This is story #51 in the series “Where Exactly is Home?”. It’s the last story in the Rhodesian part of the author’s life. The author recommends you read them in order.
Introduction:
“Where Exactly is Home?” follows the story of my parents, my two younger brothers and me, Susan, who emigrated from war-battered Britain, in the mid-late 1950’s, to Southern Rhodesia, Africa.
The effects of this move on our family were huge, as we struggled to adapt to such a different way of life. Only after further upheaval, and more long-distance travelling, did our family eventually settle in the city of Salisbury, Rhodesia.
However, we did not know then that we would not remain there for the rest of our lives, either.
When the family first went to Africa, I, Susan, was 9 years old. My two brothers, John and Peter, were almost 7 and 4, respectively.
Nowadays, as seniors, John and Peter live in England. I live in Canada. Throughout our lives, we have both benefitted from, and suffered because of, our somewhat unusual childhood.
I, for one, still sometimes ask myself which country represents home to me.
This is a series of stories under the title “Where Exactly is Home?” – I recommend you read them in order, starting with story #1.
51. Back to England, January 1972: Culture Shock and Surprises in Store
Yes, I had been born in Britain, in London, in 1947, from which time onwards I would be designated as one of the many Baby Boomers born after the end of World War II. Yes, I spoke English, but with a Rhodesian accent. Yes, I understood most of what people were saying to me, but only if they spoke in a BBC-type of accent. I understood almost nothing of what a Scot might be saying to me; nor did I understand anyone who came from Yorkshire, Lancashire, Cornwall, Devon or even from the poorer areas of London City where a type of Cockney lingo was sometimes used.
Yes, here I was back in my native land, but totally lost like a fish out of water. I was approaching 25, but innocent and naïve. Even I could see that I was different from the three girls of my own age with whom I shared a flat in Fulham, London. I was the country bumpkin, unaware of the ways of the world, and not in the least sophisticated as were they. I was not in their league, I knew, they with their sexy clothes, high heels, cosmetics, nail varnish, jewelry and hair do’s. I didn’t have any money to spend on anything except the essentials, so had to make do with what I had brought with me from Rhodesia: hand-made cotton dresses, blouses, skirts and sensible shoes. My ears weren’t even pierced. In any case, I had no jewelry except for a gold chain on which hung a small cameo. My grandmother had sent this back to Southern Rhodesia with my father, to be given me when I was 16. I treasure that cameo wearing it still all these decades later. At least I had a relatively modern coat, I thought, which I had bought in the January sales upon my arrival in England a month or so earlier. It was red, made of a worsted woolen fabric, belted, fitted, buttoned up the front and not very sensible because it showed the dirt picked up everywhere from grimy London.
