Mr Loomis led me to an overstuffed settee away from the children.
“Please sit down. I’ll tell the wife you’re here.” He went through the doorway into the room from which came the sounds of water and crockery. After a few minutes he returned. About thirty, five feet eight or thereabouts and thin, with sharp, chiselled features and straight, black hair brushed neatly backward away from his forehead. An intelligent, sensitive face, but slightly womanish, I thought. Indian origin. Neatly dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt and a University tie.
I took another look at the children. They were lighter skinned than their father, with brownish curling hair, both chubby, well-nourished boys. One of them had a host of freckles on his face. Handsome boys. I wondered what the wife looked like.
“My wife will be with us in a moment,” he said. Very formal and distant. Probably disappointed with me. He was all set to receive a white person, and look at what turned up. I’d have to get round that somehow.
“Couple of nice boys,” I remarked. “Born here?” I knew they were. Their voices were as English as old Big Ben, but softer. Anyway, it was an opening gambit.
“Oh, yes. Both born here,” he replied, giving very little.
“Economics or Law?” I’d try another angle, this time with the tie.
“Economics,” he said. “London School of Economics.” He said this with pride, placing himself where he belonged. A person of quality.
This was a better start. I asked him about his studies and plans for the future and learned that he intended to return home and go into politics. He asked me about my own work, and for the record I gave him a brief run-down on my life in Britain, watching him—university, the Royal Air Force, schoolmaster, now this. I watched the change happening in his face. He liked the sound of that, the prestige value of famous institutions, the mystique of belonging. Each moment my stock was going up with him. I nearly laughed as I thought that each moment my skin was becoming whiter to him, more acceptable.
“Great,” he said, “great. But why are you doing this job?”
“Oh, that’s a long story. Maybe one of these days when we have time I’ll tell you about it.”
He was looking at me now with something near to respect. Then his wife appeared. We both stood up as she came in, drying her hands on her gay, frilly edged apron.
I hope I had enough sense to keep my mouth from gaping. She was a peach, a knockout. Lovely and pink-flushed from the warmth of her efforts in the kitchen. As tall as her husband. Fair and sun-touched, with a mass of tumbling curly brown hair. An oval face out of which her large brown eyes shone darkly, mischievously. No make-up on the full, pouting lips. Beautiful, even teeth, with a glint of gold on one molar. Probably Portuguese, I thought, with other things. A lot of different blood had gone into producing this lovely woman. Her movement towards us was easy and light, flowing from the hips but proud, haughty.
She was dressed in a suit of red linen, short-sleeved, with no ornaments of any kind. Her eyebrows were thick, lustrous and untouched. Some men are born lucky, I thought.
We shook hands. Hers was strong and warmly damp. Her husband may have prepared her for me, because she showed no surprise in her manner. In fact, she seemed pleased.
“Glad to meet you, Mr Braithwaite,” she said. I had not yet mentioned my name to either of them.
“I peeked,” she continued, laughing. “Recognized you. Saw you on TV last week. Besides, I read your book.”
One up to the lady in the red linen suit. Her husband took his cue. “Oh, yes. I heard about you, but I didn’t connect the name,” he said. “I knew you had joined the Welfare Service,” he added. “You mentioned it during the TV programme.”
Well, there we were, all nice and cosy and informed. So now we could get on with the business in hand. I noticed that she sat in a chair some distance from her husband, although there was plenty of room beside him where he sat on the settee.
“We received your letter at the office, Mr Loomis,” I began, “so I am here to offer any help I can. But first I ought to explain something of my position. Normally we do not interfere in anyone’s domestic affairs, but where children are involved we would like to help in any way which would avoid their ever coming into the Council’s care. From the tone of your letter it would seem that whatever action you contemplate might possibly affect the children adversely, so I’ve come along to try to help you sort things out. I’m no specialist in these matters, but I’ve been in Britain a long time, and my experiences here may be of some use to you.”
While I was speaking, his wife was staring at me in wide-eyed surprise. Now she stood up, looking from him to me.
“What letter are you talking about? What’s this all about?” And to him: “What on earth have you been up to?”
He became rather flustered and said to her: “Take it easy. I’ll explain it to you later.” Then to me: “Look, Mr Braithwaite, all I wanted was that the Welfare people would send someone to tell me what would happen to the children in case my wife and I parted, or something like that.”
“Thornton!” she exclaimed, the look on her face painful. “You didn’t send that letter?”
“I told you I would,” he replied.
“But I thought you were joking.” Her voice was a sob. The colour had receded from her face, leaving it sickly pale.
I looked at him, sitting there smug and sure of himself, and I had the feeling that this little man was trying to use the Department and me, or whoever had come, in an attempt to frighten his wife, for some reason best known to himself. She turned to me, her lips trembling with anguish and humiliation.
“Mr Braithwaite, will you please tell me what was in the letter my husband wrote to you?”
I looked at him, wondering how I should answer that one. This thing between them was not really my business. Or was it? Play for time, I told myself.
“I would have thought your husband consulted with you before writing it, Mrs Loomis.”
“Please, please,” she replied. “I don’t know anything about it. Last week he made some silly remark about putting the children in a home, but I thought he was teasing.”
“You should know me by now,” he said. “When I say I’ll do a thing, I do it.” His remark was both smug and cruel.
“It’s not fair,” she cried, and covering her face with her apron, she collapsed in her chair.
I began to dislike Mr Loomis. I felt embarrassed and a bit helpless in this situation and I didn’t like the feeling one little bit. I didn’t like being used this way, by him or anyone. I stood up. If I remained here any longer, chances were I would become angry and maybe take sides. That was not what I was paid to do. “I think I’d better leave you to sort this out between you,” I said.
She jumped up, red-eyed but now very angry and determined.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said, her voice quiet but intense. “I don’t know what it is my husband has written about me, but whatever it is we’re going to have it out here and now. I didn’t ask him to send for you, but now that you’re here, you’re going to stay until I know what’s going on.” With this, she planted herself firmly between me and the doorway. She looked angry enough to do anything.
“Stop acting the fool and sit down,” her husband said, harshly.
She ignored him and remained where she was. This was getting us nowhere. I decided to stay and see it through. I sat down. She walked over and picked up her chair and placed it between me and the door, then sat in it. Evidently she was determined that I should not leave until the matter had been aired.
“Mrs Loomis,” I said. “Your husband wrote us stating that there were serious difficulties between you and warned us that he might try to place the children in an Institution.”
She was calm now, in complete control of herself. The children went on with their game, happily ignoring us. Her voice was low-pitch
ed but clear and purposeful. “He did, did he? All right. I didn’t think he’d ever do something like that to me. It was a mean, dirty trick.” She looked directly at him. “And all because of his jealousy. That’s all it is, jealousy. He knows it’s not true, but he won’t let himself believe it’s not true.”
So she told it, slowly and clearly.
At first, before they were married, she used to think it was nice, his being jealous like that. She was nursing then, at Clapham General Hospital. “I’m from British Guiana. I came over here to study nursing, I met him at a dance during my final year,” she explained.
Right from the beginning, he was jealous of everyone she knew, so she had to drop all her friends. According to him, the white men she knew only wanted to use her, and the coloured ones weren’t good enough. Only him. She supposed it felt good having someone feel that way about her.
After she finished her finals they were married. They had a little money and bought this house, on a mortgage. He was studying at the Polytechnic then, in the evenings, and working on the Underground during the day. They rented the rooms and flats upstairs and he stopped working to give more time to his studies.
“From the time we were married he wouldn’t let me talk to anyone as long as it was a man; not even the friends I knew before I met him. Especially Negroes. He dislikes them, thinks he’s above them. He won’t rent a room to a Negro, only Indians like himself or white people.
“Even the people who live in this house I mustn’t talk to, and all day long he’s with his books, so I mustn’t disturb him. Sometimes in the afternoon I’d take the boys into the park to play. The other day a young man passed by and admired the boys, then spoke to me for a few minutes, you know, telling me about his own children or something like that. Thornton was coming out to meet me and must have seen me talking to the young man who went off before he arrived. He began asking me all kinds of questions about him, and wouldn’t believe that I’d never seen the young man before, or even knew his name.”
It had been like that ever since. They never went anywhere because he claimed he was too busy studying, and he wouldn’t let her go anywhere by herself. Not even to the cinema. When she went shopping he watched the time, and if she was a little late he hinted that perhaps she had met somebody, some man or other.
“Do you know what it’s been like for me these past four years? Cooped up in these two rooms day and night? Well, I got fed up with it and recently I’ve been going off to the cinema in the afternoons with the children. So naturally he says I’ve been meeting a man. He’s even been questioning the children about me, trying to get them to say something. Then he began threatening to take them away. I just don’t know what’s the matter with him. I think he ought to see a doctor or something.” She paused, breathing deeply.
“Two weeks ago he began sleeping out here, on the settee. So I thought if that’s the way he wants it, that’s fine with me. And when I didn’t go to him, he said it was because there was some other man, so I didn’t need him any more. That’s all he does, day and night, hints and accusations, until I’m fed up to here.” She put her right hand to her throat.
“He said he’d tell the Welfare people to come and take the children because I was not fit to care for them, but I thought he was joking. I didn’t think he’d really do it, not really.” Her face crumpled, and she covered it with her hands, sobbing pitifully.
I was enraged. I would have liked to take Mr Bigshot Loomis by the throat and shake the life out of him. But all I did was sit there while she sobbed and he watched her, his face cold and expressionless. The boys had stopped their game and now ran to their mother, their faces frightened, and hung on to her, hiding their curly heads in her lap. They, too, were crying, not understanding, but in sympathy with her, and responding to the fear of something beyond their grasp.
“My wife doesn’t understand,” Mr Loomis said. “I’m merely trying to keep her out of trouble. I know what men are and I don’t want her to get mixed up in anything. I came to Britain to study and qualify, and I intend to do just that and keep myself to myself. I know what West Indians are like and I don’t want her mixing with any of them. As soon as I take my finals, we’re leaving for home.”
He had it worked out very neatly.
“And meanwhile, what about your wife and children?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “I’m taking care of them, aren’t I? They’re comfortable here, and she gets enough each month to run the house and pay for everything. All the rent that comes in from upstairs I turn over to her, because I’ve got enough to do with my studies. What more does she want?
“I’ve told her I don’t want any men hanging around her. She’s married and that should be enough for her. I don’t want her mixing with all kinds of people. This is not our country, and we’ve got to keep to ourselves. She’s got enough to do taking care of the children.”
She straightened up, rubbing her eyes. “Mr Braithwaite, do you know he won’t even let the boys play with the neighbour’s children? The only time they get out of here is when I take them out. I tell him they need to play with children their own age, but he won’t listen.
“He’s full of jealousy and prejudice, that’s his trouble. We have an empty room upstairs and last Friday a young African came to inquire about it. Thornton had gone to the tobacconist for cigarettes so I asked the young man to come in and wait. Do you know, he won’t rent the room to him. Just because he’s a Negro. He doesn’t like Negroes. Anyone would think he was white, the way he carries on. Do you know what he said to me when he came to the kitchen just now? He said, ‘there’s a black fellow outside from the Welfare Office’. That’s what he said. Although he’s dark himself he seems to hate dark people. Maybe he only married me because I’m fair.”
She laid it all right on the line. He’d asked for it and now he’d got it.
“Maybe,” she continued, “the best thing for me is to take the children home with me to British Guiana, don’t you think? I can stay with my parents until he qualifies and is ready to return. But I don’t want to remain here like this any more.”
He said nothing. I wondered what he was thinking in that handsome well-shaped head of his. Poor bastard, I thought. You’re not big enough inside of you to cope with this beautiful woman. Not nearly big enough to appreciate your good fortune. What she said about him not liking Negroes was his affair. Maybe he didn’t even like himself very much. And he had hopes of going into politics? Some hope. But then again, maybe he’d make it. Maybe there was a set-up in Grenada which would suit him, or else he’d go somewhere where the political climate favoured his type of thinking. Probably somewhere like British Guiana where he could join in the Negro versus Indian tug-of-war. To hell with him, I thought. She’d fight him. He’d never break her spirit. I’d just let him know how the land lay as far as I, as a Welfare Officer, was concerned. The black fellow from the Welfare Office.
“Mrs Loomis, I cannot advise you in the matter of your relationship with your husband. But I must make one thing clear. The Department will not consider taking over the care of children in circumstances such as these. If you find difficulty in straightening out your marital difficulties, there are agencies and people well qualified to help and advise you, much more than I could.”
Suddenly it occurred to me that I was slipping up on this job. I was here to help, and the nature of that help should be in terms of the existing difficulties. At least I should try, not back away mouthing a lot of evasive claptrap. Sure, the situation was a bit outside my experience, but if I wanted to learn how to serve, how to be helpful, then I had to learn in the best of possible ways, by doing.
“Look, Mr Braithwaite,” Loomis said. “Selma doesn’t understand, but I do. In this country it’s unwise for dark-skinned people to make themselves too conspicuous, you know. No one would know that Selma isn’t white, but the children and myself, that’s different. I try to exp
lain this to her. When we get back home we can go out and entertain, and do all sorts of things, because we’ll be among our own people. But, over here, the best thing for us to do is keep ourselves to ourselves.”
I was beginning to get the picture now. Something, some time, had either hurt or badly frightened this little man, and he was on the retreat.
“So meanwhile you intend to hide yourself away, you and your family, like invisible people,” I asked.
“All I intend to do is mind my own business,” he said firmly.
“You are an intelligent man, Mr Loomis,” I said, “and I feel sure that you may have very good reasons for wanting to hide yourself away, to mind your own business, as you say. But I’d like to suggest one thing to you. Your usefulness when you return to Grenada would be very much greater if your experience of life in Britain was as wide as you could make it. After all, Grenada is a very mixed society. As a leader, you will be expected to deal with all kinds of persons. Then, purely for political reasons, it might be a good thing to understand as much as you can about many kinds of people before returning to Grenada.”
It occurred to me that this might be a good line to take with this ambitious little man.
“Here in England you have a wonderful opportunity at close hand for learning about people. Many of the problems you will find in Grenada have their counterpart here, and more than that, you will be able here to learn about new pressures and tensions long before they do appear on the scene in Grenada. But you cannot learn these things if you shut yourself away from contact with others.
“With your intelligence and ambition, it would be silly to be afraid of people. If you spend from three to five years here being afraid, you might find it difficult to lose the habit when you return home. You cannot live in a state of suspension here and then expect to behave like a responsible person later. You’ve got to stop being afraid and begin being responsible.”
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