Paid Servant (17 page)

“You should have seen that sister. She opened the door and stood there, like the Rock of Ages. I asked if Brigid lived there and she said, ‘So you're the Mr Man. Well, she's back to Ireland', then slammed the door in my face. You know, I guess she was crazy angry because her sister was in the family way for a black man. Well, I thought, if that's the way they feel, to hell with them. So I never went back there. But it worried me though, I can tell you, especially as she used to tell me how hard the life was back there in Ireland.”

“Well, the next thing I know, about a year after, one night I'm at home and there's a knock at the door. I open it and there is Brigid. Boy, women are funny! She just stands there and says ‘Hello, Jason'. Well, I invite her in and then she tells me what happened. She went home to Dublin but came back to have the child. Her sister told her to put it in the Home and to have nothing more to do with me. So I told her what I thought of her sister and that if she didn't like the colour of my skin to hell with her. But man, it wasn't that. You know what all the trouble was about? Her age. She's thirty-five, although you wouldn't think so.”

Like hell I wouldn't think so, I thought, remembering the strong, sturdy woman.

“Man, that woman went through all that, just because she's older than me. She said her sister told her she ought to be ashamed of herself, that I was no more than a boy. She really felt ashamed. Man, you should've heard what I told her. After all, I was man enough to give her a child, so what was all the nonsense about being too young? That's why she didn't write to me when she was in hospital; she didn't want anyone to see that a boy had got her with child. Well, she told me where Patricia was, but only after I'd promised that I wouldn't tell any of the people there where I lived or anything. When I argued with her, you know what she said? She told me I was only the putative father, and had no real rights. Where the hell did she get that stuff? You know, sometimes I felt like belting her one. Anyway, what can you do? So I went to see the baby whenever I could.”

Now his voice became very earnest.

“You know, Patricia is a lovely kid, and I'd like to take her out of the place. I've been after Brigid for nearly two years now to let me have the child. I've a married sister living in Kent who'd love to take care of her for me, but Brigid said no. That Brigid. She refuses to marry me or live with me and she won't let me have the child. Look, if she told you where to find me it means that she trusts you or something. Why don't you tell her that for the child's sake we ought to get married or something?”

I was surprised by the tenderness in his voice. This was no boy. This was a man willing and ready to shoulder his responsibilities.

“Could you support a wife and family?” I asked.

“Why not? I earn good money and I don't waste it. I could move away from where I'm living now and find some other place, and later on I could get a better job. I'm taking a correspondence course in electrical engineering,” he tapped the briefcase with a finger, “I don't intend to work in the Underground all my life. Look at this.”

From a pocket he took a thick, bulky wallet, from which he selected two Post Office Savings books. One of them bore his name, the other the name of Patricia Sweeney.

“Look at this,” he repeated. “Since Pat was born I opened a savings account for her; instead of paying the money to the Government or the Council as you call them, I put it into her account each week. Look at it. Nobody made me do it, I did it myself. Why don't you talk to her?”

I promised that I would. I liked this young man; he seemed ambitious, decent and trustworthy. Perhaps my terms of reference did not include action such as he proposed, but if it would eventually lead to the child having a home with her parents then it was justified.

Next morning I wrote a letter to Brigid, inviting her to call at my office the following Saturday morning; I wrote a similar letter to Jason, although I did not indicate to either that the other would be present; if they found that out in advance of the day it would be because they had been in touch, and that was all to the good …

She arrived first, looking quite attractive in a two-piece suit of dark-green woolen material, set off by plain black calf shoes and a tight fitting little black hat which hid very little of her wavy blonde hair; now carefully made-up she looked more youthful than her thirty-odd years. I took her to one of the interview rooms and we chatted desultorily, me playing for time in the hope that he would come. She gave no hint of having seen him, so I guessed she did not know I expected him.

He was about ten minutes late. When I got the signal that I had a visitor, I left her to fetch him in. She was surprised to see him and blushed in some confusion; he took her presence easily in his stride, but there was no mistaking how delighted he was to see her. Without preamble I set things going.

“I have spoken with both of you separately and I thought that if we three got together we might be able to work something out for Patricia's benefit.” I thought I'd play on their love for the child. “I don't suppose either of you have lived in an institution. From what I know of them I think they're not bad; they serve a useful and necessary function, for children who have no parents or whose parents are unable to provide a home for them. My job is to try to get children out of these Homes and either back with their own parents or with persons who are willing to assume the position and responsibilities of parents. Your daughter Patricia has spent an unnecessarily long time where she is. In the Council's opinion one or both of you could quite adequately take care of her. You're both employed and you both seem to have some affection for her. You, Miss Sweeney, could put her in a day nursery, and collect her each evening; on the other hand, Mr Griffiths assures me that his married sister is willing to take care of the child. So you see, either separately or together, you could provide her with a home.”

“Well, what do you say, Brigid?” Jason asked. “Why can't we get married and have her with us?”

“Yes,” she said. That's all, but I think her sudden and complete capitulation surprised him. He looked at her, open-mouthed, the arguments he had prepared subsiding in his mind, unnecessary now. All he could do was shake his head from side to side, too astonished for words. Finally: “What about your sister? She'll have a fit, you marrying a black man.”

“You're wrong,” Brigid countered, “She's nothing against your colour, 'twas just because you're younger than me.”

Blushing furiously, she looked at me. At this distance from her sister she was not very formidable, in spite of her size.

“I'll leave you two to chat about it for a while,” I said, “while I take a quick look at a few things upstairs. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

About twenty minutes later I went back to them; they were both smoking and smiling at each other. They told me that they had discussed it all and were prepared to try and make a go of it.

They left my office together, arm in arm, smiling happily at each other, this oddly assorted couple, the slim youngster and the buxom Irish girl, and yet I had the feeling that it would all work out successfully. We could only wait and see.

Three weeks later Pat went home with them. I dropped in the following Sunday afternoon to see them. It was not an official call; I just happened to be in the vicinity and thought I'd call on them. Wonder of wonders! The elder sister was there, all dressed up, but very much at home in the small basement flat which shone with cleanliness and warmth. I had a cup of tea with them, Brigid's sister dominating the scene; evidently she had taken complete control of Pat, who spent her days with her instead of at the day nursery, until collected by Brigid each evening. People. Most of them had no idea of themselves and how much giving they were capable of; or perhaps they knew and were afraid to let themselves go.

There was just one point I had to clear up with Brigid; when I was able to chat alone with her for a moment I asked: “Why didn't you get the other Welfare Officer to see Jason? All this could have been settled long ago.”

“It's the way they look at you as soon as they know you have a child by a black man,” she replied. “I just didn't want them talking to Jason, they'd think he's ever so young, and besides, he's got a very nasty temper when he's roused. When you came I thought you'd understand.”

My next case seemed quite hopeless. The file read:

Institution:	Falconbridge Residential Home
Children:	Diane Cosson. Age: Thirteen years Evelyn Cosson. Age: Twelve years Marian Cosson. Age: Nine years Victor Cosson. Age: Seven years
Mother:	Helen Grace Cosson (Mrs). Whereabouts unknown.
Father:	George Cosson. West Indian. Once operated a barber shop in Brixton; now serving a three-year prison sentence in Manchester
Welfare Officer: Â	Miss O. Spendler

From various comments in the file it appeared that Mrs Cosson had deserted the children about eighteen months previously; the father had applied to the Council to have them taken into care temporarily while he completed arrangements for them to be sent to his parents in British Guiana, but seven months after they were in residence at Falconbridge, he was imprisoned on a charge of living on the immoral earnings of a prostitute. No further action had so far been taken about the children's future. They were told that their father was ill and would be unable to see them for some time: the two younger children had soon become adjusted to the new life, but the elder girls repeatedly inquired about his continued absence and the oldest one often was heard weeping in bed at night. The Welfare Officer who dealt with the case had twice written to Mr Cosson, but received no answer from him.

I went to see Miss Spendler, a short, bustling, jovial person, round-faced, with a quick, infectious smile and restless brown eyes; her handshake was very firm and powerful.

“I'm worried about those kids, Mr Braithwaite,” she came directly to the point, “especially the eldest girl. Apparently she worshipped her father and now that he is so long absent, she's taking it hard. I wrote twice to him at the prison, suggesting that he write to them, either directly or through me, but he's never replied. Probably ashamed or something.”

“What about their mother? Don't they inquire about her also?”

“I wondered about that, too, and asked their housemother. They're all together in the same cottage with a few other children in the care of a housemother. She says all their talk is about their father and what he used to do for them; take them to the park and the cinema, or buy them this and that. Hardly a mention of their mother, even when they first went to Falconbridge.”

“Anything known about her?”

“Not much. The father didn't come to us until nearly a month after she left. Seems that he tried to manage the home himself, but it was too much for him. When I took on the case I spoke with some of the neighbours. They said she kept the children clean and fed, but spent a lot of time away from the house. Then one day she was seen leaving with a suitcase while her husband was at work and the children in school. Nobody had seen her since. The neighbours all seemed to be very much in sympathy with Mr Cosson.”

“Was Mrs Cosson West Indian?”

“No. English. The children are really lovely kids.”

“So his detention has nothing to do with his wife?”

“Oh, no. Apparently that happened after she left. He seemed quite a respectable person when he came here to see us about the children, but you can never tell with people. I can't understand why they do it, the women, I mean. If they must degrade themselves by becoming prostitutes, why do they then give the money to some man?”

“Did you attend the hearing?”

“Me? No. We knew nothing about it until after he was sentenced. I suppose he said nothing to them about his children until he knew he was going to prison. One of the staff here, Mr Cobley, who deals with probation cases, made some inquiries. Apparently the police were on to Mr Cosson for some time. Several women were giving him money, and some of them carried on their business in a room where he lived over his barber shop.”

While she spoke, the name ‘Cosson' rang tantalizing bells, barely audible, on the edge of memory. Cosson, Cosson. Then I got it. Of course, it was the same fellow. I'd met him briefly about two years earlier. Briefly, but not pleasantly. One day I had tried, unsuccessfully to get a haircut; at two barber's shops I had been told, quite courteously, by the barbers, that they had had no experience with Negro heads and were unwilling to take a chance. An acquaintance had given me the address of a barber's shop in Brixton, where, he assured me, I would have just the haircut I needed. Hopefully I found my way there, undeterred by the sordid locality and the grimy exterior of the shop. I opened the door and walked in. It was awful. The interior complemented the outside with its chronic untidiness and claustrophobic, depressing discomfort, its stale cigarette smoke and body odours.

Several black men were in the shop, sitting on rickety chairs against the walls, arguing loudly and heatedly about Britain and the discriminatory behaviour of the Jumbles (a corruption of John Bulls). Of the two barber's chairs, one was empty, the other was occupied by a black client on whose head the barber was busy with comb and clicking scissors. The instruments in his hands were all that distinguished him from the others in the room; he was of medium height, a light-skinned Negro badly in need of a shave himself, with the dead butt of a cigarette resting lightly on the corner of his lower lip, and bobbing up and down as he contributed his observations to the general argument. He wore unpressed grey slacks and a check cotton shirt, the front of which was powdered from the droppings of his cigarette ash, and my eyes followed the rolled-up shirt sleeves, along the light brown arms to the slim agile fingers, noting the blackened fingernails, and the dirty napkin tied around the client's neck. The floor was littered with discarded cigarette ends, hair and a thick accumulation of dust. I stood within the doorway taking it all in, then the barber looked around at me and nodded towards a vacant chair.