Paid Servant

by E. R. Braithwaite

  It was a ground floor room in a small, two-storeyed, semi-detached house, which looked like any of the hundreds of its neighbours in the narrow streets of Brixton. I knocked. A curtain twitched behind the window which overlooked the street, then the door opened. Before she could say anything I spoke.

  “I’m very annoyed with you, Mrs Agumsah; running off like this without letting me know where you were. I told you that either I or one of my colleagues would have to visit you for a while. Why did you do it?”

  “Won’t you come in, Mr Braithwaite?” She looked inquiringly at Miss Martindale.

  “Miss Martindale is a Welfare Officer. She came with me to see Martin.”

  “Okay, come in.”

  The room was somewhat bigger than that at Tower Bridge. Martin was on the floor playing with several clockwork replicas of automobiles. We sat down.

  “Well, why did you disappear?”

  Her face looked haggard with the strain of worry.

  “It’s that woman from the Home. I’d been shopping in the market with Martin, and while I was coming up the street I saw her and another woman stop at the house in a car; then they were talking with my landlady. I pulled Martin into a shop until they left, then I went and asked the landlady and she said they were asking about me. She thought I’d done something. She said they’d be coming back and I thought they’d come to take Martin. I stayed indoors till Ali came home and I told him, so we left and stayed with his friends that night, and somebody told us of this place, so we came here. I was sorry we didn’t tell you, because you had been so kind to us, and this morning I told Ali to ring you, but not to tell you where I was.”

  “I persuaded him to because I wanted you to know that as long as your baby is well cared for no one will take him from you.”

  “Then why did they have to send her, that woman from the Home?”

  “Just to visit, because she knew Martin.”

  “I don’t want her to come near me.”

  “Anyway, now you’re here, will you promise to keep in touch with me and not do anything unless you have a chat with me?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  Christ! I was sounding like a damned schoolmaster.

  “Okay, and don’t forget. Nobody is trying to take the child away.”

  She nodded in acceptance.

  Outside I asked Miss Martindale:

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “She certainly had the wind up, didn’t she? But she seems all right. I don’t think the little boy will come to any harm with her.”

  Back in the office I made my report, indicating in very positive terms that Mrs Agumsah had been frightened on seeing Miss Richardson at her home; I more than hinted that there was no justification for Miss Richardson’s appearance on the scene, as Tower Hill was a long way from Campden Hill where her duties were located. I reported that Mrs Agumsah and her son were well and comfortable and that I would maintain regular contact with them until Mrs Agumsah’s application against the Council’s Rights and Privileges order was dealt with.

  I believe that an inquiry into the case was made at County Hall; about a month later I received a short formal note which stated that recommendations for the removal of children from Council’s care would, in future, be sent through the Area Chiefs to County Hall for final decision.

  Chapter

  Nine

  I MIGHT NEVER HAVE heard of the Milnes but for the fact that when Mrs Milne telephoned the Duty Officer was busy with a new applicant, and the two other officers in the building at that time were engaged on interviews. Miss Felden put the call through to me.

  Mrs Milne said that she and her husband wished to adopt a small child, preferably a girl, and had been advised to get in touch with our office.

  Listening to the clear, precise enunciation, I tried to conjure up a picture to match the voice. Probably between thirty and say, thirty-five. Suburban. Lower middle income bracket. I missed a bit of what she was saying, but gathered that someone acquainted with her had seen an advertisement put out by the Council for foster-parents and adoptive-parents and had passed the telephone number on to her.

  I had no idea what the advertisement offered, but assured her that there were children in the Council’s care available for adoption, but that it would be best for one of our Welfare Officers to call on her and discuss the matter at a time convenient to herself and her husband. She agreed. Her husband was at work each day but he’d arrange to have some time off to meet the Welfare Officer. Would tomorrow morning at ten o’clock be suitable? I assured her that it would and she gave me her telephone number and address in Wanstead, a London suburb. Not bad guessing, so far. I wrote it down, together with her name and the nature of her inquiry, intending to pass the information on to the Duty Officer, when a little thought entered my head. Why not follow this through myself? Here was an excellent opportunity to test one or two little theories which, so far, were only theories.

  Without exception, the dwellings along both sides of Fairview Lane were new bungalows, each set a short distance away from the road, each comfortable and primly squat behind the low, painted wire fence which separated it from its neighbours, and each was fronted by geometrically designed miniature flowerbeds or grass plots, with here and there a shady tree still convalescing from the shock of recent transplantation. In the bright Spring sunshine there was a sugar-candyish look about the smooth, clean street and the bright new houses, as if it had all been created magically, and might just as magically disappear from sight.

  I pressed the doorbell at No. 113 and heard the deep three-note chimes, as the door opened and the young woman stood looking at me, her mouth slightly agape in surprise. With an obvious effort she controlled herself to ask:

  “Yes?” Sunlight reflected off her rimless spectacles, so I could not see her eyes.

  “Mrs Milne?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Braithwaite. I’m from the Welfare Department.”

  Her face paled perceptibly, then flushed.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Won’t you come in?”

  Inside it was cool, new, neat and cosy. She closed the door, then led the way into the sitting-room which looked on to the front garden and the street beyond. A tall, slim man was standing there; he must have risen to greet the visitor, the hand already half-outstretched, the smile ready in welcome, but both these faltered slightly at sight of me. Only slightly. Then we shook hands as I introduced myself.

  “When Mrs Milne telephoned I thought it best to come and see you as soon as possible, to brief you on the kind of formalities which surround every application for adoption,” I told them.

  “Glad you could come,” he said, now quite at ease, steering me to a chair. “Would you like a drink or a cup of tea, or something?”

  “Tea would be fine.”

  “Won’t be a minute,” his wife said, “the kettle’s already on,” and she left the room, still seeming somewhat in a daze. Without doubt my unheralded appearance had caught them somewhat off balance; a black official was just a little bit outside their experience, but they were adjusting to it very competently.

  “You took us by surprise,” Mr Milne was saying, “we sort of expected someone else, if you see what I mean.”

  I saw what he meant and liked his forthright reference to it. I couldn’t help smiling, however, at the thought that a black face could still surprise people.

  “I understand,” I replied. “I’m new to the Welfare Department and most people are a bit surprised when I appear on the scene without any warning, so to speak.”

  “Silly of me to be surprised, really,” he said, “considering my job. I work for the Ministry of Labour and we see all sorts at some time or another.”

  I let that pass, knowing that he was doing his best to put me at ease. Now his wife returned with a tray from which she placed tea-cups on a low
table, then sat beside her husband, still bravely being relaxed and not nervous, in spite of the way the crockery had rattled as she set it out. So, before they could get started on any discussion of children I said: “Years and years ago I knew this district, though this is my first visit to it on foot. During the war I was stationed for a while at Hornchurch aerodrome, and often flew over the surrounding countryside. Gosh, but how it has changed since then! Building projects everywhere, I’m sure there’s hardly a single familiar landmark left.”

  “Oh, you were at Hornchurch?” Mr Milne asked. “My wife was born near there, at Elm Park.”

  “I knew Elm Park. That was at the far end of the ’drome. Some of us went there on Saturday nights to the local hop.”

  “The Masonic?” she asked eagerly.

  “Sometimes, and there was another place near the railway station.”

  She nodded, remembering, and mentioned the name.

  “I went out to Hornchurch a few weeks ago,” I continued, “and could hardly recognize the place. The meadow which once ran alongside the back of the ’drome is now a housing estate. Those lovely oak trees, nearly all cut down. Used to be a stream running along there, the Ingrebourne, the local people called it a river. First time I heard that I laughed till I cried. You know, back home in British Guiana a river is really something, while this little thing in the meadow you could just step across it. But it was fun on a summer’s day to watch the clear water rippling over smooth stones at the bottom, or drop the blades of grass on the surface to see them spin in the current.”

  “Yes, it’s all built up now,” Mrs Milne said. “Even the aerodrome’s changed. I think they use it as a training centre or something like that.”

  “I noticed that this is a new housing estate.”

  “Yes, more or less. They began putting houses on this site about four years ago; this section is quite new. When we first came to see the location it was all wasteland. Now, look at it. In five years’ time it will be very nice.” As she spoke, I was taking a good look at her. She sat near her husband on the settee alongside the window, so that the sunlight on the lacy curtains formed a vague background for the round face around which pale blonde short hair glinted like a halo. Behind her rimless spectacles I got the impression of pale blue eyes, but their expression was effectively veiled by the changing reflections of the glass. Her figure was plump and I had noticed that her movements were quick and energetic.

  Her husband was thin; even the waistcoat of his dark grey suit was loose around his skinny frame, and his long neck moved freely away from the stiff white collar and ex-R.A.F. tie. The long, bony face was serious in repose; this may have been due to the unusually bushy eyebrows which twisted outward and upward in a wayward black growth that matched his thick black mop of hair. Now and then he smiled, the thin-lipped wide mouth lifting upward at the corners to disclose a sudden boyishness.

  We drank our tea and chatted about the old times, about rationing and buzz-bombs and prefabricated houses and Marshall Aid and the increased bank rate and new housing estates and hospitals and schools and children.

  “We lost our little girl three years ago,” he said. “Polio. She was just a month over four years. Joyce had a terrible time with the delivery and we were told we cannot have any more. So now we’ve decided to adopt.” His deep, rumbling voice had a very pleasant, friendly quality.

  “Why didn’t you try one of the adoption societies?” I asked.

  “We’ve talked with various friends and we heard that the adoption societies are mostly concerned with new babies,” she replied. “We thought it would be best to take a child who’d got over the nappy stage.”

  “What type of child did you have in mind?”

  “Well, you know how it is,” her laughter was a thin, half nervous sound. “We hadn’t quite made up our mind about that; sometimes we’d think of one thing and sometimes another. Our little girl was dark, like Phil, but I’d been thinking of a little girl, blonde perhaps. I know Phil would rather have a little boy, but we haven’t decided about it. Perhaps when we see them we could sort of make up our mind.”

  This was quite a speech for her; so far her husband had done most of the talking. Gradually they had become more relaxed and were chatting easily with me; probably the background of shared experiences during the war helped considerably.

  “I’m afraid the Department does not operate that way. We try as far as is possible to meet an applicant’s preference, but there can be no question of selecting one from a group. If you have a specific preference and we have a child who closely approximates to it, well and good.”

  “Are there lots of children wanting to be adopted?” he asked.

  “Enough,” I replied. “Generally we operate rather differently from the regular adoption societies. We encourage applicants first to consider becoming foster-parents. This provides for the closest possible association between parent and child without the final commitment which adoption requires. If the association proves a happy one, then only a few formalities are necessary for the change from fostering to adoption.”

  “I suppose most of the children have lost their parents?” she asked.

  “Yes, in one way or another, though some of them have parents who cannot provide a home. Our main concern is that as many of them as possible might experience what it means to be part of a family, in a real home, with persons they can call ‘Mother’ and ‘Father’. Even a few years of this can be invaluable to a child.”

  “Are they all English children?”

  I thought about that and found it somewhat amusing. “It depends on what you mean by English. With very few exceptions they were born in England and would qualify for the term ‘English’, although one or both of the parents might have been Irish or Scots or Welsh or West Indian or African or Asian.”

  “Oh,” she said, colouring.

  “If we decided to become foster-parents as a first step,” Mr Milne said, “do we have any say in the sort of child we take?”

  “Oh yes, up to a point.”

  “I mean can we choose to have a white, English child?” There was a slight note of belligerence in his voice, as if he was daring me to argue with him on that point.

  “Why, of course,” I replied. “What I meant was that, if that is your preference, we would then tell you if there were any such children available, their ages and sex. When you have decided on the sex and age-range you prefer, we would try to match a child to those requirements and to you.”

  “Seems fair enough.”

  “If we take a child do we have full control of her? I mean, can we just bring her up as a member of our family?”

  “That’s exactly how we hope it would be and the closer it is to that, the more likely the transition to adoption.”

  We each had another cup of tea, and by this time we were chatting very easily. I had brought some application forms and asked that they complete one of them at their convenience and send it to me.

  They showed me over their bungalow, a compact, three-­bedroomed building, everything spick and span. From the dining-room, french windows opened on to a lawn of tender new grass bordered by a hedge of dark green privet. Three or four large trees which had escaped the bulldozers and levellers provided sun-­dappled shade at the far end of the garden. Plenty of room for a small child, both in and outdoors, I thought.

  I received their completed application form two days later, attached it to a short report on my visit to the Milnes and my personal impression of them, and sent it in to the Chief. She would, I knew, send it on to the Area nearest to where the Milnes lived, with a request that the application be followed up by one of their officers.

  About two weeks later Mr Milne telephoned me.

  “Milne here, Mr Braithwaite; just calling to say I hope you haven’t forgotten about us. We were rather hoping to hear from you before now.”

  I had not f
orgotten about Mr Milne, but had assumed that the Area Office to which his application had been passed would have contacted him long ago. I tried to reassure him.

  “The matter is very much in hand, Mr Milne,” I replied. “The delay was due to the processing to which all applications are subjected, but you’ll soon be hearing about yours. A Welfare Officer from the Area Office nearest to your home will call around to see you.” I made a mental note to check with the office concerned and hurry things up a bit.

  “One other thing, Mr Braithwaite; my wife and I have been talking the matter over, and we’ve decided to have a coloured child.”

  That stopped me in mid-breath, so to speak, because I had felt sure that he and his wife wanted a child who looked nearly like the little girl they had lost. I was quite unprepared for this.

  “Are you there, Mr Braithwaite?”

  “Yes, Mr Milne.”

  “I was saying Joyce and I have decided to have one of the coloured children. A little girl, same age as we put on the form.”

  “Fine, Mr Milne, we’ll see what we can do.”

  “Will we be hearing from you soon?”

  “Within the week, I promise you.”

  Then I rang the Area Office nearest to Wanstead. I was put in touch with the Welfare Officer to whom the Milne application had been passed.

  “Burton here.”

  “My name is Braithwaite. I think you’re dealing with an application from Mr Milne of Wanstead.”

  “Yes, I have the application.” Very much the official.

  “I’ve just had a telephone call from Mr Milne. He and his wife are rather anxious to hear something.”

  “Sorry about that, but there just hasn’t been the time.”

  “I promised him that someone would call within the week.”

  “Who did you say you were?”

  “Braithwaite.” Let him work that one out the best he could!

  “Braithwaite, oh yes. Braithwaite … Well, I’ll get over to see the Milnes as soon as I can.”