Mr. Cartwright laughed softly. “Oh yes I did, Chandi,” he said wryly. “She didn’t want me. Got married to someone else. Better prospects and all that.”
Chandi was outraged. “How could she have not wanted you? You’re such a good teacher!”
“Ah yes, that I am. But a better husband than old whatzisname she married? I don’t know about that.” He puffed some more. “Lovely as a picture, she was. Knew her Shakespeare too. Funny thing was, the man she married didn’t have a literary bone in his body. I used to wonder what they talked about.”
“Did he have lots of money?” Chandi asked.
Robin Cartwright laughed. “Catch on fast, don’t you? Yes. He had lots of money. A title too, if I remember right.”
They entered the side lawn. Robin Cartwright sighed. “No use crying over spilt milk. Not after all these years, anyway. There are more important things to worry about. We’ll all have to go soon. I was talking to John about it the other night.”
Chandi held his breath.
“Seems almost better to just go and get it over with, without waiting until we get kicked out,” Robin Cartwright continued contemplatively.
Suddenly, Chandi was desperate to talk to someone other than Rose-Lizzie. An adult who might have some real information and some real answers. He stopped and turned to the older man.
“Mr. Cartwright, what’s going to happen to us?” he asked, not bothering to hide his anxiety. “I mean, when everybody has to leave?”
Robin Cartwright stopped too and looked at Chandi sympathetically. “I wish I could tell you, son,” he said, “but to be honest, I don’t know.”
“Will the Sudu Mahattaya take us to England too?” Chandi asked hopefully.
“I know he would want to,” Robin Cartwright said, feeling desperately sorry for Chandi. This had obviously been plaguing him for a while. He longed to be able to reassure the boy, but it would do no good to give him false hopes. “I think most of it will depend on your mother.”
Chandi blushed painfully. He knew everyone knew, but it was still embarrassing to hear it spoken of like this. “You mean, if she’ll go or not?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think she’ll go?” he asked, knowing it was a question that Robin Cartwright couldn’t answer, but needing to ask anyway.
Robin Cartwright put an arm about Chandi’s shoulders. “I hope so, Chandi,” he said quietly. “You’re a bright boy, and given the proper education, you could go very far. I truly hope your mother will agree.”
They saw Rose-Lizzie skipping toward them and the subject was dropped.
chapter 30
PREMAWATHI PROWLED THE ROOM, PICKING UP THINGS AND PUTTING them down again, straightening his hairbrushes. John watched her, waiting for her to speak.
“John?” she said in her singsong accent, which never failed to make him smile. “We can go if you like.”
“Where?” he asked blankly.
“Somewhere. A trip. Remember you said we should?”
“I thought you didn’t want to,” he said, surprised.
“I’ve been thinking about it, and you’re right. We need a break.”
“Are you sure?” he asked doubtfully.
“Yes,” she replied. “I think the outing will do us good. All of us. Chase the cobwebs away.”
He didn’t ask which cobwebs. “Where would you like to go? Colombo? Kandy?” he asked instead.
She looked up. “Kandy, I think. Colombo’s so far away.”
“How about this coming weekend?” he asked enthusiastically.
Her eyes clouded for a moment before they cleared. “The weekend is good.”
“We could stay overnight at the Queen’s, make a trip up to Hantana maybe,” he thought out loud. He turned to her. “What do you think?”
“I’ve never been to Kandy,” she said simply, “so I don’t know.”
He looked slightly ashamed. “Of course. We work you so hard, when would you have the time?”
She looked at him. “Do you think the children will enjoy it?”
He looked back at her steadily. “Do you think you will?” he countered.
She smiled. “I’ll try to.”
AND SO IT came about that once more they were on the road, all together. Only this time, there were just six of them. Like bottles on the wall, Chandi thought to himself. If one green bottle should accidentally fall, there’ll be one fewer green bottles standing on the wall. Or if one green bottle jumped off the wall. Or if one green bottle decided to get married, have babies and go away to look after its old in-laws. Or marry the firewood man and look after his chickens. Or just go.
John, Robin Cartwright and Chandi sat in front, with Anne, Rose-Lizzie and Premawathi in the backseat. Men in the front, women in the back. Chandi felt important. Slightly white.
He looked out the car window, but they were still on the Nuwara Eliya road. Nothing new to see, except how much old Jamis’s cow had aged. It was no more than a bag of bones now. Like old Jamis. Two more green bottles precariously close to the edge of the wall. Waiting to fall.
Chandi leaned back and closed his eyes. If only they were not going to Kandy, but were on their way to Colombo . . . not to stop there, but to continue all the way to England. His imagination took off.
The trunk was packed with most of their worldly goods and the rest would follow. They were going to catch the steamer that would steam them all the way across the sea to England.
He could see the ship’s crew in their smart white uniforms and gold epaulets, smiling welcomingly at them. All of them. No sly looks or nudges. He had no idea what a cabin on a ship looked like, so he skipped that part and went on to the next.
They would all dress for dinner on the ship, and he and Rose-Lizzie would stroll on the deck, while his mother and John danced to the music of the orchestra, and Anne and Robin Cartwright sat and discussed dead poets and living ones. They would play deck games and sip long drinks in impossibly tall glasses. There would be a storm at sea, he decided. No ocean voyage was complete without one. A few people would be washed out to sea and he, Chandi, would rescue those he liked. The others would be fish food. Torn apart by sharks.
They would arrive in England to brass bands and quayside decorations and all John’s relatives (minus Elsie of course) waiting to welcome them (all of them) with open arms. From there, his daydream got a bit blurry because he didn’t know what England looked like. It would be a wonderful place, he was sure of that much, full of wonderful things and wonderful people. He would go to a wonderful school and his mother would be proud of him. The Sudu Mahattaya too.
He still wanted to return home to Ceylon at some time, and since John was not going to be coming back, Chandi had decided he wanted to live at Glencairn. No longer was he naive enough to think that all he had to do was go to England to have a beautiful home and food and servants waiting for him on his return. He knew enough and had seen enough to know it took work and worry furrows on foreheads. But equally, he didn’t see why he couldn’t ably run Glencairn.
He knew enough about the tea business, and the people there were his friends. If Glencairn had to have a new master, then better Chandi than a complete stranger.
“Look! It’s a thalagoya!” The car had stopped. Crossing the road as sinuously as a catwalk model was a big lizard more than three feet long. Chandi wasn’t interested. He had seen plenty of thalagoyas before, and he was annoyed that his trip to England had been so rudely interrupted. After the thalagoya had finally slithered past they set off again.
He closed his eyes and tried desperately to pick up where he had left off, but it was as impossible as trying to pick up a good dream once it had been interrupted. Good things never last, he thought in disgust, turning his attention once more to the road.
This stretch of the drive was more interesting, simply because most of them had never been this way before. They passed trains and tunnels, street vendors and stalls selling wild melons and mangoes, elephants and slow-moving
bullock carts which made fast-moving automobiles honk impatiently. The women went to sleep, and soon Robin Cartwright’s raspy snores joined their more genteel ones.
John softly pointed out things and places to Chandi. Distant dwellings and white-topped temples. Bare-bottomed farmers and saffron-robed monks. Spice gardens and cement factories. Mud-splattered buffalo and mud-splattered children.
Chandi wished they could talk about England instead, but he didn’t like to bring it up in case John thought he was being too forward.
THEY ARRIVED IN Kandy in time for a late breakfast or an early lunch, whatever it was. Once, ages ago, Mr. Aloysius had taken the class for a day’s outing to see the Temple of the Tooth, among other things. Chandi hadn’t gone because his mother had thought the required one rupee for bus fare and entrance tickets was a waste of money. Just to see a tooth which you couldn’t even see because it was kept behind many layers of doors and gold. Better to give it to the church, she had said, but he had never found out if she actually had.
Anyway, now he was in Kandy (no thanks to his mother).
Everything looked bigger except the trees and the hills. Those looked diminutive in comparison to the ones at Glencairn, which seemed to skim the clouds on clear days.
The buildings were old and all slightly faded, but he didn’t mind. He watched the pigeons perch on the ornate facades, which were already spotted white from their droppings.
Then, he saw the lake. He hung farther out the window and gazed upon its still surface, which didn’t seem to be touched by the careless breeze gently ruffling everything else. It reminded him a little of the secret lake along the oya, but this lake had more secrets. Happy secrets and dark, unknown ones.
He remembered what Robin Cartwright had said about it being built by a king who also built a secret tunnel underneath its bed so he could escape if he needed to. He felt a frisson of excitement run through him at the thought.
He turned to John. “Can we stop?” he asked hopefully.
“We’d better head straight for the hotel. It’s almost lunchtime,” John said. “But we can come by later. We’ll be here for two days.”
When they arrived at the hotel, Chandi was delighted to discover that it actually overlooked the lake. In fact, it seemed as if they had been built for each other, although he knew that wasn’t true because Robin Cartwright had also told him the lake was hundreds of years old.
The car door was opened with a flourish. Chandi got out and stared at the white-uniformed, behatted man who regarded him impassively.
“Is he the owner?” he asked John in a loud whisper.
John grinned and shook his head. “No, but I’m sure he thinks he is.”
They entered the imposing foyer, Premawathi self-consciously patting her hair and trying to smooth her cotton sari, which was creased from the car.
She suddenly wished she hadn’t agreed to this trip. Perhaps Disneris was right. Everyone and everything had a place and this certainly wasn’t theirs, Chandi’s and hers. She saw Chandi watching her worriedly and a little uncertainly. He was standing to one side, looking a little uncomfortable.
Rose-Lizzie, on the other hand, couldn’t keep still. This was the first time she would be staying in a real hotel and she fully intended to enjoy it.
“Come on, Chandi,” she called. “And close your mouth—a fly might get in.”
The dining room of the Queen’s Hotel was quite empty at this late breakfast (or early lunch) hour, but there were still six tables occupied besides theirs. All by suited, booted white people, whose conversation rose and fell like a strange piece of music. They glanced up briefly as John led his entourage in, decided that he was no one important and went back to their food and talk.
Premawathi felt strange at the table, more used to waiting on than being waited upon. She held the big leather menu card awkwardly without opening it, which was a good thing, because if she had seen the prices inside she would have refused to touch a thing. Seeing her discomfort, John ordered for them all. Six plates of chicken sandwiches.
They sat waiting for the food, too tired to talk, the silence punctuated by loud rumblings from Chandi’s stomach. He pressed his hand against it, but it only seemed to make them worse, so he pretended they were coming from someone else.
The sandwiches finally arrived. The bread was slightly stale and crumbly and the chicken tasted like straw. The accompanying lettuce leaves looked tired and old, as did the waiter who served them. Fortunately they were too hungry to care, so the food got wolfed down, although Premawathi privately thought the cook should have been hanged for serving such poor fare.
John suggested a short nap and everyone but Chandi agreed. Chandi didn’t see the point of driving all this way just to sleep, but since everyone was already walking to their rooms, he had no choice but to follow. He wanted to ask if he could go outside for a walk, but perhaps Premawathi sensed it for she gave him one of her looks. The question sank back down.
The room he was to share with his mother was grander than any he’d seen before. It had two huge beds with snow-white sheets and mosquito nets, a large dresser with an ornate mirror, and even rugs on the floor. But the best thing about it was the view. The large windows looked straight out over the lake and from up here, he could see the tiny boathouse and the miniature temple sitting on it. He could even see a bit of the Temple of the Tooth.
He washed in the bathroom, taking care not to dirty anything. He looked at the fluffy white towel that was almost as big as a bedsheet, and only the fact that he had nothing else to clean his hands and face on persuaded him to use it.
Back in the bedroom, he lay on the bed, determined not to sleep. He wished he could have shared with Rose-Lizzie, for his mother’s obvious discomfort with her too-comfortable surroundings was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable. She emerged from the bathroom, still looking a bit dazed, lay down on the bed and went straight to sleep. As if she hadn’t slept enough in the car.
Unbidden, a thought of Rangi popped into his mind and he wished she could have seen all this. She wouldn’t have been uncomfortable, because she had never been uncomfortable with the things of life. Just with life itself.
Perhaps she could see, he thought, for hadn’t Father Ross said that each of us had a guardian angel who looked after us? Although he personally didn’t much like the idea of a guardian angel watching him every single moment of the day, the thought that it might be Rangi put a different light on the concept.
He wondered if she was happy in heaven.
He wondered if Leela was happy in Maskeliya.
He wondered if his mother was happy on the next bed.
He wondered if his father was happy wherever he was.
He wondered if he himself was happy.
He wondered if happiness existed. Perhaps it was a myth put there by tired gods to keep people hoping.
His eyes closed and against his will, he slept.
NIGHT FELL SWIFTLY in the mountains and only Glencairn had a generator. Everyone else had bottle lamps and oil was expensive.
Here, the streets were as bright as day, lit by hundreds of lamps. Every window in every building glowed with electricity and there were people everywhere. Walking, driving, riding, bicycling.
They walked slowly along the promenade around the lake, which was swarming with hundreds of people doing hundreds of things. Children flew kites, adults made desultory conversation and strolled languidly along, lovers whispered to each other behind umbrella shields.
They bought peanuts from a man who sat by the side of the road, roasting them in a sandy pan, ripe mangoes from a woman who sliced them expertly, mopped them on a grubby cloth and handed them over, sherbet from a sherbet man, and luridly colored candy floss.
They wanted to taste everything, see everything, do everything. It was like a delightful sensory overload that left you hungry for more.
They walked in twos. Premawathi and Anne in front, talking softly and walking softly, Chandi and Rose-Lizzie next,
loud and excited, and finally John and Robin Cartwright bringing up the rear.
They stopped to look over the moonlit lake.
Unreal, was Chandi’s first thought. It looks unreal, more like a photograph of a lake than a real lake. Although it was surrounded by constantly undulating activity, it still managed to look remote and untouched.
He looked at the others. Anne had dreams in her eyes, Premawathi’s had the peculiar glassiness of one who looks but does not see, John was smiling faintly to himself and his eyes smiled also, Robin Cartwright’s eyes were full of thoughts and Rose-Lizzie—Rose-Lizzie noisily cracked a peanut shell between her teeth and the spell was broken. Mentally shaking themselves out of their respective reveries, they continued walking.
Dinner was at the Lyon’s Tea House, which Chandi thought was a very inappropriate name for a place that served breakfast, lunch and dinner. They sat in cheerful green chairs, wolfed down thick roast beef sandwiches that Premawathi thought were far better than the leather and straw ones at the Queen’s, and made plans for the next day.
That night, while the others slept and dreamed dreams of peanuts, thalagoyas and lost-forever daughters, Chandi stood by the window looking out over the lake, fed up with dreaming, longing to live instead.
Live in England, to be precise.
THE NEXT MORNING, they all assembled in the lounge and by mutual consent decided to go back to Lyon’s for breakfast. Lyon’s also did packed lunches, which were needed, because today they were going to a spot that John had told them about the previous night. It had a waterfall and they were going to stay the whole day.
After hastily bolting down breakfast, they set off, packed lunches, impatient people and all.
Later, Chandi would remember that day as a magical, mystical experience where wounds were healed, harmony was restored and life lifted itself up with a gentle sigh to continue on its course.
Even the memory of Rangi, whom no one could not remember, given the fact that this was another picnic in another beauty spot, cast no more than a soft shadow that was more of a shade really. A soft, nostalgic lilac shade.
The Flower Boy Page 36