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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  By Easter, Will was full of plans for what to do after he left university. He and Johnny were going to do a tour of the Continent until the autumn, and then he was going to take up a place on a teacher-training course in Newcastle. Clarrie was thrilled at the thought of his living at Summerhill once more while he trained, and Herbert put up no objection. He appeared to have forgotten that he had once harboured the strong opinion that Will should become a lawyer. Bertie had not.

  ‘Teaching?’ he cried in disdain. ‘It’s for those without enough brains for business or the law. I want you to come into the family firm with me. That’s what Papa always intended.’

  ‘Not now,’ Will answered. ‘He’s happy for me to—’

  ‘Papa’s practically gaga,’ Bertie was contemptuous. ‘He hardly remembers what he’s had for breakfast. You could say you wanted to be a dustman and he’d give you his blessing.’

  ‘Nevertheless, that’s what I mean to do.’ Will was adamant. ‘I’d make a useless lawyer. Legal documents are double-dutch to me. Give me a musical score any time.’

  ‘Well then, at least put your musical talents to better use,’ Bertie said, getting nowhere with his stubborn brother. ‘Go professional.’

  ‘I’m not good enough,’ Will was frank. ‘But I know I’d enjoy teaching others. I’ve done a bit already at the Edinburgh Settlement.’

  ‘Oh, that place!’ Bertie snorted. ‘Full of Bolsheviks and religious lunatics. If you end up working for the likes of them, I’ll disown you.’

  Afterwards, Clarrie congratulated Will on standing up to his brother, knowing that if she had spoken in his defence Bertie would have somehow blamed it all on her.

  ‘He’s not nearly as tough as he likes to make out,’ she said in amusement. ‘All he cares about is keeping up appearances and being upsides with the Landsdownes.’

  ‘Yes,’ Will laughed. ‘He’s terrified of Verity giving him a ticking off about his embarrassing family.’

  With Will in support, Clarrie summoned the courage to call on her sister once more. They took chocolates and flowers and chose to visit just after they knew Jack would have gone to work. They caught Olive in a housecoat, hair undone, washing up at the scullery sink. There was no Mrs Brewis senior to fend them off.

  ‘Goodness me!’ Olive cried, quite unnerved by their sudden appearance.

  Unabashed, Will kissed her on the cheek and marched into the house. ‘Where’s young George? We’ve come to ply him with chocolate.’

  ‘You mustn’t do that!’ Olive gasped, coiling her hair quickly into a loose bun. ‘He’s not properly weaned.’

  Will laughed. ‘Poor Georgie, he’ll just have to watch us scoff the lot instead.’

  Striding into the kitchen, Will spotted the baby kicking on a blanket on the floor and swooped to pick him up. George flung out his arms in alarm, his blue eyes bulging. A moment later he let out a wail.

  ‘Careful!’ both sisters cried at the same time.

  Will ignored them, twirling George above his head and jiggling him up and down until his screams of alarm turned into screeches of delight. Will turned and almost threw the baby into Clarrie’s arms. Clarrie grasped her nephew, rubbing her nose against his.

  ‘Hello, bonny lad! Haven’t you grown?’ She settled him into her arms and George put up a plump exploring hand, stuffing fingers into her mouth.

  Olive watched tensely.

  ‘Relax,’ Will said, throwing an affectionate arm about her. ‘Clarrie’s not going to eat him. She’s just had breakfast.’

  Olive rolled her eyes. ‘You should have said you were coming. I’m not even dressed properly.’

  ‘And give you the chance to be out,’ Will said, stealing the words from Clarrie’s lips.

  Olive blushed and shrugged him off. ‘Can I get you a cuppa?’ She busied herself around the pretty kitchen without waiting for an answer. Clarrie noticed the changes: a clothes rack suspended overhead with nappies drying, a child’s bowl and two-handled cup displayed on the dresser, and a pram wedged between the back door and the pantry.

  While Will kept Olive occupied with questions and conversation, Clarrie sat with George in her lap, cuddling and making silly noises to entertain him.

  ‘Brow-berry,’ she smiled, pointing at his smooth brow. She worked her way down his face. ‘Nose-nebby, chin-cherry, kerry-erry-erry!’ she laughed, tickling him under his chin. George giggled in delight, his mouth opening in a gummy grin. Clarrie repeated the game until the baby grew suddenly bored, noticed his mother and squealed for her attention.

  Olive came over swiftly and claimed him from Clarrie’s arms. Clarrie watched in envy as the boy settled easily on Olive’s hip, her sister giving him frequent absent-minded kisses on his fluffy blond hair. Will did most of the talking, but Olive told them proudly how Jack was now a qualified tea blender.

  ‘He helps Mr Milner decide which teas to bid for an’ all,’ she told them.

  ‘I’m glad he’s doing so well,’ Clarrie said.

  Olive gave her a sceptical look. ‘You never had as much faith in Jack as I did.’

  Will shot Clarrie a look of surprise, but she let the jibe go. ‘You were right,’ she said, getting up. ‘Would you like to come to us for tea on Easter Sunday? It would just be us two and Herbert at home — Bertie and the family are away in France.’

  ‘Go on, Olive,’ Will encouraged. ‘Papa would be greatly cheered to see your Georgie.’

  ‘We don’t call him Georgie,’ she said in irritation. ‘And I’m sorry, we’ve got Mam and Thomas and his lady friend coming round.’ When Will looked disappointed, she said in a lighter vein, ‘Jack’s hopeful that his brother might finally get round to proposing. We’ve dropped enough hints. Poor Annie will be past childbearing age if he doesn’t hurry up.’

  Clarrie saw Olive redden and look away, clutching George to her almost fiercely. There it was again, that unspoken gulf between them, the mother and the childless one. It saddened her that her sister did not want her near either her or the boy, as if she somehow threatened their cosy world with Jack. She wondered briefly why her sister should distrust her so, for she had no desire to take anything from her.

  ‘Take care,’ she said as they left, hoping for a last cuddle with George. But Olive held on to him, his plump legs hooked around her waist as if he were part of her.

  As she walked back to town with Will, Clarrie became tearful.

  ‘Why is she so cold to me these days? What have I done?’

  Will was thoughtful. ‘Was there ever an understanding between you and Jack?’ he asked.

  Clarrie said impatiently, ‘Not really. We courted for a short while, but barely saw each other. When he broke it off, Olive took his side and said it was my fault. But that was years ago.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s still jealous,’ Will suggested.

  ‘Jealous of me?’ Clarrie asked in bewilderment. ‘How can she be?’

  ‘Because,’ Will said, ‘Jack cared for you first and maybe she worries that he still does.’

  Clarrie cried, ‘That’s nonsense! They couldn’t be happier — and they’ve got George — she has no right to be jealous of anyone.’

  Will stopped and took her hands, his look affectionate. ‘Dear Clarrie, you have no idea just how easy people find it to love you, do you? You draw them to you like the sun.’

  Abruptly, Clarrie laughed, though tears glistened on her dark lashes. ‘Will Stock, you are the best tonic anyone could ever ask for. What a wonderful teacher you will be. No child will stay grumpy or downhearted in your class.’

  Linking arms, they walked back to Summerhill, Clarrie’s mood lightening. She would stay away from Olive until her sister needed her.

  CHAPTER 31

  Clarrie refused to believe the gloomy predictions of a conflict with Germany. There was some discussion about it at the cafe, but the main preoccupations among the politically aware were the fight for paid holidays, union representation and the progress towards women’s suffrage.

  Re
gulars such as Florence and Nancy, who had seen many of their friends imprisoned over the issue, were in buoyant mood.

  ‘Just wait till the election campaign this autumn,’ Florence said eagerly. ‘If the Liberals don’t promise us emancipation, they’ll be voted out in droves.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Nancy, ‘they’ll be hoyed into the wilderness with a gnashing of teeth!’

  Will sat his finals and graduated. Clarrie threw a family dinner party for him when he came home in mid-June, inviting Johnny too. Bertie and Verity brought champagne, knowing that there would be no wine at dinner, and talked endlessly about their last French trip. They had letters of introduction for Will and Johnny.

  ‘The Guillards have a wonderful chateau outside Nice,’ Verity said. ‘You simply must stay there.’

  ‘And there’s our good friend Count de Tignet in Paris,’ Bertie boasted, ‘whom you can stay with on your way south. He keeps an excellent cellar. We met him on the Riviera last year.’

  ‘Aren’t you concerned about the talk of war between France and Germany?’ Clarrie felt compelled to ask. They were making plans as if there was no tension on the Continent at all. ‘I hear things at the tea room.’

  ‘Really, Clarrie,’ Bertie was dismissive, ‘that’s a lot of hot air. I think our French friends are more reliable informants than your cafe gossips, don’t you?’

  She sat back listening to the young men’s excited discussion of their grand tour of Europe — France, Italy, Austria, Germany — and said no more.

  At the end of June, Will and Johnny departed for France. Clarrie went to see them off at Newcastle’s central station with Lexy and Edna. Clarrie tried to remember what she had felt like arriving there with Olive nine years previously: nervous, awestruck, cold.

  ‘What a sight we must have looked in our homemade dresses and sola topis,’ she laughed as she recounted the occasion, ‘like something out of a Kipling novel. Then Cousin Jared loaded us on to the rolley for all to see.’

  ‘Folk must’ve thought the circus had come to town,’ Lexy teased.

  ‘Two birds of paradise, more likely,’ Will said gallantly.

  They laughed and embraced, and then the women were waving them away in the echoing, steam-filled hall.

  Two days after their departure, the newspapers reported an assassination in central Europe. Clarrie had been working late at the cafe and did not get round to reading Herbert the newspaper until the following evening. A Serbian student had shot Archduke Ferdinand, the heir to the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Clarrie skimmed the report, wondering vaguely if Will and Johnny had intended visiting Sarajevo. But in the following days and weeks, the newspapers began to fill with anxious articles on flag burning in Austria and her deteriorating relations with Serbia’s patron Russia, and their respective allies Germany and France. Would Britain be dragged in too?

  There was no appetite, as far as Clarrie could gauge, for war with their neighbour across the German Sea. It seemed impossible. Their royal families were related and there were strong trade links between Tyneside and the German ports. On occasion, sailors off their merchant ships had found their way into the cafe and flirted with the waitresses. Will had once spoken to some in halting German.

  August came with news of the worsening situation on the Continent; Austria had declared war on Serbia. Clarrie’s prime concern was for Will and his friend. A postcard had come from Paris and a second from Switzerland. They were already detouring from their original plan so she had no idea where they might be. Switzerland sounded safe.

  Opposition to war was vocal, especially locally, from trades unions to religious leaders. Clarrie wheeled Herbert to the park on the first Sunday in August to watch a peace rally. It was warm and sunny and the flower beds were a blaze of red, pink, yellow and blue. Women were dressed in colourful outfits and hats, and the air was filled with the noisy play of children. War seemed as remote a possibility as a comet landing in their midst.

  That night, sitting up in bed next to Herbert, Clarrie fretted, ‘It can’t happen. We wouldn’t be so mad as to go to war, surely?’

  Herbert said, ‘At least — Will is — safe.’

  Clarrie shot him a look. ‘Well I hope so, but we’ve no way of knowing.’

  He looked unconcerned. ‘Durham — perfectly — safe.’

  Clarrie’s insides tensed. She put a hand on his. ‘Herbert, he’s not at Durham any more. He graduated, remember? Will is travelling abroad with Johnny.’

  Her husband’s face clouded in confusion. ‘Abroad? Is he?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said gently, ‘we’ve had postcards.’ She reached over and picked up the latest one, which she kept as a bookmark, and showed it to Herbert.

  He sighed, half in frustration and half in resignation. ‘S-sorry. Should remember.’

  She leaned across and kissed his rigid cheek. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m sure no harm will come to our Will.’

  Two days later, in the middle of serving lunches at the cafe, Clarrie heard that war with Germany and her ally Austria had been declared. Edna and Grace ran screaming into the street in a panic, staring up the street as if they expected to see German soldiers marching along Scotswood Road. Clarrie quickly brought them back in, sat them in the kitchen and calmed them down with cups of hot sweet tea.

  ‘They’re never going to come here,’ she assured them. ‘It’ll all get sorted out soon. You’re quite safe. If there’s any fighting to be done, it’ll be hundreds of miles away on the Continent.’

  But over the next week there were wild rumours of German spies round every corner and Prussian baby-eating monsters on the march through Belgium. The newspapers turned suddenly bellicose, angry crowds attacked German butchers’ shops and recruitment posters went up on advertising hoardings. By the end of the month, the town began to swell with migrants coming for jobs at the munitions factories along the river and the parks resounded to the bark and stamping of army recruiters and their volunteers.

  In the cafe, Clarrie heard more divided opinion, many of the union men openly scornful of the jingoism and rush to the colours. Burton, who had once been a regular at the Cherry Tree, declared, ‘It’s the bosses’ war, not ours. Let the toffs stick bayonets in each other if they want; the working man’s not so daft.’

  But the working man in west Newcastle, Clarrie observed, was put to work doubly hard in the factories and mines to help with the war effort, while clerks and engineers banded together with workmates to form local companies of volunteers, eager to join the British Expeditionary Force helping defend France’s eastern border.

  Clarrie kept the tea room open late to cater for the longer shifts, and opened at dawn to serve breakfasts and dissuade workers from fortifying themselves at the pub before the hooters blew. Yet it all seemed unreal, the mood of the recruiting parades and the waving, excited crowds too cheerful for war, as if the men were embarking on a charabanc trip to the seaside.

  She wondered what it might mean for India and was glad to think that Kamal was long since retired from army service. She did not even know if he was still alive, for he had never answered any of her letters. But above all, Clarrie wanted news of Will and Johnny. Post from abroad was now erratic since the one noticeable effect of the war was the attack on shipping. They had heard nothing for a month. Perhaps a mailbag containing a letter from Will had been sunk on some torpedoed merchant ship? But she kept her worries to herself. There was little point in distressing Herbert with them. He was far happier in his state of forgetfulness.

  On a misty September morning, as Clarrie was helping Lexy with breakfasts, a bearded man in a large-brimmed hat and scruffy tweeds came into Herbert’s Tea Rooms. He stood looking about him, then removed his hat and gave her a tired smile.

  Clarrie banged down a tray of bacon and eggs. ‘Will?’ she gasped. His smile broadened. ‘Will!’ she shrieked and flew at him with her arms outstretched.

  They hugged tightly and Lexy and Edna gathered round in excitement, showering him with questions.


  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘How did you get back?’

  ‘We thought you’d been hoyed in a German gaol.’

  Ina hobbled out of the kitchen to hear and Dolly burst into tears. ‘You little devil! You were always running off and getting into scrapes; nothing’s changed.’

  Over a fried breakfast and a large pot of tea, Will told them how, in mid-August, he and Johnny had been arrested in the Austrian mountains where they had been staying at a monastery, unaware that war had broken out. After being held for a week, they were taken to the Italian border and expelled. But resting in a border town they had been robbed of their passports and money, and they had had to work their passage home on boats via Spain. They had been three weeks at sea, unable to get word home and praying not to be attacked in the English Channel.

  Clarrie took Will to Summerhill. ‘Don’t be surprised if your father asks you why you’re back from Durham. He thinks you’re still a student. His memory’s worse than ever.’

  ‘Well, as long as he doesn’t tell me off for not doing my prep,’ Will joked, squeezing her arm. ‘I’ll just be glad to see the old boy.’

  Herbert, sitting in his favourite spot by the study window, appeared baffled by Will’s appearance and did not seem to recognise his son. But once Will had bathed and shaved off his beard, Herbert’s attitude changed.

  ‘My — boy!’ he croaked, attempting to raise a shaking hand. ‘You — come — back.’ When Will held his father’s veined, trembling hands in his, Herbert let out a strangled sound and tears oozed on to his immobile face.

  Clarrie’s heart squeezed to see the light of recognition in Herbert’s eyes and the tender way Will talked to him about his travels, playing down the danger in which he and Johnny had been. But her hope that Will would now begin his teaching course and remain safely in Newcastle was soon dashed. He was restless and could not settle, especially after Johnny returned to Edinburgh to continue his degree in medicine.

  When a letter came from his old school friend, Spencer-Banks, telling him that he was joining up, Will followed suit.