When he could speak, he said, ‘Forgive me, but I have to make you understand why you must keep trying. You must be able to swim, my precious child. I could not bear to lose you too.’

Mother dropped everything and rushed into the sea, the bottom of her skirts so wet and heavy she could hardly walk.

Father commanded her to leave. ‘Mind your own business, woman!’ he shouted. ‘I’m trying to save your headstrong daughter’s life!’

Despite my fear, coldness, and aching body, I was terribly proud of my darling father.

We continued with the lesson, but at one point, a wave dragged me from him. Mother screamed and rushed to the water’s edge again. I clung to the cork and yelled, ‘Father! Father!’ He stumbled after me, grabbed the back of my sodden long johns and hauled me into shallow water. ‘Keep kicking!’ he cried. ‘Never give up! You won’t be able to take a break when you’re in the middle of the ocean.’ I heard a heartbreaking tremble in his voice. ‘Promise me! Promise me, you’ll never give up, Gertie!’

‘I won’t give up, Father, I promise.’ I made a determined effort to kick harder.

By eight o’clock, we were drinking beef tea and eating dripping on toast at the kitchen table. Every muscle in my body ached and I was exhausted to the core.

‘Rub wintergreen into your calves and shoulders and we’ll try again this evening,’ Father said before leaving for the surgery.

Mother fell into a chair most ungraciously. ‘You could have both been swept away, then where would I be?’

*

I’m proud to say, by the middle of the second week, I could keep my head above water without the cork. Mother had ordered a modern, knitted swimming suit with three-quarter legs and arms, and I promised my father I would practise swimming whenever the opportunity arose.

The summer passed quickly. My work experience took place at our local hospital, where I occasionally saw my father and caught his flattened smile and glint of pride.

We all held our breath as the war gained momentum throughout 1916. By October, a great sea battle took place right off our coastline: the Battle of Dover Strait. Father and I watched from the cliff top for most of the night. At the time, we didn’t know who the burning or sinking ships belonged to: us or them. I’d always loved watching the ships, but to see those great vessels explode into fireballs, lighting up the dark – and for a few second the boats and lifeboats around them – was heartbreaking. To hear the distant cries of men calling for help, clearly some wounded and many in the sea, was too terrible.