Where Charity Begins

 

The manner in which we view those in need has changed drastically in half a century and that’s almost a matter for some rejoicing, even among those who definitely feel so-so about charity to begin with.   I should emphasise that I am among those feeling so-so, in fact very much so.  This is not because I disapprove of helping those in need but more on account of a very unpleasant experience with those dispensing measures of altruism and generosity many years ago.  

I was living in a damp Paddington basement with my three-year-old son, not one of those houses owned by the infamous Peter Rachman but one owned by a landlord in many ways similar, Herbert Mortiboy.    This was a time when pre-school education was considered to be of vital importance and keen young mothers were urged on every side to ensure that their under fives were attending the most desirable pre-schools where Early Reading Programmes abounded and they learned to tie their shoe-laces.  The awful alternative was something called Day Care run by the local council where the queues for acceptance were endless and tied shoe-laces were unheard of.  I definitely wanted the former for Patrick and the daily sessions at Aunty Moira’s Nursery School nicely coincided with my part time job.  The problem was that at the time I could not really afford the elevated fees.   You definitely paid through the nose, as my mother would say – and maybe did say - for tied shoelaces.

Someone suggested that I apply for financial help via a well-known aid agency.   The finer details of the organisation have become lost over time and all I now remember is that it was somehow connected with the Royal Engineers and had been suggested because of my father’s war service.  I was pleasantly surprised to find that I was not required to descend into the depths of Chatham or Maidstone or Gillingham for the required interview, but was instead directed to a rather plush office in Mayfair.   My evaluator was a ferocious woman with natural voice projection and an impressive title and I only wish I could recall her full name.  I will call her Lady Shout-a-Lot.    She was ably assisted by a non-titled minion, tall and thin and slightly stooped and very much in awe of her aristocratic colleague.

I had spent a lot of time on my letter of application.  It was typed on white quarto paper, spelled and punctuated perfectly and this Lady Shout-a-Lot now waved at me in a most threatening manner announcing - `So you own a typewriter I see.’   Her assistant clasped her hands together in horror and echoed ….. `a typewriter’.     They managed to make it sound like a serious offence which was odd. 

I was then allowed to re-iterate the reasons why I needed financial help from them over the next few months or perhaps, heaven forbid, even one year.    After listening with an air of impatience my titled interrogator said in a tone of some triumph - `And you have included a telephone number in your contact details – am I to assume that you also have a telephone?’    At this the subservient subordinate very nearly choked on her next sharp intake of breath repeating `- a telephone!’   

I nervously explained the concept of shared hallway telephones in the rooming houses that proliferated West London at that time but the blank look in their eyes convinced me that this was a notion neither of them was at all familiar with.  Perhaps they had never ventured into the dark and dingy streets of Paddington and Bayswater.

I don’t now recall the finer details of the remainder of the interview, such as it was.   I do remember, however, the next prime demand thrown in my direction by she of the cut glass accent - `Miss Hendy, explain exactly how fond you are of the child.’    This was most unexpected and met of course with an embarrassed silence whilst I fumbled nervously through the various responses I might give.    Lady Shout-a-Lot did not like silences and she impatiently repeated the sentence, reformed as a question - `Exactly how fond are you of this child?’  

It was at this juncture that I simply burst into tears and was unable to say anything further.   Meanwhile my aristocratic persecutor explained with some relish that it was all very well to sit there crying but she could hardly condone handing over any of The Organisation’s precious funds to someone who owned both a typewriter and a telephone and what’s more lived close to central London.  Neither she nor her assistant owned typewriters, nor did they live as centrally as I did.  But even more importantly I seemed incapable of making the sensible decision to give up my child to a family who would be able to give him those educational advantages I seemed to think he needed.

I can’t remember what happened next and whether I stopped crying for long enough to say something flippant or cryptic before I left.  Somehow I doubt it.  I do know that since that afternoon when I was so thoroughly reduced to tears in that Mayfair office, I have viewed all charities with great suspicion.   Recently I was cautiously pleased to be told how much they have changed in the intervening years.