The Tea Planter’s Wife

by Jefferies, Dinah

  ‘Your skin feels clammy.’

  ‘I just said, I’m fine.’

  ‘Gwen, you really are not. Perhaps don’t take the mixture tonight. I don’t think it’s doing you any good, and neither does Naveena.’

  ‘Did she say that?’

  ‘Yes. She came to me worried sick.’

  Her throat constricted. ‘Laurence, I must have it. It does do me good. Naveena’s wrong. It gets rid of the headaches completely.’

  ‘Stand up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stand up.’

  She shuffled her bottom towards the edge of the bed and lowered her feet to the floor. She held out a hand to him. ‘Help me, Laurence.’

  ‘I want to see you do it, Gwen.’

  She bit her lip and made an effort to stand, but the room was moving, dipping back and forth, and the furniture was shifting. She sat back down again. ‘What did you ask me to do, Laurence? I can’t remember.’

  ‘I asked you to stand.’

  ‘Well, that was a silly thing, wasn’t it?’ She laughed, crawled back under the sheet and stared at him.

  18

  In the morning, Gwen sat at her dressing table and opened a drawer where her mother’s scent was preserved in an embroidered handkerchief. She took it out and sniffed. Fortified by the brief connection, she slipped on her silk dressing gown and some slippers, wrapped a fine woollen shawl round her shoulders and then made her way out of the house by the side entrance.

  Verity and McGregor were sitting on the verandah. ‘Darling, how are you?’ Verity said with a broad smile.

  ‘I thought some fresh air.’

  ‘Do sit for a while. Here’s your drink.’

  Gwen drank the mixture but didn’t sit.

  ‘Won’t you have some breakfast? It would do you good.’

  ‘I think I’ll just take a walk.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Verity opened her bag and took out a folded piece of paper. ‘I’d almost forgotten, but Nick just reminded me,’ she said. ‘I’ve been carrying it around since Hugh was ill.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Verity held out the crumpled paper. ‘Can you give it to Naveena?’

  As she handed it over a door slammed somewhere in the house. Gwen felt as if her knees might give way, but she made a show of looking at it, while her heart raced and thoughts scrambled in her head.

  ‘It’s a drawing of some kind,’ Verity said. ‘For Naveena, from a niece or a cousin or something, in one of the valley villages. It’s a bit blurred, and some of the charcoal seems to have rubbed off.’

  Emotionally buffeted, the blood drained from Gwen’s face. She folded the drawing up again and hoped the fear she was feeling didn’t show and that the faint sound of voices was only in her head.

  A God-fearing Englishwoman does not give birth to a coloured child.

  Nick McGregor, who hadn’t spoken until now, looked up at her. ‘I caught the milk-cart coolie bringing it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ve made sure it’s a different coolie doing the milk run now, with strict instructions not to carry messages.’

  ‘I’ll give it to Naveena.’

  ‘I wanted to say before, but with Hugh ill …’ He spread his hands in a wide gesture.

  Gwen did not dare speak.

  ‘And I know you haven’t been too well yourself.’ He paused.

  ‘Gwen, you look pale. Are you all right?’ Verity reached out a hand, but Gwen took a step back. They knew. They both knew and were playing with her.

  ‘Anyway,’ McGregor continued, ‘I really can’t have my coolies delivering messages, not even for the ayah.’

  Gwen searched for words. ‘I shall put a stop to it.’

  ‘Good. We don’t want the servants thinking they’re entitled to send notes whenever they wish. With the current unrest, albeit minor, there can be no underground channels of communication.’

  ‘Let us hope the drawing really was from her relative, and not some activist,’ Verity said. ‘I always thought Naveena had no relations.’

  Gwen tried not to flinch but she had to get away from the subject of the drawing and, clutching at passing thoughts, she began to speak. Luckily, McGregor stood up, interrupting her, and Gwen took her chance to escape.

  The garden was aflame as she wandered past the bushes. With one hand she ran her fingertips over the red and orange blooms, and in the other she held Liyoni’s drawing safely folded up. They would have to find a different method of receiving communications from the village, but at least she now knew what had happened to the one that had been overdue. Its absence had not been caused because she had failed to confess. Liyoni was safe and well and there was nothing to worry about on that score.

  She walked down to the lakeside and thought about a swim, but the medicine was already beginning to take effect, and when the threads of gold in the water began to blur and the colours of the sky and lake melded into each other, she felt unsteady on her feet. She shook her head to clear her mind: the lake dissolved back into the lake, the sky into the sky. She walked to the boathouse. That was the place to be – safe and full of happy memories.

  She opened the door and glanced around the room.

  The fire was unlit, of course, and it was damp, but she was tired, so she picked up a knitted throw, covered herself and lay back on the sofa.

  Sometime later, she heard Hugh’s voice. At first she thought she was dreaming and smiled at the thought of him. Her lovely sweet boy. She’d seen so little of him lately. It was always ‘Verity this’ and ‘Verity that’. But when she heard Laurence’s voice too, and then Hugh’s once more, she was filled with the desire to see her boys. She wanted to touch her son’s hair and feel Laurence’s arms round her. She attempted to stand, but feeling as if she had an enormously thick head, she had to steady herself by gripping the arms of the sofa.

  ‘Shall we see if Mummy is in there?’ Gwen heard.

  ‘Good idea, old boy.’

  ‘Daddy, can Wilfred come in too?’

  ‘Just let me take a peek inside, and then we’ll see.’

  Gwen saw Laurence’s dark shape block the door. ‘Oh, Laurence, I –’

  As he came towards her, he seemed to loom so large that he filled the entire space. He said a few words to her and then she blacked out.

  When Gwen came back to consciousness, she heard Laurence speaking. They were in her bedroom now, and Doctor Partridge was standing next to Laurence by the window. She couldn’t see their faces, but they stood close together, in silhouette, with their hands clasped behind their backs.

  She coughed and the doctor turned. ‘I’d like to take a look at you, Gwen, if that’s all right.’

  She tried to smooth her hair. ‘Well, I’m sure I must look an absolute fright, but really I’m fine, John.’

  ‘Nevertheless.’

  He looked in her eyes, then listened to her heart. ‘You say she fainted, Laurence?’

  ‘I found her on the boathouse floor.’

  ‘And has she seemed confused?’

  Gwen watched as Laurence nodded.

  ‘Her pupils are as small as pinpricks and her heartbeat is fast.’ He looked round at Gwen. ‘Where is the last glass you drank the medication from, Gwen?’

  ‘I don’t know. Outside, I think. I can’t quite remember.’

  Gwen closed her eyes and drifted while Laurence went to find the glass. He came back in and passed it to the doctor.

  He sniffed, dipped a finger in the remains and put it to his lips. ‘This seems rather strong.’

  ‘Where are the packets John prescribed?’ Laurence asked.

  As Gwen waved in the direction of the bathroom, Laurence went in and brought out a number of folded paper packets.

  The doctor took them from him and his brow furrowed. ‘But these are far too strong.’

  Laurence looked at him, horrified.

  The doctor seemed bewildered. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t understand how this could have happened.’

  ‘You m
ust have made a mistake with the prescription.’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘Maybe they misread it at the dispensary.’

  Laurence glared at him and drew in his breath.

  ‘In any case, Gwen must stop taking this immediately. It’s not suitable for her constitution. She may have some reactions. Aches, sweating, restlessness. She may feel rather low. Call me if, after five or six days, it doesn’t stop. I will look into it.’

  ‘I should hope so. This is unforgivable.’

  As Doctor Partridge bowed and made his escape, Laurence came over and sat by her bed.

  ‘You’ll start feeling better soon, sweetheart.’ Then he held out a piece of paper. ‘I found one of Hugh’s drawings on the boathouse floor, near where you fainted.’

  ‘Oh, I wonder what he was doing in there,’ she said, trying to sound calm, though her stomach was churning. Did Laurence really believe it was Hugh’s?

  ‘We must have left the place unlocked, but it’s an old drawing I think. His recent stuff is better. At least now you can almost make out a face.’ He grinned as he handed the drawing to her.

  She forced herself to smile as she took it. Laurence hadn’t guessed.

  19

  For three days Gwen felt terrible. Furious with Laurence for involving the doctor and depriving her of her sleeping draught, she refused to speak to him. She took what little she ate in her room and felt very black indeed, so much so that even the sight of Hugh didn’t cheer her up. More than anything she wanted to be at home with her mother and, wishing she had never met Laurence, she shed angry tears.

  While she had been taking the medication, she’d had no worries and no headaches, but now something seemed to have got hold of her. Her head hurt so much she couldn’t think, her hands were constantly clammy and, with sweat running down between her breasts, she had to change her nightdress three times a day. She hardly knew where she was, her body ached in every joint and, with a feeling of needles prickling her skin just under the surface, her muscles were so tender it hurt to be touched.

  On the fourth day, in an effort to try to restore some semblance of sanity, she took out all her mother’s letters and cried as she re-read all the news. As memories of home flooded back, the gentle early sun danced a mosaic of light on the sheets of notepaper lying on her desk. She missed England: the frosts in winter, the first snowdrops and the sweet summer days at the farm. Most of all she missed the young girl she used to be: the one who had been so full of hope, and who had believed that everything about life was going to be lovely. When she had done with crying, she had a bath, washed her hair and felt a little better.

  On the fifth day, still with shaking hands, she decided to get dressed and, not without qualms, take lunch in the dining room. She made an effort to appear to be her normal self and wore a pretty muslin dress with a long matching chiffon scarf. The dress fitted more loosely than before, but it moved nicely as she walked and gave her a pleasant floating sensation.

  It was well past midday, but she decided to quickly check the supplies cupboard again, and when she unlocked the huge doors she was surprised to see the shelves groaning under the weight of rice, oil and whisky. The appu had watched her do it, and while she frowned at him, he shrugged and muttered something she didn’t understand. She scratched her head. It didn’t make sense. What was wrong with her? Had she been so tired that she had imagined that the supplies weren’t there when she had looked before? She shook her head, hating to feel so out of control.

  The rains had not yet started, and because the weather had turned bright, Gwen went back to her room before going to the dining room and opened the window to freshen what, she realized, was very stuffy air. As she did so, she heard the gardener whistling in another part of the garden. Inside the house the phone rang, and someone started singing. It all seemed normal. As she left her room, she felt more confident that her abandoned bargain with God had become a thing of the past, had even begun to question whether she had a faith at all, but realized it mattered, for who else was there to forgive her?

  In the dining room, lunch was laid for four. Laurence, Mr McGregor and Verity were already there, and two of the houseboys were hovering.

  ‘Ah, here she is,’ Laurence said with a wide smile.

  As soon as Gwen was seated, they were served at breakneck speed.

  ‘Apparently the soufflé will spoil,’ Verity said. ‘It’s never very good at the best of times.’

  Over the meal, the talk was about tea, the upcoming auctions and Laurence’s mortgage on a neighbouring plantation. Verity seemed in a good mood, and Laurence was happy too.

  ‘Well, I’m pleased to report the recent incidents in the labour lines seem to have settled,’ McGregor said.

  ‘Is Mr Ghandi due to visit Ceylon again?’ Verity asked.

  ‘I doubt it. But if he does, it won’t trouble us. None of the workers will be allowed to go.’

  ‘Maybe they should go,’ Gwen said, turning to Laurence. ‘What do you think?’

  He frowned and Gwen had the impression this was a point of conflict between the two men.

  ‘The question is hypothetical,’ McGregor said.

  ‘What was the latest unrest about?’ Gwen asked.

  ‘The usual,’ McGregor replied. ‘Workers’ rights. Union agitators come along, get the workers all riled up, and I’m left to pick up the pieces.’

  ‘I had hoped the new Legislative Council might have been enough,’ Laurence said. ‘And the amount of money and time the Department of Agriculture has spent teaching people how to improve their methods of farming.’

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t help our workers, does it?’ Gwen said. ‘And John Partridge once told me he thought big changes lay ahead.’

  Laurence puffed out his cheeks. ‘You’re right. The National Congress doesn’t think enough has been done.’

  ‘Who knows what they think.’ McGregor pulled a face and laughed. ‘Or even if they think! It’s all these intellectual types trying to ignite the workers. It’s one thing giving women over the age of twenty-one the vote in England, but would you be happy to give the vote to ignorant natives?’

  Gwen was intensely conscious of the butler and houseboys hearing this exchange, and it embarrassed her that McGregor should speak in such a tactless and unfeeling way. She itched to say something to counter it, but found in her fragile state that she dared not.

  Over the remainder of their lunch she tried to find her way back to normality, but only managed it in flashes. She joined in the conversation, following the thread, but then, when it moved on, her concentration lapsed and she floundered. She kept her eyes on Verity and McGregor, watching for signs that they might say something more about the drawing, but her brain still didn’t seem to be working properly and nothing made much sense. The men discussed the political situation a little longer, but she was very relieved when a gorgeous-looking trifle was brought in, and the atmosphere in the room changed.

  ‘How lovely,’ Verity said, clapping her hands.

  There was silence as the trifle was eaten.

  ‘Will you come for a walk, Gwen?’ Laurence said and smiled.

  She saw such warmth in his eyes it made her feel stronger. ‘I’d like that. I’ll just fetch my wrap. I can’t quite make out if I’m hot or cold.’

  ‘Take your time. I’ll wait for you on the terrace.’

  She went to her room, opened out her favourite wrap and threw it round her shoulders. Originally from Kashmir, with the beautiful design of a peacock woven into the paisley patterns on the back, it had been one of her mother’s, though the green and blue wool had worn a little thin now. She was just about to close her bedroom window when she heard Laurence talking to somebody in the garden. The thick walls kept out the extreme heat and noise, but people never seemed to realize that when her window was open, she could hear what was said from as far as the garden room, and from that side of the garden itself.

  ‘You mustn’t take it personally,’ Laurence was saying.
<
br />   ‘But why can’t I come too?’

  ‘A man likes to spend time alone with his wife sometimes, and she has been ill, remember.’

  ‘She’s always ill.’

  ‘That is nonsense. And, quite frankly, after all I’ve done for you, it pains me dreadfully to hear you speak like that.’

  ‘Everything you do is for her.’

  ‘She is my wife.’

  ‘Yes, and she never lets me forget it.’

  ‘You know that’s not true.’ He paused while Verity muttered something.

  ‘I give you a generous allowance. I’ve transferred the deeds of the Yorkshire house to you, and I allow you to stay here for as long as you like.’

  ‘I’m polite to her.’

  ‘I’d like you to love her.’

  Don’t think, Gwen told herself as tears came to her eyes. Don’t move. And even though she felt truly stung, she remained where she was.

  ‘After Caroline died, I had you to myself.’

  ‘Yes, you did. But you have to build your own life. It’s unhealthy, this clinging to me. Now, apart from saying it really is high time you did your best to find a husband, I’m not going to discuss this further.’

  ‘I wondered when you’d get on to that, but you know very well there is only one man I wanted to marry.’

  During a long pause when neither Laurence nor Verity spoke, Gwen closed her eyes. Then she heard her sister-in-law again.

  ‘You think I’m left on the shelf?’

  ‘It seems to be where you have placed yourself.’ His voice was sharp, but hers, when she replied, was petulant.

  ‘I have good reason. You think you know everything, but you don’t.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know. Caroline … and Thomas.’

  ‘Come on, Verity, there’s no reason anything like that should ever happen to you.’

  ‘You may be my older brother, but there are things about our family you don’t understand.’

  ‘You’re being melodramatic. Anyway, I think you’re hanging around here far too much. It’s time you did something else.’

  ‘Say what you like, Laurence, but …’