The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Perhaps we could go down to the clubhouse and play there when it’s cooler in the late afternoon,’ Libby suggested one day. ‘We could get Manzur and Dr Attar to make up a foursome – Dad says the new doctor is mad about tennis.’

  Flowers showed immediate interest. ‘That would be fun.’

  The next day, James promised to mention it when he left for the office but returned that evening with nothing arranged. By the end of the week, Libby was growing bored and restless.

  ‘Dad, please let us come with you today,’ she said on their morning ride. ‘You can drop us off at the club. Flowers is going to go home having seen nothing but Cheviot View.’

  ‘She seems happy enough,’ he answered.

  ‘She’s very easy going,’ said Libby, ‘and too polite to complain but I don’t feel we’re being very good hosts. And we still haven’t done the trip to Shillong.’

  That seemed to galvanise James. ‘Very well, I’ll drive you down to the club later.’

  The afternoon trip to the clubhouse was not a success. By the time James had driven them down the hill and dropped them off, the temperature had soared and there was not a lick of a breeze. Libby’s dress was sticking to her as if she’d been caught in the rain. Despite Libby’s protests, the young women were not allowed into the main club room and had to sit and take tea in the ladies’ room, which was deserted. They whiled away the afternoon playing half-heartedly at cards and backgammon.

  ‘Mother used to call it the hen-house,’ Libby recalled. ‘She couldn’t bear it. Said the so-called library had nothing to read except out-of-date magazines.’

  ‘It still hasn’t,’ said Flowers with a dry smile.

  ‘We kids loved coming here for socials though,’ said Libby. While the grown-ups danced and had too much to drink, we’d watch cine films and eat so much ice cream and cake that one of us was always sick on the way home.’

  ‘Sounds delightful.’ Flowers laughed. ‘We did much the same thing in the railway colony – there were always parties and dressing-up, especially at Christmas and Easter.’

  ‘It’s so hot,’ Libby sighed, fanning herself with a magazine. ‘I can’t imagine how I thought we could play tennis in this. I’ve hardly got the strength for cards. Do you want me to order more tea?’

  ‘No,’ said Flowers, ‘but I wouldn’t mind a chota peg. Is it too early?’

  ‘Not when you’re on holiday,’ said Libby. ‘But shall we go somewhere more exciting?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Dad says Manzur lives at The Lodge with the old mohurer, Anant Ram. He’s a sweetie. The bungalow is just further up this road and has one of the biggest verandas on the plantation. We could call in there if you like?’

  ‘Won’t Manzur still be at work?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Libby, ‘but we could visit Anant Ram in the meantime and wait for Manzur to come home.’

  Flowers’s mouth twitched in a coy smile. ‘Won’t your father disapprove?’

  ‘Why should he? Anant Ram is an old friend from my childhood and I haven’t had a chance to see him yet. Come on. I’ll send a chaprassy to let Dad know where we’ve gone.’

  The women borrowed bicycles from the clubhouse and cycled along to The Lodge as the sun began to lose its strength. Even though it only took minutes, Libby was beetroot red and panting as they wheeled their bicycles up the garden path towards the secluded red-roofed bungalow.

  Flowers stopped suddenly, her look alarmed. ‘Do you think this is a good idea?’

  ‘Dad really won’t mind,’ Libby reassured her. ‘And I’m not cycling any further.’

  Anant Ram, bald, skinny and in wire spectacles – looking ridiculously like pictures of Gandhi – welcomed Libby enthusiastically and summoned his youngest daughter, Charu. Libby had a vague memory of Charu from years ago and it now appeared that she was looking after her aged father. They ushered their guests on to the deep-set veranda and produced a refreshing jug of lime and soda, along with spicy snacks.

  Libby did all the talking, answering the old bookkeeper’s questions about the family and life in Britain. Only after a while did she realise that Flowers was sitting tensely on the edge of her chair, her drink almost untouched. She was still perspiring.

  ‘Are you feeling unwell, Dunlop-Mem’?’ asked Charu. ‘Perhaps you would prefer tea?’

  ‘No, no . . . thank you,’ Flowers said, her voice breathless. ‘I just feel a little faint.’

  ‘Would you like to go and bathe your face?’ Libby suggested.

  Flowers didn’t answer.

  ‘Come, please,’ said Anant’s daughter. ‘I will show you. And then you will have sweet tea.’

  Flowers followed her into the house, glancing back at Libby with an anxious expression. Libby was baffled as to why her friend should feel so uncomfortable among the affable Rams. She wondered if she should go with her but just then she heard the toot of a car horn. Minutes later, James and Manzur were joining them.

  ‘So this is where you’ve got to,’ James said, his voice affable but his look annoyed.

  Anant offered him a drink but James declined, turning to Libby. ‘Where is Miss Dunlop?’

  ‘She’s gone inside – she’s not feeling well – I think the bike ride was too much for her.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have made her cycle in the heat,’ her father chided. ‘Manzur or I could have driven you here.’

  Manzur stood glancing awkwardly between them but said nothing.

  ‘Anyway, it’s time to go home,’ said James, ‘I want to be back up the hill before sunset.’

  Libby got up. ‘I’ll go and find Flowers then.’

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom of the shuttered interior. The layout was simple: a large central sitting room with doors at either side leading off to what Libby assumed were the bedrooms. As with all the old tea bungalows, the kitchens would be in a separate building around the back.

  The walls creaked. She heard a sigh.

  ‘Flowers?’ Libby called out. There was silence. Perhaps their hostess had taken Flowers to lie down. Libby crossed the room and opened the door on the right. A ghostly light filtered through the shutters. Her eye half caught sight of a figure in the corner.

  ‘Flowers, Dad’s here and wants to go.’

  But when she turned fully towards the person, she saw that it was merely a shadow. Heart thumping, Libby retreated swiftly from the room to find Flowers hurrying out of the opposite door. All colour had drained from her face; her dark eyes were wide and her hair was stuck to her skin with sweat. She stood rigid.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Libby went quickly to her.

  ‘Can we go?’ Flowers said.

  ‘Yes, Dad’s come to fetch us. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Flowers flinched and looked behind her. ‘Don’t say that.’

  Libby laughed. ‘Sorry, I was only joking.’ She took her friend by the elbow – Flowers was shaking – and steered her out of the room.

  Charu appeared with tea just as the party were leaving. Libby was apologetic. Flowers said nothing; not even the presence of Manzur was enough to shake her out of her strange mood. James was silent on the drive home too.

  Flowers declined supper and went straight to bed. Libby ate with her father but he seemed infected by the bad atmosphere since the visit to The Lodge. Libby tried to remember what it was about the bungalow that she had heard before – some unhappy history – but she couldn’t remember.

  After the meal, James took a large whisky on to the darkened veranda. Libby picked up the days-old newspaper she had brought from the clubhouse.

  ‘Would you like me to read it to you?’ she asked. ‘Like I used to when I was learning to read.’

  ‘Not really,’ James sighed. ‘The news is too grim these days. Violence breaking out again.’

  ‘What will happen here in Assam, Dad?’ Libby asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘After Independence?’

 
; He took a sip of his drink. ‘We’ll be all right here.’

  ‘I’d read that Prime Minister Bordoloi wants to get rid of Sylhet to East Bengal,’ said Libby, ‘because of its Muslim majority. Consolidate the Hindu majority in the rest of Assam.’

  James studied his daughter. ‘You really do take an interest in politics, don’t you? I don’t know where you get that from – certainly not your mother or me. I suppose it’s that teacher of yours that’s to blame – what was her name?’

  ‘Miss MacGregor,’ said Libby. ‘And yes, I’ve her to thank for opening my eyes to the world. She made me see that everything in life is political.’

  ‘Everything?’ James scoffed.

  ‘Yes. Take this afternoon at the clubhouse,’ said Libby. ‘They’re still not letting women into the main building.’

  ‘They do for dances at Christmas race week,’ said James.

  ‘Not much use in May when we wanted a drink in a comfortable, air-conditioned sitting room.’

  ‘Well, you should have stayed here if that’s what you wanted,’ he replied. ‘I don’t see why you had to go traipsing off down the hill. Your friend looked quite ill – I hope she’s not sickening for something.’

  ‘She was fine until we got to The Lodge,’ said Libby. ‘Something unnerved her there. What is it about that place? Wasn’t there a death there years ago or some tragedy?’

  James took another swig. ‘Just some foolish gossip.’

  ‘About what?’

  Her father looked away. ‘I don’t remember the details.’

  ‘But you remember something?’

  James stared into his glass. ‘It used to be the burra bungalow when I was a young planter. But it fell out of favour – too small and not luxurious enough – that’s why Anant Ram was happy to rent it.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Libby said, a memory stirring, ‘it was supposed to be haunted. The kids at the club used to talk about it. Didn’t they change its name?’

  Her father shifted in his seat.

  ‘I’m sure they did,’ Libby persisted. ‘I remember Anant Ram saying something about it when I was little. To take away the bad luck.’

  Suddenly Flowers appeared out of the dark. James gave a startled cry.

  ‘Goodness you gave us a fright,’ said Libby. ‘Are you feeling any better?’

  ‘A little now I’ve slept,’ said Flowers, though she still looked drained. She sat down next to Libby.

  ‘Would you like a nightcap?’ asked James.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  James got up and poured her a whisky, generously replenishing his own glass. She thanked him and took a gulp.

  ‘I heard you talking about The Lodge,’ said Flowers.

  James said, ‘Libby shouldn’t have taken you. The cycle obviously exhausted y—’

  ‘I think it’s haunted,’ Flowers interrupted. ‘Going into the house made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I’ve never believed in ghosts but I’m sure I saw something.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Libby, ‘but it was only a shadow. The place is a bit creepy though.’

  ‘That’s old bungalows for you,’ said James. ‘All creaks and dark corners.’

  ‘It was more than that,’ said Flowers. ‘There was a definite presence and a terrible atmosphere.’

  ‘I think you are being fanciful,’ said James.

  ‘It was like a great cloud of sadness,’ said Flowers with a shudder. ‘Didn’t you feel it, Libby?’

  Libby was unnerved by her words. She had experienced a strange feeling in the room beyond the sitting room but that was just because it was dark. But her father seemed agitated by the conversation and she didn’t like to see him upset.

  ‘No, not really,’ she answered. ‘As Dad says, it’s just an old house.’

  Flowers asked, ‘So what was it called before it became The Lodge?’

  ‘What does it matter?’ James said short-temperedly.

  ‘Dad! She’s only asking,’ said Libby.

  James knocked back his whisky. Libby thought he wasn’t going to answer. Abruptly he said, ‘Dunsapie Cottage.’

  ‘That rings a bell,’ said Libby.

  ‘Isn’t it time you young ladies retired to bed?’ James asked.

  Flowers shivered though it wasn’t chilly. ‘I know it sounds pathetic, but can I sleep in your room tonight, Libby? I don’t feel like being on my own.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Libby said. ‘You can take my bed and I’ll go on the truckle bed. Ayah Meera sometimes slept on it next to me before Mungo was born.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Flowers said with a look of relief.

  Libby took a long time to fall asleep and when she did it was only fitful. All week she had slept deeply, drugged by the scented heat of the warm nights and the long alcohol-fuelled dinners. But she had been disturbed by the events of the day; the trip to The Lodge, Flowers’s strange reaction and her father’s reluctance to talk about the old bungalow. What was it that eluded her about the place? Where had she heard the name Dunsapie Cottage before?

  She knew there was a Dunsapie Loch in Edinburgh – her Uncle Johnny had mentioned it when reminiscing about being a student at Edinburgh University. So the bungalow had probably been named by a homesick Scotsman working at the Oxford plantation . . .

  Libby came awake with a start. Something had woken her. The sound of an animal howling? She sat up and listened. It was more of a whimpering and was coming from somewhere very close by. She scrambled off the truckle bed and peered through the mosquito net that draped over both beds.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Flowers’s voice made her jump. Her friend was swinging her legs over her bed to follow.

  ‘That noise,’ said Libby. ‘Did it wake you too?’

  ‘I haven’t been asleep,’ whispered Flowers. ‘But he wakes me every night with his crying.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘Your father.’

  ‘What?’ Libby exclaimed.

  ‘He sits on the veranda and doesn’t go to bed.’ Flowers reached for her dressing gown. ‘Haven’t you heard him before? He shouts and cries in his sleep. I’ve tried to get him to go to bed but he won’t. I think it’s the whisky giving him nightmares – or maybe it’s memories of the War.’

  Libby was aghast. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’ve wanted to but he asked me not to.’

  Libby hurried outside to the veranda, Flowers at her heels. Her father was standing gripping the veranda railing and talking to someone, his voice pleading but his words incoherent. For an instant, Libby thought he was remonstrating with one of the servants, but the veranda was deserted.

  She went to him. ‘Dad . . .’

  He swung round at her touch, confusion on his perspiring face.

  ‘No, no,’ he gasped. ‘Don’t let her!’

  ‘Dad, it’s me, Libby. You’re all right.’

  But he was staring beyond her, raw fear on his face. ‘Get her away! Tell her to go!’

  Libby glanced round to see that it was Flowers he was looking at. Libby felt a wave of shame at her father’s rudeness.

  ‘It’s Flowers – my friend,’ said Libby.

  James started babbling again.

  ‘He doesn’t see us,’ said Flowers. ‘He’s sleepwalking. We must be careful with him.’ She came forward and took him gently by the arm. ‘Come on, Mr Robson. Come and sit down and rest.’

  He seemed to respond to her soothing voice. Flowers and Libby coaxed him back into his chair.

  ‘Shouldn’t we try and get him to bed?’ whispered Libby.

  ‘He won’t go,’ said Flowers. ‘He’s frightened of falling asleep indoors.’

  As they settled him, Aslam appeared, looking sleepy but anxious.

  ‘The chowkidar woke me, Missy-Mem’,’ he said. ‘Is sahib having nightmares again?’

  ‘So you know about them?’ asked Libby.

  Aslam nodded. ‘For a long time he is having bad dreams.’

  Libby put a protective hand on
her father’s head. He was murmuring but calm. ‘He’s fine now,’ she said.

  ‘He’s not fine,’ said Flowers. ‘Your father’s mind is disturbed.’

  Libby’s insides tensed; she didn’t want to believe he could be mentally ill. ‘It was all that silly talk about The Lodge being haunted that upset him,’ Libby said firmly. ‘I should never have brought up the subject.’

  ‘The Lodge, memsahib? What has sahib been saying?’

  Libby’s heart lurched at the bearer’s anxious expression.

  ‘Nothing much,’ she said. ‘Do you know what could be worrying him in particular, Aslam?’

  The servant glanced away. ‘I cannot say. But it is a bad place. I do not like Manzur living there.’

  ‘I wouldn’t live there if you paid me,’ said Flowers.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ Libby hissed, ‘you’re all over-reacting. It’s just an old bungalow.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m over-reacting,’ Flowers said. ‘But whether I am or not, your father needs medical help.’

  ‘Shall I call for Dr Attar?’ Aslam asked.

  Libby shook her head. ‘No point dragging him out at this time of night just ’cause Dad’s had a bad dream. I’ll sit with him till the morning. When he’s awake we can decide what to do.’

  ‘I’ll sit up with you,’ said Flowers.

  ‘There’s no need – you go back to bed.’

  ‘No,’ said Flowers, ‘I’m a nurse: let me help.’

  James was in a buoyant mood; two days ago he had shot his first tiger. A clean shot through the neck and a follow-up bullet between the eyes. An old tiger, admittedly, but it had still taken skill to track and kill it. Fairfax told him that the taxidermist would be able to repair the damage to the head and it would make a prized trophy on the sitting room wall at Cheviot View.

  He was sauntering out of the office for tiffin when he saw a commotion at the gates. Someone was remonstrating with the guard. Hurrying over, James was surprised to see the punkah-wallah from Dunsapie Cottage.

  ‘What’s all this fuss about?’ he demanded.

  ‘Please, sahib, come!’ Sunil Ram pleaded. ‘Oh, master . . . !’

  James’s stomach clenched at the look of distress on the man’s face. ‘What’s wrong, man?’