’ear dis,’ the dread continued, pointing a scholarly finger at Biscuit. ‘A long time ago, two different nations were virtually wiped off de earth by a terrible flood, hardly anybody survive. One of de nations used to keep records an’ books written on tablets an’ so forth. But de uder nation never kept nutten like dis. De survivors from de nation dat keep records an’ books rebuilt der country by using old documents dat dey found, an’ dey became prosperous again. De uder nation, although once ah great civilised country, der survivors were forever blinded by de flood an’ dey did nuh know how to build nutten. To dis day dey are living like cave man.’
Nelson pointed to the map of Africa. Biscuit took no notice and decided to fish out his client’s herb. The dread needs serious help, he thought. He’s probably been licking de chalice too much.
Nelson seemed disappointed at the lack of interest Biscuit took in his lesson. He examined the herb and nodded when he felt satisfied. ‘When ah man wanders far an’ decides to settle down near ah village of huts,’ he resumed, ‘should he do wha’ de locals do an’ buil’ ’imself ah hut? Or should he do somet’ing new an’ buil’ ah ’ouse wid brick?’
‘Wha’?’ Biscuit replied, preparing to leave. ‘Nelson, man. I ain’t got time for your funny stories dem. I affe dally.’
Nelson stroked his stringy beard. ‘You t’ink you could come to my yard every two weeks an’ sell me some collie?’
‘Yeah, dat could be arranged. But don’t expect me to walk ’round wid some scarf over my face.’
The dread laughed, but shook his head as he watched Biscuit depart.
‘Shouldn’t you be sleeping?’ Biscuit rebuked his younger brother. It was past nine when he finally made it home from Jah Nelson’s estate. The flat was quiet for once and he had found Royston alone, sitting on their bed.
‘Shouldn’t you have been home for dinner?’ asked Royston mischievously.
‘Put de damn cars away an’ go to your bed. I wish I never bought you de damn t’ings. De uder day I went to my bed an’ one of your blasted cars ’cratched me in my back.’
Royston hid himself under the covers, but his brother could still hear the stifled laughter coming from under the blankets. Biscuit ignored him and placed his herb and money on top of his wardrobe. He then took off his zip-up bomber jacket and pulled off his beret, revealing knotty, tangled hair. He headed for the lounge.
His mother was sewing buttons on one of Royston’s grey school shirts, occasionally looking up at the news bulletin on the telly. Denise was sitting on the sofa, chatting away to one of her friends on the phone. She was talking about some party or other and asking if she could borrow a pair of shoes.
‘You waan me to warm up your dinner, Lincoln?’ Hortense offered.
‘No, it’s alright, Mummy, I can do it.’
Biscuit went to the kitchen and lit two gas rings. He put a dab of margarine in the rice and peas saucepan and replaced the lid, then poured half a cup of water into the boiled chicken pot, stirring it with a fork. He checked his watch, wondering if it wasn’t too late to travel up to Brixton Hill and call on Carol. She was expecting him and he hated letting her down. His thoughts were interrupted by a manic banging on the front door.
‘Who ah bang ’pon me door so?’ Hortense queried. ‘Lincoln, ’ow many times ’ave me tell you fe tell your friends dem not to bang down me door!’
Biscuit went to the door. ‘Easy nuh, man. You sound like beast to rarted.’
A frantic thirty-something white woman, whose elfin-like face didn’t quite match her heavy frame, stood on the balcony. The woman seemed to have been crying for days. Her long auburn hair wouldn’t have recognised a comb, and underneath the tear stains her face was a pink mass of sadness. She was wearing a tatty dressing gown and slippers.
‘Where’s your mum, Lincoln?’ she asked desperately.
Before Biscuit could reply, the lady was past him and inside the lounge. Hortense stopped sewing and looked up in concern. Biscuit returned to the kitchen and peered through the doorway as his mother got to her feet and switched off the telly. Denise paused in her conversation and ran her eyes over the white woman’s blotched face.
‘Hortense, I just don’t know what I’m gonna do,’ the white woman whimpered, holding her temples within her palms and then shaking her head. ‘I haven’t seen Frank for two days, they cut off the electric yesterday, the kids are hungry, I ain’t got no money.’ She covered her face with her hands, shifting her feet in an unsteady semicircle. ‘I just can’t carry on, Hortense. I’ve had it up to ’ere. Fucking social are no use, the gas people are on my case and Frank’s gone. He’s fucking gone, without a fucking word. He’s just fucking gone!’
‘Stella, slow down, you’re talking too fast,’ Hortense replied, ushering her friend to sit beside her. Stella wrapped her arms around her stomach as if she was suffering some cramp, then dropped herself on the sofa.
‘I might as well fucking kill myself. Frank’s gone, how could he just go like that? I’m at my wits’ end. I dunno where I’m turning. How could he fucking leave me like this!’
Hortense put her arms around the shoulders of her friend. Biscuit watched from the kitchen, embarrassed by Stella’s sobbing and cursing Frank under his breath. Denise said a quick goodbye to her friend and looked on, wondering what she could do to help.
‘Denise! Don’t jus’ sit der! Run downstairs an’ get Tommy an’ Sarah. Den gi’ dem somet’ing to eat,’ Hortense ordered her daughter aggressively. ‘An’ mek Stella ah cup ah tea.’
Royston poked his face around the door frame to see what the commotion was all about. ‘Royston!’ Hortense yelled. ‘Go back to your bed before me bus’ your backside.’
‘I just can’t take it no more,’ Stella wept. ‘Frank went for a job interview for a labouring job the other day, but he didn’t get it. Since then he’s been acting all funny. I thought he might snap out of it after a while. But he’s gone. I’ve phoned his mum but he ain’t been ’round there. I even phoned his brother in Birmingham. I dunno where he is.’
Denise returned with two bewildered children in tow. The youngest child, a girl, gripped her teddy tightly as her brother held on grimly to an old Beano magazine. They edged into the room as if embarrassed to see their mother in such a state. The girl covered her face with the bear.
‘Hiya, Tommy,’ Royston greeted, braving the hallway once again. ‘Hiya, Sarah.’
‘Royston!’ Hortense screamed. ‘If me ’ave fe tell you again your backside will be sizzling like fried chicken-back! Go to your bed!’
On sight of her children, Stella palmed away her tears, trying to regain her composure. Hortense tenderly stroked her friend’s hair. Denise stood at the kitchen doorway waiting for instructions, while Biscuit guiltily prepared his dinner. ‘Gi de pickney dem some bun an’ cheese,’ Hortense ordered. ‘De last time we baby-sit fe dem, dey did favour it.’
Biscuit didn’t want to get stuck
