I had by this time met an old West Indian man who had come to England in the 1920s, he was an ex-serviceman who knew Marcus Garvey well and was the only black person living in the Streatham Common area at Elder Tree Way, near Streatham Cemetery.  He had been married to an Englishwoman who had died some time ago and his children, who were of light complexion,  were ashamed of him, which is why they never visited him. 

He was a lonely old man so he decided to give me a room in his house, more for company than anything else.  It was a fairly nice house and it was the first time I had somewhere decent to live permanently  since I arrived in England.  This man offered me a room and other facilities for about £1 a week.  At last I was happy I was living with someone who was almost old enough to be my grandfather, who had children of his own and I could respect.

While I was living in Elder Tree Way, someone I knew who lived at the Colonial House in the East End London asked me if I could find him somewhere to live.  I knew there was room available, so I asked my landlord if my friend could come and live there as he had nowhere to live.  My landlord agreed.  Now this friend lived in the Colonial House in Lemon Street, London where he was sharing his bed with others who were on night work.  I did not know where this young man was working but I knew that wherever it was he had been working there for a long time.  Apparently when he was in Jamaica as a youngster he had lived not far from a middle-class, half-Chinese young lady on whom he had a crush.  Now living in England, he  had started writing to her in Jamaica giving her the impression he was doing well, and invited her to come and join him.

This foolish young man had decided he would send her the money for her passage, all he survived on was ’Quaker Oats’ and nothing else for over two years, to the point where he was nicknamed ‘Quaker Oat’s’.  A few weeks after living with me in Elder Tree Way, Quaker Oats told me he was expecting this young lady to arrive within a few weeks.  On the day she was to arrive he asked me to meet her at Victoria Railway Station, as he could not do so himself because he had to go to work.  I met her at the Station and took her back to Elder Tree Way and put her in his room.  This young lady was very annoyed because she was not expecting this she had been led to believe she would be walking into a mansion.

That night when Quaker Oats arrived home from work the young lady would not let him in his room, she had locked the door and Quaker Oats had to share my room that night.  At 5.am the following morning Quaker Oats left to go to work hoping to sort things out when he returned.  It was about 9.am that morning when there was a knock at the front door, I opened the door and there stood a tall, young, immaculately dressed, well-bred, upper middle-class English gentleman, with a large beautiful shiny car waiting outside.  He enquired about this young lady but before I could reply, there was a shout from the top of the stairs, ‘Its for me’ Looking up, I saw her on the landing with all her cases ready, the gentleman walked past me and helped her to load the cases into the boot of his car, and they both disappeared.

Quaker Oats arrived home eagerly that evening and enquired for this young lady, I was cruel and made a joke of it. I said, ‘Quaker Oats, boy, the bird has flown. ‘What? he shouted.  ‘She’s gone, I said.  He left the house that night and I have never seen him since.

About 3 years later I was window shopping with my wife in Oxford Street one evening, when I noticed standing beside me this same young lady and the young man arm-in-arm.