Libby, with the help of the Roys, was picking up a smattering of Bengali, but she taught numbers to her ragged pupils in English and with a lot of gesticulation. There were no jotters and pencils, or even slates for the children. But when the Roys discovered Libby was improvising with drawing numbers in sand with a stick, they provided a board and chalk.
She thought of Ghulam’s pipe dream of them setting up a school together for the impoverished of Calcutta. She knew by heart the words in his letter: the streets are full of lost or abandoned children – I could teach them to read and write and you their sums and times tables. She felt hollow inside to think she was doing it alone, but Ghulam’s vision gave her the courage to carry on helping the children as best she could.
After an exhausting week of teaching typing and giving arithmetic lessons, Libby returned home to hear the Roys entertaining on their veranda. Halfway up the garden path, Libby stopped in astonishment at the sound of a familiar voice. It boomed out of the shadows. But it wasn’t possible!
Libby hurried forward. ‘Dad?’ she called out, running on to the veranda.
To her incredulity, her father rose from a rattan chair clutching a tumbler of whisky.
‘How . . . ? When . . . ?’ Libby gaped at him. Then she was seized by sudden dread. ‘Has something happened to Mother or one of the boys?’
‘No, nothing to worry about,’ James quickly reassured her. He put down his drink and held out his arms. ‘I have business in Calcutta, that’s all. And your mother wanted me to check up on you too.’
Libby rushed to hug him, her eyes smarting with tears. Her father felt solid and comforting and dearly familiar. She clung on to him until he patted her and said ‘well, well’, which she knew meant that that was enough show of affection.
She sat down next to him, still hardly able to believe he was there, while he talked about his flights and the weather en route.
‘Your father flew in this morning,’ said Ranajit.
‘He was going to book into a hotel,’ said Bijal, ‘but we insisted he must stay with us so he can see you properly.’
‘I can see why you don’t want to go home, Libby,’ James said with a smile, ‘when you are treated like a princess by these kind people.’
‘It’s no more than she deserves,’ Bijal said, ‘after she works so hard all day.’
‘The Roys have been telling me all about your charity work,’ said James.
‘Not just charity,’ Libby answered. ‘I’m beginning to make a living from the typing lessons.’
She waited for him to chide her for delaying in Calcutta when she should have been back in Newcastle weeks ago. But he didn’t. He took up the conversation with the captain that she had interrupted, asking him about his war work. Sanajit talked about timber supply and how innovative Rafi had been in trying out goran wood from the Sundarbans when their supply of teak from Burma had been stopped. This led on to James reminiscing about his part in the war effort on the Burmese Front.
Libby watched her father, still perplexed. What on earth had made him come all this way? Was it tea interests? Perhaps he had been asked by the board of the Oxford Estates to carry out some business on their behalf. Her father might have seized on the chance to visit India again so soon. She longed to get him alone and ask him; he was obviously reluctant to talk about it in front of the Roys.
They went inside for dinner and then James, looking tired out, retired to bed.
‘We’ll talk more in the morning,’ he told Libby, dropping a kiss on her forehead.
Libby was up at dawn. James was already shaved, dressed and drinking tea on the veranda. His face was grey and drawn as if he hadn’t slept.
‘Walk with me in the garden, Libby,’ he said.
For a few minutes he talked about the family at home, the new house in Jesmond and the holiday she had missed in St Abbs. Libby listened to this chit-chat and curbed her impatience to know the real purpose of his visit.
Eventually she asked, ‘Are you really here on business or is this just to make sure I come home?’
He stopped and looked at her. ‘Are you coming home?’
Libby struggled with her thoughts. Part of her felt she was just biding her time till the right moment came to leave India. She had been filling every waking moment with activity, putting off that moment. But standing in the dawn light with the sounds of the city stirring beyond the garden wall, the answer seemed simple.
‘No, Dad, I’m not,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. I know I said I would. I’ve disappointed you both again. But I don’t think of Newcastle as home. To me, this is home now – Calcutta.’
He asked gently, ‘Is this because of your Indian friend – Rafi’s brother? The Roys have told me what’s been going on. I know I was dismissive of your friendship with him but I’m very sorry to hear he’s missing.’
Libby felt her heart ache with sadness. There was hardly a moment of each waking day when she didn’t think about Ghulam.
‘No, it’s not because of Ghulam.’ She tried to explain her feelings. ‘I miss him terribly – I was very much in love with him – and he with me. But I don’t hold out hope that he’s still alive.’ She gulped back tears. ‘I want to stay in India anyway. I feel I can be more useful here. What would I do in Newcastle? The thought of going back to the bank or being at the beck and call of some boss would be too depressing. I don’t fit in there like my brothers do.’
At that James gave her a wry smile. ‘Oh, Libby, you are so like me. No wonder your mother despairs of us.’
Libby wanted to ask him what it was really like for him at home. From the little he had said about the house in Jesmond, he seemed to be making an effort to be reconciled with her mother. But his next question surprised her.
‘Libby, can you take me to meet Danny Dunlop?’
She stared at him. ‘Yes, but why? Do you have information for him?’
James nodded.
‘So Mr Fairfax remembered the family?’ Libby asked.
James gave out a long sigh. ‘In a way, yes. But it is I who must do the explaining.’
Libby was baffled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Something that’s been preying on my mind,’ he replied, ‘that I should have faced up to a long time ago . . .’ His expression was tense. ‘That’s why I’ve come back.’
Libby guessed that it must have something to do with her father’s previous fragile state of mind but she thought it better not to press him further. If he wanted to tell her, he would in his own time.
‘Of course I’ll take you,’ said Libby. ‘Mr Dunlop has been keen to meet you – he’ll be delighted.’
James gave her a strange wistful look but said nothing. She put her arm through his and together they returned to the house.
An invitation to Sudder Street came back by return. The following day Libby took her father to meet the Dunlops.
‘Flowers won’t be back from honeymoon yet,’ she said, ‘so it will just be the parents. Do you want me to stay or meet you afterwards?’
‘Stay,’ said James firmly. ‘You’ve had to deal with my erratic behaviour – you have a right to know what I have to say.’
Libby felt nervous at his words but he was treating her as an adult and she would give him whatever support he needed.
The Dunlops welcomed them enthusiastically with broad smiles and a lavish afternoon tea. Danny attempted to stand to greet his important guest.
‘It’s an honour to have you here, sir,’ Danny said.
Libby thought how much happier and more invigorated he looked since his daughter’s engagement and marriage.
‘Please, there’s no need,’ James said, embarrassed by the younger man’s deference.
‘And so jolly kind of you to entertain our daughter at your home in Assam,’ added Winnie.
As they took tea, Danny asked a string of questions about life in Newcastle.
‘We hope one day to visit with our new son-in-law George,’ said Danny. ‘Don’t we, dear?�
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Winnie nodded. ‘He is such a nice boy. We are very pleased for Flowers. I’m sorry you’ve missed her. Are you staying long in Calcutta?’
‘No,’ said James, ‘not long.’
‘Pity,’ said Danny.
Libby could tell her father was trying to summon the courage to say what he had come to say. She could hardly bear to hear what it was but feared that he might leave without unburdening what weighed so heavily on his mind.
‘Dad,’ she coaxed, ‘don’t you have something to tell Mr Dunlop about Mr Fairfax?’
James shot her a look of alarm. Danny’s face lit up in expectation.
‘You’ve discovered something about my tea planting father?’ he asked.
James pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow; he was the only one perspiring.
‘I— I have something to tell you,’ he began hesitantly. ‘I’m not sure you will thank me – it’s not what you might want . . . but when I saw the details, I realised . . .’
Libby, who was sitting next to her father, put a hand on his in encouragement. ‘You mean the details in Flowers’s letter about Mr Dunlop?’
He looked at her and for a moment she saw the fear in his eyes.
‘So you remembered something?’ she prompted.
James nodded. He took a deep breath and turned his gaze on Danny.
‘Do you remember anything about your early childhood?’ James asked.
Danny stroked his moustache. ‘Very little. I’m sure I remember tea bushes though – and playing on a wide veranda – sitting next to the punkah-wallah.’ He gave a half-laugh. ‘I don’t remember the names of my parents but I remember his; isn’t that strange? Sunil Ram.’
Libby gasped and looked at her father. That was the name he had cried out in his nightmares at Cheviot View.
‘I knew you as a boy,’ said James, his voice trembling, ‘until you were about three years old.’
Danny looked at him in astonishment. ‘Really? Where was that?’
‘At the Oxford Estates. That’s where you were born.’
‘Good heavens!’ cried Danny. ‘Did you work with my father?’
‘Yes,’ said James. Libby could see fresh beads of sweat pricking his brow.
‘Fancy that!’ Danny gave a puzzled smile. ‘I thought you didn’t know any Dunlops?’
‘Your father wasn’t called Dunlop,’ said James, ploughing on. ‘He was called Logan, Bill Logan. He was my boss in the 1890s when I first went to Assam.’
Libby stifled her astonishment. Bill Logan was Sophie and Sam’s father.
‘Logan had a . . .’ James hesitated. ‘Before he was married he had a relationship with your mother. She was a beautiful hill girl – a tea picker called Aruna.’
Libby saw Danny flush pink. ‘No, I don’t think that’s right – my parents were both British – that’s what I was told.’
‘I’m sorry, but that’s not true. Your father decided that you must be sent away before he brought his newly married wife to the plantation. You looked too like him and he thought it would be awkward.’
‘You’re mistaken,’ said Danny, red with indignation. ‘Mixing me up with another boy.’
‘No,’ James insisted. ‘There’s no mistake. I was the man tasked with taking you to the orphanage in Shillong. I handed you over to Sister Placid at the Convent of the Sisters of the Holy Cross. I even gave you your name, Aidan. I chose it at random – named you after a local saint from my home county of Northumberland – because you never had a Christian name up till then. Sister Placid must have given you your surname. There were never any Dunlops working on the plantations in Assam in those days.’
Danny stared at James as if trying to recall a distant memory. ‘There was a big man who led me into the convent . . . ?’
‘That was me. I think you remember me, don’t you?’ James said. ‘I certainly never forgot you.’
Danny looked stunned. He was speechless.
Winnie said in agitation, ‘Why are you telling my husband this? Why come all this way to upset him? I was right; nothing good comes of digging up the past. Let sleeping dogs lie; that’s what I say.’
Danny held up his hand to ward off her criticism. ‘What was my father like?’
James hesitated. ‘Tea planting was a hard life and Logan was a hard man. Work hard, play harder, was his motto. But he was fond of you. If Logan loved anyone in his life then it would have been you, Aidan. He certainly liked you more than the children from his marriage.’
Libby winced at his bluntness. She was as shocked as Danny was at the revelation; the man sitting opposite her – Flowers’s father – was Sophie and Sam’s illegitimate half-brother.
Abruptly Danny put his face in his hands and let out a sob. Winnie rushed to comfort him.
‘I f-feel s-such a f-fool!’ Danny cried. ‘Thinking I was B-British to the core. I feel s-so ashamed.’
Winnie gave James a despairing look. ‘I think it best if you go. I don’t want you to see my husband like this.’
Libby stood up but James leant across the table and gripped Danny’s arm. ‘You shouldn’t feel ashamed! It was Logan who was in the wrong, not your mother and not you. You were a lively, happy boy – a loving boy – always singing and playing around the burra bungalow, helping Sunil Ram with the punkah and following your father like his shadow.’
Libby could see the effect of her father’s words on the distraught man; tears were coursing down his cheeks.
‘Dad,’ she cautioned.
James’s voice grew urgent. ‘I’m not telling you all this just to unburden myself of the guilt I have felt all these years for doing Logan’s dirty work – though God knows I’ve been plagued by it. It’s because you have a right to know and the not-knowing has been haunting you all your life too, I’m sure of that. The worst thing is to bottle up secrets and let them fester. That’s what I’ve done and it’s poisoned my life. I can no longer live with such destructive secrets.’
He hung on to Danny’s arm. ‘So I want to tell you this: you may have had a flawed man as your father but your mother was a good woman. She loved you dearly – would have done anything to protect you. I have never seen a mother adore a child as much as she did you, Aidan.’
Danny looked at him in disbelief. ‘But she didn’t protect me, did she? She let me go.’
‘She tried to keep you,’ James insisted, ‘hid you in the lines, hoping Logan would forget to banish you, but you kept returning to the burra bungalow. I was ordered to take you away. Your brave mother ran after us, shouting for you, distraught at losing you.’
‘She did?’ Danny questioned.
James nodded, suddenly overcome, sinking back into his chair. Libby was alarmed to see he looked on the verge of tears too.
‘I remember riding high above the tea bushes,’ Danny whispered. ‘There was a kind man holding me so I didn’t fall.’
‘Aslam,’ James croaked, ‘my bearer.’
Libby felt tears flood her own eyes at the mention of Manzur’s father. James cleared his throat.
‘Your mother couldn’t live without you, Aidan. She never got over you being taken away – never understood why the sahibs were being so cruel. While Logan was away fetching his new bride, Aruna took her own life. That is how much she loved you.’
Danny bowed his head and broke down weeping. Winnie put her head next to his and murmured soothingly. ‘It’s over, Danny. Now you know. There’s nothing left to worry about. You knew a mother’s love. You always said you had a vague memory of a kind ayah. It must have been your mother, Danny – your mother.’
James stood up, patted Danny’s shoulder and turned to go. Libby followed. As they reached the door Winnie said, ‘Mr Robson?’
James paused, holding the door for Libby.
‘Thank you for coming and telling Danny the truth,’ she said.
James nodded as Libby led the way out.
That evening, after the Roys had retired to bed, James told Libby the full story of the
Logan affair over a late nightcap. She was still reeling from his revelation about Danny’s parentage and his cruel banishment. How could Sophie and Sam’s father have been such a callous man?
‘It was Sunil Ram who raised the alarm about Aruna,’ James recalled. ‘I thought everything was under control and the affair could be forgotten. Until he took me to the bungalow.’
‘The Lodge?’ Libby queried.
‘Yes, or Dunsapie Cottage as it was called in those days.’ James struggled to describe what he had found. ‘She must have slipped past Sunil Ram. She – she was – Aruna was lying there – there was blood soaking the bed – she’d cut her wrists. Oh, God! The smell of blood!’
Libby thought her father was about to vomit, so vivid was the memory. She fought back her own nausea.
‘It was in that room on the left, wasn’t it?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said James. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Flowers had a bad feeling in there – she was really shaken up – don’t you remember?’
James sighed. ‘I was in such a state I don’t remember what was real and what I dreamt. I’d got to the stage where I was reliving it all every night – whenever I closed my eyes I couldn’t get it out of my head.’
Libby reached out and took his hand. ‘Oh, Dad, what a terrible burden to carry all these years. Did you never tell anyone?’
James shook his head. ‘I tried to forget. Do you know the worst of it? Logan never even asked about Aruna or the boy again – never! He was monstrous.’
Libby shook her head in disgust. ‘How could a man like that produce such loving children as Sophie and Sam – and Flowers’s father?’
‘Perhaps because they had loving mothers,’ James answered. ‘Not that any of them had their mothers for long, poor things. I feel so very guilty that I couldn’t save either of those poor women from Logan. At least with Jessie Anderson I tried to save her – went to see her and begged her to leave Bill Logan – but I let Aruna down so badly.’ He gave a tortured sigh. ‘Flowers reminded me of her grandmother Aruna – she has the same eyes . . .’
The Secrets of the Tea Garden Page 51