Empire's Children

by Patricia Weerakoon

  She shoved her hand in the pocket of her jeans, searching for a handkerchief. Giving up, she dragged her hand across her face.

  ‘Here,’ Jega handed her a clean white handkerchief. ‘I’ve been standing here long enough to see that you are upset. And before you ask, Lalitha woke up after a nap and was worried that you were not in the room. She came to me.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Shiro mumbled. She wiped the tears off her face and looked at the handkerchief. ‘But how did you find me?’

  ‘I figured that you would want to be alone somewhere. I thought you would choose a place that looked over the Diyatalāwa valley. Then saw the marks of your shoes on the mud path.’

  ‘Doctor and detective. Brilliant.’

  Jega squatted by her side on the rock ledge. ‘Shiromi, you are upset. Talk to me. What can I do to help you?’

  The memories crashed back into Shiro’s consciousness. Anthony by her side that awful day, the same words – talk to me, talk to me.

  No more talk. It was time for action.

  Jega’s mother. She had lived all her life here in Diyatalāwa. She would help her. ‘Take me to meet your mother.’

  Jega recoiled like she had struck him. ‘Shiromi, that wouldn’t be wise. She is old and doesn’t speak much English. You’d be uncomfortable with her.’

  Shiro knew she had to act fast before he came up with any more excuses. She put her hand on his arm and gazed into his eyes. ‘Jega, are you ashamed of me, of our friendship? Is that why you don’t want to introduce me to your mother?’

  Her words had the intended effect.

  Jega gasped. ‘How could I ever be ashamed of you? It’s just that –’

  Shiro jumped to her feet. ‘Done, then. Let’s go into town on the day we get an afternoon off. I’ll ask Lalitha to come with us. That way no one’s going to think we’re sneaking off.’ She started down the path back to the campsite.

  Jega followed.

  ***

  They left after lunch on Wednesday. Jega had asked the campsite owner about hiring a taxi, but instead he had offered his car and driver for the twenty-minute drive into Diyatalāwa town. They got in the car. Jega got in the front seat, his face set in a mask of grim anxiety. Lalitha slipped into the back seat with Shiro who ignored the aura of tension emanating from Jega.

  The car bumped along the part sealed part mud road towards Diyatalāwa town. ‘Shiro,’ Lalitha whispered, ‘what’s happening? Why is Dr Jega looking so worried, even angry?’

  ‘He doesn’t want me to meet his mum,’ Shiro whispered back.

  ‘Then why are you doing this?’

  Shiro dug Lalitha in her ribs. ‘Shush. I want to ask her how I can get inside information about what happens on the tea estates. She’s been around a long time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To clear Daddy’s name. Why else?’

  Lalitha stared into her friend’s eyes. ‘Shiro, I know you. There’s a lot more happening here. I don’t know if I want to be a part of this.’

  Shiro looked into her eyes. ‘You want to help me, don’t you?’

  The car entered the outskirts of the town and shuddered to a stop behind an open truck. ‘Aiyo sir,’ the driver said. ‘Pola day, no? All the people are bringing all the things to sell. Look sir. Jak fruit and clothes.’ He pointed to a stack of crudely assembled wooden crates with gaps in the sides. ‘They are selling fowls and goats also.’

  ‘A pola!’ Lalitha pushed open the back door. ‘Driver, let me off here. I love pola markets.’

  The driver pulled to the edge of the road and Lalitha leapt out. She grabbed her purse off the back seat. ‘Dr Jega,’ she addressed Jega through the front window, ‘I’ll see you right here in two hours.’ With a cheery wave to Shiro, she plunged into the crazy and colourful assortment of roadside stalls and screaming hawkers.

  Jega turned to Shiro. His lips turned up in the mere hint of a smile. ‘That’s one girl who knows how to enjoy a couple of hours’ free time. Are you sure you don’t want to join her?’

  Shiro shook her head. ‘I want to meet your mother.’

  He nodded, then pointed to a side road and directed the driver to turn into it. They stopped at the side of a little field, part grass but mostly dry mud. A few young boys in their teens were kicking an old soccer ball around.

  Jega got out of the car and strode towards the edge of the field. He stood rigid and quiet. Shiro leapt out and scampered after him. She placed her fingers on his arm. The muscles tensed under her touch. ‘Jega, it’s all right. Let’s go back. I won’t ask to see your mother.’

  The muscles of his arm flinched under her fingers. ‘I used to come here after school. Especially on the days when my father came to visit mother. He would say hello and then give me ten rupees, tell me to go play. I would come here. They called me white boy. They laughed, asked if my mother was working.’ A shudder went through him.

  One of the boys kicked the ball. It sailed through the air and landed at their feet. ‘Sir, sorry sir,’ one of the older boys called out. Jega bent, picked up the ball and kicked it in an elegant curve directly between the makeshift goal post. ‘I haven’t done that since I was sixteen.’

  He turned and placed his hands on Shiro’s shoulders. She felt the tenseness of his fingers through the wool of her jumper. ‘Shiromi, I have to talk with you before we visit my mother. It’s time you knew the truth.’

  ‘Truth?’

  ‘You see, my mother runs a brothel.’

  ‘A whorehouse? Why?’ Shiro tried to step back. Jega’s hands on her shoulders held her.

  He shrugged. ‘When my father’s wife threw my mother out, he set her up here, bought her a little house. He came weekly to see her. He brought her gifts, clothes, expensive crockery, ornaments, even paintings. He talked to me. He said he loved her. But for all that she was his whore, nothing more.’ He stopped and gazed into the distance. ‘One day I went back to the house early. It was raining. I saw them.’ A shudder went through his body. ‘She was crying. He was handing her money.’

  ‘Please, Jega, you don’t have to tell me. Let’s go back.’

  He shook his head. ‘When I was fifteen he paid for me to go to the St Matthias College boarding school in Colombo. Everything was paid for. I learnt later that he cut off all support to my mother from that year.’

  ‘The bastard. How did she manage?’

  He shrugged. ‘That’s when she decided on her business.’

  ‘But why a brothel?’

  He took his hands off Shiro’s shoulders and curled his fingers around hers. ‘There are many coolie girls who are raped by the British superintendents. The girls used by the superintendents are ostracised on the plantation. Sometimes they run away. When they get to the towns, all they can do is be a prostitute. There too, they are abused, beaten sometimes, die in backyard abortions. Some commit suicide.’

  ‘I grew up in the plantation, but I had no idea it was so bad.’A memory flashed across Shiro’s mind, making her head whirl. ‘My best friend growing up was a coolie girl. She got pregnant.’ She had always assumed the father was another coolie. But the British superintendent on Watakälé at that time was Anthony. He wouldn’t? Surely? She was no longer sure.

  Jega’s fingers tightened around hers. ‘It’s possible. My mother set up the institution to provide these girls with a job. A safe place to do the only thing they can to make money.’

  ‘But who are the clients?’

  ‘Some are from the Diyatalāwa army camp.’ He gestured to the hill over which lay the Sri Lankan Army encampment. ‘Others are the very men who had brought the girls down.’

  ‘The British superintendents?’

  ‘Yes. My mother runs an upmarket establishment. The girls are clean, the rooms comfortable. Some of her girls even speak English. The men pay large sums for the service of these women.’

&nbs
p; Shiro smiled at the image that came into her mind. ‘So they come to your mother’s place and pay big money to have sex with the very women they raped?’

  Jega shrugged. ‘Well, not the same one.’

  ‘But it could happen. Dad told me that the British can’t tell one coolie from the other.’

  ‘Shiromi, there’s something more I have to tell you.’ He let go of her hands and placed his hands on her shoulders again. His gaze met and locked with hers. ‘You have never asked for the identity of my father.’

  ‘I didn’t think it concerned me.’

  ‘But it does, my dear. My father, the man who raped my mother and fathered me, is James Ashley-Cooper.’

  ‘James Ashley-Cooper? As in Anthony’s father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Shiro gazed at Jega. She wasn’t crazy. The resemblance was no longer imagined. ‘You look like your half-brother.’ She felt like a pit was open at her feet. His voice came from a distance.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She sobbed and he reached out to hold her. But he was not Anthony. She pulled away and smiled through her tears. ‘Jega, may I borrow your hanky again?’

  The spell was broken. They both laughed as he handed her the clean white linen square.

  They walked back to the car. ‘Do you want to go back to the Pola and wait for Lalitha?’

  ‘And not see your mother?’ Shiro swung round to face him. ‘Jega, she is the bravest and strongest person I have ever heard of. Please, I have to see her.’

  Jega smiled as he accepted back the crushed handkerchief. ‘She would be delighted to see you. I have told her about what Anthony and William have done to you, your father and the people in the plantation. Nothing the British planters do surprises her.’

  Shiro stopped in her tracks as a thought struck her. ‘Do William and Anthony visit your mother’s establishment in Diyatalāwa?’

  ‘She told me that William used to come regularly.’

  ‘And Anthony?’

  ‘No. Anthony has never been to my mother’s place.’

  Chapter 36

  September 1969 Colombo

  ‘How do you expect to get that assistant Tea-maker Wright to confess that he set up your father and that he was following William Ashley-Cooper’s instructions?’

  Shiro and Jega sat at a small wrought iron table in the Green Cabin Café in Bambalapitiya. Jega had offered to drive Lalitha and Shiro home after a late lecture. They had dropped Lalitha off at the little flat she shared with a couple of other girls. Shiro had asked Jega if they could talk.

  Shiro stirred another spoon of sugar into her coffee. ‘He’s probably the Tea-maker now.’ She grimaced, thinking of the Wrights in the Tea-maker’s quarters. ‘I’ve been through the documents my brother Victor brought from Dad’s cabinet. Dad kept copies of the tea sales ledger entries, as well as receipts from the transport agent Hemachandra Mudalali. They matched. The entries in the ledgers in the tea factory office, however, indicated a discrepancy. It looked like Dad was pocketing the difference, cheating the plantation and Oriental Produce. Somebody fixed the ledgers in the factory office.’

  ‘Everything I’ve heard about your father tells me he wouldn’t have done anything dishonest.’

  Shiro nodded. ‘You see Jega, only two people had keys to the tea factory office cabinet where the ledgers were kept – my dad and the superintendent, your dear half-brother, William Ashley-Cooper.’

  ‘So, you think William and that Wright guy worked together to discredit your father.’

  ‘That’s not all.’ She stopped and smiled at Jega. ‘I wrote to Uncle Hemachandra.’

  ‘The transport agent in Diyatalāwa? He’s supposed to be a tough businessman. Always out for a buck. You know him?’

  Shiro dismissed his words with a sweep of her hand. ‘Sure, since I was a baby. He loves me. Kind of like a daughter.’

  ‘Loves you. Everyone does.’ Jega mumbled under his breath.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Forget it. What did Hemachandra tell you?’

  ‘He was shocked at the allegations. He said there was never anything underhand in his dealings with my dad.’

  Shiro stopped and looked down at the cup of tea, now cold with a film of brown milk curdling on the surface. She picked up the teaspoon and stabbed through the layer, sending drops of tea onto the table top. ‘I know what you’re thinking. Uncle wouldn’t confess to having done it anyway. So I confirmed it.’ She dropped her eyelids.

  Jega reached over the table and placed his hand over hers. ‘Out with it. What else did you do?’

  ‘You see, part of the accusation made by William was that the money went into Dad’s account. So I went to the bank where Dad’s account is. I knew they wouldn’t give me the details. So I made an appointment with the manager.’ She paused and bit her lip.

  ‘And?’

  Shiro dropped her voice. ‘I’m not particularly proud of this. I spun a story to him. I was the youngest; Mum says that we are almost destitute after Dad died, that there isn’t money for me to go to medical school. I needed to know. My future, my career, my very life depended on it.’

  ‘And he showed you your father’s accounts?’

  ‘Not directly, he looked at it and said that all that had gone in for the last two years was the two weekly salary payments. He did mention the large deposit into the provident fund around the time I got sick. That, of course, was Anthony’s conscience payoff. Basically, the bank manager assured me that there was enough to see me through medical school and even postgraduate study.’ She paused. ‘I thanked him. I was a little teary.’ She giggled. ‘He gave me his handkerchief.’

  ‘None of this is definitive proof that Wright and William plotted to get rid of your father.’

  ‘I know. We need a confession.’

  ‘And how, my dear, do you plan to get that?’

  They gazed at each other across the table. Shiro’s eyes brimmed with tears. Her mouth turned down at the edges. She turned her hand over and threaded her fingers with his. ‘That is where you can help me.’

  ‘You have it all plotted out, haven’t you?’

  She blinked away the tears. He laughed and tossed her his handkerchief. ‘I think I’ll buy you a box of white hankies for Christmas. Now what is your plan?’

  Shiro tightened her fingers around his. ‘We have our clinical placement in Nuwara-Eliya hospital next week. You’ll be there with us for the two weeks. That’s our opportunity to visit Watakälé and talk to Mr Wright. We get him to confess. You are the witness. Then we see William.’

  ‘Why do this?’

  ‘I have to clear Dad’s name for my family, but also to wash out the demons in my head.’ She tossed her head. ‘Anyway, don’t you think it’s time you met your brother?’

  Chapter 37

  September 1969 Watakälé

  ‘How could you do it? You allowed that awful white superintendent William to make out that Daddy was cheating.’ Shiro stopped. Her lips trembled. ‘He died because of it. You were his friend. He trusted you. He welcomed you into our home, yet you as good as killed Daddy that day.’

  Shiro and the Tea-maker, Mr Wright, stood facing each other across the old wooden office table. On it was an open ledger.

  Shiro had her hair drawn back in two tight plaits. She was dressed in a light blue cotton blouse, buttoned up to her neck. The blue pleated skirt she wore looked like it could have been part of the uniform of a missionary school which, she had told Jega that morning, it had been. She wore no makeup. Her clean, scrubbed face radiated innocence and vulnerability, the little girl of the tea plantation returning home.

  Mr Wright stood looking away from Shiro. His eyes went to the locked steel cabinet and then dropped to his feet.

  Jega stood with his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets. He watched a tear slip down
Shiro’s cheek. Mr Wright was beginning to look distressed. His hands clenched and relaxed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed.

  ‘Shiro, child, I didn’t have a choice. Your father said he was tired of being on his own here. That he wanted to apply for a job in Colombo. I thought this would just hasten his leaving. And the car, he had it fixed the day before by the mechanic. Your father was a good driver. I truly don’t know what happened.’

  Shiro frowned. ‘You had no choice? Why? What was happening?’

  Mr Wright’s body trembled. He put his hands on the edge of the table. Then slumped into the chair and dropped his head into his hands.

  Shiro leaned over the table. Jega moved around the table to stand close to Mr Wright. ‘I was the one’ he mumbled. ‘I got some of the coolies to help me and the driver of the transport lorry. Hemachandra Mudalali had no idea what was happening. I regularly sent tea in the lorry to Diyatalāwa where it was picked up by my contacts. One of the coolies wanted more money. He told the superintendent William.’

  Shiro leaned closer. ‘So the superintendent, William Ashley-Cooper, blackmailed you? He got you to frame Dad and in exchange you get off free.’

  Mr Wright nodded.

  Shiro leaned even closer and spoke into his ear. ‘What did you do? Tell me, please. I have to know.’

  ‘I am sorry.’ Mr Wright howled. ‘I framed the man who trained me, my mentor – my friend. I did what William Ashley-Cooper asked me to do. He said he would destroy me. I have small children. I did what he wanted. I am damned. Damned!’ He jumped up and ran out of the office and up the steps to the Tea-maker’s house.

  Shiro and Jega watched as Mr Wright ran, tripping and slipping up the muddy steps.

  Shiro smiled up at Jega. ‘Did you get it?’

  Jega pulled his right hand out of his pocket. In it nested a tiny tape recorder. He pressed stop and then rewind. He pressed play.

  ‘I am damned. Damned!’

  ‘Yes, we got it.’

  ‘Great,’ Shiro grabbed Jega’s hand. ‘Tomorrow morning we go see the mighty William Ashley-Cooper.’