In the Falling Snow

by Caryl Phillips

  He stands in line at the newsagent’s intending to buy chewing gum, but these days they seem to have converted these shops into places where you simply wait your turn to purchase lottery tickets. Traditional transactions, such as buying a newspaper, seem to take forever. Just as he is about to give up, the young man behind the counter, who sports the faint shadow of a moustache above his top lip, reaches out a hand and takes his money while continuing to process a lottery request with his other hand. Back outside on the pavement, it is both dark and windy. He stuffs a piece of gum into his mouth and then hoists his bag up and on to a shoulder, but he does not move off. He stands and stares across the village common at the row of Victorian terraces where Annabelle lives. These houses are now highly sought after, despite the fact that they open up right on to the street, but when they moved here from Birmingham, this area was hardly fancy or trendy. Today, outside the self-consciously designer shops, there are increasing numbers of basketed bicycles chained to purpose-built bike stands with a variety of unlikely locks, but back then if you were reckless enough to leave a bicycle chained anywhere for five minutes you would be lucky to find its skeletal remains. At the weekend there is a farmers’ market, and any stall vulgar enough to sell non-organic products is likely to find itself picketed by what Laurie calls his mother’s ‘Green Posse’. Other parts of London seem to have made peace with Pound shops and Somali-run internet cafés offering to unlock your phone for a fiver, but not this little haven on the common which boasts a gymnasium for children called Cheeky Monkeys, and pubs which feature foreign beers served in breast-shaped glasses and a female clientele who wear long skirts and shooting jackets and walk soft-mouthed dogs, while the guys, if not English, are Mediterranean types who like to tuck their hair behind their ears like Premier League footballers. The truth is, he liked the area better then; in fact, he liked his life better back then. He remembers moving to London in the eighties as an exciting time for them both. Annabelle was beginning to think about a new career in the media, and he was finally going to be able to be the type of social worker who wouldn’t have to spend most of his time listening to pleas for Saturday schools for under-performing black kids, or fielding applications for black theatre workshops where kids could learn the cultural importance of playing steel drums. His new job in London meant that he could leave behind the discomfort of being the black guy with a suit and briefcase, whose job seemed to principally involve him going into Afro-Caribbean centres and being taunted by angry dread-locked men as a ‘baldhead’. Coming to London represented a new start and a new challenge, albeit in an unfashionable part of west London, but as he slowly chews gum outside the newsagent’s shop across the common from Annabelle’s house, he realises how dramatically things have changed, and not only in this now-fancy part of the city. So that’s it then? His father has gone and now there’s nobody ahead of him. Nobody higher than him on the tree. The traffic suddenly dies down for a moment, and he stares across the common and finds himself enveloped in a pocket of silence. He feels exposed and vulnerable. Small. That’s it. Small. An accelerating lorry blasts by, and then another. So that’s it then?

  Annabelle ushers him into the kitchen, where he can see that Chantelle and Laurie are both about to leave. They have on their hats and coats and they are standing by the kitchen table. He puts down his bag on the floor and then smiles at them.

  ‘Dad, this is Chantelle.’

  The girl is tall and pretty, with large hazel eyes. Her hair is cut short and close to her head and she is the type of young woman who could easily end up modelling clothes for a career. She holds out a slender hand, which he shakes.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Chantelle.’ He turns to Laurie and is surprised to see no sign of the headphones. ‘If you’re both going out then I don’t want to keep you. But from what your mother’s told me we should talk at some point.’

  Laurie looks directly at him and shrugs his shoulders. ‘We can talk now if you want. I was just going over to Chantelle’s house to tell her mum and dad. They don’t know yet.’

  Annabelle starts to fill the kettle. ‘It was Laurie’s idea that they go over there together.’ She looks at Chantelle. ‘It’s obviously going to be a bit of a shock for your family, isn’t it?’ Chantelle glances quickly at Laurie, then turns back to face Annabelle. She nods. ‘Well, it was a bit of a shock for us too.’

  ‘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 o
f 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.

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  Published by Vintage 2010

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  Copyright © Caryl Phillips 2010

  Caryl Phillips has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Harvill Secker

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