by Carl Muller
‘Yes, men. Have to wish the old lady, no?’
‘Don’t worry. Will get a drink.’
‘That’s what, men. How she can give everyone I don’t know.’
‘True, men. Real bottle that is. Saw on the sideboard yesterday. About quarter have. Pukka way to serve. Bloody bottomless bottle.’
Of course, Santa Claus had to come too, and in many Burgher homes it was Mrs Claus who performed the trick since it had to be between the hour of the return from midnight mass and around six a.m. As Beryl said, even if the children are dog-tired and go to bed at two, they are still up at dawn and if they don’t find that Santa Claus has been and gone there will be a hullaballoo of earth-shaking proportions. And as Beryl also said, the men come back and open a bottle and go to sleep at the table, so who’s going to put out the presents anyway.
After breakfast it’s open house. People come, eat, drink and go. They bring roll packs of Chinese crackers and boxes of fireworks and little gifts. The postman, too, is on his special Christmas delivery and is greeted uproariously and plied with arrack and breudher and goes wobbling on his way. By 10 a.m. the poor man is seated on the side of the road, head in hands, bicycle tossed carelessly aside and too drunk to do any more.
Sonnaboy had the Christmas tree brought in from Nawalapitiya. It was no problem to bring it to Colombo in the Guards Van of the train and then tied alongside his bicycle to be carried home. A real cypress and a treat to festoon with jets and streamers and balloons and the big gold tinsel star. Carloboy stood beneath its branches and took a deep breath. ‘Aaaah, real Christmas smell,’ and everybody smiled and said, ‘Yes, of course.’
Totoboy was in great form and said he would supervise the ‘cracker business’ after shrieks from the kitchen where Carloboy had tossed crackers into the fireplace. They ignited to spout fountains of hot ash and sparks on Iris who was, in turn, determined to put paid to this peace and goodwill business with a firewood stick. She had to be given a large arrack to calm her down and Totoboy took one look at the malevolent ash-spattered face that was his wife’s, shut his eyes tight and declared hollowly that the last day had come. The dog (Sonnaboy had a cross-Airedale named Bess) didn’t like crackers either. Bess gave a low howl and charged into Hatch’s garden where that man’s plump Australorp hens were ranging. This caused a stir that could have been heard all the way to St. Mary’s. And all the while corks were popped and Beryl plumped for apple cider and Leah took some wine while even Colontota said he would try some apple cider ‘because this is like fruit drink and no harm’. Bottles emptied with unbelievable swiftness and Cecilprins strolled in the garden and insisted that the lounger be put in the shade of the large sapodilla tree so that he could relax there. He had had three whiskies and said he was happy; so happy that he could scarcely think of lunch which was a most disjointed affair with the children eating first, then some of the womenfolk, because their men were still ‘drinking like fish’ and finally the rest sat down to ghee-rice and turkey, salt beef, gammon, roast beef, boiled tongue, stuffed tomatoes, curried pork and chillied potatoes and salads of peas, cucumber and carrots and as a whim (and because Beryl enjoyed the Jiggs cartoons in the Observer) corned beef and cabbage.
Sonnaboy went to Cecilprins. ‘Papa, come and eat.’
Cecilprins smiled wearily, ‘Tired, men, you just bring a plate of something here, will you. Nice under this tree. Better if had a jam furit tree, no? Like in our Boteju Lane house. You remember?’
Sonnaboy served what he could into a deep plate and brought it to the old man who nibbled at this and that and smiled and said, ‘If your mama was here . . . my, would have done everything, no?’
Sonnaboy nodded. ‘You eat all. I’ll bring some more if want. And what about a small drink?’
‘Later, men, later. You finish everything and buying again and then end of the month will come the bottle-selling time. Be a little careful, men. New school year also, no? See the expenses in January. School books also.’
This was no idle observation. January, the month after Christmas was affectionately known among the Burghers as the bottle-selling month. Empty bottles were the only encashable asset they had after the December revels. ‘Bottle men’ had their field days, going around with baskets on their heads buying up all the empty bottles which they in turn resold.
Anna peeped in on Cecilprins. ‘Look, will you,’ she told Totoboy, ‘sleeping like a baby. And hardly touched any food. Sin, men.’
Leah told Beryl an hour later, ‘Tell to see how Papa is, child. Now sun also hot outside.’
Cecilprins hadn’t moved. In fact, he would never need to move on his own volition again and Christmas 1940 crashed around everybody’s ears as Sonnaboy dazedly held his father’s, hand and felt the cold stiffness and with an agonized howl beat his head against the arm of the lounger. While the men milled around, nerves snapping against alcohol and the stark reality of death and the children huddled fearfully in the hall and Diana wrung her thin hands and urinated on the sofa, Beryl ran out to fetch a doctor. Totoboy circled the garden aimlessly, then sat on the doorstep with his head between his knees and retched. The pandemonium grew as the truth sank in. Papa was dead. Anna, Leah and Elsie clung together to shriek in so disturbing a fashion that everybody in the lane charged in and the doctor arrived upon a scene of total chaos.
It was the case of the fabulous one-horse shay. Cecilprins was as tough a Burgher as the best of them. Born in 1854, he was eighty-six and had taken all that life threw at him and tossed it back. A stubborn man, warm, loving, set in many of his ways, yet his was the triumph of the ordinary and the enduring. Joy and sorrow had washed over him many times. He never sought after success or looked for favour. He never asked, never begged. He fathered thirteen children and never railed against Heaven for the trials he endured and the losses he bore. Quick to anger, quick to love, no pretensions, pride or pomp. And he had died with as much of the family around him, including his grandsons and (perish the thought) far too many granddaughters.
Sonnaboy pedalled madly to St. Mary’s. His papa had to receive a blessing and the ministrations of a priest. He banged earnestly at the mission house door.
Father Robert of the Bambalapitiya parish was a dour man with a singularly one-track mind. In general he disliked human beings and considered that the species Homo Sapiens Bambalpitiensis was a flock that must stay within the fold. They—the sheep—must take due note of the fact that he was their spiritual shepherd and pay their respects to him every Sunday and First Friday and at all other pre-ordained Church festivals and ceremonies. They were to regard him as their resident priest and come to him in his domain. He took his duties seriously, but in the most absurdly literal sense.
‘Myee, Father,’ says Mrs de Run, simpering like the blazes, ‘we never see you go anywhere. Why don’t visit your parishioners once in a way?’
Father Robert would stare. ‘Visit?’ he would mumble, ‘But you must understand that I am the priest sent to this church. My duty is here in the church. How can I go all over? Only on Mondays I go to the Archbishop’s palace but that is our duty also.’
He was strictly a ‘work to rule’ priest and considering the rules that the archdiocese laid down, he remained glued to his church and never went to the mountain. Let the mountain come to him.
So when Sonnaboy grew tired of ringing the mission house bell and began banging on the door, Father Robert was most annoyed. Several old ladies had sent him Christmas platters and doubtless there was some tara padre curry too. This was snooze time.
‘Who is it?’ he asked shortly.
‘Father, open the door. My papa died. You must come and give blessing.’
This was unwelcome news. ‘Who are you? I have a headache.’
‘Father, open the door.’
‘I will not!’ said the priest spiritedly, ‘And kindly stop making all that noise. Who are you?’
Sonnaboy identified himself and the priest’s frown deepened. This was the fellow who thumbed a nose
at him and went off to Borella and got married.
‘So what is the matter?’
‘My papa is dead!’
‘Yes, yes. So who is your papa? Does he belong to this parish?’
‘He’s in Kotahena. Came to stay for Christmas with us, and after lunch he just went and died. Father, open the door and come!’
‘But he is not my parishioner. So why does he come to die in my parish? You go and tell the Kotahena priest.’
Sonnaboy heard and could not understand. The closed door infuriated him. ‘Father!’ he roared, ‘You open this bloody door and talk to me.’
‘Go away,’ said Father Robert huffily, ‘I know you engine driver fellows. Drinking all day and now coming to make a scene in the church. This is God’s house.’
‘You open this bloody door!’
Getting no answer, Sonnaboy stepped back, then hurled himself at the door which shot open with a crash of latches and hinges and was upon the priest before the man could say ‘Quo Vadis’. Father Robert had always been a stick-in-the-mud man with a tiresome sense of authority that rubbed many the wrong way. But his cassock had been his shield. Old Jonklaas had once said: ‘Like to catch and wring his neck. Bloody useless good-for-nothing bugger. Only sitting in the church and don’t care what’s happening outside.’ But Jonklaas had also admitted that his hands were tied. ‘Priest, no? Can’t put a slap even.’
Sonnaboy had no such constraints. He seized Father Robert’s shoulders with hands of iron and propelled him out into the street. ‘Walk!’ he roared, ‘Or I will drag you by your bloody beard. My father is dead and you will come and do what the fuck you have to do, you heard!’
Father Robert rolled his eyes wildly. This was truly a fiend incarnate. ‘Not a bloody sound from you! Just walk. I am behind you with my bicycle!’
And so Cecilprins was given a Roman Catholic send-off, albeit slightly belated, and when he was finally laid out for burial there was a look of amused satisfaction on his face. Christmas, naturally, was shelved and this time Viva and Opel and family came and also Terry, and, to his everlasting credit, Viva raised such a storm of prayers that even Cecilprins, wherever he was winging off to, must have turned back to stay awhile and listen. It was ironic. Maudiegirl’s death saw her family torn asunder. Cecilprins’ death brought them all together again and the brothers embraced and cried on each other’s shoulders and all was well with the world again.
(Except, of course, Father Robert, who slunk away and rushed with reckless steps to his church and sank, breathless before the altar, groaning and wondering, no doubt, now a happy Christmas morning could turn into a nightmare by afternoon.)
The fears of Ceylon becoming part of the theatre of war magnified after Pearl Harbour and Japan’s rampage in the East. H.M.S. Highflyer, the Royal Navy shore station in Colombo, became a hive of activity, and in Kollupitiya the R.A.F. base also saw large bodies of airmen who rode around in camouflaged trucks and half jeeps. Shore batteries were installed at Galle Buck and pillboxes lined the coast beside the railway to Galle, while in the north-east, the huge natural harbour of Trincomalee became the base of the Commander-in-Chief, East Indies Fleet. A submarine dock was built and China Bay became an R.A.F. preserve and the Army geared for anything and everything in Colombo and at Mutwal, where the Kelani River flowed into the sea.
Heather von Bloss was nineteen months old when the panic spread. The Japanese would certainly attack. Cedric Phoebus, who lived in 34th Lane, came to see Sonnaboy one day. ‘Must see the lane, men,’ he said, ‘all the houses empty. Even where you stayed, people all gone. Pukka time to come and get for low rent. Only next door Ratnayake still there. Everybody bolting. Hellish buggers, no? Japanese going to bomb Colombo, it seems and everyone putting the maaru (doing the bolt).’
Sonnaboy plied Phoebus with a second drink. ‘Where are they all going?’
‘Don’t know men, where running. Houseowners crying for tenants now. Those Joachims opposite, you remember? Went to Haputale. Rankines went to Nuwara Eliya. All going upcountry. I also going. You know your old landlord. You know what he’s saying? Guess what?’
Sonnaboy couldn’t and shook his head.
‘If can find a tenant will give for thirty-five rupees. How that?’
Sonnaboy was visibly moved. ‘I paid fifty, no, when I was there.’
‘That’s what!’ Phoebus crowed triumphantly, ‘So I’m thinking. This is Bambalapitiya, no? Not far from here RAF camp also. And near the bridge Army are in St. Peter’s also. How if Japanese come and put bombs? But Wellawatte not so bad, no? And how much rent you’re paying now? This is big house also.’
‘Sixty-five,’ Sonnaboy said, ‘Too much, I know, but see the size, will you. Two storerooms also.’
‘You come go now and see your old owner. Can get the house back for thirty. You say thirty-five too much. What men, you can save money, no? Get two bullock carts and shift in no time.’
Nobody in the family objected, of course. Beryl thought fondly of the long gossipy sessions with Ivy Ratnayake, who was, after all, a relation, and considered the move back eminently desirable. Sonnaboy and Phoebus inspected the lane of empty houses with sighs. 34th Lane seemed to be part of a ghost town . . . and this was true of much of suburbia. Everywhere, people were heading for the hills and those who remained were harassed by Air Raid Precaution Wardens and made to install blackout curtains and show no lights at night.
The 34th Lane house had its special attraction too. A deepset concrete storage room set into the rear of the kitchen. It was small, yet airy enough to accommodate the whole family at a pinch. It was, Sonnaboy pointed out, the perfect air-raid shelter. The house owner was overjoyed. He agreed to let the house for thirty rupees a month and sighed and said: ‘All right, you pay fifteen for first month but if you damage the roof you have to repair.’
Sonnaboy said he would and pointed out that he was actually doing the landlord a favour. ‘Actually, you must paint, not me,’ he said, and the landlord said hastily: ‘But you staying there, no? And anyway I am giving fifteen rupees.’
‘Only paint money,’ Sonnaboy said, ‘Then what about the work, and in the sun also. But never mind. Where the keys?’
So the von Blosses moved back to Wellawatte, to a near-deserted 34th Lane where the Phoebuses, the Ratnayake’s next door and the Melders at the top of the lane were the only residents, and Sonnaboy spent a morning on the roof painting a large red cross while Carloboy perched at the top of the ladder at gutter lever and bombarded his father with questions about why the Japanese would not bomb the house and why nobody else wished to paint the red cross on the roof. It was, as Sonnaboy told Ratnayake, just a precaution. The chore was not without its moments, though, for ther was a great hullaballoo around eleven when a long wailing blare sent Sonnaboy skittering for the ladder only to find that it had disappeared, whereupon he sat roaring at the edge of the roof with a pot of kicked-over red paint dripping all over the box hedge in the garden below and murderous yells to Carloboy to bring the ladder back. Beryl, on hearing the siren wail did what every mother was supposed to do. She took each of her children by the ear and and shoved them into the pantry shelter, wondering all the while what her husband was bellowing so lustily about. Carloboy, sitting in the cupboard, had quite forgotten about the ladder, which he had taken to the kitchen wall in order to inspect a house sparrow’s nest. Sonnaboy, stuck on the roof, waved his paintbrush at the sky and howled blue murder.
The Wellawatte Spinning and Weaving mills had this bullhorn to summon labourers to work and indicate the end of shifts. The siren had that piercing timbre that was likened to a cross between the bellowing of an angry bull and the howl of a mad dog. This, civil authorities determined, would serve as an ideal air-raid warning. Trouble was that from time to time the warning would be sounded in order to keep citizens on their toes. Some assiduous fellow would sound the alarm at the ungodliest of times—like a couple of hours after midnight, or just when all good people were seated down to lunch or, as i
n this instance, when Sonnaboy was up on the roof and Carloboy had moved the ladder. It took all of ten minutes for the siren to go to work again, sounding the All-Clear and the family, trooping out of the shelter were greeted by a stream of deep blue language where the ‘fucking ladder’ and ‘stuck up here on the bloody roof’ featured prominently. The Phoebuses and Ratnayakes came to the gate to point and cackle making the air over the house curl up like a burning sock as Sonnaboy kicked the pot of paint for a six, flung the paintbrush at the chimney and screamed venom at the neighbourhood. Eventually the ladder was replaced and Sonnaboy descended amid cheers and the determination to skin Carloboy alive while the lad fled and wisely decided to stay under a bed while Phoebus said, ‘So never mind, men, how to know siren will go?’
Sonnaboy was not mollified. ‘And if planes came, fine thing, no? Everybody inside and I’m on the roof. You think Japs will keep quiet? How if they dive bomb or something?’
Nothing, however, that a little arrack did not settle, much to Beryl’s annoyance. She was not happy. Of late, Sonnaboy was drinking too much; and with the war, the switch to the local arrack was yet another sign of the times. Quite suddenly, arrack was no longer infra dig. It was now the drink of polite society while whisky, soaring in price, was the special occasion drink. Oh, the times were certainly changing.
