Caryl Phillips - In the Falling Snow

He gets up from the sofa and crosses to a precariously stacked pile of CDs. He scans them quickly, then takes out a Peter Tosh CD and slots it into the player. He listens for a moment and then turns the bass up a single point before returning to the sofa. He doesn’t want to disturb the neighbours. What should have been a stress-free evening with his son has turned out to be deeply hurtful, and Annabelle has still not called him back. In fact, the only person who did contact him was Lesley, who telephoned him as he was watching the second half of the match on the television screen behind the bar. She apologised if she had been out of line in summoning him to Starbucks, but he assured her that there was no reason at all for her to say sorry. He didn’t tell her that after their meeting at Starbucks he had not managed to achieve anything all day, beyond calling his son and arranging to go to the game with him, for he had been unable to get Clive Wilson’s treachery out of his mind. He should, of course, have been thanking her for being so honest and putting him in the picture, but he just listened and occasionally interrupted and reassured her that he really did understand why she felt compelled to contact him and meet up. ‘Let me know if you need to talk,’ said Lesley, ‘I know it’s not easy for you, but you’ve got my number on your phone now so don’t worry about calling me. It’s fine.’

He gets up from the sofa and lines his shoes up neatly. Then he turns down the volume of the Peter Tosh CD before making his way into the kitchen. Come on, Annabelle, he’s not just your son. She should at least have the courtesy to put him out of his misery and tell him that Laurie is all right. He takes the solitary bottle of Pouilly-Fumé from the fridge and twists a corkscrew into it, before wrestling both cork and instrument clear. He pours the wine into a tumbler and then puts the bottle back into the fridge. As he slumps down on to the sofa he picks up his phone and dials quickly from memory. He can tell from her voice that she is in bed and probably about to go to sleep.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up. I can call tomorrow if it’s better for you.’

For a moment there is silence as she takes in just who it is that is speaking. Then Yvette laughs slightly.

‘Have you lost it? Or have you been drinking, is that it?’

‘What do you mean “drinking”?’

‘You shouldn’t be calling me. Not with things being the way they are.’

‘Well things are only the way they are because you want it like that.’ He pauses. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Listen, we can’t work together because of what went on between us. You know that, right?’ She waits. ‘Well?’

‘We can’t work together because you seem to think that it’s all right to go putting our business out where everyone can see it.’

‘I don’t have anything to hide.’

‘Certain things are private, Yvette. Don’t you realise how bad you’re making yourself look?’

She laughs. ‘I don’t believe it, you have been drinking, haven’t you? You know what, why don’t we just pretend that this phone call never happened?’

‘Why don’t we pretend that things between us never happened? That’ll make it easier for everyone. I mean, this is all messed up. Where do you get off telling people that I’ve been harassing you?’

‘I’ll tell you what’s messed up, Keith. The fact that if I don’t pretend that this phone call never happened then I’ll have to tell my solicitor and it’s going to sound suspiciously like you were bullying me. So just go to sleep and leave me alone, all right?’

‘So you don’t see us working together again?’

‘Get a grip, Keith. It’s gone way too far and you know it. Maybe if they gave me a settlement of some kind then I’d leave, but according to my solicitor they won’t. It’s easier for them if you step down because it doesn’t cost them anything.’

‘I see.’ He pauses. ‘Yvette, why are you doing this? We got on just fine, didn’t we?’

‘Women don’t like being dumped, or didn’t anyone tell you that? Maybe I’ve saved some other poor sod from feeling used and then chucked.’

‘You weren’t used and you weren’t chucked. Things end, Yvette. That’s just life.’

The phone goes dead. She has hung up on him, so he closes the phone and puts it down on the glass-topped table with a click. Then he picks up the tumbler of wine. He knows that he shouldn’t have called her, but at least he’s sure now. He knows where he stands.

Annabelle opens the door. She is still in her dressing gown, and she looks him up and down as though he is a salesman who is attempting to press some unwanted household products upon her. His former wife simply shakes her head.

‘You look like shit, Keith. You’re not taking care of yourself, are you?’

‘Yes, well I didn’t come around here at eight o’clock in the morning for your opinion on how I look.’

‘Really? Well, I didn’t open the door and expect to find a vagrant on my doorstep. So, are you coming in?’

She moves to one side to let him pass, but he does not move.

‘Well, are you coming in or not?’

‘Is Laurie here?’

‘He’s asleep. Come on, I don’t want to talk to you while you’re outside.’

He moves past her and into the kitchen where he sits on a tall stool by the breakfast bar.

‘Why didn’t you call me yesterday? I left messages. In fact, by the end of the day I was worried sick.’

‘I know, it’s my fault. I should have called you, but my mobile needed charging.’ Annabelle sighs, and then she pulls out a chair and sits. ‘And there’s something else.’ She pauses. ‘Look, Laurie got himself in a bit of bother with some boys from school.’

‘What kind of bother?’

‘Shoplifting. I had to go and pick him up from Mr Hughes’s office. Don’t worry, I gave him a pretty serious talking to, but he claims that it was all a big mistake, and maybe it’s true because the school let all of them off with a warning.’

‘All of them? How many kids are we talking about? You make it sound like something out of Oliver Twist .’

‘Five or six, according to Mr Hughes. Look, maybe you could try getting through to Laurie again. He’s staying at home and revising today, so why don’t you come back in a few hours and maybe take him out for lunch. But for heaven’s sake, smarten yourself up a bit.’

‘You know, Annabelle, sometimes you’re not real. Laurie is hauled into the headmaster’s office and accused of shoplifting, and all you want to talk about is how I look?’

‘Mr Hughes is worried about him.’

‘And I’m worried about Mr Hughes.’

‘And given how you look, I’m worried about you. Did you get any sleep?’

Over the past three years, Annabelle has mastered the art of irritating him with a well-placed comment, or even a look, and he has had to teach himself carefully how not to rise to her bait. He takes a deep breath.

‘Look, Annabelle, we’re talking about Laurie. This could be serious, okay?’

‘I’ve been trying to tell you for some time now that there’s a problem. Laurie’s getting by with his work, but no more than that. But those kids he runs around with, I don’t like it. Mr Hughes confirmed to me that some of them are binge drinkers, buying their cider and their alcopops by the case and puking up in the street every day. Jesus, they go to school either drunk or hung over, and you know these kids can buy the stuff twenty-four hours a day in the supermarket and it’s cheaper than fizzy water. Sometimes I feel like I’m losing Laurie to his so-called friends. I can’t fight it alone and quite frankly you don’t even seem to be trying.’