The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  The Robson woman had not deserved his anger either. She had struck him as one of those do-gooder missionary types – well-meaning but patronising – in her prim dress and straw hat. Was it her insistence on agreeing with him about ending colonial rule that he had found so irritating? Or was it the way she had regarded him with those dark-blue eyes as if she somehow found him wanting that had goaded him into rudeness?

  He turned and retreated into Amelia Buildings. He would not be judged by some Britisher half his age who thought she knew India better than he did.

  ‘Damn you!’ he cursed under his breath as he mounted the stairs. Ghulam wasn’t sure if the oath was for the girl or for himself. Now he would have to explain his baffling behaviour to his disappointed sister.

  CHAPTER 7

  Newcastle, early March

  Adela took Sam’s hand and squeezed it. They were standing outside the haberdashery shop in Cullercoats owned by Sam’s adoptive mother, Mrs Jackman. The sign said closed. It was a raw, sunless Sunday afternoon; the on-shore wind was bitter and the sea a churning steel-grey.

  With a flood of emotion, Adela remembered how she had stood here over eight years ago, heavily pregnant and torn with indecision: should she go into the shop and make herself known to Sam’s estranged mother or not? Her courage had failed her. She had feared interfering in Sam’s life. Sam had been so bitter about his mother’s desertion in Assam when he was such a young boy.

  But later, as a mother herself and knowing the agony of separation, Adela had gone to see Mrs Jackman. She still recalled how Sam’s mother had almost collapsed with shock and relief to hear word of her son. If it hadn’t been for Mrs Jackman, Sam would never have known the true identity of his real parents, the Logans, or been reunited with his long-lost sister, Sophie.

  Even though Sam had begun a correspondence with his mother, Adela knew today’s meeting was going to be a trial for him. They had been in Newcastle for well over a month yet Sam had put off coming to Cullercoats until now.

  ‘The longer you put it off, the worse it will be,’ Adela had said, finally losing patience. ‘Let me make the arrangements if you won’t.’

  So here they were: for the first time in over thirty years, Sam and his mother would come face-to-face.

  Adela felt his large hand trembling in hers. Even though outwardly her tall, athletic husband looked strong and in control, she knew that inside he was feeling like that bewildered young boy whose mother had run away and left him. His handsome face was tense and his brow furrowed.

  ‘She loves you,’ Adela said in encouragement, stepping forward and ringing the bell to the upstairs flat. ‘And this will be just as hard for her.’

  Mrs Jackman must have been keeping a lookout, for she answered the door almost immediately. She was less plump than Adela remembered and her hair – bound into a neat bun – was now completely silver. She wore a well-cut purple dress that would have been the height of fashion twenty years ago.

  ‘Adela! Sam!’ Mrs Jackman exclaimed, her arms outstretched and eyes burning with tears. ‘Sam, you’ve grown so tall!’

  It was a ridiculous remark to make to a man who was almost forty but Adela felt a stab of pity. All these years, the woman must have tried to imagine what Sam looked like growing up, yet in her mind’s eye he would forever be the skinny, grinning seven-year-old that Mrs Jackman had last set eyes on.

  It was like that for Adela. Her son was now eight but to her he was still that bright-eyed baby with soft dark hair sucking contentedly at her breast.

  Sam, too overwhelmed to speak, ignored the woman’s attempt to hug him and stuck out a hand. His mother’s face fell but she shook his hand, holding on to it for longer than a casual handshake.

  Adela gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘It’s lovely to see you again.’

  Mrs Jackman’s chin wobbled. ‘I’ve been so looking forward to this, dear.’

  ‘So have we,’ said Adela, her heart going out to the woman. ‘Haven’t we, Sam?’

  Sam nodded, swallowing hard. He was staring at his mother as if trying to find something familiar about her.

  ‘Please,’ said Mrs Jackman, recovering some poise, ‘come away out of the cold. What terrible weather we’re having. You must find it freezing after India. I’ve got the kettle on.’

  She bustled ahead up the steep staircase. ‘Pull the front door behind you, Sam, dear.’

  Adela gave Sam an encouraging smile and, for the first time since arriving in Cullercoats, he smiled back.

  Mrs Jackman must have been saving up her ration coupons because the tea trolley that she wheeled into the neat, brightly lit upstairs sitting room was groaning with sandwiches, pies and cake. Sam followed her back into the kitchen offering to help brew the tea. Ignoring her half-hearted refusal, he set about pouring boiling water from the steaming kettle into the waiting teapot. Watching from the doorway, Adela knew Sam needed to expend his nervous energy; he was like a caged animal in the small flat. She wondered if Mrs Jackman would let him smoke.

  The tea made, Adela and Sam were invited to sit down on the chintz-covered sofa. Pale-green plastic trays were clamped to the arms on which, Adela presumed, they were to balance their tea cups and plates. Mrs Jackman made Sam pile his plate high with food.

  ‘I made your favourite bacon-and-egg pie,’ she said, with an anxious smile. ‘And take another slice of ginger cake. You always liked ginger cake.’

  Sam complied. They talked of trivial matters – or rather Mrs Jackman did – while Sam and Adela ate. She began a rambling commentary on the long snow-bound winter they had endured and about the possibility of renting out her shop to someone younger.

  ‘And have you managed to pick up work, Sam?’ she asked.

  He swallowed and nodded. ‘I’m doing a bit of photography work for a local newspaper. Not much – just a handful of weddings – but it’s a start.’

  ‘Photography,’ gasped his mother. ‘That’s grand.’

  ‘Sam’s been helping me in the café too,’ said Adela.

  ‘Fixing things up,’ said Sam, ‘and re-decorating.’

  ‘It’s going to be quite a struggle to keep it going,’ said Adela. ‘It’s pretty run down – Lexy did an amazing job keeping it open during the War but such a lot needs doing.’

  ‘With a bit of hard work, we’ll manage,’ Sam said, smiling at his wife. ‘This spring, I’m going to get the café allotment going again.’

  ‘It’s Sam’s idea.’ Adela smiled back. ‘It’s so overgrown and neglected since the end of the War but my green-fingered husband will bring it back to life. My mother grew a lot for the tearoom in the early days.’

  ‘You’ll be good at that, Sam,’ said Mrs Jackman. ‘I was proud to hear of you planting orchards for the natives before the War.’

  She plied him with more cake and watched intently for signs of enjoyment.

  Adela said, ‘The food’s delicious, Mrs Jackman. I think I should get your recipes for the café. Now our manager Lexy’s retired, I’m in charge of the menu.’

  ‘I could make some pies and cakes for you,’ she offered at once.

  ‘Goodness, I didn’t mean that,’ said Adela. ‘You have your own business to run.’

  ‘I’m winding down the shop – my eyesight’s not good enough for such close work these days – and I’ve always enjoyed cooking.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you but it would be quite a commitment,’ Adela cautioned.

  ‘I’m fit and healthy,’ said Mrs Jackman stoutly, ‘and I’d love to help you out.’

  Adela looked at Sam. ‘Perhaps we could have a think about your kind offer and let you know?’

  ‘Of course, dear.’

  Sam said, ‘It’s up to Adela – she’s in charge. But I can vouch for her being a good boss.’ He grinned and brushed his wife’s cheek with affection.

  Adela saw Mrs Jackman holding back sudden tears.

  ‘I’m so happy that you’ve come back to live here,’ she said. ‘I know it must be very strange
for you, Sam, when you’ve always lived in India. But I’m so grateful. I never thought I’d ever get the chance to see you again. I know I don’t deserve it.’

  She fumbled for her handkerchief and dabbed at her brimming eyes. Adela went at once to put her arm about her.

  ‘Please don’t upset yourself. Sam now understands that you wanted to take him with you but that his father wouldn’t let you.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mrs Jackman, ‘but I will never get over the guilt.’ She looked at Sam in distress. ‘You were the most precious thing to me, yet I couldn’t stand being in India a minute longer – or with your father. We were never suited but it wasn’t really his fault either – it was like a fever that I couldn’t control. I had to get out. But I should have stayed for your sake. You poor boy! It breaks my heart to think of what you must have gone through. What you must have thought of your mother.’

  She broke down sobbing. Adela held her. She looked at Sam and saw the struggle of emotions in his tortured expression. She knew he still bore anger towards his adoptive mother for what she did – for not telling him that she was going – but she also knew what a compassionate and loving man he was. Sam was incapable of holding a grudge forever. Adela felt emotional to think of all those years of misunderstanding between mother and son. It made her all the more determined not to waste time in getting down to searching for her own son.

  Sam stood up and came to his mother’s side. Crouching in front of her, he gently took the handkerchief from her and wiped her face of tears.

  ‘I did miss you,’ he said, his voice hoarse, ‘but I had a happy life in India on the boat with Dad. Don’t think of me as a miserable boy who didn’t enjoy life – ’cause that wasn’t me.’

  He took her hands in his. ‘But the bravest thing you ever did was to send Adela the shawl and bracelet that allowed me to find out about my blood parents and my sister. My wonderful big sister, Sophie, who I love very much. If you knew her, you would love her too. I will always be grateful that you did that.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘Thank you, Mam.’

  Mrs Jackman gave a tearful cry. ‘You haven’t called me Mam since you were a lad!’ She threw her arms around him and kissed the top of his head.

  Adela blinked away her own tears. Then Sam buried his head in his mother’s lap and let out a sob.

  ‘Oh, my bonny lad,’ Mrs Jackman said tenderly, stroking his head.

  The three of them held on to each other as Sam wept.

  CHAPTER 8

  Calcutta, March

  It was George Brewis turning up on the Watsons’ doorstep – bearing a huge bouquet of flowers for Helena and a dinner invitation for Libby – that made Libby swiftly abandon her plan to leave Calcutta early. She was thrilled at his sudden appearance. George had been to Dacca with work and had only just picked up her message.

  ‘Of course, I’d love to go out to dinner!’ she agreed eagerly.

  ‘Good,’ he said with a wink. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven and we’ll go to the club for cocktails first.’

  How glad she was to see him. Her heart soared at the sight of his handsome ruddy face grinning at her from under his topee. She spent more time than usual getting ready to go out. She chose a red-and-black dress with a heart-shaped neckline that Josey had helped her adapt before leaving Newcastle. Piling up her dark-auburn hair in a loose bun and putting on make-up, Libby stared at her reflection in the mirror and hoped she looked sophisticated enough for the worldly George.

  The hairstyle showed off her oval face and the red lipstick emphasised her full mouth. But there were dark shadows beneath her eyes that betrayed the string of sleepless nights she had had since her disastrous visit to the Khans. She had been shaken by the encounter with the activist Ghulam; furious at his dismissal of her opinions and his hostility towards her and her father. How dare he be the judge of them?

  She had taken her revenge by drawing a cartoon of Ghulam; his thick shoulders and torso turned into those of a tiger, his face snarling and contorted through the bars of a cage. The cage is open but he won’t come out. A young woman in trousers is throwing away her topee and saying, ‘Well, stay and sulk about Britishers if you like. I’m off to an Independence Day freedom party.’

  Tossing in bed, too hot for sleep, Libby had wondered why she minded Ghulam’s disapproval so much. Perhaps it was because, ever since she had been the eager pupil of her radical history teacher, Miss MacGregor, she had seen herself as enlightened and on the side of the oppressed. In Britain, Libby was seen as a progressive young woman with a mind of her own. She had thought it would be the same in India. But at the first chance of making Indian friends, she had failed. Fatima had not been in touch all week. To Ghulam Khan she would always be a privileged white woman: one of the sahib-log who had kept his people downtrodden and disenfranchised for two hundred years.

  Perhaps he was right and she should be packing her bags and booking a passage to Britain. Maybe this wasn’t her country after all. Since the news broke that the British were to hand over power within the next year, the chatter in the Calcutta drawing rooms had abruptly switched from sport and films to how long they should stay in Bengal. There was a flurry of calls to shipping lines and air companies to book summer passages home just in case trouble was brewing again.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to run away,’ Libby said, with a mulish pout at her reflection. ‘I’m staying in India – and no man is going to tell me that I can’t.’

  George took her to the Saturday Club near to his digs and they drank pink gins with some of his bachelor friends before joining a party of diners at Firpo’s on Chowringhee Street. Libby knew it was one of the most popular restaurants in Calcutta. By day it served up robust lunches of Scotch broth and steak and kidney pie, as well as lavish afternoon teas; by night it laid on five-course dinners. Libby had heard that it boasted a lively orchestra and a full-sized sprung dance floor, which she hoped George would guide her around. Chandeliers sparkled and fans whirred in the large dining room, which buzzed with conversation and laughter. Mellow with gin, Libby was seduced by its glitzy opulence.

  She was disappointed to discover that she was not dining alone with George as expected, but the group of friends were a lively mixed crowd of young people. Several of the women were obviously Anglo-Indian and two of the men wore Sikh turbans. Libby relished a renewed feeling of adventure.

  ‘This is Flowers Dunlop, a friend of Adela’s,’ George said, introducing her to a petite woman in a slinky silver dress with gleaming dark hair fashioned into a short perm. She had huge dark eyes and a quick smile.

  Libby felt ungainly as she shook Flowers’s slim hand.

  ‘Oh, Adela spoke fondly of you. You’re a nurse, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Flowers, ‘at the Presidency General Hospital. Are you enjoying Calcutta?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘well, some of the time. I’ve been meaning to contact you – Adela said I should – I’m sorry I haven’t up till now.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ said Flowers, ‘I’m sure you’ve had plenty to do. But you’re very welcome to visit. My father would love to meet you. He’s from a tea planter family too.’

  ‘Oh, which one?’ Libby asked with interest.

  Flowers gave a vague wave of the hand. ‘Oh, I’m not sure. You’d have to ask him. Assam not Darjeeling.’ She slipped an arm through Libby’s as if they were old friends. ‘Come on; let’s sit together so you can tell me all about yourself.’

  It was the first of several dinner-dances that Libby was taken to by George and his friends. Sometimes they danced in the open-air winter garden at the Grand Hotel as well as returning to Firpo’s to quickstep and tango across the crowded ballroom. Libby loved it when George chose her for the last waltz; she felt intoxicated being held close in his arms and feeling the brush of his chin against her cheek.

  ‘I’m glad you came out to Calcutta, bonny Libby,’ he murmured in her ear.

  ‘I’m glad too,’ she said with a dreamy smile.

  A
lthough she had been disappointed that George hadn’t attempted to kiss her on any of their evenings out, she was sure it was only a matter of time before he did.

  Libby attended tennis parties with George and went swimming at the Saturday Club after he had finished work. He invited her to a long, alcohol-fuelled dinner party at his chummery which spilled out on to the flat roof and ended with them all dancing in bare feet to an old wind-up gramophone.

  Flowers and her nursing friends were nearly always there too. Flowers was a wonderful dancer but she never allowed any of the men to monopolise her on the dance floor. Libby couldn’t work out if Adela’s former school friend was keen on any man in particular and hoped it wasn’t George.

  Extravert George was friendly to everyone and usually the instigator of these parties but Libby liked to think he was especially attentive and affectionate towards her. A couple of times she met him for lunch too and she revelled in having him to herself. They chatted about family and news from Newcastle.

  ‘Adela and Sam seem to be settling okay,’ said Libby one lunchtime. It was a hot day – a taste of the higher temperatures to come now that it was the middle of March – and she was grateful to be in the airy dining room at Firpo’s under the electric fans. ‘Sam’s met his mother at last – well, the woman who adopted him as a baby. Adela says they’re getting on well and might be moving in with Mrs Jackman. Adela thinks she’s quite a lonely woman and she’s over the moon to see Sam again.’

  ‘And Herbert’s tearoom?’ asked George. ‘Has Adela saved it from collapse?’

  ‘She’s trying her best, by the sounds of it,’ said Libby. ‘She’s even got Mrs Jackman helping with the cooking.’ She eyed him before continuing.

  ‘What does that look mean?’ asked George.

  ‘Adela says she’s twisted Joan’s arm to come in and help with waitressing,’ Libby answered. ‘Don’t you hear from her at all?’