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much like to see you about a personal matter.”
    â€œCertainly, Mrs Bentham. When could you come to the office?”
    â€œOh, I wouldn’t like to see you at your office,” she said, “you see it’s family matters, and my friend said you’d come to see us at home. Me and my husband.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mrs Bentham, but I have rather a long list of cases to deal with just now, and I couldn’t possibly call at your home today.”
    â€œI didn’t mean for you to come today,” she replied quickly, “my husband and I are both at work during the day, but we’d be in after seven this evening. We’ll both be in and it’s very important.”
    â€œI can’t promise to see you this evening, Mrs Bentham, as I am already engaged … ” I began, when she interrupted.
    â€œMy friend said you’re a West Indian, and we’re from the West Indies too, and it’s really very important.”
    â€œBut could you give me some idea what it is about?” I asked, slightly irritated with her for bringing in the ‘West Indian’ thing like an identity tag. Did she think it necessary to use that kind of pressure? “Maybe if it’s a matter of advice … ”
    â€œI wouldn’t like to discuss it over the phone,” she remarked.
    There was in her voice a hint of disappointment at my seeming failure to respond to her mention of my West Indian nationality.
    â€œIt’s a family matter and my friend said you would help us. It’s very important and we don’t know anyone else to ask for advice.”
    â€œCouldn’t it wait until sometime tomorrow?”
    â€œTomorrow might be too late,” she replied.
    This was not the first of such appeals made to me. Many West Indians now knew of my connection with the Welfare Department and assumed that I would be ready to help at any time they might need me. If I claimed to be too busy or tired it was taken as evidence of snootiness or pride or a disinclination to help them.
    â€œMay I have your address, Mrs Bentham?” Probably I might be able to work it in somehow after seeing Don and Audrey. Probably. If it was too much out of the way she’d just damned well have to wait until tomorrow. They lived in Stepney, right across London from Finchley, but on the way to my home in Ilford.
    â€œI can drop in for about half an hour, Mrs Bentham, around 9.30 this evening. I’m afraid I cannot make it any earlier.”
    Damn it! Why did I have to make excuses for myself?
    â€œOh, good. Thank you, Mr Braithwaite, we’ll see you then.” She hung up.
    So once again it had happened, and in spite of the Area Supervisor’s recent observations and thinly veiled warnings, I could not see that I had any other choice. Besides, what I did in my own time was surely my business—or was it?
    The previous Thursday the Area Chief had called me to her office.
    â€œSit down, please. I’ve been studying your reports,” she began without preamble, “and it seems to me that you are doing too much.”
    On the desk before her was a batch of documents with which I had been dealing, and near them two letters addressed to me, but opened. I looked at the letters, then again at her, feeling the annoyance mushrooming inside me. From as early as I can remember I’ve been opposed to anyone opening my letters. My mother had taught me that letters were personal things, and that to open and read someone else’s letters constituted an invasion of privacy. I still think so.
    â€œFirst of all,” she continued, picking up the letters, “I’ve just read these letters addressed to you. Our policy here is to open all letters addressed to officers, and with good reason. Very often in the past we found that important communications were sometimes personally addressed to officers, and because an officer may have been ill or on leave, the communication