A Sahib's Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page A

swept up the driveway scrunching on the gravel. A burly man with red hair jumped out and came up the steps.
    “Hallo, hallo, hallo! Charles, welcome to Ranikot!”
    They shook hands. Charles recognized by his accent that the man was a Scot.
    “How d’you do? It’s Greg, isn’t it?”
    “Greg Moorhead. Very pleased to meet you. I hope you found everything to your satisfaction. Do you have everything you need?”
    “Absolutely,” said Charles. “I had no idea what to expect, but it’s been wonderful so far.”
    “Splendid,” said Greg. “I’m relieved to hear that, to say the least! This place isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Pardon the pun.”
    Charles offered him breakfast.
    “Thank you, no, I’ve already eaten. Must get back to the factory. Are you up to it? Splendid. Don’t forget your topee. The sun can be lethal.”
    “I’ll try to find it. I’m still somewhat disorganized.” He went to his room and rummaged for his hat. In a trail of dust, they set off in the jeep.
    “Every tea plantation stretches for hundreds of acres, with a manager in charge, and one, maybe two assistants, the office staff, known as baboos, and a large labor force, sometimes in the thousands, to pick and process the tea,” Greg shouted over the engine.
    When they arrived at the factory, the first thing that struck Charles was the aroma of fresh tea. Greg explained that raw green leaf delivered from the plantation was laid out on racks in tractors, ready to be fermented, rolled and dried. The manufacturing process transformed the leaf into coarse, black grain, rich and pungent, as it came off the drying belts. The tea would be boxed in plywood chests and shipped to auction houses in Calcutta and London.
    Charles was shown his office, a tiny room off a narrow corridor. In it was a desk piled with files, a wooden chair and an ancient filing cabinet. Everything was covered with a film of tea dust. A small window overlooked the dingy flowerbeds outside. The room was humble and basic, but to Charles, remembering the fourth-floor cubicle in London where he used to spend his days, it was heaven.
    “Sorry, there’s a lot of paperwork waiting for you, but not all of it’s urgent,” said Greg. “And paperwork is only a small part of your job. The majority of your time will be spent on the estate, checking the machinery and making sure things are completed on time. You’ll drive the jeep when I’m not using it.”
    “I’ll have to learn how,” said Charles. “I didn’t have a car in England.”
    “Not a problem, old chap,” said Greg. “We’ll have you running around in no time at all.”
    This was getting better and better! He didn’t have to spend his days pushing paper any more. He would be outdoors exploring these wonderful surroundings.
    His first real opportunity to explore his bungalow came at lunch time. Greg showed him a rickety bicycle he could use until he had learned to drive and bought his own vehicle. He pedaled the half mile or so to his house which was an elevated structure with white walls and a green corrugated tin roof. No sooner had he ascended the flight of steps than his bearer, as though reading his mind appeared with a chilled lime drink.
    On either side of the living room were bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms. The rooms were adequately, if sparsely, furnished. In each bathroom was a claw-foot bath tub and ancient, vitreous china sinks. Hot water was supplied from a boiler in the outhouse kitchen. Charles noted that his trunk had been unpacked and his clothing neatly hung in the wardrobe. Would he ever have to do anything for himself? He had never been more pampered in his life!
    Both bedrooms and the living room opened to the front verandah where Charles guessed he would be spending most of his time. The wicker dining table and chairs, on which his breakfast had been served that morning, was at one end and a pair of planters’ chaise lounges, made of wicker and teak, at the other.
    The kitchen was