by Alex Wheatle
“I’m fine. Pregnancy ain’t illness.”
“Does Mum …?”
“Yes, she knows.”
Brenton’s throat dried up like a drop of rain in the desert. So this was why Juliet and Cynthia weren’t chatting to each other. Then: me a friggin dad! he said to himself. How the fuck will this work out? Poor Juliet, he thought. And I reckoned I had problems.
Brenton remembered all those long nights when Floyd and himself would debate about the existence of God. Well, if there is a God, He’s having a laugh and joke with my family, he decided.
The couple locked themselves in silence for the next ten minutes, gazing at each other, trying to read each other’s thoughts. But somehow, Juliet knew the burden of Brenton’s past would now become just a sad memory, and perhaps he could now look to the future. She had accomplished what she set out to do on that cold, dripping night when she first saw him. It had resulted in devastating consequences, yeah; but she felt someone had to pay for her brother’s childhood sufferings. And if it was her, then so be it. But no one could convince her to abort her child, or give this baby away. Even Mum and Brenton would understand that. Her career would be derailed, but she thought the life inside her was a gift from God. The flame of her affair with her brother had burned its course, and she could never pick up a match to relight it.
Brenton kissed his sister on her forehead, then laboured up the stairs, feeling burning sensations in his knees. He wondered what had happened to Flynn. Let’s see him flash a ratchet now, he thought.
He entered his mother’s bedroom and found her lying down, supported by a family of pillows, appearing as if she was tired of living. Her eyes followed her son as he carefully sat down on the bed.
“My son…My son. I know about you and Juliet.”
Paralysis crept over Brenton’s features as he stared at a framed photograph of Juliet in her school uniform.
Cynthia continued: “Sometimes, t’ings in life work out funny. An’ sometimes people don’t ’ave no control over dem destiny, y’understand?” Brenton nodded impassively. “It seem like history repeat itself. ’Cos, me fall pregnant to a man my mama did not like. As far as she was concerned, my ’usband was a wort’less layabout who did not want to do nothing for ’imself. I said to my mother at the time dat I really did love ’im. But at the same time, I knew I did wrong.”
“I ain’t a worthless layabout.”
“I never said dat. What I am saying is dis. Juliet an’ myself let passion rule over sense. You know what I’m saying? Even wid your fader, de same t’ing ’appen. So, even though I’m more vex wid your sister, ’cos she should have known better, in a strange way I cry for her an’ you.”
Brenton fingered his earlobe and studied his mother’s face. He finally saw a resemblance between them; it was there, in the eyes.
“I don’t want to fight wid you no more, Brenton. Lord God, look upon you, I’m sure you’re tired of fighting. When I sit down in the ’ospital beside your bed, I realise der is no time for argue an’ cuss, an’ no time for t’inking what might ’ave been. We ’ave to deal wid today an’ tomorrow.”
Brenton’s face stirred into a sympathetic expression. She has been through as much pain as I have, he thought.
“I don’t know what Juliet is going to do,” Cynthia went on. “She need time to t’ink t’ings through. An’ I don’t t’ink we will help matters if we tell her to do dis an’ dat an’ t’inking about our own worries.”
“I ain’t gonna be no burden to her. It’ll be up to her what she does.”
Ms Massey weakly nodded her head.
“So you don’t hate me then?” queried Brenton. “I hated you when I first saw you.”
“Lord God, I don’t ’ate you Brenton. I could never ’ate my children.”
Brenton smiled. “It was worth it.”
His mother’s heart felt a ray of sunshine, which brought back memories of her beloved Gary. But as she watched her son leaving, she feared for his life in this part of London.
Brenton went downstairs and found Juliet curled up in an armchair. “So how did it go then?” she asked anxiously.
“It went all right; she looks very sick, though.”
“Yeah, but she’ll be safe. I’ll look after her.”
It suddenly hit Brenton that his affair with Juliet was over and out. Lying in his hospital bed, he had suspected this. But the realisation was much more painful than the wounds Terry Flynn had inflicted on him. He tried to hide the stabbing sensation he felt in his heart. “So what you gonna do?” he asked.
“Stay here. Look after Mum and our baby when it arrives. After all that’s happened I hope you keep in touch.”
“Don’t worry about that; I will. This family is all I’ve got.”
Juliet smiled. Brenton wished she wouldn’t, for when she smiled, she looked so beautiful, and memories of blissful moments flooded through his brain. He felt his eyes dampen and a sickly feeling attacked his tongue. “I’ll…. I’ll be off now.” He collected his bag of clothes.
“Brenton, Brenton. Before you go…”
He halted his tracks towards the front door, and as he turned, Juliet saw the tears moistening the nose bandage.
“I still love you, but I can’t.”
“I know, I know.”
He turned and departed, and wished Mr Brown was still alive. He needed someone to confide in.
Brenton caught a cab to his hostel, then hauled himself up the stairs, where Floyd caught sight of him.
Brenton laid himself on Floyd’s bed, observing his spar insert a cassette tape into his suitcase. Floyd looked upon his brethren and knew he wept.
“Everyone is chatting about you,” Floyd began, hoping to cheer him up. “Mashing up Terry Flynn has turned you into a celebrity.”
“Some celebrity. He mashed me up as well.”
Floyd wondered why his spar was still idling in the pit of sorrow. “Is it all over?”
“What’s all over?”
“Er, you and your sister, innit.”
“How did you know?”
“Brenton, it’s me who has a room next to yours; not an idiot.”
Embarrassment slapped Brenton’s cheeks.
“So what?” Floyd persisted. “Your mudder boot you out of her yard? Saying don’t bother come back ’cos you terrorise her daughter?”
“Bwai, you so negative. It didn’t go like that. My mudder was understanding.”
“Man, what a palaver. Don’t worry ’bout nutten, I won’t tell nobody what a gwarn. Shit, I won’t even tell myself.”
“If you do, you will know which side blood run ah pumpkin belly.”
Floyd laughed out loud; to hear Brenton quote him felt like a compliment.
In the ashtray, jutting out of the matchsticks and snout butts, was a half-smoked spliff. Floyd arsoned it and reasoned: “You know, what you done weren’t so bad.”
“Oh yeah? How you work that one out?”
“Well, the Bible say dat Adam was the first man, seen. And Eve was the first woman, right?”
Brenton nodded, wondering what wise words his spar would come out with now.
“So Adam and Eve, the first people in dis world, had Cain and Abel, seen?”
“Yeah. What you getting at?”
“Caine and Abel married, right? But whom did they marry? Adam and Eve must have had two gal as well, ’cos there ain’t nobody else about, seen?”
“So what you’re saying is that Cain and Abel married their sisters.”
“Yes, me brethren. If they didn’t, the human race would ah dead innit.”
“You’re cuckoo.”
“Nah, check it out, it must be true.”
Brenton took the spliff, hoovered it and laughed until his shoulder pained him.
“You’re friggin mad,” he gasped.
“What’s so funny? It must be true. Read Genesis, man.”
“All I know ’bout Genesis is dat Phil Collins is the drummer.”
“Cha, ma
n. Can’t you be serious for a minute?”
“Look Floyd, man. I ain’t in the mood. Turn up the suitcase.”
Barrington Levy’s Youthman blared out from the twin speakers as the brethrens decided on a game of domino.
One Johnny Osbourne cassette later, Brenton departed to his own room. He switched on his battered suitcase, and he found a half-toked spliff under his mattress. The Gong’s Three Little Birds tweeted out from the distorted speakers.
As he crashed onto his bed, he thought things might work out all right, and he sang in a whisper, “Don’t worry, about a thing.”
He pulled himself up and stared at Mr Dean, like a painter dwelling over one of his not-so-good portraits. “Why the fuck did I put you on the wall, James?” He went over to the poster and tore it down, screwing the film star into a ball and throwing him into a corner. Then he returned to his bed, closed his eyes, and daydreamed of Mr Brown riding a chariot into town, astride a coffin, with everybody hailing out his name.
THE END.
AFTERWORD
Shortly after the 1981 Brixton riots, I found myself in a police holding cell situated near Lambeth Walk. I was eighteen years old. Reflecting on the stupidity of my petty crime that had led me there, and awaiting a prison van to escort me to Wormwood Scrubs, the very notion of me becoming an author was about as far away from my mind as the planet Pluto. What filled my thoughts was the realisation that my present circumstances had only confirmed the predictions of certain authorities, teachers, career advisors and other naysayers who had observed my tempestuous teenage years. I was way beyond self-loathing, hating the world and its brother. It was only when I had complained bitterly of my unfair life, as I saw it, to a fellow inmate and after he asked me what I had initiated to improve my life, that I began to dream of a better future. Although I was unaware of it, the first seed of what became Brixton Rock was planted in an ill-lighted, musty cell in Wormwood Scrubs.
Armed with the advice of the same inmate who had listened patiently to my endless grievances, the first task I had set myself upon my release was to visit Brixton library and read CLR James’s The Black Jacobins. When I concluded the last page, hope for my own dreams and aspirations began to delicately flicker. I have been stoking the flame ever since.
Brixton in 1980 was a vibrant place. Some have asked me where does the ‘Rock’ come from in the title. Well, it’s quite a simple explanation: Brixton was rocking at the time with reggae music. It could be heard from every tower block, every road and even in Brockwell Park on a Sunday morning where the most determined rootshead would strut along the path, burdened by the latest up-to-date Brixton suitcase. At the time, for my peers and myself, reggae was the only thing that kept us going through those dark days of early Thatcherism. It spoke of our plight and our struggles and that is why I referred to certain reggae tracks in the text of Brixton Rock and even more so in East of Acre Lane. My way of paying homage if you like. It was no fluke that The Specials’ deeply political Ghost Town, released in the summer of 1981, was one of the year’s biggest selling records.
On most Saturday nights, my friends and I, dressed in our reptile skin shoes, imitation silk shirts and double-breasted jackets, would walk the Brixton streets and council estates, searching for a blues party or a rave. We only had to listen out for the bass sounds of the reggae music we so loved to guide us. I cannot remember ever being disappointed and in most instances, we had the choice of nine or ten jump-ups to attend. Indeed, it wasn’t rare to discover three or four blues dances in the same estate.
None of my friends or myself owned a car back then so after the conclusion of these blues dances, we simply changed into our trodding footwear to walk home, chancing arrest from the Special Patrol Groups a branch of the police force that we likened to Eastern bloc militia-men. At times we felt we were living in a police state. But there were good times too and I still reflect fondly on the antics, crazy situations and the laughter that friends and myself shared.
Not being as fluent and creative with the English language as most of my friends, I used to listen and observe attentively, unwittingly noting characters in the bank of my brain for use twenty years or so later in the novels Brixton Rock and East of Acre Lane. The sheer inventiveness of my friends’ dialogue was always a fascination to me and although I attempted to ‘chat’ like a Floyd or a Biscuit, my Croydon childhood betrayed me; I lived in Brixton with my family up to the age of four until I moved away. I returned when I was fourteen.
Urban street dialogue has always been in the ownership of the young and it reinvents itself as swiftly as the passing seasons. I offer a wry grin when I hear the likes of Ali G attempting to mimic street culture. Those of us who know a little something about this realise that the street culture that Ali G presents to the world is totally inaccurate and only barely reflects street talk of the mid-1980s. For example, the term punanny that Ali G enjoys employing, was the title of a hit dancehall tune by a DJ called Admiral Bailey in the mid-1980s. Today, a wisened urban youth wouldn’t be caught dead using the term. My point is that it seems the establishment wish to sell our own culture back to ourselves in the form of the likes of Ali G, while ignoring what is really happening in street culture. We need to sell our own culture from its original source and I hope my novels redress that balance a little.
One of my many motivations in writing Brixton Rock was when I came across a novel written about Brixton, which I will not name here, that critics and reviewers seemed to think was an accurate portrayal of Brixton dialogue and urban culture. It was nothing of the sort. On reading these reviews, I asked myself how would these critics know what was accurate? Although I am only human and rush to see reviews of any books I have written, nothing gives me more delight than when someone from my Brixton past comes up to me and says, ‘Yeah, Alex. You got it right, man. Dat’s how it was.’
When I perform readings the public continually ask me where does the character, Brenton Brown, come from. They say that a large percentage of first novels are autobiographical and Brixton Rock does not wander from that. There is a large part of me in Brenton Brown; his anger, frustration, a yearning to be loved, but I can assure everyone that I have never slept with any of my sisters! There are also character traits I stole from people I knew that I infused into Brenton Brown. After all, if Brenton Brown was solely based on me then I would no doubt bore the reader.
Little did I realise in the creating of Brenton Brown that this character resonated throughout the social spectrum. Whether it be a young white man living in an estate in Newcastle relating to Brenton or a retired black man residing in the countryside of Jamaica, Brenton seems to touch the readers in a significant way more than any other character I have created since Brixton Rock.
When I was finally content with what seemed the 2,000th draft of Brixton Rock, I submitted it to at least 30 publishers and agents. They all turned me down, reasoning that there would be no audience for my first novel. BlackAmber Books took a chance on me and I hope they have been rewarded for their enterprise. BlackAmber presented me with an opportunity to create a career for myself in the writing world. But I do dismay when the larger publishing houses turn down novels similar to Brixton Rock. Booksellers, fiction directors, marketing personnel and the like love to categorise books and place them in this genre or that genre. The truth is the story of Brenton Brown could be duplicated by a writer who lives in Edinburgh, Lagos or Moscow. Brixton Rock is the story of a young man trying to establish his identity, attempting to recover his roots that were cut away from birth, and as long as there are Brenton Browns in this world, it will have resonance and meaning to the reader, for at the end of the day, all of us crave the thing that Brenton needs the most – to be loved.
Oh, one last thing. I have been questioned many times about the very last sentence of Brixton Rock. Then he returned to his bed, closed his eyes, and daydreamed of Mr Brown riding a chariot into town, astride a coffin, with everybody hailing out his name. It’s a reference to a Bob Marley song
that he wrote in the late 1960s. Legend has it that on one hot Kingston morning, perched at the back of a courthouse, was a crow dressed smartly in a three-piece suit. Later on that day, this same bird was seen standing on a coffin that was laid upon a horse-drawn cart on its way to a cemetery. These apparent scenarios caused alarm and panic in parts of Kingston, with some people believing they had seen the ‘bird of death’. On a whim I decided to end the novel referring to these bizarre incidents… Perhaps I was just trying to be too clever.
Those of you who wish to learn more about Brenton’s childhood in a children’s home should check out my third novel The Seven Sisters. Any who aspire to know more about the rising tensions in Brixton that led to the 1981 riots should check out East of Acre Lane.
Peace and Guidance.
Alex Wheatle
South London, January 2004
About the Author
Alex Wheatle, of Jamaican origin, was born in South London. He is a founding member of the Crucial Rocker sound system, for whom he has written lyrics for performance. Alex is now working with English PEN, and the Children’s Discovery Centre to promote reading. His other novels: Brenton Brown, The Dirty South, Island Song, East of Acre Lane, The Seven Sisters and Checkers with Mark Parham. He was awarded an MBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours list for services to literature in 2008. He lives with his family in south London.
Copyright
First published in 1999
by BlackAmber Books
This ebook edition first published in 2011
by HopeRoad Publishing
P O Box 55544
Exhibition Road
London SW7 2DB
All rights reserved
