The Tea Gardens

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘I do. We all do. He’s brilliant. But entirely detestable, and if I might dare to give you a single piece of advice —’

  ‘A second piece of advice,’ I qualified.

  He grinned. ‘Yes, but you’ll be glad I did.’

  ‘All right . . . ’

  ‘Give Saxon Vickery a wide berth.’

  The name meant nothing. ‘Another doctor?’ The question was redundant because it was obvious to me we were discussing a clinician but I was wearying fast and needed to make my polite escape.

  ‘He’s a genius, some say. Professor. His research into tropical medicine in this part of the world has no equal.’

  ‘Oh, well then, no matter his personal disposition, we love Professor Vickery because we need him.’ I flicked the tail of the shawl over one shoulder, clearly flagging my intention to leave in the next minute or so. ‘Does he deliberately avoid social gatherings, then?’ I felt my heart reaching towards a kindred spirit, despite the cautionary note from Miles.

  ‘He’s in England, returning in a month or so last I heard. We’ve all been sharing the load in his absence and the good of it is that the hospital is a happier place. The disadvantage is that all we can do is keep disease at relatively slow numbers. He alone seems to be able to fight it and achieve the decrease. He has remained in England longer than we anticipated. I don’t know whether to be thrilled or worried.’

  I couldn’t appreciate his sentiment. I didn’t know the man or the situation, so I turned to the banal: everything I hated about petty conversation. ‘Well, he’s missing the best weather here, I gather, and into the worst that England offers.’ Did I really just start discussing the weather? I loathed my hypocrisy in that moment.

  ‘True, it’s only going to get worse from here on as it turns tropical; the heat and humidity send some people quite mad. A lot of the Europeans take to the hill stations.’

  ‘Sounds charming.’

  ‘His family has a property in the north, around Darjeeling.’

  I frowned. ‘Whose family?’

  ‘Saxon Vickery’s,’ he said, as though I should have known to whom he referred.

  ‘Miles, I think you have a crush on the professor,’ I teased and he joined in, making a scoffing sound.

  ‘It’s true I’d love to work with him, learn from him, but he’s brutal.’

  I gazed back at him, perplexed. ‘Oh, come on, Miles, where’s your spine?’

  ‘No, really. He bludgeons his staff. He moves through nurses at the speed of a disease. He’s loathsome and cruelly blunt. Please don’t repeat that. I think the champagne has loosened my lips.’ He put his half-full glass down on a nearby small table, as if he dared not drink more.

  ‘Heavens! How old is he?’ I imagined a man my father’s age or older, terrifying the medical fraternity with his brusque attitude.

  ‘Late thirties, I suppose.’

  I snapped him a surprise glance. ‘And already such a curmudgeon? Well, I won’t be around long enough for him to beat me into submission. And our paths will likely not cross that often,’ I assured. ‘Goodnight, Miles, thank you for your company this evening.’

  ‘I’ll look out for you tomorrow. Hope your first day isn’t too daunting. It’s not like an English hospital,’ he warned.

  ‘I’d hate it if it was. Where’s the adventure otherwise? I promise you, I won’t sleep for the excitement,’ I assured, already in motion, giving him a small wave.

  On the short walk home, dodging stray dogs and the odd beggar, two of whom were shooed away by helpful Europeans out for their evening stroll, I couldn’t help but think on the warning to avoid Saxon Vickery. Despite what I had said it seemed highly unlikely that anyone with my interests was going to deliberately avoid a ‘genius’ in tropical medicine research. No matter how scarily Miles painted him. Nevertheless, I would try. I’d made a promise – a grave one – and I would do my best to keep it.

  8

  APRIL 1933

  India was luxuriating in its spring. To a local – and perhaps even to a European who had acclimatised – it was bearable because they knew worse was to come but to this newcomer a day hitting ninety degrees felt like I was living within a furnace. I’d been in the country nearly nine weeks but I imagined it would take at least until I was leaving India before I ever got used to such heat. Despite all the right precautions, departing for the hospital in the ethereal twilight between night and just as dawn was breaking, and setting out for home most evenings after sunset, I still found the heat claustrophobic. Already I yearned for a traditionally frosty English spring and I used this longing to reassure myself that it would be easy to leave India and its cloying heat behind in about five months.

  That gripe aside, my deliberate looping route as I walked to the hospital from Chowringhee was one of daily marvel at the breadth of palatial buildings that Calcutta boasted. It didn’t matter whether it was a hotel, municipal building or something historic like the awe-inspiring Old Writers’ Building, the edifices were vast, mostly classically designed, and it was little wonder that this region was known as the place of the palaces. The hospital was attached to a medical college and even this building was something of a landmark in Calcutta, known to everyone in its short form of MCH. It was a grand piece of fine architecture of Roman Doric style that would cosily fit any fine capital in Europe.

  As would the torrent of invitations that began to arrive weekly from the anticipated round of social gatherings that kept this part of British India ticking. I hoped the polite enthusiasm to ‘do the right thing’ by the new female doctor would wane . . . I was still waiting nearly two months later as my ability to craft creative excuses began to desert me. With the arrival of this season came the all-important spring racing carnival that seemed to occupy most conversations beyond medical. Poor Miles had tried several times to escort me to various outings and it seemed he wasn’t getting the message.

  ‘But the Calcutta Turf Club is part of the fabric of our society out here, and the Derby sweepstakes in Calcutta is one of the richest in the world. It stops the city. A year or so ago the prize pot was more than one million pounds. A million pounds!’ he repeated in case I was hard of hearing.

  I had smiled and lifted a shoulder in silent apology. ‘I’ve never much been one for horse-racing carnivals.’

  I wasn’t being entirely honest with him. I attended the races frequently at home and enjoyed the meets . . . I just didn’t want to encourage Miles, who was taking a more proprietorial interest in me than I thought wise. Nevertheless, I refused to hold myself responsible for his feelings – I had told him of my betrothal within minutes of meeting him; any problem, as I saw it, was now his, not mine.

  On balance, though, I was enjoying my new working life at the hospital. The Medical College of Bengal, I learned, was the first institution to teach Western medicine in India. We taught in English and the hospital emerged out of the British East India Company’s need to look after the medical needs of the Europeans in India’s north. I must admit to being impressed by the number of female students being admitted to train as nurses and doctors via the college itself, which was quickly growing up around the hospital. In the previous century, I gathered, this hospital was essentially run to treat the fevers that the Europeans suffered, including a special diphtheria ward, but it now encompassed general medicine and welcomed all patients. I was working in the western end of the main building concerning itself with women’s health and mostly maternity needs.

  I would be lying if I didn’t admit that my days were full, varied and entirely rewarding. I genuinely loved the work. Perhaps it was because I knew my time was short here that I was so interested in everything about hospital life that affected me and I barely noticed the first few weeks passing by so swiftly. I was blessed with having no labours or births to date that were so dramatic I didn’t know how to guide the team of midwives through. If I could have slowed down time, I would have, but the workload felt vast and my role was to teach, as much as to provide clin
ical support, so I rarely walked the hospital hallways alone. Invariably I had six or seven students trailing in my wake like a mother and her eager ducklings. The students learned on the job as I moved from patient to patient. I didn’t mind; I encouraged them, taking the view that this was surely a key reason I was here – to stimulate the bright local minds, show them the way forward towards better women’s health and instil a desire for research and, especially, for unrelenting hygiene.

  I’d pinned signs in English and Bengali, helped by Dip, that read Wash your hands! at the entrance to each ward and to the nurses’ station and exiting the wet rooms. Lily had taken it further, writing out more signs and attaching them to each bedstead. We were now plotting the incidences of cross-contamination between patients so I could have some statistics to quote to the other doctors that repeating this mantra verbally wasn’t enough. I believed we had to make this simple step of hygiene so easy for everyone to observe, as automatic as breathing for all the medical staff. And I encouraged reminders everywhere they looked so it was imprinted in everyone’s daily routines.

  Over the last fortnight, feeling more confident in my workplace, I’d managed to slip into a happy, quiet routine on the ward. The autonomy I had been given was impressive – I was essentially in charge of the main women’s ward, although my notion that I would be entirely involved in obstetrics was quickly abandoned, for I was seeing women with health needs that clearly came under general medicine. Only women with contagious situations were sent elsewhere in the hospital but otherwise we had patients with all manner of conditions presenting, from women in labour to someone who was having a broken bone fixed or suffering a slipped disc. I enjoyed the variety and, ignoring apologies from the nurses, I shrugged and got on with it, not thinking too hard on the whys or wherefores.

  And this afternoon was arguably the most exciting birth I’d ever been involved with – perhaps might ever participate in. We were expecting a routine delivery from a young mother about to give birth to her third child. She was not fearful because she knew what to expect, and the only reason she was in hospital was that she’d fallen, broken an arm badly, and was likely to need some help in the early days. She was a favourite with us because she was always so cheerful and had helped some of the newer mums with their fears, and so it wasn’t surprising that all the nursing team today had decided to look in on Parni and help welcome her child into her life.

  I was present merely as a precaution and Lily thought it would be good for the midwives to watch what looked like being a textbook birth, but one that would probably have a long labour.

  I was standing back, keeping an eye on Parni’s expression as she panted her way through another contraction. She’d been in labour now for eleven hours. At the last check I decided it wouldn’t be long before she’d be pushing. All was going well.

  ‘Given that this is a straightforward labour, Dr Fenwick, what might we be concerned about with a similar situation if we were helping to deliver without so much expertise around us?’

  I liked Yvonne, another Anglo-Indian midwife who was evercurious and sponge-like in how she soaked up as much knowledge as she could at every opportunity.

  ‘Well, even the most unremarkable labours can go wrong at the last minute,’ I said, moving closer to the group so I could speak softly. I didn’t want Parni being spooked by talk of complication. She was doing beautifully. ‘Post-partum haemorrhage is a great fear and you must be focused on that with every birth; watch the mother’s blood . . . her pressure, how much loss – there’ll always be some – whether she’s swooning if she moves and so on. These are all early vital clues. Actually, Lily, let’s schedule that for next week’s Monday lecture to discuss latest techniques in this area.’

  Lily nodded.

  ‘I had a mother with a cord prolapse at the beginning of this year and that’s always confronting. Again, premature babies – and we get a lot of those in Asia – are susceptible.’ I explained my recent experience and their need to react swiftly. ‘All of you need to learn about a baby presenting in breech. We’ve done two of those now together but I want each of you to practise with the model we’ve set up. We’re going to have each of you take a turn with each breech presentation to know how to do some of the manoeuvres. As most of you know, we have Genie with her baby presently in the breech position. Hopefully the child will right itself over the course of the coming fortnight but if not, Genie will need our help. This is especially important if you ever find yourself alone at a delivery so please don’t miss it. Eclamptic seizure – we worked on that in my second week. Everyone recall?’ I received a collective wide-eyed nod. ‘What are you looking for with that complication?’

  ‘Nausea and vomiting.’

  ‘Jaundice,’ someone recalled.

  ‘Shallow breathing?’

  ‘Shortness of breath, yes,’ I qualified. ‘Good to all of that and remember, please, these symptoms don’t conveniently occur together or even just prior to birth. These signs could be shown far earlier and you need to be thinking about all of their possibilities, not dismissing symptoms because it’s months away from delivery. What else?’

  ‘Bleeding?’

  I nodded. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Blindness?’

  ‘Yes, it’s more a confusion and a sense of darkness experienced by some; convulsing, of course. And what steps should you have already taken?’

  Hands went up. They were a smart bunch and they’d paid attention, remembering all the boxes I’d lined up that needed to be ticked to be sure a mother was not presenting as a known risk for this complaint. ‘Do this research nice and early. If there’s a family history, you need to know that from the first day you meet her.’

  ‘Yes, Dr Fenwick,’ they said in unison.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ I beamed and as I did so, Parni let out an anguished wail. ‘Action stations,’ I said and this always seemed to bring a round of delighted chuckles from my students.

  Lily stroked Parni’s head. ‘Whenever you’re ready . . . you push.’

  ‘We’re looking for your son, Parni,’ I called softly from over her knees. ‘This one is the boy your husband wants.’

  She managed to cast me a fleeting smile through the big contraction and then Parni was lost, riding the wave of pain that she knew she must stay on top of until it broke at the shore of momentary relief. It was always at this point I felt a strange swell of envy. It’s not that I wanted the pain; it was more that I couldn’t fully imagine it, having not been a mother. I wanted to share it but for now all I could do was listen, watch, encourage. It wouldn’t be long – Parni was perfectly dilated and we were ready for her child to be born.

  Too many people talking or touching I knew could be distracting so I gave a look that quietened the nurses and had them gathering silently behind me. The only sound remaining was Parni’s groans.

  The head of the baby crowned and all the younger women gasped. I was instantly annoyed to see one of them looking faint. ‘Take Sharni out, please.’

  She waved away help and gave me a pleading look that said she was fine.

  ‘If you insist on remaining, don’t you dare faint in here, Sharni,’ I warned. ‘Now, everyone, hush!’ I snapped as Lily came around to see from where she’d been at Parni’s shoulder.

  She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

  ‘What is it?’ she whispered.

  I was equally amazed to realise I was tearing up. It was my first. ‘This is a baby being born en caul . . . a French expression meaning shrouded or veiled.’

  The women around me looked fearful.

  ‘It’s nothing to be scared of. The sac will probably break on its own. Push with the pain, Parni, use it,’ I urged, my hands ready for the slippery mass that I was certain would slide out faster than any of us could imagine due to the translucent bubble that held the baby enclosed. ‘Be ready.’ I motioned at Lily and my tone seemed to snap her out of her stupor.

  It was confronting but it was also the most beautiful
sight I’ve ever beheld as Parni’s baby was born complete in its unbroken amniotic sac. I wanted to pinch myself but there was no time to dwell on my surprise and delight. A couple of the girls wept. I know they were frightened but it was truly superb to witness Nature’s special protection for her young. The infant squirmed within, magnified slightly by the thin veil that separated it from our world. Parni’s baby was still unaware it had left its mother’s belly.

  Parni was desperately trying to see. I nodded at one of the mesmerised midwives in training. ‘See to our mother, please. Parni, give us a moment and we’ll put your baby in your arms.’

  ‘Distract her,’ I urged another.

  Then I looked to Lily and smiled. ‘I’ve never done this before,’ I said, hearing the awe in my voice, ‘but I have read about it.’ I gently poked a hole into the surprisingly robust bubble that enclosed our new infant and as the fluid ran away I used a fresh muslin to gently dab away the veil of tissue. ‘They say a baby born en caul will never drown. And . . . that it brings supreme good luck to the child and anyone who has its caul.’ I held up the muslin. ‘Midwives of the middle centuries in Europe used to sell these great rarities, particularly to captains of ships, for enormous sums of money. The sailors believed it kept them safe from the waters.’

  We rubbed the child tenderly with the softest of cottons and he let out his first cry, drawn from the breath of our world. Helplessly, the women around me clapped, alarming the infant, and I truly couldn’t help a tear escaping. I doubted I would ever be fortunate enough to participate in an en caul birth again. ‘It’s a beautiful, special, magical boy, Parni,’ I said, putting her precious bundle into her good arm, crooked and ready to hold him.

  Lily quickly translated and helped our magical child to feed at his mother’s breast.

  Hours later, wearied after a long day but nonetheless still walking the clouds from the theatrical arrival of Parni’s precious son, whom a few were claiming was now somehow divine, Lily and I were in the small nurses’ station just outside the ward. We had our heads bent over the file of a patient, Genie, and we were planning the various scenarios for the birth due in a week or so. I was fighting the urge to switch off the small desk fan that was determined to disrupt the sheets in the file but knew I’d regret it within seconds. Irritation nibbled on the rim of my mind.