Caryl Phillips - In the Falling Snow

The bus begins to slow down and bully its way across the motorway and into the inside lane. As they bear left and take the service station slip road, the driver announces that this will be a very short stop and they will leave in five minutes. Only those who need to disembark the bus should do so, the others should remain on board. ‘Sorry, but there’ll be no time for the games arcade or the food emporium as we’re running behind schedule.’ They cruise past the entrance to the car park, and the family picnic area, before swinging extravagantly into the bus parking zone and coming to an abrupt halt. He left the hospital knowing that he would have to go back to his father’s house, but he is still not sure how he found himself at the central bus station buying a one-way ticket to London. He remembers putting the key in the door and then lumbering upstairs and grabbing his bag, before trudging back downstairs and looking at the photographs that remained scattered on the kitchen table. For a moment he lingered, but it was too soon to even think of beginning the process of sifting through the evidence of his father’s life and so he turned his back on the house. He remembered to lock the door behind him, and he now finds himself just over an hour away from London and he realises that he should probably call Annabelle. He wants to do so before the driver starts up the thunderous engine, and so he arches his still aching back, and squeezes the mobile phone out from his trouser pocket and hits Annabelle’s speed dial number. She sounds fraught.

‘Keith? I was worried about you. In fact, I left you a message last night.’

He has not checked his messages so it’s now his turn to be worried. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Are you sitting down?’ She doesn’t wait for him to answer. ‘It’s Chantelle. She’s pregnant.’

‘For Laurie?’

‘Well, yes, who do you think?’

‘Well, hang on a minute, I don’t know. I’ve never even met her.’

‘Well they’re both coming over to explain things to me. Their words, not mine.’

‘I’m on my way back. I should probably come over too, right?’

‘I thought you were going to be away for a few days? Is your dad okay?’

‘Yes, no problem. Why?’

‘Are you sure? I mean, why the change of plan?’

‘No reason really.’ He pauses. ‘Do you think it’s best if you see them by yourself? I can be there in a couple of hours at most.’

The doors to the bus close with a cushioned sigh and the engine rumbles to life. He lowers his head and cups his hand around the phone so that he will be speaking directly into the microphone, and then he feels the bus beginning to lurch its cumbersome way out of the service station parking zone.

‘Well that would be brilliant, if you’re really on your way back. I won’t start talking about anything until you’re here.’ She pauses. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You sound a bit stressed.’

The iPod-playing youth has now located yet another shoot-em-up film and he seems to have increased the volume on his iPod to maximum. Annabelle is right, he is stressed, but he understands that sleep is the best remedy and, although it appears to be a long shot at best, he will try to block out the noise of small screen murder and mayhem and grab a quick nap before they reach London.

He stands in line at the newsagent’s intending to buy chewing gum, but these days they seem to have converted these shops into places where you simply wait your turn to purchase lottery tickets. Traditional transactions, such as buying a newspaper, seem to take forever. Just as he is about to give up, the young man behind the counter, who sports the faint shadow of a moustache above his top lip, reaches out a hand and takes his money while continuing to process a lottery request with his other hand. Back outside on the pavement, it is both dark and windy. He stuffs a piece of gum into his mouth and then hoists his bag up and on to a shoulder, but he does not move off. He stands and stares across the village common at the row of Victorian terraces where Annabelle lives. These houses are now highly sought after, despite the fact that they open up right on to the street, but when they moved here from Birmingham, this area was hardly fancy or trendy. Today, outside the self-consciously designer shops, there are increasing numbers of basketed bicycles chained to purpose-built bike stands with a variety of unlikely locks, but back then if you were reckless enough to leave a bicycle chained anywhere for five minutes you would be lucky to find its skeletal remains. At the weekend there is a farmers’ market, and any stall vulgar enough to sell non-organic products is likely to find itself picketed by what Laurie calls his mother’s ‘Green Posse’. Other parts of London seem to have made peace with Pound shops and Somali-run internet cafés offering to unlock your phone for a fiver, but not this little haven on the common which boasts a gymnasium for children called Cheeky Monkeys, and pubs which feature foreign beers served in breast-shaped glasses and a female clientele who wear long skirts and shooting jackets and walk soft-mouthed dogs, while the guys, if not English, are Mediterranean types who like to tuck their hair behind their ears like Premier League footballers. The truth is, he liked the area better then; in fact, he liked his life better back then. He remembers moving to London in the eighties as an exciting time for them both. Annabelle was beginning to think about a new career in the media, and he was finally going to be able to be the type of social worker who wouldn’t have to spend most of his time listening to pleas for Saturday schools for under-performing black kids, or fielding applications for black theatre workshops where kids could learn the cultural importance of playing steel drums. His new job in London meant that he could leave behind the discomfort of being the black guy with a suit and briefcase, whose job seemed to principally involve him going into Afro-Caribbean centres and being taunted by angry dread-locked men as a ‘baldhead’. Coming to London represented a new start and a new challenge, albeit in an unfashionable part of west London, but as he slowly chews gum outside the newsagent’s shop across the common from Annabelle’s house, he realises how dramatically things have changed, and not only in this now-fancy part of the city. So that’s it then? His father has gone and now there’s nobody ahead of him. Nobody higher than him on the tree. The traffic suddenly dies down for a moment, and he stares across the common and finds himself enveloped in a pocket of silence. He feels exposed and vulnerable. Small. That’s it. Small. An accelerating lorry blasts by, and then another. So that’s it then?

Annabelle ushers him into the kitchen, where he can see that Chantelle and Laurie are both about to leave. They have on their hats and coats and they are standing by the kitchen table. He puts down his bag on the floor and then smiles at them.

‘Dad, this is Chantelle.’

The girl is tall and pretty, with large hazel eyes. Her hair is cut short and close to her head and she is the type of young woman who could easily end up modelling clothes for a career. She holds out a slender hand, which he shakes.

‘Pleased to meet you, Chantelle.’ He turns to Laurie and is surprised to see no sign of the headphones. ‘If you’re both going out then I don’t want to keep you. But from what your mother’s told me we should talk at some point.’

Laurie looks directly at him and shrugs his shoulders. ‘We can talk now if you want. I was just going over to Chantelle’s house to tell her mum and dad. They don’t know yet.’

Annabelle starts to fill the kettle. ‘It was Laurie’s idea that they go over there together.’ She looks at Chantelle. ‘It’s obviously going to be a bit of a shock for your family, isn’t it?’ Chantelle glances quickly at Laurie, then turns back to face Annabelle. She nods. ‘Well, it was a bit of a shock for us too.’