The Tea-Planter's Daughter Read online

  Julia had worked for weeks on the sock, creating a loose and wobbly work of multicoloured art, which, when complete, she took to the assistant’s bungalow up the hill.

  “Thank you!” Ben said. He examined the darn then suddenly laughed.

  “Oh, won’t it do?” asked Julia with rising anguish.

  “It’s lovely! Thank you,” and he had put his arm round her.

  “Then why did you laugh?” she had persisted.

  He had hugged her gently, and said, “Because you made me happy.”

  That was probably the moment in which she had decided to marry him.

  All the way home she seemed to hear a song in her heart as though the cicada trilled in there. But though she looked at Ben Clockhouse arriving through the crack in the club nursery door every Saturday after that she never once saw him wear the darned sock.

  Chapter 14

  Ben Clockhouse had not been the only assistant in the small bungalow.

  Julia could remember one arrive when she had been quite young, a bullet-headed boy with sticking-out ears. The young man’s suitcase had been lifted from the bullock cart, and Julia saw that it had something written on it in large white letters. Gwen told her the words were, “Tunbridge Minor.” “This probably means,” said Gwen, “that the new young assistant was at public school, and had an older brother who was at the school as well.” Then Gwen, who was always trying to stimulate Julia’s intelligence, asked, “Guess what was written on his brother’s trunk.”

  “I don’t know,” said Julia.

  Julia’s mother used to send these homesick young men marmalade from Babuchi’s kitchen or a sponge cake, and on the first Thursday of the month the current young assistant would be invited down to tea in the big bungalow. Edward would come home early on assistant tea day, and sit drinking B.O.P. Fannings from a thin cup, eating cheese fingers and fairy cakes, and question the young man about his home, his family, and most important of all his hobbies.

  “It is as important that they should have the right hobbies to become good planters,” said Edward.

  If he found the young man did not know how to ride he would be ordered to report at the big bungalow every morning for a month, where he would be compelled to sit on the back of the terrible Narada, and trotted up and down the drive on the end of a rope by the old syce. No matter how terrified these young men were they were not allowed to slouch forwards or hold on to Narada’s mane. And, Edward being even more terrifying than Narada, they tried with trembling hands to sit upright, hold the reins, and even smiled in a rather ghastly way.

  Gwen organised the darning of the socks of the young men, sending Kali to collect them once a month, and then handing them to Ayah for repair.

  On the last Thursday of the month Gwen would return the repaired sock to its owner saying, “There! You can hardly tell it ever had a hole,” and, “It’s a lovely bit of knitting.”

  Sometimes the eyes of the young man would suddenly fill with tears then, because his mother had knitted them for him.

  When Julia got married Ayah said to her, “You will have to look after the poor lonely boys up the hill now. You will have to be their mummy, give them jams and darn their socks.”

  As Julia approached the assistant’s bungalow the old servant, Babuchi’s uncle, was pegging socks to the line. Her dogs rushed ahead, threw themselves upon the old man, who they had known as puppies. The old man gave a high-pitched yell and dropped clothes pegs and socks all over the ground. The dogs danced around him, mixing the new washed socks with mud, while the old man grovelled among their legs, trying to retrieve them, and shouting, “Oh, Missie Baba, always trouble when Missie comes!” It had started to rain again, and the old man held a duster over his head with one hand, while he tried to rescue socks with the other. At last he stood up and wiped his face with the duster. When he put it back onto his head his skin was stained with bright yellow dye.

  Jesudasu, which means “servant of Jesus”, was a Christian, and always tried hard to practise its principles of love and forgiveness. But Julia Missie tried these virtues to their limit.

  He sighed heavily and slowly to give the love and forgiveness time to come to the surface.

  The dogs, tired of investigating Jesudasu and the sopping socks, raced toward the front door. They had been given biscuits and chop bones by the little masters who lived in this bungalow, for feeding dogs is everyone’s way of getting into the good graces of the owner. And these were nice dogs with dark and loving eyes who greeted the whole of humanity with happy welcomes in which not only their tails, but all their bodies took part. The dogs were persistent, scooping the reluctant or inattentive hand towards themselves with hooked and muscular paws. Many of the boys who had lived in this bungalow had had dogs of their own at home, dogs that had rushed through their mothers’ houses leaving a fleet of footprints and brown wet wipings on the walls, dogs that sent their mothers running, handbrush held up for whacking, while the boys tried to reach their delinquent animals first and defend them. Many a young assistant had hugged these wild enthusiastic dirty Clockhouse dogs, young man’s face buried in damp dog hair to hide the sudden welling of unmanly tears the smell evoked. Smell is the biggest reminder, and for many of the little masters wet dog was the smell of home and love.

  But now the door was closed to the two dogs, so they sat whining demandingly, and scraping the wood with their claws. This technique was always effective if anyone was inside, and the dogs knew there was someone there now. But no one came to the door and opened it to them.

  At last Julia turned the knob, and the dogs went racing in ahead of her, skidding on loose rugs and vanishing round the corner.

  Julia found the dogs in the sitting room greeting with joyful barks the new Indian assistant who wore his pyjamas. His back was to the wall as he cringed away from the happy Labradors, keeping his head as high and as far from the face-seeking tongues as possible. Because the dogs could not reach the young man’s face to lick it, they made do with his hands, planting kisses on them which he desperately wiped off with a handkerchief. Every now and again he would flick this in the direction of the dogs, saying, “Shoo! Shoo! Get out you dirty things!”

  “Please remove these creatures at once,” he panted when he saw Julia.

  Julia laughed. Then she gave an unconvincing whistle to which the dogs payed no attention, and said, “Sorry. They totally ignore me.”

  “Look, I will give them a kick if you don’t pull them off!” said the young man crossly.

  “Oh, come on.” Julia hauled her dogs on to their haunches.

  “My name is Jaswant Narayan Singh, by the way,” said the young man, extending his hand. “And I must say that I am not at all satisfied with the way I have been treated in this place. The journey was unspeakable. I would have thought the company would at least have sent a car to fetch us. We are not accustomed to travelling on the public bus. People of our class never go on them …”

  “The British boys thought it a great adventure!” said Julia firmly. Harry, the last to arrive, had been flushed with excitement in spite of his bruises.

  “There were people vomiting all over the floors,” moaned Jaswant. “These British boys must have some funny ideas of adventure! Anyway my mother is writing a complaint about it to the directors.”

  “Good luck to her!” Julia summoned up a picture of the great heap of totally ignored requests and pleas and demands that already lay on the directors’ tables among which the Rani’s would lie. “Where is your mother, anyway?”

  “My god!” cried Jaswant, “That is the worst thing! She got a terrible electric shock!” He pointed to where the receiver hung from its cord. “She has gone to see the doctor for a check-up because she said she felt something that could have been palpitations for several seconds after! I am not going to replace it. I’m too young to die yet, I think.” Then, to Julia’s surprise, he gave a laugh.

  The Rani arrived as Julia was leaving. She did not seem in the least injured by her
shock. “Look,” she said pointing to the two dogs, who were panting with excited restraint. “Those creatures are dribbling all over the polished floor.”

  A sweeper was called, and began wiping with ostentatious humility. Dogs get tips by smiling and sweepers by cringing, and both know that there is no use in performing your particular act unless it is noticed. The sweeper wore a piece of rope tied tightly round his forehead, because he had a headache, and his grubby lungi was tucked high to expose his legs. As he worked he let out loud and windy sighs implying not reluctance to do his mistress’ bidding but a sort of exhausted enthusiasm, that could be summed up as “tired but willing”. He had, in fact, for the previous two hours been sleeping on the back verandah upon one of the new assistant’s carpets that had become soaked in the rain, and was out to dry. Both Jesudasu and the cook had tried to urge the sweeper into action, for the lavatories had not yet been cleaned, nor the hallways buffed, but the sweeper had said he was too ill to do anything.

  “It is because you drank one whole kerosene tinful of beer last night!” shouted Jesudasu. “Only do your work well for this two days and then the Big Madam will be gone and you can do what you like. But for the moment her eyes are everywhere.”

  But the sweeper, mumbling that he was ill now, and not in two days, had lain himself down among the kindling, a crate of live hens for tomorrow’s curry, and the cook’s cycle with a bag strapped to it for concealing pilfered foodstuffs. Today’s bulges were smaller than usual because of Big Madam. Her eyes were up to every trick. When she was gone the cook would be able to go back to taking a kilo or two of meat, a pound of butter. For the moment he had to content himself with guavas from the tree in the garden. Apparently Big Madam’s son could not eat them.

  “He is like me in so many ways,” said the Rani. “Both of us come out in a rash if we eat even the smallest pip. You and the other servants may take what you like from the tree.”

  Jesudasu came in, his arms full of wet socks.

  “What are you doing with those?” asked the Rani.

  Jesudasu stared down at the bundle which he had held for so long that he had forgotten all about it. “Master’s socks,” he said at last, confused.

  “I see that,” said the lady. “But what have you been doing with them?”

  “Hanging them on the line. As you told me,” explained the old man. “For one hour on line, Madam said.”

  “But they are still wet!” cried the Rani.

  “This is because it is raining,” Jesudasu told her reasonably.

  “Oh! What a fool! When I said line I thought you would understand to hang them in the verandah!” Turning to Julia she said, “When I get back to Manopur I shall send my poor boy one of my own household servants. He will never survive in such a place otherwise.”

  The Rani sat down, and opening a silver box began to prepare a pan, sprinkling on to a betel leaf lime, sugared coconut, nutmeg, and spices, then rolling and pinning it with a clove.

  Jesudasu stood waiting, his wet socks dripping.

  The Rani, ignoring him, popped her pan into her mouth, and said to Julia in a slightly muffled voice, “This steadies my nerves.” The room, that until now had always smelled of beer and cigarettes, became filled with spice smell.

  After Julia had gone the Rani said to her son, “At least have some concern for your future, even if you care nothing for the feelings of your parents. If you lose this job, Jaswant, what will happen to you? What work is there for a boy without even O levels in Manopur, even if he is the son of a Raja? For without money a man becomes a beggar in this country!”

  “Or a sanyasi,” said Jaswant. “Ma, none of my ancestors have ever worked. It is not in my genes. To make me become a career person is like trying to turn a polo pony into a rhino!”

  “Men become sanyasis from love of God,” said the Rani sternly. “Not so as to avoid having to work.”

  “I like God, I really do, Ma,” Jaswant said consolingly. But the Rani was not to be consoled.

  “Look, there goes your boss’s wife straight to tell her husband that his new assistant is in his bungalow sleeping when he should be out working on the tea estate.”

  “But I was tired,” moaned Jaswant. “I was reading a book all night!”

  “You are not supposed to be reading all night,” snapped the Rani sharply. “You are supposed to be resting and building up strength for your labours on the tea estate!”

  At five, in spite of Babuchi’s cries of horror, Kali said he had to go up on to the hillside to bring in his cow.

  At half-past six he had still not returned. For Babuchi this was almost the last straw. He felt another onset of his morning illness coming on. He had had to endure the wildness of Julia Missie, had heard no word from the master and had twenty guests arriving in one hour. Now Kali had deserted him and the realisation made Babuchi feel faint. He would have liked to resign his job. But there was no one to hand his resignation to! No one knew where the Master was. And even if he told the Missie that he was resigning she probably would not understand what he was talking about. Anyway he would not have dared to do anything now to upset Julia Missie’s present uneasy equilibrium.

  Babuchi’s grandson was sent to Kali’s house. Kali’s wife said she had been expecting her husband for an hour. The cow’s evening feed of boiled bran and molasses moistened with rice water stood waiting.

  “Pallpapatti is so fussy,” said Kali’s wife. “If the food is not as fresh as the meal I serve my husband she just wrinkles up her nose and will not eat. If she does not come soon she will not have it. Now she is giving good milk, at least half a kilo per day, also she is like our daughter, and I worry all day until I see her safely returned to our house.”

  Babuchi’s son went back and told his father that even the wife did not know where her husband was. Fear at once made Babuchi cross. He shouted at the matey who in panic dropped the egg whites he was beating. The sweeper was sent running to buy more eggs, and did not return for half an hour.

  All the time he was away Babuchi either raged, or fell back into his rocking chair shuddering. When the sweeper eventually returned he had the smell of arrack on his breath so that Babuchi knew he had been drinking.

  “You are staggering from side to side, and in no state to work in the house where there are guests,” yelled Babuchi, struggling out of his chair and slapping the man on the side of his head. The sweeper at once became offended, and worked very slowly for the rest of the evening.

  There was a big crowd around the yogi when Julia, returning from the assistant’s bungalow, reached her gates. She wound down the car window, and the people fell silent and stepped back. They had been letting off fireworks to celebrate the return of their yogi, but on seeing Julia they blew out the flares. They were afraid of her, for it had been said that once she had flown through the air with a ghost who took the form of a goose, and that she walked in the night without seeing though her eyes were open. It was said that that which grew on her head was not hair but yellow snakes which stung anyone who touched them. It was said that she could bring death by only wishing it.

  The people pressed against the tea bushes, keeping as far from Julia in her car as they could, and someone whispered, “Perhaps she has even caused the death of her husband now!”

  They trembled, but they did not leave. Curiosity held them there in spite of their fear.

  Only the yogi, Markandaya, seemed unconcerned. He looked towards the hills over which, the villagers said, he had been walking for a thousand years.

  The people surreptitiously peeped, pretending to keep their eyes on the ground, from Markandaya to the Madam, wondering what happens when a holy yogi meets an evil spirit.

  But they were disappointed. Nothing happened. Unless the slightest curling of the yogi’s palm-up hand, that rested on his lotus knee, could have been called something happening.

  Things inside the bungalow were as bad as could be. Or almost. Because just after Julia came in a tree dropped on to the electri
c wires halfway down to the valley and all the SM’s bungalow lights went out. This coincided so exactly with Julia’s arrival that the servants felt sure it was something to do with her. They suspected that she had willed this tree to fall because she was upset that her husband had not come home.

  The little tribal boy became terribly frightened, especially when Babuchi began to tell tales of all the other things Julia had managed to destroy.

  “Never mend anything!” Babuchi said darkly. “Our Missie is a big one for breaking, but not for putting anything right.”

  “Then she really is a rakshasa!” whispered the little boy.

  Babuchi leaned back sweating, and wiped his forehead. “It might even be that she has put this illness on me so that I will become unable to cook the food for all the party guests,” he said. “Ah, when Mrs Buxton was running this bungalow how much better things were. Mr Edward always was present at his parties. And as for Madam, I was her paint assistant for most of the years, and that is a much better job than this food-preparing one!” He sighed, and looked back on hot buzzing afternoons when he had slept on riversides with the smell of oil paint in his nostrils, the sound of Gwen’s hog hair brush scratching canvas in his ears. “It is all the food cooking that is making me ill. In the days of the painting I always had my health.”

  “But you said it was Julia Madam who has made you ill!” said the little boy.

  “Because I am fevered I might say anything!” cried Babuchi. “Oh, why does Kali not come! Why does the Master not come! How can these others expect me to do all on my own?”

  The little boy felt a bit reassured, and began to think that perhaps Babuchi had not meant it when he said the Julia Madam did all these bad things with her mind.

  Then suddenly came a great grinding creak from outside, and something whacked against the roof.

  Shouting with shock Babuchi sprang back from the fire, letting boiling cream sauce fly over the floor. The boy raced to the window and, standing on tiptoe, looked out through the window bars into the darkening garden.