Paid Servant

by E. R. Braithwaite

  “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. Ther
e 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.

  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 ta
ble, 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.