by Alex Wheatle
A young man walked gingerly away from the building site, holding his back with his right hand and stooping slightly. A black woollen hat covered his head, specked with cement mix. The size of his crusty frame was enhanced by the black, padded donkey jacket he was wearing, and along the pavement in his wake, he left a trail of gooey cement, dribbling off his army-type boots.
Cursing his luck, Brenton asked himself how he could take his sister out now that he’d hurt his back. He struggled his way to the bus stop, grim faced. A few aches passed before a number 36 heading for Camberwell pulled up. He took a seat on the lower deck, something he did very rarely.
After he disembarked near his home, he Long-John-Silvered to a chemist’s shop to buy a relief spray for aches and pains in the muscles. Reaching the hostel, he climbed the stairs to his room, where he delicately took off his donkey jacket and thick woollen pullover. He applied the spray to the damaged area, wondering when he would derive relief‚ but only sensed a numbing coldness. Carefully, he laid on his bed, hoping for the pain to fuck off and leave him alone. Glancing at Mr Dean, he thought to himself that he might as well be in discomfort somewhere he would be looked after - his mother’s home.
He faltered down the stairs, hoping that Mr Lewis would be in, but a couple of unanswered slaps on the man’s office door prompted the thought that Lewis was probably attending a social-wanker meeting. Time for plan B - struggle down the road to the phone box, and pray that it hadn’t been vandalised.
Following a change of clothes, Brenton hobbled carefully to the red phone box. To his surprise, it was in working order, although there were hammer marks on the metal box where the coins dropped.
Brenton dialled 100 for the operator, explaining to her very politely that had pushed his coin in the slot, but lost the call due to a faulty mechanism. The operator asked him for the number he wanted to dial, and he gave her his mother’s. The operator then connected him through. Although he was now earning a wage, the crafty habits he had caught off Floyd were hard to cure.
Fortunately Ms Massey was at home having a day off; she was delighted to hear that her son was going to pay her a visit. Concerned about his bad back, she advised him to call a cab to travel to her home - Brenton had been hoping his mother would make this offer.
Sitting in her kitchen, opposite Cynthia, sipping a hot mug of tea, Brenton appeared thoughtful.
“How did Lewis find you?” he asked her suddenly.
“Apparently, it was quite easy for him. The social services ’ad files on you when you were very young. Before you was born, I ’ad to fill in ah whole ’eap of forms, y’know. Dem ask questions like, who is your doctor? Your address, next of kin. Dat kind of t’ing.”
Although he was listening, Brenton looked blank, trying to give the impression that his mother’s explanation wasn’t important.
“In fact, even though I did move around ah liccle in the early days, I always ’ad the same doctor since I was pregnant wid you, y’understand? So anyway, a while ago I had a call from my doctor an’ him tell me that a man from social services of Lambet’ wanted to talk to me urgently. I knew it was about you, so at first I tried to ignore it, ’cos I felt too much shame. But after t’inking about it for a week, I called my doctor an’ tell him that I would like to make my address available for Mr Lewis of the social services. I could have called Mr Lewis directly, but I didn’t want to. I don’t like social workers.”
Brenton stared out of the window, watching an impatient motorist reverse into a space, which seemed too small. He rubbed his temple as Cynthia continued, “It don’t sound good, do it? You mus’ be ashamed of me.”
Brenton switched his gaze to his mother’s regretful-looking countenance. Then he slowly nodded. For the first time since he’d met the woman, he pitied her. But he didn’t show any signs of sympathy. Instead he sipped his tea again, wondering when the offer of food would come.
“Wid dat sick back, you better go in the front room and lie ’pon the couch an’ res’ up. In a short while I will bring you somet’ing to eat.”
So Brenton painfully hauled himself from his chair and dragged his throbbing back to the front-room sofa.
Twenty minutes later, Ms Massey entered the room carrying a fried-egg sandwich on a plate. She noticed Brenton had taken off his pullover, exposing his T-shirt, and had made himself comfortable, lying down with eyes slightly ajar on the sofa. But what truly drew her eye was the ugly scar upon her son’s neck. “I will cook dinner later,” she told him, “but ’ave dis snack for the time being.”
Brenton sat up painfully and received the offering as Cynthia felt compelled to comment about the wound. “Brenton, do you mind if I ask you how you got that scar ’pon your neck?”
Brenton alligatored the sandwich before answering. “Some bad man did stab me. I don’t want to go into it, but these things happen when you’re on your own. I was lucky to live, so the doctor told me. But I survived and I’m here. If there’s one thing I am good at, it’s surviving.” The image of the loathsome Terry Flynn hurtled into his mind. You will pay for this, he promised inwardly.
Ms Massey settled into the armchair opposite her son and gave him a lingering‚ caring look. Brenton glanced at his mother and finished his sandwich.
“You know, your fader got into fights because he went out wid me,” Cynthia confided. “I remember one of his best friends got drunk-up one night, an’ started calling him a nigger lover. Gary ’ad a very bad temper, an’ I screamed when the two of dem clashed.”
His interest caught, Brenton listened avidly.
“We ’ad to be very careful where we did go if we wanted to go out somewhere nice,” Cynthia went on. “Sometimes we would jus’ walk an’ talk inna park, y’know. Gary used to like nature an’ was always talking about driving to the country for the weekend. One of me best memories was your fader taking me to Kew Gardens. It was such a beautiful day - all the plants, flowers and t’ing look so nice. Your fader did want to take me to the bes’ clubs, but it was too dangerous. Even if we went to a black person party or drink-up, people would pass dem comments.”
Brenton thought of his adopted bench in Brockwell Park.
“When I look back,” Ms Massey said thoughtfully, “I ’ave to say your fader was a very brave man.”
“He wasn’t brave enough to look after me though, was he?”
Cynthia watched her son try and get himself comfortable on the sofa once more. A few Gary reminiscences later, she departed.
Time passed and Brenton fell into a heavy slumber. At a quarter to seven in the evening, the front door closing awoke him and in walked Juliet, both hands clutching bags full of shopping. She was surprised to see her brother there, snug on the settee.
“Make yourself at home, won’t you?” she joked.
Brenton was really pleased to see her but, as so often of late, his mind suddenly decided to rewind to an incident from the past.
Sitting on his metal-framed bed, the seven-year-old Brenton was confronted by The Belt. In her loud shrieking voice, she laid down the law to the child entrusted to her care.
“You, my boy, are going to school. I don’t want to hear any more lies about hurting your back while getting in the coal last night. No excuses, you’re going with the others. Or else I’ll give you what for.”
The speed at which Brenton’s mind recalled an event from his childhood was the same that flashed him back to the present. He focused his eyes on his sister, thinking about that day of forbidden passion.
“I was mixing cement and I felt this wicked pain in my back,” he explained, “so I’m here, getting some tender loving care. Know what I mean?”
With a somewhat embarrassed look, Juliet grabbed the shopping bags again and made haste to the kitchen.
Brenton stayed at his family home for a couple more hours. His mother did offer to prepare the spare room and bed, but he felt awkward staying the night, especially with Juliet in the adjoining room. So he declined her invitation and caught a cab back to
his hostel. During the journey, he thought about his mother and her sad despondent face. It was apparent to him that she was still burdened by a heavy sack of coal, and perhaps always would be. Maybe her suffering of guilt would only become worse, now he had dramatically reappeared on the scene.
Reaching home, Brenton shuffled up the stairs and thought to himself he could do with some entertaining chat with Floyd. But there was no answer coming from the other side of the door and no sound of a suitcase.
Floyd was over at Sharon’s home, trying to charm her into introducing her pelvis to his. There were together in Sharon’s bedroom, which as far as Floyd could see, was an open invitation to a long-awaited taste of nourishing steak. Maybe it was a bit naive of Sharon to have invited him up there, but Floyd’s face was a study of determination.
“Look, your mum’s out doing her nightshirt, your sister has gone and taken the pickney to see your paps for a few days - the pickney will probably end up sucking a bottle of brew - and I’m in your bedroom. So from here, we’re suppose to sort of get all romantic Hollywood and t’ing. But you wanna talk about the social conditions of second-generation blacks in England. I don’t friggin believe it!”
Sharon was giggling on her bed, enjoying the tease of her man, knowing what he wanted and deriving pleasure from making him wait. “You guys are all the same, just wanna get inside a woman’s knickers. Then you tell all your spars you boned so and so, so your brethrens can look up to you. Well Floyd, I ain’t so easy, know what I mean? I want nuff respect. When’s the last time you took me out?”
Floyd sat down, joining his girlfriend on the bed. “What are you saying, man? I took you out just the other day. You ain’t got nutten to complain about.”
As he completed his sentence, Sharon took a swipe with her right fist, aimed at her guy’s shoulder. She connected and sent him sprawling to the floor. “You facety shit! It was my friend’s party! I took you out - and me and Carol paid the cab fare. I’m talking about you taking me out for dinner or a club or something.”
Looking at a loss, as if he was selling a gold chain, but a customer discovered the chain was made out of plastic, Floyd rejoined his girlfriend. “You know I haven’t got no corn, man. I’m unemployed. If I had a job and t’ing, I would take you out, yes. Believe me, if I had a wad I would take you to dem club where only man with chauffeur driver go and where the bouncers wear dem bow tie. It seems you want a man for his corn. You’re not a shine eye gal, are you? Well, I’m just a loving pauper.”
The arm that had just sent him rolling off the bed was now wrapping around his shoulders. The catty grin swabbed off her face, Sharon appeared becalmed. “Look, t’ings will work out, man. I like you a lot ’cos you make me laugh. But I don’t want you to treat me like a leggo-beast, you know what I’m saying? Look what happened to my little sister. I don’t want the same t’ing happening to me, you understand?”
Floyd put his arm around his woman’s shoulders and kissed her gently on the eyebrows. “Can I stay the night? Please? I’ll do anything you say - even wash your baggy and clean out the dirt in your toes and scratch any itch in your headtop.”
Sharon deliberated for a while, then she stared her man straight in the eye. “All right, then. But you have to be gone by six in the morning. My mum usually comes back from work about seven, so you better chip before then.”
Floyd’s dial lit up, like a pensioner who just called house. Sharon resumed, “I want you to promise me somet’ing.”
“What’s that?”
“Promise you won’t get involved in this Brenton, Terry Flynn war.”
“Me get involved? Me! I wanna keep my pretty boat, innit.”
“Good, ’cos I don’t want to see you in no hospital.”
“Just cool. I’ve been telling Brenton it’s best to forget the past ’cos otherwise it will only end when one of dem is dead.”
“One more t’ing,” Sharon said. “Er, you have protection seen?”
From a picture of content, Floyd’s features turned to a look of grief. “Er, no. Er, I didn’t think. Oh frig my living days.”
Sharon abruptly took her arm off her man, stood up and proceeded to cuss loudly. “I don’t believe you sometimes! You ask to stay the night and you don’t even bring nutten to protect me! You’ve got a nerve, man - especially as you know about my sister!”
Floyd tried to defend himself and now wished he possessed the courage to walk into the local chemist’s shop and buy a packet of dick macs. “Just cool, man. Calm down, don’t bust no cheek or jawbone. To be honest, it wouldn’t have looked all that good if me and you were chatting and all of a sudden, I pulled out a mac. You would have checked me weird if I’d said, ‘Can we go to bed now?’ You would’ve kuffed me harder than you just did.”
Considering, ‘shall I kill him?’ she finally found the funny side of the matter and embraced the relieved-looking Floyd. The couple collapsed on the bed, laughing and kissing, but in between the giggles and kisses, Sharon whispered in her man’s ear, “You can stay the night, but er, you can’t go all the way, y’understand? Besides, there are other ways of doing t’ings, you know.”
Floyd was more than happy to accept this, but wondered how his bone would behave itself throughout the night.
The following morning, Brenton was in his kitchen, devouring a bowlful of cornflakes. He had risen late and had no intention of going to work. His back was still proving troublesome, although not as bad as the day before.
Mr Lewis plodded in from his room. “Aren’t you going to work today, Brenton? I hope you have phoned your foreman to tell him you will not be in.”
“I hurt my back yesterday morning, mixing cement. The boss man already knows I’ll be off for a couple of days.”
Mr Lewis ran his eyes over the kitchen, checking to see if the dishcloths he had bought were being employed. There were the usual mugs, plates and saucers left unwashed in the sink, but otherwise, everything was in order, probably because the inhabitants of the hostel couldn’t be bothered to cook.
“How is the job going? Learning much, are you?”
Brenton shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it’s all right I suppose, but there is little time for training. Everything is rush rush. Things have to be done quickly, and everyone has to work fast to get their bonuses. So there is little time for them carpenter man to show me t’ings every day. For most of the time I’m usually mixing cement, making tea, hod-carrying bricks and making more bloody tea, know what I mean? When I’m not too busy, I just watch them skilled man and see how they do t’ings. But it’s all right, the guys there don’t treat me too bad.”
The social worker appeared rather proud as he listened to his charge talk about his job. He recalled how just a few months ago, he couldn’t hold a proper conversation with him. Now he was working and had found his family. Mr Lewis felt Brenton was a self-improved young man, and he himself enjoyed a feeling of achievement - maybe his job was worthwhile after all. His superiors had misgivings about the experiment of a hostel for kids out of care, but Mr Lewis had convinced them it would work.
“How is your relationship with your mother?”
“Is there something about social workers? That when they become one, they can’t stop asking questions?”
Mr Lewis flashed a rare smile, causing him to readjust his glasses, realising he must have come over like some sort of interrogator. With that thought, he turned around and slothed back to his room.
Brenton placed his cereal bowl in the sink and stepped up the stairs, wondering what he would do for the rest of the day. As he entered his room, he wished his living quarters could miraculously be put in order. Recently washed, unironed clothes spilled out of a wailing laundry bag, and cassette tapes littered the floor, mixed with an assortment of underwear. Brenton simply ignored the mess and carefully laid down on the bed; if anyone were to ask about the state of his room, he could always give the excuse of his bad back.
As he relaxed and fantasised about what it would be like to
crub with the Sister Sledge soul group, Floyd barged his way in.
“Knock, knock, please come in.”
A wolfish grin buttered over Floyd’s face; he was obviously dying to speak of his manly deeds the night just gone.
“Sorry, but I see you come up, so I thought you wouldn’t mind ’cos it’s me. Anyway, I got my t’ings last night, you know what I’m saying? Yeah, I finally christened her in every which way possible. I was at Sharon’s yard the whole of last night. I only reach home just before seven.”
Brenton remained lying on his bed, with his hands supporting his head to make it slightly tilted. He gazed upon Floyd in doubt, scratching behind his right ear. Floyd sensed this.
“Yeah, man. She’s a tasty steak, she don’t hold back, man. I kind of felt awkward at first ’cos I was in her yard, but she practically seduced me. You know, these gal are all the same. They go on like they don’t want it, but really, they’re as peckish as us, you know what I mean?”
Brenton knew if Floyd told a tale, it would be grossly overhyped. “Well, you’ve wanted to bone Sharon from time. Usually, after you get what you want, you leave them. You going to leave Sharon?”
Wondering why his spar didn’t share his elation of his service to womanhood last night, Floyd sat on the bed, feeling boxed by the question. “I dunno, she’s all right. She ain’t stupid like other gal I know.”
“She must be, to go to bed with you.”
“Very funny.”
“So this is a serious t’ing then?”
“Could be, could be. But I wanna know if she can cook.”