In the Falling Snow (29 page)

The ringing of the doorbell interrupts the gentle clatter of the keyboard as he once again changes the parameters of his flat
search.
He glances at his watch and can see that it is going up for ten o’clock. He picks up his mobile phone from the messy desktop and makes sure that nobody has been trying to get hold of him, but as he does so the discordant sound of the doorbell again cuts through the silence and so he quickly grabs a tracksuit top and makes his way downstairs. Lesley stands before him with her hands pushed deep into the pockets of her winter coat.

‘I’m sorry, I know I should have called. If this isn’t a good time then we can always speak in the morning.’

He stands to one side and smiles in an attempt to disguise his surprise. ‘It’s fine. Come on in. I’m just playing about on the computer.’

He closes the main door behind them and decides that whoever gave her his phone number must have also given her his address. Lesley doesn’t look distressed, which might excuse her behaviour. In fact, there is an air of impatience about her manner, which leads him to believe that they are about to have a confrontation of some kind. But does he truly care? He knows that some friendships cannot be dissolved little by little, they require an indelicate blow. She follows him upstairs and into his flat, where he takes her coat and hangs it on the solitary hook in the cramped entrance hall. He then ushers her into the living room and encourages her to take a seat on the sofa, while he crosses to the computer and closes down the open window. He assumes that she will not be staying for long so he does not log off. He offers Lesley a glass of wine, but even before she can formulate an answer he moves back in front of her and goes into the kitchen where he pours them both a glass of the only wine he has left, a somewhat overpowering Australian Chardonnay. Before he shuts the fridge, he makes a note that there are two more bottles lying on the bottom shelf, in addition to the one he has just returned to the holder behind the door. He carries the two glasses back
into
the living room and decides not to apologise for the wine in case it sounds as though he is being pretentious. Instead he just passes Lesley a glass and then takes a seat opposite her.

‘So,’ she begins, having taken a sip of her wine. ‘You’ve done it then.’

‘Well, I suppose he told you.’

‘Oh yes, and everybody else. He said you really lost it. Black rage.’ She takes another sip of wine. ‘Well, he didn’t actually use that term, but that was what he was getting at. You know, where you get all loud and illogical and he’s the calming paternal figure.’

He starts to laugh. ‘And you believed him? I mean, do I look like I’m out of control?’ He opens his arms and gestures, although he is careful not to spill his wine. ‘Do I look like some nutter who’s about to push somebody off a tube platform?’

‘You could have calmed down, I suppose.’

‘Yes, and I could have held up Lloyds Bank this afternoon with a sawn-off shotgun but it’s just not me, is it? That’s the point. He says something and everybody suspends disbelief and goes along with it? Makes me feel glad I jacked it in.’

‘I never said I believed him. In fact, most people haven’t got any time for him, but you already know this. However, the problem is, Keith, I wish you’d have spoken with me first. Given me a chance to let you know what was going on.’

‘Hang on a minute.’ He stands and crosses to the kitchen where he removes the bottle of Chardonnay from the door of the fridge. He once again takes up his seat and pours himself a splash more, before putting the wine down on the floor to the side of his chair. ‘I’m listening.’

‘Did he tell you that Yvette’s taking the matter to a tribunal?’ She pauses. ‘No, I didn’t think so.’

‘I thought she was getting promoted.’

‘Shunted to one side, and she didn’t like it and so she’s been threatening to go to a tribunal, which means it will probably be all over the papers.’ Again she pauses. ‘He didn’t tell you, did he?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Look Keith, what it means is that your resigning is irrelevant in terms of bringing an end to things. In fact, it’s probably about to kick off for real now.’

‘For Christ’s sake, who told her to go to a tribunal? Her lawyer, I suppose.’

‘I can’t help you there, but you might have been better sticking with the job and going head to head with her, rather than throwing in your cards now. It makes you look weak.’

‘Weak? Guilty more like. As though I’m running away from something.’

‘I do wish you had talked with me first.’ She holds up her glass and he reaches to the floor and picks up the bottle and pours her a refill. ‘Look, am I keeping you from something? Or someone?’

‘No, I told you, I was just doing some stuff on the computer.’

She kicks off her shoes and tucks her legs up underneath her on the sofa. He watches as she swirls the wine around in the glass, and for a moment he worries that she might smell the bouquet and pronounce her verdict.

‘You know, it’s still possible for someone to have a word with Yvette.’

‘You mean for you to have a word with Yvette?’

‘I really don’t think she’s getting sensible advice. To go to a tribunal isn’t good for you, but it might not be good for her either. She’s been offered a pay rise and promotion, but I imagine her lawyer is just focused on the harassment issue and dangling some imaginary big cash settlement in front of her. It’s such
bullshit.’
She sips at her wine and then looks up at him. ‘Would you like me to talk to her?’

He can hear the BBC morning news. Even before he opens his eyes he realises that he must have fallen asleep with the television set on. He knows that in all likelihood he is on the sofa for he has no television in his bedroom. His mouth is dry, and tastes like a discarded ashtray. He tries to licks his lips but he has no saliva. He rubs his eyes and then sits upright. The light bulb in the desk lamp is shining directly in his face. On the coffee table are two empty glasses of wine and an empty bottle lies on its side on the floor. There is no sign of Lesley, and he has only a vague recollection of her leaving the flat. He does, however, remember her asking him if he had any regrets about what had happened between them in the New Forest. He had seen this question coming for some time, but when it arrived he still had no carefully constructed answer with which to defuse the situation. He need not have worried for Lesley didn’t give him an opening to answer. ‘You see,’ she insisted, ‘I’ve never regretted acting along the lines of how I feel. I suppose it’s only when I don’t act that I regret it.’ He remembers looking at her and thinking that of course she has no regrets because she had nothing to lose. He on the other hand has plenty of regrets for he should have been responsible not only to his wife’s feelings and her dignity, but to her life, to her journey, to the fact that he had met her parents, and it was not possible for him to simply pat himself on the back and prioritise being in tune with his feelings over his sense of responsibility. Of course he had regrets about what had happened between them, which is why he eventually blurted it all out to Annabelle, although a part of him still can’t understand why such a brief and inconsequential act of infidelity should have mattered so much to her. Lesley was not a
threat
to their marriage. It was a mistake, and Annabelle was not being abandoned, and they were not trapped in a sexless marriage. For Christ’s sake, the whole thing meant nothing. Their marriage may not have packed the passion and the lust that it once did, but it wasn’t broke and wasn’t his confession a testament to this? He had no desire to compartmentalise at his wife’s expense, for there were already too many secrets hanging over his life, and so he did the decent thing and he admitted his guilt, but still she jettisoned him. Jesus, it didn’t seem fair. After all, he had embraced the myth that one person was all that he needed, and he had tried to be loyal to the myth, to live by it, and to accept the notion of the myth as the basis of his life, and it had, if truth be told, given him many rewards. But by betraying it just one solitary time, everything had collapsed and this woman wanted to know if he had regrets? Sitting with him in a one-bedroom rented flat on a cheap sofa drinking bad wine, she seriously wanted to know if he had regrets? He remembers drifting into the kitchen and opening another bottle of dodgy Australian Chardonnay, and then avoiding her questions, and physically keeping his distance from her, but the tension of the evening, and endless glasses of wine must have eventually taken a toll for he still has only a hazy memory of her leaving. But leave she did, and if he remembers correctly she again stressed, at least once, that she might be able to talk to Yvette, but by this stage he didn’t give a damn. By the time he poured the final drop of wine from the last bottle, he couldn’t care less about a potential tribunal, or a newspaper scandal, or his being sacked, or the withholding of his pension. He no longer cared about the whole pantomime of his fancy job and the consequences of his so-called inappropriate behaviour. None of it held any interest for him. He remembers looking at a bleary-eyed Lesley, her face twisted with righteous concern, and thinking, let them do with him what they wish. Let them
make
an example of him, humiliate him, who cares, he was sick of it all. And yes, he did have regrets, especially staring at her podgy face. He regretted going to the conference, he regretted going to the local pub in the forest with her, he regretted the quick fumble, he regretted everything. Was that clear enough?

By nine o’clock he has finished tidying up the flat and he has packed a bag. Outside he can hear a helicopter buzzing overhead like an intoxicated insect, and he imagines that there must be a drug bust on the local council estate, either that or there is an appalling traffic snarl-up at some junction, but what’s new? These days, nobody in London ever gets anywhere on time. The laundry has been done, the bathroom and kitchen have been cleaned, the sofa straightened out, and all his papers and bills neatly filed and arranged. What remains to be organised has been simply pushed into a drawer and out of sight. He is not sure how long he will be gone, but it is important to him that he comes back to a neat place. The sink is full of soapy water, but as he searches for stray items to wash he realises that there is only an odd cup and a single glass left to take care of and then he will be ready. He pulls out the plug and listens to the water spiralling away. An hour ago, as he still lay on the sofa piecing together the night before, Laurie had called and asked if he should come round to see him. He had told his son that he was more than welcome to do so if he wished, and that he shouldn’t feel that he had to ask, but then Laurie confessed that he didn’t really have much to say at present, and he was sorry for all the trouble and worry that he was causing. Maybe they could do something later in the week? He found himself listening to his son’s suggestion, and then saying ‘sure’, like some gum-chewing cowboy from the movies. ‘Sure, Laurie.’ His son seemed relieved, and he promised to call back in a day or two, but he didn’t bother to tell Laurie that he would be gone. He decided that once he knew
how
long he was likely to be away then he would phone Laurie and set something up. He tears off some sheets of paper towel and begins to wipe out the sink where the suds have gathered. Then, having disposed of the wet paper, he crosses to the fridge and makes sure that the ice-making machine is turned off. He will actually call Laurie once he gets to his father’s house, for there is no reason at all why he should leave things up in the air for a minute longer than is necessary. He will speak to Laurie, and figure out what his son would like to do. At the very least, he owes his son the courtesy of attempting to play the part. He fully understands that Annabelle has probably encouraged Laurie to call him, but unless Laurie wanted to speak with his father then he wouldn’t have picked up the phone. In this sense, Laurie has made the decision by himself. His son called him, and so he will set up something specific with him. During the past three years there have already been too many casual plans made, and too many casual plans broken, and as the grown-up it is his responsibility to change this pattern of behaviour between them.

THE SHARP, ACRID
smell of the hospital ward alarms him. The noise of the machines that beep with metronomic precision, and the sight of people laid out in various states of helplessness is unsettling, but it is the high stench of cleanliness that truly disturbs him. Suddenly he is desperate for fresh air, but it is too late now. He walks slowly towards the far end of the ward where he can see his father lying prostrate in the cot under the window with his eyes closed, an intravenous drip needled and taped into the underside of his forearm, and his heartbeat, a neon green parabola, blipping away on a small screen. His father is asleep, but his brow remains furrowed, which suggests that this is not a painless slumber. He looks down at the surprisingly wizened face that is lined like a walnut, and he can see that his father seems to have aged a whole decade in the space of a few days. Near the end of the bed there is a plain metal fold-out chair which is set at a watchful angle, and so he sets his bag down to the side of the chair and then sits heavily and stares at the sleeping
man.
Were his father to open his eyes he is not sure what he might say to him, so he is grateful for this moment of silent contemplation.

The train had once again picked up speed and was flashing through the countryside of the midlands when his mobile rang. His diary was open before him as he was planning a time to see Laurie, but he soon realised that the diary was unnecessary as he was unemployed and pretty much available any time. Flanking his diary on all sides were a whole mass of print-outs which detailed the specifications of various one- and two-bedroom flats. There was nobody seated next to him, or in the two seats opposite, and so he was able to scatter his documents across the tabletop without inconveniencing anybody. He panicked for a moment, for he knew that the phone was somewhere underneath these papers, and then he found it and quickly flipped it open. Baron was characteristically blunt and to the point. ‘Your father is in the hospital with a heart attack. I call the ambulance this morning when I notice he can’t catch his breath, but they have him stabilised and everything. They say no danger as we get him there in time, but it don’t make no sense for you to go by his place. You better come straight to St Joseph’s and you’ll find him there.’ For a moment he didn’t know what to say to Baron, but then he caught a reflection of himself in the window of the train, with the phone in one hand and his mouth hanging open and foolish. ‘Keith, you still there?’ He tried to adopt a casual tone as he let Baron know that he would take a taxi from the train station straight to the hospital. But he couldn’t help checking. ‘But you say he’s all right?’ Baron laughed the low rumbling laugh that he remembered from his childhood. ‘They just keeping an eye on him, or whatever it is they does call it. Monitoring him.’

Once he hung up on Baron, he busied himself for a few minutes tidying up the print-outs. He folded them in half, and then he
tucked
everything into his diary which he then pushed into the holdall on the seat next to him. The train began to amble and so he stared out of the window as the countryside was replaced by the outskirts of yet another grim industrial town that was too insignificant for the train to stop at. He snapped out of his daydreaming, then picked up the phone and dialled Annabelle. He could tell from the background noise that she was driving and not fully concentrating on what he was saying. She asked him to speak louder. ‘I said, I’m going straight to the hospital. He’s had a heart attack, but apparently it’s not serious.’ Annabelle said nothing in reply so he couldn’t be sure if she had heard him. And then she spoke with a clarity that took him by surprise. ‘Hold on, I’m just pulling over.’ Again he turned his attention to the window, as the train began now to pick up speed and leave the red-bricked town behind. Returning to the countryside was a welcome relief, but these fields differed from the previous ones for they were decorated with cows and sheep. He had never really understood how this worked. Who owned the animals, and how did you prevent them from running away or getting mixed up with other people’s cows and sheep? ‘Is he all right?’ He reassured Annabelle that everything seemed to be under control and that Baron didn’t seem too worried. ‘Should I tell Laurie?’ On this he was adamant. ‘No, don’t tell him. I’ll call him myself. He should hear it from me, but there’s probably not much to tell him.’ Even as the words came out of his mouth he found himself wondering why, if this were the case, he had called Annabelle. In the silence, he could hear her car engine idling, and then what sounded like a lorry roared past. He had no idea what else to say to her.

The harried-looking nurse asks him how his father’s health has been of late. He shrugs his shoulders and tells her that he lives in London, but he saw his father just recently and he seemed fine.

‘He lives on his own, does he, love?’ He nods and watches as she writes on the clipboard file that she cradles in the crook of her left elbow. ‘The other feller wasn’t that much help. He did say that your father was retired, can you confirm that?’ He nods, but not wanting to be thought of as unhelpful he continues.

‘Yes, he’s been retired for a few years now. He worked at the university, as a janitor. And yes, he lives by himself.’

‘Well,’ says the nurse, without looking up, ‘that never helps, to be honest with you, but at least we can rule out any possibility of elder abuse.’

‘Of what?’

‘There’s more of it than you’d believe.’ She finishes writing and looks across at the monitor. ‘Anyhow, I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about, he’s stable. You can come back in a few hours. Maybe between six and seven when we’ll wake him up for something to eat.’

He wants to ask her if Baron is due back, but her no-nonsense manner suggests that she will have little sympathy for his question. Only now does the nurse actually deign to look in his direction. She is a reasonably attractive woman, but some make-up would help. Or would it? She looks like she has recently tightened her grip on the world of clipboard authority, having arrived at the age where a single woman becomes a spinster.

‘You’re welcome to stay, if you like. You can sit here, or we’ve more comfy chairs out there in the reception area.’ She points towards the far end of the ward. ‘And there’s a cafeteria downstairs if you want tea or coffee. It’s up to you, but I’ll warrant your father will not be opening his eyes for a good few hours yet.’

There is nobody on the door to the Mandela Centre. He walks into the lobby area and stares at the noticeboard, which boasts an
airline
poster of a beach in Barbados and a monthly schedule of events. In among the coffee mornings, and the bingo sessions and the occasional fish and chip supper, he can see that this afternoon the residents are being offered chair-based exercises, which he assumes take place in the dayroom at the end of the hallway. The walls of the corridor are decorated with drawings that are evidently the result of some therapeutic course. Prominent among the infantile stick figures, and the crayoned sunsets, is a large sheet of white cardboard that is framed with thin bamboo strips and upon which are stencilled the words, ‘Have a Positive Encounter With Yourself.’ He hears the country music before he enters the dayroom, but as he opens the glass-panelled door none of the half-dozen or so residents look up from their chairs. Before them sits a matronly woman who turns and eyeballs him, but she continues to flex her elbows and ankles to the jaunty rhythms of Tammy Wynette.

‘I can help you with something, dear?’

‘Sorry to interrupt, but I’m looking for Baron. I thought he might be here.’

‘Well, you don’t see him here, so I suggest you pass upstairs and see if you find him in his flatlet. You know where to take the lift?’ She points. ‘Just down so at the end of the corridor. You related to him?’ He shakes his head. ‘No, you don’t favour him. Your face too sweet.’

Baron answers the door dressed in an overstretched red tracksuit that hangs loosely around his stout frame. On his head he wears a baseball cap that is set at a comically rakish angle, and his bare feet are unslippered.

‘So you finally reach.’ He swivels away from his guest and speaks now with his back turned. ‘You better come in.’

The flat is stiflingly hot and cramped, but Baron picks up a pile of old tabloid newspapers from the sofa and drops them on to the carpeted floor, thereby making space for him to sit.

‘Me, I don’t stand on no ceremonies here, so you better just squat down and make yourself at home.’

He sits and looks at the photograph of a smiling Lady Di above the mantelpiece, and then at the wooden walking stick that is leaning up in the corner beneath a crucifix that has been clumsily nailed to the wall. For some reason the crucifix has a washcloth hanging from it. The oddly shaped, almost circular, television set is the centrepiece of the room, and an afternoon game show holds Baron’s attention. Balanced precariously on top of the television is a vase that is stuffed with an outlandish array of exotic plastic flowers.

‘I can get you something? Tea or coffee? I eat downstairs with the others, but my kitchenette always have the basics.’

He shakes his head. ‘No thanks. Maybe later.’

Baron’s rumbling laughter begins slowly, then starts to rock his whole body. ‘Later? How long you planning on staying? You don’t think I have things to do?’

He can feel the powerful surge of heat coming from the radiators, but he assumes that the residents’ bills are either partly or wholly subsidised. Baron sits in a battered armchair, and above his head a leash hangs from the ceiling. He knows, from having made site visits to similar facilities, that this is the emergency pull in case of any problems. Again he notices Baron’s feet, which are calloused and chalky, and he watches as Baron vigorously rubs them together as though trying to flake off an outer layer of skin.

‘I take it you never been in one of the flatlets before?’ He shakes his head. ‘Well, I’m a man who likes to keep myself to myself. I don’t go knocking on doors asking to borrow teabags or anything, but if I have something I will share it. People around here is generally friendly, but you bound to get a few of the types who just go to church so they can change clothes and shoes and show off and look at women, and then you get the crazy ones
who
wander the centre at night looking for their children, the same children who get a council assessment against them and force them into this place. The Mandela is what they call supported accommodation, but you know this already. And it’s here that you must make your father come when they let him out of the hospital.’

He looks at Baron and shakes his head. ‘I don’t think I can make him do anything that he doesn’t want to do. You know how it is with him.’

‘Your father’s situation is better than most people. Look at me. I am a twin, which means there’s two of me. One of me is back in Jamaica living good, and me is here on medication and so no point in going home for I can’t afford the medicine back there to keep me alive. My pension just about work here, but back there the pension can’t pay for my pills. I don’t have no choice but to be here and I know I never going see my twin again. I’m understanding that. We don’t even correspond. But your father is lucky for he just get a scare. However, if he go back to trying to cope with everything by himself, then who knows what happen the next time?’ Baron pauses and looks at his television game show. Then, as though suddenly remembering that he has a guest, he turns back towards him. ‘He need to be among people. His own people. I live next door to English people for forty years, but I had enough. They don’t want me, then I don’t want them. However, a man must have some kind of people, but your father’s head is hard. Ever since Brenda call the police to drag him away and get him locked up the second time, your father don’t like to be too close to nobody. But remember, he come to take you from Brenda when he get out. The man’s head is hurting bad from two times in hospital, but at least he make the effort for you. Then after you gone off to college he just get more stubborn and he don’t want to get involved in no palaver
with
women or anything that can hurt him again and so he choose to remain free, but life don’t come free. Look at me. Look at all of us.’ Baron laughs. ‘Freedom don’t look so clever now. I used to tell your father that marriage is just possession and obligation, and the real thing is wild, but because most men want both the possession and the wild they end up running two women, but your father ain’t suited to either style.’ Again he laughs. ‘But like I say, freedom don’t look so clever now.’

He hears his mobile begin to ring in his trouser pocket and for a moment he thinks about ignoring it. Then he realises that it might be Laurie so he arches his body and takes it out. He can see from the screen that it’s Lesley, so he quickly pushes the phone back into his pocket and returns his attention to Baron, who once again seems fixated on the game show.

‘Sorry about that.’

Baron turns from the television screen and grins toothlessly at him. ‘No reason for you to be sorry. I know you is a busy man.’

‘Well, thanks for taking the trouble to stay with him and get him to the hospital.’ He pauses and looks again at the washcloth that is dangling from the crucifix.

‘Keith, listen to me. Your father is a proud man, but he has a lot of pressure on his soul. A normal man would have seek out some kind of church guidance, but your father is not a normal kind of man, so church ain’t going to help.’

He looks at Baron, and then at his bag, which sits on the floor next to the pile of old newspapers. The game show is over and the theme music is bellowing out, and the light from the television flickers and illuminates the sombre room. A part of him wants to thank Baron and then take a taxi to the station and catch a train back to London and simply forget this whole mess. He should let his father just live out his life in whatever fashion he wishes, but he knows that if he goes back to London now he will,
in
all likelihood, never return. Baron leans forward slightly and reaches into his trouser pocket and then holds out his hand.