The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘What are they shouting?’ Libby asked.

  Clarrie didn’t answer as she kept watch from the steps.

  Sophie swallowed hard. ‘They’re shouting for me.’

  Libby began to shake. She could hear it now: the shrieks for Khan memsahib. She gaped at Sophie in disbelief.

  ‘Stourton’s given you away,’ Libby gasped. ‘Why would he do that?’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have. Word travels easily, that’s all. This can’t be Robert’s doing.’

  But Libby saw the doubt on her friend’s face.

  Just then, a shot cracked the air. ‘Stay out of sight,’ Clarrie barked at them.

  Libby and Sophie dived down behind furniture. Libby heard a shriek of triumph. She peered out. One of the young men, with the help of others, had scrambled up the stone gatepost and was almost over the wall. In horror, she saw Clarrie hurry down the steps, calling to Alok as she went.

  ‘Fetch the old speaking trumpet – the one we use for the garden sports’ days.’

  ‘Clarrie don’t!’ Sophie cried.

  Nitin went with Clarrie. As Alok emerged with the loudhailer, Libby grabbed it from him and dashed after them, revolver in her other hand. Clarrie looked at her in alarm.

  ‘They’re less likely to shoot at me than Alok,’ Libby said.

  The young man on the gatepost saw them approaching with guns at the ready and jumped back down to safety. Halfway to the gate, Clarrie stopped and called through the loudhailer in a clear voice.

  ‘I am Robson-mem’. What are you doing on my estate? The police are on their way. Go back to your homes. We are peaceful people. Jai Hind!’

  Then she repeated her words in Hindustani.

  The noise subsided a little but the assailants continued to chant while battering at the gates.

  Clarrie tried again. ‘I wish to speak to Sen sahib. Come forward, please, and explain why you are attacking my property.’

  After a few moments, the men parted to let their leader step forward. He held up his hand for calm. Clarrie walked towards him.

  ‘We don’t wish to harm you, Robson memsahib,’ he said, ‘but you are hiding a fugitive from my state – the Khan woman – and we demand that you give her up.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ replied Clarrie. ‘There are no runaways here.’

  ‘We know that is not true,’ said Sen. ‘She has been seen here. She must come back to Gulgat to face charges. The Khans have taken state property – I can see the palace car from here.’ He nodded through the gates to Rafi’s old Ford that was parked by the godowns.

  ‘That car doesn’t belong to Gulgat,’ said Clarrie, ‘and you have no jurisdiction here. Please take your men away; otherwise it will be you facing charges when the police get here.’

  ‘Better to hand her over now,’ Sen threatened, ‘or I won’t be able to answer for what these men might do. They want to see justice done.’

  Libby was suddenly incensed. ‘You call terrorising women justice?’ she said. Clarrie put a restraining hand on her arm but Libby carried on. ‘You have been misinformed about Mrs Khan. She was here but she’s long gone.’ She saw the doubt cross his face. Despite her drumming heart, Libby continued with as calm a voice as she could manage. ‘In fact, it was someone from the palace at Gulgat who came here and told her to leave and never come back, so she took his advice and left. So I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey, Mr Sen.’

  He looked at her with dislike. ‘I don’t believe you – there’s another Britisher woman at the house – I saw her just before.’ He focused on Clarrie. ‘And how else would you know my name, Robson-mem? Please tell Khan memsahib to come with us now and no one else will be harmed.’

  ‘We have nothing more to say to you,’ said Clarrie, ‘until the police get here.’

  He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘It will take hours for police to come if at all. We will be long gone by then.’

  Clarrie turned away and hissed at Libby and Nitin to follow. They walked back to the bungalow. Libby’s chest was so tight she could hardly breathe. At any moment she expected a gun might be fired at them through the gate as they made their retreat.

  No sooner had they gained the top of the veranda steps than there was an explosion behind them on the drive. The women grasped each other in shock. A firecracker had been hurled over the perimeter wall. More followed. The clamour beyond the gate started up again. Clarrie tried once more to reason with the unruly gang through the loud hailer to no avail. There was no sign of Sen, who must have retreated to one of the trucks. Mohammed Din wanted to use his gun to warn them off but Clarrie said no.

  ‘Hold your fire,’ she ordered, ‘I don’t want to provoke them further. The police should be here soon.’

  But the rabble showed no signs of going away. The shadows began to lengthen across the garden. Libby listened in vain for sounds of rescue but no police came. Sen was right; the police could take hours. Their service was overstretched, their British officers retired and Muslim rank and file transferred to Pakistan. It might be days before anyone came.

  Sophie stood up. ‘I won’t see you all be harmed because of me. Perhaps if I agree to return the car to Gulgat . . .’

  ‘You’re going nowhere,’ Clarrie declared. ‘We’ll face whatever’s coming together. This is my home and no jumped-up official from Gulgat is going to tell me what to do.’

  Just then, Libby heard a change in the chanting. Or was it the sound of something else? Gradually a swell of voices grew louder – not aggressive but melodious.

  ‘What’s that?’ Libby hissed.

  Sophie’s anxious expression turned to surprise. ‘It’s women singing.’

  Clarrie grabbed the binoculars from the table. Libby held her breath, looking at her for explanation.

  ‘It’s Shimti,’ gasped Clarrie. ‘She’s leading the tea pickers. There’s hundreds of them!’

  Libby and Sophie rushed to her side. Even without the binoculars, Libby could see women pouring out from the village. They advanced through the trees, a multi-coloured army, ringing bells, banging pots and singing at the top of their voices. Within minutes they were surrounding the trucks and milling around the goondas.

  Libby watched, stomach knotted and heart pounding, fearful that the men would retaliate with violence. The men were shouting at them, threatening them with their long knives. Shimti faced them clutching nothing but a thick staff and berated them.

  Clarrie tensed beside Libby. ‘Sophie,’ she hissed, ‘you must keep out of sight.’

  Reluctantly, Sophie withdrew into the shadows. ‘Tell me what’s happening,’ she begged.

  ‘Shimti’s putting herself in front of the gates,’ Libby said, marvelling. ‘The other women are following.’

  Still the men shouted and jostled. Some of the women were punched to the ground. The situation was volatile. Libby felt that the violence could erupt into a bloodbath at any minute. The women had no more than pots and sticks with which to protect themselves. The stand-off seemed to last an age.

  Suddenly, from the corner of her eye, Libby saw a movement. The garden below was now in complete shadow. But someone was creeping across it.

  ‘Clarrie!’ Libby warned.

  Clarrie swung her gun around and took aim at the figure emerging on to the path.

  ‘Wait!’ Libby gasped. ‘It’s Ayah Mimi.’

  They watched in disbelief as the tiny frail woman made her way determinedly down the drive.

  ‘Mimi!’ Sophie cried. She dashed out of the gloom.

  Clarrie grabbed her. ‘No, Sophie, not you.’ Clarrie turned to Nitin. ‘Go and stop Mataji.’

  Libby struggled to breathe as she watched Nitin hurry down the steps after the old sadhvi. She saw him remonstrating with her. Then a moment later, she was leaning on his arm and he was helping her continue down the track.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Clarrie exclaimed.

  ‘Mimi’s bidding,’ Sophie answered.

  Appalle
d, they stood looking on as the old ayah reached the gates. For a moment she stopped, catching her breath, and then Nitin was lifting her on to his shoulders. From there she scrabbled on to one of the gateposts and stood up straight. Libby was astonished at how lithe she still was. Erect in her homespun sari, she looked as serene as a statue.

  Libby watched through the binoculars, heart in mouth, as the old woman put her hands together in a prayerful greeting to the people below and then began to speak. She was too far away for them to hear her words but Libby was awestruck at the sight of her lined face, streaked in yellow and white paint, lit up in the dying sun.

  The clamour beyond the gates began to subside. Libby was sure she saw fear on the faces of the men – in the fading light they looked even younger than before. Ayah Mimi remained at her post, praying over the crowd as the sky turned green and the sun sank below the tea bushes. Abruptly, the fight went out of the intruders – either fear or shame making them back away.

  Next, Sen was ordering them back into the trucks. The women parted to let them through. They climbed aboard and with some shaking of fists retreated in a cloud of exhaust smoke. The sound of the women singing rang out in the sudden dark, chasing them away from Belgooree.

  Sophie was the first to run down the drive and help Ayah Mimi down from the gatepost. The old woman collapsed into her arms after the effort, as Sophie wept and thanked her for helping save her. She and Nitin carried the frail sadhvi back to her hut in the garden, where she insisted on being taken, asking only for milk and no fuss.

  That night, the three British women elected to sleep in the same room, while Nitin, Banu and Mohammed Din took it in turns to patrol and guard the house. Banu explained how Shimti had organised the women’s resistance and forbidden him to challenge the Gulgat men with guns. Clarrie gave thanks for the wisdom of the village headwoman and the loyal support of the brave Khasi people. To Libby’s great relief, Banu had also brought Manzur safely back into the compound. They went out to greet him.

  ‘Until things are clearer,’ Clarrie said, ‘I want you to teach the children inside the compound.’

  The women got little sleep. They sat up late into the night discussing what should be done.

  ‘They’ll come back,’ said Sophie. ‘A man like Sen won’t want to be outwitted by mere women.’

  Libby voiced her fear. ‘And they might return in larger numbers.’

  ‘We need to get you away from here as quickly as possible,’ said Clarrie. ‘Both of you.’ She eyed Libby. ‘You were very brave out there earlier but I won’t have you putting yourself in danger a second time.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you on your own,’ Libby protested.

  ‘Dear Libby, I’m not on my own,’ said Clarrie. ‘I’m surrounded by friends here – and soon I will have Sam and Adela too.’

  ‘But what if Sen is lying in wait somewhere along the road?’ Libby worried.

  ‘When the police arrive,’ said Clarrie, ‘I’ll get them to escort you down to Shillong.’

  ‘And if they don’t come?’ Sophie asked quietly.

  ‘They will,’ said Clarrie stoutly. ‘And if not, then Daleep and Banu will see you safely away from here.’

  They lay in the shuttered bedroom, hot and unable to sleep. In the middle of the night, Libby was struck by a thought.

  ‘Why don’t we fool them into thinking we’re someone else?’

  ‘Meaning?’ Clarrie asked.

  ‘Dress up.’

  ‘As who?’

  Libby said, ‘We could dress Sophie as a man.’

  Despite the tenseness of the situation, Sophie giggled with amusement. ‘What sort of man?’

  ‘In uniform or something. Didn’t Adela leave a trunkful of costumes here from when she finished with ENSA?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clarrie, ‘but I think they’re mostly dresses and feather boas.’

  ‘Did Sam leave any clothes?’

  ‘Well, yes . . .’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ Libby said, swinging out of bed. ‘None of us can sleep so we might as well be doing something useful.’

  They trooped into Harry’s room, where Adela and Sam had left possessions they hadn’t needed for Newcastle. The three women spent the next hour rifling through Adela’s trunk and Harry’s wardrobe, holding up clothes and getting Sophie to try them on. Eventually they settled on a pair of Harry’s trousers and a bush shirt and jacket of Sam’s. Libby found Adela’s military cap that fitted Sophie.

  ‘We’ll have to cut your hair even shorter,’ said Clarrie, touching Sophie’s bobbed hair fondly.

  ‘And dye it,’ said Libby. She pulled out a box of stage make-up and rummaged through it. ‘And how about this?’ She held up a false moustache. ‘We have to make you look more manly. And what about an eyepatch?’

  Sophie laughed. ‘I’ll look like a pantomime villain.’

  ‘Okay.’ Libby grimaced. ‘I’ll wear the eyepatch.’

  ‘Who are you going to be?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘A tea planter,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll put my hair up in a topee and plump up my stomach with a cushion to hide these.’ She pointed at her breasts.

  Clarrie disappeared for a minute and returned holding up a jacket of Wesley’s. ‘This might fit.’

  ‘Don’t you mind?’ asked Libby. ‘I don’t want to take it if it’s special.’

  ‘It’s just a jacket,’ said Clarrie brusquely. ‘And if it helps disguise you and keep you safe then that’s the best use possible.’

  After dressing Libby, Clarrie scrutinised them both. ‘I have another idea,’ she said. ‘We’ll bandage you both up and pretend you’re being rushed to hospital after some riding accident.’

  By the time Clarrie had finished with them, Sophie had one eye covered, and Libby had her jaw bandaged and an arm in a sling across her chest.

  Shortly before dawn, Libby fell into an exhausted sleep. She was roused by Clarrie – it seemed just minutes later – but the air was full of birdsong and day was breaking.

  ‘It’s time to go,’ she said softly. ‘There’s chota hazri on the veranda, then we’ll get you dressed up.’

  Libby looked at her sleepily. ‘Have the police come?’

  Clarrie shook her head. ‘Daleep will drive you to Gowhatty in my car and Banu will go with him, well armed.’

  They spent the final hour at Belgooree in an atmosphere of tension as they forced down breakfast and got into their disguises. Clarrie gave them the contact details of friends in Gowhatty they could stay with while they secured onward travel to Calcutta.

  ‘I have old army friends of Rafi’s who will put us up once we get to Calcutta,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Send me word when you are safely there,’ Clarrie said.

  Sophie was transformed with her hair shorn and blackened with boot polish, the stage moustache applied and her face obscured in a large eye bandage. Libby was already sweating in her padded outfit, with her hair pinned up under a topee and jaw bound as if it had been dislocated. She could only speak incoherently but she was so nervous and emotional at leaving Clarrie that she could hardly find words adequate to thank her anyway.

  When the time came for departure, Clarrie took her in a hug and said, ‘Dearest Libby, I shall miss you so much. I can’t tell you what a joy it has been to have you here. And thank you for all your help in the office. I shall send on your typewriter.’

  Libby shook her head. ‘Let Nitin have it,’ she mouthed.

  Clarrie kissed her cheek and let her go. Libby watched as Sophie embraced her friend and said a tearful farewell. Neither of them knew if or when they would ever see each other again.

  ‘God go with you,’ Clarrie said. She didn’t let them linger but led them down to the car where their luggage was being loaded into the boot.

  At that moment, Manzur appeared, to say goodbye. His eyes widened at sight of Libby. He stared hard and then, as recognition dawned, amusement spread across his face.

  ‘Is that really you, Libby-mem’?’

&n
bsp; She nodded and tried to smile but the bandage inhibited her.

  ‘You are a brave Robson,’ he said, ‘always the bravest.’

  Libby’s eyes pricked with tears. She murmured goodbye to him.

  ‘Goodbye and good luck,’ Manzur answered.

  Quickly, Libby and Sophie climbed into the back of the car. The gates were being opened as they set off down the drive. Libby tensed as she scoured the dark track ahead for signs of anyone lying in wait. All seemed peaceful; the early stirrings of jungle birds and creatures were the only sounds. The gates closed swiftly behind them and Libby caught a fleeting last glimpse of the bungalow where Clarrie and Manzur stood waving them away.

  Then they were heading off down the garden road. Sophie reached out and took Libby’s free hand. She squeezed it tight in encouragement. Libby blinked away tears and returned the comforting gesture.

  CHAPTER 37

  Newcastle, September

  On the day following Bonnie’s party, Adela felt so wretched and sick that Sam and his mother confined her to bed. Mrs Jackman was delighted to discover the reason for her daughter-in-law’s bouts of nausea.

  ‘My first grandchild! I wish you could stay till after the baby’s born,’ she said with a pleading look at Sam.

  Adela was grateful to hear Sam reply, ‘I know you do but our passage is booked and Adela wants to be with her own mother when the time comes. We promise to come back and visit.’

  But all Adela could think about was whether anyone had returned to Herbert’s Café to claim the necklace. She felt guilty about such thoughts and was hesitant to voice her feelings to Sam and risk provoking old arguments. Sam though was being concerned and attentive towards her, one moment anxious that she rested, the next grinning with happiness at her pregnant state.

  After four days in bed, Adela couldn’t bear to be confined to the Cullercoats flat a moment longer.

  ‘I’m not ill,’ she insisted, ‘and I’m feeling much better.’

  They returned to the café to help, though it was becoming apparent to Adela that the efficient Jane and extrovert Charlie didn’t really need them. Jane had persuaded a former waitress, Nance, to come back and work for her. Nance greeted Adela with cries of delight and they swapped news. Adela remembered her as friendly, competent and mildly flirtatious with the shipyard workers.