Page 43 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
CHAPTER 9
Libby didn’t go straight back to Alipore; she went for a walk across the Maidan in the late afternoon sunshine. Indian families were picnicking, and boys were playing cricket. She passed a holy man lying on a piece of homespun cloth, asleep in the shade of a cassia tree.
She was shocked by what Flowers had told her. Could she be believed? Perhaps Flowers was warning her off so that she could have George to herself. Then Libby felt ashamed of such a thought. Flowers had shown her nothing but friendship. Besides, Flowers appeared to have no particular interest in George; in fact she kept all the young men from the chummery at arm’s length. Was this because Flowers was unsure about her position in the social group? Even though people were mixing far more freely since the War, did Flowers feel her Anglo-Indian-ness more keenly now than ever in the shadow of Independence?
Libby thought again of George kissing her under the willow tree. Why had he done so if he was involved with another woman? She had to admit that he had drunk a lot of beer that lunchtime and it was the first time he had attempted to kiss her since their brief embrace in Newcastle the previous year. But then, she was the one who had instigated that kiss. Libby felt a wave of embarrassment.
Perhaps their recent embrace had meant nothing to George. Apart from that impromptu moment, had he given her any encouragement beyond inviting her along to social events? Not really, Libby had to admit. She was just one of several young women that were always included in his dinner-dance parties. Yet she had felt special to him. Libby felt a kick of anger. If he was carrying on an affair with a married woman, he had no right to be encouraging her at the same time.
Libby caught the tram back to Alipore. By the time she got home, she had decided not to judge George until she had seen him again and confronted him with what she’d been told.
‘Had a nice tiffin with the Dunlops?’ Uncle Johnny greeted her, breaking off from his conversation with themalias she crossed the garden.
‘Very,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve invited them to my birthday celebrations. Hope that’s okay?’
‘Course it is – you invite anyone you want. Got any room left for a spot of tea?’ he asked. ‘I’m going to join the Colonel on the veranda.’
‘No more food, thanks,’ said Libby, smiling, ‘but I’ll happily sit with you both.’
‘A letter came for you, by the way. It’s on the hall table.’
Libby’s heart lurched. Perhaps it was from George. She longed for it to be reassurance that he was in Dacca merely for business and that he was looking forward to seeing her on his return – making some arrangement just for the two of them. Flowers might have been misled by Eddy; perhaps Eddy wanted Flowers to himself?
She hurried into the house and picked up the letter. The handwriting was unfamiliar.
Dear Miss Robson
My sister Fatima has been castigating me since last week for my rudeness to you. You were her guest and I was the interloper. I must apologise for ruining your tea partyand causing you both upset. There was no excuse for my behaviour except perhaps a rush of blood to the head at the news of Attlee’s announcement.
Please forgive the hasty things I said to you – especially my unkind remarks about your father in particular and memsahibs in general. You are obviously not in the usual category of lady Britisher and, having had time for my hot head to cool down a little, I have to admit to being more than a little impressed with your knowledge of Indian politics and your socialist sympathies.
So there, apology made and I hope accepted – in the spirit of comradeship if nothing else. If you were interested in seeing the other side of Calcutta – away from the dull clubs and drawing rooms of the wealthy – then I would be happy to volunteer as your guide. You could contact me at the newspaper office in Chowringhee Square. I quite understand if you would rather not. But please visit Fatima before you leave for Assam – otherwise I will be confined to the ‘dog-house’ for the rest of the year.
Yours in comradeship
Ghulam Khan
Libby was astonished. She re-read the letter, trying to stifle her amusement at his droll humour, not quite sure if his apology was genuine or ironic. She had felt cross with him every time she’d thought of the fractious tea party and the way he had spoilt her visit to Amelia Buildings. But now she felt guilty for not having made any attempt to see Fatima again; she should not have left it up to the doctor to issue another invitation. Perhaps she would send a note. Libby tucked the letter into her skirt pocket.
Later that evening, lying in bed under the mosquito netting, she read the letter twice more. What should she make of it? The thoughtof being shown the Indian side of Calcutta filled her with an excited curiosity. But she should probably ignore the letter. She suspected her father would be horrified at her going to meet this radical Indian journalist unaccompanied. Miss MacGregor, on the other hand, would no doubt applaud it.
Two days later, Libby stood outside the offices ofThe Statesmannewspaper in slacks, a plain cotton shirt and with her hair tied back, waiting nervously. Trams and traffic thundered by. Ghulam had acknowledged her note and replied saying he would take her for lunch.
He appeared, ten minutes late, his jacket slung over his shoulder and his sleeves rolled up. He was better-looking than she had remembered, a lick of dark hair falling over his vivid green eyes.
‘You should have come into the building, Miss Robson,’ he said, ‘I was delayed by a phone call.’
‘I’m not clairvoyant, MrKhan,’ Libby answered.
‘Sorry,’ he said hastily, with a lop-sided smile. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Nearly always.’ She ignored the fluttering in her stomach.
‘Have you been into Hogg’s Market?’
‘No, my aunt had to reach for the vapours when I suggested it. But I have a vague memory of going there with my dad years ago.’
Ghulam gave a grunt of amusement. ‘Then we shall risk your aunt fainting at the news and go to Nizam’s.’
