In 1962 my mum boarded a flight to Britain. She had saved the airfare over several months but had been planning for years for her new life. The plane ticket cost just under a hundred pounds, a lot of money, and she felt lucky she was able to fly across the Atlantic Ocean in only six hours. She ended up hating the journey, because she had never been on an aeroplane before and felt claustrophobic. My dad had arrived a year earlier to prepare the ground. He had sailed from Kingston, Jamaica, to Southampton, a journey that lasted 17 days, much quicker than the Empire Windrush more than a decade earlier. He remembers it being a bumpy journey across rough seas, but he was in
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