by Alex Wheatle
“She will always have better chances than ah black chile in de same situation,” Milton continued. “When’s the last time you read Dr. King’s speech?”
“You drummed it into me when I was growing up,” Tony replied. “I don’t need to read it again.”
“I have a dream,” Milton said.
“Oh God, Dad,” Tony said. “Not again. You don’t need to keep dragging—”
Milton ignored Tony and continued his speech. “He said, I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”
“I know the words, Dad,” said Tony. “You drilled that into us just like Mum taught us the Lord’s Prayer. I’m surprised you didn’t brand it on my forehead.”
I half chuckled and slapped a palm over my gob.
Milton stared hard at Tony like he was in a boxing ring before the first bell. “His dream is still ah dream,” he said. “Can’t you see dat? They still can’t stand us. We’re still on de bottom rung. Most black people are still in de underclass society—”
“Some of us are doing well,” Tony cut in.
“Hmmm! Ah whole heapa black children and refugee need looking after. But no, you decide to foster ah white pickney when white pickney have all de help inna de world. Don’t you see? Their lives are always more precious than ours. Bloodclaat white privilege!”
Bloodclaat? I wonder if that’s a pat raw Jamaican swear word.
Picking up scissors from the ground, Milton snipped a flower stem. Tony marched to the back of the garden and folded his arms. I watched their every move. They still hadn’t noticed me.
Sharyna stood on tiptoes and gestured at me. “Come inside,” she whispered. “They’re gonna see you.”
“No. I wanna see what goes down. There might be a fight!”
Shaking his head, Tony returned to front up to his Dad. He pointed a finger at him. “You taught me the speech well,” he said. “I know it off by heart. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of God’s children. That’s what he said, Dad. Are you listening to me? To all of God’s children. Black, white, whatever. Maybe you should read it again.”
Milton focused on his flowers like they had put a mad spell on him. He snip-snipped away.
“You’re not listening!” Tony raised his voice. “It’s always that way with you, isn’t it? You only like the sound of your own voice. Even when we were young, you came home from work, sat down in your chair, picked up your newspaper, and ignored us . . . until you told us off about something at the dinner table.”
Milton carried on clipping as if Tony wasn’t there.
“I don’t remember you taking us to the park once. Not even one seaside trip. Not one museum. It was Mum who taught me to ride a bike. She took us to the Crongton Park funfair and she was the one who came to parents’ days at school. You were always in your chair that we were all scared to sit in even when you weren’t at home. You wanted top marks but not once did you ever check our homework. You never came to the school yet you wanted to kick me out of the house because I didn’t want to go to uni.”
“We had more hope for you than we did for Franklyn.” Milton finally turned around. He took a step closer to Tony. Their noses nearly crashed. Monkey in a wrestling ring. Is he gonna headbutt his own son? “You could have achieved ah lot more. Had ah better career. You tink me took all de white man shit just for you to slave in their long gardens? No sah!”
I wonder what Kim would make of all this. Nan’s not wrong. There’s good and bad in everyone.
“It was my choice,” Tony said. “I’ve always enjoyed working out in the open, with things that grow. I get it from you. Don’t you understand that?”
“You were very bright. You could’ve been ah doctor or anyting you wanted to be.”
“But I’m doing what I want and we will foster who we want,” said Tony.
He’s fighting for me. I can’t lie. My respect for Tony grew like a mad beanstalk.
“As I said,” Tony went on, “you taught me Martin Luther King’s speech too good. I have a dream, he said, that one day little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”
Tony paused for a response but it never came. “That’s what he said,” he resumed. “Your precious Dr. Martin Luther King. Aren’t Sharyna, Pablo, and Naomi doing that? Aren’t they? Are you listening to me? They’ve accepted Naomi. It wasn’t even an issue with them. Why can’t you accept her? She’s not calling you the n-word. She doesn’t want to spit in your face.”
I wanted to holler and repeat the question: Why can’t you accept her?
“You remember de speech well,” Milton said before going back to his snipping.
“You’re not answering the question.”
Milton remained silent. His scissors click-clacked away.
“And that’s another bad trait you have,” said Tony.
“And what is dat?” asked Milton.
“That you can never admit when you’re wrong.”
Standing up, Milton jabbed a thick finger in front of Tony’s face. “You come here to my house and you’re talking down to me? You forget dat me is de one who get up at five inna de morning to keep de roof over we head? Me had to put up wid white man calling me Sir Gollywog, Jam Jar Boy, and all kind of other name to put bread upon we table. You know how much me wanted to tump dem down?”
“Dad, I know all this. I do respect—”
Milton’s flow couldn’t be stopped. “You know how many times me sit down at break time eating me sandwiches and tinking of licking dem with someting? You know how small they made me feel?”
“Dad, you’re doing it again,” said Tony. “Every argument we have, you give me this guilt trip.”
“Guilt trip? You call it ah guilt trip? Maybe you tink it was easy?”
“No, I know you had it hard. When Naomi first came to us, I admit, I had second thoughts about taking her in.”
Is that why he made a big issue about a TV in my room? Maybe he and Colleen raged at each other before I stepped in.
“But I kept on going back to Martin Luther King’s speech,” Tony went on. “That’s the future.”
Milton screwed up his face. “She’ll be better off wid her own kind.”
I’ll be better off with my own kind? Milton could sit down and nibble a custard cream with Louise—she said the same sorta thing.
Tony snapped his head to glance at the kitchen window. I crouched lower. “I want my kids or whoever I foster to be a part of Dr. King’s future,” he said.
Milton turned his back and resumed cutting.
“You have to let it go, Dad.” Tony placed a hand on Milton’s forearm. I hardly heard him. “Let it go.”
Tony turned around and stepped toward me. I jumped off the wall, hot-toed inside, and slammed the door behind me. Then I picked up a tea towel and went back to drying the pots and dishes. I hummed something to make it look like no big drama had taken place. Sharyna’s gaze never left the sink.
Did he see me? Can’t be too sure. I hope not.
Tony entered shaking his head. I kept my tongue on lockdown but the furies chomped the nerves in my fingers. I almost dropped a plate. Sharyna didn’t say anything either. He looked up and half smiled. “I don’t know if you heard any of that, Naomi,” he said, “but I have to say sorry for my dad. He lives in the past a bit and when he first came here he had to put up with, er . . . a lot of racism. I don’t know how long you’re going to be with us but hopefully, in time, he’ll get used to having you around . . . Sorry again.”
I could see the hurt in his eyes. I placed a pot in the drying rack and tapped his shoulder—my real dad used to do that to me when I was feeling down. “That’s all right, Tony,” I said. “I don’t have to live with your paps, do I? My real dad had a few white friends and I remember one of ’em didn’t like black peeps. Or even brown, mixed-race, an
d desert peeps.”
Tony smiled and placed a hand on my cheek. “You’re a good girl, Naomi. You’ve got a clean heart. I see it in the way you treat Sharyna and Pablo.”
“Ha ha!” I laughed. “I’ve got ya fooled too.”
That didn’t bring a smile to his face.
He slow-toed into the hallway. Sharyna and I watched him. He stood up for me. Wasn’t expecting that. I’m gonna google Dr. King and find out more about him.
Tony reached the lounge and opened the door. We heard the sound effects of Pablo’s game. “Tone, you’re going to have to drive home,” Colleen said. “I’ve had a drop of prosecco.”
“A drop?” laughed Bernice.
“Whenever you’re ready to leave,” Tony replied, “just let me know.” He sat down on the staircase and held his head in his hands.
“We got used to their arguing,” Sharyna whispered. “Sometimes Gran tells them to stop behaving like kids. I ignore it. Pablo thinks it’s funny. Don’t get Granddad wrong though.”
“He got me wrong,” I said.
Sharyna shook her head. “He’s a nice man. He just has old-school ways.”
“Is that what they say about racist peeps these days,” I said, “that they have old-school ways?”
“He’s good to me,” Sharyna added.
“Yeah,” I said. “He would be.”
“If . . . if he got to know you,” Sharyna said, “he’d be sweet to you too.”
She meant well but the furies didn’t settle until I was in the back of Colleen’s car. No one said too much on the drive home, not even Pablo.
“Did you try Gran’s cheesecake?” Sharyna asked Tony just before we pulled up outside home.
Tony didn’t turn around. I checked his expression in the rearview mirror. He was still brewing.
“Yes, I did,” he finally replied. “It was Mum’s best cheesecake ever. And what makes it so good is the variety of ingredients she uses and the way the spices work together.”
I didn’t agree with everything that Louise said or did, but I knew she cared about me. The same went for Colleen and Tony. A warm vibe kissed my heart.
chapter fifteen
Racially Correct
“My treat!” Kim insisted. “Choose anything you like.”
Leaning on the counter of a chicken hut takeaway, I scoped the display screens to see what was on offer. The smell of fried chicken and freshly cooked fries licked the air. The counter assistant, a black-haired man in his forties wearing a white baseball cap that was too small for his head, tapped his fingers on the cash register. His sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. Stuck on the wall behind him was the red, white, and green flag of a country I didn’t recognize.
“You’re not gonna get me lunch?” said Nats to Kim. “Why are you only buying for Naoms?”
“Didn’t I buy you two tops on Sunday, Nats?” Kim answered. “And three pairs of socks and a pair of peacock earrings? I didn’t get Naoms any new garms so that’s why I’m buying her lunch. Deal with it.”
“But I need another pound to get what I want,” complained Nats. “And I’m your girlfriend! Not Naoms.”
“What’s being my girlfriend gotta do with it?” spat Kim. “Naoms is our sistren. Cool down your toes.”
Monkey in a cage with lions. I hate it when their relationship issues bust open in public.
“But—” Nats started again.
“But what?” Kim chopped her flow. “Quit getting all green-eye on me. What d’you want?”
“A chicken sandwich meal with fries,” replied Nats.
“Er, I’ll have the same,” I said. “And a large Coke. You sure you can afford it, Kim? Don’t wanna take liberties.”
“Would I be offering if I couldn’t afford it? Didn’t I tell ya that my mum dropped me down some funds Saturday morning?”
“Sorry,” I said. “There are a lot of issues ping-ponging around in my brain.”
“I remember,” put in Nats.
“Obviously you remember, Nats,” said Kim. “You were with me when my mum slapped our front door.”
“I wish I had a mum who came down and dropped me off some funds,” I said.
Awkward silence.
“She’s still on her guilt trip, and while she’s riding that bus I’m gonna rinse and drain her for all I can,” said Kim. “She wanted to see me but I pretended I was crashing. At least she had the decency to leave me money in an envelope.”
“That’s all good,” I said.
“Me and Nats wheeled up to Ashburton to buy new garms first thing Sunday morning,” Kim said. “We took a cab and stopped by your place. Colleen told us you were asleep. The taxi meter wasn’t joking so we had to take to our wheels.”
“Yep,” said Nats. “We had to roll on.”
“I stayed up late watching films,” I explained. “And I was going somewhere with my foster fam anyway.”
“Can I have a drink too?” asked Nats. “Lemonade.”
Kim sighed. “I suppose so. I’m gonna be on a serious austerity by tomorrow the way you’re going on. When your social worker touches down you can ask her for some funds and you can treat me.”
“Deal!” replied Nats. “I always treat you.”
Three minutes later, we bounced out of the chicken hut, sinking our meals as we walked.
“So what did you do over the weekend, Naoms?” asked Kim.
“Went to the grandparents’ house. They’ve got a monster-inch TV. It was like being in a cinema. Sharyna took her Wii dancing game and she and I flexed toes and juggled bellies for most of the time.”
“They’re Jamaican, right?” said Nats.
“Yeah, but not as hard-core Jamaican as the guy who used to swig around with my paps.”
“What did you eat?” asked Nats.
“What’s it called again? Sheep, rice, and sweet potato. Oh, and untold salad.”
Nats shook her head. “You mean mutton, rice, and sweet potato. I used to love that. They tried cooking mutton in the unit once. It went all wrong.”
“Yeah,” Kim agreed. “I don’t think it was mutton. Could’ve been crocodile ribs or something.”
Nats and I busted out a chuckle.
“So what were these grandpops like?” Kim wanted to know. “Weren’t too jurassic, were they? I don’t love the smell of old people. Didn’t have to poke them with the remote control to check if they were still alive, did ya?”
Nats burst out laughing again. A couple of chewed fries flew to the pavement.
“They were cool,” I said. “The gran . . . what was her name . . . Ber . . . Bernice. Yeah, Bernice. Apart from her Team Jesus issues, she was on point. She makes her own cheesecake and she’s gonna teach me how to bake it the next time I’m around.”
“Boring!” said Kim. “Dunno what I would’ve done if I was there.”
“I don’t think the granddad had too much love for me,” I said.
“Why not?” Kim asked. “What’s his issue? You didn’t squeeze your jamrag juice into his cocoa, did ya?”
“Eeeeeww! No!” I swallowed a dose of saliva. Monkey in pantomime. One day Kim’s gonna kill me with her one-liners. I cleared my throat before I let the rhino do its business on the marble floor. “His issue . . . his issue is that I’m white.”
“White?” Nats repeated. Her eyebrows kissed her fringe.
“Liberties!” shouted Kim. Her eyebrows almost went over the back of her head. “Did he call you anything? Didn’t hit ya, did he? What did the gran do? Did Tony and Colleen take you away ASAP? They should’ve done.”
“No, it didn’t go down like that,” I said. “Tony was arguing with his paps and his paps said something . . . he said a few things.”
“What did he say?” Kim asked. “Come on, Naoms! Let the hippo yawn.”
“He doesn’t like my foster fam fostering white kids,” I said. “They were raging about Martin Luther King.”
“Martin Luther King,” said Nats. “Didn’t Richard talk about him in Black His
tory Month?”
Kim stood in front of me and wouldn’t let me pass. “Is that really what he said, Naoms? That he didn’t love white foster kids coming through his gates?”
I felt the heat of Kim’s hard-curb gaze. I nodded.
“If he did, you have to spill the full mug on that one,” Kim said. “Don’t fruck about. See your social worker and let your tongue loose. She’d have to do something. What did he say exactly?”
I tried to remember Tony and Milton’s argument. “The granddad . . . he said . . . he said he didn’t want no white girl in his house or something and that Tony should only foster black kids.”
“No!” Nats called out. “Outta freaking order!”
“Listen to me, Naoms,” said Kim. “Perk up your ears. Tell your social worker—wassername?”
“Louise.”
“Give the full movie to Louise, even the deleted scenes, and don’t let them know you’re telling her. And don’t say anything to Sharyna and Pablo.”
“But I like staying there,” I said. “I’m like Sharyna and Pablo’s big sis. They let me cook, even after I messed up, and do my own thing . . . well, sort of do my own thing. Tony had my spine and Colleen’s had a hard-curb life too. She tells me about it when the kids have gone to bed. I was gonna say to Tony and Colleen to take a holiday and I’ll babysit for ’em. And I don’t have to live with the granddad, do I? And who’s gonna nice up my hair?”
Nats put her hand up. “Er, me,” she said. “I can braid neatly—”
“You can’t allow it,” Kim interrupted. “What’s gonna happen when this racist granddad visits ya? Say he stays for the weekend or longer? He might be filling ya brain with all kinda racist malarkey. You haven’t got anywhere to escape.”
“I don’t think Colleen will let him stay,” I said. “Not while I’m there anyway.”
Kim shook her head. “What will happen if the gran drops dead after making a cheesecake? The granddad might have to move in with ya. He’ll be telling you crap 24-7, the first to the thirty-first and from January to December. Can you imagine that, Naoms? It’ll do your head in.”