Brixton Rock (6 page)

Hands in his pocket, he braced himself against the spiteful wind. The rain had called off its deluge, but small puddles rippled in the streets.

He stopped off at a small newsagents run by an Indian family, where he shifted from foot to foot impatiently until the young mother with a child in front of him bought a box of matches. Then Brenton paid five pence for a single snout. Seconds later, he reached the bus stop and peered through the rain into the horizon of the main road, seeing no sign of a number 68.

Camberwell High Street was still busy with the butt end of
rush-hour traffic. To pass the time, Brenton read the posters in shop windows advertising items in the winter sales. As he checked the bargains on offer in a shoe shop, a number 68 arrived. An anxious Brenton boarded it, seating himself at the rear of the upper deck. Taking the fag off his ear, he asked a well-dressed African man sitting in front of him for a light.

The bus reached Brenton’s destination quicker than he’d wanted it to. He jogged up a road opposite a college, feeling moths and many other things flying about in his stomach, and then he wondered if this adventure was a good idea. His heartbeat felt like a heavy bass-line as he stood still to read his mother’s address once more.

He found himself on his mother’s road, and was impressed by the large semi-detached houses in it. The cars parked along the road seemed more expensive than the motors he peered into around his home streets. He wondered what sort of job his mother had, to be able to live in a road like this. Maybe she married some rich white guy, he considered.

Walking on slowly, he noted the numbers of the houses, his eyes straining as he saw the figure of 41- it was number 17 he sought. Quickening his pace, Brenton became aware how quiet the street was. As he approached his mother’s abode, all he could hear was the sound of the now mild-tempered breeze passing though the leafless trees skirting the road.

He stopped to study the attractive numeral of 17, coloured in gold on a varnished hardwood door, and finally realised the reality of standing outside his mother’s house. His heartbeat moved
uptempo
as he gradually neared the front door. There was a doorbell to the side of the door, but he decided to use the knocker of the brass letterbox. His hands began to feel clammy - a hot rush of adrenaline showered through his body as he braced himself and slapped the knocker three times. As he waited, he shuffled his feet nervously, scratching behind his ear.

Through the letterbox, he peered into the darkness of a
hallway, then he closed the flap and looked upwards to see if any lights were switched on. Suddenly the small gap at the bottom of the door became illuminated. Something strange stirred in his veins. Composing himself, he stood upright‚ expecting someone to come.

The front door gaped slowly. It revealed a worried-looking, middle-aged black woman. Her stature was vulnerable and short, and her physique was slim and fragile. Her tannish forehead was etched with deep-set fissures, and her eyes seemed to have lost their sparkle and life. The cheeks searched for an outlet within her taut skin, and a wide negroid nose was set on a milky, caramel face, dotted with small dark freckles.

Mother and son gazed speechlessly at each other for a few seconds. Time had downed tools and gone on strike. Ms Massey knew immediately that she was looking at her son. Finally, she broke the silence, saying in a soft Jamaican accent, “You’d better come inside. Breeze is blowing, rain is falling and it col’ outside.”

Brenton entered the house, wondering why he had expected his mother to be big and imposing. The first thing that caught his eye was a picture of a European-looking Jesus Christ, back-dropped by a red patterned wallpaper. Brenton felt the urge to call Mr Lewis on a white telephone that was neatly parked on a small mahogany table. As his feet sank into a Burgundy-coloured carpet, he couldn’t escape the irony that his mother had images of Christianity on her walls. Silly hypocrites a ga’long der, he thought. After all, not seeing her son for sixteen years was not very Christian-like.

Brenton looked up in awe at the gloss-painted, elaborate wood beading that charmed the ceiling. Maybe she was married to some white lawyer or something, he convinced himself. Following his mother into the front room, he wondered how much money she earned. Ms Massey beckoned her son to sit down on a
comfy-looking
, button-filled brown sofa. Situated directly opposite him was a teak wall cabinet, filled with ornamental plates and porcelain
statues. A colour television set stood proud in a corner, but it was the stereo that really lusted Brenton’s eye. It was powerful-looking and attractive, and he would love to play his reggae tapes on this control tower.

Ms Massey apprehensively sat down in an armchair facing her son, not enjoying the anxious silence. Then she immediately hauled herself up again. “I’m jus’ about to mek a cup of tea. You mus’ feel like somet’ing hot as you jus’ come in from de col’. How much sugar you take?”

Brenton found it difficult to come to terms with his mother speaking in a Jamaican accent -it didn’t seem real to him. “Two,” he answered. Cynthia Massey disappeared out of the room. Brenton took this as a cue to rise up and nose around. He ambled towards the wall cabinet, drawn by a statue of a pathetic woman carrying a heavy basket. The helplessness of the figure seemed to pluck a bass-note within Brenton and a sudden anger swept through him. He was ready now to ask a few questions.

Two minutes later, Cynthia reappeared holding two mugs of tea. Very carefully, she placed them on two small drink mats, resting on a circular glass coffee table in the centre of the room. Brenton followed her every move like a leopard sizing up its dinner.

Ms Massey was aware of her son’s glare headlighting upon her as she slowly snuggled back into her chair. Sitting down and crossing her legs, she tried to find welcoming lyrics to say to the boy. She glanced at him, only to find him glowering back at her.

“Why? Tell me why!” he said in a hoarse voice. “Why did you leave me so young?” Ms Massey was unable to answer, or even meet her son’s eyes as he quivered his head. “Give me one good reason why you left me when I was a baby! One good fucking reason!”

Bravely, Cynthia reared her head. “T’ings were kinda hard back in those days. Your fa’der promised me he would mind you.
Y’understand, look after you. My ’usband, dem time, did not want me to mind you.”

Exploding from his chair, Brenton patrolled the room, still fixing his cold gaze on his ashamed-looking mother. “Not good enough! Shit, just not good enough! You could have come back to look for me, or even tried to find out where I was, but no. I was left to rot in that hell of a children’s home.”

Cynthia sat motionless, peering into her hot drink as Brenton raged. “Not knowing any family! You won’t believe the shit I’ve been through. But you seem to be all right, innit? Nice yard, I must say. It beats the home I had! You just didn’t give a shit, did you?”

“Every day I have lived wid your baby wail, every day,” the woman whimpered.

“So why didn’t you come to look for me!
Why
?
”

“I couldn’t face it.”

“Couldn’t face it! Couldn’t face it! I HAD NO FUCKING CHOICE. And you’re telling me you couldn’t face it! YOU MAKE ME SICK!”

Brenton’s yelling seemed to have caused some movement upstairs, but he was deaf to this as he let loose again. “While you’ve been living a cushy life, I have been fighting and struggling just to stay alive, and sometimes, believe me, I didn’t think it was worth it.”

Then a tall, very beautiful black girl sporting an Afro hairstyle entered the room. Her face was a picture of wonderment as she stared at Brenton. His temper won control over his curiosity as he loaded his mouth with hurtful lyrics. “I like to watch them animal programmes! There was one on the other day about the gorilla. Now, when these adult gorillas feel that their young are threatened, they get very violent! So, in a way, they’re better than you, innit? ’Cos at least they try something!”

“Who are you to shout at my mother!” demanded the young woman.

Brenton’s head snapped in the direction of Ms Massy’s
daughter. What is going on? he thought. Fuck my days, this might be my sister!

After the verbal onslaught, Cynthia was an anxious wreck, fighting against the flood of tears which was welling up inside her.

The young woman stood at the entrance to the room, glaring at Brenton. An eerie silence followed, until Ms Massey decided it was time for an introduction. So, spluttering with emotion, she gestured towards the young lady. “Juliet,” she said weakly, “dis is your younger brother, Brenton.”

Brother and sister studied each other as if they had just seen an extra-terrestrial from Outer Space pushing a shopping trolley through an underground Tube tunnel. Brenton was the more startled of the two. He began to rub his temple furiously.

Addressing her daughter, Ms Massey explained, “Well, he is your half-brother. Remember I did tell you about him after the divorce.”

Ms Massey’s son just could not take his eyes off his sister. She’s beautiful, he said inwardly. What is going on?

He looked for any resemblance they might share -but there was none. Brenton thought she was too attractive for them to look alike. Slightly darker than her brother, Juliet’s posture was upright and elegant. Her hair was immaculately set and the gold earrings she was wearing complemented her dark-coffee complexion. But it was her big, round, happy eyes that made her a blessing to look at - it was obvious that she enjoyed laughing. After searching her brother’s expression, Juliet in her turn thought that Brenton probably lost his temper nuff times.

Brenton stopped his menacing march around the room and, lost for words, glanced at his mother to see if she could provide any. Ms Massey struggled out from her chair, looking as if the evening’s events had lined her forehead even more. She picked up her half-full mug of tea. “I don’t know what to say. I can say sorry for the rest of my days, but it can never be enough.”

“You can say that again,” barked Brenton.

Cynthia summoned up the courage to look her son straight in the eye. “Brenton, I always had it in mind to look for you, understand. But the longer I put it off, the more difficult it was for me to face reality. The last I saw of you, you was only a few days old. I remember saying to your fa’der that I will see you from time to time. But your fa’der vanished, an’ to this day, I don’t know where he is. Months turned into years, an’ I could not handle the stress of looking for you again. Maybe I was too ’fraid of my ’usband finding out.”

With her two offspring gazing at her, Cynthia bowed her head and wearily plodded out of the room. “I’m tired an’ not feeling well today, Brenton, but feel free to come again. I know you must hate me, but I want to see you again, y’hear? I have to go upstairs and lie down -I can’t take this.”

“I had to take it!” shouted Brenton, his eyes chilled.

Cynthia carefully made her way up the stairs, leaving her son and daughter gawping into a bewildered space.

After a few seconds, the pair began to exchange wary glances. Brenton took off Floyd’s denim jacket and decided to slouch in the armchair his mother had vacated. Juliet, wearing a cream-coloured silky blouse and a blue skirt, sat down elegantly on the sofa, folding her arms. Brenton rubbed his chin with his index digit. He was the one who finally chopped the silence. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen. I’m nineteen in May.”

Juliet was fascinated by this half-brother she had never seen, and was dying to ask him all sorts of questions, but she was angered by his treatment of her mother. Meanwhile, Brenton was trying to come to terms with the fact that he had a brand new sister. He wanted to cuss his mother but felt the need to show his sister he was a decent sort - not a bad bwai.

He clawed the side of his head. “I’m seventeen in March and I must admit, I didn’t think I had an older sister. It’s sort of weird.”

Juliet’s eyes were fastened on the scar on her brother’s neck. “I was born in Jamaica,” she told him. “My father and my
grandparents looked after me when I was a baby. Soon after I was born, my mum went to England.”

The pair inspected each other across the round glass coffee table, which still had a mug of cold tea placed on it. “How did you get that scar on your neck?” she asked.

Brenton fingered the unsightly mark on his neck with his right hand. “Some guy who couldn’t handle me with his fists did it. Well, you know what the record says: ‘Fist to fist days are done, the knife take over’.”

Juliet was fascinated, but she had noticed the mug of cold tea. “Want a hot cup and something to eat?” she enquired.

“Please.”

And Juliet departed from the room, contemplating the brain-jarring fact that she had a bad-bwai brother. Brenton, meanwhile, felt his trip to his mother’s house had been worth the trod, although he could never forgive her for the past.

When Juliet reappeared, she was carrying a plateful of thick cheese sandwiches and a mug of fresh tea. She placed the refreshments on the coffee table before settling down on the sofa, making herself comfortable. Brenton picked up his mug. “Thanks.”

The girl watched her brother sip his tea. “Do you live far away?” she asked.

“No, Camberwell. I live in a sort of hostel for kids coming out of care or a Home. You know, something like that.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it? I have a brother, you, who lives so close and I might have walked right past you and we wouldn’t of known nutten.”

Brenton nodded. “Yeah, it’s true. So close and yet so blasted far, you know what I mean? I’m glad I sort of found you, but saying that, I didn’t even know I had a brother or sister.” Pausing for a moment, he glanced around him, then locked his gaze on his sister. “Are there any more? Are you the only brother or sister I’ve got?”

Juliet’s face curved into a delicious smile as she unfolded her arms. Brenton wondered what the joke was -he looked at his sister with slight suspicion. “No, as far as I know anyway. Unfortunately for you, I’m the only sister or brother you’ve got. I’m what they call an only child, and I hate that ’cos people think I’m spoilt.”