The Tea Planter’s Wife

by Jefferies, Dinah

  ‘Hugh, where are you?’ she called.

  There was no reply.

  She told the kitchen coolie what she needed him to do, then went to peer into the tall trees.

  ‘Hugh, are you in there?’

  No reply.

  She walked back to the house but stopped outside the door. He might have gone in but he would have said; and, she reasoned, she’d have heard the door. She crossed the yard and at the edge of the tall trees she heard barking coming from the path ahead. Hugh must have gone into the woods after one of the dogs.

  She took a few steps through the tunnel of trees and, after a moment or two, lost her footing as Hugh charged into her.

  ‘It’s a girl, Mummy. A big girl.’

  She sat on the ground and frowned as Spew and Ginger jumped on to her lap and licked her face. She batted them away then wiped her face with her sleeve.

  ‘Is this somebody real, Hugh?’

  ‘Yes. She can’t stand up, Mummy. Spew heard, and Ginger and me go after.’

  ‘Went after, darling,’ Gwen said, standing up and brushing herself down. ‘Now look at the mess I’m in.’

  ‘Mummy. Come on!’

  ‘Well, I suppose you’d better show me, hadn’t you, if she’s real.’

  He took hold of her hand and tugged.

  As they walked along, Hugh spotted a broken earthenware jug that lay abandoned in the middle of the path. He bent to pick it up.

  ‘No. Best leave it,’ Gwen said.

  He pulled a face, but did as he was told.

  ‘Is she far?’ she said, and ruffled her son’s hair.

  ‘No, she’s near.’

  Gwen sighed, thinking of her cheese as they walked on. This was such a waste of time and would probably turn out to be a wild goose chase. But then, a little further on, she noticed a labourer bending over somebody sitting on the ground.

  ‘He wasn’t there,’ Hugh said. ‘She was all on her own.’

  ‘I think we’ll turn back,’ Gwen said. ‘Now there’s somebody to look after her.’

  ‘Mummy!’ Hugh pulled a face. ‘I want to stay.’

  ‘No. Come on now,’ she said, and tugged at Hugh’s hand.

  She called Spew, but as they turned to go, a sharp cry halted them. They both twisted round to look.

  ‘Mummy, you must help her,’ Hugh said with an obstinate look that reminded her of Laurence.

  As she watched the man and the child, it was clear that the child could not stand, and every time the man tried to lift her, she cried out.

  ‘Very well. Let’s see what’s going on.’

  Hugh clapped his hands. ‘Good Mummy! Good Mummy!’

  She smiled. Her son was repeating the way she often spoke to him when he’d been her ‘good boy’.

  He ran on ahead and waited a few feet away from the man, who was now bent over the girl.

  ‘Her leg looks funny,’ Hugh said, wide-eyed.

  The man glanced up at them, and Gwen was surprised to recognize the Tamil man she’d helped when she first arrived, the one who’d hurt his foot. From the look of distress on his face, it was clear he knew who she was too. He’d been in trouble because of their previous encounter, and she was well aware he might not relish her assistance. As she squatted down and looked her over, the little girl raised her head and gazed up with large brown eyes swimming with tears. Gwen’s breath quickened. The child’s eyes reminded her of Liyoni and instinctively she reached out with a surge of longing, the blood rushing to her head.

  She did her best to draw back from the memory of her daughter and managed to steady herself. This girl was older than Liyoni, about eight, she thought, and she was Tamil, not Sinhalese, and much darker skinned. Her foot was lying at a strange angle from her swollen ankle, and her clothing was damp. At first Gwen thought the child must have wet herself, but when she sniffed, she realized it was milk.

  ‘Go and fetch the jug we saw, Hugh. The broken one on the path.’

  When he returned carrying two pieces of the jug, the little girl shrank back and spoke in Tamil.

  ‘She’s sorry, Mummy.’

  ‘Can you understand her?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy. I listen to the houseboys every day.’

  Gwen was surprised. Her own Tamil was poor, and though she knew Hugh was able to speak Sinhala, she hadn’t realized about the Tamil. ‘Ask her why she is sorry.’

  Hugh spoke a few words and the girl said something, and then burst into tears.

  ‘She won’t say.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He nodded very importantly.

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Well, never mind that now. Run to the kitchen and say Mummy wants two kitchen boys to help her. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy.’

  ‘And bring them here, straight away. Tell them it’s an emergency.’

  ‘What’s an emergency?’

  ‘This is, darling. Now hurry.’

  The man was attempting to lift the girl again, but when the child shrieked in pain, Gwen shook her head and he seemed to give up. He glanced back in the direction of the labour lines and flapped his hands about, seeming anxious to be gone, but she couldn’t let him take the girl in that condition.

  A few minutes later, Hugh came back with two kitchen staff. They spoke in rapid Tamil to the man and he replied in the same way.

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘They spoke too fast, Mummy.’

  When Gwen indicated they were to lift the child, they did so, one holding her under her arms, the other by her legs. As she began to wail, they took a few steps in the direction of the labour lines.

  Gwen told them to stop, and pointed back at the house.

  The kitchen boys exchanged uneasy glances.

  ‘To the house, now,’ she said, in what she hoped was understandable Tamil, and Hugh repeated it, sticking his chest out and trying to look like the master.

  Gwen led them to the boot room, cleared the table of junk and indicated they should put the child there. The man had followed them in and now stood shifting from foot to foot.

  She pulled up a chair. ‘Hugh, tell the man to sit down. I’m phoning for the doctor.’

  The butler, hearing the commotion, appeared at the door with a houseboy, but drew back at the sight of the Tamil father and child.

  ‘These should not be here, Lady. There is pharmacist, out in the tea bushes. You must call the factory.’

  ‘I’m calling the doctor,’ she repeated, and marched into the hall, past the astonished butler.

  Luckily, John Partridge was in his surgery near Hatton, and it didn’t take him long to arrive. Gwen answered the front door and he came in huffing and puffing, and smelling of pipe tobacco. ‘I came as fast as I could. An injured child, you say.’

  ‘Yes. She’s in the boot room.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I didn’t want to move her more than necessary. I think she might have a broken ankle.’

  When he entered the room, she heard him gasp quietly.

  ‘You didn’t say she was a Tamil child.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  He shrugged. ‘Perhaps not to you or to me, but still –’

  ‘They say there’s a pharmacist who deals with emergencies, but I thought she needed to see a qualified doctor right away.’

  She held the child’s hand while the doctor examined her.

  ‘You were right,’ he said as he straightened up. ‘If this had been allowed to heal without being properly set, she would have been crippled for life.’

  Relieved, Gwen let out her breath slowly. She couldn’t admit that the longing for Liyoni had stayed with her, though she didn’t believe she only wanted to take care of this girl because of that.

  ‘Have you plaster of Paris in the house?’

  She nodded and instructed a houseboy to fetch it. ‘Laurence and Hugh make models with it.’

  He then examined the child and patte
d her hand, before speaking to her in her own language.

  ‘I didn’t realize you spoke the language so well.’

  ‘I worked in India before coming here, picked up a smattering of Tamil there.’

  ‘I’m ashamed to say I have little of the language. The household staff always speak to me in English, so I have almost no chance to practise. Would you mind telling the father what you’re going to do? I’m assuming he is the father.’

  The doctor spoke a few words and the man nodded. He glanced up at Gwen. ‘He is the father, and he wants to take her home now. He has a job cutting back the overgrown areas and he’s worried he’ll be in trouble for bringing the child in here. He’s right, McGregor won’t like it at all.’

  ‘To hell with McGregor. She’s just a little girl. Look at her face. Tell the father you have to set her ankle.’

  ‘Very well. Really, she shouldn’t be moved for a day or so.’

  ‘In that case, I insist she stays here until she is well enough to be moved. We’ll put a couple of camp beds in here and the father can stay too.’

  ‘Gwen, it might be better if the man goes back to the labour lines. He won’t want an unexplained absence. Not only will his wages be docked, but there is a danger he’ll lose his job.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘McGregor did say there would be job losses.’

  ‘Well, then. Is it agreed? I’ll tell him he can go.’

  She nodded and the doctor explained the situation to the man. The father nodded and squeezed the little girl’s hand, but when he turned his back and left the room, her face crumpled.

  John Partridge glanced at Gwen and coloured slightly. ‘I’m afraid I never got to the bottom of that mix-up over your prescription. I’m so sorry. I’ve never made a mistake like that before.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

  He shook his head. ‘It has worried me. I’ve only ever prescribed the higher strength for people with terminal conditions.’

  ‘Well, there was no real harm done and, as you can see, I’m as right as rain. I’ll leave you to your task, John. Come along, Hugh.’

  ‘I want to watch.’

  ‘No. Come with me now.’

  A little later she was jolted from her pre-luncheon rest by the sound of Verity and Savi Ravasinghe returning from a walk round the lake. She stood up and caught sight of her reflection in the window, with what appeared to be the shadow of a girl slightly behind her.

  ‘Liyoni,’ she said, her voice no more than a whisper. She spun round. Nothing. A trick of the light.

  She had desperately hoped that Verity and Savi Ravasinghe would have been gone and was barely able to look at the man as he entered the room.

  ‘I hear we missed all the drama this morning,’ Verity said, then sprawled on a sofa. ‘Do sit, Savi, it makes me nervous when people hover.’

  ‘I really must be going,’ he said with an apologetic smile.

  Verity pulled a face. ‘You can’t go unless I drive you.’

  Gwen swallowed her anxiety and prepared herself to cope with the small talk that would get her through. ‘I’m sure Mr Ravasinghe must be itching to get back to his work. Whose portrait are you currently painting?’

  ‘I’ve been in England, actually. I had a commission there.’

  ‘Oh, I hope it was somebody terribly important. Did you see much of my cousin?’

  He smiled once more and inclined his head. ‘A little, yes.’

  She tried to look at him dispassionately; thought again how attractive he must be to single women – good-looking, charming and, of course, very talented. Women liked that in a man, the same way they liked a man who could make them laugh. She admired his skin, so beautifully burnished with a hint of saffron, but it brought back the horror of what she knew must have happened. It was followed by a flash of anger so extreme she felt as if she’d been physically attacked. She clenched her fists and turned away, a band of tension tightening her chest.

  ‘Actually, it was your cousin he painted,’ Verity said with a smile. ‘Isn’t that absolutely fabulous of him? I’m surprised she didn’t tell you.’

  Gwen swallowed. Fran had not told her.

  ‘Did you hear what I said, Gwen?’

  She turned to face the man. ‘That is wonderful, Mr Ravasinghe. I shall look forward to seeing it when I’m next in England. There seems to be so much else to do, I’m not always able to keep in touch.’

  ‘Like rescuing injured Tamil children. Is that what you mean, Gwen?’ Verity had spoken with an innocent look on her face and raised her brows, then smiled at Savi, as if to communicate something Gwen was not intended to understand.

  Something snapped in Gwen, so much so that she didn’t care if they could see she was actually shaking.

  ‘I didn’t particularly mean that. I meant being a wife to Laurence, looking after Hugh and running the household, especially now that we have to keep a close eye on what we spend. The accounts, Verity. You know. And all the money that went missing. I wondered, actually, if you might be able to throw some light on that.’

  At least her sister-in-law had the decency to redden before she glanced away.

  ‘Mr Ravasinghe, Verity will take you to the station now.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ he said. ‘There aren’t any trains at this time.’

  ‘In that case, Verity will drive you to Nuwara Eliya.’

  ‘Gwen, really –’

  ‘And to avoid any confusion, I mean right now.’

  She turned her back on them both and marched over to the window again, so taut she felt as if she might easily snap in two. She watched a heron fly low just above the layer of white mist rising from the lake and listened until they both got up and left. As she heard the squeal of tyres she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, the relief warming her skin and softening her muscles. She felt poised at the point when life shakes itself up, and you have no idea where you’ll be standing when it settles in a new pattern, or whether you will be standing at all. What she did know was that now Laurence was not around, the battle lines had been drawn.

  23

  The next day was a Poya day, a Buddhist public holiday which happened at each full moon, and because it was so quiet Gwen overslept. Laurence always gave the household staff the day off, so that they could visit the temple to worship. For true followers it was a fast day or uposatha. For others, it meant shops and businesses were closed, and the sale of alcohol and meat was forbidden.

  Most of the workers were Tamil, and therefore Hindu, but some of the household staff, like Naveena and the butler, were Sinhalese Buddhists. Laurence found it improved relations to close the plantation down on the twelve or thirteen times a year that full moon came around. And, of course, on the Hindu harvest festival too. It meant less division among the workers, and ensured everybody had a break of sorts.

  First thing, Gwen checked on the little girl, with Hugh and Ginger at her heels. Hugh carried his favourite bear under his arm and, once in the room, held out his best Dinky toy to the girl. She took it, turned it over and spun the wheels, then broke out in a wide grin.

  ‘She likes it, Mummy.’

  ‘I think she does. Well done. It was nice of you to bring some toys for her.’ Gwen didn’t say, but thought that the little girl probably had no toys of her own.

  ‘I wanted to make her happy.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘I’ve brought the bear too. And I asked Wilf, but he didn’t want to come.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  Hugh shrugged in that comical way little children do when they look as if they’re trying to be adult.

  She watched the two children for a moment. ‘I have some work to do. Would you like to play in my room?’

  ‘No, Mummy. I want to stay with Anandi.’

  ‘You can, but don’t ask her to move about. I’ll leave my door open so that I can hear you. Be good.’

  ‘Mummy, her name means happy person. She told me yesterday.’

  �
��Well, I’m pleased to see you two getting on so well. Now remember –’

  ‘I know. Be a good boy.’

  She smiled and drew Hugh to her for a hug before she left the room.

  In the hall, she listened to her son and the girl rattling on in Tamil, followed by the sound of laughter. He is a good boy, she thought as she went to her room to catch up with her correspondence.

  After an hour or so the sound of raised voices disturbed her. Once she’d made out McGregor’s Scottish accent, and realizing she should not have left Hugh and the Tamil child alone, she hurried to the boot room.

  The door to the courtyard was open and Gwen could hear that the shouting was originating there. When she glimpsed McGregor shake his fist at a woman wearing an orange sari, she took a breath and scanned the room. In one corner, Hugh sat on his bottom, arms wrapped round his knees. With a pinched face, and biting his lip, he looked as if he was trying not to cry. The girl was sitting up, tears spilling down her cheeks and dripping on to her open palms, almost as if she’d positioned her hands to catch them.

  McGregor must have heard her come in, because he turned round with a blazing face.

  ‘What the devil is going on here, Mrs Hooper? As soon as your husband turns his back, you bring a labourer’s child to the house. What were you thinking?’

  Gwen was surprised to see Verity come in, then squat at Hugh’s side.

  ‘I didn’t realize you were back,’ Gwen said, ignoring McGregor, but she couldn’t help feel that Verity had been waiting for an opportunity to alert the man.

  Gwen went to Hugh. She leant over him and ruffled his hair. ‘Are you all right, darling?’

  He nodded but didn’t speak. With a deep breath, she straightened up, took a step towards the man and folded her arms. ‘You have frightened these children half to death, Mr McGregor. Look at their faces. It’s inexcusable.’

  He spluttered and she noticed his fists were clenched. ‘What is inexcusable is you interfering once again with the plantation workers. I’ve done my best to help you, given you gardeners, smoothed the waters for the cheesemaking, and you repay me like this.’

  She stiffened. ‘Repay you? This is not about repaying you, or anyone else. This is about a little girl with a broken ankle. Even the doctor said she would end up crippled if it was not set quickly.’