The Flower Boy (33 page)

During these months, little weeds sprang up in the grass, and in the mornings, their tiny yellow star-shaped flowers bloomed prettily. Long ago, Chandi had looked at them and wished he could get his mother a reddha that looked exactly like that. But even back then, he had known that even the most skillful fabric designer could never quite capture the same effect.

Flowers that bloomed only in the mornings, sunsets that lasted minutes, these sights would forever remain nature's exclusive property, and remain as fleeting as nature wanted them to be.

A swarm of butterflies suddenly rose from the grass and the two girls sat up to see what had disturbed them. Chandi was walking toward them, but he hadn't seen them yet because he was deep in thought.

“Chandi!” called Anne, before Rose-Lizzie could stop her. “Over here!”

Chandi halted and surveyed them, as if wondering whether to approach or turn back. Rose-Lizzie lay down once more and covered her face with her arm.

Anne patted the grass next to her invitingly. “Come and sit down. You look hot,” she said.

Now he had to come. He was vaguely annoyed, for he had wanted to be by himself, but apparently it was not to be. He walked over reluctantly and sat down.

“Hello,” he said politely.

Anne flapped her hand in return. Rose-Lizzie pretended to be asleep.

Chandi let his body sink back into the grass, loving the smell of it and the feel of it tickling his body through his shirt.

“Where were you off to, in such deep thought?” Anne asked.

“Nowhere,” he replied briefly.

“You must have been going somewhere,” she commented.

“No. I was just walking,” he said.

“Do you know if lunch is ready yet?” Anne said.

“No. Ammi was still cooking when I left,” he said. Actually that was the reason he had left. His exasperated mother had asked him to.

Rose-Lizzie sat up and slid closer to the water. She cupped her hands, collected water in them and drank, then splashed some on her face and neck.

Chandi did the same.

Between them, Anne lay there with her eyes closed. “What are you doing?” she asked sleepily.

They both stopped, seized by the same thought. They looked at each other and read the same idea in each other's eyes. They quietly gathered handfuls of the icy water, turned to Anne and splashed it on her face at the same time.

She squealed and sat up. “Oh, you monsters!” she said, laughing and brushing the water from her face and neck where it had trickled down.

They burst out laughing and within seconds had waded into the oya, clothes and all, and begun splashing her in earnest now. She jumped to her feet and ran up the path to the house. “I'll get you both for this!” she called out, still laughing.

As Anne disappeared up the path, they suddenly became aware of each other and the laughter stopped abruptly. They eyed each other warily.

Suddenly, Chandi longed to be friends with her once more, to get back to the laughter and games that only they played. He solemnly held his hand out to her. “Friends?” She hesitated for a moment and laid her hand in his. “Friends,” she said, and screamed as he pulled her forward into the water.

They collapsed together, laughing helplessly, splashing each other and diving down to pull at each other's feet. Finally exhausted, they crawled back onto the bank and lay down in the grass, still firmly holding hands.

“Chandi?” Rose-Lizzie murmured.

“Hmm?”

“I'm glad we're friends again.”

“Me too.”

But the female in her couldn't be content with that. “Why did you suddenly not want to be friends with me?” she asked.

“I don't know. It's not that I didn't want to be friends with you . . . I just had so much to think about . . . it's hard to explain.”

“Did you have a row with your mother?” she persisted.

“Yes, but that was only a part of it.” He didn't want to talk about this now. It was still too confusing and a lot of it was far from resolved.

She closed her eyes once more, sensing his reluctance. For a few minutes they lay there listening to the buzzing of the insects in the grass and the gurgling of the water. Occasionally a koha flew overhead, its peculiar strident call echoing through the hills.

“Do you feel you're too old to play with me now?” she asked suddenly, propping herself up on one elbow to see his reaction.

“Not really,” he said doubtfully, wondering where this line of questioning was coming from, and where it was leading to. He knew how volatile Rose-Lizzie could be and was worried that he would shatter this fragile peace before it had begun.

“I mean you're seventeen and I'm only thirteen,” she continued doggedly. “Do you think that you should be with older people now?”

“Like who?” he said ungrammatically. “There's no one else, anyway.”

“Well there's Anne. And Sunil,” she said, still looking closely at him.

“Anne?” he said incredulously. “Anne's not my friend.” Then he realized what he had said. “What I mean is, Anne's nice, but she's not—” he broke off, searching for the word. Not finding it, he moved on. “And Sunil is my friend, but not like—like you,” he ended.

Satisfied, she lay back once more, a small smile playing on her lips. Now it was his turn to look closely at her.

“What are you grinning about?” he demanded.

She closed her eyes. “I'm not grinning,” she stated, the smile widening ever so slightly.

“Yes you are. I can see you.”

She didn't answer, only turned on her side, heaved a great sigh of satisfaction and promptly fell asleep.

He stared at her back for a few minutes and shook his head slowly, uncomprehendingly. Then, he too allowed himself to be lulled into sleep by the warm sunshine, the cool breeze and the buzzing of the hungry bees, foraging through the flowers for some forgotten sip of nectar.

EVERY NIGHT HIS mother made her way down the corridor and every night he watched her, wondering why he didn't feel angry or betrayed.

Sometimes he wondered where his father was and what he was doing, but Disneris had always been such a distant figure, even when he lived with them, that Chandi could feel no more than fleeting regret that things had happened the way they had. He wondered if things might have been different if his mother had never come to Glencairn to work. They would have lived in Deniyaya and he would have been happy because that would have been all he knew. Rangi would have never died, Leela would never have met Jinadasa, his mother would never have met the Sudu Mahattaya and he himself would never have met Rose-Lizzie.

They would have all lived happily ever after.

Or sadly ever after.

Separately.

Perhaps it would have been better.

When he went with Premawathi to the pola or down to the small shop near the workers' compound, he searched faces for knowing looks or whispered comments, but there were none. None that he knew of, anyway. Everyone liked Premawathi in spite of her sharp tongue, for she could always be relied on for ice in case of emergencies, or a piece of chicken or beef when one of their children was ill. Besides, many of them had been there when she had buried her daughter. No mother should have to go through burying her own child, they said compassionately. Then Disneris left and although they didn't know why, they sympathized with her. A daughter and a husband in such a short time, they said sadly.

None of them knew of her nocturnal relationship with John, for she was very discreet. During the daytime, when Sunil was in the house, John was at the factory. People didn't think he was the type to dally with his female employees or that Premawathi was the type to further her interests through a dalliance with her employer. Still, Chandi worried for her, for he knew that people could turn in a day. Or in a few hours for that matter.

So it came as a shock when one day, Sunil casually brought the subject up.

They were going down to the workers' compound together, Sunil having finished work and Chandi to run an errand for Premawathi. They walked close together because they had only one torch between them.

“Your mother gave me some vegetables,” Sunil said.

Chandi didn't reply. His mother often gave Sunil vegetables.

“She said to give them to my mother to make some soup. She's been ill lately.”

“What's wrong with her?” Chandi inquired politely, although he didn't really want to know. In his opinion, Sunil's mother would have been far healthier if she ate a little less. She didn't need any more fattening up.

“Arthritis,” Sunil said. “From the damp. The Veda Mahattaya said it seeps into people's bones and gives them aches, especially when they get older. He gave her some special tea but she hasn't got any better.”

Chandi wondered how long it must have taken for arthritis to seep into Sunil's mother's bones, what with the fat and all. “What did she go to the Veda Mahattaya for? Everyone knows he's a quack. He probably gave her some ordinary tea from the factory.”

“We can't afford to go to the fancy doctor in Nuwara Eliya,” Sunil said defensively. “Anyway, you know what a fuss they make when I try to take her on the bus. Wanting money for two tickets, making all those comments. The last time, she cried all the way there and back. We don't have cars, you know.”

Chandi felt mounting irritation. “Neither do we,” he said briefly, now wishing he hadn't allowed himself to be drawn into this conversation.

“The Sudu Mahattaya would take you if you wanted to,” Sunil said.

“Well, we don't ask him,” Chandi replied shortly.

“Even if your mother was ill?”

“She hardly ever gets ill,” Chandi said dismissively.

“But if she did, you wouldn't have to ask him. He'd take her anyway.”

Chandi stopped and shone the torch full onto Sunil's face. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

Sunil started to look a little shifty. “You know,” he muttered.

“I don't,” said Chandi, not moving.

“I haven't told anyone anything,” Sunil said hastily, trying to step around Chandi, but Chandi moved too so he was still blocking Sunil's path.

“What is there to tell?” Chandi asked in a dangerous voice.

Sunil looked miserable now. “Nothing. Nothing, Chandi,” he said. “I don't know why I said that. I was just talking, you know,” he ended pleadingly.

Chandi slowly unclenched his fists, turned on his heel and strode off, ignoring Sunil's shouts behind him. When Sunil finally caught up with him, he only said one word, “Go,” and he said it with such ferocity that Sunil went, glancing behind to see if Chandi was following him.

After Sunil had disappeared into the darkness, Chandi's steps slowed. His chest felt tight, as it always did when he was very angry or very afraid. Although he would have preferred to have been very angry, he was in fact very afraid. He knew Sunil and his big mouth and wondered how long it would be before he tried to impress someone by sharing his juicy little secret.

“The Sudu Mahattaya and Premawathi are—you know,” he would say archly.

“Premawathi? No!” his ecstatic audience would breathe.

Sunil would nod his head. “Yes. I saw.”

The other head would move closer, not daring to breathe. Sunil would make him wait a bit, sweat a bit before he continued.

“I saw him and her and they were . . .”

They were what? Chandi reined in his imagination and forced himself to think logically. Whatever they did, they did at night when the rest of the house was asleep. In fact, the only reason he himself had seen anything was because he had followed his mother that night. Sunil didn't even stay at the bungalow, so how or what could he have seen? He was probably just guessing, having heard stories about other women working in other white houses. And he, Chandi, had reacted too hastily. Too guiltily. Too stupidly. If his mother's reputation got dragged in the mud, it would be all his fault. All his stupid fault, he berated himself as he went onward toward the shop, the workers' compound and goodness only knew what else.

PERHAPS CHANDI'S REACTION had scared Sunil or perhaps some shred of common sense had asserted itself in his head, for he never brought the subject up again. Chandi avoided him mostly, but couldn't resist shooting him scornful looks whenever his mother gave Sunil any leftovers to take home. Premawathi noticed, but beyond a casual “Is everything okay with you and Sunil?” said nothing else, imagining that they had had one of their many rows, which would be sorted out at the next cricket match, or on the next walk they took together. She was too busy being happy to care. Her attitude exasperated Chandi, who couldn't understand why people couldn't just be medium. Not happy. Not unhappy. Just—normal. This happiness was almost as exhausting as the unhappiness had been.

These days, she did her housework with a smile and paused in the middle of it to think of yesterday's intimacies. She didn't complain that her back was killing her when she bent down and straightened up dozens of times while hanging out the washing, she didn't rub tiredly at her legs when she sat down on the step, or press her fingers to her forehead when Chandi became too voluble or noisy.

It was as if happiness had miraculously erased all her aches and pains, Chandi thought sourly.

To Chandi, she might as well have hung up a great big flag that said she was John's. Thankfully, everyone was too involved in his or her own business to notice or to care, and while Chandi often wanted to shake his mother for being so obvious, he was also relieved that she wasn't miserable anymore.

chapter 29

IN 1948, THE FINAL DRAFTS FOR THE NEW CONSTITUTION WERE BEING drawn up in Colombo, in preparation for the ceremonial handing over of Ceylon back to the Ceylonese. Or the unceremonious booting out of the conquerors, as Robin Cartwright called it. The ceremony was to take place on February 4, 1948, and all the remaining British in Colombo were either directly connected to the governor's office or indirectly connected to the handing-over process.

Even fewer British were to be found in the hills, for although they had arrived full of enthusiasm, they were all more fond of their own skins than they were of the mini-kingdoms they had established during their reign. A few stayed on, but most of them thankfully returned to England with suntans and stories of their Ceylon sojourn. With no one to run them, plantations went to pot. Tea grew unpicked, tea pickers languished jobless and wageless, and bungalow staff wondered if they would be kept on or let go. Since the transition was yet to happen, the bigwigs in Colombo hadn't yet decided who was to do what. The handing over of the government was obviously far more important than the fate of the tea plantations.

John and a few other planters absorbed as many of the unemployed workers as they could into their own workforces, but on the understanding that the ax could fall yet again, and with the same distressing speed. Many were willing to work even without wages, for what else was there to do? There was talk in Colombo about repatriating many of the predominantly Indian tea pickers back to India, a prospect the tea pickers themselves viewed with dismay. It had been years since they had left, their homes were established here and there was nothing to go back to. John could see the fear and uncertainty and wished he could reassure them, but he couldn't. He fumed with impotent anger against the authorities in Colombo, but knew that even they wouldn't have any answers.

So they picked tea, some paid and some not, and waited to see what fate would be decided for them.

It was an insecure existence, but the only one they had.

These days, or more specifically, these nights, John and Premawathi had temporarily put aside passion. He was worried. Everyone looked to him for direction, when in truth he had no idea where he was going himself. Figuratively speaking, of course. Literally speaking, he knew where he had to go. Back to England, however unsavory the thought. But that was still in the future.

So these nights, they talked. Like any married couple, they stayed awake discussing the events of the day, he airing his concerns and fears, she absorbing some, batting away some, robustly reassuring him, silently worrying with him. His main concern, other than the safety of his immediate family, which didn't include only the two girls, but also Chandi, Robin Cartwright and Premawathi herself, was for the estate workforce. The Sunils and Asilins and Periyathambis and Sinnathambis who relied on him for their daily bread, which was becoming increasingly hard to provide.

Although production still continued on the slopes and at the factory, the more important going-ons in Colombo had taken precedence over tea auctions and exports. And while the tea business hadn't exactly come to a grinding halt, it had certainly lost some of its momentum. So had its earnings. Premawathi quite rightly suspected that John was dipping into his own savings to pay the workers on time. She and Robin Cartwright had both offered to have their salaries deferred for a while, but although John had been touched by the offer, he wouldn't hear of it. “No reason why you should suffer just because those titled monkeys in Colombo haven't got their act together,” he said. The salaries continued to be paid on time every month.

Chandi and Rose-Lizzie, with friendship now regained, spent endless hours discussing and debating what all these happenings would lead to. They were both aware that the end was approaching slowly but inevitably, and Rose-Lizzie, with all the selfishness of youth, worried exclusively about what it meant for them. Chandi's concern included his mother.

Rose-Lizzie was terrified at the prospect of returning home to England, but she was also intelligent enough to realize that no matter how terrified she was, she would still have to go.

Chandi was terrified at the prospect of being left behind, but had now started to nurture a secret hope that perhaps he would be taken back with them. He and his mother. After all, it wasn't as if they had somewhere else to go, and in his opinion, his mother had done plenty for Glencairn and deserved to be taken with them to England. He didn't dwell too long on whether he himself deserved to be taken along too, but it stood to reason that if his mother went, he went too.

Rose-Lizzie seemed pretty sure that if they went, they would all go, for as she said, who would cook for them in England? Or teach them or play with them for that matter?

They spent hours discussing every possibility and eventuality, buoying their sagging spirits with grand plans.

“It will be strange to go to school again, after having Mr. Cartwright teach us for so long,” Rose-Lizzie said thoughtfully.

“Maybe you won't have to. Maybe he'll still be able to teach you.”

Rose-Lizzie shook her head. “No, I don't think so. The only reason he teaches us now is because there are no schools here.” Something he'd said suddenly registered. “You said ‘you.' As if you weren't coming with us.”

“We don't know for sure,” Chandi said disconsolately. “Maybe the Sudu Mahattaya won't want to take us.”

Rose-Lizzie looked outraged. “Don't be silly! Of course he'll want to take you. And your mother too. He can't leave you behind!”

Yes he can, Chandi thought, but he didn't say anything.

“You can go to school with me,” she continued. “Even though we'll be in different classes, it'll still be fun.”

“Where will we go to school?” Chandi asked, getting drawn into the conversation despite himself.

“I don't know. London maybe. Or Dorset. Or Manchester. That's where Daddy's family comes from.”

“Which one's the best?”

“I don't know. I've never been.”

“Do you think I'll get to go to university like Jonathan?” he asked hopefully.

“I don't see why not,” she replied airily. “After all, you're far smarter than Jonathan is.”

“He's your brother. You shouldn't say anything bad about him,” Chandi rebuked mildly.

“I didn't say anything bad about him. I said something good about you.”

They relapsed into silence, Rose-Lizzie already making a list in her mind of all the things she would do with Chandi, and Chandi wondering what
he
could do to make sure he went to England.

“Do you think your mother will refuse to go?” Rose-Lizzie asked suddenly.

Chandi winced. “I don't know,” he said. It was what he was secretly afraid of.

“Well, what do you think?” she demanded impatiently. “Couldn't you ask her or something?”

“What am I going to ask her? Your father hasn't said anything yet, and you don't know if even
you
are going.”

“We will go,” she said gloomily. “I heard Daddy and Mr. Cartwright talking the other night, and they were saying it's only a matter of time.” She flapped a limp hand at a bee buzzing near her ear.

They were sitting on the hill that overlooked the main Glencairn road. They had actually set out that morning to the oya for a swim and a splash, but when they got there, they found Robin Cartwright painting.

They watched as he stood back and surveyed his canvas. He was doing a landscape of the oya, the big flamboyant and the distant hills.

“That doesn't look much like the oya,” Rose-Lizzie said critically. Indeed it didn't, for the stream on the canvas looked more like the Mahaweli river, huge and brown.

Robin Cartwright looked crestfallen. “Don't you think so?” he said. “I thought it looked quite good actually.”

Chandi came up behind them. “I think if you make it bluer and smaller, and make the mountains bigger and greener and put some flowers on the tree, it'll look quite nice,” he said, trying to make up for Rose-Lizzie's criticism.

Robin Cartwright looked even more pained.

They stood there, offering more words of advice, but soon they got bored and decided to find another private spot to talk. One bicycle had gone past in the last two hours and behind them, Jamis's cow munched contentedly.

They both heard the car at the same time and jumped up to see who it was.

“It's Jim Hogan from Windsor,” Rose-Lizzie said, shading her eyes against the glare. “I wonder what he wants.”

“He's probably come to see your father,” Chandi said.

“I know that,” she retorted. “I'm wondering why. He hardly ever comes over unless he wants something.”

“Why else would he come?” he asked reasonably.

“Well, he could just come to say hello,” she said.

“Hardly anyone just comes to say hello,” he said. “People usually want something.”

“What do you want?” she asked curiously. “I mean, more than anything in the world?”

To go to England. “To see my mother happy,” he lied.

“Liar,” she said knowingly. She leaned back on the grass.

“How do you know that's not what I want?” he challenged.

“Because you're too selfish. I'm not saying you
don't
want her to be happy, but you must want something for yourself more.”

“I don't,” he said, irritated because she read him so well. “Just because you're selfish, it doesn't mean everyone is.”

“I want you to come with us to England more than anything else in the world,” she said triumphantly. “So you can't call me selfish.”

“Yes, but you want me to come because if I don't, you won't have anyone to talk to or play with,” he said equally triumphantly.

She sat up, looking indignant. “Yes I will. I'll make lots of new friends.”

He said nothing, knowing that she was probably right. She was pretty and smart and people took to her quickly. He felt vaguely depressed.

“I still want you to come,” she said affectionately, slipping her hand into his. “And if you're really nice to me, I might even marry you some day.”

He pulled his hand free. “I told you. Friends don't get married. It spoils everything. And anyway, I don't think I want to get married.”

“Not ever?”

“No.”

“But everyone gets married.”

“Mr. Cartwright hasn't.”

“That's probably because no one would marry him.”

“Well, maybe no one will want to marry me,” he said hopefully.

She slipped her hand into his. “I'll marry you,” she said gaily.

He grinned at her. “You don't give up, do you?”

“No,” she said. “And nor should you. Daddy says as long as there's life, there's hope.”

He gave her a sudden push and she went rolling down the steep hillside, yelling obscenities at him. She reached the bottom and sat up breathlessly, laughing when she saw Chandi rolling down the hill after her.

DESPITE THEIR EFFORTS to remain happy and hopeful, they could feel the insecurity, the same insecurity that had infused the workers' compound. It had crept up the path to Glencairn and seeped into the pores of its occupants. It reared its insecure head in different ways. In Premawathi's preoccupation. In John's furrowed forehead. In Robin Cartwright's heartiness and desperate attempts to capture everything about Glencairn in his paintings, as if he couldn't trust his memory. In Anne's reading habits, which had shifted from Tennyson to the
Times of Ceylon.

Chandi masked it in a cloak of nonchalance.

Everyone else's fear and insecurity frightened him more than any he might have had himself. Glencairn, with all its intense happinesses and intense sadnesses and memories and insecurities, was still home. Had always been home. As much as he hated it when it brooded in its unhappinesses, he loved it when it basked in its happinesses.

Long ago, somewhere in the long, winding, sometimes dark and sometimes light passage of his childhood, it had almost ceased to be a house and almost become a person. Almost.

When its walls showed patches of damp during the rains, when its windows creaked during the winds, when its rafters sprinkled slivers of wood during the hot season, then it was a house.

But sometimes, when the same windows that creaked in the wind seemed to open their arms wide to catch the sunlight, when the steps leading into the veranda seemed to smile, when the warmth of the rooms felt like an embrace, then it was a person. Almost.

The house had aged gracefully, like a pink-powdered, rheumy-eyed, blue-haired dowager. Purple and white bougainvillea grew up the sides of its walls and spread over its roofs. The walls were still white, thanks to annual whitewashing, but the floors showed faint cracks here and there. Although they were filled with red polish whenever it was applied, ants industrially cleared them out again and took up residence.