On Sal Mal Lane Read Online Free

all sipped their morning tea in amazement, shaking their heads at The Tamils. The best beaches they want for themselves, said others, though the best beaches were not owned by any person or group or institution, and there were enough best beaches for everybody in the country, which was, after all, an island.
    “Also,” Mr. Silva said brightly, leaving one concern behind to take up another, less troubling one, “it will raise the ratio of good to bad among the children at least.” The bad to which he referred were the Bolling children, with whom the Heraths were soon to be acquainted, though not in a way that Sonna Bolling could have predicted.
    They all grew quiet as they thought about the other children down Sal Mal Lane, the three older Silvas unaware that the youngest, Jith, did not share their opinion about at least one of those children, namely, Dolly Bolling. The strains of a new hymn, “Take My Hand, Precious Lord,” washed over the silent listeners, who grew surprisingly rapt with attention.
    “Have you gone over with anything?” Mr. Silva asked his wife suddenly, raising his voice a little to cut through the spell that seemed to have descended upon them all. “We should make sure that they are on the right side from the start.”
    Mrs. Silva clucked her tongue, pth, and put down her sewing. “Didn’t you notice that those children were here all morning while the movers were coming and going? I looked after them. I even offered to teach the girls to embroider. The older one is talented but the small one had never touched a needle. Can you imagine? A girl? Goodness knows what sort of people they are going to be. Only thing going for them is their race.”
    “Anyway, better take some plantains or something, don’t you think?”
    Mrs. Silva pressed her lips together with deep disapproval, but half an hour later she was hovering by the steps leading to the Heraths’ veranda, a tray of tea and biscuits in hand.
    “Savi? Savi?” she called, using Mrs. Herath’s first name and trying to be heard above the piano, which was now being played by one of the boys. The other children were singing yet another hymn, and so was Mrs. Herath, who, Mrs. Silva swore, had seen her standing there and still continued to warble shamelessly. “Savi!” she shouted finally, and this time felt satisfied as the music stopped, singing, piano, and all, and Mrs. Herath came out onto the veranda.
    “Ah, didn’t mean to disturb you. Lovely singing. Lovely singing.”
    Mrs. Herath smiled. “I try to get the children to sing at least once a day. It’s good for them, after all, don’t you think? The girls of course have music regularly at the convent, but the boys, you know how it is with them, the boys’ schools never do enough in the arts. We have to make sure to civilize them at home.”
    At this early stage of their acquaintance, it was not possible for Mrs. Herath to tell if Mrs. Silva might share her idea of what constituted civilized behavior. Soon enough, she would discover that just about anything her own children got up to was clearly uncivilized, that making music was just as bad as having a husband who sided with the Communists, and that much more besides would be found severely reproachable by Mrs. Silva. Battles would be fought over boundary lines, walls would go up, words would be said, but that was still to come. For now, they were both blessedly ignorant and, therefore, naturally hoped for friendship.
    Mrs. Silva put her tray down and sat in one of the round, high-backed cane chairs that were arranged in the veranda and tried to take in as much as she could see of the interior from where she sat. The quality of furnishings, solid teak, the upholstery hand-loomed and bright, the polish on the floors, the arrangement of several lush potted plants, all of this seemed normal and appealing. Mrs. Silva frowned inwardly. Such impeccable taste in furniture and drapes did not go with hymns. Hymns went with synthetic