Paid Servant

by E. R. Braithwaite

  They told me of some other aspects of their work. They travelled around the country, especially to those cities and towns where groups of immigrants lived and worked, talking with civic and religious personalities and organizations, employers and employment agencies, addressing schools, seeking in every way to encourage harmony between the immigrants and the host community in which they now lived and worked.

  “The work is harder on the spirit than on the feet,” one said. “Sometimes liaison has to be done during one of those unhappy incidents which occasionally erupt as evidence of the disturbing depth of the fear and suspicion on which inter-racial disharmony so greedily feeds. At such times the going is really tough, especially when there seems to be some justification for the opinions expressed and the attitudes taken. In the quiet times we try to encourage the new citizens to enter boldly into the life of the community, but with little success. You see, most of them leave home and arrive in Britain with no clear image of themselves, no consciousness of their dignity or human worth; so when they are subjected to the pressure of prejudice and discrimination they are very likely to see themselves as others see them, to borrow the image of themselves, and, resenting it, to become equally prejudiced and bigoted as those who despise them and treat them shamefully. In such cases, any attempt we make at reconciliation is seen as a betrayal, especially as we can do little more than talk. Without the financial resources for starting any positive action programme, our talk must sound empty and meaningless to them.”

  “What do you mean by ‘action programme’?” I asked.

  “As we move around we see that a great deal needs to be done, to give the new citizens a sense of purpose beside the more simple essentials of food, clothes and shelter. They need to be encouraged to help improve their own conditions in terms of education, standards of hygiene, civic consciousness, etc. They must be encouraged to improve the image they have of themselves.”

  “Best of luck to you.”

  “Needs more than luck. Needs more of us and a few small miracles. A lot of our people leave home full of hope and trust in the people of Britain; soon after they arrive everything changes, and even those who achieve a measure of success do so at the cost of a great deal of spiritual bruising which embitters them. Yes, we need some miracles.”

  Mr Cosson arrived in London a few days later. I had sent him all the relevant information about his accommodation at the Redmonds, so he went directly to their house and later called at my office. Dressed in a smartly cut suit of brown tweeds, polished brown shoes, cream shirt and grey flecked maroon silk tie, he presented a picture of confidence and affluence, a far cry from the grey-clad sycophant I had met in the prison. I led him to one of the interview rooms, so that we could chat undisturbed.

  “Well, here I am,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”

  Smoothly shaved, his teeth white against his dark skin, he was smiling and relaxed as if he had not a care in the world, yet, for some reason which even now eludes me, I felt a gnawing dislike of him. We chatted awhile about nothing in particular, waiting for the word or gesture which leads into comfortable conversation. Then, “I remember you,” he suddenly said.

  I thought, ‘Here it comes,’ and mentally braced myself against whatever it was he might say.

  “I’ve been trying to place you ever since the day you came up to see me, and at last I’ve got it. The Howard Hotel. Remember? During the Notting Hill thing when Mr Manley came over. I didn’t place your name, but I remember your face. You were the one who didn’t agree with the rest of them.”

  I hope he didn’t notice any relief. Yes, I remembered the occasion, but I did not remember him as part of it. The Notting Hill thing as he called it, had caught many of us off guard by the suddenness of its eruption and the viciousness and depths of the inter-racial antipathy it exposed in a district where the various elements in the community seemed at least tolerant of each other. Furthermore, the black residents, leaderless and sadly inept, had in desperation sent an urgent appeal to the West Indian leader to come and speak up for them, in the hope that his political stature would earn for him and them a courteous hearing of their case, and result in an easing of their difficulties. Well, now he had arrived, and was sitting calm and assured among those who considered themselves the leaders among the immigrant community. They told him of their difficulties, describing in vivid and touching detail the numerous deliberate or subtle ways in which their persons and dignity were constantly assaulted. Now, with the veil crudely torn from the bland face of prejudice, they were being terrorized, even in their very homes. They wanted him, on their behalf, to remind the British people that, in spite of their black skins, they too were British, and had proved it through nearly three hundred years of close identity of language, culture, belief and thought; they hoped he would further remind the British people of their unstinted contribution, to the extent of the final sacrifice, during two world wars, and now all they wished for was the opportunity to work and live without fear of molestation or interference. On and on it went. Their complaints were true enough; there was no denying the facts; but there was something of defeat and acceptance in the very presentation of their difficulties, with never a hint of anything they themselves might attempt to do to arrest or alter the unhappy tide of events. They were deeply hurt and loquaciously angry, yet, unreasonably, or so it seemed to me, they expected him to achieve some effective results by restating the old relationships between Britain and her Caribbean territories, as if such a pitiful manoeuvre would somehow shame the British people into a friendlier, more tolerant attitude.

  He sat there, the personification of dignity and wisdom, listening to them, his snowy hair adding emphasis to the majestic width of his forehead. Then he spoke, saying the things they expected of him, making the promises, giving the reassurances, and, hearing the easy, compelling rhetoric of the man, I was half-persuaded to believe. But I had lived in Britain a long time, and I knew that his arguments and protestations would receive short shrift. I rather suspected that he was aware of the danger that his plausible assurances might be taken too literally; with his long political experience and close association with British policies, he could not truly believe that his presence would dramatically resolve the racial disharmony. He must know that, in the street, he would be merely another black face, another object for disrespect, another potential target for the bottle or brick, another ‘rabble-rouser’ to be rough-handled by the police.

  When he had said his piece and duly received the enthusiastic plaudits of his hearers, I asked his permission to speak. I reminded him that his professional and political interests would make it impossible for him to spend more than a few days in Britain, in spite of his emotional involvement in the situation. He would, as promised, visit the cities and towns where “his people were in trouble,” and I agreed that his presence would prove stimulating and encouraging to them. But after a few days he’d be forced to return to the West Indies to deal with matters more immediately important to his political career. It seemed to me that throughout all their protestations, none of those present had indicated any recognition of responsibility, on the part of the black residents in Britain, for even a small part of the trouble. I told him that those who had been exhorting him to representative action on their behalf did not really represent the thousands for whom they claimed to speak; in fact, they hardly knew them or had anything more than the vaguest contact with them. The current state of frightening disorder had temporarily shocked and frightened them, but I felt safe in prophesying that as soon as the situation eased a bit, they would quickly return to their separate personal pursuits until the next rash of incidents threw them once again into agitated association. I made the suggestion that he urge them to recognize their own responsibility in the matter. Racial discrimination in Britain was not an overnight phenomenon, and it was pitiable that there still could be found no effective representative group of West Indians in Britain who could honestly claim the right
to speak or act on behalf of the rank and file in time of crisis. They were on the spot, they were familiar with the circumstances, and they should be able to speak with a clearer knowledge of what action would best and most speedily resolve the situation. Many of them were easily and fluently articulate or otherwise gifted; they should put some of their talents to work to help raise the standards of those less equipped than themselves. Without doubt, he represented the ‘father figure’, but he should put first things first with some plain talk to those who so obviously were prepared to sit back and let him attempt to solve their problems.

  He received my words in silence; the others angrily interrupted me while I was speaking, and were even more vociferous at the end. But I didn’t give a damn about their abuse. However, it was clear that he had no intention of committing himself by commenting on anything I had said, so I left them. As I approached the door of the hotel, I was intercepted by a tall, handsome woman.

  “Mr Braithwaite,” she said, “I am Mrs Manley.”

  We shook hands.

  “I am grateful to you for the things you just said to my husband.”

  That was all, and we parted before I had really seen her to remember; except her voice, deep and round, but trembling with more than a hint of anxiety …

  Yes, I remembered that occasion although I could not recall Mr Cosson’s face as a piece of the group.

  “Those buggers let me down,” he went on. “That time at Notting Hill, Mr Manley said that anybody who got into trouble with the police and suchlike, would be looked after, you know, they’d be represented or, if they were fined, those would be paid. Well, I was in a car with some fellows one night and the police stopped us. We had a few things in the car, you know, to defend ourselves in case of anything, but the police ran us in and charged us with carrying offensive weapons. We were fined and we had to pay it ourselves. Didn’t see one of those big shots who promised to do so much.”

  I said nothing. A lot of wild, irresponsible promises had been scattered around at the time, and there had been a great deal of misunderstanding because the promises had been taken too literally.

  “Anyway, not to worry,” he said, laughing. “Thanks for helping out with this thing.” He meant his ticket of leave.

  “Glad to do it. The children will be happy to see you.”

  “I know; I’m thinking of what to tell them.”

  “They’ve already been told that you were away ill, so I suppose it won’t hurt if you follow the same line.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about that.” He waved his hand airily. “Now they’ll want to know when they can come home with me.”

  “You mean to British Guiana?”

  “No, I mean here, London. They’ll want me to take them from that Home.”

  “Well, what plans do you have for them?”

  “I’ve been figuring it out,” he continued. “I could start a shop somewhere else and rent a flat for me and the children; could always get somebody to come in and keep an eye on them.” He laughed again, probably enjoying some private joke. “This time I’m taking no chances.”

  He was silent for a few moments, as if mentally determining how much he should say to me. “Last time one of them shopped me, but it won’t happen again. I’ve learned a few things inside. When I come out it’s going to be different, you can bet on that.”

  I suddenly had an idea about Mr Cosson, and thought I’d test it. “When you’re out, we’d be happy to do whatever we can to help you find a job … ”

  He interrupted me. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I know where I can put my hand on some money to make a start. I’ll be all right. You know what they say, ‘If you can’t be good, be careful’.”

  Yes, I was right. He had no intention of seeking honest employment. His term of imprisonment had not produced a change of heart, but merely a determination to be more careful, at least, until next time. The more I saw and heard of Mr Cosson, the less I liked him.

  “May I make a suggestion, Mr Cosson.” My voice and manner were stiff and formal, because I disliked the way in which, by his attitude as well as the things he said, it seemed I was being made a kind of conspirator in his schemes.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “I think it would be the best thing for you and the children if they remained where they are until you have been freed and settled into whatever it is you wish to do. Meanwhile you could write them as often as possible, and visit them when you are able.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, too quickly. “You’re right; that would be the best thing to do.”

  He left soon after, taking with him, as gifts for the children, some books and toys from a collection kept at the office for exactly that purpose.

  Next morning I had a telephone call from the Matron at Falconbridge; Mr Cosson had appeared as planned; the children were somewhat shy with him at first, but eventually they had got along quite well. Except for the eldest girl; her father’s visit seemed to have unsettled her and Matron had heard her crying during the night and went in to her. Things were now back to normal. I got the impression that Matron would be happier if Mr Cosson’s visits were even fewer.

  I did not see Mr Cosson again; he telephoned me from the railway station just before getting his train back North, to express his thanks again for everything which had been done for him. When I visited the Redmonds to pay them for Mr Cosson’s board and accommodation, they expressed their complete satisfaction and delight with him; they had found him thoughtful, courteous and a delightful companion and were willing to accommodate him on any future occasion. I was very pleased to hear all this, but inwardly hoped that there would be no repeat occasion. In the report I submitted on the case and Mr Cosson’s visit, I expressed the opinion that there seemed little likelihood of any change in the circumstances of the Cosson children; the best that could be hoped for was that Mr Cosson would keep in touch with them.

  Chapter

  Eight

  TWO DAYS LATER THE Supervisor called me to her office.

  “Trouble,” she said, as I came in.

  “Roddy Williams?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “What’s the latest development?”

  “Middlesex still won’t play. Just as I feared, the situation does not look very hopeful. It’s the old argument about creating a precedent which they believe will adversely affect their programme.”

  “Do they appreciate that this is the only chance we have had, so far, to place the boy in an ordinary home?”

  “Oh yes, they are in possession of all the relevant information on him, but I suppose there is some justification for their arguments.”

  I suppose she was right, but I had not yet acquired the technique of maintaining a certain distance from each case, the better to view it with clarity and objectivity.

  “Suppose we suggest to Middlesex that they find a family willing to accept their terms and provide a home for him?” I could not quite keep the bitterness and disappointment out of my voice.

  “No, that would never do,” she replied, in her usual careful, level tone. “We must press on with it until they either give in or finally commit themselves to the unpleasantness of refusal. Don’t forget, from their point of view, an equally important matter of principle is involved. However, let’s not resign ourselves to defeat while the battle is still joined; we’ve still a few more strings to pull in high places.”

  Somehow I did not feel disposed to share her lightheartedness. “So what do I say to the Tamerlanes?”

  “Why say anything to them about it until we know something definite one way or another? I’d be inclined to let things go along as they are now for a while. We’ll soon know what the final word is, but, don’t forget, we’re being supported at very high level. And don’t worry too much,” she advised.

  I went out to the Tamerlanes’ home on Saturday afternoon, having heard from
the Matron at Franmere that Roddy would be spending the afternoon with them. They were all in the backyard, John and Ella sunning themselves in deck-chairs while the children romped with the dog on the grass between bouts on the swing. I was soon in the thick of being hugged and kissed as June, Jackie and Roddy simultaneously tried to bring me up to date on everything they had done, each one screaming “Uncle Ricky” in my ears. Warm, frantic and wonderful. Roddy fitted into it all so naturally, it seemed unthinkable that anything could happen to interfere with this heaven-sent chance. I finally disengaged myself from the children and sat on the grass beside the parents.

  “We’ve a surprise for him,” Ella whispered to me. “Matron agreed that if everything went well we could keep him over the weekend and take him back on Sunday night or early Monday morning.” Her delight in the seeming success of the venture radiated from her face.

  “That’s good.” But my worry must have got through to them.

  “Has anything happened?” John asked.

  As the Supervisor had advised, there was no sense in making them uneasy. “Don’t get alarmed. I just want to remind you that we’re still waiting for the green light from Middlesex, and where bureaucracy is concerned anything can happen.”

  “Is that all?” said Ella, relieved. “For a moment you sounded like the voice of doom. Anyway I’ve some news that might cheer you up. Your friend Miss Keriham is coming to tea.”

  John pointed to the oak-tree. The three children had climbed out along the lowest branch and were hanging upside down by their knees several feet above the ground. Ella instantly tried to rise, but John restrained her.