by Alex Wheatle
‘So you had a great time?’ Juliet asked, her eyes still fixed on the road ahead.
‘Yeah, I did,’ answered Breanna. ‘I kind of got to know Uncle Brenton. We talked a lot.’
‘What about?’ Juliet wanted to know.
‘About life. He was saying that if I get a chance at happiness then I must take it. Don’t stall, he said. You only get the one life, he kept on saying. Remember the times you had with Malakai, he said. But don’t let that define the rest of your life.’
‘He said that?’ said Juliet, glancing at Breanna.
‘Yeah, he did. When he was talking I noticed something real sad about him. Can’t put my finger on it. Something? I don’t know.’
‘His childhood,’ suggested Juliet. ‘He had a shitty childhood.’
‘I know,’ nodded Breanna. ‘He talked about that. How he was so alone and all that. But he was alright talking about that stuff. He wasn’t crying or anything. There’s something else. Sometimes when he didn’t realise I was watching him I could see it in his face. Some proper sadness. Like he had a loss just like me.’
‘No, it’s not that,’ said Juliet. ‘He’s survived a shit of a childhood but some internal scars will never heal. Some bad memories never go away.’
‘No they don’t,’ nodded Breanna. She was thinking of Malakai.
Passing through Wandsworth, Juliet turned towards Streatham. Breanna watched her. She admired her mother’s beauty. She was happy she came and picked her up but still mad with her over Uncle Brenton. She was relieved Juliet didn’t flip when she was swearing at her. She must be sick and tired of telling me off about it. She thought of Uncle Brenton. A lasting image appeared in her head. All alone. Hands on hips. Very still. Staring vacantly into the endless blue. The vast Atlantic. The sea rippling around his ankles. The hot Florida sun shining off his almost-bald head. Thinking of something that made him feel sad.
‘Mum,’ Breanna called softly.
‘Yes, Breanna?’
‘Go see him, blatantly. He’s lonely.’
Chapter 24
It’s All Red on the Night
Five days later
NERVOUSLY LOOKING AT THE TV CREW in the corner of the assembly room within Brixton Town Hall, Juliet adjusted her Nefertiti earrings. She was wearing a smart burgundy-coloured business suit and a red rosette covered half her chest. She was sporting red shoes with three-inch heels; she didn’t want to look like a midget standing beside the very tall Tory candidate who was an Oxford-educated black guy and spoke like he was raised in Windsor. Juliet compared him to the characters Sidney Poitier played in films in the 1950s and 60s; a perfect unthreatening black man who always wore a suit and tie, always had his top button secured, had the look of a recent haircut and was more polite than a Buckingham Palace servant. Brenton would have really taken the piss out of him, she thought. She turned to Clayton. ‘What’s the time?’ she asked.
‘You just asked me that,’ replied Clayton. ‘It’s quarter to five. Try and relax. It’s in the bag.’
Juliet glanced at the television people again. There was another TV news team outside in the lobby. Inside the hall, endless tables were put together in long rows with large black metal boxes on them. Grim-faced election workers were frantically counting votes. Some of them were sipping from teas and coffees in polystyrene cups while others had their own flasks on the tables. A few nibbled on sandwiches that were wrapped in kitchen foil and there was a steady stream of smokers going outside for a cigarette. Microphones were set up on the stage and the constant drone of conversation floated around the wood-panelled room. Men in suits and women in conservative dresses walked by on the polished wooden floor as if they were important and the mayor of Lambeth plastic-smiled and backslapped everyone she met. Half of the people in the hall were talking into their mobile phones.
Where do they get those vote counters from? wondered Juliet. She glanced at the TV crew. I wish they would stop pointing that fucking camera at me! she screamed in her head.
‘Stop fretting, Mum,’ said Breanna, observing Juliet’s anxiety. ‘It’s a done deal.’
‘I’m not worried about the result,’ said Juliet. ‘I’m worried about the TV people. I should have done more work on my speech.’
‘Just say what you feel,’ said Breanna.
‘She’s right,’ said Clayton. ‘You’re best that way.’
Tom Reynolds, Juliet’s campaign manager, walked purposefully over to Juliet with a massive grin on his face. He was wearing a blue suit, a fat red tie, a red rosette that was even bigger than Juliet’s and Italian-made shoes. He also had a polystyrene cup in his hand but he was drinking something much stronger than coffee, Juliet noted. Rum and Coke, she guessed, with a hint of tequila. He greeted Breanna and Clayton with an over-smiling nod before addressing Juliet. ‘It’s an IM,’ he hailed. ‘A massive IM.’
‘What’s an IM?’ asked Juliet, glancing over at the TV crew who were now animated; the presenter was preparing herself for broadcast.
‘Increased majority,’ explained Tom. ‘The Tories nearly lost their deposit. I still can’t believe they put up a black guy who knows more about Frankenstein farming than urban shotting. What a traitor! The Respect party only got a BIG disrespect as they say around here and as for the Liberals. What can I say about the fucking Liberals? Fucking yellow surrender monkeys! The Greens did alright but fuck them too and their veggie diets. If they had it their way we’d be having the count in Brockwell Park with a scout fire and eating lettuce and drinking from the pond. Fucking idiots!’
‘Tom!’ Juliet rebuked.
‘Why the worried face, Jules?’ asked Tom. ‘You’re about to be the first-ever black MP representing Lambeth. You’re going to be the face of Brixton. The Guardian and Independent will love it. You’ll get so much attention the PM will have to give you a junior minister job. My advice is don’t go into the Home Office. Poisoned chalice that. All it takes is for some nutjob to go on the rampage in the Shires and kill a few people and the Tory media will want to blame you. Worse than that if there’s a paedo on the loose who has molested posh kids in Berkshire or somewhere then you’ll get the blame for that crap too. Banana skins all over …’
‘Slow down, Tom,’ said Juliet. ‘They haven’t even called it.’
‘The so-called TV experts are getting ready to call it now though,’ said Tom. ‘Looks like we’re going to have a majority of around thirty, forty seats. I really can’t wait to see Paxman grilling the Tory top brass to explain their defeat. He shouldn’t even bother to interview the Liberal tossers. I better phone home and make sure that gets recorded. Mullered, they were, the Tory cunts. Absolutely mullered! Especially in London.’
‘Keep your voice down!’ said Juliet. ‘Who knows if the TV people haven’t got mics all over the place? And it’s not good to gloat. Make sure you wipe the smile off your face when I’m making my speech.’
‘Not in public it doesn’t, Jules,’ nodded Tom. He drank from his cup again. ‘But in private? It’s party time, man!’
Slapping Clayton on the shoulder, Tom went off to the back of the hall where more Labour supporters were congregated.
‘I don’t know why you ever agreed to work with him,’ remarked Clayton. ‘The man’s a hooligan!’
‘Yeah, he is,’ nodded Juliet. ‘But he’s bloody good at what he does. I have to admit he ran the campaign like clockwork. He exposed the opposition for what they were and that idea of having me campaign outside new gated estates where schools used to be worked a treat.’
Twenty minutes later, Juliet found herself on the stage along with the other candidates. As the returning officer read the results, she thought of her mother. She remembered the early mornings her mother had to get up for work. She recalled the kisses on her forehead before she departed at five thirty a.m. on the dot; she had to catch the first bus. Should have been here, Mum, Juliet said to herself. You should have been here.
‘… for Mrs Juliet Lana Hylton,’ the returning officer anno
unced, ‘34,751 votes.’
Roars and whistles echoed around the hall. Red balloons were loosed. Everyone applauded, including Tory, Liberal and Green party supporters. Juliet spotted Tom jumping up and down and clenching his fist and baring his teeth at the Tory delegation. She saw Clayton hugging Breanna. Oh my Lord, she thought. Clayton’s going to cry. Stupid fool. Not now! You’ll have me going. Not now, Clayton. Oh shit! Tom looks like he’s going to hit someone. Calm down, you idiot. Calm down.
Striding towards the microphone, Juliet composed herself and looked around the hall before she addressed everybody. ‘I just,’ she managed. ‘I just want …’
Shouts sounded out again. Wilder applauding. The bright television lights forced Juliet to squint. ‘I just want to thank all the candidates who are standing here this morning for the way they conducted themselves at this election,’ Juliet resumed. ‘The whole campaign was fought fairly and with respect for each candidate.’
A few of the Tory delegation glared at Tom. In response Tom gave them a V sign and then his middle finger.
‘Before I go on,’ continued Juliet. ‘I really have to thank my campaign manager, Mr Tom Reynolds, who three years ago made me believe this night and early morning could be made possible. He has worked twenty-hour days for many weeks and I’ll be forever grateful.’
Tom pumped his fists, lapped up the applause and smiled cheekily at Tory supporters. Clayton rolled his eyes.
‘And I really want to thank all the hard-working Labour members who knocked on so many doors in all weather, handed out leaflets in front of supermarkets, train stations and so many other locations. Your names are too many to mention but you know who you are. This victory is yours as much as mine. I don’t want to go on forever because it’s been a long night but I really must thank my family. My patient husband, Clayton, who has supported me all the way and, in my absence, has learned to cook a wicked curried goat. And of course my daughter, Breanna, who now has to paint her room red.’
‘Can’t it be pinkish?’ shouted Breanna.
‘No,’ laughed Juliet. ‘You said if I win you’ll paint it red! I’ll let you all go to bed very soon but I just want to say this. I will do everything I can to keep my campaign pledges. I will fight to improve schools and to keep them open in the borough. It’s a scandal that so many of our children have to travel to another borough just to get an education. An absolute scandal! There is no reason why a child attending, say, Charles Edward Brooke School, cannot be the next Prime Minister or the next chief executive officer of Shell. I will fight to open more youth clubs and facilities. I will fight for improved housing. Why are there so many vacant properties and so many homeless? I will fight to help ordinary hard-working families, for ordinary families are the backbones of communities. I will fight for everything I have pledged for. That’s a promise from someone who grew up in these streets, someone who knows the concerns of the community and someone who loves and is a part of that community. I now serve all of you. Thank you very much.’
Stepping off the stage accompanied by roars of approval and wolf whistles, Juliet thought of Brenton and wondered if he’d be watching the BBC World News in Miami to see if she had won. In her left pocket her mobile phone vibrated. She picked it up and answered it.
‘Hi, Tessa,’ Juliet greeted.
‘Congratulations, Jules!’ yelled Tessa. ‘You did it! I can’t believe my best mate is a fucking MP!’
‘You better believe it!’
‘I’ve just seen you on the BBC!’ revealed Tessa. ‘Why you wearing that boring burgundy trouser suit? You should’ve worn a figure-hugging dress or something. Show off that figure of yours. You should’ve got your tits out a bit more, wear something low-cut, give all those boring men in boring suits on TV yabbering about the election something to drool over.’
‘Tess!’
‘Seriously, Jules, congratulations, girl. You deserve all of it. I was waiting for your speech all fucking night! Why can’t Lambeth be like that place in Birmingham that declares their result just after half past eleven? Don’t those people who count the votes have any consideration for people who wanna see the results? I had to put up with all these fucking projections, opinion polls and all the other twaddle.’
‘Hope it was worth it,’ said Juliet.
‘It was,’ said Tessa. ‘But I’m off to bed now, I’m knackered!’ ‘Good night, Tess.’
‘What do you mean good night? It’s morning!’
‘OK,’ laughed Juliet. ‘Good morning. We’ll catch up at the weekend.’
‘I knew you’d win,’ said Tessa. ‘From the day you said you wanted to be an MP. I knew this night would happen.’
‘How did you know?’ asked Juliet.
‘’Cos you always get what you want,’ answered Tessa. ‘Ever since I’ve known you you’ve been like that. And good for you!’
‘Not everything I want,’ said Juliet.
‘Anyway, bye then,’ said Tessa. ‘Now get off the fucking phone. I’m going to my bed.’
Before Juliet could leave the Town Hall she had to conduct further live interviews with local and national television and media. Clayton drove Breanna home but he returned for Juliet. It wasn’t until half past six that Juliet collapsed into the front passenger seat of Clayton’s new Audi sports car.
‘I am so tired,’ said Juliet. ‘Did you hear some of the questions they asked me? Now you’ll be taking your seat in the House of Commons does that mean your husband will have to learn to cook more than curried goat? I mean, everything is so trivial to them. No one asked me about my schools, families and youth club initiatives.’
‘That’s how they are,’ said Clayton. ‘You better get used to it.’
‘You’ll have to get used to it too,’ laughed Juliet. ‘I bet they’ll ask you to appear on one of them celebrity cook programmes!’
‘No fucking way,’ said Clayton. ‘Mind you, the media might come in useful to promote the youth club. Me and Breanna were talking about it when I drove her home. It’ll be good for her. They need all the publicity they can get.’
‘You’re asking me to abuse my position, Mr Hylton?’
‘No, just a little nudge in the right direction.’
‘Oh, Clayton, I’m so tired. At least I’ll have a few weeks off in the summer. I was thinking …’
‘Thinking what?’
‘I’m thinking of going to see Brenton.’
‘Brenton? Why now? What brought this on?’
‘Since he’s settled in Miami I haven’t seen him.’
‘Breanna says he’s happy,’ said Clayton. ‘I thought you would use the summer recess to get to know your constituents.’
‘I know a lot of them already,’ reasoned Juliet. ‘I’ve been in the face of constituents too much lately. They’re probably sick and tired of seeing me … I need to see Brenton.’
‘Why do you need to see him? He’s a big boy now. He’s got a nice house, good job. He’s doing alright. He doesn’t need you to look out for him anymore.’
‘He’s my brother, Clayton.’
‘And I’m your husband! In the last few weeks I have hardly seen you! I was thinking of a holiday myself. Me and you. Go to somewhere quiet. I was thinking of St Lucia. Maybe a cruise?’
‘We can do that,’ said Juliet. ‘But later. In the summer I need to see my brother.’
‘You can call him to see if he’s alright. I really don’t mind the phone bill. Or e-mail him. Talk to him on your laptop.’
‘Clayton!’
Clayton was silent driving up Leigham Court Road. Juliet checked his expression in the rear-view mirror. His eyes were hard. His lips were tense. Why’s he getting so vex about me seeing Brenton? she asked herself. I haven’t seen Brenton for three years. We can always go St Lucia. Clayton’s been really understanding during the campaign though. But Breanna’s right. I have to see Brenton.
Clayton didn’t say another word until he opened his front door. ‘So, er,’ he began. His tone was softer. ‘Wh
en are you thinking of going?’
‘The week after school breaks up,’ said Juliet.
‘For how long?’
‘Two weeks. So if you want we can go somewhere when I get back.’
‘Yes, we could,’ nodded Clayton. ‘I’ll think of somewhere.’
Kicking off her shoes, Juliet picked them up and walked up the stairs. ‘I’m going to my bed,’ she said. ‘Thanks for understanding about me going to Miami.’
‘That’s alright,’ said Clayton. ‘I was being a bit selfish. It’s just that I haven’t seen much of you lately. I’ve missed you. You go and see Brenton … I’ll be up in a sec, I’ve just got to check something on my computer.’
‘See you in bed then,’ said Juliet.
‘Alright.’
Juliet disappeared upstairs. Clayton went to the front room. He sat down in an armchair and stared vacantly at the floor. He then stood up and almost ripped off his tie. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He picked up his laptop from the coffee table and switched it on. He logged onto the internet and typed Virgin Atlantic into the search engine. He browsed business class flights from late July to early August. He then did a search for Miami hotels. He stood up again and went upstairs. Juliet was lying down on the bed still in her clothes. Her eyes were closed. Clayton picked up his diary from his bedside cabinet. He returned downstairs and flicked through it.
‘Shit!’ he whispered to himself. ‘If she leaves for Miami just after the schools break up I won’t be able to follow her for maybe five or six days. I’ll follow her anyway and surprise her. Yes, surprise her with a cruise or something. No way I’m leaving her with him. Can’t do that. Fuck that.’
