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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  As the sun dipped, they remounted and set off home. Clarrie felt deeply reluctant. When would she have the chance to do this again?

  ‘Make the most of this, Clarrie,’ Will warned, as if reading her thoughts.

  ‘Why?’ Clarrie asked, startled.

  ‘Once Johnny’s in the ILP,’ Will grinned, ‘he’ll have to sell off these bourgeois horses and give his money to the party.’

  Johnny snorted with laughter. ‘Only your horse, Will. Clarrie and I will need ours for the revolution.’

  It was dark by the time they got back to Summerhill. Will changed and went out again, leaving Clarrie feeling bereft. He would be staying the night at Johnny’s house. Their stimulating company had kept at bay the emptiness that had gripped her at Olive’s departure. Now it returned like stomach cramps. She went in search of Herbert.

  Uncharacteristically, he was not in his study working or reading. Passing his bedroom she saw light shining under the door. It had been a tiring day and he had gone to bed early. Clarrie had hoped for his company and a chance to sit up late talking over the high points of the day, even if it meant having to keep reminding him of the names of the wedding guests.

  Against her better judgement, she went up to the next floor and looked inside Olive’s bedroom. But it was empty of her belongings and Sally had already stripped the bed. There was nothing of comfort there. Then, in the glow from the streetlight, she glimpsed a crumpled dress discarded over the back of a chair. Picking it up, Clarrie recognised it as an old dress that Olive had made when they had first come to Summerhill. It had been her Sunday best, then after a few years of wear demoted to a work dress. More recently, Olive had used it to paint in. Clarrie lifted it and pressed it against her face. It still smelled of her sister’s scent and a whiff of turpentine.

  ‘Oh, Olive,’ she cried aloud, ‘I miss you!’

  She was assaulted afresh by the loss of her past life; of her parents, of Belgooree and the Khassia hills, of the closeness she had shared with her sister. Clutching the dress like a talisman, she returned downstairs to her own bedroom. It was ghostly quiet and empty too. She realised how little she had personalised the room. She slept in it and dressed in it, but it was a room still in mourning for its previous owner.

  Mechanically, she undressed, pulled on her nightgown and lay down. She fingered Olive’s frock, wondering what Jack and Olive’s new house was like. Her sister had not taken her to see it, but perhaps she would call on Olive in a week or so when she had had time to settle in. She could take her something for the house: a set of fancy fire-irons for the parlour or a plant urn with a colourful glaze. She would take an hour off from the cafe in the afternoon and visit when Jack was not likely to be there. Jack and Olive.

  Abruptly, Clarrie pushed the faded dress away. She did not like to think of what they might be doing now. It made her insides clench and loneliness overwhelm her. Restlessly, she got up and paced to the window. The gardens in the square were bathed in ethereal moonlight, the dark leaves of the trees rippling like the sea. It was seldom the sky was clear enough of smoke or clouds for such bright moonlight.

  It stirred something in her. Then she was reminded of that other wedding night — Bertie and Verity’s — when she had come across Wesley in the garden. How foolish she had been to pretend to be Dolly. It would have been better had she told him at once who she was instead of letting him come close and flirt. Then there would have been no misunderstanding by the prying servant whose gossip had turned Jack against her.

  Unwelcome desire for Wesley gnawed inside. She must not think of him! She was married to Herbert, a man of whom she was genuinely fond, even if she did not love him wholeheartedly. Clarrie turned away from the mesmerising movement of the trees. She would go to Herbert. She was sick and tired of this lukewarm marriage. She would make herself love him and if he really loved her as he claimed, he would tell her so physically and not just in words.

  Crossing the bedroom in her bare feet, Clarrie hurried into the corridor. There was no one to see her, and if either Sally or Mrs Henderson happened to be on the stairs and heard her knocking on her husband’s door, she did not care.

  ‘Herbert?’ she called softly. ‘May I come in?’

  There was no reply but the light was still on. She knocked again and thought she heard a faint noise, perhaps a snore. He was already asleep. Clarrie’s courage began to fail her. She backed away and then stopped, annoyed at her own timidity. She was his wife and had every right to go to him. Trying the door, she found it unlocked.

  The large table lamp bathed the spartan room in yellow light. Clarrie had hardly stepped in here since she had been housekeeper, but its dark mahogany furniture and fringed brown curtains were unchanged. The old marble washstand supported a pile of books. She glanced at the bed with its severe black metal frame. Herbert lay facing away from the door with his left arm out of the covers and flung backwards in an awkward position. Tiptoeing forward, she could hear his breathing. He was asleep after all. At least he had not been deliberately ignoring her calls.

  She stood over the bed, wondering whether to pull back the bedclothes and slip in beside him or retreat. Suddenly, he let out a strange animal grunt. Clarrie jumped. But he did not move or turn over. He was making noises in his sleep. Clarrie sighed. What foolishness had made her come? Even if he had been awake, Herbert did not desire her. He would be deeply embarrassed if he woke and found her standing there in her gauzy nightdress fingering his sheets. She felt hot shame at her longing for intimacy. Quietly, she padded out of the room and returned to her own.

  ***

  ‘Miss, oh, miss, come quickly!’ Sally’s shouts woke Clarrie from a deep sleep. The bedroom through the muslin curtains was bathed in the pink light of dawn. Befuddled, Clarrie sat up.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the master,’ Sally gabbled, ‘he’s in a queer state. I went with hot water for his shave. He’s not making any sense. Haway, miss, please!’

  Clarrie struggled out of bed, still groggy but alarmed by the girl’s panic. She threw on a dressing gown and followed Sally.

  Herbert lay just as she had left him, turned towards the far wall, his arm at an angle. Rushing round to the other side of the bed, Clarrie froze. Herbert was staring right at her, eyes wide open.

  CHAPTER 28

  ‘Herbert?’ Clarrie gasped.

  Her husband continued to stare at her without saying anything, his mouth slack. She leaned closer. He was still breathing. She touched him but he did not flinch.

  ‘Herbert, what’s wrong?’ Clarrie demanded, shaking him gently.

  All at once, he gave a strange groan like the one she had heard him make in the night. She put a hand to his face.

  ‘Speak to me, Herbert! What is it?’

  He looked at her with puzzled eyes as if not sure who she was. He grunted, his face empty of expression. She lifted his arm and it dropped back down lifeless. In fear, Clarrie gripped his hand and brought it to her cheek.

  ‘Can you not speak?’ she cried. When he did not reply, Clarrie turned to Sally. ‘He needs a doctor. I’ll go and ring. Stay with him.’ She bolted from the room and half fell, half ran down the stairs in her haste to reach the telephone in the cloakroom off the hall.

  With shaking hands, Clarrie gripped the receiver as she waited for the doctor to answer. When he finally did, she described Herbert’s condition as calmly as she could and got the doctor’s agreement to come at once. She rang off, close to tears.

  How long had he been lying like that? An hour or two? The whole night? She knew the answer to her own anxious questioning. Herbert must have been already incapacitated when she had come seeking him. He had tried to communicate but she had gone away, swallowing down her lust, thinking him asleep. If only she had got into his bed, she would have known there was something wrong. What if he were to die because of the delay? She would never forgive herself.

  But, dressed and waiting for the doctor, holding Herbert’s stiff hand, a bitte
r little voice inside reminded her that if he had been a proper husband to her and shared her bed she could have acted sooner.

  The doctor diagnosed a stroke. Herbert was paralysed down one side and had lost the power of speech. It was too soon to know if he would recover any of his faculties. He would need constant nursing, either in hospital or at home.

  ‘I want to keep him here,’ Clarrie said instinctively, ‘I’m sure that’s what he’ll want.’

  The doctor left to make arrangements.

  Clarrie was stunned. She telephoned Johnny’s parents and told Will, who came racing round to be with her. Later, they sent word to Bertie at the office. He castigated Clarrie for not alerting him at once.

  ‘We knew you would be busy,’ Clarrie said lamely, not wanting to admit she could not have faced his censoriousness any earlier.

  ‘And how was it you let him lie there all night before doing anything?’ he demanded.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Clarrie said, consumed with guilt, ushering him quickly out of the bedroom. Will followed and closed the door.

  ‘How could you not?’

  ‘I — I thought he was asleep,’ she said, trying to keep her voice down.

  She did not like the way Bertie scrutinised her, his eyes full of disdain. It was none of his business if they had separate bedrooms.

  ‘You weren’t with him, were you?’ he accused her. ‘Where were you? Out with one of your Bolshevik yobs?’

  ‘Leave her alone!’ Will rounded on his brother. ‘Clarrie’s not to blame for this. And you are in no position to preach at anyone. When was the last time you visited Papa at home? You’ve shown how little you care for him.’

  ‘Well, I’m here now,’ Bertie shot back, ‘and I’m going to keep an eye on him — see that he gets proper nursing care.’ He gave Clarrie a hard look. ‘The way my mother should have.’

  Clarrie was winded by the implication. Will sprang at his brother and grabbed his jacket.

  ‘How dare you bring Mama into this? Clarrie couldn’t have been more caring!’

  He shoved Bertie backwards against the banisters.

  ‘Will, stop!’ Clarrie intervened, pulling him away. ‘None of this helps your father.’

  The two brothers glared at each other, Bertie smoothing down his jacket in indignation. Will let out a big sigh.

  ‘You’re right, I’m sorry. What do you want us to do?’

  Clarrie felt fear take hold. She was still too shocked to know what to do. What if Herbert were never to recover? How could she cope without him? What about his clients? What about the cafe if she had to nurse him full time? She tried to stem her rising panic and think clearly. The brothers watched her.

  ‘We need to sit down together — all of us,’ Clarrie began falteringly. ‘Verity too if she wants to help. Then we can discuss how best to cope with this terrible situation.’ She gave Bertie a warning look. ‘What I don’t want is for anyone to go shouting their heads off and upsetting my husband. He might not be able to speak but I’m sure he hears and understands us. A family row is not going to help his recovery.’

  Will’s look was contrite. He nodded in agreement. They looked at Bertie.

  ‘Very well,’ he snapped. ‘But I have a business to run. We will talk about this later. Keep me informed about what the doctor says.’

  The following days were a blur of doctor’s visits and people calling round in concern: clients, neighbours, their church minister and elder, and friends from the tea room. The Landsdownes sent a basket of fruit and Verity came without the twins.

  ‘It would be too upsetting for the children to see him in such a state,’ she told Clarrie, hardly able to hide her own distaste at Herbert’s rigid features and drooling mouth.

  Clarrie swallowed a bitter retort that she should have brought them to see their grandfather long ago.

  ‘Perhaps in a few weeks when he’s improved,’ Clarrie suggested. ‘I’m sure seeing Vernon and Josephine would lift his spirits no end.’

  Verity hurried away with a vague promise to bring them soon.

  Two nurses were employed on a rota system to help with lifting, bathing, changing and feeding Herbert. Clarrie took sole responsibility at night, setting up a camp bed in her husband’s room so that she would hear him if he needed her. Strangely, she was comforted by their proximity. Rather than lying alone in her own room fretting, she could fall asleep listening to his breathing and the soft tick of his bedside clock. When she could not sleep, she would sit beside him stroking his face or his useless arm. He looked achingly vulnerable. So seldom had she been able to touch him physically in the past that she was filled with a new tenderness towards him at such simple contact. She realised how much she wanted him to live and get better.

  She spent her days going to and fro between the cafe and the house, checking on Herbert every couple of hours, taking it in turns with Will to be with him. Sometimes she would read to him, but was never sure if he understood the words. She would hold his good hand and sometimes he would press hers back, yet his eyes showed no sign of recognition.

  Bertie took his father’s work in hand, sorting through the mound of files in his study and contacting his clients.

  ‘You mustn’t worry about the business side,’ Will assured Clarrie, ‘Bertie’s seeing to all that. That’s one thing he’s good at; sorting out finances.’

  ‘But Herbert can’t sign for anything,’ Clarrie worried.

  ‘He doesn’t need to — Bertie has powers from the courts to do it on his behalf.’

  With so much to do, Clarrie was relieved that she did not have to concern herself with Herbert’s legal caseload. When he recovered, she would not allow him to go back to such a demanding schedule. He had driven himself far too hard, unable to let go proper control to his son, as he should have. They would both work fewer hours and spend more time together, she determined. All she wanted now was the chance for them to be better companions.

  Word of Herbert’s stroke reached Olive via Daniel Milner and Jack. She called round while Clarrie was at the cafe, but Will persuaded her to stay until her sister returned. They hugged briefly.

  ‘It’s terrible to see him this way,’ Olive said tearfully. ‘He seemed so well on our wedding day — so kind and cheery.’

  ‘Yes,’ Clarrie agreed, ‘it was a happy day.’

  ‘I can’t stop thinking,’ Olive trembled, ‘that it might have been too much for him. If we hadn’t—’

  ‘Stop it,’ Clarrie chided, taking her sister’s hands. ‘You mustn’t think like that. It had nothing to do with the wedding. Herbert’s been pushing himself too hard for ages.’

  They went down to the kitchen where Mrs Henderson made a fuss of Olive. The sisters shared a pot of tea in Clarrie s old sitting room where they both felt more at home with each other. At Clarrie’s prompting, Olive talked eagerly of married life.

  ‘It’s only been a few days but I feel so at home in our new house — and Jack’s that proud of it. He makes such a fuss of me too, bringing back little treats every day. I tell him not to, that he should be saving his money and putting it by, but he won’t listen.’ She smiled.

  Clarrie looked at her sister’s blushing cheeks and smiled too. ‘Enjoy the treats, why shouldn’t you?’

  ‘That’s what Jack says,’ Olive answered. ‘And I suppose I should, ‘cos you never know what’s round the corner.’ Abruptly she stopped, a look of consternation on her face. ‘Sorry, Clarrie, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘You haven’t,’ Clarrie said, tensing.

  After that, their conversation faltered. Clarrie tried too hard to put Olive at her ease, not wanting her to go, but to no avail.

  ‘I must be getting home,’ she said, rising hastily, ‘and get the tea on for Jack.’

  She promised to come again soon, but Clarrie could see the relief on her sister’s face as she left, like that of an animal escaping a trap. She knew that Olive was thankful not to be still living at Summerhill, dealing with an invalid Herbert.
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  After a month, Will had to return to Durham. He was reluctant to leave, for there was no sign of improvement in his father’s condition, but Clarrie was adamant.

  ‘Of course you must go back. Your studies come first.’

  Will gave a rueful smile. ‘That sounds like something my father would say.’

  ‘Good,’ Clarrie said, ‘then all the more reason for going.’

  She hid from him just how much she relied on him for support and company. Will left, promising to return when he could before the Christmas holidays.

  Clarrie drove herself all the harder after Will’s departure, snatching a few hours’ sleep between running the cafe and watching over Herbert. She helped with his daily therapy of exercises and massage, to keep his good limbs from wasting and encourage movement in the paralysed half.

  As the weeks progressed, there were small improvements: some control over his facial muscles returned so that he could chew soft foods and he began to get movement in his left leg. By November they had him up on his feet, aided by two nurses, and walking unsteadily to the door and back.

  One winter’s evening, Clarrie carried in a tray of food to feed him and placed it on the table beside Herbert’s bed. He was propped up against pillows watching her with his usual vacant expression.

  ‘Soon.’

  Her head jerked round at the sound. She stared at him, wondering if it was just a noise or an attempt at a word.

  ‘Soon,’ Herbert repeated and pointed with his good hand to the tray.

  Clarrie scrutinised it. Then it dawned on her. There was no spoon for the mashed food. ‘Spoon?’ she queried. She seized his hand. ‘You were trying to say spoon!’

  Herbert’s mouth pulled into a grimace. She kissed his hand. ‘You clever man. You said spoon. Say something else.’ She pointed at the bowl of food.

  ‘Mince,’ Herbert said slowly, ‘and ‘tatoes.’

  ‘Mince and potatoes!’ Clarrie shrieked. She pointed to herself. ‘Who am I?’ she asked, holding her breath in anticipation.

  He gazed at her for a long time, his expression baffled and half-frowning. Perhaps it was too much to ask all at once.