“I’m the Welfare Officer dealing with his case, and I thought it would be nice to meet his mother and have a talk with her.”
She stared at me a long moment before replying: “What’s there to talk about?”
“Perhaps you’d like to know how he’s progressing.” Her question had left me floundering in uncertainty.
“No, I wouldn’t like to know.” No change whatever in expression or voice.
“Couldn’t we discuss the matter indoors, Miss Williams?” I felt at a disadvantage standing there. She considered this awhile, then suddenly said: “Okay, come in.”
The room I entered was small, clean, and pleasantly furnished, but musty, as if rarely used; she closed a door which probably led into a bedroom, then opened the heavy curtains across the windows, letting sunlight into the room. We sat at opposite ends of a narrow settee. She crossed her legs and wrapped herself carefully in the terry-robe.
“Well?”
“He’s a very fine little fellow.”
“So?”
“I’m trying to find foster-parents for him, to get him out of the Home.”
“Well, what do you want from me?”
Irritation was slowly crowding all the good intentions out of my mind.
“Don’t you care anything about him?” I asked her.
“No.” The word came out flat and definite. I sat looking at her, wondering about the protracted process which finally made her like this. Something must have been happening inside her also, for now she leaned forward. “Look.” A new strident note was in her voice. “I made up my mind before he was born that I would not look at him, wouldn’t have anything to do with him. I’ve never seen him, don’t know what he looks like, don’t want to know. I’ve had enough, do you hear, and I’m finished with that.”
“Wouldn’t you like to see him? He’s really a lovely child.”
“No, I don’t want to see him.” She stood up and moved behind the settee, as if wishing to put some protective barrier between us. “He’s better off where he is. I didn’t want no child in the first place and I told them so. That woman who came to see me a long time ago, I told her. So what do you want to come bothering me again for?”
I thought of something else.
“We’ve been trying for a long time to locate you.”
“I’ve been away.”
“The Council will expect you to make some contribution to the child’s upkeep, or if you know where his father is we could try to get in touch with him.”
“You and the Council can expect what the hell you like.” There was no anger in her voice, only boredom. “I don’t know where his father is and I don’t want to know. I’m not working, so I’ve got no money to give them.”
I looked around the room; for someone unemployed she seemed to be doing quite well. However, that was none of my business. She must have observed my glance, for now she fairly blazed at me: “Well, what are you looking at?”
I did not answer, but stood up, bade her good-bye and left. It was obvious that she had succeeded in shutting the child completely out of her life, had never allowed herself to know him or care about him, and there seemed to be no point in pursuing it with her. Perhaps, as she had said, Roddy was better off without her. I would report on my interview with her and leave it to those concerned with payments to see her about contributions for the child, but I held no hope for their success.
Hardwick called me a few days later with the news that one of ‘my people’ had called to see him. I laughed at that because I knew that, this time, ‘my people’ referred to someone from the Welfare Department; there seemed to be no end to my identity.
He told me that the Welfare Officer, a woman, had asked a multitude of questions about their religion, number of rooms, the flat, the kind of work they did, and things like that, but had showed little interest in the fact that they wanted to give the child a home. Then she had warned them about problems which were likely to occur as the child grew older.
“What sort of problems?” I interrupted.
She had not mentioned anything specific, but broadly hinted at dark doings, so much so that even Hannah lost her patience and said a few rather sharp things.
“Those questions are all part of a pattern she’s expected to follow,” I explained, “she was not asking them out of personal curiosity.” At this he fairly blazed at me, with the retort that if applicants are generally given the impression that some children are suspect and fostering involves a variety of risks, he was not surprised that so many of them remained in the Homes.
“Take it easy.” I tried to soothe him.
“No, you take it easy,” he replied, and went on to remind me that it was more than a month since they’d completed the application forms, and, so far, all that had happened was that an inexperienced young woman had tried to lecture them on the problems of raising children. He rather suspected that either the child was considered unsuitable for them, or they were unsuitable as parents. In any case he wished we’d hurry up and let them know one way or the other. Then before I could say anything else in reply he yelled that Hannah wanted to speak to me. Her voice held traces of laughter, as if she had been overhearing Hardwick’s outburst and was amused by it.
“Hi, Rick.”
“Hi, Hannah. I hear the Welfare Officer’s visit was not a resounding success.”
“Not altogether her fault. Hardwick rather frightened the poor thing. I somehow feel that she was a bit disappointed in us, probably thought us odd for wanting a coloured child. How long will it be before we know whether or not our application is successful?”
“As soon as she sends in her report it will be dealt with.”
“Weeks?”
“Oh, no, a few days. I’ll try to hurry it up.”
“Fine, but I don’t entertain much hope.”
I saw the officer’s report a few days later. I think the appropriate description of it would be ‘damning with faint praise.’ She spoke about the intellectual atmosphere of the home, and the preoccupation of the principals with their own important activities, guardedly suggesting that they would be able to spare very little time for the boy.
The Chief and I discussed the report, and though I attempted some argument in defence of the Rosenbergs, I had to accept her decision. She put it this way:
“From experience, we have learned to rely on the judgement of our field officers; their usefulness and effectiveness depends on that. From this report it would seem that the Rosenbergs’ own child is frequently deprived of her parents’ company, although it is clear that there is no shortage of love. But for a complete stranger, the close association with the adoptive parents is the important thing—the love could come later. If we must believe this report, and we have no choice but to believe it, Rodwell’s position would in no way be improved by placing him with the Rosenbergs.”
“They’ll be disappointed.”
“That cannot be helped; as a matter of fact it is to be preferred to the disappointment or unhappiness of a helpless small boy, don’t you think? I will communicate my decision to them as soon as possible.”
That was that. Another door firmly closed. So I had to start again.
The following Sunday I visited my friends, the Kinsmans. This time, I told myself, I’d take a different tack. They’d ask me how the job was going, so we’d talk about that and gradually I’d steer the conversation to fostering; if they showed any interest, well and good; if not …
There were several other visitors there when I arrived, all of them involved in greater or lesser degree in the theatre; a television producer and his wife, two actresses and their husbands, an agent, and a young playwright who had recently scored a notable success with her first short play for television. It was a friendly, informal gathering, with topics of conversation varied and interesting while they lasted; I was greatly surprised to discover
that one of the actresses, widely known for her portrayal of starry-eyed, dim-witted blondes, was a charming, intelligent, and even brilliant conversationalist.
Eventually conversation got around to current changes within the social structure in Britain, and this in turn led to discussion on the various immigrant groups in the country and their contributions to its social, cultural and economic development. We talked of Jewish contributions to industry, education, the lively and static arts. Someone said: “But all those contributions were made in spite of many proscriptions and prejudices.”
From another: “Any community of peoples which indulges in restrictive practices of prejudice and discrimination limits itself and inhibits the rate, depth and extent of its own progress.”
“Agreed. Every person in a community has a responsibility to make a positive contribution to its development; but the community itself has an equal responsibility to encourage that contribution and even exploit its development.”
“Many people in Britain enjoy all the financial benefits of citizenship without making, or being expected to make, any contribution in any way.”
“Some people receive financial benefits without enjoying them, and are literally prevented from making any contribution to the country’s welfare; I’m referring to the large number of coloured people now living in Britain. The general opinion is that they are undesirable nuisances and should be discouraged from coming to live among us.”
“I don’t agree that it is a general attitude; it’s not practised in the theatre, for instance.”
“The theatre is a special milieu.”
“That point about personal contribution to social progress, or whatever it was you said, how could that apply to the coloured immigrants; they come here from Africa, India, Pakistan, the West Indies, etc., where standards of work, education, artistic expression, are all considerably lower than ours … ”
“How can you compare standards of artistic expression? Whoever the artist is, whether Academician or caveman, his only intention is to capture a fragment of truth, to freeze it as seen and recognized. This we try to do, each in his own way, interlacing a thread into the changing tapestry of life; and the colour of one’s skin is no criterion of the colour, texture or durability of the threads contributed.”
So it fluctuated, back and forth, coming now to the inevitable question of mixed marriages. They were well in their stride and I had the feeling that they were accustomed to these ‘bull sessions’ and found it stimulating to probe each other’s thoughts and feelings. There might have been Jews among them, if one judged that the very knowledgeable way in which some of them presented the case for or against Jews as a minority group differed from their speculations, notions and theories about Negroes. They treated the subject of mixed marriages as a kind of hobby horse. Each one agreed that a person should be free to marry whom he or she chose, but there immediately followed a whole host of conditions, each of which was defended as reasonable by its champion, and as ardently attacked as illiberal by the detractors.
It seemed to me that, in spite of themselves, the very sound of the words ‘Negro’ or ‘black’ immediately set them groping in the darkness of inherited attitudes and conditioned behaviour, with here and there a jubilant cry as each discovered a ray of light which promised an exit. They tried to reason themselves into liberal thinking and though I sympathized with their efforts, I wondered how well such reasoning would stand up to some of the tests I encountered day by day. If it were possible I would like to buy up every liberal thought expressed so freely and save it for redistribution in some areas of England; brotherly love was always at a premium, and the more the obvious differences between the brothers the less the loving. Could they reason themselves into liberal action?
I tried to stay on the outer edge of these discussions, hearing, feeling, remembering, recording it all in my mind, or as much as was possible; now and then a question would be put to me and I’d be compelled to say my piece. As when someone suggested that, in mixed marriages, the children were the chief sufferers as they could find no place in either camp, so to speak. To this I replied:
“We seem to be ignoring one important factor. Irrespective of who his parents are, a child born into a family is part of that family, so he naturally belongs, and needs from them love, companionship, help, guidance, encouragement, advice, and example in positive living. He needs these things irrespective of his parents’ racial origins. If he is born into a community where tolerance prevails, then there is no special problem. However, a coloured child born in Britain, for instance, not only needs the things I have mentioned, but is severely handicapped without them, because the community considers his colour a handicap and therefore imposes special pressure and proscriptions upon him. He needs those things not as insulation against the pressures, but as sources from which to draw strength in order to meet and deal with them with wisdom, courage and resolution.”
“And supposing, for argument’s sake, such a child didn’t have parents to comfort or advise? Then he is a sitting duck for everything the community feels like throwing at him.”
“Community is a blanket word like ‘nation’ or ‘club’; we can so easily wrap ourselves in it and become anonymous. It must be remembered that we contribute to those prejudices as much by not protesting against them as by deliberately acting in agreement.”
“But what can one do in matters such as this?”
This was the question I had been hoping to hear; the tailor-made opportunity for me to talk about the increasing number of unwanted children, white and black, in the Council’s Homes. I tried hard to be objective about the things I said, merely stating the case without attempting any emphasis, and as soon as I had dealt with the main points and answered their questions, I changed the subject; if anyone wanted to follow it up, they’d have time enough to discuss it further.
Later that afternoon someone started on it; by this time we were all on a Christian-name relationship. So now discussion centred around various suggestions for reducing the numbers of orphan or neglected children in the care of Councils. Someone proposed that an experienced publicity manager be employed to present the case to the public, arguing that there must be thousands of women in Britain who either could not have children or had lost those they had, and in whom the milk of mother-love flowed free and strong. They would jump at the chance of adopting or fostering a child, especially if it were made to seem attractive to them. I said that Councils advertised, rather discreetly and not very much, but they advertised.
Then we got around to discussing the relative merits of fostering ‘for pay or for love’, as someone put it, and the arguments which followed were very lively. These were experts in the matter of buying or selling ideas which either dictated or catered to public taste and appeal and I listened to them with respect and a certain envy. One of them, the playwright, Olga Keriham suggested: “Why don’t they advertise for foster-parents to undertake the care of a child as a job, a paid job, something a sensible, decent housewife could do instead of working all day in a factory, and pay her factory rates or something near it?”
Before I could say anything, someone else replied: “I suppose they don’t want the lovely altruism to be dirtied by any mention of filthy lucre. It’s a bit like the teaching profession, not quite the thing to expect to be paid for assisting in so worthy a cause.”
“Or perhaps they assume that by paying for the job too many undesirable types might be attracted, purely for the money.”
“Not necessarily. I’m sure they have some means of investigating each applicant. I think it would be easier and more practicable to assess a person’s ability and suitability to do a job of work, for pay, than for any other motive, no matter how laudable it seemed.”
They had completely taken over the discussion, and I was pleased to be there, just listening.
“If it were made a paid job, it would be none the less worthwhile. Besi
des, it would encourage many more people to foster the handicapped children.”
“Including the black ones?”
“Including the black ones. Funny, but when people are doing a job for money, that can be the best excuse for doing the job, it can also give the job respectability. As it is I am sure that many a British housewife would not now offer a home to a coloured child through fear of being suspected of certain emotional motives, whereas as a job, she could undertake it with less concern for the opinions of others.”
“I’ve just thought of something,” Olga said, “instead of waiting for a few high-minded people to come forward, they should not only pay foster-parents a practical wage, but also run short courses for them so that they have an opportunity to learn how to cope with such problems as might arise. I believe that if several persons are engaged in a similar activity, it helps them if they meet others similarly occupied, for exchanging ideas and general discussion, and for the security which comes from knowing that you are not some kind of freak doing something unusual.”
“That would provide more foster-parents without discouraging the altruistic ones.”
“Why, certainly.”
“Wouldn’t the home atmosphere be rather sterile if people were merely concerned with fostering as a job of work?”
“Hell, no. Put an adult and a child together and you go a long way to having a family. If the adult begins by caring for the child’s needs and wants in health and sickness, some relationship is bound to develop between them. I’m sure that such relationships develop even in the Homes Ricky spoke about, where one housemother is expected to divide her attention, care and even love, between several children.”
“And what about the children? How would you know that they are receiving good value for the money paid?”
“By the same system of supervision now in operation.”
It all seemed so very reasonable and practical that I immediately suspected there would be many snags not readily noticeable. If an impromptu discussion could produce such pertinent opinions, it seemed reasonable to assume that similar ideas must have occurred to those in authority within the Welfare Department, and if no action had yet been taken on any of the lines suggested, it might well be that there were excellent reasons for it.
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