“Oh, I thought it had something to do with ‘puta’, you know, it’s Spanish; would fit this case, don’t you think?” The laughter was back in her voice, deep and generous.
‘Bright girl,’ I thought, ‘very bright girl.’
“You don’t understand,” she continued, “I’m not cross with him for going with a woman. After all, I didn’t expect him to be an angel. What man ever is?”
“Then is it because she is a white woman?” I asked.
“Oh no,” she replied, somewhat impatiently, “her colour doesn’t bother me. She’s a woman, isn’t she? It’s just that you men are always so sure of yourselves, always so damned sure. His child, pah! Sure he wants a child, don’t you think I know that. I’ve been married to him for eighteen years and I know he’s been disappointed because we haven’t had children. And so am I. Don’t you think I want children, too? His child! His child! How about me?” She stood up suddenly and went over to look at the sleeping infant, then sat on the bed beside the pram.
“I know that all these years he’s been blaming me for not giving him children. He never said anything, mind you, but I knew. I could see it in the way he never forgets to buy birthday presents for his sisters’ children, so I knew he wanted some of his own. I worried about it for a long time. I even thought that he might some day leave me for someone who could give him children. But he’s a good man, Jim is.
“When he first left Jamaica to work in Trinidad, I had to stay behind for sixteen months, before I could join him. I was much younger then, and used to go with a crowd of friends, you know, dances and parties and things. Well, one night after a party I slipped up; you know what I mean, and the next thing I knew I was pregnant.—God, I was frightened. If Jim had found out he might have killed me, or left me. I didn’t even like the man, specially. Just one of those unlucky things and the first and only time I ever went with another man. Jim had been gone five months when it happened, so I couldn’t tell him it was his, you see?
“Nobody ever knew about it except my mother, God rest her soul! I didn’t even tell the man. My mother gave me the money and I got rid of it. So you see, I know this isn’t Jim’s child. My trouble happened after I had been married for years to Jim, and there’s nothing wrong with me. Now, do you understand? And he calmly brings a child to me and says, ‘this is mine’ and expects me to be pleased about it. Suppose it was the other way round and I had come to him with a child, do you think he would have accepted it?”
There was a little piece of illogic there, because she was saying the child could not possibly be his, whereas if she had turned up with a child he would begin by believing it to be hers.
“I think I understand your position, Mrs Bentham; now how can I help you?”
“Oh, I don’t suppose you can, really. All I wanted that man to do was admit that it wasn’t his child, but I don’t suppose he will. That woman will never come back, I know it, so I suppose I’ll just have to look after it, that’s all.”
I had the feeling she had made this decision long before I ever saw them. “But suppose she does come back, what then?” I asked her.
“I’m sure she’s not coming back,” she replied with emphasis. “Now that it’s here, it stays here. Furthermore, we’re moving from here, to one of those new towns perhaps, where it will be able to run about and play. We’ve got a bit of money put by and Jim can always find work in his trade. He’s a good man.”
They didn’t need me here, not really. For a little while I was useful as a listening ear, or perhaps a needful catalyst to help them resolve the main part of their problem, but now they’d get on fine without me. I stood up and she brought me my bag and umbrella.
“I’m sure you both will work this out satisfactorily, Mrs Bentham,” I said, “but if there’s anything else I can do, well … ”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she replied. “I’ve made up my mind. But that Jim Bentham. So he knows how to make children, does he? Well all right. As of tonight that Mr Man has work to do, right here.”
And the rich laughter came burbling out of her in sweet musical waves, rolling back upon her to highlight the richness and beauty of her face and figure and the spirit of love and kindness which shone through them.
As I let myself out of the street door, I thought of Jim Bentham, probably on his way back from the chemist, and the task awaiting him. I laughed to myself. I wondered whoever coined the phrase ‘a labour of love’.
As I rode home on the bus I wondered how it would have worked out if I had insisted that the Benthams come to my office if they wanted to see me. Would they have come? And if they had, would they have felt free to speak as they did in their own home? Evidently Mrs Bentham had wanted to talk to someone about her reason for maintaining that the child was not really her husband’s. Would she have done so in his presence in the rather formal atmosphere of my office? Could I establish the kind of atmosphere in my office conducive to easy, uninhibited and co-operative discussions?
The only way for me to avoid many of these night visits was to begin at source. I must so conduct myself at interviews in my office that the right atmosphere would be created and inevitably the word would get around, because at the office everything began with an interview. That’s where I, too, would have to begin. I’d watched the way some interviews had been transacted, and most of them left a great deal to be desired.
In my mind I tried to review the whole sequence of interviewing which I had witnessed on several occasions, and there was very little about any part of it which could be called commendable. Most persons visiting the Area Office needed help of one sort or another, and invariably appeared looking somewhat fearful or anxious. The physical arrangements of the waiting room did nothing to relieve their anxiety. Its shape, colour and furnishings made it a striking example of the complete lack of imagination characteristic of bureaucratic planning. Pale grey walls unrelieved except by two dreary posters illustrating the increase in road deaths; hard wooden forms ranged alongside the walls and painted the same dark, unhappy brown still to be seen in the waiting-rooms of some rural railway stations; the floor was uncovered, smooth, cold concrete. In this unsalubrious atmosphere the clients waited until they were called to one of the several interview rooms.
Each of these was smaller than the waiting-room, and different in that there were no posters, and instead of forms, the furniture consisted of a table and three chairs. One of these chairs, invariably the most comfortable one, was reserved on one side of the desk for the interviewer. In one corner of each interview room was a little group of rather battered toys, probably intended to attract and maintain the interest of children who accompanied their parents. I have no doubt that this last was often successful, for I often observed small children carefully examining those toys, as if anxious to discover what it was that kept the dirty, battered little monstrosities from falling apart.
I have often wondered why it is that although women occupy most of the senior positions in these Welfare offices they have not been sufficiently revolted by the sterile and miserable condition of the interview and waiting-rooms to bring about some worthwhile improvements in them. Granted the rooms are clean, but so are laboratories and operating theatres. Much more is needed at Welfare offices where, from the very beginning, the entire process of helping must be related to the applicant’s dignity and assurance. Could it be that there’s something about their single-minded pursuit of a career which cannot accommodate the idea of comfort with service? Or are they so bent on being as much like men as is naturally tolerable that they deliberately favour the severe and regimented in official duties? It has been argued that Social Welfare in Britain is part of State machinery. Granted. But there is nothing which suggests that the work is less efficiently done for a little colour here and there. Welfare Offices are intended as the means by which the State can lend a helping hand to the people. The effectiveness of these officials should depend less on how much help they are
able to give than on how quickly those helped become once more independent. If the very first contact with the Welfare Office and Officers helps to speed this process of independence, all the better. A bright, cheerful room with comfortable chairs can inject quite a lift into a depressed spirit, and so, even before the interview, the process of rehabilitation will have begun.
However, in the final analysis, a great deal depends on the officers, and upon their first contact with the applicant. Although quite new to the work, I had visited all of the Areas in London and, with a few notable exceptions, the pattern of interviews was very much the same. The applicant would be called or sent to the interview room, and would sit in a chair on the other side of the table opposite the Welfare Officer, who would often have some files or other documents on the table before her, as if to suggest that she was under heavy pressure. The applicant often sat on the edge of the chair, maybe unconsciously getting the message that the officer’s time was valuable, and so prepared for early flight. The first step would be according to the book. The officer would produce a pre-set form, number something or other. I remembered one such interview.
“Your name, please?”
“Maria Coates.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Married or single?”
Maria Coates would now put her left hand into her coat pocket. It had been resting on her knee in full view of anyone who cared to look.
“Single.”
“Address?”
“47 Welleft Street, NW 10.”
“Profession?”
Blushes from Maria Coates, as she looked at the fingers of her right hand in the hope of finding some quick answer. No reply.
“Are you presently employed?”
“No, that is, I was working at a factory, Crannock’s, but I left when the baby was on the way. As soon as I get him into a home I’ll be able to find another job.”
One or two more details and then the form would be put aside and the real business would begin. Undoubtedly I was often very much impressed by the combination of kindliness with efficiency, in probing into the circumstances which led the applicant to seek departmental help; but there was every need to probe, to lift each resistant layer of privacy, as that inherent dignity which is the prerogative of all mankind struggled to keep some little corner of itself inviolate. Yes, the interviewers were kindly and considerate in their way, but they made it clear that they had a job of work to do, and the details they sought were necessarily part of that job. So come on now, give. This is no place to be shy and there are others waiting.
“Have you any relatives who might help you?”
“No, I have a brother in Isleworth, but he’s married and he can’t do anything for me.”
“Maybe if we have a talk with him he’d be willing to help. Can I have his name and address?”
“No, he doesn’t know about the baby, and I don’t want him to know, not yet anyway. He can’t help me, he has a family of his own.”
“Any near friend who might help you?”
“No.”
“What about the baby’s father?”
“No.”
“But I’m afraid … ”
“No.”
Now the right hand went into her coat pocket and the garment was drawn tight around her, as if to give some protection against the embarrassing questions. The interviewer changed tactics to:
“How’s the baby?”
“He’s still in hospital. They say there’s something the matter with his lungs, some shadow or something, so he’s got to stay there until they’re sure he’s all right.”
Aha! Quite a speech. This was safe ground, talking about the baby, but the girl still seemed unrelaxed and watchful.
“What’s his name?”
“I told them up at the hospital it’s Michael, Michael John Coates.”
“Well, Miss Coates, what would you like us to do for you?”
“Put Michael in a Home until I can get a job and look after him myself. Up at the hospital they told me that if everything’s okay with him, I’ll have to take him home next Friday. But I’m staying with friends in Willesden and they can’t have Michael. There’s no room. But as soon as I get a job I could find a room and have him with me. You know, put him in a day nursery in the mornings and collect him at night.”
“That’s all very well, Miss Coates, but it costs a lot to keep a child in a Home, and it would be some time before you could find a job and a room. Surely Michael’s father should help you with him? At least, if it is possible to get Michael into a Home, his father should make some contribution to his maintenance.”
“No.”
There was something grand about her resolution and spirit. She had guts.
“But why?” There was a note of impatience in the officer’s voice.
“From the time I told him I was pregnant he never came near me, never even wrote to me or anything, and when I wrote to him he didn’t even answer. Now I don’t want to have anything more to do with him and I don’t want anything from him.”
The lips closed as tight as a trap. That’s how she felt and there was no use arguing about it. ‘Bravo!’ I thought.
The officer realized that there was no use pursuing that line, and said:
“Well, Miss Coates, I’ll have a word with the Supervisor and we’ll see what we can do. We’ll get in touch with the hospital to inquire about the baby’s illness. Could you call here again in a few days, say next Thursday, then I’ll let you know what’s been decided.”
“Thank you.”
End of interview.
That was the pattern, with the officer’s position and that of the applicant clearly defined. From what I’d heard, the relationship generally improved as the interviews increased in number, and officer and applicant became accustomed to each other. But that necessarily took time and there weren’t enough officers to allow for such waste. It seemed to me that it was quite possible to establish a better working relationship with an applicant from the very beginning. Instead of sitting on the edge of a chair with her legs tucked under in tense unease, she should be relaxed, or as nearly so as her own anxieties and problems would permit, and assured of the officer’s help and service. Yes, service. At most interviews I witnessed officialdom but not service. The officer was the kingpin, firmly in the seat of authority. To serve was consciously to reverse the position, and to make the applicant conscious of being served. Everything should be geared to that. I’d really think about it and try to work it out at my own interviews.
Chapter
Three
EARLY NEXT MORNING I rang the Rosenbergs. Hannah answered. When I told her about Roddy, she was delighted, and asked me to come round to discuss the matter.
“Only one thing though,” I said, now speaking to Hardwick, “the kid’s coloured.”
“Well,” he replied, without hesitation. “So what has he got against Jews?”
I laughed and relaxed. I should have known better than to mention it, but already something seemed to be rubbing off on me. I was encountering so many fears and prejudices each day that I was now looking for them, peeping under each situation just in case some hidden prejudice was lurking there. I’d have to watch myself. That sort of thing just won’t do.
“When do we expect you?” Hannah asked.
“After work this evening,” I said. “Seven, seven-thirty, thereabouts. Okay?”
“Fine, see you then. ’Bye.”
I had two calls to make in Brixton, so I tidied my desk and went downstairs.
First I went to see a Joshua Roberts, 62 Kingston Park Road, Brixton. There was no answer. I’d written stating the time I’d call. Still no answer. A long journey with a blank at the end of it. Oh well, let’s press on.
Second call, Thornton Loomis, 16 Vale Street, Brixton. Let’s ho
pe you’re home, Mr Loomis. After all, you asked for this visit. His letter had arrived that morning and the Supervisor had passed it on to me. It read:
The Director,
The Welfare Department
Dear Sir,
I am a West Indian from Grenada resident and in employment in London only for the purpose of completing my studies.
I am married with two children under six years, both boys. Recently there have arisen serious domestic differences between my wife and myself, as a result of which it seems more than likely that I will find it necessary to dissolve the home and place the children in an Institution until I am ready to return to Grenada. I would welcome an opportunity for discussing the procedure with a member of your staff.
I have the honour to be, Sir,
Yours respectfully,
THORNTON W. LOOMIS
I must have read the letter several times over, trying to get a mental picture of Mr Loomis. The clear, precise statement of his position and intention seemed to indicate, at least, a good educational background. So I was it, the someone to talk to Mr Thornton W. Loomis.
He answered the door and stood looking at me in open-mouthed surprise.
“Mr Loomis?”
“Yes, I’m Mr Loomis.”
“I’m from the Welfare Department.”
“But, I thought … ” he began, not quite knowing what to say. He had not expected someone like me.
“We got your letter and I’ve come to see if I can help in any way.”
“But I didn’t know, I mean, I didn’t think, I mean … ”
“I understand, Mr Loomis. Actually I’ve not been with the Welfare Department very long, you know.”
“Anyway, won’t you come in?”
He led the way down a short flight of stone stairs into the basement. A largish living-room, nicely furnished and clean. The floor was covered with a gaily patterned carpet in varying shades of red with a leafy motif. On the right of the main entrance double doorways led into what may have been bedrooms. Through the half-open door I caught a glimpse of a small bed. Opposite was another doorway from which came sounds of running water and the rattle of dishes. Two small children were playing at trains on the floor. The train was a straight-backed chair lying on its side; they were having an argument over who should be the driver this time. Ages about three and five.
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