‘Now I can sleep easy at night knowing Jack’s safe from the call-up. I don’t care if it’s selfish. I’m not like you, Clarrie. I’d never cope on me own.’
Clarrie kept her own troubles to herself, saddened at the gulf between them. These days, she and Olive had so little in common that they did not know what to say to each other. She saw the relief in her sister’s eyes when she got up to leave. There had been no invitation to share Christmas with Olive and her family, Olive telling her hastily that they would be spending it at Jack’s mother’s. Clarrie masked her hurt and decided to keep away. It was Lexy who, along with her sisters, made Clarrie’s first Christmas without Herbert or Will bearable by inviting Ina and her family round. They pooled their food and small gifts and ended up with a sing-song, Ina’s youngest playing the mouth organ. It was a long way from the genteel drawing room and party games of Summerhill or Tankerville Terrace, but it lifted Clarrie’s spirits more surely than any tonic.
As business worsened, Clarrie and Lexy closed the extra meeting rooms in the next-door annexe and rented them out to lodgers from the munitions works. That spring, Cousin Lily died and Jared closed the Cherry Tree, his heart no longer in it. Business had been dwindling since the government had restricted drinking hours and liquor was harder to come by. He appeared at the tea room one day for his dinner. Clarrie welcomed him in. Sheepishly, he handed her over a cloth-wrapped parcel.
‘Found this at the bottom of Lily’s wardrobe,’ he said. ‘I’m that sorry — hope it still works.’
Unwrapping it, Clarrie found Olive’s old violin, the one that had belonged to her father.
‘She never sold it after all?’ Clarrie exclaimed. ‘Fancy keeping it all this time! Why on earth did she do that?’
Jared shrugged. ‘She was jealous of you lasses — wanted a bit of what you had. I reckon you ganin’ off to the Stocks was the last straw. She was worse after you went. But I swear I didn’t know about the fiddle.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s all too far in the past to get angry over. Worse things happen at sea, as Father would have said.’
‘Talking of which,’ Jared sighed, ‘the Navy have called up Harrison. They must be scraping the bottom of the barrel.’
Clarrie thought the violin might rekindle some of the lost affection between her and Olive, but her sister showed little interest in the rediscovered instrument. She had stopped playing long ago. She was preoccupied with worry that the Tyneside Tea Company might go out of business and Jack be unemployed or, worse still, conscripted. His mother was finding the boisterous George too tiring and spending more time with Thomas and Annie’s baby son, while Jane was proving as delicate as Olive had been and prone to asthma attacks.
‘Bring them to the cafe and we’ll keep George entertained,’ Clarrie offered, but Olive never did.
After Jared’s appearance with the missing fiddle, he came two or three times a week, often just to sit and queue to read the newspaper, make a cup of Bovril last an hour and chat to other customers. There was much excitement amongst the ILP about the bloodless revolution in Russia and the ceasefire on the Eastern Front. They speculated all summer about its bringing the wider war to an end, but fighting in France appeared as relentless as the summer before.
Clarrie went about her work as cheerfully as she could, but underneath she felt an ever-present tension at the thought of Will on the Western Front. When a much longed for letter or postcard arrived, she would experience a heady sense of relief. But it was always short-lived. He had been safe at the time of writing, but what now? she would fret.
‘Guess what?’ he wrote one time. ‘Last week I was sent with a message to HQ and who should I meet but someone who knew you in India! Colonel Harry Wilson. He’s a real veteran, one of the few regular soldiers from before the war that you don’t often come across. He was only a subaltern when you knew him, but he said you had kindly entertained him at Belgooree. It was strange how the subject came up. He said he had a good friend from my part of the world, Wesley Robson. He was bowled over when I told him I knew him too! Col Wilson says Wesley has been conscripted, so perhaps he’ll be joining us out here shortly. The Colonel said to pass on warm regards to you and your sister. He particularly said to ask after Olive and was she still painting? Isn’t it a small world?’
The letter left Clarrie shaking, as if the past had reached out and touched her with ghostly fingers. Harry Wilson! She thought of Olive’s girlish crush on the red-headed soldier and the time they had gone to watch him fish while her sister painted. That day Wesley had argued irreconcilably with her father and the row had exacerbated Jock’s destructive addiction to liquor and opium. How strangely their lives were intertwined. The war had tossed them all about like jacks in the air, carelessly displacing them. Now even the charmed Wesley had been plucked from his comfortable life and sent into the fray. She wondered if Henrietta — his wife now? — lay awake fretting about him in some London mansion.
Clarrie debated whether to call on Olive and show her the letter. It might make her sister laugh at the memory, or it might make her cross for being reminded of Belgooree. Olive refused to talk about their old life in front of Jack and the Brewises as if she was ashamed that they had once led an existence so alien and eccentric. But before Clarrie could make up her mind, Jack appeared at the tea room asking to see her.
He hovered in the doorway, looking awkward.
‘Is it Olive?’ Clarrie asked in panic. ‘Are the children all right?’
‘Aye, they’re canny,’ Jack said hastily. His look was restless, uncomfortable.
‘Come to the back,’ Clarrie said, leading him to an empty table and calling to Edna to bring tea.
‘There’s no need,’ he said, ‘I’ll not be stopping.’
‘I need,’ Clarrie said, with a brief smile. ‘You can watch me drink if you like.’
They sat down opposite each other in embarrassed silence. The tea arrived. Jack took a sip and cleared his throat.
‘Olive doesn’t know I’m here. She’d go light if she did. But I’m worried about her — how she’ll manage.’
‘Manage what?’ Clarrie asked, putting down her cup.
‘I’ve had me call-up papers again.’
‘But you’re exempted!’
Jack shook his head. ‘New rules. There’s nowt Mr Milner can do about it. This time I have to gan.’ He met her look for the first time. ‘I’m not afraid; I’d have gone the first time if Mr Milner hadn’t put his oar in. But our Olive, she’s ganin’ to pieces over the thought of me leaving.’
Clarrie’s insides knotted. ‘Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry. And poor Olive. When will you go?’
‘Have to report to barracks tomorra.’
‘So soon?’ she gasped.
‘There’s a need,’ he said tensely. ‘But I’m not bothered for meself. It’s Olive and the bairns. Will you look out for them?’
‘Course I will,’ she said at once. She saw him struggling to say more.
‘We’ve not been good to you,’ he said. ‘I let you and Olive grow apart.’
‘That wasn’t your doing,’ Clarrie said gently.
‘Aye, some of it was.’ He looked round, then hunched his shoulders and lowered his voice. ‘When I realised you didn’t care for me — not enough to wed — me pride was hurt. I thought one way to get back at you was courting your sister.’
Clarrie flushed. ‘You shouldn’t be saying this.’
‘Let me finish,’ he said. ‘It might’ve started as a game, but in time it changed. I grew to care for Olive more and more. The day we wed was the happiest in me life.’ He held her gaze. ‘I love your sister more than anyone in this world.’
‘I’m glad,’ Clarrie gulped. ‘And I’ve never doubted it.’
‘But she does,’ Jack said, his fair face creased with anxiety. ‘Even after all this time — with two bairns of our own — she can’t believe that I could love her more than you. So I’ve been harder on you than I should’ve, just to prove to Olive that I
love her best. And that’s why she doesn’t like you coming round when I’m there. She’s jealous of you, Clarrie.’
‘No!’ Clarrie exclaimed.
‘It’s true. I used to be too,’ he confessed.
‘But why?’ Clarrie was bewildered.
‘You were always falling on yer feet; working for the Stocks, then marrying Mr Herbert and living in the big posh house, running yer own business. Seemed like you could do anything you put yer mind to.’
‘Everything I’ve done has been from hard graft.’
‘Aye, maybe’s,’ Jack shrugged. ‘What I do know is that we’re all in the same boat now — all hanging on to our businesses by the fingernails. Doesn’t seem to matter if you’re a posh Stock or a working-class Brewis.’
Clarrie was tempted to tell him how much more precarious was her position than his. At least, thanks to Milner’s generosity, he and Olive owned the roof over their heads. But she could see he was overwrought with worry about his family. What was there to be gained by burdening him with more?
He went on. ‘Mr Milner’s promised to keep me job open for when the war’s over and Olive will have me army pay. It’s not the money so much. But she needs someone to be strong for her and the bairns — and Mam’s that busy with Thomas and Annie’s little lad.’
Clarrie reached out and put a hand on his arm. ‘Stop worrying. I’ll keep an eye on them. They’re my own flesh and blood, remember?’
Briefly he touched her hand with his own. ‘Ta, Clarrie. And I’m sorry for any bad feeling between us.’ He stood up quickly and fixed on his hat. ‘There’s one other thing, in case you don’t know. Bertie Stock is no longer Mr Milner’s solicitor — hasn’t been for some time.’
‘No, I didn’t know,’ Clarrie answered, eyes widening. ‘Why is that?’
Jack hesitated. ‘Company can’t afford his fees, for one thing.’
‘And?’ Clarrie probed.
Jack looked awkward. ‘Mr Milner never got on with him like he did with Mr Herbert. Never trusted him.’
‘Why was that?’
‘You hear things.’ Jack shrugged. ‘And he advised the company badly — made investments on our behalf that came to nowt. Mr Milner told him he could be rash with his own money but not with other people’s.’
Clarrie let out a groan. ‘He did the same with me.’
Jack gave her a look of surprise. ‘Well, Mr Milner could recommend another solicitor. You don’t have to stick with Bertie Stock just out of loyalty.’
‘I wish it were that simple,’ Clarrie said quietly.
He looked perplexed. ‘Isn’t it?’
Clarrie shook her head. Now was not the time to unburden herself of how she had nothing left to invest — her only possession of worth was a set of emerald jewellery that Herbert had once given her — and it was Bertie who owned the cafe and paid her wage.
‘Well, from what I hear,’ Jack said, ‘you must be one of the few clients he’s got left.’
Clarrie’s insides clenched. She might not care about Bertie’s business, but she cared that the cafe remained solvent. Still, he was married to a Landsdowne and no doubt his in-laws would bail him out if necessary.
‘Thank you for the warning,’ she said.
With a nod and a flicker of his old dimpled smile, he stepped away. ‘Take care of yersel’, Clarrie.’
‘And you too, Jack.’ She watched him hurry from the cafe.
Clarrie waited until the following week before going round to see Olive, so that her sister would not be suspicious about the timing. It was young George who answered the door. Clarrie heard Jane crying fretfully in the background. Following the source of the noise, she found her niece sitting in her own mess on the hearth mat, the kitchen untidy and the fire out.
Picking up Jane and trying to calm her, she looked around in alarm.
‘Where’s Mammy?’ she asked the small boy.
‘In bed,’ George said. ‘Mammy’s sick of her life. Jane’s stinky, isn’t she, Aunt Clarrie?’
‘Just a bit,’ Clarrie agreed, pulling a face and holding her nose. George copied her and giggled.
‘You help me find her some clean clothes,’ Clarrie instructed, rummaging through a basketful of unironed clothing, most of it Jack’s. She cleaned up the baby at the sink and dressed her in a pair of George’s britches. The boy produced a piece of dry crust from the bread bin and handed it to his sister. Jane grabbed it and chewed hard, her whimpering stopping abruptly.
Clarrie smiled. ‘Good lad. Now let’s see to your mammy.’
Olive was lying under the covers with the curtains drawn. Clarrie could hear her wheezing, laboured breathing. Quickly she went to her sister, clutching Jane in one arm. ‘How long have you been like this?’
‘J-Jack’s,’ Olive panted, ‘g-gone.’
‘I know,’ Clarrie said, smoothing back Olive’s damp hair. ‘Let me help you sit up. George, go and get Mammy a cup of water. Do you think you can manage?’
The boy nodded and darted away. Placing the baby on the bed and giving her a reassuring smile, Clarrie hauled Olive into a sitting position and began rubbing her back. Her sister was shaking violently; she coughed and choked, trying feebly to push her away.
‘Slowly. Deep breaths. Don’t worry,’ Clarrie murmured.
‘W-want Jack!’ Olive gasped. ‘N-not y-you.’
‘Well it’s me you’ve got,’ Clarrie said more brusquely, alarmed by her sister’s capitulation to her fears. ‘And the world hasn’t come to an end so stop acting as if it has. Jack’s not dead; he’s been called up. By the time George comes back with that water I want you to have calmed yourself, do you hear? You’re frightening him and you’re frightening me.’
Olive was so startled by Clarrie’s sudden bluntness that she did as she was told. Her breathing calmed and the trembling lessened. Jane began to crawl over her mother and grab her hair. Olive protested but Clarrie tickled the girl and made her shriek with delight. George returned and held up a cup sloshing with water to his mother. His grin was so like his father’s that Clarrie s heart squeezed in pity.
‘Clever lad,’ she praised him. ‘Just what Mammy needs.’ She encouraged Olive to drink.
‘Is Mammy not sick anymore?’ he asked hopefully.
Clarrie saw tears welling in her sister’s dark-ringed eyes. ‘No, she’s not sick, pet. She’s sad about Dadda not being here. But we’ll cheer her up, won’t we?’
George clambered on to the bed and put his arms round his mother’s neck.
‘Don’t be sad, Mammy.’ He gave her a noisy kiss.
Olive sat rigid. Clarrie held her breath, fearing her sister would push the boy away. Then Olive let go a deep sob and her arm went round her small son in a desperate hug. Her face was tense with pain as her look met Clarrie’s.
‘Oh, Clarrie, how will I manage?’ she whispered.
Clarrie put a hand out and squeezed her shoulder. ‘One day at a time, that’s how.’
CHAPTER 35
1918
With constant reassurance and support from Clarrie, Olive rallied and did her best to keep her house and family going in Jack’s absence. Clarrie, mindful of her sister’s fragile mental state, spent alternate nights at the Lemington house, helping with the children and calming Olive when panic overwhelmed her.
Rationing came in and Jack’s wages seemed to shrink as the year wore on. Olive spent long hours queuing for food, leaving the children at the tea house in Clarrie’s care. The bright and friendly children were a constant source of amusement to the staff and Clarrie was grateful for their easy acceptance of their disrupted life. She adored them.
Their lively chatter was a distraction from the unrelenting worry of dwindling supplies, higher prices and bad news on the war front. That spring brought a new German offensive in Flanders. The country was jaded from months of deprivation, hunger and long hours at gruelling work in mines and factories. But it was the grief of so many lost that caused despair and tempers to fray. Everyone knew someone
killed in battle or lost at sea. And they carried around the dread of the stark War Office telegram telling them of further loss.
Olive would physically shake every time the postman paused in the street outside her door, torn between wanting a letter from Jack and fear that the delivery would bring the worst possible news. Yet both Jack and Will appeared to be surviving trench life with a stoic cheerfulness at odds with the mood at home.
The tea room had always been a hotbed of debate, even with government restrictions on meetings and dissent, but now people openly began to criticise the conduct of the war, from the Prime Minister’s refusal to let American President Wilson broker a peace to the army generals’ squandering of so many lives. There were strikes over factory conditions and riots over bread prices. All of it was openly discussed around the tea tables at Herbert’s, despite the paucity of the menu and the weakness of the tea.
‘What’s it all been for?’ men would ask.
‘I hear they’re striking in Germany too.’
‘Starving, I heard.’
Others muttered with wary glances over their shoulders, ‘Maybe there really will be revolution like in Russia.’
For Clarrie such concerns came secondary to keeping the cafe open and her staff employed. Bertie, who had paid her a good wage at the beginning and left her to her own devices, had been badgering her for months to make economies. In the light of what Jack had told her, Clarrie suspected he was trying to squeeze money from the cafe to cover shortfalls elsewhere. But he and Verity had always been wantonly extravagant and no doubt resented the reduced lifestyle that war had brought even to the rich.
He never came near the tea room. Business was conducted by brief, hectoring letters with hints of ‘unfortunate consequences’ if she did not cut costs. Since January, wages had been paid late, but Clarrie had taken comfort in the thought that Bertie needed the tea room too much to let it go under.
THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER:A wonderfully moving story of courage and enduring love: First in the India Tea Series Page 36