Paid Servant (13 page)

So it fluctuated, back and forth, coming now to the inevitable question of mixed marriages. They were well in their stride and I had the feeling that they were accustomed to these ‘bull sessions' and found it stimulating to probe each other's thoughts and feelings. There might have been Jews among them, if one judged that the very knowledgeable way in which some of them presented the case for or against Jews as a minority group differed from their speculations, notions and theories about Negroes. They treated the subject of mixed marriages as a kind of hobby horse. Each one agreed that a person should be free to marry whom he or she chose, but there immediately followed a whole host of conditions, each of which was defended as reasonable by its champion, and as ardently attacked as illiberal by the detractors.

It seemed to me that, in spite of themselves, the very sound of the words ‘Negro' or ‘black' immediately set them groping in the darkness of inherited attitudes and conditioned behaviour, with here and there a jubilant cry as each discovered a ray of light which promised an exit. They tried to reason themselves into liberal thinking and though I sympathized with their efforts, I wondered how well such reasoning would stand up to some of the tests I encountered day by day. If it were possible I would like to buy up every liberal thought expressed so freely and save it for redistribution in some areas of England; brotherly love was always at a premium, and the more the obvious differences between the brothers the less the loving. Could they reason themselves into liberal action?

I tried to stay on the outer edge of these discussions, hearing, feeling, remembering, recording it all in my mind, or as much as was possible; now and then a question would be put to me and I'd be compelled to say my piece. As when someone suggested that, in mixed marriages, the children were the chief sufferers as they could find no place in either camp, so to speak. To this I replied:

“We seem to be ignoring one important factor. Irrespective of who his parents are, a child born into a family is part of that family, so he naturally belongs, and needs from them love, companionship, help, guidance, encouragement, advice, and example in positive living. He needs these things irrespective of his parents' racial origins. If he is born into a community where tolerance prevails, then there is no special problem. However, a coloured child born in Britain, for instance, not only needs the things I have mentioned, but is severely handicapped without them, because the community considers his colour a handicap and therefore imposes special pressure and proscriptions upon him. He needs those things not as insulation against the pressures, but as sources from which to draw strength in order to meet and deal with them with wisdom, courage and resolution.”

“And supposing, for argument's sake, such a child didn't have parents to comfort or advise? Then he is a sitting duck for everything the community feels like throwing at him.”

“Community is a blanket word like ‘nation' or ‘club'; we can so easily wrap ourselves in it and become anonymous. It must be remembered that we contribute to those prejudices as much by not protesting against them as by deliberately acting in agreement.”

“But what can one do in matters such as this?”

This was the question I had been hoping to hear; the tailor-made opportunity for me to talk about the increasing number of unwanted children, white and black, in the Council's Homes. I tried hard to be objective about the things I said, merely stating the case without attempting any emphasis, and as soon as I had dealt with the main points and answered their questions, I changed the subject; if anyone wanted to follow it up, they'd have time enough to discuss it further.

Later that afternoon someone started on it; by this time we were all on a Christian-name relationship. So now discussion centred around various suggestions for reducing the numbers of orphan or neglected children in the care of Councils. Someone proposed that an experienced publicity manager be employed to present the case to the public, arguing that there must be thousands of women in Britain who either could not have children or had lost those they had, and in whom the milk of mother-love flowed free and strong. They would jump at the chance of adopting or fostering a child, especially if it were made to seem attractive to them. I said that Councils advertised, rather discreetly and not very much, but they advertised.

Then we got around to discussing the relative merits of fostering ‘for pay or for love', as someone put it, and the arguments which followed were very lively. These were experts in the matter of buying or selling ideas which either dictated or catered to public taste and appeal and I listened to them with respect and a certain envy. One of them, the playwright, Olga Keriham suggested: “Why don't they advertise for foster-parents to undertake the care of a child as a job, a paid job, something a sensible, decent housewife could do instead of working all day in a factory, and pay her factory rates or something near it?”

Before I could say anything, someone else replied: “I suppose they don't want the lovely altruism to be dirtied by any mention of filthy lucre. It's a bit like the teaching profession, not quite the thing to expect to be paid for assisting in so worthy a cause.”

“Or perhaps they assume that by paying for the job too many undesirable types might be attracted, purely for the money.”

“Not necessarily. I'm sure they have some means of investigating each applicant. I think it would be easier and more practicable to assess a person's ability and suitability to do a job of work, for pay, than for any other motive, no matter how laudable it seemed.”

They had completely taken over the discussion, and I was pleased to be there, just listening.

“If it were made a paid job, it would be none the less worthwhile. Besides, it would encourage many more people to foster the handicapped children.”

“Including the black ones?”

“Including the black ones. Funny, but when people are doing a job for money, that can be the best excuse for doing the job, it can also give the job respectability. As it is I am sure that many a British housewife would not now offer a home to a coloured child through fear of being suspected of certain emotional motives, whereas as a job, she could undertake it with less concern for the opinions of others.”

“I've just thought of something,” Olga said, “instead of waiting for a few high-minded people to come forward, they should not only pay foster-parents a practical wage, but also run short courses for them so that they have an opportunity to learn how to cope with such problems as might arise. I believe that if several persons are engaged in a similar activity, it helps them if they meet others similarly occupied, for exchanging ideas and general discussion, and for the security which comes from knowing that you are not some kind of freak doing something unusual.”

“That would provide more foster-parents without discouraging the altruistic ones.”

“Why, certainly.”

“Wouldn't the home atmosphere be rather sterile if people were merely concerned with fostering as a job of work?”

“Hell, no. Put an adult and a child together and you go a long way to having a family. If the adult begins by caring for the child's needs and wants in health and sickness, some relationship is bound to develop between them. I'm sure that such relationships develop even in the Homes Ricky spoke about, where one housemother is expected to divide her attention, care and even love, between several children.”

“And what about the children? How would you know that they are receiving good value for the money paid?”

“By the same system of supervision now in operation.”

It all seemed so very reasonable and practical that I immediately suspected there would be many snags not readily noticeable. If an impromptu discussion could produce such pertinent opinions, it seemed reasonable to assume that similar ideas must have occurred to those in authority within the Welfare Department, and if no action had yet been taken on any of the lines suggested, it might well be that there were excellent reasons for it.

However, the ideas so simply stated invited action. I thought about them. They tossed ideas back and forth, sometimes drawing me in with a question but answering it themselves before I could attempt a reply. Very interesting and entertaining, even, but I felt that they would just as engagingly have discussed any other subject, from their safe position outside, uninvolved. But, perhaps not all of them.

As the party broke up Olga Keriham offered me a lift in her car, and, on the way surprised me with: “When you speak of foster-parents, Ricky, is it always necessary that there be two of them? Could not a person, a man or a woman, apply to foster a child? What I mean is, is your department only interested in two married people?”

I took a long look at her. Her eyes were large, clear grey, and steady; her face lean, tight-skinned and shiny smooth with a combination of careful make-up and good health. She wore her pale blonde hair in a high plaited chignon which emphasized the small shapely chin and slim neck. About thirty years old, I thought; without effort she'll keep that figure for a long time.

“Well?” she prompted.

“There maybe exceptions,” I replied, “but generally applications are considered from couples, so that the fostered child can enter into a normal family situation.”

“But supposing a person, a single person, happened to have the financial means and interest to consider fostering a child?”

“I couldn't answer that one without checking my authority. I suppose there may be special circumstances.”

“I'd like to get to know one of those children, a coloured one,” she remarked. It was more like an incomplete thought being tested for sound than a question directed at me.

“Could do.” I was soon telling her about Roddy and my abortive attempts, so far, to find him a home.

“Poor woman.”

“She's okay,” I said. “Roddy is the one who needs the sympathy.”

“Perhaps, but why did she go to the trouble of having the child? I don't suppose that a man could understand about that. Do you suppose they'd let a complete stranger see the boy? Just for a visit?”

“Like who?”

“Like me.”

I assured her that it could be arranged and promised to ring her as soon as I had discussed it with the Matron.

Two days later Olga and I went to see Roddy. From the wide window of Matron's office we could see the children playing together on the rough lawn behind the building, singing at the tops of their voices as they held hands in a revolving circle. Roddy was the only coloured child in the group. I offered to take her out and make the introduction, but she demurred, her eyes on Matron in unspoken question. Matron nodded, understanding that something.

I watched from the window as she reached the group, hesitated awhile as the action slowed, then intervened between Roddy and his neighbour. So accustomed were the children to new faces and situations in their small world, that the game continued with hardly a pause. Later, when they tired of it and broke up into their separate interests, I saw Roddy leading her away on what I was sure would be a tour of the house and grounds.

Matron and I talked about Olga, and I mentioned her expressed willingness to foster a child. As I had guessed, there was not much chance that the Council would accept an application from a single person, but Matron suggested that Olga might like to become an Official Auntie. That would make it possible for her to visit him, take him out for short periods, and, if no foster-parents appeared for him, she might later be allowed to have him spend the odd day or weekend with her. I felt sure Olga would like that.

“About the other, any luck?” Matron asked. I knew she was referring to my search for foster-parents.

“Not yet, but one presses on regardless,” I replied.

“Time's slipping by.”

I didn't need to be reminded. The thought of his being moved to another Home for older children depressed me, try as I might to keep the plain realities in perspective. This place was Roddy's little world, in which he was safe and loved; unless foster-parents were found for him, and soon, he'd have to leave it and start again, from scratch, probably with an overworked housemother, and in new and unfamiliar surroundings. So far I had exhausted my first line of contacts and I did not quite know how to proceed from there. I was often invited to address groups of people in and around London and endeavoured, whenever the opportunity presented itself, to mention the plight of the increasing number of children in the care of local councils, hoping to stimulate some interest in fostering or adoption, but so far nothing significant had developed.

When the break came it was completely unexpected. I was alone in my office one afternoon when the phone rang; the switchboard operator asked me if I would take an emergency call from a local hospital as the duty officer was busy with interviews and no other Welfare Officer was in the building. I accepted the call and spoke with the hospital's almoner. She told me that a young West Indian woman had that morning been admitted to hospital as an ambulance case—premature delivery. The woman's other children, twin girls, were in the rooms she occupied, uncared for except for a neighbour's promise to ‘look in' on them. I assured her that the matter would be attended to without delay. It sounded very efficient and grand when I said it, but soon after replacing the telephone on its hook I realized that I hadn't a single clue about what to do in such a situation. I went downstairs to get some help from Miss Martindale, the duty officer, but she was deep in an interview with two women, apparently a mother and daughter. I walked over to the telephonist's cubicle. As usual, Miss Felden beat me to it.

“That you, Mr Braithwaite?”

“Yes, this is me.”

“You sound bothered. What's the trouble?”

“A call just came in from the Almoner at St Saviour's. A woman has been rushed off to hospital and her two little twin children are to be taken into care, but I don't know the drill.”