Brixton Beach Page 2

  Alice ought to be very tired,’ Mrs Perris said, wagging her finger. ‘I have to tell you she hasn’t stopped talking today. I couldn’t get a single piece of work that was worth anything from her. In fact, I moved her away from Jennifer to sit by herself, didn’t I, Alice? Lucky it’s a special day, huh, or I might have had to cane you!’

  But the teacher was only teasing and Alice grinned, knowing this. She had the feeling Mrs Perris hadn’t come out to talk about her.

  ‘Nobody got much sleep last night,’ Sita said, absent-mindedly pulling her daughter away from the hole she was digging so energetically with her foot.

  Alice gave an exaggerated sigh. Her mother’s hair, she thought indignantly, was no better than her own. Strands of it had escaped from its pleat and stuck to her sweaty face. Opening her mouth to comment, she caught Sita’s eye and fell silent, sensing instantly and with perfect understanding that her mother was in one of her tricky moods. Sita was tired.

  Her tiredness was a constant uneasy presence, a weight as heavy as the humid monsoon-imminent air around them. It was clear to Alice that it was simply the fault of the wretched baby her mother was soon to have. Alice did not want this baby, she had been hating it from the very moment her mother told her the news. What was even worse was that she was absolutely certain no one else wanted it either. Not long ago Alice had overheard a conversation between Aunt May and her grandmother.

  ‘There couldn’t be a worse time to bring a child into the world,’ Aunt May had said.

  Alice, who was expert at eavesdropping, had been taken aback. She had not realised the grown-ups disliked the thought of it too. So why didn’t they just get rid of it?

  ‘They cry all night,’ her best friend Jennifer had warned her. ‘You won’t be able to sleep for months and months!’

  Jennifer had burst out laughing at the look of horror on Alice’s face.

  ‘Well, I’ll get rid of it, then,’ Alice had said.

  She had spoken offhandedly, hiding her unease.

  ‘If it won’t behave, no one will want it,’ she added with more bravado than she felt.

  The other children in the class had asked her what she intended to do.

  ‘Kill it, of course,’ she had said without hesitation, making the boys guffaw loudly.

  The conversation however had made her a little guilty and she was glad when it was dropped. Then it turned out that Jennifer’s mother was expecting a baby too. Alice scratched her leg, thinking about what she had said, brushing away a mosquito. It had surprised her that both mothers were having babies at the same time.

  ‘Must be because they’re friends,’ she had said.

  ‘Oh, don’t be stupid,’ Jennifer had scoffed. ‘Everyone knows men give them babies.’

  Jennifer was the class encyclopaedia.

  ‘How?’ demanded Alice. But Jennifer, having reached the extent of her knowledge, pulled a face, refusing to say another word.

  After that Alice had been silent, sharing her dark thoughts with no one, not even her grandfather. She simply hoped the baby would die.

  ‘I know,’ Mrs Perris was saying in a low voice, moving her head from side to side. ‘Ayio! I heard it on the news. Rioting in Wellewatha, for the second time in a month. This is turning into a witch-hunt against the Tamils. I thought of you last night, child. Is your husband okay?’

  She glanced towards Alice, who pretended to examine the scab forming on her knee.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Sita said, lowering her voice.

  ‘Thank God he came home before it started, you know.’

  There was a pause and both women fell silent. Then Sita looked around nervously.

  ‘Did I tell you our passports have arrived?’

  ‘Really! That’s good news, isn’t it?’ the teacher said encouragingly.

  Sita nodded.

  At least now we know for certain we can leave.’

  Mrs Perris placed her hand on Sita’s arm and squeezed it. Alice looked curiously at them both, not understanding but struck by the look on their faces.

  Earlier in the year Mrs Perris had been widowed. The change in her had been shocking. Her husband had been killed in the riots in Jaffna. Everyone agreed he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Alice had wanted to find out what the wrong place was, but again no one would tell her. She tried asking her father but Stanley told her to go away and stop bothering him, and Sita told her not to talk so much.

  ‘They’re all bastards,’ she heard her father tell her mother.

  He was in one of his bad moods at the time. Alice was aware that her father knew all the bastards in Colombo. Even Grandpa Bee was impressed by this fact.

  ‘Well, Stanley certainly knows a bastard when he sees one,’ she had overheard Bee say.

  At the time, Alice had been standing behind the door listening intently, wondering if she too would be able to recognise a bastard if she ever saw one. Bee had been speaking quite softly, under his breath, but even from behind the door Alice had detected a curious note of triumph in his voice. Bee had been unaware that Alice was nearby.

  It was only her grandmother, being more knowing, who had shushed him sharply.

  ‘Be quiet,’ she had scolded. ‘The child might be listening.’

  At that, Alice, pretending to be a stork standing on one leg, balancing on the ball of a foot, nearly toppled over. It was true she was always eavesdropping. Listening was something that had become second nature to her; straining her eardrums until they nearly burst, standing with her mouth open behind half-closed doors, worrying a piece of information as though she was a dog with a fallen coconut, coaxing it to split open and reveal its secret. Even Jennifer had congratulated her on her skill.

  ‘You do have a nose for scandal,’ she had observed.

  Alice hadn’t known what a scandal was, but she did know that the world was full of unresolved, interesting stories that everyone conspired to keep from her.

  After the bastards had killed her husband, Mrs Perris had eventually returned to school. The children waited curiously to see how she would behave. Thirty pairs of eyes swivelled silently towards the teacher as she walked into the classroom. She wore a white sari, the Kandyian way. It was meant to make her look more Singhalese, but all it did was make her unfamiliar. Every time anyone spoke to her she looked as though she might burst into tears. Very soon the whole class, which collectively was more cunning than people realised, saw that Mrs Perris was completely changed. Once she had been a woman who loved teaching. Now she appeared not to notice when the children misbehaved. The class, working together, seized the opportunity. Led in part by Jennifer, they became unruly. The noise brought out the teachers from the other classrooms, stampeding like a herd of elephants. Everyone wanted to see what was going on in Mrs Perris’s once perfectly behaved class. Some of the teachers tried to stop the noise. Some of them looked at the widow with pitying eyes, as if they were thinking, ‘Well, she’s done for!’ It was as if a gong were sounding in Mrs Perris’s head, stultifying her. I’m finished, it banged.

  ‘She looks terrible,’ Jennifer declared with conviction, ‘especially around the eyes.’

  Alice disagreed. Jennifer was her best friend, but often Alice felt the role was unsustainable. Being friendly with Jennifer was like taking a ride on the back of a tiger. You held on or got eaten alive.

  ‘My mother said Mrs Perris’s husband turned blue when they killed him,’ Jennifer told the class with relish. As though someone had coloured him with dye!’

  In spite of herself Alice was agog, her eyes turning into saucers of amazement. But she liked Mrs Perris and did not want her hurt by gossip, so she decided to challenge Jennifer.

  ‘How does your mother know?’ she demanded.

  Jennifer scowled, unused to being contradicted.

  ‘She went to look at him, silly,’ she said, her face so close that her sugary hot breath from the toffee she was secretly eating poured threateningly over Alice.

  ‘Like this!’ And she pi
nched Alice’s arm, hoping to make it blue. ‘He was in his coffin, you know, men,’ she added, making her voice rise and fall. ‘And his lips were swollen, just as if a mosquito had bitten him.’

  She narrowed her eyes and stared intently. Was Alice by any chance squeamish? Alice hesitated.

  ‘I don’t believe you. Dead people are supposed to look peaceful,’ she said finally.

  Jennifer snorted.

  ‘You’re scared,’ she had observed shrewdly, and then in a final insult, ‘baby!’

  After that she had refused to say any more on the subject. And Alice, whose passionate thirst for knowledge palpitated vainly in her chest, was not prepared to beg for any further information. There was a peculiar sad stillness in Mrs Perris’s face that made her appear frail and strangely beautiful. It both puzzled and fascinated Alice. Once or twice she had tried talking to her father, but Stanley just yawned and poured himself another whisky.

  ‘Those bastards get away with everything,’ was all he said in his predictable way. ‘Sita, can you get me some ice?’

  Alice had watched as her mother left the clothes she was sewing for the baby and went to fetch the ice.

  ‘Time for bed, Alice,’ she had said, noticing her hovering about.

  Still Alice continued to be preoccupied by Mrs Perris. On her last visit to her grandparent’s house she brought the subject up with Bee.

  ‘Mrs Perris looks transparent,’ she told Bee.

  Transparent was a word that interested her.

  ‘It’s as if you can see right through her.’

  Bee listened gravely. He waited until she finished speaking and then he nodded.

  ‘It’s called an afterglow,’ he said re-lighting his pipe. ‘Like a star as it falls; full of light. Like a blessing. Why don’t you try to draw her?’

  So Alice had drawn her, and Mrs Perris had asked if she could keep the drawing. Alice wrote her name in wobbly paintbrush writing and gave it to her without a word. Privately she told her grandfather it had not been a good drawing.

  ‘I didn’t want to draw her as if she was crying,’ she said, ‘because she never cries.’

  Bee had chewed on the end of his pipe.

  ‘Absence is a presence,’ was his only comment, but she sensed he understood. There was nothing her grandfather did not understand, thought Alice, her heart overflowing with love for him.

  ‘Enjoy the rest of your birthday, Alice,’ her teacher was saying, now.

  ‘I’m taking her to my parents tonight,’ Sita murmured. ‘To be on the safe side, you know.’

  Mrs Perris nodded. Then she planted a spontaneous kiss on Alice’s head.

  ‘We’ll see you on Monday, no?’

  ‘God willing,’ Alice’s mother answered.

  It was a short walk to the station, weaving their way amongst street-sellers, beggars and the roadside shrines that were tucked between the corners of buildings and covered with crude drawings of Gods and demons. All around were small, open-fronted shops stacked high with plastic containers, stalls selling bunches of dirty-green plantains and rambutans, ambarella and piles of mangoes fingered by huge spiders. There were spice shops and sari shops filled with iridescent colours. Sita walked quickly, head bowed, looking neither to left nor right, holding her breath. Occasionally she turned to Alice, urging her to hurry because she did not want to miss the train.

  ‘Have you brought my water bottle?’ Alice asked as they boarded the train.

  Even though the compartment was empty her mother looked around nervously.

  ‘Speak in Singhalese,’ she said softly.

  Alice ignored her, taking her bottle. The water was warm and tasted of hot plastic. When she had finished drinking she turned towards the window and watched the view of the city as it moved slowly past. The train gathered speed. Very soon they had left Colombo with its dirt and overcrowded buildings, and an empty beach stretched for miles before them. Two white gulls with enormous wing spans sailed lazily by. Alice narrowed her eyes to slits against the glare and watched them dive bomb the waves. She swung her legs vigorously, wanting to put them on the seat opposite but knowing she would be scolded if she did. Her thoughts spun like candyfloss in a fairground tub. She had a thousand exciting questions, a million wants swimming in her head.

  The day had reached its hottest but a cool sea breeze streamed in though the open windows as the train swung and hooted its way along the coast. The air quivered with expectancy and even as she watched, the view took on a mysterious, luminescent quality that made it almost too painful to behold. In spite of the familiarity that years of travelling this route had given her, she was aware in a dreamlike and fleeting way of some deep and unspoken love for all she saw. It was a sight she had been used to seeing all her life. It was her birthday today and she was coming home to her grandparents. That was enough to make her want to shout with unbridled happiness. In a sudden desire for her mother’s approval she remained still, staring out at the sea while the tight drum of blue sky wrapped its feverish brilliance all around, closely mirroring her ecstatic happiness. The train clattered on, past trees that gave off a faint elusive perfume filling the compartment with sweet fragrance. Alice, breathing deeply, her eyes fixed at some spot in the distant blueness, was hardly conscious of where she was. Reality and dreams mingled with the motion of the train as the sweep of water expanded endlessly like a dazzling blue desert beside her.

  The train slowed down, nudging them backwards and forwards, almost, but never quite stopping. Then it speeded up again and they passed through several small villages screened by coconut palms. Scraps of washing flapped on a makeshift line and a slender dark-boned woman pulled water from a well around which a group of semi-naked children played. They passed a level crossing where two Morris Minors waited patiently for the barrier to rise. On and on they went, with glimpses of a lagoon, men chopping wood, other people’s lives distanced and therefore enchanting. Alice glanced at her mother, who was fanning herself slowly, staring straight ahead. She looked enormous. I hate the baby, thought Alice again and with a surge of rage. She had forgotten about it for a moment, but it was still here, the one blemish on the day. Her mother wanted a boy.

  ‘Boys are best,’ Jennifer had said, quoting her older sister. ‘In this country everyone wants sons.’

  The train began to curve around the bay hooting a warning to all the children who played on the line. And here we are, thought Alice with another surge of delight, forgetting about babies, for the very best moment of the day was approaching. There in the distance, still only a speck, was the station and the hill where later she would fly her kite. And somewhere amongst the little clutch of white buildings facing the sea was her grandparents’ house. Sunlight touched the rooftops. They were drawing closer. Below her the sea broke through the trees, coming into view once more, startlingly close and full of noise. With a shiver of excitement Alice turned to her mother, but Sita had closed her eyes and was breathing heavily, her mouth slightly open, faint beads of perspiration on her brow. The train was slowing down again; the carriage was almost empty. Alice looked worriedly at her mother, wanting to wake her.

  ‘Will Aunty May be there too?’ she asked carefully, in perfect Singhalese.

  Bee Fonseka stood in the shadows waiting for the train. Beside him were potted ferns and two ornamental rubber plants that grew out of a hole in the ground. The afternoon was bathed in an intense luminescent light. It fell in low, late slants but because of the breeze gave no hint of its strength. Bee waited, watching, as the turquoise blue Sea Serpent emerged through the thick bank of coconut and plantain trees. He was wearing a pair of trousers that matched his whitening hair. Several people, recognising him, raised their hats and he bowed in acknowledgement but made no move to speak to any of them. There had been no rain for months and the air smelled of salty batter, frying fish and suduru, white cumin seed. He had left the house almost half an hour ago. The train had been delayed and Kamala, he knew, would be getting anxious. He had left her fussing
over the food, putting the finishing touches to the birthday cake, while the servant woman brought in piles of bread and juggery Enough to feed an army, Bee had observed wryly. The servant had placed a tall jug of freshly squeezed lime juice on the teapoy and draped a heavily beaded cover over it. Then she had gone to pound the spices in preparation for Alice’s favourite evening meal of rice and curry cooked in plantain leaves. How anyone would be able to eat anything after the mountain of cakes and biscuits and patties, Bee had no idea. Normally he would have walked to the station to meet them but because of Sita’s condition he had taken the car. Then, as he had been about to leave, Kamala had caught sight of his hands, black from the etching inks he had been using.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, clean that ink off before you go to the station!’ she had grumbled.

  Bee grunted, ignoring her, wishing he had left sooner.

  ‘How can you go to meet them with hands like that?’

  ‘I don’t have to clean my hands for Alice,’ he said vaguely. ‘She’s an artist too, she’ll understand.’

  ‘Well, think about your daughter at least,’ Kamala said, but he had gone. The car door slammed and the next moment he was driving out through the front gate and towards the station.

  Now he waited impatiently thinking of the child and the present he had for her, wondering if she would like it. He knew that Sita, although tired, would insist on getting back home to Stanley. At the thought of his son-in-law, Bee’s jaw tightened.

  Fourteen years ago his eldest daughter had married in secrecy. Bee had not even known of Stanley’s existence until then. Sita had travelled to Colombo one morning, pretending she was visiting a school friend, returning a week later a married woman. At first Bee had been too furious to speak. He had no prejudices against the Tamils. Indeed, the few Tamil families that lived near him were courteous and intelligent. They were large, close-knit families who worked hard and mostly did very well at the local school. Still, it was impossible to deny the change that was sweeping across the country. Life would not be easy for Sita. Rumours of violence in the north, in Jaffna and the eastern part of the island were rife. If they were correct, then it would only be a matter of time before prejudice spread down south. None of them, least of all Sita, would be able to predict how things might go. Worried and deeply hurt that she had not trusted him enough to tell him about Stanley, Bee had withdrawn into silence.