by Alex Wheatle
“Well, kiss me granny armpit, I never knew that. Can you sponsor me fifty pence?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just hurry up, man, I’m starving.” Brenton took out a crumpled five-pound note from his cement-stained donkey jacket. “Give me back the change,” he warned. “Even the coppers.”
Floyd glanced at Brenton’s new pair of shoes alongside the bed and felt a whip of red eye. “I could never work on a building site, man. They work you till your digits turn grey, and if I done that, I wouldn’t have the strength to crub any steak at the weekend. Nah, I would rather be in an office with my name on the door. Own secretary and t’ing and I would tell her to park her backside on my desk and take down some lyrics.”
“Floyd, don’t wanna hear about your dreams, man … hurry up with that fish.”
Floyd grinned like a two-timing fox, while pushing the note deep into his front jeans pocket before departing. Brenton lay gingerly on his bed once more, trying to get comfortable to ease the pangs in his shoulder muscles. With his eyes closed, his mind drifted back again to his childhood.
It was winter, the year 1970, just prior to Christmas.
The children’s home had two large coal fires at either end of the mansion-type house. One fire was in the spacious lounge, where the large black-and-white television acted as a baby-sitter for the smaller children. This room was where most of the kids would spend their time if they behaved themselves, or performed their chores to satisfaction. The other coal fire heated the dining room, where two sizeable wooden tables dominated the space. The staff of the children’s home would usually discuss matters arising throughout the day in there, over a coffee or mug of tea and a spilling ashtray.
The young Brenton had just consumed his dinner, and was playing quietly with a small model car in the long hallway, when he heard the fear-inducing voice of his housemother Miss Hill - ‘The Belt’.
“Brenton, go and fill up the coal bucket.”
The seven-year-old loathed this chore, but knew he had to do it. So slowly, he walked into the cloakroom to don his hat, scarf and tatty anorak. He wished he owned a pair of gloves, but that would be a luxury. Beside the back door stood a large coal bucket, once yellow in colour but now virtually covered in coal dust. Next to the coal bucket stood the children’s shoe rack, looking like a wire-mesh set of lockers without any doors.
He found his black but muddied Wellington boots and pulled them on, hoping the sleet had ceased outside. Then he ventured out into the cold, clutching the coal bucket, which was almost half the size of himself.
There were steps leading down to a paved pathway, and on the other side of this was an outhouse, which contained bike parts, home-made trolleys, forgotten toys and a morbid-looking, headless scarecrow, stuffed with straw and dressed in a torn mac and army trousers. Brenton had found the abandoned bird-frightener in a ditch, near a farm, and decided to give it a home. Many times he had stolen conversations with this scarecrow while he carefully upholstered its limbs, and thought about how he would make its head. He propped it up in a dusty corner and always greeted it with a ‘how you doing today?’ whenever he entered the outhouse.
Brenton found the pathway very slippery, caused by children sliding on the partially melted snow. So aware of this hazard, he carefully side-stepped his way to the coalbunker, which adjoined the outhouse. Once he’d reached the bunker, he had to feel his way inside, as the light bulb hadn’t worked since bonfire night. Unfortunately for Brenton, no coal had been delivered for quite a few weeks. This meant he had to rummage with his bare hands amongst the dust, in the hope of finding a solid piece of coal. There was a shovel he could have used, but the handle was broken and would prove awkward to hold. He dreamed of a pair of gloves, and at this moment, would rather have something to warm his fingers than the Action Man he saw in a television commercial. But he came swiftly back to reality, digging and foraging with his small, tender hands in the search of black gold.
Patiently, with determination, he managed to fill the bucket half-full. Satisfied, he clutched the handle and very carefully trod the pathway back to the home. He dragged the bucket up the outside steps and finally made it to the back door, where he halted and rested for a couple of minutes, feeling his arm and shoulder muscles aching. Then he opened the door, wiping his soles on the vast doormats and took another breather as he wrenched off his Wellington boots. Then he donned his slippers before completing the last leg of his chore.
The coal was required for the dining room, so now the weary child slowly eased his way along the hallway, taking care to keep the coal bucket steady. Alas, he stumbled, causing the bucket to wobble. One piece of coal escaped and danced along the hallway, leaving terrible black marks on the carpet. Brenton could only watch in horror, thinking he wouldn’t see another Christmas.
The rounded figure of The Belt stormed into the hallway to see a spread-eagled young Brenton and the coal blemishes, which made the carpet look like the body of a Dalmatian dog.
“You clumsy idiot, just look at that carpet! It has only just been hoovered.”
With The Belt rushing towards him with outstretched hand and serious-looking intent, Brenton cowered, covering his face with his arms, adopting the foetal position, expecting the familiar beating.
“Brenton, Brenton! Wake up, man, I’ve got your goods.”
Floyd was looking down on his spar, wondering why he was sweating. “Are you sick?”
Mopping his face with his hands, Brenton’s eyes focused on the two white paper bags Floyd was holding.
“Where’s the brew, man?”
Grinning, Floyd emptied his jacket pockets to reveal the strong after-dinner liquor.
The two friends quickly consumed their meal.
They were draining their beer when Floyd asked, “I see your sister is A-class, man - wicked-looking and t’ing. So I was wondering if you could have a word, know what I mean? You know, say something good about me so I can deal wid it positively set me up with the girl. I’m sort of asking you back the favour for when I controlled you the job.”
Brenton nearly choked on his beer. “Set you up? Set you up with my sister? You must be friggin joking. Ain’t you got enough gal already? The only t’ing I would set you up with is a Muppet. Shit, I don’t believe you sometimes, you crack me up.”
Floyd, feeling sheepish, glanced at his spar and tried to regain his composure. “All right, just stay cool, keep your Rizla intact, no need to burst a blood vessel and stress out your heartbeat. I only asked. I just wondered, you know.”
Brenton shook his head in disbelief, wondering if any gal in South London was safe from his spar’s ‘keep his bone content’ antics. But talking about his sister made Brenton feel it was high time he confronted her. Then he realised he didn’t have any cancer sticks to hoover after his meal.
“Shit, I forgot to tell you to buy some snouts. Why didn’t you remind me?”
With a grin, Floyd fished in his pockets once more to reveal a packet of cigarettes.
“You bastard, you weren’t going to tell me you had them, were you? Don’t mess about, man - oh, and give me my change, you ginall.”
“I was gonna tell you. I bought them with your corn and I ain’t no t’ief. Here’s your change, and you can’t take a joke, man.”
Brenton accepted the change. “Look, I’m sorry, man. I’ve had a bad day, know what I mean? I’ve mixed more cement than sound-men have mixed dub-plate.”
The duo lit their fags and relaxed to digest their meal.
Two hours later, after Brenton had enjoyed a warm bath, he felt determined to confront his sister that very night, wanting to know if she was still talking to him.
Casually, but smartly dressed, Brenton marched out of his home with a sense of purpose. As he arrived at his mother’s house, his heartbeat vibrated through to his throat. He strained his eyes to see if there were any lights on, but no, it was just a streetlight that shone yellow on his mother’s bedroom window. Perhaps nobody was at home? Feeling pessimistic, he thumbe
d the doorbell, and after a few seconds saw a rectangle of light appear around the door.
Looking immaculate in a white frilly blouse and cherry-coloured pleated skirt, Juliet studied her brother with no visible emotion on her face. “You’d better come in,” she said coolly, “unless you wanna stand there in the cold.”
Brenton silently shadowed his sister into the kitchen, where she switched on the kettle. “So how come you never called me?” she demanded. “You spoke to Mum a few times, but you never asked to speak to me. Why?”
Brenton composed himself before answering. “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me - you know, ’cos of what happened. I felt bad about it.”
“You mean you feel guilty?”
“Well, yeah, no no. I mean kind of.”
This uncertainty caused Juliet to smile; she had never seen her brother so humble in the short time she had known him.
“Where’s our mother?” he asked.
“Oh, she’s seeing some old friend of hers.”
Juliet took out two mugs from the cupboard, made the tea and gave a hot cup to her fretful-looking brother. “What do you feel about me?”
Brenton sipped his tea to give himself more time to work out an answer. “Well, listen, Juliet. To be honest, I haven’t a clue what having a sister is supposed to feel like. I mean, I haven’t had much practice. But you are sort of caring, and I have to admit I think you’re kind of all right. I suppose you can say that I am attracted to you, but this can’t be right ’cos you’re my bloody sister. But like you say, people can’t help what they feel. Maybe it’s best if we don’t see each other. But it’s kinda scary, you know. I’m getting to the stage where I’m starting to imagine t’ings. You know what I mean?” Why am I saying all this? Am I going cuckoo? Brenton agonised. Could I be loved?
Juliet appreciated her brother’s straight talking, but hadn’t expected him to be this honest. She was thrilled by Brenton’s words, despite the battle of her conscience, but unsure what to do next. She arose again and slowly walked over to Brenton, who was standing at the entrance to the kitchen. When she reached him, she gently turned him around, seeking eye-to-eye contact. Only inches apart, Juliet raised her right hand to touch his semi-Afro hair. “I’m starting to imagine t’ings as well,” she murmured.
Then she half-closed her eyes and kissed her brother on the forehead. Brenton stood very still, studying his sister’s every facial movement. “This is madness,” he choked. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I ain’t resisting this any more.” He laughed nervously, then resumed, “You know, since I was a little brat, I wanted to be close to my family, but this is taking the piss.”
Juliet laughed heartily, then placed her arms around the neck of her brother and jig-sawed her hands together. The two of them gazed into each other’s eyes, both realising that their mutual attraction would have to remain a secret. Juliet was extra conscious of this, because if her mother found out, she knew it would devastate Cynthia.
They both sat at the kitchen table and talked freely for over an hour, recalling their differing childhoods. Brenton even told of his recurring nightmares, which disturbed his sister, but at least she could now identify the torment in his eyes.
Before he was allowed to leave, Juliet embraced him again, this time kissing him on the cheek. He responded by giving her an awkward hug, unsure of where to put his hands.
Prior to opening the front door, Brenton joked, “I just don’t believe it. The first woman to hug me up and kiss me is my sister.” He mentally pinched himself. Maybe she wasn’t really his sister. Maybe she had a different mother. His mother might have adopted her. These things happen …
He went home, leaving his sister thinking she was now taking part in her own love story - like the ones that filled the shelf in her bedroom.
Juliet Massey, what have you done! What the fuck have you done! her conscience scolded her. As for Brenton, he felt a strange contentment. He bounded off, whistling the Gong’s Could You Be Loved.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
There She Goes
9:30 am, the following Monday morning
The postman walked past the hostel without making any delivery. Floyd impatiently prowled the hallway with a corn-hungry look misting over him. He rapped on Mr Lewis’s door, then jutted his head around it before stepping in. He found Mr Lewis’s head ostriched in paperwork, amidst a plume of cigarette smoke. “You sure my G never come in the post this morning?” he said anxiously.
Mr Lewis glanced up. “No, um, I suppose you should get down to the DHSS Office and ask them what has happened to it.”
Floyd would have gladly kicked a cat if he owned one. Mr Lewis noted his charge’s anxiety. “Floyd, it’s a long time since I’ve had a chat with you. Come inside and sit down.”
The teenager took the chair facing Mr Lewis and slouched into it. “Can I have a snout, please?”
Lewis dug into his pockets and offered him a cigarette. “Now Floyd, I can’t remember the last time you told me you had gone to the job centre. Don’t you have any ambition? Don’t you want to work? Life isn’t fair and things don’t arrive on a plate for us. Especially for lads like you.”
“You mean for blacks like you.”
“You are young now, but there will come a time when you are living away from here. Then you will have to stand on your own two feet and support yourself. You can’t go through life aimlessly – you must set yourself some goals. I mean, what do you want to do with your life?”
The social worker waited expectantly, but Floyd looked as though he wanted to step out of the room sharpish. “Is there a problem I can help you with?” Lewis persisted. “Like a family problem? You are allowed to invite your family down here – your sisters perhaps? Your mother is always ringing and asking about you.”
Floyd knew there were some truths and rights to what the social worker said, but still thought Lewis was a nosy parker. “I ain’t got no problems with my family - apart from my paps, right? And even if I did, it’s none of your business,” he said truculently. “I don’t have to tell you everyt’ing.”
Lewis drummed his fingers on his desk.
“I don’t wanna do no shit job like Brenton,” Floyd explained, “where dem boss use you like slaves. I wanna do something constructive, but when you go for the good jobs, dem white bosses don’t want to employ a black yout’. You know what I’m saying, Mr Lewis?”
“Well, er, not all bosses are like that.”
“Most of them friggin are.”
“You can’t just give up. You have to try, you know. Like I said, life isn’t fair, but you have to make the most of it. You can’t just waste yourself like this.”
“Look, I will try and get a decent job, but it ain’t easy. And I’m telling you from now, I ain’t taking no slavery job like working behind a McDonald’s counter.”
Mr Lewis nodded his head, thinking his charge never listened to his counselling; even Brenton was attentive sometimes. Floyd rose and departed, wondering what the fuck had happened to his G cheque.
Two regrets later, the social worker watched from the window as Floyd cursed his way down the street. Mr Lewis considered it was very true that employers discriminated against young blacks; nevertheless, he couldn’t tell Floyd not to bother to look for work! And why wouldn’t he see his family? His mother doted on him.
Later on in the evening, Ms Massey arrived home from work feeling that if she was offered retirement tomorrow, she would grab it. The difficulties of trying to explain to a close friend about the reappearance of her long-lost son nagged at her conscience. Could she have fought harder to keep Brenton, or done more to find him? These questions rouletted through her mind and began to make her feel dizzy. She had recently visited her doctor to obtain more pills for her high blood pressure, but she knew there was no medication for this harrowing guilt.
She shuffled along the hallway and without taking her coat off, entered the kitchen. She wanted to make a cup of tea for herself, but for the
time being, plonking herself on a chair seemed a better idea. Once seated, she began to reflect.
Her mortgage was almost paid off - thanks and praises for that, she thought. But her early life in England had been hard graft - tending to the incontinent, taking crippled old people to the toilet, and administering undignified standing baths to them.
Her instincts kept telling her it was too late to form a natural mother and son relationship. The closeness she experienced with Juliet would never materialise with Brenton. Maybe, she thought, it would be best to concentrate on the future and not dwell on the past. Then she remembered it was her son’s birthday in a few days’ time. How could she forget that? She didn’t even need to think about what day Juliet’s birthday fell upon; it was 25 May. A little more thought was required to remember her son’s birthday. Was it 22 or 23 March? She wasn’t completely sure.
An interruption of her thoughts came in the sound of the doorbell. Laboriously getting up from her chair, she slowly walked towards the front door while unbuttoning her green trench coat. She opened the door to reveal a frustrated-looking Garnet, immaculately dressed in blue suede jacket and matching blue corduroys. Tall and athletic, he sported three gold rings on his right hand and the barber’s spray was still scenting out from his neat Afro. Cynthia thought he was an ideal partner for Juliet, and wondered if they would one day produce her first grandchild.
“Is Juliet in?”
“No, she don’t come from work yet.”
An irritated Garnet glanced up and down the street. “I can never get hold of her. She don’t return my calls, and I haven’t seen her for weeks. Where’s she hiding?”
Cynthia ushered Garnet inside. “Well, recently we’ve ’ad a liccle family business, y’understand? Anyway, she shouldn’t be too long. You can wait for her until she reach.”
Garnet headed towards the kitchen where he knew he’d be offered something hot to drink. Cynthia followed behind. “I was jus’ about to make myself a cup of tea. You want one?”