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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘But what about your teaching?’ Clarrie protested. ‘At least get qualified first.’

  ‘How can I sit around teaching music when there are children all over Europe whose very lives are threatened by this war?’

  She knew that when Will got that stubborn glint in his dreamy blue eyes, nothing would shake his resolve. She swallowed her fear for him.

  ‘Better pretend to your father that you’ve gone back to university,’ she said in resignation. ‘I don’t think I could stand him asking after you every five minutes.’

  Will signed up at a recruiting station south of the river so that he could train with Spencer-Banks in the Durham Light Infantry. For the first few weeks, they were stationed in the county and he got home once a month, including Christmas. Clarrie, determining to make it a happy one for Will, organised a Boxing Day party and invited Johnny and his family as well as Olive and hers.

  ‘Please come,’ she begged her sister by letter. ‘Will might not get back home again for months, even years.’

  To her delight, Olive and Jack turned up, bringing George who now staggered around on unsteady legs and grabbed on to passing skirts or trouser legs. When Clarrie produced the box of mechanical toys, six-year-old Vernon snatched them to himself.

  ‘They’re mine! He’ll break them,’ he protested.

  ‘You can show George how they work,’ Clarrie suggested, firmly extracting the box. ‘He’s much too small to manage himself. He needs a big boy to help.’

  Will came to her aid, ending up on the floor making train noises, with a giggling George tumbling about his legs and Vernon riding him like a horse. Josephine, despite Verity’s carping that she would spoil her dress, joined in too. Clarrie noticed how Olive and Jack visibly relaxed at the sight of their son playing happily with the twins. It was the first time she had seen them out together in company since George’s christening and it struck her what a fine couple they looked. Her sister’s beauty had deepened with age; she was fuller-faced, and her hair was swept up into a lustrous reddish crown. Jack, his hair now tamed with oil and his looks less boyish, had the confident, energetic air of a businessman. He reminded her of a young Daniel Milner.

  For the first time, Clarrie was convinced that Olive had been right to marry Jack. Perhaps her sister’s reasons had been mixed and it had partly been to escape Summerhill and her, but that hardly mattered now. Olive and Jack were suited, and she could see from their quiet fussing over George how much they adored their son.

  As they left, Clarrie gave her sister a tentative hug. ‘Thanks for coming. Will really hoped you would.’

  ‘I know how much you’ll miss him, Clarrie,’ Olive said, suddenly tearful. ‘He’s a grand lad.’

  ‘Come on, lass,’ Jack said, carrying a sleeping George on his shoulder. ‘Will knows how to look after himself. Don’t go getting upset. Not in your condition.’

  Olive pulled away with a sharp glance at her husband. Clarrie caught her hand.

  ‘Are you expecting again?’ she murmured. ‘You don’t have to be embarrassed on my account, please.’

  Olive nodded. ‘March,’ she whispered.

  Clarrie squeezed her hand. ‘That’s grand.’ She smiled. ‘No wonder you’re looking like a flower in bloom.’

  Olive gave her a grateful look, then Jack was steering her out of the door and into the December twilight. Will came up and stood by Clarrie, waving, his other hand resting on Clarrie s shoulder.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said to her cheerfully, ‘we’re going riding. I’ve arranged it with Lexy. You’re barred from the tea room all day. We muster at the stables at ten o’clock.’

  She turned to him and smiled. ‘Two months in the army and you’re as bossy as Field Marshal French.’

  He grinned. ‘You have to be with a Belhaven. They’re notorious for disobeying orders.’

  Linking arms, they returned to the warmth of the sitting-room fire and a dozing Herbert.

  CHAPTER 32

  1915

  In February, Will’s regiment embarked for Egypt and Olive gave birth prematurely to a daughter called Jane. The baby was born tiny and wizened, with a shock of dark hair.

  ‘Just like you and our mam,’ Olive whispered tearfully to Clarrie, whom she had unexpectedly sent for. ‘I want you to see her — just in case …’

  Jane was swiftly baptised at the house, and Jack’s mother moved in to help with George while Olive nurtured her delicate baby. Clarrie’s concern for her niece was compounded with worry over Will’s safety.

  They heard nothing for weeks, nervously following reports in the press of action in the Mediterranean. By late April, news was spreading of fierce fighting in the Dardanelles and of heavy losses among British and Allied troops against the Turkish army, dug in above the beaches of Gallipoli.

  Clarrie got out Herbert’s old atlas. These were places she had never heard of, despite having travelled through the Suez Canal on their return from India. Daily she prayed for news that Will was alive and safe from injury. She daydreamed about his being injured just enough to bring him home, but not enough to threaten his life. How much was just enough? An eye? Half a leg? She tortured herself with grim and fruitless speculation. Worse was the regular scanning of casualty lists. The dread of bad news lay on her stomach like a stone weight.

  Finally, a heavily censored letter arrived from Will. He was alive and well and back in Egypt. That day at the cafe, Clarrie gave out free cake in celebration. There was no word as to where he was going next, but as the trench warfare in Flanders grew ever more ferocious and bloody, she hoped he would remain out east.

  The casualty numbers mounted grimly as the summer campaigns raged. Demand for volunteers in the forces was insatiable and there was growing talk of conscription. Men were pressed into registering their fitness for combat. On a rare visit to Olive, Clarrie found her in a terrible state. She had lost weight and her eyes looked bruised with fatigue. Mrs Brewis had taken George out to the shops.

  ‘She won’t take the baby,’ Olive said resentfully, rocking a fretful Jane in her arms, ‘says she’s too much trouble.’

  ‘She’s looking bigger,’ Clarrie encouraged her, ‘so you shouldn’t worry.’

  ‘But I do worry,’ Olive cried. ‘How can I not? The baby’s got me worn out and what does Jack do? He’s gone to attest.’ She gulped in air and raised her voice over the baby’s grizzling. ‘I told him not to — said he wasn’t to volunteer. He’s needed at the company — he’s Mr Milner’s main man — ‘specially after three of the lads joined up. And how could I possibly manage with George and Jane on me own? It doesn’t bear thinking about!’

  ‘Attesting is just registration,’ Clarrie pointed out. ‘It doesn’t mean he’ll ever have to join up. Married men with children will be the last on the list — ‘specially lads like Jack who are keeping a business going.’

  Clarrie kept to herself the recent difficulties she was experiencing in obtaining tea from Milner’s. Bonded stocks were running out and shipping tea from India and Ceylon was a hazardous job. There was plenty of tea still being grown, picked and packed, but much of it was being stockpiled at the ports waiting for someone to ship it. On top of that, there was a huge demand for tea in the forces and much of the supply was being diverted as rations.

  Jane’s wailing grew more querulous. ‘And the bairn never stops crying!’ Olive said in agitation.

  ‘Here, give her to me,’ Clarrie ordered, taking the red-faced, squawking bundle from her sister. Jane was rigid and hot. Clarrie loosened the blanket that wrapped her and walked about the untidy kitchen, gently rocking and pacifying the baby with soft words.

  Olive watched, her expression miserable. ‘I can’t get anything done. Look what a mess this place is in.’

  ‘I thought Mrs Brewis was helping out,’ Clarrie said.

  Olive sighed. ‘She’s only interested in George — spoils him rotten. To be honest I wish she would move back home; it’s just someone else to cook and wash for. But that’s not going
to happen; Thomas and her have rented out her room to a munitions worker.’

  Jane had fallen quiet at last. Clarrie brushed her tear-stained face with a kiss.

  ‘Why don’t you strap her on to you while you work?’ she suggested. ‘The way Ama and the Khassia women used to. She likes movement and being held close.’

  Olive pulled a face. ‘And have Jack’s mam calling me a peasant or a coolie?’

  ‘What does it matter what she calls you? You’d be getting jobs done and rocking the bairn at the same time.’ She came close to her sister and said quietly, ‘I remember Mother doing that with you.’

  Olive’s eyes widened. ‘Did she?’

  Clarrie nodded. ‘Strapped you to her back when we walked down to the village or watered the flowers on the veranda. Even shopping in the bazaar at Shillong. No doubt the memsahibs called her names too, but she didn’t care.’ Clarrie gave a tender smile as another memory resurfaced.

  ‘What?’ asked Olive. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘I remember her saying she liked to feel you close — feel your heartbeat — then she knew you were all right,’ Clarrie said. ‘I’d ask her, “Is baby’s heart working?” and she’d say, “Yes, it’s working very well, thank you.”’

  Olive’s tired eyes welled with tears. Gently, Clarrie placed Jane back in her sister’s arms. ‘Do the same for your lass,’ she urged, ‘and you might worry about her less.’

  She left, promising to call when she could. But after a year of war, the demands of the cafe were growing. Prices were rising and two of her staff left: Dinah to have a baby to the sweetheart she had hastily married before he volunteered for the Navy, and Grace who was tempted away by better wages in a shell-making factory. At home, it was getting increasingly difficult to find nurses for Herbert as more were needed to staff army hospitals, and Sally upped and left to marry a riveter who had come to the yards from Scotland. Marriage seemed to be in the air. Clarrie’s housekeeper friend, Rachel, swiftly married a sergeant with the Tyneside Irish and to Clarrie’s regret moved away to South Shields.

  One cold, damp November evening, Clarrie returned to find the house in darkness. She was later than she had intended as the tea room had been full of migrant workers reluctant to leave its warmth for the overcrowded, temporary huts built to house them near the docks. She knew Mrs Henderson would have gone home at six, but hoped the young agency nurse would have waited for her return.

  Turning on lights as she entered, Clarrie called out that she was home. She kept her coat on against the chill of the unused downstairs rooms and took to the stairs. The bedroom was deserted and the bed cold. Herbert had not been put to bed by the nurse, and yet the blackout blinds had been drawn down. She hurried along to the study.

  ‘Herbert?’ she called out.

  The remains of a fire and a residual warmth told of recent occupation. Clarrie’s heart lurched. A blanket that was used to tuck round Herbert’s knees lay discarded on the floor. Where on earth could he be? He could not have gone anywhere without someone’s help. In panic, Clarrie flew from room to room, searching.

  The door to her own neglected bedroom was ajar and light gleamed at the window from the open curtains. She crossed quickly to draw them before putting on a light, and tripped. She grabbed on to the bed rail to stop herself falling. Herbert’s stick lay at her feet. Her heart lurched sickeningly. Not caring about the blackout, she turned on the light. Slumped on the floor between the bed and the window was Herbert.

  ‘My God!’ she gasped, rushing to his side. He was lying on his back staring at the ceiling. A faint pulse beat in the hollow of his neck.

  ‘Herbert, can you move?’ she cried. ‘Can you hear me?’

  He did not respond. Only his eyes flickered towards her.

  ‘I’ll get help,’ she said, forcing down the fear in her throat. ‘Just hold on. Don’t die on me, Herbert,’ she hissed, ‘please don’t die!’

  By the time she had rung for an ambulance, alerted Bertie and returned upstairs, Herbert’s eyes were closed and his breathing so shallow she had to lean close to feel it on her cheek and convince herself he was still alive. She stroked his head and whispered encouragement.

  It seemed an age before the ambulance came, ringing its bell and alerting the neighbours that something was amiss at No. 12. She went with Herbert, not waiting for Bertie. He found her at the hospital pacing in a waiting room. Clarrie rushed to hug him but he fended her off in embarrassment and demanded to know what had happened.

  ‘He’s had another seizure — a bad one,’ she gulped. ‘The doctor’s not sure he’ll…’

  Bertie wanted the exact details. He was horrified to hear his father had been left alone.

  ‘There should’ve been a nurse,’ Clarrie said, holding back tears. ‘And I don’t know how he got from his study to the bedroom. He must’ve dragged himself there. What do you think he was trying to do?’

  ‘We might never know,’ he said accusingly. ‘You should have been with him, not at the tea room.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said wretchedly.

  Eventually a doctor came. ‘Mr Stock’s condition is stable but poorly. There’s nothing to be done tonight. Go home and get some rest.’

  Bertie left without a word and Clarrie returned through the echoing fog to the empty house. It was the longest night of her life. She stoked up the fire in Herbert’s study and sat in his chair under the discarded blanket, waiting and dozing.

  A startled Mrs Henderson appeared at seven.

  ‘When I left, Mr Stock was sitting in his chair by the fire, I swear to it,’ she said in a fluster. ‘That young nurse was called away at six too — some emergency. I didn’t think you’d be far behind. Oh, Mrs Stock, I feel terrible.’

  ‘Not as terrible as I do,’ Clarrie answered. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Tell me how he seemed when you left him.’

  Mrs Henderson shook her head. ‘Same as ever — no trouble — just dozing and staring at the fire.’ Then her expression changed. ‘He did say some’at strange — maybe’s I misheard.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Asked me about you.’

  ‘Me?’ Clarrie queried.

  ‘Aye, “See if Mrs Stock needs anything,” he said. And he called me Mrs Pearson, an’ all. But he often gets his words mixed up, doesn’t he?’

  Clarrie’s heart thumped. ‘Mrs Pearson was the cook here before I came,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he was thinking of the old Mrs Stock too.’ Her lips trembled as she added, ‘That must be why he went to her room — he wanted Louisa.’

  For the next week, Herbert’s condition neither worsened nor improved. He lay still as an effigy under the white sheet and hospital blanket, his face grey and lifeless. He was fed through a tube. On the rare occasions his eyes opened, his look was vacant. Clarrie came at visiting hour and sat holding his hand, but he showed no sign of recognition or even of knowing that she was there. Verity came once but said it was too distressing; Bertie came every other day for a few minutes to berate her for her neglect of his father. A message was sent to Will, now in Alexandria, to prepare for the worst.

  Yet Herbert, clung on. A month later, at Christmas, there were minor improvements that Clarrie seized on with hope: he could partially swallow again and his eyes looked more alert, though he could not speak. Will wrote her a long encouraging letter. She had confided her belief that Herbert had been searching for Louisa, his mind having regressed into the past.

  ‘He might just as well have been looking for you, Clarrie,’ Will wrote. ‘You have been his greatest comfort and love these past six years. Don’t let Bertie tell you otherwise. My father would never have lived this long without your loving care.’

  ***

  As 1916 dawned, a conscription bill was hurried through Parliament, and to Clarrie’s distress she found the house at Summerhill being requisitioned by the nearby barracks as an overflow for new recruits.

  ‘You hardly need all that space,’ Bertie was unsympathetic, ‘and it looks unlikely Papa will ever
be fit enough to live there again.’

  ‘It’s Will’s home too,’ Clarrie retorted, stung by his callousness.

  ‘Will won’t need a home till the war’s over,’ Bertie said, ‘and he can come to us when he gets leave.’

  ‘And what about me?’ Clarrie demanded.

  His look was unconcerned. ‘There’s the flat above the cafe — it’s roomy enough and very handy for work.’

  Furious, Clarrie went to confront the officer in charge of requisition, suspicious that Bertie had tipped them off about the empty house.

  ‘We were led to believe you were living there on your own,’ the officer said, embarrassed, ‘and that you had other property you could go to.’

  ‘It is my husband’s home; he must have somewhere to return to,’ she insisted. ‘I’m willing to share the house, but not with billeted soldiers.’

  In the end, it was agreed that administrative staff would use the downstairs rooms and two female clerks lodge on the second floor. Clarrie’s frustrations and worries were thrown into sharp focus that summer, when news spread of the offensive on the Somme in France. Hailed as a massive assault on German lines, the appalling death toll spoke of carnage. Whole regiments had been decimated or wiped out in a matter of hours.

  Clarrie sat in the cafe with others, hunched over newspapers trying to glean information, unable to take in the scale of death and injury. Dolly’s cousin was killed, one of Jack’s tea boys was missing and Ina’s youngest daughter was a widow at twenty. In the midst of trying to console her staff and reassure Olive that Jack might not be conscripted, Clarrie received a telegram.

  She tore it open with trembling fingers and nearly fainted at the message. Will was back in England. He had a week’s leave. He arrived on an overcrowded train, looking thin and sallow-faced, but with a smile that lifted Clarrie’s troubled heart.

  She wanted to take him to the cafe for something to eat, but he asked to go home. On the way Clarrie explained that they were now sharing the house with army personnel but his own room was secure. He went straight to bed and slept until evening. Clarrie decided that Bertie could wait a day before being informed of his brother’s arrival. After bathing, Will shared her simple supper of ham and potatoes, while she told him everything that had happened in his absence. But when she tried to ask about Gallipoli the previous year, or his time in Egypt, Will shrugged off her questions.