together. Aybowon. The house seemed to sigh. It remained a house in mourning, but at least it had been blessed.
‘Nothing more will happen here,’ the servant told Alice confidently. Everyone helped themselves to food in a quiet, subdued manner. Murunga curry with coconut milk, kiri-bath, milk rice, or plain boiled rice cooked in plantain leaves, whichever you preferred. There was jak-fruit curry, and dhal and coconut sambal. Dias gave Alice such a big hug that she squeezed the food all the way up to her throat and Alice thought she might vomit. Then Dias kissed her hard and she lost the two Indian rubber balls of thought she had been juggling. They dropped on the floor and rolled away to be retrieved at some later date. For the moment, Alice concentrated on getting away from Esther’s amma. Janake had disappeared again.
‘Your mummy will be coming home soon, child,’ Dias said, her lipstick-kissed-away-lips looking sad.
I’m fine, Alice wanted to shout, with the defiance for which she was renowned. She wanted everyone to look somewhere else because, more than anything, she wanted to forget about her mother and the baby. She did not want to be reminded about them. She wished her aunt May would come home; she wished her grandmother wasn’t so busy supervising the food. She wanted Janake to come back from whatever he had been sent to do. But most of all she wished her grandfather would return. Dear Jennifer, it wasn’t really a proper baby, but everyone is making such a fuss. She rubbed the letter out of her thoughts.
The afternoon dragged on. There was still no sign of Bee or May.
‘You know, the child is grieving too,’ Dias whispered to an aunt. ‘They must keep an eye on her, cha, make sure she doesn’t get withdrawn or anything.’
Alice could hear her from across the room. Her grandfather had always said her hearing was very good.
‘Where’s Janake gone?’ she asked.
Esther shrugged.
‘I’m going home,’ she yawned.
She had had enough drama for the moment and she wanted to curl her hair before Anton came.
‘Cheerio,’ she cried, waving good-bye.
Alice heard her whistling ‘True Love Ways’ as she left. Dias heard it too and hurried after her daughter, annoyed with her behaviour in this place of mourning. It was a signal that the afternoon had ended. Kamala told Alice that it was time for her to get out of her alms-giving clothes, have a wash and then a nap. So by the time Bee drove his car in through the gate, the house was quiet. The servant boy closed the gate after him and stood waiting.
‘Shall I wash it, sir?’ he asked.
Bee nodded and gave him the keys. Then he went up the steps into the house. One of the monks’ black umbrellas rested against the door. Kamala and the cook had cleared the food away. There was a covered dish and a place set for Bee at the table.
‘Do you want something to eat?’
He nodded and went to wash his hands. When he came back she was standing by his chair.
‘How was she?’
He sat down.
‘As you would expect,’ he said shortly. ‘She wanted to go to the funeral. The doctor managed to persuade her she was not strong enough.’
He ate a mouthful of food in silence.
‘I think the doctor was wrong,’ Kamala said slowly. ‘They should have let her see the body.’
Bee grunted. He had no desire to eat, but he let her serve him.
‘Did Janake come?’ he asked instead.
Kamala nodded.
‘Did he leave a note for me?’
‘Yes. It’s in your studio.’
‘Good!’
They were silent. Kamala waited until he finished what he was eating. Then she served him another ladleful of rice.
‘Did you tell her?’ she asked softly. ‘Her second child looked like her first?’
Bee shook his head.
‘I don’t suppose that husband of hers had much to say?’
‘He was crying most of the time,’ Bee told her. ‘He wants her to write something for the papers. He wants the world to know about the murder of his child.’
Kamala opened her mouth to say something, but, changing her mind, closed it. There was no point in talking about Stanley.
‘She should have seen the child,’ she insisted instead.
‘Where’s Alice?’ Bee asked, pushing aside his plate.
The taste of the food made him feel sick.
‘Sleeping. Dias thought she was unusually quiet. She thought we should talk to her because she noticed she was eavesdropping all the time.’
‘So what?’ Bee asked sharply. ‘What’s wrong with that? It’s perfectly normal for a child of her age. Why doesn’t Dias mind her own business?’
He took out his pipe and began to fill it with tobacco.
‘Alice will be fine,’ he said irritably. And tell Dias that Sita will be coming back with May in a few days’ time. They’ll be fine, too. That woman should look after her own daughter instead of interfering with other people’s affairs.’
Kamala sighed and Bee pushed his chair back and stood up. He would be in his studio, should anyone want him.
‘Tell Alice to come and find me when she wakes,’ was all he said.
Kamala watched his receding back. A small rush of cooler air made her shiver. There was something he was not telling her, but she knew Bee was stubborn and would speak only in his own time.
They had been together for thirty years. When they had first married, she had been a girl of only eighteen. Bee had been the new teacher in the boys’ school. Kamala’s father had decided Bee was a suitable match for his daughter. Both sides approved and Kamala was introduced to him. They had both been young; the British had still been in power. After they were married, every time Bee had seen the British flag flying he would swear. At first Kamala had been amazed by his fury, but later on it had delighted her. Until that moment she had no real idea of his true character. Politics had never crossed her mind. In this backwater she had not met anyone as forthright as Bee. Her father and brothers were very conservative, diplomatic, quiet. Bee was different and Kamala liked his hot-headedness, his passion. Later, as she got to know him better, she felt the weight of this passion turn itself towards her with astonishing force. She fell in love. They had been married for three months when she fell both pregnant and in love almost simultaneously. Not for her this English notion of romantic love before marriage. Kamala’s love had come slowly like a small stream, appearing first as a trickle, then gathering pace until it grew into the great river that it was today, flowing steadily down to a larger sea. For this reason Kamala had puzzled over Sita and she had found Stanley an even greater mystery. Her daughter had hardly known the man. Given their different backgrounds,
