him, knowing he wasn’t listening, hoping to tease him out of this nonsense. She stole up behind him as he prepared the food and put her arms around his waist. ‘You of all people shouldn’t let these old wives’ tales rule your life. Vijay, you know it’s all rubbish!’
Vijay shook his head stubbornly. The old traditions were ingrained in him and he was not prepared to listen. He would have to go to work in an hour; he would not see Grace for another week, perhaps longer. There was no time for arguments.
‘Tell me about the wedding,’ he said, changing the subject.
‘Well, the cake is made,’ Grace said, smiling, not wanting to argue either. ‘Frieda and Myrtle made it together. With the cook’s help.’
She hesitated. There was something else, something she could not put her finger on. It was nothing much, but her suspicions about Myrtle were growing. This morning Grace had had a strong sensation of being followed. Could it be possible that her cousin knew?
‘What about Alicia?’ asked Vijay. He was boiling some water. Grace had given him one of her mother’s old teapots and he was making tea in it.
‘She’s blissfully happy, of course, but…’ Again Grace hesitated. Alicia’s future made her uneasy. Out of loyalty to her daughter she had not discussed it, but what would happen when Alicia had children? As a family the de Silvas had their own strong Tamil identity. What would happen to that?
‘What will it be like for Alicia’s children?’ she asked tentatively. ‘Their father will be a Sinhalese. What problems will this cause?’
Vijay handed her a cup of tea and smiled broadly. It was his turn to tease her.
‘Aiyo! So you have fears too,’ he said. ‘Are you worrying about becoming a grandmother? Even before the wedding?’
‘No, no, I –’
‘It’s a good thing,’ Vijay said earnestly. ‘Don’t you see? You should be glad! The only hope this country has is through intermarriage.’ He paused. ‘It’s too late for us, but for Alicia there is hope.’
He smiled and the ever-present sadness lifted from his eyes making her wish her life back, to live it all over again, differently. But then, just before she left him, he brought up the subject of the eclipse again.
‘It’s not a very good time, you know,’ he fretted. ‘Do you have to go to this party?’
‘Vijay?’ she said.
She had never seen him so worried. She could feel his heart beating. Vijay took her face in his hands, kissing her luminescent eyes. He should have felt dirty beside her, he told her. A scavenger straying out of his domain. But he felt none of these things, such was the healing strength of her love, pouring over the poor soil that was his life, overwhelming him.
‘You and your superstitious country ways!’ she teased him, hiding an unaccountable heaviness in her heart. She knew he went to watch the many demonstrations springing up in the heart of the city. She knew there was no stopping him, and she, too, was afraid. ‘I can come back next Saturday morning,’ was all she said before leaving him. ‘I shall say I’m visiting the nuns. Will you be here? Will I see you?’
Vijay nodded. He did not want her to leave. A terrible foreboding had overtaken him. Next Saturday was more than a week away.
Sitting in the taxi, going home, she felt the heat spread like an infectious disease. It carried with it an ugly undercurrent of destruction that hovered wherever one went in the capital. It was not good. The British, sidelined by choice, watched silently. Waiting. Those who loved this island, and there were many who did, were saddened by what they saw. But most of them, Grace knew, had predicted the elephants would soon be out of the jungles.
Having finished her chores, having eaten her lunch alone, Frieda decided to go shopping. There was no one to go with her into Colombo. No one was at home, no one cared, but the fact was, she told herself with a trace of resentment, she felt very lonely. She needed to buy a present for the bride. Today was as good a day as any. Alicia’s wedding, just two months away, was threatening to give her a permanent headache. Myrtle’s constant questions didn’t help. Her mother was preoccupied. They were all busy with their own things. I might as well go out, thought Frieda, her eyes filling with tears. The sunlight was a blinding curtain, a bright ache of unhappiness thumping against her heart as she walked. Unhappiness shadowed her as she crossed the dusty streets. I am only a year younger, she thought dully, frowning with concentration, but look at the difference in our lives.
Before her sister had gone to the Conservatoire they had been inseparable, sharing bedrooms, clothes, secrets. She had known this would change when Alicia left home but Frieda had been looking forward so much to her return. And then, unexpectedly, hardly had she completed her diploma than she found Sunil. Frieda had not anticipated this. She had certainly not expected such a quick marriage. The last few months had been terrible. Her headache worsened as she walked. A pair of cymbals clashed together in her head. Nothing will ever be the same, she thought, mournfully. Everything has changed. Once I was her only friend but now Alicia belongs to another. The words went round and round, beating into her head, competing with the boiling sun. Alicia has Sunil and she has her music. Thornton has his poetry. What do I have? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. So thought Frieda with a drum roll going on in her head as she hurried down the road to Pettah.
On the way, much to her astonishment, she saw various members of her family. First she saw Thornton. He hurried past furtively and jumped onto a number 16 bus heading towards the east side of town. The Jewish Quarter, thought Frieda, puzzled. Who does he know there? Her favourite brother looked harassed. It wasn’t like Thornton to scowl. What was the matter with him? Next she saw Myrtle walking towards Mr Basher’s house. Frieda paused, wondering whether to call out to her. Mr Basher was a palmist. Myrtle avoided the main door. She rang the bell at the side entrance and went in, hurriedly. Why was Myrtle seeing a palmist? Then she saw Christopher. He rushed past on the other side of the street looking hot and fierce.
‘Goodness,’ muttered Frieda, startled, ‘we’re all out and we’re all in a bad mood!’
She felt a little cheered, without quite knowing why. There was nothing very unusual about Christopher’s presence in town. Since the age of thirteen he was more out than in. What was more worrying was that he had two large cardboard boxes tucked under his arm.
‘Oh no,’ Frieda exclaimed aloud, suddenly alert, forgetting her woes. ‘He’s stolen some wedding cake!’
Why would he do a thing like that? Making a mental note to count the cake boxes when she got back she continued on her way. A slight breeze had sprung up. She was nearing the waterfront. Frieda entered Harrison’s music shop intent on finding a particular gramophone recording for Alicia. She was uncertain of the name. Lost in thought, she wandered around looking at the recordings, humming to herself, unaware of the fair-haired young man who watched her quizzically.
‘Can’t you find what you want?’ the young man asked, eventually.
Frieda, puzzling over the problem, replied unthinkingly, ‘No, but I can sort of sing it. I think it’s a Beethoven piece.’
She hummed loudly, marking time with her hands. She did not look up, mistaking him for a sales assistant. The boy laughed, amused.
‘At any rate, you can sing,’ he said. ‘Although I doubt it’s Beethoven.’
‘Why?’ demanded Frieda, without thinking. ‘What makes you so sure?’
The boy grinned and Frieda looked at him for the first time. But he’s English, she thought, confusedly. And he’s got golden hair!
‘Well,’ said the boy, ‘does it sound like this?’
He sang the opening bars, conducting it with both hands and accidentally knocking a record off the counter. The assistant hurried towards them. The boy was right; it was not Beethoven at all but Smetana with his river. How foolish she felt. And how strange was the quality of the light,