Free Silver on the Tree by Susan Cooper

over Mr. Moore’s stubbly head. He chuckled at Barbara, very much the jovial appreciative male indulging a pretty seventeen-year-old. “Well no, I wouldn’t go that far! I’ll be honest with you, I don’t think they should be here, them or the West Indians. Got no right, have they? Taking jobs that should go to Englishmen, with the country in the state it is….”
    Stephen said quietly, “We do have unions, Mr. Moore, and they aren’t exactly helpless. Most of those famous jobs are the ones Englishmen don’t want to do—or that the immigrants do better.”
    The man looked at Stephen with resentment and dislike, his thick jaw hardening. “One of those, are you? A bleeding-heart.Don’t try and teach me, young man. I’ve seen too much of the real thing. One Pakkie family rents a two-bedroom house and the next thing you know, they’ve got sixteen of their friends and relations living there. Like rabbits. And half of them having babies free on the National Health Service, at the British taxpayer’s expense.”
    â€œRemember your Indian doctor?” Stephen said, still softly. “If it weren’t for the immigrant doctors and nurses, the National Health Service would fall apart tomorrow.”
    Mr. Moore made a contemptuous noise. “Just don’t try and tell me about coloured people,” he said. “I
know.”
    Stephen leaned back against the wall, twisting a piece of raffia between his fingers. “Do you know Calcutta, Mr. Moore?” he said. “Have you ever had beggars grabbing at your feet, calling out to you, children half the size of Will here with an arm missing, or an eye, and ribs like xylophones and their legs stinking with sores? If I lived in a place with that kind of despair round me, I think I just might decide to bring up my kids in a country where they’d have a better chance. Specially a country that had exploited my own for about two hundred years. Wouldn’t you? Or Jamaica, now. Do you know how many children get to a secondary school there? D’you know the unemployment rate? D’you know what the slums are like in Kingston?
Do you know—”
    â€œStephen,” said his father gently.
    Stephen stopped The raffia string in his hands snapped.
    â€œSo what about it? All that stuff?” The man’s face had darkened. He leaned belligerently out of the window; his breath came more quickly. “Let them solve their own problems, not come whining over here! What’s all that have to do with us? They don’t belong here, none of ’em; they should all be thrown out. And if you think they’re so bloody marvellous you’d better go and live in their lousy countries with them!” He caught Mr. Stanton’s calm eye suddenly and tried visibly to control himself, jerking his head back from the window and sliding across into the driver’s seat.
    Mr. Stanton came close to the wall, where the car stood, and took his pipe from his mouth. “If your son shares your views, Mr. Moore,” he said clearly, “as I am glad to find my son shares mine, then the stream episode isn’t hard to explain, is it? We only have to decide what reparation you’d like.” The pipe went back between his teeth, abruptly.
    â€œReparation hell!” The man started his engine with a deliberate roar. He leaned over the seat, shouting above the noise. “You just see what happens to anyone laying a finger on my boy again, for the sake of some snireling little wog, that’s all. Just see!”
    He lurched back at the wheel and drove off, gears snarling. They stood looking after the car.
    Stephen opened his mouth.
    â€œDon’t say it,” said his father, “don’t say it! You know how many there are. You can’t convince them and you can’t kill ’em. You can only do your best in the opposite direction—which you did.” He looked around,