Brixton Rock (12 page)

Drying the dishes hurriedly, Juliet heard Brenton stepping down the stairs. “Brenton, you going now?”

“Yeah, I’m tired and I wanna go home.”

Flinging down the tea towel, Juliet skipped along the hallway. “Hold up, I’ll walk with you.”

She disappeared upstairs to don her hat and wedge on her shoes, leaving her brother abiding at the front door impatiently slapping his soles. Ten foot-taps later, Juliet bounded down the stairs, fastening the buttons to her coat. Her brother opened the front door and they ventured out into the street, greeted by a gust of wind. They walked a number of paces before Brenton, who was dangerously troubled, stopped trodding. He clocked his sister. “How do you feel about me, Juliet?”

“What do you mean?”

The short fuse within Brenton torched itself. “You know what I bloody mean! All those kisses, you looking me up and down. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m on about.”

Juliet quickly glanced around her, to see if anyone in the street had heard or seen her brother shouting at her. Then she looked at him, feeling her tongue handcuffing itself. So much emotion in his face, she thought.

Brenton urged, “Well, I’m waiting! You must think this is a bloody game!”

Juliet gazed into her brother’s eyes, knowing she must be honest with him. She didn’t want to create a scene and she hated arguments. She closed her eyes for a long second. “All right, all right. Look, I don’t know why, but I’m strongly attracted to you.”

Brenton scratched his head in disbelief, then rubbed his temple.
Sure that he would refrain from shouting this time, Juliet added, “I can’t help what I feel.”

Brenton was dazed. “Oh shit, bloody hell. Well fuck my living days, this ain’t happening.”

Juliet managed a smile. “You can’t talk,” she joked. “You’ve been eyeing me up as well. Now, you answer
me
one thing honestly. So you think I’m sort of, er, you know what I’m saying. Er, do you like me?”

Now it was Brenton’s turn to be in the dock. He studiously avoided his sister’s eyes, scarcely able to believe the way the conversation was developing. But he felt he had to answer the question honestly. “Er, I dunno. Er, well, I mean yes. But that’s not the bloody point… you’re my sister, for God’s sake.”

Bad bwai Brown rides to town on a stallion, he thought, only to find his foe’s daughter presenting him with a bouquet of flowers – what a confusion!

Then he ambled away, leaving Juliet standing in inky isolation, wondering whether to laugh or cry. She pondered on whether she’d already torpedoed her relationship with her new-found brother, or whether she’d started something special. She looked within herself: what was she thinking? This was lunacy and totally cuckoo! Maybe it was fate, too?

She watched Brenton striding off into the distance, hoping he would turn around and bid her goodbye. But he simply crossed into the next road, refusing to look behind him.

T
he days were closing in on Brenton’s seventeenth birthday and during the last couple of weeks, he had found himself some casual work on a building site. A spar of Floyd’s set him up for the job, which was a cash-in-hand affair. He was not contributing to the taxman’s hoard; neither was he paying National Insurance. A brown sheet a day was paid, and unknowingly to Mr Lewis, he still signed on for his G. Otherwise, the social worker was relieved to know that Brenton had at last found some work.

His duties were mostly labouring, but at least he was learning some useful skills from the craftsmen with whom he worked. At first he always seemed to be stirring cement or making cups of tea, but now and again, a carpenter, or maybe a bricklayer would show him some tricks of their trade.

When Brenton received his first two weeks’ wages, he splashed out on a new pair of shoes, a pullover, and two pairs of jeans. But what really pleased Mr Lewis was Brenton buying himself a hammer and a measuring tape. Things were going well for him. Even Floyd was sheepishly slapping on his door asking to borrow money.

One thing bothered Brenton, however. Though he received telephone calls from his mother, he hadn’t heard from Juliet. He really warmed to her, but couldn’t take it upon himself to pick up the phone and call her. Still, this was the first time his pockets had
jingled with cash since he’d lied about his age so he could do a newspaper round as a kid.

It was the fag end of a tiring week and the new employee plummeted on his bed as soon as he reached home from work. In the adjacent room, Floyd, hearing the cry of his stomach, also heard Brenton stumble up the stairs. So, not even bothering to knock, he barged straight into his spar’s room.

“The answer’s no, whatever you want,” Brenton said with his eyes still shut. “It’s NO.”

Floyd shook his head. “Nah, I don’t want your corn. I was gonna do you a favour, man. I was gonna ask if you wanted anything up the spud shop, whether it’s fish and chips or patty and chips or what. And all you can do is moan. I don’t think I’ll even bother now.”

Wearily, Brenton got up. “Hold up, man. Get me cod and chips. Oh, and get two brew, one for yourself.”

Floyd grinned. “You’re a brethren, man, a brethren. I was just about to buy myself a bag of chips with the shekels I’ve got.” Floyd dipped into his trouser pocket and came out with what amounted to seventeen pence. “To get a sausage in batter I need a next thirty pence.”

Brenton counted the small change his spar was holding out. “Where’re you going with them sixpences? You can’t use them again. They’re gone out, innit? I think it was a few weeks ago. You can’t buy nutten with them.”

“Well, kiss me granny armpit, I never knew that. Can you sponsor me fifty pence?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just hurry up, man, I’m starving.” Brenton took out a crumpled five-pound note from his cement-stained donkey jacket. “Give me back the change,” he warned. “Even the coppers.”

Floyd glanced at Brenton’s new pair of shoes alongside the bed and felt a whip of red eye. “I could never work on a building site, man. They work you till your digits turn grey, and if I done that, I
wouldn’t have the strength to crub any steak at the weekend. Nah, I would rather be in an office with my name on the door. Own secretary and t’ing and I would tell her to park her backside on my desk and take down some lyrics.”

“Floyd, don’t wanna hear about your dreams, man … hurry up with that fish.”

Floyd grinned like a two-timing fox, while pushing the note deep into his front jeans pocket before departing. Brenton lay gingerly on his bed once more, trying to get comfortable to ease the pangs in his shoulder muscles. With his eyes closed, his mind drifted back again to his childhood.

It was winter, the year 1970, just prior to Christmas.

The children’s home had two large coal fires at either end of the mansion-type house. One fire was in the spacious lounge, where the large black-and-white television acted as a baby-sitter for the smaller children. This room was where most of the kids would spend their time if they behaved themselves, or performed their chores to satisfaction. The other coal fire heated the dining room, where two sizeable wooden tables dominated the space. The staff of the children’s home would usually discuss matters arising throughout the day in there, over a coffee or mug of tea and a spilling ashtray.

The young Brenton had just consumed his dinner, and was playing quietly with a small model car in the long hallway, when he heard the fear-inducing voice of his housemother Miss Hill - ‘The Belt’.

“Brenton, go and fill up the coal bucket.”

The seven-year-old loathed this chore, but knew he had to do it. So slowly, he walked into the cloakroom to don his hat, scarf and tatty anorak. He wished he owned a pair of gloves, but that would be a luxury. Beside the back door stood a large coal bucket, once yellow in colour but now virtually covered in coal dust. Next to the coal bucket stood the children’s shoe rack, looking like a wire-mesh set of lockers without any doors.

He found his black but muddied Wellington boots and pulled them on, hoping the sleet had ceased outside. Then he ventured out into the cold, clutching the coal bucket, which was almost half the size of himself.

There were steps leading down to a paved pathway, and on the other side of this was an outhouse, which contained bike parts, home-made trolleys, forgotten toys and a morbid-looking, headless scarecrow, stuffed with straw and dressed in a torn mac and army trousers. Brenton had found the abandoned bird-frightener in a ditch, near a farm, and decided to give it a home. Many times he had stolen conversations with this scarecrow while he carefully upholstered its limbs, and thought about how he would make its head. He propped it up in a dusty corner and always greeted it with a ‘how you doing today?’ whenever he entered the outhouse.

Brenton found the pathway very slippery, caused by children sliding on the partially melted snow. So aware of this hazard, he carefully side-stepped his way to the coalbunker, which adjoined the outhouse. Once he’d reached the bunker, he had to feel his way inside, as the light bulb hadn’t worked since bonfire night. Unfortunately for Brenton, no coal had been delivered for quite a few weeks. This meant he had to rummage with his bare hands amongst the dust, in the hope of finding a solid piece of coal. There was a shovel he could have used, but the handle was broken and would prove awkward to hold. He dreamed of a pair of gloves, and at this moment, would rather have something to warm his fingers than the Action Man he saw in a television commercial. But he came swiftly back to reality, digging and foraging with his small, tender hands in the search of black gold.

Patiently, with determination, he managed to fill the bucket half-f. Satisfied, he clutched the handle and very carefully trod the pathway back to the home. He dragged the bucket up the outside steps and finally made it to the back door, where he halted and rested for a couple of minutes, feeling his arm and shoulder muscles aching. Then he opened the door, wiping his soles on the
vast doormats and took another breather as he wrenched off his Wellington boots. Then he donned his slippers before completing the last leg of his chore.

The coal was required for the dining room, so now the weary child slowly eased his way along the hallway, taking care to keep the coal bucket steady. Alas, he stumbled, causing the bucket to wobble. One piece of coal escaped and danced along the hallway, leaving terrible black marks on the carpet. Brenton could only watch in horror, thinking he wouldn’t see another Christmas.

The rounded figure of The Belt stormed into the hallway to see a spread-eagled young Brenton and the coal blemishes, which made the carpet look like the body of a Dalmatian dog.

“You clumsy idiot, just look at that carpet! It has only just been hoovered.”

With The Belt rushing towards him with outstretched hand and serious-looking intent, Brenton cowered, covering his face with his arms, adopting the foetal position, expecting the familiar beating.

“Brenton, Brenton! Wake up, man, I’ve got your goods.”

Floyd was looking down on his spar, wondering why he was sweating. “Are you sick?”

Mopping his face with his hands, Brenton’s eyes focused on the two white paper bags Floyd was holding.

“Where’s the brew, man?”

Grinning, Floyd emptied his jacket pockets to reveal the strong after-dinner liquor.

The two friends quickly consumed their meal.

They were draining their beer when Floyd asked, “I see your sister is A-class, man - wicked-looking and t’ing. So I was wondering if you could have a word, know what I mean? You know, say something good about me so I can deal wid it positively  set me up with the girl. I’m sort of asking you back the favour for when I controlled you the job.”

Brenton nearly choked on his beer. “Set you up? Set you up with my sister? You must be friggin joking. Ain’t you got enough
gal already? The only t’ing I would set you up with is a Muppet. Shit
,
I don’t believe you sometimes, you crack me up.”

Floyd, feeling sheepish, glanced at his spar and tried to regain his composure. “All right, just stay cool, keep your Rizla intact, no need to burst a blood vessel and stress out your heartbeat. I only asked. I just wondered, you know.”

Brenton shook his head in disbelief, wondering if any gal in South London was safe from his spar’s ‘keep his bone content’ antics. But talking about his sister made Brenton feel it was high time he confronted her. Then he realised he didn’t have any cancer sticks to hoover after his meal.

“Shit, I forgot to tell you to buy some snouts. Why didn’t you remind me?”

With a grin, Floyd fished in his pockets once more to reveal a packet of cigarettes.

“You bastard, you weren’t going to tell me you had them, were you? Don’t mess about, man - oh, and give me my change, you ginall.”

“I was gonna tell you. I bought them with your corn and I ain’t no t’ief. Here’s your change, and you can’t take a joke, man.”

Brenton accepted the change. “Look, I’m sorry, man. I’ve had a bad day, know what I mean? I’ve mixed more cement than sound-men have mixed dub-plate.”

The duo lit their fags and relaxed to digest their meal.

Two hours later, after Brenton had enjoyed a warm bath, he felt determined to confront his sister that very night, wanting to know if she was still talking to him.

Casually, but smartly dressed, Brenton marched out of his home with a sense of purpose. As he arrived at his mother’s house, his heartbeat vibrated through to his throat. He strained his eyes to see if there were any lights on, but no, it was just a streetlight that shone yellow on his mother’s bedroom window. Perhaps nobody was at home? Feeling pessimistic, he thumbed the doorbell, and after a few seconds saw a rectangle of light appear around the door.

Looking immaculate in a white frilly blouse and
cherry-coloured
pleated skirt, Juliet studied her brother with no visible emotion on her face. “You’d better come in,” she said coolly, “unless you wanna stand there in the cold.”

Brenton silently shadowed his sister into the kitchen, where she switched on the kettle. “So how come you never called me?” she demanded. “You spoke to Mum a few times, but you never asked to speak to me. Why?”

Brenton composed himself before answering. “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me - you know, ’cos of what happened. I felt bad about it.”

“You mean you feel guilty?”

“Well, yeah, no no. I mean kind of.”

This uncertainty caused Juliet to smile; she had never seen her brother so humble in the short time she had known him.

“Where’s our mother?” he asked.

“Oh, she’s seeing some old friend of hers.”

Juliet took out two mugs from the cupboard, made the tea and gave a hot cup to her fretful-looking brother. “What do you feel about me?”

Brenton sipped his tea to give himself more time to work out an answer. “Well, listen, Juliet. To be honest, I haven’t a clue what having a sister is supposed to feel like. I mean, I haven’t had much practice. But you are sort of caring, and I have to admit I think you’re kind of all right. I suppose you can say that I am attracted to you, but this can’t be right ’cos you’re my bloody sister. But like you say, people can’t help what they feel. Maybe it’s best if we don’t see each other. But it’s kinda scary, you know. I’m getting to the stage where I’m starting to imagine t’ings. You know what I mean?” Why am I saying all this? Am I going cuckoo? Brenton agonised. Could I be loved?

Juliet appreciated her brother’s straight talking, but hadn’t expected him to be this honest. She was thrilled by Brenton’s
words, despite the battle of her conscience, but unsure what to do next. She arose again and slowly walked over to Brenton, who was standing at the entrance to the kitchen. When she reached him, she gently turned him around, seeking eye-to-eye contact. Only inches apart, Juliet raised her right hand to touch his semi-Afro hair. “I’m starting to imagine t’ings as well,” she murmured.

Then she half-closed her eyes and kissed her brother on the forehead. Brenton stood very still, studying his sister’s every facial movement. “This is madness,” he choked. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I ain’t resisting this any more.” He laughed nervously, then resumed, “You know, since I was a little brat, I wanted to be close to my family, but this is taking the piss.”

Juliet laughed heartily, then placed her arms around the neck of her brother and jig-sawed her hands together. The two of them gazed into each other’s eyes, both realising that their mutual attraction would have to remain a secret. Juliet was extra conscious of this, because if her mother found out, she knew it would devastate Cynthia.

They both sat at the kitchen table and talked freely for over an hour, recalling their differing childhoods. Brenton even told of his recurring nightmares, which disturbed his sister, but at least she could now identify the torment in his eyes.

Before he was allowed to leave, Juliet embraced him again, this time kissing him on the cheek. He responded by giving her an awkward hug, unsure of where to put his hands.