The Flower Boy

by Karen Roberts

  Keeping out of trouble was the hardest.

  TEACHER WAS COMPLAINING to Father Ross again.

  “That Chandi, always throwing dusters on me, sending chalk dust all over,” he said, his face gray with the said chalk dust. “I’m having lung problems also,” coughing violently for extra effect. “That boy will be the death of me, Father, I’m telling you.” He broke off coughing. When he finished, he spat out a large wad of phlegm which almost landed on Father Ross’s shoe. “See?”

  Father Ross saw. He moved his foot away and tried hard not to laugh.

  The church was poor, and the church school poorer. Both depended on the largesse of the planters for their existence. Largesse was low these days, and therefore they could get only what they could afford.

  Like Teacher, who was definitely at death’s door, mostly because he was almost seventy and drank like a fish every evening. Like Mr. Aloysius, who despite his noble intentions of English-educating the masses, had a large family to feed and whose only qualification was his burning desire. Like Miss Ranawake with her long unhappy face like a well-sucked mango seed, who was approaching thirty and had taken up teaching only because she couldn’t find a husband.

  Father Ross knew the limitations of his teaching staff. And so, while he wore his sympathetic church-face for Teacher, he could, in a sort of un-Christian way, understand why a bright young boy like Chandi threw chalkfilled dusters at Teacher.

  “Teacher, I shall speak to him this afternoon,” he promised.

  “Don’t talk, give good whacking then maybe behave,” Teacher said angrily.

  “Teacher, you know the church does not condone violence,” Father Ross said mildly. “Boys will be boys, and all that.”

  “Then what about the saints?” Teacher asked belligerently. “Put the buggers in boiling oil and whipped and flogged—suffered all that and became saints after, no? Mebbe some flogging make this one a saint.”

  Father Ross felt the smile begin to escape. Not only that, he could feel it becoming a well-rounded laugh on its way out. He called up his sternest expression, the one he used in the confessional.

  “Teacher,” he said firmly, “leave it with me. I shall take care of it.” And he beat a hasty retreat, allowing the laugh to come forth as soon as he was out of earshot, which was only a few feet away since Teacher was more than half deaf.

  As soon as Teacher had walked away, muttering darkly about the new generation and the severity of punishments in his day, the subject of his complaints emerged from behind the tall clump of rhododendron bushes where he had been anxiously eavesdropping.

  Unlike Teacher, he heard Father Ross’s mirth emerge, and walked slowly home feeling safe for the time being at least. He fervently hoped Father Ross wouldn’t decide to come home and have a talk with his mother once his amusement wore off.

  Chandi was also in trouble at home.

  Krishna had caught him sitting in the Sudu Mahattaya’s chair while the family was away in Colombo, and vented his general anger and frustration simply by telling Premawathi.

  Chandi’s ear was still sore from the twisting it had earned him, and he had resolved to make Krishna’s life as miserable as he possibly could.

  He put sand in Krishna’s mat. He put stones in Krishna’s pillow. He put dead cockroaches in Krishna’s food and a live centipede on Krishna’s stomach as he lay sleeping early one morning. The ensuing screams had woken up the entire household.

  Chandi had been caught every time and whipped soundly with the guava cane, but Krishna’s hysteria made it all worthwhile.

  Leela and Rangi were growing up too. Leela was now twelve and was becoming increasingly like Premawathi, both in appearance and demeanor. At school, she was an average student, not good, not bad.

  It was as though she had already accepted that she, like her mother, would go into domestic service as soon as she was old enough. That was fate’s scheme of things, and Leela was only a tiny dot in fate’s vast people plan. To imagine that she could be anything better or even simply different was a waste of valuable sweeping, brushing and dusting time.

  Rangi also swept and brushed and dusted, but differently. She moved through the months and years like a fragile fairy who’d come to earth just to visit and then got her wings entangled in its ugliness. Her gentleness only increased, her wisdom only grew. She was a nine-year-old woman with carefully concealed dreams.

  In some ways, she was a lot like Chandi.

  When Chandi was not in trouble, he concentrated on his business. Stealing flowers was becoming increasingly difficult, especially since he had declared war on Krishna. Every time he ventured out into the gardens, he found Krishna already there.

  He put his prices up and it didn’t affect business. He now had eight rupees stashed away in the fat belly of his red plastic pig, which was hidden in a deep hollow at the bottom of the vegetable garden.

  At nearly seven, he was as determined to go to England as he had been at four. He still saw it as the easiest solution. Even the thought of Rosie-Lizzie couldn’t shake his determination.

  ON HIS SEVENTH birthday, he woke up with a feeling of excitement. He searched his memories for when he’d had a similar feeling, but he couldn’t really remember.

  He had to go to school, which was the only cloud on his otherwise cloudless horizon, and he couldn’t be late, not with so much trouble already.

  He went into the kitchen where his mother was busy frying sausages and eggs for the family. She came over to give him a quick hug.

  “Seven today,” she said affectionately. “Big boy. Soon you’ll be taking care of your old Ammi, no?”

  “You’re not old,” he declared loyally, and hugged her back, hard, a sudden shaft of love for her going through him like a sharp knife. She was his Ammi, this always busy woman with her dark brown eyes that danced only occasionally. Even when she whipped him until he had red stripes on the backs of his legs and he hated her, he still loved her.

  His cheek was flattened against her smooth brown stomach and her arms hurt his head and neck but he wished he could die right then. Fiercely. Happily.

  But people didn’t die of love at seven, so he caught the moment before someone spoke too loud or moved too soon and it flew away like a startled butterfly.

  He carefully filed it away to bring out at another, less happy, time.

  School was the same as usual. Teacher droning and snoring. Mr. Aloysius raving and waving.

  The day hadn’t properly begun, and Chandi was already tired from it being his birthday, although only Sunil knew.

  He hadn’t told anyone else, not because he didn’t want to, but because he had no birthday treat for the class.

  Everybody who had a birthday on a school day brought something for the children. Sometimes it was bread pudding, sometimes milk toffee, sometimes kavum, sometimes halapa sandwiched between leaves.

  Something, anything.

  The birthday boy or girl would proudly carry his or her treat up to Teacher’s table, place it there and wait expectantly. The whole class stood up and sang “Happy Birthday” off-key, after which the food would be unceremoniously wolfed down.

  Chandi knew his mother was too busy to make him twenty-something somethings, so he hadn’t even asked.

  He didn’t really mind not being able to take anything to school. He had already planned his post-England-trip birthday party when there would be bread pudding, milk toffee, kavum, halapa and even cake.

  He could wait.

  HE TRUDGED IN through the kitchen door and found chaos and food everywhere. He stood there and surveyed the scene with mounting interest. Every available surface in the kitchen was covered with plates and platters and wooden painted trays decorated with lacy white doilies.

  His mother stood at the fireplace frying cutlets, lost in other cutlet-frying memories perhaps. The three servant girls were busy cutting milk toffee, cutting bread and cutting sausage rolls in half. Krishna was polishing glasses on a tray, looking sullen as usual. Leela wa
s arranging patties on a large white and gold flowerlike platter, and Rangi was making cucumber and watercress sandwiches.

  His heart beat faster. Could it be possible? he wondered. Could it be possible that he did not have to wait until he returned from England?

  His mother turned around and saw him. She smiled vaguely. That was a good sign.

  “Chandi, don’t just stand there,” she said. “Go down to the well and have your bath quickly.”

  He frowned. “Alone?”

  “Yes, no, why? Can’t you manage alone?” she asked distractedly.

  “I suppose so,” he said doubtfully. “But what if the bucket falls in? Can’t Rangi come with me, just in case?” he said.

  But she was already back in her other cutlet world.

  Rangi left the sandwiches and went to get the towel. He skipped after her. Bathing with Rangi was fun.

  At the well, she hung the towel on the old mango tree which drooped its dusty leaves toward the water. She waited while he stripped.

  “Aren’t you going to bathe too?” he asked.

  “No, Malli, I’ll bathe later when the work’s finished,” she answered.

  “What’s happening? Is there a party?” he asked casually.

  “Yes,” she said. “For Lizzie Baby. It’s her birthday, remember? And yours too.” She looked down at him.

  “Oh,” he said, disappointed.

  “Don’t look like that,” she said, smiling. “You’re going too.”

  “Where?” he asked blankly.

  “To the party. To Lizzie Baby’s birthday party.”

  “No I’m not,” he said dejectedly. “Why would they want me?”

  “Well they do, because the Sudu Mahattaya himself told Ammi,” Rangi said.

  He stood there until she pushed him down so she could pour the first bucket of water over him. He didn’t gasp. He didn’t feel it. There was a warm feeling in him. A numb, warm feeling.

  He was going to Rose-Lizzie’s birthday party.

  He didn’t want to know how this had come about. He just knew he was going. He had never been to a birthday party before, although he had seen a few from afar. Jonathan’s, Anne’s and even Rose-Lizzie’s last one. He had watched the children and the games and the singing from behind the big gardenia bush near the passageway. Now he was actually going.

  Then the fears began. What if they didn’t mean it? What if they changed their minds at the last minute? What if he got a cold from the cold well water and died before he could go? What if Rose-Lizzie got a cold and died before the party?

  He began to shiver uncontrollably.

  “Is the water too cold?” Rangi said.

  He shook his head and tried to stop the shivers.

  Back inside, he ate his lunch slowly. He had been told the party was at four o’clock, which left him one whole hour to kill.

  He sensed that this was another don’t-get-in-my-way day, so when he finished eating, he wandered off into the back garden, only to be stopped and told sternly not to get himself dirty.

  Leela was trying to sound Ammilike and succeeding frighteningly well.

  HE WALKED THROUGH the vegetable garden trying hard not to think of the evening ahead, but it was difficult. He stared hard at the tomatoes, and the aubergines and the beans and the winged beans and the spinach and the fat white cabbages in the cabbage patch, as if they held all the answers to all his questions.

  Two worms wormed their way up a shiny purple aubergine that was already full of worm holes. Was there a worm village in there? Did worms have families and birthday parties? Were there worms in England?

  A little sparrow was picking delicately at a handful of rice thrown out by Rangi. How many grains of rice did it take to fill a sparrow’s stomach? Did sparrows have birthday parties?

  He spotted a seashell embedded in a piece of cement. What was it doing so far away from the sea? How had it got there? Had Glencairn been an ocean long ago?

  Loud barking broke into his reverie. He had wandered toward the garage, where Buster was tied. Now he took a few quick steps back. Buster hated him, and always tried to get a quick nip whenever Chandi was in nipping distance.

  “Chandi! Chandi!”

  He heard his mother’s voice and ran back to the kitchen. She was waiting for him, with his freshly ironed red-and-green-checked shorts and his school shirt. He dressed quickly, trying to listen to her admonitions and warnings, but they scarcely registered.

  Finally he was ready. She stood back and looked at him, her eyes shining with something that looked suspiciously like tears. He was momentarily afraid.

  “Ammi? Do you not want me to go? Shall I stay?” he asked.

  She dashed the tears away with the back of her hand, for they were tears, and laughed shakily.

  “Don’t be silly. Go. And don’t spill anything on your shirt.”

  “What about a present for her, Ammi?” he said.

  “What presents, child! They don’t expect presents from people like us!” she said crossly.

  He didn’t want to upset her, so he left quickly.

  He almost didn’t go to the party.

  When he emerged at the end of the passageway, he was seized by shyness. About ten children were playing musical chairs, while the Sudu Mahattaya and Sudu Nona watched. They were sitting on two white cane chairs nearby, he smiling indulgently, she looking hot and bored. Anne had emerged briefly from her bedroom, then disappeared again. Jonathan was back at school.

  Rose-Lizzie sat on a mat on the grass and applauded the other children enthusiastically. He supposed she was too small to play. He stood there feeling awkward and shy, wondering if he should make a quick unnoticed exit.

  Then she saw him. She grinned widely, got up with difficulty and waddled over in her pink and white party dress.

  She held out her hand and said, “Come.”

  He went.

  She led him to the mat, and they both sat watching the other children.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Chandi,” he replied.

  “Chandi,” she repeated, tasting the name like a new unfamiliar flavor. She pointed to herself. “Lizzie,” she said.

  “Rose,” Chandi said.

  “Lizzie,” she said firmly.

  “Rose-Lizzie,” Chandi said even more firmly.

  “Rose-Lizzie,” she said.

  Chandi laughed delightedly. Rose-Lizzie laughed with him, a rounded gurgling chuckle, not the baby giggles she used to laugh.

  Presently, she stood up and stretched her hand out to him. He went with her but hung back when he saw where she was taking him. She pulled him on until they stood before the two chairs.

  “Chandi,” she said. Chandi hung his head.

  “Hullo, Chandi,” the Sudu Mahattaya said genially. “I see you’ve made a new friend.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, John,” the Sudu Nona said irritably, without looking at them. “That’s the housekeeper’s son. What on earth is he doing here anyway?”

  “I invited him,” he replied imperturbably.

  “What?” She swung round to face him, impaling him with suddenly sharp blue eyes. Rose-Lizzie gripped Chandi’s hand harder.

  John’s face remained impassive, although his lips tightened. “I invited him. Told Premawathi to have him come. He’s the same age as this lot,” he said, indicating the laughing children with a jerk of his head.

  “Well, I think it’s very unseemly,” she said stonily. “Fraternizing with the help.”

  “Don’t be such a snob, my dear,” he said mildly. “Do him good to play with other children. He’s a loner, this one.”

  But Elsie Buckwater had already relapsed into stony silence, her back rigid with disapproval. John sighed.

  Chandi listened to the exchange with dismay. He hadn’t done anything, said anything, and he was already causing trouble. He wished he hadn’t come. Rose-Lizzie sensed the tension too, and pulled him away. This time, he went willingly.

  “Want to play?
” she asked.

  “No,” he said. He didn’t feel like playing.

  “Go walk?” she suggested tentatively.

  “Okay,” he said.

  They walked toward the flower beds where the Easter lilies had just begun to bloom in between the purplish-blue Michaelmas daisies. Although he pretended not to notice, he was aware of the eyes on them.

  The Sudu Mahattaya watched with interest, the Sudu Nona with barely concealed dislike. The ayah-jailer watched with suspicion.

  And peeping out from the side door, Premawathi watched with mounting dismay. She waved surreptitiously, trying to catch his attention, but he didn’t see. He was busy listening to Rose-Lizzie.

  “Mama angry,” she said in a fatalistic voice.

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “Want a flower?” he asked, in an attempt to distract her.

  “Blue one,” she replied.

  He bent over and picked her a daisy. He snapped the stem and tucked it among the dark brown curls behind her ear.

  “There,” he said with satisfaction. “Like princess. Princess Rose-Lizzie.” In her chair, Elsie looked faintly embarrassed.

  “He’s picking the flowers,” she said through tight, disapproving lips.

  “She must have asked him to,” John replied.

  “You know, it never does to get overfamiliar with these people, dear,” she said, trying a different tack.

  But it was one he recognized, and he didn’t reply.

  Her snobbishness angered him because of its tiring familiarity. She was making such a to-do out of nothing. Chandi was just a child.

  However, the one thing he had learned during his marriage to Elsie was that evasion worked better than confrontation, which had a far more lasting effect.

  “Look,” John said with relief. “Here comes the cake.”

  The cake was a masterpiece. Premawathi had outdone herself, although no one knew why Elsie had chosen a snowman, of all things. It was an impressive-looking snowman nonetheless, not flat, but standing upright, with a green cake top hat, a red cake muffler, a carrot nose and shiny Smarties buttons on his snowy coat.

  They all stood around and sang “Happy Birthday” with more enthusiasm than rhythm. Everyone applauded when Rose-Lizzie blew out her candles, and then gasped as she neatly drew the beribboned knife across the snowman’s throat with all the expertise of a surgeon or a highly skilled assassin.