BACK TO BRITAIN

Just after WW2 Britons flocked to Australia, Canada, and New Zealand in their thousands, and that exodus kept up until the late 1960's. Then it slowed down. What is interesting is that upto 20% are returning to Britain every year, some after a few years abroad, others after ten or more. Even those who left in the 1950's, 1960's, and 1970's are going back in increasing numbers. There's lots of reasons: a much better and improving UK economy, a not so affluent economy abroad, and a returning sense of pride and patriotism. We are asking you to tell us why you went Back To Britain. Read the stories below, and send us yours at: Britmail@aol.com

The BEST OF BRITISH placed an appeal in its JULY issue for stories for this feature.

SCROLL ALL THE WAY DOWN TO READ THE POSITIVE & NEGATIVE REASONS  FOR GOING BACK.

CANNOCK, STAFFS, TO AUSTRALIA & RETURN.

NORTHAMPTON TO SYDNEY TO NORTHAMPTON - IN NINE MONTHS!

I emigrated to Australia in 1989. My wife, myself, and my young boy David. He was nine at the time. We had been trying hard to get somewhere with our lives but the struggle seemed never to end. Some friends we'd met years before had gone to Australia, and after a shaky start, got on their feet and loved it. We got lots of letters from them, and gradually decided it was something we should do. It meant leaving our aging parents (on both sides) and a host of friends. Going was not the problem. Giving up on our family and friends was. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. But so many people were doing it, and we heard nothing but good stories, we thought we'd try. You always say you can come back, but in your heart you know you won't. When we left my mother broke her heart. So did Joy's mum. My dad gave us £500 and said, 'show 'em what us Brits are made of.'

LONDON TO WINNIPEG TO VICTORIA TO LONDON TO VANCOUVER!

It was the summer of 1966. I was living in Ealing, West London in a rented semi-detached at the end of a culdesac. I was married and had a little girl named Susan, then aged five. It was a great time to be alive and living in Britain. The 1960's. The Beatles, Tom Jones, Dusty Springfield. Cilla Black, Matt Munro, Sunday Night at the London Palladium, and hundreds of other people and events that would last in memory for a lifetime. Not just my memory but the worlds.

It was a great summer. I had left my job voluntarily and decided to take a few months off. We didn't really want for too much, so taking this time off and looking for another job caused no hardships. One of the main reasons I took the time off was to see the World Cup. I had bought a block of tickets for Wembley Stadium that went all the way to the World Cup Final - and sure enough England won the Cup. What a great experience. If you ever see film of that final and they show the crowd, I'm the tall fella in a light tweed sportscoat behind the goal where Geoff Hurst scored the last and fourth goal. You can't miss me!!!!

I took in a few visits to Wimbledon, went to the races at Windsor, and counted the days until the next football season started. QPR were on the rise, thanks to Rodney Marsh. Fulham played great football with Johnny Haynes, and Chelsea were drawing crowds of over 50,000. Even the Yanks were singing the praises of England, 'England swings like a pendulum do, Bobbies on bycycles two by two,' and in Richmond Park John Mills and his family drove past me in an open top Bentley! And it was the year I took up refereeing. I was 30 years old. I was happy, content, and living in the greatest country on earth.

What happened in the next six months was to change my life forever, and not for the best, and I was to leave everything I loved for something I knew little about. This is how it all began. I saw an ad for a 'Sales Representative' for an international car hire firm. I applied. It was Hertz Rent A Car in Knightsbridge. I got the job. I did extremely well. I was featured in a national advertising campaign, and I was eager to gain promotion. My American boss said I could really do well by going to Canada and working there for Hertz. And as a well paid Sales Manager no less. In Toronto. With Canada celebrating its EXPO 67.They'd write to them on my behalf and see if that job could be arranged. They got a letter back saying Ken Fisher can have a job in Toronto if he can get here within the next six months. This was December 1966. I had plenty of time.

My wife and I decided it was a chance I shouldn't miss. 'There comes a tide in a man's life that when taken at the flood.....you know the saying. I told them yes I'd like to emigrate to Toronto. I wrote to them. They wrote back, and said let us know when you arrive and we'll interview you in Toronto. We applied through Canada House for immigrant status, and the letter sealed our acceptance. A brown envelope arrived with tickets for Air Canada for all three of us. I could pay the fares back over the next two years. Our date for departure was March 31st 1967. It was now late January. I wrote to Hertz in Canada again, thanked them, and they said call us on the monday after arriving in Toronto (a friday) and they'd have someone interview me there. We were on our way.

We sold our few possesions. My mother, who lived with us, went to live with my sister in West Sussex until we were settled, when we would then bring her over to join us, by late summer. Our dear dog Suzie, aged seven, was due to go with my mother, but my sister said no at the last moment. No one else would take her. I very reluctantly put her down on several friends well-meaning advice. I still regret that cruel and selfish act. But a new life beckoned. A guaranteed job. We were going to make it. And it seemed sacrifices were needed, and in any event I was thinking positive, wasn't I - I was going to be a great success. If only I had known.

We arrived on a wet, cold friday. The first night we spent in a nice motel near the lake in Toronto. On the saturday we reported to Canada Immigration, lining up with hundreds of other people who all seemed to be Italians or middle-Europeans. They told us to move into a nice hotel with a self-catering unit in it, and they'd pay for the first week. Great we thought. I called the Hertz people and they told me to meet the national sales manager on monday at the York Hotel. On the monday I went into the lobby at the prescribed time and met their top man. He sat me down on a sofa and sadly informed me the job they had waiting for me was now not available. He also said he had nothing else for me in Toronto, or nearby! Nothing. I had come all that way on a written promise of a job. Here I was, in Toronto, no promised job, with less than $450 in our pockets. I was shattered.

I went back to the hotel, pretentiously named The Waldorf Astoria, and told Mary my wife. She was totally dumbfounded. What now we thought. The next day I called all the other Toronto car rental companies - nothing available, not even counter help. I called a few other companies - nothing. I pounded a few wet pavements all edged with dirty snow. I then called Hertz head office and told them how disappointed I was and reminded them of the letter I held, promising me a job. They said they'd get back to me by friday. We still had just over $300 left but were due out of the hotel by the saturday. We began to worry. On friday morning I got a call from Hertz. I was told they had a temporary sales managers job in Winnipeg (central prairies) they would give me, although the city manager there, an Al Collins, expressed his annoyance at being given an employee he really didn't want. Hertz had moved a minor mountain, and put me into a position I was not wanted for. It was to cause enormous problems.

We took a train that saturday, a slow, overnight train, without a sleeping compartment, and arrived in Winnipeg, in the cold dark early evening, and this very quiet, un-welcoming man Al Collins the local Hertz manager, hustled us into his car and drove us to a real dump of a hotel that had bolsters for pillows, and one corner of the bed resting on an empty coffee tin! He said report to work monday morning. We sat in this very old hotel room, our cases by the bed, tired out, and wondering what the hell next. I got some coffee, we smoked a few cigarettes (it wasn't a sin in those days), and tucked our daughter Susan into bed. I looked out of the hotel window on a dimly lit, flat, old fashioned looking town, where big cars trundled around big streets, passing under hanging traffic lights. There was still a layer of the winters snow packed into dirty corners of warehouse-looking buildings. Good God, where was my London, and where was my life going.

Monday I reported for work in my best grey suit, white shirt, and tie. Collins was not around. An office girl; well woman - she was well over 50, said, 'watcha cock' in that patronising piss-taking way I was to become very familiar with over the next little while. Another person took me through the garage (Hertz occupied an old US style warehouse building that went back to the late 1890's) to the back where a small staircase led up to a stockroom. This room was piled high with boxes, junk, and old tyres. He said, 'this is your office so clean it up and we'll find you a desk.' I spent that day moving stuff up & down stairs and finally had it cleaned out by about 4.30 pm. Collins arrived. He smiled at my efforts. I asked him if he had a car put by for me (my position came with a car) and he said yes. He took me to an old VW 'beatle' parked in the back of the garage. 'You can use that, and I'll be charging you 4 cents a mile for the gas.' (no kidding!). As I cautiously drove out of the dark garage the entire Hertz staff, about five people including Collins, stood looking out of the large office window, all grinning snidely, and waving to me as if I was a child going to school.

This nonsense with Collins went on. Several people working in the Hertz office kept up their mocking English accent when I was around, except an older person named Tommy Markwart who was the 'car jockey.' He was the only person who showed me any degree of kindness. Collins used my services to deliver and fetch cars, take cars through the car wash, and do odd late & weekend shifts at the Hertz airport desk. The VW broke down and he gave me an old, run down Chevy that also broke down. This seemed to tickle everyone there. Finally we had a talk. I told him I wouldn't pay the 4 cents a mile, and that his hatred for all things British should be seriously toned down. He proudly said he was of 'Irish stock' and that traditionally the proud Irish in Canada and the US had no time for 'limeys,' and if I didn't like the job I could always leave.

In expectations of leaving I started a small business with two English friends whom we met at the motel in Winnipeg shortly after we arrived there. We opened the 'Winnipeg Accommodation Bureau' and right away it took off. We all took turns in manning the one single telephone, and before the first month was up we had recovered our capital outlay and met all our running costs. Things looked good, then an executive from the head office of Hertz in Montreal arrived. He reemed out Collins, ordered I get a new Ford car (I got a Ford Galaxie in Hertz colours), and told Collins to lay off the Brit bashing, and let me do my job as the Manitoba Sales Manager! After that short but sweet visit things got a lot better. We had now been in Canada just under three months and the 'Canada Day' July 1st holiday was coming up. We planned to go fishing and camping. On our return from that weekend holiday my whole world fell apart.

On the sunday night we returned to our apartment having been eaten alive by mosquitoes on our friday & saturday overnight camping trip. Hanging on the door handle was a card saying an urgent telegram awaited me and I was to phone the telegram office as soon as I arrived. It was getting on for 11 pm. My daughter Susan was asleep on my shoulder, and Mary my wife put the kettle on for some tea. I called the telegram office not expecting anything too drastic. The woman on the line said that it appears to be very sad news and she would read it to me over the phone if I'd like. I said go ahead. It read: 'Mum passed away today in Redhill hospital from a heart attack....I didn't hear the rest. I lost my breath. I called Mary. I had the woman read it again. It was from my sister in west Sussex where mum was supposed to have been staying. I hung up the phone and began to gradually fall apart. Everything that had happened in that first three months in Canada now culminated in the death of my mother who was only two months away from joining us, and finally it all brought me to my knees. I was licked. I was devastated. I had faced job loss and job rejection, racial hatred and humiliation, and now I faced losing my mother whilst I pined away in a dreary flat town thousands of miles away from where I really wanted to be. I never slept that night. English friends came over and comforted us. The next day was a monday, a holiday, with all shops and offices closed. It gave me time to think.

On the tuesday I went to the Air Canada office, applied for their 'fly now pay later' plan, then went to my bank, and asked them to grant the loan necessary for me to buy the tickets. It was noon. They gave me the okay. I took the form back to the Air Canada office (an office I had called on several times in my capacity as Hertz Sales Manager) and purchased three tickets for a flight out, that very night, to Heathrow. Around two pm I arrived home and showed Mary the tickets. She was staggered. We had six hours to pack, to tell the landlord of our sudden decision (they were good about it - we hadn't paid that months rent yet - which came in handy) and to tell Collins and Hertz I was going 'home.' My attitude in the office as I told them  went like this: 'You'll be glad to hear I'm off back to Britain and it's unlikely you'll ever see me again. My mother died on sunday and we're going home to bury her. Here's the keys to the Galaxie.' I stood there waiting for reaction. There was very little. A few 'ohs' and a sad frown from one person. Tommy came out and moved the Galaxie. He shook my hand, looked up at me, and said, 'take care.' With that I returned to the apartment by taxi, had some English friends take us to the airport, and just after 8 pm that tuesday the plane lifted high above a flat, dreary, town I thought I'd never see again. But we did.
Ken Fisher, Chilliwack, BC Canada.
(Ken returned within a year, went back to Lancing in West Sussex in 1985 for a year, and returned once again in 1986. He is now reluctantly living in Canada but plans a final return in 2007)

Write to Ken at: Kensship@aol.com  he returned again to Canada and he'd love to hear from you.

Ken at the Hertz office in Winnipeg 1967.

THEY DESIRE A BETTER COUNTRY
by the English Poet
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

What seekest though, far, in the unknown land?
In hope, I follow joy gone before,
In hope, and fear persistent more and more,
For long the journey is that makes no stand.

More than a thousand hopes in jubilee,
Dearer the music of one tearful voice,
That forgotten, calls and calls me...
"Follow me here. Rise up, and follow here."

One exile holds us both, and we are bound,
To selfsame home-joys in the land of light,
Weeping thou walkest with him: weepeth he?
Some sobbing weep. Some weep and make no sound.

BACK TO BRITAIN?

So why, and what for..............four glorious seasons, being the most glorious spring anywhere, a warm but sometimes wet summer, a soft musty autumn, and a chill, crisp winter.............sunday morning newspapers........lots of TV channels with great programmes and no commercials...........cosy, friendly, local pubs......imported American habits that are embraced, not drooled over.....where bacon is bacon.....to fly to Paris, Rome, or Madrid and be there quickly, and cheaply.....seaside towns with railway stations and old hotels.....walks in the woods where your dog can run free off the lead.....double-decker busses......rivers that are quiet and slow moving.....cheque stubs......antique shows every weekend....race courses that are race cources, not circles in the dirt.....and a raceform that actually shows past form.....pantomimes.....summer variety shows......the smell of the sea.....where you can still board an old steam train for a sightseeing trip....the best curry restaurants in the world....our kind of supermarkets....more than one kind of English tea.....magazine racks loaded with British magazines....Marks & Spencers....village stores that still have that village store smell....egg, sausage, and chips just for the fun of it......a full to the brim pint of beer...country lanes and roads that have been there since before you were born...stately homes.....winkles and cockles.....where you can still do the Pools.....saveloys......car shows with old Austins and Morris Minors....birds that sing....the cooing of a Wood Pigeon from a nearby wood.....haymakers and harvesters.....cricket on village greens.....Mums and Dads...Grannies and Granpas...friends of old.....mornings in Spring...the Radio Times... people we know and understand....old churches....the greatest history any country ever had....finding cowslips....that great English bread...real cider...hiking over The Downs and along the sea cliffs...woods of daffodils...Cilla, Terry, and the BBC plays...no commercials....smashing looking girls...Bobbies...buy booze anywhere which means you're not all treated like children....rice pudding....seveille orange marmalade.....HUMOUR.....the seaside....beach huts....football....