Page 25 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
‘Are you here to find a husband?’ he suddenly asked.
‘No,’ Libby said, spluttering over her tea.
‘Why not?’
‘I’m here to see my father. We’ve been apart since before the War.’
‘Ah, well, he’ll find you a husband. What’s his regiment?’
‘He’s not in the Army,’ said Libby. ‘He’s a tea planter.’
‘Tea, eh?’ The Colonel ruminated over this. ‘Don’t let him marry you off to some box-wallah up-country. You’ll have a dog’s life. Army chap is what you need. My daughter Helena married a doctor in the Gurkhas. She has a grand life.’
‘Yes, she’s married to my Uncle Johnny.’
The Colonel looked at her in surprise. Libby wondered if he’d already forgotten who she was.
‘Um, yes, army officer will suit you – you’re the outdoor, athletic type by the look of you. Helena will find you someone suitable.’
‘Doesn’t seem much point,’ said Libby. ‘In a year or so the British officers will have to leave, won’t they? That sort of life will be over.’
He frowned, his fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Leave? Why ever should we leave? The British have made the Indian Army the envy of the world. We have the most loyal of men and the cream of the officer corps.’ He shook his head as if she had said something outlandish. ‘Leave indeed.’
Libby decided not to argue. Instead she asked him, ‘Have you ever been to Assam?’
‘Ah, Assam! Hunted there as a young man. Wonderful for big game. Shot a bear once – and tigers of course.’
As he enthused about long-ago days, Libby’s mind wandered to her childhood there. Why did the Colonel think it would be such a dog’s life to be married to a tea planter? She suspected it was just the usual British prejudice towards men in trade compared to those in uniform. Yet she felt a twinge of discomfort. Her own mother would probably agree with Colonel Swinson.
‘Bhekti – it’s a kind of perch,’ said the Colonel. ‘Can’t cook it. Comes from Goa.’
‘The fish comes from Goa?’ Libby asked in confusion.
He scrutinised her with rheumy blue eyes, then barked with laughter. ‘Not the fish – the cook!’
Libby giggled at her misunderstanding. ‘That makes more sense.’
‘Helena likes him ’cause he’s Christian,’ explained the Colonel, ‘and he’ll handle pork. Bloody useless cook though.’
An hour later, as the old man was still chewing his way through a piece of cold toast, Johnny discovered them.
‘So you’ve met my delightful niece?’ he said, bellowing in his father-in-law’s ear.
‘Your niece, eh? Pretty young thing.’ He nodded. ‘Won’t have any trouble finding a suitable officer to marry.’
Johnny and Libby exchanged wry glances.
‘Well, I don’t know about a husband,’ said Johnny, ‘but your Aunt Helena has a busy day of sight-seeing planned for you. And you may have to eat a second breakfast.’ He gave her an apologetic look. ‘My wife is waiting in the dining room at a table groaning with bacon and eggs.’
Libby wiped her mouth on her napkin and stood up, grinning. ‘After seven years of rationing, two breakfasts sounds like heaven on earth.’
The next few days were a hectic round of sight-seeing and shopping with Helena and socialising with the Watsons’ friends. At first, Libby revelled in being taken around Calcutta. Helena, who insisted that they were driven everywhere, enjoyed showing off the imposing colonial buildings arrayed around Dalhousie Square and which fringed the vast park known as the Maidan. As they drove along Old Court House Street, her aunt pointed out Government House and the old mansions on the Esplanade, and continued down Red Road to the huge dazzlingly white Victoria Memorial at the other end of the Maidan.
When Libby pleaded for them to get out and see round the art gallery housed in the memorial building, Helena reluctantly agreed. Her aunt thought most artists were overrated and only allowed Libby a cursory look around.
Helena was more enthusiastic about showing her around StPaul’s Cathedral with its military flags and then the imposing tombs and catafalques of the British cemetery in Park Street. In the ancient graveyard,Helen said, with a sweep of her hands, ‘All the history of British India is here. Look at the names and dates. So much endeavour and sacrifice.’
Libby found the tightly packed jumble of gravestones and obelisks claustrophobic, and she winced at this very visual reminder of Britain’s imperial past.
