Butterfly Island

by Corina Bomann

  “I was five then,” Victoria protested. “I even remember some things I did when I was four.”

  “Like what?” Grace asked, ducking behind her easel to conceal her smile. Teasing Victoria was still great fun despite the fact she was now eighteen.

  “When Papa lifted me up to the top of the Christmas tree so I could fix the angel in place. And how we went for a walk in the woods in winter and almost froze because you lost the way.”

  Her sister’s reproachful tone made Grace explode with laughter. “We were rescued. How long are you going to hold that story against me?”

  “For as long as you keep doubting that I can remember my early childhood.” Her eyes widened suddenly, and she laid her brush down on her palette of blue paint.

  “What’s the matter?” Grace asked, already preparing her defence against another of Victoria’s jests.

  “Mr. Vikrama seems remarkably interested in art.”

  As Grace whirled around, he realised he’d been spotted and took a step back. It looked like he’d been watching them for a while. Victoria waved to him cheerfully, and he responded casually, before nodding at Grace in greeting and withdrawing. Grace was rooted to the spot. Why could she not simply turn back to her painting? Why did she feel a compulsion to stare at the space where his boot prints were gradually fading into the grass?

  Vikrama didn’t appear that night. It seemed as though whatever he was doing was impossible in the torrential downpour that drummed on the house and nearby foliage like ghostly fingers. Grace regretted it a little, having become accustomed to him slipping past in the night, her curiosity growing each time she saw him disappearing into the bushes and reappearing later.

  When the rain lessened slightly after a week or so and the courtyard dried out enough for them to venture outside without sinking to their knees in mud, she ran over to the shed in which the tea leaves were dried. Although the drying racks were empty, she found Vikrama there, checking the condition of the building. After the rainy season it would not be long until the next harvest. Everything had to be repaired and shipshape by then.

  “Miss Grace!” he cried out in surprise when he noticed her. “You could have sent one of the maids if you required my services.”

  “I’m here because I wanted to ask you something. In any case I’m fed up of being cooped up in the house. Back home in England I’d never have dreamed that one day I’d get so much pleasure from being outside.”

  Vikrama smiled, but didn’t interrupt his work. “I’ve heard your homeland is damp and cool. We have plenty of humidity here, but the temperature is much pleasanter. You ought to get up a little earlier in the next few days to see the beautiful mist over the mountain and the tea fields. It’s a wonderful sight at dawn.”

  “I’ve already seen it,” Grace replied, then fell silent. Should she dare to say it? When would she get another opportunity to ask him?

  “I recently happened to catch sight of you in the night,” she said with a wildly beating heart. “At least, I think it was you.”

  Vikrama stiffened. Every muscle in his body seemed tense, and his features hardened.

  “Where are you going at that time in those strange clothes?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Miss Grace.”

  All at once Grace felt as though she would have been better saying nothing. What business was it of hers, what Vikrama did during the night? He was an employee and a Hindu. Maybe his night-time activities have some religious purpose. I really should find out more about the beliefs in this country.

  She cleared her throat and took a step back. She didn’t want to makes things any worse than they were. “I think I ought to go.”

  “Miss Grace, I . . .”

  But she was already hurrying off in the direction of the house.

  Despite her own explanation, which seemed plausible enough, Grace tossed and turned in bed that night. As soon as she closed her eyes, she could see the young man’s face in front of her. He had looked angry, but a little scared—as though he feared being found out. As the daughter of the landowner she could of course have forced him to reveal his secret, if necessary even threatening to tell her father. But she hadn’t, and in retrospect was glad about that.

  But the burning question of what his religious pursuit could be preoccupied her until well into the night. As quietly as she could, taking care not to wake Victoria, she rose and went to the curtain at the window.

  Maybe she should follow him.

  As she considered a hundred possible ways of how to follow Vikrama without him seeing her, she stared spellbound at the patch of grass by the bushes beyond which the nocturnal secret must lie. But Vikrama didn’t appear. Only the shadow of a parrot passed over the moonlit surface.

  After a while Grace gave up staring out. She slipped back into bed and pushed the sheet, which felt as heavy as an eiderdown, aside.

  Her heart felt incredibly heavy. Now I’ve spoken to him about it, he must have found another way of getting to his secret meeting . . .

  10

  Vannattuppūcci Tea Company, 2008

  Contrary to their expectations, they survived the journey to the plantation, although the jeep had considerable trouble crossing the sodden ground. Several times, Diana feared they might fall off the edge and tumble down a steep slope. But every time, the driver managed to regain control of the vehicle—sometimes in silence, sometimes cursing, as though the vehicle could do something about his style of driving.

  “I’m just glad that it isn’t the true monsoon season, or we’d have needed a helicopter,” Jonathan said with a wink.

  Because they needed the driver for the return trip, Jonathan gave him some money and a packet of cigarettes and asked him to wait.

  After announcing their arrival at the gate via the intercom, Diana tried to catch a glimpse of the main house that lay hidden behind palm trees and overhanging rhododendrons. The builder had probably designed it to prevent inquisitive glances at the residence from the gate.

  The wrought-iron fence to either side of the gate must have stood for over a hundred years, as its design was clearly Victorian with its spear-like tips.

  The gardens also looked very English. Diana tried to imagine Grace and Victoria walking along these well-maintained paths in their white dresses, protected from the sun by delicate lace parasols.

  A man dressed in khaki trousers and a beige bush shirt finally appeared. Diana guessed he was in his mid-fifties. His bearing suggested a man who was used to giving orders and being obeyed. He pressed a button with a casual gesture and the high wrought-iron gate swung open.

  “You must be the lady from Germany.” The man, who had surprisingly European features, shook her hand. “I’m Jason Manderley, managing director of the Vannattuppūcci Tea Company.”

  Diana briefly introduced herself and Jonathan. “I’m grateful to you for finding the time to see me.”

  Manderley smiled broadly. “The pleasure’s all mine. My employee tells me you’re a descendant of the former owner.”

  The only descendant now, Diana thought, but merely nodded. “One of my ancestors was Henry Tremayne. I’m descended from his daughter Grace.”

  The name appeared to mean something to the man.

  “If that’s the case then I’m sure you’ll find plenty to interest you in our archive. Come in; I’ll show you.”

  Manderley led them along the well-maintained driveway, past a collection of ancient-looking buildings that looked empty, but not completely abandoned.

  “These are the former wilting and drying buildings. Until 1950 the frames to hold the drying leaves were in here.” He pointed to a freshly painted building in the middle. “That was where the women used to sit and roll the tea by hand. In the early days, Vannattuppūcci was famed for selling one of the best handmade teas. Unfortunately, in later times the owners had to move over to mechanical production because trade in handmade teas was no longer profitable. But we’re going back to manual production on a small scale now, be
cause connoisseurs are happy to pay more for the quality.”

  As Manderley spoke, the whispering of the palms and heveas echoed in Diana’s ears like the voices of the women who used to live and work here. The strange inner peace that she had felt at Tremayne House came over her now and had a calming effect on her nerves. It was as though she had come home. Was there so much of Grace passed down in her genes?

  “I don’t know how familiar you are with the history of tea in Sri Lanka,” the managing director continued as they crunched across the gravel drive to the house.

  “Not too much, I’m afraid,” Diana replied. “My search so far has been concentrated on specific people and items. I wanted to find out as much as possible about my great-great-grandmother and some things I found in my aunt’s house.”

  “Interesting. What did you find there?”

  Diana stopped briefly and drew the photo from her wallet.

  “My goodness!” Manderley exclaimed. “That really is our tea plantation. I can even see where this must have been taken. Come with me; I’ll take you there!”

  They turned off the driveway and followed a path that led directly to the tea fields.

  When they finally came to a stop, Diana saw they were near a relatively young-looking forest. A quick look at the photo showed it was the same mountain, but she could see neither the tea field nor the open space on which Grace had been standing.

  “A few years ago we began to reforest this part of the plantation. For some unknown reason the yields from this part weren’t so great as the other fields. The tea pickers say there’s a curse on this area.”

  Diana shuddered. “A curse?”

  “Yes. Stories like that are still passed round. But I consider them to be pure folklore. If you were to show one of the women your photo, I’m sure she’d say your ancestor was a ghost. Maybe even the ghost who took the fertility from this patch of land. But I simply think we overstepped a limit with this field. The higher the altitude at which tea is planted, the lower the yields. Like everywhere in the world, it’s a question of achieving the right balance, and here the scales reach a tipping point at which the climate is more damaging to the tea. As you’ll have noticed, the air here is substantially cooler than down at the foot of the mountain.”

  Diana was sure her shudder hadn’t been caused by the cold air. Perhaps the tea pickers were right.

  “If you like, you can go and have a closer look at the place,” Manderley offered. “Or take the files out with you. The archive is a rather prosaic place, where only lifeless things are kept. I can let you have a table, and maybe even a tent, if you like.”

  “That’s very kind of you—thank you!”

  “Well, first let’s have a look what treasures are to be found in the archive.”

  As he turned to go, Diana remained where she was for a moment, and murmured to Jonathan, “Maybe there really is a curse.”

  “In that case we really should take a closer look at the place. Maybe there’s something there.”

  “What did you say?” Manderley turned.

  “Oh, nothing. I was just pointing something out to Mr. Singh.”

  The managing director nodded and walked on ahead of them.

  As they followed him, Diana saw a strange tree near the house, which seemed somehow familiar to her.

  “Is this an apple tree?” she asked Manderley, since this tree seemed completely out of place.

  “The English had a habit of adapting their new environment to the old in many respects. They introduced foxes for hunting and planted fruit trees. According to the stories, this gnarled old tree goes back to Richard Tremayne’s day. But he must have soon realised that the native fruits are also delicious, because this tree is the only one he brought from home.”

  A symbol of the strangeness of the British in these latitudes, Diana thought. She resolved to share her thought with Jonathan for his book—if he hadn’t already come to the same conclusion himself.

  A little later they reached the old mansion, which was now used as the administrative building. Two storeys pointed up to the sky, whitewashed and punctuated by slender windows. Alongside the typically British elements, Diana also recognised subtle but clear European classical and native influences.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Manderley said effusively. “In the 1970s, the former owner toyed with the idea of using the building as a hotel. Holidays among the tea fields, sampling local culinary delights. The idea never came to pass, as the man soon ran out of money. You could say that was fortunate, as hordes of tourists would have both damaged the fabric of the building and interrupted the smooth running of the plantation. But we are pleased to offer accommodation to individual guests who have business here.”

  “We’re staying in a really nice hotel nearby,” Jonathan said.

  “Oh, you must check out at once! I could let you have rooms here, and they wouldn’t cost you a single rupee.”

  The prospect of living in the house that had once belonged to her ancestor filled Diana with delight. What would Emily say to that?

  “I think we should accept Mr. Manderley’s offer,” she said, turning to Jonathan. “Provided we’re not disturbing anyone here.”

  “Not at all. The guest rooms have a separate entrance. And I’ll take care of your food and drink personally. My wife is an excellent cook, and she’d be delighted to meet you.”

  “All that without taking any money from us?” Jonathan said in wonder.

  “Why not?” the managing director said with a disarming smile. “Consider yourselves my guests—after you’ve fetched your luggage from the hotel.”

  As they entered the hall, which looked as well-tended as a museum, they were met by two young women who worked in the administration of the plantation. Over their tight black and khaki skirts they wore tops that were modern, but with a traditional influence. After giving Manderley a brief nod in greeting, they disappeared in the direction of one of the other buildings.

  “They probably want to make sure things are OK in the dispatch centre,” the man said as they crossed the magnificent hall that was a clear indication of the plantation’s success.

  Diana noticed a light patch on the wall, beneath which a few bouquets of flowers had been placed.

  “Why are those flowers there, Mr. Manderley?”

  A sad smile crossed the man’s face.

  “It’s said that a wonderful picture used to hang there. Shiva and Ganesha dancing, or something like that. The picture was . . . destroyed.”

  “The workers treated the picture as a kind of altar, did they?” Jonathan said, indicating the flowers.

  “Yes, and as you can see, they still do to this day. The place where the picture was hung is sacred for some reason.”

  “So why wasn’t it replaced?” Diana asked.

  The managing director shrugged as though he knew a story he didn’t want to tell.

  “You’ll have to ask the owner. I only run the business side of things here. In any case, the picture’s been gone for a long while. I think it was lost as long ago as the Tremaynes’ time. You might find something about it in the files.”

  He gestured to Diana and Jonathan to follow him to the basement, thus cutting off any further questions about the picture. Diana resolved to get to the bottom of how the picture came to be destroyed.

  “As was usually the case in British mansions, the staff worked downstairs here, too, while the family lived upstairs.”

  His words reminded Diana of a TV series she had watched as a child, and which had constantly led her to question her aunt and Mr. Green about all aspects of servants’ lives.

  “Since we don’t need servants here any more, we’ve set up the archive down here.” With a grand gesture he opened the door to reveal long rows of shelves and cupboards. At first glance all Diana could see were books containing commercial records. The real treasures must be concealed in the cupboards.

  “This is really impressive!”

  “Don’t be afraid of exp
loring. It’s more a private library than a place where you need be nervous about documents threatened with destruction. The air here is ideal for preserving old papers. Not too dry and not too humid. The archives in Europe would be envious of these conditions.”

  It was as though they had stepped through the door to a mysterious fairy-tale land, Diana felt as she approached the old-fashioned desk that was similar to the one at Tremayne House. To one side of the worn leather desk protector stood a Tiffany lamp with a rather battered shade whose notches around the edge had not been restored. Was it somehow significant?

  “You can do as much research as you want here, provided you make room for my employees if they need to see specific files.”

  “We’ll do that,” Diana said. For the first time, she had the feeling she was in exactly the right place. “I don’t want to get in your way.”

  “You won’t. I’m really glad that someone’s finally looking into the history. In principle, you won’t mind me using what you find in the publicity for this place, will you?”

  “Provided I don’t find anything too dreadful,” Diana replied hesitantly.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t be asking for private details. But you may very well find out some more general information about the plantation. That would be excellent for our information brochure. It’s still rather slim.”

  Diana nodded. “OK, under those circumstances I’ll be happy to let you have anything relevant we find.”

  While Jonathan agreed to go and fetch their luggage from the Hill Club Hotel and clear up the formalities, Diana set herself up in the archive. Her laptop was still at the hotel, but she had a notepad to jot down anything important she found. And of course there was her guidebook of Colombo, which didn’t directly have anything to do with the plantation, but was where she had tucked the photo of Grace and the photocopy from the Hill Club.

  Jonathan returned two hours later.

  “I hope I haven’t forgotten anything,” he said as he handed Diana her bag. She noticed he hadn’t just stuffed her things inside, but had packed them away neatly.