Page 65 of The Girl from the Tea Garden (The India Tea #3)

T he hills beyond the veranda were wreathed in mist, the air heavy with moisture after a torrential downpour.

Clarrie, newly returned from supervising the monsoon pickings, stood dripping on the worn wooden floor, reading Adela’s latest letter and ignoring Mohammed Din’s entreaties to change out of her wet clothes.

‘In a minute I promise.’

The thin blue airmail paper was turning soggy in her hands, but she eagerly read it from start to finish and then read it all over again, as if she could somehow conjure Adela to her by memorising the words.

Dearest Mother, I don’t know what news you are getting at home, but you mustn’t worry.

It really hasn’t been bad here at all. Of course we get air-raid warnings, but that’s just part of life now.

We all know what to do and where to go and life goes on.

Now for the really exciting news– we had auditions last week for Pygmalion and guess what?

Derek has picked me for Eliza Doolittle!

! I’m so thrilled to finally get a big part.

I’m sure if Josey had been here she would have got the part in a flash.

We were all very worried about her for a while.

I probably told you in my last letter, but no sooner had she joined the Entertainments National Service Association than she was sent to France.

What with all the confusing news about Dunkirk and not knowing who’d got safely back across the Channel, we just kept praying she hadn’t been captured.

But two weeks ago I got a letter to say she was back in London– she’d got out on a cargo ship from Saint-Malo and sounded as chirpy as ever.

She couldn’t say where she and her troupe are going to be sent next, but I know if she comes anywhere near Newcastle she’ll pop in to see us.

Derek pretends he doesn’t care– he’s still annoyed that she volunteered for ENSA instead of helping to keep The People’s going.

He said munitions and factory workers and miners deserve entertainment as much as the forces.

But I know he really misses her. Libby is helping out again at the theatre over the summer holidays, despite Tilly wanting her to stay at Mona and Walter’s farm with her and

the boys. Lexy said she could sleep at the flat if I’d be responsible for her.

She’s such a plucky girl and helps me at the station canteen.

It’s been busier than ever since the troops came back from France.

We get everyone passing through, from Polish sailors to Free French airmen, as well as our own boys.

Libby is cheery to them all, though she can get on her high horse at times and give them a history lesson.

I hope this finds you well. Give Harry a kiss from me– and a big one for yourself.

Tell Uncle James that Tilly and the family are safe and in good spirits (perhaps you shouldn’t mention about Libby being in Newcastle without her mother– just say they are all well, which they are). All my love, Adela xxx

Clarrie’s eyes smarted at the tender farewell.

Her daughter was safe and sounded happy.

She noted the date. It had been written a month ago.

Her stomach clenched in fresh anxiety. Anything could have happened since then.

She knew from crackling bulletins on the wireless that since the fall of France in June the Luftwaffe had begun dropping bombs over British cities. Tyneside had been mentioned.

It amazed Clarrie that any letters got through these days.

Now that Italy had declared war on Britain, no ships coming through the Mediterranean were safe from attack, and flights were now almost impossible.

Mail came by sea around the Cape, but how much mail had been lost along with devastating numbers of merchant shipping?

Adela had referred to some earlier letter about Josey joining ENSA that she’d never received.

For an instant she felt again the hurt that her daughter had chosen to stay in England instead of returning to India and safety.

At first she had been disbelieving and then angry at the decision, wondering unfairly if Tilly had put pressure on her to stay.

But her anger had turned swiftly to guilt.

She had pushed Adela away. Was it any wonder that she hadn’t come rushing back to her?

For a time she had worried that her daughter was unhappy in Newcastle– for a couple of months the previous year Adela had not written to her at all– but since the outbreak of war her spirits appeared to have revived. Perhaps she had a new sense of purpose.

Clarrie went to change out of her sodden clothes.

There was no sign of Harry, who would still be with Banu, the garden overseer.

If Clarrie allowed it, the boy would spend every daylight hour out riding with the patient Khasi manager or playing with Banu’s children.

Perhaps she was wrong to let the boy run free, but he was not yet seven, and she wanted him to enjoy his childhood at Belgooree and be accepted by the local hill people in the way that she had been.

Ayah Mimi, frailer now, still kept an eye on him at the house when Clarrie was busy at the factory, and between them they were teaching him the basics of reading and counting.

He loved Ayah’s stories of Hindu gods and goddesses.

Formal education could wait. She wanted to keep Harry with her as long as possible.

He was her final link with Wesley and each year grew more like his father: the unruly waves of dark hair, the lively green eyes that creased when he laughed and his passion for the outdoors.

Adela was so far away and might never want to live at Belgooree again.

Was she being selfish wanting to hang on to Harry and not send him to school, Clarrie wondered?

Adela! What was life really like for her vivacious daughter?

She knew that Adela was playing down the danger she was in; after all, the tea rooms were close to the munitions factories and shipyards of the Tyne, which would surely be a target for enemy planes.

Her anxious thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car engine grinding up the drive.

She quickly stepped into a loose cotton frock and pulled a brush through her wavy damp hair.

Minutes later James was striding up the steps, looking dishevelled, as if he hadn’t slept for days, his expression grim.

‘Whatever’s happened?’ Clarrie asked, her stomach knotting. ‘Is it news from Tilly?’

‘Lack of news,’ James growled, thrusting his hat at Mohammed Din. He accepted a glass of nimbu pani, which he downed thirstily.

‘Please, James,’ Clarrie urged. ‘Sit down and tell me why you’re so upset.’

‘Tilly’s not answering my telegrams.’ James plonked himself down in a battered cane chair. It creaked under his solid frame.

‘When did you last hear from her?’

‘Two weeks ago. She’s refusing to bring the children out here; says the risk of travelling is worse than staying put.’

‘Perhaps she has a point.’

‘Do you have any idea of what’s happening at home?

’ James demanded. ‘Tyneside is in the firing line with its shipyards and ammo factories. Last week the Germans were bombing Newcastle in broad daylight. The BBC reported that squadrons operating in the North East had brought down seventy-five bombers. But they never said how much destruction they managed before our boys destroyed them.’

Clarrie felt sick with anxiety, but she tried to calm him. ‘I just received a letter today from Adela.’

His haggard face brightened for an instant. ‘You have?’

‘Yes, and she says they are all safe and well– told me to tell you especially that Tilly and the ... the children were staying with Mona on their Berwickshire farm. So well out of harm’s way.’

‘When was it written?’

‘July,’ Clarrie admitted.

James let out an oath. ‘She should have got out in June, when I told her to,’ he fretted.

‘Jean Bradley managed to get back safely to Assam with her two children– the Oxford Estates moved heaven and earth to get our employees’ wives and families on to planes.

But not Tilly.’ He stood up and paced to the balcony.

‘I never knew she could be so stubborn– or so irresponsible.’

‘Isn’t it of some comfort that she’s there with the children?’ Clarrie asked. ‘At least they’re all together.’

He turned and glared. ‘I want them here with me, damn it! How can I protect them when they are thousands of miles away? Britain’s on the verge of being invaded.

I don’t even want to think what that might mean!

They’re completely isolated– Denmark, Norway, Holland all under the Nazis’ jackboots, and now France.

It’s just a matter of time. Good God, woman! Don’t you worry about Adela?’

‘Of course I do!’ Clarrie jumped up, stung by his accusation. ‘But there’s nothing we can do out here.’

‘There must be something.’ James gave her a desperate look.

‘Hope and pray, that’s all,’ Clarrie answered, digging her nails into her palms to stop herself breaking into tears.

James turned away, gripped the balcony rail, and bowed his head. His broad back and thick shoulders, straining in his crumpled linen jacket, began to shudder. In alarm Clarrie went to him.

‘James?’ She put a hand on his shoulder. He let out a low howl. He tried to shake her off and hide his face, but she pulled him around. His craggy features were flushed and streaked with tears.

She rubbed his arm. ‘Don’t give up. We’ll be strong for each other.’

He gazed at her with intense blue eyes. His voice when he spoke was a hoarse whisper. ‘How will I manage without my Tilly? She’s the reason I get up in the morning and do my job. Cheviot View is so lonely without her, so bloody lonely!’

‘I know,’ Clarrie said gently. ‘All you can do is be brave and carry on doing your job. Some day soon, God willing, Tilly and the children will return, just as Adela will come back to Belgooree.’

‘Do you really believe that?’ asked James.

‘I have to– and so do you.’

Just then Clarrie heard a child’s shout and a clatter of feet. Harry was back.

‘Hello, Uncle James.’ He grinned. ‘I saw the car coming and ran home. Are you staying?’

‘Yes, he’s staying,’ Clarrie said at once.

‘Have you been running?’ Harry asked in curiosity. ‘You look all pink in the face.’

James straightened up and rubbed his eyes on his sleeve. ‘No, just a bit of grit in the eyes.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘But your mother got rid of it.’ Over Harry’s head, he gave Clarrie a grateful smile.

James stayed on for three days, doing a tour of the gardens and factory with Clarrie, their talk businesslike.

No further mention was made of Tilly, and the tea planter resumed his usual brisk manner.

Yet Clarrie could not forget her glimpse of a more vulnerable James, one who had let down his emotional guard and shed tears for his wife and family.

Under all his bluster and forthright opinions, James had a soft heart– at least when it came to Tilly.

Clarrie felt a fresh pang of loss for Wesley.

Perhaps the Robson cousins had been more alike than she’d ever imagined: loyal and loving under their tough manliness.

Before he left to return to Upper Assam, James made a suggestion.

The day before, they had been discussing Harry’s education.

James had been critical of Clarrie’s reluctance to send her son away to school, even to StMungo’s in Shillong, where he could return to her at weekends.

James had pointed out that Harry would be seven in a couple of months’ time and that he was bright enough and ready for school.

But Clarrie had been firm and told him that the decision was hers alone.

‘I know you think it’s none of my business,’ he said, ‘but I have a very talented young assistant, Manzur Ahmad, who wants to be a teacher. He’s my bearer Aslam’s boy. His mother, Meera, was the children’s ayah. Perhaps you remember her.’

‘Of course. Meera has been here on several occasions – a sweet woman. Didn’t you and Tilly pay for Manzur to go to school?’

‘Yes, we did. Tilly took a shine to the boy and said we owed it to Meera for all that she’d done for our children. Well, you know Tilly– daft about kiddies.’

‘It was a kind gesture,’ Clarrie said, waiting for him to explain why he was talking about Manzur.

‘The thing is, his father wants Manzur to train as a clerk in the plantation office– that’s where he’s been for the past year since finishing school– and he’s very efficient at what he does.

I don’t want to lose him, but he’s a bright young man with a mind of his own, and I’m worried he might just up and off. ’

‘So, what are you thinking?’ Clarrie probed.

‘That if I offered him some tutoring over here, say once a month, with young Harry, then Manzur might be content to stay.’ James added dryly, ‘Then both Aslam and I would be happy.’

Clarrie considered. It might do Harry good to have a young tutor with the energy and patience to teach him. She was touched that James had been giving the problem some thought.

‘If Manzur would be willing to do that,’ Clarrie said and smiled, ‘then yes, I’d be very grateful for your offer. Perhaps we could try it out for a couple of months and see how Manzur gets on with Harry.’

‘Good idea,’ James said, nodding.

He left whistling ‘The British Grenadiers’, which Clarrie knew was a sign that James’s spirits were reviving.