‘England?’ Fatima exclaimed.
‘Just for a holiday.’
Adela explained all about Tilly’s reluctance to take Mungo back to Britain for schooling and how she had seized on the idea of Adela and Clarrie accompanying her too.
‘She thinks it will soften the blow if we go with her, and Mother is keen to visit my Aunt Olive – she hasn’t seen her for fifteen years. And I suppose I’m quite looking forward to the adventure now it’s being planned, as long as we don’t stay away too long.’
‘Adventure indeed,’ Fatima said and smiled. ‘I’ll be happy to have as much help as you can give in the meantime.’
‘Perhaps,’ Ghulam mused, ‘you will fall in love with your homeland and not come back. Better that you get used to it now because one day you will have to leave here for good.’
‘Ghulam!’ Fatima remonstrated. ‘Don’t be unkind.’
‘I’m already in love with my homeland,’ Adela said with a defiant look, ‘and it’s India.’
‘Then you are in a minority of Britishers,’ snapped Ghulam, his eyes suddenly blazing. ‘The ones I have met talk of Britain as home – they are happy to take the best jobs here in India but send their children to school in England and retire there on their Indian pensions. They want, and get, the best of both worlds. But we Indians – millions of us – get no say in how we run our own country. Imagine for one minute what it would be like to be the other way around – if an elite few thousand Indians ruled in London over millions of Britishers.’
Adela tried to think what Fluffy might say. ‘Things are changing – maybe not as fast as you want, but there are provincial governments now run by Congress, aren’t there? And I see a lot of Indian administrators all over Simla these days.’
Ghulam gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘You sound just like Rafi – he was always telling me to be more patient.’
‘I’m not telling you to do anything,’ said Adela, ‘but I think you’re being unfair to brand all us British as the same. And Indians for that matter. I know Indian rajas who don’t in the least want what you want.’
‘Indian princes hardly represent the masses of India,’ protested Ghulam. ‘It’s true that we Indians have differing views on how India should be run after the Britishers leave – I want a socialist state without religious interference; my devout brother Amir has his heart set on a homeland for Moslems—’
‘I want democracy and women’s rights,’ Fatima added eagerly.
‘But we are all agreed on one thing,’ said Ghulam. ‘You Britishers must hand over power and soon.’
Adela was in awe of the passion that lit his heavy features and made him handsome, his flashing green eyes holding her gaze.
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Adela, ‘how many of us British think the same as you. The argument is just about when we hand over, not if.’
Her empathy seemed to disarm him; he relaxed back.
‘And what would you do, Miss Robson, in a free India?’
‘Become a film star,’ she said at once.
‘Adela is a wonderful singer,’ said Fatima.
‘And has the looks for the silver screen too.’ He gave a flash of a smile. ‘I promise to watch your films when we have swaraj.’
Adela flushed at the compliment. ‘And I promise to give you tickets to my premieres,’ she sparked back.
She left shortly afterwards; they told her nothing of Ghulam’s plans, and neither did she ask. ‘You must tell no one of this,’ Fatima warned, ‘not even Mrs Hogg. And don’t ask me about Ghulam when we meet. It’s safer for you if you know nothing of his whereabouts.’
Adela wanted to rush home and blurt out her encounter, but promised she wouldn’t.
It was a strain in the next few days to keep her secret to herself and not discuss it with either Fluffy or Boz. The situation was made worse by an impromptu visit from Inspector Pollock. Adela returned to find the tall bald police officer taking tea at Briar Rose Cottage. Fluffy said with a warning look, ‘The inspector has kindly come to make sure we are all right.’
‘That’s kind, but why shouldn’t we be?’ She shook his hand.
‘You were seen at the Freedom Pledge demonstration,’ said Pollock, ‘and we were worried you might have been caught up in the fracas.’
‘I’ve told him we were perfectly fine,’ Fluffy interjected.
‘Perfectly.’ Adela smiled. ‘We just viewed it from afar.’
‘So why were you there, Miss Robson?’ he persisted. ‘Do you take an interest in politics?’
‘Not especially.’
‘It was my idea to go,’ Fluffy said, ‘not Adela’s at all. As you know, I’ve always taken an interest in current affairs.’
Adela sat down, trying not to let her alarm show, and changed the subject.
‘I hope you’re going to come and see our production of The Arabian Nights, Inspector Pollock. It’s going to start the season with a bang.’
‘I’m not really a theatregoer, Miss Robson, but my wife is. I’ll make sure she knows about it.’
They talked about trivial matters: the change in manager at the Simla Bank, a new dinner menu at the Cecil and an art exhibition at the town hall. As he stood up to leave, he turned to Adela and asked, ‘Does the name Ghulam Khan mean anything to you?’
Her heart stopped. She met his assessing grey eyes with a puzzled frown.
‘No, should it do?’
‘You went to hear him speak at the demonstration.’
‘Well, I had no idea who he was.’ Adela gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I just went for the drama of the occasion. I didn’t understand a word of what he said as I don’t speak Punjabi.’
He scrutinised her. ‘He was speaking in Urdu and Hindustani. But he’s from Lahore, so Punjabi is his first tongue. Strange that you should mention it.’
‘Oh goodness, I’m pretty hopeless at languages – they all sound the same, don’t they?’ She laughed.
‘So you’ve never met Ghulam Khan,’ he pressed.
‘We never got anywhere near him, did we, Auntie?’ Fluffy shook her head. ‘I’m not sure I would even recognise him again, Inspector.’ Adela gave a dismissive wave. ‘And I don’t see how I’d ever come across him.’
‘Easier than you might think,’ said Pollock. ‘It turns out his sister is a doctor at the hospital – a friend of yours, Dr Fatima Khan.’
‘Dr Fatima?’ Fluffy exclaimed.
Adela’s stomach clamped with fear. ‘Goodness me, is that so? Well, she’s never talked about him, has she, Auntie? Probably ashamed – black sheep of the family and all that.’
Fluffy was giving her an odd look; she knew very well that they had all discussed Ghulam around the dinner table, and Fatima had defended her brother as an idealist and not a terrorist.
‘So you think it unlikely that Dr Khan would have harboured her brother in Simla.’
‘Very unlikely,’ Adela said, trying to keep her breathing even. ‘She’s very law-abiding.’
‘Dr Khan is the most hard-working, conscientious doctor you could ever find,’ said Fluffy stoutly, ‘and we’re lucky to have her in Simla. Adela helps out at her clinics and is most admiring of her, aren’t you, my dear?’
Adela nodded. ‘Have you been to see Dr Khan?’ she asked as casually as possible.
‘Yes,’ said Pollock, ‘and she claims not to have seen him in years.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ said Fluffy with satisfaction.
The inspector jammed on his hat and pulled on his gloves at the door. ‘You will tell me if you hear anything of Ghulam Khan, won’t you, Miss Robson? Especially if you venture into the hills with Dr Khan. She might know more than she’s telling us, so keep your ear to the ground – we suspect that’s where he’s gone to make trouble.’
Adela felt distaste; he was asking her to spy on Fatima. She managed to nod and smile in agreement as they waved him away.
Fluffy made sure he was gone and out of earshot before she turned to Adela and said, ‘What
was all that performance about?’
‘What do you mean, Auntie?’
‘Pretending to be the dizzy little English memsahib with no knowledge of Indian languages. You’re hiding something from me, aren’t you?’
‘Ask no questions, tell no lies,’ Adela murmured.
Fluffy put a hand on her arm, suddenly anxious. ‘You won’t put yourself in danger, will you?’
Adela covered Fluffy’s veined hand with her own warm one. ‘Me? I’d run a mile from any danger.’
Fluffy snorted, ‘I know that’s not true.’
‘Well, you’re not to worry; I’m not mixed up in anything.’
‘One day, dear girl,’ Fluffy said with an affectionate pat, ‘you are going to make a great actress.’
Adela was glad of the clinic work to keep her busy, though she often wondered where Ghulam had gone and was frustrated she couldn’t talk to Fatima about him, except a hurried exchange to say she’d been questioned by Pollock.
Adela started back at the hospital, helping out on the purdah ward: rolling bandages, fetching and emptying bedpans and occasionally helping to wash and swaddle newborn babies. Labour and childbirth were still a mystery to her – she never witnessed the births – but she was astonished how all new mothers seemed to think that their crinkled, squalling infants were beautiful.
As spring arrived in the hills and lily of the valley began to carpet the wooded slopes, sending up flurries of perfume in the strengthening sun, Adela set off for Kufri with Fatima, a handful of nursing assistants and orderlies and the mobile clinic. Sitara came to cook. The nursing staff crammed into Fatima’s newly bought second-hand Ford. Adela took her turn at the wheel, negotiating the narrow bends of the Hindustan-Tibet road, while the equipment followed on horse-drawn carts and strapped to mules.
After three days at Kufri they travelled on to Theog and at the end of the week struck camp again and continued on to Narkanda. Adela had never been so far up the route before. She arrived in the bustling village, her nerves in shreds after hitting patches of ice on the road. They abandoned the car near the river and continued uphill by cart and mules.
‘The mission lets us camp in the grounds of their bungalow and use the washing facilities,’ explained Fatima.
‘Luxury indeed.’ Adela gave a wry laugh. As the convoy jolted up the uneven track in the fading light through budding orchards of apple and plum, Adela’s heart pounded at the thought of seeing Sam again.
They came out into a clearing; a broad sweep of pasture and a modest bungalow with a green tin roof were lit by the last rays of the sun. She sensed him there before she saw him, a quick-moving, vigorous figure emerging from the shadow. The sun struck his handsome ruddy face and caught fair lights in his wayward hair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up over strong arms as he strode towards them, grinning with delight at Fatima.
‘Welcome, Dr Khan. I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t arrive before it got dark . . .’ He stopped in his tracks at the sight of Adela climbing off a mule in jodhpurs, her hair tangling in the evening breeze. ‘Adela? I didn’t realise—’
‘Hello, Sam,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘I hope you’ve got gallons of hot water, as we’re desperate for baths.’
He quickly recovered his composure. ‘Well, this is hardly the Cecil, but we’ll see what we can do.’ He smiled. ‘Come inside. Hunt is away in Nerikot, so you and Fatima can use his room.’
Despite her exhaustion, Adela’s heart soared at Sam’s obvious delight at their arrival; she hoped it wasn’t just for Fatima. She had reached elusive Narkanda at last. They ate in the shuttered veranda with kerosene lamps on the tables as the wind sighed outside and set the old bungalow creaking. They talked of their work and their plans for the next few days.
That night Adela climbed into a sagging spare bed between sheets that were damp with lack of use. Yet she couldn’t have been happier, knowing that Sam lay on the other side of the wall – she could hear his bed creaking as he turned over. It was the last sound she remembered before falling asleep.
CHAPTER 8
The next days were full of hard work. From dawn until after dusk the medical team saw patients at the clinic that they set up on the edge of the village in the tents that Adela had donated from the Forest Office supplies. Sam called in from time to time, bringing in supplies, patching up the torn canvas where the rain leaked in, and keeping the urn topped up with water from the river. Adela was amazed that Sam seemed to know everyone, stopping to chat and joke with patients and distract the grizzling children with a conjuring trick. The locals loved him, and he did all he could to help them.
At night they returned, exhausted, to the mission house to wash away the day’s grime and share simple meals of dal, vegetables and chapattis.
‘I prefer this any day to the overdone chops and soggy vegetables that Hunt makes us eat,’ Sam said, grinning, ‘so I’ve got to make the most of him being away. Mind you, our cook, Nitin, makes the best rice pudding and treacle sponge in the Himalayas, so we’ll keep to British puddings.’
Afterwards they would linger on the veranda steps and listen in the dark to night birds calling in the trees and the hum of insects. One evening, while Adela was sitting out with Fatima and Sam, they heard the haunting sound of a flute being played in the distance.
‘That’s beautiful,’ gasped Adela. ‘Who’s playing?’
‘Sounds like a Gaddi shepherd,’ said Sam. ‘The Gaddies are on their way back now.’
‘Back from where?’ asked Adela.
‘The plains where they’ve been wintering their sheep. They’re nomads. They spend the hot season in the high pastures – sometimes as high up as the dry mountains of Spiti. It’s quite a sight to see them driving their flocks back up Hatu.’
‘Can we go and see?’ Adela enthused.
‘If you can drag yourself out of bed before dawn, I’ll take you up the mountain,’ Sam said, ‘before the clinic starts.’
‘Yes, of course we will,’ Adela agreed. ‘Won’t we, Fatima?’
‘Not me.’ Fatima yawned. ‘I need my sleep. I’m not that interested in sheep.’ She gave a dry smile that reminded Adela suddenly of Ghulam – the way their mouths twisted in lopsided amusement.
‘Well, I used to get up before dawn regularly at home to go out riding with my dad,’ Adela said, ‘so it’s no hardship for me.’
Adela slept lightly and heard Sam moving around in the next room as the predawn purple light filtered through the shutters. She pulled on her jodhpurs and a warm jacket, and then went to find him on the veranda. He was smoking a bidi. With just a word of greeting they made for the stable, where the syce was saddling up two ponies. Sam exchanged a joke with the young man, thanked him and mounted his dappled grey mare. Adela swung herself up on to a small brown pony.
They trotted up through the orchards and into the deodar forest that covered the lower slopes of Hatu. It was dark, but the ponies were sure-footed and picked their way over the rough stones of the uneven path. Adela breathed in the fresh, damp mountain air that reminded her fleetingly of Belgooree. How good it was to be in the saddle and out riding before daybreak, the trees alive with the dawn twittering of birds.
The slope became steeper, and clouds of steam rose from the ponies’ nostrils and flanks as they laboured up the steep incline. Light was beginning to filter through the trees as the evergreens gave way to brown oaks. A white-faced monkey, startled by their unexpected appearance, swung overhead, screeching in alarm, then disappeared. Suddenly they were emerging into open pasture on the ridge of the mountain. Sam reined in his pony and dismounted, indicating for Adela to do the same.
‘We’ll watch from here,’ he whispered.
In the deeply shadowed hillside, she couldn’t see anything of interest, but was content to stand in the clear air while the ponies bent to graze on the dew-soaked grass. Away to the east, where the far peaks of the Himalayas were emerging out of the dark, the first pink rays of dawn seeped into the sky. As t
he light spread and strengthened, Adela began to pick out figures and a huddle of tents across the slope.
From far off she could hear a low rumble of hooves and high-pitched bleating. The noise grew like approaching thunder. A few minutes later scores of horned and long-haired sheep swept past them, encouraged by a turbaned elder with a long staff and his team of young shepherds. They whistled and chivvied the flock up and over the hill. As they reached the summit, the sunrise lit them in a golden light: a mass of shaggy brown, white and black sheep jostling around boys in homespun jackets, pyjamas and jaunty embroidered caps.
One of them caught sight of the watching riders. Adela waved, and the boy grinned back, waving his stick.
‘What a sight!’ She turned in excitement to Sam, who was taking rapid photographs with his Kodak camera.
‘Smile,’ he ordered on the spur of the moment, focusing on her.
Adela laughed and pulled a pose. Then he was pointing the camera back at the Gaddi shepherds, before they disappeared from view.
‘Can we get nearer their camp?’ she asked.
Sam nodded, stringing the camera round his neck and securing the ponies to a nearby tree. They set off on foot across the high meadow. The wet grass soon soaked Adela’s shoes, but she didn’t care; she was spellbound by the sparkling dew and the carpet of starlike white and yellow flowers. The whole hillside glittered like a jewel-studded blanket.
At the far side they could see the glow of early fires and smell sweet woodsmoke. Women in gaudy flared skirts belted with woollen rope were already out foraging for kindling and cutting sheaves of grass for the animals. Adela went near enough one group to hear their chatter and see the glint of silver jewellery at their wrists as they worked their knives.
Impulsively, she ran forward to greet them, pressing her palms together.
‘Namaste!’ she called out.
They stopped and stared. A rapid conversation ended in a peal of laughter, and then a young, pretty girl with braids of black hair stepped towards her and returned the greeting. She ran to an elderly woman who was cooking at an open fire and came back with a flat steaming chapatti – unusually golden in colour – and offered it to Adela. A gaggle of children crowded around her.
The Girl From the Tea Garden Page 14