April 1966 Watakälé
Anthony tossed and turned in bed. A vague feeling of unease, almost fear tingled through his consciousness, keeping him awake.
He lay in bed, mulling over the evening.
The Easter staff party had not been a total disaster. William’s behaviour was reprehensible as usual, but the staff seemed happy enough. Chatting with Mrs Rasiah had been interesting. She was so proud of her children and her sons’ achievements. And young Shiro, he wondered what she looked like now. He dosed off, remembering the riotous curly hair, the defiant glow in her black eyes.
Anthony sat up in bed and looked at the clock. It was midnight. Surely William must have got home by now? He rolled out of bed and padded barefoot through the dark house. In the office, he picked up the telephone and dialled William’s number.
The phone rang for a few anxious seconds. ‘Yeah?’ William snapped. Anthony breathed out a long, relieved sigh. ‘Oh, good you’re home,’ he said. ‘I was worried about you riding back tonight. You were so drunk.’
William hooted with laughter. ‘Sorry, little brother, you won’t get rid of me that easily.’ Anthony heard a sound of swallowing.
‘Are you still drinking?’
William ignored the question. ‘I had a very interesting ride home, little brother,’ he said, ‘a very interesting ride indeed. You never told me how much fun there is to be had in Watakälé.’
William’s words sent a chill down Anthony’s spine. ‘William, what happened?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough, little brother. Go to sleep. Good night.’ With another sharp bark of a laugh, William dropped the handset.
William, what have you done now?
***
Anthony woke to the jarring ring of the phone. He glanced at the clock – six in the morning. The morning after the staff party – who’d be awake at this time? He turned in the bed, shivered and pulled up the doona, waiting for Appu to pick up the phone.
‘Still sleeping.’ Appu said into the phone. Anthony rolled over and listened to the conversation. All he could hear was Appu’s repeated ‘aiyoo, aiyoo,’ every exclamation more shocked and distressed than the other.
It sounded serious.
Scrambling out of bed, Anthony started dressing. There was an insistent tap at the door. ‘Come in, Appu,’ he called out. ‘What is it? Has something happened in the factory?’
The door opened with a crash. Appu stood holding on to the doorpost with both hands. His eyes were wide open and tears streamed down his creased cheeks. The look in his eyes shocked Anthony to the core of his soul.
‘Come on man, tell me! If it’s so bad, I need to do something fast.’ Anthony reached for his shirt.
‘Nothing you can do, sir,’ Appu babbled. ‘Mr Rasiah, Tea-maker Aiya, sir. He is angry, sir.’
‘What about, man? Stop shivering like a leaf in autumn, and tell me. What is he angry about?’
Appu looked down at his feet. His Adam’s apple jiggled as he swallowed. ‘The coolie girl who was serving at the party, sir; she – she was hurt last night. Somebody did – did a bad thing.’
‘A bad thing? What are you saying man? Was she raped?’
Appu nodded.
‘But who the hell would do that in Watakälé? One of the staff, maybe? Most of them were drunk.’
Appu stared at the ground. He was shivering. ‘She said – said it was you, sir,’ he stammered.
‘Me?’ Anthony exclaimed in horror. ‘I came straight home and went to bed! You know that. I hope you told him?’
Appu nodded again.
‘Damn it!’ Anthony slammed his closed fist into the wardrobe door. ‘It was William! That’s what he was laughing about last night! He raped the coolie girl!’
Anthony dropped down on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes. What a mess. The bloody idiot, why couldn’t he keep his whoring away from Watakälé? ‘Where is Mr Rasiah, Appu?’
‘At the apothecary’s, sir. The girl needed treatment, sir.’ Appu was now sobbing. His shoulders stooped. His words came out in drawn out gasps.
Anthony reached out, and ignoring all proprieties of behaviour, placed a hand on Appu’s shoulder.
‘I’ll go immediately.’
‘No sir, not to the apothecary’s, sir,’ Appu shook his head. ‘Tea-maker Aiya said she is too frightened of seeing you. He said to meet him in the factory.’ Appu shuddered and gasped, wiping his tears with the tea towel he was carrying. ‘I’ll serve breakfast, sir,’ he said in a strangled voice. Pulling his body erect with obvious effort, he looked at Anthony.
‘No, just coffee. Thank you, Appu. And please ring Mr Rasiah and tell him that I’m on my way to the factory.’ Anthony spoke over his shoulder as he went into the bathroom. He splashed water onto his face. Rape on Watakälé, God only knew what that would do to his credibility with the staff and coolies.
When Anthony came out of the bedroom, freshly brewed coffee was on the table. Appu stood by the door. His face was washed. He was back to his groomed and dignified best. But his eyes were pools of sorrow mixed with anger.
Anthony downed his coffee and strode to his motorcycle. He knew Appu would testify that he had come home after the party and been in bed all night. But William, he would never be held accountable for this. The rape of a coolie girl by the British superintendent would never be reported to the police. Even if it was, it would never be followed up. That’s how things worked in the tea plantation under the British Raj.
This was plantation entertainment – colonial style.
***
‘No, Mr Ashley-Cooper, nothing you can do can make amends for your brother’s disgusting behaviour. You can’t buy off pain and shame.’
Mr Rasiah stood with his arms folded over his chest. Anthony wilted before the raw anger and blatant disgust in his eyes.
‘It’s what your family do well – rape.’ Mr Rasiah stepped back and leaned on the tea tasting bench. His lips twisted and black eyes flashed fire. He raised his voice. ‘My father worked for your father. Did you know that?’
Anthony shook his head.
‘He, your father – James Ashley-Cooper – kept an Indian coolie girl, a 15-year-old in the house. She got pregnant. He set her up in a house in Diyatalāwa.’
Anthony felt faint. He grasped the corner of the office table. ‘My father? A child? Here in the tea plantations?’
‘Yes, Mr Ashley-Cooper. The girl was in the bungalow when he brought your mother there as his bride.’
Anthony stifled a gasp. Memories flooded his mind – his mother’s refusal to speak of those early years. His father’s sarcasm. His mother’s words to him when he asked her about the plantation: ‘There are people who know what happened …’
‘But surely someone would know if he had a child by a –’
Mr Rasiah laughed. Lips curled in a sneer he leant towards Anthony. ‘Notice a half-breed coolie? For goodness’ sake, look around you, Mr Ashley-Cooper; you’ll see them everywhere. Olive skinned coolie men and women, boys and girls. Brown, grey and blue eyed. You probably have more than one sibling around here. But don’t take it personally. Your father was not the only British superintendent spreading his sperm in the tea bushes.’
Anthony stood dumbfounded. ‘Dear God, how could they?’
Mr Rasiah’s voice lost the painful edge. ‘It wasn’t all rape. Some coolie girls consider it a notch in their belt to bed the white Periadorai.’ Mr Rasiah stood silent and then sighed. ‘You aren’t like that, are you? I would have heard if anything happened.’
Anthony met his gaze. ‘Mr Rasiah, please let me help the girl. I want to make a difference.’
‘You can’t help her, Mr Ashley-Cooper. As to making a difference, you already have. Follow through on the coolies’ savings plan and staff provident fund.’
‘That I will do.’
‘As for the girl,’ Mr Rasiah continued. ‘We’ll take care of her. Your involvement would make it look like you were the one responsible, an admission of guilt.’
Anthony flushed at the implication and looked down. ‘I see. What do you think I should do?’
‘Don’t get involved in this incident. Look after Watakälé. Show that you care for the labourers and staff. Get down to the tea fields with the coolies and get into the factory during manufacture, Mr Ashley-Cooper. Let the coolies know you are interested in the tea plantation – in the plucking, the manufacture – but also in them as people. And you will truly learn what is happening. The coolies will feel you care and they in turn will work better for you. Let them see you as a man, not the white lord of the British Empire.’
They looked at each other across the large old wooden desk of the Tea-maker’s office. The tall, young British man dressed in Savile Row woollen trousers, linen shirt and hand-crafted leather shoes; his sun bleached golden hair drooping over his tanned angular face. The dark skinned native Tamil Tea-maker, dressed in khaki trousers and a flannel shirt, his feet in worn leather sandals.
Finally, Mr Rasiah smiled. ‘Mr Ashley-Cooper, you are so unlike your father and brother. I’ll do something for you, Mr Ashley-Cooper. Watakälé will have the best price on the London tea auctions within six months. It’ll take some doing but it can be done.’
Anthony’s heart raced. Top the London tea auctions. That would be something to excite his father. ‘Can we aim for gold tip?’
Mr Rasiah shook his head. ‘No, wrong altitude, but we could try for silver tip.’
‘Let’s do it.’ Anthony held out his hand to Mr Rasiah. They shook hands and parted. Anthony looked back at Mr Rasiah as he climbed onto his motorcycle.
Friendship with the native staffers, wage increases for the coolies. This was definitely not what his father wanted.
But maybe it would go some small way towards paying back the hurt and pain his family had heaped on these people.