Paid Servant

by E. R. Braithwaite

  “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.

  “Where will you put the child?”

  She reached under the bed and pulled out a small folding bed, and a screen of wooden framework and gaily patterned cretonne panels.

  “We can set this up each evening,” she explained. She then showed me where, a short distance along the corridor, there were bathroom and toilet facilities which they shared with two other roomers on the same floor. Simple, unpretentious, not too comfortable, but I knew of many families of four or more housed in as much space or even less.

  “What happens to him when you begin work?” I asked her.

  “I can put him in a day nursery and collect him each evening.” She had evidently given the matter some thought; probably, between them they had carefully worked it out. Well, why not. Other parents were doing the same thing. It was her child.

  “Why not sit down?” he invited. They both sat on the bed.

  “Look here, both of you,” I was making my decision as I went along. “I want to help you. If one judges by the history of this case, you have not done much to encourage trust. As things are it would be well within our rights to keep the child at Campden Hill, until you make formal application to the courts to have the Council’s rights rescinded. However, I am willing to take a chance on you. I will have Martin turned over to you, but I will come regularly to check that he is comfortable and happy; at the least sign of neglect he will be returned to the Home.”

  Mrs Agumsah beamed with pleasure and relief. The African merely grinned. If they were merely putting on an act, then so consummate was their performance that it deserved to succeed. They asked if they could have Martin straight away.

  “Not today,” I said, “because I’ll have to notify Matron of my decision. And the child will need to be medically examined and cleared before he is released to you.”

  They drove me back to my office, and I put through a call to Campden Hill. Matron was not available, so I asked to be connected with Miss Richardson; I told her what I planned to do.

  “But you can’t. You can’t hand him over to those awful people.” She sounded very agitated. I repeated that Martin’s mother would call for him soon after noon the following day—that should allow enough time f
or all the formalities to be completed.

  “But he’s in the Council’s Care and Protection.” She made the words sound special and capitalized. “We can’t let him go without special permission.”

  “I’ll take the responsibility for that, Miss Richardson.” She seemed to be taking it rather personally, so I took this tougher line. Little did I know just how much responsibility I was so casually undertaking.

  “I’ll have to tell Matron.”

  “Yes, of course. I tried to tell her myself, but couldn’t reach her. Tell her that Martin’s parents will be there tomorrow.”

  I suddenly had the misgiving that I might have acted too precipitately, so I went to the Chief’s office to let her know what I had done; a bit late, but never mind. Neither she nor Miss Whitney was in, so, having gone so far with the matter, I’d have to see it through.

  Next day was Saturday, but in the afternoon I went to the room near Tower Hill to check on progress. What I saw gave me a wonderful feeling of satisfaction and encouragement. Through the open door I saw Mr Agumsah lying on his back on the floor, with a lovely child astride his chest, bouncing up and down and squealing with merriment. He was fair-skinned, with large dark eyes and very dark hair which hung from his head in long glossy curls. On his head was a green ribbon tied in a big bow adding an attractive dash of colour. He sat still as I appeared and regarded me shyly. Then Mr Agumsah, looked around and said:

  “Come in. This is my Martin.”

  Very nice, except for the green ribbon. As I drew nearer the boy leaned down and hugged his father, for protection, I thought.

  “Mrs Agumsah in?”

  “No, she’s out shopping. Will be back soon.”

  He sat up, still keeping the shy child close to him, cooing soft nothings to him meanwhile. Mrs Agumsah soon appeared, laden with groceries.

  “Was everything okay at the Home?” I asked them.

  “It wasn’t bad. Martin cried a bit at first, but he was soon all right. Well, you can see for yourself.”

  Yes, I saw for myself, but I told her I would be dropping around from time to time and, when she decided to return to work, I’d like to know where the child would be placed ….

  The storm broke over my head on Monday morning. Hardly had I entered my office when my telephone rang and the crisp voice of the Chief called me to her office. Sitting straight behind her desk, she shot at me:

  “I have heard from Campden Hill of your extremely high-handed action in the Devonish case. Without any authority whatsoever you have undertaken to remove a child from the Council’s care and deliver it to persons of whom the little that is known could not reasonably be quoted to their advantage. I want to make it clear, here and now, that your conduct in this matter will, in all probability, have very serious consequences for you; furthermore, because you saw fit to act without reference to me, I hope you will appreciate that you have placed yourself outside the influence of any protection I would otherwise have extended to you as a member of this staff. Before you leave your office this morning you will please prepare a full report on this matter to be attached to my own report to County Hall.”

  Gradually it was getting to me; there was more to it than just that. I stood where I was, just inside the door.

  “You came to this office without any formal training in this work, and you have completely overstepped your terms of reference.” She stopped; probably she was finding it difficult to control the things within her which were clamouring to be said. “Well, have you anything to say?”

  My surprise had now given way to a cold, incisive anger. At such times the damnedest things pop into my head.

  “Secondly,” I replied, “a full report on the case is in that tray there on your desk, where it has been since Saturday, and, firstly, my terms of reference clearly allow me to do everything I can to resolve the hard-core cases, among which the Devonish case has been included. It seems to me that you have already made up your mind purely on whatever you have heard from persons at Campden Hill, therefore it would be pointless for me to say anything other than what is already in my report.”

  With that I bade her good morning and returned to my office, a prey to a sudden spate of misgivings. Perhaps, after all, I had fallen for a lot of sentimental nonsense from the Agumsahs … Yet, was not the sight of that little family, united and happy, sufficient justification? I sat at my desk, unable to concentrate on the work which needed attention. Suppose anything had happened to the child over the weekend. Suppose, suppose … I hurried downstairs and, half-running, rushed to the nearest taxi-stand and got a taxi for Tower Bridge.

  Well, I need not have worried. I could hear their laughter as I ran up the steps. I knocked and Mrs Agumsah let me in; she and Martin were at breakfast.

  “Ali goes to work very early, so we didn’t hurry to get up.” She wore a woollen dressing-gown over pyjamas, and the little boy was in a warm, fleecy combination garment.

  “Everything okay?” I asked, trying to hide the fact that I felt rather foolish to be spying on her in this absurd way; she was kindness itself and gave no hint that she resented my intrusion.

  “Yes, just fine.” Then suddenly, “They won’t try to come and take him from me, will they?”

  “Nonsense, Mrs Agumsah. Nobody can take him away as long as you take good care of him.”

  She smiled in relief. When I left them I felt more than relief; I felt strong and ready to defend my decision, precipitate and arbitrary though it might seem. If the Council wanted these cases cleared up, they’d have to go along with me, red tape or no red tape. Whatever the Chief might say in her report, somebody would have to ask me some questions, and I had a few good answers ready and waiting.

  Two mornings later the Chief rang me.

  “I would like you to come to my office immediately, Mr Braithwaite.” The peremptory tone spelled further trouble. She could hardly wait to tell me: “Miss Devonish, or whatever she calls herself, has disappeared again, this time taking the child with her.” No anger in her voice now; the flat I-told-you-so statement, with the faintest hint of vindication for her own opinion of the woman. Or was it her own opinion?

  “When did this happen?”

  “Last night, I suppose. Miss Richardson came to see me yesterday and together we went to the address you supplied in your report. Someone in the house told us that the woman was out. We went back again later in the evening and discovered that she had paid her rent and gone, taking the child with her. According to the landlady, they put their stuff in a car and drove off, without leaving any forwarding address.”

  “Why did you take Miss Richardson?”

  “Because she knows the child and would have been better able to judge if it were being properly cared for. Well, just as I said, the woman is completely unreliable.”

  “I think you frightened her away, you and Miss Richardson.”

  “That could hardly be true; we didn’t see her.”

  “She probably saw you. What happens now?”

  “You will be expected to find her and return the child to the Council’s care.”

  If I had remained another moment with her I might have said things later to be regretted. I went to my office and carefully looked through the files, to try to find something that would give me a clue to her whereabouts. I was sure, or very nearly sure, that somehow Miss Richardson had been responsible for the woman’s flight. The only clue I had was her remark about working at the mattress factory. I went there but the personnel officer had no news of her. I went back to see her landlady, hoping that either she or Mr Agumsah might have returned for some reason or other. Another blank. I could think of nothing else to do. Perhaps, after all, I was wrong to trust her.

  Early next morning the man telephoned. He came immediately to the point.

  “Why you send woman to take baby?”

  I hastily assured him that there was no i
ntention to take Martin away from them; the visitors had merely called to see how the child was getting along.

  “That woman not come to take baby?”

  “No, of course not, believe me.” No answer, maybe he was making up his mind. I said: “Mr Agumsah, I trusted you when I let you take the boy home. I think you should trust me when I say he will not be taken from you.”

  “Okay, I trust you.”

  “Where are they, Mrs Agumsah and Martin?”

  “In Brixton.” He gave me the address. “She scared they take baby away.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll go to see her and explain.” I felt a little weak with relief. I’d get over there to see her as quickly as possible; but it might be a good idea to take someone else with me, so that someone less involved would be able to view the situation.

  Ruth Martindale was busy at her desk nearby; I’d always found her helpful, sympathetic and rather more progressive in her outlook than most of the others. I gave her a quick rundown on the case and asked her if she could come with me to Brixton to visit Mrs Agumsah. She agreed.