A Rogue's Company, page 6
“We should discuss this,” she said, returning to her seat.
“Yes, we should,” agreed Gwen as she glanced over the form. “We haven’t thought this through enough.”
“We haven’t needed to. All of our clientele to date have been British.”
“He’s British,” pointed out Gwen. “Let’s not mince words. All of our clientele have been white. The subject of matching other races has never been an issue before.”
“Is it an issue now?” asked Iris.
“Interesting that you’re asking me that question,” said Gwen. “You seem to think I’d be more likely to have some problem with this than you.”
“How many Africans have you met in the elevated circles in which you’ve circulated?”
“None. And you? I supposed there were some at Cambridge when you were there.”
“Yes, and you could count them on one hand. No women at all. I hear there are two now. Just started a year ago, God help them. It was hard enough being a woman in that place. I can’t imagine what it’s like being female and black there.”
“So, we have little experience dealing with people of his culture,” said Gwen. “More important, we have no female clients of African descent.”
“Nor do we have any Caribbeans,” said Iris. “Nor, for that matter, any Arabians, Indians, Chinese, Malays, or anyone with skin darker than mine. Why would he come to us? I should think he would have better connections to the local African community than we do.”
“You have none currently?”
“I knew this lovely jazz violinist from Portuguese East Africa, but he died in the Blitz. Nobody from when I was in the army—my group was focused on the European theatre.”
“So if we take him on, what do we do? Do we advertise?”
“It might be worth it to expand our clientele.”
“And where? Is there a particular newspaper that caters to that community? A particular neighbourhood where they live? I really have no idea.”
“Soho, I should think.”
“Then we should ask Sally for advice. He lives there. He knows it better than either of us.”
“That is the beginning of a plan,” said Iris.
“There is still the problem of the initial interview,” said Gwen, looking troubled. “We can’t use our usual patter. It would be deceptive to promise him dozens of possibilities when we have none.”
“I think we should be up front about that before he commits,” said Iris. “A man should know the value of what he’s paying for. Thinking about it, perhaps we should waive the initial fee until we have more African clients.”
“I disagree,” said Gwen. “That would be treating him differently than our other clients. I would be open to the idea of refunding it later if we have no success, but that shouldn’t be part of the contract, nor should we tell him we’d be willing to do that in advance. It would be bad for business if we told an international client that we were not willing to put in the same efforts for him as we do for our local ones.”
“International,” said Iris thoughtfully. “That’s a better euphemism than most.”
“And we shall apply it to all future clients not born here,” declared Gwen. “Even the French. Especially the French.”
“Why the French?”
“Who is more not English than the French? And they live so close by, yet refuse to be like us.”
“Fine, international for all not born in the British Isles. Oh—what about Canadians? And Australians? And especially the Americans? They’re strange, but they’re not really foreign.”
“Still not from here,” said Gwen. “I am going to be strictly parochial about this. Now let us meet our new international client.”
Iris buzzed the intercom.
“Mrs. Billington, bring Mr. Daile over, would you please?”
“Certainly, Miss Sparks.”
“Is that how it’s pronounced?” asked Gwen. “Rhymes with mail?”
“We must ask him,” said Iris.
A moment later, there was a soft knock.
“Come in,” said Sparks.
He certainly was darker than Sparks, a medium brown-skinned man about five ten. He was clean-shaven and dressed in a grey demob suit that had been meticulously maintained. He smiled as Mrs. Bainbridge came around her desk to shake his hand.
“How do you do, Mr. Daile?” she said. “I am Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge, and this is my partner, Miss Iris Sparks. Welcome to The Right Sort Marriage Bureau. Am I pronouncing your name correctly?”
“It is actually Dah-ee-lay,” he said. “I answer to Daile, of course, given how the English always believe the last ‘E’ is silent. How do you do, Mrs. Bainbridge and Miss Sparks? Simon Daile. I am honoured to make your acquaintance.”
“But you’re Scottish!” exclaimed Mrs. Bainbridge. “I mean, you speak like a Scotsman. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“It startles all the English people I meet,” he said, laughing. “My first schooling, and the source of my English, came at the missionary school run by the Free Church of Scotland, and until I traveled here, I thought that was how all the English spoke. It was very difficult to understand people when I first came to London.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t go to Edinburgh or Glasgow, then,” commented Sparks. “Forgive my curiosity, but does Daile mean anything in particular in your language?”
“It means one who dwells in the thicket, and my native language, if you will forgive me for anticipating your next question, is called Chitumbuka. Since you bring it up—I know what sparks are, and I know what a bridge is. What is a bain, Mrs. Bainbridge, and how were your ancestors named for it?”
“There is a very short river called the Bain in Yorkshire,” said Mrs. Bainbridge as she indicated for him to take a seat. “No idea what it means or why it was called that. I suppose someone built a bridge over it once upon a time, and everyone from there was called Bainbridge by everyone else after that. That’s how names go, isn’t it? I acquired the name when I married into the family, so I cannot tell you any more.”
“I have heard that name before,” said Mr. Daile. “Are you related to the Bainbridges of Bainbridge, Limited? They own tea and coffee plantations in my country.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Lord Harold Bainbridge is my father-in-law.”
“Then you will be a lady someday,” said Mr. Daile. “How surprising to find you doing this type of work. Or any kind of work.”
“I won’t rise to the title, unfortunately,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “My husband was killed in battle.”
“My sympathies,” he said, nodding respectfully.
“What brought you to England, Mr. Daile?” asked Sparks.
“I came to further my education,” he said. “The missionaries arranged for a scholarship, and I was intending to learn advanced agricultural techniques that I could then bring back to improve the lives of the farmers in Nyasaland.”
“Oh, did you go to Royal Ag?” asked Sparks. “I know a few people who were there at that time.”
“No, alas,” Daile replied. “The missionaries had an arrangement with Harper Adams College, so that is where I went.”
“I am not familiar with it,” said Sparks.
“I am,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “It’s in Shropshire somewhere, isn’t it?”
“In the village of Edgmond, yes,” said Daile, pleased. “A very small school, with only two hundred or so students. I’m surprised that a great lady like you would know of it.”
“Our groundskeeper’s son went there when I was young,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “First in their family to attain any form of higher education. They were tremendously proud. We all were.”
“When was he there?” asked Daile.
“Let me think. It would have been in the late twenties, so before your time, I should imagine. When were you there?”
“I matriculated in 1938. I completed my first year, worked on a farm during the summer, and was a month into my second year when the war began. I enlisted straightaway.”
“Bravo,” said Sparks, glancing at the form. “Royal Navy, I see. And you were demobbed recently?”
“Three months ago,” he said.
“Thank you for your service,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Were you overseas much?”
“For most of the war,” he said.
“See any action?” asked Sparks.
“Saw none, heard plenty,” he said, grimacing slightly. “The day I got out of training, they took one look at me and said, ‘You must be used to hot places, laddie,’ then sent me down to the boiler room. I was a stoker for the rest of the war. I never fired a single shot in anger or otherwise.”
“Dear me, how awful,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “But you survived.”
“I did, thank the Lord.”
“And now you are going back to school?”
“Things are somewhat in confusion on that point,” he said ruefully. “The missionaries had lost track of me, and the one who had originally obtained my funding is in retirement somewhere in Burma. It is not certain that they will be giving me any assistance at this point. Until they do, I am working as a gardener in London.”
“Not exactly what you were trained for,” commented Sparks. “Flowers and topiary are a far cry from farming.”
“Not as far as all that,” said Daile. “I am still getting plants to grow and defending them from attack from land and air by enemies large and small. The techniques I learn here are ones I may eventually be able to teach back home.”
“Is that your ultimate goal?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge. “To return to Nyasaland?”
“I do not know,” he confessed. “I have been away for so long, and by the time I complete my education, it will be more than ten years away, which is why I have been contemplating remaining in England.”
“Interesting,” said Sparks. “Is that why you have come to us? Because you are thinking of settling down?”
“It is,” he said.
“You see,” began Mrs. Bainbridge, glancing over to Sparks, who nodded slightly, “this is a relatively new venture with a smallish clientele. We are expanding, of course, but we wish to speak plainly to you. We currently have no one who is not of English descent. We would, should you choose to go forward with your application, embark upon a search for suitable candidates, but as I am sure you know—”
He raised a hand to interrupt her.
“I have no objections to being connected to an Englishwoman,” he said. “As long as she is a good Christian with proper values and willing to lead a rural life, whether in England, Scotland, or indeed, anywhere my fortunes take me.”
Mrs. Bainbridge blinked for a moment.
“Well, that opens up possibilities,” said Sparks brightly, stepping into the breach. “And gives us some limitations. A willingness to travel will discourage some, encourage others. The same is true for good Christian values.”
“Is it indeed?” he asked. “I would have hoped that those would be encouraging for everyone.”
“If they were, we wouldn’t have spent the last seven years fighting each other,” said Sparks. “But there are many who still carry those values and hopes, and I hope that we shall be able to find one of them for you. Let’s continue: Age range?”
Sparks peppered him with questions and, to her relief, her partner quickly rejoined the conversation.
“Right,” said Sparks when they had finished. “We have enough for now. We may reach you at this address and telephone?”
“The telephone is for my landlady,” he said. “I would prefer that you contact me by mail. I don’t want to be a bother to her.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “May I ask you one more question?”
“Certainly, Mrs. Bainbridge.”
“What do you miss the most about your home?”
He appeared surprised by the question. Then his eyes grew soft and a smile spread across his face.
“The fruit,” he said. “The fresh fruit. Mangos, pawpaws, avocado pears, bananas—I cannot remember the last time I had any of them. The taste of a mango, Mrs. Bainbridge, freshly picked with the juice running down your chin—I would go home for that alone.”
“I haven’t seen a banana since before the war,” said Mrs. Bainbridge wistfully. “I can barely remember what they taste like. And I don’t think I’ve ever tried any of those others.”
“Maybe someday you will see my country,” he said. “Take a tour of your family’s holdings.”
“I’ve had the coffee,” she said. “It’s rather good. As for the tea—I’m an oolong girl, and that’s that.”
“Very good,” he said. “I am very excited to have begun this adventure. Oh—isn’t there a payment?”
“There is,” said Sparks. “Five pounds, and we’re off to the races.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It means we get to work,” she said hastily.
Oh, Lord, thought Sparks. Did I just say “races”?
“I hope that I do not present too much of a challenge,” he said as he turned over the fee.
“Everyone is a challenge in his own way,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “If people were easily matched, they wouldn’t need us.”
“Very true,” he said. “I look forward to the results of your search. Good morning, ladies.”
“Good morning,” said Mrs. Bainbridge.
They waited for his footsteps to fade away down the staircase, then Iris got up and closed the door again. Gwen immediately buried her face in her hands.
“We still haven’t thought this through enough,” she said, her voice muffled.
“No, we haven’t,” agreed Iris.
“I feel quite foolish,” said Gwen. “I assumed that he would be just as narrow-minded as I am. How do we go about this?”
“Let’s start by trying to match him from the women we already have available,” suggested Iris.
“But none of them would be expecting to meet someone … international,” said Gwen. “Do we take that into account? We’ve never asked anyone about racial preferences.”
“Nor has anyone mentioned any,” pointed out Iris. “Some have declared themselves about the Irish. For that matter, some of the Irish have declared themselves about the English.”
“But I assumed that everyone who walked through our doors previously was expecting to be matched with someone white,” said Gwen. “Didn’t you?”
“I did,” said Iris.
“And if we simply have him show up for a date with no—”
“No what?” asked Iris as Gwen hesitated. “Were you about to say ‘warning’?”
“No notice,” said Gwen. “Yes, that sounds weak.”
“What sort of notice do you propose?”
“Ask the ones we set him up with beforehand, I suppose,” said Gwen. “I can’t think of any other solution.”
“Very well. But this doesn’t solve the larger problem.”
“No, it doesn’t. Maybe we have to add racial preferences to our interview questions.”
“Or not, and let the chips fall where they may.”
“We’ll lose business if we do that, Iris. You know that, I know that.”
“No, I don’t know that,” said Iris. “This isn’t the States. There are no laws here keeping anyone from marrying anyone else.”
“No laws, just centuries of class discrimination.”
“And colonisation, and subjugation—”
“Hold on,” protested Gwen. “All I want to do is marry off lonely people, not debate the checkered history of our glorious Empire.”
“Yet the forces of history will be marshaled against us—if we let them.”
“You’re making this into a crusade.”
“I’m opposed to crusades,” said Iris. “We have not had to address these issues before because we were working safely inside our little bubble. Now, we do have to address them, and I want to handle it correctly.”
“Which means we pair up Mr. Daile without regard to colour,” said Gwen.
“Yes.”
“And we expand our advertising to the international community. Or perhaps I should say communities.”
“Yes. Can you handle this change in your views?”
“I am not changing anything,” declared Gwen. “I’ve just never had the chance to put my views into practise.”
“So you think.”
“And you think that I am failing miserably,” said Gwen.
“Not miserably. But you were raised in a society based upon prejudice, and it’s dragging you down. Look at our literature. Try to find an English author who doesn’t inveigh against Jews or Blacks—”
“Jane Austen.”
“All right, I’ll give you Austen, although I vaguely recall that there is a swipe at Jews somewhere in Northanger Abbey. It might have been a specific character flaw in whoever said it. My point is that we are shaped by where and how we grew up, and it is up to us to reject our upbringing.”
“Easy for you.”
“Easier for me because I was raised by a progressive mum.”
“Well, let’s put our upbringing and ideal selves to the test,” said Gwen. “Let’s see if we come up with any of the same candidates. Are you ready?”
“I am,” said Iris, reaching for her index box with the female clients.
They began riffling through their cards, pausing occasionally.
“Stop,” said Gwen abruptly.
“What? Have you found one so soon?”
“It’s not that,” said Gwen miserably. “There’s something bothering me.”
“What?”
“You know how I have this tendency to read people.”
“I would call it more of a gift than a tendency.”
“Well, I’ve always taken a small amount of pride in being able to do that,” said Gwen. “And I was reading Mr. Daile while he was talking to us, and the bothersome thing is that I realised that whatever this is, a tendency or an ability or a gift, it’s been based exclusively on being raised by and growing up around British people. British, and whoever was around when I was in finishing school in Geneva. So, Europeans. Whites. And I don’t know if it’s of any value outside of that world.”
“Did something about Mr. Daile trigger something?”
