Caryl Phillips - In the Falling Snow

‘Look, Dad.’ Laurie looks at the holdall on the floor. ‘I’m sorry that it’s twice now that you’ve had to come back because of me, but I want you to know that me and Chantelle are going to get it sorted. We both want to go to university so we’re not going to let it get in the way. Well, you know what I mean. I don’t want to sound too heartless or anything.’

‘No, I know what you mean. You’re right.’ He pauses. ‘Look, there’s no point in everyone hanging about your mum’s kitchen like this, so why don’t the two of you go off and have the conversation with Chantelle’s parents. We can talk later, or tomorrow, okay?’

Annabelle sees them to the front door and then comes back into the kitchen just as the kettle starts to boil.

‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’

She places the cup, with the teabag still in it, in front of him and then opens the fridge and takes out a carton of milk.

‘She’s a nice girl, and well-mannered. And Laurie seems to like her a lot.’ Annabelle looks at him and then sits down opposite him at the table. She puts the milk to one side.

‘What is it, Keith?’

‘Nothing. I’m just tired.’

‘But you’ve come back already. What’s going on?’

‘I told you. Nothing. I just wanted to come back.’

‘Did the two of you have it out?’

‘Something like that.’

Annabelle pours the milk into the tea, and then she picks up a spoon from where it rests on a paper napkin and she stirs. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down before Laurie and Chantelle come back?’

‘Upstairs?’

‘You’ll have to walk it. I don’t have a lift.’

Annabelle gets up from the kitchen table and turns on the halogen lights that illuminate the granite counter tops. She stands by the sink and looks across at him.

‘You look like a couple of hours of sleep wouldn’t hurt you. Leave the tea there if you like. I’ll bring you up a fresh cup at about eight or so.’

When he opens his eyes he realises immediately where he is, but the room seems different, and he feels like a stranger in his own bedroom. He finds the tight envelope of sheets claustrophobic and so he pulls and kicks the top sheet until it is untucked. And then he looks around and sees Annabelle’s things where his should be and he remembers what has happened. The door creaks opens and bright light from the hallway floods the room. Annabelle is holding a tray.

‘I’ve got no hands. Can you turn on the bedside light?’

He leans over and takes the small switch between finger and thumb and squeezes it one turn clockwise before hauling himself upright.

‘What time is it?’

‘Nearly ten. I’ve brought you some tomato soup and some crusty bread.’ She sits on the edge of the bed. ‘I came up at eight but you were out for the count so I thought I’d let you sleep.’

‘You should have woken me up.’

‘What for? Do you have somewhere to go tonight?’ Annabelle places the tray in his lap. ‘Your mobile was ringing but I left it downstairs with your bag. Would you like me to bring it to you?’

He shakes his head. He realises that he has not eaten all day so he starts to spoon the soup up to his mouth.

‘Laurie’s back. Apparently it didn’t go down too well with Chantelle’s parents, although I can’t say I’m surprised. Seventh Day Adventists.’

He stops eating. ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s fine. In his room with Chantelle. I told her that she can stay on the sofa tonight. No need to look at me like that. She needs somewhere to stay, but I haven’t exactly got used to the idea of my son having sex yet, let alone having sex under my roof. I said she can stay on the sofa, and I mean the sofa.’

‘So they’ve kicked her out?’

‘That’s how most people would feel if their teenage daughter fell pregnant. But they’ll get over it, and in the meantime she’s welcome here. I was going to bring you some cheese to go with the bread. It’ll only take a minute.’

‘No thanks. I should get back to the flat and leave you to it.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? Are you expecting somebody?’ He shakes his head. ‘Well, you don’t look like you could make it to the end of the street, let alone back to your flat. Just give me the tray and go to sleep, all right?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Just give me the tray. I’ll take it downstairs and I’ll be back up in a minute. We can talk about everything else in the morning.’

He watches as Annabelle opens the door with the outside of her slippered foot and closes it behind her by hooking the door shut with her instep. He listens as she carefully descends the stairs to the kitchen. He looks around the bedroom and his eyes alight upon a framed photograph of her parents that sits prominently on the dressing table. Her father is looking confidently into the lens of the camera, while her mother’s gaze is altogether more mournful. It is not his bedroom. He belongs at Wilton Road. When she comes back up he will tell her this. He should get dressed and go home and then tomorrow he can come back and they can talk. He is not ill or incapable. There is no reason for him to spend a night here in this small terraced house with all these people. He will tell her this when she comes back upstairs. He lies back on the pillow and listens as downstairs Annabelle turns off the lights and closes all the doors. Then he hears her footsteps as she begins to walk slowly up the stairs.