Caryl Phillips - In the Falling Snow

‘What do you mean how he is around me?’

‘Well, Earl likes your company. The man is always boasting off about you, and how you’re doing this big job and in charge of all kinds of people in London.’

He looks closely at Baron to see if he is making some kind of a joke, but Baron’s eyes narrow and his face becomes increasingly serious.

‘When your mother decide to birth you and leave him out of everything, it really break the man’s heart. She was the one who did him wrong, and no wonder he end up in the hospital. And then again, later, after your mother die and send her husband to deliver you like a parcel, your father is angry and suffer all over again, which is why he end up back in the hospital. Your father is not an easy man, but life has dealt him some wicked blows. However, the man can get himself some peace of mind if he just sign up for a flatlet and come and live here among the boys, but for the life of me I don’t know what goes on in that man’s head.’

‘Pride?’

‘Pride about what, Keith? Look at us. The sons of Empire. The men who came to this country to make life better for ourselves. What have we got to be proud about, aside from the fact that we’re still alive? Have we made this country a better place for you? You can be honest and tell me, have we? And look at how we’re living after all these years. When your mother and father come to this country, you really think that either one of them expect to die here?’

He looks around at the men and women in the room, some filling in forms, others watching television, some medicated and asleep, and Baron’s words make sense. But he knows that this is not the whole story.

‘What about the children, Baron? Some of us have gone on to college or university and we’re doing okay.’

Baron laughs quietly to himself.

‘Keith, you aside, you see any children here? Man, the kids don’t give a damn, and I don’t blame them. I got daughters and sons and so on, but we don’t really keep in touch, or anything like that. A lot of the kids doing just fine, and some of them getting through in spite of us, not because of us. Why you don’t ask your father what he thinks of his time in this country?’

He looks across at his father, who is trying to help a man with a passport form. Baron is right. He should ask his father what he thinks of his time in England. In fact, there remain a lot of questions that he should ask his father, but this morning’s outburst does not fill him with hope that his father will ever talk honestly with him on any subject.

They are sitting quietly together watching EastEnders on the television when his mobile rings. Aside from texting Annabelle on the first night to let her know where he was, he has had the phone turned off as he wanted to leave London behind. However, after they returned from the Mandela Centre he decided to check and see if he had any messages and he realises that he has obviously forgotten to switch it off again.

‘Is that Keith?’

Annabelle sounds unsure of who she is speaking with.

‘Annabelle? Just hang on a minute, okay?’

He stands and leaves his father alone in front of the television. He shuts the kitchen door behind him, and turns on the kettle before taking his hand away from the phone.

‘What’s the matter? Is everything all right?’

‘Not really. Look, I think you might want to come back to London.’

‘Well, I can come back in the morning. What’s the matter?’

‘Can’t you come back now?’

‘Now? What’s going on?’

‘Laurie’s down at the police station, and they’re questioning him and his friends. Somebody got stabbed.’

‘Stabbed? But Laurie’s okay, right?’

‘He’s fine, but they’re saying he was involved. Look, I think you should come back.’

‘Oh Jesus. I’ll get my things together and call you when I’m on my way.’

‘Are you still with your dad?’

‘Where else am I going to be?’

‘Look, hurry, will you? I’ll wait to hear from you.’

He closes the phone and takes a deep breath. It is probably too late for a train, but he knows that the buses run till well after midnight. As he steps back into the living room he sees his father staring up at him with a look which suggests both curiosity and indifference.

‘That was Annabelle. It looks like I’ve got to go back to London.’

His father sucks his teeth and shakes his head, making it clear that he doesn’t understand why his son is obeying a woman to whom he is no longer married.

‘It’s Laurie,’ he says. ‘Annabelle says he’s got into some kind of trouble.’

His father tosses his head slightly. ‘The woman don’t know how to raise a black child.’

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and decides to ignore his father’s comment. ‘Listen, Dad, I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more.’

‘You had something more you wanted to talk to me about?’

He sits by the window of the half-empty bus, and stares across the central reservation at the traffic that, even at this hour of the morning, is charging in the opposite direction and away from the capital city. Initially, the bus was cold, but a woman sitting near the driver made a fuss of putting her coat back on, and then her scarf and gloves, and then eventually getting up and speaking with the driver who turned up the heating so that it is now positively tropical. He suspects that his father is not well, for he can see it in his eyes, but he knows that there is only so much that you can say to a man such as his father. He continues to stare at the bright, undimmed, car headlights that flash by in the opposite direction and he chastises himself for not remembering to search in the cardboard box for a picture of his mother. The bus begins to slow now as they approach the end of the motorway, and he stands up and takes his bag down from the overhead rack. He could always send his father a stamped addressed envelope and ask him to mail a photograph to him. This would minimise the awkwardness, and his father might even feel inclined to respond, although the more he thinks about it the less likely it seems that his father would ever bother to go into his son’s old bedroom and deliberately re-engage with his past.

He stands in the lobby of the police station with a distressed-looking Annabelle. He feels somewhat tired, but he is also irritated for although it is three o’clock in the morning these people haven’t bothered to provide any chairs where they might sit down. Annabelle has been here for six hours. She told him that she has repeatedly gone out to the car to try and calm herself down, then come back in to talk with the officer on duty, who keeps repeating the same nonsense about Laurie already having a lawyer with him, so he can’t have anybody else in the interview room. Sensing her frustration rising, he touches Annabelle on the arm.

‘Look there’s a KFC down by the green that’s twenty-four hours. Let’s have a coffee in there.’

He turns to the young officer on duty, who looks as though he is barely out of the academy.

‘You’ve got her mobile number, right?’ The young officer nods. ‘And you’ll call if anything happens? We’re not going to be more than twenty minutes or so.’

‘Don’t worry, sir I’ll call. Go and have your cup of coffee.’

They are the only ones in the KFC, and he carefully balances both cups of coffee on the tray as he sits heavily on the plastic seat opposite her. The slick floor has recently been mopped so the smell of cleaning fluid is overwhelming.

‘Looks like your taking Laurie to the South Bank and talking to him didn’t help much.’

‘You make it sound like it’s my fault.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ She shakes her head. ‘Keith, I don’t know how much more of this behaviour I can take. No wonder I had to get out of social work.’