by Alex Wheatle
‘Now, what is it you want again, Brenton?’ Phillip asked.
‘A Knickerbocker Glory.’
‘Don’t you want any burgers and chips before it?’
‘No, I want a Knickerbocker Glory with everything in it. Make sure it’s got the cherry on top like in that picture on the menu. And all the hundreds and thousands sprinkled all over it.’
‘Not a problem, not a problem. I’ll just go and order it.’
Phillip went to order the food and Brenton slouched into his chair. ‘What a fucking wanker,’ he whispered. ‘Fucking tosspot.’
Ten minutes later, Brenton was enjoying strawberries, chocolate-and-raspberry ice cream, meringue, wafers, sliced almond nuts, whipped cream, strawberry syrup, hundreds and thousands and a glacé cherry in a very tall glass. He wished he had a camera to take a picture of it so he could show his mates.
‘Enjoying your treat?’ Phillip asked, nibbling on a cheeseburger and fries and dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
‘Yeah,’ Brenton replied, his eyes transfixed on what he was eating. ‘First time I’ve had one of these. Always dreamed of it. My mate Rodney had one when his uncle took him out three weeks ago. He really wound me up about it, fucking cunt! Showing off he was. I felt like shoving my shoes up his cakehole.’
Phillip smiled and took another bite. ‘It’s obvious you love football but can you tell me more about yourself? How you’re getting on in your household? School? Any problems you are going through?’
Brenton looked up. His spoon was poised over his tall glass. ‘Why should I fucking tell you?’
Phillip smiled awkwardly. ‘Because I’m your new social worker.’
‘But I don’t fucking know you.’
‘This is why I have come and why I have taken you out for this treat, Brenton. To get to know you.’
‘I just come with ya ’cos I wanted a Knickerbocker Glory.’
‘You’re not being very cooperative, Brenton.’
‘Fuck you!’ Brenton spat. A slither of ice cream landed on Phillip’s chin. He wiped it off with his napkin. Brenton continued, ‘I have never seen you in my life and you expect me to talk to you like we’re mates? And answer all your nosey questions? Fuck that!’
Checking to see if Brenton’s raised voice had disturbed anyone, Phillip lowered his tone into a whisper. ‘Perhaps I was going a bit fast. Of course you should have the chance to get to know me before we discuss other things.’
Scooping every last drop out of the tall glass, Brenton nodded. He then emitted a satisfying sigh and leaned back into his seat. ‘I should ask you questions. You people always do the asking.’
‘Ask me questions?’ Phillip chuckled. He looked at Brenton and saw that he was serious. He fidgeted in his seat. ‘OK, go ahead.’
There was a pause as Brenton thought about it.
‘Where did you grow up?’ Brenton finally asked.
‘Er, Guildford.’
‘Rich people live there?’
‘Not sure about rich but people do OK there.’
‘You got a nice mum and dad? Did they give you pocket money and stuff? Did you get Chopper bikes and Subbuteo games for Christmas? Father fucking Christmas treat you alright? He was a right cunt to me.’
‘Er, I didn’t get any football games for Christmas but one year I received a bike. I suppose I was very fortunate. I have wonderful parents.’
‘Got any brothers and sisters? Cousins? Uncles and aunts visiting?’
‘One brother, two sisters,’ Phillip answered, knowing after studying Brenton’s file that he had no family whatsoever that was in touch with him or the social services. ‘And there are a few cousins I don’t see much of. I have one aunt who, as far as I’m concerned, visits too much.’
Placing his spoon into the glass, Brenton leant closer to Phillip. His gaze was hard and unwavering. ‘Did your mum and dad hit you from the age of five with wooden hairbrushes and a belt?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Did they lock you up in your outhouse ’cos you were crying too much? ’Cos you wet the bed? Or just ’cos they wanted to get rid of ya?’
‘We, we didn’t have an outhouse,’ stuttered Phillip. ‘We had a shed in our back garden.’
‘Did they shove a pissed bedsheet in your mouth ’cos you wet your bed?’
Phillip grimaced. ‘No. Why are you asking this?’
‘Did your parents ever get a psychiatrist to talk with ya and did that psychiatrist ask you to take off your clothes?’
‘N … No.’
‘Did they tell you that you was an animal, a jungle bunny, golliwog, nig nog and a nigger and that you should be glad for any bit of food you ate?’
‘Brenton, Brenton. Why are you asking these questions?’
‘To get to know you. And so far I’ve worked out you had it alright. Can I have a Coca-Cola?’
‘Er, yes, of course. I’ll go and ask for it.’
Phillip stood up and let out a sigh. It was a relief to get away from Brenton’s laser-like eyes. He ordered a strong coffee for himself. He returned to his seat to find Brenton’s eyes boring into him once more. He had seen scores of children in orphanages since he became a social worker but he couldn’t remember if he had met a boy with such rage in his eyes. Finishing half of his glass in one gulp, Brenton belched, wiped his lips with the back of his right hand and addressed Phillip once more. ‘What did you do after school?’ he asked.
Stirring his coffee more than necessary, Phillip answered, ‘I eventually went to university to study sociology. I studied at Oxford.’
‘Oxford? Their football team is shit.’
‘I suppose they are.’
‘What’s social bology?’
‘You mean sociology. It can cover many things but I was interested in examining working-class and middle-class lifestyles and why it’s so difficult for the working class to progress.’
‘What’s working class?’
‘Erm, people who live in poverty, people who have no choice but to work for a living. People who are unable to leave anything substantial for their children. People who don’t own land, that kind of thing.’
‘I used to own a tree,’ Brenton said. ‘In the orchard. An apple tree. It had a branch that I could sleep on. I used to pick the apples off the tree for apple crumbles. If any of my mates climbed it I’d beat them up ’cos it’s my tree. My fucking tree. I used to like sitting in it. Everyone knows it’s my fucking tree. So, if I still owned that tree would it make me middle class?’
‘Er, not quite.’
‘So I’m working class?’
‘Well, you’re Brenton Brown but, yes, you would be described as working class.’
‘So if I’m really working class that means I know more about it than you.’
‘Er, not quite.’
‘But I live it. You don’t fucking live it. I only get paper-round money, I don’t own no fucking land, I was beat up a lot when I was younger and if I ever get out of that fucking place I’ll have to work so I can buy my apples and Knickerbocker Glorys. I reckon that makes me an expert in social bology or whatever you call it. Posh people like you should be asking me questions about it instead of reading all those books. That’s all bollocks.’
‘Yes, maybe we should ask you questions. It’s why I wanted to be a social worker. Because I wanted to make a difference directly. To work at the coal-face as they say.’
What a fucking tosspot, Brenton thought.
‘You got a girlfriend?’ Brenton asked suddenly, his gaze unrelenting.
‘Er, yes.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Caroline.’
‘Does she hug you?’
Sipping his coffee, Phillip felt his cheeks warming. He thought about his answer carefully. ‘At times she embraces me to display her affection for me.’
‘What? Fuck me! You do speak funny sometimes. Like in that programme Upstairs Downstairs. You speak like the upstairs people. Your parents are rich, aren’t they?
’
‘Not quite.’
‘You had enough money to buy me a Knickerbocker Glory.’ Phillip laughed, his tension eased for just a moment. ‘In time when you find a girlfriend she’ll embrace you too.’
‘Did your mum hug ya?’ Brenton wanted to know. ‘Did she kiss you on the cheek before you went to school like in those stupid family films and did she fix your tie? Did she wash you in a bath?’
‘Er, yes. She did all of those things.’
‘Of course if I had a mum I’d be way too old for all that bollocks.’
Phillip chuckled again, warming to his charge.
‘And do you kiss your girlfriend?’
Studying Brenton, Phillip couldn’t find a hint of a juvenile grin or any evidence that he was playing about. He wanted to be honest in his reply. ‘Yes, we kiss at times. Again, to show our affection for each other. That’s what happens when you’re in a loving relationship.’
‘Have you sucked her tits? Did you put your finger up her pussy? It’s the middle one, right? Have you fucked her?’
Almost choking on his coffee, Phillip cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think that’s appropriate, Brenton.’
‘What does appropriate mean?’
Opening his eyes and shaking his head to rid his mind of the memories, Brenton heard the sweet tones of Sugar Minott’s Show Me That You Love Me Girl. He climbed out of bed, switched off the mini-stereo and lay back down once more. ‘What a fucking tosspot,’ he chuckled.
Chapter 6
Political Opportunity
HER THREE-INCH HEELS ECHOING off the spiral stone steps that led from the council chamber, Juliet sighed, glad that the Children and Young People’s services committee meeting was over. She had suggested to high-ranking social workers, youth leaders and others in attendance that young people who had left social services care at the age of eighteen should have additional help from the council to help them adapt to life on their own. Too many young people who had left care had ended up in prison, on drugs or in mental institutions, Juliet had added, and it’s the council’s duty to halt that trend. She received warm applause and nods of agreement but others had asked how much funding would be required to set up a network mentor scheme to help vulnerable young adults. No matter how good the idea, Juliet thought, it would always come down to money. The London Borough of Lambeth couldn’t afford such great initiatives, Juliet frowned again, but they could spare the odd hundred grand a year to pay the chief executive.
‘Mrs Hylton! Mrs Hylton!’ somebody shouted above her.
Juliet stopped at the foot of the stairs and saw Councillor Reynolds hurrying down the steps towards her. Reynolds was wearing an Italian-made suit and Juliet could almost see her reflection in his black shoes. His blood-red tie was nearly choking him and she recoiled ever so slightly at the smell of his P Diddy aftershave. God forbid he ever makes it to Prime Minister, she thought to herself. She half-smiled a greeting.
‘Have you heard?’ Reynolds asked in a low voice, his eyes shifting here and there as if he was passing on state secrets.
‘Heard what?’
‘Mrs Crowey, our dear Member of Parliament.’
‘What about her?’ Juliet asked, not liking the way Mr Reynolds always talked to her breasts. But she chose not to rebuke him because he was short.
‘She’s standing down at the next election.’
‘She is?’
‘Yes, she’s just made a statement. Now she can fuck off to the shires where her heart really belongs and campaign for tally-ho riders and mad dogs to rip up foxes again.’
Juliet didn’t laugh at Mr Reynolds’ attempt at humour. Instead, remembering she had a lunch appointment to make, she set off walking at a brisk pace along a corridor towards the Town Hall reception. Mr Reynolds paused for a moment, appreciating Juliet’s elegant stride. He soon caught up with her. ‘Let me guess, she said she wanted to spend more time with her family,’ Juliet remarked.
‘That’s a laugh,’ Mr Reynolds chuckled. ‘Everyone knows her old man is screwing away from home and her daughter hates her.’
‘That’s a bit harsh, Tom.’
‘It’s true though. Remember last year when her daughter turned up to her surgery meeting?’
Juliet tried to suppress a smile.
‘She sat opposite her mother and said her problem was she couldn’t remember what her mother looked like. Soooo embarrassing. That taught her to stop appearing on Sky News all the time reviewing right-wing newspapers and making an arse of herself on Question Time.’
‘I for one wish her well,’ Juliet replied, wondering why Tom always tried to talk like a teenager when he was with her. He’s thirty-two for God’s sake, she thought. Act like it! ‘She served her constituents for a long time,’ she added.
‘You sound like our all-great and powerful leader, Juliet. That’s what his official line will say. His scriptwriters are probably working on it now. They won’t say she was a pain in the backside to the Labour Party and opposed the government every chance she had, the old crow.’
‘They’re not going to say that, are they? And I’m sure he can write his own political eulogies, Tom.’
‘Can he? He doesn’t even sign Christmas cards any more without consulting the Spin Boy Three. God, Juliet, you’re beginning to sound like them. You’ll go far. You just got to work on that smile of yours.’
Juliet’s face broke out into a grin and then she laughed out loud. ‘Oh Lord! Lick me if I talk like them again.’ She immediately regretted saying her last sentence.
Tom deliberated for a short second, thinking of something that gave him great pleasure and then he pulled on Juliet’s left arm. He stopped walking and faced her, admiring her beauty for a moment before adopting his serious face once more. ‘We all want you to go for it,’ he said. ‘It’ll be sooo cool. You’ve got a lot of support in the Town Hall, the local rank and file membership and beyond. And you sent Breanna to a normal comprehensive! You’ll walk it. First black Member of Parliament representing the Brixton area? The media will love it. Well, not all the media but the Guardian and Independent will be coming over all sweaty and turned on at the thought of it.’
‘Tom!’
‘I can see the 1981 riot footage on Sky News now,’ Tom went on, ignoring Juliet’s disapproval. ‘You’ll have features in The Sunday Times magazine about your memories of the Brixton riots and how you wanted to make a difference for the young and marginalised in the area. And you are better looking than that, yes sir, yes, three bags full sir, do anything to get a cabinet job bitch MP from east London, even if it pisses off ninety-nine per cent of her constituents. How do you say her name? Shluna Keane? A right bitch. You won’t be as media-slutty as that patronising cow in north London either. Damn! That woman will turn up on Big Brother soon. They should put her out to grass.’
‘That’s below the belt, Tom.’
Not hearing Juliet or wanting to hear her, Tom kept up his flow. ‘When you’re on the scene the media will lose interest in all of those so-called black women MPs. They’re going to love you though. You’re the real deal. And because of that, even though our great and powerful leader hates working-class people like you and me, he’ll have to give you a decent job. Who knows? Within a few years you might be Secretary to the Treasury or something? After that Home Secretary. You’ll have to play your cards right though, work on that smile. Also that sad look needs polishing for when you’re talking about police pay and when social services neglect another murdered child that was on their list.’
‘Tom, can you stop planning my political life for a second.’
‘And later on Prime Minister!’ Tom continued. ‘First Labour woman Prime Minister. And you’re black so you might make it onto Time magazine.’
‘Maybe you should make the Spin Boy Three the Spin Boy Four,’ replied Juliet, going through a doorway that led to the lobby of the Town Hall. ‘You definitely got the imagination to be a spin doctor. I don’t even know if I want to be an MP. I’ll have t
o talk it through with my family.’
‘Knowing Clayton he’ll support you all the way. He’ll be so proud.’
Yes he would be, Juliet thought. Too bloody proud.
‘Where’re you going to lunch?’ Tom asked. ‘We need to talk about strategy. By the way, my offer still remains.’
Juliet remembered why Tom spoke like he did to her. He really didn’t have any other black friends apart from her and maybe he thought that you have to sound hip if you were talking to a black mate. He knew black people alright, but not to visit or to go out for a drink with, or to have lunch with. He only knew the black people who made up his particular ward and they only ever complained to him about their high council taxes, damp walls, blocked toilets, the queue at the post office and wild dogs crapping on their streets. They also whispered about his lack of height.
‘What offer, Tom?’
‘My offer to be your campaign manager. It’ll be sooo cool working together.’
‘Campaign manager?’ He must be out of his crazy fucking mind if he thinks he’s working as my campaign manager, she thought. ‘That’s a long way off, Tom. Election isn’t for another two or three years. And like I said I haven’t even made up my mind if I should run for it.’
‘But you still have to prepare and have a strategy in case you do,’ argued Tom, stepping ahead of Juliet to open the door for her. ‘Trust me, the starting gun has been fired already and all kinds of ambitious Labourites will be sniffing around, especially those poshed-up bastards from the Islington set. Don’t want one of those smiley bastards parachuted in with their Chelsea scarves, their Islington dinner invites and body language experts. This is one of the safest Labour seats in the country and you have to make sure you get it. And we don’t want someone like Crowey, who is a Tory grandee in disguise.’
‘Thanks for your support, Tom, but I can’t strategise this lunchtime because I’m meeting a friend.’
