In the Falling Snow (11 page)

The man who knocked on their door on his thirteenth birthday was a stranger to him. He enjoyed living with Brenda, even though his friends at school thought it a bit odd, but he soon accustomed himself to telling everybody that his parents had gone back to the West Indies. According to his story, they wanted him to stay in England and get an education and so they had decided to leave him with a close family friend. Unfortunately, the sudden appearance of the cold-looking man standing at the door, who silently handed him a thirteenth birthday card in an envelope, and then a watch in a long, thin, transparent box, suddenly complicated his life. Brenda shouted through from the living room and asked who was at the door, but he just stared at the stranger and neither one of them said a word. ‘Well?’ shouted Brenda. He heard her walking towards him, and he turned as she stepped into the hallway. She had a half-washed saucepan in her hands.

‘Earl?’ The man said nothing in reply. ‘Bloody hell, why didn’t you tell me they were letting you out?’

‘I have to report to you?’

He looked at Brenda, then back at this man who was his father, and he realised that even after all these years there was still animosity between them.

‘Look, do you want to come in?’

‘I just want to wish my son a happy birthday and let him know that I want him living with me.’

‘Well, I’m not sure that this is the best time to be talking about all of this.’

‘And who are you to talk to me about my own son?’

Brenda sighed and gathered herself. ‘Earl, I am the woman who has clothed and fed Keith for the past five years.’

‘Well, if you didn’t lock me up then I’d have done my duty by him. I don’t have no desire to come into your place, but I’ll soon be back for my son.’

He watched as his father turned and strode down the short path to the pedestrian walkway before disappearing in the direction of the bus stop. He looked up at the sky, where the clouds were high and heavy with snow, and followed a flight of birds which dropped and fell, one after the other, as their leader banked and led them in the direction of a warmer climate for the winter. The birthday card and watch felt clammy in his hands. After what seemed like an age, Brenda slowly closed the door.

Annabelle came downstairs so quietly that he didn’t hear her. She startled him as she opened the living room door, and he rubbed his eyes and realised that he must have drifted off. She flopped down on to the sofa next to him and hooked one leg over both of his knees.

‘She’s gone to sleep, poor woman. She’s exhausted. Does she have any friends or family that can come over and maybe just keep her company? Besides you, that is.’

‘Well I imagine she’s got friends from the hairdresser’s.’

‘Hairdresser’s?’

‘I told you, she’s a hairdresser.’

‘Well there’s irony. You know she has no hair. She’s wearing a wig.’

He looked across at Annabelle. ‘I thought her hair looked strange.’

‘I know you’ve told me, but you used to spend weekends with her and the weekdays with your father, right?’

‘That was the arrangement they came to. He’s never forgiven her for having him sectioned in the mental hospital, but once he got custody he never tried to stop me seeing her.’

‘That’s good.’ Annabelle looked at him. ‘Well, it is good, isn’t it?’

‘So what do you want me to do, give him a medal?’

‘Well, from what you’ve told me she probably did the right thing getting him packed off to a hospital.’

‘Try telling him that.’ He unhooked her leg and stood up. ‘Are you hungry? I can see if there’s anything in the fridge.’

Annabelle shook her head. ‘Don’t bother, I’ve already looked. If you tell me where the shops are I’ll go and get something. When she wakes up I’m going to ask if she minds my taking a picture of her. She’s got an amazing face. And then I should probably get going.’

‘Don’t you want to stay the night?’

‘I wanted to meet Brenda and now I’ve met her. The two of you should be together. And you know, the sooner I get started on the summer the sooner it will be over. Then I can join you again. Make sense?’

He sat back down and leaned over and picked up both of her hands. He kissed the back of one, and then the other.

‘Thanks. I’m glad you’re here.’

The Wynton Marsalis CD comes to an abrupt end and for a moment he thinks about going back into the kitchen and slicing off another hunk of Gruyère. He has not eaten dinner, but the truth is he isn’t hungry. It is still mid-evening, so there is time to do more work on the book, or at least re-read his notes. He looks across at his neatly organised desk, but he does not leave the sofa. He reaches out a hand and picks up the remote for the television.
The
book can wait. That’s enough work for one day, and the truth is he doesn’t wish to be reminded of the library or the girl. Tomorrow morning he will get up early and resume work on the book. He won’t set the alarm, but if he goes to bed at a reasonable hour he should be able to make a timely start. That much he is sure of. He points the remote at the television set.

The following afternoon he waits in the doorway of Dewhurst’s, the butcher’s. It is half-day so the shop is locked, but the red plastic awning protects him from the drizzling rain. Cars slosh by, throwing thin sheets of water towards the pavements and causing young and old pedestrians to move quickly away from the kerb. He ought not to be here, he knows this, but he sat up until three o’clock in the morning with a notepad in his lap making notes about Wynton Marsalis and wondering if he should not at least consider including a jazz epilogue to his book. Something brief, a nod in the direction of the field, a half-dozen footnoted paragraphs that suggest familiarity without expertise. Around the edges of the pages in his notebook he found himself writing her name in neat black capitals: DANUTA. There was no surname to root the romantic, French-sounding, Danuta in Polish soil, but for some reason he was sure that hers would be the most jaw-breaking of Polish names; a chain of late consonants strung together with a total disregard for vowels. By the time he put down his notepad, and began to slouch his slow way towards the bedroom, he realised that the girl held some kind of grip on his imagination, although he was too fatigued to try and fathom the source of his fascination.

The first students begin to walk down the steps of the bleak stone building, their bulky bags hooked over one shoulder, their hands forming visors against the rain. Somebody should tell these foreigners that it is always raining in England, and that they
should
buy an umbrella before they even think about a travel pass, or cheap jeans, or a copy of
Time Out
. After all, an umbrella is a key part of the English uniform. He glances at his watch. Four o’clock precisely, and so he seems to have guessed right. And then he sees her talking to a tall blond boy who is Germanic in appearance, but he could also be from anywhere in Scandinavia, or from one of the former Soviet countries. The boy is smiling, but there does not appear to be anything intimate about their encounter. As they reach the bottom of the half-dozen steps the boy punches her playfully on the arm and then peels off and dashes towards the bus stop where a double-decker bus, its headlights already bright in this late afternoon gloom, is about to depart.

He steps out from beneath the red awning and strides across the road, and he can now see that she is dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, including the uninspiring black woollen tights. Her rucksack dangles casually from one hand, and he notices that she has about her a distinct air of general dishevelment that he is beginning to believe is carefully cultivated.

‘I thought you might like to go for a coffee. Or a drink if you prefer.’ She turns to face him and is unable to disguise her surprise. ‘There are quite a few pubs around here. I can’t guarantee that they’re much better than the Queen Caroline, but we can try.’

Confusion clouds her face, as though suddenly the English language has abandoned her. He can see that she has no words to place on her tongue.

‘Think of it as another free conversation class. Better than going through the
Evening Standard
in that grubby library, right?’

She waits at a table by the window while he loads a handful of pink sachets of sugar, and some small plastic containers of milk, on to a tray. He edges around the crush of uniformed school kids and slides into the bolted plastic chair. He shakes his head
as
he lifts both coffees clear of the paper-lined tray, and then he unloads the sugar and milk on to the table before shoving the tray to one side.

‘Let’s be honest. It’s all McDonald’s is good for. Coffee and the bathrooms. At least they try and keep them clean.’

‘The bathrooms do not clean themselves. Somebody has to clean them, do you know this?’

‘Okay, fair point. At least somebody keeps them clean.’

He watches as she rips open first one sachet of sugar, then another, and eventually she pours the contents of three envelopes into her cup. She finds a thin red straw among the superfluous sugar and milk, and she quickly stirs with it and then tosses the straw on to the tabletop. Like him she takes no milk, but unlike him she takes sugar; plenty of it.

‘How was the language school today?’

‘It was the same as yesterday.’

‘And how was it yesterday?’

She shrugs her shoulders and stares out of the window. It has begun to rain heavily and the raindrops tattoo loudly against the window. Umbrellas have mushroomed everywhere, but he is sure that she is looking at nothing in particular.

Has he made a mistake? If so then he is sorry, but he is keen to make everything all right, that is all. He knows that he should not have tried to kiss her, but right now he just wants to spend some time with her. Yes, in a sense, win her over. She takes a loud sip of her coffee. What should he say? Danuta, I like you, but I am sorry. She glances at him, then quickly turns back to the window. The words are in his head. Danuta, I just want to say sorry for last night, but if you want to finish your coffee and leave then that’s fine with me. I’m not being pushy or anything. She turns from the window and looks at him quizzically, as though baffled by his uncharacteristic silence. He feels compelled to speak.

‘Was the blond guy your boyfriend? I didn’t want to embarrass you, or cause you any difficulty, so I backed off until he ran for his bus.’

‘You were spying on me?’

‘I wouldn’t call it spying. I’m not the secret police, you know.’

‘You are not funny. In my country this is still not a joke, Mr Keith.’

‘Ah, so at least you remember my name.’

‘Of course I remember your name. I met you yesterday. How can I forget your name?’

She shakes her head and once again stares out of the window. The puddles reflect red and white light from the cars, and red, amber and green from the traffic lights. The slack water rainbow is surprisingly beautiful. He has to take charge, yet be sensitive, otherwise he realises that the whole encounter will quickly descend into argument and she will leave. She seems to like it when he leads, for this perhaps gives her the space to be quirky and witty. This being the case, he understands that now is not the time to let the conversation drift. He takes a sip of the bitter McDonald’s coffee and then he places the plastic cup back on the tray. He stares at her, but still she will not meet his eyes, so he picks up the discarded red straw and drops it into his abandoned coffee.

‘Shall we go back to my flat? I’ve got better coffee than this, and at least it’s more comfortable.’

‘Comfortable?’

She picks up her cup and takes a noisy sip.

‘Well, this is McDonald’s. You know, everything is secured to the floor, no reclining allowed. It’s not exactly relaxing in here. And it’s cold, particularly every time someone opens the door, so that’s what I mean by more comfortable.’

He points through the window.

‘We can get that bus and be at my place in five minutes.’

The following day he works well on the book. His only interruption is a call from Ruth, who wants to know if he has taken home a file about racial violence in Cardiff. Apparently, she needs to give the file to a researcher who is putting together a piece about the cultural insularity of South Wales. He asks Ruth which researcher, and is relieved when she does not mention Yvette’s name. There is a pause and then, lowering her voice, Ruth asks him how he is doing. She seems embarrassed.

‘I’m all right, Ruth,’ he says. ‘Recharging my batteries. You know I haven’t had a break from work in over twenty years. I don’t mean holidays or anything like that, I mean a real break. So I’m just exploring other things. I’d almost forgotten that I had any other interests or talents.’

Ruth says nothing, and awkwardness overtakes them both. He realises that he probably sounds immodest, but it is too late now. Suddenly he is conscious of the presence of the telephone in his hand, and he longs for her simply to ask him what he is doing with his time, or make a joke, or tell him that the photocopier in the office isn’t working, but she remains silent.

‘Has Clive asked after me?’

Ruth seems momentarily surprised.

‘Mr Wilson?’

‘Yes, Clive Wilson.’ He laughs now. ‘The boss.’

‘No, he’s not said anything. You know what he’s like.’

He regrets having mentioned Clive, for it makes him appear anxious and weak. However, this is not how he feels, nor is it the impression that he wishes to convey to his secretary. Having closed the telephone he finds it difficult to reapply himself to the words on the screen. He would still like to write a few
paragraphs
on Gil Scott-Heron, but he wonders how much, if anything, his potential British readers will know about the chocolate cities and vanilla suburbs of the United States? If they don’t know anything then it will be impossible for him to develop his thesis about how black cultural heritage is passed on from one generation to the next. After all, he can’t illustrate the principle by pointing to Liverpool or Birmingham. Okay, so the Romans brought black soldiers to build Hadrian’s wall, and there were black trumpeters and pages in the sixteenth-century courts of England and Scotland, and everybody knows that eighteenth-century London was full of black people, but that was then. He is trying to write about a deeper and more substantial tradition of cultural inheritance, and this means that he has to look across the Atlantic for his models. Of late he has found that the same is also true in the race relations business. Increasing numbers of social policy papers seemed to cross his desk arguing that one can only understand Bristol or Leicester or Manchester by looking at Oakland or Detroit or Chicago. He switches off his computer and admits defeat for the day, but he had worked well until Ruth called. Now he has time on his side.