Page 98 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
‘Manzur and the others can cope without me.’
On the other hand, James seemed more interested in what was going on at Belgooree and in recent days had begun accompanying Clarrie on her early morning rides to inspect the tea garden. Libby was glad that her father was showing a renewed interest in life and regaining some of his former energy. But she couldn’t help a twinge of jealousy at these dawn rides and it alarmed her to see him becoming more and more settled at Belgooree and content in Clarrie’s company to the exclusion of others.
In dismay, Libby witnessed a deepening fondness between Clarrie and James. What if this grew out of control and her father abandoned any thought of being reconciled with her mother? She had such mixed feelings about her cousin’s widow. In childhood she had loved her visits to Belgooree; Clarrie had been so warm-hearted and always made a fuss of Tilly’s children. But in those days she had been Wesley’s wife and no rival to Tilly in any way; in fact, her father had made critical remarks about Clarrie in front of the children for which Tilly would admonish him.
‘You can’t bear the thought of Clarrie being a successful tea planter because she’s a woman!’ Tilly accused him.
‘That has nothing to do with it,’ James blustered.
‘Well then, you’re a snob, James. You don’t like Clarrie because she’s not quite pukka.’
Now that she was grown-up, Libby knew that what her mother had meant was that Clarrie was Anglo-Indian. Her father had carried the usual prejudices of his generation towards those of mixed blood in India, whereas her mother had not. It hadn’t struck Libby before that her sense of fairness and justice might have been instilled by Tilly long before the influence of Libby’s teacher, Miss MacGregor.
At a distance, Libby was beginning to view her mother differently. She could imagine how overwhelming it must have been for Tilly – at the age that Libby was now and having grown up in a northern city – to come out to this remote part of India. Everything would have been bewilderingly alien: the landscape, the climate, the people, the seasons, the heat and the strict hierarchical rules of a colonial society that lingered in India even though they were changing in the home country.
It was only with the onset of the stifling, pre-monsoon heat that Libby had recalled her mother’s plaintive comments:‘It’s like sitting in soup’and‘Oh, for a downpour of cold British rain!’
Libby remembered her mother’s inability to cope with the summer heat, driven to distraction by prickly heat and swollen ankles. None of the family had been sympathetic and Libby had never understood why Tilly had never followed James’s advice. ‘A morning ride beforechota hazriwould set you up for the day, my girl. You’ll go as mouldy as one of your books if you stew indoors.’
Her poor mother! Libby felt a twinge of remorse at the way she had berated Tilly for not returning to India with her. Her mother was happy in Newcastle with her many interests and friends. What would she do out here in Assam? Who would be her kindred spirits? There was her mother’s old friend Sophie Khan. But Sophie lived a day’s driveaway from Cheviot View in Gulgat and who knew for how much longer she would remain there? And there was Clarrie. Libby’s insides twisted with anxiety. Clarrie was making James’s life too easy here. She was not helping James’s marriage.
Libby couldn’t help feeling sorry for Clarrie: she had lost her husband so cruelly and abruptly, and everyone talked of what a devoted couple Clarrie and Wesley had been. But Clarrie was bound to be lonely and she was still an attractive woman. Libby didn’t think Clarrie would be deliberately trying to steal James away from Tilly, but circumstances had thrown them together during the War. Libby was well aware that affairs had been commonplace when couples had been forced apart for years on end. Libby couldn’t allow this to happen to her parents.
For the first time since returning to the country of her birth, Libby began to wonder if perhaps it really would be better for James to leave India and return to Britain. Not only his marriage but his health was suffering out here. Unpalatable as it was, she had to admit that her father’s mental state was fragile and could probably not be fixed by rest and fresh air alone. Maybe she had been wrong to try and force the family together in Assam. Their childhood idyll could not be recreated – and Libby had to face the uncomfortable truth that Cheviot View might never have been as idyllic as she had remembered.
With her mind in turmoil about how best to deal with her father and their uncertain future, Libby felt in limbo at Belgooree. Being idle did not suit her; she was used to working and being useful and independent. She was torn between staying to keep an eye on her father and returning to her friends in Calcutta to where she might be of some use.
The dilemma prompted her, late one steamy night, to write to Ghulam. Not wanting to disturb the household by tapping on her typewriter, Libby fetched a writing pad, pen and ink and went out on tothe veranda. By the light of a hissing kerosene lamp, she drew ink into the fountain pen and began to write. After several attempts to strike the right tone, Libby kept it short and friendly.
Dear Ghulam
How are you and Fatima? I hope both of you are well. I’ve been thinking about you and wondering what you are making of the announcements from the Viceroy and the other leaders. Are you very disappointed (as I am) at the plans for partition? Or are you pleased that it will all be decided sooner than expected and the tiresome British will be out of your hair in a matter of weeks? It all seems a bit unreal up here in the hills.
My father’s health took a turn for the worse about a month ago, so we are staying with Adela’s mother at Belgooree while he rests again. He seems to have lost his zest for tea planting and our old home. Perhaps it really is time for him to retire back to England. No doubt you will approve of that!
If you felt like writing back, I’m eager to know what is happening in Calcutta and Bengal. Manzur, my father’s assistant manager, brought us a copy of The Statesman recently but otherwise we don’t get much news as our wireless is very temperamental. To be honest, I’m going a little mad with boredom here!
I hope the news of your family in the Punjab is good and that they are safe. Please give my fond regards to your sister – and please take good care of yourself.
Libby
She hesitated over that final signing off, wanting to express some endearment but not wanting to embarrass him. She longed to tell himmore about her anxieties over her father – her failure to get to the bottom of what troubled him – but decided that was unfair on Ghulam. What could he possibly do or advise? He didn’t know her father and none of it was his responsibility. Besides, he must have so many worries of his own.
Later, lying on top of her bed under the mosquito net, Libby wondered whether she should send the letter at all. She got up at sunrise and walked down to the factory office, adding the letter to the office dak before she could change her mind.
In the days that followed, Libby looked out for a return letter from Calcutta but none came. At Clarrie’s suggestion, she took to joining her father and Clarrie on their morning rides and accepted Clarrie’s offer to join her in the tea-tasting room at the factory. Libby was grateful for the distraction.
‘What do you think of our second flush?’ Clarrie asked.
Libby sucked the liquid through her teeth like Clarrie did and spat into the spittoon.
‘It tastes good,’ said Libby, ‘though I don’t really know what I’m looking for.’
Clarrie smiled. ‘Strong body, deep golden colour. More fruity than floral. Bit more earthy than first flush.’
‘Dad said you were good at this.’ Libby grinned. ‘I think my taste buds were ruined by army tea in the War. The judge of a good cuppa was whether the spoon would stand up in it.’
Clarrie laughed. ‘Wesley used to talk like that about the tea the troops drank in the Great War.’
