The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  So why had he replied? Since she had left for Assam, he had tried so hard to put the vivacious Libby from his mind by cramming his days with work and political lobbying. But come the long, unbearable nights, Ghulam had been unable to banish thoughts of her sensual beauty. He had not craved a woman like that since his passionate, tempestuous affair with Cordelia. But that had ended in bitter wrangling and her devastating accusation that he was a traitor to the cause of freedom for India. He had thought he would never recover from the hurt and certainly never imagined he would ever feel such attraction again. He had not wanted to; he had sworn to close off his heart to such pain and dedicate his life to his socialist ideals. Then Libby had burst into his life like a monsoon storm and knocked him over.

  He gave a dry laugh at the irony of it. For over half his life he had fought the British for independence in any way he could: protests both peaceful and violent, boycotts, seditious speeches, imprisonment and passive resistance. Yet on the eve of grasping Swaraj – freedom – he had fallen in love with a Britisher.

  If God existed then he had a sense of humour. But try as he did to overcome his desire, Ghulam was left sleepless by the memory of Libby in a green satin evening gown, with her auburn hair rippling over her bare shoulders and her mouth curving in a generous smile. Those kissable lips.

  Ghulam dried his hair vigorously on a thin cotton towel. He retreated to his room and pulled on a simple white kurta and drawstring trousers. Then, with fingers trembling in anticipation, he reached for Libby’s letter and opened it.

  Belgooree

  Libby poured over Ghulam’s second letter.

  My dear Libby

  I was delighted to get your letter by return. I too wish I could climb on a magic carpet and be transported to the hills – the relief from the Calcutta heat would be welcome. We alternate between dust storms and a few listless drops of rain that can’t really be bothered to fall.

  But more than that, it would be very agreeable to land on the lawn at Belgooree and take tea beside you. This would have to be done out of sight of your father who, no doubt, would be disapproving of his precious daughter consorting with such a Prodigal. I wonder, does he even know we are corresponding?

  You are quite right in spotting my faults – a misspent adulthood of excessive toffee-eating and a weakness for tobacco have been my undoing. Those two – and perhaps a third: finding myself distracted from work by thoughts of a pretty Britisher with red hair and a taste for nimbu pani.

  Manzur sounds a worthy young man. I suppose it was my own fault for asking about him, but little did I expect that he would take up over half your letter. Do you berate him for selling out to the capitalist system by accepting a managerial post in a tea company? I fear you are probably far too kind to him and offer him toffees instead.

  Tell me more about Belgooree. I have never been to the Khasia Hills, though my brother Rafi tells me they are beautiful and the people are good-humoured cattle herders.

  My fond regards,

  Ghulam

  PS The India Independence Bill is to be introduced into the House of Commons in London next week. Assuming that the Indian-hating Churchill doesn’t try to sink it, then it should be full steam ahead.

  Libby could hardly contain her glee at Ghulam’s second letter. It was so much more playful – even flirtatious – than the first and she wondered if he had written it after chewing paan. He didn’t drink liquor but she had heard how the betel nut narcotic could also have a stimulating effect on the senses. Whether he had or not, to Libby the words were intoxicating. Could it be that Ghulam was a little bit jealous of her friendship with Manzur? Or was he just teasing her with his jesting comments about capitalist tea planters and toffees? She traced her finger over the closing endearment: fond regards.

  Libby sensed that a shift in their relationship was taking place, a deepening of feeling which they could express in writing but had been unable to say face-to-face. She kissed the letter and slipped it into the pocket of her dress.

  Calcutta

  As the city broiled in oppressive heat and the tension between communities rose daily, Ghulam took to sleeping on the flat roof of Amelia Buildings. Lying on the old lumpy bedroll that he had carried all over northern India in his campaigning days, he smoked and looked up at the sky. Sometimes the clouds cleared to show a scattering of stars. On other nights the sky glowed an ominous red from distant fires – whether started deliberately or from the accidental catching fire of bleached-dry grass and timbers, he couldn’t be sure. If only the rains would come and bring relief – and cool off rising tempers too; this heat was enough to send the sanest of men mad.

  Ghulam pulled out the latest letter from Libby. He didn’t like to keep re-reading it in front of Fatima. His sister didn’t approve of his corresponding with the Robson girl. ‘She’s too young for you – and it’s not fair to lead her on. Nothing can come of it. With the worsening situation here, she’ll probably decide to go back to England soon, just like Adela did. Don’t give her false hope, brother.’

  Was that what he was doing: giving her false hope? Ghulam searched his heart. It was true that he was flattered by Libby’s attraction towards him. He had never thought of himself as handsome, unlike his brother Rafi who had been gifted the even features and white-toothed smile of a matinee idol. But Libby was the first woman since Cordelia who had excited his interest, not only physically but also because she shared so many of his ideals and a droll sense of humour.

  Wasn’t that more important than them coming from the same background? It would be hypocritical, surely, to spout about freedom and democracy for India but refuse Libby’s friendship because she was British and he was Indian. She had once taken him to task for his reverse snobbery in dismissing the Anglo-Indian and European minorities as being of less importance than Indians. At the time, he had smarted at the accusation that he was being just as prejudiced as the British or Mahasabha Hindus, but later had seen the truth in it. Ghulam pulled on his cigarette.

  Friendship? Was that what they were offering each other: purely friendship? He felt a familiar tug in his guts as he thought of her. He knew he wanted more, but what did Libby want? He remembered the way she had kissed him in the taxi; the supressed desire had been palpable, though he had denied it at the time. Would they ever get the chance to act on it? That was another matter.

  Perhaps this letter-writing was all a pleasant distraction from worrying about the uncertain future and the imminent British handover. They were hurtling towards the August deadline and yet there was no clarity on where partition would be and there were still referenda to be held in Assam and the North West Frontier over their futures. In the light of such seismic shifts, what harm was there in a little intimate correspondence?

  Ghulam stubbed out his cigarette and reached into his pocket for the last uneaten toffee from a tin that Libby had sent with the letter. He had been saving it for just such a moment. Ghulam sucked on the toffee, his mouth filling with the delicious sweetness, and read Libby’s latest letter again.

  Dearest Prodigal,

  I hope you don’t mind me calling you dearest? Perhaps it is the only way I can convince you that you are very dear to me – far more than a certain assistant tea planter (no matter how kind and passably handsome he may be!). I shan’t mention his name again, as you accused me of overuse in my previous letter. As for toffees: rest assured, I haven’t shared sweets with M since we were children. I seem to remember he preferred coconut, which is far below toffee in the hierarchy of best sweets.

  You wanted to know more about Belgooree. It’s probably the nicest place I’ve ever been to. The bungalow is old and almost completely covered in bougainvillea and other flowering creepers I don’t know the names of, and it has an upstairs veranda with a beautiful view over the garden and the track down to the tea bushes and the forest beyond. It’s almost like living in the jungle. In the evening, you can see the Khasi boys herding the cattle back into the village and everything smells perfumed fro
m the wood fires and the night-flowering creepers.

  I’m getting to know and like my cousin Clarrie more and more. I have to say I’ve been a bit jealous of her because my father is so obviously fond of her when he should be thinking about my mother and saving his marriage. Sorry, does that sound very bourgeois of me? I can’t help it – they’re my parents and I want them to be together because I know it’s only the years of separation that have made them grow apart. They deserve to have a few happy years together to make up for the time they’ve missed. At least that’s what I think.

  I know now, first hand, how damaging being apart can be. I love my dad dearly but he’s not how I remember him. As a child I adored everything about him but meeting him again as an adult, I see that we have very different opinions about life. Also, I can’t help feeling he’s deliberately keeping something back from me – perhaps because he thinks I’ll disapprove – and it’s created this distance between us. I know he’s unwell and I shouldn’t judge him too harshly – I feel disloyal even writing this – but I can’t deny our reunion has been a bit of a disappointment. I think it’s the same for him too – he’s not used to a young woman answering him back in the way I do! It’s made me more sympathetic to my mother – I think life with my dad was probably quite difficult out here at times. She’s independently minded too but I keep remembering times when she would have to pacify my father and try and keep the peace amongst the family. I’d forgotten how much we all argued as kids! But she was never the least bit snobby or prejudiced. Perhaps my outlook on life is more thanks to her than I’ve ever realised. I hope you don’t mind me telling you all this – I’ve not admitted it to anyone before.

  Anyway, I’ve been helping Clarrie at the factory. She’s teaching me tea-tasting. There’s a lot more to it than I ever imagined and she’s very skilled. I’ve never done so much sipping and spitting in my life! I’m also teaching a boy called Nitin to type so that he can do the office work for the mohurer who is getting old and his eyesight’s going. I know it’s not much in the great scale of things but I was going up the wall with nothing to do and at least I’m feeling more useful while I have to be here.

  Sometimes I wish I could climb on our magic carpet and fly down to Calcutta and sit on the roof with you and discuss the matters of the day. No one here wants to talk about what’s happening. Clarrie won’t let me mention politics in front of Dad in case he gets anxious. I think it’s a mistake as he will have to make a decision soon about what he’s going to do. And so, I suppose, will I.

  My fondest regards,

  Libby

  PS I have indeed told Dad that I’m writing to you. When he began huffing and puffing, Clarrie told him to be quiet and said it was nice that I’m keeping up with my friends in Calcutta!

  CHAPTER 21

  Belgooree, July

  It was the arrival of Rafi and Sophie from Gulgat that proved to be the turning point for Libby’s father. They had written ahead asking for Sophie to stay while Rafi went to Delhi to attend the disbanding of his old regiment, the Lahore Horse. The Indian Army was being broken up and divided into two new national armies ahead of Partition.

  The nearer the date loomed for Independence, the greater the unrest. The pace of change was dizzying. While the vote in Assam had supported the secession of Muslim Sylhet to Bengal, a Partition Council had been formed to help with the splitting of Bengal. The hastily appointed Bengal Boundary Commission was holding public sittings to hear people’s views. A lawyer called Radcliffe had arrived from London to help draw up the borders that would divide India from a newly created East and West Pakistan.

  The Boundary Commission will be toothless, Ghulam had written in disgust to Libby, and they won’t want to be held responsible for where the knife falls on Bengal. It will be left up to your British lawyer to do the dirty work. I hear he’s never even set foot in India before and would be hard-pressed to find Punjab or Bengal on a map. And with only a month to do it in. The rumour is that the partition won’t be announced till after the Independence celebrations, so even on the day of liberation millions of people won’t know under which government they will be living.

  Can you imagine the government in London treating the people of Britain like that? No, because it would never happen. So why are Indians being treated in such a cavalier way? The Britishers – arrogant to the very end!

  I’m sorry, Libby. I know you do not think like that – you are in the minority of British who think of Indians as your equals and not some sub-species. I am just angry and frustrated at the situation. Things are volatile in Calcutta. Each side is arming their goondas for a fight over the city. Both want it for themselves but neither side knows whether Calcutta will end up in India or East Pakistan.

  She had written back to him at once to tell him to be careful and avoid any violence, though she knew he was unlikely to take notice. If there was a story to cover or an injustice to expose, Ghulam would be there.

  He had written by return, making a joke of danger. I’m in more danger in the office from back-stabbers than I ever am on the streets. Fatima is taking far greater risks than me. Her women’s organisation is now rescuing families from East Bengal escaping by boat and train. They go to the stations east of here, taking medicines and food. Then we try and find them temporary shelter.

  Libby had been quick to notice his slip into ‘we’. Ghulam was obviously helping his sister too. All she could do was hope that Fatima would keep an eye on her brother and prevent him from doing anything too impetuous.

  At the sound of tooting, Libby rushed out of the factory office to see the Khans’ car appearing on the track below the house. She waved enthusiastically for them to stop. Their old black Ford went past, stopped abruptly and reversed. Libby ran up to it. Her heart lurched painfully to see a moustachioed man with a look of Ghulam grinning back at her in surprise.

  ‘Libby?’ he exclaimed, jumping out of the car with the engine still running.

  ‘Yes,’ she laughed.

  He put out his hand to shake hers but she grabbed him in a hug. ‘It’s so lovely to see you,’ she said, her eyes prickling with unexpected tears.

  For a moment he squeezed her back and then held her at arms’ length. ‘Look, Sophie darling,’ he called to his wife, who was scrambling out of the passenger seat, ‘our sweet Libby is all grown up.’

  A moment later Libby was being clasped in Sophie’s strong, lithe arms and having her cheeks kissed. Long-ago memories of happy picnics and holidays at Belgooree, with the Khans organising games of tennis and hide-and-seek, came flooding back. Libby clung on to her mother’s oldest friend and burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, Libby dearie!’ Sophie crooned as she stroked Libby’s hair tenderly. ‘We’ve missed you too.’

  Libby quickly tried to compose herself. Half laughing, half crying, she said, ‘Sorry, I’m not usually such a crybaby. It’s just seeing you again – it reminds me of being here with Mother and the boys. We kids used to love it when you and Rafi turned up – you were always much more fun than our parents.’

  They all grinned at each other. ‘We’re a bit creakier around the joints these days,’ said Rafi, ‘but we can still take you on at tennis.’

  ‘Great,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll get Harry to partner me so I’ll have a chance against you old pros.’

  ‘Not so much of the old, lassie,’ said Sophie. Her voice still held a trace of Scottish burr even after so long in India. To Libby, she hardly looked any older. Sophie had the same bobbed blonde hair and pretty fair face that Libby remembered.

  ‘Hop in,’ ordered Rafi. ‘We’ve been dreaming of M.D.’s ginger cake and Clarrie’s tea since we left this morning.’

  ‘You ride up to the house with Rafi,’ said Sophie. ‘I’m going to stretch my legs and walk.’

  As Libby sat next to Rafi, she kept sliding glances at him while he chatted about their journey. He looked older than Ghulam and was grey around the temples but his strongly built physique was similar to his brother’s. Rafi
was more conventionally good-looking, with an even smile and a trim moustache, and was immaculately turned out in a cream shirt and flannel trousers. Ghulam, by contrast, had uneven features and sometimes looked like he slept in his clothes and forgot to shave. But it was Ghulam’s imperfections that Libby found so sexy. Both brothers had the same startlingly attractive green eyes fringed by dark lashes. When Rafi glanced back at Libby, she felt her insides twist with longing for Ghulam.

  Round the dinner table that night, Sophie was frank about the situation in Gulgat.

  ‘It’s not the same since Sanjay became Rajah,’ she said. ‘Rafi’s no longer ADC. Sanjay consults with his grandmother and her astrologers over affairs of the court. That’s when he’s there, which isn’t often.’

  ‘To be honest,’ said Rafi, ‘I’ve been happier just being in charge of forests.’

  ‘But the bullying has been getting worse,’ said Sophie indignantly.

  ‘Bullying?’ said Clarrie.

  ‘The old witch in the palace is constantly stirring up trouble against Rafi to undermine any influence he might still have over Sanjay. That’s why the former rajah’s wife left; Rita couldn’t bear the palace intrigues any longer. She’s gone back to Bombay permanently. I miss her terribly.’

  ‘Is that why you don’t want to stay in Gulgat while Rafi’s away?’ asked Libby.