East of Acre Lane. Alex Wheatle
Working outdoors to service telephone lines, Mr Huggins had battled with the ferocious winter that chilled the country for nearly six months. In April of that year, flu claimed him first.
Pneumonia paid him a visit soon after, sending him to his grave in Streatham cemetery in early May. Biscuit’s mother had hated the sight of snow ever since, and she still swept it away, cursing under her breath, whenever it made an appearance by her front door. Immediately following her husband’s death she also vowed never to enter a church again, citing that God had made her suffer too much. During his childhood, Biscuit was sometimes awakened by his mother’s rantings against the Most High. He would creep along the hallway and spy her holding her head between her hands in the front room, crying.
Biscuit turned the key and entered the flat.
‘Lincoln! Is dat you? Wha’ kinda party gwarn till de lark dem sing inna tree top? Ah seven ah clock ah marnin y’know. You know me caan’t sleep when you out der ’pon street ah night-time.’
‘I keep telling you don’t wait up for me, Mummy. Didn’t I say I wouldn’t be back till morning?’
He took off his leather jacket and hung it on a peg in the hallway, which was lit by a naked bulb. Last summer, he had bought and put up the cheap white wallpaper and glossed the skirting in an attempt to brighten up the corridor. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to pull up the wild-patterned, multi-coloured carpet while he was decorating, and it still bore the white paint and paste stains.
The bedroom that he shared with his brother, Royston, was nearest to the front door with the entrance to the right of the hallway. On the left-hand side, two paces further up, was Denise’s room, which was next door to his mother’s chamber. Moving on, the bathroom was situated on the right. Beyond this and to the right was the lounge.
The centrepiece of this room, sitting on a mantelpiece above the gas heater, was a large framed, black and white photo of Mr and Mr Huggins on their wedding day. Other photos, propped on the black and white television set or peering out of an old wooden china cabinet and sitting on a window ledge, were mostly of a young Biscuit. The wallpaper in this room was a more stylish pink and white pattern, disturbed only by a Jamaican tourist poster, boasting a golden beach and turquoise sea. To the rear of the room was the kitchen door, where a calendar, published by a Jamaican rum company, was hanging from a nail.
‘You waan some breakfast?’ Biscuit’s mother called from the lounge. ‘I’m gonna cook up some cornmeal porridge after me done de washing up.’
‘Nah, t’anks. I jus’ wanna get some sleep, Mummy.’
‘Den tek off your clothes dem. Me gone ah bagwash when it open. Me nah like to reach too late, cah de place cork up come de afternoon.’
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