Kit de Waal - My Name Is Leon

There are lots of days when Leon goes out on his bike, even if it’s only for ten minutes, and he always goes up to the allotments. Sometimes Tufty isn’t there and sometimes Mr. Devlin isn’t there but Mr. and Mrs. Atwal are nearly always there, digging and planting, and once Mr. Atwal gave Leon a curly stick of orange taffy, so sugary and sweet that it stuck Leon’s teeth together and lasted for ages. Leon always waves just in case he has some more.

Today Tufty is there but he isn’t alone. He’s sitting on a fold-up chair with four of his friends, playing dominoes while an old man in a tweed coat watches.

The way Tufty slams the dominoes on the table it’s like he’s trying to break it in half. He nearly stands up off his chair and holds the domino high up in the air and when he mashes it down on the table, he says, “Yes!”

“What you got, Stump? Eh, what you got?” says Tufty.

“One,” says a short fat man with a woolly hat. “One.”

Then they all start talking and laughing and one of them pushes the dominoes into a heap. They talk loud, deep, all at the same time, in fast West Indian like his dad used to do except they are laughing all the time and making jokes.

As Tufty collects up the dominoes he notices Leon.

“Yo, Star!” shouts Tufty.

Leon gets off his bike and rests it against the hut. He goes up to Tufty, who puts his hand on Leon’s shoulder.

“My friend this,” he says to the other men. “He comes up regular to help me. You call him Star. Now, this is Castro, Marvo, Waxy, Stump, and Mr. Johnson.”

The men nod in turn and get up, folding their chairs and handing them to Tufty. Mr. Johnson, who looks about a hundred years old, shakes Leon’s hand.

“Pleased to meet you, young man.”

Mr. Johnson has snowy-white hair in a little Afro and he hands Tufty a bunch of keys.

“Well, Linwood, I’m going,” he says. “You’re on your own tomorrow. Lock up good. This church meeting will last all day.”

Leon sees the tall man with the ginger hair shake his head. His green eyes are narrow and red and his hair sticks up in dreadlocks all over his head. When he talks, his small brown beard bobs up and down. He makes a long hissing noise, drawing the air through his teeth.

“You still turning the other cheek, eh, Johnson?”

Mr. Johnson folds up the collar of his coat like he’s cold. “Listen, Castro, you don’t have the monopoly on anger, on a sense of injustice.” He holds a finger in the air. “We have to organize. Black people won’t get anywhere unless and until we form ourselves into a body which society recognizes, that can lobby the authorities and seek redress.”

All the time, Castro carries on shaking his head. Even Castro’s skin is ginger, brown and milky like a cup of tea, and he has freckles all over his face and down his neck. When he talks, his voice carries right across Tufty’s plot. Mr. and Mrs. Atwal raise their heads.

“That’s the old way, Johnson, when black people had to be grateful. Like when you and my father come to this country in your good suit and your pressed hair, doing as you’re told, cleaning floors and driving buses.”

Castro pauses and looks at each man in turn.

“Them days is gone. We don’t have to be holding out our hat for the white man’s leavings. If we come together to form something, it’s an army. Not a — what you call it — lobby group. You think white people going to listen to monkeys? Monkeys is what they call we.”

All the other men start talking at the same time while Tufty and Leon stand and listen. Tufty brings drinks and picks up the empty cans while his friends decide about their army. Leon can hear that the others don’t like Castro’s army idea but they don’t like Mr. Johnson’s lobby idea either. He helps Tufty tidy things up and, while they are still talking, Tufty takes a plastic soda bottle and fills it with water. He gives it to Leon and gets one for himself. Then he brings out the black plastic seed tray.

“Look,” he says, “look what’s happened.”

The seeds have split and a strong curving tendril is shooting out like they are stretching out or waking up from a long sleep. Two little leaves, like closed wings, sit on the tip.

“These are babies,” says Tufty. “Fragile. Babies need looking after. Come.”

At the other end of Tufty’s plot, there are tall wigwams made out of bamboo canes, two long rows. If you covered them over with leaves it would make a fantastic den or a hideout.

“You see here,” Tufty says. “We have to put these seeds in carefully. Make a hole at the bottom of the stick like so, pour water in the hole. Drop in the baby plant. See?”

Leon kneels down and gently tickles the soil in around the hole so the seedling looks like it’s always been there.

“You got it, Star. You really got it. Now pour on a bit more water. Don’t drown it.”

“Why have you put it by the bamboo sticks? Will they grow as well?”

“No, no,” says Tufty, “these plants need support. They need to hold on to something strong while they’re growing. They curl round the bamboo and then, couple of months’ time, we get some beans.” Tufty straightens up. “We got a lot to plant out. Look, I’ll put them in the hole, you do the watering.”

So, Leon follows Tufty from plant to plant, watering all around the bottom of the bamboo canes. He goes back to the water barrel and does the same thing again until it’s all done. When they walk back to the shed, Tufty’s friends are still talking. Castro is standing up, waving his arms and pointing to the street.

“You don’t see what the police is doing to black people? Stop and search? You don’t listen to the news, Johnson?”

Leon feels sorry for Mr. Johnson because he keeps trying to talk but Castro is too loud. Mr. Johnson speaks softly but Leon knows he’s angry.

“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Castro,” he says. “Work with the hands God gave you.” He looks at Leon and slowly closes his eyes. “Nobody listens anymore.” Then Mr. Johnson puts his hands in his pockets and walks away.

Tufty holds his trowel in the air.

“Easy, easy. Keep it quiet, quiet. I’m already on a warning.”

No one says anything for a few minutes and then Tufty claps his hands.

“You all going to Rialto Dance on Saturday? They give me a spot, so listen, let me try out my new poem.”

They all shuffle round in their seats until they’re facing him. He plucks a yellow flower from the ground and holds it up. He picks off one petal and then another and as he speaks he does all the actions, making everybody laugh.

“I call this ‘Conspiracy.’ ”

She love me.

She love me not.

She love me.

She love me not.

So me take up me records and me good Dutch pot.

I step out quick before she changes her mind

And I walk with a swagger, never looking behind.

My mother say nothing when I go back home

But she work me hard, bend my fingers to the bone.

“Get up, Tufty, and wash the floor.

Open the window.

Close the door.

Carry my bag from the shop to the house.

Lay a fire for morning.

Lay a trap for the mouse.

Chop wood, wash dishes,

Peel yam, catch fishes.”

And when I am sleeping she come in my room,

And wake me up to give me the broom.

Weeks I don’t sit, months I don’t rest,

I dream of my girl, my angel, my best,

So I crawl back begging to the girl I did leave,

“Save me from Mommy!”