In the Falling Snow

by Caryl Phillips

  ‘He’s your problem, Keith. You’ll have to sort things out between the two of you before he ever accepts me, so I’m going to make the effort not to take it personally. At least I tried, right?’ She looked across at him. ‘Right?’

  He helped her down on to the platform, and then picked up both of their bags. ‘I know you tried, and I’m sorry. I told you he was out of order.’

  Twelve years later, his father gave him and his son the same silent treatment when they stopped to see him after he had taken Laurie to visit the National Railway Museum in York. After looking at them both for some minutes, and then muttering something under his breath, his father simply picked up his hat and walked out of his own house. Laurie seemed to deal with the rejection better than Annabelle, but five years later, given the unpleasantness of the encounter, he can’t argue with his son’s description of his father as a ‘weirdo’. He watches as Laurie pushes the final piece of pizza into his mouth and then wipes his fingers on the crested serviette.

  ‘Well, this Caribbean trip isn’t about your grandfather, it’s about you and me.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, bonding. We had to write an essay about it in General Studies.’

  ‘Well? Are you interested or not?’

  ‘In bonding?’

  ‘In going to the Caribbean. Okay, bonding in the Caribbean, if that makes you feel better.’

  ‘All right then, we can check it out. But Grandma gave me some money, so I’m also going to Barcelona. It’ll be after the end of the season, but at least I’ll see the ground and maybe I’ll get to see them train.’

  ‘You’re telling me that you’d rather go to Spain, which is just around the corner, than go all the way across the Atlantic to the Caribbean?’

  ‘I told you, I can go to both.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you to Barcelona?’

  ‘What for? You don’t like Barca. Anyhow, I’m going with some mates.’

  ‘No adults?’

  ‘You’re not worried about me, are you?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  ‘Get real, Dad. I’m nearly eighteen.’

  As they step out of the Pizza Express he sees a group of boys idling on a low brick wall near the entrance to the Tesco Mini-Mart. For a moment he thinks about walking in the opposite direction, for he knows that it will be straightforward to get a cab in the next street, but Laurie seems to know the boys and he shouts.

  ‘Yo!’

  He sees his son throw a quick hand signal that elicits a chorus of ‘Yo!’s from the loiterers, but he turns away from Laurie and squints anxiously down the street. He flags down a passing cab, for he wants to get away from these boys as quickly as possible. Laurie scampers over to join him, and as the cab moves off he wonders if he should ask his son if he is in a gang. However, if Laurie says ‘yes’ he is unsure of what advice he might offer him that wouldn’t just provoke his son’s ire and frustration, so he decides to say nothing. He turns slightly and looks out of the window at the heavy night traffic. So, Annabelle’s mother has given Laurie money to go to Spain. More likely that Annabelle has given him the money in the name of her mother, for he is sure that his mother-in-law’s dementia has reached a stage where she would not even recognise her grandson. It pains him that he is unable to offer his son another grandmother, or a proper relationship with his grandfather, for he doesn’t want Laurie to feel that should anything happen to him then Annabelle’s family are all that he has. In a sense, offering to take him to the Caribbean is his attempt to repair this imbalance, but if Laurie prefers to take his grandmother’s money and go to Barcelona with his mates, then he should be free to do so. He turns quickly and steals a glance at his son, who has slipped his headphones back into place and is once again bobbing his head to the music which leaks out from his bulbous earpieces. He wants to suggest to his son that conversation might be a good alternative to just cutting himself off in this way, but he decides to leave it. Both the trip to the cinema, and then the pizza, have been a success. At least they have talked, which is what he hoped for, and Annabelle can have no complaints. She can’t accuse him of not trying to bond with his son.

  He registers the quizzical look on Annabelle’s face as she opens the door and stands to one side. Laurie squeezes past her, but he doesn’t bother to take off his headphones or greet his mother. His son half turns so that he faces him, but he doesn’t break stride.

  ‘See you, Dad. Thanks.’

  He watches as Laurie bounces upstairs, easily taking two steps at a time, and when the tall young man eventually disappears from view he looks at Annabelle.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Keith. “What’s the matter?” How can you be so casual about everything. Her name’s Yvette, right?’

  He shrugs his shoulders and makes it clear that she should continue.

  ‘There’s some kind of website with a blog on it and people are posting messages. Apparently she’s on antidepressants and is barely functioning. That’s what’s the matter. People are writing about you and her, and I hate to tell you this, but you’re not looking too clever.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘Do I look like I’m joking?’

  ‘Well what are they saying?’

  ‘I think you’d better read it for yourself.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about this website.’

  ‘Trust me, you will.’

  ‘But it’s ridiculous, we’re two single people who started to see each other and it ended, that’s all.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? You can’t win in these situations, and you do understand that somebody is going to send the link to Laurie, the same way they sent it to me.’

  ‘Who sent you the link?’

  ‘I’m buggered if I know, but somebody wanted to make sure that I saw it.’

  He runs his hand quickly across his face, but he realises that he is not thinking clearly.

  ‘You think somebody’s trying to stitch me up?’

  ‘Yes, Sherlock, somebody’s trying to discredit you further than you’ve already discredited yourself. And it might not be Yvette, or whatever her name is. It’s a blog so anybody can sign in. It’s public space.’

  ‘Maybe I should speak to a lawyer and see if I can get it stopped.’

  ‘Well do me a favour, Keith, do something, will you? Before your son begins to dislike you too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you don’t have a lot of friends on that blog.’

  ‘Including you, I take it.’

  ‘I’m not on the blog.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘How was it tonight?’

  ‘How was what?’

  ‘Your time with Laurie. What do you think I mean?’

  ‘I had a good time with him. He’s changing, that’s all. Going through that moody “I’m a man” stuff. But we chatted, and it’s fine.’

  Annabelle smiles sarcastically. ‘“And it’s fine”? What are you talking about? What’s fine?’

  He feels anger and frustration rising quickly within him, but he bites his bottom lip hard. He lowers his voice to just above a whisper.

  ‘Laurie’s fine. He’s passing through adolescence so he’s doing the whole awkward thing. What do you expect?’

  ‘And you think that’s all there is to it? That’s he’s not hiding something from us?’

  ‘Look I’m his dad, not his bloody therapist. He seems fine to me. All that ADD crap that the headmaster was talking about is just that. Crap.’ He stares at Annabelle. ‘All right?’

  Annabelle glares at him, but she has clearly decided to say nothing further.

  He takes a sip of wine as the computer whirrs and beeps and offers him various upgrades which he rejects with a succession of hurried clicks. He puts down the glass then stands up and takes off his jacket and drapes it over the back of the sofa. As he does so he notices that the two cinema tickets have fallen from his jacket
pocket on to the floor, so he stoops to pick them up and tosses them on to the coffee table before stepping back into the kitchen and switching on the central heating. He has been meaning to program the thermostat so that the heat comes on automatically, but this will mean reading the booklet and he’s yet to find the time to do so. He re-enters the living room and sits back in front of the screen, but his hands hover for he is still trying to decide whether or not to take a look at the offending website. Annabelle had helpfully written down the address on a piece of paper and shoved it into his hand as he was leaving. But why, he thinks, should he expose himself to something that he knows is going to disturb him, and most likely make him angry? He logs into his email and begins to write to Clive Wilson. He needs to see him urgently. In fact, first thing in the morning. Before he sends the short email he stands up and walks a few paces to the window where he stares out into the darkness. He can see nothing, no people, no movement beyond the gently swaying branches and the flickering light in the lamppost, but he can hear cars swishing by on the main road at the end of the street. There is no need to explain to Clive why he needs to see him. Surely, Clive Wilson should be able to work that out for himself.

  ‘Here,’ says Clive. ‘Just drink out of the other side of the cup. No milk and no sugar, right?’ He pushes the coffee cup across the desk. ‘Whoever heard of running out of coffee. Hang on, you can have your own cup of decaf if you like. I’ve got some of that.’ Clive slides back his chair and prepares to climb to his feet.

  ‘No thanks, Clive. This is fine, we can share.’

  He lifts the cup to his mouth and takes a quick sip of the watery coffee, and then he places it back in front of Clive, careful to make sure that the handle is facing the right direction. His boss laughs nervously then clears his throat.

  ‘I promise you, I’ll speak to her about the website, but it might not be anything to do with her.’

  ‘Oh come on, you know better than that.’

  ‘Look, I’m on it, Keith. I’ve already contacted our IT guys, and they’ve been in touch with some internet lawyers so, one way or another, we’ll find out who’s responsible. Anyhow, the site’s probably already been cleared up. Basically don’t worry about the website, that’s no longer an issue.’

  ‘Well, can I assume that you don’t have a problem with me wanting to come back to work?’

  ‘Well, personally, I’d kill for a few weeks’ paid leave. I don’t know what the hurry is to get back.’ Clive slurps his coffee, but he doesn’t bother to push the cup back in his employee’s direction. He holds on to the handle. ‘I thought you were writing a book or something.’

  ‘More like “something”.’

  ‘So it’s not going well. Is that why you want to plonk yourself back behind your desk?’ He thinks about how best to explain the situation, but Clive continues. ‘Lesley’s doing just fine in your job. I mean it’s a bit of a stretch for her, but she’s coping.’

  ‘With all due respect, it’s not Lesley that I’ve come to talk about.’

  Clive Wilson sighs and brings his hands together on the desk, as though about to pray.

  ‘Like I told you, Yvette’s back now and she’s healing. I think that’s what they call it. Bloody hell, what kind of language is that? They make it sound like she’s tripped up and bruised her knee.’

  ‘Look, Clive, the only way I’m going to put an end to this bullshit is by standing up for myself and confronting the situation. I want my job back. I’ve got to let people know that I didn’t do anything wrong and that it’s all finished with.’ He pauses. ‘It would be better if you could move her to a different department, or transfer her out of the building, but I suppose you’ve got your reasons for not doing so.’

  Clive laughs, and leans back in his chair as he does so.

  ‘Yes, Keith, I’ve got my reasons all right. She’s accused you of harassment and technically she’s the innocent one here. I can’t just make her disappear.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to have her bumped off or anything, but how can you call her innocent? Harassment? I’ve never harmed anybody in my life. Come on, this is bullshit, Clive. Whose side are you on?’

  Clive leans forward and places his hands back on the desk.

  ‘It’s probably best if I forget that I heard that.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. You can go ahead and answer. It’s about time somebody explained to me just what the hell is going on around here.’

  ‘I had to fight for your job, Keith. I know you don’t want to hear this, but it was me who suggested that rather than begin disciplinary proceedings against you, which the local authority were seriously considering, they should give you paid leave which would enable everyone to have a cooling-off period. I can’t do much about gossip, and these days people don’t just whisper in the corridors or by the water fountain, they do so on websites. It’s pretty uncomfortable, but I can’t legislate for that. Nobody can, but like I said I think that’s been dealt with. But I’m sorry, you are going to have to sit tight for a few weeks before I can begin to ease you back into your job, and when I do so Yvette’s not going to like the situation any more than you like it now, but that’s just the way it will have to be.’

  Clive quickly drums the tips of his fingers against the desk with an almost military flourish, and then he sits up straight and stares at his subordinate.

  ‘Can I ask you something, Keith? I’m not trying to be offensive or anything.’

  ‘Ask whatever you want to ask, Clive. You’re in charge, aren’t you?’

  Clive sighs. ‘Look, I don’t want any unpleasantness between us. Believe me that’s the last thing that I want.’ He pauses. ‘I suppose I just wanted to know if it was serious. On your part, that is. I’m not interested in what she was thinking, I’m just trying to work out what was going on in your mind. Because, if it wasn’t serious, have you ever thought about using prostitutes? I mean, that’s what they’re there for. Quick, simple, easy, nobody gets hurt, and who gives a fuck, right?’

  ‘Is that what you do, Clive? Fuck prostitutes, and you think that makes you better than me? Cheating on your wife with hookers, that makes you smarter than me?’

  ‘Calm down, Keith. I’ve never been with a prostitute in my life, I was just trying to understand something, but I’m sorry if I offended you. Look, you made a mistake, Keith. I don’t want to come over all heavy, but you made a mistake. These are other people’s kids that you’re treating like this.’

  ‘Other people’s kids? She’s a fucking twenty-six-year-old woman. She’s not some schoolgirl virgin. Can you not get that straight? She’s not innocent, and don’t you dare talk to me about other people’s kids like I’m some fucking sex offender.’ He pushes back the chair and stands up. ‘Clive, don’t fucking patronise me.’

  ‘Please, Keith. Keep your voice down.’

  ‘Fuck you, Clive. “Somebody else’s kids”? Have you lost the plot? You really have bought into all of this “healing” crap, haven’t you?’

  When he reaches the door to Clive’s office he turns, but he stops himself as he hears the words of resignation rising to his lips. No, he isn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Clive Wilson emerges from behind his desk and walks towards him with an arm extended awkwardly in his direction.

  ‘I’m sorry, Keith but you need more cooling-off time, and I’m going to recommend counselling. It’s important for you, I think. And it will also show that you’re serious about addressing these issues.’

  ‘Fuck you, Clive.’

  ‘I know you’re angry, and maybe I would be too. But work with me on this. Please.’

  He leaves the office and realises that he needs to calm down. Another minute and he would have smacked the smug bastard. He decides to take a walk by the river, and because it is nearly lunchtime he has the option of dropping in at one of the pubs on the embankment for a drink and something to eat. He walks purposefully through the busy pedestrian traffic on the High Street, having made up his mind to stop first at a
cash machine and then buy a newspaper, but before he gets to his bank it strikes him that wandering alone by the river sounds too depressing. He dashes across the street and passes into the indoor shopping centre. Shit, maybe he should have shaken Clive Wilson’s hand before storming out, for he has now left the fool with the impression that he is simply an angry man. By flying off the handle and failing to keep control, he has allowed Clive Wilson to talk his rubbish about a cooling-off period, and needing to see the bigger picture. He is going to have to email him a note of apology, but he will stop short of suggesting another meeting in his office, or a reconciliatory drink, for that would be to give up too much ground. A simple note of apology will have to suffice and he will leave it up to Clive Wilson to make the next move.

  In the sports shop he is faced with a difficult decision. The young tracksuited assistant has spread three Barcelona shirts on the counter top with the back of the shirts, complete with names and numbers, facing up.

  ‘So you don’t know who your son’s favourite player is?’

  The boy speaks as though he feels sorry for his foolish customer.

  ‘I don’t really know that much about Spanish football,’ he mutters in his defence. ‘Do they show it on television?’

  ‘Like every Sunday. And there’s a round-up of La Liga on a Monday night.’

  He is puzzled, but he doesn’t want to ask anything further of the spotty youth. However, tracksuit boy quickly identifies the source of his confusion.

  ‘La Liga. The Spanish League. Like the Premiership.’

  He nods quickly and then turns his attention back to the shirts. He recognises the short, aggressive, name of a player he thinks is Brazilian and decides that with a combination of Brazil and Barcelona he can’t go far wrong.