Page 118 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
‘Libby-mem’,’ he said, handing her a pressed cotton handkerchief, ‘your father sent me.’
Libby grabbed at the handkerchief, grateful but embarrassed, and blew her nose. ‘Th-thank you, Manzur.’
‘It’s hard for my parents too,’ he said. ‘This has been their home since they married.’
‘Of course,’ said Libby, feeling ashamed that she had not thought of that. ‘And yours.’
He gave a sad smile. ‘Do you remember making a den in the roots of the banyan and you said it was a secret cave.’
Libby gave a tearful grin. ‘Yes, and Jamie said it was impossible to have caves in a tree and that I should go away and play with my dolls.’
Manzur’s smile broadened. ‘And instead you sneaked higher up the tree when we were making mud pies and threw sticks on to our mud castle, saying you were a warrior princess come to attack.’
Libby laughed. ‘So I did!’
‘And after that Jamie let you play castles with us,’ said Manzur. ‘I always admired you for standing up to your brother.’
‘I must have been a nuisance,’ she said, blushing.
‘Only sometimes,’ he said, his brown eyes shining with amusement.
Libby turned and looked up at the bungalow. Its shuttered windows made it look like a slumbering beast.
‘I’m not sure I can bear to spend the night here,’ she sighed.
‘You can come to The Lodge,’ he suggested. ‘There is a spare room for your father and I can give up mine ...’ He stopped, his face flushing.
‘That’s sweet of you,’ said Libby, briefly touching his arm. ‘I’ll see what Dad wants to do.’
But her father dismissed the idea at once. ‘No need,’ said James hastily, ‘we can camp out on the veranda for one night. Say our farewells to the old place.’
Libby felt a flicker of relief. She didn’t really want to return to The Lodge after the disturbing episode when Flowers thought she had seen a ghost.
That evening, they invited Manzur to take dinner with them at a camp table on the veranda, with Aslam in charge of the serving. Afterwards, James insisted that Aslam join them for a smoke.
‘We’ll share a hubble-bubble pipe like we did when I was a young planter and we went out in camp,’ said Libby’s father. ‘Do you remember being so young, Aslam, my friend?’
Aslam touched his heart. ‘We are still young in here, even if we are white on top,’ he joked.
The men sat on the floor on a rug and shared a water-pipe. Libby curled up in a camp chair and watched them. She had never seen her father so relaxed and casual with his oldest servant. He hadn’t drunk as much as usual at dinner either. The trappings of the sahib had been boxed away and it was as if her father had shed the burdens of keeping his distance and playing the master. Here, in the sultry night with only the sounds of the jungle around them, his world was reduced to sitting on a rug smoking and chatting with an old friend.
As the kerosene lamp hissed, Libby sat in the shadows and listened to them reminisce about long-ago hunting trips and treks into Burma, and of people long dead or retired. James’s voice was animated as he talked about his younger days; she drank in his stories of adventure. This was the father of her childhood.
‘Do you remember when we tracked that tiger for three days?’ said James.
Aslam nodded. ‘With Fairfax sahib.’
‘And we’d decided to give up when – blow me down – the beast comes strolling past our camp at breakfast time! And we all went scrambling for our guns.’
Aslam chuckled and said, ‘Except Fairfax sahib, who carried on shaving.’
James guffawed. ‘Dear Fairfax. They were made of sterner stuff in his day.’
Libby asked, ‘Is he the MrFairfax in that nursing home in Tynemouth that Mother still visits?’
‘Yes,’ her father replied. ‘It’s good of her to bother.’
‘Soon you’ll be able to see him again too,’ Libby said.
