‘Come, Putha,’ he said neutrally. ‘Let’s forget about school. I’m going to take you to the Galle Face Hotel for an ice-cream to celebrate our decision!’
And that was when the day had suddenly got a whole lot better. No one mentioned the subject after that.
But later that night when Alice had gone to bed everything got bad again. She heard her parents arguing with each other and held her breath. At first their voices were only a murmur. Then something thudded against the wall and her mother started screaming. Instantly her father’s voice got louder. Alice lay rigid in bed feeling her hand throb. This was how it always started. Closing her eyes, she tried to blot out the noise by imagining her room in the Sea House with its long wispy curtains. Whenever she was there the last sounds she heard as she drifted into sleep were of the sea mixed with the whirling of Kamala’s sewing machine. All there was here was her mother’s voice, distorted by rage, her words engulfed by great dry sobs. An object was hurled across the room. Alice strained her ears. Her mother was throwing empty coconut shells at her father. The shells fell with a thud, one after another. Where had she found so many shells to throw at him?
‘You’re crazy,’ Stanley was saying, over and over again.
He was no longer calm.
‘Crazy bloody Singhalese cow!’
Alice could hear him laughing an unhappy, pinched, laugh. The sounds issued from his mouth like a series of shots being fired from a gun. Her father sounded as though he would never stop. There was an out-of-control feeling within the noise. Alice covered her ears. The laughter changed.
‘Losing the baby has made you mad,’ Stanley screamed. ‘Crazy bloody woman!’
More coconut shells flew across the room. Alice heard one crack against the wall as though it was a head. There was the sound of water pouring out.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Stanley said.
In the silence that followed, his voice sounded uncertain and frightened. Alice could hear her mother. She was still crying but now the sound had changed. Her mother was crying in the way she had cried on the day she returned from the hospital; softly and without hope. Alice stared into the darkness, her mind a hide-and-seek of evasion. It was a moonless night; her hand ached. The day and all its many facets began to blur sleepily in her head. Since her birthday everything had become complicated. Before she had turned nine, life had been full of nice things, she decided dreamily. Now everything was a series of never-ending confusing events. Jennifer had come out into the playground to watch her this afternoon, satisfied that at last she was crying, giving her the proof needed that the caning had hurt. But it wouldn’t happen again, thought Alice, feeling her eyelids grow heavy. She would not cry like that ever again. In the darkness, lying on her back, she pushed her chin out stubbornly, trying to hide the fact that inside herself she felt defeated. Her friendship with Jennifer was over. In her heart of hearts she had known it would not last. I am not like her, thought Alice sleepily. Outside in the starry night there was the usual wail of police sirens and byla music. The sounds pulsed, like her hands. A drum was beating slowly beyond the trees and beyond that, in the distance, she heard the faint hoot of the Colombo night train leaving for Dondra. Closing her eyes she thought of her grandfather, who would hear it too as it passed Mount Lavinia in an hour. The thought filled her with contentment.
The next morning, Stanley’s last complete day on the island began with the usual bright unending sunshine. In twenty-four hours he would be on the ship sailing towards the Suez Canal, heading for England. At last his dream was coming true. He had looked at the small route map that came with his ticket so often that it had torn along its folds. The ship he would be travelling on was coming from Melbourne. It would make its way via Aden into the Mediterranean. Even the name signified romance for him. Greece would follow, he thought sighing with pleasure. Ever since his boyhood days he had had a secret desire to visit Greece. There was a slight possibility that he might be able to leave the ship when it docked. He wanted to see the Parthenon, hear the Greeks speak in their language, experience the cradle of civilisation for himself. He kept all such plans to himself, knowing Sita would only fuss about his safety or the added expense of disembarking and joining a tour. The only thing that seemed to interest her was that he got a job in England.
‘The sooner we can get Alice out of here, the better,’ she kept telling him.
Of course he would do his duty, Alice needed to get to a safe place, but Sita did not seem to recognise he would not have another chance for a holiday.
Stanley stared at the molten light flickering on the ceiling. He moved his legs lazily across the bed. Tomorrow at this time he would be heading for the harbour. He smiled. Then he remembered they had had another fight last night. What had this one been about? Perhaps it was because he had been late home? Had he been drunk? He couldn’t remember. It’s my money, anyway, thought Stanley, and he swung his legs on to the floor. Coconut shells littered the ground. What the devil are they doing here? he wondered. He was just opening his mouth to call Sita when what had happened came back to him. Crazy woman, he thought, shaking his head. Mad as a hatter! He gave a short, barking, laugh and followed the sound of the sewing machine into the sitting room. What the hell was she sewing now? His trunk was packed and ready. Sita looked up at the sound of his footsteps. Her eyes had dark rings around them and Stanley looked quickly away.
‘You need to weigh it,’ she said, pointing at the trunk. ‘You’ll have to find a pair of scales from someone.’
Stanley nodded, relieved she wasn’t shouting. Yawning, he started buttoning his shirt up.
‘Where’s Alice?’
‘She’s playing with the cat next door.’
Stanley snorted but refrained from comment.
‘Do you want some tea?
He nodded, glancing at her as she left the room. Sita’s face was closed; she looked as though she might have been crying again. He sighed heavily. What the hell, he thought. It wasn’t that he hadn’t any sympathy for her. He had. He felt the injustice of what had happened, if not the physical loss of the baby, as much as any husband in his position could. Sita came in with a tray. She had a plate with an egg hopper on it and some juggery. There were two teacups, a pot of tea and a jug of boiled milk. She had made hoppers for him, knowing it was his last day. Unexpectedly he was overcome by a feeling of pity for her. She was still a good-looking woman, he decided, glancing at her sideways. Although the doctor had said there should be nothing intimate for a few months, he wondered if she would refuse him, on this, his last day. Who knows what might happen to me, he thought, a chill of self-pity passing over him. I might be the one to die next. But at that instant he heard the child’s voice through the doorway, talking to next-door’s cat. Sex would not be possible with her around.
‘I’ll get some scales from Aruguna,’ he said, picking up the cup of tea she held out to him. ‘I’ve got to go over there anyway, to say good-bye.’
After Stanley had gone to get the scales, Sita closed up the house. She had two errands. One was to pick up a sari for her sister, and the other was to go to the spice mill for her mother to have some chillies ground into powder. She called to Alice to put her shoes on and they went out. Sita felt desolation walk beside her. The reasons were so many she could not decide which pained her most. There was the ghost of the baby, lying in her arms. Sometimes she felt this was the greatest ache, but then she would decide the child and all she had suffered was a thing apart. So what was it, she wondered dully, for it wasn’t the thought of Stanley’s departure that bothered her. Last night when he had thrown his indifference at her, taunting her, turning all she had suffered
