“Then what?” I asked.
“I suppose it will eventually be sent to one of our readers for an opinion.” Making the word eventually sound like forever.
“How long will that take?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t answer that. A few months, perhaps. Our readers are all very busy at the moment. Incidentally, who sent you to us?”
“My local librarian.”
“Do we represent him?”
“No. We chose your agency from the list in the Year Book. He and I.” Making it sound quite random. Anything to take her down a peg or two. Continuing with, “Well, shall I check with you in a week or two?”
“No. That won’t be necessary. We have your address and we’ll write to you when we have the reader’s report.”
Turning away to indicate the end of the conversation. I was tempted to pick up the manuscript anyway, but I’d come this far. Okay. Why let myself be so easily irritated? After all, she’d not said or done anything really discourteous. Perhaps that abrasive manner was normal with her. Wouldn’t it shake her up if the reader, whoever he or she was, came up with a favorable report?
From Dean Street I cut across Frith Street to take the bus at Shaftesbury Avenue. Going in the same direction and a few yards ahead of me was a very shapely young woman perched high on spindly heels which emphasized the sway of her hips. A large, shiny black handbag hung from the crook of her left elbow. From time to time she brought the fingers of her right hand to pat into place the mass of blond ringlets piled on her head and about the nape of her neck. Something about her was oddly familiar, even as I argued with myself that I could not possibly know her. I admired the ease with which she balanced herself on the high, shiny heels, each foot placed primly in front of the other. Either I had hurried or her pace had slowed, but soon I was alongside, glancing sideways to see the face that went with the rest of her. At the same time she glanced across at me.
She had been one of my students, a member of my first class. The well-developed blonde with the large green eyes whom the others nicknamed Droopy because foundation supports always seemed inadequate to the task required of them. Quick-willed and friendly, she treated her peers, however, with something approaching disdain, as if they were far too gauche for her. It was rumored that after school hours and at weekends she frequented some of the local workingmen’s clubs. Now here she was.
I saw the recognition in her eyes. They remained on me for a moment, cool, unbothered. One shoulder came up in a shrug as she adjusted the strap of her handbag. The face was still youthfully lovely, the figure still voluptuous. Unhurriedly she turned away and crossed the street to the other pavement.
At home I told Mum and Dad how I had fared at the agency, and of my wordless encounter with my ex-student. “Wish her luck,” Mum advised. “After all, in this world it takes all kinds.” That, and even the likely fate of the manuscript were forgotten that night and the following morning, as I was once again lazily stretched in the sun under the apple tree.
Sometime around mid-morning Mum called me with the news that there was a telephone call for me. It was the agency. Peam, Pollinger, and Higham. Someone who identified himself as an editor was calling to ask whether I could come to London and lunch with him. That very day. He wanted to talk to me about my manuscript, To Sir, With Love.
I was stunned. The receptionist had said they’d be in touch in, maybe, weeks. Perhaps months. Yet here was this person calling already. I assured him I’d be there, hung up and shouted the news to Mum. She hurried from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, concern written large on her face. Not understanding what I’d shouted down the passage and through the kitchen door. Eventually coherent, I explained.
“Oh, that!” she said. “Good for them. Well, go on upstairs and get yourself ready.” Making one of the most important moments in my life seem quite ordinary.
On the way to London the initial euphoria quickly evaporated as I remembered that the man had not said much. He’d not said whether or not he liked the book. Anyway, he wanted to talk with me about it. That was a good sign. Maybe he wanted to advise me about it, how it should better be written. Editors knew about those things. I’d read somewhere that if they liked a part of a book, they would help the author to reorganize the rest upward to the level of that part. If they didn’t like it they’d not be calling me, so perhaps it had a chance.
This time the receptionist was quite friendly. She even remembered my name. Mr. Bellamy was expecting me. She telephoned him to let him know I’d arrived, and in a few minutes he appeared. A slim, balding but youthful man who greeted me warmly and led me upstairs to the cubbyhole of an office he shared with several hundred books, mostly on bookshelves, but others on his desk, on the radiator, on the window-sill and even in a neat pile on the floor. He had to clear some from the armchair near his desk before I could sit down.
“Please excuse me a moment,” he said. “Just have to get through a few little matters then we can pop out and have a spot of lunch.” Quickly busying himself with telephone calls and several papers which a secretary brought in to him. I sat there in a frenzy of impatience, striving to appear casual.
After what seemed like an hour, but may have been only fifteen or twenty minutes, he was ready. Together we went to a pub in Soho where he was evidently well known. After we’d found a table he pointed out several nationally known personalities, actors, writers, a member of Parliament. We ordered apéritifs and he spent an awfully long time with the menu, choosing for both of us. At that moment my interest in food was negligible, in inverse ratio to my impatience, but I was determined to let him be the first to open the conversation. He chatted amiably about food and publishing and Soho and theatre and everything except what I was so anxious to hear. Our meal was served, with two large tankards of mild beer. I hardly tasted either, marveling at the man and his singleminded occupation with what was before him. Eventually that was done and the dishes taken away. Then the performance of choosing the right brandy with coffee. Demitasse.
Finally he leaned back and said, “I suppose you’re wondering about your manuscript and what this is all about.”
I could only nod at him. No words.
“Well,” he continued, “first of all, let me tell you that I like it. There are one or two little details which need attention. Tiny ones, mark you, but they should present no difficulties.”
Still no words from me. My mind, my spirit, everything except my body, seemed to be floating high overhead. Carefully pulling up the sleeves of his jacket for comfort, he rested both elbows on the table, cupped his narrow face in his palms and, smiling, said, “Guess you’re wondering how we’ve got to it so quickly.” Reading into those words all the questions darting about in my confused mind.
“I am.
“Well, it’s like this,” he said, and unfolded the following story.
He lived in one of the towns of suburban Middlesex, and, normally, commuted between home and office by car. The day before, however, he and his wife had arranged to meet friends in London for dinner and the theatre. To best accommodate this arrangement, he’d traveled to London by train, leaving the car for his wife who would drive in early that evening and collect him from his office. At about four o’clock his wife had telephoned him complaining of illness and suggesting that the evening’s party be postponed for another time.
On his way past the receptionist that evening he casually asked if there was anything around which he might read on the journey home. He’d forgotten to pick up one of the books in his office. Just as casually she showed him my manuscript, with the remark that that was all that had come in that day. Reluctantly he took it, although intrigued by the title. Once settled in the train he began reading.
“It was the first time since my schooldays that I’d ever sat in a train and been taken past my destination,” he told me. “So absorbed I became in the book.”
Aft
er dinner that evening he finished it.
“I’m impressed by the way you write,” he said. “Your style. The way you make your characters live.”
“They’re all alive,” I told him.
“You mean it’s all true?”
“Exactly. Just as it happened.”
“What about names of people?”
“Everything.”
“Then we have a few problems,” he said. “A publisher would want to ensure that there’s no likelihood of anyone starting libel action. And the language of some of the students is a bit ripe, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It’s factual.”
“I’m not doubting that. I’m merely mentioning some of the difficulties which may arise. Anyway, all that’s for the publishers to decide. I have two of them in mind. The Bodley Head and Secker and Warburg. I’d suggest we send it first to The Bodley Head. They’re a bit prestigious and stuffy, but I’ve an idea they might like it.”
“Whatever you say.” I meant that. Everything was happening so quickly, I was hardly hearing the details for the turmoil of happiness in my head. I’d written a book and it would be published. I was impatient to get home with the news.
“Was it published?” my companion was asking.
“Oh, yes.” Smiling with the memory of it. The pleasure of it.
“In England or here in the U.S.?”
“Both.” Volunteering nothing.
“What’s the title of it? Perhaps I know it. My wife and I do a lot of reading.”
“To Sir, With Love.” It took a second or two to sink in. His mouth opened in a soundless “O.” He removed the glasses to peer at me, as if he’d not yet fully remarked my features.
“‘To Sir, With Love!’ I know that. Not the book. I haven’t read the book. But the movie. They made a movie of it, didn’t they? With Sidney Poitier. I saw the movie. We all saw it. At the local playhouse. The whole family. Autobiographical, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s the school you were talking about? And the students?”
“As near as the movie people could get to it.”
“Wow! Yes. I remember. My wife and the kids wept through most of that film. Driving home we were talking about it. Remember my wife saying that teacher must have been quite a man. But she couldn’t understand how he could keep his cool like that all the time. She said she’d have blown her top a thousand times over.”
“Well, I did. Eventually.”
“Yes. But even so, you were always so controlled. But, hell, isn’t it a small world? To think we’d meet and be talking this way. Wait till I phone my wife and tell her. The kids will never believe it. I’ve two girls, both at high school. They read the book as part of their English course.” Beaming at me. “Wow! Soon as I get to my office I’ll have my secretary check the bookshops to find a copy. Now I must read it.”
I tried to keep a straight face. Just listen to him! Talking of our meeting as if it had been something he’d welcomed. I noticed the transformation in him, the new element in his voice, his manner. Respect. That’s what it was. Unmistakably. Not for me. Hell, no! I’d not changed one bit during the time he’d sat beside me. It was for the other things to which people like him always responded. The ability, the talent, the gift, whatever it was he now knew I possessed. All of it packaged together and labeled success. I had earlier mentioned that I wrote, but he’d taken it in his stride. No bells had rung for him then. But now it was pinpointed as something he’d seen portrayed, irrefutable evidence of success. I smiled at the thought that he’d so narrowly missed it all. He’d come so close to being put off by my black face! Now he’d have quite a story for his secretary, his wife and his children. I wondered how he’d introduce it. Perhaps, something like, “I rode into the city this morning beside a black man, and guess who it turned out to be.” Or, more simply, “You’d never guess who I met this morning on the ride to New York.” Oh, well!
“Best seller, wasn’t it? The book, I mean.”
“In England. Yes. So far I believe it has been translated into twenty-five different languages.” Laying it on thickly.
“What about here, in the U.S.?”
“Oh, I think it has had some moderate success here, too. Even a literary award.”
“A literary award? Which one?” Like a beagle on the scent.
“The Anisfield-Wolff Award.” Casual. Quiet. Keeping it cool. Inside myself enjoying his surprise. The way he was looking at me as if I’d done a chameleon act before his very eyes. Changed myself into someone he could even be friendly with. Black skin and all. How else could he relate to the other things? The skill. The talent. The ability. One minute I had been an undesirable black, unwelcome; now I’d metamorphosed into a repository of the things he respected, perhaps strove and hungered for.
“So that was the start of your writing career?” he wanted to know.
“Not exactly.”
It had not become a career. Not then. Even in spite of all the wonderful reviews and interviews and pats on the back. The thing that had frightened me was the realization that I was expected to continue writing. The publishers. My agent. The reviewers. Everyone spoke of the book as if they expected it to be the first of many. In fact, I could think of nothing else to write about. I had lived through that experience. In setting it down I had tried to recreate the circumstances as accurately as possible. Dialogue, situations, everything. Telling the story and reliving it at the same time.
However I suppose I responded to the praise and encouragement. I argued with myself that all the experts couldn’t be wrong. If they said I could write, then perhaps I could. Encouraged by my agent, I wrote a few short pieces for the B.B.C. radio. On teaching. They were accepted and I read them on the air. The next step was in natural sequence. Articles for The Times, The Observer, The Guardian and The Statesman. On education, on teaching and on the plight of the black immigrant in Britain. The outsider writing from inside. Critically.
“What then? Did you try to find another job?”
“No. Another job found me.”
The fees from the newspapers and broadcasting had been enough. Nothing wonderful, but altogether not much less than what I received from teaching or from the Welfare Department. Then there was the money from the publishers. An advance on royalties. A few hundred pounds but, at that time, a small fortune to me. The pieces I wrote and broadcast attracted a lot of favorable attention. Together with the wonderful publicity from my book. Letters poured in from readers of all kinds, especially teachers, nearly all of them very complimentary and encouraging. I received many invitations to address groups at colleges, schools, readers’ clubs, churches, everywhere. After one such address I was introduced to a young man named Maurice Frost who told me he operated a lecture agency. When he learned that I had been asking no fees for my lectures he invited me to join his agency. I did.
So now it was writing and lecturing. Traveling around Britain, meeting and learning about others black like myself. As a welfare official I had met only those who sought help through me. Now I was meeting others. Men and women who had settled in Britain after being active in some branch of the armed services. They too had lived through experiences not unlike my own, emerging disillusioned but determined. Two dentists. A midwife. Electricians and automobile servicemen. Skilled and unskilled. Laborers and others. Employed and unemployed. Some youthful, enthusiastic and bulging with hope for better times to come. Others disillusioned, dejected and demoralized. Manchester. Birmingham. Liverpool. Cardiff. North. South. East and west.
During the time of my own desperate search for employment I’d never thought that others, black like me, were experiencing the same rejections and frustrations. I was preoccupied with myself, my pain and my need. I had no black acquaintances or intimates with whom to share or compare my daily experiences. It was me, uniquely me, against the world of whites.
Then I’d found a job as teacher and, occupied with its challenges, it was still me, uniquely me, proving myself. Even when working with the Welfare Department my primary and perhaps only concern was proving myself capable, imaginatively capable, sensitively capable. Regular employment diverted my attention from hurt, rejected me to ambitious, intelligent me.
The chance encounter with the young black man on the bus affected me far more deeply than I at first realized. The depth and power of his despair were so familiar, so painfully familiar. He merely wanted a job. Any job. I’d had education, specialized training, wartime service and experience in living within the white society, but, at the final reckoning, he and I were one. We were black, and in that brief encounter, with so few words, he could say it all to me.
Now, free of departmental oversight or control, I began to look into conditions which so intimately and painfully affected him and me, and others like us. Particularly employment and housing, or should I say, the lack of both?
Wherever I went on my lecture tours I sought to make contact with blacks. It was not easy. Often my overtures to friendliness were brusquely rebuffed, but, luckily, not always. I’ve often wondered whether those blacks who rejected me had themselves been so often deceived and exploited that there remained no trust. For anyone. Or whether it was because of the way I was dressed, or spoke or approached them. In the comfortable years of University and the frightening excitements of war service, I’d been content with other associations, other relationships. More recent experiences had taught me to be distrustful of those relationships, and here I was now, reaching for contact with, and for acceptance among, others like myself. “My people.”
Belatedly I was looking around, searching for the black faces. Needing to get close. Whenever and wherever they permitted that closeness we talked about our common experiences, our common pain. Always a recital of hurt and pain. Hate sessions. They were, for the most part, uneducated, unskilled and vulnerable. I was skilled, educated and just as vulnerable, and found it very difficult to make them understand that. The way I spoke or dressed notwithstanding. I had lived through the same hell of rejection.