21. Not Forever, After All

We moved into the house, a dark typical suburban two-storey in London, but what I remember most of all was how completely petrified I was of the Nigerian lodger who also lived there. This fear was not based on anything that he’d done or said. I didn’t even understand it myself, not at that time, nor even now, seven decades later, but I knew I was beyond scared of being in a house with this man. Perhaps I just hated being with anyone or anything that reminded me of our life in Africa. I learned much later from my parents that they would never have stayed there, if they had known just how frightened I was going to be about living in a house with an African. I was almost 12 and scared stiff. Fortunately, I was never alone with this man who had done nothing to warrant such a reaction in me.

My father went back to his clerical job at British Railways, and my mother worked full-time in different shifts as a telephone operator in London, though I can’t remember where. We three children went to school. I was too old by then to take the 11+ exam which screened for the brightest students to attend the more academic Grammar School, as against the local Comprehensive Secondary Modern school. I went to the latter. I would have to wait for the 13+ examination, instead, the last such chance for attending a Grammar School. John, however, attended a different school, more suited to his talents.

I know that life still wasn’t easy for eight of us crammed into this small house. Our family meals were very simple because, I suppose, we had little money. Sausages and baked beans were on the menu quite frequently, as were hard-boiled eggs and onions served in a white sauce. I recall eating stuffed beef hearts, too, which were quite tough, though tasty. My mother bought beef liver, the cheapest, and soaked it in milk for hours to make it less chewy. Liver and bacon, cooked in a thick brown gravy with stewed tomatoes, and accompanied by mashed potato and peas, was a family favourite.

I can remember that my brother John, with the help of a little red book showing various experiments which could be done at home, decided to make toothpaste. John mixed up in a small tin some powdered charcoal to which he added menthol (mint) flavouring. The resultant toothpaste was not a paste at all. It was a disgusting dry powder which stuck to our teeth in a black film, very difficult to use and to spit out afterwards. It made me feel as if I wanted to retch. Fortunately, since we all hated it, he gave up on this experiment. We went back to proper toothpaste again, because, if not, none of us was going to brush our teeth!