Immigrants to London, Part 1: 1950s. No Blacks.

The British Nationality Act enticed many West Indians to Britain, as they pursued a better way of life in what was widely known as the Mother Country. The clarion call from across the Caribbean Sea was the promise of money from streets that were paved with gold. Like prospectors in a rush to benefit from this boon, they piled onto ships and planes. Husbands left families, promising to send for them as soon as they could. Mothers left children, reassuring them they would return soon. Two years was the plan. All would be settled in two years. For most, the move was permanent, trapped as they were in a country of inequality and gold that clung stubbornly to the pavement. It would be decades before they saw Jamaica and their families again, stuck in a system that did not reward hard work.

On a chilly October day in 1957, my father, Eddie, arrived in London. Like he had done with all his siblings, his big brother Fred had sent a ticket, and now it was “the Kid’s” turn to make the journey. Eddie didn’t want to leave his beloved Jamaica. He had never felt the pull of the better life that others sought. The English engineer, Martin, with whom he worked at Desnoes & Geddes, the Jamaican brewery famous for Red Stripe Beer, had taken him under his wing. He had plans for his young protégé and advised him against going to England. He told him he would regret it and he would find it hard to match his current position and prospects. So, for Eddie, a better life had already arrived, but Uncle Fred was not someone you said “no” to. In the years to come, Martin’s words would haunt him.

Uncle Fred was waiting for him at Heathrow. As they drove towards Peckham, Eddie’s first impressions of his new home were not positive. He felt dismayed at how grim everything looked. He had left a country with homes painted in vibrant shades of all colours and wondered why English people would choose to “live in factories”. Besides a fridge, he knew of nothing that could feel so cold, and his light summer jacket was inadequate against the onslaught of October winds. When they finally arrived home, Uncle Fred looked at him and said, “Kid, you’re a man. You’re on your own now.” Eddie was stunned.

Within a week, he had secured work as an industrial painter. Health and Safety was an abstract concept, awaiting discovery some twenty years away in the future. Climbing impossible heights with a pot, brush and a prayer, he painted cranes and bridges devoid of ropes or harnesses. He dragged himself upwards, reliant only on his sense of balance. Along with his new position, he received a new name, “Darkie”. He soon realised that not everyone had the privilege of renaming a colleague and he faced disciplinary action for calling them “Whitey”.

He loved to dance and he and his brothers were regulars at the Locarno Ballroom in Streatham. The white ladies proved an affectionate sort, holding their black partners close, rubbing and squeezing their behinds. The men later found out they were hunting for tails. They made a joke of it, happy to indulge their ignorance and allowed the women to squeeze away.

My mother, Cynthia, a pastor’s daughter, arrived in London shortly after her husband-to-be and found herself in the midst of her first winter. Like Eddie, she thought the houses were ugly. She couldn’t understand why the trees had no leaves and why no one had chopped them down if they were all dead. Frozen and half mad with panic in the dark, she clung to a lamppost as she was covered in what she thought at first was ash. Her religious background left her in no doubt that this was the prophesied End Times. However, a stranger pulled up in a car and explained it was snow.

Post-war Britain mobilised what they viewed as a surplus population from the Caribbean, which was a characteristic of that time. With the exploitation of these individuals, Britain could overcome the effects of economic decline. Cheap labour, therefore, became a substitute for capital investment. Cynthia worked in a factory as a seamstress, packed in alongside other West Indian women, who were part of this cheap labour workforce. She received 10 shillings (50p) per week compared to her white counterparts, who earned an average of £4.00 per week. They utilised every square inch of the factory floor and she spent hours shoulder to shoulder with co-workers, rapidly working the treadles of the old Singer sewing machines.

My parents met and married in 1959 against a backdrop of ever-increasing violence. As a result of Afro-Caribbean immigration, groups such as Oswald Mosley‘s Union Movement and the White Defence League urged white residents, and Teddy Boys in particular, to “keep Britain white”. Up and down the country, innocent black families became targets of far-right groups. As a baby, I was spat on in my pram. While on his way home from work, a group of four Teddy Boys stepped out in front of Eddie’s bike in Forest Hill. One announced, “This is as far as you go, nigger boy,” and brandished a knife. Eddie stood his ground, telling them that either he would die or they would. As they rushed him, he swung his bike blindly in all directions, felling two of the perpetrators before the others ran off.

Often faced with notices declaring “No Dogs, No Blacks, No Irish”, finding accommodation was difficult. Every evening after work, Eddie would knock on doors where innocuous signs in windows declared “Room to Let”. Invariably, he was told the sign was out of date and the room was gone, only to notice it was still there the next day. Securing a mortgage through a bank was almost impossible if you were black in the 1950s. Banks would not deal with you, often making excuses and telling you to come back another day, only for you to return and face more excuses. The only alternative was estate agents who worked as go-betweens. Cynthia, being the saver she was, slowly amassed a sum for a deposit on a house. She knew the house she wanted, and the seller had already offered it to her at a reduced price for a quick sale. It was with pride that she presented the bank book to her stunned husband, who, on the advice of friends, sought an estate agent. But security was a luxury if you were black in the 1950s. Soon after, the agent declared bankruptcy. Along with many others, Eddie and Cynthia lost every penny of their savings. It would be many years before they recovered from this.

Eddie is 89 now, his beloved Cynthia no longer by his side. When asked if he thinks things are better now, he answered, “It was tough back then, but if you worked hard, you could get what you want. A lot has changed, and a lot has stayed the same. But people mix more now.” He still misses Jamaica.

 Claudette Förster
Photo: Eddie and Cynthia on their wedding day (Author’s own)

.