East of Acre Lane. Alex Wheatle
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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 through 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.’
‘Social worker? Rarted. At least one of us is going places.’
‘Yeah, well, you know Sharon, always reading book an’ t’ing. She don’t even rave too much dese days. Wha’ about Floyd? When is he gonna change his ways?’
‘Floyd’s the same, man. Den again he ain’t the same. He’s getting more vex by de day. He really hates white people y’know. All he does dese days is listen to Peter Tosh an’ Burning Spear, an’ last week he went down to the library down Brixton an takes out dese books ’bout communism an’ dat Marxist t’ing. He’s got talking to some of dem man who sell dat newspaper outside de tube station. He better mind ’imself cos man an’ man say dat dem newspaper man get followed by spy an’ shit.’
‘Wha’ about Brenton? I haven’t seen ’im for a few weeks.’
‘He’s jus’ got a flat in Palace Road. Don’t see him too much meself dese days, he kinda keeps ’imself to ’imself. You noticed he’s calmed down a bit since de Terry Flynn t’ing. He’s doing alright y’know.’
‘You see,’ Carol said. ‘If Brenton can get his runnings alright, den why can’t you?’
‘Cos I’m not good at nutten. I dunno wha’ I can do. An’ even if I did know, der’s many youts all in de same queue for de one job.’
‘Keep trying, man. You can’t carry on what you’re doing, an’ dat goes to Coffin Head too.’
‘Yeah, I know. But I got to survive, man. Wid all dis talk of de future I’ve got to pay for today. I don’t like to see my mudder go widout.’
Carol had heard these words about Biscuit’s mother often. It was a bond she found overbearing. With all the cash Biscuit accumulated, he didn’t drive a car or overindulge in clothes. He had no expensive rings or heavy gold chains. And he didn’t have an expansive music catalogue. She knew his money went to the maintenance and well-being of his family and she respected him for it.
‘I better chip now, your parents will start cussing soon.’
‘Yeah, alright den. You going to Maxine’s wedding in two weeks’ time? Floyd an’ Sharon are going and I t’ought your mum would get an invitation. She knows Maxine’s mum, innit?’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot ’bout dat. Yeah, I should reach, all my family should reach.’
Carol escorted Biscuit downstairs where he bade goodbye to her parents. He met the cold Brixton air with a heaviness in his heart, wondering why Carol kicked up such a fuss about where his money came from. If we both like each uder, den wha’s de problem, he asked himself. I s’pose I’ll jus’ ’ave to ’ave patience, he sighed. He recalled the thoughts of his brother: when a man hasn’t got any work, they go missing. He felt that Royston should also have added that a man without work can’t have the girl he loves. He looked into his future and dreaded that Carol might not be in it.
‘Wha’ de fuck am I gonna do?’
2 February 1981
‘Why can’t we jus’ tell Nunchaks where to pick up the goods?’ asked Coffin Head, bracing his shoulders to protect himself from the biting wind.
‘Cos I don’t trus’ him,’ replied Biscuit. ‘I want man an’ man to sight us leave together.’
‘You’re too para, man.’
‘It wasn’t you who was standing ’pon de top of de tallest tower block inna SW9.’
The pair were walking into Brixton High Street, leaving behind them the police station on their left-hand side just as twenty policemen emerged.
‘Hey, Coff, we’d better step it up,’ whispered Biscuit.
Coffin Head looked over his shoulder. ‘Char! You’re right.’
The heavens tried their best to offload a Christmas card amount of snow, but the storm clouds were shoved by a strong-armed wind. Beggars outside the tube station rubbed their mittened hands in resignation, for they knew that a cold day meant less offerings; people couldn’t be bothered to take off their gloves to search for their loose change. The doom-mongers and bible addicts that usually frequented the lobby of Brixton Tube Station had obviously decided that the world would not end on this day.
‘You sure Nunchaks will be in Soferno Bs record shack?’ queried Coffin Head.
‘Yeah, he always checks de place out on a Saturday afternoon. He don’t buy much tune but he poses off his jewellery at the counter, innit, an’ passes ’im comment to any girl who steps by.’
‘He might not be der-ya today cos it’s so friggin’ cold,’ replied Coffin Head, inwardly pining for his car.
‘Stop bitchin’, man,’ Biscuit scolded. ‘Anybody t’ink you were born in Jamaica, de way you go on. You been bitchin’ since you left my gates,