Yorkshire Writers' Lunch: What Windrush Means To Me by Yvonne Witter

I was asked recently by Kirklees College students doing a film project “What Windrush means to you?”. I had not thought much about the question before I started speaking, and found myself surprised that my memories were all infused with family gatherings of relatives and family friends who we called aunty and uncle out of respect. A time when Jamaicans identified strongly as part of the British Empire and the Queen held as much significance in Jamaica as she did here. A time when as children born in the UK, we were encouraged to inculcate and practice British values, speaking any Jamaican dialect was frowned upon and we were encouraged to read. Back in Jamaica during the same period, children sat British exams and studied for Cambridge GCEs. I observed my cousins in their teens and they dressed modestly as our parents would chastise us otherwise, and found the mini-skirts of the time quite revealing. Any interest in boys had to be declared and approved by the family. As small children we would peep and listen behind doors as potential suitors were introduced and questioned regarding their intentions.

Our homes in Balham and Tooting in South West London were large Victorian Houses and had many tenants for a while. There was no great hierarchy about tenants as it was a necessary stepping stone to progression. Tenants moved on to buy their own houses when they had saved up enough or accumulated enough money through the informal money saving scheme called a ‘Pardner’. Each week the savers would deposit a fixed sum of money called a ‘hand’ with a ‘banker’ and people would collect a lump sum when it was their turn to ‘draw’ or ‘drawn down’ what had been collected. Men or women could be ‘bankers’ and people would arrive on a Friday or Saturday to leave their deposit [hand] and stay for a wee chat and a cup of tea. Some people would ‘throw’ more than one ‘hand’ thus increasing the money they would draw when their turn came. The ‘pardner’ would run for many months and start again at the end of each cycle. On Friday evenings, the man who sold The Football Pools knocked as did the prudential insurance man, I often got an opportunity to mark The Pools for my dad. I just did a google search and it still exists 89 years OMG!! I remember these friendly white men who were regular visitors to our home. My dad had friends home from work too.

Extended families would gather on Sundays or Saturdays and eat Caribbean food such as brown stewed chicken and rice and peas and cooked vegetables and a green salad, and drink rum punch, Guinness and some homemade non-alcoholic drinks such as carrot juice and fruit punch. We would have tinned fruit cocktail for dessert with ice cream or jello and ice cream. Vinyl records 33” and 45” would be playing blue beat and ska, and I would do the dances and earn tuppence for dancing. My Dad worked in the pressing plant at Decca Records so we had a steady supply of records of all types. I have an eclectic taste in music as a result. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wbv2yb2cuKQ I liked to dance as a little child and the family would applaud and I would feel accomplished if a little shy. I have since discovered that I am in introverted extrovert, so I can perform if I need to.

Children were not allowed to sit in the room while adults were speaking. So all the children went out in the garden, or up to my bedroom, over to Tooting Bec Common to play if the weather was good. We would sometimes hop on and off the route master buses. Run in and out of sweet shops and generally have a giggle.

My lasting memory is of a time of dark grey clothes, grey skies, heavy fog which made visibility difficult, cold rooms and beds. Heating was supplied by paraffin heaters, that smell is unforgettable. Hot water bottles were essential, I still use one now during cold winter nights. The Black and White television sat in the corner of the Front Room. Or maybe in the back room where people could freely congregate, as the Front Room was for the most part, out of bounds, and a show room for visitors. Anyone that has seen the exhibition the West Indian Front Room https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0SscGgN5EeQ will understand the significance of this monument. Each house I visited would have the same cherished items as though the adults were all trying to outdo each other, but it was symbolic of their hard work and achievement in Britain.

As children we were seen and not heard, so we sat and observed and answered politely if spoken to. We called no adult by their christian names and people we did not know were addressed as Mr or Mrs. We spoke when spoken to and did not interrupt adult conversations. We knew our place, we were well fed and looked after, encouraged to focus on our education as our parents saw everything in the motherland as wholesome, good and beneficial to our success in this country. We were encouraged to seek good jobs in secure employment.

I was called racial names by adults on my way to and from primary school on a few occasions, and it did make me scared. We were also warned by our parents about the ‘sweetie man’, a van to which we could be lured with the offer of sweets. So I was very careful not to speak to strangers and wary of parked vans as I walked home from school. However, I was too young to understand the struggles of my family in coming and settling here in the UK.

My uncle, Mr Walker had this Green Zephyr and my other uncle, Mr Restal [both married to my mum's sisters] had a Hillman Hunter, and going for rides in either of those cars was really exciting. I just noticed too that I addressed both these men as 'Mr' we all did. I have absolutely no idea why my brain retains this kind of information from the late 60s when most days now, I can’t even find my purse. I guess I was really interested in cars back then and for some time after. As I grew older I learnt of the struggles of my parents and relatives in society, employment and housing during the Windrush era. The current Windrush Scandal in 2018 saddens me a lot, because our history is a shared history. Many of my own relatives have now passed on, having sold up and returned to Jamaica in the 70s to retire in the sunshine.

https://www.studiointernational.com/index.php/the-west-indian-front-room-memories-and-impressions-of-black-british-homes