Tea love and war, p.3
Tea, Love and War, page 3
CHAPTER FOUR
The offices of Shaw Wallace & Co. Ltd were large and imposing; Stuart had done his research and recognized the substantial white edifice of Wallace House in Bankshall Street from the photograph in the company brochure. It reminded him of a Whitehall ministry save that either side of the frontage was populated by stalls selling a multitude of goods and foodstuffs to the passing population. He knew that R. G. Shaw & Company and Shaw Wallace & Co. Ltd were closely linked, the latter with strong ties to the tea industry in Ceylon, and that the former was fast diversifying into the import of motor cars and was even involved in Imperial Airlines. He understood that they had a total of six tea estates in Assam and felt confident that there would be opportunities for advancement as the years went by.
Stuart’s guide of yesterday held his elbow as he took him through the crowds towards a rather grand entrance guarded by uniformed doorkeepers. Passing into a marbled reception hall and up a sweeping staircase Stuart was conducted into the offices of the director managing the tea estates.
‘Poyser – my name is Adams. Good to see you. How was the journey?’
A tall man, authoritative but helpful, Adams spelled out the duties that Stuart would fulfil. Stuart already knew that the post of junior assistant was directly below that of the estate manager and that his function was to run the manufacturing side of the estate under such supervision as was needed. It was explained that he would not need to concern himself with fieldwork as there was a field manager to deal with the planting and cultivation side, but that the smooth running of the factory was crucial and that his engineering skills would be fully tested. Adams questioned him closely on the machinery he would be working with and then gave him a selection of manuals and books and told to study them as soon as he could.
After half an hour, tea was brought. The bearer poured the cups with great care and Stuart watched cautiously as Adams tasted the brew with silent concentration before, seemingly satisfied, he relaxed and continued with the briefing.
‘So, what knowledge do you have of the weather and its impact on how you are going to spend the rest of your life?’
Stuart sensed it was not wise to imply any doubt on his lifetime commitment. ‘Sir, very little save to know of the monsoon season.’
‘Traditional planters will tell you there are two principal seasons in Assam: the Rains, lasting from the middle of May until the middle of October, and the Cold Weather, lasting from the beginning of November until the middle of March. The remaining months, from March until May, are called Chota Barsat – Small Rains. I fear you are going to be arriving as the Rains begin but this is also the time of our summer, so you will have the heat as well as the rain which is the most difficult time for those not used to our climate. I hope you enjoy the experience!
‘As for the journey, this will all be by rail: there is an alternative route which involves a train to Goalundo in Bengal and then a steamer up the Brahmaputra to Dibrugah, but that would take nearly three weeks in all which is too long. I’m afraid you will be heartily sick of the railway by the time the Assam Mail and its smaller cousins have transported you to the little station at Doom Dooma but at least you will be there slightly sooner.’
And what a journey it was: north from Calcutta and skirting Bengal, then at Gumani a sharp move to the south-east via the Boag loop and then north again through Malda Town, Kumedpur and up to New Jalpaiguiri Junction. Stuart liked to sit facing the engine and on the occasions that he looked up from the books that he was studying he saw how the everlasting miles of farmland were becoming more overgrown and less cultivated as the vistas passed by, interrupted by constant stops at tiny stations.
Nearly two long days before the train turned east across the top of Bengal, Stuart was bored and tired but at least feeling he was at last pointed in the direction of his final destination. He now realized what an immense distance he had come from faraway Birmingham and all his family and friends and how isolated he was going to be for the next five years until his first leave, seemingly a lifetime away.
As the hours passed Stuart saw that on his left-hand side a continuous line of mountains began to build, standing as a mighty backdrop to the unfolding scenes of the plains. This was the beginning of the Himalaya range, the railway always tracing the line of the huge Brahmaputra River. The plains across which the train passed were green and lush, the Indian winter had given way to summer and humidity was building up. Stuart realized that as the month advanced the start of the monsoons would come. At present the heat was tempered by a refreshing breeze as the train moved onwards, stopping at every station, mostly only a cluster of huts but always thronged with people.
An overnight stop at Cooch Behar Junction and then down to the northern shore of the Brahmaputra at Agthori. Here the train halted since it had as yet proved too difficult to build a bridge over the wide river with its banks constantly changing in the floods. With his fellow passengers Stuart now embarked on to a steam ferry, a ghat as he would learn to call it, and saw at first hand the enormous pale white expanse of the empty river. During the long crossing he watched the far black line of the southern side grow into a range of buildings stretching into the distance either side of the ferry dock, revealing itself as Gauhati, the capital city of Assam. Here Stuart had another overnight stop before boarding his penultimate train destined for Lumding and then onwards to Tinsukia.
The carriages were more primitive now, the horizontal bars at the windows segmenting the view, and Stuart’s fellow passengers were more numerous. He was disappointed to learn that this line did not pass through Dibrugah itself. He knew from his studies that Dibrugah was known as the Tea City of India and was the gateway to the three tea-producing districts of Tinsukia, Jorhat and Dibrugah itself, areas that his researches told him accounted for fifty per cent of the tea production of the whole of India.
Suddenly he realized that he was seeing tea beside the road: green bushes stretching into the distance with trees to shade the crop growing out of the flat expanse of green. He worked out that these must belong to either the Khanjikowa or Kharjan estates. The train travelled on towards Tinsukia, the unfenced rails running on the very edge of the dusty highway flanked with flimsy shacks.
Next Tinsukia itself, a shanty-town sprawl of single-storey huts between which the narrow road surged with traffic, people and animals. Although nearly at his final destination Stuart knew he had to change trains yet again. Urged on by the conductor, porters transferred his luggage to the waiting train on the single branch line leading to Doom Dooma. As usual Stuart felt himself the centre of attention, guessing that few Europeans travelled this far into Assam, and again he suffered the stares of the population as he settled himself into the last train he hoped he would have to endure for many months to come.
Now the chaos of Makum Junction where the line divided, the train imperiously forcing its way across the very centre of the T- junction which was the only serviceable road link between the east and west of that part of the country, clattering its way north in the direction of Doom Dooma rather than taking the line south-east towards Digboi and Marguerita. Stuart remembered the history of Digboi, one of his books describing the scene at the beginning of the century when primitive oil derricks heralded the site of the first oil refinery in Asia. He had read that oil had first been struck near Digboi nearly fifty years earlier in 1882, and had followed the stories of black mud smelling of oil coating the legs of working elephants used by the Assam Railways and Trading Company. This was the company that had completed the mammoth task of building the railway on which he was travelling, enabling the manufactured tea to travel to Calcutta by train rather than on river steamer.
The train travelled more slowly now as it moved north-east towards Doom Dooma, the nearest station to the Bokpara and Budla Beta tea estates, the lush green landscape of the wide plains giving way to distant views of dense vegetation, the encroaching jungle now a line towards the horizon. The station was barely a touch of civilization, with the ugliness of patched-together buildings standing alongside the shanty-type outskirts of the small halt as the train finally reached Stuart’s destination.
The humidity was much greater than before and the heat of the day was uncomfortable. Stuart felt soiled and battered as he stepped off the train and looked anxiously around to find a friendly face.
‘Mackie’s my name. I’m the manager of the Budla Beta estate. You must be Poyser.’
It was a statement, not a question, but the logic was obvious since he was the only European figure to emerge from the train on to the small platform. Shaking hands he eyed up the much older stocky figure in regulation shorts and a white topi hat. He was guided to a battered Bedford lorry and they both climbed up to join the driver in the cab. Stuart’s luggage had already made its way into the back where it sat with various bits of equipment and other packages; also sharing the open loading space were four or five other Indians – Stuart could not work out their seniority or capacity.
Mackie shouted information over the noise of the engine. He told Stuart that Budla Beta and nearby Bokpara together formed one of the biggest estates in the area, in excess of a thousand hectares and so one of the largest in Assam. Then there were the estates of Kharjan and Khanjikowa, all part of the Shaw Wallace group. Stuart learned that there was a planters’ club in Doom Dooma and a larger one back down the road near the Kharjan estate at Panitola, although the Panitola estate itself was part of the rival Jokai tea company. As the truck crashed and bumped along the mud road carved through the jungle he realized that a visit would be a major expedition and not a gentle stroll, and wondered how transport could be arranged.
Stuart’s companion emphasized that in addition to the managers for each of the estates, there was a superintendent in overall charge of the district. He went on to say that there were just five British on the Budla Beta estate itself, including Mackie’s wife who was the only European woman there.
Stuart’s sense of geographical isolation increased during the lurching ten mile journey and he was relieved when the truck began to travel down a track with tea bushes on either side and realized that he was now travelling into the estate itself. What at a distance resembled a raised carpet of green lawn was revealed as the smooth top surface of endless rows of tea bushes, planted closely together and stretching into the distance, the line of the jungle appearing as a far perimeter. The shade trees were planted at regular intervals, almost like lamp standards on a domestic street, and the paths for the pluckers between each area of bushes gave symmetry to the vast area of emerald leaf.
They came to a halt next to an untidy jumble of factory buildings one of which Stuart quickly identified as the engine room. He knew the others would include the sorting room, the rolling room and other places of production. In the other direction, a hundred paces from the factory area, were individual thatched two-storey buildings, each at least fifty yards from the next. These, with their mesh-enclosed outside verandahs under the projection of the thatch, were the bungalows in which the managers and other officers of the estate lived.
Workers from the factory and estate had already gathered round the lorry and started to unload under the shouted direction of the Indian foremen, who Stuart knew were called sirdars. From the various buildings emerged three more Englishmen to whom he was introduced: Petrie, Ross and Swannell. Mackie had already explained to Stuart that he was to share a bungalow and he learned that he was sharing with Petrie who would now take him there. The others went back to work, Stuart being told that he was to meet Mrs Mackie at dinner that evening – he was invited to their bungalow for a welcome meal.
Petrie was a big man, fifty years of age and sweating heavily in the humidity. He explained that he was the field manager. ‘So you and I are the two buggers who run the whole shooting match!’
Stuart’s bags were taken to an Ambassador car by a driver who then drove them the short distance to the house. As they came closer Stuart thought it looked vast, standing some distance from the factory complex with views over the estate and the other bungalows each in their own area of cultivated garden land. High wrought-iron gates were opened by a servant and they went up the outside steps into a huge verandah area, windows enclosed by mesh where a shy and wiry Indian with a striped turban put his hands together and bowed to Stuart. ‘Welcome, Sahib’ was the greeting in English.
Petrie introduced the man as Daniel, and said that he was the personal bearer to himself and Stuart. Stuart was soon to find that not only did his bungalow have a bearer but there was also a cook, a sweeper, a paniwalla, two malis and a night watchman, so that his personal staff, albeit shared with Petrie, already numbered seven. By the end of the day and following a guided tour of the factory complex he was to discover that as junior assistant he had a sirdar and four mechanics under his control. ‘And I’m only twenty-one,’ Stuart thought to himself, realizing how quickly he was going to need to learn rudimentary management skills.
The bungalow was as large as it had appeared from the car; the verandah was the coolest room, perhaps ten metres square with a vast fan in the vaulted ceiling creating a welcome current of air. Rattan sofas and tables furnished the area from which double doors led into an equally large lounge with more sofas and a long dining table towards the rear. Doors on either side led to the bedrooms, each with a dressing area and a bathroom. The back of the lounge had a door to the servants’ area from which a stone outside staircase descended to the single-storey kitchen.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Do you play bridge?’ Nodding by way of confirmation, Stuart mentally thanked his parents for teaching him and Mary in their early teenage years. His hostess, Margaret Mackie, was a tall, angular woman with an outdoor, rather leathery complexion. They were sitting around the dining table in the Mackies’ bungalow that first evening as Stuart fought to stay awake after the long journey and the strain of absorbing so many new experiences. He was very much the youngest amongst the Europeans on the estate and was quickly realizing the isolation of this small community in its acreage carved out of the surrounding jungle.
He thought back to the conversation with his uncle David and the words ‘inner strength’ began to have more meaning as he surveyed the small group that was to represent his social life for an immeasurable time to come. Still, the Mackies seemed a pleasant couple and the others were clearly welcoming. Ross was a stocky Scotsman only a few years older than Stuart, short on words but friendly; Swannell rather elegant with a cigarette holder and beautifully pressed linen suit, incongruous in this tiny gathering; Petrie more the archetypal Englishman abroad, bluff and, at first judgement, something of a drinker.
The first few days passed in a blur. Stuart began to settle into life in the bungalow, which he still found an odd description for a two- storey building. He learned that they lived on the upper floor because snakes and other wildlife were discouraged by the iron girders that formed the stilts on which the property was built. The ground floor area was used mainly for storage, and he would have no reason to go there. The separation of the two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, made it delightfully private and to Stuart’s surprise, considering what he had seen of the primitive nature of the country thus far, each bathroom was plumbed in and had both hot and cold water, the former provided by an outside coal-fuelled boiler and a convoluted system of pipework. The rear of the bungalow was where Daniel held sway and was not a place to which either Stuart or Petrie was expected to go. There the servants came and went, and the cooking and washing and other duties were directed.
Stuart was also becoming more familiar with the activities and pace of the estate. He realized that his tasks were continuous at this time of year, keeping the machinery running, organizing the factory and being on duty well into the night. Mackie was in overall command, and was a point of reference if any questions arose, but he expected Stuart to run things as far as possible and particularly to look after the night-shift production.
The main engine room housed the massive Tangye engine which powered the machinery including the tea dryers. As a Tangye-trained engineer Stuart was entirely familiar with every aspect of the great machine, but it needed constant attention and continuous stoking, fed with coal from the Ledo coal mines near the border between Assam and Burma. The engine was old: Stuart knew that Tangye had ceased to make steam engines like this in 1896 and the modern equivalent would be powered by diesel fuel, so the Budla Beta engine was over thirty years old but still going strong.
Although Stuart had devoured every book he had been given on tea planting and manufacture, it was salutary to view the plant and equipment at first hand and to see how they all came together. It was Petrie who took him out to see the plucking process in operation. Plucking took place between March and the end of November. He explained that the bushes needed to be plucked dead level, which meant that the skilled women pluckers took the leaves off so evenly that it looked as if each bush had been sheared by a machine. The rule was ‘two leaves and a bud’ which meant that each young shoot to be plucked must have only two leaves and the opening small bud at the apex removed. Failure to do this by taking more than the prescribed length was called ‘coarse plucking’ and whilst that would increase the woman’s basket for the day, the season’s yield would suffer as would the quality of the tea.
The plucking of the young growth or ‘flush’ was continuous during the growing season since, if the plucking was good, another flush would grow within ten days or so. Stuart marvelled at the number of women involved but also at their jealousy in seeking to guard the rows of bushes that they had themselves plucked previously – because they knew that if they plucked well and consistently the yield from their rows would be maintained. However, the allocation of rows was ultimately down to the sirdars in charge so certainty could not always be achieved. Each woman plucked three rows of tea 240 yards long – half a mile of bushes – each day, fingers working with immense speed. When the factory hooter sounded they carried the picked leaf in baskets on their heads, had them weighed and the weights, over twenty kilograms each, marked up against their names on a blackboard, the plucking register. They then climbed the sloping walkways on the outside of the open factory structure to empty the green leaf on to vast withering racks where small boys with long thin bamboos spread it out evenly. Stuart learned that withering was necessary because the leaves were too brittle to roll until they had softened and this process took between eight and eighteen hours, depending upon temperature and humidity, which meant that manufacture could be started if they wished at any time between midnight and dawn. He quickly realized that when that occurred he would effectively become a night-shift worker for the duration of that session.
