The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Harry. ‘Can people vote against it?’

  Clarrie held up her hand. ‘Listen, he’s saying something about Bengal and Assam.’

  ‘. . . but I want to make it clear that the ultimate boundaries will be settled by a boundary commission and will almost certainly not be identical with those which have been provisionally adopted.’

  ‘Provisional?’ James echoed in bewilderment. ‘What provisional boundaries?’

  ‘They must have made an attempt at drawing state borders,’ said Libby unhappily. ‘So that people have an idea of what partition might look like. How else can they vote on it?’

  ‘Will Assam be split in half too?’ Harry asked anxiously.

  As they questioned his words, Mountbatten was speaking about the Sikhs and his sorrow to think that the partition of the Punjab would definitely split them but saying that they would be represented on the boundary commission.

  ‘The whole plan may not be perfect, but like all plans its success will depend on the spirit of good will with which it is carried out. I have always felt that once it was decided in what way to transfer power, the transfer should take place at the earliest possible moment . . .’

  They listened to him explaining that the British Government would transfer power to either one or two new governments with Dominion status rather than wait a long time for a whole new constitutional set-up for India to be agreed.

  ‘This I hope will be within the next few months. I’m glad to announce that his Majesty’s Government have accepted this proposal and are already having legislation prepared . . . Thus the way is now open to an arrangement by which power can be transferred many months earlier than the most optimistic of us thought possible, and at the same time leave it to the people of British India to decide for themselves on their future . . . This is no time for bickering, much less for the continuation in any shape or form of the disorders and lawlessness of the past few months. We cannot afford any toleration of violence. All of us are agreed on that . . . I have faith in the future of India and I am proud to be with you all at this momentous time. May your decisions be wisely guided and may they be carried out in the peaceful and friendly spirit of the Gandhi-Jinnah appeal.’

  As soon as Mountbatten finished and handed over to Nehru to speak next, the room erupted with more questions.

  ‘So will there be one India or two countries?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Sounds like partition is coming,’ said Clarrie.

  ‘He kept saying if partition is chosen,’ Libby pointed out. ‘It’s still not a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘I don’t see how it can be otherwise,’ Clarrie said, her face etched with sadness.

  ‘Mountbatten is washing his hands of it all,’ said James in agitation, ‘like Pontius Pilate.’

  ‘What else can he do?’ Clarrie said. ‘He can’t get any of the warring sides to agree.’

  ‘He could knock some heads together,’ insisted James.

  ‘He could give it more time,’ said Libby, annoyed by Clarrie’s fatalism. ‘He’s only been here two months. Gandhi took weeks of talking and listening to get enemies to stop killing each other. Mountbatten hasn’t tried hard enough.’

  ‘It’s easy to criticise,’ said Clarrie, ‘when we aren’t the ones making the difficult decisions.’

  Libby was stung by the remark. ‘But he’s taking the easy way out by blaming the mess on the other parties and saying Indians will have to decide over partition when he has no other plan.’

  Clarrie sighed and sat back, her hand slipping from James’s arm. Libby could see she didn’t want to argue. How she wished Ghulam was with her as the news was breaking; she longed to know what he was thinking of it all. Would he be hunched around a wireless set with Fatima or listening at work?

  ‘So when is Britain going to hand over to the Indians?’ Harry asked.

  ‘He talked about months rather than next year,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps by the cold season. At least Mountbatten’s not reneging on that.’

  ‘Far from it,’ said Clarrie. ‘And he offered that British officials and officers would stay and help if they were asked.’

  ‘Does that mean we’ll be allowed to stay at Belgooree?’ Harry’s serious expression lightened.

  ‘Of course it does,’ said Clarrie. ‘It’s our home.’

  Libby bit back the retort that they didn’t even know what country this part of Assam might end up in, let alone if they would be welcome to stay on. But she didn’t want to frighten Harry, even if Clarrie’s avoidance of the issue irritated her.

  ‘And what about you, Uncle James?’ asked Harry. ‘Will you carry on at the Oxford like you always have?’

  Libby saw doubt flicker across her father’s face.

  ‘I don’t know,’ James said. ‘It’s all so uncertain . . .’

  It shocked Libby to see her father’s reluctance; she never thought the day would come when he would contemplate leaving Cheviot View for good. But since coming to Belgooree, he had shown no interest in going back to their home. In fact, he hardly talked about the Oxford at all.

  Clarrie was soothing. ‘You don’t have to make any final decisions yet.’ She patted his hand. ‘Would you like us to turn off the wireless?’

  Libby glanced at the servants behind who were murmuring anxiously amongst themselves.

  ‘Let’s hear what Nehru and Jinnah have to say,’ Libby suggested. ‘We might get more clarity and the servants have a right to hear it.’

  She saw Clarrie flush. ‘Of course they do; that was selfish of me.’

  Nehru was speaking in Hindi. As the others listened intently, Libby didn’t like to admit she understood almost nothing of what was said. Then Jinnah spoke in English on behalf of the Muslim League.

  ‘That’s because his Urdu’s not good enough to address his own people in it,’ muttered James.

  By the end of the broadcast, Libby was left in no doubt that Jinnah was demanding a separate Muslim state called Pakistan. Ghulam would be desolate at the news; all his worst fears appeared to be coming to fruition.

  ‘But where will this Pakistan be?’ asked Harry.

  No one seemed able to answer his question. Libby felt a jolt of alarm at the look of consternation on the face of Mohammed Din. The khansama was usually so genial, as if nothing could upset his mild nature. Libby wondered if he had family back in the Punjab. She remembered hearing that Mohammed Din – or M.D. as the family affectionately called him – had been Wesley Robson’s servant in his bachelor days and had come to work at Belgooree after Wesley and Clarrie’s marriage.

  At that moment, it hit Libby how huge were the ramifications of the announcement of possible partition. It was too late for political debates in the council chambers or demonstrations in the streets. Partition – that amputation of India that Ghulam and others had spent the last year trying to prevent – was looming. This room was full of people from different communities who didn’t know how independence would change their lives. Across the Subcontinent, this same uncertainty must be striking doubt and fear into millions of others.

  Later that evening, they sat subdued on the veranda, saying little yet not wanting to retire to the solitariness of their own rooms.

  Clarrie tried to rally their spirits with a potful of the new second-flush tea and by playing Wesley’s old Gilbert and Sullivan records on the gramophone. James hummed along and shared some in-joke with Clarrie about major-generals. But Harry kept asking questions and probing them for answers.

  ‘What about the princely states? Will they just carry on as before?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Clarrie. ‘The British government can only decide what happens to the bits of India under British rule, not the parts belonging to the maharajahs.’

  ‘So even if Pakistan doesn’t happen,’ said Harry, ‘there won’t be just one big India, will there? There’ll be India plus lots of separate states.’

  ‘Unless the new India persuades the princes to join the new country,�
�� suggested Libby.

  ‘Why would they do that?’ said Harry. ‘If I was a maharajah I wouldn’t want to give up my land.’

  ‘Their people might want the benefits of being part of a new country with a constitution and citizens’ rights,’ said Libby, ‘so they might be forced to.’

  ‘Or bought off with large pensions,’ grunted James.

  ‘What do you think will happen in Gulgat?’ asked Harry. ‘Will Sanjay want to carry on being rajah and do you think the Khans will stay?’

  Libby saw Clarrie stiffen. She felt a pang of pity for the widow: every time Gulgat was mentioned, Clarrie must think of her husband’s gruesome death there.

  ‘Why shouldn’t the Khans stay?’ said James.

  ‘Rafi and Sophie are Muslims,’ said Harry. ‘Won’t they have to go to Pakistan?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Clarrie. ‘No one is going to be forced to go if they don’t want to.’

  Libby’s stomach somersaulted at the mention of Ghulam’s brother and sister-in-law. In confidence, Ghulam had told her how Rafi had been considering migrating to Pakistan if it became a reality. She wondered how vulnerable Ghulam and Fatima might be in a Calcutta fought over by Hindus and Muslims.

  ‘Ghulam Khan says the new India will be secular,’ Libby said stoutly, ‘and all faiths and none will be welcome to stay.’

  Her father shot her a look. ‘A bad dose of wishful thinking,’ he muttered.

  ‘So all the violence should stop now,’ said Harry, looking happier. ‘If all sides are agreeing about the future.’

  ‘Let’s hope so, darling,’ said Clarrie. ‘That’s what the leaders are urging.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Then even if people vote for partition there should be no need for fighting because they’ll have got what they want.’

  ‘But I don’t believe it is what most Indians want,’ said Libby. ‘It’s a rushed plan. The British should be handing over to a united India and then they can make their own decisions.’

  Harry frowned. ‘But they’re rushing it because of the violence, aren’t they? They want to stop the killings.’

  Libby looked at Clarrie’s young son; he was mature beyond his years. She remembered Harry’s father Wesley as being forthright and decisive, organising the children into games and taking a great interest in people. Harry was like his father in more than just looks.

  ‘Let’s hope that this announcement will calm things,’ said Clarrie, placing a hand gently on her son’s head. ‘We must pray for a peaceful handover.’

  ‘I wonder when it will be,’ said Harry.

  Libby smiled at him. ‘Perhaps by the time of your fourteenth birthday in October,’ she suggested.

  ‘Who knows?’ James sighed.

  They fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts as the jungle beyond stirred restlessly in the hot night.

  Startling news reached them a few days later. At the weekend, Manzur arrived unexpectedly from the Oxford bearing The Statesman newspaper.

  Harry, with Breckon at his heels, went dashing out to meet him. Manzur’s handsome face lit up with pleasure as he caught sight of Libby on the veranda steps.

  As he approached, he said, ‘I didn’t think you’d still be here.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘The pull of the city . . . ?’ He gave her an amused, quizzical look.

  Libby smiled. ‘I’m a country girl at heart, remember.’

  ‘How is Robson sahib?’

  ‘Snoozing inside. Come up and have a drink. I’ll play hostess as Cousin Clarrie is at the factory.’

  Libby led him out of the sultry heat into the deep shade of the veranda. Harry followed like his shadow. As Manzur sat down, he handed Libby the newspaper. Her heart lurched.

  ‘Is this a recent edition? Does it tell about Mountbatten’s announcement?’

  Manzur nodded. ‘And the press conference. I thought I’d come over and tell your father in case he hadn’t heard.’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘The date for the hand-over.’ His brown eyes shone with suppressed excitement.

  ‘The day for Independence?’ Harry queried.

  Manzur nodded.

  ‘When?’ Libby’s heart began to pound.

  ‘August the fifteenth.’

  She stared at him. ‘August this year?’

  He nodded. ‘It seems to have caught everyone by surprise.’

  ‘So soon?’ Libby gasped. ‘But I thought there were to be votes on partition and all sorts of arrangements to be made . . . ?’

  Manzur said, ‘It will all have to be done in the next few weeks – many Hindu astrologers are saying the date is inauspicious and terrible things will happen if it falls on the fifteenth. It’s thrown a cat at the pigeons.’

  Despite the gravity of his news, Libby couldn’t suppress a smile.

  ‘What is funny?’ he asked.

  ‘The expression is to “put a cat among the pigeons”,’ she said. ‘Not throw one at them.’

  Manzur gave her a bashful smile. ‘Well, it has the same effect.’

  ‘So is this good or bad news?’ Harry asked, unsure.

  Libby and Manzur exchanged glances. He shrugged.

  ‘It’s hard to say,’ said Libby.

  ‘Time will tell,’ said Manzur, with an expressive gesture of the hands.

  Manzur could not linger as the Oxford plantation factory was at full production for the ‘second flush’ of tea. It surprised Libby that her father showed scant interest in Manzur’s updates on the plantation. It was as if he had shut his mind off to the Oxford Estates and didn’t want to think about them. When she tried to talk to him about it he grew agitated.

  ‘Manzur and the others can cope without me.’

  On the other hand, James seemed more interested in what was going on at Belgooree and in recent days had begun accompanying Clarrie on her early morning rides to inspect the tea garden. Libby was glad that her father was showing a renewed interest in life and regaining some of his former energy. But she couldn’t help a twinge of jealousy at these dawn rides and it alarmed her to see him becoming more and more settled at Belgooree and content in Clarrie’s company to the exclusion of others.

  In dismay, Libby witnessed a deepening fondness between Clarrie and James. What if this grew out of control and her father abandoned any thought of being reconciled with her mother? She had such mixed feelings about her cousin’s widow. In childhood she had loved her visits to Belgooree; Clarrie had been so warm-hearted and always made a fuss of Tilly’s children. But in those days she had been Wesley’s wife and no rival to Tilly in any way; in fact, her father had made critical remarks about Clarrie in front of the children for which Tilly would admonish him.

  ‘You can’t bear the thought of Clarrie being a successful tea planter because she’s a woman!’ Tilly accused him.

  ‘That has nothing to do with it,’ James blustered.

  ‘Well then, you’re a snob, James. You don’t like Clarrie because she’s not quite pukka.’

  Now that she was grown-up, Libby knew that what her mother had meant was that Clarrie was Anglo-Indian. Her father had carried the usual prejudices of his generation towards those of mixed blood in India, whereas her mother had not. It hadn’t struck Libby before that her sense of fairness and justice might have been instilled by Tilly long before the influence of Libby’s teacher, Miss MacGregor.

  At a distance, Libby was beginning to view her mother differently. She could imagine how overwhelming it must have been for Tilly – at the age that Libby was now and having grown up in a northern city – to come out to this remote part of India. Everything would have been bewilderingly alien: the landscape, the climate, the people, the seasons, the heat and the strict hierarchical rules of a colonial society that lingered in India even though they were changing in the home country.

  It was only with the onset of the stifling, pre-monsoon heat that Libby had recalled her mother’s plaintive comments: ‘It’s like sitting in soup’ and ‘Oh, fo
r a downpour of cold British rain!’

  Libby remembered her mother’s inability to cope with the summer heat, driven to distraction by prickly heat and swollen ankles. None of the family had been sympathetic and Libby had never understood why Tilly had never followed James’s advice. ‘A morning ride before chota hazri would set you up for the day, my girl. You’ll go as mouldy as one of your books if you stew indoors.’

  Her poor mother! Libby felt a twinge of remorse at the way she had berated Tilly for not returning to India with her. Her mother was happy in Newcastle with her many interests and friends. What would she do out here in Assam? Who would be her kindred spirits? There was her mother’s old friend Sophie Khan. But Sophie lived a day’s drive away from Cheviot View in Gulgat and who knew for how much longer she would remain there? And there was Clarrie. Libby’s insides twisted with anxiety. Clarrie was making James’s life too easy here. She was not helping James’s marriage.

  Libby couldn’t help feeling sorry for Clarrie: she had lost her husband so cruelly and abruptly, and everyone talked of what a devoted couple Clarrie and Wesley had been. But Clarrie was bound to be lonely and she was still an attractive woman. Libby didn’t think Clarrie would be deliberately trying to steal James away from Tilly, but circumstances had thrown them together during the War. Libby was well aware that affairs had been commonplace when couples had been forced apart for years on end. Libby couldn’t allow this to happen to her parents.

  For the first time since returning to the country of her birth, Libby began to wonder if perhaps it really would be better for James to leave India and return to Britain. Not only his marriage but his health was suffering out here. Unpalatable as it was, she had to admit that her father’s mental state was fragile and could probably not be fixed by rest and fresh air alone. Maybe she had been wrong to try and force the family together in Assam. Their childhood idyll could not be recreated – and Libby had to face the uncomfortable truth that Cheviot View might never have been as idyllic as she had remembered.