‘Why don’t you get a job instead of loafing around,’ he asked, his irritation barely concealed.
Thornton had stared dreamily at the sea. It lay like a ploughed field beyond the harbour wall and the day was thick and dazzling and humid. It was far too hot to argue. The air had compressed and solidified into a block of heat. It pressed against Thornton, reminding him once again of the girl with the limeade drink. Her dress had been made of a semi-transparent material that clung to her as she walked, hinting of other, interesting things. He imagined brushing his hands against her hips. Or maybe even, he thought, maybe, her neck. Thornton had a strong feeling that a poem was just beginning to develop. Something about breasts, he thought, smiling warmly to himself. And soft, rosy lips.
‘Thornton.’ Jacob’s irritation had cut across this delicious daydream. ‘It’s no joke, you know. You have to plan your future. It won’t simply happen. Don’t you want your own money?’
What? thought Thornton, confused. All around him the heat shimmered with hormonal promise. His brother’s voice buzzed like a fly against his ear. I wonder if I’ll be allowed to go to the concert on my own, he thought, whistling the snatch of jazz he had heard earlier. No, he decided, that’s not quite right. I haven’t got the timing right. When I get back, if Alicia has finished on the piano I’ll try to play it by ear.
‘Or are you planning on taking up gambling? Carrying on the family tradition perhaps?’ Jacob had continued, unable to let the subject go.
‘Oh God, Jacob!’ Thornton had laughed, refusing to be drawn. ‘Life is not simply about making money. I keep telling you, I’m a poet.’
‘What does that mean, apart from loafing around?’
Thornton had done an impromptu tap dance. Sunlight sparkled on the water.
‘I’m not loafing around! This is how I get my experience,’ he said, waving his hands at the activity in front of them. ‘There is a purpose to everything I do. Can’t you see?’
‘You’re getting worse,’ Jacob had said gloomily, throwing some crumbs at the seagulls.
Thornton, trying not to laugh again, had decided: his brother simply had no soul.
‘I’ve sent another poem to the Daily News,’ he offered. ‘It’s about fishermen. Maybe it will get published. Who knows? Then I’ll be rich and famous!’
‘That proves it,’ Jacob told him, satisfied. ‘You’re a complete idiot!’
Having finished his lunch, having had enough, he stood up.
‘Right,’ he said briskly, ‘I must get back to work. You should think about what I said. I could get you a job here, you know.’
And he was gone, leaving Thornton to his daydreams.
Having washed her face and feeling a little cooler, Myrtle went to the kitchen in search of a piece of cake. From the sound of the jazz being played she guessed Thornton was back. Myrtle pursed her lips. The boy was always playing jazz, or swimming, or wandering aimlessly around Colombo. In the past, whenever she had tried tackling Grace on the subject of Thornton’s laziness, it had had no effect. Grace merely smiled indulgently; Thornton could do no wrong.
‘He’s still young,’ was all she said in a voice that brooked no argument.
Myrtle had given up. Thornton would learn a lesson one day. She had seen it in the cards. Her cards never lied.
Myrtle cut herself an enormous slice of cake, ate it and went looking for Grace. But Grace was nowhere in sight. Thornton was still at the piano, and Jasper, moving restlessly on his perch, eyed her with interest.
‘Good evening,’ he said slowly. ‘Where’ve you been?’
Instantly Myrtle averted her eyes, not wishing to provoke him, but Jasper let out a low whistle. Myrtle retreated hastily into her room, closing the door. Then she got out her pack of cards and began to lay them out. It was her daily practice to see what misfortune might befall the family. The jazz had stopped and a door slammed. A shadow fell across her window. She caught a glimpse of Christopher disappearing into the kitchen. Ah! thought Myrtle, alert again. So he’s back. For some time she had suspected that Christopher was stealing food. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he were selling it on the black market. One way or another they were all up to no good. What else could one expect from a family of gamblers and drunks? The cards were dealt. She began to turn them over, one by one. Perhaps they would offer her an explanation.
Christopher left the house through the back with a parcel under his arm. The servants were resting and so, he hoped, was his mother. No one else mattered. No one else took much notice of him. Now fifteen, Christopher found that Colombo had made little difference to the way he lived his life. He still came and went as he pleased and he still loathed Thornton. He would never forgive his father for sending his brothers to Greenwood while he had never even been to school. Rage, never far off, threatened to overtake him whenever he thought of Thornton. To distract himself he remembered his secret. For Christopher had a secret that of late had brought him immense happiness. None of his family knew that he had fallen in love and was conducting the most wonderful romance. The object of his adoration was a little girl called Kamala whose father ran a sherbet and betel kadé on Galle Face Green. It was to Kamala, with her emaciated body and her poverty, that he went with the outpouring of all those things he kept hidden from the rest of the de Silvas. With furious energy and great passion Christopher showered her with his stolen presents. He took food, money, books; anything he could think of that might bring her happiness. This afternoon he had found a cardboard box with some silk in it. His mother was always buying saris. Christopher felt sure she would not miss one. Picking up the box and a packet of English biscuits lying on the kitchen table, he hurried out. Jasper, who had moved to his lower perch, watched him leave with narrow-eyed interest.
‘Careful, my boy!’ he said, copying Aloysius.
But Christopher only grinned and tweaked the bird’s tail feathers affectionately before sauntering out into the sun. He crossed the road and headed towards the seafront. To his surprise he saw Thornton hurrying ahead of him. Christopher slowed down. Thornton was the last person he wanted to meet just at this moment. A bus passed and Thornton ducked suddenly, and then vanished. Christopher looked around, puzzled. There was nowhere Thornton could have gone. He glanced down the road but there was no sign of him. His brother had disappeared. Perhaps he had been mistaken, Christopher thought, continuing on his way. Stepping off the bus on his afternoon off, Jacob looked across the road. He too was certain he had glimpsed Thornton. Heading off furtively in the direction of the Jewish Quarter of the town.
Having decided to do something about Alicia’s musical education, Grace went to see the Director of the Conservatoire. She had known his family from many years before, in the days when her mother was alive and used to hold concerts in their house in the hills. All she wanted, she told the Director, was an opinion on Alicia’s ability. Then she would sell her land to pay for her daughter’s studies.
‘Bring her to me, Grace,’ the Director said, smiling at her. ‘Let’s hear her play, let’s see what she can do first.’
The Director had a soft spot for Grace. He had never really understood why she had thrown her life away with Aloysius de Silva. Seeing her lovely, anxious face, he was determined to help if he could.
Grace needn’t have worried. Three weeks later Alicia was accepted on her own merits, securing a scholarship for the entire three-year diploma. Her daughter’s talent would not be wasted and the last of Grace’s legacy would remain untouched. Waiting for that rainy day.
When he heard the news Aloysius looked with admiration at his talented daughter. Alicia was sixteen. Her future was bright.
‘You see, darl,’