Page 134 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
The following day, Libby tracked down Fatima at the busy women’s hospital. The doctor seemed pleased at Libby’s offer of support.
‘Can you use your British contacts to drum up help?’ Fatima asked.
‘What sort of help?’ asked Libby.
‘Donations. Second-hand clothes – cooking pots – tents – anything they might be throwing out rather than taking back to Britain with them.’
Libby’s stomach knotted. Fatima was already assuming that Libby and her British family and friends would be leaving Calcutta.
‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘I’ll ask Aunt Helena.’
‘Ghulam’s going to be driving a truckload downriver in two days’ time,’ said Fatima, ‘so whatever you can lay your hands on by then would be very helpful.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Libby said. ‘In the meantime, can I help out here?’
Fatima gave her a direct look. ‘That’s kind of you to offer but you have no nursing training. The best way you can help us is to gather as much kit as you can for the homeless.’ She gave a brief smile. ‘Your powers of persuasion are what we need the most.’
Libby, seeing how busy and preoccupied Fatima was, left her to get on with her job. She had hoped for an invitation to visit Amelia Buildings but the doctor did not offer one. Libby knew that Fatima would be working late and the last thing on her mind would be spending an evening socialising or entertaining. It was selfish of her to expect it. Libby resisted the desire to track down Ghulam again – he too would be busy – and made her way back to Alipore, her heart heavy with longing.
On the eve of the Watsons’ departure, it took little persuasion to get Helena to part with a godown-ful of old camping equipment; pre-Great War tents, camp beds, chairs and canvas washstands that had belonged to Colonel Swinson and not been used in years. Libby, with a bit of cajoling, got her aunt to relinquish a trunkful of old sheets and linen hand towels too, along with boxes of chipped crockery and dented pots and pans.
‘Libby is doing us a favour, darling,’ Johnny encouraged. ‘We’re taking far too much stuff as it is – and the shipping costs are more than most of it is worth.’
‘I suppose so,’ sighed Helena. ‘And if it’s helpful ...’
‘Oh, it is,’ Libby assured her.
She lost no time in sending a message round to the Khans about the donation. To her delight, Ghulam sent a message by return to say he would come round with a van to collect the goods the next day.
Libby, along with her uncle, went round to various British clubs and to the Duff Church and left notices asking for donations to be left at the Eden Hospital for the attention of DrFatima Khan.
That evening Libby had a final meal on the veranda with the Watsons and the Colonel: just a simple supper of steamed fish and boiled potatoes followed by bananas in custard – the Colonel’s favourite. The next day the Watsons would be embarking from Howrah railway station for the long overland train journey to Bombay.
‘Are you sure about staying on here on your own?’ Helena fretted. ‘Is it what your parents would want? I know Muriel and Reggie would put you up in a jiffy if I asked them. Muriel would do anything for a daughter of James Robson’s.’
‘That’s kind,’ said Libby, ‘but a room here is all I need – and Dad approved.’
Libby knew that was an exaggeration; her father hadn’t given an opinion either way. He had been too distracted by his imminent journey home.
‘After all,’ Libby added, ‘it’s only for ten days, then I’ll be returning to Belgooree.’
That night Libby couldn’t sleep. She lay awake thinking about how her time in India was slipping away but how she would be seeing Ghulam again in a few short hours. Her stomach churned with a mix of dread and excitement. What was he thinking at this very moment? Was she in his thoughts as much as he was in hers? She felt sick with wanting.
With the dawn she rose, washed, and dressed in slacks and a shirt that she pulled from a small suitcase, which was all she needed now to hold her reduced possessions. She had sold off her prim Calcutta outfits at a shop on Park Street and would be giving the proceeds to Fatima’scharity. The one luxury she kept was the second-hand green satin dress which would always bring back memories of dancing with Ghulam under a tropical night sky.
She found Colonel Swinson sitting on the veranda in shorts and singlet, having done his morning exercises. With shaking hands he beckoned her over.
‘Got something for you, girl,’ he said, fumbling in his shorts pocket. He pulled out a brown paper bag and handed it to Libby.
She looked inside and gasped. It was stuffed with rupee notes. ‘Colonel Swinson! I don’t need money.’
‘Not for you,’ he replied. ‘It’s for ...’ He waved a veined hand at her. ‘That thing you’ve been talking to Helena about. Bengalis. Homeless.’
‘The refugee centre?’
‘Yes, that’s it.’
Libby was touched; she hadn’t realised that the old man had understood what was going on.
