Daughter of a Colombian Diplomat

Maria Lombard Marta

Description

In 1942, a lone five-year-old girl on a plane full of men from Bogota, Colombia landed at Croydon Aerodrome, London, England. Marta Lombard was that young girl, sent alone to start a new life. Marta Maria Lombard (the name was chosen after the famous 1930s Hollywood actress, Carole Lombard) didn't know who her parents were. Passed off as the maid's daughter, a man she knew as 'Uncle' sent her to England to receive an education. This man was Jaime Jaramillo Arango, soon to become the Colombian Ambassador to the UK.When she reached adulthood, Marta worked up the courage to confront Jaime, and he confirmed he was her father. Many years later, after having read some old letters from her mother to Jaime, Marta realised it was likely that she'd been born in Marseille, France in 1935 not Colombia a year later as stated on her Baptist certificate.The Daughter of a Colombian Diplomatis a moving and often humorous account of a childhood spent in post-war England. Without a loving family or clear identity, Marta developed a determination to find happiness amongst others. The story traces her experiences in a closed convent in Sussex, later living with an Anglo-Colombian family in Finchley, London, her adaptation to English society and finding herself as an artist.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Gran Londres
• Memoir
• Greater London
• Sussex
• Grand Londres
• London

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 07 octobre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800467156
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 6 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2020 Marta Maria Lombard

Front cover pic: earliest known photo of Marta taken from Colombian Identity card stamped in 1942 with Marta’s year of birth as 1936 and the name Marta Lombard Rocha

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This book is a work of non-fiction based on the life experiences and recollection of the author.

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ISBN 9781800467156

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Dedicated to Justina and Charlie



Marta Lombard Rocha - She had the last name of her mother on this first Colombian ID card.
(Spanish last names have father’s last name followed by mother’s last name)



Date of birth stated as 28th December 1936 on this passport from 1942



Date of birth stated as 5th April 1936 on this passport from 1956
Contents
1/ Colombia – First Memories
2/ To England
3/ Boarding at a Convent in Haywards Heath
4/ Moving in with an Anglo-Colombian Family in Finchley, London
5/ Finchley
6/ Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Primary School
7/ Moving Round the Corner to Thyra Grove
8/ Spending Time with Jaime
9/ In Hospital with Rheumatic Fever
10/ Back to School
11/ The Coronation
12/ School Trip
Epilogue

Señora Dona Ana Rosa Calderon de Rocha finds herself pregnant by His Excellency Señor Doctor Don Jaime Jaramillo Arango, soon to be the Colombian Ambassador to the Court of St James in London, England.

The distressed Señora Dona asks advice from her physician, Dr Arbelaes. He tells her to go in hiding in Europe. In Marseilles, France, she gives birth in a private nursing home, then travels back to Bogota, Colombia.
1/ Colombia – First Memories
My first memory was of pink and white. I felt unique. I knew I had to look after myself. I was born with blonde hair, and at some age I had it all shaved off. I remember being in someone’s arms sitting upright and stroking my growing stubble – it was a lovely feeling – then my hair grew darker. Later I had ringlets, and my mother, Ana Rosa, used to keep them in place with a glutinous mixture, like washy gooseberry jam with seeds in it; the comb would be dipped in this mixture and combed through my hair so that my waves and ringlets would be stiff, neat and stay in place.
A gentleman used to come to visit, and I was scrubbed and polished. I wore beautiful clothes, white shoes, a white fur coat, white gloves and white knickers with lace around the legs. I had to have my parting on the left-hand side, positioning it by putting my first finger along my nose and left eye, then up and up – that was exactly where my parting had to be.
When the gentleman came, I was presented to him by Carmen, the Colombian-Indian maid, not by Ana Rosa. The room was on the ground floor and had glass-panelled windows all around, and there was an enormous black and shiny grand piano in the centre of the room.
The gentleman was Jaime Jaramillo Arango.
The house where I lived was in an exclusive suburb of Bogota, called ‘Chapinero’. The house was red brick, with red tiles and a chimney, and dormer windows on the third floor. There was a garden at the back with pink and blue hydrangeas. In the house there would be a vase of tall, hard white calla lilies. Sometimes there were terrible rumblings and the house shook, but the earthquakes didn’t last for long.
I had a dog called Kimmy, a whitish-cream terrier. Once Kimmy had a bone, and I thought he shouldn’t have it, in case he’d choke to death. So I grabbed it. Kimmy growled and pounced at my face and took an almighty bite. I now have a scar on my upper lip. But at the time, I enjoyed having the side of my mouth bandaged up, and only being able to suck my food through a straw.
I had a wonderful doll, made of rubber. It was like a moulded fat child; it had a curl in the middle of the forehead and big eyes, and a little hole in its mouth so you could feed it with a bottle. It also cried, or rather squeaked, and it had a hole between its legs, and after a ‘feed’ if you squished it over the lavatory pan, a brown messy liquid came out (due, no doubt, to the rusting ‘crying’ mechanisms). Fantastic!
I also had a doll called Gloria, who was as big as me, which could stand up. Ana Rosa had this game. When she had lady visitors, she would call me over, and say, “Where is your mother?”
I thought it was a game to show how ingenious I could be. So I went outside the room and collected Gloria, and carrying her in, I would present her, and instead of everyone saying “Don’t be silly, that is a doll!”, they all spoke politely to the doll, and I thought I was very clever. Then Ana Rosa said, “Where is your sister?” so I took Gloria out and brought her back, introducing her as my sister. But that did not work. They said, “But that is your mother! Go back and find your sister!” I would protest, and they would laugh. So I would try again, bringing a smaller doll, but that was not successful. So in the end I would run out in tears and frustration.
I had one friend: the maid, Carmen. I could always go into her arms and cry, and she would not laugh at me. I liked to help Carmen, and I’d go down on my hands and knees and scrub the brick floor of the scullery with her; it was hard, hot work, I scrubbed and all the bubbles became grey and then you wiped them away with a cloth.
I used to bite my nails. This infuriated Ana Rosa; once when I was standing in the bath naked, she looked at my hands and could not contain her disgust any longer, and with cold fury she grabbed my foot and jammed it in my mouth and said, “Here you are! Here are some more nails to bite!” I nearly choked, and in fright I fought back.
Another time Ana Rosa, in a fuming temper with me, ducked me in the trough! She was trying to drown me; my body was outside the trough, but she was pushing my head in and keeping it there and yelling! I felt she wanted to kill me. Another time she was enraged with me and in frustrated ire she gripped my left forearm and dug her long, shiny, red nails into my skin. I watched the four small wounds, and I would check on them each day to see how they were healing. To protect me Carmen gave me a brown cord with two material squares with pictures at either end, a scapular, to put around my neck, a Holy picture of a statue of the young boy Jesus with his arms stretched out. I think it was Carmen who taught me my prayers.
Ana Rosa would sometimes show me off in decorous clothes to her friends and guests, and at other times I would be locked up in the broom cupboard downstairs, and I had to be quiet, or stay in the kitchen and not venture into the parlour. If I were to be presented, I had to endure the pain of Ana Rosa pulling my hair to wrap it around white rags to make curls so that my ringlets would come out well.
Let me describe Ana Rosa, my mother: she was very thin and tall; she had a fox fur with four paws and a bushy tail, a clasp under its chin that clipped to its body, glass eyes staring, black nose cold and four legs swinging. The creature went over her shoulder, across her body and under her arm. Ana Rosa wore small black hats with veils decorated with black spots that came over her face, ending just under her nose, above her red lips. Sometimes she laughed loudly; sometimes she screamed in vexation.
In my bed, asleep, I had a distinct sensation that mice were running around the room and over my bed and face. The feeling would wake me up. There were bloody dots on the white sheet of the bed when you woke up. Sometimes if you were quick enough you could smartly catch the bug, squeeze it between the two thumbnails and it would pop. Once a thief rummaged through the house, and I hid under the bed in fear. I had been told never to scream. There were always police-type guards outside the front of the house.
At some other time I passed an open cupboard; it was white and had sliding doors, and usually it would be shut and unnoticed in the light white corridor with glass panels overlooking the courtyard below. I bent down to look in and saw a pile of dirty washing, but what caught my attention were the cloths which were covered in blood. They consisted of a rectangle of towelling, with a two-inch cotton band through the centre and two long strips at either end. I was fascinated. Someone at some time must have molested me. Who? Where? How? I do not know. But I grew up with the feeling that I had been violated.
In the house there lived beautiful and gentle Gloria. Gloria was Ana Rosa’s eldest daughter. She had decided she was going to be a Carmelite nun. One day she was sewing brown cloth; I sat by her watching, and when she had finished, she would cut the thread and the little piece that remained in the needle she would take out and set light to with a match. She said all the waste had to be burnt, because it was holy.
When my hair was growing after I had had it sh