The Tea Gardens

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by Fiona McIntosh


  With the help of station officials, coolies were summoned, duly arrived, and mercifully the platform had virtually cleared by the time Saxon was unloaded. I noted that the train was being reloaded with fuel, and passengers bound for Darjeeling were stretching their legs outside the station, some taking chai, others pausing for a small picnic. I had Saxon taken into the waiting room, where there were no Europeans, only curious Indians watching our every move.

  With the aid of a senior station staff member with exceptional English, I organised our next mode of transport, paying without query whatever was asked. While we waited, I watched the train rumble out again. Billows of steam, as though clouds had fallen from the sky to drift across the platform, were accompanied by an unearthly squeal of iron. The screech of the whistle forced me to cover my ears momentarily.

  Saxon was loaded, together with my holdall, onto a cart pulled by a single mule that the station staff promised me was sure-footed, while I was urged to step inside the accompanying palanquin. Travelling by litter made me feel like I belonged in another century and yet I could tell there was no other way, for there was no room next to the cart driver and his helper. Nor would they permit me to sit in the back with Saxon; not only was there little room but it would become uncomfortable to the point of being potentially dangerous for me, I was told. There seemed no point in arguing. I wanted to get us moving as fast as we could, so I shrugged, smiled graciously at the four coolies who were to soon hoist me onto their shoulders and settled myself onto the cushion of the single seat of the palanquin covered by silk curtains. I could hear the station manager now giving rapid instructions and I understood it would take us the full day to make the journey of several miles back down the ascent I had taken on the train and into the tea gardens district.

  At first I was sure I would topple out of the litter but my body began to move into the natural rhythm of the men carrying me and soon enough I was swaying in time with their steady walk. Their conversation was sporadic and so fast that I couldn’t pick out even vague words to understand. Apart from craning time to time to check on my patient, who slept on, oblivious, I settled back, feeling like the Valide of an imperial Ottoman harem.

  I must have dozed off because a jolt made me blink awake with alarm and I heard the equivalent of cursing. Perhaps one of the men stumbled, but we righted ourselves quickly and I was gladdened to have been so rudely awakened because what I saw past my silken framed window made me gasp audibly before holding my breath, as though if I so much as swallowed the vision might disappear.

  We had entered an otherworld; there was no better way I can describe it. I couldn’t imagine in that moment how I would ever put into words the beauty before me that had stolen not only my breath, but my language, my attention . . . I could swear my heart had stopped its steady pulse and I also knew in that moment that I was in paradise.

  Strung like a glistening necklace above and around us was the Himalaya. I didn’t know which particular mountains I was so awestruck by but they looked back at me with a benign majesty. The jagged escarpments that I knew must exist on a mountain range, especially this high up in the world, were disguised by dreamlike, pillowy snow drifts. Was that my voice that was speaking? We must have paused, I must have got out, I must have finally started breathing again and my heart pumping once more because I found myself on the ground, away from the others, staring open-mouthed. Perhaps the coolies were used to this reaction from the first-time visitor because they kept their distance and allowed me the time to let this world in the sky fully sink into my consciousness. The towering mountains appeared weightless for I could not see their bulk . . . these lower parts were engulfed by a purplish mist and only their snowy peaks soared into the ocean of sky, which appeared a uniform colour: no patches, no clouds, no draining of the hue. A single, sprawling, achingly rich lapis lazuli that stretched beyond my vision.

  I was staring at the roof of Earth; beyond this fragile dome was the moon, the stars, the sun, all those planets we’re told about. The Himalaya was the sentinel that guarded us. And these imperial guards of Earth linked hands and watched over a tumbling valley stepped by verdant gardens, studded by clusters of fiery-coloured poppies that grew wild among the tea plantations of Darjeeling.

  I heard a choked voice. ‘Brackenridge . . . ’ and looked across in fresh alarm to see Saxon straining to glimpse above the rim of the cart. He couldn’t see much from his prone position but I suspected he could smell the air, no doubt feel the presence of the mountains of his youth that were to his back. Suddenly I envied him his childhood in this enchanted landscape.

  I found my composure, pulling myself down from the shock of speechless awe, and called over. ‘Saxon, be still. We’ll be there . . . ?’ I looked over to the leader of the men who were escorting us. He pointed to a house in the distance. I nodded. ‘We’ll be at Brackenridge in minutes. Lie down.’ Waving away my litter, I asked the same man to help me into the back of the cart, explaining that I knew it would be uncomfortable but it was only for a brief time.

  ‘I shall be very careful,’ I promised.

  I’m glad I hadn’t tried to make this journey all the way in the cart but I would be lying if I didn’t admit to a private feeling of exhilaration to hold Saxon’s hand and ride next to him, while I drank in the view like a person emerging from a desert. Actually, I think anyone who never has the fortune to witness this scenery probably does live in a desert. London, Paris, Rome – with all of their history and romantic architecture of centuries past – cannot compare to Nature’s greatest amphitheatre. Saxon was dazed but he turned his head to glance at me in what was perhaps a moment of clarity. While still holding his hand, I touched my heart, eyes helplessly welling with tears at the emotion of being allowed to share this special place of his.

  He smiled, I hope in understanding, and lost consciousness.

  _________

  The house looked out across the tea gardens that belonged to it with what I could only describe as a glow of authority as the setting of the sun painted it with a radiance. Crepuscular light turned the windows to mirrors and the ivory-painted bungalow into a golden place as though we were approaching a throne . . . where royalty resided, answering only to those distant gods that towered above it.

  As I alighted from the cart with help, a bow-legged man with spectacles and a solemn gaze emerged to greet us. He had not come from the house but he climbed onto the front steps as if he felt compelled to offer an official welcome. The man was attired in the traditional Bengali dress of dhoti and long white shirt – both so white and crisply ironed, his brightness almost hurt the eyes in this sublime, gentle light of afternoon. I wanted to admire the surrounds, look again at those peaks floating in the distance, but he was looking at me with bewilderment and also a measure of respect. I knew he wanted to fire off questions to the men around me but he waited for me to speak first.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘Madam.’ He bowed low and I was thrilled he spoke English.

  ‘I am Dr Isla Fenwick, a colleague of Professor Vickery, who —’

  ‘Master Saxon?’ he interrupted, forgetting himself.

  It was then that Saxon roused and his golden head peeked above the rim of the cart as though the king had returned to this palace. I heard the old man give a soft gasp of surprise and delight. Saxon couldn’t hold up his weight and flopped back down.

  ‘He’s very unwell,’ I said, somewhat redundantly. ‘Can you help me, please? I’ve brought him home. It’s the only place I could think of . . . ’

  The man didn’t wait for me to say more. He was giving orders like a general marshalling his troops. Men were in motion again under his instructions and as tired as they were, they rallied and Saxon was borne away with his family’s servant beckoning and harrying them along.

  I didn’t know my place here and didn’t feel it appropriate to arrogantly follow them in and take over. I waited for guidance and it was surprisingly not more than a few moments before all the men were bac
k.

  ‘Dr Fenwick?’

  I was pleased he remembered. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am Adri.’

  ‘Thank you. Are you . . . ?’

  ‘I work in the tea gardens,’ he said with a small bow. ‘Third generation of my family to do so.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, taken aback. ‘So no one is in the house?’

  He looked confused, then shook his head. ‘No one from the family has been here for many years but Mr Vickery senior runs it from England. He uses managers – I am one of them.’

  I was lost for what to say. There was little point in asking any more about the dwelling, although some obvious queries leapt to mind. ‘There’s running water?’

  He nodded. ‘But I am guessing that the boiler will be contrary, madam. I’ll check on it immediately.’

  ‘Right.’ We were going to need hot water at some point but for now I was happy to thank the stars that we had a roof, some safety from the elements . . . but no food, presumably. ‘I’d better check on him,’ I said, trying to prioritise.

  ‘Please,’ he said, gesturing towards the stairs that led to the entrance of the house. As I followed I explained quickly about where Saxon and I worked together and, without too much detail, why I found myself here.

  He paused at the main door. ‘You have come from Calcutta?’ His accent was rich with Indian nuance but I could tell his English was reliable. I would not have to restrict my words or speak slowly.

  ‘Yes. I found him in Siliguri too sick to even move and I had to make an immediate decision. It’s tuberculosis and he needs this cold, clear air if he has a chance to be well again.’

  He nodded. ‘It is the right decision, Dr Fenwick. He will rally fast here.’

  I smiled. ‘Should I telegram someone?’

  He looked back at me with a grave stare and slight frown. Then he shook his head. ‘It has been a decade, Dr Fenwick, since anyone has lived here.’ He said this in the resigned tone of someone realising he hadn’t made himself clear the first time. ‘I am charged to unlock and air it from year to year, make sure no stray dogs are roaming around or monkeys finding their way in to cause mischief, but I am the tea manager. I have nothing formal to do with the house or its contents, other than knowing where the key is kept.’

  He added more with a tone of sympathy. ‘I have worked for the family since I was a child and my father was head of the garden’s servants, as his father was before him.’ Brackenridge seemed to shift behind us, as though waking up to people within it. ‘The house is content to have one of its own back.’ He smiled gently at the creaking sound as it settled. ‘I’m sorry there are no servants but we can find some people to help when you need.’ He pointed into the shadows. ‘Down that corridor to the end wing,’ he said, gesturing, ‘that’s Master Saxon’s.’

  I sensed he wasn’t going to escort me there, as if he didn’t feel it was his place to be inside the house. ‘Thank you. Er, may I open the shutters?’

  ‘Of course, madam. The house is now in your charge.’

  I pulled off my shawl and began opening the louvres to reveal the windows of a house that had not looked outwards for years. Instead it had held its memories close, the sounds of the family it had raised, their joys, their secrets kept intact. Instead of feeling comforted by this, I was saddened slightly that this house I’d heard Saxon refer to briefly but with such affection had not been permitted to age as its family had. It was trapped in the invisible vault of time. It prompted me to think of my mother’s bedroom and I made a promise that I would dismantle that chamber, in which we tried to imprison her for our own comfort, upon my return. Was it the clarity of this empyrean world I found myself in, among the tallest structure of our planet, that made me see the only way for my father and me to move forward?

  My mother was holding us back but the mistake was ours. I was trying to avenge her death, still believing that if I walked in her footsteps, I would honour her. That was her life, though. As I walked down dark floorboards that had gathered the dust of untrodden years, I felt understanding sigh into my awareness. I had to let her go. I had to let her research be her mission, not mine. It was time to make my own path.

  Opening the house onto the gods felt empowering and I experienced a prick of envy that Saxon had this special place among the heavens to run away to. Except he chose not to, it seemed. Another secret that Brackenridge held close, perhaps?

  As its windows threw light into former shadows, I gathered that this was a most airy bungalow, much larger than I first imagined. A new sense of space was created through the abundance of glass and French doors, plus there was the wide verandah that encircled the house, sweeping like a protective embrace around the family that had grown up here. I looked forward to exploring its grounds but right now I had to stay focused on Saxon as I tiptoed to where I’d been directed. I knocked on the door out of politeness and anticipated no answer, got none, so I stepped first into an anteroom – a sort of sitting room with a gallery of windows that had been unshuttered, presumably by Adri as they’d brought Saxon in. The view looked directly out over the purplish valley that the plantation ran into. Tearing my gaze from that vista, I moved to the inner door that was open. I could see him lying on a high bed that was dressed in white linen with a faded, puffed eiderdown of old roses, which struck me as charming in a man’s room. A mosquito net fell like a wispy cage around his four-poster bed and Saxon looked like a misted sketch behind it.

  I decided the time for awkward politeness had passed. I lifted the net and perched on the bed beside him, reaching for his face. He was warm but not burning and he was statue-still, which was reassuring. I had been fearing that he would be in the grip of tremor or hallucinations.

  Adri arrived to stand at the door, looking unsure; clearly he felt like a trespasser.

  I tried to set my companion at ease. ‘I’m a doctor who has long believed that ill people feel so much better at home and recovery can be hastened if we can treat them from their own beds.’ I glanced at Adri, who stood, shoulders squared, hands behind his back and fully attentive. ‘I have now proven that theory true. I haven’t given him a single sip of medication and yet he seems to be pulling himself back to us through sheer force of willpower.’

  ‘He was always a wilful boy,’ Adri remarked and I heard only affection in the remark.

  Our gazes met and I smiled and shook my head. ‘May I stay and help him to recover?’

  ‘Dr Fenwick, none of us has your expertise so I am very grateful for you being here. It’s wonderful to have Master Saxon back after far too long.’

  I could believe it, looking around Saxon’s vast room, which was in desperate need of a clean. I wanted to sneeze and fought the eye-watering pricks of desire to do just that.

  Adri caught on to my thoughts quickly. ‘I will send in some people tomorrow to clean and dust. We always hope one of the boys might visit but it has been a long time.’

  ‘He hasn’t spoken with any detail of his brother to me, other than to mention there is one and that he runs the plantation,’ I remarked, trying not to pry but hoping for some information.

  The servant was as reticent as the master was to discuss personal information. ‘I’m sure Master Saxon will tell you about his family. Right now, you must be very tired, Dr Fenwick.’

  I chuckled. ‘I’m so tired, Adri, I’m past feeling it. But the sight of the mountains was like a life-giving tonic. All fatigue disappeared when I saw them.’

  ‘Kangchenjunga,’ he murmured in soft awe and nodded.

  ‘You or Master Saxon is going to have to teach me how to say that.’

  He turned around, speaking to someone I couldn’t see. ‘Dr Fenwick, I have asked my niece to make tea. Can we offer you some?’

  ‘That would be most welcome, thank you.’

  He beckoned and a shy young woman appeared at the door.

  ‘Please,’ he said, taking a cup and saucer and handing it to me. ‘You must keep your strength up too.’

  I recognise
d the Limoges design from one identical in my grandmother’s collection; it was painted in fragile, exquisitely rendered violets. I could almost smell them off the gentle fragrance of the tea. ‘If you say first flush, I’m going to scream,’ I joked.

  Adri actually smiled, getting the jest, I was relieved to note. ‘Tea is our life, Dr Fenwick. Master Saxon knows all about it; he can teach you. This is our second flush, picked during the warm days of summer now behind us. All the flavours of the best tea in the world are concentrated into this brew.’

  I had decided I could listen to men talk about this subject all day; I’d witnessed Saxon go misty-eyed when explaining tea, as though he was reminiscing over an old and wonderful romance. And here was Adri, with that same tone of whimsy, discussing the summer pick. I hoped I would learn more. Jove would be impressed by my knowledge.

  Jove. I needed to contact him. I frowned. What about Saxon’s wife? She would want to know where he was, surely? But then I recalled Saxon’s despair at my meddling and I was torn. He would waken soon and I would ask him to make that decision. ‘Adri, do we have access to a telegram office here?’

  ‘Er, no, madam,’ he said, shooing away his niece, who had arrived and departed in silence, and with no eye contact for me but a glance at the person prone in the bed. ‘The closest telegram office is Darjeeling.’

  I thought of the road back up the hill; to say it was bumpy was to understate in a way that was almost comic. Coming down it was hard, fraught with potential accidents. How those men carried me down even half the way without losing their footing was beyond me. The ascent could only be fairly described as a mountainous trek, so I had no inclination to make that journey again immediately.

  ‘I see. Is there any way of getting a message to England?’

  He considered this. ‘If you write the message, perhaps I can make sure it is taken into Darjeeling to be sent, although when I cannot promise, but certainly in the coming few days.’

 

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