part0006

"Ruth darling", said the tall Englishman, addressing the woman who sprawled on a sofa before him, "It'll take a little while to accustom yourself to life on a plantation in India. But you'll get used to it in time".

"Please stop repeating that over and over, John", she exploded sharply, "you've told me the same thing a hundred times before and I'm sick of hearing it".

The first speaker, John Greystone, owner of the plantation known as Rob Roy Estate, stood before an open window gazing into the darkness of night. He held a glass of whisky and soda in one hand from which he sipped occasionally. He was about forty years of age, measuring close upon six feet in height and of muscular build. A deeply tanned skin stretched tightly over his face and squared jaw, and a pair of grey-green eyes matched the clean-shaven countenance beneath his centrally-parted, wavy black hair.

Greystone regarded his wife pensively for a while and then took a long drink. "If there is anything you particularly need to make you happy, dear, you'd better tell me and I'll try to get it", he said eventually.

"It's not that, John. You've given me everything to make me comfortable", his wife conceded. "It's the long hours I have to spend by myself while you are away; or perhaps I miss seeing the new faces I met constantly back home. Being all alone is getting me down".

Ruth Greystone was twenty-five years old. Her roundish face boasted a satiny white skin. Cherry-red lips, faintly parted, showed two even rows of perfect teeth. Above the lips, a slightly up tilted nose increased the challenge of her dark eyes, and penciled eyebrows were framed in a high forehead topped by raven black hair set in the pony-tail fashion. Her legs, outstretched on the sofa, promised rounded thighs and exposed a perfect pair of calves. Ruth wore a red evening-dress, cut provokingly low to reveal luscious curves that heaved and fell with her quick breathing. On the table by her side stood a tumbler of gin and bitters, while a long, slender, ivory holder, tipped by a shouldering cigarette, reposed daintily between the first and second fingers of her right hand.

Carrying his drink, John sat on the sofa beside her. Caressingly he rested one hand on her thigh and stooped to kiss her cheek. Ruth did not respond, but raised herself on an elbow and swallowed the rest of the gin and bitters at a gulp.

John had recently married Ruth Cleveland when he had gone to England on holiday, and brought her back with him to Rob Roy estate. This had happened nearly six months ago. Since then, Ruth had tried to accustom herself to the screech of cicadae in the jungle by day and the cackling howl of jackals at night. Hordes of mosquitoes, speckled insect-eating lizards, a huge toad and a cobra chasing it behind the bathtub, had annoyed and frightened her in turn. Most of all, she pined for company and was becoming fretful.

Greystone loved his wife dearly. The few months they had been married had in no way whetted his desire for her. He bent to kiss her a second time and noticed the strong woman-smell that impinged itself, on his nostrils. He became very conscious, too, of the deep valley so close to him between the bulge of her bosoms, and his eyes swept downwards to those tempting mounds of soft flesh. He could just see the tip of one strawberry tinted nipple that peeped enticingly through the restraining cradle of her nylon brassiere. Breathing harder, he sought her lips and his kiss Lingered and became passionate with desire.

Ruth held him off with the palm of her hand, her dark eyes gazing into his without response.

"Could we not go for a holiday to Bombay or Calcutta?" she asked, "it would be so nice to be in a city again".

John stopped kissing her and straightened himself. The tautening expression of passion on his face faded away.

"Ruth dear, you know that's impossible", he replied, "there's a lot of work to be done on the estate before the monsoon breaks and we have barely three months. Once the rain starts, it will pour for days on end for another three months. After that, we'll go wherever you want".

"And when does the monsoon start?" she inquired.

"About the middle of June", he answered," that is provided it's up to schedule".

"This is only March; it's a hell of a long time to wait", broke in Ruth fretfully.

"That's so, darling. But why don't you come along with me every day? There are many parts of the estate that you haven't yet seen, you know".

"Well, I might do that", she responded with no great enthusiasm.

Further conversation was interrupted by their servant, Chandra, who stepped into the room noiselessly.

"Khana thayar hai, Huzoor ", "Dinner is served, Sir", he announced. He was a tall, very dark, middle-aged Tamilian of lanky build, with rather prominent eyes.

With his arm around her, John led his wife to the dining-room. The sun had long set behind the hills that extend in a seemingly endless succession from north to south to form the Western Ghats, the barrier of mountains that run down the west coast of India. It is a land of high peaks, split by deep valleys clothed in forest; of lush, evergreen jungle watered by copious rains. Towering trees, their bases hidden in dense undergrowth, keep the earth always moist. Even at noon-day a twilight gloom pervades everything, throbbing to the incessant chirping of wood-crickets. Beneath the leaves and blades of grass voracious leeches curl concealed, awaiting the opportunity to attach themselves to a passing quarry and gorge with blood.

The soil is immensely fertile, and for this reason numbers of plantations lie scattered throughout the area, their crops the pepper-vine, cardamom and ginger, with coffee estates on the eastern slopes of the ghats where they are sheltered from the fury of the monsoon. The screech of the crickets is broken by the cries of forest birds; the chattering of parrots and the joyous whoop of grey langoor monkeys high in the trees; the sounds of the jungle blending with the pleasant ripple of crystal clear streams that purl and eddy over mossy boulders and pebbly stretches.

Velvety darkness enshrouded the landscape to the north, to the south and west. Only in the east did a twinkle of light denote a human habitation. That illumination came from a petromax lantern on the verandah of the Greystones' bungalow.

John's father had built this place. On the walls hung many of his shikar trophies. Through an open doorway was the drawing-room, furnished in unexpected luxuriance, and then the dining-room.

While they were eating, John said, "I forgot to ask you, darling. Did you hear a tiger roaring last night? Or rather, early this morning. It was shortly after 2 o'clock. I happened to note the time!"

Ruth looked up at him. "No, I'm afraid I was sound asleep. Are there many tigers about?"

"Not as a rule", her husband answered, "one happens along occasionally. I hope it was not the damned man-eater that has already accounted for two way-farers and two of my coolies. The men told me today that they heard it from their huts last night. As a matter of fact, they didn't want to go to work this morning, saying they were certain it was the man-eater and he would kill one of them. Can't say I blame them for being afraid, poor devils".

Greystone lapsed into silence as he thought about the tiger. If it killed again, his coolies would refuse to work. Rob Roy was an extensive plantation of a mixed nature. Arabica coffee grew along the higher slopes of the hill on which the bungalow stood. Lower down, rubber, pepper, cardamom and ginger predominated, it was his home and every inch of it was precious to him in memory and in fact.

Dinner over, they returned to the drawing-room where Ruth went to the table on which the bottles were arranged and poured herself a double gin and bitters. This she carried to her accustomed place on the sofa.

Lying back, in a deep contralto voice she commenced to hum "Sleepy Lagoon", while Greystone idly scanned the pages of an old number of the '' Onlooker".

Ruth stopped singing, and inclining her head in John's direction asked, "Give me a cigarette, please".

The planter strode across the room, opened a glass cabinet and brought from it a silver box containing the cigarettes. He offered her the box, selected a Players for himself, and lit both.

Ruth exhaled the smoke slowly through her nostrils and decided to revert to her favorite topic.

"If only there was something to do here John", she complained, "somewhere to go, someone to speak to, it wouldn't be so had. This dreadful loneliness terrifies me at times.”

"I know darling. I realise the change is difficult to get used to", he agreed soothingly. "So different from England. But it has to be faced, hasn't it? A planter's life is a lonely one".

"You're telling me. I've certainly found that out to my cost", Ruth cut in bitterly. Then she added in an acid tone, "Not only a planter's life, but his wife into the bargain".

"Why don't you interest yourself in the estate and in household work, or try to find a hobby of some kind?" John was beginning to become impatient.

"I'm not impressed with glorified gardening", Ruth snapped tartly," and what hobby is there in this benighted spot?"

John said nothing while Ruth finished her drink and yawned drowsily, stretching her arms upward and back. The languorous movement exposed to full advantage her voluptuous figure. Despite the resentful thoughts that had begun to crowd his mind, his eyes brightened in an animal gleam as he saw the movement, while he sucked his breath in sharply.

"We'll go to bed if you're tired, darling", he invited.

Walking across to the sofa on which she lay. Greystone lifted her easily in his powerful arms. When he did so, one bosom brushed against his cheek. He turned and implanted a kiss on it. Thus, carrying his wife, John stopped at the table on which stood the large double-wick oil lamp that illuminated the room. Supporting her weight with one hand, he momentarily disengaged the other to lower the wick. Then, bending forward, he blew down the chimney sharply. The light went out, plunging the room in darkness.