New life

Brixton spy-catchers

Zenga Longmore

No one could deny that children are at their most exhausting between the ages of one and two, except, perhaps, mothers with children of two upwards. Omalara, now 14 months old, keeps me in a perma- nent delirium of sweeping her away from electric sockets, manouevring her from the roadside and running from the room to search for her, only to discover her safely in the kitchen trying to drink vinegar. Don't misunderstand me. The second year of children's lives must also be the most rewarding. For it is then they start to amuse themselves in an intelligent way, and, of course, learn to talk. For the first time in my life, three hours ago, I was addressed as 'mama', and the experience has left me totally — well, what can I say? I mean it isn't every day your child first calls You . . . It has taken seven cigarettes and two glasses of brandy to rid myself of the lump in my throat. Clawhammer Jones Bingo asserts that the word Mama holds more magic than Abracadabra, although why this should be so, he is unable to explain. Speaking of C•J• Bingo, I chanced upon him singing hluesily in Brixton Market last Saturday, plucking his guitar with a fret made from a Coke ring on his middle finger. A noisy crowd swarmed in front of him, but as I approached, it dawned that they were not an appreciative audience as I had first imagined, but an excited posse of school- boys. A wild-eyed man in a grey suit stood in the centre of the jostling mob. He appeared to be clutching a tape recorder to his lapels, and something in his fanatical stare told me he was not enjoying life overmuch. Clawhammer played on, seemingly oblivious to the commotion.

`What's going on?' I asked one of the boys.

`Spy! This guy's a spy!'

`Who's he spying for?'

A profusion of replies rang out: 'FBI.' `CIA."Iran!"Iraq!"King Hussein!' King Foozle!"King Kong!"No, he's a crack dealer, right! Talking to his partner on a special 'phone. I seen it on telly. If we take him to the police, we'll get a reward.'

In exasperation, I appealed to Clawham- mer to explain what was happening. 'Me no know,' came the offhand reply between stanzas.

`But you must try to sort this out. I think they're trying to take this man's tape recorder.' Clawhammer, after shrugging as if to say it was all the same to him whether they took the tape recorder or left it alone, wearily pushed the boys aside. With an `Excuse me' he gently took the instrument and played it back. To everyone's surprise, Clawhammer's rich baritone rose from the little black box.

`Blimey, he was taping the old geezer,' said an astonished boy, then quickly with- drew from Clawhammer's death-ray glare.

`Why were you taping my friend Claw?' I asked, not unreasonably.

`To use as material for the article I am researching.' Retrieving his tape recorder, the man assumed a pained expression. `Well, actually, my main concern is to pinpoint those left-wing agitators who are manipulating the underclass and attemp- ting to penetrate the structure of the dependency culture here in Brixton.'

Everybody stared blankly.

`What publication are you writing for?' "I'm hoping to get into the Sun, or failing that, the Salisbury Review.'

The Salisbury Review! It all became clear to me. 'It's all right, boys,' I told the group of bemused youngsters, 'you weren't being spied upon, you were being Scruto- nised!'

`It's ideal for a Young Vic production.'