Page 79 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Libby went quickly to her.
‘Can we go?’ Flowers said.
‘Yes, Dad’s come to fetch us. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Flowers flinched and looked behind her. ‘Don’t say that.’
Libby laughed. ‘Sorry, I was only joking.’ She took her friend by the elbow – Flowers was shaking – and steered her out of the room.
Charu appeared with tea just as the party were leaving. Libby was apologetic. Flowers said nothing; not even the presence of Manzur was enough to shake her out of her strange mood. James was silent on the drive home too.
Flowers declined supper and went straight to bed. Libby ate with her father but he seemed infected by the bad atmosphere since the visit to The Lodge. Libby tried to remember what it was about the bungalow that she had heard before – some unhappy history – but she couldn’t remember.
After the meal, James took a large whisky on to the darkened veranda. Libby picked up the days-old newspaper she had brought from the clubhouse.
‘Would you like me to read it to you?’ she asked. ‘Like I used to when I was learning to read.’
‘Not really,’ James sighed. ‘The news is too grim these days. Violence breaking out again.’
‘What will happen here in Assam, Dad?’ Libby asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘After Independence?’
He took a sip of his drink. ‘We’ll be all right here.’
‘I’d read that Prime Minister Bordoloi wants to get rid of Sylhet to East Bengal,’ said Libby, ‘because of its Muslim majority. Consolidate the Hindu majority in the rest of Assam.’
James studied his daughter. ‘You really do take an interest in politics, don’t you? I don’t know where you get that from – certainly not your mother or me. I suppose it’s that teacher of yours that’s to blame – what was her name?’
‘Miss MacGregor,’ said Libby. ‘And yes, I’ve her to thank for opening my eyes to the world. She made me see that everything in life is political.’
‘Everything?’ James scoffed.
‘Yes. Take this afternoon at the clubhouse,’ said Libby. ‘They’re still not letting women into the main building.’
‘They do for dances at Christmas race week,’ said James.
‘Not much use in May when we wanted a drink in a comfortable, air-conditioned sitting room.’
‘Well, you should have stayed here if that’s what you wanted,’ he replied. ‘I don’t see why you had to go traipsing off down the hill. Your friend looked quite ill – I hope she’s not sickening for something.’
‘She was fine until we got to The Lodge,’ said Libby. ‘Something unnerved her there. What is it about that place? Wasn’t there a death there years ago or some tragedy?’
James took another swig. ‘Just some foolish gossip.’
‘About what?’
Her father looked away. ‘I don’t remember the details.’
‘But you remember something?’
James stared into his glass. ‘It used to be the burra bungalow when I was a young planter. But it fell out of favour – too small and not luxurious enough – that’s why Anant Ram was happy to rent it.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Libby said, a memory stirring, ‘it was supposed to be haunted. The kids at the club used to talk about it. Didn’t they change its name?’
Her father shifted in his seat.
