Roma Tearne - Bone China

Myrtle could hear Grace moving around the house. She glanced at the clock. Then she pulled out her diary.

Two fifteen , she wrote. This is the second time in a week! So where the devil has she been? She’s missed lunch; she’s had no breakfast and it’s three o’clock. The shops would have shut long ago. So where’s she been?

Myrtle paused, staring out at the plantain tree outside her window. Two bright sunbirds hovered briefly on a bush before disappearing from view.

There are several things that interest me , she continued, writing furiously. One, why does she have to work with the Irish nuns in Colombo? Why not work in the convent here, why take the train to Colombo all the time? The chauffeur drops her off at the station, he picks her up, she comes in and goes straight to bed. There is something very, very fishy going on. Two, what is this work she’s so involved in?

Myrtle knew it was useless asking the children. Frieda and Alicia had only the vaguest idea of what their mother did and the boys were never home, anyway. Is she some sort of spy for the British? She certainly knows plenty of them .

Myrtle stared at what she had written. Like mother like sons, she thought sourly. Then she closed her diary and went off to have a wash.

The truth about Grace was simpler. She had taken a lover. Well, why not? She was still young. Had she not been a good mother, a good wife too? Did she not deserve a little happiness, having remained with the husband who had squandered her inheritance? Well then, thought Grace, who could argue with that? Grace’s lover was called Vijay. He worked in Maya’s Silk Merchants in Pettah. One day, soon after the de Silvas had arrived in Colombo, she had gone over to buy her daughters some saris and he had served her. She had noticed him even then, a lean, handsome man probably in his mid thirties, but with the air of someone much older. A few weeks later she had returned for more silk. He had looked at her in the way that she was used to, in the way men had looked at her all her life, but without, she felt, the suggestiveness that usually accompanied such a look. His look had struck her forcefully. Vijay’s eyes had been soft and full of exhaustion and something, some long-forgotten emotion, had stirred within Grace. Years of neglect on Aloysius’s part had taken its toll. Suddenly, and without warning, she saw that she had grown indifferent without realising it. Her patience had been stretched for too long. Perhaps her marriage had simply reached its outer limits. Perhaps the end had come long ago. Once Aloysius had been her whole world. But no more. So that eventually, after what felt like a moment’s blinding desire, before she could consult her better judgement, say a prayer or argue with her conscience, she found she had given herself to Vijay.

On the first occasion it had happened with a swiftness that took them both by surprise. Grace had been ordering silk. Yards and yards of the stuff. For Frieda and for Alicia.

‘I have two daughters,’ she had told Vijay.

‘Then you will have to come back often,’ Vijay told her softly.

He had not smiled. She heard him as though from a great distance. On the second occasion he had brought out a roll of pale, flamingo-pink material, letting it flow through his hands, letting it stream to the floor.

‘See,’ he said. He could not take his eyes off her. ‘Feel it,’ he said. ‘This is pure cashmere.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, feeling a constriction in her chest.

No one noticed. She saw, from this, they already talked a secret language. Her hand brushed the cloth and accidentally touched his. Something happened to her throat, something ancient and familiar, closing it up as though it were a flower. The shop had become stuffy in spite of the ceiling fan. She had felt she might faint. So that, stepping back, she pretended to look at other things while waiting for the room to clear. And afterwards, after she had bought her saris and given her address for them to be delivered, she had gone out into the blazing sun, only to hear a radio playing somewhere in the distance.

Love is the sweetest thing ,

What else on earth could ever bring ,

Such happiness to everything …

Even though she continued to walk on, she was struck by the silly coincidence of the words.

Love is the strangest thing …

I only hope that fate may bring

Love’s story to you .

Grace stood rooted to the spot listening. She was not a superstitious woman. Nor did she believe in fate, but she had left her umbrella in the shop. Turning round, as though there was no time to lose, as though he was calling her, as if she had promised him, she ran back. Like a young girl with foolish dreams in her eyes.

By now the shop was half shuttered. It was midday and the heat had spun a glistening, magical net around everything. The street was empty. Grace stopped abruptly. Why had she expected him still to be there? Perhaps, she thought in panic, it was a terrible mistake. He did not want her after all. Uncertain, feeling ridiculous, she looked around her and saw him standing silently in the doorway. Watching her. Relief exploded in her face. Desire rose like a multicoloured fountain. Happiness somersaulted across the sky. In that moment neither gave a thought to the dangers. Vijay simply waited in the shadows. It was beyond him to summon up a smile and Grace saw the time for smiling had not arrived. In spite of the heat she began to shiver, swaying slightly, mesmerised by his eyes.

‘Grace?’ he said.

He had walked towards her, something seemed to propel him, something he clearly had no control over. How did he know her name? Hearing his voice, Grace felt electric shocks travel through her. Vijay’s voice sounded threadbare, as if he had worn it out with too much longing. Like a bird that was parched; like an animal without hope. Seeing this Grace was overcome by sleepy paralysis. So, holding the heavy weight of her heart, with slow inevitability and leaden feet, she went towards him and placed her head against the length of his body. The door closed behind them. Softly, and with great care. Vijay was too frightened to speak. He rocked against her. Then he unravelled her, shedding her sari as though he were peeling ripe fruit, sinking into the moment, tasting her. A first sip of nectar that left him weakened and snared by his own desire. Slowly he removed the pins from her hair. It was as if he was detonating a bomb. His hands caught against her skin, caressing it, tricked into following a path of its own across her body. Digressing. Grace swallowed. She felt the untold disappointments of years loosen and become smooth and clear and very simple. Vijay kissed her. He kissed her neck and her ears. He pulled her gently towards him and somewhere in that moment, in the three or four seconds it took for this to happen, they crossed an invisible point of no return. The clock ticked on like a metronome. Grace waited. Soon he would kiss her in every conceivable place, in every possible way. Her eyes closed of their own accord. Her eyes seemed to have gone down deep into her body, to some watchful place of their own. She felt his ear against her navel as he listened to the hot shuddering sighs within her. He found a cleft of sweetness and felt the room spin. Then he wrapped himself around her in an ever tightening embrace as they rushed headlong into each other. Later on, exhausted, they slept, half lying, half sitting against each other and time stood still once again. She awoke to feel his mouth against her and then, hearing the beat of his heart marking time like a drum, she knew that he had begun to count the cost of what they had done. Prejudice, she saw, would march between them, like death. Uncompromising and grim. Everything and nothing had changed. She saw without surprise that there was little more she wanted in the world. As he began again, turning her over, feeling his way back into her, defiantly and with certainty she knew, no one would ever keep them apart. Afterwards, he was filled with remorse, so that sitting between the bales of turmeric-coloured silks, surrounded by the faint perfume of new cloth, she reached out and touched him. He was from another caste. To love beyond its boundaries was outside any remit he might have had. He understood too well the laws that must not be disobeyed. As did she. They stood in the darkness of the shop, cocooned by the silk and she read his thoughts for the first of many times. She felt the fear within him grow and solidify into a hard, dark, impenetrable thing. The death of a million silkworms surrounded them, stretched out into a myriad of colours. Grace was unrepentant; she felt as though a terrible fever had just passed her by and she was safe at last. Stroking the dips and slopes of his body, seeing only the smooth brownness of muscles, the long dark limbs, unashamed by his caste, or her class, she smiled. What could Vijay do after that? In the face of such a smile? He could hardly recognise his own hands let alone turn away. His hands belonged to her now. It was an unplanned passion, swift and carefree, carrying with it the last glow of youth.