Page 24 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
‘That’s right,’ Libby answered. ‘Do you know George?’
‘No,’ said Johnny, ‘but I met Olive. She was the shy nervous type. Not at all like her older sister Clarrie. Clarrie was always such good fun. She was a marvellous step-mother to my best friend Will ...’
Libby saw the sadness etched on her uncle’s face. Her mother had often spoken of the lively Will Stock who had been killed in the Kaiser’s War. Will and Johnny had been boyhood friends and all Johnny’s sisters had adored him too.
‘Well,’ Helena said, ‘enough talk about Clarrie Robson. Libby dear, you must invite your young man round to New House so we can meet him.’
Libby felt excitement curdle inside to hear George referred to as her young man. Would he be pleased or aghast to be cast in that role? She was impatient to see him again.
‘You can invite any of the friends you make in Calcutta,’ said Johnny. ‘Just treat our home as yours.’
‘Thank you,’ said Libby with a grateful smile, remembering how fond she and her brothers had been of their genial uncle in those long-ago days of childhood.
Libby woke to the screeching of birds. It was dark in the shuttered room and for a moment she wondered in which hotel room she lay. Then with a flood of joy she realised she was no longer in transit but back on Indian soil. Getting quickly out of bed, she unlatched the shutters and opened the casement window. Cool sweet air embraced her.
The garden was largely in shadow and she could tell from the pearly sunrise that it must still be very early. Giant crows were making a racket in the adjacent trees and a flock of green parrots rushed overhead and disappeared into dark foliage.
Libby hurried to pull on clothes and tiptoe into the gloomy hallway of the downstairs flat just as the large grandfather clock was chiming the half-hour. It was five-thirty.
A sleepychowkidarscrambled to his feet and let her out of the front door. The neat lawns and flowerbeds were glistening with dew as the dawn light crept across them. Libby took off her shoes and walked barefoot down the steps and over the grass, enjoying the cool damp on her skin. Beyond the garden wall she could hear the sounds of Calcutta stirring: the soft tinkle of a rickshaw’s bell, the creak of a bullock cart and the crack of a driver’s whip. From far off came the blare of a ship’s hooter; two unseen men passed by chattering in Bengali.
She breathed in deeply. Turning at the far end of the garden she surveyed the Watsons’ house. Despite its name, New House, the square, two-storied building looked Victorian, with its pillared frontage, balconies and crumbling stucco. Johnny had explained that Helena’s familyhad renamed it New House when they’d moved from their former home in Ballyganj a generation ago, simply because it was new to them.
Too large now for a retired couple and Helena’s elderly father to be living in, the upstairs floor was rented out to a jute mill company. She sat for a while on a damp bench enjoying the chorus of birds in the tree over her head. Was it a peepal tree or a banyan? Libby couldn’t remember. After a while she smelt cooking coming from the servants’ compound behind the house. She skirted the building, curious to see what they were cooking. As she passed close to the veranda she heard strange grunting sounds. Libby was stopped in her tracks by a startling sight: in the shadows, a scrawny, almost naked old man was doing press-ups.
She stifled a gasp but he seemed quite oblivious to her presence. He was bald apart from a few wisps of white hair and his withered skin was almost yellow. Thinking him one of the servants, Libby backed away. Then he hauled himself into a sitting position and called out in a reedy upper-class voice, ‘Ranjan, bring me my towel!’
With shock, Libby realised this must be Helena’s octogenarian father, Colonel Swinson. She hung back in the shadow of a tree for a couple of minutes until a servant had wrapped the Colonel from the waist down in a white towel and then she reappeared.
‘Good morning,’ Libby called. ‘Colonel Swinson is it?’
He peered over the veranda. ‘Yes, and who the devil are you?’
‘Libby Robson, DrWatson’s niece.’ She smiled up at him.
He stared at her, baffled. ‘Never heard of you. Should I have?’
Libby smiled in amusement. ‘I suppose not. I only arrived last night. I’m here for a month.’
‘Why did nobody tell me?’
Libby imagined that Helena had told him repeatedly that they were having a guest from England but her aunt had warned her that the Colonel was very forgetful.
‘Perhaps I was to be a surprise,’ Libby answered.
He grunted and turned away. Libby was on the point of carrying on her way when the old man called to her. ‘Do you like kedgeree?’
‘Love it,’ said Libby.
‘Come and have breakfast with me on the veranda at six-thirty,’ he ordered. ‘Give me time for my cold bath.’
‘Thank you,’ said Libby, ‘I will.’
Half an hour later, Libby was back on the veranda sitting at a small table opposite Helena’s father, eating a rather dry kedgeree of rice, fish and boiled eggs. The garden was dappled in morning sunshine and a servant stood over them with a palm frond to bat away any scavenging birds.
Colonel Swinson ate slowly, his worn-down teeth chewing determinedly at the over-cooked fish. But Libby didn’t mind his slowness; she was enjoying his rambling conversation in between mouthfuls.
‘Born just after the Mutiny, you know. Father was in the Bengal Lancers. Mama was the most beautiful woman in Calcutta. That’s what Papa said. This fish is bhekti – comes from the estuary. Cook doesn’t like it – thinks it’s polluted from the salt water. Prefers river fish. Can’t bloody cook it properly, that’s for sure.’ He paused to pull out a bone that had stuck in his teeth.
