Brixton Beach Read online

  This morning, with the thin sunlight streaming in, he considered all of this. Swinging his feet on to the cold carpet, he got out of bed and hurried into the bathroom. He needed to get to Rajah’s office. At last he had a proper job and could give up the temping. The sun through the window was not bright but it no longer felt as cold as when he had first arrived. He thought of the woman with the ash. She had probably been a servant in Colombo. In Ceylon, associating with such a woman would have been a huge social taboo. Here, such things were of no importance. This thought too was exciting. Staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, whistling, he considered his prospects. He had entirely forgotten his hurt over the Swedish girl.

  Days passed. Travelling the ocean, chased by monsoons, sending messages to her grandfather in the bottles she threw overboard, Alice felt the time pass slowly.

  I miss you…I want to come back…Please write to them and say you’ve changed your mind and I can live with you.

  The seas had changed colour as they travelled, from an inky-blue ocean, deep and unfathomable, to the skittish, calm Mediterranean, but still Alice threw her bottles almost daily overboard.

  ‘If the Purser sees you doing that,’ one of the other children said, ‘you’ll be in trouble.’

  Alice didn’t care. She needed to talk to her grandfather. She had never been away from him for this long.

  ‘He’s coming to rescue me,’ she said, sticking her chin out in the way that she knew he liked.

  She wished she could hear his laugh.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ the girl told Alice disapprovingly. ‘The bottles will never get back there!’ Alice ignored her and redoubled her efforts.

  Send a telegram, she instructed. We’ll be in Port Said soon, send a letter. Tell them to send me back on another ship.

  ‘You’re mad,’ the girl scoffed. Anyway, I don’t care, I’m going home.’

  And she skipped off to find someone else to play with.

  My dearest Kunal, Sita wrote, sitting on her bunk.

  All my other letters will be posted from Port Said. How many letters? I hear you ask. Maybe you will even laugh. (How I wish I could hear your laugh.) Well, I have to confess to having written seven! I have got to know you as I wrote. All the things I was unable to say that night I have said. Here in this little cabin, our home for almost twenty-one days, I feel as if I’ve summoned you up like a genie from a lamp. This is what happens to people who do not fit in. Ah, Kunal, if only you were really with me now, how different the seas would look. We would watch the flying fish together and the storms. The sunrises and the sunsets. We will be in Gibraltar soon. Alice wants to go ashore at the next port, but I can’t bear to. All I want to do is to get to England, to get to the address where I’m hoping all your letters will be waiting for me.

  With the first brushstroke of evening the moon slipped blood red over the sea. The last of the light seeped across the beach as though it were a line of watercolour. Everywhere was silent, for there would be no more trains tonight. The railway line gleamed like a silver fish. Coconut palms cast thin shadows across the rocks and the slight breeze smoothed the black silky water. It was as it had always been with the land and the sea and sky as one, joined invisibly. The sea pulsated like a heart. His heart. Cicadas vibrated in Bee’s ears, lamenting his losses, while the moon-polished water brimmed over with unspoken memories. The land had lost something precious; the vast starlit sky had lost it too. And I am bereft, thought Bee. It was unrecoverable. He would never again have what other people took for granted. Continuity in old age, that was what he had lost. What became of a country that sent its people to the four corners of the world, indifferent to their fate, uncaring of the history they carried within them? Bee could not imagine. What would be left here in this paradise when all that was good and brave was slaughtered, and all those who cared were broken and dismissed? It was beyond his understanding. No longer able to rationalise this bereavement, he saw his eldest daughter and his only grandchild as distant, mythical creatures, standing on the prow of a ship, facing a new world not of their making, not of their people. Earth would be broken, he feared, lives too, in the making of their new home. His heart wept for them, it would go on weeping until his life was over. He could not see how, in what way, they could belong there. Someone, in some future time will tell of this. Not now, not in my lifetime, not perhaps for many years to come, he thought, but one day this uprooting will be counted. Threading his way back to the house, in the pale glow of the moonlight, he heard the familiar low dull thud, followed soon after by the scream of sirens.

  Inferno

  8

  THE SEA AT DAWN WAS MOTIONLESS. Before them, rinsed by rain and approaching steadily, was the land. They stood on deck watching their ship slice through the muscle of water, bringing them inexorably toward their new life. In all, it had taken twenty-one days and seven thousand watery miles. The morning unfolded starkly, white as a shroud. What little could be seen through the fast-moving mist was bleak and devoid of trees. England huddled in darkness; ancient cliffs secretive and uninviting; settlers’ land. Small pockets of fear exploded within them even as they watched. Everything they had seen—the Red Sea at dawn, memories of the Mediterranean—in one single blow was reduced to a crumpled blur in the face of this new reality. Alice, standing mesmerised beside the wrapped figure of Sita, heard her grandfather’s voice very clearly in the cold morning air.

  ‘This is your first home, Putha,’ he had said, on that last day, ‘you were born here.’

  There had been a warning in his voice and she had ignored it. He had had the strangest look on his face.

  ‘I promise you, it will be beautiful in England,’ he had told her. ‘In a different way. You’ll have to search for it.’

  In the twenty minutes or so in which they had been leaning against the rails, the sun had struggled to rise. Seagulls glided above them, their wings touched by an alien silvery-grey light. And again, unmistakably, close in her ear, Alice heard Bee.

  If you are capable of seeing beauty in one place then you will see it in another. You must simply learn the way of seeing it. You must make it a habit, Alice. In order to survive; in order to become a painter.

  I will be a painter, she thought, dully. She felt the long journey and the time spent surrounded by the sea had changed her. Water, pearly grey and smooth, spread out before them in delicate, enamelled hues. Alice was riveted. She had never seen an ocean of such colour before. She noticed that the land ahead of them was at perfect ease with the sea, and that even the green fields were touched with grey. Here is my new home, thought Sita as they approached, shivering in her thin clothes. She had dressed in her best sari, rising early, knowing that in a few hours they would be on dry land, but the sari, packed so carefully by her mother, worn only once, no longer looked right. Something about the greyness of the light and the murky green landscape contrived to dull the yellow and pinks of the silk. Soon it would be September. Autumn was beginning to lay siege over England. Alice wore her blue embroidered frock, dark arms hugging the railings, face unsmiling and closed. This place, thought Sita, is where my only daughter will grow into a woman. She shivered, as other hidden thoughts pushed against her. The mist lifted a little and there before them was the harbour, drawing closer. Kunal, Sita pleaded silently, please come. I can bear it if you are here. Three weeks of yearning was on the move within her, nudged by the sight of this land. Imagining the pile of letters that would be waiting, in spite of all that still lay ahead, joy flooded her heart. The cliffs were coming up with an alarming speed; their future approached. While they had been watching, the throbbing of the engines, their deep-throated companions for so long, changed their rhythm. There was no longer any doubt; they were slowing down.

  ‘Look, Mama, I can see cars,’ Alice said, her voice piercing the air like a thrown knife.

  And what of me, thought Sita, looking up at the gulls. What will it be like for me? When I have lived in this place for years. She thought of the baby bu
ried in what had become an impossible distance. Oh God, she thought, Kunal, save me!

  The ship’s horn reverberated across the water and a voice crackled indistinctly over the tannoy. They were coming into the docks. There were people standing silently on the quay, watching this ghost ship bringing its cargo of life to its shores. Somewhere in the crowd was Stanley. My husband, thought Sita, testing out the words; the man who I can no longer recall. By now the light, pearly white and slightly warm, was beginning to soften the land. A few yachts glided past, their sails as transparent as wings.

  ‘There he is,’ Alice said, ‘I can see him!’

  Her voice was flat against the throb of the engine, so different from the voice that had cried out at the sight of Mount Lavinia Station. But what have we done, coming here? thought Sita mutely. What have we done? The faint sunlight falling on her face gave no warmth, no comfort.

  ‘We’d better get our bags,’ was all she managed to say.

  Turning her back on the view and taking her daughter’s icy hand, she made her way slowly down to the cabin. The ship groaned as with heavy, scraping sounds its anchor was lowered. There followed a long, slow shudder. In less than twenty minutes they would feel dry land beneath their feet.

  Stanley, waiting on the viewing balcony of the Passenger Ocean Terminus in his first proper suit, a rolled-up copy of The Times under his arm, saw them through the crowds and was catapulted into reality. Sita’s face stained dark by a far-away sun, and the child, his child (had she always been this thin?), frightened him. He had not thought about Alice. His daughter was searching the crowd for his face and in her look he recognised the features of her stillborn sister. Unexpectedly, without any warning, kinship tugged at him and the day was knocked off balance.

  Stanley had been dreading this moment. The sight of the huge ship, looming up so startlingly close, paralysed him with fear. Last night he had pleaded with Rajah to accompany him to the harbour.

  ‘For God’s sake, men, she’s your sister-in-law. You’ve never even met her!’

  But Rajah was not to be drawn. He would see Sita soon enough and in the end Stanley had caught the train alone. And here he was now, facing his past. The last few months had been like no other. Living as he had done, without responsibilities, feeling neither married nor really a bachelor, with the safety of one state and the freedom of the other, Stanley had enjoyed the best of both worlds. He had begun to notice with some amazement that there were women who were attracted to him. At County Hall, where he now worked as a clerk, he began an affair with a thin, mousy-haired colleague called Jacky. It enchanted him to find sex so readily available, so without consequences. Lying in Jacky’s bed in her small flat in Streatham, watching her take her daily pill, he began to feel young in a way he had never felt before. He began to spend more time at her flat than his own house and somehow the decorating he had meant to do before Sita arrived never got done. June had disappeared in this way and was followed by a hot July. Stanley stared lazily at the sky as Concorde soared over South London on its daily flight.

  ‘Where the hell have you been all weekend?’ Rajah would ask him when he emerged bleary-eyed and late for work on Monday morning, and Stanley would smile dreamily and shake his head. In July, when London emptied of office workers on annual leave, Manika rang Stanley.

  ‘Why you never come to my temple?’ she asked him in a rasping voice.

  The sound of her made Stanley uneasy. Time was running out. Once again the thought of Sita’s imminent arrival made him break out in a cold sweat.

  ‘Come for prayers,’ Manika urged. ‘Don’t worry. I will help you.’

  Quite how she would help him was a mystery, but curious about her prayer meeting, Stanley went.

  Manika lived in a dingy flat on a council estate on Dorset Road, close to the Oval cricket ground. As he entered, he was struck by two things: the cooking smells that reminded him sharply of home, and the bright amaryllis flower that grew in a pot on the dining table. The house was packed with an odd assortment of Tamils. They sat cross-legged on the floor or perched on chairs waiting for Manika to finish spooning the hot food into brass bowls. Then, when she was ready, someone lit the joss-sticks and the chanting began. A dark Jaffna Tamil began to beat a drum and Manika carried the tray of food into her spare bedroom where the bright-brass shrine was set up, complete with chrysanthemums and coconut oil lamps. Stanley followed behind, but there was no room to move so he watched the proceedings from a corner of the doorway. First Manika bowed low, offering the food to Shiva. She asked the Bhagavan to bless their meal and answer their prayers.

  ‘We are so far from our home,’ she cried in Tamil. ‘So lost, so needy of your protection. Help us, Bhagavan.’

  The drumming reached a crescendo, the chanting got louder. Outside in the scuffed and drying grass of the council estate two children kicked a football. A police siren wailed in the distance. Manika produced some holy ash from behind the statue and touched each worshipper on the forehead with it. When she got to Stanley she paused for a moment, her breasts heaving. There was a faint odour of sweat and ghee surrounding her as she bent towards him and smeared his lips with the ash. Everyone was chanting and watching Stanley and he felt his face grow hot. For a moment longer he felt aroused by her as she swayed and moaned. But suddenly there was a knock on the front door. Because he was nearest, Stanley opened it.

  ‘Will you stop that bloody noise,’ the man outside shouted. ‘I can’t hear the telly any more. If you don’t, I’ll call the police…’

  ‘No need, Mr Patrick, sir,’ called Manika, smiling, closing the temple door and screening the view. ‘We finish now. Please, no problem. I pray for your wife too, Mr Patrick!’

  ‘I don’t care what you do, just do it quietly,’ the man muttered before shuffling away.

  After she had shut the door, Manika took hold of Stanley’s hand in her own hot one. Once again Stanley felt excitement grow in him. He caught a glimpse of the bedroom with an unmade bed and a bra hanging on a chair. Then Manika drew him into the sitting room, where the meal, blessed by her Bhagavan, was being served. The red amaryllis glowed brightly against the window. Manika began to eat using her fingers.

  ‘You come back tomorrow,’ she told Stanley, her mouth full of rice. ‘I give you ash again. Make you very, very prosperous!’

  It had been what he had done for the remaining four weeks, dividing his time between Jacky, who was beginning to bore him, and Manika, who held all the excitement of forbidden fruit. And then, without warning, the month was up and here he was at Southampton waiting for the passengers to disembark.

  Much later, having travelled on the packed boat train to Waterloo, arriving by taxi at the house at Cranmer Gardens, Stanley fed them. He forgot for the moment about Jacky waiting in Balham and Manika at prayer in her council flat. He cooked hot rice and watched as they ate the seeni sambals they had brought. The smell of the sea was trapped in all their possessions: their clothes, the books he had requested, the food, packed too tightly in cheap plastic containers. And when Sita opened the heavy trunk, moments before she hid it, he saw the old shoebox with the dead child’s clothes. So, he thought grimly, that has come too.

  Are there any letters?’ Sita asked eagerly.

  Stanley shook his head.

  ‘No letters,’ Sita said. ‘You’re sure?’

  She stared at him, dismayed.

  ‘It’s Sunday,’ Stanley reminded her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ve written. Wait till tomorrow.’

  On closer observation, Alice was even more of a stranger to him than before. She filled the house with her noise, rushing about, chattering, carrying the heat and the sense of his home strongly, like an aura. A patch of brightness seemed to be following her around the rooms of this new, dark home. Watching her, Stanley was confused. He had no idea the child could carry this much memory within her. He wondered if Sita was aware of it.

  ‘It’s not very nice,’ Alice declared, having examined the rooms. ‘Why is it so
dark?’

  ‘It’s the way things are here,’ he said, shrugging, not knowing what else to say. ‘This isn’t Mount Lavinia.’

  ‘Why are there no letters?’ Sita murmured.

  She swallowed. Even if she panicked, what good would that do?

  ‘Aren’t they getting through?’ she asked, unable to stop herself.

  ‘There’s the card I sent you,’ Alice said suddenly, pointing to the postcard of the ship sitting on the mantelpiece.

  Stanley drew the curtains shut and poured more paraffin into the heater.

  ‘What’s that for?’ Alice asked him, her voice insistent.

  ‘To keep us warm,’ he said shortly, feeling hemmed in by their questions, by their crowding presence.

  He wanted to be free to leave the house, go to the pub, visit the grey-eyed Jacky even.

  ‘But there’s no view,’ Alice said, staring in dismay through the curtains at the darkened street outside.

  People were walking through the fallen leaves; lamplight fell across the pavement, darkly cross-hatched by shadows. Just like some of her grandfather’s etchings. She saw that it had begun to rain.

  ‘Why is there no view?’ she asked again, tonelessly.

  Stanley sighed heavily.

  ‘Because in this country,’ he said slowly, carefully, ‘only rich people can afford views.’

  ‘Grandpa Bee said it would be beautiful here,’ Alice said in a small voice.

  The mention of Bee’s name made her eyes prick. Uncertainly, she looked at her father, seeing him as if for the first time. There was nothing, she realised with dismay, either in his face or the scene outside the window, which she wanted.

  ‘What does your grandfather know about London?’ Stanley asked her, not unkindly. ‘He’s never been here. It’ll be all right,’ he added into the silence, trying to be encouraging. ‘You’ll get used to it.’