head. ‘Too much foreign rule is bound to tamper with the balance of this place.’ And he went out, bumping into Thornton who had just come in.
‘Ah! The wanderer returns!’ Grace heard him say.
Thornton de Silva was seventeen. In the years since they had left their old upcountry home, he had grown tall and very handsome while his smile remained incontestably beautiful. Colombo suited him. He loved its bustle and energy around him. He loved the noise. The British talked of a Japanese invasion, the navy was on constant alert, and the newspapers were full of depressing predictions. But what did Thornton care? Youth held unimaginable promise. Possibilities festooned his days like strings of coloured lights. Earlier this afternoon he had gone to meet his brother Jacob. The harbour had been a tangle of sounds; muffled horns, and shrill whistles, and waves that washed against the jetty. The air was an invisible ocean, salt-fresh and wet, with a breeze that seemed to throb in time to the sound of motor launches. Further along, in the entry-strictly-prohibited parts of the harbour, brass-buttoned British officers revved their jeeps, while stick-thin boys stepped out of rickshaws carrying native food for important personnel, balancing tiffin tins precariously on their heads. Thornton had brought Jacob his lunch. He had been wheeling his bicycle along the seafront watching the frenzy of activity when he had bumped into two English girls, one of whom he vaguely knew. She had called out to him and Thornton had smiled, a beacon of a smile, a searchlight of happiness, making the girl giggle. She was drinking a bright green limeade through a candy-striped straw. Thornton watched her lips wrap themselves around the straw. Then, regretfully, remembering that his brother was waiting for him, he had waved and moved on. But Jacob, when he met him, had been full of his usual gloom. Thornton sighed, only half listening.
‘Crown Rule,’ Jacob declared loftily, following some thread of his own, ‘my boss says it’s a privilege the Indian Empire doesn’t have. Which is why they are in such a mess!’
Thornton had not the faintest idea what his brother was talking about. The girl with the candy-striped straw filled his head.
‘Crown Rule is what keeps the elephants in the jungle and stops them trampling all over the parks.’
Jacob paused, considering his own words. It was true the parks were beautiful. And he could see, Crown Rule did keep the grass green with water sprinklers. It gave the island its economy of rubber and tea. So really, he decided, on balance, it was probably a good thing. Thornton remained silent. Personally he didn’t care if the elephants walked on the railway lines, or the grass all died, or the rubber trees dried up. He had no idea what went on in Jacob’s head.
‘Let’s go to the Skyline Hotel tonight,’ he had suggested instead. ‘There’s a jazz band I know playing there.’
‘I can’t,’ Jacob said shortly, ‘I’ve got overtime.’
Since leaving their old home, since he had turned sixteen, Jacob had been working for the Ceylon Tea Board. He was almost nineteen now and he detested Colombo. The trees here were dull green and dirty and the air, when it was not filled with water, was choked with the dust from the spice mills. His childhood was finished and the life that he had so loved gone with it. There was nothing more to say on the subject. These days his only ambition was to leave this wretched place and sail away to the United Kingdom. Life there, so he’d been led to believe, was much better. Just as soon as the war was over he planned to escape.
‘Why don’t you get a job instead of loafing around,’ he asked, his irritation barely concealed.
Thornton had stared dreamily at the sea. It lay like a ploughed field beyond the harbour wall and the day was thick and dazzling and humid. It was far too hot to argue. The air had compressed and solidified into a block of heat. It pressed against Thornton, reminding him once again of the girl with the limeade drink. Her dress had been made of a semi-transparent material that clung to her as she walked, hinting of other, interesting things. He imagined brushing his hands against her hips. Or maybe even, he thought, maybe, her neck. Thornton had a strong feeling that a poem was just beginning to develop. Something about breasts, he thought, smiling warmly to himself. And soft, rosy lips.
‘Thornton.’ Jacob’s irritation had cut across this delicious daydream. ‘It’s no joke, you know. You have to plan your future. It won’t simply happen. Don’t you want your own money?’
What? thought Thornton, confused. All around him the heat shimmered with hormonal promise. His brother’s voice buzzed like a fly against his ear. I wonder if I’ll be allowed to go to the concert on my own, he thought, whistling the snatch of jazz he had heard earlier. No, he decided, that’s not quite right. I haven’t got the timing right. When I get back, if Alicia has finished on the piano I’ll try to play it by ear.
‘Or are you planning on taking up gambling? Carrying on the family tradition perhaps?’ Jacob had continued, unable to let the subject go.
‘Oh God, Jacob!’ Thornton had laughed, refusing to be drawn. ‘Life is not simply about making money. I keep telling you, I’m a poet.’
‘What does that mean, apart from loafing around?’
Thornton had done an impromptu tap dance. Sunlight sparkled on the water.
‘I’m not loafing around! This is how I get my experience,’ he said, waving his hands at the activity in front of them. ‘There is a purpose to everything I do. Can’t you see?’
‘You’re getting worse,’ Jacob had said gloomily, throwing some crumbs at the seagulls.
Thornton, trying not to laugh again, had decided: his brother simply had no soul.
‘I’ve sent another poem to the Daily News,’ he offered. ‘It’s about fishermen. Maybe it will get published. Who knows? Then I’ll be rich and famous!’
‘That proves it,’ Jacob told him, satisfied. ‘You’re a complete idiot!’
Having finished his lunch, having had enough, he stood up.
‘Right,’ he said briskly, ‘I must get back to work. You should think about what I said. I could get you a job here, you know.’
And he was gone, leaving Thornton to his daydreams.
Having washed her face and feeling a little cooler, Myrtle went to the kitchen in search of a piece of cake. From the sound of the jazz being played she guessed Thornton was back. Myrtle pursed her lips. The boy was always playing jazz, or swimming, or wandering aimlessly around Colombo. In the past, whenever she had tried tackling Grace on the subject of Thornton’s laziness, it had had no effect. Grace merely smiled indulgently; Thornton could do no wrong.
‘He’s still young,’ was all she said in a voice that brooked no argument.
Myrtle had given up. Thornton would learn a lesson one day. She had seen it in the cards. Her cards never lied.
Myrtle cut herself an enormous slice of cake, ate it and went looking for Grace. But Grace was nowhere in sight. Thornton was still at the piano, and Jasper, moving restlessly on his perch, eyed her with interest.
‘Good evening,’ he said slowly. ‘Where’ve you been?’
Instantly Myrtle averted her eyes, not wishing to provoke him, but Jasper let out a low whistle. Myrtle retreated hastily into her room, closing the door. Then she got out her pack of cards and began to lay them out. It was her daily practice to see what misfortune might befall the family. The jazz
