People Person, page 1
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People Person is dedicated to all the single mothers.
Especially the ones who try their best to raise their children with the love of two parents.
“Hello? Hi, is this Nikisha? Hi, it’s Dimple. Number three in the line, last time I checked. Yeah?! It’s been a while, hasn’t it? You good? Yeah, no, I’m not so good, actually. I’m in a bit of a sticky situ, and I remembered what you said about calling you if—Okay. Uh-huh. Yep. Yes. I’ll text you my address now. Okay. Yeah, I’ll see you in a bit.”
CHAPTER ONE
THEIR FATHER, CYRIL PENNINGTON, was not a discriminatory man. He had five children. Five children that he claimed, with four different women. Though claiming isn’t the same as paying child support, or being physically, mentally, or emotionally present. Claiming, in Cyril Pennington’s way, was being generally aware that he had five children (and possibly more, but he wasn’t going to go looking), remembering their names and sometimes their birthdays, and asking them for money when times were hard. He worked as a bus driver, spending his days doing very little in addition to his job but flirting with passengers, chasing women much too young for him, and playing dominoes with his acquaintances at the barber shop near the bus garage. Although he was unknowingly a master of detachment, Cyril saw himself as more of a people person than a father. Sadly for his children, this sociability didn’t extend to the five of them in a way that was mutually beneficial.
Cyril’s eldest was Nikisha Pennington. Fiery, driven, and bright, she’d decided long ago that having a man in her life was never essential, more like something nice to pick up when she needed to and put back down when she didn’t. She had very little time for daddy issues, and actually found the term offensive; the suggestion that she had the issue as a result of being left behind was unbelievable to her. Nikisha’s mother was Bernice. Bernice’s mum had worked at the dental practice Cyril’s mother, Delores, ran with her husband. Cyril had known Bernice for a while before he’d gotten her into bed and subsequently got her pregnant.
Bernice was a slim and captivating, wildly flirty Jamaican woman with an outwardly sunny disposition but mainly a tongue that would, and could, lyrically destroy you. Nikisha had picked this up from Bernice as she’d grown older, and sometimes deployed it, but only when she needed to.
Then came Danny Smith-Pennington. His mother was Tracy Smith, a friendly and more than accommodating petite white woman with a dark blond bob, who lived on the block near the bus garage where Cyril worked. Cyril would help Tracy carry her shopping up the dull stone steps to the flat until the day she asked him if he’d like to come inside for a cup of tea. When she became pregnant, Cyril, in his own optimistic way, vowed to himself that he’d make strides to be present in the life of this child, and also to Nikisha, the two-year-old daughter he already had. That was the first time Cyril had ever notably lied to himself.
Three years later, Cyril became father to Dimple Pennington and Elizabeth Adesina. Not twins, but born three weeks apart. Dimple arrived, weeping as gently as a baby could, three weeks early, while Elizabeth, who would be known as Lizzie by those close to her, arrived silently, precisely on schedule, and already seemingly unimpressed by the world she’d been born into.
Cyril had met Janet, Dimple’s mother, at a nightclub on Old Kent Road he was DJing at. His DJ name was Fireshot. It was also the name of the sound system he’d built back in Jamaica before London called his name. Cyril had liked Janet because she was big. His type was usually smaller, more lean women, but when he laid eyes on Janet’s heavy chest and big, round bottom from the decks, he was so distracted by what he saw that he dropped a bottle of Red Stripe on the turntables. Her full body piqued his interest in a way he hadn’t been able to let go of, physically or mentally. Cyril had promised her the world, and, suitably, had left her with a child. Janet, an Indian Jamaican woman who had aspirations to be a legal secretary, knew nothing of Cyril’s previous children, and when she found out, she was equal parts livid and heartbroken, though she hid her disappointment. She wanted a child to love, yes, but she also thought that what she’d found in Cyril was a man who would love and support them both, not a man who could whisk up, on the spot, seventy-five reasons he couldn’t pay child support this week, but that he “might be able to help in a couple weeks’ time.”
Lizzie’s mother was Kemi Adesina, a young nurse Cyril had met when visiting his mother, Delores, in the hospital. Kemi, the picture of dignity, was athletically built with a long, slender neck, and was a proud and firm Yoruba woman who was committed to a full and prosperous relationship with this man who was to be the father of her child. When she found out that this wasn’t going to be the case, she put the encounter with Cyril down to a lapse in judgment and didn’t speak a word to him until the day Lizzie asked where her dad was. This was around nine years after her conception. Kemi called Cyril, exchanged some quick pleasantries with him, and put him on the phone to his daughter.
When Nikisha was ten years old, Cyril had gone to visit his eldest daughter for the first time in six years. He had given up all of his false aspirations of being a father to her, but it had been Nikisha’s birthday a couple of weeks before and he thought it might be a good thing to take her a card. Nikisha had looked at her father, and the card, with derision, then went out to play with her friends. Cyril stayed and reacquainted himself with her mother, Bernice, who looked just as good to him as she did when Nikisha had been just a glint in his eye.
Nine or so months later, one frosty December day, came Prynce Pennington. Nikisha, who was probably more suited to being an only child, actually took to being an older sister well. Mainly because she realized there was no point in fighting it; the first time Prynce took food out of her mouth to eat it for himself, she knew this sort of activity wouldn’t be a one-off. Everything she had became her little brother’s. Even her time. Prynce grew up to be a schemer and a dreamer. Selectively forgetful but sharp, charming, and excited, but largely uncommitted to anything.
* * *
One day, when all of his children were of what he believed to be approaching courting age (apart from Prynce, who was nine), Cyril decided that this day, this Saturday, would be the day they all met. He jumped out of the bed that sat in the corner of his little studio flat, padded over to the window, and pulled aside the sheet he’d been using as a curtain for the last three years. The sun was shining and the sky was as blue as the sea he remembered from back home. He loved days like this. His mood was entirely dependent on the weather, though he didn’t know why. If he ever let his mind roam to interrogating any possible reasons, he chalked it up to missing the sun he’d known on his skin every day when he’d grown up in Jamaica. Things were very simple to Cyril, so if you’d said the term “seasonal affective disorder” to him, he’d start a fight with you and accuse you of trying to put a spell on him.
He went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and brushed his teeth. He only had one full front tooth, plated in gold. Of the other front tooth, he only had half. He always told women that he lost the other half in a fight, when actually he’d fallen over when he was drunk and smashed his face on the steps going up to his flat. He swilled water round his mouth, spat it out, and smiled at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. He decided that today was going to be a good day.
Cyril left the bathroom and sauntered over to the sound system that took up most of his living space: a record player he’d won in a game of cards hooked up to three once-broken speakers that he’d found outside a nightclub, convincing a friend to help him carry them home. He flipped through his prized record collection, deciding that this morning he was in the mood for some Johnny Nash.
He took time and care to remove the record from its sleeve, then its plastic sheath, balancing it delicately between his thick, otherwise clumsy fingers. He smiled as he lowered it down onto the platter, feeling the same buzz he felt every time he lifted the needle slowly from its place and dropped it on the spinning disk.
The crackle of the vinyl felt like a balm to his soul, and when the music began, Cyril felt his whole body relax.
The shower in his house was broken, and he hadn’t remembered to pay the gas bill on time, so Cyril had a bucket bath with some hot water from the kettle. The electricity bill was always paid on time because Cyril couldn’t live without music. And it wasn’t like he minded not having hot water. This way, he was reminded of bathing back home. When he’d first come to London, the functionality of a shower was so luxurious to him that he almost didn’t trust it.
After his bucket bath, he moved across his little flat, towel round his waist, the once-taut stomach that had been threatening to become a pot belly for a little while peeking over the top of it.
He took his time moisturizing himself before he got dressed, opting for a pair of black trousers with a black leather belt and a salmon-red short-sleeved shirt. He liked this shirt a lot. He couldn’t remember which woman had given it to him, but he knew he definitely didn’t buy it himself. He finished his look with a small gold chain. From it hung a cross pendan t from his mother that dangled down between the space where his pecs had once been.
When he was fully dressed, Cyril danced small steps around his flat until the needle lifted itself off the vinyl and signified that it was time to leave for the day. That was how Cyril did things. He tried not to rely too much on actual time, more on feeling, on instinct, how the world was moving around him. How he had kept a job was a mystery to everybody who knew him, especially his employers.
Cyril left his flat, carefully locking the door behind him lest anyone broke in and stole anything to do with his music. He strutted down the steps to the ground floor, left the building—an old Georgian house that had been converted into way too many flats—and smiled widely at the postman coming up the path.
“Anyting for me, Bill?” Cyril asked the postman. “Unless it’s bills you bring me, Bill. You cyan keep dem.”
The postman, a white man named William with a curious mustache, laughed politely, shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders at the same time. It wasn’t that Cyril’s accent, one that he’d refused to drop since he’d arrived in England decades ago, was particularly strong, but William still had no idea what he was saying to him, even though they’d spoken to each other in some way pretty much every day for the last year.
Cyril climbed into his vehicle, a shining gold Jeep. It was his pride and joy. Most, if not all, of the money he should have spent on child support, or even living slightly more comfortably, was spent on the gold Jeep. He truly loved it more than anything else in his life and he didn’t see a problem with that. He put the key into the ignition, wound the windows down, and slid a reggae mix CD he’d gotten at the barber shop into the drive. Before he took off, “Inna di Bus” by Professor Nuts blasting through the speaker, he pulled the sun visor down and smiled at his reflection in the mirror, his gold tooth glinting back at him.
“You is a handsome man, Cyril!” he said to himself. He was definitely not a man who needed lessons in self-love.
* * *
First, he arrived at Bernice’s. He’d timed it so she was out doing Saturday shopping in Brixton market. He didn’t want to get into it with her, didn’t want to have to answer any questions about what he was doing with his kids on his own time. When Cyril pulled up, Prynce was already outside, eyeing the gold Jeep suspiciously. The loud reggae blaring from it had already disturbed him from roller skate practice.
“My yout!” Cyril smiled, pulling up and sticking his head out of the window. “How yuh still so small?”
Prynce knew not to talk to strangers, so backed toward the house as quickly as his roller skates would let him.
“Nikisha!” Prynce called into the house behind him. “Stranger danger!”
Nikisha, now nineteen, ran out of the house, frying pan raised above her head.
“Back up!” she shouted. “Oh.”
She rolled her eyes at the gold Jeep, and the man inside it, and lowered the frying pan.
“It’s your dad.” She stroked Prynce’s head with her free hand.
“Who?”
“Well, your dad and mine,” Nikisha told Prynce. “He’s called Cyril.”
“Ohhh.” Prynce blinked slowly, looking at this man with fresh eyes.
“Y’all right, Nikisha?” Cyril called out. “Since when yuh know how fi cook?”
Nikisha looked back at Cyril blankly.
“Why are you here, Dad?”
“I’m taking you out for the day.”
“Are you?” Nikisha laughed. “What’s the occasion?”
“How old is this one now?” Cyril asked Nikisha, pointing at Prynce. “Six? Seven? Him small!”
“He’s nine,” Nikisha said. She thought about hitting him with the frying pan.
“Nine!” Cyril exclaimed, looking at both of his children. Nikisha already looked exactly like her mother did when he’d met her. Prynce looked like Cyril did when he was nine. But much skinnier.
“There doesn’t have to be an occasion,” he told Nikisha and Prynce. “It’s a nice day, so I thought, why not? Lemme see mi kids dem, lemme take them somewhere nice.”
Nikisha opened her mouth to ask her dad why he’d turned up today of all days, when it had been years since he’d seen them. She was ready to ask why he thought he could drive up to their house in this oversized and garish vehicle with no notice and disturb their peace for the day, to ask why he wouldn’t be nice to Prynce, who hadn’t seen him since he was about two. But instead, she told Prynce to swap his roller skates for sneakers and use the toilet before they went out. Maybe it would be good for Prynce to see what their dad was like instead of always asking. Nikisha did not have the answers.
“And wash your hands, Prynce!”
Nikisha put the frying pan on the cabinet by the front door and made her way into the Jeep.
“How are you?” she asked her dad, immediately turning his music down. It wasn’t that she didn’t like reggae, it’s that she liked to be able to hear a conversation without having to guess 80 percent of what was being said.
“As you find me.” Cyril smiled, turning the music back up and restarting the CD so Professor Nuts played again.
“Wha’ you know ’bout this tune?” Cyril shouted over the song.
Nikisha blinked back at him.
Once Prynce was in the car, seat belt on, Nikisha shook her head in wonder at the day’s change of plans. This was her experience of having Cyril as a parent in a nutshell, though. You think you’re about to have a normal day and suddenly you’re reminded that (a) you have a dad, and (b) your dad wasn’t actually a parent. Cyril started driving, zipping around the streets of south London, not concentrating enough on the road, but slowing down and eyeing pretty much every woman they passed.
“Dad, can you remember that we’re here, please?” Nikisha pleaded, checking that her seat belt was secure. “Where are you even taking us?”
“We’re going to the park,” Cyril told her. “But we’ve got a couple—no, t’ree stops first.”
* * *
They pulled up to an estate, a cluster of high-rise buildings whose top floors nestled in the clouds in West Norwood that Nikisha had never been to but recognized because it was close to the bus garage she knew her dad worked at.
Cyril unclipped his seat belt and jumped out of the gold Jeep.
“You two wait here,” he told them, disappearing into the estate. When he returned, following him was a mixed-race teenage boy who couldn’t have been that much younger than Nikisha. Handsome, taller than Cyril but a lot slimmer, and with loud acne dotted across his forehead and cheeks.
Cyril climbed into the driver’s seat, and the boy opened the back door and slid in behind Nikisha.
“Who is this? Who are you?” Nikisha asked, turning to her dad, then to the boy, for an answer.
“It’s your brother.” Cyril shrugged as if Nikisha had asked a silly question.
“I’m Danny.” The boy smiled, holding a hand out for Nikisha to shake.
Nikisha ignored the hand.
“I’m Nikisha, that’s Prynce,” she told him.
Nikisha turned back to Cyril and stared daggers at him. He didn’t notice, though; they were back on the road and the music was back on. Cyril didn’t have a care in the world.
“Nikisha, run the CD back for me, track one again,” he asked his eldest.
“Where are we going?” Danny asked their dad over the music.
“The park,” Cyril told him. “But we’ve got one or two stops first.”
They drove to Norbury, a strange little area that was nestled between Streatham and Croydon, not taking any trait from either surrounding area but not really having any defining traits of its own.
The gold Jeep pulled up outside a compact little house. Cyril parked swiftly and expertly in a space that had before seemed physically impossible for the Jeep to fit into.
“Actually, lemme jus’ move down there a piece,” Cyril said, driving out of the space and parking a little farther down the road.
Again, Cyril jumped out of the Jeep. When he returned, behind him was a plump teenage girl, hair big and wild, most of it escaping what was once a loose bun on top of her head.
