The Tea Planter’s Wife
Read The Tea Planter’s Wife Online
Authors: Dinah Jefferies
Chapter 1: Twelve Years Later, Ceylon 1925
Chapter 15: Three Years Later, 1929
Richard and Judy ask Dinah Jefferies
Dinah Jefferies was born in Malaysia but moved to England at the age of nine, travelling widely throughout her life and always maintaining a love of Southeast Asia. She has worked in education, spent time living in a musicians’ commune, and had work publicly exhibited as an artist. Dinah’s first novel,
The Separation
, was published by Penguin in 2014;
The Tea Planter’s Wife
is her second novel. She is currently working on her third novel and is a contributor to the
Guardian
and other newspapers. After living in Andalusia for five years, she now lives in Gloucestershire with her husband. Dinah can be found at
www.dinahjefferies.com
or on Twitter
@DinahJefferies
or Facebook (FB –
Dinah Jefferies
– Author, Penguin UK).
PENGUIN BOOKS
‘Beautifully written and heart-rending, this has a magical setting with a real sense of period’ Katie Fforde
‘My ideal read: mystery, love, heartbreak and joy – I couldn’t put it down’ Santa Montefiore
‘A terrific and atmospheric read, full of riveting detail, and very emotional’ Elizabeth Buchan
‘Dinah Jefferies has once again created a gloriously atmospheric and tension-filled novel. Immensely enjoyable, poignant and compelling’ Isabel Wolff
‘
The Tea Planter’s Wife
is an exceptional novel set in Ceylon in the 1920s and 1930s. The characters come alive moment by moment, as the secrets are unravelled. The tea plantation is a delightful backdrop to weave tales of love and loss. I was spellbound from beginning to end by the emotional twist and turns. Dinah Jefferies has hit a home run with this fabulous novel’ Deborah Rodriguez
‘A wonderful book … intensely moving and beautifully observed. I was enthralled from start to finish. Dinah Jefferies brings to the story a power and intensity that drew me in and wouldn’t let me go in this intimate and emotional tale that explores where the boundaries of love lie. A deeply touching and unforgettable read that swept me away. I loved it’ Kate Furnivall
‘Vibrant and compelling – Dinah Jefferies perfectly captures the flavour of colonial Ceylon’ Rosanna Ley
‘Dark secrets lie at every turn, hidden beneath layers of 1920s racism and the fearfulness of a crumbling colonial power, making for a thoroughly gripping tale. But what I loved most of all is the moving way in which Dinah writes about the loss of children and the redemptive power of love’ Liz Trenow
In memory of my son Jamie
Ceylon, 1913
The woman held a slim white envelope to her lips. She hesitated for a moment longer, pausing to listen to the achingly sweet notes of a distant Sinhalese flute. She considered her resolve, turning it over as she would a pebble in her palm, then sealed the envelope and propped it against a vase of wilting red roses.
The antique ottoman stood at the end of the four-poster bed. Made from dark wood, its sides were covered in satin moiré with a padded leather lid. She lifted the lid, took out her ivory wedding dress and draped it over the back of a chair, wrinkling her nose at the sickly scent of mothballs.
She selected a rose, broke off the bloom and glanced at the baby, glad that he still slept. At her dressing table she raised the flower and held it against her fair hair; such fine threads of silk
he
had always said. She shook her head and let the flower go. Not today.
On the bed the baby’s clothes were already placed in random piles. With the tips of her fingers she touched a freshly laundered matinee jacket, remembering the hours she’d spent knitting until her eyes had stung. Lying beside the clothing were sheets of white tissue paper. Without further delay she folded the little blue jacket, placed it between two sheets of the paper and carried it to the zinc-lined ottoman where she laid it at the bottom.
Each item was folded, placed between tissue and then added to the other layers of woolly hats, bootees, nightgowns and romper suits. Blue. White. Blue. White. Last of all were the muslin squares and terry napkins. These she folded edge to edge, and then, when it was done, she surveyed her morning’s work. Despite what it meant, she did not blanch at the sight.
Another glance at the baby’s fluttering lashes signalled that he
would be waking soon. She’d need to be quick. The dress she had chosen for herself was made from oriental silk in vivid sea green, slightly raised above the ankles and with a high-waisted sash. This had been her favourite dress sent over from Paris. She’d worn it the night of the party, the night she was certain the child had been conceived. She paused again. Might wearing it be viewed as a bitter attempt to wound? She couldn’t be sure. She loved the colour. That’s what she told herself. Above all, it was the colour.
The baby whimpered and began to fret. She glanced at the clock, lifted the child from his crib and sat in the nursing chair by the window, feeling a light breeze cooling her skin. Outside the sun was high in the sky and the heat would be building; somewhere in the house a dog barked and from the kitchens came the heady scents of cooking.
She opened her nightgown to reveal a pale marbled breast. The baby nuzzled and then latched on. A fine strong jaw he had, so much so that her nipples were cracked and raw and, in order to bear the pain, she was forced to bite her lip. To distract herself she glanced around her room. In each of its four corners, memories had attached themselves in the form of objects: the carved footstool that had come from the north; the bedside lampshade she had sewn herself; the rug from Indo-China.
As she stroked the baby’s cheek, he stopped feeding, lifted his free hand and, in one heartbreakingly beautiful moment, his delicate fingers reached for her face. That would have been the moment for tears.
When she had winded him, she laid him on the bed wrapped in a soft crocheted shawl and, once dressed, she cradled him with one arm and took a last look round. With her free hand she closed the lid of the ottoman, threw the abandoned rose in a lacquered wastepaper basket, and then ran her palm over the remaining flowers in the vase, loosening the bruised petals. They floated past the white envelope to fall like splashes of blood on the polished mahogany floor.
She opened the French windows and, glancing around the garden, took three deep breaths of jasmine-scented air. The breeze had dropped; the flute silenced. She had expected to feel afraid, but instead was filled with a welcome sense of relief. That was all, and it was enough. Then, with firm footsteps, she began to walk, one inevitable step after another, and as she left the house behind, she pictured the palest shade of the colour lilac: the colour of tranquillity.
Twelve Years Later, Ceylon 1925
With her straw sun hat in one hand, Gwen leant against the salty railings and glanced down again. She’d been watching the shifting colour of the sea for an hour, tracing the shreds of paper, the curls of orange peel and the leaves drifting by. Now that the water had changed from deepest turquoise to dingy grey, she knew it couldn’t be long. She leant a little further over the rail to watch a piece of silver fabric float out of sight.
When the ship’s horn sounded – loud, prolonged and very close – she jumped, lifting her hand from the rail in surprise. The little satin purse, a farewell present from her mother, with its delicate beaded drawstring, slid over her hand. She gasped and reached out, but saw it was too late as the purse dropped into the ocean, swirled in the dirty water and then sank. And with it her money, and Laurence’s letter with his instructions folded neatly inside.
She looked about her and felt another stirring of the unease she hadn’t been able to shake off since leaving England. You can’t get much further from Gloucestershire than Ceylon, her father had said. As his voice echoed in her head, she was startled when she heard another voice, distinctly male but with an unusually honeyed tone.
‘New to the East?’
Accustomed to the fact that her violet eyes and pale complexion always attracted attention, she turned to look, and was forced to squint into bright sunlight.
‘I … Yes. I’m joining my husband. We’re only recently married.’ She took a breath, just stopping herself from blurting out the whole story.
A broad-shouldered man of medium height, with a strong nose and glittering caramel eyes, gazed back at her. His black brows, curling hair and dark polished skin stopped her in her tracks. She stared, feeling a little unnerved, until he smiled in an open sort of way.
‘You’re lucky. By May the sea would normally be a great deal wilder. A tea planter, I’m guessing,’ he said. ‘Your husband.’
‘How did you know?’
He spread his hands. ‘There is a type.’
She glanced down at her beige-coloured dress: drop-waisted, but with a high collar and long sleeves. She didn’t want to be a ‘type’, but realized that if it wasn’t for the chiffon scarf knotted at her neck, she might appear drab.
‘I saw what happened. I’m sorry about your purse.’
‘It was stupid of me,’ she said, and hoped she wasn’t blushing.
Had she been a little more like her cousin, Fran, she might have engaged him in conversation, but instead, imagining the short exchange to be over, she turned back to watch as the ship slipped closer to Colombo.
Above the shimmering city, a cobalt sky stretched into distant purple hills, trees gave shade and the air was filled with the cries of gulls as they swooped over the small boats massing on the water. The thrill of doing something so different bubbled through her. She had missed Laurence and, for a moment, allowed herself to dream of him. Dreaming was effortless, but the reality was so exciting it set butterflies alight in her stomach. She took a deep breath of what she’d expected would be salty air, and marvelled at the scent of something stronger than salt.
‘What is that?’ she said as she turned to look at the man, who, she rightly sensed, had not shifted from the spot.
He paused and sniffed deeply. ‘Cinnamon and probably sandalwood.’
‘There’s something sweet.’
‘Jasmine flowers. There are many flowers in Ceylon.’
‘How lovely,’ she said. But even then, she knew it was more
than that. Beneath the seductive scent there was an undercurrent of something sour.
‘Bad drains too, I’m afraid.’
She nodded. Perhaps that was it.
‘I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Savi Ravasinghe.’
‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘You’re … I mean, I haven’t seen you at dinner.’
He pulled a face. ‘Not a first-class passenger is what you mean, I think. I’m Sinhalese.’
She hadn’t noticed until now that the man stood on the other side of the rope that separated the classes. ‘Well, it’s very nice to meet you,’ she said, pulling off one of her white gloves. ‘I’m Gwendolyn Hooper.’
‘Then you must be Laurence Hooper’s new wife.’
She fingered the large Ceylon sapphire of her ring and nodded in surprise. ‘You know my husband?’
He inclined his head. ‘I have met your husband, yes, but now I’m afraid I must take my leave.’
She held out her hand, pleased to have met him.
‘I hope you’ll be very happy in Ceylon, Mrs Hooper.’
When he ignored her hand, she let it fall. He pressed his palms together in front of his chest, fingers pointing upwards, and bowed very slightly.
‘May your dreams be fulfilled …’ With closed eyes, he paused for a moment, then walked off.
Gwen felt a little disconcerted by his words, and the odd departing gesture, but with more pressing matters on her mind, she shrugged. She really must try to remember Laurence’s lost instructions.
Luckily, first class disembarked first, and that meant her. She thought of the man again and couldn’t help but feel fascinated. She’d never met anyone so exotic and it would have been much more fun if he’d stayed to keep her company – though, of course, he could not.
Nothing had prepared her for the shock of Ceylon’s scorching heat, nor its clashing colours, nor the contrast between the bright white light and the depth of the shade. Noise bombarded her: bells, horns, people and buzzing insects surrounding her, swirling and eddying, until she felt as if she were being tipped about, like one of the pieces of flotsam she’d been watching earlier. When the background noise was eclipsed by loud trumpeting, she spun round to stare at the timber wharf, mesmerized by the sight of an elephant raising its trunk in the air and bellowing.
When watching an elephant had become quite normal, she braved the Port Authority building, made arrangements for her trunk, then sat on a wooden bench in the hot steamy air with nothing but her hat to shade her, and with which, from time to time, she swatted the clusters of flies that crawled along her hairline. Laurence had promised to be at the dockside but, so far, there was no sign of him. She tried to recall what he’d said to do in the event of an emergency, and spotted Mr Ravasinghe again, making his way out of the second-class hatch in the side of the ship. By avoiding looking at the man, she hoped to hide her flush of embarrassment at her predicament, and turned the other way to watch the haphazard loading of tea chests on to a barge at the other end of the docks.
The smell of drains had long since overpowered the spicy fragrance of cinnamon, and now mingled with other rank odours: grease, bullock dung, rotting fish. And as the dockside filled with more disgruntled passengers being besieged by traders and hawkers peddling gemstones and silk, she felt sick with nerves. What would she do if Laurence didn’t come? He had promised. She was only nineteen, and he knew she’d never been further from Owl Tree Manor than a trip or two to London with Fran. Feeling very alone, her spirits sank. It was too bad her cousin hadn’t been able to travel out with her, but straight after the wedding Fran had been called away by her solicitor, and though Gwen would have entrusted Laurence with her life, all things considered, she couldn’t help feeling a bit upset.
A swarm of semi-naked brown-skinned children flitted among the crowd, offering bundles of cinnamon sticks, and with enormous, imploring eyes, begged for rupees. A child who couldn’t have been more than five pulled out a bundle for Gwen. She held it to her nose and sniffed. The child spoke, but it was gobbledegook to Gwen, and sadly she had no rupees to give the urchin, nor any English money either, now.
She stood and walked about. There was a brief gust of wind, and, from somewhere in the distance, came a troubling sound –
boom
,
boom
,
boom
. Drums, she thought. Loud, but not quite loud enough to identify a regular beat. She didn’t wander far from the small case she’d left by the bench, and when she heard Mr Ravasinghe call out, she felt her forehead bead with perspiration.
‘Mrs Hooper. You cannot leave your case unguarded.’
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘I was keeping my eye on it.’
‘People are poor and opportunistic. Come, I’ll carry your case and find you somewhere cooler to wait.’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘Not at all.’ He held her by the elbow with just his fingertips, and forged a path through the Port Authority building. ‘This is Church Street. Now look over there – just at the edge of Gordon Gardens is the Suriya, or tulip tree as it is known.’
She glanced at the tree. Its fat trunk folded deeply like a woman’s skirt, and a canopy studded with bright orange bell-shaped flowers offered an oddly flaming kind of shade.
‘It will provide a degree of cool, though with the afternoon heat coming on so strong, and the monsoon not yet arrived, you will find little relief.’
‘Really,’ she said. ‘There’s no need for you to stay with me.’
He smiled and his eyes narrowed. ‘I cannot leave you here alone, a penniless stranger in our city.’
Glad of his company, she smiled back.
They walked across to the spot he’d indicated, and she spent another hour leaning against the tree, perspiring and dripping
beneath her clothes, and wondering what she’d let herself in for by agreeing to live in Ceylon. The noise had amplified, and though he stood close, hemmed in by the crowds, he still had to shout to be heard.
‘If your husband has not arrived by three, I hope you won’t mind my suggesting you retire to the Galle Face Hotel to wait. It is airy, there are fans and soft drinks and you will be infinitely cooler.’
She hesitated, reluctant to leave the spot. ‘But how will Laurence know I’m there?’
‘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.
