THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER:A wonderfully moving story of courage and enduring love: First in the India Tea Series

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Ta, miss,’ he grinned, and pocketed it quickly.

  As he disappeared, Jared rebuked her. ‘A penny would’ve done. Doesn’t do ‘em any good to spoil ‘em.’ Before Clarrie could answer, he said, ‘Where’s the rest of yer luggage? Being sent on later, is it?’

  ‘No, this is all we have,’ Clarrie said.

  He looked disbelieving, then shrugged. ‘Well, no doubt you can buy some’at new to wear. My Lily won’t mind takin’ you to the shops.’

  Clarrie nodded, though she wondered with what money they would buy new dresses. She would have to find work quickly, so as not to be a burden to her cousins.

  Worries about money went quickly out of her mind as they clambered on to the cart and lurched out into the traffic. Jared whipped the pony into a trot, heading west. She and Olive gazed around open-mouthed at the vast, solid buildings on either side. Tall and bold, with elaborate stonework round doors and windows, their pitched roofs, cupolas and tall chimneypots thrust into the smoky grey sky.

  Clarrie had seen grand buildings in Calcutta, but never such variety of styles, and all so blackened. The buildings in India had gleamed in the strong sunlight; here the stone was dark as soot.

  Suddenly, Jared yanked them sideways to avoid an enormous, clanking vehicle. Olive squealed and clung to Clarrie as it towered above them, dinging its bell and rattling past.

  ‘What was that?’ Clarrie gasped.

  Jared roared with laughter. ‘Electric tram, lass. Do they not have ‘em in India?’

  ‘Not where we come from,’ Clarrie said.

  ‘Gets you into town in a jiffy,’ he told them. ‘But my Lily prefers to walk. God gave us legs to walk with, she says. And there’s nowt you can’t buy in the shops round Elswick, so what need is there to gan into the town?’

  For the rest of the short journey, Jared chatted about his business. He ran a very respectable public house, or, as he preferred to call it, a hotel. There was a public bar and a sitting room where they charged a halfpenny more for waitress service. At the back, Lily had a very successful pie shop.

  ‘We get them coming from all over for one of Lily’s pies. Aye, even posh folk from Westgate Hill order regularly.’ He glanced over at Clarrie. ‘You said in yer letter you do cookin’ and the like. You can give our Lily a hand in the kitchen while Olive helps me in the bar. Her young fresh face will cheer the customers no end.’

  Olive gave Clarrie a horrified look.

  ‘I’m happy to help out,’ Clarrie answered, ‘any spare time I have. But Olive’s different; her health is delicate. And I was hoping she could go to school here.’

  Jared jerked round in such surprise, he nearly fell off his seat.

  ‘School? How old is she?’

  ‘Just turned fifteen,’ Clarrie said.

  ‘Fifteen! Lasses round here start workin’ at twelve or thirteen.’ He barked with laughter as if she had told a great joke. ‘No, no, you’ll both have to earn yer keep.’

  Clarrie’s heart sank, but she gave her sister an encouraging smile. Olive’s face grew more anxious the further they went. The grand buildings soon gave way to uniform rows of brick housing climbing up a steep bank, all belching smoke. Down to the left were factory sheds, cranes and hooting tugboats on a sludge-brown river. They trundled down a long street of shops, their windows shaded by faded awnings. It was already busy.

  ‘This is Scotswood Road,’ Jared told them proudly. ‘You can buy owt under the sun along here.’

  Clarrie stared at the shoppers on the dusty pavement, overdressed in heavy dark skirts and coats, even though it was promising to be a mild summer’s day. As if to make up for the drabness of their clothing, they wore a wonderful variety of hats, wide-brimmed and adorned with ribbons, feathers and fake flowers.

  A couple of barefoot boys, standing minding a carthorse, gawped up at them as they passed.

  ‘Eeh, look at them lasses!’ one exclaimed, pointing.

  ‘Ganin’ to a fancy dress ball, missus?’ the other shouted.

  Their exuberance reminded Clarrie of the village boys at home. She waved at them, which caused more shrieks of laughter.

  ‘Take no notice,’ Jared said. ‘Couple of guttersnipes.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ Clarrie smiled. ‘We must look a bit funny in our sunhats.’

  ‘Aye,’ he grunted, ‘you won’t have much use for them round Elswick.’ He swerved abruptly across the traffic and into a side street. ‘This is Cherry Terrace,’ he announced.

  Clarrie hid her dismay. She had imagined a wide street of pretty cherry trees shading houses with railings and neat gardens. She had seen pictures of such English streets on the walls of the Pinewood Hotel in Shillong. But Cherry Terrace was narrow, cobbled and hemmed in by an unbroken chain of brick housing with not a blade of grass or tree in sight.

  ‘Here we are!’ Jared beamed, pulling up outside a row of dingy half-frosted windows. Above the doorway, faded gold lettering proclaimed it to be the Cherry Tree Hotel. ‘You hop out here and I’ll take Barny and the rolley round the back.’

  Pushing open the front door, Clarrie was hit by a familiar nauseating smell of stale whisky and pipe smoke. Her father’s study. She had to gulp down bile and banish the sudden image of Jock’s emaciated body on the old camp bed. They were standing in a tiny hallway of dark varnished wood, with a door to the left marked ‘Public Bar’ and one to the right labelled ‘Sitting Room’. The murmur of men’s voices came from the bar. Surely no one was drinking this early in the day? Ahead was a third door, which Clarrie quickly opened.

  ‘Cousin Lily?’ she called.

  They were immediately in a parlour-cum-kitchen and the smell of boiled meat was overpowering. Large pans steamed on a kitchen range and a sturdy table was covered in flour and rolled-out pastry. The wooden floor was bare and well-scrubbed, the furniture spartan with only one upholstered chair by the fire. No pictures or ornaments hung on the walls, except for a gaudily illustrated religious tract about choosing the narrow gate. Many will try but few will get in, it warned.

  Clarrie glanced at Olive, whose face was a sickly tinge of grey. Quickly, she steered her sister on to a kitchen stool. A small, burly woman with sleeves rolled up over thick arms and greying hair pulled into a tight bun bustled in from the scullery.

  ‘Cousin Lily,’ Clarrie said with a smile, holding out her hand.

  ‘Mrs Belhaven to you,’ the woman answered, ignoring the gesture.

  ‘Of course,’ Clarrie said, introducing herself and her sister.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Lily asked Olive. ‘You look a bit green around the gills.’

  ‘She’s been very ill all the time at sea,’ Clarrie explained. ‘She could do with a few days in bed to recover and get her strength back.’

  Lily snorted. ‘No one in my household lies about in bed.’ She approached Olive and put a hand to her forehead. Olive recoiled at the smell of onions on her rough fingers. ‘Looks like you could do with a bit of feeding up, mind. You’re a bag of bones. Do you like pork pie?’

  ‘We don’t eat pork,’ Clarrie said.

  Lily gave her an incredulous look. ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Our khansama, Kamal, couldn’t cook it. He’s Muslim, you see. So we never did either.’

  Lily blew out her cheeks as if scandalised by such talk. ‘Well, you’ll eat what you’re given here and be grateful. I told Mr Belhaven he was asking for trouble having a couple of lasses under the roof. But he’s as soft as putty. Says you’re family and he couldn’t do owt else. Though I don’t know why he feels so beholden to that cousin of his. Jock was always a bad penny. Fancy wasting his army pension on a bit of jungle among them heathens. It was never going to come to any good.’

  Without drawing breath, she continued to lecture as she stirred the pots on the range. ‘Now here you are, two orphans that we must take under our wing, as if we didn’t have enough trouble trying to feed ourselves and keep a respectable business in this part of town. Still, the Lord sends these thing
s to try us.’

  Suddenly, Olive let out an anguished wail and burst into tears. Clarrie rushed to put her arms round her.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter with her?’ Lily cried.

  ‘You’ve upset her with your talk of orphans, that’s what,’ Clarrie said. ‘She’s just a girl still and she’s left behind the only home she’s ever known thousands of miles away. Can’t you see how frightening that is?’

  Lily stared at her as if unused to anyone answering back. She huffed with disapproval, but came over and put a hand on Olive’s bowed head.

  ‘There’s no need to cry, lass. I won’t have tears in my kitchen. If you don’t like pork you can have cheese and potato. Folk can’t get enough of my cheese and potato pie. It’s me most popular. Would you like that?’

  Clarrie nodded. ‘She’d like that very much, thank you.’

  Lily stood back. ‘Goodness me, can the lass not speak for herself or do you just like the sound of your own voice?’

  Abruptly, Clarrie laughed. ‘A bit of both, Mrs Belhaven.’

  But Lily’s stern face showed she had not meant to be humorous. Quickly Clarrie stood up. ‘Can I help with anything?’

  At that moment, Jared threw open the back door and entered.

  ‘Ah, it’s grand to see the pair of you getting on so well,’ he said, beaming.

  Lily snorted and gave her husband a withering glance. ‘Get yourself out front. Those men want serving and I don’t trust that lad Harrison not to undercharge.’

  Jared went meekly, winking at Clarrie as if they were sharing a joke.

  Exhausted from travelling though she was, Clarrie spent the rest of the day helping Lily to bake pies and listening attentively to her voluble criticisms of their customers, neighbours and rivals. She persuaded her to let Olive go to bed early, but by the time she was allowed to join her sister after the pub closed, Clarrie’s head throbbed and her eyes ached with tiredness.

  The attic room that was to be their bedroom was no bigger than the storeroom at Belgooree and almost as dark, with only one small filthy skylight for a window. They were to share a single bed, a table and one chair, and two tea chests balanced one on top of the other in which to store their few clothes. While there were gas lamps in the public rooms downstairs, they were given one candle to light their way from their bedroom down to the latrine in the back yard. ‘Make it last the week,’ Lily warned. They were to wash in the scullery.

  Olive was petrified of the long descent past the Belhavens’ bedroom and the spare room that was let out to travellers and allowed them to boast that their establishment was a hotel. Clarrie had to go with her. While she stood guard in the chilly yard, she leaned over the half-door of the adjacent shed to pet Barny. As she nuzzled the horse and breathed in his smell, she experienced a deep pang of loss for Prince and her past life.

  What were Kamal and Prince doing now? How were Ama and her family? Was anyone living at Belgooree? She hated to think of strangers occupying her home, but hated more the thought that it might decay, unsold and unloved.

  Back in the attic, the sisters lay sleepless and anxious about what lay ahead.

  ‘I can’t bear it here; this room’s like a prison cell,’ Olive whispered. ‘And that woman’s a bully. I’ll not work in their horrible bar. They can’t make me.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Clarrie assured her, ‘we won’t stay here long. I’ll find a good position.’

  Olive clung to her. ‘You won’t leave me here, will you?’

  ‘Of course I won’t! How could you think such a thing? I’ll always look after you, I promise.’

  It seemed to Clarrie she had only just fallen asleep when a loud hammering on their door woke her.

  ‘Time to get up, lasses,’ Jared shouted, ‘there are jobs to be done. No lying in bed today.’

  As Clarrie groaned and struggled out of bed, Olive pulled the thin covers over her head and burst into tears.

  CHAPTER 7

  By the end of the week, Clarrie was near exhaustion. She had never worked as hard: up at five to stoke the fires, cooking and cleaning for Lily, serving customers and washing glasses for Jared until late at night. Her back ached constantly from heaving in buckets of coal from the coal shed and her hands were red raw from washing up.

  But she was partly to blame for her workload. Right from the start, she stood firm over Olive. ‘She’s too young to be serving grown men in the bar,’ Clarrie insisted, ‘and the smoke from their pipes will set off her wheezing.’

  ‘Well, I need someone to serve in the sitting room,’ Jared grumbled, ‘specially when its busy of an evening.’

  ‘How did you manage before?’ Clarrie dared to ask.

  ‘Had a lass about Olive’s age workin’ for us,’ he said pointedly.

  ‘She was useless,’ Lily snapped. ‘And once we knew you were coming, we got rid of her.’

  Clarrie hid her dismay. ‘I’ll do it then,’ she said. Whatever her cousins thought, the situation would just be temporary.

  ‘What about the young lass?’ Lily retorted. ‘Don’t think she can sit around like royalty — we can’t afford it. She’ll have to do her bit to earn her keep.’

  ‘She’s very good with her hands,’ Clarrie said, ‘she can sew and mend. And she can help with the pie making if you teach her how to make pastry.’

  ‘You’ve never made pastry?’ Lily exclaimed.

  ‘No, our khansama—’ Clarrie broke off. She had quickly learned that her cousins hated any mention of their life in India or reference to their having had servants. She smiled. ‘We’d be grateful if you taught us.’

  Olive submitted to being confined to Lily’s kitchen, though she hated letting Clarrie out of her sight. For her part, Clarrie found the evenings serving customers were preferable to being lectured and criticised by Lily. Having dreaded going into the smoky bar, she was surprised to find the men mainly congenial and friendly. Jared had boasted about her growing up on his cousin’s tea plantation.

  ‘By, it’s the Empress of India!’

  ‘How’s the memsahib today?’

  ‘Haway, hinny, fill it up.’

  ‘See yer the morra, Clarrie pet. Gan canny!’

  The one chore she baulked at was cleaning out the spittoon at the bar entrance. It made her gag.

  ‘I’ll not do it,’ she told Jared.

  He relented. ‘That lad Harrison can manage, I suppose.’

  ‘That lad Harrison’ was a chubby-faced man in his thirties who needed everything explaining to him three times before he did it. Jared supervised him in the bar and he also delivered pies on the rolley. He got confused if his route was changed and upset if anyone shouted at him. But most of the time he was cheerful and eager to help. To Clarrie’s relief Harrison found nothing repugnant in cleaning out the gobbets of spit in the brass spittoon.

  In the sitting room, Clarrie was astonished to find herself serving women as well as men. Some came in with their husbands for half a pint of stout or a sweet sherry; others were unchaperoned. When she mentioned this to Lily, the woman sniffed in disapproval.

  ‘Common as muck, of course. But long as they pay up and don’t cause trouble among the men, we put up with them.’

  Clarrie felt sorry for these women. Most of them looked undernourished and tired out. They would get merry on one or two drinks and start up a singsong. Sometimes they had children in tow whom Jared made stand outside.

  One hot, late afternoon, when Clarrie took some children cups of water on a tray, Jared lost his temper.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing? We’re not a bloody charity!’

  ‘But they’re thirsty,’ Clarrie said, shocked at his vehemence. She had never seen him this angry; she was almost frightened.

  ‘And we’ll have half the ragamuffins in the neighbourhood queuing up if they see how soft you are,’ he shouted. ‘Now get back to serving paying customers and don’t ever do that again.’

  After he had stalked off, the women in the sitting room consoled her.r />
  ‘Don’t listen to him, the miserable old bugger,’ said one in a huge purple hat.

  ‘Aye, he’s just frightened of that dragon of a wife finding out,’ a younger one sniggered. ‘She hates bairns.’

  ‘Ta, hinny, it was a canny thought,’ a third said, draining her drink and getting stiffly to her feet. Clarrie noticed that she moved with a serious limp.

  The women seemed decent enough, though there was a sour smell about them and their shoes were worn thin. She wanted to ask them why they came into such a dismal place where they could not take their children, but did not want to offend them.

  ‘Well, it’s a treat to be served by the likes of ye,’ the limping one called Ina said, smiling. ‘You’ve got a bonny face and a canny voice.’

  ‘Aye, you’re much too posh for this place,’ grinned Lexy, the youngest woman. ‘Where’d old Mutton-chops find ye?’

  ‘I’m family,’ Clarrie answered. ‘My parents are dead. Cousin Jared’s taken me in — and my sister, Olive.’

  The women commiserated with her. Their kindness nearly made her weep.

  ‘You take care of yoursel’, hinny. You’re like a ray of sunshine after that battleaxe in there.’ Maggie, the one in the purple hat, pulled a face and nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Always looking down her nose at the likes of us.’

  Ina lowered her voice. ‘She’s nee better. Me mam was the midwife brought her into the world and it wasn’t into a palace, I can tell you. Lily-no-stockings, they used to call her.’

  ‘Aye, that’s why she’s so mean,’ Lexy added. ‘Waters down the beer an’ all. Bet she lords it over you. None of the other lasses could stick it for five minutes.’

  ‘Other lasses?’

  Lexy nodded. ‘They’ve had more waitresses working here than I’ve had hot dinners.’

  Clarrie smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll not be staying long either. Just as soon as I can find another position.’

  The women hooted with laughter. ‘Position, eh?’

  ‘Well, good on yer, hinny,’ said Ina.

  ‘Haway, Maggie,’ Lexy giggled to her friend. ‘We must gan back to our positions at the washhouse!’