Gwen felt like howling, and the only clear words she could hear in her head were: please, please – don’t tell Laurence.
‘Florence said she saw you going up the stairs with Savi at the ball, and you went to see him on your own when Fran was ill. He now co-owns Fran’s share in the plantation. Laurence won’t be too happy about that, and if I tell him about your daughter too, well – I’m sure he’ll let me come home.’
Gwen stood up. ‘Very well. I’ll have a word with him about your allowance.’
‘So it is true? Liyoni is your daughter.’
‘I did not say that. You’re twisting my words. I just want to help you.’
She knew her voice had sounded artificial, and it was confirmed when Verity threw back her head and roared with laughter.
‘You are too transparent, Gwen. I didn’t really overhear you and Naveena. One day the child was sitting near you, the sun lit your faces in a particular way, and I saw. She has your bone structure, Gwen. Then I noticed her hair. Normally it’s tied up or plaited, but she’d been in the water and it had dried in ringlets, just like yours.’
Gwen tried to interrupt.
‘Hear me out. After that I watched you together and your feelings for her became obvious. I searched your room one day when you were in New York, and I found the box and the key. Now why would you hide the drawings of a native child, Gwen? Why would you treasure them? Keep them under lock and key?’
Gwen felt the blood flood into her face as she bent down to pick up a piece of fluff from the floor.
‘I felt sure when I found the drawings, but in any case your response now has told me all I needed to know. It was Savi Ravasinghe, wasn’t it? He’s the mongrel girl’s father. Wonder what your cousin will make of that!’
When Gwen stood, she tucked a stray ringlet behind her ear and tried to keep her voice steady. ‘I don’t understand why you want to hurt me so. Don’t you even care how much you’re going to hurt your brother?’
Silence.
‘Well?’
‘I care about Laurence.’
Gwen feared she might not be able to hold herself together. ‘So why are you doing this?’
‘I need my allowance.’
‘But why? You have a husband.’
Verity closed her eyes briefly as she took a sharp breath in. ‘I don’t want to end up like you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Forget it. Just make sure you speak to my brother.’
‘And if I don’t, you’re prepared to ruin our lives?’
Verity raised her brows. ‘I shall expect to see my allowance coming in to my account on a monthly basis, starting next month. If not, Laurence shall know everything.’
‘You know very well that until the brand succeeds, Laurence won’t be in a position to do that.’
‘In that case, I think you have something of a dilemma to resolve.’
‘I know you were stealing from the household budget. What do you think Laurence will make of that? I knew when I was ill. Supplies disappeared from the cupboard and then suddenly reappeared. You had the key while I was sick, and before I arrived. It could only have been you.’
‘It was good while it lasted. The appu and I sold stuff on and shared the profits. What a joke when we saw you trying to make sense of the accounts! But you’d have a hard time proving it. I’ll tell Laurence I was just borrowing, and anyway, when I tell him about your brat, do you think he’ll care?’
‘Tell me why you need money so badly. What about Alexander?’
Verity’s face closed up. ‘I’ve already said. That is not an option.’
‘I could try to persuade Laurence to let you live with us again.’
She looked at Verity, but her sister-in-law had fallen asleep.
Gwen knew she had to get Verity out of the hotel before Laurence arrived, and felt as if she was living on a boundary somewhere between her real life and a nightmare she had inadvertently stumbled into. She clung to the hope that Verity’s threat was empty and only the result of a drunken excess, but in her heart she suspected her sister-in-law was capable of almost anything.
In order to keep an eye out for Laurence, Gwen paraded back and forth in front of the window, watching the clock and smoking several of Verity’s vile cigarettes which only intensified the nausea that was rising in her. Suffocated by fear, she longed to cry for the release it would bring, but forced herself to suppress her tears, along with any hope that this would end well. Gwen didn’t know if she really believed the story about Fran’s marriage, but if it was true her cousin was no longer the one person in the world she wanted to talk to.
33
By the time Laurence arrived back at the Galle Face, Verity had gone and Fran still had not turned up. Gwen passed a restless night listening to the ocean and going over what Verity had said until, just before dawn, she fell asleep for an hour or so.
Later, when they left without Fran, Gwen was relieved to curl up in the back of the car, while McGregor and Laurence talked business in the front. Laurence had been annoyed that they’d had no word from Fran but, knowing what a free spirit she was, didn’t want to waste more time waiting. Gwen had not mentioned seeing Verity, nor her news about Fran’s supposed marriage. She just wanted to sleep, if only to forget, but about a mile or so away from the hotel, some kind of commotion stopped the traffic. Rickshaw riders were managing to squeeze past but the cars were at a standstill.
‘What the devil … ?’ McGregor said as he pulled up and then wound down the driver’s window.
The sound of shouts and whistles met them, as well as the usual smells and noises of the streets. It didn’t seem much. Just a few people chanting. The shops were still open and pedestrians were still shopping.
‘Can you see anything?’ Gwen asked.
He shook his head.
But when Laurence opened the door on the passenger side, the noise hit them with full force.
‘It’s more than I thought. There seems to be some kind of demonstration. I’ll get out and take a look. Nick, you stay in the car. You might get an opportunity to move it.’
‘Oh, Laurence,’ Gwen said. ‘After what you said! What if there’s trouble?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ll be fine.’
While he was gone, they waited. She felt stifled, stuck inside a hot car with so much going on in her head, and asked McGregor to unlock the door so that she could look for Laurence. McGregor refused, the tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel only increasing her feeling of claustrophobia. As the level of noise intensified, Gwen heard the thump of drums coming from somewhere behind the car. She twisted back to look and saw another group of people shouting some kind of slogan as they marched along the road towards the car. When she glanced out of the front window again in the hope of seeing Laurence, she saw that the first group had turned and were also streaming towards the car, brandishing sticks. Shocked to see shrieking schoolchildren, dressed in white, swarming behind the mob, she shrank back in her seat, realizing their car was now hemmed in between the two groups.
‘Make sure your window is wound up,’ McGregor said as a man thumped on the bonnet of the car and laughed. ‘Quickly. This isn’t against us, I don’t think, but you don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.’
‘What about Laurence?’
‘He’ll be all right.’
Now properly trapped in the car, they could only watch as the two groups faced each other just behind them. At the sound of breaking glass, Gwen looked through the back window.
‘My God, they are throwing bottles. I hope they get the children out of the way.’
Stones and lumps of concrete started to fly through the air. A couple of women screamed and there was the sound of a loudspeaker. A flare went up, and then another, followed by the sound of shopkeepers rolling down their shutters and people calling to each other as they fled into alleys and side streets. Smoke filled the air as somebody lit a bonfire in the street.
Gwen felt her neck and sho
ulders knotting up. ‘I’m frightened for Laurence.’
‘If he has any sense he’ll have taken cover.’
As she attempted to look for Laurence through the crowded street, three men ran up and leant on one side of the car, rocking it with their weight.
Gwen could hardly speak, her fear almost choking her. ‘McGregor!’
‘I’ll fucking kill the bastards! They’re trying to overturn us.’
Shocked by his language, Gwen saw McGregor take out his gun and point it at them. It was enough. One of the men pulled the other two away and they joined the mob as it slowly shifted further and further behind them. At last the street ahead of them had cleared a little and McGregor was able to edge the car forward. A few people cowered on the pavement, some with cuts and bruises, but the situation behind them was growing uglier.
‘Where are the police, for heaven’s sake?’ Gwen said.
She searched the street for Laurence, but it was only when they’d almost reached the school where it had all begun that she spotted him standing in a doorway with a woman who looked as if she’d been hurt. When they got nearer Gwen saw blood dripping from a cut on her forehead. She opened the window and signalled frantically. Laurence started towards them, guiding the woman by the elbow. By now, police on horseback had arrived and were threatening the mob with truncheons. Gwen breathed a sigh of relief to see the children being herded back inside the school.
As Laurence helped the woman into the back of the car, where she sat with her head in her hands, a shot rang out.
‘Get us out of here, Nick,’ Laurence said. ‘Gwen, have you got anything to mop up the blood?’
Gwen squeezed the woman’s hand. ‘I’ve got this,’ she said, and began dabbing with her shawl.
The woman groaned, then glanced up at her. ‘I am a teacher. It was supposed to be peaceful.’
Laurence told McGregor to drive to the hospital, then spoke to Gwen. ‘It’s about which language should dominate in the classroom.’
‘Really?’
‘The educated Tamils have traditionally had the best government jobs and the Sinhalese think it’s unfair. They want Sinhala to be the dominant language.’
Gwen felt so upset, she couldn’t hide it. First Verity and now this. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why the violence? Does it matter so much?’
The Sinhalese teacher looked at her. ‘When we have independence, which language is taught will matter very much.’
‘Can’t they both be taught?’
The woman shook her head.
‘Well, whichever it is, I hope it can happen without more bloodshed.’
The woman snorted. ‘This is nothing. Someone like you who has never had to fight for anything can have no idea.’
When they arrived home, Laurence said that in the wake of the riot he had letters to attend to and, so as not to disturb Gwen, he told her he would sleep in his own room. After a night during which Verity’s threat left her with intense, disturbing dreams, Gwen sat at her dressing table gazing at her reflection. With her hair uncombed and no lipstick or rouge, she looked pale. She gripped her hairbrush and brushed furiously, then dabbed some rouge on her cheeks. Her dark hair stood out like a mane and the rouge looked startling against the pallor of her skin. She rubbed it off and braided her hair, then kept rubbing and rubbing her cheeks, as if by doing so she could rub away the fear. The woman was wrong. She might not have had to fight for a privileged existence, but she’d had to fight to protect it, and now that Verity knew the truth about Liyoni, she faced the gravest challenge of her life.
She took out the box where Liyoni’s drawings had been hidden and, sure enough, when she looked for the key that she kept separately, it wasn’t there. She rattled the box. There was nothing inside. She fumbled in each of her drawers, picking out the private contents, then dropping them, until the floor was strewn with pins, combs and letters. She searched her desk, her bedside tables and then her various handbags. Not that it really mattered now, but Verity had kept the key. Blinking away tears, Gwen gripped the arms of her chair and felt so invaded she wished that she had pushed Verity down the stairs.
The next day Fran called. Deeply apologetic for not coming back with them, and saying she was in Hatton and would be with them very soon, she did little to actually explain, other than to say there had been a hitch. Typical Fran, Gwen thought. Her cousin had also said that she had a big surprise for them, and Gwen prayed it wasn’t that she was bringing Savi Ravasinghe with her.
While Laurence was downstairs immersed in his newspaper, reading about the riot, Gwen tiptoed into his dark bedroom. It smelt of him, soapy and lemony. She switched on the light and felt sad as she glanced round to see if the photograph of Caroline was still on the table. It was not, but Gwen still had the sense of Caroline being around, as if she had gone offstage and missed her cue to come back on.
She opened Laurence’s large mahogany wardrobe and felt the row of clothes hanging inside. Trousers, jackets, evening dress, shirts. She picked one of his starched white shirts and pulled it out. Nothing of him remained on it, so she opened a drawer instead and found a blue silk scarf still with his hairs on it. She sniffed. That was better. If she was going to be forced to tell Laurence the truth, she wanted something of his to hold on to at night.
The light flickered and went out. She pocketed the scarf, found her way to the door by the light coming in from the hall and slid her palm along the polished banister rail as she ran down. As she reached the bend in the stairs, she couldn’t avoid seeing Liyoni’s wheelchair in the hall. It had been received with such a mixture of disbelief and guilt that, since then, she hadn’t gone near it. She couldn’t stand the thought of the child’s young body being crippled by illness, and still prayed for a miracle.
Restless, Gwen felt unable to remain in one place, but went to join Laurence. Everything had become so confusing. Part of her longed to see Fran, but so far she didn’t even know if it was true about the painter and her cousin. She picked up a magazine from the coffee table. It was the weekend and Laurence was still immersed in the paper, oblivious to Hugh getting under their feet.
Gwen prickled with irritation. ‘Laurence, can’t you take Hugh off to make a model aeroplane or something?’
He glanced up and tapped his newspaper. ‘It became a mob, you know, in Colombo. People were killed. Hope it’s not the start of things to come.’
She closed her eyes at the memory of the scene in Colombo. It had been awful, but right now she had other concerns.
‘On a lighter note, we’ll soon be seeing our tea advertised in here.’
‘The aeroplane, Laurence. Must it always be me who notices? Hugh is bored. Can’t you see?’
Hugh had three Hubley cast-iron planes, but while they’d been in New York, Laurence had bought one of the new die-cast toy planes and one in pressed steel. She knew he and Hugh were trying to copy them in balsa, a strong but easy-to-shape wood.
Laurence folded his paper. ‘You seem rather nervy, Gwen. Is anything wrong? If it’s the riot –’
‘No,’ she snapped. ‘Nothing that you getting Hugh out from under my feet won’t fix. I’m just excited to be seeing Fran again.’
He looked at her and nodded, but she could see he didn’t believe her. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘If you’re sure. Come on, Hugh. Boot room for us, old chap.’
She managed a half-smile.
After he’d gone, she continued to pick up one magazine after another, but couldn’t focus on the words. At a loss, and with time hanging heavily, Gwen decided to examine the wheelchair. The longer she left it, the more dreadful the ghost it seemed to represent. She went out to the hall again, then stroked the leather arms, touched the headrest and tried out the metal braking system.
The thought of what Laurence would say if Fran really had married Savi Ravasinghe sent the tension that had knotted in her shoulders during the riot to travel to her temples. She rotated her neck in an attempt to ease it, but felt as if she was sitting on a volcano th
at at any moment would go off, leaving the wreckage of her family in its wake.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell and, as she was already in the hall, she opened the door and found Fran standing on the step holding a small case. She wore a wonderful batwing coat, made up in a kind of tapestry fabric, and a ruby red hat, but with no gloves. Gwen looked at her ring finger. A diamond surrounded by sapphires and a narrow band of gold. Verity had been telling the truth.
Gwen couldn’t pretend surprise and glanced up at her cousin, seeing straight away that Fran’s face was subtly changed. She looked softer somehow, as if love had blunted the edges.
Fran’s smile faltered. ‘The bitch told you, didn’t she?’
Gwen nodded.
‘I asked her not to. I wanted to tell you myself.’
Gwen put her head on one side and scrutinized Fran’s face. ‘And of course there are no such things as letters or telephones or telegraph wires!’
‘Sorry.’
‘Look, Fran, I’m only confused why you didn’t tell me before you got married.’
‘I felt sure you’d disapprove. I couldn’t have borne to hear that in your voice when I was so frightfully happy.’
Gwen opened her arms. ‘Come here.’
After they had hugged, Gwen held her cousin at arm’s length. ‘You are happy?’
‘Blissfully.’
‘And you don’t mind about –’ She hesitated, not sure what she really wanted to say. ‘You don’t mind about –’
‘His chequered past? Of course I don’t. This is the modern age, remember. In any case, I’ve had my fair share of experience, and you can wipe that shocked look off your face, Gwendolyn Hooper. We are well matched, Savi and I.’
Gwen laughed. ‘Oh, Fran, I have missed you so much.’ She looked round. ‘Where is he anyway?’
‘He’s in Nuwara. I wanted to see how the land lay with Laurence.’
The Tea Planter's Wife Page 36