it’s all creased to shit.’
‘Never mind, you look a picture.’
He grinned again. ‘Scene,’ he said.
I changed the subject. ‘Let’s get down to facts,’ I said.
‘Firstly, what brought about your uncle’s change of fortune?’
‘He got lucky.’
‘Some people might think he got into heavy duty drug dealing. He’s got all the trappings.’
‘No, he got lucky.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘How long since you’ve seen him?’
‘Eighteen months or so.’ I remembered exactly. It was hard to forget, but I didn’t tell Teddy that. ‘He just had the club then. The place in Clapham, and the girls of course, and he was being minded by a bunch of Rastas.’
‘That wasn’t all he had,’ said Teddy.
‘Like?’
‘Well, you know he came over here in ’48?’ I could see that I was in for a history lesson, which I didn’t really need, but the first rule of interrogation that I had learned was: when someone wants to tell a story, let them.
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘He was on one of the first immigrant ships. He was just a kid – twelve, I think. They dumped him and his mum and dad, and my dad, that’s his little brother, he was just a tiny baby then, in the station at Brixton. Fucking government! The middle of winter and they put them on camp beds in a freezing railway station, and them just in from JA. You know all that?’
‘Some,’ I said.
‘Well, Uncle Watkins got mad. He wasn’t going to grow up and put on no bus conductor’s uniform. He catered for the immigrants. He started off running errands, never went to school, learnt his shit on the street. My grandpa and grandma went spare but he paid no attention. As soon as he was old enough, he started a shebeen. Fucking fifteen-year-old kid selling beer and home-made rum to grown men. A few tried to take it off him, but he had mates. Black youth has always been tough. They fought the cops and the old men and Teddy Boys and all sorts. Won too.’
Teddy looked proud of his uncle and I didn’t blame him. Times had been tough then, were now, and always would be, Amen.
‘When he got some dough,’ Teddy went on, ‘he started buying houses. Put the Brothers in. Fair rents, believe it or not. In those days blacks were being refused accommodation just for being black. “No coloureds” signs in the windows, just like South Africa. So Uncle Watkins helped out. He bought houses all over Brixton. He was a funny cat. Figured that if the white government dumped him and his in Brixton, they must want him to own the place, and I believe he nearly did. Brothers owe him.’
I interrupted. ‘I heard some of this, Teddy. Don’t make him out to be Albert Schweitzer. He was a slum landlord, running whores and bad liquor on the side.’
‘Shit, I never said he was no saint,’ protested Teddy. ‘But it was better that Uncle Watkins ran the housing than fucking Jew landlords or Malts or Greeks or Irish, or fucking Pinkies for that matter. You know how those bastards, you bastards –’ he grinned to soften the words, but I knew he still meant them ‘– treated the Brothers and Sisters. Worse than shit. At least Uncle Watkins kept the toilets flushing and the roofs in one piece.’
‘So?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yeah. Anyway, he bought and sold hundreds of houses over the years.’ He paused to light a cigarette. ‘You sure you don’t know all this?’
‘Like I said, some. But you tell me anyway.’
‘So he bought and sold and ran the girls and the drinkers and the shpeilers and eventually he sold everything but the club and one street of houses and shops, and then a year or so ago he sold the street in one lot and they built a supermarket there.’
‘Where?’
‘Down by the town hall. And he made some dough out of it, let me tell you.’
‘You don’t mean … ?’ I asked.
He nodded.
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘God’s truth.’
‘So that little street bought him a new Lincoln?’
‘And a house, three pubs and a Caribbean
‘Never mind, you look a picture.’
He grinned again. ‘Scene,’ he said.
I changed the subject. ‘Let’s get down to facts,’ I said.
‘Firstly, what brought about your uncle’s change of fortune?’
‘He got lucky.’
‘Some people might think he got into heavy duty drug dealing. He’s got all the trappings.’
‘No, he got lucky.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘How long since you’ve seen him?’
‘Eighteen months or so.’ I remembered exactly. It was hard to forget, but I didn’t tell Teddy that. ‘He just had the club then. The place in Clapham, and the girls of course, and he was being minded by a bunch of Rastas.’
‘That wasn’t all he had,’ said Teddy.
‘Like?’
‘Well, you know he came over here in ’48?’ I could see that I was in for a history lesson, which I didn’t really need, but the first rule of interrogation that I had learned was: when someone wants to tell a story, let them.
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘He was on one of the first immigrant ships. He was just a kid – twelve, I think. They dumped him and his mum and dad, and my dad, that’s his little brother, he was just a tiny baby then, in the station at Brixton. Fucking government! The middle of winter and they put them on camp beds in a freezing railway station, and them just in from JA. You know all that?’
‘Some,’ I said.
‘Well, Uncle Watkins got mad. He wasn’t going to grow up and put on no bus conductor’s uniform. He catered for the immigrants. He started off running errands, never went to school, learnt his shit on the street. My grandpa and grandma went spare but he paid no attention. As soon as he was old enough, he started a shebeen. Fucking fifteen-year-old kid selling beer and home-made rum to grown men. A few tried to take it off him, but he had mates. Black youth has always been tough. They fought the cops and the old men and Teddy Boys and all sorts. Won too.’
Teddy looked proud of his uncle and I didn’t blame him. Times had been tough then, were now, and always would be, Amen.
‘When he got some dough,’ Teddy went on, ‘he started buying houses. Put the Brothers in. Fair rents, believe it or not. In those days blacks were being refused accommodation just for being black. “No coloureds” signs in the windows, just like South Africa. So Uncle Watkins helped out. He bought houses all over Brixton. He was a funny cat. Figured that if the white government dumped him and his in Brixton, they must want him to own the place, and I believe he nearly did. Brothers owe him.’
I interrupted. ‘I heard some of this, Teddy. Don’t make him out to be Albert Schweitzer. He was a slum landlord, running whores and bad liquor on the side.’
‘Shit, I never said he was no saint,’ protested Teddy. ‘But it was better that Uncle Watkins ran the housing than fucking Jew landlords or Malts or Greeks or Irish, or fucking Pinkies for that matter. You know how those bastards, you bastards –’ he grinned to soften the words, but I knew he still meant them ‘– treated the Brothers and Sisters. Worse than shit. At least Uncle Watkins kept the toilets flushing and the roofs in one piece.’
‘So?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yeah. Anyway, he bought and sold hundreds of houses over the years.’ He paused to light a cigarette. ‘You sure you don’t know all this?’
‘Like I said, some. But you tell me anyway.’
‘So he bought and sold and ran the girls and the drinkers and the shpeilers and eventually he sold everything but the club and one street of houses and shops, and then a year or so ago he sold the street in one lot and they built a supermarket there.’
‘Where?’
‘Down by the town hall. And he made some dough out of it, let me tell you.’
‘You don’t mean … ?’ I asked.
He nodded.
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘God’s truth.’
‘So that little street bought him a new Lincoln?’
‘And a house, three pubs and a Caribbean
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