`And was protected because of that?'
`Naturally.'
`Quite naturally,' he agreed amicably. He lit another cigarette, and, rather to Greer's relief, for she simply didn't know what he was trying to establish, veered the conversation away from Holly.
`How do you feel about your new post?'
'Frankly nervous. I mean if I had a definite thing to do, like nursing, like teaching, I could be preparing myself. But how does one prepare oneself to observe? And then is it a good thing that these grandparents wish? Although I have promised Senhor Martinez I'm still not entirely happy over it. Children' . . . she searched for words, but only found the words she had used previously . . . 'children are love.'
`Yes, but so are families, Greer. Look at yourself. When Holly entered your family . . . or if you like you entered hers . . . the same love sprang up.' He paused a little tentatively. 'Too much love?'
`I don't understand you.'
`I'm not quite clear myself as yet. But I will be. That small argument, incidentally, was really just to defend the grandparents, who are wonderful people, Greer. You in their position would be the same, would do the same. The pull of family.' He smiled rather wryly at her.
About to argue back again, Greer thought of this afternoon and how she had supported Arlene, and how she intended to support her, simply because she was her uncle's wife.
`I suppose you're right,' she sighed.
`Don't be so serious about it. And don't dread tomorrow. The children will be bathed, dressed and fed by their ayah, a very efficient woman, then later tutored for several hours by Jim Matson, with whom you should get on very well, for besides being extremely likeable he is a fellow Australian.
`That sounds cheering,' said Greer. She added thoughtfully, 'This Jim Matson should have been able to give a
few clues. A teacher is always very close.'
`He has come forward with pointers. Only' . . . a little chuckle . . . 'the next day there is another pointer.'
`I never asked you about the children's blood groups,' said Greer. 'I suppose that was looked into?'
`Yes. They're the same group.' A shrug.
The night took over. They did not speak for quite a while. Farther down the garden white figures moved across the soft grass, their voices wafting in musical conversation. The whiteness and the cadence, thought Greer, was India.
Terry broke the silence. He said, 'Indian nights are very positive, very intense. There's no wraith-like quality in that moon, nor in those stars.' He looked up at the sky. `Without what such nights should rightly incorporate such definiteness can sometimes be — disturbing.'
She looked at him quickly. The dark blue perfection had disturbed her. But what did he mean by 'what such nights should incorporate'?
He was not looking back at her but back at the house. Had he been thinking of Holly as he had spoken? Was it Holly he was thinking of now? But surely such an intelligent man should be aware that other eyes looked, too, and even though she had known him very briefly Greer knew that those darker eyes of Senhor Martinez would look much deeper, much longer . . . and because he was Senhor Martinez much more successfully?
In spite of the warmth she felt herself shivering. `I'll go in now,' she said. 'Can I see Holly?'
`You'll find her asleep.' But he nodded permission. He called after Greer, 'Have a good sleep yourself.'
After she had stood a few minutes by her sister, Holly still looking as untroubled and relaxed as she had looked earlier, Greer went upstairs to her bedroom.
She had unpacked, she had bathed, so there was nothing to keep her from slipping between the silk sheets that awaited her. She had never slept between silk sheets before and the feel of them as she had put her nightie
under the pillow earlier had enticed her. Now she looked forward to trying them out, for after all it had been a very wearying day.
For a long time she thought sleep would elude her. Everything that had happened, happened once more in retrospect. They were met again at the ship, they went to Uncle Randall's apartment, the episode in the lane was staged again, all the whirlwind things that had followed afterwards. It seemed impossible that so much had occurred since the Fairadventure had slipped into a dark depressing port. Wide-eyed, Greer stared into the dark but far from depressing room.
She had a lot to do tomorrow, she reminded herself, she had to earn her keep, Holly's . . . Arlene's. She willed sleep, but still the day's events kept recurring.
Then some time later she heard a car pulling up. Then steps. In some inexplicable way she knew they were the Senhor's steps, that Vasco Martinez was home.
She slept.
A little jewel-eyed maid brought in iced paw-paw sprinkled with fresh lime, a pot of tea, Indian of course, a plate of thin toast along with the Times of India, and Greer knew it was morning.
Against the pot of tea was a note. It said in almost copperplate writing: 'If Senhorita Greer prefers an English breakfast, it awaits in the green and blue dining room.'
It was signed Vasco M.
Senhorita Greer did not prefer it. She delighted in the cold fruit. She turned the pages of The Times, English edition.
After that she lay dreaming a while, staring at the sky that was blue but not yet such an enamel blue, then she showered and put on a floral cotton mini. Thank goodness, she thought, Bombay's heat demanded cool simplicity, no stockings, for at least I can provide for that.
She went downstairs and along to the room where she had dined the night before. Senhor Martinez was still seated at the table.
He got up at once and went to pull out a chair for her.
`No,' she protested, 'I just came to tell you I wasn't coming.'
They both laughed at that, and for a quick moment she glimpsed him as she had glimpsed him yesterday, standing outside of his instinctive authority, his self-assurance, only it was not a gentleness now, it was an amusement. He was almost a boy, she thought, laughing like that.
`I'm Double Dutch,' she shrugged.
`Senhorita?' Puzzled.
`It's a silly thing we say.'
`It is good sometimes to be foolish. So the European breakfast sufficed?'
`Yes.'
`Strange, but I have adopted the English custom.' He nodded to the sideboard with its hot dishes. 'Is that all you wished of me, Senhorita Greer?'
`My directions for the day.'
`You know them already. You please yourself what you do, but when you can you observe. No doubt today will be taken up by getting to know the children, speaking with their ayah and tutor. Also you will wish to be with your sister for a period. The doctor who already has breakfasted has said you are to feel free to come and go to the sickroom. Already I have gone.'
`You . . Just in time Greer stopped herself from questioning this early visit. After all this was his house, Holly if not exactly his guest here solely through his benevolence. Only it was not benevolence, Greer thought, with Holly, it was – it was—
'I will go now if you will excuse me, Senhor Martinez.'
`By all means. I myself have business in the city.
Please to make yourself at home.'
At home! But home, half-smiled Greer, going down the huge hall to Holly's beautiful room, was never like this.
She was pleased to see her sister supported by a few cushions, certainly not sitting up yet but not the inert figure of yesterday any more. The nurse, also jewel-eyed, whispered in an aside that the memsahib was much better though still rather weak; that she had had a light breakfast.
`Please not to talk too long,' she entreated.
Greer sat beside Holly and took the thin fingers in hers.
`Feeling better, darling?'
`Much,' Holly smiled.
`It's nice here, pet. And when you're strong enough to go into the garden you'll be delighted.'
`Yes.' Holly's bright eyes indicated that she was looking forward to that.
`Later we'll do a lot of things,' Greer planned. 'See the Victoria Te
rminus, a sandalwood factory, a silkworm farm – Elephanta.'
Holly's pale lips framed, 'The shops?'
`Of course.'
Now Holly looked apologetic. Growing up as she had in a family where money was never plentiful, she was reluctant to ask for anything. So instead she glanced down at her nightie, then up to Greer in mute appeal.
`I know, darling, and of course you must have something smarter. It's just while you were lying down that it didn't matter. I'll get some very soon. Bedjackets, too, a negligee.'
`No.' Holly tried to refuse, but her eyes were sparkling. Poor little girl, to anticipate prettiness in bed where other young people—
`Please, memsahib.' It was the little nurse. Her eyes were anxious. 'The doctor said—'
`Of course. And I was leaving, anyway, I'll see you later, darling.' Greer kissed Holly and went out.
She was frowning as she shut the door behind her, and the Senhor, passing along the hall, stopped and said, 'You are troubled, Senhorita Greer?'
`Not really,' she answered.
`Yet you wear a frown. It is not the sickroom that worries you?'
`Not at all. Everything is perfectly satisfactory there.'
`Then—?'
`Nothing. I – I was just in a dream.' Greer wondered what this man would say if she told him, 'I was just wondering how I could get some quick money.' For it would have to be quick by the way Holly was recovering. She could even, Greer thought, be sitting up tomorrow.
`A bad dream,' he said, displeased. 'That is not good.'
`You mean because I will be associating with your young? I agree with you. Little ones should be met with a smile. See, I'm smiling.' She made herself do so.
He smiled back at her. 'It was only a passing thought?'
`I've forgotten it already.'
`Then please to keep forgetting.' He bowed and let her pass.
Greer, wishing she could forget a new nightdress for Holly, a bedjacket, a wrap, slippers, went into the bright sunshine, choosing the door she had taken yesterday, the one that led to the turquoise pool.
The boys were not there, but she could hear them talking as they walked in the garden with their ayah. She followed the sound of the young voices.
They were more soberly clad ... or at least Chandra was ... this morning, in drill shorts and cotton shirts. No pink and orange robes fit for a princeling. Their little brown feet were in sandals.
When they saw Greer they bowed and said, 'Salaam.'
The mature Indian woman in spotless white salaamed too. Greer spoke to her, but found that although she had been understood everywhere in Bombay so far, Ayah's English was sparse.
Subhas . . . or was it Chandra? . . . took it upon himself to interpret, but Greer soon suspected that what Ayah said changed on its way to her, for every now and then the two boys would break into giggles.
She was quite sure of this wrong interpretation when the child told her that Ayah advised Memsahib to take her two charges down to the market for candy.
`I can hardly believe that,' she retorted promptly.
`Neither can I,' came a voice at her side, and Greer turned to meet the smiling grey eyes of a man around her own years.
`Jim Matson,' he introduced, 'teacher to these two brats.'
`Greer Winthrop. I don't know whether you know about me.'
`Not near enough,' he assured her gallantly. He clapped his hands for the boys' attention and called, 'Classes!'
With the accepted laggard pace the world over, they left the delights of the garden for a small summerhouse that Greer had not noticed before.
`Feel free,' said Jim Matson quietly as he turned to follow his pupils in, 'to join us. You see' ... a reassuring smile . . . 'I know what you're here for.'
`Thank you,' Greer appreciated.
After they had gone she talked . . . or tried to talk .. . with Ayah a while. It was hard going, but when Ayah took her to her sewing room and showed her what she was making for her charges and Greer suggested a point or two, things went much easier.
Coffee was brought. Greer walked around the garden, running into a cacophony of shrill-voiced, highly coloured birds, who protested even more loudly at her approach, then she decided to take Jim at his word, to sit
in the classroom.
Of the two small boys, only one looked up and smiled as she joined them. Chandra ... or was it Subhas? . . . was too absorbed in his work. A pointer? wondered Greer. A student like his father?
Jim smiled and kept on with his lessons. They were doing Animals of the World, and Greer was pleased to see a kangaroo drawn on the blackboard. 'Does it make you feel homesick?' her fellow countryman managed to insert as he proceeded to the gorilla.
`Sometimes we eat it,' said either Chandra or Subhas knowledgeably of the gorilla.
`Eat it?' asked Jim.
`Yes,' agreed the other little boy, 'but we like Indian dinner better than your gorilla.'
Greer found a sudden urgency to fix up her shoe, and when she could contain herself sufficiently to look up again, Jim had conquered his grin and was on to Fawn. Who knew about a fawn?
`It's a fing on the cactus bush,' said one of them, and the other heartily agreed.
Having cleared the fawn matter up, Jim gave them some written work and came across to Greer.
They conversed softly together. Jim came from Northern Queensland, so did not find Bombay's heat oppressive, in fact it was home from home, except . . . a twinkle . . . it was a much grander home. He had other students, two of them on Malabar Hill, which Greer certainly must see; also a small class in town.
To her question as to whether he had formed any identity opinion yet, he shook his head. 'I sometimes think I'm on the track, then at once I'm right back to the drawing board again. I watch for a flag to be flown, but it's pretty useless. What one of them gains on the roundabouts the other gains on the swings, if you follow me, Greer. For instance . . .' He went to a press, took out a folio and came back with two examples.
`This composition was by Chandra,' he said. 'It's the
story of a boy who had dust in his eye and . . . lacking the word for oculist . . . called up the "Eye Dentist". Now I thought that quite apt, Greer, even creative. I also thought of it as a possible sign.
`But then on the other hand came Subhas's effort. He really tackled something. He wrote: "I am a mouse. I have emnies :" . . . he means enemies . . . : "they are the fox, the cat and Umen Beans." Literary talent, would you say? It's like that all the time. One boy one day, another the next.'
`Don't you consider it all unimportant, Jim? More than that even – distasteful? After all a child—'
`I did think in such a strain in the beginning,' Jim nodded. 'Then one day Senhor Martinez handed me some of Yaqub's poems. Greer, you must read them. Have you ever experienced the disturbing tenderness of the Indian Love Lyrics?'
`Pale hands I loved,' Greer murmured. 'Where the yellow roses—'
`Yes. These poems are inexplicably moving. One of them was written still in Yaqub's early teens. Would you like to read it? It's called simply "Bwali".'
`What does that mean?'
`Bwali is the name of a place. Quite a small village, but noted for its beautiful shrine. There is an old Hindu temple and it is reflected in—'
`May I read it?' Greer's hands were trembling a little. She took the paper from Jim.
The poem was inscribed simply as Jim had said `Bwali'.
Then :
The raiment Bwali wears are these .. . Saris of hills with folds of trees,
Sandals of sward, veils of the loom
Of mango (symbolled love) in bloom, Bangles of fern, bracelets of frond, Wreathes of pink lilies in the pond
To the Shrine at the top of the golden stairs. Bwali wears.'
`It's the Pool of the Pink Lilies,' Greer said softly.
`Yes, I believe it is known as that.' Jim got up to start another lesson, and Greer went out quietly.
She went in to see Holly, but her sister
was sleeping. She sat by her for a while, then remembered that she had not yet brought down the better of her clothes, so got up silently. Not that they would solve much, she thought unhappily as she went down the hall, that problem could only be solved by—
Almost as if it was a continuation of her thoughts, from one of the rooms she had not yet inspected an impeccable Indian . . . a Sikh, judging by his long beard, long hair, turban . . . emerged and smilingly detained her.
`Memsahib, I am the Senhor Martinez's accountant. Today is the day that the staff is paid. Therefore I would be obliged if you would step into the office.' He bowed.
Greer stepped, but once inside she said, if a little wistfully, 'I've only just started, surely I'm not entitled to payment?'
`The Senhor Martinez pays in advance, memsahib.' `Is that usual in India?'
The man shrugged his slim shoulders. 'It is India, yes, but a Portuguese household, and as head of the household the Senhor Martinez directs how he wishes things to be done. I have on my account sheet the advance salary due to Miss Greer Withrop. This is you, memsahib?'
`It is, but I still feel I am not entitled. Senhor Martinez has accepted my sister into his house, and although I intend to be in his employ he is still boarding and lodging us.'
The Sikh was very intelligent, and followed her keenly. `That is true,' he nodded, 'but I still have my orders. If the memsahib would sign here . .
Seeing that protests were in vain, Greer signed, thanked the accountant and was bowed out.
Up in the privacy of the red and white drawing-room she opened the white envelope. The money was Indian, but she had her currency guide with her. She compared and tallied and drew an incredulous breath. When the Portuguese had said there would be a salary she had never guessed, she had never thought . .
It was too much. That was her first impact. She must tell him so.
Her second thought was that although she could put what she considered too generous aside and return it, she could now spend the rest, spend it much sooner than she had believed, on Holly.
The Pool of Pink Lilies Page 7
