The Girl From the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Sophie laughed. ‘Aren’t you being a bit overdramatic?’

  ‘Me?’ Rita arched her eyebrows in mock surprise over large brown eyes. ‘Don’t pretend you’re not worried too. Why else did you have your ear to the door down there?’

  ‘I must admit,’ said Sophie, ‘that I’m looking forward to getting Rafi away for a few days. He works so hard.’

  ‘Next time you must come with us to Bombay.’

  ‘I haven’t been there since I arrived back in India over ten years ago,’ Sophie mused. ‘We’ve become like hermits in the woods.’

  ‘Well, you can let your hair down with your tea-planter friends, can’t you? They know how to party from what I hear.’

  The coffee came and they sipped it as the sun grew stronger and the mist burned off to reveal a shimmering landscape of pools and jungle. Green-and-red parrots flitted between the trees.

  ‘Will Sanjay go with you to Bombay?’ Sophie asked.

  Rita shrugged. ‘That is one of Kishan’s battles with the old witch and Henna. He would like to take the boy, but they complain they don’t see enough of him as it is. Kishan’s mother will refuse to let him go, but it’s me who will get the blame. Sanjay will be moody and resentful, and the whole thing will give Kishan an ulcer. Happy families, eh?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ Sophie gave a pained smile.

  Rita was contrite. ‘Oh, my dearest, here I am complaining about my family when you have had such tragedy in yours. Don’t listen to me. Let’s change the subject.’

  They did, but Sophie couldn’t help dwelling on her lack of relations. Orphaned at six years old in India when her parents had died violent deaths, she had been brought up by a beloved aunt in Scotland, who had died when Sophie was twenty-one. Though she had hardly any memory of her parents, it still made Sophie shudder to think that her own father could have shot her mother and then shot himself. What drove a man to do that? In the aftermath of her parents’ tragedy, she had also lost her only brother. He had been given away at birth and never been seen again. It was a source of pain too that she and Rafi appeared unable to have children. Once she had been pregnant to another man . . . Sophie forced herself not to think of the dark circumstances of her miscarriage and her failed marriage to the forester Tam Telfer. Yet she had Rafi, whom she adored; he was her family, along with her dear cousin Tilly, whom she was impatient to see again at Belgooree over Christmas.

  When Rafi appeared with Kishan, Sophie leapt up and went to her husband. The warm smile he gave her was enough to banish the bluest of thoughts.

  Sophie and Rafi were on the point of leaving for Belgooree when Sanjay appeared, clutching a cricket bat.

  ‘Come on, Rafiji.’ The handsome youth gave a winning smile. ‘You’re the best bowler in Gulgat. Stourton said he’d play too. Just for an hour. You don’t mind, do you, Mrs Khan?’

  ‘We really need to be on the road,’ Sophie said, dismayed.

  ‘You can field,’ Sanjay declared. ‘You have a great throwing arm – shapely but strong.’

  Rafi gave her a helpless look. She knew how he pitied the boy for losing his father so young. Yet the Raja’s nephew was on the cusp of manhood; he was no longer a child, even if the adults around him still treated him like one. His mother and grandmother overindulged him, while his uncle and Rita ignored or excused his outbursts of temper as something he would grow out of. Even Rafi seemed blind to the boy’s manipulating charm; she could see how flattered he was to be asked to play cricket for the young prince. Maybe she was being unfair, Sophie thought, and Sanjay was being naturally enthusiastic. Strange, though, how he had waited just until their moment of departure to waylay them with his sudden cricket match.

  ‘Very well,’ she relented. ‘But we go this afternoon.’

  On Christmas Day, Adela rushed down the drive when she heard the Khans’ car hooting on the tea garden track.

  ‘Happy Christmas! Where have you been?’ Adela jumped on board and squeezed in between Rafi and Sophie, flinging her arms about both and kissing their cheeks. ‘We thought you were coming yesterday. I’m so sick of baby talk. Auntie Tilly’s never put Harry down for a minute. I’m so glad you’re here. Now we can have some fun.’

  Rafi laughed and Sophie hugged her back. ‘Happy Christmas too, my darling lassie. Your Uncle Rafi got embroiled in a cricket match that lasted all day – that’s why we are late.’

  ‘Your Auntie Sophie caught out Sanjay,’ said Rafi, ‘otherwise we’d still be playing.’

  ‘Yes, that didn’t go down well at all,’ Sophie grimaced.

  ‘Who’s Sanjay?’

  ‘The Raja’s nephew,’ said Rafi. ‘Remember he once came on a hunting trip here with his uncle.’

  ‘Was he the boy who said he’d skin my tiger cub, Molly, if I let her out of the house?’

  ‘Sounds like Sanjay,’ Sophie said, rolling her eyes.

  ‘He’d have been teasing,’ Rafi defended.

  ‘He has a cruel streak,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Not cruel, just boisterous.’

  ‘He’s still behaving like a spoilt brat, yet he’s nearly a man. It’s high time you learned how to say no to him once in a while.’

  Adela felt uncomfortable at their disagreement; it wasn’t like them. ‘Well, I remember him as rather good-looking and I was probably being a pest. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. You’re both here, and that’s the best Christmas present I could have.’

  Rafi ruffled her hair and Sophie gave her another kiss, and the topic of Sanjay was dropped.

  Shrieks of delight greeted the latecomers as Sophie and Tilly hugged, Clarrie rustled up cocktails and the men swapped news. Tilly’s youngest son, Mungo, leapt from chair to chair in a pirate outfit and set Scout barking madly. Around a table set out on the veranda, they ate a huge lunch of chestnut soup, snipe, blackcock, quail, roast potatoes, greens and curried cauliflower, followed by plum pudding and brandy butter and gaudy sugary sweetmeats with coffee. Wesley served up his best claret and a bottle of port he’d kept for ten years. Adela knew her father was doing his best to impress his cousin James and show off Belgooree hospitality.

  The conversation was loud and unceasing. Tilly talked of her son and daughter at boarding school in England, while James and Wesley discussed falling tea prices and the likelihood of production having to be cut.

  ‘Oh, James, you promised not to talk shop,’ Tilly protested.

  ‘And you promised not to bore about babies,’ James grunted.

  Sophie intervened swiftly. ‘Tell the gossip from Assam, Tilly. Who is the burra memsahib at the club these days?’

  ‘Tilly of course,’ James joked.

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ Tilly cried. ‘James never takes me these days.’

  ‘I take you to the film club once a month.’

  ‘Once in a blue moon,’ she retorted.

  ‘Well, you hate it there,’ James said. ‘You always complain about the men drinking too much and gambling away the housekeeping.’

  ‘Oh, talking of which’ – Tilly’s plump face was animated – ‘have you heard about young Sam Jackman, the ferry captain?’

  Adela’s heart lurched at the sudden mention of Sam’s name. She caught a look pass between her parents.

  ‘Heard what?’ Clarrie asked.

  ‘He’s a captain no longer,’ said James.

  ‘Lost his boat in a card game a month ago,’ Tilly said.

  ‘Never!’ Clarrie exclaimed.

  ‘Silly ass!’ Wesley frowned, throwing Adela a glance.

  ‘Gambling went on all weekend apparently,’ James said. ‘Drank far too much. Let some clerk from a Calcutta shipping company win it from him. The man offered it back when Jackman sobered up.’

  ‘But Sam wouldn’t take it,’ Tilly added. ‘Said the man had won it fair and square.’

  ‘But the Cullercoats was his father’s boat,’ Adela gasped. ‘It meant a lot to him.’ Tilly eyed her in surprise, which made her go red.

  ‘Obviously not
as much as we thought,’ said Wesley.

  ‘What is he doing now?’ Clarrie asked in concern.

  ‘Gone,’ said Tilly, ‘with that chattering monkey.’

  ‘Gone where?’ Adela asked in deep dismay.

  ‘No one knows. Just up and left,’ Tilly sighed. ‘It’s the strangest thing. He was always such a sensible boy. Don’t think he’s ever really got over the death of his father – they were very close.’

  ‘Don’t know why you had such a soft spot for him,’ James said. ‘He could be quite critical of us tea planters. Bit of a Gandhi-Congress supporter. Probably gone off to agitate somewhere else.’

  ‘Good luck to him.’ Rafi smiled. ‘Congress and India need young men of passion from all communities.’

  ‘And women,’ Sophie added.

  James gave a wry look. ‘So speak the couple who enjoy life in an autocratic kingdom. You don’t have agitators coming in to stir up your workforce, do you?’

  ‘We feed them to the tigers,’ Rafi joked.

  ‘So you agree with Congress and their incitement to strike and damage our businesses?’ James pressed him.

  ‘No more than I agree with boycotts by the British, which damage Indian businesses,’ Rafi countered.

  ‘I agree with you there,’ said Clarrie. ‘The boycotts are petty.’

  James pressed Rafi further. ‘Is that hot-headed brother of yours still causing trouble in Lahore?’

  ‘Ghulam has been out of prison and out of trouble for five years,’ Sophie came to Rafi’s defence. ‘He’s doing social work now.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Tilly, ‘isn’t it, dear?’ She gave her husband a warning look. ‘And I’m glad to hear you are in touch with your family, Rafi.’

  ‘I’m not exactly.’ Rafi gave a wistful smile.

  ‘They still can’t accept me as Rafi’s wife,’ Sophie said, sighing. ‘Even after ten years. I told Rafi he should go and visit his parents anyway, but he won’t go without me.’

  Adela saw them exchange tender looks.

  Rafi brightened. ‘But Ghulam speaks to me,’ he said, ‘since the Raja paid for the lawyer who helped get him released from prison. And my youngest sister, Fatima, writes and tells me the family news.’

  ‘Dr Fatima,’ Sophie corrected. ‘She qualified earlier this year.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ cried Clarrie.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Sophie smiled. ‘She’s working at the Lady Reading Hospital in Simla. I’m trying to persuade Rafi to take a holiday and visit her there – he hasn’t been back since his school days at Bishop Cotton.’

  ‘It’s finding the time.’ Rafi gave a rueful smile.

  ‘Oh, you must!’ Tilly encouraged. ‘I’d love to go. There’s so much theatre, and the air is so healthy.’

  ‘One day,’ chimed in Adela, ‘I’m going to perform there at the Gaiety.’

  James said gruffly, ‘From what we hear, young lady, performing on stage has got you expelled from school.’

  Adela flushed as silence fell around the table.

  ‘Not now, James,’ Tilly murmured.

  ‘Well, I thought we’d come here to give advice on Adela’s schooling,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘We don’t need advice,’ Wesley said, bristling.

  ‘And I didn’t get expelled.’ Adela was defiant. ‘I ran away.’

  Abruptly Rafi burst into laughter. ‘Well, Wesley, if your daughter and my sister are a taste of things to come, the world is going to be run by women of spirit.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Clarrie said, smiling. Wesley laughed, and the awkward atmosphere was broken.

  Adela excused herself. She could see five-year-old Mungo, who had eaten earlier with his ayah, was growing irritable and bored. She swiftly took him off to the stables to see Patch. Sophie soon followed. She steered Adela aside, while Mungo helped the syce brush the pony’s tail.

  ‘You shouldn’t mind what Uncle James says,’ she said gently. ‘He means well, but doesn’t know how to be tactful.’

  ‘He’s right though,’ said Adela. ‘You have all come here to sort me out. I heard my parents talking about it – no one knows what to do with me, do they?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what we think,’ said Sophie. ‘What do you want?’

  Adela struggled with conflicting thoughts. ‘Part of me just wants to stay here for ever and be with Daddy and Mother, riding every day and never having to worry about grown-up things.’ She twisted her long plait. ‘But part of me is longing to be an adult and go out into the world and find adventure. Most of all I want to be an actress. Do you think that’s ridiculous?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Sophie said. ‘You have a lovely singing voice and you were wonderful in that school play we came to last year.’

  Adela’s stomach twisted with regret that she had thrown all that away. ‘When I’m on stage,’ she said, ‘it’s the most exciting feeling. I feel twice as alive. It doesn’t matter if there are five or fifty in the audience – I just want to make them happy.’

  Sophie touched her shoulder. ‘Then you better go somewhere that’s going to give you that feeling. There aren’t many theatres in Belgooree the last time I looked.’

  ‘No.’ Adela laughed. ‘Just the veranda where I make Ayah Mimi and MD watch me tap dancing. Not that Ayah has any time to do that now because of the baby.’

  ‘Dear Ayah Mimi,’ Sophie said, her look reflective. ‘Brought out of retirement again for wee Harry.’

  ‘She never lets him out of her sight,’ said Adela. ‘I think she loves him more than Mother does.’

  Sophie turned away abruptly. ‘Come on then, Mungo,’ she called. ‘Uncle Rafi is organising party games.’

  With a squeal the boy ran over and took her outstretched hand. Adela wondered if she had said something wrong. She was enjoying having a grown-up conversation with her sophisticated aunt, but perhaps it was the mention of babies that she didn’t like. Her mother had said it was upsetting for Sophie and Rafi to be childless.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Adela as they swung Mungo between them up the path, ‘I should go somewhere else. And it’s not been the same at home since I ran away from St Ninian’s. There was a terrible row with my parents. Did they tell you about it?’

  ‘Clarrie said there was bullying at the school and some unkind things said about the family.’

  ‘Which turned out to be true,’ Adela said with bitterness.

  Sophie stopped. ‘Mungo, you run ahead and tell Uncle Rafi to put the music on.’ When the boy was out of earshot, Sophie scrutinised Adela. ‘Tell me what was said.’

  ‘That Dad left someone standing at the altar – the mother of the girl who was bullying me. And that I was a two annas because my mother was a half-caste. Did you know that about us?’

  Sophie’s attractive, broad features creased in a frown. ‘You shouldn’t use language like that – they’re the words of a bigot and you perpetuate their prejudice by repeating them, Adela.’

  Adela’s eyes smarted at the reproof. Sophie’s expression softened.

  ‘Yes, I knew your mother was Anglo-Indian – Tilly told me – but there’s no shame in that. Clarrie is the most amazing person. Tilly and I wish we could be more like her. You should be proud to have such a mother.’

  ‘That’s what Sam said.’ Adela gave a bashful look.

  ‘Sam Jackman?’

  Adela nodded. ‘Yes, I forced him to help me escape school and then landed him in the middle of a family fight. Got him into trouble with St Ninian’s too. He was so kind to me, but ever since then his life seems to have gone wrong. Do you think I’m to blame in some way?’

  Sophie took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. ‘Stop being so dramatic. You are not to blame for Sam Jackman getting drunk and losing his boat. If you ask me, it sounds like he was looking for an excuse to get rid of it – he wouldn’t have given it up so easily if he’d wanted to stay a river captain, would he?’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Adela brightened.

  ‘Yes,
I do.’

  ‘Then where do you think he’s gone?’

  Sophie gave her a quizzical look. ‘Do I detect that there’s more than just passing interest in the young captain?’

  Adela blushed and grinned. ‘Is it that obvious?’

  Sophie put an arm about her. ‘Well, I’ll get Auntie Tilly to find out – she’s better than the telegraph system for picking up gossip.’

  Back at the bungalow, Rafi wound up the old gramophone, and Mungo screamed with excitement throughout musical bumps. They followed this with blind man’s buff, hunt the slipper and hide and seek, while Mungo’s father snored under a newspaper and his mother fussed over a fretful baby Harry.

  ‘He’s teething,’ Tilly declared, plonking him into his pram. She and Clarrie bumped him down the path as far as the factory and back, with Ayah Mimi in attendance.

  Tea was served, and later there was a supper of eggs, smoked trout and Clarrie’s ginger pudding (a Belgooree speciality), and then the friends sat up late sipping port, whisky and more tea as a huge moon lit up the plantation and the trees rustled with night creatures.

  The following day there was a fishing trip to Um Shirpi, where the men fished, Sophie and Adela swam in the chilly river pools, and Clarrie and Tilly chatted and read books. A picnic was served in the early afternoon and they returned to the bungalow for a leisurely supper.

  All week the friends went on expeditions: riding, shooting blackbuck and woodcock, walking the hill paths or just lazing on the veranda, talking. To everyone’s surprise James did not hurry away to join the other tea planters at the club for the seasonal races and polo matches. He seemed just as happy as Tilly to socialise with the Robsons and Khans and drink his way through Wesley’s cellar. With Clarrie’s encouragement, Wesley curbed his envy of his cousin’s success at the Oxford Tea Estates and sought his opinion on the Belgooree gardens. Together they inspected the pruning of tea bushes and the maintenance of the machinery that Wesley had introduced to the factory a decade ago.

  ‘It’s a relief to find someone who will talk tea with James,’ Tilly said to her female friends. ‘I drive him mad because I get so absorbed in doing my stamps that I don’t listen to what he’s saying half the time. This holiday is doing both of us the world of good. Thank you so much, Clarrie, for inviting us – we get so sick of our own company. But that’s the same for all couples, isn’t it?’