by Tara Haigh
‘I’m Heather,’ Marjory’s daughter said by way of greeting.
Was this beautiful woman really almost forty years old, as the Dutch couple had told her? She looked significantly younger, although that might be thanks to her immaculate, pale complexion. At that age, Ella was amazed that Heather was still so shy that she preferred to converse from a distance.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ Ella called back to her, though it felt like a trivial thing to say. As she spoke, she reflected that Heather doubtless had good reasons for her behaviour. Perhaps she had poor circulation, or other health problems that made it impossible for her to come any nearer. That might be why she was steadying herself against the trunk of a palm tree. She seemed to have difficulty breathing too. Ella felt the best thing to do would be to approach her and greet her from close up.
After just a few steps, she sensed that Heather was already starting to feel better. Now that she was out of the sun, Ella could make out her face more clearly. There could be no doubt that she had her eyes and her high cheekbones – and even the way she smiled was recognisable to Ella. It was like looking into a mirror. Heather really must be her half-sister. Besides this, though, there was something else that made her feel this way: Heather exuded a special kind of warmth that Ella had very rarely encountered among strangers, beyond the occasional particularly endearing patient. There was a sense of unspoken connection there, just like with her own family. That was how Heather’s presence felt to her: familiar.
‘I’m sure your picture will turn out wonderfully,’ said Heather, though she didn’t spare it a glance. How could she even tell from that distance?
‘It isn’t finished yet, but you can take a look at it now if you like,’ Ella offered.
At that, Heather’s captivating smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Ella had the impression that she was actively avoiding looking at the easel in front of the oleander house. Her drawing couldn’t be as bad as all that, surely.
‘Please show it to me once it’s finished. I’m sure the house will look very different to how I know it,’ said Heather distractedly, before casting a fleeting look towards the easel. ‘It’s good to see things in a different light,’ she continued.
‘I’m trying to capture what makes the house so beautiful beyond those glorious colours.’
Heather abruptly changed the subject.
‘My mother tells me you used to live in England, and that you are a nurse,’ she said, her endearing smile returning as she looked into Ella’s eyes, her expression kind.
Ella nodded. ‘I had a wonderful time there.’
‘You probably know England better than I do. I only remember it from my childhood,’ Heather declared. ‘You simply have to tell me all about what you got up to there,’ she added.
‘I’m afraid that would take much longer than an afternoon.’
‘An afternoon? But you must stay! At least for dinner. Ideally for a few days. There are so many beautiful things to see here, and then you can tell me all about England, no? Please say you will?’
Just a few minutes earlier, Ella would have accepted the offer without hesitation – but now she wondered whether Marjory might not uncover the truth with all her questions. Yet being close to Heather made it worth the risk, even if Ella couldn’t explain her odd behaviour.
‘All right. I’d be delighted,’ she said.
‘I’ll let Mother know, and the staff too.’ Heather beamed – but all the same, Ella sensed that she was in a hurry to get back to the house.
To Ella’s overwhelming relief, her charcoal drawing of the guest house had turned out well. Although lacking colour, it gave the sprawling, creeping vines a life of their own. They seemed to be grasping at the house, but protecting it too. Her drawing was romantic and yet gloomy at the same time. It really did remind her of a haunted castle from a fairy tale. Ella had worked on her sketch all afternoon, but neither Marjory nor Heather had appeared again – only Jaya, who had supplied her with cold, freshly squeezed mango juice and lingered for a quick chat. Her parents were from Bombay. After her mother’s death, her father had emigrated with her to Malacca and was now working in a rubber factory. Another Indian – an older woman named Devi – also worked here part-time in the kitchen. She had come here with her family from England years ago, and had brought her knowledge of English cuisine with her. Jaya had a gentle, kindly nature, and Ella reflected that a woman like her surely wouldn’t survive here long if she were treated badly. It seemed that the Fosters’ house was subject to different laws to their plantation.
Later, when Jaya called her in for dinner, they managed to exchange a few more brief words.
‘Do you know why Heather never goes out?’ Ella couldn’t resist asking the question, but did her best to pose it casually.
Jaya didn’t seem to know, though, and merely shrugged.
‘Heather only dared to come out as far as the palm trees earlier. It’s odd.’
‘She avoids the oleander house.’ Jaya seemed certain of that, at least.
‘But why?’ Ella pressed her.
Once again, the only answer was a shrug. There was no point asking any further questions, as Jaya was in a hurry to get back to the main house and help out in the kitchen.
It was Jaya too who brought them their dinner in the drawing room.
‘I hope you like English cuisine,’ said Marjory, as Jaya served up a steak and kidney pie to follow the superb chicken soup starter. Ella already knew the dish from her time in England. Delicious, but an acquired taste for Germans.
‘A culinary adventure for those who aren’t already familiar with it,’ remarked Ella diplomatically.
Heather laughed. Inside the house, she seemed transformed – unconstrained and at ease.
‘Devi always uses two teaspoons of Worcestershire sauce instead of one. That makes it more flavoursome,’ said Marjory.
That very sauce was what made the dish taste so odd to the German palate. All the same, it was perfectly edible and Ella helped herself to a large slice.
‘And what do you think of the local cuisine?’ asked Heather.
Ella was glad that the conversation had kept to such trivial topics so far – thanks in part to her knowledge of the English national character. One could talk to the British about the weather for hours and that subject alone had taken them from the sherry aperitif right through to the chicken soup.
‘I have to confess that I haven’t tried a single Malayan dish yet,’ admitted Ella.
‘Best to avoid them. They’ll only upset your stomach. Why on earth do they make everything so spicy?’ Marjory pondered. That too was typical for the British. They preferred plain dishes, ideally with steamed or boiled vegetables. In that sense, Marjory was a laudable exception, with her two teaspoons of Worcestershire sauce.
‘To stop it from going off. Most people living in hot climates like Farther India have no way to refrigerate their food. Meat keeps for longer when it’s spiced and dried. The local cooking methods all make perfect sense,’ Heather explained to her mother.
‘Typical Heather. She loves this country, and always tries to defend it. You’d be forgiven for thinking she was a native,’ said Marjory wryly.
‘My skin would need to be a few shades darker for that,’ answered Heather.
‘Oh, don’t you worry. You’re my fine English lady, and it becomes you perfectly,’ said Marjory warmly, with the shining eyes of a mother who obviously loved her child a great deal – a love that Heather seemed to reciprocate wholeheartedly.
‘I must say I’m rather looking forward to the dessert. It’s treacle tart,’ announced Marjory cheerfully.
‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay for it. I don’t want to travel back in the dark,’ said Ella.
‘Nonsense. Of course you’ll stay here. You’re our guest. Jaya will prepare the oleander house straight after dinner and I’ll send somebody to collect your bags.’ From Marjory’s lips, it sounded like an order. It was exactly what El
la had wanted to hear.
‘But Ella could sleep in the house. We have plenty of rooms,’ objected Heather.
‘I think Ella will be more comfortable out there. That’s where all our guests stay. Besides, Edward is coming tomorrow. What if he wants to stay here? If he does, Ella will be able to retire undisturbed.’
Ella thought she could guess why Heather looked so disappointed. If she stayed in the house, they wouldn’t be separated by half the garden, and they could sit down and get to know each other better. Ella sensed that Heather longed to spend time with her just as much as she herself yearned to be near Heather. All the same, the depth of sadness that now welled up in Heather’s eyes was astonishing.
‘I very much appreciate your generous offer,’ Ella said. Just then, the treacle tart arrived – but even that couldn’t lift Heather’s spirits.
CHAPTER 9
Ella was gently woken by the first rays of the sun filtering through the cascading flowers. The light had a warm glow, tinted as it was by the red petals of the oleander blossom. It was an extraordinarily beautiful place. Her bedchamber was spacious, with gleaming polished floorboards, and a wardrobe and dresser made from exotic woods and decorated with elaborate carvings. Best of all was her bed. Ella was lying quite literally in a cornucopia of flowers, her blanket and pillow embroidered with floral patterns – each a work of art in its own right. The guest house also had a generous parlour, which was no less tastefully decorated than the drawing room in the main house. Ella had made herself comfortable in one of the chairs there the night before as she wrote in her diary.
It was time to get up. She was looking forward to making use of the elegant marble bathroom, the lavender soap, and of course the breakfast that Jaya had said she would leave inside the doorway at seven that morning. She had kept her promise. Fresh juice, pastries, English marmalade, butter and tea were all waiting for her underneath a fine mesh cover – presumably to keep the mosquitoes at bay. Over breakfast, Ella wondered how she should start her day. Perhaps she could persuade Heather to come with her into town? It would surely be good for her. Right now, however, Ella much preferred to enjoy the view over the neighbouring rubber fields from her small terrace. It was still very early in the morning, so she decided to take a short stroll over to the plantation.
Just a few moments later, it felt as though she had plunged into a completely different world. It was unnaturally quiet and Ella could distinctly hear every single step she took over the dried leaves and the hard floor. Soon enough, the forest swallowed her up altogether. It was doubtless very easy to get lost among the endless rubber trees, which must originally have been planted in even rows. A little further on, she came across a line of trees that were undergoing tapping. White fluid trickled down the etched-out runnels into containers hanging at the end of each incision and Ella was fascinated to see that a tree could bleed from its wounds, just like a human. She ran her hand over the trunk of a tree that had had some of its bark removed. It was still perfectly smooth, and she was curious to know how the rubber would feel too. The fluid was viscous and cool to the touch, sticking instantly to her fingers. A few rows further down, she saw the first workers entering the forest, carrying large buckets and fanning out among the rubber plants.
‘What are you doing here?’ came a voice from behind.
Ella jumped and turned round. In front of her stood the Indian giant, holding a sickle-shaped knife in his hand. Her heart almost stopped. Now Marjory would be sure to find out that she had already been seen on the plantation with a companion.
Raj stared at her without saying a word. It seemed to Ella as though he were trying to gauge her thoughts. His eyes were piercing, and she was afraid that he might try to skin her, just like the trees.
‘I’m a guest of the Fosters,’ she explained, trying to keep her voice steady.
Raj was clearly surprised to hear that. Only now did he seem to notice that her fingers were coated with the white fluid.
‘The trees look as though they’re bleeding,’ said Ella, more out of embarrassment.
‘The white blood of the earth. They say that it heals afflicted souls,’ he answered, without looking away.
The man was speaking in riddles. The best course of action was to explain to him that she needed to get back to the house, since Heather would already be waiting for her. It was unwise to trifle with a knife-wielding man who had his workers flogged.
But then he hefted his blade, slicing the sharp, sickle-shaped knife into one of the trees. He ran it in a spiral down the bark before peeling the trunk like a piece of fruit. Instantly, a few light patches appeared and the white fluid welled up. He too ran his hand over the trunk, just as Ella had done.
‘Where is your companion? Mrs Foster didn’t mention him,’ he asked abruptly.
Ella wondered whether it wouldn’t be safer to go straight back to town.
‘He’s dead. Most likely an accident,’ she answered frankly.
Raj’s face turned to stone. Ella felt certain that this was the first he had heard of it.
‘He was here . . . on his own . . .’ he said thoughtfully.
‘Did you see him?’
‘This place brings bad luck to strangers. It’s cursed,’ he said, without responding to her question. As he spoke, he gazed mysteriously at the treetops, as if the reason lay hidden up there.
‘I don’t believe in curses.’ Although it cost her some effort, Ella’s staunchness seemed to impress the man. The corners of his mouth curved upward into a mysterious smile – yet his face froze abruptly when the sound of an approaching carriage filtered towards them. Through the rows of trees, they could see that it was heading towards the house. The Fosters evidently had visitors.
Raj looked alarmed and sprang into action, running towards the edge of the forest.
Ella followed him and recognised the two Malayan police officers who had brought her the news of Rudolf’s demise.
‘The police . . . So it begins . . .’ he murmured to himself cryptically.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Ella, now perplexed.
‘Will they mention your name? What do you think?’
Ella felt burningly hot, and not because Raj hadn’t answered her question. It was possible that the two policemen might discuss Rudolf’s female companion with the Fosters.
Raj couldn’t help but notice her unease. ‘It was I who fetched your luggage from the boarding house,’ he said.
Ella’s heart almost stopped. So he knew that she wasn’t a Dutchwoman – that she was the German Ella Kaltenbach.
‘If anybody asks me about you . . . then I’ll tell them I haven’t seen you with him,’ he offered, to Ella’s astonishment.
‘Why would you do that for me?’ she asked.
Raj turned to her and looked her straight in the eye.
‘Destiny is unalterable. Misfortune befalls all who try to oppose it.’ He looked back over at the Fosters’ house, where the two policemen were just then being shown inside.
Ella didn’t dare to go back to the guest house until the policemen’s carriage had been swallowed up once more by the rubber forest. There was nobody to be seen at the main house. Should she let a little more time pass? But what was the point in hiding away uselessly inside the guest house, waiting for Marjory to come out and ask her why she hadn’t said anything about her companion’s demise? Ella decided to put an end to the agonising uncertainty, and walked over to the house to wish everybody a good morning and ask Heather whether she would like to go for a stroll or a drive into town.
Jaya opened the door in a state of considerable agitation.
‘The police were here. A German man died near our plantation. I overheard the conversation,’ she whispered after inviting Ella inside. ‘Mrs Foster is waiting for you most impatiently,’ Jaya went on.
For a moment, Ella considered turning back; Marjory clearly had a bone to pick with her. But she took a deep breath and entered the drawing room, where the older woman met her with a bea
ming smile.
‘Good morning, Ella. You seem to be a very late riser,’ she said, walking up to her.
Ella instantly felt a weight fall from her heart – but then Marjory’s expression grew serious once more. Was she about to get to the point? She was.
‘I don’t know if you’re aware, but the police were here just now. It seems that a German man died close to the plantation.’
‘Yes, I saw the policemen from the guest house,’ said Ella.
‘Well, I would greatly appreciate it if you would refrain from mentioning this to anybody. We are expecting a guest this evening, and . . . people talk . . .’
Ella nodded, but decided to sound Marjory out.
‘What did the police want? The man was German, you say?’
For a moment Marjory seemed to debate whether she could confide in Ella. ‘The man visited the house the day before yesterday and introduced himself as a rubber merchant. I told him that we’ve already appointed our buyers, and he left again. The ideas these Germans have . . . We sell to British customers, and that’s the way it should be.’
Ella nodded thoughtfully. None of it made any sense. Rudolf knew that this was where her presumptive father lived, so why hadn’t he mentioned it to Marjory? Perhaps she was keeping that quiet, since it was of no concern to an outsider.
‘Oh my child, look at you! You’re all aflutter. Why don’t you have a glass of gin to steady your spirits? I needed one too after the gentlemen had left,’ said Marjory.
Ella really wasn’t in the mood for drinking gin, but she accepted all the same. It was clear that Rudolf’s visit to the Fosters couldn’t have had anything to do with his death, for Marjory wouldn’t have discussed it so openly otherwise. Her request for discretion on the matter was perfectly understandable.
Marjory handed Ella a glass of gin and ice. She had poured herself a second helping too.
‘To the reinvigorating effect of good old Gordon’s.’
Ella raised her glass.
‘That’s what we like to see. The day promises to be a lively one if we’re indulging in alcohol at this time in the morning.’ It was Heather’s voice. She was standing in the doorway with an amused smile. ‘What shall we do today, Ella? Or would you rather go back to your charcoals? I know – I should show you some lovely spots to inspire you.’ Heather was full of enthusiasm and good humour.