Page 138 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden

‘Just a knapsack with a change of clothes,’ she said.

‘I’ll get Sanjeev to bring it over,’ said Ghulam.

‘No need,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll get it when I go back to help again.’

He gave her a look of disbelief. ‘You won’t be going back.’

‘Of course I’ll go back,’ she insisted, though she felt weak at the thought.

‘Libby,’ he protested, ‘you nearly drowned.’

‘I don’t intend jumping into the river again in a hurry,’ she said, ‘but I still want to help out.’

He let go an impatient sigh. ‘Why does that not surprise me?’

He reached out and pushed a tendril of hair behind her ear. ‘Oh, Libby, I should never have taken you ...’

‘It was my choice,’ she said with a wan smile, ‘and I’d do it again if I had to.’

It took all Libby’s efforts to climb the stairs of Amelia Buildings to the fourth floor. She felt unwell; she was breathless and ached all over. Fatima was full of concern and fussed around Libby, scolding her for being so impetuous and Ghulam for letting her take such risks.

‘It’s not Ghulam’s fault,’ said Libby, ‘it was just a split-second decision.’

‘My brother should never have taken you down to theghatin the first place,’ Fatima chided, but Libby could see the admiration in her eyes.

Even though the air was oppressively warm, she couldn’t stop shivering. None of Fatima’s clothing was big enough for Libby so she resorted to putting on a cotton shirt of Ghulam’s and drawstring trousers that were too long and needed rolling up at the ankle. They were loose, comfortable and fresh-smelling and Libby was comforted by the feel of them against her skin. Fatima wrapped her in a soft woollen shawl.

They ate a supper of curried mutton and potatoes. Ghulam and Fatima talked about the growing migration crisis and the rumour that Gandhi might once more be coming to the city to calm tensions in the lead-up to Independence Day. Libby hardly had the strength to eat and struggled to stay awake, even though she wanted to know more about this talk of Gandhi. She felt utterly spent.

‘Sorry, Libby,’ Fatima said, catching her yawning, ‘you must go to bed. You can take mine and I’ll sleep on a bedroll.’

‘No,’ said Ghulam. ‘There’s no need for that. Libby will have my room and I’ll sleep here – or on the roof.’

Fatima frowned. ‘I don’t think—’

‘Libby should have her own room tonight after what she’s been through,’ said Ghulam firmly.

‘Sorry, of course she must,’ said Fatima.

‘Thank you,’ Libby said. ‘You’ve both been so kind.’

Libby could hardly believe she was lying in Ghulam’s bed; it smelt of his musky soap. The room was small but high-ceilinged and equipped only with a narrow iron-framed bed, a wooden chair, a bedside table and a cupboard for clothes. Her head swam. Despite the room being warm,she felt chilled in the eddying breeze from the un-shuttered window. Libby wrapped herself in Fatima’s shawl and tried to get warm.

Sleep wouldn’t come. The hours dragged. She wanted nothing more than to have Ghulam wrap his arms around her and keep her safe. Every time she closed her eyes she was back in the dark, swirling water struggling for breath. The taste of the rank water lingered in her mouth. Her pulse raced to think how close she had come to drowning. If Ghulam hadn’t hauled her from the water ...

Libby clenched her teeth, biting back the panic rising in her throat. She was going to be sick. She scrambled out of bed and dashed for the door. In the dark corridor she stumbled towards the water closet, a hand clamped over her mouth. She reached it just in time and vomited into the thunderbox. Libby was sick until her stomach felt hollow and her throat raw. Then she crouched on the floor and let the tears come. She tried to stifle her sobs but relief came with weeping. She was alive – even though she felt terrible.

Emerging from the closet, weak-kneed and shivering, Libby gasped to see a dark figure looming out of the shadows.

‘Libby,’ Ghulam whispered, ‘are you all right?’

‘I’ve just been sick,’ she whispered back. ‘I feel a bit wobbly.’

He was bare-chested and his hair tousled. He reached out and took her by the hand, guiding her along to the sitting room. The room was bathed in lamplight. A rumpled bedroll on the floor and a discarded book showed that Ghulam had not been sleeping either.

He sat her on one of the comfortable chairs and fetched a glass of soda water along with a dish of aniseed and mint to freshen her mouth. She drank the soda with shaking hands and chewed on the aniseed.

‘I can’t stop thinking ...’ she said, her eyes flooding with fresh tears.