Bone China

by Roma Tearne

  ‘It’s being held in the old Governor’s House,’ she said. ‘Next Saturday.’

  They washed each other in water Vijay brought up from the well. The water smelt of damp moss. Vijay began preparing a little lunch. He would have to go to work soon.

  ‘You know the place?’ Grace said, pinning up her hair. She leaned over and he fed her some rice. Then he kissed her. ‘It overlooks Mount Lavinia Bay. You can see this part of town from their garden. I’ll stand on the veranda and think of you,’ she said tenderly.

  ‘You’re going there?’ Vijay asked her in alarm. ‘On the night before the eclipse?’

  ‘What difference does the eclipse make?’ Grace asked him, laughing. She was aware that for Vijay, as for most other Sri Lankans, the eclipse brought insurmountable fears with it. Superstition threaded darkly across the lives of the Buddhists and the Hindus. But Grace had grown up untouched by all these complicated rituals and she found it hard to take him seriously on this subject.

  There had not been a total eclipse for eighty-eight years. The island was feverish with excitement. It prepared itself for the event in different ways. The British (those who remained) brought out their telescopes and their encyclopedias. They were interested in the life cycle of the universe. The Roman Catholics ignored all talk of it. The Buddhists, ruled as they were by the light of the moon, were understandably nervous. Unable to move away from the cycle of their own karma, they, like the Hindus, were trapped in darkness, hoping the vibrations of their prayers would protect them. Only Grace remained fearless.

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t give in to the ignorance of this place!’ she told him, knowing he wasn’t listening, hoping to tease him out of this nonsense. She stole up behind him as he prepared the food and put her arms around his waist. ‘You of all people shouldn’t let these old wives’ tales rule your life. Vijay, you know it’s all rubbish!’

  Vijay shook his head stubbornly. The old traditions were ingrained in him and he was not prepared to listen. He would have to go to work in an hour; he would not see Grace for another week, perhaps longer. There was no time for arguments.

  ‘Tell me about the wedding,’ he said, changing the subject.

  ‘Well, the cake is made,’ Grace said, smiling, not wanting to argue either. ‘Frieda and Myrtle made it together. With the cook’s help.’

  She hesitated. There was something else, something she could not put her finger on. It was nothing much, but her suspicions about Myrtle were growing. This morning Grace had had a strong sensation of being followed. Could it be possible that her cousin knew?

  ‘What about Alicia?’ asked Vijay. He was boiling some water. Grace had given him one of her mother’s old teapots and he was making tea in it.

  ‘She’s blissfully happy, of course, but…’ Again Grace hesitated. Alicia’s future made her uneasy. Out of loyalty to her daughter she had not discussed it, but what would happen when Alicia had children? As a family the de Silvas had their own strong Tamil identity. What would happen to that?

  ‘What will it be like for Alicia’s children?’ she asked tentatively. ‘Their father will be a Sinhalese. What problems will this cause?’

  Vijay handed her a cup of tea and smiled broadly. It was his turn to tease her.

  ‘Aiyo! So you have fears too,’ he said. ‘Are you worrying about becoming a grandmother? Even before the wedding?’

  ‘No, no, I –’

  ‘It’s a good thing,’ Vijay said earnestly. ‘Don’t you see? You should be glad! The only hope this country has is through intermarriage.’ He paused. ‘It’s too late for us, but for Alicia there is hope.’

  He smiled and the ever-present sadness lifted from his eyes making her wish her life back, to live it all over again, differently. But then, just before she left him, he brought up the subject of the eclipse again.

  ‘It’s not a very good time, you know,’ he fretted. ‘Do you have to go to this party?’

  ‘Vijay?’ she said.

  She had never seen him so worried. She could feel his heart beating. Vijay took her face in his hands, kissing her luminescent eyes. He should have felt dirty beside her, he told her. A scavenger straying out of his domain. But he felt none of these things, such was the healing strength of her love, pouring over the poor soil that was his life, overwhelming him.

  ‘You and your superstitious country ways!’ she teased him, hiding an unaccountable heaviness in her heart. She knew he went to watch the many demonstrations springing up in the heart of the city. She knew there was no stopping him, and she, too, was afraid. ‘I can come back next Saturday morning,’ was all she said before leaving him. ‘I shall say I’m visiting the nuns. Will you be here? Will I see you?’

  Vijay nodded. He did not want her to leave. A terrible foreboding had overtaken him. Next Saturday was more than a week away.

  Sitting in the taxi, going home, she felt the heat spread like an infectious disease. It carried with it an ugly undercurrent of destruction that hovered wherever one went in the capital. It was not good. The British, sidelined by choice, watched silently. Waiting. Those who loved this island, and there were many who did, were saddened by what they saw. But most of them, Grace knew, had predicted the elephants would soon be out of the jungles.

  Having finished her chores, having eaten her lunch alone, Frieda decided to go shopping. There was no one to go with her into Colombo. No one was at home, no one cared, but the fact was, she told herself with a trace of resentment, she felt very lonely. She needed to buy a present for the bride. Today was as good a day as any. Alicia’s wedding, just two months away, was threatening to give her a permanent headache. Myrtle’s constant questions didn’t help. Her mother was preoccupied. They were all busy with their own things. I might as well go out, thought Frieda, her eyes filling with tears. The sunlight was a blinding curtain, a bright ache of unhappiness thumping against her heart as she walked. Unhappiness shadowed her as she crossed the dusty streets. I am only a year younger, she thought dully, frowning with concentration, but look at the difference in our lives.

  Before her sister had gone to the Conservatoire they had been inseparable, sharing bedrooms, clothes, secrets. She had known this would change when Alicia left home but Frieda had been looking forward so much to her return. And then, unexpectedly, hardly had she completed her diploma than she found Sunil. Frieda had not anticipated this. She had certainly not expected such a quick marriage. The last few months had been terrible. Her headache worsened as she walked. A pair of cymbals clashed together in her head. Nothing will ever be the same, she thought, mournfully. Everything has changed. Once I was her only friend but now Alicia belongs to another. The words went round and round, beating into her head, competing with the boiling sun. Alicia has Sunil and she has her music. Thornton has his poetry. What do I have? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. So thought Frieda with a drum roll going on in her head as she hurried down the road to Pettah.

  On the way, much to her astonishment, she saw various members of her family. First she saw Thornton. He hurried past furtively and jumped onto a number 16 bus heading towards the east side of town. The Jewish Quarter, thought Frieda, puzzled. Who does he know there? Her favourite brother looked harassed. It wasn’t like Thornton to scowl. What was the matter with him? Next she saw Myrtle walking towards Mr Basher’s house. Frieda paused, wondering whether to call out to her. Mr Basher was a palmist. Myrtle avoided the main door. She rang the bell at the side entrance and went in, hurriedly. Why was Myrtle seeing a palmist? Then she saw Christopher. He rushed past on the other side of the street looking hot and fierce.

  ‘Goodness,’ muttered Frieda, startled, ‘we’re all out and we’re all in a bad mood!’

  She felt a little cheered, without quite knowing why. There was nothing very unusual about Christopher’s presence in town. Since the age of thirteen he was more out than in. What was more worrying was that he had two large cardboard boxes tucked under his arm.

  ‘Oh no,’ Frieda exclaimed aloud, suddenly alert, forgetti
ng her woes. ‘He’s stolen some wedding cake!’

  Why would he do a thing like that? Making a mental note to count the cake boxes when she got back she continued on her way. A slight breeze had sprung up. She was nearing the waterfront. Frieda entered Harrison’s music shop intent on finding a particular gramophone recording for Alicia. She was uncertain of the name. Lost in thought, she wandered around looking at the recordings, humming to herself, unaware of the fair-haired young man who watched her quizzically.

  ‘Can’t you find what you want?’ the young man asked, eventually.

  Frieda, puzzling over the problem, replied unthinkingly, ‘No, but I can sort of sing it. I think it’s a Beethoven piece.’

  She hummed loudly, marking time with her hands. She did not look up, mistaking him for a sales assistant. The boy laughed, amused.

  ‘At any rate, you can sing,’ he said. ‘Although I doubt it’s Beethoven.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Frieda, without thinking. ‘What makes you so sure?’

  The boy grinned and Frieda looked at him for the first time. But he’s English, she thought, confusedly. And he’s got golden hair!

  ‘Well,’ said the boy, ‘does it sound like this?’

  He sang the opening bars, conducting it with both hands and accidentally knocking a record off the counter. The assistant hurried towards them. The boy was right; it was not Beethoven at all but Smetana with his river. How foolish she felt. And how strange was the quality of the light, she thought faintly, noticing it as it caught the sharp blueness of his eyes. They were dazzling, like the sea at noon. Something constricted in her heart.

  ‘Robert Grant, at your service,’ the boy said, bowing over her hand as if he was acting in a play.

  Suddenly it felt as though a whole orchestra was playing in Frieda’s head.

  ‘I’m Frieda de Silva,’ she said, wondering why it was so hot. ‘My sister is getting married soon and this is a present for her.’

  The boy’s eyes were hypnotic. Frieda was unable to look away. Never had she seen such eyes.

  ‘She’s a concert pianist too,’ she said, her voice faint.

  ‘Oh? What’s her name?’

  ‘Alicia. Alicia de Silva.’ Then, with a boldness that was to astonish her, afterwards, she added, ‘Why don’t you come to the concert she’s playing in, next week?’

  Robert Grant grinned again. He had been bored, but now he was less so.

  ‘I’d love to,’ he said with alacrity. ‘Where’s it on and at what time?’

  The assistant, who knew the de Silva family, handed Frieda her gramophone record and smiled.

  ‘Hello, Miss Frieda, I read a very good review about your sister in The Times last week.’

  Frieda nodded. The orchestra in her head was playing a coda.

  ‘Is she famous?’ Robert asked as they walked out, and again Frieda nodded.

  ‘Yes. Yes, well, I mean, she’s getting famous,’ she stammered. ‘Come and meet her, meet my whole family.’

  Outside, the heat was solid and impenetrable. Robert wrote down the time of the concert and shook hands with her. There was a small flash of startling blue as he glanced at her, then he was gone. It was as though the sea, ultramarine and wonderful, had seeped into her day. Opening her mouth to call after him, watching his receding back, Frieda stopped abruptly, for what on earth did she think she was doing? Turning, quickly, she began to walk home and entirely missed seeing her mother slipping out of a dark unfamiliar alleyway beside the station, into the afternoon sunshine. As she opened her umbrella and lifted her sari off the ground, Grace had the look of a softly bruised and ripened fruit, with a bloom, not usually found on the face of a woman who had borne five children and lived with a man such as Aloysius. She looked like a woman ten years her junior. But Frieda hurrying home in the scorching heat, with her heart on fire, and a set of wings attached to the soles of her feet, her sari sweeping up the dust of all Asia, saw none of this. Her mother’s dazed and secret look was entirely lost on her. For now at last, finally, Frieda had a secret all of her own.

  ‘Yes?’ asked Jasper as she entered the house stealthily, adding to himself, when she did not reply, ‘Up to no good.’

  Frieda, pouring herself a long, cool glass of water, adding many ice cubes to it, ignored him, certain, even as the liquid slipped down her throat, that her world had changed forever since lunchtime.

  Myrtle switched on her ceiling fan. Then she unlocked the drawer in her desk and took out her diary. Refilling her fountain pen she began to write.

  October 28. A profitable morning. Followed G as far as the Elephant Hotel but then lost her. The taxi driver was exceedingly stupid and did not seem to understand what following a car meant. However, Mr B was very helpful. I gave him the information about the wedding and he agreed with me that the marriage is not a good one. Time will tell, he kept saying, shaking his head, gloomily. When I asked him how much time, he spread the cards. He is a very thoughtful and clever man and I am inclined to believe him. By the looks of things this marriage is going to be in serious trouble. Mr B asked me why I wanted to know so badly. There was no point in going into the details, no point in telling him about G and my suspicions about her activities with the British. I simply told him I wanted to save the rest of the family from further harm. Mr B nodded his head and told me I would not have long to wait. Months, perhaps, he said. But I had the distinct feeling he meant weeks. Then he gave me something else to stop the marriage. He told me what to do. I daren’t write the instructions down. All this has cost me a hell of a lot of money.

  Myrtle paused. She could hear someone moving about in the hall. Jasper was saying something. She opened her door gently.

  ‘Up to no good,’ Jasper was saying morosely. ‘Up to no good!’

  Robert Grant could not believe his luck. Having finished his degree at Oxford earlier that summer, he had arrived in Colombo to visit his parents. Sir John Grant had only a few more months as High Commissioner, after which he would return to England. Robert’s mother had decided it was a good thing for him to travel across the empire, before following his father into the Foreign Office. To begin with Robert had been bored. The embassy was filled with stuffy old people and the only locals he met were shopkeepers or servants. Then, just as he began to wish he were back in England again, quite by chance he had met Frieda de Silva. On her invitation he had gone to Alicia’s concert the following Monday and met the rest of her family. Mrs de Silva invited him to have dinner with them afterwards.

  ‘I know your father!’ Grace exclaimed when she had discovered who he was. They had finished eating and were now in the drawing room. ‘We’re very old friends. How lovely to meet you at last. I knew you were coming over here, but not when.’ Grace was delighted. ‘We used to play together as children, you know. He used to visit us at the House of Many Balconies. Your grandfather and my father were good friends. How funny! We’ve just had an invitation to your father’s farewell party at Mount Lavinia House.’

  Robert was pleased.

  ‘How long will you be in Colombo?’ asked Grace.

  ‘I’m sailing back just before the New Year.’

  ‘Oh what a pity. You’ll miss Alicia’s wedding!’

  Robert was startled. And then dismayed. So the girl Alicia was engaged to be married? Gosh! he thought, not knowing what to say. Suddenly Sunil’s presence made sense. He felt a sharp sense of something having passed him by. Something irretrievable and very important.

  ‘I forgot,’ he mumbled. ‘What a pity.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Grace told him cheerfully, ‘we’ll see you at the party on Saturday.’

  ‘Do you have a telescope?’ Aloysius asked suddenly. ‘You know we’re having an eclipse soon?’

  In spite of herself Grace shivered. Perhaps, she thought, confused, there will be rain soon. Briefly her eyes met Myrtle’s.

  ‘I expect my father has,’ Robert said, distractedly.

  He was unable to take his eyes off Alicia who was laughing with
Thornton. Catching sight of him looking at her, Alicia called him over to join them.

  ‘You know, darl,’ Aloysius said, turning to Grace, ‘hundreds of staff on the railways walked out today. The factory workers from the rubber plantations are joining them tomorrow. The copra workers will strike next. The Sinhalese are blaming the Tamils for taking their jobs. I heard on the news yesterday, the government expect things to explode around the time of the eclipse.’

  ‘I know,’ said Grace softly. She looked at Sunil.

  ‘Come on, sis,’ Thornton was saying, ‘don’t be so boring! Let’s play a duet. Tell her, will you, Sunil?’

  Sunil smiled. They were both such children! He turned to Grace.

  ‘The government told the factory workers to go back to work or lose their jobs,’ he said, his face serious. He shook his head. It was utterly unbelievable. ‘Trade in rubber and copra had fallen, you know. There’s not much demand for these materials any more. That’s the reason the factories are closing. It’s nothing to do with the Tamils.’

  ‘Of course, men,’ Aloysius agreed, joining in and beginning to get agitated. ‘This is nothing new, we all know this. Of course, of course. The Tamils haven’t taken the jobs. There are no jobs. It’s the fault of the war! Why don’t the Sinhalese blame it on the war instead?’ he asked belligerently.