The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Unease gripped her. How safe was Clarrie staying on here with only thirteen-year-old Harry and her staff to protect her until Adela and Sam returned? Would they be any safer then? Clarrie kept insisting she had nothing to fear among the Khasi, though she had offered to pay for her khansama, Mohammed Din, and his family to travel back to their home in Kashmir if they had any concerns. They had chosen not to do so, Mohammed Din declaring he would never desert Robson memsahib while there was breath in his body.

  Clarrie caught sight of Libby and waved her over. ‘Finding it hard to write that letter?’ she asked.

  Libby pulled a rueful face. ‘How did you know?’

  Clarrie gave her a sympathetic smile but didn’t answer.

  ‘Let me help,’ said Libby.

  For a few minutes the three women picked fruit in silence. Then Clarrie spoke. ‘Did your father mention about Adela and Sam leaving?’

  ‘No,’ said Libby. ‘But it was written nearly two weeks ago.’

  ‘Is James all right?’ Clarrie asked.

  Libby shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think he is. He sounds unhappy and homesick.’

  ‘Homesick for Cheviot View?’ asked Sophie.

  Libby glanced at Clarrie. ‘No, for Belgooree.’

  She saw Clarrie and Sophie exchange looks.

  ‘Dad misses Breckon and Harry and riding round the gardens and even curry,’ said Libby. ‘He asks after both of you. But especially you, Clarrie. He misses you the most.’

  Clarrie turned red under her sunhat. ‘Does he say that?’

  ‘Not in so many words,’ said Libby, ‘but it’s obvious he does. He keeps mentioning you and wanting news.’

  ‘I told you he would,’ Sophie murmured.

  Clarrie bowed her head. ‘What am I supposed to do about it?’ she said, her voice full of sadness.

  Sophie put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Nothing. He’s gone back to Tilly and you just have to let them get on with it.’

  Libby was shocked. It sounded as if they had discussed her father before – as if Clarrie had feelings for him.

  She blurted out, ‘Are you in love with my father?’

  Clarrie met Libby’s look. ‘Not in love,’ she said softly, ‘but I care for your father a great deal. If you’d asked me ten years ago, I would have said we didn’t particularly like one another. He was a typical hard-drinking planter who thought women should stay at home and certainly not criticise fellow planters like I did.’ Clarrie gave a wry laugh. ‘I thought James pompous and he thought me opinionated. But all that changed after Wesley died and the War came. We’ve been a support to each other.’ Clarrie’s look was reflective. ‘I’ve grown very fond of your father. If he’s missing me then I miss him too – more than I realised I would.’

  Libby felt her insides knotting. She had suspected all along that Clarrie and her father cared deeply for each other. It had been so obvious to her. She waited for the surge of jealousy on her mother’s behalf to come, but it didn’t. She just felt deeply sad for all three of them. None of them were particularly happy; all of them just trying to carry on as best they could.

  ‘I think Dad loves you more than he loves Mother,’ Libby said. ‘And you’ve been a lot kinder to him.’

  She saw tears brimming in Clarrie’s eyes.

  ‘I hope that’s not true,’ said Clarrie. ‘Please, whatever you do, don’t ever tell James what I’ve just said about him. It won’t help matters.’

  Abruptly their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a motor engine chugging up the drive. They exchanged glances.

  ‘It couldn’t be Rafi, could it?’ Sophie cried, seized with sudden hope.

  She took off at a sprint across the garden and round the side of the bungalow. Libby and Clarrie hurried after her.

  Libby didn’t recognise the man who climbed out of an old Chevrolet. He was middle-aged and tallish with a slight stoop, dressed smartly in a white uniform and clutching an old-fashioned topee. He was already shaking Sophie by the hand.

  As Libby and Clarrie caught up, Libby heard Sophie asking anxiously, ‘But how did you know I was here?’

  ‘An educated guess,’ he answered, ‘that you would take refuge with friends.’

  Sophie introduced him. ‘This is Mr Robert Stourton, the Agent from Gulgat,’ she said, tension in her voice.

  ‘Ex-Agent,’ he said with a stiff smile. ‘As of two weeks ago, I’m officially retired from government duties.’ He shook hands with Clarrie. ‘I was acquainted with your late husband. A good man. Terrible business.’

  ‘Yes it was,’ said Clarrie, keeping her composure. ‘I believe you were on that tiger hunt too, Mr Stourton.’

  He shot her a look of alarm. ‘Y-yes, I was as a matter of fact. We did what we could. I’m awfully sorry.’

  ‘Please don’t be,’ said Clarrie. ‘No one could have saved Wesley. It was a tragic accident.’ She turned to lead the way. ‘Please come inside and have some refreshment – then you can tell us what brings you to Belgooree.’

  While slaking his thirst with several cups of tea, the British official told them of the volatile situation in Gulgat.

  ‘Unrest continues,’ he said. ‘There have been protests in the capital – they have been dealt with by the Rajah’s police but . . .’

  ‘What sort of protests?’ asked Clarrie.

  ‘Anti-Mohammedan,’ said Stourton. ‘The Rajah wanted me to warn you and Rafi in case you were still in the area.’

  ‘Sanjay sent you to warn us?’ Sophie asked, agitated. ‘I find that hard to believe. He did nothing to keep us safe while we were still there.’

  Stourton gave her a sour look. ‘If you had confided in him more – or come to me with your concerns,’ he chided, ‘then we could have protected you.’

  ‘Rafi tried his hardest to get Sanjay to take seriously the attacks on Muslims,’ Sophie protested, ‘but he wouldn’t listen. And you, Robert, have always tended to side with the old Rani and the palace. Once Rajah Kishan died and Rita left, we felt we had no friends at court. Rafi didn’t want to leave but we could see the trouble building.’

  ‘Making a run for it hasn’t helped,’ said Stourton. ‘In the eyes of the Rani and the courtiers it just confirms that your husband couldn’t be trusted.’

  ‘Mr Stourton,’ said Clarrie indignantly, ‘that is most unfair.’

  ‘It’s not what I think, Mrs Robson,’ he said, ‘but it plays right into the Rani’s hands. She is whipping up hatred against the Mohammedans in Gulgat – she sees it as her way of reasserting her authority in a state that is now part of India.’

  ‘And is Sanjay just prepared to go along with that?’ Sophie said with disdain.

  ‘The Rajah, as he now is,’ said Stourton pointedly, ‘has sent me to warn you that feelings are running high and not to return to Gulgat any time soon.’

  ‘He has nothing to fear on that score,’ said Sophie. ‘We shan’t ever be returning to Gulgat.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, looking relieved. ‘I don’t want any harm to come to either of you; I hope you believe that?’

  ‘I’m sure she does,’ said Clarrie swiftly.

  ‘So where is Rafi?’ he asked.

  The women exchanged looks.

  ‘You can trust me,’ Stourton insisted. ‘I’m not returning to Gulgat either. I’m booked on a passage out of Calcutta in a week’s time.’

  ‘He’s in the Punjab,’ said Sophie. ‘He’s secured a job with the Pakistan Forest Service – I’m shortly to join him.’

  Stourton’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I thought you would be returning to Scotland.’

  ‘And we thought we’d be seeing out our days in Gulgat,’ said Sophie, her eyes clouding with sadness, ‘but that’s not to be.’

  He nodded. ‘I saw myself staying there a lot longer too. I’m glad Rafi has found a new position. I’m just . . .’

  ‘Just what?’ Clarrie asked.

  He hesitated and then said, ‘I’m concerned to still find you in the area, Sophie. I wa
s hoping you would both be long gone.’

  Libby felt her insides tighten. ‘Why would that be, Mr Stourton?’ she asked.

  ‘There are gangs from Gulgat causing trouble,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen them on the road. I fear Sophie might be in danger here – and you might be at risk for harbouring her.’

  ‘Harbouring her?’ Clarrie exclaimed. ‘She’s no fugitive! She’s a British woman and nobody here would harm her.’

  ‘She’s the wife of a prominent Mohammedan – and one herself. Just the sort of scapegoat that the ultra-nationalists, whipped up by the Rani, are looking for.’

  ‘Surely not?’ Libby gasped. ‘And anyway, Gulgat is miles away from here.’

  ‘It took me just half a day to drive here,’ said Stourton. ‘These gangs are armed and someone is providing them with trucks.’

  Libby’s heart began to thump in alarm. Sophie was turning ashen.

  Clarrie said calmly, ‘No one is at risk here – the people of Belgooree are loyal and will defend us from any troublemakers.’

  Stourton shook his head. ‘I admire your courage, Mrs Robson, and your trust in these people. But we British can never really understand the Indian or what passions prompt him to do what he does.’

  ‘Utter nonsense!’ cried Libby. ‘You sound like a Victorian imperialist.’

  He gave her a contemptuous look and turned to Sophie.

  ‘Despite the bravado of your friends, I urge you to go and join your husband sooner rather than later. You will be safer in the new Mohammedan state.’

  The agent didn’t linger. There were stilted goodbyes. The women stood at the veranda rail watching his car retreat down the drive and out of view. After he was out of sight Sophie said, ‘I’ve never warmed to Robert. He was always too quick to curry favour with the palace and he’ll hate giving up his luxurious lifestyle, but perhaps this time he’s right. His talk of gangs on the road really scares me – I’ve already seen how Muslims in Gulgat have been attacked. I think I should go. My being here is putting you all in danger.’

  Clarrie put a hand on her shoulder. ‘That man doesn’t know the Khasi like I do. You’re safe among them. I promised Rafi I’d look after you here.’

  ‘Clarrie’s right,’ said Libby. ‘You can’t go to Pakistan yet. It would be more risky to travel if there are men out on the road seeking to do harm.’ She shuddered at the thought.

  ‘Besides,’ said Clarrie, ‘who’s going to know you are here? We’ll keep our heads down but carry on as usual till we hear from Rafi. What do you say?’

  Sophie smiled, encouraged by their support. ‘Thank you, Clarrie,’ she said. ‘And you, lassie.’ She gave Libby a hug.

  The agent’s visit left Libby feeling on edge; she hadn’t liked Stourton. Perhaps it was because of what Adela had once told her about the terrible day of the tiger hunt in Gulgat. As Adela had crouched in the car beside her wounded father, her last sight of the camp had been Stourton supervising the skinning of the tiger he had shot. What sort of selfish, unfeeling man would turn his back and do that while a fellow huntsman was being rushed mortally wounded in a car to the mission hospital?

  But it had the effect of galvanising Libby into writing to Ghulam to tell him about his father’s grave condition. None of them knew what the next day might bring. Just in the way he had encouraged her to rekindle her relationship with her own father, she wanted Ghulam to have the chance to send his father a message before it was too late.

  She kept the letter brief and ended it with a loving message.

  . . . you are always in my thoughts and I want you to know – if it hasn’t been obvious to you for months – that I love you with all my heart, Ghulam, and I always will. I realise there is little I – or you – can do about it. I’m not asking you to. But I couldn’t leave India without you knowing how I felt. I have memories of us together that I’ll treasure for the rest of my life.

  Please take good care of yourself, my darling prodigal – and Fatima too.

  My love forever,

  Libby xxx

  In the days that followed – after the letter was sent – Libby kept dwelling on Stourton’s sudden appearance. Why had he come at all? If he had been so worried about Sophie’s safety, then why hadn’t he offered to drive her away from Belgooree himself that very day? She didn’t voice her unease to the others but it nagged at her whenever she thought of the enigmatic official in the white suit. Something else bothered her about him. Why, if he had left Gulgat and was on his way home to Britain, was he travelling in an open-topped car in which he appeared to have no luggage?

  Each day, as they waited for news and sweltered in the monsoon humidity, Libby was aware of a sense of foreboding gathering about them like the inky clouds of a tropical storm.

  CHAPTER 35

  Newcastle, early September

  James was glad of the excuse to get out of the house. Tilly and Josey were engaged in a frenzy of packing and Mungo had gone ahead a week early to St Abbs to stay with his Uncle Johnny and go sailing. Since Tilly had discovered that Adela and Sam were leaving Newcastle, she had been all the more determined to press ahead quickly with the move to Jesmond, as if she feared he might have a change of heart too. In some unfathomable way, James felt his wife was blaming him for the young couple’s decision to return to India. ‘If you hadn’t kept going on about Belgooree . . . !’ Tilly had accused him.

  James was just as sad as Tilly that Adela and Sam were soon to be going – they had a passage booked from Marseilles at the end of the month and were talking about a few days in Paris on the way – but he had to keep stopping himself from reminiscing about Belgooree in front of his wife. That had been easier since Adela and Sam had moved out. Rather than go to the Robsons’ new home, they had arranged to spend the last few weeks living with Sam’s mother in Cullercoats. He envied the young couple their closeness and ease with each other – the way Adela’s eyes lit up when Sam came into the room – and wondered if it would ever be like that with Tilly again. Perhaps it never had been; it certainly wasn’t now. Tilly continued to look at him as if he were a tiresome guest who kept getting in the way – that’s when she looked at him at all.

  So on the days leading up to the move to Jesmond, James kept out of the way. He’d been up to Willowburn twice that week and was finally going to visit his former fellow planter, Fairfax – now well into his nineties – in his nursing home at Tynemouth.

  The place had a pervasive smell of urine and boiled vegetables. He found the old man in his room, sitting in an armchair by the window dozing. James peered around before waking him. The room was a shrine to Fairfax’s time in India. The bed and chairs were covered in faded Kashmir woollen blankets and the room was cluttered with Indian tables displaying sports trophies, brass bowls and ivory ornaments. The walls were hung with framed photographs of Assam: hunting trips with men standing in front of tents or with their feet proudly on the animals they had just killed. There was one of a polo team. With a start, James recognised both himself and his cousin Wesley in the photograph.

  Wesley had been a superior horseman to James and had taken quickly to the game of polo. In fact, Wesley had embraced the tea planting life with gusto the minute he had arrived in Assam. James had a stab of grief for his younger cousin. Often they had clashed over business, as well as over his marriage to Clarrie, which James had thought would be a disaster. But latterly, he had enjoyed Wesley’s company more and more, and come to realise that his cousin had the perfect life in India with his attractive, spirited wife and his family around him. Poor, dear man!

  ‘That you, Ali?’

  James swung round to see his old mentor awake and peering myopically at him. His head was sparsely covered in a few wisps of white hair and his jowly face sagged like a bloodhound’s. But he still sported a bushy tobacco-stained moustache below his beaky nose.

  ‘No, sir; it’s Robson.’ He crossed the room. ‘James Robson.’

  He held out his hand.

  Fairfax frowned in confusi
on. ‘Robson?’ he queried.

  ‘From the Oxford Estates,’ James prompted. ‘We worked together before the Great War – and you were my best man here in Newcastle, remember?’

  The old man’s faded brown eyes lit with recognition. ‘Young Robson!’ He took James’s hand in a surprisingly firm handshake. ‘How very good to see you!’

  ‘And you, sir.’ James thought it incongruous to be called young at the age of seventy but he had slipped straight back into his junior role in calling his old bachelor friend sir.

  ‘What brings you here, Robson? Home on furlough? How is the old place? I don’t get to hear from anyone these days. All my contemporaries are long in the ground.’ Fairfax waved a scrawny hand. ‘Pull up a chair, Robson. Sit close and speak up – hearing’s not tip-top these days.’

  James sat on the chair opposite. ‘I’ve retired too,’ he said. ‘Been back in Newcastle since July.’

  ‘Not long then,’ said Fairfax.

  ‘No, I suppose not; though it feels like it.’

  Fairfax snorted. ‘Give it ten years and you’ll feel part of the furniture. I still dream about the place though . . .’ The old man looked reflective.

  James felt a familiar tension in his gut. His frighteningly vivid dreams of the plantation had hardly plagued him since returning to England. For that reason alone, he would stick it out in Newcastle with Tilly. He could cope with her aloofness towards him as long as he had peace of mind. Physical closeness would return given time.

  ‘That nice wife of yours,’ said Fairfax, ‘came to visit me while you were away. Cheery sort, Polly.’

  ‘Tilly,’ James corrected.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tilly is my wife’s name.’

  ‘Yes, kind of her. You can count the number of visitors I get on one hand – or two thumbs!’ He broke into wheezy laughter.

  James felt guilty for not coming sooner. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to but somehow he had kept putting it off. Was it his reluctance to talk about Danny Dunlop’s parentage and where such questions might lead? Ironically, it was Tilly who had suggested the visit, no doubt to get James out from under her feet while she organised the house move.