Butterfly Island

by Corina Bomann

  “Oh, there you are, my boy!” Cahill suddenly called out, waving the foreigner over. “May I introduce Mr. R. Vikrama, the plantation foreman?”

  “R?” Victoria wondered aloud, earning herself a warning glance from her mother.

  Mr. Vikrama smiled softly, but didn’t reply. Instead he bowed to Henry.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, sir. Even if the circumstances are not happy ones. You have my full sympathy.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Henry replied shortly. He placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder and added, “May I introduce my wife, Claudia? And these are my daughters, Grace and Victoria.” Mrs. Tremayne bowed her head and the two sisters curtsied.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Vikrama said, nodding briefly to Grace and Victoria before turning to the lady of the house. “If there’s anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  “Are you a native?” Henry asked, studying the young man closely. “Your English is truly excellent.”

  Something about him didn’t fit in with the surroundings, Grace found. Was it the colour of his skin, which looked almost European, Italian even? Or his impeccable manners?

  Clearly flattered, Vikrama inclined his head. “Thank you very much, sir. My mother was from this area, hence my darker skin.”

  “And your father?”

  “My father is unknown, sir. But my mother always said he was a white man.”

  “Probably one of your brother’s English employees,” Cahill added. “It often happens that our boys’ heads are turned by the beauty of the Tamil women.”

  Grace found his accompanying laugh wholly inappropriate.

  Even though the affairs between man and wife were not discussed openly, Grace knew by now what awaited women on their wedding night and where babies came from. And she also knew that it was very shabby behaviour for a man to leave his pregnant lover in the lurch.

  “So you don’t know your father?” Claudia asked, clearly shaken.

  “No, madam. He died before I was born.”

  “You should be aware that the natives weren’t always as peaceful as they are now,” Cahill felt obliged to add. “Twenty years or more ago it was still possible for a man to be attacked and robbed on the street in broad daylight. Mr. Vikrama’s father must have been the victim of such an attack.”

  The young man’s face remained impassive. He clearly hadn’t given much thought to his unnamed father.

  “What about your mother? You spoke about her in the past tense,” Claudia continued. She had clearly got it into her head to find out all she could about their new employee.

  Now Vikrama’s expression darkened. “She died of cancer two years ago.”

  Cahill laid his hand patronisingly on the man’s shoulder.

  “His mother was one of your brother’s tea pickers, sir. Mr. Tremayne recognised the boy’s talents and sent him to school. You’ll find many Tamils in administrative positions here. They even have their own language and script. Forward-looking plantation owners provide for their Tamils to have an education, thus gaining themselves loyal employees who are in a position to take responsibility and keep an eye on the plantation. I don’t know what we would have done without him after the tragic accident.”

  Grace noticed that Vikrama had sunk his head, slightly embarrassed. Was he ashamed of his origin? Or did he find it difficult to accept praise?

  Realising that she was staring at him almost impertinently, she blushed and lowered her eyes.

  “It sounds as though we’ve got ourselves a good catch in you, Mr. Vikrama,” her father said. “You must put me in the picture of how things are done on the plantation.”

  “I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.”

  “Very well. Let’s meet tomorrow morning to discuss things further and take a tour. The ladies are tired now, and I’m afraid I must confess that the journey has taken its toll on me, too. How about nine o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there punctually, sir.”

  “Good! I’m afraid you’ll have your work cut out to make me into a tea grower. I never imagined that one day I’d become the master of a plantation like this. But that is God’s will, and I look forward to your excellent support.”

  “I’ll do everything I can to support you, sir.”

  “You can rely on his word.” Cahill once again saw fit to add his opinion, unasked for.

  Was she mistaken, or did Grace see a sudden flash of resentment in Vikrama’s eyes? Before she could confirm her suspicion, his fleeting expression had passed. So that no one would notice her staring at him again, she turned to Victoria with a smile. Her sister’s attention had wandered again up into the treetops. There were no monkeys hanging from the branches, but parrots were making their raucous sounds and Grace could see in Victoria’s eyes the spark of determination to catch one.

  When she turned her attention back to her parents, they were taking their leave of Mr. Vikrama. Cahill murmured something else to the young man, then he turned away. Grace would have liked to see his face again, but he didn’t look back.

  “Come along, girls! Enough daydreaming,” their mother called.

  Grace took Victoria by the hand and led her up the steps.

  “Did you see those marvellous parrots?” Victoria exclaimed in delight. “I swear I’ve never seen a completely blue one before. I must have it!”

  “Then you should try and entice it with food,” Grace replied, a little half-heartedly since, for some reason, she couldn’t get the young man out of her mind.

  In London, if he had been of noble birth, he would have been the season’s sensation. She had never seen a man like him! Those eyes! Was it normal for people to have eyes like amber? She had never seen any like them in England. A tremor ran over her skin, and she had a strange feeling inside.

  You have other things to think about, she scolded herself as they stepped through the front door. He’s your father’s employee, and he didn’t give you a second glance.

  Inside, too, the mansion looked very similar to large houses in England, but as soon as they entered the hall, they could see plenty of evidence of Richard Tremayne’s love of the local culture. Whereas in Tremayne House a gold-framed portrait of one of their ancestors gazed down sternly on visitors from the staircase, in a similar position here was a colourful painting like nothing Grace had seen before. Victoria and her parents also seemed surprised by it.

  The two men depicted in it appeared to be dancing together. One of them looked out at the observer with a laughing expression, while the other had the head of an elephant wearing a crown. Both wore colourful baggy trousers that hung loose around their legs, with bejewelled golden belts and colourful waistcoats covering their chests. At first glance they looked to Grace like circus artists. But what she found particularly fascinating were the garlands that had been hung around the picture frame and the bowls of flowers placed below the image. They were fresh, and had clearly been set out only that day.

  “Is that some kind of idol?” Claudia asked in shock.

  “They are the gods Shiva and Ganesha, worshipped by the Hindus,” Cahill replied in the tone of a travel guide. “That’s the religion of many people in this area. There are also Buddhists here, and some Muslims, though only a few—a reminder of the Arabs who visited the island centuries ago to trade with the natives.”

  “Why did my brother hang this picture on the wall?”

  Henry didn’t seem particularly pleased about it, either.

  “Maybe he thought it would bring good luck to his plantation? Shiva is the chief deity of the Hindus—wherever he dances, prosperity reigns. Ganesha, whose head was torn off—’

  “Mr. Cahill!” Claudia admonished him, indicating her daughters indignantly. “Please don’t tell your horror stories in front of the young ladies!”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs. Tremayne,” Cahill said, his face turning bright red. “But unfortunately it’s one of the myths of this region. Well, however it happened, Ganes
ha’s head was replaced by a goddess with that of an elephant. Since then, elephants have been considered the bringers of good luck in this country.”

  “Elephants!” Victoria cried out in delight, clapping her hands. Suddenly feeling all eyes on her, she lowered her head in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help remembering the elephants we saw in Colombo. I’d love to see one in its natural state, without any fancy coverings or jewels.”

  “If I may say so, young lady, you’ll see elephants in the most natural setting possible,” Cahill replied, glancing at Claudia, who seemed to be judging his every word. “A new tea field is being established a little further up the mountain. Elephants are being used to remove the palm trees there. It’s Sunday today, but maybe you could go and see the beasts tomorrow or the day after.”

  Victoria’s cheeks were glowing with excitement, and she grasped Grace’s hand. “Shall we go and have a look?” she asked her.

  “If Mama allows us to.”

  Claudia sighed and said theatrically, “Did I ever forbid anything that wasn’t overturned by your father?”

  “But I’ll only allow you to go if you promise to take care,” Henry Tremayne said. “Elephants are no lap dogs; they can crush a person under their feet.”

  “We’ll watch them from a safe distance and run away if they come near!” Victoria promised, stroking her sister’s hand restlessly as though to prevent her from voicing any objections.

  “Yes, we will,” Grace said to keep her sister happy.

  “Very well. Then you can go for a walk up the mountainside in the next few days. Maybe our young friend from earlier will act as guide?” He raised his eyebrows at Cahill, who once again inclined his head obsequiously.

  “But of course! I’ll ask him next time I go to the administration building.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but no hurry,” Henry replied, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m sure the elephants aren’t going to run away. As I understand it, the clearance work will last for a while longer yet.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. That means my daughters will have a little more time to get used to the climate.” Henry turned back to the picture. “I believe we’ll leave this here. What do you think, darling?” He gave his wife a disarming smile. “A little good luck won’t go amiss.”

  As Claudia pulled a sceptical face, Cahill spoke again.

  “As you can see from the flowers, this place is a kind of shrine for the workers on this estate. They regularly bring offerings for their gods. It would be most wise to leave the picture where it is.”

  Henry considered briefly, then nodded. “Very well, it can stay. If you give workers a few freedoms, they work much better. Wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Cahill?”

  BOOK TWO

  The Butterfly Island

  1

  Berlin, 2008

  A week later, Diana was back in an aeroplane heading for London. She would be flying with SriLankan Airlines from Heathrow to Colombo. Although it was not her first long-haul flight, she had butterflies in her stomach.

  Diana ran her hand over Emily’s silk scarf that she had brought as a good-luck charm. Several things had happened over the past few days, including the arrival of a small treasure from Mr. Green shortly before she left—something he had apparently found in an old chest in the attic when he was up there for his annual spring clean.

  Diana was sorry she had not taken the opportunity to look around in the attic. Even though Emily had always claimed that she had given away much of the old junk up there, it seemed that a few mementos remained. But she would never have anticipated anything like this. When she wrote to thank Mr. Green, she had also instructed him to keep his eyes open, although she doubted he would find anything else useful.

  After the flight attendant had handed out drinks and her neighbour, a Japanese businessman, had nodded off, she levered herself from her seat as carefully as she could and reached for her hand luggage.

  The old travel guide was in the front pocket. Diana smiled as she felt the rough paper beneath her fingers. Back in her seat, she traced the title lovingly with her fingertip and then pulled out the package from Mr. Green.

  Inside was an old pack of tea. As well as the name of the trading company that had shipped it, there was also a reference to the grower printed on it. The first time she had read the name Tremayne Tea Company, Vannattuppūcci, it had taken her breath away. This had been the first she had heard of it. The fact that the Tremaynes had owned a tea plantation had been another of Emily’s well-kept secrets. But why had she kept it from her and her mother? Was the family ashamed of it?

  She found that hard to believe, as the wealth of many British families was based on trade from plantations. Diana had researched the subject and discovered that people had first tried to make Ceylon into a coffee island, but the attempt had eventually failed. In the middle of the nineteenth century, the abandoned plantations were made over to tea plantations, which formed the basis of the country’s successful tea production. Ceylon soon became a renowned variety of tea which was shipped all over the world.

  Her ancestors had made their contribution to ensuring that the tea was enjoyed all over the world, then and now.

  That was certainly nothing to be ashamed of. So why had it never been spoken of?

  The fact that a pack of tea had survived for all that time in the attic indicated that Emily must have known about the plantation. Had she forgotten about it, perhaps? Or would she have talked about it, if only she’d been asked? Diana regularly caught herself pushing to the back of her mind events in her life that were actually important.

  It didn’t really matter whether Emily had kept this information back deliberately or unintentionally. With the discovery of the pack of tea, Diana felt as though she had pieced together the edges of a jigsaw puzzle and now all she had to do was complete the inner part.

  She now knew why tea leaves had been used to decorate Beatrice Jungblut’s grave. And why Richard had been in Ceylon. She now knew what the plants were that grew on the mountainside behind the young woman she presumed to be Grace in the photograph.

  And yet the reason for Beatrice being excluded from the vault was still unanswered, as was the question of what linked Beatrice to Sri Lanka. She also knew nothing about the cause of Richard Tremayne’s fall, and the biggest puzzle of all was the palm leaf—where it was from, its meaning and how it came to be in the possession of the Tremaynes. She only knew one thing for certain: the family must have moved to Ceylon. And that was where she hoped she’d find the answers.

  On the shuttle journey to her hotel in Colombo, Diana looked for the business card Michael had given her the last time she’d seen him. The plain inscription, Jonathan Singh, Chatham Street 23, Colombo, Sri Lanka, accompanied by a telephone number, suggested a straightforward, maybe slightly old-fashioned, researcher used to expressing no-nonsense ideas in clear language.

  She was nevertheless glad to have a starting point. Maybe this Jonathan Singh would have some interesting information for her.

  She set off in one of the minibuses that formed the city’s idiosyncratic taxi fleet, getting her first experience of the notorious traffic of Colombo’s streets. To the accompaniment of loud Indian music, the driver of the tuk-tuk dodged into the path of larger vehicles at breakneck speed, inciting a concerto of car horns and risking death more than once before they finally arrived at the venerable Grand Oriental Hotel, its façade gleaming in the sun.

  Although the backdrop of skyscrapers detracted a little from the effect of the building, which would have been huge in its time, Diana could imagine how imposing it would formerly have been to Western travellers.

  Within the old fort area, some of the original buildings and street names had been preserved, which she recognised from the old 1887 travel guide.

  The Grand Oriental was one of these remnants from another age.

  The hustle and bustle on the street in front of it could have been a scene from a documentar
y. Among men in dark trousers and light-coloured shirts, which appeared to be the standard dress code for the locals, she saw business people from all over the world, women in both traditional saris and modern clothes, children, and tourists.

  Feeling good, she greeted the red-and-gold liveried porter as she passed through the glazed door of the hotel and approached the reception.

  The interior of the hotel had also been painstakingly restored. Diana had read in a brochure that in the 1980s it had gone under the name of the Taprobane Hotel, but since then, the owners had decided to restore it to its former glamour as enjoyed by guests of the past, who included the author Somerset Maugham. It now enjoyed the addition of a few modern elements. As well as the book shop, a long-standing fixture, the hotel also had a number of other shops, including a florist with a window filled with wonderful frangipani flowers.

  “Welcome to the Grand Oriental Hotel. What can I do for you?” said the receptionist, who was dressed in a smart suit with her hair bound in a tight bun at the back of her neck.

  Diana introduced herself and produced her reservation. After filling out a few forms and taking her key, she was shown to her room by a bellhop.

  What must the Tremaynes have felt as they climbed these stairs? she wondered as she followed the young man. The lady of the family and her daughters in their luxurious dresses and tight corsets, the husband in his stiff high collar, dragging a train of servants in their wake.

  Even in her modern clothing, Diana was sweating. How must the climate have felt to her ancestors?

  Although renovated and well maintained, the hotel room whisked her straight back to the nineteenth century. The brown floor tiles, forming an ornate pattern, could easily have dated back to that period, and the four-poster bed that dominated the room appeared to be an exact copy of one that would have given guests in earlier times an excellent night’s sleep. The chairs were also new, but harmonised really well with the atmosphere of the room, with its wonderful view of the harbour through the window.