The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Oh, Libby,’ he sighed.

  When he thought of his daughter she was still an eleven-year-old with a plump, grinning face and long auburn pigtails, a robust girl who was more athletic than her brothers and twice as talkative. He knew that he had spoilt her as a small child because she had reminded him of a young, warm-hearted Tilly but with his stronger sense of adventure. It was Libby and not Jamie who had always insisted on going riding with him in the early mornings and who had loved to accompany him on fishing trips. She had been a delightful companion, full of exuberance and affection.

  Even as a schoolgirl back in England, Libby had soon overcome the bashfulness between them when he had taken a brief leave to see his children in 1936. He would have cherished that holiday to St Abbs even more if he had known it was to be the last time they would all be together for the next decade – perhaps ever.

  He was eager to see his daughter again and yet frightened of meeting her. Tilly complained that Libby could be rude and headstrong, constantly challenging her mother’s authority and arguing back. Tilly said Libby ranted about politics at inappropriate times such as when the vicar came round to take tea. Tilly also suspected that Libby had lost her virginity and was over-sexed. All these criticisms had been listed in reproachful letters from his wife, blaming Libby’s wild behaviour and views on his failure to be a firm father.

  ‘And how was I supposed to do that when you refused to come back to India with the children at the start of the War?’ James exclaimed aloud. ‘You’re the one who should have been firmer with her. You’re a failure as a mother! You’ve deprived me of my children. You’ve turned the boys against me – they don’t even want to come back to India. I bet you’ve just encouraged Libby to come so you can get her out of your hair!’

  James reached for the decanter and poured another large whisky. He must stop talking to himself out loud; Aslam would be summoning the doctor again. The new young tea garden doctor, Dr Attar, thought James was suffering from exhaustion and wanted to give him something to calm his nerves.

  ‘Nothing wrong with my nerves,’ said James, gulping another mouthful.

  He sat on, feeling the welcoming numbness from the whisky seeping through him. With any luck he’d fall asleep in the chair and not have a repeat of the nightmare that had woken him. He couldn’t remember any of it now.

  ‘Oh, Libby,’ he murmured, ‘I do want to see you, I really do.’

  She had written such a loving letter, it melted his heart. Tilly must be quite wrong about the poor girl. So what was it that had made him so agitated?

  ‘He’s related to Scottish tea planters . . . orphaned and went to school in Shillong . . .’

  James felt his chest go tight. He found it hard to breathe. He was back in the convent in Shillong, pushing the infant boy at the nun. The Brat. James couldn’t now remember if Logan’s son had ever had a proper name. He’s called Aidan. James had invented a name for the boy. He hadn’t thought of Logan and his illegitimate son for years. Why should he feel a renewed surge of guilt now? It had happened so long ago and he’d done nothing wrong. It was his loathsome boss who had fathered Aidan and cast him aside, not he. How could he, as a young planter, have stood up to Logan and refused to do his bidding?

  James took the letter in a shaking hand and searched again for the name. Daniel Dunlop. It couldn’t be the same boy; was hardly likely to be. Half a century ago, orphanages were full of illegitimate Eurasian children whose tea planter and army fathers had refused to acknowledge them. Still, it left James feeling anxious that he might have to return to Shillong and help this nurse probe into her father’s background. It would only stir up more unwanted memories and bad dreams.

  ‘Why would you want to know?’ cried James. ‘It’s obvious this Dunlop, whoever he was, didn’t want to keep Daniel. You’ll just uncover some shameful tale that will upset your father more than the not knowing. Let sleeping dogs lie, I say.’

  James drained off his second whisky and closed his eyes. Sleeping dogs. He fondled Breckon’s ears. The dog snuffled.

  ‘If only I could sleep without dreaming,’ James sighed.

  What was it that had so disturbed him? It lurked just beyond his consciousness like a wild animal ready to attack the moment he drifted off. Something terrible, something his mind had closed off for years.

  Exhaustion, the doctor said. Take some leave. But he was fearful of going to England and facing Tilly, frightened that his marriage was over. Last month he had turned seventy; perhaps he had already left it too late to patch things up between them? For the first time in his life he was feeling his age and questioning his own mortality. He didn’t want to leave Assam. Increasingly he was finding it hard to leave his sanctuary of Cheviot View. Other than his own bungalow, only Clarrie at Belgooree provided anything like a safe haven. The thought of Clarrie lifted his spirits. His cousin’s widow was kind and sensible; she understood him. Perhaps he should talk to her about these strange dreams – and his anxiety at meeting Libby again after all these years. He would go and see Clarrie.

  With that comforting thought, James fell into an uneasy sleep.

  CHAPTER 11

  Calcutta

  ‘He’s not coming,’ said Aunt Helena briskly.

  ‘He’s been delayed, that’s all,’ Uncle Johnny said, trying to break the news more kindly.

  ‘Dad’s not coming to Calcutta?’ Libby asked in dismay.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll come as soon as he can,’ said Johnny.

  ‘But not in time for the party,’ said Helena. ‘You would have thought he might have made the effort for your birthday.’

  Libby felt winded.

  ‘Darling,’ Johnny chided, ‘he’s not well or he would be coming.’

  ‘Not well? What did Clarrie say?’ Libby asked, suddenly anxious.

  ‘Well, the line from Belgooree wasn’t very good,’ said Johnny, ‘but she said your father had taken ill a few days ago and was resting at Belgooree.’

  ‘What sort of ill?’ Libby asked, her insides knotting.

  ‘Nerves,’ said Helena bluntly.

  ‘Exhaustion,’ Johnny said. ‘So he needs complete bed rest.’

  ‘He could do that here,’ protested Libby. ‘I could look after him. It shouldn’t be left up to Clarrie.’

  ‘The journey would be too much at the moment,’ said Johnny gently. ‘But he’s welcome here to recuperate whenever he wants.’

  Libby’s eyes stung with tears. How much she had been looking forward to his arrival! ‘I wish I’d been here when she’d called.’

  ‘She rang from the factory telephone,’ said her uncle, ‘so your father wasn’t there. Perhaps you could ring in a day or two and see how he is. You really mustn’t worry; it’s nothing life-threatening – Clarrie insisted on you knowing that.’

  ‘Do you still want the party to go ahead?’ asked Helena. Her aunt seemed more concerned at James spoiling the party by not turning up than about his health.

  ‘Of course it must go ahead,’ insisted Johnny. ‘We can still make a fuss of our lovely niece on her birthday, can’t we?’

  Libby did her best to hide her hurt at her father’s failure to turn up in Calcutta. She couldn’t believe he was suffering from nerves – that was the excuse of the work-shy to men like her dad; surely he was merely over-tired. It was probably Clarrie being ultra-cautious and making a fuss at the thought of James undertaking a long journey. It wasn’t his fault. He would have come if he could.

  Swallowing her bitter disappointment, Libby determined to put on a brave face and make the most of her birthday party.

  ‘It’s not as if I’m used to having Dad there on my birthday,’ she said breezily at breakfast, ‘and there’ll be plenty of others to spend together.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ encouraged the Colonel. ‘Carry on!’

  The day was spent pleasantly, starting with a ride across the Maidan, tiffin with the Colonel, a swim at the club and a rest before the party.

  She decided t
o wear the green satin evening dress that Josey had retrieved from the theatre wardrobe and helped her have altered. It was pre-war fashionable, strapless and figure-hugging with a slit showing leg up to the knee. At twenty-two, she was not going to let Helena bully her into wearing something more demure. Libby wore her wavy hair long and unbound, applied mascara to embolden her blue eyes and red lipstick to accentuate her full mouth. She sprayed herself liberally with French perfume that Colonel Swinson had instructed Helena to buy as a gift from him. She wanted to look her most sophisticated for George – and for Ghulam.

  By seven the guests had started to arrive. Libby was a bundle of nerves inside but she greeted them with as much composure as she could muster. There were friends and neighbours of the Watsons, including the Percy-Barratts, and a dozen new friends from the Tollygunge and Saturday Clubs. George came with his chummery friends, Flowers with her parents and a couple of fellow nurses, and a handful of young people arrived from the Duff Church. Nearly thirty people were expected. Danny Dunlop was positioned in a bath chair on the veranda next to the Colonel and they fell into deep discussion about the railways.

  George kissed her on the cheek. ‘You are looking like a film star, Miss Robson. I hope you’ve missed me half as much as I’ve missed you.’

  Libby gave him a cool smile. ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’ His grin was quizzical.

  ‘On what you’ve been up to in Dacca,’ she answered, turning away to meet the next guest and leaving him gaping.

  She milled around, cocktail glass in hand, chatting to the new arrivals. She was touched that her aunt and uncle had gone to such trouble for her: the hallway was cleared for arrival drinks, the dining room laid out for a buffet and the garden and veranda decorated with balloons and strings of coloured lights that kept flickering faultily. Three jazz musicians from the Saturday Club had been hired to play music and were positioned under an awning on the lawn.

  Libby deliberately kept her distance from a bewildered George while keeping an eye out for the last of her guests. As it drew near to seven-thirty, she doubted that the Khans were going to come. Libby didn’t like to admit that the knot of disappointment in her stomach was as much for Ghulam’s absence as for her father’s. Of course he wouldn’t come. Fatima probably hated parties and Ghulam would be thankful not to have to accompany her to a Britisher celebration in the heart of wealthy Alipore.

  Johnny clapped for people’s attention and beckoned her into the centre of the hall. The hubbub died down.

  ‘This last month has been one of the happiest we’ve spent in Calcutta since retirement,’ said her uncle. ‘And it’s all because we’ve had our niece Libby staying with us. You’ve all got to know her too so you will agree with me that she is a wonderful girl – fun to have around, interesting to talk to and our croquet has improved no end thanks to her competitiveness in all things sporty.’

  Shouts of ‘Hear, hear!’ punctuated his speech.

  ‘It’s a disappointment that her father, my brother-in-law James Robson, can’t be with us for the occasion. But let’s raise our glasses to the birthday girl – as well as to absent family and friends.’

  ‘To Libby!’ they chorused. ‘Absent friends!’

  Libby took a sip of her drink. ‘And can I just say,’ she added, raising her voice, ‘a big thank you to my very generous aunt and uncle – and to Colonel Swinson – for hosting the party and being so very kind to me in Calcutta. Please enjoy the evening.’

  ‘We will! Well said!’ people cheered and conversation broke out again.

  Libby, turning to smile at her uncle, caught sight of Fatima standing in the doorway dressed in a beautiful peacock-blue sari. Her heart knocked to see Ghulam beside her, immaculately turned out in a knee-length black silk kurta and white trousers. She rushed over to greet them, taking Fatima’s hand.

  Libby beamed. ‘I’m so glad you could come.’

  ‘I was delayed at the hospital,’ said Fatima, ‘or we would have been here sooner. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be; you haven’t missed anything. I love your sari.’

  ‘And your dress is fabulous,’ said Fatima. ‘Did you have it specially made?’

  ‘Sort of.’ Libby smirked. ‘It’s from a theatre props cupboard – but don’t tell anyone.’ She glanced up at Ghulam. ‘A socialist theatre group,’ she said with a smile, ‘so it’s not a degenerate bourgeois dress.’

  He smiled and shook her hand. Libby felt a tingle go up her arm at the contact. ‘We can forget the revolution for one evening,’ he said with an admiring look, ‘especially for such a dress.’

  He looked more handsome than ever with his hair groomed and his chin freshly shaven. He smelt of sandalwood or something musky. She let go of his hand with reluctance.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ Libby asked. ‘The gin cocktails are good but there’s fruit juice if you prefer.’

  A waiter with a tray of drinks appeared beside them.

  ‘Fruit juice for both of us, thank you,’ said Ghulam, lifting two tumblers. ‘You go and mingle with your friends, Miss Robson. There’s someone over there wanting your attention.’

  Libby turned to see George waving her over. She tensed. Her feelings about him were still very mixed and she was yet to have the conversation about Dacca.

  ‘He can wait,’ she said. ‘Let me introduce you to Flowers Dunlop – she’s a nurse and a friend of Adela’s but I don’t think you know her.’

  Libby steered the Khans on to the veranda where Flowers was keeping her mother company and introduced them. Soon Libby was being led away by Helena to go and speak to one of her acquaintances from the club.

  ‘She remembers your mother from Assam – name’s Bradley.’

  Libby hid her reluctance. Mrs Bradley was sitting with the Percy-Barratts in the sitting room and she knew it would be hard to get away.

  ‘What an interesting mix of people you know, dear,’ said Muriel, her tone disapproving. ‘Would never have happened when we were young.’

  ‘It’s the face of the new India to come,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘and I think it’s rather fun.’

  It turned out that Mrs Bradley had been a good friend of Tilly’s when she’d first arrived in Assam. The reminiscing made Libby ache for her absent father. She had tried to speak to Clarrie on the telephone that morning but had only got Daleep the factory manager, who promised to pass on a message that she had called.

  The evening passed quickly. A large buffet was served mid-evening and then her aunt and uncle organised a game of charades on the veranda. George kept seeking her out and paying her special attention. He made sure that they were chosen in the same group and they acted out A Midsummer Night’s Dream, with Libby playing a sleepy Titania and George doing a slapstick Bottom. Although she was flattered by the fuss he made of her, it also left her feeling uncomfortable. She didn’t want Ghulam to assume she was George’s girlfriend.

  Afterwards there was dancing in the garden to the jazz band and people drifted between the house and the veranda, drinking and laughing, sitting and chatting. Libby saw Fatima talking to Danny Dunlop and wondered if he was asking her for medical advice. At least the Khans were still here; she had lost sight of them since the charades. While George went off for more drinks, Libby went in search of Ghulam.

  She found him smoking under the trees with a young hillsman from the Duff Church whose father had been in Johnny’s regiment.

  ‘Putting the world to rights?’ Libby asked.

  ‘Talking cricket,’ Ghulam answered, offering her a cigarette.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Libby. ‘To be honest, I don’t really like smoking.’

  They stood chatting for a few minutes about the party and then the young Gurkha excused himself.

  ‘I was hoping for a dance,’ Libby said after he’d gone.

  ‘I’m a hopeless dancer,’ said Ghulam.

  ‘Well, I’m quite good,’ she said, ‘so we stand a chance of getting it right.’

  He eyed her
. ‘There are men queuing up to dance with you tonight who are younger and far more suitable than me.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, holding his look, ‘but I want to dance with you. It would be bad manners to refuse me on my birthday.’

  Ghulam ground out his cigarette. ‘Very well, Miss Robson.’ He held out his arm.

  ‘Please call me Libby.’ She curled her fingers around his arm, enjoying the feel of muscled strength beneath the thin shirt.

  ‘Comrade Libby,’ he said with a twitch of a smile.

  On the shadowed lawn, they attempted a waltz to the strains of ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’. Libby could hardly believe she was being held close by this man who had dominated her thoughts for the past week. She leant into his shoulder, thrilling at the feel of his warm hand on her back and the soapy smell of his chin as it brushed against her cheek. She felt desire surge inside her. If only the dance could go on forever.

  ‘I’m sorry your father couldn’t be here,’ Ghulam said. ‘Will you still go to Assam this week?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure what’s wrong with him. He needs to rest. Perhaps it’s just an excuse not to come to Calcutta.’ She looked into his eyes. ‘Have you heard any more about your family in Lahore?

  ‘No,’ said Ghulam.

  ‘But you haven’t had bad news?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Well, then that’s something. I hope you get good news soon.’

  His grip on her tightened a fraction as they continued to waltz. She thought her heart would burst out of her chest it was thudding so hard.

  The tune came to an end. Ghulam dropped his hold. Libby didn’t step away. ‘Dance to the next one?’ she suggested.

  ‘I think Fatima wishes to go,’ he said, glancing over her head. ‘And that red-faced sahib is making a bee-line for you again.’