Page 51 of The Girl from the Tea Garden (The India Tea #3)

Adela soon settled into city life. She loved Newcastle, with its smoky bustling energy, its noisy riverside and grand buildings, its array of shops, from prestigious department stores to corner tobacconists, its clanking trams and the friendly people, who struck up conversations about football and the weather at tram stands or in shop queues.

She didn’t understand everything that was said– the accent was thick and the speech rapid– but she understood why Tilly hankered after her former home.

Olive paraded her around the neighbours in Lime Terrace, where they drank endless cups of strong sweet tea and ate jam biscuits that stuck to the teeth like glue.

Morning visiting appeared to be socially unacceptable, and Olive only went out after three o’clock in the afternoon.

Jane never came on these visits; she spent her time both shopping and cooking for the household and down at the tea room, helping Lexy.

Adela asked her to show her how to cook, though her poor efforts were ridiculed by the family.

‘Is that pastry or sludge from the sink?’ George teased.

‘I can’t believe our Clarrie hasn’t taught you any cooking,’ said Olive.

‘Mohammed Din sees to all that,’ said Adela. ‘He wouldn’t let me anywhere near the kitchen.’

This caused great hilarity among the Brewises, and “Mohammed Din sees to all that” became a family catchphrase whenever Adela showed her ignorance about things domestic.

A Scotswoman called Myra came in twice a week to do laundry and cleaning.

Adela found it strange to see a woman doing the jobs that low-caste men did at home.

Myra was loud and cheerful and sang along to the radiogram as she polished, even though Olive repeatedly told her not to turn on the machine as it gave her a headache.

‘Och, you need a good sing-song to encourage the elbow grease,’ Myra laughed in defiance.

While Olive went to lie down, Adela couldn’t resist joining in the singing. ‘Whistle While You Work’ became their shared theme tune as Adela pushed around the furniture for Myra, and the maid wielded the carpet sweeper.

‘MrsBrewis puts up wi’ ma cheek,’ Myra confided, ‘’cause naebody else round here will work for her.

Always complaining. If I worked for free, she’d still say I was robbing her blind.

’ Myra laughed and continued in her forthright manner.

‘That MrBrewis is a saint putting up wi’ her ways.

And wee Jane should stand up for hersel’ instead of cowering like a wee timorous beastie.

I’d not let MrsBrewis speak to me like Jane allows her to. ’

But at the café Adela saw another side of Jane: her cousin was popular among the staff and customers.

She was welcoming and efficient and seemed to know something about everyone who came in, chatting to the women about their families, the men about football and handing out sweets to children on their birthdays.

‘Your mam started that tradition,’ Jane told her. ‘That’s what Lexy says. It’s one of my earliest memories being given a stick of liquorice in a bag of sherbet on my fourth birthday, even though it was just after the war and treats were hard to come by. I loved my aunt Clarrie.’

Adela enjoyed her visits to the tea room and the welcoming Lexy.

She took little persuasion to lift the lid on the old piano and bash out popular tunes and sing along.

She had learned to play at StMary’s, and Tommy had taught her a handful of more modern melodies.

Lexy would join in, and the café would fill up more quickly as shoppers were drawn in by the music.

After two weeks of badgering, Jack gave Adela a tour of the Tyneside Tea Company factory.

It was situated further upriver in an austere building with a once-grand frontage now flaky with peeling paint and grimy from smoke.

Behind was a depot of delivery vans, a few motorised but mainly still horse-drawn.

The air was full of the manure smell of stables and the occasional whinny of a workhorse.

Adela was surprised that they weren’t all out delivering.

She breathed in. ‘Horse smell reminds me of Belgooree.’

‘Wait till you smell the tea inside.’ Jack smiled.

He showed her around the packing rooms, where loose tea was being poured into paper bags and sealed. The air was dusty with dry tea. The workers spoke to him with deference, but his manner with them was friendly and encouraging.

George joined them in the tasting room. Adela felt a pang of longing for the one at Belgooree; here as at home there was a simple bench lined up with white china tasting pots, spittoons and samples of different grades of tea.

‘This is where we do our blending,’ Jack explained. ‘Gan on, Adela, and give us your opinion. Your mam was the best taster I ever knew. Let’s see if she’s taught you well.’

Adela worked her way along the line as George prepared the samples. She slurped through her teeth, let the liquid envelop her tongue and then spat it out.

‘Full body, heavy soil, probably picked during the rains. Upper Assam. I’d mix it with something lighter.’

Jack nodded and she tasted the next. ‘Umm, I like this. Bright, first flush, nice colour, soil more acidic. Darjeeling or Ghoom. A good breakfast tea.’

‘Not on Tyneside,’ said Jack. ‘They like a bit more body to wake them up.’

She carried on tasting and spitting and giving her opinion. ‘Fruity, apricot aroma, nice and balanced, mature, autumn flush, possibly Sylhet region.’

George was impressed and kept asking her about life on a tea plantation and how things were done at Belgooree. The more she reminisced, the more his enthusiasm grew.

‘I’d give anything to travel out there and see where the tea gets grown. Must be a grand life. Do they play cricket?’

‘They do, though there’s not much time for it. Tennis is probably more popular.’

‘Tennis is fine by me,’ George said, grinning, ‘especially mixed doubles.’

‘You should come and visit,’ Adela encouraged. ‘Mother would love that.’

‘Maybe I will.’

‘You don’t need to gan to India to know about tea,’ said Jack. ‘Everything you need to know about running this business you can learn from me, just like I learnt it all from MrMilner. Besides, we can’t afford for you to gan away. You’re needed here, lad.’

Adela didn’t push the idea further; she could see how it made her uncle agitated. ‘Have things changed much since Mother was here, Uncle Jack?’

He sighed. ‘It’s been a tough few years, I’ll not deny it.

We used to sell tea all over the North East, selling it door to door.

Customers are very loyal, ’specially out in the small villages and towns.

But now these new chain shops have started up and they’re undercutting us.

They buy in bulk and sell cheap– no matter that the quality isn’t as good.

Folk go to them to save a few pennies, and who can blame them? ’

‘But you are still giving them convenience,’ Adela encouraged, ‘and personal service. Bet the likes of George brighten up a housewife’s day.’

George laughed. ‘I try my best.’

‘We’ll need more than George’s patter to keep this business going,’ Jack said morosely. ‘I’d like to invest in new packing machinery and a couple of new motor vans, but we can’t afford it. We’ve had to cut prices to compete. It’s down to the bare bones.’

‘I’m sorry, Uncle Jack. I wish we could do more to help, but Mother’s first concern is keeping Belgooree going.’

‘Of course it is,’ George agreed. ‘Da’s not asking for financial help.’

Jack’s look was haggard, and for a moment he said nothing. Then he rallied. ‘If anyone can save a business, then it’s Clarrie. I wish her luck.’

As they left the tasting room, Jack’s frown returned. ‘You’ll not say any of this to our Olive, will you? Not about things being bad. She’s such a worrier; it doesn’t do to let her fret.’

‘Course I won’t,’ Adela said, putting a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘But wouldn’t it be better if she knew what was going on? Then nothing would come as too much of a shock.’

Jack gave a hopeless shrug. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

Adela worried about her uncle, but after that visit he refused to talk to her about the business and avoided being alone with her.

Even a few words exchanged in the hallway seemed to annoy Olive.

‘Don’t you pester your uncle about his work,’ she warned.

‘When he comes home, he wants to leave all that behind.’

So Adela gave up trying to chat to her brooding uncle; he was so very different from the jovial, ambitious man that her parents had once described.

She enjoyed George’s company best of all.

She went to watch him play cricket at the club and met his girlfriend, Joan.

Adela thought she was a bit dull, despite her dreamy blonde looks, but she could see how George basked in her adoration.

He took Adela out in the van around his delivery route to the pit villages south of the Tyne, and she stared in fascination at the clanking pit wheels, the coal-blackened miners trudging back from the morning shift and the women dashing into the street at the sound of George’s horn.

The miners’ wives were cheerful and saucy and reminded Adela of the tea pickers, who would make ribald remarks about their menfolk when out of earshot.

She went with George to see Hitchcock’s The Lady Vanishes at the nearby Pavilion Cinema, a former theatre which was still decorated with ornate pillars and busts of naked women. He took her to see The

Prisoner of Zenda at the Gaumont, which Adela enjoyed so much that she went a second time, and she chivvied Jane into going too.

‘Ronald Colman is to die for,’ she said. ‘We’ll sit at the back by the aisle so you can make a run for it if you feel unwell. And there’s a massive Wurlitzer organ gets played in the interval. George says they brought it over from the Bronx in New York. Isn’t that exciting?’