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annoyed. I got to realise that David directly or indirectly knew
everybody
.
    He was so charming and funny that it was impossible not to accept his invitation to dinner one night. So when the tour was over, I met him for dinner. He wasn’t earning much but he insisted that he pay for everything. He was very old fashioned about that sort of thing. He must have borrowed the money to pay for the meal. He was always very keen to impress me, probably because I was an actress and he was very keen on the theatre. I don’t think he was thinking too much about becoming an actor at first.
    I went to see some of the Army concerts he was in, and he was very funny. David was funny all the time. If he wasn’t on stage being funny he was telling stories that were funny.
    One evening when we were out to dinner, I said, ‘David, don’t you take anything seriously?’
    He said, ‘I take
you
very seriously.’
    I thought,
Uh-oh, here it comes, the declaration of love
. And then he said, ‘Have you got a shilling? I don’t think I have enough to leave a tip.’
    I was relieved and annoyed. I had feelings for him but I didn’t want to be tied down to a soldier who could end up anywhere in the world. So I wanted to hear him say something sweet but also I didn’t want to hear it.
    One day I couldn’t bear it any longer and I said, very earnestly, ‘David, where are we going?’
    He said, ‘To a party, darling.’ He
knew
what I meant but he dodged the question.
    He continued to spend his summer holidays at Bembridge with his mother who was suffering considerable pain from a mysterious illness. David spent his hours sailing and working off his frustrations on the local girls. He would later regret not spending more time with his mother.
    He returned to Sandhurst in September 1929 for his final term and was promoted to junior under-officer. In October he performed in another variety show and later played the juvenile lead in
The Speckled Band
, a Sherlock Holmes mystery. He continued to excel in rugby, but he did poorly in his final exams.
    He had long wanted to get into the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders and had even learned to play the bagpipes in readiness. He got his chance formally to request his admission into the regiment of his choice when he filled in a War Office form. He had to list three regiments in order of preference. His first was the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. His second choice was the Black Watch. For his third choice he wrote, ‘Anything but the Highland Light Infantry.’ He thought that a funny joke. Somebody didn’t laugh at his joke and that’s possibly why he was sent to the Highland Light Infantry.
    He left Sandhurst a few days before Christmas, 1929, depressed about his fortunes, and at the end of February joined the Highland Light Infantry. He spent nine months learning how to command a platoon and, at the beginning of October 1930, was posted to Malta where he was put in charge of No. 3 platoon which was made up of around 30 tough Glaswegians.
    Ann Todd was the girl he left behind. She told me, ‘I knew the Army would send him away. I didn’t want to fall madly in love with him because it would hurt. But it hurt all the same when he went to Malta.’ She recalled,
    We had a quiet dinner on our last night together. He said, ‘Darling, will you wait for me?’ I would have laughed if I hadn’t felt like crying.
    I said, ‘And while I’m waiting for you, will you be confining yourself to barracks?’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    I said, ‘I’m sure there are plenty of pretty girls on Malta.’
    He said, ‘I’ll be far too busy for that sort of thing. I doubt I’ll have a minute to myself.’ He looked sincere but it was almost melodramatic. Over the top. Like in a silent movie.
    When we were saying goodbye, he kissed me and said ‘You do know that I love you,’ and