Page 47 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
‘I don’t understand why it should suddenly get worse now that the British government has announced they are definitely leaving.’
‘Power and fear,’ said Ghulam starkly. ‘Everyone is afraid and all sides are stoking up that fear to gain the upper hand in the negotiations. Just like last year, people are already leaving their homes and moving into villages or parts of the city to be with their own kind.’
‘Perhaps it will make a difference having a change of viceroy,’ Libby suggested. ‘Mountbatten knows India well from the War and he might be able to bring the differing sides together. He’s due here any day now, isn’t he?’
Ghulam gave her an impatient look. ‘A change of Britisher at the top is not the solution. It’s far too late for that.’
Libby went quiet; she didn’t want to antagonise him again. She already regretted her high-handed remarks at Amelia Buildings about Indians being to blame for the escalating violence. Up till now, she had enjoyed every minute of his company. She hadn’t had such interesting conversation in a long time, and never with such a fascinating man – this former revolutionary with the mesmerising green eyes.
Ghulam scrutinised her. She felt her heart pound faster under his gaze. He stubbed out his cigarette and began fishing out money for the bill. Libby felt a wave of disappointment that the lunch was coming to an abrupt end.
‘Let me contribute something,’ she said.
‘Certainly not.’
‘I’ve really enjoyed this,’ said Libby. ‘The meal – and talking to you.’
Abruptly he asked, ‘Have you ever had cake from Nahoum’s Confectionery?’
‘No.’
‘Then you must. You cannot leave Hogg’s Market without a visit to the Jewish bakery. That’s if you have room for something sweet?’
Libby smiled. ‘I always have room for cake.’
‘Then we share something else in common apart from socialism and Indian Independence,’ he said with a grin.
Nahoum’s had the biggest selection of cakes and pastries that Libby had ever set eyes on: cheesecakes, lemon sponges, Madeira slices, seed cakes and plum puddings. She took ages to decide what to choose and in the end Ghulam picked a selection and had them boxed up. When Libby gasped over the range of boiled sweets, he insisted on buying lemon drops and mint humbugs too.
‘No toffees as good as your Scottish ones,’ he said with a quick smile.
‘They didn’t last long then?’ Libby guessed. He shook his head. ‘Then I’ll get Mother to send some more out.’
To her delight, Ghulam didn’t seem in any hurry to get back to work. He suggested they walk through to the Maidan but she feared bumping into some of her aunt’s friends watching cricket at Eden Gardens. She didn’t want him subjected to any snide remarks or hostile looks.
‘I’d rather you showed me more of the streets around here,’ Libby replied.
They walked north, through a maze of lanes and side streets bustling with life and noise. Some of the buildings must once have been palatial with their intricately carved doorways and balconies but their façades were now crumbling and dirty. This was old Calcutta. They passed a steaming laundry, the rooftop with drying linen flapping like a ship in sail. Chinese merchants were selling paper lanterns and foodstuffs next to a dairy and piggery. Banging and hammering came from a row of leather workshops and cobblers. They got some curious looks as they walked by.
‘Don’t worry, they’ll just think I’m your bearer carrying your packages,’ Ghulam murmured.
Libby had a strong desire to slip her arm through his to show that they were equals but was worried he might rebuff such a gesture.
Eventually emerging on to a broader street, Libby recognised the road that led down to the Duff Church.
‘Let’s go this way,’ said Libby. ‘I know somewhere quiet to sit down.’
A few minutes later, they were turning left and passing through an iron gate into the church garden. The whitewashed building was shuttered and locked but the steps were in the shade of tall palm trees. Libby climbed on to the top one.
She smiled. ‘Time for eating cake, don’t you think?’
Ghulam followed, pulling off his jacket. ‘Sit on this if you like.’
‘I’ll share it with you,’ she said, spreading it out and settling on to one half. She kicked off her sandals and wriggled her toes, enjoying the feel of the warm stone on the soles of her feet.
Ghulam untied the string and opened the box. ‘You go first.’
She picked out a slice of walnut cake and bit into it. The icing was made with dark cane sugar, a taste that made her think of holidays in StAbbs and afternoon tea with her Watson relations. She closed her eyes. ‘Mmm, I haven’t tasted cake this good in years.’
