyptian population cried with joy; but it was a different story over in Ras el-Tin Palace. Upon hearing the news, the king was said to have descended into an inconsolable rage. He went running up and down the long corridors, his crown on his head and his medals pinned to his chest.
‘I am still the king of Egypt!’ he screamed, over and over again.
An armoured column set off from Cairo to surround Farouk’s summer palace at Alexandria. The American Ambassador telephoned the quaking monarch to tell him his life would be spared, providing he signed the abdication document that had already been prepared. The hysterical king read the document twice before signing with a shaking hand.
Egypt’s last sovereign was granted the dignity of leaving aboard his royal yacht, bound for exile. Naguib and Nasser had afforded him the final courtesy of packing wherever he liked for his journey. Farouk took full advantage of this, and sailed away with 273 bags and suitcases. The vessel was barely out of sight when a great crowd surged towards the palace, swarming inside to feast their eyes on the treasures within. The whole place was stacked with treasures beyond the wildest dreams of avarice. For the first time in history, the private and most intimate details of the ex-king’s sordid life were exposed to his once loyal subjects.
Shortly after the abdication, teams of Egyptian Army officers visited the British camps at the Canal Zone, keen to learn how long it would take us to pull out. I recognized some of the officers from my time training them and their army. Not so long ago they were little more than incompetent novices, clueless about anything soldierly, and now here they were, issuing demands and telling us we had twelve months to clear out.
A new British commanding officer had recently arrived at Moascar. This was his first time on foreign soil, and he’d expected everything to be just as the book said. He hadn’t witnessed the bloodshed and heartache that had shaped this land, and his refusal to show any understanding towards the Egyptians only served to aggravate the situation.
General Sir George Erskine had returned to England, his job done, and a magnificent job it was too. We gave him a tremendous send-off. Together with the warrant officers and sergeants from my mess, we pulled his car with towropes and marched behind the band of the Lancashire Fusiliers who were playing stirring martial music. We marched all the way down the mall, which was lined with troops, Boy Scouts, Girl Guides and sad-faced Egyptian tradesmen. At the gate, a guard of honour of the Royal Air Force presented arms. A crowd of locals from the nearby Arashiya had even gathered to see him off. We were taken aback when they broke into applause, cheering and waving as the general shook hands with his officers.
‘Thank you, sergeant major, for your loyalty and help during my time of command,’ he said when he reached me. ‘I’ll never forget it, and I wish you all the luck in the world.’
I would have died for this man, as I know many others would have done; but I was sick of death and had made up my mind to return home by the end of the year. In the meantime, I decided to take a long overdue holiday with my family.
Moascar, 1952: the farewell to General Erskine parade, with Paddy at the front, leading the car pullers.
It was a blistering hot day as we reached the boat to Cyprus, but just before we boarded, Marjorie realized she’d mislaid her passport. After a frantic and unfruitful search through our bags, we were granted special permission to board, and settled down with some friends of ours for our three-day journey at sea, bound for a few days of rest and relaxation high up in the Troodos Mountains.
Arriving at Limassol, one of the largest cities on the island, I was impressed by the warm welcome we received from the Cypriots, and we undertook our long but pleasant drive into the clouds. It was one of the most exciting journeys of my life. Up and up the road we went, passing lines of fruit trees that were ripe for the picking. Union Flags were flying from almost every window, and the olive-skinned people waved and threw fruit into our hands as we passed. As we drew into our holiday camp, which was run by the NAAFI, we found ourselves surrounded by a strong smell of pine trees. It was a wonderful tonic. Just when I thought life couldn’t get any better, Marjorie informed me we were expecting our third child.
Our fun was cut short some days later when the holidaying troops and I were summoned to the camp office, where we were told various scuffles were breaking out in Egypt. The country was once again in a state of political unrest as Nasser’s government negotiated a bumpy take-off, and we were ordered to return with urgency. Leaving our families behind, we departed by road to the dockside, where we caught a return boat to Port Said.
Before I knew it I was back in the thick of things at Moascar, and the next few weeks were miserable ones without my family by my side. The powers that be had decided it was safer for them to stay where they were. I would have moved heaven and earth to get them back, but whatever I tried and whomever I approached, the answer was always the same.
‘There are currently no plans to return the military families to Moascar. They will stay at our Cypriot base for the foreseeable future.’
I was starting to feel blue, so one day I went to Fâyid to talk to some friends in the Royal Air Force. Over a few drinks in their mess they introduced me to a pilot who was going over to Cyprus on a training flight, and was due to return in several days’ time. After several more drinks he agreed to try to smuggle my family back with him.
After some anxious days of waiting, the phone call came from my RAF pals who told me the plane was due to arrive back that evening. I made my excuses to the officers in the mess and set off in one of our trucks; and as the sun began its descent, I raced across the desert road to Fâyid, where I spotted a plane circling above my head. I said a hurried prayer and dashed across the tarmac, ignoring the call of angry voices telling me to get back. The plane landed some way ahead, and as I drew closer, I saw my wife and two children climbing down the steps. All three looked tired after their long journey and Terence was still clutching the little paper bag he’d been sick in.
I embraced my wife, and as the four of us drove happily back to Moascar, Marjorie began telling me her story of how we came to be reunited. She’d been sitting alone in her room at the holiday camp, feeling lonely and fed up, when a senior officer came round and told her she was to gather up the children and pack as quickly as she could. After a mad dash down the mountain roads to the airport, she was just about to board the plane when a corporal of the Royal Air Force stopped her.
‘I’m afraid you’re not on the passenger list,’ he told her, double-checking his documents. ‘And in any case, you can’t leave the country as you’re not in possession of a passport.’
The whole plan looked as though it was doomed already, but just as she turned to head off back into the mountains, a young army captain handed her some papers.
‘I know this lady’s husband well and can vouch for her identity,’ he told the corporal. ‘I’m sorry for the confusion, Mrs Brooks,’ he said, turning to Marjorie. ‘You are boarding this flight.’
As the plane touched down at Fâyid Airport, a voice called: ‘Mrs Brooks and children,’ and my wife was escorted off first. It turned out she’d been ‘mistaken’ for the wife of a senior officer of the RAF.
The sun was setting on 1952, and as the year drew to a close, so too did my time in the Middle East. I was due to leave for England after fifteen long years. During that time my life had changed beyond my wildest imagination. I’d experienced war, murder and despair, but I’d also met and married the most beautiful lady I could have wished to meet. I’d been blessed with two wonderful children, and knew our family would continue to grow in the years to come. I’d also become close to the second president of Egypt, Gamal Abdel Nasser, and members of his extended family had been good friends of mine, enriching my life in ways I’d never thought possible. They’d been kind to me when I was nothing but a stranger in a foreign land; and now those very same people were clamouring to see our backs. After seventy-five years of administration, Britain was friendless in the East, and all the barracks, married quarters and other installations we’d built with our own sweat and blood were falling into Egyptian hands.
After many sad farewells, my family and I packed up our belongings and made our way to the point of departure. There were several busloads of personnel leaving for home that day, and I managed to wangle some seats in one of the buses. Sitting close to us was a friendly major who was returning to the United Kingdom with his family. We had one or two things in common and made pleasant conversation as we made our way to Port Said, where a boat was waiting.
As the bus tore along the winding road at a breakneck speed, it broke down just as we arrived at the bridge that would lead us to the port. We’d only been stationary a matter of moments when a gathering of armed natives began approaching us, and they didn’t look friendly. On the other side of the water dozens more were making their way over, all with the same hard looks on their faces.
The major and I managed to sneak off the back of the bus and found a telephone box a little further down the road. I tried to call the military police but couldn’t get through, as they, along with all other British units, had already pulled out of the town. In the end I managed to get through to the British consular offices and was told we should never have gone to Port Said, for it was too dangerous, but due to some outlying emergency at the original port, we’d been left with no other option.
‘I’ll get in touch with the military authorities straight away,’ the consular reassured me. ‘In the meantime, be careful. The natives from the outskirts of Said are very hostile, and the spot where you’ve broken down is where a British officer and his men were murdered just the other week.’
Moascar, circa 1952: Paddy, Marjorie and their young children outside the married quarters at Moascar Garrison.
Not feeling at all comforted by that, I replaced the handset, and the major and I stood anxiously at the side of the road, waiting for some backup to arrive. We had no firearms and were responsible for some fifteen families aboard our vehicle. It was a boiling hot day and there was no shade. The gathering mob hadn’t gained access to the vehicle just yet, so under the circumstances we felt the passengers were safer where they were. After several more minutes the natives began surrounding the bus. Though they didn’t draw their weapons, they did their best to try to intimidate the passengers by banging on the sides and windows, and yelling insults in Arabic. It wasn’t long before some Sudanese chaps who were working in a nearby factory heard the commotion and came outside to see what was going on.
‘The Egyptians from this part of the country are very nasty,’ they warned the major and I. ‘They cannot be trusted.’
As the minutes passed, the hostile mobs became more and more aggressive, and I was starting to worry. Even with our friends from the Sudan, we wouldn’t have lasted long against this savage bunch. Some of the rebels had begun boarding the bus, threatening to kill all British citizens on board. Luckily most of the passengers could speak a sufficient amount of Arabic, and began trying to convince the hoodlums there were no Britons among them.
Just then an Egyptian Army car came by and I was able to hail the driver. From out of the vehicle stepped an Egyptian major whom I knew from my days at the Small Arms Training School. He shouted to the angry crowd, telling them exactly what he’d do to them if any harm came to us. As if by magic the mob dispersed. I thanked my old comrade and he continued on his way.
After what seemed like an eternity, the welcome sight of a three-ton British Army lorry came trundling along the road. It came to a halt next to the bus, and out stepped a sergeant in civilian clothes, holding a tow rope. In no time at all, he got the bus going again and away we roared towards the port. We made it with little time to spare.
At last our troubles were over; we were about to set foot on the gangplank and leave all our worries behind in this battle-scarred land. What could possibly go wrong now?
‘Effendi!’ I heard a voice calling behind me.
Turning around I saw, to my surprise, our Egyptian cook, who’d lived with us at the garrison, dashing towards me. He was a nice chap, and I felt touched that he’d come to see us off. He shook Terence and me by the hand, and patted my little blue-eyed daughter on her head as she slept peacefully in the arms of her mother. The cook turned to say farewell to Marjorie, and just as we were all distracted by his kind words, he snatched my little girl and made a run for it. My wife screamed as I gave chase across the crowded port. He ran for what felt like forever, weaving in and out of the would-be passengers who were waiting to board the ship, but I caught up with him before he’d managed to slip into the shadows of the city’s backstreets. Channelling the skills I’d learned during my boxing days, I whipped him a beauty right across his face. I grabbed hold of my daughter before he hit the ground, and as I carried her away to safety, I heard him calling out to me.
‘The golden-haired child is an idol!’ he yelled. ‘I can sell her for much money!’
I called him an unfavourable name in Arabic and returned to the dockside.
At long last we stepped aboard the Lancashire, the ship that was to carry us back to Britain. I felt the relief flow through my body like a warming tonic. We were bound for a little thatched farmhouse in Long Sutton, close to the Wash in rural Lincolnshire, where Marjorie’s family lived. I for one was looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet.
The red shores of Egypt soon began to fade away into the blue, and as I stood on deck, I found myself wondering what the country’s future would hold. It looked so insignificant from far away, but colossal events had happened there. Though I’d grown incredibly fond of the land and its people, I wasn’t sorry to be leaving.
It was 1 October 1952 when we first saw the distant lights of Liverpool. As dawn came and the vessel drew closer, I was surprised to spot so many shipwrecks from the war days. My war had been overseas, so it hadn’t really crossed my mind how scarred England would be.
After several happy months with Marjorie’s family, the time had come to take my wife and children to Dublin to meet the Rochford clan. Standing by the port at Dunleary, I helped my heavily pregnant wife into our train carriage, and advised her and the children to wait for me there while I went to collect our luggage. A short while later I returned with half a dozen cases in tow, only to find the platform completely empty. I blinked in surprise, assuming I must have been dreaming. Where had my train gone? I was sure it hadn’t been due to leave for another few minutes. Feeling slightly panicked, I looked around for some assistance and noticed two Irish-looking gentlemen some yards away, propping up the platform wall.
‘What’s the matter, there?’ one of them called over to me.
‘I’ve just lost my wife and children,’ I said, still reeling over the apparent disappearance of an entire passenger train.
‘Ah, to be shure,’ the other one said, puffing on a pipe, ‘nobody gets lost in Oirland, let alone a loving wife. Now, if she’s a queer one, well, thank your lucky stars she’s gone.’
Finding that remark not at all helpful, I hopped on the next train to Westland Row Station near the centre of Dublin, and as it pulled in, I spotted a flustered-looking Marjorie who, I was relieved to see, had been picked up by my two sisters. They’d recognized her from a photograph I’d sent home to Mother. It turned out I’d been mistaken about the train times; and though I was in bother for a while afterwards, we did laugh over it in the end.
Arriving in my beloved village that had changed so much, we were welcomed home by my family in true Irish style. My mother was waiting for me on the doorstep of her home. For all her years, she still looked the same. I felt a lump in my throat as we embraced for the first time in fifteen long years. Now, of course, she was a widow, and had learned to live without her fine, upright husband by her side. Father had always strived to set such a high example to us all, and his death had left a hole in all our hearts that couldn’t be filled.
That evening we enjoyed a splendid feast, and stayed up long into the night, singing, playing music and catching up on lost years. The following morning, my younger brothers, Jack and Charles, took me to the Grangegorman Military Cemetery to visit our father’s grave, which had found its place alongside the other heroes of the Emerald Isle. I felt my stomach turn as I entered the cemetery. Here before me lay a sea of brave warriors without even proper headstones, save for those whose families could afford to pay for one. My father’s grave had been marked with a simple wooden cross. I was ashamed and angry that the British Legion couldn’t provide their former soldiers with this one final honour. When I wrote to them about this later, their sickening response was simply: ‘Your father didn’t die in battle, so he’s not entitled to a military headstone.’
As I hadn’t been able to visit on Armistice Day, I planted a belated poppy beside Father’s cross, clutching his polished medals as I did so. He would always be a hero to me, even if the legion didn’t agree. The three of us stood with tears in our eyes, holding our own two minutes of silence.
I’d been told that at the conclusion of the local church service, held in the cemetery every 11 November, the crowds were always instructed to disperse without singing the British National Anthem, as this would offend many of the mourners. This was no good to me, so at the conclusion of our private vigil I broke into song, and to my surprise, my brothers joined in.
I imagined our voices floating across the river Liffey to the old Royal Hibernian School in Phoenix Park, where the white granite memorial cross had been erected in honour of the brave ex-boys of the school who’d laid down their lives in the First and Second World Wars. Countless thousands of Ireland’s sons had died on foreign battlefields. None had wanted to die, but went forward to face danger nevertheless, never knowing if they’d live to see their loved ones’ faces again. That’s why I feel so strongly that those whose lives were spared should never forget their brothers who fell.
‘We shall remember them.’ Whenever I hear those words at the end of the annual armistice ceremonies, I wonder if those who speak them truly understand what they say.
As much as I wanted to stay in Chapelizod, there was no work for me in Ireland, so I returned to England and was posted to the military education committee at the Officers’ Training Corps at the University of London, where I completed two years’ service as the regimental sergeant major. I became the proud father of two more children: a son, in March 1953, and a daughter, who arrived the following year, making our family unit complete.
The Officers’ Training Corps at the University of London, England, 1953: Paddy (crossed) and his trainees.
One day I decided to take my wife and children to visit to my old regimental headquarters on Birdcage Walk. To my sorrow, I saw before me the ruins of the lovely Guards’ Chapel, which had been bombed by the Germans in 1944. Across the road was Buckingham Palace, where I’d once proudly served my king, father of George VI, who’d led this country through her darkest days. The late monarch had left his crown to his eldest daughter; and as I walked past the palace, I wished the young queen a long and glorious reign.
I was posted to the Royal Military School of Music at Kneller Hall in Twickenham, Middlesex, and though I was kept busy, my mind often wandered back to my years spent under the Egyptian sun. I had high hopes for the country under President Nasser’s leadership, but the occasional damning headline made me cringe with despair.
‘CRACKS IN CAIRO REGIME WIDEN’, the national papers screamed.
Startling declarations such as ‘SHOTS FIRED AT COLONEL NASSER’ and ‘NASSER JAILS A CRITIC’ were splashed everywhere; but no story was more condemning than the Cairo ‘spy trial’, which hit the news in 1957.
James Albert Zarb, a Maltese businessman, and James Swinburn, a British business manager in Cairo, had been arrested the previous year on suspicion of spying, and were waiting in the grimmest of Egyptian jails to learn their fate. Some of their alleged accomplices had already been executed. A huge show trial had taken place and British MPs were calling for the release of the two men, who had the threat of the noose hanging over their heads. In the end the pair were sentenced to fifteen years between them, but in my opinion, that was just as bad a fate.
I took a keen interest in the story and, from my small housing estate in London, wondered if there was any way I could help. I decided to write to my old friend, urging him to show pity on these prisoners by releasing them, thus proving to millions of people, not just in Britain but around the world, that he was a merciful leader.
‘I would like to inform you,’ Nasser replied in a letter dated ten days later, ‘that the Egyptian authorities, in an attempt to foster better relations with Britain, have treated Swinburn and Zarb with the utmost generosity. Such a fact is evident from the light sentences compared to the magnitude of the crime, which, I must remind you, is spying in a foreign country, the punishment for which is universally known. Furthermore, they are receiving every humane treatment while serving their sentences. I hope you will appreciate that it is impossible for me to release them at any earlier date.’
This, I felt, was less than satisfactory, and over the next couple of years I entered into regular correspondence with Nasser on behalf of the two prisoners. His replies were curt, and simply assured me that both men were healthy and being treated well; and that, he made clear, was the end of the matter.
In 1959 I received an unexpected telephone call from Mrs Elda Zarb, the wife of James, who’d read about my efforts in the national press and invited me to call round to her house in Southall so she could thank me in person. She and her four children were all grateful for my help, and after a long discussion over tea and cakes, I promised I’d continue doing everything in my power to get the head of their family home safely.
After appealing once again to Nasser, Swinburn was released. This was a great victory for my cause, though the battle was only half won. I wrote again and again to the president of Egypt, telephoning Mrs Zarb on a regular basis to offer her hope and comfort. Weeks later, I received an encouraging letter from Nasser’s private secretary.
‘The president sends his good wishes, and has decided as a mark of goodwill to you to further remit the sentence of Convict Zarb by one fourth.’
In early 1960 the United Arab Republic sent a diplomat to London in an attempt to reopen diplomatic relations with Britain. I remembered this man from my Cairo days, and was invited to meet him at the former Egyptian Embassy in Mayfair. Over several cups of coffee, we discussed the entire predicament from every angle imaginable. I couldn’t stress enough that by releasing this unfortunate Briton, who had the support of the British public, the West would look upon Egypt in a favourable light; and as we were leaving, my friend promised to write to Cairo to see what could be done.
In February that year, I was invited to attend the first reception of the Diplomatic Corps at the Egyptian Embassy. I was humbled by the request, but also nervous. What would officialdom think of an ordinary chap like me mixing with the Egyptians after the recent Suez Crisis? This terrible conflict in 1956 had brought about the end of British supremacy in Egypt once and for all, and feelings between our two nations were still incredibly bitter.
My former commanding officer, Sir Guy Salisbury-Jones, had by now been appointed marshal of the Diplomatic Corps at Buckingham Palace, so the first thing I did was call on him for advice.
‘You must come,’ he enthused. ‘You’re absolutely the right chap to help, as you know the Egyptians better than many. You served them well and they’ll remember you for that.’
The following evening, dressed as smartly as my meagre wages would allow, I arrived to meet Sir Guy outside the embassy. He greeted me like an old friend and introduced me to an array of diplomats. I was pleased to meet the Egyptian chargé d’affaires, Mr Kamal Khalil, and was soon in full flow explaining to the room what I was hoping to achieve. The Egyptian officials had read the recent articles in the Daily Express and Sunday Graphic concerning my attempt to obtain Zarb’s release, and had appreciated the sensitive tone in which they’d been written.
The chargé d’affaires listened intently to what I had to say, and invited me to call on him the following Wednesday. This I did, and during our meeting Mr Khalil agreed to meet with Mrs Zarb. As soon as I returned home, I telephoned to give her the good news. She was delighted and kept the appointment with Mr Khalil, who granted her permission to visit her husband in Cairo.
The months dragged on and I received no further communication from Nasser. As the year drew to a close, I decided to send one final plea to the president, and really laid into my old friend.
‘How can you sleep at night?’ I asked. ‘How can you expect any empathy or understanding from this country while Mr Zarb is allowed to rot in one of your filthy jails? Do yourself and your country a favour and let him go.’
I hesitated for a long time by the post box, knowing that if I dropped the letter into its mouth, I’d be calling time on our many years of friendship. I did post it, and as I walked home through the dusting of snow, I felt satisfied I’d done all I could. I learned the news a short while later that President Nasser had, at long last, decided to grant Zarb his freedom.
I returned to work the following day expecting to find a renewed spring in my step, but somehow the life of a soldier had become dull to me. After a full and exciting life, my role in the United Kingdom had gone stale, so I decided to hang up my hat and try my luck as a civilian. I’d given my best in duty and in sacrifice, and knew the time had come to pass on my pace stick to the next generation. Besides, I’d started to realize I was never born to be a soldier. Knowing what I know now, I’d never have chosen such a life for myself; but then, I never had any choice in the matter. For years I’d been taking my work home with me, putting an immense strain on my marriage and my family. Vowing to become a better husband and father, I took the decision to find somewhere where we could make a fresh start, far from the soulless suburbs of smoky London.
I was offered a new position with the Sutton Dwellings Trust, an organization providing the working classes with affordable housing. A post had become available in a pretty little part of Leeds in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and I became the superintendent of a housing estate off the York Road. My family and I were housed a three-bedroomed property, and we all settled in well. What struck me most was how friendly and welcoming the Yorkshire folk were, particularly in comparison to Londoners, who were often surly and aloof as they hurried along to attend to their own businesses, without even a sideways glance at their fellow men.
I’ve lived here in Leeds ever since, and I still receive letters and Christmas cards from President Nasser. I treasure the happy hours we spent together in dear old Heliopolis, playing many a game of tennis. Over long iced drinks we’d chat about Egypt, her people, her ambitions, her future and her dreams to become a great nation once more.
My own great wish would be to see Ireland united together as one nation, and on the strongest possible terms of friendship with England. I believe our great country has much to offer the world, and if we and our allies all work together, there’s still a chance we can make it a happy place to live in.
As my old friend Nasser once wisely said: ‘Humanity does not deserve the honour of life if it does not strive with all its heart in the cause of peace.’