Brenton Brown

by Alex Wheatle

  Approaching her mother, Breanna’s mouth was only a few inches away from Juliet’s right ear. ‘So you’re telling me that you didn’t even realise that some guy was … inside you?’

  ‘I don’t remember, Breanna! What do you want from me?’

  ‘The truth might be helpful.’

  ‘I’ve told you the truth. Are you calling your own mother a liar?’

  Backing away a step, Breanna primed her tongue. Juliet dared to turn around and she saw Breanna’s eyes gas-ringed with anger. She could see Brenton in her glare. Uncompromising, fierce eyes.

  ‘YES!’ Breanna raged. ‘You’ve been lying to me all my life. Who is my father?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘I’m your mother!’

  ‘So you say. I’m starting to wonder if that’s true.’

  ‘Oh you’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘I think you had a bit too much to drink this evening. Why don’t you go to bed and we’ll forget about this?’

  ‘No! I will not forget about it. Who’s my real dad?’

  About to answer, Juliet noticed a shadow behind the frosted-glass kitchen door. She wondered how long Clayton had been standing there. She watched him enter the kitchen. Breanna folded her arms. She was breathing heavily. Juliet stood up and went to switch the kettle on once more.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Clayton. He was dressed in a black silk dressing gown with a yellow dragon imprinted on the back; Juliet always thought it looked ridiculous. ‘I could hear you two from upstairs. You might as well go out to the street and carry on because I’m not sure if they heard you in Uffington Road.’

  Glancing at her daughter, Juliet said nothing.

  Breanna dipped her head and failed to acknowledge Clayton despite him glaring at her. She suddenly stood up and announced, ‘I’m going to bed.’ She brushed passed an outraged Clayton and Juliet could hear her stomping up the stairs and then her bedroom door slamming.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Clayton asked.

  ‘She wanted to know about her father,’ Juliet answered.

  ‘I’m her father,’ insisted Clayton. ‘She has only known me as her father.’

  ‘She’s curious.’

  ‘Too curious,’ said Clayton. He poured himself a glass of water and drank it in one go. ‘Some birthday.’

  ‘What do you mean some birthday?’

  ‘I help buy her a brand new car for her birthday and at the end of it she wants to know about her real father. That’s the respect I get in this house.’

  ‘You feel hard done by?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘I’m the one she’s calling a liar,’ Juliet raised her voice. ‘I’m the one she hates right now.’

  ‘Maybe the emotion of the day caught up with her?’ suggested Clayton. He opened the fridge, took out a carton of apple juice and found his favourite whisky glass in a cupboard. He downed his drink in one go. ‘But no emotion is an excuse for shouting at her mother. Maybe we should take the car keys away from her until she apologises.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘She needs to learn respect.’

  ‘The car was a birthday gift,’ insisted Juliet. ‘She’s twenty-one now. We can’t punish her like she’s twelve.’

  ‘Maybe if we did punish her when she was twelve she wouldn’t be so spoilt now.’

  ‘And that’s my fault, is it?’

  ‘It’s not my fault that I was out there working all the hours I could to put a decent roof over our heads. I didn’t have the quality time with Breanna that you did.’

  Meeting Clayton’s stern gaze, Juliet nodded in acknowledgement. She stood up and got herself another bag of herbal tea. She didn’t bother switching the kettle on again and instead poured its lukewarm contents into her mug. She felt Clayton’s eyes watching her every move and making love only an hour ago now seemed as if it was a year.

  ‘You coming to bed?’ asked Clayton. ‘We’ll all be in a better mood in the morning.’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Juliet, poking her tea bag with a teaspoon. ‘I’ll be up in a minute.’

  ‘I’m going up,’ said Clayton. ‘You should speak to Breanna in the morning and make sure she apologises.’

  ‘She had a bit too much to drink.’

  ‘That’s no excuse.’

  ‘I just want to forget about it.’

  Clayton shook his head before he left. Juliet took another sip of tea and opened a packet of chocolate biscuits. She enjoyed the sensation of chocolate melting over her tongue and wondered why she had made a New Year resolution to stop eating chocolate. She finished her snack and thought of Brenton. Always Brenton.

  Chapter 10

  Seeing the Whales with Jonah

  TWO THIRTY A.M. Unable to sleep, Brenton climbed out of bed and built a spliff. His eyes felt heavy and he had developed a sniff. He switched on his stereo and Frankie Paul’s Worries in the Dance played on a low volume. Rolling his joint carefully, he reflected on the day’s events. He sniffed again. They bought Breanna a car! he raged inside. I felt like a fucking pauper with my card and two hundred notes. Why didn’t Juliet tell me she was buying a car? Why should she tell me? Why can’t I deal with that? Clayton. He looked so happy with himself. Fuck him. I wanted to disappear. Vanish. Couldn’t get out of their place quick enough. Not gonna go there for a while. Fuck it.

  Finished with wrapping his spliff, he lit it and pulled on it hard. He winced as he suffered a bit of discomfort in his throat. He exhaled through his nose and made smoke rings with his mouth. He felt as if a miniature heavy metal guitarist was strumming away beneath his forehead. Hate heavy metal, his inner voice yelled. Shit. No paracetemol or aspirin. Fuck it. Wish I could escape this shit of a life. Wish I could escape my feelings for Juliet and Breanna. It’s not easy to let go. Fuck! My head hurts. Maybe Floyd’s right. Maybe I need to make a move. Can’t take this shit. Can’t take Clayton. Him playing daddy. Maybe I should just bust him up and accept the prison term. At least in there I know I can’t have Juliet.

  He toked again. The smoke corkscrewed towards the ceiling. Need to give it another coat of paint before too long, he promised himself. He drifted back in time. Late-night smoking sessions in the social services hostel where he had first met Floyd when he was only sixteen. He could hear the dominoes being slammed on the table during a raucous game. He could hear Dennis Brown thumping out of the boom box or what Floyd called the Brixton suitcase. Three Meals A Day! No rent to pay, only the boss is getting pay, no wife to obey. Sitting in a two by four, looking through an iron doooor! Whoooaaa I could never get used to the smell! I’m talking ’bout detention, detention. Oh a whoaaa!

  He remembered searching his road for cigarette butts. Never could roll a decent spliff, he laughed at himself. Even now. Eating corn beef and soggy rice for Christmas dinner. Watching a grainy black and white James Bond on TV on Christmas Day. Getting fucked on Special Brew and Tennent’s beer. Eyeing up girls in tight two-tone skirts and crimplene blouses. Buying a two-pound draw of weed from a dealer who walked through the aisles of the Ace late-night cinema. He felt the abrasions, bruises, blows, cuts and stabbings from the street fights he had in his youth. Was that really me? he asked himself. I could have died. Shit. Why was I so reckless? He fingered the scar on his neck. A stark image of his former nemesis Terry Flynn grew large in his mind. Brixton tube station. The ticket barriers. The escalator. The fight. Flynn’s arm being ripped off by a train. The blood. Maybe I should’ve let the train kill me rather than kill you, he concluded. My life’s been shit since that day. I survived that home. Just about stayed alive in Brixton. Juliet broke me completely. Don’t think I’ll ever recover from that. The future ain’t bright or fucking orange for people like me. No woman, no children that I can call my own. The women I have relationships with end up hating me. People like me don’t have happy endings. Fuck! I’ll just get old and die a fucked-up miserab
le bastard with a reggae album full of issues. They might as well bury me in a Soferno B speaker box and fling it down one of them old mines they tried to keep open back in the day. Poor miners. Arthur fucking Scargill and his fucked-up baseball hat; them t’ings never look good on old white people. Fights with the police. Maggie ‘Iron Heart’ Thatcher. State burial? Yeah, they should give her a state burial, he decided. But make sure she’s alive when they fucking do it!

  His thoughts drifted further back in time. To when he was seven years old. Living in that home.

  Pinewood Hills Children’s Home Village, November 1970

  He was sitting on the crisp, damp grass in his school uniform. Alone. It was early November. All shades of purple, brown and red leaves skirted the field. A hobby bird glided majestically over his head. He felt no wind. Someone was playing football in the distance and he could just about hear the shouts of goal whenever someone scored. He could smell the bark of the nearby trees and the forming dew. An orange sun was dipping beyond the big houses in the west. Beyond that the hills shadowed the horizon. Red night shepherds’ delight, Brenton remembered. He couldn’t recall who told him that phrase. It was probably Father Holman.

  A gathering chill was in the air. He knew he should have been home. It was dinnertime. Roast beef, cabbage, carrots and roast potatoes. That was alright. He wouldn’t get in trouble for leaving anything on his plate. Think about the starving children in Africa, she would say. The Biafrans and the Pygmies aren’t as lucky as you, she would add. You could have been one of those poor mites. They would give their skinny little arms for a Sunday roast. Be grateful for what you get! Rhubarb for dessert, he remembered. Hate rhubarb almost as much as her, he thought. He knew that even if he went home now he would get a beating. He hated that belt. He would get a whipping if he was at home anyway for not eating the rhubarb. If child Jesus was sitting at his dinner table and He didn’t like rhubarb would she beat Him too? Why can’t they make apple crumble every day? Maybe that’s why boys of his age and up to eleven were told to wear shorts. So they could feel the full pain of the belt. Got to escape, he decided. He’d better get a move on. Be like Steve McQueen in that film. One day I’m gonna learn to ride a motorbike and when I do I’m gonna run her over. Squash her like those round flat pieces of shit in the cow field. Squash her head until blood comes out of her nose.

  He jogged out of the meadow and started down the road towards the back gate of the children’s home. He saw some boys collecting wood from a glade for bonfire night. He quickened his pace and by the time he went through the back gate he was sprinting. He rested for a minute, his muddied hands on his knees. He felt his heart pumping. He kept checking behind. She’s really gonna beat me now and then she’ll probably lock me up in the outhouse for ten years, he reckoned. Out of breath but gotta keep on moving.

  Now walking on an affluent street with semi-detached houses, he wondered how often the kids who lived in these homes got their beatings. Maybe every day like he did? Or because they got mums and dads maybe every other day? I wouldn’t mind that, he thought. You get hits from the belt but tomorrow you can look forward to a no-beating day. Yeah, I wouldn’t mind that at all. That’d be cool. Maybe ’cos they got mums and dads they only get beatings from the hand? That’d be easy peasy. I’d do whatever I wanted if that’s all you get from mums and dads. I’d be nicking from the staff cake-tin every night.

  He came to the end of the road. He checked behind. He half expected to see her with the belt in her hand. No one following. He let out a sigh. This was easier than I thought, he said to himself. I should have done this before. He looked over his shoulder again. Father Holman will be glad to see me, he anticipated. He likes kids. Kids belong in God’s house. Yeah, that’s what he said. Jesus loves children. He said that too. He told off those horrible apostles because they were stopping the children coming to Jesus. He even told off Saint Peter. Let them come to me He said. Saint Peter had to get out of the way. Saint Peter’s an idiot anyway. Why did he ask to get crucified upside down? What an idiot! That must’ve hurt more than getting crucified the right way up. All his blood would’ve trickled over his face.

  I’m gonna live in God’s house, he decided. No way will she dare to take me away from God’s house. Father Holman called it the Kingdom of Heaven. Hope they got a football pitch in the Kingdom of Heaven and lots of Angel Delight pudding and apple crumble. Maybe there you only get beatings once a week. I wonder who gives out the beatings? Can’t be Jesus. No, He likes children. Maybe Moses. He’s got a bit of a temper. He went a bit mad with all those people when he came down from that mountain. When I finish playing football I’ll ask the angel Gabriel for a ride on his back. He can take me all over heaven. He can take me to see strong Samson. I’d like to see Mary. She can tell me who my mum is and introduce me to all my great-grandparents and all that. And I don’t care what she says. They don’t live in a jungle. Then I’ll ask Jonah if he can take me fishing and for a look at the whales. I wonder if whales are up there in heaven. Yeah, why not? God must have some gigantic swimming pool for them. Dolphins too. And sea horses. But no sharks or octopussies. Or snakes. Maybe all the Mars bars are free in heaven. Yeah, it’s gonna be brilliant.

  Twenty minutes later he reached the Catholic Church of Our Lady of the Annunciation. It was now dark. He walked along the curved driveway and passed a fir tree on the green. He looked up to the tower at the left of the building. It had three slim windows and he wondered what it was like inside there. The doors of the church were closed. God’s house, he thought. It was very quiet apart from the murmur of traffic on the main road. He looked at the church again and wondered how long it took God to build it with those red bricks. Maybe it took him a day and an extra day to colour in the stained windows. It looks pretty. Maybe he could ask Father Christmas for a colouring book of stained church windows. Then again Santa hadn’t given me the football or the Subbuteo game I wanted last year. Doesn’t Santa know I go to church? I’ll tell Father Holman. He can tell Father Christmas that I deserve presents this year ’cos I’ve been to church every Sunday and Sunday school.

  There was a noticeboard fixed onto the front of the building. Brenton walked up to it. The church autumn fair was advertised. There was going to be a tombola and a fancy dress competition. If I was allowed to enter I’d go as the Artful Dodger from that Oliver Twist film, he decided. Yeah, that should win it. He looked a bit dirty in that film, so with my brown skin I could be him. I could pretend my brown skin is dirt. That’s what she says anyway. Yeah, I could win it. There was also a coconut shy, arts and crafts and a beat-the-goalie contest. I’d like to enter that, he thought. I’d win that. Wonder what the prize is gonna be? Maybe a chocolate bar? Or a sixpence? Or even a Brazil football kit with number ten on the back. Pele’s shirt. Who knows? Maybe even a football. But she won’t let me go. No way. But Father Holman will. It’s God’s autumn fair after all. Not hers.

  Next door to the church was the church hall. There were no lights on in the building but Brenton approached it. He looked through a window. Maybe God don’t like anyone inside the place apart from when they have Sunday school, he guessed. When I live in God’s house I’m not going to Sunday school. I wouldn’t have to. Father Holman can teach me during the week. Don’t like the other boys at Sunday school. One day the devil will have them for dinner with his Brussels sprouts. He’ll flatten them like pastry, put them in the oven, put brown sauce on their heads and gobble them up like their gingerbread men. Yeah, eat them slowly. Crumb by crumb.

  Mustn’t think that, he rebuked himself. Father Holman won’t be happy but I can’t help it. How am I supposed to show them my other cheek? Why can’t Moses come down from heaven and hit them with that concrete thing that God wrote His rules on? Why can’t Jonah’s whale come down from heaven and swallow them? Or Samson can crush all their jaw bones so they can’t call me names any more. Maybe Joshua can come down and beat them up with his rod. When I grow bigger I’m gonna beat them all up and pray to Jesus to
tell Him sorry before I go to sleep. I’ll tell Him it won’t happen again.

  Beyond the church hall was the priest’s house. Brenton slowly walked towards it and half-expected to hear angels singing. A double red door was situated in the centre of the residence and Brenton looked at it for a long time. He felt his heartbeat uptempo. The front garden was small and he felt disappointed that there wasn’t a pond there with fish swimming in it. If there was a pond Father Holman could fish them out with a net and make more fish and bread, he imagined.

  Hesitantly, he started up the pathway to the double doors. It was a big house for just Father Holman to live in, he thought. At least he’d have room for me. Maybe I’ll have my own bedroom? Yeah.

  He knocked the brass knocker seven times and retreated three paces. He held his hands together behind his back and his mouth was open. God’s house! he thought again.

  A light illuminated a window to his right. Brenton smiled. He tried to remember all his good manners. He wiped the grass stains off his left cheek.

  The door opened to reveal a tall man with a white beard. He was wearing a long black cloak that reached down to his black shiny shoes. His white collar was too tight around his reddened neck. He had a wart on his left ear and a few tufts of wispy white hair. His sharp blue eyes moistened in the chill of the night. He looked down at Brenton and the lines in his forehead seemed to have doubled. ‘And what are we doing here on a school night?’ asked Father Holman. ‘Isn’t it your tea time?’

  ‘I missed it on purpose,’ stuttered Brenton.

  ‘Your guardian Miss Hills will be wondering where you are. She’ll be worried. And you don’t want people who care for you to be worried, do you?’