by Roma Tearne
‘There will never be anyone else,’ he said, so softly that she could barely hear him. He sounded lost and older than his years. ‘All that sort of thing is finished for me.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Grace told him, quietly. She too hesitated. ‘One day, who knows? Don’t talk in this way. Things happen. Unexpected things.’
Please God, she thought. She wanted to say more. She wanted to tell him to be different from her. She wanted to say, make something of your life, Christopher. Don’t waste it. You are not like me, you have more possibilities. But she was silent, afraid of hurting him further. She knew the dark scorched places in his life could not be eased, and that the hurt he felt would not be spoken of again. Both of us, she thought, have learnt to control ourselves. The light had moved, evening was almost upon them, she could only dimly see his face. Her heart ached for her youngest son, for his aloneness and for his courage. England would change him further. He would grow a new self; wear it as though it were clothes. She wanted England to work for him and because of this she wanted to make his leaving as easy as she could.
‘If it is truly what you want,’ she said at last, her sense of hopelessness lengthening with the evening, ‘then go. I can’t say I don’t mind, because I do. But if it will help, then go.’
She saw clearly what she must do. She saw that Christopher needed a last desperate leap in order to propel himself into his adult life and she acknowledged with sadness that her presence from this moment on could do no more than hold him back. This last act of her mothering was the most important. The time for my needs has passed, thought Grace. And she let him go.
The morning of Christopher’s departure was dark and stormy. White-topped waves scurried outside the harbour bouncing against the small boats that took the passengers out to the big ocean liner. Christopher had one trunk labelled with the name of the ship. ‘FAIRSEA’, it said in blue and white letters. ‘SYDNEY’, ‘COLOMBO’, ‘CAIRO’, ‘GENOA’, SOUTHAMPTON’, it declared. ‘DECK THREE. CABIN 432.’ Jacob stared at the ticket. ‘Passengers are expected to embark at 1400 hours for departure at 1600 hours.’
Jacob was mesmerised. Never had he come so close to holding a ticket. He blinked owlishly at Christopher as though seeing him for the first time. Christopher, the runt of the litter, was escaping first, Christopher, the unexpected one, chasing the monsoons across the seas, getting away. Jacob was stunned. It should have been him. Whenever he had imagined this moment of leave-taking, he had been in the leading role. He had imagined himself waiting to climb aboard the motor launch that would take him to the ship. Looking very tall and serious, impressing the other passengers, his family, everyone, with his quiet reserve. But here instead was Christopher, unfamiliar in his new suit, surrounded by the family.
‘Have you only one trunk?’ asked Thornton, surprised.
Loaded no doubt with party political leaflets, thought Jacob.
‘He’s got an ocean-liner carrying bag,’ said Frieda. ‘I packed it this morning. It has got your favourite sambals and chilli pickles, Christopher. There are some ambarella fruit as well and a couple of Jaffna mangoes. Any more than that and they will spoil before you have a chance to eat them.’
‘I’ve put some rosary beads in a thambili, for you, darling,’ said one of the aunts.
‘And a picture of St Christopher as well,’ said Frieda.
She knew Christopher would not want it but would keep it because it was from her. At the last moment she gave him a framed photograph of all the family at Alicia’s wedding.
‘Well,’ said Jacob, trying to be magnanimous and show he did not care, ‘you’re about to become a travelling man and embark on life.’
Christopher, scowling and tense and with no sense of any new beginnings, suffered the wait while his family, together for the last time, solemnly wished him goodbye. First Thornton, his beautiful eyes filling with tears, no sign of Hildegard (where, wondered everyone, was she?), embraced him.
‘Look after yourself, Christopher,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ll be happy in England.’ He felt sad for the brother he knew the least, the darkly raging one, the one who made life harder for himself by always going against the flow. ‘I’ll write to you. These are bad times we are going through,’ he said, thinking of himself a little too, for wasn’t his own life undergoing a stormy patch at the moment? ‘I’ll send you a poem of farewell!’ he added.
Then Jacob embraced him and shook his hand as the English did. ‘We’ll be meeting soon,’ he said cryptically.
Frieda demanded nothing, Frieda merely cried, making Thornton sigh heavily.
‘When I have the schedule for my first concert tour I’ll visit you,’ said Alicia, wanting to be different from the rest of them in her new married state. ‘I’ll bring you some mangoes!’
Sunil had taken time off work. He alone looked relaxed and fresh. He kissed his brother-in-law on both cheeks with the genuine affection that touched everything he did, squeezing his shoulder, silently wishing him well. He knew the riots had affected Christopher deeply but he had never felt he could ask why. He hoped things would improve for him in England.
‘I hope we’ll meet again soon,’ he said smiling. ‘Take care of yourself.’
Myrtle watched them all. Today she wore her predictions like a tortoiseshell ornament in her hair. Christopher, she knew, was only the first to go.
Christopher waited, enveloped by the smell of hot diesel and his family’s good wishes, passive for once, silent as always, alien already. Until at last, the great horn blasting them back onto the motor launch set them waving. Until Frieda’s arm ached and his mother’s small strained tearless face became one with the sea of faces below, until he could distinguish them no more. In this way Christopher watched them slipping away as easily as the island itself with its coconut-dense edges, sinking into the sea. Slowly the waving became ineffectual and the enormity of the water a reality. Beyond the haze of sunlight, the ship turned from the safety of the coral reef, sounding its long last farewell home, before heading for the open seas. For Christopher, the mist forming before his eyes confirmed only that there would be no new beginning, no wonderful future ahead, but simply the restless movement and the endless cycle of his karma.
So Christopher was gone, flown the de Silva nest while Rome worked slowly behind the scenes for Thornton. The de Silvas, with their network of contacts in the Catholic Church, were able to call in a favour from a distant relative in the Vatican. Just two months short of his twenty-first birthday Thornton’s underaged marriage was ripe for annulment. Saved by a whisker, thought Jacob sourly. How did the boy do it? wondered Uncle Innocent, amazed.
‘So young!’ was on everyone’s lips.
‘What a waste! What a shame!’
Thornton the poet, the limpid-eyed heartbreaker, the lover of all the finer things in life, was left with no choice but to fall heavily and regretfully out of love with Hildegard. What a thing was this, thought Hildegard, weeping into the long hot nights. Packing her bags to return to a Europe she no longer had any taste for, running away as she had always run before. Vanishing (forgotten for the moment by all but Uncle Innocent), back to Europe where blue-eyed women cause less of a stir.
‘Naughty boy,’ said Jasper, quietly.
Jasper was growing old and no one heard him any more. The rains had finished for the moment, the tropical vegetation grew and the shuddering awfulness of the karapoththas, the cockroaches, seemed everywhere. The imaginary leopard cub that had prowled the edges of the garden during Alicia’s wedding had grown unimportant. Aloysius, aware of the distant rumble of violence, of Grace’s unspoken despair, was quieter, stayed closer to home, drinking less and seldom organising any card parties. Christopher’s absence had made more of a difference that any of them expected. There was a dullness in the air. The gelatinous heat shrivelled up the once green and pleasant parks. Who cared if the elephants had left the jungles? Who cared if they were dying in the towns? Elephants could not provide a national identity. Onl
y language could do that. Language mattered more than anything else now. This was the thing to provoke bloodshed.
The de Silva children were adults now. Frieda stayed close to home. After that first mad dash towards emotional freedom she seemed to shrivel, minding her father, whose liver was not as it should be, and her mother, whose silent indifference frightened her. No one noticed the flush of youth slowly fade from Frieda’s face. Thornton too was more cautious these days. Aware of the change in his mother, he was careful. Jacob had reluctantly found him a job at his office in the hope of keeping him out of trouble. Only Alicia seemed really happy. Sunil was in the Cabinet now and his dream almost a reality.
‘If only they would have a child,’ Grace prayed, ‘their life would be complete.’
Frieda, crying into her pillow at nights, dreaming of Robert Grant, thought, Alicia has everything except a child.
Alicia herself was puzzled by this absence.
‘Why has it not happened yet?’ she asked Sunil. ‘After a thousand days, why not?’
Sunil was not worried.
‘There is plenty of time,’ he told her gently. ‘We’re both still young. Don’t worry. It’ll be all right. Next year, when the rains come, you’ll see!’
He was busy in the run-up to the general election. Rumours of dissatisfaction among the Buddhist monks simmered beneath the surface, and in any case Alicia had her first concert tour ahead. There was work to be done. So he told her: ‘There’s plenty of time. Don’t worry. Let’s just enjoy our freedom while we can.’
In his letters home to Grace, Christopher painted a picture of England that was difficult to believe. His letters were full of the cold.
‘What on earth’s the matter with Christopher?’ asked Thornton irritably when he read them. ‘Why does he have to exaggerate everything?’
Christopher folded his disappointments in light blue aerogrammes, sending them home like small bullets of emotion.
Now that I am here I can see how wonderful it really is in Ceylon, he wrote. Our country has so much to offer, its past is so rich and vibrant. All we do is destroy it. Believe me, there is nothing here for any of us. I don’t belong here and never will. There is no point in any of you coming. Better to stay and fight for what is ours.
He wrote with an inexplicable longing, saying he missed the heat and his home. He sounded confused.
Everyone here goes mad when the sun comes out. They talk of nothing else. They sit in parks eating tasteless food. They smile at the sun, yet their lives are ruled by the lack of it. And when it rains, which it does nearly all the time, they talk about the weather then too!
‘Well,’ said Thornton, ‘Christopher has become like them. He too talks about nothing else.’
Jacob read the letters after everyone else had passed them round, and was disbelieving. He did not want Christopher’s opinions.
‘He’s making most of it up. When has Christopher done anything except complain? He’s just showing off. It’s fine for him to go to England, but not us.’
Jacob had still not forgiven Christopher for leaving before him, for doing what he had planned for himself. He could not understand these furious and confusing communications. Soon I’ll find these things out for myself, he comforted himself. Things won’t stay this way forever.
It was true. Things don’t stay the same, thought Thornton joyously, coming home one afternoon.
‘Look!’ he cried, waving the newspaper noisily. ‘Look, everyone!’
Finally, he had had a poem accepted in the newspaper.
‘Hurrah for Thornton, dazzling smiler, dreamer of dreams, and now, poet,’ said Frieda, seeing it. ‘His poem on the fishermen has been published at last!’
‘What he knows about fishermen could be written on a betel leaf,’ snorted Jacob.
‘Still,’ said their mother encouragingly, ‘as everybody knows, it is not what you know but how you say it.’
Thornton had indeed said it. Suddenly he had a whole new crowd of admirers to join the old followers. Grace roused herself and framed the poem.
‘Good!’ she said, determined to be cheerful. ‘Now you must write another.’
But before he could do so, one of his new fans, an intelligent, funny, dark young orphan girl from the south, arrived like a laundry parcel tucked under his arm just as the new moon was appearing. Where he had met her was unclear, Thornton always being vague on these matters.
‘Who cares anyway?’ said Myrtle. ‘It’s an omen.’
‘Oh no,’ said Grace, belatedly alert, anxiety gathering on her brow, ‘it’s the End!’
‘Good morning,’ said Jasper solemnly, and the girl jumped. And laughed, delighted.
‘Oh, Thornton!’ she said, excitedly. ‘I hope you’ve written a poem about him!’
Thornton looked at the girl with interest. A poem about Jasper? What a good idea. It’s clear, decided Frieda, struggling with an instinctive hostility, and a heart that would not mend, this one is not good-looking enough for Thornton. It’s clear, thought Myrtle, who could spot these things a mile away, that she is too clever for him. The girl’s name was Savitha and she was always teasing Thornton.
‘Oh please, smile at me,’ she cried, clutching her heart and pretending to writhe in agony. ‘I can’t live without your smile. Your poems, yes, but not that smile!’
Thornton grinned. Grace, listening to them, glanced up in surprise. Jasper, watching them non-committally, barked loudly, sending Savitha into hysterics.
‘Imagine Jasper with a tail!’ she cried.
‘Jasper’s tale,’ said Thornton, with a loud guffaw.
‘Don’t be rid-ic-ulous,’ said Jasper, with his usual randomness, sending them into shrieks.
‘Oh, don’t you see?’ said Savitha, hardly able to speak. ‘That’s the title of your next poem, “Jasper’s Tale”.’
Of course, thought Thornton, amazed. So amazed in fact that he bent over and kissed Savitha. They were both taken by surprise.
Savitha’s interest in Thornton expanded imperceptibly. Her friendliness began to extend to the rest of the de Silva family. She found them as enchanting as characters from a fairy tale. Fascinated, she looked a little closer and then she saw that all was not as it had first appeared. Thornton’s mother was a very beautiful woman but something was definitely not quite right. There was an understated air of sadness to Grace that surprised Savitha. Ever since she had been a little orphan girl, dependent on her observational skills for survival, Savitha had taken a deep interest in other people. And, although she hid it well, she had the softest of hearts. So that now she asked herself, why was Thornton’s mother so unhappy? Why did no one else notice? She’s desperate, thought Savitha, her curiosity increasing with every visit to the house.
‘Can’t you see it?’ she asked Thornton, serious for a moment.
Thornton was staggered. What did she mean? His mother was, well, she was just his mother, wasn’t she?
‘Hmm,’ said Savitha. She wasn’t so sure. ‘I think she’s depressed, don’t you? Every time I see her I feel she’s on the verge of tears. She’s lonely, too.’
Thornton was both flabbergasted and silenced. He looked at his mother. She looked just as she always did. What was Savitha talking about?
‘Perhaps,’ he said, struggling with the idea, ‘perhaps she misses Christopher. Although he did give her plenty of trouble.’
‘Oh, Thornton!’ Savitha said, laughing again. ‘You’re hopeless. You’re such a dreamer. Then again,’ she frowned, thinking her idea through, ‘maybe, this country needs some dreamers.’
‘How d’you mean?’ asked Thornton, puzzled. He had thought they were talking about his mother. ‘D’you want me to write political poems, or something? Be like Christopher? Is that what you mean?’
The idea wasn’t appealing. Savitha suppressed a smile. Thornton with his air of confusion looked like a little boy. The sight brought out all Savitha’s developing maternal instinct. But being wise she waited. It was at this point tha
t she noticed Myrtle properly, and for the first time.
‘My God, Thornton. What’s wrong with her?’ she asked, truly shocked. What was the matter with the de Silvas that they could not see how much Myrtle disliked them?
‘Myrtle does not like your family, one bit,’ she announced. ‘She shouldn’t be living with you. Look how much she hates Alicia and Sunil. She’s a jealous woman, isn’t she?’
Once again Thornton was astonished. No one had asked him this sort of question, not his mother, nor Hildegard. Savitha made his family sound like a group of strangers. He had no idea how to respond.
Meanwhile, Savitha was indulging in a delightful little daydream of her own. The more she visited them, the more she was entranced by the de Silvas. She had never had a family in her life, let alone one as exotic as this. They were all so lovely to look at. Grace in particular looked as fragile as an orchid in a storm and Aloysius clearly adored her. Although, and here Savitha hesitated, puzzled, the other de Silva men were a different matter. Jacob’s morose state was disturbing. He hardly responded when Savitha spoke to him. She didn’t care much for him.
Three months passed. Savitha was a frequent visitor to the house. Thornton kept bringing her back. Frieda noticed and felt unhappy without knowing why. The two of them were always with their heads together, fooling about, and Frieda felt hostility bump against her every time she heard that laugh. What would Christopher make of these new developments? Myrtle noticed too and was uneasy.
What does this girl see in Thornton? she wrote in her diary.
Savitha was having a wonderful time. She felt as though she had strayed into a play. She wrote a funny article for the Sunday papers and it was published. She can write, thought Grace, rising from her trance, astonished in spite of herself. Savitha knew how to dig the knife into society. She had not got the orphanage school scholarship for nothing. The article was about the Westernised elite who had no love for their homeland. ‘Our Troubled Isle’ she called it and it was brilliant. Sunil was struck by it. Savitha had articulated everything he had always felt. She had stated boldly that the making of an empire had led inevitably to trouble. Several people wrote letters to the editor applauding it. Thornton was unprepared for this sudden catapulting into fame. He had only been mildly interested in Savitha until now. It had been she who had hung around, disturbing his tranquillity, worrying him with her questions, pushing against his contentment. Now, suddenly, Thornton began to see her clearly. He fixed her absent-mindedly with an altogether different smile and the world tilted once and for all for her. Even Savitha had her weaknesses.
