by Alex Wheatle
Brenton thought about it. ‘I wanna live here!’
‘Er, you have a nice home, Brenton. And …’
‘This is God’s house, isn’t it? Kind of anyway. God’s house is the church so you’re really living in God’s outhouse.’
‘I suppose it is. You better come in. I need to sit you down and talk to you. Explain a few things.’
‘Thanks, Father Holman. I’ll be really good. I’ll do all the chores. I’ll collect the coal, scrub your steps, do all the hoovering, washing-up and brush all your shoes. I’ll even go out in the summer and jump in the stinging nettle bushes to pick you the best berries.’
Pushing the door further open, Father Holman ushered Brenton inside. Before he entered, Brenton wiped his feet many times on a brown bristled mat. He even bent down and wiped his hands on it. The hallway was decorated in red embossed wallpaper, and images of the cross, the Virgin Mary, Jesus and the twelve disciples stared down at him. He heard a ticking clock from an unseen room and his feet sank into a deep beige-coloured carpet. Lamps were fixed to the walls. Brenton was disappointed they weren’t candles and he still expected to hear angels singing. He had an urge to tread very carefully and slowly and he felt God’s eyes watching him. He was led to a kitchen and he sat down on a wooden stool that was next to a wooden table. There were oranges, pears and apples in a glass bowl. The apples and pears looked so much better than the ones he picked from the children’s home orchard, he reckoned. He licked his lips.
Observing his surroundings, Brenton noticed prayers and the words of Jesus covering the walls. God’s kitchen, he thought. There was a carved figure of Christ dying on the cross above the door frame. He died for me, Brenton remembered Father Holman saying to him. Maybe He wouldn’t have died for me if He knew about what she would do to me. But I’m glad He didn’t die like stupid Saint Peter. Meanwhile Father Holman had taken out a scone from a cake tin and placed it on a plate. He cut it in half and smiled at Brenton. ‘Would you like jam or butter on your scone?’ he offered.
‘Jam please.’
Father Holman opened a cupboard and took out a jam jar.
‘Can I have two, please?’ Brenton asked.
Smiling in reply, Father Holman sliced another scone in half and spread jam on it. ‘Would you like a drink? I’ve run out of Coca-Cola but I have some lemonade and Tizer left.’
‘Tizer please,’ Brenton replied excitedly. This is brilliant, he thought. I only get fizzy drinks when it’s Christmas. I’m gonna love living here. When it’s my birthday I might get a chocolate cake with candles on it. Father Holman might take me shopping to get my own clothes. Wouldn’t have to wear hand-me-downs all the time. Maybe he’ll let me stay up after eight o’clock?
Placing his drink and scones in front of him, Brenton downed half the glass in one go and then almost ate one scone in one bite.
‘Take your time,’ said Father Holman.
‘Oops! Sorry,’ apologised Brenton. ‘I forgot to say grace.’
‘That is not …’
Before Father Holman could finish his sentence, Brenton had already closed his eyes and placed his palms together. His mouth was still full of scone and jam. ‘Dear Jesus, may I be grateful for what I get tonight. I’ll be a good boy for Father Holman. Amen.’
Crumbs fell onto the table.
Chuckling, Father Holman placed a kettle on the stove. ‘Now, lad,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t really be here, should you? You have a good home. You have good people looking after you.’
Brenton continued eating. He finished his drink. It all tasted so good. ‘I’ve come to live here, Father. In God’s house. I’ll be on my best behaviour every day. You said Jesus loves children. He told off the disciples ’cos they wouldn’t let the children go to Him.’
‘It’s splendid that you’re paying attention, Brenton. One day you’ll be an excellent Bible student.’
‘She don’t like children,’ Brenton resumed after a pause. ‘She hates us. She don’t like us bothering her. She always says we’re bothering her. She hates me the worst. She said she can’t stand the sight of me. Sometimes she tells me to go back to the jungle.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true, Brenton. Miss Hills has a lot on her plate. I imagine she’s always busy.’
‘She’s not busy. We do her work.’
‘She cooks and cleans, doesn’t she?’
‘She cooks,’ Brenton admitted. ‘But we do everything else. Getting the coal is making me cough.’
‘Do you want some more Tizer?’
‘Yes please, Father.’
Father Holman filled Brenton’s glass. As he drank it he noticed Father Holman was no longer smiling. Brenton guessed he was thinking about something. He didn’t know what. Maybe he is thinking that he has no pyjamas for me. Maybe he doesn’t have a bed made up for me. He might be wondering what I eat for breakfast. Hope he’s got Sugar Puffs and Weetabix. Don’t want lumpy porridge or a boiled egg with stupid soldiers. That’s for babies.
‘Would you like another scone?’ Father Holman asked.
‘Yes please, Father.’
Hastily slicing the scone in half, Father Holman spread jam on it and placed it on Brenton’s plate. The kettle boiled and Brenton watched Father Holman make himself a cup of tea. He added one teaspoon of sugar and he didn’t stir it as madly as she did, Brenton observed. His hand was calm and steady. Not like hers.
‘I have to go to my study and do a bit of paperwork,’ said Father Holman, sipping his tea.
He’s got a strange look on his face, Brenton watched. Like he’s happy to see me but something else has upset him. Maybe he has to scrub the church floor tonight before he goes to bed?
‘Please stay in the kitchen and help yourself to more Tizer if you want it.’ Father Holman added.
‘Thank you, Father.’
‘Stay where you are and I’ll be back shortly.’
Finishing his scones and drink, Brenton waited patiently. He looked at the silver-coloured kettle. Never had tea, he suddenly realised. Wonder what it tastes like? Why do adults prefer it to lemonade or Tizer? Should I make myself a cup? It’ll show how grown up I am. No, I’d better not. I’d better ask permission.
Ten minutes passed. Twenty minutes passed. He remained in his chair. He was now staring at the fruit. The pears looked delicious, he thought. He licked his lips. Where’s Father Holman? He wondered. Better not take a pear, he warned himself. But they look so ripe. Better than the ones in the wonky orchard. Father Holman can’t eat all those pears on his own. Maybe he gives some to the poor and the hungry Biafrans and Pygmies in the African jungle. If they all live in the jungle then how comes Tarzan never gets hungry or skinny? I’ll ask Father Holman.
Another fifteen minutes passed. He poured himself another drink. He wanted to use the toilet but Father Holman told him to stay where he was. He gazed at a pear that was sitting on top of the pile of fruit. He had to have it, he decided. He looked at the kitchen door. The handle wasn’t turning. He heard no footsteps. Suddenly, he reached out a hand and grabbed the pear. He turned it around in his hand to examine it and without further hesitation sank his teeth into it. The flesh was soft, juicy and delicious. He took another bite. He enjoyed the sensation of the pear going down his throat. He munched again. He heard something. Was that the front door? He panicked. Footsteps. Father Holman’s footsteps. Should he go and look? No, he was told to stay where he was. He concentrated his ears. He felt a slight draught of wind. Footsteps again, he sensed. More than one pair of feet. Father Holman’s talking to someone. They were coming towards the kitchen. Oh, Jesus! Where’s the bin? He spun around on his stool. There it was in the corner of the kitchen. He ran over to it and dropped the half-eaten pear inside it. He returned to the stool. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his school pullover. The door opened.
Father Holman appeared first. Brenton’s heart was racing. She came in behind him. Miss Hills. Brenton cowered in his seat. His stool scraped backwards. She was wearing her best light
blue coat, Brenton noted. The one she wore to church. She had her stupid yellow woolly hat on and her red mittened gloves. Her brown hair was squashed into a round bun and Brenton dreamed of kicking it one day. She had her glasses on. She was staring at him but she had happy cheeks. She was wearing her tight black trousers and Brenton wondered how they kept the fat from her legs from spilling out.
‘There you are!’ Miss Hills hailed. ‘I’ve been worried sick about you. I went down to the school, I asked your classmates. Thank goodness I’ve found you safe and sound.’
Deciding not to say anything, Brenton gazed at Father Holman. Please don’t let her take me, he prayed inside. Please, please. I wanna stay here. In God’s outhouse.
‘His teacher said he was upset because he got a few arithmetic questions wrong,’ Miss Hills turned to Father Holman. ‘But she never expected him to take off. I’m always telling him that all we expect from school is his best.’
‘Now you didn’t tell me that,’ Father Holman said turning to Brenton. ‘Miss Hills is right. We only expect you to do your best. You’re half-caste so we don’t expect you to be the top of the class. Just try your best. Jesus would like that.’
Jesus wouldn’t like to go home with her, Brenton thought.
‘Thank you for keeping him, Father,’ said Miss Hills. ‘I hope you only gave him one scone. We don’t want to spoil him and have him boasting to the other children.’
Father Holman made way for Miss Hills to leave the kitchen. Brenton remained on his stool. He stared at Father Holman, pleading with his eyes. ‘Come along, Brenton,’ snapped Miss Hills. ‘I’m behind with my work. Don’t you want your cocoa tonight?’
Brenton refused to answer. Cocoa? he wondered. She never gives me cocoa. She just makes it for her staff. He continued to stare at Father Holman. The priest looked away. Finally, Brenton moved off his stool. His head was down as he walked out of the kitchen and the house. A jeep was waiting for him on the street. He recognised Uncle Georgie. Hate him, he wanted to shout out. He lets her do what she likes. He’s always helping her.
‘Bye, Father,’ Miss Hills said cheerily. ‘We’ll see you Sunday and I’m sure Brenton will be on his best behaviour.’
Brenton was about to climb into the back of the jeep. ‘Aren’t you saying goodbye to Father Holman, Brenton?’ rebuked Miss Hills. ‘Remember your manners.’
Brenton paused. He took a long hard look at Father Holman but said nothing. I ain’t saying bye to you, he decided. You’re not like Jesus. You’re just like the apostles. You’re stupid like Saint Peter. You’re turning me away. Jesus won’t be happy. Maybe you should crucify yourself upside down and I hope they bang those metal things into your hands and feet.
‘I’m sure he’s tired,’ smiled Miss Hills.
‘I’m sure he is,’ replied Father Holman. For a short second he had a doubtful look on his face but it quickly passed. He raised his right arm and waved. Brenton ignored him. He climbed into the jeep and sat behind the driver. He could smell dried mud and old grass. Georgie did not look behind or acknowledge Brenton.
Brenton heard the back door of the jeep slam shut. He closed his eyes and jolted as Georgie pulled away. Miss Hills sat opposite Brenton. She stared at him for a while. Brenton watched her take her mittens off. She rubbed her hands together. ‘You have embarrassed me,’ she said. ‘When we get home you’re going straight to bed.’
Expecting a beating at any moment, Brenton pushed himself into the corner and looked at the floor of the jeep. He glanced up and found Miss Hills still glaring at him. She’s really gonna beat me, he thought. She’s mad. Never seen her that mad before. She might kill me. I’m not gonna go in the house. I’m gonna stay in the jeep.
Ten minutes later the jeep pulled up outside Brenton’s home. He remained in the corner as Miss Hills opened the back door. ‘Get out,’ she said.
Brenton didn’t move.
‘Did you hear what I said? I have work to do and so does Uncle Georgie. Now get out!’
Turning away from Miss Hills, Brenton bowed his head and closed his eyes. He covered his face with his arms. He could hear Miss Hills approaching him. She grabbed his arm and yanked him off his seat. ‘Noooo,’ he screamed.
He wrenched his arm away and scrambled back to the corner in the jeep. He curled himself into a ball.
‘George,’ Miss Hills called. ‘I need a hand.’
A few seconds later Brenton felt big hands over his body pulling him out of the jeep. His head hit the floor and his knees hit the side of the vehicle. ‘Noooo!’
‘Shut up!’ Miss Hills yelled as she slapped him about the face.
‘Noooo!’
Brenton fought as much as his strength allowed but he felt his body being carried out into the road. He screamed as loudly as he could but Miss Hills put her hand over his mouth and stifled him.
‘Take him to the outhouse,’ Miss Hills ordered. ‘I’m not having him like that in the house. Like an animal he is. Like a bloody animal.’
Wriggling as much as he could, Brenton didn’t have the strength to escape the clutches of Miss Hills and Uncle Georgie. They took him around to the back of the house where a short pathway led to the outhouse. Georgie fumbled for a key in his trouser pockets.
‘Hurry up!’ Miss Hills demanded, looking around.
Georgie opened the door. Brenton fought again. He kicked wildly. He punched Georgie in the face and he let go of Brenton’s arms. Brenton’s head dropped onto the doorstep and he screamed again.
‘Hold onto him,’ Miss Hills demanded. ‘Get him in.’
Brenton felt his body being shoved and pushed and he was launched into the outhouse. He got up off the floor and heard the key being turned in the lock. He looked through the chess-board-sized, wire-meshed window.
‘When he’s calmed down we’ll bring him out,’ Miss Hills said. ‘But I’m not having him in the house screaming to high heaven. He’ll wake the saints! By the patience of sweet Mary!’
Sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, Brenton noticed his clothes were covered with dust and grime. He ran his right thumb over the floor and it collected a film of dirt. He could smell oil and rubber from a corner full of forgotten bike frames and trolleys. He stood up and pressed the light switch near the door but it didn’t work. Maybe that’s a good thing, he decided. Don’t like the look of cobwebs.
He felt cold and damp. He rubbed his hands together and looked out of the window opposite the door. He spotted an old dartboard resting in the corner of the windowsill and he imagined Miss Hills’ head in the middle of it. He gazed out of the window again and he could make out the stars. He tried to get closer but broken plant pots, biscuit tins full of nuts, bolts and screws and a discarded pram hampered him. He leant forward to see what he could of the night sky. Yeah, he thought. One day I’m gonna ride on the angel Gabriel’s back. And Jonah will take me to see the whales.
A week later Brenton was standing in a field. He was wearing his school uniform and it was dark. He couldn’t see any stars and all he could hear was the breeze disturbing the trees. He was clutching two plastic bags in his right hand. Gonna get him back, he said to himself. Hate Father Holman. Hope he gets crucified upside down and it really hurts. He’s going to hell. And I don’t care if she beats me again. And I’m not scared of the outhouse anymore. I’m gonna do it.
He sprinted out of the field and approached the back gate. Before he left the children’s home grounds he walked along a mud path that ran parallel to a tall fence and when he came to bushes he stopped. He looked around and listened. She’ll know where I’m going but I don’t care, he thought. He noticed a star appear in the sky and he smiled. He climbed onto the fence, peeped over the other side and jumped down. He then walked out of the bushes and checked the road and the fields. Satisfied that no one was near, he returned to the undergrowth. He then pulled down his trousers and pants and placed the plastic bags directly beneath him. He had been saving himself from doing a number two all day and now he could do it.
When he had finished he wiped his backside with toilet paper that he had stolen from the school toilets. He then pulled up his pants and trousers and carefully picked up the plastic bags that now had his own excrement inside. He held the bag away from his body as he made his way through the gate at the back of the children’s home.
He slowly walked up the path that led to the double red doors. He knelt down and then pushed the plastic bag through the letter box. He flinched and recoiled at the smell. As it landed with a soft thud on the tiled floor, Brenton smiled. He stood there for two minutes, wondering what Father Holman would do when he saw it. He then retreated, took out three stones from his pockets and hurled them at the bay windows to the right of the double doors. The first stone missed the window but the next two found their mark. The shattering of the glass sounded to Brenton as if the biggest building in the world was tumbling down. He turned and ran as hard as he could.
Two hours later he was back inside the outhouse. He felt his bruised face and rubbed his swollen left eye. The blood that had oozed from his right knee had solidified. He tried the door but it was locked. He tried hard not to cry. ‘Where’s my mum?’ he whispered to himself. He felt a cold draught. He sat down with his back against the wall and pushed his knees against his chest. He thought of the archangel Gabriel and Jonah. ‘Yeah,’ he said to himself. ‘One day. One day I’ll see the whales with Jonah.’
Chapter 11
A Nursing Hand
WITH SWEAT RUNNING DOWN his left cheek, Brenton felt the soreness of his throat and the pounding inside his head. He had the weird sensation of his head feeling heavy while the rest of his body felt light. Something cold and wet was placed on his forehead and it sobered him up a little. Am I dreaming? Am I hallucinating? He was exhausted and wondered if he had slept. He hated that space between slumber and insomnia and he made a mental note to visit his doctor and persuade her to give him something to help him sleep. He slowly opened his eyes and in that nanosecond before they focused he saw an indistinct figure looming over him. He shut his eyes and reopened them. He saw Juliet. He smiled. She was dabbing his forehead with a damp flannel. Feels so good, he thought. It was even better that she was looking after him. Her sleeves were rolled up and he could smell the anti-bacterial hand wash from her hands. She was wearing white pearls around her neck, or at least he thought they were pearls. She had her efficient, concerned face on. Just like Mum, he thought. He suddenly came to the realisation that he had hardly ever seen Mum smile. Not even on those days when we did get on, he recalled. Not even on those evenings when she used to put a little rum in our tea and talk about the chancers and players she flirted with in her young days in Jamaica. Maybe her life was more fucked up than my own? What’s it all about? What was God’s purpose for her life? When she can’t even fucking smile. Even I can smile … sometimes … when I’m with Juliet. No, not just Juliet. Floyd makes me laugh. He wouldn’t approve of all this Juliet-coming-around-to-look-after-me shit. He’d tell me to get my sad backside to the doctor or down to the chemist. Still, it’s nice to be looked after.
