Alex Wheatle - East of Acre Lane

Biscuit sat on the bed and smiled as he witnessed his brother Royston trying to pretend he was asleep. He looked upon his round-headed, dimple-cheeked sibling as he peeled off his crocodile skin shoes, then ambled into the kitchen where his mother was busy rinsing pots and dishes.

Biscuit kissed his mother on her left cheek and offered her a home-coming smile. Her hair was braided into short plaits, all pointing in different directions. The hue of her black skin was dark and rich, but her eyes sparkled whenever she looked upon Lincoln, her first born and only child from her beloved husband.

‘Here, Mummy, control dis,’ he offered, presenting his mother with a five-pound note. ‘For de bagwash.’

‘But you jus’ gi’ me ah ten pound yesterday fe do ah liccle shopping.’

‘Jus’ tek it, Mummy.’

She took the note and placed it on top of the fridge, her face curving into the kind of smile that mothers only reserved for their children. Biscuit acknowledged her silent thanks. ‘I’m gonna ketch some sleep.’ He turned and made for his bedroom.

The room was dominated by the double bed he shared with his nine-year-old brother. A single wardrobe housed Biscuit’s garments and Royston’s school uniform. A simple blue mat was the racing ground for Royston’s matchbox cars, and a small chest of drawers had both siblings’ underwear fighting for breath. On one side of the room, above Biscuit’s side of the bed, spawning from the join of ceiling and wall was a damp stain in the shape of South America.

‘Royston, I know you’re awake,’ Biscuit said.

‘No I’m not.’

‘Den how comes you answer me?’

‘You waked me up.’

‘You was awake from time.’

‘No I wasn’t, you waked me up.’

‘Go on! Admit it. You were waiting up for me.’

‘So … It’s horrible when I wake up in the middle of the night and you ain’t der.’

‘Come ’ere you little brat.’ Royston leaped up and viced his brother’s neck with his chubby arms. ‘Well, you ain’t got no excuse now. Go back to sleep.’

Biscuit undressed down to his Y-fronts and slipped under the covers. Royston was still sitting up, and watched as his brother’s head hit the pillow. He tried to think of something with which to restart the conversation.

‘Did you get any rub-a-dub at the party?’ he asked, wondering how his brother would react to the latest addition to his vocabulary.

‘Stop using word if you don’t know wha’ dey mean. Quiet yout’ an’ go back to sleep.’

‘I do know what it means.’

‘Good fe you. But you don’t ask dem kinda question to big man. Know your size.’

‘You ain’t a big man.’

‘I’m a lot bigger dan you.’

‘But you ain’t a man yet. A man goes out to work. You don’t work.’

‘Royston, quiet your beak. Why is it every weekend I come back from somewhere, you wanna keep me up?’

‘Not my fault your bedtime’s when everyone else is getting up.’

‘Look, Royston, I’m tired, an’ der’s a lot of t’ings ’pon my mind. I’ll talk to you later on. Oh, one last t’ing, I want you to help Mummy at de bagwash.’

‘I ain’t going. Last time I went my friend saw me and made fun out of me at school.’

‘You’re going.’

‘No I ain’t.’

‘ Yes , you are.’

‘No I ain’t. Mummy’s always cussing me cos I drop the clothes on the floor.’

‘Den be more careful.’

‘Why can’t Denise go?’

‘Cos she ’as to help wid de cooking.’

‘Don’t wanna go.’

‘Look, if you go, I’ll buy you some sweets.’

‘I wanna Mars Bar and a Kit-Kat.’

‘You liccle blackmailer,’ Biscuit sighed. ‘Alright den, but make sure you go.’

Several hours later, Biscuit’s mother was ironing Royston’s school uniform in the lounge, watching The Waltons on the black and white telly. She draped the pressed clothes over a worn armchair and kissed her teeth as Royston played around her feet, jumping on her nerves.

Denise was sprawled on the sofa, thinking of what her friends, Hilary and Jackie, would wear to a forthcoming party. Perhaps those new split skirts with a small, gold-coloured chain at the front which were catching on fast. Or maybe them fashionable waffle slacks.

The owner of an Olympic swimmer’s physique, Denise had a complexion that looked like dark honey. Her Siamese cat-like eyes, framed by perfectly arched eyebrows, were seductively attractive, making her a just challenge for a top-notch sweet-bwai. Her cheeks were not blessed with flesh but her lips were generous and sexy. Her pitch-black hair was beautifully styled in corn-row plaits, lending her an appearance of innocence. Dressed in seamed jeans and an oversized pullover, Denise wondered if Hilary and her boyfriend had patched things up after their argument.

‘Mummy, can I have some money to buy a dress dis week,’ she asked. ‘I’ve been invited to a party Saturday.’

‘You ’ave plenty dress inna your wardrobe – wha’ is wrong wid dem?’

‘Nutten. But I’ve ’ad dem from time an’ I wanna wear somet’ing different for once.’

‘Waan dis, waan dat. You always waan somet’ing. Electric bill affe pay nex’ week but you nuh worry ’bout dat.’

‘I haven’t asked you money for clothes for long time. Anybody t’ink me ask you every week.’

‘Why don’t you find ah nice gentleman fe buy dem t’ings der.’

‘Cah men don’t give somet’ing fe nutten.’

‘You say dat cos you mixed inna de wrong crowd. Pure rude bwai you ah deal wid.’

‘What d’you expect! Dis is SW9 not SW1. No gentlemen ’round dese sides.’

‘You would meet some nice gentlemen if you gwarn ah church wid Auntie Jenny.’

‘Dem man who go Auntie Jenny’s church – most of dem go raving on a Saturday night. Besides, why should I go to Auntie Jenny’s church when you never go?’

Hortense rested her ironing arm for a while, sat on the limb of a chair and tried to look meaningfully at her daughter. ‘Me nuh see why you ’ave problem getting ah nice man fe court wid,’ she said, ignoring her daughter’s last remark. ‘You pretty in your own way an’ not fatty or maaga. Y’know me caan’t feed two big people inna de yard.’

Denise shook her head. ‘But you’ll always feed Lincoln, innit.’

‘Me nuh say dat.’

‘You might as well.’

‘Stop putting word inna me mout’.’

Biscuit entered the lounge, rubbing his eyes, not at all embarrassed at wearing only his Y-fronts. ‘Bwai, every Sunday you two ketch up inna argument. What’s de beef now?’ he asked.

‘Mummy wants to marry me off quick time,’ Denise blurted out, getting in first.

‘Me tell you before, stop putting words inna me mout’.’

‘It might not be de exact words, but I get de drift.’

‘You’re so damn facety!’ Hortense barked, getting back to her ironing. ‘You’re jus’ looking argument.’

‘It tek two to ’ave one.’

‘Quiet your mout’, girl! Me ’ave nutten more fe say to you.’

Denise cut her eyes at her mother and then turned her fierce gaze to the TV.

Royston, who was rolling about underneath the ironing board, playing with a matchbox car, sprung up on sight of his brother. ‘Where’s my Mars Bar and Kit-Kat?’

‘What’s wrong wid you? I jus’ get up, an’ stop ramping under de ironing board.’

‘You waan ah cup ah tea, Lincoln? Mebbe some toast?’

‘Please, Mummy. But I have to dally soon and link up wid Coffin Head.’

‘Never mek me a cup of tea when I get up,’ Denise snapped.

‘An’ you never mek me one!’ Hortense retaliated.

Biscuit ate his breakfast of cornmeal porridge standing up in the kitchen, his worries interrupted by the stop-start bickering of his mother and sister. He knew it all came down to money; that was the bottom line. He wouldn’t have to wake up to family debates so often if there was more of it around. Maybe he could give Denise the money for the dress if he sold a decent amount of herb in the next few days. That would get her off her mother’s back. Perhaps he could even buy Royston his much-needed new shoes for school if things went alright. Biscuit’s mother had mentioned to him a few days before how she had had to box the young bwai for kicking stones. He knew it was a hint he couldn’t ignore. How much is dat? he asked himself. A pair of new shoes might cost a tenner – and a new dress? Maybe twenty notes for a decent one. Might be cheaper if Denise could be persuaded to shop at the market.