‘He won’t be back till the cold season now,’ Prue said and sighed, ‘and Mummy and I will be back in Jubbulpore by then.’
Adela gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.
‘Talking of which,’ said Deborah with a wink, ‘has anyone else had any “Jubbulpore” recently? Adela, you’ve been to see a lot of films with Tommy.’
‘That’s all we do.’ Adela laughed. ‘He doesn’t even try to hold my hand. I think I’m just an excuse for him to see as many films as he can without going on his own.’
‘Well, that’s not very romantic,’ said Prue.
‘I’m really not bothered – I’m just enjoying being unattached, and he’s good company.’
‘Still holding out for your missionary?’ Deborah nudged her.
Adela flushed. ‘Course not. I’ve not even seen him since my birthday. He’s not the least bit interested.’
‘He was in the audience at the musical,’ Prue said.
‘Was he?’ Adela was astonished.
‘Up in the circle. I saw him but not to speak to.’
‘Well, he never came to say hello. Was . . . was he with anyone, did you notice?’
Prue shrugged, ‘I couldn’t say. But it was definitely him.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Adela cried.
‘Sorry, I forgot.’
‘Mind too full of the wonderful Guy,’ Deborah teased. Prue gave her a shove.
‘Anyway, I didn’t think you were interested. I mean I know he’s good-looking,’ said Prue, ‘but he is a bit odd.’
‘No, he’s not!’
Deborah was grinning, obviously bursting to tell. ‘Well, do you want to hear my latest Jubbulpore?’
‘Of course,’ said Adela.
‘I got a letter from that American who gave Daddy the Camel cigarettes, Micky Natini. He’s coming to Simla on leave next week, and he’s going to take me out to dinner.’
‘Dinner?’ Prue gasped. ‘Just the two of you?’
‘Well, maybe not dinner,’ Deborah backtracked, ‘but he said he would look me up.’
‘So what did he say exactly?’ asked Adela.
Deborah took off her sunglasses and chewed the end before replying. ‘He said he was coming to Simla.’
‘And what else?’ Prue pressed her.
‘And could I recommend any good restaurants.’
Adela and Prue burst out laughing.
Prue smirked. ‘Not quite Jubbulpore then.’
‘Okay, not yet,’ admitted Deborah, ‘but wait till he sees me in my chambermaid’s outfit.’ She dissolved into raucous giggles.
Micky Natini turned out to be a good addition to the summer parties. A smallish squat young man with dark Mediterranean good looks and a thick moustache, he was humorous and ready to enjoy himself after eight months in the Burmese jungle supervising pipe laying through the oilfields.
He arrived in Simla on a noisy motorcycle, which he had to leave garaged below the main town, unaware of the prohibition on motorised vehicles along the Mall.
‘Only the Viceroy, Governor of the Punjab, or Chief of the Army can drive through the town,’ Deborah explained.
‘Gee, you Brits just love making up rules.’ Micky chuckled.
He organised games of softball at picnics, taught them jive steps on Fluffy’s veranda and smuggled in cigarettes and bottles of gin. Deborah basked in his attention – ‘He thinks I look swell in my maid’s outfit!’ she snorted with amusement – and on his final evening took her out to dinner at the Grand Hotel.
‘Write to me and be my girl?’ Micky pressed her before he left. She knew her parents probably wouldn’t approve – her mother was a bit of a snob about colonials and Americans – but she knew he was lonely in his jungle posting, and she had fallen a little bit in love with his enthusiastic charm. He’d kissed her under a cloudy night sky, the air about them moist and chill.
‘Who needs stars when your pretty eyes light up the night?’ said Micky.
After he left, Deborah pined for him more and more and was still repeating his romantic words to her friends by the time term started.
Prue and her mother left for Jubbulpore in early October.
‘Tommy and I are going to miss you so much,’ said Adela, hugging her friend goodbye. ‘The Simla Songsters won’t be the same without you.’
As the first snow flurries of November arrived, the foresters came plodding back from camp into Simla on tired ponies and laden mules. By this time Edith Bracknall was chivvying her husband back to temperate Lahore and their winter social calendar of dinner dances, polo matches and tennis tournaments.
‘He’s Master of the Lodge,’ Mrs Bracknall told Adela on the last of her many casual calls to the office to check up on her husband, ‘so it’s very important for him to be there for the start of the cold season. And everyone’s leaving now the weather is turning. Will you be staying here or coming to Lahore HQ, dear?’
The older woman eyed her keenly. She was thin, almost scrawny at the neck and arms, her face deeply lined under greying hair. She must have been pretty once, thought Adela; her blue eyes still were.
‘Staying here, Mrs Bracknall.’
She saw the relief on the woman’s face. ‘Oh well, no doubt we’ll see you next season – unless you’ve gone off in search of stardom.’
‘You never know.’ Adela smiled.
Suddenly Edith leant forward and dropped her voice. ‘Our son Henry works as a radio presenter for the BBC in London.’
‘Really?’ Adela’s eyes widened. ‘Mr Bracknall’s never mentioned it.’
‘No.’ Edith looked sad. ‘He’s not very proud of poor Henry Junior. Wanted him to join the ICS or at least the forces. Doesn’t think much to entertainment.’
‘Well, I think it’s marvellous,’ said Adela. ‘Lucky Henry, I say.’
For a moment Edith covered her hand with cool bony fingers. ‘Thank you, dear.’
The snow came in earnest, and the British residents of the town who remained through the winter – Boz and Guy among them – took to the slopes of Prospect Hill with tin trays for tobogganing and skated on the frozen pond at Annandale. Guy showed interest in Adela, but she kept him at arm’s length, knowing how Prue would never forgive her; she valued her friendship far more than any liaison with the handsome forester.
It galvanised her to arrange a trip home to Belgooree for Christmas. She hadn’t been home since the previous one; Scout, their beloved hill dog, had died in March, and by staying away she kept him alive in her mind. She knew it was nonsensical and, once she saw her parents’ delight at her homecoming, Adela felt guilty for staying away.
Clarrie squeezed her daughter so tightly, Adela squeaked that she couldn’t breathe.
Wesley protested, ‘You’ve cut off all your lovely hair!’
‘No, I haven’t, Dad.’ Adela laughed. ‘It’s still down to my shoulders.’
‘I’m Dad now, am I?’ Wesley raised an eyebrow.
‘Daddy sounds a bit babyish, don’t you think?’
‘Your hair is lovely,’ said Clarrie. ‘It suits you that length. You look so grown-up, my darling.’
‘Too grown-up,’ Wesley chuntered. ‘I bet all the boys are chasing you like bees around honey.’
‘Do bees chase honey?’ Adela teased. ‘I thought they made it.’
‘You know what I mean, you cheeky girl.’
Adela hugged him, breathing in the dusty tea smell of his jacket, and was glad to be home. Four-year-old-brother, Harry, after some initial shyness, followed like her shadow, even when she retreated to the bathroom for some privacy. He was much more talkative and less solemn than a year ago.
Best of all, her beloved honorary aunties, Sophie and Tilly, were coming with their husbands for Christmas again. But right from their arrival there was tension and bickering between Tilly and James. James did not linger, but took nine-year-old Mungo home after two days to join in a hunt in the Naga Hills around Kohima.
‘If Tilly won’t ta
ke him home to school,’ grunted James to Wesley, ‘I might as well be teaching the lad to shoot.’
Later, Tilly confided to the women, ‘He’s insisting this is Mungo’s last year in Assam. He’s put his foot down. Once the boy’s ten, then it’s off to school in England to join his brother and sister. But he’s not as independent as Jamie and Libby – he’s still such a home boy really. He’ll hate it.’
Clarrie put a hand on her friend’s in sympathy. ‘Wouldn’t James consider somewhere like Bishop Cotton in Simla? We’re hoping Harry might go there in time – Adela’s been so happy in Simla.’
‘Yes,’ Adela agreed, ‘and Uncle Rafi went there, didn’t he?’
Sophie nodded. ‘It’s a very good school.’
Tilly looked uncomfortable. ‘I wouldn’t mind but – well, James is more old-fashioned. Still believes an English education is the best.’
‘Or Scottish,’ Adela added with a wink at Sophie.
But Sophie bristled. ‘You mean as long as Mungo doesn’t have to go to school with Indians.’
Tilly’s plump face reddened. ‘It’s not the way I think.’ She gave an apologetic shrug.
‘Of course it isn’t,’ Clarrie said, intervening. ‘So will you be taking Mungo back this coming summer?’
‘Yes.’ Tilly sighed. ‘We’ll book a passage in July probably – have the summer holidays with Mona in Dunbar and then settle him into school.’
‘Perhaps I could go with you for a visit home,’ Clarrie suggested.
‘Really?’ Tilly brightened.
‘I’ve been putting off going to see Olive for years, but her letters worry me. She sounds full of anxiety about Jack’s business. Things are very tough on Tyneside these days.’
‘But Olive has Herbert’s Café too, doesn’t she?’ Tilly asked.
‘Yes,’ said Clarrie. ‘I handed that over to her when we returned to India in ’22. With Lexy in charge as manageress, I never worried about Olive coping. But that was before the slump. I should have gone back ages ago to make sure she was managing, but then Harry came along unexpectedly.’ Clarrie gave a bashful smile.
‘Well, you’ve had enough on your plate here,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s been hard for the small tea plantations too.’
‘All of the gardens,’ Tilly said. ‘Even the Oxford Estates have had to tighten their belts and cut back production. Doesn’t seem to affect James’s whisky consumption at the club though.’
Adela feared her aunt was going to start one of her long grumbles about Uncle James, which made everyone else uncomfortable. Sophie in particular was fond of the gruff tea planter, as he had been kind to her when she’d been orphaned and had paid for her education in Edinburgh. Adela and her mother also felt a little sorry for James being the constant butt of Tilly’s complaints about life in Assam without her two elder children.
‘I wouldn’t worry about the café, Mother.’ Adela tried to lighten the conversation. ‘Cousin Jane seems to be running it with Lexy these days, and her letters are always cheerful.’
‘Why don’t you come with us too, Adela?’ Tilly enthused. ‘Wouldn’t it be a grand idea, Clarrie?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Clarrie, smiling at her daughter, ‘it would be wonderful – if we can afford the passage for us both, and Harry of course. You have no memories of Newcastle, do you, darling? And you could finally meet your cousin Jane.’
Adela hesitated. Yes, she would love to meet her Newcastle family, but right now she was having so much fun in Simla that she didn’t want to go thousands of miles away.
‘Well, I’d love to visit England – of course I would – but I wouldn’t want to go for too long. It would be right in the middle of the theatre season, and I might lose my job at the Forest Office.’
‘You’re bound to pick something else up when you get back,’ Sophie said. ‘Boz will make sure of that. Take the opportunity to travel when it’s offered I say.’
‘Speaks the woman who’s hardly been out of Gulgat in years.’ Tilly chuckled.
‘Travel’s more fun for the young and fancy-free.’ Sophie grinned.
‘But it’s not really up to Boz,’ Adela persisted. ‘It’s the Chief Conservator who did me a favour in the first place by creating a job in the post room and having me type up the occasional letter for him.’
‘Who is chief now?’ Sophie queried.
‘Mr Bracknall,’ said Adela. ‘He’s back in Lahore now but—’
‘Bracknall?’ Sophie cut in, her smile vanishing. ‘He’s still in charge?’
‘Is he the awful man who made life hell for Rafi?’ Tilly asked.
Sophie took a moment to answer, her manner suddenly agitated. ‘Yes, he’s the reason Rafi left the forest service.’ Abruptly she reached out to Adela and seized her hand. ‘He’s a vindictive bastard!’
‘Sophie!’ Clarrie remonstrated.
‘I’m sorry to use such language, Clarrie, but Adela shouldn’t be working for him. He preys on young women.’
‘Surely a man in that position wouldn’t behave—’
‘He poisoned my first marriage to Tam – made up lies about me and Rafi, humiliated Tam—’
Adela winced from her tight grip, alarmed to see her aunt so upset. ‘It’s fine. He hasn’t tried anything improper; he’s an old man.’
‘He’s only in his fifties. I can’t believe Boz would allow you anywhere near him.’
Adela didn’t like to say that Boz had been far away in the mountains until a month ago, by which time the Bracknalls had gone. And there had been moments when Bracknall’s hand had lingered too long on her shoulder as she’d typed or when he had made her blush with comments about her appearance and pressed her for information about the men who courted her. But none of it added up to very much.
‘Please don’t worry about me, Auntie Sophie. I can look after myself.’ Adela made light of the matter. ‘Besides, Mrs Bracknall is an eager chaperone – she comes round to the office almost every day.’
‘Sophie,’ Tilly weighed in, ‘aren’t you making too much of this? Adela is just doing a few hours of typing and sorting the post – and I bet there are half a dozen other staff around too. What’s the harm in that?’
Sophie let go of Adela’s hand and sank back in her chair, still shaking.
‘I’m sorry. It was just a shock to hear he was still around. I thought he would have retired by now and Edith Bracknall would have set up as the burra memsahib of some Hampshire village.’
‘It’s she who doesn’t want to go apparently,’ said Adela. ‘Can’t bear to be without a house full of servants and the status that comes with her husband’s rank.’
Sophie retorted, ‘I bet it suits Bracknall to blame his wife for his clinging on to power. It’s he who thrives on it all.’
‘Well,’ Clarrie said, turning to her daughter, ‘I don’t like the sound of this Bracknall. I think you should definitely consider a trip back to England next year.’
‘I agree,’ said Sophie. She fumbled for a silver cigarette case. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘Go ahead,’ Clarrie allowed. ‘You’ve had a shock. Adela, we’ll speak to your father and see what he thinks. We’d go for three or four months I suppose.’
‘No point going all that way for less,’ Tilly declared.
Adela’s heart sank at the thought of being away from India that long, yet she could see her mother’s interest sparking. After Adela’s escape from St Ninian’s, her mother had opened up about her past as never before. Adela had been left with the impression that Clarrie had never been that happy in England. Life had been quite a struggle until she’d married the elderly Herbert after being his housekeeper. At least that’s what her father had told her. Your mother ran the most successful teahouse in Newcastle, Wesley had said proudly. Built it up from nothing – and in the roughest part of town. A marvellous businesswoman, your mother. I had to marry her to stop her putting the Robsons out of business! It was her father’s perennial joke that always made her mother laugh and throw cus
hions at him.
But Adela could tell that Clarrie hankered after seeing her sister again. They were both growing older, and it would be up to her mother to make the journey. Olive, according to Cousin Jane, hardly left their neighbourhood and had no desire whatsoever to return to India.
To divert the conversation, Adela decided to tell them the gossip she had been storing up for her aunts. She had kept it quiet from her parents up till now too, not wanting them to question her about it.
‘Guess who turned up out of the blue in Simla just before the monsoon.’
‘Give us a clue,’ Tilly said, her interest piqued.
‘He’s a missionary in the Narkanda hills and he used to have a pet monkey.’
She watched Tilly’s jaw drop and Sophie’s eyes widen.
‘Not Sam Jackman?’ Tilly gasped.
Adela nodded.
‘A missionary?’
‘Well a sort of missionary-cum-farmer.’ Adela smiled.
‘Good to hear he’s alive and well,’ said Clarrie.
‘Start at the beginning,’ said Tilly, ‘and tell us all you know.’
Adela had a sudden stomach lurch that she had been unwise to spill her secret, but she was keen to steer the conversation away from Bracknall. Besides, talking about Sam at least brought him closer as they conjured him up in their conversation – and that was better than nothing.
Restless: that was how Sam felt these days. Climbing up through snow-laden oaks to the crest of Hatu Peak, he stopped to catch his breath. He had come to take a cine film, but the arc of the Himalayas had disappeared behind lowering clouds; the air was stingingly cold, and he was glad of his yak hat with its warm flaps and his Tibetan coat. He was going mad sitting indoors all day. He couldn’t endlessly read like the Reverend Hunt, his fellow missionary. Hunt was a genial but private man, content in his own company and a house full of books.
Sam found the winter months frustrating, with not enough to do in the orchards to keep him occupied. He enjoyed visiting the locals in their homes, especially on festival days, such as Christmas, but he was no good at preaching religion or telling Bible stories like Hunt was; he preferred to help them mend their gardening tools and champion their causes with the local landowner over rents or harvests.
The Girl From the Tea Garden Page 11
