Page 144 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
‘I can stick to the first-class memsahibs’ carriage,’ Libby said with a mock smile. ‘The only danger there is the blocks of ice running out.’
They didn’t laugh at her feeble joke.
‘Perhaps Flowers would travel with you again?’ suggested Ghulam.
‘I don’t think she’ll be rushing back to the hills in a hurry,’ said Libby. ‘She found up-country life very dull.’ On the spur of the moment she added, ‘Maybe Clarrie Robson’s nephew, George Brewis, might want a trip up to Belgooree. He hasn’t been to see his aunt yet.’
She saw Ghulam’s jaw darken. He flashed her a look. Libby glanced away. Perhaps it was best if he thought she was still in touch with George; it would make it easier for him to banish her from his thoughts.
‘That would be a good idea,’ said Fatima with a smile of approval. ‘Now I think we should all get some sleep. It sounded like you had a disturbed one last night.’
Libby flushed. She didn’t dare look at Ghulam. ‘I was a little bit sick.’
Fatima frowned in concern. ‘You should have come and told me.’
‘I didn’t want to bother you,’ said Libby. ‘And I felt better soon after.’ Libby stood up and glanced at Ghulam. ‘I don’t want to turf you out of your room for a second night,’ she said. ‘I’ll sleep in here.’
Ghulam gave her a perplexed look. ‘I don’t mind ...’
‘But I do,’ said Libby. She couldn’t bear to lie sleepless and alone in a bed where she had known such ecstasy just a few hours ago – or haveto look again at that photo of the beautiful revolutionary that Ghulam kept on his wall. He clearly wanted her gone as soon as possible.
‘Very well,’ he said, his expression tightening. He left the room to fetch the spare bedroll.
Fatima said softly, ‘I’m sorry it has to be this way – I know you are fond of my brother – but I think it’s for the best.’
Ghulam returned before Libby had time to question Fatima on what she meant was for the best. Probably that Libby went quickly and got out of her brother’s life. In her heart she knew that the doctor saw no future for Libby with Ghulam.
After a night of fitful sleep in which Libby had to restrain herself from creeping along the corridor to Ghulam’s bedroom, she rose early. Tidying away the bedroll, she scribbled a note of thanks and left as dawn broke.
The city, awash with pearly light, was waking to a chorus of birds, calls to prayer and the stirrings of shopkeepers opening up their stalls. It was as if the violence in the night had been a bad dream. Yet as Libby stepped out into the lane, she saw where someone had attempted to wash away blood from where the stricken man had lain. Nauseated, she thought pityingly of the distraught widow and prayed fervently that there would be no repercussions.
Libby returned to her digs in Alipore, bathed and changed into a summer frock. Feeling refreshed, she braced herself to make a telephone call to the chummery in Harrington Street. George had already gone to the office, she was told. She left a message for him to call her back. Next she took a taxi to Sealdah railway station and booked herself a ticket for two days’ time. Now that she had made the decision to go early to Belgooree – or rather the Khans had – she was keen to be gone. Perhaps putting distance between her and Ghulam would help ease the leaden feeling inside. Sheforced herself to stop trying to imagine what he was thinking in the wake of their one-night affair and its unexpectedly abrupt ending.
She sent a telegram to Belgooree to say when she would be arriving in Shillong, hoping they might send Daleep to collect her. By mid-afternoon she was making her way by tram back into the city; she would call on Flowers and explain what she was doing. If the nurse wasn’t there, she would leave a message with her parents.
Libby was welcomed warmly by the Dunlops; she had forgotten quite how hospitable they were until Winnie Dunlop began plying her with sandwiches and cake and endless cups of tea. They wanted to hear all about her time away in Assam.
‘Flowers told us very little,’ said Danny Dunlop.
‘Except to say what a jolly good time she had,’ chipped in Winnie.
‘Found out nothing about my family,’ complained Flower’s father. ‘Didn’t even go to Shillong in the end, did you?’
‘I’m sorry, we didn’t,’ said Libby, feeling a guilty pang. ‘My father wasn’t very well so we took him straight to Belgooree.’
‘See, Danny,’ his wife reproved, ‘the poor man was ill. Of course he wouldn’t want to go chasing about your old school.’
‘Sorry,’ he said with a sheepish look at Libby, ‘I didn’t mean to be critical of your father. How is he?’
‘Back in Britain,’ said Libby, suddenly realising that she was missing him. ‘I haven’t heard much except a telegram to say he got safely home and that it’s raining and cold.’
‘Wonderful!’ said Danny with an envious smile. ‘Do you hear that, Winnie. Cold and wet. Not like this infernal soup that passes for air in Calcutta.’
Winnie rolled her eyes. ‘Give me hot soup over icy rain any day,’ she said cheerfully.
‘I would like to have met your father,’ Danny said with a sigh of regret, ‘and talked about his life on the tea plantations. Pity he never knew anything about the Dunlops.’
Libby’s guilt increased that she hadn’t made more effort on MrDunlop’s behalf. ‘I’ll write to him and ask again. He has an old planter friend in Newcastle – a MrFairfax – who might help. He’s very old now. I remember meeting him at one of Mother’s fundraisers during the War. If anyone knew of any Dunlops in Assam it would be him.’
