Page 49 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
CHAPTER 10
Assam
James jerked awake. In panic he sat up, his heart pounding. He listened. Someone screamed beyond the darkened bedroom. He scrambled under the mosquito net and fumbled for his revolver. Breckon, his black retriever, leapt up, barking. Dashing for the door James rushed out on to the veranda, Breckon at his heels. The scream came again. He strained to see but the night was so dark that he could make out nothing of the garden or the forest beyond.
‘Sahib?’ A voice spoke from close by. ‘It is a jackal, sahib.’
‘Sunil, is that you?’ James panted.
‘No, sahib, it is Aslam. There is no Sunil here.’
James stared in confusion at the grey-haired servant who emerged out of the dark carrying a kerosene lamp. His bearer, Aslam. The screech of a jackal came again from further off. Not a human scream at all. He felt foolish.
‘I thought I heard an intruder ...’ said James, bending to calm his dog.
‘Sahib is not sleeping well again?’ asked Aslam. ‘Can I get you a milky drink?’
James huffed. ‘I’m not a boy.’
‘Robson memsahib would always order hot milk for bad sleep,’ said Aslam.
‘Yes, she would, wouldn’t she?’ James sighed. ‘Well, she’s not here now so you can pour me a large whisky instead. I’ll sit for a while out here.’
He couldn’t bear the thought of returning to the dark bedroom and tossing sleeplessly, plagued by his thoughts. Were they bad dreams or memories? Sunil Ram had been there, thepunkah-wallahfrom the old days at Dunsapie Cottage. Why on earth had he been thinking of the long-dead servant? Was it Sunil who had screamed in his head?
With Breckon stretched out beside him, James sat in the long cane chair covered in a rug, and slugged at the whisky Aslam brought him. The night seemed as restless as he was; the air pulsed with crickets and rustlings came from the undergrowth.
It was Libby’s recent letter that had stirred up old memories. He picked it up from the side table and re-read it.
Dearest Dad
I can’t wait to see you! Just another week and you’ll be here in Calcutta. I’m having an interesting time. Uncle Johnny and Aunt Helena have been so kind, but I’m impatient now to see you and get back to Assam.
I hope you don’t mind but I’ve asked an old school friend of Adela’s to come on holiday with me. She’s a nurse and she hasn’t taken any leave for ages. Her name’s Flowers Dunlop. Her father was a railwayman but thinks he’s related to Scottish tea planters in Assam. She’s promised him that she’ll try and find out about the family connection while she’s with us. He’s an invalid and not very well so it’s really just to keep him happy that Flowers said she’d look into it all. Do you know any Dunlops? He’s called Danny (I presume short for Daniel). He wasorphaned and went to school in Shillong by the way. I said we could go and visit on our way home. I hope that’s okay? You’ll like Flowers, she’s good fun.
Let me know what train you will be arriving on next Monday and I’ll meet you. Aunt Helena is insisting on having a party for me on Tuesday so I’m inviting a few of my new Calcutta friends along. You’ll be my VIP guest! I simply can’t wait!
A big hug soon,
Your loving daughter Libby xxx
PS I’ve invited the Percy-Barratts too so that you’ll know someone from Assam. Muriel’s a bit of a headache but Reggie’s quite sweet.
James felt a hot flush of panic. He hated parties or being the centre of attention. He didn’t want to meet crowds of sophisticated Calcuttans or talk gossip with garrulous women like Helena Watson or Muriel Percy-Barratt. As his nearest neighbour on the plantation, Muriel had mothered him for years but she’d never really approved of Tilly as a pukka planter’s wife. He had grown tired of her endless criticism at Tilly’s desertion of him during the War and had been silently relieved when Reggie had decided to retire from the Oxford Tea Estates and move to Calcutta.
‘Oh, Libby,’ he sighed.
When he thought of his daughter she was still an eleven-year-old with a plump, grinning face and long auburn pigtails, a robust girl who was more athletic than her brothers and twice as talkative. He knew that he had spoilt her as a small child because she had reminded him of a young, warm-hearted Tilly but with his stronger sense of adventure. It was Libby and not Jamie who had always insisted on going riding with him in the early mornings and who had loved to accompany him onfishing trips. She had been a delightful companion, full of exuberance and affection.
Even as a schoolgirl back in England, Libby had soon overcome the bashfulness between them when he had taken a brief leave to see his children in 1936. He would have cherished that holiday to StAbbs even more if he had known it was to be the last time they would all be together for the next decade – perhaps ever.
He was eager to see his daughter again and yet frightened of meeting her. Tilly complained that Libby could be rude and headstrong, constantly challenging her mother’s authority and arguing back. Tilly said Libby ranted about politics at inappropriate times such as when the vicar came round to take tea. Tilly also suspected that Libby had lost her virginity and was over-sexed. All these criticisms had been listed in reproachful letters from his wife, blaming Libby’s wild behaviour and views on his failure to be a firm father.
‘And how was I supposed to do that when you refused to come back to India with the children at the start of the War?’ James exclaimed aloud. ‘You’re the one who should have been firmer with her. You’re a failure as a mother! You’ve deprived me of my children. You’ve turned the boys against me – they don’t even want to come back to India. I bet you’ve just encouraged Libby to come so you can get her out of your hair!’
James reached for the decanter and poured another large whisky. He must stop talking to himself out loud; Aslam would be summoning the doctor again. The new young tea garden doctor, DrAttar, thought James was suffering from exhaustion and wanted to give him something to calm his nerves.
‘Nothing wrong with my nerves,’ said James, gulping another mouthful.
