East of Acre Lane by Alex Wheatle

Author:Alex Wheatle [Wheatle, Alex]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780007405794
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2001-05-05T04:00:00+00:00

14

Queen Majesty

On the top deck of the 109 bus Biscuit thought of Jah Nelson’s life story and his words of wisdom. He wondered about the peoples Nelson had met on his travels, and the sights he had seen. He made a mental note that he had to travel to a foreign country one day. Nelson should chat to Floyd, he thought, remembering Floyd’s interest in African history. I ain’t got no time for it. I’m too busy husling, but Floyd spends nuff time inna library dese days, he reasoned.

Biscuit couldn’t remember the last book he had read, and he thought that if Nelson expected to take him on as some kind of student, then he might be disappointed. It’s alright for Nelson, he told himself. He can spend all the time he wants on his books because he don’t have to worry about no one but himself.

Carol opened the door, smiling, dressed in dark slacks and a cream-coloured, frilly blouse. Her burgundy lipstick glistened under the light of the nearby lamp-post, and her hair, free of its rollers, topped the look off neatly. Biscuit’s eyes were drawn to her gold ear-rings and neck chain that seemed to sparkle on her dark-chocolate skin. He could only think of one tune, ‘Queen Majesty’ by the Techniques. The song told the tale of a poor man visiting his beautiful queen’s magnificent palace and asking for an audience with her.

‘How comes you ain’t dressed,’ rebuked Carol, hands on her hips.

‘Dressed? We going on a rave?’

‘Don’t tell me you forgot. I left a message wid your mudder last night.’

‘I didn’t get it.’

Carol threw Biscuit an accusing glare, but let him into the hallway. ‘You’d better come in. I s’pose we’ll ’ave to stop at your yard so you can put some garments on.’

‘We? Who else is coming ’pon dis rave?’

‘Sharon an’ Floyd, innit. Der’s a Crucial Rocker blues up by New Park Road, near where Sharon lives. Yardman Irie’s gonna be der.’

She led him through to the front room. Biscuit loathed the sight of the neat doilies resting on the limbs of the furniture; it made the room appear so formal, as if Carol’s parents always expected someone important to visit. Then there was the huge radiogram situated in the far corner of the room which doubled as a bar. Bottles of whisky, red wine and overproof Jamaican rum teased Biscuit’s dry throat. A wall cabinet filled with assorted glasses and commemorative plates reminded him that Carol’s parents worked hard for their respect.

‘Your parents in bed?’ he asked hopefully, parking himself in a doily-clad armchair.

‘Yeah. From ’bout ten o’clock dey go upstairs an’ watch TV, regular like anyt’ing.’

‘Your paps don’t like me, does he?’

‘He don’t like any guys who I chat to. Dat’s how he stay.’

‘But wid me it’s more intense, innit. If one day you tol’ ’im you was gonna swap ring wid me, he would leggo some serious tears. I feel so he would come looking for me wid an Ml6 to rarted.’

Carol laughed.

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