Read by Sarah Feathers
I remember I was really hungry. I was with Kwame – he’s one of the boys at the club. I was helping him to hold a paintbrush properly. He’s got learning difficulties; some thing which means he’s not really developed.
We were leaning over the workbench together and I had hold of his wrist. It was so thin, like holding a drumstick. He couldn’t hold the brush himself so I helped him dip it in and out of the paint. We watched the black hairs going into the white of the paint – it was like whipped cream, and I was licking my lips thinking about it – even though the chemical painty smell was strong, it just looked so ... delicious.
As I leant over, there was a splash of something into the paint and Kwame looked up, as if to see if it was raining inside. Then he touched the end of my nose with his finger, and I realised I was dripping sweat because I needed to eat.
I was at the club, you know, where I go to help the refugee kids. My ‘sisters of mercy’ bit, Mark calls it. But he’s only teasing. I go a couple of times a week, to help them with learning new skills – or just to be a spare pair of hands so they can keep the place open. At the moment they're decorating. Some local builders gave them paint and a few brushes.
Tyrell was running the club that night. He’d called me in the afternoon, said could I come in and do a session.
It was Mark’s birthday and we were going to go out. Mark loves Chinese food. To be honest I don’t really go for it – all those slimy noodles and half-cooked vegetables. But Mark found this place in Soho. One of those ones where they hang the animals up in the window – these little orange skinned rabbits, which stare at you as you walk past, even though they’ve got no eyes. And chickens that aren’t even whole chickens, they’re just bits of feet and neck. Bit creepy really.
As it was his birthday, though, I’d said yes. We were going to meet for drinks then head over there.
When Tyrell called I’d told him no. I offered to go the next day, but Tyrell was insistent it needed to be this evening.
He said “Dem boys seen some tings you and me just don’t can imagine, right?”
Sorry, I can’t really do the accent. It’s really thick Jamaican. He was laying it on pretty heavy, you know, about how many of them are refugees, and the club is all they’ve got.
So of course I cracked and said yes. Well you would, wouldn’t you? I called Mark and left such a grovelly message, trying to be funny about doing my Mother Teresa impression, and saying I would make it up to him. He texted later to say he’d cook something for when I got in. I tried to ring him when I was in the taxi on the way to the club but it was always on voicemail so in the end I just texted him thanks and said I’d get wine.
At the club the boys were pleased to see me. Tyrell made me a cup of tea in one of their brown-stained “I heart Hackney” mugs. I asked for two sugars – which with Tyrell means about five - because I hoped they would give me energy. I hadn’t eaten all day and knew I would have to be at the club for at least a couple of hours.
I started working with Kwame and Christian. Christian was bigger than Kwame and he was getting on painting the window ledges. He’d found some green paint that didn’t go at all with the brown walls, but he was keeping busy so no-one seemed to mind. He stopped when he heard Kwame laughing at the sweat dripping off my nose and asked if I was OK.
I said no, I was hungry. You weren’t really meant to say you weren’t ok to the boys. Like you were always meant to be positive and supportive. But actually it seemed like it was good because Christian put down his brush and said to Tyrell that I was hungry and we needed to go and get some food.
Tyrell grinned. “So you OK to buy dem all chickens den?”
God, is that racist, to do an impression of him? Anyway, he said that if I would pay, then I could take two of the boys out and bring back chicken and chips for everyone.
I took Christian and Kwame. Outside, the clouds were so low and thick you could almost taste the sleet that had begun to fall. Kwame led the way. He hardly ever spoke, but I’d seem him enough times with his skinny fingers shiny with chip fat to know he knew the way to the chicken shop.
You could barely see inside Omar’s, the windows were so steamed up. Christian opened the door, and ran straight to the counter. Omar was in a filthy red shirt shaking a tray of chips that he’d just taken out of the frier. The smell of hot oil was nearly making me faint and stinging my eyes.
When I asked for fourteen bits of chicken and seven chips Omar said “ten minutes” and slunk off into the back.
We waited. After a bit I noticed Kwame was doing something weird. He was pressed against the inside of the glass, his whole body squashed up as he looked out. He was growling, like our old dog used to when she lay in front of the fire. I went to touch his shoulder, when suddenly the door was wide open, and about six teenage boys were inside. These were big boys. All wearing tracksuit tops or with those body warmer things, I don’t know what you call them. One had a bright red T shirt, tight against his dark skin.
Kwame curled up and lay on the floor. Christian got down from the counter. The older boys, they didn’t say a word. One of them had a can of Red Bull. I remember the smell. They just stood and watched me and the two little ones. Omar had disappeared. I could feel my stomach tying and untying itself. I wasn’t hungry now, even though I was, if you know what I mean.
It was like they were kind of inspecting me, like I’d wandered into their territory. One of them – I think it was the one with the Red Bull – stepped away from the door.
I said to Kwame and Christian “Come on you two, let’s wait outside”. My voice sounded hollow, but maybe that’s because my throat was suddenly really dry. I pulled open the door taking care not to brush against anyone, then hurried Kwame and Christian through.
As we stepped outside the cloud broke and the sleet really began to hammer down. Like it was attacking us. Kwame scuttled out into the square, then over to the other side, where there was an off-licence. Christian and I followed.
The shopkeeper was listening to the radio. I told Christian to get seven Ribenas from the fridge. My voice was cracking. The shopkeeper didn’t look up. There was another smell of food. Something spicy, samosas or some kind of curry. I suddenly felt shaky again, my mouth was full of saliva, and I thought for a second I was going to be sick. I hurried Christian along and paid for the drinks. Outside I could hear the rumble of what sounded like thunder, and I remember thinking “sod them”. We were going to get our chicken. The sleet was now heavier than ever.
We crossed the square, then Kwame stopped. The youths were in front of the chicken shop blocking the door , their bright clothes soaked, squaring up to each other, bouncing about, wrestling. One got pulled down to the ground, then jumped up, like a cheetah. They were still not talking, but there was laughing or more like screeching when they held each other too tight.
We stood there getting wet through. Me holding a bag of Ribena cartons, Kwame and Christian in their little painting overalls which were clinging to their skin, their hair stuck down on their heads.
Then there was a shout. “You boy!” and Tyrell was amongst the fighting youths. He grabbed the one with the red shirt. He nearly ripped it off him and pushed him hard onto the ground. Then he squared up to another, who for a second stared him out, then looked down and backed off. We watched as one by one Tyrell calmed them, till they were stood in a circle around him.
I reached down for Kwame’s hand. It was freezing cold, and more brittle than ever. It looked like he’d wet himself, though it was hard to tell as he was soaked. I squeezed my thighs together. I was sweating all over now, and had a kind of tingling like I wanted to pee too.
Tyrell was now talking to me, while the youths stood, heads bowed. I stepped closer. “Chicken. You get chicken Sal?”
I put my hand to my mouth. He stepped away from the youths. “Go get the chickens. Don’t let these oafs stop you.”
Him saying “oaf” made me want to smile because that’s what my dad used to call my brothers.
I sent Christian and Kwame back to the club, and they scampered back up the road. And then I started walking towards the chicken shop. None of the youths went for me. One even stepped out of my path. My heart was pumping so hard, and my legs felt firmer than they had done all night.
The bag of chicken was on the counter. It was warm and squishy. Like a stomach. As I turned to leave I heard a roar of a helicopter overhead and then sirens.
My feet felt heavy in my shoes from all the water inside them. I turned to say goodbye to Omar. He was eating a piece of chicken, and reading a Turkish newspaper.
Outside everyone had vanished, and the sleet had stopped. The helicopter was still circling and a police van was outside the off-licence. It was silent and still apart from that. I pushed my hair back from my face then walked back to the club.
Tyrell was inside. He handed me a towel in exchange for the bag of chicken.
I dried my hair, then asked him what that was all about.
He said. “The cops, they treat the youths like they evil. They don’t let them hang together or nothing.”
Then he gave a little chuckle. “But when the weather's bad , the police don’t patrol, do they? So dem boys, they come out an make hell. Like they goading the cops, you know?”
I didn’t know. But there was a lot I didn’t know.
“Why did they come in the shop after us though?” I asked him.
He grinned his gold tooth grin. “They wasn after you. They was after chicken and chips. But they didn’t have no money so wanted you to buy it for them.”
“But all that fighting, that aggression.”
He shook his head. “They’s just hungry boys Sal. And I could see they needed cooling down.”
And with that he took the bag of chicken into the club room. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Mark was texting saying he’d done lasagne, and it would be ready in half an hour.
I went outside and called to ask him to pick me up. I was trying not to cry.
“Jesus.
You look like a refugee yourself” he said when I got in the car. I
tried to smile, and he squeezed my hand. “I hope you’re hungry!”
I nodded. I was.
© Jim Minton, 2012
A
northeasterner, now living in Walthamstow, Jim
Minton is living proof that
background need be no barrier to mediocrity. He’s still learning,
but is enjoying writing about ordinary blokes and their hang ups.
Plentiful material there, so if you want to read more, just ask.
Sarah Feathers trained at East 15. Theatre work includes Country Magic (The Steam Industry at the Finborough Theatre), All You Ever Needed (Hampstead Theatre), A Hard Day’s Month (Rose Theatre, Kingston), 26 (BAC), Moll Flanders (Southwark Playhouse) and The Winter’s Tale (The Steam Industry at the Courtyard Theatre). Film includes Coulda Woulda Shoulda, Feeling Lucky and More Than Words. Television includes The Real King Herod.
Comments