Bone China (35 page)

‘She’ll find someone else, soon enough,’ Jacob said consolingly.

And Geraldine, putting aside years of grievances, agreed. ‘Poor thing, it’ll be tough to start with but she’ll manage,’ she said, thinking how large-hearted and forgiving she was in spite of how she had been treated by this wretched family. Thinking of all the things she might have said, thinking what a stuck-up little madam Meeka had always been, thinking how the girl’s husband must have suffered (no one, after all, had asked
him
for his side of things), thinking how Savitha ought to feel shame but being Savitha she would not.

‘Poor love,’ said Mrs Smith when she heard. ‘Give her a hug from me when you next see her, ducks.’

Meeka had a vague idea of what was being said about her. She felt the pity, but a glimmer of something else, some small defiant spark, began to glow within her. She painted the inside of her house a sparkling blue. She painted gold stars on the ceiling. It reminded her of the ruined chapel in the House of Many Balconies. Her parents were regular visitors now, along with her uncle Christopher. Even Uncle Jacob came on one occasion to help. Her aunt Alicia, having acquired a contentment hard to believe, sent her loving messages, telling her to play the piano as much as she could. What a change is here, thought Savitha, must be a man somewhere.

Meeka was grateful for any support. Her brief and confusing married life receded. All that remained was the piano, its black lacquered presence impossible to ignore. It stood now in a room stripped bare of distractions, its polished surface reflecting moments of passing light. Savitha, watching her daughter as she played, listened to the music from her childhood float tenderly across the house. Listening, she was glad that at last they were close. It had taken many years, but they had come through. Her daughter was happier than she had seen her for years.

When Isabella was two Savitha and Thornton squabbled about going back home for a holiday.

‘Are you crazy?’ bellowed Thornton. ‘There’s a civil war on, people in the government are still being assassinated, there is still a curfew, it isn’t safe to walk on the streets. And you want to go back now?’

But Savitha longed for the sun. She longed for her home. It was
still
her home. Nothing had changed that. Nothing would. It was something deep and necessary, something connected with the land itself. Try as she might, the longing had never
gone away. She had swaddled her homesickness within her for too long. Meeka was a single mother but stronger, better able to cope, argued Savitha. And Isabella was an easy baby. But Thornton continued to refuse to go. He would not risk their both leaving Meeka.

‘What if we can’t get back? What if we’re
both
killed? Who will Meeka turn to?’ Their little granddaughter would be without grandparents.

In the end Savitha, agreeing with him, bought just one ticket. She would travel alone, she would visit Frieda, take her all their news. It would be a short trip, she would return in two weeks’ time. One evening, a week before she was due to leave, she baked a cake. It was the best cake she had ever made; the icing was pink, and the rosebuds were perfect. She placed it on her mother-in-law’s Hartley cake dish. She washed the Venetian glasses, the plates and the cutlery. She covered the leftover curry and swept the kitchen. Her husband smelt of whisky. What on earth was he reading now? He was getting old. It has not been easy for him, she thought, with unusual softness. Even though he would not go back, even though he always said there was nothing to go back to, he felt their losses keenly.

She would not be away for long. She knew he could not manage without her. Tomorrow morning, she told herself, she would go to her daughter’s bright blue house and take the cake for her little granddaughter. Savitha smiled to herself. The child was exquisite. When she returned to the island, she would buy Isabella some sovereign-gold bangles.

Tomorrow, she thought with eager anticipation, she would see Anna-Meeka and the baby again. Savitha’s heart lifted with joy. Telling her husband she was going to bed, she stepped out of her shoes. And out of her life.

Sitting on the InterCity train, with Isabella beside her, Anna-Meeka watched the fields rush past raked bare by the beginnings of autumn. A simple wreath of white roses had gone before her. A piece of music she had never heard before filled her head. Softly, gathering momentum, it rose above the darkening sky. Struggling to make sense of her grief, she heard it very clearly, cascading around her on this, her last journey to see her mother. The light outside cast long, luminous shadows across the thinning trees. Abandoned farm buildings with darkened windows sprang swiftly into view only to vanish again over the crest of a hill. In the twilight flocks of birds stretched endlessly; dark semiquavers across the telegraph poles, poised and motionless as though waiting to be played. They were heading south on a long flight back to find the sun.

T
IME PASSED. MANY SPRINGS, MANY SUMMERS
, many years passed. The weeks and the months ran seamlessly into each other and in this way eighteen years went by. With time, the house on the estate where Anna-Meeka lived became shabby, its pebble-dash dark and discoloured. There was never enough money for whitewash but it did not matter. Anna-Meeka grew Albertine roses and ivy across the worst of it. The newness of the estate wore off but her own garden remained a tumbling mass of green in summer and untamed branches in winter, tapping against the windows. Like the garden, tended for so long, so too was Isabella nurtured.

Many voices came down to her, Grace’s voice and Savitha’s and Thornton’s. All this Meeka gave Isabella.

Before Savitha died, soon after Isabella’s second birthday, she had made a cake. It was from an old recipe. She had made it with rulang and sultanas, raisins and pumpkin preserve, rose water and many eggs. It had been found the next day, resting on a blue-and-white cake stand
.

Sometimes on a warm summer’s night as Isabella slept,
Meeka caught the scent of jasmine growing beside the open window. It had been her father’s favourite flower; and also, surprisingly, her uncle Christopher’s. Fragments of memory, like shards of mirror glass, illuminated her thoughts and in these moments it seemed to her that other sounds, other voices, other hands, invaded the music she played. She played her piano nearly all the time now.

Thornton de Silva died in the fourth summer of Isabella’s life. He collapsed on the way to the library and never returned to his council flat in Balham. An elderly friend of his, a woman, rang Meeka. Such a shame, the neighbours said. What a pity he refused to go and live with his daughter, but he would not leave London. What a lovely man, they said. Such a stunning smile.

All through what was left of that summer and during the winter storms that followed, Meeka played Schubert. After her father’s death she gave up the job at the hairdresser’s and began to teach the piano. This way she was always at home when Isabella returned from school. After she had finished her lessons, she would play her old favourites. She played Beethoven; she played Schubert; she played John Field’s nocturnes. Then, softly, she played something of her very own. As yet it had no name. Filled with a new maturity, it carried within its haunting melody those things she had glimpsed many years ago in the head teacher’s office. Isabella, drawing on the floor, raised her head and listened.

Frieda de Silva, thin and silver-haired, stooped and sad, lived alone on the island. Like her mother before her she had glaucoma. She lived in the house on Station Road, surrounded by photographs of her absent relatives, in rooms shuttered from the sunlight, with a garden a wilderness of neglect. The house no longer had music within it and the piano ivory had become yellow and broken
as ancient teeth. Grace’s presence lay silent across the threshold of every room. Frieda wrote when she could to her niece. She told her about the nuns at the orphanage and about Ranjith Pieris, killed by a car bomb as he crossed the road. She wrote of the waste of a whole generation. Ranjith had begun to depend on her, she said. It was a long time since she had felt this kind of affection from a man.

After her father died Anna-Meeka toyed with the idea of visiting Sri Lanka with Isabella. But the war frightened her. She was settled at last and could not bear the thought of being disturbed. With the loss of her father she became reclusive. Small things made her anxious. Once she thought she saw Naringer Gupta in the street. It was her constant fear that he would return and claim Isabella, but Naringer had vanished long ago, back to his water hyacinths.

Nine more years went by. Alicia in Venice, where she now lived, had a bad fall. Isabella was eleven at the time. They had not seen much of Alicia although she never forgot birthdays and Christmas. Isabella loved the presents she sent. Her great-aunt wrote telling them about the concerts she held in her flat and the musicians she entertained. After her fall she became bedridden. Then as Christmas approached she caught an infection and was rushed by water ambulance to the hospital, too late. She died five days into the New Year.

One day, not long after they heard the news, a visitor arrived. He was an elderly gentleman. Winter cut sharply across the air, the evening sky was yellow and icy. Leafless trees dotted with abandoned birds’ nests stretched across the horizon. Christmas was over, spring still an impossibility. The visitor stayed to dinner. His name, he told them, was Robert Grant. He had been a very old friend of Alicia’s. He had wanted to tell them about himself.

‘No one knew,’ he said. ‘She was the most important person in my life.’

Robert Grant wanted to know about the rest of the family. He had lost touch with them all. Isabella, who had adored Christopher, told him what had happened. He had been staying with them when he collapsed last year.

‘He was like Aloysius, I suspect,’ Meeka said.‘He was an alcoholic. There was nothing we could do about it. He died as poor as a church mouse having spent all his money on drink.’

‘He used to turn up with two bottles of whisky and drink the lot!’ said Isabella. ‘He’d swear a lot and call us putha, and tell us all about his political rallies. Then he’d start calling Grandpa Thornton an idiot and Mum used to get upset.’

Meeka smiled. ‘They never got on, you know,’ she said. ‘God knows why. Christopher used to say my father was an idiot but it wasn’t my fault!’

‘He kept saying he wanted Mum to do something wonderful some day,’ Isabella said. ‘He didn’t know what but he always told her she would be the one to keep the family name alive! Didn’t he, Mum?’

‘Yes,’ laughed Anna-Meeka. ‘I think he secretly wanted me to be a famous concert pianist like Auntie Alicia. But I was never good enough. It’s all down to you now, Isabella, I’m afraid!’

Robert shook his head gently, smiling.

‘I am glad to have met you, Isabella,’ he said. ‘And when the war is over, Meeka, you must visit Sri Lanka. Take Isabella, show her your home, and give her back that part of her history. It belongs to her too. It’s important you do.’

He left them, disappearing into the night, an old man now, but still with a trace of boyish charm.

Meeka continued to teach the piano. She had lost touch with
all her old school friends years ago and had not been back to London since her father’s death. Only her daughter, her music and the garden held her, only here were the threads that anchored her.

Jacob de Silva, having sold his shop, moved to Ireland with Geraldine. Jacob never kept in touch. He had finally broken with the de Silvas. After Thornton’s death he had felt no need for any connection with his niece.

‘Too many years have passed,’ Meeka told Isabella whenever the subject of returning to Sri Lanka came up. Her childhood and its unwitting choices continued to cast their long shadows over her. Memories drifted aimlessly, mingling with the sounds of the piano. They mixed with the sunshine on yet another ordinary summer’s day and greeted Isabella as she walked up the garden on her way home from school.

So they did not go back. And the past with its stone gods and its impossible dreams remained untouched, like unused sheets on a bed. Occasionally, the island appeared on the news as a small item. Western reporters did not go there much, not after the planes were blown up on the tarmac of the international airport. Ceasefires came and went, human rights organisations protested about the atrocities, but largely this was a forgotten war within a flawed paradise, with nothing to offer that warranted salvation. So that the violence breeding more violence locked into the land and the island waited while a force worked invisibly.

At eighteen, Isabella was offered a place at Cambridge to read English. Anna-Meeka was filled with pride. Suddenly, she saw that from now on she would be alone.

‘Oh, Mum!’ said Isabella. ‘The terms are short! I’ll be back sooner than you think. And next year we
must
go back to Sri Lanka. I’m going to make you! You need to see the place again.
We’ll go together. I’m going to write about the war. I’m going to make people notice what’s going on there.’

Looking at Isabella and seeing her younger, stubborn self, Meeka was glad. Soon it was time for Isabella to leave. On her last night at home Anna-Meeka sat on the end of her daughter’s bed thinking how well they had done together.

‘You should go out more, Mum,’ Isabella told her. ‘Instead of just playing the piano all the time. Go out and make some friends for heaven’s sake! I wish you would meet a nice man. Perhaps if we go back to Sri Lanka you will meet someone like Auntie Alicia’s Sunil.’

‘Oh God! You sound like your grandfather,’ said Meeka. ‘That’s just the sort of thing he would have said!’ She laughed, for she could not have Isabella worrying about her.

But then, on a light summer evening when it was least expected, fate stepped in and took a hand in things.

It began with Philippa Davidson, who had been at school with Meeka. Philippa did not think she would meet anyone of interest on a Saturday walking through the centre of Oxford. Hordes of shoppers, youths munching burgers, tattoo artists peddling their skills, buskers with their sleeping dogs, homeless beggars, just like Calcutta, thought Philippa Davidson. She had never been to Calcutta. It was at that moment that she saw Meeka (hadn’t she married someone from the very place?) walking towards her totally unchanged.

This was not strictly true of course, she thought later. Of course Meeka was changed, but she was also entirely recognisable. And just as lovely.

Philippa was on her way back from the covered market. She was carrying a shopping bag full of fresh fish and cheeses. She was en route to the French baker for her walnut loaf, for
she was having some friends to supper. She was flabbergasted to see Meeka.

‘It is you, Meeka, isn’t it?’ she asked, peering at her, standing in the middle of the street with the man selling mobile-phone covers and the buskers’ dogs sniffing around. Her dimple flashed in and out and she tucked her hair behind an ear, showing a small pearl earring. Afterwards Meeka thanked God for that dimple. It was the only bit of Philippa that she recognised.

‘I can’t
believe
it’s you!’ said Philippa, and she bent and kissed her on both cheeks with a gesture of such genuine warmth that Anna-Meeka was taken aback. She had never really known Philippa.

They had coffee together. Philippa insisted on it. There was so much to talk about.

‘You must come to supper,’ exclaimed Philippa, halfway through their conversation. ‘Now I’ve found you I don’t want to lose you again!’

Meeka was startled. The last time they had met was at her ridiculous wedding. Remembering how she had shown off, Meeka winced. What, she wondered, had happened to Philippa’s parents and the wonderful sports car? She didn’t ask. She was cautious. Philippa too was remembering. She remembered Meeka’s dazzling father. Everyone had known how much he adored his daughter. What a stunning pair they had made. How ordinary her own family had seemed by comparison, how boring!

‘You were the most exotic girl in our year,’ she told Meeka. ‘You never gave a damn about anything. I so envied you!’ She laughed with delight, remembering.

Anna-Meeka stared. What on earth was Philippa talking about? She had been filled with angst, riddled with uncertainties and unhappy.

Pippa, as she called herself now, lived with her two cats in a wonderfully neat little village near Oxford. Anna-Meeka wondered why had she never married, or had children. Pippa answered all these questions with an open friendliness that drew Meeka instantly to her. She had cut her long straight hair. It was still blonde but now it had help from a bottle. Meeka could tell; she had not been a hairdresser all those years for nothing. They were the same age but Meeka looked ten or even fifteen years younger. Neither of them cared. It was as though all the indifference of their childhood had dispersed. Or maybe it was simply that Anna-Meeka was ready to give it room. Whatever it was, something affectionate rose up between them. Although Pippa lived alone she was very sociable. Her friends were a constant presence in her life, dropping in, teasing her, inviting her to the opera and crying on her shoulder. Meeka, listening to her stories, was mesmerised.

‘Oh well,’ said Pippa easily, ‘I don’t have a lovely family like yours. I don’t have a
daughter
. So my friends are my family.’

Meeka was staggered. Pippa Davidson smiled at her. She had no idea she used to make Meeka feel inadequate. She had always liked her. Seeing the loneliness that lurked in her old friend’s face, Pippa’s heart went out to her. If she was puzzled by the change in the once headstrong Anna-Meeka she kept these thoughts to herself. Instead, with characteristic generosity, she decided to take Meeka under her wing.

‘Do you still play the piano? I remember you were brilliant at music,’ she said.

‘It was the only subject I was any good at,’ said Meeka ruefully. ‘I was rubbish at everything else!’

‘Come to supper on Saturday,’ Pippa said. ‘I want you to meet a friend of mine, whom you might find interesting.’

‘Who?’ asked Meeka suspiciously.

‘His name is Henry,’ Pippa said. ‘And he teaches here at the university. In between conducting the Birmingham Symphony Orchestra. Wasn’t your aunt a concert pianist or something?’

Meeka looked wary. She felt cornered. Later she rang Isabella and told her.

‘Well, why don’t you?’ asked Isabella. ‘Go on, Mum. Go out for once! Get dressed up. You look great when you do. For goodness’ sake, what have you got to lose? If she’s an old school friend, what harm is there in it? He might be interesting. You can talk about music. You’ll
love
that.’

Meeka continued to make excuses but Isabella would have none of it.

‘Ring me tomorrow and tell me all about it.’

Meeka sighed. Her garden was looking wonderful. Years of planting and pruning had given it a wild, magnificent look. She would have liked to stay at home and enjoy it. But she went all the same, dragging her heels a little, because she had promised, and heard Henry Middleton’s laughter drifting through the open French windows. Some laugh, thought Meeka, hesitating at the front door, instantly wanting to go home. She might even have done so, had it not been for the fact that Pippa opened the door so quickly.