James

In despair and faced with a wall of crumbling plaster I am given the number of a 'man who can'. He offers to pop round and have a look.  He uses the phrase 'lovely jubbly'.  I am comforted.

He rings on the door bell and comes to inspect the mess.  He is tall and thin.  He has white paint on his t-shirt.  'Easy job', he says.  I express my concerns about the benefits of patching it up versus tearing more down and starting again.  'Well you can if you want, Richard', he says, 'but I guarantee you it's going to be just fine'.  He taps the wall.  'Really?', I ask.  'A hundred percent - pay me in ten years if you want'.  I am half-convinced. 

He agrees to do it tomorrow for forty pounds.  On the way out I ask my question.  'I used to be Catholic', he tells me.  He was being confirmed with his brother and they asked him for his middle name.  He couldn't remember and so copied his brother's answer.  'And now it's on all my documents'.  He laughs and waves as he goes down the stairs.  'See you tomorrow, Richard', he says. 

(The following day, we share cups of tea and plastering tips.  He tells me that his parents moved to London from St Lucia when he was six months old and left him and his brother with their grandmother.  When he was six the two of them were put on 'a banana boat I suppose you'd call it' with name tags round their neck.  The young boys arrived at Victoria station.  'We didn't even have electricity at home', he tells me, 'and now there's all this steam and white people'.  On the platform they saw a black couple walking towards them holding a baby.  They put out their hands and introduced themselves to their sons.

'I'm fifty now, Richard.  I've got five grandchildren and counting', he says.  'I've got a four year-old with my current partner and guess what...'.  'What?', I say.  'She's pregnant', he tells me.)