Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  Arthur Ransome rose to his feet with some awkwardness and bowed. "Indeed there is. Could be we've been chasing the wrong beverage all these years."

  The banter continued through the appreciative sipping of coffee as Sir Joshua regaled them with a literally blow-by-blow account of the morning's rumbustious proceedings in the Chamber. Then Ransome made a comment, which Olivia missed. Sir Joshua sobered. "I was not being frivolous, Arthur. I think it's a perfectly viable project and draconian situations call for draconian action, at least that much you will agree?"

  It was evidently the thread of an earlier conversation that was being picked up. Ransome shook his head. "Draconian yes, but not suicidal! To act rashly now would be to lose sight of the reality, Josh."

  Without comprehending the background to the dispute, Olivia listened intently. Although Ransome was her uncle's closest and dearest friend apart from business partner, the two men could not have been more different. Whereas Sir Joshua was large, loose limbed and dominated with ease whatever environment he happened to be in, Ransome was visibly sedate, squat, fastidious and content to remain in the background. If there was occasional flamboyance and a certain simmering ruthlessness about Sir Joshua, Ransome's middle name was caution, perhaps because as an accountant said to be a genius with figures, he liked precision and propriety. Olivia had met him before, of course, and had been impressed by his unfailing courtesy.

  "We can't sit back and let them beat us at our own game, dammit! It's a challenge that must be answered." Sir Joshua stood up to tower above his seated partner, his face even more florid than usual.

  "It will be answered by others."

  "Maybe. But I don't give a damn what others do. There are rich pickings here, Arthur, richer than available in London. I think we must bid for our share of them now. Isn't that right, Olivia?" He suddenly spun around and impaled her with a stare.

  "Isn't what right?" Quickly, she reassembled her thoughts.

  "Would you not say that our chances of making hard dents in your American markets are again good considering that three quarters of a century has elapsed since those infernal Tea Parties?"

  Olivia pondered. Her uncle's habit of frequently asking her opinion on matters she knew little about pleased her, since at home her father had always treated her as an equal even when she was much younger. This time she knew to what her uncle was referring—the Tea Act, which had imposed a threepenny per pound levy on teas imported from England into America. The opposition to the levy had been bitter and the first consignments received in 1773 in Boston, Greenwich, Charleston, Philadelphia, New York, Annapolis and Edenton had been unceremoniously dumped into the harbours, the incident earning the jocular nickname of the "Tea Parties." In fact, it was this indignation that had struck the first blow for the American War of Independence and, understandably, soured American taste for tea.

  Olivia recalled these facts now in answer to Sir Joshua's query. "Well, I do know that some folks back home still will not buy anything imported from England. Besides, almost everyone we know drinks caw— coffee." Remembering her aunt's advice, she hastily amended her long vowel. "And, surely, whatever little demand there is for tea is satisfied by American importers who also sail to the China Coast?"

  "You see, Arthur?" Sir Joshua smacked his thigh and looked pleased. "Olivia has hit the nail on the head. It's because there is a demand that Astor, Griswold, Howland and that bunch are making fortunes. By Jove, I'd dearly like to have another poke at Boston!"

  Ransome continued puffing quietly at his pipe, unimpressed. "Not now, Josh. Maybe later. We do pretty well in Mincing Lane and in the domestic market. Why reach for the moon when we don't need it?"

  "Because when we do need it, it will have waned!" Exasperated, he controlled himself with an effort. "Listen, Arthur, the Americans have an edge on us at the moment, and do you know why? Not because they're better, not by a long-shot, but because they're faster."

  "Agreed. But we simply cannot afford one of these Baltimore clippers at the present time. We have to operate with what we have, our ugly little tea wagons, and do the best we can, which is pretty good."

  "Precisely, old boy! But if we modernised the tea wagons they could still be a match for the clippers."

  The expression on Ransome's round, plump-cheeked face turned wary. "How?"

  "By refitting them with coal engines."

  Ransome laughed. "Coal engines! My dear fellow, that's a pipe dream, a pie in the sky. It will be years before coal-powered navigation becomes commonly available, within the reach of private merchants."

  "You're wrong there, Arthur." Hands clasped behind his back, Sir Joshua walked to the glass-fronted cupboard in which reposed all the memorabilia of his sailing days—carved ivory ornaments, jade figurines, etched metal vases, urns and incense stands, brass Buddhas and Ming jars—and stared into it hard. "John Company already uses steam packets for coastal and river traffic. England and America have coal engines pulling trains. Why should we not make a start here?"

  "Well, for one," Ransome asked drily, "where's the coal? The Royal Navy maintains its own coaling stations, which we cannot touch. Every lump mined at Raniganj—and ninety thousand tons a year is still precious little—is being stockpiled for the Bombay-Thana railway already under construction. Let's not daydream, Josh." His tone sharpened. "Whatever coal exists at the moment is not available for private business."

  Sir Joshua turned and strolled back toward Arthur, his face suddenly blank. "Raniganj will expand. Other mines will open up. We know, for instance, that there is coal in . . ." He paused and pulled in a deep breath and his half smile was suddenly very sly, "in Kirtinagar."

  "Ah!" His partner's intake of breath was audible. "I've suspected for some time that this is what you've been building up to, Josh. And now I know you are reaching for the moon!" He laughed but with irritation.

  "Why? I know the calibre of these native princes, Arthur. Show them a few pretty baubles from Europe, tickle their fancies, prime their egos and pleasure them well—and they'll sell their mothers to you if the price is right." His face was now set and his voice harsh.

  Ransome sat up slowly and subjected his partner to a surprised stare. "But we both know the reputation Arvind Singh has, Josh. He's not one of those maharajas you have in mind."

  "Pshaw!" Sir Joshua threw up his hands in a gesture of contempt. "Underneath, they're all the same—and there's more than one way of catching a monkey. Arvind Singh wants big money for that irrigation project of his. If the Europeans formed a consortium with merchants like Jardine, Gillanders, Schoene, a jute man or two, we could afford to make Arvind Singh an offer he would not be able to refuse. There isn't a single merchant in Calcutta who wouldn't sell his soul for steam navigation. What we need is some hard bargaining power."

  All at once, it seemed to Olivia, the timbre of the debate had changed subtly from healthy disagreement to something else. There was tension in the air, an unspoken feeling of disquiet. For a long while Ransome did not speak as he exercised his right leg sorely afflicted by gout, and when he did speak it was so quietly that Olivia could barely hear him.

  "I'm not certain, Josh, if you are forgetting the crux or missing it deliberately. We both know that it is hardly the Maharaja's fancy that needs to be tickled, and I can't bring myself to believe that you, especially you, are up to the alternative." Presenting the expanse of an angry back to his partner, Sir Joshua clenched his fists by his side but remained silent. Doggedly, Ransome ploughed on. "It sours me too, Josh, that the man has had his clipper refitted in Clydeside with a coal engine, which makes him twice as fast as any of us, but he is an exception. Yes, I too am envious as hell of his successes, but we must accept that we cannot match him in the American market. Not anymore. Kala Kanta has too much of a head start. And now that he's devised this clever novelty of selling tea in smaller, individual packets—"

  "I thought of that two years ago, dammit!"

  "True," Ransome agreed calmly, "but it is Kala Kanta who
has done it."

  "Are you chickening out of a challenge, Arthur?" There was anger in Sir Joshua's hard, intractable tone. "He hasn't cornered all the market yet; that moon still has slices for others, for us!"

  "It may well, yes. But to match him in the West, we would have to cut investments in the East, and I'm not prepared for that. Our foundations are in the China Coast. We are neither ready nor equipped for reckless adventurism in another hemisphere. As for the challenge," he shrugged, "ten years ago when we were younger, healthier, more foolhardy, yes, I would have taken the gamble, but not now. Let us abandon thoughts of the Kirtinagar coal, Josh. We both know that it can never be ours."

  Sir Joshua's volatile temper, always quick to ignite, strained to explode. "It can be ours, Arthur, it must! If we play our cards right we can bypass him!" He strode to his desk and thumped a fist on it.

  "Bypass Kala Kanta?" Ransome echoed. "In Kirtinagar? My dear fellow, have you taken leave of your senses? Even trying such a tactic would be an insanity!" He held up a hand to tick off his fingers one by one. "A warehouse lost in a mysterious fire. The Sea Siren stripped at sea of valuable cargo by unidentifiable privateers—by no means a first act of piracy with our opium consignments. Mincing Lane in London continues to receive from our Canton establishment inexplicably adulterated teas. What Marshall dispatches are the best souchong and pekoe. What mysteriously arrives is ash and sloe leaves tanned with japonica and molasses. Leave aside our sinking reputation; we could earn hefty fines under these new anti-adulteration laws, even prison sentences. Suddenly no one remembers our magnificent first and second flushes of the best teas in the world, teas for which we've been renowned. Now even our insurers are starting to ask damned embarrassing questions." For a man as taciturn as Ransome, it was a heated speech. He slumped back in his chair and mopped his forehead. "But then I don't need to remind you of all these disasters, Josh. They're emblazoned boldly enough in our ledgers."

  Gazing out of the window Sir Joshua nodded, but absently, as if he had heard nothing. "We must remain the best, Arthur," he said softly, "the best. It is what we have striven all our lives to be. If we are to be second, it cannot ever be to him, never to him. As for the rest, Kala Kanta is not invincible. He can and will be beaten!"

  "No Josh, he is not invincible," Ransome sighed a trifle wearily, "he is merely mad. And he is violent, which makes him doubly dangerous. Heaven knows we too have fought dirty in our time, our hands too are not all that clean, but I don't have the strength or the stomach for retaliation now. Our only defence against this mad dog is to stay well out of his way."

  "And what have we gained so far by staying out of his way?" Sir Joshua asked, his eyes rife with contempt. "Shall I repeat to you those calamities you have yourself just recounted?"

  "I still have no stomach for provoking more trouble." Ransome's jaw set in a stubborn line. "Let the bastard do his worst, and we have to concede it could have been worse than it has. Maybe, given enough rope, he'll do us the favour of hanging himself some day. But for the moment, Josh, leave it be. Leave it be, my friend."

  Sir Joshua fell silent, refraining from the heated rejoinder that obviously trembled on his lips. Instead, he stood glowering at a moth fluttering across a maroon shantung silk drape as if about to swat it, but he didn't. Unaware of its brush with death, the moth found a chink in the curtain and flew out into the garden. Sitting in her wing chair partially concealed from both men, Olivia remained very still. The silence seemed so total and yet so turbulent that she finally couldn't contain herself. Inching forward to the edge of the chair, she asked with a touch of nervousness, "Who is this ... this Kala Kanta you've been talking about?"

  Both men started. It was obvious they had entirely forgotten her presence. For a moment neither volunteered an answer. Then, with a visible effort, Sir Joshua recovered. "Just a man, a business competitor," he said shortly. "No one of any consequence."

  It was Arthur Ransome, courtly as ever, who hastened to repair his partner's brusqueness. "Kala Kanta is a scoundrel, to put it bluntly, Miss O'Rourke. There are many such fly-by-night operators in Calcutta who are a disgrace to ethical business, if you will accept a seeming contradiction in terms." A brief smile flickered across his lips. "But this man has gone beyond all limits. Be that as it may, I apologise on our joint behalves for subjecting you to a deplorably dull discussion and for excluding you from it so rudely. I hope you weren't too dreadfully bored?"

  "Oh no," Olivia replied quite truthfully. "I was fascinated. These calamities you spoke of—are they serious?"

  The endless, often naive, questions she had got into the habit of asking Sir Joshua usually received indulgent, good-humoured answers, but now his expression showed a flash of annoyance. "No, of course not. Ups and downs are facts of corporate life, ours included. Overnight, men can become millionaires on the China Coast, or go bankrupt. Fortunately, those with the kind of resilience we have bounce back like rubber. Isn't that right, Arthur?" Buoyant again, he clasped his hands together and smiled.

  "Oh, absolutely." Ransome heaved his short, stocky frame out of the chair and stretched each leg in turn. He did not, Olivia noticed, lift his eyes to meet his partner's.

  It was almost midnight. Since Ransome was a bachelor and lived alone, he often spent nights at the Templewood house. A bed had already been prepared for him in the downstairs guestroom. Olivia summoned Rehman, dozing behind the study door loyally waiting for his master to retire, to remove the coffee tray and soiled brandy glasses. She bid good night to both men, received a peck on her cheek from her uncle, now seemingly recovered and again his usual urbane self, and allowed him to usher her out of the room. As she turned to smile her thanks before the door closed again, Olivia's smile froze on her lips and her eyes widened.

  The expression on Sir Joshua's face was one of such virulence, such naked spite and tangible hate that she stood rooted. It was only a flash and in a flash it was again gone, but there was something so ugly about it that Olivia shivered.

  "I say," Freddie Birkhurst asked, "do you like croquet?"

  Two months ago when she was fresh from home, Olivia would have had no hesitation in demanding bluntly, "What is croquet?" However, eight weeks of Lady Bridget's assiduous tutelage in the art of polite English conversation had taught Olivia caution. The problem was, for the life of her she could not remember whether croquet was a game or some kind of mutton cutlet. Morosely scanning the earnest countenance of the Hon'ble Frederick James Alistair Birkhurst, her escort for the evening, she decided to play safe. "Croquet? Well, I'm not sure that I've ever enjoyed . . . any."

  Freddie stared, his protuberant eyes poised precariously at the edge of their sockets, then he chortled. "Oh, Miss O'Rourke, you do have such a divine sense of humour! Tell me, are all Americans so delightfully witty?" In the width of his smile his limited chin disappeared altogether.

  "There are seventeen million Americans in America, Mr. Birkhurst," she said coldly. "Not having met them all, I can hardly hope to answer your question with any degree of accuracy."

  Two and a half hours of Freddie's uninterrupted company had begun to wear Olivia down. Except to refresh his whisky, he had not left her side for a moment since he had fetched her to the Pennworthys in his splendid brougham with the crested doors. As Lady Bridget's American niece, Olivia effortlessly invited attention at burra khanas, even though it was the last thing she wanted at these dreary social occasions. Tonight, however, she craved attention from others if only to make Freddie's worshipful presence less intolerable. Her jaws ached with the mandatory smiles and her temples throbbed for want of fresh air in the crowded rooms, but there was no avenue of immediate escape. Even Estelle had vanished from sight on the arm of her dashing Captain Sturges, and Olivia had no desire whatsoever to exchange notes on fleas, bedbugs or thieving cooks in the company of Lady Bridget and her friends.

  In a room teeming with vaguely familiar faces to which she could put few names, Olivia circulated with some desperation. As at all burra
khanas, there was the same sprinkling of uniforms and the customary contingents of merchants, bankers and John Company officials. Those gents not in uniform wore frock-coats and shirts with stiffly starched frontages. One or two of the younger blades ventured sporty jodhpurs and fancy silken cravats. Among the ladies crinolines and chintzes were the favourites, allover hoops and fussy petticoats, with bodices adorned with frilly collars, bows, buttons, ribbons and yards of lace made limp by constant dhobi washings. Had Olivia given in to her aunt and worn tusser silk, she knew she would have expired with the heat. Her chosen lavender organdie with short cap sleeves and boat neckline was singularly unelaborate but at least it allowed for ventilation.

  Circulation among the guests held other hazards for Olivia and small talk was a penance. She was constantly being asked to repeat herself and, worse, was having to constantly do the same to others. If her speech sounded odd to the English, their accents—ranging from Cornish to cockney—baffled her equally. As for frequently used colloquialisms such as "tiffin," "the mofussil," "gymkhana" and "chota peg," she couldn't make head or tail of any of them without explanation. Especially annoying, she found, was the appalling ignorance that existed about her own country. But if it was any consolation, information quotients were equally low about India—the country of their residence— and indeed about England, yearningly talked of as "home" but which many had never seen.

  "How do you tolerate it here, Miss O'Rourke, considering the diabolical boredom of life? Enough to send one potty, wouldn't you say?"

  Olivia turned to face Peter Barstow, a friend of Freddie's, also a man of leisure and private means whom she had met before and thought frivolous. "I tolerate it very well, Mr. Barstow," she countered, more out of loyalty to the Templewoods than truth. "If you cannot, then why do you stay?"

  Barstow grimaced. "Same reason as Freddie. Pater's orders."