Page 27 of The Girl from the Tea Garden (The India Tea #3)

T he next days were full of hard work. From dawn until after dusk the medical team saw patients at the clinic that they set up on the edge of the village in the tents that Adela had donated from the Forest Office supplies.

Sam called in from time to time, bringing in supplies, patching up the torn canvas where the rain leaked in, and keeping the urn topped up with water from the river.

Adela was amazed that Sam seemed to know everyone, stopping to chat and joke with patients and distract the grizzling children with a conjuring trick.

The locals loved him, and he did all he could to help them.

At night they returned, exhausted, to the mission house to wash away the day’s grime and share simple meals of dal, vegetables and chapattis.

‘I prefer this any day to the overdone chops and soggy vegetables that Hunt makes us eat,’ Sam said, grinning, ‘so I’ve got to make the most of him being away. Mind you, our cook, Nitin, makes the best rice pudding and treacle sponge in the Himalayas, so we’ll keep to British puddings.’

Afterwards they would linger on the veranda steps and listen in the dark to night birds calling in the trees and the hum of insects. One evening, while Adela was sitting out with Fatima and Sam, they heard the haunting sound of a flute being played in the distance.

‘That’s beautiful,’ gasped Adela. ‘Who’s playing?’

‘Sounds like a Gaddi shepherd,’ said Sam. ‘The Gaddies are on their way back now.’

‘Back from where?’ asked Adela.

‘The plains where they’ve been wintering their sheep. They’re nomads. They spend the hot season in the high pastures– sometimes as high up as the dry mountains of Spiti. It’s quite a sight to see them driving their flocks back up Hatu.’

‘Can we go and see?’ Adela enthused.

‘If you can drag yourself out of bed before dawn, I’ll take you up the mountain,’ Sam said, ‘before the clinic starts.’

‘Yes, of course we will,’ Adela agreed. ‘Won’t we, Fatima?’

‘Not me.’ Fatima yawned. ‘I need my sleep. I’m not that interested in sheep.’ She gave a dry smile that reminded Adela suddenly of Ghulam– the way their mouths twisted in lopsided amusement.

‘Well, I used to get up before dawn regularly at home to go out riding with my dad,’ Adela said, ‘so it’s no hardship for me.’

Adela slept lightly and heard Sam moving around in the next room as the predawn purple light filtered through the shutters.

She pulled on her jodhpurs and a warm jacket, and then went to find him on the veranda.

He was smoking a bidi. With just a word of greeting they made for the stable, where the syce was saddling up two ponies.

Sam exchanged a joke with the young man, thanked him and mounted his dappled grey mare.

Adela swung herself up on to a small brown pony.

They trotted up through the orchards and into the deodar forest that covered the lower slopes of Hatu.

It was dark, but the ponies were sure-footed and picked their way over the rough stones of the uneven path.

Adela breathed in the fresh, damp mountain air that reminded her fleetingly of Belgooree.

How good it was to be in the saddle and out riding before daybreak, the trees alive with the dawn twittering of birds.

The slope became steeper, and clouds of steam rose from the ponies’ nostrils and flanks as they laboured up the steep incline.

Light was beginning to filter through the trees as the evergreens gave way to brown oaks.

A white-faced monkey, startled by their unexpected appearance, swung overhead, screeching in alarm, then disappeared.

Suddenly they were emerging into open pasture on the ridge of the mountain.

Sam reined in his pony and dismounted, indicating for Adela to do the same.

‘We’ll watch from here,’ he whispered.

In the deeply shadowed hillside, she couldn’t see anything of interest, but was content to stand in the clear air while the ponies bent to graze on the dew-soaked grass.

Away to the east, where the far peaks of the Himalayas were emerging out of the dark, the first pink rays of dawn seeped into the sky.

As the light spread and strengthened, Adela began to pick out figures and a huddle of tents across the slope.

From far off she could hear a low rumble of hooves and high-pitched bleating.

The noise grew like approaching thunder.

A few minutes later scores of horned and long-haired sheep swept past them, encouraged by a turbaned elder with a long staff and his team of young shepherds.

They whistled and chivvied the flock up and over the hill.

As they reached the summit, the sunrise lit them in a golden light: a mass of shaggy brown, white and black sheep jostling around boys in homespun jackets, pyjamas and jaunty embroidered caps.

One of them caught sight of the watching riders. Adela waved, and the boy grinned back, waving his stick.

‘What a sight!’ She turned in excitement to Sam, who was taking rapid photographs with his Kodak camera.

‘Smile,’ he ordered on the spur of the moment, focusing on her.

Adela laughed and pulled a pose. Then he was pointing the camera back at the Gaddi shepherds, before they disappeared from view.

‘Can we get nearer their camp?’ she asked.

Sam nodded, stringing the camera round his neck and securing the ponies to a nearby tree.

They set off on foot across the high meadow.

The wet grass soon soaked Adela’s shoes, but she didn’t care; she was spellbound by the sparkling dew and the carpet of starlike white and yellow flowers.

The whole hillside glittered like a jewel-studded blanket.

At the far side they could see the glow of early fires and smell sweet woodsmoke.

Women in gaudy flared skirts belted with woollen rope were already out foraging for kindling and cutting sheaves of grass for the animals.

Adela went near enough one group to hear their chatter and see the glint of silver jewellery at their wrists as they worked their knives.

Impulsively, she ran forward to greet them, pressing her palms together.

‘Namaste!’ she called out.

They stopped and stared. A rapid conversation ended in a peal of laughter, and then a young, pretty girl with braids of black hair stepped towards her and returned the greeting.

She ran to an elderly woman who was cooking at an open fire and came back with a flat steaming chapatti– unusually golden in colour– and offered it to Adela.

A gaggle of children crowded around her.

Adela turned to Sam and beckoned. ‘Come on, let’s share it.’ She tore the hot bread in two, stuffing a piece into her mouth. It tasted strongly of corn. ‘Delicious,’ she said, beaming.

The women laughed and pulled their shawls over their hair as Sam came striding towards them, grinning. Munching some chapatti, he struggled with a few words, which made them laugh harder.

‘What did you say to them?’ asked Adela.

‘I was trying to thank them,’ Sam murmured, ‘but maybe I’ve just proposed marriage.’

Adela laughed. He reverted to Hindustani and thanked them again. One of the little boys hung on to Sam’s hand and pointed at his camera.

‘Would you like me to take your photo?’ he asked. The boy grinned. Sam asked permission of the women. There was much loud discussion, and then one of the older women decreed that he could.

Quickly he took pictures of the children, and then the young woman who had given the chapatti stepped forward and solemnly posed, regarding the camera with bold dark eyes. The older women upbraided her and chased her inside the tent.

‘Time to go,’ Sam said, swiftly packing away his camera in the hard brown case, ‘before the men find us distracting the breakfast makers.’

Adela, wanting to give them something in return, pulled an embroidered handkerchief out of her pocket and held it out to the older woman who had sent Chapatti Girl indoors and seemed to be in charge.

‘Please,’ she said, smiling.

The bemused woman took it, running her work-roughened fingers over the flowers that Clarrie had once embroidered in bright silk threads. She gave Adela a gap-toothed smile of thanks. As Adela and Sam retreated, the woman was handing around the handkerchief for the others to admire.

Back at the treeline, they retrieved the horses. The sun was now up.

‘Sorry I’ve made you late for the clinic,’ Sam said with a rueful look.

‘I’m not sorry at all.’ Adela smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. You’ll show me the photographs someday, won’t you?’

‘Of course. It’ll give me an excuse to come into Simla and see you.’ He winked.

Adela’s stomach fluttered. ‘I’d like that.’

He gave her his hand and helped her up into the saddle, even though they both knew she didn’t need it. She held on to his strong grip, looking down at him.

‘Auntie said you called at Briar Rose Cottage while I was away at Belgooree. Did you come to see me, Sam?’

She saw the colour creep into his jaw. His hazel eyes held her look.

‘Yes, I hoped you would be there.’

She squeezed his hand. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t.’ A muscle twitched in his lean cheek, as if he struggled with whether to tell her something.

But he dropped his hold and turned away. ‘Better get you back to the mission before Fatima sends out a search party.’

Disappointed, Adela coaxed her pony into a trot and set off into the forest, leaving Sam to follow.

Later that day Hunt returned from Nerikot in a foul mood.

‘Mandalists are causing no end of trouble. People don’t feel safe to come out to prayer meetings, in case they get caught up in a demonstration.’

Scandalised to find two unchaperoned young women living under the same roof as his fellow missionary, he turfed Fatima and Adela out of his room and sent Sam off to distant Sarahan to plant more apple trees.

‘Take my room,’ Sam insisted to the women. ‘Sorry about Hunt– he’s not usually this territorial. The protests in Nerikot have unnerved him. I’ll be back before you leave.’