The Name You Once Gave Me

For my sons, Kwesi and Kip, with many thanks for all they have taught me

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

IN THE WEEK BEFORE Daniel and his girlfriend’s wedding his life changed forever. The problem wasn’t marriage because he and Louise had lived together for three years since leaving college. Getting married would not change much.

The big change was instead due to something which Daniel simply could not have foreseen: a sudden shock. Before this he thought of himself as just a normal person, living a normal life. And if anyone had asked him what ‘normal’ meant the answer would have been simple. To Daniel ‘normal’ was his own way of life.

On the other hand, this was only half the answer. From his first day in school Daniel had known that he was different which was why, his mother had said, the bullies picked on him. Daniel agreed. There was only one way to keep out of trouble, he thought, and that was to pretend to be just like the rest of them. Normal.

He was twenty-six, the same age as his girlfriend, Louise, and taught at a comprehensive school in North London. Louise was also a teacher, and they lived together in a ground-floor flat. At the weekends, they normally went out to the cinema, or for dinner with friends. During the summer they sometimes drove down to Devon to stay with her parents.

By this time doing the same things as most of his friends seemed like second nature to Daniel. Sometimes he did feel that he was living under a sort of disguise but also he couldn’t really work out how to change things. He couldn’t even guess what he wanted them to change to. On the surface, his life was happy but deep inside he still felt angry and confused. He shared most of his thoughts with Louise, but this problem he found impossible to explain to her. Going out with Daniel was the only thing that had marked her out from her family and friends. Apart from that, Daniel realised that they lived in much the same way as her sister and cousins. She called it a normal life, where living with Daniel was a stage, after which getting married was the right thing to do. And Daniel agreed it was what a normal couple would do.

But there were still some people who regarded Daniel and Louise as an odd couple. Louise looked a lot like Daniel’s mother in that she was tall, blonde and pretty, with pink skin which flushed easily. Daniel, meanwhile, was just the opposite, with a light brown skin and curly black hair.

He often wondered about his father. Perhaps he looked like him, but there was no way of telling as Daniel had never even seen a photograph of him. He only knew that his father had come from Nigeria, and had died before he was born.

After they decided to marry, he tried to tell Louise about how this made him feel. ‘I wish my father was here,’ he said.

‘Why? Do you miss him?’

‘No. I never knew him, so I can’t miss him. He was struggling to find the right words. ‘But there is something missing.’

He knew a lot about what he was missing. Part of it was a feeling of safety. In primary school, he had stood his own ground against the bullies in the playground. Mostly, not having two parents did not matter. It was different, though, when other kids’ dads turned up to watch them playing sports or to take them home. When that happened, he sometimes had felt a rush of longing so strong that he could hardly control the tears springing behind his eyes. And when other kids teased him the way they were always doing to each other, he had the same crazy thought: You wouldn’t do that if my dad was here.

As he got older, he stopped thinking like that. Instead his absent father gave him a new problem. Many of the people he met seemed to think that the colour of his skin gave him some kind of special access to what they called ‘black culture’. Mostly it didn’t matter. He got tired of explaining that he had been born and brought up nearby, and that he knew nothing about African drums or voodoo or the blues. It got really boring when he had to say that to kids he had known for most of his life, but most of his friends weren’t that stupid. It was the teachers who kept on about ‘his culture’ who annoyed him.

The teacher who got on his nerves most was said to be an expert on black culture. When he talked to the black kids he always seemed to be talking about the Carnival and rap music. Daniel was known as a quiet boy who studied hard, and he became one of the teacher’s targets. After a while, though, Daniel began to get the idea that the man seemed to 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.

CHAPTER TWO

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 sure?’ Daniel asked.

‘Quite sure. Wait a moment.’

He went out of the door and Daniel waited, his mind in a turmoil. If the old man was right, he would have known his father. There would be a lot he could tell him that he had always wanted to know.

Suddenly Brownjohn was back, carrying a photo album with a faded red cover. It was already open and he held it up in front of Daniel and pointed to an old photo of a couple, standing in a garden. The man was holding a baby.

‘That’s you,’ Brownjohn said.

Daniel gazed at the photo, bending over to get as close as he could. The woman was Sarah, his mother, younger than he could remember, but certainly his mother. The man was tall, the same height as Daniel. There was a strange pattern in the fading colours. It was as if the skin tones, black, pink and brown, had been carefully matched.

Daniel’s heart seemed to skip a beat. Before this he had never seen a photo of his father. Once, in the middle of an argument with his mother, he had let loose his anger about that.

‘How could you not have a photo of him?’ he had shouted.

‘My life was different then,’ she replied. ‘I travelled light. Things got stolen. Once I lost all my belongings. All that got lost.’

‘I can’t understand you, Mum,’ he had told her, his rage turning to sadness.

‘I liked your father,’ Brownjohn said. ‘He used to joke about my name: John Brownjohn.’

He laughed. Daniel didn’t think it was that funny but he smiled to be polite.

‘How is he?’ Brownjohn asked, still chuckling at the memory.

Daniel looked at him, puzzled. ‘Didn’t you know? He died before I was born.’

Now it was Brownjohn’s turn to look puzzled. He stared at Daniel. ‘But I saw him a couple of years ago. He came up behind me in the High Street. “John Brownjohn,” he said. “John Brownjohn!” and he laughed. I’d know that laugh anywhere.’

He stared at Daniel, taking in the young man’s look of shock. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but if that’s your father, he’s still alive.’

CHAPTER THREE

DANIEL FIRED QUESTIONS AT Brownjohn for another hour, but the old teacher hadn’t much more to say. He kept repeating that Daniel’s father was alive, then he corrected himself. ‘At least he was alive a couple of years ago.’

The first name was Chris, he told Daniel, but he couldn’t call to mind the surname.

Daniel frowned, thinking about it. Chris was not the name his mother had given him, but he guessed the old man was somehow confused.

By now he could see that Brownjohn was tired and bored. Daniel said he was leaving, then asked to borrow the photo. Brownjohn handed it over with a speed which hinted he was glad to get rid of his guest. Daniel didn’t notice.

As he left, his mind was already busy with the questions he planned to ask his mother. He went straight to her house, which was a semidetached in the north of the borough.

Daniel had lived there for most of his life. Sarah had married while he was still in primary school. Looking back on those days, Daniel recalled that moving and leaving the home he’d always known had been one of his fears after his mum told him about getting married. Another fear had been that she would leave him, to go off with the man she was about to marry. This was one he had never told her about. As it happened, they didn’t move. Instead his new stepfather came to live in the house with them. Daniel’s room became his refuge, somewhere he could safely ignore the couple.

He had never told his mother how angry he had been in those days.

It was already past ten o’clock by the time he got there. As he walked up the garden path he hoped his stepfather would be out. More than he ever had in his life, he wanted to see and talk to his mother alone. He wanted to show her the photo, then look into her eyes and ask her for the whole story.

Thinking back on it, he realized how little she had told him in the past. When he was younger he used to press her for stories about his dad. What he wanted was the sort of stories other kids told: something funny or even weird he could talk about on the way home from school. ‘That’s just what my dad’s like,’ he imagined himself saying.

However much he asked, though, she was always vague. What she told him made him more curious without giving him anything he could get his teeth into. They had met when she had just started work as a teacher.

‘What happened? Daniel would ask. ‘Where was he?’

Someone had introduced them. She couldn’t remember who it had been. They hadn’t known each other long before she found she was pregnant. It had been a matter of weeks. All Daniel’s questions about the details met with the same answer. She didn’t know. His father had no family. He had been brought up in care, the same as herself and her sister Nancy. There was no one to worry about; they had been enough for each other. When she told him she was about to have a baby, he was happy.

He had been a photographer starting on his career, working for newspapers and magazines. The week she told him about Daniel he was offered a freelance job. They thought it was a good omen. They didn’t think about danger. They were young and death seemed far away. He was only going to be away for a month. She thought that all the questions could be answered when he got back. But he never did come back. A week later she was phoned to say that he had been shot and killed. There was no more.

Daniel opened the door with his key and went in quietly. As he had hoped, George his stepfather was slumped dozing in front of the TV. His mother was sitting in the little room behind. Through the half-open door he could see her peering at the computer screen, fingers busy on the keys.

Seeing her like this, it struck him that she was still pretty. She was almost fifty, but her figure was still straight and slim. The photo he had borrowed from Brownjohn was twenty-five-years-old. It seemed such a long time, and he wondered, for a moment, how living through all that time had changed his mum. In the picture her blonde hair had been longer, swinging down to her shoulders.

Now it was cut short, and if you looked closely you could see the streaks of grey. Those were only outward changes, he thought.

‘Mum,’ he said quietly.

She looked round, and smiled when she saw him. ‘Hello, love. I was just thinking about you.’

Normally, when he visited like this, they would chat about what he was doing but this time he couldn’t wait. He took the photo out of his pocket and held it up in front of her.

‘Who is this, Mum? Tell me who this is.’

She took the photo from time, her smile fading. She held it up to the light, turning away from him, studying it with care. ‘Where did you get this?’

She had her back to him and he couldn’t see the look on her face.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he answered. ‘Just tell me who these people are.’

I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘Who is it supposed to be?’

He paused for a moment, amazed at her reply. ‘That’s you,’ he said harshly. ‘Don’t you know your own face? And that man is “Chris”. And that baby is me.’

She held the photo up to the light again Watching her closely, he thought he saw her hand tremble, but it was gone in a flash.

‘I really don’t know,’ she said. ‘It looks like me. But I don’t remember it at all. And this man…I never knew a Chris who looked like this. I’ve never seen this man in my life.’

CHAPTER FOUR

‘BUT THAT’S YOU, MUM,’ Daniel persisted.

For a moment he felt unsure about where he was, like someone lost in an alien landscape.

‘Yes, I suppose it is me,’ she said. ‘Yes. It’s me, but I don’t remember.’

She turned around and looked at him, smiling. ‘Well, I did look like this once. A long time ago.’ She paused, thinking about it. ‘It looks like the garden at Number 12. You were only a few months old.’

‘Is that my dad?’

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘No. I don’t know who that is.’ She looked again. ‘There were always people coming and going,’ she said. ‘I guess he was a friend of someone’s. Maybe Nancy.’

This was her sister Nancy. The two of them had been orphans, brought up in a series of foster homes. His mum didn’t like talking about those days. She had once told him that she felt guilty about the fact that he had no grandparents. She knew nothing about his father’s parents, which meant that they were all alone in the world.

‘Never mind, Mum,’ he had said. ‘I’m used to it.’

‘So was I. Until you came along. It was always just me and Nancy.’

Nancy had been the pretty one, she always said, who had married well and died young.

Now when she mentioned Nancy he looked at her sharply. ‘I thought Nancy had married and gone off before I was born,’ he said.

His mother sighed and looked away again. ‘She was on holiday. She came and stayed with me for a bit in Number 12.’

This was another thing she didn’t like talking about. Nancy had married into a posh family. Her husband became a diplomat and they travelled a lot. When she died in a car accident his mother had taken him to the funeral. He was only little, but he sensed her dislike of the people there. Later on he realized that he had been the only black person present. He thought also that his mother’s rage had been something to do with the way the posh mourners had behaved towards them. She told him later that when she went to sit in the pew reserved for the family an usher had stopped her. Instead of letting her sit where she wanted he had showed her to a seat at the back. After all that, someone in the churchyard had said something to upset her. She wouldn’t say what it was, and he could only guess.

‘They were just a bunch of snobs,’ was all she would say.

Nancy’s husband married again, not long after. Then he had gone into politics. When his mother saw his picture in the newspaper she would throw it aside, as if seeing him still made her angry.

‘Where did you get this photo?’ she asked him again.

‘A man I went to see today. I didn’t know before, but he used to live at Number 12 when you lived there.’

‘At Number 12? What was his name?’

‘John Brownjohn. He was a teacher.’

‘Oh. I remember him. John Brownjohn.’ She laughed. ‘He’s still around?’

‘He is, yeah.’

Quickly, he told her about his visit to Brownjohn and what the man had said about his father.

She held up the photo and glanced at it quickly. ‘And you thought this was your dad?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Silly old prat,’ she burst out. ‘He didn’t really know us. He was all right, but we kept ourselves to ourselves. We didn’t want him going around talking about us.’

Daniel nodded. That was how he and Louise were with the couple who lived in the flat above him.

‘Come here,’ his mum said.

She got up and hugged him, stroking his hair the way she used to do when he was little.

‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘That man could never stop talking bollocks.’

He laughed. Then something else came to mind. There were some other things he wanted to ask her. He cleared his throat and sat down.

‘About my dad,’ he said. ‘Can you remember if he had any special problems with his health? Like sickle cell. Things like that.’

She stared at him, her forehead creasing up in a frown. ‘Why do you ask?’