Shiro gasped. Anthony? No, of course not! This must be the older brother from Udatänná. He looked like Anthony, blue eyed and blonde, but taller and broader. The petulant expression on his face was that of a spoiled child. His eyes shifted to catch hers for a fraction of second before returning their icy stare to the hapless Mr Velu.
Shiro recoiled. Anthony’s brother, if that is who the man was, had the eyes of a devil.
‘Sir, I am very sorry sir, there has been no telephone message from Udatänná, sir,’ Mr Velu stammered. Shiro looked away, sickened by Mr Velu’s grovelling. A year away and she’d forgotten the power dynamics and cultural divides of tea plantation life.
The Englishmen raised his hand and waved Mr Velu away. The sun glinted on the slim gold watch on his wrist. ‘Well go on, don’t just stand here, call them and get them to send the car immediately. I can’t spend my day here in this godforsaken rat hole of a station.’
Mr Velu scurried away with a deferential, ‘Yes sir, at once, sir.’
The Englishman placed his foot on his suitcase and packed his pipe. The shoes were of hand-crafted leather like those Anthony wore. The handkerchief used to flick dust off his suitcase pure white linen.
Conceited eyes swept over at the station peons bustling around on the platform. These are my minions, his posture said. I am lord of my domain. Then, as if sensing Shiro’s eyes on him, the eyes pivoted to stare at her. They were the same deep blue as Anthony’s but hard as flint and as menacing as a crouching tiger awaiting its prey. The look sent a chill down her spine.
Shiro shuddered and turned away, just as Hemachandra Mudalali’s lorry rumbled into the station parking lot.
‘Shiro missy, I am sorry to be late. How are you?’ The driver jumped out, ‘Hemachandra Mudalali sent you sweets.’ He handed her the obligatory box of Black Magic chocolates. Seeing the Englishman, he lowered his voice. ‘Come, missy. Let’s go.’ The driver bundled Shiro into the front seat of the lorry. Raaken heaved her suitcase and bag in and then leapt in the back with it. The driver loosed the handbrake and lurched out of the railway station parking lot.
‘Shiro missy, did you see that English man?’ the driver asked as they bounced their way along the rough road which ran through Diyatalāwa town and on to Watakälé Tea Plantation. ‘He is the superintendent at Udatänná. Not a good man at all. He did not talk with you, did he? I will get into trouble with Mudalali if he talked to you.’
‘Come on, driver! What could happen in broad daylight on a station platform?’
Shiro stumbled over the words remembering the lechery in the man’s face in those moments they had gazed at each other. It was as if he had stripped her naked just with his eyes.
She hoped to never see him again.
***
Watakälé
‘What is wrong with you?’ Her mother nagged Shiro. ‘I hardly know you now. Why can’t you talk to me about what is going on in your head?’
Three days into her holiday and nothing had changed at home. She was dying to go to her place by the river. However, her mother had set her mind on teaching her all the womanly tasks. This meant that Shiro was expected to help in the cooking and cleaning. The fact that she would be a medical student next year was ignored by her mother and even by her beloved father.
Mother had been hassling her that morning about her traditional role as a woman and a daughter. Worse still, she wanted Shiro to agree to an arranged marriage. Shiro was sick of it.
‘What is wrong with me,’ she erupted, ‘is that I cannot, and will not be what you want me to be! I’m sick and tired of being the perfect daughter! I love cooking and craft and I will do it for me! For me, do you understand? Not for a man you choose. I don’t want to marry a suitable boy and be a housewife and mother like you! I want to be a doctor! I want to make a difference in the world! Is that so wrong?’ Shiro’s face was red. Her hands were clenched by her side. Tears streamed down her face.
Mother remained calm. As usual, she turned to the men in the house to resolve conflict. ‘Appa,’ she said to her husband, ‘can you see what I mean? Can you explain to her that we only want what is best for her? Boys don’t want a highly qualified, independent woman.’
Before her father could reply, Shiro’s brother Victor intervened. ‘Mum, boys today are different. They admire brains. Shiro has that, as well as beauty and charm.’ Seeing the shocked look on his mother’s face, he continued. ‘Of course, they still expect her to be a good housewife but you’ve taught her all that.’
Her mother rounded on him. ‘But this boy, Yogan Chelliah. They will be in Nuwara-Eliya for Christmas. They want to meet with us. You have met him in Colombo. He’s a nice boy and a friend of Edward’s also.’
A good housewife? Arranged marriage? A nice boy? Ha! Shiro tossed her head in mockery and disgust. Spinning on her heels, she stormed out of the house. As she left, she heard her father mumble, ‘I’m going to the factory. Call me if you need anything.’
That’s right, Shiro thought, as she wound her way down the familiar path to her place by the stream. Leave the issue unresolved and run away to your precious workplace. Any wonder I don’t want a traditional arranged marriage?
Shiro hoped Anthony would come. She needed to see him.
***
‘Tears, princess?’ Anthony squatted by her side. He drew her hands away from her face.
Shiro swallowed a sob, and then remained silent. Her lips quivered. Anthony held her hands, stroking her fingers. The touch on her lip was feather light but it comforted her. The anger and frustration drained out of her.
He pulled a white linen handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the tears from her face. ‘Talk to me, Shiro. You should be happy, thrilled even. You came top of your class, won every award. Your father couldn’t stop talking about it. You’ve been accepted to medical school. It’s everything you wanted. Whatever’s happened?’
She stared up at him. Her lips quivered. ‘I don’t want to get married.’
Anthony lips twitched. ‘I don’t recollect asking you, sweetheart.’
The words had the desired effect. ‘Not funny.’ Her lips lifted a smile.
‘That’s my girl.’ He sat down beside her. ‘What’s up?’ He placed his right hand behind her.
Shiro rested her head on his shoulder. She breathed in the familiar sharp lemon smell of his body. It had been a year since they had sat here last but it felt like yesterday. This was what she needed – Anthony, her friend, her confidante, her rock. The one person in the world she could say anything to.
‘My mother.’ She snuggled into his shoulder. ‘She wants me to meet this guy. His name’s Yogan Chelliah. She wants me to agree to an arranged marriage. Get engaged, even have the marriage registered before I go to medical school.’ Her body shuddered as she gulped back another sob.
Anthony’s arm tensed and then slipped from behind her to around her shoulder. Gentle fingers moved in slow circles over her arm. ‘When and how does this arranged marriage thing happen?’
‘The families meet tomorrow for lunch at the Nuwara-Eliya River View Hotel. His family is already there.’ The feel of his fingers on her skin was amazing. It sent little ripples of happiness shooting to her brain.
‘Can you say no?’
‘To marrying him? I can, but only after I meet him.’’
Anthony was silent. His hand slipped down her arm and rested round her waist.
He turned his head towards her and spoke into her hair. ‘Meet this Yogan,’ he said. ‘Then come here in the evening and tell me about it. We’ll decide what to do about it together.’
Tears forgotten, Shiro threw her arms around him and hugged him. ‘You are the best ever. I couldn’t live without you. Thank you.’
Chapter 22
December 1967 Nuwara-Eliya
The beige Savile Row wool suit and white linen shirt were more s
uited to a business meeting in the City of London than a drive to the hill capital of Nuwara-Eliya. Anthony was taking no chances. He planned to impress. He rummaged through his drawer of ties. ‘Something with purple,’ he mumbled.
Appu placed Anthony’s brown leather shoes polished and ready at the foot of the bed and then stepped back. ‘Sir, the car is at the front. Are you sure you don’t want the chauffeur, sir?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Slipping on his coat, Anthony jumped in the Wolseley and drove out. He noticed that the Tea-maker’s car was not in the garden. They must have left early.
The swirling wind and rain made for heavy going. It took Anthony an hour to negotiate the winding roads to Nuwara-Eliya. He ripped into the car park of the River View Hotel in a shower of gravel and parked some distance from the Rasiah’s old Morris Minor. Slipping his jacket on, he picked up his briefcase and sauntered to the hotel. He tried to look casual, like he had decided to stop there for lunch on an impulse.
He pretended not to notice the minor kerfuffle as the staff at the front desk saw him climb the steps. A man in a black suit with the badge ‘Anton Perera – Manager’ emerged from the side room and approached Anthony. ‘Sir, welcome to River View Hotel, sir. It is good for you to come here, sir.’ His voice and demeanour were both delighted and surprised. Few British came to River View Hotel. It was obviously a coup to have the heir apparent of Oriental Produce visit.
‘Mr Perera, you have a family from Watakälé dining here, the Rasiahs.’
‘Yes, sir. They are with a family from Colombo who are holidaying here.’
‘Well, give me a table close to them. But,’ his eyes bored into the managers, ‘I don’t want them to know I am here.’
The manager’s eyes glazed like a deer in the spotlight of the hunter. ‘Yes, sir, at once sir.’ He recovered and gestured to the dining room. ‘There are lot of families here today, sir. But we got a really nice table by the window in the dining room, sir.’ He bowed as he ushered Anthony towards a table for two by the window.
The chatter in English and Tamil indicated that the meal was well under way. Anthony adjusted his seat so he had a clear view of Shiro. He was close enough to hear the conversation at the Rasiahs’ table.
‘Yogan is very musical, Shiro,’ said a large lady in a red silk sari on Shiro’s left. ‘And he has a lot of opportunities for travel also in his job. He will go up in the company fast. You will be well looked after.’ She had a flabby paw with a multitude of rings clasped on Shiro’s arm.
Dismissing her, Anthony concentrated on the young man sitting on Shiro’s right. Yogan Chelliah was dressed in a white cotton shirt and dark blue pair of trousers. Damn the man. Yogan was younger than Anthony and very good looking.
Yogan’s eyes lit up and crinkled at the edges as he gazed at Shiro.
Shiro fluttered her eyelids at him. The little witch, she’s playing with this man. Even as Anthony watched, she lowered her eyelids, opened her mouth and licked her lower lip.
Yogan’s expression went into an overdrive of adoration.
Anthony nibbled on his smoked salmon and salad, all the while watching Shiro across the room. Suddenly, Shiro’s back stiffened. She swung around in her seat and looked across the room. Her eyes widened as they met his. Anthony put his folk down and raised a finger to his lips. A smile crept across her face. She turned back and looked up at Yogan, fluttered her lashes and touched his sleeve with her fingertips.
The young man looked like he would faint with pleasure.
The brat. He’s already in love with her. A shaft of jealousy pierced Anthony’s heart. His every impulse was to stride across the room and drag her away from the man and her family. His fingers tightened on the arms of the mahogany chair.
Shiro flashed a look at Anthony. Her eyes shone bright with mischief. She’s enjoying this. She has no idea what it’s doing to me.
There was a buzz of conversation around the Rasiahs’ table and seats were pushed back. The lunch plates were cleared by the waiters. Mrs Rasiah walked over to Shiro and spoke to her. Shiro shrugged and stood up. With a side glance at Anthony she followed her mother and Yogan out of the dining room.
‘Sir, more coffee, sir? Would you like to see the dessert menu, sir?’ Anthony ignored the waiters pleading tone. He waited till Mrs Rasiah came back to the dining room.
‘Coffee in the lounge please, waiter.’ Anthony dropped a five hundred rupee note on the table and strolled out of the dining room. He avoided looking at the Rasiahs.
A log fire glowed in an ornate old brick fireplace of the lounge. This, along with two hidden wall sconces, provided the only light in the room. Deep two and three-seater velvet upholstered sofas and single armchairs with carved arms were placed in groups around the room. Large tapestries in muted oranges and reds covered the walls. The firelight threw flickering shadows on the burnt orange carpets and clotted cream walls. It was small and intimate.
Shiro and Yogan sat at either end of a three-seater sofa. Anthony walked in front of them and sat on a sofa with his back to them.
Pulling out a book from his briefcase, Anthony snapped his fingers at the uniformed waiter standing at the door. He pointed to the ceiling lights. He cleared his throat and put on his best colonial accent. ‘Switch these lights on, man. This place is like a bloody mausoleum. How the hell am I supposed to get any work done in this darkness?’
The waiter leapt to obey and the lounge was flooded with bright yellow light.
Anthony ignored the giggle from the sofa behind him.
Yogan Chelliah spoke with an almost delicate intonation, a cultured Sri Lankan voice with a missionary school accent. ‘Shiro, what do you want to do now that you have finished school?’
Tell him you want to be a flying doctor in the Australian outback, Anthony prompted silently.
Shiro’s voice was louder than necessary for someone sitting across her on the sofa. ‘I’m going to medical school and will specialise in something. Paediatrics, obstetrics –something crazily exciting.’
The tone of the response was anxious. ‘But that will take a lot of years.’
‘Perfectly true, Yogan. What did you expect? Did your parents tell you I was ready for marriage immediately?’
That’s my girl – go for the jugular. Anthony punched his closed fist on the open book on his lap.
‘No, no,’ Yogan said. ‘I thought maybe next year? When you are finished the first year exams?’
Shiro spoke slowly. Her voice dripped condescension. ‘Yogan, I haven’t even said I want to marry you. But talking about marriage, why do you want to marry me?’
Oh no, Anthony groaned. He’s going to tell her how wonderful she is. That he loves her and will give her the world.
‘Well, Shiro, our parents have known each other for a long time. You will be safe with me. We can have a good life together.’
Anthony barely contained a laugh, but Shiro didn’t. She laughed loud and long. ‘But Yogan, surely marriage is more than safety and a good life? What about love and romance?’
Yogan coughed. ‘That will come later, Shiro,’ he stammered. ‘Like for your parents and mine. You are young –…’
Shiro’s voice was rose in pitch. ‘No. Don’t hold my hand.’
Anthony clenched his fists, amazed at the intensity of emotion that ripped through him. He wanted to yank her away from this man. Tell her that he was the only one who had the right to touch her. Instead, he stood and picked up his briefcase. He walked halfway to the door, then stopped and looked back at Yogan and Shiro.
‘Well, Miss Rasiah, fancy meeting you here. I thought I recognised your family in the dining room.’ He walked over to the couple on the sofa. Yogan stood up as he approached. Anthony gazed down at Yogan, pleased to note that he was a good four inches taller than the Sri Lankan. ‘And this would be one of your brothers?’
‘No, Mr Ashley-Cooper.
’ Shiro’s face was a picture of innocent virtue. ‘This is a family friend, Yogan Chelliah.’ She turned to Yogan. ‘Mr Ashley-Cooper is the superintendent in Watakälé.’
Anthony smiled down at Yogan. ‘I see. You must all be very proud that Miss Rasiah is going to medical school?’
‘Y-yes,’ Yogan stammered.
‘And yourself, Mr - eh - Mr Chelliah, do you work around here?’
‘I’m an accountant in Colombo.’ Yogan Chelliah visibly withered under the cold, blue gaze.
Anthony put on his best British colonial persona. ‘Ah, accountants. Boring but necessary.’ He flicked back his cuff to glance at his gold Omega watch. ‘Well, I have to go. Running a tea plantation doesn’t allow for lazy afternoons by the fire, I’m afraid. It was good to see you again, Miss Rasiah.’ He turned on his heel and walked out. He heard Shiro giggle.
He didn’t look back.
Chapter 23
December 1967 Watakälé
‘No, I will not marry Yogan Chelliah. In fact I will not marry anyone till I finish medical school.’ Shiro stood with her head thrown back, eyes flashing defiance at her mother.
‘Aiyoo, by then you will be too old to find a man,’ her mother wailed.
Shiro felt a deep resentment build up in her soul. ‘So? Why is marriage the be all and end all of everything? I’ll stay unmarried, travel, be a missionary doctor. Mum, you are so pathetic.’
She ran out of the house.
Behind her, Victor spoke to her mother. ‘Let her be, Mum. She’s a complex little thing. You can’t force her. Someday she’ll meet a man who will understand her.’
Shiro part ran, part slid down the damp path. She stood panting by the stream, shivering. It was cold and she hadn’t stopped to pick up her coat. She flung her head back and scanned the familiar landscape, searching for the peace she had always been able to find in this place.
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