by Alex Wheatle
Brenton stopped his menacing march around the room and, lost for words, glanced at his mother to see if she could provide any. Ms Massey struggled out from her chair, looking as if the evening’s events had lined her forehead even more. She picked up her half-full mug of tea. “I don’t know what to say. I can say sorry for the rest of my days, but it can never be enough.”
“You can say that again,” barked Brenton.
Cynthia summoned up the courage to look her son straight in the eye. “Brenton, I always had it in mind to look for you, understand. But the longer I put it off, the more difficult it was for me to face reality. The last I saw of you, you was only a few days old. I remember saying to your fa’der that I will see you from time to time. But your fa’der vanished, an’ to this day, I don’t know where he is. Months turned into years, an’ I could not handle the stress of looking for you again. Maybe I was too ’fraid of my ’usband finding out.”
With her two offspring gazing at her, Cynthia bowed her head and wearily plodded out of the room. “I’m tired an’ not feeling well today, Brenton, but feel free to come again. I know you must hate me, but I want to see you again, y’hear? I have to go upstairs and lie down -I can’t take this.”
“I had to take it!” shouted Brenton, his eyes chilled.
Cynthia carefully made her way up the stairs, leaving her son and daughter gawping into a bewildered space.
After a few seconds, the pair began to exchange wary glances. Brenton took off Floyd’s denim jacket and decided to slouch in the armchair his mother had vacated. Juliet, wearing a cream-coloured silky blouse and a blue skirt, sat down elegantly on the sofa, folding her arms. Brenton rubbed his chin with his index digit. He was the one who finally chopped the silence. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen. I’m nineteen in May.”
Juliet was fascinated by this half-brother she had never seen, and was dying to ask him all sorts of questions, but she was angered by his treatment of her mother. Meanwhile, Brenton was trying to come to terms with the fact that he had a brand new sister. He wanted to cuss his mother but felt the need to show his sister he was a decent sort - not a bad bwai.
He clawed the side of his head. “I’m seventeen in March and I must admit, I didn’t think I had an older sister. It’s sort of weird.”
Juliet’s eyes were fastened on the scar on her brother’s neck. “I was born in Jamaica,” she told him. “My father and my grandparents looked after me when I was a baby. Soon after I was born, my mum went to England.”
The pair inspected each other across the round glass coffee table, which still had a mug of cold tea placed on it. “How did you get that scar on your neck?” she asked.
Brenton fingered the unsightly mark on his neck with his right hand. “Some guy who couldn’t handle me with his fists did it. Well, you know what the record says: ‘Fist to fist days are done, the knife take over’.”
Juliet was fascinated, but she had noticed the mug of cold tea. “Want a hot cup and something to eat?” she enquired.
“Please.”
And Juliet departed from the room, contemplating the brain-jarring fact that she had a bad-bwai brother. Brenton, meanwhile, felt his trip to his mother’s house had been worth the trod, although he could never forgive her for the past.
When Juliet reappeared, she was carrying a plateful of thick cheese sandwiches and a mug of fresh tea. She placed the refreshments on the coffee table before settling down on the sofa, making herself comfortable. Brenton picked up his mug. “Thanks.”
The girl watched her brother sip his tea. “Do you live far away?” she asked.
“No, Camberwell. I live in a sort of hostel for kids coming out of care or a Home. You know, something like that.”
“It’s funny, isn’t it? I have a brother, you, who lives so close and I might have walked right past you and we wouldn’t of known nutten.”
Brenton nodded. “Yeah, it’s true. So close and yet so blasted far, you know what I mean? I’m glad I sort of found you, but saying that, I didn’t even know I had a brother or sister.” Pausing for a moment, he glanced around him, then locked his gaze on his sister. “Are there any more? Are you the only brother or sister I’ve got?”
Juliet’s face curved into a delicious smile as she unfolded her arms. Brenton wondered what the joke was -he looked at his sister with slight suspicion. “No, as far as I know anyway. Unfortunately for you, I’m the only sister or brother you’ve got. I’m what they call an only child, and I hate that ’cos people think I’m spoilt.”
Juliet sank into the sofa and stretched out her long legs under the coffee table, feeling totally captivated by her new-found younger brother, and wanting to prolong the conversation for as long as possible.
She studied Brenton in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. He fidgeted in his chair. “What do you do?” he asked. “Work? Go to college?”
“I went to college for a year, but I got bored of it. You know, I wanted to earn some decent money. Anyway, I got a job working for a bank in the City.”
“What city?”
Juliet laughed, nearly choking on her sandwich. “It’s where all the big banks and money buildings are, just over the river. Kind of opposite London Bridge. Well, that area is called the City. The centre of it is the Bank of England,”
“Oh yeah? It’s where that Bank underground station is, innit?”
Juliet smiled at her brother’s ignorance. “What do you do?”
Brenton jolted his shoulders. “Nothing. I was kicked out of school. I didn’t take no shit from the teachers. Sorry about the French, but me and teachers just don’t agree.”
“You must try to do something,” she said reprovingly. “If you can’t decide on what to do, go to college. Sometimes it’s easier for a person to do well at college, rather than at school.”
Brenton shook his head slightly as he fed himself another sandwich. “No, I’m not the type to study books and revise and so on. I’m more practical, see – good with the hands. Woodwork and t’ing.”
“Then go to college and do a course about woodwork or something practical,” Juliet interrupted. “Colleges don’t just do courses for English and Maths, you know.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. But like you, I would rather have a job and make some money. I’m sick and tired of buying my clothes in cheap shops. I wanna start to buy them up the West End, you know what I mean?”
Juliet was determined to get her point across, thinking that because of his schooling problems, Brenton should prepare himself at college before lining up for the rat race. “Apply for a grant, you should get one,” she advised. “If you do, you’ll get more money than just dole, and you’ll be learning something constructive at the same time.”
Brenton was defeated by his sister’s persistence on the issue of college. “All right, all right, I will step down to Brixton College and if I feel like it, I will check out Vauxhall College as well. I will ask what courses they’re dealing wid. Will that satisfy you?”
Juliet smiled and felt a small sense of achievement. It was as if she’d taken it upon herself to be her brother’s guru. Brenton wondered what his mother was doing upstairs. Maybe she was bawling – serve her right!
Juliet saw him staring into space; she found it hard to think of the right thing to say. “Hey, Brenton, I know it’s probably hard for you coming here and meeting me and my mother. Shit, hold up. I mean our mother, sorry for that.”
Brenton grinned, making Juliet think her brother did possess some humour in his make-up. She resumed, “I am not going to defend what she did or what she didn’t do, but I can say this – she did care about you, and she told me I had a little brother when I was seven. Many times she has been thinking what you were up to, especially on your birthday. It’s in March, innit?”
Brenton nodded silently. “I know she feels guilty,” Juliet went on, “and sometimes so did I, knowing I had a brother somewhere out there. But take it easy on her, Mum’s not well these days
. She suffers from high blood pressure, so any stress is not good for her.”
“Hasn’t done me much good either.”
Looking pensive, Juliet paused and gazed at her younger brother, who didn’t appear convinced by what she was telling him.
The reality of it all finally hit Brenton. He wanted to pinch himself, because he could not quite believe that he was having a conversation with his sister in his own mother’s house. He had reduced his mother to tears and began to regret not bringing Mr Lewis with him.
Brenton closed his eyes for a split second and then released them, half-expecting to wake up in his hostel bed, staring at Mr Dean. But this was not to be. What would James make of it all? he asked himself. He found Juliet staring at him inquisitively. This was a stare too far for him. “Look, um, thanks for chatting to me, but I better chip now. It’s getting a bit late.”
Juliet glanced at her gold-coloured watch, noting that the time was past ten o’clock. “How you getting home?”
“Er, by decker, innit.”
Impatient now, Brenton propelled himself forward, sitting on the edge of the chair. His sister stood up and went over to the front window, where she parted the net curtains and gazed through the glass. She heard the wind whistling outside, slamming the rain onto the window. “I’ll order you a cab. It’s freezing out there.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll be all right.”
As he got up out of his chair, Juliet was showing some mild displeasure in her face, like a bewildered commuter who had thrown a busker a coin, only for the busker to get up and walk away, ignoring the gift. “Hey, I’m calling you a cab, and before you go, you can write down your address and phone number. Mum and myself would like to know where to contact you.”
Juliet stepped into the hallway to make a phone-call to a cab office, while her brother stood, hands in his pockets, wondering whether his mother would come down to bid him goodbye.
Following the phone-call, Juliet’s head poked around the front-room door. “A few minutes.”
Then she trotted upstairs, leaving Brenton staring out at the raging night, still attempting to come to terms with the evening’s events. Seconds later, Juliet sauntered back into the room, holding a five-pound note, a page of notepaper and a pen. Smiling, she placed the cash, paper and pen on the coffee table. “Write down your phone number and address on this. The fiver should cover your cab fare.”
Brenton eyed the money. “It won’t cost that much.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Brenton reluctantly picked up the bank-note and pushed it deep inside his back pocket. When he’d finished writing down his details on the piece of paper, he gave it to his sister. “You have to understand, I’m not used to people asking me for my address and phone number. The last time somebody did that, I was in a beast station.”
This last statement mopped the smile off Juliet’s face. She was about to say something, but was interrupted by a shriek from a car horn. Brenton quickly paced through the room towards the front door, his sister close behind. “Look after yourself and I’ll call soon.”
“Yeah, thanks and t’ing, and I’ll sight you later.”
Juliet watched her brother step into the waiting cab, wondering how Fate had treated his sixteen years, and how he’d been brought up. As the taxi moved away, she felt an unfamiliar anger towards her mother for being too weak-hearted when abandoning the infant Brenton. Sympathising with her brother’s plight, Juliet vowed to try and make it up to him, wanting to compensate him somehow.
In the taxi, Brenton glanced upwards, to see if his mother was there at an upstairs window, bidding him goodbye. But she was nowhere in sight. He dropped his head, staring at the mat.
As soon as Juliet closed the front door, her thoughts turned to her mother. What with her high blood pressure and meeting Brenton for the first time, the evening must have given her heart a stern test. So she scampered upstairs and tapped gently on her mother’s door before entering.
Ms Massey’s room was attractively decorated with pink and white striped wallpaper. A matching beige double wardrobe and chest of drawers gave it a furniture catalogue appearance, while the deep red carpet was warm and cosy. Gold-framed photographs hung from the wall, many of them snapshots of the young Juliet Massey. Various school certificates and exam passes were also hung about the walls or propped up on the dressing table.
Juliet found her mother sprawled across the double bed, obviously very troubled and upset. She stood in the doorway, waiting for her mother to notice her, but Ms Massey’s head was tombed in her quilt. “Mum, Mum.”
Slowly, the distraught woman turned around, her face saturated in tears. Juliet felt a deep compassion for her mother, imagining the torment she was feeling. She sat down on the bed beside her. “You should have talked to him more, Mum. I know how you feel, but it looked bad when you went off upstairs like that.”
Swabbing her tears with one swipe of her hand, the older woman sat up to face her daughter. It had indeed been a heart-wrenching experience, setting eyes on her son after sixteen years; she hadn’t known how to cope with the situation.
“You know, I did want to hold him,” she said tearfully, “but him look so vex, so upset, I jus’ could not go near him. It mus’ be somet’ing for a woman to be ’fraid of her own son.”
Juliet gave her mother a forgiving glance as Cynthia went on, “I did want to tell him that he has been in my thinking for a long time now – since him was born – but I don’t think him would have believed me. The trut’ is, I have failed him. When he did need me, I wasn’t there. I couldn’t even look him in the eye. Him mus’ really hate me y’know, but you can’t blame the poor bwai.”
Concerned, Juliet lay down on the bed, propping her head on her right hand, looking kindly on her mother, trying to reassure her that the situation might not turn out that bad.
“Hey, listen to me,” she said gently. “He looks well, healthy enough, and we now know where he is. It’s gonna take a little time to get to know each other. Just be glad that he’s found us. Now it’s up to the two of us to show Brenton we care.”
Tears began to reappear on Cynthia’s cheeks. “When I saw him at the door, I knew it was him. I could have died from shame. But the worse t’ing was, I jus’ treated him like any udder visitor to the house. I did not be’ave like a mudder should. I jus’ stood there like a frightened John crow, staring at him.”
Both of them wondered what Boy Brown would do now he had lifted the lid of his hidden past. Mother and daughter simply sat in silence, only interrupted by Cynthia’s quiet sobbing.
Brenton arrived home, paying the cab driver two pounds fifty for the fare. He checked the front-room window of downstairs to see if Mr Lewis was working, but no light was visible. So he pushed his key inside the door, feeling a sense of belonging, like a lost lamb who has found his shepherd.
A mug of chocolate and bed seemed a good idea as Brenton was feeling as if someone had just wrung his brain. He ambled into the kitchen, only to find there were no clean mugs in the cupboard. He peered into the sink where several unwashed mugs had been abandoned. Thinking Floyd must have had spars visiting earlier, he cursed him and didn’t bother to make his late-night hot drink. He trooped wearily off to bed, hearing giggling sounds as he passed Floyd’s bedroom door. Biscuit laughs like a blasted horse, he thought.
He collapsed fully-clothed on his bed, only stopping to kick off his new trainers. Looking up at Mr Dean, Brenton admired the rebellious pose.
“Got someone else to chat to now, James,” he murmured. “You wouldn’t believe how pretty she is. She works in a bank but she should be a model. As for the bitch of a mother I’ve got, she looks in need of a doctor.”
He stretched out a foot to kick the bedroom door shut and with his mind debating on his new-found family, he fell deeply asleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Concrete Jungle
26 January‚ 1980
At nine o’clock in the morning, someone
entered Brenton’s room and flicked on the light switch. Brenton was still half-asleep. “What is this?” he grumbled. “Jailhouse? Do I have to slop out now? Whatever happened to privacy?”
Mr Lewis, noting that his charge slept in his clothes, produced his university-taught ‘confide-in-me’ smile. “Stand by your bed, laddie. At the double!”
Brenton seemed to have weights on his eyelids that day. He raised them slowly, focused, and found a grinning Mr Lewis in his sights. Parking himself on the end of the bed, the social worker asked eagerly: “Well, what happened?”
Thinking that Arnold Lewis was a bit too keen to find out his business, Brenton took his time in answering. “Er, I saw my mother. It was weird and didn’t seem real. She didn’t say a lot and I kinda had a go at her. She reckons she’s sorry for what happened in the past. I’ll tell you one thing though, she’s got a nice bloody yard!”
Brenton paused his tale as he struggled to sit up. Lewis waited patiently, adjusting his glasses that always formed a red blotch on the bridge of his nose. “I’ve got an older sister, Juliet,” Brenton resumed. “We chatted for a while and she was kinda all right. I think she’s eighteen. Anyway, I gave her my phone number and she said she’ll bell me soon.”
“Is that it? How did your mother greet you? Did she welcome you? Was she pleased?”
“Yeah, that was about it. I had a little go at her but nothing serious.”
Mr Lewis stared at Brenton, expecting him to disclose a bit more, but the teenager just sat there, wondering if last night’s meeting ever took place, and whether his mother was thinking about him. Eventually Mr Lewis interrupted the silence. “It must have been a shock to the system for your mother to see you after so long. I’m not saying she’s the best mother in the world, but give her a bit of time. Give yourself a bit of time too to get used to the idea.”
