with Jennifer was like taking a ride on the back of a tiger. You held on or got eaten alive.
‘My mother said Mrs Perris’s husband turned blue when they killed him,’ Jennifer told the class with relish. As though someone had coloured him with dye!’
In spite of herself Alice was agog, her eyes turning into saucers of amazement. But she liked Mrs Perris and did not want her hurt by gossip, so she decided to challenge Jennifer.
‘How does your mother know?’ she demanded.
Jennifer scowled, unused to being contradicted.
‘She went to look at him, silly,’ she said, her face so close that her sugary hot breath from the toffee she was secretly eating poured threateningly over Alice.
‘Like this!’ And she pinched Alice’s arm, hoping to make it blue. ‘He was in his coffin, you know, men,’ she added, making her voice rise and fall. ‘And his lips were swollen, just as if a mosquito had bitten him.’
She narrowed her eyes and stared intently. Was Alice by any chance squeamish? Alice hesitated.
‘I don’t believe you. Dead people are supposed to look peaceful,’ she said finally.
Jennifer snorted.
‘You’re scared,’ she had observed shrewdly, and then in a final insult, ‘baby!’
After that she had refused to say any more on the subject. And Alice, whose passionate thirst for knowledge palpitated vainly in her chest, was not prepared to beg for any further information. There was a peculiar sad stillness in Mrs Perris’s face that made her appear frail and strangely beautiful. It both puzzled and fascinated Alice. Once or twice she had tried talking to her father, but Stanley just yawned and poured himself another whisky.
‘Those bastards get away with everything,’ was all he said in his predictable way. ‘Sita, can you get me some ice?’
Alice had watched as her mother left the clothes she was sewing for the baby and went to fetch the ice.
‘Time for bed, Alice,’ she had said, noticing her hovering about.
Still Alice continued to be preoccupied by Mrs Perris. On her last visit to her grandparent’s house she brought the subject up with Bee.
‘Mrs Perris looks transparent,’ she told Bee.
Transparent was a word that interested her.
‘It’s as if you can see right through her.’
Bee listened gravely. He waited until she finished speaking and then he nodded.
‘It’s called an afterglow,’ he said re-lighting his pipe. ‘Like a star as it falls; full of light. Like a blessing. Why don’t you try to draw her?’
So Alice had drawn her, and Mrs Perris had asked if she could keep the drawing. Alice wrote her name in wobbly paintbrush writing and gave it to her without a word. Privately she told her grandfather it had not been a good drawing.
‘I didn’t want to draw her as if she was crying,’ she said, ‘because she never cries.’
Bee had chewed on the end of his pipe.
‘Absence is a presence,’ was his only comment, but she sensed he understood. There was nothing her grandfather did not understand, thought Alice, her heart overflowing with love for him.
‘Enjoy the rest of your birthday, Alice,’ her teacher was saying, now.
‘I’m taking her to my parents tonight,’ Sita murmured. ‘To be on the safe side, you know.’
Mrs Perris nodded. Then she planted a spontaneous kiss on Alice’s head.
‘We’ll see you on Monday, no?’
‘God willing,’ Alice’s mother answered.
It was a short walk to the station, weaving their way amongst street-sellers, beggars and the roadside shrines that were tucked between the corners of buildings and covered with crude drawings of Gods and demons. All around were small, open-fronted shops stacked high with plastic containers, stalls selling bunches of dirty-green plantains and rambutans, ambarella and piles of mangoes fingered by huge spiders. There were spice shops and sari shops filled with iridescent colours. Sita walked quickly, head bowed, looking neither to left nor right, holding her breath. Occasionally she turned to Alice, urging her to hurry because she did not want to miss the train.
‘Have you brought my water bottle?’ Alice asked as they boarded the train.
Even though the compartment was empty her mother looked around nervously.
‘Speak in Singhalese,’ she said softly.
Alice ignored her, taking her bottle. The water was warm and tasted of hot plastic. When she had finished drinking she turned towards the window and watched the view of the city as it moved slowly past. The train gathered speed. Very soon they had left Colombo with its dirt and overcrowded buildings, and an empty beach stretched for miles before them. Two white gulls with enormous wing spans sailed lazily by. Alice narrowed her eyes to slits against the glare and watched them dive bomb the waves. She swung her legs vigorously, wanting to put them on the seat opposite but knowing she would be scolded if she did. Her thoughts spun like candyfloss in a fairground tub. She had a thousand exciting questions, a million wants swimming in her head.
The day had reached its hottest but a cool sea breeze streamed in though the open windows as the train swung and hooted its way along the coast. The air quivered with expectancy and even as she watched, the view took on a mysterious, luminescent quality that made it almost too painful to behold. In spite of the familiarity that years of travelling this route had given her, she was aware in a dreamlike and fleeting way of some deep and unspoken love for all she saw. It was a sight she had been used to seeing all her life. It was her birthday today and she was coming home to her grandparents. That was enough to make her want to shout with unbridled happiness. In a sudden desire for her mother’s approval she remained still, staring out at the sea while the tight drum of blue sky wrapped its feverish brilliance all around, closely mirroring her ecstatic happiness. The train clattered on, past trees that gave off a faint elusive perfume filling the compartment with sweet fragrance. Alice, breathing deeply, her eyes fixed at some spot in the distant blueness, was hardly conscious of where she was. Reality and dreams mingled with the motion of the train as the sweep of water expanded endlessly like a dazzling blue desert beside her.
The train slowed down, nudging them backwards and forwards, almost, but never quite stopping. Then it speeded up again and they passed through several small villages screened by coconut palms. Scraps of washing flapped on a makeshift line and a slender dark-boned woman pulled water from a well around which a group of semi-naked children played. They passed a level crossing where two Morris Minors waited patiently for the barrier to rise. On and on they went, with glimpses of a lagoon, men chopping wood, other people’s lives distanced and therefore enchanting. Alice glanced at her mother, who was fanning herself slowly, staring straight ahead. She looked enormous. I hate the baby, thought Alice again and with a surge of rage. She had forgotten about it for a moment, but it was still here, the one blemish on the day. Her mother wanted a boy.
‘Boys are best,’ Jennifer had said, quoting her older sister. ‘In this country everyone wants sons.’
