Page 59 of The Girl from the Tea Garden (The India Tea #3)

Adela steeled herself to bend down and look.

It had a crown of black hair and a dark pink face.

She brushed it with a finger. It opened its eyes– dark pools in the dim light– and for an instant focused on her.

She felt a jolt of alarm and withdrew her hand.

A minute later the baby was crying loudly enough to wake Lexy.

‘You’ll have to feed him.’ She yawned.

‘Him?’

‘Aye, it’s a lad. Best you know, lass. You might spend the rest of your days wondering. Tak’ him back upstairs, and I’ll help get him latched on.’

‘I’d rather stay down here by the fire.’ Adela went back and fetched covers from her bed. She piled them by the hearth and lay down. With Lexy helping, Adela propped herself on her side and guided the infant to her breast. She winced at the first sharp tugs.

‘How does he know what to do?’

‘Just nature, isn’t it?’ Lexy smiled.

Adela watched the baby’s earnest face as his tiny rosebud mouth sucked rhythmically, his soft hair shiny in the firelight.

He fascinated her. Soon he tired and loosened his hold, his eyes closing as he fell asleep.

Adela closed hers. In that half-conscious state between being awake and oblivion, she was struck by the thought that her father, had he lived, would now have been a grandfather.

This tiny creature, lying in a Cullercoats cottage, was the grandson of Wesley Robson.

Part of her was thankful that her father would never know of the shameful birth, and yet she was filled with sorrow that the two would never know each other.

Despite her regret that she had fallen pregnant with Jay’s child, she was sure that her father would not have rejected this baby, might even in different circumstances have grown to love him.

Adela was overwhelmed with bittersweet regret.

She bent to kiss the infant’s soft, downy head and was taken aback by a brief surge of longing– whether for her father or the baby she was too tired to fathom.

Adela refused to give the baby a name. ‘It’s not mine. Let the family he goes to give him a name.’

‘You have to register him, hinny,’ said Maggie. ‘Anything will do.’

In the end Lexy went to register the birth, saying that the mother was too ill with milk fever to do it herself. ‘I called him John Wesley, after your Belhaven grandda and your da.’

Adela’s heart squeezed at the mention of her father’s name. ‘What did you put for the father?’ she asked in panic.

Lexy was blunt. ‘Unknown.’

Adela felt tears brim as she nodded. If she’d been truthful and declared that the father was an Indian prince, they would have accused her of being a fantasist or a liar.

She fed the baby for four more days, until the snow cleared, but never again experienced the intimacy and wonder of that first suckling by the fire of the old black range.

It was as if she had wrapped her heart in bandages to staunch any feelings towards the boy.

She was unable to care for him, so why make it harder by allowing herself to feel any affection?

It would just make it worse for them both.

She was impatient for him to be gone, her thoughts already turning to when she would leave the confinement of the cottage.

She would look for a job in Whitley Bay or back in the city.

She might head for London and try her luck in the theatres there.

She would cut her hair shorter and buy a new lipstick.

In a few months she would forget she’d ever had a baby or made such a foolish mistake.

She would put it all behind her. Adela determined she would make enough money to pay for an inside toilet to be plumbed in for Ina so she didn’t have to do her business on a smelly commode.

She’d buy Maggie new clothes and Lexy a holiday, for she owed them so much.

Nothing could repay their kindness, but she would try.

The day the church people came to take away the baby, Adela said she would go out for a walk.

She didn’t want to see them or be seen. At the last moment she felt an overwhelming desire to do something for her son– to compensate in some small way for turning her back on him.

With trembling fingers, she took off the pink stone necklace that her mother had gifted her and gave it to Maggie.

‘See that the church folk take this and keep it for the baby. It’s all I’ve got to give him, and it comes from India, like he does. It’s from a holy man and will give him protection.’

Adela left swiftly. She was almost physically sick as she stepped into the raw grey day, suppressing the urge to turn around and look at the boy one last time. Gulping at the salty sea air, she hurried out of sight.

Roaming around aimlessly, trying to think of anything except what was going on back at the cottage, she found herself once more in front of Jackman’s haberdashery.

She almost went in, had her hand on the brass handle of the sewing shop door, but lost her nerve again.

What would she say? Would Sam be angry with her for interfering?

Would MrsJackman be upset to be reminded of her failed marriage and motherhood?

Adela walked away. It was none of her business.

But it left her feeling more upset than before.

She wanted Sam’s mother to be able to stop the aching misery that gripped her, to give her reassurance that it was possible to survive such heartache and disappointment.

As she dragged herself back in the direction of the coastguard’s house, it struck Adela why she had been drawn to MrsJackman’s door.

It wasn’t Sam’s mother that she longed to meet, it was Sam.

She yearned for Sam’s strong comforting arms around her, to look into his handsome face and see the compassion in his hazel eyes and his kind, lopsided grin.

But that was never going to happen. Even if by some miracle they were to meet again, things could never be the same between them as when she had first fallen in love with him.

The day at the Sipi Fair and its aftermath had changed their fate for ever.

How he would despise her now for her selfish affair with Jay and abandoning her child!

She couldn’t bear the thought of him finding out.

Better that she never saw Sam again than to witness his contempt at what she had done.

Back at the cottage it was strangely quiet and empty.

Maggie had been crying. It suddenly struck her that the women had enjoyed having the baby to fuss over.

While she had been irritated by his crying, they had rushed to pacify him.

They had more motherly feeling in them for her baby than she ever had. It made her wretched.

‘I’ll make tea tonight,’ Adela announced.

She cooked sausages with creamed turnip and mashed potato sprinkled with nutmeg, like Mohammed Din used to do. Lexy returned, bringing a bottle of barley wine.

‘Don’t give me that look, Maggie man,’ said Lexy. ‘I’m not ganin’ to touch the stuff, but I thought Adela might need a drink.’

The alcohol went straight to Adela’s head.

She welcomed the instant numbing of her senses.

She sang all the songs she could remember.

They put her to bed, and she went into an exhausted dreamless sleep.

When she awoke at dawn, she had several blissful moments of her mind being quite empty.

And then she remembered where she was, and the painful memories of the past few days and giving birth to a son assaulted her anew.