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

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Then in April Bertie stopped paying her altogether. Alarmed, she went to his office. It was the first time she had been back since her humiliation after Herbert’s death. She had had no social contact with either Bertie or Verity; they had cut her off like a cancerous limb. When Verity’s father had died the previous year, she had written a letter of condolence but received no reply. Apart from missing seeing the twins, their snubbing of her suited Clarrie. She had no appetite for a confrontation with Bertie or being the butt of Verity’s waspish remarks. But this was an emergency.

  Clarrie hammered on the peeling office door several times before it dawned on her that it was locked. She peered in the window and saw with shock that the secretary’s room was empty of furniture and its floor bare. She stood back, wondering for a moment if she had gone to the wrong building, but she recognised the dolphin-shaped door knocker that Herbert had chosen, now tarnished green with neglect.

  Unease gripped her. There was nothing for it but to go to Jesmond and confront Bertie at home. Saving the tram fare, she walked across the town moor to the elegant suburb. But even this part of town looked jaded from war, its streets empty of traffic and paint peeling from doors and window frames.

  To Clarrie’s dismay, she found the house in Tankerville Terrace shuttered and silent. When she knocked at a neighbour’s door, a maid was happy to gossip.

  ‘Haven’t been here since Christmas. Said they can’t get the staff to keep it running, but between me, you and the gatepost,’ she said, arching her brows, ‘I heard they were having difficulties.’

  ‘Difficulties?’ Clarrie queried.

  The woman nodded. ‘Financial. Mr Raine — that’s our butler — he’s friendly with their one — or was until they shut up the house. Anyway, Mr Raine says they’d lost money ‘cos of the war and they couldn’t afford to keep all them staff — not when folk can get better wages elsewhere.’

  ‘But what of Mr Stock’s clients?’

  She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

  ‘So where have they gone?’ Clarrie asked anxiously.

  ‘Up country some place. Let me think of the name. Something Towers.’ She frowned.

  ‘Rokeham Towers?’ Clarrie said.

  ‘That’s it!’ the maid cried. Clarrie gave a groan of disbelief. The woman surveyed her with a pitying nod. ‘Yes, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but you’ll not get a job with the Stocks. You were after a job, weren’t you?’ She suddenly looked unsure, as if she had said too much.

  Clarrie looked down at her worn shoes and patched coat. Over the past two years she had shared out her good clothes with her staff. She could hardly blame the woman for mistaking her for an out-of-work servant rather than the manager of a tea room.

  She nodded. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Any time,’ the maid said cheerily and watched her walk away up the street.

  That evening, Clarrie sat down and wrote to Bertie, asking for payment of wages, and sent the letter care of Rokeham Towers. Three days later, she received a curt reply informing her that Bertie could no longer afford to pay her or the staff and that he was putting the tea room up for sale.

  ‘He can’t do that!’ she fulminated to Lexy.

  ‘Just watch him,’ Lexy grunted. She was unusually subdued. ‘I’m surprised we’ve lasted this long. No one in their right mind is ganin’ to buy a tea house just now.’

  Somehow, Lexy got hold of some home-distilled liquor and later Clarrie found her drunk and tearful in the back lane. Olive, who had come to collect the children, helped get her upstairs and into bed without fuss.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ Olive demanded. ‘Why is Lexy ganin’ on about Bertie selling off the tea room when it’s yours?’ Clarrie’s stricken look made her gasp, ‘It is yours, isn’t it?’

  After a long moment, Clarrie shook her head. ‘Sit down, Olive. It’s time I told you.’ Briefly, she spoke of Bertie’s treachery, and how he had taken everything from her except her personal possessions.

  ‘But the tea room?’ Olive said in bewilderment. ‘It means everything to you. He has no right.’

  She looked white-faced with anxiety and Clarrie feared she would crumple into one of her trembling states of fear. ‘I’m sorry I had to tell you,’ she said.

  Olive stood up. ‘No, it’s me who’s sorry. You shouldn’t have had to face this alone. If I had been half the sister to you that you’ve been to me …’

  ‘You’ve had your own problems,’ Clarrie murmured.

  ‘Don’t try to make excuses for me,’ Olive said, shaking her head. ‘All my life you’ve been protecting me and looking out for me and I’ve never been grateful enough.’ Her look was harrowed. ‘At times I hated you for it — couldn’t wait to get away from you and Summerhill — wanted to prove to myself that I could run me own life without you.’

  Clarrie flinched at her bluntness but said nothing. Too often she had spoken soothing words to pacify her sister’s outbursts instead of simply listening.

  Olive stood gripping her own arms. ‘I’ve been so wrapped up in my own worries, it never occurred to me that you might need me!’

  They stood holding each other’s look. Softly, Clarrie said, ‘I couldn’t have stepped off that boat from India or got through that terrible year with Cousin Lily without you. I wouldn’t have tried so hard to build a new life with the Stocks if you hadn’t been with me.’ Tentatively, she held out her arms. ‘You were the one person I cared enough for to make myself carry on. Without you, Olive, I would have given up years ago.’

  Olive let out a sob and rushed into her arms, clinging on fiercely. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she wept. ‘I love you, Clarrie.’

  Clarrie let her own tears come as she hugged her sister in relief. Their past differences and jealousies, and the hurt that had been inflicted, dissolved as they clung and cried together. Just when she seemed to be losing everything and her security was collapsing like quicksand, her sister had come back to her. It felt like sunshine breaking through storm clouds.

  It was Olive who pulled away first. She fixed Clarrie with a determined eye.

  ‘That man,’ she said angrily. ‘He’s not going to do this to you! I’m not going to let him!’

  Clarrie was heartened by Olive s fighting talk but she knew that her sister was powerless against a vindictive Bertie.

  ***

  The following weeks were some of the tensest of Clarrie’s life as she struggled to galvanise her staff and keep the tea room going without Bertie’s money. When word got out that the cafe was likely to close, people came with donations of food and offers of free help. Clarrie was touched by the concern and loyalty of her customers. Daniel Milner did his best to give her credit even though his own business was teetering on the edge of failure. In order to have something to offer to his customers, he was reduced to selling tinned fish and powdered egg, and doing most of the delivering himself. Clarrie did not like to take advantage of his generosity in case there was no business for Jack to return to after the war, if it ever ended and Jack was spared.

  So, despite the kindness of others, she still had to subsidise the cafe herself by pawning the jewellery that Herbert had bought her. By May, all she had left was her wedding ring and the pink stone that the swami had given her on her departure from India. She was determined not to sell either. But by June, with no sign of a sale and no wages, she was forced to do so.

  Steeling herself to enter a pawnbroker’s in town, Clarrie was almost choked with resentment and fury that Bertie had reduced her to this. She did not believe his protestations that he could not afford to pay her when he must have access to wealth through his wife. No doubt what Verity spent in an afternoon’s shopping would keep the tea room going for a further month. That morning, wrenching the ring from her finger and unfastening the chain that she had had made for the swami’s stone, she had almost been physically sick.

  As she handed them over and took the pawnbroker’s money, Clarrie rubbed her fingers one last tim
e over the smooth pink stone and thought of the swami content to live in a hut of leaves with one cooking pot and a bedroll. The thought of the wise, dignified man with the compassionate eyes and toothless smile brought her calm. Like him she would trust that she would be given the means to survive day by day, and not worry beyond the moment.

  Later that day, a letter arrived from Will with a generous cheque enclosed. Clarrie could hardly believe it.

  ‘Why did you never tell me you were in such straitened circumstances?’ he scolded.‘You know I would gladly have helped — intend now to help as much as I can. I have a sum of money from Papa’s estate and Bertie continues to pay me an allowance the way Papa did, but what use is it to me out here? You must use it to keep the tea room going, I insist on it. I’m furious with my brother for the way he has treated you and have written to tell him so. When I return we shall have it all sorted out. In the meantime I am putting things in motion to buy the tea room from him so your livelihood and home are secured. A friend of mine is shortly to get leave and I have entrusted him with making the arrangements on my behalf so matters can be resolved more swiftly. Dearest Clarrie, I can’t believe that you have kept this burden to yourself for so long. Promise me you will never keep secrets from me again!’

  Clarrie sat down and wept in relief. Lexy and Ina found her in the storeroom and thought she had received bad news until she managed to splutter the truth.

  ‘You don’t know what a relief it is that Will knows,’ she said, crying and laughing at the same time.

  ‘Who told him?’ Ina asked.

  Lexy and Clarrie exchanged looks. Lexy grinned.

  ‘Can only be one person,’ she said. ‘Mrs Olive branch.’

  That evening, returning to Lemington, Clarrie found Olive bathing the children in a tub in front of the fire. George was splashing and soaking the rug and Jane was copying him with noisy squeals of delight.

  ‘I’ve heard from Will,’ Clarrie said.

  Olive looked up, startled. ‘Have you?’

  Clarrie knelt down beside the tub. ‘Your mammy’s a tell-tale,’ she said, flicking water at her nephew and niece. ‘A lovely, interfering tell-tale!’ She turned and threw her arms round Olive. ‘Will’s going to buy the tea room and it’s all thanks to you.’

  ‘Buy it?’ Olive shrieked in surprise. ‘That’s more than I dared hope for.’

  ‘It’s true!’ Clarrie laughed, fumbling for the letter in her skirt pocket.

  Olive snatched it and read, letting out another scream of delight.

  ‘See,’ she said with an I-told-you-so look, ‘me and Will are right. You shouldn’t be too proud to share your burdens.’

  ‘Oh, pride is it?’ Clarrie gave her a wry look.

  ‘Aye, pride,’ Olive pouted. ‘You’re too proud by half.’

  Clarrie laughed and flicked water at her sister. Olive gasped in indignation. ‘Watch the letter!’ She thrust it behind her and then splashed Clarrie back. The children gawped in astonished delight. Clarrie splashed again. They giggled. Suddenly they were all screaming and laughing and hurling water at each other.

  After they were thoroughly soaked, the sisters lifted the children out and wrapped them in towels by the fire. Olive read them a story while Clarrie got on with making the tea. Looking out of the window at the dazzling pink flowers of the rhododendron in one of Olive’s painted tubs, Clarrie’s heart swelled with joy. Listening to Olive’s animated voice and the children’s lively questions, she was filled with a new optimism. Perhaps the swami’s blessing still reached her without the pink stone.

  The next morning she left early for the tea room, re-energised by the thought of Will’s cheque in the bank and the plans she had. They would redecorate, giving Jared and some of the older men a job to do, plant more potatoes in the cafe allotment for the autumn and start a Christmas savings scheme. And she would redeem the swami’s stone and her wedding ring.

  It was mid-afternoon when Olive tore into the cafe, her hair loose, babbling incoherently. She collapsed into Clarrie’s arms, shrieking, a telegram crumpled to a ball in her fist.

  ‘Missing!’ she sobbed. ‘My Jack’s missing!’

  CHAPTER 36

  Olive’s new-found courage dissolved under the cruel uncertainty of what had happened to Jack. Eventually she received sketchy details from his commanding officer. He had gone missing on a night patrol that had turned into a skirmish. No one had returned. She was left in a turmoil of questioning. Was he dead or had he been captured? Was he badly injured or being badly treated?

  Clarrie watched her sister torment herself with doubts and fears, helpless to lessen her suffering. No words would reassure her and no one, not even her loving children, seemed able to comfort her. Thin already, she barely ate. She could not sleep though she hardly had the energy to climb the stairs.

  Once again, Clarrie shouldered the burden of caring for Olive and her family. The children became moody and difficult, prone to bouts of tears or over-boisterous play. Clarrie’s heart ached for them as they tried to cope with their silent, withdrawn mother and their tired and sometimes irritable aunt.

  Lexy and Ina were the biggest help, keeping the children entertained during the long weeks of George’s school holidays and teasing Clarrie when she fretted too much.

  Fortunately, the transfer of the cafe went through swiftly and without any problems. Bertie as usual did it all from a distance. She received notice by letter of the sale to the new owners, a company called Stable Trading. Clarrie smiled at Will’s oblique humour. It was both a reference to their love of riding and an assurance that the business was back on an even keel. She wrote him an effusive letter of thanks, promising to work doubly hard to make good his investment.

  In the middle of August, as news was filtering back of a huge counter-offensive by the Allies, Olive got word that Jack was alive.

  ‘He’s a prisoner of war,’ she said tensely, showing Clarrie a letter from the Red Cross.

  ‘Thank God!’ Clarrie cried, going to embrace her.

  Olive sat rigid, hands clenched in her lap. ‘Thank Him for nothing,’ she said bitterly. ‘I know my Jack’s not coming back.’

  Then, as autumn arrived, the first stirrings of optimism that the war might be waning began to spread. Reports of mutiny among the German navy and peace demonstrations appeared in the newspapers. They echoed moves at home to force the pace of peace that had been gathering momentum all year but had got little coverage in the press. Clarrie had signed a Women’s Peace Petition months ago, organised locally by her old friend Florence from the Co-op. Now it appeared their counterparts on the Continent were doing the same. The Allies had made gains in the latest bloody attrition at the Front and there were rumours of starvation and unrest across central Europe.

  By late October the rumours had turned into a clamour. For the first time Clarrie allowed herself to hope that the war might be nearing an end.

  ‘Likely we’ll have Jack and Will back by Christmas,’ she chivvied Olive, ‘so you’d better practise smiling again or your face might crack at the shock.’

  To her delight this produced a glimmer of a smile on Olive’s gaunt grey face. But even Clarrie hardly dared believe her own words. Yet, by early November, everyone was talking about the possibility of an armistice.

  It came suddenly on the eleventh. The news spread with an eruption of noise: church bells clanged and hooters blew along the riverside. People downed tools and rushed into the streets to hug and shout and dance with excitement. By the evening fireworks were showering the night sky and bonfires were set ablaze in celebration.

  Clarrie and her staff served free hot drinks and she persuaded Olive to take George and Jane out to watch the spectacle. They went to bed exhausted, leaving the lamp burning and the blackout blinds open in happy defiance. They had survived.

  Three days later, when the town was still heady with the notion of peace, a message boy ran into the tea room with a telegram. Clarrie felt her knees buckle as he panted out her name.r />
  ‘Please no, not now!’ she gasped.

  People turned to stare, their faces a mix of pity and relief that it was not for them. Lexy went to her at once and bundled her into the kitchen. ‘Give it here,’ she ordered. ‘It’s worse not knowing.’

  She tore it open. Her eyes widened, and then abruptly she belted out a laugh. ‘“Get champers on ice we are coming home love Will.”’

  ‘What?’ Clarrie gasped.

  ‘Aye, it’s from Will, not the army,’ Lexy cackled.

  Clarrie felt dizzy with relief. ‘Iced tea if he’s lucky,’ she spluttered, and laughed. Then suddenly she was crying.

  ‘Haway,’ Lexy said, giving her a cuddle. ‘You have a good cry. It’s about time.’

  In the following weeks, the first rash of euphoria soon faded. Life was just as difficult materially as before with rationing and restrictions. The population was weakened and undernourished and a particularly severe viral disease was spreading with frightening speed. Edna’s mother took to her bed on a Tuesday and was dead by Sunday. George’s school closed two weeks early for Christmas because staff numbers were decimated by the Spanish flu.

  George caught a cold and Jane’s wheezing cough returned as it did every winter. Olive was beset by a new fear that her children would die and refused to let them out of the house. She wrapped them in layers of clothing and confined them to bed, despite their protests that they were bored and wanted to play outside.

  Both Olive and Clarrie waited impatiently for news of Jack’s and Will’s return, but the aftermath of war appeared chaotic. Men were coming back haphazardly and news from the Continent was of seething numbers of refugees, overcrowded ports and railway stations, and countless soldiers trying to make their way home.

  The Sunday before Christmas, as Clarrie was bossing Olive into helping her string up some home-made streamers, she heard the latch on the back gate lift. Glancing out of the window she saw a man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit and a large hat stepping into the yard. He stopped as if unsure he was in the right place. For a moment he stood staring around him. Then he took off his hat and scratched his shaven head.