The Flower Boy (23 page)

John personally didn't like the idea of having a stranger living at Glencairn, but the thought of Anne returning to England, living with Elsie and perhaps becoming like her was even less palatable.

Three months before Anne was due to sit for her final examination, John placed an advertisement in both the local Colombo papers and also in the London papers for a qualified British private tutor. It said candidates had to be prepared to reside at a “bungalow in the mountains” and spoke about the “salubrious climate” of Nuwara Eliya. Personally, John didn't think anyone from England would want to come out to Ceylon, but for Anne's sake, he was determined to make it sound as attractive as possible.

To his surprise, he received no fewer than seven answers, two from Colombo and five from England. Of these, five were immediately dismissed because they were female. The last thing John wanted at Glencairn was a British schoolmarm reminding him of his p's and q's, making them all eat greens and lording it over Glencairn.

That left the two men. One was teaching in a private British school in Colombo, so John made arrangements for Sally Mortimer, with whom he'd kept in touch, to interview him. The other candidate was in London, which was a bit of a problem, but John got in touch with friends there and asked them to see him and let him know what they thought.

Anne waited in a fever of anxiety, confiding to Rose-Lizzie, who in turn confided in Chandi, that she hoped one of them would be hired and that he would be nice and kind and patient with her.

While Chandi longed to go to England, he could thoroughly understand Anne's reluctance to go home and hoped she wouldn't have to. If he had had a mother like the Sudu Nona, he doubted whether he would have gone either.

SINCE HE HAD come back from Deniyaya, he had kept careful watch over his mother's moods and her trips down the corridor, but nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She seemed to have got back to her old self, although she grew more distant with Disneris.

Chandi had heard them arguing once because she had wanted to send money home to her parents and Disneris had suggested they first try and save some money for themselves before they helped other people.

“They are not other people!” she had protested angrily. “They are my parents!”

Chandi had crouched behind their room door and listened. In the end, Disneris agreed and Premawathi calmed down and everything was fine, but the arguments became more frequent.

These days, Premawathi lost her temper all the time.

Since Chandi himself was also one of the main causes of trouble between them, he couldn't fault her for it, for he too frequently got impatient with his father, although he couldn't say anything.

Since his views on the subject of Chandi and Rose-Lizzie made no difference to Premawathi or Chandi, Disneris had developed an unreasonable dislike of Rose-Lizzie, although he was scrupulously polite to her. He blamed her for the vague impertinence Chandi showed him, for Chandi's bad report cards and for Premawathi's bad temper.

Premawathi also had other things on her mind these days. Having seen Leela daily, she hadn't realized that she had grown up and was of a marriageable age.

Now she fretted about finding a suitable husband for her.

Premawathi wanted her married and settled down, if necessary away from Glencairn. She wondered how to set about finding a husband for Leela, and wondered whom to ask for help. Premawathi had long accepted that she herself was not very good when it came to choosing husbands.

There had been almost no contact between John and Premawathi since she had come back from Deniyaya. The distance wasn't through choice or by design. It was simply because every time she had thought of going and speaking to him, or taking his cup of tea in herself, Chandi materialized next to her.

At first she thought it was coincidence, but then she realized that Chandi was watching her. Covertly and casually, but he was still watching. She immediately wondered if he had seen anything, but knew that was impossible, for he had not even been in the house that evening. Still, she was afraid.

After a week or so of her watching him watching her, she was forced to admit that he knew
something.
He had either overheard her speaking with John or just felt something to be not quite right. Which it wasn't, she admitted to herself.

Then one day, while Chandi and Rangi were both at school and Leela was doing the laundry by the well, she met John. She had been dusting the dining room after Appuhamy had finished when John strode in. It was the middle of the day and his arrival was completely unexpected. He was taken aback too, for at first he just looked at her as she stood frozen, her duster lifted in midair, her raised arm revealing a nice expanse of brown midriff.

He recovered first. “Why are you dusting?” he asked.

She looked hunted. “Just,” she muttered.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Just?”

“Well, you know Appuhamy is quite old now and his eyesight isn't what it used to be—”

“And he asked you to do it for him,” he finished.

“No!” she exclaimed, forgetting her initial confusion. “No, please don't tell him you saw me,” she said. “He'd be so upset and hurt. He couldn't bear to think he wasn't doing his job properly. You know how he is . . .” she finished lamely.

John was smiling. “Yes. I do know,” he said wryly. “But he should know that I wouldn't dismiss him after all these years just because he doesn't dust as well as he used to!”

She smiled too. “He wouldn't believe you even if you told him. And he's too proud to stay if he thinks you don't need him. And he's so afraid he'll lose his job and have nowhere to go,” she finished sadly.

His smile grew gentle. “Premawathi, Premawathi,” he said, shaking his head. “One day you'll realize that you can't look after everyone, you know. Appuhamy is old enough to take care of himself, I think.”

Her smile reappeared. “When you reach a certain age, you become old enough to have someone take care of you again,” she said.

He laughed. “Don't you have enough problems of your own?” he asked teasingly.

“Oh yes,” she replied laughing. “Two male and two female.”

He studied her laughing face. It had been so long since he had seen the dimple in her cheek. Too long, he told himself.

Her own laughter faltered and died. She looked back at him, her eyes wary once more, the dimple smoothing out again.

Then Appuhamy coughed and they sprang apart, although they had been no less than three feet away from each other anyway.

Appuhamy peered around myopically. “My duster,” he quavered. “I must have left it here.”

“Here it is,” Premawathi said immediately, handing it to him. “I found it and was just bringing it to you.” She looked at John and a glimmer of a smile passed between them.

Appuhamy still stood there. “Sudu Mahattaya, what brings you home at this unusual time?” he asked formally.

John blinked. “What? Oh yes. I was told that that scoundrel Krishna had been seen hanging around the factory. I was wondering if he had been here,” he said.

Premawathi was still. “Krishna?” she asked.

John looked hard at her. “Yes,” he said. “Have you seen him?”

“No,” she said hastily. “But what's he doing here?”

“That's what I'd like to find out,” John said grimly. “Well, I'd better be getting back. Keep an eye on the place, Appuhamy,” he said.

Appuhamy tried to stand straight and square his shoulders, with little success. “Yes sir!” he said, and all but saluted.

JUST THREE DAYS after the dining room encounter, Premawathi and Leela were bathing at the well when she saw a flash of white behind the kumbuk tree. Leaving Leela looking after her in bewilderment, she picked up a big stick and marched over to the tree. There was no one there.

She searched the immediate vicinity but saw no sign of him. She came back to the well muttering under her breath.

“What happened, Amma? Where did you go?” Leela asked.

“I thought I saw that rotter Krishna standing behind the kumbuk tree,” she said grimly.

“But he doesn't work here anymore, remember?” Leela said, wondering if her mother was finally getting senile.

“No, but he's been hanging around, and for no good, I'm sure,” Premawathi said.

Leela looked frightened. “Do you think he'll do something to us?” she said.

“Like what?” Premawathi demanded belligerently. “If I catch him, he won't be able to walk when I've finished with him!”

Leela looked at her mother's slight figure and sighed. After years of living without Disneris around, she had become both mother and father to them, and sometimes she carried the father bit a little too far.

“Amma,” she said, “if you see Krishna, don't do anything foolish. Call someone and let them handle him.”

“Like your father?” Premawathi demanded scornfully, and stopped when she saw a stricken look come over Leela's face. “I'm sorry, duwa,” she said contritely, “but you know how he is, how he was the last time Krishna tried his tricks with Ayah. He will do anything to avoid a problem, and a problem like Krishna won't go away. Something needs to be done about him,” she said.

Leela looked down. “Amma,” she said. “Why are you and Thaaththi fighting so much these days?”

“I don't know,” Premawathi said miserably.

“You didn't fight like this before he came to stay with us,” Leela said accusingly. “Didn't you want him to come and live with us?”

“Of course I did,” Premawathi said. “But now that he's here . . . I don't know what it is. He just seems to take life so—lightly. I know he cares about us, but he doesn't make any effort to make things any better. You know what I mean,” she said, pleading for understanding.

Leela looked distressed. “Yes. I think so,” she said. “But wasn't he always like this? I don't ever remember him being any different.”

Premawathi sighed. “Yes. I suppose he was always like this, but I didn't notice at first and then we came here.” She sank down on the washing stone, oblivious of her wet diya reddha and the chill in the air. “He was kind and funny and charming, but never determined or very dependable,” she said reflectively. “And I was desperate to get out of the convent. Then you were born, and the others, and there was never enough money.”

“What about love?” Leela asked softly.

“What about love?” Premawathi said tiredly. “Love doesn't feed three hungry children or pay for schoolbooks or for doctors. Only hard work does that. At least we are fortunate that we work with people like the Sudu Mahattaya who don't ill-treat us or delay our salaries.”

“I'm sorry, Amma,” Leela said. “I know you work hard and that you're always tired. I try to help but I don't know if I really do.”

Premawathi stood up and held her daughter's face tenderly. “Of course you do. I don't know what I'd do without you and Rangi to help me,” she said. “Now come. Don't worry your head about these things. We've managed before and we'll manage now,” she said far more firmly than she felt.

Leela hung back. “Amma, if you see Krishna, call for help,” she said sternly. “Promise me.”

Premawathi laughed. “I'll call for help, child,” she said. “Even if no one comes.”

“Promise me,” Leela said.

“I promise,” Premawathi said.

chapter 21

LESS THAN A WEEK LATER, PREMAWATHI SAW KRISHNA AND FORGOT all about the promise made at the well.

It was about ten minutes past midnight and she was about to go to bed when she remembered that she hadn't brought the laundry in from the clothesline near the well. She looked for Disneris, but he was already asleep and so were the children. She cursed her forgetfulness and wondered if she should leave it for the next morning, but what if it rained in the night?

She threw a reddha over her shoulders, for the night was cold, and made her way cautiously through the dark, praying that Buster wouldn't start barking and wake up the entire house.

She didn't bother to get a lamp because she knew the back garden well and could negotiate it with her eyes closed. Which was good, for the night was as black as pitch and even the moon was well concealed behind thick clouds. It smelled like rain, and her steps quickened.

She stepped on a sharp stone and yelped softly in pain. As she stood there on one foot, rubbing her other foot, she thought she heard a rustle in the undergrowth near the well. She stood still and listened but everything was silent now. She shivered and wondered if she shouldn't have waited until morning.

A fat raindrop landed on her face and she forgot her fears and her aching foot and rushed to get the clothes, which looked like a row of weird specters suspended in midair.

She reached up and started pulling them down haphazardly, for it had definitely started drizzling now. She tugged impatiently at a sheet and cursed loudly as one end of the clothesline was loosened from the tree it was tied to and the entire lot came down to the ground. She picked them up, hoping they hadn't got dirty again.

Finally, she had them all draped over her arm. As she straightened, she heard another rustle and froze. Inconsequentially, she wondered why Buster wasn't barking, because by now she was sure there was an intruder in the garden. A shadow separated itself from the tree that it had been hiding behind and stepped forward. All she could make out was a dim outline.

“Who is it?” she called out, her voice shaking slightly. “Who is there?”

“Ah, Premawathi,” the shadow said mockingly. “All alone at this time of the night? Must have been waiting for me.”

“Krishna?” she breathed in disbelief.

“Who else?” he said, stepping closer.

She backed away slightly, her fear replaced by anger. “Just wait until the Sudu Mahattaya catches you,” she said. “Oh, I can't wait to see his face when he knows you're here! He's been waiting for you to show up, you cur. Let's see your big mouth then,” she said scornfully.

“But he's not going to catch me, is he?” Krishna said softly, moving closer. “He won't even know I've been here.”

“I'll tell him right now,” she said. “Then he'll know!” She turned on her heel to leave and gasped as her arm, the one without the laundry, was caught from behind. She twisted, trying to free herself, but he held her arm tightly, smiling widely, whitely, in the darkness. He jerked her toward him and her foot caught on a protruding root, making her lose her balance and fall heavily to the ground. The clothes protected her face, but even through them she felt a sharp stone on her cheek.

He sat down on his haunches and looked down at her, still holding her arm. “So who are you going to tell now?” he demanded softly, laughingly. “You think your precious Sudu Mahattaya can hear you? Look at you. High and mighty housekeeper who speaks English and thinks she's better than everybody else.”

She could see his face now, inches away from her own. “You know what I should do to you?” he said quietly, the laughter gone. He drew away slightly. “But you're not worth it,” he said consideringly. “No, I think I'll save it for that beautiful daughter of yours. Leela,” he said, savoring the name.

She came up to her knees like a rearing snake about to strike and spat viciously in his face. “You leave my daughter alone, you pig,” she hissed. “Touch her and I'll kill you with my bare hands!”

Krishna slowly wiped the saliva off his face and surveyed his hand. Almost casually he raised it and slapped her hard. So hard that tears sprang unbidden into her eyes and her head rocked back. She felt only numbness, not pain. That would come later.

He pointed a finger at her. “Tell anyone about this night and I will rape your virgin daughter, then kill her,” he said softly, and was gone, the darkness swallowing him up instantly.

She began to sob, hating herself for giving in to the weakness that suddenly assailed her entire body. She didn't know how long she sat there, but when her tears were spent, she rose, gathered the laundry in her arms and stumbled blindly back to the house.

She climbed the steps as though they were some steep hill and stiffened as she saw someone standing in the kitchen.

“Ammi?”

“Chandi!” she exclaimed, straightening up. “What are you doing out here at this time?”

“I came out to get some water. I'm thirsty,” he muttered sleepily.

“Well get it and go to bed,” she said, relieved that the generator was off and the kitchen was in darkness.

Chandi was already making his way to the tap when something in her voice stopped him. “Ammi,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I'm okay, child,” she said, taking refuge in impatience. “Why wouldn't I be?”

He came over and peered into her face. “What were you doing outside?” he asked suspiciously. “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere,” she said, her voice trembling from fatigue. “Nowhere. Now go to sleep.”

“You went to get the laundry,” he stated, looking down at the clothes on the floor. “Why have you left them on the floor? They'll get dirty again.”

“So I'll wash them again tomorrow,” she said angrily. “What do you care? Just go to sleep!”

Dimly, she saw the hurt look that came over his face. She sighed and reached for him. “Putha, go to sleep. Ammi is tired. Very, very tired,” she said, holding him against her.

He reached up and brushed the leaves from her hair and smoothed it down. He knew something had happened. He hoped it was nothing to do with the Sudu Mahattaya. “You go to sleep too, Ammi,” he said, and the grown-up way he said it made her want to sink her head onto his lap and be comforted.

THE NEXT MORNING, Chandi awakened to exclamations and his mother's voice raised in exasperation.

He went out rubbing the sleep from his eyes, wondering what catastrophe had happened now. Had one of the servant girls come in late again? Had the old tabby got at the roast in the oven? Had Appuhamy finally died?

His mother was sitting on the doorstep holding an ice pack to her cheek while his father, sisters, Appuhamy and the three servant girls hovered around like the flies on the sweets at the Nuwara Eliya pola. He pushed his way forward and stopped in shock.

One cheek was swollen and the other had a deep bruise on it. He looked at her and she looked steadily back at him, the warning clear in her eyes, which were smudged with tiredness.

He turned abruptly and left the kitchen. He thought he heard her voice calling out to him but he couldn't be sure. Nor did he stop to find out.

John had just finished breakfast and was reading the newspaper. He lowered it when he saw Chandi. He wondered what had brought him into the dining room.

“Good morning, Chandi!” he said. “Is everything okay?”

“What happened to her?” Chandi demanded in a low voice.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What happened to my mother?”

He put the newspaper down, pushed his chair back and stood up. “Chandi, what are you talking about?” he asked gently.

“My mother,” Chandi repeated woodenly. “What happened to her?”

“I don't know,” John said, now concerned. “What has happened?”

“Didn't you see her last night when she was outside?” Chandi asked in confusion.

“No I didn't. Chandi, what has happened?” he said, trying to control his impatience. It would do no good to scare the child.

“Yesterday,” Chandi said haltingly. “She went outside to get the laundry but when she came back, she was—I don't know. Something happened outside. I asked her but she said it was nothing. And now her face is hurt.” He started to cry.

John pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to Chandi. “Listen, Chandi. I wasn't outside last night. And I didn't see your mother. But obviously something has happened. Now I want you to go back, and I'll find out and tell you, okay?”

Chandi nodded dumbly. He twisted the large white handkerchief in his hands, wondering what to do with it.

John resisted the urge to follow him to the kitchen and demand to know what had happened. Somehow he didn't think Disneris was the kind of man who beat his wife, but one never knew. Or perhaps Premawathi had been indulging in her usual nocturnal wanderings and had tripped or something.

He wondered how best to find out.

In the end, it was easy. He rang the bell and Premawathi came, because Appuhamy was too deaf to hear it these days. She stood with her head lowered, lower than usual. He asked for a fresh pot of tea.

She returned five minutes later, and as she placed it in front of him he reached out and lifted her chin. She glanced up at him, startled, forgetting her face in the intimacy of the gesture.

He flinched when he saw the bruises. With an effort, he kept his face expressionless and his voice soft.

“Premawathi, who did this to you?” he asked.

She tried to move away, but now he reached out and held her arm.

“Sudu Mahattaya, someone might come in,” she half moaned.

“Then you'd better tell me quickly,” he said implacably. “Was it Disneris?”

She recoiled. “No,” she said vehemently. “He may be all sorts of things, but he is not a wife beater.”

“No, I didn't think so,” he said. “So who was it?”

“No one,” she muttered, her gaze skipping away from his. “I fell near the well last night.”

He looked at her patiently. “Premawathi, this didn't happen from a fall. Now tell me what happened and why you are so frightened.”

She still looked away resolutely. “Nothing,” she said.

He gently traced the bruise with his fingertips as she stood very still.

“Was it Krishna?” he asked suddenly.

She jerked away in shock. “No,” she said fearfully. “No please, it wasn't him.”

He regarded her for a few moments. He knew something had happened and now he knew that somehow Krishna was responsible. “Premawathi,” he said. “Go and attend to your face. I will take care of this.”

She stood there and looked at him mutely.

He gave her a small push. “Go,” he said. “And don't worry.”

She desperately wanted to believe him but
he
hadn't seen Krishna's face, hadn't been told his daughter would be raped and murdered. But what could she say? She went slowly back to the kitchen.

Disneris looked up. “What took you so long?” he asked. “I was about to eat without you.”

She looked at him in disbelief. This was her husband. Other than a practical suggestion that she take a lamp with her the next time she went out at night, he had nothing to say.

We are each to be held responsible for our own happiness or unhappiness, she thought irrelevantly.

BUT IT DIDN'T end there. When John went to the garage to get the car and go down to the police station in Nuwara Eliya, he discovered Buster.

At first John thought he was sleeping, and nudged him affectionately with his foot. Buster didn't rise and yawn and wag his tail sleepily as he usually did when he was caught napping.

And then John saw the blood. It was hours old, almost brown now, and it had seeped deep into the square of concrete near Buster's neck. He knelt down and turned the dog over. Buster's throat had been cleanly slit and as his head flopped backward, the cut opened like a red mouth.

John fought the burning tide of nausea that rose up in his throat. He strode toward the kitchen calling loudly for Disneris, who appeared at the door hastily knotting his sarong.

John tersely instructed him to find a spade.

John and Disneris buried Buster and John then drove off to see the police.

Disneris related the story to his rapt audience. “You should have seen his face. So sad and so angry. He was muttering all kinds of things. My goodness, I almost feel sorry for that Krishna. The Sudu Mahattaya will skin him alive when he's found.”

Now that it was the Sudu Mahattaya who was involved, Disneris was all righteous indignation. Premawathi fought hard to stop her feelings from showing on her face.

He looked at her suddenly. “Haminé, you were out last night. Didn't you see him?”

All eyes turned toward Premawathi, who was leaning against the door. She straightened up. “No,” she said. “I didn't.”

Disneris sighed loudly. “Well, good thing you didn't. Who knows what he might have done. What a miserable wretch!”