The girl darted behind her mother.
‘This is Maureen,’ said Dorothy. ‘Say hello to the lady, Maureen.’
Adela went down on her knees as the girl peeped out again. ‘I see you!’ Adela grinned. ‘Hello, Maureen.’
The girl gave a shy smile.
‘Where’s your big brother Michael?’ asked Adela.
‘Playing football,’ Maureen whispered. Then she turned and ran out of the room.
Dorothy said to Adela, ‘I hope you don’t mind if I leave you to pour the tea while I keep an eye on the children?’
‘Of course not,’ said Adela, relieved that she would not have to ask awkward questions in front of the younger woman.
As Adela put a cup down on the side table next to Lily, the older woman asked, ‘Do you have children, dear?’
Adela’s stomach lurched. ‘My husband and I haven’t managed to have a baby yet.’
‘All in good time.’ Lily gave her a sympathetic look. ‘I know you haven’t come here just to chat to me – pleasant as that is. What is it you would like to know, Mrs Jackman?’
Adela sat down again and tried to calm the thumping in her chest.
‘I – I wanted to ask you about your work with the adoption society – the one the mission church used to run in Newcastle.’
‘I’m not sure I can help you. I haven’t been involved with the society since early in the War,’ said Lily. ‘You’d be better off speaking to the minister if you’re thinking of adopting. He can put you in touch with the society.’
‘But you used to help with the children – the babies – that were given up for adoption?’ Adela asked.
‘I wasn’t one of the inner circle who made decisions,’ said Lily, looking puzzled. ‘But I did help with fostering now and again before the babies were found parents.’
Adela’s heart drummed to think this woman might have cared for John Wesley and cradled him in her ample arms. She took a deep breath.
‘Did you foster a baby boy just before the War? A baby with black hair and skin a bit darker than mine?’ She ploughed on. ‘You went to Cullercoats with Miss Trimble to fetch him . . .’
Lily’s expression changed. She stared at Adela.
‘You remember him, don’t you?’ Adela pressed her.
It seemed an age before Lily spoke. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed four o’clock.
‘Are you the mother?’ Lily finally asked.
Adela’s eyes smarted. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Please tell me what happened to him.’
Lily gave her a pitying look. ‘He went to a good home – to parents who wanted him.’
Adela was cut by the remark. ‘I wasn’t able to keep him – not then – but I’ve regretted it ever since.’
‘Many girls have made the same mistake,’ said Lily. ‘But at least you’ve got a husband now, so be thankful for small mercies. Does he know about the baby?’
Adela nodded.
‘And does he know you’re here?’
Adela shook her head. Her throat was so constricted she couldn’t speak.
‘Go home to him, Mrs Jackman,’ said Lily, her tone sharper, ‘and just be grateful for what you have.’
Adela gave her a pleading look. ‘Just tell me something about my boy.’
Lily sighed. ‘I don’t have anything to tell – I hardly saw him.’
‘Did you look after him?’
‘Just for a couple of nights at the most. There was a childless couple ready to take him.’
‘What were they like?’
Lily looked agitated. ‘I shouldn’t be talking about them and you shouldn’t be asking. I’m sorry for you, dear, but if I’d known this was why you’d come I wouldn’t have agreed to see you.’
Adela felt tears spilling down her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Singer. I know it’s wrong of me. But I can’t go on not knowing what became of John Wesley. It’s eating away inside me. I’ve tried to forget and get on with my life but I can’t. Coming back to Newcastle has made it worse. Please, I beg of you – tell me something about his adoptive parents – so I can picture him happy. Your grandson Michael is the same age. Imagine if you never knew what had happened to him!’
‘My daughter is a good Christian girl,’ Lily protested. ‘She would never have got herself into such a mess.’
Adela fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped her face. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Singer, I shouldn’t have said that.’ She stood up to go. ‘Please forgive me for coming here like this. You’re a good person and don’t deserve to be tricked.’ Adela picked up her handbag. ‘Thank you for looking after my son – even for a short time. I’m glad it was someone caring like you. That gives me comfort.’
She walked to the door. As she reached for the handle, Lily spoke.
‘She used to come to the church – the lady that adopted your boy. She was a kind soul but a bit lonely. They weren’t from round there, didn’t know many people. Husband had come to Newcastle for work.’
Adela turned towards Lily and held her breath, willing her to say more. When she didn’t, Adela dared to ask, ‘Where were they from?’
‘I don’t rightly know,’ said Lily, ‘but they were foreign.’
‘Foreign?’ Adela gasped in surprise.
‘Yes, French, I think. That’s why we thought the baby would suit them, with him not being quite white-skinned. They looked the same, you see – especially the father.’
Adela felt light-headed. She wasn’t aware of a Frenchwoman among the congregation but surely it would be possible to trace a French couple in Newcastle?
‘Don’t ask me anything more about them,’ Lily cautioned. ‘I don’t know what happened to them. Probably went back to France. But you mustn’t tell anyone that I told you. It’s in strictest confidence. You won’t go bothering them if they’re still in Newcastle, will you?’
‘No, Mrs Singer,’ said Adela, blinking away fresh tears. ‘I promise you I won’t bother them. I’m so very grateful for what you’ve told me. My worst fear was that my son was in an institution with no one really caring for him.’ Adela managed a tearful smile. ‘But I like the sound of this French couple – so thank you.’
She went swiftly so that she wouldn’t have to explain her distressed state to Dorothy or the curious Maureen. Adela closed the front door behind her and hurried blindly down the hill.
Adela saw Sam pacing outside Tilly’s house, smoking, as she rounded the corner. She tensed, ready for his anger. Her head was fuzzy from the couple of sherries she had stopped to drink in the station buffet. She had wanted to clear her head and think about everything Lily had told her. The third sherry had been a mistake.
‘Where have you been all this time?’ Sam demanded, stamping out his cigarette. ‘It’s practically dark. Mother said you left Josey in charge. What’s been going on? Josey went off to the theatre without saying a word.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Adela, ‘I didn’t realise it was so late.’
‘Who’ve you been with?’
Seeing his troubled look, Adela couldn’t lie. ‘I’ve been to Durham – it took longer than I thought.’
‘Durham? Why?’
‘To see a widow from the church.’
‘What widow?’
‘You don’t know her – it was a pastoral visit.’
He searched her face. ‘If you’d told me about it sooner we could have gone together – had a day out.’
‘You had your work for the paper,’ said Adela. ‘Did it go well?’
‘It did,’ he answered, his tone sharp, ‘but I want to know more about this mysterious visit to Durham that has taken till nine at night.’
‘Let’s go inside, Sam, and talk about it there. I’m tired.’
Sam grabbed her arm as she tried to step past. ‘Do you expect me to believe that you spent all this time with a devout widow when you come home reeking of booze? Don’t treat me like a fool!’
Adela gaped at him. Did Sam suspect her of infidelity? She felt terrible for mak
ing him worry about such a thing, yet she was aghast he could even think it.
‘Please, Sam, don’t make a scene in the street,’ she hissed. ‘Come inside and I’ll tell you.’
He let go his grip and followed her in. The house was quiet.
‘Where’s Tilly?’ Adela asked.
‘Out to dinner with Jamie and Mungo,’ said Sam, ‘celebrating Mungo’s end of term.’
‘Oh, I’d forgotten she was doing that. Nice to think of Mungo being around for the summer.’ She headed for the kitchen. She needed black tea to clear her head. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
Flicking on the kitchen light, Adela winced at the glare of electric light. Sam could not contain his impatience. He took her by the shoulders and forced her to look into his face.
‘Don’t treat me like a stranger, Adela,’ he said, his jaw clenching. ‘Tell me what’s been going on.’
She flinched at the stormy look in his hazel eyes – eyes that were usually filled with compassion and love – and looked away.
‘It’s not what you think,’ she said. ‘I really have been to Durham to see a woman from the church.’
‘Then why all the secrecy?’ Sam asked, the traces of suspicion still evident in his voice. ‘I don’t see why you want to keep me away from your church friends. I’m the one who used to be a missionary, remember? I’m not allergic to religion.’
Adela gave a ghost of a smile. Sam always tried to defuse arguments with humour – until recently when they had begun to grow apart. She realised that it was largely her fault for pushing him away but she knew he wouldn’t like what she had to tell him.
‘It wasn’t really a pastoral visit,’ Adela admitted. ‘I went to see Mrs Singer for my own benefit – for what I hoped she could tell me.’
‘So who is Mrs Singer?’
Adela braced herself to tell him. ‘She was one of the women from the church adoption society who took John Wesley away.’
Sam dropped his hold and stepped back as if he had been physically struck. ‘How did you find her?’
‘Through the church.’
‘So that’s why you’ve suddenly found religion,’ he said with a bitter laugh. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’
‘Why else do you think I go there?’ said Adela, willing him to understand.
‘But you didn’t want me to go with you – not to church – and not to see this Mrs Singer.’
‘I didn’t want to put you through all this,’ said Adela, ‘in case nothing came of it.’
‘But I am part of this,’ Sam protested. ‘How can I not be? I’m your husband!’
‘’Cause I know you don’t really want me to find my baby,’ Adela cried.
‘I’ve never said that!’
‘But it’s true – deep down it’s true – and I don’t blame you, Sam. Finding him can never mean the same to you – and I don’t expect it to – though I want you to love him too. But I can’t go on any longer pretending that it isn’t the most important thing in my life.’ She saw him flinch, yet she had to explain or the unhappiness that was gnawing inside her would destroy them both.
‘Today I discovered that my son was adopted by a childless French couple – here in Newcastle. I’m so happy to hear that he’s not in an institution. Mrs Singer said they were kind people.’
Sam’s eyes glistened. ‘I’m happy to hear that too.’
‘But I don’t know anything else – whether he’s still in the city – or whether they’ve taken him back to France.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘It can’t be so hard now to find him,’ said Adela. ‘At least if they’ve stayed in Newcastle.’
Sam looked horrified. ‘So you’re going to pursue him even now? Even though you know he has parents who are looking after him well. Are you going to barge into his life and tell him that these people aren’t really his mother and father?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Adela, ‘but I just want to see him . . .’
‘Good God, woman! Just listen to yourself. You won’t stop at that, will you? You’ll carry on with this obsession till you’ve got him back, no matter who gets hurt in the process. Why can’t you just let it rest, now you know that he’s with a kind family?’
‘You of all people should understand why!’ Adela cried. ‘Would you rather not have known about your real parents – that you were a Logan? To have gone through your life not knowing you had a loving older sister? Imagine a life without Sophie.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Sam said angrily. ‘You know it’s not the same. Nobody got hurt by my finding out about Sophie and my parents. But you risk tearing this boy’s life apart.’
‘I would never do that!’ Adela said, wounded by his words. ‘How could you think it?’
‘I don’t know what to think any more,’ he growled. ‘Except that our marriage appears to mean a lot less to you than it does to me.’
‘You know that’s not true,’ Adela said, tears choking her throat. ‘I love you, Sam.’
‘Do you?’ he demanded. ‘Or are you still in love with Sanjay?’
Adela reeled from the accusation. ‘Sanjay?’ she gasped.
‘Yes, the man you had a child with, remember?’ He looked at her in fury. ‘You’ve never really got over him, have you? That’s why you can’t give up on finding his son.’
Adela gaped at him in disbelief. She was so shocked at his suggestion that she could not speak.
Sam clenched his fists. They stood glaring at each other.
‘If that’s what you think, then just go, Sam,’ Adela hissed.
Abruptly his angry expression turned to one of desolation. He spun round on his heels and strode out of the kitchen. Adela wanted to call him back but in seconds the front door was slamming shut behind him. She sank to her knees, buried her face in her skirt and wept.
CHAPTER 18
Belgooree, Assam, June
They huddled around the wireless in the sitting room to hear the announcement. Libby, her stomach in knots, sat close to her father on the sofa, while Harry perched on the arm of his mother’s chair. Clarrie had encouraged the servants to come in and listen too. Their khansama, Mohammed Din, stood tall and erect behind the sofa, keeping an eye on the others.
Libby watched James warily to see how he would take the news. Her father was still listless and withdrawn at times but he seemed more content since coming to Belgooree and had regained some of his old vitality under Clarrie’s attention. It was Clarrie too who had suggested that Breckon be brought over to help revive James’s spirits; the dog now lay at his master’s feet. But this broadcast from the outside world might set her father back. Lord Louis Mountbatten, the new Viceroy of India, was to make a pronouncement on India’s Independence.
Before Libby had left Calcutta she had seen newsreels of the dashing naval officer and his glamorous wife meeting with the top Indian political leaders, Nehru and Jinnah. There had been brief clips of the viceregal couple touring the country with their daughter to witness the devastation that communal violence was bringing to parts of the Subcontinent. There was no sign of the aloofness of viceroys of the past: the Mountbattens appeared refreshingly unstuffy. Even Gandhi had warmly welcomed them.
Yet here in the hills, Libby felt guilty that she and the family at Belgooree seemed cocooned from the unrest and far removed from the tensions of Calcutta and Bengal. How were Ghulam and Fatima? Libby had eagerly read any copies of The Statesman that Harry had brought up from Shillong at the end of the school week to see if there were any articles by Ghulam. There had been one about the council in Calcutta attempting to house Hindu refugees arriving from East Bengal and another covering a heated debate at the council about the future of Calcutta that had led to punches being thrown. But she could glean nothing from the newspapers that told her about how life really was for him and Fatima.
Despite Flowers’s encouragement, Libby had not written to Ghulam. Many times she had got out her typewriter with the intention of typing a letter. But she
had not even been able to decide on the endearment, let alone pour out her feelings to him. She felt sure he would scoff at any soppiness or be embarrassed by a declaration of love. So no letter had ever gone further than the passionate thoughts in her head.
Libby tried to put Ghulam from her mind and concentrate on the broadcast. The Viceroy was speaking. He was talking about his last two months in India spending every day consulting with as many communities and people as possible.
‘Why doesn’t he just get on with telling us what’s happening?’ James fretted.
‘Shush, Dad,’ Libby said, ‘he will do.’
‘. . . a unified India would be by far the best solution of the problem.’
‘Unified India?’ James seized on the words. ‘Did he say unified? Does that mean—?’
‘Dad!’ Libby exclaimed. ‘Please, just listen.’
Clarrie put a hand on James’s arm which calmed him. Libby didn’t miss the fond look they exchanged. Mountbatten spoke about India being a single entity with unified communications, currency and services and his hope that communal differences would not destroy this. Libby held her breath. Perhaps there was still a chance that India could remain one country and that the Viceroy had a plan. The room went very still as Mountbatten said he had urged the political leaders to accept the Cabinet mission plan of 1946 which had met the needs of all the communities.
‘. . . To my great regret it has been impossible to obtain agreement either on the Cabinet mission plan or on any other plan that would preserve the unity of India.’
Libby’s brief hope was immediately dashed. The Viceroy continued. There was no question of coercing large communities into living under a government where another community had the majority.
‘. . . and the only alternative to coercion is partition.’
‘Oh, God!’ James cried. ‘Surely not?’
Libby felt leaden inside as Mountbatten went on to say that because the Muslim League had demanded the partition of India, Congress was demanding the partition of Punjab and Bengal. He, himself, was opposed to both.
‘For just as I feel there is an Indian consciousness which should transcend communal differences, so I feel there is a Punjabi and Bengali consciousness which has evoked a loyalty to their province. And so I feel it was essential that the people of India themselves should decide this question of partition.’
The Secrets of the Tea Garden Page 24