Paid Servant (22 page)

I told her about Roddy, omitting any mention of the Tamerlanes, but explained that certain plans were in hand which might or might not finally work out.

“What would you like me to do?” she asked.

“Nothing, at least not yet. If the thing I'm working on now fizzles out I'll let you know, but I must confess that I felt this was too good an opportunity to miss, just in case I need it.”

“Poor little thing,” she sympathized. “For myself I wouldn't hesitate a moment about accepting him, but I don't know how Jim would feel about it. Men are funny about such things. But, what with one thing and another,” she grinned, “I don't suppose he'd make too much noise. Shall I mention it to him?”

“No, I'd rather you didn't. We'll leave it like this for a while and if necessary I'll let you know. But keep your fingers crossed for me.”

We chatted about other things, chiefly about the new house. It was one big wonderful adventure for her; at long last she could, as she put it, ‘lock her own front door'. She planned to go shopping for curtains, furniture, dishes, all the things a housewife needs, and, listening to her, I knew she'd turn the new house into a comfortable home, less with the new furnishings than with her own effervescent personality.

I plunged headlong into a sticky situation. A couple appeared at my office one day. When I went down to them I saw a young but hard-looking brunette with jet black hair and straight eyebrows which met above her nose. Not the sort to mess about with tweezers, I thought. Smartly dressed, but with too much shiny jewellery. With her was a thin, very black man, whom I guessed was an African, probably Sudanese. He was handsome in a rather fierce way, and neatly dressed.

“I'm Martin's mother,” the woman said.

“Whose mother?”

“Martin Devonish. Remember? You sent some letters to me.”

Then I remembered. Since I'd taken over the case seven weeks ago I had been trying to locate her by writing to both the addresses at which she had been known to reside during recent months. The letters had not been returned, so I assumed that she had received them, but there had been no reply from her.

“I'm glad to meet you at last, Miss Devonish. My name is Braithwaite.”

“This is Mr Agumsah,” she said, “I'm called Mrs Agumsah.”

I looked at her hands but no wedding ring; that's why she ‘was called' Mrs Agumsah.

“We'd like to take Martin out of the Home.”

Just like that, and I was pleased to hear it. If a few more prodigal parents would turn up and say, “I'd like to take my child out of the Home,” I might soon have to return to teaching. Suddenly it was a nice, warm, sunny day.

“If you'll both wait here,” I said, showing them into one of the interview rooms, “I'll get the case folder and be with you in a moment.”

The case folder did not present a very flattering picture of Miss Devonish, otherwise known as Mrs Agumsah. It stated that three years ago the child had been brought to the Council's attention by the N.S.P.C.C., one of whose officers had found him alone and crying in a dirty, unheated room; a neighbour had reported hearing the child crying for hours. An African had later appeared and said that the child's mother, with whom he had been living, had that morning disappeared and he was unable to care for the child; he had left it in the unheated room while he went to search for the mother. The child had been taken into care, but all attempts at tracing the mother had failed. The African, Mr Agumsah, had insisted that though he had been living with the mother he was not the baby's father. The child's name and that of the mother were supplied by him. The child had been taken to Campden Hill residential nursery where Mr Agumsah visited it at irregular intervals during the first year of its stay there.

Suddenly during his second year, Miss Devonish had appeared one Sunday with Mr Agumsah, had brought gifts for the baby, but had refused to give her address or indicate when next she would visit; irregular and widely spaced visits by the mother had continued, but the Welfare Officer in charge was unable to see her because it was never known when she would appear. The Matron at Campden Hill had tried to get her address from Mr Agumsah, but he had refused to co-operate.

On the baby boy's third birthday he had appeared in a car with new clothing for him and had requested permission to take him for a ride in the car, but Matron had refused to allow this, because, on his own admission, he was not related to the child. He had become angry and abusive, and since then, though he continued to visit, his attitude to the Nursery staff was no longer friendly.

About nine months ago the Council had assumed the Rights and Privileges of Parenthood over the child, as a precautionary measure, in the event of the child becoming ill, or any other circumstance developing which would require an immediate decision to be taken; the mother's infrequent and unexpected visits made it impossible to rely on her availability for parental consent in an emergency.

Soon after this measure was taken the mother appeared, again with Mr Agumsah. They wanted to take the child out into the town, but were prevented by Matron, who insisted that they could not be allowed to take him beyond the nursery grounds; if the mother wished for greater freedom of action she would need to apply for revocation of the order which had granted the rights and privileges to the Council. She had again disappeared without trace.

I had added notes in the case folder referring to each occasion which I had written to her.

The report from the Nursery showed that the little boy had recently had a tonsilectomy, was in excellent health, intelligent and cheerful. He knew Mr Agumsah, whom he called ‘Daddy' and was delighted whenever he visited him. He called Miss Devonish ‘Mummy' on her insistence, but was shy of her, and was not easily persuaded to go to her.

I knew the contents of the case folder nearly verbatim, so often had I studied it. Now here was Martin's mother wanting her child.

“I've recently taken over Martin's case, Mrs Agumsah, but all that I know of it I have either read in the case sheet or been told by the Welfare Officer who first dealt with it. I've chatted with the Matron on a few occasions in an attempt to get in touch with you. I'd like to hear your story about this whole business however. Why did you abandon the child in the first place?”

“Abandon?” her voice was a screech of alarm. “What do you mean abandon? Who said I abandoned him?”

“According to the case records you walked out of the house and left him with Mr Agumsah.”

“Ali, did you tell them that?” She turned on him like a vengeful harpy.

“I told the people I do not know where you go.” He chose each word carefully, without seeming to care about her anger.

“I didn't abandon him. I left the house to go to the shops and I fell down in the street; I'd been sick with my chest. Somebody called an ambulance and they took me to hospital. They said I had pleurisy. I was sick for weeks. And the hospital sent me away for convalescence.”

“Didn't you tell them about the baby?”

“I thought the baby would be all right with Ali, so I didn't worry. Only afterwards he told me they had put him in the Home. While I was away he had to give up the flat we had and he went to stay with one of his friends. I've been bunking with a girl friend, so I thought it best to let him stay in the Home till we could find somewhere to have him with us.”

Something was missing in her story. It had taken her more than three years to reach this point, and I had the feeling that perhaps Mr Agumsah had more to do with her decision than was apparent. He sat there, calm, but watchful, as if witnessing the fact that she kept a promise. In my short experience of the job, I had been learning some hard lessons, one of which was that parents behave in the oddest ways, and the fact that a child had been left to the Council's care might have little bearing on the parents' love for it. An abandoned child was always the object of pity and was sure of help, either private or public. What about abandoned parents, those tragic figures who are sometimes literally pressured into the decision of abandoning a child or children whom they love, choosing that drastic way of ensuring that it received the food, clothing and shelter which they could no longer provide? For many excellent reasons, County Councils make it difficult for a mother deliberately and willingly to place her child in their care. Here was a mother who wanted her child, this was the end result I was paid to achieve, and here it was being handed to me on a platter. But I ought to learn the full story.

“Do you know, Mrs Agumsah, that the Council now exercises the rights of a parent over your child?”

“I don't know anything about that. All I know is that he's my baby and we want him with us. We've now got a nice place where we can have him and we want him out of that Home.”

“Have you been to see the Matron at Campden Hill?”

“We were there yesterday and she said we couldn't have the child till the people at County Hall said we could. She doesn't like me, that woman. She and Ali had a hell of a row. Excuse me.”

“Why did Mr Agumsah quarrel with her?”

This brought him suddenly out of his shell.

“I did not make quarrel with that woman. She made quarrel with me. I tell I want to take Martin. She say, ‘No, no'. She want to keep baby for herself, that woman. I tell so.”

Suddenly he laughed, a wicked-sounding chuckle which temporarily dispersed the stern watchfulness from his eyes.

“I tell,” he went on, “if she love baby so much maybe I make baby with her, but I take Martin. I think she make trouble, that woman.”

As quickly as it had appeared the laughter vanished, leaving the face once more stern and remote. They evidently had run into some difficulties with the Matron. I'd better check that before going any further, and do it while they were present to avoid any suggestion of connivance. I picked up the telephone and asked to be connected with the Campden Hill Nursery. The Matron answered and I told her that Miss Devonish was with me requesting that she be allowed to have Martin.

The best I can say is that the Matron was not enthusiastic about Miss Devonish. Miss Richardson, the child's house mother had informed her of Miss Devonish's visit the previous day and the extremely rude things which had been said to her by Miss Devonish's friend. Furthermore, the child had become very upset when his mother tried to take him away. Matron explained that Miss Richardson was very attached to Martin as she had cared for him from the moment he had been brought to the nursery, and she was very upset at the thought of his being once again exposed to neglect and mistreatment.

As she spoke I could hear the anger taking hold in her voice, then:

“Personally, I do not trust the woman; if she could heartlessly abandon her child and stay away from him until now, except for a few fleeting visits, there's no guarantee that she won't abandon him again. As for the man with whom she is associating, he is not Martin's father, and there's no reason to suppose that she will remain with him for any length of time. We cannot let the child go to them until we are quite satisfied that he will be well cared for and safe. I have my doubts about that woman's way of life.”

“How is Martin now?”

“He was a bit upset after his mother's visit, but he's quite settled down again. Miss Richardson takes care of him wonderfully well.”

Well, there it was. While I was telephoning my visitors were watching me closely and listening hard; probably they could guess that Matron was not overly keen. For myself I favoured the view that a far from perfect parent in a mediocre home is better for a child than an excellent institution with wonderful staff. I could not concern myself with Mrs Agumsah's morals, or whether she was saint or sinner. And Mr Agumsah, just where did he fit into all this? I asked him.

“Where do you come into this?”

“I'm Martin's father.”

“According to the file you are not.”

“But I am.”

“Yes, he is,” the woman agreed. Two against one.

“Why did you not say so long ago? According to the records Martin's father is unknown.”

“He's Martin's father. I should know,” she insisted.

Of course you should, I thought. Maybe he was, his regular visits to the child seemed to indicate more than casual interest. Until now I had not even thought that the child was of mixed parentage. The case folder did not mention it, for a change.

Then a thought struck me and I immediately threw it at him. “As the father you might be expected to contribute to his maintenance for the time he is at Campden Hill.”

“I am telling you I am the father.”

I studied that one. He was telling me, but perhaps in another place he would deny it. I did not pursue the matter; there were others who were better qualified to deal with that.

“You said you had found accommodation, Mrs Agumsah?”

“Yes, we've got a nice place near Tower Bridge, and I can get a job at the mattress factory. But I'd stay at home for a week or two at first, to let Martin get accustomed to me, before going out to work.”

All very plausible. And the inescapable fact was that she was the child's mother and wanted him.

“I want my baby.” The woman burst into tears. I don't know how sincere she was; I could never know that. These difficult cases had been dumped in my lap and it was up to me to clear them up; the woman had come here, of her own free will, so it seemed, wanting to take her child into her own care. I felt that it was my business to do something about it.

“Mrs Agumsah, before taking any further action I'd like to see the place where you plan to live with Martin.”

“Okay, you can come with us now if you like. We've got a car outside, we can take you there and bring you back.”

I went with them to an old grimy house near Tower Bridge, up two flights of stairs to a room, simply furnished, the type with which I had become very familiar since starting this job. A large double bed, table, four straight chairs and a gas-ring on a shelf in one corner. The floor was covered with linoleum. A wide clothes closet was built into one wall. Clean. And bright with sunlight through a wide, uncurtained window.