The Flower Boy (22 page)

“Good morning, Chandi,” he boomed. “Enjoying some fresh air?” he asked, and laughed at his own joke. Chandi standing outside his classroom was a familiar sight. Only Mr. Aloysius ever commented on it though. Chandi standing outside his classroom had come to stand for everything that was wrong with the church school and nobody wanted to dwell on those things. It wasn't as if anything could be done about them.

He smiled politely and stretched legs grown stiff with standing. Mr. Aloysius's face grew serious.

“What did you do this time? Sneeze too loud?” he asked sympathetically.

“No. Came late,” Chandi said briefly.

“Why?” Mr. Aloysius asked.

“I was talking with my sister,” Chandi said.

“Couldn't you have talked at some other time?” Mr. Aloysius asked.

“No. It was important,” he replied.

Mr. Aloysius nodded understandingly and fell silent. He too had been late, sometimes even to work at his office, because of conversations that couldn't wait. Most had been with his wife, hence the sympathy.

Teacher walked past and scowled at Chandi.

Chandi scowled back.

Mr. Aloysius also scowled for good measure.

AFTER SCHOOL, CHANDI waited by the steps for Sunil, whose day it was to sweep the classroom. When he had finally finished, the two of them walked to Sunil's house so Chandi could borrow his books.

Sunil's father's quarters in the workers' compound were small but spotless. His mother came to the door to greet them. She liked Chandi because he was well-mannered and lived at the bungalow.

Sunil's mother was enormous. Once, Chandi had asked Sunil why his mother was so fat. Sunil had never thought about it, and asked his mother when he went home. She had told him her fatness was caused by a rare illness, which he reported back to Chandi. They spent a few hours wondering what kind of illness that might be, and finally decided she had got fat simply by eating and was too ashamed to say so.

Now, as she waved to them, her arm wobbled and kept wobbling long after she stopped waving. She wore housecoats, long loose dresses that were probably the only clothes which would fit her. Her face was small in comparison to the rest of her, but immediately below her mouth, the fat started.

It began as a series of chins, which shook individually when she laughed. Under them, her mole-spotted neck flared out with many pronounced creases like the seven chains on a Kandyan bride. Her shoulders sloped under their own weight and slid into her still-wobbling arms. Beyond them, Chandi could only guess what lay, because the voluminous folds of her housecoat concealed all but her permanently swollen feet. Her hands were fat too, and her wedding ring had long disappeared into fatty oblivion.

He politely declined an effusive invitation to stay for lunch, collected the books he needed and left. He looked back once to wave to them.

Sunil looked very small next to her.

Rangi was eating her lunch on the step when he walked in. She looked up questioningly at him.

“Yes,” he said.

“How long?” she asked sympathetically.

“Until Mr. Aloysius came. Maybe three hours,” he said.

A few minutes later, he joined her on the step. He was tired and the prospect of copying down two weeks of missed schoolwork was daunting.

“I'll help you,” Rangi said.

It always surprised him that she seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. He wondered if it was only with him or if she knew what everyone thought.

“There's a lot,” he warned.

“That's okay. If we both do it, we can finish it off soon,” she said.

He looked at her, wondering what he had done to deserve her. If he were Buddhist, he thought, he could have put it down to good deeds in a past life. As it was, he could only assume he was not quite as bad as everyone seemed to think he was, and that maybe God liked him just a little.

He told Rose-Lizzie about it when they were sitting beside the oya.

“Rangi knows what I think,” he said, stirring the water with a large leaf.

“So what?” she said unconcernedly. “I know what you think sometimes.”

“No, but this is different,” he said. “She really knows.”

She laughed. “So what?” she repeated. “Are you thinking bad things?”

“No,” he said a little impatiently. “But what if I was?”

“What if you were?” she said as impatiently. “Why are you so worried?”

“It must be difficult for her,” he said thoughtfully. “People think so many things.” He wondered if Rangi knew what their mother thought. He wished he knew.

chapter 20

ROSE-LIZZIE WAS ALSO HAVING DIFFICULTIES AT SCHOOL.

On the first day of school after the holidays, everyone was talking about where they had gone and what they had done.

“I went to Trincomalee with my dad and we went on board a real warship,” said Tony Bronson-Smyth importantly.

“I was supposed to go home to London but they said it was too dangerous, so we went to Simla,” said Mildred Jones, wrinkling her nose at the memory.

“We went down to Colombo and spent the holidays with the Governor. My father knows him very well,” said David Appleby casually.

“I went to Gibraltar to visit my uncle who is stationed out there,” said Emma Trent proudly.

They looked at Rose-Lizzie, who stood there and looked glum.

“Where did you go, Elizabeth?” asked Harriet James, who had gone to Scotland.

“Oh, nowhere,” Rose-Lizzie said vaguely.

“But you must have gone
somewhere,
” said Jeremy Owens, who had gone to Haputale to stay with the Trevors.

“Well I didn't,” Rose-Lizzie said defiantly.

“But why not?” asked Mildred Jones.

“I don't know. I didn't want to anyway. Chandi was not there,” Rose-Lizzie replied.

“Chandi?” said David Appleby, whose father knew the Governor very well.

“My best friend,” Rose-Lizzie said.

“She's not British?” Emma Trent asked in a scandalized voice.

“No, and neither is he a she. Chandi is a boy's name, silly,” Rose-Lizzie said.

“Is he the Village Headman's son?” asked Jeremy Owens with something just short of vulgar curiosity.

“No, he's Premawathi's son,” Rose-Lizzie replied serenely.

“Premawathi?” asked Harriet James, half fearfully.

“Yes. You know, our cook. Although she actually does everything,” Rose-Lizzie said admiringly. “Appuhamy's old now and he can't do very much. So Premawathi does everything, but she went to Deniyaya and Chandi had to go with her,” she ended sadly.

The little crowd that had gathered around her dissipated with alarming speed, and Rose-Lizzie stood there wondering what she had said.

One of the teachers standing close enough to eavesdrop hurried off to the staff room to tell the other teachers that John Buckwater had gone slightly mad after his beloved wife's abrupt departure.

Some were of the opinion that perhaps he had already been slightly mad, which was why she had left in the first place. Miss Rosamund, who was the only unmarried teacher on the staff and pushing forty, said she didn't care, she just wished he had got a divorce and been done with it. The other teachers sniggered at her and made unkind comments about old maids and desperation, which Miss Rosamund, who was already half in love with John Buckwater, ignored.

As the day wore on, Rose-Lizzie's puzzlement grew. The children she usually played with and talked to all seemed to have something to do or somewhere to go when she approached them. Even Harriet James, who was Rose-Lizzie's special friend at school, avoided her and spent the entire day whispering with Emma Trent, whom Harriet and Rose-Lizzie had earlier labeled a cat, because she thought she was better than everyone else.

When the final bell rang, Rose-Lizzie quietly began gathering her books together, close to tears because of Chandi's absence and now this strange unkind behavior from her classmates.

Rose-Lizzie had always been a popular girl because she was friendly and interesting. She was fun to be around because she always knew so many things and invented so many new games. It was Rose-Lizzie who had taught the class to play éllé, shown them how to imitate the calls of various birds and first introduced them to cloud games, where you had to watch the white scuddy clouds and try and find shapes in them.

“Elizabeth.”

At first, Mrs. Wilson's voice didn't penetrate the thick layer of hurt that surrounded her.

“Elizabeth.” The sharpness of the tone caught Rose-Lizzie by surprise. She dropped two of the books she'd been holding, causing a few of the stragglers to snigger.

“Yes, Mrs. Wilson,” she said, flushing deeply.

“Would you stay back a few minutes? I want a word with you.” Usually, requests of this kind were accompanied by ingratiating smiles, because they usually involved some help or a donation from wealthy Glencairn.

Today, however, there was no smile, ingratiating or otherwise. Just drawn-together eyebrows and pursed lips.

She obediently sat and waited. A few children tried to linger, hoping to hear whatever it was that Mrs. Wilson had to say, but one frown from her sent them speedily on their way. Finally the classroom was empty except for the two of them.

“Elizabeth, I have been hearing things,” Mrs. Wilson said gravely.

“Things?” Rose-Lizzie's confusion increased by the moment. Today was a nightmare and apparently it wasn't time to wake up yet.

“About your association with a native boy.”

“Assocation?” she echoed dimly.

“Yes, association,” snapped Mrs. Wilson, beginning to lose her temper. She knew Elizabeth to be a precocious child and didn't doubt for a minute that this confusion was only an act to annoy her. “The children have been telling me that you told them your best friend was a native boy. Your servant's son,” she stated, wrinkling her thin nose in disgust.

“Chandi,” said Rose-Lizzie slowly, finally beginning to understand.

“Whatever his name is. I am shocked that your father allows this friendship. If what you've been saying is true,” she said.

Rose-Lizzie flushed beet red now, her temper rising. Untruths were not part of her makeup, not even small ones, and she was deeply offended by the implication.

“Of course it's true,” she said coldly. “I don't tell lies.”

“Well, more the shame,” Mrs. Wilson said grimly. “What you do at home is your business, but I will thank you not to mention it in my classroom. I don't want the other children spoiled or to have other parents complaining.”

Rose-Lizzie stared at her. “I've done nothing wrong,” she declared steadily, “But if you think so, I'll be happy to bring my father here so you can talk to him yourself.” Her blue eyes remained fixed on Mrs. Wilson's suddenly shifty ones.

“No, no, that won't be necessary,” she said hastily, aware that she was being thrown a gauntlet and unwilling to pick it up. Glencairn
was
important and John Buckwater
was
generous to the school. “Now we'll just forget all of this and continue as we did before. If your father thinks it's all right, then I'm sure he's right, dear,” she said, and began gathering her papers together.

This conversation hadn't gone at all the way she had planned it, and she saw a hasty retreat as her only safe option. She straightened up and found Rose-Lizzie still looking at her. “That's all, dear,” she said, smiling weakly.

Rose-Lizzie turned and walked out without another word.

Outside, a little knot of children waited for her, hoping to see tearstains and possibly even a few stripes from a ruler. Instead they saw her marching out with her head held high, and they took a few steps backward.

She stopped in front of them. “You're all a bunch of stupid snobs and you deserve each other,” she said witheringly to them, and walked away.

They stood and stared after her.

Halfway back to the bungalow, the tears came. They were tears of rage that fell so hard they blurred her vision. She sank down on the banks of the oya and wept at the hypocrisy and the injustice of it all.

Her logic told her that she was not wrong and that they were small-minded snobs, but her tears were also for herself. She cursed herself for being stupid enough to tell them about Chandi, because they didn't deserve to know.

Now she wept because she had missed him, because he had gone without telling her, because she was so lonely.

When her tears were finally spent, she cupped her hands like Chandi had shown her, collected water in them and splashed it over her hot face. Then she drank some, throwing her head back to let it slide soothingly down her throat, which was scratchy from crying.

SHE WEPT AGAIN as she told her father about what had happened, and he smoothed her hair back gently and thought savagely how happy he would be if he never saw one of those snotty-nosed brats again.

He murmured comforting words while he planned a fate far worse than death for Mrs. Wilson. He tenderly wiped her face and vowed never to give the school another penny for as long as it stood.

She lifted her tear-streaked face up to him. “Daddy, why are people like that? They were so awful.”

“I don't know, pumpkin,” he replied gravely. “I wish I did. But remember something: no one is better or lesser because they have more money or less, or because they're black or white. What makes us better or lesser is what's in here,” pointing to his heart, “and here,” pointing to his head.

She looked unsmilingly at him. “You should have seen their faces when I said he was Premawathi's son,” she said, her eyes clouding at the memory.

He grimaced. “I can imagine,” he said wryly.

“Daddy, Premawathi is so good,” she said. “Why did they act as if she were some kind of—of bad person?”

“Darling,” he said, “Premawathi
is
a good woman and Chandi is a good boy. He is far better behaved than some of those spoiled children in your school. So ignore them. Ignore them all. I have.” He muttered the last to himself, but she heard.

“Why? Did they say something to you too?” she asked.

He smiled with an effort. “No, of course not,” he said reassuringly. “Would anyone say anything bad to your big strong daddy?” he growled, trying to tease her out of her depression.

It worked, for she giggled. “No they wouldn't, would they,” she said and nestled comfortably into his chest.

But everything had changed. School was not the same anymore, and although the incident had made Rose-Lizzie famous and therefore desirable as a friend once again, she kept her distance. The teachers were cloyingly sweet and irritatingly ingratiating.

But Rose-Lizzie had a formidable memory. And so did John.

The cash contributions he made regularly to the school stopped abruptly and, although he intended resuming them in the future, he also fully intended to let them sweat a little.

Rose-Lizzie never told Chandi about the incident at school.

ALL THIS HADN'T affected Anne, who was now fifteen and rapidly nearing the age when she would have to go back to England to continue her studies. While she liked learning, she was loath to leave her father and Glencairn, for she knew that when she returned to England, it would be to live with her mother.

Jonathan had come to visit once a few years ago, and had looked unhappy and withdrawn. Even Rose-Lizzie failed to charm him as she used to when she was younger.

Jonathan seemed to dislike England but didn't fit into Glencairn either, and had slouched around the house and gardens, seeming to prefer his own company to that of his sisters. He spurned all his father's attempts to build some kind of a relationship with him, to take him hunting and hiking, and rejected all offers of friendship.

The relief they all felt when he finally left was very similar to that which was felt when Elsie went.

In the first year following Elsie's departure, a letter came once a month addressed to the Misses Buckwater. The pale pink envelope with its scalloped edge and dainty rounded handwriting would be grubby and sweat-stained from the postman's hands, but inside it smelled faintly of lavender, or was it roses? The letters were perfunctory, and usually inquired after their health, hoped they were doing well in school, had breathless accounts of how wonderful England was, and ended with love and kisses from their darling mama.

They dutifully replied and told her they were well and doing fine in school and how wonderful Glencairn was, and ended with love from her daughters.

After about a year, the letters got shorter, and the time between their arrivals longer, and eventually they stopped altogether.

Neither Anne nor Rose-Lizzie missed them, since they had never actually looked forward to them in the first place.

Now, as the possibility of returning to England reared its ugly head, Anne concentrated on making herself indispensable to her father, rotating menus, organizing staff Christmas parties and visiting the factory every so often to speak with the female pickers and hear their problems. Like Rose-Lizzie, she spoke passable Sinhalese, but unlike Rose-Lizzie, she also spoke passable Tamil.

Even though she was not yet sixteen, she was a kind and gracious mistress, and was liked and respected by the estate staff. Already, Premawathi and the rest of the bungalow staff called her Podi Nona, little lady, and looked to her to resolve the household problems that cropped up every now and then.

Anne had already broached the subject of a private tutor to John, who had initially dismissed the idea, because it was too expensive and also because good private tutors were rare. After repeated entreaties, he had promised to consider it.