The Flower Boy (16 page)

chapter 15

LIFE CALMED DOWN WITH THE TEDIOUSNESS OF A LARGE BIRD SETTLING down after a particularly exhausting flight, slowly and shiveringly.

Premawathi was tight-lipped and everyone assumed that Chandi's escapade had upset her. They were sympathetic toward her and made clucking noises at Chandi whenever they saw him. Leela shot him nasty looks which he studiously chose to ignore.

Premawathi's initial confusion at Disneris's sudden appearance had settled down to a stoic acceptance. She was struggling to get used to having him around again. It had been a long time.

He woke up with her at five every morning, laid the three wood fires and lit them in preparation for the day's cooking. Then he woke the children and got Chandi ready for school. When he came back from the factory, he helped to take in the laundry from the lines outside, and helped the children with their homework.

Small things that eased Premawathi's workload.

In the evenings after the children had fallen asleep, they sat on the kitchen step and drank tea and talked.

Amiable strangers discussing their mutual children.

“Chandi is very bright. He got all his sums right,” Disneris said proudly.

“How about the other two?” Premawathi asked.

“Not bad. But they're girls,” he replied.

She didn't see the relevance. A small silence broken by sipping noises and chewing-of-jaggery noises. Small silences punctuating even smaller conversations.

“So how was the factory today?” she asked.

“Same as usual. Can't complain.”

“Is the work difficult?”

“What's so difficult about shutting and sealing crates?” he said, laughing.

“Does the Sudu Mahattaya treat you well?” she asked curiously.

“Same as everyone else. He's a good man,” he answered.

Another silence, this one longer than the last.

Disneris yawned and stood up. “Better get some sleep. Tiring day.”

She still sat in the middle of the stretched-out silence which had somehow grown less depressing. She was comfortable on her own.

Too comfortable for comfort, if that made any sense at all.

THREE YEARS PASSED in this state of carefully hidden unhappiness.

John was his usual self, kind and considerate around his two girls, and kind and remote around his staff.

Inevitably, the episode with Premawathi had put a strain on their relationship. He referred to it in his mind as an episode, because it made it a fleeting thing and removed any lingering intimacy.

Although it didn't really.

Even now, the sight of her would bring it all back, and even though he didn't dare dwell on it, he was aware of a sharp sense of regret.

Regret for what, he didn't know or care to know.

Sometimes he wished he hadn't lost control, that it had never happened, and then his practical British mind took over, and he told himself it would have anyway. It was one of those utterly inevitable things that wait to happen. That breed futility and regret and sudden rememberings.

Even Chandi was a reminder of what had happened and so John avoided him whenever possible. John was aware that the boy was hurt by the distance he had suddenly and deliberately put between them, but his own hurt was bigger.

It was an adult hurt.

Chandi still played with Rose-Lizzie. They still talked and they were still best friends. It was as if the farther apart the adults drifted, the closer they became. They drew comfort from each other.

During these hot July days, they went swimming in the oya. They had found an old blanket in the bungalow, and it now hung among the branches of the stunted mora tree that grew beside the water.

Every day, they followed the same ritual.

After school, they changed hurriedly, bolted down their lunches, left their homework for later when the sun went down and rushed down to the oya. They stripped down to their underwear and dived in, shrieking as the icy water brought the goosebumps running up and down their bodies.

They splashed and still sailed their leaf boats, only now they were old enough and tall enough to follow them as they spun crazily downstream. But even now, they stopped short of the dark lake.

Afterward, they lay on the blanket with their arms and legs stretched out and their eyes closed and sometimes they talked. And sometimes they didn't.

The silences were replete silences, though.

Not empty ones like echo-filled rooms.

Even as their bodies grew and changed, they still viewed each other as they always had. There was none of the usual childish curiosity and tentative explorations. They went too far back for that.

But as their own comfortableness grew, so did the discomfort of other people. Oddly enough, Premawathi seemed to have accepted that Rose-Lizzie would be an intrinsic part of Chandi's life for as long as they were together at least.

And oddly enough, it was Disneris—placid, unsuspicious Disneris—who first broached the subject of their friendship.

“Haminé, our boy is getting older now,” he said.

It was late at night and the children were asleep in their room. Appuhamy had retired long ago and even the generator had been switched off.

“He must concentrate on his schoolwork now.”

Premawathi was only half listening. That morning, she had been arranging the Sudu Mahattaya's room when he had walked in unexpectedly. She had frozen, clutching the pile of bedsheets to her like an armor. He had been surprised too. He had looked from her to the bed she had been making. A look full of memories of another time, but not another place. She had dropped the sheets to the floor and fled.

“All this playing is not good for concentration,” Disneris continued.

She forced herself to concentrate. “Why? Is he having trouble at school?” she asked. Since Disneris had come to Glencairn, she had left it to him to see to the children's schoolwork because he finished work at five o'clock, while her work continued right until the family went to bed. Even then she stayed awake, washing dishes and preparing for the next day.

“No, no trouble,” he said thoughtfully. “But it's not right, this attachment with the Sudu Baby. It can lead to trouble.”

“Trouble? What trouble?” she asked blankly.

“You know this friendship. She's from a different station in life,” he said.

“Station. You talk as if they were trains or something,” she said impatiently.

“People will talk,” he said, looking away.

“About what? What's there to talk about two children?” She bit savagely into her piece of jaggery.

Disneris began to look upset. “Now, Haminé, people will talk. That's their business. Our business is to see that we give them nothing to talk about.”

“But they'll talk anyway,” she protested. “Can't you see that? The very fact that we work and live here is enough for some people. Anyway, they're only children. It's not like they're having an affair or something.”

He looked shocked. “Where did this affair talk come from? I'm only saying that we must be careful. God has been good to us so far. We must not displease him,” he finished weakly.

“Oh, now it's God,” she said scornfully. “What about the people? Aren't you worried about them anymore?”

Disneris felt she was reacting too strongly and put it down to the rigors of the day. “Never mind. It's late now. We'll talk about it at another time,” he said placatingly.

She got up and went into their room without a word. When he came in a few minutes later, her eyes were closed although it was obvious that she wasn't asleep.

He sighed deeply and lay down next to her.

She was fuming. Her husband's unexpected inverted snobbery had come like a bucket of cold water. Now him, she thought angrily.

She too had felt the distance the Sudu Mahattaya had put between himself and Chandi, and she had vowed not to do the same with Rose-Lizzie. The children would not suffer because of their parents.

She thought of the day when she had gone down the path looking for Chandi and had come upon them lying on their tattered blanket. They were wearing only their knickers and the sun painted their bodies, one dark brown and one light gold, with dancing patterns. Their eyes were closed but they were holding hands. The oya was small, the trees here were small and the children were small.

Two small people in a small world.

She had watched them and envied their innocence. And as she made her way back up the path, she wept for it.

Now, lying in the bed she had made for herself, she promised herself that her children would never be touched by the disillusionment of life. But scarcely had the promise been made than she knew it would be broken.

Life with all its disillusionment did that to promises.

WHEN CHANDI WAS twelve he found out quite by accident that his father was not a knight in shining armor. Actually, he discovered that his father would probably
never
be a knight in shining armor, which was far worse.

It was a warm Saturday afternoon in early March and Rose-Lizzie had gone down to Nuwara Eliya with her father. Chandi had watched longingly as the silver car had driven off with Anne in the front seat and Rose-Lizzie in the back.

When she had been told about the proposed outing, she had immediately asked if Chandi could come, but her father had said no.

Her small face was pressed against the rear windscreen and she waved at Chandi, who waved back forlornly. John saw her in his rearview mirror and felt a pang of remorse.

Chandi drifted out to the back garden and wandered around aimlessly. Presently, tired by his wanderings, he sat down and watched two bees buzzing around a pale purple aubergine flower.

When he heard someone walking along the side of the drain, he kept quiet because he didn't feel like talking to anyone. The someone stopped. Must be Ayah, he thought. Then he heard someone else walking toward the probably-Ayah-someone who had stopped. Must be the firewood man, he thought and wondered how to escape unseen. He didn't want to be around to hear anything. Or see anything.

Then he heard voices.

“Ayah. What are you doing here all by yourself?” Krishna sounded cocky and pleased to have found a female, any female, alone in this part of the garden.

“Just wanted five minutes of peace.” Ayah sounded less than pleased to have her five minutes interrupted. Not that Chandi could blame her.

“So, say something will you.” Krishna the Don Juan was obviously used to the more direct approach he took with the whore in Nuwara Eliya. There was a rustle. And then another one.

“What do you think you're doing?” Ayah sounded angry. “Isn't there enough room here? Another foot and you'll be sitting on top of me!”

“So what's wrong with that?”

“Everything. You stink like an unwashed pig.” Ayah's scornful voice was loud. And you scratch your meeyya, Chandi added silently.

“Oh, I suppose you're only good for some people!” Krishna's voice now had a nasty edge to it.

“Anyone but you.” Ayah now sounded bored.

“And not just your husband from what I've been hearing.” Another rustle. “What? You're not good enough for me? Saving it all for the firewood man?”

Chandi, moving as silently as he could, started toward the kitchen. This was getting serious and he knew he needed to bring in reinforcements. He liked Ayah and hated Krishna.

He heard a scream, followed by a resounding slap. “You filthy pig!” he heard Ayah say shrilly. “Keep your leching for someone who wants it! Don't think I haven't seen you hanging around the well, peeping at all the women bathing!”

Chandi could see them now. They were both standing by the drain, facing each other. Krishna had his hand to his cheek and looked furious. Ayah still looked angry but also a little frightened.

As Chandi watched, Krishna lunged toward Ayah and grabbed her hair with one hand and her waist with the other. Ayah screamed loudly, but the kitchen was far away and, with the usual pots and pans sounds and the water noises, the chances of her being heard were remote.

Now Krishna's hand was tugging hard at her hair, pulling her head back, bringing tears of pain to her eyes, while his other hand grabbed at her generous buttocks. She kicked feebly at his shins, but Krishna didn't even seem to feel it.

Chandi couldn't just sit there anymore. He stood up and raced over, shouting as loud as he could, waving his hands in the air like a mad person.

In the kitchen, Disneris and Premawathi both heard the shouts. They rushed outside, just in time to see their son launch himself on Krishna and bring him down to the ground with a resounding thud. Ayah stood there, sobbing with rage and shock.

Disneris raced over and pulled at Chandi, who was clinging to Krishna like a limpet, raining blows on him. Finally Chandi let go, still shouting incoherently at Krishna, who got slowly to his feet, looking stunned.

“What happened?” Premawathi demanded, putting her arm around Ayah.