Page 48 of The Girl from the Tea Garden (The India Tea #3)

T he train pulled into the cavernous Newcastle Central Station with a hiss and a billow of steam. Adela hugged her aunties and Mungo goodbye– they were all going on to Dunbar to stay with Tilly’s sister Mona– and then they helped her out of the carriage with her two suitcases and hatbox.

‘We’ll meet soon,’ Tilly promised. ‘I’ll come for a day out in Newcastle.’

‘And don’t forget you’re invited on holiday to StAbb’s in September,’ Sophie reminded. ‘See if Cousin Jane would like to come too.’

‘I will,’ Adela said, feeling suddenly teary that she was losing their company. ‘Have a lovely reunion with Jamie and Libby. Tell them we’ll play tennis together.’

‘Will do, darling girl,’ Tilly said, beaming and waving like an excited child.

Adela looked around for a porter. At any Indian station she would have been surrounded by red-jacketed coolies offering help and swinging her cases on to their heads before she could utter the words. As the train pulled away, she stood feeling foolish. She waved to a man with a trolley.

‘Sorry, missus,’ he said, ‘I’m meetin’ the posh uns in first class.’ He called to a younger skinny man to deal with her.

The youth struggled with her two cases, while she carried the hatbox to the ticket barrier.

Beyond were a crowd of expectant people come to meet passengers.

Adela strained for a sight of any Brewises and worried that she wouldn’t recognise any of them.

A tall, thin young woman with a short pageboy haircut under an old-fashioned cloche hat raised her hand and gave an uncertain smile.

‘Cousin Jane?’ Adela called. The woman nodded. Adela muscled through the barriers, relieved that someone was there to meet her. She plonked down her hatbox and threw her arms around her cousin. Jane tensed, startled by the demonstrative greeting.

‘It’s wonderful to meet you at last.’ Adela grinned. ‘We could be sisters, couldn’t we? Same dark hair and shape of the eyes.’

Jane blushed, pleased at the remark. ‘You’re much prettier.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘George is waiting with the van outside. He’s supposed to be at work, but he said he couldn’t let you go on the tram.’

‘That’s very kind.’ Adela smiled.

Under the blackened portico, Adela spotted a dark green van bearing the name of The Tyneside Tea Company, her uncle Jack’s firm. The driver tooted, then jumped out and took the cases from the panting porter.

‘Bloody lead weights,’ the youth muttered, holding out his hand for a tip.

George paid him, then turned to Adela with a broad smile and an outstretched hand. ‘So, you’re my exotic cousin. You’re even prettier than all your photos.’

Adela laughed and shook hands. ‘And you’re just as handsome as yours.’

She was amused to see his fair face blush. He was good looking, with well-groomed blond hair and regular features. Brother and sister were nothing like each other in looks, and by the way George chatted and Jane fell silent, Adela guessed they were opposites in temperament too.

They clambered into the front of the van, Adela squeezing in between her older cousins, and George was soon swinging the vehicle into the traffic.

‘Sorry to hear about Uncle Wesley,’ George said.

‘Thank you,’ said Adela.

‘What a terrible business.’

‘Yes, it was.’ She dug her nails into her palms.

‘He was really canny, your father,’ said George.

‘Canny?’

‘Aye, likeable man– fun with us bairns. He taught me how to play cricket and took me riding the last time you were home. I must’ve been about nine.’

Adela’s eyes prickled. ‘I don’t remember that.’

‘You were just a nipper. Bet he was a great dad.’

Adela nodded, swallowing down tears. When would she stop wanting to cry at the very mention of her father’s name?

Trying to think of something else, she gazed at the scene as they rattled over cobbles, noticing the fashions.

The young women wore their hair shorter than in India, styled in waves, and many of the men wore large flat caps.

There wasn’t a brown face in sight, nor the dazzling colours of saris or gaudily painted rickshaws that would brighten up an Indian city.

There were far more motor cars here and less horse traffic.

The sides of buildings bore huge advertisements for hot drinks or cleaning powders. They passed a theatre showing J.B.Priestley’s play Time and the Conways .

‘Oh, I’d love to go and see that,’ cried Adela. ‘Have you been yet?’

‘Not into serious stuff,’ said George. ‘Prefer a good sing-song.’

‘Well, you and I will have to go then,’ Adela said, nudging Jane.

‘My sister doesn’t go to the theatre,’ George answered. ‘She gets nervy in crowded places.’

Adela looked quizzically at Jane, but her cousin glanced away and stared out of the window. Adela thought how different she seemed from the person who had written long newsy letters for the last ten years.

‘Okay, Jane,’ said Adela, ‘we’ll choose a very quiet matinée to go to.’

Jane’s mouth twitched in a fleeting smile, but George snorted. ‘Well, you can try.’

At the top of a steep hill he turned right and then left into a quiet terraced street and pulled up outside a house with a dark green front door.

‘Number 10 Lime Terrace. Home sweet home,’ George declared. ‘You’ll find the old girl indoors, but the old man won’t be back till late. See you at teatime.’

He jumped out, retrieved the cases from among the packets of tea, opened the front door and dumped them in the hall.

‘The maharani has arrived!’ he bellowed, and then with a wink at Adela he sprinted back to the van and drove off, with it belching smoke and the horn blaring loudly.

Adela peered up a gloomy hallway, trying to adjust to the dimness after the sunshine outside.

There was a smell of carbolic soap and disinfectant.

A dark red narrow carpet runner disappeared up a black-painted staircase straight ahead, while three doors led off the hallway. It was colder inside than out.

‘In here!’ a voice called from behind the door to the right.

‘Go ahead,’ Jane said. ‘Mam’s in there.’

Adela quickly unpinned her hat and hung it on a high peg on the wall next to a man’s coat, opened the door and stepped into a sitting room.

It was crowded with solid dark furniture– two sofas, three armchairs, several nests of tables and a radiogram on a sideboard– with glimpses of a dark-blue-patterned carpet beneath.

A strange-looking unlit fire was surrounded by brown tiles, and a large mirror hung on a chain above it. Adela wondered where her aunt was.

‘Over here, lass. I’ve been watching from the window.’

Adela jumped. Turning towards the bay window, which was shrouded in net curtains and obscured by planters stuffed with ferns, she saw a thin woman stand up.

She looked pale as a ghost in the filtered light, her oval face like delicately chiselled alabaster and reddish hair pulled away in a tight bun.

She was dressed in a thick tweed suit despite it being the height of summer.

‘Aunt Olive?’

‘Of course it is. Come here, lass, and let me take a look at you.’

Adela rushed forward to kiss her aunt, but Olive stuck out her hands and held her at arm’s length, surveying her. Her touch was cold and bony. Adela clutched her hands awkwardly, smiling.

‘Eeh, just look at you, so like our Clarrie!’ Olive cried. ‘You’re even bonnier mind. You’ve got your father’s eyes; that’s what it is. Your mam must be that proud of you. I wish I’d had a lass that took after me.’

Adela gave an awkward glance at Jane, but she remained impassive.

‘And how pretty you look in that frock. Is that the fashion in India? Chintzy flowers and sweetheart neckline?’

‘It’s a couple of years old,’ Adela admitted. ‘MrsHogg’s durzi copied it from a French magazine.’

‘What’s a durzi?’ asked Olive.

‘A tailor,’ Jane answered.

‘How on earth do you know that?’ Olive exclaimed.

‘Adela told me in a letter. MrRoy, a durzi from Delhi, used to visit Simla during the cold season and go around all the British homes making clothes.’

‘That’s right.’ Adela beamed. ‘Aunt Olive, don’t you remember the durzi from Shillong who used to make dresses for you and Mother? His son still makes clothes for us occasionally, though we mostly send to Calcutta or mail-order from Britain.’

Olive waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’ve long forgotten all them foreign words. I hardly remember India at all. Now sit down, lass’ – Olive patted the armchair by the window next to hers – ‘and tell me all about yourself. Jane will pour the tea. It’s Ceylon. My Jack thinks it’s the best on the market.’

Adela settled into the leather seat, noticing how – although it was only early afternoon – the table in the window was already set with a silver tea service and a cake stand covered in a large linen napkin.

‘It’s very kind of you to have me to stay,’ she said. ‘Mother sends her love. She’s sorry not to come, but she couldn’t face leaving Belgooree at the moment. Not without ... Well, you understand I’m sure.’

‘Poor Clarrie. She’ll be lost without Wesley,’ Olive said with a shake of her head. ‘He was her rock. Not that she appreciated him at first. Could have married him years earlier in India if she hadn’t been so stubborn. But then that’s Clarrie– just like our father: always thinking she knows best.’

Adela flinched at the blunt words.

‘Well, as I say,’ Adela repeated, ‘she sends you her love.’

‘It must have been awful for you being there when your da was killed. I can’t imagine why Clarrie let you go off into the jungle full of tigers and wild animals.’

‘It was my father’s birthday present to me to go on shikar. Hunting is something we both loved doing.’

Olive shook her head. ‘Well I would never let a daughter of mine go doing such dangerous things. Would I, Jane?’

Jane shook her head as she arranged dainty china cups on their saucers.

She served tea and milk from a silver teapot and jug, the milk and sugar basin covered in beaded nets to keep off nonexistent flies, and handed a rose-patterned cup and saucer to Adela.