The conversation centered around the exhibits they had seen; it was all very much outside their previous experience and interest, yet their comments were surprisingly shrewd. Fernman, whose parents worked in the clothing industry, showed an unexpected knowledge of the art of the Flemish weavers, and told us that his grandmother still wove in silk on her own hand loom.
I was thoroughly pleased with the conduct of my class; they would have been a credit to the best of schools. Denham and Potter had apparently elected themselves lieutenants, and just before twelve o’clock I could see them going from group to group marshalling the class together, and at a sign from me they led off through the subway towards the station.
Once on the train and released at last from the unusual strain of more than two hours of quiet, they were themselves again, joking and chattering about the things they had seen like a band of cheerful monkeys. Every now and then I could overhear the now familiar “Sir said … ” expressed with positive finality, a constant reminder of the great responsibility I had undertaken. They now accepted the things I said completely, unquestioningly, because they had accepted me, and no one seemed disposed to query the authenticity of anything which bore the seal “Sir said.”
Back at school the children scattered towards the dining hall or home and Gillian and I went off to the staffroom. I had seen very little of her on the way back, and now as we settled down to our sandwiches she told me how much she had enjoyed the visit.
“It was so much nicer than I expected, Rick, I mean being with them off the school premises.”
“I know what you mean. They’re really nice people, as Mrs. Drew says.”
“It’s more than that. On the way back I was talking with Moira Joseph and Effie Crook; they spoke to me as equals, and I had the odd feeling that they knew more about life than I did.”
“That’s not surprising. Moira’s mother has been in a convalescent home for nine weeks, tuberculosis I think, and Moira has to mother the family. Two younger ones are at a Junior School nearby; she’s allowed to leave school early each afternoon to collect them.”
“God, how dreadful!”
“I don’t think she minds in the least; rather enjoys It, I suppose. She told me about the way her father praises her cooking. I do think we often make the mistake of lumping them all together as ‘kids’.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call them that, not all of them anyway. The Dare girl has quite a crush on you, I’ve noticed.”
I sat looking at her, completely lost for words; women say the damnedest things.
“Well, you have noticed it, haven’t you?” The smile did not detract from the serious note in her voice.
“No, I haven’t I treat her no differently from any of the others.”
“Now don’t be silly, Rick. I’m sure you don’t, but that would make no difference. It’s quite the usual thing, you know; I’m sure some of the small boys in my class are dying for love of me.” Her silvery laughter rang through the room; and I found it impossible to be annoyed with her.
“I hear you had a spot of bother on the train this morning.”
“Oh, nothing serious.” I described the incident and the way in which Pamela had effectively put the busy-bodies to rout. She gave me a long searching look.
“Rick, I think you’re the one who’s treating them like kids. But don’t make that mistake with the Dare girl; she’s a woman in every sense of the word.”
“Now, wait a moment, Gillian; there’s nothing significant in Pamela’s action in the train, at least, not to me.”
“Have it your own way. Not that I really blame the girl a bit—you are rather overpowering, you know.”
Immediately I felt a change in the atmosphere. Out of nowhere something had entered into our relationship, a new element which at once excited, delighted and sobered me. I suddenly felt agitated and confused; and, making some hasty and rather silly excuses, I left her and went down to my classroom to sort myself out. This thing had somehow caught me by surprise. Yet, as I sat there, I wondered whether I was being foolishly premature, reading too much into a simple remark. I liked Gillian immensely; there had sprung up between us a very delightful camaraderie which I cherished and wished above all else to preserve.
My life in England had not by any means been ascetic. During my student days I had had one or two affairs, temporary contacts which were fully appreciated as such on both sides; and under the tensions of operational flying and the uncertainty of survival, sex became merely part of the general scheme of things and I was no exception. Like many of the others I had dates; the color of my skin was not important. As a matter of fact it helped, along with the fact that I was rather good at games—rugger, soccer, tennis, cricket, athletics. Together these things operated very much in my favor and the women were accommodating. Some of my less fortunate white colleagues suggested, without rancor, that the women might have been merely curious to discover the truth about the many stories concerning the supposedly exceptional sexual equipment and prowess of the Negro. In actual fact I found a number of pleasant companions, and I sincerely hope I achieved no special notoriety as a boudoir athlete.
But all that belonged to the past. My life was now adjusted to new and different conditions, and I needed to tread carefully every step of the way. I had frequently observed the disapproval on the faces of English people at the sight of a white woman in a Negro’s company, and if I had forgotten, this morning’s incident would have been a reminder. Sitting with Gillian in the safe comfort of the staffroom was one thing; exposing her to those hard stares and vindictive faces was another. How long would our happy association survive the malignity of stares which were deliberately intended to make the woman feel unclean, as if she had abjectly degraded not merely herself but all womanhood? Only the strongest women could survive such treatment.
It seems as though there were some unwritten law in Britain which required any healthy, able-bodied Negro resident there to be either celibate by inclination, or else a master of the art of sublimation. And were he to seek solace from prostitutes or “easy” women, he would promptly be labelled as filthy and undesirable. Utterly, inhumanly unreasonable! We were to be men, but without manhood.
My mind was full of these thoughts as Gillian walked into my classroom. Her usually gentle face was grave and set. I stood up as she approached my table.
“What’s the matter, Rick?
“Oh, nothing really. I wanted to think about something for a while.”
“Couldn’t it have waited until later?” Her dark eyes were glowing wonderfully in a face made pale by agitation.
“I suppose so. It was rather stupid of me. I’m sorry.”
“Was it because of what I said?” Her lips were quivering slightly, and I wanted only to take her in my arms.
“Partly. It was something I suddenly realized while you were speaking.”
“Something about me, about us?”
“Yes, about us.”
“I felt it too, Rick.”
I stared at her, feeling helplessly out of my depth. Things were happening so quickly I could hardly keep pace with them.
“Are you angry with me, Rick?”
“Angry? How could I be?”
“That’s good.” The smile was back on her face. I was always fascinated by that smile. It began with a faint twitching near the corners of her mouth, then flashed quickly, like a streak of lightning, to illuminate the depth of her eyes.
“See you after school.” And she was gone, leaving me confused, bewildered, but gloriously happy.
The following morning I was a bit late for school. Those damned trains were becoming more and more unpredictable; they always managed to get held up just outside a station, so that there was no alternative to waiting. The children were all in their places when I arrived, and as I stepped into the room they greeted me as with one voice:
“Good
morning, Sir.”
I was so surprised I must have gaped at them for a moment before returning their greeting. This had never happened before. Usually I greeted them first just before registration and would receive a reply from those who felt like it. This was overwhelmingly different.
I recovered myself and walked towards my table, and there it was. In the center of my table was a large vase in which was neatly arranged a bunch of flowers. Some were slightly bedraggled; all had evidently been collected from the tiny backyards and window boxes of their homes. For me this was the most wonderful bouquet in the world; it was an accolade bestowed collectively by them on me. I turned to look at their pleased, smiling faces and said, with a full heart:
“Thank you, all of you.”
Chapter
Thirteen
THE VISIT TO THE Victoria and Albert featured largely in their reviews that week. They commented on it freely and thoughtfully, and even on their own conduct. When Mr. Florian read reviews he was delighted, and expressed his willingness to help any other visits I might plan in the future.
I had now been with the class two months, and every day our lessons were becoming more and more interesting. I used every device I could think of to stimulate their interest in their schoolwork; there was so much for me to do with them, so much leeway to make up. Our lessons were very informal, each one a kind of discussion in which I gave them a lead, and encouraged them to express their views against the general background of textbook information.
A human skeleton which had long hung unused in the Science Room was pressed into service for practical Physiology, and these lessons soon became very popular. They asked questions and I answered them fully; I treated them as young men and women and they responded admirably. When I said that the skeleton was that of a female they required proof; and my explanation of the angle and depth of the pelvic basin and the reasons for it naturally led to questions and answers on sex, marriage, pregnancy, childbirth. I in turn, was amazed at the extent of their knowledge acquired first hand. As members of large families living cheek by jowl in small rooms they had seen and heard enough to dispel, at an early age, any childish myths about reproduction.
Even the silent Seales now began to speak up in class, and it was soon clear to us all that he was as well-informed as anyone and full of natural good humor.
I began one Geography lesson by saying:
“Geography is the study of places, and the people, flora, fauna and mineral deposits to be found there.”
“What’s that, Sir, flora and that?”
“Flora is a term used to describe all vegetable growths either on land or water, trees, weeds, waterplants, cultivated plants, etc. Fauna refers to all animal life, large or small. Today we shall consider some aspects of life on the African continent.”
“You don’t come from Africa, do you, Sir?” Seales inquired, though I had answered this question many times before.
“No, Seales, I was born in British Guiana.”
“Where’s that, Sir?”
“It’s on the northern coast of South America, the only British Colony there. You can easily find it on the map between Suriname and Venezuela.”
“That’s the same as Demerara, isn’t it, Sir, where the sugar comes from?” Fernman’s question was one which I had been asked even by teachers on the staff, who were in the main sadly uninformed about the Colonial territories, protectorates and dependencies.
They knew that Jamaica produced sugar, rum and bananas, that Nigeria produced cocoa, and that British Guiana had large natural resources; but these names, though as familiar as the products with which they were in the main sadly uninformed about the Colonial seemed really interested in knowing anything about the peoples who lived there or their struggles towards political and economic betterment.
The other teachers, also, used the word “native” as a generic term for all colored peoples, even those resident in Britain; and their idea of the Negro was largely conditioned by the familiar caricature in books and films—a shiftless and indolent character, living either in a primitive mud hut or in the more deplorable shanty town, and meeting all life’s problems with a flashing smile, a sinuous dance, and drum-assisted song.
It was not entirely their fault. They had been taught with the same textbooks that these children were using now, and had fully digested the concept that colored people were physically, mentally, socially and culturally inferior to themselves, though it was rather ill-mannered actually to say so.
The children would often support their own arguments with quotations from these school textbooks and from others of more recent vintage, when I had been giving them a somewhat different account of the conditions in some Colonial territories; and so powerful is the written word that it was hard for them to disagree with what they had read. If on occasions I used myself as an example, they had an answer to that, too.
“But, Sir, you’re different.”
I explained to Fernman, with the help of an atlas, that Demerara was merely one of the three large territories of British Guiana, and that sugar was only one of the important products.
“Anyway, we are getting away from our subject, which is Africa. That continent is particularly interesting because of its diversity of peoples, religions, origins, cultures and climatic conditions. Colors differ from the black skins of the Negroes of the Niger basin, through the paler skins of the various Arab peoples to the white skins of the European settlers.”
“South Africans are white, aren’t they, Sir?”
“A South African is a native of South Africa, irrespective of the color of his skin.”
“But all natives are black, Sir.”
“No, Fernman. You’re a native of London and so is Seales, but you are of different colors. I am a native of British Guiana, and there are thousands of British Guianese who are white-skinned and blonde, redheaded or brunette.”
Hard work, with so little support from the textbooks, yet it was satisfying work with these eager, friendly youngsters.
One evening on my way home I saw the old tobacconist standing at his door. As I approached he beckoned me into the little shop which was crowded with candy jars and soda pop bottles, wooden cases and display trays. Then, leaning over the narrow counter, he shouted something in Yiddish, and from behind a half hidden door a voice answered and a very stout matriarch emerged.
“Mama, this is the new teacher at Greenslade School.”
He opened his arms with the gesture of a conjurer exhibiting a rabbit. I smiled and bowed to the old lady, who returned the smile with interest.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Braithwaite,” I replied, “Ricardo Braithwaite.”
“I’m Pinkus and this is Mama Pinkus.” The introduction was effected with a filial devotion which was good to see.
“How d’you do, Mama Pinkus.”
“I think I know some place for you.” He went to the little noticeboard and removed a small card on which was written a short advertisement of a room to let nearby. “Mama think is good room, maybe all right for you.”
I received the card from him and thanked them both. I was really touched by their kindness in remembering me and my inquiry for a room.
I thought it best to call at the advertised address without delay, for I had been late a number of times lately, and though Mr. Florian was very understanding about the train service, I felt that I ought to find “digs” nearer the school. If I were lucky I would then tell Mom and Dad, who I was sure would understand; if I were not successful, well, no harm had been done.
The address was one of a terrace in a rather dingy street, but the pavement outside the front door was, like its neighbors, scrubbed white, and the brass door knocker and lace window curtains bore testimony to the occupant’s attention to cleanliness. Some of these local folk were as houseproud as duchesses. I knocked and presently the door w
as opened by a large, red-faced smiling woman.
“Good evening. I’m here to inquire about the room.”
Immediately the smile was replaced by the expression of cold withdrawal I had come to know so well.
“Sorry, I’m not letting.”
“Mr. Pinkus told me about it just a few moments ago,” I persisted.
“Sorry, I’ve changed me mind.” Her arms were folded across her stomach, and the set face and bulk of her added to the finality of her words.
“Who’s it, Mum?” a girlish voice inquired from somewhere behind her.
“Some darky here asking about the room.” Her mouth spat out the words as if each one was intended to revile.
Embarrassed to the point of anger, I was turning away when there was a sodden movement behind her and a voice cried in consternation:
“Oh Gawd, Mum, it’s Sir, it’s me teacher.” Beside the woman’s surprised face I caught a glimpse of the startled freckled countenance of Barbara Pegg. “Oh me Gawd … ”
I promised myself that that was my first and last attempt at finding other “digs.” For as long as Mom and Dad would have me, theirs was my home. But for some time afterwards poor Barbara avoided me and blushed in confusion if I even spoke to her during lessons.
A few weeks later, I had my first date with Gillian. Since the day of our visit to the museum we had, by unspoken agreement, avoided the very personal things we both wanted to say, yet everything only served to underscore the strong affection we felt for each other, which increased in depth and intensity every day.
It was Gillian who finally proposed that we spend an evening together—and a wonderful evening it proved to be. We laughed and talked, held hands in the cinema, supped in Soho, and enjoyed every moment of each other’s company. I had never been so happy.
Soon we were going regularly together to the theater, ballet and films. On these occasions, Gillian told me more about herself. Her parents lived at Richmond: her father, often abroad, was in some way connected with international finance; her mother was a fashion designer. She herself had a flat in Chelsea, going home to Richmond whenever it was possible for them all to be together. Since leaving college two years ago, she had decided to be independent and earn her own living. She had worked for eighteen months in the Editorial Department of a woman’s magazine but had tired of it and decided to try teaching; not so much for the money, as she had a very generous annual allowance to which both her parents contributed, but because teaching brought her in touch with people in a very personal way.