The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  She eyed him. ‘You only invited me out to lunch to keep your sister happy, didn’t you?’

  He hesitated and then nodded. Libby felt a flicker of disappointment but tried not to let it show.

  ‘Well, I only accepted because I was curious about seeing bits of Calcutta I’ve never been taken to before.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then neither of us have any expectations apart from a good lunch.’

  He ordered tea and drew out his cigarettes, offering one to Libby. She took one and he lit hers and then his. Their conversation turned to his work at the newspaper.

  Libby asked, ‘So what is the latest news? I’ve been hearing terrible rumours about unrest in the Punjab. I hope it’s all been exaggerated.’

  Ghulam’s expression turned grim. ‘It’s not, I’m afraid. Amritsar and Lahore are going up in flames. Sikhs against Muslims. The Punjabi prime minister, who was trying to hold together a coalition, has resigned.’

  Libby saw the tension in his face. ‘What about your own people?’

  He frowned. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Your family,’ said Libby. ‘Even if you don’t speak to them any more, you must be worried.’

  He sat back and blew out smoke. ‘Yes, I worry. I have nephews and nieces . . .’ He ran his fingers through his hair in agitation.

  ‘Have you had news of them?’ asked Libby.

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve been trying to ring Rafi in Gulgat to see if he has heard anything.’

  ‘Is that the telephone call you were on when I was waiting for you?’

  He shot her a look. ‘Yes. You’re perceptive.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He knows less than I do,’ said Ghulam impatiently, ‘stuck away in the jungle.’

  ‘At least he will be safe there – and Sophie too.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Ghulam.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Even in Gulgat things are changing, it seems. The old Rajah died last year and the new prince doesn’t seem as well disposed towards Rafi as his uncle was.’ Ghulam’s lip curled. ‘He’s one of those princely leeches who bleed the people dry in order to finance a life of excess. Always getting his photo in the papers for attending society parties – usually with some film star on his arm.’

  ‘Prince Sanjay?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Yes.’ Ghulam looked surprised. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I know of him,’ said Libby, thinking of Adela’s confession. It made her angry to think that her cousin had been a victim of Sanjay’s selfish behaviour. ‘I don’t like the sound of him at all. Is Rafi’s job in danger?’

  Ghulam shrugged. ‘Possibly. He was very guarded on the phone but recently I got a letter from him, posted in Shillong, that said for the first time he’s thinking seriously of returning to the Punjab – that’s if Pakistan becomes a reality.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby was shocked. ‘But Rafi’s not religious and he’s lived in Gulgat for over twenty years!’

  ‘That’s his choice,’ said Ghulam.

  ‘But you don’t agree with him,’ Libby guessed.

  ‘I think it’s a disastrous idea. We need Muslims like Rafi to stay and help build the new India.’

  Libby stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and sipped at the hot sweet tea. She thought again how war and division had ruptured families all over the world, including her own. Was India heading for civil war now? The thought filled her with anxiety.

  ‘Will the violence spread to Calcutta again?’ she asked. ‘What are you hearing?’

  He lit a second cigarette from the stub of his first, inhaled deeply and gave her a direct look. ‘We’ve had one thing in our favour these past months – Gandhi has been living in Bengal. Just having that man here seems to calm people’s nerves, it’s quite extraordinary. Last summer, we communists went out on the streets to show our solidarity – Muslims and Hindus together – but we couldn’t stop the butchery. But Gandhi with his spinning wheel and hunger strikes somehow takes the poison out of our veins.’

  ‘So that should give us optimism?’ Libby pressed.

  ‘Except Gandhi is leaving and going west to try and bring calm. We need a thousand Gandhis. I fear the violence is going to escalate again.’

  ‘I don’t understand why it should suddenly get worse now that the British government has announced they are definitely leaving.’

  ‘Power and fear,’ said Ghulam starkly. ‘Everyone is afraid and all sides are stoking up that fear to gain the upper hand in the negotiations. Just like last year, people are already leaving their homes and moving into villages or parts of the city to be with their own kind.’

  ‘Perhaps it will make a difference having a change of viceroy,’ Libby suggested. ‘Mountbatten knows India well from the War and he might be able to bring the differing sides together. He’s due here any day now, isn’t he?’

  Ghulam gave her an impatient look. ‘A change of Britisher at the top is not the solution. It’s far too late for that.’

  Libby went quiet; she didn’t want to antagonise him again. She already regretted her high-handed remarks at Amelia Buildings about Indians being to blame for the escalating violence. Up till now, she had enjoyed every minute of his company. She hadn’t had such interesting conversation in a long time, and never with such a fascinating man – this former revolutionary with the mesmerising green eyes.

  Ghulam scrutinised her. She felt her heart pound faster under his gaze. He stubbed out his cigarette and began fishing out money for the bill. Libby felt a wave of disappointment that the lunch was coming to an abrupt end.

  ‘Let me contribute something,’ she said.

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘I’ve really enjoyed this,’ said Libby. ‘The meal – and talking to you.’

  Abruptly he asked, ‘Have you ever had cake from Nahoum’s Confectionery?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you must. You cannot leave Hogg’s Market without a visit to the Jewish bakery. That’s if you have room for something sweet?’

  Libby smiled. ‘I always have room for cake.’

  ‘Then we share something else in common apart from socialism and Indian Independence,’ he said with a grin.

  Nahoum’s had the biggest selection of cakes and pastries that Libby had ever set eyes on: cheesecakes, lemon sponges, Madeira slices, seed cakes and plum puddings. She took ages to decide what to choose and in the end Ghulam picked a selection and had them boxed up. When Libby gasped over the range of boiled sweets, he insisted on buying lemon drops and mint humbugs too.

  ‘No toffees as good as your Scottish ones,’ he said with a quick smile.

  ‘They didn’t last long then?’ Libby guessed. He shook his head. ‘Then I’ll get Mother to send some more out.’

  To her delight, Ghulam didn’t seem in any hurry to get back to work. He suggested they walk through to the Maidan but she feared bumping into some of her aunt’s friends watching cricket at Eden Gardens. She didn’t want him subjected to any snide remarks or hostile looks.

  ‘I’d rather you showed me more of the streets around here,’ Libby replied.

  They walked north, through a maze of lanes and side streets bustling with life and noise. Some of the buildings must once have been palatial with their intricately carved doorways and balconies but their façades were now crumbling and dirty. This was old Calcutta. They passed a steaming laundry, the rooftop with drying linen flapping like a ship in sail. Chinese merchants were selling paper lanterns and foodstuffs next to a dairy and piggery. Banging and hammering came from a row of leather workshops and cobblers. They got some curious looks as they walked by.

  ‘Don’t worry, they’ll just think I’m your bearer carrying your packages,’ Ghulam murmured.

  Libby had a strong desire to slip her arm through his to show that they were equals but was worried he might rebuff such a gesture.

  Eventually emerging on to a broader street, Libby recognised the road that led down to the Duff Church.

  �
��Let’s go this way,’ said Libby. ‘I know somewhere quiet to sit down.’

  A few minutes later, they were turning left and passing through an iron gate into the church garden. The whitewashed building was shuttered and locked but the steps were in the shade of tall palm trees. Libby climbed on to the top one.

  She smiled. ‘Time for eating cake, don’t you think?’

  Ghulam followed, pulling off his jacket. ‘Sit on this if you like.’

  ‘I’ll share it with you,’ she said, spreading it out and settling on to one half. She kicked off her sandals and wriggled her toes, enjoying the feel of the warm stone on the soles of her feet.

  Ghulam untied the string and opened the box. ‘You go first.’

  She picked out a slice of walnut cake and bit into it. The icing was made with dark cane sugar, a taste that made her think of holidays in St Abbs and afternoon tea with her Watson relations. She closed her eyes. ‘Mmm, I haven’t tasted cake this good in years.’

  She let it melt on her tongue and then took another bite, larger this time. Opening her eyes, she saw that Ghulam was watching her. Libby felt suddenly aware of how close they were sitting and how alone they were. Birds chirruped drowsily in the surrounding trees. Her heart began a slow thud; she could feel perspiration break out on her forehead and between her breasts.

  She pushed untidy hair behind her ear. ‘What cake are you eating?’ she asked, her voice sounding breathless.

  ‘Lemon,’ he said. ‘Want to try it?’

  Libby nodded. He offered his half-eaten cake. She leant forward and bit into it. The pulse in her throat made it suddenly difficult to swallow. The tart lemon juice flooded her mouth and mingled with the sweetness already there.

  ‘Good,’ she whispered and held her slice out to him. ‘Try this at the same time.’

  Ghulam hesitated. She thought she had never seen eyes quite so compelling, the green almost translucent and framed by such dark lashes. Then he steadied her hand in his and took a bite from the walnut cake. Libby could hardly breathe. Her hand trembled in his. Was he feeling the same intensity as she was? He pulled his hand away and munched the cake with a frown of concentration. She wanted to push the wayward strand of hair out of his eyes and run her fingers over his uneven features – the broken nose and the dimpled chin that was already showing dark bristles.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.

  She went a guilty puce. ‘About nice things like cake.’

  He swallowed down his mouthful and smiled. ‘Time for another then.’

  They sat in the shade munching cake until the box was empty, while Libby told him about long-ago tea parties on the cliffs at St Abbs, of swimming in the sea and playing cricket with her brothers.

  ‘I have to admit,’ said Ghulam, ‘there’s one thing I will thank the Britishers for when they leave and that’s cricket.’

  ‘Not cake?’ Libby teased.

  ‘The Indians have been making sweetmeats for far longer,’ he teased back. ‘So no; you memsahibs can’t claim to have invented cake.’

  Libby gave a raucous laugh, wondering if it was possible to be intoxicated by sugar. She felt lightheaded.

  He stood up. ‘I really should be getting back to the office.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Libby.

  He offered his hand and pulled her to her feet. For a brief moment, they didn’t let go. He leant towards her and Libby held her breath. But he bent to retrieve his jacket. She hid her disappointment by scrambling for her shoes.

  As they gained the street again, Ghulam hailed a rickshaw. ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Libby, ‘and get the tram back from town.’

  They sat close together but the intense intimacy of the quiet garden had evaporated. Libby sensed that his mind was already preoccupied with work. He must be so worried about the reports of communal violence coming out of the Punjab.

  Disembarking at Chowringhee Square, Libby said, ‘Thank you for lunch – and cake – I’ve really enjoyed it all.’

  Ghulam nodded and gave a distracted smile. ‘Remember to call on my sister before you go to Assam.’

  Libby felt dashed; he was not going to make another assignation. As far as Ghulam was concerned, he had made amends for his rudeness and done his duty to his sister.

  ‘Would you and Fatima come to my birthday party?’ Libby blurted out. ‘It’s next Tuesday. At my uncle’s house. Nothing grand. But it’s a way of seeing my friends before I leave.’

  He looked astonished. ‘I can’t imagine your uncle and aunt will want the likes of me at your party, Miss Robson.’

  ‘Uncle Johnny won’t mind in the least – and anyway the guest list is up to me, not my aunt. And Fatima deserves a night out – you told me she works too hard.’

  He looked undecided.

  She pressed him. ‘Please come. You won’t be the only Indians there, I can promise you that.’

  ‘Well, if you really want—’

  ‘Yes I do.’ Libby cut in. ‘I’ll send an invitation with the details. I don’t want any presents – just a bit of fun.’

  His mouth twitched in amusement. ‘Well, if my sister wants to go, then I shall bring her.’

  ‘Good.’ Libby smiled. ‘And thank you again for today.’

  He raised a hand in farewell and strode off into the building. Libby could imagine her mother’s disapproval at Ghulam leaving her unchaperoned in the street and expected to find her own way home. But Libby was pleased. It showed Ghulam thought of them as equal – and Libby as mature and independent.

  With a tremor of excitement, she set off down the street to catch a tram. Something unexpected had happened today. She had gone half reluctantly to meet Ghulam Khan, convinced he would be as dismissive of her as he had been on their first meeting. But she had had the most stimulating lunchtime and afternoon since coming to Calcutta. Libby had revelled in his company and was fairly sure he had enjoyed hers. Why else would he have suggested extending their time together by going to the cake shop and then showing her more of central Calcutta?

  Yet, sitting in the Duff Church garden, she had felt something deeper: a powerful physical attraction. Had Ghulam felt anything similar? As the tram swayed, she went over in her mind every scrap of conversation, gesture and look she could recall. She felt exhilarated. Soon she would have the party to look forward to – not only the excitement of being reunited with her adored father, but also the anticipation of seeing Ghulam again.

  It was only when she alighted in leafy Alipore that it occurred to Libby: for the whole afternoon she hadn’t thought of George once.

  CHAPTER 10

  Assam

  James jerked awake. In panic he sat up, his heart pounding. He listened. Someone screamed beyond the darkened bedroom. He scrambled under the mosquito net and fumbled for his revolver. Breckon, his black retriever, leapt up, barking. Dashing for the door James rushed out on to the veranda, Breckon at his heels. The scream came again. He strained to see but the night was so dark that he could make out nothing of the garden or the forest beyond.

  ‘Sahib?’ A voice spoke from close by. ‘It is a jackal, sahib.’

  ‘Sunil, is that you?’ James panted.

  ‘No, sahib, it is Aslam. There is no Sunil here.’

  James stared in confusion at the grey-haired servant who emerged out of the dark carrying a kerosene lamp. His bearer, Aslam. The screech of a jackal came again from further off. Not a human scream at all. He felt foolish.

  ‘I thought I heard an intruder . . .’ said James, bending to calm his dog.

  ‘Sahib is not sleeping well again?’ asked Aslam. ‘Can I get you a milky drink?’

  James huffed. ‘I’m not a boy.’

  ‘Robson memsahib would always order hot milk for bad sleep,’ said Aslam.

  ‘Yes, she would, wouldn’t she?’ James sighed. ‘Well, she’s not here now so you can pour me a large whisky instead. I’ll sit for a while out here.’

  He couldn’t bear the thought of returning to the dark bedroom and toss
ing sleeplessly, plagued by his thoughts. Were they bad dreams or memories? Sunil Ram had been there, the punkah-wallah from the old days at Dunsapie Cottage. Why on earth had he been thinking of the long-dead servant? Was it Sunil who had screamed in his head?

  With Breckon stretched out beside him, James sat in the long cane chair covered in a rug, and slugged at the whisky Aslam brought him. The night seemed as restless as he was; the air pulsed with crickets and rustlings came from the undergrowth.

  It was Libby’s recent letter that had stirred up old memories. He picked it up from the side table and re-read it.

  Dearest Dad

  I can’t wait to see you! Just another week and you’ll be here in Calcutta. I’m having an interesting time. Uncle Johnny and Aunt Helena have been so kind, but I’m impatient now to see you and get back to Assam.

  I hope you don’t mind but I’ve asked an old school friend of Adela’s to come on holiday with me. She’s a nurse and she hasn’t taken any leave for ages. Her name’s Flowers Dunlop. Her father was a railwayman but thinks he’s related to Scottish tea planters in Assam. She’s promised him that she’ll try and find out about the family connection while she’s with us. He’s an invalid and not very well so it’s really just to keep him happy that Flowers said she’d look into it all. Do you know any Dunlops? He’s called Danny (I presume short for Daniel). He was orphaned and went to school in Shillong by the way. I said we could go and visit on our way home. I hope that’s okay? You’ll like Flowers, she’s good fun.

  Let me know what train you will be arriving on next Monday and I’ll meet you. Aunt Helena is insisting on having a party for me on Tuesday so I’m inviting a few of my new Calcutta friends along. You’ll be my VIP guest! I simply can’t wait!

  A big hug soon,

  Your loving daughter Libby xxx

  PS I’ve invited the Percy-Barratts too so that you’ll know someone from Assam. Muriel’s a bit of a headache but Reggie’s quite sweet.

  James felt a hot flush of panic. He hated parties or being the centre of attention. He didn’t want to meet crowds of sophisticated Calcuttans or talk gossip with garrulous women like Helena Watson or Muriel Percy-Barratt. As his nearest neighbour on the plantation, Muriel had mothered him for years but she’d never really approved of Tilly as a pukka planter’s wife. He had grown tired of her endless criticism at Tilly’s desertion of him during the War and had been silently relieved when Reggie had decided to retire from the Oxford Tea Estates and move to Calcutta.