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:
‘I don’t care, anyway, I’m going to England. I’ll have lots of friends there, wait and see.’
There was more to come. The last lesson of the day was always Singhalese. When Mrs Maradana the Singhalese teacher collected up the homework at the beginning of the lesson, Alice realised with dismay that she had not brought hers to school. Mrs Maradana stared at her.
‘Come here, Alice,’ she had said, her voice very soft. ‘Did you think you didn’t have to do your work because you are going to England? Hah?’
Alice shook her head. The class quivered with silent anticipation. Everyone guessed what was coming. Mrs Maradana was known as a Tamil hater.
‘Well?’
Alice said nothing. There was an agonising pause while the teacher opened her drawer.
‘Hold out your hand, child,’ she had said coldly.
The class craned their necks, all together, like atrophying plants. The air vibrated as once, twice and then, once more the cane stung her hand. Someone sniggered. The humiliation was far worse than the pain.
‘Sit down and get on with your work,’ Mrs Maradana said, putting the cane away.
Alice, her mouth tightly shut, swallowing hard, had walked a chin-wobbling journey back to her seat. Twenty pairs of eyes followed her as she opened her desk. The rest of the hour had passed in a blur.
When, after an eternity, the bell rang signifying the end of school, the class rose and stood to attention, placing their hands together as though in prayer.
‘Aybowon, children,’ Mrs Maradana said.
Jennifer raised her hand.
‘Yes, what is it, Jennifer?’
Jennifer’s parents supported the school very generously.
‘I’m so sorry you lost your father, Mrs Maradana,’ Jennifer said softly. ‘I hope he reaches Nirvana.’
Mrs Maradana’s eyes widened dangerously. Once more the class held their breath, but this time the teacher smiled thinly.
‘Thank you, Jennifer,’ she said, adding, ‘give my regards to your parents. I hope that baby brother of yours is letting them sleep finally!’
Outside, the air shimmered translucently and the sky was a relentless gemstone blue. Children spilled out of the school building like a swarm of mosquitoes. It was out of this swarm that Alice emerged and spotted her grandfather’s car. She caught a glimpse of her mother in her old green sari, exactly the colour of an over-ripe mango. Sita hadn’t worn it for a long time, not since before the baby. In that instant the surprise of her mother looking her old self, her grand-father’s unexpected presence, and her smarting hands struggled within her and was no longer containable. Her tears, once begun, were unstoppable; hurling herself into the back of the car, she howled.
‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ Sita asked, knocked off balance.
‘What’s wrong, Putha?’ Bee cried, switching off the engine and turning round to face her in alarm. ‘What’s happened, Alice?’
‘Alice,’ her mother was saying, ‘don’t cry for no reason. Tell me what’s wrong.’
Alice let out a thin, lonely wail. She had not known she possessed such a terrible sound within her. Just hearing it frightened her.
‘I don’t want to go to school any more,’ she cried.
That night, when she was in bed, and her grandfather had gone back, Alice went over the events of her day. In the end it had turned out to be the nicest day since her birthday. Bee had wanted to go in and have a word with Mrs Maradana, but Sita would not let him. Bee had been very, very angry.
‘There’s no question of her going back to that place,’ he kept saying, over and over again. ‘She must stay with you until you come home.’
For once Sita had not disagreed.
‘No more bloody Singhala,’ she had said.
Alice was surprised to see her mother so angry. Her hand had stopped hurting and now that Bee was here she was beginning to enjoy herself. But Sita was working herself up into a rage.
‘You see why we have to leave, Thatha? You see what a waste of time it is, trying to make a life in this place?’
Sita’s face was alive with rage.
‘No Singhala,’ she repeated, grimly. ‘No Tamil either. Only English. The language of the Just.’
Alice
