Bone China (31 page)

Christopher didn’t ring until much later.

‘Meeka looks very much like Mummy, men,’ he said, awkwardly.

He spoke first to his father and then to Frieda. But when he heard Frieda’s voice he had begun to cry. He had cried and cried for so long that she began to worry about the cost of the call. Then Frieda asked him something she had vowed never to ask any of them.

‘Please come home one day,’ she asked. ‘When this war is over, come home.’

And Christopher had cried, wretchedly, ‘I will, I will.’

After the phone call, Aloysius went to bed. He was beyond speech and his eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion. Frieda gave him something to help him sleep. He had been drinking all day and she was worried about him. She closed up the house and moved some of the flowers into the hall where it was cooler.
Glancing around, she caught sight of Jasper’s old perch. It stood motionless against the skylight. No one had thought of removing it in all these years. Hesitating a moment, she went into her mother’s study. Everything was as usual. Her diaries were stacked on shelves; photographs lined the walls, Thornton’s published poems, Alicia’s press cuttings, books and papers. Grace’s glasses lay uselessly on her desk. Through a blur Frieda saw her mother’s inner life spread out as though she might return to it in a moment. Grief struck her forcefully, sending her hurrying out to pour herself a glass of whisky, the first in her life. Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow was time enough to start going through her mother’s papers.

Distance distorted their grief. Thornton placed his sorrows out of sight, pressed like flowers within a book. Meeka, racing through her scales with impatience, reminded him of all that was best in his misspent youth. He had begun to understand that Grace would be with him forever. She was a collection of perfect things in his imperfect life. He closed his mind and refused to speak of any of it. He had almost forgotten he was to meet Hildegard. Cutting three roses, telling Savitha he was visiting Alicia, he left the house.

Summer was almost over. It was an unremarkable day of the palest blue, with a touch of autumn in the air. Catching sight of his reflection in the tube, he saw a man reaching early middle age carrying roses. How strange it was, he reflected sadly, to be travelling across London clutching yellow roses on his way to meet Hildegard after all these years. He could not remember the last time he had carried flowers for anyone. Idly, he wondered what she was like. They had corresponded a little since that first letter and he had told her of Grace’s death. There was, he felt, a certain reluctance on his part to put too much down on
paper, in case it might be misconstrued. Better to say whatever they wanted when they were face to face.

The train lurched and rattled, emptied of almost all its passengers, carrying Thornton with his reflections and his roses and all the uncertainties working in him as though he was a young man again and his mother in the house in Station Road waited for him to come home.

He did not see her. He was too deep in his melancholia, lost somewhere in the scent of the flowers that rested beside his cup of tea. The station café was a transient place of unhappiness and filth. Platform announcements cross-hatched his thoughts. The tea was watery. It smelt of detergent. Thornton sat as though he were resting after a great journey. Exhausted. Nearby sat an old, very large woman with thinning grey hair. A tramp. She coughed once or twice raspingly and Thornton glanced up only to look away again. The waiter began to sweep away the rubbish under the tables. A train rattled past, the café filled and emptied of people. Thornton sighed, staring into space.

Just like a ghost couple, thought Hildegard, sadly. Here, then, was her heart’s desire, while she was changed beyond recognition.

‘Look!’ she tried to say. ‘It’s
me
, Hildegard. Can’t you see?’

He could not see. Hildegard sat, stunned, her throat constricted. Like quicksilver, like the music his sister made, her passion had always run too fast. I was always out of step, she thought with despair, willing him to look at her again and see the woman he had once loved. Wanting him to recognise her. And even then, she thought, although my body was lithe and supple, and I could dance with the best of them, outdance him even, although I was pretty and golden-haired and Uncle Innocent loved me at first sight, it was never any use. I could never be one of them.

After a while, having looked at his watch several times, when the tea was cold and undrinkable, and the sound of rain on the high wrought-iron roof rattled like a thousand grains of rice, Thornton grew increasingly restless. Meeka was having a private lesson in physics at six o’clock and he wanted to be back to check she didn’t miss it. Savitha, who took a dim view of the lessons, would not fuss if Meeka stayed at her friend’s house. Where was Hildegard? he wondered, irritated. She might have rung him at work if she had changed her mind. Pushing his half-drunk tea away in distaste, he rose.

Well, he thought, frowning, glancing at his watch again, I at least have kept the appointment.

He had wanted to make his peace with her; he had been willing to talk. But she had changed her mind obviously. Enough, he had waited long enough. Pushing the flowers into the rubbish bin he strode hurriedly away.

Robert Grant stared at the ceiling. A thread of light from the street lamp moulded itself against the cornices, sharply defined in the darkness. A slight breeze moved the curtain and the thin line changed and swelled. It was raining again. The leaves were singed with brown. Autumn was on the march. With the children back at school he would be able to spend more time at work. Sylvie would busy herself waiting patiently until he finished work and came home. Now you can relax, supper will be ready in a minute, she would say, turning the side lamps on in the large drawing room, humming to herself as she moved plates and glasses about, lifting the casserole out of the Aga, pleased he was back. Sylvie asked so little. And here he was betraying her in this old-fashioned way.

Beside him Alicia slept. Soundlessly, hardly stirring, limbs curled towards him, dark hair covering her face. If he moved
his head and lifted it slightly towards her, took in the faint perfume of her long hair and listened, he could hear her even breathing, could see her small body rising and falling underneath the covers. Robert stared at the line of light across the ceiling. Every night this is what he saw.

Every night, he thought wryly. Every night! If only it was. He loved her. It was the simplest feeling in the world, and yet unbearable. He would have thrown everything away for her. Every last thing he had worked for, his children, his work, everything he possessed was a pale shadow beside Alicia. Had he loved her all those years ago, when he had first heard her play the piano at the Governor’s house? Since meeting her again the constant restlessness that had dogged his life had gone.

It seemed such a short while ago that he had taken his leave of her in Sri Lanka, dodging the monsoon, laughing as he went, putting the de Silvas out of his life. The trees in their garden had been strung with coloured lights in preparation for the wedding. He had been vaguely aware of Grace’s watchful eyes and he had told himself firmly that he was glad to be sailing away. He had not dared to think of what might have been had Alicia met him first. And now, there was no one he could ask, no one he could share this love with.

She did not want it. She took from it only the barest crumb. There is nothing of me left, she had said candidly, lifting her small face towards him. Not wishing to deceive him, not once, not even for a moment. Such was her honesty. He had only himself to blame. He glanced at her as she slept. Though no longer young, her skin was silky to the touch, glowing against the whiteness of his hand.

Anyone who knew him would have thought him crazy. Risking all he had, not thinking about his children, his reputation? If the papers got hold of the story it would be the end
of his career. Caught by his conflicting desires, his thoughts circled round and round his head, like the endless wheels of a train, the street lamps kept on shining, and his heart kept on beating and Alicia went on sleeping, while the thread of light on the cornice marked the hours and the minutes ticking relentlessly towards the dawn.

N
O ONE HAD SEEN IT COMING
. In one stroke, all that had been established lay shattered at their feet. They would never find it again. Time moved slowly for the de Silvas. Their last great realisation had shocked them. Life would not be what they had dreamed. Since his mother’s death, since his failed attempt to meet Hildegard, Thornton had withdrawn quietly. Savitha watched him tending the garden. She served him hot rice in his mother’s tureens, gave him cups of tea in her bone china, but there was nothing else she could do. She could see what she had always suspected: without their mother’s influence the de Silva family was disintegrating. In spite of a drunken husband, in spite of the war, Grace had kept them together, while she, Savitha, could not even control her daughter. One end-of-summer evening, soon after the funeral, while Thornton cut the grass, Savitha sat at the kitchen table and began writing a letter to Frieda. All letters home were now written entirely by Savitha; Thornton simply sent his love.

He’s all right,
Savitha wrote, knowing Frieda worried about her brother.
We talk less but I expect that would have happened
anyway. When you have been married for as long as we have, silence hardly matters. I know what he’s thinking, anyway! You mustn’t worry. Of course your mother’s death was a shock, but living here has made him strong. I’ve been having dreams about the day we left Sri Lanka. You have no idea how frightened we were that morning when we said goodbye. Everything frightened us then, leaving you was terrible of course but the huge ship frightened us and the sea was so enormous. I thought we would drown. We were terrified! So we talked more. We are no longer like that, we are resilient. We have lost something else. Perhaps it’s our innocence
.

She paused, not knowing how to go on. Not knowing how much Frieda would understand. It had taken the garden party to mark their dislocation.
You see, Frieda
, she continued, struggling to explain herself simply,
I have discovered that being part of an empire means you lose your individual and collective identity
.

Savitha stared at what she had written. Frieda would think her mad. Meeka had begun to play the piano. It was something she had been tinkering with for days. Recognising it, Savitha raised her head absent-mindedly and listened. The music travelled under the closed doors, reminding her of something familiar yet elusive. It drifted softly across the house, very sweetly and melodiously. Meeka played a chord and then a series of arpeggio. Her hands ran across the keys, pausing and the music changed texture, its modulation rising slowly. Savitha held her breath without understanding why. Thornton, pausing as he cut some roses, heard it faintly and hummed absent-mindedly. The piano needs tuning, he thought. Frowning, Savitha went back to her letter.

We no longer know who we are, or what we want. Our sight is impaired and our anger too great
.

She sighed. What was the point? Frieda would not see beyond her grief and the civil war that had taken her family away. With Grace gone there was no one else Savitha could speak of such things to. But she did mention Christopher. She had begun to understand Christopher better, she told Frieda.

He saw what the war would do long before anyone else. How it would destroy everything of value and wrench us apart. It has taken too many people away, dispersing the richness in the place, robbing it of its talent. Christopher saw that. And because he can’t do anything, because he is a man, he drinks to forget this betrayal
.

We are from the same place after all, she decided, pausing, thinking about Christopher, remembering Sunil, the other person who had tried to do the impossible alone. The piano music had changed into a minor key.

Things will only change slowly
, she continued, hoping Frieda would understand,
and probably not in our lifetime. Fairer societies do not come overnight
.

‘Is that Frieda you’re writing to?’ asked Thornton, coming in with some vegetables from his plot. He went over to the sink and turned on the tap. The scent of newly cut grass wafted in through the kitchen door.

‘Close the door,’ said Savitha. ‘It’s getting cold.’ Autumn was heading towards winter.

‘Send my love, will you?’ Thornton said. ‘Say I’ll write as soon as I can.’

His face was silhouetted against the fading light. He looks tired, she thought. His mouth was stern, disapproving. Pity clutched at Savitha’s heart. She saw clearly what Grace had always known. I have come all the way from the orphanage in Dondra to this place, she thought, but I am so much stronger than he is. Sighing, she added Thornton’s love and sealed her letter. Then she stood up. It was time to cook the evening meal.
The piano music was reaching its end. For the moment, the green of the island retreated from Savitha’s mind and instead the twilight of the late evening was filled with the tender sound of swallows.

It had started with her clearing Grace’s room. Tidying up the papers, putting them in order. There were still letters to be answered. For a long time Frieda had been reluctant to do anything. Every time she went into her mother’s room she simply cried. She was too apathetic to care. In this way eighteen months passed before she could face it. Then, one afternoon when Aloysius went for his walk to the hotel and she was a little stronger, she forced herself to begin sorting out Grace’s things. Aloysius would not look at them. He was very frail now but he remained stubborn on the subject. Frieda let him do as he pleased, staying out even when she felt it was not safe, and drinking. It was all that was left and she had not the heart to stop him. She had given up worrying about the curfew and the bombs. They were part of daily life.

It was while she was sorting out the photographs, making them into piles, some for Thornton, some for Alicia, others for Jacob, that she found the photograph. Sitting back on her heels, Frieda glanced at it. She did not recognise the tall, slight man in the sarong. A few, yellowed jasmine flowers fell out of the envelope along with it. Idly she turned the photograph over.

My dearest love, Vijay
, Grace had written.
October 8, 1950
.

Frieda looked at the picture, puzzled. Vijay? She did not know anyone called Vijay. She put the photograph aside, meaning to ask her father when he came in, but then something made her reach for Grace’s diary. What had they been doing in October 1950?

Today is June 23
, Grace had written.
Three years and one day
since Vijay died and I have been unable to write until now. A thousand days and nights have passed since that terrible night. Somehow I lived through all of them. Smiling on Alicia’s wedding day. Dealing with the family, Thornton’s crazy marriage. It’s a small miracle that I managed to survive. Through the skin of my teeth and in spite of Myrtle’s inquisitive stare, I have survived.

Frieda read swiftly.

Only two of them know what I have been going through. Christopher and Aloysius. Who would have thought it possible, that my drunken husband, the man who wasted my money, who gambled away my home, should have kept me sane through these terrible days! Even though I have betrayed him with another man.

Frieda gasped. In an instant her world seemed to have turned upside down.

Nothing will bring Vijay back, nothing can change the past and yet, in spite of everything he knows, Aloysius does not judge me. How can this be? All he wants, he tells me, over and over again, is that I can be happy again. Poor Aloysius. I never knew how much he loves me. I will never leave him, never, never. We have both suffered enough.

The sound of her father returning made Frieda jump. Shutting the diary, she hid it quickly. The palms of her hands were sweating and she was breathing rapidly. It was the servant’s day off and Aloysius would want a cup of tea.

Later on, after they had finished their evening meal, she read to Aloysius from
A Tale of Two Cities
. But all the time she was distracted by the words she had read about a man whose existence she had not known of until this afternoon.
My mother?
she thought incredulously. The past rolled like thunder. She sensed a passion she had never experienced in her own life. I always lagged behind, she thought, behind Alicia, behind Thornton, behind all of them. Life has passed me by. There had
been the business of Robert Grant but she could no longer even remember his face. She was impatient to get back to the diary.

Aloysius had had enough of Dickens. Frieda switched on the radio so he could catch the evening news. The Sinhalese newsreader warned the fighting was very bad in the Batticaloa area. The Tamils were bearing the brunt, being stopped suddenly and hauled away at roadblocks, never to be seen again. The sky had begun to darken; the evening was over.

‘Look,’ Aloysius said, with pleasure. ‘Your mother’s jasmine bush is opening its flowers. She must be thinking of us!’

The air was fragrant with perfume as Frieda stared out into the garden, seeing it with her mother’s eyes. Her mother as she had never known her. A sentence repeated itself in Frieda’s head.

Until everyone can have the same opportunities
, Grace had written,
until we stop this cruel caste system, until everyone is given the same chances, my dearest Vijay will have died in vain.

Tomorrow, Frieda decided, I will go to the orphanage and offer my help. I will see what I can do to give some Tamil child another chance.

Anna-Meeka failed her physics, her maths and her chemistry A levels. Biology was a borderline pass.

Her father, sounding like a reversing lorry, shouted, ‘Retake! Retake!’

But in the end even Thornton could see it was useless. Anna-Meeka did not have the makings of a doctor. Savitha, watching her daughter slowly turn into a bad-tempered beauty, was at a loss as to what they might do for the best.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she conceded reluctantly. ‘We should think about introducing her to someone from Sri Lanka.’

It was Saturday afternoon and as usual Meeka had gone to
her friend Gillian’s house. She was meant to be revising for the retakes. Thornton gave the grass its last cut for the year and came in for his cup of tea.

‘I can’t do any work,’ he said, abruptly. ‘I’m too upset by her results. After all our hard work, after the struggle we had to get to this country, she’s ended her schooling with no career. She won’t become a doctor now, men.’

He sat at the kitchen table, defeated. Savitha said nothing. She too was upset, but for different reasons. Anna-Meeka’s wanton behaviour was what confused her.

‘How’s she going to manage when we die?’ Thornton asked belligerently. He waggled his finger at Savitha. ‘She has no brothers, no sisters. She can’t go back home. So who will look after her? At least if she had become a doctor she could have got a job anywhere in the world.’

Savitha closed her eyes. She was tired of listening to Thornton and worrying about their daughter.

‘Well, you’re not a doctor and we managed,’ she ventured. ‘I told you, you should have let her do her music. Maybe she could have become a music teacher.’

Thornton snorted. ‘How much money d’you think she’ll make as a music teacher, for God’s sake?’

‘Stop shouting, she’ll be back in a minute.’

If Anna-Meeka were to hear them there would be another one of their eternal arguments. Savitha was sick of them. Gone were the days when they could tell Meeka what to do. Gone was that sweet smile. These days Meeka was eager to pick them up on more or less anything they said.

‘She has no respect,’ Thornton fumed. ‘In Sri Lanka, girls have respect for their elders.’

What d’you know about the girls in Sri Lanka? thought Savitha, wearily. But she didn’t say this. Nor did she tell him
that only the other day she had noticed Ranjith Pieris staring at Meeka a little more intently than he needed to.

Meanwhile, the subject of their concern was standing on the corner of the street talking to a group of teenagers from school. She was carrying a pile of books.

‘Where’s you been, Meeka?’ one of them asked her.

‘None of your business,’ said Meeka, tossing her long mane of hair and laughing. ‘I’ve been revising for my retakes.’

The group gave a disbelieving guffaw. ‘That’s what you tell your parents, Meeka, not us!’

Meeka smiled demurely. ‘Must go,’ she said, ‘talking of parents! I’m late and they’ll kill me.’

‘Oy, Meeka, what’s that on your neck? You got a love bite, or ’ave you been bit by a snake?’

Anna-Meeka, ignoring them, was running towards her house. Her father was sitting drinking his tea. He looked nervous and her mother looked cross. She guessed they had been having an argument. She took a deep breath. There was simply no easy way to do this.

‘I’ve got a job,’ she said, bending her head low for the shrapnel which would soon be whizzing around the small kitchen. ‘It’s at the hairdresser’s. They’re going to train me while I work. Then when I’m older I can set up a salon. So you don’t have to worry about my future any more.’

She had expected disapproval, but to her surprise Thornton had looked merely crushed, and although her mother had glared at her and folded her lips, she too had said very little. This silent disapproval had been unnerving but the relief of leaving school was so great she didn’t care. She had given up trying to please her parents. When she was not learning how to cut or shampoo hair, she spent her time daydreaming. Music
continued to fill her head. The sounds followed her everywhere, faint echoes that haunted her waking moments and sometimes also her sleep. She listened to Elgar and to Vaughan Williams and she listened to Benjamin Britten’s
Curlew River
until she knew it by heart. She spent all her money on cassette tapes which she listened to on a pair of headphones. It made it impossible to hear her parents’ complaints.

One evening, on her way home from work, she bumped into Philippa Davidson. Why did she have to meet her when she smelt of shampoo and hairspray, looking her worst with nothing to say? Oddly enough Philippa did not seem to notice. She appeared really friendly. Meeka listened curiously as Philippa Davidson told her she was going to university. Of course, thought Meeka a trifle sourly. Clever, sorted-out Philippa was going to read English at Oxford. Meeka could not think of anything to say in response, but Philippa, hardly noticing, promised she would not lose touch.