Caryl Phillips - In the Falling Snow

Brenda lived in the same modern terraced house in which she had raised him. When his father went into hospital, and it looked as though he might not be coming out any time soon, the West Indian man to whom Brenda and his father paid rent made it clear that he did not want her in his property. He came to collect the rent on a Friday night, and he stood on the doorstep and told Brenda that she had no right to do what she had done so she had better take her white arse out of his place by the end of the month. Brenda slammed the door in the man’s face, but on Monday morning she presented herself at the housing office of the local authority who, having listened to her situation made it their immediate business to find a place for Brenda and her charge on their proud new development. Back then the Whitehall Estate featured tree-lined pedestrian walkways, grassy communal spaces for kids to play in, and concrete benches and tables for parents to sit around and talk with each other. However, within weeks the rope swings and carefully assembled mounds of tyres had been slashed and vandalised, and the sitting areas were defaced with graffiti. Glue-sniffers and clusters of youths with cider bottles seemed now to dominate every underpass and footbridge, and although the model estate was no longer visited by enthusiastic groups of studious-looking men with clipboards and cameras, he never once heard Brenda complain. Their house had underfloor heating, a bathroom upstairs, and out back there was a small fenced garden with a tiny lawn surrounded by a thin border of soil in which Brenda showed him how to plant daffodils and bedding flowers. Brenda couldn’t stand the smell of cat piss, and she was terrified of the neighbour’s Staffordshire bull terrier which occasionally got over the fence, but this didn’t stop her from dragging out a chair on a sunny day, and lighting up a cigarette to accompany her cup of tea, and simply staring contentedly at the world.

The Brenda who opened the door to the pair of them was not the same Brenda he had last seen almost a year earlier, shortly before he went off to university. The new Brenda seemed stooped, and her hair had been cut short and was styled in a lifeless pageboy cut, but the old Brenda always dressed and looked like she was about to go out on a hen night. Where, he wondered, had her energy gone, but she gave him no time to speculate for right there on the doorstep she immediately folded him into her thin arms and attempted to squeeze him. She eventually let him go and then cast her bright eyes over his companion.

‘This is my girlfriend, Annabelle.’

Brenda smiled and ignored Annabelle’s hand. ‘Well, young lady, don’t I get a hug or don’t you want to crease your fancy togs?’

He moved to one side and Annabelle stepped forward and leaned in to embrace Brenda, but as they uncoupled Brenda kept hold of Annabelle’s hand. He noticed that the hem was hanging down from Brenda’s housecoat.

‘Well, as Keith has no doubt told you, it’s not much of a place but come on in. It’s all I’ve got so if you don’t like it you’ll just have to lump it.’

She sat them on the sofa opposite her, and she then took up her perch in the armchair that she always occupied to do her knitting, or to watch television.

‘I’ll get you a pot of tea in a minute, but I just want to look at the pair of you.’

As she glanced back and forth from one to the other, he looked around and could see that the house was uncharacteristically slovenly, with unwashed dishes and newspapers littering both the tabletop and the floor. According to Brenda’s letter, after she was discharged from the infirmary the local authority had apparently provided her with a home help who came in a few times a week, but it was clear to him that Brenda was still struggling.

‘Well, isn’t either one of you two lovebirds going to tell me how your journey up here was, or how your first year at university has gone? I am interested, you know.’

Annabelle stood up. ‘Mrs Gordon, can I make the tea?’

Brenda laughed. ‘Nobody’s ever called me that, love. Well, not in a good while. How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?’

Annabelle blushed. ‘Nineteen.’

‘Well, I reckon you’re old enough to call me Brenda. And yes dear, my throat’s as dry as a dog biscuit, so I’d be grateful if you could make us all some tea while I look at my boy. Everything’s through there in the kitchen.’

Once Annabelle had passed out of sight, Brenda eased back in her chair and relaxed.

‘Have you seen your father?’ He shook his head but wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘You should give him a call.’

‘For what?’

‘Because, sweetheart, he’s forty-one years old and he’s still full of anger and confusion in his head. You’re only nineteen. Have a bit of compassion for the silly sod.’

‘When he came out of hospital he didn’t have any right to take me away from you or this house.’

‘Change the record love, that’s all in the past. He’s your father and he had every right. Anyhow, he was just trying to do what he thought was best, but he’s not perfect. None of us are.’

‘Well, he’s not that for sure.’

‘Look, we got through it, didn’t we? And he didn’t say no to your spending the weekends and school holidays here, did he?’ He looked at the space between his feet and didn’t answer. ‘Oh come on, don’t give me the face. As far as I know, he’s still doing the same boring janitor’s job, and no doubt drinking with his mates. But look at you. You’ve made it to university, and you’ve got a lovely girlfriend, and the whole world is in front of you. Be kind to him, love. What’s to lose?’

Annabelle put the tray down and began to pour the tea. Then she realised that she had forgotten the sugar, but Brenda waved a dismissive hand and said that she’d probably run out so not to bother.

‘Sugar’s bad for you anyhow. Ruin your teeth and rot your stomach, or so they say.’

Annabelle finished pouring the tea, and then she handed Brenda her cup before sitting back down next to her boyfriend. He watched Brenda closely and could see that the suddenly aged woman was merely wetting her lips before slowly setting the cup back down on the saucer with a nervous clatter. Her hands were shaking and the loose-fitting housecoat could not disguise the fact that she had lost a shocking amount of weight. She asked Annabelle where she was from, and questioned her about her parents, and Annabelle answered politely and told Brenda more than she had ever told him. For the first time, he learned that her father was a keen golfer who had actually won some amateur tournaments, and that her mother had never worked for a living but apparently had earned a degree in French and Spanish from Durham University. As he listened to the pair of them, he realised that it was difficult for him to gauge the degree to which Brenda was genuinely interested in his girlfriend’s history, for he had never before introduced anyone to Brenda. The one relationship he had at school had never been serious enough for either one of them to risk family introductions. However, Brenda was not one to indulge in any pretence, and she seemed to be listening intently to Annabelle and so, as far as he could tell, she really did like his girlfriend. Annabelle edged forward and began to pour some more tea, but Brenda shook her head and covered the top of her cup with her newly frail hand.

‘No thanks, darling. However, I was wondering if you’d be a love and help me up to the bathroom. All a bit of a struggle for me these days.’

He listened closely as the two of them made their slow way up the stairs, and then he heard the sound of the bathroom door closing. He looked around the room and noticed a child’s potty behind Brenda’s chair and his heart sank. Although she was only thirty-nine, her health was worse than he had imagined, but after a year at university he was simply relieved to be returning to a home which held only good memories for him. He was just six when his grieving stepfather took him by the hand and led him to a house where he was deposited with the man who was his real father. At this time his father and Brenda were living in a small back-to-back whose door opened directly on to a cobbled street. He remembers that people hung their washing out like bunting on lines that crossed the roadway, but they propped the laundry high so that if a car went by it wouldn’t dirty the clothes. But very few cars went by, for this cobbled street was effectively a cul-de-sac as three iron bollards had been installed at the far end to prevent any through traffic. For two years, the three of them lived in this rented house, but there always seemed to be arguments between his father and Brenda which sometimes grew so loud that Brenda was forced to turn on the radio or television set in an attempt to drown out his father’s raised voice. The problems invariably occurred at night, when his father had returned from his job as a cleaner, and their heated disputes frequently concluded with his father curled up in a corner and steadfastly refusing to listen to the pleadings of Brenda, or his son’s childish entreaties that he should put aside his book and acknowledge their presence. Eventually, he learned to leave his father alone once he picked up a book, but when his father gave up on books and began to conclude arguments with Brenda by stripping off his shirt and shouting at nobody in particular, even the eight-year-old son realised that something was seriously wrong.