True Colours

A few days ago I learned that one of our neighbours had died. We knew that she had at least moved away because a “To Let” sign had appeared in front of her house but, considering how long we had known her, it has to be said that we did not shed a tear at the news. I regarded her as an old fashioned racist, the variety that would have to die out rather than be convinced that they are wrong, but I have realised lately that there are many more people just like her and they don’t need walking sticks.

I discovered my late neighbour’s lack of political correctness during a conversation a decade ago. An avid gossip, she had gone to the effort of leaning over someone else’s privet hedge in order to dish the latest dirt and get a gratifying reaction from me. I must have made the right noises - she opened up and let me know what she thought of black people, Asians and foreigners in general. I countered with the argument that if my foreign mother and others like her had not come to the UK willing to do the dirty work we would have been in a sorry state. She retreated, realising her mistake. I don’t sound or look foreign but increasingly I pity those in the UK who do.

The area I live in has welcomed immigrants for many years and has the highest concentration of Poles in the UK. It was noticeable when the rules for entry to the country changed a few years ago - you were more likely to hear Polish being spoken in the street than English. Generally the attitude towards them was positive. They were obviously hardworking and had old fashioned values, however the tensions began to show when they began to have an impact on local services. I admit that I found it really annoying to have to wait in a queue at the local surgery while a young woman, with a friend in tow to translate, asked one question after another that the receptionist could not answer and kept thinking up more. Most of these problems evaporated when a large number of these temporary residents returned to a revitalised Poland but I have noticed that, for those who have remained, the honeymoon is over. A wariness is evident when I pass them on the street, as if they are expecting trouble.

Recently I made the effort to attend a council ward meeting where local policing problems were discussed. One of the first matters raised was the presence of eastern European men who hang out on the benches at the small park near our home. They are heavy drinkers and this can lead to problems, to the extent that the park is avoided by women with children. This area has been designated as one in which you cannot consume alcohol in public but even though quite large fines are imposed and they are warned off their place is filled the next day by others who continue the tradition. There were cynical comments about the fact that these men had the money on them to pay these fines and that they were actually in work, the attitude being that no one with any sense would actually employ anyone who came to work reeking of beer. I wonder how many of those who expressed these opinions realise the dangerous working practices imposed on those who employ labourers or that they do not have to spend money on accommodation because they spend cold nights hidden the overgrown shrubs at the side of main roads. By the time I left it was clear that, for some in this council ward, the belief is that eastern Europeans are a problem. I fear that, give the impact recent revelations about MP’s expenses have had, a British National Party candidate standing in this area would win a seat on the council.

Some are undoubtedly a problem but these are not usually the ones who attract the undeserved attention of British racists. About a year ago I nipped down the road for a loaf of bread to a Sri Lankan owned shop. It was a Sunday evening and the street was virtually empty but I found I had to pretty much force my way past two young men and a woman to get into the shop. Once inside I found that an irritated but determined shopkeeper was standing his ground as two skinheads tried to get him to sell them some beer at a discount. These shining examples of the master race were still there when I left, forcing my way out once more. The experience left me angry and unnerved, it was a blast from an unpleasant past but with a foreign accent.

And a reminder that, at times, I live in a bubble and that I am a coward. I work with someone who is so ignorant and prejudiced that it often takes my breath away. In order to keep the peace I let her run on when she tells me that visiting her son in Brixton prison would have been less of a challenge if there had not been so many black people in the area. That relations with her in-laws would be easier if they weren’t Asians. I watch her lip curl as she speaks and remember Johnnie, the gentle elderly black neighbour whose death I became aware of because so many people turned out to see his casket driven away from the house he had lived in for decades. He had no need for gossip and I wish that, for his sake, I had more courage.