Page 188 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
CHAPTER 39
South of France, early October
Adela sat on their hotel balcony in the mellow autumn sunshine, gazing out over the busy port of Marseilles. The aromatic whiff of French tobacco wafted up from the café below, masking the pungent smells of the docks. Sam had gone to make final arrangements for their passage east and supervise the loading of their luggage. Before taking the train south, they had enjoyed four days in Paris. The city still bore the scars of Nazi occupation but the atmosphere was one of optimism and joie de vivre. In the south of France they had been struck by the plentiful supplies of food and the mouth-watering array of cakes in the many bakeries.
‘No sugar rationing here,’ Sam had said with a wry look, as he’d wolfed down a strawberry tart.
Soon they would be embarking on their voyage across the Mediterranean. Adela had no idea when she would next be back in Europe. Breathing in the salty, oily tang of the port, Adela felt a kick of excitement. She had no regrets about the decision Sam and she had taken to return to India; she relished the prospect of a married life there and of starting their family together at Belgooree. Her pregnancy sickness was abating and there was now a small swelling where the babywas growing; Sam liked to put his hand over it and talk excitedly about how he would teach their child – girl or boy – to fish and play cricket.
Only one thing marred her happiness: leaving John Wesley behind. Adela felt the familiar ache inside when she thought of him. He was no longer just a memory of a downy-haired baby; John Wesley was a bright-eyed, chattering, inquisitive boy with a heart-melting grin, who found it hard to stay still for a minute.
Adela fished out the photograph that Sam had taken of her with her son. Just to see him grinning at the camera made her smile. They looked so natural together, so alike. Her eyes stung with tears. She kissed the photo and slipped it back into the book she was reading. She carried it everywhere.
She stared out at the busy scene below. Soon Sam would be back and they would be leaving the hotel for a last meal on French soil before boarding the ship. Time was running out. Adela came to a decision. She went into their bedroom and retrieved her attaché case from their hand luggage. Pulling out some writing paper and her fountain pen, Adela went back to sit at the balcony table.
Dear Martha
I wanted to thank you once again for your kindness to Sam and me when you took us riding and gave us tea. I’m sorry that we didn’t get to see you all before we left but when I explain why not, I think you will understand.
Meeting you and your husband – and even more so, your dear son Jacques – was a very important moment for me. You told me that you didn’t think it right to keep secrets about Jacques’s parentage from him, so that is why I’m writing to you now.
You see, Martha, I am Jacques’s mother by birth. He was born on the 17th of February 1939 in Cullercoats. I was only eighteen and unmarried. Jacques’s father wasIndian and knew nothing about the pregnancy, as I had returned to Newcastle before I discovered I was carrying his baby. I named him John Wesley (after my grandfather and father) and gave him up for adoption. I bitterly regret having done so but at the time I saw no other option. I left a keepsake with him – a pink stone on a gold chain that was given to my mother by a holy man – and I hope that Jacques still has it.
I came back to England with Sam to search for my son (Sam knows everything) and discovered that he had been adopted by the Segals. Now he is in your care. Forgive me for visiting your home under the false pretence of a riding expedition. What I really wanted more than anything in the world was to see John Wesley with my own eyes – to discover if he really was my boy. He looks very like his grandfather Wesley and my younger brother Harry – I have no doubt that he is the son that I gave up.
I am sorry if this all comes as a horrible shock to you – although perhaps you too saw the family resemblance? I am not seeking to make trouble or upset anyone. I must admit that I used to daydream of finding John Wesley and rescuing him from some orphanage or unhappy home, believing that he could only really be happy with me, his blood mother.
But now I know that is not true. I have seen how much he is loved by you and Major Gibson – how very happy he is too. Jacques is a delightful boy and that is because of you. I know he will be cherished and nurtured and guided by you and your husband. That makes me able to bear being parted from him.
If I may ask anything of you, then it is this. When Jacques comes of age, will you tell him what I have toldyou? I know you have been frank with him about the Segals, thinking that they were his real parents, but I see no point in confusing or upsetting Jacques by telling him of his true origins until he is old enough to understand. When he is a grown man, I would love him to have the chance to seek me out and meet his family in India – the Robsons.
Until then, I hope you will allow Sam and myself to send him the occasional letter – Jacques was very keen that we send him a photograph of a palm squirrel! I understand if you would rather we didn’t but it would be a great kindness if you would let me stay in contact.
Whatever you decide, Martha, I wish to thank you for loving Jacques the way you do. It means the world to me.
Kind regards,
Adela Jackman
Adela enclosed it with details of her address at Belgooree in the hopes that Martha would reply, and sealed the envelope. She would post it before they embarked.
‘Ahoy there!’ a voice called jauntily from below.
Adela leant over the railing and saw Sam grinning up at her. He had bought himself a new hat – a brown Trilby – which was perched on the back of his head. Her heart swelled with affection. Sam seemed incapable of wearing a hat at the proper angle and she loved him for it.
‘Ready forle déjeuner, Madame?’ he asked.
Adela’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Oui, Monsieur! Coming.’
She tucked the letter in her pocket and hurried down to meet her husband.
