Assam, India, late April
‘Is that your father?’ Flowers asked, pointing at a white-haired, barrel-chested man of medium height, standing on the ghat clutching his hat.
Libby’s heart was racing. Even with the morning river breeze on the sluggish Brahmaputra she had been in a permanent sweat since transferring from train to riverboat. She had been ecstatic that her telephone call to Clarrie, insisting that she and Flowers were coming to Assam, had galvanised her father out of his black mood. But for the entire journey she had been dreading the state in which she might find him. Distracted by the dazzling sight of dawn coming up over the wide river, her nerves had steadied. Now her anxiety returned. As a porter grabbed her case and heaved it on to his head, she took a second look.
‘No, I don’t think . . .’
Then Libby saw the man catch sight of her, wave and chuck his hat in the air. Just like her father used to do. She swallowed her surprise.
‘Yes – yes, that’s him!’
Libby set off down the gangplank, side-stepping porters and luggage, and breaking into a run. Waving with both hands, she shrieked, ‘Daddy!’
Pushing past the other disembarking passengers and riverside pedlars, Libby reached her father and flung herself at him. He laughed and hugged her self-consciously, patting her back.
‘Well, well, little Libby! Can it really be you?’
Libby, her arms around his neck, squeezed him to her and breathed in the dusty smell of his jacket: sweat masked by camphor and soap. His familiar smell brought tears to her eyes. His breath smelt mildly of whisky and peppermint.
They broke away, gazing at each other and grinning. Libby was shocked at how old he looked; his hair and moustache were snowy-white against his lined leathery face, his cheeks sunken and his eyes bloodshot. Her father appeared to have shrunk – she was nearly as tall as him now – and his legs were spindly and hairless in his khaki shorts. But his voice and his bashful smile were the same.
‘How are you, Dad?’ Libby asked in concern.
‘Never better,’ he said.
‘Cousin Clarrie sounded so worried about you on the phone.’
‘A fuss about nothing. Touch liverish that’s all. A few days’ rest. Right as rain now.’ He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘How was your journey?’ he asked. ‘I really think you should have let Dr Watson accompany you.’
‘It was fine, Dad,’ said Libby. ‘No one troubled us – except to sell us peanuts and chai, which we were happy to buy. There was a very interesting teacher making her way to Kalimpong who shared our compartment as far as Siliguri. Uncle Johnny sends his very best greetings – and Aunt Helena too of course.’
James raised an eyebrow. ‘I bet she didn’t – Helena has never been a fan of mine.’
‘Okay,’ Libby admitted, ‘it was largely Uncle Johnny. They’ve been so kind to me in Calcutta, and old Colonel Swinson’s a dear – I wish you’d come for my birthday, you’d have seen your old friends the Percy-Barratts and—’
‘Where is your friend?’ James interrupted.
‘Oh goodness!’ Libby exclaimed and swung round; she had momentarily forgotten all about Flowers. She saw her companion walking towards them, neat and cool in her fashionable frock and hat, with the porters following in her wake. Libby waved her over.
‘Meet my father,’ said Libby eagerly.
Flowers smiled and held out a white-gloved hand for James to shake.
James gave her a bashful welcome. ‘Come along then, car’s waiting. Manzur’s driving. Thought we’d go straight to Cheviot View.’
‘Manzur? How lovely! But aren’t we going to Shillong first?’ Libby asked. ‘Flowers wants to see where her father grew up.’
‘Plenty of time for that. Imagine you’re keen to see home after all this time, Libby?’
‘Of course, but Flowers—’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Flowers said quickly. ‘I’m not that interested in Daddy’s school life. I’m just happy to be on holiday.’
James looked relieved. ‘Good. Come on then, girls.’
At the car, a slim handsome Indian stepped forward, pushing a pair of sunglasses on to his forehead.
‘Manzur?’ Libby cried in disbelief. He was a taller version of the boy she had liked in childhood, with the same large brown eyes and cheeks that dimpled when he smiled.
‘Missy sahib,’ he said with a grin.
‘Call me Libby, for heaven’s sake.’ Laughing, she introduced him to Flowers. ‘Manzur grew up at Cheviot View – my brother James and he were thick as thieves. I was always trying to join in their games but they used to make me hide and then they’d run away.’
‘I’m much more well behaved now,’ Manzur said.
Flowers smiled. ‘Glad to hear it.’
‘Manzur is my very able assistant manager at the Oxford,’ said James. ‘Now, all aboard.’
Manzur held open a rear passenger door for the women. Libby noticed the look of interest in Flowers’s eyes as she slipped into the seat and nodded her thanks to the young assistant. As they set off, Libby leant forward eagerly to speak to her father, trying not to stare at his changed appearance. When had his hair turned so white? But the conversation soon petered out.
‘Makes me carsick to keep turning round,’ James complained.
Libby sat back, her stomach knotting. She gazed at the back of his head and thick neck – so familiar and yet not. He was still the same man she remembered, just older. It was bound to be a little awkward at first. Once they were back at Cheviot View, they’d rekindle their old closeness.
Libby spent the morning hanging out of the window and gazing at the passing countryside: rice paddies criss-crossed by dusty tracks that wound their way into low forested hills, the occasional corrugated-iron-roofed bungalow and villages of bamboo huts shaded by palms. The sun pulsed in a hazy sky and dust blew up from the road but she refused to wind up the window.
She grinned. ‘I want to smell Assam.’
They stopped for tiffin at a dak bungalow. Libby insisted that Manzur join them, sensing too that her father felt more at ease with the young man in attendance. Libby encouraged Flowers to chatter with her father about the War and her time at the Burma Front as a nurse. To her relief, her father made an effort to be sociable to her friend. Libby began to hope that Clarrie had been over-anxious for no reason, though she did notice how her father kept swigging from a hip flask. Manzur was quiet, observing them. Libby engaged him in conversation.
‘How are your parents?’
‘They are well, thank you.’
‘Still both working at Cheviot View?’
Manzur nodded.
‘They must be very proud of you becoming a manager on the Oxford.’
‘Your father has been very good to me.’
An awkward silence ensued. She noticed him sliding glances at Flowers as he ate. Libby tried again.
‘And you’ve been tutor to my cousin Harry at Belgooree? Adela told me Harry much preferred you teaching him than going to school.’
Manzur smiled. ‘Robson chota-sahib is a quick learner, but he prefers to be outdoors riding or playing cricket.’
Libby laughed. ‘I think that’s the same for all of us tea planter children.’
Back on the road, James fell asleep in the front and Flowers dozed in the back. But Libby was far too excited for sleep as they approached the first of the tea plantations. Acres of green bushes stretched as far as the eye could see like an undulating emerald carpet, shaded by feathery trees and bounded by thickening jungle. They rattled over a narrow bridge. Below, elephants rolled in the mud of the almost dried-up riverbed. The smell of heat, vegetation and dung transported Libby back to her childhood.
As the familiar outlines of the hills around her old home came into view, her eyes prickled with emotion. Plantation gates appeared ahead, proclaiming the Oxford Tea Estates. James abruptly woke up.
‘Take us straight to the house,’ he ordered.
‘But, sahib, there is tea laid on at the clubhouse,’ Manzur said. ‘A welcome for—’
‘No,’ James snapped, ‘we can do that another time. My daughter wants to get home.’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Libby. ‘It would be nice to show Flowers the clubhouse.’
‘Not today.’
Libby gave Flowers an apologetic look. Her father was obviously tired by the journey. He must have left Belgooree in the early hours to meet the steamer.
‘We’ll take you round the estate later in the week,’ Libby promised.
Manzur swung the car past the gates and headed for the un-metalled road that wound up to Cheviot View.
Half an hour later, Libby was queasy with anticipation as they rounded the bend and her old home appeared through the trees, perched on the hillside among flowering bushes. Its weathered upstairs veranda was choked in creepers.
‘When did you have the roof replaced?’ Libby asked, with a twinge of disappointment at seeing the green corrugated roof in place of the old thatch.
‘Goodness, it’s been like that for years,’ said James.
Almost before the car had stopped, Libby was flinging open the door and scrambling out. She rushed round to the front of the house – the lawns were still well cut and the borders were a riot of pansies, violets and wall-flowers. A black flat-coated retriever came bounding across the lawn, barking loudly.
‘Breckon!’ James shouted, hurrying across on stiff legs. The dog leapt towards his master, dancing around him in excitement. ‘How I’ve missed you, you rogue!’ James bent down and patted him vigorously. The dog licked his hand and thumped his tail.
‘Mother’s canna lilies are still here,’ Libby said in delight as her father fussed over his beloved dog.
‘I’ve kept everything as your mother likes it,’ he said.
Libby’s eyes watered at the tender remark. Just then she saw a movement on the bungalow steps: the servants had lined up to greet her. Manzur’s parents, Aslam the bearer and Meera, her old ayah, were among them. Aslam’s beard was silver-grey but Meera still looked remarkably young for a woman in middle age. Libby ran up the steps and threw her arms around Meera. Her former nurse rubbed her back and then gently pushed her to arm’s length.
‘It’s so good to see you all again,’ Libby said, tears spilling down her cheeks.
‘Come, come,’ said James, ‘no need to get upset.’
‘Not upset’ – Libby smiled tearfully – ‘just very happy.’
She turned back to Flowers who was saying something to Manzur; the young manager was giving an embarrassed smile. Libby waved her over.
‘Come on, Flowers! Let me show you around.’
Libby rushed between the rooms, relishing their familiarity; the highly patterned floor rugs and veranda cushions had faded to muted browns but the sitting room was still cluttered with brass ornaments, bookcases and tables crammed with family photographs. Even her mother’s stamp collection was still gathering dust on a shelf under an oil painting of a Scottish Highland scene. It was all sweetly familiar and yet there was a neglected air about the place – a smell of mildewed books and decaying flowers – that highlighted the absence of her mother and brothers. How the house needed a family to breathe life back into it! Why had her mother kept them away for so long?
‘Your bedroom should be shipshape,’ said James, perhaps catching the regretful look on her face. ‘I sent a message to Aslam to unpack all your things from the trunk in the godown – as long as the ants haven’t made a meal of them.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ Libby answered, though she couldn’t remember what possessions of hers could have been stored all this time.
Her bed under the mosquito net was covered in her old pale-green counterpane and two dolls with china faces and Edwardian clothing were propped on the pillows.
‘Milly and Dilly!’ she cried in astonishment. ‘I’d forgotten all about them.’ On closer inspection, it appeared that moths had eaten away at their outfits.
Libby saw that old toys were displayed on top of a rusted black tin trunk: a collection of metal cars that she had once won off Jamie in a dare, a spinning top, a cracked solitaire board with metal balls and a tennis racket. Libby picked up the racket and curled her fingers around the peeling leather handle.
For a moment she was transported back to a hot afternoon playing tennis with Jamie on the makeshift court at the side of the house. Manzur was acting as their ball boy. Her mother was sitting reading in the shade while Ayah Meera pushed Mungo in his pram up and down the terrace. Libby and her brother must have been arguing over the rules because she remembered Tilly shouting, ‘Oh, do be quiet! You’re giving me a headache.’ Shortly afterwards, Libby, infuriated at her brother for cheating, had thrown down her racket in protest and stomped off.
Libby gave a sigh of amusement as she put the battered racket back down on the trunk; she’d forgotten how much indignant stomping off she had done as a child.
Turning to the window, she gasped. Sitting on top of the table was her mother’s gaudy musical box. She opened it up and wound the key. The tinny strains of Swan Lake played for a few seconds.
‘I was always getting into trouble for playing with this,’ Libby told Flowers. ‘Mother kept it on her dressing table but I used to sneak in and take it to bed. It helped me get to sleep. Meera must have remembered.’
Flowers was given Jamie’s old room. ‘It’s got the best view,’ Libby told her. ‘Gets the morning sunshine too before the heat – so you can open your shutters and listen to the birdsong.’
After washing and changing, they met on the veranda for drinks. Manzur was staying the night to visit his parents in the compound and James invited him to take supper with them in the bungalow. Libby thought how such a thing would have been unheard of before the War – having an Indian employee dine with them – but she was glad at the change. Her father seemed far less hidebound by social etiquette than she had remembered. Perhaps it was because people like the Percy-Barratts were no longer keeping a watchful eye on his household. Libby could almost hear Muriel admonishing them: ‘Mustn’t let the side down by mixing with the natives.’ But such notions would soon be obsolete once Independence came, surely? At least Libby hoped they would.
Flowers and Libby drank gimlets, while Manzur had a lemonade. Libby sensed the young Indian was ill at ease having his father, Aslam, bustle about overseeing the khitmutgar in the pouring of drinks. James downed a large whisky and immediately ordered another.
Libby sat contentedly, gazing out over the garden and jungle to the tea plantations in the distance, as the sky turned from gold to orange to red to purple. James and Manzur talked about work. The sky went green then darkness fell abruptly. The air pulsed with the sound of insects and the stars came out in abundance. Before they went into the dining room, Libby saw her father pour himself another large whisky. With dismay she realised he must have drunk half a decanter already. She never remembered him drinking this much.
James ordered a bottle of champagne to be served with the main course.
‘I kept it for your mother all through the War,’ he said, ‘but no point in letting it gather dust any longer. Not when there’s a special occasion like this.’ When the drink was poured, James got to his feet and raised his glass.
‘I last saw my daughter when she was twelve years old—’
‘Eleven,’ Libby corrected.
‘Eleven then,’ he conceded. ‘A long time ago. So this is a very special day for me.’ He turned to look directly at her, his blue eyes softening. ‘Libby, you have grown into a beautiful young woman and I’m proud to be your father.’ He paused and Libby saw his chin tremble. He bit his lip and swallowed hard. ‘To Libby!’ he croaked and gulped at his champagne.
‘To Libby!’ Flowers and Manzur chorused.
Libby felt suddenly overwhelmed, her eyes flooding with tears. She had never before seen her father grow emotional or show his feelings. This man was more vulnerable – and perhaps kinder – than the bullish man of action she remembered. She ought to be pleased but somehow seeing him close to tears made panic rise in her chest.
Flowers came to the rescue with light-hearted conversation about Calcutta parties and outings.
‘It sounds like you’ve been helping my daughter have a good time in the city,’ James said. ‘I’m afraid we can’t offer much to keep you young ladies entertained here.’
‘It’s just nice to get away and have a break,’ said Flowers. ‘It’s very kind of you to have me to stay.’
‘Not at all,’ said James. ‘You’ll be company for Libby.’ He turned to Libby. ‘So you’ve seen quite a bit of Clarrie’s nephew, George Brewis, eh?’
‘For a while,’ said Libby, ‘but not recently.’
‘Any other young men that I should worry about?’ he asked.
Libby laughed. ‘None to worry about, no.’
‘Libby is very popular among the Strachan’s men,’ teased Flowers. ‘She can take her pick on the dance floor.’
‘No more than you.’ Libby smiled. ‘But I’m not interested in anything more than dancing. They’re fun but a bit dull at conversation.’
‘You sound so like your mother,’ James chuckled. ‘So who do you like conversing with?’
‘The Khans are a very interesting couple.’
‘The Khans?’ James queried.
‘Rafi’s sister and brother – Fatima and Ghulam,’ said Libby. Even as she mentioned Ghulam’s name she could feel the heat rushing to her face. ‘Adela encouraged me to meet them and I’m glad I have.’
‘Not that terrorist who went to prison for arson?’ James cried, horrified.
‘He’s not a terrorist, Dad,’ said Libby. ‘He’s passionate about freeing India from colonial rule but he turned his back on violence years ago. He’s spent the past year trying to stop the bloodshed in Calcutta – so has Fatima.’
‘I’m surprised at Adela putting you in touch with such a man,’ her father said with a frown, ‘or that the Watsons allowed it.’
‘Of course they did. Uncle Johnny welcomed them to his home,’ said Libby. ‘The Khans came to my birthday party.’ She gave him a pointed look.
James glanced away and drained his glass. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have let a communist agitator like Khan over my doorstep.’
‘Even though Ghulam is Rafi’s brother?’ Libby challenged. ‘And Rafi is your friend?’
‘Rafi is different – he’s a civilised Indian. Under Sophie’s influence he’s practically one of us.’
Libby was jolted by his words; they echoed Ghulam’s own earlier disdain for his older brother becoming like one of the sahib-log.
‘Ghulam is a highly educated and principled man,’ said Libby.
‘Well, he’s put that education to bad use,’ snapped James. ‘I remember him coming and causing trouble around the tea gardens in the thirties.’
‘Trouble for the planters, you mean,’ said Libby, ‘not their tea pickers.’
‘He did them no favours! Stirred them up in the lines with a few speeches and then was gone. So I don’t want you defending his revolutionary talk. These agitators have no idea how hard we all work to keep the plantations running and satisfy the demand for tea.’
‘What do you think, Manzur?’ Libby turned to the young assistant.
He squirmed in his seat and Libby immediately regretted asking him. He had hardly touched his food. She was embarrassed at her father’s patronising words about civilised Indians. Manzur cleared his throat.
‘The gardens provide work for many people,’ he answered. ‘Low castes and migrants who can’t get work anywhere else. We house them and give them medical care.’
‘Well said, Manzur,’ James cried. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘My daughter is an idealist and easily persuaded by radical talk – her mother said she was like this all through school.’
‘Give me some credit for having my own beliefs,’ protested Libby, hurt at her father siding with Tilly’s critical view of her. ‘Anyway, what’s wrong with idealism? India will need people with vision and optimism in the coming years.’
‘What India needs is pragmatists,’ James replied, ‘who will see that they still need our expertise in industry and our capital. Men like Khan want to sweep it all away. But India will still need wealth and trade.’
‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘but after Independence it will be Indians who make the decisions about their own economy. The future should be in the hands of men like Manzur, not you, Father.’
‘And it will be. But that’s enough politics,’ James said in agitation. ‘Miss Dunlop hasn’t come all this way to listen to you lecture us all about socialism.’
‘I’m not lecturing—’
‘That’s enough, Libby,’ James ordered. ‘I want no further talk about the Khans or their radical ideas.’
Libby bit back an indignant retort, stung by her father’s disapproval. She felt like a child again, being publicly admonished. Her father had no right to silence her; she was just as entitled to voice her opinions as he was. It dismayed her that his way of thinking was so at odds with hers and that they had been so quick to argue. It wasn’t what she’d expected. When she was a child, her father had always taken her side.
Flowers quickly filled the awkward silence.
‘My father once came on a camping trip to the hills around here,’ she said. ‘The year he left school. He’s always had a fondness for Assam – that’s why he jumped at the chance of promotion to stationmaster in the Sylhet district. That’s where I grew up.’
‘Good tea-growing area too,’ said James. He began a rambling monologue about rainfall and south-facing slopes.
Libby was embarrassed to realise that her father was quite drunk. She admired Flowers for the tactful way she showed an interest and gave encouraging answers. It was just what Adela would have done. Libby felt a stab of guilt for answering her father back. It was the very first night of their reunion and she had allowed herself to lose patience with him. She was upset by their differences – especially over Ghulam – but her father was still recovering from his bout of fatigue. She must try and be more considerate. Besides, he was from such a different generation to hers that he was bound to think differently. The last thing she wanted was to argue with her dad. She would make more effort not to rile him.
When the meal was over Libby suggested, ‘Shall we take tea and a nightcap on the veranda?’
‘Sounds a jolly good idea,’ James slurred. He pushed back his chair and stood swaying.
Manzur took this moment to escape. He stood and gave a courteous bow. ‘Thank you for a very enjoyable meal.’
‘Stay a bit longer,’ James insisted.
‘Thank you, but my mother . . .’
‘Of course you must go and see your mother,’ Libby said, not wanting to prolong his discomfort. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘I hope you have an enjoyable stay,’ said Manzur, nodding at Flowers.
She gave him one of her dazzling smiles. ‘Thank you. And I hope we’ll meet again while I’m here.’
Libby saw Manzur blush, his attractive brown eyes widening. ‘P-perhaps . . .’ he stammered and swiftly took his leave.
Flowers took his departure as an excuse to retire to bed, leaving Libby alone with her father. Libby steered him on to the veranda and into a cane chair.
‘Can manage,’ he mumbled. But within a minute he was asleep and snoring.
Libby gazed at him. He was almost a stranger to her, his mouth gaping and his face flushed under tousled white hair. Hair grew from his nostrils and ears too. The hands that hung loose over the chair arms were knotted with veins and marked with age spots. He looked so vulnerable: a man well past his prime. She felt engulfed with regret that they would never be able to recapture the eleven years during which they had been separated. They no longer knew each other.
Why had her parents allowed such a long time apart? She and her brothers had been robbed of a father and a proper family life. How she wished her parents had been more like Clarrie and Wesley and sent their children to school in India! Libby thought bitterly of her long cold exile at boarding school in Britain. Why hadn’t they returned to India at the beginning of the War as so many other children of tea planters and civil servants had?
Libby felt familiar resentment at her mother twist inside; Tilly had always seen Newcastle as home rather than Assam. But had her father been equally to blame? Why hadn’t he insisted that they return? She let out a long sigh. There was no point in hankering after what might have been. At least she was back home now. Libby breathed in the warm scented air. She got up and, leaning over her father, gave him a tender kiss on the forehead. Tomorrow she would try harder to get to know him again. She tiptoed away to the bedroom that she had last slept in when she was eight years old.
James woke briefly as his daughter departed, then fell back into a fitful sleep.
He was standing in Bill Logan’s study at Dunsapie Cottage. The start of the cold season was bringing relief after the sweltering monsoon but James still found the room stifling and airless. The rest of the house was crammed with new furniture, china and glassware for Logan’s future wife.
‘I’ll be gone for a month,’ said Logan, ‘so you will be in charge of the running of my bungalow. Make sure the servants don’t cheat me or steal.’
James felt relief that his boss would be gone until Christmas. Perhaps he and Reggie might take a few days off to go on shikar now that the tea growing season was over. The experienced tea planter Fairfax, who was an expert in tracking tigers, had promised to take the young bachelors game hunting. James could hardly hide his impatience at seeing the back of Logan for a while. And perhaps the man would become more bearable once he was married and responsible for a wife. The new century would bring fresh beginnings, James thought with optimism.
‘And one more thing,’ Logan said, pouring them both a whisky. ‘You will make sure that native woman is gone by the time I bring Jessie Anderson back. I can’t risk my young wife being subjected to one of her crying fits. It might lead to awkward questions.’
James’s insides turned leaden. ‘Aruna is still coming to the bungalow?’ he asked in dismay. On the few occasions he had spotted her among the pickers, she had looked sallow and forlorn, but he’d been at a loss as to how to comfort her.
For a moment Logan looked uncomfortable. ‘I have been too weak with her,’ he said, ‘allowing her to come to – er – visit on the odd occasion.’
James looked at him, appalled. Surely his boss had not resumed taking the tea picker into his bed. Had he not caused the hapless woman enough grief by fathering the Brat and then having him disposed of like an unwanted dog?
‘Don’t give me that insubordinate look, Robson,’ Logan snapped. ‘A man has physical needs.’
James couldn’t trust himself to speak.
‘But she’s becoming tiresome,’ said Logan. ‘Making a scene every time she has to leave. I think it’s something to do with the Brat. You can deal with it – you’re better with the natives than I am. Make her understand that the boy is in good hands now.’
Logan handed him a tumbler of whisky. James felt nauseous at the smell.
‘Come on, drink your dram,’ said Logan. ‘You look like a condemned man. I’m the one who is giving up my freedom, not you.’ He laughed and knocked back his drink.
James hesitated and then put his tumbler down on the desk. ‘Stomach’s not up to drinking at midday, sir. But I wish you well for your forthcoming marriage to Miss Anderson.’
Logan gave him a look of disdain. ‘You’ll soon discover, Robson, that whisky cures most ailments out here in Assam. Only men with strong constitutions, who don’t allow their feelings to rule them, survive life in the colonies.’
James made for the door.
‘Just remember,’ Logan called after him. ‘I want that native girl kept away from here. Do what you have to do.’
James nearly choked on the bile in his throat. He couldn’t get away from the bungalow quickly enough. Poor Jessie Anderson coming to live here with that man!
As he ran down the veranda steps, he caught sight of Sunil Ram sitting cross-legged, staring up at him with accusing eyes. Somewhere in the shadows beyond he thought he heard whimpering. A puppy, no doubt. James hurried away . . .
James woke with a start. Someone was shaking him. He raised a hand to ward them off, ready to punch with his other.
‘Aruna?’ he gasped. The young woman was standing there, her dark hair curling around her face.
‘Mr Robson, it’s me, Flowers Dunlop. You’ve been having a nightmare.’ She spoke in a soft reassuring voice. ‘I didn’t want you to wake Libby.’
He gaped at her. Where was he? His heart beat erratically and his palms were sweating. His head felt as if it were clamped in a vice.
‘Shall I help you to bed?’ asked Flowers.
James realised with a flood of relief that he was on the veranda at Cheviot View. The dream of Logan and Dunsapie Cottage had been so vivid that for a moment, on waking, he had mistaken Libby’s friend for someone else.
‘I’m sorry if I woke you,’ he said. ‘Was – was I shouting? Aslam complains that I shout in my sleep.’
‘I think you were crying,’ said Flowers.
He felt embarrassed under her dark assessing look. ‘Crying? What nonsense.’
Flowers took a step away. ‘Perhaps I was mistaken. But you must be uncomfortable in the chair. Wouldn’t you sleep better in bed?’
James sighed. ‘I can’t sleep in there. Too stuffy. Fan’s been broken since the War.’
He wasn’t going to tell her that he’d promised himself he would fix it once Tilly came back to him. Neither was it any of this woman’s business that he found the dark shuttered bedroom too oppressive. He feared most the dreams he had in there. He thought the time at Belgooree had cured him of his nightmares. It was just that he had drunk too much alcohol, nervous at having people under his roof again after all this time. He would curb his drinking, at least while Libby was here.
He had a hot wave of panic. How long was his daughter going to stay here with her Anglo-Indian friend? He had been eager to see Libby but now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps Tilly had been right when she had warned that their daughter was difficult to live with, rebellious and opinionated. Would he be able to love her again? James felt ill. He shivered, even though it wasn’t cold.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Please go back to bed, Miss Dunlop. I’m sorry I disturbed you.’
She left and he closed his eyes. A minute later, she was back, tucking a thin blanket around him.
‘My father’s the same.’ Flowers smiled. ‘Sits up too late and falls asleep. I’ll see you in the morning, Mr Robson.’
James murmured his thanks but she was already padding away on bare feet. His eyes itched with tiredness. He rubbed them with the heels of his hands. He pulled his hands away, surprised to find them wet with tears. Dread clawed inside. He didn’t want to fall asleep again. He didn’t want to dream. James sat up in the chair and threw off the blanket. He would force himself to stay awake until dawn.