***
One day, Lexy and Ina came into the bar without Maggie. Lexy was unusually subdued. When Clarrie asked where their friend was, Lexy shook her head.
‘Her bastard husband!’ she muttered angrily. ‘He nearly killed her this time.’
Clarrie gasped. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Beat her black and blue,’ Ina explained.
‘Whatever for?’
‘Burning his bloody bacon probably,’ Lexy hissed. ‘He doesn’t need a reason.’
Clarrie felt sick and sat down. ‘That’s terrible! Where is she?’
Ina glanced around fearfully and nodded at Lexy.
‘She’s at my house,’ Lexy said.
‘Shh, keep your voice down,’ Ina whispered. ‘His workmates drink in here.’
Lexy gave a defiant look round, but dropped her voice. ‘I’ve got the bairns keeping an eye on her.’
‘Won’t he think to look there?’ Clarrie asked.
‘He’s already been round, shouting his head off, but I kept the door locked.’
Ina sighed. ‘It’s only a matter of time before he finds her and drags her back.’
Clarrie felt anger rise in her throat. ‘Can’t anybody stop him? Why don’t you tell the police what he’s done?’
Lexy and Ina gave her pitying looks. ‘They don’t do owt,’ Lexy snorted. ‘What happens inside closed doors is a private matter. A man can do as he likes with his wife.’
Clarrie swallowed. ‘Well, she mustn’t go back. She must go somewhere else.’
‘That’s easier said than done,’ Ina sighed. ‘Her daughter lives nearby but she’s as scared of the old man as her mam is.’
‘And she’ll lose her job at the washhouse if she doesn’t gan back soon,’ Lexy said bleakly. ‘I cannot cover for her much longer.’
Clarrie could think of nothing to say that would comfort the women. All the rest of the day, she forced herself to carry on with the job she was beginning to hate with a passion. Although she had never served Maggie’s brutal husband, she felt somehow complicit. How many alcoholic rages had she fuelled in other men? How many drinkers had Jared turned out at the end of the night to go home and beat their wives?
That night Clarrie could not sleep. She lay listening to Olive’s wheezing breath and wrestled with her troubled thoughts. The next day was Sunday. On the walk to church, she plucked up the courage to ask what had been preying on her mind all night.
‘Cousin Jared, I’ve been thinking of a new business idea.’
‘Hark at her!’ Lily snorted. ‘Business idea indeed.’
‘Let’s hear what she has to say, my dear,’ Jared said, glancing round at Clarrie. She knew anything to do with making money would gain his interest.
‘I’ve heard that tea rooms are very popular these days. So I was wondering if we could start serving tea in the sitting-room? We could do it up nicely with cloths on the tables and curtains at the window,’ Clarrie enthused. ‘Sell Mrs Belhaven’s pies and maybe cakes.’
Lily stopped in her tracks. ‘Cakes?’ she cried.
‘Aye,’ Clarrie said, ‘like they do in Lockart’s Cocoa Rooms. Olive and I could make them.’
Both Jared and Lily gawped at her, dumbfounded. He was the first to speak.
‘Why ever would we want to do that? The men don’t want to drink tea or eat cake,’ he said dismissively.
‘They might, if we made it homely,’ Clarrie said, ‘more welcoming.’
‘If they want homely,’ Lily snapped, ‘they’ve got homes to gan to.’
‘We’d get more women coming in,’ Clarrie persisted. ‘They don’t have anywhere decent to have a sit down and a cuppa round here.’
Lily snorted with derision. ‘Well we certainly don’t want to encourage them. They should be at home where they belong, looking after their husbands and bairns. If Mr Belhaven wasn’t so soft, I wouldn’t let them common types in at all.’
Clarrie was crestfallen.
‘And don’t give me one of your looks,’ Lily said. ‘We haven’t money to spend on fancy curtains or cloths — and the types round here wouldn’t appreciate it if we did.’
Jared shook his head. ‘No, Clarrie, the customers don’t want that sort of thing. Tea rooms are for the middle classes and the city centre. We’d be out of business in a fortnight if we tried that round here. The men would just gan elsewhere.’
He and Lily turned their backs on the sisters and resumed their march uphill.
‘Tea room!’ Lily kept muttering. ‘Never heard owt so daft.’
Clarrie gulped down her frustration. Changing their minds was a hopeless task. Olive slipped a comforting arm through hers.
‘It’s a grand idea,’ she whispered. ‘Not daft at all.’
Clarrie threw her sister a grateful look as they followed the Belhavens into church.
Louisa Stock had never been back at the John Knox Presbyterian since losing her baby. Word had spread among the congregation that she was an invalid and no one had seen her leave the house in Summerhill for months. There was never any mention of a dead baby; the most that was ever said was that Mrs Stock had ‘women’s troubles’. Herbert Stock’s face was permanently drawn and anxious. He looked years older than he had the previous summer; his limp was more pronounced, and each Sunday he merely nodded at them as he left. Bertie still sang lustily and looked as bumptious as ever. Only Will hung back at the end of each service to speak to Clarrie, despite Bertie’s command to him to hurry up. Will had been worried when Clarrie had missed church for a month.
‘I thought you might have gone to bed and not got up, like Mama,’ he had confided bashfully. ‘I wanted to come and see you but Papa and Bertie said it was out of the question.’
During the service, Will kept glancing round and grinning at Clarrie, so much so that Lily pinched her and made her shift behind a pillar so the boy could not see her.
‘Making a spectacle of yerself,’ she hissed in disgust.
After the service, Lily marched her outside and was about to give her a lecture on seemly behaviour when Herbert Stock approached them. Lily quickly adopted her submissive bob and smile as he greeted them. Will came bounding up behind his father, grinning at Clarrie.
‘I have come with a request from Mrs Stock,’ Herbert said stiffly.
Lily looked astonished, but pleased. ‘Of course, sir, we’d be happy to help. How is Mrs Stock?’
‘Not well,’ Herbert said tensely.
‘Dear, dear, we’re sorry to hear that,’ Lily said. ‘Aren’t we, Mr Belhaven?’
Jared grunted in agreement.
‘So what can we do for her, sir?’ Lily asked.
‘It’s Clarrie I wish to speak to,’ Herbert said, turning towards her and surprising them all. ‘My wife would like to meet you. Perhaps you could be allowed to call at the house later this afternoon, say four o’clock?’
Clarrie darted a look at her cousins; they gaped with incredulity.
‘Yes, Mr Stock,’ Clarrie gulped, ‘I’d be pleased to.’
Herbert gave a brief nod of approval. ‘I hope that doesn’t inconvenience you, Mrs Belhaven?’
Lily struggled to contain her outrage. ‘N-no, I suppose not -— but it seems a bit odd. Why the lass?’
Herbert replied awkwardly, ‘My wife has heard a great deal about Clarrie from Will. She wishes to see her for herself. If it’s not convenient, another time could be arranged.’
Clarrie saw Lily struggle to remain polite to one of her most prestigious customers. ‘No, no, this afternoon will do.’
‘Good,’ Herbert said, touching his hat. He turned away.
‘See you this afternoon, Clarrie,’ Will called excitedly as they walked off.
Clarrie waved, ignoring Lily’s furious look.
All the way home, Lily castigated her for fraternising with the Stock boy.
‘Don’t think you can start hobnobbing with the likes of them. It’s not natural. Mrs Stock wants to warn you off being so familiar, more than likel
y. Mark my words, your airs and graces will get you into a heap o’ trouble. Pride comes before a fall,’ she sniffed. ‘Isn’t that right, Mr Belhaven?’.
Jared walked with a frown. He gave a shake of his head. ‘It’s a strange business. I wonder what she really wants?’
Only Olive was as excited as Clarrie. Later, when they were left to do the washing up, she said, ‘I wish I was coming too. Do you think they’ll give you afternoon tea? Bring me back a slice of cake, Clarrie. If they ask you again, say you’ll take me next time!’
Hurrying over to Summerhill, Clarrie was caught in a spring squall and arrived wet through at the tradesman’s entrance. No one answered her knock, so she went in to avoid further drenching. The kitchen was untidy and the range billowed smoke back into the room. She called out but no one replied. Clarrie took the back stairs that Will had shown her on Christmas Eve and emerged into the gloomy hallway. She stood for a moment waiting, but there was no sound of life from any of the rooms leading off the hall, only the heavy tick of the grandfather clock in the alcove. It was five past four.
‘Hello? It’s Clarrie Belhaven. Is anyone here?’
The front door opened and slammed. Will raced in.
‘Clarrie! I’ve been waiting for you on the steps. How did you get past me?’
‘I came in the back way,’ she said, feeling awkward. ‘Sorry.’
‘Never mind, you’re here now. Come on,’ he said, ‘Papa’s in his study. He won’t know you’re here, cos you didn’t ring the bell.’
Chastened, Clarrie followed him upstairs and turned left along the landing. Will knocked on a door and went in without waiting for an answer. Herbert was dozing by a fire in a large room lined from floor to ceiling with books. A large mahogany desk stood in the elegant window, covered by a mass of papers spilling out of folders. Further documents stood in lopsided piles around the room.
‘Papa, Clarrie’s here!’ Will cried, startling his father awake.
Herbert Stock looked up in confusion, his face creased in sleep and his eyes bleary. For a heart-stopping moment, Clarrie was reminded of her father waking in his study in Belgooree. Then Herbert struggled to his feet, smoothing a hand over his greying hair, and the fleeting similarity was gone.
‘Miss Belhaven, thank you for coming. I didn’t hear you arrive.’ He held out a hand in formal greeting.
‘She came in the servants’ entrance,’ Will said.
‘Oh, of course.’ Herbert shook her hand. ‘You’re cold and wet,’ he said in concern. ‘Come by the fire and warm up.’ He pushed her gently towards the hearth. ‘I’ll go and see if Mrs Stock is awake.’
As he left, Will said, ‘Can you play backgammon?’
Clarrie grinned. ‘Very well.’
‘Bet I can beat you.’ Will fetched the set from behind a pile of books.
When Herbert returned ten minutes later, he found them in the middle of a lively game. Clarrie got up quickly. Herbert cut short his son’s protest at being interrupted.
‘Will, you can finish it later. Would you like to take Miss Belhaven to meet Mama?’
Will scrambled to his feet. ‘Come on, Clarrie, this way.’
He led her back along the corridor, past the low chest on which the nativity scene had been displayed, and stopped outside the end door. He knocked gently and waited for an answer. A faint voice beyond said, ‘Come.’
Clarrie was suddenly nervous of going into this stranger’s bedroom, not knowing what she was going to find. It seemed intrusive. But then she thought of the state her father had been in when she had nursed him in his final months. It gave her the courage to step through the door. Illness and death no longer frightened her, for she had seen the face of both.
The room was curtained, dimly lit by one flickering gas lamp and unbearably stuffy from a roaring coal fire. There were dainty blue armchairs either side of the hearth and an elegant dressing table covered in glass jars, bottles and brushes gathering dust. A large four-poster bed dominated the far end of the room. Propped up against a mound of pillows was a tiny woman in a lacy cap. The table next to her was cluttered with medicine bottles.
‘Mama,’ Will said in a hushed voice, ‘here she is!’ He rushed towards the bed as if about to throw himself on top and then stopped.
Louisa raised a fragile hand and beckoned Clarrie forward. As she approached the bed she was hit by a sweet, sickly, bodily smell. Clarrie tried to hide her shock. This sallow-faced woman with hollowed eyes and straggly hair escaping her cap bore no resemblance to the pink-cheeked, bright-eyed woman she remembered.
‘Hello, Clarrie,’ she whispered in a papery thin voice. ‘May I call you Clarrie?’
‘Of course.’ Clarrie smiled and stepped close, taking the hand that was offered. To her surprise the fingers were puffy, the thick gold wedding ring cutting into clammy flesh. ‘I’m pleased to see you again, Mrs Stock. I’m sorry you’ve not been well. We miss you at church.’
Louisa’s eyes gleamed with sorrow in the lamplight. ‘Thank you.’
‘Mama,’ Will filled the pause, ‘I’m beating Clarrie at backgammon.’
‘You haven’t won yet,’ Clarrie laughed. ‘Remember I’ve been playing it a lot longer than you.’
‘How — are you — finding it — here?’ Louisa asked in a slow, laboured voice. ‘Have you settled?’
Clarrie hesitated. ‘It doesn’t feel like home yet,’ she said frankly, ‘but we manage, Olive and I. My Cousin Jared was kind to take us in.’
‘Olive is your sister?’ Louisa asked.
‘Yes. She’s the clever one — very artistic and musical and she loves to read. Olive would love Mr Stock’s library.’
‘Perhaps she could — borrow a book or two,’ Louisa answered, her glassy-eyed gaze looking beyond Clarrie.
‘Certainly, my dearest,’ Herbert replied.
Clarrie glanced round in surprise, not realising he had followed them in. His face was full of tender concern.
‘That’s very kind, thank you. Olive would be so pleased.’ Clarrie suddenly frowned. ‘Except — Mrs Belhaven might not allow it. She only approves of reading the Bible.’
Will was incredulous. ‘Doesn’t that get a bit boring?’
‘Will!’ his father warned him. ‘It’s not for you to comment.’
‘We could smuggle them in,’ Will suggested, ‘among the pie trays.’
‘William, that’s enough,’ Herbert said. ‘Why don’t you and I go and rustle up some tea? Dolly said she’d leave it out ready.’
When they had left, Louisa indicated that Clarrie should sit on the chair by her bed.
‘Clarrie, tell me about — India. What — was it like?’
‘It was the most beautiful place to live,’ Clarrie said, sitting down. ‘Our home was in the hills, surrounded by forests, among the Khassia people. I used to ride every day to see the sun rise over the mountains. I miss that greatly.’
‘Go on,’ Louisa said drowsily. ‘I may — close my eyes — but I’m still listening.’
Once Clarrie began talking of her past life she found she could not stop. She told Will’s mother all about Belgooree, her strong-willed Northumbrian father and her gentle half-Indian mother; about Kamal and Ama and Shillong, and the difficulty of growing tea in such a remote place; of Prince and the swami and the glory of the Himalayas. The only thing she did not speak of was the feud between her father and the Robsons, and Wesley’s high-handed offer to save them. Thoughts of Wesley brought such turmoil of resentment and guilt over her father’s death that Clarrie could not even bring herself to mention his name. How he would gloat now to see her so humbled.
After telling Louisa briefly of her father’s death and having to leave Belgooree for good, Clarrie fell silent in remembrance. In all the months of being in England, her cousins had never once asked her anything about Jock or the life she and Olive had led. She felt grateful to this invalid woman for allowing her to speak of it all at last.
Thinking Louisa had fallen asleep, Clarrie ge
ntly covered her swollen hand with her own and whispered, ‘Thank you.’
Louisa’s eyes opened and they stared at each other. ‘I can see — why Will is — so fond of you,’ she said.
Clarrie smiled. ‘He’s a very sweet lad.’
‘Yes.’
They were silent for a moment. Clarrie thought of the time when Will had shown her the nativity scene and she had been sure she had seen a woman in a nightgown crossing the landing as she left. Had Will’s mother heard their conversation about the dead baby? She felt she had to say something, for the enormity of the loss pervaded everything — the room, the house, the family — like a miasma. She did not know how the birth had affected this woman’s health, but she could see how sorrow was eating into her like a cancer.
‘Mrs Stock,’ Clarrie said gently, ‘I’m very sorry that you lost your baby.’
Louisa withdrew her hand as if she had been scalded and let out a soft moan, turning her face away. Clarrie stood up. She had misjudged the situation. It was a private matter and now she had offended the kind woman who offered her friendship.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve spoken out of turn,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
As she stepped away, Louisa whispered, ‘Stay.’
Clarrie stopped and waited. When Will’s mother turned her face towards her, there were tears on her pallid cheeks.
‘You were right,’ she murmured. ‘The baby was a — girl. A beautiful girl.’
Clarrie moved quickly back and touched her arm.
‘You heard me and Will on Christmas Eve, didn’t you? You were there.’
‘Yes.’
‘He blamed himself,’ Clarrie said quietly.
‘Yes, poor boy. I haven’t been able …’ Her voice trailed away wearily.
Clarrie felt her throat tighten with tears. ‘Did you give her a name?’
Louisa gave a shuddering sigh and shook her head.
‘Perhaps you’d chosen one beforehand though?’
Louisa’s eyes were pools of regret as she said, ‘It was to be — Henry for a boy, Lucinda — for a — girl.’
‘Lucinda, that’s bonny.’
Louisa reached out her hand again and fumbled for Clarrie’s. Clarrie held it gently in hers.
THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER:A wonderfully moving story of courage and enduring love: First in the India Tea Series Page 13
