The Tea Gardens

by Fiona McIntosh

  18

  I’d entered what looked to be a makeshift chemist. Frankly, nothing about it could be termed a hospital; it was more a space where presumably cots could be lined up behind the counter where I now stood. I craned to see through the glass panel in the door behind the person manning the counter as to whether I could catch sight of Saxon striding around the beds.

  ‘Good morning, madam?’ the man offered, full of enquiry in his roundish face with features that were flatter than I was used to seeing in Calcutta. ‘Have you just arrived off the train?’

  The answer was obvious but still we both glanced at my holdall that the rickshaw driver had placed on the ground, just inside the entrance. ‘Yes.’ I smiled. ‘Such a long journey.’

  ‘And you’re not feeling well?’ he said, sucking on teeth that were no longer there, I realised. He gave me a gummy smile.

  ‘Er . . . I feel fine, thank you.’

  He looked surprised and his bottom lip collapsed inwards, finding the gap where only gum remained. He stared at me through large, round black glasses that made his eyes appear bigger than they were.

  ‘I should explain, sorry. I am here to meet . . . well, to see someone.’

  He nodded. ‘Who are you looking for, madam?’

  His manners were as impeccable as his neat shelves, boiled white shirt buttoned at the top and a pharmacy that smelled of cloves. I guessed he’d been making up some tooth tincture recently.

  ‘I was hoping to see Professor Vickery,’ I offered, and couldn’t hide the hope in my voice.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, nodding. I decided his looks had a sense of the Oriental about him, even though his manner of speaking was all Bengal, his English language reliable.

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘He is.’

  I blinked. ‘May I see him, please?’

  ‘No, madam.’

  ‘So he’s not here?’ I craned my neck to look again.

  ‘He is here, madam.’

  This was becoming infuriating and painful. I remained patient, though, having learned these last few months about just how particular and thorough Indian bureaucracy could be. Men given even the slightest authority exercised it with dutiful attention. I presumed Vickery had yelled No interruptions! or something similar and the man was carrying out those instructions wholly, despite the fact that I’d clearly covered a daunting distance to be here.

  ‘Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Mr Bannerjee, madam. At your service.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bannerjee.’ I explained about the long journey I’d travelled. ‘It is imperative I see him.’

  ‘But he is dying, madam. His fever means —’

  ‘Dying!’ I said in a wheeze that sounded like all the air had rushed out of my lungs in that moment. ‘What do you mean, dying?’

  This was a man who took everything literally and I didn’t want another conversation of me prodding to find the best way to access the answer. ‘Where is he?’ I demanded, coming around the counter. ‘I am a doctor. Show me where he is, please.’

  ‘You are a —’

  ‘Yes, I’m Dr Fenwick, his colleague from Calcutta, and I need you to tell me where to find Professor Vickery immediately.’ I stood taller than my companion. He frowned, not intimidated by me, but did seem impressed by me being a doctor.

  ‘He is in isolation, Dr Fenwick.’ He sucked at his gum. ‘It is the TB that takes him.’

  ‘Through here?’ I laid a gloved hand on the door.

  He nodded.

  ‘What other diseases are in this ward?’

  He blinked behind his thick lenses, looking momentarily confused by the question. I realised he was considering listing every complaint lying down behind that door, but no doubt my glare of impatience curtailed that inclination. ‘Many diseases. The professor is in a small room at the back. Death is unavoidable, madam.’

  I dug into my pocket and pulled out a handkerchief square; fashioning a makeshift mask with it, I tied it around my nose and mouth, much to the man’s bemusement. ‘Well, not if I can help it,’ I replied with a fierce stare. ‘Thank you, Mr Bannerjee.’

  I opened the door and strode through the small, near airless, grey room. Patients, too sick to stir, were flanked by their families, keeping vigil. It was quiet, the loudest sound the squeak from an overhead fan and a soft, pressing cough from one of the ill. There was a sorrowful feeling of resignation but I passed through, despite the pinch at my conscience to pause, a brief check on each; maybe I could help? But for the moment my gaze was firmly on the locked door at the back. There was no glass to peer through. I knocked gently without reply. I could no longer care about protocol and opened the door just enough to slip into the room.

  He was alone, his back to me, knees tucked up like a newborn emerged from the womb. I could see the knobbled curve of his spine, could count the ribs in relief beneath his skin, which was stretched too thin and too pale against his skeleton. His yellow hair was splayed out behind his head in matted streaks, giving the impression he was in motion: running away from this place . . . from his sickness. But as I tiptoed towards him, I could tell – even from a distance – that the professor was not outmanoeuvring the tuberculosis that was ravaging him.

  ‘Professor?’ I could smell staleness sitting around him like an invisible prison. ‘Vickery?’ I raised myself onto my toes to glance over and noted his eyes were open, fixed on the tiny louvred window that was positioned perhaps eight feet up. There was a desk fan creaking from the corner of the room, placed on a stool. It could barely stir the air hard enough to reach the prone man and the outside world could barely send a breath through that high, small window and its rusted louvres. Nevertheless, Vickery fixated on its threshold and I suspected I knew why; out there beyond his fever was life-giving fresh air – his only hope.

  I risked touching his shoulder, trying not to look at his awkwardly bandaged arms, no doubt from his intervention with Pratiti’s people. ‘Saxon?’ His skin was too warm and the staleness smelled to me like oncoming death. Mr Bannerjee was right. It was a matter of time, just like it was for the patients in the main ward too. Everyone in there was in a waiting room for Death’s messenger to collect them.

  He stirred, struggling to right himself onto his back. ‘Frances?’ he croaked, confused. His eyes had the glasslike quality of a doll’s, staring but not seeing.

  I shook him gently. ‘No, it’s me, Isla.’

  His gaze cleared slightly, brow furrowing while he worked to concentrate, to find focus. ‘Isla?’ He still managed to imbue it with a romantic lilt and I felt the sting as tears welled.

  ‘Yes,’ I breathed.

  ‘My Isla,’ he murmured and despite all my training and ability to achieve dislocation from a patient, I couldn’t help the spill of salted tracks that stained my cheeks. I let my pity flow. Bizarrely, the tears comforted me, reassuring that I was feeling more than the empty hurt that had sat inside since Miles had enjoyed delivering his cruel, hard piece of gossip.

  I wanted to share my apology, promise to make amends, but all of that was redundant now. I had one task and that was to save Vickery’s life – everything else, including putting my heartache at rest for the invisible blood on my hands – would have to queue and wait patiently.

  I turned at the sound near the door, using the motion to swipe away tears and regret. ‘Mr Bannerjee,’ I began, thinking through this situation fast, ‘I have to move Professor Vickery today.’

  He looked startled. ‘He will likely die today,’ he replied. It was harsh but I preferred his directness; I doubted Mr Bannerjee was capable of a lie, even a white one to ease someone’s troubles. Nevertheless, Vickery would not die today. I knew this disease too well and it liked to taunt its victims; it had plans to have fun at this patient’s expense for a little while longer. And it was that glee I was going to exploit.

  ‘Then he will die trying to live,’ I snapped, making no sense, I realised, but the sentiment seemed to cut through to Bannerjee’s heart.

&nbs
p; ‘Where do you wish to remove him?’

  I shook my head, racking my thoughts. ‘I need somewhere that is cold, dry, plenty of clean air.’

  He grinned in answer, giving me a glimpse of his gums as he pointed upwards. I frowned, predictably following his finger and looked to the ceiling. Mr Bannerjee forgot himself and tutted. This time he pointed beyond the walls.

  ‘Kangchenjunga,’ he breathed, sounding awed. ‘Himalaya. Place of snow.’

  Of course! I knew the foothills were just beyond this town but what was up there? Where could we stay? But Mr Bannerjee was ahead of me.

  ‘Doctor, he may not live long enough, but Darjeeling is fifty miles away up into the hills.’

  Fifty miles. That didn’t sound so far. London to Brighton Pier was only fifty miles . . .

  ‘Who will take me up there with the professor?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not easy. The distance is short, Doctor, but the journey is long.’

  Now he sounded like a philosopher.

  ‘Can I hire someone to drive us up there?’ I enunciated, begging all the angels that guarded me to help me keep my patience intact.

  ‘Drive? There are no cars. But perhaps a bullock and cart.’

  I began to imagine just how quickly Saxon would give up the fight if he was laid out in the back of a grinding cart with a bullock or donkey to haul us those fifty miles uphill.

  ‘But there is the train,’ Mr Bannerjee continued conversationally.

  I grabbed his arm with surprise. ‘What train?’

  ‘The Toy Train,’ he said and I let go as I watched him wince. He resisted rubbing his arm. ‘That’s what we call it, anyway, because of the small engines. Again, not an easy journey but he would be more comfortable on the train . . . if he can stay alive.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll stay alive, all right,’ I assured. ‘Will you help me, Mr Bannerjee?’

  __________

  I paid whatever was asked; I didn’t care how much it cost or who needed to be part of my debt, leaving all of the organisation to my new friend, Mr Bannerjee, with a fistful of rupees for him to pay whoever needed paying. He dutifully made all arrangements and although it seemed to take all day, we were finally loaded onto the train leaving that late afternoon.

  My idea was to head for Darjeeling, or perhaps even Kalimpong. The train could take us to both. I figured someone would help me to get Saxon into a guesthouse or hotel as Mr Bannerjee assured me the British had made themselves most comfortable up in the hill stations. I remembered the dentist and his wife had all but demanded I visit them in Kalimpong too, so even if they couldn’t accommodate us, I was certain they would help me find somewhere to put Saxon and look after him.

  Chai was being served through the windows as we waited for the stationmaster to give us leave to depart. I didn’t want any, even though my belly was grumbling at how hungry it was. The last morsel I’d eaten was early that morning but I looked at Saxon’s hollow frame and decided I couldn’t eat anyway, not while he starved. But tea: tea would be good for him if I could get some down him . . . I just didn’t want any of the warming effect of chai.

  In my appalling Bengali that only a generous person could understand, I asked if there was any plain black tea. The little man with the darkest of skins split into an accommodating grin. He held up a finger to ask me to wait. I nodded. Within a minute or so he was back with a pot and I held out the cup that Mr Bannerjee had provided. It was filled with tea the colour of rich honey.

  ‘Second flush,’ he said as though they were the most natural words to say. ‘Very good.’

  Saxon was laid out on a makeshift stretcher bed on the floor of the carriage that I had hired for us. We were alone. I’d pulled down the blinds of the windows that faced onto the platform and he was hallucinating. Crouching beside him, I lifted his feverish head to tip some of this hopefully healing tea past his lips. I needed to keep him as cool as I could and as hydrated as possible.

  He sipped greedily even though he was lost in his ramblings. But he seemed to smile through them.

  ‘Second flush,’ he whispered, and I was astonished at his repeat of the tea seller’s words.

  It was like a special language only they knew.

  ‘Brackenridge,’ he murmured as he drifted off.

  I was instantly reminded of the day our new-fangled Toastmaster gave me an electric shock and we never used it again despite my father’s giddy excitement at a machine that could toast bread . . . and pop it up for convenience. That horrible sensation, first like a bee sting with no lasting pain, gave me a light tremor that remained for most of the day as though all of my nervous system was firing at once. That’s what the utterance of Brackenridge did to me now. It was like a small electrical shock of dawning and my body was charged by a current of optimism. Of course – Brackenridge! Vickery’s family home in the tea gardens of Darjeeling. We didn’t have to ask for anyone’s help; he didn’t have to be anyone’s burden or put ourselves or others into any awkward situation.

  ‘Saxon,’ I whispered. I shook him gently. ‘Saxon, hang on, because I’m taking you home to Brackenridge.’

  He said nothing but the smile that broke through the fever suggested to me the word was a balm to him. There was hope now and he would fight this fever with me; together we’d beat the enemy back.

  _________

  The journey across the plain from Siliguri was short, and before I could empty the contents of the teacup into Saxon’s mouth we’d begun the climb through forest. I was astounded to see a family of elephants lumbering among the foliage and could swear at one point that I glimpsed the slinking stripes of a tiger on the stalk.

  Our train moved at the slow clip of the elephants but I must admit to feeling a certain swell of romance in my heart at this journey that mercifully set my anxiety over Saxon’s illness at bay for a brief time. The train itself was a handsome blue, shone so highly that as we’d embarked I’d seen our reflections vaguely thrown back at us in its polished surface.

  Saxon had drifted off once again and there was little more I could do for him until I could properly nurse him. For now the tea had worked a sort of magic of its own but so had being out of that airless room. His pallor, though hardly healthy, had lost that greyish tone of a death mask. And he slept in a more relaxed flop of limbs rather than that tight foetal position. It meant I could let the tension in my chest leak away for a while.

  In quiet amazement I watched us pass by tiny stations that would not look out of place in rural Britain, one at a place called Sookna that would have sat comfortably in the countryside of the English counties. It reinforced to me that the Europeans, particularly the English, were doing their utmost to wrestle India into a miniature version of the home in their hearts. At a spot called Kurseong we took a long stop and passengers wandered the platform, with its low-roofed stationhouse, to stretch, change into warmer garments or take tea. During the climb into Kurseong the slopes were blanketed by white orchids that seemed to grow wild.

  Hearing voices outside our first-class carriage, I stepped out into the corridor to strike up a conversation with a couple of gentlemen, elbows hung loosely on the open windows, enjoying their journey. More steam-train buffs, I presumed.

  ‘Do you know the journey from Calcutta used to take nearly a week in the most uncomfortable of circumstances of steam-engine-pulled trains, then crossing the Ganges by steam ferry, not to mention a heinous journey by bullock cart and palanquins?’ one fellow grumbled. ‘Now it’s just over two days of comfortable train rides and one thousand feet to Darjeeling,’ he finished, with a flourish of his hand. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘I’m taking my . . . friend . . . who is rather ill at the moment, to another friend’s home in the tea gardens.’ I needed to remain vague.

  ‘Oh? Which one?’

  ‘It’s called Brackenridge.’

  Both men frowned now, searching their thoughts.

  ‘Oh, wait, is that old man Vickery’s place, near Singritan?’ He nudged h
is friend while my breath caught. They knew it – which was going to be a great help.

  The other fellow considered this and gave a grudging nod. ‘You might be right, Harold. Fearsome old blackguard, wasn’t he? My father never had a good word for Dougal Vickery.’

  I blinked and cleared my throat.

  They turned to regard me, remembering I was present, probably. ‘Well, if it is the tea plantation we think it is, then you’re best getting off at Ghum. It’s from there that we make the famous U-turn to head for Nepal. In order to make our sharp ascent the engineers have put in a cunning series of loops and what are known as Z-reverses.’

  I’d heard enough. ‘Gentlemen, forgive me, I forgot to eat and I must admit to feeling a little faint.’

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ they chorused. The gents helped me back into my compartment and mercifully left me without any further reference to their giddy joy at the Z-reverses this journey was famous for, but they did suggest I hire a driver, cart and palanquin with bearers.

  ‘It will take a day to get to that part of the hills. Worth the effort, of course. Apart from Darjeeling, it will take your breath away.’

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

  I sat in our silent carriage, the swaying rumble of this train lulling me into a soothed headspace, and I plotted our next move, feeling comforted that I at least now had a plan.

  19

  I waited for help as we arrived at Ghum Station, glad to have the excuse to be the last to alight.

  On its outskirts we were so close to the village life we passed through that I could have reached an arm out and plucked a piece of fruit or snatched any manner of goods from the makeshift shops that hugged the railway track. I looked into the dark space where shelves were cluttered with tins of goods and smiled at shy shop-keepers who eyed me with mistrust. Perhaps they weren’t used to a pale-skinned person smiling so genuinely at them. I couldn’t know; they were gone from my vision so fast.

  The air had cooled considerably, which thrilled me; this was what was needed if Saxon was going to come back from this bout of his illness. I even pulled a shawl from my belongings, which down on the plains I couldn’t imagine needing.