by Roma Tearne
‘Never mind,’ added a cousin who had had four miscarriages and couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. ‘Try again, child. These Tamil fellows can breed, I tell you!’
And the cousin laughed suggestively.
‘You mustn’t make such a fuss,’ a neighbour told Sita. ‘It’s over now, forget it. You’re still alive, that’s the main thing.’
Sita made no reply. Stanley was leaving in less than three weeks. Her world was slowly disintegrating and speech came only spasmodically to her. Defending herself was an impossibility. Bee visited several times in the week after their return to Colombo. There had been another outburst of rioting and he was worried about the family. Sita had no idea that her father, also silent, was fully aware of her disappearing act. She had not realised that she was no longer functioning properly, nor that her womb had turned into a steel utensil, too cold and harsh a place to be inhabited ever again. Her tears, like her milk, had dried up, and outwardly her wounds were healing. A thick angry scar was forming across her abdomen, just in case she might be tempted to forget what had happened. She felt as though she were growing horns inside herself. At nights while Stanley lay beside her and Alice slept across the hall in her own room, Sita would lie awake feeling a devil had placed sharp objects inside her belly. It worried her that this devil might burst out and kill someone. In the mornings when Stanley awoke she said nothing to him about her tormented night. He looked and acted fresh as an English daisy.
Kamala, listening to Bee’s account of her daughter’s state of mind every time he returned from these visits, became increasingly anxious. Instead of growing closer to her husband, it appeared that Sita was moving away from him. Kamala’s greatest fear now was that Stanley might disappear altogether and that Sita with her indifference was encouraging him to abandon them and vanish to that story-book place called England.
‘No, Amma, he won’t,’ May disagreed, interrupting Kamala’s thoughts, certain he would not. ‘How can he, when her passage is booked anyway?’
Kamala did not answer, but her worry became so great that May took a day off work and visited her sister to see for herself. But when she got there Sita didn’t want to talk to her, either.
‘What do you understand?’ she asked May rudely. ‘All you can think about is your wedding.’
In spite of knowing what her sister was going through, May was hurt. Her hurt seeped out like morning light sneaking through a shutter. No matter how tightly she tried keeping it out, there was always a sliver present. May’s wedding was the only interesting thing that had happened to her in her whole life, and now Sita was belittling it and making her feel guilty as well. Namil, listening to her grumbles, shook his head, disagreeing.
‘Karma cannot be changed,’ he said gently. ‘Hers is bad, so we must take pity and not be angry’
Bee tried to refrain from joining in the discussion. He was waiting with angry passion for Stanley to leave. After that he would help Sita pack the annexe up in Havelock Road and then he would move their few remaining possessions to the Sea House. When it was time for them to leave for the UK, Sita and Alice would travel to the harbour from the coast. That was Bee’s plan.
‘The man is just spoiling for a fight, so best if he leaves,’ was all he said when pressed. ‘If he doesn’t send for them, will it be such a tragedy?’ he asked Kamala privately.
During Stanley’s last week, on the pretext of taking some etchings to his dealer, Bee decided to visit Colombo again. He wanted to check up on Sita and Alice. Sita was making some last-minute alterations to a pair of trousers for Stanley to wear on the ship. She barely glanced at her father when he walked in. Alice was still at school.
‘I’ve come to take some of your things back in the car,’ Bee said easily.
Sita pointed to a large trunk and two small packing cases.
‘What about the books?’ Bee asked, surprised. Sita had always been surrounded by books. But Sita shook her head. She would not be needing books where she was going.
‘I won’t be reading any more,’ she told her father with finality.
Whatever life they might or might not have in England, it did not involve books; of that she was certain. What was she planning? Bee wondered. To switch her mind off permanently in England? He stayed all day, partly because he could not leave without seeing Alice, and partly because he wanted to force Sita to eat something. He didn’t want to add to Kamala’s worries, but he was aware that Sita had almost stopped eating. Reluctantly, she cooked a little lunch and they ate in semi-silence. It was Stanley’s last day at work; he would not be back until much later.
‘They’ll get him drunk,’ Sita said, unable to stop a small, bitter smile hovering across her mouth.
Bee refused to be drawn. A vein pulsated on his cheek. The annexe had an air of impermanence and disarray. Stanley’s unpacked things were strewn everywhere. Bee noticed a pair of new leather shoes.
‘Oh, he brought them from Gamages,’ Sita said, following his eyes. ‘Well,’ she added, slightly defensive, ‘he needs good shoes for the trip, I suppose.’
Feeling the weight of his fury bear down on him, Bee closed his eyes. It would do no good to criticise Stanley. At two thirty, they drove to St Clare’s College to pick up Alice. Bee stopped the car outside the school gate.
It was like this, coming out of her last lesson, stepping into the blistering sun that Alice caught sight of them. Her heart leapt; she had not expected to see her grandfather today. Pushed forward on a huge crest of emotion she rushed towards them. She had had the most terrible day.
‘Grandpa!’ she screamed, running towards the car. And then, before she could reach it, she burst into tears.
In the two weeks since she had been back at school, Alice had struggled to recover the position she had lost within her class. Jennifer had stopped talking to her and Alice was sure it was because the baby had died. Perhaps it was because Jennifer blamed her for killing it? Everything, thought Alice, had gone wrong, and it was her fault. There was no one else she wanted to be friends with. The Tamil girls in the class looked at her curiously. She was supposed to be a Tamil, but she didn’t look much like one; nor could she speak proper Tamil. Even the food in her tiffin box was different from theirs. What was the point in being friendly with her when she was probably a spy for that Singhalese mother of hers? The Tamil girls had been warned to be very careful when they went to school, not to talk to dangerous people. Alice was not to be trusted and they did not want her near them. Lunchtimes had got progressively worse. This lunchtime had been the worst ever. She had gone to school that morning taking the picture postcard of Piccadilly Circus her uncle had sent her, hoping that Jennifer might be interested. But Jennifer, giggling in a corner of the playground with her new friend from Cinnamon Gardens, would not look at Alice.
‘Don’t then!’ Alice had shouted, stung.
And in a last desperate effort at indifference, she had cried out:
‘I don’t care, anyway, I’m going to England. I’ll have lots of friends there, wait and see.’
There was more to come. The last lesson of the day was always Singhalese. When Mrs Maradana the Singhalese teacher collected up the homework at the beginning of the lesson, Alice realised with dismay that she had not brought hers to school. Mrs Maradana stared at her.
‘Come here, Alice,’ she had said, her voice very soft. ‘Did you think you didn’t have to do your work because you are going to England? Hah?’
Alice shook her head. The class quivered with silent anticipation. Everyone guessed what was coming. Mrs Maradana was known as a Tamil hater.
‘Well?’
Alice said nothing. There was an agonising pause while the teacher opened her drawer.
‘Hold out your hand, child,’ she had said coldly.
The class craned their necks, all together, like atrophying plants. The air vibrated as once, twice and then, once more the cane stung her hand. Someone sniggered. The humiliation was far worse than the pain.
Alice, her mouth tightly shut, swallowing hard, had walked a chin-wobbling journey back to her seat. Twenty pairs of eyes followed her as she opened her desk. The rest of the hour had passed in a blur.
When, after an eternity, the bell rang signifying the end of school, the class rose and stood to attention, placing their hands together as though in prayer.
‘Aybowon, children,’ Mrs Maradana said.
Jennifer raised her hand.
‘Yes, what is it, Jennifer?’
Jennifer’s parents supported the school very generously.
‘I’m so sorry you lost your father, Mrs Maradana,’ Jennifer said softly. ‘I hope he reaches Nirvana.’
Mrs Maradana’s eyes widened dangerously. Once more the class held their breath, but this time the teacher smiled thinly.
‘Thank you, Jennifer,’ she said, adding, ‘give my regards to your parents. I hope that baby brother of yours is letting them sleep finally!’
Outside, the air shimmered translucently and the sky was a relentless gemstone blue. Children spilled out of the school building like a swarm of mosquitoes. It was out of this swarm that Alice emerged and spotted her grandfather’s car. She caught a glimpse of her mother in her old green sari, exactly the colour of an over-ripe mango. Sita hadn’t worn it for a long time, not since before the baby. In that instant the surprise of her mother looking her old self, her grand-father’s unexpected presence, and her smarting hands struggled within her and was no longer containable. Her tears, once begun, were unstoppable; hurling herself into the back of the car, she howled.
‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ Sita asked, knocked off balance.
‘What’s wrong, Putha?’ Bee cried, switching off the engine and turning round to face her in alarm. ‘What’s happened, Alice?’
‘Alice,’ her mother was saying, ‘don’t cry for no reason. Tell me what’s wrong.’
Alice let out a thin, lonely wail. She had not known she possessed such a terrible sound within her. Just hearing it frightened her.
‘I don’t want to go to school any more,’ she cried.
That night, when she was in bed, and her grandfather had gone back, Alice went over the events of her day. In the end it had turned out to be the nicest day since her birthday. Bee had wanted to go in and have a word with Mrs Maradana, but Sita would not let him. Bee had been very, very angry.
‘There’s no question of her going back to that place,’ he kept saying, over and over again. ‘She must stay with you until you come home.’
For once Sita had not disagreed.
‘No more bloody Singhala,’ she had said.
Alice was surprised to see her mother so angry. Her hand had stopped hurting and now that Bee was here she was beginning to enjoy herself. But Sita was working herself up into a rage.
‘You see why we have to leave, Thatha? You see what a waste of time it is, trying to make a life in this place?’
Sita’s face was alive with rage.
‘No Singhala,’ she repeated, grimly. ‘No Tamil either. Only English. The language of the Just.’
Alice glanced at her grandfather. He too was watching the sudden animation in Sita’s face.
‘Come, Putha,’ he said neutrally. ‘Let’s forget about school. I’m going to take you to the Galle Face Hotel for an ice-cream to celebrate our decision!’
And that was when the day had suddenly got a whole lot better. No one mentioned the subject after that.
But later that night when Alice had gone to bed everything got bad again. She heard her parents arguing with each other and held her breath. At first their voices were only a murmur. Then something thudded against the wall and her mother started screaming. Instantly her father’s voice got louder. Alice lay rigid in bed feeling her hand throb. This was how it always started. Closing her eyes, she tried to blot out the noise by imagining her room in the Sea House with its long wispy curtains. Whenever she was there the last sounds she heard as she drifted into sleep were of the sea mixed with the whirling of Kamala’s sewing machine. All there was here was her mother’s voice, distorted by rage, her words engulfed by great dry sobs. An object was hurled across the room. Alice strained her ears. Her mother was throwing empty coconut shells at her father. The shells fell with a thud, one after another. Where had she found so many shells to throw at him?
‘You’re crazy,’ Stanley was saying, over and over again.
He was no longer calm.
‘Crazy bloody Singhalese cow!’
Alice could hear him laughing an unhappy, pinched, laugh. The sounds issued from his mouth like a series of shots being fired from a gun. Her father sounded as though he would never stop. There was an out-of-control feeling within the noise. Alice covered her ears. The laughter changed.
‘Losing the baby has made you mad,’ Stanley screamed. ‘Crazy bloody woman!’
More coconut shells flew across the room. Alice heard one crack against the wall as though it was a head. There was the sound of water pouring out.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Stanley said.
In the silence that followed, his voice sounded uncertain and frightened. Alice could hear her mother. She was still crying but now the sound had changed. Her mother was crying in the way she had cried on the day she returned from the hospital; softly and without hope. Alice stared into the darkness, her mind a hide-and-seek of evasion. It was a moonless night; her hand ached. The day and all its many facets began to blur sleepily in her head. Since her birthday everything had become complicated. Before she had turned nine, life had been full of nice things, she decided dreamily. Now everything was a series of never-ending confusing events. Jennifer had come out into the playground to watch her this afternoon, satisfied that at last she was crying, giving her the proof needed that the caning had hurt. But it wouldn’t happen again, thought Alice, feeling her eyelids grow heavy. She would not cry like that ever again. In the darkness, lying on her back, she pushed her chin out stubbornly, trying to hide the fact that inside herself she felt defeated. Her friendship with Jennifer was over. In her heart of hearts she had known it would not last. I am not like her, thought Alice sleepily. Outside in the starry night there was the usual wail of police sirens and byla music. The sounds pulsed, like her hands. A drum was beating slowly beyond the trees and beyond that, in the distance, she heard the faint hoot of the Colombo night train leaving for Dondra. Closing her eyes she thought of her grandfather, who would hear it too as it passed Mount Lavinia in an hour. The thought filled her with contentment.
The next morning, Stanley’s last complete day on the island began with the usual bright unending sunshine. In twenty-four hours he would be on the ship sailing towards the Suez Canal, heading for England. At last his dream was coming true. He had looked at the small route map that came with his ticket so often that it had torn along its folds. The ship he would be travelling on was coming from Melbourne. It would make its way via Aden into the Mediterranean. Even the name signified romance for him. Greece would follow, he thought sighing with pleasure. Ever since his boyhood days he had had a secret desire to visit Greece. There was a slight possibility that he might be able to leave the ship when it docked. He wanted to see the Parthenon, hear the Greeks speak in their language, experience the cradle of civilisation for himself. He kept all such plans to himself, knowing Sita would only fuss about his safety or the added expense of disembarking and joining a tour. The only thing that seemed to interest her was that he got a job in England.
‘The sooner we can get Alice out of here, the better,’ she kept telling him.
Of course he would do his duty, Alice needed to get to a safe place, but Sita did not seem to recognise he would not have another chance for a holiday.
Stanley stared at the molten light flickering on the ceiling. He moved his legs lazily across the bed. Tomorrow at this time he would be heading for the harbour. He smiled. Then h
e remembered they had had another fight last night. What had this one been about? Perhaps it was because he had been late home? Had he been drunk? He couldn’t remember. It’s my money, anyway, thought Stanley, and he swung his legs on to the floor. Coconut shells littered the ground. What the devil are they doing here? he wondered. He was just opening his mouth to call Sita when what had happened came back to him. Crazy woman, he thought, shaking his head. Mad as a hatter! He gave a short, barking, laugh and followed the sound of the sewing machine into the sitting room. What the hell was she sewing now? His trunk was packed and ready. Sita looked up at the sound of his footsteps. Her eyes had dark rings around them and Stanley looked quickly away.
‘You need to weigh it,’ she said, pointing at the trunk. ‘You’ll have to find a pair of scales from someone.’
Stanley nodded, relieved she wasn’t shouting. Yawning, he started buttoning his shirt up.
‘Where’s Alice?’
‘She’s playing with the cat next door.’
Stanley snorted but refrained from comment.
‘Do you want some tea?
He nodded, glancing at her as she left the room. Sita’s face was closed; she looked as though she might have been crying again. He sighed heavily. What the hell, he thought. It wasn’t that he hadn’t any sympathy for her. He had. He felt the injustice of what had happened, if not the physical loss of the baby, as much as any husband in his position could. Sita came in with a tray. She had a plate with an egg hopper on it and some juggery. There were two teacups, a pot of tea and a jug of boiled milk. She had made hoppers for him, knowing it was his last day. Unexpectedly he was overcome by a feeling of pity for her. She was still a good-looking woman, he decided, glancing at her sideways. Although the doctor had said there should be nothing intimate for a few months, he wondered if she would refuse him, on this, his last day. Who knows what might happen to me, he thought, a chill of self-pity passing over him. I might be the one to die next. But at that instant he heard the child’s voice through the doorway, talking to next-door’s cat. Sex would not be possible with her around.
