Vignette

By R. F. Wheatly, B.sc.
(Headmaster, William Baker School)

A LOT can be said in favour of Jamie. If you ask him nicely he'll do anything for you. He is gentle with young children and kind to animals. A little hasty tempered perhaps, but he soon cools off if left alone and then is sorry for his outburst. Though not very clever he does his best at school. He is timid and doesn't easily make friends; indeed he is pathetically grateful to be noticed. Unfortunately there are times when he behaves without sense or reason and without reflection, so that anyone who cares for him must have grave fears for his future.

The immediate cause of trouble lay between us on the table. Jamie was worried; it might be said that worry is his constant companion. Just when it was that the frank and innocent gaze of childhood had got distorted into this weasel look, would be hard to say. It had been a long and gradual process. Last night Jamie ran away from school, not too far and not too fast, for he really had nowhere to go and wanted to be caught before he got into further trouble. Now he was back in the only place in which he felt some measure of security. The letter had arrived by yesterday's post. There was no 'Dear' at the beginning and no 'Love' at the end. It merely Informed him that his foster father had discovered that during a short home leave he had stolen some money from his foster mother's purse and that on no account was he ever to come home again, for if he did, he would only be turned away. After long separation, this re trial visit had been schemed for by enlightened and determined workers in the field and this is how their labours had been squandered. The awful finality was devastating.

'Well, Jamie, your Dad says you took some notes from your mother's purse. How much did you take' ' 'I didn't take nothing, really I didn't, Sir. I admit I moved the purse. I was tempted to take some, but I put it back. She must have thought I took some, because the purse was moved.' 'But, Jamie, that's hard to believe. You know very well you have stolen things here at school.' 'Yes, but honest, I didn't take this money.' How can he admit wrong doing, which spells such irrevocable banishment from the only real home he has ever known? Let us leave it for a while and try some other tack.

'Do you remember, Jamie, when you first went to this foster home? Surely they must have been kind people to take you in?' 'No, I don't remember, I must have been too young.' 'Were you happy there?' 'Oh, yes, I had an older sister‑‑a stepsister. When I was about seven Dad told me I was a foster child, but I didn't really understand him then. I only knew what it meant when I was eleven.' 'Who told you then?' 'My Welfare Officer, she explained it all. But that was when all the trouble started.' 'What trouble, Jamie? Would you like to tell me all about it? At this point we must let the curtain fall. If you have been watching the show so far, go and get your refreshments. We must have an interval of time for features to soften, for taut lines to relax, for the convulsive sob and still more time for the quieter tears to flow. Just leave us together for a space and don't intrude.

'Well, now, that's better Jamie, just take it easy and tell me how it all began. 'It was when I was nearly eleven. I used to have my dinner at school I took sandwiches. When I'd had my bite, I used to watch the basket‑ball in the gym. One day, some boys were going through the girls' clothes hanging up in the cloakroom and I joined them. We found some money and went to the shops and spent it. Some boys soaked the girls' clothes in the washbasins. In the afternoon there was a big inquiry. The boys ganged up together and all said it was me. I was the only one to get the strap and one of the girls was sent with a note to my home.

'What happened then?' 'My mum didn't say much, but she sent me to bed. When dad came home he was mad. He said I'd disgraced them, so I had another thrashing. It was the next day the Welfare Officer came to see me. She explained all about my being a foster child and how kind Mum and Dad had been in taking care of me. She said if I didn't behave I would lose my good home.' 'And when did you have to leave this home?' 'The very next day Sir, I was taken to a children's home.' 'How did that come about?' 'Well, you see, it was like this. The morning after I'd had the thrashing I pinched a packet of Dad's cigs and took them with me to school. One of the other boys shopped me, so it all came out. Dad said it was the last straw, so I was sent away. I've always been in trouble since‑pinching things. I don't know why I do it.'

As in many a modern play, the final curtain falls with nothing resolved. We forecast the ending in the light of our experiences and judge the characters in accordance with our own. We, learned and important ones, we holders of office, givers of lectures and writers of books do we really know our Jamie? And honestly, do we really love him? Do we believe any of his story or is plain wickedness being excused by all this sob stuff? If we believe it, do we form a poor opinion of the foster‑parents, far too much concerned about their own esteem among their neighbours? Are we sure that we are any better? Can we bear the slights and condescension of the unthinking and, when Jamie steals from some householder in the neighbourhood, the anger and indignation directed against us? And later in the Courtroom, can we stand the glances‑pitying, disapproving, disparaging or hostile, according to the understanding, or lack of it, among those present? Let us all pray for moral courage. Let us stand by and support each other in our fight for Jamie, lest we too join the ranks of the betrayers.

THE FORUM July 1965 For Private circulation.
Reproduced for Goldonian web with kind permission of David Wheatley.