The enemy, it seemed, was within. The writing on the wall was no longer possible to ignore. A hundred and fifty years of British Rule, guided by Lord Soulbury, drew to a close and the island became a self-governing dominion. One day it would no longer be called Ceylon. A few days before independence was announced Aloysius was offered early retirement.
‘They want me out of the way,’ he told Grace, avoiding her eye.
Ostensibly his retirement was due to his ill health. Privately, all of them knew it was a different matter. His drink problem had never gone away, his liver was failing, his eyesight poor. On his last day he came home early.
‘Well, that’s that,’ he announced. ‘The end of my working life!’
There were several vans with loudspeakers parked outside on the streets delivering party political broadcasts.
‘Of course I drink too much,’ Aloysius shouted above the racket, glaring at the servant who handed him a drink. ‘But they kicked me out for a different reason.’ He was more subdued than Grace had seen him for a long time. The servants closed the shutters to muffle the noise.
‘I’m a Tamil,’ Aloysius said, to no one in particular. His voice was expressionless. ‘That’s not going to change, is it? They can give their damn job to one of their own, I don’t much care any more.’ He was beginning to sound cornered. ‘The old ways are finished. These fellows have no need for courtesy. Or good manners. Life as we have known it will shrink. We’ve been sucked dry like a mango stone!’
Discarded, thought Grace. That’s how we’ll be.
‘I shall breed Persian cats,’ declared Aloysius.
He looked with distaste at the cloudy liquid in his glass.
‘I’ve forgotten what decent whisky tastes like,’ he muttered.
Christopher, standing in the doorway, looked at both his parents in amazement. Why did his mother remain silent, why couldn’t she stop his drinking?
‘Hah!’ Aloysius continued, grimacing as he drank. ‘The Sinhalese have been waiting years for this. Well, let’s see what happens, now they’ve got the upper hand.’
He’s like a worn-out gramophone, thought Grace wearily. In all the years of their marriage she had never told him what he should do. But she was tired. Aloysius switched on the radio and raised his voice.
‘It was bound to happen. I told you! Independence will change everything.’ He was getting into his stride. ‘The Tamils won’t be able to keep a single job.’
Pausing, he took a quick swig of his drink.
‘The English language will become a thing of the past.’
‘Don’t!’ Grace said, sharply.
‘What d’you expect, men? The minute the suddhas, these white fellows, are gone and Sinhalese becomes the official language, what d’you think will happen? They’ll forget every bit of English they’ve learned. In schools, in the offices, all over the bloody place! It’s obvious, isn’t it? And then,’ he gave a short laugh, drained his glass and poured himself another drink, ‘not only will the Tamils suffer but we’ll be cut off from the rest of the world. Who the bloody hell except the Sinhalese will speak their language?’
He held his glass up to the light and peered at it for a moment.
‘Here’s to the new and independent Ceylon!’
Christopher waited uneasily. He knew the signs. His father would gradually become louder and his arguments more circular. The six o’clock news finished. Evening shadows lengthened in the garden and a small refreshing breeze stirred the trees. Somewhere the liquid, flute-like notes of a black-hooded oriole could be heard calling sweetly to its mate: ku-kyi-ho.
‘Our Sinhalese peasants will be the new ruling class,’ Aloysius declared, waving a hand in the direction of the servants’ quarters.
Christopher was horrified. Well, don’t for God’s sake antagonise them, he wanted to say. Don’t just get drunk, do something. His father was all talk.
‘On the other hand,’ Aloysius continued, the arrack taking effect, ‘can one blame these fellows? The British have been snubbing the Sinhalese for a century. Is it surprising they are angry?’ He paced the floor with furious energy. ‘They lost their language and their religion was totally discarded. How d’you think you can suppress a large majority like this without asking for trouble? Huh? Tell me that, men?’
He glared at his wife as though it was her fault. No one spoke. Grace closed her eyes and waited while Aloysius drained the last drop in his glass, triumphantly.
‘Having finished playing merry hell the British fellows are off now, leaving us to pay the price. Is this fair play? Is this cricket?’ He was working himself into a frenzy. ‘Soon we’ll all be talking in Sinhalese. Except I can’t speak a bloody word of course.’
He belched loudly. Christopher made as if to leave the room but Aloysius held out his glass absent-mindedly.
‘Get me some ice, will you, putha?’ he said.
The radio droned on. It was beginning to give Grace a headache. She went over and switched it off. Then she looked at her watch. Although she knew he was right, Aloysius in this mood was best ignored.
‘That’s enough,’ she said finally. ‘Dinner will be ready in an hour. Myrtle,’ she smiled at her cousin, ‘can you tell the others, please?’ She would not have talks of politics at the dinner table. ‘And stop frowning, Christopher,’ she added. ‘Tonight we are celebrating your father’s retirement.’
She spoke firmly, hiding her anxieties. The signs of civil unrest had been growing steadily for months. Two weeks before independence had been declared a series of riots had broken out in the north of the island. The poorest outcasts, the coolies, had had their vote withdrawn. Predictions of trouble swarmed everywhere with a high-pitched whine. Rumours, like mosquitoes, punctured the very flesh of the island. Discrimination against the Tamils, it was said, had already begun in the north. When she heard the stories it was always Vijay that Grace thought of.
Their affair had run on for several years. It had exceeded all their expectations. It had proved that rights and wrongs were complicated things with mysterious inner rhythms. It had given them hope when they had expected none. Vijay was the most disturbed by this. Grace, having discovered her conscience was smaller, steadier than his, had never been as frightened as he was. It was Vijay who struggled to accept what had been given to him. He submerged himself in her, making no demands, never probing her on her other life which was so patently different, never questioning her on her sudden long absences. He loved her with a burning intensity, impossible to quench, existing only for her visits, trustingly, utterly faithful. His understanding still astonished Grace. Whenever she appeared at his door, tense and worn, he would unravel her sari and massage her with sandalwood oil, waiting until the strained anxious look left her face before he accepted what she offered. Silently. He did all this silently. Instinct kept him so. Instinct made him give her the passion she seemed so desperately to crave.
Occasionally, when news from his home town could not be ignored, he would talk about his childhood. Grace, unable to help him, listened as his anger burrowed a hole through his life. Vijay had grown up in a smallholding where the red-brick, earth and the parched years
