The Tea Planter’s Wife Page 2

  ‘He’ll know. Anyone British of any standing goes to the Galle Face.’

  She glanced at the imposing façade of the Grand Oriental. ‘Not there?’

  ‘Definitely not there. Trust me.’

  In the fierce brightness of the afternoon, the wind blew a cloud of grit into her face, sending tears streaming down her cheeks. She blinked rapidly, then rubbed her eyes, hoping she really could trust him. Perhaps he was right. A person could die in this heat.

  A short distance from where she stood, a tight bundle had formed beneath rows and rows of fluttering white ribbons strung across the street, and a man in brown robes, making a repetitive high-pitched sound, stood in the centre of a group of colourful women. Mr Ravasinghe saw Gwen watching.

  ‘The monk is pirith chanting,’ he said. ‘It is often required at the deathbed to ensure a good passing. Here I think it is because great evil may have transpired at that spot, or at the very least a death. The monk is attempting to purify the place of any remaining malignancy by calling for the blessings of the gods. We believe in ghosts in Ceylon.’

  ‘You are all Buddhists?’

  ‘I myself am, but there are Hindus and Muslims too.’

  ‘And Christians?’

  He inclined his head.

  When by three there was still no sign of Laurence, the man held out a hand and took a step away. ‘Well?’

  She nodded, and he called out to one of the rickshaw men, who wore very little more than a turban and a greasy-looking loincloth.

  She shuddered at how thin the man’s brown naked back was. ‘I’m surely not going in that?’

  ‘Would you prefer a bullock cart?’

  She felt herself redden as she glanced at the heap of oval orange fruits piled up in a cart that had huge wooden wheels and a matted canopy.

  ‘I do beg your pardon, Mrs Hooper. I shouldn’t tease. Your husband uses carts to transport the tea chests. We would actually ride in a small buggy. Just the one bullock and with a shady palm-leaf hood.’

  She pointed at the orange fruits. ‘What are those?’

  ‘King coconut. Only for the juice. Are you thirsty?’

  Even though she was, she shook her head. On the wall just behind Mr Ravasinghe, a large poster showed a dark-skinned woman balancing a wicker basket on her head and wearing a yellow and red sari. She had bare feet and gold bangles on her ankles and she wore a yellow headscarf. MAZZAWATTEE TEA the poster proclaimed. Gwen’s hands grew clammy and a flood of sickening panic swept through her. She was very far from home.

  ‘As you can see,’ Mr Ravasinghe was saying, ‘cars are few and far between, and a rickshaw is certainly faster. If you are unhappy, we can wait, and I’ll try to obtain a horse and carriage. Or, if it helps, I can accompany you in the rickshaw.’

  At that moment, a large black car came hooting its way through the crowd of pedestrians, bicyclists, carts and carriages, only narrowly missing numerous sleeping dogs. Laurence, she thought with a surge of relief, but when she looked in through the window of the passing vehicle, she saw it contained only two large middle-aged European women. One turned to look at Gwen, her face a picture of disapproval.

  Right, Gwen thought, galvanized into action, a rickshaw it is.

  A cluster of thin palms stood waving in the breeze outside the Galle Face Hotel, and the building itself sided the ocean in a very British way. When Mr Ravasinghe had given her the oriental manner of salutation, and a very warm smile, she was sorry to see him go, but walked past the two curved staircases and settled herself to wait in the relative cool of the Palm Lounge. She instantly felt at home and closed her eyes, pleased to have a small respite from the almost total invasion of her senses. Her rest didn’t last long. If Laurence were to arrive now, she was only too aware of the sorry state she was in, and that was not the impression she wanted to create. She sipped her cup of Ceylon tea, and then looked across the tables and chairs dotted about the polished teak floor. In one corner a discreet sign pinpointed the location of the ladies’ powder room.

  In the sweet-smelling, multiple-mirrored room, she splashed the repeated image of her face, and applied a dab of Après L’Ondée, which luckily had been safely stowed in her small case, and not in her drowned purse. She felt sticky, with sweat running down under her arms, but pinned up her hair again so that it coiled neatly at the nape of her neck. Her hair was her crowning glory, Laurence said. It was dark, long and ringleted when unpinned. When she’d mentioned she was considering having it cut short like Fran’s, flapper style, he’d looked horrified, and tugged loose a curl at the back of her neck, then leant down and rubbed his chin on top of her head. After that, with his palms placed on either side of her jaw, his fingers gathering up her hair, he’d stared at her.

  ‘Never cut your hair. Promise me.’

  She’d nodded, unable to speak, the tingle from his hands so delicious that all manner of hitherto unfelt sensations arose in her.

  Their wedding night had been perfect and so had the following week. On their final night neither of them had slept, and he’d had to rise before dawn in order to reach Southampton in time to board the ship for Ceylon. Though he was disappointed she wasn’t coming with him, he had business in Ceylon and they agreed the time would soon pass. He hadn’t minded her staying on to wait for Fran, but she had regretted the decision the moment he was gone and hardly knew how she would bear to be apart from him. Then, when Fran had been delayed still further in London over a property she was letting out, Gwen decided to travel alone.

  With her captivating looks, Gwen had never been short of beaux, but she’d fallen for Laurence from the moment she spotted him at a musical evening Fran had taken her to in London, and when he had grinned at her and charged over determined to introduce himself, she was lost. They’d seen each other every day after that, and when he proposed, she’d raised a burning face and, with no hesitation, said yes. Her parents had been none too pleased that a thirty-seven-year-old widower wanted to marry her, and her father had taken a little persuading, but was impressed when Laurence offered to leave a manager in charge of the plantation and return to live in England. Gwen would not hear of it. If Ceylon was where his heart belonged, it was where her heart would belong too.

  As she closed the powder-room door behind her, she saw him standing with his back to her in the large entrance hall and her breath caught in her throat. She touched the beads at her neck, adjusting the blue droplet so that it sat in the centre, and, awed by the intensity of her feelings, stood still to drink in the sight of him. He was tall, with a good broad back and short light-brown hair, flecked with early grey at the temples. A product of Winchester school, he looked as if confidence ran in his veins: a man who women adored and men respected. Yet he read Robert Frost and William Butler Yeats. She loved him for it, and for the fact that he already knew she was far from the demure girl people expected her to be.

  As if he had felt her eyes on him, he spun round. She took in the relief in his fierce brown eyes, and the wide spreading smile as he came striding towards her. He had a square jaw and a cleft chin, which, along with the way his hair waved at the front and went crazy at the double crown, she found utterly irresistible. Because he was wearing shorts, she could see his legs were tanned, and he looked so much more dusty and rugged here than he had done in the chilly English countryside.

  Full of energy, she ran across to meet him. He held her at arm’s length for just a moment, then wrapped her in a bear hug so tight she could hardly breathe. Her heart was still racing when he’d finished swinging her round and finally let her go.

  ‘You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,’ he said, his voice deep and a little gruff.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I asked the harbour master where the most beautiful woman in Ceylon had gone.’

  She smiled. ‘That’s very nice, but of course I am not.’

  ‘One of the most adorable things about you is that you have no idea how lovely you are.’ He held both her ha
nds in his. ‘I’m so sorry I was late.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Someone looked after me. He said he knew you. Mr Ravasinghe, I think that was his name.’

  ‘Savi Ravasinghe?’

  ‘Yes.’ She felt the skin at the back of her neck prickle. He frowned and narrowed his eyes, increasing the fan of fine lines that were prematurely etched into his skin. She longed to touch them. He was a man who had lived and, to her, that made him even more attractive.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said, quickly recovering his good humour. ‘I’m here now. The darned car had a problem. Luckily, Nick McGregor managed to sort it out. It’s too late to drive back, so I’m just booking us rooms.’

  They walked back to the desk, then, finished with the clerk, he reached for her, and as his lips brushed her cheek her breath escaped in a little puff.

  ‘Your trunk will go up by train,’ he said. ‘At least as far as Hatton.’

  ‘I know, I talked to the man in the Port Authority building.’

  ‘Right. McGregor will arrange for one of the coolies to fetch it from the station in a bullock cart. Will you have enough in that case until tomorrow?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Do you want some tea?’ he said.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  She grinned and suppressed the urge to laugh out loud as he asked the clerk to send the bags up double quick.

  They walked to the stairs arm in arm, but once round the bend in the stairwell she felt unexpectedly shy. He let go of her and went on ahead to unlock and then throw open the door.

  She took the last few steps and gazed in at the room.

  Late afternoon sunlight spilt through tall windows, tinting the walls a delicate shade of pink; the painted lamps either side of the bed were already lit and the room smelt of oranges. Looking at a scene so clearly set for intimacy, she felt a burst of heat at the back of her neck and scratched the skin there. The moment she had imagined over and over was finally here, and yet she stood hesitating in the doorway.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ he said, his eyes bright and shiny.

  She felt her pulse jump in her throat.

  ‘Darling?’

  ‘I love it,’ she managed to say.

  He came across to her and let loose the hair that was pinned up. ‘There. That’s better.’

  She nodded. ‘They’ll be bringing the bags.’

  ‘I think we have a few moments,’ he said, and touched her bottom lip with his fingertip. But then, as if on cue, there was a knock at the door.

  ‘I’ll just open the window,’ she said, stepping back, glad of an excuse not to let the porter witness her stupid anxiety.

  Their room faced the ocean and as she pushed the window ajar she looked out at ripples of silvery gold where the sun caught the tips of the waves. This was what she wanted, and it wasn’t as if they hadn’t spent a week together in England, but home felt very distant and that thought brought her close to tears. She closed her eyes and listened as the porter carried in their bags, then, once the man had gone, she twisted back to look at Laurence.

  He gave her a crooked smile. ‘Is something wrong?’

  She bowed her head and stared at the floor.

  ‘Gwen, look at me.’

  She blinked rapidly and the room seemed to hush. Thoughts raced through her mind as she wondered how to explain the sensation of being catapulted into a world she didn’t understand, though it wasn’t just that – the feeling of being naked under his gaze had unnerved her too. Not wanting the embarrassment to ambush her, she looked up and, moving very slowly, took a few steps towards him.

  He looked relieved. ‘I was worried for a moment there.’

  Her legs began to shake. ‘I’m being silly. Everything is so new … You’re so new.’

  He smiled and came to her. ‘Well, if that’s all, it’s easily remedied.’

  She leant in towards him, feeling light-headed as he fumbled with the button at the back of her dress.

  ‘Here, let me,’ she said and, reaching behind, slipped the button through the loop. ‘It’s a knack.’

  He laughed. ‘One I shall have to learn.’

  An hour later and Laurence was asleep. Fuelled by the long wait, their love-making had been intense, even more so than on their wedding night. She thought back to the moments when she first arrived in the country; it was as if the hot Colombo sun had sucked the energy from her body. She’d been wrong. There was abundant energy lying in reserve, although now as she lay listening to the threads of sound drifting in from the outside world, her arms and legs felt heavy and she wasn’t far from sleep. She realized how perfectly natural lying beside Laurence was beginning to feel and, smiling at her earlier nervousness, shifted a little so that she could look at him while still feeling the strength of his body in the places where he seemed to be glued to her. Blanched of all emotion but one, her love had somehow distilled into this perfect moment. It was going to be all right. For another minute or two she breathed in the muskiness of him while watching the shadows of the room lengthen and then rapidly darken. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

  2

  Two days later Gwen woke early to sunlight streaming through her muslin curtains. She was looking forward to breakfasting with Laurence, and then being taken on the grand tour. She sat on the side of the bed and undid the plaits in her hair, then swivelled round to sink her feet into a sleek fur rug. She glanced down and wriggled her toes in its whiteness, wondering what animal it had belonged to. Out of bed, she slipped on a pale silk gown someone had draped over a nearby chair.

  They’d arrived at the plantation in the hill country the night before, just as the sun went down. With a head aching from exhaustion, and dazzled by the violent reds and purples of the evening sky, Gwen had fallen into bed.

  Now she marched across the wooden floorboards and went to the window to pull the curtains apart. She took a deep breath when she looked out on the first morning of her new world and, blinking in the brightness, reeled at the barrage of buzzing, whistling and chirping that filled the air.

  Below her, gentle flower-filled gardens sloped down to the lake in three terraces, with paths, steps and benches strategically placed between the three. The lake itself was the most gloriously shining silver she’d ever seen. All memory of the previous day’s car journey, with its terrifying hairpin bends, deep ravines and nauseating bumps, was instantly washed away. Rising up behind the lake, and surrounding it, was a tapestry of green velvet, the tea bushes as symmetrical as if they’d been stitched in rows, where women tea pickers wore eye-catching brightly coloured saris, and looked like tiny embroidered birds who had stopped to peck.

  Just outside her bedroom window, there was a grapefruit tree beside another tree she didn’t recognize, but that looked as if it was laden with cherries. She would actually pick some for breakfast, she decided. On the table out there, a small creature stared back at her with round saucer-like eyes, looking half monkey and half owl. She glanced back at the enormous four-poster bed, surrounded by a mosquito net. The satin spread was barely crumpled and she thought it odd that Laurence hadn’t joined her. Perhaps, wanting her to have an uninterrupted sleep after the journey, he had gone to his own room. She looked round, hearing the door creak as it opened. ‘Oh, Laurence I –’

  ‘Lady. You must be knowing, I am Naveena. Here to wait on you.’

  Gwen stared at the small, square-shaped woman. She wore a long blue and yellow wraparound skirt with a white blouse, and had a long greying plait that hung all the way down her back. Her round face was a mass of wrinkles and her dark-ringed eyes gave nothing away.

  ‘Where’s Laurence?’

  ‘Master is at work. Since two hours going now.’

  Deflated, Gwen took a step back and sat on the bed.

  ‘You wishing breakfast here?’ The woman indicated a small table in the window. There was a pause as they stared at each other. ‘Or verandah?’

  ‘I’d like to was
h first. Where is the bathroom?’

  The woman walked across to the other side of the room, and as she moved, Gwen noticed her hair and clothes were infused with an unusual spicy fragrance.

  ‘Here, Lady,’ the woman said. ‘Behind screen is your bathing room, but latrine coolie not coming yet.’

  ‘Latrine coolie?’

  ‘Yes, Lady. Coming soon.’

  ‘Is the water hot?’

  The woman waggled her head. Gwen was unsure whether she had meant yes it was or no it wasn’t, and realized she must have shown her uncertainty.

  ‘There is wood-burn boiler, Lady. Albizia wood. Hot water coming in, morning and evening, one hour.’

  Gwen held her head high and attempted to sound more self-assured than she felt. ‘Very well. I shall wash first and then take breakfast outside.’

  ‘Very good, Lady.’

  The woman pointed at the French windows. ‘They open to verandah. I will go and come. Bring tea for you there.’

  ‘What is the creature out there?’

  The woman turned to look, but the creature had gone.

  In complete contrast to the sweltering humidity of Colombo, it was a bright but slightly chilly morning. After breakfasting she picked a cherry; the fruit was a lovely dark red, but when she bit, it tasted sour, and she spat it out. She wrapped her shawl round her shoulders and set off to investigate the house.

  First she explored a wide, high-ceilinged corridor that ran the length of the house. The dark wooden floor gleamed and the walls were punctuated by oil lamps along its length. She sniffed the air. She’d expected the place to smell of cigar smoke, which it did, but it also smelt strongly of coconut oil and aromatic polish. Laurence called it a bungalow, but Gwen noticed a sweeping teak staircase that led off from an airy hall to another floor. On the other side of the stairs, a beautiful chiffonier inlaid with mother of pearl leant against the wall, and next to that was a door. She pushed open the door and walked into a spacious drawing room.

  Surprised by its size, she took a deep breath, opened one of the brown shuttered windows from a bank of windows running across the entire wall, and saw this room also fronted the lake. As light filled the room she glanced around. The walls were painted the softest blue-green you could imagine and the general effect of the place was refreshingly cool, with comfy-looking armchairs and two pale sofas piled high with embroidered cushions depicting birds, elephants and exotic flowers. A leopard skin hung across the back of one of the sofas.