Page 92 of The Girl from the Tea Garden
‘That’s right.’ Adela beamed. ‘Aunt Olive, don’t you remember the durzi from Shillong who used to make dresses for you and Mother? His son still makes clothes for us occasionally, though we mostly send to Calcutta or mail-order from Britain.’
Olive waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’ve long forgotten all them foreign words. I hardly remember India at all. Now sit down, lass’ – Olive patted the armchair by the window next to hers – ‘and tell me all about yourself. Jane will pour the tea. It’s Ceylon. My Jack thinks it’s the best on the market.’
Adela settled into the leather seat, noticing how – although it was only early afternoon – the table in the window was already set with a silver tea service and a cake stand covered in a large linen napkin.
‘It’s very kind of you to have me to stay,’ she said. ‘Mother sends her love. She’s sorry not to come, but she couldn’t face leaving Belgooree at the moment. Not without ... Well, you understand I’m sure.’
‘Poor Clarrie. She’ll be lost without Wesley,’ Olive said with a shake of her head. ‘He was her rock. Not that she appreciated him at first. Could have married him years earlier in India if she hadn’t been so stubborn. But then that’s Clarrie– just like our father: always thinking she knows best.’
Adela flinched at the blunt words.
‘Well, as I say,’ Adela repeated, ‘she sends you her love.’
‘It must have been awful for you being there when your da was killed. I can’t imagine why Clarrie let you go off into the jungle full of tigers and wild animals.’
‘It was my father’s birthday present to me to go on shikar. Hunting is something we both loved doing.’
Olive shook her head. ‘Well I would never let a daughter of mine go doing such dangerous things. Would I, Jane?’
Jane shook her head as she arranged dainty china cups on their saucers.
She served tea and milk from a silver teapot and jug, the milk and sugar basin covered in beaded nets to keep off nonexistent flies, and handed a rose-patterned cup and saucer to Adela.
‘May I have mine without milk please?’ Adela said, passing the cup on to her aunt.
‘We don’t drink black tea in this house,’ said Olive, ‘and that’s too milky for me.’
‘It’s all right, Mam,’ Jane said, hastily taking the cup from Adela. ‘I’ll have that one.’
She poured another cup without milk and gave it to Adela with a shaking hand. Jane then removed the napkin from the cake stand, revealing delicately cut sandwiches and slices of cake.
Adela took one of the sandwiches. ‘These look tasty.’ she said, smiling at her cousin. Biting into it, she found that the bread was dry; the sandwiches must have been made hours ago. The filling was fishy and bland. Adela swallowed it down, while Jane nibbled at hers and Olive didn’t eat.
‘Have another,’ Olive encouraged. ‘Looks like you need feeding up.’
Adela reached for a slice of Victoria sponge. It was dry too. She wondered how many times it had been brought out of a tin to sit uneaten on the plate.
‘Does your cook live in?’ she asked.
Olive gave a short laugh. ‘We haven’t had a cook for five years. Jane does the cooking. She’s never going to win awards, but it’s plain honest food you’ll get here.’
‘Lexy at the café taught me,’ said Jane. ‘She’s good at pastries and cakes.’
‘At Belgooree,’ said Adela, ‘Mohammed Din lets me stir the puddings sometimes too.’
‘Well, you’re welcome to help our Jane in the kitchen,’ said Olive. ‘In fact if you’re going to stop around for long, I’ll expect you to give a hand with the housework too.’
‘I don’t mind that,’ Adela replied, wondering what it would entail. Did they have any servants at all? Jane used to mention a maid called Myra that she liked. Did they have sweepers to clean out the toilets or empty the baths?
Olive asked about Harry. ‘Poor pet, he must be so sad. It’s a terrible thing for a lad to lose his father. Lads need a man around the house. I went through hell during the Kaiser’s war when my Jack was taken prisoner. The thought that he might die and George would grow up fatherless was more than I could bear.’
Her words pained Adela. ‘At least Harry has Uncle James. He’s coming over regularly to help at Belgooree.’
‘James Robson, Tilly’s husband?’ Olive was taken aback.
‘Yes.’
‘While Tilly’s away in England? That doesn’t sound proper to me. But then Clarrie never cared what people said about us– not like I did. I’m the sensitive one. She just does what she wants.’
