“I think I’ve changed my mind about sending them home,” he replied. “They’d be better off here in England where I could keep an eye on them, and they’d have the chance of a good education. When I get out I could find a job or maybe start another shop and after a while have them with me.”
This was said in the same persistent, whining voice which somehow I found very off-putting. I felt prompted to ask: “Would you be able to raise the funds necessary to open another shop?”
“Yes,” he replied, quickly. “I’ve got some friends who’d stake me, you know; all I’d need is enough to open a shop and buy some furniture and equipment.”
“Perhaps one of them could be your guarantor for the parole.”
“Well, not exactly,” the Welfare Officer intervened. “Guarantors are only accepted from certain specific categories of persons.”
I got the message. I was in a category marked “Acceptable”. Then an idea occurred to me. “Perhaps Mr Cosson can get in touch with the Migrants’ Division of the West Indies Commission,” I suggested. “They might be able to help and advise on the question of repatriating the children and might even make some suggestions about guaranteeing his parole.”
I must have touched on something, an exposed nerve in the carefully arranged persona, for a flash of the Cosson I had first met showed itself. “They’re no damned good, those people. Oh, excuse me, Sir,” this was more to the prison officer than to me. “I’ve written to them time and again, but they say they can’t do anything for me. They wanted to write and tell my parents I’m in jail, and ask them if they’d have the children, but I refused to let them do it. Those black big-shots know how to talk, that’s all.”
“Well, as I’ve already told you, Mr Cosson, I cannot promise you anything. I’ll put the matter to the authorities when I return to London and, if they think it is in the best interests of the children for you to visit them, they may decide to take some action. I can promise you no more than that, except that I will write to you promptly after discussing the matter in London.”
Soon afterwards Mr Cosson left us.
“Do you think your people will agree to standing as guarantor for him?” the prison official asked.
“It seems unlikely, but I’ll inquire. I don’t know if there is any precedent for it.”
“From what you say, the children, especially the eldest girl, miss him. Won’t it be a good thing for him to see her, and the others?”
“It most certainly would, but I don’t know whether the Council would consider that a good enough reason for guaranteeing a prisoner’s parole.”
More than that I would not say, and left soon afterwards, still somewhat doubtful about Mr Cosson’s sincerity.
Next day I discussed the matter with the Supervisor, taking care to let no hint of my own reservations prejudice Mr Cosson’s position. She took a completely different view.
“This matter of a guarantee is utter nonsense. If we agree to it and, while he is out he commits some misdemeanour, they could not possibly blame us for it. They must assume that it is reasonably assured that Mr Cosson will spend the two days away and return to prison without jeopardizing his chances of an early release, so I think we too can take a chance on him, providing we can be sure he will visit the children. Do you know of any person who would accommodate him for the time?”
I didn’t know of anyone, but I promised to inquire around.
“Who’ll pay for it?” I asked her.
“I suppose we will,” she said. “We could justify it on the grounds of its advantage to the children. Another thing, I have news on the Rodwell Williams case. Middlesex are digging their heels in, both on the money and our poaching on their preserves, so I’m taking the matter higher up. I’ve had a talk with our people at County Hall and they’re prepared to back us up all the way. Have the Tamerlanes met him yet?”
“Yes, they were all there last Saturday.”
“Good. I see no reason why they should not go ahead getting to know each other. Well, see what you can do about Mr Cosson.”
Before my office colleagues disappeared on their various rounds I mentioned to them that I wanted to find temporary accommodation—two days, for a prisoner on ticket-of-leave, in the hope that one of them might know someone who knew someone who could rent me a room.
After some discussion back and forth, Miss Drake remarked: “If you have any difficulty getting him a room I know somewhere you might try,” and she scribbled an address on a slip of paper. “They’re not coloured, but I don’t suppose they’d mind renting him a room, especially if we recommend him.”
This was generally characteristic of the Welfare Officers whom I met, either as close colleagues or at occasional consultations; this readiness to help, to share a colleague’s problem. At times I disagreed with them about certain concepts or attitudes, especially where coloured people were concerned, but whenever I needed their help or advice, it was immediately available, without exception.
The slip of paper Miss Drake had given me carried no telephone number, so I decided to drop around and see the couple, Mr and Mrs Redmond, at 63 Windsor Drive, Pimlico.
It was an unpretentious terrace house, in a quiet side street. Now and again I come upon these places, sudden oases in the heart of one of the world’s largest cities; quiet, as if long ago there had been a successful conspiracy among all kinds of vehicular traffic to boycott the place. The inhabitants themselves seemed to be conditioned to the situation and I noticed that a milk roundsman placed some bottles very carefully down beside a door as if reluctant to disturb the prevailing peace by a solitary clink.
Mrs Redmond opened the door to my knock, and seemed a bit startled to discover a black caller on her doorstep. As so often happens, she asked me a question: “Yes?” she said. One of these days someone will think up a fitting reply to that one. To me it generally indicates a mixture of surprise, fear, and distrust.
“I’m from the Welfare Department,” I said. “Miss Drake, one of the Welfare Officers, suggested that I come to see you.”
“Oh, Miss Drake. Oh, yes. Won’t you come in?” Mention of Miss Drake’s name had reassured her, now she smiled, and I realized that any housewife would have reacted in very much the same way if confronted by a stranger on her doorstep.
She led me to a large warm room where her husband was busy with several cages of yellow canaries, some of which were twittering excitedly as they hopped about their perches. I introduced myself and quickly told them my business. I merely stated that Mr Cosson was in prison, but said nothing about the crimes which had taken him there. I explained that the Department was guaranteeing his short parole because of his children, and that we would pay the charges for the room.
“Would he require meals?” Mrs Redmond asked. I had not thought about that, but I might as well go the whole way.
“It would help, if it would not be inconvenient for you,” I said.
“No inconvenience at all,” she assured me.
So far they had not asked me the one question I had been expecting to hear, so I raised it.
“Mr Cosson is black.”
“We more or less gathered that,” Mr Redmond said, as casually as he might have remarked on the weather. Then his wife mentioned an inclusive figure for Mr Cosson’s board and lodging for the two nights, surprisingly low. I accepted and left, after promising to let them know when he was expected to arrive.
Later that day I wrote to the Welfare Officer at the prison, informing him that I was empowered to act as guarantor for Mr Cosson, and giving details of the accommodation arranged. I wrote, at the same time, to Mr Cosson, saying very much the same thing. After hearing from him I would let the Matron at Falconbridge know about his intended visit so that she could prepare the children to meet him …
Just as I was packing up for the day the telephone operator rang through to say a lady had called to see me and
was in the waiting-room. Not my best time of day, and I went downstairs hoping to get it over with as quickly as possible. To my surprise, it was Miss Bruce. Motherhood certainly seems to bring out the best of some women, investing them with a certain special beauty and serenity. Her full figure was smartly set off by a simple dress of grey wool, her wavy hair was attractively arranged in a high chignon (I guessed there was Indian admixture somewhere along the line). The face was smooth, girlish, bright eyed, with the barest trace of lipstick on the wide, full mouth. Looking at her now, no one would imagine that she was the mother of three children, and was faced with more than a bucketful of problems.
“Hello, Mr Braithwaite.”
“It’s good to see you looking so well, Miss Bruce. How are things with you?”
“Not too bad.” Low voiced. And rather defenceless. A veritable sitting duck. The kind of woman who has to have a man to lean on, and will try and try again.
“How’s the baby?”
“He’s fine, but he’s in a nursery. The hospital people fixed it up for me. You see, the landlord wouldn’t let me have the room again; the hospital people went to see him, but he said I couldn’t bring the baby back with me. The Almoner told me to ask you if you could arrange for Charles—that’s the baby’s name, Charles Albert—for him to go to the same place as Ann and Yvonne, so I can visit them together. As soon as I am better I will get a job and try to find a room where I can have them all with me.”
God, how naïve she was. Find a job and a room big enough for the four of them. One weak woman and three helpless infants. She’d never do it, by herself. She wasn’t the type, at least she didn’t seem to be. But, sometimes these weak-looking people could exhibit amazing reserves of fortitude. One never knew.
“I’ll see what I can do about it, Miss Bruce.”
“I would like to visit the twins, but … ” She paused in embarrassment, and I felt sure she was blushing, invisibly. I guessed the reason.
“We could arrange for you to travel down there,” I said. “I’ll go upstairs and get you some money for your return bus and train fare to the nursery at Brighton.”
This was one of our services, to provide funds in cases such as this, that the contact between parent and child be maintained.
“Give the girls a kiss for me,” I said when she was leaving.
Next morning I went to the Migrants’ Services Division, a subsection of the Colonial Office directly concerned with West Indian immigrants, and staffed mainly by West Indians. I wanted to discover the circumstances which would surround Mr Cosson’s efforts to send his children to British Guiana, providing he still intended pursuing that course.
I was most courteously received at the Division, and spent a little time in pleasant chit-chat with several of the staff, many of whom are my personal friends. I did not mention Mr Cosson by name, but presented a hypothetical case closely parallel to his, and inquired whether the Migrants’ Division, could, if asked, take any action in the matter. Before replying they sat me down and gathered around, to give me what they called ‘a briefing’ on the way the Migrants’ Division operated, taking impromptu turns, like members of a closely integrated dance-band.
First and foremost I was to get it straight that the Migrants’ Division was not a Welfare organization for West Indians, although that misunderstanding was widespread both in Britain and the West Indies and they rather suspected that I entertained a similar idea of its purpose. The only services it provided and was intended to provide were advisory and liaison-advisory in helping migrants, especially new arrivals, to adjust to the unfamiliar conditions of housing, employment, food and clothing, and liaison in putting them in touch, when necessary, with the National Agency or departments which could be of most help to them.
Most of the staff had lived in Britain for many years; some were educated here or had served with the Armed Forces; they were all very knowledgeable about the problems likely to be encountered by immigrants, and spent an appreciable amount of their time travelling about the country meeting groups of West Indians wherever they were to be found, discussing with them their problems, helping them to settle down. They seized every opportunity offered to talk with English people about the new arrivals, and some not so new, in attempts to bridge the social, cultural and educational gaps which often presented themselves, sometimes in rather hazardous and unhappy circumstances.
None of this was really new to me, but I let them tell me; presently I had a few questions which could well be brought into this friendly discussion without any risk of suspicion of censure. Here they were, bright, educated men and women, ideally representative of the various racial origins and admixture of those origins, which make up the populations of the Caribbean areas; from Jamaica, Trinidad, British Guiana, and other islands. They worked together in an easy harmony which had as its basis a similarity of interest in purposeful, helpful service. I knew that they took themselves and their work very seriously, but I also knew that, among West Indians in general, and those hardest hit by the twin scourge of prejudice and discrimination in particular, this image of the Migrants’ Division and its officials was either badly blurred or distorted. I slipped my piece into a temporary break in the conversation.
“Sometimes West Indians come to my office with problems which are somewhat outside the general scope of my work, problems which, it seems to me, could be better dealt with by this division, but they invariably resist any suggestion that they come to see you. As a matter of fact, I hear many reports critical of the attitude and conduct of the Migrants’ Division.”
The most senior official present replied to this. He too had heard unfavourable comment about the Division, but blamed it on the lack of proper information about its operation, on the one hand, and the fact that, for those West Indians who found themselves in difficulty, kind words and a sympathetic ear were not nearly enough, and the absence of more practical help all to easily favoured bitterness and dissatisfaction.
“We are Civil Servants,” he said, “and as such are subject to all the bureaucratic limitations which that term implies, but because we are West Indians, our needy compatriots expect much more of us than we are able to give.”
Finally they got around to discussing my hypothetical problem case, examining, for my benefit, the several difficulties contained. First of all, it was not a matter of repatriation, because all the children were born in England, of an English mother, and providing she had not lost or changed her citizenship, they were legally English. Also, before they could be moved, their mother’s permission in writing was necessary, or, failing that, it must be fully established that she had completely deserted the children to their father’s care, thus leaving him as their sole parent and guardian. This, they suggested, would provide added complications, but granted that these hurdles were safely negotiated, there remained the matter of ensuring, in advance, through the appropriate governmental channels in the West Indies that the applicant’s parents or other relatives were in a position to give the children proper care, comfort and attention.
The final difficulty was the one on which many a hopeful plan foundered, money. One official put it this way.
“In such cases it must be clearly understood that the applicant must bear all the expenses incurred. In the case of small children we arrange for someone travelling out to the West Indies to take care of the children during the journey, for an agreed fee to be paid in advance, separate and distinct from the children’s fare.
“There is one way, however, in which the applicant may bypass these various requirements; that is by taking the children out of the country himself. As their father and legal guardian he is free to take such action. Let me remind you once again that, whatever is done, must be done entirely at his own expense.”
Afterwards I chatted with some of the members of staff about the many problems which demanded their attention. For them each day was several hours too short, and the more I he
ard, the more I realized how fearfully undermanned they were, to meet the heavy burdens imposed on them. Each week they met hundreds of new immigrants in the chaotic conditions of airport or rail terminal, with the attendant problems of baggage misplaced or stolen, children lost or strayed, newcomers flimsily clothed against the British climate and frequently without enough money to provide additional warm clothing or to support themselves until they could find employment. Sometimes, they encountered young women bewildered by the sudden discovery of pregnancy, with no assurance of any support from the young man with whom they had struck up the shipboard romance; or wives arrived with children and no sign of the husband and father they expected would be waiting for them.
“It can be rough,” one of them said. “Just think of it. Anything from four to eight hundred immigrants at Waterloo Station on a cold night, and only one of us on the spot.”
“Why only one of you?”
“Well, the truth is that we go primarily to meet the students for whose reception we are responsible, although, once on the spot, one sometimes has to lend a helping hand to others.”
I offered the opinion that when a group of three or four hundred new arrivals observed that a few fellow travellers, the students, were singled out for special treatment, they were likely to believe that they were the victims of a kind of social ostracism, and the essential purpose of the Migrants’ Services might thus be defeated. It seemed to me that though it was certainly necessary to give students every possible help towards settling into their new environment, it was equally important that the immigrant workers, generally less sophisticated than the students, be given a favourable impression of their first exposure to conditions in Britain. I suggested that some attempt be made to organize reception groups from among students and others already settled in Britain, who would volunteer to meet new arrivals at airports and rail terminals, and help them through some of their difficulties. Such groups could work either independently or in co-operation with one or other of the more familiar volunteer organizations such as the W.V.S. and the Salvation Army. This type of volunteer activity might provide useful experience for some of the bright young people of the hostels at Collingham Gardens and Hans Crescent who seemed over-supplied with leisure.
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