Brixton Beach (15 page)

Bee had stared at him disbelievingly.

‘You have the younger one to think of,’ Gihan had said, oblivious to the signs. ‘She’ll never find a husband otherwise.’

Subsequently, having learnt the cost of his tactlessness, Gihan kept silent, but by then the damage had been done. With time, Bee appeared to weather the storm. But he changed, became more withdrawn, less visible, and, after that first moment, although he always listened politely, he took no notice of anything Gihan said. Very soon the whole town saw Bee walking openly on the beach with the girl and her Tamil husband. Gihan had shaken his head at the foolishness of it, but then the child had been born. For a while it seemed everyone would forget Sita’s disgrace. Things might have recovered had Sita not lost the second child.

‘Anay
, she’s bad news,’ Indira told Gihan, fuelling her husband’s dislike. ‘You shouldn’t see her face first thing in the morning. It will only bring bad luck!’

Gihan didn’t know what to believe.

‘You know what people are saying, don’t you?’ Indira insisted. ‘That Tamil grandmother must have put a spell on the baby. She didn’t want another Singhalese bastard, I suppose.’

It wasn’t as far-fetched as all that. Everyone knew the Tamils were unnatural, crazy people, Indira told her husband, shaking her head knowingly. Gihan, listening with a slight feeling of revulsion, agreed, but then he had seen Bee in the distance walking on the beach, and the look of him, the loneliness that exuded from him, the slowness of his pace, as opposed to his usual brisk step, had filled Gihan’s heart with pity. How much could the poor man bear? So Gihan had gone out on
to the track and shouted to Bee, but the wind had whipped away his voice and the waves had drowned his words. After that, every time he saw Bee waiting for the four o’clock Colombo express and the arrival of his granddaughter, Gihan made a point of talking to him.

Standing on the platform, waiting for the delayed train, Bee inclined his head by way of thanks for yet another useless invitation.

‘We’ll have to see what the women are planning,’ he said lightly.

‘Of course, of course. A wedding is women’s business, after all!’ Gihan said, wagging his head understandingly.

A cream butterfly flew out through the open window of one of the compartments as though it had been waiting to alight from the train. It sailed between the wrought-iron fretwork in the roof and out through the barrier. Five Singhalese solders stepped out of the guard’s carriage and walked briskly towards Gihan Ranasingha. They were followed by a small flock of people. Bee saw Sita walking slowly along the platform and hurried towards her. Her suitcase was feather light but she carried it as though it were a lead weight. Alice leapt out from behind her and the afternoon shifted focus, becoming brighter and full of purpose. The sun came out simultaneously as they went towards the car. Gihan had disappeared into his office with the soldiers and closed the door.

‘What’s going on?’ Bee asked, inclining his head towards the train as it slid out of the station. ‘Gihan’s just been giving me the party line.’

They told him about the accident and the mangled remains of the bicycle.

‘That was no accident,’ Bee said quietly, shepherding them out to the car. ‘But I’m glad you’re here, at last.’

The air was fresh off the sea as the car wound its way up the hill towards the house. Bougainvillea flashed past them again, hibiscus flowers lined walls and arches as Sita leaned back in her seat and half closed her eyes. There was an unusual brilliance today that she remembered from her youth. A feeling of sorrow cut the light as though it were butter. She had forgotten how peaceful it was here, how much she loved the place and how soon she would be leaving it behind. Alice’s voice, talking non-stop to her grandfather, came to Sita from a
long, bright distance. She heard the waves as they rolled and fell. This stretch of the journey was so much a part of her that she had no need to fully open her eyes. She knew every inch of the road by heart and had lost count of all the times her father had picked her up from the station. Coming back from boarding school in Colombo for the holidays, returning from a visit to her friend Girlie’s house in Cinnamon Gardens. Successful Girlie, making the proverbial good marriage to a member of the newly formed cabinet, and at whose society wedding Sita had stood as bridesmaid, smiling for the photographer. Looking, by all accounts, prettier than the bride. Yes! thought Sita, life held many possibilities once. The car was slowing down. Alice had fallen silent and, opening her eyes, Sita saw Bee bending over her with grave tenderness. She had not seen such a look on him for a long time. How grey he is, she thought fleetingly, her heart reaching out to touch a long-forgotten emotion. Smiling very slightly, she got out of the car.

‘Sorry, I must have dozed off,’ she murmured.

‘They’ve just announced a curfew on the radio,’ Kamala greeted them. ‘There’s been an incident at Morotowa.’

‘We saw it,’ Sita nodded.

Her mother too, now she was so near to leaving her forever, came into a clearer focus. She was tired, more tired than she could say, but how good it was to come home.

‘What sort of incident?’

‘Must be the man on the bicycle,’ Alice told them calmly. ‘I saw him racing the train. He looked scared.’

They turned to look at her.

‘You
saw
the man?’ Sita said. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘I didn’t know they were going to kill him, did I?’ Alice said, glad to be noticed. ‘I thought he would escape. He was a Tamil.’

No one spoke.

‘How d’you know?’ demanded Sita sharply.

‘Ssh! Ssh! Don’t shout at the child,’ Kamala said.

‘Because he looked Tamil,’ Alice told them matter-of-factly.

What was the matter with her mother? Had she forgotten the Tamils were hated?

‘So much for innocence,’ Bee remarked.

‘Anay!’
Kamala cried.

The child had been robbed of her childhood. Every day that passed brought yet another reason for her being taken away.

‘Let’s have some tea,’ Bee said. ‘Now they are here at last!’

He surveyed the room with satisfaction. No one spoke. A known quantity of days stretched before them.

In her room, Alice unpacked her book of drawings and brought them out to Bee.

‘Look, here’s Mrs Maradana,’ she said, finding the page, grinning at him.

Bee burst out laughing. Alice had drawn a picture of her Singhalese teacher using the new Biro pen Bee had bought for her. Biro pens were all the rage at the moment. She had, with a few vigorous, confident lines, captured something of the spirit of the woman. Staring at it, Bee thought, This is good; this must be developed. It is a talent that will hold her in good stead. I shall not see the end of it, he thought, but at least I see what she has brought into this life. Maybe I have even contributed to it.

‘This is very, very, good, Alice,’ he said aloud. ‘Keep drawing, look as hard as you can at everything.’

Memories were all he could give her. No matter how far she travelled, no matter if she never returned, still her memories would last forever. He tapped his pipe and re-lit it, half listening to her voice chattering on. He was not a man who frequented the temple, but Buddhism remained part of his life. Whatever good thing a man did, he believed, would return to bless him. Or haunt him; depending on the way he lived. Yes, he thought, Stanley would send for them soon enough but just for a brief moment, on the first of these last remaining evenings, as he watched the setting sun, listening to the child’s happy talk Bee was comforted.

A routine of sorts slowly established itself. For Alice, mornings meant the beach. Bee took her for a swim or a bike ride. Sometimes, when he was not out with the fishing boats, Janake came for her, and
occasionally even Esther visited. In the afternoons, after her nap, she was allowed to visit Bee in his studio when he let her loose on his paints. They worked together in companionable silence. As it was term time, May was still working. The wedding was now to take place in June and in the evenings the talk was mainly about the preparations for it. Namil was often present and, were it not for the fact that Sita’s mental state was no better and that they were counting the days, things might have been pleasant enough. Sita’s lethargy was a constant reminder of the borrowed time they lived on. Having detached herself from everyone, she spent long hours in her room, often having her meals brought to her. All attempts to draw her out proved useless. Nearly two weeks passed in this way.

On one such night when the house slept and the moon appeared a milky blue in the phosphorescent sky, Kamala sat sewing alone. The darkness had drawn its sea-misty wings over the beach and the waves exploded in clouds of spray. Regardless of everything the house turned over and sunk deeper into sleep. Bee was still working in his studio. Kamala put away her sewing. She folded the jacket she had sewn for Sita and rubbed one hand over the other. The blue sapphire in the ring Bee had given her years ago shone in the pinprick of light. Both her children were briefly under the same roof again. Watching the moon disappearing from view, aware these nights were numbered, she felt the impending loss hover a hair’s breadth away. All of this, she thought, surveying the silent room, appears to last forever but will vanish in a moment. She imagined her daughters, her
girls
, running in and out of the open house, laughing, teasing each other, fighting too, as if they were a pair of boys. Clearly she saw it, as though it had been yesterday. Living for so long in this way they had mistaken ‘so long’ for ‘forever’. Ah! but time has flown while they grew, thought Kamala, feeling the year turn over, dry as a leaf. Bee was depressed and would not admit it. Twisting the rings on her finger, Kamala’s thoughts went round in circles. From the day it had broken open, her love for him had never faltered. On the night that he had returned from the port he had sat smoking his pipe on the verandah. May had been out walking with Namil. The house had been silent. Packing away her sewing, Kamala
had come to stand beside Bee. She had stood without speaking for so long that in the end she thought he didn’t realise she was there. But in the end he held out his hand without turning round and made her sit beside him, his eyes moving towards her like a star in the darkness.

‘I was thinking today, they have taken after you,’ he said softly. ‘You are very beautiful’

In all these years the tenderness had never left his voice. Kamala looked down at her hands, smiling in the darkness, remembering his words. The house slept as though it were an animal, as though it were well fed and at peace, tucked away on its perch above the bay, surrounded by rustling coconut trees. Moonlight shredded the water into small fragments. The rain had died down and the air was full of the sharp smell of seaweed, while the sea, moving on its seabed, sighed too, peaceful like the house. It was a sea she loved, almost on the equator, a width away from India, furthest of all from Antarctica. Somewhere out beyond the reef, currents swirled darkly and fish as black as night swam, but here within the bay all remained safe. A thousand years of coral splendour protected their bay, keeping it safe for bathers and fishermen alike. But into this quietness Kamala heard the faint sound of drumming further inland. It was coming from the town. The only discordant note, it had gone on and on since the curfew and was now part of the background noises of the night, slipping in with the whirl of insects and the slap of water. The servant woman, who knew of these things, had told Kamala there was a sick man in one of the villages. The drummers were hoping to drum the devil out of his body. They wanted to drum it out of town, but they had been working all night and still nothing had happened. That was how hard it was to remove the devil once he had taken hold, the servant woman said. Maybe by dawn the sick man would be cured. Maybe not. Either way there would be an offering left for the gods by morning. Kamala went to bed. It would be hours before Bee finished work in the studio.

A thin light shone under the door that led into Bee’s studio. It flickered faintly. Every now and then a shadow passed over the crack as if
someone inside the room was walking around. It was what Alice noticed first when she awoke and went outside. On these occasional night forays, her grandfather’s studio was the first place she thought of. Tonight something had woken her; she moved swiftly, her small bare feet silent on the cool gravel, wanting to find Bee and tell him about it. Voices drifted towards her, then stopped. Straining, she listened. A bullfrog croaked and dark shapes fluttered past her face, making her duck and lose her balance. She fell against a flowerpot and froze. It was like the last time, she thought, in sudden panic, not knowing whether to run back to the house. The voices had stopped. Nothing moved. Then the door opened and she saw a pair of familiar feet, the edges of a white sarong.

‘Well, well. Now that’s a surprise, I must say,’ her grandfather said, his voice an odd mixture of sharp anxiety and relief.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Alice said, looking beyond him wonderingly into the studio.

‘So it would appear,’ Bee said wryly. ‘How unfortunate!’

He was standing in the doorway, blocking the view. It wasn’t like the last time, she decided, searching his face with relief, although she had a distinct feeling he didn’t want her there.

Alice,’ he was saying, ‘this won’t do. D’you know what the time is? You should go back to bed. I was going to wake you up very early to go to the beach.’

‘But I’m not tired,’ Alice began, and then she too stopped.

Someone else stood behind her grandfather. Alice stared. The man’s face was familiar.

‘Hello,’ the man said.

He smiled tiredly.

‘I know you,’ said Alice, puzzled.

Bee sighed.

‘You better come in,’ he said resignedly.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the man apologised.

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘She’s just a child. It will do no harm.’

‘No,’ Alice announced, shaking her head. ‘That’s what everyone thinks. But I’m not.’

Bee raised his eyebrows. This quiet certainty was new.