The Flower Boy (30 page)

Premawathi sat on the step and stared desolately into the distance, while Chandi sat quietly next to her, holding her cup of tea.

Finally she took it with a hand that trembled, and managed a small, shaky laugh. “I'm like a tap these days,” she said, “always crying.” She finished her tea quickly and stood up, dusting her reddha. “Goodness! Look at the time! I'll have to rush breakfast now.”

Ayah looked sympathetically at her. “Why don't you just sit there and I'll make breakfast,” she suggested.

Premawathi looked back at her. “I have to do something, otherwise I'll go mad.”

Ayah nodded understandingly.

That morning the toast was burned, the tea was too strong and the eggs looked done to death, but nobody complained. Everyone knew Leela and Jinadasa had left and they all felt for Premawathi. She bustled blindly into the dining room and banged her hip against the sideboard, but didn't even seem to feel it.

John looked at her with concern a few times, but forced himself to say nothing. Premawathi hated it when he paid her the slightest attention in front of the others.

Later, when lessons were in full swing, he noticed the same distraction in Chandi, which was unusual.

Give them time, John thought. Time is the great healer.

After a month of near silence, John had had enough. That night, he broached the subject.

“Premawathi, what is it? What's been troubling you?”

She moved to the window and stood there looking out. He came up behind her and gently turned her around to face him. “Premawathi, are you upset that Leela and Jinadasa have gone? Is that it or is there something else?”

She twisted out of his grasp and turned back to the window. “What else could there be?” she said in a low voice.

“I don't know, but I intend to find out tonight,” he said implacably.

For a while she said nothing, but seemed to be steeling herself for something. Even before the words came out, he knew what she was going to say. It was already there in her eyes.

“I think it's time I went,” she said.

“Went where?” he asked quietly, although his heart was pounding with dread.

“Away. Back to my village.” Her voice was muffled, for she had turned away again.

He asked only one question. “Why?”

“I can never be happy here. There are too many ghosts.”

“Rangi?”

“Among others. And too many people leaving.”

“Premawathi—”

“You will go too. One day, someday. Maybe soon, maybe not so soon, but you will go. I don't think I could bear that,” she said, her voice breaking.

“You could go with me,” he said hopefully.

She laughed and the sound jarred. “Where? As what?” As he made to answer, she continued harshly, “No, don't say anything. We belong in separate worlds. The time we have spent together here, it's not real. It's not permanent. It's only borrowed.”

“So let's borrow a little more time,” he said seriously. “Is that wrong?”

“No. It's not wrong, but it will end in misery. Everything does eventually.” He stood back and regarded her. “Premawathi, you're upset,” he said. “Don't make any decisions now. Sleep on it and we'll talk better tomorrow.”

She turned and left the room.

chapter 27

IN COLOMBO, MOST OF THE DIE-HARD BRITISH WHO HAD SWORN THEY would stay on in Ceylon, no matter what, were packing up and leaving.

In 1944, Minister of Agriculture and Lands Don Stephen Senanayake, who was campaigning tirelessly for independence, had submitted a proposed constitution that underscored religious neutrality.

Britain responded by appointing a special commission headed by Lord Soulbury to look into its feasibility, and the result was a similar constitution being drawn up, but this one, while allowing for internal self-government, deferred to the British Empire on matters of defense and foreign policy. It was, in essence, a “rule while we rule you” constitution.

The Ceylonese were not satisfied and continued campaigning for complete self-rule. The situation, though not dangerous, was certainly volatile, and worrying to many of the British.

Most of them saw little point in staying. Independence was imminent, and the memory of the bloody violence that had accompanied the transition to self-rule in India was still fresh.

In the hills of Nuwara Eliya, a few British planters joined in the exodus back to England, while others continued to play cricket and sip cocktails regardless. If there was going to be trouble, it would be down in Colombo, and they were sure their haven in the hills would remain untouched.

John had been contacted by his superiors in London and had been given the choice of either staying or leaving. He had chosen to stay. There wasn't much to go back to, and so much to stay for.

As it turned out, Premawathi didn't leave either, although she desperately wanted to. She had turned the whole thing over in her mind and finally arrived at the conclusion that a move back to Deniyaya would put paid to any hopes of Chandi getting a decent education.

He was being taught by one of the best private tutors and was obviously enjoying learning. Since he had finished at the Glencairn church school and joined Anne and Rose-Lizzie for their lessons with Mr. Cartwright, he had learned so much. He was intelligent, and Premawathi shuddered at the thought of what the Deniyaya village school would do to him.

He deserved a good education and she would see that he got it, even at the expense of her own feelings.

The Glencairn free church school was still going strong. A couple of years before, Teacher had slipped down a hillside while coming home after a drinking session. He had been too drunk to pick himself up, and had gone to sleep. By morning, he had died of pneumonia brought about by exposure.

He had been replaced by a younger man who at least stayed awake in the classroom. Father Ross was still around, having now become quite clever at making excuses every time the subject of his transfer came up. Besides, the Christian population on Glencairn and in its outskirts had increased so much that the bishop didn't really want to see him go. Mr. Aloysius's bow ties had become quite faded with age, but his determination to produce a literary genius from his class one day was still as strong as ever.

A few months before, he had got a severe attack of laryngitis and his once booming voice was now reduced to a reedy mewl, but other than that, he hadn't changed at all.

Chandi often met him on the road or on one of Glencairn's many mountain paths, and always stopped to chat. Mr. Aloysius almost burst with pride on those occasions, for it was commonly known that the Sudu Mahattaya had practically adopted Chandi. Mr. Aloysius put it all down to the English education Chandi had received at the church school.

It was even rumored that Chandi was going to England with them soon, although Chandi hadn't heard that one yet.

So Premawathi stayed on at Glencairn. Slowly, the pain dulled and she returned to her old self, but some of the aloofness was still there.

John dreaded the day when she would leave.

And she dreaded the day he would leave.

AS HE KNEW everything, Chandi knew exactly what his mother was thinking. He knew she had come close to leaving Glencairn some time ago and was inexpressibly relieved that she had decided to stay. He couldn't bear the thought of living in Deniyaya.

Chandi also saw John's hurt and felt responsible. These days John spent hours alone in the study. For the children's sake, he made an effort to appear normal, but nobody was fooled by it. Everyone knew something was wrong.

Anne and Rose-Lizzie thought he was worried about their future. People were leaving Ceylon in droves and perhaps their father was wondering if he too should go. They sincerely hoped not, for Anne didn't even remember England and Rose-Lizzie had never been there. Glencairn and Ceylon were home.

Robin Cartwright was perceptive enough to have guessed the nature of the relationship between Premawathi and John, although he never gave any sign. It didn't bother him. He liked and respected them both, and of late, felt for them both, because obviously something had gone wrong. These days John closeted himself in the study and only occasionally emerged to have a nightcap and a chat. He too was aware of the activity in Colombo, but had long ago resolved never to leave Ceylon unless he was dragged off kicking and screaming.

Chandi walked slowly down the path, wishing for the hundredth time that he had held his temper and his tongue that night. But what was done was done. Harsh words were worse than blows, he thought dismally, because the damage caused by words remained.

He wished he could go away, go to England right now, or even to Colombo. Just away. Maybe everything would be better then.

“Chandi! Chandi, wait!”

Chandi sighed, but stopped. It seemed like every time he really wanted to be alone, he met Sunil.

He winced as Sunil clapped him heartily on the back. Sunil was rapidly growing to the same impressive proportions as his mother, and his hands were huge and meaty.

He turned around and forced a smile. “Sunil,” he said lamely, wishing he could summon up a little more enthusiasm.

“How is life at the palace?” Sunil asked jovially in Sinhalese, and Chandi winced again. Sunil had developed a particularly irritating sense of humor, especially when it came to their different circumstances. “So, are you a British boy yet?”

“No, Sunil,” Chandi answered levelly. “And it's a bungalow, not a palace.”

“How do you know? You've never seen a palace!”

“No, but I can imagine what they look like,” Chandi said.

“But that's because you live in one!” Sunil exclaimed, laughing at his own witticism.

Chandi kept walking. He was aware that underneath the laughter there was more than a shade of the old envy. Sunil, like everyone else on Glencairn, assumed that Chandi had a grand bedroom, closets full of clothes, and spent his time in intimate conversation with the Sudu Mahattaya.

Chandi didn't try to dissuade them. They wouldn't believe him anyway and this picture was far more interesting for them than the real one would have been. They didn't
want
to believe that he still slept in his little room off the kitchen and ate on the kitchen step.

Perhaps he gave them all some small measure of hope that they too could rise above the poverty some day, and if that was the case it did no harm to let them think whatever they wanted.

He forced himself to concentrate on what Sunil was saying.

“—and we're starting at about four in the afternoon, so you can come too. It won't be too hot at that time.”

“What?” Chandi asked blankly.

Sunil looked impatiently at him. “Haven't you been listening to me? I might as well talk to one of the tea bushes.” He went over to one and squatted in front of it. Looking at it earnestly, he said, “My friend, we are playing a game of cricket tomorrow against the boys from Radella, and we would like you to come and play on our side.”

Chandi had to laugh. “Sunil, just for that performance, I'll come, and what's more I'll score a hundred runs just for you. But now I'd better go. With Jinadasa gone, there's so much work in the house.”

Sunil still followed him and Chandi finally asked him “What?”

Sunil fidgeted a bit and looked uncomfortable. Finally, he drew a deep breath. “Chandi, I was wondering if you could speak to the Sudu Mahattaya about a job for me at the bungalow. As you said, with Jinadasa gone, maybe they'll need someone.” He looked pleadingly at Chandi.

“Maybe they will,” Chandi said, turning the possibility over in his mind. “Why don't you speak to him and ask him?”

Sunil looked horrified. “Me?” he exclaimed. “How will I speak to him? I've never spoken to him before!”

“Well, it's time you started then, especially if you want to work with him,” Chandi said. “After all, you can't work there if you're never going to talk to him.”

“Couldn't you do it for me?” Sunil pleaded. “You're so much better at talking with white people than I am.”

Chandi sighed. He was late now and he sensed Sunil would keep walking along with him and pleading until he gave in. “I'll see,” he said, not wanting to commit himself. He needn't have bothered.

“Oh Chandi, you're the best friend I have,” Sunil exclaimed. “When I start working there, I'll buy you a very nice present with my first month's salary!”

Before Chandi could say anything, he ran off.

Chandi knew what Sunil would do next. He would tell everyone in the workers' compound that his friend Chandi (the one who lived up at Glencairn and was practically one of the Sudu Mahattaya's family) had promised him a job at the bungalow and he would be starting in a matter of days.

He would become an instant hero, people would invite him for meals, hoping that once he started working at the bungalow he would put in a good word for them too, children would follow him around, and everyone would whisper behind his back about how lucky he was.

And if the Sudu Mahattaya
didn't
want him, everything would be different. The local hero would be viewed with a little suspicion when he didn't start working at the bungalow, then a lot. Eventually, the whispers would turn to snorts of derision and hoots of scorn, verbal brickbats from a disappointed public who felt they'd been had. Even his family would be ostracized with unkind whispers and stony silences. In the end they would leave, unable to bear the unkindness.

The more Chandi thought about it, the more responsible he felt. He made up his mind to speak to the Sudu Mahattaya as soon as possible. He didn't want to be the cause of an entire family leaving. Enough people had left already.

“HE'S A GOOD boy, honest and everything, and a hard worker,” Chandi said.

John regarded him quizzically. “Why is it so important to you that I give him a job, Chandi?” he asked.

“Oh, because Sunil twisted his arm and Chandi allowed it to be twisted. He's so nice to people and stray animals.” That caustic comment came from Rose-Lizzie, who was leaning indolently against the doorjamb. She had followed Chandi in, and was listening shamelessly.

Chandi flushed. “He's my friend.” He hated the defensive tone in his voice.

John stood up from the wing chair in the living room and walked over to where Chandi stood by the fireplace. “That's a good enough reason for me,” he said. “Ask him to come and see me on Monday morning at the factory. And you, young lady,” taking Rose-Lizzie firmly by the ear, “I have a good mind to send you home to your grandmother. It's time you learned some manners.” Rose-Lizzie only laughed mockingly, knowing no such thing would happen.

“Thank you,” Chandi said uncomfortably and fled.

He sank onto the kitchen step, and half a second later Rose-Lizzie joined him.

“You're such a pig, Rose-Lizzie,” he said without looking at her.

She hitched her skirts up and sat next to him. “And you're such a prince, Chandi,” she retorted. “Honestly, why did you do it? You hardly speak to Sunil these days anyway. Not that I blame you. He's so—backward.”

“You are a snob sometimes,” Chandi said quietly. “And I do speak to him. In fact, I'm playing cricket with him this afternoon.”

She brightened up immediately. “Can I come? I'll even field afterward.”

“Why do you want to play with such backward people?” Chandi demanded. “They're only boys from the workers' compound.”

“Oh Chandi,” she said impatiently, “you know I don't mean those things. I just say them.”

“I know. But why do you say them? Ammi says you shouldn't speak if you don't have anything good to say to someone.”

“That's probably why she hasn't spoken to my father properly in so long,” Rose-Lizzie said wryly. “She acts like Leela used to, when Jinadasa first came.”

“It's not our business,” Chandi said, not wanting to be reminded of the rift between his mother and John.

“It's not our business,” she repeated, mimicking him. “You sound like Father Ross, all pious and goody-goody. It's your mother and my father, you know. I think that makes it our business.”