The Tea Planter’s Wife (18 page)

She hugged him and swore to herself she would never do anything that might wound him further. While she was thinking that, he loosened the strings of her apron then lifted it over her head. She lay back on the sofa and he carefully undid the tiny pearl buttons of her dress. She slipped it off and removed her underwear as he undressed himself.

Since Hugh’s birth, apart from the one time, they had barely touched. Now that their bodies made contact, the fragility of love, and what that meant, came home to her. So easy for it to be ruined. So easy, it seemed, for it to break. She held her breath, not wanting the moment to pass, and as they lay together on the sofa, she felt a world apart from the usual plantation day.

‘What if somebody comes?’ she whispered.

‘Nobody will.’

When he stroked her thighs and kissed her toes, she felt the thrill as her body responded, until she could bear it no longer and wrapped her legs round him.

Afterwards she lay folded in his arms, with one pale arm curled round his chest. She lifted her hand to trace the contours of his face with her fingertips, intensely conscious of the warmth of his hand resting on her thigh.

‘I love you, Laurence Hooper. I’m so very sorry about what happened to Caroline.’

He nodded and took her hand.

She gazed at him, and saw that his eyes were less pained than they had been a little earlier.

‘Will I have spoilt the cheese?’ he said.

‘No. The milk has to cool anyway, but the boy will have carried the pan back to the storeroom by now, so I’d better get back.’ She smoothed down her damp, tangled hair. ‘I must look a fright.’

‘You never look a fright. But just one thing,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘This place is just for you and me. It’s a place for us to come whenever either of us needs a sanctuary. Agreed?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And here we begin afresh, whenever the need.’

She placed a hand over her heart and nodded.

Back in the storeroom she added the starter culture to the milk, and left it for an hour or so while she fed Hugh. He grizzled when she tried to put him down inside, so Naveena wheeled out his pram, with a large parasol to shade him. Gwen rocked the pram, feeling the sun on her face and thinking of Laurence as she listened to the insects buzzing. Hugh quickly fell asleep and Gwen told Naveena she could take a well-earned rest. It was perfectly possible to hear if Hugh woke from where she was in the storeroom.

Inside the little room, Gwen added the rennet and stirred, then left it under a small window at the back of the room for the sun’s warmth to help set the milk.

Though she felt terribly sad about what had happened to Caroline, today had been a good day’s work. And at the back of her mind a brown baby girl slept peacefully in her hammock.

Gwen and Hugh sat on opposite sides of the table waiting for the others to arrive. Hugh looked angelic, dressed in a smart little sailor suit, and with his wild fair hair brushed and flattened for once. Gwen was wearing a dress Fran had bought as a present while she had been staying with her in London, a diaphanous blue chiffon with the new, slightly longer skirt, and she loved that it made her feel young and feminine.

After nearly four years in Ceylon without going home once, it had been a long-overdue trip to England. First she spent two weeks at Owl Tree with her parents, who had burst with pride at the sight of Hugh. With promises of picnics and rides on a train to Cheddar Gorge, they couldn’t wait to have him to themselves for a week. Then Gwen had taken the train for London to stay with Fran. The apartment was situated on the top floor of a grand, architect-developed building, with wonderful views over the River Thames, though Gwen couldn’t help but compare the grey expanse of water with her beautiful lake at home.

The two women had exchanged letters, planning exciting outings for almost every day, but on the afternoon of her arrival, she’d found Fran not quite her usual self. A little reserved, a little pale. After a much-needed cup of best Ceylon tea, Fran asked Gwen if she’d like the maid to unpack her case, and linked arms with her.

‘I’ll do it myself, Frannie, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course.’

Upstairs, in a well-aired, prettily decorated room, Fran went over to the window to close off the noise and dust of London. Gwen opened her case and started to take out her dresses, while
Fran remained with her back to the room, gazing out of the window.

‘Is anything the matter, Fran?’

Fran shook her head.

Gwen picked up a French navy suit, suitable for a shopping expedition to Mr Selfridge’s store later that day, and went over to hang it in a large mahogany wardrobe. In the gloomy interior of the wardrobe, she couldn’t see much at first, but as she reached up for a hanger, her hand brushed against something. As she explored with the tips of her fingers, she realized it was a heavily embroidered silk garment and, judging by the size of it, not a woman’s piece either.

She took it down by the hanger and held the garment to the light. It was the most gorgeous red and gold embroidered waistcoat and, Gwen was sure, the one Savi Ravasinghe had worn at the ball. Fran twisted back at that moment and stared at it.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think he’d left it behind.’

‘Mr Ravasinghe’s been here?’

‘He was staying while undertaking a commission. Rather an important one, actually. He’s in great demand.’

‘You didn’t say a word.’

Fran shrugged. ‘I didn’t know I had to.’

‘Is it serious?’

‘Let’s just say it’s a bit up and down.’

After that, Gwen had tried to encourage Fran to speak, but whenever she raised the subject, a closed look came on her cousin’s face. For the first time, a gap had opened up between the women, and Gwen didn’t know how to fix it.

By the penultimate day, the possibility of Fran being really serious about Ravasinghe left a bitter taste in Gwen’s mouth and her stomach in knots. She had never seen her cousin lovesick and, as she sat on her bed thinking, she desperately wanted to tell Fran about Liyoni and warn her about Savi Ravasinghe. But now she did not dare. If she were to speak of it, Fran would be outraged, and would certainly confront Savi. Who knew where that might
lead? He might even insist on knowing his daughter, and that didn’t bear thinking about.

So Gwen kept her silence and felt as if she had betrayed her friend. The two women spent their last day together with everything remaining unsaid, and after another bittersweet week with her parents, Gwen had been glad to set off on her homeward journey back to Ceylon.

Now, as Gwen smiled across the birthday table at her son, she felt so proud, but was aware she felt something more than love, something ineffable that struck to the core of her. Hugh grinned at her, not at all able to sit still, and it brought her back to basics. Children did that. One moment they inspired such a surge of love that it sent you reeling and gasping for breath, and the next moment it was jelly and biscuits, or needing a number two.

It surprised her how quickly three years had passed, and that she had become so accustomed to living with what had happened that at times it almost seemed like a dream; almost, but not quite. She glanced out of the window towards the lake and then beyond to the rounded hills, carpeted with tea and dotted with tall, spindly trees. It was a lovely, cloudless, bright blue day. In the almost three years since their first trip to the boathouse, she and Laurence had revisited it often. Life had settled down. They had been happy, with the joys outweighing the sorrows, and in the end, as something toughened up inside her, Gwen had managed to suppress some of her regrets about Liyoni.

Laurence didn’t understand why she hadn’t conceived another child, despite, as he put it, his best efforts. He didn’t know that Gwen had secretly done everything she could to prevent it. Remembering the heartbreak over giving Liyoni away, Gwen felt she didn’t deserve another child, and used her douche bag every time. If she felt in any danger, she drank a large quantity of gin and took a hot bath. Naveena understood her reluctance and concocted bitter-tasting herbs which always brought the monthly cycle on.

A noise at the door interrupted her thoughts. She twisted round to see McGregor, Verity and Naveena coming in together.

Verity clapped her hands. ‘This looks wonderful, doesn’t it, Hugh?’

Today was Hugh’s third birthday. The table was laid with fresh flowers, piles of sandwiches, two pink and yellow blancmanges and a space in the middle for the cake. As Laurence came through trailing a bunch of balloons, his arms loaded with presents, Hugh’s little cheeks flushed with excitement.

‘I open them now, Daddy?’

Laurence put them on the table. ‘Of course. Do you want the big one first?’

Hugh jumped up and down, squealing as he did.

‘Well, you’ll have to wait a minute, it’s in the hall.’ Laurence went back out and a few minutes later wheeled in a tricycle, with a big yellow ribbon tied round the handlebar. ‘This is from Mummy and Daddy,’ he said.

Hugh stared at the gleaming machine, then ran over and needed help from Naveena to climb on to the seat. His face fell when his feet didn’t quite reach the pedals.

‘We can adjust the seat a little, but you might have to grow into it.’

‘Did we choose the wrong size?’ Gwen said.

‘It will be fine in a month or two,’ Laurence said.

Hugh was already tearing the paper from the rest of the presents: a giant jigsaw from Verity, a wooden fire engine from Gwen’s parents and a cricket bat and ball from McGregor.

Gwen sat back and watched her family, feeling blessed. Hugh was a whirlwind of energy, exuberant in the way only a three-year-old can be, and Laurence was beaming with pride as he watched his son. Even Verity seemed happy, though the fact that she was still with them was a thorn in Gwen’s side.

After they’d polished off the sandwiches and blancmanges, Hugh shrieked when Laurence turned the act of extinguishing
the lights and drawing the curtains into a matter of great solemnity. He squared his shoulders and, with a serious face, told them the moment had arrived.

Naveena brought in the cake and placed it on the table in front of Hugh. Hugh’s rapt attention was a picture, and the innocence of his little face as he looked up at them all, while they sang ‘Happy Birthday’, triggered a feeling of intense joy in Gwen. She would tear the head off a leopard to protect her little boy. She covered up the surge of emotion by fussing round the cake and shifting it slightly closer to her son. It was a large square cake with a spaniel made out of icing sugar on the top, made by Verity who, it turned out, had a distinct talent for sugarcraft.

‘It’s Spew,’ Hugh shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Spew is on the cake!’

‘Blow out the candles, darling,’ Gwen said. ‘And make a wish.’

As the child puffed out his cheeks and blew, Gwen thought of Hugh’s twin and made a wish of her own.

‘Did you make a wish?’ Laurence asked.

‘It’s a secret, Mummy said. Didn’t you, Mummy?’

‘I did, darling.’

As Hugh raised his face to his father, Gwen thought for the hundredth time how like Laurence he had grown. They had the same colour eyes, the same square chin and the same shaped head, with a double crown at the back that made his hair so difficult to tame. There was no doubt as to Hugh’s parentage.

‘There are secrets, Daddy.’

Laurence grinned. ‘I suppose there must be.’

Hugh wriggled in his seat, unable to suppress his energy. ‘I got one.’

‘What is it, darling?’ Gwen said.

‘My friend, Wilfred.’

Laurence grimaced. ‘Not this again.’

‘But, darling,’ Gwen said, ‘we all know about Wilfred, so it isn’t a secret.’

‘Yes it is. You can’t see him.’

‘That’s true,’ Verity said.

‘I can see him. And he wants a piece of cake.’

‘Naveena, please cut a piece of cake for Wilfred.’

‘Not pretend piece, Neena.’ Neena was the name Hugh used for her when he had first begun to speak, and the name had stuck.

‘I don’t think we should indulge him,’ Laurence said, and put an arm round Gwen’s waist.

‘Does it matter so very much?’

Laurence stuck out his chin. ‘An invisible friend will not help him at school.’

She laughed. ‘Come on, Laurence, he’s only three. Let’s not talk about this now. It’s his birthday party.’

‘Me have ’nother slice too?’ Hugh said in a wheedling tone of voice.

‘Two is quite enough,’ she said.

Hugh stuck out his bottom lip. ‘Daddy?’

‘Oh, let him have it, it is his birthday,’ Verity said. ‘Everyone should be indulged on their birthday.’

‘No more cake, old chap,’ Laurence said. ‘Mummy’s always right.’

‘I’m glad that’s clear.’

He laughed, picked Gwen up and spun her round. ‘But it doesn’t stop me doing this.’

Hugh giggled at the sight of his mother being twirled as if she was weightless.

‘Laurence Hooper, put me down this instant!’

‘As I said, Mummy’s always right. That’s something I’ve had to learn. So I better had put her down.’

‘No. No. Spin again!’ Hugh cried.

‘Laurence, if you don’t put me down, I swear I will be sick.’

He laughed and let her drop to the floor.

‘Can we go to the waterfall, Daddy? We never go.’

‘Not right now. Tell you what, why don’t you and I have a kick around outside? Have you got your new ball?’

Hugh grinned, the cake seemingly completely forgotten. ‘Yes, I have got the ball. I have. It’s mine.’

It was only as Laurence, Hugh and Verity went out that Gwen noticed Wilf’s empty plate. Hugh, the little monkey, had managed to pilfer his third slice of cake after all. Gwen shook her head, but smiled, and then went to her room.

There, she pulled out a child’s charcoal drawing from a locked box in her desk. It was the most recent of the drawings, and had arrived about a month before. For a few uneasy days each month Gwen waited for the next drawing. She clung to each one because it meant the child was well. At first the foster woman had drawn them herself, but now Liyoni’s small scribbles had taken their place. Gwen touched the charcoal lines. Was it a dog or a chicken? Hard to tell. She had always burned the woman’s drawings, but the longing that had never completely left her meant she kept Liyoni’s.

That night when Hugh was sick in his bed, Gwen thought it must be something to do with the three pieces of cake. She asked Naveena to bring the child to sleep with her. He was sick two more times and after that he slept, and she managed to sleep herself on and off.

In the morning Hugh shook and cried out that he was cold, but when she felt the back of his neck, it was fiery, and his forehead was burning too. She changed his nightclothes, but in no doubt that Hugh had a fever, she called Naveena to bring cold cloths. While she waited, Gwen opened the window for air and listened to the birds making their usual morning racket as they woke up the household. The unlikely combination of tuneful song and wild squawking would normally bring a smile to her face, but today it seemed loud and intrusive.

When Naveena came in carrying the cloths, Gwen placed
them on the back of Hugh’s neck and on his forehead, then after he’d cooled down a little, they looked him over.

‘It wasn’t the cake. The vomiting seems to have stopped, but he isn’t well.’

Naveena’s nose twitched, but she didn’t speak as she examined his arms and legs, then pulled up his nightshirt and ran a palm over his trunk to search for raised spots. When she didn’t find any, she shook her head.

‘Ask Laurence to call the doctor,’ Gwen said when the woman had finished. ‘Tell him Hugh’s very sweaty, but complaining of the cold.’

‘Yes, Lady.’ Naveena turned to go.

‘And tell him Hugh’s skin looks a little bit blue, and he’s starting to cough.’

While Hugh slept in fits and starts, Gwen closed the shutters and paced the room. When Laurence came in, the concerned look in his eyes forced her to stay calm.

‘It’s probably just one of the childhood ailments,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. Doctor Partridge won’t be long. Why don’t you go to the kitchen and ask the
appu
to make us some chai?’

He nodded and left the room, coming back ten minutes later with two glass mugs on a silver tray. She smiled at him. The last thing he needed was for her to show her growing anxiety. She went to Laurence and took the tray.

While they waited for the doctor, Gwen sang nursery rhymes, with Laurence attempting to join in, but using the wrong words and jumbling them up in an effort to make Hugh smile.

By the time Doctor Partridge arrived, carrying his usual brown leather bag, Hugh was still awake but very drowsy.

The doctor sat on the bed.

‘Let’s have a look at you, old chap,’ he said, and opened his own mouth wide to show Hugh what to do. But the room was dimly lit, and it was clear he was unable to see. ‘Laurence, open the shutters. Would you mind?’