Brixton Beach

‘Leave it,’ Jennifer said sharply. ‘Don’t break my things. When are you going to the UK?’

‘In a few months’ time. My dada is going to send for us.’

The baby’s thin cry went on and on in Alice’s head.

‘Does it cry all the time?’

‘Quite a lot,’ Jennifer said importantly. ‘Baby boys are like that, you know.’

She hesitated.

‘Yours was a girl, wasn’t it?’ she asked.

Alice looked at her. She had never noticed how very black Jennifer was. Her lips were so large that their pink insides showed even when she wasn’t smiling. She looks very Singhalese, thought Alice.

‘Your mother married a Tamil, that was the problem,’ Jennifer said, knowingly.

The baby’s cry was less intrusive, now. Outside the window a crow hawked harshly and they could hear the sound of saucepans being scraped. Singhalese voices rose and fell in the hot, lovely air. Without warning, Alice felt she too might start to cry. She wanted to go home. The air conditioning was too cold and her arm was hurting.

‘My head hurts,’ she told Jennifer. ‘I think I’m reacting to the smallpox, you know. I had to have it because of going to England.’

After their hurried departure into the sunlight her arm hurt less. And much later on, in the evening, she listened to her mother recounting the visit.

‘She wanted me to leave,’ Sita was telling Stanley.

From behind the door where she listened, Alice heard her mother’s terrible pleading tone. She was certain Sita’s face was pleading too. It made Alice grind her teeth.

‘You shouldn’t have gone,’ Stanley said, sounding bored.

‘I didn’t want her to think I was jealous. We went to all the hospital appointments together, I had to visit at least once.’

‘Well,’ Alice’s father said, ‘we’ll be out of this hell soon enough. Thank God!’

The next day at school Jennifer avoided Alice. She had made friends with a new girl who had joined their class while Alice had been away. The new girl was called Vishvani and she too lived in Colombo 7. The chauffeur drove Jennifer to school with her.

‘There’s no point in my being your friend,’ Jennifer told Alice. ‘You’re going overseas soon.’

She paused imperceptibly then added: ‘Oh, and by the way, we threw away your mother’s dead-baby clothes. My brother has plenty of things to wear. We don’t need your bad luck clothes.’

4 (#uf6a6cd52-47c7-5f61-b8e7-5bba877b9a78)

LONG BEFORE HER SISTER’S WEDDING DAY, Sita’s heart had become hard as a rambutan stone; shrunken and dark and unbreakable. It happened so stealthily that very few people noticed. A week after the visit to Jennifer’s house, Sita started wrapping her preoccupations between the folds of the baby clothes so painstakingly embroidered in her other life. Those long monsoon afternoons, when she used to dream of the unborn son who would change the world, had vanished. Knowing there was no longer any point in resurrecting her hopes, she packed her soft-cotton sorrows carefully inside the large empty trunk that seemed to have invaded her mind. Then, quietly, she climbed into it and shut the lid. As the first terrible shocks subsided to tremors, she saw what she needed to do in order to survive, so without fuss she simply disappeared. No one appeared to notice. No one remarked on her absence; most people thought the concertinaed, crumpled person walking around, going about her daily business, was the same old Sita, mother of Alice who asked too many questions, returning after a little personal misfortune. Headstrong wife of that Tamil man Stanley whom she had married in haste and who could not even afford to pay for a private confinement.

‘What can you expect?’ asked a distant relative, paying Sita a visit in order to find out how things were progressing with this wayward woman. ‘God is punishing you for marrying a Tamil.’

‘Never mind,’ added a cousin who had had four miscarriages and couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. ‘Try again, child. These Tamil fellows can breed, I tell you!’

And the cousin laughed suggestively.

‘You mustn’t make such a fuss,’ a neighbour told Sita. ‘It’s over now, forget it. You’re still alive, that’s the main thing.’

Sita made no reply. Stanley was leaving in less than three weeks. Her world was slowly disintegrating and speech came only spasmodically to her. Defending herself was an impossibility. Bee visited several times in the week after their return to Colombo. There had been another outburst of rioting and he was worried about the family. Sita had no idea that her father, also silent, was fully aware of her disappearing act. She had not realised that she was no longer functioning properly, nor that her womb had turned into a steel utensil, too cold and harsh a place to be inhabited ever again. Her tears, like her milk, had dried up, and outwardly her wounds were healing. A thick angry scar was forming across her abdomen, just in case she might be tempted to forget what had happened. She felt as though she were growing horns inside herself. At nights while Stanley lay beside her and Alice slept across the hall in her own room, Sita would lie awake feeling a devil had placed sharp objects inside her belly. It worried her that this devil might burst out and kill someone. In the mornings when Stanley awoke she said nothing to him about her tormented night. He looked and acted fresh as an English daisy.

Kamala, listening to Bee’s account of her daughter’s state of mind every time he returned from these visits, became increasingly anxious. Instead of growing closer to her husband, it appeared that Sita was moving away from him. Kamala’s greatest fear now was that Stanley might disappear altogether and that Sita with her indifference was encouraging him to abandon them and vanish to that story-book place called England.

‘No, Amma, he won’t,’ May disagreed, interrupting Kamala’s thoughts, certain he would not. ‘How can he, when her passage is booked anyway?’

Kamala did not answer, but her worry became so great that May took a day off work and visited her sister to see for herself. But when she got there Sita didn’t want to talk to her, either.

‘What do you understand?’ she asked May rudely. ‘All you can think about is your wedding.’

In spite of knowing what her sister was going through, May was hurt. Her hurt seeped out like morning light sneaking through a shutter. No matter how tightly she tried keeping it out, there was always a sliver present. May’s wedding was the only interesting thing that had happened to her in her whole life, and now Sita was belittling it and making her feel guilty as well. Namil, listening to her grumbles, shook his head, disagreeing.

‘Karma cannot be changed,’ he said gently. ‘Hers is bad, so we must take pity and not be angry’

Bee tried to refrain from joining in the discussion. He was waiting with angry passion for Stanley to leave. After that he would help Sita pack the annexe up in Havelock Road and then he would move their few remaining possessions to the Sea House. When it was time for them to leave for the UK, Sita and Alice would travel to the harbour from the coast. That was Bee’s plan.

‘The man is just spoiling for a fight, so best if he leaves,’ was all he said when pressed. ‘If he doesn’t send for them, will it be such a tragedy?’ he asked Kamala privately.

During Stanley’s last week, on the pretext of taking some etchings to his dealer, Bee decided to visit Colombo again. He wanted to check up on Sita and Alice. Sita was making some last-minute alterations to a pair of trousers for Stanley to wear on the ship. She barely glanced at her father when he walked in. Alice was still at school.

‘I’ve come to take some of your things back in the car,’ Bee said easily.

Sita pointed to a large trunk and two small packing cases.

‘What about the books?’ Bee asked, surprised. Sita had always been surrounded by books. But Sita shook her head. She would not be needing books where she was going.

‘I won’t be reading any more,’ she told her father with finality.

Whatever life they might or might not have in England, it did not involve books; of that she was certain. What was she planning? Bee wondered. To switch her mind off permanently in England? He stayed all day, partly because he could not leave without seeing Alice, and partly because he wanted to force Sita to eat something. He didn’t want to add to Kamala’s worries, but he was aware that Sita had almost stopped eating. Reluctantly, she cooked a little lunch and they ate in semi-silence. It was Stanley’s last day at work; he would not be back until much later.

‘They’ll get him drunk,’ Sita said, unable to stop a small, bitter smile hovering across her mouth.

Bee refused to be drawn. A vein pulsated on his cheek. The annexe had an air of impermanence and disarray. Stanley’s unpacked things were strewn everywhere. Bee noticed a pair of new leather shoes.

‘Oh, he brought them from Gamages,’ Sita said, following his eyes. ‘Well,’ she added, slightly defensive, ‘he needs good shoes for the trip, I suppose.’

Feeling the weight of his fury bear down on him, Bee closed his eyes. It would do no good to criticise Stanley. At two thirty, they drove to St Clare’s College to pick up Alice. Bee stopped the car outside the school gate.

It was like this, coming out of her last lesson, stepping into the blistering sun that Alice caught sight of them. Her heart leapt; she had not expected to see her grandfather today. Pushed forward on a huge crest of emotion she rushed towards them. She had had the most terrible day.

‘Grandpa!’ she screamed, running towards the car. And then, before she could reach it, she burst into tears.

In the two weeks since she had been back at school, Alice had struggled to recover the position she had lost within her class. Jennifer had stopped talking to her and Alice was sure it was because the baby had died. Perhaps it was because Jennifer blamed her for killing it? Everything, thought Alice, had gone wrong, and it was her fault. There was no one else she wanted to be friends with. The Tamil girls in the class looked at her curiously. She was supposed to be a Tamil, but she didn’t look much like one; nor could she speak proper Tamil. Even the food in her tiffin box was different from theirs. What was the point in being friendly with her when she was probably a spy for that Singhalese mother of hers? The Tamil girls had been warned to be very careful when they went to school, not to talk to dangerous people. Alice was not to be trusted and they did not want her near them. Lunchtimes had got progressively worse. This lunchtime had been the worst ever. She had gone to school that morning taking the picture postcard of Piccadilly Circus her uncle had sent her, hoping that Jennifer might be interested. But Jennifer, giggling in a corner of the playground with her new friend from Cinnamon Gardens, would not look at Alice.

‘Don’t then!’ Alice had shouted, stung.

And in a last desperate effort at indifference, she had cried out: