December 1967 Watakälé
Anthony rode up the path to the bungalow. He needed Shiro. He had been crazy to not acknowledge it earlier. He would call Bob, tell him about her. Get his advice. He would do whatever he had to do. He could not, would not, let her out of his life.
The sight of the Oriental Produce crested white Rolls Royce parked outside the bungalow sent a ripple of anxiety through Anthony. It meant a stopover by the visiting agent from London or a member of the family. No local used that car.
A visit without warning signified an emergency of some sort.
Anthony jumped off the motorcycle. He ran up the steps to the veranda and froze.
His father sat at the carved metal table. A plate of sandwiches and a tray with scones, cream and jam lay before him. Appu stood by his father’s side, his eyes fixed on the floor.
James Ashley-Cooper stirred milk into his cup of tea and then looked up at Anthony.
Anthony stood on the top step. He was soaking wet, his shirt still unbuttoned. He pulled his shirt together and shook the water from his hair.
‘Been working in the field, Anthony? Isn’t it a little late in the day to be supervising the plucking? Or were you otherwise occupied?’
Anger replaced anxiety at the sarcasm in his father’s voice. ‘Father, I didn’t know you were coming over. When did you get in?’
‘I landed this morning.’
‘Is something the matter?’
James Ashley-Cooper remained seated. Grey eyes locked with blue. As always, Anthony’s gaze dropped first.
‘Go get yourself changed before you catch pneumonia. I’ll wait for you in the study.’
‘Father?’
‘Go!’
Anthony capitulated, as always. He walked towards his bedroom. Appu’s mouth and throat worked soundlessly as Anthony walked past. He turned to follow Anthony into the house.
‘Appu, I will see you in the study now.’ James Ashley-Cooper’s tone brooked no argument.
Appu looked at Anthony.
Anthony nodded. ‘Do as he says, Appu.’
***
James Ashley-Cooper sat in the leather padded mahogany armchair at the office table. He had changed from his travel clothes. The crisp blue wool suit and silk shirt he now had on were unwrinkled. The overhead light glinted on his polished black leather shoes and shimmered off the whisky and ice in his hand.
His father was dressed for confrontation. Anthony recognised it and accepted the challenge. He stood across the table from his father, dressed in woollen trousers and a polo neck white wool jumper, his hair damp.
His father gestured to the drinks trolley. ‘Fix yourself a drink, Anthony. You’ll need a stiff one.’
‘Thank you. No.’ What the hell was this about?
His father gestured to the chair opposite. ‘Sit,’ he ordered.
‘Father, whatever is the matter?’ Anthony lowered himself into the chair opposite his father.
‘Anthony, I am not one to beat about the bush. You, more than anyone else know that.’ His father leaned forward and tented his hands on the edge of the desk. His lips compressed. His eyes glinted grey flint. ‘I am here because of reports of your behaviour on the plantation.’
‘My behaviour? What the hell are you talking about? I had the best tea prices for you at the auctions. The visiting agent himself told me that he has never had such glowing reports from the staff in Watakälé –’
His father’s imperious voice cut him short. ‘Your personal behaviour.’
Anthony leapt to his feet. ‘My personal –’
His father rocked back. ‘Yes. You raped a coolie girl and now you are sleeping with the Tea-maker’s daughter. Less than three years in the superintendent’s job. That is unacceptable and you know it.’
Anthony gasped. His breath caught in his throat. He stared at his father.
‘Father, I don’t know where you get your information. You are wrong. William raped a coolie girl last Easter. I had nothing to do with it. You can ask Appu –’
‘Appu,’ his father responded with a dismissive wave of his hand, ‘is loyal to a fault to the superintendent he is working for. I know that all too well.’
‘Ask the Tea-maker Mr Rasiah and his wife, then. They were there at the staff party.’
‘This is your estate, Anthony. The girl told the apothecary that the superintendent raped her. And as for the Tea-maker, you are sleeping with his daughter. I don’t know what arrangement you have with him, but of course he would lie for you.’
Anthony felt the walls close in. He gritted his teeth. He didn’t care what his father said about him. He would not draw Shiro into this. ‘Shiro Rasiah and I are friends. She is a child, Father. Just seventeen. I am not sure where you got your information from but I am not, as you so delicately put it, sleeping with her.’
His father got to his feet. They stared at each other across the table.
‘So, this Shiro Rasiah is a child. So was the coolie you raped. So you have a penchant for young native women. You wouldn’t be the first.’
The bitterness of years spilled out of Anthony’s soul. He smashed his hand on the desk. The glass of whisky toppled and rolled off to shatter on the ground. ‘It’s William, isn’t it? My God, Father, you know he’s lying. I caught him trying to force his attention on Shiro and stopped him. I should have known he would run to you.’
‘He called me, true. However, I checked with the apothecary. I also called the assistant Tea-maker, Mr Wright. He didn’t know the details but reported gossip from the coolies that there was a girl who was raped by you and was helped by the Rasiahs. Sent away, he said. I hope she isn’t pregnant by you.’
Anthony reeled back. He hadn’t even thought of the possibility of a pregnancy!
He looked into his father’s eyes. ‘Damn it, Father, surely you know that I wouldn’t act this way. It’s William –’
His father’s grey eyes hooded over. ‘Your mother is distraught. She insisted I come over and prevent you making the biggest mistake of your life.’
‘Mother sent you?’ He remembered her words – the plantations charmed your father; take care that it doesn’t happen to you.
His father dropped back into the chair. He shut his eyes. Seconds passed. His father shuddered and re-opened them. Anthony gazed into grey pools of deep sorrow.
‘Your mother and I discussed it. We both feel it would be better for you to get out of here before it’s too late. We want you to take over the British arm of the company. Leave William to run the plantation for whatever years are left. You are not suited to this life.’
It was as if he had been dealt a physical blow. Anthony staggered back. ‘You’re sacking me from my post as superintendent of Watakälé?’
A band of fear and anger constricted his heart. He couldn’t breathe. He glanced at Appu standing by the door. Appu turned and hurried away but not before Anthony saw the tears streaming down his face.
Anthony stared at his father. ‘You can’t do that. I have made progress here. The silver tip tea at the London auctions, the staff provident fund for retirement, fresh water to the line rooms. The health care plan for the coolies …’
‘Anthony, I accept that the silver tip was a coup. But all the other things you are doing cost good money. We can’t afford to do this. Not now, when the stupid natives are set to nationalise the plantations. We don’t have the time for such frivolities.’
‘Father, you’re a millionaire, a billionaire more likely. You made it on the backs of these people. The least you can do is put some back before –’
‘Before we are thrown out by the stupid Sri Lankan government,’ his father interjected. ‘You are a naïve idiot, Anthony. We’re here to make money, not spend it on grandiose feel-good schemes. William understands that.’
Anthony collapsed into the chair. ‘It’s not about rape and sexual liaisons at all. Is it, father? It’s an excuse to get me out. To give William a free hand in Watakälé to do what he’s done in Udatänná. Rape the entire bloody plantation but keep the Ashley-Cooper coffers filled with blood gold.’
‘You are wrong, Anthony. Your mother is concerned about you. I am too. You may not believe it now, but we only want the best for you. Look at you! You’re acting like a raving lunatic. Your mother was right. You don’t have the temperament for this job.’
Anthony got to his feet and walked to the window. He stared out into the dusk. His estate, his people, his soul mate; he felt it all slipping through his fingers. He was helpless against his father’s will.
Had he truly thought he could do it? Bitterness laced through him. He turned to face his father.
‘And what does Mother think? That I’ll end up like you? With an Indian sex slave in the house? Ashley-Cooper bastards roaming the plantations?’
His father leapt to his feet and strode round the table. Anthony flinched but didn’t move.
His father grasped Anthony’s shirt and stared into his eyes. His words were slow and calculated. ‘What I did is none of your business, Anthony. Yes, there are things I did that I now regret. And I will do whatever I need to stop you making the same stupid mistakes. And since you brought up the past – I meet my responsibilities.’
Anthony ripped himself out of his father’s grasp. ‘I will not leave Watakälé.’
His father placed a pad with the Ashley-Cooper crest and a monogrammed pen on the table. He drew up the chair. ‘Sit. Write to the Tea-maker’s daughter. Tell her you will not see her again. I will inform the staff that you are leaving.’
Anthony looked at the paper
It was over. He had lost.
‘No. I will tell her and the staff personally.’
For three years, here on the plantation, Anthony had believed that he could make a difference. Do something meaningful. Now it was finished. Not just finished, in his brother’s care all would undone. Anger, bitterness, disappointment spiralled through him, but nothing compared with the pain that tore his heart apart. He was losing Shiro. His love – his life.
His father placed a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘Pull yourself together, son. You’re an Ashley-Cooper. You will make a life for yourself away from this place.’
Anthony looked up at his father. James Ashley-Cooper’s eyes shadowed with memories. ‘You are my son. I need to protect you.’
‘An Ashley-Cooper?’ Anthony laughed. ‘Forgive me for not feeling too proud of my heritage right now.’
James Ashley-Cooper withdrew his hand from Anthony’s shoulder. He turned away. ‘Someday you’ll understand. I’m driving over to Udatänná. I need to talk to William. You have three days to finish up here. I have tickets booked for us back to London.’
James Ashley-Cooper walked out of the house and climbed into the car.
Anthony stood watching. Three days to say goodbye. A day for every year he had spent on Watakälé.