Chapter 2

A friendship begins to form

 

Chapter 2

 

 

Another new day at Lambton House. No weather to notice, not fair or foul. Nothing weather. But, having got through the ‘non-day’ before, Marcus was up and about a lot earlier. He checked the clock again; it was 9.30 a.m. In fact, the wry thought came to Marcus, yesterday had not been quite the ‘nothing-day’ of his routine of late. There had been the two women to mull over. Natasha the student girl who couldn’t manage her baggage – probably still sleeping, and the fancy mixed-race b***h across the road. Jellicoe Street was becoming almost eventful for those who took small part in the business of living. 

Agitatedly, the man who had once been a long-limbed athlete shifted around on the edge of his bed, flicking the TV from channel to channel until he heard the sound he had been waiting for. At last. At last. 

Marcus reached blindly for his puffa jacket, darted to the front door, and swooped like a gannet to pick up his mail; a solitary, familiar brown envelope that he knew contained a girocheque.

As he closed the front door and checked that it was firmly locked, Natasha emerged from her father’s flat at the top of the stairs. The lack of the heavy rucksack had improved her posture and she now looked all of her five foot, six inches.

“Hi Marcus,” Natasha said with her first, fleeting smile in hours.

“Oh hello,” answered Marcus who had become unaccustomed to having a conversation. He scratched his flaky skinned face, “Back for your holidays?” he added tamely.

“Yes.”

As he put the keys into his pocket, Marcus felt the giro. The need to cash it became paramount.  “Good, I’m sorry but I’ve got to rush. I’ll see you around though. Bye,” and was off without thinking whether Natasha was going his way.

“I guess so. Bye,” Natasha said quietly as she in turn made her way out of Lambton House.

 

 

 

Marcus hurried to join the queue for the Post Office, trying not to look at the numerous young mothers pushing buggies with children of varying ages, the pensioners, the so called ‘no-hopers’ and idlers as he waited anxiously to change the giro into real money.

Once the cashier had given him his cash, Marcus bought a weekly bus pass and caught a bus to Lewisham.

Throughout the ten-minute journey, he stared absently out of the window watching the background change from grandiose Victorian properties with their well maintained gardens, to the congested modern mass produced houses of the varying estates that had grown ever larger. Abandoned cars and litter strewn pavements clearly signposted the demarcation lines.

Marcus stopped off at the library, spending an hour surfing the internet on the free access computers the Council had provided. As usual, he had no e-mails. When his hour was up, he made his way to the fiction section and selected three books that might provide relief and distraction from his endless diet of daytime TV.

He emerged into the spring sunshine and made his way to the market, a fortnightly highlight he could still enjoy. In addition, if he left it until late morning, the stall owners were beginning to give bargain weight. Local byelaws insisted the market be gone by two p.m., so by noon the vendors would be shouting the odds.

The cries of “Pound a bowl, pound a bowl,” rang out from all directions as Marcus navigated his way through the crowded streets, tolerating the hustle bustle and increasingly unfamiliar contact with strangers. Market stalls that once been manned by local traders who could tell stories of the Blitz and beyond had passed onto Asian, Kosovan and Eastern Europeans who had migrated to London in search of a better future.

F**k political correctness, Marcus thought and made a conscious decision to give his custom (regardless how measly) to one of the increasingly rare local traders. His ears pricked up like antennae when he heard the familiar “loverly termaters” shout of the white greengrocer.

Now that he was a man living alone in a bed-sit, he had lost the luxury of buying big quantities, even at knockdown prices. Nevertheless, Marcus haggled quite happily for salad stuff, a fine avocado, along with a hand of bananas and two apples. It was enough to make him feel almost a member of the human race again.

As he strode back towards the bus stop, he noticed the increasing number of shops that were now advertising the fact that they sold Polish goods. Yet another sign of the transformation that was taking place in London.

Prior to boarding a bus back to Blackheath, he stopped in the conveniently handy Lidl and diligently went about selecting the depressing cheap staples that his budget allowed. Purchases complete he joined the queue of mainly Eastern Europeans, ignoring the contemptuous stares they felt his black skin merited and paid for his goods before making his way to his local pub.

 

 

The Market Tavern was fairly busy with its usual diverse mix of clientele that ranged from the local regulars - drinkers who hadn’t the time or the inflated salaries for wine bars further afield - to the suited workers of the many offices that lay within walking distance of the popular pub.

Marcus sat alone in a quiet corner drinking a pint of lager, the three supermarket carrier bags that contained his carefully selected supplies sitting safely at his feet under the table, when a smartly dressed ginger-haired man of around twenty-eight entered the pub. He looked around the other tables before he noticed Marcus and waved.

He walked to the bar, removing his tie as he ordered two pints, then joined Marcus and handed him one of the glasses.

Marcus nodded his head in appreciation. “Cheers Declan.”

“No problem mate.  How are things?”Declan said in a mild Irish brogue as he took off his coat and threw it on the empty chair.

“Still alive,” Marcus answered sullenly.

Declan took his pint, clinked his glass with Marcus’ before taking a long swig. “That was needed,” he smiled. “Might have some good news for you mate.”

“What’s that?”

“I was speaking to a client today; he mentioned he was looking for new staff.”

 “Yeah?” Marcus said with little interest.

“Come on Marcus. I’m trying to help you out here.”

“Sorry mate. It’s just that I’ve sent out so many letters, application forms and answered so many adverts. What’s the f*****g point?”

“I know its hard mate, but you’ve got to keep on trying. Look I put in a good word for you and the guy was interested in meeting you.”

“What’s the job?”

Declan took another mouthful of lager. “Does it matter? It’s a wage Marcus. It’s better than signing on. At least you’ll be earning enough to get out more than once every giro day.”

“It’s got to be crap if you’re not keen on telling me what it is.”

“Ok, it’s in telesales.”

Marcus shook his head. “S**t man, you’re not serious? Not that con!”

“No honestly it’s not what you think,” Declan said trying to placate his friend. “The basic salary is decent. Really!   Okay so you are on commission, but if you do alright then you’re on a good whack.”

“Yeah targets that mean you have to work like a slave,” Marcus added sarcastically.

“Marcus this guy isn’t like that.”

“Ok. Selling what?”

“Holidays and insurance. It’s a doddle, you’ll do alright, believe me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well at least get in touch with him and see what he’s got to say. What’s to lose?”

“Yeah I suppose so,” Marcus admitted reluctantly.

“Good man,” Declan smiled as he handed Marcus a business card.  “Don’t forget to tell him that you know me and we’ve worked together.”

Marcus shook his head. “You getting a fee or something?”

Declan smiled, finished the rest of his beer and got up. “I’ll get another round in.”

As he rose, three attractive young women, all in their early twenties, two white and one mixed-race, burst noisily into the pub. Their laughing and brazen manner immediately attracted both Declan and Marcus’ attention.

Looking towards the women, Declan nodded his head. “They look fit.”

“Okay I suppose,” Marcus replied indifferently. He had already realised that the mixed-race woman was the same one he had seen get in the gold BMW.

“Listen to yourself. You’re starting to sound like a sad loser mate. Get a life!” Declan ribbed.

 

 

 

High in Lambton House, Natasha closed the book and rubbed her tired eyes. That was enough studying for one night. What was called for was a hot bath and coffee. Some wind down music would be nice too. She could start with the music.

Natasha, now softer and more feminine in a white towelling gown was languorous with true physical tiredness. She wriggled off the narrow guest bed and fiddled with the knobs on the old radio set that had gathered dust on the little cabinet adjacent to her pillow.

“That’s broken,” Wendy, her father’s partner, had told her ungraciously when she had first shown Natasha her allotted quarters. “Used to be Lisa’s….” Wendy caught herself, “your mother’s or you had it when you were little I gather. I was going to chuck it out, but your dad said you’d kick up a fuss.”

Having scored a hit and made her point, Wendy remembered herself and adopted a more gracious manner. Kevin had a big thing about catfights.   She mustn’t be the obvious aggressor. “I don’t suppose you’d like to take it with you to college?” she suggested, all helpful sweetness.

Natasha was neither a fool nor a complete pushover. “It’s heavy,” she said refusing to rise to the bait, “the retro look’s back in fashion now and it’s got a lovely tone. That’s why mum was so fond of it. She had a really good musical ear. But I guess you never knew that.”   She felt better when Wendy turned and stormed off.

The crackling subsided as she managed to find Jazz FM and turned the volume down to a bare minimum.

Next, she braved the kitchen where her father would be getting himself a late night snack. Supper had been a gluey pasta affair and Kevin did not trust foreign food to see him through the small hours, so he was arduously fixing himself a sort of sandwich while his partner’s back was turned. Wendy, from faint splashing and hissings, was in the shower and likely to be long. How much hot water would there be left for a bath Natasha mused. More to the point, could Wendy ever be really clean?

“Dad?”

“Hhhrrr”

“Mind if I get some cereals and a coffee?”

She was already reaching for the bowl and packet, nevertheless he tracked her movements with deep suspicion. Natasha was gaining a confidence that was beginning to slip from his grasp. The put-downs weren’t keeping her in check the way they had used to do. They weren’t ……effective. She was in a world of her own, shrugging them off, coming back here bold as brass whenever it suited her; slipping ten pound notes behind Wendy’s fridge magnets to “pay for her keep”.

“Hhhrr. Make sure you clear up after yourself then. I don’t want Wendy slaving around with washing up round the clock just because you’ve decided to land on us for your holidays.”

Father and daughter locked eyes that were alike. Kevin also had the same fine pale skin and thin bones. He too, for all his aggression, had been prey; Wendy’s unrightful prey. They assessed each other. When he found that this strange, unregarded girl, who had once been his loving daughter, was looking at him with something like compassion, Kevin plunged his knife into the open jar of tuna sweet corn spread. F**k compassion, she had better get off her high horse and learn to respect him again.

 

 

 

Marcus cursed at the clock, which read 12:30 p.m. He hadn’t intended to sleep so late. He got out of bed, counted the mixture of notes and coins on the bedside table. The remains of his giro after he paid all his bills was a measly twenty-eight pounds and fifty pence, which he would have to try to make last until his next cheque. Thankfully he rarely went out and it cost nothing (especially as he hadn’t yet paid his licence) to watch the television.

As he walked to the kitchen to put on the kettle, Marcus caught sight of the mixed-race woman from the pub. She was lighter than Maxine.   Smoother, groomed solely to allure, but nevertheless cut from the same cloth.

The mere thought of Maxine caused him to wince. Would he ever get over her? Even though he had long since stopped thinking of her as his wife, (the divorce rather helped that) she still had the annoying habit of controlling his life. He wished he could stop thinking of her – period!

Marcus remained at the window watching the woman carrying items from the BMW into the expensive, upmarket building opposite. When, after she had not re-appeared for ten minutes, Marcus decided to settle down to watch TV.

He had just found the remote and was about to turn on the TV, when the muffled sound of arguing seeped through from the thin plasterboard walls of the flat next door. Marcus pressed the remote, and turned the volume up to listen to the host of the chat show introduce today’s topic.

The programme was only a few minutes old when the doorbell rang. Remote in hand, he walked to the front door, checked through the spy hole where he saw the diminutive figure of Natasha biting her nails.

Marcus opened the door to his neighbour who was wearing a pair of red jeans and a loose cheesecloth top that had unintentionally been left unbuttoned to reveal a pair of firm breasts. She was not wearing any make-up and looked younger than her twenty-three years. She was obviously distressed.

“Look, I’m sorry to be a nuisance,” she said apologetically.

“That’s okay.”

She bit on her lip sheepishly. “Can I come in please?”

 “Sure,” Marcus said, opening the door to allow her in.

“Are you alright? Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?” he offered sensing her need for company.

“Do you mind?”

“Don’t be silly of course I don’t. Have a seat,” he said, showing her to the sofa before walking to the ‘kitchen’ area and switching on the kettle. “What would you prefer, tea or coffee?”

Natasha sat down and nervously nibbled away at her fingernails. What was she doing here? Did she seriously expect this man, who she had previously only had brief chats with, to take the time to listen to her woes. Why should he care?

“Tea please.”

Marcus opened a cupboard and took out two mugs.

“I haven’t seen you around much lately,” he said, trying to break the nervous silence.

“I’m on mid-term break,”

There was a short pause before she continued. “I’m really sorry. I just had to get out of there.”

 

“What happened?”

“Nothing really.”

The whistling of the kettle as it finished boiling interrupted the conversation.

“Milk and sugar?”

“Milk and one sugar thanks.”

Marcus made a cup of tea for Natasha and a coffee for himself. He handed her the mug and perched on the bed.

Natashatook a sip of the tea. It didn’t take long before the flood banks burst and she let it all out.

“I just had to get out of there, but I didn’t want to be on my own.”

Marcus waited for her to explain.

“I can’t stand her. She just loves rubbing my face in it.”

“Who?”

“Her! Wendy!” It was almost a wail. “My dad’s girlfriend. The b***h.” She drank more of the tea. “My mum and dad got divorced because of her. You know something? People said my mother actually…..” Natasha took a heaving breath, leaving the sentence incomplete. “I can’t stand her.”

There was a nervous pause while tension accrued and Natasha took herself in hand. Whatever Natasha’s mother actually had or hadn’t done, it definitely wasn’t good.

“What are you studying?” Marcus asked patiently, trying to diffuse the situation.

“Biochemistry and Genetics.”

 “Right,” Marcusanswered, which led to another pause. “I’m impressed,” he added, with the smallest possible muscle movement that could count as a smile.

“What do you do?” Natasha asked.

“I’m unemployed.”

“Oh.”

She finished her tea. Marcus picked up the empty mugs and placed them carefully in the sink. He checked his watch again.

“Look, I was going for a drink,” Marcus lied.

“I’m sorry. I’ll get going,” said Natasha standing to leave.

“You don’t have to go. I mean why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

“No I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

“Please. You need to talk,” Marcus said in a gentle persuasive voice. “Come on; let me buy you a drink.”

“Are you sure?”

“Honest. Come on let’s go.”

“Okay then,” Natasha smiled. Her turn to try. She wasn’t sure how to talk about it.

She hadn’t had any real friends when her mother died.   She had shied away from counsellors later on at college. She was even reluctant to shame her father in public. Theirs had been such a family for not washing its dirty linen in public.  Keeping up appearances.

For months after Natasha’s dad had really gone to live with Wendy, her mother had kept up appearances to the extent of the washing she hung on the line: men’s shirts. Clean linen only. Trying to fool the neighbours into thinking that her husband still lived there.

God knows why she had been so afraid of what people thought, Natasha reflected, drifting away from Marcus into her own private hell. All around their little terraced council house up the Angel, there had been fornication, partner swapping and adultery.

It was no different with the posh neighbours up the road and around the corner in the Canonbury Parks. They were luckier, because they could afford to hide behind proper blinds, not frilly nets and thin print curtains.

People from all the other maisonettes had been able to see Lisa’s silhouette curled up on the couch; with drooping head and arms tight around a cushion, as if letting go of it might be the death of her. Lisa had shrunk from human contact, being too sensitive to bear the comment. She’d stopped going out, stopped opening the curtains; started taking anti-depressants, then a whole packet of anti-depressants, until the curtains closed permanently.

Marcus took a swig from his pint of lager and placed the Bacardi Breezer in front of Natasha as they finally found an empty table in the Market Tavern.

 “Thanks. My dad says I’m being - unreasonable. He loves that word. He says it wasn’t her fault; that they didn’t mean for it to happen. I think that’s crap. That’s just an excuse for being selfish.”

She took a nip of her drink whilst unconsciously twisting a strand of hair around her finger. Marcus allowed her to continue. It was obvious she needed to talk to someone and she had chosen him.

“How can a woman do that to another woman? She didn’t care about anybody else, not my mother, not me. He’s just as bad. They just thought about themselves.”

 “You don’t have to tell me.”

She didn’t seem to hear him, and carried on. “Anyway, Mum became depressed and killed herself not long after, so I had to move in with them. They got away with it alright. The GP gave evidence at the inquest – they decided that it was Accidental Death or Misadventure because they said she was meant to be too ill and dopey to know what she was doing. I just played along, but I knew she deliberately killed herself.”

 “I should let you know I’m divorced,” Marcus said quietly.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t….. “ Natasha apologised, still busy with the strand of hair.

“Don’t be. I agree with you. My wife left me,” he said, surprised that he was opening this still festering wound to someone he hardly knew.

It was now Marcus who was lost in thought, reliving past memories.

 

He stared at Maxine, wondering whether she had decided to do something a bit wicked but frivolous and expensive, like buying a house in Tangier.  Something that would cause a big stir, but not a horror that would blow his soul apart he had hoped.

But that was not Maxine’s style. No, she had taken a lover. Someone else! Had given him a month to vacate the house. Give her an address for her lawyers to contact she had ordered, triumphant, hateful, businesslike.

“Des and I need space to build our relationship with each other and our family.” - the only explanation offered.

“Why?” he had asked, his mouth making a pitiful smiling shape (he knew now that was pure shock). It had put him off smiling. “Why? What have I done?” he had wanted to ask.

Then angry and self-righteous.

“Look, I’m not wasting my time explaining anything to you; if you don’t get it then that’s your problem. I’ve given you as much as I can and after all these years we’re getting nowhere. You’re a man in an insignificant job, with small goals and little ambition – I won’t settle for that. I’ve told you before, my son and I deserve better and Des can offer us that. It’s over, we’reover – you get over it!”

“You know, I sometimes wonder if your parents didn’t realise how inadequate you were and just wanted to get rid of their useless son.”

And all he could think to say back was: “What did I do wrong?”

 

Natasha waited in silence, waiting until he could find the right words.

Marcus stirred again. “Yep, she left me.”

Natasha’s voice was normal, soft and direct.

“Why?”

“She found someone else,” Marcus answered coldly. He finished his pint and gestured to her glass. “Do you want another?”

“I’ll get them,” Natasha offered.

“No I asked you. I’ll get them,” Marcus insisted.

Marcus picked up the glasses, made his way to the bar and bought another round of drinks then returned to the table and handed Natasha another bottle.

 “Thanks,” her fingers finally free from her hair.

“No problem,” Marcus answered all normal again now that the subject had moved on. “How long have you been at university?”

“I’m in my second year.”

“Right. What exactly are you studying?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Of course.”

“Well last year we studied the fundaments of cell biology, genetics and molecular structure. In layman’s terms – how the body is put together and works.”

“Seems too deep for me.”

Natasha laughed; a soft quiet laugh. “Not exactly a winner at parties either. A bit like telling someone you play a musical instrument and then having to declare it’s actually a bassoon.”

Marcus let out a semblance of a laugh himself.

“Didn’t you ever think of going to uni?”

Marcus shook his head. “I’m not really academic. I suppose I was never encouraged by my parents. They didn’t see the point in me studying for a piece of paper when I could be out making money. That and being too busy running their errands and looking after them. To be honest school was just an escape from the chores for me.

“Are you involved with anyone?” Natasha asked casually as she fingered her hair nervously.

“No. How about you?” Marcus replied, wondering where that question had come from.

“No,” she paused to sip her drink. “God we’re a right pair of saddoes.”

Marcus smiled. “You started it.”

“Sorry,” Natasha said, coiling the lock of her hair around her finger.

“You like that word don’t you?”

“Sorry. I won’t say it again,” she said, looking down at her drink.

“Good.”

“Am I bugging you?”

“No. Why, do I give you that impression?”

“I don’t know I just wondered. I’m not always this boring you know.”

“I never said you were boring.”

 

 

As the mid-afternoon set in, the pub emptied. Natasha watched as the barman switched channels on the big, silent television slanted in the corner high above the bar. Her eyes widened at the sight of sweating men in bright vests leaping and straddling impossibly high bars, to fall sprawling backwards on great blocks of foam. Skinny girls, elbows working like pistons, paced and spurted around a track.

“Do you like sports?”

Natasha blushed, but her eyes glowed, “I like running. I used to run at school.”

“Really?”

“Don’t sound so shocked. I was quite good.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for…. I mean you don’t look like a runner.”

“Well you’re wrong. I used to run for the county.”

 “Why did you stop; if you were good enough to run for the county, you were obviously pretty good?”

“Don’t know really,” she replied, lowering her head and reaching for a strand of hair to twist. For a moment she remembered those days. Her achievements that had failed to impress either parent. It had been “That’s good love,” from her mother, and an indifferent “Don’t know what you want all that exercise for. Do better stopping still and getting some meat on those bones,” from her father. He never dreamed that his comments could hurt, but when she had become self-conscious about her b***s; that had made him laugh. “Guess Mum’s death put thing in perspective. I had more important things to do,” she said sadly.

Marcus took a sip of his beer, feeling guilty for pressing the young girl who had retreated into herself again. The truth was he himself had truly excelled at the hurdles. Could have been an Olympic prospect his teacher had said, selection for the Junior National team and all the signs for the full squad had been a less-than-remote possibility if only he had been able to attend the after school training.

But of course there had been his parents disapproval and the Church.   Ironically his fate had been decided when he’d injured his knee, had too many cortisone injections, lost interest and that had been that; career over before it started. Perhaps that was why he was beginning to warm to Natasha. In many ways despite the difference in years, they both had shared experiences. First time out with a girl for ages and he had managed to upset her. She didn’t deserve that.

They fell to commenting on the performances on screen, following the competition, shared a plateful of ‘homemade chunky chips’ covered with ketchup; backed this or the other contestant.  A Swede won the High Jump Gold, whilst a sandy-haired girl from the American Mid-West triumphed in her middle-distance heat, but looked thoroughly miserable about it.

“Imagine how you would feel if that was you winning a title? That still could be you, you’re young enough. You should toughen yourself up, go for it,” he said, hoping to cheer her up, yet wondering if he had phrased it right.

Natasha picked up her drink and for a moment saw the possibilities as she savoured the taste of the alcohol. Perhaps those few words were capable of opening a world of new possibilities.

The sports programme was followed by the News, with the sound off. 

“What do you think they are talking about?” Marcus asked pointing to the screen where a couple of men seemed to be arguing.  In the background, the logo of the lottery was plainly visible.

Natasha scrunched up her face, twirled her hair furiously round her finger as she thought. “Mmm, I think the smaller one is upset because when they bought the lottery ticket they agreed to share and now that they’ve won the other bloke has denied any agreement and is claiming the money is his.”

Marcus chuckled. “Very creative, but I bet that he is mad because their numbers came up and he forgot to buy a ticket.”

“Not bad. But I am sure that the other guy, (who just happens to be his ex-lover) is suing him for taking the money for the ticket and spending it on hair removal treatment. ”

They laughed, real laughs, until  with the time after seven o’clock, they sadly ran out of money for drinks. 

 “Thanks for listening,” Natasha said as they walked home.

“Anytime. You know you’re welcome.”

“Thanks. I really enjoyed today. Can I return the compliment?”

“What?”

“Can I buy you a drink tomorrow?”

“That’s alright. You don’t have to.”

“I’d like to.”

Marcus shrugged his shoulders. “Well it’s up to you.”

“Right, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

 

Natahsa waited for a few seconds before opening the door and going inside. Was it worth it – did she have time – to try out for the Uni Athletics Club? She could get subsidised kit, probably, if she made it into the squad. Still, even if she didn’t join she could start using the track. Go running again.

Toughen herself up, as Marcus had told her. She was sure he had really meant more than just running. It was all part of the same process; taking charge of her life.

Natasha visualised Wendy wobbling around a track, and grinned as she slipped the key in the front door lock.

 

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Reviews

[Honeypot]

This is really shaping up. We're getting more indepth knowledge of Marcus and he's a character that we can sympathize with. I especially enjoyed the back flash to the break up with his wife, who seemed rather cruel, and all he could wonder about is what he had done. It made the reader feel for him. I'm curious about what kind of a relationship he and Natasha will have. I get the impression that he is considerably older?

I did wonder initially what exactly a "girocheque" was, but I believe you cleared that up later when you mentioned unemployement. Also, for some after the first chapter I had the impression that his wife may have died. I wasn't expecting divorce.

I enjoyed this. I think you're doing good.

[Shellie]

The part where Marcus is with his friend Declan, you said 'mate' an awful lot. I know words can be overused as here in the south we say 'like' ALOT but that was a tad too many times mentioned. Also, didnt Marcus only have 22 odd pounds and if Natasha didnt buy any as she insisted on returning the favour the following day how did 22 pounds last nearly 7 hours including chips? You are also giving the impression Marcus is rascist as when the girls came into the pub he thought 'two white and one mixed race' i know the emphasis was on the one who owned the BMW but ther wasnt any need to say that, and the same applies to the white greengrocer. I know its a book about cultural diversity but most of the descriptions are OTT...Looking back to your prologue i had copped that the kids were intimidating a coloured girl as they were singing brown girl in the ring. I wouldnt relate that to coloured people but thats what i presumed you were heading for yet it worked. It showed that even young kids have that power to divide culture regardless of whether this mixed race child was the same nationality, she was still mixed race.

The part with Marcus and Natasha getting to know one another and Marcus, as defeated as he is is very well done; the compassion people can have for others and his ability to make her see she could try where he had failed, well gave up with a reason was well presented. Its a good chapter but the above reasons are ones that dont stick with me for the storyline.