The Secrets of the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  On the point of boarding the aeroplane to Lahore, he had given up his seat to a distraught young woman who feared being separated from her family. It struck him how his desire to see his father one more time was selfish in the face of the panic and terror around him. He was taking up a valuable place on the plane just to indulge his daydream of being reconciled with a long-lost father. In contrast, this woman’s life was in the balance as to whether she got safely to Pakistan or was left behind.

  ‘So I gave up my seat. I knew that my father would have approved. We never agreed on much, but he believed strongly in charity and helping the stranger.’

  ‘That was a great kindness,’ said Libby.

  ‘I wrote a brief letter to my father and family,’ Ghulam continued, ‘and asked her to deliver it when she got to Lahore. It was only much later that I realised the letter had never reached them. I had asked them to tell Fatima . . .’ Ghulam’s jaw clenched in anguish. ‘I never meant to cause so much distress.’

  Libby kissed his cheek. ‘She knows that.’

  After a moment Ghulam carried on. ‘I knew my boss at the newspaper wasn’t expecting me back for a month or more, so I decided to stay and help in the camps. It was mostly manual labour – digging latrines and such – but I felt I was of most use speaking to the refugees in their native Punjabi. They were so homesick and traumatised by what they had been through. To protect myself, I pretended to be Christian. I knew enough from school to pass as one. The stories they told . . . unspeakable things . . .’

  Ghulam broke off. Libby slipped her arm gently around him and held him close. He swallowed.

  ‘Then, after about six weeks, I decided it was time to return to Calcutta. I had just enough money left to buy a ticket. On the way to buying it, I was knifed and robbed.’ His breathing grew rapid as he relived the attack. ‘I remember lying in the street, helpless, and then I must have passed out.’

  He turned to look at her, his eyes glinting. ‘The only reason I’m alive is because a chai-wallah came to my rescue – took me back to the one room he shared with a dozen others and stopped the bleeding. They were a Hindu family. They must have known what I was – they nursed me for a fortnight – but when gangs came round looking for Muslims, not one of them gave me away.’

  ‘How brave and kind of them,’ said Libby, feeling immense gratitude towards these people she would never meet.

  ‘Once I could stand and walk again,’ said Ghulam, ‘I knew I had to go – they had little to spare and I had already taken so much.’

  ‘So how on earth did you get back to Calcutta?’ Libby asked. ‘You were destitute.’

  ‘I was. I thought of going to beg at the door of an old friend,’ he said, his jaw tensing.

  ‘Cordelia’s?’ Libby questioned.

  He started. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I know she came from Delhi,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have blamed you.’

  ‘But I didn’t,’ said Ghulam, ‘because something extraordinary happened. I was making my way to her home in New Delhi – I’d stopped to rest in Connaught Circus – when a car drew up beside me and a man in uniform got out. He was Sikh – I recognised his uniform: it was the Lahore Horse – Rafi’s old regiment. He stared at me and asked me if I was Ghulam Khan.’

  ‘Who was he?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Rafi’s old friend Sundar Singh,’ said Ghulam. ‘Rafi had asked him to search Delhi for me in case I was there and still alive—’ Ghulam stifled a sob. ‘He had been looking for me for weeks. It was only then that I realised that my family had never got my letter . . .’

  ‘We thought you must have taken the train to Lahore,’ Libby said. ‘I didn’t think you could have survived – you’d been missing too long. But Rafi and Fatima never gave up believing you were out there somewhere.’

  ‘If Rafi hadn’t told Sundar to look for me,’ Ghulam rasped, ‘I might never have got back.’

  Suddenly the relief of survival and the knowledge of his brother’s love was too overwhelming. Ghulam began to weep. Libby cradled him close until he gained control of his emotions and was able to finish his story.

  Sundar had rescued him, given him a hot meal and a change of clothes, and put Ghulam on a train back to Calcutta with enough provisions and money to complete his journey. By now, Rafi would probably have heard from Sundar about his brother’s rescue. Libby assured him that, if not, Fatima would get a message through to Rafi and the extended family in Pakistan anyway.

  As the dawn light filtered between the shutters, Ghulam turned his face to Libby’s with an intent look. His voice turned deep and steady as he spoke.

  ‘I want us never to be parted again,’ he said.

  Her heart jolted. She cupped his bearded face with her hand. ‘I want that too. I can’t describe how happy I feel that we’re here together. I thought I’d never feel you next to me again.’

  Ghulam leant towards her and kissed her mouth. He gazed at her with a loving smile. ‘I know this sounds bourgeois, but I want to marry you, Libby.’

  She gave him a wry smile. ‘Good – ’cause that’s what I want too.’

  ‘It is?’ He looked at her in delight. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Ghulam, if it means I can stay with you forever, then yes!’ She grinned.

  ‘Oh, my darling goddess!’ Ghulam pressed his lips against hers and kissed her as robustly as he could, sealing their pledge.

  Libby, her heart bursting with joy, kissed him back. She was filled with a renewed optimism about the future, the plans and dreams that Ghulam had written about in his love letter to her. They would work and live together side by side in the new India, enjoying the good moments and sharing the bad.

  She had been prepared to face a future in Calcutta without him – but how much richer her life would be now that Ghulam had come back to her! As Libby kissed him and felt overwhelming love for Ghulam, she knew with an utter certainty that each of them had found their true soulmate.

  EPILOGUE

  Belgooree, early December

  At dawn Clarrie rode along the path through the jungle up towards the temple clearing. She knew it so well that every tree and bend in the track was familiar. The jungle was alive with birdsong. As she reached the shadowed glade, dew was already glistening on the ferns and grass as the sun spread across it.

  She dismounted and went to lay a posy of flowers on one of the stones from the monkey temple that had collapsed into ruins long ago.

  ‘For you, dear Ayah Mimi,’ Clarrie murmured.

  She gazed at the tumble-down hut where Sophie’s old nursemaid had once lived as a holy woman before Clarrie had brought her to live at Belgooree well over twenty years ago. The old woman had never recovered from her exertions on the night of the Gulgat attack. Exhausted, the sadhvi had been carried back to her hut. She had never emerged again. Two weeks later, when Clarrie had taken her daily bowl of milk, eager to let Ayah Mimi know that Sophie was safely in Calcutta, she had found the old woman cold and lifeless on her sleeping mat.

  The ayah had protected her beloved Sophie right to the end. Perhaps she had felt able to let go of life, knowing that Sophie had got safely away. Clarrie was sure that the sadhvi had known without being told.

  Clarrie sat down on a damp stone and breathed in the earthy smell of vegetation, watching the sky lighten in the east to a vivid peacock blue.

  How long ago it seemed when she had ridden here on her pony, Prince, as an impulsive eighteen-year-old and fallen from the saddle – only to be rescued by the handsome Wesley Robson.

  Clarrie smiled wistfully. How infuriating and arrogant he had been that day – yet so attractive and full of life. They had both been so young and foolishly confident, not guessing at all the trials ahead of them – separation and war, loss and heartbreak. Yet Clarrie would have gone through it all again rather than miss a minute of her precious time with Wesley. Sitting here in the place where they had first met, forty-five years later, Clarrie still felt as alive and young at heart as she had then.
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  How she missed him! She wished he could have known about Adela marrying kind Sam – and that the young couple were expecting a baby. Clarrie felt her heart lift at the thought of a new life being born at Belgooree in the spring. The start of the next generation. She had so much still to be thankful for.

  She knew how her passionate daughter grieved for the son she had left behind in Britain. Adela had shown her the precious photograph that Sam had taken of Adela with John Wesley – the likeness to his grandfather Wesley was heartbreaking. Yet Adela had been cheered by a letter from Martha Gibson promising that when Jacques turned twenty-one, he would be told about his true parentage and the origin of the swami’s stone. None of them knew how the boy would react to discovering he was John Wesley, the son of an Indian prince and a tea planter’s daughter. That was far in the future but she knew how it gave Adela comfort and hope.

  Clarrie felt the winter sun warming her face as it strengthened. Harry would be home soon for the Christmas holidays. She felt a familiar fierce tug of love for her dark-haired, lively son. Then there was James . . .

  Clarrie had been unnerved by Libby’s letter – kind, interfering, generous-hearted Libby – telling her of James’s return. She had not been able to settle for days for thinking about this development. What did it mean? Why Shillong? Was it to be near his old tea planting friends for fishing and hunting? Or was it because it was a couple of hours from Belgooree and her?

  She would know soon enough. Clarrie had taken Libby’s hint that she invite her and James to Belgooree over Christmas. She had replied at once, insisting that Libby and her father must join them on Christmas Eve for the holidays. Just two days ago, she had received a phone call from a joyous Libby telling her excitedly of Ghulam’s miraculous return and their swift engagement. At once, Clarrie had invited Ghulam too. How Libby deserved her happiness! Despite the uncertain times, there was so much to be thankful for and celebrate this Christmas. Little had she thought she would be seeing James again so soon – if at all.

  Clarrie’s stomach fluttered with excitement. She gave a laugh of embarrassment that echoed against the rocky cliff that sheltered the glade. She was behaving like eighteen-year-old Clarrie Belhaven again and not the matron approaching sixty-two that she was! She stood up. She had lingered long enough. There were jobs to be done. The last of the autumn pickings had to be processed before she shut down the machines for the cold season.

  Just then she heard a crackling of twigs and the soft thud of hooves. Clarrie turned to see if Adela or Sam had come to join her. The rider appeared on the edge of the clearing, a man in shadow with the light streaming in behind him. Clarrie gasped. For a shocking moment she thought it was Wesley. He sat up in the saddle, a silhouette of wavy hair and broad shoulders. Clarrie pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

  A deep voice disturbed the quiet. ‘Clarrie? Are you all right?’

  Clarrie felt a flicker of sadness. Wesley would have called her Clarissa.

  It had never struck her quite so strongly as it did in that instant that the Robson cousins were passably alike.

  ‘James,’ Clarrie said, suddenly breathless. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He dismounted and walked into the light. Now she could see that his thick hair was white and his bullish face was not as handsome as Wesley’s. Yet the penetrating gaze of his blue eyes was unsettling; it was the look of a much younger man.

  ‘I’m looking for you of course,’ he replied. ‘Adela told me you’d be here but I’d already guessed.’

  ‘You must have set off very early from Shillong,’ she said, trying to slow the thumping of her heart.

  ‘So you know about Shillong?’ James asked in surprise.

  ‘Libby wrote and told me,’ said Clarrie.

  James grunted. ‘Of course she would.’

  He stood several feet away, as if fearing to come nearer. It struck Clarrie that James was as unsure about her feelings for him as she was about his for her.

  ‘What else did she tell you?’ he asked.

  ‘Everything,’ said Clarrie. ‘At least about you and Tilly. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ said James. ‘Tilly isn’t and neither am I.’

  Clarrie felt suddenly awkward. ‘Well, then I’m glad to see you back,’ she admitted. They stood regarding each other. ‘Have you had breakfast? You must be hungry after the journey,’ she gabbled. ‘You were up so early. Shall we—’

  ‘Clarrie,’ James blurted out, ‘Libby said you’d confided in her about me – that you missed me – missed me a lot.’

  Clarrie blushed. ‘She shouldn’t have. I said those things in confidence and asked her not to . . .’

  ‘No, she was right to,’ James said eagerly. ‘Libby is usually right about matters of the heart. She knew I would do nothing unless I had a little encouragement.’

  ‘Do nothing about what?’ said Clarrie.

  ‘About telling you how much I care for you,’ James said, stepping nearer. ‘I know I’m not half the man that Wesley was – can never replace him in your heart – but I love you, Clarrie.’ He reached out and took her hands. ‘I don’t expect anything in return – I just hope you might hold me in a little affection – enough to put up with me coming over to visit now and again and for us to spend some time together.’

  Clarrie felt a flood of love towards him. He was so boyishly gauche in her presence. She knew that inside this seventy-year-old man, a young, vigorous James was declaring his passion for her. She moved closer.

  ‘Dear James.’ She smiled. ‘Of course I want us to spend time together.’

  ‘Do you?’ He looked amazed.

  ‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘A lot of time.’

  She leant up and drew his face towards hers, giving him a lingering kiss on the lips, so that he would be in no doubt about how she felt. She saw the desire light in his eyes. James let out a cry of exultation.

  ‘God, what a lucky man I am!’

  He pulled her to him, wrapping strong arms about her slim body, and kissed her roundly. Clarrie felt suddenly light-headed. She had never thought to feel such a physical response again for a man. Strange that it should happen in this same romantic glade where she had first fallen in love so long ago. She gave thanks for second chances and for the spell that this magical place cast over the young at heart. She gave thanks too for Belgooree, her beloved Belgooree.

  They broke apart, but she held on to his hands as she gazed at him lovingly.

  ‘I want to share this place with you,’ said Clarrie, ‘if you want to. There’s no other man alive who understands what Belgooree means to me as much as you do, James.’

  She saw his eyes shimmer. ‘Share it with me? What are you saying?’

  ‘Come and live here with me,’ Clarrie urged. ‘I don’t want to be alone any more.’

  When he replied, his voice was full of emotion. ‘Oh, my darling, nothing would give me greater joy. If you’re sure that’s what you want?’

  Suddenly Clarrie was very sure. She loved James – not with the deep passion she had felt for Wesley, but with a tenderness that had grown out of strong friendship. They had gone through so much together and she knew they would make each other happy. Clarrie was also certain that her family would welcome this dear man into their home too – Harry would be ecstatic at the news.

  Clarrie gave him a broad smile. ‘Yes, James, that’s what I want more than anything.’ She leant up and kissed him again.

  James laughed in delight and, like a man half his age, swept her up into his arms and carried her towards her pony.

  The sun was filling the whole glade and warming their backs as Clarrie and James made their way down the jungle path towards the tea garden and the Belgooree bungalow – towards home.

  Birth announcement:

  A daughter, Samantha Clarissa Robson Jackman, was born on April 21st, 1948, at Belgooree Tea Estate, Assam, to Mrs Adela and Mr Samuel Jackman. Mother and baby are doing well.

  GLOSSARY

 
; bidis cheap Indian cigarettes

  bhang ground up cannabis buds and leaves

  burra big, most important

  bustee slum

  chaprassy messenger, deliverer of post

  chota small, young

  chota hazri breakfast

  chota peg small alcoholic drink/sundowner

  chowkidar watchman, gatekeeper, doorman

  chummery living quarters for bachelors

  dak post, mail

  dak bungalow travellers’ rest house

  dhoti loincloth/loosely wrapped trousers

  ghat quayside/wharf

  godown storage shed

  goondas hired thugs

  Hindu Mahasabha right wing nationalist party

  jaldi! Quickly!

  khansama male cook/house steward

  khitmutgar table servant/under butler

  koi hai! Anyone there! (greeting/command)

  (old) koi hai veteran of service in India

  lathi long stick/truncheon

  lungi sarong

  mali gardener

  mofussil countryside

  mohurer bookkeeper

  nimbu pani lemon drink

  paan stimulant made of betel leaf and areca nut

  punkah a cloth fan that worked by pulling a rope

  punkah-wallah man who worked the punkah

  sadhvi Hindu holy woman

  sahib-log British in India

  shikar hunting

  swami Hindu holy man/teacher

  swaraj freedom

  syce groom/stable boy

  topee sunhat

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  My grandfather, Robert Maclagan Gorrie (known as Bob, or sometimes a touch disparagingly by the ‘heaven-born’ in India as Jungli-Gorrie), served in the India Forest Service from 1922 until Independence in 1947. He was a forest officer in the Punjab, beginning in Lahore, Changa Manga and Rawalpindi, and then in Simla and Bashahr Province (in the Himalayan foothills) with secondments to Dehra Dun as lecturer in the Forest Institute and ‘foreign service’ in independent Mandi State in the 1930s. He became an expert on soil erosion and conservation but the big promotions eluded him in the British Raj, perhaps because as a forthright Scot he spoke his mind in ways that weren’t always diplomatic. While acknowledging his huge enthusiasm, energy and initiative – calling him ‘a tiger for work’ – his superiors noted that ‘in his early years he was considered to have rather too high an opinion of himself and to require suppressing’ and was ‘apt to ignore procedure and financial implications’.