Paid Servant (9 page)

“Do you know what it's been like for me these past four years? Cooped up in these two rooms day and night? Well, I got fed up with it and recently I've been going off to the cinema in the afternoons with the children. So naturally he says I've been meeting a man. He's even been questioning the children about me, trying to get them to say something. Then he began threatening to take them away. I just don't know what's the matter with him. I think he ought to see a doctor or something.” She paused, breathing deeply.

“Two weeks ago he began sleeping out here, on the settee. So I thought if that's the way he wants it, that's fine with me. And when I didn't go to him, he said it was because there was some other man, so I didn't need him any more. That's all he does, day and night, hints and accusations, until I'm fed up to here.” She put her right hand to her throat.

“He said he'd tell the Welfare people to come and take the children because I was not fit to care for them, but I thought he was joking. I didn't think he'd really do it, not really.” Her face crumpled, and she covered it with her hands, sobbing pitifully.

I was enraged. I would have liked to take Mr Bigshot Loomis by the throat and shake the life out of him. But all I did was sit there while she sobbed and he watched her, his face cold and expressionless. The boys had stopped their game and now ran to their mother, their faces frightened, and hung on to her, hiding their curly heads in her lap. They, too, were crying, not understanding, but in sympathy with her, and responding to the fear of something beyond their grasp.

“My wife doesn't understand,” Mr Loomis said. “I'm merely trying to keep her out of trouble. I know what men are and I don't want her to get mixed up in anything. I came to Britain to study and qualify, and I intend to do just that and keep myself to myself. I know what West Indians are like and I don't want her mixing with any of them. As soon as I take my finals, we're leaving for home.”

He had it worked out very neatly.

“And meanwhile, what about your wife and children?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I'm taking care of them, aren't I? They're comfortable here, and she gets enough each month to run the house and pay for everything. All the rent that comes in from upstairs I turn over to her, because I've got enough to do with my studies. What more does she want?

“I've told her I don't want any men hanging around her. She's married and that should be enough for her. I don't want her mixing with all kinds of people. This is not our country, and we've got to keep to ourselves. She's got enough to do taking care of the children.”

She straightened up, rubbing her eyes. “Mr Braithwaite, do you know he won't even let the boys play with the neighbour's children? The only time they get out of here is when I take them out. I tell him they need to play with children their own age, but he won't listen.

“He's full of jealousy and prejudice, that's his trouble. We have an empty room upstairs and last Friday a young African came to inquire about it. Thornton had gone to the tobacconist for cigarettes so I asked the young man to come in and wait. Do you know, he won't rent the room to him. Just because he's a Negro. He doesn't like Negroes. Anyone would think he was white, the way he carries on. Do you know what he said to me when he came to the kitchen just now? He said, ‘there's a black fellow outside from the Welfare Office'. That's what he said. Although he's dark himself he seems to hate dark people. Maybe he only married me because I'm fair.”

She laid it all right on the line. He'd asked for it and now he'd got it.

“Maybe,” she continued, “the best thing for me is to take the children home with me to British Guiana, don't you think? I can stay with my parents until he qualifies and is ready to return. But I don't want to remain here like this any more.”

He said nothing. I wondered what he was thinking in that handsome well-shaped head of his. Poor bastard, I thought. You're not big enough inside of you to cope with this beautiful woman. Not nearly big enough to appreciate your good fortune. What she said about him not liking Negroes was his affair. Maybe he didn't even like himself very much. And he had hopes of going into politics? Some hope. But then again, maybe he'd make it. Maybe there was a set-up in Grenada which would suit him, or else he'd go somewhere where the political climate favoured his type of thinking. Probably somewhere like British Guiana where he could join in the Negro versus Indian tug-of-war. To hell with him, I thought. She'd fight him. He'd never break her spirit. I'd just let him know how the land lay as far as I, as a Welfare Officer, was concerned. The black fellow from the Welfare Office.

“Mrs Loomis, I cannot advise you in the matter of your relationship with your husband. But I must make one thing clear. The Department will not consider taking over the care of children in circumstances such as these. If you find difficulty in straightening out your marital difficulties, there are agencies and people well qualified to help and advise you, much more than I could.”

Suddenly it occurred to me that I was slipping up on this job. I was here to help, and the nature of that help should be in terms of the existing difficulties. At least I should try, not back away mouthing a lot of evasive claptrap. Sure, the situation was a bit outside my experience, but if I wanted to learn how to serve, how to be helpful, then I had to learn in the best of possible ways, by doing.

“Look, Mr Braithwaite,” Loomis said. “Selma doesn't understand, but I do. In this country it's unwise for dark-skinned people to make themselves too conspicuous, you know. No one would know that Selma isn't white, but the children and myself, that's different. I try to explain this to her. When we get back home we can go out and entertain, and do all sorts of things, because we'll be among our own people. But, over here, the best thing for us to do is keep ourselves to ourselves.”

I was beginning to get the picture now. Something, some time, had either hurt or badly frightened this little man, and he was on the retreat.

“So meanwhile you intend to hide yourself away, you and your family, like invisible people,” I asked.

“All I intend to do is mind my own business,” he said firmly.

“You are an intelligent man, Mr Loomis,” I said, “and I feel sure that you may have very good reasons for wanting to hide yourself away, to mind your own business, as you say. But I'd like to suggest one thing to you. Your usefulness when you return to Grenada would be very much greater if your experience of life in Britain was as wide as you could make it. After all, Grenada is a very mixed society. As a leader, you will be expected to deal with all kinds of persons. Then, purely for political reasons, it might be a good thing to understand as much as you can about many kinds of people before returning to Grenada.”

It occurred to me that this might be a good line to take with this ambitious little man.

“Here in England you have a wonderful opportunity at close hand for learning about people. Many of the problems you will find in Grenada have their counterpart here, and more than that, you will be able here to learn about new pressures and tensions long before they do appear on the scene in Grenada. But you cannot learn these things if you shut yourself away from contact with others.

“With your intelligence and ambition, it would be silly to be afraid of people. If you spend from three to five years here being afraid, you might find it difficult to lose the habit when you return home. You cannot live in a state of suspension here and then expect to behave like a responsible person later. You've got to stop being afraid and begin being responsible.”

“Oh, I'm not afraid of anyone,” he boasted.

“I'm not the one you need to convince of that, Mr Loomis,” I replied. “You'll have to prove that to your wife, and even more to yourself. Later on you might find it necessary to prove it to those two sons of yours.”

He licked his lip, the first sign of nervousness he had shown. Maybe I was getting to him, touching on his vanity. Now that Mrs Loomis was again composed, the boys returned to their game, quickly forgetful in the more serious business of deciding whose turn it now was to be driver.

“But I don't know many people,” he said. “I sometimes meet some fellows, you know, West Indians, at L.S.E. and we talk over coffee, but that's about all.”

“Well,” I added, “why not begin with them? Invite a few here for a chat, and get to know them. You've a nice place here, and it might give your wife something to do, entertaining your friends, sort of in preparation for her future role as Governor's wife in Grenada.”

We both laughed at this.

“Well, it could happen, you know,” he said. A real go-getter, this boy.

“Sure it could happen,” I agreed, “but you'd have to begin now to make it happen by preparing for it. Already you have most of the ingredients, a lovely wife, a nice house, your studies, your ambitions. Sure it could happen. All you need now is to stop being afraid. Of other men.” I added the last bit harshly, to shake him up. He took it with a smile. I looked at his wife. She was watching him, too, her face relaxed but ready to take a cue from his attitude.

“I suppose you're right,” he said. “All this may have seemed silly to you, but … ”

“Not silly, Mr Loomis,” I interrupted. “If I had been married to such a lovely woman I might have behaved a lot worse, a whole lot worse.” I sneaked a quick look at her; she was smiling shyly. “However, you're the one who's going to be the politician, not me. So you'll have to learn to handle all kinds of opposition.”

“You make it sound so damned easy,” he replied, then, “Sorry, Selma.” ‘Good grief,' I thought, ‘he'd write a letter like that about her, but he apologizes to her for saying “damn”. Wonders never cease. Or maybe he was saying “sorry” for something else.'

“Could you stay for a cup of tea?” she asked, rising.

“Of course,” I replied. “Me, I'm dry. It's people like your husband here who have to learn to talk for hours without lubrication.”

He laughed. We all laughed. Nice and friendly. They'd work it out together, I felt sure. I'd put a little idea in his head and he'd use it. Ambitious types like him would use anything to achieve their ends. Inwardly I wished them luck, especially him. In one way he'd need it, lots of it.

Over tea, the three of us chatted, chiefly about Mr Loomis and his political ambitions, and then, with a promise to drop in any time I was in the vicinity, I left them.

The Rosenbergs lived in a large apartment house overlooking Clapham Common, close to the building where Wilberforce and his friends often met to discuss their schemes for bringing about the emancipation of the slaves in British territories. They were both restless, energetic, brilliant people, pursuing their separate careers, together with their joint career of involvement in a host of projects and schemes for helping a wide assortment of social misfits to help themselves. Their apartment was a kind of crossroads, where all kinds of personalities and intelligences met, talked, ate, argued, agreed or disagreed, but rarely rested. The need to understand and cope with urgent human problems seemed to outweigh the need for rest. Sometimes one slept if one had to, and then this was respected and the wakeful, restless ones moved themselves off to the kitchen, bathroom, bedroom or distant corner, and carried on in what they thought were whispers. Their little Clarita, their daughter of three, bobbed about like a small cork on the turbulences of the grown-up world in which she lived; her large, steady grey eyes and serious mien would soon discourage the uninitiated who tried to woo her with baby talk, but would just as readily crinkle up in the most captivating way when she was amused.

Hardwick answered the door. When indoors he always dressed his tall, gangling frame in thick, chunky sweaters and shapeless corduroy slacks. His greying hair pointed in every direction under the persistent teasing of his restless fingers, as he read, argued or concentrated on problems new or past. Under a large, craggy forehead, his aquiline nose, brown, slightly bulging eyes and wide full-lipped mouth usually gave the impression of professorial ponderousness until he smiled, releasing an irrepressible boyishness. He loved to joke, but invariably in the most unbelievably corny way, so that one was tickled into laughter, not at the content of the joke, but at his crass temerity in hoping for what he invariably got—laughter.

“Hey, Hannah,” he called. “Rick's here.” He and I went into the sitting-room and made ourselves comfortable, and were soon joined by Hannah, his wife. Theirs may have been the attraction of opposites, for she was small, blonde and well-formed. Her most outstanding characteristic was not in any physical feature, but in the aura of dynamic energy which surrounded her, whether at home, at a tame social gathering, or on the concert platform where she repeatedly astounded her audience by the amazing dexterity of those small, flexible hands.

“Come on, tell us about him,” she said, without preamble.

I told them about little Roddy; all his history as was known or surmised. Then I described the boy, and it may well be that my description reflected my own enthusiasm. At the end of my recital, Hardwick said: “What about the wings?”

“What wings?” I asked, not getting it.

“An angel he describes, and wings he forgets!” At his corniest Hardwick was prone to imitate the Jewish stereotype.

“Give him time,” I said, “they'll grow.”

“What do you think?” he asked his wife.

“Okay with me,” she replied. “The only problem here is how the most important person will react to the idea.”

“My guess is that he'll like you both very much.” I said.

“Sorry,” she answered. “I meant the other important person. Clarita. Everything will depend on how well they get on.”