Assam
James jerked awake. In panic he sat up, his heart pounding. He listened. Someone screamed beyond the darkened bedroom. He scrambled under the mosquito net and fumbled for his revolver. Breckon, his black retriever, leapt up, barking. Dashing for the door James rushed out on to the veranda, Breckon at his heels. The scream came again. He strained to see but the night was so dark that he could make out nothing of the garden or the forest beyond.
‘Sahib?’ A voice spoke from close by. ‘It is a jackal, sahib.’
‘Sunil, is that you?’ James panted.
‘No, sahib, it is Aslam. There is no Sunil here.’
James stared in confusion at the grey-haired servant who emerged out of the dark carrying a kerosene lamp. His bearer, Aslam. The screech of a jackal came again from further off. Not a human scream at all. He felt foolish.
‘I thought I heard an intruder . . .’ said James, bending to calm his dog.
‘Sahib is not sleeping well again?’ asked Aslam. ‘Can I get you a milky drink?’
James huffed. ‘I’m not a boy.’
‘Robson memsahib would always order hot milk for bad sleep,’ said Aslam.
‘Yes, she would, wouldn’t she?’ James sighed. ‘Well, she’s not here now so you can pour me a large whisky instead. I’ll sit for a while out here.’
He couldn’t bear the thought of returning to the dark bedroom and tossing sleeplessly, plagued by his thoughts. Were they bad dreams or memories? Sunil Ram had been there, the punkah-wallah from the old days at Dunsapie Cottage. Why on earth had he been thinking of the long-dead servant? Was it Sunil who had screamed in his head?
With Breckon stretched out beside him, James sat in the long cane chair covered in a rug, and slugged at the whisky Aslam brought him. The night seemed as restless as he was; the air pulsed with crickets and rustlings came from the undergrowth.
It was Libby’s recent letter that had stirred up old memories. He picked it up from the side table and re-read it.
Dearest Dad
I can’t wait to see you! Just another week and you’ll be here in Calcutta. I’m having an interesting time. Uncle Johnny and Aunt Helena have been so kind, but I’m impatient now to see you and get back to Assam.
I hope you don’t mind but I’ve asked an old school friend of Adela’s to come on holiday with me. She’s a nurse and she hasn’t taken any leave for ages. Her name’s Flowers Dunlop. Her father was a railwayman but thinks he’s related to Scottish tea planters in Assam. She’s promised him that she’ll try and find out about the family connection while she’s with us. He’s an invalid and not very well so it’s really just to keep him happy that Flowers said she’d look into it all. Do you know any Dunlops? He’s called Danny (I presume short for Daniel). He was orphaned and went to school in Shillong by the way. I said we could go and visit on our way home. I hope that’s okay? You’ll like Flowers, she’s good fun.
Let me know what train you will be arriving on next Monday and I’ll meet you. Aunt Helena is insisting on having a party for me on Tuesday so I’m inviting a few of my new Calcutta friends along. You’ll be my VIP guest! I simply can’t wait!
A big hug soon,
Your loving daughter Libby xxx
PS I’ve invited the Percy-Barratts too so that you’ll know someone from Assam. Muriel’s a bit of a headache but Reggie’s quite sweet.
James felt a hot flush of panic. He hated parties or being the centre of attention. He didn’t want to meet crowds of sophisticated Calcuttans or talk gossip with garrulous women like Helena Watson or Muriel Percy-Barratt. As his nearest neighbour on the plantation, Muriel had mothered him for years but she’d never really approved of Tilly as a pukka planter’s wife. He had grown tired of her endless criticism at Tilly’s desertion of him during the War and had been silently relieved when Reggie had decided to retire from the Oxford Tea Estates and move to Calcutta.
‘Oh, Libby,’ he sighed.
When he thought of his daughter she was still an eleven-year-old with a plump, grinning face and long auburn pigtails, a robust girl who was more athletic than her brothers and twice as talkative. He knew that he had spoilt her as a small child because she had reminded him of a young, warm-hearted Tilly but with his stronger sense of adventure. It was Libby and not Jamie who had always insisted on going riding with him in the early mornings and who had loved to accompany him on fishing trips. She had been a delightful companion, full of exuberance and affection.
Even as a schoolgirl back in England, Libby had soon overcome the bashfulness between them when he had taken a brief leave to see his children in 1936. He would have cherished that holiday to St Abbs even more if he had known it was to be the last time they would all be together for the next decade – perhaps ever.
He was eager to see his daughter again and yet frightened of meeting her. Tilly complained that Libby could be rude and headstrong, constantly challenging her mother’s authority and arguing back. Tilly said Libby ranted about politics at inappropriate times such as when the vicar came round to take tea. Tilly also suspected that Libby had lost her virginity and was over-sexed. All these criticisms had been listed in reproachful letters from his wife, blaming Libby’s wild behaviour and views on his failure to be a firm father.
‘And how was I supposed to do that when you refused to come back to India with the children at the start of the War?’ James exclaimed aloud. ‘You’re the one who should have been firmer with her. You’re a failure as a mother! You’ve deprived me of my children. You’ve turned the boys against me – they don’t even want to come back to India. I bet you’ve just encouraged Libby to come so you can get her out of your hair!’
James reached for the decanter and poured another large whisky. He must stop talking to himself out loud; Aslam would be summoning the doctor again. The new young tea garden doctor, Dr Attar, thought James was suffering from exhaustion and wanted to give him something to calm his nerves.
‘Nothing wrong with my nerves,’ said James, gulping another mouthful.
He sat on, feeling the welcoming numbness from the whisky seeping through him. With any luck he’d fall asleep in the chair and not have a repeat of the nightmare that had woken him. He couldn’t remember any of it now.
‘Oh, Libby,’ he murmured, ‘I do want to see you, I really do.’
She had written such a loving letter, it melted his heart. Tilly must be quite wrong about the poor girl. So what was it that had made him so agitated?
‘He’s related to Scottish tea planters . . . orphaned and went to school in Shillong . . .’
James felt his chest go tight. He found it hard to breathe. He was back in the convent in Shillong, pushing the infant boy at the nun. The Brat. James couldn’t now remember if Logan’s son had ever had a proper name. He’s called Aidan. James had invented a name for the boy. He hadn’t thought of Logan and his illegitimate son for years. Why should he feel a renewed surge of guilt now? It had happened so long ago and he’d done nothing wrong. It was his loathsome boss who had fathered Aidan and cast him aside, not he. How could he, as a young planter, have stood up to Logan and refused to do his bidding?
James took the letter in a shaking hand and searched again for the name. Daniel Dunlop. It couldn’t be the same boy; was hardly likely to be. Half a century ago, orphanages were full of illegitimate Eurasian children whose tea planter and army fathers had refused to acknowledge them. Still, it left James feeling anxious that he might have to return to Shillong and help this nurse probe into her father’s background. It would only stir up more unwanted memories and bad dreams.
‘Why would you want to know?’ cried James. ‘It’s obvious this Dunlop, whoever he was, didn’t want to keep Daniel. You’ll just uncover some shameful tale that will upset your father more than the not knowing. Let sleeping dogs lie, I say.’
James drained off his second whisky and closed his eyes. Sleeping dogs. He fondled Breckon’s ears. The dog snuffled.
‘If only I could sleep without dreaming,’ James sighed.
What was it that had so disturbed him? It lurked just beyond his consciousness like a wild animal ready to attack the moment he drifted off. Something terrible, something his mind had closed off for years.
Exhaustion, the doctor said. Take some leave. But he was fearful of going to England and facing Tilly, frightened that his marriage was over. Last month he had turned seventy; perhaps he had already left it too late to patch things up between them? For the first time in his life he was feeling his age and questioning his own mortality. He didn’t want to leave Assam. Increasingly he was finding it hard to leave his sanctuary of Cheviot View. Other than his own bungalow, only Clarrie at Belgooree provided anything like a safe haven. The thought of Clarrie lifted his spirits. His cousin’s widow was kind and sensible; she understood him. Perhaps he should talk to her about these strange dreams – and his anxiety at meeting Libby again after all these years. He would go and see Clarrie.
With that comforting thought, James fell into an uneasy sleep.