by Alex Wheatle
‘But half of it is yours.’
‘I’m alright, Brenton. Clayton earns more than enough. If I took even a pound of that money I’d feel too guilty.’
‘She was your mum too.’
‘But she wasn’t a mum to you for eighteen years. Brenton, I’m not arguing about this anymore. It done. We’ve just signed the papers in front of two solicitors.’
‘I can look after myself, you know. Say I never start a family?’
‘Then that’s cool.’
‘I’d leave everyt’ing for Breanna,’ Brenton said.
Juliet paused for a moment. She gazed into Brenton’s eyes and saw Breanna’s face. ‘That’s your choice,’ she said. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘No, there ain’t,’ nodded Brenton.
‘So, any ideas? You going to invest in property? Sell your flat? Upgrade to something bigger?’
‘No,’ Brenton answered. ‘Upgrade to something bigger? It ain’t me. Sometimes I think my flat is too big.’
‘That’s because there’s only you in it. When you start a family, trust me, that place you got will feel tiny.’
‘I’m thinking … no, I’m not thinking. I’ve decided I’m gonna move abroad.’
‘Abroad?’ Juliet repeated. A forkful of rice was poised before her mouth.
‘Yeah, why not? Make a fresh start.’
‘Where?’ Juliet asked, placing her fork down and sipping her wine.
‘Dunno. Ain’t really thought about it. I liked Paris but I wanna go somewhere with decent weather. A place where I can hear reggae music. Forget Jamaica, I don’t wanna spend my days there living behind some serious metal grille at the front of my yard and see a goat shitting on my gates and chickens walking around like they wanna mug you. Fuck that and the potholes in the road. Maybe the US?’
‘When do you think you’ll be going?’
‘By the end of the year. When I get my papers and t’ing. That shouldn’t be too long ’cos they need skilled trades in nuff countries. In a way it’s your fault. You’re the one who told me to do my City and Guilds certificate all those years ago; it’s recognised in nuff countries. I’m gonna step to the American Embassy and make my application.’
‘Won’t you be, er … won’t you be lonely again? You’ve lived the first part of your life all alone. You always told me how that was the worst thing about living in care, the hardest thing to deal with. Then you found me and Mum and now you want to live alone again? A long way from friends. A long way from … us?’
Brenton thought about it. He ate two mouthfuls of food before answering. He returned Juliet’s gaze again. ‘Truth of the matter is I’ve always felt alone. Even when I found you and Mum. The only time … the only time I didn’t feel alone is that time, you know, that time we were … we were together. I know I had Mum after that and we did chat about everyt’ing and get on. And me and you were still talking good. But it wasn’t like before when we used to chat about everyt’ing. It was a kinda polite talk, you know. How is the weather? Did you see that t’ing on telly last night? Ain’t it a bitch that council tax has gone up. How’s Breanna doing at school and t’ing. I’d better check my doctor for my flu and shit. But it could never make up for, you know, there was always somet’ing missing. It never … how can I say this? Felt right.’
‘I … I’ve missed it too. Obviously our relationship changed and we don’t talk like we used to. You’re right; we could really talk about … things. We haven’t been … together for a long time. But you still have Breanna and me. She’s still your niece; I’m still your sister. Niece, uncle, brother, sister. That’s still important, isn’t it? Isn’t that better than being alone in the world?’
Brenton shook his head. ‘And I’m still her dad. I’m still … and sometimes, no, most of the time it’s not better than being alone in this fucked-up world. It’s hard to explain. The more I got to know Mum the angrier I got with her. Because I realised that I should have grown up with her and the reason I didn’t was so fucking stupid and fucked up. It could so easily have been avoided if Mum was stronger. It was … it was like someone stole away my young life, you know. It’s getting the same with you; the more I see you, the more I – there’s no easy way of saying this – resent you.’
Juliet pushed back into her seat. She stiffened and dropped her gaze to the table. ‘I can understand that,’ she said. ‘I know it hasn’t been easy for you. In time it might get better.’
‘It won’t,’ Brenton shook his head. ‘It’s been twenty-odd years and in that time I felt that same loneliness I used to feel when I was young.’
‘But you had a better relationship with Mum than a lot of my friends had with their parents. OK, it wasn’t perfect but it was something.’
‘But, Juliet. That loneliness don’t go away. It stays with you. That’s a part of me that will never change. Doesn’t matter who I’m with, whether it’s Lesley or anyone of my exes or anyone in the future. That’s me. You know how hard that is to deal with when I’m visiting you or Breanna and I remember how I felt, you know, with, with …’
‘Alright, Brenton. I get it. Excuse me for a minute. Just going to the ladies.’
She stood up and made her way to the ladies toilets. She washed her hands in the sink then looked at herself in the mirror above it. God! she thought. What have I done? I’ve ruined his life. Because of me he can’t form any lasting relationship. Because of me! Oh fucking hell, Jules! Don’t this guilt ever stop? Must sort myself out. Don’t let him see you’re upset. What are you talking about, Jules? Of course he can see. He knows. Still want him. Why the fuck did you ask him out for lunch? The sensible thing to do is wish him well if he’s going abroad. Don’t make an issue about it. Oh fuck! Where will he end up? How am I going to handle not seeing him?
Juliet washed her hands again and splashed a little water over her face. She dried herself with paper towels and took in a few deep breaths. She fixed her hair, took another look at herself in the mirror and played with her wedding ring. Hold it together, girl, she willed herself. She lifted her head and walked out.
Brenton was sipping another glass of water when Juliet returned to their table. He had nearly finished his lunch. She sipped her wine, dabbed her mouth with a serviette and said, ‘Maybe you going abroad is a good idea, Brenton. Maybe we need that space between us.’
Brenton nodded.
‘You don’t have a family yet so why not?’ Juliet continued. ‘You’ll have all kinds of experiences and you’ll see a bit of the world.’
‘I was thinking the same t’ing,’ said Brenton.
‘I’ve got an announcement too,’ Juliet said.
‘Yeah? What’s that?’
‘I want to be an MP for this area.’
‘An MP?’
‘Yep. Been thinking about it for the past few weeks. Next election should be in a year or two. I’m going to go for it.’
Brenton raised his eyebrows. ‘You know how I feel about politicians. What did the Gong sing … Never let a politician grant you a favour … can’t remember the rest.’
‘You still know your Bob Marley,’ Juliet smiled.
‘Of course.’
‘I think I can do some good.’
‘Like what?’ asked Brenton.
‘Campaign for more and better schools in this area, get respect for single parents, so many people can’t get housing but there are so many empty properties around here, help people adjust from leaving care to the outside world. You know that four out of five people who leave care are likely to have drug addiction, alcohol problems and end up in prison? And …’
‘Jeez and crime, Juliet! You sound like one of those politicians already. Be careful, the stats will start to flow out of your arse, man.’
Juliet chuckled. No tact with Brenton, she thought. He tells you straight. No bullshit. Wish the idiots at the Town Hall could be more like that.
‘And Floyd hasn’t got an alcohol problem,’ Brenton resumed. ‘OK, he’s still on the weed and
so am I but he ain’t zonked out of his head on crack and he’s a good daddy.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ said Juliet. ‘But I want to help those who haven’t come out of a care background in the best of shape. Emotionally and mentally.’
‘Then be a social worker.’
‘I want to draw attention to social issues. Don’t think I’d make a good social worker.’
‘You did alright with me,’ Brenton said.
Juliet didn’t know how to respond to Brenton’s last retort. She chose to eat another mouthful of rice and lamb.
‘I’ve gotta be stepping,’ said Brenton. ‘Catch up on my work. Daniel’s on his own.’
‘OK,’ said Juliet. ‘I’m going to finish my meal. Maybe I’ll have another glass of wine. I’ll need it to go back to the Town Hall.’
‘Alright then,’ said Brenton. ‘I’ll pay the bill and I’ll be off.’
‘Just one sec, Brenton. Before you go, you know, abroad to the States or wherever. Can you leave us some pics.’
‘Pics? What pics?’
‘Pics of you as a kid, a mad teenager. You showed me them once ages ago. Just for memories’ sake. Give me a selection and I’ll take them to a photo shop or somewhere to make copies. It’ll be good for Breanna … and me too, er, you know.’
‘Yeah, alright. Don’t know why you wanna see me with my mad Afro though but I’ll see what I’ve got.’
‘Alright then, take care and get some advice about that money. Maybe you should speak to … someone at your bank. Make an appointment.’
‘I will,’ said Brenton, looking around for a waitress.
‘Don’t forget the pics,’ reminded Juliet.
‘Juliet! You just asked me a couple of seconds ago. I won’t forget.’
She watched Brenton leave and ordered another glass of red wine. It was close to three o’clock when she finally made her way back to the Town Hall. She attended a meeting about planned police operations in Brixton to stem the carrying of offensive weapons into bars and nightclubs. It was agreed that every public bar and club in the area had to comply to perform body searches by security staff. Juliet didn’t say much during the debate. Instead she doodled in her diary. She drew sketches of matchstick boys with big Afros.
Arriving home just after eight o’clock, she went to the lounge, kicked off her shoes, threw her handbag onto the sofa and called Tessa on her mobile phone.
‘Hi, Tess.’
‘Jules? To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘When’s the last time we played badminton?’
‘Badminton? Last summer, I think. I’m still feeling the pain in my legs and my right shoulder has never recovered. Why?’
‘Just need a workout,’ Juliet answered. ‘Friday evening?’
‘A workout? Jules, if I know you, you only want to play badminton when you feel like hitting somebody.’
‘Can you stop playing psychologist for once?’
‘Ouch! Girl, you are touchy this evening. What’s happened? Clayton has formally declared that you’re the reincarnation of the mum of Jesus and can no longer have sex with you? A bird shit on your new name-brand handbag?’
‘Tessa!’
‘OK, Jules. Friday night? Think I got something on but I’ll try and get out of it … you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Hmm. OK. See you on Friday then. Gotta go, just about to serve dinner.’
‘I’ll ring you about the time.’
‘OK, bye.’
Juliet placed the phone down. I have to talk to someone about Brenton, she thought. At least she won’t bullshit me.
She was just about to go to the kitchen to find something to eat when Clayton entered. He smiled when he saw her, and dropped his suitcase on an armchair before joining her on the sofa. He kissed her on the cheek.
‘Good day?’ she asked.
‘Yes, it was actually,’ Clayton answered. ‘We closed a new deal. The dollar and euro look strong. How about you? Your meeting with Brenton at your lawyer’s went well? No last hitches? Changes of mind?’
‘No, Clayton. There were no last changes of mind. We signed the papers.’
‘You’re very generous,’ said Clayton. He kissed Juliet again. ‘I hope he uses the money well. Did you tell him that I don’t mind advising him on how best to invest his money?’
‘Er, not quite.’
‘Why not? I don’t agree with what you did but now he’s got it he might as well know the best way to invest it.’
‘He’s, er, he’s already made an appointment with his bank.’
‘Made an appointment with his bank? They’ll just tell him to put his money in a high interest account which he’ll have to pay tax on.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Juliet. ‘That’s the safe thing to do, isn’t it?’
‘But he could make use of that money. I could have advised him to invest in the stock market and other investment opportunities that’ll make him money. He needs to split it up and not put it all in one basket.’
‘Why all of a sudden are you so interested in how Brenton invests his money?’
‘You made your decision,’ Clayton said.
He stood up and walked to the kitchen where he switched the kettle on. He took out a mug and put a teaspoonful of coffee in it, a drop of milk and an even smaller drop of brandy. ‘I’m just trying to help, Juliet. That’s all. Get on the good side of your socialist brother. Me and him have never hit it off. He thinks I was born with a silver spoon in my gob and a platinum rattle in my hand.’
‘He just thinks that you had all the breaks in life and he didn’t,’ said Juliet. ‘Don’t take it personally, Clayton.’
Clayton was looking at the small bubbles developing in the see-through kettle. ‘Don’t take it personally? In what? Seventeen years I have never had a proper conversation with your brother. We have never gone out for a drink on our own. Never even watched football for God’s sake. What is it about me that he hates? And don’t give me this socialist, capitalist crap!’
‘I’ll have a strawberry and mango herbal tea, please,’ said Juliet. ‘And Brenton doesn’t hate you. You’re just … different people.’
‘How are we so different?’ Clayton asked, watching the bigger bubbles develop. ‘Our parents both came from very poor backgrounds in Jamaica, didn’t they?’
‘Mum did,’ agreed Juliet. ‘Remember, his dad is white.’
‘But our parents’ generation came over here so their children could have a better life, right? And I’ve got that better life now. I worked hard to get my double first at Cambridge. And there’s racism in Cambridge just like there was racism on the streets of Brixton or wherever your right-on brother grew up.’
‘Why do you care so much what Brenton thinks of you anyhow?’
‘Because … because he’s your brother. I know how important he is to you. I just want to get on with him. I don’t want him thinking of me as this corporate bank guy who doesn’t give a shit about working-class people.’
The kettle boiled and Clayton made his coffee. He then poured the hot water into Juliet’s favourite cup and brought her her herbal tea. ‘I had this chat with a colleague of mine the other day. He was saying that the working classes are dead against us but they want what we have. They want to earn the money we earn. They want to send their kids to good schools; they want their kids to go to the best universities, they want to build trust funds and leave property to their kids. So why do they hate us so much? I had to agree with him.’
‘Oh, Clayton, do we have to talk about this now? Why can’t you just accept that you and Brenton will never share a shower together after you play squash or something? Don’t worry about it.’
Clayton sipped his coffee. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘Are we going out for dinner tonight? I want to check out that new Indian place on Crown Point.’
‘Yes, why not?’ Juliet said. ‘I’m sure the working classes would like to check it out too.’
‘Now
you’re being provocative,’ Clayton said. ‘I don’t know. I’m going to give up trying to be friendly to your brother. Anyway, with the money he’s got he’s middle class now. Who knows? When he finally realises that he might give it all away to charity.’
Juliet almost choked on her herbal tea.
Chapter 17
Issues with Father Christmas
FEELING A DULL ACHE in his right shoulder after sawing and fixing door panels during the afternoon, Brenton lay on his bed. The room was dark save for the LED lights on his stereo. Earl Sixteen’s Trials and Crosses was playing on a low volume. On his bedside cabinet was a half-smoked spliff in an ashtray and an empty beer bottle. A half-eaten carton of takeaway pasta was on the floor. His sawdust-specked work overalls were in a heap in a corner. The joint was still smoking but Brenton was reluctant to stub it out. He liked the sweet smell of the weed and closed his eyes.
I’m gonna burn this fucking place down one day, he thought. And if I die in the fire that’ll give Juliet something to think about. Fuck it! I can hardly move. Not getting any younger. Juliet. She looked so damn good today. As time goes on she looks better and better and I just feel mash up. And it ain’t just my body but my brain too. Don’t know how much longer I can take this shit of a life. Even if I do stay away from her I’ll see her on the fucking telly when she becomes an MP. If she ever turns up on Question Time I’ll boot in the telly! She seems well happy that I’m planning to move to a different country. Maybe she didn’t take me serious? Fuck it! I’ll show her! Let’s see her reaction when I do it for real. When it comes to it, she won’t want me to go. I just know it. I know her. She’ll feel it when birthdays and Christmases go by and I’m not around. At least I won’t have to sit at her fucking table on Boxing Day anymore while her pussyhole husband slices the damn turkey with his fucked-up, I’m-better-than-you smile. You’re a big man, Brenton. Five big-man slices for you. Fucking patronising cunt of a coconut! Why does he talk like that? He’s s’posed to be black. What does he think he’s doing sitting down for Christmas fucking dinner wearing a shirt and tie and polished shoes? Even Mum gave him a funny look last year. He was always so fucking nice to Mum it made me sick. Mummy he called her. You sure you’re OK? Can I get anything for you? Is there any particular programme or film you want to watch on TV? Another mince pie? If you want to watch the Queen’s Speech that’s OK with us. You want me to drive you to the sales in the morning? Fucking pussyhole bounty arse-licker! He did all that shit just to make me look bad … I’ll miss going to Floyd’s on Christmas Day though. Meeting up with Coffin Head, Denise, Biscuit, Carol. Burning herb, drinking Baileys and rum, playing dominos, listening to some old-school revive arguing about who was the greatest boxer ever and what’s the greatest black film. Don’t care what they say: Coming to America is the best. Fuck! I’ll miss that if I go away. But I’ve been on my own before. And them lot can come and visit me.
