Brenton Brown

by Alex Wheatle

  ‘Didn’t she mention anyt’ing?’

  ‘No, she didn’t mention anyt’ing!’ Sharon turned to Brenton. ‘This has been going on for untold weeks. Floyd’s mum calls, he don’t want to chat to her, I end up taking a message and Floyd won’t see her.’

  ‘Might be important?’ offered Brenton. ‘She might be sick. Look what happened to my mum.’

  ‘She ain’t sick,’ said Floyd. ‘You watch her, she’ll live longer than Moses.’

  ‘I’m not gonna be in the middle between you two,’ insisted Sharon. ‘I’m tired of it, running to her and running to you. Go and see her. Today!’

  Floyd thought about it. ‘Wanna come, Brenton? You haven’t seen her for the longest time.’

  Brenton, who was wondering what age Moses reached before he finally passed away, was about to answer but Sharon cut in. ‘No, leave Brenton out of it. He don’t need to hold your hand. Go and see her on your own. It’s obviously something serious she wants to chat about.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Floyd.

  ‘No you won’t think about it,’ ordered Sharon. ‘Just see what she wants. How many times have you seen her since your dad died last year?’

  Floyd glanced at Brenton then looked at the floor. Brenton sipped his water.

  Sharon stood up and leaned closer to Floyd. She dropped her tone to almost a whisper. ‘See her today, Floyd.’

  ‘She’s probably gonna nag about something,’ said Floyd. ‘Look how long you’ve been working in school as a mentor! How come you’re not a teacher yet! Go back to college! You don’t have any ambition. And blah friggin’ blah. All she does is run me down and tell me how my sisters are doing this and that.’

  ‘Might be somet’ing different,’ offered Brenton. ‘Your old man might’ve left a will and left you with a hundred grand or somet’ing.’

  ‘Brenton, when I asked you to come around I didn’t expect you to take the friggin’ piss! My old man leave me money? Are you sick, Brenton? Are you one long bitching cucumber short of a raas salad? The man always hated me. Seriously! He would rather give money to the BNP than give me anyt’ing! Fuck the old man’s will!’

  ‘Floyd, you damn fool, if it was about the will that would’ve been settled shortly after his death,’ said Sharon.

  ‘Then I wonder what’s it all about?’ said Brenton. ‘Maybe she’s going back to Jamaica?’

  ‘Nah, ain’t that,’ replied Floyd. ‘Last time she went there one of my aunties stole some of the clothes out of her suitcase, her brother was vex ’cos she never bring any duty-free cigarettes, she ended up paying for some uncle called Wilbur’s funeral and my cousin, Milton, was caught trying to t’ief her passport. Trust me, she ain’t returning there, seriously.’

  Brenton and Sharon couldn’t contain their laughter.

  ‘Ain’t funny, man,’ Floyd said. ‘Mum’s blood pressure was going up like thunderbird three to rarted when she got back. Ever since she’s been on some serious pills, dread.’

  Brenton chased down his dinner with beer. Floyd then entertained him with a selection of modern reggae but Brenton preferred the old-school style. When Sharon saw that he was losing interest she yanked him upstairs where he advised her on how best she could fix up her bathroom and what he was willing to offer in help.

  ‘Don’t I have a say?’ protested Floyd.

  ‘I’m not painting my bathroom black and putting up black tiles,’ insisted Sharon. ‘I’m not decorating my bathroom so Count Dracula and his wife will be comfortable in it. It ain’t happening and Jah knows dat!’

  ‘What’s the point of you asking me suggestions about how we gonna do the bathroom and then you just ignore what I say?’ argued Floyd.

  ‘’Cos what you say don’t match,’ replied Sharon. ‘I know you love black but a black bathroom? If my superiors at work found out they’d think I’m part of some weird freaky cult that kills kids.’

  As Brenton tried to stifle his laughter, they all went down the stairs together. ‘I’m leaving now, yeah,’ said Brenton. ‘Thanks for dinner and t’ing.’

  ‘See him out, Floyd and go to see your mother,’ said Sharon.

  ‘OK, I will,’ said Floyd. ‘But I ain’t staying long.’

  Floyd and Brenton walked out of the house together. Floyd climbed into his car, turned the ignition key and the Revolutionaries’ Death in the Arena blasted from his cranked-up car stereo.

  ‘You’ll be alright?’ Brenton asked, standing beside Floyd’s car.

  Turning down the volume, Floyd replied, ‘Can you come with me? But if you do, don’t tell Sharon.’

  ‘I’ve got an early start, man,’ said Brenton. ‘Wanna get some sleep. I’ve got nuff work to do in the morning. Gotta lay a floor, put some damp-course down, put up some struts for a wall …’

  ‘Brenton, stop going on old.’

  ‘I’m not going on old!’

  ‘Yes you are! You’re going on ancient.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  ‘Then prove that you’re not going on like a grey-back pensioner. Stop fretting about your bedtime and step with me to my mum’s.’

  Brenton kissed his teeth. ‘I ain’t staying long.’

  ‘Nor am I,’ Floyd assured him.

  Following Floyd to Tulse Hill estate, Brenton felt no need to switch on his own car stereo. He bopped his head to Yellowman’s Herbman Smuggling which was booming out of Floyd’s Peugeot. Floyd pulled up outside a five-storey block of flats in the middle of the estate. Despite the darkness, they could hear yelps and shrieks from the nearby children’s adventure playground. They could make out the silhouettes of a white couple kissing in a doorway. The Stranglers’ Golden Brown played out from an upstairs flat and from another block they could hear the crying of a baby.

  ‘Pickney should be in their damn bed,’ Floyd remarked.

  ‘Haven’t been around here for ages,’ said Brenton. ‘Hasn’t changed much up here, has it?’

  ‘Nope,’ replied Floyd. ‘Apart from those brand spanking new blocks where Dick Shepherd School used to be. You didn’t see the gates at the front of it? Burglars will have nuff trouble making a getaway wid their t’ings from there. It’s fucked up. You seen the prices for those flats?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Nearly a hundred grand for a one bedroom, believe dat!’

  Brenton shook his head.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Floyd. ‘I hope Mum’s awake.’

  ‘Didn’t you call her before we left?’ asked Brenton.

  ‘No.’

  They walked up six flights of concrete steps and then along a balcony. ‘What do you think she wants?’ asked Floyd.

  ‘I dunno. You’re gonna find out now, innit.’

  Floyd paused and looked at Brenton before knocking the letter box of his mother’s flat. After five seconds he knocked again.

  ‘Patience, man!’ Brenton rebuked. ‘She is getting on, you know.’

  The door opened two inches and Floyd could see his mother’s right eye staring at him. ‘Oh, it’s you, Floyd,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you this evening.’

  She opened the door fully and made way for Floyd and Brenton to enter the flat. ‘Evening, Mrs Francis,’ greeted Brenton.

  Mrs Francis led her son and Brenton into her living room and invited them to sit down on the sofa. ‘I was getting ready for bed,’ said Mrs Francis. ‘It’s nearly ten o’ clock. I was just about to turn on my bedroom radio and listen to the BBC News.’

  ‘You wanted to see me, Mum,’ said Floyd. ‘Now’s as good a time as any. I wanted to get it over and done with.’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Mrs Francis. ‘I wanted to see you … can I get you anyt’ing to eat or drink?’

  ‘No,’ answered Floyd. ‘I had a good dinner.’

  ‘You, Brenton?’

  ‘I’m OK, Mrs Francis,’ he answered, trying to ignore her brown straight-haired wig. It was so obviously a wig, he thought. Someone should tell her.

  ‘Before Christmas I saw your niece,’ added Mr
s Francis. ‘Now, what is her name …?’

  ‘Breanna,’ smiled Brenton.

  ‘Yes, that is it,’ nodded Mrs Francis. ‘She was getting on a bus and I remember myself thinking she really look like her uncle Brenton.’

  Brenton swapped a fretful glance with Floyd. ‘But she’s got her mum’s eyes,’ Brenton said.

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Francis nodded. ‘Sometimes that’s how it goes. I have a brother who looks more like my uncle Franklin than my father.’

  ‘Mum!’ Floyd cut in. ‘You said you wanted to see me?’

  Mrs Francis took in a breath. ‘Yes, sorry for taking the long route around the park.’

  ‘What?’ Floyd queried. ‘I haven’t come here to listen to your sayings, Mum. Just tell me what you have to say.’

  Straightening her back in her armchair, Mrs Francis glanced at Brenton before settling her gaze on Floyd. Her eyes were guilty of something, Brenton thought. Eyes of nuff regret and t’ing. My mum gave me the same kinda look when I saw her for the first time all those years ago. And Mrs Francis’s front room is similar to the way Mum had hers. The same black-and-white photos on a mantlepiece, Jamaican scroll souvenirs hanging from the walls, a display cabinet full of china and crystal glasses that she probably never uses and the images of a blue-eyed Jesus complete with long, flowing immaculate blonde hair and a white robe cleaner than a washing-powder advert. What a load of fuckery! How is Jesus gonna be a fucking blue-eyed blonde white boy living in the ancient Middle East? Did Jamaican women who came over here in the fifties and sixties all agree to have the same shit in their front rooms?

  ‘Mum! I ain’t got all night, you know,’ Floyd raised his voice, interrupting Brenton’s thoughts.

  ‘It’s about your father,’ Mrs Francis revealed. She closed her eyes and re-opened them.

  ‘What about him?’ Floyd pressed. He leaned forward in his chair. Mrs Francis sank back into hers. The lines around her eyes seemed to have instantly doubled.

  ‘That is it,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘What is it?’ Floyd urged, becoming more frustrated.

  Mrs Francis closed her eyes again. ‘Your father is not your father.’

  ‘’Scuse me?’

  Floyd looked at Brenton. Brenton’s eyes flicked between Mrs Francis and Floyd as if he was watching tennis.

  ‘What you saying?’ Floyd pressed again.

  ‘Your father … he’s not your daddy.’

  Floyd stood up. He took two paces towards his mother. He loomed over her. Brenton sat up in his chair, ready to jump in between them. He looked at Floyd and saw that his mouth was moving but no words came out. Floyd glared at his mother and emitted a snorting sound. She closed her eyes. He gestured wildly with his arms and hands as his mother re-opened her eyes and stared blankly through him. He then returned to his chair, gently shaking his head.

  ‘I think you two need to chat over t’ings,’ said Brenton. ‘I’ll be stepping.’

  ‘Park your backside down, Brenton,’ Floyd ordered, his eyes not diverting from his mother. ‘Aren’t you interested to know my real story. It explains a lot, man. Why he hated me. Why he fling me out of the yard when I was only fourteen. Fourteen!’

  Brenton recognised in Mrs Francis the same weary-of-life expression that he had seen in his own mother.

  ‘Well?’ Floyd urged.

  She took in a deep breath again. She looked at the glass fruit bowl on the coffee table as if it had great meaning. ‘In 1961 your father … my husband had to return to Jamaica because his mother passed away. After your sister was born we weren’t getting on that well anyway. Whole heap of argument and fussing. That was us. Evening time he would go drinking with his friends before he come home from work. Weekends me never see him at all. Always at the dog track and here and there. So when him go to Jamaica I was relieved.’

  ‘No need to tell me he was a wort’less idiot,’ Floyd said.

  Mrs Francis ignored the remark and continued. ‘He had a best friend, Neville. Mr Neville King. They grew up in a place called Stony Hill, high above Kingston in Jamaica. They went to the same school.’

  Brenton noted that Floyd’s anger was subsiding and he was as fascinated by Mrs Francis’s story as he was. She went on. ‘I met my husband and Neville in 1955 and I watched them step on the boat for England a year later. As you know, I joined him seven months later. Neville was a single man. A kind man. He would always say to me husband to pay more attention to his family. Anyway, me husband had to return to Jamaica. He stayed for almost a year. He had some family business and arguments to sort out over land and other t’ings. During that time I was struggling with your sisters on me own. I didn’t even know when me husband was going to return. He sent no letter. I became closer to Neville. We started seeing each other … he’s your father.’

  Brenton glanced at Floyd to gauge his reaction. Floyd sat back in his chair. He cupped his jaws with both hands and stared at the floor. He took out his cigarette papers to build a joint but then seemed to remember that he had never smoked in his mother’s house. He replaced his cigarette papers in his left trouser pocket. He got up and sat back down again. He raised his eyes and looked at his mother. ‘Where is Neville now?’ he asked calmly.

  ‘He’s in New Jersey,’ answered Mrs Francis. ‘When me husband finally returned I was already… showing. He wouldn’t talk to me. He even packed up his bags and tried to move in with Neville. But Neville admitted our affair. My husband beat him up real bad. Neville was inna hospital for a while. My husband disappeared … I thought he left me again.’

  ‘When did he come back?’ Floyd asked, his tone more gentle.

  ‘A week before you was born,’ Mrs Francis replied. ‘A strange man was me husband. For all his gambling, drinking and fighting he was never into womanising as far as I know. He was pure about that … he never spoke Neville’s name again though.’

  ‘That’s when Neville headed for the US?’

  ‘No, he moved to Nottingham first. He met his wife there. They had a baby girl and when she reach four they moved to the States.’

  ‘What was he like?’ Floyd wanted to know. ‘Apart from being kind.’

  ‘He worked on the railways,’ answered Mrs Francis. ‘I would always see him in his black donkey jacket but when he wasn’t working he was always dressed very well. He’d wear trousers and shirt and you would never see him in jeans or a T-shirt. He smoked long skinny cigars. He always wore a hat but he used to get his hair cut every two weeks without fail. Some friends called him ‘barber saloon’. He was a gentleman. He’d open doors for ladies and t’ings like that. He loved music. Louis Jordan, Curtis Mayfield and Ella Fitzgerald. He loved dancing.’

  Floyd stood up once more and looked out the window. The headlights of a passing car illuminated the orange curtains. ‘Do you regret your mistake, Mum?’

  ‘A mistake?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I was, wasn’t I?’

  ‘No! My husband said it was a mistake and as the Lord hear me now he made me pay.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you leave him?’ Floyd raised his voice again. ‘He made you pay. He made my childhood a friggin’ nightmare and he fling me out of the yard at fourteen! And what did you do? Nutten! While we were cussing each other you just sat all quiet in a friggin’ corner.’

  ‘I was scared,’ admitted Mrs Francis. ‘I don’t think I could have made it on my own wid t’ree children to support.’

  ‘Then how do you think I felt? At fourteen, leaving home? Going to some frigged-up children’s home?’

  ‘I wish I …’

  ‘Don’t bother say nutten, Mum. It’s too late.’

  ‘Yes … it is.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. Brenton was still thinking of his mother and felt sympathy for Mrs Francis. He glanced at her and she was still staring into space. Consequences, he said to himself. They last a lifetime. Will Mrs Francis’s life be cut short by guilt just like it was for Mum? Going by her expression I’ll give her anothe
r three years at most.

  ‘Was it worth it, Mum?’ Floyd asked, sitting down in his chair once again.

  Mrs Francis thought about it. ‘Yes,’ she finally said. ‘When I see you with Sharon, Linvall and Gregory. It makes everything worthwhile. All the misery. All the mental torture.’

  ‘If you could rewind history and the same situation came up, would you do it again?’

  Mrs Francis didn’t hesitate in her answer. ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘If I was warned about my husband’s mental torture and throwing the affair into my face whenever we were arguing or fussing … I would still have my time with Neville. Yes, those few months … I am still living on those few months.’

  ‘Would you have had your t’ing with Neville if you knew the kinda childhood I was gonna have?’

  About to reply, Mrs Francis dropped her head. She raised it again only to see Floyd’s intense glare. ‘I … I …’

  ‘Can’t answer that, can you?’

  ‘No I can’t,’ said Mrs Francis. ‘But you really think I meant to fall for Neville? You really think I planned to have an affair with my husband’s best friend?’

  ‘I s’pose not,’ replied Floyd. ‘But you had a choice. You could’ve said no.’

  ‘No! I had no choice. That’s the t’ing. When you fall in love with someone you don’t have a choice … it happens. When you decided that Sharon was the girl for you, could you have ordered yourself not to love her?’

  ‘No,’ Floyd admitted. ‘But she’s not you. She didn’t breed for another man. She didn’t just let a husband fling out her own son.’

  ‘Are you always going to throw that at me?’

  Floyd thought about it. ‘Yes!’

  Brenton saw that Mrs Francis was on the verge of tears. He couldn’t help but admire her. She didn’t have a choice, he repeated in his head. I didn’t have a choice with Juliet. There was no way I could’ve told myself not to love her. I can relate. I know exactly what she’s talking about. Neville made her life worthwhile. This is deep. Floyd should be gentle with her.

  ‘If you want I can get in touch with Neville?’ offered Mrs Francis. ‘He would love to see you.’