Page 75 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
‘He did them no favours! Stirred them up in the lines with a few speeches and then was gone. So I don’t want you defending his revolutionary talk. These agitators have no idea how hard we all work to keep the plantations running and satisfy the demand for tea.’
‘What do you think, Manzur?’ Libby turned to the young assistant.
He squirmed in his seat and Libby immediately regretted asking him. He had hardly touched his food. She was embarrassed at her father’s patronising words about civilised Indians. Manzur cleared his throat.
‘The gardens provide work for many people,’ he answered. ‘Low castes and migrants who can’t get work anywhere else. We house them and give them medical care.’
‘Well said, Manzur,’ James cried. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘My daughter is an idealist and easily persuaded by radical talk – her mother said she was like this all through school.’
‘Give me some credit for having my own beliefs,’ protested Libby, hurt at her father siding with Tilly’s critical view of her. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with idealism? India will need people with vision and optimism in the coming years.’
‘What India needs is pragmatists,’ James replied, ‘who will see that they still need our expertise in industry and our capital. Men like Khan want to sweep it all away. But India will still need wealth and trade.’
‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘but after Independence it will be Indians who make the decisions about their own economy. The future should be in the hands of men like Manzur, not you, Father.’
‘And it will be. But that’s enough politics,’ James said in agitation. ‘Miss Dunlop hasn’t come all this way to listen to you lecture us all about socialism.’
‘I’m not lecturing—’
‘That’s enough, Libby,’ James ordered. ‘I want no further talk about the Khans or their radical ideas.’
Libby bit back an indignant retort, stung by her father’s disapproval. She felt like a child again, being publicly admonished. Her father had no right to silence her; she was just as entitled to voice her opinions as he was. It dismayed her that his way of thinking was so at odds with hers and that they had been so quick to argue. It wasn’t what she’d expected. When she was a child, her father had always taken her side.
Flowers quickly filled the awkward silence.
‘My father once came on a camping trip to the hills around here,’ she said. ‘The year he left school. He’s always had a fondness for Assam– that’s why he jumped at the chance of promotion to stationmaster in the Sylhet district. That’s where I grew up.’
‘Good tea-growing area too,’ said James. He began a rambling monologue about rainfall and south-facing slopes.
Libby was embarrassed to realise that her father was quite drunk. She admired Flowers for the tactful way she showed an interest and gave encouraging answers. It was just what Adela would have done. Libby felt a stab of guilt for answering her father back. It was the very first night of their reunion and she had allowed herself to lose patience with him. She was upset by their differences – especially over Ghulam – but her father was still recovering from his bout of fatigue. She must try and be more considerate. Besides, he was from such a different generation to hers that he was bound to think differently. The last thing she wanted was to argue with her dad. She would make more effort not to rile him.
When the meal was over Libby suggested, ‘Shall we take tea and a nightcap on the veranda?’
‘Sounds a jolly good idea,’ James slurred. He pushed back his chair and stood swaying.
Manzur took this moment to escape. He stood and gave a courteous bow. ‘Thank you for a very enjoyable meal.’
‘Stay a bit longer,’ James insisted.
‘Thank you, but my mother ...’
‘Of course you must go and see your mother,’ Libby said, not wanting to prolong his discomfort. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘I hope you have an enjoyable stay,’ said Manzur, nodding at Flowers.
She gave him one of her dazzling smiles. ‘Thank you. And I hope we’ll meet again while I’m here.’
Libby saw Manzur blush, his attractive brown eyes widening. ‘P-perhaps ...’ he stammered and swiftly took his leave.
Flowers took his departure as an excuse to retire to bed, leaving Libby alone with her father. Libby steered him on to the veranda and into a cane chair.
‘Can manage,’ he mumbled. But within a minute he was asleep and snoring.
Libby gazed at him. He was almost a stranger to her, his mouth gaping and his face flushed under tousled white hair. Hair grew from his nostrils and ears too. The hands that hung loose over the chair arms were knotted with veins and marked with age spots. He looked so vulnerable: a man well past his prime. She felt engulfed with regret that they would never be able to recapture the eleven years during which they had been separated. They no longer knew each other.
Why had her parents allowed such a long time apart? She and her brothers had been robbed of a father and a proper family life. How she wished her parents had been more like Clarrie and Wesley and sent their children to school in India! Libby thought bitterly of her long cold exile at boarding school in Britain. Why hadn’t they returned to India at the beginning of the War as so many other children of tea planters and civil servants had?
Libby felt familiar resentment at her mother twist inside; Tilly had always seen Newcastle as home rather than Assam. But had her father been equally to blame? Why hadn’t he insisted that they return? She let out a long sigh. There was no point in hankering after what might have been. At least she was back home now. Libby breathed in the warm scented air. She got up and, leaning over her father, gave him a tender kiss on the forehead. Tomorrow she would try harder to get to know him again. She tiptoed away to the bedroom that she had last slept in when she was eight years old.
