The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘So that’s why you were so ill at ease having Flowers to stay?’ Libby guessed. ‘It probably triggered off your bad memories again. I’m sorry if I made things difficult for you by bringing her along.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t your fault,’ James said quickly, ‘or Flowers’s. She’s a delightful young woman. It was me being such a coward and not facing up to what I’d done. I’d spent most of my life trying to pretend Aruna’s death never happened.’

  Libby sat, absorbing everything her father had confessed. Finally she asked, ‘Does Mother know what you’ve come all this way for?’

  James gave her a wistful smile. ‘It was Tilly who suggested I do so.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby exclaimed.

  ‘After I went to visit Fairfax,’ said James, ‘the nightmares began again. Your mother kept on asking questions until I told her what was haunting me. Tilly made me realise that I couldn’t escape what troubled me by putting thousands of miles between me and the source of my mental anguish. I would solve nothing by running away from my past. She has your tenacity, Libby. And your ability to make people confide their secrets.’

  ‘Good for Mother,’ Libby said in admiration. ‘She succeeded where I failed. Flowers knew there was something very wrong and that you needed help.’ After a moment she added, ‘Will you be all right?’

  James squeezed her hand. ‘You don’t need to worry about me.’

  ‘It’s good that you and Mother have cleared the air,’ said Libby. ‘It’ll make it easier when you go back.’

  James slipped his hand out of hers. He took a swig of his whisky. Quietly he said, ‘I’m not going back.’

  Libby thought she had misheard. ‘What?’

  James said, ‘Your mother and I are separating. It’s amicable. Well, by that I mean there won’t be any wrangling over who keeps what.’

  ‘Dad!’ Libby cried in dismay. Her stomach knotted.

  James held her look. ‘You can’t pretend it comes as any great shock. Your mother and I haven’t seen eye to eye in years. She’s happy in Newcastle – very happy – with the new house and her committees, and the boys nearby and Josey as her companion – and a ridiculous new dog called Fluff. She doesn’t need me. It’s taken me a long time to realise it, but I don’t need her either. We had some very happily married years together and we love our children; we still care about each other – but not enough to stay together now.’

  Libby’s heart drummed at the unsettling news. The thing she had feared ever since war had separated her parents was now coming to fruition: the break-up of their marriage. She had yearned for them to be reconciled – had badgered them both to return to each other – but it hadn’t worked. Had she tried hard enough? She should have gone home with her father when he’d wanted her to and maybe she could have helped him settle down better in Newcastle. She could have stuck up for her dad in the face of her mother’s criticism.

  But maybe that was being unfair to Tilly. By the sounds of it, she had tried to understand James’s deep unhappiness – had got him finally to talk about what distressed him – and had encouraged him to face Danny Dunlop with the truth. Her mother had shown greater understanding than she, Libby, had towards her father’s mental state – and a good deal of tolerance towards his desire to leave her. Tilly would no doubt set the tongues wagging at home for separating from her husband. She risked censure from her friends at church and colleagues on her charitable committees. Yet rather than try to paper over the cracks in their marriage, Tilly was allowing James to be free to return to India.

  Libby attempted to absorb the enormity of what it meant. She swallowed hard, trying to stem the feeling of panic she felt at this sea change in her parents’ relationship.

  ‘What will you do?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m staying on,’ he said with a tired smile, ‘like you.’

  ‘In Calcutta?’ Libby asked in sudden excitement.

  James took another sip of his drink and said, ‘I’m thinking of settling in Shillong. The Percy-Barratts have moved up there and I have other old friends in the area.’

  Libby slid him a look. ‘Such as Clarrie?’

  Even on the dimly lit veranda, she could see her father’s face redden. ‘I suppose Clarrie is nearby too – yes, that’s true.’

  Libby laughed at his coyness. ‘She misses you too, Dad,’ she said. ‘A lot, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘How the devil would you know?’ James blustered.

  ‘Because she told me,’ Libby said, smiling. ‘She said how fond she had grown of you – and Harry too. He talks to Breckon about you – I’ve heard him. If you go to Shillong you’ll see him a lot, seeing as he’s at school there. A lot more than you did your own children.’

  James said, ‘Do you still resent us for sending you away? I know it was particularly hard for you, Libby. It wasn’t your mother’s fault – she would have kept you here if she could. I was the one thought it would do you all good. I regret that now.’

  Libby felt a pang of sadness. It confirmed her increasing awareness that her mother had not been to blame for her long, isolated years at boarding school. Tilly had suffered just as much being separated from her children – including her. Her mother’s regular, affectionate letters were proof of that.

  ‘It’s pointless staying resentful,’ Libby replied. ‘I’ve come to realise that. And I’m doing what I want now.’

  ‘You’ll be welcome in Shillong if you decide you want to do your teaching there,’ said James. ‘You know you will always have a home with me.’

  She felt a wave of affection for him. ‘Thanks, Dad. But I’m going to try and make a go of it here. I’ll soon have enough put by to rent my own place. There’re a couple of Flowers’s friends who are looking for a third person to share a flat with, so I won’t be a burden to the Roys for much longer.’

  James reached out and took her hand, squeezing it in his large one. For a moment he just held on to her but then he cleared his throat.

  ‘I wasn’t very kind about your young man,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about that now.’

  Libby felt a renewed stab of loss. ‘Ghulam?’

  ‘Yes, Ghulam.’ His eyes shone with pity. ‘That’s another thing your mother taught me – not to be so judgemental about people – or perhaps that was Clarrie’s doing.’

  Libby’s eyes smarted. ‘I think you would have had more in common with Ghulam than either of you realised,’ she said reflectively. ‘Both single-minded about your work and both loving India with a passion. I wish you had met each other.’

  James said gently, ‘Is there really no chance that he’s still alive?’

  Tears flooded the back of Libby’s throat. ‘It’s my greatest wish that he is,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I will never love anyone else as much as him.’

  She expected her father to come out with some comforting platitude that she was still so young and was bound to love again. But he surprised her.

  ‘If you loved him so much, Libby, then he must have been a good man. I too am sorry that I never met him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  He squeezed her hand. They sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Libby had never felt closer to her father than in that moment. It wasn’t the same as her childish adoration of him; it was a mature feeling of love and mutual understanding.

  After a while, James raised his glass in his other hand. ‘To you, Libby,’ he said with a tender smile. ‘To my amazing, intrepid daughter!’ He finished off his drink.

  Drained by the day’s events, they both went swiftly to bed. Despite the shock revelations of the past few hours, Libby slept soundly for the first time in days.

  CHAPTER 43

  In early November, James left for Shillong. Libby promised she would visit him at Christmas. She had received a letter from Clarrie reassuring her that the situation in Gulgat had calmed down. After her complaints to the police, the Rajah Sanjay had disciplined Sen and promised that there would be no more trouble from the princely s
tate. As an apology, he had sent Clarrie a gift of a Bentley motorcar filled with flowers and fruit.

  It’s totally impractical on Belgooree roads! Clarrie had written in amusement. But I can sell it and invest the money in the factory.

  ‘Perhaps we can get together with Clarrie and the family?’ Libby suggested to her father before departure. ‘She and Harry will be so happy to have Adela and Sam back home again. And Belgooree is like a second home to me now.’

  James looked pleased at the idea. ‘Perhaps we could ask ourselves over for a couple of days of shikar?’

  ‘Does Clarrie know you’re back in India?’ Libby asked.

  Her father reddened. ‘I haven’t had time . . . I’ll get in touch when I’m settled . . . don’t want to be a nuisance.’

  After James had gone, Libby wrote to Clarrie and told her about her father’s move to Shillong. She didn’t want Clarrie to get a shock on seeing James just turn up out of the blue with no explanation or warning. Her father might be cross with her for interfering but that would be nothing new. It would give Clarrie time to absorb the news that James and Tilly had separated, and allow her to work out her own feelings.

  Libby also wrote to her mother to say she was sorry about the separation and that she blamed neither parent; it was the long years of being apart and growing apart that had been the cause. Encouraged by her father’s sympathy over Ghulam, she confided in her mother too, pouring out her feelings about Ghulam and her huge sense of bereavement. It was a long, affectionate letter also telling Tilly about Flowers’s and George’s wedding, her typing lessons, how she was moving into a flat in Theatre Road with new friends and that her father had been very courageous in telling Danny Dunlop about his past.

  . . . What a terrible man Bill Logan was! I don’t suppose we should ever say anything to Sophie or Sam about the callous things he did. He caused them enough traumas as it is, without burdening them with more.

  Dad said that it was you who encouraged him to return to India and tell Mr Dunlop the truth about his parents. That was brave of you too, Mother – to help Dad face up to his past and not just brush things under the carpet – to let Dad go. Even before he left Calcutta, he was looking better – younger – as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He sounds happy in Shillong. I hope you are happy too, Mother.

  As for me, I’m going to stay in Calcutta for the time being. I have interesting work here and I hope to make a difference to the lives of the children I teach, however tiny a contribution that is in the great play of things. Ghulam would have wanted me to do it – and I feel closer to him here in Calcutta, so that brings a bit of comfort too.

  Perhaps next year I’ll come back to Newcastle for a visit. Please give my love to the boys and Josey – and dear Lexy if you see her. But most of all, I send my love to you, Mother, and hope you understand why I’m staying on in India.

  Your loving daughter,

  Libby xxx

  Libby resumed her work and kept fully occupied, expanding the number of hours she helped with Sanjeev’s free school and taking on more students for typing and bookkeeping. She moved out of the Roys’ comfortable home but continued to visit them once a week, knowing how they missed their own daughters who lived hundreds of miles away.

  She heard back from Tilly. Her mother’s letter was an emotional one: full of thanks for Libby’s understanding over the separation and warm words of sympathy about her grief for Ghulam.

  . . . of course you miss him! He was the love of your life – and by the sounds of it, you were his. My heart goes out to you, my darling. But there are women in this world who have never known that depth of love for a man, so at least you have had that. Dearest Libby, I can’t deny I’m disappointed that you’re not coming home but I don’t give up hope that you will! Your room is ready and waiting in the new Jesmond house whenever you decide to come. I’m afraid Fluff thinks of it as hers and I often catch her curled up on your bed – it’s such a warm room and gets all the south-facing sunshine.

  Darling girl! Take care of yourself. Try not to be too sad. Enjoy your time in Calcutta – and keep an eye on your father when you can. I want you to know that I do care what happens to him, even though I don’t want to be with him.

  Lots of love,

  Mother x

  Libby stored away the letter with her most precious possessions – her cherished letters from Ghulam and a photograph of him in cricket whites, grinning and smoking, that Sanjeev had given her.

  One November afternoon, as the light was fading and she was rubbing down the chalkboard at the end of the children’s lesson, a shadow fell across the doorway. Libby glanced round. It took her a moment to realise that it was Fatima. She looked extremely agitated. Libby’s heart jumped in alarm.

  ‘Fatima, what is it?’ Libby hurried towards her.

  The doctor was shaking and gulping, trying to speak. ‘He . . . he’s . . .’

  Libby felt fear claw her stomach. This was the moment she had dreaded: when she finally discovered Ghulam’s fate.

  ‘Tell me,’ Libby urged. ‘Is it Ghulam? Is he dead? Please tell me!’

  Fatima reached out, seizing Libby’s hands as if to save herself from falling, and began sobbing. Libby held her, her heart pounding so much she could hardly breathe.

  Fatima made a supreme effort to control herself and speak. ‘He’s alive,’ she rasped. ‘My brother’s alive!’

  Libby almost fainted with shock. ‘Ghulam’s alive?’ she gasped.

  ‘Yes!’ Fatima cried, half sobbing, half laughing.

  Libby was suddenly choked with emotion. Ghulam alive? It wasn’t possible! She clutched Fatima.

  ‘How do you know?’ Libby demanded. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Come!’ Fatima said. ‘Come now. He’s at Sanjeev’s. He’s asking for you.’ Fatima began pulling her through the door.

  The street children crowded around them, peering in astonishment at the crying women. Libby stumbled after Fatima, loosing a torrent of questions in between sobs of emotion.

  ‘How is he? Is he all right? How did he get here? Where’s he been?’

  ‘He’s very weak,’ Fatima said tearfully, hurrying along the street. ‘He’s had a terrible time. Robbed in Delhi. I’ve dressed his wounds again.’

  ‘Wounds?’ Libby cried in horror.

  ‘But he’s alive,’ Fatima repeated in triumph. ‘I never gave up hoping.’

  In minutes they were at Sanjeev’s flat. Fatima almost pushed Libby through the door. The room was already lit with a lamp. Libby stared. Half prone on Sanjeev’s charpoy, propped up on a bolster, was a man resembling Ghulam. He was thinner – his gaunt face bearded – and his hair was long and unkempt. But when he caught sight of her and smiled, Libby’s heart swelled with emotion.

  ‘Ghulam!’ Quickly she went to him.

  ‘Libby,’ he whispered, attempting to sit up. He winced in pain.

  ‘Don’t move,’ she said, sitting down gently on the edge of the bed and taking his hand. The skin was rough and nicked with cuts. She put it tenderly to her cheek, tears stinging her eyes. ‘How is this possible?’

  He gazed at her, his green eyes huge in his drawn face. ‘You stayed,’ he said in wonder. ‘I thought you would have left long ago.’

  ‘This is where I belong,’ she answered. She kissed the palm of his hand.

  She held his look, not wanting to blink and miss a moment of seeing him, proving to her disbelieving eyes that it was her beloved Ghulam and he was really alive.

  ‘What happened to you?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were d-dead.’ She sobbed over the word.

  Ghulam took her hand and kissed it in return. ‘By rights I should be,’ he said, pain passing over his face. ‘I was left for dead . . .’

  ‘You don’t have to speak of it now,’ Libby said hastily. ‘It’s just enough that you’ve come back to me – to us.’ She looked around but Fatima and Sanjeev had left them alone. She could hear them talking in the corridor.

  Libby le
ant closer to Ghulam and smoothed the hair from his brow.

  ‘Sanjeev gave me your letter,’ she said with a tender smile. ‘I know it by heart. It’s the most precious thing I possess. I missed you so much – I would read it whenever my spirits were low. Just to know that you loved me . . .’

  Tears spilled down Libby’s face.

  ‘You stayed,’ he repeated, brushing at her tears with his roughened fingers. ‘Does that mean you won’t be going back to Britain?’

  ‘No, I won’t be,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve made up my mind to live in Calcutta. I have work here and friends – and now I’ve got you.’

  ‘So you feel the same way?’ Ghulam asked, his look searching.

  ‘Of course I do,’ Libby replied. ‘I wrote you a letter from Belgooree to tell you about your father being ill – but also to say how much I loved you and always would love you. I sent it to Amelia Buildings, thinking you were still there.’

  Ghulam smiled his broad uneven smile and Libby’s heart melted.

  ‘Then we love each other,’ he said simply.

  ‘Yes.’ Libby smiled and leant towards him, kissing his cracked lips.

  He reached for her and she put her arms about him. Suddenly he flinched and Libby realised he was bandaged under his shirt.

  ‘Sorry.’ She pulled back. ‘Are you badly hurt?’

  ‘I can bear any pain if you’ll stay with me,’ Ghulam said with a wincing smile.

  She curled up next to him and stroked his face until he fell asleep.

  Darkness fell and Fatima left for her hospital digs before it grew too late. Libby rose to go too but Ghulam stirred, fretful.

  ‘Don’t leave, Libby,’ he murmured.

  Sanjeev said, ‘I will sleep next door with friends. Knock if you need anything.’

  Left alone together with Libby, Ghulam sighed in contentment and fell asleep again.

  In the hour before dawn, Ghulam said in a hoarse voice, ‘Are you awake?’

  Libby, who had hardly slept for watching over him, whispered, ‘Yes. Is there something you need? Water?’

  He nodded. She helped him sip. Then he began to talk, telling her in hesitant words what had happened to him. He had arrived safely in Delhi but had been appalled at the sight of the huge refugee camps stretching out on the broiling plain. Aghast at the scale of the misery and then the frantic scramble at the aerodrome of families trying to leave India for Pakistan, Ghulam had had second thoughts.