Interwoven Histories – working-class writing and immigration

Working-class writers have for centuries understood the interwoven histories of their own position within British society and that of colonised people overseas. The radical rhetoric of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries drew parallels between the plight of the African slaves who picked cotton in the American South and the children who carded and spun it in the ‘Dark Satanic Mills’ of the North of England. I’ve just started a piece examining the continuities of this tradition in two post-war writers’ treatments of ethnicity, racism and immigration. Like so many of the issues that I’m interested in, The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists provides an early and important twentieth-century example. At the beginning of the novel Owen and his colleagues are sitting on upturned buckets, slurping tea from jam jars during their lunch break. One of the decorators, Easton, is reading the Obscurer, which provokes in him

a growing feeling of indignation and hatred against foreigners of every description, who were ruining this country, and he began to think that it was about time we did something to protect ourselves … The papers they read were full of vague and alarming accounts of the quantities of foreign merchandise imported into this country. The enormous number of aliens constantly arriving, and their destitute conditions, how they lived, the crimes they committed, and the injury they did to British trade.*

When he was writing in the early 1910s, Tressell was dismayed by the way in which those in power distracted the people from their own colossal greed and corruption by blaming foreigners. It’s a sad statement on our own times that a century later the right-wing press are up to the same dirty tricks. Another subject of a previous post, Jack Hilton, was disarmingly honest about how he was brainwashed by such racist propaganda, describing how the foundations were laid during his education:

What a fighting chance we were given to understand the happenings of world significance – it was not a dog’s chance. It worked out this way. 1st: Heaps of God; 2nd: England first – the world nowhere; 3rd: Blatant swagger; one good honest Christian blue-eyed English schoolboy equalled twenty infidel Japs …

Having been schooled in the bigotry of British imperialism, Hilton was swept up by the anti-German feeling of the First World War and later flirted with eugenics, a despicable and discredited philosophy not a million miles from Boris Johnson’s. True to the enduring internationalism and anti-racism of the radical working-class tradition (stretching back to Joseph Mather and beyond), Hilton came to see the working-class movement as related to the anti-colonial struggles of his day. Gandhi visited Lancashire whilst Hilton was writing his first book and slept on the sofa of a Labour family in Salford. Renewed interest in the historical theft of common land – linked to the Mass Trespass of Kinder Scout in 1932 – forged a more concrete connection between these twin struggles and in the post-war era working-class writers continued to show a progressive interest in the intersection of class and colonialism.

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Gandhi in Lancashire

Writers whose work was shaped in the post-war era by these interwoven histories include Sheffield’s own Len Doherty, Shelagh Delaney (whose A Taste of Honey, in Colin MacInnes’s memorable phrase, was the first play to portray black and gay characters ‘without a nudge or shudder’), Alan Sillitoe, Stan Barstow (whose narrator Vic says of a racist character ‘she could hardly open her mouth without showing everybody what a stupid, bigoted, ignorant old cow she is’), Buchi Emecheta, Jeremy Sandford, Linton Kwesi Johnson, the list goes on…

The project I am starting looks at two more whose lives and works traverse British inner cities and former British colonies. In the pages of these writers’ work we find out much more about the changing nature of the working class and the spectrum of working-class responses to immigration than we ever can from the journalists and politicians who blame immigrants for everything from putting too much strain on the NHS (it would collapse without them) to roasting swans.** And indeed more than we can from phenomena like the BBC’s White Season of a few years back, which managed to be racist by labelling all white working-class people racist – a pretty spectacular feat when you think about it. What we find in these books is what many people from diverse neighbourhoods know through their daily lived experience – what Paul Gilroy has described as ‘demotic multiculturalism’ – which is that the working class co-authored multiculturalism alongside immigrants, largely from the colonies. The history of immigration into Britain following the Second World War – and in many areas before the war – is a history of immigration into working-class areas.

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Grave of a Muslim miner killed at Beighton colliery in 1922, Bunrgreave Cemetery, Sheffield

Working-class writers deal with the realities of what this means. They don’t shy away from appalling racism or seek to present a rose-tinted view of things, but nor do they ignore the rich history of tolerance and conviviality that many contemporary commentators ignore and efface. The tradition of internationalism and radical anti-racism in working-class writing constitutes an eloquent historical response to the absurd and offensive notion that the working class is somehow inherently racist or intolerant.

In our own times, as recent work by Beverly Skeggs, Stephen Garner and Owen Jones has shown, there is a worrying trend for journalists, politicians and academics to vilify working-class people in ways that are sinisterly reminiscent of the how ‘racial others’ have been demonised since the beginning of the colonial era. Working-class writers often intuitively understand this and deliberately position themselves alongside the ‘other’. In the opening sonnet of his brilliant collection The School of Eloquence, Tony Harrison connects his exploration of working-class history – and his search for an identity and a voice to express it – by analogy with Aimé Césaire’s founding text of the Négritude movement:

…I call these sixteen lines that go back to my roots

my Cahier d’un retour au pays natal,

My growing black enough to fit my boots.

With these lines – and the dedication of the poem to members of the Angolan independence movement Frelimo – Harrison aligns his own project with that of the anti-colonial poets of Africa and the West Indies. It is this interwoven history that I will be exploring in my current project.

*pp. 41-3 – as a member of the Association of the Ragged Trousered, I have copies of this book to give away. If you’d like one, please email me your address and I’ll post one to you.

** ‘SWAN BAKE: Asylum seekers steal the Queen’s birds for barbecues’.The Sun has removed the article from its website but Nick Medic’s Making a Meal of a Myth details its complete lack of any factual basis.

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Jack Hilton’s Caliban Shrieks

It’s been a while since the last Proletics post, partly because I’ve been working on plasterer, trade unionist, unsung Rochdale genius and subject of a chapter of my thesis, Jack Hilton. I gave a paper on him at the recent Culture Wars 1900-1950 conference at Sheffield Hallam (where I was lucky enough to be on a panel with Alison Twells and got to hear fascinating stories about her aunt Norah) and then was delighted to discover that Ben Clarke – the first person to mention Hilton to me at a conference on Hoggart back in 2009 – was giving a paper on Hilton’s relationship with George Orwell in London. We had a good old chin-wag about our favourite Rochdalian and agreed to pool our resources to try and get Caliban Shrieks back into print. A big obstacle to helping Hilton reach the audience he so richly deserves is the mystery surrounding the copyright holder: anyone who owns the rights or knows how we can trace whoever does, please get in touch – we’d love to hear from you. What follows is a brief biographical sketch and an account of the weird and wonderful story behind the publication of Hilton’s 1935 masterpiece, Caliban Shrieks.

Hilton was born in Oldham in 1900 and moved to Rochdale as a young child. He had his first job as a barber’s lather boy at the age of nine and at ten he was hospitalised by a bout of rheumatic fever. When the doctor wanted to discharge him, his father – a committed socialist and autodidact – refused to take Jack home because of the dangerously squalid conditions in the slums and so he was admitted to a convalescent home, where he witnessed what he later called the ‘indifference to humanity in the hearts of Liberal Methodists and Tory Churchmen’. Hilton gives a grim insight into the fragility of slum life:

Of eleven children (maybe there were thirteen) seven died before reaching two years. Only four of us became adults […] [My] mind doesn’t recall how many brothers and sisters I had because they died too soon for me to have memories of association. This was normal for slummies.

At twelve, under the half-time system, he worked in a cotton mill before leaving school at fourteen, when he got a job as a guide for the secretary of the local Blind Association. Like many of his peers, he then lied about his age to join the army, in which he served as stable boy to two officers before being sent to Belgium. Into his first fifteen years, Hilton packed a variety of jobs and experiences that took him across class boundaries and this equipped him with the necessary experience for his later critique of the class system. The episode most integral to understanding Hilton’s motives has to do with his union activity. Having become an active member of the plasterers’ union in Rochdale, Hilton was its secretary from 1929-35 and he was also active in the National Unemployed Workers Movement (NUWM). As an organizer and agitator he was arrested several times and served a few stints in jail before being bound over to keep the peace and banned from public speaking in 1932 following a ‘disturbance’ at Rochdale’s Public Assistance Committee, during which he was ‘struck with a sergeant’s stick’ so hard that he ‘could hardly move [his] legs’. This coincided with a fruitful period of attendance at Workers’ Educational Association (WEA) literature classes. Hilton later phrased his reaction to being silenced in typically pithy fashion: ‘Said I: I’ll write’.

The manner in which Caliban Shrieks came to be published is a fascinating story that gives us an insight into the relationship between working-class writers and the literary establishment in the 1930s. Hilton says that he mistakenly handed in a notebook containing private essays rather than his WEA assignment and that he was so embarrassed he didn’t raise it with his tutor for several weeks. That tutor, a Mr Mason, professed to have no recollection of the exercise book but a few months later Hilton received the latest edition of the Adelphi, a left-leaning journal of literature and politics, with a letter from its editor, Richard Rees (a baronet and WEA tutor and Treasurer who was shortly to volunteer as an ambulance driver in the Spanish Civil War), thanking him for his contribution and asking him to submit another piece. Hilton writes: ‘It was dead easy to decide what to send for I had only the stuff I was recording – the dozen penny exercise books on the mass-working lad’s experiences’. Rees replied suggesting publication in book form. Through this convoluted process, almost by accident and without ever being intended as a single, cohesive piece, Caliban Shrieks came to be published in March 1935.

The fluke of Hilton’s first publication sets him apart from other working-class voices of the twentieth century: unlike Walter Greenwood and many other writers of the period he hadn’t modified his work in response to repeated rejections or had it heavily edited by publishers with a keen eye on the market for ‘gritty’ books; he wasn’t ‘declassed’ by a grammar school or university education; nor was he driven by a writerly vocation from an early age (like Alan Sillitoe, for example). Hilton is remarkable in that his first publications were the experimental and private essays of a working-class man with no real literary training or ambition and he became increasingly aware, and proud, of the unique status of the book, describing it in his unpublished autobiography as ‘probably the only undiluted proletarian book of the twentieth century’ and going on to say that it ‘is unique in the sense that no other book is less of the English literary convention and because of this I’m fond of the ugly duckling that is a ‘literary’ curiosity’.

Jack and Mary HiltonJack and Mary Hilton, who is pushing the handcart they used to carry their belongings when they tramped around the country. Jack wrote English Ways and English Ribbon whilst they travelled around with itinerant labourers and tramps.

 

The success of Caliban Shrieks – it was favourably reviewed by Orwell and Auden – led to a Cassell Scholarship to Ruskin College, Oxford, and the publication of a few novels and a travelogue, English Ways, in 1940. This can be read as Hilton’s working-class response to The Road to Wigan Pier (which Hilton dismissed as ‘piffle’ and ‘a waste of time and money’) and his final published work, English Ribbon (1950) was a post-war follow-up. Hilton’s is a unique and brilliant working-class voice that has been overlooked by criticism and gives us a rare insight into working-class perspectives of the economic crises of the inter-war years. If you can help us to get his important work back into print, please do get in touch.