Page 165 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden

‘Just one thing before I go,’ said James. ‘I’ve been asked by an acquaintance to see if you remember any tea planters in your day called Dunlop.’

‘Dunlop?’ Fairfax frowned.

‘I have the details here,’ said James. ‘This man is keen to establish his British credentials – but I worry it will just stir up a hornet’s nest. He’s Anglo-Indian, you see.’

‘Anglo-Indian,’ Fairfax echoed.

‘Yes, what in our day we called Eurasian,’ said James.

‘Ah,’ said the old man, nodding in understanding. ‘There was a lot of that went on in the old days. Quite wrong, of course. Not fair on the children. What to do with them – always the problem.’

James felt his heart begin to beat erratically. ‘Yes, quite so.’

‘Well, read it to me,’ said Fairfax. ‘Can’t think of a Dunlop in Assam, mind you.’

James reached for an ivory letter opener on the table in the window, slit open the envelope and put on his reading glasses. His breath stopped. He stared at the neat list of facts about Danny Dunlop. It wasn’t possible! He felt winded with shock.

‘Not a tea planter anyway,’ Fairfax said, still searching his memory. ‘Though I did know of a Reverend Dunlop in Shillong. Or was he a doctor?’

James closed his eyes but he could still see the name seared behind his lids. Aidan Dunlop: born circa 1896, orphan of a Scottish planter in Assam, admitted to the Convent of the Sisters of the Holy Cross by Sister Placid.

Sweat broke out on his brow. His heart raced. The one thing that he had clung on to was that Danny stood for Daniel. But Danny clearly stood for Aidan, the name he had given the Logan boy. It could be no other child. Perhaps kind Sister Placid had given him the Scottish surname to give him a veneer of respectability.

‘Are you feeling all right, old boy?’ asked Fairfax, peering at him in concern.

James crumpled the letter. ‘No – yes – I ...’ He tried to order his thoughts. ‘It doesn’t really tell us anything more. School in Shillong – ended up on the railways.’

The whisky curdled in his stomach. James thought he might be sick.

‘There you go,’ said Fairfax. ‘DrDunlop in Shillong – probably related.’

‘Yes,’ James said, balling the letter in his pocket as he stood up. ‘Well, I better be off. Tilly has got me moving house so I should get back to supervise.’

‘Dunlop, Dunlop ...’ Fairfax had resumed a faraway look; he was lost in the past.

James regretted bringing up the subject. Why on earth hadn’t he opened the letter before now? Deep down he knew why: he had feared that digging into the past might raise long-buried ghosts. Suddenly he couldn’t wait to be gone from the stuffy tobacco-smelling room with its myriad reminders of the Oxford tea gardens.

He shook Fairfax by the hand. ‘Don’t get up, sir; I’ll see myself out. Good to see you.’

‘I’ve enjoyed our chin-wag about the old days, Robson.’ The old man smiled. ‘You will come again and see me, won’t you? No one in here has the foggiest idea about Assam.’

‘Yes, of course I will,’ James promised, making hastily for the door.

‘What a life we had, eh?’ Fairfax continued as James left. ‘Work hard, play harder ...!’

James felt the bile rise in his throat at the words. A memory of the hateful Bill Logan saying just the same thing forced its way into his mind. He clattered out of the nursing home as fast as he could.

The night-terrors began again. James so alarmed Tilly that he offered to move into the room vacated by the Jackmans.

‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ he’d said when Tilly had asked him what was causing the nightmares.

‘Is it the house move?’ she asked in concern one night, following him into the spare bedroom. ‘If you’re that unhappy about it ...? Am I being too selfish?’

‘No, it’s nothing to do with that,’ said James. ‘It’s probably too many nightcaps before bed – or cheese or something.’

‘James,’ Tilly said, hovering in the doorway. Her expression softened. ‘Is this what it was like ...? Were you like this when you had your ... exhaustion ... when you went to Clarrie’s?’

James reddened. He was about to rebuff the suggestion and then decided to be honest. ‘Yes.’ He glanced away. ‘I couldn’t sleep and when I did I had these terrible dreams that were so real I thought I was experiencing them.’