‘Then where?’ demanded Josey.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Tilly said more gently.
Adela felt her chest tighten in grief. ‘No . . . yes.’ She leant forward, face in hands, and burst into fresh tears.
‘Darling girl!’ Tilly rushed to comfort her.
Adela groped for her and buried her face in Tilly’s plump shoulder.
‘How can I bear it?’ she wept.
‘Bear what?’ Josey asked.
‘My baby!’ Adela wailed. ‘My darling boy!’
‘What baby?’ Tilly asked, baffled. ‘Are you pregnant?’
Adela let out an anguished sob and pulled away. ‘No . . .’ She looked at Josey in distress and saw realisation dawn on her friend’s face.
Josey went straight over to the drinks cabinet and poured out a large whisky.
‘You’ve had a shock, haven’t you?’ she said, thrusting the glass at Adela. ‘Drink this down and then you can tell us.’
‘Tell us what?’ Tilly frowned in concern. ‘Josey, what do you know that I don’t?’
‘Adela can tell you,’ said Josey.
Adela shook her head.
‘Best to get it all off your chest,’ Josey said. ‘Tilly’s been such a support to you; she deserves to be put in the picture.’
Adela gulped at the whisky and spluttered at its fiery taste. She took another mouthful and almost instantly began to feel calmer. The women waited for her to speak, Tilly’s expression fearful.
Hesitantly at first, Adela began to unburden herself of the shameful secret she had kept from Tilly for so long. When Tilly exclaimed in shock, Josey silenced her and encouraged Adela to continue. Soon, Adela was pouring out her feelings about her lost baby and her increasing desperation to try and find him.
‘So is that what has been the cause of the rift between you and Sam?’ asked Tilly.
Adela nodded. ‘He can’t bear that I wanted my son back more than anything else in the world – even him.’
‘Poor Sam,’ said Tilly, ‘and poor you.’
‘So what has happened today,’ pressed Josey, ‘that has made you so upset?’
Adela told them about going to Railway Terrace and her terrible discovery about the death of the Segals. She dissolved into tears again.
‘I don’t think I can b-bear the pain,’ Adela sobbed. ‘I always believed . . . deep down . . . I’d get John Wesley b-back.’
Josey sighed. ‘That’s the real reason Adela came back to England – and dragged Sam with her.’ She gave Tilly a rueful look. ‘Sorry – I don’t like having secrets, but Adela asked me not to tell you.’
Adela met Tilly’s look, and was pained at the shocked expression she saw on her friend’s face. She made an effort to calm down and explain.
‘Mother and Lexy know too,’ Adela said, ‘and Joan found out. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell you, Tilly. I knew you’d think less of me.’
Tilly was staring at her as if she were trying to work out who she really was.
‘I’m so sorry,’ whispered Adela. ‘I shouldn’t have made Josey keep secrets from you.’
‘It’s terrible what you’ve discovered,’ said Josey, ‘but at least now you know – and it was the not-knowing that was eating away at you, wasn’t it? The whole thing is an awful tragedy. But you still have Sam. Perhaps now you can begin to patch things up with him before it’s too late.’
‘What do you mean, too late?’ Adela asked, with a prick of alarm. ‘Things aren’t that bad between us—’
‘Where did you say the Segals lived?’ Tilly suddenly interrupted. ‘Railway Terrace?’
‘Yes,’ said Adela, feeling her queasy grief return at their mention.
‘And they were from Belgium?’
‘Yes. Why . . . ?’
‘I was on ARP duty the night of the bombing,’ Tilly said, a strange look on her face. ‘I was one of the first on the scene at that street near the railway yard.’
Something about Tilly’s words made the back of Adela’s neck prickle.
‘And?’ said Josey.
‘There was a Belgian couple dead in a shelter in a back yard – the warden wouldn’t let me go and look – but he came out carrying an infant – covered in dust but alive . . .’
‘Alive?’ Adela gasped.
‘Yes, and unharmed.’
‘Was it a boy?’ Adela asked, her ears drumming.
‘He was,’ Tilly answered. ‘I remember taking him back to the relief centre and worrying about what would happen to him without his parents – and thinking that the rest of his family might be in Belgium and wouldn’t be able to look after him. It stuck in my mind that he was Belgian.’
Adela grabbed on to Tilly, trembling. ‘You held my baby?’
Tilly clutched Adela. ‘I must have done.’
‘What happened to him?’ Adela demanded. ‘Can you remember? Please try!’
Tilly’s eyes filled with pity. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’
Adela was seized by fresh hope. ‘Can you find out? There must be records. He must have gone somewhere.’
‘Adela!’ Josey chided. ‘We don’t even know if it was your boy. They can’t have been the only Belgians living in Heaton.’
‘I know it’s him,’ said Adela.
‘Don’t put yourself through any more upset—’
‘Please, Tilly,’ Adela urged, ignoring Josey’s appeal, ‘can you try and find out?’
Tilly gave Josey a helpless look.
‘Tilly,’ Adela pleaded, ‘you’ve held my baby boy in your arms. You must know how my arms ache for him! I can’t live without knowing whether it was him.’
Tilly pulled Adela into a hug. ‘I’ll try, dear girl. But don’t get your hopes up.’
Josey gave a sigh of disapproval and walked out of the room.
CHAPTER 20
Belgooree, late June
Dear Libby
I was surprised but pleased to receive your letter out of the blue. I’m sorry for not replying sooner but I’ve been away in East Bengal covering stories for the paper and didn’t get your letter until my return this week.
By now you will probably have heard that both the Legislative Assemblies in Bengal and Punjab have voted for partition. It is a catastrophe. I am not just disappointed but angry. The country that I have campaigned for all my adult life – a free, democratic, secular India for all Indians, unshackled from the yoke of British rule – is never to be.
I have already seen the turmoil this is bringing to Bengal – there is a new wave of refugees on the move from the east to the west of the state. The Hindus don’t feel safe staying in the east when they know they will be under Muslim rule in a few weeks’ time – though no one knows where the border is actually going to be and this is beginning to cause panic. Also there is to be a referendum in Assam over Sylhet – but you probably already know that. It’s a foregone conclusion – the majority Hindus will vote to get rid of Sylhet and its Muslim population. So no doubt you will see Muslim workers on the move from Assam into East Bengal in the weeks to come.
My editor is a decent man but he isn’t interested in lots of bad news stories from East Bengal. Perhaps I won’t have a job for much longer. Still, I can always find other work with my pen and my loud mouth – as my sister keeps reminding me. No doubt you, as a good socialist, would also add that I have rich relations in Gulgat and Lahore who will bail me out if, like the Prodigal Son, I go cap in hand and beg forgiveness.
It was kind of you to ask after my family. Fatima assures me they are all safe and well. She has heard from our older sister Noor.
I’m sorry to hear that your father’s health is still a worry but if the time has come for him to return home then I’m glad to hear he will be handing over to an Indian assistant. That shows foresight. Who is this Manzur you write about? I seem to remember you mentioning him to me once before.
What do you intend to do, Libby? Will you go home with your father? If so, I hope that Fatima and I will have
the chance to see you in Calcutta before you leave.
Kind regards
Ghulam
Libby had read the letter a dozen times since it was delivered to the house that afternoon by Nitin, a grinning Khasi youth and a grandson of Banu, the tea garden overseer. She could hear Ghulam’s voice in her head as she committed his words to memory, his tone serious one moment and sardonic the next.
He was pleased to hear from her and wanted to see her again – even if it was only briefly on her way back to England. But was he just being polite or was there warmth behind the words? He sent his ‘kind regards’, not just ‘yours sincerely’ or some other formal farewell.
Unable to keep still, Libby went for a ride through the gardens despite the sapping heat. There had been a few rumbles of thunder in recent days but no real let-up to the oppressive atmosphere. The monsoon was late this year.
After half an hour, she reached the glade where Clarrie had taken her on a previous ride to show where she had first met Wesley and where the family had liked to camp. The ruins of an ancient temple lay strewn across the clearing, close to a stream and a hut with a fallen-in roof where a holy man had once lived. Later, the swami’s dwelling had been occupied by Adela’s old ayah whom Libby remembered from childhood visits to Belgooree. Her brothers had been frightened of the wrinkled old woman but Libby had been fascinated by her and often sat with her and listened to her high-pitched singing. Ayah Mimi still lived in the compound at Belgooree, though she was very old and virtually a recluse. Only Clarrie was encouraged to visit her.
Despite being armed with a rifle, Libby found the solitary camping site unnerving; the jungle was alive with squawking birds and animals rustling. The cloud was low and hid any mountain views. It wasn’t a burial ground and yet it had the feel of somewhere peopled with ghosts from the distant past. Libby shivered; she preferred the company of the living. She pulled out Ghulam’s letter from where she’d tucked it beneath her blouse. She imagined his dextrous hands folding the paper and pushing it into the envelope, and his tongue licking the gum. Her yearning for him was suddenly overpowering. He had asked her questions so she had an excuse to reply to him. Kicking her pony into a trot, Libby hurried away from the swami’s dell.
Dear Ghulam
I was so pleased to get your letter yesterday. I wish I could whisk you here on a magic carpet so that you could tell me in person about your travels in East Bengal. It annoys me that your editor is not interested in your reporting but I suppose your newspaper is biased towards what goes on in Calcutta and what they think will interest the English-speakers.
I hope that you keep your job and don’t have to go begging to your father like the Prodigal Son. Who would be the jealous older brother? Not Rafi – I know he wouldn’t begrudge you anything. But to be a prodigal presupposes that you’ve had a riotous time in Calcutta, spending a fortune and thinking only of your own pleasure. I don’t know you well, but you don’t strike me as a man who has lived anything remotely akin to a debauched life. Although you do have a weakness for cigarettes and Scottish toffees.
My father still won’t face up to what he should do next. I’m worried about him. Both Clarrie and I are urging him to return to Britain to see my mother and brothers – even if it’s just for a spell of leave. I think he is coming round to the idea that he may not be going back to work at the Oxford – he really does seem to agree that his days as a planter are over, even if his ones in India aren’t. I feel I must stay here and help him until he decides what to do.
You ask about Manzur. He is my father’s assistant manager at the Oxford and a very able man. He wanted to be a teacher but my father offered to train him as a planter and his parents encouraged it. Manzur’s father is our bearer at Cheviot View and his mother was my ayah. No doubt you will roll your eyes at such colonial exploitation but believe me when I say that Ayah Meera was the person I loved most as a child.
My mother was so grateful to Meera for her help with us children that she encouraged my father to put Manzur through school. Manzur and my brother Jamie were like brothers, always playing together and teasing me when I tried to join in. Of course, when Jamie was sent back to England to school they could no longer be best friends.
But Manzur is still just as friendly as I remember. Perhaps he will end up being a teacher one day – he’s very enthusiastic but also patient with people. During the War he used to come over to Belgooree and tutor my cousin Harry as Clarrie didn’t want to send him away to school so soon after Harry’s father had died. I think I told you about Wesley being killed by a tiger on a hunt in Gulgat, didn’t I? He saved Adela’s life but died of his wounds. I think the family are still struggling to get over his loss.
Anyway, that’s probably more information than you ever wanted to know about Manzur and my family. Is it unbearably hot in Calcutta? I wish I could go and drink ice-cold nimbu pani with you at Nizam’s. Do you still go there?
I think of you often.
Warm regards
Libby
When Libby walked down to the factory to hand in her letter for posting, she went looking for Clarrie and found her in the withering shed with her factory manager, Daleep. The noise of the vibrating belts and pounding machinery drowned out their conversation but they were looking concerned. Clarrie waved at her and mouthed she would be five minutes.
‘Is everything all right?’ Libby asked, when Clarrie joined her in the shade of a peepal tree.
‘Yes,’ said Clarrie. ‘Well, mostly. Daleep is worried about the situation deteriorating in Assam – not knowing whether we’ll still be part of India come August. It could affect our trade – if the railways or waterways are cut off by a new border, that sort of thing.’
‘Are you worried too?’ asked Libby.
‘My feeling is that whatever country we end up being in, they will still need tea – either for the domestic market or to trade for foreign currency. As long as we still have access to the auction houses we’ll survive. And that will be up to agents like Strachan’s to act as brokers.’
‘But what about politically?’ Libby said. ‘Are you worried about this vote over Sylhet and workers being displaced?’
Clarrie sighed. ‘I don’t think it will affect us at Belgooree whatever the outcome – our workers are mainly Khasi and there’s little communal tension here in the hills. It might be a different matter at the Oxford Estates and the bigger tea gardens where there are much larger numbers of migrant labourers. But . . .’
‘But what?’
‘I think this area will stay as part of India – we are too far from Sylhet to be affected. But my worry would be for the Muslim labourers left in Assam.’
Libby felt sudden alarm. ‘Do you mean Aslam and his family might be in danger?’
‘I’m sure they won’t be,’ said Clarrie hastily, ‘but until everything is clearer, they are bound to be worried.’ She put a hand on Libby’s arm. ‘I think it best not to talk about this to your father – it’ll only make him fret more.’
Libby was struck again by how much Clarrie cared for her father, even though she had so many other concerns. It made her more determined to say what she’d come to say.
‘I won’t mention any of this,’ said Libby, ‘but I haven’t come to talk about Dad.’
She saw a flicker of relief cross Clarrie’s face. ‘Oh?’
‘I want to be more help to you while I’m here,’ said Libby, ‘around the garden or the office. I don’t want to take anyone else’s job away from them but just do some helping out. I’m very organised and I’m good at accounts; I can type – I was teaching typing to Lexy’s grand-niece before I left Newcastle. Or I could help muck out the horses – anything.’
‘Dear Libby! But don’t you want to spend your time with your father?’
Libby grimaced. ‘I think I’m getting on his nerves, being around all the time.’
‘Don’t think that,’ said Clarrie. ‘James is very fond of you.’
Libby shrugged. ‘Yes, but I
think I also irritate him. The sad thing is we don’t seem to have very much in common any more.’
Clarrie squeezed Libby’s arm. ‘Adela and Wesley used to go hammer and tongs at each other from time to time – he could be overprotective and she was impulsive – but deep down they adored each other.’
Libby felt her insides twist. ‘But they saw each other lots while Adela was growing up and that makes all the difference. Dad and I missed out on that and I don’t think we’ll ever have that closeness.’
‘Give it time,’ Clarrie said, her look compassionate. ‘And I’d be glad of your help. That’s very kind of you.’
‘No it’s not. I’m at a loose end and feeling bad about not doing my share of the work here.’
Clarrie gave her a broad smile. ‘You are very like your father in that.’ She slipped an arm through Libby’s and steered her towards the factory buildings. ‘Well, there’s something I can think of straight away.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Banu’s grandson Nitin is helping in the office now. He’s a quick learner and will make a good mohurer one day. But it would be very useful if he could type. Would you consider teaching him?’
Libby brightened. ‘Of course I would.’
They smiled at each other.
‘Good,’ said Clarrie. ‘Come and have a word with him now. You can start this afternoon.’
Calcutta
‘There’s another letter for you,’ said Fatima, holding up an envelope, ‘from Assam.’
Ghulam felt the heat rise into his jaw at his sister’s enquiring look. He always felt like the naughty younger sibling when she scrutinised him through her spectacles, even though he was four years her senior. He tried not to show his excitement.
‘Oh?’
‘So you wrote back to Libby?’ she asked.
‘I thought it polite . . .’ Ghulam threw off his jacket. His shirt stuck to his torso. He had lived in Calcutta for years but he had never quite got used to the draining humidity of the hot season.
‘Tea?’ said Fatima.
‘I’ll go and wash first,’ Ghulam said, hastily plucking the letter from her hand.
He went to his room and stripped off his sweat-soaked clothes. Padding to the washroom, he scooped tepid water from the bucket and dowsed himself. He let out a sigh of relief as the water trickled over his hair and down his body. All the time, he savoured the thought of the unopened letter propped on the table next to his bed, wondering at its contents. Would it be a few polite lines confirming that Libby was leaving for England? Or would she confide in him further? He had felt that in her first letter, Libby had held herself in check, unsure of the response she would get. Had she expected him to rebuff her? As it turned out, she had waited weeks for a reply. He had felt bad about that and had written at once to explain his silence.
The Secrets of the Tea Garden Page 28