Caryl Phillips - In the Falling Snow

He picks up his coffee, but the paper cup offers no insulation and it is too hot to hold, let alone drink. He places the cup back on the tabletop.

‘Well, obviously you know something that I don’t know, so maybe you should tell me what’s going on.’ He pauses. ‘If you want to, that is.’

‘Listen, I’m pretty sure that they’re going to press formal charges. Apparently you’ve created a hostile work environment for Yvette.’

‘You’re winding me up, right?’

‘Clive is not going to protect you. In fact, I don’t know what’s gone on between the two of you, but he’s not your friend, Keith.’

‘Well that much I’d already figured out for myself. He’s a totally two-faced arsehole, but then again he always has been.’

‘Well, at least we’re in agreement on this.’

He stands and carefully picks up his coffee.

‘I won’t be a second, I’m just going to put some milk in it.’

Fat-free, two per cent, full fat, he doesn’t give a damn, milk is milk, and so he presses the nozzle nearest him. He hadn’t expected Lesley to be so genuinely concerned. He looks across at her as she stares out of the window at the traffic, her free hand playing idly with some loose strands of her hair. Maybe he should have been more honest with her. After their liaison at the New Forest retreat, he did deliberately avoid her and he made no real attempt to stay in touch. As a result she probably has some reason to be annoyed with him, but she knew full well that the situation wasn’t easy. He was a married man, and they worked together, so it was unrealistic of her to actually expect anything to come of it. However, given his present circumstances, an excuse about their working together is the last thing that he can offer her.

He returns to his seat and she turns her attention from the window and looks back in his direction.

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I know you’re trying to help.’

‘Well, I’m not after your job, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just the stopgap till Clive figures out what to do. Anyhow, the amalgamation of the Race Equality, Disability and Women’s Affairs units is a stupid idea, and I pity the poor sod who has to keep everything in order.’

‘Well, from what you’re saying, I suppose that won’t be me now.’

‘I’m sorry that I’m the one who has to tell you this, but I don’t think anybody else has got your back.’

‘So that’s it then? He’s going to get rid of me?’

‘I’m afraid that’s what it looks like.’ She pauses. ‘You can probably get another job in the field if you voluntarily step aside.’

He laughs. ‘Come on, Lesley, you’re not being realistic. We both know that people always think that there’s no smoke without fire and all that bullshit. But I can’t say I’d be too sad to move on and do something else.’

‘You’ve still got time ahead of you.’

‘Jesus, Lesley. Lighten up a bit. You sound like you’re writing my obituary.’ He shakes his head. ‘Maybe you are.’

‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s fair.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But you have been stupid.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t think you have to apologise. At least not to me.’

She gathers up her coat from the seat next to her.

‘I have to go now, Keith.’ She stands. ‘You know where to find me if you need to talk.’

People are running up the street from the direction of the tube station, with their football scarves flying in the wind and their newspapers rolled up like batons in their hands. He stands and looks on as they pass quickly through the turnstiles, eager to watch the evening match. He had arranged to meet Laurie half an hour ago, but it is becoming increasingly clear that his son must have forgotten. He presses the redial button on his mobile and tries Annabelle again, but her phone seems programmed to go to voicemail without even ringing out. He is loath to leave a message so he quickly shuts the phone and decides that he may as well go in and watch the game. There is no point in trying Laurie’s mobile, for when he called him this morning to arrange to see him, his son announced that his phone would be out of credit by the end of the call and he didn’t have any money to top it up. He could barely hear Laurie, who was on the bus en route to school, but they had arranged to meet at seven o’clock at the Loftus Road turnstiles, and he told Laurie that after the game he would top up the phone for him. Once he finished talking to his son, he decided to order a latte before leaving the Starbucks. No doubt Lesley would already have arrived at work, with her business face in place, but his own shapeless day would continue with him sipping on a latte and thinking aimlessly about what to do with his book. When his latte arrived he asked for it to be placed in a cardboard sleeve so he could hold it without scalding his hands, and as he grabbed a handful of napkins for extra insulation he realised that whatever frustrations he felt with regard to his book it helped to know that at the end of the day he would be spending time with his son. But there is no sign of his son. Laurie probably thinks that Queens Park Rangers against Sheffield Wednesday is a fixture for losers. The kind of match that he would be embarrassed to admit to having attended. In a way, he sympathises with Laurie, but in the absence of anything else to do he moves towards the turnstiles. After buying a ticket, he is subjected to a full-body search, which he feels is somewhat unnecessary at his age, but he knows that it is best to say nothing to these guys. He stands with his hands up in the air and waits until he hears the predictable, ‘All right, mate,’ which he recognises as his signal to move off towards the home fans’ stand.

At half-time it is nil — nil, and the lamentable quality of the football on display leaves him somewhat relieved that Laurie has chosen to abandon him. It would have been difficult to try and justify this rubbish to a seventeen-year-old Barcelona fan. These two outfits are unquestionably on the decline, clubs that were ‘big’ when he was a boy, but who now struggle to attract five-figure crowds. He points at a bar of chocolate, pays the money, and then picks up both the chocolate and his pint of lager and shuffles to one side where he discovers some space on a shelf where he can put down the plastic ‘glass’. He reaches in his pocket for his mobile and calls Annabelle again, but she still isn’t answering so he decides to text her. ‘Where’s Laurie? Did he forget football?’ He keeps it short, for he doesn’t want to sound too alarmed. He knows how quickly Annabelle panics, and he has no desire to reveal to her how disappointed he is that his son has not even had the decency to let him know that he has changed his mind. As he tucks the phone back into his trouser pocket, having first set the call feature to vibrate, he notices that the crowd is beginning to file in for the second half. He looks at their down-turned and miserable faces, and he wonders why he should subject himself to forty-five more minutes of this nonsense. Both teams are safely mid-table, and at the moment there is nothing to play for. However, even if there was something at stake, he is reasonably sure that neither team would be competent enough to exploit the situation. In fact, he only suggested coming to this match so that he could spend some more time with Laurie, but without his son’s company what’s the point? He decides to linger over his pint, and maybe order another. There is a closed circuit television screen behind the bar so it occurs to him that he might as well stay put and watch the game from this vantage point.

It is after eleven when he finally slumps down on to the sofa and kicks off his shoes. The second half was hardly an improvement, and when Sheffield Wednesday scored the winning goal in injury time he quickly downed his third pint and headed for the exit before the rush. The Queen Caroline was busier than usual because of the football, but he found a spot on a threadbare bench seat near the jukebox, and then foraged in his pockets for a handful of £1 coins which he pumped into the machine before returning to the bench seat and listening to the music. For some reason he decided that tonight he would just play reggae, and so he chose songs by Dennis Brown, Gregory Isaacs, Third World and Bob Marley. No doubt those who were not fans of reggae music would have been un-impressed by his devotion, but that was their problem. As he sat in front of his pint he was consumed by his feelings of disappointment and frustration that neither Annabelle nor his son appeared to think it necessary to let him know what was going on. How, he wondered, had he gone from being a husband and a father to this? Mr Bloody Nobody.