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JAMES SHARPE
James Sharpe came to England just before the war to see a test match, he and his friend were the only black men on the ship. He could not leave because of the war. James stayed on working in the rag trade. Cricket has remained the love of his life.
THE RAG TRADE
Life among the clothing workers in London's East End has undergone a transformation. Pre-war, most factories did a five and a half-day working week as normal. The forty-hour week was as yet only a dream on which our ambitions were focused. But it soon became a reality.
Gradually hours are getting shorter and nowadays, Saturday workers on the whole are lacking in intellect. They'll find money to back horses and dogs, but begrudge joining a Union on account of the very modest weekly fees one must subscribe.
Take one Henry, for instance; a tailor, a man of sixty-three and nearing retirement. He's never paid one penny in Union subs, but is usually first in the queue when improvements in pay and other benefits are gained as a result of Union negotiations.
Our unit was at one time situated in East Road, within a short distance from Union offices. We didn't have a shop steward, however paying subs poised no problems. Mr Philips from the offices called in Mondays during luncheon and collected from the faithful. There were a few, who poured scorn and derision at us, notably Henry. He was a "tuckus licker", one of the most detestable crawlers God ever created. Makes one desirous of vomiting. On the plus side, Henry was a good family man. He had two children; a boy, Michael and a girl, Miriam. Michael became an accountant, Miriam is a designer with upmarket premises in the West End, no less.
We were altogether a "happy band of workers". Contented with very little, even though one militant guy insisted that we were working for buttons. The solutions were in our own hands. Progress was slow. The Union's sterling effort was continually being sabotaged by a vociferous nincompoop, who ought to have known better. The management had very little problem. A target was set for production, which often exceeded the required goal, to the delight of the management.
We were well and truly bushed at the end of each day. The weekend was longed for. One Friday after work, as we were hurrying to get home, Henry told me for the very first time that he was the owner of a car. A Jaguar, no less. You could have knocked me down with a feather. I knew that he owned a house in the Primrose Hill, NW3 area but owning a "Jag" really never entered my thoughts or calculations, often so utterly "thick". Never judge a book by its cover. His house was up for sale for an extraordinarily long time, his asking price was well over the top. His son, being an accountant knew the ins and outs of property dealings, and he dared not act contrary to his son's instructions. Our friend had several offers, but none came up to his expectations. He could bide his time. His agent found a client, a Nigerian. He told me in confidence that he was uneasy selling to a Nigerian. Why? Because of his colour. I wasn't surprised.
We're both retired now, he's moved "up" to Edgware, Middlesex. Martha and I in the course of events, moved "down" to Plaistow. That's life. I think of it as my destiny, as the Americans say "as the cookie crumbles". I'll continue to look on the brighter side.
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