by Alex Wheatle
Before getting into his car, Brenton took out his mobile and thumbed down to Juliet’s number. He paused. He stared at her number. He visualised her face. A deep longing stirred in him. He checked his thoughts. Nah, she’s probably busy with all that Lambeth Council shit. She might still be mad with me. Still gotta buy Breanna a card. I bet Clayton buys her a card and does some writing in it that is well over the top. To my darling dearest sweet daughter on her most special day. Fuck Clayton. Breanna ain’t your daughter.
Climbing into his car, he switched on the ignition and Little John’s Smoke Ganga Hard exhaled from the stereo. From Pimlico it took him half an hour to reach his home off Brixton Hill. He stopped off at the Nubian culture shop where he bought Breanna’s card. Once he reached home he washed his hands before writing in the card, To Breanna, Love Uncle Brenton. He dreamed of one day signing a card, Love Dad.
Deciding against a shower, Brenton took a leisurely bath and felt good that all the dust, grime and dirt from his day was washed away. Daniel better sweep up when he’s finished, he thought. Should I call him? Nah. He’s already said I’ve been stressing out too much this week.
Once he had pulled fresh clothes on he inserted Breanna’s card and two hundred pounds into an envelope. He felt good and smiled in anticipation. He wrote Breanna’s name on the envelope and underlined it with a flourish. For a moment he wished he had a better writing hand. Like Juliet’s. Her writing is so neat, so elegant. There was a knock at the door and he went to open it
Standing perfectly still in a black trench coat with both hands on her hips was Lesley. Something was erupting in her eyes and Brenton noticed the solid look of her jawline. Her lips seemed that bit thinner than the last time he’d seen her. Oh shit! he thought. I haven’t called her back. Oh fuck! ‘Come in,’ he said.
‘So you can talk?’ snapped Lesley. She marched in and sat down at the dinner table. She placed her designer handbag on the table and folded her arms once more. She didn’t unbutton her coat and she looked out of the window as if she was waiting for some kind of apology. ‘Forgotten how to use your mobile?’
Taking his time closing the door, Brenton cautiously joined Lesley at the table. He carefully pulled out a chair as if any noise he made would ratchet up her obvious anger. He struggled to come up with a greeting.
‘Why haven’t you returned any of my calls or texts?’ asked Lesley. She was still staring out the window. ‘And don’t give me no rubbish about your battery playing up.’
‘Just … busy, you know.’
‘What do you mean you’re just fucking busy?’
Brenton had never heard Lesley swear before. Well, maybe the odd shit but she only said it if she dropped and smashed a glass while drying up or something. ‘I’ve been stressed lately.’
‘You’ve been stressed lately? Ahhh. Poor you. Life been a bit too much for you these past few weeks, has it? Rubbish! ’
‘It has with my mum dying and t’ing.’
‘Rubbish again. You’re using that as an excuse and you’re insulting my intelligence.’
‘I’m not.’
‘I can’t ever remember you expressing any undying devotion to your mum so don’t give me this grieving oh my god my mum just died rubbish.’
‘It did hit me hard. Sometimes you don’t appreciate somet’ing till it’s gone.’
‘If you’re gonna chat rubbish in my ears then I might as well leave.’ Lesley stood up from her chair and hooked her handbag over her left shoulder.
‘It’s not just Mum,’ Brenton explained. ‘It’s work as well. Been stressful lately.’
Sitting back down again, Lesley offered Brenton a hard stare. He looked away as if guilt slapped his face. He rested his eyes on the framed sketch of a resilient rasta boy that was hanging from a wall. ‘My son was sick the other day,’ Lesley stated. ‘Usually I would call my mum to look after him but she’s sick as well. There’s a flu bug going around. It’s that time of year. I’ve already taken enough days from work and I know I’m beginning to piss off my boss although he’s been polite about it.’
‘Sorry to hear,’ offered Brenton.
‘Sorry to hear? When I come home I’m tired but I have to sort out dinner and make sure my kids do their homework. Then I have to deal with bills that I haven’t opened for days. Then I have to remember to call Mum or otherwise she’ll accuse me of not caring. If I’m lucky I might get time to cool out with a glass of Baileys about ten o’clock and watch CSI: Miami. But I don’t get that luxury ’cos there’s always something to do in my house like cleaning, sorting out the kids’ clothes and stuff. I really look forward to the weekend, when I’ve got time for myself, time to see you. Then I get a call from that wort’less father of my kids saying he can’t take them at the weekend because he’s working or something; what he really means is that he’s taking his new woman on the fucking Eurostar to Paris. After all that shit, I still find time to call you. If your phone’s off then I send you a text.’
‘I know,’ Brenton nodded. ‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry? So when I’m stressed out and feeling emotional I still wanna be in touch with you. A nice conversation after a tiring day would be nice, you know, with my so-called man. You know? Give me a bit of understanding. A boost. But oh no! Not from you. You can’t answer my fucking call or text ’cos you’re too stressed. You’re nothing but a selfish, me-me-me piece of shit.’
‘It’s not that I meant to disrespect you …’
‘Oh so that makes it alright? For what? Two or so years I’ve been trying to make it with you. I ignored how little you put into our relationship. I ignored that it took you months to introduce me to your precious family. I overlooked you being rude to my friends; Cerise thinks you’re a mental case by the way. I even put up with you not inviting me back to your place for the first three months. Jesus! I thought you was fucking around.’
‘Look, Lesley. Let me explain.’
‘No! You listen to me.’
‘I admit I’ve been off-key lately.’
‘Is that what you call it? Off fucking key? When you haven’t got the decency to return any of my calls? You know what? I don’t deserve this. You’re the worst kind of man. A fucking shit!’
‘Lesley, you need to calm down.’
‘Don’t fucking patronise me! After everything I’ve done to make our relationship work, what did you say to me in the car? T’ings are not working out. I need a break. The way you said it was so casual. Like I was a stereo or something that didn’t work anymore. Don’t you respect anyone’s feelings? Are you even capable of considering someone’s feelings? Is it all about you and only you?’
‘I have nuff respect for you.’
‘No you don’t,’ accused Lesley. She glared at him. ‘You’re a cold-hearted piece of shit. You used your mother’s situation to try and break up with me.’
‘That ain’t true,’ argued Brenton. He looked away, unable to face Lesley’s contemptuous glare. She laughed.
‘Like I said, you’re the worst kind of man. Maybe you’re not the kind that sleeps around but at least you know where you stand with those men. No, you’re the type that can’t commit. You allow women into your life but only up to a point. You allow women to start loving you but there’s a limit. You can’t let them get too close. Oh no. Guys like you are too precious for that. You never let them get too intimate. And when I say intimate I don’t mean making love.’
‘Two years is a long relationship,’ said Brenton. ‘Don’t that mean something?’
‘Not in your case it don’t. As soon as I managed to get close to you, get to know your family and stuff, you say you need a raas claat break. It was only three months ago your sister invited us to her place for that dinner party. I thought, OK, we’re really tight now.’
Brenton bowed his head.
‘Your sister joked that we should get married,’ resumed Lesley. ‘You remember? Everyone had a giggle about it but not you! We’re not even thinking about it, you said. We don’t even live
together you said. You humiliated me in your sister’s house. But even that I put up with. Be patient I said to myself. He’ll come around. Like fuck you would!’
‘Did I ever say we was gonna get married? Did I?’
‘No, you didn’t. But where were you expecting us to go in our relationship? Carry on meeting every Saturday night, go out somewhere and then have sex? You really think that’s all I wanted? You really think I’m the kind of woman who would just settle for that? Was I some kind of sexual relief after your stressed-out week of work? Am I just a little notch better than a fucking blow-up doll?’
‘No, course not.’
Needing to escape Lesley’s biting glare, Brenton went to the kitchen. He stood at the sink and bowed his head. Fuck! he screamed in his head. I’ve really fucked up. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘No!’
‘Do you want a biscuit or something? Got some custard creams. Apple?’
‘No!’
Returning to the dinner table with a cold beer in his hand, he faced Lesley again. ‘What can I say? I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry for what?’ Lesley countered. ‘Sorry for letting me get close to you? Sorry that I developed real feelings for you? Sorry you met me? What are you running away from? What did you expect to happen when you have a relationship with someone for two years or so? Or in our case an alleged relationship.’
‘I … I had a fucked-up childhood,’ admitted Brenton. Maybe I should tell her all about it? he considered. She might be sympathetic. Don’t tell her everything though.
‘Yeah,’ Lesley nodded. ‘I know. You had a bad childhood. Breanna told me you were in a home. You think my childhood was any better? ’Cos I was the oldest my mom beat the living shit out of me when things went wrong in our house. If Dad came home drunk and shouted at her I would get it in the neck in the morning. On some mornings I got it all over my fucking body. I spent my eleventh birthday in some battered woman’s home. The crazy thing about it was that Mum was in there for Dad battering her but the social workers never even realised she was beating the living shit out of me!’
‘Sorry,’ Brenton managed. He didn’t know where to look.
‘My dad beat me up on my sixteenth birthday,’ Lesley continued. ‘For putting on make-up, and you know what’s funny? If my dad won on the horses he’d take his winnings and go and see prostitutes. After all that my mum still went back to him. So don’t come to me with no fucking violin tissue story wanting my pity. I don’t want no man of mine crying about his sad life in a children’s home while he’s in his forties.’
‘I didn’t know you had it so rough,’ said Brenton.
‘You didn’t want to know. You never asked. It was just about you and when I asked about your past you told me you didn’t want to discuss it! So you lived in a home. Do you wanna hear a fucking violin concerto? Do I have to buy extra towels to dry your tears? So fucking what! At least you got three meals a day. Where I grew up everyone had a sob story but you know what? Most get over it and don’t wallow in self-pity. They move on.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Brenton, his voice now almost in a whisper.
‘Don’t understand? I understand this. I don’t allow my past to affect my present. I can’t afford to. I’ve got two kids to raise and I don’t want to raise them full of my shit and baggage. What are you? You’re very weak. You ain’t no man. You’re not a man at all. You can’t deal with your past, you can’t commit to anybody. You’re a fucking emotional cripple. I can’t discuss my past! Boo fucking hoo! I’m not gonna waste my time with someone as emotionally weak as you. Grief! They say you’re the stronger sex!’
Brenton closed his eyes. He opened them ten seconds later. He glanced at Lesley. ‘You finished?’
‘Just about.’
Sipping his beer, Brenton glanced at the image of the boy rasta once again. Lesley rose from her seat and went to the bathroom to collect her toothbrush. She then quick-stepped into the bedroom to pick up some spare underwear that she had left in Brenton’s chest of drawers. She put them in her handbag, and returning to the lounge she regarded Brenton once more. She shook her head. ‘In a way I feel sorry for you,’ she said. ‘Because you are so selfish you can’t recognise a good thing when it enters your life. You’ll probably end up alone, old and miserable, still trying to work out your issues … Don’t ever contact me again.’ She walked towards the door. ‘Oh, I almost forgot.’
Taking out a gift-wrapped box Lesley placed it on the dinner table. She offered Brenton one last glare before slamming the door behind her. Brenton felt the vibration from the door frame. He took a generous gulp of his beer, closed his eyes and bowed his head again. He didn’t move for the next twenty minutes.
Rising from his chair, he picked up the gift-wrapped box and guessed it was an expensive bottle of perfume. He looked at the tag. Happy Birthday, Breanna. From Uncle Brenton and Lesley it read. He sat back down and thought about what Lesley had said. Was he uncaring? Was he selfish? He did take her for granted. He didn’t want her to meet Juliet or Mum. He had never been comfortable introducing his girlfriends to Juliet. Mum was pleasant to Lesley on the two occasions they met. Why didn’t he suffer when Mum passed away? He had long accepted her reasons for giving him up. They had got on reasonably well. Once they were reunited she had always treated him well. Why did he always insist on talking about the past with her instead of enjoying her company? He knew she was sick. When she had passed there was no sense of deep loss. No tears. He didn’t suffer that same crushing feeling as when Juliet told him their relationship had to end over twenty years ago. Since then other women had come into his life. Some lasted a few months, some a few weeks. He didn’t regret breaking up with any of them. Then there was Lesley. She was perfect for him. Intelligent and considerate. A fantastic mother. Independent and sexy. Why couldn’t he love her? If he did he would run out of his flat pleading with her to take him back. He didn’t like her calling him an emotional cripple but he didn’t feel devastated. Just annoyed. No, something a bit stronger than annoyed. Maybe that trauma with Juliet was so deep he could never recover from it. Can’t move on even though it’s twenty-odd years. Or is that an excuse? Perhaps Lesley’s right. I’m just a selfish me-me-me piece of shit.
On his way to Juliet’s house Brenton didn’t have the will to turn on the car stereo. Am I this bad a person, he kept asking himself. Maybe with my selfish ways I fucked up Juliet’s life too? What am I doing insisting that I should be named as Breanna’s father? Gotta drop that shit even though it will pain me for the rest of my days.
He pulled up opposite Juliet’s home and remained in the car for the next ten minutes. He needed to compose himself. With a deep sigh he made his way over to the house and pressed the doorbell. Breanna’s gifts were in his other hand and he almost dropped the envelope. The door opened to reveal Breanna. She was as happy as he had ever seen her. Would she still be smiling if the truth came out? Brenton asked himself. She might hate me.
‘Happy birthday, Breanna,’ Brenton smiled, handing her the presents.
‘Thanks, Uncle Brenton.’
She read the tags.
‘Where’s Lesley?’
‘Er, she ain’t coming,’ stuttered Brenton walking into the hallway.
‘Tell her thanks from me,’ insisted Breanna.
‘Yeah, of course.’
Don’t contact me ever again echoed inside Brenton’s head. He visualised Lesley disappearing out of his flat. Breanna led him to the lounge. There were birthday cards on display on the large teak coffee table. Brenton glanced at the largest one. It was from Clayton and Juliet and there was a long handwritten message inside. It wasn’t Juliet’s writing. Fuck Clayton, Brenton screamed in his head.
Sitting together on a three-seater leather sofa were Juliet and Clayton. Clayton was dressed in a suit minus the jacket. He had loosened his tie and was nursing a brandy from a special wide glass that he used only for drinking brandy. He caught Brenton with a suspicious sideways glance but
he quickly changed his expression to a smile. Fuck Clayton, Brenton repeated in his mind.
Smartly attired in a blue skirt suit, Juliet was sipping a glass of champagne. Wearing dark tights she was flexing her toes. She glanced at Brenton cautiously. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ she offered.
‘No, thanks,’ declined Brenton, still standing by the lounge door. ‘I had a beer at home and I can’t stay for long.’
Picking up a set of car keys from the coffee table, Breanna turned to Brenton and said, ‘You’ll never guess what my parents have bought me for my birthday.’
‘Breanna!’ rebuked Juliet. ‘Where’s your manners! Open your uncle’s card and gift.’
‘I got a car,’ Breanna blurted out. She showcased her enamel and Brenton thought she might have a pleasure overload.
‘Breanna! ’ Juliet scolded once more.
‘It’s a Renault Clio,’ Breanna went on, ignoring her mother. ‘Sky blue. Even the insurance is paid.’
Clayton sipped from his brandy. There was a quarter grin developing from his eyes. Juliet glared at Breanna but she was still oblivious of her. ‘Do you wanna see it, uncle?’
‘Er, in a minute,’ said Brenton.
‘He’s brought you presents,’ interrupted Juliet. ‘Open them, Breanna.’
‘It can wait,’ said Brenton.
‘Open them now,’ insisted Juliet.
Doing what she was told, Breanna opened the box first and it revealed an expensive perfume. ‘That’s the second perfume I’ve got. Malakai bought me perfume too.’
Clayton rolled his eyes. Breanna opened the envelope and her eyes lit up when she saw the two hundred pounds in cash. She threw her arms around Brenton. ‘Thanks so much, uncle. I’m so lucky to have you.’
‘Maybe you can spend it on stuff for the car,’ Brenton suggested. ‘Car stereo, jump leads, furry dice, nice car seats. What do kids have in their cars these days? Little Jamaican boxing gloves? That kinda stuff.’
