May 1957 Colombo
The BOAC Lockheed Constellation bumped down onto the Katunayaké Airport runway. Its four turboprop engines roared in reverse thrust and the aircraft slowed.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Ceylon.’ The captain’s voice crackled over the speaker system. ‘The local time is four pm. The temperature is ninety degrees Fahrenheit and the humidity is seventy four percent. The distance from Katunayaké International Airport to Colombo is 18 miles. It is a ninety minute drive.’
Anthony Ashley-Cooper stretched his lanky, 16-year-old frame in the seat. He rubbed the film of sleep from his eyes and rotated his stiff shoulders before taking a peep out the tiny window. So this was Ceylon.
A mirage-like haze rose from the ground. Brown-bodied natives with black hair and beady dark eyes, dressed in coloured skirt-like garments, scurried like so many gaudy insects towards the plane. What a dump. What the hell am I doing here? Stupid question. Checking out my little part of the British Empire in the colonies, of course!
The British cabin steward swung open the door. A damp and malodorous cloud invaded the cool, crisp air of the plane. Excited, hoarse shouts streamed into the cabin. Anthony gagged. Is this what I’m going to have to breathe for the next few months? I think I’m going to be sick. Someone get me an oxygen bottle!
Anthony unbuckled his seat belt, stood up, and walked to the exit. He stepped out of the aircraft and scrambled down the metal stairs. The handrail burned his palms. When he reached the ground, the heat of the tarmac sizzled through the soles of the hand-crafted leather shoes his mother had insisted he wear for the journey. The sunshine was blinding, a burning heat on his unprotected head. Sweat oozed from every pore of his body. He squinted and reached into his shoulder bag for his sunglasses.
The natives who had disembarked behind him rushed into the single-story building in front of the aircraft. That was the airport terminal? It was only a little bigger than the stables in the Ashley-Cooper manor. Anthony followed them.
Sweaty, bare-chested men trailed after him, chattering and pushing wooden trolleys laden with luggage from the aircraft. Anthony winced and stepped aside. He could smell the sweat streaming off them and see the gleaming whites of their teeth and eyes in the dark faces. One of them pointed to Anthony and said something in their native language. The others guffawed. How dare the idiots laugh at him?
It was only a fraction cooler inside the airport terminal. Ceiling fans circulated the fetid air. People formed what could pass as a queue in front of a table where officious-looking natives in white uniforms checked passports.
‘Sir, this way, sir, special table for British, sir.’ A man in a white uniform gestured towards a table with a printed sign ‘Foreign Nationals ONLY’. There was no line of people at that table. Anthony held out his papers and passport to the man at the desk. The man leapt up and bowed from the waist. He accepted the papers in his right hand. His left arm bent and clasping his right elbow. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you. Welcome to Sri Lanka, sir.’ He stamped the papers without reading them and handed them back to Anthony.
Sri Lanka, not Ceylon as his father and mother, and even the British cabin steward called it. Interesting.
Anthony passed the official desks and entered the arrival area of the airport terminal. The racket in the room stopped him in his tracks. Shrieks and squeals engulfed him. All around him people were shouting out what he assumed were welcomes and greetings in a language or languages he didn’t recognise. Can’t these stupid natives talk without yelling?
The letter from his Uncle Irvine had said Anthony would be met by someone from Oriental Produce. His grandfather, Sir Thomas Ashley-Cooper, had founded Oriental Produce in the early years of colonisation. Now, in 1957, it had grown into the largest and most prosperous tea company in Sri Lanka with branches in Africa. He and his elder brother, William, were heirs to the business. He had a family tradition to uphold. Anthony straightened and tilted his head back.
He scanned the crowd for a British face. Brown faces with shiny black eyes stared back at him. A few smiled. One man even said ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Anthony ignored them all.
And then he saw a sign that read MR. ANTHONY ASHLEY-COOPER. It was fixed onto a pole and held above the heads of the milling throng. Anthony watched the sign stutter its way towards him. Finally, a short, portly native stood facing him. His white suit and shirt were crumpled and his dark round face shone with perspiration. A green tie, bearing the distinctive silver Oriental Produce logo of two leaves and a bud, hung in a crude half-knot around his thick neck. The man’s lips split in a grimace of a smile as he lowered the sign. His black eyes looked up at Anthony with spaniel-like eagerness.
‘Sir, I am Mr Emmanuel, the manager of the Colombo office of Oriental Produce, sir. Your uncle Mr Irvine, Superintendent of Watakälé Plantation, he asked me to meet you, sir.’ He spoke in a loud, fluid, almost sing-song tone. ‘He could not get away from the plantation, sir. A very busy time of the month for tea manufacture, sir.’ His head nodded side to side like a pendulum. ‘I am sorry I am late, sir. Hard to find parking and people won’t give room, no, sir? Sir, I hope you had a good journey, sir?’
He wondered whether he should shake hands with a native. Better err on polite.
‘Good afternoon.’ Anthony held out his hand. Mr Emmanuel drew back. He placed the palms of his two hands close together against the chest in a prayer like gesture, bowed forward slightly, and said ‘Ayubowan, sir.’ Puzzled, Anthony dropped his outstretched hand.
Mr Emmanuel continued. ‘Sir, this is the customary greeting of the Sri Lankan people, sir. It means may you live long, sir. Don’t worry, sir, you won’t find the Indian coolie labourers using the greeting. It is only us Sri Lankans who use it.’ His face split in a conspirator-like smile. ‘But then, you will not be greeting any Indian coolies, no, sir?’
Chuckling as if he had said something amusing, Mr Emmanuel lifted Anthony’s suitcases off one of the wooden luggage trolleys. ‘Palayang yako!’ he snapped, shooing away a couple of men who had their hands on Anthony’s bags. He tut-tutted and wiped fingerprints and dust off the bags. ‘Can’t trust these natives, sir. They will dirty your suitcases, no?’
Carrying the bags, he led the way out of the terminal building and across a wide strip of dry grass to a mud patch where a number of cars were parked. The humid, dusty air enveloped Anthony as he stepped out of the building. Rivulets of sweat moistened the collar of his white linen shirt, which now clung to his wet back. Damp patches of sweat were appearing under his arms.
The wind picked up and swirled the dust around them. Anthony’s throat felt like sandpaper. He coughed into his handkerchief. Others around him hawked and spat great globules of spit on the ground.
Anthony recognised the Oriental Produce crest painted on the door of the dusty cream Ford Consul as Mr Emmanuel scuttled towards it. Mr Emmanuel placed Anthony’s suitcase in the boot of the car with great care before scurrying over to hold the back door open for Anthony. ‘Sir, it will be two hours to the hotel, sir.’
Anthony cursed inwardly as he squashed himself into the car’s back seat. He had to listen to the ranting of this fawning old fool in his rundown motor vehicle for two hours!
Mr Emmanuel slid into the front seat, fired the car’s motor, and pulled out of the airport carpark. Other cars started up around them, rumbling, rattling and trailing clouds of black smoke. They joined the line of traffic leaving the airport on a single-lane mud road, lined with tall coconut trees and other unrecognisable shrubs. A few people walked along the edge of the road, struggling with bags in various sizes.
After about fifteen minutes, Mr Emmanuel made a sharp left turn on to a larger, bitumen road with one lane of traffic in each direction. ‘We are now on the main road to Colombo, sir. We can now travel faster, sir.’ He proceeded to drive at exactly the same speed as he had before.
They wove their way between the motley sources of transport that blundered along the road to Colombo. Cars, buses and lorries shared the road with a variety of other modes of transport. They passed rickshaws pulled by barefooted and bare-chested men wearing the same skirt-like garment, this time tucked up to expose muscled brown legs and knees. Anthony looked on amazed at bicycles with two and three people together with what looked like all their household belongings hanging off the side. The traffic also shared the road with wooden carts, full to overflowing with fruit and vegetables, with scrawny bulls shackled at the front.
It seemed that the way to progress, if one were in a motor vehicle, was to blow the horn at an ear rending volume and drive to within a whisker of whatever other mode of transport one wanted to overtake. This evoked a loud and rude response from the other driver, be he the driver of a vehicle, a rickshaw puller, or the driver of the bull cart.
‘Sir, sir, look sir, on the pavement – it is the rambuttan season. At other times it will be papaw or mango, sir.’
In between the piles of garbage on the broken rubble at the edge of the road lay mounds of reddish fruit with pink spikes on the surface, each fruit about the size of a golf ball. A little boy, wearing a blue t-shirt and nothing else, sat by one of the mounds sucking on a fruit. A man dressed in a coloured skirt-like garment and a threadbare shirt open to expose a caved-in chest, squatted by the boy. He smiled, showing red stained teeth.
Mr Emmanuel turned back to Anthony ‘The Indians chew betel, sir. They combine the leaf and nut with lime. It stains their mouth red. You will see that everywhere on the tea plantation.’
Mr Emmanuel pointed to a group of well-proportioned swaying bodies, many walking with no footwear, some with colourful baskets of fruit and vegetables balanced on their heads. ‘Sir, women wear cotton saris, sir. Six yards of material wrapped in one piece, sir.’
Ebony black eyes stared into the car with inquisitive interest. A couple of the younger women nodded and smiled and waved when they caught Anthony’s eyes. He shrank back into the uncomfortable seat. ‘People will all treat you very special, sir. You are white, no, sir – like a god. You will get used to it soon, sir.’
Anthony was thrown forward when Mr Emmanuel stomped his foot on the brake. ‘What the –’
‘Look sir, an elephant!’ Mr Emmanuel pointed forward and spoke in a whisper. ‘We mustn’t excite it too much!’ The car crawled past the mighty animal, once a king in his jungle domain, now reduced to carrying logs of wood with his legs shackled in chains.
Anthony gazed into the large brown eyes, fringed with long lashes. The animal gazed back at him. He wondered what memories of freedom this magnificent animal carried in its brain. The man riding the beast’s back raised his hand in greeting to Anthony. He shouted a command and prodded the neck of the beast with a sharp stick. The elephant trumpeted and raised its trunk. Anthony’s lips twitched. The largest animal in Sri Lanka salutes the visiting white god. He could get used to this.
The car bumped its way on towards Colombo. The roads grew even more crowded and polluted. Dust swirled around and into the car. Mr Emmanuel’s voice droned on, lulling Anthony into a stupor. He heard less and less of what Mr Emmanuel said.
***
‘Sir, sorry sir. We are at the hotel, sir,’ Mr Emmanuel’s voice broke into Anthony’s drowsy state. He jerked awake to see an expanse of green lawn. Beyond it stretched the brilliant blue of the ocean with white-capped waves shimmering to the horizon. The setting sun was an orange orb in the pink and grey sky. Families and couples strolled along a mud path that seemed to serve as a promenade.
‘Galle Face Green, sir,’ Mr Emmanuel said. ‘And that,’ he said with an extravagant sweep of his arm, ‘is the Indian Ocean.’
‘Really?’ muttered Anthony. ‘I thought it was the North Atlantic.’
Mr Emmanuel smiled and bobbled his head.
They were parked in the driveway of a large sandstone two-storey building. Tall, white pillars reached up on either side of the large wooden-framed glass doors. Similarly impressive windows, also framed in wood, shone gold and pink in the evening sun. Native men in crisp white suits and white gloves stood at attention by the entrance.
Mr Emmanuel leapt out of the car. Bending at the waist, he held the door of the car open. Anthony unfolded himself from the back seat and walked up the worn, well-scrubbed marble steps of the hotel. Mr Emmanuel darted in front of him, carrying Anthony’s luggage.
One of the uniformed men stepped forward and held the door open for them to enter. To Anthony’s bemusement, a flash of resentment momentarily clouded the man’s deep black eyes. Why would the doormen resent him? Mr Emmanuel had said he would be treated like a god.
He strolled after Mr Emmanuel into a large foyer with a high ceiling. The room was cool and carried the pungent smell of a hothouse full of blooms. Taking a deep breath he stood, looking around, hands in the pockets of his now crumpled linen trousers. Large wooden slatted ceiling fans circulated the air. Hand-crafted tapestries in bright reds, greens, blues and orange hung from white walls. They depicted outrigger canoes, half naked women balancing large urns on their heads, and a parade of elephants. Brass vases of multi-coloured flowers stood on round, ebony tables.
A slim, dark, young man emerged from behind the teak reception desk. He was dressed in a pale blue suit with an emblem embroidered on the breast pocket. He spoke to Mr Emmanuel in what Anthony took to be the native language. Mr Emmanuel nodded.
Putting the bags down, he turned to Anthony. ‘The staff here all know your uncle, Mr Irvine, sir. They will look after you, sir. I will come for you tomorrow morning and put you on the train to Diyatalāwa. Good night, sir. Sleep well, sir.’
Mr Emmanuel pressed his hands together again in what must this time be a gesture of farewell. Anthony nodded, not wanting to extend his hand and definitely not ready to practice the Sri Lankan greeting in public. Mr Emmanuel then retreated backwards out of the hotel foyer, almost tripping over the welcome mat.
‘Welcome to Galle Face Hotel, Mr Ashley-Cooper,’ the young man addressed Anthony in flawless English. ‘I’m Nimal, the maître d’hôtel of the Galle Face Hotel. We have booked you in the King’s Suite. It overlooks the ocean. I am sure you will have a good night’s sleep there.’ His clipped, soft voice was a pleasant change after two hours of Mr Emmanuel’s loud blather.
Nimal ushered Anthony towards the lift. A bellboy in a white uniform lifted his bags onto a small wooden trolley with intricate filigree handwork. He followed Anthony and Nimal out of the reception hall. They passed carved mahogany chaise longues, upholstered in thick woven material of the same bright and vibrant colours as the tapestries in the foyer. ‘Sri Lankan handloom material,’ said Nimal, following Anthony’s gaze.
Anthony glanced at a large painting of a group of women carrying trays of flowers in their hands. His eyes widened when he realised that the women were topless.
Seeing Anthony’s raised eyebrows, Nimal pointed to the picture. ‘The Sigiriya Frescoes, Mr Ashley-Cooper. Sigiriya is an ancient rock castle used by King Kassyapa in the fourth century. There are paintings of hundreds of women like this on the walls of the rock. They were the Kings’ princesses and consorts.’
Anthony looked at the tapestry and sniggered. ‘He must have been quite a man to keep them all satisfied.’ He ignored the look that flashed between Nimal and the bellboy.
In pointed silence, Nimal held the door of the lift open for Anthony to enter. The bellboy followed him with his bags. The wooden, box-like lift creaked up to the second floor and opened to reveal a carpeted corridor. Nimal stepped out and held the lift door open for Anthony. The wooden panelling, soft hidden lights and piped music gave Anthony a twinge of homesickness. I could be in England, he thought. On the other hand, if it were England, there wouldn’t be paintings of fishing boats with half-naked men, and portraits of brooding, dark, mystic faces on the walls.
Nimal walked down the corridor and opened the door at the end. He stood aside and gestured Anthony to enter. The walls of the room were painted pale blue. Antique wooden armchairs and a writing table complemented the large, regency style four-poster bed in the centre of the room. Bowls of roses stood on either side of the bed and on the desk. The balcony door was open, and the lace curtain fluttered in the breeze to reveal tantalising glimpses of water. The fresh salt smell of the ocean wafted into the room, mingling with the perfume of the roses.
Nimal placed Anthony’s bags on a stool. ‘Your room, Mr Ashley-Cooper, I hope you like it.’
Anthony walked to a large, framed picture on the wall across from the bed. ‘A tea plantation, sir,’ Nimal explained. ‘Similar to where you will be going tomorrow.’
***
Anthony lay on the soft linen sheets of his bed. He clasped his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. Soon after Nimal had ushered him into his room, a waiter had brought up a dinner of rice, spiced roast chicken and mixed vegetables – all labelled in small script. Anthony had eyed the meal, poked around at the separate bits, sampled it and then enjoyed it more than he would be willing to admit. After dinner, he had a long soak in the old fashioned brass tub in the bathroom and now lay in bed trying to clear his head of the myriad images that filled his mind.
The sun sank slowly into the ocean. The light from the lamps on Galle Face Green filtered into the room, shrouding the picture of the tea plantation on the wall in an eerie yellow light. The swirls in the plaster ceiling took on the appearance of mountains and valleys, first of the rolling downs of his home in the Peak District of England and then of green hilled mysteries of yet unseen tea plantations.
Dinner parties at the Ashley-Cooper manor in Bakewell were never complete without stories about the tea plantations. He remembered the story of the itinerant Indian preacher. He heard his father’s voice: ‘The bugger came by every few months pontificating about the hellfire and brimstone that awaited me if I didn’t repent of my sins. He bloody well knew I would set my dogs on him but he kept coming anyway.’
Even as a child, Anthony had felt vaguely uncomfortable at how much the guests at the dinner party in the manor enjoyed the idea of the old Sri Lankan man scuttling away with bulldogs chasing after him.
Other stories, mainly those concerning the coolie women and plantation hospitality, were explicit and bawdy. The dinner guests would snigger and chuckle, as Anthony’s mother bundled him and his brother William out of the room. Recently, on one of these occasions, his father had grabbed William by his arm. He had raised his brandy snifter to his mother.
‘Let him listen,’ he had called out to her. ‘He’ll experience it himself soon enough.’ William had enjoyed that, but Anthony had watched his mother’s eyes burn with anger and then cloud in pain.
‘The tea plantations charmed your father,’ she had whispered in Anthony’s ear the night before he left. ‘Take care that the same doesn’t happen to you.’
***
Sometime in the night, Anthony kicked the sheets off the bed. He realised why when he woke up. The doors to the balcony stood open, but the sea breeze did little to abate the cloying heat of the tropical morning. He picked up the sheet and wiped the sweat off his body. ‘Like living in a bloody sauna,’ he grumbled to himself.
A soft tap on the door heralded Nimal. ‘Good morning, Mr Ashley-Cooper. I am sorry to wake you so early. Mr Emmanuel asked me to bring you breakfast. He will be here at eight-thirty to take you to the station.’
Anthony looked with grudging interest at the items on the plate that constituted his breakfast. ‘Mr Emmanuel asked me to bring you bacon and eggs, sir, but I thought you may like to try the egg hoppers. It is a traditional Sri Lankan breakfast.’
‘Leave it on the table.’ Anthony looked at the tray of food, not particularly hungry. ‘Please let me know when the car is here.’ Nimal bowed and turned away.
Anthony stared at the two egg hoppers. They looked like pancakes with a crisp brown border, each with an egg fried sunny side up on a cushiony centre. On the rim of the plate were small bowls of colourful sauces. The blend of aromas was not like anything Anthony had experienced. And yet, it was enticing to his taste buds. Suddenly ravenous, Anthony sat down, and ignoring the knife and folk, devoured the food with his fingers – which, he reasoned, was probably the correct way to eat it.
Anthony showered and threw his overnight clothes into his bag. He rang for the bellhop and sauntered down to the foyer.
Mr Emmanuel arrived at eight-thirty, even more sycophantic than the day before. ‘Sir, your uncle Mr Irvine called me this morning, sir. He will meet you at Diyatalāwa station.’ Mr Emmanuel wiped Anthony’s bags with his hanky before carrying them to the car with his customary delicacy.
Leaving the air-conditioned hotel, Anthony walked down the steps, opened the back door and got into the car. Mr Emmanuel came bustling after him to shut the door and then rushed over to the driver’s side. ‘Sir, I have booked a seat for you in the first class compartment of the train. I have also ordered chicken sandwiches for your lunch, sir.’ Mr Emmanuel pulled away from the hotel.
Recovered from the half-asleep stupor of last evening, Anthony was more aware of the traffic and noise that surrounded them on the drive to the train station. Even in the business heart of the city, rickshaws and bull carts shared the road with bicycles in various states of disrepair and cars of indeterminate age belching foul brown fumes.
In contrast to the drive from the airport, however, there was a controlled purposefulness about the activity on the streets in Colombo. Men and women, many with bags tucked under their arms, strode along the pavement. The men were mostly dressed in white cotton business suits, the women in what he now recognised as saris. The women held up black umbrellas in a vain attempt to ward off the burning rays of the morning sun.
They wound their way through the traffic. Mr Emmanuel pointed to the Edwardian buildings lining the streets. ‘Sir, we are driving through Colombo Fort. It used to be a British fortress in the nineteenth century, now all business and trade buildings, sir.’
Anthony turned to look at a group of men dressed in bright orange robe-like garments, their heads shaven and glistening in the sunshine. ‘Buddhist monks, sir,’ said Mr Emmanuel. ‘Buddhism is the main religion in Sri Lanka. But in the tea plantation, the coolies are all Hindus. They are Indian labourers, no, sir? But sir knows that, of course.’
Half an hour later they drew into a parking spot in front of the railway station. The white arches bore the name ‘Fort Railway Station’ in English and what were presumably the two native languages of Sinhalese and Tamil.
A larger than life bronze statue of a bearded old man holding a large book stood in a fenced enclosure at the front of the station. Mr Emmanuel followed Anthony’s gaze. ‘Ah, you are wondering who that is, no, sir? He is a white man, sir. Colonel Henry Steele Olcott. He was important in taking Buddha’s teaching to your country, sir. He wrote the Buddhist books here also.’
Anthony looked up at the stern countenance, now marred by pigeon droppings and adorned by two large cawing ravens. Railway lines, tea plantations, Christian missionaries and the Buddhist catechism. He was only beginning to understand the effect of the British Empire on the colonies. He turned to follow Mr Emmanuel into the railway station.
Mr Emmanuel ignored the offer of help from a number of scruffy urchins and carried Anthony’s bags to the platform. The crowd of native men, women and children parted to allow the two of them passage. ‘Sir, the British built the station in about 1910,’ Mr Emmanuel said, his voice rising above the chatter that surrounded them. ‘In those times the trains were used to transport tea and coffee from the hill country to Colombo, sir.’ He flung his free hand to encompass the walls and arches, ‘The sandstone blocks and the wrought iron arches were all made by local people, sir. Good work, no?’
Anthony looked around. The arches were imposing and the whorls in the metal delicate and beautiful, even under layers of grime and soot. The wooden doors were adorned with ornate brass handles and stained glass panels. It was an unabashed effort of his forefathers to replicate a British railway station in this squalid colonial outpost. And it was well done.
The announcement rang out, loud and strident, probably to make up for the hiss and wheeze of the big-wheeled steam locomotive at the head of the train and the clamour of the crowd struggling to board the carriages.
‘The train on platform four is the day train to Badulla.’
It was repeated twice more. ‘Sinhalese and Tamil, sir,’ Mr Emmanuel explained. He ushered Anthony along the platform.
Native men walked up and down the platform hawking food, carrying their produce in cane baskets on their shoulders. Their calls of ‘vadai, vadai kadalai, kadalai’ and ‘thambili, thambili’ had a practiced, almost musical rhythm.
Mr Emmanuel stopped at a carriage with FIRST CLASS emblazoned in large, intricate gold lettering on the side. Anthony looked around. The carriage was empty and no one seemed eager to enter it.
‘The natives all travel second class and the coolies in third, sir. No one will bother you, sir.’ Opening the door, Mr Emmanuel scrambled into the carriage. He stored Anthony’s suitcase in the overhead luggage shelf and wiped the seat with his handkerchief. ‘You will be comfortable here, sir?’
‘Thank you, Mr Emmanuel.’ Anthony climbed in after him and sat back in the leather seat covered with white linen. The shrill whistle from the locomotive sent Mr Emmanuel scuttling off the train.
With another loud, drawn-out whistle and a bone rattling jerk, the train drew out of the station. A cloud of steam and smoke drifted from the locomotive, partially obscuring the platform. People were hanging out of the windows, waving and screaming goodbyes. Anthony looked back. He could just about make out Mr Emmanuel, waving in the air with both hands. Anthony raised his hand in goodbye – and good riddance. Flecks of dust and soot flew in the wind and into the compartment. Hooking his fingers in the brass knobs, Anthony dragged the glass window shutter down.
He wiped his face and hands with his linen handkerchief and then cursed when he saw that it was black with soot and dust. Oh well, he would be ready for a shower when he reached his uncle’s bungalow. He thrust the handkerchief in his pocket and sat back with his eyes shut.
Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto piped through the sound system, competing with the racket outside the compartment and the clickety-clack of the wheels on the rails. The carriage swayed as it gathered speed. The locomotive whistle was muffled and distant. Tired and jet lagged, Anthony dropped back into a stupor.
‘Welcome aboard the Uderata Maniké, sir.’
Anthony’s eyes jerked open. A young man in a white uniform stood in front of him. ‘The name is meaning upcountry girl. I am the rail supervisor in charge of first class carriages. My name is John.’
The man poured some mysterious fizzy orange fluid from a bottle bearing the label ‘orange barley’ into a glass and offered it to Anthony.
Anthony groaned. Eight hours with another one of these idiotic natives, just as he had got rid of Mr Emmanuel.
‘You must not mind him, young sir, he is only trying to look after you. This must be your first visit to Sri Lanka.’
Glass in hand, Anthony looked at the stout figure of the Sri Lanka man settling into the window seat in front of him. He wore a white shirt that reached down to the knees with what looked like a long, white skirt under it. The lower garment was held up by a leather belt. The hair on his balding head was well oiled and combed down, stretching down to his ample neck. He sported a walrus moustache, which wobbled as he leaned forward.
A native in first class?
‘I am Don Mudiyansalage Premawansa Somaweera Hemachandra …’
Anthony’s eyes widened at the cascade of syllables.
‘But people call me Hemachandra Mudalali.’
Well I’m not people, thought Anthony, and I’m damned if I’m going to make a fool of myself by trying to say your name.
‘I own a big fleet of lorries that take tea from the estates to Colombo. I employ ten drivers. I own the biggest shop in my town, where everyone comes to buy their food and clothes and things. That’s why people call me Hemachandra Mudalali – it means Hemachandra, the town merchant.’
Hemachandra Mudalali did not stretch out his hand to shake Anthony’s hand, neither did he put his palms together in greeting. Noticing Anthony’s eyes on his clothes he smiled. ‘Native dress. You can say sarong and shirt. How far are you going?’
Anthony appraised the man. The two of them were stuck with each other for the better part of the day; he might as well make the most of it. ‘I’m travelling to a station called Diyatalāwa.’
‘Why, that is where I am going too, sir! My shop is in Diyatalāwa. Are you staying with the Superintendent of Watakälé?’ Hemachandra rubbed his palms together. ‘Ah, that is why you are looking so familiar. Your brother visited last year, no? Stayed in Udatänná?’
Anthony nodded his response, then opened his carry bag and took out the book his mother had given him to read on the plane – Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress. He’d ignore the old fool. Let him think it was colonial arrogance.
‘So you also are going to take over and be the Superintendent in Watakälé one day, sir? Just like your brother will in Udatänná? You will be called the Periadorai – did you know that?’
It was probably another word for white god. ‘Yes,’ Anthony mumbled into the book.
‘Then it is a good thing that we have this time together, no?’ Hemachandra Mudalali continued, ignoring Anthony’s aloofness. ‘After all, my lorries are going to take your tea to Colombo to get sold.’
Anthony looked at him over the page of his book.
‘Come, young sir. Let me tell you something about our country. It is very pretty, no? See, already we are leaving the city behind.’
Anthony sighed again. He put the book away in his bag.
As the train chugged out of Colombo, the grey smoke and soot-stained buildings fell away. Lush, green fields and a myriad of multi-coloured flowers Anthony did not recognise took their place. Hemachandra pointed out of the window. ‘Paddy fields,’ he said. ‘The ground is dug by buffalo and the rice planted in steps. See, sir.’ He pointed. Anthony gazed at the immense grey animals with graceful curved horns yoked in pairs at the ploughshares.
Hemachandra Mudalali pointed out rivers and mountains, villages of mud-walled cottages and coconut plantations. Listening to him, Anthony found himself drawn into the beauties and mysteries of the country.
When the train drew into a station called Māwanella, Hemachandra bought a young coconut from one of the itinerant vendors, who lopped its top off and stuck a straw into it. Hemachandra passed it to Anthony. ‘Very refreshing drink, thambili. You will miss it when you leave Sri Lanka. But then you will come back, no? To take charge of Watakälé?’
Hemachandra pointed out a mountain he called Utuwankandé. ‘The Robin Hood of Sri Lanka lived there. His name was Saradiel. Apparently, he enjoyed taking from the white man and giving the villagers the money.’ He chortled, his moustache and stomach wobbling with mirth. ‘Fortunately he was arrested and executed, so you are safe.’
At a station called Nawalapitiya, a muscular Garrett locomotive added power to the front of the train. Anthony soon understood why. The track became steep, climbing higher and higher. The two locomotives laboured in unison. The air became progressively cooler and clearer, even sweeter.
Anthony saw a station sign for Hatton flash past the window. A wide valley stretched before them, backed by a broad-shouldered mountain range. The lower regions of the mountain were swathed with brilliant green bushes. From its upper flanks, dark, ominous rock faces clawed upwards towards the sky. Distant waterfalls cascaded down the rocks. Hardy trees and bushes clung like mountain goats to the almost vertical slopes.
‘The Great Western Range.’ Hemachandra waved his hand out of the window. ‘This is the area for high-country tea – the best kind. Not bitter but full of flavour.’ He raised his hand to his mouth in a gesture to mimic holding a tea cup. ‘They are saying it is like a good wine. Your plantations are high country too.’
The train passed a wide waterfall, which Hemachandra Mudalali identified as St Clair’s Fall. Anthony leaned out the window to get a better look. The thunder of plunging water filled his ears. The water billowed out, fanned by a brisk breeze. Anthony felt the sting of icy cold drops on his face.
Soon the train laboured its way up the face of the Great Western Range. Anthony gazed back across the valley from which they had come. Range after range of mountains, like a petrified blue-green ocean, faded into a purple haze in the distance. This was a primitive, rugged and yet strongly seductive country. He began to understand why his father had grown to love it.
Hemachandra Mudalali pointed out a sharp-pointed triangle, jutting up out of the mountain range to the south. ‘You would call it Adam’s Peak,’ he said, ‘but we Sri Lankans call it Sri-Pāda. It’s an important pilgrimage site for all the religions. You should climb it some time. Buddhists take the imprint at the summit of the mountain to be the hallowed footprint of the Buddha, hence the name Sri Pāda – holy footprint. To the Hindus, the footprint is that of God Shiva. Christians took it to be from St Thomas, who was thought to have brought Christianity to India and Sri Lanka. And to Muslims, it is an impression of Adam’s foot, hence the name “Adam’s Peak”. Another name for the mountain by the Sinhalese is Samanala Kanda, meaning Butterfly Mountain. Flocks of butterflies wing their way to the mountain every year. They die when they get to the top – a sort of divine sacrifice.’
Cool mountain air now filled the carriage. Anthony closed his eyes and filled his lungs. Yes, it would be good to breathe this every day.
Hemachandra Mudalali chuckled. ‘Nothing like this in England, no?’ He pointed to the hills. ‘It is nice here, young sir. No dirt and pollution like Colombo. You will be happy here -’ He stopped and looked at Anthony. ‘If you let yourself.’
The sun had dipped behind the towering green mountains when the train drew to a shuddering halt at Diyatalāwa Station. Dark-skinned men dressed in faded shirts and sarongs leapt like agile monkeys onto the train.
Hemachandra Mudalali pointed to the platform. ‘Your uncle is waiting.’ He raised his hand in a half salute. ‘Young sir, we will meet again.’
Anthony had already seen his uncle, Phillip Irvine, standing on the platform, hands on his hips, feet splayed, a scowl of concentration on his tanned face. He was dressed in a white open-necked shirt, cream trousers and brown shoes. His brown hair was receding and there were more lines on his forehead than Anthony remembered from a year ago when they had met in England.
Mr Irvine’s face creased into a smile when Anthony stepped down out of the carriage and onto the platform. ‘Welcome to the tea plantations, son.’ He shook Anthony’s hand. ‘You must be tired. Your Aunt and the girls are waiting for you at the bungalow.’ He led Anthony out of the tiny station and into a mud yard where Anthony’s bags were being packed into the boot of a black Wolseley.
Mr Irvine drove the car through the town of Diyatalāwa. The going was slow. They shared the narrow road with large lumbering lorries carrying crates of tea and small trucks and bull carts full of fresh vegetables. There were also dogs, cats, goats, cattle and even a sundry buffalo.
Leaving the town behind, the road climbed into the tea plantation. It was as if an emerald green carpet had been thrown over the undulating hills to welcome him. Mud roads curled through the hills like dusky brown ribbons. Anthony felt a frisson of excitement. So this was it. Tea – his father’s legacy, soon to be his.
Anthony looked around, trying not to gawk. He wound down the window and sniffed.
‘The aroma of fresh tea leaves,’ explained his uncle. He pointed to the smooth-topped tea bushes that reached right up to the edge of the road. ‘Don’t look like individual plants, do they? Decades of pruning to keep then waist high and regular plucking of the bloom makes the tops grow together.’ He pointed to one hill of a brighter green, which seemed to be alive with multi-coloured dots. ‘Coolie women, Indian labour. They don’t usually pluck so late. They’re the backbone of the industry. Efficiency depends on them working fast. But quality depends on their ability to pick just the flush of two leaves and the bud.’ He chuckled. ‘We’re always trying to improve both, of course.’
The car stopped at a boom gate. Bold black letters on a white wooden board read ‘Watakälé Estate, Oriental Produce Tea Company’. A man ran from a small wooden hut at the side of the road and swung the gate up. He was dressed in a tattered black sweater and what Anthony now recognised as a sarong. He shuffled back into the ditch at the side and stood with his head bowed as the car swept by.
The road dipped and wound into a valley. They rounded a corner and a foul odour invaded Anthony’s senses. ‘What a stench.’ He gagged and covered his mouth and nose with his hanky. A row of rooms, looking like filthy stables, came into view. Half-naked children played in the mud in front of them. Girls in loose, faded dresses squatted by the stream that separated the road from the buildings. They seemed to be washing clothes in the polluted water.
His uncle reached over Anthony to wind up the window. ‘I’m sorry to have to subject you to this, son. These are what we call the line rooms. The indentured Indian labourers – coolies – live here. We have given each family a room. There are common toilets and taps. They are sturdily built rooms. Well ventilated. But the coolies have no sense of hygiene and the place is filthy. I’ll explain this all to you later. I’ve applied to your father for money to re-route the main road so that it doesn’t go past this area.’
One young girl with a baby perched on her hip, stood by the stream looking at the car. Her eyes met and held Anthony’s. They bore an expression of patient forbearance, not unlike the look in the eyes of the elephant he had seen on the road from the airport.
The smell and sight of the line rooms fell away behind them as they drove up a hill. In a few minutes they passed a little cottage with trimmed jasmine and rose bushes lining the front garden.
‘The Tea-maker’s quarters,’ explained his uncle. Just then a girl ran across the road. His uncle braked and swore under his breath. ‘The Tea-maker’s daughter,’ he explained with a frown.
The girl stood by the road, smiling and waving to the car. The sun glinted on a purple stone pendant hanging round her neck and shimmered off her black hair. A single curl hung at the centre of her forehead.
‘Please don’t acknowledge her greeting, son,’ his uncle said, with a restraining hand on his arm. ‘We don’t associate with the natives in public.’
Anthony turned to look back at the girl just as she stuck her tongue out to the receding car.
No patient forbearance there.