Page 45 of The Girl from the Tea Garden
They talked no more about it, but it preyed on Adela’s mind. Up until now she had taken little interest in politics, preferring to read the magazines that Cousin Jane sent her from England rather than the piles of newspapers that Fluffy waded through each day. She knew more about what was happening in Hollywood than New Delhi, let alone the Hill States that bordered Simla.
Yet she liked the tribal women she had met through Fatima’s clinics and felt ashamed that she had not been more curious about their lives beyond the daily humdrum. She wondered what Sam’s opinion would be of those who came from outside the region agitating for change. Did they make life difficult for him in his mission in the hills, or did he support them? She had a vague memory that he had discussed such things at her birthday supper, but she had taken none of it in, except to steal glances at his handsome animated face.
Oh, Sam! Had he really come seeking her out just a few days before she returned from Assam, or had it just been a social call to Fluffy? Adela could not stop thinking about him. While far away in Belgooree having a busy social time with her family, she had suppressed her feelings. She had even promised herself that this coming season she would look for a romantic friendship among the many young beaux in Simla society who would come up from the hot plains in search of love. She would be eighteen in a few short months and was impatient for romance. Captain Maitland’s robust kisses the previous summer had whetted her appetite for physical love, and Adela wanted to go further.
Thoughts of Sam made her discontented, and the incident at the Ganj spurred her on to seek out Fatima. She would volunteer for the clinics again. Better to be helping the hill women than rearranging camping equipment for the umpteenth time. Besides, her parents had given her a small allowance so that she could stay on in Simla until June without relying on a job at the Forest Office.
At the hospital they told her that Fatima was ill and hadn’t been in for a couple of days. Concerned, Adela went straight round to the doctor’s third-storey flat in Lakkar Bazaar, mounting the dark stairway and knocking on the door. No one came. Adela’s alarm mounted. Perhaps she was too sick to come to the door. Surely her housekeeper, Sitara, a low-caste Hindu widow who had come with the doctor from Lahore, would answer. She knocked again harder and called out, ‘DrFatima, it’s me, Adela. Are you all right?’
To her relief she heard the soft tread of bare feet and the door being unlocked. It opened a fraction. Fatima peered out.
‘Are you okay? They told me at the hospital that you were unwell.’
Fatima hesitated. ‘I am fine thank you.’
‘Can I come in? I want to talk to you about helping out at the clinics again. I know you’ll start going up into the hills soon,’ gabbled Adela, ‘and I’d like to help. There’s too little to do in the office, and I’m driving Boz mad asking for jobs.’
Again Fatima hesitated, glancing over her shoulder and then back at Adela. ‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes—’
‘Come in quickly.’ Fatima opened the door just enough to pull Adela through it, close and lock it. Fatima appeared nervous; Adela had never seen her like this before. Adela respectfully took off her shoes, then wondered if she should stay. The doctor forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry; I’m being a bad hostess. Take a seat please. I’ll see if Sitara can make us tea.’
While Fatima disappeared into the next room, Adela went and sat at the table in the bay window, with its plummeting view over Lakkar Bazaar. The wooden houses and open-fronted shops seemed to defy gravity, pegged to the slope by occasional trees. The day was dank and the buildings drab in the steel-grey light of the late January day.
The room was high-ceilinged and plainly furnished with the bare essentials: a table and two chairs; a large desk and reading lamp; a bookcase jammed with textbooks; an armchair; a locked medical chest; and cushions against the far wall, where Fatima preferred to sit when she didn’t have company. The cushions were still rumpled. There was something amiss. A cigarette, hastily stubbed out, was still half burning in a brass ashtray on the floor. Fatima didn’t smoke.
Adela stifled an amused gasp. Had the prim doctor been entertaining someone when she’d called unexpectedly? No wonder Fatima had been flustered. If so, the man must be hiding in the back or have slipped out some other way. It can’t have been Sundar, for he didn’t smoke. Suddenly Adela had a jealous thought that it might be Sam. She couldn’t bear it to be Sam. Adela jumped out of her seat and rushed to the far door; she had to see for herself.
They looked around, startled – three figures crammed into the tiny kitchen. Fatima, the dark-skinned Sitara, and a man. Adela stared back. It was the communist speaker she had last seen being chased by police.
The man was the first to speak. He came forward, his look assessing. He didn’t extend his hand in greeting but gave a fleeting smile.
‘I’m Ghulam, Fatima’s brother. You are Miss Robson, the Britisher she told me about who helps on the purdah ward.’
Adela nodded and blurted out, ‘You’re the man who spoke at the rally. I knew you were familiar. You look like Uncle Rafi.’
Fatima gasped, ‘You were at the demonstration?’
‘Yes, with Auntie.’
Sister and brother looked at each other and said something rapidly in Punjabi, which Adela didn’t understand. He shrugged.
‘Let’s go into the sitting room,’ Fatima said, taking charge again, ‘now that the cat is out of the bag.’
Adela couldn’t help glancing at Ghulam; this was the notorious younger brother who had been to prison for setting fire to the governor’s car in Lahore. Like Rafi, he was an outcast from the rest of the family– apart from Fatima, who appeared to stand by her brothers whatever they did. Ghulam was shorter and stockier than Rafi,and not as handsome – he was square-jawed and his nose was squint, as if it had been broken– yet he had the same startlingly green eyes as his brother. He moved with a quick restlessness and pent-up energy.
‘Why do you call my brother, Uncle?’ Ghulam asked, squatting back down on the cushions. Adela joined him, tucking her legs and stockinged feet under her woollen skirt.
‘Because he’s married to my mother’s friend Sophie – she’s a pretend auntie.’
‘I’ve never met her,’ Ghulam said, ‘though my sister tells me she’s beautiful.’
‘Very. Like a film star.’ Adela smiled.
‘I admire her for defying her own kind to marry my brother. Especially as your days here are numbered.’
‘Ghulam,’ Fatima warned.
