Paid Servant (20 page)

“It can be rough,” one of them said. “Just think of it. Anything from four to eight hundred immigrants at Waterloo Station on a cold night, and only one of us on the spot.”

“Why only one of you?”

“Well, the truth is that we go primarily to meet the students for whose reception we are responsible, although, once on the spot, one sometimes has to lend a helping hand to others.”

I offered the opinion that when a group of three or four hundred new arrivals observed that a few fellow travellers, the students, were singled out for special treatment, they were likely to believe that they were the victims of a kind of social ostracism, and the essential purpose of the Migrants' Services might thus be defeated. It seemed to me that though it was certainly necessary to give students every possible help towards settling into their new environment, it was equally important that the immigrant workers, generally less sophisticated than the students, be given a favourable impression of their first exposure to conditions in Britain. I suggested that some attempt be made to organize reception groups from among students and others already settled in Britain, who would volunteer to meet new arrivals at airports and rail terminals, and help them through some of their difficulties. Such groups could work either independently or in co-operation with one or other of the more familiar volunteer organizations such as the W.V.S. and the Salvation Army. This type of volunteer activity might provide useful experience for some of the bright young people of the hostels at Collingham Gardens and Hans Crescent who seemed over-supplied with leisure.

They told me of some other aspects of their work. They travelled around the country, especially to those cities and towns where groups of immigrants lived and worked, talking with civic and religious personalities and organizations, employers and employment agencies, addressing schools, seeking in every way to encourage harmony between the immigrants and the host community in which they now lived and worked.

“The work is harder on the spirit than on the feet,” one said. “Sometimes liaison has to be done during one of those unhappy incidents which occasionally erupt as evidence of the disturbing depth of the fear and suspicion on which inter-racial disharmony so greedily feeds. At such times the going is really tough, especially when there seems to be some justification for the opinions expressed and the attitudes taken. In the quiet times we try to encourage the new citizens to enter boldly into the life of the community, but with little success. You see, most of them leave home and arrive in Britain with no clear image of themselves, no consciousness of their dignity or human worth; so when they are subjected to the pressure of prejudice and discrimination they are very likely to see themselves as others see them, to borrow the image of themselves, and, resenting it, to become equally prejudiced and bigoted as those who despise them and treat them shamefully. In such cases, any attempt we make at reconciliation is seen as a betrayal, especially as we can do little more than talk. Without the financial resources for starting any positive action programme, our talk must sound empty and meaningless to them.”

“What do you mean by ‘action programme'?” I asked.

“As we move around we see that a great deal needs to be done, to give the new citizens a sense of purpose beside the more simple essentials of food, clothes and shelter. They need to be encouraged to help improve their own conditions in terms of education, standards of hygiene, civic consciousness, etc. They must be encouraged to improve the image they have of themselves.”

“Best of luck to you.”

“Needs more than luck. Needs more of us and a few small miracles. A lot of our people leave home full of hope and trust in the people of Britain; soon after they arrive everything changes, and even those who achieve a measure of success do so at the cost of a great deal of spiritual bruising which embitters them. Yes, we need some miracles.”

Mr Cosson arrived in London a few days later. I had sent him all the relevant information about his accommodation at the Redmonds, so he went directly to their house and later called at my office. Dressed in a smartly cut suit of brown tweeds, polished brown shoes, cream shirt and grey flecked maroon silk tie, he presented a picture of confidence and affluence, a far cry from the grey-clad sycophant I had met in the prison. I led him to one of the interview rooms, so that we could chat undisturbed.

“Well, here I am,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”

Smoothly shaved, his teeth white against his dark skin, he was smiling and relaxed as if he had not a care in the world, yet, for some reason which even now eludes me, I felt a gnawing dislike of him. We chatted awhile about nothing in particular, waiting for the word or gesture which leads into comfortable conversation. Then, “I remember you,” he suddenly said.

I thought, ‘Here it comes,' and mentally braced myself against whatever it was he might say.

“I've been trying to place you ever since the day you came up to see me, and at last I've got it. The Howard Hotel. Remember? During the Notting Hill thing when Mr Manley came over. I didn't place your name, but I remember your face. You were the one who didn't agree with the rest of them.”

I hope he didn't notice any relief. Yes, I remembered the occasion, but I did not remember him as part of it. The Notting Hill thing as he called it, had caught many of us off guard by the suddenness of its eruption and the viciousness and depths of the inter-racial antipathy it exposed in a district where the various elements in the community seemed at least tolerant of each other. Furthermore, the black residents, leaderless and sadly inept, had in desperation sent an urgent appeal to the West Indian leader to come and speak up for them, in the hope that his political stature would earn for him and them a courteous hearing of their case, and result in an easing of their difficulties. Well, now he had arrived, and was sitting calm and assured among those who considered themselves the leaders among the immigrant community. They told him of their difficulties, describing in vivid and touching detail the numerous deliberate or subtle ways in which their persons and dignity were constantly assaulted. Now, with the veil crudely torn from the bland face of prejudice, they were being terrorized, even in their very homes. They wanted him, on their behalf, to remind the British people that, in spite of their black skins, they too were British, and had proved it through nearly three hundred years of close identity of language, culture, belief and thought; they hoped he would further remind the British people of their unstinted contribution, to the extent of the final sacrifice, during two world wars, and now all they wished for was the opportunity to work and live without fear of molestation or interference. On and on it went. Their complaints were true enough; there was no denying the facts; but there was something of defeat and acceptance in the very presentation of their difficulties, with never a hint of anything they themselves might attempt to do to arrest or alter the unhappy tide of events. They were deeply hurt and loquaciously angry, yet, unreasonably, or so it seemed to me, they expected him to achieve some effective results by restating the old relationships between Britain and her Caribbean territories, as if such a pitiful manoeuvre would somehow shame the British people into a friendlier, more tolerant attitude.

He sat there, the personification of dignity and wisdom, listening to them, his snowy hair adding emphasis to the majestic width of his forehead. Then he spoke, saying the things they expected of him, making the promises, giving the reassurances, and, hearing the easy, compelling rhetoric of the man, I was half-persuaded to believe. But I had lived in Britain a long time, and I knew that his arguments and protestations would receive short shrift. I rather suspected that he was aware of the danger that his plausible assurances might be taken too literally; with his long political experience and close association with British policies, he could not truly believe that his presence would dramatically resolve the racial disharmony. He must know that, in the street, he would be merely another black face, another object for disrespect, another potential target for the bottle or brick, another ‘rabble-rouser' to be rough-handled by the police.

When he had said his piece and duly received the enthusiastic plaudits of his hearers, I asked his permission to speak. I reminded him that his professional and political interests would make it impossible for him to spend more than a few days in Britain, in spite of his emotional involvement in the situation. He would, as promised, visit the cities and towns where “his people were in trouble,” and I agreed that his presence would prove stimulating and encouraging to them. But after a few days he'd be forced to return to the West Indies to deal with matters more immediately important to his political career. It seemed to me that throughout all their protestations, none of those present had indicated any recognition of responsibility, on the part of the black residents in Britain, for even a small part of the trouble. I told him that those who had been exhorting him to representative action on their behalf did not really represent the thousands for whom they claimed to speak; in fact, they hardly knew them or had anything more than the vaguest contact with them. The current state of frightening disorder had temporarily shocked and frightened them, but I felt safe in prophesying that as soon as the situation eased a bit, they would quickly return to their separate personal pursuits until the next rash of incidents threw them once again into agitated association. I made the suggestion that he urge them to recognize their own responsibility in the matter. Racial discrimination in Britain was not an overnight phenomenon, and it was pitiable that there still could be found no effective representative group of West Indians in Britain who could honestly claim the right to speak or act on behalf of the rank and file in time of crisis. They were on the spot, they were familiar with the circumstances, and they should be able to speak with a clearer knowledge of what action would best and most speedily resolve the situation. Many of them were easily and fluently articulate or otherwise gifted; they should put some of their talents to work to help raise the standards of those less equipped than themselves. Without doubt, he represented the ‘father figure', but he should put first things first with some plain talk to those who so obviously were prepared to sit back and let him attempt to solve their problems.

He received my words in silence; the others angrily interrupted me while I was speaking, and were even more vociferous at the end. But I didn't give a damn about their abuse. However, it was clear that he had no intention of committing himself by commenting on anything I had said, so I left them. As I approached the door of the hotel, I was intercepted by a tall, handsome woman.

“Mr Braithwaite,” she said, “I am Mrs Manley.”

We shook hands.

“I am grateful to you for the things you just said to my husband.”

That was all, and we parted before I had really seen her to remember; except her voice, deep and round, but trembling with more than a hint of anxiety …

Yes, I remembered that occasion although I could not recall Mr Cosson's face as a piece of the group.

“Those buggers let me down,” he went on. “That time at Notting Hill, Mr Manley said that anybody who got into trouble with the police and suchlike, would be looked after, you know, they'd be represented or, if they were fined, those would be paid. Well, I was in a car with some fellows one night and the police stopped us. We had a few things in the car, you know, to defend ourselves in case of anything, but the police ran us in and charged us with carrying offensive weapons. We were fined and we had to pay it ourselves. Didn't see one of those big shots who promised to do so much.”

I said nothing. A lot of wild, irresponsible promises had been scattered around at the time, and there had been a great deal of misunderstanding because the promises had been taken too literally.

“Anyway, not to worry,” he said, laughing. “Thanks for helping out with this thing.” He meant his ticket of leave.

“Glad to do it. The children will be happy to see you.”

“I know; I'm thinking of what to tell them.”

“They've already been told that you were away ill, so I suppose it won't hurt if you follow the same line.”

“I wasn't thinking about that.” He waved his hand airily. “Now they'll want to know when they can come home with me.”

“You mean to British Guiana?”

“No, I mean here, London. They'll want me to take them from that Home.”

“Well, what plans do you have for them?”

“I've been figuring it out,” he continued. “I could start a shop somewhere else and rent a flat for me and the children; could always get somebody to come in and keep an eye on them.” He laughed again, probably enjoying some private joke. “This time I'm taking no chances.”

He was silent for a few moments, as if mentally determining how much he should say to me. “Last time one of them shopped me, but it won't happen again. I've learned a few things inside. When I come out it's going to be different, you can bet on that.”

I suddenly had an idea about Mr Cosson, and thought I'd test it. “When you're out, we'd be happy to do whatever we can to help you find a job … ”

He interrupted me. “Oh, don't worry about that. I know where I can put my hand on some money to make a start. I'll be all right. You know what they say, ‘If you can't be good, be careful'.”

Yes, I was right. He had no intention of seeking honest employment. His term of imprisonment had not produced a change of heart, but merely a determination to be more careful, at least, until next time. The more I saw and heard of Mr Cosson, the less I liked him.

“May I make a suggestion, Mr Cosson.” My voice and manner were stiff and formal, because I disliked the way in which, by his attitude as well as the things he said, it seemed I was being made a kind of conspirator in his schemes.