The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  James flinched. ‘You’re going to work with Clarrie at Belgooree?’

  Sam smiled. ‘Well, I’m hoping to.’

  ‘I’ve written to Mother,’ said Adela, ‘and expect to hear back soon. I know she will say yes. She’ll be glad of Sam’s help.’

  ‘I envy you, Sam,’ James blurted out. Adela gave him a surprised look. He swallowed hard. ‘I mean I envy you being young enough to start out on a career in the tea gardens. It can be a wonderful life.’

  Adela felt a wave of pity. ‘Please don’t tell the others yet until things are finalised. I hadn’t meant to say anything this soon.’

  James let out a shuddering sigh. ‘Of course I won’t. But Tilly is going to be so upset. She is tremendously fond of you Adela – of both of you.’

  ‘She’ll have Libby coming home soon,’ said Adela, ‘so that will be something for her to look forward to.’

  James shook his head. ‘Well, I’m not going to be the one who tells Tilly,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to do that.’

  Suddenly Tilly was standing in the open doorway, in the middle of pinning on her hat. She must have been in the hallway and heard her name mentioned. Her round face was creased in concern.

  ‘Tells me what?’ she asked.

  CHAPTER 34

  Belgooree, August

  It was several days before news came through about the final geographical plans for severing Pakistan from India: Partition. The women pored over maps printed in a copy of The Statesman that Manzur brought them.

  ‘Calcutta stays in India,’ said Libby.

  ‘Srimangal is in East Pakistan now,’ Clarrie pointed out. ‘That’s where Flowers grew up – her father was stationmaster there: a tea-growing area. It’s so strange to think it’s no longer part of Assam.’

  ‘Look at the Punjab,’ said Sophie in dismay. ‘The border runs right between Lahore and Amritsar – the Sikhs will be hardest hit. Rafi says they have land and businesses all over what is now Pakistan.’

  ‘It’s not really a surprise,’ said Libby. ‘They’ve been fighting over it for months. It just confirms their worst fears.’

  ‘Poor Sundar Singh,’ Sophie said, her eyes glinting with tears.

  ‘Rafi’s army friend?’ Libby queried.

  Sophie nodded. ‘I hope he managed to get his son safely away to Delhi. That’s where Rafi says he’s setting up home.’

  ‘But he has so many friends like Rafi in Pakistan,’ said Libby. ‘Surely it will be safe for him to stay there?’

  Sophie looked at her sorrowfully. ‘You’ve read about the violence as much as I have. The Sikhs and Muslims have been burning each other out of their homes – especially in Lahore.’

  ‘Let’s hope,’ said Clarrie, ‘that now Independence has come, each country will settle down with their neighbours whatever their religion.’

  But the news over the following week grew ever grimmer. Far from calming fears, Partition appeared to be fuelling the fire of violence. Tens of thousands of people had fled across the new borders and the exodus showed no signs of slowing down. Rumours reached the remote tea garden of terrible savagery in the Punjab – mass murder, abductions, rape and mutilation – with neighbours turning on each other and marauding gangs of men on the lookout for revenge killings.

  Sophie lost her usual sunny outlook and could settle to nothing. She would stand on the veranda, tensely smoking and staring out through the monsoon rain, waiting in vain for word that Rafi was safe.

  Clarrie refused to let her travel. ‘You’re not leaving for the Punjab until we know it’s safe for you to go.’

  Libby continued to worry for Ghulam and Fatima, yet the news from Calcutta was heartening. There had been no repeat of last August’s bloodletting and the city appeared calm. The newsmen put it down to Gandhi’s presence and the calming effect of his peaceful co-existence with Suhrawardy, the city’s Muslim leader, as they prayed and fasted together.

  Libby longed to hear from Ghulam – he had promised to write to her – but maybe he now thought better of it. With distance between them, perhaps he had decided that it was better not to prolong their relationship. She was soon to return to Britain and he would be concentrating his thoughts and efforts on helping forge the future of the newly liberated country.

  She forced herself not to write first. She didn’t want to appear demanding or reproachful, so would let him write if he wanted to and not because of any sense of obligation.

  As the monsoon kept them marooned indoors or at the factory, Libby turned her thoughts to home and wondered yet again how her father was coping. Had the bad dreams and black moods been banished by his move back to Britain? Had he found peace of mind? Was he happy? Somehow she just couldn’t picture him living in the terraced house in Newcastle, hemmed in by streets and traffic. Yet she could imagine him riding at Willowburn and striding down country lanes with a new retriever at his heels. She hoped he had managed to persuade her mother to spend some time in the countryside. She tried to conjure up an image of her parents going for picnics together but failed. Tilly hated sitting on a rug and eating off her lap, and always complained about flies.

  A couple of days later, while Libby was in the factory office helping Nitin overhaul his typewriter, Clarrie came in waving letters, beaming.

  ‘Dak from home.’

  ‘Good news?’ Libby asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Clarrie said, unable to stop smiling. ‘Wonderful news.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Libby encouraged her.

  Clarrie beckoned her to follow. Outside, Clarrie said quietly, ‘I don’t want to say anything in front of the staff – not until I’ve told Harry.’

  ‘Can you tell me?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Walk back up to the house with me,’ said Clarrie, linking arms with Libby. When they were out of earshot of the office staff, Clarrie stopped and faced her, hardly able to contain her excitement. ‘Adela and Sam are coming back to Belgooree.’

  ‘For a visit?’

  ‘No, to live,’ cried Clarrie. ‘Sam wants to be a tea planter. They haven’t really settled in England.’

  Libby’s spirits plunged. She had been looking forward to having Adela and Sam living in Newcastle on her return. It would make it easier to adapt once again to life in Britain. She could talk to them about India and the people they knew without being told she was being a bore. But she could see how thrilled Clarrie was at the thought of her daughter and son-in-law returning. She tried to be cheerful.

  ‘I’m so glad for you – and for Harry. When are they planning to come back?’

  ‘Possibly as early as the end of September,’ said Clarrie. ‘It’s a matter of getting the café transferred back into my niece Jane’s hands.’

  ‘So – so Adela is as keen on the idea as Sam?’ Libby asked.

  Clarrie met her look. ‘Yes, why shouldn’t she be?’

  Libby said, ‘You see, I know why Adela was so set on returning to Newcastle. I know about her baby – the whole story.’

  Clarrie flushed. ‘Oh, did Adela . . . ? She told you that . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, before I left Newcastle,’ said Libby. ‘I was at Lexy’s flat when Adela got upset and Lexy told her she might as well tell me why.’

  Clarrie’s eyes welled with tears. She glanced away. Libby saw her struggling to speak and felt guilty for causing her pain.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said . . .’

  ‘No, Libby, don’t be sorry. I’m glad Adela had you to confide in.’ Clarrie took a deep breath. ‘She’s decided to stop looking for the boy. I think both she and Sam want to make a new start and in time – if they are blessed – have their own children.’

  Libby squeezed Clarrie’s arm in comfort. ‘Perhaps that’s all for the best. Sam adores Adela but it must put a strain on things if she’s been looking for another man’s child all this time, don’t you think?’

  Clarrie nodded. She put a hand to Libby’s cheek. ‘Where do you get such wisdom from at your age?’

  Libby looked rueful.
‘It’s easy being wise about other people’s business – I’m continually making a hash of my own.’

  Clarrie said abruptly, ‘I’m so sorry, Libby, I quite forgot: there’s a letter for you in the dak. With Adela’s news, it slipped my mind.’

  Libby felt her pulse begin to race as Clarrie flicked through the pile of post.

  ‘Is it from Calcutta?’ she asked eagerly.

  Clarrie gave her a look of pity. ‘Sorry, no. It’s from home. It looks like your mother’s writing.’

  Libby stifled her disappointment and took the letter. ‘Thanks anyway.’

  They walked back to the bungalow in silence as Libby read Tilly’s letter. It was full of news of her usual activities and social engagements, of Jamie’s job and Mungo’s sport-filled summer holiday. Her younger brother was spending every day playing cricket or tennis. There was no mention of Mungo going riding with their father or spending time with him; in fact, there was precious little mention of James at all until the end.

  . . . Your father is being very tiresome about where we live. The house I’ve found in Jesmond is absolutely perfect, with heaps of space and a lovely garden and overlooking the Dene – darling, you will love it! But he is persisting in his idea of making us all de-camp to the country and live in a draughty cottage like some bucolic peasants in a Shakespearean play.

  It’s high time you came home, Libby, and talked some sense into him. When are you coming back? I don’t see why you have to stay on at Belgooree. What on earth is there for you to do there? Besides, you mustn’t outstay your welcome with Clarrie – she’s really been far too kind to waif-and-stray Robsons. Come home, darling – we’re all missing you. If you’re running short of money, your father will wire some out to you so you can buy air flights home. Don’t attempt to go to Bombay and get a passage – it sounds far too risky and I imagine the ships will be chock-a-block with troops and civilians trying to get back to Britain.

  What news of Sophie and Rafi? I do worry for them. If Sophie is still there, give her my love – and Clarrie too.

  Love

  Mother x

  ‘Does she mention anything about Adela and Sam?’ Clarrie asked her as they reached the house.

  Libby shook her head. ‘Here, you can read it. She thinks I’m outstaying my welcome.’ She handed Clarrie the letter. ‘And Dad is obviously driving her mad.’

  ‘Oh dear, poor Tilly,’ said Clarrie, ‘and poor James.’ She laid a hand affectionately on Libby’s head and smiled. ‘But you are certainly not outstaying your welcome. I love having you here and you can stay as long as you want.’

  September came but there was no news from Rafi. Libby knew she should be making arrangements to fly home but didn’t want to leave Belgooree without Sophie. Given the turmoil in the wider country, they had agreed to travel together. Then one morning, as the women and Harry were finishing breakfast, two letters arrived: one for Libby from James and one for Sophie from Rafi.

  Sophie almost snatched hers from the hand of the chaprassy and tore it open. As Harry excused himself and ran off with Breckon at his side, Libby and Clarrie waited in anticipation for Rafi’s news.

  Sophie’s face lit up. ‘He’s got the ’Pindi job! It’s definitely his.’

  ‘That’s great news,’ said Clarrie.

  ‘Well done, Rafi,’ said Libby.

  ‘And he’s got a house,’ Sophie continued in excitement. ‘Oh dear, it’s one that used to belong to an engineer with the Public Works department – a Sikh.’ Sophie glanced up with a guilty look. ‘Do you think that’s happening a lot? Abandoned houses being requisitioned?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s all too likely,’ Clarrie said, sighing.

  ‘But Rafi shouldn’t feel guilty,’ said Libby. ‘He hasn’t chased anyone out of anywhere.’

  Sophie carried on reading. Libby waited to open her own letter in case Sophie had more news of the Khans. Suddenly, Sophie was gasping and sinking into a chair.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Libby asked.

  Sophie gave a cry of dismay. ‘Oh, no! Rafi’s father is very ill. Rafi’s going to Lahore. I wish he wasn’t . . .’

  ‘How ill?’ Libby demanded. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  Sophie read the letter again. ‘Heart attack. He’s at home. The hospitals are too overwhelmed with casualties. That’s what Rafi says: too overwhelmed.’ Sophie screwed up her eyes.

  Libby and Clarrie both hurried to put their arms about her shoulders.

  ‘I should be with him,’ Sophie exclaimed. ‘Rafi shouldn’t have to face all this on his own. He hasn’t seen his family in years. And Lahore! It’s so dangerous.’

  ‘What does he say about you joining him?’ asked Clarrie.

  ‘He says I mustn’t yet,’ Sophie admitted. ‘But how can I stay here knowing how much he needs me? Clarrie, what should I do?’

  ‘Stay here,’ said Clarrie firmly. ‘I know it’s hard and all your instincts are to go rushing to Lahore. But if something happened to you on the way, how would that be helping him?’

  ‘The trains aren’t safe,’ said Libby. ‘People are being butchered on the Delhi to Lahore line – there are stories in the newspaper every day.’

  ‘I know!’ Sophie cried. ‘But I could get to Calcutta and fly.’

  Clarrie squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t do anything just yet,’ she advised. ‘Write to Rafi and suggest it but please don’t go rushing off into danger before things are clearer. Perhaps his father has already recovered or . . .’

  Clarrie and Libby exchanged looks. Libby knew she was thinking the same thing: perhaps Rafi’s father was already dead and rushing there would prove to be futile.

  Sophie let out a long sigh. ‘You’re right. I mustn’t do anything to cause Rafi any more worry.’

  Libby asked, ‘Does he say whether Ghulam and Fatima know about their father being so ill?’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘No, he doesn’t.’

  Libby’s insides twisted. ‘Do you think I should write and let them know?’

  ‘Surely Rafi will have done that?’ said Clarrie.

  Sophie shrugged. ‘His father may not want him to. Mr Khan hasn’t spoken to Ghulam since he banished him from home as a youth – and he wiped his hands of Fatima too when she refused to get married. He’s not the type to forgive and forget.’

  ‘But they have a right to know,’ insisted Libby. ‘Ghulam might pretend he doesn’t care but I know he’s troubled by his estrangement from his father. He encouraged me to go and see Dad when he was recuperating here and not to let a rift open between us. I think Ghulam would want to send his father a message before it’s too late.’

  ‘Then write to him,’ said Clarrie. ‘He and Fatima ought to know.’

  Libby started a letter to Ghulam several times but the right words wouldn’t come. They either sounded too formal, as if she were an official passing on information about his father, or they were too alarmist, as if he ought to rush at once to his father’s bedside. She didn’t want him to do that – was strongly against him going in person – given the carnage going on in the Punjab. Yet she knew he would want to know. What if his father should die before he had a chance to make his peace with him? How terrible would it be for Ghulam to find out later that she had known and yet made no attempt to tell him?

  The trouble was that Libby wanted to pour out her heart to Ghulam but didn’t want to do so in such a letter. Should she write two separate ones? In exasperation with herself, she abandoned her writing pad and lay back on her bed re-reading her father’s letter.

  It was unexpectedly affectionate; he told her that he was missing her. He was also surprisingly candid: he was surrounded by dear family but felt very alone. No one wanted to hear him talk about Assam or the tea gardens – indeed he found it difficult to talk to her brothers about anything very much. James made no criticism of her mother and his opinion on the house move was fatalistic.

  . . . I realise I am going to have to fall in with your mother’s plan to set up home in J
esmond. She has her heart set on it and who am I to deny her after all these years of coping on her own? Still, I’m determined to rent the house at Willowburn until the winter so that I can take advantage of the riding. I’m enjoying the company of Major Gibson very much. He’s ten years my junior but we seem to share the same outlook on life and he indulges me in my India tales, dear man! You and I, Libby, will spend the autumn riding around the Tyne Valley pretending we are after snipe and blackbuck before returning for a chota hazri of kedgeree and Assam tea. How does that sound?

  Write and tell me about life at Belgooree. How are dear Clarrie and Harry? Is Breckon behaving himself? Is Manzur well? And Sophie – is she still with you? I think about them all such a lot. In some ways Belgooree is more real to me than my life in Newcastle. I miss the early morning rides with Clarrie and talking to Harry about fishing – your brothers aren’t in the least bit interested. What would I give for one day at Belgooree! Inspecting the gardens with Clarrie, Breckon barking at my side, and finishing off the day with a chota peg as the sun’s going down and a decent curry to look forward to!

  Goodness, what a ramble this must sound. I’m sorry but I haven’t done anything about finding the information that Danny Dunlop wants. I promise I will do soon. I’ll go and see Fairfax. At least we can have a chin-wag about our koi hai days – and it’s possible he might remember something I don’t.

  Write soon, dearest daughter – or better still come home! Your mother expects you back in time for the annual trip to St Abbs in mid-September.

  Your loving father

  Libby sighed and pushed the letter under her pillow. She got up and went to look for the others. Clarrie and Sophie were picking fruit in the garden. For a moment, Libby stood watching them working side by side, Sophie reaching to pick gooseberries with gloved hands while Clarrie held out the basket. Such a tranquil domestic task. It was almost impossible to imagine that elsewhere in the country, women were being dragged from their homes and violated or hacked to death. She felt nauseated, her stomach clenching. What did the future hold for any of them?