Brixton Beach (23 page)

Lunch was a grand affair. The guests washed their hands in small bowls of iced water. Then the servants brought around white towels. There were no knives and forks. This was a traditional meal; everyone ate with their fingers, as was the custom in these parts. Yellow rice and a dazzling array of curries. There was the fresh fish Janake had brought earlier that morning,
malu ambulthiyal
, tuna fish, flavoured with
goraka
, the skin of the mangosteen, there was every vegetable imaginable, the
mullungs
, and there were the
appa
, pancakes to be eaten with
bandake
, Maldive fish,
sambals
. Alice swallowed. Standing still for so long had left her starving. The afternoon meandered on. Janake, in unfamiliar clothes, neatly ironed, helped himself liberally to the string hoppers.

‘Are you coming to the beach later?’ he asked Alice.

Alice shook her head. She was too busy eating to talk.

‘I’ve found you some more driftwood.’

‘I won’t be able to come until tomorrow. They won’t be leaving until five today. You know, the auspicious time for their departure is late.’

Janake nodded. He helped himself to more of the excellent yellow rice and fish. Then he sneaked another
appa
as well, to be on the safe side. Alice eyed him. Would he really be able to eat all that?

‘How’s Kunal?’ he whispered, his mouth full. ‘Mr Fonseka said he’s been trying to walk with the crutch. He’s going to Jaffna the day after tomorrow, isn’t he? Via Elephant Pass, I think. He’s going to stay the night with someone he knows there.’

‘Have you told my grandpa?’

‘I think he knows already. Look, Mr Fonseka’s talking to the doctor.’

Alice could see Bee was deep in conversation with the doctor. They had moved a little way out of the marquee into the boiling sun. Her mother and grandmother were standing together by the food.

‘Amma, I want to take him some food,’ Sita was murmuring to her mother.

‘No,’ Kamala said in a low voice. ‘Nauru’s taken him lunch. You stay here.’

‘Oh God, look, Nanda is coming over here. I don’t want to talk to her.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, go in through the bedroom if you must. Don’t go through the garden, you understand?’

But Sita had vanished.

‘Hello, Nanda,’ Kamala said, holding out a plate to her cousin and smiling. ‘Here, have something to eat before it all vanishes!’

‘Was that Sita I saw?’

‘Yes, she’s just torn her sari, she’s gone to fix it,’ lied Kamala, smiling sweetly.

By the time she had managed to get past everyone, shooing the children out of her parents’ room, and found the key to unlock the connecting door, Sita was trembling. Kunal was eating, but he put his plate down as soon as he saw her and tried to stand up.

‘Don’t get up,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Is it true you’re going the day after tomorrow? I just heard Janake and Alice talking about it.’

‘I have to. There’s a place, a safe house. I’ll go there for a short time, then I’ll go to Jaffna. I need to lie low for a bit.’

She was speechless.

‘You will be going too,’ he reminded her gently. ‘Very soon.’

The words lay heavily between them. Sita could not think of a single thing to say. What was she doing? In his only letter home Stanley had said the thing he missed the most was the food. He hadn’t said anything about missing her and Alice.

‘We’ll keep in touch,’ Kunal said, looking at his hands, not knowing what else to say. ‘I promise you.’

But you are married, he was thinking, and I am a cripple, wanted by the police. Even if I came to England, just supposing they took in
cripples, what use would I be to you? Outside, a peacock screamed. A very bad omen, Kunal thought sadly, but he didn’t say that either. Sita was crying softly. Only he had been able to reach her, she told him, her voice muffled, as she lay drowning. He was drowning too.

‘Don’t cry,’ he said very softly.

‘I’d better go.’

‘Come back when they’ve all gone, please. Come back and just talk to me?’

She nodded, trying to stop her tears, trying to wipe her eyes. Through the opening in the window she could see the sea glittering as though it were filled with sapphires. In a week they would be on it. She could not bear it any more.

Outside on the verandah there were islands of light swimming through the trees as the sun dipped its late afternoon light. The auspicious time to leave was upon them. May, in her going-away sari of red and magenta, all ablaze like a sunset, stood poised for flight. Is this what happily ever after means? wondered Sita, her mouth like a twist of toffee paper. At this wedding there would be no crying ceremony, Bee had insisted. Not all old traditions were good and besides, there had been enough grief already, enough loss. So May went like a bright star, kneeling first at her father’s feet, palms together, and then at her mother’s. It was her thank you for her life. Namil smiled at his bride, impatient to leave, triumphant at his perseverance, pleased that it had been such a success, despite the past.

‘Signed and sealed at last,’ he teased her.

Stanley, thought Sita with her thin-twisted smile, never looked at me like that. Never. A harsh pronouncement, for a man too far away to defend himself.

Good-bye, good-bye they waved, watching them drive off into the sunset in the old Morris Minor to begin a new life together, for ever and ever. To drink flower-scented water at the groom’s house before their marriage really began.

‘God bless,’ Kamala called out. She was crying, quietly. No, no, she reassured her husband, this wasn’t to do with the crying ceremony. She was merely crying for the end of her daughter’s beautiful day.

Esther giggled. There were young girl’s thoughts filling her head.

‘Never mind,’ she told Alice, tossing her head. ‘You’re too young to understand. Wait till you are older.’

But Janake, who did not like Esther, scowled.

‘She’s just showing off,’ he muttered. ‘She can’t make the kinds of things you make out of the driftwood. And anyway,’ he added loyally, ‘you’re prettier than her!’

No one had said that to Alice before. She had given Janake the nailed-up box. It was an early leaving present. She gave it to him because she knew he would understand that it was not a box to open. It was a box of sealed-up memories. Hers. His.

Far out at sea, halfway towards the horizon, a boat bobbed about on the water, impassive against the sweep of sky and sea. The rain had held off all day, miraculously.

‘Soon,’ Bee said, lighting up his pipe, waving to the last of the guests as they drove off, ‘it will rain again.’

T
HE WEDDING DAY, A DAY OF SKY-BLUE JAUNTINESS
, had given way to a phosphorescent night. The moon was very full.

‘This is a very good thing for the family, sir,’ the astrologer said, pointing to it on his way out.

He placed his hands together and bowed, first to Bee, and then again to the rest of the Fonseka family. He had lied to them, for the sake of kindness. What was the use of upsetting them on such a day? It was not as if they could change their fate and get themselves a different karma, and in any case the day itself had gone well. The astrologer shrugged inwardly, thinking the bride was a good-looking woman and there was nothing more to be said on that score. The small child dancing underneath the murunga tree laughed and waved at him. If he remembered rightly, this was the child who was going to live in England. For a moment the astrologer hesitated. Perhaps he should offer to draw up her horoscope before she left? Perhaps this would be the one who escaped the fate of the others. He glanced at Bee. If the astrologer remembered rightly, Mr Fonseka was not given to horoscopes. What if the child’s fate was the same as theirs? No, best to leave well alone, thought the astrologer, murmuring goodnight and slipping out without fuss through the gate. What will be will be, he thought, sighing.

‘Let’s play five stones,’ Alice suggested.

‘And then we can have a race on the bicycle,’ Janake agreed.

‘That’s not fair,’ Alice protested. ‘You’re much better at riding it than I am!’

Janake’s mother, who had been helping the servant, came out. She was smiling.

‘We have to go soon, Janake,’ she warned.

‘I’ll take you back,’ Bee told her. ‘Don’t worry.’

The servant came out with some iced coffee in tall frosted glasses.

‘Does anyone want any more to eat?’ Kamala wanted to know.

Her brother Sarath had gone, packing his family into the car and driving off. He had work in the morning. Kamala would not see him again for months.

‘Your turn next, Sita, Putha,’ he said, kissing his niece good-bye. ‘If I can get time off work. I’ll come to the harbour.’

Kamala winced. A thread of pain pulled sharply at her.

‘Can I have some cake, Mama?’ Alice asked.

She was dancing to Esther’s rock-and-roll music.

‘Haven’t you had enough?’ Sita asked dubiously, but surprisingly she was laughing. Alice thought her mother’s tone was nice. Was her mother happy that Aunty May had left home? she wondered.

‘No, of course not,’ Esther told her, amused. ‘She’s got other reasons, child!’

‘Why are you calling me “child”?’ Alice demanded.

Janake, having given up riding Alice’s bicycle while balancing a ball on his head, began eating again.

‘You’ll be sick,’ Esther said disapprovingly.

She looked at her new wristwatch.

‘How much did that cost?’ Janake asked, stuffing another piece of cake into his mouth.

‘How should I know,’ Esther said, yawning. ‘It was a present from Anton.’

‘Esther, Putha, time we left,’ Dias called.

Janake looked at her with interest.

‘Is he your boyfriend?’

‘Mind your own business,’ Esther said crossly, and she went inside to collect her gramophone record.

Janake snorted.

‘I don’t believe anything she says,’ he told Alice.

‘Will you be on the beach tomorrow?’ Alice asked. ‘I want to ride my bike again.’

She wanted to surprise Janake by giving him her bicycle as a present when she left for England. By now it was time for Janake and his mother to leave too.

‘Come, I’ll walk you back,’ Bee insisted, picking up his pipe.

‘See you tomorrow,’ Janake called out, and Alice nodded.

Sita was helping Kamala clear some of the dishes.

‘I’m going to the annexe in a little while,’ she murmured. ‘I told him I would say good-night.’

Kamala pretended not to hear.

‘Where’s Alice got to?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t it time she went to bed?’

But Alice had vanished, slipping through the gate, running after her grandfather, laughing as she followed Janake and his mother down the now empty Station Road. It was almost like the night of the fair, she thought.

In fact it was well past midnight before Sita was free. Kunal was waiting, his crutch resting against the wall, its outline thrown into shadow by the naked light bulb. Tomorrow night he would be gone. The doctor would arrive in his car to take him on the first leg of the journey to Elephant Pass. All afternoon he had practised walking with his crutch for hours on end, waiting for the wedding to be over and Sita to come back. Finally, exhausted, he had picked up the book she had left him and begun reading it. The moment the door opened he turned his head.

‘Can you stay?’ Kunal asked.

She nodded.

‘Sorry I took so long.’

Kunal smiled.

‘Yes, you were a long time,’ he said softly, half teasingly. ‘Many years late. But at least you’re here at last. So I’m glad.’

He stretched his hand out. The light from the bulb cast a yellowish shadow, making his eyes very black. It crossed her mind that he had a fever again. A part of her hoped he did, so he might stay another day. He was looking gravely at her, saying nothing. She saw herself reflected in his eyes for a moment.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he told her, ‘you know, I no longer have any footsteps.’ And he shook his head as if he was amused. A man without footsteps. Someone should write a
kavi
about it.’

‘Don’t,’ she said, unable to bear it. ‘Don’t say things like that.’

Tomorrow he would be gone and already she understood that a part of her would follow him. How would she live? Like a ghost? Fear was a timeless thing. Kunal was pulling her gently towards him and in a dream-like state she felt his lips, full and soft and surprisingly cool. He had no fever; only his eyes burned. Somewhere on the roof a bird’s feet scratched. The devil-bird, they both thought without saying a word. I am rudderless, she wanted to say. Without you I am cast adrift. Instead she asked:

‘Shall I come back? From England. Shall I?’

He didn’t know what to say.

‘If you want me, I’ll come back.’

Still he said nothing, looking at her, sitting with her back against the light. His entire life had retreated into shadow. It seemed a petty thing to say, but he said it anyway:

‘I have only one leg.’

He meant it as a warning, but she shook her head, disregarding it.

‘One leg, two legs, I don’t care!’

She cried softly, leaning against his shoulder. He could feel her body shake along the length of him as he held her with his two good arms. At least I can hold her, he thought. Her hair was perfumed by a hidden flower. He would remember its scent forever now. Portions of her limbs seemed to become luminous in his mind as he touched her.

‘I have no plan,’ he smiled. ‘If you do what you really should do, you will have what you want.’

He was quoting from something, she could not remember what. He has a beautiful smile, she thought. A sense of being alive, of being
here and possessing all of it—this place, the hour, most of all him—overwhelmed her.

‘Do you understand that, until I met you, I was just trying to survive?’

She nodded. She had slipped into the bed with him and he felt the heat of her very close and strong against his one good leg.

‘Turn off the light.’

The noise of insects grew louder in the darkness. A bat fluttered against the bars of the window, confused, then vanished. The tropical night remained an ebb and flow of unfinished business.

‘Can you imagine life with a Tamil cripple?’

‘Why do you have to talk like this?’

He knew he was trying to hurt her, but he needed to make his warning strong. He wanted her to know the dangers. Only then could he be sure.

‘Even if you lost the other leg it wouldn’t make any difference. I will come back or you must come to England.’

He tried and failed to contemplate England. Living with her and his crutch. Daily life. For a moment he considered it.

‘If you want it enough, it will happen,’ she told him, reminding him of Alice. ‘I will find out how to get you to England. Many Tamils go there. You can’t stay in Jaffna forever.’

And your husband?’

‘He doesn’t care.’ Sita shook her head.

She was surprised to feel no bitterness. It had gone while she was preoccupied with other things.

‘He hasn’t cared for a long time. I did all the caring. I think…’ She was more certain now: ‘I wanted to be like Thatha. I wanted a cause. So I found Stanley.’

‘Am I your cause now?’ he teased.

In the darkness she shook her head vigorously. He could feel it moving from side to side, reminding him again of Alice. In spite of himself he smiled.

‘No.
Stanley
was my cause, not you.’

She was crying again and he tightened his arms around her, kissing her hair.

‘We are the same,’ she told him. ‘I can feel it. We are the same. It is unimportant that you are a Tamil. Whether or not you are a Singhalese is unimportant too.’

And then, her face buried against him, her voice muffled, she said.

‘I don’t want to go.’

She was pushing against the limits of his endurance.

‘Shall I stay, then?’ he asked, but now was not the time to tease her. His arms wound around her like some great enclosure, keeping out those many things she no longer wanted.

‘You must go, for Alice,’ Kunal said at last.

The sound of his words imprinted themselves on the night.

‘Everything you’ve said makes me certain it’s the only thing for her. She is young; you have to give her a chance of a better life. If I can, I will come to England. I promise. When I get to Jaffna, I know some people who have influence. I’ll talk to them, see if it is possible. We can write. You must tell me what you decide about Stanley.’

‘I will leave him,’ Sita said. As soon as I can, I’ll get a job. I can save money. Thatha would want it, I know. I can get a divorce. I don’t think it will matter so much in England.’

She spoke eagerly. He remembered a time when he used to visit the Sea House, before she had married Stanley, when she had been like this, young, impulsive. Laughing, quoting Shakespeare, her long hair flowing as she darted through the trees. This is madness, he thought, mesmerised by what she offered him, unable to look away.

Alice doesn’t even care,’ Sita said. All Alice cares about is Bee.’

Alice cares about many things,’ he admonished her, smiling. ‘Don’t underestimate Alice.’

‘But what I mean is, she won’t care about a divorce between her father and myself. She never saw much of him when he was here.’

Kunal was silent.

‘Will you write?’ Sita asked fearfully. ‘Will you keep in touch?’

He ran his hand across the length of her body. Her sari had come undone and he undid the hooks on her jacket.

‘Is the door closed?’ he asked.

She nodded and he could feel, suddenly, that she was very tired, and his regard for this filled him with great tenderness.

‘You’re tired, no?’

He placed his hand on her breast and left it there, without moving, feeling her heart beating beneath it. She was silent and he felt her breathing beneath him.

‘How do you know?’ she asked, finally.

‘The way you kissed me is tired.’

It was difficult to hold her and lie with only one leg for balance and he turned her slightly to face him. He began to kiss her breasts, first one and then the other, holding them gently. He feared these were their last moments together. Pulling her jacket gently away from her shoulders, he felt her move herself so that first one arm, and then the other, was free. He could feel all the upper part of her body, naked and silky smooth under his hand. She turned and half raised herself and she was almost on top of him, lying across his body so that he felt her against the stub of his severed leg. He felt the pain of its absence break from him in a small cry of agony. Instantly she moved away. Through the cracks in the window he could see the outline of her face and when he touched it he felt it was once again wet from her tears. The room seemed to wait, as though it was witnessing an unfinished act.

‘This is not a good idea,’ she said. ‘You are still not recovered.’

‘Will you do something for me?’ he asked.

Outside in the garden there was no longer any light; the sea was simply a dark, silent swell. His tenderness as he touched her once more stretched into the darkness. Someone in some future time will think of us, he thought.

‘I will do anything,’ she said.

Bee smoked on the verandah alone. The light had faded hours ago in the abrupt way of these parts. Tonight there were no stars and into this darkness, sweeping an encircling arrow of yellow at regular intervals, came the beam of the lighthouse. A small breeze rustled the trees and Bee breathed deeply. The wedding had gone well. Even he could
not complain. Given their precarious situation, there was nothing more he could have asked of the day. But still he could not sleep. Kamala slept, Alice slept and Sita, he knew, was with Kunal. Maybe that was why he was wide awake. What am I worrying about? he thought. She is not a child; she is not a stranger to heartache. The beam from the lighthouse could be seen swinging with brilliant regularity across the bay and in one of these spells of darkness left by it every twenty seconds or so he caught a glimpse of the water, deceptively calm and docile. Bee stared at the beam without seeing it. He hoped May would be happy in whatever way was possible. If there were any hope of contentment it would be May who would find it. Bee was not a man of words. He knew it to be a fault; didn’t Kamala tell him, every day, he should talk more? Words were not his thing; explanations were best done with brushes. The colour of a place, the angle of the light, a tree, these spoke volumes. But words? No, he was useless with words. Bee sat very still on his planter’s chair, without creaking, drinking in the silence. A shape moved and came towards him, slowly, tiredly.

‘Come to bed,’ Kamala said. ‘What good will it do, waiting for her? She will be all right.’

He wished he had Kamala’s optimism. But as he turned to do her bidding he caught the beam of light again, flashing against his eyes and cutting him like a sword.