Page 35 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
CHAPTER 7
Newcastle, early March
Adela took Sam’s hand and squeezed it. They were standing outside the haberdashery shop in Cullercoats owned by Sam’s adoptive mother, MrsJackman. The sign said closed. It was a raw, sunless Sunday afternoon; the on-shore wind was bitter and the sea a churning steel-grey.
With a flood of emotion, Adela remembered how she had stood here over eight years ago, heavily pregnant and torn with indecision: should she go into the shop and make herself known to Sam’s estranged mother or not? Her courage had failed her. She had feared interfering in Sam’s life. Sam had been so bitter about his mother’s desertion in Assam when he was such a young boy.
But later, as a mother herself and knowing the agony of separation, Adela had gone to see MrsJackman. She still recalled how Sam’s mother had almost collapsed with shock and relief to hear word of her son. If it hadn’t been for MrsJackman, Sam would never have known the true identity of his real parents, the Logans, or been reunited with his long-lost sister, Sophie.
Even though Sam had begun a correspondence with his mother, Adela knew today’s meeting was going to be a trial for him. They hadbeen in Newcastle for well over a month yet Sam had put off coming to Cullercoats until now.
‘The longer you put it off, the worse it will be,’ Adela had said, finally losing patience. ‘Let me make the arrangements if you won’t.’
So here they were: for the first time in over thirty years, Sam and his mother would come face-to-face.
Adela felt his large hand trembling in hers. Even though outwardly her tall, athletic husband looked strong and in control, she knew that inside he was feeling like that bewildered young boy whose mother had run away and left him. His handsome face was tense and his brow furrowed.
‘She loves you,’ Adela said in encouragement, stepping forward and ringing the bell to the upstairs flat. ‘And this will be just as hard for her.’
MrsJackman must have been keeping a lookout, for she answered the door almost immediately. She was less plump than Adela remembered and her hair – bound into a neat bun – was now completely silver. She wore a well-cut purple dress that would have been the height of fashion twenty years ago.
‘Adela! Sam!’ MrsJackman exclaimed, her arms outstretched and eyes burning with tears. ‘Sam, you’ve grown so tall!’
It was a ridiculous remark to make to a man who was almost forty but Adela felt a stab of pity. All these years, the woman must have tried to imagine what Sam looked like growing up, yet in her mind’s eye he would forever be the skinny, grinning seven-year-old that MrsJackman had last set eyes on.
It was like that for Adela. Her son was now eight but to her he was still that bright-eyed baby with soft dark hair sucking contentedly at her breast.
Sam, too overwhelmed to speak, ignored the woman’s attempt to hug him and stuck out a hand. His mother’s face fell but she shook his hand, holding on to it for longer than a casual handshake.
Adela gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘It’s lovely to see you again.’
MrsJackman’s chin wobbled. ‘I’ve been so looking forward to this, dear.’
‘So have we,’ said Adela, her heart going out to the woman. ‘Haven’t we, Sam?’
Sam nodded, swallowing hard. He was staring at his mother as if trying to find something familiar about her.
‘Please,’ said MrsJackman, recovering some poise, ‘come away out of the cold. What terrible weather we’re having. You must find it freezing after India. I’ve got the kettle on.’
She bustled ahead up the steep staircase. ‘Pull the front door behind you, Sam, dear.’
Adela gave Sam an encouraging smile and, for the first time since arriving in Cullercoats, he smiled back.
MrsJackman must have been saving up her ration coupons because the tea trolley that she wheeled into the neat, brightly lit upstairs sitting room was groaning with sandwiches, pies and cake. Sam followed her back into the kitchen offering to help brew the tea. Ignoring her half-hearted refusal, he set about pouring boiling water from the steaming kettle into the waiting teapot. Watching from the doorway, Adela knew Sam needed to expend his nervous energy; he was like a caged animal in the small flat. She wondered if MrsJackman would let him smoke.
The tea made, Adela and Sam were invited to sit down on the chintz-covered sofa. Pale-green plastic trays were clamped to the arms on which, Adela presumed, they were to balance their tea cups and plates. MrsJackman made Sam pile his plate high with food.
‘I made your favourite bacon-and-egg pie,’ she said, with an anxious smile. ‘And take another slice of ginger cake. You always liked ginger cake.’
Sam complied. They talked of trivial matters – or rather MrsJackman did – while Sam and Adela ate. She began a rambling commentary on the long snow-bound winter they had endured and about the possibility of renting out her shop to someone younger.
‘And have you managed to pick up work, Sam?’ she asked.
He swallowed and nodded. ‘I’m doing a bit of photography work for a local newspaper. Not much – just a handful of weddings – but it’s a start.’
‘Photography,’ gasped his mother. ‘That’s grand.’
‘Sam’s been helping me in the café too,’ said Adela.
