Page 71 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
CHAPTER 14
Assam, India, late April
‘Is that your father?’ Flowers asked, pointing at a white-haired, barrel-chested man of medium height, standing on theghatclutching his hat.
Libby’s heart was racing. Even with the morning river breeze on the sluggish Brahmaputra she had been in a permanent sweat since transferring from train to riverboat. She had been ecstatic that her telephone call to Clarrie, insisting that she and Flowers were coming to Assam, had galvanised her father out of his black mood. But for the entire journey she had been dreading the state in which she might find him. Distracted by the dazzling sight of dawn coming up over the wide river, her nerves had steadied. Now her anxiety returned. As a porter grabbed her case and heaved it on to his head, she took a second look.
‘No, I don’t think ...’
Then Libby saw the man catch sight of her, wave and chuck his hat in the air. Just like her father used to do. She swallowed her surprise.
‘Yes – yes, that’s him!’
Libby set off down the gangplank, side-stepping porters and luggage, and breaking into a run. Waving with both hands, she shrieked, ‘Daddy!’
Pushing past the other disembarking passengers and riverside pedlars, Libby reached her father and flung herself at him. He laughed and hugged her self-consciously, patting her back.
‘Well, well, little Libby! Can it really be you?’
Libby, her arms around his neck, squeezed him to her and breathed in the dusty smell of his jacket: sweat masked by camphor and soap. His familiar smell brought tears to her eyes. His breath smelt mildly of whisky and peppermint.
They broke away, gazing at each other and grinning. Libby was shocked at how old he looked; his hair and moustache were snowy-white against his lined leathery face, his cheeks sunken and his eyes bloodshot. Her father appeared to have shrunk – she was nearly as tall as him now – and his legs were spindly and hairless in his khaki shorts. But his voice and his bashful smile were the same.
‘How are you, Dad?’ Libby asked in concern.
‘Never better,’ he said.
‘Cousin Clarrie sounded so worried about you on the phone.’
‘A fuss about nothing. Touch liverish that’s all. A few days’ rest. Right as rain now.’ He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘How was your journey?’ he asked. ‘I really think you should have let DrWatson accompany you.’
‘It was fine, Dad,’ said Libby. ‘No one troubled us – except to sell us peanuts and chai, which we were happy to buy. There was a very interesting teacher making her way to Kalimpong who shared our compartment as far as Siliguri. Uncle Johnny sends his very best greetings – and Aunt Helena too of course.’
James raised an eyebrow. ‘I bet she didn’t – Helena has never been a fan of mine.’
‘Okay,’ Libby admitted, ‘it was largely Uncle Johnny. They’ve been so kind to me in Calcutta, and old Colonel Swinson’s a dear – I wish you’d come for my birthday, you’d have seen your old friends the Percy-Barratts and—’
‘Where is your friend?’ James interrupted.
‘Oh goodness!’ Libby exclaimed and swung round; she had momentarily forgotten all about Flowers. She saw her companion walking towards them, neat and cool in her fashionable frock and hat, with the porters following in her wake. Libby waved her over.
‘Meet my father,’ said Libby eagerly.
Flowers smiled and held out a white-gloved hand for James to shake.
James gave her a bashful welcome. ‘Come along then, car’s waiting. Manzur’s driving. Thought we’d go straight to Cheviot View.’
‘Manzur? How lovely! But aren’t we going to Shillong first?’ Libby asked. ‘Flowers wants to see where her father grew up.’
‘Plenty of time for that. Imagine you’re keen to see home after all this time, Libby?’
‘Of course, but Flowers—’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Flowers said quickly. ‘I’m not that interested in Daddy’s school life. I’m just happy to be on holiday.’
James looked relieved. ‘Good. Come on then, girls.’
At the car, a slim handsome Indian stepped forward, pushing a pair of sunglasses on to his forehead.
