Chapter One – Rocking the Boat

Lincolnshire life

I felt like I was at the mercy of a giant as my tiny hands clutched the coarse mane of my horse, Maisie. My chubby legs splayed out horizontally in my childish attempt to keep from sliding off her back.

I was never in any danger, something my Grandad made sure of as he slowly led the gentle black and white cart horse to the stables for a well-earned nosebag after the day’s chores were finished.

We could often see Grandad at the reins of the blue “float”, which was a large two wheeled wooden box cart hitched to Maisie. Sometimes he would let me ride in the float. If I were lucky, I would even get to clutch the reins.

At the end of the day, Grandad would hoist me onto her back for the long trot back to the stables. After she was secure, we would walk back to the house together, where the warm and comforting smell of my mother’s cooking would be waiting to greet us as we walked in the door.

My mother Pat, younger brother, Steven and I lived with Grandad, who was known in our village as Bert. My mother worked tirelessly to make sure we always had everything we needed. Besides the typical household tasks of cooking, cleaning, shopping, sewing, and washing, she also worked long, arduous hours in the fields and factories to make ends meet.

Many in our village were farm labourers, but Grandad was a shepherd who looked after the many sheep and cows on the farm. Our home was a “tied cottage” because it was tied to Grandad’s job, for which he had dedicated thirty-five years of service.

That was the nature of life in not only our village, but in many of the villages surrounding the market town of Boston, Lincolnshire, located seven miles to the north. Many farm workers were tied to their homes because their employers supplied it with the job. Unfortunately, this system, which had developed in the 1800s, placed many farm workers in a precarious situation. They were beholden to their employer, because if they lost their job eviction would soon follow.

Joseph Ward was Grandad’s employer and landlord. Mr. Ward was a rather impatient man, but because our entire livelihood depended on him, Grandad worked hard to make sure he stayed happy, even at the risk of his own health.

Our home was set back from the road, behind a farmyard and seated amid green paddocks frequented by a stable of fine Arabian horses owned by Mrs. Ward. Our home was one of the many quaint, comfortable little houses scattered along a road colloquially known as the ‘seven-mile straight’ in the sparsely populated, leafy, rural village of Carrington.

Those were happy times, but they would be short-lived. Eventually, Grandad’s health became so bad it forced him to retire. Mr. Ward would not be moved. If Grandad could not work, we could not stay in our home, and that was a matter in which he would not budge.

I sat in a chair next to Grandad’s bed, watching as he slept. I had never seen him look so weak. A sudden loud knock on the front door made me jump. Grandad let out a moan, but his eyes stayed closed. The front door opened, and I heard my mother’s soft voice respond to a much deeper, stronger, voice. It was a voice I had become familiar with. It was the farm manager, stopping by once more to discuss when we were likely to move out. As the days went on the threats continued, until they started compounding Grandad’s health issues and our family doctor felt forced to intervene, following which the threats deceased and Grandad could remain in his home.

~~~~~

My parents were barely out of their teens when they fell for each other. My father, Jimmy, was one of the many African Americans stationed with the US Air Force at nearby RAF East Kirkby. He had grown up in the public housing projects of Stamford, Connecticut. My mother was a white English woman working as domestic help for a wealthy Jewish family in Boston, Lincolnshire.

With society the way it was in 1958, their short-lived romance stood little chance. Miscegenation was frowned upon in polite English society, and racial segregation and lack of opportunities were an intrinsic reality for the African American in the States.

At the behest of his Station Commander, with no thought given to his new English family, they dispatched Jimmy back to the United States. My mother was left to raise me in difficult circumstances but aided by her supportive family.

Mother had always tried her best to prepare me for what would inevitably come my way. Her understanding of the ‘colour’ issue was not surprising. She had pushed back the boundary of acceptability by walking the streets of Boston on the arm of a jazz-loving black man in the 1950s.

At seven years old I would often spend Saturday mornings seated on the scullery floor, peering up at my mother as she stood in front of a large, white sink washing clothes by hand. It was during these times that she would tell me stories about my Dad. Her stories sometimes touched upon the difficulties that some white people had with ‘coloureds’.

She would often conclude these tales with, “You are coloured, Paul. Your Dad is coloured. There are some people who will try to hold you back because of your colour.”

In those early years, I did not grasp the meaning of what she was saying. But as I grew older, I appreciated her wise counsel and factored ‘colour’ into my everyday experiences.

Growing up, I regularly hung out with friends from surrounding villages and colour never seemed to be an issue. We would start a game of football wherever we found a patch of green grass, using our jackets and jumpers as goal posts.

By the age of ten I was already 5’9 and 12 stone, so I always passed for being much older than I was. This, I am sure, endeared me to some of my older friends and I was a popular figure in our group.

My size did not just give me the advantage of being popular with my friends. Starting around the age of nine, it also helped supplement our family income. During my summer holidays, I accompanied Mother to her job in the fields where she picked potatoes on the local farms.

Lincolnshire was well known for its potatoes, but few appreciated the hard work involved in getting the spuds to the retail outlets at home and abroad. Long rows of potatoes were spun out from the earth by a special rotating appliance attached to the front of a tractor. Once the potatoes had been exposed, groups of all-female potato pickers would be allocated a stretch of the potato row, about twenty-five yards that was marked by two wooden pegs in the ground. Mother was one of those women.

With back bent and legs straddled across a small wicker basket, she would reach down with both hands to scoop up and propel the exposed potatoes into the basket. When the basket was full, she would grab an empty basket that had been strategically placed nearby and continue the process until she completed her stretch of the row.

The problem was, by the time she finished her allocated stretch, the tractor and spinner were already finished with the next row. This meant she had little or no time to rest before repeating the picking process. This went on from 8:30am to 3:30pm, with a thirty-minute lunch, in large open fields that offered no respite from the harsh summer sun.

Since I was on summer holiday, I would often accompany mother to pick her allocated stretch of potatoes. I soon became very adept, which did not sit well with the other women, who resented Mother for having it easier than them, because of her unofficial helper.

The farmer, Mr. Epton, came up with a solution. He began giving me my own small stretch of potatoes to pick, for which he paid me a few pounds per week. From that point on, I could always obtain employment in various jobs on surrounding farms during my school summer holidays.

~~~~~

The nearby town of Boston was a familiar destination for me when I was growing up. Every Saturday, Mother would take me with her on 1.20pm bus to do the weekly shopping. Her stiletto shoes would rapidly click across the pavement as I ran behind her, my small legs barely able to keep up with her quick pace.

As I grew older, Mother began allowing me stay at the local recreation park by myself while she did her shopping. But by the time I was ten, the swings and slides were not enough for me anymore. I started venturing out to explore the local sights and sounds of the busy shipping port.

During these little jaunts of freedom, small groups of black men would sometimes approach and surround me. They were African seamen whose ships were visiting Boston’s docks. It was such a rarity to meet anyone of colour in Boston that they always took a great interest in me, shaking my hand, asking me questions about where I was from and who my parents were, and handing me pocket money before they left.

My long-held assumption that I was the only ‘coloured boy’ in Boston was dispelled one Saturday afternoon as I walked along the high street. A young Michael Jackson look-alike began approaching from the other side and I was so taken aback I did not know what to do, so I did nothing. I averted my eyes until I had passed him, then quickly turned my head to look back at him. He did the very same thing and we both started laughing. We stopped and shook hands and chatted. His name was Trevor, and he ended up becoming a friend with whom I would sometimes discuss issues of colour.

When I was young, I honestly believed that being a ‘coloured boy’ in the town was a positive thing. That was my experience. Everyone seemed to know who I was, and I attracted the attention of those who did not. That all changed when I started secondary school at eleven years old.