Bone China

by Roma Tearne

  Myrtle of course, understood what Frieda’s headaches were about. She had mentioned it in her diary, that morning.

  October 31. Thank God the monsoons are here at last. I have not been able to write through lack of time. There are still two months left before this wretched wedding. G is too weak to be of much help. It looks as though Mr Basher was right although I had no idea her downfall would be through an illness. Well, it’s as good as any other misfortune, if not better! She certainly looks pretty dreadful. A, of course, is full of such concern that it has become quite comical. I’d like to tell him that he should be looking forward to possible widowerhood! After all, I shall be there; I’ll look after him. For the last couple of weeks, needless to say, I have been working like a coolie (with no acknowledgement). F remains uselessly slow and a complete misery, while our little Bride has her head in the clouds. Have an interesting theory about F. I have noticed she likes white boys!! If this isn’t nipped in the bud soon there’ll be trouble from that direction too. Like mother like daughter. Don’t I know it! Anyway, G looks pretty terrible at the moment. There has been no need for me to do the thing Mr B suggested, as yet. Shall save it for the other event. Apparently the doctor thinks G’s got dengue fever.

  The month of November passed slowly. All across the capital the riots had temporarily destabilised the country. Everyone desperately wished to put it behind them. Christmas was around the corner to be followed swiftly by the wedding. The cake was ready, the invitations had been sent out. One evening Grace, appearing to be much better, came out to sit on the veranda. Everyone was pleased. Thornton pulled up a chair under her newly planted jasmine bush. Alicia began to play her mother’s favourite piece of Schubert and Frieda went to tell the cook their mother would be joining them for dinner. Grace had been ill for nearly a month. She looked smaller, more delicate, infinitely more lovely, thought Aloysius, watching her, surreptitiously. He had grown cautious. On that first night, when she had been so distraught, turning to him for the first time in many years, Aloysius had not known what to do. She had begun to tell him something incoherently, and Aloysius had been afraid.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ he had told her. The less he knew the better. ‘You don’t need to tell me, darl.’

  I don’t want to know, he told himself, repeatedly. Whatever it was, it’s enough that she’s here, with us now. Afterwards, in the days and nights that had followed, when he had shielded her from the children’s anxieties and protected her from Myrtle’s curiosity, he had regretted stopping her. He had begun to wish she would confide in him. But as the days turned into weeks and Grace became aware once more of the need not to upset her family, Aloysius saw that the moment had passed. She regained control of herself and he intuited she would never turn to him in that way again. So Aloysius watched her struggle, talking with Christopher for long hours, pulling herself back to life, and refrained from comment.

  ‘It’s been too much for her,’ he told Myrtle, fobbing her off, refusing to be drawn by her questions. ‘What with losing Alicia soon, and Christopher’s nonsense on top of that, she’s not as strong as she likes to think she is.’

  Myrtle raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Frieda wistfully, ‘it’s the thought of losing Alicia that’s upsetting Mummy so much! It’s about the wedding, isn’t it?’

  They had all agreed. Then, as the wedding approached, Grace, with an enormous effort, did seem to pull herself together, so some, if not all, of their former pleasure appeared to return. Sunil was so much a part of their lives now it was hard to imagine a time when he was not present. After the riots he had won a small electoral victory with the UEP in the south.

  ‘No one,’ he told Alicia passionately, ‘wants a civil war. This island has lived for centuries in perfect harmony, why can it not do so again?’

  He had tried talking to Christopher, but here a door slammed heavily in his face. Sunil did not take offence. He continued his work with simple optimism, determined to walk the road of peace. There was still so much work to be done. His wedding was only a few weeks away. Then, after the Roman Catholic Mass, before they went upcountry for their honeymoon, there would be a brief blessing ceremony at the temple in St Andrew’s Road. Sunil’s mother had arranged it. For an auspicious time of day.

  Somehow Jasper had escaped. He had always lived in a little room off the hall where the windows were covered with wire mesh. But at some point, due to the heavy rains, or perhaps his own feverish pecking, the mesh had worn out. Christopher, who in the past would have been the one to notice this, no longer either noticed or cared. Christopher was beyond all such childish interests. Silent and morose, he did not respond to Jasper’s greetings. In fact, no one thought about the bird. Even the dog next door had disappeared and no longer provided sport for him. Bored and ignored, Jasper looked elsewhere for entertainment. Nobody bothered. Nobody missed him. The wedding and other events had more or less taken over the de Silva family. Several days went by. He flew gloriously out through one window and onto the jackfruit tree, then further on into the plantain tree. Swooping silently in through yet another window, pecking the kittens who mewed and hid under the furniture. For four days Jasper was mute, afraid, no doubt, of being caught. Then, having picked his victim, he descended on her.

  Myrtle was not expecting this. After her morning ablutions she usually spent some time in her room. On this particular morning, she was in her room, a towel wrapped around her head, her dark body patched with talcum powder, wrapped in a vast multicoloured housecoat. She was holding a small metal object in her hand.

  ‘Hello, sister,’ said Jasper swooping down on her.

  Myrtle jumped. And dropped the metal plate. Startled, she raised her arms above her face.

  ‘Get out!’ she screeched. ‘Get out! Get out!’

  Jasper watched her with interest.

  ‘Atten-tion!’ he said solemnly, imitating the army captain he had once seen.

  ‘No! No!’ yelled Myrtle, flaying her arms about in a vain attempt to drive him away. ‘Get out! Get out!’

  Jasper narrowed his eyes to thin bright slits. He perched on the top of her wardrobe, leaving a small deposit that ran easily down the smooth mahogany, landing on the back of the chair, close to Myrtle’s neatly folded sari. He squawked imperfectly but with some satisfaction. He was still practising his devil-bird impersonation. Then he belched, as he had often heard Aloysius do.

  ‘Easy!’ he said. ‘Easy, sister!’ and he swooped down without warning on the metal plate on the floor. The light glinting on it had caught his attention. He began to peck it, cooing tenderly.

  Myrtle went berserk. She had always hated Grace’s pet. Now, confused by its presence in her room, she snatched up the metal plate, advancing towards him with gritted teeth.

  ‘Bloody bastard, bloody nuisance,’ she screamed. ‘I’m going to kill you. I’ve wanted to kill you for a long time. Come here!’ She chased him around the room, hitting out, almost catching him.

  ‘Come here, you bugger,’ she shouted, attempting to grab at his tail feathers.

  Jasper was entranced. Never had he had so much success, so much flattering attention. Retreating to a point above the ceiling fan, he watched Myrtle. He sent down little presents that splattered onto the floor. He gave her his best saw-drill impersonation, he whistled the bit from The Magic Flute, he barked once or twice. By now Myrtle was weeping. Her room was wrecked. Grace and Aloysius, hearing the noise, came hurrying to her door. Quickly, hiding the plate, Myrtle let them in. The sight astonished them.

  ‘Hello,’ said Jasper, looking as pleased to see them as a mynah bird can. ‘Good morning! Hello?’ he asked, and he glided gracefully around the room. Grace, in spite of herself, felt her face twitch slightly.

  ‘Jasper!’ she said, adding weakly in case there was some mistake, ‘It’s Jasper. What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Enough!’ screamed Myrtle. ‘I have had enough of this family, enough of the way I am treated, enough of being used.
Enough, enough, enough!’ she shouted, shaking her head so her hair flew all over her face. ‘Used and abused by everyone,’ she screamed, unable to stop now, ‘even the bloody bird. Look at me. Just look at me!’ And she stood, arms outstretched magnificently, a crucifix with bird shit running down her face.

  ‘The bird’s a damn nuisance,’ agreed Aloysius, wishing he could have a whisky. Life seemed to be one long crisis at the moment. His wife was depressed, his youngest son had almost been killed, his eldest daughter was leaving them, everything was changing. Nobody had any fun any more. Everyone made such a fuss about trivial things. He could kill for a drink. And after that he would willingly kill Jasper. Grace, however, would have none of it. She soothed her cousin, called for the servant to clean the room, encouraging Myrtle to have another shower, promising to catch Jasper.

  ‘Shiny,’ said Jasper helpfully. ‘Hello, Shiny.’

  ‘We should have him put down, darl,’ said Aloysius, who was beginning to think the bloody bird would outwit all of them. Outlive them too, by the looks of it, God, did he need a drink!

  ‘Shiny,’ said Jasper again. ‘Hello, Shiny.’

  ‘Jasper!’ said Grace softly, looking up at him, to Aloysius’s utter astonishment, with a curious warmth to her voice, the first he had heard in months. Aloysius stared at her.

  ‘Jasper,’ she said again. ‘You’re a very naughty boy!’

  Jasper, hearing the change in her voice, flew experimentally towards her and perched on the foot of Myrtle’s bed.

  ‘No,’ he agreed. And making a whirling sound, like the grandfather clock being rewound, he sailed swiftly out of the window and into the plantain tree outside.

  7

  THEY CAME FROM AFAR TO THE WEDDING, like wise men bearing gifts. Uncle Innocent and Prayma, Auntie Angel-Face and the girls. Sarath and Mabel, Anthony and Coco with their own little bevy of children. There were others too, from Toronto and Perth, from Calcutta and Lahore, and Grace’s old childhood friend from Glasgow. There were the Sisters of St Peter and St Paul who had come all the way from Stratford-upon-Avon, and there were the old white planters on their way to a World Trade Fair in Melbourne, stopping off to have a bit of light entertainment at Aloysius’s daughter’s wedding.

  ‘Becoming something of a pianist!’ they said.

  ‘Quite famous, I hear.’

  ‘How did the old boy manage it?’

  ‘Healthy neglect. Or, more probably, it was the doing of that stunning wife of his, what’s her name?’

  It was worth a detour, they said, pleased to be asked. Aloysius always knew how to throw a party. There were other less colourful, more predictable guests, who came. Local people, neighbours, people who came to settle old scores, wanting to see how the de Silvas were faring. Drinking chums of Aloysius, friends of the children. But the most eccentric, the noisiest came from afar, with their huge suitcases laden with clothes for the big day, presents for the bride and groom, and of course whisky for the father of the bride. Depending on their relationship to the de Silvas they stayed either with them or in guest houses nearby. It was rumoured that the Prime Minister himself would be at the church service and maybe, for a little while, at the reception too. Aloysius was delighted.

  ‘We’ll need to buy much more champagne,’ he informed Grace. ‘I’ll ask Sunil. He can get it on the black market. It won’t be cheap, but only the best will do.’ Grace did not disagree. Of late she went along with whatever he said. No one looked closely at Grace; they were all too busy. She seemed her old self at last, worrying about the catering and the guests. Had they really invited so many? What had Aloysius been thinking of? The cook was sulking because two new cooks from upcountry had been hired.

  ‘If the Lady Grace wants coolies to cook for her then I am leaving,’ she announced.

  Myrtle, writing her diary, smirked. She was still smarting after Jasper’s attack.

  December 21. My best sari is completely ruined. No amount of cleaning can remove the stain of bird shit. Grace thought it was very funny. Oh I knew what she was thinking, she tried to be sympathetic, she tried her sweet voice on me, but I’m not fooled by it. Nor am I fooled by my dear cousin’s jollity. I can see what no one else can. I can see that the preparations, the guests, the family, all of it is a huge effort for her. She’s trying to hide it but there’s no fooling me. I intend to get to the bottom of whatever it is that’s the matter. Yesterday I spoke to Mr Basher who’s suggested, as the results of the last card reading were inconclusive, I should get G’s horoscope redrawn. Well, we shall see. Meanwhile, I have to suffer all these wretched visitors; relatives I haven’t seen for years and can’t stand, especially that woman Mabel.

  The relatives were not worried. It was true Grace looked a little strained but they agreed this was perfectly understandable.

  ‘She’s losing her eldest daughter; she’s losing little Alicia,’ they said affectionately.

  ‘Of course she looks tired,’ said Prayma. ‘What d’you expect!’

  ‘Besides, she still looks lovely.’

  Some even thought, people like Uncle Innocent and Auntie Angel-Face and Coco, that Grace actually looked lovelier than ever. Yes, they argued, Grace looked more beautiful than on her own wedding day, and they should know, they’d been there! And off they went reminiscing about that wedding,

  ‘Aloysius so handsome, he hadn’t discovered the drink yet,’ remembered Auntie Angel-Face, screaming with laughter and slapping Uncle Innocent on the back.

  ‘Don’t forget Benedict!’ Coco remembered, smiling.

  Ah, yes! How proud he had been of his motherless girl, cherished for so long, gliding on his arm. A vision, such a vision of loveliness.

  ‘Yes, a vision,’ shouted Prayma, to Uncle Innocent who was getting a little deaf. Those were the days, weren’t they? When Benedict’s cooks produced the most wonderful Portuguese broa, and pente frito, the likes of which had never been tasted since.

  ‘Do you remember the shoe-flower sambals?’ asked Coco, starting up a whole hour of ‘do-you-remembers’. Then it was time to go to evening Mass. Did they have a Mass in the evening here, darling?

  The house party to the wedding meandered on. It was close to Christmas, hot but not unbearable. The rains were still falling. The jasmine climber continued to bloom much to Myrtle’s amazement, and Jasper still remained at large. Grace had given up trying to get him back into his room off the hallway.

  ‘He has discovered the delights of independence!’ said Uncle Innocent.

  ‘With none of the responsibilities,’ laughed Prayma.

  ‘Well,’ said Uncle Innocent, ‘that will only come through a process of evolution and growth.’

  ‘No, no, no, Innocent, you are wrong! The people in this country have not evolved for four hundred years. They have forgotten how,’ said Auntie Angel-Face.

  ‘Come on, Amma!’ said Sarath, feigning despair. ‘Jasper’s just a bird, poor bugger.’

  ‘But what a bird!’ said Sunil, walking in just at that moment, smiling at his new relatives. A cry of delight went up among the aunts.

  ‘Sunil!’ shrieked Auntie Angel-Face, beaming at him. ‘Where’s your bride? How is she treating you today? Will she make a good wife? That’s the question on all our lips!’

  ‘I say, Sunil,’ said Anthony seriously, ‘shall we all go to the Galle Face Hotel tonight? You, me, Jacob, Thornton, Chris? No? What d’you say? Have a few drinks, men, meet some people?’

  ‘Aiyo, yes!’ said Auntie Angel-Face. ‘Good idea. Why don’t you boys all go out together? What fun.’

  ‘Who are these fellows you are so keen to meet, Anthony?’ Uncle Innocent asked.

  ‘Well, who do you think, Innocent? Girls of course! These are Sunil’s last days of freedom aren’t they? He’s allowed to roam like Jasper.’

  They all roared with laughter, finding it hugely funny that sweet little Alicia, who they had last seen running around in a sundress and sandals, teasing her brothers, having her face pinched because she looked s
o delicious, should have gone and grown up and become so talented and now have this fully grown handsome fiancé. Clever, clever little Alicia to get such a handsome beau!

  Myrtle watched the relatives from a safe distance. She found it astonishing that they could make such a fuss over the dark polecat Sunil, as she privately called him. She watched them teasing Alicia. Making her play Mozart, making her laugh, dancing around the piano, singing, until she begged for Thornton to rescue her. Hah! Thornton, thought Myrtle grimly, I’m watching him. Thornton, when he was in, became the life and soul of the group. But Thornton had often some mysterious errand, some urgent business that he hurried to attend to. So what was Golden Boy up to? wondered Myrtle.

  ‘He’s a busy man, you know,’ said his cousins.

  ‘Too busy to get a job,’ said Jacob sarcastically.

  Thornton smiled good-humouredly and played rock and roll on the piano. It was clear Mabel was smitten, and Thornton, charming them all as usual, picking up whenever Grace seemed to flag, played on. Even Jacob could see he had his uses on occasions like these. It let everyone else off the hook. The cousins had been away from the island for so long they wanted to do everything. Drink king coconuts, go for a swim, wander about the city having their horoscopes made, look for girls. Thornton was their man. He was their appointed guide, their chief entertainer. When he was there of course.

  December 22, wrote Myrtle. It is very curious that no one comments on Thornton’s behaviour of late. I’ve noticed he makes a great deal of noise when he’s in the house in order to cover up the fact that he’s often out. I swear he’s up to something. Yesterday I noticed he came home in a very great rush. Then he managed to exhaust everyone in ten minutes before he went out again, leaving them in a state of confusion. I’ve always thought that he’s a clever devil underneath all that sweetness that G’s so obsessed with. Just like the bloody bird that now flaps against my bedroom window all the time.