Finding Cherokee Brown

Once I’d managed to get across the road I saw a sign that told me I was now in Whitechapel. You know, the crappy brown square on the Monopoly board that only costs about 20p in rent even if you have ten hotels on it. Well, dear reader, I now know why it’s so cheap. It smells like a boiled toilet and there’s a horrible film of dirt covering everything, like cigarette ash. I would’ve stopped someone to ask for directions if I hadn’t been so worried about stranger danger. Not that I normally worry about that sort of thing, but the people I was passing looked stranger and more dangerous than anyone I’ve ever seen before. For example, there was a woman with long greasy hair and smeary make-up pushing a supermarket trolley with just an old rusty kettle in it. And a man with two carrier bags tied to his feet, hobbling along, shouting about God. And another man who was drinking beer and singing a Bob Marley song in the doorway of an ‘adult entertainment centre’ – which we all know is just another name for a sex shop. I wonder what goes on in a sex shop. Do people just walk in off the street and say, ‘I’d like to buy some sex, please.’?

I decided that I’d take the next left turn and if it looked just as bad I’d start making my way back to the station. But the next left turn was like finding a black hole in outer space and slipping into another dimension. Or in this case, slipping into India. As I started walking up the road I realised that nearly every shop was an Indian restaurant, and if it wasn’t an Indian restaurant it was an Indian supermarket, or a sari shop, or an Indian sweet shop with trays of rainbow-coloured sweets filling the windows. I got to a small crossroads and looked for a clue to where I was. Somebody had spray-painted PLEASE DON’T BOMB US on the wall and beneath that was a black and white street sign. It said BRICK LANE. I felt a little flutter in my stomach. Brick Lane was near Spitalfields Market. I’d seen a programme once on The History Channel about twentieth-century London migrants (I’d pretended to Alan it was for a history project to get out of going on a family badminton night) and the presenter had talked about Brick Lane being right next door to Spitalfields.

I started walking a bit faster. Up ahead of me two ladies in black burkhas bustled their little children over a tiny zebra crossing. They reminded me of mother penguins. The road was narrower now and cobbled, the complete opposite of Whitechapel High Street. As I walked I peered down each side road looking for any sign of Spitalfields. The names of the roads were really cool – Threadneedle Street, Fashion Street – there wasn’t a Magnolia Crescent in sight. And then, as I peered down a side road called Fournier Street, I saw a sign with an arrow saying SPITALFIELDS MARKET. I stopped, as still as a statue. Ever since I’d got on the tube I’d been worried I’d never find Spitalfields, but now I had found it I felt a bit sick. I fumbled around in my bag for my mobile to check the time. Nearly half past eleven. I pulled out the birthday card and opened it again, my fingers trembling.

You can find me most lunchtimes performing in Spitalfields Market. By the record stalls. If you want to find me . . .

I took a deep breath. It wasn’t lunchtime yet. I still had time to get to the market and decide what I was going to do. I started walking down Fournier Street. I wondered what my dad looked like. Back when I thought he was all American with commitment issues I pictured him being big and broad and wearing a cowboy hat and boots. And possibly a medallion. But now I knew he had wanted to call his daughter – wanted to call me – Cherokee, I wasn’t sure what to think. Maybe he was a Native American and Steve Brown was just his English name. Maybe he was really called Growling Bear or Big Stream Running Water. I wondered what he did when he ‘performed’. I thought of the men with the long dark plaits who played the pan pipes in Harrow every Saturday. Is that what Steve – my dad – would be doing in Spitalfields? I felt my cheeks start to flush. What would I say to him? How should I act?

‘And this is where Jack the Ripper’s first victim used to lodge . . .’

I glanced across the street and saw a group of people gathered in front of a really old house, gazing up at its grimy windows. A man with a clipboard was standing on the steps of the house, giving them some kind of talk. I started walking a little faster. Images of a madman massacring prostitutes were not really what I needed to calm my nerves. At the end of the street a thin white church pointed up into the clear blue sky like a witch’s finger. I drew level with it and stopped and stared. There, straight ahead of me on the other side of a busy main road, was a wrought iron gate and a sign that said WELCOME TO OLD SPITALFIELDS MARKET.

Chapter Four

‘When in doubt, place your character in an unusual setting. Then see your writing come alive!’

Agatha Dashwood,

So You Want to Write a Novel?

For the first time ever I entered a church without being forced there in a nasty dress for somebody’s christening or wedding. That’s how scary the prospect of seeing my real dad was. I sat down on a shiny wooden pew about halfway along the church and took a deep breath. The air was cool and clean and smelt slightly of Christmas. I looked up at the huge wooden cross suspended over the altar and suddenly felt as if I was in a corny movie and this was the part where the heroine prays to God for guidance. Feeling slightly desperate, I whispered, ‘What should I do?’ and looked at the mosaic of coloured light streaming on to the cross through the stained-glass window. But nothing happened. There was no booming God-voice uttering words of wisdom. Not even a thunderbolt. Nothing but the hum of the traffic outside.

I sat there for ages in the end, with all kinds of images flashing through my mind. Rayners High, my mum and Alan, the twins, Magnolia Crescent. They all seemed so far away now. It was like I’d been whisked out of my old life into somebody else’s. Somebody called Cherokee. It was when I had that thought that I finally plucked up the courage to go. Claire Weeks might have stayed hiding in a church all day, but not Cherokee Brown.

Outside, the sunlight was brighter than ever. I squinted as I made my way to the nearest crossing and waited as a stream of buses, cars, bikes and lorries thundered by. Across the road, on either side of the wrought iron gate, was a row of quaint little shops, totally different to the kind on Brick Lane. These were much posher. The clothes shops had dummies reclining on sofas and eating golden grapes and the restaurants were advertising things that sounded more like medical conditions than food.

Finally the lights changed and I crossed over, trying to ignore my bass drum of a heart. I walked through the gates into the market and down a passageway that was lined with other little shops – one selling antique furniture and another selling twenty-seven different varieties of cheese.

The first thing I noticed about the market wasn’t the stalls, it was the people. I’d never seen so many interesting haircuts and amazing clothes. It was even better than the Southbank. I looked down at my school uniform. I’d already taken off my tie and blazer and stuffed them into my bag, but my blue polo shirt and black nylon trousers were hardly what you would call interesting or amazing. In a dreary place like Rayners High, they fit right in, but up in Spitalfields, they looked naff and dull. As I stood there wondering what to do, a girl stopped right in front of me and started texting on her phone. She looked so incredible I couldn’t even pretend not to stare. Her hair, which was dyed the colour of vanilla ice-cream, was shaved on one side and hung down like a curtain on the other. On the shaved side her ear had a row of tiny silver hoops running all the way along the edge. She was wearing a flowery sundress and big biker boots and her smooth, tanned skin was as golden as honey. As she texted, a cluster of silver bangles and charm bracelets jingled on her arm. She looked so cool and confident. So different to me.

My heart sank. All this time I’d been worrying about what to expect from my dad, I’d completely forgotten to think about what he might be expecting from me. He’d addressed the birthday card to Cherokee Brown. He didn’t know I’d actually ended up as Claire Weeks. Someone who had no friends and who couldn’t even walk properly. I was about to turn round and head straight back out when I heard a cheer ring out from the other side of the market. Then there was the strum of a guitar and a man started singing. His voice was deep and gravelly and he was singing the stompy old rock song, ‘London Calling’.

The girl with the ice-cream hair finished her text and moved off to look at some jewellery on a nearby stall.

I felt sick and scared and excited all at once. Was that my dad I could hear singing? Was that my dad everyone was cheering and clapping along with?

‘London calling,’ his voice rang out again. If it was my dad he was really good. His voice had a huskiness that made it stand out from other singers. It was gentle and rough all at once.

With my whole body buzzing like I’d downed ten of those doll-sized-but-deadly espresso coffees, I followed the girl and started looking at the trays of rings and pendants and brooches on the jewellery stall. Looking at them but not really seeing a thing.

What should I do? Maybe if I edged just a bit closer to the music . . .

I started weaving my way through the crowds of people between the stalls, stopping every now and then to pretend to have a browse of some clothes or books or – OMG! – stuffed animal heads, and gather my thoughts. The singing got louder and louder and finally I caught sight of a crowd gathered at the far end of the market. My first feeling was of relief. There were so many people there was no way whoever was singing would be able to see me. But then I wouldn’t be able to see him either. I flicked through a box of records on a nearby stall while I stared over at the crowd. What if it wasn’t even my dad? How would I get to find out? I swallowed hard and walked over to join the back of the crowd. Everyone was tapping their feet or nodding their heads in time to the song. When it finished they all started whooping and cheering.

‘Cheers. Thanks a lot,’ said the singer, slightly breathless.

My heart sank. His accent was from London. East London. He didn’t sound American at all. Or Native American. It had to be another performer. He had said in the card that he was at Spitalfields ‘most’ lunchtimes. Obviously this wasn’t one of them. I noticed some long tables over to my right and went and sat down at the end of one. I’d come all this way for nothing. Bunked off school, somehow made my way through Whitechapel without getting mugged or abducted or sold to a sex shop, and all for nothing.

‘Oi, Steve, do “Thunder Road”.’

I looked up as one of the record stallholders closest to me yelled over the crowd.

‘What’s that, Tel? “Thunder Road”?’ the singer replied over his microphone.

‘Yeah,’ the stallholder yelled back. ‘I could do with a bit of Springsteen.’

But I wasn’t listening to what he was saying any more. He’d called the singer Steve. How many Steves could there be performing in Spitalfields at lunchtime? A shaft of sunlight spilled through the glass roof of the market and fell hot on my face. From the centre of the crowd I heard the sound of a harmonica and then that husky voice again. This time he was singing a lot more softly, and strumming gently on an acoustic guitar. The whole crowd fell silent and stood motionless as they listened. It was a beautiful song all about a man trying to persuade a woman called Mary to come for a drive with him to this place called Thunder Road. He wanted her to just climb into the car and see where they ended up. It reminded me of the first time I bunked off school and ended up at the Southbank. On the day Tricia had changed the words to a Britney Spears song to be all about me and my limp, and Miss Davis had laughed along with the rest of the class. Just like today, I’d been so desperate to get out of school I’d walked out of the nearest fire exit and gone straight to the tube, not caring where I ended up, just as long as it was miles away from Rayners High.

I stood up, as if I was in a trance; as if the beautiful words of the song were drawing me forwards like a spell. I started edging through the crowd, past the men in their tight jeans and pointy boots and the girls in their summer dresses and flip-flops.

‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ I muttered as I went.

And then there was just one row of people in front of me. I stopped behind a couple of women wearing business suits and trainers and I tried to swallow but my mouth was too dry. Through a gap between the women I could just make out a pair of tanned hands playing a guitar. The singer was wearing a faded black T-shirt and torn jeans but I still couldn’t see his face. All I had to do was move slightly to my left and stand on tiptoe, but I was scared he would see me. Even though he didn’t know me and wouldn’t recognise me I was worried I’d do something to give myself away. My heart was thumping and the palms of my hands were sticky with sweat.

A massive cheer rang out as the man in the song begged Mary again to come with him so they could escape from their town full of losers and go somewhere they’d be able to win. I thought of Rayners High and Magnolia Crescent and my eyes went glassy with tears. Then suddenly the women in front of me turned to leave and one of them swung her huge shoulder bag right into me, catching me in the face. I stumbled sideways and on to the ground.

‘Are you all right, darlin’?’ I heard the singer ask over the mic as I scrambled to my feet.

I had to get out of there. I didn’t want him seeing me like this, like everyone else always saw me: clumsy and awkward and embarrassed. I grabbed my bag from the floor but then, just for a split second, I looked in his direction.

He was staring straight at me, holding his microphone in one hand and his guitar in the other. He was short and thin and had shoulder-length dark brown hair, held back by a red and white bandana. His face was tanned and his eyes dark brown. He looked like a rock star from the eighties. The kind who would have gone out with one of the original supermodels and thrown televisions and toasters and stuff from hotel room windows. And had the vanilla-ice-cream-haired girl for a daughter, instead of me. The tears that had been building in my eyes spilled on to my cheeks. I turned round and started pushing my way back through the crowd. It had all been a massive mistake. I should’ve stayed in school. I should’ve realised it would never work out. My life isn’t worthy of being a stupid novel – not unless they bring out a new genre called Disaster Lit. Nothing ever goes the way I want it to.

I finally made it through the crowd to the edge of the market. I took a deep breath and started marching towards the gate. I didn’t care that this made my limp look even worse – I had to get out of there. I had to get back to my boring, crappy life in Rayners Lane and forget any of this had ever happened.

But then there was a loud squeal of feedback over the speakers. I stood still for a second.

‘Cherokee!’ His voice rang out over the microphone, full of concern. ‘Cherokee, come back.’

Chapter Five

‘One of the crassest mistakes a new novelist can make is to waste acres of paper telling their reader all about their characters and their motivations. You must SHOW us this information, dear writer, through the character’s actions, rather than tediously tell.’

Agatha Dashwood,

So You Want to Write a Novel?

‘How did you know it was me?’

Steve – Dad – Steve looked at me. Then down at his pint. Then all around the beer garden.

After he’d called to me on the microphone I’d stood rooted to the spot. Then I’d heard footsteps running up behind me and felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned round and there he was. ‘Cherokee?’ he’d said, as if he was asking a question. I just nodded and stared. What happened next was all a bit of a blur. I followed him back to where he’d been performing, watched him pack up his things and apologise to everybody for finishing so soon. And then we’d come here. To a pub called the Water Poet at the back of the market.

‘Well, there’s the fact that you’re the spit of me,’ he finally replied, looking back at me with a nervous grin.

‘The what?’

‘The spit. You look just like me.’

‘Do I?’ I tried to study him without looking obvious. When he smiled crescents of small lines formed around his dark brown eyes like fans.

‘Yeah, course you do. And then there was the stake-out.’

‘The what?’

‘The stake-out. At your house. Last week.’

‘You staked out my house?’ I took a sip of my lemonade to try and stop myself from giggling. Nerves were bubbling up inside of me like gas.

He shook his head and sighed. ‘Yeah, man. They wouldn’t tell me where you lived so I had to follow your mum home. And then I waited outside, till I saw you.’ He took a cigarette paper from the packet on the table in front of him and a pinch of tobacco from a plastic pouch.

‘Are you serious?’ I was so shocked at what he was telling me that for a second I forgot to be nervous.

He placed the tobacco on the paper and began rolling it with his finger and thumb. ‘’Fraid so.’ He licked the edge of the paper. ‘I didn’t want to, but I had no choice. I wanted to see you.’ He looked away, obviously embarrassed.

I replayed what he’d just said in my mind. ‘Who wouldn’t tell you where I lived?’

‘Your nan and granddad.’

I looked at him blankly. He was staring at some fat men on the next table who were stuffing their sweaty faces with burgers.

‘Cheryl and Paul. Your mum’s folks. I went round to their house. Wasn’t even sure they’d still be living there to be honest but I thought I’d give it a go. I was made up when Cheryl answered the door. But as soon as she realised who I was she went all moody and told me to do one.’ He lit his roll-up and a wisp of smoke ribboned around his face. ‘So I left, but only as far as the end of their road. Then I waited for Fi – your mum – to turn up.’

‘But how did you know she would turn up?’

‘I didn’t. And she didn’t.’ He sighed and more smoke streamed from his mouth. ‘Not for days.’

‘Days?’

He nodded. ‘Yep. Well, nearly two days, stuck in deepest darkest Surrey with only my guitar for company. Good job I’ve got a camper van, eh?’

‘You waited for two days outside my grandparents’ house just to see if my mum would turn up?’

He nodded again. ‘Yep. Nearly didn’t recognise her at first, she looked so – well, anyway, once I’d worked out it was her I waited for her to leave and then I followed her back home. To your place.’

‘Oh my God.’

He frowned. ‘Sorry, I know it sounds a bit radio rental.’

‘A bit what?’

‘Radio rental – mental. It was just that I really wanted to see you and I didn’t want any more arguments. There’s been too much bad karma as it is. I thought tailing her would be the best option. The quietest option.’

I nodded, but not really understanding at all. ‘So when did you – ?’

‘When did I what?’

‘See me.’

‘Oh. Last Monday morning. On your way to school.’

My heart sank. ‘On my way to school?’

‘Yeah.’ He frowned and looked away.

‘Did you follow me?’

‘What?’

‘To school. Did you follow me to school?’

He shook his head. ‘Nah, course not. I just wanted to see you and then I thought I’d send you the card. See if you wanted to see me too.’ He began to smile. ‘I was made up when I saw you there in the market, on the floor.’

My face burned as the whole tragic falling-over scene very kindly replayed itself in slow motion in my mind.

‘I wasn’t made up that you was on the floor,’ he added quickly. ‘I was made up you’d come. I’d been crappin’ it all morning, wondering whether you’d show.’

I glanced across the table at this person, this stranger, who I was technically biologically half of. He looked down at his hands and began fiddling with a silver skull ring on one of his thin brown fingers.

‘I mean, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you never wanted to see me at all. I ain’t exactly been Dad of the Year, have I?’

‘No.’ My reply popped out before I could stop it. There were so many things I wanted to ask him but I felt way too shy.

‘I’ve always thought about you though,’ he went on, still looking down. ‘Always wondered what you were doing and what you were like.’

My face started to burn again. I wondered how different I was to what he had been expecting. ‘So why didn’t you . . .?’ I couldn’t finish the question.

He looked straight at me. ‘I was an idiot – when I was younger. I suppose your mum’s told you all about it?’

I didn’t say anything; I wanted to hear his version of things.

‘I suppose I just wasn’t ready,’ he shrugged slightly and tilted his head, ‘for the responsibility – of a family and that.’

Whenever my mum goes on one of her rants about my real dad and his commitment issues I always end up feeling angry and hurt, but now he was sat in front of me saying it to me himself I felt weirdly numb.

He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘I was a twat. My band had the chance to tour America – to take part in this music festival in Austin and –’ he took another drag, ‘your mum told me if I went that would be it for me and her. And us.’ He stopped again and shifted sideways on his seat. ‘Bloody hell, this is hard. When I practised last night on Harrison it came out all right, I sounded like Winston Churchill going on about fighting on the beaches, but now –’

‘Harrison?’ My heart sank. He had a son, another family. One he wanted to live with.

He nodded. ‘Yeah, my lodger. He’s not much older than you actually. Eighteen. He thinks I’m a twat too, for leaving you.’

I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Do you have any kids? Any other kids?’

He shook his head. ‘Nah. That’s why –’ he broke off, looked around, then back at me and I saw that his eyes were all shiny. ‘That’s why I want to get to know you. I mean, I know it’s too late for me to be your dad and all that.’ He picked up his lighter and began flicking it on and off. ‘I saw your stepdad during my – er – stake-out. He looks . . . nice.’ He put the lighter back down and stared at me. ‘He is, isn’t he? Nice? I mean, you like him, yeah? He treats you all right?’

I nodded numbly. Alan is the king of nice – that’s the problem, he uses his ‘niceness’ to get everything his own way the whole time.

‘Cool. Cos when I got back from America your mum told me she’d met him and that you were all settled and happy. She said it would only confuse things if . . .’

‘If what?’

‘If I tried to be a part of your life.’ He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and looked away.

‘Oh.’

I started doing some calculations in my head. My mum had met Alan when I was one. She had last told me my real dad was in America last Christmas when I’d got all emotional after watching It’s a Wonderful Life and The Champ back to back. But if Steve had spoken to her since then why had he needed to stake out Gran and Granddad’s to find out where I lived?

‘When was that?’ I asked, for some reason suddenly finding it really hard to swallow.

‘When was what?’

‘The conversation you had with my mum. When did you get back from America?’

‘Oh – about thirteen years ago. Yeah, you would’ve been about two.’

‘Thirteen years?’ I whispered.

He nodded, obviously embarrassed. ‘I know. I’m sorry. She was right though. I probably would’ve been a crap dad.’