Paid Servant

by E. R. Braithwaite

  “Leave them alone,” he said, although his voice betrayed his concern. As we watched, one by one they righted themselves and climbed down to the ground. Although smaller than the girls, Roddy seemed well able to match their tomboy exploits.

  “Come on, everybody, time to get washed,” Ella called, masking her relief with a flurry of domestic activity. The girls scampered off upstairs, and Ella busied herself laying the table for tea, while John and I sat idly in the sitting-room.

  “Somehow I’ve got the feeling you’re holding something back from us,” he began. “You seem to be anticipating some difficulty we know nothing about.”

  “No, not really. We’re still working on the Middlesex people and there is no way of knowing how it will be. The boy seems so completely at his ease here, it would be a shame if we can’t go through with the plan.”

  “And what about the girls, not to mention Ella and me? They’ve already made up their minds about him. How can we tell them he couldn’t come to live with us? Would it help if I wrote to the Middlesex people?”

  “There’s no need for that just yet, anyway. I suppose I’m worrying unnecessarily and communicating my fears to you. Let’s just forget about it until we have some definite news.”

  There was a ring on the doorbell and John answered, returning with Olga. As usual she was smartly though simply dressed. At the sound of her voice Ella came from the dining-room and I introduced Olga to them. Ella returned to her chores, but soon the children descended upon us and became more excited with Olga, who had to be taken on a tour of the house and backyard, hand in hand with Roddy, who thus masterfully underlined his relationship to Auntie Olga.

  Tea was a happy though somewhat noisy affair, but much of the time I watched the two women, who, though going through all the motions of relaxed friendliness, seemed to be carefully feeling their way around and towards each other. Ella had changed into a bright gingham dress of tiny black and white squares, set off by a wide belt of red leather drawn tightly at the waist to emphasize her full yet girlish figure. Her thick brown hair framed her face in loose, soft curls, but the large grey eyes above the high cheekbones indicated maturity and resolve which was further supported by her dimpled yet aggressive-looking chin. Against the background of her home and family her naturalness and assurance were easily equal to the smooth elegance with which Olga managed to invest the simplest gesture, and I marvelled at the odd turn of events which had brought them together.

  Roddy was the centre-piece of the group and seemed to know it, yet, so well had he been taught at Franmere, that though he was literally bubbling with the excitement of his first really family tea-party, each request began with “please may I have,” and there was a sweet, bright-eyed “thank you” when helped; Ella beamed at this, very much as if she had been responsible for it, while the girls tried to outbid each other waiting on him. After tea John, Olga and I were pushed into the sitting-room to talk while the others cleared away and washed up.

  I rode back to London in Olga’s car.

  “Looks as if your worries about Roddy are over,” she said. “He seems to have fitted in very well with the Tamerlanes.”

  “I’m not too sure. There’s one large fly in the ointment, but we’re working on it.”

  I told her about our difficulties with Middlesex, and the cause of them; after all, she was as involved with Roddy as were the rest of us, so there was no point in being secretive on that point. As we drove she questioned me on ways and means of circumventing that difficulty, hinting rather broadly at the possibility that some ‘interested party’ might be willing to contribute the difference between the Middlesex rate and the amount agreed on by the Tamerlanes. I explained why such an arrangement was impracticable and expressed the view that there were so many pressures built into the situation that eventually Middlesex would probably capitulate.

  “I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed for you,” she said. “You know, I sort of have the feeling Mrs Tamerlane is not too keen on me seeing the boy.”

  “Why do you say that? Has she said or done something?”

  “No, it’s just a feeling I have.”

  In the silence that followed I became aware of the late afternoon traffic rushing about us, and the sounds which somehow had not invaded the little sanctuary in which we were smoothly rolling, as Olga weaved easily along, completely familiar with the puzzling complexities of London’s streets. Her red-gloved hands rested lightly on the wheel, in pleasing contrast to the tanned skin of her forearms and the pale shiny linen suit she wore. Now and then one hand would fall lightly on to the gear lever, and the gear change would be effortlessly made.

  “Right now, right this minute, I’d give up a hell of a lot just to have a boy like that. No, not any boy, just him.”

  She said this very quietly, but with such feeling that I wished it were possible for her to do just that. A funny remark popped into my head, but I decided against saying it, it would have been too much like an intrusion on something very private.

  We drove through the City to Liverpool Street Station where I could take a train for Ilford.

  “I hope you won’t let anything keep you from seeing him whenever you can,” I said, as I was leaving her.

  “You mean the Tamerlanes? Not unless she comes right out and tells me I’m not welcome, and I have an idea she’s too well bred to do that.” The smile was back on her face and the laughter in her voice.

  Mrs Bentham called to see me on Monday. When the telephone operator mentioned the name of my visitor I had visions of further difficulties in the Bentham household, and went downstairs mentally preparing myself to meet whatever it might be. She was standing near the operator’s cabinet, looking taller and lovelier than I had remembered her, probably because of the extra inches from the high stiletto heels of her neat black pumps, and the lipstick. She wore a one-piece costume of dark blue, light-weight wool, which hugged her comely frame affectionately, and as I led her to one of the interview rooms I noticed how easily, effortlessly she moved, like a professional dancer, swinging smoothly from the hip in a continuous blending of controlled musculature and accommodating cloth. Only big women with good figures are able to achieve that kind of movement.

  As soon as we were seated she spoke, as if impatient to tell it quickly before the fermented pleasure exploded within her.

  “We’ve got a house.” Her eyes were literally aglow in her face. “Jim’s firm has transferred him to Harlow where they’re doing a lot of building, and they helped him to find a house.”

  “Congratulations,” I said, “are you renting it?”

  They were buying it, she explained. They had paid the deposit and would be able to move in soon. The people at Jim’s firm were helping with the arrangements, and Jim would be able to pay so much each week. She had been down to see it last weekend, and quite obviously she was thrilled with it.

  “I think you need a drink,” I said, “but you’ll have to settle for a cigarette.” I offered her one, and lit it.

  “When we move down you must come and see it,” she went on, the cigarette held lightly in her large, firmly-shaped hands which were cupped together on the table. My mother used to sit like that when anything pleased or excited her, her hands at rest as if patiently waiting for the excitement in the rest of her to work itself out, so they could resume their careful, considered activities.

  She described the house. It was new, with lots of cupboard space, so that there was no need to buy wardrobes and things like that. It had three bedrooms, two big ones and a little one which, she said, would be wonderful for the baby.

  “Sounds very comfortable,” I said.

  It had a little garden in front, for roses, and a back garden where Jim would be able to plant tomatoes and other things. And the neighbours seemed to be very nice. One had been hanging clothes on her line while they were in the backyard and they had got to talking, and she had invited
them in for a cup of tea. It was all so different from the other place.

  I had the feeling she’d soon run out of breath.

  “Any news from the baby’s mother?”

  “Oh, her? Like I told Jim right from the first, we won’t hear another word from her. She was glad to dump the child and be off, probably back to her old habits again.”

  “I think it might be advisable for Mr Bentham to make inquiries about adopting the child legally,” I suggested, “against the chance that she might suddenly reappear one day to claim the child. If he can prove that she has left the child in his care it might not be difficult for him to adopt her; then the mother could not come back to claim her. I’m not familiar with the processes involved, but a lawyer would be able to advise him.”

  “That’s been worrying me, I must tell you. As soon as Jim comes in tonight I’ll tell him. I’m not going to let her take it away now, not after all the trouble she’s caused with Jim and me.”

  “Where have you left her?”

  “With a friend in Aldgate. I didn’t take her to the nursery today because I’m having the day off from work. When we go to Harlow Jim says I must stay at home and look after the baby. I’ll like that. He’s earning good money, so there’s no need for me to go out to work. You should see her now, big and lovely as anything, and so cute! You know, I wish she were really Jim’s. Still, she’s ours now—but I wish we could have one of our very own.”

  “You never know, anything can happen,” I said. An idea had suddenly come to me.

  “Sure, with a little help.” The mischief twinkled in her eyes.

  Impulsively I put it to her. “How would you like to take care of two babies instead of one?”

  “Oh, ho! What have you been up to?” she teased.

  “Nothing yet, but there’s a little boy who needs a home and I think you would make him a wonderful mother.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  It was now nearly twelve-thirty.

  “Why not let’s have lunch together and we could talk about it?”

  “You and me?”

  “Of course, unless you wouldn’t care to eat with me.”

  “You’re joking. Of course I’d love to.”

  We went to a small, rather old-fashioned restaurant nearby, generally frequented by local office staff. We were the only black couple there and attracted some attention. Mrs Bentham took it well in her stride. As we ate: “I bet they think we’re married,” she whispered, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Now tell me about your little boy.”

  I told her about Roddy, omitting any mention of the Tamerlanes, but explained that certain plans were in hand which might or might not finally work out.

  “What would you like me to do?” she asked.

  “Nothing, at least not yet. If the thing I’m working on now fizzles out I’ll let you know, but I must confess that I felt this was too good an opportunity to miss, just in case I need it.”

  “Poor little thing,” she sympathized. “For myself I wouldn’t hesitate a moment about accepting him, but I don’t know how Jim would feel about it. Men are funny about such things. But, what with one thing and another,” she grinned, “I don’t suppose he’d make too much noise. Shall I mention it to him?”

  “No, I’d rather you didn’t. We’ll leave it like this for a while and if necessary I’ll let you know. But keep your fingers crossed for me.”

  We chatted about other things, chiefly about the new house. It was one big wonderful adventure for her; at long last she could, as she put it, ‘lock her own front door’. She planned to go shopping for curtains, furniture, dishes, all the things a housewife needs, and, listening to her, I knew she’d turn the new house into a comfortable home, less with the new furnishings than with her own effervescent personality.

  I plunged headlong into a sticky situation. A couple appeared at my office one day. When I went down to them I saw a young but hard-looking brunette with jet black hair and straight eyebrows which met above her nose. Not the sort to mess about with tweezers, I thought. Smartly dressed, but with too much shiny jewellery. With her was a thin, very black man, whom I guessed was an African, probably Sudanese. He was handsome in a rather fierce way, and neatly dressed.

  “I’m Martin’s mother,” the woman said.

  “Whose mother?”

  “Martin Devonish. Remember? You sent some letters to me.”

  Then I remembered. Since I’d taken over the case seven weeks ago I had been trying to locate her by writing to both the addresses at which she had been known to reside during recent months. The letters had not been returned, so I assumed that she had received them, but there had been no reply from her.

  “I’m glad to meet you at last, Miss Devonish. My name is Braithwaite.”

  “This is Mr Agumsah,” she said, “I’m called Mrs Agumsah.”

  I looked at her hands but no wedding ring; that’s why she ‘was called’ Mrs Agumsah.

  “We’d like to take Martin out of the Home.”

  Just like that, and I was pleased to hear it. If a few more prodigal parents would turn up and say, “I’d like to take my child out of the Home,” I might soon have to return to teaching. Suddenly it was a nice, warm, sunny day.

  “If you’ll both wait here,” I said, showing them into one of the interview rooms, “I’ll get the case folder and be with you in a moment.”

  The case folder did not present a very flattering picture of Miss Devonish, otherwise known as Mrs Agumsah. It stated that three years ago the child had been brought to the Council’s attention by the N.S.P.C.C., one of whose officers had found him alone and crying in a dirty, unheated room; a neighbour had reported hearing the child crying for hours. An African had later appeared and said that the child’s mother, with whom he had been living, had that morning disappeared and he was unable to care for the child; he had left it in the unheated room while he went to search for the mother. The child had been taken into care, but all attempts at tracing the mother had failed. The African, Mr Agumsah, had insisted that though he had been living with the mother he was not the baby’s father. The child’s name and that of the mother were supplied by him. The child had been taken to Campden Hill residential nursery where Mr Agumsah visited it at irregular intervals during the first year of its stay there.

  Suddenly during his second year, Miss Devonish had appeared one Sunday with Mr Agumsah, had brought gifts for the baby, but had refused to give her address or indicate when next she would visit; irregular and widely spaced visits by the mother had continued, but the Welfare Officer in charge was unable to see her because it was never known when she would appear. The Matron at Campden Hill had tried to get her address from Mr Agumsah, but he had refused to co-operate.

  On the baby boy’s third birthday he had appeared in a car with new clothing for him and had requested permission to take him for a ride in the car, but Matron had refused to allow this, because, on his own admission, he was not related to the child. He had become angry and abusive, and since then, though he continued to visit, his attitude to the Nursery staff was no longer friendly.

  About nine months ago the Council had assumed the Rights and Privileges of Parenthood over the child, as a precautionary measure, in the event of the child becoming ill, or any other circumstance developing which would require an immediate decision to be taken; the mother’s infrequent and unexpected visits made it impossible to rely on her availability for parental consent in an emergency.

  Soon after this measure was taken the mother appeared, again with Mr Agumsah. They wanted to take the child out into the town, but were prevented by Matron, who insisted that they could not be allowed to take him beyond the nursery grounds; if the mother wished for greater freedom of action she would need to apply for revocation of the order which had granted the rights and privileges to the Council. She had again disappeared without trace.

&n
bsp; I had added notes in the case folder referring to each occasion which I had written to her.

  The report from the Nursery showed that the little boy had recently had a tonsilectomy, was in excellent health, intelligent and cheerful. He knew Mr Agumsah, whom he called ‘Daddy’ and was delighted whenever he visited him. He called Miss Devonish ‘Mummy’ on her insistence, but was shy of her, and was not easily persuaded to go to her.

  I knew the contents of the case folder nearly verbatim, so often had I studied it. Now here was Martin’s mother wanting her child.

  “I’ve recently taken over Martin’s case, Mrs Agumsah, but all that I know of it I have either read in the case sheet or been told by the Welfare Officer who first dealt with it. I’ve chatted with the Matron on a few occasions in an attempt to get in touch with you. I’d like to hear your story about this whole business however. Why did you abandon the child in the first place?”

  “Abandon?” her voice was a screech of alarm. “What do you mean abandon? Who said I abandoned him?”

  “According to the case records you walked out of the house and left him with Mr Agumsah.”

  “Ali, did you tell them that?” She turned on him like a vengeful harpy.

  “I told the people I do not know where you go.” He chose each word carefully, without seeming to care about her anger.

  “I didn’t abandon him. I left the house to go to the shops and I fell down in the street; I’d been sick with my chest. Somebody called an ambulance and they took me to hospital. They said I had pleurisy. I was sick for weeks. And the hospital sent me away for convalescence.”

  “Didn’t you tell them about the baby?”

  “I thought the baby would be all right with Ali, so I didn’t worry. Only afterwards he told me they had put him in the Home. While I was away he had to give up the flat we had and he went to stay with one of his friends. I’ve been bunking with a girl friend, so I thought it best to let him stay in the Home till we could find somewhere to have him with us.”

  Something was missing in her story. It had taken her more than three years to reach this point, and I had the feeling that perhaps Mr Agumsah had more to do with her decision than was apparent. He sat there, calm, but watchful, as if witnessing the fact that she kept a promise. In my short experience of the job, I had been learning some hard lessons, one of which was that parents behave in the oddest ways, and the fact that a child had been left to the Council’s care might have little bearing on the parents’ love for it. An abandoned child was always the object of pity and was sure of help, either private or public. What about abandoned parents, those tragic figures who are sometimes literally pressured into the decision of abandoning a child or children whom they love, choosing that drastic way of ensuring that it received the food, clothing and shelter which they could no longer provide? For many excellent reasons, County Councils make it difficult for a mother deliberately and willingly to place her child in their care. Here was a mother who wanted her child, this was the end result I was paid to achieve, and here it was being handed to me on a platter. But I ought to learn the full story.