by Roma Tearne
‘No need to phone,’ he said, giving Bee a meaningful look; and then he hurried out into the light through the footpath in the coconut grove.
Bee walked with him for some of the way. A brief storm the night before had shaken the two mango trees that stood at the bottom of the garden. Spoiled fruit lay everywhere. The green sickly scent of their skins filled the air. Battalions of ants were already feasting on the yellow flesh exposed by the fall. The doctor kicked a mango over and stepped on another, flattening it with his shoes as he hurried.
‘What’s the plan?’ he asked.
‘Jaffna?’
The doctor made a face.
‘Tricky.’
They walked on in exhausted silence.
‘He should be fine until tomorrow. Any problem, send for me up at the house. Don’t come to the surgery. I think it’s being watched.’
‘Dias Harris has contacts. As soon as he is recovered enough, I’ll drive him there.’
The doctor shook his head in disgust. He pressed his lips together into a thin line.
‘This place is full of the worst kind of thugs, men. There’s a lot of people hell-bent on destruction.’
He was silent again. A branch crackled underfoot and a small bat flew swiftly past.
‘How’s Sita?’ he asked, after a moment. ‘I noticed she came in when we were cleaning Kunal up.’
‘Everything has gone inwards, Sam,’ Bee mumbled. ‘She won’t talk, not to me, anyway. It all remains, festering. Perhaps it will get better when they go.’
He spoke without conviction, hopelessly.
‘When do they leave?’
‘Three months minus one week.’
The doctor glanced sharply at Bee.
‘What about you? How will you deal with all that?’
‘Same way as you,’ Bee said grimly. ‘Doing what we’re doing now. Helping those poor buggers that we can.’
They walked on. The sky had become a brilliant, parrot blue. Behind them the sea threw up a gentle breeze, cooling the air. At the end of the coconut grove, Bee paused.
‘See you,’ the doctor said. ‘I’ll bring the Anti-Par Kamala wanted for the child. We can’t have her getting worms just as they are leaving! I’ll bring it tomorrow.’
Bee nodded and raised a hand.
Then he turned and slipped through the trees, disappearing the way he had come, hurrying soundlessly down the hill.
When he got back to the house, he went looking for Kamala.
‘I’m going into town this morning,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long. Where is everyone?’
Kamala put her finger to her lips. She was still a little cross with Bee.
Alice is asleep and May has gone to work.’
She looked over her shoulder in the direction of Sita’s room and lowered her voice.
‘I think she’s gone back to bed, too. Honestly,’ she added, ‘why didn’t you tell me there was catch?’
It was the word they used whenever they hid someone. There had been no one to hide for months.
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Hah! Why do you want to go to town, then? That worries me!’
‘I want to show my face a little. I’ll be back soon.’
In the town Bee found that the army had set up posts everywhere and were carrying out random identity checks. The outdoor fish and vegetable market was closed and Main Street was subdued. Bee went over to Talliman’s and bought some arrack. The shopkeeper serving him raised his eyebrows. He knew Mr Fonseka as the man who only drank the best whisky.
‘I haven’t been to the Colombo shop for a while,’ Bee explained.
The shopkeeper nodded. He knew all about Sita’s baby. He thought Mr Fonseka looked worn out.
‘With these curfews, it’s become impossible to travel and be back in time for nightfall, sir,’ he agreed.
Life was very difficult these days. The shopkeeper looked with pity at Bee. No doubt Mr Fonseka was still grieving over his daughter’s miscarriage. Did he know about the shooting in the town? Bee shook his head and asked for an ounce of tobacco.
‘Well, the army had a tip-off about some Tamils,’ the shopkeeper told him, leaning confidently over the counter. ‘Anay! One of them was a ring-leader behind those bombings in Colombo, you know. All those poor innocent people! He was responsible for killing them. There’s a rumour the army caught one of the group and shot him dead close to the railway line. But there’s another dog at large. They wounded him on Wednesday, so hopefully he won’t go far. It won’t be long before he’s caught too. They should all go back to Jaffna,’ he said. ‘Best for everyone, no?’
Bee paid for his arrack and his pipe tobacco.
‘How long are the army staying, d’you think?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, sir. Probably until they find the last man. Although I think he’s escaped. Surely they would have caught him by now, if he were still in the town. This is not a big place.’
Bee nodded and picked up his purchases.
‘Don’t worry, as soon as they’ve gone, the curfew will be lifted and you’ll be able to go to Colombo for the whisky!’ the shopkeeper laughed, his face brightening.
By the time Alice woke again the sun was high in the sky and Kunal had plotted her horoscope on a thin sheet of cake paper the servant had brought for him. When he was younger he had been renowned for his accuracy at drawing up these charts. It had been a lucrative sideline, providing extra cash in addition to his teaching. He had not drawn a horoscope for a long time. Now an inability to sleep coupled with gratitude made him want to do it for this child. Kunal had barely known either of Bee’s daughters. Occasionally, in the past, when he called at the house he had come across them, going about their business, preoccupied with their own lives; but after he had left for Colombo twelve years ago, he had not seen them again. When he heard the rumours that Sita had married a Tamil man he alone had been unsurprised. Sita had always been the idealist in the family. Like her father, Kunal had thought. Even in the early days when she had been young Kunal had had the feeling that Sita’s life would not be easy. She had been a beautiful girl then, but stubborn in a quiet Singhala way. People had thought her shy. Only Kunal had sensed a determination underlying everything she did. Now that she and the child were leaving, Kunal was aware of another anguish in the house. So he asked Kamala to tell him Alice’s birth hour in order to plot her future, in the hope of giving them a little comfort. But when he had drawn up the horoscope he was no further forward. Alice was a gentle loving child, he told Kamala, who smiled and nodded in acknowledgement. She liked eating meat. The servant woman sneaked in to listen, nodding her approval. This horoscope should have been plotted long ago. She would grow into a beautiful woman, Kunal told them. And marry young. All this he could see. But he was puzzled by some obstruction, a blockage that presented itself with no clear explanation. Perhaps it was his calculations that were wrong, but the child would not use her strengths in the way she should. Perhaps it was the fever he was running, thought Kunal, confused, for he could not see clearly beyond this opaqueness.
‘Never mind,’ Kamala said quickly.
She felt guilty. Bee hated horoscopes, but, she comforted herself, if Kunal thought Alice would marry early, nothing much could go wrong. She would not be alone in a strange country.
The servant went to fetch some coriander tea. Kunal’s eyes were shining too brightly for Kamala’s liking. Hearing footsteps, she hastily put the horoscope into the pocket of her housecoat. But it was Alice and not Bee who came in.
‘I’ll look after him,’ she told her grandmother. ‘Mama wants to talk to you.’
‘Only a few minutes,’ Kamala said warningly. ‘You mustn’t wear him out.’
‘Little missy,’ the servant asked, smiling, ‘come, I’ll bathe you.’
‘Not yet,’ Alice said firmly.
She sat gingerly on the edge of Kunal’s bed. She wanted to talk to him about last night, which, in the light of day, had taken on t
he aspect of a dream. Last night Alice had felt different. As she had waited for her grandfather to return, she had felt that what she was doing might make up for the terrible thing she had wished on the baby. No one had ever trusted her in this way before; no one had relied on her. Kunal, slumped beside the bowl of blood, had made a powerful impression on her. She wanted to ask him about his friend and about his sister and her husband, Janake’s uncle. Janake was the one friend she had who was always kind to her. It had not occurred to her that he too might have had bad things in his life. It had not occurred to her because Janake was always laughing, always happy. Janake’s life, now she thought about it, was charmed and quite unlike her own. She wanted to talk to Kunal and find out how it was Janake was always happy.
‘I don’t go there too often,’ Kunal said faintly. ‘I don’t want to cause the boy and his mother any more trouble than they’ve already had to endure. You know Janake’s clever; he should be at school. Since his father was killed he’s been going out with the fishermen, doing odd jobs, helping his mother. It’s a great shame, but the locals have spread all sorts of rumours about his father. All because my sister came from Jaffna. So stupid!’
Alice was surprised. She hadn’t taken much notice of Janake’s home before. He was simply her friend who always lived near the Sea House and sometimes played with her. That was all.
‘Your grandfather has been very good to that family. He’s the only one who takes any notice of them. He doesn’t care what people think, you see, Alice. Your grandpa Bee is like that; he helps everyone. Now he’s going to get me to Jaffna somehow.’
‘What will you do in Jaffna?’
‘I’ll be amongst my own people,’ Kunal said softly. After all, it is my spiritual home. And home is always where we want to be in the end. There is nothing to beat it.’
His voice tailed off. He had closed his eyes. Alice waited. Hoping he might go on, wanting to know more about Jaffna, but Kunal had dozed off. The servant woman, hovering anxiously outside the door, beckoned to her to come out. She disapproved of Kunal sleeping in the room that had been meant for the bride. It was an ill omen to put this broken man in it. But as always, no one took her advice.
Dinner that night was later than usual. They were all present, even Sita. The servant had been wrapping wedding cake all day, for Ceylon wedding cake needed to mature for at least a month before it was ready to be served. Only after that did she make her special mulligatawny for Kunal. When May returned from school Bee took her aside. She had left too early for him to tell her the full story. Did she mind that Kunal was sleeping in the annexe? May did not mind. While they were eating the doctor arrived, by the back door.
‘Don’t get up,’ he said, when Kamala tried to clear a space for him. ‘No, no, thank you, I’ve eaten. I’ll just take a look at the patient.’
He smiled, looking around at their anxious faces.
‘It’s like the old days,’ he said. ‘Seeing you all together.’
And he went in to see Kunal.
After he dressed the wound and had given Kunal something for the fever, the doctor paused. He had a slight suspicion that an infection had set in.
‘I’ll know by tomorrow,’ he told Bee privately. ‘Give him plenty of liquids, but no more whisky.’
From the expression on the doctor’s face, Kamala suspected that things were serious. The wedding was uppermost in her mind. What if Kunal were to become really ill? How could they have guests with a fugitive in the house?
‘We’ll worry about that when it happens,’ Bee told her impatiently.
‘He’ll have to leave,’ Kamala warned. ‘He can’t stay here if that happens.’
‘There’s plenty of time,’ Bee told her calmly. ‘He’ll be on his way to Jaffna by then, you’ll see. Stop worrying.’
Kamala was annoyed. Throughout their married life she had accepted all her husband’s causes. Some of them had led to complications, some even flirted with danger. She had always supported Bee, but this time was different; this time she was putting her foot down. She was determined that May should have a decent wedding.
‘I’m very sorry for him,’ she told her husband firmly, ‘but he must be gone by her wedding day’
Bee opened his mouth to argue and then he stopped. Through the half-opened door of Kunal’s room they could both hear voices. Bee raised an eyebrow enquiringly. Kamala shook her head in warning. Sita was talking to Kunal.
Sita had been in her room all day. She had slept for most of it and then Alice had woken her for dinner.
‘I don’t want any. Tell Granny I’ll eat later.’
‘Why don’t you get up?’ Alice had asked, and when Sita remained silent she had gone on to tell her mother that Kunal was in the annexe next door. Sita hadn’t cared. She had gathered from something her mother had said when she had visited her that there was a fugitive in the house. It did not surprise Sita. Her father was always doing crazy things.
‘He’s sick,’ Alice said, looking solemn.
Sita glanced at her daughter. The child needed her hair cutting. Her fringe had grown over her eyes again.
‘Tell Granny to cut your fringe,’ she said listlessly.
‘Mama, will you?’
Sita ignored her daughter’s forlorn tone of voice.
‘Will you?’
‘I’m too exhausted,’ she said, ignoring the desire to cry. Ask Granny’
And she turned her face to the wall, willing Alice to leave. Pushing her guilt away, she waited. She must have dozed off again because when she woke it was to the sound of voices in the annexe. Alice had left the room and the sky was now a deep dusky blue. Soon it would be dark. Suddenly she heard an unearthly scream. Sita sat bolt upright in bed. She broke out into a cold sweat. The sound triggered something terrible within her. It was in this way that she too had screamed. Only in my case, thought Sita wildly, it was in the middle of the night and I was alone. Opening the door, she listened. The house was silent. She was about to close the bedroom door when Kunal screamed again. Sita burst into tears and ran out into the garden. She felt as though her heart would explode.
Standing under the mango tree she rubbed her face, trying to make sense of her tears. For the two weeks since her return home she had felt, without caring very much, her parents’ concern for her. Colombo and Stanley’s departure had receded from her thoughts. All she felt was the constant bottomless pit of tiredness. Nothing else. Since she no longer had to get up each morning to take Alice to school, it was easier to stay in bed, letting the hours run on unnoticed. Each day her sojourn in the bedroom had become longer. Each day she blotted out her parents’ anxious looks, staring out to sea, reflecting on the direction her life had taken. May left early every morning for school. Then in the evenings when she had finished her marking Namil usually visited and Sita was forced to listen to their voices, like small sleepy birds, emerging from the garden. Unable to bear this either, she retreated even further into her shell. Today had been no different. But now the scream had jolted her. For the first time in weeks, standing in the garden, out of sight from her parents, she heard the faint beating of her own heart. Wiping her face with the edge of her sari she cautiously made her way back into the house and headed towards the annexe. She could hear her father on the front verandah, talking to the doctor. Hardly aware of what she did, she opened the door of Kunal’s room and went in.
Kunal had been silent all day, drifting in and out of consciousness. Apart from the brief conversation with Alice that morning, he had not registered anyone. Bee had visited him and sat for an hour and Kamala had brought him food and washed his face several times, but he had not noticed. The doctor, examining his wound, had woken in him a storm of pain. The doctor had tried talking to him but he had no idea what was said. When his door opened for the second time he thought he recognised Bee.
‘Can I have some water?’ he asked in Singhalese.
When he had finished drinking he turned towards the light from the window, his eyes disorien
tated by the fever.
‘You have been so good to me, Headmaster,’ he said in English. ‘I’m afraid of being in your way. I shall leave for Jaffna in the morning.’
In spite of herself, Sita was shocked. This man was very sick. Sweat was pouring down his face and his eyes were bloodshot. She took the towel beside the bed and wiped his face. She pushed his hair back. Then she lifted him up a little and held a glass of water to his lips, noticing how they stayed pressed against the glass so that he might feel its lingering coolness. When he lay down again she saw the wetness remaining on his cracked dry lips.
‘I’ve been talking to your granddaughter,’ Kunal said. ‘She is a child with an uncommon sensitivity’
He spoke in Tamil. Only in Tamil did he have the ability to express those things dear to him. A lifetime of learning what was expected of him, English, Singhalese, could not do for him what his mother tongue did. Love, he thought, sorrow, every emotion learnt at his mother’s knees could only be expressed in Tamil. It was the language of his heart. Sita felt her eyes fill with tears. She understood Tamil.
‘I am Sita,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Do you remember me?’
An immense darkness had descended. The canopy of stars, acquiescent and soft, were beginning to puncture the sky. Somewhere out of sight the sea breathed heavily and the room filled up with its echoes. He was looking at her now, without surprise.
‘Sita!’ he said. ‘The beautiful Sita! Of course I remember you. Today I saw you in her face,’ he said quietly. ‘You know, perhaps at this moment it isn’t much, just a small pin-prick of light, she is so young, but wait…’
He fell silent, again. It had begun to rain, long fingers drumming on the roof, drowning the moon in the sea.