Page 22 of The Girl from the Tea Garden (The India Tea #3)
Retreating from Hatu Mountain that day in late December, Sam packed a small haversack of provisions, told Reverend Hunt that he was going hiking for a few days, and set off for Simla.
Part walking, part hitching lifts in a milk cart and a timber wagon, Sam arrived in Simla the following day with no clear idea of what he would do.
Boz was out of town for two weeks of leave, Sundar told him when Sam tracked him down to his modest digs in Number Four of the United Services Club barracks.
The rows of identical flats were built of deodar so seasoned by the harsh winters they were almost black, but looking picturesque with overhanging icicles.
‘Gone back up to Quetta to visit old friends. He’s a Pathan at heart– a tartan Pathan!’ Sundar laughed at his own joke. ‘Stay here. I can put up a camp bed in my sitting room in a jiffy, as you Britishers say.’
Sam took no persuading and spent three enjoyable days in the Sikh’s lively company, strolling the town, whiling away hours at the Simla Coffee House playing draughts and talking politics, skating at Annandale and eating at Sundar’s favourite Punjabi café, where they served Lahori dishes of spicy dal and golden puffs of wheat glistening with ghee.
‘Hassan serves the best puri outside Lahore,’ Sundar declared, belching contentedly. ‘I’d have had to return home a long time ago if it hadn’t been for him. Isn’t that so, Hassan?’ He clapped a hairy hand on the café owner’s back.
‘That is so.’ Hassan gave a gap-toothed grin under thick moustaches.
Over many cups of tea– Sam having refused the whisky that Sundar kept for guests– they talked late into the evening. Sam learnt of the loss of Sundar’s wife and his pride in his ten-year-old son, Lalit, whose school photograph hung above the small fireplace.
‘You would like him,’ said Sundar, his eyes glistening. ‘He loves cricket– he’s a fast bowler. And he can hunt with a hawk.’
‘Is that for swooping on the ball at the boundary?’ Sam teased. ‘You must miss him.’
Sundar nodded and cleared his throat. ‘So when are you going to find a wife and sire a healthy son to carry on the name of Jackman?’
Sam laughed with embarrassment. ‘No time soon.’
‘You must marry,’ Sundar encouraged, ‘some pretty British rose to keep you company up in the hills. Or you will grow old too quickly.’ The Sikh gave him a wicked grin. ‘Perhaps someone has already caught your eye.’
‘Such as?’ Sam drained his tea.
‘Miss Adela Robson.’
Sam spluttered into his cup.
‘So I guessed correctly,’ Sundar said in triumph.
‘Not on her part.’ Sam laughed wryly.
‘That’s where you are wrong, my friend. DrKhan says that Miss Robson asks about you every time she sees her.’
‘Does she?’ Sam felt his pulse begin to thud. Did Adela have feelings for him after all, or was she just being curious? ‘Is she ... has she ... is she being courted, do you know?’
Sundar chuckled. ‘Half of Simla was in love with her and her pretty friends last summer. But is there not thrill in the chase, young Jackman?’
‘Perhaps.’ Sam laughed. ‘And you, Sundar,’ he said, deflecting the attention. ‘What about you and the fair DrKhan?’
He’d never seen Sundar blush before, but he did so to the roots of his magnificently groomed beard.
‘Ah, a man can dream,’ said Sundar. Abruptly he got up and turned away, staring into the dying fire. ‘If I thought she would say yes,’ he murmured, ‘I would ask her tomorrow and not care what my family thought.’
Sam called at Briar Rose Cottage early the next morning under a clear blue sky, his spirits lifting at the sight of the glistening, snow-capped Himalayas in the far distance.
Fluffy Hogg was taking her chota hazri of tea and toast on the veranda, wrapped up warm in her husband’s old army coat and reading a newspaper.
‘MrJackman, how very nice to see you!’
‘Call me Sam, please.’ He grinned as they shook hands.
‘Will you join me for breakfast? Noor can scramble you some eggs. I didn’t know you were in town.’
‘I’ve been staying at Sundar’s. And breakfast would be very welcome, thank you.’
They sat and chatted as the sun spread across the sparkling trees, melting the morning frost. Sam kept glancing into the bungalow, wondering when Adela would rise from sleep, impatient to see her.
‘It’s so good to have young company again.’ Fluffy smiled. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’m missing Adela, so your coming here is a real tonic.’
‘Adela isn’t here?’
‘She went home to Belgooree for Christmas,’ said Fluffy. ‘Won’t be back for another week or so. Oh dear, I can see you are disappointed. No doubt that’s why you came.’
Sam hid his dismay. ‘Not at all. It’s a pleasure to call on the most delightful and interesting person in Simla.’
‘Charming, but untrue.’ Fluffy laughed.
They talked some more about life beyond the cosseted world of Simla and the troubles in far-off Europe: Hitler’s Nazis wiping out all opposition in Germany, Fascist Italy’s land grab in East Africa and civil war in Spain.
‘They tell me that even in England young men dress like militia in black uniforms and parade through the towns.’ Fluffy shook her head in disbelief. ‘I’m glad I chose to stay here in retirement. Though India is also changing, of course.’
Sam nodded. ‘We’re impatient for change here too.’
She gave him a considering look. ‘Do you see yourself as Indian, Sam?’
He shrugged. ‘I know I’m British, but India is my country. I have no wish to live anywhere else.’
‘Yes.’ Fluffy smiled. ‘I’m exactly the same.’