Page 44 of The Girl from the Tea Garden (The India Tea #3)
W esley’s body was brought to the family plot at Belgooree for burial next to Clarrie’s parents, Jock and Jane Belhaven. Adela’s mother had resisted suggestions that he should be laid in consecrated ground in the British cemetery in Shillong, alongside other tea planters.
Clarrie’s answer was simple: ‘This is where Wesley belongs.’
On a sultry, overcast day, Adela stood at the newly dug grave with her mother, Harry between them holding a hand each.
They were surrounded by their friends and throngs of tea workers.
For three days Adela had felt completely numb, but now in the Belgooree garden her feelings were suddenly raw: every word, touch, birdsong and scent of roses caused her pain.
The plain coffin was carried from the house by Rafi, James, Daleep and Banu, a grandson of Ama, the ancient village headwoman.
As they processed through the compound to the quiet burial grove, the drums of the villagers beat loudly and the women sang and cried out in grief.
Adela was humbled by it. She knew how loved her mother was among the Khasi, but to see their outpouring of affection for her father squeezed her heart.
DrBlack came to take the service and spoke eloquently about Wesley.
‘We all loved and admired this man,’ said the white-haired missionary, raising his voice for all to hear.
‘Wesley Robson met with both respect and affection, whether it was in the Burra Bazaar in Shillong or the planters’ clubs in Upper Assam.
He was equally at home chatting about bows and arrows with Khasi hunters as he was taking tea with governors of the province or racing horses with his fellow planters.
‘He had a commanding presence. In the early days of his time in Indiasome – including his wife– might have called it a young man’s arrogance.
’ He paused to give a wry smile, meeting Clarrie’s tear-filled eyes.
‘But everyone knew when Wesley Robson entered a room.
It would be a livelier, more jovial gathering; there would be debate, as well as laughter.
He was exceedingly knowledgeable about two things in particular: hunting and the tea trade.
Wesley spent most of his days working hard to make Belgooree a success and to bring to the world the delicate mix of China and Assam tea that one more usually associates with Darjeeling.
He has been a fine and fair employer– more than that, he has been like a father to the Khasi people who live and work here.
‘Hunting too was a passion from his first days in India. It was on one such expedition here in the Khassia Hills that he first met his wife. So it is a terrible tragedy that he should die on shikar. But he did so defending his beloved daughter, Adela. That is the measure of the man.’
Adela felt a sob rise up from the pit of her stomach. Harry was crying, his eyes swollen and face puckered with misery. Her mother stood stoical, holding in her emotions.
‘We all know the public man well– the planter, the horseman, the tea trader– but Wesley was above all a family man. He was happiest here at Belgooree with his wife and children. He doted on Adela and Harry; pride shone out of him when he talked of them. But it was Clarrie that he loved and depended on the most. He once asked me why I’d never married.
When I said I was married to the church, he laughed and said, “There’s no comparison with my Clarissa.
If your love and passion for your church are as strong as mine for my wife, then Christianity is in good shape in these parts. ”’
Adela saw her mother’s mouth twitch in a smile and a tear spill down her cheek.
‘Wesley shared Clarrie’s love of this place, its tea gardens and its people. Everything here at Belgooree he did for her. So let us now say our goodbyes to our good friend and commit his body to the ground and his soul to God. Let us draw near with faith ...’
Adela hardly heard the words that followed as she broke down sobbing, her weeping and Harry’s wailing echoed by the crying of dozens of the tea pickers behind. Tilly threw a comforting arm around her, and she buried her face in her auntie’s plump shoulder.
Afterwards, they left the gravediggers to pile on the rich earth and returned to the bungalow.
Mohammed Din had arranged a feast of pakoras, samosas, curry puffs, eggs, sandwiches, cakes and biscuits.
Tilly and Sophie helped circulate among the funeral guests: planters and their wives, who had travelled from as far as Tezpur, and officers from the barracks in Shillong with whom Wesley had ridden and hunted.
Adela, seeing how brave her mother was being, forced herself to stop crying and be hospitable.
Harry was sent off to spend the afternoon with Ayah Mimi, while the Robson women mingled and entertained.
Adela smiled when people recounted anecdotes about her father, even though it hurt and she joined in the reminiscing.
Never had she acted so convincingly, her outward appearance so at odds with the misery she felt inside.
Today everyone was their friend, and no one would think that her mother had ever been unwelcome at the planters’ clubs or the drawing rooms of Shillong for being Anglo-Indian.
They all knew how precarious life was on the plantations and how quickly life could be snatched away, even for vigorous men like Wesley, and they had come to give their support.
Adela felt a surge of gratitude for the ruddy-faced men and their redoubtable wives, who filled the house with chuckles and kind words and left gifts of money for her and Harry and offers to visit them.
As she watched her uncle James– Wesley’s nearest adult male relative– shaking hands and thanking people for coming, Adela wondered how much he and Tilly had influenced people to attend at such short notice.
When all but the Khans and Robsons had gone, Clarrie was persuaded to lie down.
She didn’t appear again until late the next morning, her eyes dark-ringed, but with a smile for her friends.
Adela had hardly slept a wink. Every time she closed her eyes, she was assaulted by the image of the leaping tigress and the sound of it tearing into her father. She could neither eat nor sleep.
Her mother would not speak about it. After the first horrific hours after Wesley’s death, when Clarrie had been brought to the mission half hysterical with worry for them both, to find that her husband had already died, Clarrie had bombarded her with questions.
Was she all right? Was her shoulder very painful?
Why had they been out so late in the dark?
Why was the rest of the party at the camp?
What was Wesley doing out of his howdah?
Who had wounded the man-eater in the first place?
Why had Jay insisted on going back to find the tigress so late in the day?
What on earth had Adela been thinking of, agreeing to go with him?
Had Wesley suffered? Had he asked for her?
Adela had been too distraught to reply coherently; it was Rafi who’d tried to furnish Clarrie with answers and to shield Adela from the onslaught of questions.
Perhaps it was Rafi’s calmness and gentle concern that helped Clarrie summon all her courage, but she had insisted on helping to wash Wesley’s body and wrap him in clove-scented winding sheets.
Since then there had been no discussion of the terrible events.
For a further three days after the funeral the factory was closed and no picking was done in respect for Robson Sahib. But on the fourth day Clarrie ordered that the drying machines be switched on again and insisted on going to the factory to oversee production.
James protested that he could do this for her. Clarrie was firm. ‘Thank you, but this is my garden and my responsibility. I know you are all trying to be kind and helpful– I couldn’t be more grateful– but this is the only way I know how to cope. So please let me just go to work.’
By the end of the week Clarrie insisted on her friends going home and carrying on with their lives.
‘James, I know how much you are needed at the Oxford Estates at this time of year. You really should go back. And Rafi, the Raja has been generous to spare you for this long, but Adela and I can manage.’
‘But what are you going to do about Belgooree?’ Tilly said. ‘James can advise you. You can’t make such decisions on your own.’
‘I need time to think it through,’ said Clarrie. ‘When I’m ready to talk, I’ll ask for help.’
‘But you need help now,’ James pointed out. ‘Who is going to keep an eye on the coolies and do all the jobs my cousin did?’
‘I will,’ Clarrie said, ‘and I have good undermanagers: Daleep in the factory, and Banu, Ama’s grandson, as overseer in the gardens.’
‘Dear Clarrie, I hate the thought of leaving you alone,’ Tilly cried. ‘Wouldn’t you like one of us to stay with you?’
Clarrie squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘That’s kind, but I have Adela and Harry for company.’
‘Promise you will call on us whenever you need us,’ said Sophie, ‘and that goes for Adela too.’ She turned with a smile of concern to Adela.
‘Of course we will,’ Clarrie agreed.
Adela felt panic tighten her chest at the thought of her aunties and uncles leaving.
She felt safe with them around; hearing their voices around the house and their tread on the stairs was comforting, as if life could one day be normal again.
At night, when she hardly slept, their presence kept the frightening shadows at bay.