Paid Servant (8 page)

“47 Welleft Street, NW 10.”

“Profession?”

Blushes from Maria Coates, as she looked at the fingers of her right hand in the hope of finding some quick answer. No reply.

“Are you presently employed?”

“No, that is, I was working at a factory, Crannock's, but I left when the baby was on the way. As soon as I get him into a home I'll be able to find another job.”

One or two more details and then the form would be put aside and the real business would begin. Undoubtedly I was often very much impressed by the combination of kindliness with efficiency, in probing into the circumstances which led the applicant to seek departmental help; but there was every need to probe, to lift each resistant layer of privacy, as that inherent dignity which is the prerogative of all mankind struggled to keep some little corner of itself inviolate. Yes, the interviewers were kindly and considerate in their way, but they made it clear that they had a job of work to do, and the details they sought were necessarily part of that job. So come on now, give. This is no place to be shy and there are others waiting.

“Have you any relatives who might help you?”

“No, I have a brother in Isleworth, but he's married and he can't do anything for me.”

“Maybe if we have a talk with him he'd be willing to help. Can I have his name and address?”

“No, he doesn't know about the baby, and I don't want him to know, not yet anyway. He can't help me, he has a family of his own.”

“Any near friend who might help you?”

“No.”

“What about the baby's father?”

“No.”

“But I'm afraid … ”

“No.”

Now the right hand went into her coat pocket and the garment was drawn tight around her, as if to give some protection against the embarrassing questions. The interviewer changed tactics to:

“How's the baby?”

“He's still in hospital. They say there's something the matter with his lungs, some shadow or something, so he's got to stay there until they're sure he's all right.”

Aha! Quite a speech. This was safe ground, talking about the baby, but the girl still seemed unrelaxed and watchful.

“What's his name?”

“I told them up at the hospital it's Michael, Michael John Coates.”

“Well, Miss Coates, what would you like us to do for you?”

“Put Michael in a Home until I can get a job and look after him myself. Up at the hospital they told me that if everything's okay with him, I'll have to take him home next Friday. But I'm staying with friends in Willesden and they can't have Michael. There's no room. But as soon as I get a job I could find a room and have him with me. You know, put him in a day nursery in the mornings and collect him at night.”

“That's all very well, Miss Coates, but it costs a lot to keep a child in a Home, and it would be some time before you could find a job and a room. Surely Michael's father should help you with him? At least, if it is possible to get Michael into a Home, his father should make some contribution to his maintenance.”

“No.”

There was something grand about her resolution and spirit. She had guts.

“But why?” There was a note of impatience in the officer's voice.

“From the time I told him I was pregnant he never came near me, never even wrote to me or anything, and when I wrote to him he didn't even answer. Now I don't want to have anything more to do with him and I don't want anything from him.”

The lips closed as tight as a trap. That's how she felt and there was no use arguing about it. ‘Bravo!' I thought.

The officer realized that there was no use pursuing that line, and said:

“Well, Miss Coates, I'll have a word with the Supervisor and we'll see what we can do. We'll get in touch with the hospital to inquire about the baby's illness. Could you call here again in a few days, say next Thursday, then I'll let you know what's been decided.”

“Thank you.”

End of interview.

That was the pattern, with the officer's position and that of the applicant clearly defined. From what I'd heard, the relationship generally improved as the interviews increased in number, and officer and applicant became accustomed to each other. But that necessarily took time and there weren't enough officers to allow for such waste. It seemed to me that it was quite possible to establish a better working relationship with an applicant from the very beginning. Instead of sitting on the edge of a chair with her legs tucked under in tense unease, she should be relaxed, or as nearly so as her own anxieties and problems would permit, and assured of the officer's help and service. Yes, service. At most interviews I witnessed officialdom but not service. The officer was the kingpin, firmly in the seat of authority. To serve was consciously to reverse the position, and to make the applicant conscious of being served. Everything should be geared to that. I'd really think about it and try to work it out at my own interviews.

E
ARLY NEXT MORNING I
rang the Rosenbergs. Hannah answered. When I told her about Roddy, she was delighted, and asked me to come round to discuss the matter.

“Only one thing though,” I said, now speaking to Hardwick, “the kid's coloured.”

“Well,” he replied, without hesitation. “So what has he got against Jews?”

I laughed and relaxed. I should have known better than to mention it, but already something seemed to be rubbing off on me. I was encountering so many fears and prejudices each day that I was now looking for them, peeping under each situation just in case some hidden prejudice was lurking there. I'd have to watch myself. That sort of thing just won't do.

“When do we expect you?” Hannah asked.

“After work this evening,” I said. “Seven, seven-thirty, thereabouts. Okay?”

“Fine, see you then. 'Bye.”

I had two calls to make in Brixton, so I tidied my desk and went downstairs.

First I went to see a Joshua Roberts, 62 Kingston Park Road, Brixton. There was no answer. I'd written stating the time I'd call. Still no answer. A long journey with a blank at the end of it. Oh well, let's press on.

Second call, Thornton Loomis, 16 Vale Street, Brixton. Let's hope you're home, Mr Loomis. After all, you asked for this visit. His letter had arrived that morning and the Supervisor had passed it on to me. It read:

The Director,

The Welfare Department

Dear Sir,

I am a West Indian from Grenada resident and in employment in London only for the purpose of completing my studies.

I am married with two children under six years, both boys. Recently there have arisen serious domestic differences between my wife and myself, as a result of which it seems more than likely that I will find it necessary to dissolve the home and place the children in an Institution until I am ready to return to Grenada. I would welcome an opportunity for discussing the procedure with a member of your staff.

I have the honour to be, Sir,

Yours respectfully,

THORNTON W. LOOMIS

I must have read the letter several times over, trying to get a mental picture of Mr Loomis. The clear, precise statement of his position and intention seemed to indicate, at least, a good educational background. So I was it, the someone to talk to Mr Thornton W. Loomis.

He answered the door and stood looking at me in open-mouthed surprise.

“Mr Loomis?”

“Yes, I'm Mr Loomis.”

“I'm from the Welfare Department.”

“But, I thought … ” he began, not quite knowing what to say. He had not expected someone like me.

“We got your letter and I've come to see if I can help in any way.”

“But I didn't know, I mean, I didn't think, I mean … ”

“I understand, Mr Loomis. Actually I've not been with the Welfare Department very long, you know.”

“Anyway, won't you come in?”

He led the way down a short flight of stone stairs into the basement. A largish living-room, nicely furnished and clean. The floor was covered with a gaily patterned carpet in varying shades of red with a leafy motif. On the right of the main entrance double doorways led into what may have been bedrooms. Through the half-open door I caught a glimpse of a small bed. Opposite was another doorway from which came sounds of running water and the rattle of dishes. Two small children were playing at trains on the floor. The train was a straight-backed chair lying on its side; they were having an argument over who should be the driver this time. Ages about three and five.

Mr Loomis led me to an overstuffed settee away from the children.

“Please sit down. I'll tell the wife you're here.” He went through the doorway into the room from which came the sounds of water and crockery. After a few minutes he returned. About thirty, five feet eight or thereabouts and thin, with sharp, chiselled features and straight, black hair brushed neatly backward away from his forehead. An intelligent, sensitive face, but slightly womanish, I thought. Indian origin. Neatly dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt and a University tie.

I took another look at the children. They were lighter skinned than their father, with brownish curling hair, both chubby, well-nourished boys. One of them had a host of freckles on his face. Handsome boys. I wondered what the wife looked like.

“My wife will be with us in a moment,” he said. Very formal and distant. Probably disappointed with me. He was all set to receive a white person, and look at what turned up. I'd have to get round that somehow.

“Couple of nice boys,” I remarked. “Born here?” I knew they were. Their voices were as English as old Big Ben, but softer. Anyway, it was an opening gambit.

“Oh, yes. Both born here,” he replied, giving very little.

“Economics or Law?” I'd try another angle, this time with the tie.

“Economics,” he said. “London School of Economics.” He said this with pride, placing himself where he belonged. A person of quality.

This was a better start. I asked him about his studies and plans for the future and learned that he intended to return home and go into politics. He asked me about my own work, and for the record I gave him a brief run-down on my life in Britain, watching him—university, the Royal Air Force, schoolmaster, now this. I watched the change happening in his face. He liked the sound of that, the prestige value of famous institutions, the mystique of belonging. Each moment my stock was going up with him. I nearly laughed as I thought that each moment my skin was becoming whiter to him, more acceptable.

“Great,” he said, “great. But why are you doing this job?”

“Oh, that's a long story. Maybe one of these days when we have time I'll tell you about it.”

He was looking at me now with something near to respect. Then his wife appeared. We both stood up as she came in, drying her hands on her gay, frilly edged apron.

I hope I had enough sense to keep my mouth from gaping. She was a peach, a knockout. Lovely and pink-flushed from the warmth of her efforts in the kitchen. As tall as her husband. Fair and sun-touched, with a mass of tumbling curly brown hair. An oval face out of which her large brown eyes shone darkly, mischievously. No make-up on the full, pouting lips. Beautiful, even teeth, with a glint of gold on one molar. Probably Portuguese, I thought, with other things. A lot of different blood had gone into producing this lovely woman. Her movement towards us was easy and light, flowing from the hips but proud, haughty.

She was dressed in a suit of red linen, short-sleeved, with no ornaments of any kind. Her eyebrows were thick, lustrous and untouched. Some men are born lucky, I thought.

We shook hands. Hers was strong and warmly damp. Her husband may have prepared her for me, because she showed no surprise in her manner. In fact, she seemed pleased.

“Glad to meet you, Mr Braithwaite,” she said. I had not yet mentioned my name to either of them.

“I peeked,” she continued, laughing. “Recognized you. Saw you on TV last week. Besides, I read your book.”

One up to the lady in the red linen suit. Her husband took his cue. “Oh, yes. I heard about you, but I didn't connect the name,” he said. “I knew you had joined the Welfare Service,” he added. “You mentioned it during the TV programme.”

Well, there we were, all nice and cosy and informed. So now we could get on with the business in hand. I noticed that she sat in a chair some distance from her husband, although there was plenty of room beside him where he sat on the settee.

“We received your letter at the office, Mr Loomis,” I began, “so I am here to offer any help I can. But first I ought to explain something of my position. Normally we do not interfere in anyone's domestic affairs, but where children are involved we would like to help in any way which would avoid their ever coming into the Council's care. From the tone of your letter it would seem that whatever action you contemplate might possibly affect the children adversely, so I've come along to try to help you sort things out. I'm no specialist in these matters, but I've been in Britain a long time, and my experiences here may be of some use to you.”

While I was speaking, his wife was staring at me in wide-eyed surprise. Now she stood up, looking from him to me.

“What letter are you talking about? What's this all about?” And to him: “What on earth have you been up to?”

He became rather flustered and said to her: “Take it easy. I'll explain it to you later.” Then to me: “Look, Mr Braithwaite, all I wanted was that the Welfare people would send someone to tell me what would happen to the children in case my wife and I parted, or something like that.”

“Thornton!” she exclaimed, the look on her face painful. “You didn't send that letter?”

“I told you I would,” he replied.

“But I thought you were joking.” Her voice was a sob. The colour had receded from her face, leaving it sickly pale.

I looked at him, sitting there smug and sure of himself, and I had the feeling that this little man was trying to use the Department and me, or whoever had come, in an attempt to frighten his wife, for some reason best known to himself. She turned to me, her lips trembling with anguish and humiliation.

“Mr Braithwaite, will you please tell me what was in the letter my husband wrote to you?”

I looked at him, wondering how I should answer that one. This thing between them was not really my business. Or was it? Play for time, I told myself.

“I would have thought your husband consulted with you before writing it, Mrs Loomis.”

“Please, please,” she replied. “I don't know anything about it. Last week he made some silly remark about putting the children in a home, but I thought he was teasing.”

“You should know me by now,” he said. “When I say I'll do a thing, I do it.” His remark was both smug and cruel.

“It's not fair,” she cried, and covering her face with her apron, she collapsed in her chair.

I began to dislike Mr Loomis. I felt embarrassed and a bit helpless in this situation and I didn't like the feeling one little bit. I didn't like being used this way, by him or anyone. I stood up. If I remained here any longer, chances were I would become angry and maybe take sides. That was not what I was paid to do. “I think I'd better leave you to sort this out between you,” I said.

She jumped up, red-eyed but now very angry and determined.

“Oh, no, you don't,” she said, her voice quiet but intense. “I don't know what it is my husband has written about me, but whatever it is we're going to have it out here and now. I didn't ask him to send for you, but now that you're here, you're going to stay until I know what's going on.” With this, she planted herself firmly between me and the doorway. She looked angry enough to do anything.

“Stop acting the fool and sit down,” her husband said, harshly.

She ignored him and remained where she was. This was getting us nowhere. I decided to stay and see it through. I sat down. She walked over and picked up her chair and placed it between me and the door, then sat in it. Evidently she was determined that I should not leave until the matter had been aired.

“Mrs Loomis,” I said. “Your husband wrote us stating that there were serious difficulties between you and warned us that he might try to place the children in an Institution.”

She was calm now, in complete control of herself. The children went on with their game, happily ignoring us. Her voice was low-pitched but clear and purposeful. “He did, did he? All right. I didn't think he'd ever do something like that to me. It was a mean, dirty trick.” She looked directly at him. “And all because of his jealousy. That's all it is, jealousy. He knows it's not true, but he won't let himself believe it's not true.”

So she told it, slowly and clearly.

At first, before they were married, she used to think it was nice, his being jealous like that. She was nursing then, at Clapham General Hospital. “I'm from British Guiana. I came over here to study nursing, I met him at a dance during my final year,” she explained.

Right from the beginning, he was jealous of everyone she knew, so she had to drop all her friends. According to him, the white men she knew only wanted to use her, and the coloured ones weren't good enough. Only him. She supposed it felt good having someone feel that way about her.

After she finished her finals they were married. They had a little money and bought this house, on a mortgage. He was studying at the Polytechnic then, in the evenings, and working on the Underground during the day. They rented the rooms and flats upstairs and he stopped working to give more time to his studies.

“From the time we were married he wouldn't let me talk to anyone as long as it was a man; not even the friends I knew before I met him. Especially Negroes. He dislikes them, thinks he's above them. He won't rent a room to a Negro, only Indians like himself or white people.

“Even the people who live in this house I mustn't talk to, and all day long he's with his books, so I mustn't disturb him. Sometimes in the afternoon I'd take the boys into the park to play. The other day a young man passed by and admired the boys, then spoke to me for a few minutes, you know, telling me about his own children or something like that. Thornton was coming out to meet me and must have seen me talking to the young man who went off before he arrived. He began asking me all kinds of questions about him, and wouldn't believe that I'd never seen the young man before, or even knew his name.”

It had been like that ever since. They never went anywhere because he claimed he was too busy studying, and he wouldn't let her go anywhere by herself. Not even to the cinema. When she went shopping he watched the time, and if she was a little late he hinted that perhaps she had met somebody, some man or other.