Brixton Bwoy

by Rocky Carr

  ‘Only one more to go,’ the headmaster said, bending down to look at Pupatee. Through his tears, Pupatee could swear that for a moment he saw a look of sympathy on the man’s face, but then that hard look and stare returned and his voice boomed out.

  ‘Get up and hold out your hand, bwoy!’

  Pupatee sprang to his feet, because he sensed the headmaster was about to start with his ‘six instead of three’ voice again. But now he didn’t know which hand to offer as they were both stinging like pepper in the eye.

  ‘Come on, bwoy. Me got a class to teach!’

  He stretched out his left hand and a mighty whack came down on it. It was the last, and Pupatee fled out of the school screaming, found a tap and ran his hands under the cold water.

  The first person who came to his rescue was Carl. ‘Me tell you fe tek dem pon one hand instead ah can’t use two hands.’

  ‘Me right hand no too sore, man,’ Pupatee managed to say.

  Carl laughed and said, ‘Come, before dem beat we again.’ Then he led his little brother back inside.

  After that, every week it was the same, and before long if they were late, Pupatee would persuade Carl to stay away from school for the whole day, running free through the countryside instead. And when they did go to school, although Carl was a good student, Pupatee learned almost nothing. He could just about spell his name, but not any more than that. He didn’t even know his alphabet, and it was all he could do to count to ten. He would just sit in school, and wait for the afternoon to end.

  After school, life began. A whole group of them would set off to pick sweet limes and number eleven mangoes. The best grew on land owned by a woman they thought was mad. She would lie in wait for them and when they were in the middle of picking the juiciest fruit, high up in the trees like the doctor birds, she would jump out and surprise them, shouting, ‘You tief inu me catch you all tiefing me mangoes. Police, police!’ and they would run off as fast as Pops’s animals ran down to the river in June.

  One morning, after cutting the grass and eating breakfast, Pupatee was late for school as usual. There was no sense hurrying now – Pupatee would get a beating whatever – so he dawdled, and Pops saw him ‘You na go ah school today, Pupatee?’ he called. ‘What wrong with you?’

  ‘Me pencil no sharp, Pops.’

  ‘Come, me sharpen it fe you, come.’

  Pupatee followed him into the house and he took out his big, long razor. He was proud of this razor, and he took great care of it, cleaning and polishing it after every use. He opened it out and the blade shone as silver as the moon. He calmly sharpened the pencil and replaced the blade in the handle, winking at Pupatee and smiling.

  ‘Den de teacher na go beat you, man, de way you so late.’

  From outside, Carl shouted, ‘Pupatee, de later we are ah de hotter de licks, you know. So you better come on, we half late already, ah!’

  ‘Me gone, Pops,’ Pupatee said.

  ‘All right, massah, me see you.’

  Pupatee joined up with Carl, but he was walking slowly. ‘You no have fe hurry now, ca wha me no go anywhere near dat school deh today, fe me get no tree licks ah no dis or dat from headmaster, prefecs or Mama or Pops. Me know a nice place we can go over de mad woman place, go pick number eleven mangoes and bully mangoes and blackie mangoes and custard apples, mmm.’

  Pupatee was all excited and ready to venture anywhere with his brother. Before long they found a family of Aba palm trees, whose nuts turned from green to bright yellow when ripe and tasted like miniature coconuts. Pupatee was up those trees quicker than a monkey, selecting the ripest and best, eating as he found them. ‘Look, ah number eleven mango tree. Dem big and ripe. No true, Pupatee?’ Carl shouted. Pupatee looked over from the tree where he was and it was a beautiful sight, all those mangoes, some red, some green, some light yellow, hanging from every limb of the tree. He came down the Aba palm faster than a snake and was soon gorging on the sweetest and juiciest mangoes.

  Later they came across jackfruit, and they found sweet limes and pawpaws, and suddenly Carl said, ‘Look, bully mangoes,’ and Pupatee couldn’t believe what he saw – mangoes as big as his head. Pupatee had never seen them so big, and he could only manage one while Carl had two. This adventure went on all day, and the brothers were so full of fruit when they returned home that evening, they could scarcely eat their supper.

  At school the next day, Pupatee used his newly sharpened pencil so much that he blunted it. He decided to sharpen it himself, and stole into the house the following morning to borrow Pops’s razor. Pops was so skilful with his razor that Pupatee had never understood how delicate that sharp blade was, and a big chunk snapped off in his hands. Horrified, Pupatee quickly put the blade back and crept out of the room even more quietly than he had come in. He ran all the way to school, and that day he was so downcast that the teacher asked him if he was ill. It was Friday, and Pupatee knew there would be a beating that weekend. All the next day, nothing happened, but on Sunday, after milking the cows, Pops announced he was going for a shave.

  A few moments later, it happened. ‘Who use me razor and broke it up?’ Pupatee’s heart started beating fast – he knew he was in danger now. When Pops came out, he and Carl took off and luckily escaped, with Pops cursing after them. He was so mad it didn’t matter whose fault it was.

  ‘Oh no,’ Carl said, when they were far enough away for safety. ‘If him catch me, me ah go pretend me ah dead, ca him must kill we wid beating when him catch we.’

  ‘How you go pretend, Carl?’ Pupatee asked.

  ‘Just play dead wid froth coming out your mouth, and when the licks reach go’on like you can’t feel it, dat is how.’

  They had to come home for dinner. It was fresh fried fish and eels with roast plantain and turned roast breadfruit, Pupatee’s favourite, but although he was starving, he couldn’t eat through worry. And anyway, they were only half-way through eating when Pops returned. He came straight for Pupatee, shouting, ‘Why did you broke me razor, bwoy?’

  ‘Me never meant it, Pops, do no beat me, Pops,’ Pupatee cried. ‘You ah beg, please no, do no.’

  ‘Ah going to bust you rass today,’ Pops cried, and he pulled out his belt and began to beat Pupatee.

  Pupatee waited for the first three or four licks, and then put Carl’s plan into action. He went limp and began to collect spit in his mouth. After another three lashes, Pops realised something was wrong. He stopped.

  ‘Pupatee! Pupatee! Pupatee!’ he cried. ‘Kay, come see, him ah dead, Kay!’

  ‘Me ah come,’ his mother answered.

  ‘Pupatee!’ Pops was calling again. By now Pupatee had a mouthful of frothy saliva, and he let it bubble through his lips. Pops stared down at him and began to shake him.

  ‘Lord, Putoo,’ Mama cried. ‘You ah kill me wash-belly pickney!’

  ‘Me never did start ah beat him hard yet, Kay,’ his father protested while Mama picked him up and took him to his bed, where she rubbed ointment into his sores and aches.

  That day, Pupatee was left to sleep, and for several days he was given tip-top treatment while he pretended to recover slowly. Even Pops came in to tell him he was sorry and he would never beat him again as long as he lived.

  For weeks after that, Pops kept his word. Everywhere Pupatee went, he heard the neighbours whispering that he was the boy who had almost been beaten to death by his father. And Pops didn’t raise a hand against him. But then, when the incident had almost been forgotten, Pupatee irritated Pops and he swung out at him and caught him on his arm. It was hardly a lashing, certainly not a beating, but handiwork was there again for everyone to see.

  ‘From me born me never see ah boy pickney soft like gal pickney so,’ Pops protested to Mama. ‘One little slap and his arm swell up so. Dat is it, I will never put me hand pon dat boy ever again.’

  ‘Lord God have mercy, man, it looks like you broke him arm.’

  Pupatee wanted to laugh, but he managed not to. From that day, his father never
again laid a hand on him. Pops had a heart as big as this world, though nobody could see it for it was hidden away deep in his chest. Often in the years to come, Pupatee would remember how Pops had reacted to the pain he had caused: horrified by what he had done to the son he loved.

  This was how life was. One year, when Pupatee was eight years old, they got news that their son Joe would be coming home for Christmas. Carl and Pupatee had a whole heap of brothers and sisters in England and America, some of whom they had not seen since they were babies, and some they had never seen. Joe was the oldest of them all, the first son, and he had not been home for many years.

  The closer it got to Christmas the hotter it became. Most of the mangoes and other fruits were out of season until the next year, so they turned their minds to other food. There were many tasty birds to catch, like the pea dove, the ground dove and the white-winged and barby doves. These birds were easy to pluck and clean and Mama was always pleased when the boys brought them home. She cooked them over a raw fire, either pierced with a stick and rubbed with salt and seasoning, or fried with garlic, onions and peppers.

  At the fine news that Joe was coming, Pops killed a couple of chickens. A few days later, he killed a couple of ducks and a big fat pig. Finally, they slaughtered two goats and invited all the neighbours round, saying Christmas had come early that year.

  The day before Christmas Eve there was a big cleanup, and all the neighbours went home to get ready for their own family feasts. Joe arrived that night. Carl and Pupatee were very excited to see this brother who was like a stranger, and Mama and Pops were full of happiness at the return of their eldest son. The house seemed almost fit to burst with anticipation. When Joe walked through the door he didn’t let them down. He was not a big man, but he was dressed in slick English clothes, and when he spoke his voice was high and his English perfect. Pupatee had to concentrate to understand him when he talked.

  Joe had gone to England many years before. He lived in London with his wife and children, and had a job as a van driver for British Rail. He seemed very old to Pupatee – he was, in fact, old enough to be his father. Carl and Pupatee were very proud to have such a big brother. They stayed up as late as they could listening to the talk until Mama noticed the time and sent them up to bed.

  The next morning, the rooster woke the house with a triple cock-a-doodle-doo alarm. Mama and Pops were dressed straight away and headed through the door to get their daily chores done early. Carl and Pupatee were washed and dressed early too. They helped Mama light the log fire and then went to help Pops milk the cows. When they brought the milk back to the kitchen, Mama asked Pops if he was going to kill another goat to celebrate Joe’s arrival.

  ‘Wha? A little goat?’ Pops replied. ‘Wha you ah talk seh woman, we son come home from faran country and you ah tell me fe kill just one little goat! Oh no, we ah go kill one fat bull fe him. When him ah go back we can kill one little goat, yes, but me would be too shame fe kill just a goat fe him arrival!’

  Mama was laughing, and Carl and Pupatee looked at each other in amazement. A fat bull! That meant pure beef for Christmas!

  ‘Carl, Pupatee.’

  ‘Yes, Pops.’

  ‘Go get de youngest, fattest bull and bring him down to de slaughter post.’

  ‘Yes, Pops.’

  Just then, Joe walked into the kitchen and wished everybody a good morning.

  ‘Ho, you get up already,’ said Pops. ‘Good, you can help me kill one fat bull we killing fe you welcoming home,’ said Pops.

  ‘That sounds like my kind of talk,’ said Joe.

  Mama was still smiling with delight as Carl and Pupatee went for the fatted bull while Joe and Pops got rope and a big sharp knife, and when the boys returned with a young beefy bull, Pops and Joe tied it to the slaughtering post.

  Before they could begin, Mama called everyone for breakfast. They all sat around the big table in the kitchen and ate their bellies full of fresh hot chocolate, saltfish fritters, fried dumplings, salt-fried pork with callaloo greens and two big half-ripe roasted breadfruits as extras. While Mama started cleaning up in the kitchen, Pops and Joe took a bottle of white rum and two coconuts with milk inside for a chaser, and went and sat in the sun near the bull at the slaughtering post.

  Carl and Pupatee were left in the kitchen to help clean up and after a while an argument started. It was over something trivial, a fishing weight, but soon they were readying for a fight. First Carl hit Pupatee, and just as Pupatee drew back his fist to hit him back, Joe walked into the kitchen. He needed a file to sharpen the knife that was to be used to kill the fatted bull.

  ‘What!’ cried Joe, taking off his belt and giving Pupatee a few whacks. ‘How dare you hit your elder brother. Don’t you ever do that again.’

  Tears poured down Pupatee’s face. It wasn’t the pain, but the shock of being hit by his brother Joe, who he so idolised.

  ‘Wha wrong with you bwoy, wha you ah cry for?’ Pops asked.

  ‘I caught him throwing punches at his elder brother and gave him a slight belting,’ Joe said.

  Pops laughed and Pupatee turned round to see a smile on Joe’s face, which only put him in an even hotter temper.

  ‘Pupatee, wha you ah cry like a girl for?’ said Mama when she saw him coming towards her, sniffing away.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Come, me comb you head fe you, son.’

  Pupatee went to her. Mama’s warmth was comforting, and he felt better after she had oiled and combed his hair. You look nice now, Pupatee,’ she said. He smiled.

  Outside, Pops and Joe were tying up the bull so that it would not be a danger during its slaughtering. The post was an old stump of a tree, still attached to its roots. After a while the bull was trussed to the post by its horns, and it looked fierce no longer, but frightened. It mooed and tried to pull itself free, but its struggles were useless.

  Carl appeared with a large container to catch the blood for the dogs. Pops offered Joe the big slaughtering knife to do the killing, but Joe refused. Pops smiled. ‘Faran country changed you a lot, son, you used to love doing de killing years ago.’

  ‘Can Pupatee do it, Pops?’ Pupatee said. They all turned to see him watching them from the veranda.

  ‘You still a pickney, bwoy, dis a man work.’ Pops laughed, then he looked at him and said, ‘Pupatee, you no remember de time when you kill Massah Tom little pig?’

  He did remember. An animal had been raiding one of Pops’s far-off vegetable fields every night and Pops had grown so weary that he had offered his sons a pile of money if they caught it and killed it. So one day, Gamper and Carl packed a tent, food, knives, cutlasses and machetes and walked to this far-off field. They set up their tent and slept at the spot where they expected the intruder would try to get into the field. That night, it showed up just as they hoped. It turned out to be a very large sow, bigger even than them. The boys were frightened, but they wanted the money even more than they were afraid of the harm that sow might do them. So Gamper charged at the sow and dived on it with a long sharp knife. The sow put up a strong fight, trying to escape from Gamper and Carl. Even after its throat had been cut, it stumbled several yards before it finally fell down and lay still.

  Mama and Pops had made much of Gamper and Carl, giving them their money and praising them to the skies. So when, several months later, Pupatee came across a piglet, he pulled out his knife and killed it. But no one had told him to kill this piglet, and it wasn’t even trespassing, so instead of getting a hero’s welcome, Pupatee got only a good beating.

  ‘Pupatee! Pupatee?’

  ‘Yeah, Pops?’

  ‘You deaf?’

  He shook himself out of his trance. Joe and Carl tied a rope to the back legs of the bull and Pops took the knife and pulled it across the underside of the bull’s neck, cutting right through and almost taking its head off. The blood gushed out and fell into the waiting container. The bull made one last deathly moo, kicking and quivering all over, and as the blood poured fro
m its throat, the dogs began to gather.

  ‘Pupatee, you and Carl go bath, den go tell de people you big bredda Joe deh home from England, and one big whole dinner get together ah ran fe him. And me, and you Mama, ah invite everyone. Also tell dem on sale is fresh beef. Tell dem me kill de best bull and plenty good food is here.’

  ‘OK, Pops.’

  ‘And son, go tell de whole ah you cousins and dem friends fe come help Mama,’ said Mama. ‘And hurry, Pupatee.’

  That night, when darkness fell, they had a great feast of beef from the slaughtered bull. They built a big fire and roasted nuts and all kinds of other goodies, like breadfruits, sweet potatoes, fish, birds, yam and sweet corn. There was rice and peas, boiled pumpkin and plates of fried green bananas. Everybody joined in the fun of lighting fire crackers and big loud bangers and rockets which flew up and exploded with a wonderful brightness in the pitch dark. And all the time people were playing music and dancing and singing. Pupatee’s disagreement with Carl, and even his beating from Joe, was soon forgotten, and it was the biggest and best Christmas ever.

  A few days later it was time for Joe to go back to England. The whole family were sitting together, Pupatee between Mama and Pops. Then Mama said, ‘Joe, me ah beg you. One last favour for Mama, do son.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Joe.

  ‘By de time Pupatee and Carl done looking after dem fadda’s cows, dem always late fe school and Pupatee no even badda go sometimes. Lord have mercy pon me, Joe, me wash-belly pickney no even know two letter out de ABCDEFGH, so me would ah glad if him could ah come ah England wid you, to go school, where him would ah learn fe spell and write him name.’