Caryl Phillips - In the Falling Snow

‘What do you mean, how does he feel?’

‘Well, is it awkward for him?’

‘He says it’s full of dry white people and he doesn’t want to come any more, if that answers your question. He wants to see his grandmother, but not there.’

There was an awkward telephone silence and he wanted to say that he couldn’t blame his son, but instead he asked her if he should try to persuade Laurie to visit, but Annabelle was adamant that it was just a phase and this was the least of her problems with Laurie.

‘So you go alone then?’

Annabelle laughed ironically. ‘Are you asking me if I take Bruce?’

‘No, I’m asking you if you visit by yourself.’

‘You know I haven’t told Mummy about our situation, so how can I tell her about Bruce? I don’t see why I should cause her any unnecessary confusion.’

‘So she still thinks we’re together?’

‘She has no reason to think anything else, and I believe it’s better that way, don’t you?’

He held on to the telephone not knowing how to answer.

She finds a convenient parking space across the street from her house and he leans over and quickly kisses her on the cheek. He doesn’t want any more conversation and, judging from the silence which had accompanied their journey home, neither does she. As he slams the car door and begins the short walk back to Wilton Street, he resolves not to turn around and see if she is watching, although he is reasonably sure that she will be. He decides that once he disappears beyond the corner and passes out of sight, he will jog the rest of the way home as he is cold and he also needs to use the bathroom. Their drink at the wine bar had not exactly been a success. When the bill arrived they decided to have one more glass, which gave him the opportunity to re-route their conversation away from what Annabelle had taken to calling his ‘mess’ and back on to the subject of Laurie. However, once they returned there Annabelle only seemed to become more agitated.

‘Mr Hughes thinks he might be in a gang.’

He shook his head. ‘Mr Hughes wouldn’t know a gang if they tried to carjack his bike from underneath him. Is Laurie doing any drugs, or binge-drinking, or carrying weapons? No, he’s not, right?’

‘Not as far as I know, but it’s the type of people that Laurie’s involved with that appears to be the issue. Apparently Mr Hughes thinks they are affecting his concentration, and his grades are clearly not as good as they were.’

‘Okay, Annabelle, but why didn’t this prat say all of this to me when we were there tonight?’

‘We only had a few minutes with him.’

‘Look, I said I’ll talk to Laurie, and I will. But don’t you remember when you were a teenager? You took risks and kept secrets from your parents, didn’t you? You did things they didn’t know about, but you came through it.’

Annabelle sighed. ‘Keith, I know. I get it, but I feel as though I might be losing him around the black — white thing. I suppose that’s what Mr Hughes is trying to say, for Laurie only seems to want to be with black kids. He’s my son and I don’t want him to start disliking me.’

He leaned forward and touched the sleeve of her blue dress.

‘You know that’s not going to happen, okay? Don’t worry about that, not for a minute.’

‘I’m sorry but I can’t drink this.’ She pushed the glass of house white away from her. ‘We should probably go now. I’ve got to be in the office early.’

He called for the bill again, and almost immediately the owner emerged from behind the bar and plucked the plastic folder from the pocket of his apron. When they first arrived the owner had told them that it was house policy to take a credit card for each table and they had found this annoying, but at least things would now be quick.

‘Everything to your satisfaction?’ The owner smiled and blew out the candle at the same time.

Annabelle nodded. ‘Lovely, thank you.’

He watched as the man picked up their still full glasses of house wine and placed them on a circular cork tray. Then he turned his attention to the credit card statement and filled in the tip amount and totalled up the bill, before handing the merchant copy to the owner and slipping his own copy and credit card into his wallet. He smiled at Annabelle.

‘Shall we go?’

* * *

He switches on the lights in the flat and rushes to the bathroom. Having relieved himself, and washed his hands, he passes into the living room and begins to empty out the contents of his pockets on to the coffee table. First, his wallet, with the receipt from the wine bar that is folded loosely into it, and then he takes out a small handful of change, two £20 notes, and his mobile phone. He lines them up as though there is some sort of organisational logic to what he is doing. It is then that he notices the ‘missed call’ message on the mobile, and so he sits on the sofa and checks to see who has called. There is no message, but he recognises the number and speed-dials Annabelle and waits. The short trip home should not have exhausted him so much, but he decides that it’s a combination of the tension of the walk, plus the nonsense of the school visit, and the conversation with Annabelle, that has left him feeling so depleted. Annabelle’s phone goes immediately to voicemail so he leaves a message asking her to call if she needs to, and then he tucks the phone into his pocket and goes into the kitchen where he turns on the kettle. He finds the last Earl Grey teabag in the back of the cupboard and drops it into the empty cup. Then, just as the water is starting to boil, the phone rings. He can hear traffic in the background, and anxiety in Annabelle’s voice.

‘Keith?’

‘Where are you? You sound like you’re at a Grand Prix race.’

‘I’m by the Westway, and looking for Laurie. He wasn’t at home when I got back.’

He turns off the kettle and moves into the living room where the reception on his mobile is a little clearer.

‘You mean you don’t know where he is?’

‘He and his friends like to go to this skateboard park. I’m walking up towards it.’

‘A skateboard park? At this time of night?’

‘Maybe you’ll believe me now.’

‘I can get a minicab and be there in five minutes.’

He reaches for his jacket and pushes one arm into a sleeve. He switches the phone from one hand to the next and then wriggles the other arm into the jacket.

‘Jesus, it’s all right.’ He can hear the relief in Annabelle’s voice. ‘I can see him.’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘Nothing. He’s just with some kids on mountain bikes. Laurie’s sitting on a park bench.’

‘Just sitting by the Westway at this time of night?’ He slumps down on the sofa and waits for Annabelle to say something.

‘He’s seen me.’

‘Look, I can still get a minicab and meet you there. Or back at the house.’

‘Let’s just leave it for tonight. He seems okay.’

‘Okay? He’s totally out of order.’

‘He’s walking towards me.’

‘Let me talk to him.’

‘Look, I’m going now, Keith. You can talk to him when you come over tomorrow. But I mean it. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.’

The line goes dead, but he continues to hold the mobile to his ear. As long as he holds this pose there is still some communication between himself and Annabelle and their son. He just has to hold the pose.

HE STANDS BY the gate to the school and studies the scruffy parade of boys trooping out with bags slung casually over one shoulder, ties flapping over the other, shoelaces undone, and hair uncombed. There is no point in his getting too judgmental for, although he would like to imagine otherwise, some part of him knows that he almost certainly looked just as unkempt when he was a sixth-former. And then he sees Laurie, loping across the playground by himself, the same pair of expensive oversized headphones jammed on to his head, and his body gently bobbing to the beat of the music. He knows that his son has seen him, but it is not until Laurie is only a few feet away that he reaches up and literally pulls the headphones down to his neck, and then he gives his father that upward nod that begins with his chin.