Charles Hyatt, Contributor
LIVING AND working as a black actor in England in the '60s gave me some insight into my Jamaican countrymen and women that has earned my lasting respect.
Think on this. A great portion of Jamaican migrants to Britain first got sight of the capital, Kingston, from the back of a truck as it made its way to the No. 1 Pier where they boarded the boat. At the end of the two weeks sea voyage they were turned loose on the world's greatest metropolis, at that time.
In the late 50s and early 60s there were two sets of Jamaicans residing in London. Those that had remained after they were demobbed from the Royal Air Force and the army and got married to white English women and were raising their families and the new influx of migrants arriving weekly. Those that were there before went through some hellish times ... "Please Mister can we have a look at your tail" was bad but not so bad as the white mothers not knowing what to do about combing their daughters' hair.
By the time I got there, on that Spring Day of 1961, there was a black community well entrenched in places like Brixton in the South West and Shepherds Bush in the West of London. How did they come about? Simple. One black moves in on the street, several whites move out leaving room for more blacks.
OK Check this Scenario.
The boat docks in South Hampton and unloads its cargo of humankind dressed in the most fashionable tropical material suits and taffeta and netting dresses. They had them made specially for arriving in. Because of the climate difference between the Caribbean and the North Atlantic newspaper had to be worn inside the hats, inside the jackets and around the ankles to keep the warmth in. The women were no less inventive. All luggage and personal belongings, in the shape of trunks, grips, iron boards, sod irons, coal stoves and fowl coops are neatly stacked by the boat train crew that have come to meet the passengers and take them on the hundred mile trip to London.
At the London Paddington train station there's a new group welcoming the new arrivals. The London Taxis.
'YAM MAN EBI'
So now comes 35-year-old Mr. Ebenezer Beckford, known in Wire Fence, Manchester in Jamaica as 'Yam Man Ebi' a farmer of yellow yam who has the address of his cousin, Cyril, written down on the back of an old envelope. It is some place in Birmingham which is more than a hundred miles North of where he's standing. A taxi man approaches him and asks "Taxi Guv?"
Yam Man Ebi shows the taxi man the envelope; this is the first time he's going to see a white taxi driver. He puts on his best English for the man reminds him so much of the Bank Manager where he had been saving his money. What's left of it is now in his pocket.
"Oh yeah Guv, these your bags? Righto, 'op in mate"
"Let me help you, for them heavy"
"Naw, thas awright guv"
Yam Man cannot believe what is happening. When the taxi man gets in behind the wheel, he says to Yam Man "Ere, this is gonna cost a bit if I use the metre, so since you're m'last trip for tonight, I'll just make it a flat fee. That awright with you Guv?"
'This white man is a'right' Yam Man is thinking. "So 'ow much that will be?"
"Well lets see now, it's gone past nine O'clock so the traffic should be awright, fifty quid O.K.?"
"What?! Fifty poun?''
"Yeah, well you're in London now mate. It's not like in Jamaica, is it? Shall I turn the meter on then?"
"No, is aarite"
BRIXTON
With that the taxi man drives for 12 or so miles to Brixton and stops in front of a house on Summerlatern Road. He takes the bags out of the cab puts them on the pavement. With a "Here we are Guv", he then knocks on the door and says to the black lady who opens it "I've got one of your kind ere, maybe you can help him". With that he turns away gets into the cab and drives off leaving Yam Man and his luggage on the pavement.
Aunt Agnes and her husband Lloyd are the owners of this three story terrace house built sometimes in the 1800s which has been on the list of condemned houses that have been due to be replaced by the Council ever since the war ended. Inside this house there are 13 beds that invariably are always occupied as the people who sleep in them work shift eight hours on eight hours off at one or other of the surrounding factories.
DRINK OF WHITE RUM
The situation facing Aunt Agnes needs no explaining. She understands. Heaving a sigh, she invites Yam Man in. Over a drink of whites, which was carefully stowed away in Yam Man's luggage, she gives him the complete lowdown of what they were all up against in this still war scarred country. Looking at his farmer's hands she reassures him that all is not lost. Yam Man is assigned a free bed on the third floor. The heating is not the best but Yam Man is from the Cockpit Country.
In the dark hours before dawn the next morning Yam Man is awakened by Aunt Agnes' husband Lloyd who owns a Morris Mini Van that takes the first group of shift workers on that street to the factory. Armed with a thermos of tea, Yam Man is driven to a factory and upon the recommendation of Lloyd is hired as a tool stacker. It is a job that doesn't need any particular skill but strength and energy. He is given a wheelbarrow and his job is to pick up and stack the tools spanners, wrenches, hammers, cutters and pliers in the correct order in various positions along the walls.
SWEAT POURING
The factory is huge, the machines are noisy and the sweat is pouring. By the end of the day Yam Man feels that he has really done a day's work. For 18 months he worked at that factory moving from tool stacker to machine oiler and there was even a time when he single-handedly repaired one of the machines. He was no mechanic but he was smart. He was a favourite at that factory.
During that time, what with the three hands of pardner that he threw and as much overtime as he could get and not many visits to the pubs, when he got his first two week vacation, he went to his cousin in Birmingham. There he bought a house for cash.
That was only Yam Man Ebi's story. There are thousands more.
