Page 126 of The Girl from the Tea Garden
That night James couldn’t rid himself of the image of the destitute refugees on the hillside. They reminded him of bad memories from twenty years ago, the camps of absconding plantation workers that had lined the ghats of the Brahmaputra River. He sat on the veranda in the dark, drinking and thinking back to the time when he’d brought Tilly to Assam as his wife. He’d been embarrassed that her first sight of his domain was scores of cholera-raddled troublemakers. They had been desperate and destitute, but he had seen them only as a burden and the makers of their own misfortune. He had been further irritated by Clarrie’s high-handed comments about how all the tea planters should rally to help them. My God! She’d even talked about defying the tea association and putting up wages unilaterally, a sure way of causing further disturbance and dissension in the tea gardens. How contemptuous he had been of her suggestions and of Wesley for letting her take such a hand in business at Belgooree.
James slugged back his whisky. Strange how he was seeing things through her eyes now. Something must be done about the refugees from Burma. He stood and went to lean on the balcony railing. The trees below pulsed with night sounds in the warm, sticky air. The monsoon would come soon. Perhaps that was the only thing that would keep the Japanese invasion at bay: flooded and impassable jungle ravines. But it would also bring fever and further misery to those fleeing and struggling to reach the border.
It was your fault, Robson!an angry young man had once shouted at him at the club in Tezpur, half a dozen years ago.Those poor runaway bastards. Saw them as a boy. Never forget. No one deserved to die like that.
Sam Jackman. He’d been thrown out of the club for disorderly behaviour. At the time James had not understood. But Jackman– amiable and amusing when sober– had gained a reputation for maligning tea planters when in drink. Especially over the coolies’ agitation twenty years ago. Some men made excuses for him; he had taken the death of his father, the old steamship captain, badly. James had been less tolerant, indignant at being blamed for any of it.
He sighed deeply, wondering what had become of the ardent young man with a passion for justice, as well as a weakness for cards. He hadn’t seen him since the disgraced missionary had visited Belgooree four years ago in the wake of Wesley’s death. James winced to recall how spikily unpleasant he had been to the lad at the time. Sam hadn’t deserved his needling remarks. James wondered if Jackman had enlisted or whether he still remained in India. Poor Sam; he had been dashed to hear that Adela had gone to England. James now knew what it was like to pine for a woman.
He stood up straight, glancing dolefully at his empty tumbler. Whisky seemed to be one of the luxuries still plentiful in Assam, no matter how perilous their situation. He really ought to cut down. Tilly would be telling him to if she were here. But she wasn’t. James felt a fresh wave of anger at his errant wife. He might be dead in a few weeks, bayonetted by the Japanese. Then she’d be full of remorse for abandoning him!
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. That was what an exasperated Clarrie had said to him when he’d whined to her recently about Tilly.Just be glad you have a spouse, even if she’s halfway across the world. She’s looking after your family after all.
James grunted out loud. ‘You’re right, Clarrie Robson. I’ve got nothing to complain about. Tilly will come back to me– if there’s still somewhere to come back to when this bloody war is over.’
He turned from the starlit view with a new determination. He would go back to Kohima and force the authorities to begin letting in the refugees. The Oxford would accommodate some– or help them on their way. He wasn’t going to be accused a second time of turning a blind eye to suffering.
‘If we’re all going to die,’ James said to the night, ‘let us at least fight and die together on Indian soil.’
CHAPTER 27
October 1943
The Toodle Pips dance trio received a raucous reception from the audience of Land Girls, who were packed into the barn of a stately home in Cumberland.
‘They’ll eat you alive, Tommy,’ Adela teased as she came off the rickety stage with Prue and Helen. They were clad only in black leotards and purple tutus, breathless from singing their signature song, ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree’.
Tommy Villiers adjusted his bow tie and winked. ‘Thanks for nicely warming up my audience, girls. Now watch the master perform.’ He extinguished his half-smoked cigarette, slipped it into his dinner jacket pocket, took a deep breath and sauntered on to the stage.
Prue and Adela watched from the wings. ‘Listen to them laughing at his jokes,’ said Adela. ‘Half of them want to mother him, and the other half want to take him to bed.’
Prue snorted. ‘They’d be sorely disappointed. He’s only got eyes for Henry Bracknall Junior.’
‘Don’t be such a gossip,’ said Adela, shoving her friend in the arm.
‘Well, you know it’s true.’
‘Henry just gives him a billet when Tommy’s in London.’
‘Precisely’ said Prue, tapping her nose conspiratorially.
‘Well,’ Adela said with a rueful smile, ‘they’d make a lovely couple. Henry is such a sweet, kind man– nothing like his overbearing father.’
‘You’re not still holding out hope Tommy’ll fall in love with you?’
‘Course not.’ Adela laughed at the idea. ‘Even in Simla he was more like a brother than a boyfriend.’
They hurried off to change into their ENSA uniforms. If they got an encore, they’d be ready to sing ‘My Hero’ fromThe Chocolate Soldier.
What a happy day it had been, Adela recalled, when Tommy had come back in to her life. She’d just done her audition at the Theatre Royal and was waiting tensely in one of the dressing rooms that had been converted into an office. There was an air of excitement and semi-organised anarchy about the place. Beyond the door she’d heard a familiar laugh and ribald comment and had dashed out.
‘Tommy Villiers?’
‘Adela Robson? Adela, my gorgeous girl! What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Come to clean the floors. What do you think I’m doing here?’ She had stuck out her tongue and then hugged him.
He had made her a cup of disgusting ersatz coffee while they had caught up on the past three years.
