In 2002, prematurely released government files revealed that police detectives had successfully convinced then Home Secretary Rab Butler that the Notting Hill riots weren’t about race, but instead were simply the work of hooligans. ‘Whereas there certainly was some ill feeling between white and coloured residents in this area,’ wrote Detective Sergeant M. Walters, ‘it is abundantly clear much of the trouble was caused by ruffians, both coloured and white, who seized on this opportunity to indulge in hooliganism.’ No mention was made of the nigger-hunting teddy boys.27
After Nottingham and Notting Hill, race relations in Britain were rapidly deteriorating. It was becoming clear to post-Windrush black people in Britain that they would not be allowed to live quietly, to work, pay tax and assimilate. That instead they would be punished for their very existence in Britain. Black and brown labour had proved integral to Britain’s success in both world wars, but black people themselves would face extreme rejection in the decades that followed.
Throughout the 1950s, the government was reluctant to recognise that the country had a problem with racism. But there was some movement. In 1960, backbench Labour MP Archibald Fenner Brockway repeatedly tried to bring forward a Race Discrimination Bill with the aim of outlawing ‘discrimination to the detriment of any person on the grounds of colour, race and religion in the United Kingdom’.28 Every single one of the nine times he tabled the Bill, it was defeated.29 On the other end of the spectrum, in 1959, Oswald Mosley, founder of the British Union of Fascists, saw fit to return to parliamentary politics after stepping down in 1930. He stood in a constituency near Notting Hill and advocated the repatriation of immigrants, losing with an 8.1 per cent share of the vote.
It wasn’t until less than a decade after both the Nottingham and Notting Hill race riots that the state attempted to pose a solution to Britain’s racism problem. Coming into effect on 31 May 1962, the Commonwealth Immigrants Act drastically restricted immigration rights to Britain’s Commonwealth citizens. Even the wording was different. The 1948 British Nationality Act used the words ‘citizens’ to describe those from Commonwealth countries; in 1962 they were described as ‘immigrants’, adding a new layer of alien to people who had enjoyed the right to reside just fourteen years earlier. With a new emphasis on skilled workers, the Commonwealth Immigrants Act stated that those wishing to move to Britain now needed a work permit to settle in the country.30 The logic behind this still prevails today.
Then, in 1965, Britain’s first-ever race-relations legislation was granted by parliament. The Race Relations Act was an odd move for the British government, having made such a strong statement against the free movement of its Commonwealth citizens just three years earlier. The Act stated that overt racial discrimination was no longer legal in public places – although it didn’t apply to shops or private housing. At the time, the BBC reported those specific acts of discrimination included ‘refusing to serve a person, an unreasonable delay in serving someone, or overcharging’.31 A Race Relations Board was created as part of the Act.32 Its purpose was to receive complaints of, and monitor, racist incidents – no mean feat, when the 1961 census had put the general population at 52,700,000.33 There was no way of knowing the exact number of non-white people living in Britain as the census didn’t include a question on race until 1991. Barely any complaints were made to the board, and those that were made were almost futile. It had no authority to punish those against whom complaints were made. Instead, its role was one of mediation between the complainant and the organisation or person being complained about.
Britain’s first race-relations act was tepid. It didn’t tackle endemic housing discrimination, and it had enough caveats to allow wriggle room for those who were intent on keeping black people in Britain as second-class citizens. An inadequate antidote to decades of targeted violence and harassment, the Race Relations Board appeared to exist only for posturing reasons. Most black and Asian people in Britain didn’t even know it existed. The 1965 Act’s weaknesses were obvious. The efforts to challenge racism came from the very same state that had sanctioned racism decades earlier with repatriation drives in the face of racist riots – the same state that picked up and disposed of black and brown bodies at its own convenience.
The Act was strengthened three years later, outlawing the denial of housing, employment or public services on the grounds of race. However, government services were exempt from legal challenges. At the time, the BBC reported: ‘The new Race Relations Act is intended to counter-balance the Immigration Act, and so fulfil the government’s promise to be “fair but tough” on immigrants.’34
On 7 March 1965, African Americans were beaten bloody on a civil rights march led by Martin Luther King, Jr. They were demanding their constitutional right to vote. Two years before that now iconic day, in the west of England, nineteen-year-old Jamaican Guy Bailey made his way to a job interview with Bristol Omnibus Company, the city’s bus service. Paul Stephenson, a local youth worker, had arranged the interview for Guy, first ensuring that there were jobs available, and that Guy had the qualifications to do the work. But when Guy turned up to his interview, he found that it had been cancelled.
Recounting his interview to the BBC35 fifty years later, Guy recalled the exact moment he was rejected by the receptionist. ‘She said to the manager “your two o’clock appointment is here. But he’s black.” And the manager said, “Tell him we have no vacancies here, all vacancies are filled.”’
That Guy was turned down was not a surprise to Bristol’s 3,000-strong black community, the majority of whom had settled in Britain from the Caribbean after the Second World War. For them, racism in the bus service was a long-held suspicion; many had interviewed with Bristol Omnibus Company only to be turned down. Everyone who worked at the bus company was white.
But Guy Bailey’s interview wasn’t a coincidence. It had been set up by a small group of young men: Roy Hackett, Owen Henry, Audley Evans and Prince Brown. The group called themselves the West Indian Development Council. They asked Paul Stephenson to work with them on their plan, and he agreed. Paul already knew Guy, who was a student at the night school he taught at. Guy was a good interview prospect. He was clean cut, already employed, studying part-time, and active in a Christian youth organisation.
As soon as Guy was refused an interview, the group arranged a press conference. Local reporters crowded into Paul’s flat to hear exactly what had happened. A photo shoot was arranged, with Owen echoing Rosa Parks by sitting at the back of a bus. As both local and national press reported on the case, pressure mounted on the bus service’s general manager, Ian Patey. When the Bristol Evening Post pressed him, he said: ‘You won’t get a white man in London to admit it, but which of them will join a service where they may find themselves working under a coloured foreman?’36