Bone China (3 page)

Alicia was playing something new, something she had never played before. The notes floated hesitantly and with great clarity across the shuttered house. Vijay was a Tamil man and these days madness shadowed the Tamils. Luck was no longer on their side. Who knew what the future held. In the early days none of this had meant anything. She had gone on unthinkingly, acting on her instincts, a huge euphoria propelling her to his door. The sky had shouted her happiness. But no one heard. She had launched her delight into the air like a white paper kite. But no one saw. It was only lately that she had begun to think of the future.

This morning Maya’s Silk Merchants had been closed so Grace had visited Vijay in his lodgings instead. They were towards the east side of Colombo, which was why she had been late getting back. She smiled, remembering the moment, as it rose and fell to the sound of Alicia’s music.

‘I’ve just been listening to the radio,’ Aloysius said, coming
in noiselessly, fresh from his afternoon nap. ‘You know, darl, it really is going to be quite bad for the Tamils when the British leave.’

Grace was startled. ‘Will they really leave, d’you think?’ she asked.

Aloysius might be a fool over money but when it came to the British, he was shrewd.

‘Of course they’ll go, and sooner than you think. I imagine there’ll be some sort of a backlash after that.’

Aloysius poured himself some water. He didn’t want to frighten Grace but rumours of a different kind of war were circulating. Sinhalese resentment grew daily, a resentment which would demand acknowledgement. Soon,
they
would be the majority, with unstoppable power over the Tamils. Grace shivered. Independence had begun to frighten her. Aloysius opened the shutters and stared out at the sea. He was sober. He did not like the feeling. It forced him to think of their uncertain future.

‘Is that Thornton, coming up the hill?’ he asked. ‘Good God, how can he ride his bicycle in this heat?’

Grace did not answer. She had just left Vijay’s small airless room, walking away from his rattan mattress back to her marble floors. Leaving some essential part of herself behind, carrying the sound of his voice home with her. Alicia was playing Schubert. Recently Grace had met a British officer she had known long ago as a young girl. There had been a time when she had thought she might have married him instead of Aloysius. Now she wanted to go to this man, to ask him if the British would really leave. Would there be an independent government at last? And did he think there would be civil war? But the price for such information was too high. The British, she decided, were best at arm’s length. For suddenly Grace was
beginning to understand, painfully and with fear, just what might happen to her beloved country. Propelled by this late last love, she had wandered towards frontiers not normally reached by women of her class. She was walking a dangerous road. A secret door in her life had swung open. It could not now be easily closed.

‘Sweep the devils out, men,’ Aloysius said, handing his empty glass to the servant who had walked in, ‘and who knows what others will come in. The Sinhalese won’t stay marginalised forever.’

Alicia had stopped her practice; the metronome was no longer ticking.

‘I’m going to have a shower,’ Aloysius said, shaking his head. ‘Too much foreign rule is bound to tamper with the balance of this place.’ And he went out, bumping into Thornton who had just come in.

‘Ah! The wanderer returns!’ Grace heard him say.

Thornton de Silva was seventeen. In the years since they had left their old upcountry home, he had grown tall and very handsome while his smile remained incontestably beautiful. Colombo suited him. He loved its bustle and energy around him. He loved the noise. The British talked of a Japanese invasion, the navy was on constant alert, and the newspapers were full of depressing predictions. But what did Thornton care? Youth held unimaginable promise. Possibilities festooned his days like strings of coloured lights. Earlier this afternoon he had gone to meet his brother Jacob. The harbour had been a tangle of sounds; muffled horns, and shrill whistles, and waves that washed against the jetty. The air was an invisible ocean, salt-fresh and wet, with a breeze that seemed to throb in time to the sound of motor launches. Further along, in the entry-strictly-prohibited parts
of the harbour, brass-buttoned British officers revved their jeeps, while stick-thin boys stepped out of rickshaws carrying native food for important personnel, balancing tiffin tins precariously on their heads. Thornton had brought Jacob his lunch. He had been wheeling his bicycle along the seafront watching the frenzy of activity when he had bumped into two English girls, one of whom he vaguely knew. She had called out to him and Thornton had smiled, a beacon of a smile, a searchlight of happiness, making the girl giggle. She was drinking a bright green limeade through a candy-striped straw. Thornton watched her lips wrap themselves around the straw. Then, regretfully, remembering that his brother was waiting for him, he had waved and moved on. But Jacob, when he met him, had been full of his usual gloom. Thornton sighed, only half listening.

‘Crown Rule,’ Jacob declared loftily, following some thread of his own, ‘my boss says it’s a privilege the Indian Empire doesn’t have. Which is why they are in such a mess!’

Thornton had not the faintest idea what his brother was talking about. The girl with the candy-striped straw filled his head.

‘Crown Rule is what keeps the elephants in the jungle and stops them trampling all over the parks.’

Jacob paused, considering his own words. It was true the parks
were
beautiful. And he could see, Crown Rule did keep the grass green with water sprinklers. It gave the island its economy of rubber and tea. So really, he decided, on balance, it was probably a good thing. Thornton remained silent. Personally he didn’t care if the elephants walked on the railway lines, or the grass all died, or the rubber trees dried up. He had no idea what went on in Jacob’s head.

‘Let’s go to the Skyline Hotel tonight,’ he had suggested instead. ‘There’s a jazz band I know playing there.’

‘I can’t,’ Jacob said shortly, ‘I’ve got overtime.’

Since leaving their old home, since he had turned sixteen, Jacob had been working for the Ceylon Tea Board. He was almost nineteen now and he detested Colombo. The trees here were dull green and dirty and the air, when it was not filled with water, was choked with the dust from the spice mills. His childhood was finished and the life that he had so loved gone with it. There was nothing more to say on the subject. These days his only ambition was to leave this wretched place and sail away to the United Kingdom. Life there, so he’d been led to believe, was much better. Just as soon as the war was over he planned to escape.

‘Why don’t you get a job instead of loafing around,’ he asked, his irritation barely concealed.

Thornton had stared dreamily at the sea. It lay like a ploughed field beyond the harbour wall and the day was thick and dazzling and humid. It was far too hot to argue. The air had compressed and solidified into a block of heat. It pressed against Thornton, reminding him once again of the girl with the limeade drink. Her dress had been made of a semi-transparent material that clung to her as she walked, hinting of other, interesting things. He imagined brushing his hands against her hips. Or maybe even, he thought, maybe, her neck. Thornton had a strong feeling that a poem was just beginning to develop. Something about breasts, he thought, smiling warmly to himself. And soft, rosy lips.

‘Thornton.’ Jacob’s irritation had cut across this delicious daydream. ‘It’s no joke, you know. You have to
plan
your future. It won’t simply happen. Don’t you
want
your own money?’

What? thought Thornton, confused. All around him the heat shimmered with hormonal promise. His brother’s voice buzzed like a fly against his ear. I wonder if I’ll be allowed to go to the
concert on my own, he thought, whistling the snatch of jazz he had heard earlier. No, he decided, that’s not quite right. I haven’t got the timing right. When I get back, if Alicia has finished on the piano I’ll try to play it by ear.

‘Or are you planning on taking up gambling? Carrying on the family tradition perhaps?’ Jacob had continued, unable to let the subject go.

‘Oh God, Jacob!’ Thornton had laughed, refusing to be drawn. ‘Life is not simply about making money. I
keep
telling you, I’m a poet.’

‘What does that mean, apart from loafing around?’

Thornton had done an impromptu tap dance. Sunlight sparkled on the water.

‘I’m not loafing around!
This
is how I get my experience,’ he said, waving his hands at the activity in front of them. ‘There is a purpose to everything I do. Can’t you see?’

‘You’re getting worse,’ Jacob had said gloomily, throwing some crumbs at the seagulls.

Thornton, trying not to laugh again, had decided: his brother simply had no soul.

‘I’ve sent another poem to the
Daily News
,’ he offered. ‘It’s about fishermen. Maybe it will get published. Who knows? Then I’ll be rich
and
famous!’

‘That proves it,’ Jacob told him, satisfied. ‘You’re a complete idiot!’

Having finished his lunch, having had enough, he stood up.

‘Right,’ he said briskly, ‘I must get back to work. You should think about what I said. I could get you a job here, you know.’

And he was gone, leaving Thornton to his daydreams.

Having washed her face and feeling a little cooler, Myrtle went to the kitchen in search of a piece of cake. From the sound of
the jazz being played she guessed Thornton was back. Myrtle pursed her lips. The boy was always playing jazz, or swimming, or wandering aimlessly around Colombo. In the past, whenever she had tried tackling Grace on the subject of Thornton’s laziness, it had had no effect. Grace merely smiled indulgently; Thornton could do no wrong.

‘He’s still young,’ was all she said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Myrtle had given up. Thornton would learn a lesson one day. She had seen it in the cards. Her cards never lied.

Myrtle cut herself an enormous slice of cake, ate it and went looking for Grace. But Grace was nowhere in sight. Thornton was still at the piano, and Jasper, moving restlessly on his perch, eyed her with interest.

‘Good evening,’ he said slowly. ‘Where’ve you been?’

Instantly Myrtle averted her eyes, not wishing to provoke him, but Jasper let out a low whistle. Myrtle retreated hastily into her room, closing the door. Then she got out her pack of cards and began to lay them out. It was her daily practice to see what misfortune might befall the family. The jazz had stopped and a door slammed. A shadow fell across her window. She caught a glimpse of Christopher disappearing into the kitchen. Ah! thought Myrtle, alert again. So
he’s
back. For some time she had suspected that Christopher was stealing food. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he were selling it on the black market. One way or another they were all up to no good. What else could one expect from a family of gamblers and drunks? The cards were dealt. She began to turn them over, one by one. Perhaps they would offer her an explanation.

Christopher left the house through the back with a parcel under his arm. The servants were resting and so, he hoped, was his mother. No one else mattered. No one else took much notice
of him. Now fifteen, Christopher found that Colombo had made little difference to the way he lived his life. He still came and went as he pleased and he still loathed Thornton. He would never forgive his father for sending his brothers to Greenwood while he had never even been to school. Rage, never far off, threatened to overtake him whenever he thought of Thornton. To distract himself he remembered his secret. For Christopher had a secret that of late had brought him immense happiness. None of his family knew that he had fallen in love and was conducting the most wonderful romance. The object of his adoration was a little girl called Kamala whose father ran a sherbet and betel
kadé
on Galle Face Green. It was to Kamala, with her emaciated body and her poverty, that he went with the outpouring of all those things he kept hidden from the rest of the de Silvas. With furious energy and great passion Christopher showered her with his stolen presents. He took food, money, books; anything he could think of that might bring her happiness. This afternoon he had found a cardboard box with some silk in it. His mother was always buying saris. Christopher felt sure she would not miss one. Picking up the box and a packet of English biscuits lying on the kitchen table, he hurried out. Jasper, who had moved to his lower perch, watched him leave with narrow-eyed interest.

‘Careful, my boy!’ he said, copying Aloysius.

But Christopher only grinned and tweaked the bird’s tail feathers affectionately before sauntering out into the sun. He crossed the road and headed towards the seafront. To his surprise he saw Thornton hurrying ahead of him. Christopher slowed down. Thornton was the last person he wanted to meet just at this moment. A bus passed and Thornton ducked suddenly, and then vanished. Christopher looked around, puzzled. There was nowhere Thornton could have gone. He glanced down the road
but there was no sign of him. His brother had disappeared. Perhaps he had been mistaken, Christopher thought, continuing on his way. Stepping off the bus on his afternoon off, Jacob looked across the road. He too was certain he had glimpsed Thornton. Heading off furtively in the direction of the Jewish Quarter of the town.

Having decided to do something about Alicia’s musical education, Grace went to see the Director of the Conservatoire. She had known his family from many years before, in the days when her mother was alive and used to hold concerts in their house in the hills. All she wanted, she told the Director, was an opinion on Alicia’s ability. Then she would sell her land to pay for her daughter’s studies.

‘Bring her to me, Grace,’ the Director said, smiling at her. ‘Let’s hear her play, let’s see what she can do first.’

The Director had a soft spot for Grace. He had never really understood why she had thrown her life away with Aloysius de Silva. Seeing her lovely, anxious face, he was determined to help if he could.