The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Libby was startled by the idea. She still treasured the amusing, friendly letter that Ghulam had written to her in Calcutta offering to show her the city. She had read it so many times it was in danger of falling to bits. How she would love to hear from him again! Yet she doubted he would want to write to her so she shrugged off the suggestion.

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m not the kind to pine away over a man.’

  Flowers laughed. ‘No, I’ve noticed. Shall I give your regards to George if I see him?’

  ‘Regards, yes, but nothing more.’ Libby grinned. ‘I’m still fond of him even though he doesn’t deserve it. But don’t tell him that.’

  It was true that she still felt something for the pleasure-seeking George Brewis, but it wasn’t as strong as her feelings for Ghulam. Best to put them both out of her mind. It looked like she would be at Belgooree for some time and it was her father who needed her attention. That was her priority.

  Libby felt sorry waving Flowers away – she had enjoyed her company – but felt a tinge of relief too. Her father seemed to have been on edge having Flowers around. Libby hoped fervently that his health would repair more quickly in the tranquil surroundings of Belgooree – and that she would get her old dad back.

  Libby breathed in the cool scented air of the dawn. Her spirits lifted. Her mother had loved coming here; there was something very special about this place. She turned and walked back to the bungalow, glad that she wasn’t leaving just yet.

  CHAPTER 17

  Newcastle, late May

  Since Sam’s fortieth birthday at the end of April, Adela had been attending church on a Sunday morning. The congregation of the Gospel Missionary Church met in a small redbrick building in Sandyford, a modest suburb of railway workers’ terraces. Their grander church had been destroyed during the War.

  ‘Don’t know why you want to go there instead of St Oswald’s with me,’ Tilly had said in bafflement. ‘I bet the sermon’s twice as long and you don’t get all the local gossip afterwards.’

  ‘Lexy likes to go,’ Adela had said, ‘so I said I’d take her.’

  Sam had given her sceptical looks but didn’t question her sudden interest in religion. They didn’t talk about much any more. Her attempt to give him a special birthday by inviting his mother to a picnic tea in the local park had been a disaster. The cake Adela had made collapsed in the tin and Mrs Jackman had spent the afternoon chiding Adela for not asking her to make it. A dog had run off with the cold sausages and rain finally chased them indoors. Sam had taken his mother home and didn’t return in time for Adela to take him to the cinema. By then she had polished off a bottle of sherry with Josey in the kitchen while Tilly worked in the sitting room on the stamp collection she was building up since leaving her old one in India.

  Adela had not been able to hide her annoyance. ‘Your mother knew we were going to the pictures. I really wanted to see Black Narcissus.’

  ‘We can go another night,’ Sam had said, eyeing the empty bottle. ‘Anyway, you seem to have made the best of your evening without me.’

  ‘At least Josey knows how to have fun,’ Adela had retorted.

  ‘Leave me out of this,’ Josey had said, getting up from the table. ‘You lovebirds need time alone.’

  Adela had tried to curb her resentment at Sam’s mother spoiling the birthday but in bed that night, she pretended a headache so they didn’t make love.

  ‘Drinking too much gives you that,’ Sam had muttered and rolled away from her.

  Adela had lain awake feeling wretched and wracked with guilt. Why had her interest in sex shrivelled so quickly? It wasn’t that she didn’t love Sam, so what was the problem? But after that, Sam only spoke to her about the mundane day-to-day running of the café and kept out of her way. His commissions for wedding photography were increasing and took him all over Newcastle. On Sundays he went off with his camera on long walks and sometimes didn’t return until suppertime. Adela knew that she should be putting more effort into her marriage but all she could think about was tracking down her lost son.

  She felt achingly alone. Why did Sam not understand her yearning to find her boy? Surely, he of all people should realise how she felt? He had been wrenched from his mother at an early age and knew how damaging it was to have the mother-son bond severed. If only he would let her talk about it, she could make him understand, but he never brought up the subject. Adela consoled herself with the hope that finding her son would bring her and Sam together again in a common purpose – loving John Wesley and giving him a home. That was her unspoken dream; it’s what kept her going through the relentless drudgery and worry of running the café. She would patch things up with Sam soon.

  At least Lexy still understood her need to find John Wesley. When Adela had shown her the letter from the Reverend Stevens of the mission society, her friend had been indignant at its patronising tone. ‘Thinks he’s better than the likes of us lasses – the cheek of it!’ It had spurred her on to help in the search.

  It was Maggie, Lexy’s old friend, who had remembered the name of the women who had come from the mission church to take away Adela’s baby in 1939. Mrs Singer and Miss Trimble.

  ‘Reminded me of sewing machines and thimble,’ Maggie had said in a rare moment of lucidity. ‘Singer and Trimble.’

  Adela had tracked down the congregation – now reduced to a couple of dozen mostly female attendees – to the small hall in Sandyford. Lexy had agreed to go with her if Adela would drive her in the café van. This had been another cause of friction with Sam, when he’d wanted the van to get to an outlying village to take photos at a christening. Tilly had quelled the argument by offering Sam her car instead.

  It was three Sundays before Adela plucked up the courage to ask about Singer and Trimble. She stayed behind to talk to the elderly preacher.

  ‘Miss Trimble died last year,’ the pastor said. ‘But Mrs Singer is still very much with us, I believe. How do you know her?’

  Adela hesitated. Lexy said, ‘She used to come in the tearoom where I worked. Lost touch during the War. It would be canny to see her again.’

  ‘I’m afraid she doesn’t live in Newcastle any more,’ the preacher said.

  ‘Where is she?’ asked Adela.

  He frowned. ‘I think it was Durham. She went to live with her daughter.’

  Adela’s insides twisted in disappointment. ‘Do you know where?’

  He gave her an enquiring look. ‘I’m not sure I do.’

  ‘But you know she’s still alive?’ Adela persisted.

  ‘She keeps in touch with Mrs Kelly, the organist.’ He looked around. ‘It would appear she’s already gone home.’

  Adela could hardly curb her impatience for the following Sunday morning to come. She made sure that she spoke to Mrs Kelly before she left church. The woman was large and wheezed as loudly as the bellows on the ancient organ that she wrestled with each week.

  She beamed at the mention of her friend. ‘I was that sad when Lily moved away. But her daughter married and settled down Durham way and Lily was already widowed so she followed her. Friends of hers you said? Not regular church people though? Lovely voice you have, pet. Noticed it straight away. Makes a difference to the hymns.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Adela smiled. ‘We were wondering if you could put us in touch with Mrs Singer – with Lily. The minister said you’d know her address.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure she’d like a letter from an old friend,’ Mrs Kelly agreed. ‘My memory’s like a sieve but I’ve got it written down. I’ll bring it for you next Sunday.’

  With a warning look from Lexy, Adela hid her frustration. ‘That’s canny of you, Mrs Kelly,’ said Lexy. ‘We’ll see you next week.’

  It was early June before Adela got the address for Lily Singer. Afterwards Lexy said, ‘Does that mean I divn’t have to gan to church again? That preacher could put me to sleep standing up.’

  ‘I really appreciated you coming – but you can have a lie-in from now on,’ Adela said.
/>   ‘So are you going to write to her?’ Lexy asked.

  ‘No, I’m going to go over and visit her.’

  Lexy shook her head. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. You can’t just turn up on her doorstep.’

  ‘If I write she will just palm me off with the usual reply that she can’t tell me where John Wesley is.’

  ‘And what if she never knew where he was sent?’ Lexy asked.

  ‘Then I won’t be any worse off than I am now,’ said Adela. ‘At least if I can look her in the eye, I’ll be able to tell if she knows something.’

  Lexy scrutinised her. ‘And are you going to tell Sam why you’re waltzing off to Durham?’

  Adela felt a familiar pang of guilt over Sam. ‘I don’t think so. Not until I have something worth telling him. He’ll only get annoyed at me. I don’t think he really wants me to find my son at all.’

  ‘Well, maybe’s he’s right,’ Lexy said bluntly. ‘You should be looking to start your own family together. That’s the best way to get over losing the bairn.’

  Adela gave her a bleak look. ‘That’s the problem – I can’t.’ She tried to put her deepest feelings into words. ‘It’s like I would be betraying John Wesley by having another baby.’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’

  ‘I know it sounds selfish of me – Sam longs for a child – but once we have one then I’m admitting that I’ve given up on my boy. And I just can’t bring myself to do that.’

  ‘Stop being so hard on yersel’, hinny,’ Lexy said with a pitying look. ‘You did what any young lass would have done in your position.’

  Adela’s look was full of sorrow. ‘I can’t help it. And I won’t ever forgive myself if I don’t find out what’s happened to my boy.’

  ‘Then you must let Sam know how you feel,’ said Lexy. ‘’Cause he’s going around with the look of a dog that’s been kicked.’

  Adela winced. ‘I just need to meet this Mrs Singer and find out what happened – then I’ll be able to put it behind me.’

  Lexy gave her a look of disbelief which left Adela feeling hollow inside. She didn’t want to hurt the people she loved the most but she had to find out about John Wesley or she would go out of her mind.

  After Adela had time to think it through, she realised it would be better to write to Mrs Singer first rather than risk travelling to Durham to find she wasn’t at home. She wrote a vague letter saying that she had recently joined the church and wished to meet so she could talk to Lily about her work with the adoption society. Lily Singer wrote back inviting her to visit on her next day off.

  On the following Saturday afternoon, Adela arranged for Josey to cover for her at the café. She chose that day knowing that Sam was being hired by a local newspaper to take pictures of people at the annual races and would be out all day. Only Lexy and Josey knew where she was going.

  That morning, Sam was in a good mood with his day of photography ahead.

  ‘What do you want to do for your birthday next week?’ he asked. ‘Would you like to go to the pictures? There’s a Ronald Colman film on at the Gaumont.’

  She was touched that he had given it some thought and felt a guilty pang that she was going behind his back to see Mrs Singer.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she agreed.

  ‘Good,’ he said with a smile – that familiar dimpled smile that used to make her stomach do flips.

  She almost confessed there and then about tracking down the woman from the adoption society but didn’t want to wipe the cherished smile from his handsome face. She would explain everything to him when they had time alone on her birthday.

  ‘Off you go,’ said Adela, brushing his lips with a quick kiss. ‘You don’t want to be late for Plate Day.’

  He strode from the house, whistling. It was the first time she’d heard that for weeks. Adela’s insides tightened with sudden anxiety; she hoped what she learnt from Mrs Singer wouldn’t drive a wedge further between her and Sam.

  As Adela walked down the steep hill from Durham railway station in warm sunshine, the Cathedral bells were striking three o’clock. She had only ever seen the city from the train – the fortress cathedral set on its wooded peninsula – and if she hadn’t been so intent on seeing Mrs Singer she would have been curious to see more.

  Following instructions that took her under a viaduct, Adela descended into tightly packed terraces of blackened brick houses and on down a wider street of shops that led to an ancient stone bridge spanning the River Wear. Crumbling housing clung to the riverbank on one side, while the other was crammed with twisting lanes flanked by tall elegant buildings. The narrow streets were busy with shoppers and traffic. It struck her how Sam would enjoy photographing all this.

  Quelling thoughts of her husband, Adela walked briskly on through the market place, where a policeman was directing traffic from a central box, and made for the far side. Here the street banked steeply once again. She was perspiring and breathless by the time she climbed to the top of Claypath and turned into a cluster of terraced housing.

  Adela’s heart was drumming with nerves as she knocked on Lily Singer’s door. She was surprised to see a dark-haired woman not much older than herself answer it.

  ‘You’ve come to see Mam?’ she asked.

  Adela swallowed and nodded, realising this was Lily’s daughter.

  ‘Come in. I’m Dorothy.’ She opened the door wide so Adela could step into the tiny hallway. ‘Mam’s just in there.’ She pointed to an open door. ‘Mam! Your visitor is here.’ She turned and beckoned Adela into the room. ‘Go on in, I’ll bring tea in a minute.’

  From somewhere deeper in the house, Adela could hear the chatter of children’s voices.

  She stepped into a small, neat sitting room which felt chilly after the heat of outside. The furniture was plain and functional: an oval table with wooden chairs, and an upright green sofa with wooden arms. Sitting in a high-backed chair next to it was a stout woman with badly swollen legs. Lily Singer had wavy greying hair and a double chin which increased when she smiled, which, judging by the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, was often.

  ‘Forgive me if I don’t stand up, Mrs Jackman,’ she said. ‘My legs aren’t what they used to be.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, Mrs Singer,’ Adela said quickly, crossing the room to shake her hand. It still surprised her when people called her by her married name: she still thought of herself as a Robson.

  ‘Please sit down,’ said Lily, waving her to the sofa. ‘It’s so nice to get a visit – I don’t see many folk these days.’

  Adela perched on the edge of the sofa and smoothed her skirt over her knees. It was a plain utility one to go with the modest blouse and cardigan she was wearing; she wanted to impress on Mrs Singer that she was a respectable married woman. At Lily’s feet was a basket of wool and some abandoned knitting.

  ‘What are you knitting?’ Adela asked, for something to say.

  ‘Jumper for my grandson.’ Lily smiled. ‘I’ve unravelled two old jerkins that my husband used to wear. Our Michael says he doesn’t like brown but I’ve told him waste-not-want-not. Fancy being eight years old and fussy about clothes!’

  Adela’s stomach fluttered. Lily’s grandson was the same age as John Wesley. For a wild moment, she wondered if it was possible that this woman might have kept the baby herself. Perhaps daughter Dorothy couldn’t have children.

  ‘Is he your only grandchild?’ Adela asked.

  ‘No, I’ve got five in all,’ said Lily. ‘Dorothy’s three and my other daughter has twins. I don’t see them as much as they live in Cumberland but I knit for them too. Like to keep busy – ’specially as I don’t get out the house much.’

  Adela felt a kick of disappointment, yet she would still like to see this Michael just to be sure. Then doubt gripped her. Would she know if it was John Wesley or not? How would she recognise a boy she hadn’t seen since he was a few days old? Adela nearly lost her nerve. She shouldn’t have come. She was here under false pretences and poor
unsuspecting Mrs Singer didn’t deserve to be put in this situation.

  ‘But I’ve got nothing to complain about,’ Lily continued. ‘I’m blessed to have my grandchildren – they’ve kept me going since my dear husband was taken from me five years ago.’

  Adela licked her dry lips and nodded, trying to calm her erratic heartbeat. ‘Mrs Kelly sends her warmest regards.’

  ‘Dear Doris!’ Lily exclaimed. ‘How I miss her and the folk from church. Tell me all about them.’

  Adela tried to answer Lily’s many questions about the congregation and the move to the Sandyford hall but it was obvious the woman was disappointed with her lack of detailed knowledge.

  ‘I haven’t been going there very long,’ Adela admitted. ‘But they’ve been very welcoming.’

  ‘They are, aren’t they?’ agreed Lily. ‘So tell me about yourself, Mrs Jackman.’

  Adela hadn’t really wanted to say much about herself but Lily had a warmth of personality that invited confidences. She found herself telling the widow about being brought up in India, marrying Sam and coming back to Newcastle to help run the family tearoom founded by her mother.

  ‘You see my family were from the North East originally. My Belhaven grandfather was from North Northumberland and I have an aunt and cousins in Newcastle.’

  Mrs Singer’s eyes were wide with interest. ‘Which tearoom is it?’

  ‘Herbert’s,’ said Adela, ‘in the West End.’

  Lily nodded enthusiastically. ‘I remember going there when Dorothy was little. There was that nice park nearby. We’d go there for a cup of tea and the lady in charge would always give Dorothy a toffee. Would that be your mother?’

  ‘Probably the manageress Lexy.’ Adela smiled. ‘Mother went back to India with my father after the Great War.’

  They were interrupted by Dorothy bringing in a tray of tea things, a girl of about three following and clinging on to her skirt while peering at the visitor. She reminded Adela of fair-haired little Bonnie.

  ‘Hello.’ Adela smiled at her. ‘What’s your name?’