Clara exchanged glances with Patience. A flicker of hope lit inside her that Jimmy was safe.
Hobson nodded at them as he left. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Craven,’ he mumbled uncomfortably.
For a long moment after the police had left, there was silence between the women. Paolo broke it. ‘What the police mean, Mam?’ he asked. ‘What you lost?’
Clara encircled him with her arms and pressed him to her in relief. ‘Nothing, pet. You mustn’t worry.’
Patience put her hand on Paolo’s head and looked at Clara. ‘You’re free,’ she murmured. ‘You’re free of him at last.’
***
Word soon spread about Vinnie’s untimely death. Patience fretted that Dolly might take it out on Clara and cause trouble, but they soon heard through Ella that she was selling up — the house and the boxing hall — and moving to her sister’s in Doncaster. ‘Mrs Craven can’t bear any of it without Vinnie,’ reported Ella. Patience discussed Vinnie’s death with Leon out of Clara’s hearing. ‘The police mentioned her article about Frank — how Vinnie was upset by it. Perhaps he thought it the final straw.’
Leon was puzzled. ‘The final straw?’
‘The thing that made Vinnie see that Clara was never going to go back to him,’ Patience explained. ‘Vinnie was always jealous of Clara’s friendship with the Lewises. I’m afraid I helped encourage him,’ she sighed. ‘I still feel guilty for burning a sympathy card from the Lewises on the first anniversary of Harry’s death. Clara was upset to think they didn’t care enough to send one. At least I’ve told her the truth about it now. I pushed her towards Vinnie instead. I used to think the Lewises weren’t good enough for her. How wrong I was.’
Leon said gently, ‘We all have things we wish we had done differently. You did what you thought right for Clara.’
‘Thank you,’ Patience whispered gratefully.
Leon sighed, his face perplexed. ‘But why is Clara keeping away from the Lewises now? Marta is upset.’
‘I think it’s finding Lillian round there every time she goes,’ Patience said. ‘She’s full of herself, that one; and Clara can’t bear the way she’s so bossy to Paolo.’
Leon’s frown cleared. ‘Ah, Lillian. Yes, now I understand.’
‘Leon,’ Patience said worriedly, ‘what’s happened to Jimmy? Do you think we’ll ever hear from him again?’
Leon put a hand on hers. ‘I think Jimmy look after himself.’ He smiled in encouragement. ‘He is son of brave lady.’
***
On the day of Vinnie’s funeral, Clara took the day off work. But instead of attending, she and Reenie took Paolo and Terese on the train to Whitley Bay. She had asked tentatively if Frank would like to come too, but Reenie told her that Lillian had other plans for them.
While the children played on the beach and paddled in the sea, the friends leaned against the promenade wall and reminisced about the time they had gone there with Benny and danced to Frank’s band at the Cafe Cairo. But Clara refused to be emotional about the past. She had to look to the future and the plans she had with her family.
‘Leon’s moving down to be with us in August,’ Clara said. ‘I hope by September we’ll have found a bigger flat — and then we’ll fetch Sarah home.’
‘Leon is an amazing man,’ Reenie said in admiration. ‘My parents count him as their closest friend — it’s as if they’ve known each other all their lives.’
Clara smiled. ‘I know what they mean. I’m so lucky to have found him again.’
‘And then there’s Frank,’ Reenie went on.
‘What about him?’ Clara asked, feeling herself redden as she glanced away at the children.
‘Leon’s done marvels with him,’ Reenie said. ‘He’s the only one Frank feels comfortable with talking about his experiences in Germany. Everyone else just wants him to get back to his old life and forget about it. But Leon knows what it’s like to be imprisoned; what it does to the mind as well as the body.’
‘That’s good,’ Clara murmured. ‘I didn’t know that’s what they talked about.’
‘No, well, you’ve been neglecting us these past weeks,’ Reenie chided, with a playful nudge. ‘Too busy forging your career.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Clara protested.
‘I’m teasing,’ Reenie reassured her. ‘But you must come up soon and hear Frank play.’
‘Play?’ Clara stared at her. ‘Not the violin?’
Reenie laughed. ‘Yes, the violin. Leon’s got him playing again.’
Clara felt sudden tears sting her eyes and looked away quickly. That’s grand,’ she gulped, ‘really grand!’
***
That evening, Reenie offered to take Paolo for the night. ‘It’s been a strange day for you. You have a bit of peace with Patience,’ she suggested.
Clara accepted gratefully. The day had tired her out and she was feeling reflective about Vinnie. On a whim, she looked out her old diaries from her days in Tenter Terrace and began to read through them. Perhaps in them would lie the clue as to why she had fallen under Vinnie’s spell.
While Patience smoked, and mended a pair of Paolo’s shorts, Clara became absorbed in reading about her past. The young Clara who had written these pages was thirsting for experience, frustrated by the confined world of Magee’s gift shop. She was inquisitive and observant, yet trusting and naive; at times level-headed, at others romantic and fanciful. It was little surprise that a bright, inexperienced girl with a passion for life would have been attracted by what Vinnie had to offer. Yet, as she re-read her immature thoughts, Clara found it hard to imagine she had ever yearned for such things.
She stared at the diaries in her lap. There was one consistent thread; her friendship with the Lewises and her deepening love for Frank. She blushed again at her girlish crush, but the emotions she had felt then were still as strong.
‘What’s that?’ Patience asked, interrupting her thoughts.
Clara looked up, startled. ‘I’m just reading—’
‘No, that sound.’ Patience put down her mending and cocked an ear. ‘Listen.’
Clara sat still. At first she thought it was a wireless playing in a neighbouring flat. The evening was warm and still and the windows were thrown open. But the music wavered, not quite perfect, and grew louder by the minute. Someone was playing a violin outside their door. Clara and Patience exchanged looks of incredulity.
Leaping up, Clara scattered the diaries as she raced to look out of the window. Standing in the street below was Frank, his fair hair still short and spiky, bent over his instrument. She stared in wonderment, catching her breath. He was playing one of her favourite dance tunes from the Cafe Cairo.
‘Well, go and let the lad in,’ Patience remonstrated.
Clara clattered downstairs, heart pounding as if she were sixteen again. She flung open the door. Frank finished the piece, his face in the twilight suffused with its former intensity and passion. Someone across the street clapped from an open window. Frank stood clutching the violin, grinning bashfully, his chest heaving at the exertion.
‘Thank you,’ Clara murmured. ‘That was beautiful.’
They carried on gazing at each other. Words seemed inadequate after the emotion of the music. What did it mean?
‘W-would you . . . like to come in?’ Clara asked, her voice shaking with nervousness.
‘Clara,’ he spoke her name urgently, ‘I have to talk to you — I have to tell you now.’
‘What?’ Clara felt sudden alarm. ‘Is it about Lillian?’
He stepped towards her. ‘Lillian?’
Clara gulped. ‘Are you and Lillian going to marry?’
His perplexed look dissolved. ‘Clara, it’s you I love, not Lillian!’ he blurted out.
‘Me?’ she gasped.
‘Yes,’ he insisted, ‘always. I went to Germany partly to get away from seeing you with Vinnie. It was too much to bear. Even when I came back and found you had left him, I still thought as long as Vinnie was alive he wou
ld have the power to make you go back to him.’
Clara stepped towards him, light-headed from the revelation. ‘And I thought you and Lillian . . .’ she whispered.
‘I told her today that there was never any possibility of my marrying her. That it was you I loved and always would.’ He reached out and touched her face. ‘The thought of you kept me alive in that death camp — kept me fighting to live — to escape.’ His voice deepened with emotion. ‘I didn’t think you could love me — not the way I am now — a broken man. But Leon gave me the courage to tell you. He said you loved me too. Is it possible?’
Clara’s eyes stung with tears. She clutched at his hand. ‘Yes, it is. Since Reenie first brought me into your family, I’ve loved you, Frank. How could you not see it?’
‘You always seemed too bright a star for me to grasp,’ Frank murmured.
Clara laughed softly, ‘You were the one out of reach.’
‘Not now,’ Frank said, bending close to kiss her.
As Clara felt the first touch of his lips on hers, she gave silent thanks for her brave, compassionate father who had brought them together at last. Their arms went round each other in a tender embrace. Frank kissed her with a sweet urgency, as if he could make up for the wasted years. She held on to him, never wanting to let go.
‘Are you bringing that lad inside or not?’ Patience cried from the top of the stair.
They broke apart, laughing. ‘Coming, Mam!’ Clara called.
Frank took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Do you think she’ll have an old Bolshie for a son-in-law?’
Clara’s heart soared at his words. ‘Play her a few more tunes like the last one, and she’s bound to say yes.’
Together, they mounted the stairs.
***
On the day that Clara and Frank were to be married, a postcard arrived for Patience and Clara.
‘It’s from our Jimmy!’ Patience exclaimed, her hands shaking.
Clara rushed to read it too. It had been sent from western Canada. He had joined a merchant ship and was sailing the Pacific.
‘I’m a canny seaman,’ it read. ‘I like to think me dad would be proud. The thing I did, I did it for you, Clara, so you could have your Sarah back. It’s what you deserve. Gan canny. Yours, Jimmy.’
‘What did he do?’ Clara puzzled over the words. Then, as realisation dawned, the two women stared at each other. Clara gasped. ‘Is he saying he pushed Vinnie in the—’
Quickly Patience put a finger to Clara’s lips. ‘Don’t say it. We don’t know what happened.’
Clara watched her mother take the postcard, kiss it, then tear it up and throw it on the fire. Patience put out her arms to Clara and held her. There was a squeal from behind.
They turned to see Sarah kicking in her wheelchair, flinging her arms wide in excitement. Clara’s eyes stung with tears of pride at the sight of Sarah in her blue satin bridesmaid’s dress, and she laughed, rushing to her daughter. ‘You can have a hug too.’ She held her tight. ‘What a special day this is, my bonny!’
***
If you have enjoyed A HANDFUL OF STARS, you might like to read another of The Tyneside Sagas:
THE TEA PLANTER’S DAUGHTER
1905 INDIA: Clarissa Belhaven and her younger sister Olive find their carefree life on their father's tea plantation threatened by his drinking and debts. Wesley Robson, a brash young rival businessman, offers to help save the plantation in exchange for beautiful Clarrie's hand in marriage, but her father flatly refuses. And when Mr Belhaven dies suddenly, his daughters are forced to return to their uncle in Tyneside and work long hours in his pub.
In Newcastle, Clarrie is shocked by the dire poverty she witnesses, and dreams of opening her own tea room, which could be a safe haven for local women. To provide a living for herself and Olive, Clarrie escapes her dictatorial aunt and takes a job as housekeeper for kindly lawyer Herbert Stock. But Herbert's vindictive son Bertie, jealous of Clarrie's popularity, is determined to bring about her downfall. Then Wesley Robson comes back into Clarrie's life, bringing with him a shocking revelation ...
Set in the fascinating world of the Edwardian tea trade, THE TEA PLANTER’S DAUGHTER is a deeply involving and moving story with a wonderfully warm-hearted heroine.
Reviews:
'Irresistible'
Sunderland Echo
'A wonderfully moving, deeply emotional tale'
Daily Record
'Trotter uses her experiences and imagination to bring strength and depth to her novels. Another thought-provoking book'
Lancashire Evening Post
'Another action-packed, emotionally charged page-turner'
Newcastle Journal
'A moving saga set against the backdrop of the thriving tea trade in turn-of-the-century Tyneside'
Peterborough Evening Telegraph
'A gripping and heartrending novel... An unforgettable novel of courage, suffering and enduring love'
Bolton Evening News
Read a bonus chapter from THE TEA PLANTER’S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER 1
Assam, India, 1904
‘Gerr out!’ bellowed Jock Belhaven from his study. ‘And take that stinkin’ food away!’
‘But sahib, you must eat—’
There was a splintering crash of china hitting the teak door frame.
‘Try to poison me, would yer?’ Jock ranted drunkenly.’Gerr out or I’ll shoot you, by heck I will!’
In the next room Clarissa and Olive exchanged looks of alarm; they could hear every word through the thin bungalow walls. Olive, round-eyed with fear, dropped the bow of her violin at the sound of their father smashing more plates. Clarrie sprang up from her seat by the fire.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll calm him.’ She forced a smile at her petrified younger sister and dashed for the door, nearly colliding with Kamal, their Bengali khansama, retreating hastily from her father’s study, his bearded face in shock. A stream of foul abuse pursued him.
‘Sahib is not well,’ he said, quickly closing the door. ‘He is snapping like a tiger.’
Clarrie put a hand on the old man’s arm. Kamal had served her father since his army days, long before she was born, and knew the raging drunk beyond the door was a pathetic shadow of a once vigorous, warm-hearted man.
‘He must have been to the village to buy liquor,’ she whispered. ‘He said he was going fishing.’
Kamal gave a regretful shake of his head. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Clarissa.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said hastily. They listened unhappily to the sound of Jock swearing as he threw things around the room.
‘Your father is not to blame,’ Kamal said. ‘It is the ague. Whenever it is attacking him, he drinks to stop the pain. He will be right as rain in a few days.’
Clarrie was touched by the man’s loyalty, but they both knew it was not just bouts of fever that bedevilled her father. His drinking had grown steadily worse since the terrible earthquake in which her mother had died — crushed by a toppling tree as she lay in bed, pregnant with their third child. Now Jock was banned from buying alcohol at the officers’ mess in Shillong and treated warily at the tea planters’ club at Tezpur on the rare occasions they travelled upcountry for a gymkhana or race meeting. No longer able to afford cases of whisky from Calcutta, he was dependent on cheap firewater from Khassia villagers or bowls of opium to numb his despair.
‘Go and make some tea,’ Clarrie suggested, ‘and sit with Olive. She doesn’t like to be on her own. I’ll deal with Father.’
With a reassuring smile at Kamal, she took a deep breath and knocked firmly on the study door. Her father shouted back in a jumble of English and Bengali. Bravely, Clarrie opened the door a crack.
‘Babu,’ she called, using the affectionate name from her childhood, ‘it’s me, Clarrie. Can I come in?’
‘Gan t’ hell!’ he snarled.
Clarrie pushed the door open and slipped inside. ‘I’ve come to say goodnight, Babu,’ she persisted. ‘I w
ondered if you would like some tea before bed?’
In the yellow glow of the oil lamp she could see him swaying amid the wreckage like a survivor from a storm. Mildewed books torn from their shelves and shards of blue and white china — her mother’s beloved willow pattern — were scattered across the wooden floor amid a splattered mess of rice and dhal. A fried fish lay stranded at his feet. The room stank of strong liquor and sweat, although the air was chilly.
Trying to hide her shock, Clarrie moved into the room, stepping over the mess without comment. To draw attention to it now would only madden him. In the morning her father would be full of remorse. He watched her suspiciously but his protests subsided.
‘Come and sit by the fire, Babu,’ she coaxed. ‘I’ll get it going again. You look tired. Did you catch any fish today? Ama says her sons caught some big mahseer in Um Shirpi yesterday. Perhaps you should try there tomorrow. I’ll ride out and take a look, shall I?’
‘No! Shouldn’t be out on yer own,’ he slurred. ‘Leopards. . .’
‘I’m always careful.’
‘And those men.’ He spat out the word.
‘What men?’ She steered him towards a threadbare armchair.
‘Recruiters — sniffing around here — bloody Robsons,’ he growled.
‘Wesley Robson?’ Clarrie asked, startled. ‘From the Oxford Estates?’
‘Aye,’ Jock cried, growing agitated again. ‘Trying to steal me workers!’
No wonder her father was in such a state. Some large tea estates like the Oxford were ruthless in their quest for new labour to work their vast gardens. She had met Wesley Robson at a polo match in Tezpur last year; one of those brash young men newly out from England, good-looking and arrogant, thinking they knew more about India after three months than those who had lived here all their lives. Her father had taken against him at once, because he was one of the Robsons of Tyneside, a powerful family who had risen from being tenant farmers like the Belhavens, making their money in boilers and now investing in tea. Everything they touched seemed to spawn riches. The Robsons and the Belhavens had had a falling out years ago over something to do with farming equipment.
A HANDFUL OF STARS An enthralling story of poverty, passion and survival: one of the Tyneside Sagas Page 44
