Bone China (26 page)

‘I don’t need any lessons,’ she told her parents. ‘I can teach myself.’

She mastered the B minor scales. She was learning harmonics, and the results for her theory exam when it came showed she had got a distinction. Uncle Christopher bought her a wad of manuscript paper so that she could write down her pieces. The slow shift, the modulated harmonics and tender tones that she sometimes, accidentally, achieved were what she loved most of all. Thornton, returning from work on these warm summer evenings, hearing these tunes from afar, paused for a moment. Savitha listened as she opened the front door.

Then, as the summer turned a corner, Alicia arrived. Thin, beautiful Alicia, frail as the stalk of a lotus flower, silent and unhappy. She came with letters from home, and dust in her heart, shaken by so many days at sea, disorientated and utterly alone. The brothers were shocked. Savitha felt as though she had brought the island with her.

Jacob found her a bedsit in Highgate and Christopher bought
his sister a record player and some records of her favourite pianists, some orchestral pieces, some opera. Savitha made her new curtains and Thornton had picked all the roses from his garden for her. They greeted her helplessly, for what could they offer Alicia from their own robust lives, what could they say that would give her comfort?

From the very first moment Savitha could see that it was not going to work.

‘Alicia doesn’t want to be crowded by all of us,’ she told Thornton.

What she meant was that her sister-in-law did not want to be friendly towards her. Well, that’s that, thought Savitha, folding her lips. She doesn’t like me. She shrugged her shoulders. Savitha did not like to waste energy. But she was sorry for Alicia all the same.

‘She needs more inner resources,’ she told Thornton, firmly. ‘It’s now eleven, nearly twelve, years since Sunil died. Someone should start talking to Alicia about him.’

Thornton looked uncomfortable.

‘She needs to move on,’ Savitha added earnestly, wishing only to help. ‘Perhaps London will give her some distraction.’

Thornton refused to be drawn. Alicia’s grief frightened him.

‘Why don’t you take Anna-Meeka with you to see her?’ Savitha persisted. ‘It might cheer her up.’

But Anna-Meeka, too, was strangely reluctant to visit her aunt. She hated the closed windows, the drawn blinds, the hot radiators. The summer days beckoned. Outside were children’s voices, a ball being kicked, an aeroplane droning. What was the matter with her aunt that she always had the heating on? It isn’t cold, thought Meeka, astonished. It’s absolutely sweltering! Savitha noticed her daughter trying to wriggle out of these visits and wished there was something she could do that would
help Alicia. Thornton, disturbed without knowing why, made no comment. Weeks went by. Christopher’s record player remained untouched.

‘You must try to help her,’ Savitha said, again. ‘Her grief has become stuck. He would not have wanted this for her.’

‘I can’t,’ said Thornton, fearfully.

Then one afternoon, almost a month after her arrival, as Thornton and Meeka walked up the stairs to Alicia’s room, they heard the sounds of Mozart’s Sonata in A. It cascaded towards them. Thornton, caught unawares, lost his footing on the step.

‘Who’s playing it?’ he asked, shocked.

Meeka paused too, and held her breath; the notes seemed to catch in her throat, crystal clear and bell-like. She was transfixed.

‘Is it Auntie Alicia?’ she whispered.

Thornton shook his head. ‘It’s a recording,’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t know she still had it. Your aunt’s recording. Before Uncle Sunil died.’

They stood outside listening. The music ran on, lifting this ordinary summer’s day, turning it into something suffused with light. The sound resonated in their ears. It wrapped itself around their limbs. It poured from the high, bleak window on the landing, seeped out from the cracks under Alicia’s door, it propelled Anna-Meeka forward so that she felt as though she were flying, until at last, looking at her father with astonishment, she cried, ‘She plays wonderfully!’

A
ND THEN, WITHOUT ANY WARNING, JACOB,
the eldest de Silva, the circumspect man, that dependable custodian of all their moral dilemmas, found he had a small problem of his own. Just when he had thought life could have no more surprises, suddenly he saw he was wrong. Thinking of this delicate matter was enough to bring the blood surging to his face. Jacob’s problem showed no sign of going away. If anything it seemed to be getting bigger. He went to see Thornton, wanting to discuss it with him, but the child was always present, listening. Snooping around, smirking just like her father used to, unaware, like her father, of her capacity to create havoc. And in any case, thought Jacob unhappily, if it wasn’t the child, it was the mother. Prowling around the kitchen, sharp eyes on the alert. Thornton’s family, thought Jacob shuddering, was a nightmare. So he arranged to see both his brothers in the pub instead. Not that
that
made it any easier.

‘I don’t know how it all happened,’ he said when they were settled in their usual corner by the window at the White Hart. It was Christopher’s turn to buy a round, which for once he
did without a murmur. Jacob was sweating, whether it was because of the heat or the thing he was about to tell them was difficult to gauge. Christopher was unusually solicitous; perhaps he too was affected by the potency of the moment? He hoped Jacob did not disappoint. So often his family made a drama when there was no drama to be found.

‘Wait, wait, men,’ he said. ‘Wait till I get the drinks. Same again?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Thornton expectantly. He wished Jacob would get on with whatever it was.

‘I don’t know how it happened,’ said Jacob when they were all settled again.

‘Shit, men!’ said Christopher losing patience. ‘Get on with it!’

‘Shut up!’ said Thornton, but Jacob was not listening to them. He was thinking back to the beginning.

Was it that night when she had nibbled his ear? Which night was that precisely? She nibbled his ears most nights. That was, he supposed, the problem. No, the problem was, well, in truth the problem was…

‘She’s in the family way,’ he said, being unable to think of a better way to put it.

‘
Who
?’ asked Thornton and Christopher in unison.

‘Geraldine,’ said Jacob, forgetting they had never heard of her before.

‘Who the fuck is Geraldine?’ asked Christopher.

Such was Jacob’s state of mind that he let this go.

‘We’ll have to get married,’ he said, demonstrating his resourcefulness.

‘Have you got someone pregnant?’ asked Thornton, catching on.

Christopher, who had been staring incredulously, burst out
laughing. Both his brothers were at it now, breeding like rabbits! Mr Enoch Powell had better watch it, he thought. There seemed an army in the making, with the de Silva family alone.

But he didn’t say that. Thank God. Although he did think it was hugely funny.

‘You need a whisky, men! A celebration whisky! Unless you are thinking of an abortion?’ he paused, interested.

‘Sit down for God’s sake, men, and stop shouting,’ said Jacob nervously, looking about. ‘You don’t understand. She’s Irish!’

‘
Irish
!’ said Christopher loudly. ‘
Irish
?’ This was getting funnier and funnier. ‘In that case you’ve had it, men. No chance there.’ He clutched his neck and made choking noises. ‘Better accept fatherhood graciously. I believe it’s not too bad,’ he added, glancing slyly at Thornton.

Thornton could not understand what all the fuss was.

‘Now listen,’ said Jacob, rousing himself, ‘this is the plan. We’ll announce the wedding first. Write home; tell everyone, her people too. Then we’ll say she is pregnant. So the baby can be born early. You know what I mean?’

He appealed to Thornton. Thornton knew exactly what he meant, but Christopher was annoying him. Why couldn’t the silly bugger stop sniggering like a smutty schoolboy?

Unfortunately there was more to come.

‘But why on earth do you want to get married? That’s for the bourgeoisie. What’s the matter with you, Jacob? Why are you so spineless? This is the age of free love. What’s wrong with you, men? You’re like an old woman from back home. Stand up for freedom!’

Christopher would have gone on longer but luckily he needed a pee.

‘So,’ said Jacob with some relief when he had gone, ‘that’s settled then. We’re getting married. Now you must bring Savitha
and Meeka to my place to meet her. Meeka can be the bridesmaid,’ he added, regretting this almost the instance he had said it.

Tonight, he would write to his parents. ‘I won’t say anything about the baby just yet, so I don’t want you to breathe a word to Mummy either.’

‘What?’ said Christopher, coming back after his pee. Unfortunately his flies were only half done up. ‘Mummy won’t care, men. Don’t you know she isn’t like that? Don’t you know she doesn’t give a damn for stupid bourgeois conventions? Don’t you understand? Don’t you know?…’ He stopped. It was clear they did not.

‘What?’ said Savitha when she heard. ‘
What
!’ and she laughed.

‘Yes,’ nodded Thornton, ‘I promise you, it’s true. She’s called Geraldine and she’s in the family way.’

‘Blimey!’ said Savitha, forgetting herself entirely and using the favourite word of the messenger boy at work. She couldn’t stop laughing.

Thornton’s eyes bulged. Meeka, standing on one leg outside the door eavesdropping, was amazed. Her mother was being surprisingly
with it
. Meeka was bursting with a hundred questions. What was this Geraldine like? And why, if she was in the family’s way, did she not simply get out of it?

Meeka herself was always getting in the way, always being told, ‘Get out of the way, Meeka.’ She would like to meet Geraldine. But even more she couldn’t wait to see Gillian, Jennifer and Susan. She could hear herself tomorrow recounting the developments when they all went for a wander on the District Line.

‘My uncle is marrying an Irishwoman called Geraldine,’ she would say. ‘Unfortunately she is in her family’s way but I am going to be the bridesmaid and I will be telling her what to do about keeping out of it.’

That’s what she would say tomorrow, when they were out on their jaunt, and as always everyone would be impressed.

When it finally occurred, the meeting had all the ingredients of failure. Had he been a betting man Jacob would have recognised this. Savitha and Geraldine entered the ring slowly with lowered heads and Meeka entered at a trot. Christopher came along for amusement only. Alicia came but only stayed for a few minutes. She had discovered some small solace in the long walks she went on daily and wanted to be somewhere else entirely. Outdoors, not cooped up in the bare-boarded, damp house that Jacob rented along the Finchley Road. She left to go walking on Hampstead Heath.

It was a Saturday afternoon, a good opportunity for high tea, thought Savitha who was rereading Jane Austen. She knew what
she
would have done in the circumstances. She would have made a cake of spectacular, unbearable lightness. All eggs, fresh lemons and air (imagine, she thought, they have three different sizes of eggs here, even the hens do as they are told!), and then she would have iced it, pink and white. Out would come the bone china, the pale green Copeland perhaps, as it was a special occasion, or even the Spode, for the rosebud teapot was so lovely. Anyway the point was she would have made an
effort
. She would have put on a
good show
. Here was the soon to be married Geraldine, born in the land of Yeats, lucky thing to have such a famous countryman, unlike Savitha who came from the land of peasants. But what did they find when they arrived, thought Savitha afterwards, what did they find? Only Irish filth!

‘It’s the best I could do!’ said Geraldine apologetically. ‘You see, I feel sick all the time.’

Shameless Geraldine, admitting the obvious within minutes of their meeting, throwing her large husky voice around, giving
out private information then producing a Lyons Corner House cake, serving it on ghastly Swedish-style plates, producing some ‘fizzy’ for Meeka in a tangerine bark-textured glass. Savitha wrinkled up her nose, declining the cake. Thornton ate some, nervous as a foal, forgetting to smile. Jacob ate a slice; well, he had to, didn’t he? Meeka ate huge pieces of the rubbish; it looks so stale and flat, thought Savitha. Have any eggs been used at all?

Meeka didn’t care; she just wolfed it all down, swinging her legs.

Poor little mite, thought Geraldine, bet the bitch doesn’t feed her properly. Only Christopher was enjoying himself. Who would have said his family could be such fun?

‘I say, Meeka,’ he said, ‘what d’you think of this cake?’

‘’S good,’ said Meeka with her mouth full, helping herself to some more.

‘Meeka’, said Savitha warningly, ‘that’s enough now. You’ve had six pieces.’ And she wrinkled her nose.

‘But Mum,’ wailed Meeka, ‘I’m starving.’

Christopher drank mug after mug of weak tea (there were not enough hideous teacups to go round). It’s clear Geraldine doesn’t know how to make tea either, thought Savitha. What’s Grace going to make of her new daughter-in-law?

‘We’re planning to go home after the baby arrives,’ said Jacob, looking self-conscious. Geraldine dimpled and patted her stomach archly.

‘Baby? What baby?’ asked Meeka between mouthfuls, wriggling on her chair.

Everyone ignored her. The talk turned inevitably to what was happening back home. A general election was coming up. Christopher had no faith in it and argued hotly.

‘It will take more than a bloody general election to stop this
war now. That damn Sinhala government is completely corrupt. There’ll never be socialism in that bloody country with those Western boot-licking bastards.’

Does he have to swear? thought Savitha with distaste. Though she agreed with him she was not prepared to say so.

Christopher helped himself to a swig from his hip flask.

‘Can I try some, Uncle Christopher?’ asked Meeka idly, sending him into a spasm of laughter.

‘Not on this occasion, putha,’ he said, winking at Geraldine. ‘This is mother’s ruin!’

‘
Christopher
!’ said Thornton and Jacob.

Meeka, opening her mouth to ask another question, caught her mother’s eye and changed her mind. Geraldine stood up. She’d had enough.

‘I’ll make a fresh brew,’ she smiled.

That’s just what it is, thought Savitha.

‘You look like your daddy,’ said Geraldine, smiling at Meeka. The child was on to her seventh piece of cake; did her mother never feed her?

‘Mum doesn’t like interfering with nature,’ Meeka said suddenly.

Geraldine was taken aback. She looked at Anna-Meeka with narrowing eyes. What was the child trying to say? Had her sister-in-law-to-be been talking about abortion? How dare she, thought Geraldine hotly. The child shouldn’t be here, listening to adult conversations, repeating things. It wasn’t right. Jacko had warned her to be careful. Look out for trouble, was what he had actually said, watch what you say to her and watch your back, she’s like her mother.

‘She doesn’t want me to have a brace,’ added Meeka, but no one heard her.

‘More tea, Thorn?’ Geraldine asked, coldly.

What’s all this ‘Jacko’ and ‘Thorn’? wondered Savitha, annoyed, wanting to go home immediately. Who
was
this impostor from the Isle of Poets?

On the tube home, for once, they were in agreement: the afternoon had not been a success. United in the face of change they considered Geraldine.

‘What does he see in her?’ asked Savitha. ‘What on earth will your mother make of her?’

Thornton shook his head. He made a hissing noise through his teeth. ‘Of all the women in this country!’

‘Did you notice, there wasn’t a single book of Yeats poetry in the house?’ When she got home Savitha intended to look up her favourite Yeats poem.

Thornton the poet did not mind about Yeats. He had other doubts.

‘Her ears are pasted to her neck. It’s an old Tamil saying. Never trust a person with pasted lobes. And she’s dirty,’ he pronounced fastidiously, as the tube passed from Belsize Park to Chalk Farm. ‘Why couldn’t she comb her hair?’

He was thinking most specifically of Cynthia Flowers and the curtain-of-gold. The lovely Cynthia, who probably awoke each morning, rising like Venus, majestically with her perfect hair. All over her mouth, thought Thornton, remembering her mouth. Yes, yes, he thought, imagining her sleepy mouth, imagining her first thing in the morning. He went into a small delicious daydream. So, no, Geraldine was not a bit like Cynthia Flowers.

Meeka watched her father. He had his silly look, all soft and furry at the edges. She wondered what he was thinking. She opened her mouth to ask him when she caught sight of her mother’s reflection in the tube window. Her mother had folded her lips again. It was a good sign, Meeka knew. Her mother
was thinking furiously and was displeased with someone other than Meeka for a change. As far as Anna-Meeka could see, this was as good a moment as any.

‘Is she going to have the baby before they get married?’ she asked. Loudly.

September came in with heavy rain. What had started out as a desperate bid for freedom was now filled with dissatisfaction. When her aunt Alicia had arrived trailing her sorrow like a thin chiffon scarf, the summer had seemed full of possibilities, but now it was over. Anna-Meeka had her way and was accepted into the comprehensive school. She was not unhappy, but you could not say she was particularly happy either. She no longer had any piano lessons and the music lessons in school were useless too. The teacher was often absent and supply teachers, who had little interest in music, took the classes. There was not even a piano in the classroom. Soon after Christmas her aunt Geraldine had had the twins.

‘Cousins!’ Uncle Jacob had said, expecting everyone to be as proud as clearly he was.

‘What a riot!’ Meeka muttered with the cynical onset of adolescence, not wanting to visit.

Two identical boys, screaming shrilly. Michael and Patrick, fair as their mother, blue-eyed like her.

‘What a waste,’ was Savitha’s only comment. ‘Why waste blue eyes on boys!’ She said nothing of this in her letters to Grace to whom she still wrote regularly.