`Yes, I suppose you're right, but he is a bereft small creature.'
`Only Mr. Black?' He looked down at her quizzically.
`It seems there are other bereft little creatures,' he said gently.
She flushed, knowing he was speaking of her troubled countenance. She had got over her relief at Chandra's .. . or Subhas's? . . . freedom now, and was pondering again on the boys themselves. Yet she had been as bright as the rest of the tea-drinkers just now, she thought, so how had he noticed her preoccupation?
`Oh, yes,' he nodded, 'I saw that you had other thoughts of your own. Can you tell me, Senhorita Greer?'
`I must,' she answered. It is, of course, the boys.'
`Of course?' He picked her up a little sharply. 'Must all your thoughts always be for the children?'
`That's what I'm here for, senhor,' she reminded him. `Not entirely, senhorita.'
She thought a moment about that, then nodded. 'I understand – Holly.'
He did not comment. He walked in silence a few minutes. Then he demanded rather sharply, 'Those thoughts, senhorita?'
`I feel at last I have come a step forward in the observation you required of me.'
`Yes?' He was all interest now, his coolness gone. 'And which of the children—'
`Neither, senhor. I mean—'
`Yes, senhorita, what do you mean?'
`The wonder has been building up for some time. I mean to say it just didn't occur now.'
`With the finger business, you mean?'
`The finger business,' she nodded. 'But that was the climax.'
`Of what?'
`Of a feeling that Chandra and Subhas are – brothers. Oh, they must be, senhor, otherwise—'
`Otherwise?'
She recounted her impressions in an eager, rather breathless voice.
`They think the same. They act and they react the same. They see the same things, express them similarly. They ... oh, Senhor Martinez, they even both suffered together just now.'
`Surely not such an unusual thing when two children have been reared together,' he pointed out reasonably.
`Both held their little hands in pain. I truly believe both felt the pain. And I feel, senhor—'
`No,' he interrupted, 'that has all been looked into.' He stopped, stopping her with him, and took out, clipped and lit a cheroot.
`It has been looked into, child,' he said kindly, 'naturally, no rock has not been uncovered . . . right?'
`No stone has been unturned,' she said mechanically, `but—'
`This unhappy village had no children in it at the time except the child of Yaqub and his wife Lalil and a small boy companion of the same age as the son. There was an experiment going on in this village, and that is why at the time of the disaster there was not the normal population. So you see if two little boys escaped they must have been those two and no others.'
`Yes.' But Greer said it unwillingly, still unconvinced.
Senhor,' she said presently, 'I would like to see the valley. I know where it is.' She turned towards the distant rise that Mr. Gupta had pointed out. 'I know also that the road from Stuyva to it is a long winding one, but—'
`It is already done, senhorita,' he promised, 'we will leave tomorrow. Early, of course, for it is as Mr. Gupta said a long way.'
`Thank you, senhor.'
They walked in silence for a while, then Vasco told her, as Mr. Gupta had told her, that she would find nothing there.
`I myself have taken the boys,' he added, 'so it would be of no use repeating that experiment.'
She smiled at that disclosure, telling him about Jim's
and Holly's experience at the Pool of the Pink Lilies. `There was no soulful reaction,' she related wryly, 'only a disgust at the absence of tadpoles.'
`You report to me what they reported,' the Senhor said a little sharply, 'what the tutor and your sister reported. Do I take it then you did not visit that place yourself?'
Greer in her turn took the sharpness in his voice as a criticism, and she said humbly, 'No, I didn't go. I'm sorry, senhor.'
`Why did you not go?'
`I – I—' But she could not find the words. She barely knew herself why she hadn't gone. She mumbled something about Mrs. Gupta saying the lilies were not yet out, but she knew it was not that, it was something that had to be kept until – until—
She stopped momentarily on the track, recovered herself and began walking again. Normally, she hoped.
For the thought . . . no, the knowledge in Greer in that moment was that the Pool of the Pink Lilies had to be kept for – him. For Vasco Martinez. Which meant, she knew foolishly, knew emptily but knew surely that she would never see it, because Vasco had no interest in it, no interest in it ... with her.
They had reached the creek now, and they sat on a rock and smiled at the children gambolling in the crystal shallows. The little black lamb was lapping contentedly from a small dam the boys had enclosed in a little circle of stones.
While they were there the mahout brought Pequeno down for his daily dip, performed in a pool below the children's, and just as well, for Pequeno enjoyed every moment of his splash, and left the pool in an extremely muddy state.
`Oh, but he is very dirty, that one!' shrilled the boys delightedly, and Greer tried to explain between Pequeno's snorting, trumpeting and rolling that it was not the elephant but the creek bottom that had changed the water from sparkling diamonds to murky mud.
They went up the hill again, the mahout and two boys on Pequeno's back, Vasco and Greer following the big, carefully-placed feet to the strip of lawn by the house.
`Tonight,' directed Vasco before Greer went in to tidy
up for dinner, 'we will leave the others to do what they wish while we have an early evening, for the ruined vilage is a longish run from Stuyva and we must be away by sunrise. Do you think you can be up at dawn?'
`I'm sure I can,' Greer promised.
She was. She was lacing up her brown plimsolls when he knocked on the door, and tying the knots she took up her cardigan and scarf and came out ready to go.
He looked at her briefly but approvingly. She wore slim fawn denim trews, a fawn shirt, and the jacket and headscarf were brown.
`You are a boy,' he smiled, 'and a very sensible one. Also, as it will be dusty until we reach the hills the dust will not be obvious in that hue. Again, the wrap may be needed. The plain before we climb to descend again can be quite cool. Remember we have more latitudes than Bombay.'
He seemed pleased with her choice, and Greer got into the car. Vasco got behind the wheel and they skimmed down into the road from the village. For a while the route was familiar, she and Holly had used it on their explorations, then Vasco veered sharply north-west into a terrain that Greer had not yet experienced.
After a while they traversed some tea estates, well enclosed to keep out stray cattle and buffaloes. The plants, Greer noted, were laid out in mathematical accuracy, no haphazard rows here. It was not cropping time, so she missed the beauty of sari-clad pickers with bamboo baskets slung to their backs, but the planting itself was quite delightful, the close crops forming a large green umbrella through which no brown earth showed.
Soon the estates were left behind and they began climbing hills with shoulders of rhododendron and juni-
per, and a field flower that looked like a buttercup yellowing the track verge.
They stopped at the top to look around them, and for Vasco to indicate the course of that freak flood that fateful day, then they began to descend again. It did not take long to reach the bottom of the valley, and it did not take long for Greer to look around. For there was, as Mr. Gupta had said, as the Senhor had, simply nothing there. The flood had taken everything. Not a single reminder remained, and perhaps, Greer thought sadly, that was best.
She wandered along the empty valley, shivering a little when she pictured that awful day, though the Senhor had told her it had all happened in a flash, one moment there was a little village and people, the next
there was no village ... and only two small boys.
—Or three?
No, it was no use, Greer accepted at length, there was simply nothing to be gained here in spite of the fact that she had felt compelled to come. She turned back to where the Senhor waited by the car watching her. She started to go back to him. Seeing her turn, he called for her to wait where she was, that he would come to her. He got in the car again.
What happened then Greer could not have said very clearly. She heard the engine start, the car moved forward, then almost at once there was a dull bump. She saw that a large stone had come dislodged under one of the wheels and had lurched the car forward, and in the lurch Vasco had veered sharply forward and knocked his head. Fortunately for the control of the car another small boulder stopped any uncontrollable progress, but as it rocked to a standstill the unconscious man slipped from the seat to the floor. He was entangled there when Greer, breathless from running up the valley, opened the door.
`Vasco!'
He did not answer.
She knelt down and took his hand to find the pulse. It
seemed reasonable enough, so perhaps he had simply been knocked out.
She took a cushion from the back seat and slipped it under his head. She untangled the long legs and stretched them half out of the door. She found a little stream and soaked her handkerchief, came back and laid the wrung-out cloth over the forehead. When he did not come round fairly soon she began to worry. It must be more than a knock-out, it must be concussion. She knew that concussion needed warmth, so she piled up every cover and jacket she could find.
She took the pulse again, found it still satisfactory as far as she could judge, so decided to go for help. Help was not as unreasonable as it sounded; she had noticed a small village to the left of the hill as they had come down.
She hated to leave him, though; the heartbeat seemed normal enough, but should he come suddenly out of the concussion he might be confused and wander off. She
stood a moment wondering what to do.
`Memsahib!' If ever a voice came from heaven, Greer thought, this little voice did. She turned thankfully to greet the speaker, to ask him to help her by going up to the village and telling them there what had happened.
But, the urgent words on her lips, for a moment Greer paused. The little barefoot boy who looked back at her took the words away from her. Instead she simply stared.
'Memsahib!' He spoke again, and Greer recovered herself. She explained to him that there had been an accident, but saw that he did not fully understand. She supposed that in such an isolated village there would be little English spoken; it was different in Stuyva. But he was an intelligent little fellow, and he followed her gestures. With a nod of his dark head, he was gone.
Alone again, she checked Vasco's pulse, renewed the wet handkerchief. — But still wonderingly. Wonderingly. Why had she had that odd impact with that small boy?
Help came sooner than she expected it, and though the
English was disjointed she could follow it, make herself understood.
Vasco was carried up the hill, Greer following. She eventually followed the small procession into a small house. She checked Vasco's pulse again. A responsible-looking Indian also checked, then nodded an encouraging head. time, memsahib,' he promised, 'time.'
`You are a doctor?'
`No, but one can tell. Just time.'
Greer thought rather on the same lines herself. She did not think that the Senhor was gravely injured, but she did think there was a concussion. She pushed a strand of the black hair from the olive brow and asked about doctors.
`None here, memsahib,' the Indian said. But time, as I told you. He will open his eyes and you can drive him back yourself.'
`You think that?'
`Oh, yes. The white of the eyes, the skin colour.' The man made a gesture with his hands. 'I think,' he said with that flash of teeth so typical of the Indian, 'that memsahib should rest.'
Greer felt a little tug at her side and saw the small boy again. He nodded for her to come with him. The Indian bowed a reassurance and seated himself patiently and protectively by Vasco's side. Aware all at once of a parching thirst, for evidently the episode had dehydrated her, Greer followed the child.
The clusters of simple houses seemed all the same to Greer, but the boy went to one on the right. Here, an Indian woman, who Greer supposed was the boy's mother, led her to a chair and put down a cup of tea. Oh, that Indian tea, Greer thought gratefully, enjoying the dark robust brew, smiling her thanks.
The woman, like the man, had a little English, and the two of them managed to talk. The sahib would be all right the woman encouraged, soon the memsahib could take him home, or if not to— She said the name of a
'village where there was a doctor, or so she had heard. She poured more tea.
Greer looked around the house. It was clean but small.
`Yes, small,' nodded the woman, 'for so many children.' She put up her fingers to tell how many.
`Boys? Girls?' asked Greer, and was told.
`But that one' . . . the woman nodded to the child who still lingered .'not.'
`Not? Not your child?'
`No.'
`Which house, then?' For some inexplicable reason Greer knew she had to know.
`This house. My husband's aunt had him, but she died, so now . . .' A shrug.
`You mean he was her son? The son of your husband's aunt?'
`Oh, no, she was not young woman, that aunt. He good boy, but—' The woman tried to find a word that evidently eluded her, but was unsuccessful. 'He does not always want to play,' she said at last, and replenished Greer's tea.
But before Greer had time to drink it someone came to tell the memsahib that the sahib was recovered and sit tang up.
He even could smile ruefully at Greer when she went into the room, apologize for causing her an inconvenience.
`Oh, Vasco, so long as you're all right,' she protested. `Anyway, it was I, remember, who wanted to come.'
`And now you want to go home.'
`No, not entirely.' She was thinking suddenly and oddly of the boy. For some strange reason she felt curious about him. She did not speak to the Senhor of it, though. She only said what the Indian had told her, that there was no doctor here.
`But there is another village,' she began, 'where there could be medical aid.'
`Home,' Vasco Martinez chose. 'I'm feeling fairly fit again. I think I can even drive.'
`You're not driving, though,' she said severely, and she was glad that he did not argue. For Senhor Martinez to agree to a woman driving him, she thought, he must not feel as fit as he says.
She insisted that they wait until he drank tea. 'With sugar,' she stipulated, 'much sugar.' She explained, For shock.'
He allowed her to direct the number of lumps, and though he grimaced as he sipped the dark syrupy liquid, he drank it down.
After that Greer went down to the car and brought it up to the top of the hill to which the villagers had brought Vasco. Vasco got in, and Greer moved off.
The last thing to do with the little episode that she was aware of was the deep dark gaze of the little boy who had found them in the valley. He stood looking at them and not speaking, and again Greer paused. She had not even learned his name. All she knew about him was what his foster-mother had said.
`He does not always want to play.'
He does not always want to play. Again and again Greer turned this over in her mind as she curved down the hill, spanned the plain, passed the tea estates again.
`Vasco,' she said at last, unable to keep the little boy to herself any more.
But there was no answer, and when she turned to look at him Greer saw that the Senhor had lapsed into unconsciousness again. The boy now completely forgotten, she dug her foot down on the accelerator and the car fairly ate up the remaining miles.
CHAPTER NINE
`THERE is nothing broken, nothing sprained or strained. There is a concussion which is under
control. Vasco is most certainly not in any danger, but on the other hand he is in need of some specialling.' Doctor Holliday took off his stethoscope and laid it down, on the bedside table. In the bed, his eyes closed, everything about him immobile, was Senhor Martinez. On the other side of the bed Greer waited anxiously.
They had been nightmare miles ... the small boys would have corrected 'Daymare' ... those last miles back to the Stuyva bungalow. Praying frantically that the usual livestock would be absent today, that no fig-seeking monkeys would impede her progress, no buffalo moving in slow and deliberate precision, certainly no goatherd with his goats, Greer had taken bends as sharply as safety permitted. As soon as the car reached the end of the drive, she had leapt from it, calling for help.
Fortunately the doctor had been sitting on the patio with Holly ... sitting very close to her, holding her hand in his . . . even in her concern Greer had noticed that ... so within seconds he had taken over. Vasco had been carried to his room.
`For the first twenty-four hours after a knock like Greer informs us Vasco has suffered,' said Doctor Terry to the two girls, for both had followed the patient, 'the one concerned has to be closely watched.' He looked directly at Holly and nodded, and Greer felt the first resentment she had ever known against her stepsister stirring within her.
'There is a small but definite risk,' Doctor Terry went on,
`in any case of concussion that the victim will become
unconscious again, due to haemorrhage on the surface of the brain. Mostly there are no complications, thank goodness, but one can still evaluate. You sit and watch him,
Holly. This is what you must look for.' Neither of them, Holly nor Terry . . . and certainly not the inert Vasco . noticed as Greer quietly left the room.
But even in the passage she could still hear Terry issuing his orders. Why? Why? Why was Holly being directed like this? Was it because when it came to Senhor Martinez it seemed a natural thing to couple her stepsister with him? But if this was so, why had Holly sat on the patio with her hand in the hand of the doctor? Why had she spent so many hours with Jim Matson, even confessed happily to a 'secret' she could not yet reveal?
The Pool of Pink Lilies Page 15