Brixton Bwoy. Rocky Carr

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      After school, life began. A whole group of them would set off to pick sweet limes and number eleven mangoes. The best grew on land owned by a woman they thought was mad. She would lie in wait for them and when they were in the middle of picking the juiciest fruit, high up in the trees like the doctor birds, she would jump out and surprise them, shouting, ‘You tief inu me catch you all tiefing me mangoes. Police, police!’ and they would run off as fast as Pops’s animals ran down to the river in June.

      

      One morning, after cutting the grass and eating breakfast, Pupatee was late for school as usual. There was no sense hurrying now – Pupatee would get a beating whatever – so he dawdled, and Pops saw him ‘You na go ah school today, Pupatee?’ he called. ‘What wrong with you?’

      ‘Me pencil no sharp, Pops.’

      ‘Come, me sharpen it fe you, come.’

      Pupatee followed him into the house and he took out his big, long razor. He was proud of this razor, and he took great care of it, cleaning and polishing it after every use. He opened it out and the blade shone as silver as the moon. He calmly sharpened the pencil and replaced the blade in the handle, winking at Pupatee and smiling.

      ‘Den de teacher na go beat you, man, de way you so late.’

      From outside, Carl shouted, ‘Pupatee, de later we are ah de hotter de licks, you know. So you better come on, we half late already, ah!’

      ‘Me gone, Pops,’ Pupatee said.

      ‘All right, massah, me see you.’

      Pupatee joined up with Carl, but he was walking slowly. ‘You no have fe hurry now, ca wha me no go anywhere near dat school deh today, fe me get no tree licks ah no dis or dat from headmaster, prefecs or Mama or Pops. Me know a nice place we can go over de mad woman place, go pick number eleven mangoes and bully mangoes and blackie mangoes and custard apples, mmm.’

      Pupatee was all excited and ready to venture anywhere with his brother. Before long they found a family of Aba palm trees, whose nuts turned from green to bright yellow when ripe and tasted like miniature coconuts. Pupatee was up those trees quicker than a monkey, selecting the ripest and best, eating as he found them. ‘Look, ah number eleven mango tree. Dem big and ripe. No true, Pupatee?’ Carl shouted. Pupatee looked over from the tree where he was and it was a beautiful sight, all those mangoes, some red, some green, some light yellow, hanging from every limb of the tree. He came down the Aba palm faster than a snake and was soon gorging on the sweetest and juiciest mangoes.

      Later they came across jackfruit, and they found sweet limes and pawpaws, and suddenly Carl said, ‘Look, bully mangoes,’ and Pupatee couldn’t believe what he saw – mangoes as big as his head. Pupatee had never seen them so big, and he could only manage one while Carl had two. This adventure went on all day, and the brothers were so full of fruit when they returned home that evening, they could scarcely eat their supper.

      At school the next day, Pupatee used his newly sharpened pencil so much that he blunted it. He decided to sharpen it himself, and stole into the house the following morning to borrow Pops’s razor. Pops was so skilful with his razor that Pupatee had never understood how delicate that sharp blade was, and a big chunk snapped off in his hands. Horrified, Pupatee quickly put the blade back and crept out of the room even more quietly than he had come in. He ran all the way to school, and that day he was so downcast that the teacher asked him if he was ill. It was Friday, and Pupatee knew there would be a beating that weekend. All the next day, nothing happened, but on Sunday, after milking the cows, Pops announced he was going for a shave.

      A few moments later, it happened. ‘Who use me razor and broke it up?’ Pupatee’s heart started beating fast – he knew he was in danger now. When Pops came out, he and Carl took off and luckily escaped, with Pops cursing after them. He was so mad it didn’t matter whose fault it was.

      ‘Oh no,’ Carl said, when they were far enough away for safety. ‘If him catch me, me ah go pretend me ah dead, ca him must kill we wid beating when him catch we.’

      ‘How you go pretend, Carl?’ Pupatee asked.

      ‘Just play dead wid froth coming out your mouth, and when the licks reach go’on like you can’t feel it, dat is how.’

      They had to come home for dinner. It was fresh fried fish and eels with roast plantain and turned roast breadfruit, Pupatee’s favourite, but although he was starving, he couldn’t eat through worry. And anyway, they were only half-way through eating when Pops returned. He came straight for Pupatee, shouting, ‘Why did you broke me razor, bwoy?’

      ‘Me never meant it, Pops, do no beat me, Pops,’ Pupatee cried. ‘You ah beg, please no, do no.’

      ‘Ah going to bust you rass today,’ Pops cried, and he pulled out his belt and began to beat Pupatee.

      Pupatee waited for the first three or four licks, and then put Carl’s plan into action. He went limp and began to collect spit in his mouth. After another three lashes, Pops realised something was wrong. He stopped.

      ‘Pupatee! Pupatee! Pupatee!’ he cried. ‘Kay, come see, him ah dead, Kay!’

      ‘Me ah come,’ his mother answered.

      ‘Pupatee!’ Pops was calling again. By now Pupatee had a mouthful of frothy saliva, and he let it bubble through his lips. Pops stared down at him and began to shake him.

      ‘Lord, Putoo,’ Mama cried. ‘You ah kill me wash-belly pickney!’

      ‘Me never did start ah beat him hard yet, Kay,’ his father protested while Mama picked him up and took him to his bed, where she rubbed ointment into his sores and aches.

      That day, Pupatee was left to sleep, and for several days he was given tip-top treatment while he pretended to recover slowly. Even Pops came in to tell him he was sorry and he would never beat him again as long as he lived.

      For weeks after that, Pops kept his word. Everywhere Pupatee went, he heard the neighbours whispering that he was the boy who had almost been beaten to death by his father. And Pops didn’t raise a hand against him. But then, when the incident had almost been forgotten, Pupatee irritated Pops and he swung out at him and caught him on his arm. It was hardly a lashing, certainly not a beating, but handiwork was there again for everyone to see.

      ‘From me born me never see ah boy pickney soft like gal pickney so,’ Pops protested to Mama. ‘One little slap and his arm swell up so. Dat is it, I will never put me hand pon dat boy ever again.’

      ‘Lord God have mercy, man, it looks like you broke him arm.’

      Pupatee wanted to laugh, but he managed not to. From that day, his father never again laid a hand on him. Pops had a heart as big as this world, though nobody could see it for it was hidden away deep in his chest. Often in the years to come, Pupatee would remember how Pops had reacted to the pain he had caused: horrified by what he had done to the son he loved.

      

      This was how life was. One year, when Pupatee was eight years old, they got news that their son Joe would be coming home for Christmas. Carl and Pupatee had a whole heap of brothers and sisters in England and America, some of whom they had not seen since they were babies, and some they had never seen. Joe was the oldest of them all, the first son, and he had not been home for many years.

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