He slides the cardboard box of photographs to one side and clears a space on the table so that he is able to put down the mug of tea. He has not only washed up, he has dried and put away all the crockery and utensils and carefully wiped down the counter tops. However, he will have to drink his tea black, for the milk in the open carton that he found sitting next to the kettle is curdled. Baron must have forgotten to put it back in the fridge. He can see that there are still some photographs in the cardboard box, but the majority of the black and white prints are scattered on the tabletop like jettisoned invitation cards to the past. His father must have taken the box from his son’s room and started to look through them, and maybe Baron was helping him to remember faces and names, but clearly there was no time to complete the task or tidy up after themselves. He wants to call Annabelle, but he is reluctant to say anything further to her about his father’s condition; he just wants to hear the reassuring sound of her voice. However, his reticence will be transparent and she will know that something is amiss, and so he decides to forget this idea. Through the uncurtained window he can see a cluster of stars in the sky and he contemplates stepping outside and staring up at the heavens. But what’s the point? It’s cold outside and he’s seen stars before. He slips his mobile out of his pocket and thinks about texting Laurie. ‘Are you okay?’ Or is that ‘R U OK?’? There’s no way he’s going to start bashing the English language in this way. And what if Laurie texts him back? What’s his excuse for not breaking off from texting and giving him a call? He can’t think of anything that he wants to say to his son so he decides that it’s best not to text. Or call Annabelle. Or do anything, including standing outside in the dark and staring up at the sky. It’s not going to happen, is it? The moment when his father’s anger turns to tenderness and a touching acceptance of his situation. He’s wasting his time hoping that the man’s face might be transfixed by the gentlest hint of a reconciliatory smile. After all these years, why now? He looks again at the sea of photographs and then picks up his mug of tea. Just what, if any, connection do these people have to his own life, let alone that of Annabelle and Laurie? His father’s silence has meant that his son has never been able to properly explain himself to anybody. For a moment he is tempted to gather up the photographs and toss them all into the box and then push the cardboard receptacle into a cupboard and out of sight, but unlike the pots and dishes these photographs have considerable weight. He can’t bring himself to pick them up, or even touch them. Not now, not at this moment. He will just have to be careful as to where exactly he places his mug of tea when he sets it back down on the table.
His father is cautiously spooning a breakfast of stewed prunes into his mouth, but his shaking hand means that the spoon hovers for two or three beats before he quickly dips his head towards the implement. He sits opposite his father with a carefully folded napkin in his hand ready to offer it to the older man should he need to mop up any spillage, but his father appears to be well-practised. This morning he left his father’s house and walked to the Mandela Centre, where he asked the caregiver on duty if she would give him an application form in order that a family member might apply for a flatlet. The woman took her time rifling through various filing cabinets, and having found the form she made a performance of folding it in half and inserting the form into an official-looking brown envelope. He silently urged her to hurry up, for the last thing he needed was for Baron to wander downstairs and discover his presence and start to ask him about his father. A quick in and out was all he wanted, and when the caregiver finally handed over the envelope he was already on his feet and pointedly glancing at his watch. ‘Thanks,’ he said. The woman asked him if there was anything else she could do, or maybe he would like a tour of the facility but, looking again at his watch, he politely declined her offer and moved quickly out of her carpeted office and into the hallway. His eyes fell upon the bamboo-framed poster which read, ‘Have a Positive Encounter With Yourself’. The eager woman followed him out of her office and for a moment he was tempted to say something to her about the crassness of the slogan, but he could see the enthusiastic gleam in her eye and so he smiled and once again thanked her for the form before hurrying his way out of the centre.
He takes the empty bowl from his father and sets it on the bedside table, and then he rearranges the pillows behind his father’s back so the patient is once again propped fully upright. As he moves to sit back on the metal chair he takes the brown envelope from his inside pocket.
‘I’m going to leave this envelope for you on the table. You can take a look at it later.’
‘Later when? You going abandon me like last night?’
‘You were asleep.’
‘I sure these people giving me something to make me sleep like a donkey. It ain’t normal.’
‘Anyhow, I’ve left it there for when you’re ready.’
‘There where?’
He had a sneaking suspicion that his father’s vision was impaired for, unless something was right in front of him, his father appeared to be having difficulty seeing objects. And now he is convinced. The envelope is just to his left, but clearly his father can no longer see anything out of his left eye. When his father next falls asleep he will have to find the nurse, or a doctor, and question them about it.
‘It’s there. On the table.’
‘What do I want with a blasted envelope? Last night I was talking to you, remember? One minute saying something to you, and the next minute you gone. You don’t want to hear what I have to say?’
‘Of course, I do.’
‘Well then listen to me instead of this damn envelope business. After I arrive in England, and the taxi drop me off at King’s Cross station, I make my way into the place and ask a white man in uniform where I can find the proper train to take me to the north of the country. He point me toward a platform, then laugh and tell me I must first buy a ticket. I thank the man, and touch the brim of my straw hat, but the man continue to laugh, but for the life of me I can’t see what the joke is. I want to ask the jackass, “Mister, what exactly it is that is amusing you?” but I just turn my head and walk off because I don’t want to put a foot wrong. Eventually I get on to the right train and pass into a small compartment full of English people who don’t pay me no mind. As the train leave London and begin to journey out into the countryside, I decide to keep my nose pressed up tight against the glass and look at the small fields, but I can’t see no pasture, just everything organised and sliced up small and neat. One other West Indian man is in the compartment with me, crouching down beneath his sharp hat and pretending to read the English newspaper and fit in with everybody, but he don’t fool me because I can see the man’s reflection in the window and he falling asleep. I have to look twice at him, because to begin with I think the man favour Leona’s husband and I wonder if maybe the fellar is family to the Williamses, but I sure somebody would have tell me if Leona have people in England so I just study the resemblance and let it go at that. The English people in the carriage all reading their newspapers for true, and smoking, and it seem to me that they trying hard to ignore the pair of us, although an English man in a grey suit sitting opposite keep raising up his eyes to look across but I just stare out of the window and make sure that my feet don’t touch up against his own in the little space that we have to share. Sometimes the train leave the countryside and pass into a town where I can see the buildings all close together, and everywhere chimneys pointing toward the sky with smoke coming out so at first I thinking they must be factories but it don’t make no sense because I sure they don’t boil so much sugar in England. However, I soon realise that these places is houses where English people live, and even from the train I see that the English like to walk fast and these people don’t trouble to look up at each other and smile or something like that, and the man must have been watching me all this time because without any warning he fold up his newspaper with a big noise and lean forward and offer me a cigarette in a way that make it clear that he is hoping to take part in some kind of conversation. I accept the man’s cigarette and I watch him take hold of his umbrella, which is balanced upright between his knees, and the man stand up and place it on the overhead rack before opening up his briefcase and he reach in and pull out a package. The man close up the briefcase and place it on the seat, then he hold open the compartment door and I realise that it is expected of me to pass out into the corridor with him to smoke the cigarette. I stand and edge my way past the other passengers and the man follow me and slide the door closed after himself. At first the man don’t say a thing, and he don’t even light my cigarette, he just open up the package of greaseproof paper and offer me a sandwich. “Tuna paste” is all the man say, so I take one because I know that it is rude not to do so, and I bite into it and the man does the same with his own sandwich. “Somewhat crowded in there,” he say. “Just arrived, have you?” I nod at him, but my mouth is too full to answer so the man just continue. “Student?” This time I shake my head and wait a moment before telling him that I will be looking a job. “I have a friend who say he is going to help me.” The man seem to approve and he nod his head. “Well, the weather’s not too good at the moment, but if you can cope with this then I imagine you can do well here.” The man finish off his sandwich and then he light his cigarette before lighting my own. I try to look cool, and I take a long hard pull, like in the cinema, but my head start to feel strange and I explode in a fit of coughing that only manage to embarrass the hell out of me. “You can throw it out if it’s not to your liking. I won’t be offended.” The man hold open a small window at the top of the glass and I quickly drop the cigarette down on to the track. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not used to the English cigarette.” The man don’t give me any time to say anything else and he start to pat me on the back. “Are you, in fact, used to any cigarette? You see, in this country you don’t have to pretend. Just be yourself and I’m sure you’ll do very well here. Can I get you some water?” I look closely at the man and I shake my head, but he just smile at me. “Do you have a wife or a girlfriend?” Again I shake my head. “I imagine you’ll be quite popular with some of our girls, but a word of advice. Don’t be getting too saucy. Some of you boys do take liberties and it does stir up bad feelings. I mean, there’s no reason for you to be giving white girls babies, is there? Or tapping them on the shoulder at ‘Excuse me’ dances. I fought for two years in the jungles of Malaya alongside you chaps. If you’re good enough to fight and die with us then you’re good enough to live on my street. Same with the Jews and the Irish. Everybody’s the same in my book. Come along, there’s a good chap. Let’s get back inside and out of this nasty draught.” Once we pass back into the compartment I close my eyes and try to sleep, but the noise of the engine, and my worries about whether I going find Ralph, mean that my mind can’t turn off. The train arrives with a big carnival of shouting and whistling and I open my eyes and blink against the bright light. The man opposite me is standing and holding his briefcase in one hand, and his rolled-up umbrella is tucked underneath his arm, and the man reach out with his free hand. “Take this loose change, please. If you have any difficulty using the telephone system then you can always request that the charges be reversed and that way you won’t have to pay. However, if you remember my instructions then you should be fine. I do hope that you locate your friend.” I take the man’s change for this is the quickest way to get rid of him, and I watch the man disappear into the corridor. I wait and let the others go before me, including the West Indian fellar who decide to keep quiet throughout the whole journey, and I am the last to leave the compartment. When I find a telephone box I follow the man’s instructions and dial the number slowly and I’m waiting. I hear an English woman ask me, “Hello, can I help you?” and I panic because I’m expecting to hear Ralph’s voice and I sure that I must have call the wrong number. “Excuse me please, but I’m looking for Mr Ralph Henry.” There is a brief pause and then I hear the woman make a big sigh as though she annoyed. “Who is it that I should say is looking for him?” I tell the woman to let him know that it’s Earl, and that I just arrive, but having discover who I am the woman decide to tell me that Ralph is not “at home” but I can find him at the Red Lion pub, but of course I don’t know where to find this pub. She ask me, “Are you at the train station?” However, before I can answer the woman say that I should take a taxi and tell the driver that I need to go Randolph Lane and he will know exactly where to carry me. “If Ralph’s not there then you can call me back, but you’ll find him at the pub, I’m sure of it.” I watch the taxi driver hard, trying to make sure the man is driving in just one direction and not seeking to rob me by making circles. However, outside is dark, and I don’t know these streets, and so I have to trust him. Eventually he turn into a narrow road that have more of these joined-up houses crammed together on both sides of the street, and then it start to rain and the man switch on the window wipers and I see him look at me through the rear-view mirror. “It’s just up here on the right, mate.” Having parked the car, the man turn round in his seat and he look at me. “Let’s call it two bob.” I hand the man half a crown and wait for my change. “Are you not planning on getting out? You can make it in there without getting wet