Autobiography: My Life Story So Far 1h1e6n

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

My Life Story So Far

Patrick C. James

Copyright © 2013 by Patrick C. James.

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4797-7163-9 Ebook 978-1-4797-7164-6

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127550

Patrick Conrad James

An Autobiography

Acknowledgment

I should like to thank my friend and colleague Daniel Callaghan, Vice President of the West Pasco Historical Society and Secretary of the African American Club of Pasco Inc. for having accepted my invitation to read my script and to criticise it, constructively. Although Dan is a very busy man, nevertheless he read my script diligently and made suggestions for improvement including, in particular, the suggestion that I should explain in greater detail. I accepted his advice, did as he suggested and, thereafter, he was satisfied that my autobiography was fit for publication. Dan himself is an author who has had books published and he is thinkings seriously, about writing more books for publication. He says that his reading of my autobiography has given him the impetus to write more novels—his specialty. In addition, I would like to thank Dan for his Foreward to my autobiography, which he has written, following my request. Finally, I should like to thank Dan for suggesting a number of publishers whom I might approach for the publication of my autobiography and recommending, in particular, Xlibris (now taken over by Penguin) whom he thought might be the most helpful in obtaining world-wide exposure for my published autobiography, as well as being the most economical.

Foreword

The world is indeed small and, for many of us, a world view is lacking,so that smallness is not necessarily a good thing. My friend Patrick James was born in relative prosperity on the small, outragiously beautiful Caribbean island of Dominica, where opportunities for travel, for a rewarding career and for a satisfying life can be a dream, followed by reality—witness the twice as many Dominicans (as those living in Dominica) who are living, working or comfortably retired in such far flung countries as the U.S.A., the United Kingdom and Canada. During his “growing up” years, however, and as a result of circumstance, Patrick experienced wild swings of fortune but, because he was fortunate enough to be blessed with great intelligence and sensitivity, he grasped education as his means for personal fulfillment as wellas his ticket off the island and into the greater world. To do so meant severing family ties that sustain us in difficult times, including a short separation from his beloved grandfather, who sent him back to his parents for petty thieving and so that he might learn a lesson the hard way, become repentant, ask for forgiveness and, gleefully, be accepted back into his beloved grandfather’s household. At that time (1938) Patrick’s parents lived in Antigua, approximately 90 miles away from Dominica and, to Patrick, Antigua did not feel like home. Prior to Patrick’s temporary banishment and, form time to time, all too sympathetic Patrick eight year old Patrick would steal a few pennies from his grandfather’s shop drawer, to feed his less fortunate and very hungry friends. Finally, Patrick was caught and sent away as a form of punishment for wrong doing. While Patrick lived in Dominica with his grandfather, he had to cope with the absence of his father, who would have provided guidance and taught him to be self-reliant. Patrick grew up being all thumbs. Later, he taught himself self-reliance. Patrick overcame all obstacles and his travels would take him t several other islands in the Caribbean area, including Guyana and Venezuela in South America, both of which do have Caribbean sea fronts, the Canary Islands off the

west coast of North Africa, Barcelona on Spain’s Mediterranean coast line, Genoa in Italy, Nice and Paris in , Brussels (Belgium), Amsterdam (the Netherlands), the United Kingdom, Johannesburg and Cape Town in South Africa, Singapore, Perth (Western Australia and, finally, Florida, U.S.A Patrick would see his love of education allowing him to teach into his eighties, affecting the lives of thousands of human beings in many countries. To meet Patrick is to meet an African American and a world citizen, a cultured man with a beautiful English accent and a Caribbean lilt to his voice, whose qualities of hard work, empathy, intelligence and respect are instantly apparent in the first moments of making his acquaintance, and whose knowledge of world affairs, literature and history and his unwavering religious faith make him a lodestone to his friends and acquaintances, a leader by example to others, and to children a guiding North Star to fulfilling their own hopes and dreams. Patrick’s book is not simply a fascinating story of one person’s fulfilled dreams despite obstacles, including racism. It is a testament to innate goodness, a love for humanity, and a vision that includes much of the world as a place of oneness. It is an intimate look into human beings who shaped the person Patrick James becomes, from a little boy in the Caribbean islands to a man meeting the Duke and Duchess of Kent, Princess Alice and Princess Margaret on their visits to Dominica, and Princess Anne (Chancellor of the University of London) as she handed him his Bachelor’s and Master’s certificates at the Albert Hall in London and as she turned around to take a final look at him again, at the Service of Dedication at Westminster Cathedral, to an American citizen in the state of Florida, still teaching in his eighties and deeply involved in making his community a better place by his work with the African American Club of Pasco County, Inc. This is the story of one man’s yet unfinished journey through life, as told by the autobiographer, Patrick C. James himself, According to my mother, Sylvia (deceased) I was born at No. 58 King George V Street, Roseau, The Commonwealth of Dominica, at 3. 00 A.M. on Tuesday, October 15, 1929. That two storey wooden building, with its galvanized (corrugated) roof exists today, unaltered, in remarkably good condition, brightly painted and serving a similar dual purpose as it did at the time of my birth: a grocery shop on the ground floor and living quarters on the first floor. The only difference today is the absence of a bakery in the backyard. At the time of my

birth and for several years thereafter, my step grandmother, M.A.B. Georges (deceased) owned and managed a bakery in the backyard. That bakery supplied bread on a daily basis (Sundays excluded) to all the Roseau inhabitants, as well as to people living in villages, hamlets and other out of town dwellings, particularly on Saturdays, when those out of town customers came in to town to do their weekly shopping. At that time, scarcely another bread bakery existed in Roseau. The baker was Rene’ Peter, more affectionately known as Tit D’or. The house itself: No. 58 King George V Street was owned by my maternal grandfather: J.H.D. Georges (deceased) and his second wife, M.A.B. Georges. J.H.D., M.A.B. and a few of J.H.D.’s children (my mother, Sylvia included) occupied the first floor flat for a few years. Later, J.H.D, M.A.B and a few of J.H.D.’s children (my mother excluded this time) moved to Brinsley House in Great Malborough Street, Roseau, following the purchase of that dwelling by J.H.D. and M.A.B. Obviously, J.H.D. and family needed more space. They must have been living in very cramped conditions, in the first floor flat of No. 58 King George V Street, which was not very spacious. Brinsley House provided ample accommodation for J.H.D., M.A.B., three of J.H.D’s four daughters and, occasionally, other offspring of J.H.D.’s and their spouses. I recall that, for a time, a large room was let, on the ground floor, to Eric Richards, a school teacher. In addition to the ground floor flat, there was the first floor and a garret which contained two large rooms. The yard was very ample, with a grape bearing grape—vine in it. In the yard, too, there was an out—house, which spanned the width of the yard from east to west. That out—house was divided into four rooms. The first room on the east side of the yard was used as a store room, particularly for salt, which was sold in J.H.D’s grocery and liquor shop, ading Brinsley House. The shop itself was a corner shop, with two entrances: one from Great Malborough Street and the other from Old Street. But I have digressed a bit. Therefore, I shall return to that out house in the yard of Brinsley House. The second room, adjacent to the first, served as a kitchen. The cook was Emily and the maid was Rosette. The third room, ading the second, served as a bath/shower room. The bath area was enclosed by a wall, which was about 5 feet tall and 9 feet long. Whenever the bath was stoppered, so that the water flowing from the shower itself was allowed to fill the bath, two children could swim, comfortably, in the bath area. The fourth and final room contained a toilet, for convenience. The main building itself had a toilet and sink room. The yard was enclosed by a high wall, some 18 feet tall, which separated Brinsley House from the Latigres, who were the neighbours to the east of Brinsley House. Today, Brinsey House is known as the Kent/Anthony Guest House. Sadly, the main building itself and the yard, which in J.H.D.G.’s time resembled a

courtyard, rather than an ordinary yard, are not, now, in as pristine a condition as they used to be. Following my birth at No. 58 King George V Street, on October 15, 1929, my mother and father took me, along with my elder sister, Marrie Ellen (more commonly known as Rosa) to Montserrat. My father: Jabez Nehemiah James, a Leeward Islands police officer, was orderly, also, to the governor of the Leeward Islands. According to my recollection, the governor at the time was his Excellency Popham. At that time, Dominica was part of the Leeward Islands Group; so, too, were Montserrat, Antigua, Barbuda, St. Kitts, Nevis and Anguilla. The joke is that the geographers and the s had difficulty deciding whether Dominica should be part of the Leeward Islands Group, or whether it (Dominica) should be part of the Windward Islands Group: St. Lucia, St. Vincent, Grenada and the Grenadines. The net result was that sometimes Dominica was classified as being part of the Leeward Islands Group and, at other times, Dominica was classified as being part of the Windward Islands Group. Poor Dominica did not know whether it was going or coming. As governor of the Leeward Islands, Popham moved, at intervals of time, from island to island and remained in each of those islands for a considerable amount of time (or not) according to his pleasure. He was the big chief. As Orderly, my father moved with the governor. My elder sister: Marie Ellen was born in Montserrat while Governor Popham was in residence there. The date of my elder sister’s birth was November 1, 1928. I was born in Dominica, while Governor Popham was in residence there. My date of birth, as I have stated (above) was October 15, 1929. One of my maternal aunts Victoria Georges, who was, at that time, undergoing teacher training at Codrington in Antigua, was in the habit, also, of stopping for a short while in Montserrat, on her way back to Dominica, when schools were closed for the summer break, from the beginning of the last week in July, until the end of August. On the occasion of her last week in July, 1931 stopover in Montserrat, Victoria (Aunty Vicky deceased), by way of a reminder, asked my mother: “Do you that just after you were married to Jabez, you asked Pappa” (our father) “what he would like, from you, as a parting gift, and his reply, to you, was: Your first son?” My mother, on perceiving the rhetoric in that question, made no reply. Simply, she lifted me up from my cot and handed me to Aunty Vicky. Scarcely could Aunty Vicky contain her elation. Of course, I have no reollection of my first one and a half years (roughly) on Mother Earth but, in

later years, Aunty Vicky told me and, in my teens, my mother confirmed that what Aunty Vicky had told me was correct. Apparently, my father had no say in this snap decision and, later, during my “teen” years, he regretted it so much, that he repeated several times, in my presence: “I should never have allowed you to go to your grandfather in Dominica.” However, I am jumping the gun a bit here. All will be revealed later in this autobiography. At the end of July, 1931, I arrived back in Dominica, with Aunty Vicky. The Canadian Ladyboats: Lady Nelson, Lady Drake, Lady Frobisher and the Nerrissa, another Canadian tourist boat were plying the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea in those days. Aunty Vicky did tell me which Canadian tourist boat brought us (Aunty Vicky and myself) to Dominica, but I do not recall, clearly, which one she mentioned. However, that is of little (or no) importance, anyway. Vaguely, I seem to recall that the name she mentioned was Lady Drake. These names are of historical importance, but I shall not go into that, in this autobiography, since it bears no direct relation to the story of my life—“Mr. James’s Life Story” as the students in a few of the West Pasco, (Florida), Middle and High Schools like to call it. Aunty Vicky took me to Brinsley House (now Kent Anthony Guest House, No. 3 Great Malborough Street), where I met the occupants: J.H.D. Georges, (my maternal grandfather) and his other two daughters: Rosalind and Alfreda, although I have no recollection of that first meeting. At that time, I was two and a half months short of my second birthday. My second return, to Dominica, from Montserrat, occurred at the end of July, 1931; but my first return to Dominica, albeit briefly, occurred in 1930. My mother wanted me to be baptized (christened in Roman Catholic terminology) at the Roman Catholic Cathedral in Dominica. In addition to having my name, date and place of birth recorded in the registry at the Roman Catholic Presbytery, she wanted those entries to be recorded, also, at the Roseau Registry, which was, at that time, housed in the High Court building She (my mother) asked Grandpa whether he would like to take on the godfather responsibility and he agreed, gladly. In addition, she asked her younger sister: Rosalind, whether she would like to take on the godmother responsibility and she, too, agreed, willingly. The two (Aunty Rosalind and Grandpa) took me to the presbytery, after the christening, where Father Bogart (by name, I think) was seated at a desk, pen in hand and registration book open, ready to take, from Grandpa, the necessary details for recording in the book of ed births. Grandpa, in addition to being a fast talker, whenever it suited him tended, also, to be verbose. The result was that Father Bogart, who was very senior in years in those days,

misunderstood what Grandpa was trying to tell him, concerning my place of birth. Grandpa assumed that Father Bogart knew I was born in Dominica and, because Grandpa was fond of a lot of chatter, he enthused about the fact that I had just arrived in Dominica, with my mother, from Montserrat. Mistakenly, Father Bogart took that to mean that I was born in Montserrat. Thus it was, that he wrote: Place of Birth: Montserrat. It was only after I had emigrated to London, England and had been there for several years, I found out, quite by accident that, in the Roseau Presbytery’s of Births, I was listed as having been born in Montserrat. Fortunately, the Roseau (High Court) Registry had that detail (place of birth) correctly documented. Fortunately for me, too, I had obtained a copy of my birth certificate at the Roseau Registry (High Court) before the High Court building had burned down, taking, with it, the records of birth of thousands of Dominicans. The result was that thousands of people had to turn to the Roman Catholic Church for copies of their birth certificates. In those days close on 100% of the Dominican population was Roman Catholic. Even today, the Roman Catholic population numbers in excess of 80%. Following my christening, plus my place and date of birth recording, my mother: Sylvia took me back to Montserrat and six to seven months later, Aunty Vicky took me back again to Dominica. As I am given to understand, the recall of some people dates back to the age of two. Fortunately (or unfortunately), depending on one’s perceptions, my recall dates back to the age of four. At the age of four, Grandpa sent me to Miss Nellie’s private Nursery School, which was situated in Upper Lane close to No. 58 King George V Street. No. 58 King George V Street stands still, today, at the corner of King George V Street and Upper Lane. In those days, one had to be privileged, i.e. a member of the more wealthy middle and upper classes to attend a Nursery School. As I recall, Miss Nellie’s was the only nursery school in the capital: Roseau and, for that matter, miles around. Quite clearly, I recall that every Monday morning, during school term, Grandpa used to place, in my tro pocket, half a crown (two shillings and six pence) for me to take out of my tro pocket and hand to Miss Nellie (Nellie Letang) when I got to school. Never did I fail to do that, gleefully. In those days, half a crown was a lot of money. In Miss Nellie’s tiny cottage—like classroom, which encomed the sum total of that one floor building, some 20 of us (four year olds) sat on backless benched tiers, learning everything by rote: multiplication tables, nursery rhymes, jingles,

songs, etc. etc. and we enjoyed that rote learning, thoroughly. In addition, we learned proper English usage, syntax, with particular emphasis on subject/predicate agreement. We wrote on slates, with slate pencils and, because there were no desks, we placed our wooden framed slates on our knees to write. Some of us brought packed lunches to school, but I did not, because I ate my lunch at my stepgrandmother’s: M.A.B. Georges, who had a house and a bakery nearby. Our school week was from Monday to Friday, during school term and our school day lasted from 9. 00 A.M to 3. 00 P.M. By the time that we moved (at the age of five) from Miss Nellie’s School, to the public (non paying) government schools for students 5—15 + years of age, we had a very good head start over and above the less privileged, whose parents/ guardians could not afford the “half crown” weekly payment. Incidentally, Miss Nellie was the sole teacher at her school. There were no assistants or helpers. I do not recall, clearly, whether (or not) there were any girls in attendance at Miss Nellie’s School. According to my recollection, there were boys only. I do not know why, and never did it occur to me to ask. I suppose I took it for granted that boys and girls were schooled separately. At the age of five, I moved to the Roseau Boys’ Govt. School, where my grandfather: J.H.D. Georges was heaster. Most (if not all) of my Nursery School classmates moved to the Roseau Boys’ Govt. School, as well. Every morning, I walked the mile or two, with Grandpa, from Brinsley House in Great Malborough Street, to the Roseau Boys’ Govt. School in Victoria Street, opposite the Savannah (almost). For recreation purposes, the school was placed, very conveniently, close to a wide, open savannah; except that the school was on the west side of Victoria Street, ading the stony sea—shore and the Caribbean Sea, whereas the savannah was on the east side of Victoria Street. But, in those days, there was little or no cause for alarm, since there were no more than five motor—vehicles (all told) on the island. Today, there are two motor—vehicles (approximately) to every head of population in Dominica and that population numbers in excess of 80,000. The school’s buildings were two in number: the North Building and the South Building. Each of those buildings was no more than 12 yds. away from the other, in the same grounds, and side by side in a north/south setting. The so—called infants (aged 5—7) were accommodated in the wooden, one floor South Building and the juniors/seniors (7—15 +) were accommodated in the solid, stone built, one floor North Building. The North Building exists still (today) in

its original solid stone state, but the wooden building exists no longer. The North Building is a recreational club now, ed by government funds. My aunt, Victoria (Aunty Vicky) was the Assistant Teacher in charge of the Infants Department. Her helper’s status was that of Pupil Teacher, whose name was Cecil Joseph, a tall, slim, jet black, jovial and sprightly young man. I , very vividly, that, on most days just after lunch, (1. 00 P.M. approximately) and particularly when it was raining, the whole school (Infants and Juniors/Seniors) would together in very audible rounds, set to music. For example, each of the two departments would take it in turns to shout out: “Twice one are… .” leaving it to the other department to respond: “two”. “Twice two are…” “four”. “Twice three are… .” “six,” etc. etc. After the two departments had been through all the tables, up to twelve times, then they would turn to something else, like: “Thirty days are in” . . . . “September”. “April, June, also” . . . . “November” “All the rest have” . . . . “Thirty—one” “Excepting February which alone has… .” twenty—eight in all its store” . . . . “but in leap year” . . . . “one day more”. There were several more jingles like that and, of course, all the students enjoyed the experience, thoroughly. At the age of seven, I moved to the Junior/Senior Department, where Grandpa taught, along with two or three assistants. In those days, capital punishment was not only in vogue, but encouraged, enthusiastically, by parents and guardians alike. If teachers did not flog their lagging students, parents and guardians assumed that the teachers were not interested in the progress of their charges, who are seen to be falling behind. I recall that whenever a student was not pulling his weight, as Grandpa saw it, he would get hold of a strap and, with every stroke applied to the bottom of the “lagging student, Grandpa would say: “You’ll break your mother’s heart, but you won’t break mine.” As I stated (above), I used to walk, with Grandpa, from Brinsley House to the Roseau Boys’ School. Conversely, I would walk back home, with him, at the end of the school day: 3. 00 P.M. School started at 9. 00 A.M. and students attended school Monday to Friday, during school term. As we walked to and from school, Grandpa was stopped, very frequently, by Karam, an Arab grocer, who stressed that, because his son was not making sufficient progress, he should be flogged, painfully and repeatedly, by Grandpa. I observed that all the Arabs who, incidentally, were the major shopkeepers and extremely prosperous in Roseau, were very fond of Grandpa and very helpful financially, too. I wondered why, but never asked, In later years, following Grandpa’s demise, I learned that Grandpa was of Arab descent. Never, was I flogged by any teacher (Grandpa

included), parent or relative. Repeatedly, Aunty Vicky would report, to me, Grandpa’s observation that I was a very intelligent boy and that I was making good progress; but Grandpa never told me so, himself. Maybe he was trying to guard against my becoming too swollen headed. I was eight years of age when Grandpa was appointed to the Inspectorate. In fact, he was the island’s only Inspector of Schools. He remained as Island Wide Inspector of Schools for two years. Then, he became the island’s first black Acting Education Officer. In short, Grandpa was not my teacher for long—at least, not in the formal sense but, in the informal sense, he was. I learned a lot from him, informally. Mr. Joseph succeeded Grandpa as heaster of the Roseau Boys’ School. In those days, an appointment to the headship of the Roseau Boys School was considered quite an honour, because of the school’s very high reputation. Under the headship of Grandpa, the Roseau Boys’ School had risen to the pinnacle of recognition; so much so, that students who were not given the opportunity to attend one of the most prestigious academic insttutions on the island: The Dominica Grammar School, did not see themselves as missing much. In fact, when those students (who did not go to the Grammar School, left the Roseau Boys’ School, they were so well educated, that they were placed in very high employment positions. It is worthy of note that none of those early Roseau Boys’ School heasters: Grandpa, Mr. Joseph, Mr. Lewis, Mr. Pond, Mr. Fingall, Mr. Lawrence, etc. etc., but not necessarily in that order were Dominicans. Those distinguished educators came from the neighbouring islands of St. Kitts, Antigua and Montserrat. It was not that the Dominicans were not qualified. Rather, it was that Dominicans did not aspire to the teaching and policing professions, in those days. They preferred to indulge in their agricultural pursuits. My most vivid recollection of Mr. Joseph, was his allowing Mr. Dewhurst, an accomplished artist, to place in colourful and decorative wooden frames, some twelve motos, which were hung up on the east and west walls of the stone building—the junior/senior department. The frames were built in the school’s capentry shed and Mr. Dewhurst, who hailed from England and was a son of the founder/owner of the Dewhurst cloth making and thread making industry, performed the artistry for nothing. He did not need the money. His parents were filthy rich. Moreover, he volunteered to perform that artistry. Mr. Dewhurst lived close to the school, on the east side of Victoria Street, with his Dominican wife,

who was a Carib/Negro mixture and his eight children, by his wife. Those mottos have left their mark in my memory and, sometimes, I have been guided by them. I will quote just three here, beginning with the one that has left its most lasting impression: (1) “There are four things that come not back: the spoken word, the careless action, the past life and the neglected opportunity”. (2) “Ever persevere boys, though your tasks be hard, try and try again, boys, you’ll succeed at last. (3) “Excelsior—to the stars. Let excelsior be your guide.” I do not know who was/were the author/authors of those mottos and neither do I know what happened to those works of art. I wish I did. Just before my seventh birthday, Grandpa promised that, following the making of my first communion, he would send me to Antigua, so that I might become acquainted with my mother, my father, my seven brothers and sisters, because he was worried that I had become accustomed to seeing him as my father, rather than as my grandfather and he was correct. Who else could have been my father? I had known no other father and, likewise, I had known no mother. Aunty Vicky was my adoptive mother and Grandpa was my father. I was directed to call him “Grandpa” because of his senior years, simply. A few months following my seventh birthday—in the merry month of May, 1937 I made my First Communion. I recall that it was a very grand affair. On that Sunday morning in May, 1937 (I do not recall which particular Sunday in May it was; but it may have been the first Sunday), I was dressed resplendently in white: white, long sleeved silk shirt, large white bow tie, white shorts, white hoses, reaching up to just under my knees and a pair of highly polished black shoes, direct from Leonard’s in London, to Brinsley House, completed the ensemble. In addition, there was my three foot long, white, decorative candle. At 8.00 A.M., our First Communion Mass was celebrated. Never did it occurr to me, to enquire as to how many of us were making our First Communion that memorable Sunday morning but, according to my recollection, there were dozens of us, literally speaking—boys and girls, including one of my best friends, Bernard Royer, who lived opposite to where I lived in Great Malborough Street. Bernard’s nickname was “Sonny Boy”. And, always, he was called by his nickname: “Sonny Boy”—never by his Christian name: “Bernard”. On reflection, it occurs, to me, that “Sonny” must have been a corruption of “Sunny”. We sang hymns, to the accompaniment of the church choir and organ music from an enormous organ, that was situated in the gallery, at the back of the Roseau Cathedral. The organist was Cynthia Potter (deceased). We listened to a short sermon delivered by one of the priests, then we lined up, in rows, and

moved up to the railing, in front of the altar, to have placed, on our tongues, (each of us) a waiver thin mixture of bread and wine, although we did not taste the wine—only the bread. Finally, in a long procession, and with our candles lit by the nuns, we filed slowly around the Cathedral, keeping close to the four walls, That, for us, was the highlight of the mass. The scenery was oh! so beautiful, that it was beyond description, almost. Thus ended the mass and we departed separately (or in small groups) to our various places of abode. At about 3.00 P.M. (and by invitation) on that same First Communion Sunday, I ed Sonny Boy and other of his family, for a First Communion party. Sonny Boy’s father had departed this life even before I had had any recollection of him; but, thankfully, Sonny Boy’s mother, an aunt, an uncle and his two sisters were alive, well and living as one big, happy family in that very roomy house. Sonny Boy’s aunt was very good at making ginger cakes and ginger beer which was a great favourite of the entire Roseau population. That aunt baked ginger cakes and brewed ginger beer for cinema goers and they were many. Matinees and evening shows were very popular in those days. There was one cinema, close to the mouth of the Roseau River and the projectionist was a Royer, another relative of Sonny Boy’s. But I digress here. Yes! we were served ginger beer, ginger cakes and there was a massive wedding like cake, too, baked by Sonny Boy’s aunt. I regret that her name slips me at the moment. We played board and other games. By 6.00 P.M., That enjoyable party came to an end and I walked across the quiet street to my abode: Brinsley House. Schools closed, for the Christmas holidays, a week or two before Christmas Day and reopened a week or two after Christmas. I believe the same practice applies even today. It so happened that police officer, Corporal Tongue, an Antiguan, who was stationed in Dominica, had obtained leave to visit his island home: Antigua. By previous arrangement with Grandpa, Corporal Tongue took me, with him, to Antigua and brought me back, to Roseau, in time for the reopening of school in January. I hesitate to use the term “winter” because the four seasons are not as clearly defined in the West Indies as they are in the Northern and Southern Hemispheres. In the Caribbean, we have no winter, as such. We try to differentiate between the “wet” and “dry” seasons, but even those can be very blurred. Corporal Tongue and I travelled third class, on either the Lady Drake or the Lady Nelson. I do not recall which one, precisely; but that is of little or no import, since all three lady boats were identical. Most West Indians travelled either third class or deck between the islands, on those lady boats. First and Second Class were luxuries that could be done without. I had known Corporal

Tongue for some considerable time. He was very likeable and part of the Brinsley household, almost. By that I mean he was a frequent and welcome visitor. We set sail on that lady boat one morning—about the middle of December, 1937, spent one night at sea and the very next day, early in the morning, the boat had dropped anchor in Antiguan waters, some three miles offshore. Corporal Tongue informed me that we had arrived in Antigua or, at least, in Antiguan waters. I was puzzled and so I asked Corporal Tongue: “Where is Antigua? and why has the boat dropped anchor so far away from the island?” Corporal Tongue explained that the Antiguan waters were very shallow and so it was necessary for big ships, like the lady boats, to drop anchor three miles off shore. “Oh! I see”, I reed; “but how do we get ashore”. “Well! you see”, Corporal Tongue explained further, if you watch carefully, you will see that the Customs Officer is approaching the lady boat, in his launch, for boarding, inspection and questioning, and that a little fleet of launches is in the wake of his launch, biding its time to take engers and tourists ashore.” I made no reply, but found the spectacle very interesting. Once the Customs Officer had given the lady boat the “all clear”, the crews of the little launches began to hustle for engers and tourists. Corporal Tongue chose a launch, we boarded, the crew (of that launch) placed our baggage in the launch and the captain sped off towards St. John’s, the capital of the island. As we got closer to the shoreline, I could not fail to notice the sheer flatness of the land, as compared with (or contrasted against) the numerous and massive Dominican mountains, between four and five thousand feet tall, rising sheer (almost) from the water’s edge, all round and into the interior of the island, too. Corporal Tongue pointed out, to me, a little elevation which, he said, was barely one thousand feet above sea level and so was classified as a mountain. That little elevation was called Buggy Peak. I made no reply, but I was not impressed. Never have I climbed that peak but, if I recall correctly, Buggy Peak was named after those horse and donkey drawn carts that traversed the peak in those days and, probably do, still, today. Finally, after about fifteen to thirty minutes at sea, we arrived at St. John’s Jetty. Corporal Tongue jumped onto the jetty and, while I was waiting to be helped up to the jetty, I placed my left hand between the launch, (which was moored to the jetty) and the jetty itsef. What I was attempting to do was to run my hand through the sea—water. As I dangled my hand over the side of the launch, it (the launch) edged closer and closer to the jetty, as a result of the wave movements and the tide, I suppose. Just when my hand would have been crushed between the launch and the jetty, I felt a very strong hand. Swiftly, that mighty hand got a firm grip on my hand, pulled me straight out of the launch and had me facing

him. His six foot three inches height meant that my feet were dangling some two feet above the jetty. He was a giant of a man, brawny, shiny, jet black in compexion and with a full head of white hair, which was not dyed. Later, I learned that his hair had turned from full black to full white, by the time that he was twenty years of age. That hair remained that colour until his demise. Corporal Tongue, who had been in animated conversation with that giant, interrupted that conversation, briefly and said to me: “Patrick! meet your father”. That was the very first meeting with my father, of which I have any recollection. Immediately, my mind went back to Grandpa, who was fond of telling me, repeatedly, that his father was jet black and a policeman in St. Kitts. No doubt, Grandpa liked to compare his father with my father. Both were jet black. Both were policemen and both had been stationed in St. Kitts, although not at the same time, necessarily. The animated conversation between Corporal Tongue and my father: Corporal James came to an abrupt end, partly because my father had to interrupt his conversation, to prevent me from losing a few fingers and a hand as well, probably. Corporal Tongue and my father bade each other farewell and they parted company. My father then got hold of my suitcase in one hand, held one of my hands firmly with his other hand and led me to a police car, which was parked close to the jetty. My father opened the door to the front enger seat and directed me to sit there (on the front enger seat). I did. Next, he opened the door leading to the driver’s seat, sat in the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition and drove the vehicle to the St. John’s Police Station. On arrival in the courtyard of Police Headquarters, we disembarked. My father went into the station and to the front desk, presumably, to report that he had returned from picking me up at the jetty. Because there was no need for me to report to the front desk, I was left to wander, all by myself alone, around the courtyard and acquaint myself with the surroundings. As I wondered around the courtyard, my eyes alighted on a number of police bicycles, placed neatly in bicycle racks, in their upright positions and, to my unbelievable and pleasant surprise, were not fastened in any way. Chains, fixtures and locks were (conspicuously) absent. This was my lucky day, I thought. Thus it was that I pulled out from one of the racks, the bicycle that was nearest to where I was standing, wheeled it out to the street with which the police station had a frontage, mounted the bicycle and it (the bicycle) began to go down a slight incline, with me on its saddle.

The momentum engendered by the slight incline, caused the bicycle to move down hill faster and faster and, because this was my first attempt at riding a bicycle, I became very scared, to the extent that I did not apply any breaks and neither did I ring the bicycle bell. I was careful, however, to hold on tightly to the bicycle’s handle—bar and keep the bicycle going in a straight line. Or was it fright that was responsible for my action? I think the latter is correct. How I managed to avoid pedestrians, as they crossed the street and motorists, as they moved across that street, heaven (alone) knows. I do not. A guardian angel must have been watching over me. A little wooden cottage stood at the bottom of that street and two or three concrete steps led to its closed front door. The bicycle, with its own momentum, climbed those three steps, opened the wooden front door which led to the living room, stopped there (in the living room) and I dismounted, trembling like a leaf. In that living room (more commonly known as a front room, in West Indian parlance), a middle—aged lady sat behind her Singer sewing machine, (which had its own stand), sewing a garment. The lady stopped her sewing, opened wide her eyes and mouth, said nothing for what, to me, seemed an eternity (it could have been two or three minutes); then, she exclaimed: “A wah yah? A who you?” which, being interpreted is: What is this? What am I beholding? Should I believe my eyes? and who are you any way? I told her that I was a son of Corporal James, explained, to her, how I came to find myself in that predicament, apologised and promised that that occurence would not happen again. The lady then exclaimed once more: “Corporal James! and how come me nuh know you?” which being interpreted is: How is it that I do not know you? I explained that I was living with my maternal grandfather in Dominca since I was about twenty and a half months old, and that I had just arrived, from Dominica, on my very first visit to Antigua, my mother, my father, my brothers and sisters. In fact, I was yet to meet my mother, my brothers and my sisters. “Oh!” she said, “me see. Me forgive you and me na go tell nobody ’bout wha “appen ’ere today”. I thanked her profusely, wheeled the bicycle back out of her front door, which was open, still. Then, I continued pushing the bicycle up the incline, until I got to the police station and the bicycle racks where, quietly, I replaced the bicycle in its own rack. With the exception of that lady and myself, nobody (my father included) had any knowledge of that incident, and neither was I missed from the police station. A short while, following my return to the police headquarters, my father

approached me in the courtyard, where I had been wandering around, aimlessly. Having completed his reporting to the Station Sergeant, my fatther informed me that he had been given leave to return to his post in Wilikies, a village some fifteen miles away from St. John’s and in a north—westerly direction. My father placed my luugage in the boot of a police car. Then, I got into the enger front seat and he in the driver’s seat. Finally, we drove off to Wilikies, where, very eagerly, my mother, four brothers and three sisters were awaiting my arrival, eagerly. On arrival, I received a very warm welcome from one and all. The living quarters were attached to the police—station. Not only was my father the officer—in—charge, but he was the sole policeman there, as well. Wilikies was such a small village (and, very probably, it is, still), that one police—officer was quite sufficient for the maintenance of order. Indeed, the only time that I witnessed an arrest during my month long December stay in Wilikies, was during the week long carnival frivolities, when my father had to arrest a man who had become too drunk for his own safety. My father placed him in the the police—station’s single cell, where he (the drunken one) spent one night. The following day, he had sobered up, and my father released the man, who was very apologetic and thankful for his sobering night’s sleep in the cell. My witnessing of “Jour Ouvrir” and other carnival activities was very interesting and entertaining. During Jour Ovrir, (Day Break) participants came out, at break of day, dressed in cloth costumes, but with a rope exterior. In addition, those participants had bull’s horns on their foreheads as well as on their abdomens. Those participants, who represented devils, tried to scare children. Where we lived was pritected (all round) by a six foot tall galvanized fence. In addition, there was an entrance/exit galvanized gate. We (the children) would open the gate ever so slightly to catch a “peep” at the Day Break Devils, as they danced in the street to the beat of drums, the ringing of bells, the sound of flutes and other instruments. As the Day Break Devils approached our gate, we would shut it tight. Then, the devils would charge, repeatedly, at the shut gate and other parts of the fence with their horns. That episode we found very scary, but we were quite safe behind our galvanized fortress. Eventually, the Day Break Devils would move on. At the end of my four weeks’ stay in Wilikies, I bade farewell to my mother, brothers and sisters. Then, my father drove me back to St. John’s, where Corporal Tongue was waiting to take me back, via another lady—boat, to Roseau, Dominica.

I enjoyed my stay in Wilikies, but I could not mask my “joy” at being back in Roseau. The elation showed by my grandfather, step grandmother, aunts, uncles, servants and friends was overwhelming, too. I returned to the Roseau Boys Govt. School and for the next two years, my experience there was very mundane, albeit quite enjoyable. During that time, my maternal grandfather: J.H.D. Georges, had been promoted to Island Wide Inspector of Schools, and he was succeeded at the Roseau Boys’ School by Mr. Joseph, the new heaster. From age 7 to age 9, I frequented the Bay Boys and spent a lot of time with them at the bay front and on the Roseau Jetty, particularly, where we would divest ourselves of our clothing, leaving only our bathing trunks, which we donned at our homes, before putting on our outer vestments. In our bathing trunks, we would dive from the jetty, into the calm, warm Caribbean Sea and swim around the jetty for a few minutes, before climbing on to the Jetty’s platform and ascending the steps to the top part of the jetty itself. The Bay Boys would do hook and line fishing on the jetty as well, and sometimes they would catch a lot of fish. Hook and Line fishing held no allure for me. I preferred fish pot fishing, which I will come to later in this auto-biography. The water around the jetty was very deep, so much so, that in later years, very little, if any, dredging was necessary, for the berthing of the largest of ocean going vessels alongside a longer, larger and more sturdy pier which replaced the Roseau Jetty. Those Bay Boys were very poor, to the extent that their posteriors showed through their worn and torn short tros. Those Bay Boys were Bare Foot Boys as well. They could not afford shoes and so they walked everywhere bare footed. Because I wanted to emulate them, I would kick, into the sea, my Leonard’s shoes which were ordered, for me, from England, Great Britain. Then, I would walk barefooted, like my comrades. At sunset, when we (all) returned to our places of abode, my Aunt: Alfreda would ask: “Where are your shoes?” to which I would reply: “They fell into the sea, Aunty”. No doubt, my Aunty Freda did not believe me. Nevertheless, she made no reply. In addition to frequenting the Bay Front and the Roseau Jetty, the Bay Boys and I frequented, also, the grounds in which the Roseau Library stood (and does still). We frequented those grounds because of a massive banyan tree, which towered there, with its long, sturdy ropes hanging down to the ground, form its topmost branches. That Banyan tree was perched on a cliff—side, facing the

Caribbean Sea, and about two to three hundred feet below, were great, big rocks on the sea-shore, onto which huge waves would lash, whenever the Caribbean Sea chose to be angry. The Bay Boys and I would get hold of those ropes individually and swing like Tarzan over those giant rocks and back to earth again and, at the same time, imitating the Tarzan sounds. How, in Heaven’s name, none of us fell to our deaths, on those rocks below, God only knows. On a recent visit to Dominica, I observed that the majestic banyan tree had been removed, in the interest of safety, I suppose. Those Bay Boys were so poor that, very often, they were hungry, although they never said that they were hungry. Feeling their pain, I would steal a few pennies from the drawer in my maternal grandfather’s grocery and liquor shop and, with those pennies, I would buy a bunch of ripe bananas, so that the bellies of my comrades might be full, and full they would become. I recall that I would purchase a large bunch of bananas for three and a half pence. Normally, those three and a half pence would not have been missed. Unfortunately, however, I was ordered by my grandfather and my aunt Alfreda, to spy on my aunt (and Godmother) Rosalind (now deceased), because she had become an alcoholic and was drinking a lot of the shop’s rum. I hated the assignment, but I felt obliged to do as I was told. Therefore, I obeyed that order. Without my knowledge, my aunt Rosalind had been observing that I had been stealing, from time to time, a few pennies from the shop’s drawer. My aunt Rosalind suspected that I had been spying on her and reporting that she had been drinking a lot of the shop’s rum. In consequence, therefore, she reported that I had been stealing money from the shop’s drawer. In an instant, my grandfather banished me to my parents in Antigua. I was nine years of age at that time. Back in Antigua, my parents, plus four brothers and three sisters were living in a tiny two bedroom house in a southern suburb of Antigua’s capital: St. John’s. My parents slept in one bedroom and the eight of us (the sum total of my mother’s offspring) slept in the other bedroom—some on a bed and the rest on the floor. My father had eight of us with my mother. However, he did have three, at least: two girls and one boy with three different women, prior to his marriage with my mother. It was rumoured that my father had an additional two boys with yet another woman, prior to his marriage with my mother, but neither my brothers and sisters nor I have ever met those two and so that rumour, to this day (01/06/2007) has not been substantiated. My mother’s maiden name was Sylvia Ione Georges and my father’s name was Jabez Nehemiah James. Both my parents are deceased.

From the very first day, I loathed being in Antigua. I did not like the food, which was very different from that to which I had become accustomed in Dominica. In Dominica, I ate ground provisions: dasheens, tanyas (eddoes), yams, sweet potatoes, coosh-coosh, plus breadfruit, green bananas, plantains and cockoys. In Antigua, our staple diet was cornmeal. I did not like it, despite my mother’s stringent efforts to make the meal more palatable for me, by adding several ingredients to the pot. In Antigua today, cornmeal is the week-end delicacy of the well heeled minority, but in those days, cornmeal was the staple diet of the poor majority. Recently, my father had resigned from the Leeward Islands Police Force and, because he had worked, as a policeman, for 14 years and 9 months only, his monthly police pension was very small. His police pension would have been more substantial, were it not for the fact that, habitually, my mother would go to the police headquarters in St, John’s and there she would complain to the Superintendent of Police that her husband had been ill-treating her. As a consequence, therefore, my father was demoted from corporal to lance corporal and promoted again from lance corporal to corporal, at intervals of time. Finally, my father had suffered enough of this humiliation and so he retired as a lance corporal. In addition, following his resignation from the police force, he was unemployed, at least for the short duration of time that I spent with him, my mother, my brothers and sisters, on this my second trip to Antigua. Thus it was, that our mother was hard pressed to make a few pennies suffice for the ten of us. Moreover, my mother could not go out to work. The last of her offspring: Athil (nicknamed Errol) was one month old at that time. Life was a constant struggle, to say the least. Nevertheless, my brothers and sisters were glad to have me in their midst and they did their best to make me happy. I appreciated their efforts and I tried hard to show my appreciation. My mother, too, was very caring and very protective of me. Although my mother would allow and sometimes even encourage my father to inflict corporal punishment on my four brothers, never would she allow him to inflict corporal punishment on me. My father never inflicted corporal punishment on his daughters but, ironically, he would hit my mother, whenever he could take no more of her provocation. It was fortuitous that, in those days, the cost of living was cheap, otherwise, we would not have survived, I guess. I recall, vividly, my father handing a penny to me, one day and saying: “Please go down to that grocery shop nearby and buy, for me, a pound of sugar.” To me, that statement was incredulous and so I sought to correct my father by asking: “You mean a penny’s worth of sugar?” My father,

who had very big, piercing eyes, glared at me and thundered: “I said a pound of sugar. Didn’t I?” “Yes, Pappy!” I reed, trembling like a leaf, and then I ran off as fast as I could, to the grocery shop, nearby. No doubt, my father was chuckling on the inside. At the grocery shop and still trembling, I asked the grocer for a penny’s worth of sugar, not daring to ask for a pound of sugar, just in case that my penny was insufficient. Very cheerfully, the grocer reached for a full one pound bag of pure cane brown sugar, from one his shop shelves and handed it to me. In return, I handed him his penny. However, just to be on the safe side, I said to the grocer: “I did say a penny’s worth of sugar. Didn’t I?” The grocer, on realizing that I was a perfect stranger, smiled broadly and said: “Yes! you did. Good Day to you. Then I ran back, with that pound of sugar, to my father and handed it to him, with a feeling of relief, following my ordeal. Of course, sugar (among other commodities like cornflower, for example) was cheap in Antigua in those days, because the whole island, practically, as far as the eye could see, was covered with sugar cane. In addition, the sugar was manufactured on the island. Today, there are far fewer plantations of sugar on the island of Antigua. During a political backlash, the peasants who worked on the sugar cane plantations, were encouraged to burn several fields of sugar cane, which were seen as the legacy of slavery. The problem was: that wholesale burning had left a void, which was not filled until several years later, when tourism began to inject new life into Antigua’s economy. One of my few pastimes and that which gave me great delight was my going down to the sea front and watching the fishermen and other volunteers, as they pulled their fishing boats onto the shore, high enough so that the waves lashing on the shore might not claim the boats once more. One of the fishermen (or one of the volunteers) would sing, in a wailing tune: “Oh me finger, me poor little finger!” and all the rest would in the refrain: “Row, boys! Row, boys, Row, boys, row!” And that was the signal for all the men on both sides of the long, heavy boat to pull in unison, like one side in a tug-of-war and they did—very masterly, too. That was reminiscent, I think, of the days of slavery, when the slaves were being transported from the west coast of Africa to the Americas, in sailing boats. Whenever the Atlantic Ocean was becalmed, the manacled slaves had to man the oars and row for dear life. And even as those poor, miserable, unfortunate slaves complained that their hands and fingers had become sore, to the extent they thought that they could not row any more, their white slave masters would whip them soundly on their bare, bleeding backs while, at the same time, shouting out to them: “Row, boys, row boys, row boys, row!” Whereas the slaves reward for complaining was the whip lash, the volunteers

reward for helping to pull those boats onto shore was free, fresh fish. However, as time dragged on, and days appeared to be weeks and weeks appeared to be months, my mother observed that I was becoming more and more morose, as a feeling of homesickness began to take its toll on me. Thus it was that she looked at me and asked: “Why don’t you write a letter of apology to Grandpa? Tell him you are sorry that you stole money from his shop drawer and that you will not do it again, that you miss him, Ma B., your aunts: Victoria, Rosalind, Alfreda and all the other of his household, that you are feeling very homesick and long to be accepted back into the fold, if only he would have you. Strange to tell, I had never thought in those . I just felt lost completely, with no idea what I should do. Immediately, however, I embraced that suggestion and set to work on my letter of apology, expression of remorse and desire to return home. Having completed that letter, I folded, sealed it in an envelope and addressed the envelope, appropriately. My mother, in her turn, placed the correct postage stamp on the envelope and took it to the Post Office, where she posted it. In the twinkling of an eye, a reply came from Grandpa, confirming that all had been forgiven and, included in the envelope, was my required return fare, by tourist boat, to Dominica. On beholding the contents of that envelope, I leapt to high heaven, and scarcely could I contain my excitement. My mother, brothers and sisters were sad to see me go, but glad that I had achieved my heart’s desire. My father, by contrast, was the sole exception. Always, he was of the opinion that his (and my mother’s) allowing me to go and my grandfather’s household in Dominica at the early age of one year, ten and a half months was a big mistake, which he would regret for as long as he lived. In short, he saw me as a spoilt brat, and I must it that he was correct. Had I been brought up with and apprenticed to him, I would have become a builder, cabinet maker, mason, motor-mechanic and goodness knows what else. My father was a first class all rounder. On my arrival back in Brinsley House, Roseau, Dominica, there was rejoicing all round. Aunty Vicky was glad, particularly because I was a companion to and playmate again for her son—her only child: Eardley Blanchard, who was four years my junior. Although Eardley was my first cousin, only, nevertheless he was to me, more like a younger brother than a first cousin. It may be recalled that Aunty Vicky brought me to Dominica, from Montserrat, when I was two months shy of my second birthday. I had no recollection of either my mother or my father. To me, therefore, my father was my maternal grandfather: John Henry Duport Georges and my mother was his daughter: Victoria. I recall that, at

bedtime, I shared a mattress on the floor of the Brinsley House attic with Eardley, while my three aunts slept on two beds. Aunty Rosalind and Aunty Freda shared one bed and Aunty Vicky occupied the other bed. Because the attic (which we called the garret) was spread across the length and width of Brinsley House, it was spacious enough to be partitioned in two by a screen. Aunty Vicky, Eardley and I occupied one half of the attic, while Aunty Rosalind and Aunty Freda occupied the other half. I returned to the Roseau Boys School and shortly after my return, Grandpa (J.H.D. Georges) was appointed to the post of island wide Acting Education Officer. Grandpa was the first black man to hold that post on the island and the island’s entire population was proud of him. A year or two earlier, he was the island’s only Inspector of Schools. I continued as a scholar at the Roseau Boys school and took the Dominica Grammar School Scholarship Examination at age 11, but I was not granted a scholarship to the Dominica Grammar. Aunty Vicky told me, in confidence, that I did the examination, with high scores, but I was not granted the scholarship, because it was thought that Grandpa could afford to pay for my grammar school tuition. Scholarships were reserved for the deserving poor, those who showed a lot of promise, but whose parents/guardians could not afford to pay for their grammar school education. In those days, although public education was free to all students, regardless of parental/guardian income, nevertheless grammar school education was not free in that sense. The great majority of students were fee paying and the minority were scholarship students, regardless of the fact that the entire staff was paid by the government. Additionally, the building and land were government owned and all equipment, including text books, notebooks, pens, pencils, etc. etc. were supplied by the government. Grandpa retired in 1939 and for two years thereafter, he concentrated all his energy towards the promotion of his grocery and liquor shop, which was situated at the corner of Great Marlborough Street and Old Street. The island’s entire population looked forward to and enjoyed shopping, in person, at Grandpa’s shop. Grandpa was doing very well. His coffers were becoming quite full and overflowing when, unfortunately, he caught acute pneumonia and, in consequence, was rushed to the Roseau Hospital although, at that time, I did not know that he was suffering from an acute attack of pneumonia. I was under the

impression that Grandpa was tired and needed some rest, hence he was taken to the hospital, where he would rest for a short while and return to his shop, after he had felt sufficiently rested. At the end of every school day, it was my duty and my pleasure to visit Grandpa in his private ward, at the Roseau Hospital. Grandpa expected me, too, to relay to him, the B.B.C. (British Broadcasting Corporation) news, regarding the Second World War on a daily basis. To obtain that news, I had to a crowd as it gathered on the pavement opposite Ayoub Dib’s verandah. Ayoub Dib, a cloth merchant, would place his large radio in his verandah, which was situated on his first floor (second floor in U.S. Terminology). There, in that verandah, he would have his radio tuned into the B.B.C. Station and turned on loudly enough, so that the whole crowd gathered on the pavement opposite to his house could hear the news distinctly. The main news would come on at 6: 00 P.M. And Big Ben would strike six, before the newscaster announced: “The time is now 6: 00 P.M. This is the B.B.C. and here is the news.” Day after day, the news was so samely that, soon I realised I was listening to a lot of propaganda. Therefore, on certain days, I would skip listening to the news and, instead of telling Grandpa what was said on those days, when I absented myself from the crowd of listeners, I would tell Granpa what I surmised. Incredibly, my surmising was almost always 100% correct and so my duplicity worked every time. Grandpa hung on to every word in the early days of his hospitalisation but, as the days wore on, I noticed that his attention span would get shorter and shorter, to the extent that he appeared not to be with me at times. Still, I was so naïve that I did not realise, at the time, that he was saying goodbye to me and to mother earth. Some two weeks or so, following Grandpa’s stay at the Roseau Hospital, Aunty Vicky came to my classroom, where I was seated at a desk, paying close attention to my work. “Patrick”, she said to me, quietly, “you must leave now and go home with me.” Immediately, it dawned on me why Aunty Vicky had come for me. Grandpa had ed away. There was no need for me to ask Aunty Vicky why she had come for me and why it was so imperative that I should go home with her, immediately. Incidentally, Aunty Vicky had to leave the Small School, where she was the teacher-in-charge, in the grounds close to the Big School and come to the Big School, so that she might fetch me. No doubt, a messenger had brought the very sad message to her and she, in her turn, had obtained permission from the heaster of the school, to go home and take me along with her. Younger pupils were taught in the Small School and older pupils were taught in the Big School.

As I accompanied Aunty Vicky on the road to Brinsley House, not one word escaped either her lips or mine. After we had walked for about fifteen minutes, we arrived at Brinsley House, opened the front door, climbed the front steps and entered the sitting room, which was known as the drawing room. There, we beheld a small gathering of people and Grandpa, dressed in a full black suit, complete with white dress shirt, black tie, white gloves and stretched out, on his back, on a table, which was tastily draped with a white sheet. Some of the mourners were sobbing, others were crying loudly and Aunty Vicky burst out in tears, too. It seemed that I was the only one who did not shed a tear. I was too stunned. All I could do was to stare in disbelief. In addition, I was angry—very angry. Why had Grandpa left me and so peremptorily? Shouldn’t he, at least, have had the decency to warn me that he was going? To me, Grandpa was superhuman and had the power to take his leave of mother earth just when he wanted to. Somebody (a woman), I do not recall who she was, looked at me and said: “Patrick, why don’t you cry? If you cry, you will feel better.” I felt that she had a point but, notwithstanding her very sage advice, the tears would not come. Even today, I feel I ought to cry but cannot. One or two days later, the island’s entire population, it would seem, turned out for Grandpa’s funeral and even after he had been buried in the Roman Catholic burial ground, close to the Roman Catholic Cathedral, hundreds were filing, still, into the Roseau Cathedral. Ma B., Grandpa’s wife, wanted him (Grandpa) to agree to a first class funeral. Steadfastly, Grandpa refused, so I was told, and he would have preferred a “no class” funeral, but he compromised and settled for a second class funeral, because of his wife’s insistence. Grandpa saw those socially tiered funerals: first, second and third class as a waste of money and very snobbish, too. Of course, those negotiations between Grandpa and Ma B. occurred at the hospital, just prior to Grandpa’s death and in my absence. Thereafter, I felt that my whole world had turned upside down. Grandpa died at the age of 64, in the same month that he was born—April and very close to his birth date: the 13th., if I am not mistaken. I do , clearly, however, that both Grandpa and Ma B were born in the month of April and that their birth dates were close to each other. In fact, they were both born under the sign of Aries, the Ram. A few days following Grandpa’s death Telford, one of Grandpa’s sons, seven years my senior and now one of two executors of Grandpa’s will, read Grandpa’s last will and testament in the presence of the other executor, my other uncles, aunts and Ma B. Among other bequests to Grandpa’s children, was the proviso

that fifteen pounds sterling should be held, in trust for me, by Millutine, Telford’s mother, until I had reached the age of eighteen, when Millutine would be expected to hand that money over to me. Additionally, I was to the Millutine household and be sent to the Dominica Grammar School, so that I might be the recipient of a grammar school education. Thereafter, it would be up to me to decide which course I would like to take. However, Millutine would be expected to be ive even beyond grammar school. Always, it was Grandpa’s desire that I should be brought up with Telford, Ephraim and Oliver, his three offspring with Millutine, and that I should see those three as my brothers, rather than as my uncles. A day or two later, Telford returned to Brinsley House and took away to his mother’s house, all Grandpa’s clothing, plus his footwear and a few famous photographs of black American heroes in history. None of Grandpa’s clothing, nor his shoes would have been any good to me. They were all several sizes too big for me, but Telford’s shoe size and that of Grandpa were the same exactly—size 7. The year was 1941 and, in the next few months, I would be 12 years old. Shortly after Telford had taken away, to his mother’s house, those items (above mentioned) and before I had had time to transfer to the Millutine household, my mother arrived from Antigua, expressly to undo what Grandpa had written, in his will, regarding my future. However, she chose to do it in an outlandish way, since she never liked Millutine. One bright, sunny and hot morning, she stood in Old Street, just outside of the shop of Grandpa (deceased) and, in a very loud voice, demanded that she be allowed to take me under her wing, so to speak and that the fifteen pounds sterling, which Grandpa had willed to me, be handed to her immediately; knowing, of course, that Millutine was working inside the shop, at that moment in time, and in full earshot of what she, my mother was shouting out, so that all and sundry might hear. My mother was aware that I was in the shop, too, at that time. I think it was a Saturday. The shop was crowded with customers and Old Street, too, had many people and vehicular traffic on it. Very calmly, Millutine opened the shop drawer, withdrew fifteen pounds sterling and beckoned me to approach my mother with her. I obliged. In Old Street, Millutine handed the fifteen pounds sterling to my mother and said to her: “Here is your son. Please, will you leave now?” My mother, having obtained exactly what she had come for, left without uttering another word. Reluctantly, I accompanied my mother, with a feeling of bitter disappointment that I had lost the chance to be with Telford, Ephraim and Oliver and to be schooled at the prestigious Dominica Grammar School. In addition, I had a fondness for Millutine. The fact that I would not be getting that money (fifteen pounds

sterling) at age 21, meant nothing to me. In my youth, I was not a lover of money and even today, I am not. Simply, I see money as an unfortunate necessity and as a means to an end. It would seem that my mother had had it all pre—arranged. In double quick time, I found myself on a schooner, where I was introduced, by my mother, to the captain and his crew. Shortly afterwards, the ship set sail for Antigua, where I would meet my father, my three sisters and my four brothers. As usual, they were (all) very glad to meet me once more, but I was not happy at all and I had a foreboding that all was not going to be well. We were lucky not to have been intercepted by German u-boats, because those German u-boats were sinking not only merchant and tourist ships, but schooners and sloops, as well. In all fairness to the Germans, it must be said that they ordered engers and crew into lifeboats, before sinking the ships and all their contents—foodstuff, in particular. Because those Eastern Caribbean islands were no more than thirty miles distant from one another, most engers and crew managed to get to shore safely, but a few perished. Sometimes, the Caribbean Sea can be very stormy. This was 1941 and the second year of World War Two. Most of Antigua’s foodstuff is imported and, because so many ships were being torpedoed and sunk by German u-boats, very little exported foodstuff (if any) was managing to arrive in Antigua, with the result that the Government of Antigua had, as of necessity, to impose rationing. I recall those Government ration books and the food that our parents were allowed to purchase from the grocery shops was far from sufficient to assuage our hunger. Therefore, we felt very hungry all the time and falling asleep at night, on empty stomachs was a daunting task. It is said that these sorrows come in threes. In addition to little or no food, there was little or no water. Antigua is known for long droughts and for that whole year that I lived in Antigua, not one drop of rain fell on the island, and that necessitated a trip, to Dominica, by our mother, for a barrel of drinking water. Two of her children accompanied her. I was not one of them. Once again, the German u-boats spared her and my siblings. Additionally, our father had retired very early from the police force and money was tight, even though he was working for a pittance at the U.S. military base, was in receipt of a tiny work pension and was making cart wheels for sale, in our yard, at week-ends. We lived in a small, one room, white painted house, at the Point, St. John’s (the capital of Antigua), close to the water-front and fairly close to a sugar-mill. The one room was partitioned in the middle. Our mother and father slept on one side

of the partition and all eight of us (their children) slept on the other side. Our cooking and laundry were done in the yard and we ate in the yard, too, Of course, it never rained and so that was not a problem. Fortunately, there were white, edible sea-eggs at the shallow sea bottom, close to a small pier, ading the sugar-mill. Unfortunately, there were black, inedible sea-eggs, too, mingling with the white, edible ones. Paul, my brother (eleven months my junior) would me in diving to the shallow sea bottom and plucking the white sea—eggs from the stones to which they would adhere. We had no aqua lungs and so we had to hold our breaths as we dived to the sea bottom for those white sea eggs and up to the top again, for breath. Sometimes, we were unlucky and we would happen to step on to on (or more) of those black sea-eggs, whose spines were sharp, stiff and needle like. Those spines would pierce deeply into the soles of our feet. Our feet would become very painful and our big sister, Rosa, would work, tirelessly, at removing those black needles one by one. Hot pads were placed on our soles to draw out the needles to where they could be plucked out, by hand. However, having those white sea—eggs for food, was compensation for those pains that we endured. The white sea-eggs were boiled in water. The soft spines would drop off in the hot water. Then, the eggs would be cracked open and the contents eaten. I did not find them too delicious. Nevertheless, I was glad to have them as a supplement for sparse food. By then, our mother decided that enough was enough and that it was time for us all to move to Dominica. When she announced that we were going, there was silence amongst us for what seemed like an eternity, then we all jumped to high heaven,shouting: “whoopee!! hooray!!” Shortly afterwards, our mother packed us all on a four masted schooner, called the War Spite and soon we were speeding off to Dominica. The next day, we arrived in Roseau, the capital of Dominica. The schooner dropped anchor. A small boat came alongside and ferried us to the Roseau Jetty. As we disembarked, one of my peers, on recognizing me, shouted: “Patrick, your father got died oui!” “Yes!” I replied. “I know that my father got died.” My eldest sister, Rosa and my other siblings roared with laughter. Some of them were bent double. In those days, the use of pigeon English, interspersed with French words was common among school children in Dominica. The word “oui” in French, means “yes” in English. All my peers and several adults, too, in Dominica, were under the mistaken apprehension that my maternal grandfather, J.H.D. Georges (deceased) was my father.

My parents and my seven brothers and sisters moved into the large, ground floor room of Brinsley House in Great Marlborough Street, but I moved back into the attic with my three aunts: Victoria, Rosalind and Alfreda, plus Eardley,who was Aunty Vicky’s son. We spent a few months in Brinsley House, during which time we attended the Reformed Methodist Church towards the west end of Great Marlborough Street. In addition, all five boys attended the Roseau Boys’ School and all three girls attended the Roseau Mixed School. During the three months that we spent at Brinsley House, a neighbour of ours (Peter Feelix) was showing an interest in Rosa, the eldest amongst us, but Peter was a staunch Roman Catholic and our mother who, although she was a Roman Catholic originally, had become very anti-Catholic and so she went to great lengths to discourage the relationship. She was successful. The year was 1944 and Rev. William Surbrook, the chief pastor of the Reformed Methodist Church wanted to put the finishing touches to a church in Marigot, a village some 50 miles away from Roseau. In addition, he wanted to build, from scratch, another church in Atkinson, a distance of about three miles north of Marigot. Rev. Surbrook offered the job of foreman to my father. At that time, it seemed that there was nothing my father could not put his hands to, practically. My father accepted the job and all of us moved to Marigot. My father rented a small house in Marigot. At Marigot, there were two or three very tall coconut trees, laden with fresh, young coconuts, in our front yard and we wondered how we could pluck down some of those coconuts. Usually, a long bamboo was used for the purpose. One would stand, with the bamboo, under the the coconut tree and poke at the coconut stems. Until the coconuts themselves fell to the ground. Unfortunately, there was no bamboo long enough for the purpose. Thus it was that, for the time being, we abandoned the idea of getting those coconuts to fall from the tops of those trees, until they had dried and fallen from the tops by their own volition. How mistaken we were. Of course, we had paid no attention to our brother who was thirteen months my junior and who spoke little or not at all, most of the time. After about just a few days and nights in that rented house, very early in the morning—indeed some of us had not awakened from our sleep, in the still of the morning, we heard: “boop! Boop! Boop!” and realized that some things were falling in our front yard. We ran out and observed that several coconuts were falling to the ground from the top of one of those trees. We looked up and whom

should we see? “Paul!” we exclaimed. “How did you get up there?” and his only reply was “Hum!” Thereafter, we would watch Paul as he squirrelled up those trees, plucked cocunuts and squirrelled back down again, as though he had been born with that propensity. While our father worked on the fabric of the churches at Marigot and Atkinson we, his children, attended the Marigot Govt. School and the Marigot Reformed Methodist Church. The heaster of the Marigot Govt. School was Mr. Wills Stevens, a very stern and hard taskmaster. English Grammar was his pet subject, students were tested orally and every time a student got a part of speech or a declension wrong, he/she received a stinging whip lash on his/her back. As luck would have it, English Grammar was one of my pet subjects, too. Thus it was that I got no answers wrong and no whip lashes on my back, either. On one occasion we, the older students were ordered to walk down to a river, about a mile away from the school, for the purpose of procuring fairly large, heavy stones from the bed of that river, transporting them back, on our padded heads or shoulders to the school and placing them down as walkways to and from the front entrance of the school. Apart from the 24 mile long pitched road that stretched from Portsmouth, the second town, to Hatton Garden, an estate in the north and three miles away from Marigot, no other roads throughout the northern section of Dominica, were pitched at that time. Dominica is blessed with plentiful rainfall. It rains every day in Dominica and the mud roads that one had to walk on, would become very slippery and hazardous, especially on downward slopes. Pedestrians falling flat on their backsides was a frequent occurrence and a cause for mirth. Those who laughed, were those who were adept enough to remain on their feet, not those who fell on their backsides. The mud on their backsides was not a pleasant sight. Silently, I objected to my compliance regarding that very servile task, and so I decided upon a ruse. Fairly close to the school was a stand pipe and, instead of walking one mile down the muddy road to the river, I picked up stones from one side of the road, washed them and took them back to the school. Later, Mr. Stevens informed me that my ruse did not work and that he knew those stones did not come from the river bed. Mr. Stevens was not without a sense of humour. He saw the funny side of my ruse and I escaped punishment. I was sure that I was being favoured, too. I was the son of Sylvia, who was the daughter of J.H.D. Georges (deceased) the one time education officer and close friend of Wills Stevens. At the start of the school day, all entrance doors to the school were shut. Roll call

was taken. Then the late comers were allowed to come in. Inevitably, they were whipped for being late and no excuses were acceptable. Every morning, it was my duty to ride a distance of three miles, on Rev. Surbrook’s horse, to Melville Hall, so that I might purchase a quart of milk for our family’s morning tea. Before I could purchase that milk, it (the milk) had to be extracted from the cow’s teats. Although I made a very early start every morning, coupled with the fact that Gold Coin, Rev. Surbrook’s horse was very fleet of foot, always I experienced great difficulty trying to get to school on time, especially when those mud roads were very wet and slippery. Surprisingly, I was on time always, except for one morning. The final approach to the school from my direction, was a steep decline and, as I stood at the top of that decline, I could hear the whip lash being applied to the backs of my poor unfortunate peers who, through no fault of their own, perhaps, happened to be late. There and then I made a decision. I returned home, since I was not going to subject myself to a whip lash, for an occurrence that was not my fault. At the end of the school day, when my other siblings had returned from school, my sister, Evelyn said to me: “Mr. Stevens said, tell Pat that I saw him turn back.” Again, I received no punishment as a result of my decision. My mother said nothing, either and, at that time, my father was working at Atkinson. By then, our mother decided that enough was enough and that it was time for us all to move to Dominica. When she announced that we were going, there was silence amongst us for what seemed like an eternity, then we all jumped to high heaven,shouting: “whoopee!! hooray!!” Shortly afterwards, our mother packed us all on a four masted schooner, called the War Spite and soon we were speeding off to Dominica. The next day, we arrived in Roseau, the capital of Dominica. The schooner dropped anchor. A small boat came alongside and ferried us to the Roseau Jetty. As we disembarked, one of my peers, on recognizing me, shouted: “Patrick, your father got died oui!” “Yes!” I replied. “I know that my father got died.” My eldest sister, Rosa and my other siblings roared with laughter. Some of them were bent double. In those days, the use of pigeon English, interspersed with French words was common among school children in Dominica. The word “oui” in French, means “yes” in English. All my peers and several adults, too, in Dominica, were under the mistaken apprehension that my maternal grandfather, J.H.D. Georges (deceased) was my father. My parents and my seven brothers and sisters moved into the large, ground floor room of Brinsley House in Great Marlborough Street, but I moved back into the

attic with my three aunts: Victoria, Rosalind and Alfreda, plus Eardley, who was Aunty Vicky’s son. We spent a few months in Brinsley House, during which time we attended the Reformed Methodist Church towards the west end of Great Marlborough Street. In addition, all five boys attended the Roseau Boys’ School and all three girls attended the Roseau Mixed School. During the three months that we spent at Brinsley House, a neighbour of ours (Peter Feelix) was showing an interest in Rosa, the eldest amongst us, but Peter was a staunch Roman Catholic and our mother who, although she was a Roman Catholic originally, had become very anti-Catholic and so she went to great lengths to discourage the relationship. She was successful. The year was 1944 and Rev. William Surbrook, the chief pastor of the Reformed Methodist Church wanted to put the finishing touches to a church in Marigot, a village some 50 miles away from Roseau. In addition, he wanted to build, from scratch, another church in Atkinson, a distance of about three miles north of Marigot. Rev. Surbrook offered the job of foreman to my father. At that time, it seemed that there was nothing my father could not put his hands to, practically. My father accepted the job and all of us moved to Marigot. My father rented a small house in Marigot. At Marigot, there were two or three very tall coconut trees, laden with fresh, young coconuts, in our front yard and we wondered how we could pluck down some of those coconuts. Usually, a long bamboo was used for the purpose. One would stand, with the bamboo, under the the coconut tree and poke at the coconut stems. Until the coconuts themselves fell to the ground. Unfortunately, there was no bamboo long enough for the purpose. Thus it was that, for the time being, we abandoned the idea of getting those coconuts to fall from the tops of those trees, until they had dried and fallen from the tops by their own volition. How mistaken we were. Of course, we had paid no attention to our brother who was thirteen months my junior and who spoke little or not at all, most of the time. After about just a few days and nights in that rented house, very early in the morning—indeed some of us had not awakened from our sleep, in the still of the morning, we heard: “boop! Boop! Boop!” and realized that some things were falling in our front yard. We ran out and observed that several coconuts were falling to the ground from the top of one of those trees. We looked up and whom should we see? “Paul!” we exclaimed.

“How did you get up there?” and his only reply was “Hum!” Thereafter, we would watch Paul as he squirrelled up those trees, plucked cocunuts and squirrelled back down again, as though he had been born with that propensity. While our father worked on the fabric of the churches at Marigot and Atkinson we, his children, attended the Marigot Govt. School and the Marigot Reformed Methodist Church. The heaster of the Marigot Govt. School was Mr. Wills Stevens, a very stern and hard taskmaster. English Grammar was his pet subject, students were tested orally and every time a student got a part of speech or a declension wrong, he/she received a stinging whip lash on his/her back. As luck would have it, English Grammar was one of my pet subjects, too. Thus it was that I got no answers wrong and no whip lashes on my back, either. On one occasion we, the older students were ordered to walk down to a river, about a mile away from the school, for the purpose of procuring fairly large, heavy stones from the bed of that river, transporting them back, on our padded heads or shoulders to the school and placing them down as walkways to and from the front entrance of the school. Apart from the 24 mile long pitched road that stretched from Portsmouth, the second town, to Hatton Garden, an estate in the north and three miles away from Marigot, no other roads throughout the northern section of Dominica, were pitched at that time. Dominica is blessed with plentiful rainfall. It rains every day in Dominica and the mud roads that one had to walk on, would become very slippery and hazardous, especially on downward slopes. Pedestrians falling flat on their backsides was a frequent occurrence and a cause for mirth. Those who laughed, were those who were adept enough to remain on their feet, not those who fell on their backsides. The mud on their backsides was not a pleasant sight. Silently, I objected to my compliance regarding that very servile task, and so I decided upon a ruse. Fairly close to the school was a stand pipe and, instead of walking one mile down the muddy road to the river, I picked up stones from one side of the road, washed them and took them back to the school. Later, Mr. Stevens informed me that my ruse did not work and that he knew those stones did not come from the river bed. Mr. Stevens was not without a sense of humour. He saw the funny side of my ruse and I escaped punishment. I was sure that I was being favoured, too. I was the son of Sylvia, who was the daughter of J.H.D. Georges (deceased) the one time education officer and close friend of Wills Stevens. Every morning, I had to ride on the back of Gold Coin, a thorough bred Arabian horse, owned by Rev. William Surbrook, our pastor, from our home in Marigot, to Melville Hall, a distance of about three miles from our home. The purpose of

my daily ride to Melville Hall was the purchase of on quart of fresh cow’s milk for our breakfast, from the Melville Hall estate. One cow had to be milked, in order that I might obtain my quart of milk. The fresh, hot milk was squeezed directly from one the cow’s teats, into the quart sized, glass bottle, which I brought along, with me, from my home, every morning. One had to provide one’s own container. The Melville Hall estate, owned by retired Captain Aspinal didn’t. Once my bottle had been filled and I had paid for the milk, I would get back up on my mount and ride back home, as fast as I could. Despite the fact that I would get up early in the morning, get to Melville Hall and back, with Gold Coin’s aid, as quickly as I could, still it was difficult for me to have breakfast, wash, dress for school and get there before the end of the school day. All the same, I managed but for one day when, unfortunately, I happened to be a little late. As I got to the top of a hill, which was half a mile away, approximately, from the Marigot Govt. School, I could hear the sound of whip lashes coming down on the backs of students, who were late for school. The school itself was in a valley below that hill. It was the custom of Mr. Wills Stevens, the school’s heaster, to lock the only entrance door to the school, at the start of the school day. Late customers had to wait outside, until roll call had been taken. Then, Mr. Stevens would unlock the door to let in late comers. Every late comer was flogged soundly and Mr. Stevens would accept no excuses. I was not going to allow myself to be flogged for a lateness that was not my fault. Therefore, I turned round and walked back home. On arrival there, I explained to my mother why I had returned home and she made no comment. In the afternoon, at the end of the school day, my sisters and brothers arrived back home from school and Evelyn, my sibling and my mother’s fourth offspring, said to me: “Patrick, Mr. Stevens instructed me to tell you that he saw you turn back”, to which I made no reply. By a stroke of luck, I got the opportunity to look after Gold Coin and I grabbed that opportunity with both hands. One of my contemporaries, whose last name was Walker (and, if I correctly, I think his first name was Cecil), was sacked, by Rev. Surbrook, from his appointment as Gold Coin’s groom because, instead of giving Gold Coin his food ration, as provided by Rev. Surbrook, he would keep that food ration for his own and probably his family’s consumption. As a result, Gold Coin had become as thin as a rake and one could hang one’s hat comfortably, on either of his hip bones. His hair which, originally, was brown in colour, was now a dirty brown and he was not very sure footed, as he attempted to walk No doubt, Walker must have fed Gold Coin with a little of the oats, sugar-cane and molasses that Rev. Surbrook provided but not enough for

his sustenance. Rev. Surbrook, having come to the realization that it would not be long before his beloved horse would be dead, made a ionate plea, to me, to take on the responsibility of looking after Gold Coin for him. I was only to glad to accept, without monetary reward because I was so very fond of horses. Never had I looked after a horse before but, readily, I accepted the challenge and, immediately, Gold Coin bonded with me, as though he had known me all his life. As I fed him, his hip bones began to disappear, his dirty brown colour began to give way to his original gold and he showed signs of being eager to be racing once more. One early evening, as I was feeding, grooming and talking to Gold Coin, as he stood, majestically, in his stable, suddenly, he bagan to neigh loudly and to look very troubled and agitated. “Gold Coin, what is wrong?” I asked, with great concern. Soon, I was to find out. Suddenly, Walker appeared at the bars to Gold Coin’s stable. Immediately, Gold Coin lifted his front legs and would have crushed Walker to death, had I not had the presence of mind to shout out: “Gold Coin don’t!” Slowly and reluctantly, Gold Coin lowered his front legs to the ground and I advised Walker to leave the stable. He did. It would seem that a horse’s memory is not much shorter than that of an elephant. Once a week, I would ride Gold Coin, bare back, from half way down the hill, where his stable was situated, to the sea-front, about half a mile down the road. Gold Coin would move straight into the sea and swim in it, with me on his back, still. I was fourteen years of age, at that time. During the ride, I would be scrubbing his back and neck with a soft brush One day, Rev. Surbrook asked me to ride Gold Coin to Atkinson, where my father and his fellow builders were building a church for the Surbrooks. There, I would leave for or deliver the horse to Rev. Surbrook “No! Rev. Surbrook, I can’t. Never have I been to Atkinson. I would not know how to get there”. “This will be your first visit to Atkinson”, Rev. Surbrook replied, “but not Gold Coin’s first. Just saddle Gold Coin, get up on his back, point his head towards the north, give him the “go” signal and Gold Coin will take care of the rest. It was a five mile journey and, three miles from Atkinson, Gold Coin had to cross a shallow river, with a strong current. Nevertheless, he did that, safely, with me on his back When Gold Coin got to Atkinson, he stopped, right at the spot where my father was building that new church. At that time, the foundation only had been set and my father was foreman of works. A month or two into my year’s stay at Marigot, I was invited, by the Marigot Scoutmaster, Mr. Leonard James, to the boy scouts. I was curious and so I

ed. Because of my mental ability I was pomoted to the rank of assistant patrol leader very quickly but not because of my physical skills, which were nil, almost. My rural compatriots were being brought up in the art of using their hands. They were highly skilled in the art of making eating implements, eating and drinking plates, dishes and other utensils, building camp structures, etc. etc. with bamboo, wood, wattle, calabash and coconut branches. In short, they were taught by their parents and other relatives to be self-sufficient and, although there was a major war raging—World War Two, those boys had no need of imported materials and, since they were skilled gardeners, too, with the help of rich soil and plenty of rainfall, they grew food in abundance. In contrast, I came from an urban background, with little or no experience of survival skills. I had one camping experience with those boys and they put me to shame. Nevertheless, it is an experience I will never forget. Even torches were made from brushwood, for light in the camp ground and there was need for neither matches nor fuel operated lighters. Fire was obtained by the vigorous rubbing of two sticks together. Towards the end of the school year, I sat an examination which, if I did well in, would be my port to the Dominica Grammar School, as a Student Teacher. The Dominica Grammar School was situated in the island’s capital: Roseau. As luck would have it and my mental agility, too, I ed high enough to be awarded one of only two places that were awarded island-wide. The other fortunate student was Bernard John-Baptiste who hailed from Colihaut, a village on the Caribbean side of the island. I was told that the examiners awarded my essay the highest marks island-wide. Regrettably, I am unable to recall the subject of that essay at this time but I do , vaguely, that it was a glorious subject and that I enjoyed it, immensely. The end of the public school year was July, 1944 but the school year of the Grammar School, which was not seen as public entirely, ended in December and started in January. The Grammar School was seen as partly public and partly private. A few students won public scholarships and gained free entrance to the Grammar School but the great majority of students were fee paying. Consequently, only those students, whose parents and guardians could afford to pay for their tuition, bar the scholarship winners, attended the Dominica Grammar School in those days. Even the fee paying students were required to sit an entrance test but the offspring of the well heeled managed, always, to get through with a “push”. I do well the son of a medical doctor, who will remain nameless and who experienced great difficulty regarding the learning of

his French conjugations. At one point, the very brilliant French Master, Mr. Claude Bruney, on becoming frustrated with him in class, said to him: “Please repeat after me: “Il est, he is a billy goat” and the doctor’s son obliged, by repeating: “Il est, he is a billy goat” and Master Bruney continued: “Tu est, thou art a coon” and the doctor’s son obliged again, by saying: “Tu est, thou art a coon”. Finally, Mr. Bruney said: “Je suis, I am the biggest fool that ever went to school”. At that, the entire class roared with laughter. I do not recall whether (or not) the doctor’s son repeated those last two lines. I do not think that in this day and age, a reaction of this nature would be considered appropriate behaviour for a class teacher. However, I am going ahead of myself because, as yet, I do not think I have arrived at the Grammar School in this auto—biography. In early January, 1945 I returned to Roseau and began my three year course of what the Education Officer, Mr. Maurice described as an exposure to academic studies. There was no need for me to obtain any academic certification. I was there as a student teacher for three years. The Dominica Grammar School academic year ran from January to December. Therefore, my tenure at the grammar school would end in December, 1947 and it did. It was not considered necessary that I should begin my academic studies in the First Form and nor was it considered necessary that I should study foreign languages. I began my studies in the Third Form and I chose not to study the two foreign languages: French and Latin which were taught at the school, by two very eminent masters: Claude Bruney, who taught French and Jeffers, Deputy Heaster, who taught Latin, a decision I regretted later. I fail to , clearly, the first name of Mr. Jeffers but I have a vague recollection that it was Victor. There were five forms at the Dominica Grammar School and if a student got to the Fifth Form and remained there for two years, during his second year there, he would be described as being a double fifth and, more than likely, he would become a prefect. In those days, boys only were itted to the Dominica Grammar School. Unfortunately, those three chartered secondary schools: The Dominica Grammar School, the St. Mary’s Academy and the Weslyan Mehtodist School were segregated, by gender, in those days. Moreover, they were private, in the sense that unless students won government scholarships to those schools, their parents had to pay. An Entrance Examination was a prequisite for entrance which, I am convinced, was a farce because, quite clearly, some of those students failed those Entrance Examinations. If parents parents were well off, financially, and were prominent of their communities, their children were certain to obtain places at those schools.

Initiation was practiced at the Dominica Grammar School and all masters (including the heaster himself), habitually, turned a blind eye. At the beginning of every school year, every new boy was initiated, during morning recess, in the school’s playground by the the second to fifth year students. Fresh men were clouted behind their heads and roughed up, generally. I was initiated in my first year at the school and, at the beginning of the second year, it was my turn to initiate. The heaster, from the balcony on the first floor (second floor, in U.S. Terminology), spotted me clouting a new boy behind the head. That new boy was not just a new boy. In fact, he was the son of a very wealthy merchant in the capital: Roseau. In the heaster’s eyes, that was intolerable and, not only was I flogged, but suspended, too, indefinitely. Almost immediately, the island’s newspapers criticised the heaster, on of his bias. In less than one week, I was recalled to the school, to the heaster’s chagrin. Thereafter, though, we became the best of friends. I do not recall whether (or not) initiation was banned, completely, thereafter at the Dominica Grammar School, following that much publicised incident. What I do recall, however, was that, following that incident, I took no further part in initiation ceremonies of such a nature, either at the Dominica Grammar or elsewhere. Up to the Fourth Form, I was very distinguished in academic studies, securing either first or second place in terminal and end of year tests. Once, when I paid a visit to Williams, one of my class-mates, at his home, I discovered, alarmingly, that he was number one sometimes, following terminal and end of year tests because he learned everything by rote. And I thought: “Well! I am not going to swot and learn everything by rote, just to be head-boy.” To me, however, that experience was quite a revelation. I thought to myself: “Was he learning or was he just cramming”. Towards the end of my second year at the Dominica Grammar School, I was approached, in the school’s playground, one morning, by Prefect Emil Georges, who asked me: “What would you like to have for your history prize?” “For my history prize?” I asked, in astonishment. “Why?” “Don’t you know?”, he reed. “You obtained the highest history score ever obtained by any student during all those years that Mr. Jeffers has been teaching at this school—and that’s a long time. It goes back to the time of the school’s inception.” “81%? I exclaimed in surprise.” “Yes!” Emil emphasised. “Mr. Jeffers has never awarded such a high score to any student, during his term of office at this school—until now, that is.” “Well, any

interesting story book will do, whether it be fiction or a true ”, I told him. Emil made a note of that and promptly took his leave of me. Towards the end of the Summer Term, every year, School Sports were held at the Botanic Gardens, to which parents, other relatives and friends were invited— indeed, the general public. There was no entrance fee. The witnessing of events was free to everybody. As usual, I attended School Sports at the Botanic Gardens and took part, one after the other, in events which I knew I had volunteered for and for which I had prepared myself. After I had taken part in a few events, certain names were called out on the loud hailer for “Throwing the Weight” and, to my great surprise, I heard my name: James P.” I could have and should have argued that I did not volunteer for Throwing the Weight and since I had had no previous practice in preparation for that event, I did not think it wise that I should take part in that event. On second thought, it occurred to me that it would be bad sportsmanship to argue and decline. Therefore, I said nothing and went forward, boldly to throw the weight. Immediately following my first throw, I felt a sharp pain in my left hip and I fell to the ground. My aunt, Alfreda Georges, who was one of the spectators at the time, seated on a bench, called for a cab and after some of the students had helped me into the cab, she (my aunt) sat close to me, in the cab and asked the driver to take me to the Roseau Hospital. At the hospital, my aunt saw to it that I was placed in a private ward. The hospital’s matron, a close family friend, who was known simply as Nurse David, diagnosed my case, decided there and then that I had suffered from shock nothing more than a slight strain. There was no need for a doctor to see me, she said, and that following one night’s rest at the hospital, I would be discharged. And so it was that I was discharged the following morning. Indeed, I walked home to Brinsley House in Great Marlborough Street, a distance of about one mile or so. I had no need of a cab. In those days, there were no buses for transport of persons from one point to another and neither were there any ambulances. At the Dominica Grammar School, I became a member of the Boys Brigade. As a member of the Boys Brigade, I took part in marches, with a rifle at my shoulder, like all the other Brigade , ordering arms, presenting arms, etc. etc. A highlight of the Boys Brigade show was its turn out, in full dress, at the Empire Day Celebration on the 24th. Of May, every year. We wore khaki uniforms, brown boots, brown hoses and large, brown felt hats, with their brims turned up a the right side. Brigade had one option. They could wear either short or long tros. Some wore long tros and others wore short

tros. There was one activity in which I chose not to take part and that was target practice, because I was against the use of firearms. To this day, I am against the use of firearms. Towards the end of my second year at the Dominica Grammar School, I became rebelllious. Although I was looking forward to becoming a schoolteacher, nevertheless, I would have preferred to be a lawyer but my mother (now deceased) was adamant that I should not become a lawyer. Over and over again, she would repeat: “All lawyers are liars and they all have a place in hell, which burns with brimstone and fire.” My mother was very religious. She loved me, very much and because she wanted me to follow and meet her in Heaven, where she was sure that she was going, it was imperative that I did not become a lawyer. It occurred to me that I was not going to get any from my mother, regarding my ambition to become a lawyer and since there was no necessity for me to graduate, academically, at the Dominica Grammar School, I decided to relax and unwind. I did little or no studying for the end of year Fourth Form examination. In consequence, I performed very badly and was made to spend another year in the Fourth Form, along with a few others who performed badly, too, not because they had not tried their hardest, but because they did not have the intelligence with which I had been so blessed. And since I was not promoted to the Fifth Form, I did not graduate with either the Junior or Senior Cambridge Certificate, either or both of which Dominica Grammar School graduates left school. Sadly, not all Dominica Grammar School students graduated but, by way of compensation, previous attendance at that prestigious school, usually was a port to good jobs and positions of influence in Dominican society and, I dare say: on other West Indian islands, too. After leaving the Dominica Grammar School in December, 1947, I was appointed, in January, 1948, First Assistant (equivalent to Deputy Heaster or Assistant Principal) at the Roseau Boys’ Government School. During that appointment, I was required to study for and obtain a Teacher’s Certificate, which I did. My tutor and examiner was Mr. Lewis, who was Assistant Education Officer at that time. Mr. Lewis was a hard taskmaster but I got through, any way, with a Distinction in Bookbinding. I do not know how I managed that because I was never very practical—always very awkward with my hands, even today. At the Roseau Boys’ Government School, I taught one class of teenage boys for two years, after which, I was transferred to the Mahaut Government School, some four miles north of Roseau and there I taught for an additional two years, after which I was invited to go to Port Of Spain, Trinidad

for a two years’ course of training, which was later extended to an additional four months. Daphne Watney (now deceased), who taught at the Portsmouth Government School, was the other teacher who was selected to attend that course, along with me. That invitation, from Mr. James Morris, the then Education Officer, came late and he, Mr. Morris, urged me to fly to Trinidad. I refused, resolutely, because never did I want to fly, if I could help it and because Mr. Morris wanted Daphne and me to travel together. He agreed to allow us to travel by luxury boat: the Normandy. We arrived two weeks late into the commencement of the first term, in September, 1952 with letters of introduction and apologies for being late, from Mr. Morris. The Principal, Mr. Luther Kenworthy, a forever smiling and genial man accepted the apologies with good grace, even though he was in the process of delivering a lecture to the entire assembly of students—young men and women.

Before our first day’s attendance at the college in 105 St. Vincent Street, we (Daphne and I) had to find accommodation. Daphne found hers quickly— securing her place at the Methodist Hostel for female students, but I was in a little bit of a dilemma. I went, as directed, from Dominica, to the Methodist Hostel for male students; but on arriving there, I was approached by a very Chinese looking young man, whose name I learned later, was William Bronte’. William asked me what was my business at the hostel and I explained to him that I was a student teacher, a fresh arrival from Dominica and that I was seeking accommodation. William asked me whether I was of the protestant faith and I told him that I was a Roman Catholic. “No! No! No!” was his reply. “You don’t want to stay here. Come with me to the Roman Catholic Hostel. Not that you would not be accepted here, but I would prefer that you ed me at the Roman Catholic Hostel, where I am being accommodated. At the moment, I am visiting my friends here, at this hostel.” William appeared, to me, to be a likeable person, with whom I could bond and, indeed, I did bond very well with him and we remained so bonded, throughout our two years and four months stay at the college. I agreed to accompany William to the Roman Catholic Hostel in Belmont, Port Of Spain, where I met the warden and his wife: Mr. & Mrs. Peters. Always, I will Mr. Peters for his showmanship and his fondness for giving us extra tuition in Mathematics, during the evening hours, after we had had our supper. Both Mr. & Mrs. Peters were great cooks and, always, I enjoyed the meals that were provided, especially the Sunday lunch, which was an island— wide favourite: crab, calalou and boiled, white rice. At the hostel, we slept in double decker bunks, in one long dormitory. I chose to sleep in the lower bunk of one of those double decker bunks. I do not recall, exactly, how many of us there were at that hostel, but I think the number was in the region of about 40. The warden and his wife kept two vicious Alsations as guard dogs and students were required to be inside the hostel before midnight, after which the hostel gate and entrance into the hostel itself were locked. Thereafter, those two dogs were unleashed and allowed to roam around the inner perimeter of the hostel’s compound, which was surrounded by high walls, about six feet tall. Very vividly, I recall one night when my close friend, William Bronte’ and I had gone to the cinema to watch a movie. When the movie had ended, we began to make our

way to the hostel on foot, but we stopped on the way, to buy two rotis and two bottles of soft drinks from a mobile Indian vendor. It was getting close to midnight and so, as we ate our hot rotis and drank our soft drinks, we hastened as fast as we could, towards our hostel. But try as we might, we were unable to arrive at the one, big hostel gate before the stroke of midnight. In fact, it was scarcely more than five minutes after midnight when we arrived, but the gate was shut. William wondered what we we would do and I assured him that all would be well. I knew a woman—a hotelkeeper, who was a great friend of Telford Georges, an uncle of mine, (now deceased) whose hotel was in the centre of the City of Port Of Spain and so I took William to that hotel. On arrival there, I rang the front door bell. As we waited for the hotelkeeper to come to the front door, William asked me if we would have to pay. “No! No!” I said to him. “That lady will not charge us. I know. She has invited me to stay as a non paying guest before, but never did I accept her offer” Just when I had finished speaking, the hotel-keeper opened the front door. I explained, to her, our predicament. “Oh! Do come in!” she pleaded. We did, very gladly. Immediately, she led us up to a third or fourth floor room, in which there were two single beds, nicely made up and ready for sleeping in. Then, she asked us whether we would like some tea. We said: “Yes, please!” and, very quickly, she brought us two cups of piping, hot tea, which we drank and tucked ourselves in our separate beds, thereafter. A few short minutes afterwards, we heard a rumbling, the whole hotel shook and we felt as though the ground below us was about to open and swallow us whole. Immediately, we got out of our beds, fell to our knees and prayed. The whole episode lasted about two minutes but it seemed like an eternity, so violent was the earthquake that we had experienced. Following those two minutes, our hostess shouted out from her ground floor bedroom: “Patrick, did you hear that?” “Yes! We did!” we shouted back down to her. Not only did we hear but we felt, also. It was as though our bones were cracking and that our very life blood was being sucked out of us”. “Did you pray?” she added. “Oh! Yes, we did”. We assured her. As morning broke, we thanked our hostess for having accommodated us and we made our way, on foot, back to our hostel. On arrival back at the hostel, there was consternation and the look of fear lingered still on the faces of our fellow students. “Where did you spend the night?” they asked us, anxiously. We told them. “How lucky you were!” they added. “We were all rushing to the exit door but it was locked and we could not get out. We panicked! Always, we thought that our warden’s locking of that one

exit/entrance door was a mistake.” Thereafter, the warden, Mr. Peters did not lock the door. That entrance/exit door remained unlocked at all times. Every Wednesday evening, one particular Roman Catholic priest, whose name I do not recall at this time, would come to our hostel, to commune with us concerning the Roman Catholic faith. Always, we looked forward to and enjoyed his visits. That priest intimated that he would be glad if I chose to remain in Trinidad, following my teacher training. He would see to it that I obtained a teaching assignment in one of the Catholic run schools and become a heaster, soon thereafter. On my return to Dominica, I regretted that I did not follow up on his oft repeated hints, because I loved Trinidad, dearly. Mr. Peters prided himself on being a mathematician as well as a good teacher of mathematics and one evening a week (I think it was Friday evening), very cheerfully, he would teach mathematics to those of us, who were minded to congregate in the dining room and listen to him, following our evening meal. There was no extra charge for that service. However, we did have to pay for our meals and our lodging. That we did, at the end of every month. Fortunately, the money did not come out of our pockets. Our governments paid for everything: food, laundry, lodging and books. Transport to college was not necessary, since our hostel was within walking distance of the college. However, one student drove his motor-car to and from college, every school day: Monday to Friday. The two of us who hailed from the island of Dominica: Daphne Watty (now deceased) and I were more fortunate, financially, than the Trinidad and Tobago students. We were the recipients of much fatter monthly allowances. Daphne and I enjoyed college life, immensely, and life in Trinidad, generally. One of Daphne’s brothers was the heaster of a state school in Port Of Spain. That brother was very accommodating and hospitable. Naturally, some male and female students paired up. Daphne paired up with Ryan, a Trinidadian and, shortly after graduation, the two got married to each other. Daphne would have preferred to marry me. That, she made very clear, without putting that sentiment into words; but I was never romantically attracted to Daphne, whom I saw as having the appearance of being sickly and so I did my best to distance myself from her and not encourage her advances. Trinidad, its people, its food, its cooking, its beaches, its sceneries, its music and world famous carnival seasons were, to me, all very fascinating and, had I not

been promised the headship of a new secondary mixed school, in Dominica’s second town: Portsmouth, I would have accepted that Roman Catholic’s priest’s offer of a teaching appointment in Trinidad. I must confess that I had several girl-friends in Trinidad and fell in love with one: Celina Aleyne, a brilliant mathematician, to whom I wanted to get married. Adamantly, she refused. Unfortunately, there was not a meeting of the minds. She would have married me, she said, if it was agreed that the both of us lived and worked in Dominica. I would have married her, I countered, if it was agreed that we (both) lived and worked in Trinidad. That road block meant that we were doomed not to marry each other. Celina’s mathematical brilliance was such, that she was chosen to prepare the mathematical examination papers for our college’s undergraduates. Celina herself attended a Roman Catholic college for student teachers, which was just a few blocks away from our college. Celina was a frequent visitor to our college. I am not a very advanced mathematical student and never was. But I chose Optional Mathematics as one of my subjects at college, in order that I might avoid having to add woodwork and gardening to my chosen list of subjects. Optional Mathematics meant, in effect, Advanced Mathematics and had not Celina come to my rescue, almost certainly I would have failed Optional Mathematics. Evening after evening, for three weeks prior to my final examination, Celina crammed Advanced Mathematics into me, at her home. Usually, it was necessary for me to have a wet towel tied around my head, because it (my head) would get very hot and I felt that it was about to burst. Finally, the day but one came for my mathematics examination and Celina said to me: “Please to write down the answer you gave for each of the questions and bring them home to me, for checking.” I promised her that I would do that and I kept my promise. After Celina had checked each of the answers that I had given, she jumped to high heaven and exclaimed: “You’ve done it! You’ve ed!” When my results were sent to me in Dominica, after I had returned to Dominica, I observed that, not only had I ed barely but with a Credit. The next step up would have been a Distinction and, who knows, I might have come very close to the award of “Distinction.” However, I was very happy to have earned a “Credit”. The two carnival days: Monday and Tuesday (preceding Ash Wednesday) in Trinidad were hilarious. Officially, those two days are not public holidays but in effect, they are, because except for a few suburban shops, nothing else opens in

Port Of Spain and particularly in the city centre. However, as a formality, all of us (students and lecturers) went to college on both days. Typically, the scenario went like this: students and lecturers would gather in the main lecture hall. One lecturer would begin a lecture. No sooner had he begun his lecture, when massed bands would be moving down St. Vincent Street, shouting out songs at the tops of their voices, drums would be making a deafening noise and various other instruments would be drowning out every word that our poor lecturer tried to utter. Then the lecturer would interrupt his own lecture to shout out the following words to students and fellow lecturers: “Can you hear me?” and, immediately, would come the refrain: “No!” Next, the lecturer would telephone the Education Officer at Education Office, which was not very far away, and invite him (the officer) to listen to the hubbub. The officer would listen and then he would say: “Close the college for the day”. And that would be it. Without waiting to hear another word from the lecturers, all the students, some of them dressed in their carnival costumes already, would just pour out on to St. Vincent Street and the massed bands. That routine, I was told, was played out every year at the college, on both carnival days: Monday and Tuesday, preceding Ash Wednesday. It was all part of the fun, All the students and lecturers loved it and so did I. Well, Scripture says an ending to all fine things must be and thus it was that my course and that of my other colleague from Dominica came to an end at about Christmas time, 1954. We were scheduled to return, my boat, to Dominica, on January 01, 1955 and, on that day, our other colleagues from the Government Training College for Teachers who, like ourselves, had just graduated, turned out, in force, at the Port of Spain pier to see us off. After we had said our tearful goodbyes, we boarded the Canadian tourist liner, the Normandy, which duly heaved anchor, sounded its horn and set sail for the northern islands in the Eastern Caribbean. Having arrived at our destination (Dominica), a day or two later, we disembarked in the capital, Roseau and shortly after we had arrived, we were posted to the first secondary modern school to be built on the island. That school was situated in Portsmouth, the island’s second town. The island’s education officer, Mr. James Morris had intended that I would be the heaster of that school, while Daphne Watty, who had been my only other colleague at the teacher’s college in Trinidad, would be my first assistant, responsible for the teaching of Domestic Science and Needlework. Unfortunately, however, Mr. Douglas, the self appointed Minister of Education, opposed my appointment, arguing that I was too young, inexperienced, unmarried and one could not tell what might happen during my tenure as Headteacher.

Relentlessly, Mr. Douglas chased Mr. Fingal, a retired headteacher, who had no desire to return to teaching. All over the capital, Roseau, Mr. Fingal was chased by Mr. Douglas, with an offer of the school’s headship and when, finally, Mr. Douglas caught up with Mr. Fingal he, (Mr. Fingal) was presented with an offer he could not refuse. In addition, to his teacher’s pension, which he would continue to receive in full, he would be paid the maximum salary that was paid to teachers in Dominica, plus the eqivalent of one British pound per day which, anywhere in the world was a lot of money, let alone in Dominica. That offer was just too good for Mr. Fingal to refuse and so he accepted it, notwithstanding his feeling of guilt. Mr. Fingal was of the opinion that I should have been appointed heaster of the school. Thus it was that Mr. Morris was forced to change his plans. He (Mr. Morris) appointed Mr. Fingal heaster. I was given the responsibility and title of First Assistant and Daphne Watty was second assistant, so to speak, with responsibility for Domestic Science and Needlework. In those days, the title Deputy Headteacher did not exist in Dominica, Those were the fledgling days of Universal Franchise. Ten years previously, the second World War had come to an end. Britain was in a hurry to grant independence to her colonies and dependencies and, rather than allowing the plebescite to cast its vote, those in positions of power: the vast landowners, the wealthy merchants and the ruling class in general were appointing themselves as Minister of this, that and the other Thus it was that certain employees were in conflict with the new bureaucracy. Mr. Douglas’s opposition to my appointment as headteacher of the new Portsmouth Government Secondary Modern School was the last straw. Mr. Morris had had enough of Mr. Douglas’s opposition to every suugestion, every idea, every proposition that came from the Education Office and so, very abruptly, he resigned from his post and returned to his native island of Trinidad. Of course, Mr. Morris and the great majority of Dominica’s population knew full well that my “youth”, “inexperience” and “batchelorship” had nothing to do with the self appointed Minister of Education’s opposition to my appointment as heaster of that new school in Portsmouth and that what was at stake was that I should be forced into marriage with a young lady whom I never courted and neither did I ever show any interest, regarding her frequent advances. On the contrary, I tried my very best to avoid her every advance. And here again, the problem was one of society and the ruling class. Daphne Watty was a member of Portsmouth’s ruling class and I was privileged to be a boarder at the home of her aunt, Mrs. Knight who, incidentally, was a widow, at that time. I had known her

husband (deceased) who, for several years, had been in charge of the Portsmouth Police Station. His rank was that of Sergeant Major. One of Daphne’s brothers was heaster of a school in Trinidad and another was a prominent and very skilful surgeon in Roseau, Dominica. I was privileged to be a boarder at the home of Daphne’s aunt because what I earned as an assistant teacher was insufficient to pay for my board and laundry. And Mrs. Knight did all of that for me because she knew my grandfather (deceased) who was the first black man to be appointed as Acting Education Officer in Dominica. Teaching those students was very pleasant. It was a mixed school and the majority of those boys and girls came from the outlying villages and hamlets. Those were the days when Mr. Douglas, owner of acres and acres of cultivated land, stretching for miles to the north of Portsmouth’s northern limits, coined the phrase “green gold” in reference to the banana cultivation in Dominica. No prizes for guessing, of course, that Mr. Douglas’s banana produce was very plentiful, in addition to vast numbers of coconuts and other crops, too numerous to mention. In those days, bananas were the cash crop in Dominica and still is, today. Every week—end, banana boats from Britain, loaded up with tons of bananas, from wharfs in Roseau and Portsmouth, for transport to the United Kingdom and other parts of Europe, bar Spain and Portugal. Those two countries grew a sufficient number of bananas for internal consumption. Those bananas were sold in shops and from stalls outside of those shops. That custom persists to this day. Because the new Portsmouth school was short of equipment, plus the fact that the Education Department lacked the resources to supply the school with most of its required equipment, I asked the boys whether they could bring in some banana plants from their parents’ small holdings, for cultivation on the school’s grounds. “Oh, yes! Sir!” they responded with glee. During a casual conversation with Leonard James (no relation), I had learned that the grounds of the school contained very rich soil, because before it became school grounds, human waste ran under them, on its way to the sea. Incidentally, Leonard who was the then Agricultural Officer for Portsmouth and the north, had been a contemporary of mine at the Dominica Grammar School and we met again in Trinidad, when he was a student at the Imperial College of Agriculture, a few miles to the south of Port of Spain and I was a student at the Government Training College for Teachers in Port of Spain. The very next day and, as promised, those boys brought, to school, more banana

plants than I had room for on the school grounds. Immediately, they set to work and planted the bananas themselves. Those students travelled to school, by bus, in the mornings and returned home, by bus again, in the afternoons. It is worthy of note that although, unlike the wealthy landowners, the peasants, in Dominica, do not own vast tracts of land, nevertheless each family group or individual who lives on his/her own, has a small holding which is cultivated for subsistence. Mr. Douglas, who had been in the habit of paying frequent visits to the school, wasted no time in paying yet another visit the very next day. No doubt, he had learned, through the grape vine that, at my request, several of the school boys had planted banana herbs on the school grounds. On seeing the plants, Mr. Douglas shouted: “Why are these students being instructed to plant bananas on the school grounds? They should be taught to plant botanical beans and other such botanical plants—not bananas!” By then and like Mr. James Morris, I had had enough. It so happened that we were coming to the end of the summer term. At the end of the term, quietly I packed my bags—or rather my one large suitcase and departed, by launch, for Roseau, intending to emigrate to London, England soon after, although I was penniless. On arrival in Roseau, I informed Rene Peter, one of the city’s bakers who, before her demise, was employed by my step grandmother, that I had intended to the wave of post World War Two West Indian emigrants, who were emigrating to Britain, in search of work, although I did not know how I was going to pay for the trip. “Oh!” he replied. “I was thinking of doing the same thing myself Do not worry. I will pay for your trip and you will pay me back, by installments, when you start earning in London. Towards the end of July, 1955 Rene Peter and I boarded a Canadian tourist boat, en route to Barbados. The boat stopped at Martinique and we disembarked, so that we might take in some of the sights of Fort de , the island’s capital. A river ran through the capital, in the same way that a river: the Roseau River runs through Roseau. But as Rene and I looked over one of its banks, I was horrified to see human feces flowing down the middle of that river. Rene was not surprised and, as was his wont, he chuckled. He had visited Fort de several times before and the sight of human feces flowing down that river was nothing new to him. That apart, the city’s capital was much bigger, more populated and with a lot more motor vehicles moving about than was the case in Roseau, the city that I had just left. Soon, it was time to get back on board because the tourist boat was spending just

a few hours in the Fort de harbour. Once we had boarded, the boat set sail again, bound for Barbados, with no other stops. We arrived at Barbados the following morning and disembarked at the pier, where I observed a number of crocus bags, laden with rice which, evidently, was a shipment to the island from Guiana, a country on the northern coast of South America, from which several islands in the Caribbean area get their Demerara rice shipments. One Barbadian, in full Barbadian heavy tongue accent, told me that it was not unusual for thieves to approach those sacks in their bare feet and long toe-nails, which they use to cut open those sacks, surreptitiously. Once those sacks had been cut and the rice had begun to spill out, those very thieves would call out to the police on guard duty that the rice was spilling out and becoming a potential waste. The police, in their turn, would allow those thieves to stop the spills with their hats and shirts, in advance of more effective spillage stop measures being put into place. After the repair job personnel had arrived, the thieves were allowed to go away with their booty—hats and shirts filled with grains of rice. This all sounded like a home spun yarn to me. Nevertheless, I could not fail to be highly amused by it. The Barbadians, like the Irish, are noted for their very imaginative yarns. Although the house, where we would spend two and a half months, waiting for the Italian tourist boat, the Franca “C” was just a short distance from the Bridgetown Pier, nevertheless, we had to take a taxi because we had some heavy luggage. In particular, I had packed, in a large suit case, a lot of my cherished books, plus some carpenter’s tools that were left by my father (deceased) and which I thought might come in handy in London as, in fact, they did. On arrival at the house of our host, we were greeted, very warmly. Our host was a total stranger to me. The two of us has never met each other before. On the contrary, Rene knew our host very well. Regrettably, I do not his name but I recall that he was tall, slim and very energetic. In addition to being my step grandmother’s baker, baking bread for the whole of Roseau and some of the island’s villages and hamlets as well, Rene would indulge in a little huckstering now and again, between Dominica and Barbados and whenever he came to Barbados, he would stay at the house of his Barbadian friend. The house was on two floors, with two bedrooms on the second floor and living room plus kitchen on the first floor. What I enjoyed most about the house was that, just like the house in Roseau, in which I lived, it was situated right on the water front but, unlike the house in which I lived, it had a beautiful, white beach for its back yard. The house in which I lived in Roseau had a stony beach for its backyard, with little patches of gray sand here and there. Rene and I occupied one of the

two bedrooms, while our host occupied the other. All three of us were bachelors. Adjacent to our host’s house was a bakery, which produced bread for the Bridgetown folk every day and as fast as that bread was baked was as fast as it disappeared. If we, in our host’s house, did not go quickly to that bakery’s shop, we would have no bread to eat, the Bridgetown folk loved it so much and so did Rene, but I did not. The bread was sweet and, to me, sweet bread was cake—not bread. How I longed for what I saw was bread, but which I would not have until I boarded the Franca “C” on my birthday: October 15. Strange to tell, sweet bread was not popular in Dominica and Rene did not bake it. However, from time to time, he longed to be in Barbados, where he could have his fill of sweet bread. Because I was penniless, I wrote to my brother, Paul in Dominica, as well as to a girl friend, Pearl Reece, in Trinidad, appealing for monetary assistance, which I received, very promptly, from each of them. Paul sent me thirty Eastern Caribbean dollars and Pearl sent me thirty Trinidad dollars, which came in very handy during my two and a half months’ stay in Barbados. Thankfully, I did not have to pay for board and lodge but, going out with newly made friends without money in my pocket, would have been very embarrassing. In addition to the monetary assistance which I received, I was told by another Trinidad girl friend of mine, concerning her brother, who lived in Forest Hill, South East London. She suggested that I might approach him regarding lodgings for Rene and myself. In my youth, I was a bit of a philanderer, but there was one Trinidad girl I would have liked to marry. The problem was that we had different ideas concerning habitat She, Cecilia Alleyne was determined that we should be domiciled in Dominica and I was equally determined that we should be domiciled in Trinidad. Thus it was that we parted mutually—not acrimoniously. She explained why she would rather not to be domiciled in Trinidad. The reason was that she had had an unfortunate relationship with a married man and her presence in Trinidad with me, as her husband, would have been awkward for her. Cecilia, a student teacher, like myself, at the time that I met her, was a mathematical genius. I asked her whether she ws related to an Alleyne who was Registrar in Dominica and her reply was: “Not that I know of”. I enjoyed my two and a half months’ stay in Bridgetown, Barbados, especially the frequent drinking of a beverage, laced with a lot of ice and sold very cheaply by the street vendors. That beverage had a sweet, sharp twang about it, which suited my palate very well. My only regret was my failure to meet a half sister of

mine, whom I was hoping to meet for the first time. Before leaving Dominica, her mother had given me an address where I might meet her. As soon as I arrived in Bridgetown, I went to that address and made enquiry there. “Oh! What bad luck!” the woman to whom I spoke replied. “Only yesterday, Cynthia flew off to the U.S.A, She will not be coming back to Barbados in the near future. She will be making the U.S.A. her home.” I could not believe my bad luck. I was so convinced that I would be meeting my sister, Cynthia for the first time. To this day, I have not met her but I do speak to her, occasionally, by telephone. Moreover, I do not have a photograph of her either and neither she of me. I know that she is married with three to four grown children and that she, her husband and her children live in New Jersey. Cynthia is my senior by about three years. On October 15, 1955 I became very excited when I saw the Franca “C” docked alongside the Bridgetown Pier, waiting to take Rene Peter, myself and other engers to Nice in the south of , via Curacoa, Aruba, Bon Aire, Maracaibo, the Azores, Barcelona and Naples What I did not realize was that the great majority of the Franca “C”’s engers were emigrants like myself, on their way to London, like myself and from various parts of the English speaking Caribbean—Jamaica, in particular, That I learned after I had boarded the ship. There was no time for sight seeing on the Dutch islands of Curacao, Aruba and Bon Aire and so we were not allowed to land. We had rather more time in Maracaibo and so Rene Peter, myself and others went sight seeing there. Because Maracaibo was only about 20-30 miles away from the capital, Caracas, taxi drivers tried very hard to encourage us to take a ride into the capital. However, because we (Rene and myself) feared that we might miss the boat, we resisted the temptation and decided on returning to the boat instead. Shortly after we had returned, the Franca “C” was set free of its moorings and off it sped into the wide North Atlantic Ocean. Once we had found ourselves midway between the Caribbean and Europe, our captain received a cable from Barbados with the sad news that a hurricane had just devastated the whole island. Our captain relayed the sad news to us. We were very sad but Rene and I thought how lucky we were that we spent two and a half months in Barbados without incident but no sooner had we taken our leave of the island’s shores, it became devastated by a hurricane. Undoubtedly, our number was not up, as yet. Our accommodation, along with the scores of other emigrants from the Caribbean area who were emigrating to Britain was third class. Obviously, we could neither afford first or second class accommodation. Nevertheless, the service we received from the Italian stewards was second to none. Never did I

see any stewardesses. It was as though the captain and his entire crew were male but I may have been mistaken. The fact remains that I did not see any female personnel and neither did I make any enquiry as to whether (or not) there were any female employees on the Franca “C”. The three meals (breakfast, lunch and supper) that were served on board ship were delicious. There were copious servings of soup and wine, too, but drinking water was never placed on the dining tables. As a result, my comrades became very thirsty and they tried their utmost to convey to the Italian only speaking stewards that their throats were in desperate need of some drinking water, but to no avail. Their gestures engendered the bringing to our tables of yet more wine and soup. Because I had taken a liking to Latin music and had begun to study the Spanish language, in order that I might understand the words that were set to the Latin music, I was able to extricate my fellow emigrants from their misery. Incidentally, we were all male. “Senores”, I said to the stewards: “agua!” “Ah!” they responded gleefully, “Muchas gracias, senor!” Immediately, they ran to the galley and before one could say “Jack Robinson”, they had returned with large jugs of ice-cold water for our consumption. My fellow emigrants, most of whom hailed from Jamaica, never stopped thanking me. Eventually, we arrived at the Canary Islands, off the coast of North Africa. We were allowed to land on Grand Canary Island for the purpose of sight-seeing. Rene Peter and I took advantage of the privilege. We landed and drifted into an open market, where all sorts of merchandise were being sold, including what appeared to be genuine Parker pens being offered by the vendors at the price of one British pound sterling each. We (several emigrants and myself) could not resist what appeared to us to be a big bargain, but because we could hardly believe our eyes and ears, we asked the vendors whether we might try out the pens in advance of our making a purchase. The vendors replied that they were sorry. Unfortunately, they had no ink. Thus it was that we decided to take a chance. A number of us purchased dud Parker pens at one British pound each. When we arrived in England and bought ink for the pens, it was just as we feared. The pens would not absorb the ink and neither could we write with those pens. In fact, they were not genuine Parker pens at all. They were very clever immitations. The time came when we had to get on board ship again. We did and the Franca “C” sped on to Barcelona, where the good ship dropped anchor in the bay. We were not allowed to go on shore, but we were privileged to see Generalisimo

Franco in his yacht, as it glided past us into the Barcelona harbour. That resplendent yacht was bedecked with an array of colourful flags from bow to stern. Next, the Franca “C” headed for Genoa, where we all (emigrants) disembarked and were escorted to a hotel/restaurant complex, owned by Mr. Caribaldi, the owner of a shipping fleet, which included the Franca “C”. The scores of us (I never enquired how many, but we were many) sat at long tables in Mr. Caribaldi’s restaurant on the ground floor. A lavish meal was served and as we ate, our courier, who was sitting at my table, immediately opposite to me, leaned over and whispered: “That gentleman who is sitting next to you is Mr. Caribaldi.” I frose, nearly, for a while. Then I said to our courier: “Really!” “Yes, really!” he replied. While I was receiving that information, Mr. Caribaldi’s attention had been turned to something else that was of interest to him. Thus it was that he did not hear what our courier had said to me. Then, when I was able to get Mr. Caribaldi’s attention, I tried to engage him in small talk, making use of whatever halting Spanish I could muster. Immediately, Mr. Caribaldi realized that I was struggling and so he replied in perfect English, albeit with an Italian accent. I do not what our conversation was about but what I recall, most vividly, was the man’s humility, his complete lack of boastfulness and feeling of self importance. It was as though he was just one of us and the attendants knew that he was not to be treated as special and above the rest. I believe that I was the only emigrant who knew that Mr. Caribaldi was in his restaurant and sitting next to me, incidentally. Following our meal (compliments of Mr. Caribaldi), we boarded buses and were escorted to a cemetary and a plot, in Genoa where, complete with tombstone, the Italians claim that Christopher Columbus was buried. Curiously enough, we were told by our courier, that there is a plot complete with tombstone, somewhere in Spain, (I think the name he mentioned was Toledo) where, according to the Spaniards, Christopher Columbus was buried. The tale gets more and more curious because there are plots in cemeteries on the South American continent where, according to South Americans, Christopher Columbus was buried. The reader may believe whatever he/she chooses to believe, but I prefer to believe that Christopher Columbus was buried in Genoa, the city of his birth. It was time for us to embark on our last leg of that very enjoyable cruise. We boarded the Franca “C” and the good ship glided towards Nice in the south of

, I was surprised to see that Nice was so close to Genoa or so it appeared, any way. The sea-water in that city’s harbour was an azure blue and it (the sea) appeared to be so calm, that we felt like taking a dip in it. In addition, the beach was a pristine white and there were miles and miles of it. Finally, very expensive looking ocean going yachts teamed in the harbour. As we approached the harbour, word went out that a little stowaway—a nine year old boy from Guadaloupe had just been discovered on the Franca “C”. Of course, that was a good yarn—if ever I had heard one. If the boy had just been discovered how, on earth could he have survived without food and water for the fifteen days that we had been at sea from Barbados—not to mention Guadeloupe, unless he had taken on board, with him, his own victuals and drinking water, which was very doubtful. No! That little boy must have been aided and abetted all the way, by of that good ship’s crew. “Oh dear!” I exclaimed in Spanish. “I suppose that little boy will be sent back home to Guadaloupe.” “Oh, no!” was the reply I received from a member of the ship’s crew, on hearing me make that exclamation. “That little boy is a French citizen and he has every right to be in .” “Oh! I never thought of it”, I retorted. That statement confirmed my belief that the whole “stowaway” tale had been orchastrated from start to finish. That little boy was put ashore and delivered into the safe protection of the French government. That being the end of our cruise, all of us (emigrants) went ashore, too, and embarked on a train en route to Paris. That was a long overnight haul from the southernmost point of to the northernmost, almost. At daybreak, the next day, we arrived in Paris, disembarked, went sight seeing to the Eifel Tower and other places of interest, including a good long look at the River Seine. At lunch time, we went to a cafe’ for a fish and chips lunch, which we washed down with coffee and wine. Later that same day, we boarded another train and travelled to Calais. At Calais, we embarked on a ferry which took us to Southend. At Southend, we embarked on buses and arrived at our final destination—Victoria, South-West London. From Victoria, emigrants went their separate ways. Rene’ Peter and I boarded a South-East London bus, which took us to Forest Hill, S.E.23. There, we disembarked and found our way to a home where the brother of a girl—friend of mine, was living with a white English girl. That brother was black and Trinidadian. That girl-friend of mine (a Trinidadian, living in Trinidad), had written to me, while I was in Barbados, waiting for the Franca “C”. In her letter, she had mentioned that we (Rene’ Peter and I) might try her brother for accommodation. In that letter, she wrote down her brother’s name and address. In all honesty, I do not recall either that brother’s name or the

address. Probably because that meeting was so brief. That brother explained that he was just a guest in the house in which he resided. His girl-friend was a family member of that house and that, in any case, there was no room in that house to accommodate extra guests. He said that he would introduce me to a Jamaican who lived in St. German’s Road, pretty close to where he lived. He did. That Jamaican accepted us, on condition that we slept on a couch in his sitting room, by day only, but not by night. We never asked why. We were only too glad to accept. Otherwise, we might have had to sleep under the arches, somewhere. The rental was one pound each, per week. Oh! Yes. We did find out why. Another lodger occupied that couch by night. That Jamaican lived with his wife. There were no children. We learned from that Jamaican (I do not recall his name) that he had just been discharged from the army, having served his time there, the second world war had come to an end ten years earlier and several army personnel were being discharged, since there was no longer any need for them. It came as a surprise to me to learn that I might have been drafted into the army, were it not for the fact that I was a little too old when I arrived in London. I was a few days short of 26. That, to me, was puzzling. Why should I be drafted into the army when others were being discharged? At first, I had no intention of going back into teaching, the only occupation for which I had any training, experience and certification and so I thought that I might try all night, hard labour factory work which, I was told brought quick and plentiful monetary rewards. After all, I was anxious to repay, in full, the sixtyfive pounds (GB) age money, which Rene’ Peter had lent me, so that I might emigrate from Dominica to London, England. Furthermore, I was anxious, too, to get on my feet and be my own boss, as soon as possible. I saw an ment for night table mat cutting workers at a factory in Ladywell, Lewisham, London, which was walking distance away, through a public park (Ladywell Park) from where I lived. I applied for the job, was accepted by management and began my night work shortly after I had moved into my first Forest Hill lodgings. The work consisted of standing behind a counter, which had a number of electrically driven, very sharp cutters. Those cutters descended, automatically, on square shaped corks, as they were placed, individually, on a marked spot in front of each machinist. Each cutter had a designed shape. The machinists were nearly all seasoned immigrants from Jamaica who, evidently, had had a lot of experience with that sort of work, as well as experience with working nights. Unfortunately, I had neither of those experiences. The basic pay

was not much, but skilled workers could earn hefty bonuses by producing tall piles of table mats, over and above their basic pay, which ed for a modicum number of mats. Throughout the first and only four night week that I spent at that factory, after which I was handed back my employment cards and was sacked for incompetence, my piles or ant heaps rather, were a mere shadow of what those very skilled and experienced Jamaicans were producing. There would be a tea break at 3.00 A.M., during which time the Jamaicans would drink tea and play cards or dominoes I would be feeling so tired and sleepy, that I would attempt to take a nap, in consequence of which, I would fall fast asleep and had to be woken up by a Jamaican, so that I might continue my mat cutting. In addition, there was the possibility that my fingers or hands might have been chopped off by the electrically driven cutter, if I did not make a determined effort to keep my eyes open, as I placed the square shaped cork in the spot on which the cutter descended. All in all then, the foreman did me a favour, by handing me my “Cards”—a euphemism for dismissal. Just before the foreman relieved me of the factory’s services, he surveyed my tiny mound of mats and then he said to me: “This is not the kind of work for which you have been trained: Is it”. “No!” I replied, honestly and promptly. Next, I made application for a machines dusting job at a flower mills in Woolwich, South-East London. I was accepted and could have remained there as long as I cared to, but he weekly take home pay was small and the foreman urged me to leave, stressing that such a job did not befit my intelligence, although there was nothing wrong with my performance. Next, I applied for a job as a shop porter at Lyons Teashops in Lewisham, SouthEast London Again, my application was successful. I was told that I would be wearing a uniform, which consisted of a blue and white striped jacket and an apron, which consisted, too, of blue and white stripes. My duties consisted of coming to the shop, early in the morning: 6.00 A.M., opening it, with a front door key, with which I was provided, turning on the lights throughout the shop and electrically driven machines in the kitchen and ensuring that the restrooms were clean and tidy. A janitor was employed and paid for cleaning the restrooms. I could drink as many cups of tea as I liked and I was entitled to breakfast at about 8.00 A.M. And supper at 4. 00 P.M. My day ended at 4. 00 P.M., but I could, if I cared to, apply for over—time shop porter assignments at other Lyons Tea shops. Lyons Tea Shops consisted of a large chain of tea shops throughout London. Those shops were owned by a Jewish family or consortium. My weekly take home pay was GB five pounds and after six months, my weekly pay would

go up to the grand sum of five pounds and fifty pence. I did do some over-time work at a large Lyons Tea Shop in the centre of London and at a somewhat smaller one in Woolwich, South—East London, where a worker urged me to have my fortune read, free of charge, by one of the shop employees, who saw and told one’s fortune by reading the tea leaves at the bottom of the tea-cup, after one had finished drinking one’s tea. My curiosity prevailed upon me to have my fortune read and the fortune teller told me that, soon, I would be teaching on an island. That fortune teller did not know that I was a teacher. My immediate reaction was: “Oh! You mean I will be returning to my native island Dominica, to teach.” “No!” she reed, promptly. “I mean that you will be teaching in a school, full of white secondary pupils on an island in London and very close to us here”. I was flabbergasted, but I decided not to ask that shop worker any more questions. Instead, I thanked her, took my leave of her and continued with my duties, which consisted of doing next to nothing, apart from drinking tea all day long and chatting with the customers, who were always very keen to chat with me. Six months earlier, it had occurred to me, that I had better stop frittering my life away, doing that which I had not been trained for and neither had I a disposition for. Furthermore, those jobs that I had dabbled in, were very low paid and had no security, in the sense that I could be sacked at any time on any or no pretext. Thus it was that I made application to the Inner London Education Authority at County Hall, Westminster, Central London, for a teaching engagement. The I.L.E.A. Informed me that I needed to obtain references from the Education Department in Dominica. Following that advice, I wrote to the Education Officer, whose name I did not know, because he had come from St. Lucia and had succeeded Mr. James Morris, who had returned to his native Trinidad in disgust, following his frequent and heated disagreements with Dominica’s politicians, soon after I has emigrated to London. That new Education Officer, whose name I came to know later as Mr. gave me such a glowing report, that I was astounded. Mr. mailed that reference to me and I, in my turn, mailed the reference to County Hall. Soon afterwards, County Hall called me up for interview. Firstly, I had to a hearing test, which was istered to me by a Polish doctor. I knew that I would have no difficulty ing that test, because my hearing has been very keen, always; but it was as though that Polish doctor was willing that I ed that test because, although he spoke softly and at a fair distance away from me, nevertheless, just by looking at his mouth’s movements, I found it very easy to guess what he was saying. Additionally, I heard very clearly what he was saying and I was required to repeat that which he was

saying. I did and that Polish doctor was ever so pleased, regarding my hearing ability. He told me that my score was 100%. Next, I was directed to sit in the auditorium of a large hall. On a stage, in front of me, and seated on chairs behind a long table, were four interviewers: two men and two women—all white, who asked me a number of questions, to which I gave answers, to the best of my ability. The stern expression on their faces gave no clue as to whether (or not) my answers were pleasing to my interviewers. Then came yet another question —one which, of course, I was expecting: “Why, Mr. James, did you leave your warm, sunny, Caribbean island to come and work in cold, damp, foggy, miserable London?” “In a word” I said to them, “the answer is money. I was finding it difficult to make ends meet with the paltry stipend that I was earning in Dominica. Hence it was: I thought that I might try and make my fortune in London.” Next question: “What was your monthly salary in Dominica?” “Seventy-five Eastern Caribbean dollars, the equivalent of fifteen British Pounds sterling”, was my reply to them”. On hearing that, one of the four interviewers— a woman shouted: “Oh! that means you will be earning four times as much here, for a start.” The other three interviewers fixed their icy gaze on her and frowned, intensely. There and then, the interview ended promptly, with the chairman telling me that the result of my interview would be sent to me, by mail. Of course, that slip told me that I was hired. I thanked them, graciously, for their time and courtesy and then I exited that imposing auditorium and the building itself, hopped on a bus and rode home, cheerfully. The very next day, I received a letter from ILEA, informing me that I was being offered an engagement as a Temporary Staff teacher. Please reply promptly and let ILEA know whether (or not) I was accepting the offer. Immediately, I wrote back, stating that, gladly, I was accepting the offer. And now there is need for me to digress a bit. While I spent a brief two weeks at my first lodgings in Forest Hill, South-East London, a dear friend of mine, whom I had left behind in Dominica, showed up suddenly, unexpectedly and in need of accommodation. I spoke to the landlord of the house and he squeezed in my dear friend, Earl Hector, from Portsmouth, Dominica and who, like me, had messed about while we were students in the Dominica Grammar School, which was situated in River Street, Roseau. Earl was never academically inclined, but he attended the Grammar School because his father had the means to send him there. I was academically inclined but I fritterred away my time at the Grammar School because, although I felt that I would enjoy teaching, nevertheless, I was convinced that I could earn a lot more money as a lawyer but, because I received no from my mother, I had no alternative but to resign myself to the

pursuit of a teaching engagement. My mother (deceased) was religious and oft times she would repeat: “All lawyers are liars and they (all) have a place in hell, which burns with brimstone and fire”. Towards the end of the second week at that first lodging, another Jamaican: Joseph Whitter, by name, came to the front of our lodging, introduced himself to us, and said that we would be better off at his house, where we could sleep all day and all night if we wanted to and our weekly rental would be GB one pound, which was half the price of the GB two pounds that we were paying our current landlord. There were two double beds in his attic and each of those double beds would be shared by two of us. We were impressed by Joe Whitter’s offer and we fell for it. Soon, we found that three of us had to be squeezing in on one double bed, which was not very large, either. Each of those beds was meant to accommodate no more than two adults. Those were the days. Three of us: Rene’ Peter, Earl Hector and I moved over to Joe Whitter’s house, which was on St, German’s Road, a stone’s throw from our first lodgings. Very soon, Earl Hector left us. He saw Rene’ Peter as a parasite, not seeking employment, depending on me for the payment of his food, shelter, laundry and for the reimbursement of the money that he had paid for my transport from Dominica to London. “This man bites the hand that feeds him”, Earl said angrily and he stormed out—never to return. Earl went to live in Acton, West London, married a Dominican native girl: Carol Lockhart, found employment as a London Bus driver, had some three children with Carol. Later, he changed jobs and became a London Underground Train conductor. Finally, his wife divorced him and he returned home. I tried to become a London Bus driver myself, about the same time that Earl became a London Transport Bus Driver, but I was turned down. I was not told why. I think I appeared timid about becoming a bus driver, while I was being interviewed and thus it was that my interviewers decided not to employ me. And now I shall return to the few months that I spent as a shop porter in Lewisham. There, at that Lyons Tea Shop, I met a white, English woman, eleven years my senior, who showed great interest in me. I encouraged her, although, on hindsight, I should not have done so, since I had no intention of marrying her. After two or three months of consorting with her, she stormed out, because I told her, bluntly, that I would not be marrying her. She asked me why and I said that it was because of the fierce racism that existed in Britain at that time. Were we to have children, those children would be the victims of racism and that the grief I

would feel, would be much too painful for me to bear. She refused to accept my excuse for not wanting to marry her. In truth, I was being deceitful and the real reason for my not wanting to marry her was the fact that she was eleven years my senior. Had she been eleven years my junior, I would have had no hesitation. Of course, I dared not tell her that. Already and, to me, she had begun to look old and wrinkled. Yet another matter that made her very furious was that I sniggered when she told me that she was a relative of the Queen Mother: Elizabeth Bowes Lyon. Who knows? She might well have been. After she stormed out, I never saw her again. Where she disappeared to, along with her teenage son, I will never know. Even the council flat, in Lewisham, that she had been occupying with her son, had been vacated. There was not one soul in it. To this day, I have no idea concerning her whereabouts or whether she is dead or alive. At the same time that I was fooling around with Ada, I had another girl—friend, who worked at the same Dry Cleaners as I did. Her job was to iron the clothes after they had been cleaned. Millie was a good worker and a good lover, too. Millie was black and she hailed from Jamaica. Our relationship was all good fun, never did she have any intention of marrying me, and never did Millie nor Ada know that I had two girl friends at the same time. Somehow, both of them slipped away from my life about the same time and, coincidentally, both were born under the sign of Leo. I must confess that I found Millie very fascinating. The relationship was good while it lasted. My first permanent appointment as an assistant teacher, was at a primary/secondary mixed school, called Coleman Street School in the very heart of London, close to London Wall—so close that the wall itself was one of the boundaries of the school’s playground. The school was a Church of England School and the heistress was Mrs. Hilda Wilkes. It was a small school, with three classes only, financed by the Inner London Education Authority but istered by the Church of England. I enjoyed working at the school and looked forward to travelling, by train, with some of the school children and one other teacher (female) to Hainault, several miles east of London, to a field, where the boys played rugby and the girls played basket ball and rounders. Of course, there were no fields in the centre of London, where the Coleman Street School children could play. Because I loved the school so much, the children, my teaching colleagues, the allure of the city itself, the nearby restaurant, where I ate my lunches, my once

weekly excursion, by train, to the open country—side and the ease with which I travelled, by train, to and from my place of work, gladly would I remain at that school, indefinitely. Unfortunately, I found it necessary to tender my resignation to the school’s manager, Rev. John Drewett, after a one year stay at that school, because I found the heistress to be too overbearing. My request was granted and, with the help of Rev. Drewett, I obtained a Temporary Salaried appointment with the Inner London Education Authority. At first, I was placed on three months’ probation at a school in Greenwich. The name of that school slips my memory at the moment. After three months, Mr. Gray, an Inspector of Schools was sent to give me a practical teaching test. Following the test, Mr. Gray informed me that I had ed with flying colours. From that school, I was transferred to Eltham Church of England Primary School in Eltham, South East London. All the church schools in London were chartered schools, which meant that the churches owned the buildings and the land on which those schools stood but all the financing came from the Inner London Education Authority. I spent four and a half glorious years under Mr. Wearn, who was the school’s heaster at that time. He loved me and I loved him, as well as I did all the children, my teaching colleagues, Mrs. Baxter, the Head’s secretary and the school’s manager, who was the rector of the Church of England branch in Eltham. While I taught at Eltham C. of E, School, I was given charge of a Grade 2 class and the children in that class were those who were just about to take their what was known at that time as the “eleven plus” examination. The Grade 2 children were not expected to “” the “eleven plus”. ing the “eleven plus” meant that the child became eligible for a Grammar School place. Surprisingly, and to the great delight of Mr. Wearn, 50% of my students ed the “eleven plus” every year and, not only did they become eligible for Grammar School places, but they obtained the best Grammar School places in London, including Christchurch in Catford, South-East London. During my tenure at Eltham C. of E. School, I met my soul mate: Wilhelmina Suzanna Carolus, who hailed from Cape Town, South Africa. She had come to London to study nursing. I met her in the Spring of 1958 and I married her on December 19, the following year. I invited all emmbers of the Eltham C. of E. staff to my wedding, including, of course, the headnaster himself, Mr. Wearn and his secretary, Mrs. Baxter. They (all) turned out in the pouring rain and the wedding was held at St. Swithern’s Church in Lewisham. Each one gave us a wedding present, as well. Two ministers officiated at the church: the vicar of St. Swithern’s and my very dear friend, Rev. Drewett. His wife, Margot, was there,

too. Soon afterwards, Mr. Wearn ed away. Wilma (my wife) and I attended the funeral. Such a sudden ing away came as a shock, to all of us, who loved Mr. Wearn so dearly. Even now, I can see that ever constant and lovely smile on his face. There was a vivacity about his movement and he had a very sharp intellect, as well. Following Mr, Wearn’s death, Mr. Earnest Bond, an accomplished pianist, was appointed heaster of Eltham C. of E. School. Mr. Bond took pride in showing off his piano playing accomplishments and he waisted no time in demonstrating that I was not a welcome member of his staff. He began by telling me off for asking Mrs. Baxter to type and print certain articles for me, without approaching him first. No other member of staff approached him first, but not one of them had their knuckles rapped for that. It was customary, under Mr. Wearn for all of us to obtain Mrs Baxter’s services, under Mr. Wearn (deceased), without reference to Mr. Wearn, himself. Racist Mr. Bonds was very puzzled as to how it was that 50% at least of my students obtained not only Grammar School places every year but the very best Grammar School places and so he came into my class—room on two occasions while my class was in session, to try and find out. On the first occasion, I was teaching tables. “Mr. James, what are you doing?” he asked, in an exclamatory voice. “I am teaching tables by rote, Sir,” I replied, cheerfully. “Teaching tables by rote?” he asked again, indignantly. “Yes Sir”, I replied, more cheerfully, still. “You don’t teach tables by rote. Nothing is taught by rote, these days. That is old hat”, he reed and then he took his leave of me. Nevertheless, I continued to teach tables, by rote, to my students, since I received no direct order from Mr. Bonds to desist from so doing. On another occasion, Mr. Bonds stepped into my classroom and asked: “What are you doing this time, Mr. James?” “Teaching English Grammar, Sir,” I informed him. This time, Mr. Bonds became more enraged. “Teaching English Grammar?” he bellowed. ‘These children are English! They speak English and nothing but English! You don’t teach English Grammar to English children! And with that, he stormed out of my classroom. Shortly following that explosion, he summoned me to his office and said to me: “You will make a first class Special Education teacher. “Special Education?” I reiterated. “What’s that?” “You will find out in due course”, he assured me. “I am going to recommend to ILEA (the Inner London Education Authority) that you be transferred to Special Education”. Of course, I had no say in the matter. I

was not a permanent member of his staff. My status at that time was Temporary Staff Teacher (T.S.T.). Therefore I had no choice but to remain quiet and make no reply. A few days later, an Inspector of Schools: tiny but very sweet Miss Heart was sent, by ILEA, to Eltham Church of England School to inform me concerning ILEA’s decision with regard to me. Miss Heart said to me it was evident that Mr. Bonds did not like me and so the best solution for that ime was for me to me to leave his school I would be transferred to Special Education on probation, in the first instance and later I could make application for a permament posting. “Miss Heart”, I said to her, ‘“I have no idea what Special Education is!” “Do not worry” she comforted. “You will find out soon enough what Special Education is.” And with that, she took her leave of me. Firstly, I was sent to a school for delicate children in Streatham, South London. That was a very short term appointment. I was filling in for a permanent teacher who was ill for a period of three months. However, I did enjoy my three months’ stay there. At that school, all students had three full meals per day. It was an “all age” mixed school, which meant that students from the age of five to fifteen plus were accommodated at that school, provided, of course, that they were classified, medically, as “delicate”. Schools for the delicate were few and far between in London. They (those schools) came into being during World War Two and lasted for quite a few years after World War Two had come to an end. After that it was decided, that there was no longer any necessity for such schools. After lunch, students were directed to lie on the floor for upwards of one hour and to sleep if they felt the need to sleep. Quite a few did sleep. Educational ability in that school varied very considerably but at the upper end of the spectrum, some students were studying one foreign language: French. Not only students partook of those three free meals, Monday to Friday but teachers, as well, were welcome to partake of those three free meals, daily. I for one, was glad to partake of those free meals since, at the time, I was living at Gillingham, Kent and had to drive between 26 and 40 miles each way, depending on route chosen, to and from school every day. The fact that I did not have to prepare and/or eat meals at home was a boon Furthermore and particularly during the winter months, snowfall would be heavy, sometimes it was foggy, driving conditions were hazardous and so I had to make an early start in the mornings, in order that I might get to school on time. Scripture says an ending to all fine things must be. The class teacher whom I was replacing returned and so I was transferred to another special school. That one was called Rose Cottage and the heaster was Mr. J. Vickery. It was a school

for children with mild learning difficulties. There, I had further special schools experience but again there was no vacancy and so, following a further three months’ stay at Rose Cottage, I was transferred yet again to Blackwall School in Greenwich. That school, too, was for students with mild learning difficulties and, like Rose Cottage, it was all age, mixed and the heaster was Mr. H. Collins, an amiable man and very humble. After a period of six months there, I was transferred to the Woolwich Church of England Primary School, very small and very family orientated. There, I spent a joyous year, before I was transferred to another primary school nearby. Both these schools were ordinary mixed schools, which meant that they were not special schools. At that other school nearby, I spent another year. Just why ILEA chose to return me to ordinary schools for two years, I do not know and I did not ask, either. I just went along for the ride, so to speak, and found it quite enjoyable. To my great surprise, I found myself being transferred back yet again to special education—this time to a school called Slade School in Plumstead, London. Slade School was unique in the sense that it was the only school in London and perhaps throughout the United Kingdom, which had a mixed primary department but an all girls secondary department. On my arrival at the school and at the headteacher’s office front door, I knocked. A voice said: “Yes! Come in.” The voice was that of the heistress: Mrs. Jane Tobin, whom I learned later, was known somewhat affectionately but sometimes derisively as Aunty Jane. I stepped up to her, where she was sitting at her desk and said to her: ‘Good morning!” shook her icy cold hand and added: “Ah! Cold hand, warm heart.” She replied: “Good morning” but rather nervously and added that she did not know that a cold hand meant a warm heart. Then she asked: “Now, what can I do for you?” I told her that I had been directed to her school by ILEA because there was a vacancy there. Very nervously again, she said to me that she was sorry but that there was no vacancy at her school. I told her that I was disappointed to learn that there was no vacancy at her school and that I would have to return to ILEA and report to the officers there, that which she had said. I then took my leave of her and returned immediately to ILEA where I reported to one of the officers that which I had been told by Mrs. Tobin. The officer, whose name I do not recall at the moment told me: “Go back to Slade School and tell Mrs. Tobin that I say: there is a vacancy at Slade School. Then I returned to Slade School and told Mrs. Tobin exactly what the ILEA officer had told me to say to her. “Is that what she said?” Mrs. Tobin asked me. “Yes!” I replied, and if you don’t believe me, you may pick up your telephone receiver and telephone her now.” Mrs. Tobin did nothing of the sort. She accepted me there and then and led me to

the ground floor, where she introduced me to the class of children that I would be teaching. In the mean time, Mrs. Lilian Davis, a white teacher, who was married to a black American from the U.SA. Had been doing her best to calm Mrs. Tobin’s fears about having a black man on her teaching staff. Incidentally, both Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Tobin were Yorkshire born and bred and they were firm friends with each other. Immediately, Mrs. Davis formed a strong friendship bond with me and so, too. Did Mrs. Tobin but at a much later date. Immediately, I fell in love with the students and they with me, (some 20 of them, boys and girls) whom I had just begun to teach Their age range was 9-11. At 11, the boys would move on to secondary schools for students with mild learning difficulties but the eleven year old girls would move up to the first floor and the other secondary girls, who had preceded them. There was one exception: a black boy (the only black boy in my class), who was partially deaf but was enabled to hear somewhat with a hearing aid. And, as a result of his deafness, his speech was affected, as well. In very quick time, I realized that that boy was streets ahead of all the other 19 in intelligence and so I requested a special test for him. A specialist was sent, the test was istered and it was found that the boy’s intelligence was bordering on “genius” and so he was sent to a special school for students with above average intelligence. That was an early breakthrough for me in that class, where I remained for fourteen years. I delighted in that early success and the boy’s parents, too, did not know how to thank me—they were so pleased. I had spent one year only at Slade School, when I read an ment in an I.L.E.A. Magazine, inviting qualified teachers to attend a one year course at Avery College, leading to the Diploma for Teachers In Special Education. Towards the end of the Course, the diploma was to be obtained by ing an examination at the University of London. In addition to the application, one had to submit a recommendation by one’s headteacher. Both Mrs. Davis and I submitted applications and recommendations and both our applications were successful. We enjoyed our year at Avery Hill College and, at the end of that year, we obtained our diplomas, by examination, at the University of London. Thereafter, we returned to Slade School and to our respective class-rooms. After completing barely six months of teaching in my class, Mrs. Tobin hurried downstairs to me, in my class—room, with an application form and said: “Here! Complete that quickly and return it to me.” On glancing at the form, I observed that it was an application form for a permanent appointment to Slade School as a Scale 2 teacher, with special responsibility for swimming and games. I thanked

her, very graciously and, immediately, she took her leave of me and climbed back up the stairs to her office. Once most of the other teachers had got wind of what Mrs. Tobin had made up her mind about, they were furious. Not that they did not like me and neither was it that they would not be welcoming me as a permanent member of staff. It was that they thought other teachers were at Slade School and that, by virtue of the fact that others had preceded me at that school, they were entitled to priority. Of course, that sentiment was not without a little tinge of undercover racism. Nevertheless, not withstanding the fact that, apart from the deputy heistress, Mrs. Irene Vernon, I was the only member of Mrs Tobin’s staff with a Diploma in Special Education and notwithstanding the fact that I had distinguished myself in practical teaching, I must it that luck was on my side on two counts: 1. her great favourite, Tony (Anthony) Lord had made a sudden exit from the school. He didn’t resign, properly, either and Mrs. Tobin was devasted. Tony had come into some money that had been left to him by an uncle and so he saw no reason that he should continue in teaching. Had Tony chosen to continue teaching, following his windfall, he would have got the appointment that was offered to me. Tony was a permanent teacher at Slade School. I was not. I was a Temporary Staff Teacher. However, Tony was a Scale 1 teacher—not a Scale 2. Incidentally, as a Temporary Staff Teacher, I did not qualify for ission to that diploma course. How I slipped through the net, I do not know. It was sheer luck. The second count related to the fact that Mrs. Tobin was not convinced that the other teachers whom she overlooked, deserved to have preference over me. She was not impressed by their performance. I completed the form, as requested, and returned the completed form to Mrs. Tobin, in her office, the very next day. Very soon, I was called into Mrs. Tobin’s office for interview by Mrs. Tobin and of the school board (School Governors). In all honesty, the interview was little more than a formality. Mrs. Tobin gave me little or no chance to answer questions that were thrown at me, by the school’s governors. She (Mrs. Tobin) intervened and answered nearly all the questions. In a trice, the interview was over. I was told that I could return to my class-room and that later, I would be told the result of my interview. Before the end of the day, Mrs. Tobin had informed me that I had been appointed as a permanent member of staff, Scale 2, with responsibility for swimming and games. Oh yes! I had forgotten to state earlier that I had taken a Bronze Medallion course at the Woolwich Swimming Pools, that I had ed the test and that I had been presented with the Bronze Medallion, which was a necessity

for teaching students in the pools whenever a qualified instructor was not present. The following day, I received written confirmation from I.L.E.A. Concerning my appointment, along with the customary “congratulations” I taught at Slade School and in that same class, right up to the school’s closure in July, 1987. During my 14 years tenure at Slade School, I took three courses leading up to the B.A. (Ordinary), B.A. (Honours) and M.A., all three in the Sociology of Education. The B.A. (Ordinary) and B.A. (Honours) courses were completed, successfully, at the Open University and the M.A. Course was completed, successfully, at the University of London. All three certificates were handed to me, by Princess Anne, during ceremonies performed at the Albert Hall in West London. Thereafter, by choice, I went to the Westminster Cathedral for the service of dedication. And on each occasion, Princess Anne was present. As a mark of respect, graduates were advised to try and be seated, in advance of the arrival of the princess, who was then the vice chancellor of the University of London. All graduates complied with that advice, myself included. On one occasion (I think it was my first attendance at the service of dedication), as the princess ed me and as she was just about to turn left, when she would be out of sight, she paused, turned round slightly and looked directly at me, as I sat in one of the pews. Why she did that, I will never know. It might have been because I was conspicuous. I recall that I was the only black graduate who had chosen, on that occasion, to attend the Service of Dedication at Westminster Cathedral. Following my university graduations and post-graduation, I continued to teach at Manormead School, in Abbeywood, South-East London following the closure of Slade School in Plumstead, South-East London. Manormead School was similar to Slade School, in so far as both schools were special schools for students with mild learning difficulties. However, whereas the primary department of Slade School consisted of an intake of boys and girls and the secondary department consisted of an intake of girls only, Manormead School, on the other hand, consisted of an intake of boys and girls in the primary department and an intake of boys only, in the Secondary department. I taught a class of 8—9 year olds in the Primary Department and the school’s heaster, Mr. Paul Goulden made me responsible for the whole school teaching of Comparative Religions. Not that I knew a lot about comparative religious teaching, but I did a lot of reading on the subject and thus was able to cope with the responsibility. Moreover, no other member of staff was enthusiastic about the responsibility and that is why the offer was made to me. Of course, I grabbed it with both hands, since it meant that I would be receiving an extra payment for the responsibility.

There was one (and one only) other non-white member of staff at Manormead School, Mr. Ashook Sharma, an Indian, who hailed from the sub-continent itself —India. Mr. Sharma had responsibility for teaching Science to the whole school. Additionally, Mr. Paul Goulden used him, repeatedly, for the initiating and training of new of staff—all of whom were white. Mr. Goulden never hired a teacher who was non-white. Ashook Sharma was at Manormead School, before Mr. Goulden took over from the previous heaster and I was transferred to Manormead School, by the Inner London Education Authority, following the closure of Slade School. As I stated earlier in this paragraph, Mr. Goulden used Mr. Sharma, repeatedly for the initiation and training of new of staff to Manormead School. Immediately after they had been initiated and trained, Mr. Goulden would promote them above Ashook. It was not that Ashook did not make application for promotion. He did, repeatedly but, on each occasion, another contender who, invariably, was one whom Ashook had initiated and trained was promoted, in preference to Ashook. Repeatedly. Mr. Goulden would say to me that he was a racist, but somehow he liked me. There were certain qualities which I showed and which he could not help but ire. Mr. Goulden would cite an occasion in a certain public house, when he was in company with some white men and one black man. In the course of conversation, his white comrades suddenly became violent against the black man and he, Mr. Goulden came close to receiving very serious injury. Since then, he has been careful to avoid black company. I found that a very poor excuse for being a racist but, thinking that diplomacy might be the better part of valour, I decided to hold my tongue. Repeatedly, Mr. Sharma would confront Mr. Goulden regarding his racial prejudice. In the course of time and just before Manormead School was to be closed down formally and reopened as Church Manor, Ashook’s verbal attacks had become so acrimonious, that it occurred to him, he had better request a transfer. He did and the transfer was granted. Ashook was transferred to a school for students with severe learning difficulties. The Deputy Head of Manormead School had just been appointed as Headteacher of that school for students with severe learning difficulties. That newly appointed white Headteacher, Paul (namesake) was a very good friend of Ashook’s. As I got closer to full time retirement age, I felt the pressure building up against me. The British Government was anxious to induce those approaching full time retirement age, to apply for early retirement and so Government began to bring pressure to bear on ILEA. ILEA, in its turn, began to bring pressure to bear on the headteachers and the headteachers, in their turn, were beginning to bring

pressure to bear on those teachers who were approaching full time retirement. This whole strategy hinged on the fact that the British Government was intent on saving money. If the British Government could prevail upon long serving teachers to retire early, then those teachers who took the bait, so too speak, would be receiving smaller monthly pension payments, than if they went on to full time retirement. Therefore, secretly, the British Government advised the ILEA to use whatever excuses it can find to make long serving teachers so uncomfortable, that they would be happy to apply for and accept early retirement, along with its lump sum payment and a little extra “thank you” monthly payment for retiring early. Thus it was that my demise came when I was taking my class and an eight year old boy, Martin by name, leapt out of his seat, stumbled over a desk or two, fell and caused some injury to his face. The boy was anxious to lend a hand to me, at the blackboard. I had given the boy no permission to leave his seat and his action was so sudden, unexpected and quick, that I failed to get hold of him. Moreover, my assistant had left the classroom, momentarily and so I had no adult witness. Then again, there was no form of communication, like a telephone, for example, which I could use to try and get hold of the heaster. However, I did send the boy to another teacher for emergency attention, along with another boy. At lunch time, I reported the matter to Mr. Goulden, who was supervising school lunch. Mr. Goulden told me that he would have to write a letter to the boy’s mother, which he did. The boy’s mother, in her turn, was furious. She came to the school the very next day and said to Mr. Goulden that she would be suing me for having thrown her son on the floor. Ironically, I had taught young Martin’s mother at Slade School several years earlier. I think it must have been the tone of Mr. Goulden’s letter that got her so angry. Mr. Goulden was stirring the pot, so to speak. Later, Mr. Goulden advised me to get in touch with my union—The National Union of Teachers. I told him that I was thinking of doing that and I did. The N.U.T. In its turn, and in consultation with our local education department: The Greenwich Education Department, came up with a possible solution, prevail upon me to apply for and accept early retirement and, in turn, Martin’s mother would be prevailed upon, hopefully, to calm down and desist from any further action. In the mean time, I was suspended for three months with full pay. In a strange sort of way, I did enjoy the extra three months’ vacation on full pay. During those three months, I was able to pay more attention to the Queen Mother Moore Supplementary School, of which I was the heaster. Following my three months’ suspension, I was summoned to the Greenwich Education Department to answer the charge of assault. I maintained my innocence. I was exonerated. Then I was asked whether I would apply for and accept early retirement and I said that I would. In

April, 1992 I retired early. My mother (deceased) said, always, that nothing happened before its time and it so happened that our sponsorship (my wife’s and mine) came through just about that same time. In 1982, and at our request, my brother: Cecil James, a U.S. Citizen, filed a sponsorship application, for us, in New York, where he lived and worked. Following President Ronald Reagan’s inauguration as President of The U.S.A. And because Reagan wanted to cut out brother/sister sponsorship (Preference Six at that time), he suggested that that preference should be deleted from sponsorship. Reagan was a Republican. The Democrats objected, because they saw that suggestion as a racist ploy. And because the Democrats refused to relent, he (Reagan) suggested a compromise, which was agreed upon. The compromise was that that Sixth Preference sponsorship would be dragged out, to the extent that it would take the brother or sister who was being sponsored, ten years form the time that the application was made and accepted, to the time that the sponsorship came through, actually. In our case, the whole process took ten years, precisely and every Sixth Preference applicant, to this day, has had and is having the same experience, exactly, although none of those who are being sponsored are told that in so many words. Although I retired from full time teaching in April, 1992 my wife: Mrs. Wilhelmina Suzanna James was working, still, as an S.E.N. at St. Francis Hospital, which was about to stop functioning as a separate hospital and be integrated with Dulwich General Hospital. It so happened that in physical , St. Francis Hospital was a wing of Dulwich Hospital. St. Francis was a hospital for geriatic patients, most of whom were seniors. In August, 1992, our sponsorship came through and in October of that same year, we flew over to Fort Lauderdale, Florida to collect our Resident Alien Cards, more commonly known as Green Cards. We obtained our Social Security Cards in Fort Lauderdale and learned, there, that our Green Cards had been mailed to our Port Richey, Florida address. We motored to our address in Port Richey, only to learn from the tenants who were occupying our house, that they had returned our Green Cards to the Immigration Authorities in Texas, despite the fact that we had written to our tenants, asking them to hold on to our cards for us, should they arrive at our Port Richey address, in advance of our arrival in Florida. We explained to the Immigration Authorities what went wrong and our cards were returned to us in November of the following year (1993), when we moved into our Port Richey address, following the moving out of our tenants. I

hasten to add that they were very good tenants. We spent six memorable weeks in Fort Lauderdale, with our host and hostess, Mr. and Mrs Bromwell. In fact, it was Mrs. Bromwell who did the driving. I had a very bad cold at the time and would not have been able to drive those three hundred miles, from Fort Lauderdale to Port Richey. It was at Mr. Bromwell’s urging, that my wife and I made the trip. My “hired” car was used for the trip. We spent one night at a motel in Port Richey and returned to Fort Lauderdale the following day. We made one brief stop at a restaurant, both ways: to and from Fort Lauderdale. Following our six weeks’ stay in Florida, my wife and I returned to London. My wife was made redundant in April, 1993. In the interim, I did some lucrative and very enjoyable Supply Teaching, known in the U.S.A. as Substitute Teaching. During our stay in London, we tried to get our house (in London) sold, but with no luck. As an alternative, therefore, we rented it out to tenants and moved to our Port Richey home on November 25, 1993. (Thanksgiving Day). We arrived first at St. Paul’s/Minneapolis where we came close to being deported back to London. On arrival in St. Paul’s, we did not have our Green Cards. Those were waiting for our arrival in Port Richey. However, we did have, in our possession, a letter from the U. S. Embassy in London, explaining our situation. Surprisingly, the Immigration Officer was not happy to accept that letter as being sufficient. She would rather that she learned from the Immigration Authorities in the U.S.A., regarding the legitimacy of our immigrant status. It so happened that we had arrived on a public holiday, which meant that she was unable to speak to one of the Immigration Authorities, by telephone. Finally, she decided to take a chance and let us go through customs, without further hindrance. Moreover, we had overstayed in London. Immigration Authorities tend to frown upon Resident Aliens who have been absent from the U.S. In excess of six months. We had been absent from the U.S. for a whole year. From St. Paul’s, we flew to Tampa. And from there, we took a limousine to Port Richey. Between November 1993 and May 1995, my wife and I had been flying backwards and forwards between Port Richey and London, trying to get our London home sold. Finally, we got it sold in May, 1995 for a little over one hundred thousand pounds sterling. On hind sight, it was a pity that we were in such a hurry to sell the house because, shortly after we had sold it, house prices shot up in London and, easily, we could have got well in excess of two hundred

thousand pounds sterling for that two storey house. Having sold our London home, we returned to our Port Richey residence and there we settled, finally. In June, 1995, I made application to become a substitute teacher in West Pasco schools and I was sucessful. I started teaching in August, 1995 and, for nine years, from August 1995 until April, 2004 I taught almost exclusively at River Ridge Middle/High School. I enjoyed teaching at River Ridge. The students loved me and so did the staff . I loved them all, too. However, I thought that nine years were enough and time for a change. Therefore, by telephone, I asked the District School Board Co-ordinator whether I might transfer to other schools in West Pasco. “Oh! sure” was her immediate and she listed me on eight schools (other than River Ridge, of course). Very soon, it occurred to me that eight schools were too many, and I managed to whittle the number down to six. I find that number a lot more comfortable and manageable. I enjoy the change. As the saying goes: “A change is as good as a rest.” At this time in my journey through life, I am eighty years old. I am a diabetic (type 2), but I do not suffer from diabetes. There are two questions for which I do not have answers. The first one is: “How much longer will I be on Mother Earth?” and the second is: “When will I stop teaching.?” Obviously, when the good Lord decides that it is time for me to depart this life, then I will have to stop teaching, whether I want to or not. In our retirement years (and even before retirement) we visited Spain, , Holland and Scotland. During our retirement years, we visited Cape Town, South Africa twice, Dominica and Antigua in the West Indies twice, St. Lucia once, Tortola, British Virgin Islands once and St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands once. The Costa Brava, Spain was very interesting, lovely sea bathing, good wine tasting at a vineyard and our hotel accommodation was good, too, until a storm broke and the bedroom floor of our flat became flooded. Wilma had the presence of mind to take photographs, which we showed to our travel agent on our return to London, with the result that we received an entire refund: return airfare plus accommodation. We had to remove our suit-cases from under our bed and place them on the mattress on top of our bed, to prevent them and their contents from getting wet. To us, it was all great fun, including our watching of a group of young Germans who were stuck in the hotel lift (escalator) for the greater part of one day, because it was Sunday and the hotel management had difficulty getting engineers to come and rescue those poor, trapped German youngsters. Because I do not trust lifts and although our flat was several floors

up always, I would insist on using the stairs to get to our flat. Likewise, Wilma followed suit, although she was not enamoured regarding my stubborn resolve. En route to London, from Dominica, when I was emigrating, I visited Paris and watched the famous Eifel Tower but, because of my fear of heights and lifts, I refrained from going into the tower itself. Holland was oh, so beautiful in the spring, with its, with its grand display of a sea of daffodils. It is claimed that nothing comes close anywhere else on mother earth. Wilma was delighted and so was I. In Holland, we saw more bicycles and bicyclists in one day than we have seen elsewhere, throughout our life-times, so far. Gladly, I would have hired two bicycles, so that Wilma and I might go cycling but, unfortunately, she (Wilma) was not interested. Scotland was great fun. I would not have missed the Highland Tattoo and Loch Ness for all the tea in China. We sat and waited and waited and waited on a Loch Ness bank but, sadly, the Loch Ness monster failed to surface and say “hello!” to us. By way of compensation, we witnessed two lovely white swans (male and female) gliding by. On one particular morning, we left our boarding/lodging quarters, to walk three miles to a village. We got there and back but soaking wet, to the consternation of our landlady. “What have you done to yourselves?” she exclaimed. We told her that we had learned our lesson the hard way. Neither the rain coats we were wearing nor the umbrellas we were carrying and not even the trees under which we tried to take shelter, were any good and we observed that the few others who were walking on the road, were all wearing oil skins, proper rubber rain hats and tall rubber boots, to counter the effects of the torrential rainfall in the Scottish highlands. All the above, we enjoyed immensely, but not our two visits to Cape Town, South Africa. Our first visit we saw as a mixed blessing, but the second was a total disaster. In 1963, following my retirement in 1992 and Wilma’s redundancy in 1993, we were domiciled in our Port Richey, Florida home. From there, I spoke, by telephone, to Wilma’s mother, who was domiciled in Cape Town. During the course of my telephone conversation with her, I told her that, because our London home had not been sold as yet, we would be flying back to London at the beginning of August, 1994 to try and find a buyer for our house. Thereafter, we would fly on to Cape Town to pay her a visit, “I do not think so”, was her morose reply. “Don’t be so morbid”, I reed and shortly, thereafter, our conversation ended. Wilma and I travelled back to London early in August, as planned but ere we had unpacked, fully, we received a telephone message from a friend in Cape Town, to the effect that Wilma’s mother had ed away. She had stumbled and fell on a curb-side, as she was crossing a road. She was taken to a hospital and, never having recovered from her trauma, she ed

away fairly quickly, following her ission to hospital. Immediately, thereafter, Wilma and I flew to Cape Town. The funeral was well attended. Bishop Stephen Bradley, a long time friend of the family officiated. Moreover, Bishop Bradley and his wife invited us to their home for dinner a few days later. We accepted the invitation. The kind bishop drove us from our abode, to his home and back to our abode, Other friends and relatives took us into the interior of South Africa, by car. The scenery was resplendent, except for one massive, sprawling shanty town, through which we drove once. The relative who drove us through that shanty town said that he felt safe, so to do, because the squatters there, knew him well and were his friends. Otherwise, we could have been mobbed, had everything stolen from us and even murdered. He exchanged a few words with some of the squatters. We dined at a lovely, mountain-side restaurant, too and to think that it was only a short while earlier that apartheid had been abolished. It was so ironic to see a vast, lovely beach, covered with pristine white sand but without one soul either walking on the sandy beach, basking in the sunshine or swimming in that inviting blue, calm water. In the days of apartheid, whites only were allowed on that beach. In post apartheid, nobody—black, brown or white cared to pay any attention to it. Oh! The ironies of life. Our second visit to Cape Town was a total disaster—almost. My wife, Wilhelmina was anxious to go, because she had learned from a relative, by telephone, that a first cousin of hers was gravely ill. We had been informed, as well, that there would not be accommodation for us at cousin’s home and so, we made a booking, by telephone, at Cape Town’s Marriott Hotel. On arrival at Cape Town, my wife learned that her cousin was not gravely ill at all. In a sense, that revelation was somewhat annoying, since my wife’s visit was to see and, hopefully provide comfort for a gravely ill close cousin. We spent four weeks in Cape Town, from July to mid August, 2007 and it rained every day. On certain days, it rained continuously all day and sometimes, it rained for a whole week. Moreover, the weather was very cold throughout our stay in Cape Town. Our room was cold, despite the array of blankets with which we were provided at the Marriott Hotel and when we complained that our room was cold, to the extent that scarcely could we sleep at night, the receptionist at the front desk shouted: “Oh! It is not officially winter yet. However, you may have more blankets, if you wish.” We tried to explain to the receptionist that more blankets were not the answer and that what was needed was all round the room heating, to which she made no reply. It occurred to us, then, that we needed to speak to the manager and so we did. The manager expressed concern after we

had spoken to him, and he said that he would speak to the heating engineer and ask him to turn on some heating in our room. The heating was turned on in our room, but it (the heating) was turned on so low that scarcely did it make any difference. The net result was that throughout the remaining two weeks of our stay in Cape Town, my wife was down with a heavy dose of influenza, to the extent that she thought she was going to die. Thankfully, she survived but she had to be flying back to Florida, not having recovered completely from her influenza attack. I was somewhat more fortunate. I got just a touch of influenza and some tablets which I obtained from a nearby pharmacy were very helpful. Unfortunately, my wife found those tablets less helpful. During the first two weeks of our stay in Cape Town, my wife and I saw Government House from the outside, visited Robin Island, where Nelson Mandela was incarcerated along with other political dissidents, visited a museum in District Six (Cape Town) where, to my wife’s dismay, she saw on a large floor map, that St. Vincent Street in District Six, where she was born, schooled and brought up no longer existed. During the apartheid era, District Six was an area in which people who were classified as “coloured” lived. Over time, it occurred to the Apartheid Regime that District Six was too good for coloured occupation and residence. Therefore, the coloured people were all ordered out of District Six and alternative residence was provided for them on the outskirts of the city. Before repatriation, there was no need for those coloured people to ride on buses or drive in cars to the city centre, because District Six is virtually in the city centre. All they needed to do was to walk and they enjoyed that. The view from District Six was spectacular. The whole of the city, some parts of the Atlantic Ocean and even world famous Table Mountain were all in close proximity. The coloured people could either walk up to the top of Table Mountain or they could get there by cable car, if they preferred that option. Schools and teachers were good and in good supply, too. And the coloured people had their churches, synagogues and tabernacles which they attended religiously and happily. It was paradise on earth, so to speak. Why should black people be so privileged? Enough of that for a change. Throw the blacks out, tear down their houses and other institutions. And, in their place, install the whites. And so said, so done. Most of everything was razed to the ground. Thankfully, a few landmarks were left but not St. Vincent Street where my wife was born. Ironically, very little white settlement occurred in District Six and it became a ghost town—almost. My wife cried as she walked through that ghost town with me and squeezed my left hand. For her, there was one joyous moment, though. We visited a High School, on the grounds of which was the long one room school that she attended.

Unbelievably, the building was there still and in use for concerts, etc. A photograph of her principal and other of staff was hanging on a wall, as well as another photograph which showed students who had just graduated. Sadly, my wife was not in that photograph and she has no recall concerning why she was not in that photograph. And when that photograph was taken? She does not know, either. Neither does she have any recall of any of those faces in that photograph. A relatively new High School had been built on the premises and was in session when we visited that school. At the time of our visit, District Six was open then (and now) to everybody, nevertheless, housing there is very expensive and quite a number of black families cannot afford it. By way of adding insult to injury, my wife thought that she might have her expired South African port renewed in Cape Town, before returning to Florida. To her consternation, she learned that (that) was not possible. When she left South Africa in 1958 and emigrated to London, England South Africa was a British colony, still. Now that South Africa is an independent nation, no longer is she a South African. Now, she is a foreigner. However, she could make application to become a South African, but she would have to be resident in South Africa. My wife was stunned. “What am I hearing?” she shouted. “You mean that although I was born and raised in South Africa, nevertheless I am not, now, a South African? No! That is it. South Africa will not see me again. I shall never return to South Africa!” I said to her: “Calm down. Never mind what you have been told. You are a South African. South Africa is the land of your birth and so you should visit it from time to time, even though you have no intention of ever settling back there”. I received no reply. Whether (or not) I will prevail upon her to pay another visit, I do not know. However, just before we flew back to Florida, we visited a district where her teachers would take the whole school on sea-side picnics, which she enjoyed, immensely. They would travel to that district by train and we did travel to that district by train, although there were other means of transport—bus and other motor-vehicles. We enjoyed the train travel to and from and the fare was very cheap for South African seniors. It was assumed that the two of us were South African seniors. When we arrived at the sea-side, my wife explained to me that (that) was one of the few sea-side places where non-whites were allowed to frequent, let alone swim in the sea. And that was one reason, she thought, that she was unable to swim, still. The train journey from District Six was long and that picnic took place once a year only—at summer time. We did not swim in the sea, but we did enjoy a very delicious and fairly cheap fish and chips meal at a restaurant nearby, which was very popular with residents and visitors. The restaurant was crowded and the fish was fresh

from the sea. Moreover, it was an “all you can eat” restaurant. One could have as many helpings as one wished for the one very cheap price. One helping each for the two of us was more than enough. We managed to get through our helpings but with difficulty. In addition to the fish and chips, there were salads and dressings. The fishing trawlers moored alongside the docks and at anchor in close proximity to the docks were a lovely sight for any interested photographer who loves ships as much as I do. My wife is a good photographer and she did take photographs. Unfortunately, there was one blot. There were tunnels leading to the beach, over which there were walk-ways and inside those tunnels, there were a number of squatters who came came from countries outside of South Africa. Those tunnels were very insanitary, with a noxious odour. My wife told me that during her student days, those tunnels were very clean and were used as change rooms. On December 01, 1999 my wife and I flew to Perth, Western Australia, to visit our only daughter, Hazel, her husband Jim (James) and their three children: Phillip, Jasmine and Zoe who, at that time were aged 7, 6 and 3 respectively. We spent three months there with them. Originally, we had meant to spend six months but, as providence would have it, we changed our minds and settled for three months only. Prior to our departure from our home in Port Richey, Florida, we received a long form from the Australian Immigration Authority in Washington, D.C. Requiring us to state why we wanted to spend six months in Australia, whether we had intended to work there, what were our assets and whether we could provide proof of our assets, etc. etc. We could have completed the form to the satisfaction of the Australian Immigration Authority but we saw no reason that we should go through all that bother and so we settled for a three months’ stay, which did not require us to complete that long form. A flight from Florida to Australia is long and one’s legs are likely to get stiff but we managed all the same. We flew Singapore Airlines, via Iceland, and Singapore. The airline food was good and plentiful. Moreover, the attendants were very friendly and accommodating. On our arrival at Perth Airport, we were met by Hazel, Jim and their three children (our grandchildren, of course). From the airport, Jim drove us to the family home. We enjoyed our three months’ stay quite a lot, swimming in their swimming pool in their back garden, although we had to take care that the myriads of wasps that

came to the pool for a drink of water, did not lodge their vicious stings into our flesh. I managed to avoid the wasp stings but, occasionally, those wasps managed to sting three year old Zoe, who would be crying out loud and long, until her mother came to her rescue at the pool-side. A lotion would be applied to the sting or stings and that would cause the pain to disappear. Were there not a thick bush standing and even growing beside the pool, there would be no wasps but Jim refused to cut the bush down or even to have it cut down. “The wasps were God’s creatures”, he argued “And they had a right to live and to have a drink of water, just like us, who are God’s creatures, too.” “Even at the expense of your wife and children being stung viciously and repeatedly?” I asked. “Yes! “he replied, very promptly. My son-in-law Jim has a peculiar philosophy, which I have never understood and which I will never understand. I do not think he is religious. He does not attend church services for a start, but it could be his scientific bent. He was very fond of barbecues, preparing the meat himself and having us sit on benches around tables in his yard, as we partook of the meals that he prepared quite often and particularly when he had visitors. Myriads of house-flies would be crowding around and attempting to alight on the hot dogs and burgers. As my wife and I tried very hard to keep those flies away, he would become very annoyed. “Why all the fuss?” he would ask. “What is so wrong?” On one occasion, I asked one of his visiting friends whether the house-fly problem was peculiar to Perth, in the same way that Perth was seen to have the most shark infested waters throughout Australia. “No, man!” that visitor exclaimed. “That house-fly problem exists throughout Australia. The Australian government has been importing a certain chemical from Africa in an attempt to keep the house-fly population down, but with little success”. “What is the reason for this prevalence of flies?” I asked him. “Cow dung!” he replied. “Australia has so many cows”. “Oh! I see”, I said to him. “Do you know the Australian salute?” he asked me. “No!” I replied. “What is it?” “Have you ever observed the Australian prime minister, on television, as he makes his speeches? Constantly and with his right hand, he brushes away house-flies from his face and mouth. That is the Australian salute.” That gave rise to an expression of mirth from my wife and myself. It was more than obvious that cow dung was not the only reason for the prevalence of house-flies in Australia. Human hygiene (or the lack of it) had a lot to do with it. It is said that Australia has two beaches for every head of population. That may be an exaggeration but, if it is, it is not too far from the truth. Several of the beaches do not have attendants and most of the bins which are provided for human garbage, tend to be full and with garbage spilling over

on to the sand around the bins, with the result that one encounters swarms of flies and maggots in and around those bins. Preparing barbecued meals on those beaches was off putting but my son-in-law would insist. That was his speciality. I do not think that there was one household in Perth that did not have a dog and householders would take their dogs for walks along those pristine white beaches. Of course, those dogs needed to relieve themselves and so they did. In all fairness to the Perth residents, I must state that some of them cleaned up after their dogs but not all of them did, Moreover, the local authority had certain designated dog beaches, but there was no guarantee that every dog owner would make the effort to walk or drive the extra mile with his or her dog or dogs. My wife and I visited some of the malls in Perth, which we found to be better equipped than our malls here in Port Richey, Florida. In those Perth malls, on could do all one’s shopping under one roof. Of course, those malls were very big. Here, in Port Richey, if one wanted to buy groceries and/or vegetables, one would have to go to a grocery shop or to the U.S.A. Flea Market—not so in Perth. At one of those malls, I sat on a bench to wait for my wife who was doing the shopping. Another gentleman was doing the same thing, exactly—sitting on that same bench and waiting for his wife, as she did the shopping. We greeted each other and conversed. In the course of our conversation, the house-fly problem came up and he assured me that the house-fly was not too bad now. When, at first, he arrived in Australia, from Bermuda, ten years ago (1989), in order to eat his meal, he would wear a mask, which covered the whole of his head, face and neck and, as he placed a morsel of food in his mouth, he would raise the mask ever so slightly and pull it down again after he had placed that morsel in his mouth. “You’re joking!” I said to him. “No! I’m not,” he replied. “I am telling you the truth”. Then my wife, having finished her shopping, came to the bench where we were sitting. I said “goodbye” to the gentleman from Bermuda and took my leave of him, following a short conversation between himself and my wife. My wife and I, along with the Marshall family (our son-in-law, James Marshall, our daughter, Hazel Marshall and our three grandchildren: Phillip, Jasmine and Zoe) along with two other family friends, attended a test match in Perth. The contestants were the Australian Cricket Team and the Indian Cricket Team. I would have liked to see the Indians win. Unfortunately, they did not. The Australians did. It was a very hot day and because I had been imbibing a lot of cold non-alcoholic drinks in order to try and keep cool, I needed to go to the bathroom. The bathroom was located outside of the cricket grounds and so I

ed a crowd of spectators as they were streaming out of the grounds at tea time, to do likewise. At the entrance/exit gate, a black stamp was placed on the back of our hands, as a form of identification. That was all right for the other spectators who were either white or light skinned but not for me, ho was/is black skinned. The stamp was scarcely visible on my skin. As I stated earlier, it was a very hot day. Moreover, I tend to sweat very profusely when the outside temperature is up and so I did. On returning to the entrance/exit gate, there attendants there questioned my eligibility for entry. The black stamp mark was scarcely visible. They, the gate attendants, thought I might be a gate crasher and I did not have a ticket. All the tickets were being held by my son-in-law, Jim and he was not with me. He was seated on the stands. Eventually, I prevailed upon the chief gate attendant to accompany me to the stand where my party was seated. She complied but refused to follow me right up to where my party was seated. From a distance, she just waved, by way of showing she was satisfied that I was not faking and she returned to her post. As I sat, a few youngsters began pelting litter at me from behind (orange peel, for example), but I made no comment. Simply, I moved to a position in front of some white and light skinned spectators. Thereafter, the pelting stopped. My wife and I (along with the Marshall family) visited museums, gardens, wineries and even one river that was brown in colour, because of the silt deposits, we were told. Apparently, there are not many rivers in Perth. Visiting a brush close to where we lived early in the mornings and at dusk was very interesting because those were the times when the kangaroos came out to graze and to just enjoy being out in the open. We were happy to see the kangaroos, talk to them and take photographs and they, (the kangaroos) too, were happy to see us, we thought, so long as we kept our distance—about three yards away from them. If we ventured any closer, immediately they would disappear into the brush and it was strange how they managed to disappear so completely. Even when we followed them into the brush, there was not a sign of any of them. Just where they disappeared to, we never found out but, no doubt, they were watching us, as we tried to find out. Time and time again, we would advise Jim to keep his caravan and motor-car locked in his front yard at night, while we all slept, just in case some thief or thieves might want to steal or try to steal one or both of those vehicles. “Oh! Nonsense”, he would reply. “Always, we have left our vehicles unlocked in our front yard. Nobody has ever attempted to steal them and nobody ever will.” Suddenly, one Sunday morning, at about 3:00 A.M., we were awakened from our

bed by Jim’s shouting: “Patrick! Wilma! Come here at once and stop them. Two chaps are trying to steal our car.” We got up, half asleep, in a stupor and swayed into the front yard like drunken sailors. By then, the two young male hijackers (Australian aboriginees) were in the car, the car doors were shut, the car’s engine had been ignited and they were just about to drive off. Both Hazel and Jim tried to open the door close to where the driver sat, but to no avail. In fact, as the car moved off and circled, we had to jump clear, to avoid being struck by the car. The hijackers did not need an ignition key to start the car. Two of my four brothers and a nephew of mine, who are motor-mechanics do not need an ignition key to start a motor-vehicle. Using his home telephone, Jim called the police. Two of them came fairly quickly and took written notes but they, the police-men, observed that Jim was talking very disparagingly about the aboriginees and a pained expression appeared on their faces. Suddenly, Jim stopped and said: “I have nothing against aboriginees. Look, I have two aboriginees here as guests. If I had anything against aboriginees, would I have them here as my guests?” Neither of those two white police-men made any reply. Quietly,they made their exit and, in doing so, they promised that they would do what they could to recover that stolen vehicle for our son-in-law and our daughter. Although the policemen made no reply to Jim’s question, nevertheless, the expression on their faces showed quite clearly that, to them, there was no resemblance between the Australian aboriginees and ourselves. Neither I am nor my wife is white or even light skinned but, equally, neither of us is an Australian aboriginee and nor does either of us look remotely like one. Later on that Sunday morning, a gas station attendant rang and informed Jim that his motorcar had been left abandoned just outside of that gas station, which was a short distance from Jim’s home. The attendant added that it was not unusual for aboriginees living just outside of the city limits to come into the city at weekends to attend parties. During the early hours of Sunday morning, they would try and “borrow” a motor-vehicle without the owner’s permission or knowledge, in order that they might avoid the long trek back home on foot. Gladly and feeling very relieved, Jim and Hazel got into their caravan, drove to the gas station, thanked the attendant and drove back home, Hazel at the driving wheel of the car and Jim at the driving wheel of the caravan. Jim took me to a high school nearby where he taught biology. He introduced me to the principal, who was very welcoming and accommodating. These days, Jim dos not do any conventional class teaching. Instead, he does long distance closed circuit television teaching, especially to aboriginee students who, because they are nomads, do not stay in any one place very long. In addition, he is

responsible for devising as well as editing science curriculums. These days, Hazel teaches at a school for challenged boys and girls but, at the time that we visited, she was not teaching. Mainly, she was in training to become a special education teacher. Hazel took Wilma and I to a Scottish dancing class. Hazel’s husband Jim is white, was born in Scotland but brought up in Australia by his Scottish father and his Irish mother. Jim met Hazel in London, England. Hazel was and is, still, an accomplished Scottish dancer. Even as a child, she was taught Scottish dancing by a tutor. I dare say that she is more accomplished than her husband, Jim. I was pretty hopeless on that dance floor, always I have been a hopeless dancer and always I will be a hopeless dancer. Dancing is not one of my accomplishments but I love dancing and, best of all, I enjoy seeing accomplished dancers perform. Wilma was somewhat better off than me, but not at all as accomplished as our daughter, Hazel. The other dancers, most if not all of them, of Scottish ancestry, were fairly good, too, but Hazel stood out and she was recognized as being head and shoulders above the whole lot of them. Always, Hazel had a propensity for gymnastics and dancing. Men and women attended those Scottish dancing sessions in Perth. Well, as the saying goes: “Time flies while you are having fun” and so it was that the time came for our departure back to Florida. Jim asked us when we would be coming back. “Probably in the next ten years,” I replied. Thus far, nearly twelve years have ed, but neither of us (my wife nor myself) is in any hurry to return. The house-flies have put us off. Thus far, the entire Marshall family has paid two visits to us here, in Port Richey. On the second occasion, and after they had been here for one week, our three grandchildren were in the living room of our home here in Florida, and Wilma and I were in the kitchen. Suddenly, Phillip called out to me: “Granddad!” ‘“Yes!” I replied and he continued: “Are there no flies in Florida?” “Yes! There are” I assured him, “But not nearly as many as there are in Australia”. And to that statement, Phillip made no reply. I felt relieved that he he did not ask why. Explaining would have been an embarrassment for me and an annoyance for his father. On our way back to Florida, we spent two nights in Singapore. Our stay there was very memorable and delightful. We ate delicious meals at Chinese restaurants, visited an elaborate Indian mosque, a great cathedral, an amusement park and, from a short distance, viewed the large storage containers in which refined gasolene was stored. Our hotel accommodation was very good

We fell in love with Singapore, with its tropical climate and vowed that we would return there, ere we parted this life. Hopefully, we will return some day. On the two occasions that the Marshalls paid us visits here in Florida, they enjoyed their stay immensely, visiting Disney World, Weeki Wachi Springs, Busch Gardens and several other places of entertainment. On the third occasion, Hazel came on her own. The others were not too keen on returning a third time, so soon. “Why?” we asked. “Too far” was the children’s reply. Well, that was understandable. To get from Perth in Western Australia to Florida, one has to travel half way around the world. By the time that space travel becomes commonplace, moving form one side of the world to another, will be like paying a visit to one’s next door neighbour. No sooner had my wife and I returned to Port Richey from Perth, than I realised that had a medical problem. We were returning home from shopping in our motor-car when, suddenly, I felt the urge to urinate. Because we were just about one hundred yards away from our home when that sudden urge came, I thought that I might be able to wait until I had arrived at our bathroom in our house— but not so. The urine refused to wait. It just gushed out. I was flabbergasted. That never happened to me before. Wilma (my wife) suggested that I should go and have a consultation with my doctor. I did and, immediately, my doctor: Dr. Phillip diagnosed diabetes. He prescribed metformin and glipizide tablets. I have been taking those tablets since March, 2000 with great success. Soon after March, 2000 Dr. Phillip accepted a job offer somewhere up North, because an insufficient number of patients were coming to him, which was a great pity because, in addition to being an excellent doctor, he was very economical, too. Normally, he would assign his assistant to draw blood from my arm but because on every occasion, his assistant would report, to him, that she could not find my vein, he would take over from his assistant and draw blood from my arm, immediately, very quickly and painlessly, too. Then my blood sample would be sent to a laboratory for testing and so that he might receive a report from the laboratory. My new doctor: Dr. Reddy does not do that. I have to go to a laboratory for my “blood draw,” with the result that my blood draw bills are very steep and growing steeper by the day. Both my wife and I are not covered by either Medicare or Medicaid. Medicaid is too expensive and we cannot afford it. In addition to the periodic testing of my blood sugar, Dr. Reddy is concerned that I should have a periodic PSA (Prostate Specific Antigen) test also. In March, I had a PSA test and the resulting number reading was 15, which Dr. Reddy

thought was too high and he urged me, through one of his secretaries: Marge to go and consult with a urologist. I did that last month: May May 2011. Dr. Sadler, who had performed a biopsy on me in 2011, tested and found that that I had an enlarged prostate. “Yes! I said. “I know that but that does not mean, necessarily, that I have prostate cancer,” Six years ago, in the year 2005, Dr. Jacob performed a biopsy on me, reluctantly, because he knew that I did not have prostate cancer and he said so. The results of the biopsy were negative. Dr. Jacob advised me to drink tomato juice and to take lycopene and selenium tablets. I took the tablets continuously, but not the tomato juice, which I should have done. I suppose. Five years later, in the year 2000, Dr. Sadler himself performed a biopsy on me. The results were negative. He, Dr. Sadler, suggests that I should have a biopsy every five years. The expression on my face told him that biopses no longer had an appeal for me. I had since learned that biopses produce cancer cells and can be dangerous. Moreover, these urologists are charging thousands of dollars these days for biopses. The performing of biopses has become very lucrative. “All right then,” he said. Since you are reluctant to have another biopsy, have another PSA test and should the number have gone down, then you may skip the biopsy. I agreed to that and took the PSA test. The result showed that the number had dropped from 15 to 13.5. Therefore, when I got back home and received, via my Answering Machine, the result of the PSA test, I telephoned back and informed Dr. Sadler’s receptionist that I would not be having the biopsy, after all. That did not make Dr. Sadler and his associates very happy and so the written report which he sent to Dr. Reddy bore no relation to the agreement which was struck between himself and myself. What he wrote was: “We are testing for prostate cancer and procrastination can lead to disastrous consequences in the future.” On line, I consulted the world famous John Hopkins Hospital and I found the consultants there to be very helpful. “Be very careful” they said, about throwing away thousands of dollars on biopses that are not necessary. Moreover, these biopses produce cancer cells and are dangerous. Before taking a PSA test, refrain from sexual intercourse for 72 hours. Otherwise, you may get a false reading. Several times, I had experience of that whenever my wife tested my blood sugar for diabetes. Finally, my consultants recommended that I should take the dietary supplement: “Prostate Health Essentials” which shrinks the prostate and reduces the PSA number after the first five to seven days, Immediately, I telephoned through to the store in Neveda where that dietary supplement was sold. The owner of the store: Steve Yates answered my call. He asked me how many times I woke up at night to urinate. “Three times per night,”

I told him. “Now, you will be getting up once per night”, he assured me. I placed an order for the dietary supplement and it was shipped to me very promptly. At the time, I was struggling to get rid of a cold and, to my amazement, that supplement got rid of my cold in a trice. I was developing quite a few annoying little rashes on my skin. Those disappeared before one could say: “Jack Robinson.” Whatever ointment or powder I placed on athlete’s foot between the toes on my right foot, my athlete’s foot persisted. That supplement got rid of it just like that. I have an appoint ment to se Dr, Reddy on the 29th. Of next month. A week or so before that, I will go to Physicians Stat Laboratory for another PSA test and I have every confidence that my PSA number will be down to a single figure. I thank God, the consultants at Johns Hopkins Hospital in New York and Steve Yates, the owner of the store in Nevada. No doubt, the inventor (or inventors) of that dietary supplement deserve my thanks, too.

My wife and I pay visits to our relatives in the Caribbean area, from time to time. We visit my sister, Evelyn in St. Lucia, my sister, Rosa and her enormous family in Antigua, my brothers: Paul, Cecil and Ronald in Dominica and, so far, we have paid one visit to my brother, Sammy (Samuel) in Tortola and, because St. Thomas is close by, we have gone island hopping there, too. There is a similarity between these Caribbean islands. All are tropical and all are surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea. Nevertheless, each island has its own uniqueness. The island of my birth: Dominica, is one of only two countries throughout the world, which has a boiling lake. The other country is New Zealand. There, the boiling lake is to be found on South Island. Sometimes, my students here in West Pasco County, Florida ask me: “Is the lake really boiling, Sir?” “If you are tired of life,” I say to them, “Just dive in, and you will have said goodbye to Mother Earth, before an onlooker or yourself could count to ten. Nobody dares to go in there, nor even to dangle one’s toes or run one’s fingers in the water. The water is so hot that, for a minute or two, the entire lake is is covered with blanketing mist (hot steam), then a breeze blows and clears the mist for another minute or two. And the whole process starts all over again.” “What causes the water to boil?” they ask. “There is a lot of sulphur in the bowels of the earth in that area,” I reply. “Strike a match against a match-box,” I tell them. “And see what happens.” “The match will go up in flames, Sir” they reply in unison. In addition to that boiling lake, there are three fresh water lakes—the third was discovered high up in Dominica’s tallest mountain: Mt: Diablotin, just a year or two ago. The island is festooned with tall mountains, rising in height to close on 5,000 feet. And, not only that, there is one river for every day of the year, as well as several tall waterfalls. The natural scenery, from the air is spectacular and breath-taking, with all its greenery, lakes, waterfalls, mountains and forests. One feels privileged and very excited to witness all that God given glory by cable car or aeroplane. Other islands have their own uniqueness. The caves and coves on Virgin Gorda, B.V.I. (British Virgin Islands) through which sea water from the Atlantic Ocean flows are delightful. One can just wait for the outgoing tide and allow it to take one out through one of the coves and into the Atlantic Ocean and back with the help of the incoming tide. I was too timid to attempt that, but others who did, found it thrilling and exhilarating. The view of Nelson’s Dockyard from a hill-top in Antigua (Eastern Caribbean), with its gathering of yachts from all over the world, waiting to take part in an annual race in May of each year, the pink and white sands of Barbuda’s beaches and the smouldering, but dormant Soufriere Mountain in St. Lucia are all treasures to behold. Finally, there is the annual carnival in Trinidad which the inhabitants

claim is the biggest and best in the world, although Rio de Janeiro in Brazil would contest that claim. It was in 1995 that I ed the African American Club of West Pasco which, today, is known as the African American Club of Pasco Incorporated. There is no other African American Club throughout the whole of Pasco County. I think the name is a misnomer because the Club welcomes not only African Americans but everybody, regardless of race, colour or creed. It has taken others, who are not African Americans, a long time to get the message but, it is clearly noticeable that the message is getting through, at last. Today one sees and delights in seeing a sprinkling of white faces among the Club hip. The irony is: that in the course of time, those who are not classified as African Americans will outnumber those who are classified as African Americans and when that day arrives, the Club may have to think of a different name. One white couple who attend the Club’s functions from time to time, met me at Walmart (Port Richey) on Sunday, June 19, 2011 and, in the course of conversation, suggested that a change of name might well be the “People’s Club.” I concurred. At the time that I ed, the club was thriving. Eugene Scott was president. Then, as time went on, Eugene began to complain that he was feeling very tired. He had been at the helm for several years and now, it was time that somebody else took over. He, Eugene, would be willing to lend to whoever it was who was elected to succeed him. Moreover, he had been working some distance away (in East Pasco), which meant that he had to get up early in the morning to travel to his place of work. He was back home late at night, too tired and with very little spare time, if any at all, for the duties of President. Over time, the Club’s Presidency changed hands several times and no one who took on the challenge was having much success. Eventually, Eugene whom, I think, is a genius, married Larnelle who, in her turn, was elected as President. Larnelle was just the person for the job. She had leadership qualities, a lot of energy and drive and she knew the right people at the top in our community, whom she needed to approach for help in our endeavour and she was getting that help. Moreover, there was that dynamic that she got from her husband, Eugene. All the Club’s were pulling together then and the Club’s hip was growing by leaps and bounds. Central to the Club’s focus were the children and we could not have had a better Pied Piper than our Vice President: Sandra Wright, who had the ability to see the children to her and she did. It was a sheer pleasure to see the children of all ages following behind her,

like ducklings in a row behind Mother Duck, during the Juneteenth Celebration in the grounds of our clubhouse—the very aptly named: Booker T. Washington Schoolhouse on Saturday, June 6, 2011, soon to become a designated building, we hope. My role used to be that of Chairperson of the Nominating Committee but, because of the dire shortage of substitute teachers in West Pasco, the fact that I feel obligated to do what I can to try and fill the breach, so to speak, plus the fact that I need to take into that I am 83 years old today—not 38, I have resigned from the post of Chairperson of the Nominating Committee and from being a member of the Nominating Committee as well. Andrew Persad has been elected as my successor. M y role in the Club these days is that of prayer man. I acquired that role by default. In 1996 or thereabout, a Pastor, who was the A.A.C’s president resigned, suddenly, from the Presidency, in order that he might become Pastor of a church somewhere up North. That pastor would say a prayer at the start of every meeting. Eugene Scott was elected President and at the start of the very first General Meeting following that Pastor’s resignation, Eugene was silent, hoping that somebody would volunteer with an opening prayer. Because nobody was doing so, I opened my mouth and prayed. Since then, I have been asked to open every General Meeting with a word of prayer. I oblige, gladly. There is a saying that goes this way: “Never volunteer for anything.” There is no doubt, however, that God is listening and answering prayer. Our secretary, Dan Callaghan asked me whether I was keeping a written record of prayers that I said at the start of General Meetings and I assured him that I was. I derive my inspiration from the statements that columnists make in newspapers, from other articles and from the Maker himself.

A brief History of Carnival in the Caribbean.

Caribbean Carnival has mixed roots in African culture, Christianity and Slavery.

Christopher Curley writes:

“Once Christmas is over, officially, in the Caribbean, it’s time to dig out your

dancing shoes and start thinking about Carnival.” Carnival in the Caribbean has a complicated birthright, tied as it is to colonialism, religious conversion and, ultimately, freedom and celebration. The festival originated with Italian Catholics in Europe, later spreading to the French and Spanish, who brought the pre-lentern tradition when they settled (and brought slaves) to Trinidad, Dominica, Haiti, Martinique and other islands. The word Carnival itself is thought to mean ‘farewell to meat’ or ‘farewell to flesh’, the former referencing the Catholic practice of abstaining from red meat from Ash Wednesday until Easter. The latter explanation, while possibly apocryphal, is said to be emblematic of the sensuous abandon that came to define the Caribbean celebration of the holiday. Historians believe that the first ‘modern’ Caribbean Carnival originated in Trinidad and Tobago in the late eighteenth century, as a flood of French emigres brought the Masquerade tradition with them to the island, although Fat Tuesday celebrations were almost certainly taking place a century before that, at least. By the beginning of the eighteenth century, there were (already) a large number of free blacks in Trinidad mixed with French immigrants, earlier Spanish settlers and British nationals. (The island came under British control in 1797). this allowed for Carnival to transform from an important European celebration to a more heterogeneous cultural froth. With the end of slavery in 1834, the now completely free populace could celebrate, outwardly, their native culture and their emancipation through dress, music and dancing. From Trinidad and Tobago, Carnival spread to many other islands, where the tradition fused with unique local cultures—salsa showcases on Antigua, for instance, and calypso in Dominica. Some celebrants have moved off the Easter calendar and are celebrating the late spring, summer, autumn and winter,” In Trinidad, Dominica, Martinique and Guadaloupe, for example, for example, the three days before Ash Wednesday-Sunday, Monday and Tuesday have been retained for Carnival celebrations, whereas some islands have moved their Carnival celebrations to other dates. The Antiguan Carnival celebration takes place during the first week in November and St. Lucia has moved its Carnival celebration to the month of August. The spread accommodates tourists from around the world, as well as celebrants from other islands in the Caribbean

who like to take part in one another’s Carnival. In my youth, I participated in several Carnival celebrations. A few years ago, Wilma ed me as a Dominica Carnival participant. In 1953 and 1954 I was a Trinidad and Tobago Carnival participant. Two to three years ago, Wilma and I were Dominica Carnival participants. And for some forty years, I had been a spectator at the Nottinghill Carnival in London, which was introduced by Trinidadians and which, today, draws over one million spectators from all over the world. Wilma had been a Nottinghill spectator for thirty—seven years and our three children had been spectators from infancy. The Nottinghill Carnival takes place on the last Sunday and the last Monday in August. The Sunday Carnival is the children’s Carnival and the Monday’s Carnival is for everybody. Of course, the three days before Ash Wednesday would be inappropriate for the West Indian style street Carnival in London—too cold and miserable. All night (Monday night and Tuesday night, the two nights before Ash Wednesday), in Trinidad, Dominica, Martinique and Guadelouppe celebrants dance in dance halls. But the great highlight is what is known as the “Jump Up” or “The Melting Pot” when crowds of people gather in mass bands, by day, jump up and sing lustily to the accompaniment of music: soca and calypso, in particular, as they move and gyrate slowly, through many streets on the islands’ capitals and in villages as well. Usually, these modern days, the music is provided by musicians, including steel band players, sitting or standing in the bed of huge, open trucks, while the drivers of those trucks manoeuvre, slowly, and as best as they can through those streets, some of which are very narrow, especially in Roseau, the capital of Dominica, where I was born and grew up. Whenever my wife, Wilhelmina and I return to Dominica on vacation during Dominica’s Carnival season, we never cease to wonder how those truck drivers manage those manoeuvres. Sometimes, those truck drivers have to reverse two or three times before they can complete the manoeuvre at street corners, where one street meets the other. In my day, those massive trucks did not exist on the island of Dominica and those streets were never intended for such enormous vehicles. Unfortunately, there is no room for expansion. There are continuous rows of domestic and commercial dwellings on both sides of those streets and most of those dwellings have been there for ages, including the one in which I was born: No. 58 King George the Fifth Street in the heart of Roseau and King George the Fifth Street is one of the main hubs for the revellers. Of course, as I have stated earlier, my wife, Wilhelmina and I jump up, too, but at the tail end of the band to avoid the

crush.

Comparison: Headteacher (U.K.) with Principal (U.S.A.)

It is important to understand that there is no difference between the headteacher of a primary or secondary school in Britain and the principal of an elementary, middle or high school in the U.S.A. Primary schools in Britain correspond with elementary schools in the U.S.A. And secondary schools in Britain correspond with middle and high schools in the U.S.A. Additionally, there is no difference between the job description of a headteacher in Britain and the job description of a principal in the U.S.A. Moreover, the mission statements of the headteachers in Britain and the principals in the U.S.A. are the same as well and, following the dissolution of apartheid in South Africa as well as in the U.S.A., plus other guarantees of freedom and equality, respect for and understanding of all students, regardless of their ethnicity, religion, gender or tradition are stressed. The following is an example of the headteacher’s job description, nature and scope of the job and the school’s mission statement.

Heaster/Heistress Job Description.

Job title: Headteacher.

Reports to: School Board. Unlike the U.S.A., each school in Britain has its own School Board. In the U.S.A., each district has its own School Board and the principals report to the Superintendent of Schools, District School Board.

Headteacher supervises: Students and all teachers of the school.

Nature and Scope of the Job: The headteacher serves as the educational leader, responsible for managing the policies, regulations and procedures to ensure that all students are supervised in a safe learning environment that meets the approval of currcula and mission of the school. Achieving academic excellence requires that the headteacher works collaboratively to direct and nurture all of the school staff hired by the School Board and to communicate effectively with parents. Inherent in the position (of headteacher) are the responsibilities for scheduling curriculum development, extracurricular activities, personnel management, emergency procedures and facility operations.

Job Functions and Responsibilities:

The headteacher shall:

1. Establish and promote high standards and expectations for all students and staff for academic performance and responsibility for behaviour. 2. Manage, evaluate and supervise effective and clear procedures for the operation and functioning of the school, consistent with the philosophy, mission, values and goals of the school, including instructional programs, extracurricular activities, discipline systems, to ensure a safe and orderly climate, building maintenance, program evaluation, personnel management, office operations and emergency procedures. Ensure compliance with all laws, board policies and civil regulations. 3. Establish the annual master schedule for instructional programs, ensuring sequential learning experiences for students, consistent with the school’s philosophy, mission statement and instructional goals.

4. Supervise the instructional programs of the school, evaluating lesson plans and observing classes (teaching as duties allow) on a regular basis, to encourage the use of a variety of instructional strategies and materials, consistent with research on learning, child growth and development. Please note that the one difference here is that principals in the U.S.A. Do not teach and neither do assistant principals. 5. Establish procedures for evaluation and selection of instructional materials and equipment, approving all recommendations.

Mission Statement.

To develop young men and women with active and creative minds, a sense of understanding and comion for others, regardless of race, gender, ethnicity, religion or tradition, and the courage to act on their beliefs; the total development of each child: spiritual, moral, intellectual, social, emotional and physical.

What Could Half a Crown Buy in Dominica in the 1930’s?

Wikipedia the Free Encyclopedia states: “Since decimalisation on February 15, 1971, the pound sterling has been divided into 100 (new) pence. From the sixteenth century until decimalisation, the pound sterling was divided into 20 shillings, each of 12 (old) pence.” Online, measuringworth.com states that one pound sterling in the 1930’s would be worth about 190 pounds sterling today. Incidentally, before decimalisation, half a crown was two shillings and six pence and one crown was five shillings. A florin was two shillings. Half pence and farthings were in circulation, too, and a penny was four farthings. Since decimalisation, half pence and farthings have gone out of circulation. During my early childhood, I did very little shopping but I recall, very clearly, buying, from time to time, a large bunch of bananas for two and a half pence. I

would share that bunch of bananas with my “bayfront” friends—no wonder I have diabetes today (smile). Occasionally, too, I would have a belly full of deliciously cooked rice and fish at Miss Cook’s tiny restaurant, which she called a cook-shop. On each occasion, I paid three pence for that delicious “all you can eat” meal. In those days, tipping was unheard of. I recall clearly, too, that one pound of brown sugar in my grandfather’s shop in Roseau, Dominica was sold for two and a half pence. One morning, at the age of nine, during the time that I was sent to my parents in Antigua, by my grandfather, as punishment for petty thieving, my father handed me one penny and told me to go and purchase, for him, a pound of brown sugar. “You mean a penny’s worth of sugar”, I tried to correct him, nervously. “I said: one pound of sugar!” he bellowed at me, Yes, Pappy”, I replied and ran as fast as I could to the shop. On arrival at the shop, still panting, cautiously, I asked the shopkeeper (who was the only one in the shop that morning), for a penny’s worth of brown sugar. The shopkeeper, in his turn, reached up to a top shelf, took down a pound of brown sugar that was neatly wrapped in a brown paper bag, handed it to me, and I handed him the penny. The shopkeeper, on observing my surprise, smiled graciously. Antigua, like Dominica, is a small island, with a small population and newcomers are recognised instantly. And so to return to the question: “What could half a crown buy in Dominica in the 1930’s?” Well, to be sure, half a crown could buy 7 pounds of brown sugar in Dominica but, in Antigua where, in the 1930’s nearly the whole of Antigua consisted of sugar-cane plantations, half a crown could buy 30 pounds of brown sugar.

Why Am I Against Private Gun Ownership?

Thankfully, very few residents in Dominica own guns. Only hunters in Dominica own guns and, to own a hunting gun, one has to obtain a government licence, which is not obtained easily. Always, gun control has been very strict in Dominica and I approve of this very strict gun control. The net result is that Dominica has one of the lowest murder rates throughout the whole world. Why am I against private gun ownership? It is a fallacy that having a gun at one’s bedside will make one safer. This is not an opinion and neither is it a political or controversial statement. It is a fact. Guns kept in the home for self-

protection are 43 times more likely to kill a family member, friend or acquaintance than to kill an intruder, according to a study published in the New England Journal of Medicine. Guns on the street make us less safe. For every justifiable handgun homicide, there are more than 50 handgun murders, according to the FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation). The expanding right to carry concealed guns make us even less safe. The Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution mentions the right to bear arms, but the possession of a gun does not protect the right to be safe—only the right to “feel” safe and that right to feel safe is at the expense of actual safety. And as a throw back to the premise that guns are good because they facilitate hunting, I argue that the nearly 3,000 children who are killed by firearms in the United States each year does not justify the “good” of hunting. When we factor in the public health dimension— accidents, suicides, the risks to children, etc—the argument that we would be better off with more gun restrictions and lower rates of private ownership gets considerably stronger: 47 per cent of Americans report having a firearm in the house and there may be as many as 270 million privately owned guns in the United States. To be sure, the Second Amendment phenomenon is well entrenched but so, too, were slavery, segregation and so on down the list of social evils that deserved and today deserve, still, to be combated, regardless of the challenges involved. I am of the firm belief and conviction that if the pro-gun control liberals would think of guns and gun ownership the way abolitionists thought of and persuaded Americans to think of slavery—as an intrinsic evil that has no justification whatsoever, they (the pro-gun control liberals) too, would be persuaded and, in their turn, would persuade Americans to think of private gun ownership as an intrinsic evil, which should be eradicated, since it has no justification, whatsoever.

Why I Found Heistress Mrs. Hilda Wilkes To Be Overbearing?

To me, Mrs. Wilkes, heistress of “all age” mixed (5-16+) Coleman Street Church of England School, Moorgate, in the heart of London, with the old, very historic, Roman London Wall as one of its borders, was overbearing in the sense that she was too particular, too fastidious. As I attempted to immerse myself in

the teaching of 20 or so students (boys and girls) 11-16 years of age, Mrs. Wilkes would step into my class-room and complain that the book-cupboards in my class-room were not tidy enough and that I should set about having them tidied up, immediately. This is one example, only. There were several others and I found them irksome. Moreover, I was getting tired of the daily 20 or so miles commute by overland and underground rail from Ladywell Station in South-East London, to Moorgate Station in the heart of the City of London. Additionally, the trains were full (always) with commuters to and from Central London, particularly in the evenings and, more often than not, there was standing room only in those packed trains, which tended to give me a sort of claustrophobic feeling. Literally, we were packed like sardines in a tin. Hence it was that I became fed up and threw in the towel, so to speak. I tendered my resignation, which was accepted. I must add that I missed those students and my two colleagues dearly. They were superb. My students were studious, very well behaved and respectful. My two colleagues, (both female) who taught other (but younger) age groups, were very co-operative. In addition, I enjoyed travelling, every Wednesday, by rail, (underground) with my students and one of my two colleagues, several miles away to Haynault for field sports: rugby for the boys and basket-ball for the girls. The Coleman Street School playground, in the heart of London, was tiny and surrounded by commercial offices. And, usually, the staff in those offices were very intolerant. At recess time, those office workers would complain that our little ones were making too much noise in the playground. One would have thought that those adult workers would have been sympathetic and understanding enough to realise that those 5-6 year olds needed to let off steam for 15 minutes or so. On a personal level, my relationship with Mrs. Wilkes was very good. In fact, she was the one who was instrumental in getting me my first permanent appointment as an assistant teacher in London. Unfortunately, on the professional level, she was too fastidious for my liking and level of toleration. I retired in April, 1956 having spent one term only at Coleman Street School. Sadly, the school closed a few months later—towards the end of 1956. The British Government was closing down all “all age” schools. They (those “all age” schools) tended to have small school populations and the government was finding them too expensive to run. All church schools in London are chartered schools, financed by the government, but with the fabric and land owned by the

churches.

My Relationship With My Wife And Children.

On that afternoon, in April, 1958, as I rode down Black Heath Hill in Greenwich, South East London, on my old bicycle and, as luck would have it. I happened to see a very beautiful and attractive girl walking up the hill all by herself alone, I fell in love with her, instantly. I braked as hard as I could, the bicycle’s brakes screeched, I dismounted, turned round and walked up to that beautiful girl, with my old bicycle by my side. I told her what my name was and chatted and chatted. She spoke not a word as I walked beside her but, from time to time, she would give me a long stare and I sensed that she was thinking: “This total stranger has a nerve. Hasn’t he?” Finally, we arrived at a large, three storey house at the top of the hill Blackheath Village, where I was living at the time, was a little farther on, and that large house was at the northern end of the vast but almost sparse Blackheath Park. There was no need for me to ask her whether she was a nurse. The fact that she was wearing a nurse’s uniform, was evidence enough. I learned later that she was a student nurse, when I met her at first. What I asked her was: “Is that the Nurses’ Hostel?” “Yes!” she replied. ‘can I see you again?” was my second question. “Yes!” she replied again. “What is your name?” I asked. “Wilhelmina”, she replied, “But I am called Wilma for short”, she added. Again I told her that my name was Patrick and I courted her several times, under the light of the moon and seated on a Blackheath Park bench. We got married on December 19, 1959. At that time, I was a pauper. Teacher’s pay was miserable and what I earned barely covered my day to day expenses. Prior to my marriage to Wilma, I was living in a boarding house, in fairly close proximity to the nurses hostel in which Wilma lived, during the time that she was a student nurse. The expenses for the wedding came out of Wilma’s purse. Those expenses left her with two hundred pounds sterling, which she handed to me, gladly. Immediately, and with the money in my pocket, I began to step out of the lodging house in which I was living. “Where are you going?” Wilma asked, nervously. “I am going to find a house for sale and place a deposit on it,” I replied. “Where will you find a house on which you can place a two hundred pound deposit?” she asked, disbelievingly. ‘Where there is life, there is hope”, I

replied and out I went. By then, I had purchased and was driving a pre-owned motor-car. My lodging house was in Lewisham and at Forest Hill (a ward in Lewisham), I saw an ment on the Forest Hill’s Post Office window, which read: “House for Sale. No. 5 Malham Road, Forest Hill, London, S.E. 23. One thousand five hundred pounds. Deposit: two hundred pounds. Immediately, I got back into my car and drove to Mr. William Kenneth Lawton’s Estate Agency, just off Lewisham High Street. I saw Mr. Lawton himself, The paper-work was completed, I handed the two hundred pounds deposit to Mr. Lawton and the deal was struck. When I got back to Wilma, scarcely could she believe her ears, when I told her that her two hundred pounds had been placed as a deposit on our house. The house itself needed a lot of doing-up. I did a lot of painting and wall-papering, a practice which was very much in vogue in those days. The bath itself was inside the house on the second floor (U.S.) but first floor (U.K.). In the U.K. What is called the ground floor, is known as the first floor in the U.S.A. However, the toilet (rest room) was on the outside, attached to the house. The house itself had three floors altogether and six rooms (kitchen included). Our neighbours were all white but they were very good and helpful. One neighbour’s son taught me how to place one length of wall-paper on our walls. He stressed that it was necessary to start at a corner. I watched him put up just that one length of wall-paper. Thereafter, I needed no further help. There was no central heating but we managed to keep warm in the winter with the use of oil fired heaters and coal fires in our fire-places. Because we were existing on a shoe string and, moreover, we had a mortgage to pay, we took in lodgers and they were very good tenants from Jamaica and Grenada in the West Indies. The house was three storey and it contained four bedrooms, one living room and one kitchen. Our first son, Patrick arrived on June 18, 1960. Incidentally, all three of our children were born at Lewisham Hospital, now known by the grand name of South Lambeth and King’s College University Hospital. Hazel, our second child arrived on July 17, 1961 and Martin, our third and last, arrived on June 24, 1963. When Patrick was six months old, we had a scare. He was seated in his push chair, which was given to us by a white lady, who had no further need for a push chair, because her children had grown out of it. That push chair was in the age-way close to the front door and it (the push chair) was facing the front door. Wilma and I were chatting in the kitchen. Suddenly, she stopped talking and shouted: “Where’s Patrick?” because she noticed that the front door was

open, slightly. How the front door came to be open, we do not know. We rushed up to the push chair and observed that it was empty. Wilma dashed out of the front door and turned right on Malham Road. She could have turned left but she turned right, instinctively. Soon, she returned with Patrick who, through God’s grace, managed to avoid being crushed to death by one of several large and heavy trucks that moved up and down in that area. That was an industrial area and that was the first time that Patrick walked. Research shows that black children start walking at six months of age, whereas white children, on average, start walking at twelve months of age. Thereafter, Wilma began to suffer depression. She was a student nurse still, and she had to be studying for her final examination. It was tough, even though she decided to change from studying for her State ed Nurse’s Finals, which involved a lot of theory, to studying for her State Enrolled Nurses Finals, which is a lot more practical and suited Wilma a lot more, since she is very skilled, practically. Because Wilma was studying, working at a hospital—St, Francis, East Dulwich, South London, looking after a child when she came home from work, being pregnant again and having to think very hard to make ends meet, financially, she broke down. One wintry night, it was very foggy, she was late coming home and I was beginning to feel very nervous. Therefore, I stepped out of the house, after making sure that baby Patrick was fast asleep and safely tucked away in his cradle. I had not got very far down the road, when I spotted her coming towards our house. She was looking very ill and, sadly, she did not recognise me. “Wilma!” I said to her. “Are you Patrick?” she asked. “Yes!” I replied. “Well, if you are Patrick, I love you”, she said. Then she fell on to my left shoulder. The next day, I called in an officer, who dealt with persons who suffered from depression and other forms of mental illness. The officer (a woman) came and after chatting with me, advised that Wilma should be itted to the mental wing of Dulwich Hospital which, incidentally, was in the same building in which St. Francis Hospital was, but the two had separate istrations. Today, the two are just one hospital and under one istration. Shortly after Wilma had been itted to Dulwich Hospital, she was interviewed by a psychiatrist, Dr. Michael. Following that interview, Dr. Michael called me in to King’s College Hospital in Peckham, South London. There, he informed me that Wilma did not love me and that was the reason for her depression. I could have the marriage dissolved and Patrick put up for adoption. Alternatively, I could sign a release form, take Wilma back home and that I would have to bear

the consequences. Without hesitation, I told him that I would settle for the alternative. Wilma was released from hospital and I took her back home. Thereafter, Wilma completed her State Enrolled Nurse’s Course, successfully, ed the State Enrolled Nurses examination and was awarded her State Enrolled Nurses certificate. By then, Hazel had been born on June 17, 1961 and Martin arrived on June 24, 1963. Following Martin’s arrival, Wilma had a hysterectomy, which meant that no longer could she have any more children, although she would have liked to have more children. In 1968, Wilma’s mother visited us from Cape Town, South Africa and she had the same message for me that Dr. Michael had. “Wilma does not love you”. I assured Mrs. Carolus that I had been told so by Dr. Michael years ago. “Never mind”, I added. “There will be time enough for Wilma to fall in love with me.” My mother-in-law then looked at me, pitifully and said nothing more. Our children were well schooled at the Brockley Govt. Primary School, close to where we lived at 37 Chudleigh Road, Brockley, London, S.E.4 after we had moved from Malham Road, Forest Hill, London, S.E. 23—just about a mile or so away. Thereafter, they transferred to the Catford Comprehensive which was a secondary school and just short of three miles away from our 37 Chudleigh Road home. Once again, their schooling was good. We loved our three children very much and, still, we love them. When they grew up, Hazel moved to Australia with her husband, James Marshall, who was born in Scotland but brought up in Australia with his Scottish father and Irish mother. Both Hazel and James (Jim) are school teachers in Perth, Western Australia, where they live with their three children: Phillip (20), who is studying to become a chef, Jasmine (18) and Zoe (16), who are at school, still. Patrick moved to Leicester, one hundred miles north of London, where he married Doret Carter, whose mother and father came from Jamaica. Patrick and Doret have two children: Shelly (23) and Daniel (18). Shelly has just moved out of her parents’ house. Shelly feels that she is big enough now to look after herself. At the moment, she is a teacher’s helper at a primary school. Recently, she graduated from Nottingham University with a B.Sc. degree (Bachelor of Science) in Psychology and she is waiting for an opening, so that she may become a school teacher. The competition is fierce, she says, particularly as teachers in England and Wales are being paid good salaries these days. Daniel has just obtained a four year apprenticeship at an Information Engineering Firm, whatever that is, and he is being paid handsomely as an apprentice, he says. Patrick worked as an electrical engineer at an engineering firm. Then, he became redundant when that engineering firm closed down and

received a “good hand—shake”, which surprised him. He did not expect to receive such a large redundancy payment. Now, he drives a truck and is very pleased with the money that he is earning. Doret is an associate at a large departmental store. Among our three children, Hazel was the only one who went on to university—Canterbury University, where she obtained her B.A. (Bachelor of Arts) Sociology. Martin drives a fork lift truck for a firm in London and he has one child only—Alexandre (20). Martin never married. He lives alone in a flat in Catford, South—East London. Catford is a ward in London. A few years ago, we visited Martin in London. We may do so again, ere we depart this life. Unfortunately, Martin has no desire to come to Florida on a visit. He is madly in love with London. Incidentally, Wilma says to me that she is madly in love with me, now. Well, all three of our birds have flown and there are the two of us only, left together. Always, I have been madly in love with her and, now that we are in our winter years, quite frequently we say to each other: “I love you.”

Education Inspector: Job Description.

When my grandfather: John Henry Duport Georges was appointed Island Wide Inspector of Schools (Dominica, the West Indies) in 1936, meaning that he was the sole inspector of schools for the entire island, his job was to evaluate schools to ensure that specific standards in teaching, learning and financial management were being achieved and maintained and his work activities included observing lessons, talking with teachers and pupils, assessing school organisation, checking pupils’ work and producing reports—all of which he did to the great delight of teachers, pupils, parents, the general public and, last but no least, his very employer: the Government of Dominica. Work Conditions: Travel is a feature when visiting schools for inspection and that was no easy feat for my grandfather, who was grossly overweight and, in those days, the great majority of Dominica’s villages, towns and hamlets could only be reached on foot or on horse-back. It is to be noted that Dominica is very mountainous, with mountains towering to heights of nearly 5,000 feet. It rains there (in Dominica) every day and the narrow roads are treacherous, due to the steep, winding precipitous inclines and the frightful, almost perpendicular and very slippery descents. The island is 30 miles long from north to south and ten

miles wide from east to west but, when one takes into the mountainous nature of the island, stating that the island is 300 or so square miles in area, would be a gross understatement. Naturally, my grandfather travelled on horseback at all times. The horse he rode was very slender and I marvelled at its patience, strength, endurance and understanding. By way of getting on to the horse’s back, my grandfather had, first of all, to stand on a platform and, from there, with the horse standing nearby, very gently, my grandfather would put one foot over the horse’s back, after which he was then able to slip into the saddle. Whenever he arrived at one destination, I guess, the same process had to be repeated, but in reverse. Although I watched, as he made his way on to the horse’s back from Brinsley House, our abode in Roseau, the island’s capital, I was never there to see him dismount at a village, town or hamlet, because I never accompanied him whenever he went visiting visiting schools for inspection. In any case, he would not have liked me to miss any of my schooling at the Roseau Boys’ Govt. School, where I was receiving my education at that time. In 1936, I ws either seven years old or six plus, having been born on October 15, 1929 and my grandfather was 56 or thereabouts, having been born on April 13, 1880. Working hours: My grandfather’s working hours varied and, usually, these hours were very long, particularly during inspections. Location: His work was based on school premises and did involve some time away from home. I missed him very sorely when he was away from home for long periods and rejoiced whenever he returned home.

The Job Description of an Education Officer.

As Island Wide Education Officer, appointed in the spring of 1938, my grandfather was responsible for delivering educational programs. He provided technical assistance for best practices in instruction and professional development. He helped institutions through a range of services that developed and promoted educational objectives achieving required standards and targets. Function: My grandfather provided teaching services for schools and other educational groups. He made arrangements for courses (which teachers were

loathe to take), programs and meetings that developed standards and quality of performance. Development plans for education services were made by my grandfather himself, through talks, services, courses, meetings and demonstrations. He developed and prepared educational resources. Additionally, he prepared training and staff development. Education: Today, an education officer in the Caribbean area, generall speaking, would require a master’s degree in education or another related master’s in education. My grandfather had only his teaching diploma, an M.B.E. (Member of the British Empire) award from the British sovereign and several years of classroom and clinical experience. Incidentally, his appointment as Acting Education Officer was seen as a “first” and a great achievement for a black man in Dominica and in several (if not all) the other islands in the Caribbean area under British colonial rule. Hitherto, only white men from Britain (and from England mainly), were appointed to such key posts as governor, chief of police, education chief, etc, etc, The entire complexion began to change with the advent of World War Two. Immediately following the war, most of the islands were being given independent status and the few that are not independent as yet (Montserrat and Tortola for example) are British colonies still, because they choose to remain British colonies. Work Environment: In some cases, education officers are required to work a probationary period of six months, but that was not the case with my grandfather. In his case, a probationary period was not seen as necessary, Usually, he worked from 9:00 A.M. To 5:00 P.M. Instead of travelling for meetings, training and seminars, meetings and seminars were held at the Education Office and there, too, he would train staff. Skills: My grandfather possessed and applied his relational skills when working with teachers, staff and other educational groups. Also, he had istrative, written and oral communication skills. Finally, my grandfather had skills in taking initiative, thinking creatively and working collaboratively. Today, he would be required to have proficiency in computer applications, as well. It so happened that there were no computers in those days.

Explanations.

Maternal Grandfather.

My maternal grandfather was my mother’s father: John Henry Duport Georges.

Separate Schooling for Boys and Girls in Dominica.

Up until the year 2000, boys and girls in Dominica were schooled separately because of sexism. From the year 2001 and onwards, boys and girls have been taught together as an economic measure and, as an indirect result, sexism has been disappearing, too.

My Mother’s Provocations.

My mother did not marry the love of her life and she said so to us, her children. The love of her life was too short for her liking, particularly as she was very short herself: 5ft. 0 in. Moreover our father who, throughout our childhood was known as Jabez Nehemiah James was a humble lance corporal in the Leeward Islands Police Force, whereas the love of her life, a medical doctor: Doctor Reginald Armour (a Trinidadian) who, incidentally, was about my mother’s height and a little man to boot, was madly in love with her, too, and would have married her, if only she would consent to marry him. My mother chose, instead, to marry our father: Jabez Nehemiah James, who was very muscular and 6 ft. 3 in. tall. In cosequence, therefore, my father found himself having to endure seemingly endless provocation, almost to his dying day. Nearly everything he did and said was wrong, as far as my mother was concerned. Post—script: Recently, in doing a little research, my sister: Rosa found out that our father’s real name was not Jabez Nehemiah James at all. In fact, his real

name was: David Alexander James, born in Freetown, Parish of St. Phillips (Antigua) on November 3, 1899 as recorded in the of Births, at a church in Freetown. It was the practice, (in those days) to give every child one or more nicknames. And so, our father grew up, not knowing that his real name was David Alexander James and not Jabez Nehemiah James. Apparently, he never had the need for a birth certificate. Depth of water close to the Sugar mill at the Pointe, St. John’s, Antigua. The depth of the sea-water close to the Sugar Mill at the Pointe, St. John’s, Antigua was about 50 ft.

Location of Marigot and Atkinson.

Both Marigot and Atkinson are in the north of Dominica. Both are villages. From Portsmouth, Dominica’s second town, Marigot is a 21 mile drive on a lovely, hilly asphalt road. Atkinson is about 5 miles distant from Marigot. In my youth, the asphalt road ended at Hutton Garden, one mile north of Marigot. Why? Because a river separated Hutton Garden from the approach to Atkinson and one got across that river by means of a suspension bridge for pedestrians only. Thereafter, one proceeded, by foot, on a narrow road to Atkinson and beyond. Whenever rain fell, the road to Atkinson became very slippery, which meant that one was likely to “catch crappo”—fall on one’s backside. Today, asphalt roas connect two townd and several villages all over Dominica. Vehicles (large and small) traverse those roads and some of them (those roads) are very treacherous. Fortunately, there are few accidents.

Who Was Generalisimo Franco?

Generalisima Franco was Spain’s Head of State and he was in his yacht, strewn with flags, from bow to stern and on a visit to Barcelona when we spotted him on the deck. We were on a cruise ship, the Franca “C” cruising in to Barcelona

when we spotted him. That was the year 1955 when a large number of us from the West Indies, but from Jamaica mainly, were emigrating to London, England. That was the time of the West Indian “Great Depression”. The great majority were unemployed, because there was little work to be had and still less money. Conditions were deplorable, to say the least. Thus, when the call went out from Britain to its colonies and former colonies for workers to fill the void, thousands of us answered the call, heartily, although the great majority of us (myself included) knew not where we would be finding lodgings when we got to London. Britain had lost thousands of men and some women, too, during World War 2 and workers were needed a—plenty, in every field of endeavour.

More About Joseph Whittter.

Joseph Whitter was a hard nosed business-man: an emigrant from Jamaica, who had arrived in London a few years before me. He was married and his wife, too, came from Jamaica. The couple had two or three children. Joseph and his wife owned a house in Forest Hill Road, South-East London. The house had three floors, an attic and several rooms. How the acquired that house—whether by mortgage, money borrowed privately or whether they had sufficient money to buy it outright, I do not know and I did not ask, either. Mr. Whitter would entice us, the newcomers from the West Indies, to him as tenants in his house. He charged one British pound per week, which was a lot of money for the majority of us, who earned an average of five to six pounds per week. Moreover, he packed us in: two to three of us on one double bed. I occupied the attic, with three others—two to a bed, and such packing in did not leave much rom for movement in the attic. Then again, the attic’s ceiling was low, which meant that one had to have one’s head bowed at all times, whenever one attempted any movement in the attic. No heating was provided. We had to purchase paraffin lamps and paraffin oil for those lamps. In order that we might endure the extremely cold, shivering wintry nights. One concession was the sharing of his kitchen (the only kitchen in the house) with us, but we had to put florins (two shilling pieces) in the meter, so that we might obtain gas for fuelling the kitchen stove. There was one bathroom, too, but with no hot water—only ice-cold water. One had to obtain hot water from the kitchen. We carried the hot

water in buckets from the kitchen to the bathroom, poured the hot water in the bath tub itself, mixed it with cold water, until the water became tepid and then we sat in the bath tub, relaxed and washed the dirt (if any) from our skins, or just soaked our bodies, if that was all we felt that we needed. Two to three years later, Joseph Whitter had amassed so much money, that he was able to buy a large housing estate in Plumstead, South-East London, which he sold (one or two years later) to the Greenwich Council for three quarters of a million pounds, which was a lot, a lot of money in those days. During his days as a landlord in London, Whitter was so ruthless that, as soon as one failed or was unable to pay one’s rent, that tenant was thrown out, regardless of whether (or not) that tenant had a wife and children. Of course, that was illegal, even in those bygone days but, somehow, he got away with it. He was never apprehended. He was nicknamed “rack-man Whitter.” Today, Joseph Whitter is living the life of luxury in Jamaica, owning luxury resorts and hotels on Jamaica’s resplendent beaches. Occasionally, he returns to London, on visits to his sister and other close relatives. From time to time, I have chanced to meet him in London, during his visits. At all times, he would be driving a gleaming brand new Rolls-Royce car. On seeing me, he would stop, invite me to sit in his car and I would accept his invitation. Then he would exchange a few reminiscences with me. Finally, and before taking his leave of me, he would say: “Look after Number One”. By that he meant: look after yourself and never mind anybody else. Let others look after themselves.

Rev. Drewett and his wife: Margot.

Rev. Drewett was the pastor of a heavily endowed Church of England: St Margaret’s in the heart of London, close to the Bank of England. His lovely wife, Margot did not go out to work. The couple had a son: Paul, who was as tall as his father, when I was introduced to him in the year 1958. Paul was about 15 years old then, and over six feet tall, just like his father. Rev. Drewett, in addition to being the rector of an almost empty historical church, (which was visited, in droves, by tourists every day—Sundays excluded, an eleven o’clock church service was held at St. Margaret’s every Sunday morning, with Rev. Drewett

officiating and his congregation consisting of about six of us), was the manager of Coleman Street Church of England School, in Coleman Street, close to the old Roman London Wall. I taught at that school for a few months and when I resigned my permanent appointment as an assistant teacher there, he helped me to get a temporary staff appointment at the Eltham Church of England School in Eltham, South-East London, where I taught for five years, before being transferred to quite a few other schools temporarily and then permanently at Slade School, in Plumstead, South-East London. Rev. Drewett was knowledgeable, quiet, soft spoken and very humble, just like his charming wife, Margot and their son, Paul. Rev. Drewett assigned me to give Paul some private tuition. The truth was that Paul was my tutor, rather than the other way round. In later years, Paul became a librarian. It is good to know people in high places. Every year, special social eents were held at the Guildhall, London, including the serving of lavish meals and meeting with all of London’s “top brass”, so to speak. of the Guildhall were encouraged to invite their friends and, always, Rev. Drewett, who was a member of the Guildhall, would invite me. I was only too pleased to accept those invitations. Unfortunately, Wilma could not accompany me, because those events occurred at night, always and Wilma was a night nurse at St. Francis Hospital. I hasten to add that there was nothing to pay. I was a free, invited guest, like everybody else, who was invited. Of course, the Guildhall paid their annual dues and my guess was that those dues were considerable, although I never enquired concerning the amount that each Guildhall member paid, annually. Sadly, Margot who had breast cancer, ed awa in 1960 and Rev. Drewett, who could not live without her, went off to meet her soon afterwards. It was all so sad and a great shock to me, especially as I was never told that Margot had breast cancer.

Queen Mother Moore School.

Queen Mother Moore School close to Battersea, South London, named after the famous black American Queen Mother Moore, who provided very cheap board

and lodge, in New York, for black students from Africa, who later became Presidents and Prime Ministers of their countries in Africa was (and is) a supplementary school, in the sense that it provided and continues to provide supplementary education, primarily for students whose parents hail from the Caribbean area and from Africa. Of course, all students, regardless of race or ethnicity were (and are) welcome to attend. It so happened that no white students chose to attend or, it could have been that no white parents encouraged their children to attend. Those African students, after they had become Presidents and Prime Ministers dubbed their benefactor: “Queen Mother Moore.” Those classes were (and are) held on Saturdays, primarily, but when I took over as coordinator/heaster in 1990, I included a Wednesday (after school class, which I taught myself. It was thought that those students, whose cultural backgrounds were not English in the very strict sense of the term, were in need of extra tuition and so that school was opened in the 1950’s. It must be noted, of course, that those students were (and are) in attendance at state schools, also— Monday to Friday. Those students received and continue to receive very good tuition at Queen Mother Moore School. The premises are owned by the Methodist Church and those premises are part of the Methodist Church itself. The church donates a sum of money to the school, annually and when the Inner London Education Authority was functioning as such, it (the Authority) paid the coordinator’s salary. The Inner London Education Authority was dissolved in 1990 and I had to return to Manormead School in Abbey Wood, London, from which I was seconded. Several reasons for the fact that students did so well at Queen Mother Moore School and continue to do well, among them being the interest of the parents and the zeal of the students themselves. Often, we would hold concerts and invite the general public and, on display, would be the culture of the Caribbean and Africa, enacted in song and dance, set to music, students dressed in appropriate costumes and dancing to the beat of African drums played superbly by a teacher from Ghana, West Africa. The guest attendance was always very good and they (the guests) delighted in what they saw and heard. Not only black guests attended, but several white guests, as well. Even when I returned to Manormead School, I continued as

coordinator/headteacher of Queen Mother Moore School but, sadly, I had to leave when I retired from teaching and the sponsorship of my wife and myself had come through in early 1992. Ironically, they both coincided, almost—my retirement and our sponsorship. It was as though fate had dealt a hand, so to speak. Queen Mother Moore School had (and has still) a SCHOOL Board and the Life President was (and is) Rev. Hughie Andrew, a Methodist himself, born and brought up in Marigot, Dominica, a one time rector of the Clapham Methodist Church, who was thrown out, because he was too outspoken, regarding what he interpreted as the covert racist treatment of those among the congregation who were black. Rev. Andrew would try and prevail upon me to implement certain changes without the permission of the white rector of the church (Rev. Barnes) who had been appointed in his (Rev. Andrew’s) place. On each occasion, I refused, absolutely. Shortly after I had been appointed as coordinator, Rev. Barnes, who was a gentle, soft spoken, humble, very helpful gentleman, with an ever present smile on his face, retired and returned to his country abode. Yet another white rector was appointed. Sometimes we have to control ourselves and refrain from acting against authority as though we were “bulls in a China shop.”

Queen Mother Moore. July 27, 1898—May 2, 1997.

Birthplace: New Iberia, a town west of New Orleans. Grandmother—a slave, whose mother was raped by her enslaver and who was a physician, also. Grandfather—lynched, as his wife watched. Grandmother left to raise children alone. Audrey Moore (later known as Queen Mother Moore) lost both her parents before she reached fourth grade and was forced to enter the workforce. Audrey left Louisiana in the 1920’s, following her complaints concerning the

arrests of young blacks by white police-men on charges of loitering, simply because they had been standing at street corners, the arrests and imprisonment of black adults who were dining in restaurants, followed by the raping of those black adults’ wives, arriving in Harlem, New York and ing Marcus Garvey’s UNIA (United Negro Improvement Association). Audrey became a leader, campaigning against lynching, Jim Crow laws, denial of Black voting rights and social discrimination, until the movement collapsed in 1927. Audrey organized rent strikes against abusive landlords, came to the aid of domestic workers in New York City, agitated for black political representation, prisoner rights, and the integration of armed forces. Audrey ed the communist party in 1933, because it rallied around the idea of self-determination foe blacks, but she left the Party in 1950. Audrey helped to organize a campaign demanding that blacks receive reparations for the travesties that they suffered in the United States, all the way back to the days of slavery. Audrey teamed up with Black nationalist Malcolm X, ing his Organization of Afro-American Unity. Audrey was Bishop of the Apostolic Orthodox Church of Judea. Audrey was a founding member of the Commission to Eliminate Racism, Council of the Churches of Greater New York, and she staged a 24-hour sit-in for three weeks. Audrey was the founder of the African-American Cultural Foundation, Inc., which led the fight against usage of the slave term “Negro.” Audrey led protests against the Appollo Theatre for showing racist shows. Audrey helped organize black unions and the Work Progress istration, forcing the WPA to employ Black women in sewing projects. Hitherto, those Black women were relegated to domestic work. Audrey led the fight to break the Jim Crow policy in the Coast Guard and she became the first Black stewardess to be hired.

Audrey was arrested three times and she organized her fellow inmates. Audrey was cuffed during her struggle for defending the rights of Black children to use a public park pool without bringing along their birth certificates. The second time, she was arrested for defending a pedlar from arrest for selling tomatoes to his seven little children. The final time, she was arrested for trying to people to vote in Green County, New York. Audrey was present when former South African president Nelson Mandela came to New York in the summer of 1990, and she was one of only five invited female speakers to address the historical Million Man March in October, 1995. By the time Audrey was 97, she had outlasted a stroke, two mastectomies and a broken hip. Queen Mother Moore was a die-hard civil rights activist and Black nationalist who stood side-by-side with Jamaican-born scholar and Pan-Africanist leader Marcus Garvey, ing his “Back to Africa Movement” Queen Mother Moore was a hero, also, to countless folks in her beloved Harlem community, where she fought for tenant rights and more solid education for its residents. Although her birth name was Audrey Moore, she was named Queen Mother Moore by the Ashanti Tribe in Ghana, who gave her the honorary title on one of her many trips to the Motherland. It is worthy of note that Kwame Nkruma, (deceased) the first post colonial Prime Minister of Ghana was one of those African students for whom Queen Mother Moore provided food and shelter for little or no pecuniary reward while they were being schooled in New York, prior to their becoming leaders of their native African nations. The formidable warrior: Queen Mother Moore ed away of natural causes at age 99 on May 2, 1997, leaving one son, five grandchildren and a greatgrandson.

Bid For Black School Launched. Marc Wadsworth.

Black community makes a plea for Britain’s first government funded black-run school.

TOP TEACHERS and leading community figures have teamed up to make an application for Britain’s first government funded Black-run school. Ex-headteachers are among the people who have ed forces with the south London-based Queen Mother Moore School (QMMS), to get the ambitious project off the ground. The plan is for QMMS to be turned into one of the government’s handful of new “free schools” run by a community trust and not the local education authority. It would educate 420 children aged four to 18 on a site in Lambeth, South London or nearby. Veteran community activist Clarence Thompson, QMMS chair told The Voice: “We have been running the Saturday school since 1981 and it has changed the lives of 4000 students since then.” Clarence said during a special meeting to plan the bid: “Now is the time for the community to take advantage of the government’s free school programme and launch it as a full-time place of educational excellence.” The QMMS application has to be delivered to the government’s education department by early February, 2013. Less than 100 schools, out of 326 applications were given the green light to open in September 2012. QMMS wants to do the same (i.e. Obtain the green light to open next September. Founder (and Life President) Hewie Andrew, said: “We are delighted that so many parents, students, teachers as well as professionals in the community have given their resounding .” Among leading backers are ex-heads of the pioneering John Loughborough School, Keith Davidson and Dr. June Alexis, Professor Chris Mullard, millionaire businessman Enley Taylor, broadcaster Alex Pascall OBE, Vernon Bailey, a town hall finance high flyer and education consultants: Dr. David Avery and Sharon Millington. A spokesman for the Education Department said: “Applications would be judged solely on their quality.”

Renowned QMMS was formed by parents and teachers to rescue children who had been thrown out of school or were having difficulties learning in mainstream classroom. More than three decades ago, the “Supplementary School” movement sprang up all over the country to tackle head on what parents and teachers saw as the miseducation, stereotyping and low expectations some teachers had of black children that caused them to fail. Activists also campaigned to get black history taught in schools. Since its launch, QMMS has been at Clapham Methodist Church hall for four hours every Saturday during term time. In addition, QMMS provided after school tuition in core subjects for students preparing for exams like SATS (Scholastic Attainment Tests) and GCSE’s (General Certificate of Secondary Education). It’s (QMMS) bosses believe the school’s emphasis on teaching excellence will help students become future experts in English, Natural Scientists, Mathematicians, Engineers and Sport Personalities. Nobel prize winner Archbishop Desmond Tutu, civil rights leader Jesse Jackson, author Maya Angelou and prominent U.S. Professor Comell West have visited the school and expressed their iration for its work, I (Patrick James) would like to add that many more distinguished guests (too numerous to mention), particularly from the U.S.A. Have visited the school, also and continue to do so. The first Free Schools opened in September, 2011, just 15 months after the Secretary of State, Rt. Hon. Michael Gove MP, invited proposals from groups interested in setting up a new school. That, in itself is testament to the incredible energy and commitment of the first pioneering projects. Following their lead are hundreds of other groups with exciting and innovative projects. And, as a result of their immense hard work and effort, there will be a great opportunity for children to learn and develop in the way that’s best for them. Footnote: I (Patrick James) am glad to learn that the after school mid-week tuition which I pioneered at QMMS in 1990 and which (on of limited funding) I ran single-handed, every Wednesday, during term time, with the permission of the Clapham Methodist Church bosses, has not been discontinued, following my retirement and emigration to the U.S.A.

My Feelings about Leaving Britain.

In all honesty, I do not miss London, but Wilma does. She says that she feels nostalgic sometimes. The Olympic Games, London 2012 engendered a lot of nostalgia for her. We return to London from time to time, so that we may visit our two sons, one daughter-in-law, three grandchildren and one sister. In return, we are visited by those same of our family, except our son, Martin who is too much in love with London to leave it, even for just a week or two. Moreover, we are in constant touch with our family by telephone, email, facebook, Skype and goodness knows what else. These days, we are living in such a small universe, that even Mars seems next door.

Why we spent two nights only in Port Richey.

After we had obtained our sponsorship in 1992, we spent 6 weeks with friends in Fort Lauderdale because our home in Port Richey was occupied by tenants and we had to give them notice to quit. Moreover, the lady who drove us up to Port Richey: Mrs. Bromwell had to get back to her place of work quickly. Additionally, I was unable to do any driving myself, because I was “under the weather” with influenza and, in my own interest, it was necessary that I returned to Fort Lauderdale as soon as possible. Wilma and I ed Mr. And Mrs. Bromwell on the trip to Port Richey only on Mr. Bromwell’s urging. Incidentally, Wilma does not drive and. Although Mr. Bromwell (deceased) was a very good driver, he preferred to be a enger for a change and allow his wife to do all the driving.