had got progressively worse. This lunchtime had been the worst ever. She had gone to school that morning taking the picture postcard of Piccadilly Circus her uncle had sent her, hoping that Jennifer might be interested. But Jennifer, giggling in a corner of the playground with her new friend from Cinnamon Gardens, would not look at Alice.
‘Don’t then!’ Alice had shouted, stung.
And in a last desperate effort at indifference, she had cried out:
‘I don’t care, anyway, I’m going to England. I’ll have lots of friends there, wait and see.’
There was more to come. The last lesson of the day was always Singhalese. When Mrs Maradana the Singhalese teacher collected up the homework at the beginning of the lesson, Alice realised with dismay that she had not brought hers to school. Mrs Maradana stared at her.
‘Come here, Alice,’ she had said, her voice very soft. ‘Did you think you didn’t have to do your work because you are going to England? Hah?’
Alice shook her head. The class quivered with silent anticipation. Everyone guessed what was coming. Mrs Maradana was known as a Tamil hater.
‘Well?’
Alice said nothing. There was an agonising pause while the teacher opened her drawer.
‘Hold out your hand, child,’ she had said coldly.
The class craned their necks, all together, like atrophying plants. The air vibrated as once, twice and then, once more the cane stung her hand. Someone sniggered. The humiliation was far worse than the pain.
‘Sit down and get on with your work,’ Mrs Maradana said, putting the cane away.
Alice, her mouth tightly shut, swallowing hard, had walked a chin-wobbling journey back to her seat. Twenty pairs of eyes followed her as she opened her desk. The rest of the hour had passed in a blur.
When, after an eternity, the bell rang signifying the end of school, the class rose and stood to attention, placing their hands together as though in prayer.
‘Aybowon, children,’ Mrs Maradana said.
Jennifer raised her hand.
‘Yes, what is it, Jennifer?’
Jennifer’s parents supported the school very generously.
‘I’m so sorry you lost your father, Mrs Maradana,’ Jennifer said softly. ‘I hope he reaches Nirvana.’
Mrs Maradana’s eyes widened dangerously. Once more the class held their breath, but this time the teacher smiled thinly.
‘Thank you, Jennifer,’ she said, adding, ‘give my regards to your parents. I hope that baby brother of yours is letting them sleep finally!’
Outside, the air shimmered translucently and the sky was a relentless gemstone blue. Children spilled out of the school building like a swarm of mosquitoes. It was out of this swarm that Alice emerged and spotted her grandfather’s car. She caught a glimpse of her mother in her old green sari, exactly the colour of an over-ripe mango. Sita hadn’t worn it for a long time, not since before the baby. In that instant the surprise of her mother looking her old self, her grand-father’s unexpected presence, and her smarting hands struggled within her and was no longer containable. Her tears, once begun, were unstoppable; hurling herself into the back of the car, she howled.
‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ Sita asked, knocked off balance.
‘What’s wrong, Putha?’ Bee cried, switching off the engine and turning round to face her in alarm. ‘What’s happened, Alice?’
‘Alice,’ her mother was saying, ‘don’t cry for no reason. Tell me what’s wrong.’
Alice let out a thin, lonely wail. She had not known she possessed such a terrible sound within her. Just hearing it frightened her.
‘I don’t want to go to school any more,’ she cried.
That night, when she was in bed, and her grandfather had gone back, Alice went over the events of her day. In the end it had turned out to be the nicest day since her birthday. Bee had wanted to go in and have a word with Mrs Maradana, but Sita would not let him. Bee had been very, very angry.
‘There’s no question of her going back to that place,’ he kept saying, over and over again. ‘She must stay with you until you come home.’
For once Sita had not disagreed.
‘No more bloody Singhala,’ she had said.
Alice was surprised to see her mother so angry. Her hand had stopped hurting and now that Bee was here she was beginning to enjoy herself. But Sita was working herself up into a rage.
‘You see why we have to leave, Thatha? You see what a waste of time it is, trying to make a life in this place?’
Sita’s face was alive with rage.
‘No Singhala,’ she repeated, grimly. ‘No Tamil either. Only English. The language of the Just.’
Alice glanced at her grandfather. He too was watching the sudden animation in Sita’s face.
‘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