Page 37 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
CHAPTER 8
Calcutta, March
It was George Brewis turning up on the Watsons’ doorstep – bearing a huge bouquet of flowers for Helena and a dinner invitation for Libby – that made Libby swiftly abandon her plan to leave Calcutta early. She was thrilled at his sudden appearance. George had been to Dacca with work and had only just picked up her message.
‘Of course, I’d love to go out to dinner!’ she agreed eagerly.
‘Good,’ he said with a wink. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven and we’ll go to the club for cocktails first.’
How glad she was to see him. Her heart soared at the sight of his handsome ruddy face grinning at her from under his topee. She spent more time than usual getting ready to go out. She chose a red-and-black dress with a heart-shaped neckline that Josey had helped her adapt before leaving Newcastle. Piling up her dark-auburn hair in a loose bun and putting on make-up, Libby stared at her reflection in the mirror and hoped she looked sophisticated enough for the worldly George.
The hairstyle showed off her oval face and the red lipstick emphasised her full mouth. But there were dark shadows beneath her eyes that betrayed the string of sleepless nights she had had since her disastrous visit to the Khans. She had been shaken by the encounter with theactivist Ghulam; furious at his dismissal of her opinions and his hostility towards her and her father. How dare he be the judge of them?
She had taken her revenge by drawing a cartoon of Ghulam; his thick shoulders and torso turned into those of a tiger, his face snarling and contorted through the bars of a cage. The cage is open but he won’t come out. A young woman in trousers is throwing away her topee and saying, ‘Well, stay and sulk about Britishers if you like. I’m off to an Independence Day freedom party.’
Tossing in bed, too hot for sleep, Libby had wondered why she minded Ghulam’s disapproval so much. Perhaps it was because, ever since she had been the eager pupil of her radical history teacher, Miss MacGregor, she had seen herself as enlightened and on the side of the oppressed. In Britain, Libby was seen as a progressive young woman with a mind of her own. She had thought it would be the same in India. But at the first chance of making Indian friends, she had failed. Fatima had not been in touch all week. To Ghulam Khan she would always be a privileged white woman: one of thesahib-logwho had kept his people downtrodden and disenfranchised for two hundred years.
Perhaps he was right and she should be packing her bags and booking a passage to Britain. Maybe this wasn’t her country after all. Since the news broke that the British were to hand over power within the next year, the chatter in the Calcutta drawing rooms had abruptly switched from sport and films to how long they should stay in Bengal. There was a flurry of calls to shipping lines and air companies to book summer passages home just in case trouble was brewing again.
‘Well, I’m not going to run away,’ Libby said, with a mulish pout at her reflection. ‘I’m staying in India – and no man is going to tell me that I can’t.’
George took her to the Saturday Club near to his digs and they drank pink gins with some of his bachelor friends before joining a party of diners at Firpo’s on Chowringhee Street. Libby knew it was one of themost popular restaurants in Calcutta. By day it served up robust lunches of Scotch broth and steak and kidney pie, as well as lavish afternoon teas; by night it laid on five-course dinners. Libby had heard that it boasted a lively orchestra and a full-sized sprung dance floor, which she hoped George would guide her around. Chandeliers sparkled and fans whirred in the large dining room, which buzzed with conversation and laughter. Mellow with gin, Libby was seduced by its glitzy opulence.
She was disappointed to discover that she was not dining alone with George as expected, but the group of friends were a lively mixed crowd of young people. Several of the women were obviously Anglo-Indian and two of the men wore Sikh turbans. Libby relished a renewed feeling of adventure.
‘This is Flowers Dunlop, a friend of Adela’s,’ George said, introducing her to a petite woman in a slinky silver dress with gleaming dark hair fashioned into a short perm. She had huge dark eyes and a quick smile.
Libby felt ungainly as she shook Flowers’s slim hand.
‘Oh, Adela spoke fondly of you. You’re a nurse, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Flowers, ‘at the Presidency General Hospital. Are you enjoying Calcutta?’
‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘well, some of the time. I’ve been meaning to contact you – Adela said I should – I’m sorry I haven’t up till now.’
‘Don’t be,’ said Flowers, ‘I’m sure you’ve had plenty to do. But you’re very welcome to visit. My father would love to meet you. He’s from a tea planter family too.’
‘Oh, which one?’ Libby asked with interest.
Flowers gave a vague wave of the hand. ‘Oh, I’m not sure. You’d have to ask him. Assam not Darjeeling.’ She slipped an arm through Libby’s as if they were old friends. ‘Come on; let’s sit together so you can tell me all about yourself.’
It was the first of several dinner-dances that Libby was taken to by George and his friends. Sometimes they danced in the open-air winter garden at the Grand Hotel as well as returning to Firpo’s to quickstep and tango across the crowded ballroom. Libby loved it when George chose her for the last waltz; she felt intoxicated being held close in his arms and feeling the brush of his chin against her cheek.
‘I’m glad you came out to Calcutta, bonny Libby,’ he murmured in her ear.
‘I’m glad too,’ she said with a dreamy smile.
Although she had been disappointed that George hadn’t attempted to kiss her on any of their evenings out, she was sure it was only a matter of time before he did.
Libby attended tennis parties with George and went swimming at the Saturday Club after he had finished work. He invited her to a long, alcohol-fuelled dinner party at his chummery which spilled out on to the flat roof and ended with them all dancing in bare feet to an old wind-up gramophone.
Flowers and her nursing friends were nearly always there too. Flowers was a wonderful dancer but she never allowed any of the men to monopolise her on the dance floor. Libby couldn’t work out if Adela’s former school friend was keen on any man in particular and hoped it wasn’t George.
Extravert George was friendly to everyone and usually the instigator of these parties but Libby liked to think he was especially attentive and affectionate towards her. A couple of times she met him for lunch too and she revelled in having him to herself. They chatted about family and news from Newcastle.
‘Adela and Sam seem to be settling okay,’ said Libby one lunchtime. It was a hot day – a taste of the higher temperatures to come now that it was the middle of March – and she was grateful to be in the airy dining room at Firpo’s under the electric fans. ‘Sam’s met his mother at last – well, the woman who adopted him as a baby. Adela says they’re gettingon well and might be moving in with MrsJackman. Adela thinks she’s quite a lonely woman and she’s over the moon to see Sam again.’
‘And Herbert’s tearoom?’ asked George. ‘Has Adela saved it from collapse?’
