Libby’s heart sank as, looking over her shoulder, she saw George approaching.
‘Can I see you again?’ Libby said quickly.
His look was guarded. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Libby.’
‘You offered to be my guide around Calcutta, remember?’
‘This is your Calcutta here,’ he said, an edge to his voice. ‘Safer if you stick to it.’
‘I don’t care about safety,’ she replied. ‘I want to see what’s going on beyond this world. I had a glimpse of it with you the other day – please show me more. How can I adapt to the new India if I stay confined to the old?’
She saw his indecision. He was on the point of saying something when George arrived at her side.
‘There you are, bonny lass.’ He grinned. ‘My turn for a dance, eh?’
Libby was choked with disappointment as Ghulam nodded and withdrew without another word. In frustration, she watched him walk off across the lawn, his shoulders broad under the black kurta. He didn’t look back.
George led her swiftly into a fox-trot. ‘He’s a strange one to invite,’ said George. ‘Caused a bit of a stir among the burra memsahibs in the drawing room. Did you know that Khan went to prison for terrorism?’
‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘a long time ago when he was a youth.’
‘They say he’s a communist too,’ said George. ‘God help us if his kind take over Calcutta after Independence. They’ll ruin the economy. Still, his sister, the lady doctor, is a good sort. Old friend of Adela’s apparently. I suppose you had to invite him along to chaperone her.’
‘I invited them both because I like them both,’ said Libby in irritation.
George gave her an astonished look. ‘You’ve met him before?’
‘Yes, twice. I’ve been to their flat and he’s taken me out to lunch.’
George was shocked. ‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea. Your uncle and aunt won’t want you getting mixed up with his sort at all. Promise me you won’t see him again, lass?’
Libby stopped dancing. ‘Don’t tell me who I can and can’t see!’
‘I care about you and I don’t want to see you being led astray by the wrong kind.’
‘At least he’s not married,’ Libby said bluntly.
‘I’m nearly divorced,’ George said defensively. ‘And I would never take advantage of you.’
‘So what were you doing kissing me at the picnic?’
‘I may have had a bit too much to drink,’ he admitted. ‘But you were looking so kissable. I thought you wanted to.’
‘I did,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve wanted you to kiss me since I was fifteen.’
‘Really?’
‘But I no longer feel the same about you, George. Not since I was told you’re carrying on with a married woman in Dacca.’
He caught her hand to stop her walking off. ‘Who told you that?’
‘It doesn’t matter who.’ She gave him a fierce look. ‘I know I don’t mean anything to you so let go of me, George.’
‘Lass, I do care about you,’ he insisted. ‘There’s no woman in Dacca – no one special at least.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Libby. ‘What I felt for you was just a girlish crush. I didn’t realise it until tonight.’
George looked bemused. ‘I had no idea you ever felt like that.’
‘No, George, because you don’t really think about how other people feel, do you? Just as long as you’re having fun.’
She pulled away from him.
‘Don’t say you’re in love with that communist?’ George said in disbelief. When Libby didn’t answer, George warned, ‘Don’t be a fool, Libby. He’s too old for you – and he’ll only use you for what he can get out of the British.’
Libby rounded on him. ‘He doesn’t want a single thing out of us British,’ she said angrily, ‘except for us to get out of India. And as for his age – I like older men – or hadn’t you noticed?’
She turned from him but he kept pace with her back across the lawn.
‘Sorry, Libby,’ George said contritely, ‘I won’t interfere. It’s up to you how you live your life. Say you’ll forgive me for upsetting you.’
Libby slowed, glancing to see if he meant it. George took her hand and pulled her round.
‘I’m truly sorry for messing things up between us,’ he said. ‘You’re right; I am a bit selfish. But after getting my fingers burnt with Joan I’m wary of getting involved again. I feel bad if you think I led you on – you know how fond I am of all you Robsons – I just thought you might be up for a bit of fun too. I never meant to hurt you. Please forgive me. Are we still friends?’
His fair face looked so pained that Libby relented. She couldn’t help liking George. She knew he was a hopeless womaniser but he was also fun and generous and she didn’t want them to part on bad terms.
‘I suppose we’re still friends,’ she relented.
He beamed and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Grand! Let’s get another gimlet and dance till dawn.’
Libby suppressed a laugh as they retreated to the veranda. Flowers met them on the steps with an enquiring look.
‘It’s okay,’ Libby mouthed.
‘The Khans have just left,’ said Flowers. ‘Fatima said to say goodbye – she didn’t want to stop you dancing.’
Libby flushed to think that Ghulam’s last sight of her was dancing with George. She would have no chance to find out if he wanted to see her again. But why should he? To him she was still one of the despised sahib-log – a privileged white woman – despite her Indian sympathies. Would they ever be able to get beyond that unseen but powerful barrier that divided them?
For a brief moment as they had danced, Libby thought she had seen desire in his eyes. But perhaps she had been wrong. Ghulam had not encouraged her suggestion that they meet up again and he had been swift to leave without a word of goodbye. The truth made her heart heavy; Ghulam Khan would never allow himself to fall for a Britisher. He had come out of duty to his sister and not from any desire to see Libby again.
George’s friend Eddy Carter appeared beside her. ‘Can I finally get a dance with the birthday girl?’ he asked.
Libby, suppressing her longing for Ghulam, smiled at Eddy. ‘You certainly can,’ she said. Linking her arm through his, they set off down the steps.
CHAPTER 12
April
Libby hung on to the telephone, anxiously twisting the cord around her fingers. It had taken all morning to get through to Belgooree but Clarrie Robson had sounded pleased that Libby had called.
‘It will cheer your father to know you’ve called.’
‘So can I speak to Dad?’ Libby had asked.
‘I think he’s sleeping.’
‘Please, Clarrie.’
‘Of course. Let me go and fetch him.’
It seemed an age before Clarrie returned. Libby heard a crackle at the other end and then Clarrie’s warm reassuring voice was speaking again.
‘Libby, sweetheart, your father’s only just woken up. He’s been sleeping so badly. He’s rather groggy. Can I get him to ring you tomorrow or the day after?’
Libby felt a spasm of anger: despite several attempts to get through on the telephone she still hadn’t managed to speak to her dad. ‘Is he really so weak that he can’t come to the phone to speak to me?’
‘It’s a long walk from the house to the factory,’ Clarrie reminded her.
Libby felt a guilty pang; was she being unreasonable? ‘What’s wrong with him? You told me it was nothing serious.’
There was a hesitation then Clarrie said, ‘The doctor thinks he’s worn out – complete exhaustion. Something seems to be troubling him but he won’t talk about it. Perhaps he will to you.’
‘Not if he won’t even drag himself to the phone for two minutes,’ Libby said in frustration.
‘It’s not that he doesn’t want to,’ said Clarrie, ‘it’s just that he’s finding it hard to say anything at the moment.’
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p; Libby was suspicious. ‘So he is capable of coming to the phone, he just doesn’t want to. He’s avoiding me.’
‘It’s not like that . . .’
‘Well, that’s what it feels like,’ Libby said, her eyes smarting with tears. ‘I’ve been longing to see him.’
‘I know you have,’ Clarrie sympathised. ‘And you know you are welcome here any time. Perhaps your uncle could travel with you as far as Shillong.’
‘I don’t need my uncle as a chaperone,’ Libby said.
‘Your father doesn’t want you and Flowers travelling alone,’ said Clarrie. ‘I think he’s being overcautious but things are growing unsettled in the countryside. People are on the move.’
Libby felt a moment of anxiety. Was the violence in the Punjab finally beginning to seep across the northern plain?
‘I don’t like to ask Uncle Johnny any more favours,’ said Libby. ‘He’s been so kind to me as it is.’
‘Let’s see how James is in a few days’ time,’ said Clarrie. ‘He might get his energy back and decide to travel to Calcutta after all. Why don’t we speak at the weekend?’
Libby swallowed her disappointment. ‘Give him my love, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will. Goodbye, Libby, sweetheart.’
Libby hung up. She sat on the chair by the telephone in the hallway feeling numb and knowing that her aunt had heard every word through the open drawing-room door. Helena appeared.
‘It’s too bad,’ said her aunt. ‘Do you think he’s having some sort of mental breakdown, poor man? Muriel thinks so. The planters worked so damn hard during the War to keep out the Japs and help the troops. Men your father’s age deserve to retire.’
Libby knew her aunt, in her own brusque way, was trying to be kind. But her words distressed Libby. When she finally got to see her father, would she find a broken husk of a man? Was it too late for them to recapture their special bond? She realised how much she was relying on her father to be the same strong, protective figure that she remembered from childhood. It frightened her to think of him as weak and debilitated, worn out by years of war and a lifetime of working in the unforgiving tropics. She was clinging on to the belief that her father would be the one to reunite the family; that once they were all together again her mother would rediscover her love for James and for India – and for Libby.
The thought startled Libby. Perhaps she did care what Tilly thought of her after all.
‘Would you like to come with me to bridge at the Percy-Barratts’ later, dear?’ Helena asked. ‘You look like you need cheering up.’
This galvanised Libby, who stood up. ‘Thanks Auntie, but I’ve got plans.’
‘Seeing any more of George Brewis?’
‘Maybe later,’ Libby said vaguely.
‘They’re such fun, the Strachan’s men, aren’t they?’ Helena said. ‘In my day, one rather looked down on box-wallahs as marriage material, but perhaps we were the fools. They’re the ones with the money and a future here. It’s we army types who will have to go.’
Libby scrutinised her aunt. Something in her tone belied the flippant words.
‘Auntie, are you worried about what will happen?’ Libby asked.
Helena glanced out at the veranda where her father sat snoozing. ‘Yes, I worry. I can’t imagine ever leaving – I think it would kill Papa – but it will never be the same again. So many of our friends are talking seriously now of going home – people who have been here a lifetime. It’s so unsettling.’
Libby reached out and put a hand on Helena’s shoulder. ‘I know, it doesn’t seem fair, does it, when you’ve lived here all your life.’
‘That’s it,’ Helena said, her voice wavering. ‘It’s all so unfair.’
‘But then that’s how the Indians have felt about us being here,’ Libby said as gently as she could. ‘British rule has been unfair to them for too long.’
Helena gave her a sharp look. ‘I suppose that’s what your friend Mr Khan says, is it? That the Indians have been put upon? But does he ever stop to think what we British – generations of British – have given to India?’
‘He would argue that we have taken a lot more than we’ve given,’ said Libby. ‘And I think he would be right.’
Helena stiffened. Libby dropped her hand.
‘Well, I must get ready for bridge.’ Helena stalked off.
Libby felt bad about upsetting her aunt but she had only spoken the truth.
After an afternoon of aimless wandering around the Maidan, making half-hearted sketches, Libby found herself outside Amelia Buildings as the sun was going down. Perhaps deep-down she had always intended coming here, hoping to bump into Ghulam. Her stomach knotted with nerves. What would she say to him? What if he should rebuff her and send her away? She screwed up her courage; if she didn’t act now, she would never know what Ghulam really thought of her. She entered the building. If the Khans were out, she would leave a note inviting them to have tea in town – perhaps at the Kwality Café or Firpo’s.
Sitara answered the door with a welcoming smile. Fatima was making ready to go out. There was no sign of Ghulam.
‘You’ve just caught me,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m sorry – I wish I’d known you were coming . . .’
‘No, it’s me who’s sorry,’ said Libby. ‘I know I should have sent a note but I was just passing. I’ve been sketching on the Maidan.’
‘Alone?’ Fatima gave her a look of concern.
‘Yes.’
‘You must take care,’ Fatima warned. ‘Do your aunt and uncle know where you are?’
‘Not exactly. They’ll assume I’m with George or Flowers.’ Libby smothered an impatient sigh. ‘But I can look after myself.’
Fatima gave her a long look and then nodded. ‘Of course you can. So you’ve delayed going to Assam? How is your father?’
‘Needing more rest,’ said Libby. ‘I’m at a bit of a loose end until I know what he wants me to do.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Fatima. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’
‘Thanks, but I mustn’t make you late. Perhaps I could call another evening?’
‘Well, if you’re sure?’
‘Where are you going?’ Libby asked.
‘To a meeting in Bowbazar – Ghulam is hoping to speak.’
Libby’s heart lurched. ‘What kind of meeting?’
‘A discussion about what should happen to Bengal – and Calcutta – once the British go.’
‘Can I come?’
Fatima looked worried. ‘It might get rowdy.’
‘But you’re going to risk it,’ Libby pointed out. ‘Please let me go with you, Fatima? I’ll just keep quiet at the back; people won’t know I’m there.’
Fatima gave her a dry smile that reminded Libby of Ghulam. ‘From what my brother’s told me about you, I find it hard to believe you’ll sit like a mouse through a political meeting.’
Libby blushed. ‘Ghulam’s spoken about me then?’
Fatima nodded. ‘I think – against all his expectations – you’ve impressed him. And it takes a lot to impress Ghulam.’
Libby grinned. ‘Good. He impressed me too. I’ve never known a man quite like him with so much passion and single-mindedness to a cause.’
Fatima pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose and studied her.
‘My brother is very single-minded. I love him dearly but I accept that he puts his campaigns and beliefs before anything or anyone else. He’s always been like that and he won’t ever change.’
‘I admire that in him,’ said Libby.
‘But it has turned him into a man who doesn’t allow others to get close to him.’
Libby felt herself go hot. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘May I be frank, Libby?’
‘Of course.’
‘I have seen you with my brother and I think perhaps you have grown a little fond of him?’
Libby swallowed. ‘Is it so obvious?’
‘To me, yes. And I als
o know that he likes you – perhaps in other circumstances would allow a friendship to develop – but these are difficult and uncertain times. If you come with me to the meeting it must be as my friend and not because you want to see Ghulam. Don’t fall in love with him, Libby; you will only get your heart broken.’
Libby put her hands to her burning cheeks. She was mortified that Fatima had guessed her feelings for Ghulam so easily. Had the brother and sister also discussed Libby’s growing infatuation? She had to know.
‘Have you talked about me in this way with Ghulam?’
‘No,’ said Fatima, ‘I am just advising you in confidence – as one woman to another.’
Libby felt wretched. But Fatima only confirmed her own fears: that the time and place would never be right for her and Ghulam. He was not the kind of man to put his own feelings or desires before his politics, and that was part of why she was attracted to him. He had spent his whole life fighting for a free and socialist India. Affairs of the heart would always be secondary. Fatima was being frank to save Libby a lot of heartache, although she couldn’t help but wish she might be the one to change Ghulam.
‘Has Ghulam ever been close to another woman?’ Libby asked.
Fatima hesitated. ‘Once, yes. He has had many casual friendships with women over the years – mostly comrades in the party – but this woman was different.’
Libby swallowed. ‘In what way? Did he love her?’
‘Yes, very much. But they argued badly – she became a fighter with the Indian National Army and accused Ghulam of betraying India. You can imagine how much that hurt him.’
‘How cruel of her,’ Libby said indignantly.
Fatima gave her a pitying look. ‘Yes, but he still keeps her photograph.’
Libby felt a stab of jealousy. ‘Where is she now?’
Fatima shrugged. ‘Probably back in Delhi where she came from. That’s if she survived the War. Ghulam never talks about her.’
Libby’s heart clenched for Ghulam and also for herself – for her hopeless love.
Fatima touched her arm gently. ‘I’m sorry but it’s best you know. I will understand if you don’t now wish to come to the meeting.’
The Secrets of the Tea Garden Page 15
