‘Any other young men that I should worry about?’ he asked.
Libby laughed. ‘None to worry about, no.’
‘Libby is very popular among the Strachan’s men,’ teased Flowers. ‘She can take her pick on the dance floor.’
‘No more than you.’ Libby smiled. ‘But I’m not interested in anything more than dancing. They’re fun but a bit dull at conversation.’
‘You sound so like your mother,’ James chuckled. ‘So who do you like conversing with?’
‘The Khans are a very interesting couple.’
‘The Khans?’ James queried.
‘Rafi’s sister and brother – Fatima and Ghulam,’ said Libby. Even as she mentioned Ghulam’s name she could feel the heat rushing to her face. ‘Adela encouraged me to meet them and I’m glad I have.’
‘Not that terrorist who went to prison for arson?’ James cried, horrified.
‘He’s not a terrorist, Dad,’ said Libby. ‘He’s passionate about freeing India from colonial rule but he turned his back on violence years ago. He’s spent the past year trying to stop the bloodshed in Calcutta – so has Fatima.’
‘I’m surprised at Adela putting you in touch with such a man,’ her father said with a frown, ‘or that the Watsons allowed it.’
‘Of course they did. Uncle Johnny welcomed them to his home,’ said Libby. ‘The Khans came to my birthday party.’ She gave him a pointed look.
James glanced away and drained his glass. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have let a communist agitator like Khan over my doorstep.’
‘Even though Ghulam is Rafi’s brother?’ Libby challenged. ‘And Rafi is your friend?’
‘Rafi is different – he’s a civilised Indian. Under Sophie’s influence he’s practically one of us.’
Libby was jolted by his words; they echoed Ghulam’s own earlier disdain for his older brother becoming like one of the sahib-log.
‘Ghulam is a highly educated and principled man,’ said Libby.
‘Well, he’s put that education to bad use,’ snapped James. ‘I remember him coming and causing trouble around the tea gardens in the thirties.’
‘Trouble for the planters, you mean,’ said Libby, ‘not their tea pickers.’
‘He did them no favours! Stirred them up in the lines with a few speeches and then was gone. So I don’t want you defending his revolutionary talk. These agitators have no idea how hard we all work to keep the plantations running and satisfy the demand for tea.’
‘What do you think, Manzur?’ Libby turned to the young assistant.
He squirmed in his seat and Libby immediately regretted asking him. He had hardly touched his food. She was embarrassed at her father’s patronising words about civilised Indians. Manzur cleared his throat.
‘The gardens provide work for many people,’ he answered. ‘Low castes and migrants who can’t get work anywhere else. We house them and give them medical care.’
‘Well said, Manzur,’ James cried. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘My daughter is an idealist and easily persuaded by radical talk – her mother said she was like this all through school.’
‘Give me some credit for having my own beliefs,’ protested Libby, hurt at her father siding with Tilly’s critical view of her. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with idealism? India will need people with vision and optimism in the coming years.’
‘What India needs is pragmatists,’ James replied, ‘who will see that they still need our expertise in industry and our capital. Men like Khan want to sweep it all away. But India will still need wealth and trade.’
‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘but after Independence it will be Indians who make the decisions about their own economy. The future should be in the hands of men like Manzur, not you, Father.’
‘And it will be. But that’s enough politics,’ James said in agitation. ‘Miss Dunlop hasn’t come all this way to listen to you lecture us all about socialism.’
‘I’m not lecturing—’
‘That’s enough, Libby,’ James ordered. ‘I want no further talk about the Khans or their radical ideas.’
Libby bit back an indignant retort, stung by her father’s disapproval. She felt like a child again, being publicly admonished. Her father had no right to silence her; she was just as entitled to voice her opinions as he was. It dismayed her that his way of thinking was so at odds with hers and that they had been so quick to argue. It wasn’t what she’d expected. When she was a child, her father had always taken her side.
Flowers quickly filled the awkward silence.
‘My father once came on a camping trip to the hills around here,’ she said. ‘The year he left school. He’s always had a fondness for Assam – that’s why he jumped at the chance of promotion to stationmaster in the Sylhet district. That’s where I grew up.’
‘Good tea-growing area too,’ said James. He began a rambling monologue about rainfall and south-facing slopes.
Libby was embarrassed to realise that her father was quite drunk. She admired Flowers for the tactful way she showed an interest and gave encouraging answers. It was just what Adela would have done. Libby felt a stab of guilt for answering her father back. It was the very first night of their reunion and she had allowed herself to lose patience with him. She was upset by their differences – especially over Ghulam – but her father was still recovering from his bout of fatigue. She must try and be more considerate. Besides, he was from such a different generation to hers that he was bound to think differently. The last thing she wanted was to argue with her dad. She would make more effort not to rile him.
When the meal was over Libby suggested, ‘Shall we take tea and a nightcap on the veranda?’
‘Sounds a jolly good idea,’ James slurred. He pushed back his chair and stood swaying.
Manzur took this moment to escape. He stood and gave a courteous bow. ‘Thank you for a very enjoyable meal.’
‘Stay a bit longer,’ James insisted.
‘Thank you, but my mother . . .’
‘Of course you must go and see your mother,’ Libby said, not wanting to prolong his discomfort. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘I hope you have an enjoyable stay,’ said Manzur, nodding at Flowers.
She gave him one of her dazzling smiles. ‘Thank you. And I hope we’ll meet again while I’m here.’
Libby saw Manzur blush, his attractive brown eyes widening. ‘P-perhaps . . .’ he stammered and swiftly took his leave.
Flowers took his departure as an excuse to retire to bed, leaving Libby alone with her father. Libby steered him on to the veranda and into a cane chair.
‘Can manage,’ he mumbled. But within a minute he was asleep and snoring.
Libby gazed at him. He was almost a stranger to her, his mouth gaping and his face flushed under tousled white hair. Hair grew from his nostrils and ears too. The hands that hung loose over the chair arms were knotted with veins and marked with age spots. He looked so vulnerable: a man well past his prime. She felt engulfed with regret that they would never be able to recapture the eleven years during which they had been separated. They no longer knew each other.
Why had her parents allowed such a long time apart? She and her brothers had been robbed of a father and a proper family life. How she wished her parents had been more like Clarrie and Wesley and sent their children to school in India! Libby thought bitterly of her long cold exile at boarding school in Britain. Why hadn’t they returned to India at the beginning of the War as so many other children of tea planters and civil servants had?
Libby felt familiar resentment at her mother twist inside; Tilly had always seen Newcastle as home rather than Assam. But had her father been equally to blame? Why hadn’t he insisted that they return? She let out a long sigh. There was no point in hankering after what might have been. At least she was back home now. Libby breathed in the warm scented air. She got up and, leaning over her father, gave him a tender kiss on the forehead. Tomorrow she would try harder to get to know him ag
ain. She tiptoed away to the bedroom that she had last slept in when she was eight years old.
James woke briefly as his daughter departed, then fell back into a fitful sleep.
He was standing in Bill Logan’s study at Dunsapie Cottage. The start of the cold season was bringing relief after the sweltering monsoon but James still found the room stifling and airless. The rest of the house was crammed with new furniture, china and glassware for Logan’s future wife.
‘I’ll be gone for a month,’ said Logan, ‘so you will be in charge of the running of my bungalow. Make sure the servants don’t cheat me or steal.’
James felt relief that his boss would be gone until Christmas. Perhaps he and Reggie might take a few days off to go on shikar now that the tea growing season was over. The experienced tea planter Fairfax, who was an expert in tracking tigers, had promised to take the young bachelors game hunting. James could hardly hide his impatience at seeing the back of Logan for a while. And perhaps the man would become more bearable once he was married and responsible for a wife. The new century would bring fresh beginnings, James thought with optimism.
‘And one more thing,’ Logan said, pouring them both a whisky. ‘You will make sure that native woman is gone by the time I bring Jessie Anderson back. I can’t risk my young wife being subjected to one of her crying fits. It might lead to awkward questions.’
James’s insides turned leaden. ‘Aruna is still coming to the bungalow?’ he asked in dismay. On the few occasions he had spotted her among the pickers, she had looked sallow and forlorn, but he’d been at a loss as to how to comfort her.
For a moment Logan looked uncomfortable. ‘I have been too weak with her,’ he said, ‘allowing her to come to – er – visit on the odd occasion.’
James looked at him, appalled. Surely his boss had not resumed taking the tea picker into his bed. Had he not caused the hapless woman enough grief by fathering the Brat and then having him disposed of like an unwanted dog?
‘Don’t give me that insubordinate look, Robson,’ Logan snapped. ‘A man has physical needs.’
James couldn’t trust himself to speak.
‘But she’s becoming tiresome,’ said Logan. ‘Making a scene every time she has to leave. I think it’s something to do with the Brat. You can deal with it – you’re better with the natives than I am. Make her understand that the boy is in good hands now.’
Logan handed him a tumbler of whisky. James felt nauseous at the smell.
‘Come on, drink your dram,’ said Logan. ‘You look like a condemned man. I’m the one who is giving up my freedom, not you.’ He laughed and knocked back his drink.
James hesitated and then put his tumbler down on the desk. ‘Stomach’s not up to drinking at midday, sir. But I wish you well for your forthcoming marriage to Miss Anderson.’
Logan gave him a look of disdain. ‘You’ll soon discover, Robson, that whisky cures most ailments out here in Assam. Only men with strong constitutions, who don’t allow their feelings to rule them, survive life in the colonies.’
James made for the door.
‘Just remember,’ Logan called after him. ‘I want that native girl kept away from here. Do what you have to do.’
James nearly choked on the bile in his throat. He couldn’t get away from the bungalow quickly enough. Poor Jessie Anderson coming to live here with that man!
As he ran down the veranda steps, he caught sight of Sunil Ram sitting cross-legged, staring up at him with accusing eyes. Somewhere in the shadows beyond he thought he heard whimpering. A puppy, no doubt. James hurried away . . .
James woke with a start. Someone was shaking him. He raised a hand to ward them off, ready to punch with his other.
‘Aruna?’ he gasped. The young woman was standing there, her dark hair curling around her face.
‘Mr Robson, it’s me, Flowers Dunlop. You’ve been having a nightmare.’ She spoke in a soft reassuring voice. ‘I didn’t want you to wake Libby.’
He gaped at her. Where was he? His heart beat erratically and his palms were sweating. His head felt as if it were clamped in a vice.
‘Shall I help you to bed?’ asked Flowers.
James realised with a flood of relief that he was on the veranda at Cheviot View. The dream of Logan and Dunsapie Cottage had been so vivid that for a moment, on waking, he had mistaken Libby’s friend for someone else.
‘I’m sorry if I woke you,’ he said. ‘Was – was I shouting? Aslam complains that I shout in my sleep.’
‘I think you were crying,’ said Flowers.
He felt embarrassed under her dark assessing look. ‘Crying? What nonsense.’
Flowers took a step away. ‘Perhaps I was mistaken. But you must be uncomfortable in the chair. Wouldn’t you sleep better in bed?’
James sighed. ‘I can’t sleep in there. Too stuffy. Fan’s been broken since the War.’
He wasn’t going to tell her that he’d promised himself he would fix it once Tilly came back to him. Neither was it any of this woman’s business that he found the dark shuttered bedroom too oppressive. He feared most the dreams he had in there. He thought the time at Belgooree had cured him of his nightmares. It was just that he had drunk too much alcohol, nervous at having people under his roof again after all this time. He would curb his drinking, at least while Libby was here.
He had a hot wave of panic. How long was his daughter going to stay here with her Anglo-Indian friend? He had been eager to see Libby but now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps Tilly had been right when she had warned that their daughter was difficult to live with, rebellious and opinionated. Would he be able to love her again? James felt ill. He shivered, even though it wasn’t cold.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Please go back to bed, Miss Dunlop. I’m sorry I disturbed you.’
She left and he closed his eyes. A minute later, she was back, tucking a thin blanket around him.
‘My father’s the same.’ Flowers smiled. ‘Sits up too late and falls asleep. I’ll see you in the morning, Mr Robson.’
James murmured his thanks but she was already padding away on bare feet. His eyes itched with tiredness. He rubbed them with the heels of his hands. He pulled his hands away, surprised to find them wet with tears. Dread clawed inside. He didn’t want to fall asleep again. He didn’t want to dream. James sat up in the chair and threw off the blanket. He would force himself to stay awake until dawn.
CHAPTER 15
Assam, May
For the first few days Libby relished being back at Cheviot View. She went out riding before breakfast with her father, who was always up and awake before her, leaving Flowers to lie in.
‘I’m not keen on horses,’ Flowers had said, ‘but drinking tea in bed and reading your mother’s old books is a real treat. So don’t worry about me.’
Libby suspected her friend was allowing her time alone with her father and was grateful. It was the best time of day, when the sky was a pearly grey and before the heat grew fierce. They rode through the jungle and crossed the tea gardens at the outer edge of the Oxford Estates as the air filled with raucous birdsong. In the distance they could see the tea pickers wending their way to work through the bushes in their brightly coloured headscarves, baskets strapped to their backs. Libby forced from her mind Ghulam’s sour words about their exploitation; Manzur had assured her that they were adequately housed and given medical treatment.
Libby cherished this moment alone with her father; it conjured up the happiest part of her childhood when they had gone riding and he had pointed out birds and wildlife and taught her the names of trees. She was certain he was enjoying it too – he seemed more relaxed than in the house – yet he said little. She had steered clear of talking politics since their first evening but, frustratingly, Libby couldn’t get him to talk about himself.
‘Nothing much to tell – same old routine, year in, year out. I’m much more interested in hearing about you, dear girl. Tell me about that farm you worked on during the War.’
Lib
by chattered happily and was delighted when her father laughed at her anecdotes about her fellow Land Girls. She decided it was best not to mention Lorenzo.
By the time Libby and her father got home, the dew-sparkling lawns were steaming in the morning sun. While Flowers had breakfast in bed, Libby sat with her father on the veranda eating scrambled egg on toast and drinking tea poured from a huge china teapot that had been a wedding gift to her parents from a retired tea planter called Fairfax.
‘Nice to get the old teapot out,’ said James. ‘Never bother when I’m on my own.’
‘It’s one of the things I remember,’ said Libby, ‘Mother insisting on pouring the tea from this and not letting the servants do it. “I’m quite capable of presiding over my own teapot,” she used to say.’
Libby hoped that talking about her mother would coax her father into fond reminiscing or at least curiosity about what Tilly’s life was like in Newcastle. But all week her father avoided talk of her mother. Every time Libby mentioned Tilly he went quiet or changed the subject. Not that he was particularly chatty about anything. Mostly Libby talked and he half listened, his gaze wandering off beyond the veranda as if his mind was far away. Perhaps he had always been like that and she just hadn’t realised it as a child. Was that one of her mother’s frustrations with James – that he just didn’t listen?
Libby noticed that her father seemed uneasy around Flowers, watching nervously for her to appear and making excuses to go shortly after she joined them.
‘Work to do,’ he would mutter and hurry away.
Libby felt embarrassed and hoped it wasn’t because Flowers was Anglo-Indian. Flowers made no comment and seemed content just to sit around on the veranda between meals, reading and dozing. Libby chivvied her into playing games, hunting out the croquet set and, with the mali’s help, having the old tennis court mowed and a net erected. In the godown she found a spare racket for Flowers but the ground was too uneven and the balls had lost their bounce.
‘It’s really far too hot for tennis anyway,’ sighed Flowers, retreating back to her favourite veranda long chair to sip nimbu pani and read.
The Secrets of the Tea Garden Page 20