Roma Tearne - Bone China

ROMA TEARNE

For Barrie, Oliver, Alistair and Mollie.

And in memory of my parents.

‘He who never leaves his country is full of prejudices.’

CARLO GOLDONI

Title Page Bone China ROMA TEARNE Dedication For Barrie, Oliver, Alistair and Mollie. And in memory of my parents. ‘He who never leaves his country is full of prejudices.’ CARLO GOLDONI Secrets Secrets Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Errors Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty One Chapter Twenty Two Beginnings Chapter Twenty Three Acknowledgements Literary Corner Copyright About the Publisher

1

FROM THE ROAD ALL THAT COULD be seen of the house was its long red roof. Everything else was screened by the trees. Occasionally, depending on the direction of the breeze, children’s voices or a piano being played could be heard, but usually, the only sound was the faint rush of water falling away further down the valley. Until this point where the road ended, the house and all its grandeur remained hidden. Then suddenly it burst into view. The car, approaching from the south side, wound slowly up the tea-covered hills. Passing one breathtaking view after another it climbed higher and higher until at last it rolled to a halt. For a moment Aloysius de Silva sat staring out. The house had been in his wife’s family for more than two hundred years. Local people, those who knew of it and knew the family, called it the House of Many Balconies. All around its façade were ornate carvings punctuated by small stone balconies and deep verandas. The gardens were planted with rhododendrons and foxgloves, arum lilies and soft, rain-washed flowers. ‘Serendipity,’ the Governor had called it, ‘somewhere deep in the Garden of Eden.’ It was here, in this undisturbed paradise, viridian green and temperate, that the dark-eyed Grace had grown up. And it was here that she waited for him now.

Sighing heavily, for he was returning home after an absence of several days, Aloysius opened the door of the car, nodding to the driver. He would walk the rest of the way. It was early morning, on the first day of September 1939. Thin patches of mist drifted in the rarefied air. In his haste to return home he had caught only a glimpse of the newspaper headlines. They could no longer be ignored. The war in Europe was official, and because the island of Ceylon was still under British Crown Rule he knew it would affect them all. But this morning Aloysius de Silva had other things on his mind. He was the bearer of some rather pressing news of his own. His wife, he remembered with some reluctance, was waiting. The next few hours would not be easy. Aloysius had been playing poker. He had promised her he would not, but he had broken his promise. He had been drinking, so that, as sometimes happened on such occasions, one thing had led seamlessly to another. One minute he had had the chance to win back, at a single blow, the unravelled fortunes of his family, the horses, the estates. But the next it had vanished with an inevitability that had proved hard to anticipate. A queen, a king, an ace; he could see them clearly still. He had staked his life on a hand of cards. And he had lost. Why had he done this? He had no idea how to tell her the last of her tea estates had gone. It had been the thing he dreaded most of all.

‘They’re crooks,’ he declared loudly, a bit later on.

No good beating about the bush, he thought. They were sitting in the turquoise drawing room, surrounded by the Dutch colonial furniture, the Italian glass and the exquisite collection of rare bone china that had belonged to Grace’s mother. Family portraits lined the walls, bookcases and vitrines filled the rooms, and a huge chandelier hung its droplets above them.

‘Rasanayagaim set me up,’ said Aloysius. ‘I could tell there was some funny business going on. You know, all the time there was some sort of message being passed between him and that puppy, Chesterton.’

His wife said nothing and Aloysius searched around for a match to light his cigar. When he found none he rang the bell and the servant boy appeared.

‘Bring some tea,’ he said irritably after he relit his cigar. ‘I was set up,’ he continued, when the servant had left the room. ‘As soon as I saw that bastard Rasanayagaim, I knew there’d be trouble. You remember what happened to Harold Fonsaka? And then later on, to that fellow, Sam? I’m telling you, on every single occasion Rasanayagaim was in the room!’

Aloysius blew a ring of cigar smoke and coughed. Still Grace de Silva said nothing. Aloysius could see she had her inscrutable look. This could go on for days, he thought, eyeing her warily. It was a pity really, given how good-looking she still was. Quite my best asset most of the time. He suppressed the desire to laugh. The conversation was liable to get tricky.

‘It was just bad luck, darl,’ he said, trying another tack. ‘Just wait, men, I’ll win it all back at the next game!’

He could see it clearly. The moment he fanned out the cards there had been a constellation of possibilities. A queen, a king, an ace! But then, it hadn’t been enough. Too little, too late, he thought, regretfully. All over Europe the lights were going out. As from this moment, Britain was at war with Germany. Bad luck, thought Aloysius, again. She’ll be silent for days now, weeks even, he predicted gloomily. She knows how to punish me. Always has.

The servant brought in the tea on a silver tray. The china was exquisite. Blue and white and faded. It had been in the family for years, commissioned by the Queen for the Hyde Park Exhibition. Does it still belong to us? Grace thought furiously, looking at them. Or has he signed them away too? And what about me? she wanted to shout. I’m surprised he hasn’t gambled me away. Aloysius watched her. He was well aware that his wife was corseted in good manners, bound up by good breeding, wrapped in the glow of a more elegant world than the one he had been brought up in. But he also knew, underneath, she had a temper. The servant poured the tea. The porcelain teacups were paper-thin. They let in a faint glow of light when she held them up.

‘It isn’t as bad as you think,’ he said conversationally. No use encouraging her silence, he decided, briskly. What’s done is done. Move forward, he thought. ‘We’d have had to give up the house anyway. The Governor wants it for the war. It’s been on the cards for ages, you know, darl,’ he told her, not realising what he was saying.

Grace de Silva pursed her lips. The flower in her hair trembled. Her eyes were blue-black like a kingfisher’s beak and she wanted to kill Aloysius.

‘So you see, sooner or later we’d have to move.’

He waved aside his smoke, coughing. The servant, having handed a cup of tea to Mrs de Silva, left. Dammit, thought Aloysius, again. Why does she have to be so hard on me? It was a mistake, wasn’t it? Her silence unnerved him.

‘The fact is, I’m no longer necessary to the British. We were useful as sandbags, once,’ he continued, sounding more confident than he felt. ‘Those were the days, hah! It was people like me, you know, who kept civil unrest at bay. But now, now they have their damn war looming, they don’t need me .’