by Roma Tearne
‘Here,’ said Thornton, ‘have some of the vadi Frieda made.’
Somehow the sight of Frieda’s present, prepared for this exact moment, made him unable to say more. Anna-Meeka looked at her father curiously. He was behaving in a very odd way. Was he going to cry? She helped herself to the vadi ignoring Savitha’s frown. Christopher was the first to recover. He considered Thornton with satisfaction. He’s much blacker than me, he thought, trying not to laugh.
Thornton was thinking too. He’s fat, he thought, mildly surprised, and not so black! And there’s something different about him. What is it? Christopher, noticing the look, patted his stomach and grinned. He was indeed fatter. The lean hurt look had left him, vanished into an unattainable past; the despair so transparent at Kamala’s death had hardened into something else entirely.
‘Hmm,’ muttered Savitha, folding her lips. She had just noticed a bottle of whisky in her brother-in-law’s coat pocket. But Christopher, giving her a challenging look, burst out laughing. It seemed Thornton had found himself a conventional woman. It was only to be expected. The old spark of jealousy, never fully dampened, flared up momentarily. Thornton always managed to get everything he wanted: an education, a wife, a child.
‘I need a drink,’ Christopher said out loud. ‘I need a drink to get through this bloody reunion.’
Thornton frowned but Christopher, ignoring him, turned to Savitha.
‘I say,’ he said, ‘give me a glass, will you? I want to drink to your arrival!’
And he took the bottle out of his pocket and offered it to his sister-in-law with a mocking bow. In spite of himself Thornton was surprised. How had Christopher, always so silent at home, become this confident?
‘Can I have another vadi?’ asked Meeka, getting bored with the atmosphere. She helped herself to three.
‘Anna-Meeka!’ said Savitha. She spoke more sharply than she meant because she was embarrassed. ‘Don’t take three. What’s the matter with you, child?’
‘I’m hungry,’ said Meeka, stuffing vadi into her mouth quickly.
Hmm, thought Jacob who had been observing it all from a point of some detachment, I can see there’s going to be trouble here. He blinked owlishly, hoping the new arrivals would not cause him any headaches. He knew what Thornton was like. Did Savitha know about Hildegard?
‘Do I look like my photographs, Uncle Christopher?’ asked Meeka suddenly, smiling up at him, sensing her mother’s dislike.
‘More tea, Jacob?’ asked Savitha sweetly, holding out her hand for his cup.
Looking around at his family Thornton was confused. They seemed strangers. It made him weary. Jacob looked disapproving. Thornton hoped they would not start any unsuitable stories from his past. There was the child to think about now. What did any of his brothers understand about family life? Christopher was not listening to any of them. He was looking at Anna-Meeka, seeing her properly for the first time. But she’s wonderful, he thought with delight. How on earth did these two idiots produce her? She should be mine!
‘How many years is it since you three met?’ asked Savitha for something to say, as if she didn’t know.
There was nothing impressive about the de Silva men, she decided. There were too many of them, in her opinion, crowding into this small sitting room, standing all together, just like a clan. Savitha wrinkled her nose with distaste. It was clear they needed their mother to keep them in order. Silently, Savitha gave them more tea.
‘I love London! I can’t wait to go to school here,’ said Meeka. And she danced between them and their long shadows.
They tried to pick up where their letters had left off.
‘So poor Jasper’s dead,’ Christopher observed.
‘Jasper!’ cried Meeka, delighted, wanting to talk about him.
Yes, that’s it! thought Jacob, who had been puzzling over it. The child reminded him of Jasper. Something about the way she fixed them with her eye, something about her darting movements. It was worrying. They would have to be careful, speak guardedly if necessary.
But something had changed overnight. Summer had moved swiftly, even as they slept, into a landscape chilled at the edges and tinted with the subtle unmistakable smell of autumn. The early-morning sunlight on the grass looked damp. Surely it was not possible? Thornton ventured timidly out into this cataclysmic change. The breeze was sharp and unwelcoming. He walked on the neat grey paving slabs carpeted by golden plane leaves that fell at his feet. His feet, too, seemed to belong in some strange land, clad in unfamiliar shoes, walking on unfamiliar missions.
‘How do I get to South Walk?’ he asked the girl in the library. The girl’s hair fell like a curtain of gold, ramrod straight, silky as the cashmere sari his wife had worn on their wedding day. Tossing it back from her face, moving threads of it from her mouth, she laughed a little.
‘South Walk? Do you mean Southwark?’ she said.
She was unprepared for his smile. Lighting up the corners of her desk, alighting on her card indexes, softly tinting the long high windows until it seemed as though strains of some unidentifiable music filtered through them.
Why, it was sheer poetry, thought the girl confused, watching as the smile hovered over the bunch of ochre-pink chrysanthemums. She had bought them on impulse, at the tube station that morning, never knowing how the day, this ordinary day, would present itself to her, like a bunch of glorious late-summer flowers. Exactly like the flowers, changed by the light, so too was her day altered by that smile. Sensing this, Thornton felt gladness flutter faintly, a small bird of continuity, the feathery down of hope, in his heart. Clearing a path through the leaves he headed for the river and his interview.
Later, returning home in the gloom, marvelling at how swiftly the night descended, he told Savitha he had got the job.
‘Now at least we will have a proper income,’ he said proudly.
Savitha did not answer. She was preoccupied with the jar of seeni sambals from home, a casualty of the journey, covered in white inedible fur. She had been saving it for this very occasion and now she had no contribution to the celebration. So she was silent. The journey had left her disorientated and defeated. She had not expected to feel this way. In the short time that they had been here her homesickness had increased rather than lessened. She carried it heavily in her jacket, bound tightly in place by her sari, wrapped close against her breast, out of sight from the rapidly cooling air. The kitchen smelt of paraffin.
‘I must trim the wick,’ said Thornton, thinking over his day, remembering the girl with ramrod hair, smiling so that Anna-Meeka, watching him curiously asked, ‘What are you smiling about, Daddy?’
Tomorrow was the beginning of the new school term. Meeka had already visited her school. It was nice. There was a carpet in the headmaster’s office but nowhere else.
‘Because of the mud,’ the headmaster had said. ‘It would be too difficult to keep a carpet clean.’
Meeka knew about mud. Mud came with the monsoon. But then the rains went away, and so did the mud. Was it going to rain here all the time? Was it going to rain and be cold at the same time? When? When was this going to happen? The headmaster had smiled.
‘Her English is very fluent,’ he said to Meeka’s mother. ‘We’ll try her in the top class to start with.’ Then he had turned to Meeka. ‘The weather is wonderful this year in England, Meeka. It is what we call an Indian summer.’
He had gazed gently at the child seeing the brightness within her face. He hoped she would settle but he could see it would not be easy. She was rather exotic for this part of Brixton, he thought. And so he chose her class with care.
The night before her school term started the brothers called round. Anna-Meeka had gone to bed, much to Christopher’s disappointment. She was still exhausted from the journey.
‘Here,’ said Christopher, pushing some money into Savitha’s hand. ‘Buy her some chocolates from me.’
‘Now, you must be firm with her,’ Jacob began when they sat down to eat. ‘You know B
rixton is a dangerous place. The area is full of working-class people. You’ll see what I mean after a while.’
‘What’s wrong with working-class people, ah?’ asked Christopher challengingly, helping himself to Savitha’s excellent fish curry. At least the conventional woman could cook, he thought. He paused and glared at Jacob.
‘Don’t start, men,’ Jacob said hastily, catching Savitha’s eye. ‘I’m talking about the child’s education. It’s important that she only mixes with the right people.’
Christopher opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind and laughed instead. Without waiting to be asked, he helped himself to more rice. Once again Thornton was struck by his brother’s lack of manners. At home they had waited to be served. But Christopher seemed to have forgotten his upbringing. It made Thornton uneasy. And added to his homesickness.
‘I say, Anna-Meeka is very clever,’ he told them, changing the subject. ‘Ask Savitha. She’s a little difficult, you know, but clever all the same.’
They ate in silence.
‘She will probably study medicine one day,’ he added casually.
Jacob glanced up. He had heard all about his niece from Frieda’s letters. He could tell they all thought the child was some sort of genius.
‘I’ve lived here longer than you,’ he said, at last, finishing his food and taking a gulp of water. He had not eaten anything so spicy for a long time and it was burning his mouth. ‘This isn’t Colombo, you know.’ He hesitated, wanting to find the right words, trying to make Thornton understand. ‘Don’t have too many hopes, men. In this country ambition alone isn’t enough. You need much more than ambition here.’
Unable to say what was needed he paused. ‘You have no idea what being a foreigner in Britain is like, men,’ he said, adding confusingly, ‘Even going to the moon means nothing here in Brixton. Have you heard of the Swinging Sixties, for instance? Hah?’
Thornton looked at him blankly and Jacob nodded at him grimly. It was patently clear that the Swinging Sixties had not entered Thornton’s consciousness yet, much less Meeka’s. As far as Jacob could see, hell was merely in abeyance.
‘Wait, men, I tell you, things aren’t that easy,’ he advised.
It was perfectly clear to Jacob, from the little he had seen, the child would need a firm hand. Well, he decided, conscious of unspoken hostilities, he would say no more. He had given them fair warning and in any case it was only marginally his business. Christopher stretched his legs and yawned. Then he gave a small whistle of admiration. He had enjoyed eating the chilli-hot curry. Thornton scowled at him.
‘Look –’ he began angrily, but Jacob held up his hands. He had not meant to start any arguments.
‘I’m only here in an advisory capacity, men,’ he said, backing off. ‘I promised Mummy I’d keep an eye on things. Until you settle down, that’s all.’
It was time to leave. He hoped he would not be needed too often. For Jacob was a busy man. His time was strictly limited as, unknown to any of them, he had recently acquired a girlfriend and therefore had various plans of his own.
When they left Savitha cleared the dishes.
‘At least they liked the food,’ she said finally.
Twenty-one days at sea had left her longing to cook with ingredients from home. But she felt exhausted and confused with the effort. She felt utterly tired in a way she never had before. And worse, she felt an alien among the de Silva brothers. Struggling with these emotions she told Thornton crossly, ‘In future, don’t start talking about Meeka to them.’ Adding, ‘What do they know about children?’
Thornton grunted. Although he agreed with her he would not admit it. The discussion over Anna-Meeka’s future worried him more than he was prepared to say.
‘We are here because the predictions of war have become an actuality,’ he reminded Savitha. ‘Anna-Meeka will have every opportunity in this country. She will become a doctor, I tell you.’
Savitha folded her lips. Worry buzzed around her head, moving pointlessly, like flies. Had they taken so momentous a step too lightly? Should they have waited a little longer? Surely only time could tell how clever Anna-Meeka really was. Time was what they all needed.
‘It’s too early to say what she’ll become. We’re from another culture; we have to settle first,’ she told Thornton. She did not ask how long this might take. She did not want to think of that. ‘I want her to be happy,’ she said slowly. ‘That’s what’s important. I can’t bear it, if all we’ve done is bring her to an unhappy place.’ She struggled to express her own hopes for Anna-Meeka in the face of Thornton’s confusion. ‘I want her to sing again,’ she said abruptly, feeling her eyes prick with unexpected tears. ‘She used to sing all the time. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but she stopped as soon as we were on the boat.’
‘Sing?’ asked Thornton, looking at her amazed. ‘Why of course she won’t stop singing! What are you talking about? And if she studies hard and becomes a doctor, of course she’ll be happy.’ He frowned, feeling both annoyed and uneasy. Savitha had a knack of unnerving him.
‘Perhaps she’ll want to do music,’ Savitha said tentatively.
She knew nothing about music. All she knew was that the nuns in Ceylon had said her daughter was musical. They had told Grace that Meeka had a very good ear and could play any tune she heard. Savitha had caught the tail end of Alicia’s performances, in the days when music had still filled the house in Station Road. Now she hesitated.
‘She may be as musical as Alicia, you know?’ she said.
But at this Thornton shook his head vehemently and stood up.
‘No, no,’ he said firmly. ‘Not music, men. Let’s not talk about that. Think of my poor sister’s life now, will you? She has nothing now the music’s gone. Not music, Savitha. For enjoyment, yes, but not in any other way. If Alicia had had another profession, if she had been a doctor, she would be working now, going out, meeting people. She would be able to –’
He broke off and clamped his mouth shut. Savitha fell silent. She had never understood why Thornton connected Sunil’s death with Alicia’s music.
It was not the time to argue. It was up to the child, to show them what she really wanted. So thought Savitha as she embroidered her daughter’s name on her socks and her PE clothes. So thought Savitha as she checked on the sleeping child, removing the new school tie from her hand, only to have it tucked under the pillow again by Thornton when he looked in on her later.
It took nearly three weeks to reach them. The servant brought in the post while they were having breakfast. There were four letters. The sight of them filled the day with translucent light. Which one should they open first?
‘Thornton’s,’ said Frieda.
‘No, let’s see what the little one makes of the place,’ chuckled Aloysius.
I start my new school TOMORROW! Anna-Meeka had written. And I’m going to make lots and lots of English friends. Please could Auntie Frieda send some more vadi so I can give some to them.
The child seems a bit of a handful, wrote Jacob. Thornton is right to be worried. I told him he’d need to be firm with her. This isn’t Ceylon. Things are different here.
‘Nonsense!’ laughed Frieda. ‘Thornton will never be able to refuse her anything.’
‘Savitha will have to keep them all in order,’ chuckled Grace.
‘Why are they so worried? She’s in England,’ Aloysius said. ‘It’s the children in this country who we should worry about. What’s the matter with that boy?’
The little one is an absolute delight, wrote Christopher. So clever, so inquisitive, so funny, so like Jasper really! As for Thornton and his wife, I can’t imagine what they have in common of course. Meeka is certainly the best thing this family’s ever had! She’ll be the one to succeed in life, where all of us failed. She should have all the opportunities we did not. As far as I can, I shall make sure of that.
Christopher has changed, wrote Thornton rather non-committally. I’ve no idea what has happened to him but h
e is very strange. He seems fond of Meeka, which is worrying too. I hope he won’t start talking politics with her.
‘Oh listen to this,’ read Frieda laughing, ‘they’re squabbling over Anna-Meeka already!’
I haven’t heard Frieda laugh for such a long time, thought Grace, glancing at the empty place set for Alicia. Her elder daughter seldom arose before the afternoon.
‘She’ll shake them all up,’ said Aloysius, enjoying the conversation hugely, glad to see Grace look so happy.
He misses them too, thought Grace. Aloysius looked frail. He had developed a persistent cough and was easily tired. After Sunil’s death his hair had whitened dramatically. These days, he drank less and because of the intermittent curfew seldom went out.
‘D’you remember how we used to be?’ she asked them both, smiling a little. ‘All together, in this house, milling around, coming and going, talking, arguing. Remember how this place was filled with music?’
They nodded, remembering. It was hard to believe.
‘No one could keep the boys in for long,’ Frieda said, wistfully.
‘And then Thornton went and married that woman, Hildegard,’ Aloysius reminded them, shaking his head.
They burst out laughing. They could laugh about it now.
‘Mummy, you were so angry,’ Frieda told her. ‘We thought you’d be angry forever!’
‘Poor Hildegard,’ agreed Grace. ‘I wonder what became of her.’
