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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Frustratingly, every time she tried to raise the matter with Herbert, he brushed her off. He was too busy. It would be a huge undertaking. Yes, she could gather information. They would talk it through at a later date.

  Will, returning for the Easter holidays, distracted her from her search and filled the quiet house with noise and laughter. It was Will who fulfilled Clarrie’s ambition to find the Belhavens’ old farm in north Northumberland. With Olive, they took the train upcountry to Wooler and hired a horse and trap from the station. From an old map found in Herbert’s library, they worked out that the farm lay halfway between Wooler and the coast. Doddingham, when they found it, was a clutch of sturdy farm buildings by a river, surrounded by lush fields and ringed by the rolling foothills of the Cheviots.

  Clarrie was gripped by a sharp pang of familiarity, of belonging. It was just as her father had described it. Walking to the top of a steep-sided, heather-clad hill, they could see the blue-grey North Sea spreading out to the east.

  ‘Father never lost his love of the sea,’ Clarrie mused, ‘even though he’d been away from it over half his life.’

  Olive slipped a hand into hers and they stood in silence, letting the memories wash over them. Jock and his shells from Bamburgh beach. His tale of local heroine Grace Darling saving shipwrecked passengers from the rocks of the Farne Islands. In the distance they could see the ancient fortress of Bamburgh Castle guarding the coast and the treacherous islands beyond.

  As they dropped down out of the wind and shared a picnic, the sisters regaled Will with reminiscences about their father and his many tales.

  ‘I like the sound of Jock,’ Will said with a wistful smile. ‘I can’t remember my father telling me a single story. Mama was different. She loved stories. I could never hear them often enough.’ He stopped, his fair face reddening. ‘Sorry.’

  Clarrie put out a hand quickly and squeezed his. ‘Don’t be. You must never feel you can’t speak of your mother to me. I like to hear you talk of her. Your father never mentions her and that’s much harder to bear. It’s as if I’m not really part—’ Abruptly, she stopped. She had been about to say, not really part of the family, despite the ring on her finger.

  There was an awkward silence after her remark, both Will and Olive glancing away. Clarrie berated herself for having let slip her criticism. Whatever her difficulties with Herbert, she had no right to air them with his son.

  She led the way back down to the farm and they called at the farmhouse out of curiosity. The present tenants were called Hudson. Mrs Hudson, a broad-faced woman in a faded cotton bonnet, invited them in for a drink of milk. She cried out with astonishment when she heard they were Belhavens.

  ‘Aye, I remember your father in his scarlet uniform — I was a child when he left. Me father was the blacksmith — used to mend Belhavens’ machinery. They had a business selling ploughs, didn’t they?’

  Clarrie coloured. ‘Yes, until they were bought out by the Robsons.’

  ‘Oh, the Robsons,’ the woman said with reverence, ‘they knew how to turn a penny into a pound. First ploughs, then boilers — always canny with their money. Still hold the tenancies to a couple of farms round here.’ She sucked in her breath. ‘But there’s not a Belhaven left.’

  Clarrie felt resentment quicken. ‘No, the Robsons saw to that.’

  Mrs Hudson gave her a quizzical look. ‘Robsons were just better at making and selling things than others. Me father always said that. That’s why your father went in the army — knew he’d make a better soldier than farmer or businessman. By, he looked a bonny sight in his uniform. Turned all the lasses’ heads!’

  Clarrie felt uncomfortable at the woman’s blunt words. It was not the story her father had constantly told, that the money-grabbing Robsons had swindled the Belhavens out of their livelihood. But there was no one left now from those days who would be able to tell her the truth. Mrs Hudson was only passing on the gossip from her childhood.

  As they took their leave, the farmer’s wife was still marvelling over meeting them.

  ‘Eeh, fancy meeting old Jock’s bairns! I can see the likeness in the both of you.’

  Clarrie shot her a look, but the woman was sincere. She felt a flood of warmth towards her, that she could see a glimpse of Jock in her and not just in red-headed Olive.

  It was late by the time they returned to Newcastle, but they talked about their trip animatedly over supper, telling Herbert in great detail about the farm and the meeting with Mrs Hudson.

  ‘I’m so glad it was a successful day,’ Herbert beamed. ‘I can see how the fresh air has done you good. Perhaps Will can organise another outing before he goes back to school?’

  ‘Of course,’ Will agreed at once.

  Clarrie had expected to return feeling content at having at last found the place where the Belhavens had belonged, but it only left her more restless. She had had a taste of real country air again, of open skies and rugged hills. She had not experienced anything as remote or wild since leaving Belgooree. Now the knowledge that such places existed beyond the smoky bustling city made her crave more.

  So when Will came back with an invitation from Johnny for them both to go riding, Clarrie jumped at the chance. Olive, who was wary of horses, declined. Clarrie was given a sleek grey mare called Mayflower. Nervous at first after such a long time out of the saddle, she soon felt her confidence return and relished the ride. They rode upriver, beyond the sprawling munitions sheds, until the housing petered out into orchard, scrubland and old cottages that had once housed workers at a former drift mine. At Wylam they rode into a cloudburst and sheltered at an inn where they were served a platter of ham, cheese and thick hunks of bread.

  ‘Where did you learn to ride so well?’ Johnny asked in admiration.

  ‘In India,’ Clarrie smiled wistfully. ‘I had a pony called Prince. Rode him every day.’

  ‘You can ride Mayflower whenever you want,’ Johnny said generously, ‘even if I’m away at school. I’ll let Papa know.’

  Clarrie felt a rush of warmth towards Will’s friend. ‘That’s very kind. I’d like to very much.’

  After enjoying Will’s companionship, Clarrie and Olive missed him twice as much after he left. The months until his next return seemed to stretch ahead interminably. To stem her restlessness, Clarrie reminded Herbert of his promise to take her to the Lake District.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve far too much work to attend to at the moment,’ he said. ‘Perhaps in a month or two.’

  But he always found some excuse to put off their delayed honeymoon. By midsummer Clarrie knew she would go mad if she had nothing to occupy her beyond the concerns of the household. She confronted her husband one evening in his study.

  ‘I want to discuss my plans for a tea house and I won’t be put off any longer,’ she said, coming straight to the point. ‘Remember how you promised you would help me?’

  Herbert glanced up. ‘I’m not sure I ever promised, my dear. It was said half in jest. I didn’t think you were really serious about wanting one.’

  Clarrie stemmed her annoyance. ‘Oh, but I am. You know how I’ve been planning it — how Rachel and I have been observing the competition.’

  ‘And I’m glad that’s given you an interest.’ He smiled. ‘But going into business is quite a different thing. There’s no necessity for you to work, my dear.’ He was already looking down at his files again.

  How pompous he sounded. She knew now how Will must feel being dismissed with that slight air of irritation. She marched forward and leaned across the desk, placing her hands over his papers.

  ‘Yes there is. I need to work.’ She held his look. ‘I want to run a tea house here in Newcastle. I know I’m capable.’

  He sighed and sat back. For a long moment he studied her as if assessing her seriousness. He tried a different tack. ‘I am not a man of endless means. If you’re thinking about something like the Empire Tea Rooms on Blackett Street, I can’t begin to afford anything of the kind.’

&n
bsp; Clarrie felt her insides twist at mention of the Empire. She had not been back since their wedding day; it was for ever tainted with the encounter with Wesley.

  ‘No, I don’t want a grand city centre place where only the middle classes go. I want to open one in Elswick.’

  ‘Elswick?’ He frowned, removing his spectacles. Now she really had his attention.

  ‘Yes,’ she said with enthusiasm, ‘somewhere where lasses can meet, get out the house for a bit. And lads can come in at dinnertime and have a warm meal instead of beer to fill their empty bellies.’

  ‘More like a soup kitchen, you mean?’ Herbert asked.

  ‘No, not charity.’ Clarrie was adamant. ‘This will be as grand as any Empire Tea Rooms — a bit of luxury but at prices workers and their families can afford. We’ll do it up nicely and serve up good quality dinners and teas.’

  Herbert studied her. ‘You really have been thinking about this, haven’t you?’

  ‘Ever since I worked at the Cherry Tree and saw what passed for entertainment — drunken fights and wives like Maggie given a hiding for doing nothing — I’ve dreamed of this. Please, Herbert, help me make it come true.’

  ‘I think it’s an admirable idea,’ he said with a condescending smile, ‘but I’m not convinced it’ll be a good investment. And you have no experience. It would be far too risky.’

  Clarrie banged her hand on the desk in frustration, making him start. ‘Don’t be such a coward! You were quite prepared to take a gamble on Daniel Milner when everything seemed against him, and you’re constantly helping other businessmen find their feet. Why not me? Is it because I’m just a mere woman who shouldn’t be meddling in men’s affairs?’ she blazed.

  He looked aghast at her outburst. ‘You’re being hysterical, my dear. We’ll forget what you just called me and leave it at that. Now I have work to do.’

  But he could no longer dismiss her from his presence when her words displeased him.

  ‘I’m not your housekeeper any longer, Herbert. I’m your wife. This is something we could do together. At least do me the courtesy of considering my request.’

  She stepped back, anger choking her. She could see from his mulish look that he was unconvinced. He did not treat her as his partner in marriage, so why should he see her as a partner in commerce? At that moment, she was tempted to run to Wesley and beg him for a loan. But she could just imagine how he would mock her for being an impulsive Belhaven, rushing into a business with her heart not her head. It would be worse than Herbert’s patronising dismissal.

  Clarrie turned from her husband in bitter disappointment and walked to the door.

  ‘Wait.’ Herbert spoke at last. ‘I can see how much this means to you. I’m prepared to look into it further.’

  Clarrie whipped round. ‘You will?’

  After a long moment he sighed and nodded. ‘I’ll ask my agent to look out for properties, if you like.’

  ‘I’ve got two possible ones in mind,’ Clarrie said quickly. ‘We could view them together.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Herbert said, raising a cautious hand. ‘But I’d have to consider it very carefully; it would mean selling some rental property in New Benwell to fund the venture.’

  Clarrie felt chastened. In her single-minded pursuit of her dream she had not thought finding the capital would be a problem for a prosperous solicitor. Perhaps Herbert was not as well off as she imagined. Fleetingly, she wondered how much Bertie was pulling out of their legal practice to fund Verity’s lavish lifestyle.

  ‘Thank you, Herbert,’ she said.

  They regarded each other awkwardly. It was their first argument and Herbert was unused to being challenged.

  ‘Is that all, my dear?’ he asked a little tensely.

  ‘Yes.’

  He put his spectacles back on and straightened the papers she had disturbed. It was the signal that she was dismissed. Clarrie left with a small flicker of triumph.

  CHAPTER 24

  1911

  Herbert’s initial scepticism vanished in the face of Clarrie s enthusiasm and drive. Each time he raised a cautious objection she was ready with a solution.

  ‘I worry about the size of the premises,’ Herbert warned, when Clarrie set her heart on a cavernous former draper’s in Tyne Street with an upstairs flat.

  ‘We’ll turn the back room into a meeting room and get extra income,’ she said brightly. ‘And we can rent out the flat.’

  ‘The cost of decoration will be substantial.’

  ‘Olive will help paint it and keep the costs down.’

  ‘And what about staff?’ Herbert fretted. ‘How can you be assured of their reliability?’

  ‘I’ll hand-pick them. Interview them at home and talk to their parents.’

  With a combination of charm and persistence, Clarrie persuaded Herbert to purchase the premises on Tyne Street and began refitting them. She consulted him on everything from joiners and plumbers to furniture and menus, determined that he feel it was as much his venture as hers. It was Clarrie’s idea to call the tea house after her husband.

  ‘Herbert’s Tea Rooms,’ she declared. ‘You’re the patron, so you should get the credit.’ Herbert was ridiculously pleased and enfolded her in a rare hug.

  ‘Named after me, eh? What an honour!’

  Olive was swept into the project too, painting the walls with exotic murals of birds of paradise and luxuriant foliage. Clarrie observed her sister’s happy absorption with pleasure, proud of Olive’s fair beauty and talents. In addition, she commissioned three large paintings of local scenes from her sister, two to hang in the meeting room and one over the counter. They were done in bright bold colours quite unlike the traditional sombre oil paintings that hung in the city’s gallery. They alarmed Herbert but Clarrie said they were perfect.

  ‘People don’t want reminding of the dreariness on their doorstep. They want to escape from all that for half an hour.’

  Olive was kept busy for the six months that it took Clarrie to set up the cafe. As the building was taking shape she went in search of suppliers. Cherry Terrace was two streets away. She steeled herself to face her cousins again. It was nearly four years since she had delivered them her final pay packet, and over the past two she had seldom even glimpsed them at church.

  The pub had not seen a lick of paint since she had last visited and Jared looked ill-kempt and weary.

  ‘I’ve heard about the refreshment rooms,’ he nodded. ‘You’re wasting yer money — no call for a posh tea house round here, lass.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Clarrie smiled. ‘I was wondering if Mrs Belhaven would like to make pies for us?’

  Jared looked embarrassed. ‘She’s not making ‘em any longer.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘She stops upstairs these days. Can’t get down easy. Doctor says it’s dropsy.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Clarrie said. ‘Can I go and see her?’

  ‘Best not. She never took to you, lass. You’d just get a mouthful.’

  From his dejected look, Clarrie guessed that Jared got his share of verbal abuse too. She touched his arm. ‘You’ll call in and have a cup of tea when I’m open, won’t you?’

  He grunted. ‘Maybe’s I will. Good luck with it, lass — you’ll need it.’

  For the tea, she chose the Tyneside Tea Company as the supplier. Both she and Herbert went to visit Daniel Milner at his warehouse in Scotswood. He now employed eight salesmen with rounds as far afield as North Shields to the east, Wylam to the west and the pit villages of north Durham across the river. Clarrie knew from Olive that Jack Brewis still called with their delivery every fortnight, but she had long got into the habit of avoiding him after their falling out. Now that she was no longer housekeeper there was no reason for her to come across him at all.

  So when Daniel showed them proudly round his premises, Clarrie was startled to find Jack in the tasting room, slurping samples of tea and spitting into a bucket. He had thickened out and his moustache had grown more bushy.

  ‘You remember
Jack?’ Daniel said. ‘He’s learning to be a master blender.’

  Jack reddened at sight of them. He shook Herbert’s hand and nodded awkwardly at Clarrie. She had been right about him; he had ambition and was making his way up the company fast.

  ‘Hello, Jack. I thought you were still delivering round the west end?’

  ‘Just a few of me regulars,’ he answered. ‘I like to keep me hand in at the selling too.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Daniel was approving. ‘Got to keep your finger on all aspects of the business. That’s the way I’ve taught him.’ He told Jack why the Stocks were there.

  ‘Aye,’ Jack nodded, ‘I’ve heard. You would think it was Alexandra Palace opening, the way folk are talking.’

  Clarrie laughed. ‘Well, that’ll save on the advertising.’ Before they left, she said, ‘I hope you and Mr Milner will come to the grand opening?’

  ‘Be pleased to,’ he said. The smile he gave her reminded Clarrie why she had found him so attractive when they had first met five years ago. If the unfortunate encounter with Wesley in the Summerhill garden had never happened, she might well have been married to Jack by now.

  Clarrie suppressed such thoughts. There was no point in rueing what might have been. All that mattered now was getting the tea house up and running. All her energies were channelled into that one aim. She shook Jack calmly by the hand and left on her husband’s arm.

  By New Year of 1911, Clarrie had interviewed and appointed her first three waitresses: Dinah, a tall girl from Scotswood; neat, dark-haired Edna; and the irrepressible Lexy. Herbert was dubious about the choice of Lexy.

  ‘She’s more suited to the laundry,’ he said primly.

  ‘She’s lively,’ Clarrie said defensively. ‘Just the sort to cheer up customers on a dull day. Put her in a uniform and give her a bit of training in how to serve at table, she’ll be grand.’