Libby returned to her digs in Alipore, bathed and changed into a summer frock. Feeling refreshed, she braced herself to make a telephone call to the chummery in Harrington Street. George had already gone to the office, she was told. She left a message for him to call her back. Next she took a taxi to Sealdah railway station and booked herself a ticket for two days’ time. Now that she had made the decision to go early to Belgooree – or rather the Khans had – she was keen to be gone. Perhaps putting distance between her and Ghulam would help ease the leaden feeling inside. She forced herself to stop trying to imagine what he was thinking in the wake of their one-night affair and its unexpectedly abrupt ending.
She sent a telegram to Belgooree to say when she would be arriving in Shillong, hoping they might send Daleep to collect her. By mid-afternoon she was making her way by tram back into the city; she would call on Flowers and explain what she was doing. If the nurse wasn’t there, she would leave a message with her parents.
Libby was welcomed warmly by the Dunlops; she had forgotten quite how hospitable they were until Winnie Dunlop began plying her with sandwiches and cake and endless cups of tea. They wanted to hear all about her time away in Assam.
‘Flowers told us very little,’ said Danny Dunlop.
‘Except to say what a jolly good time she had,’ chipped in Winnie.
‘Found out nothing about my family,’ complained Flower’s father. ‘Didn’t even go to Shillong in the end, did you?’
‘I’m sorry, we didn’t,’ said Libby, feeling a guilty pang. ‘My father wasn’t very well so we took him straight to Belgooree.’
‘See, Danny,’ his wife reproved, ‘the poor man was ill. Of course he wouldn’t want to go chasing about your old school.’
‘Sorry,’ he said with a sheepish look at Libby, ‘I didn’t mean to be critical of your father. How is he?’
‘Back in Britain,’ said Libby, suddenly realising that she was missing him. ‘I haven’t heard much except a telegram to say he got safely home and that it’s raining and cold.’
‘Wonderful!’ said Danny with an envious smile. ‘Do you hear that, Winnie. Cold and wet. Not like this infernal soup that passes for air in Calcutta.’
Winnie rolled her eyes. ‘Give me hot soup over icy rain any day,’ she said cheerfully.
‘I would like to have met your father,’ Danny said with a sigh of regret, ‘and talked about his life on the tea plantations. Pity he never knew anything about the Dunlops.’
Libby’s guilt increased that she hadn’t made more effort on Mr Dunlop’s behalf. ‘I’ll write to him and ask again. He has an old planter friend in Newcastle – a Mr Fairfax – who might help. He’s very old now. I remember meeting him at one of Mother’s fundraisers during the War. If anyone knew of any Dunlops in Assam it would be him.’
Danny’s face brightened. ‘Would you do that?’
‘Of course.’ Libby smiled. ‘I’ll send Dad the details Flowers gave me so he can pass them on to Mr Fairfax.’
‘That would be splendid!’ Danny beamed. ‘You see, if we’re ever to go home to Britain, I need to prove my British blood. I won’t get a passport otherwise.’
Winnie rolled her eyes at Libby but didn’t contradict her husband. Libby suspected that Flowers and her mother thought the best way to deal with Danny’s preoccupation with leaving India was to ignore it.
Just as Libby was thinking of going, Flowers arrived. They hugged affectionately.
‘Come and tell me all your news while I change out of my uniform,’ said Flowers, ushering her out of the sitting room. In the bedroom, she closed the door and said, ‘Now you can tell me how things really are. How is your father?’
While Flowers discarded her work clothes, Libby told her everything that had happened in the intervening weeks – about her father’s decision to retire and go back to England, Sophie coming to stay at Belgooree and Libby’s plan to visit one last time before returning to Newcastle to re-join her family.
‘I assume Dad’s settling down okay as he hasn’t had time to write – unless there’s a letter waiting at Belgooree.’
‘So you’re definitely going home after Independence?’ asked Flowers.
‘I promised Dad I would. There’s no home in Assam any more.’ Libby tried to sound more positive than she felt. ‘Anyway, it’ll be good to see all the family back together again.’
‘And Ghulam?’ Flowers said. ‘Have you seen him since you came back to Calcutta?’
Libby nodded, her eyes stinging.
‘Didn’t it go well?’ Flowers scrutinised her.
Libby said, ‘At first, yes. Your idea of writing to him was wonderful. We wrote to each other almost daily. I fell in love with him completely.’
‘So what happened when you met up again?’
Libby told her about the happenings of the past few days, from the trip to the refugee centre and rescuing the girl, to staying with the Khans and the appalling murder on their doorstep. Flowers was horrified.
‘Right outside Amelia Buildings?’ she gasped. ‘How simply ghastly.’
‘Ghulam just wants me gone now,’ Libby said unhappily, ‘and I can’t blame him. I’m just someone else he has to worry about if I stay. And he knows I’m leaving India soon, so there can’t be any future in our relationship. But the thing is, I think about him constantly. I . . . Two nights ago we . . .’
Flowers, in her slip, sat down on the bed next to Libby and put a hand on her arm. ‘You what?’ she asked, looking alarmed.
‘We made love,’ Libby admitted.
‘Oh, Libby!’ Flowers’s eyes widened in shock. ‘And now he’s had his fun he’s sending you away?’
‘It’s not like that,’ Libby said, stung by Flower’s comment. ‘He’s thinking of my safety. It was me who pushed him into going to bed. He’s not a womaniser like George.’
Flowers flushed. ‘George has calmed down since his divorce came through.’
Libby looked at Flowers in surprise. ‘Have you two been dating?’
Flowers gave her a bashful smile. ‘We still go dancing now and again. I sometimes think . . .’
‘Think what?’
Flowers sighed. ‘Oh, nothing.’ She stood up and continued changing into a slim-fitting flowery silk dress.
‘I was thinking of asking George if he wanted to visit Belgooree with me,’ said Libby. ‘His Aunt Clarrie would love to see him and it might make the celebrations on the fifteenth more jolly. I’ve left a message for him to contact me at Alipore but it’s not giving him much notice.’
Flowers gave her a direct look. ‘Well, you can ask him in an hour or so.’
Libby glanced at her questioningly.
‘He’s coming here,’ said Flowers.
‘He’s taking you out this evening?’ Libby exclaimed.
‘Yes.’ She smiled shyly. ‘To Firpo’s. Come with us.’
‘And be your wallflower?’ Libby said with a dry smile.
‘There will be others too,’ said Flowers. ‘Eddy and the gang.’
‘I’ve nothing to wear.’
‘That dress will be fine,’ Flowers replied. ‘I insist. Looks like you could do with a good night out before you head off into the mofussil. Stop you pining over that troublesome lover of yours. Then you can stay the night here. I don’t like to think of you being on your own, rattling around that big flat in Alipore.’
Libby gave her a grateful smile. ‘Thanks, I’d like that.’
‘Good, that’s settled then. You can borrow anything of mine tonight and go and fetch your belongings tomorrow.’
Libby watched Flowers continue to prepare for the evening out.
‘Doesn’t the situation in Calcutta worry you?’ Libby asked. ‘You’re right in the heart of it here in Grey Town.’
‘We just have to be careful to be chaperoned after dark,’ said Flowers. ‘But we Anglo-Indians are okay. It’s not our fight, is it?’
Libby was struck again by the phrase not our fight. It was the one Ghulam had u
sed when he’d lost his patience with her. She shivered with foreboding. As the British raced towards a hasty handover and exit from India, she wondered just how much division and violence they would leave in their wake.
CHAPTER 29
Libby enjoyed the evening out far more than she had anticipated. Firpo’s was only half-full with diners and dancers – there was still a jittery atmosphere despite Flowers’s nonchalance – but Libby found George’s bonhomie just the tonic she needed.
‘We’ve missed you at our socials, lass,’ he said with a wink.
Later, when they took to the dance floor, he said, ‘Flowers tells me you’ve been a right little Florence Nightingale with your dad. Glad to hear he’s on the mend and back home with the family. You following on shortly?’
‘Yes,’ said Libby. ‘Later in August most likely – depending what flights I can get.’
‘Better book early,’ said George. ‘There’ll be a stampede to leave once the handover comes.’
‘Will you be part of it?’ Libby asked.
‘Not likely.’ He grinned. ‘I’m having too much fun here. And the job’s good.’
‘So no regrets about leaving England?’ Libby pressed him.
‘Not one,’ he insisted. ‘There’s nothing to go back for, is there? Joan’s getting wed again and Bonnie’s getting a new dad, so everybody’s happy.’
‘And you, George? What would make you happy?’
‘Having the next dance with you, bonny lass,’ he quipped.
Libby laughed. But it didn’t escape her notice how much George’s attention was taken up with keeping an eye on whom Flowers was dancing with. Libby didn’t mind. She had long ceased to have any romantic interest in George and she knew that Flowers was more than capable of keeping an amorous George at arm’s length – if that’s what she wanted.
George prevaricated about a possible trip to Belgooree. He had plans to celebrate on the fifteenth in Calcutta.
‘There’s a dinner-dance at the Palm Court in the Grand Hotel,’ he’d enthused, ‘and there’ll be fireworks. Don’t want to miss the biggest night out in Calcutta since before the War.’
It was left that he might combine a work trip with a visit to his Aunt Clarrie later in the month, before Libby left Belgooree.
On her last day in Calcutta, Libby retrieved her case from New House where Ranjan, Colonel Swinson’s bearer, had been keeping it safe. While Flowers was at work, Libby went for a final walk around the Maidan in the late afternoon, as the worst of the heat dissipated. Using an umbrella lent by the Dunlops to shelter her from the hazy glare of the afternoon sun, she wandered through Eden Gardens and past the solid fortifications of Fort William. Soon exhausted by walking in the humid air, she hailed a rickshaw to take her up Chowringhee Street, thinking to take tea in an air-conditioned tearoom.
On the spur of the moment, she directed the driver to take her to Nahoum’s in Hogg’s Market, where she bought some fudgy sweetmeats. She would go and eat them on the steps of the Duff Church as a way of saying farewell to Calcutta and her affair with Ghulam. Tomorrow she would be on her way to Belgooree to spend her final days in India.
But on reaching the church and seeing the shaded spot where she had first fallen in love with Ghulam, she couldn’t bear to stay there. Dismissing the rickshaw driver, Libby found herself walking in the direction of Hamilton Road. Fifteen minutes later she was standing outside Amelia Buildings. It seemed incredible that only two days ago a man had been butchered here in this ordinary street.
Shivering with the horror of it, she hesitated and then went inside. She had no idea if anyone would be at the flat. The chowkidar nodded for her to go up. She would leave the fudge with Sitara for Ghulam, who probably wouldn’t be back from work until nightfall.
Libby got a shock when Ghulam answered the door himself. He was barefoot and wearing the old cotton kurta and pyjama trousers that he had lent her to wear. He looked just as surprised to see her. They gaped at each other and then spoke at the same time.
‘I didn’t expect—’
‘I was just going to leave this—’
They stopped. He regarded her warily. He wasn’t going to invite her in. Libby stepped away.
‘I leave tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I went to Nahoum’s and bought fudge.’ She held out the package of sweets. ‘I wanted to say goodbye, that’s all.’
His look softened. ‘Wait.’ He stretched out a hand to stop her going. ‘I can’t eat this all by myself.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ she answered wryly.
He gave a twitch of a smile. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, ‘Let’s go up on the roof and share it.’
Without giving her the chance to decline, Ghulam closed the door behind him and steered her towards the steps that led up to the roof. There was a balustrade around the rooftop that was just the right height to lean on and view the streets below. One corner of the roof was shaded by an awning of bamboo leaves and another was strewn with someone’s drying washing, but the place was deserted.
Already the sun was beginning to slide towards the horizon, the early evening light turning golden. Libby hadn’t realised how late it was. Ghulam opened the packet and offered it to her first. She took one and started chewing, even though her stomach was knotting at their proximity. Ghulam popped two in his mouth at the same time and gave a sigh of satisfaction.
Libby gazed out at the view of rooftops and trees and the glimpse of busy riverside in the far distance.
‘Listen,’ said Ghulam, pausing in his eating. ‘What do you hear?’
Libby gave him a questioning look.
‘Close your eyes and listen,’ he ordered.
Libby did so. ‘I can hear rickshaw bells,’ she said, ‘and dogs barking.’
‘What else?’ he asked.
‘Umm, that sounds like a call to prayer in the distance? Traffic. Some sort of horn – a tug boat?’
She opened her eyes. Ghulam was watching her intently. Her heart thumped as she looked into his green eyes. His face glowed in the golden light, his skin bronzed against the white of his open shirt. He looked unbearably handsome.
‘What am I supposed to be hearing?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice even as her heart began to pound. ‘It all sounds normal to me.’
‘Exactly,’ he said, breaking into a smile. ‘No drumming – no sounds of the goondas gathering – no ambulance bells.’
‘Which means?’ said Libby.
‘Which means,’ echoed Ghulam, ‘that Gandhiji is spinning his magic in the bustee. Long may it continue.’ He held out the bag to Libby, grinning. ‘Let’s celebrate with more fudge.’
She grinned back and took another sweet, even though her teeth were already aching with the sweetness in her mouth. Ghulam took another two and turned back to the view while he munched.
‘Are you more optimistic now Gandhi has come here?’ Libby asked him.
He nodded. ‘Yes. If he can calm Calcutta then that might help pacify other areas – Punjab in particular.’
‘I do hope you are right,’ she said. ‘Flowers doesn’t seem as worried as you are about how things will turn out. Neither does George.’
He shot her a look. She explained. ‘I’m staying with the Dunlops until tomorrow when I go to Belgooree. George took Flowers dancing last night and I went along. I think he’s sweet on her.’
Ghulam made a dismissive noise. ‘We won’t get rid of the Raj overnight. Enjoy your dinner-dances while you can.’
Libby felt hurt that he bracketed her with the likes of the pleasure-seeking George Brewis, though she wondered if he was jealous too. She bit back her suggestion that if peace was coming to Calcutta there was no reason for her to rush away to the hills. But what would be the point? She had promised to go to Belgooree and Ghulam was certainly not urging her to stay.
They stood side by side as the sunset spread across the sky and birds rose squawking and resettled in the trees. Libby thought back to her first evening in Calcutta, arriving by aero
plane and being overawed by the sight of the sun like a ball of fire rolling into the Hooghly River. How could she have foreseen that her return to India would be so short-lived, that her father would choose to go home to Britain – or that she would lose her heart to a man across the cultural and social divide that the British had created?
The pain in her heart grew stronger. She shouldn’t have come. Seeing Ghulam again was like tearing the dressing off a fresh wound.
‘I should go,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘The Dunlops will be expecting me for supper. Winnie’s having a cake made – not that I’ll have any appetite to eat it after all this fudge.’
‘You’ve hardly eaten any of it,’ said Ghulam. ‘Are you all right?’
Libby’s eyes swam with sudden tears. She couldn’t bear it if she broke down now.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. She faced him and held his look. ‘I just want you to know that I don’t regret anything that’s happened between us, Ghulam.’
‘Neither do I,’ he said. ‘In other circumstances, perhaps . . .’ His eyes were full of sadness.
Libby touched his face. ‘No other man,’ she said, her voice shaking, ‘has made me feel the way you do.’
He caught her hand and kissed the palm. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
‘Oh, darling Libby,’ he said, seeing her distress. He pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly.
The sky was blood red as he cupped his hands about her face and kissed her on the lips. She opened her mouth and instantly they were kissing fiercely. Seeing the desire in each other’s eyes, they hurried under the awning. Ghulam pulled off his shirt. He laid it down for her to lie on. In moments, they were making frantic love, Libby crying out as they did so, overcome with longing and filled with sorrow that this was their parting.
In minutes they were dressing again, almost bashful with each other at the passion that had seized them. Someone could have walked on to the roof at any moment. What they had just done was madness. He was like a summer fever in her veins.
The Secrets of the Tea Garden Page 38
