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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Clarrie took on Ina to wash up in the kitchen and Grace, another of her daughters, to act as runner for the waitresses. She had wanted to give Maggie a job too, but her husband had vetoed it. ‘I’ll not have you working for that half-breed barmaid and her fancy tea room. She’ll be out of business by Christmas.’ Despite Lexy and Ina’s encouragement, Maggie did not have the courage to defy him.

  Finally, Clarrie tracked down Dolly. When Dolly saw how Clarrie held no grudge about her ill-tempered departure from Summerhill, she needed little persuasion to leave her dull position in a school kitchen to work in the glamorous tea house. Clarrie spent a great deal of time with Olive designing the uniforms. The waitresses would wear dark green skirts, green and white striped blouses with neck brooches, and large frilly white aprons and mobcaps. Grace would wear a green pinafore dress. For herself, Clarrie would wear a smart tea gown with an apron to show that although she was in charge, she was prepared to work alongside her staff.

  By February, they were ready to open. Long before then, they were getting enquiries about booking the meeting room from local societies. It prompted Clarrie to furnish the back room with a couple of desks with pens and blotting paper. It would be a reading room with newspapers when not being used for meetings. Under Olive’s painting of the waterfall in Jesmond Dene, she put a bookcase of second-hand volumes from Herbert’s library.

  ‘They’re just sitting on the shelves unread,’ she pointed out when her husband protested. ‘People can borrow them and bring them back.’

  The week before opening, Clarrie gave her staff training in setting tables, taking orders and serving out teas. On Saturday the eleventh, at half past nine in the morning, they opened for business.

  They did not stop all day. Shoppers along Scotswood Road came in to break their walk back uphill; children came to gawp and snatch eagerly at the free sweets that the waitresses gave them off silver trays. At one o’clock they ran out of Dolly’s pies and Clarrie had to send out for more. At three, Olive stood at the far end of the tea room and played waltzes and popular tunes. A group of women from the Co-op on Adelaide Terrace broke into song and would not let her stop.

  Clarrie did not sit down from the early morning until after eight in the evening when they finally closed. Herbert came to collect her and found her and Lexy slumped in chairs with their feet up, giddy with fatigue and the success of the day.

  ‘Can you persuade my wife not to overdo it, Lexy?’ he chided, with an affectionate hand on Clarrie’s head.

  ‘Easier to teach a dog to walk on its hind legs, Mr Stock,’ Lexy snorted. ‘She never listens to my advice any road.’

  Clarrie laughed and took Herbert’s hand. ‘I’ve never enjoyed a day’s work as much in my whole life.’

  ‘Well, tomorrow’s a day of rest,’ said Herbert, ‘and you will rest, my dearest.’

  The following week was quieter, but they did a steady trade in cooked dinners with some of the foremen from Armstrong’s works, and the afternoon teas grew in popularity with women of all ages. Retired men came in to browse the newspapers in the morning and make a cup of tea last an hour. Lexy complained.

  ‘Leave them be,’ Clarrie smiled. ‘They may not be spending much but they’ll come back regular as clockwork once they’re in the habit. Then it’s up to you to charm them into having a bite to eat here instead of calling into the pub on their way home.’

  The meeting room was soon in constant use. Apart from those who came to read, it was patronised by a temperance group, a spiritualist church, a branch of the boilermakers’ union, an antiquarian society and a sketching group. Some nights, Clarrie stayed open till ten to meet the demand.

  As March ended, two suffrage campaigners from the local branch of the WSPU — Women’s Social and Political Union — approached Clarrie. They were young and talkative and Clarrie recognised them as office workers from the Co-op depot who came in for tea on a Wednesday.

  ‘We want to hire the whole cafe,’ Florence, the fair-faced one, said.

  ‘For the whole night,’ said the dark-haired Nancy.

  Clarrie gaped in astonishment. ‘But we don’t open at night.’

  ‘This is a special occasion,’ said Florence eagerly.

  ‘Third of April.’ Nancy smiled. ‘Census night.’

  To a baffled Clarrie they explained, ‘It’s a protest against the government census. They won’t treat us as proper citizens and give us the vote, so we refuse to be counted as if we were.’

  ‘A protest?’ Clarrie looked doubtful. She admired these women for their tenacity, but the last thing she wanted was to draw adverse attention to the tea house. ‘What if there’s trouble?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want broken windows or the police at my door.’

  ‘No, no,’ Florence assured her, ‘there won’t be. We’re not breaking the criminal law.’

  ‘We just want somewhere to throw a party,’ Nancy said, grinning.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ Clarrie countered. ‘I’ll let you know in a day or two.’

  Will was home for the Easter holidays with his rather solemn school friend Robert Spencer-Banks. It was their final break before the summer term and leaving school. There had been much discussion with Herbert about the prospect of university. He was keen for Will to try for Oxford to read law. Will wanted to go to Durham to read divinity and music.

  Into the debate, Clarrie flung her dilemma about the suffrage protest. Robert was horrified.

  ‘They’re practically revolutionaries. Don’t touch them with a barge pole,’ he shuddered.

  Will laughed. ‘Christ was a revolutionary.’

  ‘Don’t be blasphemous,’ Herbert reprimanded him.

  Will would not be cowed. ‘I think you should let them have their party. What’s the harm in it?’

  ‘The harm, my dear friend,’ said Robert, ‘is in encouraging these outlandish women in their pursuit of the impossible.’

  Clarrie gave him a sharp look. ‘Wanting the vote is wanting the impossible?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Robert nodded vigorously.

  ‘And why should that be?’ Clarrie queried. ‘You’re not one of these outlandish men who believe women incapable of thoughts beyond the domestic, are you, dear Robert?’

  He gave her a wary look, not quite sure if she was teasing him. When Will laughed, Robert shrugged and said nothing.

  ‘What do you think, Herbert?’ Clarrie asked.

  He studied her. He was bound to err on the side of caution, she felt.

  ‘Let them hire it.’

  Clarrie stared at him in surprise. ‘Really?’

  ‘They have good grounds for being dissatisfied with the present government. I’m increasingly of the opinion that women’s talents are being wasted by blinkered men such as Asquith.’ He smiled at her. ‘So why don’t we let them have their protest?’

  Clarrie took his hand and returned the smile. ‘Thank you. That’s what I hoped you would say.’

  Not only did Clarrie allow the women to hold their all-night party at Herbert’s Tea Rooms, but she also stayed up through the night helping. Dinah and Lexy gave their services too. The suffragists came in fancy dress and waxwork noses, lampooning figures in the government. They played charades and danced to a band made up of their own members. Clarrie, who laid on soup, sandwiches and endless pots of coffee and tea, was intrigued.

  She had never come into contact with such women before. A few like Florence and Nancy were working class with clerical jobs, but the rest were mostly middle class and professional: teachers, secretaries, a couple of doctors and students at the university. Clarrie was struck by their camaraderie and sense of fun, quite at odds with their portrayal in the newspapers as mannish and humourless. These women joked and teased each other, debated, gossiped and reminisced. Their closeness and sense of purpose reminded her of the nuns at Shillong. Above all, they were infused with optimism.

  ‘It’s just a matter of time,’ Florence told her. ‘I trust in the good common sense of our people to right
a wrong.’

  ‘They just need a bit of prodding to see it,’ Nancy added. ‘Folk are frightened of change, but they are changing.’

  ‘And we’re not afraid of doing the prodding.’ Florence flashed a smile.

  Outside, during the night, some of the husbands and male friends of the women took it in turns to stand guard in case of trouble. But there was none. At six in the morning they trooped off home to go to bed or get ready for work.

  While Clarrie sent Lexy and Dinah home for a few hours’ sleep, she stayed on dozing in a chair until Ina, Edna and Grace arrived. They were full of curiosity about the night’s events and it was the talk of many who came into the cafe that day. By closing time that evening, Clarrie was exhausted and ready for a quiet meal with Herbert.

  As soon as she entered the house, Olive met her in a state of agitation.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Clarrie asked.

  ‘Bertie’s here. He’s in a terrible temper. Shouting at Herbert.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Cos of you. It’s in the evening papers,’ Olive said tensely. ‘Oh, Clarrie, why did you have to let those women use the cafe?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? It was in a good cause.’

  ‘Bertie doesn’t think so,’ Olive fretted. ‘You’d better go up and sort it out.’

  Clarrie felt indignation quicken. Bertie had no right to come here berating his father. He and Verity had shunned them for the last year and a half and the cafe was nothing to do with him. Tired out though she was, she hitched up her skirt and took the stairs in twos.

  She found them in the study, Herbert sitting defensively behind his desk, Bertie standing the other side, still shaking a newspaper in his face.

  ‘Ah, here she is,’ Bertie cried at sight of her, ‘the little Bolshevik suffragette giving my family a bad name.’

  ‘Please, Bertie,’ Herbert said with a wary glance at his wife, ‘you’re being quite ridiculous.’ He stood to greet her but Bertie was immediately on the attack, advancing on her with the newspaper.

  ‘Have you seen this?’ he thundered. ‘“Solicitor’s wife gives succour to law-breaking suffragettes”?’ He thrust it at her.

  Herbert looked worried but said, ‘You know how they exaggerate to make a story.’

  ‘They don’t have to with this one,’ Bertie snapped. ‘Go on, read it. Read about how you were the only cafe owner in Newcastle stupid enough to let them make their protest. Not just that — it says you joined in with gusto — you and your common waitresses from the back streets of Elswick.’

  Clarrie’s anger lit. ‘Don’t you dare to criticise me or my staff in my own home.’

  ‘Your home?’ Bertie was indignant.

  ‘Yes, mine. And I’m proud of what we did and I’d do it again tomorrow if they asked me to.’

  Bertie turned to Herbert and threw up his arms. ‘Papa, how can you stand by and let her make a fool of herself — of you? Your name has been sullied by this spectacle. These women have shamelessly used you to gain publicity.’

  Herbert gave a fraught sigh and sat back down again. Clarrie waited for him to say that he agreed with their protest, but he said nothing.

  ‘No one’s name has been sullied,’ she snapped, when it was clear Herbert wasn’t going to back her up, ‘and it’s you who are making a fool of yourself.’ She gave Bertie a challenging look. ‘Your father was in complete agreement with my opening the café for the WSPU, and so was Will. If he hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have gone ahead.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Bertie barked.

  ‘Tell him, Herbert,’ Clarrie said. They both stared at Herbert. He looked strained and uncomfortable. Finally, he nodded. Clarrie let go a breath in relief.

  ‘Oh, Papa!’ Bertie cried in annoyance. ‘How has this woman clouded your judgement so? I never thought you’d be so weak.’

  ‘Don’t speak to your father like that,’ Clarrie retorted. ‘The matter has nothing to do with you. Your rudeness to me I can put up with — I’m used to it — but you will not come here bullying my husband about something that does not concern you.’

  ‘Doesn’t concern me?’ Bertie exclaimed. ‘It most certainly does. The Stocks’ law firm has been plastered all over the evening newspapers and for all the wrong reasons.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’ll gain a few suffragist clients from it all.’

  ‘I’ll not be mocked by someone who used to count our bed linen,’ he said in disdain.

  ‘Then leave,’ Clarrie challenged him, holding the door open.

  Bertie glanced at his father, expecting him to intervene and press him to stay.

  Herbert frowned. ‘I think it best if you go. Tempers are running too high.’

  Bertie smothered a gasp of disbelief. With a furious look at Clarrie he stormed from the room, puce-faced. Clarrie resisted the impulse to follow him out and see to his leaving as she would have done as housekeeper. They listened in silence to Bertie’s stamping tread descending the stairs and crossing the hall. The front door slammed shut, setting the chandelier in the hall tinkling.

  For a long moment, Clarrie and Herbert regarded each other.

  ‘Herbert, I’m sorry,’ Clarrie began. He limped towards her, holding up a hand to silence her apology.

  ‘Don’t be,’ he said. ‘Bertie had no right to speak to you like that.’

  ‘I don’t care for myself,’ Clarrie insisted, ‘but it upsets me to hear him raise his voice to you. It didn’t occur to me that they would use my connection to your law firm.’

  Herbert laid his hands on her shoulders. ‘And would it have made any difference to your decision if it had?’

  Clarrie gave a rueful smile. ‘No, I don’t suppose so.’

  He smiled at her. ‘I didn’t think so. And I love you all the more for it. You are such a courageous young woman. I wish I had half your spirit.’

  ‘It’s nothing compared to those suffrage women,’ Clarrie said. ‘Some of the stories they had to tell of getting beaten and arrested would make your blood run cold. Keeping a cafe open all night doesn’t even compare.’

  ‘Still, you stuck your neck out where others didn’t,’ Herbert said. ‘If the newspaper is to be believed, all the big establishments in town, like the Empires, refused to have anything to do with the census protest.’

  Clarrie gave him a startled look. ‘The Robsons refused them?’

  Herbert nodded. ‘Wesley Robson is quoted as saying he’d have nothing to do with politics. In his opinion it has no place in business.’

  Clarrie snorted. ‘That’s so typical of the man — sounding all high-minded but really just frightened of a handful of women harming his business.’

  Herbert studied her. ‘You don’t like Wesley Robson very much, do you?’

  Clarrie felt herself redden. ‘No.’

  ‘Why is that?’ he asked, curious.

  Clarrie forced herself to speak of the past. ‘He upset my father very badly at a time when his business was in the balance. Father went downhill very quickly after that.’ She felt her eyes sting with sudden tears. ‘And there were other things. Wesley was an over-zealous recruiter for the Robsons’ tea estates. The son of my nurse ran away from their employment — he was very sick — and I’m pretty sure Wesley was responsible for rounding him up and taking him back. He died.’ Clarrie glanced away. ‘That is why I dislike him so,’ she whispered.

  Herbert pulled her into his hold. ‘My poor Clarrie. I had no idea.’

  She slipped her arms round his waist and held on to him, enjoying the rare intimacy. She felt utterly spent and wanted to be cradled in his arms for ever. But it did not last long. Herbert pulled away.

  ‘You look tired, my dear. Let us go and eat, so you can get an early night. I insist that you go in later tomorrow. Olive could open up for you just this once.’

  ‘Herbert.’ Clarrie grabbed his hand as he turned to go, emboldened by his support for her and the tenderness he had just shown. ‘Why won’t you — why don’t you …?’
/>
  ‘What, my dear?’ He smiled, puzzled by her sudden bashfulness.

  ‘Come to my bed at night?’ she blurted out.

  She saw the blood flood from his neck into his jaw and cheeks. He glanced away quickly.

  ‘Do we have to talk of this now?’ he murmured.

  ‘When else?’ Clarrie asked. ‘I’m your wife, Herbert. I care for you and know you do for me and yet you avoid the marriage bed. Is it because you still think of it as Louisa’s? Is that it?’

  Herbert’s jaw clenched.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ Clarrie cried in dismay. ‘You can’t get her out of your thoughts. I’m not Louisa, so you can’t bear to be intimate with me. I’m not good enough for you, is that it?’

  ‘No!’ Herbert forced out the denial between gritted teeth.

  ‘Then why?’ Clarrie demanded. ‘Look at me, Herbert, and tell me why you married me if you didn’t want to sleep in my bed?’

  He fixed her with troubled eyes, his expression harrowed. ‘I do want to,’ he answered, his voice shaky, ‘but I dare not.’

  Clarrie was baffled. ‘What do you mean, dare not?’

  ‘I’m terrified of losing you,’ he confessed.

  ‘How could you lose me? I don’t wish to be married to anyone else.’

  ‘I’m frightened that if I …’ he struggled to explain, ‘that if you became with child — it might kill you.’

  She stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘I blame myself for Louisa’s death,’ he whispered, ‘and I couldn’t bear the thought that you might die too — through my own selfish desires.’

  He stood shaking at his confession. Clarrie was appalled.

  ‘But it wasn’t your fault,’ she said, putting her hands to his burning cheeks. ‘Louisa was weakened by melancholy — she didn’t want to live after she lost the baby. It would be different with us. I’m half her age and fit and healthy. I’m not going to die in childbirth.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Herbert said in agitation, gripping her hands. ‘It’s such a risky business. And I refuse to take that risk — not with you.’ He lowered her hands and pressed them between his. ‘You are so dear to me, Clarrie. I will do nothing that might harm you.’