by Alex Wheatle
On Sunday, we hot-wheeled southbound on the Crongton circular on our way to Tony’s parents’ place. I had convinced Colleen to tune in to a grime station for the ride. Sitting in the backseat, I stared through the window as I bopped my head to Lynch Turkey and Brat-Tail. I can’t wait to tell Kim that I rode through Shank Town not once but three times now.
Red-faced runners wearing headphones and thick watches foot-slapped the pavements. Young mums pushed mega buggies with their shopping bags hanging off the handles. Graffiti covered every bridge and tall slab. The streetlights weren’t so long like where we lived. There were loads of off-licenses and discount stores. Dad would’ve loved living around these ends.
Sandwiched between Sharyna and me, Pablo played with his bald tennis ball. Sharyna looked very happy at her reflection in a small mirror. I twirled the braids that Colleen had twisted for me the previous evening. Monkey getting stage fright.
“How old are your parents?” I asked Tony.
“Mum is sixty-eight and Dad is seventy-three.”
“Seventy-three,” I said. “He’s almost as ancient as my nan. Does he forget stuff? Go to the bathroom all the time? What do I call him?”
“There are a few names I can think of,” chuckled Colleen. “Difficult is one.”
“His name’s Milton but you can call him Granddad,” replied Tony.
“And what’s your mum’s name?” I asked.
“Bernice. She’d love you to call her Gran.”
“And what’s Bernice cooking?” I wanted to know.
“Rice and peas, mutton, sweet potato, greens from Granddad’s allotment, and lots and lots of salad,” answered Sharyna. “And cheesecake for dessert.”
“What’s mutton?” I didn’t like the sound of that word.
“It’s, er . . . sheep,” said Colleen. “Very tasty, especially the way Bernice seasons it.”
I pulled a face, imagining getting wool caught between my fangs. I turned to Sharyna. “On the level, does it taste up to spec?” I asked in a whisper. “Hasn’t got bits of stale wool on it, has it? I mean, I eat lamb cos the wool on lamb is not fully grown. It’s cleaner.”
“I love Gran’s mutton,” replied Sharyna. “She spices it up.”
“Really?”
“I really love it.
“And what’s sweet potato? It’s not potato with sugar on it, is it? That’s just all wrong. Aren’t you supposed to put mint or a liccle slob of butter on boiled potatoes?”
“No, no, no,” Sharyna laughed. “It’s . . . potato that tastes . . . sweet. It’s got a sort of orange color to it.”
“Orange? It’s not a pumpkin, is it? I don’t love pumpkin. Pumpkins are not for eating—they’re meant for Halloween.”
“It’s better than boiled or roasted potato,” Sharyna said.
“You’re not just saying that?”
Sharyna flashed her number one smile. “No, trust me, sweet potato is all good.”
“If I get a wobbly gut then I’m blaming you, Sharyna,” I warned. “And you can kiss good night about watching my DVDs . . .” I checked myself, realizing I’d leaked too much info. Tony and Colleen didn’t seem to notice. I was still confused about the orange-potato thing when Colleen pulled up outside a neat house somewhere near Crongton Park. I scoped the street. Kim was wrong. Everybody in Crongton didn’t step with a bandanna wrapped around their face and a samurai sword in their hands.
Colleen, Tony, and Sharyna climbed out of the car. Pablo jet-toed to the black-painted door and smacked the knocker eight times. He slapped the doorbell twice. Seconds later, the door opened to reveal a black woman with a heavy piece of waistline. I guessed that she loved to sink her own cheesecake. She had kind eyes. Happy vibes shone from her cheeks. Only saying a quick, “Hi, Gran,” Pablo brushed past her and flew into the hallway.
Meanwhile, the living furies had cranked up my nerves. I couldn’t move. Colleen turned around and smiled at me. I should’ve brought my meerkat with me. “Come on, Naomi,” Colleen said. “Everything will be all right.”
Still waiting under the doorframe, Bernice flashed her molars at me as I stepped out of the ride. I snail-toed to the front door. “Good afternoon, Naomi,” she greeted me. “Me been looking forward to see you. Of course you mus’ be ah liccle nervous coming here for de first time, but no worry yourself, me only get cranky if somebody don’t like me cheesecake. It’s nice to have children come to visit every once in ah while. Otherwise, me and Misser Golding will nag each other until we cyan’t nag no more.”
Despite the furies performing a zombie stomp inside my belly, I managed a half smile. Her accent wasn’t as thick as Dad’s Jamaican liquor buddy.
“Hi, Bernice,” I said. “Thanks for having me over for dinner today. I’m sure the food’s gonna be the living deliciousness. And I can’t wait to sample your cheesecake. What flavor is it?”
“Strawberry.”
That’ll go down well before I sink a long glass of Coke. I licked the corners of my mouth.
Walking along the hallway, I noticed a painting on one side of the wall of Jesus serving bread and wine to his bruvs at the Last Supper. Nan would’ve liked that. “Their hair looks better than mine,” I said. “They must’ve had good shampoo back then.”
There was another frame hanging from the wall. This one had words in fancy writing in it. I read it to myself.
God is the unseen guest at the dinner table
God is the unseen listener to every conversation
God is the unseen witness to every sin
The Man Upstairs is very nosy, I thought.
Leading us into the lounge, Bernice said, “Make yourself comfortable. Me soon come, me jus’ gone to de garden to let Misser Golding know you reach. Only the Lord knows what he’s been doing out there from early morning.”
I hope the Lord doesn’t tell Bernice what DVD I was watching last night.
“Six ah clock him get out of his bed!” Bernice continued. “You want ah cup of tea, Colleen? Or someting wid ah bit more devil in it? I tink we had some red wine but me not sure if Milton drink it off last night. When him come to bed last night his mout’ did smell ah liccle frowsy.”
I don’t know what frowsy means but Bernice has jokes.
I looked around for Pablo. Where did he go?
“A cup of tea is fine,” replied Colleen. “Remember I’m driving on the way home—Tony drove here.”
“I’ll help you, Mum,” Tony offered.
The first thing to catch my eye was the forty-eight-inch flat-screen TV. It showed some ancient feds show called Heartbeat. It lamed my brain. If the politico peeps and the feds are serious about stopping young bruvs from getting into a life of crime, they should threaten them with box sets of Heartbeat they’ll have to watch on lockdown.
I wondered how long I’d have to wait until I could plug in Sharyna’s Wii dancing game. I wanted to practice the routine Ms. Almi taught me during the week. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq. My French ratings were on the rise.
I dropped into a neat, three-seater leather sofa and scoped the black-and-white photographs of Tony’s fam staring out from wall cabinets, shelves, and a fancy glass coffee table. The older peeps in the pics looked like they’d just seen a ghost. Souvenir plates from Jamaica, Trinidad, Tunisia, Sardinia, Istanbul, Paris, Rome, the Pope’s Palace, and Turin were fixed to the walls. Looking out from the opposite wall, beside a crucifix, was Martin Luther King. I remembered Richard going on about him during one of our Black History Month lessons at the PRU—everyone paid proper attention in that class. Four lines of his “I Have a Dream” speech appeared below his portrait.
I remembered watching Twelve Years a Slave with Kim and Nats. I had to turn away from the whipping scene. It was living agony. Nats bawled like social wankers had taken her baby away. When she stopped crying she was raising tones about how bad-mind the bruvs in the film were. Kim just sat there unable to move. She went through a gobful of cancer sticks during that movie. That lashing part of the fi
lm paused in my head as I heard Pablo’s excited voice coming from out the back.
Bernice returned and asked if Sharyna and I wanted a drink.
“A Coke, please,” I replied.
“Apple juice,” said Sharyna.
“Can me and Sharyna plug in our Wii to the TV and do our dancing?” I asked.
“Yes, of course you can,” Bernice said. “Just don’t ask me where you plug in the wires, cah me nah know.”
Sharyna jumped up. “I know!”
Sharyna plugged in the Wii as I did my stretches—Ms. Almi would’ve given me a fantastique!
Five minutes later, Sharyna and I high-kicked, belly-
juggled, moon-glided, and foot-blitzed around Bernice’s front room. She and Colleen rocked their shoulders and clapped along. I spotted Tony entering from the hallway.
“Girls, girls,” Tony called. “Granddad’s here.”
Turning around, Sharyna stopped dancing and skipped to her granddad. She bounced into his arms and Milton gave her an all-gums-out smile. “Granddad! You need a shave!”
“So your grandmother keeps telling me, but it keeps me chin warm inna de winter.”
“But it’s spring now,” said Sharyna.
“I might consider shaving it come de summer,” Milton said. “If we ever have another decent summer in this country. But your grandmother don’t even want to talk about going home. The winters here will start snapping me very bones, but does she tink about that? No sah!”
“I’m tinking about wanting to see me grandchildren grow,” Bernice said. “Going to their graduations and seeing dem get married. So if you’re cold, put on a woolly sweater! You have plenty of dem.”
“Hmmm,” Milton grumped. He carefully placed Sharyna down and rubbed his back. He scoped me hard and looked a bit confused.
What’s that all about?
“And who do we have here?” he asked.
I stared at his hands. He had thick fingers that could’ve choked a lazy hippo. “Good afternoon, Mr. Golding.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Naomi,” Milton replied. There was a dose of fakery in his smile. His gold tooth glinted. “So pleased to meet you, me dear.”
Sharyna and I busted a chuckle at Milton’s attempt at chatting first-class English.
* * *
An hour later, Bernice served Sunday dinner. I tried the sweet potato and loved it, as well as the spicy mutton. I didn’t sink any of Milton’s rabbit food though. Whenever he sipped from his glass of red wine, he gawped at me. The furies in my stomach had woken up and started to fling petrol bombs at each other. My cheeks roasted.
“More Coke, Naomi?” Bernice offered.
“Yes please, Gran,” I accepted.
Milton scoped me again. My eyebrows itched.
“So how is school, Sharyna?” asked Bernice.
“Going well, Gran. I got a good mark for my Spanish Armada work the other day.”
“Dat is good to hear,” said Bernice. “Remember, education is de key. Never forget dat. It will lead you to ah good job and ah good life.”
Bernice looked at me and smiled her kind smile. “How is school for you, Naomi? How old are you? Fourteen? You will be taking your exams soon so you better get de revision in.”
I don’t wanna burst her expectation bubble but I’d better drop some reality on top of her.
“I go to a PRU,” I said. “For kids who get expelled.”
Bernice’s smile jumped ship and hot-swam to the nearest island. It went all quiet for a couple of seconds.
“We don’t do any tests there,” I went on. “No, tell a lie, sometimes we have a general knowledge quiz, if you can call that a test.”
“Dat’s nice,” Bernice said. She showboated her teeth but her smile still hadn’t returned.
“I’ve got two sistrens there, Kim and Nats,” I resumed. “They show us stuff—films and that—and then we argue about it.”
“Oh, I see,” nodded Bernice.
“We do basic stuff there. Some of the other kids can’t read or do their times tables but they don’t wanna admit it. That’s about it really.”
“As long as you’re getting a decent education,” said Bernice. “Me eldest son, Franklyn, is now ah lawyer. Him study and him study till him eyes could not stay open. And dat all started from paying attention at school. North Crongton High he went to. So it’s not the school you go to, it’s the application you put in.”
“And he’s another one who forget where him family home is,” Milton complained. “When’s de last time we see Franklyn’s family?”
“Milton,” Bernice raised her tones, “you know dat Franklyn’s a very busy man and him live far away in Benson Fields . . . And his wife was sick de other day.”
“Hmmm,” Milton grumped again. “His wife always ketch sick when Franklyn plans to visit we. You remember Christmas, Bernice? De last-minute my belly don’t feel too good affair. She control him too much. Me don’t know why he let her walk all over him. Sometimes Franklyn act like a damn footstool.”
This is getting interesting. Tony’s fam has issues just like everybody else’s. Good! I feel a bit more on the level now.
“Dat is enough, Milton!” Bernice shouted. “Colleen and her family don’t come here to hear about who wears de pants in Franklyn’s marriage.”
Twenty minutes later, everyone apart from Milton sank Bernice’s strawberry cheesecake—he said he had to watch his sugar doses or something. I asked for a second helping. Bernice gave me a top-ranking grin as she cut a mega slice. “Make sure you tell Tony to bring you back soon and me will teach you to make de best cheesecake inna de world!”
“I’m on that,” I said.
Following dinner, Sharyna and I were put on washing-up duty. I didn’t mind but Sharyna bitched about it for a little while—she wanted to flex her toes dancing. Pablo played one of his games on the big TV and Bernice persuaded Colleen to sample a bottle of prosecco or something. “Tony can drive home,” she said.
Milton stropped about something and returned to his flowers in the garden. Tony followed him out there to continue whatever argument they were having. Sharyna and I watched them through the back window.
“Are they always like this?” I asked Sharyna.
“Yep. Every time. It gets on Mum’s nerves.”
“Do they ever start mauling each other? You know, proper fighting?”
“No, but I’ve heard them cussing bad words at each other.”
“Jamaican swear words? Pat raw?”
Sharyna nodded.
“Cool,” I said.
We watched them again. Milton’s big hands almost slapped Tony’s face. They both raised their voices. I put down my tea towel, quietly opened the back door, and stood outside to tune in. I was half-covered by the wall. Sharyna continued washing up. “I’m not getting involved in this,” she said. She fixed her eyes on the bubbles below her.
The garden was one of the neatest I’d ever seen. The grass was trimmed razor-fine and the flowers sexed up the sides. The garden shed was big enough to house a single mum and her baby. Milton and Tony’s tiff got louder. I crooked my ear.
“You’re depriving ah black chile of ah decent home,” Milton argued. “And it’s already hard for dem. Wasn’t it you who tell me dat black children who grow up in care are eight times more likely to end up inna prison or de madhouse? Wasn’t it you who tell me dat black children in care struggle at school? They don’t even know their left hand from de right!”
Monkey in the dock. They’re raging about me.
“But Dad, if you just listen—”
“Wasn’t it you who tell me dat black children inna care are ten times more likely to be homeless than any other chile? Sleeping under bridge, in shop doorways, and begging for change at de train station.”
“I never said that!”
“Yes you did.”
“This is always the problem with you, Dad. You never give me a chance to give my side. Can’t you just listen for a sec—”
> “After all you tell me,” Milton ranted, “you come to me door wid ah white girl you’re fostering? And you expect me to play happy families, put on me smiley face, and dance like ah damn clown?”
The furies tied knots in my stomach. I couldn’t breathe. I should’ve brought my meerkat.
“She needs foster care just like anyone else!” said Tony. “She’s just a kid. None of this is her—”
“Keep your voice down.”
They glanced at the kitchen window. Sharyna kept her head down, staring at the soap suds. Crouching low, I stepped back a couple of paces and sat on the garden wall. I didn’t think they saw me. I took a few quick gulps of air and glanced at one of the garden gnomes. Sharyna wasn’t wrong—they creeped the shrieks outta me too.
“Do you know what your mother and I had to go through when we first come here?” said Milton.
“Yes, I know all that, Dad. You don’t have to remind—”
“Dem call us nigger, sambo, and all dem kinda name,” Milton cut him off. “You know what it’s like for dem to look at you and you know they want to spit in your face? Do you know what dat is like, Tony?”
“It has changed—”
“No! It hasn’t!” fired back Milton. “We’re still at de bottom of society. Even de Asians have passed us and we were here long before dem! And you know why? Me will tell you why. Because white people don’t like us!”
“They’re not all the same,” Tony argued. “Most—”
“Yes they are. They pretend they like us. Sometimes they might even buy you ah drink and shake your hand to make you believe dat they do. But deep down, they always see us as inferior, beneath dem.”
“Dad, that was your time—”
“No! It’s dis time. Right now! Our children are always disadvantaged. No matter what situation dis girl you’re fostering finds herself in. What’s her name again?”
“Her name is Naomi,” said Tony. “She needs a home just like any black child in care needs a home. In fact, in Ashburton, there are more white children on the at-risk register than black children.”
Milton shook his head.
I felt the urge to stand up and defend myself but didn’t know how. I’d never had to deal with an issue like this before. Maybe monkey needs to get back to the forest. Be on its own. Maybe Louise wasn’t wrong when she said it wouldn’t be a good fit to stay with the Goldings for a long run.