Paid Servant (27 page)

“Suppose she had got up to fix a bottle for the baby, or something. I don't even know if she called for me or anything. I picked her up and put her in our bed and covered her up, you know, to keep her warm. I thought she had fainted or something. And I went downstairs to telephone for the doctor. But she was dead.

“The doctor came and he must have called the ambulance and the police. Then Mrs Larkin came and said she'd look after the kids.”

“The police telephoned us,” I told him, “I didn't know what the situation was here, so I've made arrangements for the children to be looked after at one of the L.C.C. Homes for the time being. That is, unless you have other plans. They can stay there for a week or two to be out of the way while you sort things out.”

“Okay. You work for the L.C.C?”

“Yes, I'm a Welfare Officer.”

“Oh, yes. You told me. Where are you from?”

“British Guiana.”

“My dad was West Indian. I was born here in London. Forest Hill. Vi's English.”

“Can I see the children?”

“Let's go next door and ask her.”

Once again I was outside No. 48. Mr Pridie knocked on the door and it was quickly opened, as if someone was half-expecting us.

“This is the Welfare Officer,” Mr Pridie explained. “He'd like to see the children.”

The woman he had called Mrs Larkin was as uncompromising as ever.

“What does he want with them?”

Her whole attitude was objectionable, deliberately so. I spoke up.

“I've arranged for them to be cared for at one of the L.C.C.'s Children's Homes until Mr Pridie can make alternative plans for them.”

“Joe!” She called behind her, “bring the boys here.” Then to Mr Pridie, “Why do you want to send the nippers away?”

“Look, I didn't send for him. The doctor or police or somebody sent him here to see about the kids,” he retorted.

There was movement behind her, and she shifted slightly in the doorway, just enough to allow two small boys to push past. As I looked down at them, I suddenly thought of Miss Coney. How would she label these? They were both lovely, chubby children; I have seen many an indigenous Briton much darker of skin. These two boys would pass unnoticed in any group of English children; their thick curling brown hair might have suggested, to the purist, southern Italian ancestry, while the thin delicate noses reminded me very much of a French fighter pilot I once knew. I wondered about their mother. No doubt she had been beautiful, to produce such fine specimens. They went to Mr Pridie and hugged his legs, while he mussed their heads, absently. Now, gently, but firmly, Mrs Larkin drew the children back and pushed them back indoors behind her, then folded her arms across her chest and faced us defiantly.

“Well, now you've seen them.”

I was at a loss for words; I had no idea how to deal with this situation and, in his present state, Mr Pridie was no better able to cope with it.

“I've explained to Mr Pridie that I've reserved places for them … ” I began, but she cut me off in mid-sentence.

“Then you can go right ahead and un-reserve whatever it is you've done. I'm sure Mrs Pridie wouldn't want her children put into no Home. They can stay right where they are. If you want them out of here you can go along and fetch the police.”

“Mr Pridie did not tell me you had agreed to take care of them,” I said.

“Somebody has to,” she replied. “When his wife is put away and he can look after them himself he can let me know.” And with that she stepped backward into her flat and closed the door on us.

Mr Pridie looked at me resignedly, and led the way back to his room.

“One of these days I'm gonna tell that old battleaxe exactly where she gets off,” he said.

‘Like hell you will,' I thought. After that little set-to of a few moments ago, I just could not see him telling her anything, either off or on.

“Well, what will you do now?” he asked.

“Nothing. All we're concerned to know is that the children are being well looked after. I am of the opinion that they will come to no harm with Mrs Larkin, so there's nothing for me to do. Besides, you're here, on the spot, to see them at any time. If, later on you definitely decide to place them in a Home, we can take the matter up again, but meanwhile I would suggest that we leave them where they are.”

“Christ, she's a funny one. I really believe she loves those kids. Where can I reach you?”

I gave him one of my cards.

“Hell, we work for the same firm,” he exclaimed, smiling. “I'm at County Hall, Architects' Division. Look, I've got to do all kinds of running around today. Can I drop you off some place?”

His car was parked downstairs, so I rode with him to New Cross Station. He was silent all the way, but his face betrayed nothing of the deep grief he felt. A dark skin has all kinds of advantages.

A
NOTHER MONDAY MORNING AND
another urgent message from Matron. Roddy was in bed with a cold and could I come over as soon as was conveniently possible? What now, I wondered.

During the morning, the Chief telephoned me. There had been a high-level meeting between the Middlesex people and our Directorate at County Hall; she was expecting to have news of their decision some time during the day and would keep me informed. I told her that I would be in the office all morning and planned to visit Franmere in the afternoon; she could probably contact me there between two and four o'clock if the news arrived during that time.

“We had a bit of a ‘do' last Saturday,” Matron said, by way of greeting. “Roddy is in bed with a cold. Nothing serious, but I'm rather concerned.”

“Something happened?”

“Sort of. Roddy was expecting Mr Tamerlane to call Saturday afternoon as promised, and was all dressed and waiting. Just before two o'clock Mr Tamerlane telephoned. He was having trouble with his car and would be late arriving. I told Roddy that his daddy would be late, but that he would come, and left him here by the front door to look out for his arrival. Usually he is a very obedient child and so I did not worry about him, there were lots of other things claiming my attention.

“About four o'clock it began to rain; about half an hour later one of the attendants came into my office and asked me if Mr Tamerlane had called for Roddy as he was nowhere around. I knew that Mr Tamerlane would not have taken him away without informing me or another member of staff, so I told her to look around for Roddy. She found him at the main gate down the drive, soaking wet in the rain, looking hopefully up the road and crying his eyes out. You know, I think he's been brooding over Natalie's remarks.

“However we gave him a hot bath and put him to bed. Mr Tamerlane arrived soon after five o'clock, but he agreed with me that it would be unwise to take him out then. He went up and sat awhile with him and yesterday the whole family, dog and all, came to visit him. He's okay so far, but I think the sooner we place him with a family the better.”

“Do you think I've been too precipitate in having him visit the Tamerlanes before the difficulties with Middlesex were cleared up?”

“No, I don't think it matters. For a sensitive child like him, seeing other children with fathers, mothers or other visitors must have affected him, when no one ever called to see him, week after week. He needed someone to love as much as he needed to be loved, and I'm sure the children here realize that he staff are somewhat different from mothers and aunties.”

“Should we have a word with the Tamerlanes to restrict their visiting until we know what Middlesex will do?”

“That would not improve the situation with Roddy; he has already accepted them unreservedly. Right now it's not a matter of whether he goes to stay with them, but whether he sees them regularly. Especially Mr Tamerlane, so that he can prove to the other children that he has a daddy, just like anybody else.”

I stayed there talking with Matron until four o'clock, apart from a short visit upstairs with Roddy. Although I enjoyed talking with her, I was, most of the time, listening in the hope of receiving a call from my Chief. I said nothing of this to Matron; no more false leads for me.

There was no call for me. I had one or two visits to make before going home, so I'd just have to wait until tomorrow for any news of the meeting.

On my way home that evening my mind often turned to Mr Pridie and his neighbours, the Larkins. Especially Mrs Larkin. Mr Pridie had mentioned that her son was in prison for attacking a West Indian with a knife. Did her anti-black attitude spring from her son's difficulties? Or was she always like that? At this very moment she was probably preparing the Pridie children for bed, or bathing them, or feeding them, or maybe telling them bedtime stories. Smiling at them. Did she smile? Probably she reserved her venom and spite for grown-ups and allowed only the harmless and helpless within the inner sanctum of her warmth and love. Somehow her deliberate rudeness had not really upset me, probably because she was trying too hard, I don't know. What would have been the outcome if one of my white colleagues had called on Mr Pridie? The same, very likely, except that Mrs Larkin might have been less vicious. I wondered if, caring for the children day by day, she felt them tugging at her long-dormant maternal instincts. Could she love them and completely ignore their paternal origin? How about Roddy's mother? Did she really succeed in forgetting that she had borne a son? Did she really not care? Once upon a time I had read somewhere that it was easy to be a parent, but tough being a mother. Or was it the other way round? What was Miss Williams, mother or parent? If tomorrow I saw her and told her that the boy was ill and calling for her, would there be a change of attitude? Probably not. After all, she did not know him, could certainly not remember him, so he was merely a vague and rather painful experience.

In all this, my contact with the Pridies and Larkins, the Benthams and Tamerlanes and all the others, did I achieve any more or less because of my black skin? I thought not. I think I am naturally of a friendly disposition. That helped, I am sure; but there was nothing unusual or special about that. Most of my colleagues were equally friendly disposed. My black skin did not adversely affect my relationship with the Tamerlanes or Olga or my colleagues, and I don't suppose it was of any special advantage in dealing with Mr James.

So, perhaps, there was something else, and whatever it was, it could as well be employed by any other Welfare Officer. I'd have to prove it, by taking on cases which were not specifically concerned with black persons. The Pridie case was purely accidental. Funny about Pridie. He mentioned that his father had been a West Indian, but said nothing about his mother. He was obviously of mixed parentage, so he left me to assume that his mother was white. Born in a community where colour was an important factor, he had long ago been pressured into alignment, so, without actually saying so, he was obliquely identifying himself with West Indians, to avail himself of whatever spiritual comfort such an alignment brought. Perhaps he never said, “My mother's English.” To an English person such a remark would evoke nothing but distaste, at least. But he'd mentioned that his wife was English. That was something else, and it explained his children, who looked so unlike him. What a hell of a situation for human beings to be in; always looking around, like chameleons, for protective cover. How would his sons, in turn, feel about their father, especially now that there was no mother with whom they could identify their ‘whiteness'? Would they, by example, be infected by Mrs Larkin's irrational attitude … ?

Next morning I heard the news. Middlesex had agreed to our proposal to pay the Tamerlanes over and above the normal rates for foster-parents. But they insisted that the case should not be used as a precedent, and indicated that they could not guarantee other similar requests would be favourably considered. I was delighted. As for the probability of similar situations arising in the future, I, too, would not guarantee that, if the circumstances warranted, I would not follow the same procedure. My business was to find foster-­parents, not to worry about matters of principle or precedent; but I kept that thought to myself.

“However,”—the Chief's level voice and controlled features gave no hint of the satisfaction which I was sure she felt—“we shall still proceed cautiously with the case. The boy will continue to visit the Tamerlanes, and either I or Miss Whitney will arrange to drop in on them, to get what you might call an objective view of things. Meanwhile, I wouldn't say much to them about Middlesex, if I were you. By all means hint as broadly as possible that it seems there will be no further objection, and leave it there. I need hardly tell you it will be a relief to see this case finally closed.”

I wondered how she did it. With that kind of personal discipline she should be taking on bigger things, but …

Now that the uncertainties were at an end I felt somewhat at a loss, but was kept too busy to worry about that. I wrote a short note to the Matron at Franmere telling her of the developments; from now on it was merely a matter of deciding on the time for the change over.

During the month that followed I did not see Roddy, but kept in touch with Matron who informed me that he was spending each weekend with the Tamerlanes and thoroughly enjoying himself. Miss Whitney had ‘dropped in' on one such occasion and had made a very favourable report, so everything was doing very nicely, thank you.

I had my hands full with some of the so-called ‘black' cases and each one merely served to convince me that there was nothing ‘special' about them. I talked with Miss Wren about this but made no headway against her firm opinions on that matter. She mentioned certain cases which had been successfully resolved after they were transferred to me and, I feel sure, she actually believed that the key to that success was my understanding of ‘my people'. Perhaps she was right, but for the wrong reasons. ‘My people' were not only the black ones; they were all the unfortunates temporarily down on their luck, needing a helping hand; and they were the Benthams and Tamerlanes, the Rosenbergs, the taxi driver, all those who did not limit their love and kindliness by the unprobable barriers of colour or caste, or creed. And if I had any doubt, the memory of the taxi driver washing and dressing the twins with all the skilful tenderness of a loving parent was enough to reassure me. Oh, well, the important thing was to get the cases cleared up, no matter whose ‘people' they were.

I fell into the habit of reviewing each case with which I dealt, with as much care as possible, not only for the purpose of keeping useful records, but in order to evaluate my own usefulness. It is true to say that my approach to the cases was somewhat different from that employed by others, but essentially the same in attitude. Time and time again it was clear that anyone else could have been as effective, probably more so. Then there was the offshoot from cases dealt with; the word went around and occasionally, black applicants would specifically request that I see them. On these occasions I saw the applicant, but at the earliest opportunity emphasized that I was not there to provide any special service which any of my colleagues could not as efficiently provide, and, whenever possible, I would turn the applicant over to the Duty Officer or someone else …

There was a birthday party at Franmere for Roddy. Matron rang me the day before and invited me to attend. It would be held on the Friday, because he would be collected as usual on the Saturday by the Tamerlanes; only this time his weekend visit would be extended until, without his noticing it, he had become settled in. This process had been discussed and decided upon between Matron and the Tamerlanes. The birthday party was not being laid on as a special event; just the normal tea-time at the Home, but with a birthday cake, candles, and a few gifts. The Tamerlanes were not invited, he'd be seeing enough of them in the normal course of events, but his Auntie Olga had been invited. Matron had rung her and she'd agreed to be present.

I'm never much good at children's parties, I cannot throw myself into the general mêlée of juvenile games, yet I enjoyed being part of it, moving around the edge of it, so to speak. Olga was different, she seemed to be in her element, and knew all those variations on the old ring games. She was dressed for the occasion in black sweater, fine-pleated grey wool skirt and soft, low-heeled ‘loafer' shoes. She evidently loved Roddy and seized every opportunity to hug him without becoming too sloppy. None of this escaped Matron. I was having a quiet cigarette from a vantage point near a window, and she came up to me.

“She'll miss him.” I looked over to where Olga was kneeling on the floor, chanting as lustily as the others, her face flushed, eyes shining and hair slightly in disarray.

“Not really. She can always see him at the Tamerlanes'.”

“You think so?”

“Of course, Matron. Why not?”

She merely smiled at me and walked away.

Monday morning there was a letter from Mrs Bentham. I think I read it through several times before the message really sank in. It ran:

Dear Mr Braithwaite,

I don't really know how to begin to say what I want to tell you, because I haven't yet got over the surprise of it, and maybe you won't be able to believe it yourself. Anyway, here it is. Something that should happen has not been happening for nearly three months, and I thought that perhaps it was the
change
.
I thought it was a bit soon for me, but I didn't worry too much; after all, it wouldn't make much difference to me one way or another, I thought. Well, the other day I felt quite sick and went around to see my doctor. He's the doctor I've signed up with since moving down here, and he's very nice. Jewish, I think. Well, he examined me, and what do you think? I'm
pregnant
!
Me. After all these years. I just couldn't believe it. Can you? The doctor said that it sometimes happens this way. Years of trying and nothing happening, then suddenly it happens. The doctor said I've got nothing to worry about because I'm very fit.

I don't really know how I feel about it, besides being very glad. Funny, I haven't told Jim yet. I don't know how to tell him. I feel sort of embarrassed, like a little girl. I told the doctor about the other baby, you know, the little girl, and he said that maybe that's why it's happened. He said that sometimes it's like that, that looking after her had an effect on me. Psychological, he called it. I looked it up in the dictionary. Don't laugh. The funny thing is that since then I've been looking at the baby, you know, looking to see if I can see anything of Jim in her. You see, perhaps after all, she is his baby. Isn't life strange. Gosh, it's going to be funny with two babies, this one so fair and the other is sure to be black. What will people say? Oh, well, not to worry. Gosh, I wonder how Jim will take it? Oh dear, remember what I said to you that first time you came to see us? Gosh, I feel so silly. What's he going to say? I'm so pleased I could cry.