by Alex Wheatle
“What kind of music have you got there?”
Juliet parked herself next to her brother. “Oh, a bit of Rose Royce, Commodores, Heatwave, Stevie Wonder – you know, that kind of t’ing.”
“I don’t suppose you got any Gong, Gregory Isaacs or Barrington Levy, do you?”
“No, I haven’t got them on record, but I have some of their tunes on tape though. Some friends lend me tapes and I copy them.”
For a few moments, Brenton seemed to be in a galaxy of his own. This bedroom sure beats the dormitory I slept in at Pinewood Hills, he thought. Juliet noticed his gaze of envy. “What’s the matter?”
“I know I shouldn’t, but shit, look at this. Bwai, am I jealous! Nice bedroom, nice yard, you got a job and t’ing, know what I mean? And what have I got? I’ll tell you what I’ve got – one pair of decent trainers and my brethren’s old suitcase. Yeah, I envy you nuff.”
Juliet gazed into her brother’s eyes, suddenly feeling guilty about possessing her material luxuries. She considered showing Brenton her photo album, but changed her mind. “You always just say what you feel, innit? Most guys I know hide what they feel, know what I mean?”
She leaned towards her brother and kissed him quickly on the forehead. Brenton’s mind was jolted by his sister’s action, and what happened to his emotions, he didn’t know.
“That’s to show that I care about you,” she said seriously, “and don’t worry that you only got an old suitcase, ’cos this yard is as much yours as it is mine. Oh, and by the way, I have to act on what I feel.”
The siblings gazed at each other silently; both realising their attraction was mutual. What is she on about? Brenton’s mind whispered. Juliet suddenly felt the body language was getting too intimate. “Come, let’s go downstairs,” she said briskly. “It’s kind of rude of us to talk amongst ourselves and not include our mum.”
Ms Massey was inspecting the tenderness of the boiled chicken when she heard the footsteps of her offspring enter the dining room. Brenton admired the smoked-glass dinner table, which was surrounded by four matching, chrome-legged chairs. Cutlery was carefully placed on plastic mats, and at the centre of the table stood a large bowl of salad. Brenton studied the room, with his eyes roving from side to side, rather than moving his head. He noticed a large wall cabinet, housing various glasses, tumblers, plates and cups of china. The blue patterned walls were bare, except for a wooden cased clock, which tick-tocked opposite the cabinet. Time will tell, he thought.
Juliet sat in an armchair in the corner of the room, watching her brother and sensing his unease as he remained standing near the door. “Sit down, man. Feel at home.”
Instead of taking the other armchair near his sister, Brenton opted to sit at the dinner table. “Are you trying to avoid me?” she teased.
“No, it was the nearest chair.”
Brenton still felt conscious of the kiss on his forehead – to him it burned like the branding of a sheep. He suspected Juliet was playing cat and mouse with his emotions and even though they shared the same blood, it was hard to ignore the physical beauty of his sister.
Moments later, Ms Massey entered the room, carrying two plates of inviting food, happy to see her son seated ready at the table. “Well Brenton, I ’ope you’re ’ungry. Help yourself to the salad.”
Juliet took a seat at the table opposite her brother, making Brenton feel somewhat uncomfortable. So he leaned forward to consume his dinner with his eyes never diverting from the plate.
A roast potato later, Ms Massey re-entered with her own plate of dinner, taking her chair and edging it nearer to her son rather than her daughter, feeling confident enough to spark a conversation.
“Brenton, how do the social worker treat you at dis hostel where you are staying?”
“Not so bad, you know. I think Mr Lewis understands me. He does lecture me a bit though, but apart from that, he’s all right.” But sometimes he don’t half go on a bit, his mind added.
Juliet wanted to contribute to the conversation, but sensed it was best for mother and son to take the opportunity to talk to one another. So tactfully, she kept quiet. Meanwhile, her mother proposed to her son: “If you ’ave any problems where you’re staying you can always stay ’ere. We have a spare room and bed, so you can stay overnight whenever you want to. Y’understand?”
“Yeah, er, I’ll have it in mind. Er, thanks.”
Juliet observed her mother produce a satisfied smile, which she hadn’t seen for ages. Maybe this was the start of a proper mother and son relationship. She sneaked a look at her brother, who was apparently enjoying his first Jamaican meal like a lion cub tasting the delights of his first wildebeest.
Brenton glanced briefly at his sister, only for her to catch him doing so, at which he looked quickly away. Why is she doing this? he fretted. Then Juliet flicked a look at her mother, hoping that Cynthia hadn’t noticed her eyeing her brother. Brenton was desperately trying to conceal any attraction he might be feeling for his sister, but Juliet was only too ready to attract his attention. Ms Massey was the only one of the trio to appear relaxed. “Do you ’ave a girlfriend?” she asked now. “If you do, she will be welcome to visit here as well.”
Juliet stared hard at her brother, anxiously awaiting his reply.
“No, I don’t. Never had a girlfriend, never needed one.”
“You should not say dat. You are a good-looking young man, an’ you mus’ tickle nuff girl fancy.”
Brenton suffered the backhand of embarrassment while his mother smiled. Fortunately, neither one of them noticed Juliet blush also. Unwilling to change the subject, Juliet commented, “I’m sure that in your time, some girl must have fancied you or made some sort of play for you.”
Brenton fiddled with his fork, pondering on how to reply to Juliet’s interrogation. “Well, er, sort of. But you have to understand, someone of my background finds it kinda difficult to trust any new friends or girlfriends.”
“Why?” Cynthia asked.
Unfortunately, this simple poser angered Brenton. He recalled in his mind all the ‘why’ questions he was asked by the pigs. So after slamming his fork on the plate, he shot up from his chair. “You haven’t got a clue about being brought up in a Home. You just don’t get it, do you? I still have fucking nightmares about it and you can never imagine what it’s like to be on your friggin’ tod without anybody. I am not your normal kid or teenager.”
Brenton fixed the bayonet on his tongue and aimed it at his mother. “It’s all right, you saying I’ve got a place to stay and whatever, but you don’t even know what you’re letting into your nice yard. I better tell you from now, you’ve got one fucked-up son!”
Any confidence Cynthia might have been developing evaporated like a steaming kettle losing its vapour in a monsoon. She remained in her chair, still and ashen-faced, while Juliet, shocked, stared into space, thinking of the reality of her brother’s life as a child. Matters were not to be so easy and straightforward as she had hoped.
For a few seconds, an intimidating silence draped over the room as Brenton paced around the dinner table like a wolf circling a chicken yard. Only when his own chair halted him did his thermometer abate. He thrust his hands on the back support of the chair, looked at his mother and with a marked decrease of volume in his voice, said to her, “Er, sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. Mr Lewis is always telling me I must control my temper. I have to get used to this, and I ain’t coping too good – never had a family before.”
This apology warmed Cynthia’s heart. It meant more to her than anything her son said to her beforehand. “You don’t need to apologise. It should be me who’s apologising. Come, sit down an’ finish your dinner, it will soon get cold. Finish your dinner, son.”
Brenton dropped into his chair and proceeded to finish his meal – it sure tasted good. Although she wouldn’t let herself become over-confident again, Ms Massey felt she had just crossed a raging river, but perhaps there were a few more trials to come. She accepted that she could
not alter the past and look for forgiveness for it. But she hoped to make a contribution to her son’s future, and the first seed of this offering was sown today.
Feeling a little more composed than she’d been a moment ago Juliet appreciated that there was a lot to learn about her quick-to-anger brother, not least his thin skin. But what an expressive face … He would make a wicked dramatic actor.
Ms Massey noticed that her daughter was unusually subdued. “Why you so quiet, Juliet? Usually, I can’t get in two words when we sit down for dinner.”
Juliet watched her brother swig down a glass of blackcurrant juice. “Just thinking.”
Following dinner, Juliet was busy washing up the plates and cutlery. Brenton was in his sister’s bedroom, fiddling about with her tuner, trying to get a good reception to one of the pirate reggae stations. Cynthia was talking on the phone to a close friend, explaining how she was getting on with her son. After she had put down the receiver, she climbed the stairs.
“Brenton!” He opened the bedroom door. “’Ave you a minute?” she asked. “I would like to talk to you in me bedroom.”
They walked inside Ms Massey’s room. The first thing Brenton noticed was the myriad of framed photographs of his sister, smiling down from his mother’s walls. He felt a little apprehensive, wondering what his mother wanted to discuss.
“You can sit down on the bed.” Nervously clasping her hands, the middle-aged woman set her eyes upon her son. If they shared any resemblance at all, then it must be their tormented eyes. “It’s about your fader.”
A long pause followed as Brenton’s mother gathered herself to say something important.
“One t’ing I ’ave to tell you is dat I loved your fader dearly. In fact, I probably loved him too much. But you see, the problem was, well… you probably know by now, but I was already married an’ Juliet was born just a few months before I reached Englan’. Your fader was honest, hardworking an’ was not too ’fraid to speak his mind, y’understand?”
Brenton nodded. How could she screw a white man? he thought disgustedly.
Cynthia continued: “Back in dose days, people did not accept mixed couples going out together, let alone ’aving a chile. It’s not too bad today, but your fader did not give a damn of what people did t’ink. Him tek me everywhere, an’ was proud to call me his woman.”
Cynthia paused again, as she wondered how Brenton would accept her version of events. Her son was looking strangely docile. “It will tek more than one Sunday evening to tell you everyt’ing. But basically, when Juliet’s fader reached Englan’, he said to me I mus’ choose. I t’ink you know what my choice was. Dem time Juliet was being minded by my ’usband’s parents, an’ me and dem could never agree on everyt’ing. We had a whole heap of argument about the way dem was treating my daughter. Anyway, back to you now. Your fader tek you from the hospital when you was only t’ree days old. It broke my ’eart, I tell you.”
Brenton found the window with his eyes and stared out of it and scratched his right ear. Where’s the man with the violin? his mind mocked.
Ms Massey said, almost to herself, “When I look back now, it should ’ave never been a choice. I should ’ave insisted to keep you. I’m not looking for forgiveness, ’cos me know I done wrong. But you ’ave to believe dat I ’ave t’ought of you every day since. Right about now, I’m ’fraid to look upon you, I feel so shame.”
Brenton listened intently, looking as though his breath could chill a bonfire night. Although he would not forgive her, he thought his mother appeared genuinely sorry. He glanced at his fretful parent, and still feeling relatively calm, asked: “Is it all right if I smoke?”
“What? Oh yes, of course. I’ll get you an ashtray.”
Brenton arsoned his snout, analysing the pictures of his sister which up-staged anything else in the room. “Do you have a picture of me when I was a baby?”
“Er, no. Your fader has all de photos. I’m sure wherever he is, he still keep dem safe.”
At this Brenton suddenly stood up and abruptly departed the room, leaving Cynthia feeling extremely sorry for herself.
A few sorrows later, Brenton reappeared in his mother’s bedroom, informing her that he would be on his way now. He politely thanked her for the dinner, and said he would visit again.
Drying the dishes hurriedly, Juliet heard Brenton stepping down the stairs. “Brenton, you going now?”
“Yeah, I’m tired and I wanna go home.”
Flinging down the tea towel, Juliet skipped along the hallway. “Hold up, I’ll walk with you.”
She disappeared upstairs to don her hat and wedge on her shoes, leaving her brother abiding at the front door impatiently slapping his soles. Ten foot-taps later, Juliet bounded down the stairs, fastening the buttons to her coat. Her brother opened the front door and they ventured out into the street, greeted by a gust of wind. They walked a number of paces before Brenton, who was dangerously troubled, stopped trodding. He clocked his sister. “How do you feel about me, Juliet?”
“What do you mean?”
The short fuse within Brenton torched itself. “You know what I bloody mean! All those kisses, you looking me up and down. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m on about.”
Juliet quickly glanced around her, to see if anyone in the street had heard or seen her brother shouting at her. Then she looked at him, feeling her tongue handcuffing itself. So much emotion in his face, she thought.
Brenton urged, “Well, I’m waiting! You must think this is a bloody game!”
Juliet gazed into her brother’s eyes, knowing she must be honest with him. She didn’t want to create a scene and she hated arguments. She closed her eyes for a long second. “All right, all right. Look, I don’t know why, but I’m strongly attracted to you.”
Brenton scratched his head in disbelief, then rubbed his temple. Sure that he would refrain from shouting this time, Juliet added, “I can’t help what I feel.”
Brenton was dazed. “Oh shit, bloody hell. Well fuck my living days, this ain’t happening.”
Juliet managed a smile. “You can’t talk,” she joked. “You’ve been eyeing me up as well. Now, you answer me one thing honestly. So you think I’m sort of, er, you know what I’m saying. Er, do you like me?”
Now it was Brenton’s turn to be in the dock. He studiously avoided his sister’s eyes, scarcely able to believe the way the conversation was developing. But he felt he had to answer the question honestly. “Er, I dunno. Er, well, I mean yes. But that’s not the bloody point… you’re my sister, for God’s sake.”
Bad bwai Brown rides to town on a stallion, he thought, only to find his foe’s daughter presenting him with a bouquet of flowers – what a confusion!
Then he ambled away, leaving Juliet standing in inky isolation, wondering whether to laugh or cry. She pondered on whether she’d already torpedoed her relationship with her new-found brother, or whether she’d started something special. She looked within herself: what was she thinking? This was lunacy and totally cuckoo! Maybe it was fate, too?
She watched Brenton striding off into the distance, hoping he would turn around and bid her goodbye. But he simply crossed into the next road, refusing to look behind him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cornerstone
Mid-March, 1980
The days were closing in on Brenton’s seventeenth birthday and during the last couple of weeks, he had found himself some casual work on a building site. A spar of Floyd’s set him up for the job, which was a cash-in-hand affair. He was not contributing to the taxman’s hoard; neither was he paying National Insurance. A brown sheet a day was paid, and unknowingly to Mr Lewis, he still signed on for his G. Otherwise, the social worker was relieved to know that Brenton had at last found some work.
His duties were mostly labouring, but at least he was learning some useful skills from the craftsmen with whom he worked. At first he always seemed to be stirring cement or making cups of tea, but now and again, a carpenter, or maybe a brickl
ayer would show him some tricks of their trade.
When Brenton received his first two weeks’ wages, he splashed out on a new pair of shoes, a pullover, and two pairs of jeans. But what really pleased Mr Lewis was Brenton buying himself a hammer and a measuring tape. Things were going well for him. Even Floyd was sheepishly slapping on his door asking to borrow money.
One thing bothered Brenton, however. Though he received telephone calls from his mother, he hadn’t heard from Juliet. He really warmed to her, but couldn’t take it upon himself to pick up the phone and call her. Still, this was the first time his pockets had jingled with cash since he’d lied about his age so he could do a newspaper round as a kid.
It was the fag end of a tiring week and the new employee plummeted on his bed as soon as he reached home from work. In the adjacent room, Floyd, hearing the cry of his stomach, also heard Brenton stumble up the stairs. So, not even bothering to knock, he barged straight into his spar’s room.
“The answer’s no, whatever you want,” Brenton said with his eyes still shut. “It’s NO.”
Floyd shook his head. “Nah, I don’t want your corn. I was gonna do you a favour, man. I was gonna ask if you wanted anything up the spud shop, whether it’s fish and chips or patty and chips or what. And all you can do is moan. I don’t think I’ll even bother now.”
Wearily, Brenton got up. “Hold up, man. Get me cod and chips. Oh, and get two brew, one for yourself.”
Floyd grinned. “You’re a brethren, man, a brethren. I was just about to buy myself a bag of chips with the shekels I’ve got.” Floyd dipped into his trouser pocket and came out with what amounted to seventeen pence. “To get a sausage in batter I need a next thirty pence.”
Brenton counted the small change his spar was holding out. “Where’re you going with them sixpences? You can’t use them again. They’re gone out, innit? I think it was a few weeks ago. You can’t buy nutten with them.”