Paid Servant (2 page)

Our coffee arrived and she put two spoonfuls of brown sugar into mine before attending to her own. A charming domestic gesture; maybe she had a father and brothers and was accustomed to paying them such pleasant little attentions. I noticed her hands, the pale skin revealing a network of blue veins, the fingers long and finely tapered, each index and middle finger deeply stained with nicotine.

“What's your name?”

I looked up. Her eyes were fixed on me. They were clear and clean to their very depths. Whatever had produced the general untidiness had not reached her eyes. Not yet. “Braithwaite, Ricky Braithwaite.”

She swung her eyes over me in deliberate, comprehensive summary.

“That's funny. That's really funny. All the Negroes I meet, at school or college, and things, have such ordinary names, such damned ordinary everyday names like Smith and Rogers and Palmer. And now Braithwaite. Mine isn't so simple and everyday. I once had a room-mate, true blue English and all that. Her name was Zutski. Don't you think that's funny?”

I didn't think it was funny. Names don't mean a great deal. “What's your name?” I asked.

Her gaze remained cool, level. No answer. “What do you do?” she asked.

I was on the point of telling her, but changed my mind and mentioned what was still my hobby. “I write,” I replied.

“What?”

“Bits and pieces, articles, things like that. I've just published my first book.”

“Nice. And what are you?” There was a slight pulling of the muscles around her mouth, the involuntary twitchings of humour, denied, rejected.

“I've just told you, I'm a writer.”

“I asked you what you do and now I ask you what you are.” There was a hint of mockery in her voice. “Not the same question, you know, or can't you see any difference?”

I caught on, or thought I did. I thought I had her pegged. Another of those beatnik smarties mouthing the nothing, nowhere philosophy. Anything for a laugh without laughter. I'd met them and heard them. I was suddenly bored with her, bored and a bit impatient.

“Okay. I write and I'm a Negro.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?” Without taking her eyes off me she crushed the cigarette butt into the ashtray and reached into the packet for another. I made a light for her.

“I can see you're a Negro,” she continued. “The colour of your skin neither impresses nor bothers me.” Again she did the trick with the smoke. “I don't suppose you understand. Let's try me. The ‘do' part—I was a model, for artists. The ‘be' part—I am a singer or rather, that was what I wanted to be. The modelling was for a living while I learned how to sing.”

It made sense, the way she put it. “What type of singing?” I didn't ask about the modelling. That was not hard to guess, probably posing for struggling young artists at a few shillings a time.

“What type of singing?” She repeated the question softly to herself, “Blues.” She let the word hang between us for awhile and then continued, her eyes now veiled by the long lashes. “Blues. That's the only kind of singing that really matters. You should know, you in your black skin. They say it started with you. I wonder why they called it ‘Blues'. Blacks might have been better, but maybe Blues is just right. The only real singing there is. I always had a feeling for Blues, deep inside. Can you sing?”

“No,” I replied, “But I love Blues.”

She drew hungrily at the cigarette, squinting at me through the soft, lazy whorls. With her free hand she tilted her coffee cup towards her and made a face at the cold frothy dregs.

“More coffee?”

She nodded and I ordered more coffee.

“How long have you been writing?”

“Off and on about eight years. Nothing much until recently.”

“The book?”

“Yes.”

“What is it, a novel?”

“No. Biography.”

“Oh. They wanted me to do something useful, like marrying somebody, I suppose. My parents, I mean. They paid for me at art school, but I'm not bright enough. Anyway, I didn't do much work. Sat around listening to records and things. Wanted to sing, that's all.”

“How did it go, the singing?”

“Not good. It felt good inside here,” she touched her chest, “but it didn't sound so good when it came out. You know, not like the professionals. I used to go to hear them whenever I could.” She sipped her coffee. “My parents and I quarrelled and I left home.”

She blew smoke into the silence between us, then I noticed the tears. She let them run freely from the depths of pain and despair within her, but there was no sound of weeping. Then she rested her head gently on the table and pressed her hands over her ears in the loneliest gesture I have ever seen, as if she wanted to shut out the whole frightening world, the cigarette forgotten but still held between index and middle fingers of her right hand, the blue smoke feathering up from it in a wavering formless pattern.

Into my mind came the memory of the Welfare Chief's recent remarks. How would she view this? Should I tell this girl to go to the nearest Welfare Centre? At what point should I limit my involvement with other people? At what time of day was I off duty?

“Can I help?”

“No.” There was something remote about her voice. Remote and final. But low and clear in spite of the tears.

Something else was happening around me and looking away from her I realized that the volume of sound in the coffee bar had decreased. The students were whispering together and glancing in our direction. The sales girl behind the counter was busily minding her own business, but I caught her looking at us. My companion sat up, her face a tear-streaked mess. I took the clean handkerchief from my breast pocket and passed it to her. As she casually wiped her face I noticed that the waitress was standing nearby, looking boldly at me, her eyes bright and hostile. Good Lord, I thought, what must they be thinking? I suddenly felt very uncomfortable under all these speculative stares, and tried to avoid their eyes.

“Sorry about this,” she said, “it doesn't mean anything, but I just can't seem to stop it. It doesn't even hurt any more, but it just comes.” She tried to smile now, a brave, unsuccessful little effort. I felt very helpless and inadequate.

“How did the singing go? Still trying with it?” Anything to get her talking again, to bring the situation as nearly back to normal as possible.

“No, not now. But I tried to improve it. I started taking singing lessons; so I modelled in the day and worked in coffee bars at night to help pay for them. Then the men wanted me to do more than pose, so I chucked it and went home.” She blew her nose, folded the handkerchief into a tight roll, and put it in the pocket of her coat; then she took another cigarette from the packet and I lighted a match; but instead of putting the cigarette to her lips, her fingers slowly shredded it, acting apparently independent of her, then carefully separated the fragments of paper from the tobacco.

“I couldn't remain at home. Mummy was all right, but Dad! It was hell. He seemed to loathe the sight of me. He found fault with my clothes, my hair, my friends, everything. I stuck it as long as I could, then Dad and I had a flaming row, about everything and nothing, you know, and he told me to get out. I had no money. Mummy gave me twenty pounds, all she had, I suppose.”

The fingers were painstakingly picking up every bit of paper and tobacco and placing it in the ashtray. “I came and found a little room in Chelsea, on my own. If the men wanted something, they'd pay for it. So I advertised this time. As a model, you know what I mean.”

She looked at me; I suppose the look was meant to be defiant, but somehow didn't quite make it. The tears had done nothing to impair the beauty of her eyes.

“Aren't you shocked?”

“No, I don't think so.” It was true. I wasn't shocked, or surprised or anything, and I had the feeling that she did not really much care how I reacted. I was merely an ear, available for the moment, needed for the moment. It helped her to talk and it just happened to be me.

“I didn't use my right name. The men came, for all kinds of reasons, and they paid. That's all that mattered, they paid. None of it touched me, can you understand that? None of it really touched me. One day I planned to have enough money to do the thing that really was important to me, and I'd walk out on all of it.”

“One day someone rang and made an appointment. The voice was vaguely familiar, but I thought it might have been one of the regulars, you know. He did not say much, just asked if I was free at nine o'clock and when I said ‘yes' he hung up. He arrived on time. When he rang the bell I opened the door and there he was—my father. We looked at each other, then he turned and ran. Do you know every time I close my eyes I can hear his footsteps rushing down those stairs. He always wore metal tips on his heels. I cannot sleep for hearing them.” Her voice was now barely more than a whisper. “I couldn't work after that, not again. I just stayed in my room. That was two months ago.”

“I'm awfully sorry,” I said, “it must have been dreadful for you.” I knew that it sounded trite, but I felt I ought to say something. She looked so frail and weak and alone. I reached across the table to hold her hand in a spontaneous gesture of reassurance and comfort.

With a small, frightened cry she started, jerking her hand away and upsetting the coffee cups. In her eyes was a look very near terror. I felt confused and humiliated, the more so as now everyone in the coffee bar seemed to be staring at us, at me, the eyes cold and disapproving. The waitress hurried up to clean the mess of spilled coffee, glared at me, and turned to the girl, in immediate sympathy with one of her own sex.

“Are you all right, Miss?”

“Oh, yes, I'm fine,” she replied, contrite, “sorry to be so clumsy.” She now placed both hands in the pockets of her coat, her body drawn backwards as if involuntarily in retreat. Little girl lost. “I'm awfully sorry,” she said to me. “I didn't mean to be rude. It has nothing to do with you. It's just that I can't stand to be touched. Please believe me.”

The waitress looked at us, picked up the crockery, and expertly ran a damp rag over the table. She looked questioningly at the girl as if expecting further comment, but my companion only favoured her with a faint smile and the waitress, with another short glance of hostility at me, moved off with her rattling burden.

The girl began buttoning up her duffle coat, probably aware, as I was, that the thing with the coffee cup had broken our
rapport.
“Thank you,” she said softly, “you've been a tremendous help, really you have. It's been good of you, listening to me like this. I'm all right now.”

With this cryptic remark she stood up, carefully replaced her chair and walked away without another word. On her face was that look of resignation I had sometimes seen on the faces of aircrew just before take-off. I watched her walk through the door and past the glazed front window which overlooked the pavement.

I felt alone and exposed to the curious stares of the other customers, but avoided looking at them and began doodling on the back of an old envelope I had taken from my pocket. I had come here to spend a quiet hour before going on to the Children's Home at Wimbledon, and this had happened. Maybe I was becoming welfare prone, or something. There was still about fifteen minutes before I needed to catch my train, so I decided to stay where I was a while longer. I'd give the girl plenty of time to get far enough away so I would not catch up with her in the street. I don't suppose I'd really been of much help to her. I wondered how her father must be feeling these days. What a hell of a thing to happen to both of them. Maybe I could have lent her a pound or two, but I don't suppose she would have accepted it. She didn't seem to be the type. Oh, well, everyone to his own troubles. I hoped she'd pull through somehow.

I signalled the waitress. I wanted to order another coffee, but she came with the bill. Still hostile. I wondered how she saw us, what kind of situation she placed us in. Probably thought the girl was pregnant, or something like that, and I was responsible. I took the bill, paid the cashier and left. There was no sign of her along the short walk to the station. That was fine; I had no wish to see her again.

There was a number of people milling around excitedly at the entrance to the station, across which a temporary barrier of short iron standards and chains had been placed. Against one of the standards was a blackboard with a hastily chalked notice advising travellers to make their journey by bus as the station was temporarily out of service.

The Children's Home had once been the private residence of a very wealthy family, and in its conversion to its present use many of the lovely archways and curving staircases were preserved. The main building was three-storeyed, with several large rooms on each floor; these had been converted into play-rooms, dormitories, sickrooms, dining-rooms, rest-rooms, etc., with bedrooms for the resident staff. A well-furnished, self-contained small flat on the ground floor was reserved for the matron of the establishment.

She had seen me coming and was waiting for me at the top of the short flight of stone stairs to the rather showily impressive main door. A tall, well-made woman, with a florid, handsome, smiling face; her white hair was cut short around her head and shone with a silvery sparkle; her eyes were pale blue behind rimless spectacles. There was something positive, strong and secure about her, as of a woman who loved her work and those around her.

“Mr Braithwaite, eh?”

“Good afternoon, Matron.”

“Sorry we're so far away off the beaten track.” Her strong voice betrayed traces of her Scots origin. She led me to her office. “Well now, let's see. You've come about Roddy Williams. I told him he was having a visitor. He's in the play-room now. You can leave your things here.”

I liked this. No waiting around.