The hand of fate can be surprising

Mar 07, 2016 Letters

Dear Editor,
Two recent letters caught my attention; one about the father who wondered about whether he could have done more to help his now deceased grown up son; he agonizes about it. I was reminded of a recent discussion I had with my family. I think most parents try to do what they think is best for their children and hope it is the right thing. Looking back serves little purpose.
It was with a great deal of sadness that I read of the state of affairs at the Camp Street Prison. As children, when we walked along Durban Street, the prisoners would call out and wave to us. While working in the Probation Service during the early 1950s, I once visited the Camp Street prison, with some probation officers, and remember the yard and administration section as being neat and clean. We saw the beautiful items of furniture made by the woodworking section and were very impressed. One hopes something could be done soon to end the human suffering there.
Here, I would like to relate a tale I recently recounted to my family about the “Surprising hand of Fate”. At about age 6 years, in 1936, my mother had a friend who worked as a housekeeper with the prominent King family, who lived in Middle Street between Thomas and Camp Street, perhaps in the same spot where a medical facility now stands. My mother would sometimes take me to visit in the late evening, to keep her friend company when the family went out to dinner and she was alone. I loved that, because I was always assured of a thick slice of bread, generously spread with butter and guava jelly!
One night, in the midst of chatting, the telephone kept ringing its head off, the housekeeper ignored it “because they’re not home”, until my mother insisted that she answered, as “it might be important”. I was already munching my open sandwich, so it did not matter to me. This (Black) woman returned with an almost white face – Mr. Denis had met with a road accident, and had been taken to the hospital. My mother excused herself, to let her friend do what was required. (The young man was a motorcyclist, as I recall).
The young man died, the funeral service was held a day or two later at Brickdam Cathedral, the casket, draped with beautiful wreaths and borne by red-faced, weepy young men, left by the side door. Even some of the strangers gathered outside were in tears! He was a pleasant, popular chap. A man, who protested his innocence to the last, was blamed for the accident and jailed for 15 years.
In 1951 (exactly 15 years later), while working in the Probation Office, a discharged prisoner visited to collect his (discharged prisoner’s aid) rehabilitation money, and related this incident to us. I was dumbfounded – the ‘Surprising hand of Fate” had struck. I was at the beginning and the end of the unfortunate drama.
Since then, I have had other similar experiences, though none so dramatic. Life is like that, but we soldier on.
Geralda Dennison

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