New life
Mr Major's Brixton days
Zenga Longmore
Christmas comes to Brixton, fairy lights twinkle on Electric Avenue, our equivalent of Regent Street. But strange doings are afoot in the terraced back streets. Whilst I was sitting in my friend Mrs Starman's living-room, the festive sound of carol-singing could be heard from without. Wait a minute — whence came that tuneless gargle, rising in croaking descant? Throwing open the window I saw, standing amongst a group of white-robed Pentecostal women, Roy Kerridge, the only Spectator writer to sing carols door-to- door in Brixton. Rattling a chipped tin in one hand and brandishing a hymn book in the other, he caused so great a sensation that, although the east wind was biting, people ran from their houses to laugh at closer range. Mrs Starman, overflowing `While there's a retail slump there's hope.' with piety or pity, threw him 50 pence.
The one topic buzzing round the world- lier sections of Brixton is: did anyone know John Major or his family in their Brixton days? Rumour has it that if anybody who knew him can be found they can sell their story to Fleet Street for huntlieds of pounds.
Who is not familiar with the newspaper story of the Jamaican woman who got a bus conductor's job ahead of Mr Major? Although everyone sniggered at this humi- liation my pal Shaka Boom Boom reflected that, while the woman is still clipping tickets, Mr Major is now Prime Minister. When classlessness reaches its final conclu- sion, will the slippy be promoted to Home Secretary?
I met an ecstatic Shaka last Tuesday outside a pub in Brixton's Frontline. He was leading an old man by the arm and was wearing the expression a bingo player might assume having just bellowed the winning 'Hup!'
`Listen! This man says he knows Major's father! Speak, old-timer, your words can make us wealthy!'
The old man, after feebly protesting that he wanted to return to his game of domi- noes in the pub, began: `Oh well, let me think. Yes. Me know Major's father when Major was jus' a likkle pickney. He was a small islander St Kitts, I think.'
`Wait a minute! You tellin' me Major comes from the Caribbean?'
'Of course! Remember the poster the Conservative Party put up years ago? "Some say he's black, some say he's British, but we say he's Major". '
`Tchah! I remember that too! It showed a real smart black man, but the slogan went, "Labour says he's black, we say he's British".'
`You think dem would make up dem minds, with the poor man kept waiting. Still, all right. Take it from a different angle. "Labour say him black, Conserva- tive say him British, but I say him Major!" Now can I go back to me dominoes?'
Exasperated, Shaka waved him away, and the old man dived back into the pub. Omalara, bored with all this political tittle- tattle, began to cry, so I wheeled her home.
Later that afternoon, Mrs Wright, the old lady from the ninth floor, began a confused story about how Major had helped to get her a council flat when she turned up in Brixton in the Sixties, having run away from her `gorgio' husband. I found her tale so convincing that I ran to search for my pen.
`He was a saint, that Major! [Sniff] There was no pride with him at all. He spoke to me just like I'm speaking to you now. He wasn't too hoity-toity to help a poor girl what had nowhere to lay her head. Major Jenkinson his full name was — best officer the Salvation Army ever had.'
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