East of Acre Lane Page 5

  ‘Wha’?’ Biscuit replied, preparing to leave. ‘Nelson, man. I ain’t got time for your funny stories dem. I affe dally.’

  Nelson stroked his stringy beard. ‘You t’ink you could come to my yard every two weeks an’ sell me some collie?’

  ‘Yeah, dat could be arranged. But don’t expect me to walk ’round wid some scarf over my face.’

  The dread laughed, but shook his head as he watched Biscuit depart.

  5

  Oh Carol

  ‘Shouldn’t you be sleeping?’ Biscuit rebuked his younger brother. It was past nine when he finally made it home from Jah Nelson’s estate. The flat was quiet for once and he had found Royston alone, sitting on their bed.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have been home for dinner?’ asked Royston mischievously.

  ‘Put de damn cars away an’ go to your bed. I wish I never bought you de damn t’ings. De uder day I went to my bed an’ one of your blasted cars ’cratched me in my back.’

  Royston hid himself under the covers, but his brother could still hear the stifled laughter coming from under the blankets. Biscuit ignored him and placed his herb and money on top of his wardrobe. He then took off his zip-up bomber jacket and pulled off his beret, revealing knotty, tangled hair. He headed for the lounge.

  His mother was sewing buttons on one of Royston’s grey school shirts, occasionally looking up at the news bulletin on the telly. Denise was sitting on the sofa, chatting away to one of her friends on the phone. She was talking about some party or other and asking if she could borrow a pair of shoes.

  ‘You waan me to warm up your dinner, Lincoln?’ Hortense offered.

  ‘No, it’s alright, Mummy, I can do it.’

  Biscuit went to the kitchen and lit two gas rings. He put a dab of margarine in the rice and peas saucepan and replaced the lid, then poured half a cup of water into the boiled chicken pot, stirring it with a fork. He checked his watch, wondering if it wasn’t too late to travel up to Brixton Hill and call on Carol. She was expecting him and he hated letting her down. His thoughts were interrupted by a manic banging on the front door.

  ‘Who ah bang ’pon me door so?’ Hortense queried. ‘Lincoln, ’ow many times ’ave me tell you fe tell your friends dem not to bang down me door!’

  Biscuit went to the door. ‘Easy nuh, man. You sound like beast to rarted.’

  A frantic thirty-something white woman, whose elfin-like face didn’t quite match her heavy frame, stood on the balcony. The woman seemed to have been crying for days. Her long auburn hair wouldn’t have recognised a comb, and underneath the tear stains her face was a pink mass of sadness. She was wearing a tatty dressing gown and slippers.

  ‘Where’s your mum, Lincoln?’ she asked desperately.

  Before Biscuit could reply, the lady was past him and inside the lounge. Hortense stopped sewing and looked up in concern. Biscuit returned to the kitchen and peered through the doorway as his mother got to her feet and switched off the telly. Denise paused in her conversation and ran her eyes over the white woman’s blotched face.

  ‘Hortense, I just don’t know what I’m gonna do,’ the white woman whimpered, holding her temples within her palms and then shaking her head. ‘I haven’t seen Frank for two days, they cut off the electric yesterday, the kids are hungry, I ain’t got no money.’ She covered her face with her hands, shifting her feet in an unsteady semicircle. ‘I just can’t carry on, Hortense. I’ve had it up to ’ere. Fucking social are no use, the gas people are on my case and Frank’s gone. He’s fucking gone, without a fucking word. He’s just fucking gone!’

  ‘Stella, slow down, you’re talking too fast,’ Hortense replied, ushering her friend to sit beside her. Stella wrapped her arms around her stomach as if she was suffering some cramp, then dropped herself on the sofa.

  ‘I might as well fucking kill myself. Frank’s gone, how could he just go like that? I’m at my wits’ end. I dunno where I’m turning. How could he fucking leave me like this!’

  Hortense put her arms around the shoulders of her friend. Biscuit watched from the kitchen, embarrassed by Stella’s sobbing and cursing Frank under his breath. Denise said a quick goodbye to her friend and looked on, wondering what she could do to help.

  ‘Denise! Don’t jus’ sit der! Run downstairs an’ get Tommy an’ Sarah. Den gi’ dem somet’ing to eat,’ Hortense ordered her daughter aggressively. ‘An’ mek Stella ah cup ah tea.’

  Royston poked his face around the door frame to see what the commotion was all about. ‘Royston!’ Hortense yelled. ‘Go back to your bed before me bus’ your backside.’

  ‘I just can’t take it no more,’ Stella wept. ‘Frank went for a job interview for a labouring job the other day, but he didn’t get it. Since then he’s been acting all funny. I thought he might snap out of it after a while. But he’s gone. I’ve phoned his mum but he ain’t been ’round there. I even phoned his brother in Birmingham. I dunno where he is.’

  Denise returned with two bewildered children in tow. The youngest child, a girl, gripped her teddy tightly as her brother held on grimly to an old Beano magazine. They edged into the room as if embarrassed to see their mother in such a state. The girl covered her face with the bear.

  ‘Hiya, Tommy,’ Royston greeted, braving the hallway once again. ‘Hiya, Sarah.’

  ‘Royston!’ Hortense screamed. ‘If me ’ave fe tell you again your backside will be sizzling like fried chicken-back! Go to your bed!’

  On sight of her children, Stella palmed away her tears, trying to regain her composure. Hortense tenderly stroked her friend’s hair. Denise stood at the kitchen doorway waiting for instructions, while Biscuit guiltily prepared his dinner. ‘Gi de pickney dem some bun an’ cheese,’ Hortense ordered. ‘De last time we baby-sit fe dem, dey did favour it.’

  Biscuit didn’t want to get stuck with all this woman’s business. He took his dinner to his bedroom on a tray, catching Royston standing by the door, feeling pushed out of the drama.

  ‘Wha’ did Mummy say?’ Biscuit scolded. ‘Get to your blasted bed.’

  Royston did as he was told while he watched his brother eat his dinner. ‘Why was Stella crying?’ he asked.

  ‘Cos Frank’s gone missing an’ she ain’t got no money.’

  ‘Did Frank go missing cos he can’t find a job?’

  ‘Somet’ing like dat.’

  ‘So, when people been looking for a job for a long time, and they can’t find one, do they do what Frank done? Just go somewhere and go missing?’

  Biscuit didn’t answer. In a strange way, he thought his brother was right. People did go missing when they couldn’t find work. They went missing in the head. Some, like Biscuit himself, sought to provide by illegal means. Every Saturday morning he witnessed the exodus of single mothers to various prisons throughout the country to visit their providers, rationing the week’s social security cheque to afford the fares. He knew that some of these desperate women, especially the ones with children, had already shacked up with other men who came by their incomes via illegal means, starting the cycle all over again. He wondered when the day would come when his mother would have to visit him only on Saturdays.

  Frank was a decent guy, always offering Biscuit a can of beer if he could afford it. And he loved his kids, forever taking them out to the park. But he hadn’t worked in a steady job for nearly three years. From the smart-dressed guy Biscuit knew as a child, Frank had transformed into an unshaven figure who raged at the staff in the job centre for a chance of work, any work. With Frank’s brooding and getting under his wife’s feet at home, the rows with Stella had increased, and so did the money they owed.

  Biscuit dropped a naked chicken bone on his plate then reached up to take two tenners from the top of his wardrobe, calling out to his mother, ‘Mummy, come ’ere for a sec, I waan chat to you.’

  Hortense ambled into her sons’ room, shaking her head as she searched her eldest son’s eyes. ‘She’s inna right state,’ she said softly, bringing her gaze down to the c
arpet. ‘Me nuh know wha fe say to her, I really don’t. She jus’ bawlin’ an bawlin’. Frank dis an’ Frank dat. If me see ’im me gwarn gi’ ’im two bitch lick. Me cyan’t tek Stella noise inna me ’ead. An’ de two pickney dem jus’ ah si’ down quiet like mice, looking at dem mudder.’

  Biscuit glanced quickly at the top of the wardrobe to check if his bags of herb were out of his mother’s sight. A powerful surge of guilt took hold of him as he slowly raised his right hand that clutched two ten-pound notes. ‘Control dis for her,’ he offered.

  Hortense looked at the cash for five seconds before opening her left palm. ‘Y’know Lincoln, yu ’ave ah ’eart. Like I said before, me nuh waan to know weh yu get your money from. But yu ’ave ah ’eart. God bless.’ She departed with a stolen glance at the top of the wardrobe.

  Half an hour later, Biscuit caught a 109 bus, climbing up Brixton Hill to visit Carol. He had time to think about what he had done, and although moral questions echoed inside his head, he satisfied himself that survival was the game. He got off in front of a high steepled church opposite the narrow road that led to Brixton prison; he could just make out the high walls and spotlights in the distance. Walking into Carol’s road, he heard the familiar screaming of police cars. Carol lived in the shadow of Strand secondary school, a building that could have been used for Gothic horror films with its pointed arches and sharp angles. She was one of the only friends Biscuit had who lived in a decent-sized house with a garden, which her father tended faithfully. Biscuit thought that if his own father was still alive, then perhaps his family would be living on a street like this.

  Mentally polishing his manners, he rang the buzzer once. The door opened to reveal Carol with a comb in her hair, one half of it plaited, the other half afro. The hue of her skin was like perfect milk chocolate and her height was suitable for the catwalk. Her figure was slender, giving way to curves just where men liked them. Her onyx-coloured eyes were generous and kind, giving her an all-round appearance of sensitivity. Wearing seamed blue jeans and a white polo-neck sweater, she smiled at her visitor. ‘Alright, Biscuit,’ she greeted. ‘I was expecting you a liccle earlier. I’m jus’ plaiting up my hair.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ Biscuit said, his face yielding to a full grin. ‘Got a liccle delayed.’

  ‘Come in.’ She gestured him through the door. She touched his arm as he passed and leant her face next to his, whispering, ‘Remember to say hello to my parents.’

  Biscuit followed her through the hallway, looking up to the high, white-glossed ceiling then dropping his sight to the richly embossed, beige wallpaper. Intimidation crept within him. Carol led him to the kitchen at the end of the hallway where her parents were sitting around a circular glass table, sipping coffee. Her father was a tall man with a neat, trimmed moustache. The hair he had was combed back behind his ears, leaving the top of his head naked. Carol’s mother was wearing a black head scarf that crowned an unlined, angular face. She had the same dark eyes as her daughter.

  Biscuit took in his surroundings and thought that his own mother would love to possess a washing machine and wash up her dishes in the two sinks he saw in front of him. He doubted that all the cupboards in Carol’s kitchen would fit in the cramped cubicle where his mother cooked.

  ‘Evening MrWindett, evening Mrs Windett,’ he greeted them.

  ‘Evening, Lincoln,’ Mrs Windett returned. ‘An’ a late one it is, too.’

  Biscuit looked up at the clock that stood high over the double sink: nearly half past ten.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Windett, I won’t keep Carol long. I know she’s got work in the morning.’

  ‘You ’ave no work to go to inna de morning, Lincoln?’ Mr Windett asked, peering over his reading glasses.

  ‘No, but I have to get up early an’ look about some interviews.’

  ‘Good, dat is good,’ MrWindett replied, before returning to his gardening magazine.

  Carol led Biscuit upstairs to her bedroom. It was decorated in peach-coloured wallpaper that gave it a warm feel. The burgundy carpet was deep enough to lose your toes in, and alongside the double bed was a white rug. The twin wardrobes each had a full-length mirror, and Biscuit lost count of the perfumes and toiletries upon the dressing table. On one side of the bed was a small, white-painted cabinet with a lamp resting on it, and in the corner of the room was a JVC stereo. Denise would love all this, he thought.

  She invited him to sit at the foot of her double bed and then went over to her stereo system where she inserted a cassette tape. The Cool Notes’ ‘My Tune’ sang softly from the speakers.

  ‘Biscuit, you look troubled, man. Wha’s de hard time pressure?’ Carol asked, joining him on the bed and snuggling up close to his side while adjusting his brown beret.

  ‘Nutten dat I can’t sort out,’ he replied, twirling his right index finger around one of Carol’s plaits. ‘T’ings are running smoothly, man.’

  ‘You know I don’t like de business you’re in.’

  ‘Den wha’ is a yout’ like me s’posed to do?’ Biscuit asked, dropping his hands to his thighs. ‘You know my liccle hustling helps out my mudder. If it weren’t for me we’d never pay de bills an’ t’ing.’

  ‘So wha’ you gonna do in twenty years’ time?’ Carol asked, now fingering Biscuit’s hair. ‘Still sell herb down de Line?’

  ‘No,’ he answered, his eyes now shut. ‘Hopefully I’ll ’ave some kinda job by den.’

  ‘You’ll have to. Cos I told you before, I ain’t going out wid no man who’s hustling. One day we’ll be raving out somewhere, de nex’ you might be locked up. I ain’t dealing wid dat, Biscuit. An’ I don’t business how much money you mek.’

  ‘Wha’s your problem, Carol? We rave together anyway, we spend a lot of time together, innit. An’ besides, nuff innocent man get jail up by de beast.’

  ‘Yeah, well. But wha’ you’re doing you ’ave more chance being jailed up. An’ we rave as friends, only as friends. An’ besides, Floyd an’ Sharon would always come wid us, an’ Coffin Head an’ Brenton.’

  ‘Wha’s wrong wid dat? Dat’s always been the case. Our posse always go everywhere together, innit.’

  ‘Biscuit, listen to me proper, man,’ Carol asserted, removing her fingers from his hair. ‘You said you wanted to marry me one day. Now tell me, how can I marry a somebody who meks his money selling herb or doing whatever. Me an’ you won’t even get to first base if you’re still carrying on wid dem t’ings der.’

  Biscuit searched her eyes and realised she wouldn’t back down. He’d been after her a long time, since the third year of secondary school. After the school day finished, Biscuit would make a detour across Brockwell Park in the hope of seeing her after school hours. She and a few of her friends would walk from Dick Shepherd school into the park and shoot the breeze, sometimes fending off apprentice sweet-bwais. On the few occasions Biscuit did see her, fearful of rejection in front of his crew, he wouldn’t say much, just a hi and a hello, but it made his day. One afternoon, he plucked up the courage to wait outside Carol’s school gates, with the intention of asking her out for a date. She said no, telling him he was not her type. It felt like a mortal blow, but one his pride accepted after time healed his ego. When they both finished their education, they lost touch for a while; Biscuit knew where she lived but was too shy to knock on her door. It was only when Floyd started to go out with Carol’s friend Sharon that Biscuit decided he’d better make a move, especially when Coffin Head expressed an interest in her. Now he wanted her as much, if not more, than ever before.

  Louisa Mark’s ‘Caught You In A Lie’ played quietly from the stereo, the anguished vocals giving the lyrics extra power. Carol studied her long-time friend and thought of the many if onlys between them. Biscuit’s commitment to her she never doubted. Her wish was for him to rid himself of all crime and search for a career or a worthwhile job. Then they could make plans for the future, and perhaps even marry.

  Deep down, she loved Biscuit. He had kind of grown on her thro
ugh the years, like getting on terms with a glass of Guinness – the first you could hardly swallow, but by the seventh it’s a cool taste. She dared not tell him of her true feelings, however. Things might get complicated.

  ‘Some youts are going on dat YOP scheme run by the Government,’ Carol suddenly announced. ‘De money ain’t brilliant but at least dey’ve got a chance of getting a permanent job when dey finish de six months course.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Biscuit replied. ‘Sceptic tried it. He quit after two weeks. He told me de money is only seven pounds a week better dan dole money. De government are only doing it to cut down on de unemployment figures, innit. An’ besides, dem employers who use de scheme are jus’ using de youts dem – a kinda slave labour. After de six months done dey don’t offer any yout’ a permanent job, dey jus’ get anoder yout’ to do a nex’ six months, innit.’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose,’ Carol agreed. ‘It’s depressing all ’round, innit?’

  ‘How ’bout you?’ Biscuit asked. ‘How’s your job? You get promotion yet? Got your own office an’ t’ing wid your name ’pon de door?’

  Carol laughed, thinking that there was absolutely no chance of promotion with all the white girls at her place of work. For the time being she could see no way of climbing up from her VDU operator title, although checking orders and typing invoices was getting a little boring. Her bosses at the mail order catalogue company made it clear to her that she was lucky to even have a job. ‘Nah, I’ll ’ave to be der a long time for dat. Probably when I’m a greyback.’

  ‘How’s Sharon getting on at college?’ Biscuit asked, wanting to deflect any attention from his career prospects.

  ‘She’s doing alright y’know. You know dat last year she got all her O levels, well, she’s jus’ done her mocks for her A levels an’ she reckon she done alright. She told me she wants to be a social worker.’