She cleared her throat and asked as calmly as she could, ‘Where is Jacques today? Is he keeping the major company?’
‘No,’ said Martha with a fond smile, ‘he’s at school.’
Adela’s heart sank. Of course he would be on a Monday. Why had she not thought of that? Would she have to wait now until the weekend to make an excuse to return? Or perhaps he was at boarding school and would be away all term. The thought of leaving for India without ever seeing him was unbearable.
‘Boarding school?’ Adela asked in a breathless voice.
‘Good heavens, certainly not!’ Martha exclaimed. ‘I told Gus that no son of mine was going to be sent away from me for weeks on end. It might be your British way but I simply couldn’t bear it. No, Jacques is at prep school near Hexham. He’ll be home at tea time.’
A sob rose up in Adela’s throat that she had to disguise as a cough. After that, she was incapable of speech and slowed her pony to a walk so that Martha went ahead and was soon chatting to James again. Sam dropped back to keep her company. He could tell by the look on her face that something had happened.
‘Tell me,’ he murmured.
With Martha out of earshot, Adela told Sam all she had discovered. She couldn’t stop the tears rolling down her cheeks; they dried in the wind, making her skin feel tight and her eyes gritty.
‘So you haven’t said anything?’ Sam asked gently.
Adela shook her head. Sam nodded and put out a hand to squeeze her shoulder. ‘Are you going to manage this?’ he asked. ‘You mustn’t break down in front of the boy. It wouldn’t be fair on him, Adela.’
Adela gulped back tears. ‘I know,’ she rasped, ‘but I have to see him.’
Major Gibson, smiling broadly, strode towards them as they emerged from the stable yard. He reminded Adela of a younger James, his physique stocky and complexion ruddy. His handshake was bone-crushing and his laugh loud. He apologised for missing the ride.
‘Martha, I’ve ordered tea on the terrace,’ he boomed. ‘It’s far too nice to be sitting indoors on such a day.’
‘I quite agree, darling,’ she said, pecking him on the cheek. ‘Let our guests freshen up first.’
The men were shown into a downstairs cloakroom, while Martha led Adela to a bathroom on the first floor. ‘Come downstairs when you’re ready,’ she said and left her.
Adela splashed her face with cold water and dried it on a worn linen hand towel. Some of the bathroom tiles were cracked and the plumbing clanked. There was an air of faded grandeur about the place; it was more scuffed and homely than she had imagined it would be. It didn’t fit the cliché that all Americans who married British gentry were heiresses with lots of money. From what she had seen and heard about the Gibsons, their marriage was definitely a love match.
Adela emerged on to the landing feeling faint and nauseated. She craved something sweet to eat – preferably with ginger in it – to keep her sickness at bay. Just then, she heard a door slam somewhere behind her and footsteps came thumping along the passage. She turned to see a young boy running towards her in grey shorts and a grey shirt that had come untucked. He stopped breathless in front of her.
‘Hello, I’m Jacques. Are you the lady who’s been riding with Mummy?’
Adela froze on the spot. She stared down at him. It was like looking at her brother Harry a few years ago. He had dark unruly hair and thick eyebrows. The eyes that gazed back at her in curiosity were the same green as hers. That startled her. She had remembered John Wesley as having Sanjay’s dark, almost inky black eyes.
‘Hello, Jacques,’ Adela said, her voice hoarse with emotion, ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’
He grinned. ‘Have you?’
She reached out to hug him. Confusion crossed his face and he stuck out his hand. Adela stopped herself just in time and shook his hand instead. Her heart twisted to feel the boy’s warm hand in hers, the fingers bony – fragile yet dextrous – and the skin the colour of hers.
‘My name’s Adela,’ she said.
‘Am I not supposed to call you Mrs-something?’ he asked, his brow furrowed with a faint frown, the way Harry’s did when he was thinking.
Adela laughed. ‘I suppose you are. I’m Mrs Jackman, if you prefer.’
His hand wriggled out of hers. ‘Oh, are you related to Mr Jackman downstairs?’
Adela nodded. ‘He’s my husband.’
‘Daddy says he’s a war hero who flew aeroplanes and beat the Japs,’ Jacques said in excitement. ‘I want to be a pilot when I grow up. Does Mr Jackman have his own plane?’
‘Not any more,’ said Adela, ‘but I’m sure he’d talk to you about them.’
The boy asked, ‘Does he play cricket?’
‘Yes, Sam loves cricket.’
‘Oh, good.’ He grinned. ‘Do you think he might play with me after tea?’
‘I’m sure he would.’
The way he was scrutinising her made Adela breathless. ‘Have you been crying?’ he asked.
Adela swallowed. ‘It’s just the wind on the ride,’ she answered. ‘It made my eyes water.’
‘Oh, that’s all right then,’ he said.
Suddenly Martha shouted from below. ‘Adela, are you lost?’
Her stomach clenched. ‘No,’ she called back, ‘I was just meeting Jacques.’
‘Coming, Mummy!’ the boy shouted.
Adela put a hand briefly on her son’s head as he moved past her. ‘Will you show me the way to the terrace, Jacques?’
‘Come on, Mrs Jackman,’ he said brightly. ‘Follow me.’
As she did so, Adela was hit by the thought that Jacques sounded just like Major Gibson.
Adela was not sure how she got through teatime. She see-sawed between wanting to rush away to vomit and staying put so that she didn’t miss a second of watching John Wesley. He chattered non-stop about school and games and about a pet squirrel called Bunty. He asked Sam dozens of questions about cricket and aeroplanes. His parents looked on indulgently and laughed at his observations; they were completely devoid of the old-fashioned attitude that children should be seen and not heard when in adult company.
As tea drew to an end and James made the comment that they probably ought to be leaving, Adela felt panic grip her.
Jacques protested. ‘But Mrs Jackman said Mr Jackman would play cricket with me.’
‘I’m afraid there isn’t time for that,’ said James. ‘Perhaps another time.’
‘Well, can I show Mr Jackman my treehouse before you go? Please, Mr Robson; it won’t take a minute.’
‘I suppose we can delay a little bit longer,’ James relented, with a smile.
Adela breathed in relief. James was probably in no great hurry to get back to Tilly and her fussing over the new house and dog.
Jacques clapped his hands and sprang off his chair.
‘Wait a minute, you little scamp,’ said Martha. ‘What have you forgotten to say?’
Jacques sat back down quickly. ‘Please may I get down from the table?’
‘You may,’ said Martha with a wink.
Jacques scrambled off his chair again. ‘Come on, Mr Jackman.’
‘Can I come too?’ Adela asked, holding her breath.
Jacques squinted at her in the late sun. ‘Of course. As long as you aren’t scared of heights like Mummy is.’
Adela laughed. ‘I used to climb trees all the time as a girl in India.’
Jacques’s eyes widened. ‘Gosh, really? Were they as big as houses? Did monkeys and tigers live in them?’
Sam and Adela exchanged amused glances. ‘Monkeys, yes,’ said Adela.
They quickly said their thanks for tea and followed Jacques, who bombarded Adela with fresh questions about wild animals in India. Her heart swelled with love to see his animated face and hear his quick-talking voice. He was so bright and inquisitive. She searched for traces of Sanjay in her son. Perhaps the shape of his eyes and the straightness of his nose – certainly the beige tone of his skin – but the
re was no doubting that he was a Robson.
Sam abruptly said, ‘I’ll race you to the tree.’
Jacques laughed in excitement as they sprinted the last few yards and Sam made a pretence of almost getting to the treehouse first but slowing up to allow the boy to win. Adela hurried to catch up. Each climbed the ladder into the treehouse, a platform built at the level of the lower branches with a protective wall and no roof. They sat cross-legged, catching their breath. Adela noticed Sam’s camera hanging round his neck; she hadn’t seen him pick it up.
‘This is where Bunty lives,’ Jacques told them. ‘Soon she’ll be collecting nuts and putting them in her nest for winter. Do they have squirrels in India, Mrs Jackman?’
‘Yes,’ said Adela, ‘we have palm squirrels in our garden at home.’
‘What do they look like?’ he asked. ‘Are they sort of red like ours?’
‘No, they have brown and white stripes,’ she said, ‘and make a noise a bit like a rattle.’
He gazed at her in wonder. ‘Golly gosh! I wish I could see them.’
Adela glanced at Sam, her eyes stinging. ‘So do I,’ she murmured.
Sam’s look was full of compassion. He said, ‘Perhaps one day you’ll come out to India and visit us?’
Jacques gave a broad smile. ‘Do you think I could? That would be swell.’
Adela felt her insides twist at the Americanism. Jacques picked up his enthusiastic phrases from both his parents.
‘Yes,’ said Sam, ‘it would be.’
‘Can you show me how your camera works, Mr Jackman?’ Jacques asked.
‘Of course.’ Sam slipped it over his head and put the strap around the boy’s neck, taking off the case. Sam showed him where to look and which button to press, helping Jacques keep it steady.
After a couple of shots Jacques said, ‘Say cheese, Mrs Jackman!’
Adela laughed and did so. Then Sam took back the camera and said, ‘I’ll take one of you and Adela, shall I?’
‘All right,’ Jacques agreed.
He shuffled up to Adela and she put her arm about his narrow shoulders. She leant close, breathing in his boy smell of unwashed hair and jam on his chin. She resisted the urge to lick her finger and wipe it off as her mother used to do with her and Harry. For one brief idyllic moment, as they grinned at Sam for the camera, Adela was a mother again, sitting with her son tucked in the crook of her arm.
It was over in an instant as Jacques wriggled out of her hold and began telling them about how he’d made a pin camera at school.
Too soon, Major Gibson was calling for his son. ‘Jacques, old boy, time to let our guests go home.’
Adela’s heart weighed like a stone as she climbed back down the ladder. Sam held out his hand to her as she reached the bottom. Jacques was already dashing ahead, waving a shiny horse-chestnut that he’d found on the ground. ‘Look, Daddy, my first conker! Can we put it on a string?’
Sam gripped Adela’s hand in his all the way back to the house, only letting go so that they could shake their hosts by the hand in farewell.
‘I’ve so enjoyed today,’ Adela said to Martha, fighting back tears.
Martha smiled, giving her a quizzical look. ‘It’s so nice to meet you. You’ll visit again before you leave for India, I hope? Jacques has quite taken to you and Sam.’
Adela forced herself to say, ‘We may not have time to come again, but thank you.’
She turned away quickly and braced herself to say goodbye to Jacques.
‘Thank you for showing us your treehouse. Would you like me to send you a photograph of a palm squirrel when I get back to India? Sam could take one with his camera.’
Jacques grinned. ‘Yes please, Mrs Jackman. Then I can take it into school and show my friends.’
‘Good,’ said Adela, putting on a brave smile.
She gazed at her son, trying to memorise every little detail about him to store away and think about later. She had to restrain herself from grabbing him and pulling him to her in a fierce hug. How she longed to kiss him and tell him that she loved him – always had and always would. Instead she briefly put out her hand and touched his head – the soft, silky dark tufts of hair that grew in the same haphazard way that her father Wesley’s had and her brother Harry’s did.
Then Adela turned from him and Sam was taking her arm and guiding her towards the car. Moments later, she was sitting in the back of the car with Sam beside her. James didn’t question why Sam didn’t sit in front as before.
As the car pulled away from the house, Adela stared out of the window, drinking in the sight of her son waving and smiling. Before they were halfway down the drive, Jacques’s interest had been caught by something else and the boy was dashing off across the terrace and out of view.
As they journeyed rapidly further away from Willowburn and her son, Adela sat back, engulfed in sorrow. Sam held her hand tightly in his. She looked into his face and saw that his eyes were brimming with tears too.
‘He’s a fine boy,’ Sam murmured.
‘He’s happy,’ whispered Adela, though it broke her heart to think that another woman would be bringing him up as her own. But she had seen how completely the Gibsons loved John Wesley and she knew that in time, the knowledge of how much they cared for the boy would come to be some consolation to her aching heart.
Sam put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. He whispered into her hair. ‘He looks just like you, Adela.’
She smiled through her tears. ‘Yes he does, doesn’t he?’
She wondered if Martha had seen the similarity and whether she pondered how that could be.
Adela closed her eyes. Today she had found the son for whom she had been searching and the questions that had tortured her for so long had finally been answered. She had always known that to find out the truth was likely to bring as much pain as it did relief; having to tear herself away from John Wesley had been almost intolerable. But at least now she knew what had happened to him and that he was secure in a loving home. She had to cling on to that thought. She would do anything for her son – and the biggest sacrifice of all was to let him go into the hands of others. Adela knew that that was what her love for John Wesley demanded of her. For the first time, she had it in her heart to forgive her eighteen-year-old self her immaturity. She couldn’t change the past but – however painful – she would find a way to accept and bear it.
Crushed by her sense of loss, there was another emotion that gave balm to her raw feelings – gratitude to Sam. Her husband had supported her today, although it must have been difficult for him too. More than that: Sam had liked John Wesley and been kind to the boy. In other circumstances, she knew that generous-hearted Sam would have taken on her illegitimate child without hesitation.
Adela reached up and kissed Sam on the lips and then laid her head on his shoulder. They didn’t need to say anything more. Both knew what the other was thinking and how much they loved one another. James, perhaps sensing their sadness, drove on without any prying questions. They travelled back to Newcastle in silence.
CHAPTER 38
Calcutta, late September
Two weeks after leaving Belgooree, Libby and Sophie arrived back in Calcutta. They had discarded their disguises soon after Shillong, euphoric at having safely avoided capture by Sen’s gang, though it had taken several days before Sophie had managed to wash all the boot-black from her hair. She still looked boyish with her severe haircut but she didn’t seem to care.
‘It’ll grow back soon enough,’ she said. ‘I’m just thankful we never met any trouble on the road.’
Libby had been convinced that Stourton had betrayed Sophie for financial gain, probably salving his conscience that he had given Sophie some warning of trouble, even though he must have known she was in no position to join Rafi in the Punjab. But she kept her suspicions to herself. Libby and Sophie had stayed with Clarrie’s contact in Gowhatty, an old planter friend of Wesley’s whom the women remembered meeting at Wesley’s funeral.
Eventually they had taken a train to Siliguri and on into West Bengal, the old steamer route south being too hazardous with the new partition border.
They arrived into Calcutta exhausted but elated – until they saw the encampments of refugees at Sealdah Station. Libby was aghast. If she had thought the camps wretched before Independence, the situation now looked even grimmer. There were squatters as far as the eye could see; every platform was occupied and makeshift shelters lined the tracks. They looked like some shattered, defeated army. Was Ghulam still trying his best to help the displaced families? Had word reached him about the plight of his own father and had he ever read her letter? She longed to know where he was and how he was doing.
Sophie, who hadn’t been to the city since the end of the War, was speechless with horror. She couldn’t utter a word until they were almost at Ballyganj and the home of Rafi’s retired army colleague, Captain Ranajit Roy, and his wife, Bijal.
As they sat round the dinner table that night, sharing gloomy news, the captain said, ‘I don’t know when it will stop. Each day, more and more people are crowding into the city.’
‘They’re setting up camps on the outskirts,’ said Bijal, ‘but it’s quite inadequate.’
‘Is there still a refugee centre run by the doctors from Eden Hospital?’ Libby asked.
Bijal shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. Many people are trying to help but the numbers are overwhelming.’
Exhausted from long days of travel, Libby and Sophie retired early to bed. It was nearly two months since Libby had last been here, yet it seemed longer. The all-pervasive mineral smell of food being cooked on coal fires was sweetly familiar but she fell asleep with a heavy heart to think how much misery lay beyond the walls of the Roys’ gated home.
Libby was gripped by a strange lethargy. For two days she could do nothing more than sit in the Roys’ garden, dozing and reading the newspapers to try and glean news of Ghulam. But there were no articles which bore his name. Sophie managed to put through a telephone call to the office at Belgooree to assure Clarrie that they were safe and well in Calcutta. To Sophie and Libby’s relief, Clarrie told them that there had been no more disturbances at the tea garden. Libby had snatched a few words.
The Secrets of the Tea Garden Page 47