She felt suddenly and unexpectedly humbled being here. Just as well, she thought, that she’d prepared a few words. She spoke about how child slavery in countries like India was coming increasingly to the attention of the media. Then she explained how, for a reporter in London, it was difficult to get first-hand evidence. She told them how she was particularly interested in cases where children had worked on garments which were later sold in Britain – cases that would be relevant to newspaper readers. Then she said, ‘Before we start, does anyone have any questions at this stage?’
A large, distinguished-looking man with all the bearing of a maharajah sat at the end of the room. He raised his hand. ‘We’re very pleased to see you, make no mistake, late is better than never,’ he began, ‘but why have you people never paid us any attention before?’
Judith was confused.
‘We’ve phoned you to tell you about this. We have written letters. We even sent a press release – but never any interest.’
‘It’s true,’ another woman, elegantly coiffed and wearing a cream sari agreed, ‘not even a letter to say you heard from us.’
R. J. Patel now said, ‘It’s as if the Jaipur Abolitionist Group didn’t exist.’
There was much nodding and agreement.
Judith put a hand to her chest. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know … did you say something about an abolitionist group?’
‘It was started three years ago,’ said R. J. Patel, ‘by families in Britain whose relatives had fallen into the hands of the slave masters. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of us, everyone in Southfields knows about us.’
‘The newspapers didn’t even return my photographs,’ another woman complained.
Judith glanced across at R. J. Patel. ‘There’s a press release about this group?’
/> He nodded, gesturing to a slim, anxious-looking man. ‘Bobby, you show her the press release.’
The man reached inside a box file on his lap, before producing a stapled sheaf of papers which he got up to give her. Addressed to ‘Editors of the Quality Press’ the headline read: ‘Jaipur Abolitionist Group Demands Immediate Freedom of Raja Dinesh Pudrah, Bala and Bhanu Patel, Jawaharlal, Prakesh and Nayendra.’ An ageing typewriter with a defective letter ‘e’ had been used, by the looks of it, and the ‘press release’ was poorly photocopied and ran to six pages, the first of which was a general rant on the abomination of the slave trade. The kind of document, thought Judith, which wouldn’t even make it to the editor’s desk.
But as she flicked through the pages, rapidly scan-reading, she found, starting on page three, examples of different children, where they had worked and what had happened to them – exactly the kind of first-hand evidence she needed, especially if she could find kids who’d worked in Starwear sweatshops. After looking through the press release she glanced up.
‘1 think I see the problem,’ she started to explain, as kindly as she could. ‘It’s all about how you present your case. You see, every day, newspaper editors get about six inches of mail sent to them by people hoping to get in the papers. Most of the press releases get thrown out almost immediately. It’s best not to send anything to the editor to begin with, but to the reporter covering that area – like the industrial relations correspondent. But even then, you’ve got to produce a release that instantly catches the attention. Summarise your story on a single page.’
There was stunned silence as she looked around at a roomful of concentrated expressions – all of the adults present completely absorbed in what she was saying.
‘Make no mistake,’ she reassured them, waving their press release, ‘this is a big story. A very big story. People are buying stuff in the high streets completely unaware that it’s been made by children chained to benches in India. It’s a bombshell’
‘And you’ll help us with it?’ asked one of the women.
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘You have all the material. It just hasn’t been packaged right.’
A murmur of excitement passed through the room. Whatever else came out of tonight’s meeting, thought Judith, her trip wouldn’t have been wasted. She didn’t doubt for a moment that there was a story here. The big question was: would she find the evidence she needed?
Holding up her hand for quiet, she had to raise her voice. ‘When I spoke to Sanjay, I told him I was interested in cases where children have worked on sports clothes.’
The man who looked like a maharajah introduced himself as B. J. Singh. Evidently the group’s leader, he now told her, ‘Everyone here tonight knows children who’ve worked on sportswear.’
She nodded, trying to suppress her anticipation. ‘Were any of the garments major brands that are sold in Britain?’
A few names she’d never heard were called out, and she wrote them down in a notebook. Then Bobby, the anxious-looking man with the box file offered, in a soft voice, ‘Starwear.’
‘What was that?’ Judith looked up at him.
‘Our nephew made Starwear clothes.’ Next to Bobby, a large, motherly woman in traditional sari gestured towards a child who was lying on the carpet with colouring books. Judith glanced down at the child. He looked about eight years old.
‘Does he speak English?’ Judith asked.
The child looked up, almond eyes burning in a small, elf face. ‘Of course,’ he answered.
Judith could hardly believe it. Was she finally face to face with the diminutive figure who would provide the evidence she needed? ‘How long did you work there?’ she asked the boy solicitously.
‘Three years,’ he managed, before turning his face away from her.