In the Falling Snow (20 page)

As the Eye continues to turn, and they start their descent, he notices that his son has a cut on the back of his right hand which has clearly been bleeding. He decides to say nothing, leaving it up to Laurie to tell him about it if he so wishes, but he suspects
that
his son will choose to remain silent about the source of his injury.

He steps out of their pod and is relieved to feel terra firma beneath his feet. He puts a hand on Laurie’s shoulder.

‘Have you ever been inside the Houses of Parliament? I mean on a school trip or something?’ Laurie shakes his head. ‘Let’s take a walk to Westminster Bridge. We probably can’t go into the actual parliament at this time of day, but you get a great view from the bridge.’

They stand together on the bridge and look across at the back of the Palace of Westminster. He realises that the best view is probably from the south of the river, but it is too late now. They are standing in the middle of the bridge, directly over the water, and Laurie is clearly waiting for his father to say whatever it is that is on his mind.

‘Does this mean anything to you, Laurie?’ He gestures with his arms in a somewhat grand manner, hoping that the flamboyance of his motion will suggest a kind of ownership. He then drops his arms and places both hands on a low stone wall and leans forward slightly.

Laurie shrugs his shoulders. ‘I’m not sure what you’re on about.’

‘All of this is yours if you want it, but to get it you’ll have to work harder than your mates. You’ve got to prove to your mates that you’re better than them, and you’ve got to remember that nobody is ever going to give you anything.’

It is apparent, from the puzzled look on his son’s face, that he should either be clearer about what he is saying or else he should say nothing further.

‘You’re not really sure what I’m talking about, are you?’

‘I haven’t got a clue.’

‘No, I didn’t think so. It’s my fault.’ He pauses. ‘I’m worried about you, Laurie. You’re a young man now, and I don’t want to
tell
you what to do with your life, but I can help you, if you want me to help you that is. But it’s up to you.’

‘How can you help me?’

‘I can talk to you. Or you can talk to me.’

‘You want me to talk to you?’

Of course he wants his son to talk to him, but he understands why his son feels a little distant. Sons can be unforgiving towards those who they believe have hurt their mothers. He knows this from his own life.

‘I’d like nothing more than for you to talk to me, but I don’t want to force you to do anything. I know it doesn’t work like that.’ He reaches into the black leather knapsack that hangs from his shoulder, and he produces a plastic bag. ‘Here, I got you this.’

Laurie takes the bag from him and pulls out the blue and red striped Barcelona shirt.

‘Man, that’s cool. Cheers, Dad.’ As he speaks his son keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the shirt. ‘Thanks.’

‘But you’re sure that there’s nothing that you want to talk about? The fight, for instance?’

‘I thought you said that you weren’t forcing anything.’

Of course, Laurie is right. He will have to take his son’s word that he is telling the truth about the scuffle with the other boys, for he knows that if he comes on too heavy then Laurie will simply tune him out.

‘Well, we can talk whenever you’re ready. It doesn’t have to be now. Your mother is trying her best, but there are some things that she can never really know about.’

‘You mean because she’s white?’

‘No, I suppose what I really mean is because she’s not black.’

As the words come out of his mouth he wants to kick himself for he knows that he sounds annoyingly glib.

‘Look, what I’m trying to say is that I know it’s not exactly
straightforward
for you out there on the streets. Who knows, maybe this is something that you might find easier to talk about with me. After all, there are some things that I’ve been through myself as a black kid growing up in this country and I think I can tell you what I know without it coming over like a sermon.’

His son seems momentarily embarrassed and he wonders if this is the right time for him to drop an arm around Laurie’s shoulders and for them to leave Westminster Bridge and begin their walk along the embankment. He looks at his son’s confused face and he realises that, on second thoughts, maybe they should just head straight back to Annabelle’s house. He turns from Laurie and looks down at the water and decides to leave the decision up to his son, but the silence deepens and it is becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

‘The thing is, Dad, I don’t know if things are the same now as they were when you were my age.’

He continues to gaze down at the river. At least his son is talking to him. He looks up and turns so that he is facing Laurie.

‘So tell me then, how are they different?’

‘It isn’t just about discrimination and stuff. I know that’s important, and that’s your job and everything, but it’s also about other things.’

‘Other things like what?’

‘It’s got a lot to do with respect. You can’t let people just large it up in your face and disrespect you. A man’s got to have respect or he’s nothing better than somebody’s punk.’

Respect? What has Laurie, or any of his friends, achieved in their lives that makes them imagine that anybody should respect them? What have they done to
earn
respect? How pathetic he must seem to his son, blathering on about a career beyond university, and how he will have to put in more effort and try twice as hard as anybody else, and all the while his son is obviously thinking
what
a square tosser his dad is. However, what his exasperated father is trying to say to him boils down to one sentence that he knows he can’t say. ‘Laurie, act your age, not your colour.’ Both he and Laurie are trying hard not to cause each other any upset, but after three years of living apart it is evident to him that they are woefully incapable of conversing casually.

‘Can we go now?’ Laurie speaks quietly, as though he feels sorry for his father. ‘It’s getting a bit cold.’

‘Don’t you fancy going for even a short walk along the South Bank? We don’t have to go far.’

‘You mean down there by the water?’

‘You can’t be that cold, are you?’

‘It’s freezing, man.’

‘Have you got something else to do? Or someone to meet?’ Laurie shakes his head and then gently begins to punch the toe of a trainer-clad foot against the wall.

‘Let’s walk for a little while and if you’re still cold you can always put on your Barcelona shirt.’

Laurie gives him a fake smile, which leaves him in no doubt as to what his son thinks of his suggestion. He decides that they will walk down as far as the Tate Modern, most likely in silence, and then he will hail a taxi and drop Laurie off at Annabelle’s. At some point he will try and speak further with Annabelle, and reassure her that there is no reason to panic about Laurie, but Annabelle is not as calm, nor as patient, as she used to be. As they descend the stone steps that lead to the wide pedestrian walkway that hugs the meandering line of the river, Laurie withdraws into a silence that is unmistakably sullen. His mother has taken to describing these moods as his ‘big man’ behaviour, and he is now experiencing for himself just what she has been referring to. They turn left and begin to saunter along the river, but he decides that they will walk only as far as the National Film
Theatre
and then hail a taxi from there. He sees no point in subjecting either one of them to this strained atmosphere for a moment longer than is necessary.

He begins the email for a second time. The use of the phrase, ‘waiting for the other shoe to fall’, seemed a little too colloquial and clumsy, but having deleted it, and read back over everything that remained, he decided to start afresh. After dropping Laurie off at home, he managed to work on the book for a couple of hours until he finally confessed to himself that he did, in fact, need a total break from it, for he was beginning to lose sight of the book’s purpose. He breaks off from the email and pours a glass of wine. He returns his attention to the computer screen, and then he begins to write anew to Lesley, but this time in a manner that he hopes will strike a better balance between the formal and the informal. He doesn’t want to insinuate any real friendship with her, but at the same time he doesn’t want to come over as being cold and detached given the nature of their last meeting at Starbucks. He simply explains that he will be going away for a few days and he would appreciate it if she could keep him in the loop if there are any developments. He thought hard about this last phrase, and although it’s not perfect it somehow makes more sense than referring to shoes falling. He is asking her to help him get ready for any move that Clive Wilson might try to pull, including pressing formal charges, although he has no idea what he will do should it come to this. However, a little advance warning can’t hurt. He suggests to Lesley that she might contact him if she hears anything, but he tries to make it clear that email is his preferred mode of communication for he worries that requesting a telephone call might be misinterpreted as a sign of collaborative intimacy.

He gets up from the computer and crosses to the coffee table
where
he pours himself a glass of Perrier water. He returns to his desk and for a second time he deletes the entire email, unsure of the phrasing and whether this is even a good idea. But there is nobody else he can ask to look out for his interests. He wonders, if things were to go really wrong, who would be there for him? Laurie? Maybe at some point in the future, but certainly not at the present time. A daughter would probably have been better suited to the role of looking after dad, but there is not much that he can do about this. He opens a new email document and begins to type, having decided that it is best to do so quickly and without too much thought. He is simply asking Lesley to follow through on what she has basically suggested herself. He is asking for her help, but not in a way that should make her feel obligated, nor in a manner that should make it appear that he is desperate. He signs it, ‘Best wishes,’ and sends the email off without reviewing it. He gets up and takes both his glass of wine and the glass of water and sits on the sofa. He should have done this before, instead of hanging about London and becoming frustrated with the book, and then almost getting into trouble with Danuta. A break will do him good, and by the time he is ready to return to London he will hopefully be able to deal with things in a more decisive fashion. Maybe he should call Annabelle and let her know that he is going away? Or perhaps call Laurie and let him know? Not that he can be certain that either of them will care. It’s just information, right?

In the morning he stuffs a Nike sports bag with a few shirts, a pair of jeans, socks and underwear, and some softcover non-fiction, but nothing about music. He decides to pack as though he will be gone for only a few days, knowing that if he decides to stay longer then he can always buy additional things. He double-locks the door behind him, and then tumbles down the
stairs
and out on to the street. He takes a tube that is crammed with semi-comatose commuters who squeeze up next to each other and idly scan the back of other people’s newspapers, while those lucky enough to find a seat simply slump and allow their heads to bounce gently in all directions. Once he reaches King’s Cross, he realises that if he hurries he can catch a train that leaves in ten minutes. Unlike the tube, the train is relatively empty and he imagines that most of the commuting is in the other direction, into London. The view out of the window is not particularly interesting as they lumber past the back of endless rows of houses, but eventually it begins to rain lightly, and the drizzle spatters the window of the now speeding train so that a hundred rivers soon run in all directions on this map of an unnamed country. He closes his eyes and tries not to worry about the fact that Lesley has chosen not to reply to him. Maybe she hasn’t yet looked at her emails or, despite all his efforts, perhaps she has taken offence at some perceived impropriety in his tone or phrasing.

The ticket inspector wakes him up by pushing his shoulder with the palm of his hand.

‘Look, mate, you better get off unless you’re ready to go back to London.’

He looks around at the empty carriage, then climbs quickly to his feet and retrieves his holdall from the rack above his head. The station is an old Victorian edifice, with huge vaulted ceilings where the birds are constantly disturbed by the roar of train engines and fly in crazy circles. Once he passes out on to the concourse he joins the long line for a taxi and pulls his jacket tight around himself, for the rain is bucketing down. The taxi driver listens quietly to the local BBC news station, while he sits upright and alert in the back seat and looks at what should be familiar streets. However, with each passing year the streets are
becoming
increasingly difficult to recognise for there seems to be a vogue for replacing the old brick buildings with tall structures of steel and glass. These days his city appears to be trying hard to reinvent itself as a modern hub of commerce and opportunity, but the evidence before his eyes leaves him unconvinced for the people pounding the streets seem to be the same folks as before and, as far as he can see, all that has changed is the scenery. However, he doesn’t live here any more and so he feels no necessity to debate the issue, even with himself.

He knocks a second time, but he knows that his father probably can’t hear him above the noise of the television set. He takes two steps to his left and taps on the living room window, but it is impossible to see anything through the discoloured net curtain. His father’s hand pulls back the yellowing material, and his unshaven face is now visible in the window. He can immediately see that the older man has aged. His father is clearly baffled to see his son standing before him but, furrowing his brow, the bemused man points towards the door.

‘All right, Dad.’

His father is not yet dressed, but he holds the door wide open. His pyjamas hang loosely from his thin body, and the socks on his feet are full of holes. He stares at his son as though unsure of what to say.