Brenton Brown

by Alex Wheatle

  ‘She ain’t the one,’ replied Brenton.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cos she ain’t.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then why can’t you make a go of t’ings with her?’ Brenton thought about it. He was about to give Floyd a bullshit answer but glancing at him he knew he didn’t have to lie to him. The Mighty Diamonds’ Identity pleaded from the speakers. Brenton halved a cigarette and began constructing a new spliff. ‘’Cos she ain’t Juliet,’ he finally answered.

  ‘Man! You still got it bad. You can’t go on like this, bredren.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then do something about it. Start afresh, somewhere new.’

  Brenton licked a cigarette paper. ‘It’s so fucking hard,’ he said. ‘When you hate someone you have it out with them. It might end up in a fight or some mad slanging match but it comes to some kinda end. But when you really … like someone, it doesn’t stop. You can’t stop liking them. That feeling I had for her… It …’

  Sprinkling the cannabis into the joint, Brenton closed his eyes as if he was reliving some painful memory. He almost grimaced before he spoke again. ‘It never faded.’

  For a long moment the two friends just looked at each other, acknowledging their shared history and their secrets. Finally, Floyd stood up, walked over to Brenton and playfully punched him on his left shoulder. ‘Start afresh,’ he said. ‘But before you do, you’re following me to my yard and helping me to finish that damn hallway. Bring your tools too; Sharon might want you to fix something.’

  ‘I knew it,’ Brenton laughed. ‘Knew it!’

  Chapter 4

  Frustration

  COLLECTING THE GLASSES and the paper plates from the lounge, Clayton brought them to the kitchen where he dropped the plates into a black rubbish bag and put the glasses on the side of the sink where Juliet was washing up. The washing machine had reached its spin cycle and the sound and vibration of it almost drowned out Alexander O’Neal. White blinds covered the windows and outside the night had brought with it a deep frost. The smell of curried goat and roasted mackerel still lingered and it blended with the overproof rum and brandy that emitted from countless paper cups. The Bob Marley clock, a birthday gift from Brenton to Juliet, fixed to the wall above the fridge, had just turned eleven o’clock.

  ‘This is the last of it,’ said Clayton, his sleeves rolled up but still wearing a black tie. He put his arms around Juliet’s waist and kissed her on her neck but she continued washing up.

  ‘I’m tired, Clayton,’ she said. ‘Where’s Breanna? She promised to give us a hand.’

  ‘She went to see Malakai out to the bus stop.’

  ‘Did you get a chance to talk to him?’

  ‘Malakai? We had a brief conversation. He seems OK but he could’ve given more thought to the clothes he was wearing. Last time I checked we weren’t hosting a hip-hop night.’

  ‘Oh, he’s young,’ said Juliet. ‘He probably doesn’t even own a suit or a tie. Why should he?’

  Switching on the kettle, Clayton sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Respect. That’s why he should. Coming into the place with his backside out of the door! He knew he was attending a funeral. Or at least the wake of a funeral.’

  ‘Mum wouldn’t have minded.’

  Standing up again, Clayton took out a mug from a cupboard and brought down the coffee jar. He scooped a heaped teaspoonful of granules as he admired Juliet’s figure. Not quite as slender as when he first blessed his eyes on her but she looked incredible for a woman of forty. Her legs were still toned and her backside moved provocatively whenever he walked behind her. Her breasts were generous but it was her big, round eyes set in a milk chocolate face which was framed by shoulder-length dreadlocks that still enchanted him. He could look at her all day. Even if it was simply watching her apply make-up or walk up the stairs.

  Pouring boiled water into his mug, Clayton took his seat at the kitchen table again. He blew on his black coffee as he watched Juliet drying her hands. ‘What was all that with Brenton?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I think he found the whole day upsetting,’ answered Juliet, putting glasses away in a cupboard.

  ‘He didn’t seem too upset. He was coping OK … until he spoke to you.’

  ‘He thought that I left him out of things,’ replied Juliet, deciding not to face her husband. ‘I mean, we did pretty much organise everything ourselves.’

  Clayton watched Juliet’s every move like a juror studying the accused. ‘I thought he would’ve wanted us to arrange everything. I mean, he was never really close to your mum, was he? Not as close as you were to her. And he hardly knew any of her friends.’

  ‘They were close,’ Juliet insisted, at last turning around and meeting Clayton’s eyes. ‘They had a strange relationship. Sometimes stressed and awkward. But they needed each other.’

  ‘But he never really forgave her for abandoning him as a baby? Did he?’

  ‘Yes, he did. Brenton made his peace with her.’

  ‘It didn’t look like that to me.’

  Taking out a mint-flavoured bag of herbal tea, Juliet placed it in a mug and poured hot water over it. As her back was turned to Clayton she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose. She breathed out softly and tried to compose herself. She then joined Clayton at the kitchen table; hard-dough breadcrumbs were still on its surface. She sipped her tea and held the mug with both hands in front of her face. ‘You didn’t see them together when they showed affection for each other,’ she said. ‘They were very private.’

  ‘If they were so lovey-dovey with each other, as you call it, then how comes when we used to visit and Brenton was there, she was always upset when he left? I’ve heard how cruel he can be. He called her a whore once even in my presence. I felt like saying something.’

  ‘That wouldn’t have been a good idea.’

  ‘Why not? Why did he continually abuse her like that? She was always saying sorry to him but it was never enough. What did he want her to do? Flail herself with a metal chain and spiked ball?’

  ‘No need to be flippant, Clayton.’

  ‘Don’t know why he kept on seeing her? And I don’t know why she kept opening the door to him.’

  ‘He had to see her. To find out his identity. And she had to learn how damaged he was and understand the consequences of what she did. She knew that and that’s why she put up with his shouting and upsets. And he didn’t continually abuse her.’

  ‘She didn’t deserve any of it. He was always upsetting her. He always played on her nerves with his flashes of temper. If you ask me he only added to her stresses and …’

  ‘OK, Clayton!’ Juliet interrupted. ‘That’s enough.’

  She took another sip of tea and momentarily closed her eyes. When she opened them again the tiredness had been replaced by anger. ‘Mum’s gone! And whatever stresses she had were the result of things that happened a long time ago. Long before Brenton turned up. She was always a sick woman.’

  Looking at his mug of coffee, Clayton picked it up and took a sip. He wiped his lips with the back of his left hand and met his wife’s stern gaze. ‘So you’re still going to give him everything?’

  ‘Yes I am,’ Juliet answered. ‘He deserves it.’

  ‘Not from what I’ve seen.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Clayton!’ Juliet suddenly lost her temper. She almost dropped her mug onto the table and it spilled over. ‘Brenton spent his childhood in a fucking children’s home! Do you know how that makes me feel? I grew up with photos of me filling up my mum’s bedroom? My mum taking me to dancing lessons. Taking me for a day out at Littlehampton. Mum leaving work to collect me from nursery school because I had a headache. Have you any idea how fucking guilty that makes me feel? He was institutionalised. Physically abused. Damaged. It’s a wonder that he made something out of his life.’

  ‘Why you always have to feel guilty over Brenton?’ argued Clayton. ‘He was never your respons
ibility. It wasn’t you who abandoned him. It was your mother and whoever his white father was. Can’t you for once understand that, Juliet? Your mum was meant to take you to dancing lessons and for days out to the seaside. She was meant to pick you up from junior school if you were ill. That’s what mothers do.’

  ‘Mothers don’t abandon their babies!’ Juliet raised her voice. For a short second there was hatred in her eyes and her hands shook. She closed her eyes again, trying to control her breathing.

  ‘But it’s not your job to make up for that!’ Clayton countered, frustration showing on his face. ‘You don’t have to take on your mother’s wrongs.’

  Picking up her mug, Juliet stood, went to the sink and rinsed it under the hot tap. ‘I haven’t got time for this tonight, Clayton. I’m tired, I’m missing my mother and I’m chairing a committee meeting first thing in the morning.’

  ‘So I have no say on what your mother leaves in her will and who should get all the money?’

  ‘I’ve made up my mind,’ affirmed Juliet. She gripped a tea towel in her right hand and for a short second she wanted it to be Clayton’s throat. ‘Everything that she has left for me I will give to him. We’ve gone through this and I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’

  ‘She was your mother too!’ Clayton persisted. ‘And your best friend. When she needed someone to look after her she didn’t call Brenton. You did all the caring so you deserve the bigger chunk of what she’s left.’

  ‘Clayton! My mind is made up. I’m over and done with it. Please drop it.’

  Opening the door of the washing machine, Juliet pulled out the clothes and placed them in a basket. She carried the basket upstairs to the bathroom where she hung the clothes on a washing line suspended high above the bath. When she was done, she closed the bathroom door, walked towards the mirror that was fixed above the sink and studied her reflection. The lines were increasing around her eyes, flecks of grey were just about visible at the roots of her locks and the strain of the secret she had held for so long showed itself in two short deep lines between her eyebrows. Her head then dropped. ‘Oh, Brenton,’ she whispered. ‘Won’t you ever heal?’ Her eyes closed and she supported herself with her two hands resting on the sides of the sink. She breathed in deeply, composed herself and made her way to her bedroom. She sat down on her bed and looked around her room.

  The dressing table in front of her was stocked with framed photographs of Breanna in her schooldays. There was shyness and a vulnerability about her poses, Juliet thought. On her side of the bed there was an open bedside cabinet that was full of romantic novels. Next to this was a pink armchair that had three heart-shaped cushions resting on it. A shelf on the wall housed her CDs of Janet Kay, Carroll Thompson, Roberta Flack, Anita Baker, Mary J Blige and other R&B female vocalists. The walls in the room were painted something between yellow and beige and had framed sketches of laughing boys hanging from them; one was of a black boy on his bike doing a paper round. Clayton’s side of the room had similar furnishings but instead of romantic novels he had books about finance and investments. Last Friday’s Financial Times was still on the floor next to his wardrobe. Juliet heard Clayton climbing the stairs; she reckoned he was as tired as she was because his footfalls seemed so heavy. He came inside the room and paused as he undid his tie and loosened the top button of his shirt.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  ‘Yes, it has,’ Juliet nodded.

  Taking off his shirt, Clayton kissed Juliet on the forehead. She didn’t respond. Instead, she just remained seated, too tired to move. Eventually, she returned to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Again, she looked in the mirror as if it might solve all her problems. ‘Brenton,’ she whispered.

  When Juliet returned to her room she noticed that the lights were dimmed. Clayton was in bed; he had already taken out his clothes for the morning and they were neatly folded on his armchair. Juliet undressed and put on her negligee; she felt Clayton’s eyes watching her every move. She switched off her bedside light and climbed into bed. She closed her eyes and she could hear Clayton reading over some papers and tapping on his calculator. She wondered what Brenton was doing and hoped he wasn’t too mad with her.

  Twenty minutes later, Clayton switched off his light and Juliet heard him place his reading glasses in their case. Clayton snuggled up behind Juliet and after a while she felt his left hand over her right breast. He began to kiss her neck. ‘I’m really tired, Clayton.’

  Without a word, Clayton rolled over onto his stomach, placed his arms above his head and settled down to sleep. Juliet could only think of Brenton.

  Chapter 5

  Turning the Tables

  THE WAILING SOULS’ Things and Time filled the room. Wearing boxer shorts and a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt, Brenton slipped into bed. He lay on his back with his hands interlocked behind his head. In his mind he went over the day’s events and regretted his anger at Juliet. He thought about Floyd’s suggestion of starting somewhere afresh. Where would he go? He liked Jamaica, especially the steep green hills and the lush vegetation. He could imagine living in one of those lofty houses overlooking Kingston and its harbour and he could never forget the sounds of cocks crowing to herald in the morning. He enjoyed the reggae music blasting out from everywhere and the open-air dances. But Jamaica was too distant. Too far from his friends. Too far from Juliet. Besides, he knew little of his family there. Mum did introduce him to aunts, uncles and cousins but they seemed to be more interested in what was in his suitcase than meeting a new relation. Maybe Spain? Brenton thought. Nah, fuck that. Not after their racist football supporters abused all the black players in the England team.

  Old Mr Lewis was always going on about visiting other countries, Brenton recalled. After Mr Lewis graduated from university he backpacked around Europe and South America. On cold winter evenings at the hostel Brenton remembered the social worker telling stories of how he climbed step pyramids in Mexico, watched ships entering the Panama Canal, drank yards of beer in Munich and hitched rides on sailing boats in Lake Geneva. ‘No raas claat yodeling boatman is gonna give a black man a free ride on Lake Geneva,’ Floyd had remarked. ‘They’ll probably arrest him for trying to steal fish. And all that short leather trousers and lederhosen fuckery is a battyman t’ing.’ Brenton laughed at the memory.

  ‘I learned more from travelling than I ever did at university,’ Lewis once said.

  Lewis was the only social worker he ever gave time to. The rest of them were social wankers.

  Brenton’s eyes were now closed and images were forming in his mind. He could see himself at thirteen years of age. He was playing football in a field within the grounds of the children’s home. T-shirts were used as goalposts and Brenton’s friends played with a heavy lace-up ball that was a birthday gift to one of the boys. It was a hot day and the grass had just been cut. Girls were playing hopscotch on the road and boys went by on skateboards. A hay fever sufferer sneezed in the distance and three teenagers were watching the football from the branches of an oak tree. Seven guys were playing with another in goal. If you scored three times then you would take over between the posts. Brenton had hit two goals and was determined to add another when someone walked onto the field of play. It was a white guy wearing a corduroy jacket, a Jethro Tull T-shirt and tight-fitting jeans. He had long brown hair and a hippy moustache. ‘Brenton!’ he called.

  The football game continued, Brenton going close with a right-foot thunderbolt. The goalkeeper frowned when he realised that to retrieve the ball he had to negotiate stinging nettles. The other players argued about some incident on the pitch. They pushed and shoved each other.

  ‘Brenton,’ the man called again.

  Turning around, Brenton looked at the man. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he said. ‘What do you want? Can’t you see I’m in a middle of a game?’

  The man walked closer. He smiled nervously and his hands were in his pockets. ‘I’m your new social worker,’ he said. ‘I came yesterday
but you were out. Can you see me now?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So we can get to know each other.’

  ‘I don’t want to get to know no one.’ Brenton studied the social worker. ‘Especially if they’re dressed like you. You look like a fucking bummer.’

  ‘I’ve come all the way from my office in Brixton, Brenton,’ said the social worker, his calm now rattled. ‘And I came yesterday too. Can’t we just have a chat for half an hour or so?’

  Ignoring the stifled giggles of his mates, Brenton thought about it. ‘You got a car?’

  ‘Er, yeah,’ the social worker nodded. ‘It’s parked over there.’

  Pointing to an orange Volkswagen Beetle that was parked outside Brenton’s house, the social worker smiled again. ‘It just about got me here.’

  Not responding to the joke, Brenton offered, ‘If you drive me to the nearest Wimpy and buy me a Knickerbocker Glory I’ll talk with ya.’

  ‘Deal,’ smiled the social worker.

  ‘But you have to wait for me to finish my game,’ added Brenton.

  Sitting on the grass, the social worker had to wait another twenty minutes or so until Brenton scored his third goal. Brenton then bade goodbye to his mates, slung his T-shirt over his left shoulder and walked towards the social worker. Sweat was dripping off his face. ‘My name’s Phillip,’ the social worker introduced himself. ‘Phillip Lawson.’ He offered his right hand but Brenton looked at it as if it was caked in slug vomit.

  Walking towards Phillip’s car, Brenton waved a final farewell to his mates. Phillip opened the passenger door but Brenton climbed into the back. ‘So how long are you gonna be my social worker?’ Brenton asked. ‘A month? Three weeks? A week? Two days? A fucking hour?’

  ‘I think you’ll have to put up with me for a bit longer than a month,’ Phillip replied.

  It took Phillip over half an hour to drive and pull up outside the Wimpy restaurant in Croydon. Brenton went inside with his T-shirt still draped over his left shoulder, his grass-stained cut-down jeans and a pair of battered Dunlop trainers; two toes were visible and he wasn’t wearing any socks. He settled into a seat and bad-eyed anybody who stared at him.