Page 119 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
‘I suppose I will,’ said James. For a moment, his expression in the lamplight was reflective and then he was carrying on with further anecdotes.
Libby’s eyes watered to think of how this would be their very last night at Cheviot View – in all likelihood her father’s last visit to the Oxford tea gardens – and then that chapter of his life would be over forever.
This was not how she had imagined it being during all those years of exile when she had yearned to return here. She had been so fixated on getting back to Cheviot View that she hadn’t really stopped to think what life would really be like as a grown woman here. Her mind had been full of rosy memories of riding, tennis, swimming and exploring, of films at the clubhouse and cook’s kedgeree.
Libby chided herself for not thinking beyond her fairy-tale memories. After a short time back at her old home, she had realised it was just a bungalow – albeit with a breathtaking view of shimmering greenery – inhabited by a lonely, careworn father and reduced numbers of loyal, ageing staff.
Libby hadn’t expected that. But neither had she expected to find India in such a ferment of change nor guessed at the diverse friendships that she would make. Least of all could she have possibly imagined that she would fall heavily in love with a charismatic, sensuous, amusing, infuriating, passionate Indian revolutionary called Ghulam Khan.
Tonight, as her father shed his responsibilities as a tea planter and master, she felt she was finally shedding her childhood – that distant, idealised world she had clung to and that had helped her get through the grey years in England.
Libby slipped out of her chair and round the side of the veranda. Taking a thin cotton sheet that was shrouding an old wicker chair that was to be left behind, she lay down on the floor wrapped in the sheet and fell asleep to the low hubbub of the men’s voices.
The next morning they didn’t linger. Libby had wanted a final dawn ride but James seemed eager to be gone. The horses were being sold to DrAttar and two other young planters who enjoyedshikar.
Thesyceand themaliwere going to work for the doctor. The other servants were being pensioned off and given train fares to return to their relations.
They lined up on the terrace. James went stiffly along the line shaking hands and giving out presents of money and keepsakes from the house. Libby followed, half embarrassed at playing the memsahib and half in fear that she would break down crying. In return, the servants hung garlands of marigolds around their necks and wished them well.
Her father stopped when he got to Aslam. James’s chin wobbled. The old servant looked him in the eye and Libby could see the sadness in both their faces.
‘Aslam, you have been ...’ James said, his voice breaking, ‘a good ... faithful friend ... Thank y—’ His voice cracked. He swallowed hard and then his strong craggy face crumpled like a small boy’s.
Aslam touched him gently on the arm. ‘Thank you, Robson sahib. Peace be with you, all the days of your life.’
James stifled a sob and, stretching out his arms, embraced his old bearer. Libby’s eyes filled with tears at the sight. She had never seen her father so demonstrative or emotional with Aslam.
She turned to Meera and at once they were hugging like they used to do. The years fell away and Libby was eight years old again being comforted by her ayah because she was having to leave Cheviot View and didn’t know when she would be coming back. Only this time it was she, Libby, who was a head taller than Meera as they clung to each other and wept quiet tears.
‘We’ll meet again, I promise,’ Libby said, as Meera dabbed both their eyes with the hem of her shawl.
‘You will always be my daughter,’ Meera said softly, her brown eyes full of sorrow.
Libby thanked her and stumbled away after her father. At the car, Manzur was waiting. He must have anticipated their being upset for he said, ‘Let me drive you down to the offices.’
Libby nodded in thanks. Her father sat in the front. No one spoke as they drove slowly down the drive. James did not turn around but Libby craned for a last view of her old home and the waving servants. She glimpsed the lawns and the pond and her mother’s canna lilies. Her nose filled with the scent of her garland. She closed her eyes and tried to commit the final poignant sight to memory.
Libby had no appetite for any further goodbyes, so said she would wait by the car with Alok while her father went to say his farewells to the plantation staff in the large factory compound. He had declined a retirement party or any fuss.
Manzur reappeared having escorted James into the building. Even before their journey started, Libby felt drained by emotion and the heat.
‘Libby-mem’,’ he said, ‘I wanted to tell you something in private.’
He looked at her with his dark eyes, so like his mother’s. As he led her out of earshot of Alok, Libby felt her insides flutter, nervous at what it might be.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘Once your father has gone – and my parents are safely in Bengal,’ he said, ‘I am going to resign from the Oxford.’
‘What?’ Libby gasped. ‘Why would you do that? Are you worried you won’t be safe here?’
He gave a dry smile. ‘I’m not running away from danger,’ he said. ‘But since your father decided to retire I have been thinking of my future. I don’t want to be a tea planter. That was your father’s idea – and I will always be grateful for what he has given me. Your father is a good man – a courageous man. But I want to choose my own life.’
Libby stared at him. She had never seen him so determined in speech and manner. ‘Dad will be sad to hear that – he thinks you will make an excellent manager.’
Manzur said, ‘Please don’t tell him yet. I don’t want him to worry about it or make his leave-taking any harder. When I have a new job I will write and tell him.’
Libby asked, ‘You want to be a teacher, don’t you?’
