know about his absent father, and saw him as some kind of social problem. Sometimes he came home seething with rage after one of the teacher’s talks. ‘He thinks,’ he told his mother, ‘that if you’re black you have to be some kind of rebel. And as far as he’s concerned, being a rebel means wearing a hood and rapping. And if you’re really cool you can go to jail or walk the street, without a job.’
At school Daniel hid his anger. He knew by now what kind of future he wanted. He knew also it would count against him if he was seen to reject the man’s attempts to teach him about ‘your own culture’. The issue came to a head at the start of the sixth form. Daniel chose to study a book of classic English poetry, instead of the black poet who had visited the school. On the day Daniel made his choice the teacher gave him a sad look, as if he had been badly let down.
Sometimes Daniel thought that this was one of the reasons he had chosen to become a teacher. At least, that is what he told Louise when she asked him about it.
‘I want those kids to be able to do anything they want to do. They don’t have to be what other people expect them to be.’
That was what he felt when he started. Three years later he wasn’t so sure about anything. On the day his life changed his father was the last thing on his mind. Later on, though, it struck him that this meeting had always been waiting to happen.
It was a routine part of Year 10 work on a local history project.
The project involved visiting the libraries or the local museum, and looking up the history of old buildings. Daniel’s pupils enjoyed this, partly because it got them out of the classroom.
On the first day of the project someone suggested talking to old people who had lived in the district for a long time. Daniel said it was a good idea and he would think about it. What he didn’t tell them was that, a couple of years before, a few of his pupils had turned up without notice at a nearby home for the elderly. The result had been mayhem. One of the staff, taking them for muggers, had called the police. Daniel spent most of the day getting the group out of the police station. Then he’d had to explain to their parents; and after that he’d had to placate an irate head teacher.
‘Never again,’ he’d said, but now he found himself thinking that was unfair.
During the break that day he discussed the problem with Judy, the head of his year.
‘The thing is to choose a few people.’ She paused. ‘With care. Talk to them first, then you let the little horrors loose on them.’ She laughed and made a funny face. ‘The last thing you want,’ she said, ‘is not being able to get to the altar because you’re getting the kids out of jail again!”
She winked. Daniel sighed. He had been teased without mercy for the last couple of weeks. The closer the date of his wedding came, the worse it got. It was the reaction of his women colleagues which surprised him. He had known nearly all of them for a couple of years. Most of them had never been more than friendly, but almost as soon as he announced that he was to get married, a few had begun to flirt with him. The fact that he didn’t know quite how to respond made them even more wicked. Something about weddings, Daniel thought, made people excited.
Judy hadn’t reacted in the same way as most of the others. Instead she had made a dry comment about how young he was. She was only about thirty, not much older than Daniel. On the other hand, she had been married and divorced. No one knew the details, but it gave her the status of a cynic, who could speak her mind without offence. She was friendly enough to Daniel, but sometimes he wasn’t sure how much she liked him.
‘Why don’t you get them to talk to old Brownjohn?’ Judy suggested.
‘Who?’
‘John Brownjohn. He was deputy head and he’s lived around here for years. He won’t mind.’
That was true enough. Daniel telephoned and was invited to drop in after school. As Judy had predicted, Brownjohn seemed more than pleased to help.
He was about sixty, thin and fit. His head of grey hair was going bald, and he had a deep, friendly voice. Daniel guessed in the first minute that the pupils would like him. Even better, he seemed to know every fact there was to know about the district.
Daniel relaxed, preparing himself to sit and listen politely to Brownjohn’s memories. The last thing he expected to hear was a memory which would change everything he knew about himself.
BROWNJOHN HAD SEEMED A little wary of him at first. His manner changed when he was clear about what Daniel wanted. In the next couple of hours, Daniel heard everything he might ever have wanted to know about the district.
It was a fine, bright, summer’s evening. They sat facing the French windows which were open to the garden. The fading sunshine slanted in, glinting off the top of Brownjohn’s bald head. In the distance, over the tops of the apple trees, Alexandra Palace shimmered against the sky.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Brownjohn said, as if he’d been reading Daniel’s mind. He got up and strode to the window, his cup of tea still in hand. ‘Two hundred years ago, this was all farmland and countryside. Now look at it. But the gardens are still lovely.’
Daniel nodded, trying to look as if all this was still holding his interest. In fact he was thinking it was time to go and was working out his exit line. At the same time he was wondering how he would describe Brownjohn to Louise. Suddenly he was tired, and it was harder and harder to focus. Brownjohn, meanwhile, was still talking about the history of the district. ‘All this used to be empty fields,’ he said. ‘The bits in between London and the next town. We’re close to the highway. The old turnpike was over there. Get them to think about the names of the places. They’re full of history.’
Daniel nodded again. He already knew the local history, but it seemed rude to say so. Instead he shifted about in his chair, trying to signal that he was about to leave. Brownjohn took no notice and instead seemed to be talking faster, skipping quickly from one subject to another. ‘They named these streets after famous admirals,’ he said. ‘Cochrane, Collingwood, Nelson. I used to live there, in Nelson Avenue.’
Daniel sat up, some instinct telling him that the words were important. ‘Nelson Avenue?’
‘Yes. Number 12.’
‘Not Number 12?’
Surprised, Brownjohn turned to look at him. ‘Yes…Number 12. I lived in the top flat and rented the ground floor to some students.’
Daniel took a moment to think about it. The entries on his birth certificate flashed through his mind. ‘I was born there,’ he said slowly.
Brownjohn laughed, amazed, and not yet certain Daniel was serious.
‘It’s true,’ Daniel said. ‘That’s where I was born.’
‘How old are you?’ Brownjohn asked.
‘Twenty-six.’
Brownjohn stared at him, taking in what Daniel had said. ‘I know you,’ he said slowly. ‘Your parents lived there. I can see them now.’ He paused as if finding the right words. ‘A mixed couple.’
‘You’re
