East of Acre Lane

by Alex Wheatle

  ‘Yes, an’ ’im work me like ah mule. Damn slave driver. ’im use to ’ave me carrying yam heads ’pon me ’ead all over de bush an’ planting whole ’eap ah potato slips. Den de slave driver would mek me plant nuff peas an’ untold corn. An’ backside, ’im never even gi’ me ah pair of shoes, cah me affe cover up de corn ’ole wid me bare foot. Den when evening come me would affe cook fe de men dem, sometime all twenty of dem. To backside, me was glad to get ’way from de drop-lip fool.’

  Jenny laughed. ‘But when you come back, you lef’ your talkative ways behind.’

  Hortense stirred her tea more than was strictly necessary. The image of her father gate-crashed her mind and recollections of their relationship came thick and fast. She remembered how he used to dote on Jenny, always having her sit in his lap and congratulating her on her school work. Although not quite as good in her classes as her sister, Hortense felt she deserved praise for cooking the family meals and tending to her father’s tiny agricultural plot. She could also never understand why her father encouraged her to sing in the church, but banned it in the family home.

  She remembered the time she was beaten for losing the family donkey. She had only wanted to impress her father by carrying seeds and agricultural produce to the field where he worked. On the way, she got distracted by other children playing in the bush. When she went to resume her journey, she discovered that the donkey was gone. Her father thrashed her for the loss of the animal in front of all his work mates. Hortense never forgave him, and from that moment tried her best to embarrass him in public. The consequences of this were unfair, Hortense felt. Her father gradually ignored her, and Jenny got even more attention, escorting him on trips to St Anne’s Bay and to work in the school holidays. Hortense had to remain home with her mother, a dutiful quiet woman who always left the last word of discipline to her husband.

  Still stirring her tea slowly, Hortense set her gaze inside the cup. Jenny looked on with concern. Gradually, realisation dawned on Hortense that her father’s sins had passed on to her. Something inside her told her that as a girl she had had the same traits as her daughter. Finally she admitted to herself that Denise’s actions were not passed on from her father, but from herself.

  ‘It was only cah me Papa say dat if I ketch ah trouble once more, he woulda sen’ me back ah Uncle Malcolm, dat me change me bad mout’ ways,’ she replied eventually, bringing the cup to her lips.

  ‘Hortense,’ Jenny said, using a delicate tone, ‘you used to love going ah church back den. I remember how you used to sing out loud inna de choir an’ look forward to every Sunday. Sometimes Papa used to cuss cos you used to sing ah night-time when all lights were out. De neighbours did ah love it but it used to drive Papa mad.’

  ‘’Ow can ah man love ’im daughter to sing out loud inna church but ban it inside our very ’ome?’

  ‘Papa ’as always been ah quiet man who loves de countryside an’ t’ing.’ Jenny took a generous sip from her tea. ‘So we can expect Royston nex’ Friday?’

  ‘I s’pose so. But if me ’ear dat ’is backside der-ya inna church, den me an’ you will ketch ah cuss-cuss like never before. Y’understand?’

  Jenny nodded. ‘Sometimes I worry fe you, Hortense. You cyan’t keep on vexing God. One day He might tek you in ’and. I will pray fe you an’ ’ope dat in time you will see de error of your ways an’ come back inna God’s ’ouse.’

  18

  Herb Man Hustling

  3 March 1981

  Soferno Bs record shop blitzed the afternoon with the Crown Prince’s ‘To The Foundation’. Outside the shop, a woolly-hatted dread wearing a torn anorak bopped his head to the rhythm while peeling an orange with a flick-knife. A white SPG van turned slowly into Railton Road, brimming with eager policemen. To the right of the record shop, inside the market arcade, the scent of recently baked ardough bread wafted through the snapping chill. Three black youths, crowned in different styled berets, ambled towards the unemployment exchange, all clutching their UB40 cards. A teenage black girl wearing a loose-fitting track-suit weaved through the traffic on Coldharbour Lane, constantly looking behind her. Clutched to her chest were five red apples.

  Through the entrance of the arcade, about twenty yards from Soferno Bs shack, was another reggae site, the General Record Store, owned by a tall black man with a candyfloss-shaped afro. He was standing in front of a wall that was bedecked in reggae album covers. In the corner of the shop, eating a cocoa bread and meat pattie sandwich and listening to the Crown Prince’s ‘Sitting And Watching’, was Sceptic. Crowned by his tilted white beret, he was dressed in a faded denim jacket and brown corduroys.

  He checked his watch. 2.40pm. He watched the entrance and beyond as rootsheads and sound boys raised their hands to the shop assistant to signal a tune they craved. ‘Play de new Ranking Joe album,’ one demanded, drumming his gold-clad fingers on the counter.

  ‘Nah, boss,’ a picky head youth rejected, tapping his right mountain boot to the rhythm. ‘Keep on playing de Crown Prince – Dennis Brown rule.’

  ‘No, man,’ a rootshead disagreed, picking his teeth with a matchstick. ‘You cyan’t play Dennis Brown all de while. Run some Barrington Levy – ‘Robin Hood’ is a murderous tune.’

  ‘Ah, true dat,’ a bald-headed sound man concurred, fishing for his wallet. ‘De Mellow Canary ’as ah voice sweeter dan de sugar inna milo.’

  The shop-owner smiled at his audience and proceeded to play Barrington Levy’s ‘Robin Hood’.

  One dub version later, Biscuit appeared, wrapped in his leather bomber jacket and looking very frustrated. He greeted the guys he knew with a respectful nod, then saw Sceptic tongue-polishing his fingers. ‘Wha’appen to two o clock?’ Sceptic rebuked. ‘Been on my jacks since two, man.’

  ‘I was up Myatts Field, checking one of Denise’s friends dem, see if she knows where Denise der-ya. Told me she don’t sight Denise from time. I feel so she’s lying, but bwai, wha’ can I do? Can’t force her to tell me de trut’s an’ rights. Where de fuck is she, man? I didn’t t’ink she would go missing for dis long.’

  ‘Stop fret,’ said Sceptic. ‘Denise can look after herself, dread. She mus’ be coching wid one of her friends dem, someone you don’t know.’

  ‘I ’ope so. Jus’ don’t want her to tangle up wid Nunchaks … By de way, you ain’t seen ’im ’bout ’ave you? Don’t want ’im to see me, dread.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I’m changing my supplier.’

  He had realised that to continue to work for Nunchaks might be dangerous for Denise. Say somet’ing went wrong in his dealings wid de bad man? he asked himself. He didn’t want to answer his own question.

  ‘Blowoh. So dat’s why you did wan’ to check me,’ said Sceptic. ‘You know so you can’t juggle wid any of dem Lineman no more. Not even Herbman Blue will gi’ you ah liccle business.’

  Biscuit observed the reggae buyers for any suspicious ears. ‘Come. Let’s step outta ’ere.’ He gestured with his head. ‘Don’t wanna broadcast my business.’ He glanced nervously at a black youth in the corner of the shop who was wearing a Slazenger V-neck sweater and a Sherlock Holmes hat.

  ‘Yeah, it’s dat,’ Sceptic said, looking at the same guy. ‘Don’t trus’ de yout’s in dis shop. Informer der ’bout.’

  They stepped out of the record shop and turned right, walking deeper into the arcade. They saw middle-aged women inspecting the various fishes on display; black teenage girls gathered around the hair products stall, looking on the multitude of greases and shampoos. At the far end of the arcade, a crowd had assembled around a man who was selling cheap watches.

  ‘I t’ought you could hook me up wid Cutty Narks,’ said Biscuit, scanning the shoppers and idlers as he walked.

  ‘Cutty Narks?’ Sceptic asked in surprise. Could be dangerous, he thought. ‘Blowoh, he’s been ratchet sketched nuff times. ’Is face looks like de lace ’pon a rugby ball to rarted.’

  Cutty Narks had at one time been the peer of Nunchaks and Herbman Blue,
with five dealers working for him. But he had got into an almost fatal fight with a youth who was a member of a dangerous posse.

  ‘Yeah, but he’s still juggling innit.’ Biscuit said. ‘A liccle small-time t’ing.’

  ‘Nutten can stop Cutty Narks from juggling, but he had to remove from ’is spot ’pon de Line,’ replied Sceptic, not liking the way the conversation was heading. ‘He ketch up inna argument wid de Musketeers posse, innit. T’ree ah dem ’old ’im down an’ one ah dem wet up his face like Jimmy Cliff done to dat man in De Harder Dey Come.’

  ‘Yeah, me did ’ear ’bout it,’ Biscuit said casually. ‘Dem man from Stockwell Park sides wid der long piece of knife. But where is he operating from now?’

  ‘Landor Road, dat shubeen where Marxist Hi-Fi used to play. Cutty controls de basement.’

  The two friends reached the High Street. They could hear the shouts coming from the bible thumpers at the entrance of the tube station. Cars were stuck in a jam and pedestrians crossed the road, ignoring the green light. Bus stops were overcrowded as youths peered into the windows of shoe shops.

  ‘You’re on your own, dread,’ announced Sceptic. ‘Cutty don’t like man coming wid ah nex’ man. He gets all para ’bout it.’

  ‘Some bredren you are.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got more chance juggling wid ’im if you der-ya ’pon your jacks.’

  ‘I get de drift, man. I’ll forward ’pon my own.’

  Biscuit had a hunch that Sceptic had got himself into some kind of bother with Cutty Narks. He wondered if Sceptic was one of Cutty’s former dealers. But he didn’t voice his thoughts; Sceptic always seemed to enmesh himself into tribulation with any juggler he worked for. Mainly because he had a big mouth.

  On the other side of the road, Sceptic noticed someone he’d met on the Deptford fire march the day before. ‘So why you never come ’pon de march yesterday?’ he asked Biscuit accusingly.

  ‘I was looking for my sister. She ’as a sistren called Monica who lives up Kennington sides, near de courthouse. Denise went school wid her an’ I know so she raves wid her now an’ again. She sometimes comes round to my yard looking for Denise. But when I checked her, she told me she don’t know shit eider.’

  ‘Wassername? Monica? She fit? She Jamaican? She got man? Do you t’ink you can set me up?’

  ‘Stop sniffing, man. Bwai, you’re always t’inking wid your bone.’

  Embarrassed, Sceptic returned his thoughts to the march. ‘De march was going all right an’ t’ing,’ he reported. ‘Nuff yout’ joining ’pon de way, an’ everybody was inna vibe. De Deptford fire victims mus’ ’ave been well proud. But when we reach up West now some roughneck bwais start to smash up window an’ t’ing. Jus’ ah few ah dem spoil de vibe. Untold beastman appeared from nowhere an’ start arresting anybody dey could. Nuff yout’ get arrested but some beastman get lick up. Blowoh, we ’ad to scatter.’

  ‘So you went wid Floyd?’

  ‘Yeah, lost ’im up West sides. But I’m jus’ ’bout to check ’im, see if he’s safe an’ t’ing.’

  ‘I jus’ knew so der would be trouble der.’

  ‘It’s dat, but de beast weren’t ramping.’ Sceptic raised his hand as if he was wielding a truncheon. ‘Dey was going on well militant, using truncheon an’ t’ing. I sight a bwai get lick up an’ he weren’t moving, dread. I know so I ’ad to dally.’

  Sceptic took his leave opposite the skate-board park, telling his brethren he’d sight him later at Floyd’s. Biscuit felt the wad of money in his inside jacket pocket and walked on. Eighty yards later, he turned left into Landor Road. This street was in a worse state than Railton Road, he thought. Most of the terraced housing was falling apart and four skips were on the roadside. He felt confident that he could do business with Cutty because the former Lineman must want to build up trade again, he reasoned. Just need to juggle till summer, he told himself. Then I’ll sort out college. Maybe I can take biology again. I’ll ’ave to ask Sharon ’bout a grant.

  Three hundred yards up Landor Road, he noticed a bruised, blue door – Cutty’s place. The windows were boarded up with chipboard and black bags of empty lager cans and bottles rested against the chipped front wall. A voice in his head told him to look Cutty straight in the eye and not be intimidated by the collection of scars. He gathered in a strong breath, then knocked at the letterbox, holding his chin high. The door wailed open to reveal a rather short dread in a black overcoat, chewing on a small stick of sugar-cane.

  ‘Cutty der-ya?’ Biscuit asked.

  ‘An’ wha’ if he is?’ snapped the reply.

  ‘Come to chat ah liccle business. I need to control some plants from wholesale.’

  The diminutive rasta frisked Biscuit from neck to ankle. Satisfied, he eye-drilled him for ten seconds before leading him into the dimly lit passage. Biscuit’s heartbeat accelerated as he was led down a creaking, basement staircase; his steps appeared to be amplified all over the house, and he could feel the ridges of plaster on the walls as he went down into the darkness.

  Cutty Narks was parked on a bass-bin speaker box, watching the afternoon’s horse racing on a black and white television set balanced precariously on a cardboard record box. The flickering screen was the only light in the room. He was dressed in denim dungarees and crowned by a Panama hat. His locks reached down to the beginning of his throat and his face looked like a road map for the devil. His moustache was the shape of a black horse-shoe, giving him a spaghetti western look. His top lip was about twice the size of his bottom lip, and his cheekbones jutted out of his face like two sticks in a balloon.

  A stained brown blanket covered the window, and the smell of lager and rum emitted from the sill. Lengths of sound system wire were piled in a corner, along with tweeter boxes. A naked Action Man, painted in red, gold and green appeared lonesome and discarded in the middle of the dark wooden floor.

  ‘Tek off your clothes to your briefs,’ ordered Cutty, inhaling on a four-incher, imitating the pose of Lee Van Cleef.

  Biscuit focused on Cutty. Is de dread serious? he asked himself, his eyes not straying from Cutty’s glare. There was a tense stand-off, as Biscuit’s brain conjured up visions of being searched in an airport. Nah, he’s only doing dis to see if I’m wired to rarted, he thought. Or to see if I’m carrying a blade. He took off his jacket slowly, followed by his burgundy V-necked sweater, revealing a black stringed vest. He felt a print of the short rasta’s gaze upon his back as he unhooked the belt holding up his slacks. Seconds later, his trousers plunged in an undignified heap around his ankles. ‘I ain’t carrying no wire, dread. Brixtonian don’t work fe no MI5 or undercover beast.’

  Cutty nodded, still maintaining his stern pose, exhaling a rich smoke from his spliff. Biscuit took this as a cue to redress himself; he was sure the dread behind him had had a laugh that he was restraining in his belly.

  ‘Right, my yout’,’ addressed Cutty. ‘You passed de first test, now fe de second. Jus’ some liccle question me wan’ you fe answer.’ He stood up, holding his gaze upon Biscuit, and stepped two paces towards him.

  Biscuit raised his head and pushed out his chest, telling himself not to take a backward step. ‘Whatever,’ he returned, his confidence soaring like smoke from a burning spliff.

  ‘Alright, my yout’. Ah who controls Moa Anbessa sound?’

  ‘Beres.’

  ‘Who’s de mic men fe Front Line International?’

  ‘Welton Yout’ an’ Silver Fox.’

  ‘Who run Small Axe sound?’

  ‘Keit’y Dread.’

  ‘Who run t’ings down ah Villa Road?’

  ‘Soferno B.’

  ‘Who operates de sound?’

  ‘Big Yout’. Some man call ’im Chabba.’

  ‘Who’s de resident sound inna Cubies?’

  ‘Sir George.’

  Cutty smiled as Biscuit kept his pose, daring the dread to question him further. The smaller man appeared in the corner of his eye, and it was only now that Biscuit rea
lised he walked with a slight limp. Cutty switched off the television and set a more friendly gaze upon the wannabe buyer.

  ‘Wha’ name dem call you, my yout’?’

  ‘Biscuit. My mudder calls me Lincoln.’

  ‘Irie ites! You name after me bes’ singer, Lincoln Sugar Minott. Respect fe dat. So ’ow much collie you want?’

  ‘One ounce, dread.’

  The dread tried not to reveal his gratitude, but his raised eyebrows and the whites of his eyes betrayed him. Biscuit tried hard not to grin.

  ‘One t’irty fe dat, my yout’.’

  Biscuit couldn’t hold back his smile. ‘I can ’andle dat, cheaper dan some ah dem Lineman. Some ah charge one sixty.’

  Cutty smiled, nodding at the experienced youngster. Dis yout’ could mek me some regular corn, he thought. He offered Biscuit a cigarette from the top of the television.

  Biscuit accepted and wedged it on top of his left ear. ‘I man ’ave de bes’ prices in town,’ Cutty boasted, gesturing with his hands.

  ‘I don’t wanna buy herb dat’s already cut up, dread,’ asserted Biscuit. ‘You never know if it’s been sabotaged wid thyme an’ t’ing. De brethrens I sell to expect top ranking bush.’

  Cutty laughed, exposing his chaotic teeth. ‘You know de runnings, my yout’. You know de spud shop inna Stockwell Road?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Forward der an’ ah sistren will soon reach wid your merchandise. Now, show me your corn.’

  Biscuit plucked his wad from the inside of his jacket, then carefully counted £130 before handing it over to the flunky.

  ‘Now, ’ear me proper, my yout’. When you mek your nex’ order, don’t forward ’ere so. Jus’ call dis number.’ Cutty scrawled down a telephone number on a slip of betting paper. ‘An’ den we can arrange t’ings. Y’understand?’

  ‘I know de score, dread.’

  ‘Irie ites.’

  Biscuit presented Cutty with a respectful nod before departing, wondering if he should have negotiated a price of £120.