Paid Servant

by E. R. Braithwaite

  I had thought of speaking to him of Mr Milne’s request for a coloured child but decided against it; they’d discuss it with him when he visited them. My brief talk with Mr Burton left me with a feeling of irritation. No time to follow up an application in more than two weeks—yet we were continually complaining that there were not enough foster-parents. Oh, well, not to panic.

  About a week later Mr Milne telephoned again.

  “Hello, Mr Braithwaite; one of your colleagues, a Mr Burton, called around to see us.”

  “Oh good.”

  “Well, not too good. He did not seem to take too kindly to the idea that we wanted to have a coloured child. He mentioned that there were lots of white children who would benefit more greatly from a comfortable home, and gave the impression that one ran grave risks in fostering black children. I must say that Joyce and I were rather put out by his attitude. At one point she asked him quite pointedly if he disliked the black ones.”

  “I’m sorry if anything Mr Burton said upset you or your wife,” I replied. Although I could not recall having met Mr Burton personally, I could not encourage any criticism of him in this way. “Sometimes we take such a line only to discover how deep and sincere is the interest expressed in fostering a coloured child.” I hoped he’d accept that as explanation.

  “For whatever reason, we considered his attitude very high-handed and patronizing. He seemed to think that you had suggested the idea to us.”

  “I might have, if I had thought of it.” I laughed, hoping to swing him away from any further discussion about Burton. “Anyway, did you change your mind?”

  “Certainly not, neither has Joyce. She can be very stubborn if anyone tries to push her. We insisted that we’d have a coloured child, so he said there were none available in his Area, but he’d check with the other Areas and let us know. I wish you’d look into the matter for us.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Mr Milne.”

  That afternoon I went to see Mr Burton. A big, thick-set, handsome man, he had once been a truant officer, and had the bearing and gruffness of a policeman. I introduced myself.

  “I caught a glimpse of you here a while ago,” he said, “but was dashing out and did not meet you. I suppose you’ve come about the Milne people.”

  “Yes. They’re a bit anxious to hear something soon.”

  “They’ve got an idea in their heads that they want to foster a coloured child.”

  “So?”

  “I’ve met that type of person before. They just want to be different, without stopping to think of the problems involved. Then, after a month or two of having a black child in the house, they shout for us to come and take it away. Especially women who’ve lost a child and can’t have any more. Although they don’t know it, they want one that looks as much as possible like the one they lost. I found out that they’d had a little daughter. So I know from experience that a black child just won’t do for them.”

  He spoke with a careful reasonableness which carried me along in agreement, until I said: “But they might be quite sincere. They seem to be mature, balanced people.”

  “All on the surface; I know from experience. They’d be best advised to have another little white girl. You know,” here he smiled, “I can understand you trying to push things for your own people, but we in the Department must always take the long view.”

  I got the message. He obviously believed that the Milnes had been either influenced or encouraged by me; however I could not be bothered to pursue it.

  “Don’t you think you should give them the benefit of any doubt and take it for granted that they made their decision after careful, reasoned thinking?” I asked. He was still smiling.

  “Somehow it came out that they only began thinking of coloured children after you visited them,” he continued with heavy emphasis. “If someone from this Area had seen them first the question would never have arisen.”

  “You mean you never mention coloured children when you meet prospective foster-parents?”

  “It’s not that we never mention them, but it’s most unusual for anyone to ask for a coloured child.”

  Suddenly I had heard enough from him.

  “Look, Mr Burton, as far as I’m concerned, the Milnes have made a direct and reasonable request and it’s up to us to do the best we can. If there are no coloured children available in this Area, we can certainly find one in another Area. If you personally do not like the idea of their having a coloured child, some other officer could well handle the case.” I had not planned to say this; the words just came out, but without any regret.

  He looked at me, his neck reddening above the tight collar of his shirt, but when he spoke his voice remained controlled and the smile struggled to stay on his face.

  “Mr Braithwaite, if there’s any complaint about the way I’m handling this case, I’m afraid you’ll have to take it up with the Area Officer. As I’ve told Mr and Mrs Milne, we’ll do our best to find a child for them, but these things take a little time. I have no prejudice against coloured people, if that’s what you’re hinting; I merely try to make sure that the right child is placed in the right home. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are several other matters I want to attend to.”

  There was nothing for me to do but leave him. No point in seeing his Chief, because I had no real complaint to make. I did not see his action as indicating prejudice against coloured people; I didn’t think of it that way. But it did seem to me that he was more concerned with placing the white children. It could even be that he saw himself as protecting the black children from persons whose motives were suspect. Too protective. I had no doubt that he believed that his intentions were the best, and I was now rather sorry that I had antagonized him.

  Two months later Mr Milne wrote to me.

  Dear Mr Braithwaite,

  From the very prompt way in which you responded to our first inquiry about adopting a child, my wife and I assumed that your Department was anxiously concerned to find homes or foster-parents for the orphans and other children in your care. It is now more than four months since we made our application to foster a child, yet no action has been taken to help us and nothing has been said to give us hope for action in the near future.

  During your visit to us you led us to believe that both white and coloured children in your care needed to be fostered. My wife and I are both practising Christians and decided to give a coloured child the love and comfort which our own little girl would have received if she had lived. We told this to the Welfare Officer who visited us, but we did not find him enthusiastic about the idea, and we wonder if that is the reason our application is still unfulfilled.

  A few days ago we decided we would wait no longer, and, on the advice of a friend, we’ve been in touch with the International Social Service in London. We are determined to have a coloured child and they have promised to help us, so I have written to Mr Burton cancelling our application.

  I hope you do not think us either too impatient or precipitate. Our home and hearts are ready for a child and we believe there must be a child somewhere ready for us. I speak for my wife as well as for myself when I say that we were delighted to meet you and hope you will drop in on us whenever you visit Wanstead.

  Yours sincerely,

  PHILIP MILNE

  Chapter

  Ten

  ONE AFTERNOON, ON MY way upstairs, after lunch, Nancy Drake, that day’s Duty Officer, stopped me. “Could you come into the Duty Room for a moment? I’m having a bit of trouble with a family and you might be able to help me.”

  Although she spoke in her usual quiet tones, the bright red spots on her cheeks showed that she was either scared or angry; angry, I thought, as it would take a great deal to scare Nancy Drake. She was about thirty years old and, no matter what the weather, always dressed in heavy tweed skirts and thick sweaters which did only what she meant them to do, keep her w
arm. Thick short, curly brown hair framed her pleasant face. She was continually dashing about, always joking, in an excess of robust health and good humour. There was always something sudden about her make-up, something last-minute and rushed, but when she smiled, as she so often did, one had the feeling that problems would get sorted out, somehow. She was not smiling now.

  I followed her into the Duty Room. A youngish black man was standing beside her desk, his hat jauntily perched on his head, his stance indicating anger or defiance or both. Near him was seated a young woman, largely pregnant, with a small, frightened-looking boy perched precariously on her knee. They all turned towards the door as I went in, but looked away immediately on seeing me, the little boy clasping his mother tightly and burrowing his head against her. Nancy took her seat behind her desk and I walked over to stand beside her. In retrospect, we must have presented an odd tableau of opposing parties with the desk an insignificant barrier between the two groups. Nancy spoke to them.

  “I’ve asked Mr Braithwaite, one of our Welfare Officers, to come in and help me explain the situation to you.” Then to me: “This is Mr James and his wife and small son. Last week we found a place for Mrs James and the boy at Newington Lodge, because the family had been evicted from their room, and the local police had sent them to us, so Mrs James and the boy could be found temporary accommodation. Mrs James is pregnant. Now it seems that Mr James has removed his wife from Newington because she complained she wasn’t happy there, and he expects us to find other accommodation for her. I’ve been trying for nearly an hour to explain to him that we have no other available accommodation, but he doesn’t seem inclined to believe me.”

  While she had been speaking I was closely observing Mr James. About thirty-five years of age, tidy of dress, but in need of a shave. Slim, even skinny, his face looked grim under the wide-brimmed black felt hat. A hand-made cigarette drooped from his mouth, and his eyes were squinted nearly shut against the smoke. There was an empty chair beside his wife, but he remained standing.

  “If you’d sit down, Mr James, we might be able to chat more comfortably about this,” I said. He glared at me without replying for a while, his mouth twisted in a mocking smile.

  “I’m not leaving my wife with those people, in that place.” The cigarette bobbed up and down as he spoke.

  “If you’d sit down it would be easier to discuss the matter,” I repeated.

  “Sit down, Leopold,” his wife said, touching the chair beside her. He turned to look at her, then again at me; I sat in the chair beside Miss Drake, so he must have felt rather out of place standing alone. Finally, resentfully, he sat down.

  “You’ve forgotten one little thing, Mr James. There are ladies present,” I said, looking pointedly at his head. With a smooth, angry motion, he swept his hat off his head and dropped it on the floor beside his chair.

  “And now, Mr James, if you please, I’d like to hear your side of the matter.”

  He bent his head, puffing his cigarette and glaring at me sideways. He seemed in no hurry to reply, so I let him take his time. Eventually he said: “The police sent me here last week after the landlord put us out, and they (he meant our Department) sent my wife and son to that Lodge place. I had to go and sleep on the floor at my friend’s place. Every time I go to see my wife she’s crying because the women there don’t talk to her. So I take her away this morning. I don’t want my wife to stay in no place where the people don’t talk to you. They shouldn’t send her to a place where the white women won’t talk to her.”

  “Why were you turned out of your room, Mr James?”

  “I haven’t been working and the landlord won’t wait for his rent. I’ve been sick for three months now.”

  Mr James may easily have been telling the truth, but he looked reasonably fit to me.

  “But it was mostly because my wife is expecting again; he said he won’t have any more children in the house so we’d have to leave. What kind of law is it that lets them put a pregnant woman on the streets?”

  “We can’t intervene between you and the law, Mr James. I understand that the police sent you to us after you were evicted.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Miss Drake made arrangements for your wife and son to be accommodated at Newington Lodge while you looked around for alternative accommodation?”

  “Yeah, but they shouldn’t … ”

  “How do you support yourself and wife, Mr James?”

  “What?”

  “I’d like to know how you’ve been supporting your wife and son and yourself.”

  “While I’m not working I get National Assistance.” His eyes hated me as he said it. “But why are you asking me all that? The white woman didn’t ask me all that.”

  “I’m not doing it to pry into your affairs, Mr James, but merely to help you to understand the situation. Let’s put it this way. You are unemployed and cannot at the moment properly support your wife and child, not to mention the other child on the way. Because of those and probably other reasons, your wife and son were in Newington Lodge. Now you’ve removed them from there. What do you plan to do with them now, Mr James?”

  He jumped up angrily, and as an added gesture, reached under his chair for his hat and stuck it atop his head, then pointed a long, bony arm at me until the index finger with its blackened nail was only a few inches from my face. I think I was getting under his skin, way down deep.

  “Would you let a woman of yours stay in a place like that where none of them white bitches would even talk to her?” He was hopping mad, and using it to swing the matter to his favour.

  “It so happens that no woman of mine is involved in this matter, Mr James, so that question is quite irrelevant. I do hope you realize that by removing them you have taken the matter completely out of our hands. Now what do you plan to do with them?”

  “Sit down, Leopold,” his wife admonished, quietly.

  Leopold, indeed. In that small room the name had overtones which did not quite fit the angry, bullying fellow. He sat down sulkily, making it seem that he only did so to please his wife; this time the hat remained on his head.

  “What do you want us to do, Mr … ?” Her voice was barely audible, but there was dignity in every line of her face; the difficulties and abuses which had brought her to this state had not robbed her of that.

  “What has it been like for you at the Lodge?” I asked.

  “I have a little room, a cubicle they call it or something like that, and I’ve been staying in it most of the time, mostly because of Edgar.” She favoured the boy with a smile, but he was still tightly clinging to her, like a tiny koala bear to its mother. “He’s very shy and wouldn’t leave me to play with the other children.”

  “Have you had any difficulty with the other women?”

  “Well, they didn’t say anything, so I go down to meals and afterwards go back to my room.”

  “Mrs James, all the women at Newington Lodge are in very much the same situation as yourself. None of them likes to be there, but they try to make the best of it until their husbands can find them something better. I’ve been into the Lodge and talked with some of them. Perhaps they’re just as shy as you are, but I have an idea they try to help each other. You may be quite right when you say they won’t talk to you, but we don’t know for sure, do we? Probably if you showed yourself willing to be friendly it might help things along, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” she whispered. Her voice was so quiet and her whole manner so pathetic, I was somewhat ashamed of myself for bullying her husband, but I felt it was the only way to deal with him in this instance. He had very likely been giving Nancy Drake a tough time earlier on.

  “And now, Mr James?”

  “I got no place to take them,” he said. “I brought them here because I thought if she didn’t like it there you’d send her somewhere else.”

  “As Miss Drake ha
s already explained, we have no other available accommodation.”

  “Then I suppose they’ll have to go back there. But I don’t like the idea.”

  “Then the best thing you can do is find a job and get them out of there … ” He glared at me, as I added, “ … if you really want to.”

  “I don’t know if the room is still available,” Nancy interposed. “There are so many people wanting rooms that the Superintendent can’t keep them empty. I’d better telephone and see.” She picked up the phone and after a short delay managed to reach the Superintendent at Newington Lodge. Then followed a long argument, with Nancy using all her powers of persuasion on that gentleman, who, from what I could hear of the one-sided conversation, was not anxious to welcome Mrs James again, entirely because of the unfavourable impression her husband had created. However, Nancy won through. I was rather pleased that Mr James had overheard her efforts on his wife’s behalf, because that more than anything else finally convinced him of the seriousness of his position. When the arrangements were concluded, he had the final word.

  “I’ll go to the Labour Exchange and see about a job tomorrow. I don’t want my wife to stay in that place a day longer than I can help. It’s like a bloody prison. A man can’t visit with his wife after ten o’clock at night. Bloody prison.”

  Nancy ushered them out and came back wiping imaginary sweat from her forehead with a crooked forefinger.

  “Whew! What a creep! Until you came in he had me sort of backed against the wall and I couldn’t do a thing with him. Thanks, chum.”

  “Any time.”

  “I must try that sometimes if I can work up enough guts. Gosh, you were tough with him—even I was feeling sorry for him.”

  “Maybe now he’s sufficiently mad at me to really get a job and do something for his wife, but I doubt it. He’s the kind who’d be very happy to sit on his behind and let the State look after him and any others he happens to father. I’ve met that type before.”

  I was a lousy prophet. Two weeks later Mr James took his wife and son out of Newington Lodge; he’d got a job as a railway porter and found a room for them in Clapham. A small room, but they were together. Perhaps I had made him angry enough to do it, or perhaps he had planned to do it before my intervention. I’ll never know.