Authors: Alex Wheatle
With a somewhat embarrassed look, Juliet grabbed the shopping bags again and made haste to the kitchen.
Brenton stayed at his family home for a couple more hours. His mother did offer to prepare the spare room and bed, but he felt awkward staying the night, especially with Juliet in the adjoining room. So he declined her invitation and caught a cab back to his hostel. During the journey, he thought about his mother and her sad despondent face. It was apparent to him that she was still burdened by a heavy sack of coal, and perhaps always would be. Maybe her suffering of guilt would only become worse, now he had dramatically reappeared on the scene.
Reaching home, Brenton shuffled up the stairs and thought to himself he could do with some entertaining chat with Floyd. But there was no answer coming from the other side of the door and no sound of a suitcase.
Floyd was over at Sharon’s home, trying to charm her into introducing her pelvis to his. There were together in Sharon’s bedroom, which as far as Floyd could see, was an open invitation
to a long-awaited taste of nourishing steak. Maybe it was a bit naive of Sharon to have invited him up there, but Floyd’s face was a study of determination.
“Look, your mum’s out doing her nightshirt, your sister has gone and taken the pickney to see your paps for a few days - the pickney will probably end up sucking a bottle of brew - and I’m in your bedroom. So from here, we’re suppose to sort of get all romantic Hollywood and t’ing. But you wanna talk about the social conditions of second-generation blacks in England. I don’t friggin believe it!”
Sharon was giggling on her bed, enjoying the tease of her man, knowing what he wanted and deriving pleasure from making him wait. “You guys are all the same, just wanna get inside a woman’s knickers. Then you tell all your spars you boned so and so, so your brethrens can look up to you. Well Floyd, I ain’t so easy, know what I mean? I want nuff respect. When’s the last time you took me out?”
Floyd sat down, joining his girlfriend on the bed. “What are you saying, man? I took you out just the other day. You ain’t got nutten to complain about.”
As he completed his sentence, Sharon took a swipe with her right fist, aimed at her guy’s shoulder. She connected and sent him sprawling to the floor. “You facety shit! It was my friend’s party! I took you out - and me and Carol paid the cab fare. I’m talking about you taking me out for dinner or a club or something.”
Looking at a loss, as if he was selling a gold chain, but a customer discovered the chain was made out of plastic, Floyd rejoined his girlfriend. “You know I haven’t got no corn, man. I’m unemployed. If I had a job and t’ing, I would take you out, yes. Believe me, if I had a wad I would take you to dem club where only man with chauffeur driver go and where the bouncers wear dem bow tie. It seems you want a man for his corn. You’re not a shine eye gal, are you? Well, I’m just a loving pauper.”
The arm that had just sent him rolling off the bed was now
wrapping around his shoulders. The catty grin swabbed off her face, Sharon appeared becalmed. “Look, t’ings will work out, man. I like you a lot ’cos you make me laugh. But I don’t want you to treat me like a leggo-beast, you know what I’m saying? Look what happened to my little sister. I don’t want the same t’ing happening to me, you understand?”
Floyd put his arm around his woman’s shoulders and kissed her gently on the eyebrows. “Can I stay the night? Please? I’ll do anything you say - even wash your baggy and clean out the dirt in your toes and scratch any itch in your headtop.”
Sharon deliberated for a while, then she stared her man straight in the eye. “All right, then. But you have to be gone by six in the morning. My mum usually comes back from work about seven, so you better chip before then.”
Floyd’s dial lit up, like a pensioner who just called house. Sharon resumed, “I want you to promise me somet’ing.”
“What’s that?”
“Promise you won’t get involved in this Brenton, Terry Flynn war.”
“Me get involved? Me! I wanna keep my pretty boat, innit.”
“Good, ’cos I don’t want to see you in no hospital.”
“Just cool. I’ve been telling Brenton it’s best to forget the past ’cos otherwise it will only end when one of dem is dead.”
“One more t’ing,” Sharon said. “Er, you have protection seen?”
From a picture of content, Floyd’s features turned to a look of grief. “Er, no. Er, I didn’t think. Oh frig my living days.”
Sharon abruptly took her arm off her man, stood up and proceeded to cuss loudly. “I don’t believe you sometimes! You ask to stay the night and you don’t even bring nutten to protect me! You’ve got a nerve, man - especially as you know about my sister!”
Floyd tried to defend himself and now wished he possessed the courage to walk into the local chemist’s shop and buy a packet of dick macs. “Just cool, man. Calm down, don’t bust no cheek or
jawbone. To be honest, it wouldn’t have looked all that good if me and you were chatting and all of a sudden, I pulled out a mac. You would have checked me weird if I’d said, ‘Can we go to bed now?’ You would’ve kuffed me harder than you just did.”
Considering, ‘shall I kill him?’ she finally found the funny side of the matter and embraced the relieved-looking Floyd. The couple collapsed on the bed, laughing and kissing, but in between the giggles and kisses, Sharon whispered in her man’s ear, “You can stay the night, but er, you can’t go all the way, y’understand? Besides, there are other ways of doing t’ings, you know.”
Floyd was more than happy to accept this, but wondered how his bone would behave itself throughout the night.
The following morning, Brenton was in his kitchen, devouring a bowlful of cornflakes. He had risen late and had no intention of going to work. His back was still proving troublesome, although not as bad as the day before.
Mr Lewis plodded in from his room. “Aren’t you going to work today, Brenton? I hope you have phoned your foreman to tell him you will not be in.”
“I hurt my back yesterday morning, mixing cement. The boss man already knows I’ll be off for a couple of days.”
Mr Lewis ran his eyes over the kitchen, checking to see if the dishcloths he had bought were being employed. There were the usual mugs, plates and saucers left unwashed in the sink, but otherwise, everything was in order, probably because the inhabitants of the hostel couldn’t be bothered to cook.
“How is the job going? Learning much, are you?”
Brenton shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it’s all right I suppose, but there is little time for training. Everything is rush rush. Things have to be done quickly, and everyone has to work fast to get their bonuses. So there is little time for them carpenter man to show me t’ings every day. For most of the time I’m usually mixing cement, making tea, hod-carrying bricks and making more bloody tea, know what I mean? When I’m not too busy, I just watch them
skilled man and see how they do t’ings. But it’s all right, the guys there don’t treat me too bad.”
The social worker appeared rather proud as he listened to his charge talk about his job. He recalled how just a few months ago, he couldn’t hold a proper conversation with him. Now he was working and had found his family. Mr Lewis felt Brenton was a self-improved young man, and he himself enjoyed a feeling of achievement - maybe his job was worthwhile after all. His superiors had misgivings about the experiment of a hostel for kids out of care, but Mr Lewis had convinced them it would work.
“How is your relationship with your mother?”
“Is there something about social workers? That when they become one, they can’t stop asking questions?”
Mr Lewis flashed a rare smile, causing him to readjust his glasses, realising he must have come over like some sort of interrogator. With that thought, he turned around and slothed back to his room.
Brenton placed his cereal bowl in the sink and stepped up the stairs, wondering what he would do for the rest of the day. As he entered his room, he wished his living quarters could miraculously be put in order. Recently washed, unironed clothes spilled out of a wailing laundry bag, and cassette tapes littered the floor, mixed with an assortment of underwear. Brenton simply ignored the mess and carefully laid down on the bed; if anyone were to ask about the state of his room, he could always give the excuse of his bad back.
As he relaxed and fantasised about what it would be like to crub with the Sister Sledge soul group, Floyd barged his way in.
“Knock, knock, please come in.”
A wolfish grin buttered over Floyd’s face; he was obviously dying to speak of his manly deeds the night just gone.
“Sorry, but I see you come up, so I thought you wouldn’t mind ’cos it’s me. Anyway, I got my t’ings last night, you know what I’m saying? Yeah, I finally christened her in every which way possible. I
was at Sharon’s yard the whole of last night. I only reach home just before seven.”
Brenton remained lying on his bed, with his hands supporting his head to make it slightly tilted. He gazed upon Floyd in doubt, scratching behind his right ear. Floyd sensed this.
“Yeah, man. She’s a tasty steak, she don’t hold back, man. I kind of felt awkward at first ’cos I was in her yard, but she practically seduced me. You know, these gal are all the same. They go on like they don’t want it, but really, they’re as peckish as us, you know what I mean?”
Brenton knew if Floyd told a tale, it would be grossly overhyped. “Well, you’ve wanted to bone Sharon from time. Usually, after you get what you want, you leave them. You going to leave Sharon?”
Wondering why his spar didn’t share his elation of his service to womanhood last night, Floyd sat on the bed, feeling boxed by the question. “I dunno, she’s all right. She ain’t stupid like other gal I know.”
“She must be, to go to bed with you.”
“Very funny.”
“So this is a serious t’ing then?”
“Could be, could be. But I wanna know if she can cook.”
“When’s the last time you was interested in any gal for her cooking?”
“Well, Sharon’s passed the sex test, now she has to pass the cook test for me to t’ink ’bout settling down wid her.”
“But can
you
cook though?”
“Yeah, man. Don’t I cook corned beef an’ rice when we run out of money for take-away?”
Floyd’s headlights scanned the room for any signs of a cancer stick, but he couldn’t see any. Brenton decided to sit up, and felt a twinge in his lower back as he erected himself. “I’m surprised you don’t have back trouble,” he quipped, “the amount of boning you do.”
This brought a proud grin from Floyd, who revelled in his steak-tasting rep, but felt his hostel-mate was missing out on all the juicy flavours. “Hey, Sharon’s friend Carol likes you, why don’t you deal wid her? She needs a service. I’ll set you up, man. You know she’s fit badly. So I reckon if you checked it out, you won’t get no blank, you know what I’m saying?”
“She’s all right, quite fit and t’ing, but she’s too long. I think the gal is taller then me. Nah, I will feel weird going out with a gal who’s taller than me.”
“What’s height got to do with it? She ain’t that tall anyway. Think about the seriously shaped legback around your V, man. Biscuit, Finnley, Lizard and Coffin Head are all asking me to set dem up with the gal, but Carol’s only interested in you. You must admit, her body’s gone clear.”
Brenton remained silent as Floyd glanced up to the ceiling and kissed his teeth. Laying back down on his bed, Brenton changed the topic. “I’m tired, man, and my back is paining me.”
The would-be matchmaker received the hint and stood up. “Look, if you’re interested, I’m going with Sharon and Carol to Bali Hai tonight. TWJ play their soul session on a Friday night there. So we’re gonna freak out and do what dem weird soulheads do. I’ll be leaving about nine to pick dem up, seen. So be ready by then if you want to go.”
After checking to see if Brenton’s face was showing any interest in his proposal, Floyd left the room, hoping the next spar he talked to would show more enthusiasm for his steak-tasting last night. Biscuit would get some serious red-eye.
Despite the nagging twinge in his lower back, Brenton found himself drifting off to sleep. Wondering why Floyd had asked him to go raving when he knew about his bad back. He wanted to listen to his selection of music, but couldn’t be bothered to get up and turn on his suitcase.
Ten o’clock that night, Brenton had just returned from the fish and chip shop; he noticed that Floyd had already left for his soul
rave. Sitting on his bed, he was gulping down the last bit of pie when he heard an impatient knocking on the front door. Thinking it was one of Floyd’s spars; Brenton pushed a few hot chips into his mouth and then struggled down the stairs. He opened the front door and was greeted by the beautiful figure of his sister. Surprised to see her, he counted his untold blessings.
“Will you let me in then?” she asked. “You want me to stand outside here and catch my death?”
Brenton ushered his sister inside and appreciatively watched her walk into the hallway and up the stairs. Then he glanced towards the kitchen and Mr Lewis’s door, hoping that no one was about – there wasn’t. So with lusty adrenaline gorging through his veins, he climbed slowly up the stairs to his room, where he found his sister doing her best to make the place tidy. “I was gonna do that before I went to my bed.”
“Yeah, sure. And I’m going to be believe that Blair Peach was not killed by the beast. Can’t you keep your place tidy? It’s only one room. Won’t take for ever, you know.”
As she talked, she attempted to find matching socks so she could roll them together. Her brother sat down on his bed, feeling a sting of embarrassment. “I’ve got a bad back, you know,” he muttered. “I can’t bend down too far.”
Juliet kissed her teeth as she picked up all the cassette tapes off the floor and placed them in a neat pile on the dressing table. “My mum always says that men can’t take pain. Us women can tolerate more pain than men can, you know. That’s why God made us the ones to get pregnant, ’cos men can’t take the pain of giving birth.”
Brenton looked upon his sister in disbelief. “Rubbish! How can you say that? No, man, that’s fuckries.”