The Pool of Pink Lilies Read online

  Pool of the pink Lilies by Joyce Dingwell

  Greer had always loved and protected her young, frail stepsister Holly. Holly had always longed to visit India, and it was Greer who saw to it that she got her wish, Greer who went along with her, who looked after her when their arrangements fell through. All the same, Greer was grateful when the forceful Senhor Vasco Martinez came along, realised the position they were in, and offered her a job to help her out. He also took it upon himself to tell Greer that in his opinion she was wrong to protect Holly too much, that Holly was not as delicate as everyone seemed to think. And only when it dawned on Greer why he was so concerned about Holly's welfare did she learn the truth about her own heart.

  printed in Great Britain

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  First published 1970

  This edition 1971

  © Joyce Dingwell 1970

  For copyright reasons, this book may not be issued on loan or otherwise except in its original soft cover.

  ISBN 0 263 711820

  CHAPTER ONE

  BOMBAY from the Tourist Class gangplank of the Fairadventure. Bombay at last. Little enough to see as from most docks serving big cities, but at this pallid, unarranged, pre-dawn hour, for bad weather following Colombo had put the Fair adventure back eighteen hours, with no small brown boys cartwheeling entertainingly for pennies, no Indian women meeting the ship and looking like bright butterflies in their gay saris, even worse than drab. In Greer's and Holly's case a distinct let-down after two weeks of sea and thrice that of anticipation. Particularly, Greer thought wretchedly, a let-down for her younger sister Holly.

  Stepsister, really, but as beloved as any blood sister could ever have been — dear, frail, badly-named Holly, as contrasted to glossy green and glowing scarlet as she could be. What, wondered Greer, is Holly thinking now?

  For almost two months, ever since Uncle Randall's Sydney visit, Holly had talked of nothing else but Bombay, of Uncle Randall's residence some distance out of the city, of the moment when they arrived at the wharf, of all the pulsing glitter, the intoxicating excitement, the clamour and glamour of what was generally agreed was the ideal first experience of India.

  Holly had read Bombay, breathed it, dreamed it, lived it. She knew the names of its streets, its parks, its bazaars. She knew its population, its climate, its exports, it activities. Staying at home all day she had embraced it as Greer, at work, had never done. Not, thought Greer, that she herself would have embraced it even had she had the time. Not when the idea sprung as it had from Uncle Randall.

  Yet here she was visiting Uncle Randall, even more

  than that accepting a 'kind of post' to Uncle and his new wife Arlene – 'A luxury passage,' Uncle Randall had dangled, 'pennies for side trips and boat fun, then later at Bombay the best of board for you both, with more pennies to spend, and, believe me' . . . a shrewd eye on the susceptible Holly . . . 'there's pretty things a-plenty to spend your money on in Bombay.'

  Money for doing what?' Greer had asked pointblank of that 'kind of post' Uncle Randall had hinted at.

  `Mostly just being there,' Uncle Randall had said smoothly, 'company for Arlene.'

  It had sounded unsatisfactory, and Greer would have refused instantly but for the brightness in Holly's tired blue eyes. All at once they had been shining cornflowers. Two fingers of carnation pink had touched her pale cheeks.

  `India!' Holly had breathed.

  `You like the sound of it, don't you?' Uncle Randall had smiled, noting with obvious approval how pretty Holly became when she was animated. 'You'll like the real thing better, m'dear.'

  `It's out of the question, of course,' Greer had endeavoured to insert.

  Uncle Randall had ignored Greer and concentrated on Holly. 'Best berths,' he had repeated. 'Every possible extra. Buy what you like from the signed cheque I'll leave with the Purser. Lovely things in the ship's shop. Fabulous stuff in Colombo.'

  `Holly has been ill,' Greer had tried again. 'The climate in Bombay—'

  `Is not as bad as it's made out to be. In fact the bad reputation only ever came from the Indians ... the Europeans quite like it, no great extremes, and the only rains during the monsoon.'

  `This virus that Holly picked up—' It had been a disturbing, baffling infection, and because Holly was frail before the onset even more difficult than usual to eradicate. `This—'

  `She looks all right to me,' Uncle Randall had intervened flatteringly. 'Looks a peach.'

  The trouble, Greer thought now as she had thought then, had been that Holly did not know him, had never set eyes on him before he had turned up at the flat that day, turned up when Greer was at work. When Greer had arrived home he had had Holly enchanted with his compliments and praise. He had had her won with his Indian talk.

  Afterwards it had seemed pointless to say to the girl, `Darling, he's new to you, but not to me. He's my uncle, not yours. Every encounter with Uncle Randall has been a catastrophe. When you were in hospital that awful time that Stephen' . . . Stephen had been Holly's father and Greer's stepfather, yet equally loved... 'died, and Uncle Randall "kindly" took Mother and me in, it was horrible, it was a nightmare. I really believe it started Mother's end.' Yes, pointless . . . and cruel? ... to shining cornflower eyes and soft carnation cheeks. Pointless to try to relate many mean acts. For instance that hard winter following Stephen's death, Holly fortunately still away, when Uncle's 'hospitality' to his sister and niece had really meant his disastrous dwindling of their already restricted funds. Pointless and cruel, Greer knew, to sweetly parted lips that shaped only one word : Bombay.

  `Why must it be Bombay?' Greer had begged at last.

  `Because — well, because it's there, isn't it? I mean it's the only place that has ever become even remotely possible. Oh, Greer, Greer, agree, please agree.'

  `We'll see what Doctor Jenner has to say, then,' Greer had answered, and had been saddened at Holly's crumpled little face.

  `He'll never say yes,' Holly had sighed.

  But the trouble was . . . for Greer ... that Doctor Jenner had. Not in front of Holly, not like Uncle Randall's proposition that should have been for Greer's ears alone, but, Greer being intrinsically honest, it might just as well have been.

  `He said Yes,' Greer had reported truthfully to Holly, and while Holly had rejoiced, Greer had remembered what else Doctor Jenner had said as well as that Yes. It had been a significant . . . or had she sensitively found a significance in it? ... 'Why not' . . . 'May as well' . . . 'Let her go' . . . 'After all . .

  Which, added together, tallied Greer, came to . . . `Darling,' and Greer had bent impulsively, she recalled, to kiss the fair head, 'we're going to Bombay.'

  The first let-down had been that 'luxury passage', those `best berths' of Uncle Randall's. Their dormitory cabin had been well down, and it was shared with six others. The second let-down had been those 'pennies to spend', that 'signed cheque'. Unlike the cabin that had not lived up to expectations but after all had eventuated, no money had come to light.

  `He's a busy man,' Holly had excused generously. She was so happy she would have excused anything.

  `He's always been busy,' Greer had agreed drily.

  On top of all this, the Australian Bight had been at its nastiest, and Holly had gone down after Adelaide and remained under the weather right to Fremantle. The Goodbye Australia party where most people had at last found their sea legs, when the turquoise blue of the Indian Ocean was making the grey Bight only a grim memory, f
ound Holly too drained and wan to join in the fun. Then after Colombo the edge of a monsoon had struck them and again Holly had been laid low.

  They had been scheduled to arrive in Bombay Harbour at twelve noon, and Greer, who had attended camera slides of the Indian city in the ship theatre while Holly had rested, had thought hopefully that here, anyway, Holly would not be let down. She had found the vivid transparencies entirely attractive and had anticipated the lifting smile on the little pale face.

  But just to finish off a dismal picture, the weather had worsened once more, worsened enough this time to delay them almost a day, and they had slipped into a half dark

  port that had made the memory of the grey Bight seem almost a carnival in comparison.

  It's like this everywhere at this hour,' Greer said now as they stood by the gangplank, wishing miserably that she had left Holly below, wishing that she had not thought extravagantly in the terms of exotic brilliance, a brilliance that would lift Holly at last. Brilliance! She concealed a shiver, but she repeated determinedly, 'Like this everywhere, pet.'

  `Yes, Greer.' Holly's voice was brave.

  `We'll go down,' Greer said. 'See to our things, finish our bags. Get ready for breakfast.'

  `Uncle Randall might have heard of the delay and waited back.' Holly was looking over the rail and peering hopefully.

  `Not Uncle Randall,' Greer said to herself. She took Holly's arm and veered her in and down.

  The other six in the dormitory cabin were stirring drowsily.

  `What's Bombay like?' they asked sleepily.

  One of the girls kneeling to peer out of the lowly porthole that now at last could be opened up reported, 'Grey and grumpy.'

  `Give it time.' Greer felt at least she had to say that. She attended to the bags, went through the drawers to see that nothing was left behind.

  Then Holly, taking her turn at the porthole, was calling gladly, The sun's through, and it's different, it's exciting! I can see rickshaws pulled up . .. and horse cabs .. . and a lot of yellow taxis. Little boys are doing the most amazing acrobatics. Oh, what a beautiful sari! And there's one of those others, Greer, the saree ... remember in Colombo? ... three inches of brown stomach between bodice and skirt. The sari is wearing the red spot of wifehood. And there's a young girl with two black twin plaits and a daub on her brow which would be the mark of maidenhood. There's also a very handsome black car a mile long with a Maharajah at least and with him a

  young princeling.'

  Kerri, peering over Holly's shoulder, said, 'A Maharajah would be driven, goose. This one is driving, but he does look very distinctive, I'll agree.'

  The opulent car had come right on the wharf where the other cars had been kept behind a barrier.

  `I think,' said Greer, now also at the porthole though barely an inch of it, 'he's meeting some V.I.P.' She regarded the deeply olive-skinned, very erect Indian behind the wheel.

  `Perhaps he's the chauffeur to the princeling's father who happens to be returning on this ship, first-class, of course,' provided Holly happily. 'Don't you adore our princeling's handsome pink and orange robes?'

  `And that turban on your Maharajah, or your Maharajah's chauffeur,' put in Alison, 'is just his shade.'

  At that moment the black glance of the man in question, sweeping the vast wharfside bulk of the Fair adventure, by some contingency chanced, then rested on the lowly porthole. Stopped there.

  Stopped until one of the girls, for they were all represented now, one eye each, withdrew, rather disconcerted. Greer followed at once, then the others.

  `Well, if he's a foretaste of Bombay it's going to be very exciting,' submitted Frances.

  `Yes, it's going to be all I dreamed,' Holly said.

  Feeling rather caught out in a childish rudeness, not a dream, though the Indian had stared as well, Greer said thankfully, 'There's the first sitting gong,' and hurried Holly out.

  They were finished breakfast and drinking their coffee when the message was brought to their table. So Uncle Randall had not forgotten, Holly claimed with a smile.

  But it was not Uncle Randall who waited for them in the Genoese Lounge of the Fairadventure when they obeyed the message; it was a tall, dark-haired, black-eyed man in khaki drabs but wearing a glowing, darkly blue turban. By his side in full and colourful dress stood a

  small brown boy. The Maharajah. The princeling. Greer heard Holly, by her side, say it in an enchanted breath. `Salaam, memsahibs.'

  The man and the boy bowed low . . . a sound suspiciously like a stifled giggle escaping the princeling and being softly checked by Holly's Maharajah.

  `Good morning,' murmured Greer. Holly said shyly, happily, 'Hullo.'

  The little boy evidently had a hilarious secret. Every now and then he would cup his small brown hands, as children do, over his mouth to hide a laugh.

  `Chandra,' the man said quietly, remindingly, and the child temporarily composed himself.

  `When the ladies are ready to leave—' the man bowed again and Greer said they had only their luggage to check, some acquaintances to bid good-bye.

  `Please not to concern yourself over the bags,' the man hastened, and began to bow once more, but, at a laugh, or what sounded like a laugh quickly stifled from the child, straightened to frown on the boy.

  A little nonplussed, Greer thanked him and said they would not be long.

  There were not many to say good-bye to; Holly's days of imposition had considerably narrowed the field. Within five minutes they were back in the lounge, and being conducted from the Fairadventure. Their luggage, they were informed, had been removed and placed in the boot of the car. As he said it, the man waved his hand to the large black model awaiting them in solitary splendour on the dock. It decidedly did not match their recent dormitory accommodation, Greer thought wryly, but then this was for Uncle Randall's show, whereas the berths for his niece and stepniece

  `If you will kindly enter.' The man was opening the door of the big rich car. At once a little reminding hand tugged at him, and with the briefest of smiles, so brief it barely curved his long sensuous mouth, the man amended, with a salaam now to the boy, 'After the young sahib.'

  ' He bowed low as the child clambered in, rather spoiling his princely effect by falling over the step and arriving on the seat nose first. He did not cry, though, he rubbed the small nose, then, cupping his hands, giggled again.

  `Please,' said the driver to Greer and Holly, and they got in the front with him — no tribulation at all, for the wide seat could have accommodated two more with ease. Having shut the door, adjusted the window, the man sat up very straight and waited for the boy to direct, which the child did in a high little voice that broke down halfway in another giggle. Nodding soberly, the driver released the brake and the party set off.

  Greer had instinctively put Holly near the driver; always Holly was protected from elements, or the possibility of elements. Not that it looked like wind or rain or any extreme of weather, the sun simply shone goldenly down from a blue enamel sky, yet the heat was tempered by a salt breeze that the driver now informed the girls was a benison to Bombay, which had the good fortune of receiving the benefit of sea breezes on all sides, as it was actually many islands.

  `Seven in all,' agreed Holly, rather surprising Greer, for her little stepsister was usually shy with men for the simple reason that, because of her health, she met so few, `but now the shallows between the seven have been filled in to form one. Isn't that so, sahib?'

  Another stifled giggle from the back.

  `You sound very cognizant of India,' praised the man of Holly's seven islands and her smooth sahib.

  `When we knew we were coming I spent hours reading it up,' Holly confided, as happily confidential as Greer had ever seen or heard her.

  `And your sister? Is it sister?' he asked.

  `Yes.' Greer left it at that.

  `And you? You also studied?'

  `Not so many hours,' Greer said stiffly. She was frankly

  puzzled at the
situation and inclined to be wary about it. Uncle Randall had had a talent for gathering 'moss', the same as he had had a talent for becoming a rolling stone and losing it, but this opulent car, this imposing chauffeur, this princeling child sitting alone in the big back seat added up to more 'moss', or influence, even an Uncle Randall could beg, borrow, or st— She stopped herself there.

  `I see.' The chauffeur's voice was still polite. 'Then the pull of India was for one alone, the other just came along.'

  `Oh, no,' chattered Holly happily. 'I really think Greer was its first lover. Remember, Greer, how years ago I wanted to see London Bridge, but all you ever wanted was the Pool of the Pink Lilies?'

  The car had come to a distinctly abrupt halt for a faultless driver and a perfect vehicle. Greer was aware that the man was looking right and left at an intersection apparently for traffic, but the traffic at this point was almost non-existent, not sufficient, anyway, for that precautionary stop. Also the driver's attention, for all his show, was very obviously not on the road.

  `Pool of the Pink Lilies?' he asked swiftly of Greer.

  `I was a schoolgirl,' she said abruptly, 'and up to a lesson on alliterations – blue balloons, cool cascades, silver streams, all that.' A flashed and scornful glance at him that brought on immediate, quite as abrupt response.

  `Pool of the Pink Lilies. I am following you,' he said coldly.

  Greer found herself flushing. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean—'

  `You didn't mean that I wouldn't understand?' He edged the car forward again, then negotiated a bend. `Pray proceed. It was only the sound of it, then?'

  `Perhaps,' she said with deliberate detachment, all apology gone. 'Does it matter?' She was thinking irritably that this man seemed to have a talent for rubbing her up the wrong way. How could she tell that cool dark coun-

  tenance how a girl of thirteen had turned the pages of a travel book and sat staring entranced at a picture of an old discarded Indian shrine, not its weathered ornate pyramids embellished by rows of cracked carvings of , gods, goddesses and peacocks but the calm pond before it, reflecting every detail, yet perforce only reflecting it between its pads of green leaves and its pink petals. Yes, I was lost that day, Greer knew now as she had known then, in a Shrine of Pink Lilies.