In the Falling Snow (18 page)

He is not sure what is happening. He reaches out a hand and presses the button on the front of the digital alarm clock, but the ringing continues. Then he realises that he has left his mobile phone in the living room. He looks at the dimpled white ceiling and waits for the voicemail to pick up. The sudden storm is over and he now rolls on to his side and stares at the wall. Today he will try and do some more work on the book, but he knows that he should soon make up his mind and decide whether to try and get a publisher involved, or maybe even an agent. The truth is, he has been avoiding rejection, but he understands that he needs to put his ego to one side and get some proper feedback and professional advice otherwise the whole thing is in danger of becoming little more than a time-consuming vanity project. The phone starts to ring again and this time he leaps from his bed and dashes into the living room. Somebody is obviously keen to speak with him.

He doesn’t recognise the slightly shrill voice, but he decides to buy a little time and pretend that it is a bad connection. He asks the woman to repeat herself.

‘It’s Lesley. Can you hear me now?’

‘Yes, I can hear you. I’m sorry. I think I need a new phone.’

‘I left you a message. Just a few minutes ago. You didn’t pick up.’

‘I was in the shower so I didn’t hear the phone, and I haven’t checked the messages. What’s going on?’

He tries to sound as casual as possible, but he wants to know how she has managed to get hold of his mobile number. Perhaps Clive Wilson, or one of the researchers, passed it on.

‘I need to talk to you, Keith.’

‘Okay, but I don’t have a land line to call you back on. Is this clear enough?’

‘No, I need to talk to you face to face. In person. Now.’

He can hear the urgency in her voice, and he realises that she is panicking.

‘Do you want to come round here?’ The line goes silent, as though the call has been dropped. ‘Are you still there?’

‘I don’t think that would be a good idea. Do you know the Starbucks by the Bingo Hall? Across the road from the bus depot.’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’ll see you there in half an hour, but it’s probably best if nobody knows we’re meeting.’

‘It’s okay, I haven’t got you on speakerphone. Do you want me to wear a disguise?’

‘Trust me, this really isn’t the time for jokes, Keith. I’m trying to help you, okay?’

‘Trying to help me?’

‘I’ll see you in half an hour, okay? Bye.’

He closes the phone and then immediately finds the charger and plugs it in. If he leaves in ten minutes, and walks quickly, he can get there in time. He rushes into the bathroom, where he stares at himself in the mirror. It is not good. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, and he needs to shave, but it could be worse. At least the girl left. He turns on the shower, and while the water heats up he speed-brushes his teeth. He looks again
in
the mirror. There is going to be no time to shave. Everything else he can manage.

He sees her through the huge pane of glass. She is sitting at a window table with two cups in front of her and idly fidgeting with the string of pearls that she often wears. Then she sees him and her face momentarily brightens as though she is relieved that he has turned up. He’s late, he knows this, but only by five minutes or so. As he slides into the chair opposite her, she places a large paper cup in front of him.

‘I didn’t put any milk or sugar in. I don’t really know how you take it.’

‘Thanks. It’s fine as it is.’

She looks worried, but good. Younger, actually, and he wonders if it’s her clothes, or if she has cut her hair. He has never been very good at figuring out whatever it is that older women do to themselves when they change their appearance, but from experience he knows that it is generally best to say nothing.

‘Look,’ she begins, ‘I can’t stay long, but I do want to have a quick word with you. Something’s been bothering me.’

‘Is it about us? I’ve never told anyone, apart from Annabelle, so you don’t have to worry on that score. I’m just sorry that things didn’t work out.’

‘“Things didn’t work out”? Are you taking the piss, Keith? You didn’t want to know, or did I miss something?’

‘It wasn’t that straightforward.’

‘No, I’m sure in your head it wasn’t straightforward. Somewhat convenient, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I wouldn’t really describe it as convenient. It did break up my marriage.’

She shakes her head in exasperation, and he realises that he had better offer an olive branch of some sort.

‘Look, I’m sorry if I caused you any distress. What else can I say?’

‘Let’s just drop it, okay. I haven’t come here to talk about us, or about the past. It’s not my place to offer you advice, but I think you should seriously consider resigning. That way you’ll at least keep your pension.’

He picks up his coffee, but the paper cup offers no insulation and it is too hot to hold, let alone drink. He places the cup back on the tabletop.

‘Well, obviously you know something that I don’t know, so maybe you should tell me what’s going on.’ He pauses. ‘If you want to, that is.’

‘Listen, I’m pretty sure that they’re going to press formal charges. Apparently you’ve created a hostile work environment for Yvette.’

‘You’re winding me up, right?’

‘Clive is not going to protect you. In fact, I don’t know what’s gone on between the two of you, but he’s not your friend, Keith.’

‘Well that much I’d already figured out for myself. He’s a totally two-faced arsehole, but then again he always has been.’

‘Well, at least we’re in agreement on this.’

He stands and carefully picks up his coffee.

‘I won’t be a second, I’m just going to put some milk in it.’

Fat-free, two per cent, full fat, he doesn’t give a damn, milk is milk, and so he presses the nozzle nearest him. He hadn’t expected Lesley to be so genuinely concerned. He looks across at her as she stares out of the window at the traffic, her free hand playing idly with some loose strands of her hair. Maybe he should have been more honest with her. After their liaison at the New Forest retreat, he did deliberately avoid her and he made no real attempt to stay in touch. As a result she probably has some reason to be annoyed with him, but she knew full well that the situation wasn’t
easy.
He was a married man, and they worked together, so it was unrealistic of her to actually expect anything to come of it. However, given his present circumstances, an excuse about their working together is the last thing that he can offer her.

He returns to his seat and she turns her attention from the window and looks back in his direction.

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I know you’re trying to help.’

‘Well, I’m not after your job, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just the stopgap till Clive figures out what to do. Anyhow, the amalgamation of the Race Equality, Disability and Women’s Affairs units is a stupid idea, and I pity the poor sod who has to keep everything in order.’

‘Well, from what you’re saying, I suppose that won’t be me now.’

‘I’m sorry that I’m the one who has to tell you this, but I don’t think anybody else has got your back.’

‘So that’s it then? He’s going to get rid of me?’

‘I’m afraid that’s what it looks like.’ She pauses. ‘You can probably get another job in the field if you voluntarily step aside.’

He laughs. ‘Come on, Lesley, you’re not being realistic. We both know that people always think that there’s no smoke without fire and all that bullshit. But I can’t say I’d be too sad to move on and do something else.’

‘You’ve still got time ahead of you.’

‘Jesus, Lesley. Lighten up a bit. You sound like you’re writing my obituary.’ He shakes his head. ‘Maybe you are.’

‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s fair.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But you
have
been stupid.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t think you have to apologise. At least not to me.’

She gathers up her coat from the seat next to her.

‘I have to go now, Keith.’ She stands. ‘You know where to find me if you need to talk.’

People are running up the street from the direction of the tube station, with their football scarves flying in the wind and their newspapers rolled up like batons in their hands. He stands and looks on as they pass quickly through the turnstiles, eager to watch the evening match. He had arranged to meet Laurie half an hour ago, but it is becoming increasingly clear that his son must have forgotten. He presses the redial button on his mobile and tries Annabelle again, but her phone seems programmed to go to voicemail without even ringing out. He is loath to leave a message so he quickly shuts the phone and decides that he may as well go in and watch the game. There is no point in trying Laurie’s mobile, for when he called him this morning to arrange to see him, his son announced that his phone would be out of credit by the end of the call and he didn’t have any money to top it up. He could barely hear Laurie, who was on the bus
en route
to school, but they had arranged to meet at seven o’clock at the Loftus Road turnstiles, and he told Laurie that after the game he would top up the phone for him. Once he finished talking to his son, he decided to order a latte before leaving the Starbucks. No doubt Lesley would already have arrived at work, with her business face in place, but his own shapeless day would continue with him sipping on a latte and thinking aimlessly about what to do with his book. When his latte arrived he asked for it to be placed in a cardboard sleeve so he could hold it without scalding his hands, and as he grabbed a handful of napkins for extra insulation he realised that whatever frustrations he felt with regard to his book it helped to know that at the end of the day he would be spending time with his son. But there is no sign of his son. Laurie probably thinks that Queens Park Rangers against
Sheffield
Wednesday is a fixture for losers. The kind of match that he would be embarrassed to admit to having attended. In a way, he sympathises with Laurie, but in the absence of anything else to do he moves towards the turnstiles. After buying a ticket, he is subjected to a full-body search, which he feels is somewhat unnecessary at his age, but he knows that it is best to say nothing to these guys. He stands with his hands up in the air and waits until he hears the predictable, ‘All right, mate,’ which he recognises as his signal to move off towards the home fans’ stand.

At half-time it is nil–nil, and the lamentable quality of the football on display leaves him somewhat relieved that Laurie has chosen to abandon him. It would have been difficult to try and justify this rubbish to a seventeen-year-old Barcelona fan. These two outfits are unquestionably on the decline, clubs that were ‘big’ when he was a boy, but who now struggle to attract five-figure crowds. He points at a bar of chocolate, pays the money, and then picks up both the chocolate and his pint of lager and shuffles to one side where he discovers some space on a shelf where he can put down the plastic ‘glass’. He reaches in his pocket for his mobile and calls Annabelle again, but she still isn’t answering so he decides to text her. ‘Where’s Laurie? Did he forget football?’ He keeps it short, for he doesn’t want to sound too alarmed. He knows how quickly Annabelle panics, and he has no desire to reveal to her how disappointed he is that his son has not even had the decency to let him know that he has changed his mind. As he tucks the phone back into his trouser pocket, having first set the call feature to vibrate, he notices that the crowd is beginning to file in for the second half. He looks at their down-turned and miserable faces, and he wonders why he should subject himself to forty-five more minutes of this nonsense. Both teams are safely mid-table, and at the moment there is nothing to play for. However, even if there was something
at
stake, he is reasonably sure that neither team would be competent enough to exploit the situation. In fact, he only suggested coming to this match so that he could spend some more time with Laurie, but without his son’s company what’s the point? He decides to linger over his pint, and maybe order another. There is a closed circuit television screen behind the bar so it occurs to him that he might as well stay put and watch the game from this vantage point.

It is after eleven when he finally slumps down on to the sofa and kicks off his shoes. The second half was hardly an improvement, and when Sheffield Wednesday scored the winning goal in injury time he quickly downed his third pint and headed for the exit before the rush. The Queen Caroline was busier than usual because of the football, but he found a spot on a threadbare bench seat near the jukebox, and then foraged in his pockets for a handful of £1 coins which he pumped into the machine before returning to the bench seat and listening to the music. For some reason he decided that tonight he would just play reggae, and so he chose songs by Dennis Brown, Gregory Isaacs, Third World and Bob Marley. No doubt those who were not fans of reggae music would have been un-impressed by his devotion, but that was their problem. As he sat in front of his pint he was consumed by his feelings of disappointment and frustration that neither Annabelle nor his son appeared to think it necessary to let him know what was going on. How, he wondered, had he gone from being a husband and a father to this? Mr Bloody Nobody.

He gets up from the sofa and crosses to a precariously stacked pile of CDs. He scans them quickly, then takes out a Peter Tosh CD and slots it into the player. He listens for a moment and then turns the bass up a single point before returning to the sofa.
He
doesn’t want to disturb the neighbours. What should have been a stress-free evening with his son has turned out to be deeply hurtful, and Annabelle has still not called him back. In fact, the only person who did contact him was Lesley, who telephoned him as he was watching the second half of the match on the television screen behind the bar. She apologised if she had been out of line in summoning him to Starbucks, but he assured her that there was no reason at all for her to say sorry. He didn’t tell her that after their meeting at Starbucks he had not managed to achieve anything all day, beyond calling his son and arranging to go to the game with him, for he had been unable to get Clive Wilson’s treachery out of his mind. He should, of course, have been thanking her for being so honest and putting him in the picture, but he just listened and occasionally interrupted and reassured her that he really did understand why she felt compelled to contact him and meet up. ‘Let me know if you need to talk,’ said Lesley, ‘I know it’s not easy for you, but you’ve got my number on your phone now so don’t worry about calling me. It’s fine.’