With her mind in turmoil about how best to deal with her father and their uncertain future, Libby felt in limbo at Belgooree. Being idle did not suit her; she was used to working and being useful and independent. She was torn between staying to keep an eye on her father and returning to her friends in Calcutta to where she might be of some use.
The dilemma prompted her, late one steamy night, to write to Ghulam. Not wanting to disturb the household by tapping on her typewriter, Libby fetched a writing pad, pen and ink and went out on to the veranda. By the light of a hissing kerosene lamp, she drew ink into the fountain pen and began to write. After several attempts to strike the right tone, Libby kept it short and friendly.
Dear Ghulam
How are you and Fatima? I hope both of you are well. I’ve been thinking about you and wondering what you are making of the announcements from the Viceroy and the other leaders. Are you very disappointed (as I am) at the plans for partition? Or are you pleased that it will all be decided sooner than expected and the tiresome British will be out of your hair in a matter of weeks? It all seems a bit unreal up here in the hills.
My father’s health took a turn for the worse about a month ago, so we are staying with Adela’s mother at Belgooree while he rests again. He seems to have lost his zest for tea planting and our old home. Perhaps it really is time for him to retire back to England. No doubt you will approve of that!
If you felt like writing back, I’m eager to know what is happening in Calcutta and Bengal. Manzur, my father’s assistant manager, brought us a copy of The Statesman recently but otherwise we don’t get much news as our wireless is very temperamental. To be honest, I’m going a little mad with boredom here!
I hope the news of your family in the Punjab is good and that they are safe. Please give my fond regards to your sister – and please take good care of yourself.
Libby
She hesitated over that final signing off, wanting to express some endearment but not wanting to embarrass him. She longed to tell him more about her anxieties over her father – her failure to get to the bottom of what troubled him – but decided that was unfair on Ghulam. What could he possibly do or advise? He didn’t know her father and none of it was his responsibility. Besides, he must have so many worries of his own.
Later, lying on top of her bed under the mosquito net, Libby wondered whether she should send the letter at all. She got up at sunrise and walked down to the factory office, adding the letter to the office dak before she could change her mind.
In the days that followed, Libby looked out for a return letter from Calcutta but none came. At Clarrie’s suggestion, she took to joining her father and Clarrie on their morning rides and accepted Clarrie’s offer to join her in the tea-tasting room at the factory. Libby was grateful for the distraction.
‘What do you think of our second flush?’ Clarrie asked.
Libby sucked the liquid through her teeth like Clarrie did and spat into the spittoon.
‘It tastes good,’ said Libby, ‘though I don’t really know what I’m looking for.’
Clarrie smiled. ‘Strong body, deep golden colour. More fruity than floral. Bit more earthy than first flush.’
‘Dad said you were good at this.’ Libby grinned. ‘I think my taste buds were ruined by army tea in the War. The judge of a good cuppa was whether the spoon would stand up in it.’
Clarrie laughed. ‘Wesley used to talk like that about the tea the troops drank in the Great War.’
Libby felt a sudden pang for the dark-eyed woman. ‘What was Cousin Wesley’s favourite tea?’
Clarrie gave a wistful smile. ‘The autumn plucking when the leaves are more mature and the tea full-bodied. Wesley said it tasted of the monsoon. And he loved that time of year when things grew less hectic in the gardens and there was more time for riding and hunting. We’d take Adela off camping.’
‘Both of you did?’ Libby asked.
‘Yes,’ said Clarrie. ‘Wesley always insisted on that. We first met when he was out in camp – up the hill from here. That was always our favourite spot—’ She broke off, her eyes filling with tears.
Libby said, ‘Adela was a lucky girl. Mother wouldn’t have gone camping with me and Dad even if you’d promised her tea with the Viceroy.’
‘No, she never did like the outdoor life,’ agreed Clarrie. ‘Dear Tilly.’
Libby eyed her. ‘What should I do about Dad?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He can’t stay here forever,’ said Libby, ‘but he’s showing no signs of wanting to go home – either to Cheviot View or Newcastle.’
Clarrie gave her a considering look. ‘Let’s talk about this away from the factory,’ she said.
Libby’s insides tensed as Clarrie led the way out of the building and into the heat. The sky was low and oppressive. The restless sound of insects crackled around them as they walked back towards the bungalow. Clarrie spoke as she walked.
‘You think I’m keeping your father here out of selfish reasons?’
Libby flushed. ‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You don’t have to,’ said Clarrie. ‘I know you find it difficult that your father and I . . . that we’ve grown close as friends. But I can assure you that is all we are – just friends. He helped me when Wesley was killed – in practical ways with the business. Sometimes I sent him away because he fussed too much but I could see it was only because he missed your mother and was lonely. We both gave each other companionship. And I was grateful that he was kind to Harry and arranged for Manzur to tutor him. It made such a difference to my boy – brought him out of his misery over losing his father. Manzur was so kind and good fun.’
‘I’m glad about that,’ said Libby. She felt embarrassed at Clarrie’s sudden confiding in her and didn’t know what to say.
Clarrie led Libby towards the garden at the back of the bungalow, an area beyond the tennis court shaded by large oaks.
‘But if you think I’m standing in the way of your father going back to your mother,’ said Clarrie, ‘then you are wrong. I have been encouraging James to go and see Tilly since the War ended.’
‘Then why hasn’t he?’ Libby asked, baffled.
‘I think it frightens him,’ said Clarrie. ‘Not that he’d ever admit it.’
‘Frightened of what?’
‘That Tilly might reject him. I suspect it’s a matter of pride for James. She chose to stay with her children in England rather than come back out to be with him. He thinks she should make the first conciliatory move.’
‘But that’s ridiculous,’ cried Libby. ‘He’s punishing Mother for staying with us during the War?’
‘I suppose he is in a way,’ Clarrie said. ‘But don’t be hard on him for that. He pleaded with Tilly to come back out to India with you all in the early years of the War. We didn’t know then that it would become so dangerous here in Assam. He wanted to keep you all safe and it drove him to distraction that he was powerless to look after you.’
Libby looked at her in astonishment. ‘He wanted us all to come back out?’
‘Of course,’ Clarrie said. ‘He was angry with Tilly for staying in Britain where there was imminent danger of invasion. Other tea planters arranged for their wives and families to join them but Tilly wouldn’t. I suppose she didn’t want to risk the dangerous sea voyage with you all.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Libby. It distressed her to think that they could have all returned as a family to Assam years ago. Silently she wondered if it was just the excuse her mother needed to not have to re-join James in India.
‘The point is,’ said Clarrie, ‘that James missed your mother terribly – and coming to Belgooree was a distraction. For a short while he could take his mind off the worry about you all and fuss over me and Harry.’
Libby couldn’t help a twist of jealousy that it was Clarrie and Harry who had had her father’s attention all those years. She looked at Clarrie.
‘You underestimate your importance to Dad. I
t may have started as a distraction but I can see the way he looks at you. He cares for you and he’s come to rely on you too much.’ Libby forced herself to go on before she lost her nerve. ‘I don’t blame you that my father has grown fond of you, Cousin Clarrie, but if he’s ever to see my mother again then you have to persuade him to leave here.’
Clarrie’s dark eyes filled with sadness. She stood very still, considering Libby’s words. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said softly. ‘Your father is worn out by India. Perhaps the time is right for him to leave. I’ll do what I can to make him see he must go back to Tilly. Perhaps she can revive his spirits.’
Clarrie turned. ‘Let me show you something.’
She walked a little way off to an area of the garden deep in the trees where roses and jasmine were growing over a trellis. Libby followed. With a start, Libby realised Clarrie was standing by a gravestone. Wesley’s name and dates were engraved on it. It was almost the ninth anniversary of his death.
Clarrie looked at Libby. ‘This is the only man I have ever loved with all my heart. Even in death. My love for Wesley goes beyond the grave.’ She gave a sorrowful smile. ‘So you have no need to worry about me falling for your father.’
Libby’s throat tightened. She was ashamed of the resentment she had felt towards this brave, big-hearted woman, and hoped she hadn’t offended her by speaking her mind. But as they stood gazing at Wesley’s final resting place, Libby couldn’t help wondering if her father would find it so easy to give up Clarrie and go back to Tilly.
CHAPTER 19
Newcastle, late June
Every conversation that Adela started with Sam seemed to end in an argument. She couldn’t forgive him for accusing her of still being in love with Sanjay – that man who had used her for his own gratification and had been the cause of her father’s traumatic death! She hated Sanjay and wished she’d never met him. Yet the accusation seeped into her mind like a poison and she found herself thinking about the handsome, selfish prince more and more.
Was there some truth in what Sam suspected? Was her single-minded pursuit of John Wesley partly to do with reclaiming a piece of her former lover? Perhaps, deep down, she still hankered after those heady days in Simla when she had been desired and courted by such a charismatic and wealthy Indian. Adela was aghast at the thought. She refused to believe it. Sam was cruel to even suggest it.
Yet a part of her yearned to be that carefree, fun-loving young woman she had been in India, when nothing had daunted her and everything seemed possible. Life in post-war Britain was so relentlessly drab and anti-climactic after the tumultuous times when she had toured with ENSA during the War. She and her fellow entertainers had encountered danger and hardship, but her time with the Toodle Pips had been one of the happiest in her life, a time when she had looked forward to married life with Sam with such anticipation and joy.
But the reality of married life was proving to be an anti-climax too. Her life was reduced to a daily grind of dragging herself out of bed at dawn to go to the market, long hours supervising in the café, cooking, washing up and then wrestling with the accounts until late into the evening. She was surrounded by people but had never felt so lonely – and with each day, she and Sam seemed to be drifting further apart.
‘I think we should move out of Tilly’s house,’ Sam announced abruptly. It was the end of another tiring day at the café and Adela was looking forward to getting home, kicking off her shoes and helping herself to a drink.
Adela stretched her aching back. Sam had a smut of dry soil on his cheek and smelt of sweat and earth from the allotment. She resisted the urge to lick her finger and wipe his face clean.
‘And go where?’ she asked.
‘To Cullercoats – to my mother’s.’
Adela gave a cry of disbelief. ‘I’m not moving in with your mother.’
‘Well, I am,’ Sam said.
She stared at him, wondering if he was joking, but his expression was serious.
‘Come with me,’ Sam said, though there was no enthusiasm in his voice. ‘It’s time Tilly had her home back and Mungo shouldn’t have to be sleeping in the attic all summer – it’s like a furnace up there.’
‘Cullercoats is too far from the café,’ Adela said, alarmed by the idea. ‘I’m not going to spend my petrol ration and what little free time I have driving back and forth. We could move into the attic if you like.’
‘You know Mungo won’t let us do that,’ Sam said. ‘He’s far too polite. It’s time we gave up our room. Besides, Jamie has no bed of his own when he comes home for visits – just a camp bed in the box room.’ Sam gave her a look of appeal. ‘We never meant to stay this long.’
‘I know,’ said Adela, ‘but Tilly doesn’t mind.’
‘Well, I do,’ Sam said impatiently. ‘We shouldn’t be taking advantage of her good nature – we should be standing on our own two feet.’
‘We’ll hardly be doing that by living with your mother!’
‘It’ll just be temporary until we find a place of our own,’ Sam insisted.
‘We’re as far away from that as the day we set foot back in Britain,’ Adela exclaimed.
‘But at least we won’t be beholden to friends,’ he said.
‘They’re family,’ Adela pointed out. ‘More than Mrs Jackman is.’ She saw him wince at her words and immediately regretted them. ‘Sorry, what I mean is—’
‘Adela, I’m trying hard to make a go of our marriage,’ he said in exasperation, ‘and I don’t think it’s helping living there. We’re never alone together – you spend any free time with Tilly or drinking with Josey and avoiding me.’
‘And being at your mother’s is going to solve that?’ Adela cried. ‘She monopolises you as it is. I’ll be like a spare part.’
‘Mother has always been kind to you,’ Sam said, sounding hurt.
‘Only to humour you,’ she retorted. ‘What she really wants is you all to herself.’
Sam glowered. ‘Well, at least she wants me around – which is more than my wife does.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’m too tired to argue about it!’ She pulled off her apron and flung it over a chair. ‘You go running to mummy if you want.’
She watched him stalk out of the back door. She felt angry at his stubbornness and yet wretched that his feelings for her seemed to be shrivelling before her very eyes. Adela didn’t think he would really go to Cullercoats without her but, two days before Adela’s twenty-seventh birthday, Sam went to live with his mother.
When Tilly asked if they were having difficulties, Adela brushed off her concern.
‘Sam’s just worried about his mother living on her own. It’s a temporary move. You don’t mind if I stay on here a bit longer do you? We do intend to get our own place – it’s just so difficult to find anywhere decent to rent or that we can afford.’
‘Of course you can,’ said Tilly with a reassuring smile. ‘You know I love having you to stay. As long as it’s not causing friction between you and Sam.’
‘It’s nothing we can’t work out,’ Adela said, turning away quickly so Tilly wouldn’t question her further.
In Sam’s absence, Adela redoubled her efforts to find out about the French couple who had adopted John Wesley. There was no point questioning the minister as he had only come to the church towards the end of the War. Frustratingly, Mrs Kelly was on holiday visiting her son in Yorkshire for two weeks but when the organist returned, Adela lost no time in asking if she could call on her one evening.
Doris Kelly lived in a ground-floor flat in a terraced row in Sandyford with three cats and a budgerigar. Adela was astonished to see the bird flitting above the furniture while the cats washed their paws and made no attempt to catch it.
‘They’re all the best of friends,’ Doris laughed, leading her into the kitchen. ‘Just as the Good Lord intended.’
It was a warm evening and Doris left the back door wide open for the cats to roam in and out; a welcome breeze wafted in. Doris poured two
glasses of homemade elderflower cordial.
‘My son makes it,’ she said with a proud smile. ‘He’s handy at all sorts, is my Wilfred.’
For a few minutes Adela asked her about her trip to see Wilfred in Yorkshire but soon Doris was quizzing her.
‘You never told me about your visit to Lily Singer,’ she prompted. ‘Did you have a good catch up?’
Adela nodded and took a gulp of her drink. At least it didn’t appear that Lily had written to Doris warning her not to speak to Adela. Perhaps Lily feared it would prove she had said too much.
‘She was very interesting about her work for the adoption society,’ Adela replied. ‘We had quite a discussion about that.’
‘Lily was always daft about the babies,’ said Doris. ‘She’d have taken them all in if she could. Some women are natural mothers. I’m more a cat person myself – though I love my Wilfred, of course.’
Adela’s heart began to thud, making her breathless. Was she a natural mother? How could she be when her first instinct had been to get rid of her child and pretend she had never been pregnant? Yet she felt deep in her being that she was a mother – that there would always be an invisible cord tying her to her baby wherever he was in the world. That feeling was so strong that she knew she had to keep asking awkward questions until she found out all there was to know.
Adela took another sip of cordial and said, ‘There was another woman like that at the church during the War, wasn’t there? A woman who helped with the adopted babies? Mrs Singer said she was French.’
‘French?’ Doris frowned, trying to remember. She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
Adela’s heart plunged. ‘Oh, maybe I’m mistaken but I’m sure Mrs Singer said there was a French couple who adopted a baby boy just before the War. The woman was a regular at church – I’m not sure if the husband came that often.’
Mrs Kelly gave her a bemused look. ‘What were they called?’
‘It’s silly of me,’ said Adela, ‘but I can’t remember now what Mrs Singer said.’
The Secrets of the Tea Garden Page 26