Paid Servant by E. R. Braithwaite Read Free Book Online Page B

Street, Negro Section, or Negro Quarter. Quarter of what?
    A little way down the street I noticed that the Council had begun putting up new blocks of flats. One fine day they’d reach this spot and put the bulldozers and demolishers to these stinking slums and clear away every last rotting brick to make room for clean, new modern buildings. Then these slum-dwellers would get a chance to live at a greater distance from filth and grime. Or would they? Perhaps they’d be bulldozed and cleared off with the rotting bricks, and forced to find some other blighted dead-end in which to hide and proliferate their miseries; some other rotting slum long devalued and condemned, but still expensive to its numerous black occupants. God, what a stinking vicious circle.
    There was no bell or knocker on No. 58, so I rapped with the handle of my umbrella on the rusty letterbox on the door; I continued this rat-tat for about five minutes before the door was opened a few inches and a voice inquired, “Who is it?”
    I could dimly make out a shape through the narrow aperture.
    â€œI’m calling to see Mr Bentham,” I replied.
    â€œAll right, come in,” and the door opened wide. I entered a narrow, dimly lighted passage which was partly blocked by a slim, blonde woman who held a dressing-gown or wrapper tightly about her as she looked me over; behind her the passage continued towards a flight of stairs leading upwards. There were closed doors on each side of the passage and I guessed she came out of the one before which she was standing, nearest the front door. Music from several sources mixed to become a tuneless insistent pulse. She seemed in no hurry to stand aside and let me pass, so I asked again, “Where will I find the Benthams, please?”
    She turned sideways and nodded towards the stairway.
    â€œUp the stairs and first left.” Her voice betrayed a strong North Country accent. As I passed she reached behind her and turned the doorknob to let herself backwards into the room from which dance music suddenly blared out. Ah! I thought. So it’s not only the black ones who need the magic boxes to drown their loneliness and despair. From the quick glance I had had of her I guessed she was about twenty-three or twenty-four years old. Did her presence here add to the sordidness of the place, or was it a saving grace?
    I went up the stairs, which were covered with sticky linoleum. The upper floor was a replica of the lower, the same narrow, dimly lighted passage between the rooms. I knocked on the first left. It was quickly opened into a room shiningly bright after the outer gloom.
    â€œOh, Mr Braithwaite, come in. We’d begun to wonder if you’d ever get here.”
    She was large, nearly as tall as myself, with bare arms shiny smooth from elbow to wrist which somehow suggested muscle rather than fat. Her broad, light brown face was attractive and topped by short, curly, black hair. ‘Mixed parentage,’ I thought, ‘probably Negro and Indian.’ Her figure looked good in a dark pleated skirt and frilly white silk blouse; on her feet were soft, inverted sheepskin slippers, the sight of which reminded me of my own tired, aching feet.
    â€œAwfully sorry about being so late,” I offered to excuse myself, “but some of my other visits didn’t go according to plan.”
    â€œNever mind, let me take your bag.” She took my briefcase and umbrella and showed me to a chair. “Do sit down. This is Mr Bentham.” She waved an arm backwards and he came from somewhere behind her, a small, compact, very dark man, who shook my hand with a surprisingly powerful grip. He was quite bald, yet young-looking, tough and athletic. He wore grey flannel slacks and blue sports shirt open at the neck.
    â€œGladtomeetyou.” He ran the words together as if in haste to get the introduction over with, then moved away and looked at his wife as if waiting for his