Foreigners (27 page)
Authors: Caryl Phillips
Question by Detective Superintendent Fryer; answer
by Sergeant Kitching. 27.10.70
Q: Where have you kicked his [Oluwale's] behind?
[In] What doorways have you kicked his behind?
A: Under Leeds Library in Commercial Street. In
the dark doorway next to the Wine Lodge
in Bond Street. Brills in Bond Street, Bakers in
Trinity Street, in John Peters in Lands Lane.
Bridal House in The Headrow, the Empire
Arcade in Briggate, and Trinity Church in Boar
Lane.
David, you wandered hungry and sick through the heart of
a city that has now pedestrianised itself. Today there are no
cars. It is all reserved for pedestrians, like you. But back then
it was different. 3 a.m. 18 April, 1969. Clutching old newspapers
that kept you warm on cold Yorkshire nights. You
are sleeping in the doorway of John Peters Furniture Shop
on Lands Lane. Sleeping peacefully in the heart of your
'clean city', and again these two men come and begin to abuse
you. They shout and they kick you. They are forever moving
you on from this place, and tonight they are very angry. Will
they urinate upon you again? No, this time they merely shout
and beat you, but you escape and run up Lands Lane towards
the main street, The Headrow. Leeds' grand avenue. You
turn right into The Headrow and run down the hill towards
the doorway of the Bridal House where you often like to
sleep. The only shop doorway on The Headrow that is illuminated,
a place where everybody can see you. 397 The
Headrow. Opposite the Odeon Cinema (which has now
closed down). Today, in the window of the Bridal House,
there are two white plastic models with silver decorations on
their heads. The fully garbed female models flaunt themselves
in the window, and female pedestrians stop and smile
and look beyond your open-air bedroom. David, if only you
had turned and gone up The Headrow and away from the
city centre they might not have discovered you. But you came
to where you
knew
they would find you at the Bridal House,
and you squatted on your little stone step on The Headrow.
The most open place in town. Fully illuminated. Just a short
way up The Headrow from Millgarth Police Station, and
on every policeman's route home from work. They pass by
your bedroom without mirrors, and you are not hiding. Just
sitting quietly in the heart of your city trying to stay warm
and out of harm's way. Today the 'H' on the sign 'Bridal
House' is hanging askew. But your house has not fallen down.
Three doors away there is now the Housing Advice Centre
for the homeless. Through the window I can see some black
faces; miserable thin faces looking for shelter, people who
are eager to be rescued. The window boasts a sign: 'We might
just have what you're looking for.' Tracksuited, sleepless,
desperate men. Asians, blacks, whites. Next door is Big Lil's
Saloon Bar for broken drunks who are down on their luck,
and beyond Big Lil's is William Hill the bookies. Sad new
world. You did not need these places. You did not fail. You
stayed in the doorway of your Bridal House. You eventually
curled up next to happiness. You slept with the joyful brides,
but once again they found you, and attempted to beat the
life out of you, and so you ran and instead of going straight
down The Headrow towards Millgarth Police Station you
turned right into Vicar Lane and you ran for your life in the
direction of Call Lane, but still they chased you, and you
knew that this time they would kill you, and so you ran furiously,
but they came closer, and closer. Twenty years in
England had taken some wind out of your sail and you could
hear them pounding the pavement behind you, and so you
ran straight from Vicar Lane into the narrow entrance to
Call Lane but they were getting closer and your legs could
no longer carry you and then, as Call Lane turned to the
right, you saw a narrow gap between the warehouses and you
passed into this gap. It was five o'clock in the morning and
you ran into the gap, my friend. You ran into Warehouse
Hill. You ran towards the river, their hot, desperate, breath
on the back of your neck. You ran.
*
Warehouse Hill is little more than a narrow gap between
tall warehouses. A short cobbled hill of perhaps thirty
yards that quickly dead-ends at the river. To the left is
Warehouse Road and more warehouses. To the right is
Leeds Bridge, where the city was born. In front of you
is the River Aire. You did not jump, David. There is no
evidence that you could swim. You did not jump. Today
there is a safety barrier which is four feet high. A black
metal barrier to prevent people from accidentally falling
in. But not then, my friend. Back then you could fly down
the thirty yards of Warehouse Hill, miss the cobbled
turn to the left into Warehouse Road, and get very wet.
But not you, David. You did not jump. Today, on the
wall, there is a sign. It reads: 'Aire-Calder Navigation.
Before the railway age, the making navigable of the River
Aire importantly made Leeds an inland port connected
directly to Hull. Cheap water carriage was vital for the
successful export of the cloth marketed and finished in
the town. Opened 1700.' Perhaps, David, the river tried
to carry you away to the east and back in the direction
of Hull. Twenty years in Leeds is a long time. Perhaps
the strong current, down here at Leeds Bridge, was intent
upon carrying you all the way back to Hull, and then
back to the safety of Africa. Away from your home.
'
Remember Oluwale
'.
Graffiti on the wall by the Hayfield pub on the corner
of Reginald Terrace and Harehills Avenue.
*
I was living in Sheffield when the case went to trial and
I thought, 'Goodness, I know that guy.' It was David. I
was outraged that the police would target him in the way
the newspapers said they did, and behave with such unbridled
brutality. Obviously they had a personal vendetta
against him, but the David I knew was stubborn and was
never a man to back down. I knew he would have refused
to play second best to these people. David and I first met
when we were about fifteen. We were part of the same
group of about six to ten guys who ran together in Lagos.
At Christmas and Easter we used to dress up in fancy
dress; you know, a cowboy on a bicycle or something like
that. We called ourselves the Odunlami Area Boys' Club
and our dream was to escape to England, for the war had
'officially' educated us about that place. Olu had an uncle
who ran a hotel called Ilojo Hotel in Tinubu Square, and
sometimes we would meet there. Then eventually, one by
one, we all sought out ships to stow away on and we made
our way to England. I was lucky for my captain let me
work my passage painting the ship, and when we docked
in Birkenhead he handed me over to the immigration officer
but he told the man that I'd worked my passage. Eventually
I made my way to Yorkshire where I'd heard there were
good jobs, and I got work at the Hatfield Steelworks. I
couldn't believe it but Olu was also working there. David
had the same no-nonsense attitude about him, and I was
really very happy to see a face from Lagos, but I worried
about him. He wouldn't let anything go. Nobody was going
to do this or that to him, and his attitude was always
getting him into trouble. If a foreman said something
wrong to him, it would be 'fuck off ' and there really wasn't
any point in talking to him. I tried. I would say, 'Hey,
Olu,' but he was a stubborn, fighting man who simply
found it impossible to back down and work the system. I
worried about Olu. We all had strong heads as youngsters
in Lagos, but maybe Olu's head was a little stronger. When
I heard about the case I felt sick. I was shocked to hear
that he had been reduced to sleeping in the street, but I
knew that Olu would never back down and let these people
humiliate him. Maybe that's it; he was a little stronger and
more determined. But I didn't know that he was sleeping
in the street. I just didn't know.
Killingbeck Cemetery is ludicrously overcrowded. The
cemetery equivalent of a ghetto. Its location opposite St
James' Hospital suggests that somebody is in possession
of a strange sense of humour. The cemetery sits on York
Road. The old Roman road to York. On this desolate
patch of land trees have been planted as though they were
a hurried afterthought. To the east of the cemetery houses
are clustered tightly together behind flimsy wooden fencing.
Children wander through the cemetery, using it as a short
cut on their way home from school. The cemetery lacks
gravitas. Abandoned flowers are dying on stone slabs. The
children are oblivious of the significance of what lies all
about them. They laugh. And then I see it. Your tombstone.
It stands at the crest of a hill and lists slightly to
the right. You are at the top of a hill, but 'David Oluwale'
appears at the bottom of a list of ten names. And why a
Roman Catholic cemetery for you? Was there something
in the pocket of your wet coat that suggested this? Your
blue bead necklace with a crucifix? Your grave is full. There
are nine others. In death you have fulfilled a promise made
at birth. Here at Killingbeck Cemetery there is no more
land for graves. Soon there will be no more burials in this
place. Everybody can rest peacefully. You have achieved a
summit, David. Climbed to the top of a hill, and from
here you can look down. You are still in Leeds. Forever in
Leeds.
I wrote this book with the help and assistance of a number
of people. I would like to thank: Kester Aspden, Maureen
Baker, James Basker, Jill Campbell, Allison Edwards, Max
Farrar, Patricia Farrell, Arthur France, Vanessa Garcia,
Karen King-Aribisala, Cordelia Lawton, John McLeod,
Colin Mann, George Miles, Joseph Odeyemi, Gill and Tei
Quarcoopome, Liz Stirling, Vanessa Toulmin, Annette
Turpin, Charmaine Turpin, James Walvin, Eurwyn
Williams, Orig Williams, Alex Woolliams, and Matthew
Yeomans. I owe a particular debt of gratitude to David
Thornton's
Leeds: The Story of a City
. Maya Wainhaus assisted
me through the final stages and typed the manuscript.
Finally, Andrew Warnes proved to be a wonderful
researcher, source of information, and friend as I was
writing 'Northern Lights'.
Caryl Phillips
March 2007
