Brixton Bwoy Page 4

  By now, Pupatee had started primary school. The school was a collection of tall flats, buildings and houses surrounded by red-brick walls and a strong, tall wire fence. There were three sets of gates leading into the playground, and the big wooden doors were reinforced with iron to make them doubly secure. All the windows were covered with iron grilles secured with padlocks.

  It was good forgetting about the house, about Joe, but school wasn’t much easier than home. Pupatee’s English was now much improved, but he could still barely read or write and the teachers didn’t have time to give him the help he needed.

  At first he did not understand many of the customs and games. The girls teased him and the boys picked him last in games of football. But one day, Pupatee was given a chance to prove himself at school. He was playing marbles in the playground with Flego, a boy he had become friendly with, when the school bully, Dave, and his gang came over and began to push Flego around about some argument that had happened before Pupatee’s arrival. When one of Dave’s shoves pushed Flego over, Pupatee rushed over to his friend and picked him up.

  ‘Hey bwoy, go away!’ Pupatee screamed at the bully.

  ‘What, you want some too?’

  Dave came forward, but Pupatee’s childhood fishing and swimming and climbing trees in Jamaica had strengthened him, and the beatings Joe administered had made him resilient, and unafraid of someone as small as Dave. Dave hit out at Pupatee, but then Pupatee threw a punch into his opponent’s belly which felled him. He lay gasping on the ground while Pupatee stood over him.

  That earned Pupatee a reputation, and whenever a fight started up in the playground, he was seldom far away. He usually won. He had found a way to impress the other boys and make a name for himself. It did not occur to him that he had learned this talent from Joe, from the very beatings he himself so hated and feared.

  Not all Pupatee’s time with boys his own age was spent fighting, though. Out of school, he hung around with the local gang led by Jimmy and Lass. Jimmy was the life and soul of the streets around Selborne Road. He had the blond hair and blue eyes that the girls liked, and a winning combination of mischievousness and vulnerability. He was always the first to come up with something fun to do, the first with a joke.

  His father drove a coal truck and Jimmy would often help him, coming home after a session shovelling coal almost as black as Pupatee. ‘Yeah, man,’ Jimmy would say while putting his arm on Pupatee’s shoulders. ‘Dis is my brother, who just come from Jamaica, man.’ And when Jimmy had cleaned himself up, he would pull the same stunt. ‘As you can see, ladies and gents,’ he would declare, ‘I’m a bit paler than my brother today, because I’m a bit ill.’ Although most of the boys were white like Jimmy, black kids like Lass and Pupatee were treated as equals. In Jimmy’s gang, colour counted for nothing.

  Gang life revolved around bicycles, and Pupatee was the only one without his own. After school and at weekends and in the holidays, Jimmy and Lass and the others would get on their bikes and pedal off to Ruskin Park or some steep hill they wanted to try out, and Pupatee would be left behind. He soon longed for a bike even more than he longed for his home in Jamaica. Life with Mama and Pops and Carl was a distant dream now, but a bicycle was real.

  One half-term, when Jimmy and the gang had gone off elsewhere, Pupatee was walking down the street where an African family whose kids went to the same primary school as him were packing their belongings into a big removal van. He stopped to talk to them and the boys told him they were going back to Africa. Pupatee pretended to listen, but what really interested him was the brand new, shiny push-bike in the van. He said goodbye and walked off, but he kept looking behind him, and as soon as the coast was clear he ran back, jumped into the van and took the bike.

  All that day, Pupatee taught himself to ride. He fell off a hundred times and kept smashing the bike, and by the end of the day it looked twenty years old. The wheels were buckled and the paint was scratched, but Pupatee wasn’t bothered; he couldn’t take it home anyway. He parked it somewhere it could easily be seen, hoping that someone else would take it. Then he went home where he found Miss Utel cooking. They were chatting happily in the kitchen when there was a knock at the front door. Pupatee went to answer it and his eyes almost popped out of his head with shock. It was the father of the African family.

  ‘What did you do with my son’s bike?’ the man said. ‘Somebody saw you steal it so there’s no point denying it.’

  Miss Utel had come to the door. ‘Can I help you please,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘I want my son’s bike,’ the man repeated. ‘Somebody saw this boy steal it and somebody else saw him ride it around.’

  ‘We don’t know anything about your bike,’ Miss Utel said. ‘You will have to come back later when his brother is home.’

  ‘That bike cost a lot of money, madam.’

  ‘Come back after six, to see his brother.’

  With that, the man reluctantly left, vowing to return at six. Miss Utel grabbed Pupatee. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘you know your brother will half kill you if these people come back and tell him all this, so if you know where the bike is, go give it back quick. You have time.’

  Pupatee dashed out to find the bike. But when he reached the spot where he had left it, the bike was gone. He had walked sadly home, certain of a beating now.

  Joe walked in not long after Pupatee. Miss Utel softened him up by giving him his dinner and stroking his head and smiling and joking with him. When she thought the time was right, she told him about the bike. Joe threw his tray with all the food aside and dived straight at Pupatee, knocking him to the ground and then pulling him up and punching and kicking him. In the middle of all this, the African man turned up again.

  While Joe went to the door, Pupatee fled down into the cellar. He had taken enough and he felt he couldn’t go on with these beatings. Down in the cellar he knew there was some rat poison. He emptied half the box of poison into a cup and added water and then drank it down as quickly as he could. He waited for death more happily than he ever waited for one of Joe’s beatings. But that poison could not have been strong enough, for death didn’t come. It was not his time. And when he crawled to bed that night Pupatee was black and blue from Joe’s beating.

  Sometimes Pupatee’s friends took pity on him, and went to places on foot so he could come too; sometimes he managed to borrow a bike and explore further afield with them. Jimmy and the others liked having Pupatee around. He was growing bigger and stronger every day, and if anyone crossed the boys, Pupatee would fight their cause. With every skirmish he won he liked fighting more and more. He watched The Saint, Dangerman and The Man from Uncle on television, and practised hitting and kicking the way the men did in those shows.

  One time he and the gang all went down to an adventure playground in Peckham Park. The main attraction was a sliding handle on a rope slung between a platform and the ground. Pupatee had just climbed up to the top of the platform when a white boy slid the handle fast back up the rope and it hit Pupatee smack in the face. He was so surprised he nearly fell off the platform, but he managed to hang on with one hand while rubbing his face with the other. He looked down and saw the boy in stitches.

  ‘Wha you done dat for?’ Pupatee screamed.

  ‘You should have caught it,’ the boy laughed back.

  That was it. Pupatee couldn’t slide down fast enough and when he hit the ground he confronted the boy. Before they could come to blows, one of the keepers broke them up and threw them both out. They left, followed by the other boys, who wanted to see what would happen. They walked out on to the grass away from the keepers, and it was agreed that Pupatee and the white boy would fight alone. Pupatee was fuming and threw the first blow. The boy came in close and swung at him but Pupatee ducked and then flung himself around his opponent’s middle. They wrestled to the ground, trying to get the best of each other.

  The other boy soon began to tire, but Pupatee was still strong. With one hand he held the boy down and wit
h the other he fired a blow to his face. He heard the other’s breath escape and saw his eyes and nose suddenly gush red. He was just about to throw a final punch when Jimmy stepped in. Jimmy was never one for violence – he relied on a quick tongue and sharp humour to win his battles – and he dragged Pupatee off, telling him he did not need to win the same fight twice.

  Pupatee allowed himself to be pulled away, but he felt better for that fight, as he always did when he won. Without his realising it, he had learned from Joe that there was pleasure to be had from violence. He enjoyed the power his growing physical strength gave him, and being victorious over others in the playground made the beatings from Joe easier to tolerate. But he also envied Jimmy’s way with words, and listened to his friend.

  One evening, not long after the fight outside Peckham Park, Pupatee went round to Jimmy’s house to see if he would come and play.

  Jimmy’s mother said hello to him, and then she called up the stairs, ‘Jimmy? Pupatee is here. Get out of that bath, you’ve been in there long enough.’

  Jimmy didn’t answer.

  ‘He’s been in there for ages,’ Jimmy’s mum said. ‘Jimmy!’ she bawled out again. ‘Jimmy!’

  She shrugged her shoulders and turned and went up the stairs to get him. Pupatee listened to her footsteps on the landing as she called out his friend’s name again. There was still no answer. He heard her knock and then the creak of the opening door.

  ‘Oh, my God! Mick! Oh, my God!’ The words were screamed through the whole house. Jimmy’s dad and brother came out of the living-room. ‘What is it?’ they called.

  ‘Oh, my God, get an ambulance! Jimmy’s drowned!’

  Jimmy’s dad and brother ran up the stairs. Pupatee still stood by the open front door listening to the despairing talk. He heard Jimmy’s father say that it must have been the boiler; the pilot light must have gone out and the gas had leaked, putting Jimmy to sleep and then he had drowned. By this time, half the street had come out of their houses to see what the screaming was all about.

  ‘He’s not dead, is he?’ someone asked.

  Pupatee stood there in shock, fighting back the tears. No, Pupatee told himself, Jimmy couldn’t die just like that.

  ‘Someone call an ambulance,’ screamed another voice.

  ‘It’s already on its way.’

  And so everyone waited on their doorsteps and on the pavement, wondering when the ambulance would come. But it took half an hour to get there, and when it did finally arrive Pupatee was even more frightened, as he saw them take his friend out on a stretcher. They had put tubes in his mouth to feed oxygen to his lungs, but he looked pale and lifeless.

  There was a whole crowd now, screaming and crying, as well as Jimmy’s family and friends. The ambulance drove away up the Selborne Road to King’s College Hospital, but it did not bring Jimmy back. A little later, Pupatee went over to the hospital and saw Jimmy’s brother coming out.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Pupatee asked.

  ‘He’s dead,’ his brother managed to get out. This brother was normally a big strong young man, but now he seemed to have shrunk with distress and sorrow. Pupatee stood outside the hospital for a while, and then made his way back to the house. Pupatee thought Jimmy would come running out to play any minute. He couldn’t accept that his best friend would no longer laugh with him again.

  Jimmy was buried the following Friday in the pouring rain at the cemetery in Peckham. The church was filled with mourners of all ages and colours. There were many boys from Jimmy’s school, and girls and boys from other local comprehensives. They were all gathered around Jimmy’s coffin. The priest gave his sermon. He said that Jimmy had been robbed of his life which had only just begun, but that he could only be going to a better place from this world of devastation in which we must try to continue our lives. And then everyone sang ‘Rock of Ages, Pledge for Me’ and they went outside into the graveyard, towards the hole which had been dug, ready for Jimmy. Pupatee saw Jimmy’s mum and dad. Both were dressed in black. His mum, who had always been such a cheerful, beautiful woman, had turned old and withered. The priest said some prayers and then sprinkled earth on top of Jimmy’s little coffin. Jimmy’s dad looked down into the hole as if to say: Don’t go, son, come back to your dad, and he seemed to want to jump into the grave. It took his friends to hold him back.

  You couldn’t see the tears for the rain. There were red eyes and running noses. Pupatee thought of the funeral he had gone to in Jamaica with all the laughter and music, the feast of food and drinking, the singing and the wailing and the praying. And then he, too, noticed that he was crying and he took out his handkerchief to wipe the rain and the tears from his face.

  The priest left and the mourners slipped away, taking Jimmy’s mum and dad with them. It was the saddest thing Pupatee had ever seen. A few weeks later Jimmy’s family moved away from Camberwell. Pupatee never saw them again.

  3

  Brother Joe

  As time passed, Pupatee settled into his life in South London. Even after a couple of years he still missed his brother Carl, and the freedom and colour of his outdoor life in Jamaica, but as he made new friends and learned new ways, the acute homesickness of the early days receded. His English had improved, school was bearable now he was gaining respect from his peers for his toughness in the playground, and although he still received regular beatings from Joe, he had learned to mind them less.

  One morning, Pupatee woke up late for school. He leaped out of bed and ran down the stairs, pulling on his clothes. ‘Why didn’t anybody wake me?’ he called. Miss Utel and all the children were standing in the hall, dressed in their Sunday best. Half the furniture was missing from the house. Through the open door Pupatee could see a big blue removals van.

  ‘We’ve finished putting everything in the van, Mummy,’ Terry was saying. ‘Are they ready to go now?’

  ‘Hold on a minute, Terry,’ Miss Utel said, turning to Pupatee. ‘Pupatee, I am sorry I can’t take you with me. You are not my child, you will have to stay with your brother.’ She fished into her purse and pulled out a few shillings. ‘Take this, Pupatee. Goodbye.’

  He took the money and stared at her, and beyond to Terry and Johnny and the rest all waiting to leave. Miss Utel turned as if to go, but suddenly she stopped and he saw a look of worry and concern on her face. ‘Pupatee,’ she said, ‘when you grow up, don’t kill Joe for what he put you through. He is your brother.’ Then she walked out the door and Pupatee watched the van drive away.

  For the rest of that day, all Pupatee could do was wait for his brother to come home. When Joe opened the front door, he immediately realised what had happened. A string of insults flew from his mouth, and Pupatee prepared himself for the worst, but for the first time he saw something else beneath his brother’s anger. Joe looked lost.

  ‘Fucking prostitute,’ he said. He shook his head as if trying to banish all thoughts of Miss Utel and his children from his mind. Then he walked into the kitchen, which was bare apart from a few old plates and cups and saucepans – though Miss Utel had been good enough to leave some food.

  Pupatee was curious at his brother’s unusual behaviour and followed him quietly. He watched Joe standing there with a vexed look on his face, trying to work out what he was going to do. Joe sighed heavily. ‘Pupatee,’ he shouted loudly, unaware that the boy was right behind him.

  ‘Here, bredda.’

  ‘Oh, you’re there. Now listen carefully. I am going to teach you how to cook, because if I don’t work we won’t be able to eat and if I have to come home and cook as well, then one night I’ll drop dead.’

  ‘Yes, bredda.’

  Joe turned immediately to the counter, saying no more about Miss Utel, and took out a packet of white rice.

  ‘Put this in a container and pick it,’ he said. ‘Take out all the black bits and the dirt and stones.’ While Pupatee did this, Joe took some cabbage and a knife and told him to watch what he did. ‘You cut the cabbage in half like this and cut up one half
fine. Then you put three pots with water on the stove.’ He put the cabbage in one pot. ‘Don’t put too much water with the cabbage,’ he said, ‘otherwise it will boil out to sogginess. It should be steam cooked, you see?’

  Then he showed Pupatee how to chop up saltfish, which he put in the second pot. ‘You boil it to get the salt out,’ he said. By now, Pupatee had finished picking the rice, and he washed it and tipped it into the third pot.

  Then Joe put a Dutch oven on the stove and poured oil on to the bottom. ‘Cut this onion up,’ he said, ‘and chop this garlic fine.’ When Pupatee had done this, the garlic and onions began to fry and a delicious smell rose from the pan. ‘Now you add butter and salt and a small onion to the rice,’ Joe said, ‘and leave it on a low fire to bubble away.’

  By this time, the saltfish was soft and the salt had boiled away into the water. Joe took it out and pulled the flesh off the bone. Then he added it to the frying garlic and onions, and seasoned the dish with chilli peppers, curry powder, turmeric, thyme and salt. Soon the beautiful smell of Jamaican cooking was filling the kitchen, and Pupatee’s mind wandered happily. His reverie didn’t last long.

  ‘When the fish is ready, you can add it to the cabbage and let it all simmer up together. Now you got all that?’

  ‘Yes, bredda.’

  ‘Tell me how you start then.’

  Pupatee’s mind raced, searching for the beginning, but all he could think about was how cross Joe suddenly looked and how he didn’t want him to get any crosser.

  ‘Wash the rice,’ he said.

  Slap! Joe’s hand smacked the side of Pupatee’s head.

  ‘What about picking it?’ he boomed out.

  ‘Yes, and pick it,’ Pupatee said, recalling what he had done. ‘Put the rice in to cook, adding salt and onion.’

  Slap! ‘What about butter?’

  ‘Yes, butter, bredda. Then put the saltfish on to boil.’