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last on the list because two boys are a handful in any household, but they might provide a lead to someone else.
    Meanwhile I’d seize every possible opportunity to visit Roddy and talk with him and get to know him. As Welfare Officer dealing with the case this was desirable, but even beyond that I felt involved and none of the arguments I held with myself about objectivity in any way seemed convincing. Whether I liked it or not he was a coloured boy, and though the word itself was distasteful, it was unavoidable in a community which placed so much importance on pigmentation or lack of it. His ‘blackness’ was the main difficulty; that, I was sure, mattered more to Miss Coney than the supposed nature of his mother’s activities. Many of the youngsters in the Children’s Homes have been born to unwed mothers, and that does not necessarily prejudice their chances of adoption or fostering. I wondered whether the fact of the baby’s dark skin may have started the whole rumour about his mother. After all, no one knew for certain that she was a prostitute.
    Miss Coney had assured me that she entertained no prejudice, but had more or less admitted that her efforts to find Roddy a home had been limited largely by the colour of his skin. That was an attitude I had been encountering among Welfare Officers, many of whom automatically considered a coloured person as a problem. Some of them felt that a special understanding of the lives of West Indians in their native Caribbean was necessary to winning their co-operation in dealing with them. I did not share that view, but rather favoured the idea that any person, irrespective of his racial origin, was likely to respond favourably to courteous, considerate treatment.
    I could not deny to myself that the boy and I were considered to be in the same pigmentation group, and that this gave rise to some feeling of identity with him; but I felt sure that in seeking to find him a home I would be in no way limited by his ‘blackness’. If I found a coloured family for him, it would be because I was fully convinced of their suitability, and that Roddy liked them and they him. I also felt sure that there must be many white Britons who would be willing to give him a home. In spite of the wide areas of inter-racial disaffection in many parts of Britain, there was a fund of sincere goodwill waiting to be tapped, and I must be neither too timid, nor too prejudiced, to do the tapping.
    Next morning before I left home I rang Don Ellesworth to chat with him before he began the day’s surgery.
    â€œEllesworth here, good morning.” Very professional and precise as usual.
    â€œHello, Don, Ricky here.”
    â€œOh, Hi Ricky; how goes it, boy?”
    â€œMiddling. How’s Audrey?”
    â€œIn the pink. Want to chat with her?”
    â€œNot right away, but I’d like to come over and see you both about something.”
    â€œOh? Care to give me a hint?”
    â€œSure. Are you still interested in increasing your family?”
    He laughed, a deep gurgling sound.
    â€œWhat are you selling, boy, some new kind of elixir? I don’t think your B.G. cure-all herbs will succeed where doing what comes naturally has failed.”
    â€œNo herbs, Don. A little boy. Made to measure.”
    â€œHow come? This part of your new job?”
    â€œYes. But how about it? Interested?”
    â€œCould be. Why not come over and let’s talk?”
    â€œSure. How about tonight?”
    â€œTonight’s fine. See you about 7.30.”
    He had sounded cautious, but Don was always cautious about committing himself to anything; if they liked the idea it might be an excellent niche for Roddy, and would very probably help to pull Don and Audrey out of the middle-aged sluggishness into which they were gradually settling. Don had come to England to volunteer for aircrew duty in the R.A.F. in 1941, and later served as a Wireless Operator with a bomber crew. After