The Tea Planter’s Wife (4 page)

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?

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 against 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.

‘I have lemonade, Lady.’

The expression in her dark eyes was so kind that Gwen burst into tears. Naveena held out a hand and put her fingertips on Gwen’s arm, just a light touch. Gwen stared at the woman’s rough brown-skinned hand, so dark against her own whiteness. Naveena looked as if she had the wisdom of the ages in her eyes, and Gwen was drawn to her composure. Though longing to have Naveena hold her and gently stroke her hair, she remembered Florence Shoebotham’s words and turned away. Best not become too friendly with the servants.

A little later, and anxious to get out of the house to try to salvage something of the day, Gwen dressed quickly, but couldn’t stop the turmoil in her mind. She remembered her hat, and decided to explore what might lie beyond the tall trees at the side of the house. It was quiet and the air hung lazily in the solid afternoon heat. Even the birds were sleeping and the only sound came from the hum of insects. She walked out of the back door and passed by the lake. A pale lilac haze had spread over it for as far as she could see. Laurence had told her she could only swim under supervision, so she ignored her inclination to peel off her dress and slip into the water.

The usually green hills on the other side of the lake were now blue, and it was harder to pick out the colourful shapes of the women pickers. Her first impression had remained, however. Exotic birds they were, with a basket hung over their shoulders
and their saris of every hue. She now knew that all the labourers on the estate were Tamils; the Sinhalese thought it shameful to work for a wage as labourers, though a few were happy to work indoors, and so the plantation owners had turned to India. Some Tamils had actually lived on the plantation for generations, Laurence said. And though she had been told not to, Gwen wanted to see what the labour lines looked like. She imagined cosy cottages and soft, round-bellied children sleeping in hammocks hanging from the trees.

She reached the courtyard, bordered by the kitchens on one side. The trees marked the end, and the house and terraces to the lake formed the other two sides of the square. Just as she was about to cross the gravel yard, a man wearing little more than rags shuffled to the open kitchen door. She watched as he held out two hands and wobbled his head. A kitchen boy came out, shouted, then pushed the man away. In the kerfuffle, the man fell to the ground. The kitchen boy gave him a kick then marched back indoors, slamming the door.

Gwen hesitated for a moment, but as the man still lay groaning on the gravel, she plucked up her courage and ran across to him.

‘Are you all right?’ she said.

The man looked at her with black eyes. His hair was scruffy, he had a broad and very dark-skinned face, and when he spoke, she had no idea what he was saying. He pointed at his bare feet and she saw a suppurating sore.

‘Gracious, you can’t walk around on that. Here, take my arm.’

The man gazed at her blankly, so she held out her hand to assist him. Once he was firmly holding on, she encouraged him with gestures to move back towards the kitchens. He shook his head and tried to pull away.

‘But you must. That wound needs washing and treating.’ She pointed at his foot. He attempted to pull away again, but owing to his condition, she was the stronger of the two.

Once they managed to reach the kitchen door, she turned the
handle and pushed. Three pairs of eyes watched as they entered the room. None of the three people moved. As Gwen and the man reached the table, she pulled out a chair with one hand and then settled the injured man on to it.

The kitchen boys were muttering in what she assumed was Tamil, because the man on the chair seemed to understand and attempted to rise. Gwen placed her hand on his shoulder and pressed, then she glanced around. She could smell kerosene and noticed that two meat safes and several cream-coloured cupboards had their legs standing in bowls of the stuff; to kill the insects, she assumed. There were a couple of low sinks and a cooking range, clearly fed from the great pile of wood stacked neatly at its side. The whole room smelt of a mixture of human sweat, coconut oil and the curry they’d had for lunch. Her first curry.

‘Now,’ she said as she pointed at two large water tubs next to the sinks. ‘I need a bowl of lukewarm water and some muslin.’

The kitchen boys stared at her. She repeated her request, adding ‘please’. Still, nobody moved. She was wondering what to do when, at that moment, the
appu
walked in. She smiled, thinking she might get somewhere with him; after all, he regularly wished her goodnight, and had been pleasant at their meeting. But one look at his face showed he was not happy.

‘What is this?’

‘I want them to bring water so that I can clean this man’s wound,’ she said.

The
appu
picked his teeth, then made an odd whistling noise through them. ‘You cannot.’

Gwen felt her skin prickle. ‘What do you mean, I cannot? I am mistress of Hooper’s and I must insist you get them to do as I ask.’