Caryl Phillips - In the Falling Snow

THE SHARP, ACRID smell of the hospital ward alarms him. The noise of the machines that beep with metronomic precision, and the sight of people laid out in various states of helplessness is unsettling, but it is the high stench of cleanliness that truly disturbs him. Suddenly he is desperate for fresh air, but it is too late now. He walks slowly towards the far end of the ward where he can see his father lying prostrate in the cot under the window with his eyes closed, an intravenous drip needled and taped into the underside of his forearm, and his heartbeat, a neon green parabola, blipping away on a small screen. His father is asleep, but his brow remains furrowed, which suggests that this is not a painless slumber. He looks down at the surprisingly wizened face that is lined like a walnut, and he can see that his father seems to have aged a whole decade in the space of a few days. Near the end of the bed there is a plain metal fold-out chair which is set at a watchful angle, and so he sets his bag down to the side of the chair and then sits heavily and stares at the sleeping man. Were his father to open his eyes he is not sure what he might say to him, so he is grateful for this moment of silent contemplation.

The train had once again picked up speed and was flashing through the countryside of the midlands when his mobile rang. His diary was open before him as he was planning a time to see Laurie, but he soon realised that the diary was unnecessary as he was unemployed and pretty much available any time. Flanking his diary on all sides were a whole mass of print-outs which detailed the specifications of various one- and two-bedroom flats. There was nobody seated next to him, or in the two seats opposite, and so he was able to scatter his documents across the tabletop without inconveniencing anybody. He panicked for a moment, for he knew that the phone was somewhere underneath these papers, and then he found it and quickly flipped it open. Baron was characteristically blunt and to the point. ‘Your father is in the hospital with a heart attack. I call the ambulance this morning when I notice he can’t catch his breath, but they have him stabilised and everything. They say no danger as we get him there in time, but it don’t make no sense for you to go by his place. You better come straight to St Joseph’s and you’ll find him there.’ For a moment he didn’t know what to say to Baron, but then he caught a reflection of himself in the window of the train, with the phone in one hand and his mouth hanging open and foolish. ‘Keith, you still there?’ He tried to adopt a casual tone as he let Baron know that he would take a taxi from the train station straight to the hospital. But he couldn’t help checking. ‘But you say he’s all right?’ Baron laughed the low rumbling laugh that he remembered from his childhood. ‘They just keeping an eye on him, or whatever it is they does call it. Monitoring him.’

Once he hung up on Baron, he busied himself for a few minutes tidying up the print-outs. He folded them in half, and then he tucked everything into his diary which he then pushed into the holdall on the seat next to him. The train began to amble and so he stared out of the window as the countryside was replaced by the outskirts of yet another grim industrial town that was too insignificant for the train to stop at. He snapped out of his daydreaming, then picked up the phone and dialled Annabelle. He could tell from the background noise that she was driving and not fully concentrating on what he was saying. She asked him to speak louder. ‘I said, I’m going straight to the hospital. He’s had a heart attack, but apparently it’s not serious.’ Annabelle said nothing in reply so he couldn’t be sure if she had heard him. And then she spoke with a clarity that took him by surprise. ‘Hold on, I’m just pulling over.’ Again he turned his attention to the window, as the train began now to pick up speed and leave the red-bricked town behind. Returning to the countryside was a welcome relief, but these fields differed from the previous ones for they were decorated with cows and sheep. He had never really understood how this worked. Who owned the animals, and how did you prevent them from running away or getting mixed up with other people’s cows and sheep? ‘Is he all right?’ He reassured Annabelle that everything seemed to be under control and that Baron didn’t seem too worried. ‘Should I tell Laurie?’ On this he was adamant. ‘No, don’t tell him. I’ll call him myself. He should hear it from me, but there’s probably not much to tell him.’ Even as the words came out of his mouth he found himself wondering why, if this were the case, he had called Annabelle. In the silence, he could hear her car engine idling, and then what sounded like a lorry roared past. He had no idea what else to say to her.

The harried-looking nurse asks him how his father’s health has been of late. He shrugs his shoulders and tells her that he lives in London, but he saw his father just recently and he seemed fine.

‘He lives on his own, does he, love?’ He nods and watches as she writes on the clipboard file that she cradles in the crook of her left elbow. ‘The other feller wasn’t that much help. He did say that your father was retired, can you confirm that?’ He nods, but not wanting to be thought of as unhelpful he continues.

‘Yes, he’s been retired for a few years now. He worked at the university, as a janitor. And yes, he lives by himself.’

‘Well,’ says the nurse, without looking up, ‘that never helps, to be honest with you, but at least we can rule out any possibility of elder abuse.’

‘Of what?’

‘There’s more of it than you’d believe.’ She finishes writing and looks across at the monitor. ‘Anyhow, I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about, he’s stable. You can come back in a few hours. Maybe between six and seven when we’ll wake him up for something to eat.’

He wants to ask her if Baron is due back, but her no-nonsense manner suggests that she will have little sympathy for his question. Only now does the nurse actually deign to look in his direction. She is a reasonably attractive woman, but some make-up would help. Or would it? She looks like she has recently tightened her grip on the world of clipboard authority, having arrived at the age where a single woman becomes a spinster.

‘You’re welcome to stay, if you like. You can sit here, or we’ve more comfy chairs out there in the reception area.’ She points towards the far end of the ward. ‘And there’s a cafeteria downstairs if you want tea or coffee. It’s up to you, but I’ll warrant your father will not be opening his eyes for a good few hours yet.’

There is nobody on the door to the Mandela Centre. He walks into the lobby area and stares at the noticeboard, which boasts an airline poster of a beach in Barbados and a monthly schedule of events. In among the coffee mornings, and the bingo sessions and the occasional fish and chip supper, he can see that this afternoon the residents are being offered chair-based exercises, which he assumes take place in the dayroom at the end of the hallway. The walls of the corridor are decorated with drawings that are evidently the result of some therapeutic course. Prominent among the infantile stick figures, and the crayoned sunsets, is a large sheet of white cardboard that is framed with thin bamboo strips and upon which are stencilled the words, ‘Have a Positive Encounter With Yourself.’ He hears the country music before he enters the dayroom, but as he opens the glass-panelled door none of the half-dozen or so residents look up from their chairs. Before them sits a matronly woman who turns and eyeballs him, but she continues to flex her elbows and ankles to the jaunty rhythms of Tammy Wynette.