THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER:A wonderfully moving story of courage and enduring love: First in the India Tea Series

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

‘We went for a walk, Cousin Jared,’ Clarrie explained. ‘I’m sorry for the upset.’

  Jared gawped at her, taken aback by her boldness and unsure what to say.

  ‘Tell her,’ Lily ordered. ‘Tell her she’s never to do it again.’

  Jared looked uncomfortable, pulling on his bushy sideburns. ‘Well…’

  ‘I don’t see how it can be a sin,’ Clarrie said quickly, ‘when Mr Stock and his sons think it fine to walk in the park on a Sunday.’

  ‘Mr Stock?’ Jared queried. ‘You saw him?’

  Clarrie nodded and told them of the incident with the hoop. ‘Bertie Stock mentioned how good your pies were again, Mrs Belhaven.’

  ‘That’s grand, isn’t it?’ Jared gave a cautious smile.

  Confusion showed in Lily’s face, but she would not be mollified. ‘It’s a matter for the Stocks and their conscience if they choose to flout the Sabbath. It won’t happen in my house and as long as you live here, you’ll do as we do.’

  Clarrie was about to argue further, but caught sight of Olive’s anxious face. The girl was terrified of getting into trouble and Lily might take it out on her during the week when Clarrie was too busy in the pub to protect her. No use antagonising Lily when there were more important issues such as work and wages to be tackled.

  Clarrie swallowed down her rebellious words and said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise how much it would upset you. We won’t do it again.’

  The tea that followed was subdued, with Jared the only one trying to jolly along the conversation. Soon afterwards, the sisters escaped to their stuffy attic room and lay with the skylight jammed open, listening to the evening chatter of starlings and the sound of children chasing each other down the back lane.

  Clarrie could barely believe that they had only been there a week. It was hard to imagine they had led any other existence. India seemed impossibly remote, a dream she had made up or that had happened to someone else. She saw how easily they could be ground down by the day-to-day drudgery of life in Cherry Terrace and Lily’s strict rule. It must be like this for countless thousands of workers, when just reaching the end of each gruelling day was triumph enough.

  Clarrie knew then, in the confines of that dingy room, that she was going to have to fight to keep the memories of that other life alive, if she was not to lose hope. Pulling the swami’s small pink stone on its leather cord from under her cotton shift, she fingered its smoothness and closed her eyes. She was once again riding through the coolness of the forest and trotting into the hermit’s clearing just as the dawn broke over the mountains.

  Clarrie let the tears come as she gripped the pebble and forced herself to remember. Nothing and no one, she vowed, would ever take away her precious memories, or blight the spirit of Jock Belhaven’s daughter.

  CHAPTER 8

  Christmas Eve, 1905

  ‘I’ll go,’ Clarrie volunteered, dashing back into the kitchen with a tray of dirty glasses. ‘I’m used to horses and Barny knows me.’

  ‘But it’s very icy, lass.’ Jared frowned. ‘Perhaps I should go?’

  ‘The bar’s heaving,’ Clarrie pointed out.

  ‘Aye, you’re needed here, Jared,’ Lily snapped, giving Harrison, who was lying on the hard bench, a furious look, ‘with that lad next to useless. There’re twenty pies to deliver.’

  Harrison lay crying quietly, his ankle bandaged after falling down the cellar steps to change a barrel of beer. It was their busiest day of the year and Lily was even more short-tempered than usual.

  ‘Clarrie will have to go,’ Lily sighed. ‘Olive can help in the sitting room; it’s time she learned to pull her weight in the pub.’

  Clarrie was about to object that Lily should be the one helping out now the pies were finished, but Olive quickly agreed.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ she said, wiping her hands dry and smoothing back her red hair.

  ‘Let me show you then,’ Clarrie said.

  ‘I know what to do,’ Olive replied, though her look was anxious, ‘I’ve watched you long enough.’

  Clarrie threw her a look of surprise, but Lily was approving.

  ‘See, you mollycoddle that lass too much. She’s not a bairn. I’ll see she does it proper — you get yoursel’ off on the pie round.’

  With a comforting word to Harrison, Clarrie loaded up the cart and led Barny out into the lane, patting his neck and whispering encouragement. The pony was nervous and skittish on the ice and Clarrie led him firmly by the reins, not attempting to climb on to the rolley. At the top of the bank, she breathed a sigh of relief. It was bitterly cold, the air sharp and the light nearly gone from the grey winter sky. Yet she felt a surge of excitement to be out in the dusk with the shops along Elswick Road decorated for Christmas with holly and colourful glass baubles.

  She had bought Olive a sketchbook and pencils with the meagre wages she had extracted from the Belhavens. It had been one of several battles with Lily over the past few months. It had become clear early on that they had no intention of letting Clarrie find a job elsewhere.

  ‘No one will employ the two of you together,’ Jared had said, ‘so there’s no point lookin’.’

  ‘That’s all the thanks we get,’ Lily had huffed, ‘for takin’ you in when no one else would? You’d be homeless if it weren’t for our charity. The least you can do is help us out.’

  ‘We are grateful for what you’ve done. But we’ve been working here very hard for a month with no wages. If we’re staying we should get paid,’ Clarrie had insisted.

  ‘You get board and lodgings,’ Lily retorted.

  ‘But we’ve nothing to buy clothes with and we need boots for the winter. We need our own money. You could pay us what you paid the other lasses and then take off what’s fair for our board and keep.’

  Grudgingly, with Jared’s encouragement, Lily had agreed to give them four shillings pocket money a week, a shilling of which they had to put in the collection plate every Sunday. The sisters had become adept at spotting bargains in the second-hand clothes shops around Scotswood Road and making their own underwear and nightclothes from cheap cuts of material from the draper’s. But the paltry wages meant they could save nothing and were in no position to look for somewhere else to live. Besides, Clarrie would not know where to start. She had not been beyond Elswick and the west end of Newcastle since their arrival, nor seen the city’s grand centre again. She had fought and lost the battle for an afternoon off a week.

  ‘There’s too much to do,’ Lily had been dismissive, ‘and we’ve never given ourselves an afternoon off in years.’

  ‘It’s not safe to gan into town on your own, lasses,’ Jared had concurred. ‘One day we’ll take you for a look round, though there’s nowt much to see.’

  Clarrie did not believe him. Even from her limited view from the top of Elswick she could see the elegant spires of the city churches and cathedral, and the ornate sweep of Georgian rooftops beneath the pall of smoke.

  She determined to enjoy her moment of freedom now and went about her deliveries with a light step, consulting the scrap of paper with the route and addresses. There were four houses in north Elswick to visit, plus a nursing home, a boarding house and cocoa rooms on Westgate Road. Peering inside the latter, Clarrie felt a stab of nostalgia at the sound of teacups clinking and groups of men warming themselves round a blazing fire playing cards and draughts. They had spent many a frosty winter’s evening at Belgooree drinking tea and playing board games, with the scent of wood smoke filling the air. The smell here though was the acrid mineral smell of burning coal to which she was growing used.

  She pressed on to her last delivery, the Stocks at Summerhill, as the street lamps lit up. Clarrie wondered what she would find at the tall elegant town house, nestling discreetly in a quiet square off busy Westgate Road. A month ago, Louisa Stock had abruptly stopped coming to church.

  ‘She’ll be confined to the house with the new bairn,’ Jared had guessed.

  ‘Aye, Mrs Stock won’t be seen out the hous
e till after the baptism,’ Lily agreed. ‘Wouldn’t be proper.’

  But no christening was announced and what puzzled Clarrie more were the long faces of the Stock men as they hurried from the Sunday service without stopping to chat. Only Will slowed at the Belhavens’ pew end to give Clarrie a bashful smile, but he no longer stopped to chat about hoops or horses as he had done since their encounter in the park. Something was not right, and as Clarrie descended the steps to the basement kitchen, she hoped that no illness had befallen the friendly Louisa.

  Will was the first person she saw, perched on top of the kitchen table, swinging his legs and eating a banana.

  ‘Clarrie!’ he cried. ‘What are you doing here? Are those mince pies? They smell like mince pies — my favourite!’

  A young girl in a kitchen maid’s apron and cap shooed him off the table. ‘Don’t let Cook catch you up there. Ta,’ she said to Clarrie, taking the tray of pies. ‘You’re new, aren’t you?’

  ‘She’s a cousin of Mr Belhaven’s from India, Dolly,’ Will piped up.

  ‘Don’t tell stories,’ the girl scolded.

  Clarrie laughed. ‘It’s true.’

  Dolly stared at her as if she had two heads. ‘Fancy!’ She backed away with the tray through a pantry door. ‘Better hide these from Cook — she hates it that the master likes Belhaven’s pies better than hers. She’ll be handing these out to the Salvation Army if she finds them first.’

  ‘Come and see my nativity figures,’ Will said to Clarrie, taking her by the arm.

  Clarrie hesitated, looking at her dirty boots and threadbare jacket. ‘I can’t go up like this.’

  ‘Yes you can,’ Will insisted, ‘it’s only in the hallway. You won’t have to stand on the carpet.’

  Dolly reappeared. ‘I wouldn’t worry. No one’s ganin’ to see you. The master and Mr Bertie are still at the office and the mistress is in bed.’

  ‘I thought they’d be the type to have half the neighbourhood in for the celebrations,’ Clarrie said.

  ‘Not this year.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  Dolly glanced cautiously at Will. ‘Not for me to say.’

  ‘Come on, Clarrie,’ Will said impatiently, dragging her towards the kitchen door.

  ‘Just for a minute then,’ she relented. ‘I can’t leave Barny out there in the cold for too long.’

  He led her up a flight of stone steps to the ground floor and through a green baize door. An open door across the darkened hallway showed a large drawing-room also in darkness save for the eerie glow of a street lamp through the uncurtained windows. A broad staircase climbed away into the gloom, its banisters undecorated. As far as she could see, there were no decorations anywhere, or preparations for Christmas. Disappointingly, the house appeared empty, unlit and chilly.

  Clarrie clutched on to Will, unsure of her way in the dark.

  ‘It’s just up on the landing,’ Will said, guiding her towards the stairs.

  ‘You said it was in the hallway,’ Clarrie faltered. ‘I’m not sure I should be here.’

  ‘Please, Clarrie!’

  She could hear the note of desperation in his voice. She allowed herself to be led upwards.

  Soft light flickered at the end of the landing and Clarrie saw a nativity scene laid out on a low wooden chest. The house was so quiet that they crept towards it holding their breath. Up close, she saw that the neat figures were made out of stuffed material and dressed in bright clothing. There were tiny, delicate oxen and sheep, and a crib carved of wood cradled a baby swaddled in white cloth. The whole scene was lit by a row of miniature candles that bathed it in a cosy glow.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Clarrie gasped. ‘Who made it?’

  ‘Mama,’ Will whispered. ‘She made it for me when I was five. I put it out every year, even though I’m too big to play with it now.’

  Clarrie put out a finger and gently touched the baby. ‘So small yet so neat. Olive would love to see this.’

  ‘You can bring her if you like,’ Will enthused.

  ‘Thank you.’ She touched his arm. ‘You’re a kind boy.’

  His shook his head. ‘No, I’m not. I’m a nuisance. That’s what Papa says. Tells me to keep out of Mama’s room and that I make too much noise.’

  ‘Well, in my experience, you can be noisy and kind at the same time.’

  He gave her a flash of a smile. ‘I like you, Clarrie. Would you like to come for Christmas lunch?’

  Clarrie laughed. ‘I wish I could, but I have to be with Olive and help Mr and Mrs Belhaven with their dinner.’

  ‘Did you have Christmas in India?’

  Clarrie’s insides jolted at the sudden mention. ‘Yes,’ she gulped, thinking of their last unhappy Christmas fretting over money and her father’s drinking.

  ‘Turkey and plum pudding?’ Will asked.

  ‘No, roast woodcock and ginger pudding.’

  ‘I suppose Christmas doesn’t always have to be the same,’ he said, thoughtful. He fell silent as he stared at the crib. Clarrie was about to move away when he said, ‘Mama had a dead baby.’

  Her heart thumped. ‘Oh, Will, how terrible. I am sorry. She must be very sad.’

  Will shrugged. ‘She doesn’t talk about it. No one does. They think I don’t know because I’m only eleven. But I saw the doctor taking a box out of her room and he left it in the cloakroom while he went to talk to Papa.’ Will hesitated. Clarrie could hear him swallowing hard. ‘It was the kind of box I keep my toy soldiers in.’ His voice sank to a whisper. ‘I looked inside. It was all wrapped up like baby Jesus. But it was real. I touched it. It was warm.’

  Clarrie stifled a groan.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t have,’ Will said in agitation. ‘Do — do you think I killed it? Maybe the doctor was taking it away to make it better.’ He let out a sob.

  She hugged him quickly to her. ‘Oh, you poor lad! Of course you didn’t kill the baby. The doctor would never have put her in a box if she was still alive.’

  Will leaned into her hold and quietly cried. She stroked his hair in comfort.

  ‘You won’t tell though, will you?’ Will said, pulling away.

  ‘Of course not,’ Clarrie reassured him, ‘but you did nothing wrong. You mustn’t blame yourself, do you promise?’

  He nodded and wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve.

  ‘I must go now,’ Clarrie said gently. ‘Will you be all right?’

  He nodded. As they moved down the corridor, he asked, ‘Why did you call the baby a she?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Clarrie answered. ‘I just had a feeling your mother was carrying a girl. Was the baby given a burial?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Will shrugged. ‘Nobody told me.’

  Clarrie descended the stairs holding his hand, her heart aching for his confusion and unhappiness. She felt sorry for them all and wondered how ill his mother was. As they reached the bottom, she sensed a movement above and turned. She thought she saw a figure in a pale gown go past the end of the banisters, but could not be sure.

  Outside, it had begun to snow heavily. ‘Look, Will,’ Clarrie cried, ‘isn’t it beautiful?’ She twirled around, turning her face to the falling snowflakes ‘My first snow in England!’

  Will was just as excited and ran about whooping with joy, kicking up snow. He scraped up a huge pile into a giant snowball and flung it at Clarrie. It caught her on the neck and she screamed in surprise. A moment later, she was chasing him around the quiet square, hurling snowballs back.

  ‘Will!’ a voice barked out of the dark. ‘Is that you?’

  As Will dashed forward Clarrie let fly a large snowball. The boy collided with the shadowy figure of a man just as the snowball hit its target. The pair were showered in wet snow. Will shrieked with laughter and shook it off, but the man shouted with indignation. ‘Stop that, you little blighter!’

  Too late, Clarrie realised it was Herbert Stock. She hurried over, skidding about in the fresh snow, hair dishevelled and clothing pockmark
ed with snowballs.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Stock,’ she gasped. ‘I just got carried away.’

  In the dim gaslight, he peered at her through the falling snow. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Clarrie Belhaven,’ she panted. ‘I was delivering the mince pies.’

  ‘Clarrie! Goodness me, I thought it was a friend of Will’s.’

  ‘She is, Papa.’ Will grinned. ‘We’ve had a terrific snowball fight. Clarrie’s as good as a boy.’

  Clarrie laughed. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  Herbert gave a rueful smile as he brushed snow from his shoulder. ‘Indeed you should. I can see how accurate your aim is.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Clarrie repeated.

  ‘Don’t be,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t heard Will so happy for weeks.’

  Clarrie longed to give her sympathy for the loss of his baby, but did not want to get Will into trouble. Instead she said, ‘I’m sorry to hear Mrs Stock has been unwell.’

  He shot her a startled look.

  ‘Dolly told me she was in bed,’ Clarrie said quickly. ‘Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to help out — any extra baking or provisions.’

  ‘That’s kind,’ he said stiffly, ‘but we wouldn’t want to burden you.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be a burden,’ Clarrie assured him. ‘I’m used to running a household. I had to after my mother died. So I know how a little bit of help goes a long way.’

  The sternness in his face softened. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Can we have hot chocolate and mince pies now, Papa?’ Will asked. ‘And can Clarrie stay?’

  Clarrie saw Herbert hesitate in embarrassment. ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ she said. ‘I must get back to help at the hotel.’

  ‘Do you live in a hotel?’ Will gasped. ‘Is it very grand?’

  Clarrie stifled a bitter laugh. ‘No, not very.’

  As she hurried over to the patient pony, she heard Will telling his father about showing her the nativity scene. She flushed to think how she had gone brazenly upstairs as if she were their equal. Herbert Stock would probably be annoyed. In his eyes she was a lowly barmaid and maid-of-all-work. His son Bertie would not even deign to speak to her at church. In a year or so even Will would understand that he could not invite the likes of her into the house. She left quickly, banishing from her mind thoughts of the Stocks’ genteel home. If she allowed herself to make comparisons with the grim surroundings of Cherry Terrace, from which there seemed no escape, she would go mad.