‘That’s more than acceptable, thank you, Adri. I’ll do that. My family will wonder where I am.’
He nodded, understanding.
‘Will you help me to get some tea into Saxon?’
‘Of course, madam. And I shall have my family make up a mutton broth for later too.’
‘Excellent. If we continue the fluids and he keeps his willpower strong, then we might pull him past this,’ I said, my voice full of optimism. I believed it too. I sipped the tea, which was strong and delicious. Bizarrely, while it woke my tastebuds it also clued me in to how exhausted I was. I must have slumped in relief.
‘Madam . . . Dr Fenwick? If I may?’
I nodded.
‘You are deeply tired. The journey alone from Calcutta is fatiguing. The train ride from Siliguri is a challenge, but nothing can fully prepare a gentlewoman for the descent into the tea gardens by cart and mule . . . ’
‘Or palanquin,’ I added with a sigh.
He nodded. ‘Please, take a rest. I will watch over Master Saxon without leaving his side. I will ply him with tea, as you ask, and I will fetch you if he wakes. Both of you need rest to get strong. I am no doctor so I would wish you bright and rested to show me how to get Master Saxon fit again. Please sleep . . . just for a few hours.’
He was right. I was no good to anyone if I couldn’t hold myself erect, and I was feeling heavy-lidded and sluggish now that the novelty and sparkle of arrival had dissipated slightly. The other side of Saxon’s bed looked inviting. I could almost picture myself lying my head onto that pillow and sneaking beneath the faded eiderdown next to him.
‘While you’ve been here, my family have made up a room next door. It is small, not properly prepared, of course, but I thought you would want to be nearby.’
‘I would. I don’t mind how unprepared it is. To lie down for a brief while would be wise and I’ll be strong in an hour or two to take over. Er, how many children do you have, Adri?’
He grinned. ‘All my relatives work for the Vickery family in the gardens. We belong to them.’ It sounded oddly proprietorial and yet I could feel his pride reaching out. ‘Please rest. Bathe. I shall see you in a few hours. I promise to keep vigil. Come, let me show you.’
I cast a glance towards my patient, who slept now with a relaxed cast to his face, like a child tucked in safely by loving parents.
20
It took me several seconds to realise where I was when I opened my eyes, without alarm, to the sound of women’s laughter. Unlikely they were household servants, for the voices were too distant. Tea pickers, perhaps? I became aware of the scented air that I’d noticed on arrival and looked up as a fan circled lazily above my bed. I stretched and wondered if that earthy, cut-grass scent on the wind was the tea bushes, the fragrance of the soil or the forested region nearby.
I lifted my lids fully to take in the new surrounds through a lens made gauzy by the mosquito net that had been draped around the bed. I could swear I’d just surfaced from the best sleep of my adult life and, although the various worries pressing on me arrived one after another like eager sparrows onto a freshly tossed piece of bread, I could truthfully say my heart felt lighter in that moment.
The room that Adri had provided for me and described as small appeared bigger than mine in London. Perhaps it was the timber ceiling painted a rich white against the dark polished boards of the floor, or maybe it was because two sides of the room boasted picture windows, one with French doors that opened onto a balcony and the other a bay window that created an alcove where a day bed, plump with cushions, looked inviting. Ivory-coloured muslin curtains hung around this alcove and were embroidered with leaves depicting tea, I guessed. The drapes filtered the sunlight, which danced against the whitewashed walls and glinted off the brass handles of the chocolate-coloured furniture, gold picture frames and a carriage clock that looked as though it had likely not been wound in decades.
I reached for my wristwatch and was astonished to see it was nearing seven. Unforgivably I had slept through to morning, seemingly without stirring. And, as if Adri possessed the talent of a seer, there was a light tap at the door.
‘Madam? Dr Fenwick?’
‘Yes, Adri? I’m awake.’
‘We have prepared some food for you. It is a lovely morning,’ he said from behind the door.
‘Er, I’ll dress and be out,’ I said, looking at the clothes I’d dropped in a haphazard pile yesterday.
‘Please do not hurry yourself. All is well with the patient. Bathe and your breakfast will be served when you’re ready. Er, madam?’
‘Yes?’
‘We can have your clothes laundered.’
I’d used all of the clothes I’d brought in my holdall and the idea of them being laundered was enticing. ‘But what shall I wear in the meantime?’
‘My daughter found some clothes in the house. She has left something in the wardrobe for you to wear until your own clothes are prepared.’
‘Thank you,’ I called.
So I was right. I frowned; I had indeed entered an otherworld and somehow the problems seemed to feel as though they were not nearly so dramatic as I had sketched them in my mind. It was not as though I was ready to start humming a jolly tune to myself, but the mere fact that I lingered in this safe, comforting cloud beneath the mosquito net, and didn’t feel stung into leaping to stutter an apology and get busy, made me realise I had clearly left my ordinary world. The Isla of just days ago would be filled with recrimination for not demonstrating that I was beyond the normal human frailty of fatigue, that I could simply keep going, always outperform and out-think people around me. Maybe this was the overachieving, perhaps even arrogant, quality that Matron had referred to when she had warned me not to personalise everything. Had I really made every aspect of my time in India a reflection of myself?
As I lay here in a petticoat, feeling stripped emotionally as much as physically, her cautionary words made sense. I was merely one of the unwitting players in the story of Naz and Pratiti. And there would still be sick people in India long after I’d left – not every ill patient was my duty, my responsibility. My thoughts became more lucid and I realised I’d been on a personal mission since arriving in India and that I had indeed made it all about me; I was no different to horrible Miles! Even Miles’s passive remarks I had challenged rather than shrugging them off as Saxon had. I hadn’t yet found the wisdom to allow for people in my orbit to be contrary, to act emotionally or irresponsibly sometimes. I think I understood now that what I liked most about Saxon was that he was such an island. To him people made choices, good or bad, and he dealt with the result; he did his best not to engage or participate. He stayed true to himself by always giving his all, even when it could bring injury and grief upon himself. This was what Matron was getting at. Saxon cared about the world beyond his life, his needs, his ego; meanwhile, I internalised too much and viewed life from a highly subjective perspective, considering how everything from the weather to the decisions of others affected me. Humiliated that it was so clear to me now, I felt a prick of shame that I was too self-absorbed in work, my role, my own vision for my life, perhaps, to see any of this previously.
Audibly clearing my throat, I ducked under the net and steered my thoughts elsewhere. Adri sounded bright; maybe there was good news awaiting me with Saxon. I squared my shoulders, determined not to be introspective. He’d insisted I take my time and so, in the spirit of not trying to control everything, I drew a bath. Someone had tiptoed in through the hours I slept and left not only clothes, as Adri mentioned, but some toiletries. I lingered long enough to scrub away the days of travel, unknotting hair that had been tied up for too long, and luxuriated in the slippery feel of soapy bubbles against my skin.
I did pause to congratulate myself, as it seemed – even in my tired stupor of yesterday late afternoon – that I’d had the presence of mind to wash and hang up my underwear, which was now only a fraction damp. It would do. However, I couldn’t imagine myself wearing
a sari or the pantaloons and long shirt that Bengali women favoured for practicality. As reluctantly as I had left my bed, I now half-heartedly stepped from the bath onto the crisp pattern of black-and-white tiles and towelled myself dry before tiptoeing back into the bedroom and turning the key of the wardrobe. Inside, greeted by the scent of cloves, I saw a simple calf-length European-style dress of starched cotton. Relief made me sigh. Peering into the depths, I noted a fine net pouch containing chips of wood and leaves studded by cloves. There was the source of the pungent peppery anise fragrance. Although I was immediately reminded of toothache tincture, it was certainly an improvement on the ghastly smell of naphthalene.
Grimacing at the momentary clammy feel of the damp lace against my skin, I pulled on my French knickers and tried not to jump at the touch of the cold satin of my bra against my flesh. I pulled on the dress that was essentially a shift with a sheer top layer. While it was neither my size nor to my modern taste, I felt immediately prettier in it. It was large for my frame but, given it was a drop waist of the previous decade, it would fit. I remembered wearing a dress of this styling in my teenage years. The pintucked skirt had pale embroidery at its hem and the dress tied sweetly just below the throat. It would do just fine.
I combed out my wet hair and emerged from my room to where the same young woman who had brought the tea stood barefoot and bowing as I stepped over the threshold.
‘Good morning.’
‘Morning, madam,’ she said in a quiet voice.
‘Er, thank you,’ I said, running a hand over my hip. ‘The dress is lovely.’
‘My uncle is on the verandah,’ the girl said, her voice so soft I had to strain.
I desperately wanted to turn right and visit Saxon, but Adri had already spotted me and lifted a hand in greeting, so I moved towards the kind man who had welcomed me so generously.
Once again the sight of the Himalayan mountains imprisoned me. They were misted today: more of an impression of what I saw yesterday, as though they’d been haphazardly picked out in watercolour this morning. But their power was like a magnet to every cell of iron in my body. I had to tear my gaze away again.
‘Good morning, Dr Fenwick.’
‘And to you. I had a wonderful sleep,’ I admitted before he asked.
‘I am so pleased to hear it. The mist has only arrived in the last ten minutes. It will pass, though. We must get back to the sheds, madam, but I have cooked some porridge as I was taught as a child by Master Saxon’s grandfather.’
He pointed to the table, laid out ready for me. ‘And, of course, tea.’ He noticed me shiver and reached for a soft stole he had already laid out on the back of the chair. ‘This is from Kashmir.’ He touched his chin. ‘From the softest wool of the goat’s beard.’
I smiled in thanks and allowed him to wrap the pale sheath of woven wool around my shoulders. It was whisper-thin but its warmth was immediate and surprisingly complete. I would have to hunt down one of these to buy before I left.
‘How is Professor Vickery?’
‘It seems home is the great healer, Dr Fenwick. Would you believe me if I told you that Master Saxon drank a pot of tea on his own?’
I know my mouth gaped. ‘Truly?’
He nodded, smiling benignly.
‘He’s sitting up?’ I couldn’t hide my incredulity and he enjoyed it.
‘Briefly. Sleeping now, which is why I didn’t disturb you. The fever began to break through the night. I stayed with him, as I promised you I would. I watched the shivering arrive and then I watched him become still and sleep properly. He is covered now against chill.’
‘He’ll be weak.’
‘He already is.’
‘There’s a false recovery . . . ’ I began, even though I sensed Adri already knew this. He had the grace not to stop me. ‘Saxon will recognise it but he’ll also ignore what he knows about the strange sense of wellness that doesn’t last so we must be firm with him.’
Adri nodded.
‘Anyway, that is news to give me an appetite.’
Adri beamed. ‘Excellent.’ He waved a finger and two other people arrived, young men this time.
‘Are these your nephews, Adri?’
‘One son, one nephew. We all work in the gardens, madam, although I oversee the processing of the leaves. Please forgive us that you will be alone. I can look in tonight?’
‘Adri, we shall be fine. Can you send up some fresh food . . . perhaps some eggs, that broth?’
He nodded. ‘This I will do. Enjoy the tea while it is hot.’
‘Brackenridge Estate?’
‘We only serve our own tea here,’ he assured. He touched the pot with pride. ‘Our latest monsoon flush,’ he explained. ‘The leaves were plucked in mid-July midst the lashing rains and humidity of the valley. After anyone’s long journey up the hill from Siliguri this is the ideal “pick-me-up”, as you British say. May I?’
I nodded and then gave an involuntary sound of surprise at the colour as he poured. ‘Looks like it’s been brewed from the bark of trees,’ I admitted.
He looked impressed by this notion. ‘Nothing delicate about it, Dr Fenwick.’
‘People tell me Assam tea is the hearty one.’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘But Assam tea is for the world to enjoy. Darjeeling is for royalty.’ He smiled and handed me a cup of tea that was a richly red-brown. ‘Milk?’
‘I shouldn’t, should I?’ I asked but he could hear in my voice how much I wanted milk in my tea.
‘Just a dash.’ He smiled and obliged. ‘There is a bell on the verandah.’ He pointed. ‘If you need help, Dr Fenwick, with anything, ring that bell. Someone will run up.’ Now he gestured to the sheds down the hill in the distance. ‘That’s where I work. It’s also where we dry the leaves and they become tea. You must visit.’
‘I shall.’ I smiled.
‘Remember the bell,’ he reminded. ‘You will be alone all day.’
I nodded with confidence, adding, ‘Don’t worry.’ I watched him leave with his niece and nephew. They fell in step behind him and headed down the hill.
The porridge was thick enough to cut with a spoon – just how I liked it, I thought, feeling like Goldilocks in that moment. Rich milk was lifting the solid mass from beneath while its surface was daubed with honey that glistened a burnt toffee colour, looking like molten gold with the morning sun’s light firing it. Seated here, on the verandah, overlooking the steppes that dropped away gradually and took on a hummocked appearance due to the round bushes of tea and the purplish haze of mountains in the background, I was tempted to pinch my skin, be sure I was here. I ate deliberately, chewing carefully to savour each mouthful, to fix this special scene, this new experience into my memories for when I was returned to grey London and city life.
As I sipped my tea the low cloud began clearing and Darjeeling’s protectors were no longer shadows in the mists. I smiled, full of helpless admiration as the kings of the skies emerged from the veil of vapour. ‘How does anyone ever leave here unchanged?’ I asked them.
A zephyr trembled through the tea bushes in answer and I swore I could hear Kangchenjunga whisper that no one ever does.
__________
I stood at the doorway to Saxon’s chamber. I was now on unfamiliar ground; it felt like each footstep I made took me closer to quicksand, although I didn’t know where exactly the sinking sands were or even what they were. It was as though I was now participating in a stage play and an invisible director was calling the moves from the wings of the theatre. It wasn’t that I felt like a puppet so much as someone no longer in control; I think I’d handed that control to Fate, or some force outside of myself.
I was looking into the room that was sparsely furnished but with the clutter of childhood evident, although only the items that must still have been meaningful to him. There were no paintings or artworks by his hand, from what I could tell, and yet there was a clay model that had captured the ugly hunch of a toad with a ridiculously wide, smiling mouth that
made it a handsome piece. Fresh meadow flowers, presumably put in that morning, looked at ease in that mouth.
I thought he was deeply asleep but his head turned at the sound of a floorboard creak.
‘Did I disturb you?’ I said, embarrassed to be caught on tiptoe. It was a redundant question but I was compelled to achieve some sort of introductory talk between us. I felt the gap between us was littered with invisible obstacles, like broken glass shards waiting to cut me and remind me that my actions – no matter how blameless I might be – did cause him suffering.
‘No.’ His voice was croaky and even from halfway across the room I could see his eyes were shot through with bloodied capillaries. ‘No one ever could get across this floor without sounding the creak; only I know how to avoid it.’
I smiled at his memory. ‘Well . . . ’ I began as breezily as I dared. ‘Aren’t you an amazing patient? I thought we’d be days in anxiety but you’ve surprised us all.’
He stared up at me through eyes of a colour that still struck me as being the cobalt used for expensive ceramics. I’d arrived at his bedside. ‘May I?’ I asked, gesturing at the bed as there was no single chair nearby.
‘You may,’ he said, his voice scratchy but his tone hard to judge. He glanced at the water nearby.
‘Oh, let me help you.’ I reached for the beaker and he surprised me by pulling himself to his elbows. I watched his arms shake from the effort but, even so, I was impressed with his recovery. ‘Saxon. You mustn’t exert yourself.’
‘You do realise I’m a doctor,’ he said, swallowing and cutting his gaze over the beaker to me.
‘And doctors make the worst patients and even worse at self-diagnoses.’ I took the beaker, striving to sound bright. ‘Adri is sending up broth and tea, some other fresh food.’
He let his head drop back to the pillow. As impressive as his recovery was, it was also obvious how weakened he remained. ‘Why did you come?’
The Tea Gardens Page 27