Caryl Phillips - In the Falling Snow

‘A bit of name-calling and thumping and all done. The other kids were muppets, but Hughes is a real drama queen.’

He was suddenly conscious that the driver was listening to their private conversation, for he could see the man’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. He decided that for the moment it was probably best to say nothing further. Fifteen minutes later they stepped out of the taxi at the back of the Queen Elizabeth Hall, and he turned to his son and asked him if he’d like to go up in the London Eye before they set off on their walk. Laurie shrugged, which meant that there was no serious opposition to the idea.

As the Eye continues to turn, and they start their descent, he notices that his son has a cut on the back of his right hand which has clearly been bleeding. He decides to say nothing, leaving it up to Laurie to tell him about it if he so wishes, but he suspects that his son will choose to remain silent about the source of his injury.

He steps out of their pod and is relieved to feel terra firma beneath his feet. He puts a hand on Laurie’s shoulder.

‘Have you ever been inside the Houses of Parliament? I mean on a school trip or something?’ Laurie shakes his head. ‘Let’s take a walk to Westminster Bridge. We probably can’t go into the actual parliament at this time of day, but you get a great view from the bridge.’

They stand together on the bridge and look across at the back of the Palace of Westminster. He realises that the best view is probably from the south of the river, but it is too late now. They are standing in the middle of the bridge, directly over the water, and Laurie is clearly waiting for his father to say whatever it is that is on his mind.

‘Does this mean anything to you, Laurie?’ He gestures with his arms in a somewhat grand manner, hoping that the flamboyance of his motion will suggest a kind of ownership. He then drops his arms and places both hands on a low stone wall and leans forward slightly.

Laurie shrugs his shoulders. ‘I’m not sure what you’re on about.’

‘All of this is yours if you want it, but to get it you’ll have to work harder than your mates. You’ve got to prove to your mates that you’re better than them, and you’ve got to remember that nobody is ever going to give you anything.’

It is apparent, from the puzzled look on his son’s face, that he should either be clearer about what he is saying or else he should say nothing further.

‘You’re not really sure what I’m talking about, are you?’

‘I haven’t got a clue.’

‘No, I didn’t think so. It’s my fault.’ He pauses. ‘I’m worried about you, Laurie. You’re a young man now, and I don’t want to tell you what to do with your life, but I can help you, if you want me to help you that is. But it’s up to you.’

‘How can you help me?’

‘I can talk to you. Or you can talk to me.’

‘You want me to talk to you?’

Of course he wants his son to talk to him, but he understands why his son feels a little distant. Sons can be unforgiving towards those who they believe have hurt their mothers. He knows this from his own life.

‘I’d like nothing more than for you to talk to me, but I don’t want to force you to do anything. I know it doesn’t work like that.’ He reaches into the black leather knapsack that hangs from his shoulder, and he produces a plastic bag. ‘Here, I got you this.’

Laurie takes the bag from him and pulls out the blue and red striped Barcelona shirt.

‘Man, that’s cool. Cheers, Dad.’ As he speaks his son keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the shirt. ‘Thanks.’

‘But you’re sure that there’s nothing that you want to talk about? The fight, for instance?’

‘I thought you said that you weren’t forcing anything.’

Of course, Laurie is right. He will have to take his son’s word that he is telling the truth about the scuffle with the other boys, for he knows that if he comes on too heavy then Laurie will simply tune him out.

‘Well, we can talk whenever you’re ready. It doesn’t have to be now. Your mother is trying her best, but there are some things that she can never really know about.’

‘You mean because she’s white?’

‘No, I suppose what I really mean is because she’s not black.’

As the words come out of his mouth he wants to kick himself for he knows that he sounds annoyingly glib.

‘Look, what I’m trying to say is that I know it’s not exactly straightforward for you out there on the streets. Who knows, maybe this is something that you might find easier to talk about with me. After all, there are some things that I’ve been through myself as a black kid growing up in this country and I think I can tell you what I know without it coming over like a sermon.’

His son seems momentarily embarrassed and he wonders if this is the right time for him to drop an arm around Laurie’s shoulders and for them to leave Westminster Bridge and begin their walk along the embankment. He looks at his son’s confused face and he realises that, on second thoughts, maybe they should just head straight back to Annabelle’s house. He turns from Laurie and looks down at the water and decides to leave the decision up to his son, but the silence deepens and it is becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

‘The thing is, Dad, I don’t know if things are the same now as they were when you were my age.’

He continues to gaze down at the river. At least his son is talking to him. He looks up and turns so that he is facing Laurie.

‘So tell me then, how are they different?’

‘It isn’t just about discrimination and stuff. I know that’s important, and that’s your job and everything, but it’s also about other things.’

‘Other things like what?’

‘It’s got a lot to do with respect. You can’t let people just large it up in your face and disrespect you. A man’s got to have respect or he’s nothing better than somebody’s punk.’

Respect? What has Laurie, or any of his friends, achieved in their lives that makes them imagine that anybody should respect them? What have they done to earn respect? How pathetic he must seem to his son, blathering on about a career beyond university, and how he will have to put in more effort and try twice as hard as anybody else, and all the while his son is obviously thinking what a square tosser his dad is. However, what his exasperated father is trying to say to him boils down to one sentence that he knows he can’t say. ‘Laurie, act your age, not your colour.’ Both he and Laurie are trying hard not to cause each other any upset, but after three years of living apart it is evident to him that they are woefully incapable of conversing casually.

‘Can we go now?’ Laurie speaks quietly, as though he feels sorry for his father. ‘It’s getting a bit cold.’

‘Don’t you fancy going for even a short walk along the South Bank? We don’t have to go far.’

‘You mean down there by the water?’

‘You can’t be that cold, are you?’

‘It’s freezing, man.’

‘Have you got something else to do? Or someone to meet?’ Laurie shakes his head and then gently begins to punch the toe of a trainer-clad foot against the wall.

‘Let’s walk for a little while and if you’re still cold you can always put on your Barcelona shirt.’

Laurie gives him a fake smile, which leaves him in no doubt as to what his son thinks of his suggestion. He decides that they will walk down as far as the Tate Modern, most likely in silence, and then he will hail a taxi and drop Laurie off at Annabelle’s. At some point he will try and speak further with Annabelle, and reassure her that there is no reason to panic about Laurie, but Annabelle is not as calm, nor as patient, as she used to be. As they descend the stone steps that lead to the wide pedestrian walkway that hugs the meandering line of the river, Laurie withdraws into a silence that is unmistakably sullen. His mother has taken to describing these moods as his ‘big man’ behaviour, and he is now experiencing for himself just what she has been referring to. They turn left and begin to saunter along the river, but he decides that they will walk only as far as the National Film Theatre and then hail a taxi from there. He sees no point in subjecting either one of them to this strained atmosphere for a moment longer than is necessary.