The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Meeting you and your husband – and even more so, your dear son Jacques – was a very important moment for me. You told me that you didn’t think it right to keep secrets about Jacques’s parentage from him, so that is why I’m writing to you now.

  You see, Martha, I am Jacques’s mother by birth. He was born on the 17th of February 1939 in Cullercoats. I was only eighteen and unmarried. Jacques’s father was Indian and knew nothing about the pregnancy, as I had returned to Newcastle before I discovered I was carrying his baby. I named him John Wesley (after my grandfather and father) and gave him up for adoption. I bitterly regret having done so but at the time I saw no other option. I left a keepsake with him – a pink stone on a gold chain that was given to my mother by a holy man – and I hope that Jacques still has it.

  I came back to England with Sam to search for my son (Sam knows everything) and discovered that he had been adopted by the Segals. Now he is in your care. Forgive me for visiting your home under the false pretence of a riding expedition. What I really wanted more than anything in the world was to see John Wesley with my own eyes – to discover if he really was my boy. He looks very like his grandfather Wesley and my younger brother Harry – I have no doubt that he is the son that I gave up.

  I am sorry if this all comes as a horrible shock to you – although perhaps you too saw the family resemblance? I am not seeking to make trouble or upset anyone. I must admit that I used to daydream of finding John Wesley and rescuing him from some orphanage or unhappy home, believing that he could only really be happy with me, his blood mother.

  But now I know that is not true. I have seen how much he is loved by you and Major Gibson – how very happy he is too. Jacques is a delightful boy and that is because of you. I know he will be cherished and nurtured and guided by you and your husband. That makes me able to bear being parted from him.

  If I may ask anything of you, then it is this. When Jacques comes of age, will you tell him what I have told you? I know you have been frank with him about the Segals, thinking that they were his real parents, but I see no point in confusing or upsetting Jacques by telling him of his true origins until he is old enough to understand. When he is a grown man, I would love him to have the chance to seek me out and meet his family in India – the Robsons.

  Until then, I hope you will allow Sam and myself to send him the occasional letter – Jacques was very keen that we send him a photograph of a palm squirrel! I understand if you would rather we didn’t but it would be a great kindness if you would let me stay in contact.

  Whatever you decide, Martha, I wish to thank you for loving Jacques the way you do. It means the world to me.

  Kind regards,

  Adela Jackman

  Adela enclosed it with details of her address at Belgooree in the hopes that Martha would reply, and sealed the envelope. She would post it before they embarked.

  ‘Ahoy there!’ a voice called jauntily from below.

  Adela leant over the railing and saw Sam grinning up at her. He had bought himself a new hat – a brown Trilby – which was perched on the back of his head. Her heart swelled with affection. Sam seemed incapable of wearing a hat at the proper angle and she loved him for it.

  ‘Ready for le déjeuner, Madame?’ he asked.

  Adela’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Oui, Monsieur! Coming.’

  She tucked the letter in her pocket and hurried down to meet her husband.

  CHAPTER 40

  Newcastle

  James sat out of the way in a back pew while Tilly bustled around with Mrs Marshall, the vicar’s wife, arranging flowers for the Sunday service. Autumn light filtered in through high stained-glass windows, throwing coloured light on to the cold flagstones. Adela and Sam would have boarded their ship back to India by now. They would be sailing past Malta, towards Egypt and the Suez Canal. By next week they would be at Aden and turning east across the Arabian Sea . . .

  James felt his stomach clench with longing and he forced his thoughts back to the chilly church. Tilly had been surprised at his suggestion he accompany her and then a little alarmed that he wanted to attend the service with her the following day too.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she’d questioned.

  ‘Yes,’ James had said with more conviction than he’d felt. ‘I think it’s time I did more with you, Tilly. Perhaps meet some of your friends.’

  What he couldn’t bring himself to tell her was that he was increasingly desperate to fill up the void inside him that leaving India had created. Adela’s departure – the thought of her and Sam returning to Belgooree – had only worsened his feelings of emptiness and uselessness.

  Tilly had given him a baffled smile and nodded in agreement. So here he was, sitting in the shadows waiting to be called upon to do something useful, such as lift heavy vases or move tables. The women, though, appeared to be managing without him. That’s why his mind kept drifting back to Adela and Sam and their journey to India.

  His thoughts slid to Belgooree and Clarrie. Why was it that he longed to be with Clarrie and her family more than with his own? Clarrie and Harry were more real to him – he could imagine what they were doing and thinking at every stage of the day – whereas his own wife and children were so distant with him, their former closeness ruptured by the long years apart. Except for Libby. Oh, Libby: how he missed her too!

  James stood up. It wasn’t healthy to think of India. It was safer to shut the past from his mind as best he could. The more he forced himself to do things with Tilly, the less he would be plagued by his guilt over Aidan Dunlop and the traumatic events of his early life on the Oxford plantation. Since unburdening himself to his wife, the nightmares had lessened a little – he was grateful to her for that – but they hadn’t vanished completely.

  ‘Can I do anything to help?’ he called out. His voice echoed off the pillars.

  Tilly looked round startled as if she’d forgotten he was there.

  ‘I don’t think so, dear,’ she said.

  ‘Well, perhaps you could take out the dead flowers and put them on the compost heap?’ Mrs Marshall suggested.

  ‘Of course,’ James agreed, crossing quickly to the vestry where he’d seen them taking the wilting flowers.

  He took his time outside, spinning out the task, hoping Tilly would be ready to go home soon. Perhaps they could take Fluff for a walk in the dene together before it got dark. As he re-entered the church, he heard music, hymn tunes. The organist must be practising for the next day. James hovered in the nave listening while Tilly readjusted a display of chrysanthemums. There was a break in the playing and then the church was filling with a different sound – a slow dignified air – that struck James as deeply familiar.

  The music began to gather momentum and the notes sored into the air, resonating in the dark space above. James felt his chest tighten. Pachelbel. It had been played at their wedding. He turned towards Tilly. She had stopped fussing over the flowers and was looking round. They caught each other’s look. James felt his vision blur. He groped for a nearby pew. A sob rose up from the pit of his stomach. Tilly came rushing towards him.

  ‘James, don’t upset yourself!’

  It was too late. Abruptly, James began to howl in distress, tears coursing down his craggy face. He couldn’t understand why but there was no way of stopping. Tilly steered him past an astonished Mrs Marshall.

  ‘Is there anything I can . . . ?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Tilly. ‘He needs fresh air, that’s all.’

  James would have laughed at his wife’s robust reply if he hadn’t been weeping so helplessly. He felt distress and shame in equal measure.

  Tilly guided him towards the back wall of the surrounding churchyard.

  ‘Sit, darling,’ she said, coaxing him on to a damp weather-beaten bench.

  James did as he was told. Finally, after several more minutes of sobbing and blowing his nose into a handkerchief, he regained control of his emotions.

  ‘I’m so s-sorry,’ he apologised
. ‘I don’t know what came over me. The music . . .’

  ‘James,’ Tilly said gently. ‘This isn’t about the music, is it? You’ve never got sentimental over Pachelbel before.’

  ‘It made me think of our wedding,’ said James, ‘of how happy we used to be.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tilly sighed. ‘I think we were once, weren’t we?’ She took his hand and held it between her plump ones. ‘The music might have opened the floodgates, James, but I don’t think you were crying for us. Why won’t you consider seeing a doctor? I know Jamie worries about you—’

  ‘No! I couldn’t possibly burden our son with my problems,’ James said.

  ‘Johnny then?’ Tilly suggested. ‘Couldn’t you speak to him? He understands about India. Tell him what you told me about the Danny Dunlop affair. He might be able to treat you.’

  ‘Treat me?’ James said, aghast. ‘I don’t need treating.’

  ‘Well, I think you do,’ said Tilly more brusquely.

  ‘I just have to be a man and bear it,’ James said, his jaw tightening. ‘And I really don’t want to talk to my brother-in-law about it – much as I like Johnny. I shouldn’t have burdened you with it all either.’

  ‘But you have done,’ Tilly pointed out. ‘And I’m glad you did. I want to help you have peace of mind but I’m no expert. Praying for you doesn’t seem to have helped.’

  James was touched by her concern. He knew she no longer loved him as she had once done. The moment they had looked at each other in the church as the music overwhelmed him, he had known it for sure. And the desolation he had felt told him that he no longer loved his wife. Yet she was prepared to put up with him and try to help him recover from his dark thoughts.

  ‘It’s just these ghastly dreams,’ he confided.

  She gripped his hand. ‘Then do something about them,’ she urged.

  ‘What can I possibly do?’ he asked in bewilderment.

  Tilly glanced away. He knew she was turning something over in her mind but dreaded what it might be. He waited for her to speak. After a long pause, she turned back and held his look.

  ‘If you refuse to go and see a doctor,’ said Tilly, ‘then I only see one other option.’

  James tried to unclench his jaw. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You have to confess to Danny Dunlop all that you know. Until you do,’ said Tilly, her hazel eyes filling with pity, ‘you will never be rid of your nightmares.’

  CHAPTER 41

  Calcutta, early October

  Libby and Sophie were taking tea on the Roys’ veranda when a telephone call came through for Sophie from Rawalpindi. Libby’s heart lurched as she watched her dash indoors. Her pulse raced until she felt faint. She wanted to follow. The wait was interminable. Kind Bijal Roy tried to distract her with conversation.

  ‘You mentioned how you were teaching typing at Belgooree,’ she said. ‘Well, I have a friend whose niece is looking for a clerical job but she needs typing skills. I know it’s a bit of an imposition to ask but . . .’

  ‘Of course,’ said Libby at once, ‘I’d be pleased to help. I can’t promise for how long but while I’m still in Calcutta I’d be happy to teach her – and if you don’t mind me staying longer?’

  ‘We like having you here, Libby. It’s so quiet now that our own daughters are married and living elsewhere.’ Bijal smiled. ‘You don’t have to go when Sophie goes.’

  Libby felt a wave of gratitude. ‘There’s one problem though,’ she said. ‘I left my typewriter in Belgooree so I’d have to buy a new one.’

  ‘Let us do that,’ Bijal insisted.

  Libby was about to protest, when Sophie reappeared. It was impossible to read the expression on her face. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glinting as if she’d been crying. But were they tears of happiness or upset?

  ‘How is Rafi?’ Libby asked, rising to her feet.

  ‘He’s well,’ Sophie said, relief flitting across her face. ‘He’s been in the new job a week. He got my letter.’

  ‘And?’ Libby’s heart pounded.

  ‘Walk with me,’ Sophie said, holding out her hand as if to a child.

  Libby hurried over. Sophie slipped her arm through Libby’s and led her into the garden. Out of earshot, she turned to Libby and cleared her throat.

  Quietly she said, ‘Rafi says Ghulam never arrived in Lahore. They didn’t even know he was on his way – no messages had got through. The first Rafi knew about it was from my letter. He drove straight back down to Lahore to see if Ghulam was there but he’s not. No one has seen or heard from him. Rafi’s very upset. He’s blaming himself for telling Ghulam about his father’s heart attack, never thinking for one moment that Ghulam would attempt to see the old man.’

  Libby thought she would be sick. All her worst imaginings assaulted her anew.

  ‘That doesn’t mean that Ghulam’s . . .’ Sophie let her words trail off.

  Libby looked at her in distress. ‘Ghulam wouldn’t have let Fatima worry about him all this time. He would have got a message to her. It can only mean that something dreadful has happened.’

  Sophie put her arms about Libby’s shoulders and hugged her. ‘I’m so sorry, lassie,’ she whispered. ‘I know how much you care for him.’

  Libby’s resolve to be brave dissolved at Sophie’s tender gesture and words. She buried her face in Sophie’s shoulder and let out a sob. Sophie held her and rubbed her back while Libby wept. After a moment, Libby tried to compose herself. She pulled away and wiped her eyes.

  ‘Oh, Sophie,’ she said, her heart leaden, ‘how am I going to tell Fatima?’

  In the end, both Sophie and Libby went to break the bleak news to Fatima about Ghulam’s failure to turn up in Lahore. Fatima collapsed in shock. Libby berated herself for blurting out the news so quickly but Sophie said there was no other way. Fatima had reached complete exhaustion, driving herself relentlessly at work and carrying the burden of grief over her estranged father, as well as worry about Ghulam.

  The Roys insisted that Fatima be brought to their house to rest and recuperate. Libby kept a close watch over the doctor, keeping her company when she wanted it and leaving her in peace when she slept. As for herself, Libby only slept fitfully, remaining awake for long hours of the night thinking about Ghulam. She was filled with desolation. She believed something terrible had happened to her lover. She was haunted by the memory of the Gulgat mob, baying for Sophie’s blood and ready to lynch her for being a Muslim. Had Ghulam been caught and butchered by a similarly vengeful gang? Libby had to stuff her tearstained handkerchief into her mouth to gag her sobs. With daybreak, relief came in getting up and keeping busy, and pushing the horror of her thoughts to the back of her mind till night-time came again.

  Gradually Fatima’s strength began to return and with it her dogged belief that her beloved brother might still be alive.

  ‘He could be helping in some refugee camp,’ she suggested. ‘That would be just like him. He used to disappear for months without a word in his campaigning days.’

  Libby wanted to believe her. But the grim reality of the weeks following Partition were that tens of thousands of people were missing and unaccounted for because they had been slaughtered in the bloodbath of forced migration. It was far more likely that Ghulam had perished like countless others. She admired Fatima for her optimism but her heart was leaden with sorrow. Deep down, she knew that Ghulam was lost to her. She knew she couldn’t stay indefinitely at the Roys’ or in India but she couldn’t think of leaving India just yet – not while Fatima needed her and she could be of use to others – and while there was still a glimmer of hope of discovering what had happened to Ghulam.

  Libby coped with the strain of Ghulam’s disappearance by keeping as busy as possible. She had started teaching the niece of the Roys’ friend to type. Eighteen-year-old Parvati came to the house in Ballyganj each morning for lessons and, with Libby’s encouragement, was soon competent and increasing her speed.

  On Sundays Libby resumed attendance at the Duf
f Presbyterian Church, where her Uncle Johnny had taken her in the early days of her return to India. There had been an exodus of British members of the congregation but several of the Anglo-Indian and Gurkha families who had befriended her in the cold season welcomed her back.

  At the end of each service, when Libby stood on the steps in the sunshine listening to people chatting, she would have a pang of longing for the time she had sat there with Ghulam eating cake. It made her feel closer to him for a few precious, bittersweet moments.

  After a couple of weeks, Fatima revived and was determined to resume her duties at the hospital. Libby hid her reluctance to see the doctor go. More than with anyone else, being with Fatima made Libby feel Ghulam’s presence strongly. They would talk about him and Libby would encourage Fatima to reminisce and tell her stories about her brother. Occasionally they would laugh as some small incident was recalled – his voracious toffee-eating or the way he swung his arm in bowling practice without ever realising he was doing it.

  ‘I’m sorry now that I discouraged your friendship with my brother,’ Fatima confessed to Libby. ‘I didn’t realise how very much he meant to you.’ She squeezed Libby’s hand. ‘Thank you for looking after me and being my friend. We will keep each other strong until he comes back to us.’

  Libby wished with all her heart that this would come true. With Fatima around she could almost believe that Ghulam might return. She had to force herself not to beg Fatima to stay on at the Roys’. Libby berated herself for her dark thoughts. If brave Fatima refused to give up hope that Ghulam was still alive, then so should she.

  Once Fatima had moved back to the hospital, Sophie, who had delayed joining Rafi while his sister was ill, made swift plans to go to Rawalpindi. Libby had to brace herself to say goodbye to the Scotswoman – one of the few people who really understood about her love for Ghulam and who, unlike most others, had encouraged her relationship with Rafi’s brother.

  On Sophie’s final evening she asked Libby, ‘What will you do?’