by Alex Wheatle
‘Tell him to frig himself,’ said Floyd. ‘Not interested. Seriously! I never had a proper dad so I don’t need no friggin’ dad now. What’s he gonna do? Buy me a friggin’ Action Man for my birthday? Come and watch me play some ball in the park? Check my homework? Will he feel a little better if he sees me? Will that nice up his conscience? And your conscience too? Make you feel sweet and forgiven and t’ing? I ain’t doing that for you or him. Frig that! As far as I’m concerned you can drown in your guilt until your white, blondie, Hollywood Jesus takes you. Nah, just tell him that the only way I’ll even consider seeing him is if he’s got some serious money to give me.’
Mrs Francis dropped her head. Brenton glared at Floyd. Floyd stood up. ‘Come, Brenton, I know you wanna get up early in the morning.’ Brenton hesitated but finally followed Floyd to the front door. Mrs Francis remained seated. Very still. Staring at the floor. Broken. Floyd offered her one last accusing glare before opening the door. He said nothing until he climbed into his car. ‘Hold up, Brenton. Sit in the car, man.’
Brenton checked the time on his mobile phone, kissed his teeth and rolled his eyes before filling the passenger seat next to Floyd.
‘You know what?’ started Floyd. ‘Our parents’ generation fucked up big time. When you’re growing up they go on like they’re sweeter than sweet, telling you don’t do this and that and they used to lick you hard if you step outta line. But they are fucking hypocrites, man. Seriously. They got nuff to answer for.’
‘Floyd,’ Brenton said softly. ‘Don’t hate your mum ’cos …’
‘Why shouldn’t I hate her? She lied to me all my fucking life.’
‘To protect you.’
‘What you fucking talking about, Bren? She didn’t protect me from shit. She didn’t protect me from my so-called daddy licking a whole heap of shit outta me. Didn’t protect me from him flinging me out. I’m soooo fucking glad I didn’t turn up to his funeral. Mum was even telling me I must reach! Can you fucking believe dat? The whole t’ing stinks, dread. Fuck dem all with their going on all innocent and t’ing ways and their secrets … I wonder who else knows?’
‘So you’re not gonna look for this Neville?’ Brenton asked after a while.
‘Nope. What good is that gonna do? It’ll be all awkward and t’ing. No! He made up his mind to fuck off with his new wife and t’ing to the States. Why should I spend my time meeting him? Fuck him and his wife and their daughter!’
‘He’s your real dad.’
Floyd turned to Brenton. He gazed at him with an intensity that made Brenton feel uncomfortable. ‘Tell me, Bren. Can you say your life was any happier after you met your mum for the first time?’
Brenton thought about it. I was so fucking angry, he recalled. I had so much pain. When I first met with her I spent my time offloading my shit. She would listen patiently, nodding her head at my children’s home tales and fucked-up memories. I knew that every memory I had was an injury to her. I knew it was slowly killing her. Death by a thousand childhood nightmares. But I carried on offloading every chance I got. I had to get that shit off my chest. Did it make me happy? No. Fucking no! I wish we had had more time and got to the point where I stopped offloading shit. Only Juliet made me feel truly happy. Mum did make me feel like I belonged to something though. Is that happy? If I never met Mum I would’ve never met Juliet. And I’m still fucked up about her. I’m still fucking up whatever relationships I have ’cos of her. Is that happy? No it ain’t.
‘I have to say no,’ Brenton finally answered. ‘It gave me a sense of belonging but … no.’
‘There you go,’ said Floyd. ‘Fuck if I’m gonna check out this Neville. Fuck him and his family. I bet his wife don’t even know shit about me. That generation love to cover shit up and then tell you how to live your life. Fuck dem!’
‘Don’t hate your mum, Floyd.’
‘What is this, Bren? Don’t hate your mum, Floyd! What if I do? You think all mothers are so fucking nice and can do no wrong? Fuck dat! You think if I cuss her I’ll go to the fucking dark side? I won’t be a fucking Jedi no more? I’ll turn into a pillar of salt? Honour thy father and thy mother! So the fucked-up Bible says. Nowhere in that fucking book does it say honour your kids.’
‘It must’ve been hard for her,’ reasoned Brenton. ‘Can you imagine every little argument your parents had and Mr Francis is flinging her affair with Neville in her face?’
‘She should’ve stood up to him more.’
‘At least your mum kept you. I went into a home ’cos my mum couldn’t stand up to her husband.’
‘What is it with Jamaican men of that generation? They’re full of shit and pride. Nothing can get in the way of their fucked-up manly reputation. They take no part in raising their kids apart from licking them. They’re allowed to fuck around but if their women do the same t’ing they bear a grudge for one bitch of a lifetime.’
‘Don’t think that just goes for Jamaican men,’ said Brenton.
‘Families,’ said Floyd. ‘They just end up hurting you. That’s why I always said you were wrong to find your mum. Look how that turned out for you. Over twenty years later you’re still reeling from that shit. It’s why I don’t see my mum too many times. It just … upsets me. Too many bad memories. Bad vibes. It’s why I say to you to cut your losses. Start fresh, man. Go somewhere new. Have your own family and grow your kids like you wanted to be grown.’
Staring out of the windscreen, Brenton couldn’t help but think of Mrs Francis and her plight. I didn’t have a choice. ‘Cool off for a while,’ he said. ‘And then go back to your mum’s and chat to her again. Chat to her properly. Don’t make the same mistake as I did.’
Climbing out of Floyd’s car, Brenton glanced upwards to Mrs Francis’s flat. He paused for a few seconds and then made his way to his own car. She’s probably still in that same position, he guessed. Staring at the floor, her spirit broken. The only thing keeping her going is her memories of that Neville guy. He must’ve been a serious charmer. That could happen to me. Just living off long-time memories of Juliet. Fuck if I’ll let it happen! Maybe Floyd’s right? Need to get outta London. Away from her.
Chapter 14
Donation
LOOKING AROUND THE YOUTH CLUB HALL, Juliet noted that every seat was taken. She was sitting in the front row of wooden chairs surrounded by youth club workers, volunteers, fundraisers, suited youth club trustees and members of the public. She spotted a number of young adults standing at the back of the hall and close to the exits. Breanna should have been here, she said to herself. Not just for my sake but for Clayton’s. Maybe she’s still vexed about me not answering her father question. Where the hell did that come from? Anyway, she still should’ve been here.
She glanced at the bruised walls, the peeling paintwork and the bent basketball hoops at either end of the hall. Can’t they put some kind of netting on the hoops? she thought. It takes away the buzz of scoring if the ball doesn’t swish through the netting.
Beside Juliet was Clayton who was nervously going over his speech and glancing at the small dais in front of him. A man in a black suit, white shirt and bow tie approached the dais. He was silvering at the temples and owned a generous stomach. He was shuffling papers in his hands as if he was about to make an important news broadcast. Juliet recognised him: Clive Winter, Clayton’s long-time friend. He’s more nervous than Clayton, she observed. For a moment Juliet visualised herself answering questions at a press conference as Minister for Children. I’ll do whatever I can and whatever is necessary to protect vulnerable children, she imagined saying. Those working with children in care will be put through the most stringent checks and there will be help and support for those teenagers who leave care and face a harsh world on the outside. The way a government is truly judged is not on how much the stock market rises but on how they treat and look after their vulnerable people, especially children.
‘The, um, er, proceedings for the evening are nearly over,’ Clive started. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t keep yo
u from the refreshments for too much longer! I, er, just have one more special guest to welcome tonight. I’ve known him for, er, over thirty years and as far as I remember he has always supported Streatham Youth Community Trust – as a boy playing table tennis and as the sucessful businessman he is today. Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce you to one of our most impotant benefactors, Mr Clayton Hylton.’
A ripple of applause reached a crescendo as Clayton accepted the goodwill and warm response to his introduction.
‘Wish me luck,’ whispered Clayton to Juliet as he stood up.
‘Good luck!’ said Juliet. ‘Remember, take your time, don’t rush your words and don’t forget to smile.’
He walked up to the dais and shook Clive’s hand. ‘Thanks, Clive,’ Clayton said. ‘I never thought you’d carry out your threat to have me speak. I’ll get you back for this!’
‘I think it’s important,’ Clive said. ‘Our members, workers and volunteers should know who our major donors are. You should be applauded.’
Glancing at his speech, Clayton then looked at the audience. Juliet saw that he was uneasy and she gestured to him with her hands to take his time and relax.
‘I … I first met Clive in this very building when I was about eight or nine years old,’ Clayton began. ‘It wasn’t a good first meeting. He beat me in a game of table tennis. I think the score was about 21–4.’
‘21–3,’ Clive corrected.
The audience politely laughed and Juliet clapped.
‘Since that day we’ve become very good friends,’ Clayton continued. ‘Of course our meeting place was right here. The youth club provided us with something to do on a Tuesday evening. It kept us off the streets getting up to no good. As well as playing table tennis we played badminton, pool, volleyball and of course we always fell out over table football.’
Clive laughed out loud and the audience wondered what the joke was.
‘We also enjoyed many residential trips together, going mountain climbing, abseiling, canoeing, camping and all sorts of other things.’
‘Are you two gay?’ a teenager at the back called out.
Everyone laughed but Clayton composed himself again by clearing his throat.
‘Since those days,’ Clayton resumed, ‘our paths have gone in different directions. Clive remained at the heart of the community, finally becoming general manager of this great club and I went off to university, reading business and finance. Now I work for an investment bank but my heart is still in this community. My heart is still in this youth club.’
A few people at the back cheered and clapped. Juliet smiled proudly.
‘It gives me great pleasure to stand here tonight and make a donation to this wonderful organisation,’ Clayton smiled. ‘This is not just from me but also from my colleagues at the investment bank.’
Applause rippled around the hall.
‘To ensure that there will be further residentials in the school holidays, the refurbishment of this sports hall that we now stand in, the addition of an IT room for the youth club and last but not least, for two new table tennis tables, I can announce that our donation will be fifty thousand pounds.’
Roars greeted Clayton’s words and half of the audience stood up to give a standing ovation. Clayton nodded, accepting the applause. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t have been able to be a success in my career without the support of my beautiful wife, Juliet.’
He pointed to Juliet and she stood up once more as the applause echoed around the hall. You’re supposed to say you wouldn’t be a success without the support of your family, Juliet said to herself. Or you could have at least mentioned Breanna’s name.
‘Don’t you think she is the most beautiful woman in Streatham?’ Clayton added.
Oh, Christ! Juliet thought. Why did he have to say that? She sat back down to the accompaniment of wolf whistles and hollering.
Twenty minutes later, Juliet wasn’t enjoying her glass of red wine and she reckoned the bread in her chicken sandwich was a bit off. She ate it anyway and tried to hide her grimace as she sipped her wine. Clayton had already introduced her to all the staff and volunteers of Streatham Youth Community Trust and now she wanted to go home and soak in the bath. It had been a long day.
‘Is that the last one, Clayton?’ she asked. ‘There are some really good people here. It makes you feel humble.’
‘Yep, you’ve met everybody,’ Clayton replied.
‘It’s been a good evening,’ Juliet said. ‘I guess that this kind of event doesn’t make it into the pages of the South London Press.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ Clayton agreed, munching a cheese and pickle sandwich. ‘As you know the fucking media always concentrate on the negative.’
‘Clayton, watch your swearing,’ Juliet scolded while looking around. ‘How much wine have you had? I’ll be driving home.’
‘Sorry, Jules, I had a few glasses to steady my nerves before I made my speech. As for the media it really pisses me off when …’
‘Clayton! I sooo respect the offer you just made,’ cut in Tom Reynolds, Juliet’s councillor colleague at the Town Hall. He was wearing a blue suit and red tie and his grin was almost as wide as a basketball hoop.
‘What brings you down here, Tom?’ Juliet asked. ‘Your ward is Vassall Road, the other side of the borough.’
‘You know me, Juliet,’ Tom laughed. ‘Always there for a good cause. It’s good that the public sees us at these events. It’s a good turnout.’
‘It’s not easy making a speech to the public, is it,’ said Clayton. He glanced around to see where the young people serving drinks were. ‘Jules gave me a few tips but I still rushed it, don’t you think?’
‘You were fine, Clayton,’ Juliet assured.
‘You were brilliant,’ added Tom. ‘You certainly got the biggest cheer of the night when you mentioned the fifty grand.’
‘I think I would’ve still got a cheer if I was upfront in a bear suit!’ chuckled Clayton. ‘I think they were cheering the fifty grand more than whatever speech I made.’
‘Fifty grand’s a lot of money,’ said Tom. ‘Did you have to threaten to break a few heads for that? Or do you have some dirt on your friends at work?’
‘No,’ Clayton shook his head. ‘What do you take banking for? We usually make a charity donation and I suggested Streatham Youth Community Trust.’
‘So all was good,’ nodded Tom. ‘Maybe you should have got Juliet to speak to them. They would have given even more.’
Juliet shifted weight on her feet. What am I? she said in her mind. A fucking whore! Please get this idiot the fuck away from me!
‘I thought you should have addressed the audience this evening,’ added Tom, switching his gaze to Juliet. ‘You could have spoken about how important it is for the youth of an area to have somewhere to go to and have good facilities. Are there any photographers around?’
‘But it’s Clayton’s evening,’ said Juliet. ‘The youth club is his passion. I didn’t want to make political capital out of …’
‘Talking about political capital,’ Tom butted in, glancing around. ‘I don’t see any Tory councillors here. Or Lib Dems for that matter. Shows how much they care about local issues. Fucking hypocrites. Remember this, Juliet. For when you campaign.’
‘I haven’t made up my mind yet,’ said Juliet. Christ! she thought. Can’t he just fuck off! ‘As I said to you before I have to talk to my family and see how they feel.’
‘I’m all for it,’ said Clayton, snatching another glass of red wine from a young adult carrying a tray. ‘Nothing much to talk about. You’re always saying how you want to make a difference. You can only do so much as a councillor for a broke borough.’
‘Don’t say that too loudly, Clayton,’ said Tom, looking around. ‘We don’t want the natives to know that we can’t do too much for them.’
‘It’s fucking true though,’ said Clayton. ‘Juliet’s wasting her time working in the Town Hall. Especially since the chief executive earns over
a hundred and twenty grand a year when the council is almost bankrupt!’
‘Clayton!’ Juliet rebuked. ‘Watch your damn mout’!’
‘And you know what, Tom?’ Clayton continued. ‘You know what? Juliet doesn’t even claim one penny of expenses. For all the travelling she does, all the paperwork she prints and all the time she puts in. Not a fucking penny! While that prick of a chief executive sits in his fucking office and creams over a hundred grand a year!’
‘Can’t disagree with that, Juliet,’ nodded Tom. ‘He is a bit of a prick. Especially when he wears trainers with his expensive suits.’
‘You had lunch with him yesterday!’ said Juliet.
‘Strategy, Juliet,’ replied Tom. ‘Strategy. Anyway, who cares about Town Hall politics. We should be talking about Mrs Juliet Hylton, MP for Lambeth.’
It sounded good, Juliet had to admit to herself, Mrs Juliet Hylton, MP for Lambeth. Has a certain ring to it. She glanced at Clayton and decided to drive him home before he said something he’d regret. She politely made her goodbyes, took the car keys from Clayton’s trouser pocket and drove home. I hope Breanna’s not in a feisty mood, Juliet feared. Can’t cope with her tonight.
Arriving home, Juliet made Clayton a mug of strong coffee. He sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. ‘Drink it!’ Juliet ordered.
Sipping his coffee, Clayton looked up and said, ‘Thanks.’
When he had finished, Juliet picked up the mug and washed it.
‘It was a brilliant night,’ said Clayton. ‘Thanks for coming and supporting me.’
‘Of course,’ said Juliet, drying the mug with a tea towel. ‘I know what the youth club means to you.’
Clayton stood up and went towards Juliet. He turned her around to face him. ‘Sometimes when I look at you I just can’t believe that you’re my wife. You chose me! The nerdy guy who couldn’t dance to soul music and who thought Winklepicker shoes were cool.’
‘Oh, Clayton. Stop being soppy.’
‘But it’s true though. Wherever we go you’re always the most beautiful woman there.’
