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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  A lump came to Clarrie’s throat and she quickly looked away. She crossed to the kitchen window and peered out at the scrubbed back yard with its whitewashed walls and tubs of flowers; a rhododendron in a large barrel, azaleas, nasturtiums and pansies growing out of painted and varnished tea chests. The riot of colour assaulted the senses. She thought how reserved and muted were the dark red roses she had brought, which were already wilting on the table.

  Eventually, Clarrie heard footsteps approaching and turned to see Jack entering with Olive behind him. Her sister was red-cheeked and bright-eyed, her red-gold hair tumbling loose about her shoulders.

  ‘This place is beautiful!’ Clarrie exclaimed. ‘It’s like a little bit of—’ She stopped, the words dying on her lips as Jack stepped aside and Olive moved into the room. She stared at her sister. Her heart knocked in her chest.

  ‘Olive,’ she gasped, ‘you’re expecting!’

  Her sister, large-bellied, swayed forward with her hands supporting her back as if she might overbalance. She nodded, her look almost defiant.

  ‘Aye,’ Jack said with a proud grin, ‘she’s a month off her confinement.’

  Clarrie’s throat constricted. ‘That’s grand,’ she croaked. ‘I didn’t know.’

  Olive and Jack exchanged quick looks. ‘Did Will not tell you?’ Olive asked.

  Clarrie shook her head. She held out her hands, unable to speak. Olive hesitated, and then went to her sister. Clarrie enfolded her in her arms. It was an awkward hug over Olive’s distended belly. Clarrie felt a movement, like a gentle nudge, and stood back, wide-eyed.

  ‘Was that the baby?’ she asked in astonishment.

  ‘Aye, it was,’ Olive smiled, placing protective hands over her bump.

  Jack ushered his wife to a fireside chair and placed a cushion at her back.

  ‘Sit down, Clarrie,’ he insisted, ‘and I’ll brew the tea while you lasses have a bit chat.’

  With Jack fussing around between them, making a pot of tea, Clarrie felt at a loss as to what to say. Why had no one told her? When was Olive going to tell her? Imagine if she had heard through gossip at the cafe! Will should have said something. But as she swallowed down her hurt bewilderment, she guessed why it had been kept from her. They knew it would cause her pain as well as joy, for it would reinforce her own childlessness.

  Clarrie quelled her rising resentment. This was her beloved sister who was about to have her first baby. She would be an aunt. It was a cause for rejoicing, no matter what her own marriage lacked.

  Sipping on the tea Jack made, she made an effort to chat about the cafe and riding with Will, and about outings with Herbert and the twins.

  Gradually, Olive relaxed her guard and was able to talk about her excitement at the forthcoming arrival.

  ‘If it’s a lass, we’ll call her Jane, after Mam,’ Olive said, ‘and George after Jack’s dad if it’s a lad.’

  Clarrie leaned over and squeezed Olive’s hand. ‘That’s grand,’ she smiled. ‘Whichever it is, I want to be the first to be told.’

  As she was leaving, a thought struck her. ‘I was wondering — have you thought about who you’d like with you when your time comes? Cos if you want—’

  ‘That’s all arranged,’ Jack said firmly. ‘Me mam’s ganin’ to help out. She’s seen to dozens of births.’

  Olive avoided her sister’s look. She was blushing furiously. Clarrie hesitated about kissing her goodbye, and then Jack put an arm about his wife’s waist as if warning her off. She took hold of the bicycle.

  ‘Ta for the flowers, Clarrie,’ Olive said stiffly.

  Clarrie nodded and began wheeling the bike away. At the end of the street she looked back to wave, but Olive and Jack’s front door was already closed and they were gone. She felt utterly excluded by them. She swallowed down a sob of unhappiness. Why was Olive behaving like this? As she cycled away in humiliation, Clarrie blamed Jack for coming between them. He must have discouraged Olive from keeping in touch.

  Back home, Clarrie wished that Will were there for her to talk to about the situation and her hurt at being excluded from the pending birth. She felt awkward telling Herbert. She waited until the nurse had helped with his bathing, got him into bed and left for the night.

  He was propped up on pillows, his skin sallow against the white linen.

  ‘I don’t think they were ever going to tell me,’ Clarrie said unhappily. ‘Imagine having a niece or nephew and not being told? Will knew but he probably didn’t think it was his place to tell me. How did I ever let us grow this far apart? It was like talking to a half-stranger.’

  Herbert raised a shaky hand and took a breath before speaking.

  ‘S-sorry,’ he stuttered.

  Clarrie regarded him. ‘It’s not your fault we fell out. You’ve always been more than kind to my sister. It’s me she was angry with for some reason.’

  Herbert shook his head. ‘Not — that.’ His eyes looked sad and regretful.

  ‘Sorry for what, then?’

  ‘For — being — selfish,’ he forced out the words. ‘Not giving — you — a child.’

  Clarrie felt her chest constrict. It was too late for an apology, she thought with resentment. He tried to grope for her hand.

  ‘You — are s-so — g-good with — twins,’ he panted. ‘I should — have — been b-braver. Can — you — f-forgive me?’

  Clarrie struggled with her emotions. How they had wasted their time together! She blamed him for their lack of intimacy, yet she had been happy to channel her energies into the cafe. Perhaps, deep down, she had been relieved that he had never attempted to make love to her. He was so much older and she had never desired him physically. But he was a good man and she was sure would have made a kind father to her children, perhaps wiser and more tolerant than with his first family.

  Clarrie reached out and took his searching hand. ‘I understand why you did so. I remember how much you grieved over Louisa — and the daughter you never had.’

  He gazed at her, his look guilt-ridden. Shaking, he raised her wrist and pressed it to his half-paralysed lips. She rose and kissed his forehead, then settled him down for the night.

  Later, she came back, having changed into her nightdress, ready to lie down in the camp bed she had slept in for the past year. As she moved around the half-lit room, she realised that Herbert was awake and watching her. She approached, peering at him uncertainly. He was crying out of one eye, silently. On impulse, Clarrie drew back the bedcovers and climbed in beside him, on the side where he had sensation. Tentatively, she touched his face, rubbing away his tears with her thumb.

  ‘Do you want me to stay with you tonight?’ she whispered. ‘Here in your bed?’

  He gulped and grunted, ‘Yes — very — much.’

  Gently, she laid her head on his shoulder and put an arm across his chest. She felt him let out a sigh. Neither of them spoke, each just enjoying the warmth of touching and the unexpectedness of the moment. Clarrie fell asleep in contentment. She awoke once in the night and wondered where she was, startled by the feel of Herbert’s body next to hers and the gentle rasp of his breathing. Then she slept again until the nurse knocked on the door at seven in the morning. Clarrie kissed Herbert as she rose to let her in.

  After that, she had the camp bed packed away and slept beside her husband every night. There was no lovemaking, but it was comfort of a kind and a new tenderness grew between them.

  CHAPTER 30

  One Thursday evening in late October, there was a message waiting for Clarrie when she came back from work. Olive had given birth. She and Jack had a son called George. Clarrie resisted the temptation to rush round there and then to see them. She would wait until her sister was ready to receive visitors. But after a week with no word, she could wait no longer. Getting Lexy to mind the cafe, she went round to Lemington on a Friday morning with a box of fairy cakes and a large teddy bear she had bought at Fenwick’s.

  Jack’s mother answered the door. She was a little in awe of
Clarrie and said in a fluster, ‘Wor Olive’s in bed with the bairn; she’s not seeing visitors yet.’

  ‘I’m her sister,’ Clarrie said firmly, ‘and it’s high time I saw both her and my nephew, don’t you think? I shan’t stay long or tire her, but I do want to see her.’

  She followed Mrs Brewis up the steep stairs and into a darkened bedroom. The green curtains were drawn and it was stuffy from a lit fire and a stale, sour bodily smell. A wood-framed bed dominated the room and lying curled to one side in a loose gown was Olive. There was neither sight nor sound of the baby.

  ‘Olive, are you awake, hinny?’ her mother-in-law whispered. ‘Mrs Stock’s come to see you.’

  ‘Clarrie?’ Olive murmured, but did not move.

  ‘Yes, how are you?’ Clarrie asked, moving round the bed. ‘I won’t stop long but I had to see you. I’ve brought you something.’ Reaching her sister, she heard a small snuffling noise. With a jolt, she realised that the baby was tucked inside Olive’s gown feeding on her breast. He was tightly swaddled with just his head and a tuft of pale hair visible. Her sister’s hair was damp and straggly about her face, yet her expression was one of dreamy contentment.

  The intimate scene overwhelmed Clarrie. She felt on the verge of tears.

  ‘He’s so bonny,’ she exclaimed, ‘from what I can see of him.’

  ‘Mrs Stock,’ Jack’s mother said nervously, ‘perhaps you should leave them be for now. Our Olive’s tired out with the feedin’. It takes a bit of gettin’ used to.’

  Clarrie stepped back.

  ‘Stay,’ Olive said. ‘He’s getting sleepy again; I think he’s nearly finished.’

  ‘Would you like the curtains pulled back and the window open?’ Clarrie asked. ‘It’s that stuffy in here.’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Brewis said at once. ‘Can’t have them catching a chill. Best leave things as they are.’

  ‘Mam,’ Olive said, ‘can you fetch me a cup of water? Maybe’s Clarrie would like a cup of tea an’ all.’

  Clarrie nodded in thanks and the woman bustled off downstairs. ‘You call her Mam?’ Clarrie queried. For some reason it upset her.

  Olive replied, ‘Jack likes me to.’

  The baby’s sucking stopped and his grip slackened. Olive drew away and sat up, pulling her gown over her full breast. She picked up her son and laid him against her shoulder, rubbing gently at his swaddled back. Clarrie sat on the edge of the bed and handed over the toy bear.

  ‘It’s twice his size at the moment,’ she said. ‘Hope it won’t frighten him.’

  ‘It’s canny,’ Olive said. ‘Bet it cost you a fortune.’

  ‘He’s my first nephew and worth every penny,’ Clarrie answered. ‘You both seem grand.’

  ‘We are,’ Olive smiled. ‘Jack’s mam does everything for me. I just lie here like a queen eating and sleeping and feeding George. And he’s such a canny baby — hardly makes a squeak. Think I’ll have half a dozen.’

  Clarrie’s insides twisted with envy. She got up restlessly and reached to draw back a curtain. ‘I don’t care what Mrs Brewis says, I want to have a proper look at my nephew.’

  Bright autumnal light fell across the bed, illuminating Olive’s flushed face. She looked tired yet beautiful, her expression softened and eyes shining with happiness.

  ‘Would you like to hold him?’ she asked.

  ‘May I?’

  Olive held out her bundle. Cautiously, Clarrie took him and laid him carefully in the crook of her arm. She went back to the window to get a better look. His pale-lashed eyes were closed, his cheeks rosy from feeding and his tiny mouth glistening with milk. He looked sated and peaceful. Gently she stroked his head, marvelling at the softness of his downy fair hair.

  ‘What a handsome lad you are,’ she crooned. ‘You’ll break all the lasses’ hearts, eh?’ He gave a little juddering sigh and his lips pursed into a sucking shape, then he was still again. Clarrie laughed softly. ‘Auntie Clarrie thinks you’re the bonniest lad she’s ever seen.’ She felt a flood of emotion towards him, enjoying the warmth and weight of him in her arms.

  Mrs Brewis returned with water for Olive and one of Clarrie’s cakes on a plate. ‘Your tea’s waiting for you downstairs, Mrs Stock,’ she said, crossing the room to yank the curtain back into place. ‘Let me take the bairn from you.’

  Clarrie kissed George and reluctantly handed him over. ‘Is there anything you want?’ she asked her sister.

  ‘She’s got owt she needs,’ Mrs Brewis smiled proudly. ‘Me and our Jack see to that.’

  Clarrie swallowed her irritation at the woman’s proprietorial attitude and went to kiss Olive goodbye. ‘I’ll call again soon,’ she promised.

  Her sister lay back sleepily. ‘Ta for the bear, Clarrie.’

  Encouraged by Olive’s more relaxed manner towards her, Clarrie determined she would not let weeks and months go by without seeing her, as they had this past year. Downstairs, she took one sip of Mrs Brewis’s stewed tea and poured the rest down the sink. It must have been sitting in the pot since breakfast. Clarrie left, George’s milky smell still on her hands.

  The next time she visited, both Jack and his mother were at the house and Clarrie was made to feel she was intruding. They did not let her up to the bedroom, insisting that Olive and the baby were resting. Yet, as she left, Clarrie could hear George mewling upstairs.

  She was baffled as to why Olive and the Brewises tried to keep her at arm’s length. The following week was George’s christening at the church where Olive and Jack had been married. Clarrie consoled herself that at least she and Herbert were invited.

  There was a simple tea put on at the house in Lemington afterwards. Clarrie had offered cakes and biscuits from the cafe, but the Brewises had insisted on doing it all themselves. With difficulty, they hauled Herbert through the door and sat him on the largest chair in the pink and white parlour. Clarrie made sure she got to hold her nephew. His wrinkled face had filled out and he felt twice as heavy as before. She rocked him tenderly, but he grew fretful from all the handling and Jack’s mother quickly prised him from her grasp.

  ‘He wants his feed,’ she insisted, quickly dispatching Olive upstairs.

  The motor taxi they had hired to take Herbert home arrived, and Clarrie had to leave before seeing her sister or nephew again.

  Despite her resolve to see as much of Olive and George as possible, it was Christmas before she did so. She was so busy with the tea room and caring for Herbert that she did not have a spare moment, except on Sundays when she knew Jack and his mother would be there. Two days before Christmas Clarrie called with presents, to find Olive out.

  ‘She’s down the shops,’ Mrs Brewis told her. ‘I’m minding the bairn for her. It’s his nap, else I’d invite you in.’

  Clarrie handed over the presents and left in frustration. Somehow she could not summon the energy to tackle their wariness towards her or breach the stifling protectiveness with which they enclosed Olive and George. It would be far easier for her sister to visit the cafe, Clarrie thought with a swell of resentment. Let Olive come to her.

  ***

  1914 came, Clarrie turned twenty-eight and her busy life continued as before, except that Tuesday mornings with the twins came to an end as the children started full-time schooling. She missed them greatly and the only way she could numb the loss was to absorb herself in her work.

  The cafe was doing so well that they purchased the terraced house beside it and knocked through to create extra meeting rooms. Clarrie had to get Bertie’s co-operation as he was handling his father’s affairs, but the cafe was proving so successful that his earlier opposition had long since melted away. Indeed, he offered to make some investments on her behalf. After consultation with Herbert, Clarrie agreed. Dislike him though she did, she trusted Bertie’s expertise. Judging by his and Verity’s lavish lifestyle of house parties at Rokeham Towers, private schooling for the twins and holidays in the south of France, he was good at both making and spending money.

  When
Clarrie went to discuss business with him at his office, Bertie treated her with the deference due to a client in front of his secretary, and not with the disdain he showed her at other times. Clarrie was faintly amused by his eagerness to be associated with the proprietor of Herbert’s Tea Rooms now that the cafe was well established and prosperous.

  It was from Bertie that Clarrie heard the news that the Robsons were selling their chain of Empire Tea Rooms.

  ‘Made a fortune on them,’ he said enviously. ‘Touch of Midas, that family. Buying up land in East Africa with the proceeds.’

  ‘Africa?’ Clarrie cried in astonishment. ‘Why?’

  ‘To grow more tea. Land’s cheap and conditions are similar to Ceylon, so I’m told. Thinking of investing there myself.’ He pushed out his plump chin with an air of importance.

  ‘And Wesley Robson?’ Clarrie could not resist asking. ‘Has he gone to Africa?’

  Bertie gave her a sly look. ‘Why do women always ask about Wesley?’

  Clarrie flushed. ‘I’m just curious to know what my rival is up to.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Bertie said, lolling back in his large leather chair. ‘As far as I know, he’s gone back to London and Mincing Lane. He’s engaged to be married, did you know? Attractive woman — family made their money in jute — related to the Landsdownes. No doubt he’s gone south for her sake. He’ll be inheriting another fortune when he marries into the Lister-Browns.’

  Clarrie did not want to hear any more about Wesley’s charmed existence and made the pressing demands of the cafe an excuse to leave.