by Alex Wheatle
Mr Lewis flipped through the pages of the file to try and find the notes he wanted to concentrate on. “Apparently she came over from Jamaica to study nursing. At her night college, she met your father. I don’t know how accurate this is, but that is what it’s got down here. Anyway, your mother’s husband was in Jamaica at the time.”
Brenton leaned slightly further forward and tried to read the text of the file upside down. Then he re-routed his gaze to the social worker.
“Unfortunately for you, I suppose,” Mr Lewis said quietly, “your mother’s husband came over to England unexpectedly, just before Christmas 1962. It must have been a big shock for him to find his wife pregnant. You can imagine the trouble and problems this caused.”
Lewis paused, then went on: “The first contact Lambeth Social Services had with your mother was in February 1963. The desk clerk wrote that on a freezing cold day, your mother came into the Area Three office complaining about domestic violence. She went there after advice from a friend. This also says that your mother was having complications with the pregnancy, so it was decided by her doctor and social services to keep her in hospital until you were born.”
“What happened to my paps? What was he doing at the time? I bet he chipped.”
Mr Lewis thumbed through the pages again, while Brenton felt the need for another smoke; it was difficult to swab all this information. No one had ever sat down with him before and explained his early life.
The social worker stumbled upon the page he was seeking. “Ah - here we are. When your mother’s husband came over from Jamaica, Mr Brown, your father, kept very much a low profile. In fact, Lambeth Council had no contact with Mr Brown until summer 1964. It says here, that after you were born on the twenty-third of March, 1963, your father actually took you from the hospital when you were only a few days old.”
“Why?”
Lewis glanced at the pages in front of him to refresh his memory. “A few weeks after you were born, your mother came to see the social worker attached to her case. The social worker had written to her, apparently, saying that she had a choice. She could either keep her marriage intact, or lose her marriage and go it alone with you. The records don’t say whether she had any other children, but it’s clear that her husband ordered her to give up the child she had just given birth to - you. It gets a bit confusing here and I can’t quite make out what went on. But to cut a long story short, she opted to stay with her husband and she entrusted you to your father.”
A disbelieving look spread over Brenton’s features as he confronted this tale of his infant life. He would never have imagined that he’d been cared for by his white paps. The revelations from the file were distressing him, so he decided to stand up and step towards the front window to mask his turmoil. He heard Lewis continue.
“Your father was probably struggling to look after you and maintain his studies. The files don’t say whether someone helped him take care of you. There’s no mention of Mr Brown’s family or background.”
Brenton turned around, paying full attention.
“It’s rather strange, because there is plenty of information about your mother. Anyway, the fact is, your father placed you in care with Lambeth Social Services in September 1964. After that, he appeared to have vanished. There has been no contact since.”
Mr Lewis closed the file and watched Brenton re-seat himself. Aware of the youth’s despair, he counselled, “Look, you have to realise that in those days, there was a big stigma if a black person had a relationship with a white person. Even more so, if one of them was married - it was unheard of. So I imagine both your parents were under some sort of pressure. Even so, I don’t excuse him for abandoning you.”
Brenton began to feel a hot impatience. “All right, you have told me her background, now where does she live?”
“Er, West Norwood, a few miles up the road.”
Too late, the social worker realised he’d told Brenton of his mother’s whereabouts before he planned to. “It’s ironic that she lives so close. I finally met up with your mother’s doctor last week. He acted as a go-between for us. She didn’t want to be seen by any social workers or be called on the phone, but she left an address with the doctor which he passed on to me.”
Brenton slowly shook his head. “So bloody close.” It filtered through his mind that he might well have seen his mother in the flesh without realising it. He recalled the many times he had walked through the streets of West Norwood. “It’s a small world.”
Now that he’d told Brenton his mother’s whereabouts, Mr Lewis hoped his charge would stay longer for some counselling. Opening a drawer in his desk, he pulled out a small slip of paper, but before waiting for the paper to be given to him, Brenton reached out his hand and snatched it from the scandalised Lewis’s grasp. Brenton quickly read the address scrawled on the paper.
“Your mother’s name is Cynthia Massey,” Mr Lewis said, ruffled. “I don’t know if she is married, but the doctor told me he hasn’t seen Mr Massey for years. Now Brenton, take it slowly, don’t rush anything! I don’t know if you’re expecting a happy ending, so just see how things go.”
Brenton soared from his chair, making sure his mother’s address was safe in his jeans back pocket. “Don’t worry, I ain’t got no expectations. Why should I?”
Striding towards the door, he stopped in his tracks and decided not to leave the room just yet. He turned around and addressed the older man once more. “I just want to know what she is like. I don’t even know what she bloody looks like! I want to see her reaction when she sees me for the first time since she gave me away at the hospital. I’ve waited a long time for this.”
Mr Lewis clasped his hands together, studying Brenton’s determined face as the teenager resumed, “When I was a little brat, I used to sit up in bed and wonder where my mum was. Now I know.”
For a couple of seconds, the pair stared at each other, both fully aware of the significance of the occasion. “You sure you can handle this?” Lewis asked. “Do you want me to go with you?”
Brenton slowly shook his head, as though he’d been asked if he needed to be escorted to school by his parents, even though he was fifteen. “I’ll be all right, and thanks for what you’ve done. I might not show it, but I do appreciate it. For a social worker, you’re all right. Everyone calls you Mr Lewis, innit? What’s your first name?”
“Arnold.”
With a grin, Brenton opened the door and disappeared out of the room. Arnold rocked back in his chair, hoping he’d done the right thing, praying that Brenton Brown wouldn’t get emotionally damaged for life.
Brenton looked into the mirror on his dressing table, deciding it was time to start a fight with his hair. Trying to remember where he’d last seen his Afro-comb, he crouched down at the foot of the wardrobe and parted the clothes that were hanging there. Seconds later, he discovered it in the bottom corner. It was too dusty to put through his hair, so he marched to the bathroom and ran a hot tap over it. Satisfied it was dust-free; he gazed into the mirror above the washbasin and forced the metal teeth through his tangles. Grimacing and wincing with pain, he was determined to make himself look presentable. He didn’t want his mother to think he was a hopeless youth who didn’t care about anything.
As he was warring with his hair, doubts cannoned his mind, as well as many questions. What if his mother was still married? What if there were brothers and sisters? What sort of job did she have? Would she have grey hair? Was she fat? She might be one of those mad church people, singing praise the Lord songs all the time.
With the comb meshed in his hair, Brenton, suddenly not so confident of the situation, ambled back into his room. Was it wise to face his mother after so many years? Perhaps Floyd was right when he said he might be wasting his time.
He had indeed waited a very long time for this day, and wanted to confront his mother thinking positive vibrations. Still struggling to comb out his hair, he made up his mind to leave the hostel at half past six. He didn’t want to
leave too early, because he suspected he might slap her door, only to find there was no one home.
It was twenty-five minutes to seven. Wearing ironed jeans, and a denim jacket borrowed from Floyd, Brenton appeared quite smart as he laced on his new trainers. Before opening the front door, he made sure he had the piece of paper with his mother’s address written on it, safely banked into his back pocket.
As he emerged into the street, trodding to the bus stop, he wondered what he should say to his mother. Should he be polite and courteous, saying: “Good evening, Ms Massey, I am your long-lost son. Could I speak with you, please?” Or should he be acid-tongued, like? For instance -“Hi, Mum, long time no see. In fact, a very long time no see, you bitch!”
Hands in his pocket, he braced himself against the spiteful wind. The rain had called off its deluge, but small puddles rippled in the streets.
He stopped off at a small newsagents run by an Indian family, where he shifted from foot to foot impatiently until the young mother with a child in front of him bought a box of matches. Then Brenton paid five pence for a single snout. Seconds later, he reached the bus stop and peered through the rain into the horizon of the main road, seeing no sign of a number 68.
Camberwell High Street was still busy with the butt end of rush-hour traffic. To pass the time, Brenton read the posters in shop windows advertising items in the winter sales. As he checked the bargains on offer in a shoe shop, a number 68 arrived. An anxious Brenton boarded it, seating himself at the rear of the upper deck. Taking the fag off his ear, he asked a well-dressed African man sitting in front of him for a light.
The bus reached Brenton’s destination quicker than he’d wanted it to. He jogged up a road opposite a college, feeling moths and many other things flying about in his stomach, and then he wondered if this adventure was a good idea. His heartbeat felt like a heavy bass-line as he stood still to read his mother’s address once more.
He found himself on his mother’s road, and was impressed by the large semi-detached houses in it. The cars parked along the road seemed more expensive than the motors he peered into around his home streets. He wondered what sort of job his mother had, to be able to live in a road like this. Maybe she married some rich white guy, he considered.
Walking on slowly, he noted the numbers of the houses, his eyes straining as he saw the figure of 41- it was number 17 he sought. Quickening his pace, Brenton became aware how quiet the street was. As he approached his mother’s abode, all he could hear was the sound of the now mild-tempered breeze passing though the leafless trees skirting the road.
He stopped to study the attractive numeral of 17, coloured in gold on a varnished hardwood door, and finally realised the reality of standing outside his mother’s house. His heartbeat moved uptempo as he gradually neared the front door. There was a doorbell to the side of the door, but he decided to use the knocker of the brass letterbox. His hands began to feel clammy - a hot rush of adrenaline showered through his body as he braced himself and slapped the knocker three times. As he waited, he shuffled his feet nervously, scratching behind his ear.
Through the letterbox, he peered into the darkness of a hallway, then he closed the flap and looked upwards to see if any lights were switched on. Suddenly the small gap at the bottom of the door became illuminated. Something strange stirred in his veins. Composing himself, he stood upright‚ expecting someone to come.
The front door gaped slowly. It revealed a worried-looking, middle-aged black woman. Her stature was vulnerable and short, and her physique was slim and fragile. Her tannish forehead was etched with deep-set fissures, and her eyes seemed to have lost their sparkle and life. The cheeks searched for an outlet within her taut skin, and a wide negroid nose was set on a milky, caramel face, dotted with small dark freckles.
Mother and son gazed speechlessly at each other for a few seconds. Time had downed tools and gone on strike. Ms Massey knew immediately that she was looking at her son. Finally, she broke the silence, saying in a soft Jamaican accent, “You’d better come inside. Breeze is blowing, rain is falling and it col’ outside.”
Brenton entered the house, wondering why he had expected his mother to be big and imposing. The first thing that caught his eye was a picture of a European-looking Jesus Christ, back-dropped by a red patterned wallpaper. Brenton felt the urge to call Mr Lewis on a white telephone that was neatly parked on a small mahogany table. As his feet sank into a Burgundy-coloured carpet, he couldn’t escape the irony that his mother had images of Christianity on her walls. Silly hypocrites a ga’long der, he thought. After all, not seeing her son for sixteen years was not very Christian-like.
Brenton looked up in awe at the gloss-painted, elaborate wood beading that charmed the ceiling. Maybe she was married to some white lawyer or something, he convinced himself. Following his mother into the front room, he wondered how much money she earned. Ms Massey beckoned her son to sit down on a comfy-looking, button-filled brown sofa. Situated directly opposite him was a teak wall cabinet, filled with ornamental plates and porcelain statues. A colour television set stood proud in a corner, but it was the stereo that really lusted Brenton’s eye. It was powerful-looking and attractive, and he would love to play his reggae tapes on this control tower.
Ms Massey apprehensively sat down in an armchair facing her son, not enjoying the anxious silence. Then she immediately hauled herself up again. “I’m jus’ about to mek a cup of tea. You mus’ feel like somet’ing hot as you jus’ come in from de col’. How much sugar you take?”
Brenton found it difficult to come to terms with his mother speaking in a Jamaican accent -it didn’t seem real to him. “Two,” he answered. Cynthia Massey disappeared out of the room. Brenton took this as a cue to rise up and nose around. He ambled towards the wall cabinet, drawn by a statue of a pathetic woman carrying a heavy basket. The helplessness of the figure seemed to pluck a bass-note within Brenton and a sudden anger swept through him. He was ready now to ask a few questions.
Two minutes later, Cynthia reappeared holding two mugs of tea. Very carefully, she placed them on two small drink mats, resting on a circular glass coffee table in the centre of the room. Brenton followed her every move like a leopard sizing up its dinner.
Ms Massey was aware of her son’s glare headlighting upon her as she slowly snuggled back into her chair. Sitting down and crossing her legs, she tried to find welcoming lyrics to say to the boy. She glanced at him, only to find him glowering back at her.
“Why? Tell me why!” he said in a hoarse voice. “Why did you leave me so young?” Ms Massey was unable to answer, or even meet her son’s eyes as he quivered his head. “Give me one good reason why you left me when I was a baby! One good fucking reason!”
Bravely, Cynthia reared her head. “T’ings were kinda hard back in those days. Your fa’der promised me he would mind you. Y’understand, look after you. My ’usband, dem time, did not want me to mind you.”
Exploding from his chair, Brenton patrolled the room, still fixing his cold gaze on his ashamed-looking mother. “Not good enough! Shit, just not good enough! You could have come back to look for me, or even tried to find out where I was, but no. I was left to rot in that hell of a children’s home.”
Cynthia sat motionless, peering into her hot drink as Brenton raged. “Not knowing any family! You won’t believe the shit I’ve been through. But you seem to be all right, innit? Nice yard, I must say. It beats the home I had! You just didn’t give a shit, did you?”
“Every day I have lived wid your baby wail, every day,” the woman whimpered.
“So why didn’t you come to look for me! Why?”
“I couldn’t face it.”
“Couldn’t face it! Couldn’t face it! I HAD NO FUCKING CHOICE. And you’re telling me you couldn’t face it! YOU MAKE ME SICK!”
Brenton’s yelling seemed to have caused some movement upstairs, but he was deaf to this as he let loose again. “While you’ve been living a cushy life, I have been fighting and struggling j
ust to stay alive, and sometimes, believe me, I didn’t think it was worth it.”
Then a tall, very beautiful black girl sporting an Afro hairstyle entered the room. Her face was a picture of wonderment as she stared at Brenton. His temper won control over his curiosity as he loaded his mouth with hurtful lyrics. “I like to watch them animal programmes! There was one on the other day about the gorilla. Now, when these adult gorillas feel that their young are threatened, they get very violent! So, in a way, they’re better than you, innit? ’Cos at least they try something!”
“Who are you to shout at my mother!” demanded the young woman.
Brenton’s head snapped in the direction of Ms Massy’s daughter. What is going on? he thought. Fuck my days, this might be my sister!
After the verbal onslaught, Cynthia was an anxious wreck, fighting against the flood of tears which was welling up inside her.
The young woman stood at the entrance to the room, glaring at Brenton. An eerie silence followed, until Ms Massey decided it was time for an introduction. So, spluttering with emotion, she gestured towards the young lady. “Juliet,” she said weakly, “dis is your younger brother, Brenton.”
Brother and sister studied each other as if they had just seen an extra-terrestrial from Outer Space pushing a shopping trolley through an underground Tube tunnel. Brenton was the more startled of the two. He began to rub his temple furiously.
Addressing her daughter, Ms Massey explained, “Well, he is your half-brother. Remember I did tell you about him after the divorce.”
Ms Massey’s son just could not take his eyes off his sister. She’s beautiful, he said inwardly. What is going on?
He looked for any resemblance they might share -but there was none. Brenton thought she was too attractive for them to look alike. Slightly darker than her brother, Juliet’s posture was upright and elegant. Her hair was immaculately set and the gold earrings she was wearing complemented her dark-coffee complexion. But it was her big, round, happy eyes that made her a blessing to look at - it was obvious that she enjoyed laughing. After searching her brother’s expression, Juliet in her turn thought that Brenton probably lost his temper nuff times.
