Page 12 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
While the other women chatted, Libby led Sam to the kitchen at the back of the house. Their cook had left ready a large tray loaded with a tea set and a plate of ginger biscuits. Libby started unloading it.
‘This calls for the best china.’ She nodded towards a wooden dresser. ‘Can you reach up to the top shelf please, Sam?’
While he did so, Libby set about warming the silver teapot and opening up one of the packages. She scooped out black-and-green strands of dried tea.
‘This looks nothing like the stuff we’re used to drinking,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘You better get used to rationing.’
‘Still?’ queried Sam.
‘Gosh, yes,’ said Libby. ‘It’s worse than during the War. The Americans are sending us food parcels. I hope for Dad’s sake that he can stay on in India. He’d hate it here.’
Sam didn’t contradict her. Instead he asked her about herself and her job.
‘I did a typing course at the end of the War and now I’m in a typing pool at a bank. I’m better at figures than the bank manager but they’ll never have a manageress. It’s archaic. So I do my hours and no more. I spend my spare time helping out at Herbert’s Café – but you know all about the tearoom Adela’s mother used to run?’
Sam nodded. ‘So what job would you really like?’ he asked.
Libby shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I suppose I miss being a Land Girl. It was very hard work but we had a lot of laughs.’
Sam smiled. ‘It was like that in the Air Force. You’re thrown together with people you might never otherwise meet and you grow close because you’re depending on each other. And no one else can ever quite know what you’ve been through together. It was like that for Adela in ENSA too.’ Libby saw his expression soften. ‘I know her entertainments troop went through great hardship and danger but she would never admit it. She only ever told me about the funny moments on tour.’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ agreed Libby. ‘Life was so important and intense during the War. My friends meant everything at the time. Now it’s all a bit dull.’
They finished preparing the tea and Sam insisted on carrying the tray. As they walked back through the hallway, Sam asked, ‘Where are your Land Army friends now?’
‘Two are married and living down south. One went to America with a G.I. and I haven’t heard from her since. And my best friend is a cook in a castle in the Highlands. I can’t imagine how she got the job – her cooking was terrible.’
Sam gave a delighted chuckle.
‘What are you two laughing about?’ Tilly demanded as they re-entered the sitting room. ‘Goodness me – the Watsons’ best china! My mother loved it but I find the dainty cups so fiddly to handle.’
‘Dad’s tea will taste better out of them,’ said Libby.
‘Just pop the tray down here next to me, Sam,’ said Tilly. ‘I’ll do the pouring. Libby, hand round the biscuits. Watch your lovely teeth on them, Adela; Cook tries her best but they’re usually as hard as rock.’
Tilly began pouring milk into the cups.
‘I’ll have mine black please, Mother,’ said Libby.
‘You never have it black,’ said Tilly.
‘This is special tea,’ she replied. ‘I want to savour it just how I remember it.’
Libby watched the golden liquid being poured into the china cups which she helped hand around. She picked up hers and inhaled the steamy scent. The tea smelled of mango and papaya. Libby closed her eyes and sipped. Instantly, the heat and vivid colours of the tea garden were conjured up – not the oppressive monsoon humidity of the Oxford plantation, but the dappled sunshine and flowery creepers of Clarrie’s house at Belgooree.
She could hear the raucous birdsong and see the glimmering tea bushes under a canopy of teak trees. In her mind, Clarrie was leaningover the veranda, her skin biscuit-coloured against a white dress, laughing with Libby’s mother. So Tillyhadbeen happy in India once. Libby tried to hold on to the memory but it evaporated as swiftly as it had been recalled, like the wisp of wood smoke from the plantation bungalow chimney.
‘This tastes of Belgooree,’ said Libby, opening her eyes and smiling at Adela.
‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Adela agreed, smiling back.
‘Sam,’ said Josey in a stage whisper, ‘do you go all mystical over tea?’
Sam laughed. ‘Not really. I must confess I prefer to drink coffee.’
‘So do I!’ Josey said in delight.
‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ Sam asked Tilly, even though the air was thick with Josey’s smoking.
