Brixton Rock

by Alex Wheatle

  “All right man, ease up nuh. Me nuh deaf, y’know. You wan’ wake up me forefaders in Africa?”

  The door opened to reveal a string-vested black guy of chicken-breast build, wearing pyjama bottoms. His hair was uncombed and he appeared to be in his late teens or early twenties. He clocked the suitcase that Floyd was pulling proudly out of his bag. “Kiss me granny dutty toenail, I did t’ink you were joking, but you actually t’ief the blaster. Don’t mess about, do you?”

  Floyd followed his spar into the house with Brenton behind him. “Now Bennett, do I ever joke about anyt’ing? You should know how I stay already.”

  Floyd pointed at the hand-rubbing Brenton. “Oh Bennett, this is Brenton. He helped me out, you know, keep watch and t’ing. And Brenton, this is Bennett, he’s living it up ’cos his people dem have gone to Jamaica for a month. He reckons he’s having a party next week, but I feel so he’s running up his mout’.”

  Brenton and Bennett exchanged nods while Floyd analysed his new toy. He started to fiddle about with the many gadgets and knobs, unable to wait to find out how heavy the bass-line would be.

  The threesome settled themselves in the dimly lit kitchen at the end of the hallway, and Brenton fell into a semi-sleep. Floyd noticed this and remembered how earlier Brenton was bawling for his bed. “Bennett, man, ding me a cab. We’re both tired after all that running about and trodding, know what I mean? But still, it’s worth it, innit?”

  Bennett smiled. “I don’t know why I told you about it. I should have kept quiet and got the damn t’ing myself.”

  Bennett disappeared into the front room to make the phone call, leaving Floyd to whisper to himself, while gazing lovingly at his new plaything. “Wicked, man. Wicked. When Biscuit sees dis he’s gonna be so red eye.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Stir It Up

  A knuckling on the room door. Brenton rolled over on his bed to squint at his alarm clock; five past eleven. “Who the blouse an’ skirt is going to knock on my door at eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning?”

  Suddenly he was anxious. Could it be a pig, investigating the night on which he stood watch as Floyd declared war against a department-store window? Brenton picked the sleep out of his eyes as he heard another impatient knock. Adorned only in briefs and T-shirt, he opened his bedroom door.

  And there, standing before him, smiling tentatively was his resplendent sister Juliet. Dressed in a beige-coloured woollen coat, thick black pullover and royal-blue slacks, she appeared as elegant as ever. Brenton shaped quickly under his covers. He felt ill at ease. What’s she doing here? he asked himself.

  Juliet glided into the room. “So is this what time you get up every day?”

  “No, it’s Sunday, innit. I always lie in on a Sunday morning.”

  She parked herself on the bed, scanning the room at the same time, noting the general untidiness, but she had half-expected this. She glanced curiously at the poster on the back of his door. “So you like James Dean then?”

  “Yeah, I like his films.”

  “I called during the week and left a message that I’d be coming around to see you Sunday morning. Then later on, I’d take you back to my place for Sunday dinner. My mum, er, I mean our mum is expecting you. So please say yes.”

  One glance at his sister’s eyes and Brenton knew his answer couldn’t be no.

  “Yeah, I’ll come. I’ll go anywhere for a free meal.”

  Anything will be better than my Sunday dinner of bully beef and brown bread, Brenton thought; no ghetto man menu today!

  The reply brought another sunny smile to Juliet’s face, prompting her to stand up eagerly. “Great, so you can get out of your bed and we’ll take a walk somewhere, then go back to my place.”

  Juliet departed and waited on the landing outside, expecting Brenton to get ready. Inside the bedroom, Brenton hauled himself from his bed and fished around in his chest of drawers for a clean pair of socks. Then it suddenly dawned on him; who had let his sister inside the yard? Was Lewis downstairs? Must have been Floyd. Climbing into his blue jeans, he heard his sister shout, “I’ll be down in the kitchen. Hurry up.”

  Looking for a decent pullover, he contemplated the prospect of seeing his mother again. He would have preferred to avoid her for the time being, but Juliet had asked so nicely. Perhaps he could play the loving son for her sake.

  Two sprays of deodorant later, Brenton sprang down the stairs, where he found his sister inspecting the decor. “Ready! Where’re we going?”

  Juliet arose from her seat, smiling at her brother, then sauntered straight past him towards the front door. Brenton had an enquiring look on his face as he followed his sister outside. What’s with her? he thought.

  Brother and sister walked down the street wondering what the day would bring. It was mild for the time of year, but the sun decided not to clock on for work yet.

  After a few paces, Juliet had a staid look about her. “Try to be nice to Mum, won’t you,” she began. “She’s trying her best to make up for the past. It’s kind of understandable why you’re bitter, but all I want is for you two to get on.”

  Walking along with his hands in his pockets, Brenton scowled slightly, pondering on how he should word his reply.

  “You could never begin to know what the feeling’s like when you are a kid in a children’s home,” he told her slowly. “The friends I had went to various relations to spend some time over the Christmas holidays. And me? Well, no relation for me to go to, was there? That time I spent on my own, I used to do a lot of thinking, you know what I’m saying? Yeah, I used to think nuff. I thought about my mother, and shit, I hated her badly; I still hate her.”

  Juliet’s emotions quaked on hearing the last sentence. Her natural instincts urged her to give a supporting hug to her brother, but she thought better of it. Brenton’s natural instincts were to trod towards the park.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever forgive my mother, or my paps come to think of it,” he told her flatly. “I suppose you can call it deep emotional scars or what you like. Even now I still have nightmares about when I was a kid. Me and my mother, in time, will probably get on and be polite to each other. But don’t ask me to forgive. Not while the memories are still so clear.”

  As he concluded, Brenton was throttling the anger surging within him, like a little devil trying to jump up in his throat and activate his tongue. Juliet was beginning to realise that family reunions are not quite as straightforward as you see on TV. She studied her brother’s stormy countenance. “There won’t be another Christmas with you being alone,” she whispered. “You got us now.”

  Brenton looked away to avoid his sister’s eyes. Juliet found herself being powerfully drawn by her brother’s angry, emotive face. So much pain behind those eyes, she thought.

  The next few minutes, the siblings were silent to each other as they walked slowly through the streets. Brenton, hands in pockets and hunched shoulders, and in contrast, Juliet, striding tall and elegant. They entered the tranquillity of Ruskin Park, which seemed to relax the tense Brenton.

  “I always come here when something is on my mind,’ he confided. “I think more clearly when I’m here, for some reason. I dunno. I suppose it’s weird, innit?”

  “Maybe that’s what you need in life; a bit of peace. I wouldn’t like to guess at what you’ve suffered, but now you should look ahead. You have a life to live and the bad days are over. Forget the past and think about making sure you have a better future.”

  Brenton shrugged, momentarily thinking of Terry Flynn. “Maybe you’re right, but I could never forget my past.”

  Juliet stopped in her tracks and gently tugged her brother’s arm to turn him around, facing him square on. “Look, give Mummy a chance. At least listen to her. She really wants to make it up with you. Let her make her peace.”

  Brenton gazed into his sister’s eyes, but didn’t answer, choosing to turn and carry on walking, leaving her trailing for a couple of seconds.

  The pair watched
faithful dog owners walking their enthusiastic pets. The grass felt crisp and firm beneath their soles, and the breeze curled around the twigs of the trees, wondering where the leaves were. A child, clad in woollen hat with matching scarf, was joyfully trying to kick a football back to his proud father. The idyllic scene plucked a string within the onlooking Brenton. “Do you know anything about my father?” he asked.

  Juliet paused slightly before answering. “Mummy never talks about him to me, but I know one t’ing though. She loved your father, which is more than I can say for my wort’less old man.”

  Brenton was disconcerted by the answer. Juliet didn’t intend for her reply to make him feel better; it was the truth. She continued, “It must have been a serious shame to be pregnant by a white man in those days. If there’d been no family or outside interference, who’s to know; they might have made a go of things.”

  Brenton produced a wry smile at what he thought was a great irony. Juliet caught sight of the smile and she did likewise. Then she spontaneously gave her brother a warm hug. This act of affection left Brenton feeling like a dog that has been licked by a cat. Why is she doing this? he thought. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been embraced, or even whether he’d been hugged at all. Juliet sensed her brother’s disquiet, but she dismissed it. She wanted to know everything about him.

  “You ever had a girlfriend?” she asked inquisitively.

  Brenton edged slightly away from her and looked down at the path. He shook his head from side to side as if regretting a crime. “What about you?” he countered. “I suppose you can pick your choice. You must be asked out a lot.”

  Juliet curved an edible smile. “Yeah, I get asked out quite a bit. But most guys I know just want to get inside my knickers, know what I mean? Put it this way, I haven’t had a serious boyfriend, but now and again, I go out with certain guys to a party, club or something.”

  They walked out of the park exchanging trivia about themselves, and learning more about each other.

  While Brenton and Juliet were strolling towards Denmark Hill, Ms Massey was busily preparing the Sunday dinner. Looking forward to getting on better terms with her son, she thought the dinner was a good opportunity to begin the process. During the past month or so, Brenton had hijacked her thoughts day and night. Some nights she cried herself to sleep, provoked by a scorching feeling of guilt. Just two nights ago, she’d felt so distressed, she went to seek comfort from her daughter at two o’clock in the morning.

  She deeply regretted the fact that she’d not had the strength to keep her young son years ago. But now she had to endure the heart-kuffing experience of trying to make up for the lost years she’d been apart from Brenton.

  As she basted the potatoes and placed them back in the oven, she knew she could never make amends for what had passed. No river flows back upstream, she thought. Perhaps she would have to live the rest of her life with this sharpened needle probing at her conscience. She knew within herself that over the years she had spoiled and over-protected her daughter almost obsessively, possibly as a reaction to losing her son, resulting in her giving all her love to Juliet. The cornerstone of her guilt was that only one of her offspring had received the attention and care every child needed; while the other had received no love or affection at all. Cynthia felt helpless in the assumption that it was too late to make up for those sixteen years of neglect.

  Half an hour later, dinner was nearly ripe; just the potatoes needed roasting for a few more minutes. The rice and peas were already cooked, and the chicken pieces were boiled enough to torment a starving vulture. She decided to take a time-out before preparing the salad. Her thoughts went to Brenton’s father, the only man she had ever loved. The Gong’s I’m Still Waiting played in her mind. In some ways, she could see a little of Brenton’s father in her son. His forthright nature, for instance.

  She acknowledged the bad mistake she made nearly eighteen years ago with her failure to tell Gary, Brenton’s father, that she was already married and the mother of a little girl back home in Jamaica. As she brooded more on the early days, she realised that she’d only agreed to marry Juliet’s father because she was pregnant at the time and the victim of family pressure; especially from her Pentecostal father. But she at least insisted on following her chosen career, and had headed off to England to train as a nurse, leaving her family behind.

  Fondly she reminisced about Gary, who had been the complete opposite of her husband. While Gary was attentive, loving and respectful, Mr Massey was spiteful, mean and a drunk, who used to beat her from time to time. The only good thing about Dwight was his Cassius Clay looks and untold stamina in bed. But he could never handle the responsibility of being a dutiful father.

  She was unsure how Gary would have reacted if she’d told him she was married when they first met. She admired him so much, and felt she could stall on revealing her married status. But when she received the emotion-kicking news of finding she was pregnant with Brenton, the truth came out sooner than she’d planned.

  Worse than that was Dwight Massey’s surprise arrival in London when she was six months’ pregnant. Sitting in her kitchen, she shuddered, vividly reliving those days of turmoil leading up to the birth of Brenton. And she remembered the wicked ultimatum she was given by her husband: to choose between her two children. She said to herself at the time, that she could never leave Juliet permanently with her husband’s side of the family; she wouldn’t have trusted them to feed a nanny goat. Heartbroken to think he was losing her, Gary promised Cynthia that he and his family would look after their child and give Brenton a decent start in life.

  Little did she realise, however, that Gary’s family were fiercely against him rearing a mixed-race child, and were not prepared to help in any way. So ultimately, feeling desperate and at his wits end, Gary had placed Brenton in care, feeling unable to give his son the proper upbringing he deserved.

  Even the people Gary had thought of as friends let him down when he most needed them, refusing to look after the infant Brenton while he completed his studies.

  Cynthia had kept a treasured old black and white photograph of Gary, dressed in his cricket whites. But her husband had found it, and ripped it apart one drunken evening. Juliet, her mother thought, didn’t know of the burning ember she carried within her heart for Gary. But how could she tell her daughter that she’d never loved her father? And confess that she loved another? Over the years, Juliet had been smart enough to work out the truths and rights of the matter for herself. Not that it mattered to Juliet anyway, because as long as she could remember, she had loathed her father.

  Giving a resigned sigh, Ms Massey struggled up from her chair and proceeded to prepare the salad. Just as she began to slice the cucumber, in through the front door walked her daughter, followed by her son.

  Juliet appeared in festive mood, while her brother looked as if he didn’t want to stay long. “Dinner ready yet, Mum?”

  Ms Massey seemed to ignore her daughter, and watched her son slowly walking towards her. “I am glad you are here, Brenton,” she said quietly. “It means a lot to me. Dinner soon ready, about ano’der ’alf an ’our.”

  Without a glimmer of emotion on his face, Brenton slowly nodded, and greeted his mother with his eyes, rather than saying any hellos. She’s really trying to be nice, he thought. Well, tough shit.

  Juliet wondered what she could do to relieve the obvious tension. “You ever had a Jamaican dinner before?” she asked her brother. “Well, if you haven’t, I’ll bet you gonna love it. Mum’s a wicked cook.”

  Ms Massey glanced at her son to see what his reply would be, but all he did was slowly shake his head. After a moment’s slight hesitation, when Brenton nearly stuttered for the first time in years, he asked, “Er, what are we having exactly?”

  “Rice and peas, dat is brown rice, but not de usual English green peas. West Indians use de red kidney beans, but we call dem peas.” Ms Massey lifted the lid off the steaming pot. “See, it’s about ready.”


  Brenton peered into the fiery vessel and saw odd strips of onion covering the mass of cooked rice and peas. “As for the chicken, firstly I brown it in the frying pan. After that I jus’ boil it over a medium heat wid a liccle pepper an’ onion. I don’t like to roast the chicken ’cos that make it too dry.”

  Brenton taking a strange interest in her mother’s cookery lesson visibly heartened Juliet, who was quietly observing on a kitchen chair. A toothy smile appeared on her pretty face, noticed by her mother. “What sweet you?”

  Juliet laughed. She arose from her chair and headed out of the kitchen. “S’cuse me, Mum. Brenton, follow me, little brother. I want to show you something.”

  Brenton pursued his sister upstairs, glad to get away from his mother’s presence, but felt unnerved as Juliet ushered him into her room. What’s she brought me up here for? he wondered.

  “Do you have any photos of yourself when you was a young child?” she asked him.

  “Nah, except for those photos taken when you’re at school. I got a couple of those left; they’re somewhere about in my room.”

  Brenton looked around him. The first piece of furniture to grab his eye was the wardrobe, which was big enough to house four hide-and-seekers. Coloured in light beige, it boasted double doors and stood beside a chest of drawers with a mirror the size of a Monopoly board. The bedroom was very spacious and tidily kept and everything seemed to be coloured in beige or brown. Above the bed were two shelves, filled with books of a romantic nature. Opposite the wardrobe stood a hi-fi stereo system with records and cassette tapes neatly placed beside it. “Never knew you read so much. Is all that stuff Mills and Boon?”

  “Sit down on the bed if you want, and no, they’re not all slushy romantic novels. I do have a few books about slavery and black history, but I must admit, now and again I enjoy reading a love story.”