I remember my hand, all the way up to my elbow, I felt this sensation and I said to my friend, ‘Oh my God, oh my God, something’s happening to my arm, something’s happening to my arm.’ I now know that’s shock. But for me, it was, it was ironic in a way that – that’s where I was when I found out she had passed because she was so proud that I was working at the BBC, that I ended up doing what I wanted to do. She felt like her job was done.

My name is Valley Fontaine and my mum, she grew up in a little tiny island called Dominica – and it’s not to be mistaken for the Dominican Republic, it’s a different island. It was a British colony. Her parents worked on the lime plantations. You know, very poor, you know, but very happy, you know. Two parents of eleven children living in like, a one-bedroom or two-bedroom little wooden house. And in the 1950s there was a call to the colonies from the British Government. Now my dad, I think it was 1957, my dad had decided he was going to go to England to help rebuild the Motherland. The idea is that he would go to England, find accommodation, get work, save some money and send it to my mum for her then to also come over. They would leave the children behind and then when they both worked, they would bring the children.

My father hadn’t sent money back so she had to go find some money. So she managed to get a loan from an ex-teacher, schoolteacher who gave her, who trusted her and borrowed her the money to buy this ticket which was a ship.

So my mother I think came to England in 1960. So, my mum had two children in the UK before I was born. So now she’s got four children, two in the UK, two in the Caribbean. In her case, she left her two children with her brother and his wife and their children.

When my mother would send parcels, they were these things called barrels. So in the barrel, you put food, sweets, books, money, everything, and you’d ship them over to your children who were being looked after by a relative. Apparently, my uncle’s wife would take all the pretty dresses that my mother would send and give them to her own daughters. Even my sister’s first communion dress. In fact, my sister tells me a story of – a neighbour had come to the house when the barrel arrived and my uncle’s wife was taking out all the lovely things and giving them to her daughter. And the neighbour said, ‘Aren’t you going to give your two nieces anything?’ The barrel was for them. And they were given a sweetie each out of the entire barrel.

I was the last of my mum’s five children and the year that she was having me, she’d managed to save up enough money to send for the two that were still in the Caribbean. And then they were put on this ship for a couple of weeks. They were locked in a room with other children, because they were children travelling without adults so they obviously wanted to make sure they didn’t go overboard. She said it was fabulous, they were having great fun.

And my dad picked them up and they got a train and then a taxi to Westbourne Park Road in Notting Hill. And she said when they opened the door, she said she saw this woman lying on a bed with this enormous stomach. And that was me in there. And she didn’t know who she was. And it was my mother. She said that in the evening, when they were having dinner together, the seven-year-old said to the 12-year-old, ‘When are we going home?’ And my older sister said to her, ‘We’re not going home, this is home.’

My mother, for as long as I can remember, she always talked about going home. She talked about ‘life back home’, as they called it back then. And I believe the day she arrived, the plan was to go back. My father didn’t, my father wasn’t particularly interested. I don’t think, my real father, he didn’t ever go back even on holiday. He wasn’t interested. He was just very happy living for today. He was a very nice, gentle man who was just not ambitious.

You can’t go back to the Caribbean if you don’t own anything. If you do not own, you won’t be able to afford to rent because these are tourist islands to a large extent. They’re very expensive. And sometimes it catches up with you. You suddenly think, ‘Oh it’s cold, I’m old, I’m no longer working.’ You know, watching Coronation Street is not enough and you want to go home. But you haven’t built, so you can’t.

I’m very proud of my mum because her mother died when she was 12 and that created a situation where she couldn’t continue going to school. When she started working at the Civil Service she couldn’t even read properly. She was a postwoman. She wore a blue uniform with white detachable collars. The Queen’s crown was their badge. And she said to me, ‘Oh my god, so I was given this bag of post and I had to go around to all the different offices to deliver the mail. And I couldn’t read what they said.’ So she said that it would take ages to finish her shift. She would even miss her breaks because she was so trying to work out what that says, and who that’s for, and match the name of the envelope to the name on the door. You know, she’s a woman that really struggled. But she was determined.

When I was nine was the first time she managed to save up the money to buy the land that she wanted and the place that she wanted, near where she’d been born. My stepfather was from the Caribbean island of Antigua. A wonderful man. My mother said when she met him when I was nine, she said to him – because he had already bought land as well in his island – she said, ‘I’m not going to your island, I’m going to Dominica. So if we’re going to be together, this is where we’re going. You either agree or you don’t agree but this is the time for you to know, that’s my plan.’ So subsequently he sold his land and then they put together.

And then, by the time I was 12 she was ready to build and she took me with her during the six weeks holidays. We’re on, in the minibus and she was saying, ‘This is the coconut tree. That’s the banana tree. And that road there is where we used to walk when we were children.’ And I remember, because I was 12 and a bit of a cocky pre-teen, ‘Alright, mum.’ And you know, that’s stuck with me, I’m like, wow what an arrogant child. What do you mean, ‘Alright mum’? In other words, ‘Stop going on, I’m tired.’ Of course she’s excited. She’s come home with her child. A child that’s never been to Dominica before. And she’s showing you, ‘This is me, this is where I’m from, this is this,’ she’s introducing me to everything. And even as I saying it right now I’m sort of shivering because I still feel so bad for saying that.

From then onwards she would go on holiday every year for six weeks, back to her house that was built. And then by 1992 she went for good.

So, let me show you my mum. I keep these pictures. I’ll just take them off the shelves. My mum’s on the balcony and she has her big red hair. She looks very smart with her gold earrings and red lipstick and my stepfather. This is the day they were leaving in England. So that was the last picture of them in this country.

But it’s interesting. I discovered a different mum when she returned. And I saw my mother in her fifties, climbing a banana tree. And I was like, ‘Oh my God, this is my mum.’ The mum that, when she was in England, did a full-time job for the Civil Service, would also do a morning cleaning job and an evening cleaning job, so she could save enough money to buy and build. You know, I suddenly realised she had green fingers, she would plant pineapples and… Even the colour of her skin changed. I’d go back and think, ‘God, Mum, look at you.’ She became a kind of golden brown. It was amazing seeing her in her own environment. And there she was being herself again.

And she used to have a little England flag flying outside her house which was quite funny… I said, ‘Mum!’ You know. And yeah, she said, no… She was very proud of the fact that she’d been to England. She was very happy with how it had gone for her, what she’d managed to achieve. You know, she was very satisfied.

She died in her home and she was where she started. She was where she was born in the neighbouring village. In fact, where she lived is one of the main tourism pictures because it’s where the Caribbean Sea meets the Atlantic Ocean and it’s a very beautiful spot.

To me, I keep her alive. I don’t think a day goes past without me talking about her in one way or another. I always manage to weave her into a conversation. I just do. And my mother would have loved that. She’s called what is termed a returnee. She managed to go back and because that was the ambition of, what I understand, the majority of her generation, I’m so proud that she managed to do it. She was determined and – she won.