Bone China (7 page)

And he laughed again with the sheer joy of it all, pushing his hat down over his eyes, sticking a cigarette in the side of his mouth Bogart-style, foot pressed down on the loud pedal, until he deafened them all with the vibrations. Alicia, because she was happy, assumed naturally that his happiness was due to her. Naturally, being in love, what else could she assume? But Thornton was filled with an exuberance, a secret glow that was nothing whatsoever to do with the sunshine outside, or his sister. It was a tingling feeling that made him belt out ‘As Time Goes By’ one minute, and ‘Maple Leaf Rag’ the next.

The house was almost continuously filled with activity, music pouring out of its every window. Love was in the air. Even the stifling heat of the dry season could not dispel it. Everyone was completely wrapped up with this, the first marriage in the family. The visitors’ list grew daily. Relatives from across the island, from Australia, and from as far away as Canada were coming.

‘We mustn’t forget Anslem, you know,’ said Aloysius. ‘Oh, and that fellow, what’s his name, darl, you know, the chap from the hill station?’

‘Harrison?’ asked Grace. ‘Yes. He’s on my list. What about Dr Davidson and his wife?’

‘Don’t forget the Fernandos,’ Frieda reminded her. ‘And is Mabel coming?’

‘What about Anton?’ asked Thornton. ‘I hope he’s coming.’

‘He is,’ said Grace frowning, looking at her list again, harassed.
‘Alicia, is Ranjith Pieris
definitely
Sunil’s best man? I need to know.’

‘Yes,’ shouted Alicia from another part of the house.

‘Oh good!’ said Thornton. ‘Hey, Jacob, Anton’s coming!’

‘Good,’ said Jacob, hurrying out. He was late for work.

Having sold off a piece of her land Grace prepared to throw open their doors for a party bigger and grander than anything in living memory. Bigger than Grace’s own wedding and grander than the party thrown by her father at the birth of Jacob. Grace was orchestrating the whole event, and Aloysius…Aloysius could hardly
wait
for the celebrations. A huge wedding cake was being made. As rationing was still in operation this was no easy task, but in this, at least, the bridegroom was able to help. The list of ingredients was frightening.

‘Rulang, sugar, raisins,’ said Frieda importantly, ‘sultanas, currants, candied peel, cherries, ginger preserve, chow-chow preserve, pumpkin preserve, almonds, Australian butter, brandy, rose water, bee’s honey, vanilla essence, almond essence, nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon, one hundred and fifty eggs.’

Even Myrtle was drawn in and for once joined forces with the cook to weigh, chop and mix the ingredients, while Sunil was consulted on the little matter of the eggs. His mother in Dondra was instructed to round up all the hens she could find. Sunil volunteered to fetch the eggs, returning with all one hundred and fifty, travelling on the overnight steam train that hugged the coconut-fringed coastline, lit by the light of the phosphorescent moon.

It was hot and airless in the train and several times during the night Sunil went out into the corridor where the breeze from the open window made it cooler. A huge moon stretched a path across the water. From where he stood it shone like crumpled cloth. Sunil stood watching the catamarans on the
motionless sea and the men silhouetted on their stilts, delicate nets fanning like coral around them. It was the landscape of his birth, the place he loved and had grown up with. It was part and parcel of his childhood. Now, with this sudden momentous turn of events he was leaving it all behind to begin his married life in Colombo. Soon, very soon, he would have a wife to support. And then, he thought with wonder, then, there would be children! In the darkness his face softened at the thought. He had been an only child. He could not imagine children. His and Alicia’s. He knew his mother worried about this unexpected match to a Tamil girl. She had said nothing, but he knew what was on her mind. Sunil, however, was certain. He had given his heart, and his certainty was such that nothing would go wrong, he promised her. If the United Ethnic Party came into power, as he fervently hoped, then his political ambitions and all his wishes for unity on the island would be fulfilled at last, and the vague and reckless talk of civil war would be averted. It
will
be averted, thought Sunil determinedly. One day, he had promised his mother, brushing aside her anxieties, climbing aboard the train, with his parcel of eggs, they would build a house in Dondra, at the furthest tip of land by the lighthouse, overlooking the sea. So that she might live at last surrounded by her memories, so that he and Alicia, and all their children could be frequent visitors. Peering out of the carriage window, with the sea rushing past, his thoughts ran on in this way, planning, dreaming, hoping, as the Capital Express sped along the coast, hissing and hooting plaintively into the night. The ships on the horizon looked out from the darkened sea at the delicate necklace of lights on this small blessed island, as Sunil, gazing at the moon, carried one hundred and fifty eggs back for his beloved’s wedding cake.

B
Y LATE
O
CTOBER THE HEAT IN
Colombo had become impossible. There had been no rain for months and the garden that had thrived under Grace’s care began to wilt. The air was thick and clammy and humid but still there was no sign of any rain. Every day the sky appeared a cloudless, gemstone blue, joined seamlessly to the sea. One morning, when the preparations for the wedding were fully under way, Grace decided to leave early for Colombo. These days she was always shopping in Colombo. There was Alicia’s entire trousseau to buy; there were clothes for the other children. And there were her own saris, too.

‘Start lunch without me,’ she told Frieda, as she waited for the taxi.

‘I won’t be in either, darl,’ Aloysius warned her.

He had joined a new club where he could play poker undisturbed. Grace nodded. She had seen to it that Aloysius had only a limited amount of money each month and she was happy for him to spend it as he pleased. Once this allowance was gone, she told him, firmly, there would be nothing more until the next month. Sitting in her taxi, driving across the heat-soaked
city, she dismissed him from her mind. It was Vijay who filled her thoughts. She was on her way to visit him. It had become increasingly difficult for Grace to escape, harder to find suitable excuses to leave the house. But although she was aware of an increased risk, she saw Vijay as often as she dared, seldom leaving it longer than a week. After two months of unemployment Vijay had finally got a new job as a cook in a restaurant. It meant he worked late and was only free during the mornings and although in some ways this made things easier for Grace, she missed seeing him in the evenings.

‘I’ve been longing to see you,’ she cried breathlessly, coming in quietly, noticing how cool his tiny room was. Noticing the white sheet on his makeshift bed and the spray of jasmine in water on the table. She loved this room with its pristine cleanliness and its sparse austerity. Vijay was looking at her with a tender expression that made her heart turn over.

‘I have all morning,’ she said, sounding like a young girl, feeling the luxury of her words. They had no need to rush.

Afterwards, lying side by side, she saw there were hours left. Vijay lay with one arm around her staring at a patch of light flickering on the ceiling. Grace could see fragments of them both reflected in the mirror that stood beside the door. A leg entwined with a foot, indistinguishable from a smooth hip. Joined as one. Skin to skin. Turning her face towards his, she pulled him gently away from his private reverie, her eyes dark and very beautiful so that, unable to resist her, unable to remain melancholy in the face of her certainty, he buried his face in her. And began to kiss her, slowly and methodically, inch by inch, with an urgency he had not shown before. Outside the morning sun rose higher in the sapphire sky, shortening the shadows, increasing the heat, unnoticed by them. When finally she could speak again Grace told him about a party she had
been invited to. She liked to tell him about her days and what the family did. She wanted him to know everything about her life.

‘It’s being held in the old Governor’s House,’ she said. ‘Next Saturday.’

They washed each other in water Vijay brought up from the well. The water smelt of damp moss. Vijay began preparing a little lunch. He would have to go to work soon.

‘You know the place?’ Grace said, pinning up her hair. She leaned over and he fed her some rice. Then he kissed her. ‘It overlooks Mount Lavinia Bay. You can see this part of town from their garden. I’ll stand on the veranda and think of you,’ she said tenderly.

‘You’re going
there
?’ Vijay asked her in alarm. ‘On the night before the eclipse?’

‘What difference does the eclipse make?’ Grace asked him, laughing. She was aware that for Vijay, as for most other Sri Lankans, the eclipse brought insurmountable fears with it. Superstition threaded darkly across the lives of the Buddhists and the Hindus. But Grace had grown up untouched by all these complicated rituals and she found it hard to take him seriously on this subject.

There had not been a total eclipse for eighty-eight years. The island was feverish with excitement. It prepared itself for the event in different ways. The British (those who remained) brought out their telescopes and their encyclopedias. They were interested in the life cycle of the universe. The Roman Catholics ignored all talk of it. The Buddhists, ruled as they were by the light of the moon, were understandably nervous. Unable to move away from the cycle of their own karma, they, like the Hindus, were trapped in darkness, hoping the vibrations of their prayers would protect them. Only Grace remained fearless.

‘Oh, you mustn’t give in to the ignorance of this place!’ she told him, knowing he wasn’t listening, hoping to tease him out of this nonsense. She stole up behind him as he prepared the food and put her arms around his waist. ‘You of all people shouldn’t let these old wives’ tales rule your life. Vijay, you
know
it’s all rubbish!’

Vijay shook his head stubbornly. The old traditions were ingrained in him and he was not prepared to listen. He would have to go to work in an hour; he would not see Grace for another week, perhaps longer. There was no time for arguments.

‘Tell me about the wedding,’ he said, changing the subject.

‘Well, the cake is made,’ Grace said, smiling, not wanting to argue either. ‘Frieda and Myrtle made it together. With the cook’s help.’

She hesitated. There was something else, something she could not put her finger on. It was nothing much, but her suspicions about Myrtle were growing. This morning Grace had had a strong sensation of being followed. Could it be possible that her cousin knew?

‘What about Alicia?’ asked Vijay. He was boiling some water. Grace had given him one of her mother’s old teapots and he was making tea in it.

‘She’s blissfully happy, of course, but…’ Again Grace hesitated. Alicia’s future made her uneasy. Out of loyalty to her daughter she had not discussed it, but what would happen when Alicia had children? As a family the de Silvas had their own strong Tamil identity. What would happen to that?

‘What will it be like for Alicia’s children?’ she asked tentatively. ‘Their father will be a Sinhalese. What problems will this cause?’

Vijay handed her a cup of tea and smiled broadly. It was his turn to tease her.

‘Aiyo! So you have fears too,’ he said. ‘Are
you
worrying about becoming a grandmother? Even before the wedding?’

‘No, no, I –’

‘It’s a
good
thing,’ Vijay said earnestly. ‘Don’t you see? You should be
glad
! The only hope this country has is through intermarriage.’ He paused. ‘It’s too late for us, but for Alicia there is hope.’

He smiled and the ever-present sadness lifted from his eyes making her wish her life back, to live it all over again, differently. But then, just before she left him, he brought up the subject of the eclipse again.

‘It’s not a very good time, you know,’ he fretted. ‘Do you have to go to this party?’

‘Vijay?’ she said.

She had never seen him so worried. She could feel his heart beating. Vijay took her face in his hands, kissing her luminescent eyes. He should have felt dirty beside her, he told her. A scavenger straying out of his domain. But he felt none of these things, such was the healing strength of her love, pouring over the poor soil that was his life, overwhelming him.

‘You and your superstitious country ways!’ she teased him, hiding an unaccountable heaviness in her heart. She knew he went to watch the many demonstrations springing up in the heart of the city. She knew there was no stopping him, and she, too, was afraid. ‘I can come back next Saturday morning,’ was all she said before leaving him. ‘I shall say I’m visiting the nuns. Will you be here? Will I see you?’

Vijay nodded. He did not want her to leave. A terrible foreboding had overtaken him. Next Saturday was more than a week away.

Sitting in the taxi, going home, she felt the heat spread like an infectious disease. It carried with it an ugly undercurrent
of destruction that hovered wherever one went in the capital. It was not good. The British, sidelined by choice, watched silently. Waiting. Those who loved this island, and there were many who did, were saddened by what they saw. But most of them, Grace knew, had predicted the elephants would soon be out of the jungles.

Having finished her chores, having eaten her lunch alone, Frieda decided to go shopping. There was no one to go with her into Colombo. No one was at home, no one cared, but the fact was, she told herself with a trace of resentment, she felt very lonely. She needed to buy a present for the bride. Today was as good a day as any. Alicia’s wedding, just two months away, was threatening to give her a permanent headache. Myrtle’s constant questions didn’t help. Her mother was preoccupied. They were
all
busy with their own things. I might as well go out, thought Frieda, her eyes filling with tears. The sunlight was a blinding curtain, a bright ache of unhappiness thumping against her heart as she walked. Unhappiness shadowed her as she crossed the dusty streets. I am only a year younger, she thought dully, frowning with concentration, but look at the difference in our lives.

Before her sister had gone to the Conservatoire they had been inseparable, sharing bedrooms, clothes, secrets. She had known this would change when Alicia left home but Frieda had been looking forward so much to her return. And then, unexpectedly, hardly had she completed her diploma than she found Sunil. Frieda had not anticipated this. She had certainly not expected such a quick marriage. The last few months had been terrible. Her headache worsened as she walked. A pair of cymbals clashed together in her head. Nothing will ever be the same, she thought, mournfully. Everything has changed. Once
I was her only friend but now Alicia belongs to another. The words went round and round, beating into her head, competing with the boiling sun. Alicia has Sunil
and
she has her music. Thornton has his poetry. What do I have? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. So thought Frieda with a drum roll going on in her head as she hurried down the road to Pettah.

On the way, much to her astonishment, she saw various members of her family. First she saw Thornton. He hurried past furtively and jumped onto a number 16 bus heading towards the east side of town. The Jewish Quarter, thought Frieda, puzzled. Who does he know there? Her favourite brother looked harassed. It wasn’t like Thornton to scowl. What was the matter with him? Next she saw Myrtle walking towards Mr Basher’s house. Frieda paused, wondering whether to call out to her. Mr Basher was a palmist. Myrtle avoided the main door. She rang the bell at the side entrance and went in, hurriedly. Why was Myrtle seeing a palmist? Then she saw Christopher. He rushed past on the other side of the street looking hot and fierce.

‘Goodness,’ muttered Frieda, startled, ‘we’re all out and we’re all in a bad mood!’

She felt a little cheered, without quite knowing why. There was nothing very unusual about Christopher’s presence in town. Since the age of thirteen he was more out than in. What was more worrying was that he had two large cardboard boxes tucked under his arm.

‘Oh no,’ Frieda exclaimed aloud, suddenly alert, forgetting her woes. ‘He’s stolen some wedding cake!’

Why would he do a thing like that? Making a mental note to count the cake boxes when she got back she continued on her way. A slight breeze had sprung up. She was nearing the waterfront. Frieda entered Harrison’s music shop intent on finding a particular gramophone recording for Alicia. She was
uncertain of the name. Lost in thought, she wandered around looking at the recordings, humming to herself, unaware of the fair-haired young man who watched her quizzically.

‘Can’t you find what you want?’ the young man asked, eventually.

Frieda, puzzling over the problem, replied unthinkingly, ‘No, but I can sort of sing it. I think it’s a Beethoven piece.’

She hummed loudly, marking time with her hands. She did not look up, mistaking him for a sales assistant. The boy laughed, amused.

‘At any rate, you can sing,’ he said. ‘Although I doubt it’s Beethoven.’

‘Why?’ demanded Frieda, without thinking. ‘What makes you so sure?’

The boy grinned and Frieda looked at him for the first time. But he’s
English
, she thought, confusedly. And he’s got
golden
hair!

‘Well,’ said the boy, ‘does it sound like this?’

He sang the opening bars, conducting it with both hands and accidentally knocking a record off the counter. The assistant hurried towards them. The boy was right; it was not Beethoven at all but Smetana with his river. How foolish she felt. And how strange was the quality of the light, she thought faintly, noticing it as it caught the sharp blueness of his eyes. They were dazzling, like the sea at noon. Something constricted in her heart.

‘Robert Grant, at your service,’ the boy said, bowing over her hand as if he was acting in a play.

Suddenly it felt as though a whole orchestra was playing in Frieda’s head.

‘I’m Frieda de Silva,’ she said, wondering why it was so hot. ‘My sister is getting married soon and this is a present for her.’

The boy’s eyes were hypnotic. Frieda was unable to look away. Never had she seen such eyes.

‘She’s a concert pianist too,’ she said, her voice faint.

‘Oh? What’s her name?’

‘Alicia. Alicia de Silva.’ Then, with a boldness that was to astonish her, afterwards, she added, ‘Why don’t you come to the concert she’s playing in, next week?’

Robert Grant grinned again. He had been bored, but now he was less so.

‘I’d love to,’ he said with alacrity. ‘Where’s it on and at what time?’

The assistant, who knew the de Silva family, handed Frieda her gramophone record and smiled.

‘Hello, Miss Frieda, I read a very good review about your sister in
The Times
last week.’

Frieda nodded. The orchestra in her head was playing a coda.

‘Is she famous?’ Robert asked as they walked out, and again Frieda nodded.

‘Yes. Yes, well, I mean, she’s getting famous,’ she stammered. ‘Come and meet her, meet my whole family.’