“Yes please, dear,” Margaret told her.

Then she and Bobby left the shop.

“Nice little shop,” said Margaret.

“Didn’t think much of their postcards,” Bobby said, looking up and down the street.

“Where do you want to go next?”

Bobby cocked his head across the road. “Sign over there says we’re two hundred yards from the Brixton Academy.”

“Is a metre the one like a yard?”

“Yeah. About two hundred yards.”

“Okay. Let’s go there.”

They started walking.

“Do you know what’s at the Brixton Academy?” she asked.

“Nope. Never heard of it.”

“It might not be art, dear. It might be dance or drama.”

“Probably is.”

They crossed the street.

“Oh, that must be it,” Margaret said.

Down a side road about a hundred yards from the metro station was a large domed building.

“I wonder if it’s open to the public, dear.”

“Let’s go look, then,” he said.

They crossed the street again. They didn’t see anyone come in or out. They went up the steps. Margaret put her face to the window and looked inside.

“Oh, I think it’s a theatre,” she said delightedly.

Bobby lost interest. “Right.”

“I wonder what’s on.”

“Doesn’t look like they have matinees.” He wandered down from the steps, thumbs hooked in pockets.

There was an alley down the side of the building. A couple of men were pushing each other and walking around each other halfway along. It took a few more men standing between them to keep them apart. Several women were hanging around the outside of the group.

Bobby adjusted the brim of his hat.

“Green Day?” said Margaret.

Bobby turned round. “What?”

“I can see a poster on the wall inside.” She still had her face pressed against the glass. “Aren’t they a band?”

“Who?”

“Green Day!”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes. They are. Jackie’s son likes them.”

“Oh. Right.”

She stepped away from the window. She looked puzzled. “But they’re American. And they’re white.” Suddenly she looked a bit alarmed. “Bobby, are we in the right place?”

Bobby sighed. He opened his shoulder bag and took out the scrappy guide book. He’d held it in his hands so long it had started to curve up even when he wasn’t rolling it out of boredom.

He lifted his glasses to read.

“What does it say?” she asked.

“We’re in the right place. ‘Brixton is the youthful heart of London’s black community. A vibrant capital within a capital, Brixton is a cultural hub, and is home to many diverse, colourful characters.’”

Margaret screwed up her nose and looked around, like she’d just felt the first few drops of rain. “I just don’t see it. Maybe we’re looking in the wrong places.”

“We’ve been wandering around since 10am, Margaret.”

“I wanted to get a taste of different culture, Bobby. It must be around here someplace.”

He sighed. “Let’s just go to the Tower of London.”

“I don’t want to feel like we’ve missed out.”

A man ran out of the alley, chased by another.

“Don’t think we’re missing anything, dear,” Bobby said.

She sighed. “All right. Tower of London. Where’s that?”

They headed back to the station.

“We take the Victoria Line to the station actually called Victoria, then we can take either the Circle Line or the District Line to Tower Hill,” Bobby said.

There were four policemen outside the station. As he walked past, Bobby recognised the black man two of them were pinning to a wall. He had been in the alley. He had blood on his shirt. Bobby couldn’t tell whether it was the black man’s or not.

“I’m thirsty,” said Margaret as they got onto the train waiting at the platform.

“Then why didn’t you buy a drink in the shop?”

“I wasn’t thirsty then.”

The doors closed. The train pulled away. At Vauxhall a lot of people got on. All seats were taken.

“This is our stop,” Bobby said at Victoria.

A lot of people got off the train with them, but the platform was already very busy. Bobby found himself herding Margaret through the crowds, onto the Circle Line.

“Bobby, wait,” she said. “There.”

There was a small outlet built into the wall of the platform. It sold magazines and newspapers, and the back wall had packets of crisps and chocolate bars and in the corner was a well-lit fridge containing bottles and cans.

Bobby saw the price list and snorted. “Daylight robbery. Come on.”

“But I’m thirsty! Buy me a Coke, Bobby.”

He sighed. They cut across the flow of the crowd to reach the outlet.

“Bottle of Coke, please,” he said.

The kid behind the counter cupped a hand to his ear. In his other ear was a headphone.

Bobby could hear the music from where he stood. “Coke.” He pointed sharply at the fridge.

The boy took out a bottle. “£1.50.” He didn’t stop bobbing his head the entire time.

Bobby slapped the exact money into his hand.

NOTES:
A little bit of satire here, which I actually wrote I was aware this kind of rebranding does take place. As of typing, I saw an advert a few days ago on a tube train describing different districts of London (e.g. 'Chic Clerkenwell', etc) and Brixton was 'Bright Brixton'. Other less than desirable places in the capital were similarly euphemistically prefixed. Well, it WAS an advert for a lettings agency. Disclaimer: I'm sure there is just as much culture in Brixton as there is anywhere else, there's just more junkies and beggars, too.