Caryl Phillips - In the Falling Snow

In the sports shop he is faced with a difficult decision. The young tracksuited assistant has spread three Barcelona shirts on the counter top with the back of the shirts, complete with names and numbers, facing up.

‘So you don’t know who your son’s favourite player is?’

The boy speaks as though he feels sorry for his foolish customer.

‘I don’t really know that much about Spanish football,’ he mutters in his defence. ‘Do they show it on television?’

‘Like every Sunday. And there’s a round-up of La Liga on a Monday night.’

He is puzzled, but he doesn’t want to ask anything further of the spotty youth. However, tracksuit boy quickly identifies the source of his confusion.

‘La Liga. The Spanish League. Like the Premiership.’

He nods quickly and then turns his attention back to the shirts. He recognises the short, aggressive, name of a player he thinks is Brazilian and decides that with a combination of Brazil and Barcelona he can’t go far wrong.

‘You know the other thing that we can do is to put your son’s name on the shirt with his own number. So long as there are not too many letters in his name, that is. He does play, doesn’t he?’

The boy is beginning to sound like a minor government official. He looks at the assistant, and hands him the middle one of the three shirts.

‘I think this one will do the job.’

‘Okay then, no name.’ The somewhat disappointed boy takes the shirt and begins to fold it up.

‘If your son doesn’t like it then you can always bring it back with a receipt, so long as he hasn’t worn it.’

‘You mean to play in?’

‘No, I mean worn it at all. We can’t accept returns on soiled goods.’

‘You mean if he tries it on it’s soiled?’

‘Not my rules, if you know what I mean. I only work here.’

He watches as the assistant slips the shirt into a plastic bag, and then drops the plastic bag into a large paper sack with handles. The boy takes his credit card and quickly swipes it and then hands the card back.

‘Sign here, please.’

He picks up a fake pen that is tethered to the counter top and scrawls his name on to a plastic screen.

‘I’m sure if he just pulls it on over a T-shirt to see if it’s the right size then he won’t be soiling anything.’ The assistant drops the receipt into the bag and hands it to him. ‘All a bit stupid if you ask me, but then again nobody ever does ask me.’

He quickly makes his way out of the warm shopping centre, and back on to the frigid High Street. It is the middle of the day, and people are rushing around in their lunch hour trying to pick up a few groceries, or paying bills, or hurrying to the post office before returning to their offices. And then it strikes him again: he does not have an office to go back to. In effect, he has no role, and beyond the occasional fits and spurts of attention that he pays to his book, there really is no cogent purpose to his day or his life. Clive has temporarily cut him loose from his moorings and he is drifting. He sees a bus coming and wonders if he should ride the four stops back to Wilton Road. But then again, what’s the hurry? As he walks past the queue at the bus stop, he catches a glimpse of himself in the window of Mr Crusty and is relieved to note that he still recognises the man who is reflected in the glass. But he will have to be careful. Shopping for football shirts in the middle of the day. It makes no sense whatsoever.

Danuta is standing by the door with her rucksack at her feet. She must have rung the doorbell, discovered that he was not in, and decided to simply wait. He calls her name, and as she turns to face him he notices the smile of relief that momentarily brightens her face. He walks towards her and gently places his hand on her arm, for he is sure that she is about to burst into tears.

‘Are you okay?’

She shakes her head, but manages to hold back her tears. She takes one last draw on her cigarette and then drops it to the ground and stubs it out with the toe of her scuffed shoe. There are a half-dozen other butts that litter the pathway and suggest just how long she has been waiting.

‘You’d better come in, don’t you think?’

He transfers the bag with the Barcelona shirt from one hand to the other, then he forages in his pocket for the keys to the front door and ushers her into the ground floor hallway and out of the cold.

He hands her the cup of coffee, which she cradles in two hands, and then he sits opposite her and puts his own cup down on to the glass-topped coffee table. He doesn’t want to force her to explain, but he would like to know what has happened. Maybe she has lost her cleaning job, or perhaps there is a family illness back in Poland, or maybe she has been mugged? Whatever it is, he understands that he will have to wait for her to initiate the conversation, but she still appears to be shaken. She blows gently on her coffee, and then she takes a tentative sip.

‘Would you like something to eat? I can make you some soup, or I can order food for delivery. Well, Chinese or Indian.’

She shakes her head.

‘Or I can leave you alone for a few minutes, maybe that would help?’

‘It is Rolf. I think that he is perhaps too attracted to me.’

He looks quizzically at her as she puts down her coffee and finally looks directly at him.

‘What I mean is that he likes me, that is all. He is not happy for me to be by myself. He has changed and it is not easy, but I am sorry to come to you with this problem.’

‘Has he hurt you in any way?’

She lowers her eyes and does not answer. Her clothes are rumpled, as though she has slept in them, and she starts now to bounce her knee nervously.

‘It is important that you tell me if he has hurt you.’

‘Why is it important? What are you going to do? Report him to the police? Is that what you plan to do?’

‘He isn’t allowed to hurt you, Danuta.’

‘He has not hurt me. I have hurt him.’

She looks up now and stops bouncing her knee. She swallows deeply, and for the first time she appears to be helpless.

‘Perhaps it is possible to stay here for a few days? I cannot go back to Rolf, but if it is not possible then I will understand. I know of a hostel for women. I stayed in this place when I first came to London.’ She quickly stands. ‘Perhaps it is better if I go there. I am sorry for bothering you with my problems.’

He too stands, but he is careful not to move towards her.

‘Look, if you are in danger then you have to go to the police.’ She stares at him but says nothing. ‘Well, are you in danger?’

‘Mr Keith, I think it is better if I go now to the hostel.’

‘Do you have money for the hostel?’

‘You are a lonely man, but kind.’ She looks tired, but she manages to smile as though she feels sorry for him. ‘I think you cannot help.’

‘Danuta, I’m not putting you out, but is staying here really going to solve anything?’

‘I understand, and I do not wish to stay here. You are right, this is my problem.’

‘How have you hurt him? You said you hurt Rolf.’

‘Please, Mr Keith. I have made a mistake coming here.’ She picks up her rucksack from the side of the sofa and then runs a hand back through her loose mop of hair. ‘It is better if I go now.’

‘But you look so tired. Are you working tonight?’

She shrugs her shoulders.

‘You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to, but at least sit down for a moment. I’d prefer it if you didn’t leave like this.’

He listens as the water suddenly stops flowing. She has locked off the faucet in the shower and will now be stepping on to the bathmat and towelling herself dry. He was relieved when the exhausted girl asked him if she could maybe sleep for a couple of hours, and it was his suggestion that she take a shower first for this would give him time to dash into the bedroom and change the bed linen and generally straighten things out. He picked up a handful of old copies of Spin magazine from the floor, and pushed them into the drawer where he keeps his T-shirts. Then he drew the curtains closed and turned on the bedside lamp before tackling the issue of changing the bed clothes. He rushed the job, but he managed to square off the pillows, and tuck in the top sheet, before he bent down and collected up the dirty sheets and quickly pushed them into the wicker laundry basket. She knocks on the open door and then edges her way into the bedroom. Her blonde hair is still wet and lank, and although she wears the same jeans and sweatshirt she carries the rest of her clothes, including her underwear, in her hands. He flattens himself against the wall so she will be able to pass by, but having taken a few steps into the bedroom she is now rooted to the spot.