Paid Servant (3 page)

He was kneeling on the floor of the play-room before an intricately arranged tower of wooden blocks. In his right hand was another block, poised, waiting; on his face was that look of rapt concentration which few persons manage to achieve after childhood. He was sturdy and well-made, his skin a dark bronze, rich and attractive; his hair was short, of a darker brown and wavy. Handsome in every line of him, strong and handsome. A slim sensitive nose, full lips and a square, dimpled chin; dark brown eyes fringed with long lashes.

I looked at the Matron and surprised a look of such tenderness on her face. “Wonderful, isn't he?” she whispered.

Several other tots were playing their several games around the room, mainly individually, learning in this way to think, to plan, to give their attention to the task in hand. There was no attendant in the room with them. They were already learning to live together peacefully. Some of them noticed our entry but did not interrupt their games. I walked over to Rodwell. He looked up, smiled, and went on with his close study of his structure, planning the placing of the next block.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” he replied.

I retreated, understanding about him. Matron and I left them to their games.

“Well, what do you think of him?” she asked.

“Grand little fellow,” I said.

“Think you'll be able to place him?”

“I hope so. Anyway I'll have a jolly good try.”

“Coloured family?”

I watched her closely, tense inside. Jesus, I was getting so damned touchy as soon as anybody said ‘coloured'! But it was this thing I'd been meeting right and left, this unspoken presupposition that the word ‘coloured' suggested something inferior or second best.

“Not necessarily,” I replied. “I would just like to find a nice family in which he can be secure and happy.”

“Good for you,” she said, “that little man would fit into any good family, I'm sure. You must stay and talk with him.”

“I'd like to. Matron, what do you think about Roddy's background? I was speaking with Miss Coney earlier today.”

“I know Miss Coney,” she said tersely, “and I know her views. I also know Roddy. He was brought here when he was only ten weeks old. I've never seen either the mother or the father, but whoever they are they could have done a damned sight worse than produce such a boy.”

Good Lord, the woman was literally bristling in her posture of defence. It occurred to me that if I needed it, I'd get every possible help from her. “Has he had any contact with coloured people at any time?” I asked.

“Not much. One of our local Health Visitors is coloured, from Jamaica. She drops in occasionally to chat with me, and always looks into the nursery to say ‘Hello' to the children. Roddy knows her. I suppose when the children are taken out to the park they may see coloured people, but I don't think he knows any other one. Why?”

“I'm just thinking of possibilities, Matron. I'm thinking of people I know, some of them coloured, who have at some time or other talked about adopting children. But if Roddy has never known coloured people that rather narrows the field.”

“Why?”

I told her about my recent attempts to find foster-parents for coloured twins, two little girls, who had also spent all their lives in a Home. Although they were very dark-skinned, much darker than Roddy, they were terrified of a black face. It had taken me weeks of persuasive tactics before they had finally accepted me. When now and then I had tried introducing them to another coloured person, the result had been disastrous.

“How old were they?” There was deep concern in the Matron's voice.

“Seven years old.”

“What happened? Are they still in the Home?”

“No. I found a white family for them, and they've settled in very nicely.”

“Good. But sooner or later they've got to learn to live with their own skins. Maybe it's not that they are afraid of black faces so much as they would like their own faces to be white, you know, to be like all the others they see around them. But I don't suppose there would be that trouble with Roddy; he didn't throw any tantrums at the sight of you. Let's look in and see if he'll talk with you now.” She walked ahead of me into the nursery.

Roddy had deserted his tower of bricks and was squatting beside a chubby, flaxen-haired little girl who was seriously explaining something to him as she held up some doll's clothing for his inspection. As Matron and I approached they both turned to look at us. I knelt beside them to make conversation easier.

“Hello,” I said.

“Are you Roddy's daddy?” the little girl asked.

“No, I'm Roddy's visitor,” I replied.

“What's your name?” she insisted.

“My name's Mr Braithwaite,” I replied. “What's yours?”

“I'm Natalie, and my visitor is my daddy.”

I left it there. Two and two must always make four in their bright, unspoiled world. Roddy squatted there, coolly regarding me out of his large brown eyes. I'd have to take the initiative with him.

“What were you building over there, Roddy?” I asked him.

“He's making a tower and he wants my table to put on top of it,” Natalie interposed before Roddy could open his mouth.

“It's not a table, it's a brick,” he said firmly.

“It's a table, and after Goldilocks and Sue are dressed they're going to have tea.” She casually indicated two dolls lying patiently naked on the floor while she selected clothing for them from a box which served as a dolls' wardrobe.

“She took it from over there,” Roddy continued, pointing to the corner where his incomplete tower stood. “I found her table for her but she won't let me have the brick.”

He held up a small, red-painted doll's table, but he was watching Natalie, evidently hoping that our presence would somehow swing the situation to his advantage. But she showed no interest in his unarguable logic; the brick had been converted into a table, and as far as she was concerned it now was a table.

I looked up at Matron and she nodded her head to indicate that we withdraw and leave them to settle the matter as best they could. Back in her office she asked, “Not much chance of talking with him right now, is there?”

“No, but I'd like to pop in as often as I can, so that he gets accustomed to me; and meanwhile I'll see if I can get some people I know interested.”

“That's fine, and the sooner the better. It will soon be time for him to begin school, and it would be nice if he were away from here before then.”

“That little Natalie's quite a person, isn't she?” I said.

“Ah, yes. She's very independent. Her mother died six months ago, and she's here until her father can make other plans for her. He's in the Army and comes to see her quite often. Well,” she said, rising, “nice meeting you. Come down any time you like, and good luck.”

I was dismissed. This grand woman had work to do and wanted to get on with it. I liked her.

“Goodbye Matron. You'll be hearing from me soon, I hope.”

That evening I prepared a list of people, friends and acquaintances, who might either themselves be interested in fostering a small boy or know of other families who would be willing and able to offer Roddy a home. A very short list really, when one pinned it down to people who had the accommodation, wanted a youngster in the house, and could afford to have him. This last was important and very often proved a stumbling block to people who otherwise would prove excellent parents. Unfortunately, those bureaucrats who determine the policies affecting Child Welfare insist that prospective foster-parents exhibit a very high degree of altruism; not only must they be willing and ready to provide the unfortunate child with a home and all the care and affection which usually flows between parent and child in times of health and sickness, but they must also be prepared to accept the major part of whatever financial burden accrues from it; the prospective foster-parent who is indiscreet enough to raise the question of money immediately becomes rather suspect, and is very likely to be treated as if her interest is primarily in some hope of gain, rather than in the child. Because of this I deliberately limited myself to people whose financial circumstances would suffer the least noticeable strain from the addition of one extra for room and board, and found myself with three possibilities.

     1. Mr and Mrs Donald Ellesworth, from Barbados. Donald, a dentist, served in the R.A.F. during the war and now practises in East Finchley. His wife, Audrey, is a part-time teacher at a neighbouring Infants' School, not for the money, she says, but merely to have something to do. Both are about forty years old, but have no children; often talked about adopting a child before they're much older. They own their well-furnished home and each drives a car. I'd known Don and Audrey for about twelve years and they seemed to be a very likely bet.

     2. Hardwick and Hannah Rosenberg. Writers. Both highly intelligent and in comfortable circumstances. They have a small child, a girl of three, and have expressed the wish to adopt another, a boy, preferably slightly older than their own child.

     3. Dennis and Reena Kinsman. A young South African couple with two youngsters, boys. Comfortably off. I'd placed them last on the list because two boys are a handful in any household, but they might provide a lead to someone else.

Meanwhile I'd seize every possible opportunity to visit Roddy and talk with him and get to know him. As Welfare Officer dealing with the case this was desirable, but even beyond that I felt involved and none of the arguments I held with myself about objectivity in any way seemed convincing. Whether I liked it or not he was a coloured boy, and though the word itself was distasteful, it was unavoidable in a community which placed so much importance on pigmentation or lack of it. His ‘blackness' was the main difficulty; that, I was sure, mattered more to Miss Coney than the supposed nature of his mother's activities. Many of the youngsters in the Children's Homes have been born to unwed mothers, and that does not necessarily prejudice their chances of adoption or fostering. I wondered whether the fact of the baby's dark skin may have started the whole rumour about his mother. After all, no one knew for certain that she was a prostitute.

Miss Coney had assured me that she entertained no prejudice, but had more or less admitted that her efforts to find Roddy a home had been limited largely by the colour of his skin. That was an attitude I had been encountering among Welfare Officers, many of whom automatically considered a coloured person as a problem. Some of them felt that a special understanding of the lives of West Indians in their native Caribbean was necessary to winning their co-operation in dealing with them. I did not share that view, but rather favoured the idea that any person, irrespective of his racial origin, was likely to respond favourably to courteous, considerate treatment.

I could not deny to myself that the boy and I were considered to be in the same pigmentation group, and that this gave rise to some feeling of identity with him; but I felt sure that in seeking to find him a home I would be in no way limited by his ‘blackness'. If I found a coloured family for him, it would be because I was fully convinced of their suitability, and that Roddy liked them and they him. I also felt sure that there must be many white Britons who would be willing to give him a home. In spite of the wide areas of inter-racial disaffection in many parts of Britain, there was a fund of sincere goodwill waiting to be tapped, and I must be neither too timid, nor too prejudiced, to do the tapping.

Next morning before I left home I rang Don Ellesworth to chat with him before he began the day's surgery.

“Ellesworth here, good morning.” Very professional and precise as usual.

“Hello, Don, Ricky here.”

“Oh, Hi Ricky; how goes it, boy?”

“Middling. How's Audrey?”

“In the pink. Want to chat with her?”

“Not right away, but I'd like to come over and see you both about something.”

“Oh? Care to give me a hint?”

“Sure. Are you still interested in increasing your family?”

He laughed, a deep gurgling sound.

“What are you selling, boy, some new kind of elixir? I don't think your B.G. cure-all herbs will succeed where doing what comes naturally has failed.”

“No herbs, Don. A little boy. Made to measure.”

“How come? This part of your new job?”

“Yes. But how about it? Interested?”

“Could be. Why not come over and let's talk?”

“Sure. How about tonight?”

“Tonight's fine. See you about 7.30.”

He had sounded cautious, but Don was always cautious about committing himself to anything; if they liked the idea it might be an excellent niche for Roddy, and would very probably help to pull Don and Audrey out of the middle-aged sluggishness into which they were gradually settling. Don had come to England to volunteer for aircrew duty in the R.A.F. in 1941, and later served as a Wireless Operator with a bomber crew. After demobilization he had qualified as a dentist and now had a thriving practice. In the R.A.F. he had been a fine cricketer, tall and athletic, but now he had filled out considerably, and looked what he was, well-fed and prosperous.

Audrey, his wife, was, when I first knew her, short and buxom. A qualified teacher, she had come to England to do an extension course in education soon after the end of the war, but met and married Don instead. She had had three separate attempts at raising her own family­, but each had ended in miscarriage, and these failures had somewhat dimmed the sparkle and verve which had been so very much a part of her. She was always well-groomed and healthy-looking, but there was now a droop to her mouth even at her gayest, and she was easily prone to periods of irritability and depression. Neither she nor Don mixed much socially, except with a few doctors or dentists, all of them West Indian, preferring to ‘keep themselves to themselves'.