The Secrets of the Tea Garden

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The Secrets of the Tea Garden Page 7

by Janet MacLeod Trotter


  ‘Ah,’ said Helena. ‘Railway people, are they?’

  Libby was surprised. ‘Yes, I think her father was a stationmaster. Retired early due to ill health. How amazing that you know them.’

  ‘Oh, no, we don’t,’ said Helena at once. ‘It’s the girl’s name – sounds like a half-half.’

  ‘Half-half?’

  ‘Your aunt means Adela’s friend is probably Anglo-Indian,’ explained Johnny.

  ‘A lot of their type become nurses,’ said Helena. ‘The girls are usually hard-working; some of the boys are less good at applying themselves – enjoy the good life too much.’

  Libby bristled. ‘Perhaps they’ve never had the opportunities that the British take for granted? My teacher, Miss MacGregor, said that Anglo-Indians were prohibited for years from entering the civil service or rising above lower management posts.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Helena said, pursing her lips.

  Johnny said quickly, ‘They were marvellous during the War – showed great loyalty to the Empire.’

  ‘True,’ Helena admitted. ‘They’ve always thought themselves more British than the British. But most would be like fish out of water if they actually went to Britain. They wouldn’t fit in at all.’

  Libby asked, ‘But wouldn’t it be the same for you, Aunt Helena? Mother says your family have been in India since before the Mutiny – so aren’t you Anglo-Indian too?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ she retorted. ‘We’re British through and through. There’s a world of difference between my family and Eurasians who have – well, you know – have Indian blood in their veins.’

  Libby knew exactly the difference but annoyance at her aunt’s attitude had provoked her into challenging the woman. She wondered what the Indian driver made of the casually racial remark. She would have to curb her tongue if she was to remain on speaking terms with her aunt for the next four weeks.

  Better not to mention that Adela and Sam had also urged her to contact their other good friend, Dr Fatima Khan. Not only was she Indian but she had a notorious brother who had been imprisoned for terrorism. Another brother, Rafi, had married Sam’s sister Sophie. Libby wasn’t sure if Helena approved of Sophie, even though she was also a distant relation of Johnny’s. She would bide her time before mentioning Dr Khan.

  ‘There’s a family friend from home that I’d also like to meet up with,’ said Libby. ‘He’s working for Strachan’s.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Helena, brightening, ‘we know people in Strachan’s.’

  ‘George Brewis. I have his card,’ said Libby. ‘He stays on Harrington Street when he’s in town.’

  ‘Ah yes, he’ll be in a chummery there with other young bachelors,’ Helena said. ‘Close to the Saturday Club for their sport and the bright lights of Chowringhee for their entertainment. How do you know him?’

  ‘He’s a cousin of Adela’s on her mother’s side – Clarrie’s nephew.’ Then Libby wondered if Helena disapproved of Clarrie Robson because she was also Anglo-Indian. She didn’t want Helena taking against George before she’d even met him. Best not to correct Helena’s assumption that George was a bachelor either; she might disapprove of her seeing a married man, even though he was soon to be divorced.

  ‘He was in the Fleet Air Arm during the War,’ said Libby. ‘Saw action over Burma. That’s when he fell in love with India and decided to make a career out here.’

  ‘Good show,’ said Johnny. ‘Is he Olive’s son?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Libby answered. ‘Do you know George?’

  ‘No,’ said Johnny, ‘but I met Olive. She was the shy nervous type. Not at all like her older sister Clarrie. Clarrie was always such good fun. She was a marvellous step-mother to my best friend Will . . .’

  Libby saw the sadness etched on her uncle’s face. Her mother had often spoken of the lively Will Stock who had been killed in the Kaiser’s War. Will and Johnny had been boyhood friends and all Johnny’s sisters had adored him too.

  ‘Well,’ Helena said, ‘enough talk about Clarrie Robson. Libby dear, you must invite your young man round to New House so we can meet him.’

  Libby felt excitement curdle inside to hear George referred to as her young man. Would he be pleased or aghast to be cast in that role? She was impatient to see him again.

  ‘You can invite any of the friends you make in Calcutta,’ said Johnny. ‘Just treat our home as yours.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Libby with a grateful smile, remembering how fond she and her brothers had been of their genial uncle in those long-ago days of childhood.

  Libby woke to the screeching of birds. It was dark in the shuttered room and for a moment she wondered in which hotel room she lay. Then with a flood of joy she realised she was no longer in transit but back on Indian soil. Getting quickly out of bed, she unlatched the shutters and opened the casement window. Cool sweet air embraced her.

  The garden was largely in shadow and she could tell from the pearly sunrise that it must still be very early. Giant crows were making a racket in the adjacent trees and a flock of green parrots rushed overhead and disappeared into dark foliage.

  Libby hurried to pull on clothes and tiptoe into the gloomy hallway of the downstairs flat just as the large grandfather clock was chiming the half-hour. It was five-thirty.

  A sleepy chowkidar scrambled to his feet and let her out of the front door. The neat lawns and flowerbeds were glistening with dew as the dawn light crept across them. Libby took off her shoes and walked barefoot down the steps and over the grass, enjoying the cool damp on her skin. Beyond the garden wall she could hear the sounds of Calcutta stirring: the soft tinkle of a rickshaw’s bell, the creak of a bullock cart and the crack of a driver’s whip. From far off came the blare of a ship’s hooter; two unseen men passed by chattering in Bengali.

  She breathed in deeply. Turning at the far end of the garden she surveyed the Watsons’ house. Despite its name, New House, the square, two-storied building looked Victorian, with its pillared frontage, balconies and crumbling stucco. Johnny had explained that Helena’s family had renamed it New House when they’d moved from their former home in Ballyganj a generation ago, simply because it was new to them.

  Too large now for a retired couple and Helena’s elderly father to be living in, the upstairs floor was rented out to a jute mill company. She sat for a while on a damp bench enjoying the chorus of birds in the tree over her head. Was it a peepal tree or a banyan? Libby couldn’t remember. After a while she smelt cooking coming from the servants’ compound behind the house. She skirted the building, curious to see what they were cooking. As she passed close to the veranda she heard strange grunting sounds. Libby was stopped in her tracks by a startling sight: in the shadows, a scrawny, almost naked old man was doing press-ups.

  She stifled a gasp but he seemed quite oblivious to her presence. He was bald apart from a few wisps of white hair and his withered skin was almost yellow. Thinking him one of the servants, Libby backed away. Then he hauled himself into a sitting position and called out in a reedy upper-class voice, ‘Ranjan, bring me my towel!’

  With shock, Libby realised this must be Helena’s octogenarian father, Colonel Swinson. She hung back in the shadow of a tree for a couple of minutes until a servant had wrapped the Colonel from the waist down in a white towel and then she reappeared.

  ‘Good morning,’ Libby called. ‘Colonel Swinson is it?’

  He peered over the veranda. ‘Yes, and who the devil are you?’

  ‘Libby Robson, Dr Watson’s niece.’ She smiled up at him.

  He stared at her, baffled. ‘Never heard of you. Should I have?’

  Libby smiled in amusement. ‘I suppose not. I only arrived last night. I’m here for a month.’

  ‘Why did nobody tell me?’

  Libby imagined that Helena had told him repeatedly that they were having a guest from England but her aunt had warned her that the Colonel was very forgetful.

  ‘Perhaps I was to be a surprise,’ Libby answe
red.

  He grunted and turned away. Libby was on the point of carrying on her way when the old man called to her. ‘Do you like kedgeree?’

  ‘Love it,’ said Libby.

  ‘Come and have breakfast with me on the veranda at six-thirty,’ he ordered. ‘Give me time for my cold bath.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Libby, ‘I will.’

  Half an hour later, Libby was back on the veranda sitting at a small table opposite Helena’s father, eating a rather dry kedgeree of rice, fish and boiled eggs. The garden was dappled in morning sunshine and a servant stood over them with a palm frond to bat away any scavenging birds.

  Colonel Swinson ate slowly, his worn-down teeth chewing determinedly at the over-cooked fish. But Libby didn’t mind his slowness; she was enjoying his rambling conversation in between mouthfuls.

  ‘Born just after the Mutiny, you know. Father was in the Bengal Lancers. Mama was the most beautiful woman in Calcutta. That’s what Papa said. This fish is bhekti – comes from the estuary. Cook doesn’t like it – thinks it’s polluted from the salt water. Prefers river fish. Can’t bloody cook it properly, that’s for sure.’ He paused to pull out a bone that had stuck in his teeth.

  ‘Are you here to find a husband?’ he suddenly asked.

  ‘No,’ Libby said, spluttering over her tea.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m here to see my father. We’ve been apart since before the War.’

  ‘Ah, well, he’ll find you a husband. What’s his regiment?’

  ‘He’s not in the Army,’ said Libby. ‘He’s a tea planter.’

  ‘Tea, eh?’ The Colonel ruminated over this. ‘Don’t let him marry you off to some box-wallah up-country. You’ll have a dog’s life. Army chap is what you need. My daughter Helena married a doctor in the Gurkhas. She has a grand life.’

  ‘Yes, she’s married to my Uncle Johnny.’

  The Colonel looked at her in surprise. Libby wondered if he’d already forgotten who she was.

  ‘Um, yes, army officer will suit you – you’re the outdoor, athletic type by the look of you. Helena will find you someone suitable.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem much point,’ said Libby. ‘In a year or so the British officers will have to leave, won’t they? That sort of life will be over.’

  He frowned, his fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Leave? Why ever should we leave? The British have made the Indian Army the envy of the world. We have the most loyal of men and the cream of the officer corps.’ He shook his head as if she had said something outlandish. ‘Leave indeed.’

  Libby decided not to argue. Instead she asked him, ‘Have you ever been to Assam?’

  ‘Ah, Assam! Hunted there as a young man. Wonderful for big game. Shot a bear once – and tigers of course.’

  As he enthused about long-ago days, Libby’s mind wandered to her childhood there. Why did the Colonel think it would be such a dog’s life to be married to a tea planter? She suspected it was just the usual British prejudice towards men in trade compared to those in uniform. Yet she felt a twinge of discomfort. Her own mother would probably agree with Colonel Swinson.

  ‘Bhekti – it’s a kind of perch,’ said the Colonel. ‘Can’t cook it. Comes from Goa.’

  ‘The fish comes from Goa?’ Libby asked in confusion.

  He scrutinised her with rheumy blue eyes, then barked with laughter. ‘Not the fish – the cook!’

  Libby giggled at her misunderstanding. ‘That makes more sense.’

  ‘Helena likes him ’cause he’s Christian,’ explained the Colonel, ‘and he’ll handle pork. Bloody useless cook though.’

  An hour later, as the old man was still chewing his way through a piece of cold toast, Johnny discovered them.

  ‘So you’ve met my delightful niece?’ he said, bellowing in his father-in-law’s ear.

  ‘Your niece, eh? Pretty young thing.’ He nodded. ‘Won’t have any trouble finding a suitable officer to marry.’

  Johnny and Libby exchanged wry glances.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about a husband,’ said Johnny, ‘but your Aunt Helena has a busy day of sight-seeing planned for you. And you may have to eat a second breakfast.’ He gave her an apologetic look. ‘My wife is waiting in the dining room at a table groaning with bacon and eggs.’

  Libby wiped her mouth on her napkin and stood up, grinning. ‘After seven years of rationing, two breakfasts sounds like heaven on earth.’

  The next few days were a hectic round of sight-seeing and shopping with Helena and socialising with the Watsons’ friends. At first, Libby revelled in being taken around Calcutta. Helena, who insisted that they were driven everywhere, enjoyed showing off the imposing colonial buildings arrayed around Dalhousie Square and which fringed the vast park known as the Maidan. As they drove along Old Court House Street, her aunt pointed out Government House and the old mansions on the Esplanade, and continued down Red Road to the huge dazzlingly white Victoria Memorial at the other end of the Maidan.

  When Libby pleaded for them to get out and see round the art gallery housed in the memorial building, Helena reluctantly agreed. Her aunt thought most artists were overrated and only allowed Libby a cursory look around.

  Helena was more enthusiastic about showing her around St Paul’s Cathedral with its military flags and then the imposing tombs and catafalques of the British cemetery in Park Street. In the ancient graveyard, Helen said, with a sweep of her hands, ‘All the history of British India is here. Look at the names and dates. So much endeavour and sacrifice.’

  Libby found the tightly packed jumble of gravestones and obelisks claustrophobic, and she winced at this very visual reminder of Britain’s imperial past.

  ‘I think it’s rather a depressing place,’ she said. ‘I’m more interested in the living.’

  Helena took that to mean that Libby would like to go shopping.

  ‘You’ll need some decent summer clothes,’ her aunt said. ‘I can’t believe your mother sent you out with so little. And it really isn’t done to wear trousers.’

  Helena got her driver to deposit them on Chowringhee Street, a wide thoroughfare of shops, hotels and restaurants, its arcaded pavements busy with street vendors. Crowded trams swayed up the centre of the road, clanking and sounding their bells. Libby had a frisson of remembrance: she had been here before. Her mother had relished the rare trip to the big city to buy clothes and visit the theatre. Libby remembered being fascinated by two boys on the wide pavement doing a levitation trick under a grubby sheet.

  Before she could work out where that could have been, her aunt was marching Libby into a grand department store where saluting doormen were dressed in immaculate white uniforms.

  Despite Libby’s protests, Helena insisted on buying and paying for three old-fashioned summer frocks with matching gloves, two sensible buttoned-up blouses that didn’t show any cleavage, a parasol, a white handbag and two pairs of court shoes with heels.

  ‘I’m not very good in heels,’ Libby said.

  ‘You can’t slop around in those terrible old gym shoes, dear,’ said Helena. ‘Keep them for tennis.’

  As they emerged again into the bright sunshine to their waiting driver, Libby gave a longing glance up the street to where Chowringhee disappeared into the melee of central Calcutta. How she yearned to explore the lanes and bazaars that led off into the teeming city.

  ‘Perhaps we could visit Hogg’s Market tomorrow?’ she suggested.

  ‘Goodness me, no,’ replied Helena with a shocked expression. ‘I never go there.’

  ‘But they sell everything, don’t they? Surely you must buy some things there?’

  ‘I send the servants with a shopping list.’ Helena bustled her towards the car. ‘Tomorrow your calling cards will be ready. We’ll spend the morning delivering them, then you’ll be able to do some visiting.’

  Immediately, Libby’s spirits lifted; tomorrow she could get in touch with George.

  After a few days, Libby was tiring of Helena’s constant commentary on
the laziness of Bengalis, the corruption of the city corporation and the tittle-tattle of Calcutta’s European society. But she bore it with good grace, remembering Tilly’s words of warning not to upset her aunt. Her favourite activity was being taken for a ride across the Maidan.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you liked riding?’ Helena had exclaimed on Libby’s second day in Calcutta.

  ‘I’m not very expert,’ Libby had admitted, ‘but some of my fondest memories are of early morning rides with Dad around the tea gardens – just the two of us. And I used to love exercising the old horses on the farm where I worked during the War.’

  One afternoon Johnny took them to Eden Gardens – another beautifully laid-out central park – to watch a cricket match. Libby wore one of the matronly dresses that Helena had bought for her. She tried to make it more shapely by wearing it with a wide belt. Libby kept a look-out for George, hoping to see him. But frustratingly, since leaving her calling card at his digs in Harrington Street, there had been no reply.

  ‘Not very polite of your young man,’ Helena had said.

  ‘I imagine George is away from the city on business,’ Johnny had suggested, with a smile of reassurance.

  ‘Yes, that’s more than likely,’ Libby had agreed. Only to herself did she admit the wave of disappointment that so far George had failed to get in touch.

  Each day, Helena organised Libby into attending tea parties or dinners, either at New House or at the homes of their friends. They were mostly ex-army or in business, nearly all were middle-aged and none of the women appeared to have ever done a job, apart from running their households or volunteering during the War. Libby found herself comparing them to her mother; at least Tilly thought her work outside the home more important than housekeeping. Helena and one of the other women were active in the Guides but the rest of Helena’s friends appeared to fill their days with socialising and playing bridge or tennis at their clubs, and reminiscing about their army days in cantonments across India.

  One retired couple, the Percy-Barratts, Libby remembered from Assam; Reggie had worked with her father on the Oxford Estates and thin-faced Muriel had been the burra memsahib of the tea-planters’ club. Libby recalled her as being a bit of a dragon with a permanently sour expression of whom all the children had been wary. But on meeting them again, Libby encouraged them to talk of the old days, interested to hear their memories of her parents. Muriel, now white-haired, still had a mouth which pulled down at the corners when something displeased her.

 

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