In Transit

Bhadra Patel

Stiff with swallowed tears, we gave a final wave to Mahendra, the man we loved so dearly, and walked to the departure lounge of Nairobi Airport. Only when we reached the sanctuary of the toilets did we break down, sobbing in each other's arms, hurting, and in fear of the new life ahead. Shalini was only five years old but she was the only friend I had with me. I was her mother. I should have been able to comfort her better but couldn't. As the plane took off, we each settled in our seat, lost in thought, alone...

Why were we two travelling to Britain? In Kenya, teaching posts were in the gift of the Ministry of Education and Mahendra and I drew the rural short straw and had been allotted a remote girls' boarding school in Lwak, near Kisumu in Nyanza Province. Teaching graduates, especially Asians, were in abundance and many preferred teaching in urban schools, so we knew that a transfer to town was an improbable dream. Yet we wanted a good future for our daughter. The escape plan we conceived was that Shalini and I would travel to Britain, where I would go to college. If I liked the British way of life, my husband would join us, if not, I would return to Kenya.

Heathrow Airport that evening was warmer than the chilly August morning of Nairobi but the immigration officer's welcome was icy: "They all say that," he muttered, when I told him I had come to study. To ask me why I had come to Britain when I had the right of abode in Britain clearly stamped in my passport was absurd and an impertinence, but I said nothing. The family made up for it: my sister, Damayanti, and her children and Jitendra, my young brother-in-law who was studying in London, were all there to hug us better and we forgot our sorrows in the excitement. Kenya fast became another world. Damayanti's house in Stonebridge Way in Wembley was a surprise. Compared with our tiny, characterless, two-bedroom bungalow in Kenya, this two-storey house was a mansion and the rooms seemed enormous. Even the smallest bedroom had a double bed with plenty of space around it. The fitted carpet was a novelty - in tropical East African homes, bare wooden or cement floors, or maybe lino, were the norm, with perhaps a rug or two in the lounge. Having stairs was also new, but running up them every time I needed the loo was less of a joy. My two nieces and one nephew were about the same age as Shalini so we assumed they would get on. We put her into the girls' bedroom and thought that we could get her into the same school and, indeed, the headmaster was happy to accept a cousin of the bright Barot girls. As a teacher, I was curious about the British system and astonished when he told me that British primary schools were only required to cover the three Rs, curriculum detail and the very ethos of the school being left entirely in the hands of the Head. I had no childminding worries as my sister did not go out to work.

... Apart from the weather, life in England held few surprises, but there were a few. The condom dispenser in the college loo made my eyes widen and had the rather prim Burmese lady in our group vowing never to send her daughter to study in England. ...

Shalini herself had more adjusting to do. We harnessed technology to keep her link with Kenya alive: once in a while she told her father of the sights she was seeing and the nursery rhymes and songs she learned at school - by way of a tape recorder. It helped a little. As an only child she had never had to share before and now, suddenly, she was one of four siblings. Tidy by nature and a bit possessive, she didn't take well to her cousins touching her things or borrowing them without asking but my sister, whose caring nature is proverbial, was able to sooth quarrels and ease her into her new life. I can still picture the warm summer days after school, when Shalini and her cousins, along with second cousins who lived nearby, played happily in Monks Park. Tokyngton Library round the corner was a treasure of knowledge for children.

With my child settled, it was my turn. I'd been offered a place on the post-graduate library course at North London Poly but how was I to get there? My sister, resident in Britain for some years by then, hardly ever used the Underground and the route she took me on from Wembley to Essex Road was long. Only later did I find how winding. The discovery of the Broad Street-Richmond (now the North London) line was my own: it stopped at Willesden Junction, two stops from Stonebridge Park and it whisked me in half an hour to Highbury & Islington, where Essex Road was only a short bus ride away or one stop by rail. The Poly had moved its academic year to run from January to December so that its students graduated outside of the usual academic June/July rush and had an extra edge in the job market. This meant they could offer extra short courses, such as the one to help acclimatise foreign students to life in Britain on which I enrolled. The group I joined came from Malaysia, Singapore, Uganda, Burma, Jordan and Ethiopia, a wonderfully lively mix, and they became friends in no time. My extra term included a quick canter through workings of local government and public library history, visits to theatres and notable libraries, and a week of work experience in a public library. There was also a course in English, a source of profound irritation. I was an English graduate (London University, external), with a post-graduate Diploma in Education and eight years teaching experience, yet here I was writing school-girl essays. Small wonder that they were all graded "A". It had not registered with the course organisers that Commonwealth students did not need lessons in English or a history of cricket, as education standards in the newly independent former colonies were still based on the British system. Some of the students were sponsored by the British Council but I had paid the fees myself and resented the waste of my time and money.

... I had a day off college the first time it snowed, and I stood at the window and watched the white petals drop from the sky and turn the garden into fairyland, relieved that I didn't have to walk on them. Shalini had no such concerns and, enchanted, she rushed out to build her first snowman. ...

Apart from the weather, life in England held few surprises, but there were a few. The condom dispenser in the college loo made my eyes widen and had the rather prim Burmese lady in our group vowing never to send her daughter to study in England. And the English weather gave cause for major life-style adjustments. My feet had grown up, unfettered, in open sandals and it was impossible to find shoes wide enough to be comfortable. I'd never worn socks or leggings before but my feet were so cold that I piled them on, perhaps to excess. In Selfridges shoe department an exasperated assistant exclaimed: 'Madam, do you have to wear such thick leggings?' My freezing feet remained a major problem till the Burmese lady introduced me to pop socks: introduced, demonstrated, and dragged me across to the shop across the road from the college to help me buy a pair. An occasion which led to one of those delightful London moments - the chance encounter - as the shop assistant turned out to be a student of mine from Thika, so we paused and reminisced. It still remains a mystery to me how thin nylon pop socks manage to keep my feet toasty, when even the thickest woolly socks fail, but from that day on, I could say that I was beginning to acclimatise. Luckily however, I had a day off college the first time it snowed, and I stood at the window and watched the white petals drop from the sky and turn the garden into fairyland, relieved that I didn't have to walk on them. Shalini had no such concerns and, enchanted, she rushed out to build her first snowman.

The last week of the course was 'work experience' and I was sent to Islington Central Library. In charitable retrospect, I assume that the librarian was too rushed to work out a schedule for me and that was why she dumped me on the sixteen-year-old newest library assistant. I was instructed to do whatever she did, and what she was doing was sticking stamps on hundreds of overdues. I had travelled thousands of miles and paid hard earned-cash to learn how to stick stamps! Her next duty was operating the switchboard, but by this time I was too angry and determined to complain to my tutor, that I refused to do likewise, despite the girl's coaxing that I might find the skill useful in the future. After that, things improved and I was posted to the reference library where I learned an amazing amount about enquiry work. There was no public library in Zanzibar where I grew up, or in Thika or Lwak where I taught, so I was used only to academic libraries and the British Council service. This, at last, was a valuable, professional introduction to my future career. Packed lunches were a foreign concept to me, in East Africa everyone went home for lunch, and I never felt lonelier than in that silent staff-room, eating my solitary sandwiches amid staff who sat with their noses buried in books. One young group of library assistants found it hilarious that I couldn't understand their Cockney accents. Exasperated beyond self-control, I burst out that I was used to hearing educated Queen's English, as heard on the BBC World Service. It was obvious from their faces that they had not expected such ferocity from the mild, sari-clad lady.

Still unsure whether we would settle in England, I decided we must see as much as we could, as soon as we could, and preferably by bus as the maximum fare from Wembley to London Bridge was twelve pence. My sister explained about request stops and took me on a trial run and I spent several evenings studying the London A-Z. Thereafter, every weekend, Shalini and I would take off. We did the obligatory tourist round, followed by plays, films, musicals and festivals. Jesus Christ Super Star at London Palladium and Cinderella on Ice at Wembley left a lasting impression. London was an educational experience for both of us. I had visited Britain once before for the World Girl Guide Centenary in 1957, a total of five weeks, one of which was spent in London, but somehow, a mass of amazing detail had passed me by: London Underground, queuing, the local authority library service, television programmes... So any event like the Lord Mayor's Show, or the premiere of The Jungle Book, at the Odeon, Leicester Square, drew us like a magnet, sometimes on our own and sometimes we dragged the whole family with us. We also tracked down those of our East African friends who had already settled in Europe and we travelled all over to visit them: Birmingham, Manchester, even Holland and Germany, where we were struck by the difference in lifestyle and housing. On my own in a shop in Osnabruck and unable to communicate, I realised how much easier it was for me to settle in England where I knew the language. These were the high spots, but most of those early days in Britain flowed by uneventfully as we gathered round the television along with the rest of Britain. Although Kenya did have a TV service at that time, we hadn't had a set, so Shalini, for one, was determined to make up for lost time.

Our first Christmas in Britain was unforgettable. Elisabeth, an English friend who had taught with me in Kenya, was back home at the end of her contract and she invited us to spend Christmas with her parents in Rottingdean, just outside Brighton. As I watched the dull, grey, waters of the sea at Brighton, my mind's eye saw the sparkling azure green of the Indian Ocean surrounding Zanzibar, place of my birth. Elisabeth was a Catholic, and although we are Hindu, we were familiar with Christian hymns and ritual, so we enjoyed the midnight mass we attended. When we came back from the chilly outdoors, Shalini and I were touched to find hot water bottles which Elisabeth's mother had put in our beds Thoroughly spoilt by Elizabeth and her family, Shalini basked in the warmth of only-child status again, and we revelled in this different world, as we celebrated Christmas in an English home, with all the trimmings of the festive season. There was a Christmas tree, gift boxes waiting to be opened after breakfast, a glass of sherry served before lunch, and the traditional Christmas dinner with crackers and party hats and pudding-with-a-coin-in-it. We listened to the Queen's speech after lunch and played board games. It was magic. Late that afternoon we took a stroll round the deserted streets and reminisced about childhood Christmases:

... My own little family finally became complete again in November 1974 when Mahendra joined us for good and, that December, I finished my library course. My grades were good, so I had no difficulty in finding a job with the ILEA School Library Service in County Hall. ...

In Zanzibar, Christmas meant four days of holidays and fun. It was the time when many young Asian lads came from mainland East Africa to visit our beautiful island and we loved being the centre of attention, promenading in our best outfits on the seafront in the evenings. On Christmas day many Asian families went out to a beautiful beach, twenty miles from the stone town, where there was a festive atmosphere till late into the night. There were food stalls of fresh fish and other sea foods, meat kebabs roasted on charcoal barbeques, fresh fruit juices squeezed on the spot - sugar cane and orange. Freshly cut slices of mangoes and pineapples and cucumber were also on sale. There was roasted cassava with coconut chutney, peanuts and popcorns, Bombay mix and Bhel-puri and other Indian savouries and fresh coconut milk with creamy pulp scooped out for us. Petromax lamps hung at each stall giving a magical aura to the dark equatorial night, with the gentle hum of waves in the background competing with the Bollywood hits playing loud from all directions. There was no mention of Christ anywhere.

Easter that year was wonderful, too, as Mahendra was able to join us for the three weeks of the school holidays. Elizabeth had invited us to her wedding. She became engaged to another VSO teacher while we were in Kenya, so we knew the groom too. Shalini was maid of honour, so once again we travelled to Brighton for a celebration and spent a beautiful day with loving people who made us feel like a family.

I didn't find it hard to be a mature student. As a teacher, I was used to spending long evenings preparing lessons. The course was intensive and full of assignments and deadlines but, intellectually, it wasn't taxing and my teaching experience and age were more help than hindrance. For my practical, I was posted to the Library & Resource Centre at the Commonwealth Institute and I enjoyed working among the exhibits from India and East Africa in the main gallery and, whenever I felt homesick, I could look at the slides of Zanzibar and Kenya. I lived with Damayanti for the whole of that first year. She was not rich by any means and, unaware of the welfare benefits she was entitled to, and with a husband who was not in permanent employment, she struggled to bring up three children. With a Bachelor of Arts degree from India, she had been brought up in Zanzibar in a household with servants, yet here she did all the household chores and even washed all her laundry at home without complaint. I helped her a bit after college and learnt a lot about running a home frugally, only too aware that it would have been almost impossible for me to study in England with a five year old child, had it not been for her help. Nonetheless, the time had come to move out of her house.

That summer I was offered a holiday job in the main Poly library on the Holloway Road site and started house-hunting in earnest. As an interim measure, we moved into the West Kensington flat of an English friend from East Africa, and as I could no longer count on my sister's childminding services, I took Shalini to work with me. I wanted to stay in the Wembley area, so that Shalini wouldn't have to change school, and after much searching I found a place close to Damayanti's home. Negotiations went well but came to an abrupt halt when the landlady discovered I had a small child. I was so upset, I burst into tears. She just would not listen when I told her how quiet, sensible and mature Shalini was, until a mutual friend interceded on my behalf and managed to persuade her to let me move in. Finally, Shalini, my brother-in-law Jitendra and I moved to our new home. This consisted of two rooms. We shared kitchen and bathroom facilities with the landlady and her family. Those four months without Damayanti's support were hard, but the landlady's teenage daughters took to Shalini, and Jitendra also helped and reassured. The college had arranged a summer trip to the continent at the students' concession rate but, at 33, I was not eligible so I stayed behind and worked and started taking tentative steps in the direction of permanent residence. Although I was already paying taxes, I didn't find out about child benefit and other such entitlements till much later, but I did have a stroke of luck when I went for my National Insurance number. The assistant in charge explained the benefits of paying full NHI contributions; otherwise I would have opted for the lower rate, with dire future pension right implications.

Not for nothing was Wembley known as little Gujarat, so many Gujaratis had settled there, mainly from East Africa, and there were whole streets of Gujarati shops and restaurants. I was amazed to see how much of our culture we were able to retain in Britain. Navaratri dancing, Gujarati literary events, Bollywood films, Diwali celebrations were just some of the activities on offer. The local libraries even stocked books in the main Indian languages! And not once did I experience any form of racism - the thing we most feared would prevent us from settling in Britain. My own little family finally became complete again in November 1974 when Mahendra joined us for good and, that December, I finished my library course. My grades were good, so I had no difficulty in finding a job with the ILEA School Library Service in County Hall. Then a friend helped us rent a furnished flat in Hatch End, an affluent part of conservative Harrow, where I began the next chapter of my life, no longer just a British citizen with right of abode, but a British resident.