The Tea Gardens

by Fiona McIntosh

  We slipped over into a new year and I finally left English shores in the midst of a winter in which a deep depression near Iceland dominated the weather over the British Isles. I floated away from our dock while the country was experiencing widespread snow with hefty gales to the west and north. The two men I loved were rugged to their noses, hats pulled down over ears as they braved the freezing afternoon dockside to wave our ship farewell. I was glad I could blame a lot of my sniffling on that deep climatic depression at Reykjavik.

  However, not even London’s Covent Garden on a busy market day or the glimpse of the surging humanity of Bombay’s Ballard Pier could prepare me for the new ‘jungle’ of unnerving strangeness that confronted me as I stood slightly dazed on one of the two dozen or more railway platforms at Howrah Main Station in Calcutta.

  Suddenly the crossing of oceans that had felt daunting all those weeks ago when I kissed my father and Jove in a teary farewell from London, bound for Brindisi in Italy, now seemed simple and straightforward. I had people to help me, guide me and see to my needs. In Italy I had moved with a party of Londoners whom I’d attached myself to and together we joined our ship as a large and jolly group to be feted with glamorous evenings of dining and entertainment, a never-ending supply of food, constant amusements and parties. And as we sipped cocktails and discussed everything from Denmark abolishing capital punishment to the luxury ocean liner L’Atlantique that destroyed it and two hundred and fifty-five souls, we tried not to show how that tragedy unnerved any of us. The enormous project of the Golden Gate Bridge won much discussion, as did the romantic gangsters of Bonnie and Clyde unleashing their form of terror in the United States, while we were all amazed by an Australian making the first commercial flight of over twelve hundred miles between Australia and New Zealand with passengers. Flying instead of sailing captured our imaginations and one entire night of dinner conversation, which also included the loss of British aviator Mary Bailey during her solo flight to South Africa. England defeating Australia in the third test claimed most of the conversation over brandy and cigars later. Meanwhile, the landscape, when we glimpsed it, as we moved across oceans and called into increasingly exotic ports, began to change dramatically from all I’d known. As we were docking in Bombay and my voyage came to an end I remember feeling a momentary sadness that I couldn’t continue all the way through to the other side of our planet to Australia.

  Thomas Cook representatives swarmed to help passengers into taxis and off to hotels while they took care of the transshipment of luggage. I shared a taxi journey with a couple of wives bound for Victoria Station in Bombay and was quite taken aback by its Gothic beauty. I suppose it had not occurred to me previously that India would have such glorious English-style buildings, and it felt as though we were arriving before a majestic church. But given how important India was to Queen Victoria’s reign in particular, I privately admonished myself for a lack of foresight that India was likely crowded with British-built edifices such as this. I had to hurry on from my gawping at the ornamentation on the building’s exterior or risk holding up the other ladies waiting for me. I had worked hard throughout our journey from England to make the necessary small talk to fall in with the other women. Shipboard life, however, was becoming a fast-retreating memory as I clambered aboard our train, which I was assured was the most luxurious steam train in the world. We were about to make a grand journey that would take us nearly two days to cross this enormous continent of India into West Bengal.

  The Imperial Mail Train – known to these regulars as the Blue Mail due to its painted carriages – had to be booked in England and it timed itself to the P&O Line voyages such as the one I’d sailed on. I had been surprised to discover that the train only accepted first-class passengers, and at a premium. My father had organised my journey from London so I had no idea what he’d paid, but going by the fact that my fellow travellers included the Governor of Bengal 1st Viscount Waverley plus a band of senior British diplomats with their wives and various military men – none below the rank of brigadier – I hated to imagine the cost.

  The outrageous fee paid meant we were spared the indignity of anything but the finest, cleanest, most hygienic experience available on the Indian railways. I didn’t envy the passengers alighting from our ship at Bombay and going on to Rangoon via steamer. I’d certainly had my fill of ocean travel despite the romantic-sounding journeys that so many of the passengers I met were keen to discuss at length. In fact I was the happiest I’d been in more than a week to finally set foot on terra firma, sensing the destination of years of longing was finally at hand. One more journey, I told myself, although fourteen hundred miles to cross the breadth of India still felt daunting.

  My father had entirely indulged me, it seemed, as I discovered I was to travel in a single compartment, which felt like a balm after all the socialising on the ship and shared accommodation with two other chatty, newly married women on their way out to join their military husbands.

  Although the dark wood of my private room felt vaguely claustrophobic, it also seemed to cool it and a strategically placed fan at one corner of the ceiling kept the air moving. It was a finely equipped space – nothing I could complain about – from a single, surprisingly comfy cot with cool, starched linen to a pair of cane chairs with satin cushions, and plenty of overhead luggage space. I was also spoilt to have my own basin and large mirror so I could freshen up in private facilities. I remember how I shut the door, closed its louvres and felt as though I had cordoned myself off from outsiders for a while.

  I let my world narrow to what I could see from my window as we snaked our way across India. I gathered it would be an electric locomotive to a place called Igatpuri and then steam all the way to Howrah in Calcutta. The butler taking care of my carriage informed me in excellent English that the only stops we would make would be to take on water and coal, but no passengers. I sighed with relief that I only had to make conversation at mealtimes with perhaps thirty others, maybe fewer, if the train wasn’t full.

  ‘You may keep the windows open, madam,’ he assured. ‘No steam until Igatpuri.’

  I smiled my thanks and remember feeling relief as we finally jerked and then surged out of the Bombay terminal to cross a narrow coastal plain. It wasn’t long, though, before we had to negotiate the Western Ghats mountain range, which in some parts required us to climb to just under five thousand feet. The terrain was like none other I had ever confronted previously and I imagined how pleased Jove would be when I wrote home about this jungle-like landscape as we cut through valleys on our ascent to the Deccan Plateau and our access to Northern India. While on our arrival Bombay’s climate had felt like midsummer in England, perhaps seventy-five degrees, it was much cooler up here – almost chilly – but we were travelling through bright sunshine that warmed us from clear skies. I wanted to pinch myself to remember this virgin mountain forest. In London it had been impossible to imagine anywhere like this existed that wasn’t peopled. The lush landscape began to thin as we ascended over the next hour or so, and became less vegetated and drier; green turned to brown as the Malabar Coastal Plain became separated from the rest of India.

  We were warned that the stop at Igatpuri would be less of a pause and more of a wait as we changed over from electric to steam locomotive. As we took on water and fuel I strolled out with my fellow passengers onto the platform to stretch our legs while we waited. I was astonished to see that the coal was not only carried by women – coolies, according to my fellow passengers – but transported on their heads in huge bundles. I could already imagine what this work was doing to their spines, not to mention their chests with the inhalation of coal dust, but held my tongue. No one else seemed anything but vaguely entertained and instead appeared mostly bored by what was clearly a familiar sight.

  From here on there was not much memorable about the scene beyond my window: mostly a characterless plain dotted by the odd jungle village. The monotony was broken by an exquisite afternoon tea served by my butler in
my compartment as I’d chosen not to join the restaurant car. I knew it was antisocial but I had no intention of befriending these people even though I could hear Jove’s voice in my mind berating me softly for being short-sighted. Some of his final words to me had been about making friends wherever I could because life would be challenging and lonely enough without isolating myself with only work. I had assured him I would be open to some of the social offerings and I hoped I hadn’t lied to him.

  With no passengers boarding or departing, the stations we stopped at were quiet – almost deserted – although I noted the workers were so well kempt that any English railway station manager would have been proud.

  Another unsavoury experience was witnessing locals, more railway coolies presumably, taking their ablutions in plain sight of the station. My fellow travellers turned away but not with any look of horror; neither was it out of politeness – more about having seen it all so many times before. In the meantime my mind raced to the threat of disease and the ever-growing challenge ahead of me for life and hygiene in the hospital.

  By dinnertime I was smartly reminded about the divide between us and the everyday person of the land we had colonised; all of us diners were in full regalia for the evening meal. The team of staff were no slouches either, clad in immaculate outfits; our dining manager was impressive in a black dinner suit, pristine white shirt and bow tie. His mission was to make sure our every whim was attended to with as much obsequiousness as one might anticipate in a top dining establishment in London or Paris. His bearers, meanwhile, were kitted in starched, long coats of white – known as chapkans, I was told by my dining companions – together with green trousers and brass buckled belts. Their turbans were white or green to match.

  I had anticipated getting my belly used to Indian food but not on the Blue Mail. Here it was five-star silver service all the way, with traditional fare that could only be described as straight from the menu of a swanky European hotel.

  ‘Home from home,’ as one gentleman diner said; I seem to recall he was a major general visiting Fort William in Calcutta. He tipped a crystal goblet of claret in my direction as we all considered the pigeons truffée a la perigord or the cochon de lait. The light, reflected against the crystal glass, fractured to fling rainbow shards around the ceiling and that same light bounced off diamonds on the ladies’ fingers and warmed the pearls at their throats. We were not just the rich in this country, we were the super-rich, and somewhere deep I found it all vulgar as I remembered the women squatting at their ablutions.

  As neither pigeon nor suckling pig was suddenly to my taste, I chose the mutton served with risotto Milanese and shook my head against a first course, although I noted my fellow diners tucking into bouillabaisse or mullet in mayonnaise. Even oysters were on the menu, which I found astonishing. More surprising was how most diners found room for a slice of gateau, while I once again politely declined but sipped a coffee and nibbled on a bite-sized petit four that was exquisitely frosted in pink icing to look like a tiny gift with ribbon. All of this on a train in the middle of a country where squalor was all around us and poverty a way of life for most.

  I kept my own counsel, though – a rare moment, perhaps, of enlightened discipline at not airing my opinion or stirring conversation from the banal to political. Instead I forced myself to consider this an interlude in my life of forty or so hours and tried not to question too much of what I was part of. This was merely a journey from A to B, and B was all I needed to focus on.

  _________

  Finally I stood at point B, our destination of Howrah Station, Calcutta. We had arrived at last and I was feeling flushed and excited that I was on the brink of fulfilling that promise made so long ago. I looked around me, both fascinated and daunted at once. The building itself, I felt, was impressive enough in its cathedral-like vaulted ceiling to rival Bombay’s admired Victoria Station. But the people! Many hundreds of them; it felt as though the entirety of a small English town moved in all directions, although giving me a wide berth. This was the same for all of us Europeans alighting from the train. I forced myself not to give in to the feeling of mild panic because I knew where it would lead if I entertained the thought that I was alone here with my wits, unsure of every step ahead now. I reminded myself that this was the adventure I’d craved and if the person meeting me didn’t show up, then I was an adult – a doctor – and perfectly capable, surely, of hailing a taxi?

  Taxi . . . Did such a vehicle exist? Would it be oxcart? I imagined trying to haul myself into an open wagon. Sensible outfit notwithstanding, suddenly even the simplest task that I took for granted at home felt like a challenge to fear. Just looking out across the sea of curious faces – the whites of their eyes standing out so clearly against skin ranging in colour from coffee to the deepest of chocolate – made me realise that even crossing from the platform to the main station was going to be an obstacle course. I took a breath and smiled, feigning lightheartedness, as Mrs Bourne-Hughes bid me farewell.

  ‘Oh, darling Isla, I hoped I’d catch you before we all lost one another to the madness of Calcutta. Now, you will come over for an afternoon tea as soon as you’re settled, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ I hugged her. ‘Is it always like this?’

  ‘Mostly worse,’ she groaned. ‘And out there —’ she pointed towards the grand entrance and exit where the main stream of people flowed ‘— it can be quite the assault with these mostly savage people. At best it’s tiresome.’ She gave a clucking sound like a hen laying. ‘Don’t get me started, dear.’

  I wanted to repeat my general query to most on the ship, perhaps more strenuously, as to why on earth she was here, then, if it was so taxing, but in that moment I didn’t have the strength. Elmay Bourne-Hughes was not the problem and was actually a most decent person; she was simply part of the tapestry of British India. Some of it I gathered was brilliant, like the train we’d recently stepped off, and some of it was shameful . . . calling its nationals ‘savages’ was not the way forward.

  ‘Isla, why are you standing here alone? Can I have my driver come back for you or something?’

  ‘No, no,’ I assured, wishing I could just say yes and leap into the car that was obviously waiting outside for this memsahib returning from Christmas in England. ‘I am being met.’

  ‘Only if you’re sure, my dear?’

  I nodded and hugged her again. ‘We shall meet again soon.’

  She disappeared into a swarm of people, her entourage of porters hauling trunks and countless items of baggage as she hurled threats over her shoulder if they weren’t careful of her expensive luggage.

  I took a deep breath and looked around me. I was being regarded by dozens of pairs of brown–black eyes. I averted my self-consciousness by looking up towards the sloping roofline that echoed the grand stations of England with their lacework of iron and elegant archways.

  ‘Dr Fenwick?’

  My gaze snapped to the slender woman who stood before me, serene-faced, her smile genuine and enquiring.

  ‘Yes!’ I gushed. ‘Are you Senior Nurse Lilian Patton?’

  ‘I am.’ She held out a hand. ‘Please call me Lily, though. My grandmother is Lilian and she is a fearsome lady.’

  I laughed with her.

  ‘I am so pleased to meet you, Dr Fenwick,’ she said, large cocoa-coloured eyes crinkling at the edges in delight as I shook her hand with equal parts relief and pleasure. ‘And this is Dipali, one of my colleagues, training to be a midwife. We call her Dip.’

  ‘Dipali,’ I repeated and nodded at the petite woman wearing a silken sari so richly pink I was reminded of fresh cranberry juice. She wore her draped gown effortlessly pitched over one shoulder and I wondered how it ever stayed there. The glimpse of flesh beneath her rib cage as she moved was both shocking and exciting. I couldn’t imagine walking around showing peeps of my body and yet I envied her the freedom to do that. She looked like a perfect doll. Not one of her glossy hairs was out of place; they were scraped back o
ff her oval-shaped face and plaited down her spine to her waist. I remember being impressed in school physics lessons to learn that in the visible spectrum, black is the absorption of all the colours we know. No visible light, we were taught . . . and yet Dip’s hair was so dark it looked polished, reflective. I imagined all the jewel-coloured saris in India being absorbed into one to form the colour that was Dip’s hair. Gold gleamed in her lobes, on her wrists, and glimmered from the border of her outfit. Dip smiled humbly as I appraised her; she too seemed to be taking stock of my plain, sensible linens that were meant to be airy and cooling but made me feel like the ugly duckling from the literary tales of Hans Christian Andersen.

  ‘Please,’ Lily offered, digging out a flask from the basket she carried. ‘You may like to sip some water. It’s boiled and clean.’ She held it out. ‘Very safe. But I took the precaution of filtering it over charcoal too.’ She touched her belly. ‘Your tummy must get used to the assault that’s coming.’

  I didn’t mean to but I know I smiled weakly, trying not to think about what those simple words conveyed. I took the flask gratefully, though, and unscrewed the top to sip from it. I anticipated it would taste tainted somehow but it gladly answered a thirst.

  ‘Drink water all day long,’ Lily urged. ‘Even when you don’t think your body is parched. Rule number one for Calcutta.’

  ‘Thank you. Er, my luggage is —’

  ‘Do not worry. Dip will see to it and there’s hardly anything,’ she said, sounding surprised. ‘We are used to the English arriving with an array of trunks so we have brought men.’

  I only realised now that there was a small troupe of silent, khaki-clad men awaiting our pleasure. They didn’t strike me as brawny enough to carry more than my hand luggage; in fact they looked as though they could all use a good feed and lots of exercises to strengthen spindly legs. Lily must have guessed my thoughts because she smiled.