East of Acre Lane

by Alex Wheatle

  Sceptic and Coffin Head laughed until their bodies nearly gave away, both of them recognising that when it came to after-herb cussing, Biscuit was still the undisputed champion. ‘Wha’, what a blowoh,’ Sceptic gasped. ‘Ki’, kiss me neck, Floyd get cuss like him never get cuss before. Cabbage water … wha’ a blowoh.’

  Floyd sucked on his dying spliff. ‘You finished?’ he asked. ‘You ’ave any more secret you wan’ tell de world?’

  ‘You started dis shit, man,’ replied Biscuit. ‘Asking me when’s de last time I examined a girl. Like I said, it’s nutten do wid you, an’ you wanna stop t’inking you’re some kinda hero jus’ because you go round boning anyt’ing dat wears a frock. I know who I want an’ I will wait for who I want. So don’t gi’ me any grief on de subject.’

  ‘Char, jus’ cool, man,’ said Coffin Head. ‘Come round here for a nice smoke an’ you lot jus’ start cussing each uder like you wanna fight. Do we always affe do dis? Who’s gonna go off licence?’

  Sceptic was still chuckling. He tried to restrain himself, but the thought of Floyd being told by a girl that he hadn’t yet discovered deodorant proved too much. He burst out laughing in full force.

  ‘Shut de fuck up, man! You’re coming like hyena watching a Carry On film.’

  Sceptic looked upon Coffin Head and sensed he was serious. He tried hard to control himself.

  ‘Sharon was reading de South London Press de uder day,’ Floyd changed the subject. ‘Dey done some survey an’ dey reckon der is over fifty per cent of young blacks unemployed.’

  ‘Der telling lie,’ commented Biscuit. ‘More like ninety-five per cent. Who do we know who’s got a job? Apart from dat foolish YOP scheme where dey pay you jus’ enough corn to buy a gobstopper an’ tek bus to work.’

  ‘Lizard an’ Brenton, innit,’ answered Sceptic. ‘Lizard’s working in some electrical shop an’ you know dat Brenton works as an apprentice carpenter for de council, innit.’

  ‘Jus’ de two of us den,’ remarked Floyd. ‘It’s like de Government jus’ kinda forget ’bout us—’

  ‘No dey don’t,’ Sceptic butted in. ‘Dey don’t forget to tell de beast to arrest you for nutten, an’ to beat you up inna cell.’

  ‘Friggin’ wort’less, renkin beast,’ cussed Floyd. ‘Dey still ain’t made no arrest for de Deptford fire. I still can’t believe it, man. Ten dead. Most of dem even younger dan us. Mus’ ’ave been hell, man.’

  ‘Beef’ead bwai do it,’ insisted Sceptic. ‘It ’as to be dem.’

  ‘Some man ’pon de Line are saying it’s de beast dat fling petrol bomb in der,’ Biscuit replied.

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ said Floyd. ‘Since de beast kill Blair Peach in broad daylight, an’ nuff people see it, an’ no one get charge for it, nutten de beast do or might do to us in de future will surprise me.’

  Everyone nodded their heads, thinking that if the police could get away with killing a white teacher from New Zealand, then what chance did they have?

  Coffin Head turned to Sceptic. ‘It could of been worse.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Sceptic replied quietly, peering at the floor. ‘It gives me de shits ah night-time when I realise I could of died in that beast cell.’

  ‘We’re in de middle of a friggin’ war,’ stated Floyd. ‘De outside world don’t know nutten.’

  ‘Mebbe one of us could jus’ fin’ a gun an’ blast one of dem away,’ said Sceptic. ‘Dat will get everyone’s attention. Yeah, hol’ one of dem beastman down an’ put de gun barrel right up his nostril an’ pull de trigger. Mek his blood decorate the rarse claat road. An’ den send de bits of his brain to Westminster to de ‘Ome Secretary. Wassis-name? William Whitelaw, innit?’

  ‘Dat’s kinda spooky, man,’ commented Biscuit. ‘White law.’

  ‘Dat could be our own message to de fockin’ Government,’ added Sceptic. ‘Mess wid one of us, an’ we’ll kill one of dem. De ‘Ome Secretary would quake in his cabinet chair to blowoh, an’ t’ink twice ’bout sending order to murder we.’

  Even Floyd was stunned by the depth of Sceptic’s hatred. He peered into his friend’s eyes, and though reddened by the Jamaican bush, he knew Sceptic was speaking with an intensity that even scared him.

  ‘I’m going off licence,’ announced Coffin Head. ‘You lot love talk ’bout doing somet’ing, but dat’s all you really do – jus’ talk … Brews all round, yeah?’

  He was answered in lazy nods. As he departed, Floyd dropped himself on to the vacant bean bag. The Wailing Souls ‘War’ thunderclapped out of the ghetto-blaster as Sceptic commenced the building of another spliff.

  8

  Sisters

  3 February 1981

  Biscuit wanted to go back to bed. He had just seen Nunchaks off, driving away in his van from the lock-up. As he reached his balcony, he saw his mother standing outside their flat.

  ‘Lincoln, me an’ Royston are on our way to Aunt Jenny’s,’ she announced. She was wearing a head-tie that covered her eyebrows, and didn’t look all that enthusiastic about visiting her sister. ‘Tell your sister fe meet us der if she wan’ her dinner. She’s still sleeping. An’ I expect you fe reach, cos you nuh see Aunt Jenny fe ah long time.’

  Biscuit entered the flat. ‘It’s Sunday, Mummy. Ain’t Aunty Jenny going to church?’

  ‘Wha’ time you get ’ome las’ night?’ Hortense asked. She controlled her voice to hide the fact that she had stayed up until 2am when sleep finally claimed her; she was awakened by the front door slamming just after 4am. ‘It’s gone past ten, an’ Aunt Jenny gone ah church an’ come back.’

  ‘I was at Floyd’s,’ Biscuit revealed. ‘Can’t remember what time I got back.’

  ‘Wha’ you doing round de back dis time of morning?’

  ‘Jus’ doing some tidying in de lock-up,’ Biscuit lied.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Bye, Mummy.’

  Holding the reluctant hand of Royston in his Sunday best, Hortense made her way to the bus stop. Biscuit watched them catch a 109 bus before collapsing on to his bed.

  ‘Hortense!’ Jenny hailed as she opened the front door. She took off her glasses and hugged her sister. Hortense patted Jenny’s shoulder with one hand and smiled without using her eyes. Jenny, slimmer and taller than her sister, was dressed in a smart yellow jacket and matching skirt. As Hortense dropped her eyes to her sister’s calves, she thought that white tights didn’t suit black women. Jenny’s frilly white blouse was the same colour as the flower pinned into her hair. Coming up behind Jenny was her daughter, Ruth, sporting a neat black trouser suit, displaying a look of perfect politeness. ‘Ruth, put ’pon de kettle an’ mek your aunt ah cup ah tea.’

  In the hallway was a rubber plant that was taller than Royston. The lush carpet was protected by a see-through rubber mat and a telephone was sitting on a small glass table near the staircase. Blue-flocked wallpaper covered the walls, disturbed only by a waist-high radiator, situated past the staircase. The lounge was the first room on the right, and the dining room was further on. The hallway led all the way to the spacious kitchen, where the smell of boiling chicken licked the air.

  Royston scampered to greet his cousin and hopefully win a chocolate treat if he charmed her with enough smiles.

  ‘Royston,’ Hortense yelled. ‘’Ow many times me affe tell you fe stop run around inside people ’ouse.’

  ‘Let him be,’Jenny soothed. ‘Him an’ Ruth were always close, an’ he don’t see her fe quite ah while now. I’m sure she ’ave some sweetie fe him … Royston! Come ’ere darling.’

  Royston ran to his aunt’s side. ‘You forget your manners? You can’t say hello?’

  ‘Good morning Aunty Jenny … Where’s Uncle Jacob?’

  ‘Oh, ’im doing God’s work at de church. He’s very busy setting up t’ings for de Reverend from America who’s going to talk to us again tonight. Jacob an’ de rest will ’ave to set up more chairs, cos if tonight’s service is anyt’ing like dis morning, it will be packed o
ut.’ Jenny clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. ‘Everyone sing so nice an’ de sound of de musicians jus’ mek everyt’ing so joyous.’ She opened her eyes and smiled broadly. ‘An’ den, dis minister from Chicago jus’ raise up everybody’s spirits wid his speech.’

  ‘If God’s got so much work to be done,’ Royston said suddenly, ‘why can’t He get Lincoln and Denise a job, and Frank?’

  ‘Cos de Lord wants us to help ourselves,’ smiled Jenny. ‘We can’t jus’ pray an’ expect everyt’ing … Why don’t you find Ruth, I’m sure she ’as ah nice surprise fe you.’

  ‘OK.’

  Royston skipped off to the kitchen as Hortense controlled her tongue, not liking anyone to spoil her son.

  Jenny gently pulled her sister into the lounge. Hanging on the chimney breast, above the mantelpiece, was a framed portrait of Martin Luther King, whose eyes seemed to follow Hortense around the room, putting her on edge. The beige and red curtains were neatly tied by velvet-looking ropes, and the immaculately clean white net curtain showed off an intricate design. Upon the wall opposite the window were various framed family photographs, mostly of Jenny’s wedding day and her parents. Overlooking a red, buttoned sofa was a canvas painting of Jesus Christ upon the cross. Red weals lined his naked white chest, and it was apparent he was close to death, his head wilting limply on to his right shoulder. Hortense always avoided this painful image and purposefully sat with her back to it. Two smoked-glass coffee tables were in the centre of the room, each with a white doily upon it, and Hortense eyed the new wood-panelled drinks cabinet in the corner. Jenny love fe keep up wid de Joneses, she thought.

  Jenny sat on the thick-limbed sofa and snuggled up close to her sister. ‘Say, how’s de children, dem,’ she asked.

  ‘Nutten change,’ Hortense answered sedately. ‘Lincoln an’ Denise are still looking work. An’ Royston still asking all kinda question dat me don’t know how fe answer.’

  ‘De boy’s inquisitive,’ replied Jenny. ‘It means he’s hungry fe learning. Ah good sign dat.’

  ‘Wha? A good sign when de bwai wan’ to know wha’appen to ’im daddy?’

  ‘You should tell him, Hortense. You can’t jus’ leave it to his imagination. An’ you should of told Denise ’bout her daddy from time.’

  Hortense primed her tongue to reply, but before she could, Ruth entered with two mugs of nutmegged tea. ‘It’s brown sugar you take innit, Aunty?’

  ‘Yes, me love. You always cyan remember.’

  Ruth returned to the kitchen. Hortense glared at her elder sister. ‘Should do dis, should do dat. You always tell me I should whatever. It is fe me to decide fe tell me pickney ’bout dem daddy. An’ besides, Denise daddy ain’t much fe tell, an’ as for Royston daddy, Royal George! Me nuh like to even refer to ’im as ah daddy. ’Im jus’ ah rudie who came an’ den went. Bot’ ah dem cyan’t match up to Cilbert.’ She paused as she remembered her first husband. ‘Don’t you t’ink dat Lincoln favour Cilbert?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, he does, I’ll give you dat,’ replied Jenny. ‘Lincoln ’as his daddy’s eyes. But you ’ave fe stop comparing Cilbert wid Royston’s an’ Denise’s daddies.’

  ‘Dat’s alright fe you to say. You ’ave never los’ your ’usband. Der was ah time when people did respeck me. People use to walk by an’ say ’ow do you do Mrs Huggins an’ exchange nice pleasantries. But now, everyone jus’ see me as ah penny ketcha.’

  ‘You can’t blame dat on Denise’s dad,’ replied Jenny.

  Hortense sipped her tea. ‘Well, like ah damn fool I went in search for ah so called fader figure fe Lincoln. You an’ everybody else say dat it would be ’ard bringing up my son ’pon me own. But me ah tell you – Denise’s daddy? Wort’less me ah tell you! ’im lucky me never t’row his backside over de balcony after de first week he did ah live wid me. He only stayed cos I was pregnant wid Denise, an’ cos he was yamming ah cooked meal ah night-time. All ’im good for was to check ’im loose woman an’ to tek me money an’ put it ’pon ’orse an’ maaga dog!’

  ‘But you can’t blame Denise for her daddy’s ways. Wasn’t we told long ago dat de sins of de fader should not be brought against his children?’

  ‘Yes, me remember Daddy saying dat. But I’m sorry fe say dis, but Denise jus’ remind me of de mistake I mek when me tek up wid dat batty-scratching fool. She ’as his cantankerous ways … Me could nuh believe it when me find out Denise’s daddy related to Pastor Thomas.’

  Jenny placed her hand on her sister’s forearm. ‘Why you don’t come to church again? Pastor Thomas is always asking fe you.’

  ‘Church! Your God ’as taken away de man I truly loved,’ charged Hortense, edging away from her sister. ‘If ’im so kind an’ merciful, He wouldn’t ’ave lef’ me wid a young chile fe bring up ’pon me own. I will never step inna church no more. Me made dat vow after Cilbert’s funeral, an’ me will never bruk it.’

  Hortense’s voice was splintering with emotion, and the recollection of her husband’s funeral had made her bitter. The Almighty had control of all things, she had learned as a child in Sunday school. This was affirmed by her parents in Jamaica. So why did God let her husband die? Was this the compassionate God that everybody kept preaching about? She recalled childhood Sundays where she walked three miles to a church that was no more than a large hut. Spellbound, she would listen to the preacher, an elderly man who she never heard speak quietly. God knows our needs, the preacher would shout, banging his fist on the pulpit. He will provide us with all our needs, he would repeat, his arms outstretched, inviting shouts of ‘Praise The Lord’ from the congregation. Hortense would always join in, standing on her feet and clapping her hands.

  ‘Your God never listened to me prayers when Cilbert was in such pain,’ she charged. ‘Never listen at all.’

  Jenny fell silent. She was glad that her parents were thousands of miles away in Jamaica, relaxing in their wicker chairs upon their veranda and well out of earshot. They would have died from shock to hear Hortense’s bitter words. Their belief was something that they had all shared, but Jenny knew that the loss of her sister’s husband had gnawed away the joyous faith that they had all been part of.

  Jenny missed the unity of family and community from her hometown of Claremont. Her family and neighbours lived mostly in two-room wooden shacks but there was a dignity within the people that Jenny hadn’t seen matched. People were respectful to each other and the advice of the elders was eagerly sought. Men worked the fields singing spirituals while women scrubbed everything that was worth scrubbing, fed the chickens and milked the goats. The whole village acted as baby-sitter for bare-footed children and there was no reason to lock any doors. Everyone woke up with the rising sun and retired to their shacks when it set; even the local sages were afraid of the dark.

  Jenny remembered the beacons of fire that lit the steep hills surrounding her hometown and beyond at harvest-time. Big dinners were cooked in outside kitchens, using every available vegetable and prize goat. Men would go into town and buy the best overproof rum. African Anancy stories were told to mesmerised children around the bonfire. Courting couples, sitting on felled branches, embraced and fed each other as local griots interpreted biblical tales. The bouncy rhythms of mento bands drifted on the Caribbean night breeze, to a backdrop of gossiping unseen crickets, filling the valleys and hollows in this mountainous part of Jamaica with sounds Jenny would never forget.

  ‘What about Royston?’ she enquired. ‘I could pick him up on Sunday mornings an’ tek him to church, an’ he could spend de rest of de day wid us. It will give you ah liccle respite ’pon Sundays.’

  ‘You better mek sure me’s well underground before you even t’ink ’bout dat,’ barked Hortense. ‘Me pickney nuh get poison by promises of mercy an’ going to heaven, an’ of ah God dat listen to people’s worries an’ give people dem der daily bread. I’d rather walk ’pon burning bush nettle an’ stan’ up before 109 bus dan let me young pickney go ah church an’ listen pastor-man posing in
der t’ree-piece suit.’

  Jenny glared in disgust, restraining herself from spilling the tea upon her sister. ‘Your contention is wid God, an’ it’s you alone who defy him in dis family. Don’t bring your own flesh an’ blood to fight your battle wid you. Leave Royston outta it – he’s jus’ ah small boy an’ you ’ave no right to turn him ’gainst de Almighty.’

  ‘Don’t boder try an’ scare me wid your hell talk,’ Hortense snapped. ‘Royston alright how he is, an’ dat’s ’ow it’s gwarn stay. So don’t you boder come wid your ketch a fire scare-mongering tales. Cos dem t’ings don’t boder me no more. I ’ave more concern dat dey start charge more fe breadfruit ah Brixton market.’

  ‘If dat’s de way you want it, then let it be,’ Jenny said, knowing the argument was far from over. It would fire up the next time, and the next, as surely as the sun rises in the east, she thought.

  In the silence of the armistice, Hortense finished her cup of tea as Jenny informed her sister of the goings on at the church. Pastor Thomas had initiated a recruitment drive, telling all and sundry that it was up to the church to save the souls of the youth. He had castigated the ‘ignorant rastamen’ who were trying to lead the youth down a dangerous and unGodlike path. And he had called on God’s wrath to bear down on the people responsible for the unemployed masses.

  Hortense imitated a favourable ear but her mind was elsewhere.

  Two hours later, dressed in faded blue jeans and a thick green pullover, a surly-faced Denise arrived. She said a brief hello to her aunt and mother before disappearing into the kitchen to help Ruth with the dinner. Her cousin was basting the roast potatoes and Denise decided to prepare the salad.

  ‘So, how’s the job hunting?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Dat’s a laugh, innit,’ Denise replied. ‘De only jobs I sight down de job centre de uder day were for chambermaids. Two pounds an’ a liccle an hour dem offering.’