Bone China - Roma Tearne

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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.

      Alicia was playing something new, something she had never played before. The notes floated hesitantly and with great clarity across the shuttered house. Vijay was a Tamil man and these days madness shadowed the Tamils. Luck was no longer on their side. Who knew what the future held. In the early days none of this had meant anything. She had gone on unthinkingly, acting on her instincts, a huge euphoria propelling her to his door. The sky had shouted her happiness. But no one heard. She had launched her delight into the air like a white paper kite. But no one saw. It was only lately that she had begun to think of the future.

      This morning Maya’s Silk Merchants had been closed so Grace had visited Vijay in his lodgings instead. They were towards the east side of Colombo, which was why she had been late getting back. She smiled, remembering the moment, as it rose and fell to the sound of Alicia’s music.

      ‘I’ve just been listening to the radio,’ Aloysius said, coming in noiselessly, fresh from his afternoon nap. ‘You know, darl, it really is going to be quite bad for the Tamils when the British leave.’

      Grace was startled. ‘Will they really leave, d’you think?’ she asked.

      Aloysius might be a fool over money but when it came to the British, he was shrewd.

      ‘Of course they’ll go, and sooner than you think. I imagine there’ll be some sort of a backlash after that.’

      Aloysius poured himself some water. He didn’t want to frighten Grace but rumours of a different kind of war were circulating. Sinhalese resentment grew daily, a resentment which would demand acknowledgement. Soon, they would be the majority, with unstoppable power over the Tamils. Grace shivered. Independence had begun to frighten her. Aloysius opened the shutters and stared out at the sea. He was sober. He did not like the feeling. It forced him to think of their uncertain future.

      ‘Is that Thornton, coming up the hill?’ he asked. ‘Good God, how can he ride his bicycle in this heat?’

      Grace did not answer. She had just left Vijay’s small airless room, walking away from his rattan mattress back to her marble floors. Leaving some essential part of herself behind, carrying the sound of his voice home with her. Alicia was playing Schubert. Recently Grace had met a British officer she had known long ago as a young girl. There had been a time when she had thought she might have married him instead of Aloysius. Now she wanted to go to this man, to ask him if the British would really leave. Would there be an independent government at last? And did he think there would be civil war? But the price for such information was too high. The British, she decided, were best at arm’s length. For suddenly Grace was beginning to understand, painfully and with fear, just what might happen to her beloved country. Propelled by this late last love, she had wandered towards frontiers not normally reached by women of her class. She was walking a dangerous road. A secret door in her life had swung open. It could not now be easily closed.

      ‘Sweep the devils out, men,’ Aloysius said, handing his empty glass to the servant who had walked in, ‘and who knows what others will come in. The Sinhalese won’t stay marginalised forever.’

      Alicia had stopped her practice; the metronome was no longer ticking.

      ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ Aloysius said, shaking his head. ‘Too much foreign rule is bound to tamper with the balance of this place.’ And he went out, bumping into Thornton who had just come in.

      ‘Ah! The wanderer returns!’ Grace heard him say.

      Thornton de Silva was seventeen. In the years since they had left their old upcountry home, he had grown tall and very handsome while his smile remained incontestably beautiful. Colombo suited him. He loved its bustle and energy around him. He loved the noise. The British talked of a Japanese invasion, the navy was on constant alert, and the newspapers were full of depressing predictions. But what did Thornton care? Youth held unimaginable promise. Possibilities festooned his days like strings of coloured lights. Earlier this afternoon he had gone to meet his brother Jacob. The harbour had been a tangle of sounds; muffled horns, and shrill whistles, and waves that washed against the jetty. The air was an invisible ocean, salt-fresh and wet, with a breeze that seemed to throb in time to the sound of motor launches. Further along, in the entry-strictly-prohibited parts of the harbour, brass-buttoned British officers revved their jeeps, while stick-thin boys stepped out of rickshaws carrying native food for important personnel, balancing tiffin tins precariously on their heads. Thornton had brought Jacob his lunch. He had been wheeling his bicycle along the seafront watching the frenzy of activity when he had bumped into two English girls, one of whom he vaguely knew. She had called out to him and Thornton had smiled, a beacon of a smile, a searchlight of happiness, making the girl giggle. She was drinking a bright green limeade through a candy-striped straw. Thornton watched her lips wrap themselves around the straw. Then, regretfully, remembering that his brother was waiting for him, he had waved and moved on. But Jacob, when he met him, had been full of his usual gloom. Thornton sighed, only half listening.

      ‘Crown Rule,’ Jacob declared loftily, following some thread of his own, ‘my boss says it’s a privilege the Indian Empire doesn’t have. Which is why they are in such a mess!’

      Thornton had not the faintest idea what his brother was talking about. The girl with the candy-striped straw filled his head.

      ‘Crown Rule is what keeps the elephants in the jungle and stops them trampling all over the parks.’

      Jacob paused, considering his own words. It was true the parks were beautiful. And he could see, Crown Rule did keep the grass green with water sprinklers. It gave the island its economy of rubber and tea. So really, he decided, on balance, it was probably a good thing. Thornton remained silent. Personally he didn’t care if the elephants walked on the railway lines, or the grass all died, or the rubber trees dried up. He had no idea what went on in Jacob’s head.

      ‘Let’s go to the Skyline Hotel tonight,’ he had suggested instead. ‘There’s a jazz band I know playing there.’

      ‘I can’t,’ Jacob said shortly, ‘I’ve got overtime.’

      Since leaving their old home, since he had turned sixteen, Jacob had been working for the Ceylon Tea Board. He was almost nineteen now and he detested Colombo. The trees here were dull green and

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