I’ve done it! I’ve finally done it! My life’s ambition achieved – at 18!

I never really fitted in, in Trinidad. People always assumed I was a foreigner, an ENGLISH foreigner. They even said I talked like the English, but I’m certain that the English would disagree with that! My pale skin that burns so easily is inherited from my feisty, freckly, red-haired mother whose parents had come from Scotland – McKenzies no less. My British passport (thank you for this, Lord) came courtesy of my English grandfather on my father’s side. My paternal grandmother is half French Creole and half Scottish. So you see, I’m really quite British. Yes, I belong here.

So now that I’ve achieved my life’s ambition, what’s next? This is so strange and quite unsettling. I had not considered what to do with the rest of my life. Well, I just have to study for the next 3 years and get a degree and go from there.

I think back to how I bravely arrived in England, alone, without knowing if I would even get into Leeds University, my first choice. It was August 1971. I stayed with my great aunts in Watford for about 6 weeks, anxiously awaiting my ‘A’ Level results. I was convinced I’d messed up my Chemistry practical; maybe my results weren’t good enough. Then a week before Freshers Conference was to start, I got the joyous news – I got an A and 2 Bs. Yaay!! I was in!

The next thing to consider was where I was going to live. Because of my late results, there was no room in the student halls of residence. I got a letter from the University stating that I could stay at the YWCA, but I didn’t know if that included Fresher’s Week. I really didn’t care. I was achieving my life’s ambition!

So, I arrived at Leeds train station, a noisy, grand old building, with all my worldly possessions in 2 suitcases, and was faced with a mass of young, eager humanity, mostly with parents, all wanting to be directed to their accommodation. There were greeters from the different halls, busily taking names and assigning students to buses, and it looked like organised chaos. I guess I looked lost. The next thing I knew, there was a microphone thrust in my face, and a plummy English accent was asking me where I was from.

“From Trinidad”, I said. The reporter obviously didn’t know where that was, but he knew it was foreign.

“So where are you staying?” came the million-dollar question.

“I don’t know”, I said, meekly.

“Aren’t you assigned to a Hall of Residence?” he asked.

“No”, I said, finally beginning to wonder what was to become of me.

“You mean you’ve come all the way from Trinidad, and you don’t know if you have somewhere to stay?”

“Yes … though I might be staying at the Y..”, and he cut me off while explaining to the camera that there was a chronic shortage of student accommodation resulting in poor, homeless students, some of whom have travelled far from their homeland.

Now I was getting worried. Maybe this ambitious dream idea was not so well thought out. At that point, I was commandeered by an older student who, it turned out, was gathering all the “homeless’ newbie students together. I just had time to establish that the reporters were from the BBC and that this news item would appear on the 6 o’clock news.

We, homeless, foreign students, were bundled into an old Volkswagen van and driven to the Student Union. There, we sat around for hours while calls were made on our behalf to find us somewhere (cheap) to stay. It turned out that I was expected at the YWCA. I never saw the news item as I was too shy to turn the common room TV channel over to the BBC.