The Tea Planter's Wife

by Dinah Jefferies

  He closed his eyes.

  Lying next to him like this, Gwen felt a familiar craving and tried to ignore the flutter in her heart. But as if he had felt it too, he put a palm on her breast at exactly the spot, opened his eyes and smiled at her. Then, with a very different look, he touched his thumbs to the hollows at the base of her neck and his lips brushed the corners of her mouth, tentative at first, but soon with more force. Her lips parted and she felt the warmth of his tongue. As he pressed her down against the mattress, she realized that the depth of his anguish had somehow triggered his desire. Without her even knowing how it had happened, he was pulling up her skirt, and she was helping him remove her underclothes. She moaned as he raised her body, bending her forward to remove her chemise. And then, when he laid her back down and she pushed her hips against his, they were making love. She had felt so lost without him, but now that Laurence was back to his old self she could hardly contain her joy.

  When they were finished, there was the sound of breaking thunder, louder than gunfire, and of immense rainfall; the sky had uncurled its fist and was now releasing the entire contents on the earth below. Gwen lay listening with her back curled against him. She started to laugh and she could feel his body shake as he laughed with her, a free, happy sound, and it was as if everything that had been holding him back had fallen away.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Gwen, about before. I don’t really know what happened.’

  ‘Shhh.’

  He turned her round and put a finger to her lips. ‘No, I have to say it. Please forgive me. I haven’t been myself. I was just so –’

  She saw him hesitate and she watched a kind of struggle going on in his face. When he looked as if he was on the verge of saying more, she cast around for something to say that might encourage him.

  ‘It wasn’t because of Caroline?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Then?’

  He sighed deeply. ‘Being here at the plantation with you … it just brought everything back.’

  The rain had cooled the air by quite a few degrees, and Gwen, energized, shifted in the bed, feeling as if the power of a tropical storm had taken root in her and was now flowing in her blood.

  ‘I wish we could stay here for ever, but it’s probably time we went down,’ she said.

  After they had dressed, just before she turned off the bedroom lights, Gwen glanced back at the photographs she’d seen on the side table earlier. One, of a woman sitting on a tartan rug in the garden, with Tapper’s head on her lap, caught her eye. The woman was blonde and smiling. Laurence didn’t notice her looking.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, and took her hand as they walked along the landing.

  ‘You don’t have to thank me.’

  ‘But I do. You have no idea how much.’ He kissed her again, and then as they went down for dinner, hearing crows shouting, she looked out of a landing window. It was nightfall, but she could still see the white mist cloaking everything.

  In the drawing room, Gwen was pleased to see Fran deep in conversation with Verity. Both women turned to look as she and Laurence walked into the room, holding hands.

  ‘Well, you two look positively radiant,’ Fran said.

  Laurence grinned and winked at her. Gwen noticed that although Verity smiled, it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  ‘You changed your mind. How did you get back?’ Gwen asked, turning to Fran.

  Though her cousin always showed a confident face to the world, Gwen knew it wasn’t the whole story, and that she’d struggled to get over the death of her parents. It struck her that it was something Fran and Verity had in common, and wondered if it might bring them together.

  ‘After a hair of the dog, I caught the train to Hatton,’ Fran was saying. ‘What a journey! But Savi was so kind. He lent me the money for the fare and arranged a lift to the station at Nanu Oya. I’d left all my wherewithal here at the house, you see.’

  Laurence’s lips tightened. ‘Well, you must send Mr Ravasinghe what you owe, immediately.’

  ‘No need. I’m meeting him in Nuwara Eliya next week, weather permitting. It’s such a marvellous little country, isn’t it? He’s promised to show me more. Gwen, you’re invited too. We’re both going to have lunch with Christina, and he’s going to unveil her portrait. Isn’t that jolly?’

  Laurence turned his back and Gwen noticed his shoulders were tense.

  ‘I hope I’m invited too,’ Verity said with a little laugh.

  Fran glanced at her and shrugged. ‘They didn’t mention you, I’m afraid. So, no, I think it’s just Gwen and me.’

  Gwen felt sorry for her sister-in-law as she watched her turn away. She seemed rather alone in the world, apart from her brother, and Gwen couldn’t help think there was something troubling the girl. She never seemed quite at ease, though the truth was she didn’t make the best of herself. The short straight hairstyle didn’t suit her long angular face and, apart from one rust-coloured dress, she wore all the wrong colours. She should wear colours that complemented her brown eyes, not the drab fawns and acid colours she chose.

  Gwen favoured violet, not just because it matched her eyes, but because she loved and wore all the English summer colours. Sweet-pea colours, Fran called them. Her dress tonight was the palest green, and though she hadn’t had a chance to change, she still felt fresh. A typical outdoors man, Laurence didn’t care what he wore, and liked nothing better than to stride about the estate in his shorts and an old cream short-sleeved shirt, with a battered hat on his head. Tonight, looking self-assured and happy, with no trace of that unsettling look in his eyes, he wore something resembling evening wear.

  After supper Laurence threw a couple of logs on the fire, and Verity sat at the piano; on it a dozen or more photographs in silver frames showed Laurence gazing out, with a mixture of dogs around him, and silhouetted men in plus fours leaning on their rifles.

  Verity played, singing quite tunefully, and seeming to have recovered from Fran’s slight. As Gwen read the words over Verity’s shoulder, she noticed for the first time that her sister-in-law was a nail biter.

  It was Fran who made them laugh when they began a game of charades and Gwen developed a knot in her throat from laughing.

  ‘What to do about Fran,’ had been a constant refrain throughout Gwen’s childhood. For as long as she could remember, Fran had liked to perform, either by constructing a puppet theatre and using papier-mâché puppets to relate a tale, or by leaping on to a makeshift stage of orange boxes and flinging her arms about while singing an operetta. Her choice of clothes usually matched her dramatic performances: crimson dresses, sequinned jackets or sunflower-yellow gowns.

  The family were used to it, and though Laurence was ready to accept Fran, it seemed Verity didn’t quite know how to take her. Gwen knew Fran was, in reality, a sensitive and clever woman, and that her behaviour was just a defence against an unjust world. But by the look of Verity’s slightly raised brows, Gwen worried that her sister-in-law might think Fran brazen, especially when, with a small smile, she interrupted to speak to her brother.

  ‘Laurence, shall we take a ride round the lake tomorrow? We could take the estate horses. I’m sure Nick wouldn’t mind.’

  Laurence pointed at the rain.

  ‘Well, we could swim, just you and me, remember, like we used to when we were children? I’m sure Gwen wouldn’t want to come.’

  Gwen overheard. ‘Come where?’

  ‘Oh, I was wondering about riding or maybe swimming.’ She smiled. ‘I thought you wouldn’t want to come … but of course you must join us.’

  ‘We never swam during the monsoon,’ Laurence muttered.

  Verity clung on to his arm. ‘We did swim. I’m sure we did.’

  Laurence’s relationship with his sister was complex. Gwen knew that after their parents died, he had become responsible, giving her an allowance and generally protecting her. Gwen thought Verity, at twenty-six, should really be married and not relying on her brother. Yet from what Laurence h
ad said, when a wedding had eventually been announced, Verity had cried off at the last minute.

  Gwen couldn’t help wonder how Caroline had got on with her. Her sister-in-law seemed friendly enough, but Gwen sensed that that might not always be the case. She went to the window and looked out. The rain was falling in silver sheets, lit by the sheen from the house lamps. There would be puddles in the dips and hollows of the lawn by morning, she thought as she turned back to face the room. Laurence winked at her. She couldn’t resist and walked over, then seated herself on the arm of his chair. He unhooked Verity from him, and put his hand on Gwen’s knee, gently stroking, but as soon as no one was looking, slid his hand beneath her underskirt. It made her feel light-headed and she longed to be alone with him. While Tapper’s death had been terrible, because of it everything had changed. Laurence had opened up and was himself again, and she was determined to do everything she could to keep him that way.

  7

  In the mornings when she woke, and the light was pale and lemony, Gwen felt that life couldn’t get any better. It had been over a week now, and every single night Laurence had stayed with her. Something had released its grip on him and he was as passionate as he’d been before they arrived at the plantation. They made love at night and then they made love in the mornings too. While he slept, the sound of his breathing was comforting, and if she woke before him she just lay listening and marvelling at her luck.

  She heard the sound of a distant cockerel and watched as Laurence’s lashes flickered.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ he said, opening his eyes and reaching for her.

  She snuggled in to him, luxuriating in the warmth.

  ‘Shall we get food sent in and stay in bed all day?’ he said.

  ‘Really? Aren’t you going to work?’

  ‘No. This is a day entirely for you. So what would you like to do?’

  ‘Do you know what, Laurence?’

  He grinned. ‘Tell me.’

  She whispered in his ear.

  He laughed and pulled a face. ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting that! Bored with me already?’

  She kissed him hard on the mouth. ‘Never!’

  ‘Well, if you’re serious, I don’t see why you shouldn’t see how the tea is made.’

  ‘I knew all about making cheese at Owl Tree.’

  ‘Of course, I’ve tasted it … so you really want to get up now?’

  He stroked her hair and neither of them moved.

  He began to bite her ear. Every day Laurence seemed to find a new part of her body, and once he’d found it, she experienced feelings she’d never known were possible. Today, from her ear his mouth travelled all the way down past her breasts, round her waist and to the place between her legs, where she felt the shock of wanting him. But he ignored her as she pushed against him, and carried on to the soft sensitive place at the back of her knees. When he’d finished kissing them he examined the scars on the front of her knees.

  ‘Heavens, girl, what have you done to yourself?’

  ‘It was the Owl Tree. When I was a child, I used to look for the ghosts in the tree, but I kept falling out before I found them.’

  He shook his head. ‘You are impossible.’

  Whoever would have thought this would be so heavenly, she thought as they made love, and, feeling the warmth of his skin against her own, all thoughts of tea vanished from her mind.

  Two hours later, with the rain holding off but a heavy mist still circling the land, Laurence walked her up the hill and along a track she hadn’t spotted before. When they could see the lake, Gwen noticed the water was still brown where red earth had washed down. The woods were unusually hushed, the trees dripping and ghostly, and for a moment Gwen believed in the devils that Naveena said still took cover there. All along their route, the rain had intensified the scent of wild orchids and the smell of the grass. Spew, who had become singularly attached to Gwen, ran on ahead, sniffing and snuffling.

  ‘What are those flowers?’ she asked, looking at a tall plant with white blooms.

  ‘Angel’s Trumpets, we call them,’ he said, and then pointed at a large rectangular building with rows of shuttered windows, high up on the hill behind their house. ‘Look, there’s the factory.’

  She touched his arm. ‘Before we go in, I’ve been wanting to ask if you’d found out who did that to Tapper?’

  There was a flicker of distress on Laurence’s face. ‘It’s hard to prove. They close ranks, you see. It’s not helpful when it becomes a question of us against them.’

  ‘So why was Tapper killed?’

  ‘Revenge over an old injustice.’

  She sighed. It was so complicated here. She had been brought up to be kind to people and animals. If you were kind, people usually responded the same way.

  When they finally reached the building she was out of breath, and watched dark-skinned men squatting on an exterior ledge and washing the multiple windows. Laurence opened the door to the sounds of Hindu worship in the distance, and ordered Spew to wait outside.

  He showed Gwen in. There was the clunking noise of machines from the floor above, and a slightly medicinal smell.

  He noticed her listening. ‘There are a lot of machines involved. Everything used to be powered by wood, and on many estates still is, but here, I’ve invested in fuel oil. Was one of the first, in fact, though we have our wood-burning furnace for drying. Blue gum wood we use. It’s a kind of eucalyptus.’

  Gwen nodded. ‘I can smell it.’

  ‘The building is on four floors,’ he said. ‘Do you want to sit down to catch your breath?’

  ‘No.’ She scanned the spacious ground-floor room. ‘I didn’t realize it would be so big.’

  ‘Tea needs air.’

  ‘So, what’s happening here?’

  His eyes lit up. ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s a complicated process, but this is where the baskets of green leaves come in and get weighed. Though there are other weighing stations too. The women are paid by the pound, you see. We do have to keep an eye that they don’t include anything they shouldn’t to bulk up the weight. We only want the very tips of the bushes. Two leaves and a bud is what we say.’

  She noticed how warm and friendly he was with a man who came up and spoke in Tamil. After Laurence had replied, also in Tamil, he proudly put an arm round her shoulders.

  ‘Gwen, let me introduce you to my factory manager and tea maker. Darish is in charge of the entire manufacturing process.’

  The man nodded rather uncertainly and bowed before heading off again.

  ‘He’s only ever seen one Englishwoman in here.’

  ‘Caroline?’

  ‘No, actually, it was Christina. Come upstairs and I’ll show you the withering tables. When there’s a large amount of leaf, Darish and his withering supervisor will be working from two in the morning, but because of the weather it’s quiet at the moment.’

  To Gwen it didn’t seem quiet at all, but a medley of activity, movement and background noise. Whether it was the mention of Christina that made her feel uneasy, or the intoxicating smell of leaf, strong, slightly bitter and rather strange, she didn’t know. She told herself not to be silly. Laurence had said it was over.

  They walked past piles of baskets and various bits of paraphernalia, tools, rope and the like, and then went on up the stairs.

  ‘These are the withering lofts where we allow the leaves to wither naturally,’ he said as they reached the top. ‘The tea plant is actually called Camellia Sinensis.’

  Gwen looked at the four long platform tables on which the tea was laid out. ‘How long does it take to wither?’ she asked.

  He put an arm round her waist and she leant against him, enjoying being with him in his world.

  ‘It depends on the weather. If it’s misty, as it is now, it withers slowly. The leaves need warm air to circulate through, you see. The temperature has to be just right. Sometimes we have to use artificial heat from the furn
ace to dry the leaf. That’s what you can hear. But in fine weather, if the shutters are properly adjusted, the wind coming through the open windows is enough.’

  ‘And what’s on the floor below?’

  ‘Once it’s withered adequately, it will go under rollers to bruise the leaves. Do you want to see?’

  She watched as the withered leaf was sent down large chutes and into another machine on the floor below. As Darish joined them again, Laurence rolled up his sleeves and, striding around, checked the machines, looking so much in his element she couldn’t help smiling.

  He said something in Tamil as he turned to Darish. The man nodded then shot off to do as he’d been asked.

  ‘Shall we go down?’ Laurence took her arm and they headed for the stairs. ‘The leaves will be compressed in the roll breakers.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘A rotor vane chops the tea, then it will be sifted to separate the larger particles from the smaller.’

  She sniffed the air, which now smelt rather like dried mown grass, and gazed at tea that looked like chopped tobacco.

  ‘It will be fermented in the drying room. It’s the fermentation that turns it black.’

  ‘I never realized so much went into my morning cup of tea.’

  He kissed the top of her head. ‘That’s not the end of it. It’s fired to stop the fermentation, then it’s sifted into different grades, and then, only after the final inspection, is it packed and sent off to London or Colombo.’

  ‘So much to do. Your man must be very skilled.’

  Laurence laughed. ‘He is. As you can see, he has assistant tea makers, and dozens of workers, but he’s been on this estate since he was a boy. He worked for my father before me, and he really knows the job.’

  ‘So who actually sells the tea?’

  ‘It’s auctioned, either in Colombo or London, and my agent fixes up my financial affairs. Now, I think the midday horn will be going off very shortly and you’ll find it unbearably loud from here.’

  He grinned and she couldn’t help see what a powerful man she had married. He wasn’t just lean and strong from the physical work he did, he was also determined and very much in charge. And though he was having trouble implementing some of the changes he talked about, she had absolute confidence that he would succeed.