A Garland of Marigolds Read online

  From the window I could see the city spread out before me, with its wide streets and the pleasant flower gardens left behind by the British. Once again I marveled at how few people there were about and wondered where they were hiding. A young woman dressed in the Punjabi pyjama trousers, worn very tight, moved slowly past on a bicycle. I leaned out a little farther to see her go, wondering if she were a common sight or one of the few emancipated women who went about on her own.

  As I turned away from the window there was a sharp rap at the door. I went over and opened it carefully. Joseph Groton grinned cheerfully at me.

  “I thought I’d come along and get to know you,” he began. “May I come in?”

  I stood back to let him enter, a shade doubtful as to whether it was a good idea to have him in my room.

  “Where are the others?” I asked.

  He strode over to the window and peered down into the street. “I suggested they go off on their own and see some of the sights. Camilla hasn’t had much time with her brother.” He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Do you mind?”

  I shook my head, still a little wary. “Why should I?” I asked abruptly. “It’s none of my business.”

  He swung around on his heel.

  “What a prickly creature you are! You wouldn’t be averse to making it your business, would you?”

  I frowned at him. “I have always found it best,” I said coldly, “to leave members of any family alone together.”

  To my surprise he laughed. “My, my, what virtue!” he mocked. “Actually, the reason I told you was so you would understand why your evening entertainment rests in my capable hands.”

  “You don’t have to put yourself out for me, Mr. Groton,” I said. His eyes narrowed with temper. “What’s the matter with you? Are you always like this? Or did someone slap you when you expected a kiss?”

  I flushed. His words were nearer the truth than I liked. “I’m sorry. I suppose I’m tired after all the traveling.”

  He was easily placated. His features relaxed and he smiled. “It doesn’t matter,” he assured me. “I’ve been looking forward to showing you around. And please, it isn’t Mr. Groton, it’s just plain Joe as far as you’re concerned.”

  He was very sweet, I thought.

  “My name is Susan,” I told him. “Most people call me Suki, though.”

  “Okay, Suki!” He extended his right hand and we solemnly shook hands.

  “Hello, Joe,” I replied.

  He was very easy to be with. From one of his pockets he produced one of those neat guides that Americans always seem to have, packed with facts written in an easy-to-read style. He leafed through it with deep concentration until he came to the section he wanted.

  “Ah, Delhi,” he muttered. “We have quite an evening in front of us. I think we’d better get a taxi and go over to Old Delhi first. Does that suit you?”

  I abandoned, quite easily, my previous idea of an early night. It would be much more fun to go with Joe.

  Old Delhi was the India of my dreams. The ancient Mogul mosques bore witness to the Moslemic religion, by no means the only immediately visible creed. The Jains, who refuse to kill any living creature, had erected bird hospitals beside their temples and, it seemed to me, there were a hundred more religious structures, all equally colorful and quite unlike anything I had ever seen. The people, too, were truly of the East. The raucous traffic strove with a thousand bicycles, the walking skeletons of the holy cows, and the Indian conviction that he would be better off in the middle of the road no matter what the hazards. The rickshaws, pulled along by hungry-looking individuals on bicycles, wove in and out of the high-powered cars with a breathless unconcern for life and limb. While there were cars by the hundred, the Indian heart and mind was still with the ox cart and a more sober pace of living. Speed and death merely gave a tang to the endless excitement of living.

  We stopped and watched a pavement barber shaving his customer from top to toe. His tools seemed primitive in the extreme, but his fingers were deft and his patter a source of high amusement to those around him. Both he and his customer squatted comfortably on the curb. If I had tried it, I should have been crippled in a matter of minutes, and that as much as anything else made me appreciate the agility of all their movements.

  A cloud of yellowish smoke hung over the city. It was only when I saw a small child lighting a small brazier on the pavement that I realized most of the people who lived in the city had no homes. They lived on the pavement itself, eating and sleeping, playing and working on the same small patch of ground. Some had found shelter in shacks that filled the few spaces between the houses that belonged to the richer members of the community. There was no privacy for anyone, but the families seemed to survive, the oldest looking after the youngest with loving hands while their parents looked on with justified pride.

  Life pulsated on those streets. Vendors sold their goods, moneylenders and barbers carried out their services, tailors sewed their goods, using their toes to turn the handles of the battered sewing machines that must first have been used in another era. Saris, brilliantly colored, were laid out to dry. And everywhere you looked was the movement and enthusiasm of a people who were really alive.

  I stopped at a small store that was selling helpings of curry to the passersby.

  “Where can we eat?” I asked him, suddenly extremely hungry. “Do we have to go back to the hotel?”

  “I’ll take you to my favorite restaurant, if you like,” he offered shyly. “It isn’t at all grand, but it’s the real thing.”

  The restaurant was small. Somehow between the tables a couple of female dancers gyrated madly to the rhythm of an old man on a flute-like instrument that produced a curious, hypnotic sound.

  Joseph chose a table in one corner. It was lit by a single candle, that added romance if not enlightenment to what we were eating. A singer took the place of the dancers and a severe-looking waiter with very fine features and a thin narrow mouth took our order.

  “It’s nice here,” he said with pleasure as the waiter went away. “The food is really Indian.”

  I laughed. “I’m expecting great things!” I said.

  His hand met mine and took firm possession of it.

  “If you could have seen your predecessor...” he began. It was strange, but I didn’t in the least mind flirting with him. “I can guess!” I retorted.

  “I nearly fell over when I saw the boss had brought you back with him!” he added, his eyes twinkling.

  “I take my work very seriously, too,” I said.

  “Too? You mean you have time for other things as well?”

  I colored. “Yes, of course,” I said. Joseph had a glint in his eyes that I didn’t quite like. “But my work comes first,” I added defensively.

  “You’re too good to be true,” he said. “Tell me all about yourself!”

  I licked my lips nervously. “There isn’t much to tell. I’d rather hear about you.”

  His eyes snapped at me. “I’m an American. Isn’t that enough?” I shook my head. “Tell me about your job here.”

  He leaned back and relaxed in his chair, a slight smile on his face.

  “Certainly not. You’ll find out all about that quickly enough. I want you to see me as a man, not as a cog in the great Gideon’s machine!”

  I was startled into looking at him more closely. His chin quivered slightly and I was reminded again of the basic weakness of his face. But I liked him very much indeed, if only because, in some indescribable way, he reminded me of Timothy.

  “I don’t think you’ll ever be a cog to me,” I said gently.

  His smile grew warmer. “Is that a promise?”

  I nodded my head solemnly. “It’s a promise.”

  His eyes fell to the table. “I can hardly ask more than that,” he said.

  I was a little embarrassed by his seriousness, but at that moment the waiter brought our food and successfully distracted my attention. It was certainly the most delicious cur
ry I had ever tasted, not as hot as I had expected, but with so many side dishes that I soon lost count. I recognized the desiccated coconut and one or two of the chutneys, and of course the sliced bananas, but the rest I had never seen before.

  “Shall we have some wine to go with it?” Joe asked.

  I hesitated, wondering about the price. I had been told that it was impossible to have anything alcoholic in Delhi without paying a great deal of money and I was really wondering if Joseph could afford to throw his money away so recklessly.

  “No, I won’t,” I said carefully.

  “Oh, come on! One bottle won’t break the bank!” He gave the order to the waiter and then sat back looking very pleased with himself. “It will be the first seal on our friendship,” he added.

  “The first?”

  He grinned. “Why, yes, I have plans for the second, too!”

  I blushed, beginning to think that I was rapidly getting out of my depth. A more normal topic of conversation was more to my taste, and so it was with determination that I brought the subject back to wheat.

  “What sort of crops can I expect?” I began cheerfully.

  “It depends on which crops you are referring to,” he answered lightly. “If you’re referring to wheat, or sugar, or even rice, you can expect practically no return at all. But if you’re referring to other crops—”

  “What other crops, Joe?” I asked innocently.

  “Oh, lies, dirt and disease.” He winked at me. “Or friends and neighbors, or even people to love—”

  My head lifted sharply.

  “I haven’t time for things like that!” I said sharply.

  “Now, Suki,” he reproved me, “you just said you had time for other things besides your work!”

  “Not those other things!” I said stiffly.

  But he only laughed. “But you forget,” he reminded me, “we’ve set a seal on our friendship. And if that can be broken, here’s another bond more difficult for you to forget.” He leaned over the table and caught up both my hands in his, kissing me lightly on the lips.

  It was unfortunate that at that moment Gideon and Camilla came into the restaurant. I snatched my hands away from Joseph, but it was too late. A single glance was enough to tell that Gideon had seen the whole incident. I greeted him and his sister with flaming cheeks, doubly annoyed with myself. It was not only that I felt I had somehow failed Timothy, but I had hoped to give Gideon a quite different impression.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was still very early when Camilla crept into my room to see if I was awake. She padded over to the shuttered windows and pushed them open to let in the first gray light of the day.

  “Gideon has gone to pick up the new jeep, and expects us to be ready by the time he comes back.”

  I turned over and squinted against the light.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “It’s nearly six,” she said.

  I turned back onto my side. It was the middle of the night!

  “What time will he be back?”

  Camilla shrugged her shoulders. “Goodness knows! He says the garage is just around the corner, but he’s been gone a little while now. You’d better get up and pack your things, otherwise he’ll start making rude remarks about the way you spend your evenings—unless you don’t mind!”

  I frowned. “Actually I don’t,” I said sourly. “Joseph—” I hesitated. “I think he was trying to be kind,” I ended with a rush. Camilla chuckled.

  “I can imagine!” she agreed enthusiastically. “Poor Joseph! If this place is anything like he described it to me yesterday, you must have arrived like a gift from the gods. I can’t think why you’re even hesitating about him. I think he’s awfully nice!”

  “Yes,” I said, “I suppose he is. I don’t want to be precipitated into anything, though. He’s in such a hurry!”

  Camilla gazed at me solemnly.

  “Don’t tell me you are afraid of what Gideon thinks of you?” she asked.

  I shook my head, hoping that she would not detect the lie that was implicit in my response. I didn’t want to care what Gideon thought, but that was something a little different, as I knew quite well.

  “I must get up,” I said instead.

  She blinked at me, still serious.

  “How old do you think Joe is?” she asked.

  I swung my legs onto the floor and stood up, pattering over to the window to have a look at the day for myself.

  “Does it matter?” I replied to Camilla’s question.

  “Of course it does! I reckon he’s about ten years older than I am, and I think that’s about right between a man and a woman, don’t you?”

  “Possibly,” I agreed.

  “Humph,” said Camilla. “Does that mean you have him all staked out for yourself?”

  “Well, he certainly isn’t ten years older than I am!” I reminded her.

  “No-o,” she admitted uncertainly. “But you’re not old, and he is interested. In fact you might say you had a head start with him!”

  I went into the small bathroom and began to dress, leaving the door open so that I could still hear Camilla.

  “One could, if it were a race,” I said mildly.

  She chuckled, a soft, very feminine noise in her throat.

  “Not a race,” she contradicted me, “a fight to the finish!”

  I hesitated in my dressing, wondering if she meant what she said. But Camilla was still very young and apt to wring the last bit of drama out of any remark. I finished dressing as quickly as I could and gathered up my night clothes to pack them away in my suitcase. Camilla was sitting on the end of my bed, her hair flowing free and a young and rather touching expression on her face. She looked up at me and her face fell into a genuine grin.

  “I suppose you’re cross with me for challenging your interest?” she said.

  It was my turn to laugh. “Good heavens, no! Joe Groton is nothing to me!”

  Camilla was satisfied.

  “No,” she said thoughtfully. “I dare say Gideon is much more your cup of tea. The trouble is he never sees anyone as a woman. My sister is always complaining about it. You see the truth is that we’re all dying to marry him off!”

  “Oh, indeed!” I retorted. “Well, there’s not the slightest chance of your marrying him off to me, young lady! He’s a great deal too confident and full of himself to appeal to my sort of person.” Camilla turned on me, angry at any breath of criticism of her brother.

  “What a smug thing to say!” she stormed.

  I sighed, acknowledging the truth of that. It was the way I had been brought up, I thought, sensibly and without much humor.

  “Exactly! And your brother may be many things, but he certainly isn’t smug!”

  Camilla giggled. “He says he thinks you’re a very cautious young woman,” she told me. Perhaps I was a bit tired, but I could have sat down and cried.

  It was a peculiar experience, having breakfast in the ornate and gigantic restaurant of the hotel. Two waiters in braided scarlet coats and with stiffly starched turbans, served us an incongruously English breakfast of eggs and bacon followed by toast and marmalade. Both Joseph and Camilla ate with concentrated pleasure. I thought it was rather hot for such a large meal and was beginning to wonder what had happened to Gideon and the jeep.

  He arrived, hot and more than a little irritable, just as we were finishing the last of the coffee.

  “Are you all ready?” he asked.

  “Of course we are!” his sister answered. “Where on earth have you been?”

  He sat down at the table and nodded to a waiter.

  “Getting the jeep,” he said with tight displeasure. “It was promised for over an hour ago, but owing to some death in the family I had to wait for the funeral party to come back.”

  I realized that this was only the beginning of the story.

  “And then?” I prompted him.

  His face relaxed into a smile.

  “And then the plugs needed
cleaning, and they had to send for a mechanic.”

  “Didn’t they have one?” Camilla asked, entering into the spirit of the story.

  “It appears not. I did it myself in the end and it’s working, so as soon as we’re all ready, we should be going.”

  It was, however, another hour before we were all settled in the jeep. Joe sat in the front beside Gideon and Camilla and I huddled in the back, both of us a trifle anxious that there seemed to be so very little to hold on to. We crawled out of Delhi, dodging the oxen carts and the weaving bicycles, going so slowly that we were almost used to our exposed position by the time we reached the outskirts and the open road.

  The sun grew hotter and hotter, until the sky was like burning pewter. The hot, dry wind blew the dust into our faces drying our skins and making us long for some cool shade and the splash of running water. After a while Joseph took over the wheel from Gideon, driving with a harebrained desperation that ate up the miles but left us more exhausted than ever.

  At last the heat of the day departed and it was evening.

  “Not much farther now!” Gideon said cheerfully. I tried to smile at him, but the dust had mixed with my perspiration, leaving a tight mask across my face. I rubbed my cheeks and my fingers came away red with the same dust.