`Right.'
On the second day, for the medico had decided on more immobility for Greer, the Senhor came in with a letter. He gave it to her with a smile, but Greer could barely raise a smile back. She was remembering the note
that Arlene had sent her. This was in the same handwriting.
The Portuguese was unconcerned. If she had had any cause to believe he was even remotely interested in her, Greer would have put the acceptance down to the male indulgence to a female hand. But of course she had no such basis.
`Come,' he said jocularly, 'read it. Letters are sent to be read.'
`This is unimportant,' she shrugged. 'It's not from Australia, I mean.'
`Only Australian things are important, then?'
`I didn't mean that... I mean it's only a . . . well . . Now she was making something of it, the very last thing she wanted to do. 'I — I just sent for a horoscope,' she babbled, 'I saw the advertisement in the paper.'
He laughed at that and she made herself smile back.
`So already,' he told her, 'a little bit of India creeps in. By the time you have finished with Stuyva I think it will only be a small bit of Australia that is left.'
`Perhaps, senhor.' She glanced down at the letter.
`I believe,' he smiled again, 'for all your dismissal of its
importance, you are really eager to read it. Whose hor
oscope are you hoping to match, Senhorita Greer?' `What do you mean?'
`Horoscopes must match. Remember I told you that. I will leave you now, for never have I seen a more anxious face.' Again he laughed.
When he had gone Greer opened Arlene's letter. Arlene went straight to the point.
`Things are not too good, Greer. If you can help me before you go away I may be able to tide things over, but I am not sure. If possible will you come yourself. Discussions are better than writing.'
That was all she said.
That afternoon Greer tried out her foot and it felt practically as good as ever. She exercised and massaged it for hours, and the next day exhibited her progress by
walking out to the breakfast room where Holly, the Senhor and the doctor were eating the morning meal.
`Complete recovery,' she showed them, and they all applauded.
`Now,' approved Doctor Holliday, 'we can move as soon as you say, Vasco.'
`I say almost at once. My business things have been attended to, and those that may occur can be looked after from Stuyva. For that matter it is only, a moderate distance to return to Bombay. Those of the servants we will not need will take their holidays. The house will be closed. Will the ladies be ready to leave by tomorrow?'
Now was Greer's chance. 'There are a few things we need—' she murmured.
`Of course. I will instruct the driver to take you and Holly into the city.'
Still Greer hesitated, hating herself for what she was doing.
`And,' continued the Senhor, reading her at once, 'I will instruct my accountant to advance what will be needed for that shopping excursion. For that is what is worrying you young ladies, is it not?' he laughed indulgently.
True to his word, the accountant was waiting for Greer in the hall, and once more she went to his little office and received an advance salary. After that the girls went down the steps to the waiting car.
Luckily Holly had no head for figures. She also had simple tastes and was not really anxious for anything particular at all. `From what I have heard,' she said dreamily, 'in Stuyva it will be a simple country life.'
`Yes, darling. Look, Holly, I've just remembered I haven't bought a pair of walking shoes for myself, a strong supporting pair, my ankle still needs help, I think. Would you be all right waiting here?' They were in a tearoom that Senhor Martinez had recommended as quiet and reliable for a mid-morning rest, and Holly nodded back happily.
just like sitting and watching. Don't hurry back.' Greer wasted no time in hailing a taxi . . . the house car was waiting in a parking lot.. telling the man to take
the quickest route to Arlene's address. She ran up the apartment steps and Arlene opened the door. When Greer said she could not stop long the woman looked so disappointed that Greer agreed at least to have a cup of tea.
`Out here,' persuaded Arlene, 'it's cooler.' She added, `Leave your things there.' She took Greer's arm and led her to the small verandah. Now tell me more about this country visit. You said everyone is going?'
`It's supposed to be a simple house, but it must be a large simple one,' laughed Greer, 'for ours is quite a large household. I expect, though, that finally it will be Holly, Doctor Terry, the tutor and myself as well as Senhor Martinez with the boys and sufficient staff to cater who will travel to Stuyva.'
`The rest?' asked Arlene sharply.
`They will take their holidays and the Bombay home will be closed. I have brought you a few notes, Arlene' .. . Greer went to rise from the chair on the verandah where Arlene had placed her.
`Yes. Thank you, Greer. But just now talk to me. You don't know how lonely I get.'
It was the first time Arlene had shown any sentiment, and Greer wished she could stop longer with her. She did stop more than she had planned, but Holly, she knew, would be all right sitting in the recommended tearoom. But at last she said she must leave and she came back to where she had placed her things on Arlene's bed.
The bag was not on the bed. Then she saw she had placed it on the chair after all, not the bed. As she opened it she had an odd feeling of not placing it where she had found it, though, and she found herself thinking with sudden distaste of Arlene's woman-servant. She could not like the sulky, insolent girl.
However, she must be mistaken. Inside the bag every-
thing was as it had been. The money purse that had held the notes she had received in advance still held them. Her passport. The hill house key she never used.
She gave the bundle to Arlene, Arlene arguing that she must keep some for herself.
`I have. I assure you we won't need any more.'
`You're too good. Much too good. Will you let me know when you're returning? Will you let me know if everyone has left the Bombay house?'
`But why, Arlene?' Greer was getting her things together.
`Because I wouldn't care to send a message there, believing you had returned, only to have it draw attention by having to be forwarded. Or, if not forwarded, more prominent than it should be by waiting in the Bombay house for your return.'
`No,' agreed Greer, 'that makes sense. You were a horoscope before.' She gave a comical shrug. 'I hardly think it would do again.'
They parted very amicably; Arlene seemed to be making a special effort. Greer was reluctantly aware that she did not really like Arlene, would never really like her, but after all, she had done no wrong, and she was genuinely trying to make amends for her husband, even though it was through his niece. In short, she was trying.
Most of all she was a relation. She belonged.
Greer peered out of the taxi to wave up to Arlene and Arlene waved back. The slats of the blind were replaced as the taxi slid round the corner.
Arlene's maid came silently forward to put something in her mistress's hand.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE next morning, except for an essential section of the staff accompanying the party into the country, including Cook, some servants, Ayah, the accountant, and, of course, Tutor Jim, all but the gardener, who was to check the Bombay hill home occasionally, were paid up and dispatched on their annual vacations. Judging by their satisfied smiles there was a bonus with each payment.
Greer made a note on her memo as to the household arrangements. She was glad that Arlene had had the forethought to request this information. A forwarded letter, she mentally agreed with Arlene, would certainly draw attention at Stuyva; so would a letter awaiting her on her Bombay return. She did not want attention ... Vasco's attention . . . on anything to do with her uncle's wife. She would write and tell Arlene as soon as they reached their destination.
&nbs
p; It was a lovely departure; not such a blue enamel sky as usual, softer, gentler. The distance melted into an opalescent haze.
For a while the Senhor's car . . . Holly, Doctor Terry and Greer travelled with the Portuguese, the rest in several other cars ... went with necessary slowness through the city traffic, then past the great apartment blocks.
But soon the flats were becoming more and more infrequent, the crowds beginning to dwindle. Quite soon the countryside opened up.
It proved idyllic scenery. They went through a string of little villages, the mud walls of the houses painted in whitewash and making the series seem more a long string of pearls.
Everything appeared to be white, Greer thought. There were white bullocks hauling carts, white egrets among the water hyacinth in the village ponds, Indians in
spotless white dhotis.
Soon they began to climb, not a steep ascent, more a gentle cupping of rolling hills. In a larger village in one of these hills they had lunch . . . rice tinted with saffron and eaten with almonds.
Greer sat drinking the Indian tea afterwards, watching the women go by, like all Indian women seldom empty-handed. There would be a basket, or a water-pot, or a child. Sometimes two children.
It was a gay little town they had stopped at. The Senhor, taking out his cheroot to enjoy over his tea, said gayness was strictly a matter of districts. In another district these bright marigold and orange saris, these ochres and Spanish greens, these accompanying silver-spangled shoes instead might all be sober black.
They left the gay village to pass a series of wells; later a lake with black and white kingfishers chasing lacquer-red dragonflies.
In the mid-afternoon they came to Stuyva. It was quite small, surrounded with ripening cornfields, had a single main street lined with clumped palms with shops behind them, a string of whitewashed mud houses and a distance, once again, of gentle hills. Further back rose higher violet heights, but the Senhor said that his home was among the nearer rises.
They went down a V-shaped valley to stop fairly soon at a house that was larger, as Greer had guessed, than the simple country residence the Senhor had insinuated it was. However, from the profusion of wide verandahs, those cotton mattresses to enjoy the cool nights that he said were rolled up during the day could be true, she thought.
The girls were shown to a room, though, not a verandah, but at least it was Indian, not Portuguese. Stained bare floor for coolness. Bamboo instead of mahogany. Outside the window with its simple rattan blinds, rose-coloured oleanders, drumstick trees in snow-white and jacarandas in sea-blue made a flag of colour.
`And,' exclaimed Holly joyously, 'the mango tree is in bloom!'
Greer gave her a quick oblique look.
They had tea on one of the verandahs. It was hot, yet not as hot as Greer would have thought, with no coastal breeze to temper the temperature.
`We have several degrees more latitude than Bombay,' explained the Senhor, 'it makes a difference.'
After tea everyone seemed tired, even the eager boys stopped exploring and curled up into little balls on mats that were produced, and were asleep in minutes. Greer took little longer herself. One moment a clump of bee-busy bougainvillea was a crimson riot, the next only a roseate blur.
She wakened to a curious noise, and it took her a while to realize it was the trumpeting of an elephant. The friendly giant stood on the grass verge beneath their patio, tail and ears flapping. Evidently it was a household pet, and had come for its daily titbit, though titbit sounded ridiculous for a huge fellow like that.
The boys were enchanted when Vasco handed them an animal pancake to place in the big trunk. The elephant took their offerings politely and gently; when the pancake was done, trumpeting again, and when this brought no results, throwing back the trunk to open a big pink jelly cave of a mouth.
`His name is Pequeno,' Vasco told Chandra and Sub-has. . . . And Greer.
The small pair laughed hilariously at that, having by now some Portuguese as well as English and, of course, their own Indian.
' "Little One" for that large elephant!' they shouted.
`Little One is also a "fond" name,' informed Vasco. He half-glanced at Greer. 'We are fond of Pequeno. Down, Pequeno.' The elephant knelt. 'Over.' Pequeno rolled out flat on one side.
`Again!' shouted the boys, but Vasco shook his head.
`One must not ask too much of a king,' he said respectfully, 'which Pequeno is, in spite of his "little" name. Shall I tell you why he is king?'
`Yes, please, Uncle Vasco.'
`It is because all the jungle is his. Among all the animals only he can push through bush that the others look at, then turn away to find an another easier track. But not King Elephant. He opens it up and passes through while the rest have to take the old beaten pad.
`Not only that, children, he can walk through grasses where you would be lost. He can blow dust or water, lift up tree-trunks. He knows all the green scents and all the whispers of leaves.'
The boys were enrapt . . . and Greer was, too.
`You should have been a father, Senhor Martinez,' she said warmly, impulsively, as carried away as Chandra and Subhas.
The Portuguese turned and smiled at her . . . but somewhere in the dark eyes the smile became an inquiry. For a moment Greer looked back in inquiry. Then she turned her glance away. He is inquiring for Holly, she knew with a hollowness that startled . . . and saddened . . . her. Inquiring of Holly's watch-girl.
She turned back to see the boys being lifted on to Pequeno's accommodating top.
`Greer, too,' they called, and the next moment she was up there as well, Vasco climbing on last of all to act the mahout.
He seemed to be practised at it, but Greer thought it would take a lot of practice for her to be a relaxed elephant rider. Although the motion was fair enough on the level grass, once Pequeno descended the gully it was like riding an earthquake.
She was glad to be off, and the boys, having accepted Vasco's ruling not to ask the king for too much at once, salaamed politely to the beast when it was over.
The rest of the household had now joined them, and Vasco showed them a little current at the bottom of the
gully that ran musically into a small pool edged with flat stones.
`Senhorita Greer,' he smiled, 'will be able to continue her swimming instructions.'
`On the subject of lessons,' said Jim, coming forward, `could you tell me, senhor, whether you wish the same class timetable as before?' He walked beside the Portuguese and Greer caught up with Holly.
They washed and brushed up for dinner, a leisurely meal in the bamboo room just inside the patio. After dinner they played records, read or talked. Greer said maternally once, for the habit was now imbued in her, 'Holly darling, do you think you should—'
`No.' It was Terry Holliday. Kindly but firmly. 'Leave her alone, Greer.'
`I'm sorry,' apologized Greer, 'I just thought—'
`You thought right,' laughed Holly, yawning, 'though thank you, Terry. Good night, everyone.'
Greer went with her.
`If the room becomes hot, the mattresses will be unrolled on the verandahs,' called the Senhor after them. They nodded and went out.
It was not, said Holly later in the dark, that it was so hot inside as enticing outside.
Greer had pretended not to hear for a while. She already knew what lay out there from nights in Bombay. The positiveness of an Indian evening. The intenseness. The disturbing quality.
`The moon peers, not just looks down,' continued Holly longingly. 'The stars— Oh, come on, Greer.'
They pulled on the happy coats that Greer had bought cheaply from an Eastern store in Crawford Markets, and went out.
There were figures reclining everywhere . . . but there were plenty of unrolled mattresses. Holly lay down with a contented sigh, and Greer stretched out on the bed beside her. She thought of the jewel lights from her Bombay room, so different from the blackness here.
And yet not entirely bla
ck. Down in the garden a small rich glow moved backwards, forwards.
The Senhor, she thought, smoking his evening cheroot.
A shrill cacophony of birds awakened Greer. She looked around and saw that she was the last sleeper, Jumping to her feet, and drawing round her kim, she saw Holly already out in the garden and moving happily to talk to the monkeys in the banana clump. She had never seen Holly look so relaxed. She wore a short loose muumuu, no stockings and the merest of espadrilles.
Nature's child,' she said to herself. She thought of what Doctor Holliday had said about going back to nature. Certainly Holly had never appeared so well as now.
As she still stood there, the young doctor joined her stepsister, and at the same moment the Senhor came and joined Greer out on the verandah.
`Lazybones!' he called to Greer. Then, inquiringly as he frequently did : 'Right?'
`Right. But my sister' . . . Greer waved her arm . . . 'is very wide awake.' She looked at the couple by the banana clump and said impulsively, 'They make a fine pair.'
She turned away to go in and dress, but only a step away. His big arm, bare in its short-sleeved, cream silk shirt, impelled her back.
`Um momento.' A pause for her to obey. Then: 'You are very wrong, of course.'
`Wrong?'
`Very wrong,' he repeated. 'They are not that, senhorita.'
`Not what?'
`A fine pair.'
About to toss, 'I was only making an idle remark,' Greer flung curiously instead, 'You seem to know.'
`Oh, yes, I know.'
He still had not disengaged his hand. Adroitly Greer slipped out of his grasp and went inside.
As she pulled on a floral shift, fastened up sandals, she was aware of a stiffness inside her, an angry resentment. She had not actually meant when she had coupled Holly and Terry, she had not really intended—
But he had. The Portuguese had. And he had wasted no time in correcting her in what he had concluded in those two words of hers, that 'fine pair'. Had the correction been because – because— Now Greer was remembering the gentle looks that, from Vasco, were always Holly's lot.
The Pool of Pink Lilies Page 12
