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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Listlessly, she carried out her chores. All she could think about was getting through the morning, then the rest of the day until she could fall into bed and take refuge in exhausted sleep. It was better to think of today as just like any other as Lily had declared, for to remember the thrill of Christmases of old in the crisp beauty of Belgooree with her parents and Kamal was to invite black despair.

  Christmas dinner was a joyless affair: a reheated piece of mutton left over from pie making and boiled potatoes and turnip. The highlight was a small mince pie, of which the girls were served tiny slivers. Jared gulped back the one beer that Lily allowed him and tried to jolly the conversation along.

  ‘Church was full. Singing was grand, wasn’t it, my dear?’

  Lily grunted. ‘Not that you’d know a good note if yer heard it.’

  ‘Still no sign of Mrs Stock,’ Jared said. ‘There’s a rumour her bairn was stillborn and she’s taken it badly.’

  ‘She should be thankful for the two lads she’s got,’ Lily retorted. ‘What I wouldn’t have given for a pair of strong lads to run this place. Louisa Stock doesn’t know she’s born.’

  Clarrie put down her spoon, her appetite gone. She had witnessed the deep sadness hanging over the Stocks’ house like a funeral pall, yet Lily could not summon a kind word to say on the matter. All she thought about was herself and how hard a life she had been given. Clarrie saw clearly how Lily had allowed bitterness to eat into her and destroy any sympathy towards others. She did not know whether to despise or pity her.

  ‘Don’t waste that,’ Lily cried, seeing Clarrie push away her hardly touched pie. ‘I’ll have it.’ She shovelled the remains onto her own plate.

  Olive hardly said a word all day. Only when they were alone upstairs did she pull a small package from her pocket.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t got you anything for Christmas,’ she apologised, ‘but Will Stock asked me to give this to you. He seemed really disappointed not to see you.’

  In the candlelight, Clarrie unwrapped the tissue paper. Lying inside was one of the oxen from his nativity scene. It was made of corduroy with tiny black beads for eyes and pipe cleaners twisted into horns. The material was worn away where Will’s small fingers had played with it over the years. A note was enclosed.

  ‘I know you like horses best, but Papa says they have oxen in India too. Hope you like it. Happy Christmas from William.’

  Clarrie gently curled her fingers round the stuffed figure. ‘Dear Will,’ she gulped. It was the simplest of gifts and yet the most generous, for she knew how much the nativity set meant to the boy. His kindness touched her heart.

  Suddenly a sob broke from deep inside and the next minute tears were streaming uncontrollably down her cheeks. Olive threw her arms about her neck.

  ‘Oh, Clarrie, don’t. I hate it when you cry.’ Then she was crying too. They clung to each other, grateful that they were not facing this ordeal alone.

  ‘We will get out of here,’ Clarrie whispered fiercely, ‘we will!’

  The bleak day ended like countless before it in their stark, freezing attic, but that night they drew comfort from Will’s surprise gift. It was a sign of goodness in a frightening world. Deep down, Clarrie knew she would find the strength to fight on.

  CHAPTER 10

  1906

  For nearly a month, Clarrie was confined to the house until there was no trace of the bruising to her face, though she was left with a permanent bump on the bridge of her delicate straight nose as a reminder of that terrible night. Lily made her work in the kitchen and forced Olive out to serve in the pub, which the girl feared and hated. Often the smoky bar would trigger her asthma, but Lily made no allowances. Harrison made Clarrie all too conscious of her appearance.

  ‘Ye’re a funny colour, Clarrie,’ he kept saying, peering at her. ‘Yer not feeling well?’

  Clarrie grew to despise Lily all the more, confined with her in the hot, fetid kitchen being bullied and criticised. She noticed how much the woman drank in secret in the pantry and wondered again how she had never noticed before. Lily’s temper after these furtive episodes was unpredictable; at best she grew drowsy and forgetful, at worst aggressive and abusive. Clarrie realised how much Olive must have put up with over the autumn months without telling her.

  Though she dreaded it, the day came when Lily sent her back in the bar. Perversely, she chose Clarrie’s twentieth birthday.

  ‘We don’t bother with birthdays in this house.’ Lily was dismissive when Olive asked if they could bake her sister a cake. ‘You can buy one out of yer wages but I haven’t money to waste.’

  Defiantly, on the birthday morning, Olive took out her violin from under the bed and played to Clarrie in the kitchen before breakfast. It was the first time she had touched the instrument in months and her fingers were stiff and out of practice. But Clarrie was overjoyed to see the light return to Olive’s tired eyes as she played and the smile of satisfaction when she finished.

  ‘That was the best present ever.’ Clarrie kissed her sister. ‘Thank you. Now put it away before Lily complains and chops it up for firewood.’

  Olive looked aghast and rushed to hide it upstairs again, even though Clarrie had meant it as a joke.

  Later, Clarrie braced herself to re-enter the bar, sweating and breathless at the thought of having to face Hobson again. It rankled that her cousins expected her to serve him as if nothing had happened. She was shaking so much that she nearly repeated the dropping of a tray-load of beer. To her relief Hobson did not appear that day.

  Unexpectedly, she was cheered by the appearance of Lexy, Maggie and Ina in the afternoon.

  ‘Where’ve you been, hinny?’ Maggie cried.

  ‘We thought you’d run off with a lad from the brewery,’ Lexy teased.

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ Clarrie replied.

  ‘By, you’re thin as a stick, lass,’ Ina commented. ‘That dragon not been feeding you?’

  ‘Aye, your sister’s skin and bones an’ all,’ said Maggie. ‘Doesn’t say much either, your Olive. Looked like she was about to burst into tears whenever I said owt to her.’

  ‘You make me want to burst into tears whenever you open your gob, man Maggie,’ Lexy joked. Maggie shoved her playfully.

  ‘Never mind them,’ Ina said, rolling her eyes at Clarrie, ‘we’ve got some’at for you. Gan on, our Lexy.’ She nudged her friend.

  Lexy pulled out a bar of soap and popped it into Clarrie’s apron. ‘It’s Pears not carbolic. Don’t let the dragon get a whiff of it.’

  ‘No, it’s just for you,’ Ina said.

  Clarrie gawped at them. ‘How did you know it was my birthday?’

  They laughed in surprise. ‘Eeh, we didn’t,’ said Ina, ‘but isn’t that grand?’

  ‘That’s ever so kind,’ Clarrie blushed, ‘but what have I done to deserve it?’

  Maggie lowered her voice. ‘We heard about that bother with Hobson. He’s a nasty bugger in drink — uses his belt on his missus.’

  ‘Aye,’ Lexy nodded. ‘She comes in the bathhouse all la-di-da — but we’ve seen the marks on her, poor woman.’

  Tears sprang to Clarrie’s eyes. She gulped, her throat too tight to utter her thanks. Ina put out a roughened hand and squeezed Clarrie’s. ‘Keep yer chin up, hinny. The likes of Hobson aren’t good enough to lick yer boots. He’s a coward for using his fists on you.’

  ‘Aye,’ Lexy said, ‘and we’ll pay him back, don’t you worry. The next time his missus brings his clathes in the laundry, me and Maggie’s ganin’ to put pepper in his long Johns.’

  The women burst into raucous laughter. Clarrie smiled.

  ‘That’s better,’ Ina said. ‘You don’t suit a sad face.’

  ‘I couldn’t be sad for two minutes with you lot around.’ Clarrie pushed away Maggie’s money. ‘This one’s on me. Keep your pennies for that pepper.’

  Clarrie kept the soap hidden upstairs and she and Olive used it with the basin of water they carried up each night.
Sometimes they had to prod through a thin layer of ice in the morning, so cold were the raw days of January and February.

  Every time Clarrie used the soft soap and smelled its delicate perfume, she thought of the kind women and wondered at how they kept up their spirits day after day. She knew from chatting to them that Ina was widowed and had to sell second-hand clothes out of a wheelbarrow to feed her five children. Maggie had a drunk for a husband and Lexy’s parents were dead and she was surrogate mother to her six younger siblings.

  She did not begrudge them their snatched moments of camaraderie in the pub, but they deserved something better. The atmosphere could be volatile and fights broke out over a dropped halfpenny. Often the women were the butt of ribald jokes or abusive remarks, and at times Lily would barge in and chase them out for no apparent reason. Clarrie felt sorry for the gaggle of children who often came with them and had to huddle outside in the rain or sleet, waiting while their mother or elder sister warmed themselves with liquor. If only there was somewhere safer and more congenial for poor working-class women like them and their children to go. It seemed to Clarrie that nobody cared, neither brewer nor publican, as long as they kept paying for their drink.

  One blustery spring day, when Clarrie had just finished hanging out washing in the back lane, she heard a delivery van clattering downhill.

  ‘Watch yer washing, missus!’ a young man yelled.

  Clarrie dashed back out and grabbed at the flapping shirts and aprons. Too late, she saw that the van was careering towards her unattended. She jumped out of the way just in time. The pony came trotting by, gathering washing as it went. The washing line caught on the wooden canopy of the van and pulled the rest of the laundry with it. The youth ran behind, breathless, waving his cap.

  ‘Catch him for us, missus!’

  Clarrie shot after the pony and caught it at the end of the lane.

  ‘Whoa, there!’ She grabbed the reins and tugged it to a halt. The delivery man caught up. He had fair hair that stood up thick as a brush and lively hazel eyes. For a moment they stood catching their breath.

  ‘Ta, miss,’ he panted. ‘Bella would be off home given half a chance. She’s too frisky by half.’

  Clarrie patted the horse. ‘She’s a sturdy one. You have to be firm and show her who’s boss.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ He gave her a mocking look. ‘Know about horses, do you?’

  ‘Enough not to let one bolt and ruin other folks’ washing.’ She pulled off a shirt that had snagged on Bella’s harness.

  ‘Sorry, miss.’ He blushed and began helping her gather up the strewn washing.

  ‘The name’s Clarrie,’ she told him.

  ‘Jack,’ he replied, ‘Jack Brewis. I’ll put your line back up for you.’

  Clarrie gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. ‘Think I’ll have to wash half of this again first.’

  He hauled in the line of aprons from the van roof. ‘Work at the Cherry, do you?’

  Clarrie nodded.

  ‘Bit rough in there sometimes,’ Jack grunted.

  Clarrie flushed. ‘Can be. I’ve never seen you in, though.’

  He glanced at her. ‘Nah, I divvn’t drink. Prefer to gan dancin’ or to the Pavilion.’

  ‘The Pavilion? What’s that?’

  He gave her an astonished look. ‘The music hall on Westgate Road. Have you never been?’

  Clarrie shook her head.

  ‘By, you’re missin’ a treat.’

  Clarrie smothered a pang of longing. How could she explain that she was a virtual prisoner, not even allowed an afternoon off, let alone an evening of theatre? She could just imagine Lily fulminating about devil’s music and shameless harlots on the stage.

  ‘What you selling?’ she asked.

  ‘Tea,’ he replied, handing her a heap of laundry.

  Clarrie looked at the van properly for the first time. Its bold lettering advertised the Tyneside Tea Company. Her eyes widened with interest.

  ‘What kinds have you got?’

  He scrutinised her tatty work dress and hobnail boots.

  ‘The cheapest we do is Household tea.’

  Clarrie put her hands on her hips. ‘And what’s that made of? Flowery, Orange Pekoe, Broken Pekoe, Souchong or Dust?’

  He gawped at her. ‘I divvn’t knaw. It’s good strong workers’ tea. Me mam swears by it.’

  Clarrie suppressed a smile. ‘If you want me to buy some, you better try harder at selling than that.’

  ‘All right, Clarrie,’ he said in a teasing voice, ‘we’ve got Assam Breakfast, Darjeeling and Ceylon. Ceylon’s canny for afternoon tea — all the posh people are drinking that. Haway and have a look.’

  He reached into the van and pulled out a basket with packets of tea, each type wrapped in different coloured rice paper. Clarrie picked out one and opened it.

  ‘Hoy, what you doing?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Smelling it.’

  She breathed in the aroma of the dark leaves. It was strong and earthy, conjuring up humid heat. The next was more scented, a third smoky and the fourth a pungent mix of lesser grade leaves. She closed her eyes and could see the brown swirling Brahmaputra, and the hillsides of emerald green tea trees, steaming and dripping after the rain. She picked out the final tea and inhaled. At once its spicy delicate scent evoked a memory of sandalwood and oak, of spring water and dawn mist. Her stomach twisted with bittersweet longing. It smelled of Belgooree.

  ‘This one,’ she said, tears welling in her eyes. ‘I want this one.’

  He looked at her uncertainly. ‘That’s Darjeeling — it’s canny pricey.’

  ‘I know.’ She smiled tearfully, pulling out the pouch of money she kept with her at all times.

  As she handed over most of that week’s wages, Jack eyed her. ‘You’re a funny one, Clarrie. How come you know so much about tea? Are you foreign or some’at?’

  She hesitated. There was no use saying she was a tea planter’s daughter; he would think she was telling tales.

  ‘My father was a soldier in India; he learned a lot about tea and passed it on to me.’

  He gave her a puzzled look. ‘You talk different an’ all. You’re not from round here, are you?’

  Clarrie shook her head.

  Before he could ask any more, a voice bellowed from behind, ‘What the devil’s ganin’ on here?’

  Clarrie looked round, startled. It was a belligerent Lily at the yard gate. ‘Come here, you little madam. What you done with me washing?’

  Jack saw the tension on Clarrie’s face and intervened. ‘Sorry, missus,’ he called up the lane, ‘it was my fault. I’ll fix it.’

  ‘Be off with you!’ Lily shouted back. ‘And you get yerself back in here this minute, you shameless lass!’

  ‘Bit of a charmer, is she?’ Jack murmured to Clarrie.

  ‘You better go,’ Clarrie told him, ‘before she boils you up and serves you in a pie.’

  Jack snorted with laughter. ‘Sorry for getting you into trouble. And ta very much for stopping Bella.’

  ‘Thanks for the tea.’ She smiled briefly, shoving the packet into her apron and turning to go.

  ‘Hope I see you again, Clarrie,’ he said as he jammed his cap back on his head and pulled Bella forward.

  ‘Aye, me too.’ She waved and hurried up the lane with an armful of crumpled washing.

  Clarrie weathered Lily’s vitriolic words about her brazen behaviour, her uselessness at washing and her general idleness, for she knew that at the end of the day, when the Belhavens were in bed, she would treat Olive to a pot of real tea. For too long they had stomached Lily’s cheap bitter Dust tea. She would infuse it with the ginger that Ina had bought for her to ease Olive’s wheezing, as Kamal used to do.

  Late that night, the sisters sat by the kitchen fire, sipping the steaming black tea, and talked quietly of their former life. Clarrie told Olive about the handsome delivery man and his runaway horse.

  ‘He likes dancing and music,’ Clarrie said approvingly, ‘and
he doesn’t drink either.’

  ‘I like the sound of this Jack,’ Olive agreed. ‘Do you think he’ll call again?’

  Clarrie sighed. ‘If Gin-Lily hasn’t scared him away.’

  ‘Imagine going to a concert or a dance,’ Olive said dreamily. ‘When will we ever do that, Clarrie?’

  Clarrie was about to promise that they would someday soon, but stopped herself. She had made too many promises to her sister that had come to nothing, and Olive was no longer a child to be comforted by easy words.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered.

  Olive bowed her head, her expression forlorn. Looking at Olive s wan face and her once glowing red hair now dulled and thinning, Clarrie felt a wave of tenderness towards her sensitive sister; she had endured their new life of hardship and displacement far more stoically than Clarrie could have imagined. Clarrie had always thought of herself as the strong one having to protect her younger sister, but in that quiet moment, as they sat drinking the special tea, she realised that she could not have borne the past months without Olive at her side.

  Olive was the only one whom she could talk to about home and their past life, who understood how she felt. Olive reminded her so often of their mercurial father; she shared his passions, his mood swings and self-doubts. Olive was her one precious link with Belgooree and the parents they had loved and lost.

  But it frightened Clarrie that her sister might lose hope. Her health had deteriorated rapidly over the winter in the damp and smoky house. Even Lily had grown so used to Olive’s habitual cough that she no longer complained about it. She must do something to try to improve their lot.

  Over the next few days, Clarrie thought a lot about the friendly Jack and his tea, looking out for his van in the hope that he would come again. It had been so refreshing to meet someone new and of her age who had nothing to do with the pub or its hard-drinking customers. But there was never any sign of Jack or his pony Bella.