On the Far Side, There's a Boy

by Coston, Paula

  ‘I’m not sure what you think we both know, though. Please explain.

  Martine

  ‘P.S. I’ve let you down – again – with this letter. But the next one really will be special, I promise.’

  ‘1st February 1989

  Dear Miss Martine

  About the scholarship. Now I go to [name deleted] big school in Kandy. Everyone was happy. They gave me a game in a bag, yellow hoops and sticks. I am going on the bus with Jayamal. I must wear black shoes. It is my exciting news.

  ‘You have been writing about fate and birds and a voice and a competition and men and women and middle ground.

  ‘I do not understand. Send properly your exciting news and asking about me. Then I will tell you what I know we both know.

  Mohan’

  As the months went by, spring started in London, Vauxhall Park and the gardens of Aldebert Terrace pushing into leaf. Martine excused herself for her Sri Lankan radio silence on the grounds that she was too busy with her secret plans to write, and also, her plans felt too indefinite.

  At last though, she saw they were clearcut.

  ‘2 April 1989

  Mohan, happy birthday for 8 March. So you’re eleven. Secondary school! What did you do on your birthday?

  ‘I feel embarrassed. This is not only late (again), but you’re right: I haven’t been attending. My letters have been aimed at someone that you’re not. I’ve been talking to you as I should talk to myself. How could you understand that? I think I felt I could trust you – more, sometimes, than I trust myself. And there I go again.

  ‘You ask for a proper letter. Here it is. And I’m keeping my promise: I’ve got something to tell you. It’s important to say first that it’ll make no difference between us.

  ‘As you said, I’m a bit happy: i.e., not nearly as happy as I have the power to be. So I’ve decided to work a bit less, and – without a husband! – to adopt a boy. He’ll probably be between 5 and 11 and come from what we call a foster family, somewhere in this country. I hope for almost some English Mohan with me. Once he is, perhaps you can write to each other. He can be for both of us together.

  ‘First I went to meetings to make sure I wanted this. Now a woman, Rebecca, visits me once a week. She asks me what sort of child I’d like; who’d support me bringing him up; what I think about schools, and money, and religion, and hygiene, and discipline. I haven’t told her about you yet. In a few months, she’ll tell me whether I can adopt.

  ‘Each time I write there’ll be more news of this. I hope you’re as excited and happy as I am. The main thing is, you and our letters will always be important, more than important, to me: nothing of that will alter.

  ‘If InterRelate would let me, I’d finish this letter “Fond wishes as ever.”

  Martine’

  She could never pin down where her adoption plans had started. Maybe from Mohan’s talk of Pieter; or from her self-discoveries over summer drinks with the family; or from someone at work mentioning an adoption and fostering agency, or dropping the unsuspecting word ‘adopt’, as in ‘adopt a policy’ or something. Or maybe from all those.

  These days, to Martine, the moon seemed fully blown as spring.

  19 Martine

  Thursday 14 February 2013

  The room’s finished. Matt has finally downed tools, and is crouched with a mug of tea and warm caramel slices over South Africa v. Pakistan on Sky while Martine appraises the finished bedroom, hands on hips. Through commentators’ banter and waves of clapping she can hear his shy tries at remarks, sometimes on point and sometimes not.

  She’s content with the green she’s gone for, Enchanted Eden, but the paint stings in her nostrils. She tuts, No one could sleep in here. She negotiates the piled-up furniture and shoves open the small high window, and cold air rushes in, but with her guest arriving tomorrow, a thought that makes her throat clench, she concedes, On that timescale, it’ll need more than a blast of air to mask this turps taste of my neuroses.

  Taste. Her words chime with a sudden bong from Mr Olfonse’s heating pipes and inspire her. She hurries to the kitchen.

  ‘Hola, Sancho.’

  She begins chopping and stirring, throwing bones and vegetables into pans, mixing dough. Stock bubbles and bread proves under a cloth, and she starts knocking on doors up and down her landing, then the landings above and below.

  There’s a choice of broad bean ’n’ borage soup or chicken ’n’ cider. Her relentless brain quips, What’s invisible and smells of chicken? A fox fart. She flings wide the door to the spare room, brandishing the pans, flapping the cooking aromas in on purpose. She loathes artificial fresheners, and she’s always shunned indoor plants as captives, but maybe tomorrow, she’ll break her embargo and bring in a scented plant.

  She calms herself in front of the mirror, tries to tidy her oblivious hair. With her fingertips she pulls up her face to eliminate, for a minute, the puckers like yesterday’s tapioca above the nose, around the eyes, along the lips.

  By 7:40, neighbours are crowding in: Jess and Tracy, Mrs Landor, two of the Gibbins boys with their mother, dragged along under sufferance, Renée with her sleeping baby, and Nigel from number 80, who has also prised out Mr Olfonse. A few of them visit at Christmas, or on one of the children’s birthdays. They’ve never been en masse.

  The neighbours overrun the sitting room, tongue-tying Matt, slurping soup from mugs and bowls, mopping it up with fresh-baked bread. Martine bounces about topping them up, talking and smiling too much.

  ‘What’s this in aid of?’ Mrs Landor asks, casting around for clues.

  Martine feels she’s begun to tick, a stopwatch till tomorrow night. ‘Nothing really.’

  The gathering somehow adds weight to the imminent arrival. Awed into near-silence by her mysterious occasion, the locals could be tribal elders round a camp fire, attending a rite of passage.

  Which maybe it will be. Martine won’t know until her guest is there.

  * * *

  Wrong foot, best foot

  1989–1990

  A letter from Mohan crossed with Martine’s, the momentous one announcing her plans to adopt.

  ‘4th April 1989

  Dear Miss Martine

  I saw mr mendes at nalins house I said still no letter from miss martine he said no I said miss martine esta cansada she says shes tired on the surface thats the skin ela deve estar doente she must be ill with skin disease please let me send another letter again I made myself look sad he said well write it quickly so I am writing quickly

  ‘you might be too tired to hold your pen or you might be upset

  ‘I told A still no letter I told her my last letter she said it sounded rude

  ‘J followed me opal boy she will probably not write to you again

  ‘I did not mean it please write and I will never ever say write a proper letter or I do not understand

  ‘Also about what we know I will tell you

  ‘A and I argued she shouted it was not planned in the stars that our amma had to die theres no magic reason that you got to know miss martine she was not meant to be english so youd want to learn more english from cruz and become his friend just because miss martine is english nothing decrees she will want a foreign boy even if he is good at english just because she has no husband and no baby nothing decrees she will take notice of parents like pieters who arent parents but can be miss martine will not ride down from the sky in a white carriage to take you amma did not die to make you and miss martine happy

  ‘but I know you know

  ‘I knew that one day you would come for me you will come’

  The hiccup in this timing turned Martine’s head abruptly in the direction of understanding. In case it hadn’t, InterRelate’s letter followed.

  ‘17 April 1989

  Dear Miss Haslett and Master Liyanage

  Administrative error

  Your last letters (2 and 4 April respectively) have crossed. Our sincere regrets.

  ‘To avoid confusion, w
e suggest Miss Haslett resumes the correspondence.

  ‘Once more, our apologies.

  ‘Yours sincerely

  Anura de Silva

  Programme Manager, Colombo Office, InterRelate International

  ‘P.S. I have just read copies of your letters and am concerned at the turn they have taken. I entreat Miss Haslett to refrain from implying in any way that Master Liyanage could be considered a member of her family, something he now seems in danger of assuming. Our Field Officer will visit to ensure that he understands the limits of the relationship. It would be very regrettable if your correspondence had to be curtailed.’

  Martine hadn’t been attending. Attending, which is more than reading and writing, as she knew. She certainly knows that now, in 2013. She’d misread Mohan, in fact hardly read him at all. He must have convinced himself she could adopt him: it was the only explanation for his outburst. With the rest of his family around him no one would have let her, even if she’d considered it. And of course she had her own plans.

  Mohan had to be harmed by her blindness, and she tried in her new-style letters to mend things.

  ‘Dear Mohan

  As you’ll know now, your letter arrived here probably almost at the same moment that mine arrived with you. I’ve sent you news that I now see you may find difficult. I so much hope you don’t.

  ‘I think we need to start again. I’m here in England, and you’re there. It’s sad, but that’s how things are. You have a loving family. It has problems, I know; but in various ways I wish mine were more like yours. So many of you live close. You see each other often. I have no uncles and only one auntie, who’s far away; I have no cousins. You have a father with you, and I don’t; unlike me you have two sisters – all, with your brother, older than you, able to guide you in what you do. I feel like a mother with no children.

  ‘I hope you’ll see that I need to find, to make for myself, a family of my own.

  ‘I’m ashamed I didn’t spot sooner what you were trying to tell me. I now think I can guess. I’m so so sorry, but we mustn’t talk about the hopes you might have had: not just because they’re impossible but because InterRelate wouldn’t like it. The main thing is to make sure they let us keep writing.

  ‘What I should have said more often is thank you. Your letters over the last few months have been even more special: I think it’s partly your talk about Pieter that made me think of adoption – plus you’ve taught me truths about myself.

  ‘I’m wishing hard for a letter from you. Can you forgive me? Please try to understand.

  ‘P.S. Here’s a drawing from Jonas. Casey Jones is from Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles, a cartoon on TV. The turtle Raphael persuades him to punish criminals without killing them. Jonas has drawn your face on his mask because one of Casey’s weapons is a cricket bat. Casey’s another person who tries and tries.’

  Mohan’s letter back read as if he’d pressed a button sardonically and slunk off.

  ‘Dear Miss Martine

  Mr Mendes is waiting.

  ‘Here is a copy of my English essay.

  The true story of Saradiel

  The Portuguese and Dutch and British rulers robbed our lands. The British growed coffee and tea over the lands. Saradiel hated the British rulers so he became a robber also. He robbed from the rich people and gave money to the poor people. The policemen catched him. They killed him in Kandy. It was in 1864.

  ‘In 1864 also, two Lankan cricket teams played cricket together at first. What a coincidence. They were St Thomas’s Collegiate School Mutwal and Small Pass Cricket Club Colombo. It was the Battle of the Blues. The first big match was the Central Province against Colombo. It was in Kandy in 1867. The match ended by a tie.

  ‘The British robbers brought cricket but the British robbers and the Dutch robbers and the Portuguese robbers were still bad.

  ‘The story was to practise the past tense. I got 65%. I was supposed to write about Saradiel.

  ‘Pieter has Kermit the Frog in Sesame Street with Ali Baba and the turtles video game. So he knows about teenage ninja turtles and mutant. He has seen real turtles at the beach.

  Mohan

  ‘P.S. I did not say “I do not understand.” This point is significant. Please notice.’

  ‘The British rulers…The British robbers’: Martine noted the robotic pointedness, felt the hatred. My fault, she knew.

  ‘Dear Mohan

  I was really glad you wrote to me. How are you getting on at school? How’s the cricket?

  ‘You sound so far away. I think you’re angry with me; if so, believe me, I’m still angry with myself. Yes, the British stole Sri Lanka, to my shame; then again, if they hadn’t you might not have cricket and maybe you wouldn’t be learning English. Then we might not share the things we do.

  ‘You may be fearful how to write – although you may not want to talk about that. (I used to teach teenagers. I know.) Please send me your news, or questions, or pictures. What can I do to make things better? Just tell me, and I’ll try.

  ‘I’ve taken some pictures of the Oval for you (sorry, no match was on). The walls curve high round the ground. Behind a pub with big, ugly blue signs, overlooked by huge, cylindrical gas holders, you can see the pavilion peeping up. I visited the shop for you, and enclose some pages from the catalogue. We both know I can’t buy you anything, but what would be your top choice?

  ‘My news so far is good. Rebecca has finished seeing me. There’ll be an important meeting soon to decide if I can adopt (I’m not allowed to go). She says I stand a good chance.

  ‘The boy will be younger than you. Imagine having someone younger to send news to, to advise and possibly share your love of cricket, who may have had a much, much sadder life.

  ‘P.S. Give all good wishes to your family.’

  Martine agonised, Can I ever be contrite enough? It felt hard not to misstep in her letters, even now.

  Meanwhile, Mohan’s anger seemed to be getting him into trouble.

  ‘Dear Miss Martine

  I did not want to do it. Year 10 saw the school bus with no driver. Nalin and I were lookouts. Plastic bags were masks. Viraj jumped in at the steering wheel. The others made us get on. We thought we were going to the sea. The bus crashed at the girls’ school. The girls laughed and screamed. We did not want to tear the books or break the windows or carry the toddy. Nalin ran and found some people. Mr Mendes promised he would not tell you, but someone else might tell.

  ‘I had twenty strokes in assembly. I have not been expelled. I saw Pieter. Now he does not like me. I will be better. If you go on writing, I will try harder in English and write more in my letters.

  Mohan

  ‘P.S. Do not be angry with Jonas for the mask idea.

  ‘P.P.S. Happy birthday for 27th August. You will be 40. I added all the years.

  ‘P.P.S. Nothing from the catalogue. A piece of turf from the Oval. British land.’

  Martine sensed a thinness in Mohan’s armour plating: at least he’d told her what he’d done. Was it a small sign of progress? She felt her old urge to give again, welling up.

  ‘Dear Mohan

  I sense you’re still fearful how to write. About your bus escapade, it troubles me you’re so anxious about my reaction. I’ll always try to put myself in your place. You must have been terrified, and I can tell how sorry you were. I suspect you’re also angry – still angry – with me. It’ll take time for those feelings to improve. But I’ll still write: nothing you do or say could ever stop me.

  ‘I’d love to hear how, in other ways, you’re getting on at school (if that’s not too boring a subject).

  ‘For me there’s fantastic news: Rebecca tells me her office has approved me and I can start to search for a boy, first in the local area. Actually she does this for me. No sign of anyone yet.

  ‘All other news seems less important. Jonas, Astrid and my mother are well. Jonas would like another baby.

  ‘Here are Pippi, Gretel and me by a paddling pool at the seaside. May
be my coming boy would fix their sailing boat better than I did. The English sea is often far too cold to swim in. Have you ever seen your own?

  ‘Now I look more than a bit happy, don’t I?’

  Recently, Martine had begun to think that people aged more between the memorable events, in the static times of their lives. She dreaded losing momentum, being inactive.

  On 26 August 1989, twenty-four hours before her fortieth birthday, she found a crease. Freddy – the Smooth Shit, she dubbed him now – had described the entire surface of her body as a scarcely set cream dessert, freckled as if with nutmeg. But now, after the times of Freddy and Charlie, the first significant groove had appeared. It travelled down from the left corner of her mouth, as if she grimaced on a regular basis. And yet she’d been smiling more, not just from hope but as though that would somehow hurry her real boy, as she thought of him, her English boy, into coming.

  There again, she had spent the last few months sitting about being dissected by Rebecca, her social worker, waiting weeks for approval from Rebecca’s office then waiting again for the office to find a match. By August, Martine wasn’t convinced they would. It felt like stagnation, loss of momentum. If she wanted to postpone more creases, then her fortieth, she decided, would have to be a memorable event.

  Before midday, the buzzer sounded.

  ‘Your second birthday I’ve remembered.’ It was Charlie’s voice, with an edge to it.

  Her thumb sprang back from the door button. ‘I’m getting ready for a party.’

  ‘Let me come up, now. I’ve to give you—’

  He was interrupted by shuffling sounds on the pavement, Astrid’s voice, Pippi whining and an unclear conversation. Martine thought how at once to bar Charlie and let the family in.

  Inevitably, amid the staircase percussion she heard his kicking tread: Charlie was climbing with them. They were far too early, Astrid and Pippi with presents, Jonas with his arms full of Gretel, her mother with her arms full of Tupperware. In her doorway they stood around this man they’d never seen before holding a bottle and a pot plant. She fumed, Charlie should remember that I pity indoor plants.