May 1957 Watakälé
Shiro shot up in bed. What had woken her? The old grandfather clock whirred and chimed the hour. Shiro counted, one - two - it was two o’clock in the morning. She slid down in bed and pulled the purple blanket over her head, wiping her tears with the edge of the blanket. Nicky, her little cat, was gone, his head crushed by a falling Jak fruit. Her mother had said he was dead. What happened when cats died? Did they go to cat heaven? What was dead, anyway?
Suddenly she was afraid. Flinging off her blanket, she ran barefoot across the hall to her parents’ bedroom. She flung herself into their bed. Her father yelped as she landed on top of him.
‘Promise me you won’t die,’ she cried, burrowing in between him and her mother.
Her father cradled her in his arms. ‘Of course not, princess. I’ll never leave you.’
She cuddled in between them. ‘Can we have a cat funeral in the morning?’
***
Later that morning, Rajan and Lilly Rasiah stood with their daughter and Lakshmi around a little hole at the bottom of the vegetable garden. Tears streamed down Shiro’s face. Lakshmi stood quietly, shuffling her feet, looking at Lilly Rasiah and then down the path leading away to her home.
‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ Lilly read from a tattered old prayer book. Rajan shovelled dirt into the shallow grave, covering the motionless little bundle that was Nicky, wrapped in his favourite blanket.
‘I’ll always love you, Nicky.’ Shiro placed a twig from the rose bush on the fresh soil. ‘I’m going to plant a rose bush over you and I’ll pick a rose from it every day, wear it for you and tell everyone what a nice kitty you were.’
Rajan patted down the dirt, smoothing it over the grave. Lilly held her hand out to Shiro. ‘Come, darling, we must finish class early so we can get ready for the tea party this afternoon.’
‘Shiro Chinnamma, I am going home now,’ Lakshmi said to Shiro. ‘I have to cook and wash and do other work.’
‘Mummy, I want Lakshmi to stay for the tea party,’ Shiro swung around to face her mother. She stamped her foot.
Her parents exchanged glances. ‘No darling, the superintendent’s children are not allowed to play with coolies and Lakshmi has things to do in the line room,’ Lilly replied.
‘But Lakshmi will like playing with Janet and Sarah,’ Shiro said, her eyes filling with tears again. ‘Lakshmi is my best friend. I want Janet and Sarah to meet her. I want us all to play together.’ Shiro crossed her arms across her chest, planted her feet firmly on the ground, and stared at her mother, ready to defy the world.
‘Mahal, control yourself,’ Lilly sighed. How was she to explain to precocious young Shiro that this afternoon tea party broke all conventions of tea plantation life? Shiro wasn’t to know that British children weren’t meant to talk to native Sri Lankan children, let alone Indian coolies. Poor little Janet and Sarah, the two daughters of superintendent Irvine, were stuck with only each other for company, just because they were white. Appu, who cooked for and supervised the superintendent’s household, had said that the girls spent most days getting on each other’s nerves and driving their mother and their English nanny to distraction.
Lilly didn’t want to entertain them, but in the estate hierarchy it would have been unheard of for the Tea-maker to refuse a request from the superintendent, however unusual it was. And a request from the British superintendent that his family visit the native Tea-maker’s house for afternoon tea was probably a first in the tea plantation’s history.
Lilly squatted down so her eyes were level with Shiro. ‘Lakshmi will not stay for tea. She will come and play with you tomorrow. Isn’t that right, Lakshmi?’
Lakshmi nodded.
Shiro folded her arms and glared at first her mother and then Lakshmi. With a toss of her curly head and a disgruntled snort, she stormed off to a corner of the garden.
Lilly nodded to Lakshmi, who turned and darted down the dirt track that led to the line rooms.
Lilly looked at the path where her daughter had disappeared. Someday, my darling, you will learn that you can’t always get what you want from life, she thought. I pray it won’t be too painful a lesson for you.
***
Lilly Rasiah stood in the sitting room of the Tea-maker’s house. She glanced at the clock. Three o’clock in the afternoon. They should be here soon. She looked out of the window. She was anxious but determined to not show it when her guests arrived. She repeated her husband’s words to herself like a mantra: ‘you can match it with the best.’
‘Can I show Janet and Sarah the new dolls house Daddy made for me? Please? Please?’ Shiro pranced around the sitting room, almost knocking over the tea table. She was dressed in her favourite purple dress. Lilly had brushed Shiro’s hair and it hung loose to her shoulders, curling around her face. Tiny gold earrings peeked through the bouncing black tresses. Her favourite single stone amethyst pendent shimmered around her neck. She certainly was a cute little thing. She deserved much more than the tea plantation atmosphere and a coolie girl as a friend.
A plan began to form in her head, one that would give her precious, only daughter the education and refinement that Lilly herself had craved.
Lilly steadied the tea table. On it she had laid out the Wedgwood china tea set she had received as a wedding present from her grandfather. ‘Yes, you can take them to the playroom. And please be careful, darling.’ She steered Shiro away from the table. ‘Why don’t you stand on the veranda and let me know when the car draws up? Don’t do anything to dirty your dress.’
Shiro skipped out to the veranda.
Lilly stepped back and surveyed the room. She had covered the chipped tea table with a hand embroidered white linen cloth. Roses from the garden nestled in the little crystal vase, and linen napkins with handmade lace edgings sat neatly folded on the rose-edged tea plates. The egg sandwiches and frosted cupcakes she had made that morning were both elegant and appetising.
She looked around at the worn lounge suite. Not for the first time, she noticed the frayed edges of the chintz covers and the scratches on the wooden armrests. She had covered the headrests of the lounge and chairs with chintz overlays and polished the wood as best she could. She would never think of complaining to her husband about something as trivial as new furniture. His salary barely met the school fees for their two sons and upkeep of his widowed mother and brothers.
This would be far inferior to what Mrs Irvine and the girls would be used to in the superintendent’s bungalow. They would have to make the best of it.
Shiro’s excited squeal preceded the rumble of the approaching car. Lilly glanced quickly into the old, ornate mirror that hung on the wall over the gramophone. She adjusted the fall of her light green cotton sari, slipped her feet into a pair of brown slippers, and went out to join Shiro on the veranda.
The black Wolseley, driven by a white uniformed Indian chauffeur, slowed and drew to a precise stop at the stone steps that led up to the front veranda. The chauffeur leapt out of the car and opened the back door. He stood holding the door with his head bowed.
Lilly watched a pair of cream leather high-heeled shoes emerge from the back seat.
Mrs Irvine glided rather than stepped out of the car. Her pale yellow silk dress clung to her slim body and fell in graceful pleats that reached just below her knees. Its Chantilly lace collar framed her pale oval face. A wide brimmed, cream hat with what looked like a peacock feather sat on brown hair drawn back in a tight chignon. Matching pale amber jewellery completed her ensemble.
‘How very kind of you to invite us to tea.’ Mrs Irvine removed her white linen gloves and extended slender manicured fingers with rose coloured nail polish to Lilly. The voice was soft, accented and genteel.
What a paragon of perfection. For a moment Lilly felt a clumsy oaf. Dismissing the thought, she stepped forward and took Mrs Irvine’s hand. The white soft palm lay limp in her brown, work-worn one. ‘It’s good to have you and the children visit,’ she said with what she hoped was a welcoming smile.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that for once, Shiro stood speechless, watching Sarah and Janet follow their mother out of the car. The girls were dressed in rose pink pinafore dresses and matching shoes with long lace fringed socks, their plaited hair tied back with pink ribbons. They both smiled at Lilly and Shiro and stood side by side, holding hands with each other.
‘You must be Shiro.’ Mrs Irvine looked down at the girl. ‘Janet and Sarah have been looking forward to visiting with you today.’ She drew Janet and Sarah forward, ‘Haven’t you dears?’ She bent down with a little frown to pat down their hair and straighten their dresses. ‘You girls will have to behave today with no Nanny to watch over you.’
She looked up at Lilly. ‘I am sorry, but we ran out of room in the car for Nanny.’
‘I don’t have a Nanny,’ Shiro broke in. ‘But I have Lakshmi who –’
‘Please come into the house,’ Lilly cut in, steering Mrs Irvine and the girls towards the front door. She looked back to see Shiro stand staring at the car.
‘Is that your brother?’ Shiro asked Janet, pointing to the person getting out of the front seat of the car.
‘No dear, that’s their cousin,’ Mrs Irvine’s smile was strained. ‘My husband’s nephew, Anthony, is spending some time with us.’ She turned to Lilly. ‘Anthony’s father, James Ashley-Cooper, owns the Oriental Produce Tea Company. Anthony and his brother William are heirs to the tea plantations. Anthony will one day be the superintendent here in Watakälé. My husband suggested that it would be useful for him to visit with a staff family.’ The pretty dimpling on the cheek didn’t hide the flush of embarrassment.
‘Who’s James Ashley-Cooper? And why would his son want to play with us?’ Shiro slanted her head and stared up at the tall figure dressed in a crisp white, open neck shirt and slim fitted, blue linen trousers. He in return, glared at Shiro as if she were a piece of flotsam on a beach. Shiro’s eyes narrowed. Lilly could sense that she was barely restraining the urge to stick her tongue out at him.
Lilly felt a prickle of anxiety. James Ashley-Cooper’s son here – in their house. Was he checking out how they lived? She was glad she had sent Lakshmi back to the line rooms. It would have been terrible if he reported back to his father that the Tea-maker was consorting with the Indian labour.
‘Please do come in.’ She ushered the party into the drawing room. Mrs Irvine and the girls moved in. Lilly bundled her daughter towards the door of the playroom. ‘Darling, why don’t you take Janet and Sarah to the playroom? I will bring you some cake and orange juice in there.’
She turned to Anthony. ‘You are most welcome to join us, Mr Ashley-Cooper. Please come in.’
‘What a lovely tea set.’ Mrs Irvine nodded permission to the girls to go with Shiro and sat down. ‘And cupcakes. How delightful! Did you make them yourself?’
Where does she think they came from? Lilly nodded, forcing a polite smile.
Anthony stood just inside the front door and looked around the room. Taking a white linen handkerchief from the pocket of his shirt, he dusted a chair and sat down. Lilly suppressed a twinge of annoyance and held the plate of cakes out to him.
‘Thank you.’ His tone of bored condescension hung thick in the air.
Lounging back, Anthony bit into a cupcake. ‘Why, these are almost as good as those from the kitchen in the manor,’ he said. ‘You – folk certainly know how to entertain.’
Mrs Irvine blushed. ‘Anthony, would you please check on your cousins? And please take them some cake?’ She held up a plate of cupcakes. ‘Sarah and Janet will love the frosting and sugar flowers.’
With a shrug of his shoulder, Anthony took the plate and left the room. ‘I apologise, Mrs Rasiah.’ The flush of colour raced through her pale cheeks. ‘Anthony and his brother don’t understand the relationships here in the colony.’
‘It’s all right.’ Lilly smiled at the other woman’s obvious discomfort. ‘These class distinctions – British superintendent, native staff and Indian coolie labour – they used to upset me when I married Mr Rasiah and first moved to the tea plantation. But they don’t bother me anymore.’
***
Anthony followed the sound of chatter and giggles to the playroom. Lifting the purple cotton curtain, he stood leaning on the doorpost, the plate of cupcakes held in his long fingers.
Janet and Sarah sat on small stools, their dresses draped around their knees. They each held a doll in their hands. Shiro lay flat on the floor on her stomach, her dress riding up her thighs, her head and hands inside a wooden doll’s house. Her voice came muffled from inside, ‘Quick, Moses, come out of there! The superintendent’s daughters are about to kidnap your sisters!’
‘Your mother sent you some cake,’ Anthony said, holding out the plate.
Shiro uncoiled herself from her inelegant position on the ground. She jumped up and pulled her skirt down over her thighs. ‘Thank you, but why did you not knock?’ She stood with her feet apart, her hands on her hips, her face tilted up. Her eyes locked with Anthony’s.
‘My apologies, I didn’t know I needed to.’ Anthony forced his voice to drip contempt, barely controlling his amusement at her rumpled clothes and tumbling locks.
Shiro continued staring at him. ‘Can’t you read?’ Placing her right hand on her forehead, she pointed with her left to a sign on the door. Handwritten in purple ink, it read ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY: KNOCK’.
No one had ever looked at Anthony with anything like the expression of amused scorn that he saw on Shiro’s face. He looked at her, speechless. Who the hell did she think she was?
Shiro continued staring at him for a few seconds, then stepped closer to him. ‘Oh, never mind. You brought food. We’re famished.’ She took the plate from his hand. ‘Thank you. Do you want one?’ She picked up a cupcake in fingers dusty from poking around in the doll’s house and held it out to him – a peace offering. The brilliance of the smile that flashed across her face made Anthony step back.
‘No thank you, Miss Rasiah, I don’t eat with children.’ Anthony realised with increasing irritation that his tone and words had no effect on this little black-eyed minx.
Shiro giggled. She was enjoying his discomfort. How dare she laugh at him?
‘Okay then, starve if you want.’ Shiro turned to the girls. ‘Oh by the way, my name is Shiro, but you can call me princess.’
Princess? What an audacious brat. Anthony leaned on the doorpost and watched the girls eat. Janet and Sarah sat nibbling the cake, careful not to drop crumbs. Occasionally they glanced at Anthony with a shy smile. Shiro seemed to have forgotten his existence. Quickly stuffing a cake into her mouth, she dusted her hands on her skirt and went back to her play in the doll’s house.
Anthony continued to watch her.
After a while Shiro stood up and looked at Janet and Sarah. ‘Come on, let’s go visit the grave.’ Ignoring Anthony, Shiro took their hands. Together the girls ran out through the outer door and skipped down the garden.
How dare she ignore me like this? Anthony fumed. Doesn’t she realise that I could have her father dismissed from his job? He followed the girls down a dirt path to the bottom of the garden, to a fresh mound of earth with a twig on it. He arrived just in time to hear Shiro say, ‘He was a beautiful cat and I will never ever forget him. The roses on this bush will remind me of him for the rest of my life.’
‘The poor thing.’ Janet brushed a tear from her eye. She placed a daisy on the mound of earth. All three girls knelt quietly around the grave.
Anthony brushed past the girls and then turned to face them. His face twisted with scorn. ‘For goodness’ sake, all this rigmarole for a silly cat? Who cares?’ He fixed his eyes on Shiro, ‘Stupid. That’s what you natives are – stupid!’ He stamped on the little twig, snapping it in two.
Janet and Sarah stared up at him, their eyes wide in amazement. They jumped to their feet and scampered back into the playroom.
Shiro continued to kneel with her head bent. Two tears escaped from her tightly shut eyes and slid down her brown cheeks.
Anthony stood looking at her. He felt uncomfortable. After all, she was only an uneducated native child. He didn’t need to bite her head off like that.
After a few seconds, she scrambled to her feet. She threw back her head and stared into Anthony’s eyes. Her lips quivered, then formed into a pout. It was as if she carried the fire of her race in her dark gaze. It ignited a corresponding blaze in Anthony’s belly that spread through his body.
A distant rumble of thunder was accompanied by a few heavy raindrops. They clung like diamonds on Shiro’s upturned face. A flash of lightning on the hill behind them made Anthony jump. Shiro didn’t flinch. Her lips curved in a hint of disdain.
‘Afraid of a little thunder storm?’ She leant forward. ‘Well, why don’t you go home then, you – you – British bastard?’
Anthony’s jaw dropped. ‘I will have you know, Miss Rasiah, that we British are the only reason that your father has a job and you have bread and butter on the table.’
Shiro burst into laughter. ‘And you should know that we never eat bread and butter. Maybe if you said rice and curry or string hoppers and hodhi. But you have no idea what those are, do you, sir?’ With that, she turned and skipped back into the house.
Anthony watched Shiro’s curls bounce on the collar of her purple dress. Arrogant native kid. Why did he let her get under his skin like that?
Shiro swung round as if she felt his eyes on her. She looked back at him and smiled. It made her look so angelic that Anthony stopped in his tracks. Then, as if changing her mind, she stuck her tongue out at him, twirled around and ran into the playroom.
Anthony stood in the back garden of the Tea-maker’s house. This is crazy, he thought. I shouldn’t let her get to me. She’s a child – a stupid, illiterate native child. She is nothing.
Anyway, he would be going home soon. When he came back, he would be the superintendent of Watakälé Tea Plantation.