‘Really? Well, I didn’t open the door and expect to find a vagrant on my doorstep. So, are you coming in?’
She moves to one side to let him pass, but he does not move.
‘Well, are you coming in or not?’
‘Is Laurie here?’
‘He’s asleep. Come on, I don’t want to talk to you while you’re outside.’
He moves past her and into the kitchen where he sits on a tall stool by the breakfast bar.
‘Why didn’t you call me yesterday? I left messages. In fact, by the end of the day I was worried sick.’
‘I know, it’s my fault. I should have called you, but my mobile needed charging.’ Annabelle sighs, and then she pulls out a chair and sits. ‘And there’s something else.’ She pauses. ‘Look, Laurie got himself in a bit of bother with some boys from school.’
‘What kind of bother?’
‘Shoplifting. I had to go and pick him up from Mr Hughes’s office. Don’t worry, I gave him a pretty serious talking to, but he claims that it was all a big mistake, and maybe it’s true because the school let all of them off with a warning.’
‘All of them? How many kids are we talking about? You make it sound like something out of Oliver Twist.’
‘Five or six, according to Mr Hughes. Look, maybe you could try getting through to Laurie again. He’s staying at home and revising today, so why don’t you come back in a few hours and maybe take him out for lunch. But for heaven’s sake, smarten yourself up a bit.’
‘You know, Annabelle, sometimes you’re not real. Laurie is hauled into the headmaster’s office and accused of shoplifting, and all you want to talk about is how I look?’
‘Mr Hughes is worried about him.’
‘And I’m worried about Mr Hughes.’
‘And given how you look, I’m worried about you. Did you get any sleep?’
Over the past three years, Annabelle has mastered the art of irritating him with a well-placed comment, or even a look, and he has had to teach himself carefully how not to rise to her bait. He takes a deep breath.
‘Look, Annabelle, we’re talking about Laurie. This could be serious, okay?’
‘I’ve been trying to tell you for some time now that there’s a problem. Laurie’s getting by with his work, but no more than that. But those kids he runs around with, I don’t like it. Mr Hughes confirmed to me that some of them are binge drinkers, buying their cider and their alcopops by the case and puking up in the street every day. Jesus, they go to school either drunk or hung over, and you know these kids can buy the stuff twenty-four hours a day in the supermarket and it’s cheaper than fizzy water. Sometimes I feel like I’m losing Laurie to his so-called friends. I can’t fight it alone and quite frankly you don’t even seem to be trying.’
‘Annabelle, I’m hearing you, and I am concerned about him, but I’ve got a lot going on, okay? And, to be honest, you know what I think about Mr Hughes and that school. Most of the kids there learn by downloading information from Wikipedia and all the teachers do is just help them to organise the facts that they’ve gathered. Don’t you remember when he was doing his GCSEs, and the Religious Studies teacher showed them Spiderman because it was about “making choices”, and then The Nutty Professor because it was about “prejudice”. I mean, what chance do the kids stand if their headmaster lets teachers get away with lazy crap like that? Hughes is full of it.’
‘But it doesn’t matter what Mr Hughes says, it’s me Annabelle who’s telling you that Laurie is in with a bad set. I’m sorry, but those kids that he fraternises with are just not our type of people, and I don’t mean anything by it but I can’t put it any simpler than that.’
He looks closely at her and begins to shake his head.
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘I’m serious about my son and his welfare, and to my mind that’s all that matters. I’m sorry, but I wish I sensed that you feel the same way. I know you’ve got a lot going on, but I don’t think that I can deal with his attitude by myself for much longer.’
He stares at her and swallows deeply. Then he silently counts to five. Are these really her opinions? ‘Our type of people’? He hasn’t seen or heard of Bruce in a while, but he assumes that the film editor is still in the picture.
‘I’ll come back later for Laurie. Just tell him to be ready, okay?’
As he climbs from the stool and turns to leave, he can feel her eyes upon him. He knows that she will say nothing further. She has said enough.
Laurie looks bored as the London Eye first hoists, then spins them skyward with its slow circular movement. His son stares down at the pod beneath them where a group of city businessmen are tucking into crustless sandwiches and champagne that is being served to them from a large hamper by two pretty young women in white aprons. Apparently, his son seems to think that the corporate outing is more fascinating than observing the tight switchback patterns of the River Thames, or looking out at the vast panoramic sprawl that is south London. However, now that they near the top, Laurie finally deigns to look interested in the view and he points to the newly refurbished Wembley Stadium in the north.
‘Check it out, Dad. You can almost see right into it.’
It does look impressive, particularly the high graceful arch which rises over the whole arena, but he wants to talk with his son about things other than sport. He points east towards the mouth of the Thames.
‘You know, if you look over there you can get a really good idea of how London developed as a great port city.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, fifty years ago, on either bank of the river there was nothing but docks and warehouses, and this river would have been filled with ships from all over the world. Cities have to make money in order to survive and grow, and London made its money out of shipping. That was its business.’
Laurie shrugs his shoulders. ‘Well, the business is all mashed up now, right?’
‘Well, there’s no shipping industry, as such, but there’s still business. Banking, insurance, high technology. I mean, London’s business infrastructure is pretty diversified these days.’
Laurie seems unconvinced and he shakes his head. ‘There ain’t no business. I know plenty of people who can’t get a job doing anything.’
‘Maybe they don’t want a job.’
‘Or maybe somebody doesn’t want to give them a job. It’s not always as simple as it looks.’
‘Is this your way of telling me that you still don’t know what kind of career you want?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Nothing, I suppose. But have you thought any further about what you might do after you finish at university?’
‘I’ve got to get in first.’
‘Are you worried about your exams?’
‘No, I’m not worried. Are you? Anyhow, it’s only November and I haven’t even done my mocks yet. The real thing’s not for another six months.’
‘I remember.’ He pauses. ‘I did them too, although it was a while ago.’
Laurie sucks his teeth. ‘You’re telling me.’ His son turns away from him and from the expanse of the river to the east, and re-focuses his attention on Wembley Stadium.
He looks to the west, where the sudden bend of the river creates the illusion that Battersea Power Station is floating on the water. A camera flashes and he realises that their photograph has been taken, and then a voice on the speaker system announces that at the end of the ‘flight’ they will be able to purchase a souvenir snapshot. He looks again at Laurie, whose eyes remain firmly fixed on the football stadium to the north, and he resists the urge to continue his history lecture, which is of course a veiled attempt to persuade Laurie that this is his city too. And then it occurs to him that it’s possible that his son already knows this, and that there is no reason for him to acquaint Laurie with what he already possesses. His son is probably quite at home with the Tower of London and the Palace of Westminster and Waterloo station and St P
aul’s Cathedral, all of which are clearly visible from this vantage point. In fact, Laurie is most likely circling in the London Eye wondering why his old man is banging on like some demented tour guide about his city, the city of his birth. He looks again at his son, whose deep brown eyes remind him of Annabelle’s, and he wants to give the boy a reassuring hug, but he knows better than to spoil the moment. He is also, if truth be told, unsure as to which one of them is in need of reassurance.
Earlier in the afternoon, when he returned to Annabelle’s house, a sheepish-looking Laurie was already sitting downstairs and waiting for him. His son glanced up and muttered ‘What’s up?’ but when he asked the sprawling boy what he wanted to do for the afternoon, Laurie shrugged his shoulders and avoided taking any decision-making responsibility. He suggested to Laurie that it might be relaxing for them to go into central London and walk by the river, and so the pair of them ambled silently to the end of the street where he flagged down a taxi. He thought about saving some money and taking the tube, but Laurie seemed impatient and he had no desire to waste time ambling to and from train stations with a reluctant son. The taxi had only just pulled away from the kerb when Laurie stopped fiddling with his seat belt and began to mumble an apology for not having shown up at the football.
‘We got into some bother at school, but it was nothing. Some guys jumped us and there was a bit of a ruck.’
‘I thought it was shoplifting.’
‘The guy who runs the mini-mart near the school complained about us to the head. He said we’d been nicking stuff, but that wasn’t the main thing. Mr Hughes wanted to talk to us about the fighting, but it was nothing.’
‘What do you mean it was nothing? Why didn’t you just walk away?’
‘Walk away? Look Dad, you can’t walk away if somebody jumps you. It’s too late. It’s all over, right?’
‘So this was nothing to do with shoplifting?’
‘Like I said, the guy from the mini-mart made a complaint but Mr Hughes would have suspended us if we’d been shoplifting. He was more concerned about the ruck.’
‘Did the other gang hurt you?’
‘What do you mean “other gang”? I’m not in a gang.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I’ve just got a few bruises and stuff, but it was handbags.’
‘Handbags?’
‘A bit of name-calling and thumping and all done. The other kids were muppets, but Hughes is a real drama queen.’
He was suddenly conscious that the driver was listening to their private conversation, for he could see the man’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. He decided that for the moment it was probably best to say nothing further. Fifteen minutes later they stepped out of the taxi at the back of the Queen Elizabeth Hall, and he turned to his son and asked him if he’d like to go up in the London Eye before they set off on their walk. Laurie shrugged, which meant that there was no serious opposition to the idea.
As the Eye continues to turn, and they start their descent, he notices that his son has a cut on the back of his right hand which has clearly been bleeding. He decides to say nothing, leaving it up to Laurie to tell him about it if he so wishes, but he suspects that his son will choose to remain silent about the source of his injury.
He steps out of their pod and is relieved to feel terra firma beneath his feet. He puts a hand on Laurie’s shoulder.
‘Have you ever been inside the Houses of Parliament? I mean on a school trip or something?’ Laurie shakes his head. ‘Let’s take a walk to Westminster Bridge. We probably can’t go into the actual parliament at this time of day, but you get a great view from the bridge.’
They stand together on the bridge and look across at the back of the Palace of Westminster. He realises that the best view is probably from the south of the river, but it is too late now. They are standing in the middle of the bridge, directly over the water, and Laurie is clearly waiting for his father to say whatever it is that is on his mind.
‘Does this mean anything to you, Laurie?’ He gestures with his arms in a somewhat grand manner, hoping that the flamboyance of his motion will suggest a kind of ownership. He then drops his arms and places both hands on a low stone wall and leans forward slightly.
Laurie shrugs his shoulders. ‘I’m not sure what you’re on about.’
‘All of this is yours if you want it, but to get it you’ll have to work harder than your mates. You’ve got to prove to your mates that you’re better than them, and you’ve got to remember that nobody is ever going to give you anything.’
It is apparent, from the puzzled look on his son’s face, that he should either be clearer about what he is saying or else he should say nothing further.
‘You’re not really sure what I’m talking about, are you?’
‘I haven’t got a clue.’
‘No, I didn’t think so. It’s my fault.’ He pauses. ‘I’m worried about you, Laurie. You’re a young man now, and I don’t want to tell you what to do with your life, but I can help you, if you want me to help you that is. But it’s up to you.’
‘How can you help me?’
‘I can talk to you. Or you can talk to me.’
‘You want me to talk to you?’
Of course he wants his son to talk to him, but he understands why his son feels a little distant. Sons can be unforgiving towards those who they believe have hurt their mothers. He knows this from his own life.
‘I’d like nothing more than for you to talk to me, but I don’t want to force you to do anything. I know it doesn’t work like that.’ He reaches into the black leather knapsack that hangs from his shoulder, and he produces a plastic bag. ‘Here, I got you this.’
Laurie takes the bag from him and pulls out the blue and red striped Barcelona shirt.
‘Man, that’s cool. Cheers, Dad.’ As he speaks his son keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the shirt. ‘Thanks.’
‘But you’re sure that there’s nothing that you want to talk about? The fight, for instance?’
‘I thought you said that you weren’t forcing anything.’
Of course, Laurie is right. He will have to take his son’s word that he is telling the truth about the scuffle with the other boys, for he knows that if he comes on too heavy then Laurie will simply tune him out.
‘Well, we can talk whenever you’re ready. It doesn’t have to be now. Your mother is trying her best, but there are some things that she can never really know about.’
‘You mean because she’s white?’
‘No, I suppose what I really mean is because she’s not black.’
As the words come out of his mouth he wants to kick himself for he knows that he sounds annoyingly glib.
‘Look, what I’m trying to say is that I know it’s not exactly straightforward for you out there on the streets. Who knows, maybe this is something that you might find easier to talk about with me. After all, there are some things that I’ve been through myself as a black kid growing up in this country and I think I can tell you what I know without it coming over like a sermon.’
His son seems momentarily embarrassed and he wonders if this is the right time for him to drop an arm around Laurie’s shoulders and for them to leave Westminster Bridge and begin their walk along the embankment. He looks at his son’s confused face and he realises that, on second thoughts, maybe they should just head straight back to Annabelle’s house. He turns from Laurie and looks down at the water and decides to leave the decision up to his son, but the silence deepens and it is becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
‘The thing is, Dad, I don’t know if things are the same now as they were when you were my age.’
He continues to gaze down at the river. At least his son is talking to him. He looks up and turns so that he is facing Laurie.
‘So tell me then, how are they different?’
‘It isn’t just about discrimination and stuff. I know that’s important, and that’s your job and everything, but it’s also about other things.’
> ‘Other things like what?’
‘It’s got a lot to do with respect. You can’t let people just large it up in your face and disrespect you. A man’s got to have respect or he’s nothing better than somebody’s punk.’
Respect? What has Laurie, or any of his friends, achieved in their lives that makes them imagine that anybody should respect them? What have they done to earn respect? How pathetic he must seem to his son, blathering on about a career beyond university, and how he will have to put in more effort and try twice as hard as anybody else, and all the while his son is obviously thinking what a square tosser his dad is. However, what his exasperated father is trying to say to him boils down to one sentence that he knows he can’t say. ‘Laurie, act your age, not your colour.’ Both he and Laurie are trying hard not to cause each other any upset, but after three years of living apart it is evident to him that they are woefully incapable of conversing casually.
‘Can we go now?’ Laurie speaks quietly, as though he feels sorry for his father. ‘It’s getting a bit cold.’
‘Don’t you fancy going for even a short walk along the South Bank? We don’t have to go far.’
‘You mean down there by the water?’
‘You can’t be that cold, are you?’
‘It’s freezing, man.’
‘Have you got something else to do? Or someone to meet?’ Laurie shakes his head and then gently begins to punch the toe of a trainer-clad foot against the wall.
‘Let’s walk for a little while and if you’re still cold you can always put on your Barcelona shirt.’
Laurie gives him a fake smile, which leaves him in no doubt as to what his son thinks of his suggestion. He decides that they will walk down as far as the Tate Modern, most likely in silence, and then he will hail a taxi and drop Laurie off at Annabelle’s. At some point he will try and speak further with Annabelle, and reassure her that there is no reason to panic about Laurie, but Annabelle is not as calm, nor as patient, as she used to be. As they descend the stone steps that lead to the wide pedestrian walkway that hugs the meandering line of the river, Laurie withdraws into a silence that is unmistakably sullen. His mother has taken to describing these moods as his ‘big man’ behaviour, and he is now experiencing for himself just what she has been referring to. They turn left and begin to saunter along the river, but he decides that they will walk only as far as the National Film Theatre and then hail a taxi from there. He sees no point in subjecting either one of them to this strained atmosphere for a moment longer than is necessary.
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