Brenton Brown (18 page)

‘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.

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.

Reaching for his spliff, Brenton relit it. He sucked on it hard and exhaled through his nose. He hummed along to Barrington Levy’s
Too Poor.
Christmas, he thought. Fuck! I’ve had some bad ones, man. Fuck me I have. Christmas? What is that all about? People going into the red buying presents for people they don’t even like. Mums taking their spoilt kids to see Father fucking Christmas in a store and sit on his lap. What the fuck is that about? On a normal day they wouldn’t take their kids to see some old stranger dressed up in mad red garms and putting them on his lap. Are we telling our kids don’t trust strangers but it’s OK to sit on an old white guy’s knee with a paedo beard and wearing crazy red garms? It’s all fuckery. When Clayton dressed up as Father Christmas when Breanna was six, I should’ve just hit him. It’s just
wrong
, man. It looks too weird for black men
to dress up as a fucking Santa. Birthdays? Hate them too. Just fucked-up reminders of me getting fuck all when I was a kid. Never got a damn t’ing! Fuck birthdays and all Christmases!

He took another toke of the dying spliff and stubbed it out. He exhaled slowly and watched his smoke disappear into the ceiling. He felt a pang of hunger but didn’t have the energy to get something to eat. He couldn’t be bothered to get ready for bed. He closed his eyes. ‘Jeez and crime,’ he whispered. ‘Floyd gave me a good draw of weed. It’s making me seriously drowsy. It’s the only t’ing I can rely on in this damn world.’

He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He could feel sleep claiming him.

Don’t
go to sleep, the seven-year-old Brenton willed himself. He opened his eyes. The dormitory was dark. All was quiet. No, he thought. He could hear Ian Nuttall’s snoring in the corner of the room. Can’t he put some cotton wool or something up his nose? Brenton thought. Maybe his ginger hair makes him snore? I’ll cut off his hair one night.

He sat up in his bed slowly. He looked around but couldn’t make out too much. Only dark shapes in beds and that spooky framed picture of a clown that hung over the bed next to his. I’m gonna take that down and throw it on a bonfire one day, he promised himself. That clown has to die and I wanna hear it scream to make sure it’s dying.

He felt a draught of cold around his neck. He secured the top button of his pyjama top. He could smell urine. At least it’s not me, he thought. Must be Stephen Kelleher. He’s older than me and he pisses the bed? Ten years old! What’s wrong with him? Ever since his stupid auntie stopped visiting him he’s been pissing the bed.
She
might not check his bed on Christmas Day
but if she does he’ll get the belt. If he does get it then good! Her arm might be too tired to give me the belt later on for something I might do. And she should stuff the wet sheet into his mouth like she does with me. Yeah, stuff it down far so his throat goes all funny and his eyes go crazy and he starts coughing.

Brenton could hear a distant buzzing sound. Is that the
electric
, he guessed. No, maybe it’s the fridge. No, can’t be the fridge, it’s not as loud as that. Maybe
she’s
still up doing something? Maybe she’s making a cake or something with that mixer thing? Please, Saint Mary, let her be in her bed. Let her never wake up. Make her go down to hell where the devil will whip her and stand on her head with his hooves. Yeah, blood coming out of her nose and eyes. Does the devil have hooves? Yeah, he does. I saw it in a book at Sunday school. Hope they’re really really big hooves with football studs. And I hope that all the fires and
fireworks
down there will melt her head and her arms so she can’t hit anybody ever again.

He reached down to the floor where he picked up one of his slippers; he disturbed a matchbox car that raced towards the foot of his bed. Within the slipper was Ian Nuttall’s watch that Brenton had borrowed. The numbers on the watch were
luminous
green. For a short second he marvelled at the pretty sight before he whispered the time. ‘Quarter to three.’

She
has to be in her bed, he wanted to believe. I’m gonna go for it.

He slipped out of his bed. Ian Nuttall was still snoring. He put his slippers on. He made out the dark shape of the chest of drawers. He tiptoed over to it. On the dressing table were combs, brushes, a tub of Vaseline, a
Beano
comic with its front page missing, a set of playing cards, an armless Action Man doll, a soiled tissue and a bicycle headlight. He picked up the
headlight
and made for the door. The stench of urine coming from Stephen Kelleher’s bed almost made him sneeze. He reached the
door and gently squeezed the handle. He opened it just enough to poke his head around the door. He looked along the corridor to his left. There were no lights on. The girls’ dormitory was at the end of the hallway and
her
room was in the middle to the right. He daren’t switch on his light but as far as he could make out,
her
door was closed. Opposite her door was Georgie’s bedroom. His door seemed to be closed too. Good! Brenton thought. He should burn in hell too. Yeah, tie him up with no clothes and burn his willy off! And he should keep his stupid Pinkie Floydie music to himself. Don’t wanna go to his room and listen to any of his old, stupid music. Why does he keep asking me to come?

He looked towards the stairs. Dark. He couldn’t quite make out the banister. The buzzing sound is coming from down there, he guessed. It must be the fridge. Not
her
making her stupid cakes.

He checked behind him. Ian was still snoring. Time to go, he told himself.

He took a step out into the hallway. He grimaced as he closed the door behind him as softly as he could. He was grateful for the carpet that cushioned his feet. He crept to the top of the stairs. He reached out for the banister. It felt cold and smooth. He walked down the first flight of stairs. The middle step creaked. He stopped and checked behind. A painting of a crying child hung above his head. They’re still asleep, he thought. He stepped down that bit quicker. He reached the downstairs hallway landing. He turned right and paused. He switched on the
headlight
. He panicked when he realised he had nearly knocked over a vase that was standing on the table. He shone the light at the ceiling. Balloons and paper chain decorations covered the upper walls and below this were cut-outs of snowmen, angels, reindeers and elves. Must walk softly, he kept telling himself. It took him ten paces to reach the lounge door. He looked behind again. Then he squeezed the door handle. He let go. Maybe
she’s
in
there in the dark? he feared. Waiting for me. Maybe I should just go to the larder and see where the chocolate flake cakes are?

Brenton paused. He pressed his ear against the door. He didn’t hear anything. He squeezed the door handle again. He switched off his light. The door opened. He put his head around it.
Darkness
. He counted to five then turned on his light again. The angel on top of the Christmas tree was almost kissing the ceiling. Fixed to the other corner of the room with tacks and masking tape was a thin naked branch. Skinnier twigs forked off the main bough. Sellotaped to the branch were dozens and dozens of Christmas cards. Not one of them belonged to Brenton. He shone his light at the foot of the tree. Presents of different sizes were expertly wrapped and neatly placed under the tree and in front of it. They had little cards slotted under pretty red ribbons. Brenton walked over to the gifts and shone his light at the labels on them.

‘To Ian from his loving Uncle Pedraig,’ he whispered. ‘Weird name. To Stephen from his loving aunt. To Christine, to Rita, to Ian again. To Hayley from Granma May. Granma May was a funny one. Wonder what’s wrong with her? Last time she came to visit she couldn’t walk properly and her breath stank of
something
. She kept on wanting to play with my hair. Stupid cow!
She
got really angry with her … to Paul, to Edward from Auntie Violet; she was another funny one. Kept on nodding, she did, when she was drinking her tea and eating her biscuits; why do visitors always get the chocolate and custard cream biscuits and we only get the boring ones? Then after she finished her tea she started to jab her own head. Funny lady. Dunno why it was only me who got the belt for laughing at her; Neil was laughing too.’

Placing presents behind him, Brenton grabbed some more and read the labels. ‘To Ian again, to Yvonne, to Neil, to Paul again. Nothing for me? Not even one? To Maria, to Linda, to Robert, to Paulette, to Lloyd. Another one for Rita. Another one for Hayley, stupid cow! She don’t deserve two! She didn’t eat all
her rhubarb crumble yesterday. How comes she didn’t have to sit there all night like I had to?’

Brenton shone his light on every label of every gift. None were for him. Tears ran down his cheeks. Not even one from Father Holman? he sighed. He said he’d forgiven me. Like how Jesus forgives everybody. He said if I behave then I’d get baby Jesus’ blessing. But I ain’t got nothing and everybody got something. Ian wet his bed last week and he got four presents. Rita tried to run away and she still got two. Robert got caught nicking
Coca-Cola
out of the fridge and he’s got a present. Paulette ran out of the house when her mum turned up and she still got a present. It’s because of
her
. She probably told Father Holman not to get me anything. Hate her! Hate her! Don’t care if Jesus gets angry with me. I just hate
her
! Why can’t the Romans and Poncy Pilot put her on a cross, bang those metal things in her hands and feet and kill her? Yeah, and put an even bigger metal thing in her fat face and get the long broom from the outhouse to whack her with. Yeah, a broom with spikes.

He shone the light at the presents again and grabbed the biggest one. The label read
To Ian with lots of love
. In a fit of temper, Brenton ripped it open. The torn Christmas wrapping paper revealed a Subbuteo table football game; the World Cup edition, Brenton noted.

He took out the contents of the box. There was a green cloth with a football pitch marked on it. There were advertising
hoardings
that surrounded the pitch. He picked out two tiny white goals that had white netting. He collected the four corner flags. There was even a scoreboard and two mini footballs. He took out the inch-high plastic players from their polystyrene casing. One team was coloured in blue and the other red. Anger surged through him. He snapped all the blue players in half from the waist down. ‘
Hate
Chelsea,’ he whispered.

Throwing the broken players into a corner of the room he
then decapitated the heads of the red team. ‘And I hate Man United!’  

He then broke the legs of the goalkeepers, cracked the
scoreboard
and was about to rip the green cloth when the lounge room light was switched on. Brenton sat motionless. There she was. Her hair was in rollers.
She
was wearing a peach-coloured dressing gown and beige slippers. Her arms were crossed. Her eyes were unblinking. Brenton knew that was a prelude to a beating. He backed away against the Christmas tree.  

Miss Hills looked at the torn wrapping paper and then the mutilated plastic football players. Brenton covered his face.