‘It’s different here. The dark races are different, you see. Kindness does them no good. No good at all. And the mongrel are even worse.’
As more couples were announced, Gwen felt disturbed. She knew the word ‘mongrel’ but hated hearing it used like that.
‘Treat them like children, and keep your eyes on your dhobi. Only last week I found my silky Chinese pyjamas had been swopped for some old things that must have come from the street market in Hatton.’
Gwen was now completely at sea and beginning to panic. How could she keep her eyes on the dhobi, when she didn’t even know who – or what – a dhobi was?
She looked around the room. This was supposed to be a small supper party, but there were more than a dozen couples already, and plenty of space for more. She tried to catch her husband’s eye, but had to laugh when she saw Laurence absorbed in conversation with a bald man whose ears stuck out at right angles from his head. A teapot man.
‘Probably talking about the price of tea,’ Florence said, seeing her look.
‘Is there a problem with tea prices?’
‘Oh no, dear. Quite the opposite. We’re all doing rather swimmingly well. Your husband’s new Daimler should be enough to convince you of that.’
Gwen smiled. ‘It is rather splendid.’
A white-coated houseboy, positioned by the door, sounded a brass gong.
‘Now don’t worry, if there’s anything, just ask. I’m happy to help. I can remember how it felt to be young and newly married. So much to take in.’ Florence discarded her cushion, then held out her hand. Gwen recognized it was a command so stood to help the woman up.
The dining room looked pretty with all the silver candelabra lit. Everything gleamed or sparkled, and the air smelt fresh from sweet peas arranged in shallow glass vases dotted about. Gwen spotted a trim, youngish woman, smiling broadly at Laurence. She had green eyes, pronounced cheekbones and a long neck. Her blonde hair was styled so that it looked like a waving bob from the front, but when she turned sideways, Gwen saw her hair was long and knotted elegantly at the back. She was heavily laden with rubies and dressed, quite simply, in black. Gwen tried to catch her eye, hoping they might soon become friends.
The mild-looking, bespectacled man sitting on her left introduced himself as Partridge. She took in his slightly jutting chin, the small bristly moustache and the kind look in his grey eyes. He hoped she was settling in and told her she should call him John.
As they spoke a little longer, all eyes were on her, but soon the conversation turned to the latest gossip from Nuwara Eliya – who was who and what they’d done, to whom, and why. Most of it went over Gwen’s head. She didn’t know any of the people concerned, and found it hard to care. Only when the table went quiet, and the teapot man banged his fist on the table, did she pick up and take notice.
‘Bloody disgrace if you ask me. Should have shot the lot of them.’
There were a few ‘hear hears’ from one or two others as the man continued with his diatribe.
‘What are they talking about, John?’ Gwen whispered.
‘There was a skirmish in Kandy recently. The British government acted rather brutally with the offenders, it seems. Now that has caused uproar. Thing is, there’s word on the street that it wasn’t a protest against the British at all, but something to do with remembrance flowers.’
‘So we’re not in any danger?’
He shook his head. ‘No. It just gives some of the old colonels something to bang on about. It all began about ten years ago when the British shot at a gathering group of Muslims. It was all a bit of a blunder as a matter of fact.’
‘It doesn’t sound very satisfactory.’
‘No. You see, the Ceylon National Congress are not actually asking for independence yet, just for more autonomy.’ He shook his head. ‘But, if you ask me, we need to tread more carefully. What with everything going on in India, it won’t be long before Ceylon follows suit. It’s still early days, but mark my words, trouble is brewing.’
‘Tell me, are you a socialist?’
‘No, my dear, I’m a doctor.’
She smiled at the amusement in his eyes, but then his look grew serious.
‘The trouble is that only three Kandyans were elected to the Council, so this year some of them left the Ceylon National Congress and they’ve created the Kandyan National Assembly instead. That’s what we’ve got to keep an eye on, that and the Young Lanka League, who are beginning to promote opposition to the British.’
Gwen glanced over to Laurence at the other end of the table, hoping he might give her the sign they’d agreed for the ladies to withdraw, but he was looking into the distance with narrowed eyes.
‘We feed them,’ another of the men was saying, ‘look after them, give them a roof over their heads. We more than meet all the required standards. What more do they want? Personally –’
‘But there is much more we could do,’ Laurence said, interrupting him while clearly controlling his temper. ‘I’ve built a school, yet hardly any of the children attend. It’s time we found a solution.’
His wave of hair was sticking up at the front, a sure sign he had been raking his fingers through it, and she realized it was something he did when he felt uneasy. It made him seem younger than he was and she desperately wanted to hug him.
The doctor tapped her hand.
‘Ceylon is … well, Ceylon is Ceylon. You’ll form your own impression soon enough,’ he said. ‘Change is still a way off, but we won’t remain immune to Gandhi’s message of swaraj for ever.’
‘Swaraj?’
‘Self-governance.’
‘I see. Would that be a bad thing?’
‘At this stage, who knows.’
After all the guests had gone, she was thrilled when Laurence came to her room and fell spread-eagled on her bed. With a log fire blazing, the room was too warm. Would they be going down to the lake together now?
‘Come on, darling,’ he said. ‘Come and join me.’
She went across to him and lay down on top of the counterpane, fully dressed. He sat up, resting his weight on one elbow, and grinned.
‘God, you’re lovely.’
‘Laurence, who was the blonde woman in black? I didn’t get a chance to talk to her.’
‘Black?’
‘Yes. There was only one.’
He frowned. ‘You must mean Christina Bradshaw. She’s an American widow. Her husband was the banker Ernest Bradshaw, hence all the jewels.’
‘She doesn’t look like a grieving widow.’ She paused and looked at his intelligent, well-shaped face. ‘Laurence, you do love me, don’t you?’
He looked surprised. ‘What’s brought this on?’
She bit her lip, wondering exactly how to say it. ‘But you don’t … what I mean to say is, I’ve felt a bit lonely since I arrived at the plantation. I want to spend time with you.’
‘You’re with me now.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
There was a brief silence, during which Gwen felt a little unsure of herself. ‘What’s the tree outside my window?’ she said. ‘It looks just like a cherry tree.’
‘Oh Christ, you didn’t try one, did you?’
She nodded.
‘Bitter fruit. They make chutney out of it. I never touch the stuff.’ He rolled on top of her suddenly, then, pinning her down, kissed her on the mouth. She liked the slight smell of alcohol on his breath and, flushed with expectation, parted her lips. He traced the outline of her mouth with his finger and she felt her muscles lose all their tension, but then something odd happened. As he drew in his breath and stiffened, she caught a glimpse of something disturbing in his eyes. She touched his cheek, wanting to make it go away, but he stared at her – almost stared through her – as if he didn’t know who she was. Then he swallowed rapidly, got up and walked away.
She froze for a moment then ran to the door to call to him, but after a few steps along the corridor, she saw he was already heading up the
stairs. Rather than allow any of the servants to catch her chasing after her husband, she turned back to her room and, once inside, leant against the door to steady her breath. She closed her eyes and gave in to a hollow, lonely feeling. Her vision of the torch-lit midnight lake was over too. What on earth was the matter with him?
She undressed and climbed into bed. Accustomed to straightforward emotions, she felt confused, and longing to feel Laurence’s arms round her, a wave of homesickness swept over her. Her father might have patted her hand and said, ‘Chin up,’ and her mother would probably shoot her a commiserating look as she brought in a mug of cocoa. Cousin Fran, with a hopeless pretence at a stern face, would simply tell her to toughen up. She wished she were more like Fran. Nobody approved when Fran went to see that medium, Madame Sostarjinski, but Fran went all the same, and who could blame her when her parents had died so tragically when the Titanic sank.
With her worries over Laurence thwarting any attempt to sleep, and feeling she’d probably stay awake all night, Gwen lay on her back with her eyes wide open. He must have his reasons, she thought, but surely nothing that would explain that strange look in his eyes?
4
A whole week had passed, and Gwen was sitting in the drawing room. Now more accustomed to the unobtrusive, light-footed servants appearing and disappearing, she waited for those she had summoned to meet her. She had been watching the workings of the household, and preparing notes on what she’d seen. But still Laurence had not shared her bed. There always seemed to be some reason she could not contradict. She had learnt not to look at Naveena’s face as she carried in her bed tea on a silver tray. It would be obvious to the woman that Gwen slept alone, and Gwen, cringing at the prospect of becoming an object of pity, knew she’d have to sort this out alone.
She squared her shoulders and, though it upset her, she decided she wouldn’t think about it, at least not for the time being. Laurence was probably worrying about plantation affairs and, she felt sure, he would come round soon. In the meantime, she would keep busy, and get on with being the best wife she could be. Of course, she didn’t feel in direct competition with Laurence’s first wife, Caroline; she just wanted Laurence to be proud of her.
She heard a knock on the door and wiped her slightly clammy palms on her skirt. Naveena, the appu, the butler and a couple of the houseboys came in.
‘Are we all here?’ she said with a smile and clasped her hands together so as to conceal her nerves.
‘Kitchen coolies are busy,’ Naveena said. ‘And other houseboys too. This is all are coming.’
The butler and Naveena were Sinhalese. The rest of the group were Tamil. She hoped they all understood English and got along well with each other.
‘Well, I’ve called this little meeting so that you might all understand my plans.’
She glanced at each one in turn.
‘I have made a list of the different areas of your work, and I have some questions.’
Nobody spoke.
‘Firstly, where does our milk come from? I see no cows on the estate.’
The appu raised his hand. ‘The milk is coming every day, from buffalo, down in the valleys.’
‘I see. So the supply is plentiful?’
He nodded. ‘And we have two nanny goats, isn’t it.’
‘Excellent. Now my next question is which day does the dhobi come?’
‘You are arranging with him, Lady.’
‘Does he speak English?’
‘He speaks English also, not very good.’
‘But enough?’
The man waggled his head.
She still wasn’t sure whether that meant yes or no, but at least she’d already discovered that the dhobi was the man who took care of all the laundry. She also knew he was employed by more than one estate, and she wanted to know if she might employ him exclusively.
She looked at their expectant faces. ‘The next thing is that I am planning a little kitchen garden.’
They looked at each other uncertainly.
‘A garden coming in the kitchen?’ the appu asked.
She smiled. ‘No, a garden for growing vegetables for the kitchen. We have so much land it is only sensible. But I will need workers to tend it.’
The butler shrugged. ‘We are not gardeners, Lady. We have a gardener.’
‘Yes, but it will be too much for just one man.’ She had seen the gardener: an unusually fat little man, with a small head framed by frizzy black hair, and a neck as wide as his head.
‘He is every time coming, but, Lady, ask to Mr McGregor,’ Naveena said. ‘He may be giving men from the labour lines.’
Gwen smiled. She still had not been formally introduced to Nick McGregor and this would be the ideal opportunity to make friends with him. She rose from her seat.
‘Well, thank you all. That will do for today. I shall speak with you individually about changes to your daily routine.’
They each stood and bowed, and she left the room, pleased with how it had gone.
Apart from the Labrador, she’d also discovered two young spaniels, Bobbins and Spew, with whom she’d made friends, spending hours throwing sticks and chasing about. As they followed her down the corridor now, her thoughts returned to Laurence. She sucked in her breath and pressed her lips together. What was she going to say to Fran, who was due any day now? She could hardly force her husband to make love to her, although she’d have a good try. Before their wedding, when they’d talked about having a family, he’d said the more the merrier, five at least; and recalling the wonderful time they’d had in England, and in the hotel when she first arrived, she couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong.
It was almost time for lunch, and she decided to tempt Laurence to her room straight afterwards and insist on an explanation. It was his day off and he couldn’t possibly use work as an excuse.
And so, after lunch as they wiped their mouths with the embroidered linen napkins, she stood and, with fingers aching to touch him, held out her hand. He took it and she pulled him up to her, noticing his palms were cool, then she tilted her head and batted her lashes.
‘Come.’
In her room she closed the shutters, but left the window-glass open so that air could still pass through. He stood absolutely still with his back to the window and they stared at each other without speaking.
‘I won’t be a moment,’ she said.
His face gave nothing away.
She walked into her bathroom, slipped out of her day dress, unbuttoned her silk stockings and rolled them down – in the heat of Ceylon she had abandoned her corset before she’d even left the ship – then removed her lacy French chemise and matching knickers, and took off her suspenders and earrings, leaving only the rope of pearls at her neck. Totally naked, apart from the pearls, she glanced in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed from three glasses of wine, and she added colour to her lips by dabbing on a touch of Rigaud rouge in Persian Blush. She watched herself in the mirror as she smoothed it over with a finger and then rubbed a little on her throat. Munitions: that’s what Fran called powder and rouge.
Back in the room, Laurence was sitting on the bed with closed eyes. She tiptoed across and then stood in front of him. He didn’t open his eyes.
‘Laurence?’
When her breasts were level with his chest she pressed herself against him. He put his hands on her waist and held her away for a moment, then opened his eyes and gazed up at her. She watched as he took one nipple in his mouth and, feeling her knees about to give way, almost passed out at the current that ran through her, intensified by the sight of him observing everything that must be showing on her face.
They stayed like that for a short while, then he let her go. As he kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned his braces, then removed his trousers and undergarments, she felt her heart thump. He pushed her back on the bed and the hairs on the nape of her neck rose as he straddled her, then adjusted his position. When he entered her, she gasped at a sensation that made her heart knock a
gainst her ribs and seemed to swallow her breath. Excited by a complete loss of inhibition, she dug her fingernails into his back. But then something changed; his eyes glazed over and he was going too fast. She had encouraged this, but now she couldn’t keep up, and with the sudden absence of connection between them, it felt wrong. How could he have become so quickly consumed by something that didn’t feel as if it was anything to do with her? She asked him to slow down, but he didn’t seem to hear and then, after just a few seconds, he groaned, and it was over.
He straightened up, but turned his head away as he recovered his breath.
There was silence for a moment or two as she struggled with her feelings.
‘Laurence?’
‘I’m so sorry if I hurt you.’
‘You didn’t. Laurence, look at me.’ She turned his head towards her. The truth was he had hurt her a little and, shocked by the emptiness in his eyes, her own filled with tears.
‘Darling, tell me what the matter is. Please,’ she said.
She wanted him to say something, anything that would bring him back to her.
‘I feel so …’
She waited.
‘It’s being here,’ he eventually said, and looked at her so wretchedly that she reached out, wanting to comfort him. He lifted her hand, turned over her palm and kissed it.
‘It’s not you. You are utterly precious to me. Please believe that.’
‘So what is the matter?’
He let go of her hand and shook his head.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t do this,’ he said, then pulled his clothes on quickly and left the room.
Completely bewildered, and feeling as if her heart might break at the change in him, she pulled the pearls from her neck. The clasp broke and they clattered across the floor. Why couldn’t he do this? She wanted him so much, and in the certain belief of his love, had pinned everything on being a good wife and mother. She knew that he had wanted her, really wanted her – look at how he’d been in Colombo! But having come all this way, now she didn’t know where to turn.
She must have fallen asleep, because she didn’t hear Naveena enter the room, and jumped when she opened her eyes and saw the Sinhalese woman sitting in the chair beside the bed, her soft round face looking composed, with a jug cradled in her lap and all the pearls collected in a saucer on the bedside table.
The Tea Planter’s Wife Page 4