Paid Servant

by E. R. Braithwaite

  “That’s a lot of nonsense,” Jim said. “It’s merely a means of letting us know who’s who. No sense in trying to have a child fostered or adopted unless you know everything about him.”

  “In that case we need to be consistent,” I replied, thumbing through some papers on my desk. “Here’s a case I dealt with last week. Mother—German, father—Irish, Name: Helmut O’Shea, but nothing about his being half-German or half-Irish. So the Welfare Officers can go right ahead and work towards finding him a place in a family. But the half-Negro child is seen as a problem even before the officer begins to operate.”

  “Come off it, Braithwaite,” he said, with an expansive gesture. “You’re making something out of nothing. These descriptions are merely for our information, so we know who and what the child is, and the right sort of foster-parent to find for it. We’ve got to match the child with the parent, you now.”

  “That does not explain anything,” I retorted, “because in each case the Welfare Officer sees the child concerned. We’re not working in the dark. If you know the child is dark-skinned does it matter where his parents came from? And if somebody wants either to adopt or foster a child, that person may be willing to take any child, providing it is sound in mind and body.”

  “Boy, oh boy!” he exclaimed. “How green you are. It’s not as easy as all that. The reason why so many coloured children remain year after year in the Council’s care is because not many white people will come forward to foster them. Sometimes, you get the odd type who thinks it might be fun to be foster-parent to a black baby, you know, like having a black doll to cuddle and dress up, but they forget that the baby will one day grow up to adolescence, and that’s when the problems really begin. We’ve got to explain this to them and you’d be amazed at how soon many of them change their minds. That’s why we’re hoping that you will be able to find some foster-parents among the coloured people.”

  “Seems to me that if any white person showed a wish to foster or adopt a coloured child, our first step should be to encourage instead of frightening them off with talk of problems and adolescence. These things can be handled in either a positive or negative way. You have just described the negative way. I think I would be inclined to encourage the prospective foster-parent to see the child’s need for what all children need, love, security, help and encouragement, emphasizing the similarities between the coloured child and his white counterpart. I would help them to understand that all children pass through difficult periods during growth and development, and that a coloured child’s problems need be no greater.”

  “And suppose something happened later on in that child’s life? Suppose it didn’t work out the way you hoped. What then?” he asked.

  “We are not expected to anticipate the future. Our business is to help, to help in every way to make these relationships work. But we must first ourselves believe that there is nothing essentially different between people; I think these labels are here in these files because we are too concerned with differences. I’d like to see them dropped.”

  “You know something, chum?” he remarked. “You’re new to this job. The system was devised by people who know their stuff. My advice to you is that you wait until you’ve been here as long as some of us before you begin criticizing things,” and with that he turned his attention to his own files.

  My first step was always to discuss each case with the Welfare Officer who had previously dealt with it and then, wherever possible, start again from the beginning. Experiences a few weeks ago had taught me that some of these difficult cases became so because of some unfortunate breakdown in the relationship between the Welfare Officer and the person he was trying to help. Here was a case in point:

  Jonathan Clarke, a Jamaican, had been resident in England for two years and owned a small, semi-detached house in Brixton where he lived with his wife and ten-year-old son, Bobby, both of whom had joined him in England four months ago. Mr Clarke was employed by British Railways as a guard on goods trains and this meant that he was at work most nights and asleep during the daytime. He was able to give very little attention to his son, who attended a tough neighbourhood school, and gradually the boy took advantage of his mother’s easy-going disposition and fell in with a group of little toughs of about his own age. In out-of-school hours these youngsters plagued the local Woolworth store, stealing an assortment of articles which were, for the most part, of little use to themselves, and eventually they were caught and taken to the local police station. Mr Clarke was preparing to go off to his work when a policeman called to tell him of his son’s arrest. Feeling angry and humiliated, he went to the police station and heard the tale of his son’s pilferings. The boy was bailed into his father’s care, with the injunction that he appear at the next sitting of the Juvenile Court. Mr Clark seemed to meet the situation with remarkable aplomb, but no sooner had he returned home with Bobby than he gave vent to his feelings by thrashing the boy very soundly with a stout leather belt.

  Bobby attended school next morning, but at first refused to strip off his shirt and vest for the Physical Training period. When he was finally persuaded to strip, his horrified teacher saw the ugly weals on his body and reported it to his headmaster. The local office of the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children was promptly informed and the upshot of it was that Bobby was removed to the safety of a Children’s Home and Mr Clarke was summoned to appear before the local magistrate. This seemed to him quite intolerable because he felt sure that, as an honest, hard-working and respectable parent it was his right and responsibility to discipline his child without interference from anyone; this was something everyone understood in Jamaica, and he did not either welcome or understand what he considered to be arbitrary intervention in his domestic affairs. He said as much to the magistrate but nevertheless was rather severely reprimanded. Mr Clarke felt hurt and angry. Furthermore, he was told that he would be expected to pay for Bobby’s maintenance while the boy remained at the Home, and this seemed to him to be the last straw. He refused. He also refused to attend the hearing of Bobby’s case. The Welfare Officer assigned to the case called on Mr Clarke but found him still angry and uncooperative. He refused to see his son, or let his wife see the boy, and further refused to see any official.

  This state of affairs had continued for about three months, and then I had been asked to take over. I had discussed the case with my predecessor, then been to see Mr Clarke. There was no reply to my knocking. I wrote him several letters to arrange an interview but without reply. Finally I called at his house one rainy Sunday morning at 9.30 a.m. To do this I had to leave my home in Ilford soon after seven, but I wanted to be sure of catching him soon enough after his night work and before he went to bed, as I knew he would not want to be waked out of his sleep. I pounded his knocker several times before an upstairs window opened and a rather stern-looking Negro shouted at me:

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? What do you want?”

  “Good morning, are you Mr Clarke?” I asked, looking up at him, the light rain falling on my face.

  “Why, what do you want?”

  “I’ve come to see you about Bobby,” I replied.

  “What about him? Who the hell sent you here at this ungodly hour of the morning?”

  “I’m from the Welfare Department, and I’ve come to discuss the matter with you.”

  “Oh, so the other one sent you, did he? Well, what I told him goes for you, too. I don’t want to talk to any of you and I don’t want anybody making a racket at my front door, do you hear? So you clear off back to your white boss and leave me alone.”

  “I won’t take more than a few minutes of your time, Mr Clarke,” I promised. “I know you would like to rest yourself, but I’m sure it will help if we have a little talk.”

  “Okay,” he replied, “go on, talk, I can hear you from here, although it won’t make any difference. Go on, talk.”

  Good L
ord, I thought, this is going to be tough. How was I going to wangle this?

  “Mr Clarke,” I said, making my voice less conciliatory, “you really surprise me. You’re a West Indian. Since when do West Indians

  discuss their private business in this way for all and sundry to hear? You must have been away from home a long, long time.” I wondered if he’d bite at that. The rain was coming down a little heavier now. This was becoming damned uncomfortable and my neck was feeling a bit stiff.

  “All right,” he said, at long last. “I’m coming down, but you’d better make it quick.”

  It took him nearly five minutes to reach the front door. Why should he hurry on my account, I mused; after all, he is cosy and dry inside. My sweet blood-brother.

  He opened the door wide enough to stand facing me, but made no move to invite me inside. “Well,” he said. I was getting wet and well on the way to losing my temper. After all, Bobby was his son and the least he could do was show me a little courtesy. But if I annoyed him and he shut the door in my face then I’d made the long, tiring journey for nothing.

  “Mr Clarke,” I said, making it up as I went along, but speaking in a very quiet voice so as to force him to give me his attention. “I think I ought to make my position very clear. I am here at this ungodly hour, as you call it, because I have to be here. In fact, you can call me your servant, as I am paid to serve you in this matter which concerns your son. But I can’t serve you if you won’t let me. Now you can say to your servant either ‘Get the hell away from here’ in which case I’ll have to go, or ‘Okay, come in for a minute and let’s talk about it’. Now, I’ll do whatever you say to me. What will it be, Mr Clarke?”

  He just stood there looking at me, his face showing nothing, not interest, nor anger, nothing. Then, suddenly he smiled; then he laughed and pushing the door wide open he said: “Okay, countryman, come in.”

  I was relieved. He took me into a warm, comfortable living-room and helped me out of my coat, then we sat down to talk. Or rather he talked. It was a real hate session. He gave me his version of the events and explained his disappointment and humiliation at the discovery that his son was a thief. At this point he became very emotional, very close to tears. So he bashed the boy, but who wouldn’t, eh, countryman? When a boy he too had been thrashed for his misdeeds and he was sure it helped him to grow into an honest, God-fearing man. Now these damned interfering people wanted to teach him how to bring up his own son. Well, to hell with them, if they were so sure that they could do a better job, let them get on with it. But they wouldn’t get a red cent out of him. They’d have to put him in jail first. And more of the same.

  I let him get it all out of his system, or as much of it as would come out. Then I told him how long I had lived in England and of the way in which things were done in the English society. I explained about the N.S.P.C.C., its origin and the important role it played on behalf of children.

  “What is worth noticing, Mr Clarke, is that this society took the same interest in the welfare of your son as they would have taken had he been any other person’s child. Apart from your own feelings, that is something to consider. It indicates to me that here are people who are concerned with the well-being of children, all children. Is this not what you want for your son, that in this country he will get equal treatment? Let’s look at it this way. As citizens, both you and your son are entitled to protection from any threat to life or limb. If someone else had beaten your son in that way, the law would have given your son its protection and punished the other man. The only difference here is that you, and not a stranger, are the person who has been punished.”

  I let that bit sink in. He had not thought of it in that way; neither had I until now. But he was in a reasonable mood.

  Suddenly switching the discussion, he said: “I want the boy back,” as if expecting an argument from me.

  “Sure, Mr Clarke,” I said. “That’s why I’m here. We would like to see your son back here where he belongs. By the way, how is his mother taking his absence?”

  He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She’s been giving me hell; wants me to go and get him.”

  “Fine, we’ll soon get everything straightened out.”

  “Countryman,” he said, “I’m glad we had this talk. If the other Welfare man had explained things like you did, the boy could have been back home long ago.”

  “That’s not quite fair, is it, Mr Clarke?” I said to him. “After all, you yourself admitted that you didn’t give him a chance. He, like myself, would like to help you, is paid to help you, but we also need your co-operation.”

  We chatted a while longer and I left him, assured that now he would co-operate and before long the whole matter would be straightened out. For me, it was another lesson learned in the appreciation of human dignity. If I wanted to be of service to people, very often I must be prepared to serve them on their terms.

  As I walked off down the road I reflected on Mr Clarke’s attitude. At first he was very rude and impatient. None of this had anything to do with his colour or mine. He believed he had acted in his son’s best interests and considered my intrusion unwarranted. There are many people in Britain, English people, who know all about British policy regarding cruelty to children, and who nevertheless would have given their children just as sound a thrashing for a similar offence. What had been needed early in Mr Clarke’s case was patience and an understanding of his parental position, together with the assumption that he might be unfamiliar with the law in Britain as applied to children. He and I talked, not because we are both black. The ‘countryman’ bit came into it only after I was persistently patient. Countryman. He might even now be wondering if I, too, was a Jamaican.

  Chapter

  Five

  WHENEVER POSSIBLE I MADE an opportunity to visit Roddy. At first he would barely acknowledge me, but gradually he began to accept my presence, occasionally inviting my attention to, or comment on, something relating to a game or other activity with which he was occupied; once he took me on a tour of the grounds surrounding the house, and pridefully showed me the chickens and rabbits which were kept as pets. Everything about him was so completely English that I quite forgot about the colour of his skin, and wondered how anyone could fail to love him and want him.

  One day, as we strolled in the grounds, he suddenly pointed to a flash of yellow movement and said: “Flutterby.”

  “Butterfly,” I corrected, following the erratic flight of the small Cabbage Yellow.

  “Flutterby,” he insisted, with a certain positive finality. The action of the little insect seemed fully to support the name he had coined for it.

  One day he suddenly turned from his game of ‘bus conductors’ to ask me: “Do you know my daddy?” His eyes were grave in thought, as if the question was part of a deep longing, not understood, but persistent and disturbing. Probably my answer could be part of the same thing, and for a moment I wished I could work miracles.

  “No, Roddy,” I replied, “but I wish I did.”

  “Susan said you’re my daddy’s friend because you’re black.”

  Abruptly he turned again to his game, as if vaguely conscious that I could offer very little in that direction.

  The weeks slipped by without any word from the Rosenbergs or the Welfare Officer who was asked to interview them, and I was getting more and more concerned; then one morning Hardwick rang me. “Rick?”

  “Speaking. Oh, hello, Hardwick.” I’d recognized his voice, belatedly.

  “What’s happening?”

  “The usual round, you know. No difficulties which a nice little car won’t solve.”

  “Then get one.”

  “Can’t afford it. What can I do for you?”

  “You can tell your Welfare people to get a move on about my application. It’s over three weeks and no answer from them. You told me they were sending someone to see us from this
area. When is he coming, next year? Or have they decided that we are not acceptable as foster-parents?”

  I made excuses as quickly as I could think of them, but they may have sounded unconvincing, because I was as irritated as he by the delay; however, I promised to follow the matter myself and let him have some news in a few days. Afterwards I telephoned the Area office concerned; a Welfare Officer had been assigned to visit the Rosenbergs, but had not yet ‘got around to it’.

  I spoke with that officer, and explained that there was some urgency about the matter, and finally extracted a promise that she would make the visit before the end of the week.

  I remembered the address of Roddy’s mother which Miss Storey had given me, and, acting on impulse, decided to have a try at finding her.

  The address was in a dingy side street, not far from Paddington Station; the apartment house was, from the outside, as clean as the prevailing soot and grime allowed. Miss Williams’ flat was at street level; the closed door and heavily curtained windows gave it a somewhat deserted air, and it was without much hope of finding her in that I knocked on the door. I heard movement inside, then the door was opened. She stood there, blinking in the bright sunshine, her slim figure wrapped around in a thick towel robe, the long, wavy brown hair hanging slackly around her face and on to her shoulders. A pretty face, girlish, except for the eyes, large, brown, regarding me with casual inquiry.

  “Well?”

  “Good afternoon. Are you Miss Williams?”

  “What if I am?”

  “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “Your son Roddy.”

  “What about him?” The voice was flat, the eyes cool, unwavering, the attitude relaxed, casual, deliberate. I had the feeling that if I made the slightest slip, said the wrong thing, she would just as casually slam the door in my face.