The Girl From the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  She picked up his limp hand and pressed it to her cheek. ‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘I love you very much. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.’

  Reaching the surfaced road, Rafi turned the car uphill towards the mission, revving the engine hard.

  Wesley murmured something so faint that Adela thought it might just be a laboured breath.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Clarissa?’ he asked in a stronger voice. ‘Darling, is that you?’

  Adela’s heart turned over. She swallowed down tears.

  ‘No, Daddy, it’s me, Adela.’

  He let out a long sigh.

  ‘But Mother is coming. She’ll be here with you very soon.’

  They jolted along. He kept his eyes on her, but the lids began to close.

  ‘Stay with us, Dad,’ she pleaded, ‘stay with us.’

  A pained smile flickered across his face. ‘Clarissa. My love.’

  They were the last words Adela ever heard him say. By the time the car juddered into the mission compound, Wesley was already dead.

  CHAPTER 14

  Wesley’s body was brought to the family plot at Belgooree for burial next to Clarrie’s parents, Jock and Jane Belhaven. Adela’s mother had resisted suggestions that he should be laid in consecrated ground in the British cemetery in Shillong, alongside other tea planters.

  Clarrie’s answer was simple: ‘This is where Wesley belongs.’

  On a sultry, overcast day, Adela stood at the newly dug grave with her mother, Harry between them holding a hand each. They were surrounded by their friends and throngs of tea workers. For three days Adela had felt completely numb, but now in the Belgooree garden her feelings were suddenly raw: every word, touch, birdsong and scent of roses caused her pain. The plain coffin was carried from the house by Rafi, James, Daleep and Banu, a grandson of Ama, the ancient village headwoman.

  As they processed through the compound to the quiet burial grove, the drums of the villagers beat loudly and the women sang and cried out in grief. Adela was humbled by it. She knew how loved her mother was among the Khasi, but to see their outpouring of affection for her father squeezed her heart. Dr Black came to take the service and spoke eloquently about Wesley.

  ‘We all loved and admired this man,’ said the white-haired missionary, raising his voice for all to hear. ‘Wesley Robson met with both respect and affection, whether it was in the Burra Bazaar in Shillong or the planters’ clubs in Upper Assam. He was equally at home chatting about bows and arrows with Khasi hunters as he was taking tea with governors of the province or racing horses with his fellow planters.

  ‘He had a commanding presence. In the early days of his time in India some – including his wife – might have called it a young man’s arrogance.’ He paused to give a wry smile, meeting Clarrie’s tear-filled eyes. ‘But everyone knew when Wesley Robson entered a room. It would be a livelier, more jovial gathering; there would be debate, as well as laughter. He was exceedingly knowledgeable about two things in particular: hunting and the tea trade. Wesley spent most of his days working hard to make Belgooree a success and to bring to the world the delicate mix of China and Assam tea that one more usually associates with Darjeeling. He has been a fine and fair employer – more than that, he has been like a father to the Khasi people who live and work here.

  ‘Hunting too was a passion from his first days in India. It was on one such expedition here in the Khassia Hills that he first met his wife. So it is a terrible tragedy that he should die on shikar. But he did so defending his beloved daughter, Adela. That is the measure of the man.’

  Adela felt a sob rise up from the pit of her stomach. Harry was crying, his eyes swollen and face puckered with misery. Her mother stood stoical, holding in her emotions.

  ‘We all know the public man well – the planter, the horseman, the tea trader – but Wesley was above all a family man. He was happiest here at Belgooree with his wife and children. He doted on Adela and Harry; pride shone out of him when he talked of them. But it was Clarrie that he loved and depended on the most. He once asked me why I’d never married. When I said I was married to the church, he laughed and said, “There’s no comparison with my Clarissa. If your love and passion for your church are as strong as mine for my wife, then Christianity is in good shape in these parts.”’

  Adela saw her mother’s mouth twitch in a smile and a tear spill down her cheek.

  ‘Wesley shared Clarrie’s love of this place, its tea gardens and its people. Everything here at Belgooree he did for her. So let us now say our goodbyes to our good friend and commit his body to the ground and his soul to God. Let us draw near with faith . . .’

  Adela hardly heard the words that followed as she broke down sobbing, her weeping and Harry’s wailing echoed by the crying of dozens of the tea pickers behind. Tilly threw a comforting arm around her, and she buried her face in her auntie’s plump shoulder.

  Afterwards, they left the gravediggers to pile on the rich earth and returned to the bungalow. Mohammed Din had arranged a feast of pakoras, samosas, curry puffs, eggs, sandwiches, cakes and biscuits. Tilly and Sophie helped circulate among the funeral guests: planters and their wives, who had travelled from as far as Tezpur, and officers from the barracks in Shillong with whom Wesley had ridden and hunted.

  Adela, seeing how brave her mother was being, forced herself to stop crying and be hospitable. Harry was sent off to spend the afternoon with Ayah Mimi, while the Robson women mingled and entertained. Adela smiled when people recounted anecdotes about her father, even though it hurt and she joined in the reminiscing. Never had she acted so convincingly, her outward appearance so at odds with the misery she felt inside.

  Today everyone was their friend, and no one would think that her mother had ever been unwelcome at the planters’ clubs or the drawing rooms of Shillong for being Anglo-Indian. They all knew how precarious life was on the plantations and how quickly life could be snatched away, even for vigorous men like Wesley, and they had come to give their support. Adela felt a surge of gratitude for the ruddy-faced men and their redoubtable wives, who filled the house with chuckles and kind words and left gifts of money for her and Harry and offers to visit them. As she watched her uncle James – Wesley’s nearest adult male relative – shaking hands and thanking people for coming, Adela wondered how much he and Tilly had influenced people to attend at such short notice.

  When all but the Khans and Robsons had gone, Clarrie was persuaded to lie down. She didn’t appear again until late the next morning, her eyes dark-ringed, but with a smile for her friends. Adela had hardly slept a wink. Every time she closed her eyes, she was assaulted by the image of the leaping tigress and the sound of it tearing into her father. She could neither eat nor sleep.

  Her mother would not speak about it. After the first horrific hours after Wesley’s death, when Clarrie had been brought to the mission half hysterical with worry for them both, to find that her husband had already died, Clarrie had bombarded her with questions. Was she all right? Was her shoulder very painful? Why had they been out so late in the dark? Why was the rest of the party at the camp? What was Wesley doing out of his howdah? Who had wounded the man-eater in the first place? Why had Jay insisted on going back to find the tigress so late in the day? What on earth had Adela been thinking of, agreeing to go with him? Had Wesley suffered? Had he asked for her?

  Adela had been too distraught to reply coherently; it was Rafi who’d tried to furnish Clarrie with answers and to shield Adela from the onslaught of questions. Perhaps it was Rafi’s calmness and gentle concern that helped Clarrie summon all her courage, but she had insisted on helping to wash Wesley’s body and wrap him in clove-scented winding sheets. Since then there had been no discussion of the terrible events.

  For a further three days after the funeral the factory was closed and no picking was done in respect for Robson Sahib. But on the fourth day Clarrie ordered that the drying machines be switched on again and insisted on going to the factory to o
versee production.

  James protested that he could do this for her. Clarrie was firm. ‘Thank you, but this is my garden and my responsibility. I know you are all trying to be kind and helpful – I couldn’t be more grateful – but this is the only way I know how to cope. So please let me just go to work.’

  By the end of the week Clarrie insisted on her friends going home and carrying on with their lives.

  ‘James, I know how much you are needed at the Oxford Estates at this time of year. You really should go back. And Rafi, the Raja has been generous to spare you for this long, but Adela and I can manage.’

  ‘But what are you going to do about Belgooree?’ Tilly said. ‘James can advise you. You can’t make such decisions on your own.’

  ‘I need time to think it through,’ said Clarrie. ‘When I’m ready to talk, I’ll ask for help.’

  ‘But you need help now,’ James pointed out. ‘Who is going to keep an eye on the coolies and do all the jobs my cousin did?’

  ‘I will,’ Clarrie said, ‘and I have good undermanagers: Daleep in the factory, and Banu, Ama’s grandson, as overseer in the gardens.’

  ‘Dear Clarrie, I hate the thought of leaving you alone,’ Tilly cried. ‘Wouldn’t you like one of us to stay with you?’

  Clarrie squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘That’s kind, but I have Adela and Harry for company.’

  ‘Promise you will call on us whenever you need us,’ said Sophie, ‘and that goes for Adela too.’ She turned with a smile of concern to Adela.

  ‘Of course we will,’ Clarrie agreed.

  Adela felt panic tighten her chest at the thought of her aunties and uncles leaving. She felt safe with them around; hearing their voices around the house and their tread on the stairs was comforting, as if life could one day be normal again. At night, when she hardly slept, their presence kept the frightening shadows at bay.

  But she bottled up her fears and told them she would be fine. She wanted to ask Sophie to write and tell her what was happening at Gulgat and with Jay, but she did not dare utter his name. Her feelings about him were so terribly mixed. His recklessness had led to the wounded man-eater mauling her father in a frenzied attack from which he could never have recovered. Only someone with her father’s strength and bravery could have lasted the long hours of agony that he did. Yet Jay had been the one to finally shoot the tigress and had done all he could to try and keep her father alive. What was Jay thinking now? Did he regret his life becoming entangled with hers in the same way that she regretted ever becoming involved in his? But however much she railed against Jay’s pleasure-seeking selfishness, she knew she would never blame him as much as she blamed herself for her father’s death.

  The days crept slowly by; the temperatures continued to rise. Adela’s only release was to saddle up before dawn and ride out through the dewy tea bushes, watching the haze of smoke hanging over the village from early-morning fires and the pickers stream in a colourful wave, baskets strapped to their heads, up the plantation tracks. Her heart ached that her father would never again ride with her, or be by her side to wave to the women, as they had done together countless times before. She had lost the nerve to ride further into the forest.

  Mainly Adela confined herself to the compound, trying to entertain a grieving Harry. Her brother wandered around like a lost puppy looking for its missing master.

  ‘Delly, when is Daddy coming back?’

  ‘He’s not, Harry. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Will he be here when I’m five?’

  ‘No, he won’t. You know he won’t.’

  ‘But he said he’d teach me how to fish when I’m five. He has to if he said he would.’

  Each time he asked her, it opened up her raw grief anew. But worse was when he wanted to know about the tiger.

  ‘Did you see it, Delly? Did it eat Daddy?’

  ‘Of course it didn’t!’

  Harry’s lip trembled at her cross tone.

  ‘Mungo said it did.’

  ‘Well, Mungo’s a silly boy for saying so,’ Adela snapped. ‘He wasn’t there.’

  ‘Did the tiger just eat a bit of Daddy then?’

  ‘Stop asking! It’s a horrid thing to talk about.’

  After that, Harry stopped pestering her with morbid questions. He stopped speaking to her at all. The unhappy boy became withdrawn and started wetting the bed at night. Adela felt consumed with guilt for being impatient towards him, but she couldn’t smother her growing jealousy towards her brother for being able to comfort their mother when she could not.

  Daily Clarrie seemed to grow more dependent on Harry. She allowed her son to clamber into her bed at night – he never seemed to wet hers – and yet when Adela asked one night if she could sleep with them, Clarrie had teased, ‘I can’t be coping with two babies. And darling, it’s far too hot for us all to sleep together.’

  It was the night the monsoon had started in earnest, rain battering the corrugated-iron roof like a thunder of kettledrums. Adela lay howling with the covers thrown off, glad of the noise that drowned out her noisy grief. Halfway through the night, wide awake, she went to the window in her nightdress and opened the shutters. Within seconds she was soaked through, her hair like wet ropes about her shoulders, the cotton nightdress stuck to her body like a watery shroud. She invoked the gods of the monsoon to come and take her, to strike her down with a lightning bolt.

  ‘Why take my dad when you should have taken me?’

  Three days later she was in bed with a fever, alternately shivering with cold and burning with heat. Her mother sent for Dr Hemmings.

  ‘It’s her own fault for standing out in the rain,’ Clarrie said fractiously. ‘As if I haven’t got enough to worry about.’

  Dr Hemmings prescribed tablets for Adela’s headaches and an embrocation for her sore shoulder, which was still swollen from her fall from the elephant.

  ‘Get MD to give her hot sweet tea and plenty of infusions to sweat out the fever.’

  Ayah Mimi came in to nurse her. A week later Adela was up and about again, wobbly on her feet but calmer. The old ayah’s tender care had been like a balm to her bruised heart, and she saw more clearly how hard her mother was struggling to keep the plantation and household going. It was no wonder she had no energy left to console her guilt-ridden daughter.

  ‘What can I do to help, Mother?’ Adela asked.

  ‘Be kind to your brother,’ Clarrie replied.

  After that, Adela did her best to be more patient with Harry, taking him on the front of her pony for rides and down to the thundering waterfalls and swollen river pools to watch the villagers hauling in fish in their nets.

  ‘What are we going to do, Mother?’ Adela asked one evening after Harry had been put to bed. ‘Are we still going to visit Aunt Olive in July?’

  ‘You must go,’ her mother said, ‘but I can’t – not now.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you here on your own,’ Adela protested.

  ‘I won’t be on my own. Harry will keep me company, and I have all our friends and helpers around me here.’

  Adela swallowed. ‘But it’s you that Aunt Olive wants to see. I could stay here and look after things for you.’

  Clarrie gave a soft snort. ‘Running Belgooree is about more than riding around the gardens and drinking first flush.’

  Adela winced. ‘I know that but—’

  ‘I appreciate you offering, darling, really I do. But I’ve decided I’m going to stay and make a go of things. My life is here, and it’s all I want to do. I’ve written to Uncle James and Tilly. James has kindly agreed to help out when I need it – with negotiating prices and dealing with the Calcutta agents – and he’ll come over once a month to make sure I haven’t taken to the bottle.’ Clarrie gave a wry smile.

  ‘So it’s all arranged?’ Adela was astounded.

  ‘Yes, as much as it can be.’

  ‘But you’ve never asked me what I want to do.’

  Clarrie avoided her look. ‘No, I haven’t. I suppose I ass
umed you would still want to go to England. I don’t want you to feel tied to this place, and I know it can never be the same now without your father. You do want to visit Aunt Olive, don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so. But not without you.’

  ‘Well, I can’t go just now. You must see that.’ Clarrie finally met her look. ‘I want you to go. I think meeting the rest of your family will be good for you.’

  Adela swallowed. ‘So you don’t want me here?’

  Her mother didn’t answer directly. ‘I’ve suggested to Sophie that she might like to take my passage instead. I know she would love to see Scotland again, and you would like her companionship, wouldn’t you? I know how close the two of you are.’

  Adela’s spirits lifted a fraction. ‘Yes, I would like that – but only if you really can’t come.’

  ‘That’s settled then,’ Clarrie said with a look of relief. ‘I expect a reply back from her any day.’

  By the second week in July it was all arranged. Clarrie’s ticket had been transferred into Sophie’s name, and in two days’ time Rafi would come and collect Adela and drive them both to the railway station at Gawhatty, where they would meet up with Tilly and Mungo at the start of the long journey to Britain.

  On the final afternoon Adela had planned a ride to the waterfall and a picnic, but Clarrie was delayed at the factory, so Adela ended up knocking a tennis ball about with Harry until it was too late for the trip. They ate late. Adela wanted to sit up talking to her mother, but Clarrie resisted.

  ‘I’m too tired and you have a very long day’s travel ahead of you tomorrow. Best get to bed.’

  Adela hardly slept. In the green light of dawn she slipped out of the bungalow and walked to the burial grove to stand at her father’s grave. The monsoon had brought fresh green growth, so it was hard to tell the ground had been recently dug. It was marked by a simple cross, the grave still awaiting the elaborate headstone that her mother had commissioned.

  She wanted to feel her father’s presence there, but couldn’t. He was somewhere else. The thought of his shattered remains lying below the earth made her stomach retch. She bent double and let out an animal cry.