The Girl From the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Don’t get involved in local politics,’ Hunt had warned. ‘Things are very sensitive these days, and we don’t want the mission closed down.’

  Fatima’s clinic would not return until the snows melted, so he didn’t have her welcome company either. She was a handsome woman with beautiful eyes, and he always felt a lifting of the spirits when her grave expression broke into a rare smile. He knew she only smiled or laughed for those who earned her respect – or possibly her affection.

  But it wasn’t the dedicated doctor who robbed him of his peace of mind; it was the thought of Adela Robson being a day and a half’s ride down the road in Simla. How surprised he had been to hear from his friend Boz, the hearty Scotsman who had befriended him two summers ago on his way up to Spiti, that Adela was living so close by. He had assumed she would have been packed off to England to finish her schooling far from the wagging tongues of Assam, so had been amazed to find that she had ended up at St Mary’s and was making a name for herself in the local theatre.

  He had stepped willingly into Guy Fellows’s shoes to make up the numbers at Adela’s birthday supper, for he was curious to learn more about the headstrong, impishly pretty girl who had shaken him out of his quiet life four years previously. Ducking under the lamplit trees of Fluffy Hogg’s bungalow that June evening, he had caught his breath at the sight of the beautiful woman at the top of the veranda steps. Her dark, lustrous hair was piled up, revealing a slender neck and bare shoulders, her shapely figure and slim legs flattered by a shimmering pink dress. As he’d stepped closer, feeling ridiculously gauche in Boz’s old dinner suit, he’d realised that this woman with the large eyes and heart-shaped face was Adela.

  She had rushed to greet Boz, while Sam had hung back in the shadows, trying to compose himself, but when Boz had stepped aside to introduce him, Sam had bounded up the steps and stuck out his hand. For a moment Adela had just stared at him as if he had dropped out of the trees; whether it was a look of disbelief or disappointment, he was still not sure. But she had recovered quickly and shaken his hand – neat, warm fingers that had lain in his rough palm and set off a hammering of excitement in his chest – until he had pulled away, quite unnerved at her effect on him.

  There had been a lot of small talk and excited giggling among Adela and her friends, while he had talked politics with the amiable Sikh surveyor Sundar and tried to engage Fatima in conversation about the clinic. But Fatima was happy to sit back and let the others talk; observation was what the doctor did best. Yet it was Adela whose curiosity had overridden social niceties; it was she who had questioned him about the crises in his life that had led to his new start in Narkanda. She was different from her friends – more enquiring and mature in thought and yet with the same thirst for life as any seventeen-year-old.

  He was unsettled by the intense look she gave him with her brown-green eyes framed by thick dark lashes, her creamy skin flawless in the candlelight. He had felt almost winded by her scrutiny and yet he had spilled out his story, unable to stop himself. Her young friends had squirmed with discomfort, but Adela had made a joke and diffused the strained atmosphere. Why had it seemed so important that he tell her about Dr Black saving him from the gutter? Was it because she had once confided in him so completely about her Anglo-Indian origins and the school bullies?

  Sam had not intended to continue with them to the dance – he was a hopeless dancer and he was a fish out of water in such glittering palaces as Davico’s Ballroom – but Adela had been keen for him to join them. Or perhaps it had just been politeness, for she had been inundated with requests from other young men to dance and her promise of a waltz (the only dance he half knew) had come to nothing. The odious Bracknall, reeking of hair oil and ogling the young women, had monopolised Adela for the slow dance.

  He remembered craving a cigarette, so when Adela had slipped out, he had suggested to Mrs Hogg that he make sure she was all right and gone in pursuit. Adela and he had smoked together, and Sam had felt the tension fall away as they stood side by side under the bright moon. So why had he spoilt the moment by lecturing her on Bracknall as if she were a child without a will of her own? For a dangerous moment he had thought he would kiss her, felt an overpowering urge to pull her into his arms and smother her moist cherry-red lips with hungry kisses, but he had drawn back.

  What could he possibly offer her apart from a snatched moonlit embrace? He had no wealth or security and had sworn to dedicate his life to the work of the mission. He was single and unencumbered by emotional ties of any kind; life was a lot simpler and more bearable that way. So he had turned his back on Adela’s amorous looks and playful words, and she had taken the hint and ignored him for the rest of the evening.

  Then why had he made excuses to go back to Simla a couple of weeks later and slip into the Gaiety Theatre to watch her perform on stage? Late summer and the apple-picking season had come as a blessed relief; weeks of mindless labour, picking, packing, hauling heavy boxes and getting the produce to market. If he had any energy left at the end of a hard day’s graft, Sam would organise a game of cricket among the villagers or ride up Hatu to see the sunset burning through the brown oaks.

  But however much he exhausted himself physically, Sam could not rid his mind of thoughts of Adela. She came to him on the edge of sleep, a laughing sensual face and a swaying body in a pink dress who robbed his peace of mind and left him sweating and full of frustrated desire long into the night. Tormented, he would take himself in hand and slake his lust on his narrow single bed, falling asleep for a few hours of blessed oblivion, yet waking ashamed at his nocturnal weakness. He prayed hard that he would overcome such desires and accept his celibate life. It was the hardest part of being a missionary. In Assam there had been no shortage of bored British wives looking for seduction and brief liaisons; Sam had been happy to oblige, for these women wanted no emotional involvement beyond a broad shoulder to cry on.

  Retreating from Hatu Mountain that day in late December, Sam packed a small haversack of provisions, told Reverend Hunt that he was going hiking for a few days, and set off for Simla. Part walking, part hitching lifts in a milk cart and a timber wagon, Sam arrived in Simla the following day with no clear idea of what he would do.

  Boz was out of town for two weeks of leave, Sundar told him when Sam tracked him down to his modest digs in Number Four of the United Services Club barracks. The rows of identical flats were built of deodar so seasoned by the harsh winters they were almost black, but looking picturesque with overhanging icicles.

  ‘Gone back up to Quetta to visit old friends. He’s a Pathan at heart – a tartan Pathan!’ Sundar laughed at his own joke. ‘Stay here. I can put up a camp bed in my sitting room in a jiffy, as you Britishers say.’

  Sam took no persuading and spent three enjoyable days in the Sikh’s lively company, strolling the town, whiling away hours at the Simla Coffee House playing draughts and talking politics, skating at Annandale and eating at Sundar’s favourite Punjabi café, where they served Lahori dishes of spicy dal and golden puffs of wheat glistening with ghee.

  ‘Hassan serves the best puri outside Lahore,’ Sundar declared, belching contentedly. ‘I’d have had to return home a long time ago if it hadn’t been for him. Isn’t that so, Hassan?’ He clapped a hairy hand on the café owner’s back.

  ‘That is so.’ Hassan gave a gap-toothed grin under thick moustaches.

  Over many cups of tea – Sam having refused the whisky that Sundar kept for guests – they talked late into the evening. Sam learnt of the loss of Sundar’s wife and his pride in his ten-year-old son, Lalit, whose school photograph hung above the small fireplace.

  ‘You would like him,’ said Sundar, his eyes glistening. ‘He loves cricket – he’s a fast bowler. And he can hunt with a hawk.’

  ‘Is that for swooping on the ball at the boundary?’ Sam teased. ‘You must miss him.’

  Sundar nodded and cleared his throat. ‘So when are you going to find a wife and sire a healthy son to carry on the
name of Jackman?’

  Sam laughed with embarrassment. ‘No time soon.’

  ‘You must marry,’ Sundar encouraged, ‘some pretty British rose to keep you company up in the hills. Or you will grow old too quickly.’ The Sikh gave him a wicked grin. ‘Perhaps someone has already caught your eye.’

  ‘Such as?’ Sam drained his tea.

  ‘Miss Adela Robson.’

  Sam spluttered into his cup.

  ‘So I guessed correctly,’ Sundar said in triumph.

  ‘Not on her part.’ Sam laughed wryly.

  ‘That’s where you are wrong, my friend. Dr Khan says that Miss Robson asks about you every time she sees her.’

  ‘Does she?’ Sam felt his pulse begin to thud. Did Adela have feelings for him after all, or was she just being curious? ‘Is she . . . has she . . . is she being courted, do you know?’

  Sundar chuckled. ‘Half of Simla was in love with her and her pretty friends last summer. But is there not thrill in the chase, young Jackman?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Sam laughed. ‘And you, Sundar,’ he said, deflecting the attention. ‘What about you and the fair Dr Khan?’

  He’d never seen Sundar blush before, but he did so to the roots of his magnificently groomed beard.

  ‘Ah, a man can dream,’ said Sundar. Abruptly he got up and turned away, staring into the dying fire. ‘If I thought she would say yes,’ he murmured, ‘I would ask her tomorrow and not care what my family thought.’

  Sam called at Briar Rose Cottage early the next morning under a clear blue sky, his spirits lifting at the sight of the glistening, snow-capped Himalayas in the far distance. Fluffy Hogg was taking her chota hazri of tea and toast on the veranda, wrapped up warm in her husband’s old army coat and reading a newspaper.

  ‘Mr Jackman, how very nice to see you!’

  ‘Call me Sam, please.’ He grinned as they shook hands.

  ‘Will you join me for breakfast? Noor can scramble you some eggs. I didn’t know you were in town.’

  ‘I’ve been staying at Sundar’s. And breakfast would be very welcome, thank you.’

  They sat and chatted as the sun spread across the sparkling trees, melting the morning frost. Sam kept glancing into the bungalow, wondering when Adela would rise from sleep, impatient to see her.

  ‘It’s so good to have young company again.’ Fluffy smiled. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’m missing Adela, so your coming here is a real tonic.’

  ‘Adela isn’t here?’

  ‘She went home to Belgooree for Christmas,’ said Fluffy. ‘Won’t be back for another week or so. Oh dear, I can see you are disappointed. No doubt that’s why you came.’

  Sam hid his dismay. ‘Not at all. It’s a pleasure to call on the most delightful and interesting person in Simla.’

  ‘Charming, but untrue.’ Fluffy laughed.

  They talked some more about life beyond the cosseted world of Simla and the troubles in far-off Europe: Hitler’s Nazis wiping out all opposition in Germany, Fascist Italy’s land grab in East Africa and civil war in Spain.

  ‘They tell me that even in England young men dress like militia in black uniforms and parade through the towns.’ Fluffy shook her head in disbelief. ‘I’m glad I chose to stay here in retirement. Though India is also changing, of course.’

  Sam nodded. ‘We’re impatient for change here too.’

  She gave him a considering look. ‘Do you see yourself as Indian, Sam?’

  He shrugged. ‘I know I’m British, but India is my country. I have no wish to live anywhere else.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fluffy smiled. ‘I’m exactly the same.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Simla, 1938

  Adela returned to Simla in January, the trip with her mother and Auntie Tilly set in motion and their passages booked for July. The end of the holiday had been marred by the fuss over Bracknall. Sophie had been uncharacteristically tearful and upset with Rafi on discovering that her husband had known all along from Boz that his former boss was still in position. Rafi said he had kept it to himself so as not to upset her. Yet Rafi had been aghast to hear that Adela had been working for the hated man. Their virulent dislike of the chief forester baffled Adela, but neither Sophie nor Rafi would explain their strong revulsion, other than to say that Bracknall was a bully who in the past had made their life hell. So Adela had promised that she would look for a job somewhere else if Bracknall should return in the hot season.

  ‘Don’t stay away so long again,’ Wesley had urged when hugging his daughter goodbye. ‘Your mother and I miss you terribly, and Harry will wander round like a lost puppy, I know it. And if you are all going to desert me in July, I must see you before then.’

  ‘You will, I promise.’ Adela burrowed in like she used to as a girl and gave him an extra hard squeeze around his waist.

  ‘How about I arrange that hunting trip in Gulgat with Rafi before the monsoons? We’ve been meaning to do that for ages, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ Adela agreed, although her appetite for hunting had waned as her passion for the stage had soared. Still, she wouldn’t miss a chance to go on shikar with her father.

  ‘It’ll be your birthday treat in June,’ promised Wesley.

  Adela was touched by the enthusiastic welcome she received from Fluffy Hogg.

  ‘How I’ve missed you! It’s been so quiet; don’t stay away so long next time. Now what would you like for supper? I thought kedgeree.’

  Adela was just as pleased to be back in Simla, catching up with Deborah and other friends. At the theatre, where Jack and the Beanstalk was in its final week, Tommy greeted her dramatically.

  ‘Thank goodness you’re back – the pantomime is on its knees. Another of the chorus has gone down with laryngitis. You must save the day.’

  Adela went on that night, coping with multiple costume changes and dancing as a fairy, a maid and a flower. Helping behind the scenes before Christmas, she had watched them in rehearsal and remembered the routines easily. After the final curtain call, the cast repaired to The Cottage – the Club annex, where women could mix with men – and partied late into the night. As they left, Tommy was already talking about what productions they would put on for the summer season.

  ‘I think we should do another of those exotic tableaux,’ he enthused, ‘The Arabian Nights perhaps, and invite any visiting nawabs and rajas to take part. The Viceroy is keen to encourage greater mixing of the races – thinks it’ll keep those Congress agitators happy.’

  Adela gave a wry smile. ‘I think Gandhi and Nehru are looking for a bit more than just Indian princes performing at the Gaiety.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got to do our bit towards extending the hand of friendship.’ Tommy winked.

  The flurry of holidaymakers over the Christmas season soon scattered and Simla experienced a lull in social activities. The theatre closed for redecoration and would be used by Indian drama groups before the annual migration of government departments and personnel at the start of the hot season.

  There was little for her to do in the Forest Office, and the amiable Guy had been sent off on a course in silviculture to the college at Dehra Dun so Adela quickly grew bored. She and Tommy spent a lot of time at the cinema together. Wet, blustery weather set in that brought down trees and smothered the mountains in thick mist for days on end. The air smelt of sodden earth and pines.

  ‘Ah, reminds me of holidays in the Scottish Highlands,’ said Fluffy, relishing the stormy weather and insisting on taking Adela out for walks. ‘Breathe in that air. Isn’t it so invigorating?’

  From the top of Jakko Hill, they held on to their hats and leant into the wind as if invisible arms held them up. Looking north-east towards the forested hills of Bashahr province, Fluffy said, ‘I quite forgot to tell you. Sam Jackman paid me a visit while you were away.’

  Adela’s stomach flipped at the unexpected mention. ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes, he was down visiting Sundar; it’s nice they’ve become friends, isn’t it? I often thin
k Sundar is still sad about his wife, despite putting on a brave face all the time.’

  ‘So what did Sam have to say?’

  ‘We talked a lot of current affairs. He’s very knowledgeable about such things despite being cut off in the hills – such a nice young man. I think he was sorry not to see you.’

  ‘Did he say so?’ Adela blushed.

  ‘Well not exactly, but I’m sure he didn’t just come to see a wrinkled old widow like me.’

  Adela linked arms with Fluffy. ‘You’re not at all wrinkled. And by the sounds of it he enjoyed his visit.’

  ‘He did stay till after tiffin.’ Fluffy smiled. ‘We found so much to talk about. I think he must get quite lonely in Narkanda.’

  In the last week in January, Boz took Adela and Fluffy to a Burns Night at Clarkes Hotel, where the Scots in the community put on dinner and entertainment in honour of their famous bard. After much whisky and reciting of poems, the tables were shoved back, a Gurkha piper struck up a reel and they danced late into the evening. Emerging into a suddenly starlit night, the women decided to walk home rather than take a rickshaw, Boz insisting on escorting them to their door.

  ‘What’s going on down there?’ Adela asked, peering into the Lower Bazaar. Most of the lights were out, but she could make out shadowy figures hanging things between the trees and the balconies of tightly packed houses.

  Boz gave a grunt. ‘They’re putting out the Congress flags for Freedom Pledge Day.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Fluffy. ‘It’s the twenty-sixth tomorrow. I wonder who will be speaking.’

  ‘They get bolder every year,’ Boz said. ‘No doubt there’ll be some bigwig sent from Delhi to put fire in their bellies and stir up the coolies from the hill states.’

  ‘The Praja Mandal movement, you mean?’ asked Fluffy. ‘Is it having any success?’

  ‘Aye, there have been disturbances up in Dharmi and Nerikot. It’s just a matter o’ time before the rulers bow tae pressure.’