A Place Called “Home” – A Windrush Biography by G M Linton
Photo courtesy of G.M. Linton
Where do you start when talking about this brilliant generation of people?
Well, I’ll start at the beginning of my own story – that of my parents, Rena and Lester Linton, who travelled from Jamaica to England to embark on a new adventure, in the 1950s.
That’s them (pictured) on their wedding day, in the heart of English summertime, in 1959. I think they were in luck as it was actually sunny on that day!
My mother, who arrived in England a few years before my father, was an independent, pragmatic, feisty, determined and extremely-intelligent woman – “likkle, but tallawah”.
She had wanted to become a teacher, but one fateful day, three government representatives visited her school, watched her in the classroom and personally asked for her to come to England to train as a nurse and support “the mother country”. At first she turned them down (after all, she had set her heart on becoming a teacher – and was top of her class) but was then persuaded after being coaxed and encouraged by her community to see this as a great opportunity, “they sang like petchary [noisy and tenacious] birds in my ear”, she recalled.
My mum gave up her teaching dreams and travelled by ship, The Fairsea, along with one of her friends, to start their nursing training, in Colchester, Essex, in 1955. Mum even sold her cow, Daisy, to help pay the fare!
A trained carpenter, my dad – a proud, strong, funny, and kind man – joined her a few years later, also travelling by ship, The Arosa Star. They settled in the West Midlands, where Dad’s relatives lived. Dad often needed to travel for work, around the UK, helping to build many of the houses and motorway networks we live in and use today.
Initially, one of Dad’s cousins found them a room in a shared house, but they moved quite a few times at first, not always welcome or comfortable where they stayed. Dad and another cousin, Frank, eventually bought a house together in a very nice neighbourhood, just outside of Birmingham, in the 1960s. According to my dad, Frank, who was light-skinned and could “pass for white”, had to be the “front man” in order to secure the house, which he did! It must have come as a shock to the neighbours to see a delighted group of darker-hued faces moving in too! However, decades later, at my parents’ funerals, some of those same neighbours turned out for them and shed tears that they had now gone.
Photo courtesy of G.M. Linton
Dad and his cousin let out rooms to other young couples and families who had travelled over from Jamaica – extending a hand of kindness that had not always been shown to them. My parents and my brother lived in the front downstairs room of the house. It was cramped, but comfortable – and I imagine all the sweeter now that this was their own home. All occupants shared the small bathroom, downstairs toilet and tiny kitchen, taking it in turns to use the metered oven.
Many of the friends and relatives who stayed – at what would eventually become our sole family home, where the plaque “Christ is the Head of this House” took pride of place – remained close and formed part of our wider network in the years to come. Mum and Dad were always there for them and they were always there for us.
My parents ended up living in England longer than they had lived in Jamaica, but always spoke fondly of “back home”. Mum longed to return permanently, but Dad would say, “If mi move back, who will visit mi when mi dead!” That was my dad – mischievous (deadly) wit, delivered with realism and more than a hint of a twinkle in his eyes.
They were married for almost 60 years. Dad left us first, followed by Mum, a couple of years later. And how their family and the community they built around themselves for all those years miss them dearly.
These special people, up and down the country, known as the Windrush generation, deserve to be celebrated. They were extraordinary people, doing extraordinary things, and their legacy should never be forgotten
My children’s novel, My Name is Sunshine Simpson, published to coincide with Windrush’s 75th anniversary, was inspired by the relationship that my parents shared with their grandchildren. It is a story of joy, wisdom, sadness, love and hope, as seen through a child’s eyes. It is also about carrying forward the legacy of the Windrush community and shines a light on a people whose flame should always be allowed to burn brightly.
It is only right and fitting that stories of the Windrush generation should be documented and passed down for generations to come.
My Name is Sunshine Simpson (Usborne Publishing) it out now, available on amazon and all good bookshops.