Brixton Rock

by Alex Wheatle

  Brenton snuggled himself comfortably in one of the suite chairs. “It wouldn’t feel right, you know what I mean?”

  A shout was heard from upstairs. “Juliet! Juliet!”

  The girl trotted upstairs, and seconds later, poked her head around the front-room door. “Brenton, Mum wants you. She’s in her bedroom.”

  Brenton leaped up the stairs, wondering why his mother hadn’t been downstairs to greet him when he arrived. He went straight into her bedroom, and found her lying on her double bed, with the extension telephone beside her.

  “You all right, son?”

  Brenton stared at a photo of his sister. Cynthia noticed this. “She look pretty der, innit?”

  “Yeah, she looks all right.”

  Brenton self-consciously decided not to look at any more pictures of his sister. He found this very hard, so he stared at the floor instead. “You look a bit down,” Cynthia said, studying her son’s face.

  “Nah, I’m just a bit tired.”

  “I was jus’ talking to your aunt in Jamaica. She well want to see you, y’know. Hopefully she can reach next year an’ you can meet.”

  Brenton looked up at his mother. “Is your mum still alive?”

  “Yes, she is a strong woman. She’s in her eighties now, but really she act like she jus’ fifty.”

  “Does she know about me?”

  “Yes. My God, she give me some cussing about you. In her letters she still does. One day I’ave to tek you to Jamaica an’ see all the family.”

  “So she should cuss.”

  Silence. Cynthia pushed herself off the bed. “When I was a girl-chile back ’ome, I remember my mother always cussing me about ’ow I should do good at my education. When I reached ’ome from school, she would ask me what I had learned dat day. I remember I used to be tired after the long walk from school. It mus’ ’ave been about two mile from the school to my ’ome. And more time, when I reached ’ome, all I wanted to do is jus’ find my bed for my afternoon sleep. But my mother insisted that I should tell her what I had learned before I could sleep.”

  Brenton listened attentively, more in love with his mother’s accent than the recollection she told. “So you got any other brothers and sisters?”

  “I’ave two older brothers, but jus’ the one younger sister. She come over to Englan’ about t’ree year after I come. But she get ’omesick an’ she gone back ’ome an’ never return.”

  “What’s she doing now?”

  “She married now, an’ she ’ave t’ree children, your cousins.”

  “What about your brothers?”

  “Well, we don’t really keep in touch, y’know. After the t’ing wid your fader, it sort of upset dem. Dem don’t like the idea of me going wid a white man, y’understand?”

  Cynthia wiped an imaginary tear from her cheek and resumed, “Even my sister did not like it, but she get used to the idea after a while, an’ she start cuss me about you, jus’ like my mother. But my brothers don’t keep in touch. I can’t change the past, y’understand?”

  Brenton nodded. “If you had kept me, they might have had more respect for you.”

  Ms Massey approached the bedroom door. “Juliet mus’ ’ave dinner ready by now. Come, let’s go down an’ eat some food.”

  Brenton bullfrogged down the stairs and into the front room, expecting to see a hungry Floyd in there. But his spar was in the kitchen, laughing and joking with Juliet. “I’ve been saying to Juliet that maybe she should come out with us on one of our raves,” he told his hostel-mate.

  Brenton chose to speak for his sister. “Juliet’s not into blues and parties. She’s into her soul and t’ing.”

  “Your sister can speak for herself.”

  The foursome settled down to dinner, Floyd’s wit in sparkling form as he described to his hosts the achievements of his and Brenton’s cooking.

  Juliet was sitting next to Floyd, listening to him and occasionally glancing into his eyes. Floyd thought maybe he tickled Juliet’s fancy, which launched him into a very talkative mood. He resurfaced the topic of Brenton’s cooking.

  “You wanna see Brenton’s dumpling? Oh my God, you ever seen white paste? And when they’re cooked, dem tough like bouncy ball, that can bounce into third-floor balcony if a crusty bwai has a strong arm. You try to eat the dumpling and your teet’ jus’ vibrate like Shaka speaker box. And his spaghetti bolognese, kiss me granny belly button. Brenton’s spaghetti’s tough like hay to blouse an’ skirt. An’ I can’t tell you ’bout his pilchards an’ rice, cos dat’s a horror story an’ might make you run an’ go ’long to the toilet. He tries, but his head will never wear dat funny, funny weird hat what dem big-time chef wear. He’s good around the yard though, better than me. It’s sort of weird though, he keeps the rest of the yard more sheened than his own bedroom.”

  Juliet rocked back in her chair with laughter, while Cynthia managed a smile. Brenton shook his head sadly, willing Floyd to jail his tongue.

  As the three teenagers ate more rice and peas, Ms Massey sensed her confidence rise. “I was on the phone to my sister in Jamaica today. She was telling me dat her next-door neighbour ’ave ’im goat stolen. The man strip it an’ lef’ it ’anging from ah tree branch, an’ ’im gone inside to look some drink. When ’im come back, somebody tek the goat. Dat’s a t’ree-day dinner, man.”

  Floyd and Juliet laughed heartily, but Brenton had a sort of smug smile on his face, thinking of the family rifts his birth had caused.

  Cynthia poured herself some red wine. “You know, my sister tell me of a t’ing which ’appen in her area. Dis man, who is a pastor, y’know, one of dem church minister, the police arres’ ’im ’cos he was troubling ’im daughter. It mus’ ’ave been a big shame an’ scandal, for a man like dat in the parish to trouble his own daughter. I tell you, you can’t trus’ anybody.”

  Floyd pinned down an elusive chicken leg and remarked, “That’s true.”

  Brenton grabbed the wine bottle and filled his glass as if he was drinking Cherryade. “Serve him bloody right. I always thought them vicars and priestman were a bit dodgy. I hope he gets beat up in prison. That’s what happens to them sort of man; other prisoners jook them up.”

  Brenton discerned how quiet Juliet was during the meal; perhaps she was tired. She only picked at her food. “I dunno why,” she told her mother, “but I’m never too sweet on my own cooking.”

  Floyd gazed at the chicken leg on Juliet’s plate like it was a sentimental possession. “I’ll control your chicken.”

  Juliet stood up and scraped the meat onto Floyd’s plate.

  A couple of hours later, Brenton and Floyd prepared to leave.

  Floyd thanked Ms Massey and Juliet for the dinner as Brenton opened the front door. “Bye, Mum.”

  Cynthia watched her son walk off down the road, then she looked up skywards. “T’ank You, Lord.”

  Brenton headed for the nearest tobacconist as Floyd dreamt of a date with Juliet. “I think your sister likes me.”

  “I think my sister was being polite.”

  “She was clocking me, all right.”

  “Forget it.”

  Back at the Massey home, Juliet trudged up the stairs and into her room, flopping down on her pink-coloured quilt. Her reflection stared sombrely at her from her mirror. She recalled the story her mother had told at the dinner-table about the perverted pastor. She closed her eyes, but could not block out the word that drummed in her brain. Incest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO

  Prodigal Son

  15 May, 1980

  “Hey, Floyd! You kill off the soap?” snapped Brenton, persecuting him with a glare.

  “There was only a liccle bit left.”

  “Then if you used it up, why you never control another bar?”

  Floyd emerged onto the landings‚ grinning as he watched Brenton scrubbing at his face with a drenched flannel. “I forgot, sorry. That soap make your boat too dry anyway. When I did sight you yesterday I felt like taking out white chalk a
nd writing on your forehead, DRY.”

  “Fuck you, man. I went to borrow your Vaseline but couldn’t find the damn jar.”

  “I hid it under my bed.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cos the last time you used it, you took out a whole ’eap. You’re too grabilicious.”

  Brenton surfaced from the bathroom, beads of water free falling from the nape of his neck. “Who was that in your room last night?”

  “Coffin Head and Iggy.”

  “Who’s Iggy? Why the fuck man and man call him Iggy?”

  “’Cos he’s got rough skin like an iguana,” Floyd laughed. “You know, dem scaly lizard dem; like a maaga, tiny croc.”

  “You lot are wicked, man. He can’t help it if he’s got eczema or somet’ing.”

  “Yeah, but Iggy should stop exploding his missile spots inna dance when he can’t find no gal to crub.”

  Brenton could do nothing but laugh, but wondered why Iggy called Floyd a brethren.

  Bare-backed, Brenton crossed the small landing and entered his bedroom. Floyd shadowed him.

  “Don’t you lot have any consideration for someone who’s trying to sleep?” Brenton rebuked. “All I heard last night was your spars slamming down domino and cussing each other.”

  “You’re not working today, innit. You got today off. Why didn’t you rope-in? Coffin Head had a draw on him; nice herb.”

  “I was tired.”

  Floyd plonked himself on the single bed, stealing a glance at Mr Dean; this picture always troubled him. “I buck up on Sceptic the other day. He was telling me he sight Flynn on the line selling herb. It’s like a regular runnings for him.”

  “Yeah? Everyone in Brixton seen Flynn selling his herbs on the line. I’m surprised the beast haven’t picked him up.”

  “So me and Sceptic were t’inking we could come up with some kind of plan. To get your revenge and t’ing.”

  “Plan? You and Sceptic are thinking of a plan? Sceptic’s even ’fraid of schoolgirls to rarted; he’s a shaper.”

  “Nah, he’s safe. He’s gonna go undercover and check on Flynn’s movements.”

  “You told Sceptic to go undercover? Tell Sceptic to rest himself.”

  “He wants to help, innit.”

  Brenton remembered the time Sceptic trod on a bad bwai’s crocodile boot inna blues dance. Sceptic apologised and sheeped back home inna hurry.

  “I don’t want too many man knowing I’m out for revenge,” affirmed Brenton. “If we’re not careful, news will get out.”

  “Sceptic won’t say nutten.”

  Brenton donned a white T-shirt while Floyd pastried a spliff of snout butts.

  “I sight your sister yesterday in Tescos,” informed Brenton.

  “Oh yeah; she still dealing wid that idiot church bwai?”

  “I dunno. When I see people I don’t ask dem ’bout their love- life.”

  “He’s a friggin bounty. I dunno what Jean sees in him. The man’s seriously ugly. If I had a face like dat, I’d teach my batty to chat.”

  “Anyway, she told me that your mum wants to see you.”

  “What for?”

  “I dunno. Probably wants to make sure you’re breathing.”

  Floyd adopted a thoughtful pose, left hand on knee and other hand supporting his jaw. “She didn’t fret ’bout me when my paps booted me out.”

  Brenton studied the way his spar expertly constructed the spliff, wondering why his own joints were never as criss as that.

  “Well, I was just told to give you the message.”

  Floyd torched his tobacco-filled roll-up. “Don’t need her.”

  Later on in the afternoon, Brenton departed the hostel to go for a trod in the park. For some reason, an image of the Job Centre bulldozed into his mind. He recalled earlier on in the year, when he didn’t have a turkey hope of even controlling an interview, let alone a job. And those civil servants who worked in the Job Centre always had an ‘I’m better than you’ vibe, similar to them teacher-arse-kissing prefects at school.

  Floyd remained inside the hostel, stewing on his sister’s message. He was accompanied by his faithful suitcase, which mirrored his struggles by blaring out Dennis Brown’s Tribulation.

  Maybe his mother did care for him, he thought. Or perhaps she had reached out her hand because of Jean’s prompting. Floyd missed Jean’s presence in his life. She was forever defending him when accused of badness by their father. Then it dawned on Floyd that no matter what, he would at least be offered something to eat. Since the day he was born, he never had no reason to cuss his mother’s cooking.

  An hour later, Floyd was stepping across Brockwell Park towards his mother’s flat in Tulse Hill. The park held many memories for him, especially of Uncle Herbie.

  Always wearing sticksman clothes, topped off by a black fedora, Herbie seemed to know everybody. He used to have a growlish greeting of: ‘Wha’appen, skipper? T’ings irie?’ whenever he approached a familiar face.

  Herbie would organise junior soccer games in the park‚ and he always ensured that Floyd was one of the captains. While the game was in progress, he would retire to a park bench and hoover one of his cigar-length roll-ups. Floyd often wondered why his uncle didn’t own a tobacco tin like the one his father had.

  Following a couple of hours of feverish football, the chiming sounds of an ice-cream van would drown the junior squeals. Herbie would delve into his pocket and his hand would emerge with more shekels than an amusement-arcade kiosk. Floyd and his mates then enjoyed ice-cream cones with a leg of chocolate jutting out of them.

  When Floyd was eleven, Herbie mysteriously disappeared from his life. He asked his mother many times what had become of his uncle, but the reply was a repetitive: ‘Im gone ah foreign’.

  Up to the present day, Floyd looked on Herbie as his real father. His natural father could never find the quality time to spend with his son, while his mother thought it was more important to have her husband’s dinner ready by the time he came home from work, rather than see to Floyd’s upbringing. Jean, Floyd’s sister, gradually took over the parental role in his life. She was the one always attending parents’ meetings at school, and she was the one who helped him with his homework.

  Floyd reached the housing estate opposite Dick Shepherd School. He looked across the road and grinned as he witnessed a game of netball taking place, wondering if the apprentice sweet bwais still chased the ripening girls in the park during the dinner-break.

  Ambling through the estate, he asked himself why his parents had swapped their rum and sugarcane existence in the Caribbean for this grey town in deepest Babylon.

  He climbed the stairs of his mother’s block, greeting the three youths who were hot-wiring a rusty car below with a respectful nod.

  Using his key, he tapped on the window of his mother’s kitchen, which overlooked the forecourt of the estate.

  “Ah who dat?” demanded a suspicious voice, in the tone a medieval castle-keeper would have used.

  “Open the door, man.”

  The door opened.

  “Lord God; me son come to check me, praise the Lord.”

  Floyd glared accusingly at his mother. He never felt at ease with her Pentecostal church rhetoric.

  Mrs Francis was a big woman. Her arms seemed to have stirred the broth for the feeding of the five thousand, her lips appeared to have kissed every Brixtonian pickney, and her bosom could have supplied their milk. She had such a kindly expression, that no one outside her family dared to question her compassion and maternal instincts. Her beach-ball cheeks had long ago learned the art of a permanent smile.

  “I always knew you would come back to me,” Floyd’s mother smiled. “De Lord God ’as never fail’ me.”

  As Floyd entered the hallway, he recognised the imposing crucifix screwed to the wall, and wondered what his mother’s reaction would be if he’d grown dreadlocks.

  He made his way to the cramped lounge, which was decorated in light colours and framed black and white p
hotographs staring eerily from the four walls. On the mantelpiece above the gas fire stood a framed certificate, awarded to Jean Francis for completing an advanced hairdressing course.

  “When did Jean get that?” asked Floyd, pointing at the certificate while collapsing on the settee.

  “In March‚” Mrs Francis answered proudly. “She wan’ her own salon one day.”

  “That’s good. Now I hope she will stop giving her wort’less friends free trims.”

  Mrs Francis parked her bulk in a matching armchair opposite her son.

  “So tell me, Floyd. You find work yet?”

  “Didn’t know you was interested.”

  “Of course me interested.”

  “Then how comes since I move to Camberwell, you haven’t checked me?”

  “’Cos you made it clear dat you never wan’ me ’round.”

  “Doesn’t mean I meant it,” he said sulkily.

  His mother reared up. “You don’t t’ink me worry ’bout you when me inna me bed ah night-time?”

  “I dunno; do you?”

  “Cha! Sometimes you jus’ ’ave to be awkward.” Mrs Francis glowered.

  “Anyway, I haven’t got a job, and I probably won’t get one until the white bosses decide to give a young black a chance.”

  “Why you wan’ talk you’self down? You ’ave a sharp brain and you was clever wid your drawings dem.”

  Floyd leaned towards his mother, frustration brewing in his mind. “You know what it feels like to go after jobs and dem boss man say they’ll let you know; but you know they ain’t gonna take you on ’cos you’re black? And to keep going to that blasted Job Centre where the saps working there recognise you and hail you by your first name; and come wid plastic smiles and say to you somet’ing will turn up if you keep looking?”

  Mrs Francis dropped her eyes to the floor. Floyd continued his rant. “Do you know that for every job advertised, about fifty sad Giro people like me go for it?”

  Floyd’s mother was visibly shaken by what her son was saying, and knew in her heart that he was being truthful. The harsh economic climate stretched out its digits to grip everyone she knew. On the news programmes, the jobless totals stacked like early morning supermarkets. Her close friend Edna’s dream of retiring to Jamaica had recently been nucleared by her husband’s redundancy in the car industry. On her shopping trips to Brixton, she saw the youths of the area bee hiving around the record shops in even greater numbers. She remembered her mother’s saying: Lucifer tek idle’ and‚ an’ mek it stir blood.