The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘I took your mother under my wing when she first came out to India,’ Muriel Percy-Barratt said. ‘She was such a town girl, not suited for life in the mofussil at all. I had to give her quite a talking-to, I can tell you. I always had a soft spot for your father – a lifelong friend – ever since Reggie and James joined the company as young men.’

  ‘Lifelong friend,’ her husband echoed. ‘Could tell you a few tales.’

  But to Libby’s frustration he didn’t. Muriel dominated the conversation.

  ‘So when is your mother coming back out?’ Muriel asked.

  ‘Soon, I hope,’ Libby answered.

  ‘Your father is terribly lonely at Cheviot View. I think the War years have taken their toll on his health – he looked ghastly the last time we saw him.’ Muriel’s glum look filled Libby with sudden alarm. ‘Of course he should never have been left alone for so long. Poor James. Still, if Tilly is really intending on coming out then that is good news.’

  ‘Good news indeed,’ Reggie said.

  Libby bridled at the criticism of her mother, even though she mainly agreed with it.

  ‘Mother spent the War looking after me and my brothers,’ she replied, unable to hold her tongue. ‘I think she probably had a harder time of it in Britain than any of you in India – even the tea planters.’

  After that, Muriel ignored her and talked to Helena about the possibility of sharing a cottage in Darjeeling for the hot season. Libby was left worrying about her father’s health but decided that the waspish Muriel had been exaggerating.

  On Sunday, Libby elected to go to the Presbyterian Church on Wellesley Square with her Uncle Johnny rather than with Helena to St Paul’s Cathedral.

  ‘Don’t linger,’ Helena warned. ‘We always take Papa out to the club for Sunday lunch after church. He hates to be late.’

  Libby, who had enjoyed sharing early breakfasts on the veranda all week with the absent-minded Colonel, was doubtful that the old man would know if his lunch were late or not. But to keep her aunt happy, she promised they would be prompt.

  Libby relished having an hour or so with just her kind uncle for company. Johnny liked to give their driver, Kiran, the day off on Sundays and drove the car himself. At the Duff Scottish Church, Libby was surprised to find that the Europeans in the congregation were outnumbered by Indians and Anglo-Indians. Many of the women were smartly dressed in European-style clothing and the men were turned out in lightweight suits or dark-blue blazers.

  ‘I prefer it here to the grand St Andrew’s on Dalhousie Square,’ whispered Johnny. ‘I’m more likely to bump into one of my old Gurkhas.’

  Once the service was over, her uncle took little persuasion to detour around the streets of central Calcutta.

  At the square outside Hogg’s Market, Libby exclaimed, ‘I’ve been here before! I recognise the clock tower. Dad brought me here, I’m sure of it. I think he was trying to find someone to mend his pocket watch.’

  ‘The clock is a famous landmark,’ said Johnny, ‘and a place of rendezvous.’

  ‘Can we stop and have a milky tea, Uncle Johnny?’

  ‘From a chai stall?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘Yes. Dad and I always drank it when we were out in town together. Mother wouldn’t let me drink or eat anything from street stalls, so it was always a treat and a secret that I shared with Dad.’

  At once, her uncle pulled over to the curb. ‘Well, it’ll be our little secret from your Aunt Helena too.’

  Libby was fascinated by the scene. Even though the indoor market was closed, the surrounding streets were busy with rickshaws carrying elderly men or women in bright saris. Men in white lungis or checked sarongs milled around the pavements, side-stepping the squatting vendors who were crying out for business: ‘Paan, bidis, chai!’

  The chai-wallah grinned toothlessly as he poured out steaming tea from a great height into small earthenware cups. Libby sipped at the hot sweet drink, which had been boiled up with milk and something spicy, possibly ginger. For a moment she was a small girl again, standing in the protective shadow of her tall, vigorous father, enjoying an illicit taste of Indian street life. Her eyes prickled with tears. Would she ever be able to recapture that close bond she had once shared with her beloved father? She was impatient for their reunion but also nervous in case they had grown too far apart in the intervening years – half her lifetime.

  She was also troubled by Muriel’s words. Could her father’s health really be failing? Libby refused to believe that a man so vital and strong couldn’t cope with plantation life. It was a healthy outdoor life and her father thrived on hard work. She mustn’t let Muriel’s gloomy conversation upset her; the woman had said such things merely in criticism of Tilly.

  ‘I’ve always liked your father,’ said Johnny, as if somehow reading her mind. ‘I credit myself with his marrying your mother.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby was amazed.

  ‘I first met James Robson in Shillong – when I was stationed there in the twenties. Extracted a tooth for him.’ Johnny grinned. ‘And he took me hunting as payment. I had a hunch that he would get on well with Tilly – so I asked him to deliver some of my wedding photographs to my family as he was due some leave. Next thing I heard, my sister was marrying him and coming out to India. Imagine how pleased I was!’

  ‘Was Mother happy in those days?’ asked Libby.

  Johnny nodded. ‘Oh, I think so. No doubt India was a bit of a shock after life in Newcastle but she soon had Jamie and they both seemed besotted parents, judging by her letters at least.’

  ‘The fact that they had three children together must have meant they were happy, mustn’t it?’ Libby mused.

  ‘Of course. On the few times we got together, you all seemed the ideal family – boisterous and full of fun – especially you, Libby.’

  Libby smiled. ‘Was I?’

  ‘Yes. Helena and I were always a little envious of Tilly and James,’ admitted Johnny. ‘We would have liked children.’

  Libby saw the regret flit across her uncle’s face.

  ‘I’m sorry you didn’t,’ she said.

  Johnny drained off his tea. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘we’ve had a very good life in India. I wouldn’t swap that for anything.’

  ‘Will you stay?’ Libby asked. ‘I mean stay on in India once Independence comes?’

  Her uncle glanced around as if fearing he might be overheard.

  ‘It’s still not certain when that will be,’ he answered. ‘We might have a few years left.’

  ‘The talk in Britain,’ said Libby, ‘is that it will come sooner rather than later.’

  Her uncle spoke more briskly. ‘I will leave that decision up to your aunt. I would quite happily retire to Northumberland or the Borders and spend my days fishing but it’s different for Helena and her father. I’m not sure they could stand the climate, for one thing.’

  ‘I think the weather would be the least of it,’ Libby said forthrightly. ‘I can’t imagine Aunt Helena enjoying retirement in a country cottage without servants or the club. And all her friends are here.’

  Johnny sighed. ‘There has been talk among some of them about whether to move home.’

  ‘But it isn’t home, is it?’ Libby persisted. ‘Not for people who have never lived there. I can’t tell you what a shock it was for me to land up in England at the age of eight. Imagine what it would be like for someone the age of Colonel Swinson!’

  ‘We’d look after him well,’ said Johnny a little defensively.

  ‘I know you would, Uncle Johnny,’ said Libby, ‘but his home is here. Besides, colonial attitudes like his don’t go down well in Britain these days – and I agree with that.’

  ‘Tilly warned me you were a bit of a socialist,’ he said with a wry look. ‘So what would you do with an old koi hai like my father-in-law?’

  Libby didn’t hesitate. ‘Let him stay here and live out his life on his veranda, overseeing his tropical garden.’

  ‘So have you come back to India
to stay?’ asked Johnny. ‘Despite all the uncertainty.’

  ‘Yes, I hope so,’ said Libby. ‘This is my country and I love it.’

  Her uncle placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘You sound like James,’ he said, smiling. ‘Just as strong-willed and just as brave.’

  They dropped their empty pottery cups on to the pile by the chai-wallah’s stall and walked back to the car. On the way down Free School Street, Libby asked her uncle, ‘Can we find Hamilton Road? I think it’s off Park Street. I have a card I’d like to deliver there.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Johnny. ‘Did you forget to go there with your aunt the other day?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Libby. ‘I didn’t think she’d approve.’

  ‘Oh, so who lives there?’

  ‘Dr Fatima Khan. She’s a good friend of Adela’s and Sam’s from their Simla days. Now she works at the Eden Hospital.’

  Johnny nodded. ‘Ah, the women’s hospital.’ He glanced at her as he negotiated the traffic. ‘I think you are being a bit unfair on Helena. She isn’t as prejudiced against Indians as you think – especially educated ones.’

  ‘But she might be,’ said Libby, ‘if she knew that Dr Khan’s brother lives there too – and that he has been to prison for anti-British actions. According to Adela, Ghulam Khan blew up the Governor of Punjab’s car when he was only eighteen.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Johnny exclaimed.

  ‘Sam says he’s calmed down a lot, but I think he’s still a bit of a communist,’ said Libby.

  ‘So you’d quite like to meet him?’ Johnny guessed.

  Libby blushed. ‘He does sound interesting, but it’s Dr Khan I’d like to make friends with. Both Adela and Sam really admire and like her. And Sam’s sister is married to Rafi Khan, one of Fatima’s other brothers.’

  ‘Oh, that family!’ said Johnny as realisation dawned. ‘The one Cousin Sophie married into?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby saw her uncle frowning. ‘So I’m right: Aunt Helena wouldn’t approve?’

  ‘Well, she doesn’t have a very high opinion of Sophie since she married Rafi,’ Johnny admitted. ‘Helena had a soft spot for Sophie’s first husband, Tam Telfer, a forester. She thought Sophie behaved badly – leaving Tam and becoming a Muslim to marry Rafi.’

  ‘I think she was very brave to do so,’ Libby replied. ‘And Mother always said that Tam didn’t treat Sophie at all well.’

  ‘That could be true,’ sighed Johnny. ‘I never warmed to Telfer the way that Helena did. Rather outspoken and arrogant type, if you ask me.’

  As he drove down wide Park Street with its shops and offices, they both looked out for the turning into Hamilton Road. The further east they travelled, the prestigious mansion blocks gave way to more down-at-heel housing.

  ‘I think this is it,’ said Johnny, turning into a narrow street on the north side. Tall blocks of flats with crumbling façades and bleached shutters faced each other over a dusty uneven lane. The car bumped up the side street.

  ‘Amelia Buildings,’ said Libby, pointing, ‘that’s where the Khans live.’

  Johnny parked the car. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he insisted, climbing out.

  They pushed at a heavy wooden door and went inside. Sitting at a small table in the dark hallway, a skinny man in a lungi and a faded military jacket stood to attention and asked if he could help. Behind him Libby could see a row of pigeonholes holding letters for the various flats.

  ‘I’d like to leave this for Dr Khan, please.’ She handed over the envelope with her letter and calling card.

  Johnny handed him a few annas. ‘Make sure the doctor gets it promptly.’

  The man took it and bowed, assuring them that he would.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Libby as she turned and went back out into the bright sunshine.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Helena wanted to know. ‘Too much chatting on the church steps, I bet.’

  ‘We’ve had a lovely morning,’ said Libby, determined to be more patient with her aunt. ‘Will there be a chance of tennis later? I’ll go and get my whites and shoes just in case.’

  Johnny drove them out to the Tollygunge Club, a substantial colonial building set in lush grounds. It was busy with British families tucking into lunch at tables in the open air, waited on by an army of smartly dressed servants.

  To Libby’s dismay, the Percy-Barratts waved them over.

  ‘Come and join us!’ called Muriel, already ordering a waiter to set more places at their table.

  They spent the next hour ploughing through a huge meal of lentil soup, fish in white sauce, mild chicken curry and chocolate sponge pudding with custard. Libby only half listened to the women gossiping about people she didn’t know – their ailments and family relations – and news of British friends retired back home and recent deaths. The men talked of cricket and horse racing.

  Everyone was too full of lunch to want to play tennis. They dozed under newspapers or flicked through magazines in the shade.

  Libby went for a walk, keen to escape. She strolled through a beautiful oasis of lawns and trees like an English garden on a hot summer’s day. She found it hard to believe that three or four miles to the north lay a teeming Indian city or that there had ever been violence and unrest in Calcutta. Nobody seemed to want to talk about it.

  Libby wondered if there was any chance of her father coming to fetch her sooner than in March or whether she could make her way up to Assam alone. If there was no George in Calcutta, the thought of another three weeks of bumping into the Percy-Barratts and their kind made her heart sink.

  Yet Libby felt a flicker of triumph at her attempt to contact Dr Fatima Khan. She wanted to get an Indian view on the upheavals of the past year since the post-war elections and the deepening splits between Hindus and Muslims over the future of India. She had found out more in Britain about the worsening political crisis in India than she had since arriving in the country.

  She knew all about the Muslim League’s demand for a homeland called Pakistan and their fear that a united India under the Congress Party would result in perpetual Hindu domination. But Jinnah, the League’s leader, had been largely blamed for inflaming anti-Hindu feeling which had led to the killings in Calcutta the previous summer. The violence had spread into rural east Bengal and had only died down after the charismatic Congress leader, Ghandi, had gone to live among the terrified villagers and calmed the situation.

  What did Muslims like the Khans think? The Watsons and their friends seldom mentioned the communal troubles. They only talked about the dwindling numbers of British filling the civil service posts and who among their acquaintances were applying for jobs in other parts of the Empire. Libby determined that she would break out of the British enclave and find out for herself what was going on.

  CHAPTER 6

  Libby was exultant when, two days later, an invitation to afternoon tea arrived by post from Fatima Khan. It helped lessen her disappointment that she still hadn’t heard from George.

  ‘Who is it from?’ Helena asked, intrigued. ‘Is it your young man?’

  ‘No, it’s from a friend of Adela’s – a lady doctor,’ said Libby. ‘She’s inviting me for tea tomorrow.’

  ‘Kiran can drop you off and pick you up.’

  ‘That’s kind,’ said Libby, ‘but I’ve decided to go into town earlier and have another look at the art gallery – take my sketch pad. I’ll get the tram to the Maidan.’

  ‘Not on your own, surely?’ Helena looked worried. ‘Your uncle can go with you.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Libby firmly. ‘And I’ll get a rickshaw to Hamilton Road.’

  When her aunt protested, Johnny intervened. ‘Libby can look after herself, darling. She’s used to being independent and at her age she doesn’t need our permission to leave the house, does she?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Helena doubtfully. ‘You will wear one of your nice new dresses, won’t you, dear?’

  Libby’s heart quickened with excitement as she mounted the staircas
e inside Amelia Buildings. The chowkidar had told her that Dr Khan lived at the top, on the fourth floor. The mansion block must once have been a desirable place to live; it had marble pillars in the entrance and large arched windows, but the tiled floors were cracked and some of the ornate shutters hung loose on rusted hinges. There was a strong smell of spicy cooking as she took the stairs two at a time.

  A small, dark-skinned woman opened the door to her knocking. Beyond the door was a faded green curtain which the servant pulled aside, with a slim hand beckoning Libby into a large, airy, high-ceilinged room. Seeing a rack of shoes near the door, Libby pulled off her new court shoes.

  ‘Miss Robson.’ A handsome bespectacled woman who looked to be in her late thirties came forward with an outstretched hand. She was wearing a calf-length buff-coloured dress and a gauzy cream shawl. ‘Welcome. I’m Fatima. No need to take off your shoes.’

  Libby shook hands and smiled. ‘They’re killing my feet anyway. Aunt Helena insisted on buying them. And please call me Libby.’ Libby reached into her new handbag and drew out a tin. ‘These are for you – Scottish toffees. Adela said you’d like them.’

  Fatima exclaimed, ‘How kind! I love toffee – ever since my brother Rafi brought them back from Scotland when I was a girl. I’ll have to hide them from Ghulam or he’ll eat them all. He has a terribly sweet tooth.’

  ‘Is your brother here too?’ Libby asked.

  ‘He’s still at work,’ said Fatima. ‘He’s a journalist with The Statesman newspaper. Perhaps you will meet him another time.’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that,’ said Libby, feeling a flicker of disappointment. He sounded like the sort of man who would have interesting views on the current situation.