This Lovely City. Louise Hare

       ‘WELCOME HOME!’: SONS OF EMPIRE DRAW CLOSE TO THE MOTHERLAND

      Today, 492 men, women and children, from Jamaica and other parts of the Caribbean, will land at Tilbury in Essex, setting foot on British soil for what, for some, will be the first time. Others are returning from leave to rejoin our armed forces after fighting for their mother country during the most recent war. In preparation, the Evening Standard sent up a plane to greet them yesterday as their ship, the Empire Windrush, entered the Thames: ‘Welcome Home!’ its banner proclaimed.

      What is unclear yet is where these men, for it is understood that the majority of the passengers are men of working age, are to be housed. The Colonial Office were unwilling to talk to this newspaper but an unofficial rumour indicates that a number of new arrivals are to be bussed to the Clapham area. Government officials appear to be unsure exactly why these men have been allowed to travel when no plans have been put in place for them. The Ministry of Labour has assured concerned MPs that all men who are not already bound for Air Force, Army or the mines will be interviewed and assisted in finding work. Suitable accommodation will be provided for them until they are in a position to find their own.

      A Lambeth council representative had this to say: ‘It is my understanding that these men are British subjects, invited here to help rebuild our great nation. Let the people welcome them into our community and be grateful that Lambeth has been chosen to benefit from a few more good, strong pairs of hands.

      1948

      Lawrie waited patiently, leaning against the rough brick of the pillbox wall and trying to look as though he belonged. He occupied his time by watching the people walking past, staring down the curious glances of the pale-faced Clapham locals as he tried once more to calculate how far his money would go until he found work. If the bus was four pence from here to Coldharbour Lane, then how many journeys could he make until he was broke? How much would he have to pay out for rent, and how much was a loaf of bread? Not to mention the expense of clothing. He was all right for now but once the seasons changed he’d freeze to death unless he invested in jumpers. He was already cold.

      They called this summer because they knew no better. God help him when winter did come; he was shivering in the sunlight. People hurried along in their coats, umbrellas in hand, hats firmly pushed down and pinned into hairdos that had never been vexed by humidity like his mother’s each Sunday as she fixed it up for church. Lawrie wore both the new jumpers she’d bought him as a leaving present, the arms of his jacket tight, unused to the bulk. He had thought of buying a scarf earlier in the day, only the shop assistant had made him feel anxious as he followed him around Menswear. Just as well.

      Almost all of his savings, thirty pounds, had been spent on his ticket to England. On the dockside his mother had waved him off, pretending that it was a sneeze that sent tears scattering down her cheeks. As the boat was tugged away, he’d already had second thoughts, looking down into the water and knowing he was quite capable of swimming that short distance back to dry land. But then Aston had slung a loose arm around his shoulders and suggested they both go below deck and seek out some entertainment, by which Aston mainly meant gambling and drinking. If there had been more than a handful of women on board he’d have meant them too.

      Here was the man now, Aston, his jaunty walk unmistakeable as he came out of the tube station, pausing to light his cigarette. Lawrie lifted a hand in greeting as his friend crossed the road.

      ‘Where you been all day, man? I just come from the labour exchange and Moses said you never showed your face.’

      Lawrie jabbed his right thumb upwards, indicating his injured eye, now swollen and ripe, a nasty cut below. ‘I won’t get me a decent job looking like this. I can leave it a day or two, go down there when I don’t look like trouble.’

      ‘Up to you, only don’t be complaining if you end up cleaning out toilets or some such low-paid nonsense. You gon’ miss out on all the good jobs,’ Aston warned. He took a lengthy pull on his cigarette, as if he was trying to inhale all its nicotine in one lungful, then dropped it beneath his foot. ‘Let’s go. The boys are heading out into town tonight and I need to change me shirt.’

      Lawrie had no intention of going out drinking again, not after the night before, but he followed his friend to the entrance of the shelter. He hated the place, hated that they’d been shoved down into the bowels of the city, unexpected guests that no one knew what to do with. His mother had said that Britain was an orderly place, that everything ran like clockwork compared to back home, but from what he had seen, this country was anything but organised. A plane had greeted them as they sailed up the Channel, Lawrie and his friends crowding onto the deck to look up in wonder. He had thought it an impressive gesture, excitement growing, until they’d arrived in Tilbury the next day to discover that nothing was ready for them.

      One hundred and eighty steps led them down, a twisting helter-skelter; it could have been the entrance to Hell and he’d not have felt more terrified. It was getting easier, though. The day before, the first night down there, Aston had abandoned him, frustrated by Lawrie’s slow two-footed progress as he clung to the railing, men flowing around him like a stream around a rock, the babbling of water replaced by the kissing of teeth. He still felt relieved when they reached the bottom, trying to forget about the tonnes of earth above his head and the rumble of the tube trains that passed close by, bringing commuters back from the city at the end of the working day.

      The woman they’d nicknamed Rita Hayworth was carrying a pile of clean sheets along the corridor as they walked towards Fremantle, humming a popular song that he knew would be stuck in his head for hours. All the bunk rooms were named for naval captains, laid out like they were still at sea. Her heels clipped the concrete floor and he could barely see her face over the tower of linen.

      ‘What on earth happened to you?’ she asked, seeing Lawrie’s eye.

      ‘Oh.’ Lawrie touched his wound gingerly. ‘This? You’ll think badly of me.’

      ‘You were fighting?’

      ‘Sort of.’ He looked at Aston who shrugged and began to walk away. ‘More like I got hit and didn’t get back up. I wasn’t expecting it though, the fella caught me by surprise. Mistook me for Aston. Since we all look the same…’

      She looked him up and down: half a foot taller than her, lean and clean shaven. Then she looked over at the departing figure of Aston who was stocky with a neat ’tache. ‘But you look nothing alike.’

      ‘No,’ Lawrie agreed, his face brightening into a wide grin. She blushed as she realised he’d been joking. ‘The fool who hit me could barely stand, let alone see who he was hitting. I’m embarrassed, tell the truth, getting knocked over by a drunk.’

      ‘What had Aston done to him?’

      ‘Talking too much, as usual. To the girl behind the bar. This fella decided he didn’t much like it is all.’

      ‘And you took his punishment.’ She nodded. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

      ‘Mine? Lawrie.’ He shook the hand she held out from beneath the sheets. ‘Sorry, miss, I should be helping you with that load you got.’

      ‘Call me Rose.’ She let him take the bundle from her. ‘If you could just pile them up over there. When I’ve finished later on I can take a look at that eye if you want. I’m not a nurse but we’ve got a first aid kit. You need that cut cleaning properly.’

      Lawrie smiled and left her to it, dumping the sheets where she’d indicated before finding Aston, already on his bunk and reading that evening’s Standard.

      ‘What’s news?’ Lawrie climbed up to the bunk above.

      ‘Maybe I should be asking you that.’ His head poked out, grinning up at his friend.

      ‘I was just being friendly.’

      ‘Yes, well you shoulda checked her left hand first. You too late, my friend. But in more general news rain is forecast for tomorrow. Though that is