The Secrets of the Tea Garden Read online

  James thought the man contemptible. Logan was now trying to justify his decision to cast out his son by pretending to have Christian sensibilities. The hypocrite! James looked around for the boy. He was sitting on the veranda beside Sunil Ram, helping the old man pull on the rope that worked the punkah. James called to him.

  ‘Come, boy, jaldi! Would you like a ride on a horse?’ James made horse noises and riding gestures.

  ‘Brat’ came willingly, with a toothy grin.

  Word must have spread quickly around the tea workers, for James had barely had time to arrange a horse and trap and his bearer, Aslam, to arrive with provisions for the journey, when Aruna tore into the factory compound. At the sight of her son perched up beside Aslam, she flung herself forward and tried to grab the boy. ‘Brat’ laughed, thinking it a game. But Aruna yelled and clutched at his leg. He started to whimper.

  ‘He must come with me,’ James said in Hindustani. She didn’t appear to understand. James had no idea what tribal language she spoke. He flicked the reins.

  ‘Out of the way!’ James ordered. ‘Get her out of the way before she gets trampled.’

  Men from the factory swiftly intervened to pull Aruna back. Her wails of distress pierced the air and sent a flock of parrots screeching out of the trees.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ James called over his shoulder. But his words were drowned out by Aruna’s screams and the boy’s crying. Aslam held tightly to the bewildered child, trying to calm him.

  James quickened the pace of his horse. They picked up speed, dust rising in a choking cloud around them. The boy kept calling out for his mother till James shouted at him to be quiet. ‘Brat’ burst into floods of tears as Aslam cuddled the distraught boy. James ground his teeth. He could still hear the mother’s weeping from miles away. But he knew it could only be in his head.

  James had not been to Shillong since the earthquake two years previously. A whole hillside of buildings appeared to have vanished; the native bazaar was reduced to a patchwork of makeshift stalls and huts cobbled together out of salvaged wood and tarpaulin. The government and military buildings had fared better – or had been rebuilt more swiftly.

  He had to ask the way to the orphanage, only to discover there were two: one run by Catholic nuns and the other by Baptist Missionaries. On a whim he chose the nuns. They would be kind to the boy, surely?

  The young sister who came to the gateway looked Eurasian. She eyed James with suspicion as he stammered out his flimsy story. Her look told him she thought the child was his.

  ‘D-dead, I’m afraid. Both parents,’ James lied. ‘They would have wanted him to come to a good Christian home like this, Sister.’

  She took a look at the boy sucking hard on his thumb standing before her. Aslam held on to his other hand. Even to James’s eyes the child looked exhausted and miserable. After a moment’s hesitation, she ushered them inside the compound.

  ‘We can’t stay,’ James said in a panic. ‘We just wish to leave the boy in good hands and go.’

  The look of rebuke on the nun’s face made James squirm with shame. ‘We can’t send you away without any refreshment,’ she replied. ‘Your servant too. I’m Sister Placid.’

  Reluctantly, James followed the nun indoors, beckoning Aslam to follow with the boy. Sister Placid showed them into a gloomy hallway. She left James with the boy and took Aslam with her to the kitchen. The wait seemed interminable. ‘Brat’ was uncharacteristically silent. James wanted to say something encouraging but was stuck for words too. He couldn’t rid his mind of Aruna’s distraught weeping and cursed himself for allowing Logan to manipulate him into helping in his sordid affair.

  Sister Placid returned with Aslam, carrying two glasses of mango juice on a tray. James took one. She beckoned to the boy to sit on a stool beside her while she helped him sip his drink.

  ‘What is your name, little one?’ she asked, her voice kind.

  He sat staring warily up at her. She turned back to James.

  ‘What is his name and what native language does he speak?’ she asked.

  James did not know the answer to either question. He could hardly admit he was known derogatorily as ‘Brat’. He searched for a suitable Catholic name to please her. A local saint from his home county in Britain sprang to mind: St Aidan of Lindisfarne.

  ‘Aidan,’ he said. ‘The boy is called Aidan and he understands English. That’s all I know about him. He was brought to our plantation.’

  ‘He is a Britisher.’ She said it more as a statement than a question.

  ‘I-I believe his father was Scots,’ James admitted, then cursed himself for saying so. Before she could ask him anything more, he drained off his drink and put down the glass. ‘I really must be off.’

  ‘But you must speak to Mother Superior about leaving the boy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t delay.’ James searched his pockets and pulled out all the cash that he had and handed it over. ‘This is a donation to the convent.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Robson,’ said the nun, her look steely.

  James flushed at her use of his name. The wretched woman must have been questioning Aslam. What else had his bearer let slip? He put his hand briefly on the boy’s head.

  ‘Now, Aidan. Be a good chap and do whatever Sister asks.’

  Aslam said something encouraging in another language, perhaps Assamese. The boy’s eyes filled with tears but he stayed mute.

  James turned quickly away. ‘Come on,’ he hissed at Aslam and strode back through the convent entrance. They marched through the gate, and the chowkidar locked it behind them.

  Climbing once again into the trap, James glanced back at the orphanage but the steps were empty. Nun and boy had not come to the door to watch them go. James’s insides were leaden as he whipped the pony into a trot. He waited for the surge of relief to come, but it never did.

  CHAPTER 1

  Herbert’s Café, Newcastle, England, August 1946

  Libby Robson, hearing a man call out her name, turned around. She nearly dropped her tray of dirty tea cups in astonishment. George Brewis!

  ‘Well, well, Miss Robson,’ George said with a whistle of appreciation, ‘you’ve grown into a beauty.’

  Libby laughed, her fair face turning puce at his admiring look. ‘And you are still a shameless flatterer, George Brewis!’

  ‘Not a word of a lie.’ He grinned. ‘You look grand.’

  Libby knew she must look sweaty and dishevelled. It was late afternoon on a hot Saturday and the tearoom was airless even though it was now empty and they were about to close for the day. The tray felt slippery in her hands. If she’d known he was going to appear out of the blue she would have worn a frock instead of slacks under the old-fashioned apron, put on some lipstick and brushed out her dark-red hair instead of tying it back with a rubber band.

  George was looking in rude good health, his fair face ruddy – perhaps a little wrinkled around the eyes – and his blond hair and moustache well trimmed. She remembered her girlish crush on him; it engulfed her anew.

  Libby found her voice again. ‘I thought you were in Calcutta these days, working for Strachan’s?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re well informed.’

  ‘Cousin Adela writes regularly.’

  ‘Aye, well, she’s the one told me you were helping out here. Family are really grateful at you lending Lexy a hand on your days off.’

  ‘I don’t mind; there isn’t much else to do on a Saturday.’

  ‘Well, the lads round here must be slow off the mark,’ he said with a wink.

  Libby’s insides fluttered. Surely he hadn’t come deliberately to see her? She felt ridiculously pleased. She had idolised George for years.

  ‘Are you back from India for long?’ she asked, trying to sound nonchalant though her heart was racing.

  ‘No, just long enough to settle some family business.’

  Libby felt a kick of disappointment. She hadn’t seen George for three years – since he’d been in th
e Fleet Air Arm – but she’d thought of him often. Libby had been smitten with George ever since she had met him at a Christmas party at Herbert’s Café during the War and he had showered her with attention and compliments. She had been a gauche fifteen-year-old, and George had been twelve years her senior, but he had lifted everyone’s spirits with his boisterous singing and happy-go-lucky nature. The tea salesman had been kind to Libby and encouraged her to sing along with him. At eighteen, Libby had been heartbroken when he had enlisted, then swiftly married a barmaid called Joan and fathered a child.

  Yet Libby had heard his marriage was in difficulty. Before she could stop herself, she was asking, ‘Is Joan going to join you in India this time?’

  ‘No.’ He gave her a direct look. ‘My wife’s got another lad on the go. I’m back home to finalise a divorce.’

  ‘Oh, I see. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. We’ve never really had a married life – with me being away east in the Fleet Air Arm and she . . . Well, let’s say we both want different lives now.’

  Just then, Lexy, the manageress, came lumbering out of the kitchen, wheezing. She gave a breathless shriek. ‘If it isn’t my favourite lad! How are you, George, hinny?’

  ‘Couldn’t leave Newcastle without a visit to Herbert’s and all my favourite lasses,’ said George, giving her a peck on the cheek.

  Lexy’s puffy, heavily made-up face cracked into a smile of delight. ‘You’ll stay for a piece of cake?’ she panted. ‘I want to hear all your news.’ She put a hand on her chest.

  ‘Sit down, Lexy,’ Libby ordered. ‘I’ll get George some tea while you have a chat.’

  Lexy sank gratefully into a chair, waving at George to join her. Libby left them talking and hurried into the kitchen, plonking down the tray and wiping her brow with her long frilly apron. She had no idea why Lexy insisted they still wore the cumbersome things. Perhaps it reminded her of the café’s heyday when she was young and in good health, not a woman in her sixties with a bad chest who struggled to walk.

  Doreen, Lexy’s rosy-cheeked, curly-haired grand-niece, was washing up. ‘You look in a fluster. Clark Gable walked in, has he?’

  Libby laughed. ‘Next best thing: George Brewis in a white linen suit and smelling of cologne.’

  ‘Brewis? He related to the lass Jane who used to work here?’

  ‘Yes, they’re brother and sister. It’s their Aunt Clarrie who started the café.’

  ‘Oh, aye, the one that’s been in India for years. Auntie Lexy talks about Clarrie Robson like she’s royalty. Pity she’s never come back – this place might not be going to rack and ruin if she’d stayed.’

  ‘That’s not really Clarrie’s fault,’ said Libby, unloading the cups for Doreen to wash. ‘She’s got her hands full running the tea garden at Belgooree. Her sister, Olive Brewis – she’s George’s mother – was supposed to take on running the café but she’s never been interested.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Doreen, ‘Mrs Brewis is that queer fish that never gans out her house, isn’t she?’

  ‘Apparently not.’ Libby started to re-set the tray, glancing in at the tearoom. George was making Lexy laugh so much she was coughing.

  ‘Libby, are you ganin’ to give me another typing lesson this weekend?’ Doreen asked, clattering the dishes in the sink.

  Libby hesitated. What would George be doing? He’d implied to Lexy that he was about to leave Newcastle but perhaps there might be a chance to see him again before he did? She longed for a bit of excitement in her life. The past year had been so dull, living back at home with her mother. Was it wrong to miss the War? She had never had so much fun as when she’d worked as a Land Girl.

  ‘Can we leave it till next week?’ Libby suggested. ‘I’ll come after I’ve finished at the bank. Maybe Tuesday?’

  ‘Grand.’ Doreen’s hot, round face beamed. ‘I’m ganin’ to work in a typing pool like you one day. I’m not settling for a life o’ washing dishes.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Libby said with a smile. ‘You can do anything if you want it enough.’

  Libby thought how she couldn’t wait to get out of the typing pool; at twenty-one, she wanted more from life than being at the beck and call of male managers with less brains than she had.

  Pushing strands of escaping hair behind her ears and licking her plump, dry lips, Libby picked up the tea tray and sauntered back into the tearoom.

  Libby could hardly get a word in edgeways with Lexy holding forth, reminiscing about the old days before the Great War when Clarrie had made Herbert’s into the best tearoom in Newcastle, despite it being in an industrial working-class area close to the riverside.

  ‘And Olive did them bonny paintings to hang on the walls and made it all look Egyptian-like. Eeh, they were canny days. Your mam not doing any painting now, George?’

  ‘I’ve never seen her pick up a paintbrush since I was a bairn,’ said George ruefully.

  ‘Libby here is a canny artist,’ said Lexy.

  ‘I draw cartoons.’ Libby blushed. ‘I’m not an artist.’

  ‘Look at that one, George,’ Lexy said, pointing to an ink drawing on the wall next to them. ‘That’s me and the waitresses at the Victory Tea – dressed up like royalty with crowns on our heads – makes me laugh, it does.’

  George grinned. ‘Queen Lexy – caught your image perfectly. What a talented lass you are, Libby.’

  Libby flushed with pleasure at the compliment and the warmth of his look. George winked at her then turned back to Lexy. ‘I wish Mam still showed an interest in art or in anything outside the house. The only thing that brings a smile to her face is my daughter Bonnie.’

  ‘Aye,’ Lexy answered wheezily, ‘at least she has a grandbairn. Will you be taking the lass with you to India?’

  George shook his head. ‘She’ll be staying with her mam, Joan.’ He drained his tea and stood up.

  Libby felt frustrated at not having more time with him. She cursed herself for being so bashful in his presence. She felt like that fifteen-year-old all over again. As George fixed on his hat, Libby took courage and blurted out, ‘Would you like to come round and see Mother? And my younger brother, Mungo, is at home for the summer. Do you remember playing the spoons with him one Christmas?’

  ‘The spoons?’ George laughed. ‘Did we?’

  Libby remembered the occasion so vividly that she was amazed George didn’t. Perhaps he saw the disappointment in her look because on the spur of the moment he said, ‘Would you like to go for a drink after work?’

  Libby’s dark-blue eyes widened. ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Good.’ He grinned.

  ‘Why don’t you get yourself off now, hinny?’ Lexy said. ‘Me and Doreen can finish the dishes. There’s no one else coming in.’

  Libby hesitated, seeing how exhausted Lexy looked in the heat. The woman was too old and ill to be running the café. Libby would have to write to her cousin Adela about her. Even though they were far away in India, Adela or her mother Clarrie would have to take things in hand or the café would close.

  ‘No, you get yourself upstairs for a lie-down, Lexy. It won’t take me long to help Doreen,’ said Libby. She turned to George. ‘Fancy rolling up your sleeves too? Then we’ll get out for that drink quicker.’

  For a moment he seemed taken aback. Then he threw back his head and laughed – how she loved his infectious laughter – and started taking off his jacket.

  ‘Just cos it’s you, Libby Robson,’ said George. ‘This would never happen in Calcutta.’

  Lexy rolled her eyes. ‘She’s a true Robson through and through,’ she chuckled. ‘That lass can get anyone to do anything.’

  ‘I bet she can,’ George agreed, gazing intently at Libby.

  Doreen lent Libby a dress to wear to save her having to go home to South Gosforth to change. In the flat above the café which Doreen shared with Lexy, Libby squeezed into the flowery frock. The short sleeves pinched her fleshier arms and Doreen pinned the front folds of the dress together with a bro
och.

  ‘Stop your bosom falling out,’ the girl giggled. ‘Your hips fill the skirt nicely, mind. Wish I had a figure like yours.’

  ‘Thanks, Doreen,’ Libby said. ‘You’re much more diplomatic than Mother; she calls me “hefty”. Says I eat too many of Lexy’s pies.’

  ‘Well, I wish I was your shape. Always turning the lads’ heads, you are.’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ Libby laughed, incredulous.

  ‘It’s true. That George Brewis can’t keep his eyes off you.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Libby spluttered. ‘He’s just being polite to an old family friend, that’s all.’

  But Libby’s hand trembled as she brushed out her wavy hair and applied red lipstick that accentuated the fullness of her mouth. As she descended to the café and the waiting George, she tried to calm her rapid breathing and hoped the thumping of her heart didn’t show.

  George and Libby strolled through the park, walking close without touching, while they caught up on each other’s lives. Libby talked animatedly about her time with the Land Army on a farm in Northumberland; how her older brother, Jamie, was now a qualified doctor and younger brother, Mungo, was at university in Durham.

  ‘My brothers are happy – and Mother’s happy being near them – but this isn’t the life I want.’

  ‘What do you want?’ George asked, taking her elbow to steer her towards a bench.

  Libby gave a sigh of frustration. ‘The War’s been over for a year. I thought by now we’d have gone back out to Assam to be with Dad. Or at the very least he’d take some leave and come to see us. But nothing’s happening. I want us to be a family again. But Mother keeps making excuses not to go. It’s as if she doesn’t want to see Dad at all.’

  ‘It must be hard for you not seeing your father all this time,’ George said in sympathy. ‘How long has it been?’

  Libby’s eyes smarted with emotion. ‘Eleven years.’ Every time she thought of her father she felt an ache of longing. He was larger than life; a big man with a booming voice and laugh, whom she had adored as a child. ‘I miss him so much.’ She looked at George. ‘Have you seen him since you’ve been in India?’