The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  She slipped her arm through his and laid her head against his shoulder.

  ‘Give Mother and the boys my love, won’t you?’ she added.

  James nodded and kissed the top of her head – a gesture Libby recalled from childhood. He said almost to himself, ‘This is the way I will always remember India – at daybreak with all the promise of a new day.’

  For a moment her father’s face looked serene, wiped of his habitual frown and haunted look. Libby thought how much younger he looked – more like the man she remembered, with the strong chin and vital blue eyes. Her eyes stung at the bittersweet thought that she had found her father again just at the moment his time in India was coming to an end.

  In the distance they heard a call to prayer. Then the gong went for breakfast and, with a sigh, James straightened his broad shoulders and turned back to the house. Libby walked by his side, still holding on to his arm.

  The day her father left Calcutta, Libby had planned to help the Watsons with sorting out their possessions for packing. But the scenes she had witnessed at the railway station were too disturbing. With the two weeks she had before returning to Belgooree, she knew she had to spend them helping the refugees in any way she could.

  A distracted Helena offered to put her in touch with the Guide commissioner.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Libby, ‘but I’m going to find Fatima at the hospital and see if I can help her women’s charity.’

  ‘That sounds far too dangerous,’ said Helena, frowning.

  ‘It’s really not,’ Libby assured her. ‘They’re just distributing food and clothing.’

  ‘Well, our driver Kiran will take you over there,’ Helena insisted.

  That afternoon, when Libby was dropped off at the Eden hospital, she told Kiran she would ring the house if she needed collecting.

  After half an hour of trying to track down Fatima, she was told that the doctor was not at the hospital. She was running a mobile clinic downriver. Libby recalled that Ghulam had written about his sister’s work there and how refugees were arriving on overcrowded country boats from East Bengal almost daily.

  Libby got the administrator to write down the name of the clinic and draw a map. Returning to the street, she hailed a taxi.

  ‘Chowringhee Square, please,’ she instructed. ‘The Statesman offices.’

  In the lobby of the newspaper office, Libby asked to see Ghulam. While a message was sent upstairs, she retreated to a seat by the wall, her insides churning. Libby saw Ghulam before he saw her. Her heart thumped at the sight of his handsome face and unruly dark hair as he clattered down the stairs, shirtsleeves rolled up over muscled hairy arms, searching the hallway for her. She got up and hurried towards him.

  ‘Libby!’ The smile he gave her made her legs go weak. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She felt breathless as she replied in a gush. ‘Dad left today. I was looking for Fatima at the hospital. I want to help. I saw so many refugees at the station. I thought you might be able to take me . . . to the clinic, I mean . . .’ Her words dried up as he scrutinised her with his vivid green eyes.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said.

  ‘And you too,’ she said huskily. ‘I’ve really enjoyed your letters – and writing to you.’

  ‘So have I.’ He held her look for a moment before glancing round distractedly. ‘Listen, I’m sorry but I have to report on a meeting now. Fatima will be back home this evening. Why don’t you call on her tomorrow at the hospital and tell her you’d like to help?’

  Libby felt a pang of disappointment. ‘I could call round this evening.’

  ‘It’s not safe to be out after dark,’ he said. ‘Things are very tense in certain parts of the city. Tomorrow would be better. I’ll let Fatima know you’ll be coming.’

  Libby nodded. ‘Tomorrow then.’

  He touched her arm briefly. ‘I’ll walk you to the tram.’

  As they stepped into the sweltering heat, Libby tried to think of things to say to keep him beside her as long as possible. But most of her news she had already told in her letters. Now that they were together, face-to-face, they were strangely bashful.

  As they reached the tram stand, Ghulam asked, ‘So you decided not to go home with your father? Does that mean you’re staying on in India?’

  Libby’s insides twisted. ‘Only temporarily. I promised Sophie I’d spend Independence Day with her at Belgooree as she doesn’t think she’ll be able to join Rafi before then. And then I’ve agreed with Dad that I’ll go back to Britain to be with the family.’

  Ghulam nodded. She couldn’t read his expression.

  ‘But I’ve got two weeks in Calcutta before all that,’ Libby added hastily.

  ‘Two weeks,’ he echoed, giving a half-smile. ‘We’ll have to make the most of them then, won’t we?’

  Libby’s heart raced at his words. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, smiling back.

  Yet too soon, she found herself waving Ghulam goodbye and clambering on to the tram for Alipore. Frustration overwhelmed her at seeing him so briefly.

  The following day, Libby tracked down Fatima at the busy women’s hospital. The doctor seemed pleased at Libby’s offer of support.

  ‘Can you use your British contacts to drum up help?’ Fatima asked.

  ‘What sort of help?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Donations. Second-hand clothes – cooking pots – tents – anything they might be throwing out rather than taking back to Britain with them.’

  Libby’s stomach knotted. Fatima was already assuming that Libby and her British family and friends would be leaving Calcutta.

  ‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘I’ll ask Aunt Helena.’

  ‘Ghulam’s going to be driving a truckload downriver in two days’ time,’ said Fatima, ‘so whatever you can lay your hands on by then would be very helpful.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Libby said. ‘In the meantime, can I help out here?’

  Fatima gave her a direct look. ‘That’s kind of you to offer but you have no nursing training. The best way you can help us is to gather as much kit as you can for the homeless.’ She gave a brief smile. ‘Your powers of persuasion are what we need the most.’

  Libby, seeing how busy and preoccupied Fatima was, left her to get on with her job. She had hoped for an invitation to visit Amelia Buildings but the doctor did not offer one. Libby knew that Fatima would be working late and the last thing on her mind would be spending an evening socialising or entertaining. It was selfish of her to expect it. Libby resisted the desire to track down Ghulam again – he too would be busy – and made her way back to Alipore, her heart heavy with longing.

  On the eve of the Watsons’ departure, it took little persuasion to get Helena to part with a godown-ful of old camping equipment; pre-Great War tents, camp beds, chairs and canvas washstands that had belonged to Colonel Swinson and not been used in years. Libby, with a bit of cajoling, got her aunt to relinquish a trunkful of old sheets and linen hand towels too, along with boxes of chipped crockery and dented pots and pans.

  ‘Libby is doing us a favour, darling,’ Johnny encouraged. ‘We’re taking far too much stuff as it is – and the shipping costs are more than most of it is worth.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ sighed Helena. ‘And if it’s helpful . . .’

  ‘Oh, it is,’ Libby assured her.

  She lost no time in sending a message round to the Khans about the donation. To her delight, Ghulam sent a message by return to say he would come round with a van to collect the goods the next day.

  Libby, along with her uncle, went round to various British clubs and to the Duff Church and left notices asking for donations to be left at the Eden Hospital for the attention of Dr Fatima Khan.

  That evening Libby had a final meal on the veranda with the Watsons and the Colonel: just a simple supper of steamed fish and boiled potatoes followed by bananas in custard – the Colonel’s favourite. The next day the Watsons would be embarking from Howrah railway station for the long overland tra
in journey to Bombay.

  ‘Are you sure about staying on here on your own?’ Helena fretted. ‘Is it what your parents would want? I know Muriel and Reggie would put you up in a jiffy if I asked them. Muriel would do anything for a daughter of James Robson’s.’

  ‘That’s kind,’ said Libby, ‘but a room here is all I need – and Dad approved.’

  Libby knew that was an exaggeration; her father hadn’t given an opinion either way. He had been too distracted by his imminent journey home.

  ‘After all,’ Libby added, ‘it’s only for ten days, then I’ll be returning to Belgooree.’

  That night Libby couldn’t sleep. She lay awake thinking about how her time in India was slipping away but how she would be seeing Ghulam again in a few short hours. Her stomach churned with a mix of dread and excitement. What was he thinking at this very moment? Was she in his thoughts as much as he was in hers? She felt sick with wanting.

  With the dawn she rose, washed, and dressed in slacks and a shirt that she pulled from a small suitcase, which was all she needed now to hold her reduced possessions. She had sold off her prim Calcutta outfits at a shop on Park Street and would be giving the proceeds to Fatima’s charity. The one luxury she kept was the second-hand green satin dress which would always bring back memories of dancing with Ghulam under a tropical night sky.

  She found Colonel Swinson sitting on the veranda in shorts and singlet, having done his morning exercises. With shaking hands he beckoned her over.

  ‘Got something for you, girl,’ he said, fumbling in his shorts pocket. He pulled out a brown paper bag and handed it to Libby.

  She looked inside and gasped. It was stuffed with rupee notes. ‘Colonel Swinson! I don’t need money.’

  ‘Not for you,’ he replied. ‘It’s for . . .’ He waved a veined hand at her. ‘That thing you’ve been talking to Helena about. Bengalis. Homeless.’

  ‘The refugee centre?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  Libby was touched; she hadn’t realised that the old man had understood what was going on.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, thank you.’

  ‘No use to me in Scotland,’ he said.

  ‘Still, it’s very generous,’ said Libby.

  He sucked his lips as he ruminated. ‘Would like to have done more. But it’s too late, isn’t it?’

  Libby wasn’t sure if he meant too late for him personally or for India. Either way, she saw the tears swimming in his rheumy eyes and knew the day he had dreaded was finally here – the day he must leave Calcutta and start for exile in a Britain he didn’t know.

  Libby could think of nothing to say that would lessen the old man’s sorrow. Instead, she leant towards him and kissed him tenderly on the cheek.

  Hardly able to touch her breakfast, Libby leapt up at the sound of a lorry’s engine at the gates of New House. She rushed down the short drive and was overjoyed to see Ghulam jump down from the cab.

  Libby’s insides flipped at the sight of his ruggedly handsome face. The two grinned at each other. They said little as Ghulam organised the fetching and carrying of the donated equipment, Libby almost too breathless to speak.

  With the lorry loaded, Johnny offered Ghulam chota hazri.

  Ghulam declined. ‘Thank you, but I’ve got a busy day ahead – and I know you have too.’ He put out his hand. ‘Good luck, Dr Watson, and a safe journey home.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Johnny, shaking his hand in farewell. ‘And I wish you all the best in the future . . .’

  Libby could see that her uncle was suddenly struggling to speak. She chose that moment to make her move.

  ‘Ghulam’s kindly agreed to give me a lift round to the Dunlops’ flat so I can have a catch-up with Flowers,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t want any more drawn-out goodbyes, Uncle Johnny. We’ll see each other soon enough in St Abbs.’

  She shot Ghulam a look; he was trying to mask his surprise at her sudden announcement. He nodded in agreement.

  Johnny put up no resistance. Libby dashed on to the veranda and gave swift hugs to the Colonel and to Aunt Helena, who was hovering at the breakfast table, and then to Johnny. Then she picked up a small canvas bag with a change of clothes and hurried back down the drive to a waiting Ghulam.

  Climbing into the cab of the lorry, Libby said, ‘Sorry to spring that on you but I couldn’t bear any more protracted goodbyes. It feels like I’m saying nothing else at the moment.’

  ‘I’m happy to oblige,’ said Ghulam, settling into the driver’s seat, ‘though this isn’t the most comfortable of taxis. It’s an old lorry we communists used for electioneering.’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ said Libby with a breathless laugh.

  ‘Remind me where the Dunlops live?’ he asked. ‘It’s Sudder Street, isn’t it?’

  Libby held his look. ‘I’m not going there – I’m afraid that was just an excuse. I want you to take me with you to the refugee centre so I can help. And don’t tell me it’s too dangerous – I’m prepared to do anything that you and Fatima are. So please let me come.’

  His face creased in a familiar lopsided smile that made her stomach flutter. ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Together we can be useful.’

  Libby felt a flicker of disappointment. ‘Yes, of course. Useful . . .’

  His look was suddenly intense. ‘And if your days here are numbered then I want to spend them with you, Libby.’

  Her heart began to thud. In that moment she knew that he wanted her too.

  ‘So do I,’ she answered.

  Briefly, he put his hand over hers and squeezed it. Then he leant away and started the engine. With a belch of smoke they trundled away from New House and headed out of Calcutta.

  CHAPTER 27

  East of Calcutta, end of July

  Libby had never seen such squalor. All along the railway tracks makeshift shelters had been planted between pools of rainwater. Everything was caked in mud. The lucky ones were camped under the canopies of the station platforms. Flies buzzed. The stench of human effluent was only partially masked by the oily smell of cooking. Children splashed in puddles while their parents looked on with anxious faces. Elderly men and women sat looking worn out and resigned. Yet everywhere there was quiet industry: people fixing up shelters with flimsy materials trying to create privacy, while others rolled and cooked chapattis.

  Fatima’s charity had commandeered a derelict mansion house not far from the station for its clinic and the distribution of aid. Libby spent the day there parcelling out rations of rice and flour, and helping distribute bedding to the refugees who were camped out in the grounds. Every available inch of garden was occupied. Inside the house, the grand old reception rooms had also been given over to homeless families.

  Only the top floor was reserved for the charity workers: a mix of medical staff, students and well-off Hindus, with a handful of middle-aged Europeans. Libby was the only young British woman there that day.

  Libby hardly saw Ghulam all day, until the evening when the workers came together for a communal meal on the roof. Libby felt sweaty and exhausted, her hair stuck to her cheeks where it had escaped from her ponytail. Yet the smile Ghulam gave her made all the hard work worthwhile.

  The volunteers sat around on bedrolls and shared a simple meal of dahl, vegetables and rice. Below, fires flickered among the dark trees and the hubbub of voices mingled with the sound of crickets. The Bengalis spoke English to Libby and made her feel welcome. She was surprised by their light-hearted humour despite the grimness of the situation and sensed their optimism for the future.

  Libby recognised one of them from the ill-tempered political meeting where she had gone to hear Ghulam speak. He was called Sanjeev and seemed to be a good friend of Ghulam’s. With a wave of his hand, Sanjeev said, ‘This is just temporary. Once Independence comes, people will feel safe to go back to their homes – or they will find new ones. It’s just the uncertainty that is causing such p
anic.’

  They talked about the news that Gandhi might once more be coming to the city to calm tensions in the lead-up to Independence Day – now just two weeks away.

  Ghulam’s eyes lit up. ‘The rumour is that he is going to live in one of the bustees where there has been so much of the trouble – and he’s insisting that Suhrawardy share it with him.’

  ‘Suhrawardy?’ Libby exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, the Muslim leader of the city council.’

  ‘I know who he is,’ said Libby, ‘but he’s a playboy – he won’t want to slum it with Gandhi.’

  ‘He won’t,’ Sanjeev agreed, ‘but it’s symbolic – a Hindu and Muslim living side by side together, showing how it should be done. If a man like Suhrawardy can do it, then that will send out a powerful message to others.’

  ‘Do you think it will work?’ asked Libby.

  ‘It has to,’ said Ghulam, his expression turning grim. ‘The city is like a tinderbox.’

  ‘All will be well, my friend,’ said Sanjeev, with a pat on Ghulam’s back.

  Libby yearned to have Ghulam to herself but they could manage no more than a few personal words in front of the others.

  ‘Will Fatima come down again soon?’ Libby asked.

  ‘She hopes to come by the end of the week,’ said Ghulam.

  ‘How long can you stay?’ she asked, holding his gaze.

  ‘I must be back at work the day after tomorrow.’

  Soon afterwards, the women went below to sleep in a room with crumbling walls while the men stayed on the roof, smoking and chatting until the rain came on again. Libby, tired out, fell asleep quickly.

  During the next day, Ghulam sought out Libby.

  ‘There’s talk of fresh boatloads of people coming in downriver,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take the truck and bring them supplies. Want to come and help?’