The Jam Fruit Tree

by Carl Muller

  Sonnaboy nodded.

  ‘My, I’m in Beryl’s class. Fine one you are. Everyday she used to come here and you are not to be seen and sometimes she crying also because for how long you did not come.’

  Sonnaboy stared. ‘But I’m writing, no? And she is also writing and she knows I can’t come because of my exams and all.’

  Maxine wrinkled her eyes. ‘I don’t know about all that. If so what is she crying and waiting for you everyday? Last week only she said maybe you are not coming any more because you have somebody else and now she is going home by the main gate.’

  Bewildered, Sonnaboy went home and there was Iris with a letter from Beryl and this confounded him even more. It also struck him as he read it that surely Beryl didn’t need a spice-box or a pair of size four kid-gloves and garters with embroidered roses. Surely not.

  Iris waited. Sonnaboy scowled.

  ‘So any reply?’ Iris asked.

  ‘No men, no time to write now. You tell her I’ll try to meet her.’

  ‘Meet her?’ Iris blinked.

  Sonnaboy nodded. ‘Now almost six months I not see her, no? Never mind what anybody says. I’ll go even to the school and meet her.’

  This put Iris into a blue panic. ‘But she telling me everyday please tell him not to come. If Mama find out then she put me in boarding or send to married sister’s place or something. You only causing trouble for the girl, no?’

  ‘Can’t be helped. What happens let happen. Can’t go on like this everyday, no?’

  Iris decided to attack. ‘And then what will happen to me? You go there and then everybody will know I taking the letters and all and Elva and I both get into trouble!’ and Iris clapped a hand over her mouth and stared wildly as Sonnaboy said, ‘Elva? What has Elva got to do?’

  Giving a little hoot, Iris bolted and was through the gate in seconds flat while Sonnaboy, quite perplexed, tapped the letter on his palm and wished he knew what was going on. Something told him that there was a mystery here. But what? He went to his table and looked at the stack of letters in the drawer. So many, and so full of demands for this, that and the other. And what the devil did she want with garters with embroidered roses? He had gone along with her without demur. She wanted a wash-hand bowl. Fine. A kneeling mat? Of course. One kneeling mat coming up. Will my love care to kneel? And Sonnaboy thought . . . a fifteen-year-old needs ivory napkin rings? And a lemon squeezer? He shook his head. He had expected to send her schoolgirl things . . . like autograph albums and those little songbooks from Paivas and perhaps posies and chocolates, but Beryl wanted gloves and a butter-beater. Also, that Maxine Foenander made no sense at all. He had to see Beryl. He needed help and he thought and thought. Then he made up his mind and went to bed that night feeling easier.

  The next morning he made a packet of all Beryl’s letters, dressed neatly and went to the Holy Family Convent, Bambalapitiya where he stood at the visitor’s parlour door and asked to see the Reverend Mother Superior. Old Mother Gonzaga, whose vinegary face was the dread of generations of schoolgirls, swept in and eyed the caller narrowly. ‘Are you a parent?’ she asked.

  ‘No mother, not yet, I’m not even married, no? I came to see you about ‘nother matter.’

  ‘Oh, very well. But I have a class at ten-fifteen. What is it you wish to discuss?’ and the reverend mother listened fascinated, as Sonnaboy related to her the whole story of his meeting with Beryl, his determination to marry her, his work, his promotion, the clandestine meetings with Beryl until he found somebody to carry his letters. Mother Gonzaga tapped a foot and listened and stared fiercely and clucked and shook a disapproving head and even crossed herself once, but she heard the man out. ‘And here,’ said Sonnaboy, ‘have all Beryl’s letters also. Only ‘nother girl say that Beryl waiting for me everyday now stopping that also because I not coming to meet. But yesterday also letter coming. Then I think this is funny, no? On one side writing and asking all sorts of things. On the other side she is waiting for me on the road but she knows I’m not coming and that’s why she’s writing.’

  ‘May I see the letters?’

  Sonnaboy handed her the packet and Mother Gonzaga’s eyes grew large as she read. ‘My girls,’ she said shakily, ‘my girls can write such things . . . Beryl da Brea . . . hmmm . . . in Form Four, yes . . . but these . . . ’ she shook her head, shook the letters and scowled. ‘You know, young man, it is very wrong of you to upset schoolgirls like Beryl in this way. No wonder the poor child’s grades are failing. Of course, you did right in seeing her mother and declaring your intentions and I know that girls of your community marry quite young, but,’ and there was asperity in her voice like a ribbon of lightning. ‘Beryl is my pupil and you will respect this institution and the girls in my charge!’

  Sonnaboy made no reply. This old woman was formidable and her magpie habit awed him.

  ‘Leave these letters with me,’ Mother Gonzaga said, ‘and come and see me tomorrow afternoon. Can you come?’

  Sonnaboy shook his head. ‘Can come in the morning,’ he said.

  ‘Then you should come at ten-thirty. I can give you a little time and advise you.’ She shook her head, ‘I suppose I have to thank you for coming to me with this. It never occurred to me that my girls could do such things. And there is more to this than meets the eye.’

  ‘Can I—can I see Beryl?’

  ‘What!’

  Sonnaboy raised a placating hand. ‘Going. Going, I am. I’ll come tomorrow.’

  The nun nodded severely then turned away and allowed herself a tiny smile. Impudent man, but quite a forthright fellow. Oh, she thought, what a tangled web we weave . . . . Now to take that Beryl by the ear and get the truth out of her. For Land’s sake, what did the child want a spice box for? And three hatbands with artificial rosebuds?

  When Sonnaboy learned that Beryl had not written a single letter and that he had lived for half a year in a sort of fool’s paradise (not counting the small fortune he had spent on gifts), he was a man to be shunned. He was almost paralysed at the news. Mother Gonzaga was very firm, very convincing. Beryl, she said, had never received a letter from him or written him a line. And Mother Gonzaga was satisfied that none of her girls had practiced this cruel deception. He had to look elsewhere for the culprit. She was sorry she could do no more but she was going to visit Beryl’s mother. Something had to be done about that girl.

  Sonnaboy had one thought as he got over the shock. To find Iris and tear her limb from limb; but as he cycled past Nimal Road, the packet of letters stuffed into his shirts, he recklessly turned into the road and pitched his bicycle against the low boundary wall. He was in no mood to trifle with latches and hinges. With a mighty kick he made matchwood of the gate and swept in. Elva, running out, saw what she took to be the end of the world closing in on her. Sonnaboy was fishing out a stack of letters from inside his shirt and at the sight, Elva gave a high squeak of fright and turned to collide with Florrie who was rushing out with a flour-sprinkled apron and grey hair straggling down her forehead. With another yelp, Elva turned, skipped past Sonnaboy and leapt the debris of the broken gate like a gazelle. ‘Where are you running!’ Sonnaboy roared, ‘I want to talk to you!’

  Elva shifted into second gear.

  ‘Come here, you!’ the voice blasted, rattling windowpanes.

  Mouth open and with a sound like a punctured piano accordion, Elva fled. She didn’t pause to consider what direction she should take when she reached the Galle Road. She simply swung left and kept going until the gates of the convent told her that here lay sanctuary.

  Sonnaboy turned furiously on Florrie who was staring white-faced at the ruins of her gate. ‘She must be the one!’ he thundered,’ Otherwise why ran like that. Bloody bitch, writing all these letters and putting Beryl, Beryl and taking everything!’ Neighbours ventured to the wall and Mr Schokman asked what was going on. ‘Bugger off!’ Sonnaboy snarled, ‘None of your bloody business!’ and Schokman buggered off with military promptitude.

  Florrie w
as one of those fighting Dutch (or Portuguese, or Irish, or whatever) and could give as well as she took, but even with the servant, Soma, creeping up behind her with the meat-cleaver she sensed that this Vesuvius of a man couldn’t be met with a show of arms. But she had to know what all this cyclonic activity was about. ‘Why you coming here and chasing Elva out of the house,’ she cried,’ not enough you upsetting my Beryl?’

  ‘Elva!’ Sonnaboy spat. ‘Why she running unless she guilty and playing me out!’

  ‘Elva? What did Elva do? She now going with ‘nother boy, no? Nothing to do with you!’

  Sonnaboy flung the letters at Florrie and turned to glare at more venturesome neighbours who retreated rapidly. Florrie contrived to flick through a page or two at random and croaked: ‘Beryl writing all this? Wait till she come! Saying homework, homework, and this what she is doing.’

  ‘Beryl? Beryl never wrote anything. This must be Elva’s work:’

  The old lady’s head reeled. ‘For what Elva write and put Beryl? She mad or what? And now God only knows where she went.’

  Sonnaboy picked up some of the fallen letters. ‘All these things I sending, see? Here, can see, no? what writing and asking. Now about six months. And where is all this? You think Beryl got? And fine one, you are. Don’t know your children’s handwriting even.’

  Florrie felt sick. She was out of her depth and there was Soma with a large kitchen knife skulking in the corner of the hall. She turned her anger on the woman. ‘Go and some tea make,’ she stormed ‘And why you not come inside and sit down, child. No need to be shouting like this, no? Can find out what happened.’

  Still simmering, Sonnaboy strode in and sat at the large dining-table while Florrie fluttered around nervously and Sonnaboy told her the story. ‘All your fault,’ he said severely, ‘When I come like gentleman you putting parts to me. So I told that Iris to bring letter to Beryl and—’

  ‘Iris! That black creature who always coming and giggling with Elva? Aiyo, don’t know where Elva is also. Soma! Soma! Bring the tea and go and see if Elva on the road. Ran without slippers even.’

  ‘Let run,’ Sonnaboy gritted, ‘So Iris bring me these letters and telling they are from Beryl. And I believe, no? What else? Nicely replying me, so how to think otherwise? And saying send this and send this and everytime I buying what ask and Iris taking and next letter saying send me this and again Iris taking and giving.’

  ‘My godfather,’ breathed Florrie,’ and all this Beryl asking and Elva writing?’

  ‘No. Beryl not even knowing I’m writing. Beryl crying and thinking I’m not even coming to see her and even telling friends in school she is sure I am giving up and finding’ nother girl, but I told, no? I loving only her and will marry her. All because of you, this. If have to wait six years you want me to marry her when I’m old man? And now that Elva play me out. Don’t care if she is girl. If I catch her I’ll break her bloody back!’

  ‘You wait, will you. Here, drink your tea. I’ll see in Elva’s cupboard what have.’

  Florrie dumbly discovered the makings of another demanding letter, a lemon squeezer, a thick notepad, a set of ivory table napkins, Pears soap, an egg-whisk and something bulky in a wrapping which proved to be a blue enamel wash-hand bowl. That Elva! My goodness! What disgrace she putting on her family and her poor dead papa’s name! And writing some more! My darling darling Sonnaboy. I’ll darling darling her. Florrie was deeply ashamed. That all this skulduggery could go on in her home and under her nose. And now everybody will come to know and snigger at her and point and whisper in church and who will come to marry the girls after all this? My godfather! If that Bertie knows will go and tell everybody how he have lucky escape and ...and ...and ....She was in a fever of agitation. She gazed imploring at the picture of Clarence and got no help at all. ‘Just standing and staring,’ she muttered,’ After leaving me and going and I have to put up with everything.’ She tried to spread the guilt: ‘How to know if that Iris put idea into Elva. Told how many times not to encourage that Iris here. Not good Burgher like us, no?’

  ‘But Elva writing, no? Both getting together to play me out. That Iris won’t escape. Put all her teeth in her stomach, wait and see.’ Sonnaboy then sprang another shock by relating now he went to the convent and of his meeting with the principal, and Florrie’s hands trembled and fluttered nervously. ‘My godfather! Now all the nuns know and damn shame in school also. Boys I have and never gave so much trouble.’

  Soma came in breathlessly to report that Elva had seemingly disappeared off the face of Bambalapitiya. ‘Aiyo, nona, way that missie ran, now in the Fort must be. To police better if tell, otherwise to find how?’ Florrie pushed her spectacles to her forehead. ‘And where, then, all the letters you wrote?’

  ‘Must be somewhere. Or must have burnt. Feel like telling this whole thing to the parish priest here. Fine way your daughter behave, no? Bloody rogue, that’s what she is. And you telling for me to marry her. Pukka woman to marry, no? That’s why from start I say you give Beryl and I’ll marry like a shot. You go now to Railway and ask. Now I am driver also. And in January going to Kadugannawa, transferred with own bungalow there.’

  ‘Chut, child, you think I don’t know you are good man? And you came anyway to see me with no hanky-panky. Only because Beryl so young I say no, no? And now all this nonsense. You can’t go on the bicycle and see if can find Elva?’

  ‘Can go, but if I catch her . . . .’

  ‘No, no, never mind. If see you she run again.’ Florrie wrung her hands, ‘If jump in the sea also, don’t know. As if devil chasing, the way she went.’

  It was decided that the nearby Pollock’s boy borrow Sonnaboy’s bicycle and tour Bambalapitiya, hither and yon, and the pimpled fellow set off in high glee and when more tea was being consumed, in sailed Mother Gonzaga with a snivelling Elva who saw Sonnaboy and wailed and had to be held firmly by the nun and slapped hard by Mama who panted that, ‘Good thing not with my slippers or will slipper you, madam,’ and dragged her by the hair to the bedroom and shut the door on her.

  Mother Gonzaga said that the poor girl had suffered enough and it was most reprehensible that all this should have happened. ‘Oh, I understand how hard it must be for you,’ she told Florrie, ‘Girls of this age need a father’s discipline too. But don’t take this matter any further.’

  Florrie sniffed. ‘Now not like those days, no? When my Clarence alive he gave them everything. Now only pension and widows and orphans monthly something so have to cut with cloth that have, no? But to do disgraceful thing like this . . . and even him coming to the convent to tell everybody. Could have come here and told me, no? Bringing shame for all of us like this. And that Elva now with nice fellow in the Customs also.’

  Mother Gonzaga tapped a foot. ‘So you should see that Elva is married. The sooner the better, I think.’

  ‘And I will marry Beryl.’ Sonnaboy declared.

  ‘I cannot say anything about that, nor do I approve,’ the nun said, ‘Beryl is a child.’

  ‘That’s what I’m also telling,’ Florrie said,’ but couldn’t keep quiet. Went to write letters and now see what happened?’

  ‘Well, I must go,’ said Mother Gonzaga, rising, and Elva, listening at the bedroom door gave a wail of protest. ‘Aiyo, Mother, don’t go. Leaving me alone. Will kill me for sure.’

  ‘I think Mister von Bloss should also go,’ the nun said.

  Sonnaboy pointed out that without his bicycle he had no intention of going anywhere. ‘Then you must promise me that you will leave Elva alone. Her mother will punish her for what she has done. You have been cheated by her but remember that by sending letters against Mrs Brea’s wishes you acted wrongly too. I cannot advise on these matters, but Elva has done much wrong. Send her to confession and let her make her peace with God.’

  With his bicycle back, Sonnaboy was also urged to leave. Florrie wished to sort out her domestic affairs in her own way. First, she needed to inflict on Elva a lot of torment which she decided w
ould be character-forming and necessary for the girl’s black soul. Then she had to assess what had to be done about Beryl. Then she had to get her gate repaired before street urchins took away the pieces for firewood. ‘Problems,’ she barked, hauling Elva out by an ear, ‘problems, problems, problems. Not a hum from you, miss. Bring all those things from your cupboard, and where are all the other things he sent?’

  ‘Iris also took,’ Elva blubbed.

  ‘Pair of rogues, both of you. Let that Iris come here again, will you . . . and where all his letters?’

  ‘Here. Put under my clothes.’

  Each request was accompanied by a rap on Elva’s skull. ‘Give all here,’ (clunk!) ‘ and go and light a candle.’ (clunk!)

  So Florrie took her troubles to Saint Anthony and bent her grey head and asked to be shown a way out of ‘this botheration’ and Soma sobbed and shook her head and blew her nose on her sleeve and looked as draggled as a half-drowned cat.

  Saint Anthony must have been in a mellow mood because he obviously came up with an answer. Florrie rose, put her spectacles into their snap-lid case and went to the dresser to put a comb to her hair. ‘Now Beryl will also come,’ she said, twisting Elva’s ear, ‘Go and tell Soma to make some tea and cut some bread for tiffin. And you go and wash and put on something else. Looking a sight you are. Serves you right for all your wickedness. You think God not looking, no? You heard what Mother said? In evening you go and tell all to Father Robert and make the penance he giving.’

  ‘But Bertie will come,’ Elva said in a small voice.

  ‘So take him also. Go to church. Let him also kneel and wait until make your confession. Now go to bathroom before I take firewood stick from the kitchen!’ Elva fled . . . and Beryl tiptoed in with eyes full of fear. Neighbours had told her of the rumpus and the broken gate and how Mother Gonzaga had bustled down the lane with Elva and about a huge man with arms like logs and the caterwauling that had gone on. Florrie hugged her and said,’ Here, all these letters for you,’ and there were tears in the old lady’s eyes.