In the Falling Snow

by Caryl Phillips

  He takes the empty bowl from his father and sets it on the bedside table, and then he rearranges the pillows behind his father’s back so the patient is once again propped fully upright. As he moves to sit back on the metal chair he takes the brown envelope from his inside pocket.

  ‘I’m going to leave this envelope for you on the table. You can take a look at it later.’

  ‘Later when? You going abandon me like last night?’

  ‘You were asleep.’

  ‘I sure these people giving me something to make me sleep like a donkey. It ain’t normal.’

  ‘Anyhow, I’ve left it there for when you’re ready.’

  ‘There where?’

  He had a sneaking suspicion that his father’s vision was impaired for, unless something was right in front of him, his father appeared to be having difficulty seeing objects. And now he is convinced. The envelope is just to his left, but clearly his father can no longer see anything out of his left eye. When his father next falls asleep he will have to find the nurse, or a doctor, and question them about it.

  ‘It’s there. On the table.’

  ‘What do I want with a blasted envelope? Last night I was talking to you, remember? One minute saying something to you, and the next minute you gone. You don’t want to hear what I have to say?’

  ‘Of course, I do.’

  ‘Well then listen to me instead of this damn envelope business. After I arrive in England, and the taxi drop me off at King’s Cross station, I make my way into the place and ask a white man in uniform where I can find the proper train to take me to the north of the country. He point me toward a platform, then laugh and tell me I must first buy a ticket. I thank the man, and touch the brim of my straw hat, but the man continue to laugh, but for the life of me I can’t see what the joke is. I want to ask the jackass, “Mister, what exactly it is that is amusing you?” but I just turn my head and walk off because I don’t want to put a foot wrong. Eventually I get on to the right train and pass into a small compartment full of English people who don’t pay me no mind. As the train leave London and begin to journey out into the countryside, I decide to keep my nose pressed up tight against the glass and look at the small fields, but I can’t see no pasture, just everything organised and sliced up small and neat. One other West Indian man is in the compartment with me, crouching down beneath his sharp hat and pretending to read the English newspaper and fit in with everybody, but he don’t fool me because I can see the man’s reflection in the window and he falling asleep. I have to look twice at him, because to begin with I think the man favour Leona’s husband and I wonder if maybe the fellar is family to the Williamses, but I sure somebody would have tell me if Leona have people in England so I just study the resemblance and let it go at that. The English people in the carriage all reading their newspapers for true, and smoking, and it seem to me that they trying hard to ignore the pair of us, although an English man in a grey suit sitting opposite keep raising up his eyes to look across but I just stare out of the window and make sure that my feet don’t touch up against his own in the little space that we have to share. Sometimes the train leave the countryside and pass into a town where I can see the buildings all close together, and everywhere chimneys pointing toward the sky with smoke coming out so at first I thinking they must be factories but it don’t make no sense because I sure they don’t boil so much sugar in England. However, I soon realise that these places is houses where English people live, and even from the train I see that the English like to walk fast and these people don’t trouble to look up at each other and smile or something like that, and the man must have been watching me all this time because without any warning he fold up his newspaper with a big noise and lean forward and offer me a cigarette in a way that make it clear that he is hoping to take part in some kind of conversation. I accept the man’s cigarette and I watch him take hold of his umbrella, which is balanced upright between his knees, and the man stand up and place it on the overhead rack before opening up his briefcase and he reach in and pull out a package. The man close up the briefcase and place it on the seat, then he hold open the compartment door and I realise that it is expected of me to pass out into the corridor with him to smoke the cigarette. I stand and edge my way past the other passengers and the man follow me and slide the door closed after himself. At first the man don’t say a thing, and he don’t even light my cigarette, he just open up the package of greaseproof paper and offer me a sandwich. “Tuna paste” is all the man say, so I take one because I know that it is rude not to do so, and I bite into it and the man does the same with his own sandwich. “Somewhat crowded in there,” he say. “Just arrived, have you?” I nod at him, but my mouth is too full to answer so the man just continue. “Student?” This time I shake my head and wait a moment before telling him that I will be looking a job. “I have a friend who say he is going to help me.” The man seem to approve and he nod his head. “Well, the weather’s not too good at the moment, but if you can cope with this then I imagine you can do well here.” The man finish off his sandwich and then he light his cigarette before lighting my own. I try to look cool, and I take a long hard pull, like in the cinema, but my head start to feel strange and I explode in a fit of coughing that only manage to embarrass the hell out of me. “You can throw it out if it’s not to your liking. I won’t be offended.” The man hold open a small window at the top of the glass and I quickly drop the cigarette down on to the track. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not used to the English cigarette.” The man don’t give me any time to say anything else and he start to pat me on the back. “Are you, in fact, used to any cigarette? You see, in this country you don’t have to pretend. Just be yourself and I’m sure you’ll do very well here. Can I get you some water?” I look closely at the man and I shake my head, but he just smile at me. “Do you have a wife or a girlfriend?” Again I shake my head. “I imagine you’ll be quite popular with some of our girls, but a word of advice. Don’t be getting too saucy. Some of you boys do take liberties and it does stir up bad feelings. I mean, there’s no reason for you to be giving white girls babies, is there? Or tapping them on the shoulder at ‘Excuse me’ dances. I fought for two years in the jungles of Malaya alongside you chaps. If you’re good enough to fight and die with us then you’re good enough to live on my street. Same with the Jews and the Irish. Everybody’s the same in my book. Come along, there’s a good chap. Let’s get back inside and out of this nasty draught.” Once we pass back into the compartment I close my eyes and try to sleep, but the noise of the engine, and my worries about whether I going find Ralph, mean that my mind can’t turn off. The train arrives with a big carnival of shouting and whistling and I open my eyes and blink against the bright light. The man opposite me is standing and holding his briefcase in one hand, and his rolled-up umbrella is tucked underneath his arm, and the man reach out with his free hand. “Take this loose change, please. If you have any difficulty using the telephone system then you can always request that the charges be reversed and that way you won’t have to pay. However, if you remember my instructions then you should be fine. I do hope that you locate your friend.” I take the man’s change for this is the quickest way to get rid of him, and I watch the man disappear into the corridor. I wait and let the others go before me, including the West Indian fellar who decide to keep quiet throughout the whole journey, and I am the last to leave the compartment. When I find a telephone box I follow the man’s instructions and dial the number slowly and I’m waiting. I hear an English woman ask me, “Hello, can I help you?” and I panic because I’m expecting to hear Ralph’s voice and I sure that I must have call the wrong number. “Excuse me please, but I’m looking for Mr Ralph Henry.” There is a brief pause and then I hear the woman make a big sigh as though she annoyed. “Who is it that I should say is looking for him?” I tell the woman to let him know that it’s Earl, and that I just arrive, but having discover who I am the woman decide to tell me that Ralph is not “at home” but I can find him at the Red
Lion pub, but of course I don’t know where to find this pub. She ask me, “Are you at the train station?” However, before I can answer the woman say that I should take a taxi and tell the driver that I need to go Randolph Lane and he will know exactly where to carry me. “If Ralph’s not there then you can call me back, but you’ll find him at the pub, I’m sure of it.” I watch the taxi driver hard, trying to make sure the man is driving in just one direction and not seeking to rob me by making circles. However, outside is dark, and I don’t know these streets, and so I have to trust him. Eventually he turn into a narrow road that have more of these joined-up houses crammed together on both sides of the street, and then it start to rain and the man switch on the window wipers and I see him look at me through the rear-view mirror. “It’s just up here on the right, mate.” Having parked the car, the man turn round in his seat and he look at me. “Let’s call it two bob.” I hand the man half a crown and wait for my change. “Are you not planning on getting out? You can make it in there without getting wet.” I smile at the taxi driver and continue to hold out my hand, but the man just stare back at me. “Listen, sunshine, you getting out or what? I have got other jobs, you know.” The first thing I notice when I open the door to the pub is the noise. It hit me and nearly knock me down, and then there is the smoke, which is so thick I can barely see a damn thing. Once I step inside I happy to see plenty of coloured men in the pub so I don’t feel so out of place, and then it occur to me that maybe this is where all the West Indians in the town come, so if you want to meet somebody then you have to find yourself here. That’s when I see Ralph in the far corner sitting with a heavy man who looking closely at a newspaper and making some markings upon it with a pencil. As I walk closer to Ralph, I can see my friend is tired and that he don’t shave for days, but the bright eyes are the same. He look up at me and smile. “Well, what the hell is this coming in from the cold?” Ralph don’t bother to stand, he just pat the seat next to him to let me know that I must sit down. “I have no idea what time to expect you or I would have come to the station myself, but I take it you speak with Mrs Jones?” Ralph don’t wait for no answer. He point to the man on the other side of him who still have his head buried in the newspaper. “This is Baron from Jamaica. He been in England since forever. Maybe longer than this.” So here we are on a Friday night just drinking some bitters and chatting about home, and Baron following the form of the horses because the man look like he prefer horses to people. I’m listening to Ralph but I not really hearing the man’s words because I still trying to work out how this tall shabby-looking man is the same man that only a couple of months earlier stagger out of the Harbour Lights bar to take the boat to England. “Man, I’m seeing you good now,” say Ralph. “Since when was the last time you get any sleep? It look like you can barely keep your eyes open. Your body don’t know what time of day it is, right?” Ralph laugh loud and hard, and then he stand and pull a ten shilling note from his trouser pocket and tell me that he is going to fetch me a next drink at the bar and I should just wait. “Baron can keep you out of trouble till I get back.” However, Baron seem occupied with his newspaper business and he don’t look as though he have much to say to anybody, especially to a man fresh off the boat. I’m sure that this Baron don’t want to hear about my father’s funeral, or how my sister move herself and the two children into my father’s house before I even leave the island, or how Sonia create a stink and tell everyone that Ralph abandon her for a woman in England, or any of the things that I trying to remember that I must tell my friend. Later that night I follow Ralph up a dark staircase, but I stay three or four steps behind him because Ralph already slip twice and I frighten that he going tumble backward and come crashing down on me. At the top of the house we reach a door, but Ralph have trouble getting the key into the lock and my friend begin to curse under his breath. Ralph eventually manage to push open the door, and I follow him into the attic room and wait while he scratch round for the light switch. Having turn on the bulb the man fall down on a single bed and point to a mattress in the corner and tell me I must sleep there and be grateful I have a roof in England because finding a place to sleep at night is the biggest problem that everybody have. I look around and I see dirty clothes drape everywhere, and unwashed cups and plates on the floor, and an empty bedpan in the middle of the room, and I surprised to find my friend living like this. I watch as he haul himself upright on the bed and pull out a pack of cigarettes and light one, and then Ralph blow out a big cloud of smoke. I ease out of my shoes and line them up, then I lean back on the mattress and look up at the ceiling because I can feel sleep rushing into my body. I hear Ralph start to laugh. “You know I was hoping that you coming to England would make home feel closer, but the truth is you here now and it seem like you making home feel even further away. Sometimes I can be walking down the street, or riding a bus, and suddenly I see somebody who remind me of somebody I know back home, and I close my eyes and find myself thinking of the sea, or the taste of grafted mango, or the smell of saltfish frying, and then I come back to myself and open my eyes and realise where I am. Lord man, I’m in a place where people give me a form to fill out and then ask me if I can read, and on the bus they prefer to stand rather than sit down next to me. I travel all this way for what? To see England with her pants down and her backside hanging out? But nobody tell me that I must leave for England and cut up my life like this. I swear, five years and then I going back to open up a garage, you believe me?” I don’t say anything, but Ralph not studying me anyhow. “Man, England is good, but you soon going to find out that England ain’t easy. Sometimes I just can’t believe that people back home selling tools, and furniture, and borrowing money, and putting themselves in big debt, and all for this, to come to a place where people eat on the street out of a piece of newspaper full of chips and vinegar. People mashing up their lives for this? A West Indian can’t afford to be sensitive and decent in a country like this. Let me tell you, man some of them like to mess with you, asking you for a cigarette then reaching for the whole pack, and if you refuse they crowd you and start to kick you, but I don’t play that game. Next time a white man want to mess with me he better be ready, you hear? He can call me “nigger” and “spade” and box me one time, but just one time, because if he come again he better be ready for the next time I going have something for him.” I watch Ralph turn to one side and reach for a bottle from beneath the bed and tip it up to his mouth and drain it. Two minutes later he is slumped over the bed and he don’t say goodnight or anything and he just start to snore. Then I hear a knocking at the door, then a silence, then more knocking and a woman’s voice call out “Ralph, Ralph!” I recognise the voice as the same woman who speak to me on the telephone, but I just keep quiet because I not sure what kind of trouble is going on and eventually I hear the firing of the floorboards as the woman move away from the door. So this is my first night in England, and I cold as hell and I don’t know where I am, and I want to use the toilet but I don’t know where to find it, and I sure I not going to get any sleep with Ralph making so much noise with the damn snoring. Things don’t look so good, but I trying to put a confident face on everything or else what is the point of coming all this way? That is what I telling myself, that I have to simmer down and believe that everything is going work out to my satisfaction and I have to be positive about things, otherwise what is the point?

  ‘The foreman looked upon me as though he’s looking at an animal that he thinking of buying. He turn back to face my friend. “Bloody hell, Ralphie where do you find them? This one’s got no meat on him. He’ll probably melt if we put him anywhere near the furnaces. Thin like a piece of liquorice, he is.” Ralph already tell me that this man don’t have any prejudice like most of the others who, according to Ralph, say they don’t want to work with us because we’re too friendly with their women, or they claim our hands are too rough, or they can’t share the same lavatory with us, or they frighten that when the tea break come we might use their mug, or they say
we blow our noses when they passing by and we won’t take off our hats indoors, but I already know the truth is they just can’t tolerate being close to a coloured man but they will take us as a last resort if no Englishman will work for such low wages. However, Ralph tell me this man is a good man, and Ralph squeeze my arm and laugh and promise the foreman that he will make sure I eat plenty Yorkshire pudding and roast beef, but I not laughing and I looking hard at the English man and remembering what Ralph tell me about these union men who like to talk big about the importance of the empire, and everything is brother this and brother that, and I only been in England for a few weeks but already I have to leave two jobs because these people like to trouble your mind because in one breath they talking all this brother foolishness with a smile, and with the same smile they tell you it is better if you only bring English food to eat at break because some people don’t appreciate foreign muck and if they don’t like your name, or if they find it too hard to pronounce, they quick to call you Jim or Sam or something that is supposed to make you know your place, and Ralph tell me that these are the same men whose children like to dress up in the drainpipe trousers and fancy jackets and carry flick knives, and when they go out “nigger hunting” they wear motorbike chain necklaces and carry iron bars and starting handles and talk about “Keep Britain White” as they leave the pub and begin a “nigger run” for the night, but they always make it back before last orders and laugh about how many spade heads they crack and somebody will sing “Bye Bye Blackbird” and the landlord’s bell will ring out and if they catch you on the street after the pub close then they going pelt milk bottles and bricks at you and the “nigger run” begin again right there and then. So I’m standing up straight and Ralph is feeling my arm and talking stupidness about roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and I look at the man and I want to ask him if he have any Teddy Boy sons, or maybe a daughter who he teach to spit on the ground for good luck when she see a coloured man, but I don’t say anything and the man run his big hand across the top of my head and he tell Ralph that “at least we won’t have to prescribe Amplex for this one” and if he can find a pair of overalls into which I don’t disappear then I can start work on Monday and he shake my hand and tell me welcome to the factory and promise me that if I keep my nose clean and my head down they going treat me just like everybody else. Ralph is jumping from one foot to the next and he say “thank you” and I looking at Ralph and wondering what the hell is going on inside the head of my friend because he carrying on all skittish and telling the man that he never see me without a book and how I always studying, and I want to tell Ralph to relax because this is a factory job and as far as I can see book learning don’t have nothing to do with working in an iron foundry. After all, it’s Ralph who tell me that work start at eight, but nothing is done before nine except reading the newspaper and smoking, then at eleven everything stop for tea, then again at one for lunch, then tea again but this time with cake, and then people go home at five, so the thing is not like real work, and I don’t think a man’s brain have anything to do with this job, but I don’t say nothing although inside my head I begging Ralph to stop off his talk about me and the blasted books.