The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Is there any post for me?’ she asked in hope.

  ‘Sorry, no,’ Clarrie answered. The line crackled so much that any further conversation was futile. ‘Write to me when you get home,’ Clarrie said, and then, ‘Tell James—’ But the line went dead before she could say what Libby should tell her father.

  Sophie wrote to Rafi, explaining that she was now in Calcutta and eager to join him. She sent the letter to their new address in Rawalpindi, hoping that her husband was safely there and not still in Lahore. Impatient to go, she began to make arrangements to fly to Karachi in West Pakistan via Delhi and then to make her way onward to Rawalpindi.

  ‘Libby,’ Sophie said, as they sat in the shaded garden, ‘isn’t it time you made arrangements too?’

  Libby’s insides knotted. ‘You mean to go back to Britain?’

  ‘Aye, lassie,’ said Sophie. ‘I know the Roys would have you to stay as long as you wanted but I imagine your parents are anxious to have you home.’

  Libby nodded. Now that the danger of their escape and living for the moment was past, she felt a strange anticlimax. She was weighed down with the thought that her Indian adventure was over. Now she had no excuse not to return home. Worst of all, she was going to have to face up to the fact that her relationship with Ghulam was also at an end.

  Yet the realisation that time was indeed running out galvanised Libby into seeking out her friends to say goodbye. Ghulam was her priority; she had to know if he was safe and well. She took the tram along Park Street, alighting close to Hamilton Road. In the middle of the day, Libby found herself once more outside Amelia Buildings, heart pounding.

  She was struck at once by the number of people crowded in the hallway. Gone was the chowkidar at the desk. A family of squatters had taken up residence under the stairwell. People stared at her. Libby hesitated and almost turned to go. Then she chided herself for being cowardly. If she didn’t make this last visit to see Ghulam then she would probably never have the chance of seeing him again. She strode purposefully towards the stairs.

  As she climbed up to the Khans’ flat, doubts beset her. Fatima might still be living at the hospital and Ghulam would be at work. But at least she could leave a message with Sitara. She arrived, heart thumping, at the Khans’ door. She could hear voices beyond and her hopes soared.

  A woman she had never seen before, dressed in a sari, answered her knocking. She looked out through the half-open door, her expression wary.

  Libby stared back in confusion, wondering for a second if she was at the wrong door.

  ‘Hello,’ said Libby, ‘is Dr Khan or her brother at home?’

  The woman shook her head and answered in what Libby thought might be Bengali.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Libby said, feeling embarrassed, ‘but I don’t understand.’

  The woman called over her shoulder, speaking rapidly to someone else out of view. A moment later, a tall man with greying hair and dressed in ill-fitting Western clothes appeared.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, his look guarded.

  ‘I’m a friend of the Khans,’ Libby explained. ‘I’ve come to say goodbye. I’m leaving India. I just wanted to know that they were all right.’

  ‘I’m sorry but there is no one here of that name,’ said the man a little frostily.

  ‘But this flat belongs to them,’ said Libby.

  ‘That is not the case,’ said the man, growing agitated. ‘We have been renting it for a month. We have no knowledge of this Dr Khan or his brother.’

  ‘Her brother,’ said Libby. ‘Dr Khan is a woman.’

  ‘We do not know them,’ he insisted. ‘I’m sorry but we cannot help.’ With that he closed the door on her.

  Libby stood there reeling from the encounter. What did this mean? Had Ghulam’s landlord thrown him out? From the noise coming from the flat, it sounded as if several families were now sharing it. Perhaps they were migrants from East Bengal and the landlord was packing them in, making as much money out of them as he could. She turned away feeling disheartened and nagged by worry for her friends.

  Libby made her way to the Eden Hospital. The place was even busier than when she had last visited. She waited ages before a harassed-looking Fatima emerged into the hallway from one of the wards. She caught sight of Libby and rushed forward.

  ‘Libby!’ she exclaimed. ‘They didn’t tell me it was you. I didn’t think you’d still be in India. How are you?’ She clutched Libby’s hands and Libby felt a tug of gratitude that Fatima looked pleased to see her.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Libby answered. ‘But what about you? I went to the flat and found strangers in your home. What’s happened?’

  Fatima looked about nervously. ‘Let’s go on to the terrace for a minute while I explain.’

  Outside, under the porticoed veranda, Fatima swiftly told her.

  ‘I’ve been living at the hospital since I last saw you. After that poor man was murdered, the landlord put up the rent of all the Muslims in the building – Ghulam said it was extortion and refused to pay so he was told to go.’

  ‘Where to?’ Libby asked, her stomach clenching.

  ‘He was living with Sanjeev,’ said Fatima.

  ‘Was?’ Libby questioned.

  ‘Until we heard from Rafi about my father’s heart attack,’ said Fatima, sorrow clouding her face.

  ‘From Rafi?’

  Fatima nodded, her eyes glimmering with emotion. ‘He sent a telegram to me at the hospital. I wrote to my father but Ghulam got it into his head to try and get to Lahore and see him before . . .’ She broke off, pressing a hand to her lips.

  ‘Ghulam’s gone to Lahore?’ Libby asked, aghast. ‘Is he safe? Is your father okay?’

  Fatima shook her head and gulped. ‘My father is dead.’

  Libby squeezed her friend’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry. Was Ghulam too late?’

  Fatima let out a sob. Libby’s heart lurched.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked in fright. ‘Has something happened to Ghulam?’

  Fatima struggled to control her voice. ‘I don’t know,’ she croaked. ‘He promised he would let me know when he arrived in Lahore but for three weeks I’ve heard nothing from him.’

  ‘Have you heard from Rafi or your family?’

  ‘Just a telegram telling me about my father just after Ghulam left,’ said Fatima. ‘I’ve sent messages to my father’s house asking and I’ve tried to ring but never got through. Everything is so chaotic. I don’t even know if Rafi is still there.’

  ‘So even if Ghulam had arrived, he would have been too late to see his father?’ said Libby.

  Fatima nodded in distress. ‘I begged him not to go but he wouldn’t listen. He said he had to make his peace with his father and his family before it was too late.’

  Libby’s stomach churned; she hardly dared ask. ‘Did he go by train?’

  ‘Train to Delhi, yes,’ said Fatima. ‘But he promised me he would fly from there to Lahore and not risk crossing the border by train.’

  Libby felt nauseated at the thought that Ghulam could have risked going on one of the notorious trains of death between Delhi and Lahore. Surely he would not be so reckless when his aim was to reach his father before he died? She saw how agitated Fatima was over the subject. The doctor looked worn out, her face gaunt and eyes smudged with exhaustion. Libby searched for words of comfort.

  ‘He’s probably in Lahore but unable to get a message to you,’ she said. ‘As you said, things are so chaotic. You’ll hear something soon.’

  Fatima’s frown of anxiety eased a fraction. ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’

  Libby didn’t like to voice her worry that even if Ghulam was in Lahore, how would he get safely back to Calcutta? Or would he decide to stay in the city of his birth and help his family and fellow Punjabis who were suffering so greatly?

  Fatima said, ‘I must return to the ward but perhaps we can meet before you leave? I haven’t even asked you about your time at Belgooree.’

  ‘I’d like that,�
� said Libby. She told the doctor where she was staying. ‘You must come for a meal – the Roys would make you very welcome and you could see Sophie before she leaves for Pakistan.’

  They walked back to the entrance together. As Fatima turned to go, Libby asked, ‘So Ghulam wouldn’t have got my letter?’

  Fatima gave her a look of pity. ‘I’m sorry, Libby, but if you sent it to Amelia Buildings then I doubt it.’

  Libby’s heart ached to think he hadn’t read it – might never get to read it. She had to face the truth that her relationship with Ghulam was fated never to be more than a transient affair. Standing watching Fatima walk away through the entrance, Libby was engulfed by regret. How she had longed for so much more!

  She turned away, anxiety for Ghulam twisting inside. Where was he? She would find no peace of mind until she knew what had happened to her lover.

  Libby couldn’t sleep. She spent the long humid night worrying over Ghulam, trying to keep at bay the spectre of him being dragged off a train and butchered. Had he been attacked before he even reached Delhi? If he’d got to Delhi and flown to Lahore then he would have arrived at his family’s house over two weeks ago. Perhaps he had heard about his father’s death and had decided to go no further. He might still be in Delhi.

  Libby was hit by an uncomfortable thought. Ghulam’s former lover had come from Delhi. What if he had taken the opportunity to go and see her, repair their friendship? What if the spark between them had been rekindled and Ghulam had decided to stay in India’s capital? She imagined him helping to build a just, egalitarian India with the woman he had loved so strongly and whose ideals he had shared in their days of struggle against the British.

  Libby felt desolate at the thought. But she would rather that Ghulam was alive and safe, even if it meant he had returned to this woman. She would put up with the pain of never seeing Ghulam again just as long as no harm had come to him.

  Restless and tossing under the mosquito net, Libby realised all of her speculation was fruitless. Earlier in the day, Sophie had been horrified to learn that Ghulam had attempted the hazardous journey but she had calmed Libby with her rational words.

  ‘There’s no point thinking the worst,’ she had said, ‘when it’s quite possible that Ghulam arrived in Lahore and is with his family. You said Fatima hadn’t actually been able to get through to them, so we have to be optimistic.’ She had squeezed Libby’s hand. ‘I’ll write at once to Rafi in ’Pindi, assuming he’s now back there. I’ll ask him to ring me here at the Roys’.’

  Libby held on to that encouraging thought, that word would soon come from Rafi that Ghulam was at the Khans’ home in Lahore. She determined that she would make no travel plans until she knew about Ghulam. She couldn’t possibly leave India until she did.

  The next day, Libby sent a message to the Dunlops to say that she was once again in Calcutta and a chit came back from Flowers inviting her round for afternoon tea the following day when she would be off work.

  Libby was welcomed enthusiastically by Danny and Winnie Dunlop, who apologised that Flowers would be a little late. Libby was surprised to find them in such good spirits; after her last visit they had been so anxious about looming Independence. Libby relished being once more in their cluttered, fussily decorated sitting room with Winnie plying her with sandwiches and cake, while Danny demanded to hear every detail of her time at Belgooree. Libby told him about their Independence Day party but avoided any mention of the traumatic siege by the Gulgat men or her daring escape with Sophie.

  ‘Tell me about the plantation,’ Danny said eagerly, ‘before Flowers gets here. She ticks me off for badgering you about the tea planting life. I don’t suppose your father has been able to discover more about the Dunlops?’

  Libby felt pity at his hopeful look. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Dunlop, I don’t think he has. I did send on the details and he promised he was going to see his old planter friend, Mr Fairfax, and ask him. I’m sure he will have tried.’

  Danny looked dashed but tried to put on a brave face. ‘I know your father will have done his best. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. Not now that—’

  ‘Danny!’ Winnie cut him off with a cry of warning. ‘It’s not your news to tell.’

  Before Libby could ask what she meant, the door swung open and, with a waft of perfume, in walked Flowers. Libby stood to greet her and then saw with delight that she was followed by George.

  Libby smiled. ‘How lovely; I didn’t think I’d get to see you both.’

  The women kissed cheeks and then Flowers held up her left hand for inspection. An emerald and diamond ring glinted in the electric light.

  Libby gasped. ‘You’re engaged to be married?’

  Flowers’s pretty face creased in a broad smile as she slipped her arm through George’s. ‘Meet my fiancé.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news!’ Libby cried.

  She gave George a peck on the cheek; he was grinning foolishly.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I still can’t believe this gorgeous lass said yes.’

  Libby had a pang of misgiving. Not so long ago, Flowers had been warning her off about getting involved with George because of his philandering. But as they settled down to chat, Libby’s doubts faded. They both looked so happy and Libby knew that Flowers was too sensible to have accepted marriage on a whim.

  ‘We’re getting married in a month’s time,’ said Flowers. ‘It was going to be sooner but when we heard that Adela and Sam were coming back, we decided to wait so they can be our witnesses.’

  Libby wondered if Flowers and her parents were disappointed that she couldn’t have a church wedding because of George’s previous marriage. But the Dunlops seemed delighted with the match. When Libby rose to go, Flowers and George offered to walk with her to the tram.

  It was then that she was able to tell them about the trouble at Belgooree and her escape with Sophie.

  ‘That’s awful!’ George said in shock. ‘I should have come to visit – I should have been there to protect Auntie Clarrie.’

  ‘She’s all right,’ Libby assured him. ‘There’s no one as strong or determined as Clarrie. You couldn’t have done any more than she did to keep us all safe.’

  ‘She’s an amazing woman,’ said Flowers. ‘Does Adela know what happened?’

  ‘She might do by now,’ said Libby. ‘Clarrie was going to explain in a letter after we’d got safely away. She didn’t want Sam worrying about his sister when he was too far away to help.’

  ‘So what are your plans, Libby?’ Flowers asked. ‘You were a bit vague when Daddy asked.’

  Libby felt tears sting her eyes. She unburdened her fears over Ghulam. She could hardly bear the look of pity Flowers gave her; her friend had been critical of Ghulam having a casual affair with her and then packing her off to Belgooree. George looked embarrassed by talk of the Indian – he’d been disapproving of Ghulam too – and Libby wondered how much Flowers had told him about the affair. But Libby knew that George had never been in love with her and she was glad that her girlish crush on him had long since vanished. She felt nothing for George except mild affection.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Flowers said. ‘I hope you get news of him soon.’

  ‘If you’re still in India at the end of October,’ said George, ‘promise you will come to our wedding.’

  Libby smiled. ‘Thank you, I’d love to.’

  CHAPTER 39

  South of France, early October

  Adela sat on their hotel balcony in the mellow autumn sunshine, gazing out over the busy port of Marseilles. The aromatic whiff of French tobacco wafted up from the café below, masking the pungent smells of the docks. Sam had gone to make final arrangements for their passage east and supervise the loading of their luggage. Before taking the train south, they had enjoyed four days in Paris. The city still bore the scars of Nazi occupation but the atmosphere was one of optimism and joie de vivre. In the south of France they had been struck by the plentiful supplies of food and the mouth-wateri
ng array of cakes in the many bakeries.

  ‘No sugar rationing here,’ Sam had said with a wry look, as he’d wolfed down a strawberry tart.

  Soon they would be embarking on their voyage across the Mediterranean. Adela had no idea when she would next be back in Europe. Breathing in the salty, oily tang of the port, Adela felt a kick of excitement. She had no regrets about the decision Sam and she had taken to return to India; she relished the prospect of a married life there and of starting their family together at Belgooree. Her pregnancy sickness was abating and there was now a small swelling where the baby was growing; Sam liked to put his hand over it and talk excitedly about how he would teach their child – girl or boy – to fish and play cricket.

  Only one thing marred her happiness: leaving John Wesley behind. Adela felt the familiar ache inside when she thought of him. He was no longer just a memory of a downy-haired baby; John Wesley was a bright-eyed, chattering, inquisitive boy with a heart-melting grin, who found it hard to stay still for a minute.

  Adela fished out the photograph that Sam had taken of her with her son. Just to see him grinning at the camera made her smile. They looked so natural together, so alike. Her eyes stung with tears. She kissed the photo and slipped it back into the book she was reading. She carried it everywhere.

  She stared out at the busy scene below. Soon Sam would be back and they would be leaving the hotel for a last meal on French soil before boarding the ship. Time was running out. Adela came to a decision. She went into their bedroom and retrieved her attaché case from their hand luggage. Pulling out some writing paper and her fountain pen, Adela went back to sit at the balcony table.

  Dear Martha

  I wanted to thank you once again for your kindness to Sam and me when you took us riding and gave us tea. I’m sorry that we didn’t get to see you all before we left but when I explain why not, I think you will understand.