In the Falling Snow

by Caryl Phillips

  He turns from the window and looks at Annabelle, who finishes her wine and then places the empty glass back on the table.

  ‘Shall we go? I can drive you back.’

  He calls for the bill, but continues to scrutinise Annabelle. She is still beautiful, despite the lines around her eyes, and the short, grey hair, and he has no difficulty recognising her as the courageous young woman he met over twenty-five years ago. However, he is unsure of what she sees when she looks across the table at him, for that look of respect, which he had once been accustomed to, has long since vanished from her face. He probably last saw it at her father’s funeral as they sat together, with Laurie squeezed between the two of them, in the narrow front row pew of the village’s Norman church. As the time drew closer for Annabelle to approach the altar and deliver her reading from the Old Testament, he knew that she was stealing sideways glances at him and trying to draw strength from his presence. She required his support, and he was not only proud to be there for her, he was determined that she should get through both the service and the reception at Magnolia Cottage without any unnecessary distress. He knew that his wife needed him, and so he snaked his hand behind their son’s back and gently caressed her shoulder as the captain of the local golf club finished delivering the eulogy.

  Annabelle’s mother took her husband’s death badly and, according to Annabelle, within weeks of the funeral she became helpless. It could, of course, have gone the other way, and being suddenly free from the scrutiny of an overbearing husband might have provided a timely boost to her confidence, but he was surprised to hear just how difficult his mother-in-law found it to cope with the day-to-day practicalities of being by herself. Now that Annabelle’s work at the theatrical agency seemed to have dried up altogether, she was free to travel to Wiltshire as often as two or three times a week. If she chose to visit at a weekend she generally took Laurie with her, for he seemed to get a thrill from seeing his sunflowers beginning to dominate one corner of the garden and, like himself, starting to shoot up in size. These days nobody called him a ‘halfie’ any more, and his late grandfather would have been pleased to learn that if they did so they were likely to get a thumping for their impertinence. On the very few occasions that he travelled with Annabelle and Laurie, he was shocked to see for himself the degree to which his mother-in-law’s self-assurance seemed to have been eroded by her husband’s death. She hesitated over every decision, and even simple things such as where to place a vase of flowers, or whether to have tea or coffee, seemed to mire her in a haze of confusion that was soon complemented by a forgetfulness that quickly became alarming.

  It was shortly after he had moved out of their house, and into Wilton Road, that Annabelle telephoned to let him know that she had made the decision to relocate her mother into an assisted living residence. Apparently the Briars was more like a cosy country hotel than an old people’s home, or at least that’s what they claimed in the advertising material, and by selling Magnolia Cottage, and carefully investing the proceeds, her mother would in all likelihood be well looked after for the rest of her life. Annabelle now had a full-time job at the BBC, so he thought it only fair to ask her what, if anything, he could do to help, but she insisted that she had it under control. She did, however, want to let him know that her mother frequently asked after him, and she always coupled her enquiries with an apology. He asked Annabelle why, but she snapped at him and told him that it was because of her father. ‘She’s not a fool, you know. She is ashamed of how Daddy behaved over the years.’ A part of him wanted to say that she should be ashamed, but he held his tongue and chose instead to ask how Laurie felt about visiting the Briars.

  ‘What do you mean, how does he feel?’

  ‘Well, is it awkward for him?’

  ‘He says it’s full of dry white people and he doesn’t want to come any more, if that answers your question. He wants to see his grandmother, but not there.’

  There was an awkward telephone silence and he wanted to say that he couldn’t blame his son, but instead he asked her if he should try to persuade Laurie to visit, but Annabelle was adamant that it was just a phase and this was the least of her problems with Laurie.

  ‘So you go alone then?’

  Annabelle laughed ironically. ‘Are you asking me if I take Bruce?’

  ‘No, I’m asking you if you visit by yourself.’

  ‘You know I haven’t told Mummy about our situation, so how can I tell her about Bruce? I don’t see why I should cause her any unnecessary confusion.’

  ‘So she still thinks we’re together?’

  ‘She has no reason to think anything else, and I believe it’s better that way, don’t you?’

  He held on to the telephone not knowing how to answer.

  She finds a convenient parking space across the street from her house and he leans over and quickly kisses her on the cheek. He doesn’t want any more conversation and, judging from the silence which had accompanied their journey home, neither does she. As he slams the car door and begins the short walk back to Wilton Street, he resolves not to turn around and see if she is watching, although he is reasonably sure that she will be. He decides that once he disappears beyond the corner and passes out of sight, he will jog the rest of the way home as he is cold and he also needs to use the bathroom. Their drink at the wine bar had not exactly been a success. When the bill arrived they decided to have one more glass, which gave him the opportunity to re-route their conversation away from what Annabelle had taken to calling his ‘mess’ and back on to the subject of Laurie. However, once they returned there Annabelle only seemed to become more agitated.

  ‘Mr Hughes thinks he might be in a gang.’

  He shook his head. ‘Mr Hughes wouldn’t know a gang if they tried to carjack his bike from underneath him. Is Laurie doing any drugs, or binge-drinking, or carrying weapons? No, he’s not, right?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, but it’s the type of people that Laurie’s involved with that appears to be the issue. Apparently Mr Hughes thinks they are affecting his concentration, and his grades are clearly not as good as they were.’

  ‘Okay, Annabelle, but why didn’t this prat say all of this to me when we were there tonight?’

  ‘We only had a few minutes with him.’

  ‘Look, I said I’ll talk to Laurie, and I will. But don’t you remember when you were a teenager? You took risks and kept secrets from your parents, didn’t you? You did things they didn’t know about, but you came through it.’

  Annabelle sighed. ‘Keith, I know. I get it, but I feel as though I might be losing him around the black–white thing. I suppose that’s what Mr Hughes is trying to say, for Laurie only seems to want to be with black kids. He’s my son and I don’t want him to start disliking me.’

  He leaned forward and touched the sleeve of her blue dress.

  ‘You know that’s not going to happen, okay? Don’t worry about that, not for a minute.’

  ‘I’m sorry but I can’t drink this.’ She pushed the glass of house white away from her. ‘We should probably go now. I’ve got to be in the office early.’

  He called for the bill again, and almost immediately the owner emerged from behind the bar and plucked the plastic folder from the pocket of his apron. When they first arrived the owner had told them that it was house policy to take a credit card for each table and they had found this annoying, but at least things would now be quick.

  ‘Everything to your satisfaction?’ The owner smiled and blew out the candle at the same time.

  Annabelle nodded. ‘Lovely, thank you.’

  He watched as the man picked up their still full glasses of house wine and placed them on a circular cork tray. Then he turned his attention to the credit card statement and filled in the tip amount and totalled up the bill, before handing the merchant copy to the owner and slipping his own copy and credit card into his wallet. He smiled at Annabelle.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  * * *

  He switches on th
e lights in the flat and rushes to the bathroom. Having relieved himself, and washed his hands, he passes into the living room and begins to empty out the contents of his pockets on to the coffee table. First, his wallet, with the receipt from the wine bar that is folded loosely into it, and then he takes out a small handful of change, two £20 notes, and his mobile phone. He lines them up as though there is some sort of organisational logic to what he is doing. It is then that he notices the ‘missed call’ message on the mobile, and so he sits on the sofa and checks to see who has called. There is no message, but he recognises the number and speed-dials Annabelle and waits. The short trip home should not have exhausted him so much, but he decides that it’s a combination of the tension of the walk, plus the nonsense of the school visit, and the conversation with Annabelle, that has left him feeling so depleted. Annabelle’s phone goes immediately to voicemail so he leaves a message asking her to call if she needs to, and then he tucks the phone into his pocket and goes into the kitchen where he turns on the kettle. He finds the last Earl Grey teabag in the back of the cupboard and drops it into the empty cup. Then, just as the water is starting to boil, the phone rings. He can hear traffic in the background, and anxiety in Annabelle’s voice.

  ‘Keith?’

  ‘Where are you? You sound like you’re at a Grand Prix race.’

  ‘I’m by the Westway, and looking for Laurie. He wasn’t at home when I got back.’

  He turns off the kettle and moves into the living room where the reception on his mobile is a little clearer.

  ‘You mean you don’t know where he is?’

  ‘He and his friends like to go to this skateboard park. I’m walking up towards it.’

  ‘A skateboard park? At this time of night?’

  ‘Maybe you’ll believe me now.’

  ‘I can get a minicab and be there in five minutes.’

  He reaches for his jacket and pushes one arm into a sleeve. He switches the phone from one hand to the next and then wriggles the other arm into the jacket.

  ‘Jesus, it’s all right.’ He can hear the relief in Annabelle’s voice. ‘I can see him.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s just with some kids on mountain bikes. Laurie’s sitting on a park bench.’

  ‘Just sitting by the Westway at this time of night?’ He slumps down on the sofa and waits for Annabelle to say something.

  ‘He’s seen me.’

  ‘Look, I can still get a minicab and meet you there. Or back at the house.’

  ‘Let’s just leave it for tonight. He seems okay.’

  ‘Okay? He’s totally out of order.’

  ‘He’s walking towards me.’

  ‘Let me talk to him.’

  ‘Look, I’m going now, Keith. You can talk to him when you come over tomorrow. But I mean it. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.’

  The line goes dead, but he continues to hold the mobile to his ear. As long as he holds this pose there is still some communication between himself and Annabelle and their son. He just has to hold the pose.

  III

  HE STANDS BY the gate to the school and studies the scruffy parade of boys trooping out with bags slung casually over one shoulder, ties flapping over the other, shoelaces undone, and hair uncombed. There is no point in his getting too judgmental for, although he would like to imagine otherwise, some part of him knows that he almost certainly looked just as unkempt when he was a sixth-former. And then he sees Laurie, loping across the playground by himself, the same pair of expensive oversized headphones jammed on to his head, and his body gently bobbing to the beat of the music. He knows that his son has seen him, but it is not until Laurie is only a few feet away that he reaches up and literally pulls the headphones down to his neck, and then he gives his father that upward nod that begins with his chin.

  ‘All right, Dad?’

  He pats his son on the shoulder, then squeezes. ‘I’m fine, son. Just fine.’

  He waits on the pavement outside the Cineplex for Laurie to emerge from the toilets. While they were watching the film it grew dark, and a little chilly, but for some reason the streetlights now seem unnaturally bright. He blinks hard, realising that he is having some difficulty adjusting his vision to the glare of the night, and he wonders if the many hours that he has recently spent at the computer screen have affected his eyes. He turns up the collar on his leather jacket and thinks that it might be best if they simply make a dash for Pizza Express. He had toyed with the idea of taking Laurie to a Greek or French restaurant, somewhere semi-formal so that at least the two of them might have somewhere quiet to talk, but a part of him knows that Laurie will regard any restaurant with cloth napkins and two forks as a pretentious dump. As he waits with the cluster of nervous smokers, he suspects that a longer walk to a proper restaurant would also irritate Laurie, whose patience seemed to be wearing thin for much of the second half of the Will Smith film. Not that there had been much choice, for it was either this, a cartoon featuring talking penguins, or an Italian art movie that looked a little bit too risqué, as he wasn’t ready to start watching bedroom scenes with his son. Predictably, the Will Smith film had been little more than a special-effect-laden action feature, with the obligatory light-skinned romance, and he sympathised with Laurie when he noticed him take out his mobile phone and furtively begin texting. As he glances at his watch, he imagines that his son is most likely in the toilets engaged in exactly the same type of clandestine communication.

  Pizza Express turns out to be a good choice. Laurie asks for some extra breadsticks while he waits for his ‘special’ pizza, and he seems happy that his father is letting him drink a small bottle of Italian beer. ‘Thanks, Dad.’ He slops it quickly into the glass tumbler.

  ‘Does your mother let you drink beer? Or maybe wine. You know, with a meal.’

  ‘Are you losing it? She’d have a fit if she thought I was out boozing with you.’

  ‘Well you’re not exactly boozing, are you? Just a bottle of beer.’

  ‘But it’s more than she’s gonna let me have.’

  ‘Well, maybe she has her reasons for it.’ He looks at Laurie, who shrugs his shoulders and takes another gulp of his beer. ‘You know, she told me about you getting wasted last Christmas with your mates.’ Laurie lowers his eyes and swirls the beer in the glass. ‘Listen, it’s all well and good drinking too much, but the real problem isn’t the headache, or the puking, it’s the lines you cross because your judgement is off.’ Laurie looks up at him and he can see frustration in his son’s eyes. ‘The point is, it’s the things you do and say when you’ve been drinking that usually come back to haunt you, because they’re not always things that you mean. Am I making sense?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Listen, what’s done is done, but all I want to say is don’t disrespect your mother by coming in drunk, all right. She was pretty upset about what happened last Christmas.’

  ‘Is that the end of my lesson, then?’

  ‘You think this is a joke?’

  His son stares at him, and then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head.

  ‘No, I don’t think it’s a joke.’

  ‘Keep control, son. Keep it together. There are enough people out there trying to knock you out of your stride. Trust me, you don’t need to be helping them.’

  Both pizzas seem too large for the plates. He understands that ‘value for money’ is supposed to be the special feature of Pizza Express although, to him, it looks like small plates are their real speciality. He watches as his son eats quickly, tearing at the pizza with his hands rather than cutting it neatly into slices, and he realises that there are some things that he cannot talk to Laurie about. It is probably too late.

  ‘So you have no idea of what you would like for a present after your exams?’

  ‘You mean after passing my exams, ’cause you’re not giving me anything if I fail them, right?’

  ‘You’ll pass. I’m not worried. I thought
maybe a trip to the Caribbean.’

  ‘The Caribbean?’ Laurie pushes a particularly large piece of pizza into his mouth, and he speaks through the food as he chews. ‘Why there?’

  ‘What do you mean “why there?”? Your grandparents come from there. Are you saying you’re not interested?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? You’re supposed to know something about where you come from. Or at least be curious. I’m not asking you to go and live there or anything, but at least just take a look. It’s the Caribbean, Laurie. How bad can it be?’

  ‘Well how come you’ve never been there if it’s so important?’

  ‘I suppose a part of me was waiting until you were old enough so we could go together.’

  ‘Your dad doesn’t want to know, does he?’

  ‘I’ve already explained to you. He’s very private about everything.’

  ‘Weirdo, more like. Sitting up there in that house by himself.’

  ‘Come on, that’s not fair.’

  ‘What’s not fair? Am I lying?’

  He stares at his son and understands that, from his point of view, his grandfather must appear to be a somewhat eccentric man. However, this is not a topic he feels comfortable discussing with Laurie. The one time he took Laurie to meet him, his father simply sat and looked at his twelve-year-old grandson, before abruptly picking up his pork-pie hat and leaving for the pub without saying a word. Annabelle had warned him that she did not want their son to be as upset by his father as she had been on the one occasion that he had introduced her to him. After they had moved to London, the theatrical agency that Annabelle worked for had informed her that they had a play opening at the Crucible Theatre in Sheffield and asked her if she might be free to view it. When Annabelle told him that she would have to travel to the north, he realised that he could go with her and take this opportunity to introduce her and, if truth be told, reintroduce himself to his father after many years of estrangement. However, when he and Annabelle presented themselves at his father’s house, the stubborn older man retreated into a silence which resisted Annabelle’s quietly expressed appeals for there to be communication and, as she put it, ‘fence-mending’. On the train back to London, a pregnant Annabelle sat and stared out of the window with the occasional tear rolling down her face, and although he found this uncomfortable, it was better than the anger he had been expecting. By the time they reached London, Annabelle seemed to have pulled herself together again.