Bone China (29 page)

‘She seemed diminished,’ Ranjith told Robert Grant later that evening. He had arrived at the Grants’ country home in Canfield by train after saying goodbye to Alicia. Dinner had been served in the elegant candlelit dining room, for Robert now lived in grand style, although traces of the boyish youth still remained, nurtured by his wife, Sylvie, even as he rose up the political ladder. During the week he stayed at a flat in London, working, dining afterwards at the Athenaeum Club, rarely coming home.
Tonight, however, was an exception. Tonight he was home in honour of Ranjith, the new Undersecretary of State for the Sri Lankan government.

‘Tinpot Undersecretary!’ Robert had greeted Ranjith teasingly. He was fond of Ranjith, having spent some happy times in Sri Lanka with him when he was not with the de Silva family.

‘I had no idea any of them were here,’ he said as they paused over the port and the golden bowl of summer fruit. ‘Why on earth didn’t they contact me?’

Ranjith shrugged. How to explain the fierce pride of the island’s elite, their sense of loss since war broke out?

‘You must understand, Robert, Sri Lankans are complex. You fellows on the outside see Sri Lanka as an appendage of India, but you know, it has a legal code introduced by the Dutch. And then of course it had the British.’ He sighed. ‘Two thousand years of Buddhism interfered with, gone wrong. God, what a mess! There’s a lot of despair among the old, wealthy Tamils. Shame too, over the way things went when the British left.’ He paused, searching for the right words. ‘The personal tragedies of the de Silvas are mirrored all over the island, you know,’ he said, at last. ‘There’s been a huge loss of dignity, a sense of alienation. Everyone there is depressed to a greater or lesser degree. It wouldn’t have occurred to any of them to look you up. They were too busy surviving.’

The telephone rang and Sylvie went to answer it. Robert poured more port into Ranjith’s glass.

‘Is anybody taking care of Alicia?’ he asked.

Ranjith looked at him sharply. Sometimes Robert had no imagination.

‘She has everything except the one thing she can never have again, Robert.’

Robert was silent. He remembered how beautiful he had thought her.

‘Schubert,’ he murmured. ‘I remember her playing Schubert.’

‘Yes.’

‘One of the sonatas? Which was it?’

‘She was very talented,’ Ranjith said.

They were both silent.

‘What about the other sister, what was her name?’

‘Frieda? Oh, Frieda’s wonderful,’ said Ranjith warmly.

‘Ah yes. Frieda. I remember!’ Robert smiled. ‘I met her first, did you know?’ He would like to meet them all again. ‘And Thornton, beautiful, charming Thornton. I can’t imagine him with a daughter!’

Ranjith laughed. Neither could he.

‘Look, I’d like to see them again,’ Robert said. ‘Can you organise something?’ He thought for a moment.

‘The garden parties will be starting up soon. Your embassy people will be invited, I expect. Why don’t you bring the de Silvas? Come to supper afterwards. Sylvie would love to arrange it, wouldn’t you?’ he said, turning to his wife who had walked back in.

‘Yes, of course,’ agreed Sylvie. She was happy for Robert to indulge in a little flash of nostalgia. Theirs was a marriage of great good sense.

So it was decided. Those de Silvas who wished it would come as Ranjith’s guests. Which was how Alicia, Christopher, Jacob, Thornton and their families received invitations to attend a garden party at Buckingham Palace.

‘G
ARDEN PARTY?’ ASKED
G
ERALDINE, PAUSING AS
she strapped the twins into their pushchair. ‘To be sure, I’ll not be going to any garden party.’ She snorted. ‘The very idea of it! What in the world are you thinking of, Jacko?’

She had been unable to find any smart clothes to fit her since the twins were born and they were three now. Besides, why should she have anything to do with that stuck-up bloody de Silva family?

‘Not your little brother Thornton of course,’ she added dimpling. ‘Ah sure, he’s sweet. And not Christopher, he’s just like a naughty boy.’ No, it was Savitha she could not stand. ‘Little bitch,’ she said richly. And the daughter was no better.

‘Stuck-up cow. With her “
music
”!’ said Geraldine. ‘I know the girl hates m’darling boys.’

So, no, Geraldine was not going to any feckin’ garden party.

‘Good!’ said Savitha satisfied. ‘Then I’ll go.’

It would be a chance for her to see how the rich lived. She wasn’t clear whether she meant Ranjith and those from the
embassy, or the British aristocracy. She asked her boss for time off.

‘We’re going to a garden party at Buckingham Palace,’ she said, as though taking time off for the dentist.

Her boss, that delightfully old-fashioned Mr Wilson, bowed low and called her Lady Savitha.

‘You’re all damn hypocrites, men,’ Christopher sneered. ‘Of course I’m not going. Who d’you think I am? That idiot Ranjith
knows
I’m a Marxist, a man for the underdog, a man of the people. Anyway,’ he continued loudly, ‘as it so happens I shall be selling the
Socialist Worker
in Trafalgar Square on that afternoon.’ He grinned at Thornton’s surprised look. ‘No, men, the short answer is I’m not going. You couldn’t lend me ten pounds, could you? I’ll pay you back next week?’

‘All right, if I must,’ said Alicia, reluctantly.

‘Oh no,’ said Meeka in despair, ‘what on earth shall I wear?’

It was all very well for Thornton; he just went down to Burton’s and pointed. Then he came home again and had a shower. With his looks, all he needed was a shower.

‘Who’s paying for all this?’ asked Savitha, whose own wardrobe was proving problematic.

Every time she decided on something to wear she was met with shrieks of horror from Anna-Meeka. Really, they’re both a pain, thought Savitha, groaning inwardly. What was
wrong
with a yellow sari, red jacket and a yellow cardigan? Was she meant to freeze? Did the Queen freeze? No, of course not. Neither would Savitha then. What was wrong with this family?

‘I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t been so eager to go,’ she said out loud.

But what could she do now? Everyone at work knew. They wanted a daily progress report on the state of her wardrobe.
Her nickname, Lady Savitha, seemed to have stuck. Secretly she was enjoying all the attention.

Meeka began sorting her clothes out. There was her long patchwork skirt, her skimpy cheesecloth shirt and a fringed shawl. Thornton’s eyes bulged at the sight.

‘Are you planning on seeing the Queen dressed like that? Are you planning on completely disgracing your father then?’

Savitha waited until he had finished shouting. Then she spoke, quietly.

‘You’re wearing a sari,’ she declared. ‘It is time to begin wearing your national dress. You’re a Sri Lankan girl and you’re old enough now. What better occasion than this? We’ll go to Soho to choose one.’

She spoke firmly. Meeka opened her mouth to protest but no protest emerged. It seemed she knew when she was beaten. Thornton looked at his wife with amazement. She had turned her lips into a folded paper bag again.

Ranjith sent them personal invitations. Included were two stickers with large yellow crosses on them, to be placed on the windscreen (both front and back) of the car. It would allow them through the traffic lights at Trafalgar Square, and through Admiralty Arch, and on into Birdcage Walk. Meeka stared at the stickers.

‘Where’s the car?’ she asked, aghast.

‘Where’s your bloody CD number plate, men?’ laughed Christopher, when he was told.

Thank God
he’s
not coming, thought Thornton distastefully. But there was still the matter of the car. Meeka in wild despair (they simply
must
go now, how was she to face her friends if they didn’t?) suggested her father learn to drive.

‘Don’t be foolish, child,’ said Thornton forgetting himself. He was already under too much pressure from Savitha.

Geraldine, taking the twins to playgroup, hearing of the latest crisis, was glad
she
wasn’t going. The zip from the last pair of jeans she would ever wear had finally given up the ghost and broken today.

‘It’s the end of an era,’ Geraldine told the boys with a flourish of her hand. Tomorrow she and Jacko would be signing a contract for the lease on a newsagent’s shop along the Finchley Road. One door closes, another opens, she sighed throwing her jeans away. What did she need a garden party for? She would be stocking her shop with important things like Andrex while the rest of the de Silvas were wasting their money on a stupid fantasy.

In the end Thornton resolved the problem by walking into the taxi rank along the Brixton Road and ordering a taxi for the great day.

‘Where to, mate?’ asked the man in the office.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Thornton, confused.

‘Where to? Where do you want the cab to take you?’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Thornton, relieved. ‘Buckingham Palace please.’

‘Did you ’ear that, Steve? This coloured bloke who’s just came in ordered a cab for next Thursday to take ’im to Buckingham Palace!’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes,’ said Thornton, looking worried.

‘Perhaps ’e’s going to see the Queen, Bill. Charge ’im double!’

The de Silvas handed their invitations to the footman.

‘Dr and Mrs de Silva, and Miss de Silva,’ announced the footman. ‘Mrs Alicia Pereira.’

Thornton was thrilled. He did not show it but he was. The footman had called him
Doctor
. He walked along the red carpet looking down at his feet, veiling the pleasure in his eyes.

‘Where are you going?’ hissed Savitha, pulling at his arm as he veered slightly off to the left.

‘Dad!’ said Meeka, and she giggled. ‘Now you’re a doctor I don’t have to become one!’

Savitha’s lips twitched.

Outside a small group of musicians were playing something she recognised. Meeka began tapping her foot. She felt uncomfortable in her sari; it threatened to unravel at any minute, all six yards of it. Serve her mother right if it did. What a fright she must look. Even Uncle Christopher had given her a funny look. Luckily none of her friends had seen her. There had been another almighty struggle this morning over her mother’s cardigan. Meeka had ranted and raved.

‘Like mother, like daughter,’ Thornton had complained, wearily.

Glancing at him, Savitha noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the back of his collar.

‘Go and check your father,’ she whispered urgently to Meeka. ‘I think he’s got the label hanging from his collar! Quickly, Meeka, go, before anyone sees him!’

Anna-Meeka went over to where her father stood gazing at the lawns that sloped down to the water. She tried to walk like her mother and her auntie Alicia, without tripping up.

It was in this way that Ranjith Pieris first saw them. Father and daughter, arm in arm beside the lake in the grounds of Buckingham Palace. Meeka, her head thrown back, laughing at Thornton for wearing a price tag when he went to see the Queen. All around them was the gentle murmur, the subdued hum of voices. A pair of swans flew smoothly overhead. Women in pastel silks, the ribbons on their hats fluttering gently, stood tall as beanpoles. Men in morning dress, their laughter deep-throated and benign, balanced delicate cups of tea and plates
of tiny cucumber sandwiches or bowls of strawberries and cream. Music played.

‘So, Thornton,’ said Ranjith, coming up unnoticed, placing a hand lightly on his old friend’s shoulder, ‘we meet again. After how long? Now tell me, who’s this beautiful woman you are with?’

Meeka grinned. She looked around for her mother but her mother was staring at her cup of tea. Savitha turned the saucer over and peered at it and then she held it up to the light.

‘Look at Mum!’ Meeka said suddenly, tugging at her father’s arm. ‘Any minute she’ll turn the cup over and the tea will spill all down her sari!’

Thornton frowned, ignoring her.

‘Chi, Ranjith!’ he said.

And he smiled his old smile, reminding Alicia of those distant days. The music changed tempo. Visitors queued in the marquees for another cup of delicious Fortnum & Mason’s tea.

Crown Rule! thought Savitha, looking at the royal crest. Somehow the thought had lost its sting in the face of so much elegance. Grace had sold a dinner service with the de Silva crest on it to pay for Alicia’s passage to England.

‘This is my daughter, Ranjith,’ said Thornton, barely managing to keep the pride out of his voice. ‘Meeka, this is an old friend of our family.’

Meeka looked at the man. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said giggling, ‘but I think my bloody sari is about to fall off!’

‘Chi!’ said Thornton, annoyed, losing his feeling of pride. And forgetting for a moment where he was, he glared at Meeka. Why did the child have to
say
such things? He looked around for Savitha to take her off his hands, hissing at her, but Savitha, deep in a blissful dream, was ignoring him. Ranjith Pieris was entranced. He could not take his eyes off Anna-Meeka.

‘Goodness me,’ he said admiringly, ‘she’s a younger version of Grace!’

Thornton took a deep breath. He wanted to tell Ranjith that having a daughter was not an easy business. No one, he wanted to say, not even Savitha, understood the things that could go wrong.

‘I’m starving,’ said Meeka, interrupting his complaints and smiling his smile. ‘I’m going to get a sandwich, with Auntie Alicia.’ Picking up her sari with the unconscious elegance of many generations, she walked away.

‘Yes,’ Ranjith agreed watching her go, puzzled by Thornton’s new capacity to worry. ‘Of course there’ll be problems, but still, what an extraordinary thing it is, to see your mother, in such an unexpected place!’

He laughed with sudden joy at the thought of Grace here in the grounds of this quintessentially English garden, with its skylarks, its delicate flowers and its understated beauty.

She’s lovely, thought Robert Grant, and no, Ranjith was wrong, Alicia was not diminished at all, just a little lost, and
still
so lovely. Feeling his heart constrict with pity, he went towards her. She was standing with her niece and for a split second Robert was taken aback. Turning, Alicia saw his mistake and she too smiled.

‘Yes,’ she greeted him, before he could speak, ‘she looks like Mummy, doesn’t she? Meeka, this is an old friend of our family, Robert Grant. Robert, my niece.’

Meeka gave an exaggerated sigh. The place was crawling with ‘old’ family friends and she didn’t want to speak to any of them. Her aunt had been telling her about a recent concert she had been to. It had been a rare moment of connection but the old man had interrupted them. Bloody nuisance, thought Meeka, peevishly.

Savitha, watching from a safe distance, could see exactly what was going on in her daughter’s mind. She folded her lips. It was safest to keep well away. She was having a wonderful time and planned to buy some new china tomorrow. Would the woman in the arcade know where she might get some Wedgwood like this? Savitha would be quite happy with seconds provided they were papery thin. She wondered if anyone would notice if she turned her plate over again and had another look at the mark.

The afternoon wore gently on. At some point the music stopped and the sound of clapping rose in the air. It floated across the lawns, delicate as willow on leather, overlaying the distant hum of London traffic. Then, magically from nowhere, the royal party entered. Meeka watched, mesmerised. But the Queen was so small, she thought, amazed. And was that
really
Prince Philip looking exactly like his photograph? The guests with green tickets joined a privileged curtsying queue. A small Asian woman, the High Commissioner’s wife, was talking to Princess Anne.

‘She has done a lot for the Girl Guides,’ whispered Ranjith.

‘Look, the Queen Mother has a plaster on the back of her calf,’ Meeka said, delighted without quite knowing why.

‘Will you have dinner with me?’ Robert was saying to Alicia, hoping she would not refuse.

‘Yes,’ said Alicia, breathlessly.

Ranjith turned to look at Thornton’s daughter again.

But she’s beautiful, he thought with wonder. Really, he chided himself, what is wrong with me?

Everything seemed a little flat after the garden party, like a calm sea, but without the sun on it. Thornton went back to work, travelling the lift to the top of his glass tower. In a few weeks
he had agreed to meet Hildegard. They had been in contact several times by letter and had planned to meet at Liverpool Street station. There were other things on Thornton’s mind too. Ever since the garden party several people had remarked on Anna-Meeka’s appearance. Even Jacob had brought up the subject.

‘Isn’t it time the girl was introduced to a suitable young man?’ Jacob had asked. Adding caustically, ‘Before she finds something unsuitable herself’ (knowing Meeka it
would
be unsuitable), ‘bringing it into the house of her own accord?’

Thornton groaned. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ he asked. ‘She needs to pass her exams and get to medical school. I can’t think about a suitable boy just yet.’ This child of his had been nothing but trouble. ‘Why can’t she show some interest in her schoolwork? In physics and chemistry? Why is the only thing that interests her the piano?’ He was working himself up into a fury. ‘You’re good at giving advice,’ he said, bitterly. ‘Send her to private school, find her a husband. Make sure she has a career.’

‘But Thornton, the two things are not incompatible,’ Jacob told him, earnestly. ‘Women can have a career and marry, you know. Look at Geraldine, she more or less runs the shop, you know.’

Thornton had no wish to look at Geraldine. The idea of broaching the subject of a suitable boy with his daughter filled him with fear. He imagined Meeka with that big mouth of hers, hooting with laughter at the very idea. Popping a Rennie into his mouth he hurried home to see what Savitha would say.