The Girl From the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Clarrie’s throat tightened with emotion to think how she had judged her daughter too harshly over Wesley’s death. Now she was thousands of miles away and far from her arms. She hadn’t even been able to bring herself to give her daughter a departing hug, pushing her instead towards Rafi’s car and telling her to hurry. It was kind Sophie who had put her arm about the unhappy girl and steered her into the front seat beside Rafi.

  Just as she was struggling with her thoughts, Harry crept in from the garden. He didn’t clatter around any more or jump around the furniture pretending to be a maharajah, so that often he startled her with his sudden appearance.

  ‘Hello, you must be Harry.’ Sam grinned and leapt from his chair, hunkering down in front of the boy by the veranda steps. ‘Adela’s told me all about you.’

  Harry gazed at him with cautious dark eyes. ‘Is Delly with you?’

  ‘No, but she told me you like green sweets, so I’ve brought you this.’ Sam pulled a slab of pistachio-flavoured fudge from his pocket. ‘It’s gone a bit soft in the heat, but it tastes just as good.’

  Harry glanced at his mother to see if he was allowed to take this from the stranger. She nodded with a smile.

  ‘This is Adela’s friend Sam. You can have a bit now, then save the rest for after supper.’

  Harry unwrapped it and rammed the end of the bar into his mouth. Joy spread across his solemn face. He sidled closer to Sam, leant on his arm and whispered, ‘My Daddy died ’cause a tiger ate him. And Delly’s gone away to a new castle. Now it’s just me and Mummy and sometimes Uncle James. Would you like to stay and be my friend too, Sam?’

  Sam ruffled the boy’s hair – Clarrie’s heart squeezed to see the fond gesture that Wesley had so often used – and said he would be happy to be his friend, but that he couldn’t stay because he had work to do.

  ‘I’ll come back and see you another time,’ Sam promised.

  ‘And bring me sweets?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Sam winked.

  As Sam stood to go, Clarrie put her hand out and gripped his arm.

  ‘Thank you, Sam. You’re a good man. I can’t tell you how much your visit means to me, and I’m sorry Adela wasn’t here too. I know she would have wanted to see you.’

  He gave a smile of regret. ‘I don’t deserve your praise, Mrs Robson. “Good” is not a word that usually goes together with “Jackman”. But thanks.’

  ‘Will you go back to Sarahan?’ she asked.

  Sam nodded.

  ‘To your native wife?’ James asked, his tone distasteful.

  Sam answered with a defiant look. ‘Yes, to Pema.’

  He enjoyed the scandalised look on the tea planter’s rugged face. Sam shook Clarrie’s hand, nodded to James and jammed on his green hat. He put out a hand to Harry.

  ‘Do you want a ride in my car down the drive?’

  The boy brightened. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Come on then. You can toot the horn for me.’

  Clarrie watched him swing the boy down the steps and into the Ford.

  ‘I’ll go with them,’ James said, his look grim.

  Clarrie watched them go. She knew James disapproved of the maverick young missionary – ex-missionary – but she found him endearing. It didn’t shock her that Sam had taken the Gaddi girl as his wife, but she knew how much the news would upset Adela that Sam remained with Pema. Yet she felt grateful to Sam; he had given her a new way of seeing Adela and a way back to loving her daughter again. For a while she had so resented her, part blamed her for the tragedy. The sight of Adela’s green eyes – so distressingly like Wesley’s – staring at her full of misery and guilt had been more than she could bear. She had felt only relief when Rafi had driven away, taking Adela out of sight. But now she knew how unfair that had been. When Adela came back in the autumn, Clarrie would make it up to her. They would be a proper family again.

  James was returning with a bawling Harry. Clarrie sighed. She knew Tilly’s husband was doing his best to be of help, and she guessed all his fussing was masking his own unhappiness at his wife’s departure with his youngest son, on whom he doted, but she was going to have to be firm and send him away. She would not become a crutch for him while Tilly was absent. Clarrie wanted above all to be left alone to grieve for Wesley in her own way.

  CHAPTER 16

  The train pulled into the cavernous Newcastle Central Station with a hiss and a billow of steam. Adela hugged her aunties and Mungo goodbye – they were all going on to Dunbar to stay with Tilly’s sister Mona – and then they helped her out of the carriage with her two suitcases and hatbox.

  ‘We’ll meet soon,’ Tilly promised. ‘I’ll come for a day out in Newcastle.’

  ‘And don’t forget you’re invited on holiday to St Abb’s in September,’ Sophie reminded. ‘See if Cousin Jane would like to come too.’

  ‘I will,’ Adela said, feeling suddenly teary that she was losing their company. ‘Have a lovely reunion with Jamie and Libby. Tell them we’ll play tennis together.’

  ‘Will do, darling girl,’ Tilly said, beaming and waving like an excited child.

  Adela looked around for a porter. At any Indian station she would have been surrounded by red-jacketed coolies offering help and swinging her cases on to their heads before she could utter the words. As the train pulled away, she stood feeling foolish. She waved to a man with a trolley.

  ‘Sorry, missus,’ he said, ‘I’m meetin’ the posh uns in first class.’ He called to a younger skinny man to deal with her.

  The youth struggled with her two cases, while she carried the hatbox to the ticket barrier. Beyond were a crowd of expectant people come to meet passengers. Adela strained for a sight of any Brewises and worried that she wouldn’t recognise any of them. A tall, thin young woman with a short pageboy haircut under an old-fashioned cloche hat raised her hand and gave an uncertain smile.

  ‘Cousin Jane?’ Adela called. The woman nodded. Adela muscled through the barriers, relieved that someone was there to meet her. She plonked down her hatbox and threw her arms around her cousin. Jane tensed, startled by the demonstrative greeting.

  ‘It’s wonderful to meet you at last.’ Adela grinned. ‘We could be sisters, couldn’t we? Same dark hair and shape of the eyes.’

  Jane blushed, pleased at the remark. ‘You’re much prettier.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘George is waiting with the van outside. He’s supposed to be at work, but he said he couldn’t let you go on the tram.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’ Adela smiled.

  Under the blackened portico, Adela spotted a dark green van bearing the name of The Tyneside Tea Company, her uncle Jack’s firm. The driver tooted, then jumped out and took the cases from the panting porter.

  ‘Bloody lead weights,’ the youth muttered, holding out his hand for a tip.

  George paid him, then turned to Adela with a broad smile and an outstretched hand. ‘So, you’re my exotic cousin. You’re even prettier than all your photos.’

  Adela laughed and shook hands. ‘And you’re just as handsome as yours.’

  She was amused to see his fair face blush. He was good looking, with well-groomed blond hair and regular features. Brother and sister were nothing like each other in looks, and by the way George chatted and Jane fell silent, Adela guessed they were opposites in temperament too.

  They clambered into the front of the van, Adela squeezing in between her older cousins, and George was soon swinging the vehicle into the traffic.

  ‘Sorry to hear about Uncle Wesley,’ George said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Adela.

  ‘What a terrible business.’

  ‘Yes, it was.’ She dug her nails into her palms.

  ‘He was really canny, your father,’ said George.

  ‘Canny?’

  ‘Aye, likeable man – fun with us bairns. He taught me how to play cricket and took me riding the last time you were home. I must’ve been about nine.’

  Adela’s
eyes prickled. ‘I don’t remember that.’

  ‘You were just a nipper. Bet he was a great dad.’

  Adela nodded, swallowing down tears. When would she stop wanting to cry at the very mention of her father’s name?

  Trying to think of something else, she gazed at the scene as they rattled over cobbles, noticing the fashions. The young women wore their hair shorter than in India, styled in waves, and many of the men wore large flat caps. There wasn’t a brown face in sight, nor the dazzling colours of saris or gaudily painted rickshaws that would brighten up an Indian city. There were far more motor cars here and less horse traffic.

  The sides of buildings bore huge advertisements for hot drinks or cleaning powders. They passed a theatre showing J. B. Priestley’s play Time and the Conways.

  ‘Oh, I’d love to go and see that,’ cried Adela. ‘Have you been yet?’

  ‘Not into serious stuff,’ said George. ‘Prefer a good sing-song.’

  ‘Well, you and I will have to go then,’ Adela said, nudging Jane.

  ‘My sister doesn’t go to the theatre,’ George answered. ‘She gets nervy in crowded places.’

  Adela looked quizzically at Jane, but her cousin glanced away and stared out of the window. Adela thought how different she seemed from the person who had written long newsy letters for the last ten years.

  ‘Okay, Jane,’ said Adela, ‘we’ll choose a very quiet matinée to go to.’

  Jane’s mouth twitched in a fleeting smile, but George snorted. ‘Well, you can try.’

  At the top of a steep hill he turned right and then left into a quiet terraced street and pulled up outside a house with a dark green front door.

  ‘Number 10 Lime Terrace. Home sweet home,’ George declared. ‘You’ll find the old girl indoors, but the old man won’t be back till late. See you at teatime.’

  He jumped out, retrieved the cases from among the packets of tea, opened the front door and dumped them in the hall.

  ‘The maharani has arrived!’ he bellowed, and then with a wink at Adela he sprinted back to the van and drove off, with it belching smoke and the horn blaring loudly.

  Adela peered up a gloomy hallway, trying to adjust to the dimness after the sunshine outside. There was a smell of carbolic soap and disinfectant. A dark red narrow carpet runner disappeared up a black-painted staircase straight ahead, while three doors led off the hallway. It was colder inside than out.

  ‘In here!’ a voice called from behind the door to the right.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Jane said. ‘Mam’s in there.’

  Adela quickly unpinned her hat and hung it on a high peg on the wall next to a man’s coat, opened the door and stepped into a sitting room. It was crowded with solid dark furniture – two sofas, three armchairs, several nests of tables and a radiogram on a sideboard – with glimpses of a dark-blue-patterned carpet beneath. A strange-looking unlit fire was surrounded by brown tiles, and a large mirror hung on a chain above it. Adela wondered where her aunt was.

  ‘Over here, lass. I’ve been watching from the window.’

  Adela jumped. Turning towards the bay window, which was shrouded in net curtains and obscured by planters stuffed with ferns, she saw a thin woman stand up. She looked pale as a ghost in the filtered light, her oval face like delicately chiselled alabaster and reddish hair pulled away in a tight bun. She was dressed in a thick tweed suit despite it being the height of summer.

  ‘Aunt Olive?’

  ‘Of course it is. Come here, lass, and let me take a look at you.’

  Adela rushed forward to kiss her aunt, but Olive stuck out her hands and held her at arm’s length, surveying her. Her touch was cold and bony. Adela clutched her hands awkwardly, smiling.

  ‘Eeh, just look at you, so like our Clarrie!’ Olive cried. ‘You’re even bonnier mind. You’ve got your father’s eyes; that’s what it is. Your mam must be that proud of you. I wish I’d had a lass that took after me.’

  Adela gave an awkward glance at Jane, but she remained impassive.

  ‘And how pretty you look in that frock. Is that the fashion in India? Chintzy flowers and sweetheart neckline?’

  ‘It’s a couple of years old,’ Adela admitted. ‘Mrs Hogg’s durzi copied it from a French magazine.’

  ‘What’s a durzi?’ asked Olive.

  ‘A tailor,’ Jane answered.

  ‘How on earth do you know that?’ Olive exclaimed.

  ‘Adela told me in a letter. Mr Roy, a durzi from Delhi, used to visit Simla during the cold season and go around all the British homes making clothes.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Adela beamed. ‘Aunt Olive, don’t you remember the durzi from Shillong who used to make dresses for you and Mother? His son still makes clothes for us occasionally, though we mostly send to Calcutta or mail-order from Britain.’

  Olive waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’ve long forgotten all them foreign words. I hardly remember India at all. Now sit down, lass’ – Olive patted the armchair by the window next to hers – ‘and tell me all about yourself. Jane will pour the tea. It’s Ceylon. My Jack thinks it’s the best on the market.’

  Adela settled into the leather seat, noticing how – although it was only early afternoon – the table in the window was already set with a silver tea service and a cake stand covered in a large linen napkin.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to have me to stay,’ she said. ‘Mother sends her love. She’s sorry not to come, but she couldn’t face leaving Belgooree at the moment. Not without . . . Well, you understand I’m sure.’

  ‘Poor Clarrie. She’ll be lost without Wesley,’ Olive said with a shake of her head. ‘He was her rock. Not that she appreciated him at first. Could have married him years earlier in India if she hadn’t been so stubborn. But then that’s Clarrie – just like our father: always thinking she knows best.’

  Adela flinched at the blunt words.

  ‘Well, as I say,’ Adela repeated, ‘she sends you her love.’

  ‘It must have been awful for you being there when your da was killed. I can’t imagine why Clarrie let you go off into the jungle full of tigers and wild animals.’

  ‘It was my father’s birthday present to me to go on shikar. Hunting is something we both loved doing.’

  Olive shook her head. ‘Well I would never let a daughter of mine go doing such dangerous things. Would I, Jane?’

  Jane shook her head as she arranged dainty china cups on their saucers.

  She served tea and milk from a silver teapot and jug, the milk and sugar basin covered in beaded nets to keep off nonexistent flies, and handed a rose-patterned cup and saucer to Adela.

  ‘May I have mine without milk please?’ Adela said, passing the cup on to her aunt.

  ‘We don’t drink black tea in this house,’ said Olive, ‘and that’s too milky for me.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mam,’ Jane said, hastily taking the cup from Adela. ‘I’ll have that one.’

  She poured another cup without milk and gave it to Adela with a shaking hand. Jane then removed the napkin from the cake stand, revealing delicately cut sandwiches and slices of cake.

  Adela took one of the sandwiches. ‘These look tasty.’ she said, smiling at her cousin. Biting into it, she found that the bread was dry; the sandwiches must have been made hours ago. The filling was fishy and bland. Adela swallowed it down, while Jane nibbled at hers and Olive didn’t eat.

  ‘Have another,’ Olive encouraged. ‘Looks like you need feeding up.’

  Adela reached for a slice of Victoria sponge. It was dry too. She wondered how many times it had been brought out of a tin to sit uneaten on the plate.

  ‘Does your cook live in?’ she asked.

  Olive gave a short laugh. ‘We haven’t had a cook for five years. Jane does the cooking. She’s never going to win awards, but it’s plain honest food you’ll get here.’

  ‘Lexy at the café taught me,’ said Jane. ‘She’s good at pastries and cakes.’

  ‘At Belgooree,’ said Adela, ‘Mohammed Din le
ts me stir the puddings sometimes too.’

  ‘Well, you’re welcome to help our Jane in the kitchen,’ said Olive. ‘In fact if you’re going to stop around for long, I’ll expect you to give a hand with the housework too.’

  ‘I don’t mind that,’ Adela replied, wondering what it would entail. Did they have any servants at all? Jane used to mention a maid called Myra that she liked. Did they have sweepers to clean out the toilets or empty the baths?

  Olive asked about Harry. ‘Poor pet, he must be so sad. It’s a terrible thing for a lad to lose his father. Lads need a man around the house. I went through hell during the Kaiser’s war when my Jack was taken prisoner. The thought that he might die and George would grow up fatherless was more than I could bear.’

  Her words pained Adela. ‘At least Harry has Uncle James. He’s coming over regularly to help at Belgooree.’

  ‘James Robson, Tilly’s husband?’ Olive was taken aback.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘While Tilly’s away in England? That doesn’t sound proper to me. But then Clarrie never cared what people said about us – not like I did. I’m the sensitive one. She just does what she wants.’

  ‘She doesn’t have much choice,’ Adela defended. ‘And it was Auntie Tilly who suggested it.’

  ‘Strange man, James Robson,’ said Olive. ‘Never any good at polite conversation and never had any time for us Belhavens.’

  ‘Well, he’s making up for that now, helping Mother with the tea garden.’

  Suddenly Olive put out a claw-like hand and patted Adela’s knee. ‘That’s good. He didn’t have a good word to say about Wesley when he was alive, but at least he’s standing by family now.’

  Adela changed the subject. She asked after Uncle Jack and his business.

  ‘Works like a Trojan does my Jack,’ said Olive, ‘but business has been bad since the Slump. I don’t know the ins and outs – he doesn’t like me to worry – but we’ve had to tighten our belts. Still, he’s been in charge of Tyneside Tea since Mr Milner retired five years ago, and I’m very proud of him.’

  ‘And he has George to help too,’ Adela said, smiling.

  She saw the transformation on her aunt’s face at the mention of George. Her taut features relaxed into a smile and her eyes glistened.