The Secrets of the Tea Garden

Home > Other > The Secrets of the Tea Garden > Page 9
The Secrets of the Tea Garden Page 9

by Janet MacLeod Trotter


  ‘Please, come and sit down. Are you ready for tea?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  ‘Sitara will bring it in then.’

  Fatima turned to the servant, handed over the tin of toffees and spoke in a language Libby didn’t understand. Perhaps it was Punjabi, as the Khan family hailed from Lahore. Adela had told Libby about Fatima’s devoted servant, a Hindu widow that the doctor had rescued from the streets years ago.

  Libby glanced around the room. It was whitewashed and simply furnished with table and chairs, two cane seats with blue cushions, a desk scattered with papers next to a long bookcase and another pile of books propping up a radiogram. The room smelt of sandalwood and the polished floor was partly covered with a blue-and-gold Persian carpet.

  Libby sat in one of the cane chairs, tucking a stockinged leg under her. It was a habit she had picked up at boarding school and which irritated her mother, but Tilly wasn’t there to chastise her. Libby wondered what her mother would think of her visiting an Indian home and decided she wouldn’t mind. She was less sure what her father might think; she didn’t really know his views on a range of matters.

  As they waited for tea, Fatima spoke in a calm soft voice, probing Libby with questions. How had her journey been? What had she done so far in Calcutta? What news of Adela and Sam? How were her mother and brothers, her father? Libby was surprised at how much the doctor seemed to know about her family. Adela must have spoken of them all.

  Sitara brought in a tray loaded with food: open sandwiches – cucumber and tomato – a Madeira cake, a selection of Indian sweetmeats, and the toffees displayed in a pretty blue-glazed bowl. The servant returned with another tray with a tea set and a large china teapot, beautifully decorated with green and yellow birds.

  Libby tucked into the tea. The sweetmeats tasted of rich, creamy fudge. After sugar rationing in Britain, Libby was not used to such sweetness and found them almost too sickly. But Fatima pressed her to eat more.

  Halfway through tea, Libby heard a pounding of feet on the stairs to the flat and then the door was swinging open and a stocky dark-haired man in a crumpled linen suit was barging through the curtain.

  ‘They’re leaving!’ he cried. ‘It’s just been announced! The Brit—’

  Abruptly he caught sight of Libby and stopped, his face registering surprise.

  ‘This is Miss Libby Robson,’ Fatima said. ‘A relation of Adela Robson’s. Libby, this is my brother Ghulam.’

  Libby stood. ‘How do you do?’ She smiled and put out her hand, wishing she had kept her shoes on to look more sophisticated.

  Ghulam hesitated, his look suddenly guarded and the excitement gone.

  ‘Miss Robson,’ he said with a nod, taking her hand in a brief handshake.

  Libby feared he must be thinking her a typical memsahib in her crisp frock and cardigan. She wanted him to like her.

  ‘Through my mother I’m a distant cousin of your sister-in-law, Sophie.’

  He gave her a droll look. ‘Ah, the glamorous Sophie.’

  ‘Sophie and Rafi were very kind to me when I was a child,’ said Libby, ‘and they were great fun.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘my brother has always enjoyed the company of sahibs more than his own kind.’

  Libby coloured at his sarcastic tone.

  ‘Ghulam, you know that’s unfair,’ Fatima chided. ‘Rafi has been a loyal brother to us both – and he works for a rajah, not the British.’

  Ghulam gave an amused snort. ‘Indian princes are even worse. When Independence comes, the rajahs will be dragged into the modern world or forfeit their wealth.’ He glanced at Libby. ‘Please, sit down. I didn’t mean to interrupt your tea party.’

  ‘Join us,’ said Fatima, ‘and then you can tell us what it is that brings you rushing home early.’

  Ghulam threw off his jacket and straddled one of the hard wooden chairs. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing hairy muscled arms. His broad face became animated again.

  ‘The news is just coming through from London – the Britishers will hand over by next year.’ He gave a triumphant smile. ‘It’s really happening.’

  Fatima gasped in excitement. ‘Are you sure? When next year?’

  ‘By next June at the latest,’ said Ghulam. ‘Even after the elections I never really believed they would give us proper independence. But now they have to – the pressure for them to go is too strong.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Libby. ‘I’m glad. I didn’t doubt that the Atlee Government would stick to their promise.’

  Ghulam scrutinised her. ‘So you are a supporter of the socialist Labour Government, Miss Robson?’

  ‘Very much,’ said Libby. ‘I would have voted for them but I wasn’t quite twenty-one at the election.’

  She felt her cheeks grow hotter at his assessing look and wished she hadn’t mentioned her age. It made her sound immature when she felt much older. Ghulam looked to be in his late thirties or early forties. She couldn’t decide if he was handsome or not. He was heavy-jawed and at some time his nose had been broken but he had the most startlingly green eyes under thick dark eyebrows and his mouth was sensuous. He was well spoken, with a deep voice, and she remembered Adela telling her how she had once seen him hold a crowd enthralled with his oratory at a political demonstration in Simla before the War.

  ‘We hope for a progressive government in India too,’ he said. ‘Once you Britishers have gone.’

  He held her gaze as he stretched over and picked up one of the Indian cakes, popping it into his mouth whole.

  ‘Not all of us intend going,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve only just returned. My father thinks the tea planters will still be needed.’

  ‘Does he think we Indians are incapable of running our own tea gardens? We do all the hard work as it is.’

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t think that,’ said Libby. ‘He is training up a very capable deputy manager, Manzur, to take his place.’

  ‘But not his place on the company board, I imagine?’ Ghulam said with a look of derision. ‘The Britishers will try and cling on to their wealth as long as possible. But the day will come when the headquarters of the big commercial houses – the tea and jute and oil – must be in India, not London or Dundee. India must have control of its own resources and trade. There will be no long-term future for men like your father.’

  ‘Well, I think you are wrong.’ Libby felt her face grow hotter with annoyance. ‘And I too plan to stay.’

  He looked sceptical. ‘And do what, Miss Robson?’

  Libby couldn’t think of a reply. She hadn’t really thought beyond getting back out to India and being reunited with her father.

  When she said nothing, Ghulam gave a twitch of a smile. ‘Don’t you think you’ll find the Britisher clubs rather dull and empty once most of your fellow memsahibs have retired back to England?’

  Libby flashed back. ‘They’re not the most interesting of places whether full of memsahibs or not. I shan’t miss them.’

  ‘Good reply,’ said Fatima with a wry smile. ‘Don’t let my brother tease you. He’s terrible for getting on his high horse.’ She shot her brother a warning look, adding, ‘I’m sure Libby will find something useful to do. There will be a great need for forward-thinking women in the new India.’

  Ghulam reached for a sweet from the bowl.

  ‘Ah, real Scottish toffees!’ he said, with a child-like glee that surprised Libby. ‘The best thing to come out of Britain apart from cricket.’ He unwrapped it and put it in his mouth.

  Libby sipped her tea and watched him warily as he chewed, his jaws working hard to soften the toffee. She sensed a deep anger in him; no doubt he disapproved of his sister inviting one of the despised Britishers into his home. And yet Sam and Adela had spoken of him with liking and admiration, so he must have been friendly towards them. She persevered.

  ‘So are you supporters of Congress or the Muslim League?’ asked Libby.

  Ghulam raised an eyebrow. ‘Someone has been doin
g her homework.’

  Fatima said, ‘Congress. I want a united India.’

  ‘Neither,’ said Ghulam. ‘As a radical socialist I’m suspicious of the way Congress is pandering to militant Hindus in order to win support. It’s a dangerous game. The new India must be secular; I voted with the communists.’

  ‘So neither of you agrees with the Muslim League?’ asked Libby.

  ‘No,’ said Ghulam. ‘I understand their fears but disagree with their demands. To divide the Punjab and Bengal from India as they suggest would be disastrous; India must stay as one country.’

  ‘But you are both Muslim,’ said Libby, ‘and would be in a minority. Doesn’t that worry you?’

  His eyes glittered. ‘We are Indians first. We have as much right to live here as anyone. Religion shouldn’t come into it.’

  ‘Not all of our family agrees,’ said Fatima, her look suddenly sombre. ‘Our father is a member of the League in the Punjab.’

  Ghulam was scathing. ‘He is just keeping in with what is popular in Lahore to ensure his business is safe. He’s just like Jinnah – enjoys the good things in life too much to be devout.’

  ‘You shouldn’t speak about our father like that,’ Fatima reproved him.

  Ghulam said dryly, ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to the things he’s said about me over the years.’

  ‘Don’t you see your family in Lahore any more?’ asked Libby.

  Fatima shook her head. ‘I went home briefly when our mother died just before the War but not since. They’ve never understood why I wanted to be a doctor more than get married. Rafi was the only one who always stuck up for me – and he’s the only one Ghulam and I are still in contact with.’

  ‘Family are not as important as comrades,’ said Ghulam. ‘When the Britishers throw you in prison, that’s when you know who your true friends are.’

  Libby gave him an assessing look. ‘But Adela said it was Rafi and the Rajah of Gulgat who helped get you released from prison,’ said Libby. She was gratified when she saw him blush slightly.

  ‘I was due to be released anyway,’ he answered, glancing away. ‘But I count Rafi among my friends.’

  ‘Even though he fraternises with the sahib-log?’ Libby couldn’t resist provoking him.

  ‘Those days will soon be over,’ Ghulam said, his eyes flashing, ‘and Rafi will have to do his bit for the new India – unless his wife takes him back to Scotland.’

  ‘I can’t see Sophie doing that,’ said Libby. ‘She has no family left there. And is Sophie not just as entitled to stay in India as you or Rafi? She was born here and has spent all her adult life here.’

  ‘Of course she is,’ said Fatima. ‘She is Rafi’s wife.’

  Ghulam gave an impatient sigh. ‘It doesn’t matter what a handful of Britishers and privileged Indians think or do,’ he said. ‘It’s the millions of ordinary Indians whose voices must be heard.’ He swung off his seat and stood up. ‘Do you know the conditions that most workers in Calcutta endure, day in and day out? The men in the jute mills, for instance? They come from the countryside to find work – but even if they slave all day they never earn enough to pay the high rents or feed their families. That is the legacy that you Britishers are leaving us. That is what Congress and the League should be discussing – how we make India a more equal society – not turning against each other and dividing up the spoils!’

  He plunged his hands into his pockets and strode to the window.

  ‘I agree with you,’ said Libby.

  ‘Do you?’ He seemed disconcerted by her reply and stared out between the half-ajar shutters as if there was something of importance below.

  ‘Yes,’ she said eagerly, ‘I too believe strongly in fighting injustice.’

  He turned to look at her, his strong-featured face half in shadow.

  ‘And does that include your father’s tea pickers?’ he challenged.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been to the tea plantations and seen their working conditions,’ said Ghulam. ‘They’re treated like serfs – living in hovels that you Britishers wouldn’t keep your dogs in – and working till they drop.’ He marched back across the room and stared down at her. ‘We went there to try and unionise them but men like your father chased us away.’

  Libby was aghast. She had no idea how the tea workers lived; she had been a child at Cheviot View. Were her precious memories of Assam built on an illusion? Had it only been idyllic for the British?

  ‘I was only eight when I left,’ she admitted. ‘Too young to know about such things.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Ghulam with a look of derision. ‘You were being given a privileged schooling at the expense of all those women slaving on your father’s plantation. Do their children not deserve a good schooling too?’

  ‘Of course—’

  ‘Well, they don’t get one,’ he snapped. ‘The British Empire is built on the backs of the people they have subjugated and exploited but who reap none of the rewards.’

  ‘I don’t agree with British colonialism,’ Libby insisted, her heart pounding.

  ‘But you profit from it, nonetheless,’ he accused. ‘Your education and your fine principles all come at a cost and it’s your father’s workers who pay the price.’

  ‘That’s enough, Ghulam,’ said Fatima, intervening. ‘Libby is our guest.’

  Libby stood up, suddenly furious. ‘And what about your privileged education?’ Libby accused. ‘Did your family’s building company not prosper from all the contracts that the British have given it over the years?’

  ‘I have had nothing to do with my father’s business,’ said Ghulam hotly. ‘I turned my back on that at the age of eighteen. I’ve dedicated my life to getting rid of colonial rule – gone to prison for it– and been cast out from my family. That’s what fighting injustice is like for an Indian – it’s not about fine words and school debates.’

  ‘You think I’m just another spoilt little memsahib, don’t you?’ She glared at him. ‘It suits you to think we are all the same – all your enemies – but we’re not. What are you going to do once you don’t have the British to blame for all your woes, Mr Khan? It’s not the British who are setting fire to Hindu homes or butchering Muslims, is it? You Indians have to take some responsibility for the violence and for not agreeing to a political settlement – the Labour politicians in London at least have tried to do that.’

  She turned to Fatima. ‘Thank you for inviting me. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you but I think I’d better go. I’m very sorry to have caused such upset.’

  Fatima rose too, looking distressed. ‘Please don’t blame yourself. It is Ghulam who should apologise.’

  Libby flicked him a look but he remained silent, his expression stormy. Libby picked up her handbag. ‘No, he’s entitled to his opinions – as I am to mine.’

  Libby walked towards the door. Fatima said, ‘Ghulam will see you safely into a taxi.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Libby stiffly.

  Ghulam followed her. ‘Please let me, Miss Robson.’

  ‘You will call again, won’t you?’ Fatima said, as Ghulam opened the door for her.

  Libby nodded as she jammed on her shoes. ‘Thank you, Dr Khan.’

  She descended the stairs with Ghulam a surly presence at her elbow. Her heart hammered. She could barely contain her anger. What right did he have to preach at her when he knew nothing about her? He was just as prejudiced and narrow-minded as the people he railed against. She had no idea why Sam and Adela liked him; to her, Ghulam Khan was rude and arrogant.

  As soon as they reached the street, Adela was hailing a rickshaw.

  ‘Let me summon a motor taxi,’ said Ghulam.

  ‘There’s no need,’ she said with a frosty glance. She could hardly bear to look at him. ‘I can look after myself. And don’t worry – I shan’t embarrass you by coming here again. Your sister was only being polite.’

  ‘Miss Robson,’ he began. ‘I shouldn’t—’

 
But she was already clambering into the rickshaw. Libby couldn’t wait to get away and put distance between them. As the rickshaw-wallah jostled his way down the lane, avoiding two boys in dhotis who were heaving an overloaded cart in the opposite direction, she clung on to the sides of the vehicle. Her eyes stung with angry tears. Libby didn’t look back.

  Ghulam stayed in the street, watching Libby’s rickshaw merge into the traffic and the throng of passers-by. He pulled out a squashed packet of cigarettes from his top pocket and searched for matches. Realising they were in the jacket that he had left upstairs, he sighed in frustration. He put the packet back in his pocket and ran his hands through his thick hair with a groan of annoyance.

  What an infuriating woman! Her remarks about his past life in Lahore had particularly riled him. It was true he had benefited from an elite education at Aitcheson College but he had rejected such a privileged life. Instead of training as a lawyer as his father had wanted him to do, he had joined the Free Hindustan Movement and been thrown out of his father’s house.

  Libby Robson had no idea of the sacrifice he had made to follow the path that he had; five years in prison then living hand-to-mouth as he tramped the country encouraging resistance to colonial rule, always keeping one step ahead of the authorities. Only with the outbreak of war did he agree a temporary truce in his revolt against the British. Communists and socialists like him had agreed that the greater evil facing them all was fascism, so they had co-operated with the war effort. Ghulam thought bitterly how he had been vilified by friends in the Congress Party for doing so, and how he had lost the trust of some comrades dear to him – one in particular.

  For a time, he had turned his back on politics. When the appalling famine had hit Bengal four years ago, Ghulam had thrown all his energies into helping the starving. It had been a hopeless job. Fatima had arrived in Calcutta and found him worn out and dispirited. If it hadn’t been for his caring sister, he might have driven himself into an early grave. It was through friends of hers that he had secured his part-time job at the newspaper.

  Ghulam looked up at the top-floor flat. He felt a wave of remorse for spoiling Fatima’s tea party. She allowed herself so few moments of relaxation from her demanding hospital job. What had got into him?

 

‹ Prev