The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  George shook his head. ‘I haven’t been to Assam yet, but I’m hoping to get up there soon.’ He slipped his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze, making her pulse quicken. ‘And if I do, I’ll be sure to tell James Robson that the prettiest lass in Newcastle is longing to see him.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Libby smiled, looking into his blue eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been talking ten to the dozen and not letting you say a word about yourself.’

  The way George was regarding her made her tingle. Abruptly, he pulled her to her feet and linked her arm through his. ‘Come on, bonny lass; let’s go for that drink, eh?’

  Later, after two cocktails, George began to talk about his infant daughter, Bonnie.

  ‘She’s not mine, you know.’

  Libby felt a jolt of shock. She had known the marriage to blonde Joan had been hasty and the baby had followed shortly afterwards, but during wartime such transgressions had been commonplace.

  ‘Oh?’ Libby didn’t know how to answer.

  ‘Joan had an affair with a naval officer while I was away. I only married her out of pity – didn’t seem fair on the kiddie to be left without a father, did it?’

  ‘That was very gallant of you.’

  George shrugged and gave his disarming smile. ‘I’m a soft touch when it comes to the lasses.’

  ‘Won’t you miss her?’ Libby had asked.

  ‘What, Joan?’

  ‘No, your daughter, Bonnie.’

  Fleetingly, George looked regretful. ‘I’ve never really got to know the lass – and I’m just a stranger to her. Anyway,’ he said, regaining his bravado, ‘Joan’s planning to marry the man she’s courting now so Bonnie will have a new dad. He seems a canny lad. He’s head groom at some posh house up the Tyne valley. I wish them luck.’

  After that, they made no more mention of Joan or Bonnie. They talked about trivial matters and swapped anecdotes about the War. He had her helpless with laughter describing his fellow crewmen and their escapades, and he seemed equally amused by her stories of being a Land Girl. He made her feel as if no one else in the room mattered. George took her on to a dance hall and they moved among the crush of dancers, Libby thrilling at George holding her close and intoxicated by the musky scent on his smooth chin. She could hardly believe her luck that George had come back into her life so unexpectedly. It had been too long since she had had such fun or been treated like a grown woman.

  Living back at home, her mother Tilly made her feel juvenile, constantly fussing and criticising. It was as if the two years in the Land Army – living independently and working hard – had never been. Earlier that evening, she had rung to let her mother know she would be late home and luckily her brother Mungo had answered the telephone. She knew her mother would interrogate her with endless questions about where she had been and what George’s marital status was, but she didn’t care. This evening was worth it and she didn’t want it to end.

  Just before midnight, George walked her home, arm in arm.

  On the doorstep he disengaged and said, ‘I wish you well, lass.’

  Libby’s insides tightened. She felt sudden panic that this magical evening was over. ‘Will I see you before you go?’

  He hesitated. ‘I’ll call round if I can.’ He gave her a broad smile and touched her hot cheek. ‘Maybe we could meet up in Calcutta – if you get back to Assam one day.’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that.’ Libby brightened.

  ‘Then promise me, you will look me up.’ George fished out a calling card with his details on. ‘I’ll show you a good time.’ Leaning forward, he planted a kiss on her cheek.

  Libby, heady from dancing and unaccustomed alcohol, gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘George, I’m not your sister.’

  Grinning in surprise, George pulled her towards him and kissed her firmly on the lips. Libby’s heart thudded with excitement. She slipped her hands around his neck and kissed him back with enthusiasm. Too quickly he pulled away.

  ‘Come to Calcutta, bonny lass,’ he said, stepping back. ‘We’ll have some more fun.’ Then he was strolling off into the night, whistling and leaving Libby craving another embrace.

  Libby hardly slept that night. It was hot in the small back bedroom but she preferred sleeping there than having to share a larger bedroom with their lodger and friend, Josey, who chain-smoked and snored. Her thoughts whirled round and round.

  What had the evening with George meant? Had he really come to seek her out or had it just been good luck that she had been in the café that day? Maybe he had just asked her out on the spur of the moment, but he seemed to enjoy being with her. It had been his suggestion that they extend the evening by going to the dance hall. Just being with him made her feel fully alive and desired. But George was known for being a ladies’ man so she should be cautious. He was just being friendly. Yet that kiss . . . How she wished it could have gone on longer. It was like licking delicious ice cream and then having it snatched away. He must have meant something by that kiss. It made her insides melt to think of it.

  Libby threw off the bed covers and lay naked and perspiring in the stuffy room. She remembered India being as hot as this. But in her childhood bedroom at Cheviot View an electric fan on the high ceiling had stirred the soupy air. She remembered how her mother had insisted on the fans being installed.

  ‘James, the punkah-wallahs are useless, they fall asleep on the job. We’ll all die in this heat.’ As the long-ago words came back to Libby, she felt a rush of homesickness for Assam. She had never fully felt at home anywhere else – boarding school, Newcastle, the farm at Walton – none of them had been anything but temporary in her mind. So often, in her icy school dormitory, Libby had lulled herself to sleep with the memory of riding with her father through the jungle while he sang lustily about British Grenadiers, barking encouragement at her to keep her heels down. Everything about India had been more vivid and exciting than anything she had experienced since. She must redouble her efforts to persuade her mother to return there.

  Libby resented the way her mother kept blaming her father for not taking leave and coming to England to see them. As Libby continually pointed out, it was much more difficult for her father to leave his job on the tea plantation than it was for Tilly to give up her charity work. Yet Libby was also secretly disappointed that her father hadn’t taken any leave; surely he wanted to see her again as keenly as she wanted to see him? He had worked so hard during the War to keep the Oxford Estates going, he was more than due a break. It was so typical of her father not to do so but to carry on working and shouldering his responsibilities.

  Libby flung out her arms with a sigh of frustration. She was just as bad as they were at coming up with excuses. She knew that the main reason stopping her defying her mother and rushing off to India on her own was her concern over Lexy and the café. Warm-hearted Lexy had been a surrogate grandmother to her; Libby had never known any of her grandparents. But more than that, Lexy had been a good friend and confidante to her during her awkward years of growing up. She could tell things to the down-to-earth Tynesider that she would never tell her mother in a million years. She couldn’t leave the poor woman to run the tearoom with just Doreen and a couple of part-time waitresses.

  Libby not only helped out in her spare time but she did the bookkeeping and ordering of supplies, trying to make their rations stretch further. Lexy had told her how Jane Brewis, George’s sister, had been a competent manager before war-work had meant her moving to Yorkshire. Jane had never come back, settling and marrying there. Joan, George’s estranged wife, had briefly helped out in the last year of the War but Lexy said that Joan had been too unreliable. ‘Got her head in the clouds, that one. Thinks she’s a cut above the rest of us but she’s just a lazy lass.’

  On Libby’s return to Newcastle, Lexy had been pathetically grateful at her offer of help. Libby knew she would be stuck there unless she forced her cousin Adela and her family to take things in hand. After all, it wasn’t Libby’s branch of the Robson family who owned the bu
siness, it was Adela’s. She would definitely write to her cousin and tell her she would have to return to sort out Herbert’s. Perhaps it would be best if the café closed, as long as they took care of Lexy’s future.

  But what if Adela and her husband Sam Jackman were happy in India and making a new life for themselves? Libby would feel guilty at forcing them to return to Newcastle against their wishes. Britain was a drab, war-weary country these days, with rationing worse than ever and families still living in prefabricated temporary huts because of a housing shortage. The situation for the British in India might be growing uncertain with the move towards greater independence for Indians but it was still a country full of opportunities and a good lifestyle – George was proof of that. However, Adela and her mother Clarrie needed to be aware of how run-down their business had become. Lexy shouldn’t have to carry the burden alone.

  Libby closed her eyes and imagined meeting up with George in Calcutta. They would play tennis at his club and go dancing at one of the big hotels and he would take her in his arms and kiss her again, this time more lingeringly. Libby felt desire flood through her.

  Libby’s determination returned: she would write to Adela and tell her she must decide whether to come back and save Herbert’s or to close it for good. Either way, Libby would then be free to make up her own mind. If her mother refused to go back to Assam and her father refused to come to England, should she, Libby, return on her own to the land of her birth, India?

  CHAPTER 2

  Newcastle, late January 1947

  Libby banged on the front door of the terraced house in South Gosforth, stamping her boots and shaking snow from the old army jacket a one-time boyfriend had given her. Outside, the air was raw and the pavements still hazardous with frozen piles of blackened snow that wouldn’t melt. She was chilled to the bone. Suddenly, she spotted the battered cases filling the narrow hallway. Voices and laughter spilled through the open sitting-room door. Libby’s heart skipped a beat. Had Adela and Sam finally come?

  ‘Koi hai! ’ she called, a grin spreading across her pink-cheeked face.

  ‘Speak English, darling!’ Tilly, her mother called back. ‘We have visitors.’

  She could hear the excitement in her mother’s voice. Pulling off her woollen hat to release a cascade of dark-red hair, Libby rushed into the sitting room. Her mother and friend Josey were sitting in their usual well-worn armchairs, while sitting close together on the sofa were a pretty, dark-haired young woman and a tanned, thin-faced man.

  ‘Cousin Adela!’ Libby screeched and flung herself at the petite woman as she rose to greet her. They hugged and laughed. ‘Why didn’t you say you were arriving today? I’d have come to the station. How long have you been here? We thought you weren’t reaching England for another week, didn’t we, Mother?’

  ‘Let the poor girl speak,’ Tilly chided.

  ‘Sorry,’ Libby said with a deep-throated laugh. ‘I’m just so excited to see you.’

  ‘And so are we.’ Adela smiled, pushing back her wavy dark hair. ‘We took the train from Marseilles to save a few days’ sailing.’ She turned and beckoned to the man who had stood up the minute Libby had entered the room. He was so tall that his receding fair hair brushed the ceiling lampshade. ‘This is my husband, Sam.’

  Sam leant across and took Libby’s hand in a crushing handshake.

  ‘Very pleased to meet you at last, Libby. You’re even prettier than Adela described you.’

  Libby laughed with pleasure. ‘And I’m honoured to meet the war hero of the Indian Air Force. According to Mother, you chased the Japs out of Burma more or less single-handedly.’

  ‘Oh, you do exaggerate,’ Tilly protested. ‘I said no such thing. But we are very proud of you, Sam.’

  Sam laughed. ‘I merely dropped a few supplies behind enemy lines. Others were taking far greater risks.’

  ‘Not true,’ said Adela, slipping her arm around his waist and hugging him. ‘You risked your life every day for months. I’m just thankful the War’s over and I got you back safely.’

  Sam kissed the top of her head. ‘Me too.’

  Libby felt a pang of emotion at their loving gestures. It was obvious how much they adored each other. She couldn’t remember a time when her parents had been like that.

  ‘What news of Dad?’ Libby asked eagerly. ‘Did you see him before you left India? He hasn’t written since Christmas. Is he planning on coming over?’

  ‘Stop badgering poor Adela,’ Tilly said. ‘Your father is fine.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Libby said pointedly. ‘You haven’t seen him since you came back to visit us just before the War – that’s over seven years ago.’

  Tilly sighed. ‘Don’t start.’

  Adela gave an encouraging smile and said, ‘We saw your dad at Christmas. We spent it together at Belgooree with Mother and my brother. James was a bit tired – he still works very hard at the Oxford – but he was in good heart. The fresh hill air was just the tonic he needed.’

  Tilly sighed impatiently. ‘James has always put work and the Oxford tea plantation before family – even in the early days. He’s nearly seventy but he thinks he can do the workload of a forty-year-old.’

  Libby felt her insides knot at the mention of her father’s age. She didn’t want him to grow old. She still imagined him as the vigorous, robust man with the ruddy face and boisterous hugs who had won her devotion in childhood. But she hadn’t seen him since she was eleven years old when her parents had last been on leave together in England. She’d been granted an extra week’s holiday from boarding school so that the family could go to St Abbs for a chilly winter seaside break. Then world war had come and the family had been forced apart from her father for years on end, with him out in India and them stuck in Britain.

  Now she was nearly twenty-two, would her father even recognise her? He had missed her growing up and she had missed his taking her side against the rest of the family. Her two brothers had always ganged up against her with their teasing ways, while her mother was endlessly critical and always favouring the boys. But Libby was sure that she and her father would rekindle their former closeness in no time.

  Tilly waved at her guests to sit down again. ‘My husband should admit he’s an old man. It’s time he retired and came back home,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘To this?’ Libby said in derision, squeezing on to the sofa next to Adela. ‘Can you imagine Dad living in a house with no garden and no room for his horses and dogs? He’s just not the city type.’

  ‘We could afford to get somewhere larger,’ said Tilly, ‘if he wasn’t running two households thousands of miles apart. I’d love a house in Jesmond – I grew up in that part of the city.’

  ‘But Assam is his home,’ Libby insisted. ‘It’s still our home.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said her mother. ‘You haven’t lived there since you were eight. And your brothers don’t miss it.’

  ‘Well, I still think of Cheviot View and India as home,’ Libby said defiantly.

  Tilly tutted with impatience. ‘Your father will have to come back sooner or later – now that the British are finally handing over India to the Indians. Isn’t that right, Adela?’

  Adela sighed. ‘The tea planters are talking of nothing else at the moment. Mother is undecided. She’d really like to keep the Belgooree tea garden going so that she can hand it on to my brother Harry in a few years’ time. And your husband doesn’t see why the British can’t stay on indefinitely.’

  ‘James said that?’ Tilly exclaimed.

  Adela nodded. ‘Not the civil servants or the army, of course, but he thinks the Indians will still want the British box-wallahs to help run the plantations and invest money in tea.’

  ‘And full independence might still be several years away,’ added Sam.

  ‘See, Mother,’ Libby cried. ‘Our life in India doesn’t need to be over.’

  Her mother’s plump face looked anxious. ‘But, Adela, you and Sam have decided to leave,’ Tilly pointed out.


  Libby noticed a look pass between Adela and Sam. She felt a sudden stab of guilt that she had forced them to return because of her complaints about the running of Herbert’s. Sam put an arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  ‘We want to start afresh,’ he said. ‘The mission I worked for before the War has folded and Adela didn’t want to live at Belgooree full-time.’

  ‘I love it on the tea garden,’ Adela explained, ‘but I’m not like Mother. She lives and breathes tea. I need the bright lights.’

  ‘My sentiment exactly,’ said Tilly. ‘Clarrie is the most remarkable woman I know. I don’t know how she runs Belgooree all by herself.’

  ‘She has good staff and my little brother is turning into quite a useful tea planter for all he’s only thirteen,’ Adela said. ‘And James still comes over quite a lot from the Oxford to help out.’

  There was an awkward pause. Libby felt a jolt of alarm and watched her mother for signs of jealousy. Did it not worry Tilly that her husband spent so much time over in the hills at Belgooree with Clarrie Robson? Adela’s mother had been cruelly widowed when her husband Wesley had been gored to death in a hunting accident before the outbreak of war. Libby knew from Adela how devoted Clarrie and Wesley had been to each other.

  But Clarrie had been on her own now for over eight years and, judging by a recent photograph Adela had sent, Clarrie was still an attractive woman in middle age. Besides, Clarrie was nearer James in age than Tilly was; Libby’s mother had been half the age of Libby’s father when she’d married him and first gone to India. Libby was uncomfortable with the thought that her father was spending all his free time with the capable Clarrie and not just the Christmas holidays. Libby felt a familiar twist of frustration at Tilly. It was all her mother’s fault for delaying her return to India and her husband.

  Sam filled the silence. ‘I’m hoping to start a photography business here.’