Paid Servant by E. R. Braithwaite

know them. You’ve a nice place here, and it might give your wife something to do, entertaining your friends, sort of in preparation for her future role as Governor’s wife in Grenada.”
    We both laughed at this.
    â€œWell, it could happen, you know,” he said. A real go-getter, this boy.
    â€œSure it could happen,” I agreed, “but you’d have to begin now to make it happen by preparing for it. Already you have most of the ingredients, a lovely wife, a nice house, your studies, your ambitions. Sure it could happen. All you need now is to stop being afraid. Of other men.” I added the last bit harshly, to shake him up. He took it with a smile. I looked at his wife. She was watching him, too, her face relaxed but ready to take a cue from his attitude.
    â€œI suppose you’re right,” he said. “All this may have seemed silly to you, but … ”
    â€œNot silly, Mr Loomis,” I interrupted. “If I had been married to such a lovely woman I might have behaved a lot worse, a whole lot worse.” I sneaked a quick look at her; she was smiling shyly. “However, you’re the one who’s going to be the politician, not me. So you’ll have to learn to handle all kinds of opposition.”
    â€œYou make it sound so damned easy,” he replied, then, “Sorry, Selma.” ‘Good grief,’ I thought, ‘he’d write a letter like that about her, but he apologizes to her for saying “damn”. Wonders never cease. Or maybe he was saying “sorry” for something else.’
    â€œCould you stay for a cup of tea?” she asked, rising.
    â€œOf course,” I replied. “Me, I’m dry. It’s people like your husband here who have to learn to talk for hours without lubrication.”
    He laughed. We all laughed. Nice and friendly. They’d work it out together, I felt sure. I’d put a little idea in his head and he’d use it. Ambitious types like him would use anything to achieve their ends. Inwardly I wished them luck, especially him. In one way he’d need it, lots of it.
    Over tea, the three of us chatted, chiefly about Mr Loomis and his political ambitions, and then, with a promise to drop in any time I was in the vicinity, I left them.
    The Rosenbergs lived in a large apartment house overlooking Clapham Common, close to the building where Wilberforce and his friends often met to discuss their schemes for bringing about the emancipation of the slaves in British territories. They were both restless, energetic, brilliant people, pursuing their separate careers, together with their joint career of involvement in a host of projects and schemes for helping a wide assortment of social misfits to help themselves. Their apartment was a kind of crossroads, where all kinds of personalities and intelligences met, talked, ate, argued, agreed or disagreed, but rarely rested. The need to understand and cope with urgent human problems seemed to outweigh the need for rest. Sometimes one slept if one had to, and then this was respected and the wakeful, restless ones moved themselves off to the kitchen, bathroom, bedroom or distant corner, and carried on in what they thought were whispers. Their little Clarita, their daughter of three, bobbed about like a small cork on the turbulences of the grown-up world in which she lived; her large, steady grey eyes and serious mien would soon discourage the uninitiated who tried to woo her with baby talk, but would just as readily crinkle up in the most captivating way when she was amused.
    Hardwick answered the door. When indoors he always dressed his tall, gangling frame in thick, chunky sweaters and shapeless corduroy slacks. His greying hair pointed in every direction under the persistent teasing of his restless fingers, as he read, argued or concentrated on problems new or past. Under a large, craggy forehead, his aquiline nose, brown, slightly bulging eyes and wide