Students in London – 1950s

by Vijaya Chandrasoma

Sri Lankan (Ceylonese in those days) students aspiring to continue their higher education in England in the 1950s and 1960s usually had to spend some time in England before they were accepted (or not) by the university of their choice.

Some students had already gained admittance to a university, and were able to time their arrival to move straight into the college that had accepted them. Others were lucky enough to have their parents or elders accompany and stay with them until they were settled enough to embark on their careers without help. Still others not so lucky were forced into the deep end of an unfamiliar environment. They invariably had some family contacts and the Ceylon High Commission and the Ceylon Students Centre in London to guide them through those difficult initial stages.

Accommodation was the first hurdle. Digs, as living quarters for students and young professionals were called, were not easy to find, especially for us “coloureds” in post war England, when colour bar was rampant in the big cities. I had a number of friends from Colombo, mainly schoolmates, who also were faced with this problem.

Advertisements for available rooms were pinned on notice-boards, usually in little convenience stores that sold newspapers and tobacco. Many of these advertisements specified “No Coloureds”. We soon identified “colour friendly” areas like Earls Court, Paddington, Notting Hill Gate and Holland Park, and managed to get roofs over our heads.

We either shared rooms or lived very close to each other, sometimes in the same building. Our rented rooms had the most basic cooking facilities, often just a gas ring. The shorter the period between arrival in England and entry into the safe haven of the university of their choice, the better for these young Sri Lankans who had been coddled in their homes with domestics to cater to their every whim. Even the task of boiling water was a mystery to most. We learned, some better and quicker than others. Our staple diet consisted of bacon and eggs, baked beans, potatoes, bread, butter and milk. And those little plastic packets of gastronomical delight like Irish Stew, Toad in the Hole and Shepherd’s Pie. Irish Stew was my personal favourite. All you had to do was to insert the packet in boiling water for a few minutes, and, voila, you had a dish that evoked the delicious aromas of the Emerald Isle.

We did treat ourselves to the occasional meal at one of the many Indian restaurants, which were as popular in London in those days as they are now. I used to indulge my healthy appetite by eating three parathas (mere mortals were satisfied with just one) and a full portion of Mutton Roghan Josh, cooked extra spicy.

The waiting period, for me, of over one year in London, with nothing to do, proved to be fateful. Our similarly unemployed little group of Sri Lankan friends met on a daily basis. We indulged in the many deleterious pastimes of studying the form of the runners in the day’s horseracing meetings; playing billiards at the University of London Union; Thursday and Saturday evenings at the White City dog racing stadium. And of course, regular visits to our neighbourhood pub, the Mitre, at the top of Ladbroke Grove on Holland Park.

England’s minimum age for consumption of alcohol was, if memory serves, 18, and that too was more honoured in the breach. We were regulars at this popular watering hole, and the barkeeper used to greet me with the “honorific” of Ding Dong on arrival, because my drink of choice was a double shot of Bell’s scotch whisky!

Of course, had I been a sensible student, impervious to the pleasures of the company of friends and the many lures of city life, I could easily have spent my days in the library, boning up on the subjects I had chosen for further study at the university which had accepted me the following October. I wasn’t, and I didn’t. I was a regular fun loving teenager, who had failed to approach maturity until my late 60s. I believe I have now, at 80 years of age, finally achieved the sober qualities of maturity and adulthood. Many ladies who continue to remain married to men who never seem to grow up are well aware of this particularly masculine phenomenon.

We had endless discussions as to our future, dreaming of ending our brilliant careers at the top of our chosen professions. As I recall, only one of us achieved such excellence in his stated ambition, that of being a playboy. Needless to say, these friendships forged six decades ago have endured, and a couple of them remain my best friends today. Except for the aforementioned playboy, who achieved his dream. He lived fast, died young and left a good looking corpse, a demise precipitated by alcohol, slow horses and fast women. Not a bad way to go.

I secured employment at the Royal Automobile Club in the City, where I had the task of arranging European holidays for English tourists, a mind numbing job involving drivers’ licences and passports. I was paid the weekly minimum wage of eight pounds and 10 shillings, which, believe it or not, was then a living wage in London. Added to the allowance of 45 pounds my parents sent me, I felt like a veritable millionaire! And provided the bookie at Notting Hill Gate with a regular source of income on Saturdays.

The job didn’t last. I found it extremely difficult to wake up in the freezing cold of an English Winter, dress up and take the tube to the City, day in and blustery day out. I called in sick one particularly cold day in March 1960, a sickness which continued indefinitely. I followed up with a letter from a Sri Lankan doctor, to the effect that I suffered from a lung condition which made it necessary for me to return to the warmer climes of my homeland.

A lie, which made me feel even more guilty when the RAC continued to mail me my weekly wages for two weeks, with a note from my supervisor wishing me a speedy recovery.

A Night in Jail

I spent my first, and only (so far), night in jail at the holding cell of Ladbroke Grove Police Station in London. I was 18-years old, and did not have a driver’s licence. One evening, I needed to hire a car for a reason that escapes my mind, though it probably involved a German girl I was dating at the time. My Sri Lankan friend and neighbour, who did possess a driver’s licence, offered to hire a car for me, in a rare exhibition of generosity drenched in foolhardiness.

Having dropped my girlfriend at home, I was driving home in the early hours, when I was pulled over. It was customary for the police in London to pull over any youngster driving alone at that time of the night. No alcohol was involved but I had no licence and didn’t know where the car’s registration and insurance papers were. I was taken to Ladbroke Grove Police Station, where I was placed in the holding cell. I had told the policeman that the car I was driving had been rented for me by a friend, whose address I gave them. They went to my friend’s digs, woke him up and he joined me in the cell, having confirmed my story. The cops treated us extremely well. We were booked and produced before a judge the following morning, who, with a twinkle in his eyes, warned and discharged us with a fine of five pounds each.

The whole matter was treated with understanding and compassion. Both the cops and the judge saw us for what we were, two teenagers having a good time on a Sunday night. Well, at least one of them was. Those were gentler, simpler days.

The friend who had foolishly agreed to rent a car for me that night is one of the most honourable gentlemen it has been my privilege to know. We still remain good friends, a testament to his forgiving nature. This was probably the only indiscretion he has committed in his entire life, one I have no doubt he regrets today, even after six decades.

And then October came along and we went our separate ways. We had many adventures, many enjoyable, a few not, during those few months. Suffice to say, we all survived. And we carried on with our education, with varying degrees of success and failure.