‘Or indeed a right royal —’
‘Saxon!’ I cut in before he said anything more revealing because a man was arriving behind him.
He winked at me. ‘Where were we?’
‘Bracing Assam tea,’ I obliged.
‘Right. So now what was needed was some finesse; producers wanted more of that delicate, floral flavour they knew grew in the hills of China. A tea thief was sent, out from the Chelsea Physic Garden in London to Hong Kong and then Shanghai before he traversed another thousand miles to the Yellow Mountains in the north. He wore robes, shaved his head and had sewn on a long plaited hair tail, learned to wield chopsticks and marked himself a pale-skinned Chinaman as he journeyed to acquire plants and seeds. And, before you ask, that’s no lie. His name was Robert Fortune.’
I was entranced and he could tell. ‘How thrilling.’
‘Not for the Chinese, who guarded their tea secrets zealously. Anyway, the shorter version of this story is that Fortune is the father of tea in this country – he spent years wandering China not only gathering up the botanic jewels that he would sail to Calcutta, but also bringing with him a team of Chinese tea planters and pickers. A new industry began in northern India and some of it inevitably found its way here to Darjeeling and ultimately to my family. I’ve simplified just how hard Fortune’s role was, of course.’
‘Gosh. I’d love to know more.’
‘You can read about him back in London.’ He led me up a small flight of wooden stairs. ‘Anyway, here we are at the withering loft and the troughs I spoke of.’
Vessels not unlike horse drinking troughs were filled with leaves, from fresh green through to a dried sage colour, curled from lack of moisture.
‘Now, making quality tea is an exercise in control,’ he continued.
I loved the way he naturally reached for my hand: it was filled with both enthusiasm and affection, as though he’d never shared this knowledge with a woman previously. ‘Saxon, have you told your stories and explained your love of tea to Frances?’
He shook his head. ‘No. When I’m in England, I’m not encouraged to talk about India. My wife prefers me to be focused on life at home. She prefers Assam too.’
I took pleasure at being allowed into this private world of his, which I suspected only I might ever glimpse.
I refocused my attention to his sweeping gesture at the troughs that were, at my guess, about seventy feet in length but narrow enough that they were only the width of one of my arms. ‘Each step – from the moment the leaves arrive from the gardens into these sheds – is critical. Everything we do can affect the final flavour. The steps are withering, maybe toasting, then rolling, fermenting, drying and finally grading and sorting before packing.’
I looked into the first trough, where the most recent basket of leaves had been tipped.
‘We spread them out to dry and we need to be quick because piled up in the baskets the leaves generate heat. We spread them to about eight inches deep.’
I watched him dip both hands into leaves up past his wrist and move the tea around. I noted a wire-meshed bottom to the trough as he did so and I realised how the air could penetrate the mass that was regularly stirred, no doubt in the same way that Saxon was moving them around now.
‘How long do they remain like this?’
He frowned. ‘Just over half a day usually does it, although it’s not exact – experience teaches you when they’re ready. After about sixteen hours most of the moisture has been extracted from each leaf.’
‘What about in monsoon?’
‘Very good, Dr Fenwick. When it’s rainy and humid we help things along with a coal fire to make the leaves wither and it’s extremely carefully monitored.’
I nodded.
‘After withering, this trough will be barely knuckle deep.’ He pointed to another trough. ‘Over there, they’re ready.’ He sounded so confident I had to look for myself.
The tea-leaves had lost their brilliance and they’d curled; become limp. Their edges had browned and most had changed to a murkier green.
‘They’re pliable now, so they can be rolled,’ Saxon said, strolling up to put an arm affectionately around my waist. He kissed my neck, although I twisted away, shameful of how quickly my body responded to his touch. I knew if he led me back to the house in this moment, I likely couldn’t resist him or his bed once we got there.
‘So you know from how they feel?’
He let go of me to scoop up a handful of the withered leaves. ‘How they look, how they feel and this . . . ’ He buried his face into the leaves. I thought he was simply being comical but I heard him inhale before dropping the leaves. ‘And by that bouquet, I do know. Go on, do the same and use both hands.’
I lifted a double-handed load of leaves and buried my nose into them as he had and smelled, closing my eyes as the slightly musty fragrance arose.
‘Describe it.’
‘Well,’ I began, inhaling again before I looked up. ‘It’s like a Somerset apple shed in autumn that I remember from childhood.’
He beamed at me and then flung down his leaves and clapped once. ‘Isla,’ he said, fuelling his voice with affection. ‘I couldn’t have said it more eloquently, poetically or indeed perfectly than that.’
I grinned back, pleased with myself.
‘Of course, the experienced team here know from how the leaves appear in the troughs . . . ’ He grabbed a handful again and squeezed. ‘There’s a certain way those leaves look as they open when you relax your fist,’ he said, opening his hand, watching the leaves unfurl from the tight ball, ‘and they can estimate the percentage of moisture gone. What they don’t want to see is that they’re too dry.’
‘Why? I thought getting rid of moisture was what this was all about?’
‘We still have to roll. If the leaves are too brittle, they’ll break. We want them pliable.’
‘Ah,’ I answered, understanding.
He pointed. ‘We drop them down that cloth chute when ready and in the earliest days workers would roll leaves by hand.’ He gestured rolling with both hands on a flat surface, pointing halfway up his underarm. ‘All the way to here was used against wooden tables. Now we have a rolling machine.’
I peered down to the heavy equipment with a central rotary action that mimicked the way Saxon had demonstrated. ‘We want the leaves twisted into long curls – not broken – that easily unfold when rehydrated with boiled water.’
‘And green tea?’
‘Allowed to wither less. White tea is even more delicate.’
‘All from one type of tea bush?’
‘Camellia sinesis,’ he replied. ‘The different teas arise based on how you treat the leaves, what soil the bushes grow in, climate, and which characteristics we want to enhance.’
I couldn’t help it, I had to kiss him.
When I released him, he blinked. ‘I’m boring you, aren’t I?’
‘No, I wanted to thank you for this.’ I sighed.
‘I’ve barely begun. Don’t get me started on terminology. You have to kiss me again to stop me.’
I did, first checking that no one watched us, although Saxon made sure of it by pulling me behind a screen. As if I had no care in the world, I pulled him close and kissed him long and deeply, trying to imprint on my memory how it felt to kiss him.
I finally let him go.
‘Here’s the cupping room, which is where the tea is tasted for quality.’ He pointed, leading me to a small enclosure with a long bench and a clutter of white china implements that looked like small pitchers without handles. Saxon referred to them as infusion pots. There was a kettle and a few other items but otherwise it was clean and mostly empty, leaving room for men to gather and sip the various brews. ‘Exact measures of dry leaf are steeped for five minutes using an hourglass,’ he explained. ‘Weight, time of day of picking, time of day of tasting, all of these factors are important. Consistency is paramount,’ he impressed.
Finally he took me to a room that w
as surprisingly busy with endeavour, including a circle of women squatting on tiny stools. Their mouths and noses covered, they spoke quietly to each other, while sifting tea-leaves through large round sieves into pyramids on sacking at their feet, dust dancing in the shaft of airy sunlight around them.
At my look of query, Saxon explained. ‘Sorting happens here. We make sure at this point any twigs or stalks are cleared. There’s whole leaves, broken leaves, fannings – smaller leaves to you – and finally what we call dust, which gets swept up and used, of course.’
‘What’s the finest quality?’
‘Well, highest quality in terms of the leaf rather than flavour – because flavour is subjective – is called Fine Tippy Golden Flowering Orange Pekoe.’
‘Don’t fib!’
He grinned. ‘Would I dare? Tippy means there’s a considerable level of the highly desirable whole-leaf tips, and orange pekoe describes a large-leafed tea, which is also preferred. Now, Isla, I think I’ve crammed your brain sufficiently. Have you seen enough?’
Arousal was showing itself in various ways but especially in the roughness of his voice suddenly. I nodded.
‘Good, because I’m taking you back to bed, and tomorrow, if the good doctor will permit me to leave the house, I’d like to take you up into Darjeeling. You should see the town.’
We walked back to the house, arm in arm, he no doubt anticipating an afternoon of lovemaking but I reckoned he’d be ready to sleep before we could undress.
I was right. He tore off his clothes and flopped on the bed while I took care to re-dress his arm for fear of him reinjuring that wound during his ardour. However, by the time I’d finished, after slapping away his exploring fingers, he was gently snoring and I left him that way, climbing in behind to put my arms around him, cupping my body to his for a short while as afternoon came in. While I didn’t sleep, I wouldn’t permit myself to think on Jove, England, even doctoring. Right now, nothing outside Brackenridge could invade until I let it.
25
Hours later Saxon found me on the verandah, sipping tea, staring out at Kangchenjunga, no longer feeling like a thief. I’d made my peace with the gods on earth. Just a few more days, I’d begged them. Then I’ll leave and I will never see him again, never interrupt his life or allow him to disrupt mine.
‘I’m still here,’ I said brightly, before he could ask. He leaned over the top of me and kissed me upside down. I laughed, tasting mint once again, and I sensed even better health than yesterday or even this morning. ‘Let me look at you.’
He walked around, blocking my view. ‘Never felt better,’ he quipped, but a forced tone tripped me up in my happy mood; I pretended I hadn’t heard it.
‘Liar. But you do surprise me; you appear surprisingly hale.’
‘I feel it, Isla,’ he said more seriously and I knew I couldn’t avoid what was about to descend. It was like a change in weather – a cold wind blowing in.
‘Good. But what does that expression mean?’
He didn’t look away, spearing me with that disconcerting stare. ‘It means it’s time for you to go,’ he said.
I felt like he’d not spoken but instead answered me by punching me fully fisted into an unclenched belly. Barely hours ago we’d spoken of love, but that naked, emotional Saxon had retreated and I knew I was now staring at the professor, his strength returned, his barricades against emotion in place.
‘I know how you’re feeling,’ he said.
‘Do you?’ I said.
He squatted before me, reached for my hand, but I pulled it away, feeling stung and suddenly injured. I was also frightened that he was about to take away something special and shiny that I had only just been admiring privately.
He reached again, firmly this time, and wouldn’t permit me to pull back. He clasped both of my hands in his larger ones. ‘Isla, please look at me.’
Unhappily I obliged and all of a sudden it hurt to gaze upon the man whom I had no right to be feeling this way about. It didn’t matter that I felt a surge of love. The universe had chosen for us before we’d met.
‘No matter what you tell yourself I suspect you’re even more conflicted than I feel right now.’ I didn’t reply. I didn’t believe I could convince him about making my peace so I let him continue. ‘And I woke up understanding that I was being desperately selfish and unfair to you.’
‘And I have no say?’
He shook his head. ‘No, because you won’t make the harsh decision that I can. I need you to go. Go before anyone finds out about this . . . this tryst.’
‘It’s not a tryst. We didn’t arrange to meet here,’ I replied, no longer able to conceal the hurt.
‘Call it whatever you want. It’s still clandestine, it’s still sneaking behind the backs of people we care about and don’t wish to hurt. And mostly I don’t want to hurt you. What’s more, I don’t want you being enmeshed in scandal.’ He raised a hand to stop me leaning into his pause, snarling back at him. ‘Isla, listen to me. You have something magnificent to go back to. And although my situation is different to yours, I won’t leave Frances.’
‘I know that!’ I snapped. ‘I don’t remember asking you to and I have no intention of not marrying Jove.’
Was I lying? If he asked me to stay here forever with him, would I be weak, think only of myself? I hoped not, but it seemed I’d never know because he clearly had no inclination to offer me anything but the hardest journey of all.
‘Why now?’
He stood, turning his back to me to become a tall outline against the sky. The lowering sun forced me to shade my eyes and look at him as a shadow. Apollo was floating in the fiery firmament of his heavenly home, I thought.
‘Because, Isla, it compromises you. You’re a good, fine doctor with so much to look forward to, and you’re risking too much. And it’s not all about you. I know you want to hear this so I’ll say it, because maybe this is what you take away with you. You weaken me. You’re going to leave and each day you stay, you will make me love you a little more. As much as your doctoring can make me well, you are killing me.’
He was back crouching in front of me; he took my hands once again and placed them against his cheeks. ‘Take your wonderful healing hands away. Leave, while I still have the strength to push you away.’
He was right; I did need to hear these words of love and they softened me immediately. I traced the outline of his face, consciously committing every part of him to my memory.
‘I have to be selfish,’ he reinforced, ‘defend myself against you. This hasn’t happened before; I will not let it happen again, and because you can’t stay, I insist you leave . . . ’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow morning, first thing. I’ve already made arrangements for you to be picked up.’
‘Saxon, no! I’m not ready to —’
‘If you won’t leave, I’ll leave you.’
I could see he meant it. ‘You really can be very cold.’
He shook his head. ‘So they say. I’m doing this for both of us . . . today, tomorrow, next week – what does it matter, Isla? We can’t be together!’ His voice cracked on his final words and at least I glimpsed that this was as desperately hard for him as it was for me.
‘What about Darjeeling?’ I could hear the plaintive note in my voice.
He shook his head. ‘A dream. Too many nosey people up there. It’s a hotbed of gossip; they’ve got nothing else to do all day except prattle on about each other. I would be fair game and our family, though long departed from here, is nevertheless well known and respected. They’d love to get some dirt on my brother. I won’t give it. I may not like Rex but I won’t have his name tarnished because of my impropriety and I know you wouldn’t want Jove hearing of us dancing arm in arm at the Gymkhana Club or the Planters Club.’
‘No,’ I said, dropping my gaze. ‘That would be heartless but I’d hoped for a few more days . . . ’
‘Those extra days will only make it worse. You’ll return to England t
o be swept up in marriage plans, a honeymoon, rediscovering Jove, making children, travelling the world . . . I return to Calcutta and cholera, tuberculosis, malaria and death.’
‘Have you forgiven me?’
He knew what I meant. ‘No. That’s for you to seek atonement in your own heart. But I am entirely under your spell, and viciously in love with you.’
I smiled through watering eyes. ‘I liked the idea of dancing arm in arm with you.’
He nodded. ‘I know and we shall . . . tonight. We have a few more hours together. I can smell you’ve cooked a meal, so I shall dress appropriately, put on some music, find some wine that hasn’t gone off in my father’s cellar . . . and we shall dance all night until the sun rises on a new day when you will leave me and go home to a much better man.’
I covered my mouth to prevent a sob escaping. He smiled at me to reassure. ‘We’ll always have the tea gardens in our memory. Our secret. No one hurt and perhaps your conscience can find a way to clear itself – you’re not officially engaged, you wear no one’s ring, but I can’t see you again after I kiss you goodbye. Don’t write, don’t come back to India to see me, don’t seek me out ever and I will give you the same respect. It’s our only defence.’
I nodded, crying openly now, and deep inside, where some sensibility still resided, I knew this was for the best.
So this was it. We had only hours left together.
‘Come on. Bathe, dress. I’ll find a tuxedo. We’ll make a night of it that we can always remember.’
_________
I sank into self-pity while I took my bath, preferring the grittiness of Epsom salts to the soft rose and geranium scented foam bubbles that had been so perky and colourful this morning. Someone, long ago, it seemed, had infused the salts with dried lavender and, although it took a while, by the time its slightly smoky, minted, herbal fragrance began to rise on the steam, its sweetness started soothing away my melancholic mood.
This bond that had developed between us could never have been a happy one, I reminded myself. It felt like a delicious madness this morning, where nothing else mattered except us and we locked out life, but reality was always going to find us. I looked at the folded paper bird that sat on the windowsill and finally accepted it was right for me to fly away before we got any deeper into this dangerous relationship.
The Tea Gardens Page 34