Page 87 of The Girl from the Tea Garden
‘Auntie Tilly,’ Adela asked as she joined her on the bench, watching Mungo playing deck quoits with some of the other children. ‘Tell me about the theatres in Newcastle. Is there a repertory company?’
‘My brother Johnny used to act with an amateur dramatic society in Jesmond, but there’s bound to be one. Your aunt Olive will be able to tell you. Oh, well done, Mungo!’ She broke off to clap her adored youngest child. ‘Are you thinking of joining a group while you’re at home?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Adela. It sounded strange to have this unremembered city referred to as home. But then to Tilly, Newcastle had never stopped being home; even Adela was aware of that.
Tilly grinned and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Glad to see you smiling again, dear girl. It’s the fresher European air– lifts the spirits. Goodness,’ she said, sighing happily, ‘I can’t wait to feel a good old North Sea mist on my face again.’
About the time Adela and her aunts were stepping ashore at Marseille in the South of France to board a train north– Tilly had decreed they take the train through France to save nearly a week of extra sailing around the Bay of Biscay– Clarrie was receiving an unexpected visitor.
Looking out from the tasting room, she saw a battered Ford passing the factory, heading towards the compound.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked James. He had been staying for three days, helping with pricing the monsoon pickings, and had brought one of his mechanics to fix the ancient rolling machine that Wesley had always had the knack of repairing.
‘Visitor, but I don’t recognise the car,’ answered Clarrie.
‘I’ll go and investigate,’ he said at once.
‘No, I will.’
‘I’ll come with you then.’
She gave him one of her looks, and James tempered his words. ‘If you want me to, of course.’
Clarrie gave a soft sigh– half amusement, half impatience– and nodded. ‘Thank you.’
Banu, on horseback, had stopped the car at the entrance to the compound. He was leaning down from the saddle, talking to the driver. Clarrie recognised the battered green porkpie hat.
‘Sam Jackman? Is it you?’
Sam climbed out of the car and smiled. He came straight up to Clarrie, took her hands in his and gripped them.
‘MrsRobson, I’m so very sorry to hear about your husband’s death. DrBlack told me. This must be a very trying time for you all. Please accept my deepest sympathy. I liked MrRobson a lot. I just came here to see if there is anything I can do to help.’
Clarrie was suddenly overwhelmed by the young man’s candid, kind words and the warm, strong hands around hers. She had heard so many platitudes of late– or worse were those who crossed the street in Shillong rather than deal with a grieving widow– that she thought she was immune to words of condolence. But something about Sam’s directness and sincerity touched her to the core. Clarrie bowed her head and sobbed, feeling her legs buckling like a newborn foal. Sam pulled her into a hug and let her weep into his shoulder.
James squirmed with embarrassment and began to fuss. ‘Look here, Jackman, there’s no need to go upsetting her. Let’s get her inside.’
They all got in Sam’s car, and he drove them up to the bungalow. By the time they got out, Clarrie was once more composed and in charge.
‘I’m sorry. What must you think of me crying like a schoolgirl? It’s so kind of you to come and see us. You’ll stay for some refreshment?’ She disappeared to give orders for tea and tiffin to be brought on to the veranda. James turned to Sam while she was gone.
‘I really don’t think you should stay long, Jackman. MrsRobson is in a very fragile state. She’s just about coping, but she doesn’t need reminding of Wesley every second minute, so keep the conversation light– and brief.’
Sam regarded James with interest. He had little respect for the tea planter who had ruled the Oxford Estates with an iron rod for years. Sam would never forget how, as a boy, he had seen desperate and dying coolies from the Robsons’ plantations hurling themselves into the Brahmaputra to try and escape slavery and starvation. But he wouldn’t be provoked.
‘It’s good to see that MrsRobson has you to advise her. Are you staying long?’
James felt the blood rush into his thick neck. ‘That’s none of your concern. I’m here to help Clarrie as long as she needs me.’
‘That’s heartening to hear. Is your wife visiting too?’
‘My wife has gone to England to take our son to school. It was her idea that I help out here when I can.’
James felt his anger quicken at the sardonic twitch of the young man’s eyebrow. Damn him! He didn’t need to explain himself to Jackman of all people. The young man was a dreamer who never stuck at hard work for long or faced up to responsibilities. He hadn’t been fooled by Sam’s overnight conversion to missionary zeal, and it didn’t surprise him that he had fallen short of good conduct and gone off with some native woman. At best he was a well-meaning fool, at worst a dangerous subversive who had no loyalty to the British in India.
Clarrie returned before he could needle the missionary about the Sipi scandal.
‘So what brings you back to these parts, Sam?’ Clarrie asked as they drank tea out of thin china cups. In Sam’s large hands the cup looked like it was from a doll’s set.
