by Roma Tearne
‘It’s my fault!’ he had shouted. ‘She did nothing wrong. She was a Sinhalese!’
He heard his mother’s voice, over and over again: ‘No, Christopher, it isn’t your fault. She was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
Helplessly, for tonight he was defeated, Christopher rang Jacob. He hardly ever rang him but suddenly he needed the connection.
‘Shall we meet up?’
Jacob sounded subdued. Christopher thought he could hear piano music in the background.
‘OK,’ he said, quietly. ‘I’ll come over to you. I’ll bring some whisky.’
Later, as they sat without talking, their loneliness blunted by drink, an unfamiliar connection rose between them. Mutely they accepted it. It was as though Grace was in the room with them.
‘How many more lives will be ruined before there is peace?’ Christopher mumbled.
In the orange glow of the electric fire Jacob shook his head. ‘I’ll never go back,’ he said, finally. ‘I hate it there.’
Thinking of the house where they had once lived, and the tea-covered hills with their many waterfalls, he began to see how impossible his hopes had been. Greenwood could never have lasted. Their youth, he saw in hindsight, had been a hollow promise. That was all. Now he didn’t even have that. Finishing his drink, he stood up. It was late; he had work in the morning.
‘I had better go,’ he said, reluctantly, ‘or I’ll miss the last train.’
Pulling on his coat he left. No, he thought, hurrying across the deserted street to the Underground station, he would never go back. He would never see his home again.
In his room, in the silence left by Jacob’s departure, Christopher pulled out a battered suitcase from under his bed. Peering inside he found the cheap plastic butterfly brooch and the photograph, almost indistinguishable now, of a boy and a girl in the shadow of the sun. He placed the record carefully beside them; he would never play it again. Closing the suitcase, he fell onto the bed, clutching the handle, holding it tightly. It was his suitcase of lost hope. His life in pieces.
Alicia’s pain sliced through the de Silva household, turning them mute. After the shock came a grief like no other. Then it retreated behind closed doors, horrifying glimpses, visible only occasionally. She was inconsolable. No one could have imagined such a complete disintegration. Like an injured animal she withdrew, leaving only echoes running through the house. Then one morning, almost twelve weeks after the funeral, a Buddhist monk arrived unannounced. After this latest massacre, and the involvement of the monks, the sight of an orange robe was enough to send most people into panic. The young Tamil servant girl, answering the knock, shrieked with fear. Myrtle, catching a glimpse of a shaven head, scurried into her room so that it was left to Grace to go to the door. The monk bowed respectfully.
‘I have been sent here by a relative of Sunil Pereira,’ he told Grace.
In the mahogany hallway his saffron robe was frighteningly bright. Frieda gasped. Aloysius, hearing the Sinhalese voice, came in swiftly.
‘What the devil do you want?’ he asked angrily, in English. ‘We are Catholics, here,’ he said. ‘We have no need for your services, thank you.’
The monk bowed. He was a slight, youngish man, probably the same age as Sunil. Grace stared coldly at him.
‘We are a house of mourning,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sure you can understand. Our son-in-law is dead. Please, tell us what you want quickly.’
The monk placed his hands together in greeting. ‘What happened was a tragedy,’ he began.
‘Yes, we know,’ Aloysius said, sarcastically. ‘We don’t need a bloody Buddhist priest to tell us that.’
Grace laid a restraining hand on his arm. She did not want Alicia to hear him. The monk stood silent. Waiting.
‘Why have you come here?’ Grace asked.
‘The man who is the uncle of Sunil Pereira sent me.’ The monk spoke softly, in halting English. ‘I have travelled up from Dondra. Mr Pereira, the uncle, has had a dream.’
Aloysius snorted and moved towards the front door. ‘Oh, get out,’ he said.
‘No, wait,’ Grace said, frowning at Aloysius.
‘Mr Pereira insisted I came to visit you before any other misfortunes come.’
‘What more can happen?’ Grace said quietly. ‘We just want to be left in peace.’
The monk held out his hands, palms upwards. ‘Mrs de Silva,’ he said, ‘I understand how you feel but I have come only to help. There is some sort of obstruction in your garden. The dead man’s uncle keeps seeing it in a dream. He has been having this same dream every night since the funeral. Please let me help you, Mrs de Silva. I have come with a boy to look for it, to dig behind the murunga tree. I have come to offer prayers. That’s all.’
‘What is this nonsense?’ Aloysius said loudly. ‘Clear off, men. We’re not interested.’ He turned angrily to Grace. ‘He’s just after money, darl,’ he told her pointedly.
Grace opened her mouth to agree but it was Frieda who stopped her.
‘Oh please, Mummy, please let him. I’m frightened. What harm will it do?’
Grace hesitated, uncertain.
‘I am not here for money,’ the monk said. He spoke firmly. ‘Just let me take a look in your garden. Then I’ll go.’
Grace looked at him; he’s young, he doesn’t look like an assassin, she thought. What harm can it do? Making up her mind swiftly, she nodded, and led the way into the garden.
The priest strode over to the murunga tree, as though he knew the garden well. Then, speaking in Sinhalese, he instructed the boy to dig under it. The de Silvas watched with a mixture of horror and fascination. By now the servants had come out and they too stood silently by the kitchen door, watching.
‘Darl, he’ll ruin the place,’ Aloysius said. ‘I’m going to stop this nonsense. We’ve had enough –’
Grace, her hand on his arm, mesmerised, held him back. A moment later the boy’s spade appeared to strike against a root. Pushing him aside impatiently, the priest grabbed hold of the spade and continued to dig, then bending down, he hollowed out the soil with his hands. They could see him tug at something below the ground. The servants gasped, crowding round as the monk with a grunt pulled up a long metal sheet. There was soil everywhere. He wiped the plate with the palm of his hand and the cook, seeing what he held, let out a wail of fear. The monk ignored everyone, continuing to polish the metal until it shone. Grace could see it glinting in the bright sunlight.
‘This is what I meant,’ he said, walking towards her.
Even from this distance they could see the crude drawing of a man and a woman, etched on the plate, holding hands, garlanded by flowers, incised by lines.
‘Here,’ the monk said calmly, showing it to Aloysius. ‘This is what Mr Pereira’s uncle saw in his dream.’
No one spoke. Then the old cook who had been with the de Silva family for so long began to wring her hands.
‘Oh missies, missies,’ she cried. ‘Who has done this terrible thing to this family?!’
‘Someone put a curse on your house,’ the monk told them quietly. ‘On your daughter’s marriage and on you. Only now can it be removed. I will bless this place with pirith. There will be no more deaths.’
‘Hello, Shiny,’ said Jasper, flying joyfully by, making them jump, seeing the metal plate glinting in the sunlight. ‘Hello, Shiny,’ he said again, before disappearing into the mango tree, heavy now with fruit.
‘Mummy,’ said Frieda, her eyes following Jasper, but Grace had turned and was walking swiftly towards the house.
‘It’s just a coincidence, darl,’ Aloysius called after her. ‘It’s superstitious rubbish.’ But he sounded uncertain.
Myrtle was laying out the tarot cards when Grace burst into her room.
‘Have you given up knocking?’ she asked sharply, but she looked frightened.
‘Why?’ asked Grace, through gritted teeth, grabbing her cousin’s arm, scattering tarot cards on the floor. ‘Why, af
ter all I’ve done for you, do you hate us so much?’
‘Grace,’ Aloysius said, appearing beside her.
Grace shook him off.
‘Have I not loved you as my own blood relative?’ she cried. ‘Did I not give you a home when you were homeless? Why have you wished my daughter, your niece, so much harm?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ Myrtle said. Her oily skin looked pale.
‘We are a Tamil family,’ Grace continued. Her voice was beginning to rise. She hung on to Myrtle’s arm, pushing her backwards and forwards. ‘We are just another Tamil family. Trying desperately to exist in the midst of so much ugliness, so much violence and hatred. Have you no loyalty, whatsoever, towards your own people? That you can only wish us ill? Tamils fighting Tamils, is that what this is? Or is it because she chose to marry a Sinhalese? Is that it? Tell me which it is?’
She let go of Myrtle, pushing her away in disgust. Myrtle laughed. The sound was ugly.
‘You, a Tamil?’ she asked, in a voice that sent a shiver down Frieda’s spine. ‘You, Grace?’ Her voice rose to a high-pitched whine. ‘No, no, no. Dear me, you’re no Tamil!’
Frieda watched as Myrtle’s face twisted and darkened. A nerve in her neck was pulsating. She looked as though she was about to strike Grace.
‘You’re a half-caste woman, my dear,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Your mother went off with a Burgher, didn’t you know? Caused quite a scandal in the hills. Your father was so besotted with her that he took her back, pregnant and disgraced. Don’t you know? You are no Tamil, my dear. You are the sort the Tamils need to be rid of.’
‘So,’ said Aloysius, advancing into the room. ‘So, your private grievances have evolved into politics, have they?’
No one heard Alicia’s door opening.
‘What would you like?’ he went on, easily. ‘A pure Tamil state? Let’s annihilate the others, shall we, keep the island for people like you and me? What d’you say? Let’s get rid of these half-caste bastards, huh? Only trouble is the Sinhalese would like us out too. They want this place for themselves. There are more of them than us, so, what shall we do?’
He had moved close to Myrtle, his eyes fixed on her. With one swift gesture he swept the pots of powder, her diary, and everything on her dressing table, sending them crashing to the floor. Then, without taking his eyes off Myrtle, he put his arm around his wife.
‘Get out,’ he told her quietly. ‘Pack your bags and get out. You are no different from the Sinhalese bastards. I can’t have such a person in my house. I do not want you near my wife, soiling my home.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to the club,’ he said, more quietly. ‘Pack your bags. When I return I want you gone, d’you understand?’
And without waiting for a reply, he walked out.
That evening, after Myrtle left and the Buddhist monk had gone, and the garden had been cleared up, Grace went to sit with Alicia in her room. She took a tray of food with her, to try to tempt her daughter to eat a little. She wanted to talk to her about all that had happened, to put the day and all its revelations into some context for both of them. But Alicia was not interested. Not in the food her mother had brought, nor in the events of the day. It had no bearing on her life. It could not assuage her pain.
‘I had no idea,’ Grace said, looking at Alicia’s pale face. ‘It was true. I did always feel different from Myrtle whenever we were together, but it was unimportant. I was so close to your grandfather, I used to feel sorry for Myrtle.’
Alicia pushed the tray away.
‘Whenever any of the servants commented on how very different we were from each other it would make your grand father angry. I used to wonder why.’
‘I’m tired,’ Alicia said faintly. ‘I want to sleep.’
She closed her eyes. She closed her mother out of sight. Politely, she dismissed Grace.
Thornton and Savitha arrived for dinner. Aloysius, coming in soon after, looked quickly at Grace.
‘Has she gone?’ he asked.
They told him that she had. He nodded.
‘Good!’ he said, pouring himself a glass of water.
Grace was astonished. Was that all he intended to say? There were so many questions she wanted to ask. Why was Aloysius not more surprised? Had he known about it all along? After they had finished eating she decided to walk in the garden for a bit. The day and all its implications lay heavily on her and she felt as though she could not breathe. She needed to talk to Aloysius but first she wanted to get her thoughts in order.
‘I’m going to see if Alicia is all right,’ Frieda said. She had noticed that Savitha wanted to go into the garden too. She could not face going out with her sister-in-law.
Leaving Thornton talking with Aloysius, Grace took her daughter-in-law out into the garden to see the spot under the murunga tree.
‘You don’t really believe in it, do you?’ Savitha asked after they had stared at the spot in silence.
Savitha was swollen with the child, for her time was nearing, and she found walking difficult. So they sat on the garden seat within view of the coconut grove. Beyond it was the sea. Grace sighed. Although she felt exhausted, this moment in the coolness of the evening was strangely peaceful. The garden appeared transformed by the fading light, and the sound of the waves came towards them, rising and falling very clearly. Savitha sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, carrying the new generation snugly within her. Thornton’s child, thought Grace. Small fruit bats murmured quietly in the trees. Now and then they heard the rich, deep sound of a frog croaking in the undergrowth. A feeling of benevolence crept over Grace. Savitha seems so dependable, she thought. If I needed her help she would not fail me.
‘No,’ she said aloud. ‘I don’t believe in any of it. What hurts me is that anyone could have wanted to harm us so much. That one of our own, my own cousin, could feel this way about us, about Alicia.’
She needed to hold the pieces of Alicia’s broken heart together. It was the thing that interested her now. Savitha placed her hands on her stomach and felt the baby kick. Looking at Grace, feeling the flutter of limbs, she thought, I am loved. At last I have my own family. At last I too belong. She wanted to tell Grace that it did not matter that Myrtle was a relative, that hatred was present in the most unlikely places. But she did not feel it was her place to say such things.
‘Alicia is very, very beautiful,’ she said instead. ‘Someone will love her again, one day. Wait and see. You must not despair. We are here, Thornton, me, Frieda, Aloysius. You are not alone.’
In the quickening darkness, Grace looked at her daughter-in-law. In less than a month there would be a baby in the house. We are blessed, she thought, nodding. I love this dependable girl. My son will be safe with her.
Later when they were in bed, under cover of the darkness, she spoke to Aloysius.
‘How long have you known?’ she asked, hesitantly, staring into the night.
Outside, the frogs were croaking again and cicadas vibrated the air. He was silent for so long that she thought he had not heard her. Turning towards him she saw his face in profile. He was tired, she thought; wasted by drink. His hair was thinning. Grace hesitated, feeling her heart move. Then she did something she had not done for many years. She reached out and touched his face. Aloysius did not stir.
‘I was never certain,’ he said at last, very softly. ‘There were rumours. A man at the factory told me some nonsense. I asked myself, who cares? Does the man whom she thinks is her father care? No. Well, neither do I. That’s what I thought. Now go to sleep,’ he said.
And he kissed her forehead.
In London, the ex-Governor, reading about the recent violence on Ceylon shook his head, saddened. He saw what no one else did: that a mantle of despair was settling like fine grey dust on the distant island, clogging the air, blotting out its brilliance and choking its people. And, as the dense rainforests turned slowly into pockets of ruins, and the last remnants of peace began to vanish, it seemed to th
ose who loved the place that the dazzling colours of paradise would never be seen again.
10
IT WAS INTO THIS THAT THE new generation dropped. All unsuspecting, bawling its head off, uncaring of any grief except its own. Red-faced in the heat of its passion, full of unspeakable need, huge tears rolling down its face, letting the world know about its hunger, its tiredness, its discomfort. Eyes screwed against the sun, fists clenched already in the grip of a mysterious discourse of its own. Then when its shell-shocked parents realised that dawn and dusk could occur in the same twenty-four hours without their once having closed their eyes, it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. And it smiled; a smile of such magnitude that it tilted the world.
‘My God!’ said Thornton, taken aback to find himself looking in the mirror.
Ah! thought Savitha. Here lies trouble.
She was looking at her husband’s face. He wore a look she recognised but could not immediately place. Then she realised. It was exactly the way Grace looked at Thornton.
